Messing With The Mayor

Yesterday, I completely messed with Iowa State Head Basketball Coach Fred Hoiberg's head. Honestly, I feel a little bad about it, because he's a good guy, but I still laughed about it as I drove away from the casino hotel where we met.


If you are, or have ever been, an Iowa State fan, you know The Mayor.  He's the epitome of what Iowa State sports is all about - grace, class, hard work, smarts, and a sense of humor.  Pretty much every Iowa State fan is in love with him, but not in a 50 Shades kind of way.  (Well, maybe some of them, but not I.  After all, I have Current Husband.)


I was a Chi Omega with Fred's wife at Iowa State in the late 80's and early 90's, back when I could hold my liquor and only had one chin.  I don't KNOW Carol that well, because she was two years younger than I in school and I was just as self-absorbed then as I am now, but I know her well enough that if I saw her I would give her a hug and think about how gorgeous she is but then be mad about it because I can't get all jealous mad because she happens to be a really NICE person too.  Damn you gorgeous people who are also good people...you make it impossible to begrudge your happiness and good fortune.  Seriously.  Throw us a bone.  Kick a puppy or something.


So yesterday I find out that Iowa State is doing a Tailgate Tour where the coaches show up and you can meet and greet.  I signed The Son up for one of Fred's basketball camps at ISU in June for his birthday, and it's a surprise, so I thought, "COOL!  I can get Fred to autograph something for him, and that's how we tell The Son he is going to the camp!"  The problem is that I work, and the event was in the afternoon at the local casino.  You know, good wholesome fun for the family.


I sort of slip out the back door at work and peal out of the parking lot to the casino.  I walk in and Fred is being interviewed by the local news stations.  I wait my turn, and then I pounce on him.  I walk up, shake his hand, say my name and say I know Carol.  Fred, who is ever the gentleman, says something polite, and I say, "Where is your hot biscuit wife?  Doesn't she get to come on these things?"  He looks a little taken aback.  Hot biscuit?  That's kind of familiar.  I ask him to sign my card - the Iowa State people only brought football stuff, and come on, NOTHING basketball?  So I end up with a Cyclone TV promo postcard that I shove at Fred to sign.  He looks at me like "You want me to sign this promotional postcard for a TV network?"  Um, yes.  Because I came unprepared, and that's the kind of mother I am.  Deal.


As he's signing it, I say something about his brother's band in Omaha, the Southpaw Bluegrass Band, and how he should get me backstage passes.  I say this because I think it's a really funny concept that people probably try to use Steve to get to his more famous brother Fred, so I thought it would be hilarious that I'm trying to press the ISU head basketball coach for tickets to his brother's bluegrass band in Omaha.  For the record, I am the only person out of the two of us who thought that was funny.

Like them on Facebook!  I'm going to try to

catch a show this summer when I'm home.

Then I ask Fred to say Happy Birthday to my son on the card.  He graciously agrees, thinking, "Who the hell is this person?"  I say, "Isn't your son's 13th birthday soon?"  He looks at me cautiously and says "Yes", and I go for broke and say, "Your daughter is a couple of months younger than (OD), and your son and my son (same name) were born close together, but I stopped at twins".  Fred Hoiberg blinks, and smiles.  He is clearly thinking, "Either this woman is a total stalker and I need to call security, or she's my cousin and my mom is going to call me tonight and chastise me for not knowing her.  Shit.  I hate these tailgate tours."


He had a line of people and media waiting, so I left to speed back to work and hope I wasn't missed.  I called CH and told him how I unintentionally messed with The Mayor's head.  I'm sure everyone acts like they know Fred, because they see him on TV, and I've only met him maybe twice in my life when he was either a senior in high school or a freshman in college, so there is no way he would know me.  But in my babble, I dropped enough info that I should have just gone all the way and said, "You really need to cut back on the Lipitor, I found another empty bottle in your trash last week."


This morning, the owner of my company walked in to my office, said "Do a little gambling yesterday afternoon, Julie?" and put THIS on my desk:

Photo courtesy of the Quad-City Times.

I was on the front page of the Sports Section today.  A BIG picture.  A place I truly never thought I would be in my life.  Life section?  Sure.  Police report?  Maybe.  Sports?  Um, no.  Perhaps now my job will be in the Employment section.


So there I am, in all my stalker glory, on the front page of the paper, playing hookie from work on my "secret" mission to get an autograph for The Son.  I got texts all day long about this.  And my son's friends told him all about it at school.  "Um, Mom?  Did you go see Fred Hoiberg without me?"  No.  I was at McDonalds getting a McFlurry.  Doesn't that dude look JUST LIKE Fred?  Weird.


I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor.  I have issues.  Your wife already knows that.  Go Cyclones!

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

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


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


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

Memories.  Like the corners of my mind.

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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




Seminars I'd Like to Attend

NOTE:  I spent 45 minutes writing this post, hit Publish, and an error message came up and said, "Sorry!" and it was gone.  So now I'm re-writing what I can remember from it, but just understand that the first one was probably brilliant and would've led to a book deal.  This one?  Meh.

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to attend the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop.  It was pretty awesome.  I met Christian Lander of "Stuff White People Like" fame, Danny Gallagher the comedian and writer, Gail Collins of the New York Times and author of the amazing book, "When Everything Changed", and some pretty kick-ass chicks as well, including Janet Frongillo, author of the upcoming book, "Mommy Mixology", available for pre-order on amazon.com.

Seriously, "A Cocktail for every Calamity"?  That's just brilliant.

EBWW is only held every two years, and sadly, I can't go this year because I now have a full-time job that seriously impedes me from doing fun things.  I know Janet will be there, and so will The Bearded Iris, who is completely hilarious and has some mad effing dance skills.  On April 19, which is my birthday, I will be sitting down to watch my lovely daughter on opening night of her high school musical, knowing in my heart that Iris and Janet and loads of awesome mom bloggers will be tucking into their first round of drinks.  Of course, I wouldn't be anywhere else but the musical with Oldest Daughter.  But a tiny little part of my heart will be sad.

(I also spent about 20 minutes on picnik making an awesome graphic with a human heart showing how much of it would be sad and thirsty, but that wouldn't load.  Pisser!)

Since I can't attend EBWW, I am concentrating on what types of educational enrichment opportunities I should find for myself.  After ten minutes of introspection, I've come up with this list of Self-Help Seminars I Should Attend In 2012:

1. Past the Power Button:  How To Use Your Computer
2. Beyond the Basket:  Getting Family to Fold Within 48 Hours of the Dryer
3. Vegetarian Cooking, Or How To Make Food Look Like It
4. Vaccum Cleaner Shopping:  Not An Annual Activity
5. Sheets, And How They're Changed More Than Six Times A Year
6. When The Dog Knows Too Much
7. High Noon:  After Five Years, It's Time to Move On From Twilight
8. How To Operate Your Husband of 17 years
9. Making Your Malbec Bottle Last Three Days So You Don't Look Like An Alcoholic
10. Getting More Personal Time Out of Work Time
11. Speaking Teen...Whatever.

If anyone knows where I can sign up for any of these workshops, I would appreciate the link.  If you have any of your own, please add in comments (Such as:  How To Get Blogger To Post Your Damn Comments).  Otherwise, I'll hold these in my house and wing it.  Registration begins June 1. 

Pass the Percocet, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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