Workin' For The Weekend

This post is a summary of How I Spent My Summer Weekend.

1. I left work at 5 p.m. Friday to hurry home so we could leave for Northeastern Iowa to stay with my in-laws. Naturally, we hadn't packed anything.  We were picking Oldest Daughter up from music camp at Luther College in Decorah the next day, and this was going to ensure that we were not late for her checkout from the dorm and got to her concert in time, because alas, we are perpetually late. (This one time, at band camp... oh how those words haunt me now. Movies about teenagers are funny until you have a teenager.)

2.  I brought a bottle of wine for my Mother-In-Law.  Since she was making dinner and is an all-around gem, I brought a good wine.

Mmmm.  Buttery deliciousness.  However, I think the gesture was lost when I drank nearly the entire bottle myself.  She already had a white open when I got there, and exercised restraint.  I haven't yet learned those kinds of skills.  I'm sure this is what she was dreaming of when she thought about her future daughter-in-law:  A skanky lush.  Forgot my Priolosec and guppy puked Sauvignon Blanc all night long.

3.  Went to Luther College to pick up Oldest Daughter and see her concert, which was pretty amazing, but I might be biased.  There is something surreal about picking up your oldest child from a college dorm.  I'm so not ready.  She took a movie-making class, and her short film played in the lobby, and then she performed in the senior orchestra.  How I ended up with klassy kids I shall never know.

Can you see her?  She's one of the 12 cellists.

4.  Drove home from Luther with all kids and OD's boyfriend in the van.  Radio played "Sweet Child O' Mine" no less than THREE times.  My family always re-enacts the scene from Stepbrothers when we hear this song (except for the part where CH would berate me) probably scaring the crap out of OD's BF.  If this doesn't drive the suitors away, nothing will.



5.  Spent Sunday doing almost nothing.  Slept in until 11 a.m. (that's right, almost NOON) because there was a sleep-inducing morning thunderstorm, got up to Current Husband's coffee and Mother-in-law's leftover cinnamon rolls, worked on the 1000-piece puzzle I started with the kids, read a little, did a little laundry, cleaned a little, went on a walk, did a little more puzzle with the kids.  Bliss.

Hope you had a great weekend, Wifers.  Here's to doing more of less.

Stick a Flag In It

I'm about to tell someone to stick a flag in it.


I'm the orchestra rep for the Fine Arts Boosters at Oldest Daughter's high school.  Besides the obvious bad choice to represent ANYTHING that has the word "fine" in it (other than Fine Cut Cocaine, Fine Piece of Ass, or Library Fine) the fine people on Fine Arts Boosters have obviously not heard from our elementary school how disorganized I am and moved ahead with their choice anyway.


(NOTE to the 17 Mandatory Reporters who read this blog - I do not, nor have I ever done, cocaine.  I did drink Diet Coke addictively, but quit two months ago. I once had a fine ass, and I have been slapped with library fines, but I don't believe that was since my Nancy Drew days in the 70's.)


As part of the requirement of being a rep on Fine Arts Boosters, one has to be in charge of putting flags up around the Quad Cities for the local Optimist's Club.  I did the flags on Veteran's Day last fall, so I thought, "How hard can it be?"  But I wasn't in charge last fall, I was just a regular volunteer.  If I am in your volunteer/non-profit/service organization, for the love of GOD, do not let me be in charge.  I am a big idea person, not an organization person.  I'm the "let's get a 9 foot Christmas tree!" with 8 foot ceilings and a VW Jetta for transport on December 22.

Somehow I did manage to get volunteers to help.  I did get the Activites Director to give me the keys to the high school cargo van on Friday.  I did contact the Optimist Club guy in charge of flags ahead of time.  I did NOT mapquest the address, and realized that on Sunday evening as Current Husband was driving the cargo van to get 87 flags and said, "Where do I turn?"

Um.  Wherever Tremont crosses 53rd Avenue?  And then to some storage unit north of that?  But step on it, cabby, we need to be there in 10 minutes.

CH looked at me adoringly, and said, "WTF, Julie, you didn't get the address?"  I got the particular storage UNIT, I just didn't get the street address or general vicinity in the Quad Cities, with a metro population of over 300,000.  How far could it be?

After a few panicky phone calls, I located the storage unit.  We got our 87 flags loaded and were given vague instructions and some maps.  We left, parked the van, and went home until the alarm went off at 5 a.m. on Monday, when I hit snooze and groaned, "WHY!?!? One of my precious days off work, WHY DID I VOLUNTEER TO DO THIS!?!"  We woke up entire family and drove to parking lot to act cheerful and enthusiastic when other volunteers showed up.  One bitched at me because I didn't make more than 2 copies of the maps, and said that he would've had everyone at the school at 5 to leave at 5:30.  I smiled and said, "Next time you are SO in charge of this, I will happily be your minion!"  I don't offer up minionship lightly, but what the hell?  You get what you pay for, dude.  Isn't this about being an AMERICAN?

We gave everyone a sugar donut and some methamphetamene and left.  It's actually a little bit fun to be out at dawn, sneaking into people's yards, and instead of rolls of unspooled toilet paper, we're leaving flags.  Surprise!  You're patriotic!  They paid for it, so not that surprising, but I like to tell myself it's a random act of flagging.  And really, the American flag is pretty kick-ass, and it's awesome to see them lined up along the streets.  It felt like a good deed.  God Bless America, indeed.

 Oldest Daughter, patriotically vadalizing people.

Then, at 6 p.m., just before we were set to go back out and collect the flags, the sirens went off for a thunderstorm warning.  Shit on a Wheat Thin.  The rules on this were not specific.  If it is raining, do we collect flags?  I saw lightening - technically, I think we are liable if someone is tragically electrocuted while volunteering for me.  Call off the volunteers!

Wait.  Thunderstorm has passed over.  Warning has been lifted, it was only rain.  Call back the volunteers!  We head out on the town, and collect the flags, even though they are a little wet.  Damp, really.  And they're made of nylon, how bad can it be?  Well, bad enough that after an hour of picking up and rolling flags, the Optimists reject us at the Home Base storage unit.  REJECTED!  A real Optimist would think, "I'm sure these flags will dry!" We had to drive the school cargo van with our 87 damp flags back to the school.

For those playing along at home: 
87 damp flags don't dry in a closed van over 24 hours.

I called Rod the Optimist.  He made it VERY clear on the phone that if the flags are not 100% dry, they will not take them back.  Well THAT'S not very optimistic.  I said, "Okay, thanks!" politely on the phone, hung up, and thought, "Where the fuck do you think I'm going to unfurl 87 flags to dry, ROD?  I have a job!  Memorial Day is OVER!  The school wants their cargo van back!"

CH and I drove to the school and checked the flags at 5 p.m. tonight.  Nope.  Not dry.  This is where things really went south, because CH and I were on different paths here.  I was on my normal, passive aggressive "we are in charge, so we have to get the flags dry, I don't like it either" and CH was all "Optimists run the program, this is their problem, they should be clearer on their take-down instructions in bad weather."  We explain our differing positions in tense, adult voices.  We stare at each other in silence.  I open the cargo van and start taking flags out to line up along the high school tennis court fences.  CH stares at me and starts muttering about how this is so much bullshit, his volunteer shift ended 24 hours earlier.  I respond in an intelligent and mature way - I cry.  I'm not a big crier, so CH was kind of stunned.  He's not exactly sure what to do with me in that state, so he got very quiet and helped.  I should definitely cry more often.

The Son, as our family unfurled, dried, and re-furled 87 flags tonight.

Because who likes personal time?  Not us!

I'm now taking some personal time off work at lunch tomorrow so I can return the flags to the Optimists, and return the school cargo van before they call the police.  But the next time someone wants me to volunteer this summer?

They can stick a flag in it.

DISCLAIMER:  This blog in no way demeans the American flag or the raising or care of said flag.  This blog does not condone the use of cocaine or methamphetamine, or crying as an act of manipulation.  This blog does not encourage anyone to TP yards or steal the high school cargo van.  This blog does not imply that drinking an extremely large margarita on the rocks with salt is an appropriate way to end a school volunteer event, nor to start the next morning.  This blog does not promote the use of expired milk, and lists 'fisting' as a soft limit.

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! 

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.

T Minus 3 and Counting

First of all, thanks for your Estro-mail, it actually worked!  Who-hoo!

Tour Guide Mike just sent an e-mail to me, actually begging me to pack.  Which is funny, because I haven't started.  Let me give you the schedule from now until our flight leaves:

Saturday -
9 a.m. - Blogging when I should be packing.  Coffee tastes bad.  Pissed.
9:30 a.m. - Taking Oldest Daughter to mall for V Day boyfriend gift.  His mom nixed a hermit crab, so we're back to square one.  And really, what is her problem?  Why can't a teenage girl give her boyfriend crabs? 
10:00 a.m.  Stopping by Target to pick up my copy of vampire porn Breaking Dawn.
11:30 a.m. - Pick up younger kids from their sleepovers
12:00 - Take The Son to his basketball game.  Watch said game.  Embarrass myself and others.
2:00 - Practice finale dance for the elementary school Variety Show of which I'm in charge.  Note that I have no rhythym and cannot dance.
3:00 - Iowa State plays basketball and all other things cease.
6:00 - Friend coming over to watch vampire porn Breaking Dawn, because we took our teens to it in the theater and couldn't really get into it because our teenage daughters were watching Edward getting it on, and it was a little awkward.  Tonight it's all us, baby.
10:00ish - Friend possibly leaves, but now I've been drinking. 
TIME TO PACK!  Put underwear and socks and bathing suits in bag, take Aleve, go to bed.

Sunday
Noon - 4 p.m.  Rehearsals for the elementary school Variety Show
5:00 p.m.  OD's boyfriend coming over for dinner, actually cooking this time
7:00 p.m. - Leave dirty dishes on counter so I can pack.  Yell at people about dishes.
8:00 p.m.  Begin tucking kids in, they start telling me about makeup tests and things they will have to do tomorrow.  Help them cram for makeup tests.
10:00 p.m. - Make extensive To-Do list that I will promptly lose.

Monday
6:30 a.m.  Wake up, drive middle schoolers to school, go to work all day.
5:00 p.m.  Take kids to string lessons.
6:00 p.m.  Pedicure (this may not seem like a necessity, but trust me, it is)
7:00 p.m.  Take kids to piano lessons.
9:00 p.m.  Begin panicking and weeping about how unprepared I am for trip.  Stay up into the a.m. hours muttering to myself like a crazy person while everyone else sleeps soundly.

Tuesday
9:00 a.m.  Get dog issues settled
10:00 a.m. FREAK OUT COMPLETELY
11:00 a.m.  Leave for airport
1 p.m.  Begin apologies

This is likely EXACTLY how this is going to play out.  But admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, no?

Have a great weekend!  Come and pack for me!  Or better yet, come over to watch Breaking Dawn and eat guac and chips and margaritas.  I won't be packing anyway.

Disney 2: Crime and Punishment

You people are cracking me up!  I've had so many contacts from people via e-mail and such to help me out of my Disney hell that I am writing Part 2 today instead of Sunday so I don't stress anyone out.  This is long.  Almost as long as the articles on the Tour Guide Mike site that I am not mature enough to navigate.

First, let me say, IT ENDS WELL.  So far, anyway.

Here is where we left off - Walt Disney had me addicted to sleeping pills:

Mr. Disney, that Parisian-looking sailor shirt is tres chic. 

Will you plan my vacation to your small country in Florida?

So at that point I was staying off-property and trying to hit about seven major parks in approximately 96 hours with about $3000 of tickets.  This is when the drinking began. 
Per my friend Tricia's suggestion, I signed up for TourGuideMike.com, which is a good resource despite needing to read the equivalent of three volumes of War and Peace.  TG Mike convinced me that we need to stay on-property because our experience will probably be better.  CH and I don't either one respond to stress well, and we tend to get all bitchy with transportation in cities larger than 100,000, so this seemed like a good plan.

We had a family meeting and asked the kids where they really want to go.  After a unanimous vote, we decided to forego Sea World and Universal this time and just do Disney.  After hours of searching, CH and I finally agreed on a place to stay.  I tend to be more hotel-ish, where CH leans more toward the side of Survivalist Camp.  I gave a little more ground and agreed to do the cabins at Fort Wilderness, mostly because they promised smores and campfire songs around a big bonfire at night and we could have a separate bedroom from the kids in the cabin.  The other big bonuses were No Rental Car, No Driving, Shuttle from the Airport, and Park Tickets in the package.  Yay for decisions!

I got a Disney Rewards Visa last fall so I could get the $200 gift card and the member perks when you visit the Big D.  We purposely keep our limits low and avoid using credit because CH listens to Dave Ramsey, which honestly makes my life a little hellish at times with his whole reasonable "Stay out of any debt at all costs" mentality.  I looked up the account online so I could see how much money I needed to transfer to the card to make room for the big Fort Wilderness purchase, and guess what I found?  Someone stole our account number and had charged thousands of dollars in cosmetics on it!!!  Du Bastardo!  I had to call Chase and send them a picture so they could see that I am clearly not using cosmetics, and they apologized for my lack of foundation know-how and suggested a brow shaping, and cancelled the account.  This was on Wednesday.  I had to wait until Monday to get the new account number to book the trip.

It's Monday!  Yay!  I transferred enough money to get me a lifetime of brow shaping to the card and pulled up my "Saved Vacations" on the Disney website.  It was with glee that I hit "BOOK THIS TRIP", until the pop-up screen said,

"We're Sorry!  This Resort is Booked!  Can we suggest an alternative reservation at Animal Kingdom Lodge for only $75000?"

But....but....I MADE A DECISION.  Do you Cast Members know how HARD it is for me to make a decision?  Now what am I going to do?  What?  Spend the next four hours of work time trying to untangle my personal vacation and credit card mess?  Okay, if I must.

I call the Mothership and get a Cast Member, who cheerfully butchers her own name so I can't understand it, and asks how she can help me.  I tell her how our credit card number was stolen so I had to wait and get a new card and now my cabin is gone as my sacrifice to someone else's beauty.  She gets some information, and after a few minutes, she tells me that while Fort Wilderness is in the Value Resort category, she has something that has become availabe in the Beach Club Resort, which is two steps up in the Deluxe Resort category, and we can have a Garden View room!  Yay!  With two quick service dining plans a day, and tickets to the parks, and the shuttle and the awesome pool, and hey, it's even a little bit less than the Survivalist Camp! 

"Here is my Disney Rewards Visa number, SHOIEFHHW, let's do this!"  So she runs it and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, your card declined." and I say, "Well, WNNELEND, I don't see how because I just transferred my daughter's first semester of college on that card," and she said, "I understand.  We do need full payment today because your trip is happening in less than three weeks.  Let me talk to my supervisor."  So she talks and comes back and says, "We will use your $200 gift card to hold the reservation until 10 p.m. tonight, but then we'll have to release it because we just can't hold these."  And I said, "But FDJNEU:S, if it hasn't posted then it will post at midnight" and she said "Why don't you call Disney Rewards Visa and then call us back?" and I said, "Well why not?  My boss LOVES paying me to talk to Disney!"  PLEASE NOTE:  I didn't say ANY of those snarky things, because truly, the Disney phone Cast Members are really really nice and helpful and always sound suspiciously cheerful.  I swear they have a Margaritaville machine at every customer service phone cubicle.

I call Disney Rewards and tell them the whole story about how the credit card was stolen for someone else's beautification while I look like I have sleep apnea and low iron, and how I lost Fort Wilderness and then miracle of miracles I found Beach Club and now it is slipping from my grasp because of the slowness of this transfer.  The very nice person on the line said that because of the size of my transfer it takes two business days instead of one, and that I could call back tomorrow and they would put me on hold while they call my bank and verify that we have the funds and then call Disney back.  She then said, "Trust me, they want you on the property, I doubt they'll cancel the reservation."  Which was nice and all, but my luck so far wasn't that great.  I called Disney back and spoke with my third representative, also unreasonably happy, and she audibly cringed and then grinned and said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens tomorrow!  If the reservation cancels tonight at 10 when we close we'll just re-book you tomorrow."

Really?  REALLY, UNIVERSE?
Can you work with me on this one?

And guess what? It did!  The card cleared, the trip booked, someone is wearing fantastic cosmetics in a club somewhere, and all is well.  The kids are excited, and the only thing left to go terribly wrong is a huge ice storm in the Midwest on the day we leave and our flight is somehow cancelled or massively delayed.  And with my air travel luck, that may just happen.

Until then, I am going to believe in Magic.  And read articles on Tour Guide Mike.

How Walt Disney Got Me Hooked On Sleeping Pills

Well, it’s booked. We’re making our pilgrimage to the Mecca of America, Disney World. And let me tell you, it has nearly killed me from the stress.

Let me preface this by saying that I am admittedly one of the more disorganized people I know. I lose things. I skim over the small print. I have trouble staying focused on the goal. Worst of all, I am a Master Procrastinator. These may be okay qualities to have for a creative type – big ideas, quirky and off-the-beaten path presentations, etc – but these are NOT good qualities in a Disney trip planner.

TIMELINE:  How I planned my trip to Disney

• 1996 - I got pregnant and thought, “Hey, we should take this kid to Disney someday.”
• 2002 – I got pregnant for the third time and thought, “Jesus, I will NOT lug three small kids to Disney.”
• 2008 – Youngest Daughter started kindergarten and I thought, “Maybe we should think about Disney.”
• 2009 – Ordered Disney trip planning DVD. It arrived. I stuck it in a drawer with report cards and kid art.
• 2010 – Put house on market, got full time job, small life implosion not conducive to Princesses.
• October 2011 – Bit the bullet in October and booked plane tickets to Orlando for Valentine’s Day.
• November 2011 – Had sister book hotel rooms off property, as she could get me a Family Rate.
• December 2011 – Had kids open Christmas gift saying, “Yay, we’re going to Disney!” Didn’t quite get the screaming/tears/hysteria we were hoping for – it was more of a “Huh. You finally did it. Great.” Those damned Disney commercials that I’ve been tearing up watching for the last year as the kids freak out just created unrealistic expectations in my own children.
• January 2012 – Five weeks to departure – The Delusion is broken.

I start thinking maybe I should look at the cost of park tickets. We don’t get to Orlando until about 6 p.m. on Tuesday, and leave first thing on Sunday, so we really have four full days in town. We only want to hit Magic Kingdom one day and maybe another Disney park, but the kids will want to go to Harry Potter Land at Universal, and Current Husband wants to go to Sea World. We should be able to do that in four days, right? The cost of tickets for a family of five on that multi-park plan is about $3000. I REPEAT, JUST THE TICKETS TO THE PARKS COSTS THREE EXTRA LARGE.

But hey, we’re making that up in the room, right? Because they are so cheap! But we do have to rent a car while we’re there, because Disney has it rigged that you can’t get transportation to Disney from anyone but them. And then there are meals. And parking. I decide to look around the website a little bit.

OH DEAR GOD. I’VE FAILED. I’VE FAILED AT THE ONE THING MOMS SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO.

CONFESSION: 

My name is Julie the Wife,

and I’m Disney Challenged.

I go to Facebook to complain and whine that I don’t know what the hell I’m Disney Doing, and a friend suggests I go to http://www.tourguidemike.com/. I do it, I buy the plan, and then I wait while they send my results. I can see that what they have is extremely helpful, to people other than me, but apparently now besides the Disney website to read, I have about 500 articles on the Tour Guide Mike site, all with secret codes and special instructions. What is my dining plan? What is my transportation plan? What is my Character Meet and Greet plan? What rides am I going to personally want to be on, and what time of day will I need to get in line? As I said, I know Tour Guide Mike is awesome for people who know how to point and shoot these weapons, but I can’t tell you what we are eating for dinner tomorrow night or where my black t-shirt is, so we’re both going to need a crystal ball for those decisions.

I said on Facebook that planning your first Disney trip is like having sex for the first time: Confusing, scary, and possibly overrated, but everyone expects you to do it. I’m starting to think I’ll use the same coping strategy this time – Close my eyes, brace for the unknown, and when people there ask me what I think, I’ll smile and say I came.

End of Part I. Stay tuned for Part II of the Disney Adventure, Crime and Punishment Version.

The End of the Road

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.

Wrapping up the Hooker Trip

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

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'

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!

Day 24: Meet The Boss, Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 20: Quantity Over Quality

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

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

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

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

Have a great day, Wifers!

I'm Addicted to Support Undergarments

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

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

(wifers) "Hi Julie."

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

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

Oh Hell No. 

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

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

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

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

Here is that t-shirt:

Don't I look like someone just told me

 I need to clean the bathrooms at the hotel?

Have a Happy Friday, Wifers!

Day 6 - Return of The Son

Today was the day The Son returned from camp.  How did Current Husband and I celebrate?  We didn't get up in time, ran out the door late for our hour-and-a-half drive (of course stopped at Starbucks for a quick coffee though - admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery), and when we arrived at camp, the program was over and there were only about three other cars left in the lot.  Oy.


I did my usual crying and lamenting the fact that we are late for everything, with a nice little side of hysteria, and CH had to talk me off the ledge before we arrived so The Son was not only irritated with our lateness but terrified at Mommy losing her shit.  Poor CH.  This is his lot in life.  If I wasn't so damn monogamous I'd reward him with a girlfriend who puts out more and agrees with everything he says.


It was great to get The Son - you don't realize how big a gap they leave behind when they're gone until they come back.  Suddenly the car was full of these two boys, voices hoarse, covered in grime, laughing and talking about their adventures, and I just looked at them and their pure joy.  The Son's Friend (TSF) is like a son to us, and they are like big St. Bernard puppies when together.  They run run run run and play play play and eat eat eat and then collapse and sleep.  It's incredibly sweet.

So they're talking about camp, which is a weeklong resident camp, and this is their fourth year going together.  Here is a recap:

• The food, while improved from past years, was not good.  The Chinese food was "poop on a platter", and the boys were constantly hungry, calling the camp meals "Minus Food".
• Speaking of poop, the boys reported that someone pooped on the floor in the bathroom.
• They did not climb The Tower, as they deemed it "too dangerous".
• At the End of Camp Dance, they both were rejected by girls.  The Son was asked to dance the next dance by his rejector, but TSF had a friend ask a girl if she thought he was cute, and she said "No".  TSF kind of chuckled and said, "So...how's your day going?"  You had to hear him say it, it was the funniest thing.
• TSF got poison ivy, and he had to ride his horse bareback one day and he said that it "hurt his stuff".
• Both boys are eager to go back next year and plan on being counselors at camp in a few years.

A re-enactment of what it was like to eat camp food.

On another note, CH tried on a hat at a Casey's store when I stopped for fountain pop on the way home, and asked "Should I get it?"  I took one look at him and said, "Absolutely."  Because he looks like Carl Spackler, played by Bill Murray, in Caddyshack.

"And I said, 'Say Llama?  How's about a little somethin' for the effort?'"

I said I'd post photos of my space, but that will wait until tomorrow. Good night, Wifers!