Glass Half Full, Carton Empty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I Started Stalking the Kids

I'd like to start this post with the thoughts that plague me all the time anymore:

I'm so, so sorry, Mom and Dad.
I was wrong.

Oh, that's right.  Twenty-five years later, I am finally contrite.  Allow me to make a short list of things for which I am sorry, and these are just off the top of my head:

1. Fake orthodontist appointments
2. Beer bongs
3. Street sign stealing
4. TP-ing
5. Prolific swearing
6. Distracted driving
7. Unfinished homework
8. Skinny jeans that weren't purchased as skinny jeans
9. Last minute rides
10. General behavioral issues

And that was all before I was 18.  Much of it before I was 16.  Oy. I remember when I was in Junior High, as we used to call it in the olden days, and my group of friends would get together, and we would say we were going to the movies, get dropped off, wait for the parent to drive away, and then go hang out outside the bar down the street or just generally roam around.  One girl, whom I loved then and still love now, had a mom who was rightly suspicious of us.  She would drop her daughter off, and then we would see her gray conversion van across the street and think, "Oh Christ, now we HAVE to go to the movie!!!"   I look back now and think, "I would SO be in that conversion van!!"

I'm old enough now that I can look at the Courtney Love v. Courtney Love's parents showdown and think, "Those poor people."

Nah.  I was always Team Parents on that one.

And I even liked Hole.

This weekend, I became Stalker Parent.  Helicopter Parent.  Parent hiding in the bushes.  Parent in the van across the street.  And it's really not because I don't trust my kids - it's because I don't trust THE REST OF THE WORLD.

I started the weekend by watching Youngest Daughter perform in a dance team thing a the football game, one of those grade-schoolers-hang-out-with-the-dance-team-for-an-afternoon-and-get-a-shirt things.  The little girls finished, and YD wanted to run around the football game with her friends.  Luckily, another parent offered to take YD and her friends away from the game and have an overnighter at their house.  (LET'S PAUSE WHILE I PLACE THIS "MOTHER OF THE WEEKEND" CROWN ON SAID MOM'S HEAD.  Applause. ) I had to volunteer in the concession stand, so Current Husband was in charge.  Then Oldest Daughter informed us that a group of her friends made plans to go to a haunted house, and they needed a ride, so CH offered to drive them.  He lined up another parent to be the go-to group for The Son and his posse of kids running around, and left. 

Soon, concessions were over, and then the game.  I was walking out with the three boys, all middle schoolers, when some high school boy yells down from the top of the bleachers, "Keep walking, Motherfucker!"  I was on my cell phone with CH taking a crisis call, and I said, "Hold on, CH".  I marched back to the bottom of the bleachers and yelled like a mom should - loudly and awkwardly and full of momma bear bravado.

ME:  "WHAT did you say?"

KID:  *****

ME:  "Do you want to tell me what you yelled at those boys?"
KID:  ***** (possible contemplating spilling his slurpee on me)

ME:  "Well you keep that up and see where it gets you in the future!"
KID:  *****

BAM! 

You TELL him, Julie!  I bet he is shaking in his boots!  Yes!  The dreaded FUTURE comeback!  I'm sure that moment changed that kid's life.  He probably looked at his skanky girlfriend standing next to him and said, "She's right.  I DO need to think about my future.  I should stop with the language and the methamphetamine and pick up a copy of Henry James' 'Portrait of a Lady' for my English report, and then clean my room and get a job and cut back on the red meat.  I'm so glad I attended this football exhibition."

The boys were impressed.  "Dude, your mom is AWESOME" and "It's like having your own bodyguard!" was overheard.  TRANSLATION:  "Dude, your mom is crazy!" and "It's like Thanksgiving when my Aunt Karen gets drunk!"  Middle school boys only get impressed when someone else's mom goes apeshit.

I get back on the crisis call with CH.  He is nonplussed, as he's heard me come unhinged on people before, and by 'people' I mean him.

CH:  "When are you getting home?"

ME:  "Now.  What's up?"

CH:  "You need to drop the boys' off at G's house, and come with me."

ME:  "Where are we going?"

CH:  "Did YOU know where the haunted house is?"

ME:  "Skellington's or Scarington's or something."

CH:  "Did you know it is smack dab in the middle of gangbangerville?  On a Friday night?"

ME:  "It's in Rock Island?"

CH:  "Yeah.  And I saw about 40 cops and a guy trying to break into a car when I left."

ME:  "I'm on my way."

I dropped off the boys and picked up CH.  We drove to Rock Island, which reports a shooting about every three days, and went to the haunted house, which was right on the edge of the bar district on Friday night.  We passed a closed off street with about 10 cop cars and a fire truck where a car had smashed into a building, and a number of other squad cars patrolling the area.  We parked directly across the street from the haunted house, facing it, and I texted Oldest Daughter that we were outside.  We sat in that van and fretted for 40 minutes until the group came out and got into the van, laughing. 

Not wanting to freak the kids out or embarrass OD, I engaged them in conversation about various things while CH clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, imagining it was each of their heads, but as each kid got out of the car, I asked, "So did your parents know you were haunted housing in Rock Island tonight?" every one of them answered, "They knew I was going to a haunted house, but not in Rock Island."  Like DUH, I wouldn't tell them I was in THAT town!

We got home and had a lovely discussion with OD about her new regulations requiring her to submit her social plans in triplicate forms, 72 hours in advance, and that if we find out she left the city without telling us she would be spending a lot of time watching The Golden Girls and eating Milk Duds with her parents on Friday nights.

We went to bed and spoke in whispers about what rotten teens we were, and how lucky we are that OD doesn't do a fraction of the things we did....yet.  And then we made an appointment to get all of the children micro-chipped.

The end.
 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 63

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.


Today's topic: The Footskin Interview
Hello Wifers!  Welcome to the FIRST EVER Whoreticulture Friday interview.  I've been hearing a lot lately about Foot Aversion.  When an Attorney Friend Who Works For An Unnamed Corporation in Kansas City experienced some unwelcome foot intercourse, I decided to investigate.  Reporting from the Quad Cities, home of Fred Garvin, male prostitute.


Hello, Anonymous Attorney.


Hello Julie.


Can you tell my readers what happened to you?


Simply put, I was laid feet on.


Could you elaborate?  I mean REALLY elaborate (we need about 750 words)?

Um, okay.  My doctor said I need to learn how to de-stress and recommended Yoga, as opposed to a bottle of wine and a good book which was my go to de-stresser.


Let me just interject to say that your doctor sounds like a pain in the ass.  Please go on.


Since my stress isn't going anywhere, I started going to yoga once a week. I was already a bit skittish about all the exposed feet. I have issues with feet. Particularly, women with man feet. I'm very open minded when it comes to people and their orientations. Be who you are and all that. More power to you. Except, when it comes to feet. It is confusing and slightly disturbing to me to see unpainted gnarly toenails on a woman because frankly, men's feet are their least attractive feature. Don't get me wrong, I love men. I just think their feet should be covered. To see a woman with man feet is just discombobulating to me. Painted toes look well groomed. A well pedicured foot may be just as dirty as the next foot but my mind falls for the illusion of cleanliness.


I'm going to tell you that I'm happy you can't see my feet right now, because I left my last pedicure polish on too long (love to stretch that $30 over two months!) and I have a slight fungus on my toenails, so now they have to breathe.  In short, my feet now have a penis.  Back to you, this is your story.

Yoga is all about being barefooted so I've been very desensitized to my foot phobia. I've seen all kinds of feet--painted and unpainted. Cracked, bunion ridden and slightly decaying on the soles. I just kept my poses and deepened my breathing. I really have made progress until Monday, when the male instructor for Yoga Basics was in charge. He's excellent at yoga but doesn't have the same soothing style as my favorite female instructor. He's more chatty and loud. He's former military. He's hippie and militant at the same time. He cases the room for his victims and presses them deeper into their poses. This time he found me.


I was in the bridge pose. Which is when you rise from your back and you balance on all fours. My feet were planted at the bottom of my mat when all of a sudden the teacher stood on the tops of my feet with his BARE MAN FEET. Correction, sweaty bare man feet. You know how it feels when you shake hands with someone with sweaty palms? That is how it felt on the top of my feet. He stood there while he explained to the class how we must keep our feet firmly planted on the floor. I started to shake. I could feel hysteria, and the bile rising in my throat. Just when I thought I couldn't take it any more, he stepped off and surveyed the room for his next target. However, my traumatized feet moved out of position and WHAM! he was on them again like a hawk on its prey.


The bridge pose will never be the same for me.


I gave myself a bleach soak when I got home while drinking a bottle of wine and reading a good book.


So he got on your feet, dominated them, and then left you in the wet spot.  It's like he didn't even care how your feet felt.  Your feet certainly got nothing out of it.  On another topic, do you ever hear anyone fart in yoga? I had a farter in one of my yoga classes.


No. Surprisingly not. Snoring or really scary deep raspy breathing.


Have you ever looked up and seen a down dog that has made you want to throw up?


Yes but too traumatic to recall.

That's a lawyerly answer.  I want dirt.  Is there any chance your feet got pregnant?


His feet seemed neutered.


What sort of legal action can be taken for a foot violation?  


Restraining order definitely.


When his feet touched yours, did you hear the disco music in the background like on General Hospital when Luke raped Laura (and led to their marriage)?


No. It was more like bad Yanni musak.

If Yanni is good enough for Krystle Carrington, he's good enough for me. 
If his feet touch yours again, are you going to ask him to give you a toe ring?

I would need see his credit score first. I'm nothing if not practical.

And you might want to get tested for warts.  Just saying. 
Thank you, Anonymous Attorney for an Unnamed Corporation in Kansas City, for sharing your story.  I sincerely hope this pedi-phile keeps his dirty digits off of your bridge in the future.  Perhaps he should put a tube sock on it.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday, Wifers, and remember - feet in thongs don't deserve to be fondled, but it's more likely they will be than if you are wearing Clarkes.  Safety first.

Checking in With The Peeps

Hello Peeps.

Current Husband is in the shower and thinks I am getting the kids ready for our 3-hour car ride this morning to his grandmother's 90th birthday.  But instead, I am writing a quick note to you, Wifers.  I love you all, of course, but this is my modus operandi - when I want to avoid something, I simply find something else I'd rather do until I get caught, and then I can bring on a mean martyr complex.  I want to go to the birthday party, but I hate the ride.

SO the Hooker Convention was fun, but I'm sore.  There are a lot of great hookers out there, it's intimidating.

Can you believe someone hooked this picture with tiny strips of wool?

What did you THINK I was talking about?

I get back from the Hooker Convention at about 8 p.m. Thursday, kick back a shot of Nyquil, and go to bed.  The alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., and after a moment of confusion, I jump out of bed and drive to the home of some friends, one of whom is a Brit.  A legit Brit.  He is too legit to quit being Brit, but he is also now an American.  He had donuts and Starbucks and running commentary on the wedding in a British accent, while watching it on the BBC. *bliss*  Then I raced off to make lunches at 7:30, get to work, get home at 4:30 p.m. and watch the royal wedding again.

Because my friend Mark is dying to hear my opinion on the wedding, I will give you a bulleted synopsis:

• Dress- Loved it. And I did have lace sleeves on my wedding dress, which I am sure influenced Kate when she saw my wedding on TV when she was 14.
• Pippa - Sex on a stick.  Who was getting laid after the reception?
• Oh, that would be Harry.  Maybe with Pippa instead of his sort of frumpy looking Chelsey Davey.  Did she borrow her great aunt's suit for the wedding?
• Fergie's girls - I hate to say it, but they got their mom's fashion sense.
• William - when did you lose all that hair?
• Why does Harry look more like James Hewitt than Charles?

 Exactly.

7:36 p.m.

I was caught blogging and had to stop so I could get in the car and leave.  We attended the party (Happy Birthday CH's Grandma!), found out one of CH's aunts reads the blog when we thought no one in the family knew about it (Hi M!), and then went over to CH's half sister's house to see her get her prom pictures taken and meet her date.  It was fun to see her all glammed up, she looked so pretty, but I am POSITIVE she wanted us to get the hell out of there.  We rolled up in the swagga wagon, unloaded the kids with fast food wrappers falling out, ran into the house, scared the heck out of her date. 

I made them do a picture of her holding up a knife like she was going to stab him, and really, he had nothing to be scared about because it was a bread knife and probably couldn't have done too much damage.  It definitely would have given him time to run before he bled out.  And really, I did her a huge favor, because if that kind of thing is going to freak him out, he really isn't going to last in this family anyway.  He laughed, so he seems to be a keeper.

Oldest Daughter, on the other hand, was completely appalled, and stressing out about her prom pictures, which are probably at least two years away.  She might get Darwined out of the brood.

Seeking Stove Assassin

I know I haven't posted since last week, Mom, but you and the two non-English-speaking co-workers you coerce into reading this blog are going to have to accept some news - Whoreticulture Friday and I are on a break.  Like Ross and Rachel.  And maybe we can see other days of the week, but then we really want to be together, but circumstances beyond our control just somehow keep us apart.  Maybe in the future, when I'm making a commitment to Wednesday, I'll accidentally call it Friday, and then Wednesday will storm out on me and go back to England and I'll stare out of a window with the U2 song "With or Without You" playing and it will ruin that song for me forever.

I'm not saying I'm quitting Whoreticulture Friday.  I ain't quittin' you.  But I think we need to see other days of the week for a while.  Every once in a while I'm sure I'll go on a binge and drunk dial you and we'll end up together for the week, but it's going to be an open relationship.  Like Bill and Hillary.

Last week was kind of hectic at Current Full-Time Job, and I had a few days where I might have considered kicking a kitten and needed a Xanax intervention if I took Xanax, so by Friday night I paged Dr. Blue Moon and Orange Slice and I planned my strategy for NCAA basketball watching.  (My bracket, by the way?  Totally blown since the Sweet 16.  I needed you, Ohio State and Kansas.  I needed you both bad.  But I am now all VCU and Butler, because who can't get behind a Cinderella story?)  The strategy included more beer, guacamole, cheese, blue corn chips, and some homemade buffalo wings from the Barefoot Contessa cookbook.

Saturday morning (okay, around 10 when I actually got up) I made cinnamon rolls from a tube and coffee and laid out the ingredients for my feast.  I melted the sweet dairy butter and added the cayenne pepper and kosher salt and Frank's Hot Sauce until it was melted and buttery and delicious.  I took out the wings, pulled the saran wrap off, and...

Sweet Baby Jesus, these are rancid!!

But wait!  There's more!  So was the milk, and the mayo, and the dip...are you getting the theme here??  Yes, my damn refrigerator was as lukewarm as the public's support of Chris Brown's new album.  I know you aren't supposed to play favorites, but my fridge was my top appliance.  My dishwasher is a lazy sack of crap, the microwave doesn't have a rotating tray (Hello!  When did they stop making those, 1995?) and the stove is a flat surface, which takes about 20 minutes to boil water and then 1 hour to cool down.  Since we moved into Current House, I've been dying to replace all of the appliances - except the fridge.  Et tu, Frigedaire.

Did I worry about the fridge?  No.  I drove to the store for more wings and $5 of lottery tickets.  I started formulating ideas about the kitchen.  Here is a transcript of my brain on the way to the store.  The fridge has been known to be dead for about 10 minutes:

"Okay, so as long as the fridge is a goner, I might as well replace it with French doors and a pullout freezer below, and I want the model with the ice maker/water dispenser I used to have at Previous House.  I suppose I should get it in stainless steel because even though it shows fingerprints the resale will be higher in a kitchen with stainless appliances.  As long as the fridge is being replaced, I might as well get a gas stove, new microwave, and dishwasher with stainless tub like the one at Previous House, and they all have to be stainless steel because they all need to match.  Resale, of course.  And I'm sure it will be cheaper in the long run to buy them all now because we'll get some kind of 0% interest deal if we spend over $3000, which we are sure to do.  Maybe I can get my British/Australian installer back, he was fun.  Then, as long as the fridge is out and the other appliances too, we  might as well rip out the vinyl floor, replace the questionable plywood flooring underneath left by Previous Owner, and then tile it in my beloved black/white checkerboard squares.  Wow, this fridge thing is a bummer, but I'm sure it will work out for the best.  Yay, me, and my new kitchen!  For resale value!"

By the time I got home, I had mentally prepared to spend approximately $8000.  And have a party celebrating my new kitchen.  Current Husband, on the other hand, had been Googling "Broken refrigerator" and had The Son using a blow dryer to defrost the coils in the freezer.  Apparently they can freeze over with frost, blocking the cold air that goes up into the fridge to keep everything cold.  By Sunday afternoon, the fridge was fixed.

yay.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy to not spend the money.  But in the words of Air Supply, I'm all out of love with the old kitchen now.  I have New Kitchen on the brain.  The clock has started.  It's only a matter of time before something else dies and I am forced to completely remodel my kitchen around the dead appliance.   Consider yourself warned, CH.

Does anyone know how to accidentally break a flat surface stove?

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!

Happy Valentine's Day, Bitches!

Honestly, I have no idea why I just said that, but I'm going to tell you that for some odd reason, it felt good.  I swear that I am 100% sober.  But I am drunk on blog love.

Nigella Lawson said on NPR today that she is to Valentine's Day what The Scrooge is to Christmas, and I have to say that I'm a bit the same.  I love Current Husband, he loves me, that's super.  So why is it that I get irritated every Valentine's Day?  Let me give you my rundown of irrational reasons I'm bugged by Valentine's Day:

1. Flowers.  My sister-in-law owns a greenhouse, and this is one of her busiest days, so I hope you all buy flowers from your locally owned florist.  That said, I get really pissed at the pressure put on people to order flowers.  I would much rather get a random bouquet of flowers during the year for no good reason than to get flowers on V Day or birthday.  I did get flowers today, for probably the third time total in the 20 years I've been with CH, and they were lovely, but I was the only woman in the building who got them, and honestly I felt a little guilty, like I had to say, "No, really, I'm usually totally disappointed with the rest of you today."  Anniversaries, however, are flower occasions, especially on anniversaries divisible by five.  There were flowers at the wedding, it seems like a nice reminder.
2. Candy.  Sweet Baby Jesus, how much candy can I stuff in my craw in one day?  After Halloween, I ingest more chocolate today than during the rest of the year combined.  It's because everyone is getting chocolate, but no one wants to eat it all because we're all on the downside of eating ourselves into a coma from Thanksgiving through New Years and we're all thinking, "Oh hell, I'm fat again and swimsuit season is coming - please someone else eat the rest of this chocolate!"
3. Music.  I have to listen to the Top Hits station because of my teen/pre-teen, and have you heard some of what passes as relationship music?  Rihanna's new song is about S&M, it actually repeats "S S S S and M M M" and the chorus says "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me".  I'm sorry, aren't you the girl who was beaten silly by Chris Brown?  Who is your manager?  Then the rest of the songs are "Let's get drunk and crunk and glitter on the floor and take off our clothes and ride the disco stick".  But whatever you do, DO NOT KISS OR RESPECT ME.  Because then I will tire of you.  My God, I'm old.
4. Porn. I love the ads for Doctor John's porn shop or whatever it is, and they say, "Come here for all of your sex toy and fetish needs" and "It's Valentine's Day all year here!"  Yes!  My idea of Valentine's Day is a gag ball and leather studded chaps.  Giddyup, Valentine!  Now spank that ass!  And how many husbands are saying, "Yes, I need to get my special lady friend a Valentine's gift AND I  like porn, so I can hang out in this porn shop for a few hours, and then buy her a gift that says 'I intend for you to pleasure me this holiday'." Brilliant.
5. Dinner.  This one is Nigella's, not mine.  She said today that one reason she hates Valentine's Day is that some couples use it as the one night a year they go out for dinner, and then you end up in a restaurant with 20 couples who have nothing to say to each other.  I don't necessarily agree with Nigella on this one, because I am always up for an excuse to go out for dinner, but I do avoid VD because you can never get in anywhere because of the Valentine crowd.  I like to dine on the Thursday after, because it's quiet then.  Happy Valentine's Day, food.  I love you.

I'm not trying to bust St. Valentine's chops.  I think it's sweet and wonderful when someone takes a moment to appreciate the ones they love.  I just get annoyed when it's contrived because Hallmark and FTD guilt people into it, and then there are these expectations that can never be met.  And the guys who use it as an excuse to hang out in a porn shop and buy crotchless underpants for their 2-month girlfriend.  However, crotchless underpants after being together 20 or 30 years says, "Hey, I'm still curious about what I can talk you into" and shows interest.  Wanting to see someone in crotchless underpants at 45?  That's love, people.

Happy Valentine's Day, Wifers!  I give you all a big sloppy kiss!  And crotchless underpants!

I'd Like A Blizzard, a Snow Blower and a Tapeworm, Please

As John Lennon once wrote, "And so this is Christmas, and what have you done? Bought a damn Blizzard machine, you now weigh a ton."


But if John Lennon DID write that, he would be lying, because anyone who bought the DQ Blizzard machine has found themselves practically Blizzard-less, because that damn $40 machine makes a 2 ounce serving. Hello! I bought the thing not for my child's joy, but so that she would be forced to make me Blizzards on demand.

Look at the kids on the box:

Don't they look all coked up?  Those big, wide eyes say, "I've had 32 ounces of processed sugar and dairy products and I'm going to clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush at 2 a.m."   Once again, I am sucked into false advertising.

THIS is what I was expecting:

Come to Momma.

This is what I got:

A spaceship that poops 2 oz. of half-and-half, and a pissed off kid.

 Another issue I have with the DQ Blizzard Maker?  Where are the effing Reese's Peanut Buttter cups?  WHERE?!?!  It includes little packets of "Popping Candy", but who honestly orders their Blizzard with Pop Rockets on them?  M&M's, Brownie Batter, Reese's, Heath Bar...lots of things would suffice, but strawberry flavored hydrochloric acid?  Not on the menu, people.

Basically, this DQ Blizzard Maker purchase was just another exercise in futility toward my dream of having a Joan Jetson kitchen.

 

Fried chicken?  Let's just push the button. 

Rut-Row!  We got Blizzards!

Maybe I just misunderstood the product.  Maybe it wasn't some vanilla-flavored-sugared-up-lactose-crack at all.  MAYBE it was a Narnia-type machine, whereupon opening the box, an actual BLIZZARD descended upon the land around you, and the White Witch would appear and offer you Turkish Delights, but I just opened the box enough that eight inches of snow fell around my house and Current Husband complained all day that he would have to shovel it and then when he went out to start the 2-year-old snow blower it wouldn't start but instead had gasoline flowing down the back of it.  Is that a Turkish Delight?  Because I think I did it wrong.

Let's Recap:

• No actual Reese's Blizzard
• No child waiting on me
• No cracked-up sugar-jacked kids cleaning my house
• No snow blower
• No Turkish Delight

If that wasn't enough, I had a large salad for dinner tonight, because there is about to be an intervention regarding my Christmas sugar-cookie problem.  Here is the magnet CH had best not give me:

Oh, Onion.  I love you so.

The Dishwasher is Alive!

First, I need to clarify something.  Graham the dishwasher installer is not Australian, he is British.  When I mentioned his Aussie-ness, he said, "No, we sent our PRISONERS to Australia."  Just so that's all cleared up.

I mentioned last week that my dishwasher was broken.  I thought it was five months without a dishwasher, but now I realize it was much, much longer, but my dirty dish days melded together in one very long period of dirty dishes in my home.  Let me give you a timeline on the dishwasher situation:

October 2009:  My dishwasher starts vomiting dirty water on the floor of my kitchen.  Instead of calling a repairperson at this time, Current Husband and I decide to wait until my dad arrives the next week to fix it.
October 2009:  My dad arrives.  He cleans out a bunch of gunked-up dish soap from around the seals and dishwasher parts.  He mutters a lot about how this generation doesn't know how to take care of anything.  Or fix anything.  Or appreciate anything.
November 2009:  Dishwasher stops vomiting, and instead stops shooting water into the dishwasher at all, and dishes come out dirtier than they went in.  Call my dad.  He starts telling me a bunch of technical stuff I don't understand.  I say "Uh-huh, Uh-huh" and eat a bag of chips.  Hang up the phone and hand wash dishes.
December 2009:  Think perhaps Santa has magically fixed dishwasher.  Try to run it.  Dishwasher vomits on floor and shoots bacteria all over plates and cutlery.
January 2010:  Buy paper plates in bulk for first time.  Vow to call repairman.  Give children the job of washing dishes.
February 2010:  Listen to kids fight over who did dishes last, and the sound of entire set of wedding dishes getting small chips in them as children drop them in sink with soapy hands.  Lose four wineglasses.  Ban children from washing wineglasses.
March 2010:  Call repairman.  He comes in, looks at dishwasher, says, "Yeah, if you would have called me in October I could save saved it, but now all of the seals are dried out and cracked.  It's dead.  That will be $60."  Shit.
April 2010:  I start pricing dishwashers.  Best salesperson ever at Best Buy, where in less dire circumstances I would never buy an appliance because we haven't had the best buys, hooked me up with free delivery, free installation, free appliance haul away, and a terrific price on a Samsung stainless steel tub and food disposal system.  Heaven. 

Goodbye old dishwasher.  Go vomit elsewhere.

Friday, May 7:  Graham showed up at around 11 a.m. with my dishwasher in the van.  He is funny.  Needs coffee with lots of sugar.  Graham and I are going to get along just fine, which is good because we will spend most of the next eight hours together for a two-hour dishwasher installation.  Graham pulls out the old dishwasher.  I take a picture of him.

 Graham was shy.  And he complained that my kitchen is too small. 

If I could afford a big kitchen I wouldn't wait 

eight months to get a new dishwasher, now would I?

I asked Graham if I could take his picture, and he looked at me warily and said, "Why."  I said that I write a blog and the three people who read it are waiting for a post about my Australian/British installer named Graham and that I promised pictures.  I said, "I bet you've never been photographed doing this before" and he sort of smiled and thought, "I've never been worried about being killed by a woman on one of these jobs.  Before now."

Graham and I had a celebratory coffee when he got the dishwasher out, because the other guy (yes, I am seeing more than one dishwasher installer) said since the previous homeowners put the ceramic tile in after the dishwasher was in, he'd have to lift the countertop to get the old one out.  Graham, in addition to being British, is magic, like Dumbledore.  He gets the thing out all the way, and I help him get it outside.  And by help, I mean I held the door open and said, "Great job!  Do you want more coffee?"   He rolled the beast out, came back in, and said, "Well I believe I picked up most of your dog shit with my two-wheeler."  (Trust me, it sounds a LOT better in a British accent.)  I laughed and said, "Oh Graham!" and he looked at me like, "No bitch, I'm serious.  There is dog shit all over my two-wheeler," but he said, "You have such a sense of humor."

And then, it happened.  He walked around the counter, looked down, and said, "Uh Oh."  I could hear the cash register ringing as I walked around the corner and saw this:

 Yes, those are CLOTH-COVERED wires, 

with big bare spots and shreds hanging from them.  

(And by the way, that is NOT mouse shit, 

it's bits of rubber from the dishwasher.)

Graham's British accent sounded fabulous as he said, "Julie.  I can't honestly believe you haven't had a house fire with these wires.  I'm sorry, but I can't install the new dishwasher with this wiring. This will be time-consuming."  And I said, "Ooh, tell me again, but say it will cost hundreds of dollars!"

Graham left to install another dishwasher while I got the emergency (translation:  pricey) wiring situation handled.  The person who did that said, "If you have another electrical problem, I'm just going to warn you that you need to have this whole house rewired.  It will probably cost three to four thousand dollars.  I don't know how this got through your inspection when you bought the place."  And just when I thought I was over being bitter about the purchase of our Lemon House three years ago.  Pause with me for a moment of believing fervently in karma.  Okay, I'm done.

Long story short...oh, wait, it's too late for that.  Graham came back, and got back to work, putting my dishwasher in with a putty knife, one half-inch at a time, because for about two hours it looked like maybe it wasn't going to go in because it is bigger than the old one.  In the meantime, I figured out I wasn't going to make it to the kids' school festival, where I was scheduled to face-paint with Oldest Daughter.  I recruited a neighbor to take the kids over, and made OD face-paint by herself.  She was so, so happy about this news, but could see I was a Mommy On The Brink, so she sulked away wordlessly.  On a side note, this is what Youngest Daughter wore to the festival:

Is it necessary to point out that she picked this herself?  

The two-sizes-too-small Easter dress, 

leggings, ankle socks and satin shoes?

I had bigger fish to fry than fashion.

After a long day for both of us, Graham had the new dishwasher in and running.  He asked for my blog address so he can check out his picture and see what I wrote about him (HI GRAHAM!  IT'S STILL RUNNING!) I wrote a check for the extra installation, and all told the unforeseen circumstances cost us about $240 total.  Ten minutes after Graham left, the school called, and in our absence, they drew our name as one of the winners of the raffle at the school, and we won $250.  Tradition, or class, would dictate that perhaps we should donate that money back to the school, but DUDE, it felt like it was meant to be.  It was a win-win.  My first all day.  I've run two loads of dishes in this baby, and I am in love.  CH, you should be worried. 

Momma's here, baby.  Momma's here.

Laundry School Dropout, Second Spin

Laundry seems to be a hot topic with you people.

If you didn't read yesterday's laundry post, here is the catch-up for your ADITW burger.  Or scroll down.  Loved all of the comments, because again, total Comment Whore.  I wish I would have come up with Mount Washmore.  Nice work, Jennifer.  Many of the three or four followers here are writers - don't you just kick yourself when you write something and someone comes up with something brilliant that would've worked beautifully into your piece?  Well, that happens to me EVERY DAY.  And, Aleigh, WTF? doesn't the laundry automatically get sorted when you throw it on the box?  I bet Hamburger Helper would taste a LOT better if I tried your "just open the box" strategy.  And ForeverRhonda?  My dishwasher broke too, and an Australian guy named Graham is installing my new one, after FIVE MONTHS OF MY KIDS HANDWASHING and breaking all of my wedding dishes, on Friday.  I will blog about it Monday.  With pictures of Graham, God willing.

So today I did a total of 10 loads of laundry.  

Here is the status of my family's clothing:

 You should see the other chair.

A few things happened today during my laundry adventure.

First, I took some of the commentator's advice, and I bribed the children with Sprite.  Current Husband and I don't let them have soda, mainly because if they drank it there wouldn't be any for us.  We prefer to pop an ice-cold Diet Coke, sit with our feet up, and say, "We don't let you drink this because it is so unhealthy (and refreshing).  We are drinking this as an example of what not to do, because WE LOVE YOU."  I told the kids that if they helped fold clothes for a half hour, and then worked in the garden for another half hour, they could have ONE Sprite each.  And they bought it.  Suckers.  And they did it on credit, because I didn't even HAVE any Sprite.  It sort of makes me wonder where CH and I have gone wrong.  I would've negotiated for two Sprites and doubled down for chocolate.

Second,  I was standing in front of the washing machine putting in yet another load of darks, when I realized my black tank and denim shirt should probably be washed as well.  Of course, I took them off and threw them in the washing machine.  I walked back up the basement steps in my black capris and black bra, intending to round the corner to my room and get a shirt on.  The Son was in the kitchen, saw me walking up, and started screeching and making unintelligible noises, and then ran from the room covering his eyes.  Oldest Daughter saw me, stopped, rolled her eyes, and said in her monotone teen voice, "Dude, put those things away" and then continued on to her room.  I believe she referred to my bodacious ta-ta's as "those things".  Genetics and nursing are a bitch, OD.  See my chest, see your future.  CH followed me into our room, pretended to talk about something, and then groped me as soon as he knew the kids were gone.  Classy.  I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter how old a guy is, whenever he sees a boob it's like the first time.

Third,  I am TOTALLY allergic to laundry.  I have proof:

 Do you see that goiter?  It's as bigger than a pea.  

I realize my gargantuan nose 

diminishes the hive, but it's there.  Oh yes.  It's there.

I do ten frigging loads of laundry, and suddenly, inexplicably, a huge hive appears on my face?  Coincidence?  I think not.  And by the way?  I spoke to a bunch of moms at dance class for about 15 minutes, and not one person said, "Hey, what's up with the boil on your face?  Maybe you should get to a hospital."  On the other hand, we get home from dance and OD looks at me and yells "Oh my gosh Mom, what is WRONG with your FACE?" and I think, "Well this is a new low in our relationship" and then she says, "No, I mean what is that huge THING on it!?" and I think "Hey, just because you got Grandma's nose doesn't mean you need to be cruel" and then she says "I think you have a bug bite or something" and I realize she can't mean my nose, because that is more like a garlic bulb.

We got in the house and I saw the appendage on my face, and I gathered the family for one of my "announcements".  A QUICK NOTE ON ANNOUNCEMENTS:  I am very passionate about "announcements", and I deliver them with great feeling and violent hand gestures, and in the moment I really mean them, but my family understands that I need to have my little rant and they can pretend to listen to me and I'll get over it within 24 hours.  One thing CH HAS learned about "announcements" is that he is NEVER to blame them on my period, or I might punch him in the testicles.

Tonight's "announcement" went something like this:

"Okay people, I did TEN loads of laundry today, and it was because you don't take your laundry downstairs, and now I have a big boil on my face and it's because I had to do all of this laundry and it has stressed me out to the point that I am actually breaking out in hives.  If you love me, you will start to do your part, and bring your dirty laundry downstairs weekly, and take your clean and folded laundry and put it upstairs, in your closets, and NOT IN THE LAUNDRY HAMPER, STILL FOLDED!  Do we have an understanding?"

 They all just looked at me blankly and waited for me to cry, which is usually their sign that the "announcement" is over.  I gave them a violent hand gesture, and they all quickly left the room.  

QUICK QUIZ:
Q:  How many loads of laundry did I do today?
A:  Ten.  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important.

I sat in the room alone, thinking about how to reduce our laundry load.  I wear my clothes two or three times before washing them, and when you couple that with my every-other-day shower, that actually makes me like an Environmental Hero.  What is more important kids, your khaki shorts, or the planet?  That's what I thought.  I don't wear makeup very often, only because I want to reduce animal testing, and I am eating a whole bucket of KFC pink fried chicken every day to cure cancer.  When going through Jen Lancaster's garbage, I separate her metals and plastics (My Fair Lazy, buy it now!), and I am currently drinking an organic wine.  It's all because I CARE, people.  And I think the best way to teach the children is by example.  And this is why I stopped doing laundry:

1. For my health.
2. For the planet.
3. For the feminists.
4. For the children.

I know.  It's so obvious this is the right thing to do.  I think this is going to spark a revolution.  A really smelly, jelly-donut-stained revolution.  And you know it's gonna be...alright.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 21

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Celebrity Marriages.

"I always just hoped that, that I'd meet some nice friendly girl, like the look of her, hope the look of me didn't make her physically sick, then pop the question and... um... settle down and be happy. It worked for my parents. Well, apart from the divorce and all that!"

- Tom, Four Weddings and a Funeral

I'm sorry, men, but in the words of the poet Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name.  Celebrity husbands?  I'm talking to you.  Is it a particular plague among celebrity husbands, or is it just that no one cares enough that Phil McCracken of Dubuque, Iowa, is screwing around to put it on the cover of People?  Does Joe Blow screw around as much as your average Hollywood husband or wife?  This question, coupled with my obsession with Girl Scout cookies and therefore acid reflux, is what keeps me awake at night.  (Really, it's the cookies.  I know lots of people cheat.)

Sandra Bullock is only the latest Hollywood wife to discover her husband has been burning the coal in someone else's furnace.  Before her Brad left Jennifer for Angelina and Reese caught Ryan with Abbie and Sadie caught Jude with Sienna (who caught him with the nanny) and Uma caught Ethan with Ryan (who was the nanny) and Halle caught Eric with everyone.  Let's not forget Elin or Vanessa Bryant in sports or Elizabeth Edwards and Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford and Mrs. Larry Craig and Mrs. James McGreevey and Mrs. Bill Clinton....Really.  I could go on forever.

Famous women caught cheating on their men...um, maybe Madonna and A-Rod?  Farrah left Lee Majors for Ryan O'Neal?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

To right this wrong, I have developed a simple multiple choice test for women to give their famous husbands.  Answered honestly, I think it will save some heartache.  You're welcome, Hollywood.

1.  You ask me on a date.  You:
a) Ask me if I want to stay in or go out.
b) Take me to In 'n Out Burger.
c) Say you'd like to screw my sister.

2.  While dating, I have to leave town for work.  You:
a) Read Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility"
b) Take a class in sensitivity.
c) Watch the porn movie "Scents and Spankability"

3.  We decide to marry.  You propose:
a) In Paris.
b) On the beach.
c) an open marriage.

4.  As a hobby, you:
a) drink screwdrivers.
b) like carpentry.
c) screw everything.

5.  When you text me, you sometimes:
a) send me links to funny videos.
b) tell me you love me.
c) call me the wrong name.

6. Your favorite drink is:
a) A daquiri
b) Whiskey, neat
c) Beer bong between the stripper's tits

7.  Your biggest personal problem is:
a) Organization
b) Communication
c) Herpes

If he answers A to most of these questions, he might be gay.  Best to keep him as a movie or shopping date for a while.  If he answers C, YOU fail for keeping him around this long.  Jesse James?  You had me.  You were the poster boy for not judging people by their looks, or their tattoos, or their porn-star ex-wives.  You start playing around with tattooed biker chicks for a little fun, and next thing you know:

 You're guilty conscience is forcing you to make bad fashion choices.  

That's right, Jesse.  You earned those overalls.  Perhaps regular pants irritate the sores.  Even Larry the Cable Guy is saying, "Hey man, just because we dress alike DOESN'T mean we have anything in common!"

Perhaps what these men really need to do is not get married.  They aren't doing women any favors by marrying them.  Honestly?  Sandra Bullock has other options.  And who wouldn't want to be with Jen?  (Hmm.  Okay, bad example.  But she seems like a really fun girlfriend!  Take ME to Cabo, Jen!)  But Reese, Uma, Halle, Elin, heck, even Hillary could hook up with someone else.

I understand that good people cheat.  I completely see how people get from Point A to Point B.  I get it that if you're feeling down and troubled a la James Taylor, and someone approaches you at just the right time and tells you how amazing you are when your partner doesn't seem to notice, you will be tempted to stray.  But as the child of a marriage with adultery, can I propose that if you can't be loyal and true, then don't stay married.  Period.  And if you do get married, and then repeatedly cheat, I hope you get potato salad in your pants.  You may still be a good person, but you deserve the itches.

And Jesse?  I hope you really enjoy your time in the garage, because I think you're going to be tuning your own engine for a while.  Let me suggest another quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral for your next relationship:

"Charles:  Let me ask you one thing. Do you think - after we've dried off, after we've spent lots more time together - you might agree *not* to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?
Carrie:  I do."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!
EIGHT HOURS LATER:  When God gives you a gift, like Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzaling, and you don't use it?  Well that's just a crime.  I will discuss the hiring of someone to vajazzle you on Monday.