Happy Mother's Day, Wifers!

I'm one of those people who never really thought much about having kids.  I didn't particularly enjoy babysitting, nor was I that great at it (but I did like babysitting you, Jason and Little Julie!) and I didn't really aspire to be a mother at any point until I was pregnant with Oldest Daughter.  Honestly, that was kind of an oops after a night of drunken ribaldry with Current Husband, just before our first anniversary, but I sort of rolled with the punches.  And then she was born, and DAMN.  She was pretty cute.  And I loved holding her and taking pictures of her, and I GOT it.  I went on to be a mother of three, plus a sweet baby we would've called Adelaide that I miscarried, and even though I don't know how GOOD I am at it, I really get a kick out of my kids.  They are smart and funny and interesting people, sometimes in spite of me, and I am so incredibly blessed every day to have them in my life.  Even when I'm yelling at them for being late or not telling me about an event at school or not doing their homework, I still know.

My people.  First two rows. 

Always a fun ride.

Today was just awesome - I slept in shamefully late, and got gifts from my peeps:  A fleece sock monkey blanket from OD that she made herself, a free and complete cleaning of my office from The Son (which I desperately needed), and a metal Bloggess-like rooster from Youngest Daughter, and a Starbucks gift card from CH.  Best gifts ever.  CH took us all out for breakfast.  We came home and they helped clean the house for an hour, and then they let me direct all of them in gardening and yard work and fetched a few Blue Moons for me.  Our neighbors had us over for an awesomely delicious and fun meal, and then, there was pie.

Absolute bliss.

Who knew when I was 23 that this would be the type of perfect day I would crave, but so it is.

Happy Mother's Day, I hope your day was fantastic, whether you are a mother or you just have a great one!

Glass Half Full, Carton Empty

Last weekend, I awoke and shuffled into the kitchen to make people breakfast.  (Two thought simultaneously went through my head as I typed that - 1) "Every day I'm shuff-uh-lin" and 2) the frontier wives who prepared the thresher's dinners in Little House books.  They seemed like tired women.)

So I make the coffee first, because when you are on an airplane and you're going to crash they very specifically point out in the safety videos that when the oxygen masks drop, you should put yours on first and THEN the child's, because you have to be alive to keep them alive.  Coffee comes first.

I made a move to four different breakfast staples, all with the same result.  Exhibit #1:

I go for the obvious choice - Eggo waffles.  This makes it seem like they are getting a treat without me doing much.  Who can resist the warm buttery syrupy-ness of an Eggo waffle??  But there was no "Leggo my Eggo" in my house, because SOMEONE ate the last one and put the damn box back in the freezer.

I move on to cereal.  Not as impressive, but hey, they'll eat, right?  Box #1 - EMPTY.  Box #2 - EMPTY.  Seriously.  WTF, Family?

Maybe we'll just have toast for breakfast.  Toast and some nice cranberry apple juice, so we can carb up and prevent urinary tract infections, two birds dead.  Oh, but wait.  Someone put the juice back in the fridge, EMPTY.  Not even the crafty "oh there's enough for half a juice glass for someone, I'll put it back".  It was completely empty, no backwash, no nothing.

I stood there for a moment while I did my angry cartoon character imitation.

The thought bubble on this is not yet rated, but is surely inappropriate for delicate ears.

Then I had my coffee and stared at the empty boxes and changed into this:

Because honestly people.  How do you lecture kids on THROWING AWAY THE BOX WHEN IT'S EMPTY?  We all know how it's going to end.  I'm explaining things slowly and loudly, as though I'm talking with foreigners who don't know English, but no matter how loud or how slow I may speak, they just aren't going to get it.  They are going to look at me with the "When is she going to STOP?" face, and look at each other and roll their eyes and hope I don't catch them.   (You'd BETTER hope I don't catch you!)  These children are 15, 12 and 9.  How will they ever have jobs or pay taxes or get themselves to a dentist regularly if they can't throw away the box?  These are the issues I grapple with on a daily basis.  This must've been covered in the 8 a.m. classes I missed in college.

As a side note, take a look at my iPod:

Whenever Oldest Daughter is in the kitchen, she brings her iPod 4th gen 8 gb down, removes my old grandma iPod from the speaker, and plays her music, which is fine.  Until she leaves the kitchen and leaves Grandma laying on the counter to collect toast crumbs up in her craw, and then perhaps she won't play someday.  Put my iPod back in my iPod player, dammit!  Do you know how long I waited for the Beatles to be on iTunes!?!  Have some respect!

Do your people leave empty boxes everywhere?  Because I'm about to call the ACME company and order some kind of elaborate trap for the next person who leaves one in the cabinet.  I'm sure it won't end well for me, but at least I'll have done SOMETHING.

And Mom?  I'm sorry for when I surely did this to you.  You are a saint.

Last One in Single Digits

WARNING:  Anyone who lives in the Quad Cities and sees me coming should politely find something to do in the opposite direction.  I am scheduling a nervous breakdown for next week.   Unless you have a lovely chardonnay or some Xanax or a minivan with a full tank of gas and you're dying to drive kids around, and then I beg you to run toward me.  RUN, FORREST, RUN!  Run into the light!

"Oh Julie," you say.  "Quit yer whinin'!"

POP! That is the sound of me smacking you sort of hard and then saying I was kidding.  Trust me, I KNOW I'm whining.  I've always maintained that I was built to handle the responsibilites of a 27-year-old, maximum.  Right now I'm juggling some priceless Wedgewood china, previously owned by George Washington, all coated in the Ebola Virus, and I know one or more pieces is going to hit the ground and shatter into a million little priceless irretreivable shards and kill all of mankind, and I don't know which one yet, so keep juggling, keep juggling, keep juggling...There are FOUR STRESS POINTS right now in my little life, and I think a number of you mom-types are going through similar scenarios:

1.  THE DRIVING SCHEDULE

Here was our schedule Monday night: 
4:45   Get home from work
5:15   Leave with The Son, his bass, and Oldest Daughter's cello in van.
5:30   Drop Son at string lessons, drive to high school to get
         Oldest Daughter from musical practice.
6:00   OD in cello lesson, Son comes out.  Current Husband meets me in parking lot
         with Youngest Daughter.  YD gets in my car, Son gets in CH car to be driven
         to baseball practice.
6:30   OD leaves cello lesson, drive back to high school to drop her at musical practice.
7:00   Arrive home.  Carry instruments in.  Feed YD.  Let George the Superpet out.
7:15   Let GTS in, put YD and piano bags in car, leave for piano lessons.
7:30   Drop YD at piano, go shop for YD birthday gifts.
8:00   CH takes Son to piano from baseball practice.  Picks up OD from musical practice.
8:30   I pick up The Son and YD from piano, go home.
8:45   Start homework, showers, etc.
10:45  Think "What The Hell Just Happened?"  Assess what can change. 
           Determine nothing can.  Count days until musical is over.  Throw up a little in my 
          mouth.  Take a Prilosec and eat Tums.  Sleep fitfully, dream of dogs on skis.

So because of the high school musical, coupled with the fact that no children drive, our lives have been a little chaotic lately.  Plus, we have three children in three levels of school - elementary, middle, and high school - and this is the time of year when all the shit goes down.  Conferences. Scheduling classes. Solo festivals and concerts to determine what chair you get next year. End of year picnics/festivals/fundraisers/volunteer opportunities.  Sign up for the camps you need to do during the summer. Bleh.  It makes me want to eat Lucky Charms on my mom's green and gold velvet couch and read a Nancy Drew book and imagine what it will be like to get my period someday.

2.  FOREGOING DIET COKE

What in the name of Baby Jesus was I thinking?  This is not the time of year to go on the wagon.  But in the wrestling match between my now-insecure colon and Diet Coke, the colon won.  I am now nearly 72 hours soda-free, and I've never wanted a beer and a smoke more.

3.  TODAY IS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY

Nine years ago I was 4 days overdue with my third baby.  We lived in a small town, and I owed a gift shop, so everyone knew I was overdue.  I would waddle down the street and people would yell things at me like, "Eat Eggplant Parmegiana!" or "Watch the movie Chicago!" or "Drink Raspberry Tea!" or "Try Nipple Stimulation!".  I'm not kidding.  So on April 11, 2003, I was sitting on the couch eating Eggplant Parmegiana with Raspberry Tea watching the movie Chicago and giving myself purple nurples when my water finally broke.  Then CH and I were almost hit by a drunk driver going the wrong way on a one-way street into Iowa City en route to the hospital, because the bars were closing.  And then I got my first epidural, thank you God.  Little MuMu Kowski was born the next morning, April 12, bright and early and on her own terms.  Seeing this sweet little muffin turn nine, and knowing it's my last year with a child in a single-digit age, is hitting me kind of hard today.  I took an hour off work and took her into school with her butt-ass-ugly "brownie kites" she wanted me to make, and CH and I took her to lunch at Wendy's today (no Diet Coke!  AAAAHH!), and tonight she wants spaghetti and meatballs and she'll open some Lalaloopsy stuff, and I know this is all so fleeting.  What a cutie patootie.  I already miss her and she's still around for another 10 years.  Do you ever stare at your kids and think, "I HAVE to remember this moment!" like I want to remember their voices and the feel of their little hands holding yours or the smell of their hair...  Jesus, I'm going to cry.  WHERE IS MY DIET COKE!?!?

4.  I'M TURNING 43 NEXT WEEK

and my face is melting off and my middle is getting thicker and my varicose veins are really putting down some roots and I have acid reflux and apparently some up-and-coming digestive issues and I can't just drink and eat whatever I want to anymore and my hips hurt in the middle of the night and I'm forgetting shit all the time and I'm tired but I can't sleep, and I'm constantly bitching in my head (and on my blog, you're welcome!) about how busy I am, and I feel like I'm running faster and faster on a treadmill and even though I run faster I'm not going anywhere, and I know these kids are going to be out of the house before I know it (three years, it begins....) and I'm going to miss them so much it makes my gut hurt (or that's the Diet Coke) but I can't wrap my head around it because I'm just DRIVING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME!!!!  And I've stopped drinking Diet Coke!  And my colon is occasionally exploding!

In sum?  Happy Birthday YD, I need a Diet Coke, and for my birthday?  Baby you can drive my car.

And baby I love you.

I'm a Helicopter Mom and I Can't Get Up

Today my kids all started Spring Break, which honestly just makes me jealous of them.  I want a week where I get to sleep in and have no responsibility what.so.ever.  We just took our Disney trip, so vacation days are a little precious, and therefore, I am working next week.  Oh, to be a kid again.  (Except be of legal drinking age.  And past the acne crap.  And able to swear and own a dog.  Adulthood does have its benefits.)

Oldest Daughter, who is a freshman in high school, has other plans.  Today, she left on a Fine Arts Department trip to New York City, which I really wish I was on.  Over the next five days, the group is going to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, 30 Rock, Times Square, Ground Zero, Wall Street, Broadway, and they will see a show and watch the NYC Philharmonic, and then she took her cello because they get a clinic with the Philharmonic.  Pretty awesome trip.  I grew up in Nebraska in the 70's and 80's, where our idea of a field trip was Omaha, Lincoln, or if you were really crazy, Kansas City.  Needless to say, I've never been to New York except to fly over it and spend eight hours stuck in La Guardia Airport. *le sigh*

For the past week, people kept asking if I was nervous about her going.  I even had someone mention how they couldn't do it because they've heard about too many fatal bus accidents with student groups (Um...THANK YOU?!?)  But I was totally not nervous about her going at all, just really stoked that she was doing it.

Until today, when I went a little tiny bit Womb Ranger on her.

We drove to the 3 p.m. student meeting before the buses took off at 4 p.m.  While the teachers and chaperones are making their announcements, I'm looking at the other kids.  They have pillows.  They have water bottles.  They have snacks.  OD wouldn't let me equip her with these things.  She said they would be a pain and in the way.  I insisted.  She dug in.  I finally caved and thought, "Whatever, it's your hunger pains and cramped neck."  But at the meeting, my palms started sweating and my heart started pounding and I  leaned over to her and whispered, "You NEED a pillow and snacks.  Can I get them for you?" and she said, "MOM.  NOT. AGAIN.  Let it GO."  Then she gave me the Teenage Death Ray look.  I ceased pleading.

But I REALLY wanted to get them - it felt like I was putting her on a bus to NYC without supplies, like I was sending her off to be a teen runaway.  I could see that she was really eager to be with her friends, and for me to be on my way.  I hugged her and walked to the car and CRIED.  Because just one damn bag of Chex Mix would've made me feel like a good, providing mom.  Like she still NEEDS me.  And I know she does, but DAMN, kid, throw your old mom a bone!

Of course I texted her about two hours later.  "Do you wish you had snacks/pillow?"  She replied, "Yes on snacks, no on pillow.  I love you."  I was right about the snacks, and she still loves me.  I guess I need to just relax.  Where is the pamphlet at the hospital after labor about the emotional toll these kids take on you?  That bus better have a very good driver.  And maybe some Chex Mix to share?

Nervous tics and pinot grigio until Wednesday....

My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 3

So we are nearly done with the Disney thing, as I know you're all repeatedly bashing your head against your desk/laptop/toddler.

During the Wishes fireworks deal in Magic Kingdom at night, they project huge pictures on the castle during the show. OD and The Son had a picture as large as 2/3 of the side of the castle, but I didn't get the shot because I was on acid.

 
(WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A RANDOM TANGENT. The Son got an Iron Gym recently, and he just did a bunch of pull-ups on it, and then sauntered through the dining room where I am typing and said, "That's the most I've even been able to do. Puberty's hitting me like a freight train" and walked out of the room.  REMINDER - never mention the blog or anything in it in front of my kids if you know me - this happened recently and YD nearly gutted me like a fish.)

Getting ready to see Belle at dinner, after OD did her hair and makeup.

Ariel, the nicest princess of them all - the other princesses at Norway dinner were kind of bitchy. I know, standing and smiling for pictures will suck the sweet right out of you, but at $35 for a plate of the worst beef tips ever just to meet a princess, a little nice will go a long way. YD didn't notice - they were all wonderful in her estimation, so I guess it was worth $140 of bad beef tips.  (No.  Not really.)

Safari Daddy and Little Belle on the way to dinner  - Rock Star Moment.  Everyone walking by would say, "Well hello Princess!"  Hello, ego booster.

CH and I, a couple of cold Blue Moons in our hands, safari hat is off, and some of the best seats in the house for the Fantasmic show (thank you, Tour Guide Mike!).  This was our last night at Disney, and I'm a little verklempt thinking about it now.  So relaxing.  So warm.  So Not-Going-To-Work.  *sigh* On second glance, we both look a little high in this picture.  Which we are not.  Drugs are highly discouraged at Disney.


So now we come to the Low Point of our trip.  Leaving.  We got up at about 6:30 a.m. and took a cab to the airport.  Our cab driver texted and made calls while he was driving, drove about 80 mph, and by the time we got to the airport, YD was carsick.  We walked in the airport, and ran to the bathroom, and she threw up.  We gave her some Dramamine, which we planned on giving her for the plane ride because she gets a freaked out about that, and she threw that up.  And then another.  And then started telling me how now that she was throwing up, she just knew that it wouldn't stop and that it was going to happen on the plane and that the plane was going to be really bad and that she was sick and she just didn't think it was going to work out.  We left the bathroom and she threw up in a brown paper sack I had, we made our way back into the bathroom, and I am holding said bag in one hand and holding her hair back in the other, when I notice the brown bag is leaking on her back.  Oh Dear God.


I start freaking out because I can see that she is working herself up into a panic.  We MUST board this plane.  I am using my soothing voice, telling her how it's all going to be fine, and the Dramamine will kick in soon and she will feel so much better.  She tells me she is NOT going to be fine, and she is sick now and the plane is going to be awful and then she throws up again to let me know she is not screwing around.  I start persuading her that if she has a little bit of Sprite or ginger ale on the plane her stomach will settle down and she'll be okay!  I will buy her:  gum, a teen magazine with Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber in it, a stuffed animal, a pony, Justin Bieber, but we have to get on THIS PLANE! 


They are boarding our flight.  YD will not leave the bathroom.  She has dug in at stall #4.  She will not leave because she will not throw up on the plane.  I use the happy voice, I coax her out of the stall, I tell her it's in her head now, that she's got herself so worked up she is making herself sick.  We are in line to board, and she says, "Oh yeah, well I am going to throw up now" and grabs the (new) brown bag out of my hand.  She throws up.  I am a terrible mother, because I no longer feel bad for her, I'm just exhausted.  I say - really, I say this, and I'm not proud of it - "Go ahead.  Keep throwing up. Maybe if we're lucky you'll poop your pants, too."  She looks up at me.  I stare back at her.  We are both out of ammo.  We clean up and get on the plane. 

It's important to note that at this point, there is a woman on the other side of the planter at which we are parked and having our vomit discussion.  I know she hears the poop comment. A few moments later, I see her slowly turn her head, as in, "Oh my God, I HAVE to see the bitch who made the poop comment, but I don't want to draw her attention." 

YD gets an airsickness bag, I get a Bloody Mary.  She is asleep before takeoff, and I'm shaking with my new case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Curse you, texting cabbie!  We arrived at home in the Quad Cities without incident, and were greeted with great joy.

  And thus concludes My Affair With Walt Disney.  I love you Walt.  I'll be back.

George the Superpet misses me when I'm gone. Although he had fun at the neighbors with their two labs and small, spunky daughter.

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.

Hello Teen Daughter, Have We Met?

Honestly, I thought I was going to be an awesomely cool Mom of a Teen.

Really, I did.

Stop laughing.

We read and watch Twilight together, and share a crush on Edward.  We both love chocolate milkshakes and hanging out at Starbucks and crab rangoon.  We like SNL and Project Runway and the same music.  We're both sarcastic and curmudgeonly.  But lately, something has come between us:

You bitch.

I don't know exactly WHOSE estrogen is getting in the way.  On Saturday, I had her in tears in the morning, she had me in tears in the afternoon.  I can't tell you who was being unreasonable.  All I can say is that there was so much estrogen in the van that it smelled like cherry chip cupcakes and the Queen Mother and Summer's Eve in there.

This is just a sampling of the accusations flying around on Saturday:

1. I commented on one of her facebook posts and she deleted me.
2. She was 10 minutes late getting in the van when I picked her up at a friend's house.
3. She wouldn't help pick out a sweatshirt/Christmas present for her brother.
4. I mentioned facebook to her boyfriend's mother.
5. She says everyone in our family says she is angry and mean.
6. I pointed out that she is slightly angry/sometimes mean to everyone in the family.
7. She may have said we are the only parents who complain to their teens about scheduling their social lives better vis a vis rides to and from.
8. I might have mentioned that it is unfortunate she ended up with such assholes for parents.

And things really just deteriorated from there.  But on the screaming upside-down roller coaster that is parenting a teenage girl while going through peri-menopausal symptoms yourself, there are exhilirating ups, and there are terrifying downs.  We are back to being friends at the moment, but I can almost hear the chain pulling our car up the steep metal hill - chink chink chink chink chink chink chink - before we hit the top and go plunging downward again.  Perhaps over math homework or texting.  Or the lack of protein in her diet.  Or the windchill.  It could be anything, really.  But I'll take the moment of detente and relish it.

On a side note, she is having terrible cramps and such while enjoying the curse of Eve, and when she went to cello lessons tonight, her male cello instructor said, "You look like you aren't feeling well", and meaning to say something along the lines of It's the Season When People Start to Get Sick, she mistakenly said, "Well it's that time of the month!"

 

Awesome.  I bet he didn't criticize her playing AT ALL tonight.  Be safe, cello instructor.  These are trying times.

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.



 

Next To Last Day!

It's Day 30 of A Month of Blogging, and honestly I can't believe I did it every day.  I'm usually full of empty promises, made after a couple of glasses of wine, but here I am. Know why?  Do ya?  It's because I like you people I don't even know very well.  You make me laugh.  And that's why even though I can't exercise or diet or even get my kids to places on time, I've managed to blog for two years.  OMG, there's a lot of love on the Internet.  Some of it is love I don't want to know about.  Dirty love.  But not here.  This is good, clean, S&M-free love.  MOST OF THE TIME.  But when the leather chaps come on, I will beat the crap out of you, and you will LIKE IT, Wifers.

Did I just say that out loud?  I've had a beer, and I'm over 42, so all bets are off.

Oldest Daughter and I have an idea for a new CD - it's called "Your Mom Sings Your Favorites", and it's full of popular songs on the radio that I manage to butcher.  For example, Neon Trees' Animal - "Say Goodbye to my heart tonight!" which is actually "Take a bite of my heart tonight".  Or most songs by Gaga.  I manage to mess up a few words in those.  I told OD I'm gonna sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud, because I am 42 and I don't have to sing in tune OR know the words.  I've pushed three human beings out of my vajayjay and been a telemarketer renewing NRA memberships in 1985, so does messing up a Gaga song bother me?  Negative, Ghost Rider.

I took the day off tomorrow, as comp time for my week at the Hooker Convention, and I am so damn excited I can barely stand it.  I'm driving middle schoolers to school tomorrow, and then after 8 a.m. I am free to do what I wish until 1 p.m., because there is an early out tomorrow.  I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but I know it will involve Starbucks, taking off my bra, music blaring in the house, and George the Superpet staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

If you're in the area, stop by!

UPDATE:  I just posted this, and immediately the ads on Adsense changed to "Buy Leather Chaps!"  Everyone, go out and buy your leather chaps, on me!  Let's all be the dominant party on this blog!  It's now an S&M party!

Day 15 - First Day of School

Hello Wifers.

Today was a major accomplishment - I got three kids registered at, paid for, delivered to, and delivered from three different schools.  They had supplies.  They had clean clothes on.  Their teeth were brushed.  They ate lunch, they attended classes, and they lived to tell about it.  My only real glitch is that I am taking up pitchforks against the school bus barn, because busing is free to the high school for kids who live 3 miles or more from the school, but mapquest tells the school that my address is 2.98 miles from the school.  My odometer tells me I am 3.0 to the school from my curb to the parking lot on the most direct route.  But the school wants me to pay $50 each semester for OD to take the bus home.  The problem is that OD won't actually be taking the bus home - it takes the bus 1 hour and 15 minutes to get her that 2.98 miles each night, so I have paid a teenager to drive her home every day, but if that teen is sick or has an issue, then OD has an alternative way home, as I can't leave my hooker job to pick her up.  I know $50 isn't much in the scheme of things, but it's the principle.  The bus barn hasn't heard the end of The Wife.

At work, I packed for my hooker convention.  I have $40K of product packed in the back of a rented Mazda CX-9, and I found out this a.m. that the expensive wireless terminal my company purchased so I can take credit cards at these trade shows is corrupted and cannot be used.  Credit cards make up about 95% of my sales, so this will be a fun week.

It is 10 p.m. and I'm still not packed, and I'm leaving at 8 a.m. for my seven hour drive to Ohio to explain to a lot of hookers that I can't take credit cards, so I'm off to bed.  If I have wireless, I will be blogging tomorrow.  If not, I will write it on paper, copy it, and mail it to all of you.  I ain't quittin' you, Wifers!