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!)




Who Left Their 15-Year-Old In My House?

Because I am clearly not old enough to have one. 
In my mind I'm 23.

Last Friday, this sweet little (slightly jaundiced) peep...

turned into this sweet one-year-from-sixteen:

They're so cute when mildly violent.

So now I have this 15-year-old in my house. 

About eight birthdays ago she was happy to get this:

Now she is mildly excited to get this:

And the son is pretty psyched to be giving the gift.  He was hoping she would be uncomfortable getting this from him, so he ended up disappointed.  OD doesn't show emotion.  That is SO middle school.

Instead of a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese or Incredible Pizza or American Girl, Oldest Daughter decided she wanted a small teenage dinner party at our house.  I made homemade crab rangoon and then ordered all the rest, because I only give about 30% effort at home anymore, and we opened the door to three girls and two boys.  (Technically only two girls, one was late.)

They all acted very mature and grown-up, until the boys decided to start putting Chip Clips on their noses.  OD said, "One of you is going to get hurt" right about the time that Boy 2 (non-boyfriend guest) started bleeding from the nose.  He was very polite and somewhat shamed as OD is standing outside the bathroom door yelling, "You have to blow the clot out.  Trust me, my brother gets these all the time."  Unfortunately, this extremely sweet boy wiped his bloody hands on my snowy-white guest hand towel.  Damn you, Chip Clips, and your irresistable clamping abilities!  It's not a party until someone is bleeding. 

The Boyfriend gave her a fish, which she now loves with all her heart. 

His name is Demetrius Philbert II. 

I hope he makes it until Easter, because my understanding is that fish have short lifespans.

You're Old. That'll be 400 Dollars.

I think I've mentioned that my family made me believe I was going deaf last year.  They walk around muttering and low talking around me, and I'm forever saying, "What? Huh?" and then they talk very slowly and loudly, over-enunciating and then mocking me.  Which was super funny until I served them the trichonosis ham at Christmas.  It was an accident, of course.  OR WAS IT?

So, on the whole hearing thing (HUH!?), I ended up so freaked out by it that I made an appointment at an ENT office and had a hearing test.  I had to go to a room with little tiny preschool chairs, and put on little pink Minnie Mouse headphones, and stare at a Disney mural while they administered the hearing test.  When I walked out, the tech said, "Um, yeah, so not only is your hearing good, it's actually above normal.  So....you're fine."  I paid the $300, which was not covered by insurance, and went home to my low-talkers who were all making  me think I was crazy. (I SAID MADE ME THINK I WAS CRAZY!)

So in the past year, I've had to start using reading glasses.  I seem to really have trouble seeing, so I picked out a 2.0 strength pair.  Lately, those seem to be blurring my words as well.  It was time to upgrade from my Walgreens readers to some real glasses.  Hopefully bifocals, because they'll go with my Depends. (Do those Kegels, girls.  Ready...and HOLD...and...release.)  I asked friends for an eye doctor recommendation, and went with the one who has the same name as CH and my masseuse, because I'm intent on building a stable of men with the same name who are here to serve me.

Today, I go to the eye doctor's office.  While waiting for my name to be called, I checked out some eyeglasses...ooh, there are some cool Lacoste ones.  Will I look like Tina Fey in THESE:

Being old might not be so bad if I can look bookishly hip.  Maybe rock a Naughty Librarian look.  Okay, I can do this.  "Julie?"  I take my first step toward my revamped image as I walk into the exam room.

My oompah-loompishly tanned tech was very nice, but kept looking at my chart with furrowed brow.  "What is it you are being seen for?  How blurry are the words?"   I started getting worried - was this some kind of ocular malfeseance, the likes of which had never been seen before by this office?  The doctor walked in with the same name as my husband and gave me a speech not unlike one I would hear from CH:

"Your vision is 20/20.  You're just getting old."

Um, do I pick up those Lacoste lenses on the way out as a parting gift, Doc?  Because you just harshed my buzz.  I went from Tina Fey to Estelle Getty in 60 seconds.  It turns out that when you are OLD, your lens in your eye quits being bendy - "Much like your knees, Julie" is what he said, just before I accidentally punched my bad knee into his scrotal sac - and won't move as quickly, hence your blurry words.  Also?  My readers are too strong - I need closer to a 1.0, the 2.0 strength is making me hold my book closer to my face.  I can't even get my readers right!  What is my name?  Where am I?  Jesus, is that you?

I don't need glasses.  I need burial insurance.

So in the past six months, I've had my hearing checked and it is above average, and I've had my vision checked and it's 20/20, and yet, I CAN'T SEE OR HEAR A DAMN THING.

Conclusion?  You're old.  That'll be $400.  Come back in two years so we can ridicule you some more.

All Growed Up

Last night, my little girl went to Homecoming.

This is how she looked to me.

And this is how she looked to everyone else.

Sigh. *wipes away a tear*

It's been a crazy few days, with lots of fun stuff, and it feels like everyone has aged a few years this weekend, particularly me.  We started with the Homecoming parade on Thursday night, where Youngest Daughter got to ride the parade float, and is on student council.  She doesn't seem OLD enough to be on a student council.  It's like saying "my toddler is on student council".  I wanted her to wear a helmet or water wings or something.  It's weird for me.  But I guess a good transition into the other milestones of the weekend.

Then we all went to the Homecoming football game, where Oldest Daughter promptly ran away with her friends, The Son promptly ran away with his middle school friends, and Youngest Daughter ran in a pack of elementary school girls on the hill about 30 feet away from us and loaded up on brownies and slushies.  They all wanted to stay after the game and line up with the students to high five the football players running back to the locker room.  The odd part is that I was thinking "they want to line up with the students!" and the reality is that they ARE the students.   OD is one of the "Big kids".  This can't be happening.

Then, the big day.

We all slept in (bliss) and then at 10:30 we left to OD and her friend's nails done.

These are pink to match her dress, with a black houndstooth pattern on two of them.  By noon, she was tired of me taking pictures.  I was over her attitude.  Things were going South.

Then the Great Fight Over Whether or Not To Wear a Sweater took place.  You can imagine which side of the fight I was on.  Guess who won?

Hmm.  No sweater.  But it's going to get below 50 degrees when the sun goes down.  Whatever.  Go ahead and freeze.  I'll be home in stretchy waistband fleece pants with a beer and wool socks on.  Doesn't her friend look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn?  Look at the hair...

So pretty!  Then we were off to the BIG photo session.  Indulge me while I share, it's all I had going on for the last week.  Or month.

So pretty except, apparently, for my mysterious ingestion of five pounds of salt.  How does one bloat up like this?  I give you the Starbucks Salted Caramel Mocha.  Damn you, SCM.  Damn you to hell.  Isn't this how MY mom looked when I was in high school?  How did I become the mom?  No, don't tell me.  I know.  It's icky.

She gets beautiful flowers...

I tell the boys to simulate a fight scene, thus ruining the pics for the other parents, You're Welcome Parents!

And here are the beautiful girls, who didn't

line up by height on purpose....

And then they went inside for dinner and I had to leave.  I asked if anyone needed a ride from the club to the dance, and OD said, "No Mom, I don't think we need you."

What?!?!  You don't....NEED...me?


And as I drove away in the swagger wagon, I realized that she doesn't.  I mean, she NEEDS me, but she doesn't need need me, like to cross the street or eat at a restaurant or be around large groups of people.  So this weekend was about a little more than my oldest child going to her first big dance, with a date, no less.  It was a litle bit about starting the slow process of removing herself from our home.  Baby steps.  The little bird looked over the side of the nest for the first time, and I think she likes what she sees. 

So far, I'm pretty lucky.  She's a good kid, she had manners, she gets good grades, she's in some nice extracirricular activities, she has good friends.  But nothing is guaranteed, and I know that I'm not arranging the playdates and picking out her clothes and pulling the strings anymore.  It's a little scary, but it's a little bit fun too, to watch her find her way and become the person she is going to be.  I hope it's a good one.

In the meantime, I'll be licking my salt block and nervously eating cake.  Wish me luck, people.

Monday, Monday

I really need to stop sleeping in over the weekend, because then Monday comes and I am so...effing...tired, and all the coffee Juan Valdez can pack over to me on his mule cannot keep me awake.  All day I dream of napping, and it's crazy hectic at work, and then I get home and it's make dinner get OD to her cello lesson take The Son to return the shoes he doesn't like go to the grocery store get everyone showered/homeworked/tucked and pluck George The Superpet's ear hair (yes, I do that) and then one would think I would be ready for bed and SURPRISE!  I'm wide awake.  Sure to be dead ass tired again tomorrow.

I did start this book last night, which is terrific so far:

It's a dog book, so I'm sucked in.  I read these books and I get engrossed, but there's also this voice in the back of my head that says, "You need to write your book" and I say "I don't have time right now" and the voice pesters me until I start yelling at it, "Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to write a book!?!  And one that is actually good and has a story and proper English that people will read that doesn't have sparkly vampires in it because that is so 2010?!"

I love a good book.  I have been reading since I was four, and I love nothing better in life than losing myself in a book, where I am so obsessed with it that I can't put it down, and when I'm forced to put it down I can't stop thinking about when I can pick it back up again.  I will take a good book, and I mean a REALLY good book that is one of the obsession books, over sex, coffee, wine, pasta and tiramisu.  THAT is how much I love books. 

There are loads of books I've been this obsessive with in my life, but ones that pop into my mind immediately are - Jane Austen books (except for Northanger Abbey, which was okay but I could put it down and live), Cowboys Are My Weakness by Pam Houston, The Good People of New York and Out of the Girls Room and Into the Night by Thisbe Nissen, Cooked Little Heart and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, Devil in the White City by Eric Larson, It Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies, the entire Twilight series, the entire Harry Potter series, Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, Room by Emma Donoghue, all Jen Lancaster books, the Hunger Games series, and the Dragon Tattoo series by Stieg Larsson.  As a kid, it was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nancy Drew, The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, The Trumpeter Swan, anything by Judy Blume and of course The Flowers in The Attic series.  Ish.

On deck right now I have A Tale of Two Cities, Portrait of a Lady, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch by Hollis Gillespie, It Looked Different on the Model by Laurie Notaro, and am awaiting Stacey Ballis's new book whenever it may come because I did love Good Enough to Eat.  And David Sedaris's Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.  And With a Little Luck by Caprice Crane.

(I have to stop writing this because I have spent the last 20 minutes going back and adding another book I love to the "obsessed with" list.  Because I'm obsessed.)

But with a Pesky Full Time Job, my work severely cuts into my reading time, and then the Mothering takes over the non-paid-work time, so I find myself reading until all hours of the night and then waking up vowing never to do it again and covering the perpetually deep shadows under my eyes with foundation.  Open Memo to People at Work: I'm not being beaten, I'm reading.

What exactly is my point here?

That I write every single day, and have been writing pretty steadily for 15 years, and I can tell you firsthand that it is DAMN HARD to write a book.  Try it, I dare you.  I'm about 2/3 of the way through my first novel, which is about 60,000 words (the average blog post is about 600-900 words), and I haven't TOUCHED the novel in over a year.  I know how it's going to end.  I just haven't written it down.  And then when you start writing it, it changes.  The book actually takes your thoughts and says, "Bullshit, that would never happen.  THIS is what that character REALLY wants to do!"  I have another book rolling around in my head, and a collection of short stories too.  But guess what?  No publisher is going to pay me to tell them all about the stories and not write them down.  It's that tricky technicality of calling oneself a writer...you actually have to WRITE.

Every week, I say, "once we get through the school year I'll make time to write", then "once we get through the summer, I'll make time to write" and "Once school starts again, I'll make time to write" and now it's "once I finish this freelance project for CH..." and "once we finish the basement..."  One of these days I might actually do it, but honestly people, I'm 42 and I start worrying that I'm never going to purge these words.  It's like John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

Every time I hear the song, "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, which I'm pretty sure she wrote specifically for me, I think Get Your Ass In Gear, Girl!  Do you have a lifelong ambition that is unmet?  Do you have something you are just dying to do and just don't do it?  What is holding you back?  Am I alone in thinking my epitaph is going to be "Unfulfilled potential?"  Lay it on me, Wifers, if Blogger will let you comment.  What is on your mind?  If you can't comment here, go to the FB page and do it there.  I want to know!

Going Bareback Again Tomorrow

I honestly wouldn't probably be blogging about this if I wasn't blogging every day this month, but Mom and her two non-English-speaking co-workers need something to do. 

Every time I have a mammogram, I get called back, or as I like to refer to it, "My rack has a second audition."  I was under the impression that this is because my ladies are getting tired of fighting gravity, but yesterday the tech said it is because my tissues are exceptionally compressed, thus giving the illusion of shadows on the scan.  The first time this happened, I wrote goodbye letters to Current Husband and the children.  I got my second scan and all was well and I went on my happy way, and a few weeks later CH found me, panicked, and said, "What the hell is this?!"  He was holding my letter, which made me look slightly suicidal since nothing else was going on, and I had to explain that I wrote the letter when I thought I had cancer, but to just forget about it now.  After asking me a few questions about my happiness level, he was able to start breathing again, because who is going to pack those cold lunches for the vegetarian daughters and buy tampons if I'm not around?

The second time my rack got a callback, I was told it was because skin had folded on top of itself, which is a much different explaination than "compressed tissue", and sounds like I can tuck my boobs into the waistband of my pants.  Again, clean screen the second time around.

Today I got a callback for tomorrow, and I'm relatively unfazed about it because I am always a two-timer, but let me tell you what DOES bother me a little.  When I go to the Center for Women's Health and I get off the elevator and I'm smacked upside the face with a 10 foot tall pink sign that says, "Whose life will YOU be running for?" about Race for the Cure.  And then the breast cancer awareness poster.  And then the next one.  And the next. And the next.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for breast cancer research.  But when I'm going in for my second mammogram, my paranoia about getting diagnosed with breast cancer is already ratcheted up a bit without picking my race team.  I know so many people who have had or are battling some form of cancer that I feel like it's National Geographic's "Seconds From Disaster" - it's not a matter of if, but when.

I'm sure my scan will be just the same as all the others tomorrow, clear, and don't think for a second I haven't been giving myself a cheap feel all night long, so if there was a grain of sand in there I would've found it, but somewhere in the world every day someone's results come back with bad news.  Therefore, maybe this is a nice moment to say that if you're looking for a place to donate your extra bags of cash, cancer research would be a nice place to do it.

But tomorrow?  When the scan is over?  I'm off to Starbucks for my well-deserved Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte before I head back to work.

How Short is Too Short in Shorts?

Because tonight at High School Freshman orientation, the assistant principal very assuredly told the parents that if our daughters are caught wearing shorts that are too short, they will be sent home from school.  I am going to add this to my list, called, "Even More Fucking Things to Worry About With A High Schooler."  Dear Hollister, Abercrombie, American Eagle, and Aeropostale - will you PLEASE get together with my principal and come up with an acceptable length of shorts, and I will purchase them.  I will purchase 10.  I will even consider paying double so I don't have to worry about this anymore, because I'm already freaked out by the bus passes that haven't shown up, the confirmation that my PaySchools acct is paid in full hasn't shown up, and the fact that Youngest Daughter informed me tonight that she is completely out of clean underwear and the 12-pack I bought her yesterday is too big.

I am making lunches for all of the kids tomorrow because I am not sure about the PaySchools account, and two of my children are now vegetarians because of a PBS video I showed them a few weeks ago called "Chicago, City of the Century."  I'll write about that later this week, because we have all month, right?

The other thing the prinicpal said today?  "Communicate with your kids, because if you don't ask questions before they go out with their friends, the next questions you'll be asking are, 'Did anyone get hurt?  What charges were filed?  When is she due?'"  Oh Dear God.  Buying longer shorts tomorrow.  Secretly implanting daughters with Norplant, and son, if doctor will agree to it.

We had a special dinner tonight and toasted Oldest Daughter, our new high school freshman, and The Son, our new Middle Schooler, and Youngest Daughter, our last child in third grade.  I got a little choked up; they got slightly irritated.  But I'm not sure how all of these kids got old, while I remained a fresh, spry 23.  This just isn't possible.  And I'm slowly coming to realize that when I admonished my parents when I was a high schooler because they "Just Didn't Understand", that they understood perfectly - I was the one who didn't understand.  It's a real bitch to just get that now.  Sorry Mom!

I feel like we've done a good job with the kids - by all appearances, they seem polite and well-mannered and care about school and empathetic, but the minute you start thinking that your kid can do no wrong is when they do.  No kid is above an unplanned pregnancy or a failed test or some tp'ing or underage drinking or sign-stealing, or even some mild bullying.  Facebook and cell phones and the Internet and their access to it, coupled with immaturity, scare the hell out of me.  So here we go, onto our next adventure into the great unknown, with a little prayer for some luck and hope that they will do the right thing, and when they don't, to come to us first.  And let us help.  When they hand you that screaming baby in the hospital and wave while you get in the car, clueless and scared, you don't realize that the most terrifying times in parenthood are still a good 12 years away.

But I'm trying not to think about that stuff - I'm just dropping them off and smiling and waving and hoping that they are embarking on the best part of their journey so far, and then wiping away a tear and chugging a venti quadruple shot skinny vanilla latte.  Because I'm leaving for Ohio on Tuesday for a hooker convention and I'm still not finished packing.

Happy First Day of School, parents.  Here's to a great year that is low on drama and high on grades and happiness!

Day 12 - Soul Surfer

First I would like to take a moment to say Thank God it's Friday, and not in a chain-restaurant kind of way.  We celebrated the evening by driving the 2004 Chevy Venture Status Wagon to a local dealership because I liked a 2010 Sienna that had leather and DVD and a sunroof, only to find that said dealership was closed and said van has disappeared.  Instead of grieving the loss of my Swagga Wagon, I took it as a sign that I should drive Old Faithful for another year since she is fully paid for, and instead pour the Swagga money into finishing my basement.


We went to Qdoba to eat, it's a chain restaurant, and because some friends of ours own it and we want them to go out and buy a new Swagga Wagon on burrito money.

Here I am, eating my burrito with my man hands and awkward facial hair.

After quelling my Minivan pain by stuffing queso and a burrito in my craw, we came home and I made a deal with Youngest Daughter that if she rubbed my shoulders and brushed my hair for 30 minutes I would pay for on-demand Soul Surfer.  Nothing is free, kids.  I'm thinking, "Ha!  Brush my hair, SUCKA!" and then I start watching the movie and crying.  Damn you, Soul Surfer, and your inextinguishable optimism and bravery!  And suddenly,  I seem like a big fat loser sitting on my couch and taking advantage of my third grader.


I get up off of the couch, crying and insipired and motivated - I CAN do everything I want!  It's 11 p.m., and I'm going to make all kinds of china mosaics tonight, and write the first chapter of my novel, and start hooking the rug I just drew the pattern for, and I can do it because I have BOTH arms and if Bethanny can do it, so can I!  I walk downstairs and turn on the light in my studio, and then I think, "I'm old and tired.  My back sort of hurts and I'm in the middle of reading a good book.  Perhaps I should let the Soul Surfer be the accomplished one, and I shall be The Appreciator.  The Sofa Surfer.    The Soda Sipper.  The Slothy Stalker.  Wow.  It really drained me to think of those names.  I think my work here is done.


Here is the parade of the people who have popped into the studio while I am trying to work:

Wednesday.

Thursday.

 Friday.

But it's okay.  I'd probably get kind of lonely down here.

Bleh.

Bleh.

Okay people.  I intended to blog, really I did.  And then a friend took me out for margaritas tonight, and she was all, "Oh, we'll only be out from 7-9 p.m.!" and I said, "Okay, great, because I still have to blog and my sister-in-law and her family are coming tomorrow and I want to clean" and she said, "No problem!" and then she took me to Azteca, which is my kryptonite, and bought me a jumbo margarita, and then a shot of Patron, and then a "small" margarita, and now I'm having trouble focusing not to mention writing and I'm going to take a Prilosec and an Aleve and go to bed because I have to get up at 6:30 a.m. to get ready for my job as a hooker.  Of course, Current Husband sees that I am tipsy and is thinking, "Where are my condoms?" but it is futile, because I am 42 and totally cannot hold my liquor anymore.  I might even have gout or erectile dysfunction or Alzheimers.  And?  I missed the first episode of Project Runway.

But I did have a lot of fun with my tequila-loving friend.

Awaiting the inevitable headache,

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!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 67

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: No Sale, J. Lo
Hello Wifers, and Happy Independence Day weekend!  I'm in the urban mecca of Nebraska for the next week, in an area next to a flooding river that has iffy cell phone reception, so forget about laptops.  But I do know something I want Independence from this weekend, and it's J Lo's song "On The Floor".  I know J Lo has a smokin' bod and piles of money and talent.  I conceed this.  And her music pre-Marc Anthony was great. 

Additionally?  Her love don't cost a thing.

Really.  It don't.

 
Here's my issue - I thought Jenny from the Block was adorable, particulary with all of the gratuitious shots of her badonkadonk in bikinis and briefs, with Ben Affleck tricked out all street with his tats showing and kissing her ass, literally and figuratively.  But I bought it, Jenny (from the BRONX!).  I was buying what you were selling.  Sold.

I mean, she's gorgeous, really, and as an American Idol judge she is America's Sweetheart. But DAMN. With two teen-types, our car radio is locked on Top 40 Pop, and I have to hear that stupid song three times an hour, and I've heard it so many times now that I've gone all philosophical on it. I'm starting to miss Barney.  As I hear on the radio over and over and over and over....it's a new generation...of party people.  Presumably J Lo is not part of that new generation.  Here is J Lo as the new and improved Mother of Twins Clubber:



What I take from this video is that if, as a mother of babies under the age of two, you aren't carrying a transparent mesh spiderweb bodysuit in your diaper bag, then get off the floor.  Oh, you mean you aren't clubbing with Pit Bull?  Getting your drinks up, and if you are criminal, particularly, killing it on the floor?  Dancing with string bikini-clad models painted in gold glitter?

No Sale, J Lo.

Am I saying mothers of babies shouldn't sing or dance or continue their career?  No.  But as an entertainer, J Lo has to be believable, and anyone starting their song with "it's a new generation of party people" is essentially saying, "Well, my generation has moved on and I'm too old for this shit."  Aren't most of the target audience of this product-featuring video (Swarovski! BMW! Crown Royal! If you look closely, the crotch of her spiderweb suit says "Dr. Stan Liebermann, OB-GYN") young enough to be Jenny from the Block's kids?  Because if in real life a 41-year-old woman walks in the club in a mesh bodysuit and yells, "Don't stop keep it movin' get your drinks up!"  The people in the club are going to yell, "MOM! Go home, you're embarrassing me!"  (Or at least that's what happened the last time I did it.)

We've gone from this adorable photo op:

To this slightly awkward video shoot:

And while I would love to be as gorgeous (and rich!) as J Lo, I think it might be time to hang up the clubbing boots, glitter, and Snoop Dogg chalice.  I don't want to judge you Jenny, I'm not fooled by the rocks that you got.  I know you're still Jenny from the Block.  But you need to be keepin' it real.

And?  I seriously can't listen to that song one more time.

The Asylum is Empty

Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.

A few months ago, Oldest Daughter was told by her cello instructor that she should go to a music camp at a private college in northern Iowa.  After I got over the tuition stroke, I said, "Sure, great" because it all works into my theory that there aren't many pregnant or meth-addled teen cellists.  Then I had a crazy thought.  Current Husband's parents live in northern Iowa.  Perhaps they could be talked into taking the other two children during the same week.  CH and I could have the week ALONE.

By some small miracle, it worked.  This morning, we drove nearly four hours to take OD to her camp.  We checked her into registration, and took her things up to her DORM ROOM, and as we climbed the stairs my throat started constricting and a whisper in my brain started chanting, "Four more years! Four more years!" It didn't help matters that on the drive up I read an article in Parade magazine about teen binge drinking on college campuses, which all parents who want to panic can read here.  http://www.parade.com/health/caregiving/index.html

Then I started thinking about me in college, and I kept thinking, "She's not ready!  She's just a baby!"  But the baby bird pushed the mama bird out of the nest and made me leave her and pray that there is no hanky panky at orchestra camps.

We then drove The Son and Youngest Daughter to CH's mom and stepdad's house, where they will stay until mid-week, and then they will be switched to CH's dad and stepmom's house, where they will stay until we drive back up next Saturday to collect OD.  All of the kids will have a fun-filled week.  I thought I would as well, until I Aunt Flo dropped in a week early this morning, so no Brown Chicken Brown Cow as previously planned.

We got home, and the house is so....quiet.  I can think in complete sentences.  I can eat ice cream without anyone asking for a bite, or better, for me to please get them some.  It's weird.  It's 9:30 p.m. now, and normally I would be on my last nerve trying to get them to finally go to bed, but the only thing I can hear is the dryer running and CH playing Modern Warfare on XBOX 360 without The Son telling him how to play.  Is this what the empty nest holds in store for me?  I'm not completely sure I like it.

But while I'm trying to figure that out, I'm going to cut this blog short and get in bed, early, and try to finish the book Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan.  I highly recommend it so far.

Happy Monday, and have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 65

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: Hair of the Dog

Okay, not really.  But I never miss an opportunity to promote this up-and-coming band, Nazareth.  My best friend from middle school was so badass that when she would get mad at her parents, she would go to her room and blast this song.  I would sit on her rainbow bedspread, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at her balls.  Her parents would sit upstairs and smoke and drink in silence and watch the clock, because she was the youngest of four and they were basically waiting until she moved out to make her room into the hot tub sex den.



Think about how often these dudes got laid in those outfits.

So, back to the topic.  Sort of.  A few things happened in the past few weeks that made me think of unsightly body hair.

First.  My daughters had a dance recital, and they are adorably talented and while I've seen Oldest Daughter at work and know she is a ballet rock star, this is the first year Youngest Daughter has actually known the dance and didn't just look cute and wander around confused in her $80 outfit.  YD did hip-hop, and did a splits-in-the-air-touch-your toes move, no shit, and I was all, "Who is that kid and why is she flexible and coordinated?" because that is so NOT my DNA.  However, her father is an '80s break dancer, so I'm waiting for "Baby's First Head Spin on Cardboard" to put in her book.

The other 50 dance numbers during the 3-recital gave me time to think about these girls' bikini areas.  Some of these outfits were pretty much bikinis and foot undies, and I prayed, "Please God, for their comfort and that of their audience, PLEASE let someone have told them about waxing."  Let me give you an example:

Much like this, without the pants.

At this point, Current Husband leans over and says, "I'm glad the girls were in the numbers with clothes."  I'm half German, so if I don't pluck my eyebrows every 20 minutes they grow together.  You can imagine what happens in bikini-land, and my vagina tells me it is allergic to wax, flame, or electroshock therapy.  This is why I now tell myself I'm not a dancer.  It's not lack of coordination, it's lack of bush coverage.

Second:  I had a massage, and Chad, my awesome masseuse, was subjected to my pre-game disclosure.  This happens every time, and now he just politely waits until I'm done purging all of my personal hygiene sins.  Sometimes I just don't shave my legs when I should, not because I don't want to, but because I sleep in and then I don't have time, and I go to work and wear pants so no one will know and forget I have a massage and won't be wearing pants.  My philosophy is that if I just TELL Chad that I'm sorry I haven't shaved in four days and I know my heels are gnarly and my varicose veins are worse than the last time I visited and I still have that Eastern German mole on my back, he won't pity me in his head while he is forced to rub these parts of my body down.  I will OWN IT.  But what he's probably thinking is "Julie, meet Wax.  Wax, strip Julie."  Then I just pray I won't get gassy during the massage, because I'm not going to own that.  The problem with gas during a massage is that if you clench, he will see it, or worse, feel your muscles tense up.  Sometimes I think Chad is subject to more torture than my OB-GYN.

Third.  I had coffee with a friend of mine, and she told me she was having dinner with her husband when he said, "I can't take it anymore, I have to pull that" and it was a hair in her mole on her arm.  I told her that while it is a pain that I'm getting more hairs around my nipular region, it sure is easier to pull them now that I can just pick my boob up off of my stomach, pull it up to my face, squint, put on my reading glasses, and pluck the hair.  When did getting older equal getting hairier?

I guess this post has no real point, other than the fact that hair is inconvenient and weird, unless it is on your head.  It doesn't have much to do with whoring either, because who wants to do someone with German bush, varicose veins, gnarly heels, a mole on their back, and nipular hair?

Oh, right.  CH!  Because when you get to his age, your vision is going anyway.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday!

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: Pink Butt.




It's ironic, perhaps, that after I posted the Tina Fey Prayer for Daughters, Oldest Daughter and I went shopping at Victoria's Secret.  She received a gift card to VS from my mother, who also gave Youngest Daughter a 950-piece Lego castle for her birthday, thus proving Mom is still holding a grudge from my drinking days in high school.  (What happened in college stayed at college.)


It's interesting to me how much Victoria's Secret is marketed toward teens.  Everyone in my 14-year-old's dance class wears PINK apparel to dance in, and most likely on their privates as well.  I like to call this syndrome "Pink Butt", which I pray is vastly different from Pink Eye and the crusty-runnyness of the latter.

Just an innocent teen, 

going to yoga.

Whatever these teens are being told to wear on their privates I've found is not at all meant to be private.  OD was interested in the yoga section, but she wouldn't know a down dog if it bit her on the calf.  I'm realizing that I am waaay past my semi-slutty days of teenagery and closer to the Methodist Women Morals Squad of my grandmother as I perused the 5-for-$25 panty section, with a waify collegiate type on the display wearing the yoga panties.  Here is a smattering of what they offer:


 

If we're at this point in the disrobing,

I hope you already have one.

Oh dear God. I hope he doesn't.

Please, please, PLEASE

Let him be lactose intolerant.

Perhaps VS should consider making a line of panties designed by parents that can be displayed next to this "yoga" line of underwear.  Here are my suggestions:

And my personal favorite:

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend, Happy Easter, and I'm sorry Jesus, I will try to behave.