Actual Texting Convo With OD

We returned from Disney World on Sunday evening, and the kids had yesterday off due to President's Day while I trudged off to work (triple venti skinny caramel macchiato time).  Today, the kids went back to school, and Oldest Daughter has rehearsals for the musical tonight at the high school until about 8 p.m.  I get this text from Oldest Daughter at about 2 p.m.

OD:  Can u bring me fried rice after work?  Didn't bring money.
ME:  Sure.  What to drink?
OD:  Sprite.  And can you bring a t-shirt?
ME:  What do you mean?  You need a new shirt?
OD:  No, a crappy one I can move in. We have dancing rehearsal too.
ME:  I'm not driving home before I deliver your rice.
OD:  Crap.
(Note to self - must discuss overabundance of the word "crap" in this conversation.)
MOM HORMONE KICKS IN.  THIS TOOK THREE TEXTS TO GET IT ALL OUT.
ME:  I'm sorry, but I have to drive YD to the mall to find an outfit for the Variety Show on Fri night, I'm losing my mind over getting the show coordinated, and I'm trying to get caught up at work.  You're going to have to be a little more responsible for your own things at your extra-cirricular activities, because we don't have time to drive all over town delivering food and clothing to you at various satellite locations.  I have shirts at work that say "Bee a Happy Hooker" and that is your option.  Do you want a hooker shirt?  Do you?!
*texting silence*
ME:  Seriously, do you want the hooker shirt or not?  Because that's all I got.  Hooker shirt and fried rice.  I'm out of options.
OD:  No hooker shirt.  I'm sorry.

Which honestly I was a little relieved to hear, because not only do I not want my teen wearing a hooker shirt, but I would've had to sort of lift it from work, and then pay for it later, and then hope no one saw me on the surveillance cameras walking out of the building with it before I paid, and then have to explain, "Oh, I was stealing it for my teenage daughter.  She is in a dance number."

In the interim, I'm a little frazzled.  Re-entry into the non-vacay world has been harsh.  I'm going to call my mom and ask her to bring me some fried rice and a new shirt and see what happens.

On the Edge

I just re-read the title of this post and thought, "Yeah, I WISH I was on the Edge!"  I know he's old, but I'd still tap that.


I just re-read the sentence above and thought, "I wonder if Current Husband will get uptight about that?", particularly considering that I've been gone since 6 a.m. last Tuesday morning and he theoretically hasn't been laid.   Not that me being around means he's getting laid, but that's all going to change soon.  I'll explain in a later post.  Probably Whoreticulture Friday material.


Wait...what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, how I'm going fucking crazy in Vermont.  Not even a bored kind of crazy, but a coming-unhinged kind of crazy.  It's nothing personal against Vermont.  Vermont is a sharp dresser and has great hygiene and is very well-mannered.  But I've been here ALONE since last Tuesday, and I'm ready to go all Kanye West on this Taylor Swift state.  It's quaint and lovely and bucolic, but there is no Starbucks to be seen, and the adorable shops are not open when the hooker convention is over, so I can only stare and drool.


The hookers are great, and funny, artistic people.  One woman I overheard this week said, "Be warned, I have a big mouth and thin skin."  I need that on a t-shirt.  Another woman, who is in her sixties, said, "I don't want to call my husband stupid; let's just say he's mentally incapacitated."  I love her.  I could show you a Shutterfly album of pictures of amazing rugs, but the one that really stood out to me is one called "Aries Woman".  It is an unusual piece in that it is very modern and is hooked by someone under the age of 50, a gal named Mariah Krauss here in Vermont.  Check it out:

This is hooked with at least 20 different shades of red, and is hooked with hand-dyed wool that is about 3/32 of an inch wide.  Here is a close-up of one part of it:

Look at that - yes, all of those bumps are hand dyed and hooked 3/32 of an inch pieces of wool.  All kidding aside, it blows my mind, the time it took to hand dye all of that wool in all of the perfect shades and draw the pattern and cut the wool and then to actually hook it and then steam it and mount it...WOW.  Here is her description:

Thanks for letting me geek out there for a bit.  So even though the hookers are fun, I'm with them from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.  Then I grab something to eat and I'm back in the hotel room for the rest of the night until I go to sleep at midnight, because there is nothing open after 5 p.m.  Sitting in bed with a Subway Steak and Cheese, a plastic tumbler of white wine, and unlimited, uninterrupted tv viewing for the night?  Sure, it's fun for the first night or two, but by Night Five and over 20 hours of HGTV and some History Channel and a few misguided hours with VH1 I was ready to take sleeping pills. 


I'm flying out tomorrow and as I type I'm watching a film biography on Woody Allen, which would be interesting if he hadn't screwed Mia Farrow over by getting it on with their adopted daughter.  He's all smart and funny and talented, blah blah blah, and I just keep thinking "You MF'er, you did it with your kid!"  Soon Yi might not have techinically been his legal daughter, but he did technically take Polaroids of her naked, and she was in the "Child" camp in their house, so sorry Woody, that makes you a pedophile in my book


I'm ready to get home.  Even if it means I go back to my previous role as a vending machine and coordinator of rides and social activities and laundry.  I'll be able to sleep in my bed and shower in my presumably still dirty bathroom and see my kids and go see Breaking Dawn.  (Even though I found out that Oldest Daughter saw it today without me, and I forgive her even if she cheated on us.)  I'm looking forward to it.

Hooker Adventures

Last week I attended a hooker convention. You know, my kind of hookers – the classy kind. I am, after all, based in the Quad Cities, home of Fred Garvin, male prostitute.









We departed Wednesday morning from the Quad Cities on a flight to Detroit, Rock City. After a delay on our flight, we only had a 45 minute layover in Detroit to make our flight to Baltimore. I don’t check bags because I don’t want my luggage lost, so I’m hauling a 40-pound carry-on behind me as we are running to the gate to make the flight. We get to the flight and since everyone else has already boarded, there is no room for carry-ons, so they check my bag. (Of course, it got lost.) That flight is delayed, so we are certain we’ve missed our flight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We get off the plane in Baltimore and again run through the airport. When we arrive at the Cape Air gate, the friendly counter person is speaking into a walkie talkie, saying, “I have the two passengers from US Air, we are en route” and she rushes us past security. Wow, this is some service! Then we see the plane:

And realize that we make up 30% of the passengers on the flight. Yes, that is the pilot, on the plane, washing the windows. Here is a shot from my seat:

The pilot is on the left, one of the passengers is on the right. At this point, my knees are hugging the sides of the pilot’s chair. I could’ve reached up and bear hugged him. Except that I was busy telling Jesus how sorry I am for everything I’ve done lately because we were flying through a solid wall of fog and hitting massive turbulence. When we landed, all seven passengers applauded.


At the hooker convention, I was equally celebrated and berated by all varieties of older women. I managed to break out with an impressive bout of adult acne, and did burn the side of my face with a curling iron because in my heart I am forever 13. I was unable to drink because the co-worker who accompanied me does not drink, and it really is not fun to drink alone, or to be watched peevishly while one drinks. I was also out of Prilosec, which is essential to my drinking.  So I suffered, parched.  Sure, a hooker convention SOUNDS fun, but it's really standing for 10 hours saying the same thing over and over and over and your face and back and legs hurt when you are done.  And then there is paperwork.

This is what I sell:

Five hundred smacks, baby.  And it doesn't do your dishes.  Plus, there are 10 blades, at $149 each.  That's a lot of Diet Coke and peanut M&M's.

 Meanwhile, my family was doing all kinds of great things while I was gone. Oldest Daughter was in her Hauntcert, which is an orchestra concert where the kids dress in costume to play creepy songs. OD rocked her kangaroo outfit. Then Youngest Daughter attended her Fall Festival (a.k.a. Halloween party) and went as a Beauty Queen.

I want to tell you more, but it is 10 p.m. and I just finally got the kids tucked in (playoff game tonight for HS football) and Current Husband just got home and expects to be spoken to (which is not code for sex, literally, we have to schedule conversations anymore), so I will leave you with this bit of entertainment.  It is off of the upcoming album by The Black Keys, and I am almost as excited for that  new CD as I am for Breaking Dawn to come out.  ALMOST.



 

I'm Packin'

Actually, I am.  Packing.

I'm packing for a hooker convention.  Oh, I know what you're thinking.  The drinking, the partying, the hooking.  But honestly, I'm a family girl.  I'm going to miss my people.  I'm leaving for Lancaster, Pennsylvania tomorrow so I can attend a five-day hooker convention.  Namely, the ATHA Biennial.  The Association of Traditional Hooking Artists, bitches.  And I might just cry.

First, I'm a bad packer.  I don't really plan anything, I just throw things in a suitcase and hope it works out.  Second, I'm a bad planner.  Just today I realized I hadn't rented a car in Lancaster, and I called the hotel to see if they have a shuttle.  For TOMORROW.  Third, I'm a Mom.  Do you know how much planning it takes to leave when you're a mom?  I had to leave notecards with the kids names on them for CH.  Okay, under the names were the schedules and dinner suggestions and what people need to have with them.  But still.  Where the hell are my reminder notes every day?

Now I am quickly blogging so I can finish packing so I can write notes to Youngest Daughter that CH can give her every night so she doesn't get too upset.  I text Oldest Daughter and The Son, but YD and I are old school.  George the Superpet and Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein just know.  They don't need physical reminders of my love.

I will try to blog from Lancaster, but you know what they say:  "What happens in Amish Country stays in Amish Country.  Because we don't have wireless."

Have a great week, Wifers!

Day 20: Quantity Over Quality

Remember my pledge to you, Wifers, on this Day 20 of my month of blogging every day -Quantity over Quality.  There are bloggers who do this every day, and I'm here to tell you that I am just not that interesting, so it's a bit of a stretch to go every day.

Today at the Hooker Convention, I had a little crisis.  Hooker equipment has been selling like hotcakes, and yesterday we ran out of a number of our products.  This morning, my parents were driving through the Quad Cities, and called to see if I wanted them to bring some supplies from my company to the show.  I said yes, and gave them my list of what I wanted.  They said Okay, and were en route with an ETA of 2 p.m.  We told two hookers at the table that my parents were driving some things to the show.  Pretty soon, people started coming up to the table saying, "Are your parents here yet?  I need a #7 blade."  "Where are your parents?"  "I thought your parents were supposed to be here by now."

I'm not kidding.  I was being totally hassled by people about my parents being late.  They didn't arrive until 4:30 because of traffic around Chicago, and when they arrived, they were accosted by about 10 hookers who needed to pick their things up.  People were ushering my parents in and carrying things for them.  They were the rock stars.  My dad got a free hat from my boss, so it was all worth it.  Dad will do just about anything for free promotional merchandise.

I then went to my Mennonite family reunion, and just got in, and it's 11 p.m. and I have to get to sleep because I work the show tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. and then drive 6 hours home, so I'm scheduling a blog of nothing for tomorrow so I don't break my streak.

Have a great day, Wifers!

I'm Addicted to Support Undergarments

I'm not going to call this a Whoreticulture Friday post, because technically, support undergarments are not, by nature, whorish.  But.

"My name is Julie the Wife, and I'm addicted to Spanx."

(wifers) "Hi Julie."

I didn't always wear support undergarments.  I didn't really need to for a while, and then I didn't realize I needed to for a while, and then fitted t-shirts and hip-slung jeans came back into vogue and I tried a pair of Spanx on and I was done.  Muffin top = reduced.  Panty lines = gone.  You had me at "How the hell I am going to get these up over my thighs?"  And?  I do love me some gravy.  I ain't quittin you, gravy. 

This morning, I got dressed for my Hooker Convention, and we all know one wants to look one's best at a Hooker Convention.  I put on my trusty pair of support undergarments, and then pulled on my khakis.  Uh-oh.  We have a Code Red.  My khakis had somehow shrunk in the wash (because OBVIOUSLY it had nothing to do with my eating habits), and I could see where my Spanx ended on my thighs through my pants.  Shit.  I took off the Spanks.

Oh Hell No. 

"Double muffin and are those Victoria's secret briefs?  I might even be able to see what color they are through your pants!"  I spent the next hour doing deep knee bends in the middle of my room, so as to stretch the offending pants.  Because I wasn't going anywhere without that muffin contained.  Effing Starbucks and their tempting little carbohydrate bread goods.  I was late for the convention, so I jogged across the courtyard from the hotel to the exhibition hall.  It was weird, but my shirt kept coming untucked.  Those slick little suckers under my pants kept pushing that shirt out like it was a drowning swimmer gasping for air.  I got into the building and tucked it in for the last time.  Of course, 30 minutes later, I realized with horror that I had tucked my t-shirt into the waistband of my Spanx, not my pants.  It barely showed, but STILL.  Who had my back, people?  Where was the sister who said, "Hey, your Spanx are surfacing."

Later in the day, I was talking with a hooker and I laughed so hard that a little bit of snot flew out of my nose, and we both noticed.

I celebrated this evening by eating Beef Tenderloin Tips in Burgundy Sauce with German Spaetzle, mushrooms, asparagus tips, and Bleu cheese.  And then all was well again in the world.

Spanx wearers, Unite!  It is time to get each other's backs.  Tomorrow, I plan to top today's performance by showing up at the convention in a skirt and my bra.

Here is that t-shirt:

Don't I look like someone just told me

 I need to clean the bathrooms at the hotel?

Have a Happy Friday, Wifers!

Bring Me Gravy, Or Bring Me Death.

Dudes.

I am so flipping beat up.  Had an awesome day at the Hooker Convention, those ladies wouldn't ever stop coming and waving their credit cards at us, which is awesome.  BUT.  I did not sit or use a bathroom or eat from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m., and my varicose veins were saying, "Sit DOWN, Bitch!" and my back was saying, "Yeah, what they said!" and my teeth were dry from all that smiling and talking.  I did wear my new hooker shirt, and I took a picture, and then I left my camera in the exhibition hall, so no photo.  Tomorrow.

When the show was over for the day and we could leave, we walked to a restaurant called "The Barn" and had the buffet.  My plate was like a 15-year-old boy's - fried chicken, gravy, Mt. Mashed Potato, gravy, roast beef, gravy, BBQ beef, gravy, buttered peas and cherry bread pudding.  And gravy. It was all I could do to not climb into that gravy tray and bathe in it.  We're in Mennonite country, people - my dad's family all still live here, and I KNOW they can cook.  Bring me your gravy, or bring me death.

It is 11 p.m., and I am going to get in my king-sized bed, maybe read a chapter of The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, and then dream of gravy.  And CH, of course.  With gravy.

The Hookers Beat Me Up

DATE:  August 16, 2011
WHO:  Julie the Wife
WHERE:  Archbold, Ohio
WHAT:  Reporting from Hooker Convention
(THE JOKE:  It's a Rug Hooking Convention.  Just sucked the fun right out of it for you, huh?  But you would expect that from a good hooker.  That will be $20.)

It is 11:25 p.m. in Mennonite country, and I am sore all over from my hooker convention.  I drove all day with the woman who used to be the Head Hooker, and is now training me to be the hooker she was and more.  She can't carry any of our equipment, because, as one would expect in our profession, her cyatic nerve is shot.  I unloaded about 300 pounds of equipment, neatly split into about 6 boxes, out of the car and into the Hooker Hall.

Not all of the customers pay with cash or check anymore.   About 95% of our business is done by credit card, and as I mentioned yesterday, my wireless credit card terminal gave me a message that made us think it had a virus.  Again, not a surprise in our line of work.  The bank museum brought me carbon paper credit card slips, so that's what I have to use.  I just spent the past hour hand entering all of the effing information onto our online cc provider, which I can't use because I can't get wireless in the exhibition area.  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important.

The first guy today to walk up to my booth had a big pin on that said, "I'm a Happy Hooker!" and then he looked at me and said, "I'm pissed off at you guys!  You went out of business, I bought a different brand, and then you are back in business!"  (My company bought the rights to wool cutting equipment made by another Iowa company that went out of business due to the passing of the owner - I'm sorry, Tony, that a man's death was inconvenient for your rug hooking purchases.) I said, "But I can sell you a t-shirt that says, "I'm a Happy Hooker!" and he growled at me and said, "I notice you didn't offer to trade me for my other cutter." and walked away. 

NO, ASSHOLE, I DIDN'T.  Because we don't MAKE that crappy cutter.  No trade.  This is not the Wild West.  We are not working in beaver pellets (or ARE we?).  I am going to find TONY tomorrow and rip that effing Happy Hooker pin right off of his gnomey chest.  I wish he would've spat on the ground in my direction. I would've gotten great satisfaction from that.

All of the other hookers seemed happy and satisfied.  I'll take a picture of me tomorrow in our fancy new t-shirt we are selling.  I'm sure you will ALL want one - they make great gifts!

Off to a Hooker Convention

I'm off to a Hooker Convention in Milwaukee tomorrow, and I need to make sure I have cash for the cash box.  Because everyone needs cash at a Hooker Convention.  No kidding. 

So I'm looking around my house and I'm thinking

I don't know how people do this.

You might be asking yourself, "Self, what the hell is she talking about?"  And if you are asking yourself that, you can join the thousands of people who know me and ask themselves that every time I talk to them.

What I'm talking about is Being A Grown Up.  From the chair I'm sitting in right now, I'm looking at a pile of crap in my family room, all moved up from the basement because the waterproofers are coming next week and the basement has to be empty to jackhammer the floor and inevitably cause my walls to crack or a water main to break.  I'm looking at my dining room table, covered in school lunch boxes and paperwork, magazines I will probably not get to, and junk mail.  The living room has a bathrobe, a Von Maur bag, shoes, blankets, and Wii and xBox paraphenelia.  I can't see the kitchen from here, thank God.  But I know what lurks in there.

Besides all of the ridonkulous cleaning responsibilities I'm shirking, there is the driving.  I feel like lately all we do is spend our time driving.  Driving to school, driving to lessons, driving to work, driving to obligations.  Bleh.  I want to drive to a liquor store, then a book store, then a hammock store, then an ice store, and then a beach, in that order.  But who has the time?  Not I, said the Wife.

So I'm off to a Hooker Convention in Milwaukee tomorrow.  Current Husband has a schedule for the next two days telling him where he needs to be and when, starting at 3 p.m., because apparently no one else in the world has a job and that's when things are scheduled in the school system.  I am sharing a hotel room at the Hooker Convention (because NO ONE SLEEPS ALONE AT A HOOKER CONVENTION!) with someone who is sweet as pie, but doesn't drink or swear or probably poop, and so I won't ever really be off duty.  Or be able to poop.

I'm ready for a vacay, but Memorial Day weekend seems to be a looooong way away.  I'll report back from the Hooker Convention, and in the interim, here is something for your viewing pleasure.  Peace and Blessings! Have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Daylight Savings Time Edition

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. Or the people who read this post last year.


Today's topic: Real Housewives

I'm a bad blogger.  I recognize this, and according to AA, admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.  However, Charlie Sheen followed the AA program, so apparently I'm still 14 steps away from declaring I am a warlock with tiger blood, so that's a relief.  (BEING Charlie Sheen would give me topics for Whoreticulture Friday for the rest of the year. Sex with the goddesses?  VD from the goddesses?  Denise Richards? HEIDI FLEISS!?!?)  Anyway, after extensive traveling the last two weekends I sort of went into blogger meltdown and haven't done much writing-wise.  I'm sure you hardly noticed, but still.  Apologies.

Since it is Daylight Savings Time, I'm going to spring back to Friday and pretend this post is still on time.

I'm not a Real Housewives watcher.  Honestly, I'm not much of a reality TV watcher because I tend to get so frustrated with or embarrassed for the people on the shows that I just can't take it.  Project Runway is my only exception, mostly because the show is more about the talent than the personalities.  Besides, I think, "those people are just the Hollywood types who are trying for their 15 minutes of fame".  Then I went out for margaritas with a friend last Thursday and realized they are REAL.

These women are conservative compared to what I saw Thursday. 

My friend and I went to Los Agaves, a Mexican chain restaurant in the Quad Cities, for a few overdue margaritas.  We're mid conversation when suddenly my friend stops talking and her jaw drops.  She says "Behind you. Look behind you and tell me you see what I see."  I turned, and there they were.  The Real Housewives of the Quad Cities.  Women in crotch-skimming hemlines, six-inch heels, makeup by Tammy Faye Bakker, and hair-up-to-there.  There were about eight women.  The youngest could get away with saying they were Jersey Shore castmates, and they inspire second looks and gawking.  The oldest was a woman who had to be in her 50's, tottering on her skyscraper heels, lycra skirt, and was just...sad. 

I'm not saying you can't wear whatever you want.  Really.  Do it.  But if you don't want the entire Hispanic wait staff at Los Agaves to stand around the corner, pointing and saying things in Spanish about your coochie, follow these pointers:

1. If you feel all breezy in the vajayjay, your skirt is too short.
2. If you have on more makeup than Zsa Zsa Gabor, don't act surprised when people look for the other 13 clowns to get out of the Volkswagen after you.
3. If your 'do is tickling the top of a room with over 7 foot ceilings, it is too high.  And you are probably a fire hazard.
4. If you are showing over 75% lean breast, you might end up in a sandwich.  And not a delicious one.  Slathered in mayo...if you catch my drift.  And maybe you like mayo, and that's okay, but that particular mayo is NOT going to be back to condiment your next sandwich.
5. If the entire staff of a Mexican restaurant is catcalling at you, it might be time to wrap a tortilla around your burrito.
6. If your grandchild is texting you during your second Blow Job shot, it's time to go home.

We were two thirds of the way through a pitcher, and my friend needed to visit the ladies' room.  Two of the Hoochie Mamas had just headed that way, and my friend couldn't resist the opportunity to see what they were talking about.  After she left, the two women in the painted-on dresses walked by, and my friend came back disappointed.

"They didn't talk about anything, one of them left the toilet unflushed and the other one took a dump.  Total waste of my time."  Hmm.  Not something they cover on Real Housewives.  I can totally see why.

Happy Daylight Savings Time!  Have a great week!

The Hookers Gave Me Some Disease

Hello, Wifers.

I am sick.  I suppose one should assume that one will pick up some kind of disease at a hooker convention, but still, I was taken off guard.  I am now hacking up a lung regularly, much to the great joy of my co-workers and dining companions.

So last Friday morning I packed up all of my hooker equipment (rug hooking, for the newer readers) and set off in the swagga wagon for Lenexa, Kansas.  It is a seven hour trip from my house to Hooker Heaven, and while I managed to have a mostly uneventful trip weather-wise, I did have one stereotypical Missouri moment.  I need to fill up the tank and get a Diet Coke, so I took the next exit that had a gas station.  Oddly, most of the pumps had a bag over the handle, or a tag on it, but I finally found a pump that seemed to be operable.  I put it in and got back in the van to wait.  I few minutes later, I look out of the window, and the pump says I've only registered about $2.15 of gas in the tank, so at $3.26 a gallon, something has gone awry.  I look up, and there is gas flowing from the top of the hose at the very top of the filling station area, so there is gasoline running down the hose and onto the ground. 

My first thought was "I'm gonna blow this mother sky high."

But then I realized most of the gas had soaked into the snowbank around the pumps, so maybe I had a chance.  I got out of the van, replaced the pump handle, and moved the van.  I walked into the station to tell someone about the flammable liquids pooling around the ground around their gas station.  I looked around the room, and realized something terrible had happened in this town.  I'm going to start a charitable foundation for these people.  I'm going to go all Erin Brokovich on their asses, because they had obviously grown up on a toxic waste dump of some kind.

• Midget?  Check.
• No one with more than 12 teeth?  Check.
• Humpback? Check.
• Mullet as predominant hairstyle?  Check.
• Everyone sitting at a table and smoking eating Funyuns? Check.
• The strains of Deliverance playing in the background?   That might have been my head.

I said, "Hey, the gas is pouring out of the top of the pump onto the ground!"  They all slowly look at me, and the young gal/guy with the mullet said, "Huh."  I said, "So....you might want to shut it down or something."  And they said, "Huh."  And I said, "Okay then...thanks..." and backed slowly out of the door while they all sat and watched me until I pealed the hell out of there.

At the hooker convention, I made a big mistake - I wore black pants at a place where hooker wool was everywhere.  You heard me.  I got Hooker Wool all over my pants.  There are guys who would pay big money for that on the internet.  I made new hooker friends, drove home in seven hours and finished my last hour of the trip on the interstate in freezing drizzle and starting to hack my lungs out.

So I've just dosed on Nyquil for the third night in a row, I might have to join a twelve-step program to quit.  Particularly when I stayed up to watch the Oscars, and then had a Nyquil-induced dream about Colin Firth sending me a tool kit in the mail (for the hooker equipment) and asking me to run away with him, but I told him as much as I would love to, REALLY, he had a lovely Italian/Spanish-type wife and I had Current Husband, and it wasn't meant to be.  I'm hoping for similar Nyquil results tonight.  Wish me luck.

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!

A Gift To Yourself

Hello Wifers!  Brace yourselves, I'm about to get all philosophical on your asses.

I hope you all had a terrific weekend!  Mine was fan-effing-tastic.  It was one of those weekends when nothing is scheduled but everything comes together almost perfectly, except that I didn't end the weekend 10 pounds thinner or 10 years younger.  But otherwise? Perfect. 

Lots of sleeping in, Eclipse DVD viewing night with another family in our jammies, margaritas, donuts may have been involved, Christmas shopping nearly finished (those of you who know me in real life know this is almost unheard of), kids were whisked away by another family who took them sledding for the afternoon, marital relations may or may not have happened, a good friend was in touch whom I haven't heard from in a while, and I talked to my mom.  It's one of those weekends that makes you step outside of your day-to-day routine and say,

"How can I make the rest of my life feel like this?"

I am very blessed. This I know for sure.  Just by virtue of where and to whom I was born, over which I had no control, I'm luckier than 90% of the people on the planet.  I have my share of stresses, but I've never known true poverty, hunger, homelessness, or serious abuse.  Sometimes, when I let myself get weighted down by the small stuff, it can be hard to regain perspective on how good my life really is.  Lately, there have been a couple of small things that have been troubling me.  One of them, if I think about it too long, will bring me to tears, even this moment.  But this weekend was one of those times when you take an assessment of what is giving true value in your life.  Appropriately, this a-ha moment was actually brought home to me in a quote by a hooker.

As I've mentioned before, I work with hookers, and will be taking lessons soon to be a world class hooker.  Rug hooker, that is.  And these old hookers are very profound.  They tend to be women in their 50's and 60's who have experienced life and raised their children and survived jobs and marriages and divorces and friendships and families, and they are a wealth of information.  I spend my days at work talking with these old hookers on the phone, reading their blogs and websites and e-mailing with them, and I've noticed many of them are rife with philosophical sayings.  Here are a few gems:

"If you love something, let it go free.  If it returns to you, it was meant to be yours.  If it doesn't, hunt it down and beat it with a shovel."

"It's better to have loved and lost than to have wasted your life on the bastard."

"Old hookers never die, they just eventually lose their wool."

Seriously, these women are pretty funny.  And bawdy, which is a great mix for me.  Some of the sayings are profound.  There is a product on the hooking market that is basically a duplicate of the product I market, but cheaper.  We're not worried about it at work, but we are keeping an eye on it.  The hookers know this, and one sent me a lovely e-mail that ended with this:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

Wow.  Think about that, truly.  It can apply to anything.  Have you ever loved how a room in your house looks, and then you go to a spectacular room in someone else's house and say, "Well, Damn."  How many times have you been ready to go out, and you are thinking you look like ALL THAT, and then you see someone else and suddenly think you are Less Than?  Just be who you are, and love thyself.  Or, as Drew Barrymore has said, "Let your freak flag fly."  Hold on to that joy, and keep it, like ET in the closet.  (Except that ET would have died if he stayed in the closet, so I guess I am saying "Come out of the closet!")

((WAIT, that is a whole other blog, only come out of the closet when you are good and ready, don't let me push you out of the closet.  But I fully support you either way.))

Where was I? 

One quote I loved this summer that didn't come from a hooker, but instead from the movie "Eat, Pray, Love," is the phrase "The ruin is the gift."  I really loved that, because I've always thought that if something bad happens to me (or something that I perceive as bad), there is always something to be learned from it.  Even when I was at The Full Time Job I Couldn't Blog About, and was really miserable, I took so much away from that experience.  I met terrific people at that job, and found out what I didn't want in a career.  It made me appreciate the fact that I could have another opportunity, and it also made me appreciate the time I spent at home with the kids and realize not one minute of it was time wasted.  And?  More than anyone, Current Husband totally came through in the crunch and I realized he had my back. That was a gift.

At the beginning of last week, I was feeling particularly down about one little thing when I got a nice e-mail from a hooker, and her saying at the bottom hit me like a lightening bolt.  It was:

"Never make someone a priority
who only treats you as an option."

Whoa.  It even makes my heart skip a beat right now.  What a little piece of serendipity.  It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment, and it was so freeing.  It isn't about EVERYONE treating you as a priority - that would be a tad egotistical, no?  This is about the Golden Rule, really.  Treat other people as you want to be treated.  So this holiday season, take a look at yourself and your relationships.  Value yourself.  Give yourself the gift of respect.  Have a Stuart Smalley moment.  Go on.  It might feel nice.

"You're good enough,

you're smart enough,

and dog gone it, people like you."

Happy Monday, and have a great week, Wifers!  I LIKE YOU!