Bad Santa and Coal in My Stocking

First and Foremost:  

I am finally switching the blog to WordPress!  So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1.  However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end.  Can I get an amen?

I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress.  Here is the link to the new address - http://www.adayinthewife.com/.  Please make a note of it.

I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy.  Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took.  BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN?  You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.

Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John.  He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member.  When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence.  Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?" because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John.  If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will cut. you.

John looks a little bit like Bad Santa.  He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends.  He has a boat.  He likes whiskey.  John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard.  Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.

Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.

If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor. 

DR: "So what seems to be the problem?  You have a sore on your...uh.."
(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)
ME:  "My nipple.  It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."
DR:  (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"
ME:  "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."
DR:  "Okay.  Let's take a look at it."

And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.

This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.

And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like "Is baseball season still going for you guys?" and I'm all, "It must be because you just stole second!" and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me.  Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!"  This is why I love my doctor.  Let's turn a festering sore into a victory. 

She gives me cream and asks about my yard.  We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere.  My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped.  Seriously.  She says that.  So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, "I can't believe I just gave you that opening."  Me either, Doc.  It's like you don't know me at all.

The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE.  You're welcome, neighbors.

I see John in the yard and I say hi.  He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden?" and he says something like "Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?" and I say something along the lines of "Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me.  I've got it on my chest and arms right now".  He pauses and looks at me, and says, "I'll take it down today."  I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.

It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.

And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.

Meth Sister Wives

I've been a bit neglectful of the blog this week because I have been a Meth Sister Wife. This is a lot like regular Sister Wives but without the religion, and plus the methamphetemine, which means you get the work of four Sister Wives from just one monogamous wife. Everyone wins.

NOTE TO THE 17 MANDATORY REPORTERS WHO READ THIS BLOG: I don't actually use meth. I like the concept of meth without the actual addiction and the hair falling out and the teeth rotting, because meth addicts seem to get SO DAMN MUCH done.

Last weekend, Current Husband took The Son to Iowa State for basketball camp. If you'll recall, I stalked Head Coach Fred Hoiberg a few weeks back, and got dimed out by my local newspaper when they printed a picture on the front of the Sports section of me talking to Fred at a casino when I was supposed to be at work, and my boss put the paper on my desk the next morning and said something to the effect of "Have a nice time at the casino yesterday, Julie?" When The Son saw Coach Hoiberg at camp, he said, "My mom was in a sorority with your wife!" and The Mayor said, "Oh, you must be [Insert Name Here]! Tell your mother to quit harrassing me."

Honestly, this would freak some kids out, but not mine. They usually just smile and say, "Okay, I'll tell her" and they understand that this is yet another person who has a restraining order out against their mom.  I should note here that The Son has replaced a picture of his mother with a picture of Coach Hoiberg, and should The Mayor ever decide to overthrow the government, The Son will be his willing minion. 

CH and The Son were gone for two days. CH tries very hard not to leave home without me, because as soon as he pulls out of the driveway, he knows all hell breaks loose. In the days leading up to his departure, I walk around the house and quietly plot my strategy for what major home improvements I've been meaning to make but can't because he's around to stop me. I stockpile supplies in various hidey-holes around the house, and get extra sleep. As soon as he leaves, I am overcome with giddy joy as I break out the paint cans and power tools. Last weekend was no exception.

I started the day by putting in a new flower bed on the East side of the house. Before, it was a bunch of hard packed dirt and a few scraggly weeds, but I bought brick edgers and four bags of mulch, an azalea bush and six perennial plans and went crazy. At about 1 p.m., I broke open a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio, because I was hot, and it was delicious. When the flower bed was installed, I moved the crazy train inside.

We finished our basement over the winter, and I will tell you that it went from being a sexual deviant cellar (we found a pornography letter written in the late 1950's in the ceiling - and let me tell you, it was hardcore) to this lovely, kick-ass family space. There is a full bath down there that we put in, but it stalled a few months ago, and it needed to get finished, so on Sunday and Monday I painted the walls and trim, tiled and grouted the shower, and put in a towel hook thingy and the toilet paper holder and that sort of thing.

Youngest Daughter had a friend over for a sleepover, and at 11 p.m. as the girls were putting in Grease to watch while they went to sleep, her little friend looked at me in the bathroom and said, "Do you ever sleep?" Then YD came into the bathroom and saw my empty bottle of pinot and said, "Mom, did you drink that whole bottle of wine?" I looked at the empty bottle, and immediately lied. "No, of course not. It was in the downstairs fridge already open." But in my mind I was like, "Holy shit, I did polish off an entire bottle of wine. Do I have some kind of problem?" After doing the math, I realized I drank a bottle of wine over 10 hours, so it's not like I was all crockered up, but still. I will say, however, that it was delicious, and paired with the sounds of The Black Keys made grouting over my head much more tolerable.

Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 of Meth Sister Wives, where I build and install a 10 foot window box before CH gets home.

Karma is a Bitch

I've been dealing with my restraining order ever since I stalked The Mayor, so things have been a little hectic on my end. I unplugged last weekend, and let me tell you, all of the people who say, "OMG, it was so good to get away from technology" obviously aren't using it right.  It SUCKED.  Hello, I didn't hear about Robin Gibb until today!  The Bloggess posted and I didn't even have a shot at Firsties.  #MyFaveSexPosition was trending on Twitter and I missed it.  Seriously, what did people DO before the Internet? 

When I was pregnant with my Oldest Daughter, I was all haughty with organic goodness, and said things like, "I'm going to have a natural labor", which clearly indicated I had never BEEN in labor.  My High School Friend Paige the OB, medical expert on other posts, told me "Jude, epidurals exist for a reason.  In this day and age there is no reason for women to birth babies like Ma Ingalls in a cabin with a pot of boiling water and a leather strap."  Or something to that extent.  I waited until Baby #3 to have an epidural, and I nearly wept with joy when it took hold.  I could've read a People magazine and had a pedicure while pushing.  I guess I'm telling you this as some kind of metaphor for going without Twitter or Facebook or blogs. 

ANYWHO, I'm checking in to say hi, and to tell you that I'm driving to Dubuque, Iowa tomorrow to ANOTHER casino hotel so I can take a website marketing seminar for my hooker job.  (Hookers are all about the internet these days.)  There is a chance I won't make it back, so I'm here to tell you all that I love you before I get my Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte at 6:30 a.m. and head out the door.  You may be asking yourself, "Self, why is she so effing negative?  I don't read this blog for that shit."  Well, Wifers, I have a good reason.

I'm being haunted by the ghost

of Benny the Baby Duckling.

Not Actual Benny.  Because he is dead,

and therefore no longer photogenic.

So I'm driving to pick up some kids the other night, and I am taking the ramp onto the Interstate, and this bird is in the street, walking.  I'm all, "Get moving, Bird" and thinking it will fly soon, and then I'm bearing down on it, going "FLY DAMMIT FLY!" and then, too late, I realize it's an adorable little duckling.  I don't feel my tires go over it, but how could I?  It's so tiny and fluffy and trusting of the large one-ton metal cube seemingly coming to pet it.  I look in my rearview mirror, and there is a DUCK DOWN.

Honestly, I freaked out a little bit.  First because obviously, it's an adorable little duckling and all I can think about is it's mother in the ditch yelling, "BENNY, NOOOOOOO!", but really, what kind of mother lets her kid play on an exit ramp?  Second, I'm thinking about how when Current Husband and I bought a VW Jetta about 10 years ago, we were driving it home for the first time and I joked, "Wouldn't it be funny if we hit a deer right..."
and BAM! We hit the biggest raccoon I've ever seen in my life.  It was the size of a burro or a small bear, and it had a propellor hat and was eating a fudgesicle.  After that, the Check Engine light never went off in that car, for the entire time we owned it.  After the third trip to the VW dealership, the mechanic seriously said, "We've done all we can do.  I think you need a priest."

So now I have the ghost of Benny with me, and bad shit has gone down ever since.  About an hour later, I dropped my favorite Starbucks mug:

It slipped out of my hands in the house, and I watched in slow motion as it dropped and shattered all over my hardwood floor.

Then I got a sinus infection and found out that they don't treat those with Xanax or Vicodin or Kahlua, but instead with horse steroids that can't be taken with alcohol.

Then my favorite white t-shirt got a stain on it, and my favorite brown capris got a big grease stain right on the butt.  Don't ask me how.  Really.  Don't.

Then my company announced they were switching servers and I couldn't take my laptop home for the weekend, and I swallowed a large bug.

Et tu, Benny?

Have a good day, Wifers, and for God's sake, watch out for the ducklings!  I'm a killer! 

CH, You Were Right

You were right, Current Husband.

Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.

I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right?  Because I just don't see how that's possible."

Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion.  How did this happen?  How did I sink so far?  Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me.  I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't.  I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes?  Right?  Schnell, schnell!  Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!

It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant.  While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.

Poison!  It's poison, I tell you! 

Beautiful, delicious poison.

So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.

CH:  "You didn't."
ME:  "I did."
CH:  "You were so good!  Don't do it!"
ME:  "Oh quit being such a ninny!  I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH:  "Yes it will."
ME:  "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH:  "You're going to hate yourself."
ME:  "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."

And I took a big drink just to show him I could.  He shook his head sadly and walked away.  I was fine.  I conquered this.  I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke.  Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!

Until today.  When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again.  But CH didn't need to know about that.  Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells?  Is that you, George?"

"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."

Grr.  "Yes, it's George."   CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face.  "I told you," he said softly.  But not so softly that I couldn't hear it.  Or that he wouldn't pay.

Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom.  It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".

Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.

CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that!  It's the Diet Coke, you know."  Mother.Effer.  Does he have to rub it in?  So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there.  So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat.  But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. 

"JULIE!  DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"

"Um, no.  George must've done it."

"Seriously?  Must I get blamed for everything? 

There'd better be a treat in this for me."

The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters).  I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers.  It's like you were with me the whole time.  I blame the Coca-Cola company.  Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.

I hate it that he was right.  Mondays.

It's Whoreticulture Monday! Issue 1

Yesterday, I picked up a copy of the much-discussed "Fifty Shades of Grey".

Tonight, I finished it. I have to blog about it now whilst I'm thinking about it, because DAMN. It's definitely Whoreticulture Material. So here it is, the first-ever Whoreticulture Monday.  Hide your children, hide your husbands.  The cuffs are snapping on.

If you didn't see Saturday Night Live this weekend, here is the ad you missed, which had me howling with laughter:


While I didn't straddle a washing machine or take a bath or utilize any "microphones", there were definite squirm-worthy moments.  Unfortunately for CH, Sunday afternoon with kids running all over the place isn't really the appropriate time to take advantage of those moments.  Fortunately for him, this is a trilogy.

I'm not going to ruin it for you by saying that it's chock full 'o sex and bondage.  I will say that when I started reading, I got a little pissed.  First, it's such an OBVIOUS rip-off of Twilight.  She's brunette, clumsy, smart but has somehow never dated.  She seems oblivious to every guy wanting her. Her mother is harebrained, her father is taciturn.  She loves Brit Lit.  He is god-like, long fingers, plays piano, powerful, is wealthy, is bad for her.  It's set in Washington State.  She works in an effing HARDWARE store.  I did have a commenter tell me the book came from a Twilight Fanfic site, which is where people write their versions of events with a Twilight theme, so maybe if you know that in advance you won't be so damn irritated about it like me.

In my opinion, the writing is very poor.  The author desperately needs a thesaurus.  If I read the words "harpy" or "inner goddess" one more time in my life it will be too soon. But she wrote a book and I haven't, so who am I to judge?  There are some parts that are admittedly hot, but I found myself so mad at the heroine during most of the book that I couldn't quite get in the appropriate mood.  Why does she stay?  Why is being dominated by a man so glorified?  Why would a woman EVER give up her right to free will?  Sex is great, but it isn't everything.  I was honestly disturbed by a lot of the story, and had trouble getting past my prejudices.  I swear, Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.

 "Can you BELIEVE this bullshit?  Why did I even bother."

But.  As much as I rolled my eyes (oh, spank me) and muttered under my breath (Run, Dumbass, RUN!) I finished the 500-page tome in about 36 hours.  And now I have to buy the next one, because who doesn't love to watch a trainwreck?  I won't watch Kardashians or Bachelorettes, but I'm going to go Fifty Shades Darker.  Damn it.  I hate myself a little bit for it, but really, there had better be some big Woman Power in this one or I'm burning my bondage cuffs.

Last One in Single Digits

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

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

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

1.  THE DRIVING SCHEDULE

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

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

2.  FOREGOING DIET COKE

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

3.  TODAY IS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY

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

4.  I'M TURNING 43 NEXT WEEK

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

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

And baby I love you.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

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


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


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

Memories.  Like the corners of my mind.

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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




I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

I love food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creeping on Eagles

Welcome to my new obsession:  Eagles.

Alcoa Davenport Works placed an Eagle Cam on their campus a couple of years ago, and they monitor a pair of Bald Eagles who live there year-round.  Last year two eggs hatched, one baby lived.  This year, three eggs have hatched, and all three babies are alive to date.  I don't see any wedding bands or photos in the nest, so I'm fairly certain these eagles are not married, so while they are ruining the sanctity of marriage, they seem to be doing okay with the kids so far.

I've been creeping on this eagle family for the last four days, and I'm completely obsessed.  I pull them up first thing in the morning and sporadically during the day.  My boss would've been appalled at how much I checked in on the eagles on Friday at work.  He knows I do it because he walked past my desk once and it was up, and he said, "Eagles!  Has the third egg hatched yet?" so who knows, maybe he is spending his day stalking eagles too.

Would you like to stalk eagles 24/7?  Click HERE.

It's like a little sampling of American life - the parents take turns hunting and taking care of the babies.  The babies fight amongst themselves.  The parents occasionally get irritated with each other, and seem to occasionally get exasperated with the babies.  They snack on a mid-afternoon meal of three-days-old field rat and listen to The Black Keys, just like my family.  It's eerie.

When I tuned in, there were two babies and an egg.  The older baby, whom I refer to as Yellowbeak, or Asshole, was always pushing aside the middle child, whom I call Blackbeak.  I would get so upset everytime little Asshole eagle would push past Blackbeak and take the raw fish or mouse, and I just wanted to pull that kid aside and give him the what for.  He's a big bully, and what does he learn?  Pushing everyone around gets you a gullet full of food.  But I guess he's older so I'm going to cut him some slack.  And?  Blackbeak occasionally acts like he's riding the short bus - as in mom and dad are tearing off chunks of fresh squirrel head and feeding Asshole and Blackbeak is looking in the opposite direction going "Duhr, I wonder where I can get some fresh squirrel?

(DO NOT TELL TODD HOT NUTS EPSTEIN!!  He might start drinking again.)

One time when I watched the eagles, the mom started panting with her beak open.  Like the smartass that I am, I went to Twitter, hashtag #alcoaeaglecam, and said, "Mama Eagle is a Mouth Breather - not the most attractive trait in an eagle in my opinion."  Within about 15 minutes, I had three replies on Twitter:

Oh, you can't see that?  Because in my world of technological genius, I took a screen shot and saved it, but not big enough.  I'm such a social media hot shot, huh?  All three interactions were these serious explanations, like "She is cooling off, much like a dog pants".  After the third one, I was kind of feeling like I needed to explain that it was a joke, so I did a response, which was, "People, I was just kidding about the mouth breathing.  However, I DO think she has sleep apnea."  Then I posted, "Also, undercooked squirrel and fish can expose the kids to harmful bacteria.  Just sayin'."  Funnily enough, none of the Twitter eagle experts got in touch with me again, and I was probably blocked from at least three Twitter accounts.  (If you Tweet, my handle is @juliethewife.)

I'd been waiting for the third egg to hatch and had finally decided it was a dud, and then yesterday Youngest Daughter started yelling that the baby was hatching and we all ran to watch it pop out!  (Oh, did I mention I have the whole family on it, and we essentially keep vigil to see what the eagles are doing?  Yeah, it's now a family problem.  I'm sorry, no time for math homework, we're watching nature online.  Don't even have to get off the couch or put down the Cheetohs!)

All three babies seem to be getting food, everything was going well, today they even had a special treat of two turtles and the empty turtle shells sit in the nest.  I checked on them at 3 p.m., everyone looks good, nest is crowded with three babies, two adults, two dead squirrels, a field rat, two turtle shells and half a fish, and when I check them at 4 p.m. the nest is EMPTY.  COMPLETELY EMPTY.  And I freaked out a little bit.  What do I do when I freak out?  I go to Twitter.

 Seriously.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.  At least there were a number of EagleGeeks out there with me who had the same problem, and seemed to be just as traumatized.  When I checked back a couple of minutes later, everything was back to normal, with the birds and turtle shells just as they were.  If it wasn't for Twitter, I would've thought I was crazy.  But I also wondered if maybe it's time to start distancing myself from the eagles.  If the parents end up going all Darwin on Blackbeak and push him out of the nest, I'll be depressed for days.

Time to pull back on the Eagle Stalking and get back to hooking.  Until the Eagle has Landed.  And then maybe I'll take another peek.

Snow Flight and the Seven Days

We are T-MINUS seven days and counting, and I am getting a grip.

Let me just say for the people who are rolling their eyes and saying, "What is she bitching about?  She's going to Disney!  You could have a cold sore or a bounced check or hammer toes, so SHUT. UP. already!" and I get that.  You are correct.  I could be a victim of hammer toe or some other podiatry nightmare.  But here is the deal - I'm feeling intense pressure to make this THE BEST EFFING DISNEY TRIP EVAH! because it could very well be the only time we go.  There are lots of places I'd like to go other than Disney, and the clock is ticking on Oldest Daughter leaving the nest (T-minus three years, six months on that one), so it's Make-It-Count time!

It's Disney, so it seems deceptively easy from the outside.  But the more I read, the more complex I realize it is.  Planning these trips is not for the weak.  I know this is not news to many of you, but I naively thought last week, "Aw, we should do a Cinderella Royal Palace Lunch!" and then last night I read an article that gave specific instructions on how to make the phone call six months ahead of your desired date at 7 a.m. to Disney and to cut off the Cast Member who finally answers the call and say, "Julie the Wife, Party of 5, 8 a.m."  The part that cracks me up is, "You have time to be polite AFTER your reservation is booked, but right now you are fighting every second with someone who wants YOUR time slot!"  I'm waiting to see the guide that says,

 "You NEED your FastPASS to the Toy Story ride, and that other kid's grandma has two kidneys and she can live on one, so you've GOT TO DO WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO DO!!  CUT! THAT! BITCH!"

So I guess what I'm telling you is that there wasn't a snowcone's chance in hell that I was getting into the Cinderella Organized Mom Lunch, but I did manage to score the second-to-last reservation for the week at the Akershus Royal Banquet Hall dinner at 8 p.m., aka Second Rate Princess Dinner.

I also discovered that with my Disney Rewards Visa I get a private character Meet and Greet with photo, but I'm sort of expecting it to be either Chip or Dale or the dog from Up (which wouldn't be that bad) or Bashful.

This trip is like a game where I'm unlocking different levels the more I play.  I actually got out of bed at 1 a.m. this morning to order a Belle dress on eBay that will be delivered on Friday so I can try to get into the Bibbidy Bobbidy Boutique and not have to go to the $200 costume level.  I'm completely obsessed.

My name is Julie the Wife, and I'm going on my Virgin Trip to Disney.  I'll report back tomorrow after 3 hours of sleep and four Red Bulls.