On the Edge

I just re-read the title of this post and thought, "Yeah, I WISH I was on the Edge!"  I know he's old, but I'd still tap that.


I just re-read the sentence above and thought, "I wonder if Current Husband will get uptight about that?", particularly considering that I've been gone since 6 a.m. last Tuesday morning and he theoretically hasn't been laid.   Not that me being around means he's getting laid, but that's all going to change soon.  I'll explain in a later post.  Probably Whoreticulture Friday material.


Wait...what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, how I'm going fucking crazy in Vermont.  Not even a bored kind of crazy, but a coming-unhinged kind of crazy.  It's nothing personal against Vermont.  Vermont is a sharp dresser and has great hygiene and is very well-mannered.  But I've been here ALONE since last Tuesday, and I'm ready to go all Kanye West on this Taylor Swift state.  It's quaint and lovely and bucolic, but there is no Starbucks to be seen, and the adorable shops are not open when the hooker convention is over, so I can only stare and drool.


The hookers are great, and funny, artistic people.  One woman I overheard this week said, "Be warned, I have a big mouth and thin skin."  I need that on a t-shirt.  Another woman, who is in her sixties, said, "I don't want to call my husband stupid; let's just say he's mentally incapacitated."  I love her.  I could show you a Shutterfly album of pictures of amazing rugs, but the one that really stood out to me is one called "Aries Woman".  It is an unusual piece in that it is very modern and is hooked by someone under the age of 50, a gal named Mariah Krauss here in Vermont.  Check it out:

This is hooked with at least 20 different shades of red, and is hooked with hand-dyed wool that is about 3/32 of an inch wide.  Here is a close-up of one part of it:

Look at that - yes, all of those bumps are hand dyed and hooked 3/32 of an inch pieces of wool.  All kidding aside, it blows my mind, the time it took to hand dye all of that wool in all of the perfect shades and draw the pattern and cut the wool and then to actually hook it and then steam it and mount it...WOW.  Here is her description:

Thanks for letting me geek out there for a bit.  So even though the hookers are fun, I'm with them from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.  Then I grab something to eat and I'm back in the hotel room for the rest of the night until I go to sleep at midnight, because there is nothing open after 5 p.m.  Sitting in bed with a Subway Steak and Cheese, a plastic tumbler of white wine, and unlimited, uninterrupted tv viewing for the night?  Sure, it's fun for the first night or two, but by Night Five and over 20 hours of HGTV and some History Channel and a few misguided hours with VH1 I was ready to take sleeping pills. 


I'm flying out tomorrow and as I type I'm watching a film biography on Woody Allen, which would be interesting if he hadn't screwed Mia Farrow over by getting it on with their adopted daughter.  He's all smart and funny and talented, blah blah blah, and I just keep thinking "You MF'er, you did it with your kid!"  Soon Yi might not have techinically been his legal daughter, but he did technically take Polaroids of her naked, and she was in the "Child" camp in their house, so sorry Woody, that makes you a pedophile in my book


I'm ready to get home.  Even if it means I go back to my previous role as a vending machine and coordinator of rides and social activities and laundry.  I'll be able to sleep in my bed and shower in my presumably still dirty bathroom and see my kids and go see Breaking Dawn.  (Even though I found out that Oldest Daughter saw it today without me, and I forgive her even if she cheated on us.)  I'm looking forward to it.

Hooker Adventures

Last week I attended a hooker convention. You know, my kind of hookers – the classy kind. I am, after all, based in the Quad Cities, home of Fred Garvin, male prostitute.









We departed Wednesday morning from the Quad Cities on a flight to Detroit, Rock City. After a delay on our flight, we only had a 45 minute layover in Detroit to make our flight to Baltimore. I don’t check bags because I don’t want my luggage lost, so I’m hauling a 40-pound carry-on behind me as we are running to the gate to make the flight. We get to the flight and since everyone else has already boarded, there is no room for carry-ons, so they check my bag. (Of course, it got lost.) That flight is delayed, so we are certain we’ve missed our flight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We get off the plane in Baltimore and again run through the airport. When we arrive at the Cape Air gate, the friendly counter person is speaking into a walkie talkie, saying, “I have the two passengers from US Air, we are en route” and she rushes us past security. Wow, this is some service! Then we see the plane:

And realize that we make up 30% of the passengers on the flight. Yes, that is the pilot, on the plane, washing the windows. Here is a shot from my seat:

The pilot is on the left, one of the passengers is on the right. At this point, my knees are hugging the sides of the pilot’s chair. I could’ve reached up and bear hugged him. Except that I was busy telling Jesus how sorry I am for everything I’ve done lately because we were flying through a solid wall of fog and hitting massive turbulence. When we landed, all seven passengers applauded.


At the hooker convention, I was equally celebrated and berated by all varieties of older women. I managed to break out with an impressive bout of adult acne, and did burn the side of my face with a curling iron because in my heart I am forever 13. I was unable to drink because the co-worker who accompanied me does not drink, and it really is not fun to drink alone, or to be watched peevishly while one drinks. I was also out of Prilosec, which is essential to my drinking.  So I suffered, parched.  Sure, a hooker convention SOUNDS fun, but it's really standing for 10 hours saying the same thing over and over and over and your face and back and legs hurt when you are done.  And then there is paperwork.

This is what I sell:

Five hundred smacks, baby.  And it doesn't do your dishes.  Plus, there are 10 blades, at $149 each.  That's a lot of Diet Coke and peanut M&M's.

 Meanwhile, my family was doing all kinds of great things while I was gone. Oldest Daughter was in her Hauntcert, which is an orchestra concert where the kids dress in costume to play creepy songs. OD rocked her kangaroo outfit. Then Youngest Daughter attended her Fall Festival (a.k.a. Halloween party) and went as a Beauty Queen.

I want to tell you more, but it is 10 p.m. and I just finally got the kids tucked in (playoff game tonight for HS football) and Current Husband just got home and expects to be spoken to (which is not code for sex, literally, we have to schedule conversations anymore), so I will leave you with this bit of entertainment.  It is off of the upcoming album by The Black Keys, and I am almost as excited for that  new CD as I am for Breaking Dawn to come out.  ALMOST.



 

Get In The Van. I Have Candy. The End of the Road.

Well, Gentle Readers, it is here.  The day I finally stop talking about our trip.  But I only get 10 days of paid vacation, so it's sort of a big deal in my life.  I love my job and all, but who wouldn't rather get paid to stay at home and pursue their own interests?


Like stalking musicians.


So we're in Nashville, and I've cased The Black Keys off-the-grid recording studio.  As we're walking away from the front door, a dude with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck and black skateboarding clothes pulls up at the front of the studio and gets out with a computer case and two bags of groceries or takeout food.  He is punching a code at the front door as I'm begging the kids to go back with me and get a pic taken with him, but the kids are all, "You're going to get arrested!  Let's get out of here!" and I informed them that they were never going to be good stalker groupies if they don't work their way up the food chain in these situations, but by the time I finished my life lesson the guy was in the building.  We left the studio and went to the diner that Dan Auerbach said in an interview that he frequented three times in 24 hours - Brown's Diner.  They had cold frosty mugs of beer and delicious burgers, but no blues-rock musicians.

Photo of me, creeping on Dan's lunch spot.

Our stalking was not yet finished.  We moved on to Third Man Records, owned and operated by Jack White of the White Stripes, Rancotuers, and The Dead Weather.

Jack and Meg White, when they aren't busy being humans.

The kids were more comfortable here because this studio is open to the public.

Making rock star faces after buying stickers

 for their cello cases.  Because we are cool like that.

We also visited Ryman Auditorium, where Minnie Pearl, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline performed.  I'm not a country person or a Grand Ole Opry person, but you can't deny the history in this building.  Kudos to Nashville for preserving it after the Opry moved to their new location on the outskirts of town.

YD now wants to get a new dog and

name it "Minnie Pearl".  I'm sure MP would

have been honored.

Nothing else too exciting happened after that, except that I found some awesome stuff in the funky shops along the Vanderbilt University area, we had amazing burgers at Fido's, and the houses in the historic, Civil-War era neighborhoods are amazing.  Oldest Daughter noticed me looking around the city, falling in love, and on the last morning she put her foot down.


HER:  "No.  It's not going to happen."
ME:  "What!!?"
HER:  "We are not moving to Nashville.  I see you thinking it."
ME:  "I don't know what you're talking about.  But it IS a cool city."
HER:  "I am starting high school this year.  If you wanted to move, you should've
done it in 2009.  You have me, and then two more kids to get through high school, so you are stuck for the next 10 years."
ME:  "Well I'm 42 and I don't have as many years left in my life, so if I want to move, we move.  I'll take you to some nice concerts.  WILCO is playing next week."


Would I move to Nashville?  In a heartbeat.  But of course I was thinking about the kids and their schools and friends, etc.  But there is something about your 14-year-old telling you what you can and cannot do that makes you get a little obstinate.  Because she's right - I'll be 52 before I can move without it adversely affecting anyone.  I'm starting to see why my parents put a hot tub room in my bedroom three weeks after I left for college.

Dinner on the ride home.  With a side of Dramamine.

We sweated, we stalked, we lived to tell about it.  The kids got in the van.  They had candy.  They threw up.  But not in that order.  I hope everyone got a chance to take a little summer getaway.  I am now officially done talking about this trip.


The End


p.s.  It is August, which means it's the Second Anniversary of this blog.  Last time I had a giveaway and then didn't get the prize out for seven months, so that was a personal FAIL.  This year, since I have been slacking a bit blog-wise, I am going to post every day this month.  I didn't say they will be good posts.  This is definitely quantity over quality.  And I *might* end with a giveaway if I think of something good.  Thanks for reading, Wifers!

Get in the Van. I Have Candy. Part 3

Just to clarify, I wasn't really *that* tipsy last Thursday night, but I was tired and feeling my Patron.  Because I am old.


I didn't blog over the weekend because last weekend was the Bix 7 race in the Quad Cities, and RAGBRAI stopped in Davenport and the riders dipped their bicycle tires in the Mississippi.  Since I generally avoid exercise on the advice of my barista, I did not participate in the Bix with the 18,000+ runners, and I wasn't one of the nearly 300,000 people who have biked across Iowa.  However, my sister-in-law and her family stay at our house annually for the Bix, as they are exercisers, and I make guacamole and open a bottle of wine and listen to their tales of  people vomiting on the race route from overexertion.  You can see why I didn't make time to write.  Vomiting fascinates me.  So does exercise.  But I prefer to do neither.


Speaking of vomiting, I left you when our family had left Hotlanta and made our way to Nashville.  Many texted and asked if I was going to see Elvis.  That is MEMPHIS.  And of course, Graceland is my Mecca, so we'll be heading there in the next year or two.  How can the children complain about not getting to see Disneyland when they've been to GRACELAND?

 "We're caught in a (tourist) trap...we can't walk out..."

No, we went to Nashville.  And I have an announcement -

I have found the Mother Ship.

I'm in complete and total love with Nashville.  I love everything about it.  The beer, the heat, the cowboy boots, the inexpensive jewelry, the funkadelic shops, the awesome food, the slight drawl, even the Grand Ole friggin' Opry.  The whole thing.  I want to lick that town up the side of it's face.  And I sort of did.

We pulled up at our hotel, which I found on priceline because my sister works for Hyatt, but the entire Hyatt line was inexplicably booked, so I booked the best three-star hotel I could find.  We pulled up in Nashville and here is how we were greeted:

I don't believe that included the heat index.
Where the hell is Chardonnay Tony when you need him?

I left the fam in the AC van and checked us in.  The front desk had two women working behind it.  One of them was busy with a police officer, who was loudly filing a report for something stolen from one of the rooms.  The other one was named Svetlana, and she was from Latvia.  I know this because her nametag said "Svetlana, I'm from Latvia!" and she looked as though she didn't understand a damn thing that was going on.  She stood under two ceiling tiles that looked slightly moist and very bowed.  We stared at each other for a moment, she sighed, and decided she had to take me on.  We started our stilted dialogue.

"You have room....?"  Thirty minutes later, the police officer had filed his report for boxes of sample products worth about $35 each, stolen from room, and Svetlana and I had forged some kind of understanding that involved me surrendering my credit card to her and getting a key in return. 

I returned to the Van of Pain, and led my familia through the hotel lobby, where they looked around and assessed the scene.  As soon as they saw the pool, all was forgiven.  On a whim, I texted my friend Stan, who lives with his family in a bucolic Iowa town in which I used to live.  Stan is a lighting designer (did I mention a multiple-Emmy nominee?  I didn't?  oh.) who happens to do quite a bit of work in Nashville, so I asked him what we should see while in The Music City.  Stan texted back - "ME!"  Stanley, in the dream job of the century, had just flown in from London, where he is lighting the iTunes Festival.  He was in Nashville for one day only to light country singer Luke Bryan at the Grand Ole Opry for Jimmy Kimmel Live that night, and flying back to London the following morning so he could get back to light Coldplay and Linkin Park and such.  Loser, right?

Stanley and Oldest Daughter being Shiny Happy People.

In the happiest of accidents, Stan got our White Trash Express through the backstage guard hut and inside the GOO on the best backstage insider tour ever.  My children now despise me and CH, and are petitioning Stan for adoption.  Here are a couple of pics:

I told The Son to hit the power to the

entire building.  Good boy.

The lighting was perfect, the family unprepared.

The closest OD will get to being onstage

with Jimmy Kimmel.  For now.

My thoughts exactly.  It's like this guitar

WANTED me to steal it.

CH does a little camera work.

So much fun, best time ever.  We left our friend and the GOO behind us and drove the White Trash Machine to the hotel, where we spent the rest of the night in the pool, soaking our bunions.


The next morning was The Big Day.  It was time to teach the children how to be good groupies.  I am a hug fan of The Black Keys.

Yeah, these goofy looking guys from Akron who

have a fatass gritty sound.  Love them.

So Dan Auerbach, guitarist for The Black Keys, recently built a studio in Nashville.  I know this because I am a very thorough stalker.  And I found the address, even though the Keys would prefer it is secret, because it is not a public studio.  You might as well be waving a donut and a latte in front of my face, because there I was, parked in my Iowa minivan with my family behind the studio at 11:30 a.m.  The Black Keys are currently working on a new album in said studio, and took a few weeks off of touring in July to work on said album.  Here is what we are looking at from the van - back of the studio, barbed wire on top of the fences, and a lovely deck above where one might go to have a drink and a smoke in between takes.

Cool vintage green station wagon-type vehicle

with a brand new BMW X3 next to it.

But I didn't write down the plate numbers

because I have standards.  And didn't think

of it until we left.

While we are sitting and contemplating our next move, an Escalade pulls up to the keypad and rolls down the window, and a dude looking suspiciously like the producer Danger Mouse, who produced the multi-Grammy winning album Brothers for The Black Keys, taps in a code and waits for the chain link gate to open.  He stares at us.  We stare back at him.  He pulls into the compound and the gate closes.  The kids start getting nervous.  "Mom, we need to leave before you get arrested."  "No way, we are getting a picture in the front."

Security camera?  Check.

Prison lighting?  Check.

Large padlocked mailbox? Check.

Huge peephole in a steel door?  Check.

Mom climbing the chain link fence?  Undocumented.

It is 10:36 on a work night and I have to get up at 6:30, and my server is now rejecting new photos, so I promise I will finish this vacation series tomorrow and never mention my damn trip again.  Part 4, Conclusion, tomorrow night.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 68

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.



Today’s topic: Random Acts of Whoreness

Hello Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers who actually read this blog.  I've missed the three of you.  Well actually, I haven't, because I've been with you in Nebraska all week, Mom.  (Juanita and Lupe, you are on your own.)  This is why I can't breathe and am having the second-hand smoke tar scraped out of my lungs tomorrow.  But I know you crack the kitchen window open because you love me, Mom.

Not Whoreticulturey, but adorable, no?

OD and George the Superpet, ready for takeoff!

Last week, my mom flew from Padre Island to her summer home in Elkhorn, Nebraska, because who doesn't dream of a summer home in Nebraska?  This trip has been planned since March.  Mom arrived on Wednesday.  On Saturday night, Dad showed up somewhat unexpectedly, but not TOTALLY unexpectedly, because this is how he operates.  He makes a last minute decision and then drives 20 hours straight to "surprise" everyone.  We all know that he pees in a bottle when he makes these trips, but we have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about it in our family.  

True Story:  One time he traded in his pickup for a new one when he arrived in town and forgot to take the bottle out.  The great part is that he wasn't mortified that the service guys found a jug of his urine; he was mad because mom got that one from the hospital for him.  It was custom.  I think this goes a LONG way toward explaining why I turned out this way.  Sorry Gaga.  I wasn't born this way.  I was purposely molded into the dysfunctional person I am today.

This is a recap of my week in Nebraska, with random appropriate bits for Whoreticulture Friday.  You could say this week is the ADHD version.

Three hours into the trip on Interstate 80, fourth Hummer truck:
Current Husband:  "You ever think about driving that big rig?"
Me:  "I'm pretty sure that truck can drive itself."
CH:  "But I bet it would be fun...."
Me:  "Step on it and I'll see if the driver is interested in giving you a spin."

Dear Grocery Store:  Do not put bright pink signs on your produce that say, "NICE MELONS" and not expect me to pick them up and fondle them.  Or put the sign on myself.  Or make my teenage daughter take the picture.  Or not pull my shirt down so as to hide the jelly rolls I'm sporting.  It's businesses such as yours that force me to be immature.  The melons, by the way, are real, and they are SPECTACULAR.

Speaking of melons....

 This is Paige the OB-GYN, my high school friend who terrifies me with her stories about uteruses (uteri??) falling out of people who don't do Kegels (let's all do one together...clench...and...RELEASE).  We got together at our friend Meem's house in Omaha on the 4th, and Paige brought her Tit Coozie.  But apparently she skipped kindergarten, because she didn't bring enough for everyone.  Do you know me AT ALL, Paige?  I get to see my high school posse in November in Austin, Texas, and I expect a gyno-swag-bag.

(Running off to trademark that name.)

The trip ended with CH and I attending The Black Keys concert in Council Bluffs, Iowa.  CH and I arrived at the concert area to find that it was:

1. An outdoor venue.
2. With no seating.
3. And it had been raining all day.

So we bought a poncho to sit on the grassy knoll, and after four or five Blue Moons, the above picture is how I actually saw the concert.  (Don't look into the light, Carol Ann!  Run away from the light!)  No, I'm kidding, I spent the entire concert rambling drunkenly to CH about how awesome Pat Carney plays drums, and how amazing Dan Auerbaugh is on guitar, and singing loudly, and then, you know what's coming, DANCING. 

How do these two dorky-looking white dudes

from Ohio make such big, fat-ass blues?  How?

Then we went to the slot machines (big, big mistake) and then I made CH walk me to the band bus to see if I could snag a Key to get in a blog picture.  But it wasn't meant to be, because my Dad was there to pick us up, smoking and honking in his Buick Enclave in the casino valet driveway.  Did I mention that I'm 42, and I had my Dad drive me and my boyfriend to a concert, and then pick us up at midnight?  I felt like it was 1984 and I was seeing Def Leppard when the drummer had both arms.  THAT old school, baby.

And thus concludes this episode of "What I Did on My Nebraska Vacation".  I hope you all had a fantastic Fourth of July, and none of you had the firework I have re-named "The Dancing Grandchildren" due to it's sudden and unexpected shooting of fireballs straight out 50 feet in all directions toward the screaming and terrified children.  No grandchildren, grandparents, or animals were harmed in the lighting of said firework.

One more bit of randomness, not necessarily whorish in nature?  I have a whole new respect for Olivia Wilde, actress and apparent Honey Badger fan:

In case you missed it, I found this little gem of joy through The Bloggess, and it deserves a second viewing.  It just brings a smile to my face.  Honey Badger don't care, Honey Badger don't give a shit!  I need this t-shirt.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday Wifers, and have a great weekend!

UPDATE FRIDAY 3 p.m. - Many of my friends eschew the comments section, which never works and is impossible, and e-mail their comments to me.  This one, from a college friend who came home with me one Easter, was impossible for me not to post.  This is Hand To God true:

"You kill me! I choked on my pretzel laughing about your dad and his "custom jug!" I totally remember going to church with you, and your dad had a beer t-shirt on under his jacket!"

 Seriously people.  You can't make this shit up.

I Want To Be A Crappy Housewife

First I'd like to address how craptastic Blogger is - apparently very few people can actually comment on my blog, and I get e-mails all day from people who are like, "What the hell?  I had something really funny to say and I lost it!" and then I'm all "What the hell?  I want to read some funny comments and Blogger ruined it!" and oddly enough I'm tracing the latest issue with commenting back to when I took off the word verification. 

Then I started noticing the ads for the dating sites and Hot Mormons Who Want to Do You, and I realized that I no longer really control my own damn blog.   I notice that some days I have hundreds of page views, and no comments, which doesn't really add up.  If it's any consolation, there are days I can't comment on my own blog.  I'm looking for a new host site, so I can crash the whole thing and start over with just my mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers reading it.

Before we go any farther here, you really need to see this to make sense of it all:



Oh yes.  This is the kind of thing that just makes my day.
Thank God for Norwegian pop-star-wannabes.

There are so many layers of wrong here, but I'm going to tell you Tonje, from watching that video, I'm thinking your only three career options in life right now are:

1)  Badly kept and bitter mistress.
2)  Customer Service Rep
3)  Crappy Housewife

I can see that instead of being a crappy housewife, you prefer to be a crappy lip-syncher.  I particularly love the two douchebags who get out of the Corvette (when is the last time you saw a Corvette in a music video???) in their work boots and stainless steel chains and Fresh Prince hats, they are mouthing something no one can hear, and then give the worst rap ever recorded on You Tube in front of six of their closest friends.

Before you go getting all judgemental, I have news for you Tonje:

Being a crappy housewife is the
BEST. GIG. IN. THE. WORLD. 

Since long sentences are hard for you, let's bullet this one out:

• You don't have to show up at a crappy job.
• You don't have to shower that often.
• Fuzzy bathrobe and rollers, standard.
• Scotch on the rocks for breakfast.
• Dog shit on the floor? Leave it.
• Chicken pot pie is the best you can do.
• People EXPECT you to swear.
• Those dishes might actually wash themselves. 

It's my understanding that the expectation level of a crappy housewife is pretty low, but the rewards are very high.  I'm going to tell you right now that when Breaking Dawn came out, I spent two solid days drinking merlot, ordering pizza and shushing people, and it was among some of the best 48-hour periods of my life.

So Tonje, as your American friend, let me ask you to reconsider.  Being a crappy housewife might be just the ticket.  You are one unplanned pregnancy away from your dream job.

Hello? Is This Phil McCracken?

I think I may have mentioned before that my maturity level can dip to dangerously low levels.  Once, when Current Husband and I were out for drinks with another couple, they asked us what we thought our "spiritual ages" are.  I believe CH said his was somewhere around 30 - he may have been around 30 at the time - and I thought mine hovered somewhere closer to 17.  I'm going to be 42 in April, and yet, I still fall in love with bands, and have to listen to their music constantly; I eat complete junk with no regard to the fact that my metabolism has abandoned me completely; and I still laugh at farts and make sexual innuendos wherever I go.  Sometimes these traits are charming, but most often, they're just annoying to the adults in the room.  And I know a LOT of adults.

This is why I love me some Jon Stewart.  He has the intellect of an adult, but his sense of humor can frequently be of the nudge-nudge/wink-wink variety I love so much.  Last week, this segment was on his show, and I was literally crying with laughter.

The Daily Show - Harry Baals Government Center
Tags: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Oh Jon.  How I love you.

This bit reminds me of three things:

A)  I know someone whose maiden name was Sue Hunt, and she has a brother named Mike.  Really.  Perhaps it is his community center they speak of.

B)  In college, when I lived for a summer in the Lambda Chi fraternity house with a couple of my friends, a group of us stayed up one night making phone calls to people asking for Sharon Peters, Phil McCracken, and Anita Cox, just to name a few.  Oh, the hilarity.  I also remember a lot of beer being involved, a song written about a man who ate a whole shaved ham, and lots of pretend calls to 9-2-2, better known as the number for the WAAmbulance, as in, "I'm tired, I'm going to bed", and then "Someone call 9-2-2, she's bailing on us" and everyone says, "WAAAAAA!!!!!".  Honestly, that was the best summer of my life, because every night was just complete random hilarity.  And lots of beer - did I mention the beer?  I love my life now, but there is something special about being 21, single, responsibility-free and still believing the world is your oyster.  And thinking nothing of wearing a bikini. The last summer before reality set in.  *sigh*

C)  I owned a retail gift/home decor store for four years, and about six months after I opened, a woman wrote a check for her purchases.  Thankfully, I stuck it in the drawer without really looking at it, because that night when I was cashing out the drawer, I saw that her name was Sharon Peters.  And if I had seen that when she was standing there, I would have laughed out loud, and then probably tried to start a conversation with her about it.  I can't imagine that would have gone well.

I'm sorry about Friday's lack of Whoreticulture, I did have the Variety Show for our school that night, and it went about like you would expect a Variety Show to go...microphones running out of batteries, bad stage cues, and the finale song accidentally being switched to an instrumental CD instead of the one with the lyrics, so I had to walk on stage, interrupt the finale, and say we were starting over.  There goes the Oscar.  But the kids were cute and had fun, and the parents who volunteered on it with me were awesomesauce and they came over for a drink afterward to commiserate about our technical difficulties, so it all ended well. 

However, one tip to parents - when your child is in a show where multiple parents have put in numerous UNPAID volunteer hours, and your child hasn't shown up for ONE rehearsal?  And you admit you never checked your e-mail or your child's backpack for information about the show? Don't make your first comment to the coordinator, 10 minutes after the show has ended, about how you think it could be more organized and you'd like to offer some suggestions and bring a group of people in next year to help.  Because the coordinator JUST MIGHT be thinking about stabbing you in the calf.  That is all.

I'm going to try to post a video of The Son doing 4 minutes of Evolution of Dance in the next day or two, I think he is pretty awesome, but I'm slightly biased.  Happy Monday, and have a terrific week!

Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture minivan. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture. I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic. It's like having an actual conversation with me.


Today's music: The Black Keys

I hope everyone had a lovely weekend.  It's Sunday night here, and I find myself wanting one more weekend day, as always.  My plan for a perfectly balanced life includes working four eight-hour days and enjoying three day weekends every week.  In addition to that, my plan for a perfect marriage is broken up into a four-week plan - the first weekend, Current Husband leaves the house, the second weekend I leave, the third weekend we run away somewhere together alone, and the fourth weekend is family weekend with the kids.  This way, we each get alone time, and we get one-on-one time with the kids, we get a weekend to walk around naked and drink excessively, and one weekend where we soley do things as a family.  According to this plan, my life is completely unbalanced.  Unless spending 60% of my time either preparing meals alone in the kitchen or driving people around town is considered "alone" time and "one-on-one" time.

We are expecting another 8-10 inches of snow in my part of Iowa in the next two days, and frankly, I'm over it.  So suck it, Winter, move on back to Northern Canada or Russia where you belong.  It's days like these when I spend an unhealthy amount of time fantasizing I'm in a Corona commerical.  I can almost feel the sandy beaches.  Sigh.

I bought CH a snowblower two years ago because I was sick of shoveling the walks around our 1/3 acre corner lot, and somehow during the move, the snowblower was broken.  Now, when we try to start it, gasoline pours out of the back of it.  Somehow, this seems wrong.  And unsafe.  And even though CH's life insurance policy is paid up, he is like small furnace in bed and I would be very cold without him, and I need him to pick up the slack in driving people to activities, so I guess we're back to shoveling.  We should be getting that piece of equipment fixed sometime around Easter, when the lawnmower is scheduled to break down.

So.  The Black Keys. (Click there for the fansite.)  For the first time in a long time, I've found a band where I'm not having an adolescent crush on the guitarist.  And I STILL LIKE THEM.  Wow.  I've heard The Black Keys off and on for a few years, but really started liking them when I got the Eclipse soundtrack.  Make fun of those movies all you want, but their soundtracks kick ass.  Here is a video from The Keys that I love - the drummer has the glasses, the guitarist and singer is the ginger.




Okay, how adorable is that?  And funny!  And who can believe these two dorky white guys from Akron, Ohio can come up with that big soul bluesy sound? Their latest album, "Brothers" is up for a bunch of Grammys, and they are pretty cool. But of course, now that I like them, they are done touring because they're burned out. I am like the Grim Reaper for bands, once I like them, it's over. 

Whole album is great - I give it five whiskey sours.

In other music news, Nelly and 3Oh3 are playing within 3 hours of me, and I'm really tempted to go, but am afraid I will get punched or shot, and I'm too old for that shit.

In unrelated music news, Flavor Flav opened a new chicken restaurant nearby, thus proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction. I loved a comment in the local newspaper that went something like this:

"I watched some of his reality show, and I won't eat ANYTHING Flav has touched." 

Happy Monday, have a great week!

UPDATE:  NPR's Teri Gross AND Stephen Colbert are totally copying me.  Get original, people!  Click here for more Black Keys info from the poseurs...

OD's Mom Has Got It Goin' On

Okay, not really.  But I like to remember a time when I might have had it goin' on. 

After I posted the video for the song "Animal" by Neon Trees last Friday, Current Husband had one of those rare moments when he surprises me.  In a pleasant way, even, which is a double bonus, because the unpleasant surprises exceed the pleasant ones.  I give you his penchant for jalapenos.  Unpleasant surprises.  But I digress.

CH came into our room with his laptop and made an announcement.

CH: "Hey, you know that band you like, Neon Trees? They're playing at Ribco Tuesday night.  Wanna go?" 
ME:  "Um, yeah!  But why do you want to go, CH?  You get annoyed in packed bars."
CH:  "Because it would be a fun date night."
ME:  "Whoa there, padre!  Oldest Daughter would kill me in my sleep if I did this show without her."
CH:  (sighs.) "Okay, get three tickets."
ME:  "You're all full of crazy if you think we can take OD and not take The Son.  They're both into music."
CH:  "I suppose now you're going to say we have to take Youngest Daughter because we can't take the other two and leave her."
ME:  "What's wrong with you?!!?  I'm not taking my 7-year-old to a bar!"
CH:  Walking away shaking head.  "You do what you want."
And this, my friends, is the line that ends most of our conversations.

We found one of those perfect solutions for the night - we have some friends who have three children who are the same gender and general ages, so the mom came with us and her OD and Son, and their dad stayed home with our YD and theirs.  We got to the bar and got our Over-21 bands, bought the girls concert t-shirts, and found our first round of beer for the adults and water for the kids.  The place was pretty packed, and there were two opening acts - one with the word "Giants" in the name, and they were pretty good, and then New Politics, which I have to say I hadn't heard of because I'm 41 and listen to NPR when the kids aren't in the car.  New Politics was like a blend of Nirvana and The Sex Pistols, and I couldn't believe they could get as much sound out of a guitar and drums and a singer as they did. 


The lead singer, David, was very theatrical and animated on stage, and can stand on his head for long periods of time without hands.  The Son was a little fascinated with him.  After their act, The Son and I went to talk to David, and he was super surprisingly nice to my son, considering he's a punk rocker, and then David signed this memento for The Son, which is now hanging in his room:

Violators will not be asked to leave. 

They will be ejected.

Do two wrongs make a right, people?

Our viewing position at the show was toward the back and to the side, against a brick wall.  The two teenagers had already broken away from us and were angling their way up to the stage where all of the other potential groupies were gathering. 

We kept lifting up the two boys so they could see, and then one extremely nice guy in front of us got a barstool so the boys could stand up on a rung to see the bands.  Earlier, I noticed there was a couple in their 50's sitting at the table near us, and there were two unused barstools under their table.  It was between bands, and the boys were sick of standing, so I asked if they could sit on the two barstools.  The woman said, "Sure, but don't move them, and we have people coming so we'll need them back when our people come."  Fine.  I have saved a seat before in my time.  The boys sat, but the SECOND one of them stood up, her husband threw his jacket across the chair.  Um, don't worry, my 11-year-old isn't going to pee on it OR fistfight you for it.

Two hours later, NOT ONE PERSON had sat on those barstools.  It was about 10 p.m., and Neon Trees had just taken the stage.  We had one barstool that the nice man got for one of the boys.  I leaned over and asked the woman, "Can I use one of these barstools?" She looked at me, all exasperated, and said, "I guess, but don't move them from this table."  By this time, Mommy had finished her third Blue Moon, and manners were taking a nosedive on the list of priorities.  So I said, "REALLY!?! Because I haven't seen ANYONE sitting on these barstools, and you've been reserving them all night." And she said, "The people they are for are right there!" and pointed off to the huge sweaty crowd.  I gave her my BITCH look and said, "Whatever. That's pathetic." and walked off.  OOOOHHHH.  I showed her!  "Whatever" is always the best comeback.  However, I did get have CH get a picture of her to humiliate her on my blog, so the three people who read it could get as outraged as I was.

See all of the barstools around her? 

This is during the headlining act,

three hours after they sat down. 

I wish early incontinence and thick

black facial hair upon this woman.

After Neon Trees finished, the other mom, I'll call her Neen, and I decided to use the bathroom while waiting for the band to come out.  We were in the stalls when this group of drunk bottle blondes came stumbling into the bathroom, talking about ass-grabbing Tyler from Neon Trees and singing Animal at each other's weddings.  Then one of them said this:
"Oh.My.Gawd. did you see the KIDS out there?  A couple of those kids are my students! I mean, like, what kind of parents bring their kids to a BAR? Like, why are there KIDS in here?"

Oops.  Perhaps, Ms. Student Teacher, it was the sign that said "ALL AGES WELCOME" on the poster?  Maybe I brought my children because they play piano, cello, and drums, and they are way into music and I thought it would inspire them as musicians?  Nah.  It was totally so the girls could have tequila shooters and the boys could fantasize about the two goth girls making out right next to them, and I could get out of the house.  I also take them to my meth dealer's lab when I'm low on product.  SO, when I walked out of the stall the same time as Neen, and we looked at each other and laughed a little bit, I turned to Blondie and said, "WE are the parents who bring their 11-year-olds to concerts!  We are the bad parents!  Who-hoo!" and fist pumped as we walked out of the bathroom. 

With the guitarist from Neon Trees,

doing our rock star hands. 

See you at conferences, teachers!

(NOTE: The teachers were NOT from our school. 

I love our teachers, really, I do.)

We got home at about 11:30, tired, hoarse, a little hard of hearing, but happy.  It was a great night out at the bars with the kids, stalking musicians.  I'm so proud. The torch has been passed. 



It's the Happy Bloggyversary Giveaway Post!

Happy Bloggyversary, Wifers!

It all started a year ago on September 1...A Day in the Wife was born on Blogger! 

My first post was the beginning of my Blogger life, so I decided to commemorate the great poet of our time, the one in spangly tops and tight lycra pants, the one who told the tale of immigrants on the boats and on the planes, comin' to America...the one, the only, Neil Diamond.    Neil was with me when no one was...from 0 followers, when no one Brought Me Flowers, up to 202 one year later, when you turned on your Heart Light.  Hello again, Hello, Wifers.  Because do I have a deal for you!

Introducing the Happy Bloggyversary Giveaway!

"Oooh, oooh, what can I win Julie?"

Well let me tell you what will be included 

in this ADITW commemorative prize package:

1. A copy of "Good Enough to Eat" 

by Stacey Ballis (have you pre-ordered your own copy yet?  

Only five days left...)  One of the best prizes, really.

2. A copy of "Bitter is the New Black" 

by Jen Lancaster so you can start 

your own stalking adventure!

Also an excellent prize.

3. "What happens tonight goes on Facebook tomorrow" napkins, 

regifted from a friend.  I think they are so funny 

that I can't bear to break them open, so they must be shared.

4. One pound of Starbucks coffee, from one junkie to another.  

 I personally recommend Komodo Dragon, but to each her own.

5. A "French Toast" bread press, 

cousin to the Holy Toast press featured on this blog

6. A framed photo of George the Superpet, 

complete with a creepy lock of fur.

7. A framed companion photo of Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein.

8. A custom-made evil mural by Youngest Daughter.  She will cut you.

9.  A "mix-tape" (on CD) of songs featured on the blog, 

including songs by Ok Go, band of my 

adolescent music crush Damian Kulash.

10.  Inclusion on my 2010 Christmas card list, 

where I list our failures and disappointments for the year.

(Above is 2004 Christmas card pic)

11.  Anne Taintor postcard magnet.

12.  Assorted other items I may be trying to get rid of
 

13.  Things I might have stolen

"Julie the Wife, how do I get involved in this 

ridiculously bad giveaway?"  I'm glad you asked!

Here is how it works:

One grand prize winner will receive all of the above items.  One second place winner will also receive copies of the Stacey Ballis and Jen Lancaster books.  Both winners will be featured in a phony blog written about their cross-country adventure taken last summer in their convertible 2008 VW bug, or their slumber party with Alice and Rosalie and Bella, or their Christmas with Chuck Norris, or an equivalent story.  The contest is open from this very second until midnight on September 15, 2010 CST.  Prizes will be sent by September 30.

How do you play?

Every comment posted between now and September 15 on either the A Day In The Wife blog or on the ADITW Facebook page gives you one entry.  Get a new follower of ADITW on Facebook or the blog and have them comment that you sent them, and you will get three entries.  I will record the drawing of the names and post the video on You Tube, embedded on the blog, so you can see my surprise and joy at the names drawn.  My attorney will be present at the drawing so it seems legal and aboveboard, but we might be enjoying a glass of wine, which negates the legitimacy but creates a sense of occasion.  Only one comment per day will count toward the contest, but I always love to hear from you.

Beyond the contests and all of that sort of hullaballoo, let me take a moment to thank you all, dear readers, for this bloggy adventure.  It has been fun seeing your names pop up on the comments and gathering the flock.  You have weathered the best of posts and the worst of posts.  You have stumbled drunk with me to see Jen Lancaster and watched my daughter puke on my feet.  You have endured FORTY Whoreticulture Fridays.  It is these things and more that, in the immortal words of James Taylor, make me want to STOP.  And thank you, baby.  Happy Bloggyversary!  Thanks for reading!

Smooches and inappropriate innuendo to you all,