Meth Sister Wives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burned By The Son

Yesterday, my sweet little sunshiney blonde baby turned into a teenager.

Oh dear. I could get a little verklempt.

While I wouldn't be happy about any NEW babies (see "Essure procedure"), I would so love to have each of my kids as a six-month-old or a one-year-old for ONE DAY, 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. Just to hold them close and smell their skin and put my face in their hair and touch their chubby little fingers and toes and cheeks. Oh, the cheeks. Listen to their sweet little sounds and rock them in a chair. Oy. What is it about birthdays that does this? When I'm 63, will I be writing, "Oh, how I wish I could have them back as teenagers so I could be confused about whether or not they are mad at me or just generally angry and to try to keep them informed about good hygeine and manners and give them money and drive them places..." Teens hug, but in the words of The Bloggess, sometimes "A hug is just a strangle you haven't finished yet." You get pretty good at figuring out which is which.

The Son? Was a cuddler. Oh, how that boy cuddled, and still will. He was a good sleeper, God bless him, and he still is. He always wanted to help, and still does. Now that I have TWO teenagers, I'm starting to hear the tick-tock of when I won't have them in my house anymore. Some days, that isn't such a bad thought, but most days, it's distressing. They are all really fun kids, dammit! Just stay and play! But learn to do your own laundry.

Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave for work at 7 a.m., and The Son was out of bed because he was "pretty excited about being 13 and couldn't sleep anymore." I told him Happy Birthday and he gave me a big hug, and I started chanting, "Who's so old? Who's so old? Who's so old?" and he said, "YOU!"   Damn. That burns! Oldest Daughter would've left it at that, but The Son wants his mother to be happy, so he said, "Just kidding Mom! You are young and beautiful and awesome!" Which is how I've trained them all to address me.

I took a half day off work and took the kids to the pool with friends, where I read a book written by the instructor at my Iowa Summer Writing Workshop, "Like Normal People" by Karen Bender. I honestly didn't expect to like it so much, it didn't really seem like my thing, but I try to read the work of my instructors so I am able to suck up and be in prime stalking position if it becomes a necessity. This book is surprising me. It's beautifully written, I could only hope to craft such rich descriptions and dialogue. I got so wrapped up in the book that I ended up in the sun for three hours and fried myself to a crisp. Damn.  That burns.  Someone at work this morning said, "Either you are really, really mad today or you have a sunburn" and I replied, "Piss off before I punch you in the face." (Just kidding. I used the F word.)

After the pool, our family took The Son to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you get a side of testosterone with everything you order. This seems to be the fave go-to place for all boys, ages 12-43. We sat outside on the patio, the only group out there, and had a great time. We went home and he opened his gifts, and loved all of them. We ate cake. It was one of those days you need to have every once in a while, as a shining city on a hill, to remember and hold when the kids are fighting amongst themselves, forgotten to give you an important message, and have eaten the last ice cream sandwich.

Before I sign off, one more quick thing - on the Facebook ADITW page, I posted "The Son is 13 and a year closer to some skank taking him away from me". Of course I kid, but I want to defend myself against any charges of future DIL cruelty. My point would be that whomever MY children marry, men or women, will probably need to be able to joke around with our tribe to make the marriage cut in the first place. Not because of me. Because of who my KIDS are; I get that their marriages aren't about me, nor would I ever want to interfere in that relationship. Oldest Daughter's Current Boyfriend is a great kid, and able to toe the line of being respectful and caring, and yet being wickedly funny, which we all love. He gets us. He fits. (Except that he exercises and eats healthy, but we're working on that.)

I can see a Thanksgiving in the future, when I'm drinking wine and tricking my daughter-in-law into making most of the meal, and I'll make an inappropriate comment about her stuffing the turkey, and she'll look at me lovingly and say, "Quit being a skank. I'm cooking here."  I will walk over to her, lovingly stroke her face, smile proudly, and say, "That'll do, Pig. That'll do." And then I shall refill her glass and spoil her children. And be thankful.

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!

We're All Winners. And Losers.

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

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

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

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

We're so proud.

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

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

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

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

Day 10 - Teens in a Mall

Before I begin, I'd like to point out a theme in our house.  Now that I'm blogging every day this month, I tend to either write my post at work (sorry employer!), or more likely, at 10 p.m. when everyone has seemingly settled in for the night.  Every night this month that I have been in my studio room, some member of my family has followed me downstairs to talk.

"Mom?  I might have a gland that needs to be expressed."

School starts in these parts on Monday.  Of course, I am unprepared.  Just today I found a ride home for my high schooler, and I still haven't signed her up for the bus as the backup plan.  I just scheduled her golf lessons, and got her cello lessons set up.  I still have to call about the cello case that is overdue, and she doesn't have a lunch bag, an important accessory for a two-year vegetarian.  The Son and Youngest Daughter both need tennis shoes for PE, and YD can't wear flip flops to school so I need non-flip-flop shoes for her.  I can't sign either of them up for piano until Monday.  No one has money in their PaySchools account for lunches, and I'm leaving Tuesday morning for a week-long hooker convention in Mennonite country in Ohio.  Current Husband is in charge of everything.  OY.

If I were to interview for a paid position as "Stay-At-Home Mom", up against other resumes, there is NO WAY I would get the job.  That SAHM Mom job is tough, don't kid yourself.  In addition to the normal laundry-meals-activities-homework-housework-sex stuff, there is added pressure to volunteer and give of yourself to the world at large, because what could you possibly be doing at home? Seriously, my five years at home were some of the hardest because I thought I could do everything, and felt like it was expected.  Now I actually get paid to work, and I while I still do my turn as nail-painter and donater-of-cookies at school functions, I don't feel guilty if I can't.

So, tonight I took Oldest Daughter and The Son to the dreaded mall.  We bought some PE shoes that can stay at the school for PE, and a few shirts for school.  I got to browse through The Gap while OD and TS went to Hollister and Abercrombie, I bought some perfume at Von Maur ("I'd like a bottle of Happy, please."  It was fun to say, and I half hoped they'd pull a bottle of Tanqueray from behind the counter) and then met the teens at American Eagle.  The Son found a pair of shades he liked.

"These are beast, mom," he said.
"Are these for you?" the teenage, tattoed checkout girl asked.
"Yeah."  The Son got a bit of swagger.
"Are you going to rock these shades?  Because if you aren't I won't sell them to you."
The Son was shocked.  Was this teen girl *talking* to him?  "Um, yeah."
I saw a tester for a men's body spray and sprayed a little on TS.  "Hey!"
"It's on sale for $5 a bottle...you will be fighting the girls off," said Tattoed Teen.
(Wow.  She's good.)
"Is it like AXE Squared?" I asked.
"Oh yeah.  The girls will go crazy." She said with a smug nod.
"Well then we don't want any.  I Taser girls." 
"WHAT!?"  The Son was mortified.  I was stomping on his buzz.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
"Then you better smell like $5 every time you put it on.  No girls."

I paid for it, laughing a little, but inside I was freaking out.  Holy shit.  He really is getting close to dating age, and some little tramp is going to take MY place someday.  I'm not ready.  I still eat this kid up every day.  Why is it so different when it's your son?  The girls I'm not worried about.  OD is a good girl and has a strong constitution so she'll make it through the heartaches, and YD will be the breaker, not the breakee.  I will be consoling her ex-boyfriends.  "It's not you, it's her.  You'll be better off, trust me."  But The Son?  He's my buddy!  She can't have him!  He's MINE!

This is how I will see him forever. 

Which is going to get irritating to everyone.

But seriously, isn't he CUTE?

I guess he's going to Middle School, and he's going to grow up, and his voice is going to change and he'll get girlfriends and move away.  I've always known it's coming, but why is it suddenly seeming so much closer?

This?  This is why I'm eating ice cream every night.  Out of sadness and a need to become so huge and suger-rushed that I will terrify every girl who comes to our house.  And girls?  I do own a Taser gun.  And a stuffed squirrel that will CUT. YOU.

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!

Day 5 - A Place Of Your Own

First, I'd like to say that I seem to have sort of lost my mind.  I just realized today that I forgot my nephew's birthday because we were on vacation, and I'm completely tormented by it.  Second, I forgot that it's August and I need to get my kids' rides to and from school figured out in 10 days.  Third, I forgot about Whoreticulture Friday, because I was so excited about my good day that I was not in a whorish frame of mind, apparently.  On to the blogging marathon.


For the past couple of weeks, I've been thinking alot about personal space, and not even in my normal double entendre/whoreticulture way.  We moved to Current House about a year ago, and I've been eyeing a little room in the basement for myself since the first time we looked at the place.  I call it my studio because that's very indie and college and artsy sounding, but really it's a bunker in the basement.  I finally finished my room!  I'm assembling my new chair and then it is finis!  I'll take pics of that for tomorrow.


Last Sunday, The Son went away to camp.  We get him tomorrow, and I can't wait!  He such a great guy, always so enthusiastic and sunny, and it's awfully quiet around here when he's gone. 

Here he is, picking Ron Weasley's nose.

His room in the "new" house is better, but it just wasn't set up in the best way, and he's 12 and starting middle school in 10 days, so he needed a bit more of a "hang out" space.  After we dropped him off at camp, we came home and started moving his furniture.  I ordered a faux leather futon/couch thing for his room, but sadly it won't get here until after he's home, so we won't get a Big Reveal.


The Son has a huge PEZ collection - over 250 of those little buggers have been all over his room.  He had some shelves, but not nearly enough to house his collection, and it is pretty cool, so I wanted to display it better.  While he was gone, I built and painted shelves for his room.  Don't be impressed - let's just say I won't get any carpentry awards.  They ended up how I imagine someone on a coke binge would build - fast and determined and filled with illusions of grandeur.  I got the middle shelves started, and then brought them upstairs to see how they looked before I painted them.

Hmm.  It was that wide the FIRST time I measured it....

"Which of these things is not like the other...."

And so, the Great Wall of PEZ had to wait.  I listened to some Ok Go on The Son's iPod, had a Diet Coke, and contemplated my options.  Suddenly, it came to me!  I could take the black bulletin board on the right and turn it the other way, thus creating room for my XL shelves.  Another Life Solution brought to you by The Caffeine Council.


Shelves were finished and painted, bulletin board was turned, and voila!  Success!

Sorry, my Blackberry isn't the best photograper.

His room is all clean and shiny, his PEZ are displayed, and his futon is en route.  I'm going to put this one in the WIN column.  Tomorrow I'll show you pictures of my "studio", and I'll also show you pics of my friend Tommie's newly built studio, which is kick ass.


Until then, sleep well Wifers!

Clash of the Phitens

Let me preface this post by saying that it is really effing hot here, which is convenient because I had nothing left to bitch about.  When it is hot, I need to hydrate, and my hydration of choice is special German water:

Mmm.  Das ist Gut.

Actually, I have enjoyed two ice-cold glasses of this German delight and a large cock someone gave me for my birthday:

I was going to say something about this cock being very erect,

but I don't know most of you and am not sure how much you can take.

My mother, however, is laughing.

So anyway, it is hot, I've been drinking, and I've just made a major purchase.  Those of you with boys older than 8 may be familiar with the Phiten necklace.

The Phiten is a piece of rope that has a presumably toxic metallic dust in it that retailers sell to anyone who wants to appear to be an athlete, or is an actual paid endorsement athlete.  The faux athlete pays $30 to over $100 for the priviledge of wearing said piece of rope around their neck.

This is the Phiten necklace:

This is the Phiten philosophy:

At Phiten, we focus our energy to develop products that work for you. We got our start by trying to help a friend in need. Today, after extensive research and development, we are helping people enhance their quality of life all around the globe, building on our Phiten philosophy of health, energy and well-being.

Origin of our Name: Phiten


Based on the Greek letter PHI Φ and the exponent 10, we crafted a name which symbolizes our goal: maximizing the perfect balance found in the natural world.

Ahhh.  It's Greek.  Like the people who founded the Olympics!

This is the Phiten founder:

What the...?!? 

Long Duck Dong is a billionaire?



Oh come ON, that is not racist, he does look like the Donger.  You know, from Sixteen Candles!  He certainly does not look like Jake Ryan, and that is good because of my recent discovery that Jake Ryan encourages date rape.  The Donger does not.

This guy is laughing because he is RICH!  RICH, I tell you!  At an average of $40 a pop, every kid in little league baseball and 70% of the middle school population is wearing these things.  Oldest Daughter got one for Christmas, and The Son decided he needed one for baseball.  Oy.  I took him to Dick's Sporting Goods, which makes him laugh every time, and perused the Phiten display.  The Son wanted a 22", I selected a nice 18".  I explained to The Son that besides being $10 cheaper, and I am cheap, it would fit him better.  The Son disagreed.  We took one to the checkout area, and just as it was rung up, The Son changed his mind.

We went back to the Phiten display.   Upon further discussion, he selected a 22" that he liked.  We were going to be late to pick up Oldest Daughter, so okay okay okay, ring it up!  We set off the alarms going out of the store, to the stares of those walking in.

On the way to pick up OD, The Son put on his Phiten and started to worry.  "Is it too big?" he said, as it hung down mid-chest.  "I personally think 22" is too big, as I told you in the store," I said.   "But it's up to you."  By the time we picked OD up from cello, he was in a full blown panic.  He had made the wrong choice.  It was the wrong Phiten.  His life was irrevocably altered.  I picked up OD and turned to drive back to Dick's.  (hee hee)

We walked into Dick's, set off the alarms, walked back to the Phiten display, and let OD, the seasoned Middle Schooler who knows what is cool, select it.   We got the same cashier, who was now ringing us up for the third time and was no longer laughing at my jokes.  We walked out, set off the alarms one more time, and got in the car.  The Son had his Jock Jewelry, OD had her cool creed reaffirmed, and I was out $35 for some voodoo rope.  Long Duck Dong was laughing even harder as he counted his money.

The Son admitted I was right the first time about the placebo necklace.  Not that it is a .50 piece of rope with the word "Phiten" on it, but that it was too big.  He is going to wait until he is college and 'roided out before he can upgrade to the 22", and then he will say, "I am truly a man" as he snaps it shut. 

But next time his mommy picks something out for him?  He's not Phiten it.
(Oh yeah.  I went there.)

Bragging Mom Alert

So I've mentioned the Variety Show last Friday at our elementary school.  The Son lives for the Variety Show - he just loves it.  This is funny because I don't consider him a particularly showy kid.  He isn't the class clown or the ham, and while he isn't shy AT ALL, he isn't a Look At Me kid - until the Variety Show comes around.  A couple of years ago he told Current Husband and me that he wanted to do the dance from Napoleon Dynamite at the Variety Show, and I balked.  I thought, "someone is going to want to kick his ass."  And don't we all want to avoid having someone want to kick our kids' asses?

But CH, of all people, convinced me that it would be okay for him to do the dance.  It's just a grade school Variety Show, big deal, right?  Still, I worried.  I've posted this here before, but here it is again, because I am annoying like that:


And it was pretty cute.  Last year, he did the McDonalds Fast Food Freestyle from You Tube, which was cute, but not quite the same.

This year, he decided to do The Evolution of Dance from You Tube, and I have to say, I think he kind of nailed it.  The show is supposed to have acts limited to 3 minutes, and The Evolution of Dance is about 9 minutes, so we cut him off around 4 minutes.  You can't really tell because the stage lights are so bright, but he is wearing an Orange Crush t-shirt just like Judson Laipply.



The screaming is coming from a pack of 5th grade girls, but if you think they are screaming loud for him, you should have heard them screaming for the boy who sang "Love Me" by Justin Beiber before him. Back off, ladies, this one is mine for a little while longer.


His moves come from his father - I have no skills, but the baby Daddy can breakdance, even though he'll deny it. It's why I married him. (CH, you know it's true.)


Hope you are all having a great week - I'll report over the weekend on the Hooker Convention I'm attending this weekend, called a "Hook In". So THAT'S what they're calling it these days.

Heavy Bunkbeds and Lukewarm Showers

I have an announcement - I'm still slacking.

Today was Current Husband's birthday, so we started with donuts and ended with margaritas, with a tackle football game in the middle (The Son's, not us).  I had two freelance projects due tonight, and we spent a large part of the evening looking for the bill holder.  You know, the one thing that while you're moving you say, "We can't lose this, bills are due next week!"  We spent much of the weekend looking for this 8 1/2 x 11 plexiglass object, stuffed with bills, but alas, we cannot pay.  

In the middle of the day, we decided to unload The Son's new bunkbed.  We paid to have it assembled, and felt like we were being extraordinarily clever, but the store made it clear that the bed wouldn't be assembled until it was in the house.  CH and I unloaded the huge 5' x 8' box, and it became clear that my Little Engine blew a gasket and lost a wheel.  OH HELL NO is what my engine was saying, followed by SON-OF-A-BITCHIN' THING and then (*&$#)*&$&@)&@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We tried to push it across the grass, and in the process we plowed a nice furrow in the yard.  On the plus side, the front yard looks more like a Grant Wood painting than it did.  

Our neighbor across the street, husband half of the cat feeding team named, I kid you not, Darryl, was mowing, and he actually stopped his mower to watch us try to manipulate the box across the yard.  Already, we are entertaining the neighbors.  Later, I started fantasizing that the neighborhood is really evil, and maybe the current residents are all possessed and throwing hexes at us, like "Make the box 100 pounds heavier" and "Sic the feral cat pack on their children" or "Start the dripping in the pipes under the sink".

Tonight's curse was on the water heater.  I got in the shower at 10:10 p.m. to take a lovely hot shower before I blogged and got in my warm bed, and instead, my shower never got above the "tepid" mark on the heat index.  I didn't even bother to shave my legs, because they were covered in goosebumps and I would've cut the heck out of them.  I am currently standing at our computer in the kitchen (my laptop is still out of commission from the Vanilla Ice virus), surrounded by cords because we can't find more than two phone jacks in the house to hook up the computer, in my towel and robe, hoping the electric doesn't get shut off from non-payment, shivering, and praying the Prilosec I took an hour ago helps keep me from guppy puking my margarita all night long. Again, I am bringing sexy back.  

Happy Birthday, CH.  You are clearly one lucky man.

Workin' for the Weekend

Loverboy once said that everybody's workin' for the weekend.  I must disagree, Loverboy.  Some of us are workin' ON the weekend.  This weekend, I had to work yesterday for three hours and today for eight hours, and it hurt.

 1. It hurt because I dropped an eight foot 

banquet table on my foot.  Any yes, 

I took off my nail polish and my toes 

are a little fugly.  Don't judge me.

2.  It hurt because I missed the cutest boy ever's 

football game, and don't think he won't 

remember this when he has to choose 

between his mom and girlfriend for

who gets the hug after his team 

wins the Orange Bowl.

3.  It hurts because George the Superpet 

already misses me during the day, 

and now I'm disappearing on the weekends too, 

and it's making him very needy, in that 

he kisses me all the time when I am 

actually around.  Poor George.  

More Snausage for George.

4

4.  It hurts in that my already crazy dead 

stuffed squirrel, Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein, 

is so freaked out by my absence that 

he is now abusing pharmaceuticals.

AND...

5.  It hurts because I am really tired and zonked out on Benadryl and Taco Bell, because who cooks after working all weekend, and now I am posting a slightly lame-ass blog.  You deserve more, Gentle Readers!  You should unionize!  Talk amongst yourselves while I go to bed.

It's your last chance to sign up for the "Why Is She Even Bothering Bloggyversary Giveaway!"  My Attorney will be present Wednesday night when I draw the winner and the runner up, and there may be other unexpected surprises.  You need to comment to be entered.  Have a great Monday, and I'll see you Wednesday!

I'm like Roger Ebert, but with a uterus.

This week, I saw a bunch of movies.  For me, anyway.

Most people with kids go through a drought where they don't see anything that isn't G-Rated for about five to eight years, depending on how many kids they have and what meds said kids are taking.  I've come out on the other side, and now I am a bit of a movie connoisseur, if I may say so myself.  This weekend's selections will show my range.

Mmm.  Gelato.

I really enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love.  Of course, I would have enjoyed it if the projector had broken and I had to sit for two hours because I was with a large bag of peanut M&Ms, a huge Diet Coke, and my attorney.  We could have a two hour conversation, uninterrupted by any of our five collective children, and I'd put that in the Win column.  However, the movie did come on, and I did feel a slight depression at seeing how Julia is two years older than I, and yet can pack away plate after plate of spaghetti and look svelte and utterly luminous.  I know, I know, filthy rich, personal trainer, yadda yadda, but STILL, she is just lovely, really.

I liked the book by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I loved Italy, got a little restless in India, and started skimming in Indonesia.  I hate to say it, but I thought Liz got a little bit whiny, and maybe we all have our moments of crying on the bathroom floor (not me, mine is a little dirty for that - I prefer to cry next to the wine rack) but it gets a bit awkward to read about it.  The movie somehow manages to take away some of the whine, or maybe Julia Roberts just makes sleeping on the floor or complaining about not eating good lunches appealing.  Maybe I just want to hang out with Julia Roberts and this has nothing to do with Eat, Pray, Love being a good movie.  I would like to be besties with Julia and borrow all of her clothes and jewelry and eat gelato with her in Italy.  Jen Lancaster and Stacey Ballis are welcome to come as well.  Fletch can drive us and carry our luggage and scout good bars for us.  Sorry CH, someone has to get the kids to school.  Oh, you're all still here?  Sorry.

  Oh yes, I've stooped this low

I think I've mentioned that I have a Twilight problem, in that I ain't quittin' them books.  I do love them.  Stephenie Meyer, you earned every dollar of the $40 million you pulled down this year without even publishing a book.  I see other writers criticize her writing and her style, etc etc., but with sales of over 100 million books for the Twilight series I think she may be onto something.  

ANYHOO, I took Oldest Daughter and The Son to Vampires Suck today with a friend and her OD and Her Son and we watched a fairly funny parody of Twilight.  How hard is it to make fun of Twilight?  SPOILER ALERT - Skip this italicized dialogue of my favorite part if you are going to see the movie:

Becca Crane and Edward Sullen have left Sporks High School and are standing in the woods. She is confronting him about what kind of monster he is.

BECCA:  "You have pale skin.  You dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex.  I know what you are."

EDWARD:  "Say it.  Out loud.  Say it."
BECCA:  "Jonas Brother."

I thought that was about the funniest damn thing ever.  Plus, I had a big box of Dots and a huge Diet Coke, so again, terrific movie.  I'll grant you that many of the jokes were lame, but overall it was a pretty good rip on the Twilight franchise.

 Party time!  Excellent!

The third movie I watched this weekend was Wayne's World.  I was in the car with OD and The Son and Bohemian Rhapsody came on, so we all sang full throttle.  I mentioned to them the part in Wayne's World where the guys all headbang to Bohemian Rhapsody, and the kids wanted to watch it.  I got all excited - this is where I can introduce my children to pop culture!  How exciting!  It will bring us all closer!  

We do Netflix or Redbox, but I figured this was a Blockbuster stop if I wanted it immediately.  I was reminded rather quickly why we do Netflix - I had to show my membership card, my driver's license, pay with my debit card, and then remember to bring it back in 48 hours or I would be charged $1 a day.  Netflix has spoiled me.  The Good Shepherd has been sitting in its Netflix envelope for two weeks, and you know what?  THAT'S OKAY.  This is Wayne's World people, not Inception.  They should lend it out for $1 and shrug if you don't bring it back.

We start the movie.  The kids are excited.  About 30 minutes into it, they start looking at me, confused.  Another 20 minutes later and they're both like, "This is lame".  OD left the room to text someone, and The Son started sighing alot, but stuck around.  I had no Dots or large soda, so this was kind of a bust.

The next day,  The Son and I make a trip to Target.  We pick up a few things, and when we are pulling out of the parking lot, I see a college-aged girl in a khaki skirt and t-shirt.  I say, "She's really pretty" and The Son, without missing a beat, says, "Schwing!"  I step on the brakes and look at him, incredulous.  "Did you just say that?"  He is blushing beet red, but laughing hysterically, and says, "Yes!" and then, "You made me watch that movie!"  I start driving again, and say, "Would you say the same thing about Giada?" and he says, seriously this time, "Absolutely".  I found out some time ago that my children were staying up late and watching Food Network, and The Son has a huge crush on Giada de Laurentis.  For an 11-year-old, he has excellent taste.

My future daughter-in-law.  

Hello, Thanksgiving dinner! Schwing!

Have you seen a good (or bad) movie lately?  Share with the Wifers what's what in the theater right now.  Happy Monday!

Oh, one more thing...George the Superpet is a finalist in the top 20 of W. Bruce Cameron's dog contest on A Dog's Purpose...click below to vote for George to win it all!  He may not have his balls anymore, but he does still have his pride:

Vote for George the Superpet!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 35

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.


Today's topic: Just Beat It


First, my apologies.  CH and I took out some of his clients for dinner on Thursday night, which is when I normally write Whoreticulture Friday.  Then today, we had a terrible storm that knocked out our power for over five hours (about 30 minutes after unloading $100 of food in the fridge), rendering me Internet-less.  I think I have about 30 minutes until it is midnight, so this MIGHT still publish on Friday...


I grew up without brothers, so the whole male species was a bit of mystery to me.  At the beginning of seventh grade I knew about a kid walking around with a boner during the school day, and while I vaguely understood that his boner wasn't an obvious blunder or stupid mistake, I wasn't exactly sure of the purpose of it.  Why?  It wasn't like he was going to have sex in Biology class.


WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A BRIEF MOMENT OF IMMATURITY:
Go to Webster's Dictionary and click on the Audio of the word "boner".  It makes the 13-year-old in my giggle.  Okay, the 41-year-old too.

Masturbation isn't exactly something one talks about while dating, or even really after initially getting married.  I think around the five year anniversary mark, when you sort of run out of things to talk about, the topic may come up (no pun intended).  When The Son was little, other moms in my coffee group with similarly-aged boys would laugh about how "Little Timmy found his penis yesterday!" or "I changed Charlie's diaper and he wouldn't stop grabbing his penis" or "Jacob had an erection the entire time I bathed him yesterday, it was a little awkward".  (What made it even more awkward is that Jacob was her brother-in-law.)  The Son?  Nothing.  No finding, no grabbing, no woody, no interest.  Which was perfectly fine by me.


Fast forward to The Son at the age of 10.  Every summer we send him to a camp over an hour away so he can spend a week with his buddy from the previous town we lived in.  Last summer, we picked him up at the end of the week, and on the way home we grilled him about what happened at camp.


US:  "So what did everyone do?"
SON:  "We swam, rode horses, did some archery, climbed the tower, you know."
US:  "How was the food?"
SON:  "Terrible.  But I made it."
US:  "How were your cabin mates?"
SON:  (Pause)  "Well....they were a little weird."
US:  "What do you mean?"
SON:  "During the rest time after lunch, they would take off their pants and try to grab each other's junk."
SILENCE.  DISBELIEF.  FORMING COMPLAINT LETTER TO CAMP IN HEAD.
US:  "What?"
SON:  "You know.  Like hit each other in the jingles."
US:  "Did they like this game?"
SON:  "Oh yeah, they played it every day.  J and I would just go outside the cabin and play cards until they were done.  We thought it was really weird."
US:  (Relief)  "Well that was probably the best thing to do."


And then we let it drop.  Because how do you tell your 10-year-old son that he just witnessed a week-long Circle Jerk?

Circle Jerk, as defined by Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday:

1.) When a group of males sit in a circle, jerking each other off.

2.) *NOT* when a group of males stand in a circle to jerk off onto a cookie or anything of the sort. That retarded frat game is called "Limp Biscuit"... which kind of indirectly explains why the band of the same namesake is so fucking horrible.

3.) When a bunch of blowhards - usually politicians - get together for a debate but usually end up agreeing with each other's viewpoints to the point of redundancy, stroking each other's egos as if they were extensions of their genitals (ergo, the mastubatory insinuation). Basically, it's what happens when the choir preaches to itself.

4.) A game on MXC that's based on sumo wrestling. Beware the Green Teabagger.

Yes, Definition 1 is correct, although I do plan to beware the Green Teabagger.


We sort of let the whole thing go away.  The Son is a kid who likes to question things.  He is a gatherer of information.  And he isn't afraid to broach uncomfortable topics, so I'm quite sure he would have felt comfortable asking about the Junk Punching game if he had any questions.  I told CH this was his department, as I have no knowledge in the masturbatory habits in the human male.  Not to say CH does.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.


So this year, The Son goes to camp again.  On the way up, I tell him that if anything...um...WEIRD is going on, he can leave to play cards or whatever.  He nods and looks out of the window.  Today, I got a letter from The Son from camp.  It is titled, "Dear Homies".  He says "the food is terrible, but I make it through the day".  And then this passage - "The guys in my cabin are nice, not like the last ones without pants."

Whew.  Because those bad cabin mates?  They can just Beat It.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday/Saturday, and have a great weekend!