Workin' For The Weekend

This post is a summary of How I Spent My Summer Weekend.

1. I left work at 5 p.m. Friday to hurry home so we could leave for Northeastern Iowa to stay with my in-laws. Naturally, we hadn't packed anything.  We were picking Oldest Daughter up from music camp at Luther College in Decorah the next day, and this was going to ensure that we were not late for her checkout from the dorm and got to her concert in time, because alas, we are perpetually late. (This one time, at band camp... oh how those words haunt me now. Movies about teenagers are funny until you have a teenager.)

2.  I brought a bottle of wine for my Mother-In-Law.  Since she was making dinner and is an all-around gem, I brought a good wine.

Mmmm.  Buttery deliciousness.  However, I think the gesture was lost when I drank nearly the entire bottle myself.  She already had a white open when I got there, and exercised restraint.  I haven't yet learned those kinds of skills.  I'm sure this is what she was dreaming of when she thought about her future daughter-in-law:  A skanky lush.  Forgot my Priolosec and guppy puked Sauvignon Blanc all night long.

3.  Went to Luther College to pick up Oldest Daughter and see her concert, which was pretty amazing, but I might be biased.  There is something surreal about picking up your oldest child from a college dorm.  I'm so not ready.  She took a movie-making class, and her short film played in the lobby, and then she performed in the senior orchestra.  How I ended up with klassy kids I shall never know.

Can you see her?  She's one of the 12 cellists.

4.  Drove home from Luther with all kids and OD's boyfriend in the van.  Radio played "Sweet Child O' Mine" no less than THREE times.  My family always re-enacts the scene from Stepbrothers when we hear this song (except for the part where CH would berate me) probably scaring the crap out of OD's BF.  If this doesn't drive the suitors away, nothing will.



5.  Spent Sunday doing almost nothing.  Slept in until 11 a.m. (that's right, almost NOON) because there was a sleep-inducing morning thunderstorm, got up to Current Husband's coffee and Mother-in-law's leftover cinnamon rolls, worked on the 1000-piece puzzle I started with the kids, read a little, did a little laundry, cleaned a little, went on a walk, did a little more puzzle with the kids.  Bliss.

Hope you had a great weekend, Wifers.  Here's to doing more of less.

Of Blogs and Birthdays and Baginas and Blow Jobs

Last week I will admit that I was a little bitter because I wanted to go to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference, which only happens every two years, and it was on my birthday, and was where I met some kick-ass bloggers last year, one of whom has a book coming out, Mommy Mixology, at http://www.muffintopmommy.com/.

So Janet of MTM went to the conference and is posting all kinds of cool stuff, and The Bearded Iris, whom I love, was also there and posting great stuff, and I'm all "Waaa, waaa, I didn't get to go to EBWW and it was my birthday and no one bought me a cake and I spent it attending OD's musical, waaa." Of COURSE I would rather have been at the musical.  Of course.  But it doesn't stop me from having one of those "But what happened to MY life?  MY interests?" moments.

Then I read The Bearded Iris' blog today and I'm even more pissed I didn't go because I'm afraid now I'm forced to stalk her until I meet her at a conference, because I think we are living similar lives and I need to get a DNA sample to see if we are related somehow.  Here is her blog post, read at will:  http://www.thebeardediris.com/  Here's the skinny if you don't have time to read it yet - her cover as a blogger was blown, and her son's friend told her son that he knew about his mom's blog.  The cold fear of every semi-anonymous blogger, including myself.

I love this photo at The Bearded Iris - she rocks it.

Her last two posts are near and dear to my heart, because I struggle with this very thing.  I started blogging about 12 years ago, so if I had stuck with it I would perhaps be able to live off of blogging and be home with my kids like I'd like to be, but I'm not bitter and that's what's important.  I was also a writer for a local newspaper and had an award-winning column called "Diary of a Mad Housewife."  At the time, it was okay to tell stories about how my daughter called it a "Bagina" and said nothing was EVER coming out of hers.  Or to talk about how my son thought our minister was YD's dad, or how my nursing boobs were hanging out at Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha at a tour bus stop, all because my kids were little and no one cared.  The only person I was embarrassing was myself, and I was (and am) okay with that.

A couple of years ago, when OD was 13, some moms of her friends were reading the blog, and one of them let slip something that was on a Whoreticulture Friday post.  It was fairly innocuous, BUT, I found myself thinking, "I talk about blow jobs.  Waxing.  Positions.  Farting.  Which teenager is going to completely out my kid at school over my blog because their parents let them read it?"  (THIS IS NOT A BLOG FOR ANYONE UNDER 18.  In case it was unclear.   Because you might think it's funny to share with your teen, but your teen may not have judgement or filters when talking to mine.)  But at the same time, teachers at all three of my kids' schools read it.  Some of their doctors read it.  My in-laws and parents and sister and CH's siblings sometimes read it.  Current Husband and many of his friends read it.  A local mom who hates my living guts for some still-unknown reason reads it to troll for information she can use to get other people to judge me.  It's a sticky wicket. 

Here's a freebie, judgey people - I'm showing off my melons in public again,

while forgetting to suck in my gut.  OD took this picture. Someone call the DHS.

Bloggers generally don't get paid.  I don't.  It takes one to two hours to write a post, which I try to do three times a week.  Because Blogger sucks, I rarely get comments or feedback.  I once got an extremely nasty comment from someone who said that I am a c*nt and they would let CH bend them over (stranger, or local acquaintance?  I'll never know.  C'est la vie.)  It's times like those, and the potential embarrassment factor to the kids, that make you want to quit.  When you stare at your computer screen and say, "Why am I even writing this damn blog for no one?" 

But in the slew of messages I got on my personal facebook page on my birthday, a few stood out as being blog-specific: 

• I was crying laughing last night catching up on your blog!
• Girl, we should SO be celebrating your day at Erma this year :( Hope you have a most AWESOME year, Friend! Get that novel out this year--this is your year! Cheers to you!!!
• Can't tell you how often I read your observations and laugh so hard that I can hardly breathe
• Thank you for making me laugh every single day! :)
• Happy birthday sweetie! Wish we were celebrating at Erma!!! :(
• Hey you hot piece of sass - Happymuthafahkinbirthday!!!!! xoxox

That last one was written by The Insatiable Host, Danon, my favorite Canadian.  We "met" through blogging, and while I've never seen her face I can somehow hear her voice.  Two of the comments are from people I've known for over 20 years.  Two are from people I met at Erma Bombeck in 2010, and two are from people I've never met in person.  I also have a terrific posse of friends who frequently support me and talk up the blog - I've always been a storyteller, and I've threatened to write a book forever (just like every third person on the street does), and that support from friends new and old?  That is the payment.  That is the reason for blogging.  You will all never know how much that support means to me - it keeps me writing.  I just hope the blog never exists at the expense of my kids.

I'd love to hear from other bloggers who have similar situations as Iris.  Do your kids' friends know you blog?  Do you blog under your real name?  Do tell.  I think Iris stirred something up that has been on the minds of bloggers for a long time.

Hump Day and Kardashians

Hey Wifers, what's up?  Say hello to your mother for me.

So it's Hump Day as I'm writing this, and honestly I don't have much going on, so I'm going to just recap today for you.  Since this blog is called A Day In The Wife, I like to occasionally throw in one that is an actual day in my actual life.  In sum, I'm trying to bore you to death.  Here we go:

6:21 a.m. - my clock says 6:21, but it is actually closer to 6:10.  I like to try and trick myself in the morning by setting my clock for a later time, but I know what the actual time is, so who's the fool now?  Oh.  It's still me.  Additionally, I push my snooze twice because I know my snooze gives me another 9 minutes per push.  If I push it twice, I will get up at 6:39, which is actually 6:28.  I get ready to take a shower, but wake The Son up and he has a fit because HE needs to take a shower, so I have a cup of coffee and make some lunches while he uses up the hot water.

7:36 a.m. on my bedroom clock, which is 7:24 on my oven clock, which is 7:26 in my van.  We're late.  Anything before 7:26 is early, anything after is late.  I take five middle schoolers to school in the morning, and they like to be there a little early so they can hang out before school and find out what new drama is going on in the life of the American Teenager.  There is another parent who drives a big black Hummer with Iowa Hawkeye plates that, unbeknownst to him, races us to school every day.  We beat him there a lot, but today he beats us.  Damn it.  I'm very competitive with that Hummer.

7:48 a.m. on the van clock.  I get to work, unpack my stuff, get my coffee, and have a few quiet minutes to check my e-mail, voice mail, Facebook, blog, Twitter, and plan my day.  I have one direct report, she is almost always at least 15 minutes late, which is fine because she stays late too, but once she gets there, we all start talking.  I have GOT to find a way to break the talking.  It's not like I don't enjoy talking to her, but I can hear company money cha-changing in the background, and I feel guilty after about 10 minutes.

8 - 11:30 a.m. I deal with hooker issues.  I actually blog about rug hooking.  It is noteworthy that my rug hooking blog does not have a Whoreticulture Friday.

11:30 a.m.  I pick up Oldest Daughter's boyfriend's mom and we go to the high school to buy musical tickets.  I buy $120 worth of tickets.  I have just committed myself to 9 hours of "Anything Goes" in mid-April.  I hope anything goes, because by my third show I'm coming in sweatpants, flip flops and my carrying my full Snoop Dogg chalice.

12:05 p.m. - Drive thru at Taco Bell.  Take my first drink of Mountain Dew and smell my chicken quesadilla and wonder yet again why I can't lose any weight.  It just makes no sense.  Is that an extra taco in my bag? 

12:15 p.m. - Back at work.  I walk in and someone who is off the clock has pulled up a chair and is eating her lunch in my direct report's cubicle, who IS on the clock for another 45 minutes, so after 10 minutes of me and the two men in customer service having to listen to their personal conversation, I say in a sing-song voice, "Okay, time to go, she's still working for 45 minutes!" and they go silent and I'm sure making facial gestures about what a bitch I am, but honestly people.  Let's get back to work.  I'm her boss and you are flaunting it in front of me that you are monopolizing her time and keeping her from working.  You aren't the first, or the last, people to be mad at me today.

12:15 -4:45 p.m. - More hooker issues, including one person who orders product, tells me she is from out of town and will pick it up in our office on Friday, I agree, get off the phone, and realize we are closed on Friday.  I tell her if she calls me on my cell phone when she is done with her tax appointment in town, I will meet her to give her the rug hooking equipment on my day off because I AM A BIG FAT IDIOT WITH A SOFT SPOT FOR OLD HOOKERS WHO DON'T WANT TO PAY SHIPPING.

4:50 p.m. - Drive home, relish the silence.

5:00 p.m. - George the Superpet greets me at the door, shoves his snout in my crotch, and will not allow me to pass until his ears have been adequately scratched.  Walk in, set my stuff down, start making a delicious dinner of Pizza Rolls, along with yogurt with granola.  Seriously people, this is dinner lately.  CH is taking The Son to baseball practice, I'm taking YD to dance class, but we have to stop at the high school and pick up OD from musical practice first. 

6:00 p.m. - Picking up OD from practice when YD announces she has an upset stomach, and actually she has had one all day, and doesn't think she should go to dance.  (NOTE:  She didn't have any pizza rolls, lest ye think the Totino's did it!)  I sigh, say okay, and pick up my phone to text the friend who was meeting me out for an hour while the girls were in dance.  Sorry Friend!

6:30 p.m. - Go to grocery store because a few people are stopping over late tomorrow night for a quick drink.  Check out and see that out of my $200 grocery bill, $100 is for liquor and brownies.  Just the staples for Easter.

7:45 p.m. - Home.  Time to sign planners and homework showers and brush teeth and get ready to do it all again tomorrow. 

8:30 p.m. - Everyone is in their respective bedrooms, reading or studying, and YD comes back out to me.  She is holding an M Magazine, which features about 16 celebrity heads on it, like Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner and the Beebs.  I think of it as Junior People, and features a lot of Nick and Disney stars.  I never consider the articles.  "Mom.  I need to ask you a question, but don't tell Dad."  Okaaayyyy.  This is always tricky because CH and I make it a practice to tell each other everything.  It's less complicated than lying and I don't have the energy or the memory to do that anymore.  "Well, tell me what it is and I'll let you know if I can keep it a secret."  YD looks sheepish.  I look down and see a picture of the Kardashian sisters in her pre-teen magazine.  Is nothing free of the Kardashians? 

 "Mom...what's a period?"

Fucking Kardashians!!

I guess they are shilling for Kotex now.

So PLEASE, explain to my child how periods work.

And is that "Berlin Wall" supposed to be a metaphor? 

Why do you have a sledge hammer and 6-inch heels? 

In a red dress?  Are YOU the period Khloe?

9:30 p.m. - Because of the Kardashian sisters, my soon-to-be 9-year-old is now terrified of getting her period.  I know this is my own fault for not screening her M Magazine, which we buy for Victoria Justice and get a sneaky bitchy Kardashian.  It's like buying a Capri Sun juicebox for your child and finding out it's 10% vodka - you know it's not the BEST thing for her but you don't expect that crap in it.  So she's a little traumatized, and she will also never enjoy a raspberry-filled donut because I sort of used that as my metaphor for a uterus and the lining.  But?  A baby who developed in a raspberry-filled donut?  Would grow up to be the HAPPIEST ADULT EVER.  I wish I was in a raspberry-filled donut right now.  And obviously?  Don't mention this to YD.

10:30 p.m. - Take two Benadryl and finish Mindy Kaling's "Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?"  which is a funny title because it's what I always asked my friends in high school, and what actually happened in college.

11:00 p.m. - WHAT WILL PROBABLY HAPPEN: Go to sleep to fitful dreams that I have overslept and didn't set the alarm.  Wake up at 5:58 (really 5:47) and realize I have about 20 minutes left to sleep.  Cling desperately to the idea that I can still sleep.  Oversleep slightly and get out the door late.

But I do have Good Friday off, so that's good news.  Except for that quick hooker meeting in the afternoon, which is conveniently located near a Starbucks.  The perfect way to start the weekend.  A good Good Friday to you, Wifers!

Tower of Terror

I'm going to be Vague-y McVaguenstein on this post out of necessity and to prevent everyone from unfollowing, but you know how you hear that old saying "Life is like a terrifying amusement park ride, and you just try to hold on for dear life and not puke or lose a flip-flop?"

Yeah.  That's where I am.

I want a little less of this:

And a little more of this:

Slightly less of this:

(although, Auntie, you are divine in this photo)

Ramp up more of this:

Less:

More:

Okay.  That was a good session.  I'm going to knock off half a dozen cookies and a Prilosec and go to bed. 
Sweet dreams, dear Wifers!

Creeping on Eagles

Welcome to my new obsession:  Eagles.

Alcoa Davenport Works placed an Eagle Cam on their campus a couple of years ago, and they monitor a pair of Bald Eagles who live there year-round.  Last year two eggs hatched, one baby lived.  This year, three eggs have hatched, and all three babies are alive to date.  I don't see any wedding bands or photos in the nest, so I'm fairly certain these eagles are not married, so while they are ruining the sanctity of marriage, they seem to be doing okay with the kids so far.

I've been creeping on this eagle family for the last four days, and I'm completely obsessed.  I pull them up first thing in the morning and sporadically during the day.  My boss would've been appalled at how much I checked in on the eagles on Friday at work.  He knows I do it because he walked past my desk once and it was up, and he said, "Eagles!  Has the third egg hatched yet?" so who knows, maybe he is spending his day stalking eagles too.

Would you like to stalk eagles 24/7?  Click HERE.

It's like a little sampling of American life - the parents take turns hunting and taking care of the babies.  The babies fight amongst themselves.  The parents occasionally get irritated with each other, and seem to occasionally get exasperated with the babies.  They snack on a mid-afternoon meal of three-days-old field rat and listen to The Black Keys, just like my family.  It's eerie.

When I tuned in, there were two babies and an egg.  The older baby, whom I refer to as Yellowbeak, or Asshole, was always pushing aside the middle child, whom I call Blackbeak.  I would get so upset everytime little Asshole eagle would push past Blackbeak and take the raw fish or mouse, and I just wanted to pull that kid aside and give him the what for.  He's a big bully, and what does he learn?  Pushing everyone around gets you a gullet full of food.  But I guess he's older so I'm going to cut him some slack.  And?  Blackbeak occasionally acts like he's riding the short bus - as in mom and dad are tearing off chunks of fresh squirrel head and feeding Asshole and Blackbeak is looking in the opposite direction going "Duhr, I wonder where I can get some fresh squirrel?

(DO NOT TELL TODD HOT NUTS EPSTEIN!!  He might start drinking again.)

One time when I watched the eagles, the mom started panting with her beak open.  Like the smartass that I am, I went to Twitter, hashtag #alcoaeaglecam, and said, "Mama Eagle is a Mouth Breather - not the most attractive trait in an eagle in my opinion."  Within about 15 minutes, I had three replies on Twitter:

Oh, you can't see that?  Because in my world of technological genius, I took a screen shot and saved it, but not big enough.  I'm such a social media hot shot, huh?  All three interactions were these serious explanations, like "She is cooling off, much like a dog pants".  After the third one, I was kind of feeling like I needed to explain that it was a joke, so I did a response, which was, "People, I was just kidding about the mouth breathing.  However, I DO think she has sleep apnea."  Then I posted, "Also, undercooked squirrel and fish can expose the kids to harmful bacteria.  Just sayin'."  Funnily enough, none of the Twitter eagle experts got in touch with me again, and I was probably blocked from at least three Twitter accounts.  (If you Tweet, my handle is @juliethewife.)

I'd been waiting for the third egg to hatch and had finally decided it was a dud, and then yesterday Youngest Daughter started yelling that the baby was hatching and we all ran to watch it pop out!  (Oh, did I mention I have the whole family on it, and we essentially keep vigil to see what the eagles are doing?  Yeah, it's now a family problem.  I'm sorry, no time for math homework, we're watching nature online.  Don't even have to get off the couch or put down the Cheetohs!)

All three babies seem to be getting food, everything was going well, today they even had a special treat of two turtles and the empty turtle shells sit in the nest.  I checked on them at 3 p.m., everyone looks good, nest is crowded with three babies, two adults, two dead squirrels, a field rat, two turtle shells and half a fish, and when I check them at 4 p.m. the nest is EMPTY.  COMPLETELY EMPTY.  And I freaked out a little bit.  What do I do when I freak out?  I go to Twitter.

 Seriously.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.  At least there were a number of EagleGeeks out there with me who had the same problem, and seemed to be just as traumatized.  When I checked back a couple of minutes later, everything was back to normal, with the birds and turtle shells just as they were.  If it wasn't for Twitter, I would've thought I was crazy.  But I also wondered if maybe it's time to start distancing myself from the eagles.  If the parents end up going all Darwin on Blackbeak and push him out of the nest, I'll be depressed for days.

Time to pull back on the Eagle Stalking and get back to hooking.  Until the Eagle has Landed.  And then maybe I'll take another peek.

My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 2

For those of you who didn't see SNL this weekend, I love this skit, and it is appropro to this post:


For the record, I absolutely love Kristen Wiig, and I am ready to be her body double and life stand-in whenever she needs me.  Her Cinderella reminds me of one of my neighbors.

So let's wrap up this Disney thing - here are the highlights:

Upon arrival, the old dude loading up the Disney Magic Express photobombed my kids.  Check out the rabbit ears he threw on Oldest Daughter.  My kids were in awe.  As was I.  Well played, old Disney dude.

Daytime view from our balcony overlooking Epcot...the nighttime view was the Illuminations show over Epcot with lasers and fireworks.  I had a cold glass of chardonnay and my familia around me on two nights that we just took in the show from our balcony.

Me, kicking everyone's ASS on the Buzz Lightyear ride!  Look at my intensity.  Don't kid yourself, I WILL shoot you.

Pretty happy kid.  I was SO cynical about Disney, really I was, but it is a little bit magical.  There, I said it.  Are you happy Walt?

Oldest Daughter and The Son, enjoying their soaking on Splash Mountain.  Sit in the front, Suckers.

CH, showing that just because he wears a senior citizen safari hat doesn't mean he isn't batshit crazy.  Notice OD and The Son, who purposely staged their picture like they were having a serious conversation and oblivious to the five-story plunge.  Because my family is normal like that.  We plan our ride pictures.

The body on the left is BEFORE you have children.  The body on the right is AFTER three children.  We won't even talk about the incontinence.

But getting back to the picture, this is OD and I after our River Rapids ride with our wet butts.

OD and The Son, mad because the Rockin' Roller Coaster had a two hour wait.  This is the only ride we didn't make it on, because the first day we were there and we had fast passes it was broken, and when we came back it had the long wait.  Guess we'll have to come back.

Since there are so many pictures in this post, I have to break it up into two.  Look for the final (Thank God) installment of Disney Monday night.

Random McRandomstein

It's almost 11 p.m. and I have to get up at 6:30 a.m. for that whole work/school dance routine I do every day, but I want to check in and say that I am now presumably sterile.  I hope.  I did go in to the doctor's' office and I did take a Xanax or two, and let me just tell you that Current Husband had to talk me off the ledge to get in there because I was having my period, EARLY AGAIN, and thought it was going to blow the whole deal, and CH took away my handgun and hung up on the police and walked me to the car.  The acutal procedure hurt a bit more than I thought it would (somewhere between bad menstrual cramp and early labor contraction) and the doctor had to really shove that speculum around because, as I later found out, my fallopean tubes are positioned particularly high.  Huh.  So I came home really doped up and tried to talk to our contractor in the basement and CH came after me much like one might search for a missing dementia patient the the home.  He apologized for me and led me back upstairs to bed, where I fell asleep for five hours until the kids came home from school.  All is well and I am avoiding the contractor.

There was no pillow fight, and nothing in my house is white, and my uterus is still disappointingly music-free.

That said, I have a bunch of random thoughts to get out:

1. Lindsay Lohan's Playboy cover has been leaked.  People still care about LiLo?  And haven't we all seen her naked already?
2. I had to pay $170 for dance recital costumes for a recital in May 2012.  While it is troubling to write a check that large in holiday shopping season for what is probably 3 costumes out of the "Shades of Skanky" catalog, it is making me feel like I'm prepared for SOMETHING in 2012.
3. Just when I think I'm done with Christmas shopping, I remember that I'm So. Not. Done.
4. I took a half day off work today to have an Irish Coffee with another mom just before school got out, and it was lovely.  Sometimes it feels good to be bad. 

That is all for now, Wifers.  I hope you are all enjoying a terrific holiday season!

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.

Vermont Virgin

Hey peoples.  I am currently stranded in Vermont on a week-long business trip.  Don't get me wrong, Vermont is for Lovers.  It's all the things that Vermont is cliche'd to be:  charming, bucolic, quaint, and full of Volvos and LL Bean and maple syrup.

(Okay, I know this is Maine, but you get the idea.)

 There are charming shops and bistros and charming art galleries and charming vintage homes and it all looks a lot like the movie Baby Boom, starring Diane Keaton.  But.  I'm ready to get the hell out of here and get home.  I'm not a great traveler.  I like being alone for a limited amount of time, but I'm used to noise and demands.  Demands for rides, snacks, sex, meals, playdates and gaming. I'm HGTV'd out, and ready to hit the juice.

This morning at 9 a.m. I visited a quaint little local market and purchased a six pack of Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar chips, and this bottle of wine, (which says "I will not drink bad wine".)  The clerk may or may not have been alarmed.  I looked at her, smiled, and said, "Breakfast of Champions!"  She chuckled uneasily and gave me my receipt.

I had a long day with the hookers, but they are mostly nice and very artsy and creative.  This show is being held in a historic red round barn in Shelburne, and it is GOR-GEOUS.

The inside is a three floor gallery - this is the third floor gallery, pre-show:

Tonight I arrived back at the hotel and decided to hit the hot tub.  I don't know why, but somehow I am always surprised when I see myself in a swimsuit, like "Hey Rosie O'Donnell, what's up?" and then realize it's me.  Shit.  When I go to the hot tub, I'm alone, but after I get in, I catch myself looking at every man who walks in with suspicion, and I have an inner dialogue going on.  An older, portly dude walks in and I'm thinking "Keep moving Jerry Sandusky", or a younger guy walks through and I'm all, "Look away, Ashton Kutcher, you dog."  I tend to assume every guy is a serial killer, and I formulate ways to defend myself and then kill them.

Whoops.  That's the wine talking.

This is my third night in my room, and at first I liked that I'm on the end on the first floor, so I could pull the rental car up outside and walk right inside the hallway and to my room.  However, I've come to realize that the smokers in the building go outside and smoke right outside of my window.  Super.  Now I have to figure out how to defend against and kill them too.  Effing smokers.  Can't you go about giving yourself cancer quietly?  (Sorry Mom.)  (And Dad.)

I'm also seeing a lot of commercials for chocolate.  It's like HGTV knows I'm trapped and have body issues.

We're getting the basement finished right now, and I told the contractor multiple times that I was leaving for Vermont this week, so if you need me to make any decisions, do it now.  Of course, he ignored me, and I've had e-mails and texts and phone calls asking me to pick a bathroom countertop! - pick a French door! - pick the bathroom door! and I sort of want to defend myself against him, but I'm not in killing mode yet.  But if he asks me about flooring or electrical tomorrow, it's over.  I'M IN VERMONT!  YOU HAD THREE WEEKS!  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, MY HUSBAND!?!


Current Husband has done well this week getting three kids coordinated.  (I had to put that in here, he reads this, and now he is probably alarmed about my homicidal tendencies.)


Well, Beavis and Butthead is on MTV and I need to see if it's the same.  This is what my life has become.

All my Exes Live in Texas

Actual conversation that just took place in my house:


THE SON:  "Here Mom, catch!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it)
THE  SON:  "Um...try again!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it again)
THE SON:  "One more time!"
(Ditto - but this time I pick it up and try to drill it at his head, but instead I drill it directly into the ground two feet in front of me.)
THE SON:  (Cackling laughter) "Wow Mom, that was awesome!  Let's try a little higher!"
ME:  "CH!  The Son is making fun of how I throw!"
CH:  "Oh, your mom is a great thrower - you should see how far she can throw a golf ball down the fairway when she's mad."
THE SON:  "Did you do that Mom?  Was it the same time you peed your pants on the golf course?"
ME:  "Oh, I'm sorry CH, did I disturb your iPad time in bed?  Is it time for you to be rolled?"


And for the record, YES, it was the time I peed my pants on the golf course.  But that was because I was incontinent from successfully completing my third labor with CH's bowling-ball headed babies and my golf club sort of missed the ball and hit the ground really hard.  I also threw my golf ball down the fairway in front of a group of people after actually missing the ball three times at the tee box.  At least I kept things moving.


Last Thursday, I went to work for a few hours (MISTAKE!) and then boarded a plane for Austin, TX to see my women.  This was around noon, and I celebrated with some "Alone/Contemplation Time" at the airport bar.

Just me, George Washington, and some Blue Moon.

But then they announced boarding and I had to slam it.

And then I realized a neighbor was sitting behind me

and watched me slam a beer by myself in the bar,

and then boarded the plane with me.

All class, all the time, People.

Away we went to Dallas, and then to another flight in Austin. I don't mind takeoffs, but I just cringe at every landing. I hate that moment when the tires hit the runway, because I always picture them breaking off and then I'm in a fiery crash and I'm trying to grab my purse to exit the plane, because even in a fiery crash I'm probably going to take my purse. Do you know what a pain it is to get a new driver's license?


(By the way, I KNOW this text is all caddywompus, and I'm trying to get Blogger to change it and it won't, and I'm very tired and I'm not going to even bother pursuing the left-alignment any more. Please make a note of it.)


I found my girls.

Soon, an obliging bar table looked like this.

Our friend Liz arrived, late because her car broke down on the way to her flight in Denver, so she missed it, and got a later flight because she cried at the counter. Then she met a fellow on the plane, "Jim", who made sure she got to our bar okay. Hello Liz. Goodbye Jim. Better luck next flight.

Our next order of business was to get to a grocery store to stock up on food and liquor for the weekend. Instead, we ended up making faces and posing in the store, and went home with little food.

But a good start on the liquor.

We rent houses because we would get kicked out of hotels. We were lucky that our friend Paige has a colleague with a $3 million dollar house that he only uses a couple of months out of the year in Austin, so here was Home Sweet Home, RENT FREE no less, for the next few days:

We spent LOTS of time in that little hot tub on the pool.

Since the house only has three bedrooms, one person was bed-free.  I would have taken the couch or one of the reclining chairs in the theater, but Dee had the short straw that night and she CHOSE to sleep on the floor, which is fun when you're 13 and a real pain in the ass when you are over 40.  But when you're a little tipsy, anything will do.  Here is what Dee's Princess Bed was made of, no shit:

• A "Congrats Wendy" graduation blanket
• A slightly stained quilt that said "To Robert Love Dad"
• A Texas Longhorns blanket
• An inflatable alligator

You've got a purdy mouth, Alligator.

Keep in mind that Dee ended up with Bacon Cat at the spa when we were in Scottsdale, so there is a history of her getting short-shafted with animal products. She might want to reconsider her friend circles. We all know she's too polite to say anything.

The next morning, we discovered the house was attractive to these:

Actual dead scorpion on the floor.

I killed one with a rubber squeegee in the garage.
We also discovered that in the light, you could see into the stone entryway, and that in said entryway there was a little Casita, which in Spanish translates to "You bitches made your friend sleep on the floor with Wendy's blanket and the homoerotic alligator when she could have been in the nicest bed with a private bath in the house".

But then again, my Spanish is a little rusty.

The Casita is on the right. Oops.

Tomorrow: Bikinis, Booze, and Probiotics.