Messing With The Mayor

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


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


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


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


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


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

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

catch a show this summer when I'm home.

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


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


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

Photo courtesy of the Quad-City Times.

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


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


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

The Case of the Piles of Dog Vomit

So about two hours ago I'm all "it's time to blog!" and then Youngest Daughter said, "Hey, we didn't walk Shiloh (the GD Dog) and you said we would!" and so I took the GD Dog out for a walk with YD, and the GD Dog pulled me all over the neighborhood for about two blocks, and when I have to jog it makes my belly roll flop and it's super unattractive.  That makes me cranky.

Then we get home and The Son is still in the shower, but YD needs to take a bath, so I wander in the kitchen and see that my children haven't unloaded or loaded the dishwasher as per their rental agreement, Section 1 Page 2 Clause 6.  I yell a little bit and then think "Oh to hell with it" because The Son is in the shower and can't hear me and Oldest Daughter's eyes are glazed over and she is doing Algebra and it's already late so I just do it because I am getting my mother's martyr complex, which is apparently hereditary.  That makes me cranky.

Then I finally get YD in the bath and I let her take 40 small toys in there, and just as I am preparing to wash her hair, I hear Current Husband in the other room say, "You have GOT to be kidding me!" and not in a "I just heard the funniest joke!" kind of way.  I run into the living room and there are not one, but THREE fresh steaming piles of dog puke.  The GD Dog is sitting behind them, looking sheepish, and George the Superpet is around the corner saying, "I told you that GD Dog was going to be nothing but trouble."  Since it is my mother's dog, I felt compelled to clean it up.  CH felt compelled to head out the door to meet someone for a beer.  Everyone else felt compelled to go to bed.  This all reminded me of my favorite story.

"Not I," said the kid.

"Not I," said the husband.

"Not I," said the GD Dog.

"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen.

And then she ate a whole fucking cake and was bitter for the rest of the night.

The End.

Goodnight, Wifers!

The Fountain of Youth

My name is Julie, and I am a sorority girl.

Why is it that most of the time when I tell people I was in a sorority, I say it with a little bit of apology?  After years of movies about sororities being filled with Legal Blondes and party hard sluts and busty Daddy's girls, I'm here to set the record straight:

It's all true.  And it was awesome.

I'm kidding.  Sort of.  I am a Chi Omega - Eta Beta, baby.  And yes, there were some Legal Blondes and party hard sluts and busty Daddy's girls in our house, but usually the sisters were only that for a night or two during the year.  I had a few party hard slut nights, and bi-polar stalker nights, and woe-is-me-oh-the-drama nights, and a whole hell of a lot of really kick ass fun nights.  (And a number of drinking nights and a few throwing up in various vessels nights, but I try to focus on the party pics.)  Here are just a few examples of some nights at Chimichanga, as we so affectionately sometimes called it, which I am not bound by grip, motto, or law to keep a secret:

• Barb putting maxipads on her elbows and knees and practicing falling down the stairs.
• Tina "sleeping" on the floor in the entryway after a night out and people putting a masking tape outline of her body on the carpet.
• Someone plugging up the toilet and everyone in the house lining up to see it, while one girl sobs and says, "Some horrible fraternity boys put some horse shit in our toilet!"
• The entire house, which at the time was around 100 girls, cramming into the living room to watch "Dirty Dancing" about 30 times.
• Getting out of bed at 11 a.m. on Saturday, a little rough from the night before, hitting the kitchen for a donut and then heading out the sundeck for three hours.
• Singing.  Oh so much singing.

 There they are - the sisters of Chi Omega, 1989

OD said, "What's with the hair? You all look electrocuted."

I'm sitting on the deck.  Because I'm a loner. A rebel.

During rush in a skit.  I'm the hippie on the left.

Barb of the maxi pads is center, Kate on the right.

Last weekend was my 20-year Chi O reunion in Chicago.  It's hard to believe it's been 20 years, particularly after seeing these gals, who honestly look fan-effing-tastic.  My former roommate, Kate, and I drove to Chi-town on Saturday morning, so we missed the Friday night fun.  Apparently, even though the organizers of the trip booked the rooms in a distant corner of the Westin, they got their first noise warning at 8:45 p.m. and their second one at 12:30 a.m., threatening eviction.  So of course, they went out.  By the time Kate and I arrived Saturday a.m., we joined them at a restaurant,where everyone was in running clothes, gripping their waters and coffees and completely hung over.  It was just like walking into the dining room at the sorority house on Saturday morning 20 years ago.  Some things never change.

With my homegirl Kate.  We inexplicably wore a LOT of costumes

during college, where there were very few costume parties.  Huh.

With the girls of Eta Beta, pledge class 1987,

who could make it to Chicago last weekend. 

Twenty years and 25 kids later. 

I'm in the cream, and from this angle,

apparently 7 feet tall and missing a hand.

What sor-whores do when they get together -

drinking, eating, polka dot writing, pregnancy tests.

It was a great weekend, and I was sore from all the laughing.  Somuchfunbestimever.  But my point here isn't that sororities are fun.  My point is that you need to keep your friends close.  I have my posse of seven high school friends who get together regularly (See you in November, girlies! Rally!), and my college friends who get together less regularly but are going to do better, and some groups of friends from different towns in which we've lived, and I'm here to tell you a little secret:

Your girlfriends are the Fountain of Youth.

They keep you young, they think you're terrific even thought they've seen you at your worst, and if laughter is the best medicine then you are the junkie to their dealer.  There is nothing like a night with old friends to make you feel young again.  So if you haven't seen some of your girls in a while?  Call them, and make some plans.  It's worth it.

Chimichange Love, Eta Betas! 

I...had...the time of my life....and I owe it all to you!

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 musical: Avenue Q

The other day I was behind a car with a bumper stick that read, "Friends Don't Let Friends Drink Starbucks", and I had to laugh.  I do love me some Starbucks, but I would really prefer to drink Rocket Fuel from my friend Tommie's coffee shop in Mount Vernon, Iowa.  She has awesome coffee and kick-ass scones and cookies baked by her mama, Pat, and it is a complete funkatorium of art and antiques and badass tshotckes.  Here is her facebook page, I'll wait.  Fuel... art and espresso. You might have to be signed in to Facebook to link up.  If you see something you like and it is smallish, I'm sure Tommie will happily ship it to you.

Coffee addictions aside, Current Husband and I made it out to see Avenue Q.  It's kind of a shock that I got him out, musicals aren't really his thing, but when he found out I was chatting up the guy next to me at Mamma Mia, he decided to get some culture.  No matter that I was talking to the guy next to me and his husband, still, I was mixing it up at a musical.  CH's danger siren went off.

Avenue Q is pretty hysterical.  Some of it is a little bit "Hey, we're swearing!  Isn't that hilarious!" but other parts are priceless.  Here is my favorite song:



Because really, everyone IS a little bit racist.  The other one I really love is called "I Wish I Could Go Back To College", which honestly almost made me tear up, but really.  I do.  My life now is great, but there were moments in college that the fun just didn't seem like it could ever end.  *sigh*



So let's address the creepy factor here.  As evidenced in this video, there are times in the musical where two people run a puppet, and usually it's a spare woman.  You find yourself paying less attention to what is going on, and instead look at that chick and think, "Is she really necessary?  That guy couldn't run both puppet hands?  What a lazy jackass."  The spare puppeteer walks around a step behind the main puppeteer, trying to convey the puppet emotions without actually saying anything.  She ends up looking like a sign language interpreter who isn't really signing to anyone.  I was a little fascinated by her.  Does the rest of the cast exclude her from things because she isn't "really" a cast member?  Does she sit outside of the main puppeteer's dressing room and weep until it's time to go on?  Do the puppets get a better seat on the tour bus than she does?  These are questions I need answered in the Playbill.

CH was very excited about our seats, because they were in the balcony, and they were seats 1 and 2 in our row, which were the only two seats in that row.  He thought that made them more ideal.  When the show started, we figured out quickly that the audio wasn't very good, so we couldn't hear about 50% of what was said.  I already know the songs, so I know when to laugh, but CH just got more frustrated with the whole thing.  It necessitated another drink at intermission.

What did I learn?

1. Everyone IS a little bit racist.
2. The Internet is for porn.
3. Naked puppets having sex can be just as graphic as real people having sex.
4. I want to go back to college.  Just for a couple of weeks.  Or for a mulligan if I could end up with the same husband and children.
5. I'm losing my hearing, along with mobility in my knees.
6. Season tickets to musicals would make CH an alcoholic.

In sum, Avenue Q gets four furry paws up.
Happy Monday, Wifers!

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!

Beef...I Wish It Was for Dinner

Last fall, I jumped back into the world of full-time employment.

First, I worked at the Full Time Job I Couldn't Blog About, which was as much fun as walking through Jerusalem with a t-shirt that says "Free Palestine" on one side and "God Promised it to Isreal" on the other.  But my co-workers were terrific, so that was the upside.  Now, I market equipment to hookers.  Rug hookers, that is.  And both the job AND my co-workers are terrific, so it's a win-win.  Plus, I will be a bona fide hooker in a month.  Current Husband can't wait.

However, as it goes with Moms Who Work, some things have gone by the wayside:

• Laundry
• Dishes
• Thank yous
• Role playing sexual adventures
• Getting children's paperwork to school on time
• Home cooked nutritious meals

I actually love to cook and I love to eat and I love to have family dinner, but who has the time?  When I get home from said full-time job, I usually have about 20 minutes before we have to head back out the door for cello or piano or dance or basketball.  Tonight, I registered Oldest Daughter for high school (sweet baby Jesus, that's its own post).  Tomorrow night it's the piano/dance combo hours.  Thursday night it's my turn to drive the cello carpool.  Hello, Drive-Thru muffin top...will you hold my vanilla latte for a minute?

Where I used to cook lasagne or homemade chicken noodle soup via Barefoot Contessa or French Dips, we now have pizza or eggs or waffles or soup.  Most meals involved some sort of chicken or tilapia, now we contemplate Papa John's as gourmet fare.  Compounding matters is the fact that Oldest Daughter is a vegetarian.

Where I come from in Nebraska, if you didn't cheer for the Cornhuskers, you were taken to South Dakota, and if you didn't eat beef, you were dumped at the Colorado border.  I am a willing red meat eater - bring me a medium rare bacon-wrapped filet smothered in onions and mushrooms with a loaded baked potato and a beer and I will walk through the fire pits of Hades for you.  Bring me a Quarter Pounder and I will walk through the McDonalds parking lot for you.  Bring me tofu and I will say, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

About a year and a half ago, Oldest Daughter announced she was becoming a vegetarian.  We asked her for a good reason, and she said she was grossed out by eating fish because they pee in the water and then breathe it and eat it, and that she just didn't like the texture of meat.  Okay.  I thought she was just being trendy.  Go then, Teen Vegetarian!  Take your two week sabbatical from meat and then come back to embrace a pork chop with me!  However, she never really came back to meat.  She will eat my crab rangoon, because it IS irresistable, and she will occasionally eat chicken in Chinese food (an odd choice of cuisine to go back to the meaty side), but otherwise she has stuck with it.  Which is great for her and bad for dinner.

So I have the following people at my table:

1. CH - he is allergic to shellfish and seems to be both gluten and lactose intolerant.  Or, he is just simply Intolerant.
2. OD - vegetarian, not a fan of vegetables, likes cheese.
3. The Son - eats what is on his plate and then has four bowls of cereal before bed.
4. Youngest Daughter - won't eat anything, says she needs to avoid healthy food because she wants to "stay little" so she won't have to "do chores" and can "fit in small spaces".  Which leaves
5. Me, who ends up eating all of the extra stuff.

Why don't I come home from work to Marion Cunningham or June Cleaver setting the table and bringing a big roast out from the oven?  Why doesn't Alice pop around in her blue maid's dress and get something healthy together?  Where the hell is the Judy Freaking Jetson oven I've been asking for for years?  Sometimes I get tired of cooking four variations on the same meal to fit everyone's needs, so I've been succumbing to the "Breakfast for Dinner" or Frozen Pizza rut, and frankly, I'd like some broccoli.  Cauliflower.  Mashed potatoes and gravy.  Dinner rolls.  But most of all?

BEEF.  I want it for dinner.

It's Not a Job, It's an Adventure

So I have some news in the Day of this Wife - I have ALREADY quit The Job I Can't Blog About. Yes, that's right, I'm a quitter, and I could not be happier about it. Ten pounds of hair, a couple of bald patches, four periods in two months, face sagging off of my skull and 100 Prilosecs later and I am almost free. My last day is next Wednesday, and if you listen closely you might hear the sound of jubilant laughter followed by the screeching of tires pealing out of a parking lot. I would like to add that the people I worked with were fantastic, truly, but enough is enough. I just started The Job I Can't Blog About on August 1, but I am a lucky, lucky girl, because I found what could very well be The Best Job Ever.

Best Job Ever came to my attention last Monday, because Current Husband was spending most of his days looking for jobs for me. CH was not a big fan of The Job I Can't Blog About, as it dramatically increased The Wife's stress level and cut back on his Getting Laid Time. When men don't get laid, they spring into action. CH found the job on Monday, I sent my resume on Tuesday, I got a call on Wednesday, I had my interview on Thursday, an offer on Friday and gave my notice on Monday. Best Job Ever is about me selling tools one uses to make wool hooked rugs to individual artisans and distributors across the country, making the Facebook, Twitter, and website pages for the equipment (hello, social media time!), creating a product catalog, and traveling once a month to trade shows for rug hooking. That's right, people...

I've taken a job as a hooker.

And I couldn't be happier about it.  Obviously being a hooker is going to bring in more money, and there is profit sharing in the hooking field.  CH has already reaped the benefits of my new hooking career, which I begin on November 1.

As long as we are talking jobs, let me tell you about the Career Fair I attended today as a representative of my current company.  First let me point out that perhaps the person who just gave their notice after working there for two short months is not the person you want working your career fair.  As I walked out of the building at The Job I Can't Blog About, six different people told me to take their resumes with me and pass them out to other companies.  I told a number of people attending the career fair that I know of a position opening up next week at my company, so maybe I found my own replacement.

If you really want to get depressed, hang out at a career fair for a couple of hours in this economy.  There are some really well put together people who seem to have a solid background in their field who cannot find a job.  There seems to be a preponderance of very competent looking single mothers who can't get a living wage or a position with benefits to take care of their kids.  But I am not here to depress you, Wifers.  I'm here to be snarkily delicious, so let me give you my Top Hints of What Not To Do At a Career Fair:

1.  Do not tell the person in the booth you hate their company.  I honestly had a guy walk up, say he hated my company, and then take an application and ask if he could drop it off later.  Um, sure?  Do you want me to slap you when you turn it in?

2.  Do not say that you saw the position you just asked about in the paper and that we will never hire anyone at the salary listed.  And again, she took an application, filled it out, and dropped it off with me later.  Good luck in your job search.  Honesty is important....except when you are unemployed and trying to find a job.  A little less criticism, a little more smiling.

3.  Do not say that my company would not be in existence without the ball bearings/fexor valves/paper rolls your last company produced.  And then, you guessed it, took an application and filled it out.

4.  Do not wear any clothing that has Disney characters embroidered on it.  I swear to you, I would rather see you in a plain t-shirt with a forearm tattoo that says "Fuck Tha Police" than a sweatshirt that says "Tinkerbell" on it.

5.  Do not tell me you missed out on picking up a job posting because you were outside smoking.  My parents smoke, and I love them dearly, but in an employment situation you might as well say, "I'd like to have frequent breaks, smell badly, go through Nicotine withdrawal, and die early for your company."

6.  Do not walk with determination to my booth, throw down your resume, and walk away.

7.  Do not look at the job postings on the table and say, "This better not be another job requiring a Goddamned degree."

8.  Do not put your hand in the bowl of Hershey's kisses, grab as many as you can, stick them in your pocket, and then ask for an application.  Those kisses might as well be paper clips or blank checks.  Take one, and move along.

9.  Do not rant about how crappy your last job was.  Or I might be forced to write "Potential Shooter" in the Position Desired box on your application.

10.  Do not tell me we have no jobs that interest you, and then ask me for an application to show your unemployment officer.  Need more unemployment benefits?  Fine.  But let's all be a little more subtle about it.

Don't get me wrong, Wifers.  I am extremely sympathetic to serious people looking for employment.  It's a tough world out there, and I wish I could make it a lot easier for a lot of people.  I also know it's no fun to feel like you are stuck in a job you hate.  BUT.  If you are a Tink-wearing kisses-stealing anger-spewing company hater, fresh off your Career Fair smoke break, you just aren't going to get my gold star on your application.  And I'm not even the HR director, but I'm collecting the first impressions for him.  Also?  Remember that a smile goes a long way.

And I am smiling, honey.  Oh yes I am.  Have a great week! 

    

Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself

Allow me a brief Wednesday rant.  If today was listed in a Battlestar Galactica script, I would say, "Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself".

This morning, I pack the kids' lunches, because I want them to be healthy and all that.  Two kids leave their carefully thought-out lunches on the counter.  I'm late getting out the door, and my six pack of middle schoolers get into the building about five seconds away from being late for school.  I barrel across town to get to The Job on time, and as I'm driving in the lot, my cell phone rings.  Oldest Daughter forgot her art project in the car.  It is due this afternoon.  It counts for roughly half of her grade.  Frackity frack frack!

I skip lunch to drive the art project across town and pick up Youngest Daughter's piano book she needs for lessons tonight.  I hand the clerk a piece of paper that says "Essential Elements Book 3 Green".  The clerk is confused.  She starts looking through all kinds of file cabinets to locate this book.  She keeps muttering to herself that something isn't right, why doesn't she recognize this book?  Just as I realize I am late to get back to work, I realize I've handed the clerk the book OD needs for her CELLO lesson.  It's like walking into a Christian Book Store and asking to buy a Koran and a menorah.  I get the proper book and leave, returning late for work.  Double Frackaccino!

At 5 p.m., I leave work and drive home.  I think I can just run in, use the bathroom, change out of the work pants and get out the door to get YD and The Son to piano at 5:30.  I haven't seen Current Husband all day, and he has some news on our house closings, so he starts telling me about it.  I'm trying really hard not to be rude, and I need to know this stuff, but the clock is ticking.  I am going to be late for piano, too.  We leave, and sure enough, terrible traffic, we are late for piano.

The piano teacher chastises me for being late, and then I show her the piano book, proud of myself.  "WHAT!?  Those people at the piano place!  They NEVER get it right!"  It is the wrong book.  She is livid.  I try to explain to her that both the clerk and I did not know what we were supposed to get, so we just made our best guess.  She doesn't care.  It is WRONG.  I leave, realizing that I will now have to spend my lunch tomorrow exchanging the book.  I drive to Borders and buy a book and three Lindor chocolates and a vodka sour.  The book is The Year of Living Biblically, by A. J. Jacobs, my book club's selection, but I have to miss book club for the third month in a row.  Frackin' A.

I get home from said piano lesson, and pull my previously assembled chicken and rice casserole from the oven, make some biscuits, and peas.  OD, the vegetarian, does not partake in the chicken dish and I make her a baked potato.  The Son reminds me that this is his least favorite meal, and why does OD get to pick what SHE eats?  YD reminds me that she hates all food that isn't made up of at least 60% refined sugar, and would like jam.  On everything.  I ask them to clear the table, and they each pick up one item and split.  Suddenly, my house is a ghost town.  I start yelling at everyone to get to the table and HELP ME.  CH reminds me that he HAS been helping me, and I don't need to yell at him.  Everyone stomps to the table, and we glare at each other while I say how nice it is to have everyone sitting at the table for dinner, as it rarely happens since The Son started football.  It doesn't sound convincing.

We finish dinner and YD reminds me that there are cookies left from the batch I baked this weekend in the cabinet, on the top shelf, which is roughly five feet above her head, so I'm a little freaked out by her Sugar Radar.  I was hiding them for lunches, but now I say To Hell With It, and I open the baggies and we sit on the kitchen floor, eating cookies.

YD then walks away and starts banging on the piano and singing at the top of her lungs, which is precious in that I want to encourage her to be musical and express herself, but I am ready to staple my ears shut and tear my own brain out of my skull with a rusty fork.  Then The Son decides he, too, needs to show his piano/singing prowess, which would also be precious if he wasn't slightly tone deaf.  The dog starts howling and CH declares it is time for bed.  The angels in heaven with the bleeding ears say a quick prayer of thanks.

It is 8:15 p.m.  I am old and have acid reflux.  I'm unable to sleep deeply and instead dream all night (last night I dreamt I was in Costco, was thrilled they had seven-layer dip, and then I helped a middle-aged man who locked his keys in his truck, he took me out for a drink at the bar next to Costco, and I fled when he went to the bathroom because I suddenly realized he could be a serial killer.  Seriously, WTF is THAT all about?  We don't even HAVE a Costco in the Quad Cities.)  I wake up exhausted every morning, with the deep circles under my eyes growing darker every day as though I am a vampire who lives on the blood of animals and I haven't hunted in a long time.  (That would make a great book.)  These circles grow despite the slathering of $25 per ounce bottle of Vita K I put on every night that is guaranteed to remove circles and bruises.

To beer or not to beer, that is the question.  Here's to you Thursday.  You'd better show up with a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte and a raise, or I will cut you.

Nobody Does It Better

No one can ever say I'm not a giver.

I've always been the court jester.  Unfortunately, it hasn't always been intentional.  But for all of my unpredictability in fashion, grooming, class, or manners, I've always been consistent in making those around me look better.  You're welcome, those around me.

In grade school, high school, and college, I could be counted upon to be the most obnoxious person in the room.  Sometimes it's charming.  It certainly got my friends married faster..."well, she does burp, but her friend Julie burps louder"...."she was drunk, but her friend Julie was drunker"..."she can pack away the food, but did you see her friend Julie?"  As I've said before, Current Husband and I were both on a mission to pick the most inappropriate person to marry, and by some strange blessing, we ended up actually being pretty good for each other.  (CH loves his women gassy, drunk and gluttonous, which has the little-known side effect of occasionally ending up in marriage and pregnancy.  In this case, in that order.)

As I mentioned in my last post, I have a history as a working girl, which mainly sounds like I spent my time drawing a paycheck with my breasts out.  You would think that kind of job description pays more, but in my world they call it "Marketing" or "Event Planning".  So far, I've managed to keep my breasts covered at the new job.  For now.  However, I've been reminded rather quickly what my typical working existence is like.

TWO NIGHTS BEFORE
I select my outfit.  Feel extraordinarily organized.  I go to bed.  At 1 a.m., feeling of euphoria goes away as I start getting abdominal cramps, which always mean I am having an allergic reaction to some as-yet-unidentified food or spice.  I take two Benadryl, because I know what is coming.  Unspeakable things happen in the next three hours, and I end up going to sleep at 4 a.m. sitting up on the couch, drenched in sweat and down 8 pounds.  Large black circles form under my eyes.

NIGHT BEFORE
Going to bed early because I only got about four hours of sleep previous night.  Look at outfit I selected and realize shirt has stain on front.  Nice catch, Julie!  Select another shirt.  Program coffee.  Get abdominal cramps again.  This is weird, usually the food allergy thing happens at 1 a.m. or so.  Oh no.  It can't be....it is.  My period.  Early.  Now I will be going to my first day of work on Day 2.  Thank you, Eve.  Hope the apple was delicious.

MONDAY MORNING
Wake up not feeling like I can wear white pants, swim or go horseback riding.  Fortunately, my job requires none of these things.  Shuffle into kitchen for strong, hot, delicious coffee, and WHAT THE HELL!?  The timer was set for p.m. and not a.m.  Turn coffee pot on to wait for 10 horrible minutes.  Have time to look in mirror and see acne outbreak from period.  Get dressed for work and leave five minutes later than I planned.  Get in car, and halfway to work look down to see dime-sized chocolate mark on front of pants.  Fortunately they are black, so I spit shine.  Walk into new job with stained pants, acne, huge raccoon rings under my eyes, and bleeding like a stuck pig.  Human Resources person is out sick, so I have no e-mail, phone, benefits, or instructions.  I get to inconvenience the first person I see, who is not expecting me but has to take me to my desk.  En route to my desk, I ask this person, "Where is the nearest bathroom and caffeine dispenser?"  I finally have vital information.

MONDAY NOON
No one has asked me to lunch.  CH offered to take me to lunch, but I thought I would be in HR, so I said no.  Since I didn't go to HR, I don't have an operating phone or e-mail, so I can't Phone a Friend.  I'm told to call someone about something, and I have to ask the person next to me how to use the phone.  I make the call.  I ask the question. 

ME:  "So can we count on you to donate again this year?"
HER:  "What are the dates?"
ME:  "Uh...um....I don't know.  I'll call the contact and get back to you."
HER:  "Why don't I look it up in the file and call you.  What's your number?"
ME:  "Uh...um...I don't know.  It's my first day here."
HER:  "Can I e-mail you?"
ME:  "Uh...um... I don't know.  Can I call you back?"

SUCCESS!  I have now made my predecessor look like an absolute genius!  She probably got a raise for no reason at that moment.  I decide I need a Diet Coke.  I ask my boss where to get them.  She says she will walk me down to the break room to show me where it is.  We are chatting amicably, and then I put my money in the machine.  I make my selection, but when I see that ice cold bottle of Diet Coke come down the chute, I can't hold back.  I reach for the little door and pull, as my boss says, "Oh, you don't want to..." and then I have jammed the machine.  My boss has to grab the door and rock it back and forth for a few minutes, fighting the vending machine for my Diet Coke.  I stand and look at her, shamed.  She wrenches the door open and hands me the bottle, thinking, "Who have I hired?  What have I DONE?" 

MONDAY, FOUR P.M.
I've made four trips to the bathroom with my purse, which means I should be presented with my new t-shirt that says, "HEY EVERYONE!  I'M HAVING MY PERIOD!"  My boss decides I should go downstairs and help another department get a marketing piece out that is past deadline.  I am taken to a room and put on a machine that folds letters.  The person who shows me how to run the machine is very nice, and she leaves me to do my task.  About 30 minutes later, I try to leave, but can't get the door to work.  Shortly, someone comes in and says, "It's a good thing I was here...you can't get back in the building from this room without a badge!"  Since I didn't go to HR, I didn't get a badge, so I couldn't enter my security building.

Let's recap:

• stained clothing
• meth addict eyes and acne
• bleeding
• doesn't know own phone number or e-mail address
• breaks vending machine
• locks self out of building

Nobody does it better.  It makes me feel sad for the rest.  Be thankful, co-workers.  You have no idea what I've just done for your bonus structure.

p.s. Happy Birthday Mom!

Workin' Hard for the Money

Hello, Gentle Readers.  The Wife has news.  I am going back into the rank and file of full-time employment tomorrow.  This means I will have to go back to regular showering, bedtimes before the a.m. hours, and regulation of swearing.  Holy crap, what have I done?

It's been eight years since I was actually employed by a company as a regular (or irregular, depending upon whom you ask) employee.  Here it is, the Progression of Julie's Career:

1. After college, I did marketing for a mall, which is the job I had when I married CH.  They loved getting my wedding gifts shipped to the mall office.  
2. Then I was a community events coordinator for a bank, where I had to nurse Oldest Daughter in the safe deposit box rooms during events.  
3. After that, I was a public relations manager for a children's home, where I spent one long hour of a hot air balloon festival trapped in an RV pumping breast milk while a coked-up dachshund dragged his nails down my legs.   
4. Then I was a columnist and writer for a terrific local newspaper (support your local newspapers!), where I had my kids play on the floor with computer parts while I trapped mice in the garbage can.
5. I decided to open my own retail store in a small town in Iowa, which was the best job EVER, despite the long hours, but unfortunately our society currently doesn't support local businesses and Target consistently ate shops like mine for breakfast.  My little shop actually did pretty well, but I sold it when CH got a job an hour away and we had to move.  Sniff.  I miss my store, and my customers rocked.  Best time ever, so much fun.
6. We moved to our current town, and I stayed home with the kidlets and did freelance writing.  Being home with the kiddies has been fun too, and don't doubt for a second that it's a lot of work, but now they are between the ages of 7 and 13, and it's time for Momma to get back on her professional game.  I still plan to do freelance writing because it's fun and I have some great clients, but I'm at an age where words like "Benefits" and "Regular Compensation" sound really sexy.

So I started looking around for a job.  I didn't want any job, I really wanted something I was going to enjoy, and I was very lucky to find something very close to my house, very flexible, and fun.  (Well, as fun as going in to work 40 hours a week can be after hanging out at home surfing the Internet braless drinking coffee and watching Sassy Gay Friend on Second City Network.)  Actually, I'm a little bit excited about it.  Now it's OKAY that I'm bi-polar!

The Wife, at home:

"Whoo-hooo!  I love my dog and PCP!  Kick ass!"

(PCP actually stands for Portland Cello Project, I swear.  

This group is uber-talented, so catch them if you can.  

Get your t-shirts in the SHOP section of their tres cool website HERE!)

Julie, at work:

"...and that is why we would like you to consider a 

$100K donation to our fine educational program."

Assuming my co-workers won't constantly interrupt me to ask for snacks or to see if they can play Club Penguin on my computer, the workplace will actually be a lovely grown-up place where people talk about current events and drink coffee and focus on whole sentences.  I will wear shoes that aren't flippy floppies.  I will be mature.  (Oh, let's not push it.)

What does this mean for the blog, you ask?  Nothing.  Because I can't write about work, and I can't stop exposing my family to ridicule for free in pursuit of my writing dreams, so I'll still be here, two to three times a week, boring my mother and the two other readers with too much information about my people.

So tomorrow - what do you think?  Leather pants and SpongeBob pasties, or the Fuck Tha Police vinyl wrap dress?  Yeah, that's what I thought too.  Happy Monday, have a great week!

Bad, Rotten Mommy

The Son left for camp yesterday.

It is a week-long resident camp, and this is his third year.  We moved to our current town four years ago, and he goes to camp with his best friend from our previous town so they have a week together every summer.  They are like St. Bernard puppies, rolling and playing and barking and sleeping, with big clumsy feet and lolling grins.  It's about the cutest damn thing.  

This past week, I was busy with a job interview and showing the house and getting Oldest Daughter to string camp every day, and I told The Son to get his camp bag packed.  The camp sends a very specific checklist of what goes in the bag, and since this is his third year, I thought he could follow the checklist and get it done.

This was the Fatal Mistake.

He packed everything and had it sitting in the middle of his bedroom.  I came up to review his items, and asked if he had everything in his bags.  He showed me the list with double check marks next to everything in the "Required" section.  The phone rang and I ran away, since we are doing the whole house-selling thing and I am doing the job-interviewing thing and the phone is kind of important right now.

I drove him to the campsite, over an hour away from home, and helped him carry his pillow, sleeping bag, backpack and duffel bag.  He had shoes, he had bug repellent, he had sunscreen, he had a flashlight.  We seemed to be on the right track.  While we were standing in line waiting to come in, I overheard another mom say, "Oh, we forgot to bring a baseball cap!" and I thought "Damn, so did we!" but if it's just a hat we forgot, I could live with it.  I checked him in, we met his friend, and we walked to the cabin.

We walked in, and The Son took a top bunk.  I looked around, and every other bunk had a mini-fan on it.  I seemed to remember sending a fan with him in previous years, but didn't do it this year.  Whoops.  The cabins are not air-conditioned, and it was already pretty muggy in there.  Plus, I am sure it is hotter and muggier closer to the ceiling of the cabin.  I thought of my son, suffering in the heat, tossing and turning on his big down-filled (translation - HOT) sleeping bag, listening to the other boys fans.  Their moms are attentive and thorough.  His mom has ADD and didn't even check his bag.  

The counselors started shooing away the parents - we're all supposed to leave by 3:30 so the homesickness doesn't start and the helicopter parents are long gone before the kids start climbing "The Tower":

Actual photo of The Tower.  The Son LOVES it.

I think about liability issues.

The shooing means I don't have time to check The Son's bag.  Because I am already at camp, with no way of getting him the things he forgot, so it seems like a good time to check through his stuff and get distressed about what might or might not be in that bag.  He's 11 - he cares more about the flashlight than he does the toothbrush (which I know he has).  I get in the car and drive home, thinking.


By the time I get home, I know what he's missing.  His swimsuit.  At camp.  With a pool.  And a river.  He went to the local pool with a friend on Thursday, and told me about how he had to dig it out of his packed bag, and I was willing to bet $100 that he didn't re-pack it.  I got home, and my suspicions were confirmed.  Swimsuit was hanging in the bathroom.  The Son is the type of kid to get really upset about this type of thing.  Crapola.

So what is on my list early Monday morning?  Call the camp and be sure he can get a care package.  Tell them he needs it ASAP.  I am sure Carol on the line thought, "Yeah, yeah over protective HoverMom, they can't live without you for a week."  I ran to the store to bought a new small fan for his bed.  I found a baseball cap.  I packed his swimsuit and extension cord for said fan.  I drove across town to Priority ship the box of the things he forgot that could have been avoided had his mother taken 10 minutes to check his bag and the list of "Optional" items (like a fan).  Sigh.


How did I miss the sign-up for the course on "Necessary Things To Know To Be a Mother"?  Because I cannot do the following things:

• french braid or otherwise style young girls' hair
• separate important school paperwork from the crap
• get the kids to make their beds or put away their clothes
• switch summer clothes with winter clothes in a timely manner
• be organized in any way
• get current year school pictures framed before new ones are taken
• stop swearing
• not piss off the PTA

I do try, really I do.  There is just something wrong with my Estrogen Wiring.  I guess I'll be thankful for Priority shipping and other moms knowing to remind me about things, and continue to be the Scarlett O'Hara of Wifery, because as Miss Scarlett would say, I can always count on the fact that "Tomorrow is Another Day".
 

Finally, A Real Day in the Wife

This blog is called "A Day in the Wife", and yet, ironically enough, I never write about that.  Today will be different, because it has been my typical clusterf**k of a day, and I think my readers should know how bad I really am at this whole Wifery thing.

7:25 a.m.
The alarm has apparently been going off, but I have somehow missed it.  I have to leave to take Oldest Daughter to String Camp in 20 minutes.  She needs at least 40 minutes to get ready.  I wake her up and take my verbal beating, knowing there is coffee in my future.


7:28 a.m.
I walk into the kitchen to make coffee.  We are out of coffee filters.  The crying begins.


7:50 a.m.
We leave for String Camp, late again.  Oldest Daughter is angry and I am starting to shake from lack of caffeine.


8:15 a.m.
I get coffee at Starbucks, but my Starbucks card is .52 short.  I have to leave the coffee, go back out to the car to get money, and come back in to pay.  There are four angry people waiting in line behind me, and because they couldn't override it on the register, so they had to wait for me.  Suck it up, people, I NEED that coffee!


9:10 a.m.
Other children wake up, and demand breakfast.  I am out of cereal and bagels.  Luckily, I have toaster strudel.  I make the toaster strudel, but Youngest Daughter refuses to eat it because the design I made with the frosting is unacceptable, asks for Dots candy instead.  I openly lose my temper for the third time today.  YD eats toaster strudel with bad design, and somewhere, Michael Graves shakes his head at the tragedy of it all.

10:00 a.m.
I take YD, her brother, and his friend to PetSmart so they can look at snake accessories.  The Son and his friend both have corn snakes, which go on "playdates" to each others tanks.  I warn The Son that snakes are not pack animals, and they will probably kill each other eventually.  On the plus side, this will get me out of buying frozen baby rodents to feed said snake.  YD asks if we can go to the Target next door for a free cookie.  While out, I get a text from Oldest Daughter's cello teacher that the audition clinic for the local symphony youth string ensemble has been moved to today at 1.  Is OD planning on attending?  He strongly encourages it.  And we will have to reschedule today's lesson.  I panic, trying to quickly rearrange the day and figure out where and when this clinic is taking place.


Noon
Pick up OD from string camp and tell her she is going to ensemble clinic in 45 minutes.  She begins to cry, says she is not ready, tells me she doesn't want to go, and blames me for the symphony reschedule.  Because I hold unlimited power in the universe.  I spill coffee on my shirt.


12:50 p.m.
Yelling at everyone to "get in the van, we are late for the clinic!"  Everyone is crying:  OD because she is freaking out, YD because there is no candy involved, me because I am late AGAIN, and The Son because he is sad that everyone else is sad.  Make note to self to Google which Norman Rockwell painting corresponds to this moment.


1:05 p.m.
Pull up at audition site, comment on how empty parking lot is.  Go inside, ask secretary where clinic is, she looks at me like I asked her how to make cat salad in Portuguese.


1:09 p.m.
Force OD to text friend, find out clinic is tomorrow, cello teacher messed up.  I swear profusely.  OD is relieved.  YD asks for Skittles to celebrate.

1:15 p.m.
Get home to find gas company employee standing in my yard next to the For Sale sign, smoking, with the new gas line pipe sticking up out of my yard three feet from his cigarette.  Briefly hope he flicks his butt that way.  Instead, he opts for Port-O-John across street from my house (Did I mention my house is on the market?).  Notice full McDonalds bag on my curb next to where the gas company truck was parked about an hour earlier.  Hope prospective buyers avoid our house today.


1:45 p.m.
Realize in cello panic, I forgot to give anyone lunch.  Vegetarian daughter wants mac and cheese.  YD does not want mac and cheese, she asks for Twizzlers.  The Son doesn't feel like mac and cheese either, he would prefer turkey sandwich.  Children start fighting about which lunch would be best.  I leave to find Aleve bottle and a corner in which to rock.


2:43 p.m.
Remember I intended to make barbequed ribs in slow cooker for dinner, but they are supposed to cook on low for 6-8 hours.  I brown them in a frying pan and put them in the slow cooker on high, hoping that 6-8 hours on low heat means 3-4 hours on high heat will suffice.  Suspect my meat math is off.  Hope family isn't hungry until 9 p.m. and this does not result in multiple counts of food poisoning.


4:17 p.m.
Remember The Son goes to resident camp over an hour away on Sunday, and I haven't sent in physical forms.  Call camp and find out there is still a $285 balance.  Secretary urges me to get forms in mail tomorrow, since they are supposed to be mailed in 4 weeks prior to camp.  Crap.  (NOTE:  Same thing happened last year.  And possibly year before.)


5:43 p.m.
Call Current Husband to remind him that I am meeting friends for margarita and Eclipse, and need to leave by 6:10.  He tells me he will be home in 10 minutes.

6:13 p.m.
Current Husband arrives at home.  George the Superpet is jumping on him.  OD, YD, and The Son all run to him, grateful there is a non-swearing, non-caffeinated parent on the premises.  CH comments on how good dinner smells, and I say, "You can try it now, but it may not be done until 8 p.m.  Have fun!" and I leave.

7:45 p.m.
Two margaritas under my belt.  Rob Pattinson is filling up the screen in front of me.  I have a Diet Coke, and am surrounded by eight great women.  My day just took a turn for the better.

10:45 p.m.
Arrive at home calm and relaxed.  Walk in door.  The Son announces he has a friend over for the night and they will be playing with the snakes.  Oldest Daughter says she has plans with a friend tomorrow, and could I send lunch with her so she doesn't have the awkward vegetarian moment?  YD comes yelling out of the back room, seemingly ready to stay up for another three hours.  She asks if she can have a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  I refuse.  She is angry, fights the whole "going to bed" thing.


12:22 a.m.
YD finally asleep.  Blog is almost done.  House is disaster.  Have to wake up in 7 hours.  At least I have coffee filters.

UPDATE:  1:13 a.m. 
Realize as I'm going to bed that I forgot to call the real estate website by Wed 3 p.m. deadline to tell them we are having an Open House this Sunday, now all advertising is gone and I have to cancel Open House and reschedule for the next weekend.  Because I am so organized.


TALLY:
Coffees:          5
Diet Cokes:    2
Medifast bars:  3
Expletives:      43
Margaritas:      2


Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7 a.m. (I hope) and try all over again to get it right, but I am not optimistic.  Perhaps two more coffees will get me there... 


This is A Day in the Wife. 

Please tell me your days are not dissimilar.