Bad Santa and Coal in My Stocking

First and Foremost:  

I am finally switching the blog to WordPress!  So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1.  However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end.  Can I get an amen?

I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress.  Here is the link to the new address - http://www.adayinthewife.com/.  Please make a note of it.

I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy.  Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took.  BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN?  You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.

Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John.  He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member.  When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence.  Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?" because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John.  If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will cut. you.

John looks a little bit like Bad Santa.  He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends.  He has a boat.  He likes whiskey.  John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard.  Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.

Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.

If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor. 

DR: "So what seems to be the problem?  You have a sore on your...uh.."
(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)
ME:  "My nipple.  It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."
DR:  (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"
ME:  "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."
DR:  "Okay.  Let's take a look at it."

And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.

This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.

And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like "Is baseball season still going for you guys?" and I'm all, "It must be because you just stole second!" and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me.  Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!"  This is why I love my doctor.  Let's turn a festering sore into a victory. 

She gives me cream and asks about my yard.  We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere.  My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped.  Seriously.  She says that.  So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, "I can't believe I just gave you that opening."  Me either, Doc.  It's like you don't know me at all.

The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE.  You're welcome, neighbors.

I see John in the yard and I say hi.  He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden?" and he says something like "Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?" and I say something along the lines of "Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me.  I've got it on my chest and arms right now".  He pauses and looks at me, and says, "I'll take it down today."  I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.

It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.

And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

A terrible, terrible thing is happening to me. It’s akin to changing my blood type or my eye color, or getting a new identity, or having a sex change. I think my body is starting to reject Diet Coke.


(Take a moment. I know, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around too.)


I’ve been a Diet Coke fan since it was born in 1982. This was the first can design from which I can remember drinking:

Memories.  Like the corners of my mind.

I had a brief fling with Fountain Mountain Dew from about 1988 through 1993, but eventually returned to my original love. I also gave up Diet Coke entirely during my first pregnancy, and drank limited amounts of it during pregnancies number two and three and while I was nursing. But the first thing I had after each baby? A Diet Coke and a very large Tylenol. And then a malt. And then a large pile of blow accompanied by a Neil Sedaka album. (Just kidding Mom. You know I can’t take Neil Sedaka.)

TANGENT ALERT:  I just typed "Images A Pile of Blow" on Google and the weirdest shit ever came up.  I couldn't even pick anything, my mind was so confused, particularly by the 'Reeses peanut butter cup in hair' image.  Might have to quit those now too.  And now back to our story....

I’m the kind of person who won’t have soda if the restaurant exclusively serves Diet Pepsi. Why would I give up the most delicious, refreshing drink in all the free world? Well, I’m going to be deliberately vague so as to not make you lose your cookies, but here goes.


A couple of weeks ago, Current Husband and I went on a little date and had dinner at Biaggi’s. I had the shrimp and crab cannelloni, because CH is allergic to shellfish, so since I don’t cook with it I try to order it when I’m out on the town. It was spectacularly delicious. CH thinks I got sick from the shellfish, I think I got rotavirus from someone. Let’s just say that something terrible has been happening in my colon. Something very, very terrible.


I try to stay away from the bathroom at work. I use it, but not unless I have to, and I restrict myself to #1 activities only. I go home for lunch if I have other business to do. I feel that it’s a favor to me and a courtesy to my co-workers. Let’s keep our biological issues as human beings as separate as possible. The Monday after Biaggi’s, I found myself unable to wait. Or drive. There was no time. NO. TIME. So The Bad Things happened. As I was walking out of the bathroom, another female co-worker, whom I like, was approaching the door. As she put her hand on the knob, I put my hand on her arm.


ME: “Don’t.”
HER: “What?”
ME: “As a friend, I’m telling you not to go in there.”
HER: (smiling but flustered) “But I’m just rinsing out my coffee cup.”
ME: “Not in there, you aren’t. Don’t pass that door for at least an hour.”
HER: (Laughing as I’m leading her to another sink) “You must have what R had last week!”
ME: “Was R sick?”
HER: “I’m not sure, but I know she alternated bathrooms and advised I go at home.”
ME: “Ditto.”


Anyone with a uterus knows that women just don't talk about these things.  But at that moment, I was going to lose her respect in one of two ways - either let her keep walking through the door and into my Cloud of Shame, or to stop her from walking in and admit I have a cranky colon.  I like her, so I chose Option #2 (no pun intended).  And I’m going on Week 2.


I’m finding that The Bad Things happen soon after I drink Diet Coke, and I’ve even been finding that lately Diet Coke doesn’t taste as good. I’ve been on Web MD researching. I’ve tried to eat healthier (okay, not really, but I’ve INTENDED to, which is similar). I’ve texted a friend for the name of her probiotic (Florastor). I have NOT cut back on coffee. I have not given up Pinot Grigio. I have a lot of work to do.


I’m sorry Diet Coke, but I think we’re going to need to take a Ross and Rachel Break. In the words of Neil Sedaka, Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.  Time to do some blow and have a malt.  But not a baby.  (Thanks again, Essure!)




I'm Having a Shot for Breakfast

Hello Wifers!

I'm finally back home from the Hooker Convention, which was very fun but tiring.  Hooking takes a LOT of energy.

I arrived at home around 11 p.m. to some happy kids and an even happier Current Husband.  He was actually waiting on the front step when I pulled up.  Of course, I'm all monthly today, CH's luck just ran out.  Not to mention my bitchiness.  George the Superpet is happy though, because this is the time of the month that he hopes someone leaves a bathroom door open so he can rip the garbage apart looking for treasure.  I'm sorry George, I love you, but sometimes dogs are pretty damn gross.

Today, my parents stopped by on their way home from Ohio (they came to the Hooker Convention too, but to see relatives, not for the hooking) and we went out for dinner at Texas Roadhouse, which is sort of our joke because their permanent residence is in Texas, so they drive to Iowa to eat at a Texas Roadhouse.  I know, it's SUPER funny if you're here.  Well, not even then really.  I was a complete glutton and pounded back a 6 ounce filet and loaded baked potato and a Ceasar salad and those damn rolls and a margarita, while my vegetarian daughters ate salad and potatoes and watched me kill myself.  Mongo like steak!  CH looked at the kids like, "Just sit quietly and no sudden movements, it's her time of the month and she is holding a steak knife."

We got home and I decided since I was gone all week, I would do some work in our basement.  We are getting our basement finished, and CH and I decided we would save some money and tear down the current walls ourselves.  How hard can it be?  Well, kind of hard, actually.  I was picking up big chunks of drywall and MOTHERF***ER, I grabbed a rusty nail and punctured my finger.  I had to call Mom and find out if I HAD to get a tetanus shot tonight or if I could wait until tomorrow, because Mom is a nurse, and she said, "I can't remember if it's 12 hours or 24 hours that you need to get it.  And I can't remember if it's 5 or 10 years since you've had your last booster if you need to get another shot.  I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you wake up and your fingers are all twisted, go to the ER."

So Reassuring.

This is from the nurse who would make Hamburger Helper for lunch on Saturday, leave it in the pan on the stove all day, and then warm it up again for dinner, so I'm not always sure if I should be taking her medical advice, but I call My Friend Paige The OB too often about stupid shit like this, and besides, I think her service is blocking me after I drunk dialed them, so I'm taking my chances and waiting until morning.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I turned into Cujo overnight and I'm frothing at the mouth and have trapped my neighbors in their '84 Ford Escort and am on a first-name basis with the pack of 39 feral cats who live on my street.  I'll miss you people.

Day 8 - Goodbye, Four Leaf Clover.

Day 8, People.  The Month of Blogging streak is unbroken.  It will be hard next week, as I am traveling to Ohio for a hooker convention and will be...ahem...BUSY.  But I ain't quittin you, Wifers!

So tomorrow I have a pap smear, which by it's very name sounds gross, and it's one of those days where you want to look decent because COME ON.  Someone has to stare into your very soul via your hoo-ha, and you sort of hope there isn't any unsightly hair or bruises and your stomach isn't flopped out on the table on your side.

One of my best friends since fifth grade (yes, someone has known me THAT long and still speaks to me!) is an OB-GYN and actually delivered my niece and nephew, and she's the one whom I alway refer to when I say I badger a doctor friend from high school for advice.  Although I think I was put on the ban list on her paging service last year when I called her service at night a little drunk and told them to tell her that "Me and Meem want to know why she isn't at the party!?!"  (But you were *supposed* to be there, Paige.  Don't make me go to extremes to get you out.  You did that to yourself.)

Anyway, OB-GYN friend says that they see EVERYTHING as far as personal hygeine and body decor, so don't worry about it because they don't see it or talk about it in the break room, which is nice to hear but I think is total BS.  If YOU saw someone's dealio shaved into a four-leaf clover or pierced with a safety pin, wouldn't YOU need to tell someone?  At least your therapist!  And let them talk about OTHER people (and please, God, let me hear it) but I don't want to be in the water cooler talk.  Therefore, I am shaving off my four leaf clover and taking the safety pin out. 

Today, I am walking past a big plate glass window at work that has a mirror effect, and I caught a glimpse of myself and thought, "Whose stomach am I carrying around?  Because THAT?  Is unattractive."  I blame Current Husband and that twenty pound bag of Peanut M&M's he brought home this weekend and forced me to eat at gunpoint.  And the beer and wine he made me buy.  And the ice cream and the shish kebob.  Do you hear me?  CALL THE POLICE, he is fattening me up for something.  Now I have to go disrobe for someone and explain myself.  Well, I probably don't HAVE to explain myself, but I'm sure I will.  It's what I do.

By the way - Happy Birthday Paige!  I'm having a pap smear on your birthday in your honor!  I hope there's theme cake afterward!

Get In The Van. I Have Candy.

Hello Wifers!

I've been a bad blogger, and I know it, but sometimes it feels good to be bad.  No, really.  It does.  Grab your puke cups and let me tell you all about it.

Saturday, July 16, 5 a.m.
My alarm goes off.  I ignore it.

Saturday, July 16, 8 a.m.
I've been pushing the snooze for three hours.  At 10-minute intervals.  Anyone who roomed with me in college knows this is not an exaggeration.  I wake up in a panic, and realize we are now two hours past when I wanted to be on the road for our 13-hour drive to Atlanta.  Shit. 

Saturday, July 16, 9:30 a.m.
We are finally on the road after a solid hour of MomPanic.  We stop at the first McDonald's on our trip, in Bettendorf, IA.  We order breakfast, because I cleared out the fridge yesterday so things won't mold while we are gone.  I order orange juice for the kids, because it's healthy and will offset all of the other crap we are eating.  (This is called "foreshadowing".)

Saturday, July 16, 9:40 a.m.
Current Husband looks at me in a panic and says, "Oh No."  This means we must find the nearest McDonalds immediately, as they have the cleanest bathrooms.  His uber-sensitive digestive system has failed us all, 10 minutes into our 13-hour trip.  We find said McDonalds in Moline, IL, where the kids and I will sit for the next 15 minutes while they abuse me for letting Daddy order a sausage biscuit.

Saturday, July 16, 10:35 a.m.
Finally, we are closing in on hour first hour down on the trip, when Youngest Daughter says, "Mommy, when you find the next bathroom, I need you to stop."  Really?!?  She can hold out a little longer, right?  "Um, Mommy, my stomach is a little upset."  Crap.  Hello McDonalds.  Here we are again.  I pull up into a spot, and walk around to the van door on her side, and find to my dismay that she is still in her pajamas.  There is a man in an SUV next to us, apparently waiting for someone, and we are providing a nice distraction for him.

ME:  "Honey, you have to put some clothes on to go into McDonald's." 
YD:  "Why?"
ME:  "Because you can't be out in public in your pajamas."
(NOTE:  Unless you are me in 2003 and you are sleep deprived and desperately need Motrin for a sick kid and the only grocery store in your small town closes in 10 minutes.  Think you will see no one, run into school principal, school nurse, and pastor. Understand you deserve this.)
YD:  "I don't have time, Mom, ...BRULLLLP."

THIS IS WHEN YD VOMITS WARM ORANGE JUICE ALL OVER SIDE OF VAN, HERSELF, AND ME.  MAN IN SUV LOOKS AWAY IN HORROR. 

We march into McDonalds, both covered in warm puke, past full line of people waiting for drive thru who undoubtedly deleted orange juice from their order.  Or left altogether.  I take poor little YD into bathroom and wash her off, change her clothes, and stand under hand driers so the vomit on my shorts will at least dry so we don't have to smell it in the van.  We get back to the van, and the SUV next to us is surprisingly gone.  I dig through our luggage and find a clean pair of shorts, and change into them behind the McD's dumpster because I honestly do not give a shit anymore.  I'm done impressing anyone here.  We discuss returning home.  CH and I decide to carry on and hope for the best.

Saturday, July 16, 11:22 a.m.
YD vomits again in plastic grocery bag in back seat.  I blame Rush Limbaugh, whose voice seems to be settling CH's intestinal discomfort.  We stop at a BP, because our theme has become "environmentally damaging".  I clean YD up again, and buy some Dramamine, which God made for situations such as these.  CH and I again discuss abandoning travel plans, but we've both taken off a week of vacation, we have non-refundable hotel rooms in Nashville, and our friends in Atlanta are expecting us at 9 p.m. and have scheduled accordingly.  We carry on.  The Dramamine works. 

YD and her puke cup, upgraded from her pajamas and a plastic bag.

All told, we visited seven McDonalds bathrooms in 15 hours across five states.  I'd like to take a moment to thank McDonalds for keeping their bathrooms cleaner than your average gas station.  The Son was tapped to take one for the team, because I don't use a bathroom without buying some product.

He's a giver, that one.  Only a 12-year-old boy

would still be packing away food next to

a vomiting third grader.

Will we make it to Atlanta?  Or will our ADHD take us off the road to unplanned and uncharted destinations?  Stay tuned for Part 2 of "Get In The Van. I Have Candy." on Tuesday!