tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9615304803825784442024-03-13T16:25:26.310-05:00A Day in the WifeJulie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.comBlogger409125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-90605125757072557442012-07-02T23:37:00.001-05:002012-07-02T23:37:44.048-05:00Goodbye Blogger!Hello Wifers! Thanks so much for coming along with me for the ride on Blogspot - after three years here, I've decided to move "A Day In The Wife" to WordPress. Please come over and join me! All new posts will be on the WordPress site:<br />
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<a href="http://www.adayinthewife.com/">http://www.adayinthewife.com/</a><br />
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<img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-7694236542922454572012-06-26T22:50:00.002-05:002012-06-26T23:03:51.658-05:00Goodbye, Nora Ephron<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Tonight, I came home from an evening walk with a friend to discover via Facebook, my go-to news source, that Nora Ephron had died. What bittersweet news. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I won't hem and haw and tear at my clothing for you here, but let me take a moment to say what Nora and her writing meant to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">First and foremost, she was an incredible writer. Funny. Poignant. Smart. And a woman in a man's world, who paved the way for many who came after her. I was influenced by her before I even knew who she was. Like the rest of America, I fell in love with<em> Sleepless in Seattle</em>. For a while, my singular goal in life was to meet a handsome widower with an adorable son and live on a houseboat in Seattle. (And after Current Husband, I shall.) She made me a better writer, and her books have certainly influenced how I write.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The movie "<em>You've Got Mail</em>" made me want to open a store. I loved the Shop Around the Corner, and actually opened a retail store with checkerboard tile floors where I would "twirl" Oldest Daughter and The Son, and cuddle infant baby Youngest Daughter. <strong><em> *sigh*</em></strong> I sold the store when we moved to the Quad Cities. I still miss that store. They don't make much money and they are an 18/6 commitment, but they can be oh so much fun. I miss my awesome customers, and you cannot BEAT shopping at a gift market, spending thousands of dollars to stock your store, and when your orders come in it's like Christmas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>The Shop Around the Corner, where Meg Ryan twirled with her mom.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>Blurry pic of YD in my store. In her bikini. </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>Because that's how she rolls.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Nora's book "I Feel Bad About My Neck" is terrific. Not only is it a guidebook of sorts to aging, but it's a beautifully descriptive book about New York City and a snapshot of life in the 1960's and 1970's. I loved it. Go. Read it. I'll wait.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">(Brace yourself for the cheese factory....)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Shop Around the Corner closed. My shop closed. And after 71 years, Nora Ephron has passed away. I hope she died with the knowledge that her readers and viewers have loved having her as a part of our lives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> <img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-68256687236613456232012-06-25T14:42:00.000-05:002012-06-25T14:46:07.788-05:00Workin' For The Weekend<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This post is a summary of How I Spent My Summer Weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1. I left work at 5 p.m. Friday to hurry home so we could leave for Northeastern Iowa to stay with my in-laws. Naturally, we hadn't packed anything. We were picking Oldest Daughter up from music camp at Luther College in Decorah the next day, and this was going to ensure that we were not late for her checkout from the dorm and got to her concert in time, because alas, we are perpetually late. (This one time, at band camp... oh how those words haunt me now. Movies about teenagers are funny until you have a teenager.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">2. I brought a bottle of wine for my Mother-In-Law. Since she was making dinner and is an all-around gem, I brought a good wine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mmmm. Buttery deliciousness. However, I think the gesture was lost when I drank nearly the entire bottle myself. She already had a white open when I got there, and exercised restraint. I haven't yet learned those kinds of skills. I'm sure this is what she was dreaming of when she thought about her future daughter-in-law: A skanky lush. Forgot my Priolosec and guppy puked Sauvignon Blanc all night long.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">3. Went to Luther College to pick up Oldest Daughter and see her concert, which was pretty amazing, but I might be biased. There is something surreal about picking up your oldest child from a college dorm. I'm so not ready. She took a movie-making class, and her short film played in the lobby, and then she performed in the senior orchestra. How I ended up with klassy kids I shall never know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Can you see her? She's one of the 12 cellists.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">4. Drove home from Luther with all kids and OD's boyfriend in the van. Radio played "Sweet Child O' Mine" no less than THREE times. My family always re-enacts the scene from Stepbrothers when we hear this song (except for the part where CH would berate me) probably scaring the crap out of OD's BF. If this doesn't drive the suitors away, nothing will.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">5. Spent Sunday doing almost nothing. Slept in until 11 a.m. (that's right, almost NOON) because there was a sleep-inducing morning thunderstorm, got up to Current Husband's coffee and Mother-in-law's leftover cinnamon rolls, worked on the 1000-piece puzzle I started with the kids, read a little, did a little laundry, cleaned a little, went on a walk, did a little more puzzle with the kids. Bliss.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Hope you had a great weekend, Wifers. Here's to doing more of less.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-40681275453096349602012-06-19T22:36:00.000-05:002012-06-19T22:38:04.493-05:00Bad Santa and Coal in My Stocking<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">First and Foremost: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I am finally switching the blog to WordPress! So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1. However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end. Can I get an amen?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress. Here is the link to the new address - <a href="http://www.adayinthewife.com/">http://www.adayinthewife.com/</a>. Please make a note of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy. Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took. BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN? You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John. He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member. When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence. Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "<em>Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?"</em> because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John. If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will <em>cut. you.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">John looks a little bit like Bad Santa. He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends. He has a boat. He likes whiskey. John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard. Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.</span><br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.</span></em></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">DR: "So what seems to be the problem? You have a sore on your...uh.."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "My nipple. It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">DR: (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">DR: "Okay. Let's take a look at it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like <em>"Is baseball season still going for you guys?"</em> and I'm all, <em>"It must be because you just stole second!"</em> and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me. Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "<em>Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!"</em> This is why I love my doctor. Let's turn a festering sore into a victory. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">She gives me cream and asks about my yard. We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere. My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped. Seriously. She says that. So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, <em>"I can't believe I just gave you that opening</em>." Me either, Doc. It's like you don't know me at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE. You're welcome, neighbors.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I see John in the yard and I say hi. He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "<em>Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden</em>?" and he says something like "<em>Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?"</em> and I say something along the lines of "<em>Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me. I've got it on my chest and arms right now</em>". He pauses and looks at me, and says, "<em>I'll take it down today."</em> I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-57692851991112894862012-06-14T16:58:00.000-05:002012-06-14T21:44:51.907-05:00Mounting My Box<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So yesterday I discussed my methamphetamine-fueled redecorating which occurs when Current Husband is gone; honestly, it's why he never leaves. What he doesn't understand is that if he would leave more often, we would have a clean, kick-ass house. Reverse psychology, CH. You should learn about it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>CH and I have been in major negotiations over the past two months over my box. Specifically, my window box. </strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE CONTENDERS: </strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Current Husband</em></strong>, a 40-something man in Iowa, likes the Sci-Fi channel, Fox News. CH enjoys surfing the Internet on his iPad, weekend naps, and not getting caught in the rain. CH is anti-yard, plantings, or windowboxes. "<em>They're too much work and it's going to rip the siding off of the side of the house." </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Julie the Wife</em></strong>, a 40-something woman in Iowa, likes HGTV, live music, and reading. Julie enjoys hostas with porn names ("Don't Touch My Junk" is the next hosta on her list), pinot grigio in the summer, Jane Austen, and windowboxes. "<em>They are so pretty and add cottage charm." </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE SCENE </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm outside in the front yard, looking at the house, glass of wine in hand, contemplative look on face. CH sees me and yells from window, "<em>What are you thinking about doing NOW?!?"</em> I pause. I normally don't like to let him in on my plans until they are fully formed and halfway executed. "<em>I think we need a big windowbox on the front of the house. Like the ones we saw in Martha's Vineyard, with the big, trailing flowers</em>." I hear a large sigh of exasperation. "<em>We don't need a big windowbox. It will tear the front off of the house.</em>" At this point, I know he is not on board yet. I take measurements.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">About a month later, we're in Home Depot getting a few items, and I leave him and go to the lumber aisle. I select three boards and take them to the cutting table, where CH finds me. "<em>What are you doing</em>?" he asks. <em>"I'm getting the lumber cut for the windowbox</em>," I explain. "<em>So you're sure you want these cut to 110" each</em>?" the sawing guy asks, dubiously. "<em>Yes</em>." CH gets a little red about the face, which is sort of his natural state because he's Irish, so it's hard sometimes to tell if he's mad, sunburned, or just breathing. "<em>I thought we weren't doing the windowbox...that's...that's...110" is nearly 12 feet!" </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Well, duh. The windows are nearly 12 feet long. My wonderful cottagey windowbox must span the entire window if it's going to be in a magazine. I just shrug at CH, because our voices are being drowned out by the sound of the tablesaw cutting into my non-returnable lumber. "<em>I'm not having anything to do with this thing,</em>" CH mutters while shaking his head. <em>"It's going to ruin our house</em>." No, it will make it look like it's on the Eastern seaboard. You're welcome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Two days later, I'm in the garage pre-drilling the holes in the lumber, which is set up on sawhorses. CH wanders in and surveys my work. "<em>Your ends aren't matching</em>." <strike>I punch him in the junk.</strike> I smile sweetly, show him some boob top, and say, "<em>Can you fix it for me?"</em> and hand him the drill. He spends the next hour getting the ends lined up on The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House. And then he fills the holes with wood putty. Sucker.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I prime and paint The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House. CH is getting increasingly nervous. "<em>How are you putting this thing up? I'm not kidding, it's going to rip off our siding</em>." I make a bargain with CH. I will call the contractor who did our basement, and ask him to find the studs on the wall so I know I'm putting everything on properly. CH agrees to my terms. I call the contractor. He's really busy, it's going to be a while. CH leaves town for two days. I have a drill and I know how to use it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My neighbors come outside drinking beer and look at my project, and they both advise me to wait for the contractor. "<em>You'll rip the siding off</em>," they say. My friend, who is normally a terrific enabler, drops off her daughter to play with Youngest Daughter, and says, "<em>Don't do it Julie. You're going to rip the siding off. Wait for the contractor."</em> Shit. Waiting is NOT my strong suit. And I have two days to get the thing up before CH is home and able to tell me no. I drink a glass of wine and think about it. Then I drink another. And then I decide that I am really good with power tools, and because my dad was a bricklayer I know my stuff, I move forward.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Apparently the Universe was also nervous about my plan (<em>She'll rip the siding off</em>), and just as I was getting the extension cord out, I got a text from the contractor. Even though he was in a big hurry, he could squeeze me in between jobs. He stopped by, and couldn't find the studs under the aluminum siding. He drilled a bunch of holes, nothing. He was getting nervous, I was getting nervous, he was getting texts from other jobs saying, "<em>Where are you</em>?" and finally, maybe TOO conveniently, he found all four studs and then left in a hurry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I then drilled twelve holes in the front of my house. They are not small holes. Out of twelve holes, only one of them came out with wood shavings. I started to get a little nervous. My neighbor checked in again, and I told him only one hole had wood. "That's not good," he said, and backed away from me nervously. I had just ruined our house, and CH would be home in about two hours. Could anyone quickly come over and re-side our house? No. No, they couldn't. The only way to cover them up was with a windowbox. I screwed in twelve 3" bolts, and to my intense relief, they seemed to catch into what was probably a stud.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Once those potato vines and wave petunias go crazy? Total cottage charm. CH pulled up from his trip to Ames, got out of the car, stood on the sidewalk for a second and then started smiling and shaking his head. He got his suitcase and walked past me into the house, saying, "<em>Nice windowbox</em>."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm going to put this one in the victory column.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-35270098892607312982012-06-13T08:43:00.000-05:002012-06-13T08:44:03.076-05:00Meth Sister Wives<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I've been a bit neglectful of the blog this week because I have been a Meth Sister Wife. This is a lot like regular Sister Wives but without the religion, and plus the methamphetemine, which means you get the work of four Sister Wives from just one monogamous wife. Everyone wins. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>NOTE TO THE 17 MANDATORY REPORTERS WHO READ THIS BLOG: I don't actually use meth. I like the concept of meth without the actual addiction and the hair falling out and the teeth rotting, because meth addicts seem to get SO DAMN MUCH done. </em></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Last weekend, Current Husband took The Son to Iowa State for basketball camp. If you'll recall, I stalked Head Coach Fred Hoiberg a few weeks back, and got dimed out by my local newspaper when they printed a picture on the front of the Sports section of me talking to Fred at a casino when I was supposed to be at work, and my boss put the paper on my desk the next morning and said something to the effect of "Have a nice time at the casino yesterday, Julie?" When The Son saw Coach Hoiberg at camp, he said, "<em>My mom was in a sorority with your wife</em>!" and The Mayor said, "<em>Oh, you must be [Insert Name Here]! Tell your mother to quit harrassing me</em>." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Honestly, this would freak some kids out, but not mine. They usually just smile and say, "Okay, I'll tell her" and they understand that this is yet another person who has a restraining order out against their mom. I should note here that The Son has replaced a picture of his mother with a picture of Coach Hoiberg, and should The Mayor ever decide to overthrow the government, The Son will be his willing minion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">CH and The Son were gone for two days. CH tries very hard not to leave home without me, because as soon as he pulls out of the driveway, he knows all hell breaks loose. In the days leading up to his departure, I walk around the house and quietly plot my strategy for what major home improvements I've been meaning to make but can't because he's around to stop me. I stockpile supplies in various hidey-holes around the house, and get extra sleep. As soon as he leaves, I am overcome with giddy joy as I break out the paint cans and power tools. Last weekend was no exception. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I started the day by putting in a new flower bed on the East side of the house. Before, it was a bunch of hard packed dirt and a few scraggly weeds, but I bought brick edgers and four bags of mulch, an azalea bush and six perennial plans and went crazy. At about 1 p.m., I broke open a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio, because I was hot, and it was delicious. When the flower bed was installed, I moved the crazy train inside. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We finished our basement over the winter, and I will tell you that it went from being a sexual deviant cellar (we found a pornography letter written in the late 1950's in the ceiling - and let me tell you, it was hardcore) to this lovely, kick-ass family space. There is a full bath down there that we put in, but it stalled a few months ago, and it needed to get finished, so on Sunday and Monday I painted the walls and trim, tiled and grouted the shower, and put in a towel hook thingy and the toilet paper holder and that sort of thing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Youngest Daughter had a friend over for a sleepover, and at 11 p.m. as the girls were putting in Grease to watch while they went to sleep, her little friend looked at me in the bathroom and said, "Do you ever sleep?" Then YD came into the bathroom and saw my empty bottle of pinot and said, "Mom, did you drink that whole bottle of wine?" I looked at the empty bottle, and immediately lied. "No, of course not. It was in the downstairs fridge already open." But in my mind I was like, "Holy shit, I did polish off an entire bottle of wine. Do I have some kind of problem?" After doing the math, I realized I drank a bottle of wine over 10 hours, so it's not like I was all crockered up, but still. I will say, however, that it was delicious, and paired with the sounds of The Black Keys made grouting over my head much more tolerable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 of Meth Sister Wives, where I build and install a 10 foot window box before CH gets home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-42597441356821864582012-06-08T12:27:00.000-05:002012-06-08T12:52:33.604-05:00Burned By The Son<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Yesterday, my sweet little sunshiney blonde baby turned into a teenager. </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Oh dear. I could get a little verklempt. </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">While I wouldn't be happy about any NEW babies (see "Essure procedure"), I would so love to have each of my kids as a six-month-old or a one-year-old for ONE DAY, 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. Just to hold them close and smell their skin and put my face in their hair and touch their chubby little fingers and toes and cheeks. Oh, the cheeks. Listen to their sweet little sounds and rock them in a chair. Oy. What is it about birthdays that does this? When I'm 63, will I be writing, "<em>Oh, how I wish I could have them back as teenagers so I could be confused about whether or not they are mad at me or just generally angry and to try to keep them informed about good hygeine and manners and give them money and drive them places..."</em> Teens hug, but in the words of The Bloggess, sometimes "<strong>A hug is just a strangle you haven't finished yet</strong>." You get pretty good at figuring out which is which. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Son? Was a cuddler. Oh, how that boy cuddled, and still will. He was a good sleeper, God bless him, and he still is. He always wanted to help, and still does. Now that I have TWO teenagers, I'm starting to hear the tick-tock of when I won't have them in my house anymore. Some days, that isn't such a bad thought, but most days, it's distressing. They are all really fun kids, dammit! Just stay and play! But learn to do your own laundry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave for work at 7 a.m., and The Son was out of bed because he was "pretty excited about being 13 and couldn't sleep anymore." I told him Happy Birthday and he gave me a big hug, and I started chanting, "<em>Who's so old? Who's so old? Who's so old?"</em> and he said, "<em><strong>YOU</strong>!"</em> Damn. That burns! Oldest Daughter would've left it at that, but The Son wants his mother to be happy, so he said, "<em>Just kidding Mom! You are young and beautiful and awesome!"</em> Which is how I've trained them all to address me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I took a half day off work and took the kids to the pool with friends, where I read a book written by the instructor at my Iowa Summer Writing Workshop, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_18?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=like+normal+people&sprefix=like+normal+people%2Caps%2C256">"Like Normal People" by Karen Bender</a>. I honestly didn't expect to like it so much, it didn't really seem like my thing, but I try to read the work of my instructors so I am able to suck up and be in prime stalking position if it becomes a necessity. This book is surprising me. It's beautifully written, I could only hope to craft such rich descriptions and dialogue. I got so wrapped up in the book that I ended up in the sun for three hours and fried myself to a crisp. Damn. That burns. Someone at work this morning said, "<em>Either you are really, really mad today or you have a sunburn</em>" and I replied, "<em>Piss off before I punch you in the face</em>." (Just kidding. I used the F word.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After the pool, our family took The Son to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you get a side of testosterone with everything you order. This seems to be the fave go-to place for all boys, ages 12-43. We sat outside on the patio, the only group out there, and had a great time. We went home and he opened his gifts, and loved all of them. We ate cake. It was one of those days you need to have every once in a while, as a shining city on a hill, to remember and hold when the kids are fighting amongst themselves, forgotten to give you an important message, and have eaten the last ice cream sandwich. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Before I sign off, one more quick thing - on the Facebook ADITW page, I posted "The Son is 13 and a year closer to some skank taking him away from me". Of course I kid, but I want to defend myself against any charges of future DIL cruelty. My point would be that whomever MY children marry, men or women, will probably need to be able to joke around with our tribe to make the marriage cut in the first place. Not because of me. Because of who my KIDS are; I get that their marriages aren't about me, nor would I ever want to interfere in that relationship. Oldest Daughter's Current Boyfriend is a great kid, and able to toe the line of being respectful and caring, and yet being wickedly funny, which we all love. He gets us. He fits. (Except that he exercises and eats healthy, but we're working on that.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I can see a Thanksgiving in the future, when I'm drinking wine and tricking my daughter-in-law into making most of the meal, and I'll make an inappropriate comment about her stuffing the turkey, and she'll look at me lovingly and say, "<em>Quit being a skank</em>. <em>I'm cooking here</em>." I will walk over to her, lovingly stroke her face, smile proudly, and say, "<em>That'll do, Pig. That'll do</em>." And then I shall refill her glass and spoil her children. And be thankful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-44200182643364899552012-06-04T16:12:00.001-05:002012-06-04T16:12:51.588-05:00CH-CH-CH-CH-Changes.<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hello all! Hope your June has started off well and you are groovin' to your summer playlists. I have personally been listening to my Black Keys playlist quite a bit, and one I call Kickin' Chicks that has Paramore and Florence and the Machine and the Ting Tings on it. Good gardening music, but I get caught shaking my moneymaker while planting and Oldest Daughter gets upset. "Keep it in the back yard!" she stage whispers out of the windows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm a big ideas girl, but can occasionally be a little low on action. I've been meaning to write a book since 1999, but I've been having a problem stopping partying like it's 1999 and party time cuts into book time. But now? I've got a lion in my pocket, and baby he's ready to roar. See?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">SO. If I go public with my commitment, it means that I will be shamed if I don't fulfill it, no? Here are the ch-ch-ch-ch-changes coming around Wiferville this summer:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">1. I'm moving my blog to Wordpress by next weekend. I'll make an announcement on Facebook and here when I'm ready to roll, and this page will be here but it will direct people to go to <a href="http://www.adayinthewife.com/">http://www.adayinthewife.com/</a>, minus the "blogspot" in the name, and it will now carry you to the Word Press site. I'm told Word Press is easier to use and easier to leave comments, so now all of you who e-mail and tell me you can't comment because Blogger is an asshole can party with the tribe. Like it's 1999.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">2. I'm getting in my Little Red Corvette, and taking two classes at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, held at the U of Iowa at their Writer's Workshop facilities. I've taken classes off and on there over the past 5 years, and it's very motivational and gets you in your writer head. Hopefully I use the time to write and not to drink with the other well-intentioned writers there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">3. I'm having a Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein Squirrel Blog-Up Party in Minneapolis, possibly the weekend before the 4th of July. Getting deets together. I will be making Todd t-shirts to pre-order. I'm not sure how this factors into me writing a book, but I tell Current Husband that the dead squirrel is a marketing tool, so I need to occasionally trot him out so Todd doesn't end up in a garage sale against my will. Alongside a Raspberry Beret. The kind you find in a secondhand store. (Did you realize the actress Kristin Thomas is the girl in that video?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">4. I'm going to ACTUALLY WRITE. It's weird, but most publishers don't really let you call yourself an author until you have authored. What a bunch of dicks they are. They are what it sounds like, When Doves Cry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">SO. I've said it. OUT LOUD. (Hey Twi-hards, did you read that and hear Robert Pattinson saying it in your head? Only 5 months until BD2!) Now it's time to come through. I guess as long as I'm shaming myself, I'll throw in another:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">5. Lose 10 pounds through exercise and diet and not through Benadyl and Merlot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">If any of you would like to Declare Yourselves and make some goals, I will have a Comment Coming Out Party when the Word Press blog is launched, and let's make a Summer of Success Partner Commitment Coming Out Party! Yeah, that's right. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-large;"><strong>I'm going to marry all of you.</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-large;">It's legal in Iowa.</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-75823899583442937162012-06-01T13:17:00.001-05:002012-06-01T13:19:57.424-05:00It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 81<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>Whoreticulture:</strong></span> 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 people going to estate sales. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong>Today's topic: Krazy Boob</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I try to have a Zen attitude about most things in life. Really, I do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The problem is that I inherited my Dad's ability to be overly high strung about things, and there are times when I'm not mad, but people think I'm mad because I'm focused on getting something done and not screwing it up, because BELIEVE ME, I have great ability to screw things up. I spend most days trying to anticipate which priceless piece of Wedgewood china I'm juggling is going to hit the ground and shatter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I get uptight, I try to think, "<em>Hey, I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda. I don't have leprosy. My children are not in prison at this time. I remember my name and address. I currently have my original teeth. Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet."</em> This is my mental version of 'count your blessings' - things could always be worse, no? That said, this week has been a little bit WTF.</span><br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My extremely awesome neighbor bought these for me. </span></em></strong></div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She also buys Gruet and invites me over. I heart her.</span></em></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">First, it was the flags. After that whole debacle, I drove to the high school on Wednesday over my half hour lunch to get the van with 87 freshly dried flags and take them back to the Optimists. I pulled into the lot, and ....ohdearGod....the van was gone. As I walked to the school office, I wondered about liability if the school cargo van was stolen on my watch. It turns out the maintenance people at the school had another set of keys, and they moved it - WHEW - so I got in and drove it across town. In my Jambu wedge shoes and prairie mini-dress. I felt a little badass, I'm not gonna lie.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Second, I tore my boob</span>.</span></strong> On Wednesday, I got ready for work and noticed a little pain in Rightie, but didn't think much of it. While talking to a co-worker, I noticed it hurt again, so when I got back to my desk, I stuck my hand down the front of said prairie dress and adjusted my cup, much like an MLB baseball player. (It should be noted here that I didn't spit.) Suddenly, I'm convulsing in pain, because it turns out that Rightie had some fluid come out that hardened like Krazy Glue. Remember the Krazy Glue commercial with the guy in the hardhat glued to the beam?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJpbGmdSYV0g7byyPKVbMbAIVxBqmj4hDMLF5_G1jp8cf0SpmFToqxbEb6DVRZvfw0a7oA8MW3Un5k3OLmY7URrHmvsSPfXB-DWCdX95RyqDwkFKNodbks2iEkUBUGefl58HdZLYG9LrP/s1600/Glue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><em><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJpbGmdSYV0g7byyPKVbMbAIVxBqmj4hDMLF5_G1jp8cf0SpmFToqxbEb6DVRZvfw0a7oA8MW3Un5k3OLmY7URrHmvsSPfXB-DWCdX95RyqDwkFKNodbks2iEkUBUGefl58HdZLYG9LrP/s1600/Glue.jpg" /></span></strong></em></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Well, the yellow hard hat is my boob and the beam is my bra. And I sort of accidentally ripped it off. So then there was bleeding. And Band-Aids. And I had a little secret in my bra all day while I walked around the office. I know, male co-workers, that's pretty hot. Bidding's over, CH won.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So I go to Book Club, my go-to panel of women on all life topics, and after we discussed 50 Shades of Grey and I found out that most of them have regular and spontaneous orgasms <em>(What? Broccoli is on sale? OH GOOOODDDDD...)</em> I brought up my boob, and they all stopped talking and two people said, "Call your doctor tomorrow." And then everyone sort of awkwardly stood up and prepared to leave, and then whispered among themselves about who was going to start the casserole schedule for my family. (I'm of course kidding, since I know some of you are reading this. Remember, I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Instead of calling my doctor, I got on Web MD, which as anyone who does Web MD knows, it always drills down to cancer. Of course, Web MD said, It's either Mastitis, OR, if you aren't nursing anyone, it's probably a rare cancer. I still didn't call my doctor, I had a glass of pinot and then texted, FB'd and called my OB-GYN high school friend, Paige. (I have been known to call her answering service semi-drunk and demand to know why she isn't at a party. It's a miracle I haven't been blocked.) Paige asked me questions only a doctor or someone who knew you before you got your period can, and we determined that I should see my doctor but it's probably just an infected duct. But I'm still wearing a Band-Aid on my boob. Now you know. CH is one lucky bastard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Third, my neighbor is having an Estate Sale starting today, and there is a strong possibility I'm going to hit someone with a shovel this weekend. I love me a good estate sale, but some people like to see if they can actually drive their car through the estate sale, or pull up on lawns, or block driveways. It's like someone is handing out free cigarettes in prison, or Justin Beiber is visiting middle school. The crazy just oozes out of people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">BUT. It's Friday. I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda. I don't have leprosy. My children are not in prison at this time. I remember my name and address. I currently have my original teeth. Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet. So honestly, it's all good.</span><br />
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<em><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!</span></strong></em><br />
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<em><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></strong></em></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-39335050875901323212012-05-29T23:29:00.000-05:002012-05-29T23:29:32.343-05:00Stick a Flag In It<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm about to tell someone to stick a flag in it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm the orchestra rep for the Fine Arts Boosters at Oldest Daughter's high school. Besides the obvious bad choice to represent ANYTHING that has the word "fine" in it (other than Fine Cut Cocaine, Fine Piece of Ass, or Library Fine) the fine people on Fine Arts Boosters have obviously not heard from our elementary school how disorganized I am and moved ahead with their choice anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><strong>(NOTE to the 17 Mandatory Reporters who read this blog - I do not, nor have I ever done, cocaine. I did drink Diet Coke addictively, but quit two months ago. I once had a fine ass, and I have been slapped with library fines, but I don't believe that was since my Nancy Drew days in the 70's.)</strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As part of the requirement of being a rep on Fine Arts Boosters, one has to be in charge of putting flags up around the Quad Cities for the local Optimist's Club. I did the flags on Veteran's Day last fall, so I thought, "How hard can it be?" But I wasn't in charge last fall, I was just a regular volunteer. If I am in your volunteer/non-profit/service organization, for the love of GOD, do not let me be in charge. I am a big idea person, not an organization person. I'm the "let's get a 9 foot Christmas tree!" with 8 foot ceilings and a VW Jetta for transport on December 22.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Somehow I did manage to get volunteers to help. I did get the Activites Director to give me the keys to the high school cargo van on Friday. I did contact the Optimist Club guy in charge of flags ahead of time. I did NOT mapquest the address, and realized that on Sunday evening as Current Husband was driving the cargo van to get 87 flags and said, "Where do I turn?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Um. Wherever Tremont crosses 53rd Avenue? And then to some storage unit north of that? But step on it, cabby, we need to be there in 10 minutes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">CH looked at me adoringly, and said, "<em>WTF, Julie, you didn't get the address?"</em> I got the particular storage UNIT, I just didn't get the street address or general vicinity in the Quad Cities, with a metro population of over 300,000. How far could it be?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After a few panicky phone calls, I located the storage unit. We got our 87 flags loaded and were given vague instructions and some maps. We left, parked the van, and went home until the alarm went off at 5 a.m. on Monday, when I hit snooze and groaned, "<em>WHY!?!? One of my precious days off work, WHY DID I VOLUNTEER TO DO THIS!?!"</em> We woke up entire family and drove to parking lot to act cheerful and enthusiastic when other volunteers showed up. One bitched at me because I didn't make more than 2 copies of the maps, and said that he would've had everyone at the school at 5 to leave at 5:30. I smiled and said, "<em>Next time you are SO in charge of this, I will happily be your minion!"</em> I don't offer up minionship lightly, but what the hell? You get what you pay for, dude. Isn't this about being an AMERICAN?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We gave everyone a sugar donut and some methamphetamene and left. It's actually a little bit fun to be out at dawn, sneaking into people's yards, and instead of rolls of unspooled toilet paper, we're leaving flags. Surprise! You're patriotic! They paid for it, so not that surprising, but I like to tell myself it's a random act of flagging. And really, the American flag is pretty kick-ass, and it's awesome to see them lined up along the streets. It felt like a good deed. God Bless America, indeed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> <strong><em>Oldest Daughter, patriotically vadalizing people.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then, at 6 p.m., just before we were set to go back out and collect the flags, the sirens went off for a thunderstorm warning. Shit on a Wheat Thin. The rules on this were not specific. If it is raining, do we collect flags? I saw lightening - technically, I think we are liable if someone is tragically electrocuted while volunteering for me. Call off the volunteers!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Wait. Thunderstorm has passed over. Warning has been lifted, it was only rain. Call back the volunteers! We head out on the town, and collect the flags, even though they are a little wet. Damp, really. And they're made of nylon, how bad can it be? Well, bad enough that after an hour of picking up and rolling flags, the Optimists reject us at the Home Base storage unit. REJECTED! A real Optimist would think, "I'm sure these flags will dry!" We had to drive the school cargo van with our 87 damp flags back to the school.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>For those playing along at home: </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>87 damp flags don't dry in a closed van over 24 hours.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I called Rod the Optimist. He made it VERY clear on the phone that if the flags are not 100% dry, they will not take them back. Well THAT'S not very optimistic. I said, "Okay, thanks!" politely on the phone, hung up, and thought, "Where the fuck do you think I'm going to unfurl 87 flags to dry, ROD? I have a job! Memorial Day is OVER! The school wants their cargo van back!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CH and I drove to the school and checked the flags at 5 p.m. tonight. Nope. Not dry. This is where things really went south, because CH and I were on different paths here. I was on my normal, passive aggressive "we are in charge, so we have to get the flags dry, I don't like it either" and CH was all "Optimists run the program, this is their problem, they should be clearer on their take-down instructions in bad weather." We explain our differing positions in tense, adult voices. We stare at each other in silence. I open the cargo van and start taking flags out to line up along the high school tennis court fences. CH stares at me and starts muttering about how this is so much bullshit, his volunteer shift ended 24 hours earlier. I respond in an intelligent and mature way - I cry. I'm not a big crier, so CH was kind of stunned. He's not exactly sure what to do with me in that state, so he got very quiet and helped. I should definitely cry more often.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>The Son, as our family unfurled, dried, and re-furled 87 flags tonight.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>Because who likes personal time? Not us!</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm now taking some personal time off work at lunch tomorrow so I can return the flags to the Optimists, and return the school cargo van before they call the police. But the next time someone wants me to volunteer this summer?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>They can stick a flag in it.</strong></span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">DISCLAIMER: This blog in no way demeans the American flag or the raising or care of said flag. This blog does not condone the use of cocaine or methamphetamine, or crying as an act of manipulation. This blog does not encourage anyone to TP yards or steal the high school cargo van. This blog does not imply that drinking an extremely large margarita on the rocks with salt is an appropriate way to end a school volunteer event, nor to start the next morning. This blog does not promote the use of expired milk, and lists 'fisting' as a soft limit.</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-32229420574686666012012-05-24T22:29:00.000-05:002012-05-24T22:29:45.891-05:00Sorry Jen, I'm Un-Stalking You<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I MAY be stepping in a big steaming pile of poo with some hardcore fans to say this, but I've been thinking about it for a while, and I can't it hold back any longer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-large;"><strong>I'm Un-Stalking Jen Lancaster.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">There. I said it. I'm out of the closet. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This has been a difficult decision, one in the making for over a year. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My college friend, known here as "Pat", turned me on to Jen about five years ago. Pat is pretty cutting edge on her pop culture, and knows I appreciate edgy, cool stuff, so she sends tips my way. She sent me an e-mail in late 2007 that said, "If you're not reading Jen Lancaster, you need to - you are like a version of her with kids." I clicked on the link to Jennsylvania, and I was hugely flattered that she would say that at all. I was hooked. Jen was awesomely hilarious. I immediately began stalking her, because OF COURSE we would be besties if we met in real life!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I read "<em>Bitter Is The New Black</em>". Hi-larious. I want to be a writer. I can relate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I read "<em>Bright Lights, Big Ass</em>." Completely Awesome. She's like Every Woman.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I read "<em>Such a Pretty Fat."</em> Love, love, love. Who likes to exercise? I love food.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I read "<em>Pretty in Plaid</em>." I crushed on Jake Ryan. I got all the '80s references. Funny stuff.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then "<em>My Fair Lazy</em>" came along. Hmm. Not so much. Not bad, but not like the others.</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But I still loved Jen, because she was Jen. I went with Pat to Chicago to Jen's book signing, where we got completely shit-faced drunk and I nearly passed out in Borders waiting for her, but had the besttimeeversomuchfun. <a href="http://adayinthewife.blogspot.com/2010/05/wasted-away-again-in-author.html">You can read here</a>, but try to respect me in the morning. It was fun! Because we were hanging out with Jen!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then came "<em>If You Were Here</em>". The fiction book that wasn't fiction, it was more like "Jen and Fletch's crazy hijinks, under false names, with some exaggerations." But it felt disingenuous. I felt like she thought she was being smarter than her readers, and it wasn't really fiction, it was creative non-fiction. I was distracted during the whole book thinking "Yeah yeah, the dog Daisy is Maisy and Tracey is Stacey and Maya is Jen, just own up to it already!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But it was Jen, so it was okay. Sort of.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then her blog started turning ugly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I loved her blog, Jennsylvania. It was funny and snarky and wonderful. Jen has always done a great job of being funny while poking a little fun at herself. She's always bitched a bit, but shown some compassion, or tried to understand the other side. The whole point of Bitter was to show how she had been this materialistic bitch who got her comeuppance, and now she was a writer and happy without the crazy high maintenance life she had been leading. In the last year, I feel like her blog has become this personal venting area where she can throw around her celebrity to bully companies into doing what she wants. Some of the gripes she has are legit, but they all just feel so...so....BITCHY. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">She goes after commenters on her FB page personally and then outs them to her other 54,000 followers, who then go crazy on that person too so they can impress Jen. Usually these individuals get called out because they've expressed an opinion, sort of like how Jen does, but the backlash on these people who are called out is horrible. I can't believe the things people will post to total strangers, just because someone famous tells them to. If for some crazy reason she finds this blog post, she'll probably announce on her FB page "<em>If you don't like it JULIE, then stick it! That's why I've blocked you</em>!" Look on her page right now, she did it to someone named Krista last week. And that is her right. But it just smacks of meanness, and while I love me a little bit of bitchy and bitter, I'm not interested in being one of the Mean Girls. I don't visit Jennsylvania much anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It seems, dare I say it, like she's gone full circle back the Jen in the beginning of Bitter, who had it all and ordered her minions around without thinking about the reprecussions, because she was better than them. I like the old Jen, who was funny and snarky and fun, and who invited us all in the good times with her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Her new book, Jeneration X, is out. In the past, I would have pre-ordered the hardcover copy on Amazon and waited to see where I could drink a chardonnay in her honor on the book tour. The other day, I walked past the book in Barnes and Noble, paused, and then kept walking. Maybe I'll buy the paperback. Maybe not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'll miss you, Jen Lancaster!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-89181097980818329882012-05-21T22:49:00.001-05:002012-05-21T22:50:16.473-05:00Karma is a Bitch<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I've been dealing with my restraining order ever since I stalked The Mayor, so things have been a little hectic on my end. I unplugged last weekend, and let me tell you, all of the people who say, "<em>OMG, it was so good to get away from technology</em>" obviously aren't using it right. It SUCKED. Hello, I didn't hear about Robin Gibb until today! The Bloggess posted and I didn't even have a shot at Firsties. #MyFaveSexPosition was trending on Twitter and I missed it. Seriously, what did people DO before the Internet? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I was pregnant with my Oldest Daughter, I was all haughty with organic goodness, and said things like, "<em>I'm going to have a natural labor</em>", which clearly indicated I had never BEEN in labor. My High School Friend Paige the OB, medical expert on other posts, told me "<em>Jude, epidurals exist for a reason. In this day and age there is no reason for women to birth babies like Ma Ingalls in a cabin with a pot of boiling water and a leather strap.</em>" Or something to that extent. I waited until Baby #3 to have an epidural, and I nearly wept with joy when it took hold. I could've read a People magazine and had a pedicure while pushing. I guess I'm telling you this as some kind of metaphor for going without Twitter or Facebook or blogs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ANYWHO, I'm checking in to say hi, and to tell you that I'm driving to Dubuque, Iowa tomorrow to ANOTHER casino hotel so I can take a website marketing seminar for my hooker job. (Hookers are all about the internet these days.) There is a chance I won't make it back, so I'm here to tell you all that I love you before I get my Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte at 6:30 a.m. and head out the door. You may be asking yourself, "<em>Self, why is she so effing negative? I don't read this blog for that shit."</em> Well, Wifers, I have a good reason.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>I'm being haunted by the ghost </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>of Benny the Baby Duckling.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Not Actual Benny. Because he is dead, </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>and therefore no longer photogenic.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So I'm driving to pick up some kids the other night, and I am taking the ramp onto the Interstate, and this bird is in the street, walking. I'm all, "Get moving, Bird" and thinking it will fly soon, and then I'm bearing down on it, going "FLY DAMMIT FLY!" and then, too late, I realize it's an adorable little duckling. I don't feel my tires go over it, but how could I? It's so tiny and fluffy and trusting of the large one-ton metal cube seemingly coming to pet it. I look in my rearview mirror, and there is a DUCK DOWN.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Honestly, I freaked out a little bit. First because obviously, it's an adorable little duckling and all I can think about is it's mother in the ditch yelling, "BENNY, NOOOOOOO!", but really, what kind of mother lets her kid play on an exit ramp? Second, I'm thinking about how when Current Husband and I bought a VW Jetta about 10 years ago, we were driving it home for the first time and I joked, "<em>Wouldn't it be funny if we hit a deer right..."</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">and BAM! We hit the biggest raccoon I've ever seen in my life. It was the size of a burro or a small bear, and it had a propellor hat and was eating a fudgesicle. After that, the Check Engine light never went off in that car, for the entire time we owned it. After the third trip to the VW dealership, the mechanic seriously said, "<em>We've done all we can do. I think you need a priest."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">So now I have the ghost of Benny with me, and bad shit has gone down ever since. About an hour later, I dropped my favorite Starbucks mug:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It slipped out of my hands in the house, and I watched in slow motion as it dropped and shattered all over my hardwood floor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then I got a sinus infection and found out that they don't treat those with Xanax or Vicodin or Kahlua, but instead with horse steroids that can't be taken with alcohol.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then my favorite white t-shirt got a stain on it, and my favorite brown capris got a big grease stain right on the butt. Don't ask me how. Really. Don't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then my company announced they were switching servers and I couldn't take my laptop home for the weekend, and I swallowed a large bug.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Et tu, Benny?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Have a good day, Wifers, and for God's sake, watch out for the ducklings! I'm a killer! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-6549355744760209872012-05-16T22:32:00.000-05:002012-05-16T22:47:16.275-05:00Messing With The Mayor<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yesterday, I completely messed with Iowa State Head Basketball Coach Fred Hoiberg's head. Honestly, I feel a little bad about it, because he's a good guy, but I still laughed about it as I drove away from the casino hotel where we met. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If you are, or have ever been, an Iowa State fan, you know The Mayor. He's the epitome of what Iowa State sports is all about - grace, class, hard work, smarts, and a sense of humor. Pretty much every Iowa State fan is in love with him, but not in a 50 Shades kind of way. (Well, maybe some of them, but not I. After all, I have Current Husband.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was a Chi Omega with Fred's wife at Iowa State in the late 80's and early 90's, back when I could hold my liquor and only had one chin. I don't KNOW Carol that well, because she was two years younger than I in school and I was just as self-absorbed then as I am now, but I know her well enough that if I saw her I would give her a hug and think about how gorgeous she is but then be mad about it because I can't get all jealous mad because she happens to be a really NICE person too. Damn you gorgeous people who are also good people...you make it impossible to begrudge your happiness and good fortune. Seriously. Throw us a bone. Kick a puppy or something.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So yesterday I find out that Iowa State is doing a Tailgate Tour where the coaches show up and you can meet and greet. I signed The Son up for one of Fred's basketball camps at ISU in June for his birthday, and it's a surprise, so I thought, "COOL! I can get Fred to autograph something for him, and that's how we tell The Son he is going to the camp!" The problem is that I work, and the event was in the afternoon at the local casino. You know, good wholesome fun for the family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I sort of slip out the back door at work and peal out of the parking lot to the casino. I walk in and Fred is being interviewed by the local news stations. I wait my turn, and then I pounce on him. I walk up, shake his hand, say my name and say I know Carol. Fred, who is ever the gentleman, says something polite, and I say, "Where is your hot biscuit wife? Doesn't she get to come on these things?" He looks a little taken aback. Hot biscuit? That's kind of familiar. I ask him to sign my card - the Iowa State people only brought football stuff, and come on, NOTHING basketball? So I end up with a Cyclone TV promo postcard that I shove at Fred to sign. He looks at me like "You want me to sign this promotional postcard for a TV network?" Um, yes. Because I came unprepared, and that's the kind of mother I am. Deal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As he's signing it, I say something about his brother's band in Omaha, the Southpaw Bluegrass Band, and how he should get me backstage passes. I say this because I think it's a really funny concept that people probably try to use Steve to get to his more famous brother Fred, so I thought it would be hilarious that I'm trying to press the ISU head basketball coach for tickets to his brother's bluegrass band in Omaha. For the record, I am the only person out of the two of us who thought that was funny.</span><br />
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<em><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Like them on Facebook! I'm going to try to</span></strong></em></div>
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<em><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">catch a show this summer when I'm home.</span></strong></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then I ask Fred to say Happy Birthday to my son on the card. He graciously agrees, thinking, "Who the hell is this person?" I say, "Isn't your son's 13th birthday soon?" He looks at me cautiously and says "Yes", and I go for broke and say, "Your daughter is a couple of months younger than (OD), and your son and my son (same name) were born close together, but I stopped at twins". Fred Hoiberg blinks, and smiles. He is clearly thinking, "Either this woman is a total stalker and I need to call security, or she's my cousin and my mom is going to call me tonight and chastise me for not knowing her. Shit. I hate these tailgate tours."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">He had a line of people and media waiting, so I left to speed back to work and hope I wasn't missed. I called CH and told him how I unintentionally messed with The Mayor's head. I'm sure everyone acts like they know Fred, because they see him on TV, and I've only met him maybe twice in my life when he was either a senior in high school or a freshman in college, so there is no way he would know me. But in my babble, I dropped enough info that I should have just gone all the way and said, "You really need to cut back on the Lipitor, I found another empty bottle in your trash last week."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This morning, the owner of my company walked in to my office, said "Do a little gambling yesterday afternoon, Julie?" and put THIS on my desk:</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Photo courtesy of the Quad-City Times.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was on the front page of the Sports Section today. A BIG picture. A place I truly never thought I would be in my life. Life section? Sure. Police report? Maybe. Sports? Um, no. Perhaps now my job will be in the Employment section.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So there I am, in all my stalker glory, on the front page of the paper, playing hookie from work on my "secret" mission to get an autograph for The Son. I got texts all day long about this. And my son's friends told him all about it at school. "Um, Mom? Did you go see Fred Hoiberg without me?" No. I was at McDonalds getting a McFlurry. Doesn't that dude look JUST LIKE Fred? Weird.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor. I have issues. Your wife already knows that. Go Cyclones!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-32314341093311116962012-05-14T22:28:00.000-05:002012-05-14T22:28:14.193-05:00CH, You Were Right<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>You were right, Current Husband. </em></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "<em>Self, did she say CH was right? Because I just don't see how that's possible."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion. How did this happen? How did I sink so far? Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me. I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't. I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes? Right? <em>Schnell, schnell! Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant. While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><strong>Poison! It's poison, I tell you! </strong></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><strong>Beautiful, delicious poison.</strong></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CH: "You didn't."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "I did."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CH: "You were so good! Don't do it!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "Oh quit being such a ninny! I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."<br />CH: "Yes it will."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CH: "You're going to hate yourself."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And I took a big drink just to show him I could. He shook his head sadly and walked away. I was fine. I conquered this. I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke. Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Until today. When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again. But CH didn't need to know about that. Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "<em>EWW, who smells? Is that you, George?"</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Grr. "Yes, it's George." CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face. "<em>I told you</em>," he said softly. But not so softly that I couldn't hear it. Or that he wouldn't pay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom. It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "<em>I can smell that! It's the Diet Coke, you know</em>." Mother.Effer. Does he have to rub it in? So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there. So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat. But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"<em>JULIE! DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><em>"Um, no. George must've done it."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>"Seriously? Must I get blamed for everything? </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>There'd better be a treat in this for me."</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters). I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers. It's like you were with me the whole time. I blame the Coca-Cola company. Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I hate it that he was right. Mondays.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-26806231084803149642012-05-13T21:51:00.000-05:002012-05-13T21:51:26.671-05:00<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>Happy Mother's Day, Wifers! </em></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm one of those people who never really thought much about having kids. I didn't particularly enjoy babysitting, nor was I that great at it (but I did like babysitting you, Jason and Little Julie!) and I didn't really aspire to be a mother at any point until I was pregnant with Oldest Daughter. Honestly, that was kind of an oops after a night of drunken ribaldry with Current Husband, just before our first anniversary, but I sort of rolled with the punches. And then she was born, and DAMN. She was pretty cute. And I loved holding her and taking pictures of her, and I GOT it. I went on to be a mother of three, plus a sweet baby we would've called Adelaide that I miscarried, and even though I don't know how GOOD I am at it, I really get a kick out of my kids. They are smart and funny and interesting people, sometimes in spite of me, and I am so incredibly blessed every day to have them in my life. Even when I'm yelling at them for being late or not telling me about an event at school or not doing their homework, I still know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>My people. First two rows. </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Always a fun ride.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Today was just awesome - I slept in shamefully late, and got gifts from my peeps: A fleece sock monkey blanket from OD that she made herself, a free and complete cleaning of my office from The Son (which I desperately needed), and a metal Bloggess-like rooster from Youngest Daughter, and a Starbucks gift card from CH. Best gifts ever. CH took us all out for breakfast. We came home and they helped clean the house for an hour, and then they let me direct all of them in gardening and yard work and fetched a few Blue Moons for me. Our neighbors had us over for an awesomely delicious and fun meal, and then, there was pie.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Absolute bliss.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Who knew when I was 23 that this would be the type of perfect day I would crave, but so it is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Happy Mother's Day, I hope your day was fantastic, whether you are a mother or you just have a great one!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-42897773663257906352012-05-10T22:28:00.001-05:002012-05-10T22:28:46.922-05:00<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>Whoreticulture:</strong></span> 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 people with latex fetishes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong>Today's topic: Fifty Shades of CH</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the past week, I've been on blogging hiatus while I check out porn. LIKE ALL OF THE OTHER GOOD MOMS AT MY KIDS' SCHOOLS. Don't give me that look, Ms. Soccer Mom. I know you've been all tingly with bondage tales. The windows in your Sienna are all steamed up. As a writer of a Whoreticulture blog, it's irresponsible for me NOT to know what is going on in the playrooms of America, and therefore I am required to read these tomes. For you. For those of you who have not read Fifty Shades, here is the synopsis:</span></div>
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"When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms.</div>
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Shocked yet thrilled by Grey’s singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of success—his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving family—Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks on a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey’s secrets and explores her own dark desires.<br />
Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever."<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That last part? I'm going to call a Bullshit Foul. This will not obsess you, possess you, or stay with you forever. It will shock you, mostly with the poor writing and repetition of cause and effect scenarios, and honestly, I'm now flipping through the sex parts until it says, "<em>Come, Ana, give it to me</em>!" and then she "<em>shatters into a million pieces</em>" for her orgasm, so I can get back to the story. Because didn't we ALL come EVERY SINGLE TIME during the two or three times a day we were having sex within the first two months of losing our virginity? And experimenting with butt plugs? Exactly. Since this is Every Woman's story, I'm going to give it to you, baby, Wifer Style.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>PRESENTING.....Fifty Shades of CH</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I walked into the smoky bar at Iowa State University, and I saw him. Of course, I tripped and stumbled because I'm incredibly beautiful and smart, but just can't seem to keep my balance! He was prematurely balding and drinking a beer while playing pool. The way he held both his pool cue and his beer was a testament to his ability to use both hands. I was intrigued. He looked past me while my roommate introduced me to him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Hi," I said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Hey," he said. And then I lost my balance and put my butt right against the front of his jeans. Oh! How embarrassing. Now I'm going to have to have sex with him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">He controlled the timetable, because he was the dominant in our relationship, and he had just ordered another pitcher of beer and had four more quarters on the pool table. He masterfully hit his balls all over the table, thrusting the stick against the balls again and again until they slammed into the pocket. My inner goddess was thirsty and my inner harpy was reminding me that I needed to be at my internship at the Des Moines Register early the next day. I left with my roommate, leaving Master and I both unfulfilled. A dark shadow passed in front of his eyes, and I felt myself filling with an unease that was making me both wary of him and willing to let him lock me up in various bondage cuffs and spreaders. Then I realized someone was doing shadow puppets with their hands in front of his face, and it wasn't really his eyes, because who actually sees emotions flit around in someone's pupils?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I did stumble into bed with this domineering, smart (ass), successful (Scrabble playing), wealthy (with information), God-like(ing), (remote) controlling man, and then I tripped down the aisle into marriage. After numerous occasions of some very hardcore, Missionary style 20-minute sex sessions, I became pregnant with our first child. She was born every inch the smart, beautiful, clumsy person as her mom (and will get an internship at a publishing house and unexpectedly rise up to take over the senior acquisitions editor job from her boss within two weeks when he is dismissed for trying to have sex with her) and as soon as she was born, SCREECH! All of that crazy bondage sex was over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Oh CH...you are a mystery to me still. You are like a cocktail weenie wrapped in croissant dough with Velveeta on top - so hot, a fast snack, and bad for my thighs. I see you, and get all aroused about how you don't mow the yard. You see me, and your blood gets all tingly because I murmur sexily about how I do everything around the house while you watch TV. And the fucking. Oh, the fucking. Let me count the ways:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Let the fucking dog out!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Why do I have to make the fucking coffee??!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"What's this $75 charge at your fucking hair place!?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Is there another fucking orchestra concert THIS week too?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Will NO ONE fold this fucking laundry!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Mmmm. I'm getting hot just thinking about it. No really. I'm getting hot. Will you get your fucking leg off of me? Thanks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><em><strong><span style="font-size: large;">The End.</span></strong></em> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I know, right? It makes you want to go have sex with someone! Now get crazy and take your panties off to go grocery shopping! It's totally acceptable now. You're welcome, America.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-45357849198251178102012-05-06T21:51:00.000-05:002012-05-06T21:52:54.210-05:00It's Whoreticulture Monday! Issue 1<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yesterday, I picked up a copy of the much-discussed "Fifty Shades of Grey". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Tonight, I finished it. I have to blog about it now whilst I'm thinking about it, because DAMN. It's definitely Whoreticulture Material. So here it is, the first-ever Whoreticulture Monday. Hide your children, hide your husbands. The cuffs are snapping on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If you didn't see Saturday Night Live this weekend, here is the ad you missed, which had me howling with laughter: </span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="347" id="NBC Video Widget" src="http://www.nbc.com/assets/video/widget/widget.html?vid=1400037" width="512"></iframe><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">While I didn't straddle a washing machine or take a bath or utilize any "microphones", there were definite squirm-worthy moments. Unfortunately for CH, Sunday afternoon with kids running all over the place isn't really the appropriate time to take advantage of those moments. Fortunately for him, this is a trilogy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm not going to ruin it for you by saying that it's chock full 'o sex and bondage. I will say that when I started reading, I got a little pissed. First, it's such an OBVIOUS rip-off of Twilight. She's brunette, clumsy, smart but has somehow never dated. She seems oblivious to every guy wanting her. Her mother is harebrained, her father is taciturn. She loves Brit Lit. He is god-like, long fingers, plays piano, powerful, is wealthy, is bad for her. It's set in Washington State. She works in an effing HARDWARE store. I did have a commenter tell me the book came from a Twilight Fanfic site, which is where people write their versions of events with a Twilight theme, so maybe if you know that in advance you won't be so damn irritated about it like me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">In my opinion, the writing is very poor. The author desperately needs a thesaurus. If I read the words "harpy" or "inner goddess" one more time in my life it will be too soon. But she wrote a book and I haven't, so who am I to judge? There are some parts that are admittedly hot, but I found myself so mad at the heroine during most of the book that I couldn't quite get in the appropriate mood. Why does she stay? Why is being dominated by a man so glorified? Why would a woman EVER give up her right to free will? Sex is great, but it isn't everything. I was honestly disturbed by a lot of the story, and had trouble getting past my prejudices. I swear, Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>"Can you BELIEVE this bullshit? Why did I even bother."</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But. As much as I rolled my eyes (oh, spank me) and muttered under my breath (Run, Dumbass, RUN!) I finished the 500-page tome in about 36 hours. And now I have to buy the next one, because who doesn't love to watch a trainwreck? I won't watch Kardashians or Bachelorettes, but I'm going to go Fifty Shades Darker. Damn it. I hate myself a little bit for it, but really, there had better be some big Woman Power in this one or I'm burning my bondage cuffs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-19499584711980341032012-05-02T18:36:00.000-05:002012-05-02T18:36:56.700-05:00If There's A Will.....<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As part of my ongoing "Drive 100,000 Miles In My Own City" program, I picked Youngest Daughter up from a friend's house the other day to get her home and take Oldest Daughter to her next destination. As I was driving down the street, an old Cadillac pulled out in front of me, and proceeded to drive about 10 mph. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I don't want to tailgate. I really don't. But DAMN IT ALL if I don't have a schedule to keep, and if we are all following the speed limit it will make things so much easier. I'm getting frustrated with the Caddy when they drift left into an imaginary turn lane in the middle of the two lane street. Yay! They are turning left! OH SHIT! BOO!!! They are actually turning right into a driveway by swinging their big ass Caddy into the middle of the street first, with NO EFFING TURN SIGNAL, and right in front of me! I hit the brakes, all was well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "Mom, did you almost hit that car?"<br />ME: "Yes. And this is why when you drive you should ALWAYS use your turn signals!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "I'm glad you didn't hit that car."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "Me too!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: (contemplative) "I mean, I don't even have a will, and I have $28 and a </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> bunch of dolls that I w</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ill need to leave to people."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: (shocked) "Did you say a will?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "Yeah. Those things that tell people when you die who gets what."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "Maybe you should write it down and get it notarized."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "What's <em>notarized</em>?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "It's when someone has been trained by the government to know how to decide if a document has really been signed by the person who is listed as signing it. And you have witnesses too, like some of your friends who can verify that you said what you did."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "I'm not sure which friends I would have sign it..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "You'll want to be careful about that, because if they find out they're getting your Lalaloopsy dolls they might push you in front of a car."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">YD: "You know, I'm too young to be worrying about these things."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ME: "Agreed."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I wonder who is getting the $28....</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-66087298240625113682012-04-30T21:19:00.001-05:002012-04-30T21:19:35.282-05:00Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">estrogen 44 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">a day in the wife 14 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">innocent teens 6 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">donkey shrek ass 5 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">teen panty 5 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">adayinthewife 4 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">anne taintor postcards 4 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">hollister guy models 4 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">nice legs on teens 4 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">estrogen pictures 3</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As I'm getting all judgey about what people search to accidentally get to my blog, I think about <em>my</em> 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:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Can eunochs have orgasms?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I have a third nipple - at The Bloggess</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Cats having sex (images)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Pippa handgun</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Rogers, Arkansas</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Fifty Shades of Gray</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Release Date for Breaking Dawn Part 2</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Swim lesson dates available</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">When was Ted Bundy electrocuted?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"The Show" Malbec</span></li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsef1GW5xuYpmuAEfFc_C5u6wXZ8kRLi2Xy37TG9qtvbE-43u3aoKlZbYuEvzIf28aLq-WqJfMlWP9vlhWp2WMBvalAx9pNJTuF_JW7BZ2_4jSwNbtskMPqclKqlmuEe1KPEGS_UCMs7fT/s1600/theshowmalbec09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsef1GW5xuYpmuAEfFc_C5u6wXZ8kRLi2Xy37TG9qtvbE-43u3aoKlZbYuEvzIf28aLq-WqJfMlWP9vlhWp2WMBvalAx9pNJTuF_JW7BZ2_4jSwNbtskMPqclKqlmuEe1KPEGS_UCMs7fT/s1600/theshowmalbec09.jpg" /></a></div>
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<strong><em> (<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Seriously delicious, people.)</span></em></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjrObtR2-DDPH9HF7Ffx2WCjw8rCCKxVV8HDWb7kXmkDbcGk53_XA1rHVK5aupzu6pLlJXUaUUkzxjC7NafzpJaVCY6GNFTSuTwprdD6CxiLiNgWsPgS-9cvQr-ZpnwkcRb_IXVukm8FX/s1600/sidebar_pretend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjrObtR2-DDPH9HF7Ffx2WCjw8rCCKxVV8HDWb7kXmkDbcGk53_XA1rHVK5aupzu6pLlJXUaUUkzxjC7NafzpJaVCY6GNFTSuTwprdD6CxiLiNgWsPgS-9cvQr-ZpnwkcRb_IXVukm8FX/s1600/sidebar_pretend.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here's a picture of me drinking water for the creepy people:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBJCWgAwwgaIPy_fD86kuWqMRcvO87XDux4zvQx4OzY9D-2qF6hrFkl8Kbo3rnQ10fA-_4WIZHgBDP5sxi2p3y8leQqKMnU05GtqmFUThmrNA21BFAUR3vJJC1p8ZwDytIE63160N-78_/s1600/panty+teen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBJCWgAwwgaIPy_fD86kuWqMRcvO87XDux4zvQx4OzY9D-2qF6hrFkl8Kbo3rnQ10fA-_4WIZHgBDP5sxi2p3y8leQqKMnU05GtqmFUThmrNA21BFAUR3vJJC1p8ZwDytIE63160N-78_/s320/panty+teen.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">You're welcome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-41297366899433489052012-04-26T22:47:00.000-05:002012-04-26T22:47:48.972-05:00It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 80<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>Whoreticulture:</strong></span> 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.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>Today's topic: Hump Day Forever </strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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 <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>THUNK</strong></span> like a water balloon hit the side of the house, and then <strong><span style="font-size: large;">Raaaaaarwwwwr RAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!</span></strong> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4ld9qBqbxBq9VtM1zFcjhoT_ysJnHLS6M43X16YnJcfRj7vdHqhRbipkhgTg_G76Jbc2SVIzcJ6IrYk4YTY4SasJTT29BChzGjybDqG4jfYJQsiFarsxuY-H-QRAXEG7PyHAtgfi40Lq/s1600/cats-having-sex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4ld9qBqbxBq9VtM1zFcjhoT_ysJnHLS6M43X16YnJcfRj7vdHqhRbipkhgTg_G76Jbc2SVIzcJ6IrYk4YTY4SasJTT29BChzGjybDqG4jfYJQsiFarsxuY-H-QRAXEG7PyHAtgfi40Lq/s320/cats-having-sex.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Our neighborhood on a daily basis. </em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It's like an opium den of cat sex in the yard.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>But most of the feral cats are black </em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>and missing signifcant chunks of fur.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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. <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>RRRAAAAAWWRRR! HISS HISS HISS! THUNK THUNK RAWWWWWWRRRR!!!!</strong></span> 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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But lest ye think the mating is over in our hood, fear not, gentle reader. Everyone in our hood is doing the Humpty Hump.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>The next night, George had his chance at love. </strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbSmKbX4g13n1aHVoVPUAI-4PZtut6rltuznFf-6b4Pc9CqelMK-uq7T_mqvUAzKWo9JLmE600kPLfV3YIUd1FpqIJ_-STG5ocZOrBWyuP4wEMX5SXy38s-O6LzkQiUdrnOxWqIQlEOB9/s1600/100_2927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbSmKbX4g13n1aHVoVPUAI-4PZtut6rltuznFf-6b4Pc9CqelMK-uq7T_mqvUAzKWo9JLmE600kPLfV3YIUd1FpqIJ_-STG5ocZOrBWyuP4wEMX5SXy38s-O6LzkQiUdrnOxWqIQlEOB9/s320/100_2927.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>George, mounting Grandma Jan at Christmas. </em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Awkward for everyone.</em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>So, in sum:</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">1. Someone is throwing f**king cat bombs at our house in some weird kind of hate crime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">2. Short dogs have bigger mojo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">3. George the Superpet is a repressed sex machine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Spring has sprung, people. Get out there and enjoy it like an animal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></span>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-1456091125179228182012-04-23T21:37:00.000-05:002012-04-23T21:47:46.587-05:00Of Blogs and Birthdays and Baginas and Blow Jobs<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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 <a href="http://www.muffintopmommy.com/">http://www.muffintopmommy.com/</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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: <a href="http://www.thebeardediris.com/">http://www.thebeardediris.com/</a> 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.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmBTAEQYeYxGFcVGPAAIRMPtU0PWe_gDnWbA9Z3smQPzq1xhJEAdYHNT8DJ4jn3ROy9Sj3QVxdFsIe_SbpwTq1vVFUYlPsyiZ6R3Cw_o_aTdI1p1lvKMyl3lS4VjJKhTI-VFExMgJAEOX/s1600/iris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="67" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmBTAEQYeYxGFcVGPAAIRMPtU0PWe_gDnWbA9Z3smQPzq1xhJEAdYHNT8DJ4jn3ROy9Sj3QVxdFsIe_SbpwTq1vVFUYlPsyiZ6R3Cw_o_aTdI1p1lvKMyl3lS4VjJKhTI-VFExMgJAEOX/s320/iris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I love this photo at The Bearded Iris - she rocks it.</span></em></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>Here's a freebie, judgey people - I'm showing off my melons in public again, </em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>while forgetting to suck in my gut. OD took this picture. Someone call the DHS.</em></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But in the slew of messages I got on my personal facebook page on my birthday, a few stood out as being blog-specific: </span><br />
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>I was crying laughing last night catching up on your blog! </em></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>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!!!</em></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Can't tell you how often I read your observations and laugh so hard that I can hardly breathe</em></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Thank you for making me laugh every single day! :)</em></span></li>
<li><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Happy birthday sweetie! Wish we were celebrating at Erma!!! :(</span></em></li>
<li><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hey you hot piece of sass - Happymuthafahkinbirthday!!!!! xoxox</span></em></li>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" />Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-45734927717159559292012-04-22T14:47:00.002-05:002012-04-22T14:47:47.434-05:00Another Year Bites the Dust<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYsGPKCXtsiPhRZIEPOksIhgqeUF_hQ8Aqxt7iRo16ST8l2wz9idAzc35v2rydul1oGBoTvTsnqlzR9ZCD7zUhORv7gA08aQmXY94gmcboaLy9esYukCwxVJB6Y85Bkb4GB3tnhyphenhyphenpTVNr/s1600/ET.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYsGPKCXtsiPhRZIEPOksIhgqeUF_hQ8Aqxt7iRo16ST8l2wz9idAzc35v2rydul1oGBoTvTsnqlzR9ZCD7zUhORv7gA08aQmXY94gmcboaLy9esYukCwxVJB6Y85Bkb4GB3tnhyphenhyphenpTVNr/s320/ET.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Me, dropping kids off at school. "<em>Beee goooooodddd</em>."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Hand to God, ET looks younger and better rested than I do right now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My nose is bigger but we could both use some eyebrow work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Neck and chin? Identical. We must share the same grandma.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">So OD was in this musical, Anything Goes, and she was Female Passenger and Reporter #1.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYW98628uezdvuxSXkpGvLLXM55sMY_S_HyUoJMYpsMsdai4MWmxh-gzD9uKqboOXzRIZk2ufhYpi25maC_7SdcnxXoonXB2d-sWHRJQqf6Mt1SVil0uUSVcX6C8YYM_7laCox2JUgBwk/s1600/Anything+goes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYW98628uezdvuxSXkpGvLLXM55sMY_S_HyUoJMYpsMsdai4MWmxh-gzD9uKqboOXzRIZk2ufhYpi25maC_7SdcnxXoonXB2d-sWHRJQqf6Mt1SVil0uUSVcX6C8YYM_7laCox2JUgBwk/s320/Anything+goes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>She's in the yellow dress in front on the right. </em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">She's so sweet I could sop her up with a biscuit.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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, "<em>Dear God, that's OD in three years</em>." Three years may seem like a long time, but in high school time that is about 14 months.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Now that you've been spashed with estrogen, some quick bullet points on who was in the audience:</span><br />
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>Grandma and Grandpa Loud Talker</em></strong>. 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.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>Machine Gun Laugher</em></strong>. Like Fran Drescher, but in monotone and without the charm. joke. hehehehehehehehehe. joke. hehehehehehehehe. joke. hehehehehehehehehe.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>The entire Whooping Cough ward from the hospital</em></strong>. Cough drops, people. They're sold at all major drug stores.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>"What Did They Say?" Man</em></strong>. Move on Dude, because you're missing the next joke too.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"<strong><em>My Kid's A Lead!" Mom</em></strong>, who laughs before the kid finishes the joke. Had OD told jokes, or been a lead, this would've been me.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>The Crying During a Comedy parent</em></strong>. Me. Because this just can't be happening.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm assuming Anne Hathaway's mom has this same list of concerns.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Have a happy week ahead Wifers!</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-70156696484914669992012-04-16T22:34:00.000-05:002012-04-16T22:34:05.649-05:00Glass Half Full, Carton Empty<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I made a move to four different breakfast staples, all with the same result. Exhibit #1:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqv3zcYFBRJzPCcajo_aCRuXet9HqCbWI-lZ_4713Zh2gqF76V8AtDpT9SYizFNBKpEO5ME2lKLilpUjHLYU7gKLBDctqPOCzOJr0Q3cL68-BmNyP5B0chsDej5ZFn-cq1kSGDeFm-SdQ/s1600/100_4022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqv3zcYFBRJzPCcajo_aCRuXet9HqCbWI-lZ_4713Zh2gqF76V8AtDpT9SYizFNBKpEO5ME2lKLilpUjHLYU7gKLBDctqPOCzOJr0Q3cL68-BmNyP5B0chsDej5ZFn-cq1kSGDeFm-SdQ/s320/100_4022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I move on to cereal. Not as impressive, but hey, they'll eat, right? Box #1 - EMPTY. Box #2 - EMPTY. Seriously. WTF, Family?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I stood there for a moment while I did my angry cartoon character imitation.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupkMMp_Fq0sHyPsEKou4JMHLUltPcT6CYbnXUtIEqxdn3iG6fZOuFCgUa-uOKjUSQN6x68l0h4D-gRmf7NJuhqcQq0FnJD-bTQ9l-YY9Vjb4DWk-zYuA-tmmD8DI2yrlzdythSkTG1FV5/s1600/wile+e+coyote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupkMMp_Fq0sHyPsEKou4JMHLUltPcT6CYbnXUtIEqxdn3iG6fZOuFCgUa-uOKjUSQN6x68l0h4D-gRmf7NJuhqcQq0FnJD-bTQ9l-YY9Vjb4DWk-zYuA-tmmD8DI2yrlzdythSkTG1FV5/s1600/wile+e+coyote.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The thought bubble on this is not yet rated, but is surely inappropriate for delicate ears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then I had my coffee and stared at the empty boxes and changed into this:</span><br />
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<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4iywgcdCUe7l_tBLLpwJjwHGg84JfU4LI6d6uecGVLXAMWNXgtyONQPGOQgB59-DCB7iNRDwfZrwLYlla7Lpa8nWng97CcD4YzK1ecYX5HxbOxFTHcsB6itdT_TbzejNDDJ2eS6ABFRU/s1600/wile+e+coyote2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4iywgcdCUe7l_tBLLpwJjwHGg84JfU4LI6d6uecGVLXAMWNXgtyONQPGOQgB59-DCB7iNRDwfZrwLYlla7Lpa8nWng97CcD4YzK1ecYX5HxbOxFTHcsB6itdT_TbzejNDDJ2eS6ABFRU/s320/wile+e+coyote2.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As a side note, take a look at my iPod:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqv3zcYFBRJzPCcajo_aCRuXet9HqCbWI-lZ_4713Zh2gqF76V8AtDpT9SYizFNBKpEO5ME2lKLilpUjHLYU7gKLBDctqPOCzOJr0Q3cL68-BmNyP5B0chsDej5ZFn-cq1kSGDeFm-SdQ/s1600/100_4022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqv3zcYFBRJzPCcajo_aCRuXet9HqCbWI-lZ_4713Zh2gqF76V8AtDpT9SYizFNBKpEO5ME2lKLilpUjHLYU7gKLBDctqPOCzOJr0Q3cL68-BmNyP5B0chsDej5ZFn-cq1kSGDeFm-SdQ/s320/100_4022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And Mom? I'm sorry for when I surely did this to you. You are a saint.</span><br />
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<div align="left"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-50143371312763114952012-04-12T16:42:00.000-05:002012-04-12T16:42:11.432-05:00Last One in Single Digits<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">"Oh Julie," you say. "Quit yer whinin'!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>POP! That is the sound of me smacking you sort of hard and then saying I was kidding.</em></strong> 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:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>1. THE DRIVING SCHEDULE</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Here was our schedule Monday night: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">4:45 Get home from work</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">5:15 Leave with The Son, his bass, and Oldest Daughter's cello in van. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">5:30 Drop Son at string lessons, drive to high school to get </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> Oldest Daughter from musical practice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">6:00 OD in cello lesson, Son comes out. Current Husband meets me in parking lot </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> with Youngest Daughter. YD gets in my car, Son gets in CH car to be driven </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> to baseball practice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">6:30 OD leaves cello lesson, drive back to high school to drop her at musical practice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">7:00 Arrive home. Carry instruments in. Feed YD. Let George the Superpet out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">7:15 Let GTS in, put YD and piano bags in car, leave for piano lessons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">7:30 Drop YD at piano, go shop for YD birthday gifts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">8:00 CH takes Son to piano from baseball practice. Picks up OD from musical practice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">8:30 I pick up The Son and YD from piano, go home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">8:45 Start homework, showers, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">10:45 Think "What The Hell Just Happened?" Assess what can change. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> Determine nothing can. Count days until musical is over. Throw up a little in my </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> mouth. Take a Prilosec and eat Tums. Sleep fitfully, dream of dogs on skis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>2. FOREGOING DIET COKE</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>3. TODAY IS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY</strong></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEQ4Pmx1freg9KOninG_1GQJWRSALsJh6XCmDChjbEKukNc_mvsS_wzHjLkXWBMpcnA25SBcfE5cKmvAxZilhTcmFsLBeSZWOUuYaKq5lYqHLaLVML6OrIbYMIU6hNUSlnFd4udm_LdM6/s1600/100_3222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEQ4Pmx1freg9KOninG_1GQJWRSALsJh6XCmDChjbEKukNc_mvsS_wzHjLkXWBMpcnA25SBcfE5cKmvAxZilhTcmFsLBeSZWOUuYaKq5lYqHLaLVML6OrIbYMIU6hNUSlnFd4udm_LdM6/s320/100_3222.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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!?!?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong>4. I'M TURNING 43 NEXT WEEK</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">In sum? Happy Birthday YD, I need a Diet Coke, and for my birthday? Baby you can drive my car.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And baby I love you.</span><br />
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<div align="left"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-961530480382578444.post-72308182171696711012012-04-09T15:54:00.010-05:002012-04-09T16:02:09.852-05:00Breaking Up Is Hard To Do<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(Take a moment. I know, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around too.)</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRvaZWK3OZvo4SMps_WOjIgiHAcFXibwhIte-l4UwwZV7hjA1CuMVdBlHXsrn7PIF92WRYohY4rRYnqhiGVBk6RQCbDkwu6PDIdpQKHe42c5yZJexpv7KsV8tRUFTH09n7eDvFAJegdXC/s1600/diet+coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRvaZWK3OZvo4SMps_WOjIgiHAcFXibwhIte-l4UwwZV7hjA1CuMVdBlHXsrn7PIF92WRYohY4rRYnqhiGVBk6RQCbDkwu6PDIdpQKHe42c5yZJexpv7KsV8tRUFTH09n7eDvFAJegdXC/s1600/diet+coke.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Memories. Like the corners of my mind.</span></em></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><em>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....</em></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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. <strong>NO. TIME.</strong> 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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ME: “Don’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">HER: “What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ME: “As a friend, I’m telling you not to go in there.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">HER: (smiling but flustered) “But I’m just rinsing out my coffee cup.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ME: “Not in there, you aren’t. Don’t pass that door for at least an hour.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">HER: (Laughing as I’m leading her to another sink) “You must have what R had last week!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ME: “Was R sick?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">HER: “I’m not sure, but I know she alternated bathrooms and advised I go at home.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ME: “Ditto.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">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!)</span><br />
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<div align="left"><img src="http://www.hawkercentral.com/images/wife/sig.png" /></div>Julie, The Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15444095359022135281noreply@blogger.com12