CH-CH-CH-CH-Changes.

Hello all! Hope your June has started off well and you are groovin' to your summer playlists. I have personally been listening to my Black Keys playlist quite a bit, and one I call Kickin' Chicks that has Paramore and Florence and the Machine and the Ting Tings on it.  Good gardening music, but I get caught shaking my moneymaker while planting and Oldest Daughter gets upset.  "Keep it in the back yard!" she stage whispers out of the windows.

I'm a big ideas girl, but can occasionally be a little low on action.  I've been meaning to write a book since 1999, but I've been having a problem stopping partying like it's 1999 and party time cuts into book time.  But now?  I've got a lion in my pocket, and baby he's ready to roar.  See?

SO.  If I go public with my commitment, it means that I will be shamed if I don't fulfill it, no?  Here are the ch-ch-ch-ch-changes coming around Wiferville this summer:

1.  I'm moving my blog to Wordpress by next weekend.  I'll make an announcement on Facebook and here when I'm ready to roll, and this page will be here but it will direct people to go to http://www.adayinthewife.com/, minus the "blogspot" in the name, and it will now carry you to the Word Press site.  I'm told Word Press is easier to use and easier to leave comments, so now all of you who e-mail and tell me you can't comment because Blogger is an asshole can party with the tribe.  Like it's 1999.

2.  I'm getting in my Little Red Corvette, and taking two classes at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, held at the U of Iowa at their Writer's Workshop facilities.  I've taken classes off and on there over the past 5 years, and it's very motivational and gets you in your writer head.  Hopefully I use the time to write and not to drink with the other well-intentioned writers there.

3.  I'm having a Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein Squirrel Blog-Up Party in Minneapolis, possibly the weekend before the 4th of July.  Getting deets together.  I will be making Todd t-shirts to pre-order.  I'm not sure how this factors into me writing a book, but I tell Current Husband that the dead squirrel is a marketing tool, so I need to occasionally trot him out so Todd doesn't end up in a garage sale against my will.  Alongside a Raspberry Beret.  The kind you find in a secondhand store. (Did you realize the actress Kristin Thomas is the girl in that video?)

4.  I'm going to ACTUALLY WRITE.  It's weird, but most publishers don't really let you call yourself an author until you have authored.  What a bunch of dicks they are.  They are what it sounds like, When Doves Cry.

SO.  I've said it.  OUT LOUD. (Hey Twi-hards, did you read that and hear Robert Pattinson saying it in your head?  Only 5 months until BD2!)  Now it's time to come through.  I guess as long as I'm shaming myself, I'll throw in another:

5.  Lose 10 pounds through exercise and diet and not through Benadyl and Merlot.

If any of you would like to Declare Yourselves and make some goals, I will have a Comment Coming Out Party when the Word Press blog is launched, and let's make a Summer of Success Partner Commitment Coming Out Party!  Yeah, that's right. 

I'm going to marry all of you.
It's legal in Iowa.

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

Day 7 - Completion of the Studio

G'Day Wifers!

First off, let's get one thing straight.  I understand that my "studio" is actually a glorified cinder block room in the basement no one else wanted.  I get that.  But in my carefully constructed fantasy world, this is my studio.  It is where I do my little mosaic thingies, and my bad sewing and writing, and where I hide to drink when everyone upstairs is fighting.  The Bloggess and The Edge and The Black Keys are all down here waiting with some peanut M&M's and a case of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for me to show up and party.  All groups or individuals with "The" in front of their name are welcome to pretend party with The Wife, who will be disappointingly unable to drink more than 2 beers without needing to take a Prilosec and go to bed.  But in my head?  Twenty-two and stone cold fox.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, the pretend studio.  I'm a little proud of my little room I carved out on a little budget.  It is truly The Little Studio That Could.  Here is a picture of the dark, spider-infested room when I started putting a claim on it a few months ago:

I had already painted the walls with Dry-Loc, which if you've ever painted with that stuff you know it's like painting with sand.  That is icky old tile on the floor, and I've started painting the walls green.  Here is more ugliness:

All of this activity drove George the Superpet nuts, or as we like to call him around the house, Curious George.

He kept coming downstairs to check on me, and would often lie down in the middle of what I was doing, like, "You aren't doing one more thing until you tell me what the hell is going on."

I painted the walls and ordered some fun vinyl flooring, got a work table in, some shelving, and five strands of mismatched white party lights, and voila!  My fort is complete:

The lights are my favorite part.  It looks dark in this picture, but they actually light up the whole room.  One strand I bought at a kick ass shop outside of Kalona, Iowa, called Sister's Garden, if you can get there, by all means DO IT, but they are tiny white lights with these beautiful fabric flowers taped to them so the flowers glow.  So pretty!

Blogger won't let me put any more pictures in this post, so I will post more pictures in a second post tonight.  Scroll down and read the next post, which is actually the second post tonight.  I'm like an effing magician.

Call of the Sirens

Current Husband always seems to know when to get the hell out of Dodge.

Growing up in Nebraska, I loved tornadoes.  My parents, being the responsible people they were in the mid-70's, would have people over, light candles and cigarettes, crack open the booze, and have a party.  We'd all stand outside, or right in front of the eight huge plate-glass windows in my house that looked over the lake, and watch the storm roll in.  Yay!  Fun!

I had Oldest Daughter in 1997, and my first tornado warning came when she was about three months old.  Instead of the rush of adrenaline I usually felt, I was shocked to feel abject terror.  "WHERE IS THE DIAPER BAG? WHERE IS THE BLANKET? WHERE IS THE CAR SEAT?  WHERE IS THE DOG?  WHERE IS OUR WILL?  WHERE IS THE BABY!?!?"  I sat huddled in the corner of our basement, surrounded by water bottles, flashlights, baby supplies, and the phone, lying over the top of the baby strapped in the car seat, praying to the Jesus of my youth.  CH?  He was at work.  He didn't even know there was a tornado warning.  No Yay.  No Fun.  I'm sure I probably yelled at him later, because clearly he should have driven home in a Tornado Warning so we could all die together.  I wasn't exactly lucid back then.

Fast forward to yesterday.  Current Husband has a trip to Chicago planned, so he leaves.  He calls around 4 p.m. to say that the weather is looking rough in our area, so keep an eye on The Weather Channel.  Okay, sure, Thanks Junior Meteorologist.  Sure enough, around 6 p.m. our tornado sirens go off.

I INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO
BITCH ABOUT OUR SIREN SYSTEM
In the past year or so, the Quad Cities has changed their warning system so that the sirens go off when there is a Thunderstorm Warning AND a Tornado Warning.  Let me tell you how Quad Citians have reacted to this change - they now ignore the siren.  When we moved here five or six years ago, if that siren went off, it not only blared, but there was a Hitler-like voice that yelled with it, no shit, that said something along the lines of, "This is a Tornado Warning.  Take shelter immediately!" AND YOU DID IT.  It might as well have yelled "SCHNELL!  SCHNELL!  ACHTUNG SIE BITTEN!" because you knew something wicked this way comes.  Now?  You hear the siren and think, "When I finish this chapter I'll get up and make sure it isn't a Tornado Warning."  It's the equivalent of crying wolf.  It's a Storm Warning System Fail.  The end.

BACK TO PRESENT DAY...actually, yesterday...
So I round up the kids, a comforter, my laptop, my purse, and the dog, and head downstairs.  Why my purse?  Because it has my cell phone, my cash, my ID, my credit and debit cards, my car keys, my reading glasses, Tums, Zyrtec, cough drops, Aleve, my Von Maur card...all of the things one needs in an emergency.  I get the kids and George the Superpet in what seems to be a safe room, and open my laptop so I can be a stormtracker on weather.com, but of course, pictures of Joplin, Missouri pop up on the screen, and my kids FREAK. OUT.  I explain that is not a picture of our weather here, and then try and talk them off the ledge.

I turn on our flashlight/weather radio, and the National Weather Service is announcing where the wall cloud/funnel has been spotted, and what do you know? THE TORNADO IS CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.  Or it might as well be.  Now I'm a little nervous.  CH starts literally phoning it in.  He is texting, "how are you guys?" and "hang in there" and "it's almost over", which in some ways is really sweet and in some ways I'm thinking, "If you are texting from Dick's Last Resort on Navy Pier with a bucket of Bud Light I will kill you."

George the Superpet finds this an appropriate time to start dog-farting, which quickly earns him a spot Outside of The Comforter.  I don't need a Dutch Oven from my dog in times of crisis.  Youngest Daughter decides this would be an appropriate time to develop restless leg syndrome, and The Son thinks maybe he should lie down and listen to Eminem on his iPod - "Lose yourself in the moment, you own it, you better never let it go...."  Oldest Daughter can't wait to bust out of the Panic Room, and she is rolling her eyes so much I wonder if she is having a seizure.  Nope.  Still just a teenager.  False alarm.

After 45 minutes of this Quality Time, the sirens stop and we emerge unscathed.  Youngest Daughter begs to sleep with me in CH's spot, and I acquiese, because it will be nice to have someone there, but at 2 a.m., after four hours of nonstop kicking, I cry uncle and move her to her bed.  I go to work this morning on under 5 hours of sleep, and had to do a cello lesson run and a baseball game tonight.  I was Really. Really. Tired.

How do they end up sideways?  This was taken at midnight,

so CH could see what he was missing.

At the baseball game, it's the top of the 6th and our team is losing, and the opposing team's coach has his undies in a bunch for some reason and is complaining to the umpire, and I take a look around.  It's a lovely spring night.  The park is green and there are beautiful tall trees all around us.  There are kids playing ball on three fields I can see, and I watch people walking their dogs to the nearby dog park. 

And then I think of the people in Joplin, Missouri, and my heart breaks.

Their night is nothing like mine.  Those horrible pictures of the neighborhoods and hospital all smashed, the trees all torn up and stripped of bark, the cars tossed all over and flattened, the death toll.  My husband texted that he loved us, and I am so grateful that we are okay and able to tell him we love him back in person when he returns.  We can bicker about petty calls in baseball, and drive back to our homes when the game is over and know where we will sleep tonight.  So I made a donation to The American Red Cross, who show up in domestic times of disaster, are able to mobilize quickly, get people in touch with their loved ones, and get them immediate shelter.  Here is information from their website, at http://www.redcross.org/:

The Red Cross depends on financial donations to help in times of disaster. Those who want to help people affected by disasters like tornadoes, floods and wildfires, as well as countless crises at home and around the world, can make a donation to support American Red Cross Disaster Relief. This gift enables the Red Cross to prepare for and provide shelter, food, emotional support and other assistance in response to disasters. Visit www.redcross.org or call 1-800-RED-CROSS; people can also text the word “REDCROSS” to 90999 to make a $10 donation. Contributions may also be sent to local American Red Cross chapters or to the American Red Cross, P.O. Box 37243, Washington, DC 20013.

Texting the $10 donation was easy easy easy.  I should do it again and again until CH speeds back to wrest the phone from my charitable hand.  But he isn't here now, is he?  If everyone would just do that easy $10 text one time?  A big big difference, not just for good old Mizzou, but for the recent disasters across the South as well. 

Have a good week, Wifers, and in the words of Edward Cullen, "Be Safe".

I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

Sweet Baby Jesus.


Since December 22, I have only worked three days.  The last 12 days have been some of the best I can remember in a long while, and most of that has to do with food.  I mean family.  Yes, family.  Family and mealtimes.  And Jesus.  Because he is the reason for the seasoning.


On the first day of Christmas, my winerack gave to me
A wineglass of cold chablis.

On the second day of Christmsas, my kitchen gave to me
A pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Thank you, Italy.

On the third day of Christmas, Starbucks gave to me
Three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Am loving the polka dot mug.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my microwave gave to me
Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Bless you, inventor of microwave bacon.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my minivan gave to me
Five donut rings....Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Seriously, once you've had Donuts & More,

you'll never go back.  I can't.  I won't.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my oven gave to me

Six kisses cookies baking, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

  

Which I had to check to make sure they weren't poisonous.

That's just good parenting, people.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my fridge gave to me
Seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings!  Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

The dessert drink of champions.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my bathroom gave to me

Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Oh Dear Lord.  I am SO sorry about the gluttony. 

Really, I am.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my living room gave to me
Nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If you get the children Just Dance 2,

be prepared to get your Outkast on.

Having no rhythm is not an acceptable excuse.

 On the tenth day of Christmas, my dining room gave to me

1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

What Dementors or gangsta rappers do over the holidays.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my bedroom gave to me
Eleven hours of sleeping, 1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If I had this bed, I would sleep 12 hours next time.

(Thank you for the image, Sunnyspot.)



On the twelfth day of Christmas, my closet gave to me -

The bad news that I am going back to a size 12 because I ate my way through the end of 2010.  Tonight I made steak and potatoes and asparagus for dinner, and tomorrow it's back on the Medifast until I can put my skinny jeans back on.  But it was such a delicious holiday, and honestly, I wouldn't change a thing about it.  Not one cookie would go back on the plate, no Blue Moons back in the fridge, no Thai Basil Noodles (or the homemade Spicy Thai Noodles!) left uneaten.  So before I go back on the soy wagon tomorrow?

One more wineglass of cold chablis.

Happy New Year!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 51

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


Today's topic: Who's Your Daddy?

And now, from the ADITW Christmas Carol Chorus - can I have the first two bars of "O Holy Night?"  Can I get a witness?

"Oh Holy Shit,

I'm not done with my shopping

It is the eve of the last day of school.

Long lay in bed, CH is watching Burn Notice

Til I appeared and he tried to look busy

A thrill of hope, a weary wife rejoices

Until she looks at the laundry on the floor

Not on my knees, oh hear the children's voices

you're alone tonight, so do the dishes

Oh night divine, the mall is open."

I am still not effing done with shopping.  Tonight I baked oatmeal raisin cookies and almond bark peanut butter Ritz cracker sandwiches, and made some homemade chicken noodle soup to give to people at work I need to gift.  Next week, teacher cinnamon rolls.  I will admit, I almost bailed on WF again this week, but then I remembered I did it last week and felt like a huge slacker.

So I'm in Walgreen's last week picking up a prescription for Youngest Daughter's semi-annual ear infection, and I'm thinking about what to buy for Current Husband.  I mean, he has ME, so what else could he possibly want?  He is one lucky bastard, CH.  So I'm waiting for the prescription, and I glance over at the shelves by the pharmacy and see this:

OMG.  It's perfect.

And at $29.99 it's in my price range.

I can already picture CH on Christmas morning.  He has his second cinnamon roll and his cup of coffee, and the kids are opening their gifts, and they say, "Daddy!  It's your turn!"  I turn and look at him all lovingly while he tears the paper off of his own personal paternity test.  It's the gift that says, "I want all of your questions answered.  You can finally trust me."


The kids look at the box, and then they'll look up in confusion.  "What's this?" they ask.  I say, "Well kids, even though you don't look like Daddy, this is a way we can all be sure he will support you for the rest of your underage lives."  I could really get my $29.99 worth if I had him open it at the Christmas exchange at his mother's house. 


Sweet Baby Jesus, it's tempting.


For those of you who are interested in, but unfamiliar with, a paternity test, here is the box information:


Paternity impacts many important life decisions and can affect a child's financial welfare and parental custody. More importantly, paternity knowledge provides peace of mind. Our laboratory follows rigid scientific protocol and routinely provides results probabilities greater than 99.9%.

•Committed to your privacy - information is kept strictly confidential
•DNA test results reported to you in 3-5 days
Purchasers of this kit qualify for a discounted price of $319 for a legal purpose DNA test (proof of purchase required).
How it works: Using the enclosed cheek swabs, rub the inside of the cheek to collect specimens. Place the child's swabs and the possible father's swabs into the separate specimen envelopes provided. Send payment, swabs, and order form to IDENTIGENE using the enclosed postage-paid envelope. Obtain results in 3-5 business days after samples arrive at the laboratory. Results available via mail or online at www.DNAtesting.com. *Additional $119.00 laboratory fee required. When DNA testing is performed for legal purposes, specimen collection and handling must be performed by a disinterested third party. .
© 2009 Identigene, LLC


Hold the phone, Identigene.  Do you mean to tell me that I have to pay a whole $119, plus postage, to find out the real identity of the father?  WTF!?!  I thought we had this down for the price of a week's worth of Big Mac Value Meals!  Now you're cutting into my drinking budget, and that's not cool.  Plus?  I want my third party INTERESTED.  For $119 I want my Aunt Nancy running the test at the lab.  Some disinterested person might mess it up.


So I guess we'll just move on with our lives knowing CH is the father, but it really sucks away all of my fun.  I guess I'll have to go with something a little cheaper, and it's a gift CH and I can share all year 'round:

Thank you, Walgreens. 

These, Boone's Farm and

 a Snuggie are what

 I call a Date Night.

Are you in, Baby Daddy?

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

All Done With Christmas Shopping

OMG, I am totally done with Christmas shopping!!


I've managed to fill about 80% of the wish lists of each of my biological children (can't get everything in life, kids, I don't want to set you up with unrealistic expectations) and I'm done with Current Husband. (So. Done.) I've even purchased a couple of gifts for myself and told CH where to find them. I'm sure I will probably be wrapping my copy of the Grant Wood biography and slippers.


It feels great to be done early for a change. I felt so happy about it that I made cookies last night. The peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses in them and some butterscotch-chocolate chip cookies. The kids all had homemade cookies in their lunches today. It's like I'm June Effing Cleaver, and ....wait. School. TEACHERS. I haven't purchased my teacher gifts.


I am done with Christmas shopping
except for teacher gifts.

That's not so bad. I always make our teachers cinnamon rolls and get them a gift card. I can handle that. So there are the classroom teachers, and I like to get something for the secretaries and the maintenance guy because they are awesome. Crap. Those aren't our only teachers. I still need to get something for the piano teacher, the cello instructor, the dance teachers and the basketball coach.


I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors and basketball coach.

They can all get the same thing, right? That just sounds like it's a bunch of gift cards, it's not like it's my mother or any...SHIT! My MOM!  I haven't bought my parents anything, and they are driving 24 hours from Texas to see us on the 23rd and 24th.


I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors, basketball coach, and my parents.

Oh crap, CH has parents too! And there are four of them! (It takes a lot of people to come up with someone as spectacular as CH. Merry Christmas honey, you're stocking's been stuffed.) And then there are siblings! CH has a sister, half brother, half sister, and three step siblings, and I have a sister as well. OH HELL, my sister's birthday is on the 22nd, and she just had surgery, and I still haven't even sent her a Get Well card.  And there are the friends I do actual exchanges with, and the newspaper carrier and the mailman and the garbage guys, and I should really bring something in to my new co-workers whom I like so much...

OMG, I am totally behind on Christmas shopping.


I know Jesus is the reason for the season.  Do you hear what I hear, Jesus?  Props.  To you.  Now how's about you pull a little Christmas miracle for me?  Yes, again.  Just add it to my tab.  You know where I live. (Note to self - buy Subway gift card for Jesus.)

Don't Look Into The Light, Part 2

Okay, here is the rest.  I'm telling you, it's a little anti-climactic, but this is cheaper than therapy, and it's really all about me, no?  Because it's a blog.  "Ego-centric" is what we bloggers do.  I'll get you up to speed with this repeat paragraph:

Last weekend was awesome. For the record, my mother-in-law is a great cook, and she doesn't even read this blog so I'm saying that from a place of truth, not suck-uppyness. On Thursday night, I went to WalMart for pre-Black Friday and puking circus women. On Friday, I rested. On Saturday, I drove to a local tree seller, put the seats down in the van, and shoved that seven-foot-tall bad boy in. I like to get the tree all by myself and just show up at home with it, unannounced. This way, I don't have to take a carload of people with opinions that might be different than mine to select something that I am going to mainly be in charge of, and then I don't get any arguments as to why today isn't a good day to decorate the tree.I have a whole story about trees that fell over at 1 a.m., really, but I'll save that because I know Mom and CH have to get back to work and they just skim these posts for references to them. Tick tock, Julie, supervisor might be walking by soon!






We are in a new house, so I feel that Current Husband and I need to spiffy the place up for ChristGiving, meaning let's deck this sucker out in lights! I have CH and The Son drag out the tub of outdoor lights and the wooden ladder, and I climb the ladder to start hanging lights from the gutters. The ladder is a little on the short side, so I have to climb up on the rung that says DANGER! PELLIGRO! and shows a picture of a stick man falling off of a ladder very similar to this one. The mulch is pretty soft, and the legs keep sinking in, so I ask CH to hold the ladder. He obliges, and then uses his time to talk about the view of my ass from the ground, and all of the manly things he is capable of when I descend. I tell him I am having my period and he quits looking, problem solved.


The husband next door is putting their lights up, so CH starts loudly advising me how to hang the lights, because then he is a FOREMAN and not the pussy Ladder Holder. I get about halfway done, and then CH makes a discovery - the next strand of lights is different from the ones that are up. DAMN IT! It's the poltergeist of those elves. I start taking the lights down, because the next two strands match. I get them halfway down, and then CH says, "Wait! The strand that is up already matches the other strand!" so I put the previously hung, then removed, lights back up. I get the second strand up, and CH says, "We should probably plug this in to test them." We look around. Odd. This house has no outdoor outlets. WTF. CH gets the biggest, most safety-orange cord he can find, and plugs it into the kitchen and runs it out the door to the lights. As I am thinking, "Are we going to run this safety orange extension cord out the side door all season?", CH plugs it in, and alas, the second strand of lights is burned out. DOUBLE DAMN! This is going to be CH's ticket to not decorate at all. Don't Look Into The Light, CH! Look away from the lights!




I take down the second strand of lights, and put up a third strand of lights. These are pretty, they have the very droopy double strands that say, "I got these at my local hardware store instead of WalMart." I get them up - but wait! We don't have any more strands! Our house is now two-thirds decorated. By now, I am pissed. I almost pull a stick man move in my anger over the lights, but manage to safely dismount the ladder and step on the elf/reindeer burial ground again. "Let's just decorate the stupid tree," I say, stomping past CH whille he chuckles and shrugs his shoulders at our man-neighbor, who is now putting carefully arranged lit snow globes on the top of his perfectly groomed row of boxelder bushes.




We get to the tree. It IS pretty. We unwrap the lights, but we're smart this time, we plug them in first. The first strand works. The second and third strands have about a third of the lights out. We decide to salvage bulbs from one strand to make one GOOD strand between the two. That is sort of a train wreck, and the kids leave to text and watch Wizards of Waverly Place while CH and I play Junior Electrician. We get it done, the lights work, we put them on the tree. We have the kids come back in, and we have our Norman Rockwell decorating for about 10 minutes, and then the kids start fighting over who gets to put which prime ornament on the tree. We're finally done, it's time for our annual Tree Lighting Ceremony, normally done to Christmas music, but Mommy had to delete her playlist for technical reasons, so this year it was to Jay-Z and Blink 182. I hit the switch, The Son plugs in the lights, and....WHAT THE F***?!?!?!? The rigged up strand of lights is now out. Apparently there was a short in the wiring somewhere that kicked in when it was clipped to the tree. Get back in here, Carol Ann! Do you see the Elf People, Carol Ann?



CH goes outside to roll up the safety orange cord, and when the front door shuts behind him, I see that the extra droopy strands are getting caught in the door. Two of the lights are already smashed. The lights attached to the gutter are now ruined too. Cue the banjo music, we've done moved into the hood. I march out to the end of the hanging strand. CH knows this face. "What are you doing?" I grab the strand and I pull. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK - the lights snap off of the gutter like a machine gun, or coffins popping out of the freshly dug pool in the backyard. I look at the dead lights laying on the ground, and look back up at CH.


"This house is clean."


The only lights working in my house this year are the ones in my fridge as I pull the cork on my chardonnay. I sit back, listen to some very seasonal Jay-Z (I got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one), and gaze upon my half lit tree. I could only be so lucky. A very Merry ChristGiving season to all of you, and my gift to you? Check your light strands before you hang them.


And? Don't build your house on a burial ground for magical creatures.  You're welcome.
(That last part is straight out of The Bloggess playbook.  It's fun to pretend to be The Bloggess once in a while!)

Look Away From the Light, Part 1

(Dear Readers - this post got way too long, so I'm splitting it into two, like King Solomon and the baby. Maybe more like an Oreo, and the first part of the story has more cream filling.  I'll post the second part tomorrow, so all three of you will have to wait.)

I'm starting to believe my house was built on top of a graveyard.  A graveyard made up of the graves of elves from Santa's workshop and sleigh-pulling reindeer who had a little too much eggnog and wandered out on the highway.  It's like the sacred burial ground of magical creatures, who have risen up to wreak their revenge.  "Why, Julie?" you might ask.  "Why are you such a pessimist?" 

I'm glad you asked, Gentle Reader.  Turn off your TV, the static is how they talk to you.  This is my story.

I've always loved the season of ThanksMas, or ChristGiving.  Let's go with ChristGiving, so I can give Jesus his props.  ChristGiving was always a season of truce when I was growing up.  In our otherwise chaotic and frequently miserable home, my parents always seemed to call a truce between what used to be "Nebraska vs. Oklahoma and Ohio State v. Michigan Football Day" (now known as Black Friday and Charcoal Gray Saturday) and December 31. 

Thanksgiving Day was great, but ChristGiving season began with cinnamon rolls and coffee the morning after Thanksgiving, and Dad would call his bookie to get the spread and place his bets, Mom would make Bloody Marys, and we all settled down to cheer for the Cornhuskers and watch the parental units get a little drunk, but it was a HAPPY drunk, particularly when Nebraska or the Buckeyes would win and Dad would get a little spendin' money. 

We would then get a 20 foot tree, because we lived on a lake and had one of those Walls of Glass that looked out on the lake that was two stories high.  Mom would pick the tree and Dad would grumble about the Fucking Tree all day as he hauled it home and set it up in the stand and prayed it wouldn't fall over and break through the Wall of Glass, and then he had to get on a 30 foot ladder to get the star on top and put up lights.  We would light the fireplace for the first time, and twice actually had a chimney fire, one time requiring the fire department and a bucket brigade from the lake executed by our drunk neighbors.

Mom only cried when it looked like the tree might not make it in the stand, but Dad always made it work, and otherwise it was all Smiles Everyone, Smiles!  We lit the Fucking Tree and it was spectacular, and even Dad got into the mood because he was a lapsed Mennonite and they really didn't go crazy on the whole tree/decor/gluttony/materialism thing when he was growing up, so embracing Santa Christmas was like part of his delayed teen rebellion.

SO, short story long, I really get into ChristGiving season.  Love the turkey.  Love the stuffing.  Love the music.  Love the decorating.  Love the whole Christmas morning thing with the kids, I just never tire of it.  There truly are moments of completely unbridled JOY at ChristGiving, from the smile on my daughter's face to the pulling on of the elastic waistband pants to tuck in to that turkey or 8th Christmas cookie.  (I even love Christmas cards, and I have personal standards for mine, which Current Husband hates - it has to have a photo, a letter, and be hand signed.)

(Hey look, the blog post should almost be over,
and yet, I still haven't gotten to the point!)

Last weekend was awesome.  For the record, my mother-in-law is a great cook, and she doesn't even read this blog so I'm saying that from a place of truth, not suck-uppyness.  On Thursday night, I went to WalMart for pre-Black Friday and puking circus women.  On Friday, I rested.  On Saturday, I drove to a local tree seller, put the seats down in the van, and shoved that seven-foot-tall bad boy in.  I like to get the tree all by myself and just show up at home with it, unannounced.  This way, I don't have to take a carload of people with opinions that might be different than mine to select something that I am going to mainly be in charge of, and then I don't get any arguments as to why today isn't a good day to decorate the tree.

Thus concludes the first part of my pointless holiday story.  I can't guarantee the second part is any better.  I do swear a couple of times, and there is a minor amount of violence, so there's that.  Part 2 tomorrow.

Black Friday Virgin

I'm not exactly sure how I thought it would end.  I know how it began.

We drove to my in-laws house in northeastern Iowa on Thanksgiving Day, late as usual.  We did say we would be there around noon, but it was closer to 12:30, and when people are cooking food around your arrival, it's best not to be late.  I'm one of those horrible people who are ALWAYS late.  I get up with the best of intentions, truly, I do, but something usually goes awry.  This time, it was the toilet.

Everyone is in the van and George the Superpet is set up and ready for the lovely sweetness that is my friend who let him out on Thursday and Friday, and then one of the kids says, "I have to go to the bathroom".  Okay.  Better now than 30 minutes into the drive, right?  So I take said child into the house, who does their thing and then says, "MOM?  I don't want to flush because there is something weird in here, and I didn't do it."  Oh crap.  Literally.  Someone did some business earlier, and now it is alive.

WE NOW INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR
ONE OF MY FAVORITE SORORITY STORIES:
So occasinally someone in the sorority would drop a deuce so large it would merit all-house attention, because what is more Ripley's Believe it Or Not than a sorority girl with a huge crap?  A girl in our house discovered this Wonder of Science and did what was then called an "All House Buzz" on the buzzer system, essentially meaning "gather round".  Sisters filed into the bathroom one by one to see this anomaly, and one particularly sensitive girl stepped out and said, in a very panicky, breathy voice, "SOME HORRIBLE FRATERNITY BOY. HAS PUT. HORSE POOP. IN OUR TOILET!"  The poor sister who had the duty of House Manager at the time, Joan, had to take a coat hanger and break it up to get it to flush.  Ah, college memories. Thus concludes this somewhat gross and highly tangental story.  Let's return to Black Friday, shall we?

SO, one of the kids clogged the toilet, and Current Husband and I are fixing it while the kids are in the van, waiting to leave for Thanksgiving.  I look at CH and laugh, "Isn't this what you dreamed about on our wedding day?  Us, together, in the bathroom, unclogging the work of one of our offspring on the holidays?"  He smiled like, "NO." and then, toilet fixed, we took off for a nearly three-hour trip of kids bickering and various Ke$ha songs on the radio and CH's mom calling to see where we were because the food was almost ready.

The meal was served, and it was highly delicious.  My MIL is a kick-ass cook.  I brought an awesome bottle of chardonnay, and was well into it when someone brought up Black Friday.  My brother-in-law, Jeremy, and I had never been Black Friday shopping.  We discussed the fact that the only place to shop within an hour of where we were seated was Wal-Mart, located 15 minutes away in Prairie du Chein, Wisconsin.  Laughing, we looked at the Black Friday flier, and HEY! They have doorbusters at midnight, and then the good stuff goes on sale at 5 a.m.  NO ONE will be shopping at midnight on Thanksgiving in Prairie du Chein, right?  Jeremy and I decide to break our cherries.  We are going Black Friday shopping.  Everyone else says, "No effing way, have fun you freaks."  They loosen their belts and undo their top buttons and go to sleep.  At 10:50, Jeremy and I get into the van and head out for Wal-Mart.

The whole way there we are laughing about how we are going to be the only people there.  Who would shop at midnight on Thanksgiving Day?  We are CA-RAY-ZEE!  The mood is merry.  Then, we pull into the parking lot and look at each other.  What the hell.  The parking lot is packed.  It is 11:05 p.m.  This has to be a mistake.  We walk into the store.

Everything is cordoned off.  Wal-Mart employees are running around all panicky.  There are huge, shrink-wrapped cubes of product in the aisles, with big signs that say, "DOES NOT GO ON SALE UNTIL 12:01 a.m."  Some items are wraped in black and say, "DOES NOT GO ON SALE UNTIL 5 a.m."  People are literally standing around the cubes with their hands on them, as though it is a contest where if you are the last person with their hand on the car you win it.  I stop laughing.  I get a little nervous.  Jeremy and I sync our cell phones and split up.  I won't see Jeremy again until 12:45 a.m.

I get to the video game cube.  Hard-ass looking women are standing around it.  The predominant look is tightly curled perm with faded Disney-themed hoodie.  One woman growls, "I've been here for over an hour and I need a fucking cigarette."  Oh God.  It was like I was in prison all over again. 

One woman looks at me and says, I swear to you, "First time?"  I smile weakly and nod.  Do not make me your bitch, oh please, do not, I am a terrible bitch, I swear. 
"What are you here for?" she asks.
"Um, Modern Warfare 2 and NCAA 11." I wait.  Perhaps I should have gone with Ponyville.
"Well I'm hear for Red (something) Redemption, and you do NOT want to get in front of me!" she chuckles.  "This isn't MY first time!"
"Oh, I won't," I assure her.
"Let me give you some tips," she says.  "First, everyone here is nice now, but when midnight hits they will turn on you.  Second, grab your game and hold it to your chest, people will try to take it out of your hands.  Next, DO NOT put it in your cart.  Someone will take it out of your cart if they see it."
"Thanks," I say.  I'm grateful for the tips, but now I am actually scared I will get hurt.  I leave and try another area of the store.  It is the same EVERYWHERE.  Tabletop griddles?  Check.  Shark steam vac?  Check.  Fleece pajama bottoms?  Check.  I totally steer clear of the Barbie VW Bug and Full Size Trampoline areas, because I can see nothing good is going to happen there.  This is WISCONSIN.  What is it like at the Wal-Mart in downtown Detroit?  I head back to the games and manage to get back in position.
"It's the same everywhere, isn't it?" my girlfriend says knowingly.
"Yep."
"How long until midnight?" she asks.
"About 20 minutes."
"God, I need a fucking cigarette."

At 11:56 p.m., a manager starts to unwrap the shrink wrap on a cube about 4 cubes down from mine.  My girlfriend says, "I'm taking mine" and rips the plastic.  Absolute pandemonium breaks out, as women start tearing shrink wrap everywhere.  I stand, paralyzed, and a hand with yellowed fingernails hands me a copy of Modern Warfare 2 and NCAA 11.  If I had a cigarette, it would be hers.  I turn and run into a woman leaving the stack of Wizards of Waverly Place DS games, so I grab one of those and a Toy Story 3 and Zhu-Zhu Pets game for Wii.  And Cooking Mama Absolute Gardener.  And Tony Hawk Ultimate Urban Skater.

I start aimlessly wandering around the store, watching the mayhem over SpongeBob robes and 17 Again DVDs, listening to people talk about a woman who power-vomited all over the back of the games area, when I hear my name.  It is Jeremy, in line with Wii games and a Nerf gun set.  He says, "Get in line!  There are only 4 checkers!" and I walk the quarter mile to the back of the line.  The next half hour was a blur, as I watched people scramble for a place in line.  Fights broke out, people were angry, and young children were tiredly being pushed along by their parents.  And this was for the midnight sales, not the 5 a.m. rush with flat screen TVs, cameras, and computers!  Happy Birthday Jesus!  This is all for you!

We finally got in the van and left the parking lot, shell-shocked.  I told Jeremy about my prison bitch, and Jeremy said, "Oh, I have you beat.  I was back by the DVDs and a woman who looked like she was drunk started puking everywhere.  People were clearing away and telling her to get out, and one woman completely freaked out and started screaming at shoppers, DO NOT STEP BACK HERE!  LEAVE THIS PLACE!" I looked at Jeremy, stunned.  "I heard of this vomiting woman!  People were talking about her all over the store!  You SAW it??!"  Jeremy nodded solemly.  "I saw it, I smelled it, I will never get it out of my brain.  Then, ten minutes later, I saw her actually shopping, covered in her own puke."

I saved about $180 on games.  Jeremy saved about $100 on his Wii and Nerf items.  However, we both agreed this was our first and last Black Friday.  We decided neither of us has the Right Stuff to be a Black Friday shopper.  Next year, I'm having a third piece of pie, unbuttoning the top button, sleeping soundly and peacefully while others claw through the crowds.  If I must vomit on Thanksgiving, it will be in the relative comfort of my in-laws bathroom.

Other than that, we had a fabulous Thanksgiving, and much to be thankful for this year.  I hope yours was excellent as well!  Have a great week!