A Day in the Wife

It's Not Easy Being Green

2012-01-29T20:47:00.000-06:00

If the blog still played music (curse you, virus-infected playlist.com!) it would be playing Loverboy's "Everybody's Workin' For the Weekend". (Remember the cover of that album, with the red leather pants ass shot and the crossed fingers?? So risque in the '80s. Like David Lee Roth's ass-less pants, which teens looked upon with glee as their parents were shocked, but now look so silly. And then the Red Hot Chili Peppers went to tube socks on their peckers and made DLR look like a grandpa.)

Where were we? Who am I? I can't tell if this is ADHD or early onset Alzheimers, so stick with me. I blame the Nyquil. Weekends. Yes.

SO my job is fine but I'm going through what appears to be a long-term case of wanting to be home full-time again, so I find myself doing the whole Counting Down the Week thing. I actually say "It's Hump-Day" in my head, dread Mondays, and love Fridays. I've become a cliche. Or a Dilbert cartoon.

On Thursday night, I started getting sick. I wouldn't take Friday off because I don't want to lose the vacation time. By Saturday morning, it was a full-blown sniffling sneezing coughing aching stuffy head fever and I couldn't rest day. This has been my best friend all weekend:

...and it's cousin, the cherry-flavored Nyquil. And Cold-Eeze lozenges with zinc. And lotion-coated Kleenex. For once, Diet Coke doesn't taste right, and THAT is what tells you I'm sick, my friends.

I don't get sick often, because I can't. When I get sick, everything falls apart. No one eats, everyone's plans are thrown out of whack, the house goes to shit, the dog isn't let out, etc. It's chaotic. This time, Current Husband ran everything - kids all over town, meals, dog, cleaning, and he even created a utility closet for extra storage. On one hand I was relieved. On the other hand, I was a little disappointed. Don't they need me? Aren't I the glue that holds this family together? This is just a waste of a well-cultivated Martyr Complex. Damn them and their self-sufficiency. I took to my bed in disgust.

In order to give me some quiet time while sick, CH took Youngest Daughter and a friend to see The Muppets today. Upon arrival at the theater, he bought them all popcorn, and promptly got nauseous. Youngest Daughter ran from the theater with her hand clapped over her mouth to the bathroom. CH saw a kid in the lobby with his back against the wall, dry-heaving and then finally throwing up, proving that it's truly not easy being green.

So my precious, precious weekend was wasted on a nasty cold, but at least I'm not bitter. The Nyquil is kicking in, so I'm off to bed. Hope you all had a great weekend, and a lovely Monday. My tip to start your week is to stay away from the popcorn.

You're Old. That'll be 400 Dollars.

2012-01-26T21:50:00.002-06:00

I think I've mentioned that my family made me believe I was going deaf last year. They walk around muttering and low talking around me, and I'm forever saying, "What? Huh?" and then they talk very slowly and loudly, over-enunciating and then mocking me. Which was super funny until I served them the trichonosis ham at Christmas. It was an accident, of course. OR WAS IT?

So, on the whole hearing thing (HUH!?), I ended up so freaked out by it that I made an appointment at an ENT office and had a hearing test. I had to go to a room with little tiny preschool chairs, and put on little pink Minnie Mouse headphones, and stare at a Disney mural while they administered the hearing test. When I walked out, the tech said, "Um, yeah, so not only is your hearing good, it's actually above normal. So....you're fine." I paid the $300, which was not covered by insurance, and went home to my low-talkers who were all making me think I was crazy. (I SAID MADE ME THINK I WAS CRAZY!)

So in the past year, I've had to start using reading glasses. I seem to really have trouble seeing, so I picked out a 2.0 strength pair. Lately, those seem to be blurring my words as well. It was time to upgrade from my Walgreens readers to some real glasses. Hopefully bifocals, because they'll go with my Depends. (Do those Kegels, girls. Ready...and HOLD...and...release.) I asked friends for an eye doctor recommendation, and went with the one who has the same name as CH and my masseuse, because I'm intent on building a stable of men with the same name who are here to serve me.

Today, I go to the eye doctor's office. While waiting for my name to be called, I checked out some eyeglasses...ooh, there are some cool Lacoste ones. Will I look like Tina Fey in THESE:

Being old might not be so bad if I can look bookishly hip. Maybe rock a Naughty Librarian look. Okay, I can do this. "Julie?" I take my first step toward my revamped image as I walk into the exam room.

My oompah-loompishly tanned tech was very nice, but kept looking at my chart with furrowed brow. "What is it you are being seen for? How blurry are the words?" I started getting worried - was this some kind of ocular malfeseance, the likes of which had never been seen before by this office? The doctor walked in with the same name as my husband and gave me a speech not unlike one I would hear from CH:

"Your vision is 20/20. You're just getting old."

Um, do I pick up those Lacoste lenses on the way out as a parting gift, Doc? Because you just harshed my buzz. I went from Tina Fey to Estelle Getty in 60 seconds. It turns out that when you are OLD, your lens in your eye quits being bendy - "Much like your knees, Julie" is what he said, just before I accidentally punched my bad knee into his scrotal sac - and won't move as quickly, hence your blurry words. Also? My readers are too strong - I need closer to a 1.0, the 2.0 strength is making me hold my book closer to my face. I can't even get my readers right! What is my name? Where am I? Jesus, is that you?

I don't need glasses. I need burial insurance.

So in the past six months, I've had my hearing checked and it is above average, and I've had my vision checked and it's 20/20, and yet, I CAN'T SEE OR HEAR A DAMN THING.

Conclusion? You're old. That'll be $400. Come back in two years so we can ridicule you some more.

And The Banjo Played On

2012-01-23T23:00:00.000-06:00

What's your song?"

I can't tell you how many times Current Husband and I have been asked that question when we're with other couples. Usually these are outings where the men are wearing khakis and button-downs and the women are in some civilized garb, and glasses of wine or Maker's are being sipped discreetly. Some people chime in with "At Last" by Etta James, or "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder, or "You've Got a Friend" by JT. Current Husband and I have a soundtrack to our slightly odd and Funyun flavored life together - it's the banjo song from Deliverance. We're usually met with an awkward silence before someone changes the subject. And then one of us farts. And then we aren't asked back.

This weekend, the banjo tunes again wafted through our home sweet home.

First, I'd like to say that the damn basement is finally about 93% done, which means an A-, so I'm sure it will stay that way for the next 3 years. Here is where we started:

This picture was taken waaaay back last summer, when we started tearing down walls and tearing out the ceiling and before the basement waterproofing system was put in, etc, etc etc. Gross, no??

And here is what it looked like in the middle of construction - walls going up, lighting going in....

And here is what it looks like tonight:

Behind the white door with the glass is an office for CH, complete with an egress window so this is all actual square footage on the house. There is also a new full bath, and a new and improved laundry area with my custom cubbies. Yay for cubbies! Then, facing from this lovely IKEA sofa bed is this music area for the kids:

Please note: Steps getting painted is in the 7%

of things that need to get done.

So. Sick. Of. Painting.

So, after about seven months and countless thousands of dollars, one would think, "Hey, that place is really shaping up!" Until the pipes under the kitchen sink break.

So CH decides to "fix" them.

See the pipes laying on the floor? Here's a closeup:

Yeah. It turns out those were rusted through.

And broke off in CH's hands. Oops.

So we found out that for the weekend, we couldn't use the kitchen sink. We told the kids, and as we're telling them, The Son walks up to the sink, dumps the milk from his cereal bowl in it, and then we watch as a bowl of milk pours through the hole and all over underneath the bottom of the sink. Yay for listening skills!

So the sink is out of commission. Okay, we'll just use our entire month's carryout budget in three days. The kids have various friends coming over for the weekend. Oldest Daughter decides to split and stays at someone else's house. When she gets home on Sunday, she comes upstairs and says, "Hey, I was going to use the bathroom downstairs but the toilet is plugged. Can I use yours?" What!?! Why has no one told us this?

(I should take a moment to point out that when The Son was 3, he plugged a toilet, and it overflowed all over the second floor. No one told us, and soon I noticed water dripping from the kitchen ceiling. We ran upstairs, and sure enough, flood. We sort of came unhinged with the yelling, and The Son would not flush a toilet for a FULL YEAR. Seriously. So we kind of tread carefully in this department.)

CH and I got the plunger, and spent the next two effing hours trying to unplug this toilet. Seriously, WTF are kids eating these days? Oh yeah, fast food! If you haven't done it for a while, plunging is hard work:

About midway through plunging, I looked at CH, and said, "We just put all kinds of money into improvements in this house, and here we are with a broken sink upstairs and a plugged toilet downstairs. Will the banjo music never end?"

"Nope," CH said. "But you got a purdy mouth."

And the banjo played on.

p.s. The toilet is now flushing properly, and a plumber came this morning and fixed the sink. But where's the fun in that?

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 76

2012-01-19T20:24:00.000-06:00

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

Today's topic: Home Invasion

I'm going to tell you a little story that is pertinent to today's post. Back in about 2005, I was having dinner with Oldest Daughter, 8, and The Son, 6. At the time, I was still a bit of an over-acheiver in the parenting department, and was trying to teach the kids to count in German. Things fell apart when we got to the number 6.
ME: "Sechs"
THEM: Tee hee hee hee hee
ME: What?
THEM: You know...hee hee...
ME: (This is not happening) No, I don't.
THEM: It...hee hee...sounds like...hee hee...sex!
ME: (It is happening) Um...What do you think sex IS?
OD: When men and women kiss a lot and rub up against each other.
ME: (whew) And who has sex?
THEM: College students and bad teenagers.
ME: (solemnly nod) Yes. That's absolutely correct.

Two out of two grade school students surveyed believe adults do not have sex. Thank you, third grade peers.

DATELINE: Last Sunday. Garbage day is Monday, so in our uber-classy white trash way, we leave a big black garbage bag in the middle of the kitchen where the other smaller garbage cans are deposited. You know, the garbage cans from bathrooms and bedrooms. So I'm in the basement, and I walk upstairs into the kitchen, and see that George the Superpet has been rifling through the garbage again, and that damn dog, what is that on the floor, it had better not be ....

Oh Dear God. It isn't. It is.

A condom. Um...unwrapped.

I get all panicky and sweaty. Who has been in here? Who saw this? The room is empty, and this is the sole item on the floor, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen. I quickly get it back in the garbage and tie the top.

And then I call the police to report a home invasion.

ME: SOME REALLY BAD TEENAGERS OR COLLEGE STUDENTS HAVE BROKEN INTO MY HOME AND HAD SEX.
POLICE: Where?
ME: Possibly in my kitchen.
POLICE: Can you describe them?
ME: I'm sure they look just like the people from Jersey Shore.
POLICE: Why do you think that?
ME: Because they are clearly stupid, stupid people.
POLICE: When did the crime occur?
ME: Two nights ago. About 11:30 p.m. after the kids were asleep.
POLICE: Is this a repeat occurrence?
ME: No, one time incident in 2012. TRUST ME.

And if anyone asks, I can now produce a police report to back me up.

(Did I just say "Back me up?" Will I never learn?)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

We're All Winners. And Losers.

2012-01-17T20:11:00.000-06:00

So a couple of weeks ago I found out from Current Husband that The Son had won a Big Award at middle school, and it pissed me off because who does the school e-mail or call with bad news? Me. The Mom. But the Good Stuff? Oh, call the DAD!

TANGENT ALERT: Our school system implemented an "ALERT NOW" system a couple of years ago, which was originally supposed to inform parents if there was a weather delay or gas leak or rabid beavers had invaded the school. It was an Emergency System. Now the ALERT NOW system calls us about every two nights with news from the three schools my children attend. We sit down for dinner, and the phone rings, and it's one of the schools, saying "Don't forget the school sleepover!" or "Don't forget the fundraising drive where your child was promised an XBox but they won't really win one!" or "Don't forget they are having Ballpark Hot Dogs on Wednesday!" When my child's school is invaded by rabid beavers, AND IT WILL BE, instead of listening to the message with the school secretary yelling, "For the love of God, get your children, these paddle-tailed bastards are chewing everything with those huge white teeth and foaming mouths!" I will just hang up, saying "I already signed up for two nail painting shifts." If you are going to telemarket me, school, know I will miss the important information. Like the beaver alert.

ANYWAY, the school e-mailed CH and told him that The Son had won an award that three boys and three girls in a class of 300 win each semester. The award is for citizenship and kindness and such, and we were invited to attend but asked not to tell him. CH and I showed up for the awards ceremony, because COME. ON. If he is winning an award, isn't that some kind of "You're An Awesome Parent" award? This reflects on me, right? So those times I pumped gas and locked the car and ran in to pay while he slept in the back seat, or the times I gave him juice instead of milk, or when I let him watch Food Network until midnight during summer break, maybe it made him BETTER. Take that, Haters!

UNABASHED BRAGGING MOMENT: So then he surprises US and gets the two semester 4.0 grade point award, and then he wins the Student Choice award, where his classmates pick the kid most likely to make a difference. And this is when I start worrying that the school just put a big "PLEASE KICK MY ASS" sign on on his back. Is he okay? He's in basketball too! I took him to a Coldplay concert! He can be a cool kid! Don't touch my baby, you big bullies! I share my concerns with CH. He tells me I'm insane. I say, "Whose genes got the Student Choice Award? Not yours, buddy!" CH rolls his eyes and we depart to return to our jobs.

We're so proud.

I'm feeling good about all of this for about an hour. It's a Sally Field moment - "They like me, they really like me!" I'm thinking, "Okay, maybe I get this whole parenting thing." Then 3:00 p.m. hits and my phone blows up. Texts are pouring in.
OLDEST DAUGHTER: "I told him congrats on his award and he got all mad and said "I hate how mom tells you everything"
SON: "She is being SO MEAN"
OD: "I'm serious, he's being a total jerk to me."
SON: "She's up in her room and won't talk to us."
OD: "My feelings are seriously hurt, I mean what did I do? I said congrats. BTW I was nominated for that award too. And Youngest Daughter is being a total brat."
SON: "She was totally sarcastic when she talked to me. And Youngest Daughter is being a total brat."
CH: (In his basement office) "What the hell is going on? The kids are yelling at each other!"
ME: TO OD: Just be nice. He's disappointed he didn't get to tell you himself. Be happy.
         TO SON: Just be nice. She might be a little jealous you won it. Be humble.
       TO CH: I don't know but it had better be done by the time I get home.
                   I'm buying a handgun and a six pack of Hard Mike's.
OD: I'm not going to be nice to him if he isn't nice to me. I'm seriously crying!
ME: TO SON: Be nice to OD, she is crying.
SON: No she's NOT! She's playing piano and smiling.
ME: TO OD: You're fine.
OD: No, and now he's out here yelling at me for texting you!
ME: TO BOTH: That's it. You've both taken something happy and turned it into crap. I give up. Go at each other and get it over with. Use clubs. (ACTUAL TEXT I SENT)
OD: What? Are you serious?
SON: What?
ME: Yes. I'm done. Get it over with and be done when I get home. I've had it.
ME TO CH: I'm so over this crap I can't believe these kids and how ungrateful and mean they are to each other, we just try to do the right thing and they just bicker and pick at each other and I'm DONE. I'm going to make it all about me now, forget trying to make things nice for them, they don't even appreciate it and I don't even want to come home!
CH: WHAT DID I DO? WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?
ME: Why are you yelling at me? I didn't use all caps, YOU did!
CH: AAAARGH!

And I get home and OD is crying and The Son is upset and CH is mad because I'm yelling at him and the kids are yelling at each other and YD is watching Wizards of Waverly Place and is oblivious to everyone's pain, because that's how she rolls.

And this is how my family took a moment of awesomeness and turned our "Winning!" time into our own personal theater of dysfunction. The "You're An Awesome Parent" committee called, and they are taking their award back. Leaving him in the car when I pumped gas made him bitter. Sally Field spit on me at the grocery store, and then I found out she taped a "PLEASE KICK MY ASS" sign on my back.

I do NOT get this whole parenting thing. But tomorrow is another day.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 75

2012-01-12T22:14:00.000-06:00

Sex Doll Worth $250 Stolen in Iowa City Knifepoint Robbery
Police said the clerk at an Iowa City adult entertainment store was robbed at knifepoint early Thursday morning and chased out of the store.

According to Iowa City Police, officers responded to Romantix Pleasure Palace, 315 Kirkwood Ave., at 3:01 a.m. Thursday for a report of a hold up alarm. As officers were responding, a store employee called 911 and reported a man had entered the store, displayed a large knife and attempted to enter the employee area behind the cash register.

Police said the employee jumped over the counter and ran from the store. The suspect pursued for a short distance before turning back and stealing merchandise from the store.

A store employee said that the suspect got away with a “high-quality sex doll.” The doll is valued at $250 and media reports that the doll was worth $1,800 are erroneous, the employee said.

Iowa City Police Sgt. Denise Brotherton said the employee was able to run toward a nearby convenience store.

The suspect is described as a white man, 5’8”-5’10” and 165 pounds. He was wearing a black coat and scarf over his face and carrying a backpack. Police said the knife was described as a large hunting knife with a 6-8 inch blade.

Iowa City CrimeStoppers is offering a reward of up to $1,000 for information leading to the arrest of this suspect. Anyone with information is asked to call CrimeStoppers at 358-8477.

I think it's a real shame that there are no federal programs available to provide people with porn. Here's a guy, obviously suffering from a severe case of blue balls, who has been forced into a life of crime to support his porn habit. He obviously has feelings; the store IS called "Romantix". Why should he have to live his life using pillows or sofa cushions, when the rich people can have access to a "high quality sex doll". We're not talking Donald Trump - this wasn't the $1800 doll it was originally rumored to be.

Iowa City Police: I'd be looking for a guy

who looks suspiciously like Ryan Gosling.

If you're going to turn to a life of crime, don't steal obvious things like food, clothing, or Twilight movies. You need to be the guy who robbed the porn shop for a rubber girlfriend. When you go to prison, you are going to be the COOLEST DUDE THERE. And in demand for parties, I would guess. And speaking of cool guys at parties, it makes me wonder...

Where was Current Husband going yesterday,

and why did he borrow my scarf and hunting knife?

Hello, $1000!

(BTW, do you see how this man suffers for my lack of impulse control?

FINE. I'LL TAKE A STUPID PICTURE FOR YOUR BLOG!)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Pass the Percocet, Please

2012-01-12T13:05:00.000-06:00

I try really hard not to blog about work. Really, I do, because I like my job and would prefer to keep it, and I usually don't blog about people who don't know about it and therefore don't have the option of yelling at me. But when you work in a place where your job is focused on hooking (rug), and the other part of the plant is full of red-blooded American men who manufacture trucking alignment equipment and still have pinup calendars and say things like "Fuckin' RIGHT, I'm going to the drag races this weekend!" and can't help but look at your chest if you wear a v-neck shirt, there is just SO. MUCH. MATERIAL. I'm going to indulge a little bit here.

First, I have a pair of Keen shoes that I love, and occasionally wear to work:

I love these shoes. They are comfortable and sort of fun. But I noticed that every time I wear these shoes, one guy out in the shop looks at them. A lot. I'm thinking, "Oh, he thinks these are ugly and weird and why do I wear such stupid shoes." I wore them this week, and I caught him looking at the shoes again. I busted him.

ME: "Are you hating on my shoes?"
HIM: (caught, slightly blushing) "What? Um, no."
ME: "Admit it, you always look at these shoes. What's up, you think they're ugly?"
HIM: (smiles) "No, I've been thinking about it and I think they look Japanese or something, and they look like you should be wearing them with a kimono or something, and every time I see them I just think 'she's a Tiger Lady'" and then he made this "ROWR!" sound while batting a paw in the air.
**awkward silence**
ME: "Oh. Yes. Tiger Lady. Terrific."
And so now I can no longer wear the Tiger Lady/Geisha shoes to work because I will not go ROWR and I don't want anyone imagining me going ROWR at work or powdering my face white with red tiny lips or serving them sushi while naked in the lotus position.

Part of my job is talking to the hookers on the phone. They are mostly pretty nice people, and very interesting. You wouldn't BELIEVE the things people tell a stranger on the phone. Last week a woman called and wanted to order some of our product. Her voice sounded like she was maybe an Asian war bride, because she had that Americanized Asian accent, but her name was very Nordic sounding. She was hilarious. She placed her order, and then started talking to her friend in the room, so I get the one-sided conversation:

"You want tote table? Yes, you do. You DO. You HAVE money. You love it! You NEED it. It only $149, that cheap! You can AFFORD it. Yes. You want? I put it on my order, then you save shipping. Now you CAN'T say no. Okay? Yes? Okay, Julie you still there? My friend want tote table, shipping the same, yes?"

Then I had to get her credit card number, and she said, "Oh, damn, I don't have right credit card. I call you back." and hung up on me. So I set the order aside, and figured she'd call back. She does, one week later, and says, "Julie, you send my order yet?" Well, no, I haven't. She gives me her credit card number, and says, "You ship today, alright?" I say yes, we will ship her order today.

When I run her credit card, it declines because it has an invalid number, which means we probably just got a number mixed up. I call her today and say I need to confirm her credit card number.

"What, you think I'm a thief? Like a criminal, I take your stuff?" No, ma'am, I'm sure the card number is just off by a number. She reads her number, and sure enough, a 5 should have been a 3. I tell her it is fixed, and she says, "Well, Julie, do you know what Percocet is? I take LOTS of Percocet, sometimes too much, I get confused. When anything go wrong, I know it's the Percocet."

And that is how I came up for my new excuse for everything. If anything go wrong, I will now know it's the Percocet. Or my Tiger Lady screw me in a kimono rowr shoes.

Sometimes work can be fun and informative. Thank you, Tiger Lady.

Orange You Glad Your Walls Are White?

2012-01-10T08:39:00.000-06:00

See all of the junk piled up on the left? That's my next project. There is a reason for the butt-ass ugly chair to the left as well - that is George the Superpet's chair. You do NOT mess with George's chair. I reliquished that to him years ago. He likes to lay in it and look out the patio door next to it and stare at the feral cats and dream about killing them. I won't take that away from him.

So very orange. Just as orange as some of the paint on my Dad's tin ferris wheel. Yay! We live in the Fun House! Now I just need a creepy clown painting on velvet. Tempting.

You can see the trim I need to paint white now. I can't take it that there are two different tones. I think I'm also going to have to build a white mantel/fireplace surround for this room. CH doesn't really agree, but I know what's coming. It will be something I do when I have other, more important things to get done, and then I will panic and cry because "There just isn't enough time!" But no. Not this year. This is the Shake It Out/Paint it Orange year. I shall make a margarita and say "C'est La Vie!"

Right?

Just Shake It Out

2012-01-09T08:51:00.006-06:00

Holy moly, I just had the most productive weekend ever! About a year and a half ago now, my people downsized. Our house is cozy. Intimate. Small. At times stifling, even. Since we moved in, our plan has been to finish the basement and to make the back room into less of a storage room and more of a library.

Believe me when I say downsizing is not for sissies. You have to make some hard choices about what stays and what goes, and when you're going smaller, the what goes column has to be bigger. Needless to say, I'm still all full of clutter, but I've moved out of pre-Hoarder stage and back into somewhat normal levels. This weekend, I finally made some headway on the back room, and now it is ORANGE. I still can't find my Blackberry cord, but I'll take a real picture and post tomorrow.

Hopefully it's a little more on the Butternut Squash side than Creamsicle side, but still. Now that it's done, I've come to the realization that I'm going to have to paint all the trim white. Because who doesn't love detail painting? WHO?

But now I love this room. Current Husband and I have sat in this room with a drink for a bit the last two nights, and it is lovely and peaceful and warm and inviting. It's a great feeling to use 48 hours to take something that was unused and drab and turn it into something special - it's that whole cliched New Year's/get organized malarkey. So, I couldn't just let it be a nice freshly painted room, I had to go and turn it into a metaphor for my life. Let's DO this.

The past year and a half has been pretty damn strange. There has been some sadness in moving, having to go back to work full time, someone close to me was diagnosed with a chronic illness, divorces, friends you don't see anymore. But some really wonderful things have happened as well, like finding I love my new little house, that I enjoy being a hooker, that things change but not necessarily for the worse, and meeting new people. My kids are growing up and doing really fun, wonderful things in their lives right now (I'm going to have a braggy moment here and say The Son is getting a big award at school today that he doesn't know about yet), and I'm loving the people they are turning into. And CH? As I've said before, even though there are times I want to hold the pillow over his face until he stops kicking, he's a good egg, and he *gets* me. That's right...

You complete me.

Now please start taking out the

garbage before I have to tell you.

But what have I focused on in the past 18 months? The negative. Because I'm a frigging whiner from hell. And it's so EASY to let self-doubt creep in. It brings liquor and comfort food, so I always make room on my couch for it. But I finally listened to the new Florence + The Machine CD, and there is a song on it that is my anthem for 2012. It is hard to dance with the devil on your back, so self-doubt and stress? Take a hike. If the Mayans are right and this is the end of time, I'm going to live this year with joy. And if it isn't, then this is the beginning of Seizing the Day. Self-doubt, you can just F right off. This is MY year. And I'm going to paint my whole life orange.

Here it is, Flo singing "Shake It Out" for your listening pleasure:

That'll Do, Donkey.

2012-01-04T22:20:00.001-06:00

Okay, I'm sufficiently recovered from the holiday break to finally talk about it. I LOVE the holidays. Love Christmas, love New Years, love that I don't have to drive anyone to piano, cello, bass, dance, ensemble, basketball, etc., love that there is no homework or other school commitments, love that I have long weekends and sleeping in times and hang out with the kids doing nothing times. Left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1 a.m. every night and wake up at 8:30-9 a.m. to my pre-set brewed pot of coffee. *bliss*

But, I am back at work now. I like my job, but I sure miss my at-home mom days. Just sayin'.
So over break Current Husband and I got together with a couple for a drink. If you can imagine, I'm a talker. My talking gets proportionately more annoying with my drinking. After a couple of glasses of wine, I can really think I am HI-freaking-larious. More so than when I'm sober. I think we can all see what I'm saying here. So the husband of the friend, who is a funny guy, says, "Does she ever stop talking?" and my husband says, "Yeah, she's kind of like Donkey from Shrek. The trick is getting her to stop." SCREECH!

Did you just compare me to....DONKEY?

So we all laughed and I'm laughing and thinking "Just wait until I have you alone, MFer", and the couple left shortly thereafter. I waited. We picked a few things up and talked about how nice it was, and how funny the husband is, and I said,

"I thought it was super funny when he made fun of his wife and compared her to Donkey. Like an ass. OH WAIT. THAT WAS YOU."

CH's face went blank. The little hamsters on the wheel in his head picked up steam as he contemplated what had happened. "Oh shit. I really did call her Donkey. I said it out loud. I'm in So. Much. Trouble." He then launched into one of his full appreciation modes of, "Oh honey, you know I don't think that. It was just a joke! I LOVE you! You're awesome! The cake was great, by the way!" and I said, "I know it was a joke. And it's funny because it's true. I am like Donkey. I talk all the time. I'm irritating. That's why it's SO FUCKING FUNNY! I can take a joke! And I bought the cake at Deweys." and he said, "Everyone knew I was kidding! No one thinks that! And you were so smart to get the cake at Deweys! " and I said, "I know, because when we are with other couples, the husbands always make a point of saying things to their wives like 'you are as fat as Kung Fu Panda!' or 'I'm going to get you on What Not To Wear' or 'you talk like Donkey from Shrek!" and he said, contritely, "You're right, I'm calling them and apologizing and telling them how great you are" and I said, "No, you're not, because I really AM like Donkey. You nailed it." and we went to bed and didn't have sex.

Over the course of the next few days, I made sure to occasionally walk past him and say "EEE-awww". He cringed. He suffered. Which is too bad, because I really AM like Donkey. Really. He did nail it. That's why it sucked. Because who WANTS to be Donkey? I'm even like Donkey in Shrek 2 when he says, "I'm a STALLION!" but really, he's still an ass. Because sometimes I do think I'm a stallion. Sometimes I AM a stallion. But really, there's just a well-meaning Donkey in here.

On New Year's Eve, we stayed home with the kids and had a nice time. We played some games, I hooked a little, it was nice. A nice, old person, washed-up New Year's Eve. I don't like going out on NYE because I think it's one of those overrated holidays where the expectations are high and the results are usually a little disappointing. And then you have to deal with drunk drivers, no thanks. So we got through the night, and at 12:30 the kids were going to bed and our neighbors texted to see if we wanted to have a quick New Year's drink with them. Sure! It's right next door!

FAST FORWARD TO 3:30 A.M. Oh Dear God. Where did that bottle of Gruet go? In me? Really? Why am I holding a gift certificate to a local spa and am wearing a diamond anniversary band that is not mine, and am telling my neighbor-lady that we just had our "Commitment Ceremony"? Where did she go? Why is my tongue SO EFFING BIG? Why do cigarettes sound good? Thank God there are no cigarettes. What am I talking about? Why can't I form the words properly? Why is CH pulling me by the arm out of their house? I'm young and fun! Don't let it end! More champagne!!

FAST FORWARD TO 9 A.M. No one move. NO ONE.

FAST FORWARD TO 10 A.M. Ugh. Glad bought donuts for kids. Glad CH in charge.

FAST FORWARD TO 11 A.M. Aleve. Water. Repeat.

FAST FORWARD TO NOON. What did I say last night? I can finally sit up. Current Husband walks into our room and sits next to me, smiling. I raise my throbbing head to look at him. He puts his arm around me and says, "That'll do, Donkey. That'll do."

Oy. Happy New Year's Wifers! And neighbors, I'll make it up to you. I swear. New Year's Resolution? More Stallion, Less Donkey.

Cat Scratch Fever

2012-01-03T13:06:00.003-06:00

With all of the feral cats running around my neighborhood, it's important to occasionally think about things from a cat's perspective. I use this as a defensive measure, so if I'm getting into my car and cats are dropping out of the trees and walking menacingly toward me (this actually happens sometimes), I can think, "If I was a cat right now, what would my intentions be?" But then I realize that regardless of what animal form I take, I'm probably going to think "If I sneak into that van, will she drive me to a wine bar or a coffee shop?" You know cats will be thinking the same thing, because cats are assholes.

At work, the gent in charge of the company website appears to have a thing for cats. He updates our home page daily, and seems to have an ENDLESS treasure trove of cutesy cat photos to post. When I think "industrial plant primarily producing trucking alignment equipment", I think "CATS!" Here is today's cat porn:

I'm sure the guy in our plant who was fired and then a week later killed his girlfriend was really touched by this photo (true story). It is posted directly under our company policy banning weapons and drugs on the premesis.

Today, I saw this online, and sent it to CatMan in charge of the website:

I love it. Particularly that Kenau Reeves is the poster boy for humanity. Party On, Dudes!

I'm back at work after four days off, and I'm not going to lie, I'm being fueled by coffee, Diet Coke and Danish Butter Cookies. Hope your week is starting equally as well!

Where IS Everything?

2011-12-28T22:21:00.002-06:00

Merry Christmas Wifers!

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

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

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

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

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

BUT STILL.

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

I'm Sorry, 1034 Hall Street

2011-12-19T21:58:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

Oh Dear Lord. He peed in the back yard.

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

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

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

You Deserve It.

Who's Ready For A Good Cry?

2011-12-18T15:19:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 74

2011-12-15T22:34:00.019-06:00

I'M CULTURED.

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

I'M NOT SURE.

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

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

I'M CALLING THE POLICE.

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

WHAT A KOOKY ARTIST!

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

WHAT A SLUTTY METH ADDICT!

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

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

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

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

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Hello Teen Daughter, Have We Met?

2011-12-12T21:31:00.000-06:00

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

Really, I did.

Stop laughing.

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

You bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random McRandomstein

2011-12-07T23:08:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 73

2011-12-01T22:13:00.000-06:00

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

Today's topic: The Factory is Closing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of the Road

2011-11-29T00:01:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Take that dubious beginning, and then add me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did I learn? Nothing.
The End.

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

What I'm Thankful For

2011-11-27T22:11:00.000-06:00

Happy Delayed Thanksgiving, Wifers!

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

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

Nom Nom, Village Inn.

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

Thank you, Stephenie Meyer.

I know this isn't Shakespeare, but STILL.

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

I think I need this. Stocking stuffer?

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

Makes me feel like an effing GENIUS.

See George the Superpet looking out the door?

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

Who knew I would benefit so greatly from this relationship?

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

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

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Cookies for everyone!

On the Edge

2011-11-20T21:44:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vermont Virgin

2011-11-17T20:34:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoops. That's the wine talking.

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

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

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

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

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

A Mighty Heart

2011-11-10T22:53:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

What is distracting me tonight is Mariane Pearl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All my Exes Live in Texas

2011-11-09T21:57:00.003-06:00

Actual conversation that just took place in my house:

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

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

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

Just me, George Washington, and some Blue Moon.

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

And then I realized a neighbor was sitting behind me

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

and then boarded the plane with me.

All class, all the time, People.

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

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

I found my girls.

Soon, an obliging bar table looked like this.

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

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

But a good start on the liquor.

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

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

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

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

You've got a purdy mouth, Alligator.

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

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

Actual dead scorpion on the floor.

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

But then again, my Spanish is a little rusty.

The Casita is on the right. Oops.

Tomorrow: Bikinis, Booze, and Probiotics.

Distracted by Rap

2011-11-08T22:17:00.001-06:00

People, I have a problem. I'm addicted to celebrity tributes to rap. And while I meant to blog about my fantabulous weekend with my high school posse, I sort of got all wrapped up in the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake tribute to rap. Now, it's 10 p.m., and The Wife must shower. For the good of her family, her workplace, and the Nation.

Let me say quickly that I hope y'all voted today - CH and I figured out at 7:56 p.m. we hadn't voted and it's Election Day, so we left the teen in charge of the third grader in the bathtub, ran out of the house and drove the three blocks to the polling station (yes, we drove, but c'mon, we only had a few minutes and we are thick and slow) and just made it in to vote, which probably raised the turnout in our district to 9%. But really, you can't complain about government if you don't participate, people!

Back to the rapping and the showering - enjoy these, and I will post some drinking pics tomorrow.

PART 2:

PART 3:
They disabled the embedding function on this one, so you have to go to the link. Let's just see how committed you ARE to this, huh? Because I watched it, people.
Jimmy and Justin and Part 3

Club 40 in Austin

2011-11-02T21:14:00.001-05:00

In about 11 hours, I will abandon my children.
In about 15 hours, I will leave my husband.
In about 20 hours, I will be kissing a woman.
In about 24 hours, I will likely be drunk.
It will all be documented. But most of it NEVER shared.

These are my women:

Skinny, pretty bitches, aren't they?

And this is after about 6 hours of drinking.

But I love them in spite of it.

My high school posse of seven gets together every couple of years, and honestly, it's one of the most precious, important things to me. We travel from Iowa and Nebraska and Minnesota and Colorado and Montana and Idaho. They are smart, terrifically talented and multi-faceted people, and when we get together we aren't people's moms or wives or employees or bosses or doctors or designers or marketers or artists or corporate brass. We are Julie and Paige and Meem and Dee and Steph and Liz and Jen. People with histories and victories and tragedies. I know every one of these chickas has my back, and I have theirs. And they know EVERYTHING about me, which makes you feel a little sorry for them, no? Do you want to know how much I love them? Do you?

I would poop in front of them.

That's right. Go ahead and cringe. But if you are a woman, you KNOW that's a big deal.

Here we are re-living what was probably a middle school slumber party move:

Since I'm the tallest person, I'm always the heaviest too, so I spared them all the ER visit and didn't get on the top of the pyramid. You're welcome, girls. This was taken two years ago when we last met in a gorgeous house in Scotsdale, Arizona. That weekend was such total and complete bliss, and we all cried when it was time to leave. I've been so effing busy at work and with the kids and our basement renovation that I haven't even had time to think about this trip much until tonight, and I'm finally starting to get so excited. It's the oasis in the desert. With tequila.

Since my air travel experience wasn't fantastic last time, I'm sure to load up on reading material. These are the two books I'm lugging along for my ~~drinking~~ reunion weekend:

That George Washington book is a bigun. It is making me rethink my aversion to a Kindle. There is just SOMETHING about opening that book and turning the pages and feeling the heft of it in my hands. I'm a little old school about it. But a Kindle would be a dream for the trip. Maybe in Large Print.

I briefly considered taking Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein with me for the trip, because that cheeky squirrel is always up for a party, but if airport security took him away for any reason, I would just die. I wouldn't get on the plane. It nearly killed me that they took my forgotten mini Swiss Army knife out of my makeup bag. I begged them to let me keep the tweezers, because with the Chia Brow I need to pluck every 3-5 hours. I'm taking my muffin top because I have nowhere else I can put it. I'm taking a camera and swimsuit and Prilosec and Aleve, and the rest doesn't matter. Which is good because it is now nearly 9 p.m. and I haven't packed yet.

Au revoir, Wifers! Have a great weekend, and I'll be back all full of verboten tales on Monday. Or Tuesday.

UPDATE: Oh bloody hell. I got sucked into Property Brothers on HGTV, and now it's 11 p.m. and still no packing. Up at 6:30 to get kids to school, still have to pop in at work for a couple of hours, flight at 1 p.m., what was I thinking?

Damn you, Property Brothers and your stylish renovations. Damn you to hell.

Ugh. Make it stop.

2011-10-31T22:12:00.000-05:00

Step away, candy temptress!

Must. Stop. Eating.

Someone really needs to do something about how fat I'm getting.

Ugh.

Next year I'm begging someone to give me a chocolate-covered tapeworm and a glass of cabernet.

Happy Halloween.

Wrapping up the Hooker Trip

2011-10-29T13:40:00.000-05:00

It's almost 11 a.m. on Saturday. It's my first sleep-in opportunity since October 14, and I REALLY love to sleep in. But I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and laid in bed stressing out about work for about an hour, and then said uncle, got out of bed, drove to a donut shop and bought 12 donuts for five people, and brewed a pot of coffee that I'm 3/4 of the way through. My life is fueled by sugar and caffeine and fear.

At first, the kids had Disney in the background, and it was like fingernails on chalkboard with the stupid jokes and canned laughter and lippy teens, but they've switched to "Chopped", so I can write again. Whew. That Disney/Nick stuff makes me crazy. We were the only parents I know who forbid the kids to watch Suite Life of Zach and Cody because those kids were so rotten. Our children were ashamed.

So...let's wrap up this hooker convention. I'll show you a few of the hooking projects so you know of what I speak:

An awesome footstool, all hand dyed wool and hooked.

School scene in a very small cut of wool -

each wool strip is about 3/32 of an inch wide.

This was one of my faves - it's small, about 8x10, and the detail is amazing. There are probably 10 shades of flesh toned wool and another 10-15 shades of red in her hair, all hand dyed and hooked in that little 3/32 of an inch strip width.
Even though these shows are grueling with the lugging around of product and incessant talking and taking of money that has to balance out later and the 10 hours of standing, and for all of my joking about hookers, these people are truly artists and incredibly. I've made one rug and started three others, and they are not easy. Or cheap. Enough about hookers, let's bring it back to me.

My co-worker and I arose at 6 a.m. to get to the airport on time for our second experience of sitting in each other's laps and pedaling the plane to Baltimore. However, when the taxi pulled up at the Lancaster airport, which is slightly smaller than your average Texas Roadhouse, it was covered in fog. Damn. And I had no coffee. I brought the airport Sunday paper in for them from the front step, so I knew there was no coffee shop in this building. Our flight was delayed, so I settled in and started reading.

"This is Where We Live" by Janelle Brown.

352 pages of the rest of my life.

After the pilot got on top of the plane and squeegeed all the windows and took the made sure there were fresh batteries in the remote control that operates the plane, we boarded. I knew when we buckled our seatbelts that we were going to miss our connection in Baltimore. As we landed, I saw our United flight to Chicago taxi down the runway. Goodbye Weekend! No big deal though, right? We can just get on another plane. We went to the United counter, and funny, EVERYONE is flying to Moline on Sundays. Everyone. Every United flight to Chicago was booked, as was every flight to Moline. The ticket agent said, "I think you might have to spend the night in...." and looked up to see me starting to come unravelled and tears forming in my eyes, and said, "Um, let me see what Delta has available." The very nice woman found us two seats on a Delta flight to Atlanta and then to Moline, IL, getting us in at 10 p.m. Sold. I gave her the golden chocolate coins the hotel used for turndown service

When we got off the plane in Atlanta four hours later, we knew we still had five hours until our next flight, and then, like a golden oasis in the middle of the desert, we saw this:

The best franchise EVER. A spa in the airport.

My friend and I each signed up for a 30 minute Stress Relief massage. Yay! The day was saved! I had a moment of panic when my person, Tonya, started. I have a HUGE problem with eyebrows being rubbed the wrong way. I can barely type it, and I have that heebie jeebie feeling right now even mentioning it. I have no idea where this originated, but if Current Husband wants me to leave the room, all he does is start rubbing his eyebrows...ugh. They grow in one direction. Those hairs are not meant to move the other way.

I feel like I've just exposed a great weakness.

So Tonya starts my massage by pinching my eyebrows. I grab the chair arms tightly and think, "How long can this last? She HAS to stop, right? Did I sign up for an Eyebrow Massage?" After about 10 seconds she stopped, and it was just in time, because I was about to bolt up and run to the nearest mirror to brush those brows back to their German unibrow origins. AS THEY SHOULD BE. Once I knew the brows were safe, and I wasn't gassy, I could relax. And it was lovely.

We got to our next gate, all blissed out, and found out our flight to Moline had been delayed. It was announced over the loudspeaker that the flight to Montgomery, Alabama came in late because they were deciding whether or not the tires needed to be changed. The people waiting for the flight looked around and smiled nervously. DID the tires get changed? Was one going to blow on landing? "HA!" I thought. "Glad I'm not on the Montgomery flight!" and then they announced, "And the flight to Moline is late because they spent three extra hours in Montreal with mechanical problems."

WTF?!?! Are you referring to MY plane?

So all of the Moline people quickly texted goodbye messages to their loved ones and got our affairs in order. NOTE TO THE AIRLINES: If my flight has bad tires or mechanical issues or the pilot is drunk, and you aren't going to do anything about it, don't tell me. Ignorance is bliss, and a lot better than sitting in what you've been told COULD BE an airborne potential death trap for the next hour or so.

We finally landed after 11 p.m., and CH arrived with Youngest Daughter to pick me up from the airport, because YD had been waiting for 5 days to see her Mommy and she wasn't going to miss it. I went home, then to bed and back to work 7 hours later and spent the entire week catching up with paperwork and kid stuff.

And that, my patient and tolerant readers, is why I only blogged once in the past two weeks. Please forgive me!

On Thursday, I leave for my biennial high school friend reunion, and there is always PLENTY to blog about then. Here is a refresher course from our last reunion in Scottsdale, AZ. These are my WOMEN. If you've ever read The Girls From Ames, we are The Girls From Fremont. I love them all.

SKIN TAG, YOU'RE IT
BACONCAT

Hooker Adventures

2011-10-26T22:09:00.001-05:00

Last week I attended a hooker convention. You know, my kind of hookers – the classy kind. I am, after all, based in the Quad Cities, home of Fred Garvin, male prostitute.

We departed Wednesday morning from the Quad Cities on a flight to Detroit, Rock City. After a delay on our flight, we only had a 45 minute layover in Detroit to make our flight to Baltimore. I don’t check bags because I don’t want my luggage lost, so I’m hauling a 40-pound carry-on behind me as we are running to the gate to make the flight. We get to the flight and since everyone else has already boarded, there is no room for carry-ons, so they check my bag. (Of course, it got lost.) That flight is delayed, so we are certain we’ve missed our flight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We get off the plane in Baltimore and again run through the airport. When we arrive at the Cape Air gate, the friendly counter person is speaking into a walkie talkie, saying, “I have the two passengers from US Air, we are en route” and she rushes us past security. Wow, this is some service! Then we see the plane:

And realize that we make up 30% of the passengers on the flight. Yes, that is the pilot, on the plane, washing the windows. Here is a shot from my seat:

The pilot is on the left, one of the passengers is on the right. At this point, my knees are hugging the sides of the pilot’s chair. I could’ve reached up and bear hugged him. Except that I was busy telling Jesus how sorry I am for everything I’ve done lately because we were flying through a solid wall of fog and hitting massive turbulence. When we landed, all seven passengers applauded.

At the hooker convention, I was equally celebrated and berated by all varieties of older women. I managed to break out with an impressive bout of adult acne, and did burn the side of my face with a curling iron because in my heart I am forever 13. I was unable to drink because the co-worker who accompanied me does not drink, and it really is not fun to drink alone, or to be watched peevishly while one drinks. I was also out of Prilosec, which is essential to my drinking. So I suffered, parched. Sure, a hooker convention SOUNDS fun, but it's really standing for 10 hours saying the same thing over and over and over and your face and back and legs hurt when you are done. And then there is paperwork.

This is what I sell:

Five hundred smacks, baby. And it doesn't do your dishes. Plus, there are 10 blades, at $149 each. That's a lot of Diet Coke and peanut M&M's.

Meanwhile, my family was doing all kinds of great things while I was gone. Oldest Daughter was in her Hauntcert, which is an orchestra concert where the kids dress in costume to play creepy songs. OD rocked her kangaroo outfit. Then Youngest Daughter attended her Fall Festival (a.k.a. Halloween party) and went as a Beauty Queen.

I want to tell you more, but it is 10 p.m. and I just finally got the kids tucked in (playoff game tonight for HS football) and Current Husband just got home and expects to be spoken to (which is not code for sex, literally, we have to schedule conversations anymore), so I will leave you with this bit of entertainment. It is off of the upcoming album by The Black Keys, and I am almost as excited for that new CD as I am for Breaking Dawn to come out. ALMOST.

I'm Packin'

2011-10-18T21:04:00.001-05:00

Actually, I am. Packing.

I'm packing for a hooker convention. Oh, I know what you're thinking. The drinking, the partying, the hooking. But honestly, I'm a family girl. I'm going to miss my people. I'm leaving for Lancaster, Pennsylvania tomorrow so I can attend a five-day hooker convention. Namely, the ATHA Biennial. The Association of Traditional Hooking Artists, bitches. And I might just cry.

First, I'm a bad packer. I don't really plan anything, I just throw things in a suitcase and hope it works out. Second, I'm a bad planner. Just today I realized I hadn't rented a car in Lancaster, and I called the hotel to see if they have a shuttle. For TOMORROW. Third, I'm a Mom. Do you know how much planning it takes to leave when you're a mom? I had to leave notecards with the kids names on them for CH. Okay, under the names were the schedules and dinner suggestions and what people need to have with them. But still. Where the hell are my reminder notes every day?

Now I am quickly blogging so I can finish packing so I can write notes to Youngest Daughter that CH can give her every night so she doesn't get too upset. I text Oldest Daughter and The Son, but YD and I are old school. George the Superpet and Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein just know. They don't need physical reminders of my love.

I will try to blog from Lancaster, but you know what they say: "What happens in Amish Country stays in Amish Country. Because we don't have wireless."

Have a great week, Wifers!

When I Started Stalking the Kids

2011-10-16T22:35:00.001-05:00

I'd like to start this post with the thoughts that plague me all the time anymore:

I'm so, so sorry, Mom and Dad.
I was wrong.

Oh, that's right. Twenty-five years later, I am finally contrite. Allow me to make a short list of things for which I am sorry, and these are just off the top of my head:

Fake orthodontist appointments
Beer bongs
Street sign stealing
TP-ing
Prolific swearing
Distracted driving
Unfinished homework
Skinny jeans that weren't purchased as skinny jeans
Last minute rides
General behavioral issues

And that was all before I was 18. Much of it before I was 16. Oy. I remember when I was in Junior High, as we used to call it in the olden days, and my group of friends would get together, and we would say we were going to the movies, get dropped off, wait for the parent to drive away, and then go hang out outside the bar down the street or just generally roam around. One girl, whom I loved then and still love now, had a mom who was rightly suspicious of us. She would drop her daughter off, and then we would see her gray conversion van across the street and think, "Oh Christ, now we HAVE to go to the movie!!!" I look back now and think, "I would SO be in that conversion van!!"

I'm old enough now that I can look at the Courtney Love v. Courtney Love's parents showdown and think, "Those poor people."

Nah. I was always Team Parents on that one.

And I even liked Hole.

This weekend, I became Stalker Parent. Helicopter Parent. Parent hiding in the bushes. Parent in the van across the street. And it's really not because I don't trust my kids - it's because I don't trust THE REST OF THE WORLD.

I started the weekend by watching Youngest Daughter perform in a dance team thing a the football game, one of those grade-schoolers-hang-out-with-the-dance-team-for-an-afternoon-and-get-a-shirt things. The little girls finished, and YD wanted to run around the football game with her friends. Luckily, another parent offered to take YD and her friends away from the game and have an overnighter at their house. (LET'S PAUSE WHILE I PLACE THIS "MOTHER OF THE WEEKEND" CROWN ON SAID MOM'S HEAD. Applause. ) I had to volunteer in the concession stand, so Current Husband was in charge. Then Oldest Daughter informed us that a group of her friends made plans to go to a haunted house, and they needed a ride, so CH offered to drive them. He lined up another parent to be the go-to group for The Son and his posse of kids running around, and left.

Soon, concessions were over, and then the game. I was walking out with the three boys, all middle schoolers, when some high school boy yells down from the top of the bleachers, "Keep walking, Motherfucker!" I was on my cell phone with CH taking a crisis call, and I said, "Hold on, CH". I marched back to the bottom of the bleachers and yelled like a mom should - loudly and awkwardly and full of momma bear bravado.

ME: "WHAT did you say?"

KID: *****

ME: "Do you want to tell me what you yelled at those boys?"
KID: ***** (possible contemplating spilling his slurpee on me)

ME: "Well you keep that up and see where it gets you in the future!"
KID: *****

BAM!

You TELL him, Julie! I bet he is shaking in his boots! Yes! The dreaded FUTURE comeback! I'm sure that moment changed that kid's life. He probably looked at his skanky girlfriend standing next to him and said, "She's right. I DO need to think about my future. I should stop with the language and the methamphetamine and pick up a copy of Henry James' 'Portrait of a Lady' for my English report, and then clean my room and get a job and cut back on the red meat. I'm so glad I attended this football exhibition."

The boys were impressed. "Dude, your mom is AWESOME" and "It's like having your own bodyguard!" was overheard. TRANSLATION: "Dude, your mom is crazy!" and "It's like Thanksgiving when my Aunt Karen gets drunk!" Middle school boys only get impressed when someone else's mom goes apeshit.

I get back on the crisis call with CH. He is nonplussed, as he's heard me come unhinged on people before, and by 'people' I mean him.

CH: "When are you getting home?"

ME: "Now. What's up?"

CH: "You need to drop the boys' off at G's house, and come with me."

ME: "Where are we going?"

CH: "Did YOU know where the haunted house is?"

ME: "Skellington's or Scarington's or something."

CH: "Did you know it is smack dab in the middle of gangbangerville? On a Friday night?"

ME: "It's in Rock Island?"

CH: "Yeah. And I saw about 40 cops and a guy trying to break into a car when I left."

ME: "I'm on my way."

I dropped off the boys and picked up CH. We drove to Rock Island, which reports a shooting about every three days, and went to the haunted house, which was right on the edge of the bar district on Friday night. We passed a closed off street with about 10 cop cars and a fire truck where a car had smashed into a building, and a number of other squad cars patrolling the area. We parked directly across the street from the haunted house, facing it, and I texted Oldest Daughter that we were outside. We sat in that van and fretted for 40 minutes until the group came out and got into the van, laughing.

Not wanting to freak the kids out or embarrass OD, I engaged them in conversation about various things while CH clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, imagining it was each of their heads, but as each kid got out of the car, I asked, "So did your parents know you were haunted housing in Rock Island tonight?" every one of them answered, "They knew I was going to a haunted house, but not in Rock Island." Like DUH, I wouldn't tell them I was in THAT town!

We got home and had a lovely discussion with OD about her new regulations requiring her to submit her social plans in triplicate forms, 72 hours in advance, and that if we find out she left the city without telling us she would be spending a lot of time watching The Golden Girls and eating Milk Duds with her parents on Friday nights.

We went to bed and spoke in whispers about what rotten teens we were, and how lucky we are that OD doesn't do a fraction of the things we did....yet. And then we made an appointment to get all of the children micro-chipped.

The end.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72.5

2011-10-13T22:07:00.000-05:00

CAT PORN.

I think I've mentioned before that my neighborhood is crawling with pussy.

Well those days have come to an end. Last weekend when I was at my hooker convention in Nebraska, the animal control wagon pulled up and got loaded up to the gills in pussy. Someone finally called the po-po and reported that our street had literally 30+ cats running around, and when there is that much pussy on the street there is bound to be infection. Hide your husbands, hide the kids. The street was lined with cat traps.

Most of our family was happy with this news, not so much because we are cat haters (but some of us are) but because it is hard for one neighborhood to feed, sustain, medicate and deliver 30 cats to music and dance lessons. However, it upset Youngest Daughter. She started freaking out, and Current Husband, who was running the asylum in my absence, couldn't figure out why. Finally, he talked her off the ledge, and she got a coherent sentence out:

"GET GEORGE IN THE HOUSE, THEY'RE ROUNDING UP PETS!"

Does this look like a feral cat to you?

Youngest Daughter perhaps had a point. To calm her down, and to be sure we didn't lose The Best Standard Poodle Ever, CH called George the Superpet into the house, where he watched the feral cats get loaded up and carted off with a look that could only be described as satisfaction.
Thank you, Animal Control! Our tax dollars at work, freeing our neighborhood from this:

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

My Weekly Blog Post

2011-10-11T22:45:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure if I keep up this level of productivity vis a vis the blog I am going to have to change the name to "A Week in the Wife", which not only gets away from the whole Beatles reference, but frankly sounds a little stagnant. Nothing should spend a week in the wife. Nothing.

I have a lot to cover. First, lest I forget, I have two strong recommendations to pass along. I just finished the book "The First Husband" by Laura Dave.

But you can't Click to Look Inside! because I am a vicious tease.

But you CAN click here.

I cannot stop listening to the new Band of Skulls CD, particularly the track "Fires". It's pretty White Stripey at the beginning, which is fine, but then they get more into their own stuff, which is good.

I attended a hooker convention in Nebraska last week, which was informative and entertaining, mostly because I spent two nights at my parents' cabin on the Elkhorn River. You may recall that Mom broke her pelvis. And I brought her puppy, aka The GD Dog, home for the month. It was time to return The GD Dog to her rightful owner. But since no visit with my family can go without a Deliveranace moment, I bring you what I now refer to as "The Reason I Won't Eat Beef Stew Again".

Let me preface this story with a few facts:

My Auntie was visiting from Colorado, whom I haven't seen for a few years, so it was nice we could share this special moment.
Auntie was sleeping downstairs at the cabin, and I had the upstairs room to myself because it has these crazy submarine steps that are impossible to navigate.
The cabin exactly fits the bill for a summertime retreat, except that the plumbing is marginal. Very marginal.

I woke up the morning of the Hooker Convention, and navigated my way downstairs to brush my teeth.  Mom and Dad were gone because they took The GD Dog to get her spayed at 7 a.m. I walked in the bathroom, and something was WRONG. VERY VERY WRONG. On the floor, there was a suspicious brown pool of water. By the toilet. Oh Dear God No. I opened the lid to the toilet, and sure enough, it was full to the brim with what looked like beef stew. I became an instant vegetarian.

I will tell you that my family has a long and storied history with plugging toilets. I don't know if it's something in our diets, or that we just need to buy places with better plumbing, but my people have plugged toilets at restaurants, funerals, and weddings. Hand to God, it's true. The toilets at this cabin are so bad that I won't let the kids eat fruit for days before we go, and I stop at a McDonald's just before the cabin and make all of the kids go to the bathroom, saying, "If you can't poop now, you might not get another chance until Sunday."

SO. I see The Stew. Apparently, I make a small moaning sound. Auntie wakes up in the other room.

AUNTIE:  "What!?! What is going on!?!"
ME:  "Do NOT come in here."
AUNTIE: "Why. What have they done."
ME: "Someone has poor digestion and we are going to suffer."
AUNTIE: "I'm coming in there."
ME: "You'll never get this image out of your head, I'm warning you."
AUNTIE: (Comes in) "Oh God."
ME: "I told you. I can't just leave it. I have to plunge."
AUNTIE: "I have to pee. What am I going to do?"
ME: "I can tell you that you aren't peeing in here unless it's in the sink."
AUNTIE: "I can't take it. I'm going in the yard."

And so she left and apparently peed in the yard. I tried plunging and flushing. I won't paint a picture for you, but let me just say that gallons of water and old towels with Welcome Friends-type geese on them died for my efforts. I had to leave for my hooker show, so I scrubbed down with hydrochloric acid and hand sanitizer and prayer and made my way to the show.

Two hours later, Auntie and my mother walk into the hooker convention hall.

AUNTIE: "Arrival from Shitsville!" she announces.
MOM: "Your dad got Drano and some chemical that is hazardous and thought we should leave."
AUNTIE: "The label on the chemical had a skull and crossbones and said DO NOT USE IN TOILETS OR IN COMBINATION WITH OTHER CHEMICALS so your dad thought we'd be safer here. And they have working bathrooms."
MOM: "But your dad took off in the middle of the morning without telling us, and we both had to go to the bathroom, so we had to use the outhouse."

(OH. Did I mention that my parents' super-deluxe cabin comes outfitted with an outhouse behind the garage? One with lighting and tile flooring? Could this have maybe been the tip-off that the plumbing in the house isn't so good? Auntie was not aware of this feature when she peed in the yard. I didn't tell her, because our function in life is to entertain the neighbors.)

They soon left, bored with the hookers and their multiple bathroom trips over, and I made sure to use the bathroom before I left the hooker convention. My friend Meem from high school brought a Starbucks Salted Caramel Mocha to me at the hooker event in the morning because she loves me, and I made sure to glug that down immediately so I wouldn't suffer the effects hours later when stuck in Shitsville. When I arrived at the cabin, Dad told me he had fixed all of the plumbing issues and everyone was safe and that the hazardous chemical was not used, but I didn't go within 10 feet of that bathroom before I left. I would rather pee in the yard. I ate broth when I felt faint and that was it.

Auntie tells Dad how she feels about the bathrooms.

I'm sorry for traumatizing you people, but I think we can all agree that if there is one thing I will never do on this blog, it is to sugar-coat the facts. I might embellish a million little pieces, but I won't sugar-coat. Unless it is something I'm eating. But NOT before I visit the cabin.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72

2011-10-05T22:13:00.000-05:00

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

Today's topic: Grab Your Balls, Mate

Can I just tell you how unprepared I am to be an adult? I'm 42, and just not quite there yet. I leave tomorrow a.m. for another hooker convention in Nebraska, and I have not packed a thing, I don't have all of the paperwork I need, and I am dead tired, but I'm still putting it off to blog, because ORGANIZATION and ORGANIZATIONAL ACTIVITIES repel me.
I have, however, planned when I am stopping for my first Salted Caramel Mocha of the day. It will be at approximately 8:45 at the Starbucks in Duck Creek Plaza. I've also arranged for my friend Meem to deliver another one to me at the hooker convention on Friday. I DO have priorities, people.

So, since I am tired and behind, I'm making this short but sweet. I stole this from The Bloggess, as usual, because I have no originality because she is so clever. Really, she's enabling me, and everyone else, to not be their best selves, because she will bring the funny to the people. Go over there right now and read her posts about the Missing Rattlesnake. It's okay, I'll wait.

So I'm reading her weekly wrap-up, and came across this. Watch it to the end, it's worth it. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cringe, and you'll have a ballsack stuck in your head. You can't buy that kind of experience at Target, people.

I'm going to go out and feel someone's balls RIGHT NOW. Current Husband is SO going to wish he hadn't gone out with a friend. I'd like to know where I can buy a set of balls like these, because they would make GREAT stocking stuffers this holiday season.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

All Growed Up

2011-10-02T20:58:00.000-05:00

Last night, my little girl went to Homecoming.

This is how she looked to me.

And this is how she looked to everyone else.

Sigh. *wipes away a tear*

It's been a crazy few days, with lots of fun stuff, and it feels like everyone has aged a few years this weekend, particularly me. We started with the Homecoming parade on Thursday night, where Youngest Daughter got to ride the parade float, and is on student council. She doesn't seem OLD enough to be on a student council. It's like saying "my toddler is on student council". I wanted her to wear a helmet or water wings or something. It's weird for me. But I guess a good transition into the other milestones of the weekend.

Then we all went to the Homecoming football game, where Oldest Daughter promptly ran away with her friends, The Son promptly ran away with his middle school friends, and Youngest Daughter ran in a pack of elementary school girls on the hill about 30 feet away from us and loaded up on brownies and slushies. They all wanted to stay after the game and line up with the students to high five the football players running back to the locker room. The odd part is that I was thinking "they want to line up with the students!" and the reality is that they ARE the students. OD is one of the "Big kids". This can't be happening.

Then, the big day.

We all slept in (bliss) and then at 10:30 we left to OD and her friend's nails done.

These are pink to match her dress, with a black houndstooth pattern on two of them. By noon, she was tired of me taking pictures. I was over her attitude. Things were going South.

Then the Great Fight Over Whether or Not To Wear a Sweater took place. You can imagine which side of the fight I was on. Guess who won?

Hmm. No sweater. But it's going to get below 50 degrees when the sun goes down. Whatever. Go ahead and freeze. I'll be home in stretchy waistband fleece pants with a beer and wool socks on. Doesn't her friend look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn? Look at the hair...

So pretty! Then we were off to the BIG photo session. Indulge me while I share, it's all I had going on for the last week. Or month.

So pretty except, apparently, for my mysterious ingestion of five pounds of salt. How does one bloat up like this? I give you the Starbucks Salted Caramel Mocha. Damn you, SCM. Damn you to hell. Isn't this how MY mom looked when I was in high school? How did I become the mom? No, don't tell me. I know. It's icky.

She gets beautiful flowers...

I tell the boys to simulate a fight scene, thus ruining the pics for the other parents, You're Welcome Parents!

And here are the beautiful girls, who didn't

line up by height on purpose....

And then they went inside for dinner and I had to leave. I asked if anyone needed a ride from the club to the dance, and OD said, "No Mom, I don't think we need you."

What?!?! You don't....NEED...me?

And as I drove away in the swagger wagon, I realized that she doesn't. I mean, she NEEDS me, but she doesn't need need me, like to cross the street or eat at a restaurant or be around large groups of people. So this weekend was about a little more than my oldest child going to her first big dance, with a date, no less. It was a litle bit about starting the slow process of removing herself from our home. Baby steps. The little bird looked over the side of the nest for the first time, and I think she likes what she sees.

So far, I'm pretty lucky. She's a good kid, she had manners, she gets good grades, she's in some nice extracirricular activities, she has good friends. But nothing is guaranteed, and I know that I'm not arranging the playdates and picking out her clothes and pulling the strings anymore. It's a little scary, but it's a little bit fun too, to watch her find her way and become the person she is going to be. I hope it's a good one.

In the meantime, I'll be licking my salt block and nervously eating cake. Wish me luck, people.

It's Taxidermy Thursday! Issue 1

2011-09-29T21:30:00.000-05:00

In 2007, my then 12-year-old sister-in-law completed a taxidermy project for her school. After expressing my attraction and awe for this misshapen squirrel, my mother-in-law gladly gave him to me in a grocery bag at Christmas. He became Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein. Taxidermy Thursday is dedicated to Todd and all of the animals who posed before him.

Today's stuffins - Theatrical Taxidermy

As with many things that appear on this blog, I found today's little gem through the comments section on The Bloggess. There are some badass people who comment on The Bloggess, and they have the links to all the crazy shit on the Internets. One of the commenters posted a link to a site called "Ravishing Beasts". You have to go to this site to see all the info on these pictures, but just seeing them is something.

Rabbit Schoolroom by Walter Potter, 1890's

The kitten tea party, Walter Potter

Kitten wedding, Walter Potter

Wow. Here's a guy who thinks outside of the box, and has a massive OCD issue. Are these whimsical? Cute? Perhaps. Until you realize they are made out of DEAD STUFFED KITTENS AND BUNNIES! Did Walter just happen upon a litter of freshly dead kittens?

Doubtful.

Methinks Walter was breeding kittens for art. Which makes Walter suddenly seem a little more living-in-Mothers-basement-serial-killer-ish. Can you picture Walter in his "special art clothes" carefully dressing the dead kittens under one bare swinging lightbulb at a rough wooden worktable, with a pile of undressed dead kittens next to him, whistling a little tune? I can. Hey Walter! I have something for you:

There are at least 20 cats who gather at 4 p.m. across the street from me, and they would make an awesome bar mitzvah scene. Or a stagecoach robbery. Or a disco.

There are a couple of other photos on the Ravishing Beast site I find interesting, and of course they deal with squirrels. Because there is something about a squirrel that makes you think they can actually *do* things, like boxing or suicide.

Boxing squirrels. Kind of awesome.
I'd actually like to own one of these.

Squirrel suicide. I know, it's disturbing.

But I think it's a little funny. Don't judge me.

Thus concludes our first issue of Taxidermy Thursday. Discuss amongst yourselves. I'll be back over the weekend to report on Oldest Daughter's first Homecoming! Aaah!

The Case of the Disappearing Graphics

2011-09-27T16:28:00.000-05:00

So yesterday, I pull up the blog, and ...Hey....where is my banner? My signature and coffee cup were also missing. I clicked on the icon for the person who designed my stuff, and it says "No longer exists".

WWNDD?

(What would Nancy Drew do?)

I'm going to tell you what Nancy would do. She would put on her sensible pumps and march right over to the web designer's house and rap on the door and tell the housekeeper that she would like to call on said designer, and then politely but firmly inquire as to the whereabouts of her graphics. She would have some tea, check her slim gold watch her father, locally prominent attorney Carson Drew, gave her, and move on to her next appointment, which happens to be a date with Ned, where she would dance and flirt with him all night and then send him home with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes. Problem solved.

However, this is 2011, so I put on my sturdy but practical Dansko clogs and used my paid time at work to investigate my personal issues online. I probably contracted a virus for my company's server, and minimized my screen anytime anyone walked by my cubicle. I checked my cell phone for the time, blogged about my problem, and then am going home to cook and bitch at Current Husband about how my graphics have disappeared on the blog and send him to bed with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes.

It's weird, but I actually saved this post and did some actual work at my hooker job, and when I came back, my "A Day In The Wife" graphics were back after being gone for a day. Now I'm back to suspecting Blogger for the problems. Or caged zoo monkeys. You can always count on those fuckers to mess with you.

Since this is a lame post lamenting something that has already been solved, I'd like to direct you to another blog with something funny to say, because I'm a marketing genius. "Hey, MY blog isn't funny today, let me send you somewhere else!!" Do you see that, McDonalds? Hire me to do your marketing and Burger King's sales will go up by 10%. No wonder nobody is picking up rug hooking right now. But? This blog post made me laugh today,and the author is really brave, because I would be terrified that the other mothers would find out I blogged about it. Some of the moms at YD's school eat other moms for brunch for lesser transgressions than this, trust me. I'm missing three fingers and a kidney. Enjoy!

http://www.thebeardediris.com/2011/09/27/just-the-tip-tuesday-dont-be-an-asshole/

The Baffling Case of the Oprah Moment

2011-09-25T21:25:00.002-05:00

Today I'm going to go all Nancy Drew on your asses and go undercover on an investigation into the secret self inside us all. I have a little friend love I want to share with y'all, and I'm sure it will embarrass my friends, but welcome to the world of CH and my children, dears.

Friday I was going to a hooker show, and en route I picked up a friend of mine from college. I won't embarrass her here, (ANGIE), but I walked in her house and my jaw dropped. Not only is she gorgeous, inside and out, but so is her house - and she does all of her decorating and makes a lot of her accessories. Right in the front door was this kick-ass lamp that had a burlappy-linen shade, and there was a big letter "P" painted on it (last name). She made it. Right around the corner was a big framed print that had all of the addresses at which her family had lived in the past 20 years (she moves as much as I do!), and it was cool and edgy and sentimental. Yep, she made it. Beautiful photo arrangements and art and accessories, all made by her. She is an undiscovered treasure, and I hope she either opens a store or starts selling on etsy or begins decorating people's houses, starting with mine. Talent, talent, talent. In the words of Vince Vaughn, She's money and she doesn't even know it.

I have a great posse of friends in my previous town of Mount Vernon, Iowa. Some of them I talk with regularly, and some of them I don't talk to nearly enough and am WAY overdue for some time with them, but everyone gets tied up with kids and lives and such, so I know it will happen eventually. Today I was missing Mount Vernon and all of the creative people I know there who always bring the funk. My friend Tommie is an amazing photographer, and she has a show at Cornell College in Mount Vernon, so I loaded up The Son and we drove to see it.

She is too legit to quit.

The show was amazing - an abandoned warehouse in Burlington from (I think?) the 30's and 40's that still has cans of pineapple and toilet bowl cleaner ("Also works on automotive radiators!") and coffee beans on the floor, and she took photographs of the place with its natural light. Amazing. The pics I took of the pics are crappy because A) I am not a photographer, and B) there was a glare on the glass, so you'll have to take my word for it, they are fantastic. Then I went to her store, where she had these lovely baubles that she made:

I know, right?

You can like her store site on facebook at "fuel....art and espresso"

Remember when I talked about making spaces for yourself in your house or wherever to feed that creative side? I had Tommie take pics of her studio a while ago for your viewing pleasure. She has an incredible eye, as you can see from these pics. This is a room behind her garage. I shall live here:

A bed in the studio. Because you just never know.

But if I stay out here I might steal all of her stuff.

I left her house and drove to her store, where I walked out with a cappucino, a homemade cookie as big as my head, a bag of coffee beans, a kickass bracelet, and a smile.

I drove to my friend Jana's house, and saw her new bathroom and some things she's done in her house to change things up, and I wish I'd taken a pic of her mantel. The entire fireplace area is painted ruby red with a mantel she had made by an ironworking dude in town, and then had a large yellow pear sculpture that is the twin to my pomegranate, made by a local MV artist, on said mantel. It is very dramatic. This woman is amazing - she has a Biology degree, has a published science textbook in Spanish that she wrote, she can knit amazing socks and mittens and sweaters, makes funky screenprinted sachets, is an amazing cook (she HATES it when I rave about her cooking, but really, it is the shizzle) and worked for a taxidermist.

While I was there, another friend of ours, Elizabeth, who lives down the street, came over to borrow cumin. She is a photographer and adventurer and made a documentary on the Lincoln Highway and has taken her children to India and Turkey and has her junior doing a semester in Germany right now.

I drove home from this soul-replenishing visit and thought about all of the amazing women I know. Women who are brilliant and creative and edgy and fan-fucking-tastic, all the while being humble and truly good and kind people. Just, wow. They are inspirational, and make me strive to be better. And I'm not the only person who knows women like this - we all do.

Oh my God, I'm having an Oprah moment.

Sweet baby Jesus, that was scary. Let's get Julie back to normal - um, they all have great racks, too. Except Elizabeth, but she has a huge personality.

So go forth, Wifers! Create your space in your home, even if it's just under a couch where you secretly eat Oreos and listen to ABBA. Find your happy place - but not in public, you may get arrested. It is contagious. Well, hopefully not what you find in your happy place, but if it is, contact your physician.

UPDATE on Monday a.m. - I'm wanting to respond to Peruby's comment, lest anyone get the wrong impression from this post....I'm not saying people need to DO more - Good Lord, there are days when I'm not able to use the bathroom for 12 hours - but more about making sure you take a little time for yourself, and carve out a little space for you. Because joy comes out of that space you make for yourself, whatever that may be. And out of the four women featured, only one of them is making money from those things they love. I work an average of 45 hours a week and travel a lot in the fall, but I make time for the blog, which usually takes about 5 hours a week, and I don't make a dime from it. But it's MINE.

The Mystery of the Freshly Brewed Pee

2011-09-24T21:23:00.001-05:00

Before you say anything, let me just admit now that after my month of daily blogging, I readily admit that I have become a huge slacker. Glub glub, I've been busy. (Not really, but I've been wanting to work "Glub glub" into a blog for a while.)

On Friday, I was going to do a Whoreticulture Friday post on going to the bathroom, as in "Maybe I should drink more water because every time I pee it smells like someone just brewed a pot of coffee." But then I remembered that Oldest Daughter is going to Homecoming with an actual boy in a week, and locals keep finding out about the blog and I don't want her to get dumped BEFORE the dance because I have to keep those Shutterfly books full so the kids think they had a full and rich stable of childhood experiences. So, mother of Homecoming Date, if you have stumbled across this blog, my pee does not smell, nor would I even think of blogging about it if it did.

I've had a bad headache all day, and I already took an Aleve and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and it's not going away. Oldest Daughter is at a birthday party overnight, Youngest Daughter is at a friend's house overnight, and The Son and Current Husband went to a movie. I stayed home and watched George the Superpet and the GD Dog tear the shit out of my yard (pics later this week) and thought about doing something fun, but my head kept pounding out the rhythym of a Sex Pistols song and I polyurethaned something, which oddly did not make my headache go away.

The Son and CH got home, and I sat at the dining room table and asked The Son to rub my neck to make my headache go away, and he balked and said, "Did you eat ham?" and I said no, and he said, "I'm going to wash my hands and get gloves if I'm doing it." I looked at CH and said, "What the hell?" and CH shrugged his shoulders apologetically and said, "Cowboys and Aliens was out of the theater, I took him to see Contagion." Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow eats some ham, gets a headache, and dies a horrible death, and spreads it to everyone whom she touches. SO not only does GP get to travel the world, be skinny, and bone Chris Martin, she is now preventing me from getting massages. WTF, GP?

I'm going to sell these and raise ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.

So here is The Status of The Wife in a nutshell:

I have a headache.
The Son thinks I am the Contagion.
My yard has been destroyed by the GD Dog.
My pee smells like coffee. Or it doesn't, depending on who you are.

That is all. Have a lovely weekend, Wifers.
And? Read the latest post on The Bloggess. Honestly, people. She has created some sort of alternate, bizarre, comedic universe where I want to live. "Knock, Knock, Motherfucker" towels are now on my Lifetime Gift Registry.

The Case of the Piles of Dog Vomit

2011-09-20T21:55:00.000-05:00

So about two hours ago I'm all "it's time to blog!" and then Youngest Daughter said, "Hey, we didn't walk Shiloh (the GD Dog) and you said we would!" and so I took the GD Dog out for a walk with YD, and the GD Dog pulled me all over the neighborhood for about two blocks, and when I have to jog it makes my belly roll flop and it's super unattractive. That makes me cranky.

Then we get home and The Son is still in the shower, but YD needs to take a bath, so I wander in the kitchen and see that my children haven't unloaded or loaded the dishwasher as per their rental agreement, Section 1 Page 2 Clause 6. I yell a little bit and then think "Oh to hell with it" because The Son is in the shower and can't hear me and Oldest Daughter's eyes are glazed over and she is doing Algebra and it's already late so I just do it because I am getting my mother's martyr complex, which is apparently hereditary. That makes me cranky.

Then I finally get YD in the bath and I let her take 40 small toys in there, and just as I am preparing to wash her hair, I hear Current Husband in the other room say, "You have GOT to be kidding me!" and not in a "I just heard the funniest joke!" kind of way. I run into the living room and there are not one, but THREE fresh steaming piles of dog puke. The GD Dog is sitting behind them, looking sheepish, and George the Superpet is around the corner saying, "I told you that GD Dog was going to be nothing but trouble." Since it is my mother's dog, I felt compelled to clean it up. CH felt compelled to head out the door to meet someone for a beer. Everyone else felt compelled to go to bed. This all reminded me of my favorite story.

"Not I," said the kid.

"Not I," said the husband.

"Not I," said the GD Dog.

"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen.

And then she ate a whole fucking cake and was bitter for the rest of the night.

The End.

Goodnight, Wifers!

The Secret of the Cookoff Chili

2011-09-18T23:14:00.000-05:00

What a perfectly lovely fall weekend! So much fun best time ever. It was exactly the kind of weekend I like to have.

Friday night, we ordered taco pizza and stayed in. We were supposed to go to a high school football game, but Oldest Daughter wasn't feeling well, and Youngest Daughter had a sleepover friend, and I had a People magazine and the GD dog and George the Superpet, so I was perfectly happy to park it on the couch in my comfy pants. Throw in some Whitey's Moosetracks ice cream and call it a win.

Saturday, slept in. Yee-effing-haw. Took sleepover friend home, got some overdue cleaning done around the house, and tried a new Starbucks flavor - Salted Caramel Mocha.

It's crack in a cup, people.

Then I put some chicken in a pot and got my game face on - it was time to get to a chili cookoff. I made my white chicken chili, got some Leinenkugels, and Current Husband and I went to meet the competition. There were eight pots of chili, tons of corn bread, gallons of cold beverages, a bonfire, games of bags, and a houseful of really lovely people. Back to the food:

My chili was #1 (in label only) and the other white chicken chili, which was delicious, was #2 and we were in crock pots. Above is chili #3 on the right, which had no beans, amazing shredded beef straight off the bone, and was fire engine hot. Chili #4 and chili #5 are the other pots pictured here, but were delicious as well. The plot thickened.

Photo taken after second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

Chili #6 is not pictured, and had a secret ingredient of peanut butter. Yum. Chili #7 was on the bottom, and had polish sausage in it, and was awesome. Chili #8 is on top, and got my vote for the winner. It was so damn good. But it was hard to vote for #8 because ALL of the chili was so damn good. It was one of those times when you want to keep eating and eating and eating. With sour cream and shredded cheese and little mini corn muffins...

...and coolers of beer!

...and dessert!

The winners were happy (yes, there was a trophy, complete with flames).

The 8th place runners up were happy!

(You're still a hot dish to me, #8)

It was a perfect fall night. The bonfire was warm and smelled like fall, and we played bags, which I've never played before (and that was oh so obvious!) and everyone just hung out and talked into the night. The hosts were terrific, and it made me realize how nice it would be to put a party like this together at my house sometime - just have everyone bring a dish around a theme and some beer. I'm always so worried about not having enough room in my house, but people WANT to get together, and no one is afraid to sit on other people if the conversation is good.

On Sunday, I slept in again (yahoo!) and got some other things done, and then had my college roommate and her son over for dinner. I took my cue from the party the night before and made potato soup, chicken tortilla soup, and had leftover white chicken chili and banana bread, and we had a great time.

Good, simple food, a few cold beverages, great fall weather, catching up with good friends and meeting some new ones. There is no mystery to how to have a good time. The mystery here, Nancy Drew, is how to get CH's gland expressed. Because after all that chili, my house smells like The Secret of Where The Dead Animal Is Hidden.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 71

2011-09-16T09:27:00.000-05:00

Now it is worse. All the walls are down, all the framing is gone, and all of that white drywall on the ceiling is gone. We are having the whole ceiling painted white with the exposed beams and ducts and everything, so I guess I am going with the IKEA look, but it will look more open and cheerful and whatnot. Which this basement needs, along with a good scrubbing with bleach after what I found.

PREFACE: This is from the files of "Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction". I swear this is all TRUE. It is somehow fitting that I have a blog with Whoreticulture Friday and this was in my ceiling. Carry on.

So the kids and I are cleaning up chunks of drywall from the floor, and I see a letter in the rubble. "Oh, an old letter!" I say to the kids. "This is like 'If These Walls Could Talk' on the History Channel!" The kids are only mildly interested, because, as evidenced by our "Chicago: City of the Century" experience, they are repulsed by history. It turns out that this disinterest is a good thing.

The letter is written on a sheet of paper from a company notepad from the late 50's or, more likely, the early 60's. I say this because it's from US Steel Corp, which closed it's Moline location some time ago, and it says "Call 4-5616" and the phone company stopped using five digit phone numbers in the Sixties. The letter was folded into a giant postcard of Marilyn Monroe. This all fits beautifully into Nancy Drew month, because my letter in the ceiling was written during Nancy Drew's time! Coincidence? I think not.

Carson Drew was NOT mailing anything like this.

Or was he?

For only 3 cents, you could spread Marilyn Monroe all over.

I think, "How quaint. It's in a vintage postcard! I love vintage." And then I start reading.

I know it's a little hard to read, so here's what it says:

"This WHIP will help you to come and also punish you for willingly screwing another woman. It gives me pleasure to whip your ASS - now return to your room - don't forget to kiss me goodbye between my legs - return Charles to his room Sheila.
Good morning, Sheila. Bring Charles to me in garments #2 - garter belt - hose - long gloves - net blouse - earrings - makeup.
Good morning Charles, here are your things to wear - you will look dainty - all right you may rise and dress - you look lovely - I hope she sucks you off today - I would love to suck you too - come let go (??)
Good morning Charles, you look sweet, you may rise - Sheila you hold him from behind by hugging him and don't let him move - I want to suck him - he needs relief - Glub Glub - you respond quickly Charles"

Um. Glub Glub? I'm going to vomit now. Needless to say, I did not share this lesson in historical porn with my kids. Whose grandparent wrote this? It was stuck in my basement ceiling! Here are the emotions I felt while reading this: Shock, disbelief, slight revulsion, laughter, and then "Oh Dear God there was a sadistic bipolar rapist killer in my house and I need to bleach the whole thing down."

I also thought of The Bloggess and Copernicus the Homicidal Monkey - "A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished".

The men who read this think it's a woman who wrote it. The women think it's a man. My vote is definite man. The handwriting looks more man-like, women had nice writing back then, and this letter has no emotion, all S&M bipolar multiple-partner role-playing stuff - HELLO! That's a man.

If Blogger will let you comment, send in your vote - Is the author of this 1960's S&M porn a man, or a woman? We'll leave it up to the people.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

The Suprise Puppy Caper

2011-09-13T22:12:00.000-05:00

Hello friends! Thanks for your sweet comments in the past week about me Mum, who is slightly unhappy about breaking her pelvis.

Let me just say that it is very worrisome to find out your parent has broken something major. It's very odd to see your parent looking vulnerable and scared, and it freaks you out a bit. Here are some things I learned from this experience:

Have a sibling who is a First Responder.
Don't make jokes in the hospital room, not usually a very receptive audience.
If your father speaks of loading people up with sedatives and a catheter, make sure your doctor knows NOT to release you to his care.
Having an audience to use the bathroom isn't fun for ANYONE.
I'm still allergic to Nebraska.

In The Secret Bungalow Mystery, Nancy finds out that trusty Hannah Gruen twisted her ankle while caring for the Drews' home and personal effects. Nancy runs home to care for Hannah, which means making her a light lunch of delicious chicken salad on a croissant and mandarin oranges, and excusing her from the day's housekeeping duties. Nowhere in that book does it mention that Nancy helps Hannah get her pants off or go to the bathroom, because that would be a little uncomfortable in the Mad Men era.

Fortunately, Mom is on the road to recovery. Youngest Daughter and I both got sick in Nebraska, I think because we are both allergic to Goldenrod, the state flower, and cottonwood trees. We came home on Sunday night and we brought this:

Meet Shiloh. She's a 6 month old Labradoodle.

She is Mom's dog, now our foster dog for the month.

Shiloh and YD play. And Shiloh ate Harry Potter the Lego.

Shiloh and George the Superpet play. George is a bit fat and out of shape.

The only mystery this week is how long will George the Superpet be able to last.

The Mystery of the Broken Pelvis

2011-09-08T16:28:00.000-05:00

I was so obsessed with YD's ice cream the other day that I didn't even bother to put a Nancy Drew reference up. Total slacker. So that post is now "The Case of the Missing Nancy Drew Reference."

I actually thought about our favorite ginger bitch yesterday, because I got a call on my cell phone at work from my sister in Nebraska, who was driving to my mom's house because she got a call on her cell from my dad in Texas, who got a call on his cell phone from my mom, who had just tripped over a dog leash holder in her yard and broke her pelvis.

Youngest Daughter and I are reading "The Bungalow Mystery", and in it, Nancy and her friend Helen Corning, who is engaged to Jim, were in a small boat when a storm hit and their boat crashed into some rocks and they went in the drink and had to kick off their sensible shoes and swim in their dresses to the shore, and then find help. I was thinking about how resourceful you needed to be before cell phones. Instead of blowing up Carson Drew or Mother Figure Housekeeper Hannah Gruen's respective cells, Nancy had to hike around and then break into a bungalow for hot chocolate and blankets and then take Helen Corning home (so she could write a letter to Jim about the incident) and drive home before anyone knew she almost died. Whoa.

So. Yesterday. My mom broke her pelvis and it is extremely painful and of course I am terribly worried about her. But in my family of origin, you deal with a crisis in one of three ways:

Get into a yelling match with another family member.
Drink heavily.
Make inappropriate jokes.

I usually go with #3, followed by #2, then #1.  Dad usually starts with #2, then #1, then #3. It's unfortunate, but something my family accepts about ourselves. In the spirit of #3, allow me to recap yesterday's communications with my family.

THE SCENE: Julie in Iowa, Natalie in Nebraska with Mom, Dad in Texas. You should know that my parents are married, but occasionally live in different states. It's for the best, really.

My cell phone rings at work. I answer.
ME: Hi!
NATALIE: Hi.   Mom fell and probably broke something. I'm driving over there now.
ME: Did she call you?
NATALIE: No. She dragged herself into the house, and called Dad on his cell phone. Then Dad called me on my cell phone, and then I called 911 and am driving over there now.
ME: Why did she call Dad first? He's in Texas!
NATALIE: I'm not sure. And I don't exactly know the address out there (it's a cabin on a river in the boonies) so I'm meeting the ambulance to lead them in.
ME: Well don't call Dad to call Mom to call you to call me when you find out some info. Call me directly.
NATALIE: Okay. 911 hung up on me. I think I made them mad. Or they know Dad.
ME: Keep me updated.

*call ends*
(I'm guessing they know Dad.)

phone rings 20 minutes later
ME: Hi.
NATALIE: Okay, so I walk in the house, and all I see are her tennis shoes and the ends of her jeans on the floor.
ME: Oh my God. Like the witch in The Wizard of Oz under the house?
NATALIE: Yes. And then I walk around the corner and she is curled on her side, smoking like crazy.
ME: How did she get to her cigarettes?
NATALIE: I'm guessing she dragged herself in the house, got her smokes, then called Dad.
ME: Because she has priorities. And she knew she couldn't smoke in the ambulance or the hospital, so she was smoking what was left in the pack as fast as she could?
NATALIE: Exactly.
ME: Okay, call me back from the hospital.
*call ends*

I call my Dad.
DAD: What.
ME: So what happened?
DAD: She let out that Goddamned Dog and then tripped over the spike the leash is hooked on.
ME: So it wasn't actually the dog.
DAD: I knew that Goddamned Dog would break her hip.
ME: But it's her pelvis. And it wasn't the dog.
DAD: I'm getting rid of that Goddamned Dog.
ME: What is your plan?
DAD: I guess I'm going to drive up there and get the Goddamned Dog and bring her back here.
ME: I meant regarding Mom.
DAD: Well, I'm going to see if they can give her as much pain medication as possible, have them put a catheter in her, and put her in the back of the car to drive back to Texas.
*pause while I let this horrible plan sink in*
ME: Um, Dad, I don't think they will release her with a broken pelvis to take a 20-hour car trip.
DAD: Plus I will have to have that Goddamed Dog in the car.
ME: But I think it will be bad for her to take a 20-hour car trip with a BROKEN PELVIS.
DAD: Someone has to take care of her, and I can't stay in Omaha for 4 weeks.
ME: We'll figure something out.
DAD: That Goddamned Dog.
Dad hangs up.

TEXT EXCHANGE WITH MY SISTER
ME: Coming on Friday. Will take GD dog back with me.
NATALIE: I go to Vegas Sat a.m. for work, can't change it. Dad says he's taking GD dog to kennel. He's pissed and told me to shoot her.
ME: Who?
NATALIE: The dog, not mom.
ME: You never know. Did u know he wants to fill her w/painkillers, catheter, drive her back to TX?
NATALIE: Who?
ME: Mom, not the dog.
NATALIE: He always has great ideas. Mom wants him to stay in TX.
ME: He's probably already to Dallas. Restraining order?
NATALIE: Mom would have to file it.
ME: Shit.
*end*

I'm pretty sure Nancy Drew would not have these issues with Carson Drew. Mom is okay, but in pain. They can't do surgery or a brace or screws or any of that, we are on the painkillers and patience program. I am driving to Nebraska on Friday, because I am totally out of vacation at work, and I'm spending the weekend with her to convince her that staying in a Skilled Care Facility for one week does not mean we are having her committed. I'm calling it "The Elvis Presley Resort and Spa for Pelvis Rehabilitation."    I keep saying, "Mom, if I had a broken pelvis, and someone offered to cook and clean for me in a place where I have the remote and can read books all day, I would totally take it. Plus, you should take a deck of cards. You could make a killing over there. Probably pay for your whole hospital stay."

So far, she is not buying what I'm selling. Wish me luck!

Freezer Rules

2011-09-05T21:23:00.000-05:00

An Open Letter to My Family:

It has come to my attention that we need a remider on Freezer Rules and Fridge Rules. As the purchaser and main preparer of the food, I now declare myself the Mommy Tse Tung of all things in the refrigerator or freezer.

"Woe to the child who defies the rules of the fridge."

If you open a Gatorade or juice box, it must be finished in one sitting. There shall be no open containers of dyed drinks in the refrigerator, or one shall wear the consequences.
If there are but three grapes left on the bunch, or three strawberries left in the box, the eater shall eat them and throw away the container.
Do not leave a tablespoon of milk in the container so as to not have to be the one who rinses out the gallon.
Prison rules apply to any ice cream treats left in the freezer. If one has any leftovers from Dairy Queen, Whitey's, Coldstone, or Maggie Moos, consider it abandoned once it hits the freezer. At that time, any homesteader may lay claim to the treat.

As I did tonight to your leftover Peanut Butter Galaxy from Maggie Moos, Youngest Daughter. If Darwin were an ice cream barista, he would totally side with me that after two days in the freezer, this bad boy belongs to me. And if you ask about your ice cream that you abandoned, I will inform you that I throw away ice cream after two days because it goes bad. The fact that I throw it away in my stomach does not need to be revealed.

I think this clears up the World According to The Wife. Please let me know if there are any questions or concerns.

Sincerely,

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 70

2011-09-01T22:18:00.001-05:00

Seeing Nancy and Bess and George crouching in the bush, next to the metaphorical Crumbling Wall, makes me realize that I'm worried about Kim Kardashian's vagina.

As a matter of fact, I'm worried about a number of Hollywood vaginas that are attached to small women who are married to big dudes. I don't watch Kardashian shows, or read Kardashian articles, and I care so little about or for her that I didn't buy this:

It takes a lot to get me to pass on this week's People magazine. But this ridonkulousness? Did Kim marry Kim? There are gowns, guests, glamour, and a wedding album...was there a groom? Does anyone care? Kim might not be having second thoughts, but her vagina is.

Rudimentary anatomy tells me that his penis is bigger than her head.

Where is he packing that thing? Is she carrying it in her purse?

With her now-defunct uterus?

Kim and Kris aren't the only ones with this problem. Just look at the probable penis size and compare it to the corresponding hidey-hole. Remember Sesame Street? "Which of these things is not like the other..."

Eva and Tony...she finally said "Back that truck up and

No, you don't get your security deposit back."

Shaq and Shawnie, she got him to quit breaking her backboard.

Will and Jada.

Still gettin' jiggy wit it, but she is standing awkwardly.

Probably because her vagina hurts.

I know that some of you will say "I would be getting all over that bull penis" (you know I'm thinking about YOU, Wall of Pain!), but really? Would you? Because I'm thinking I might be smiling in the moment, but then be walking like Yosemite Sam for a week, and be just as pissed. Or pissing myself. It depends on how much the wall actually crumbles.

Nancy Drew would be scandalized. She would consult with her father, Carson Drew, and then have a five course meal with fruit salad in compotes for dessert, and then discuss it with Hannah, the maternal housekeeper for the Drews. But that would all be for naught, because only Ned could help her crack this case, and then Nancy would know that her walls were crumbling because of Ned's leaning chimney.

Happy Weekend Wifers! I hope your walls get some crumbling, if you want them to. I'm personally going to solve The Mystery of The Silent Alarm Clock.

Under the Wire!

2011-08-31T23:15:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

So worth it.

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

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

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

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

September is officially Nancy Drew month!

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

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

Next To Last Day!

2011-08-30T21:58:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

If you're in the area, stop by!

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

Monday, Monday

2011-08-29T22:10:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What exactly is my point here?

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

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

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

Wrap It Up Sunday

2011-08-28T22:25:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

Um...kind of hard?

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

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

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

Amen, Brother.

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

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

The Last 100 Pages...

2011-08-27T23:37:00.000-05:00

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

Happy Anniversary CH!

2011-08-26T22:31:00.000-05:00

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

This is what we looked like then:

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

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

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

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

2011-08-25T20:13:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

I suddenly find myself wishing it was a little more....

how do you say...Nunnish.

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

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

Son of a Nutcracker.

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

Going Bareback Again Tomorrow

2011-08-24T22:16:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 24: Meet The Boss, Girls

2011-08-23T21:50:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Chicago Made YD a Vegetarian

2011-08-22T22:02:00.000-05:00

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

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

"Once a swampy, remote outpost of fur traders and Native Americans, Chicago rose to become the CITY OF THE CENTURY. The film chronicles its transformation into the quintessential 19th-century metropolis, amid political struggles, labor unrest, and racial conflicts. Tour the city from every angle, from distinctive architecture and dramatic skyline to conversations with eminent and ordinary Chicagoans, in this rich saga of the Windy City."

Kids LOVE this shit, am I right? I swear this was a recent plot of Wizards of Waverly Place. My family groaned every time I brought up my Chicago DVD, but one night, I forced them into it. "If you just start watching it, you'll love it, I swear!" I guess seven years is a long time, because my rose-tinted plotline of the first DVD didn't include these sections:

White people forcing the Native Americans out, and then being scalped in return.
Raging typhoid running through the streams.
Irish immigrant children playing with maggots in the street.
The Chicago River running red with the blood from the packing houses.
Horses getting caught in the muddy streets up to their chests, then shot.
Pigs' heads floating in the river from said packing houses.
The thousands of people burned to death in the Chicago Fire, and the river being on fire because it was so putrid.

So the kids were REALLY enjoying themselves, when the narrarator went into great detail about pig slaughter. Specifically about the Hereford Wheel. This is where the packers would shackle a pig's hind leg to a wheel, thus lifting the squealing pig in the air, and then down to a "sticker", which is a guy with a knife who would slit the pig's throat. Fortunately, the DVD had actual footage of this happening. When the sticker got the pig, blood shot out of the pig's neck like a garden hose. I'm trying to cover Youngest Daughter's eyes, but she is dodging me. Then, she sits still and gives me a glaring stare.

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

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

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