Next To Last Day!

It's Day 30 of A Month of Blogging, and honestly I can't believe I did it every day.  I'm usually full of empty promises, made after a couple of glasses of wine, but here I am. Know why?  Do ya?  It's because I like you people I don't even know very well.  You make me laugh.  And that's why even though I can't exercise or diet or even get my kids to places on time, I've managed to blog for two years.  OMG, there's a lot of love on the Internet.  Some of it is love I don't want to know about.  Dirty love.  But not here.  This is good, clean, S&M-free love.  MOST OF THE TIME.  But when the leather chaps come on, I will beat the crap out of you, and you will LIKE IT, Wifers.

Did I just say that out loud?  I've had a beer, and I'm over 42, so all bets are off.

Oldest Daughter and I have an idea for a new CD - it's called "Your Mom Sings Your Favorites", and it's full of popular songs on the radio that I manage to butcher.  For example, Neon Trees' Animal - "Say Goodbye to my heart tonight!" which is actually "Take a bite of my heart tonight".  Or most songs by Gaga.  I manage to mess up a few words in those.  I told OD I'm gonna sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud, because I am 42 and I don't have to sing in tune OR know the words.  I've pushed three human beings out of my vajayjay and been a telemarketer renewing NRA memberships in 1985, so does messing up a Gaga song bother me?  Negative, Ghost Rider.

I took the day off tomorrow, as comp time for my week at the Hooker Convention, and I am so damn excited I can barely stand it.  I'm driving middle schoolers to school tomorrow, and then after 8 a.m. I am free to do what I wish until 1 p.m., because there is an early out tomorrow.  I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but I know it will involve Starbucks, taking off my bra, music blaring in the house, and George the Superpet staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

If you're in the area, stop by!

UPDATE:  I just posted this, and immediately the ads on Adsense changed to "Buy Leather Chaps!"  Everyone, go out and buy your leather chaps, on me!  Let's all be the dominant party on this blog!  It's now an S&M party!

Day 6 - Return of The Son

Today was the day The Son returned from camp.  How did Current Husband and I celebrate?  We didn't get up in time, ran out the door late for our hour-and-a-half drive (of course stopped at Starbucks for a quick coffee though - admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery), and when we arrived at camp, the program was over and there were only about three other cars left in the lot.  Oy.


I did my usual crying and lamenting the fact that we are late for everything, with a nice little side of hysteria, and CH had to talk me off the ledge before we arrived so The Son was not only irritated with our lateness but terrified at Mommy losing her shit.  Poor CH.  This is his lot in life.  If I wasn't so damn monogamous I'd reward him with a girlfriend who puts out more and agrees with everything he says.


It was great to get The Son - you don't realize how big a gap they leave behind when they're gone until they come back.  Suddenly the car was full of these two boys, voices hoarse, covered in grime, laughing and talking about their adventures, and I just looked at them and their pure joy.  The Son's Friend (TSF) is like a son to us, and they are like big St. Bernard puppies when together.  They run run run run and play play play and eat eat eat and then collapse and sleep.  It's incredibly sweet.

So they're talking about camp, which is a weeklong resident camp, and this is their fourth year going together.  Here is a recap:

• The food, while improved from past years, was not good.  The Chinese food was "poop on a platter", and the boys were constantly hungry, calling the camp meals "Minus Food".
• Speaking of poop, the boys reported that someone pooped on the floor in the bathroom.
• They did not climb The Tower, as they deemed it "too dangerous".
• At the End of Camp Dance, they both were rejected by girls.  The Son was asked to dance the next dance by his rejector, but TSF had a friend ask a girl if she thought he was cute, and she said "No".  TSF kind of chuckled and said, "So...how's your day going?"  You had to hear him say it, it was the funniest thing.
• TSF got poison ivy, and he had to ride his horse bareback one day and he said that it "hurt his stuff".
• Both boys are eager to go back next year and plan on being counselors at camp in a few years.

A re-enactment of what it was like to eat camp food.

On another note, CH tried on a hat at a Casey's store when I stopped for fountain pop on the way home, and asked "Should I get it?"  I took one look at him and said, "Absolutely."  Because he looks like Carl Spackler, played by Bill Murray, in Caddyshack.

"And I said, 'Say Llama?  How's about a little somethin' for the effort?'"

I said I'd post photos of my space, but that will wait until tomorrow. Good night, Wifers!

It's the Happy Bloggyversary Giveaway Post!

Happy Bloggyversary, Wifers!

It all started a year ago on September 1...A Day in the Wife was born on Blogger! 

My first post was the beginning of my Blogger life, so I decided to commemorate the great poet of our time, the one in spangly tops and tight lycra pants, the one who told the tale of immigrants on the boats and on the planes, comin' to America...the one, the only, Neil Diamond.    Neil was with me when no one was...from 0 followers, when no one Brought Me Flowers, up to 202 one year later, when you turned on your Heart Light.  Hello again, Hello, Wifers.  Because do I have a deal for you!

Introducing the Happy Bloggyversary Giveaway!

"Oooh, oooh, what can I win Julie?"

Well let me tell you what will be included 

in this ADITW commemorative prize package:

1. A copy of "Good Enough to Eat" 

by Stacey Ballis (have you pre-ordered your own copy yet?  

Only five days left...)  One of the best prizes, really.

2. A copy of "Bitter is the New Black" 

by Jen Lancaster so you can start 

your own stalking adventure!

Also an excellent prize.

3. "What happens tonight goes on Facebook tomorrow" napkins, 

regifted from a friend.  I think they are so funny 

that I can't bear to break them open, so they must be shared.

4. One pound of Starbucks coffee, from one junkie to another.  

 I personally recommend Komodo Dragon, but to each her own.

5. A "French Toast" bread press, 

cousin to the Holy Toast press featured on this blog

6. A framed photo of George the Superpet, 

complete with a creepy lock of fur.

7. A framed companion photo of Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein.

8. A custom-made evil mural by Youngest Daughter.  She will cut you.

9.  A "mix-tape" (on CD) of songs featured on the blog, 

including songs by Ok Go, band of my 

adolescent music crush Damian Kulash.

10.  Inclusion on my 2010 Christmas card list, 

where I list our failures and disappointments for the year.

(Above is 2004 Christmas card pic)

11.  Anne Taintor postcard magnet.

12.  Assorted other items I may be trying to get rid of
 

13.  Things I might have stolen

"Julie the Wife, how do I get involved in this 

ridiculously bad giveaway?"  I'm glad you asked!

Here is how it works:

One grand prize winner will receive all of the above items.  One second place winner will also receive copies of the Stacey Ballis and Jen Lancaster books.  Both winners will be featured in a phony blog written about their cross-country adventure taken last summer in their convertible 2008 VW bug, or their slumber party with Alice and Rosalie and Bella, or their Christmas with Chuck Norris, or an equivalent story.  The contest is open from this very second until midnight on September 15, 2010 CST.  Prizes will be sent by September 30.

How do you play?

Every comment posted between now and September 15 on either the A Day In The Wife blog or on the ADITW Facebook page gives you one entry.  Get a new follower of ADITW on Facebook or the blog and have them comment that you sent them, and you will get three entries.  I will record the drawing of the names and post the video on You Tube, embedded on the blog, so you can see my surprise and joy at the names drawn.  My attorney will be present at the drawing so it seems legal and aboveboard, but we might be enjoying a glass of wine, which negates the legitimacy but creates a sense of occasion.  Only one comment per day will count toward the contest, but I always love to hear from you.

Beyond the contests and all of that sort of hullaballoo, let me take a moment to thank you all, dear readers, for this bloggy adventure.  It has been fun seeing your names pop up on the comments and gathering the flock.  You have weathered the best of posts and the worst of posts.  You have stumbled drunk with me to see Jen Lancaster and watched my daughter puke on my feet.  You have endured FORTY Whoreticulture Fridays.  It is these things and more that, in the immortal words of James Taylor, make me want to STOP.  And thank you, baby.  Happy Bloggyversary!  Thanks for reading!

Smooches and inappropriate innuendo to you all,

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 36

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


Today's topic: You know you want it.
 So Current Husband and I have just come off of the parental equivalent of a weekend at Cabo San Lucas - the children were at Grandma's, and if you closed your eyes and sipped your margarita and stood in front of a fan with a CD of ocean music playing, then by all means, Voy a tener otro, Jose.

On Wednesday I was getting ready to leave to have coffee with a friend, and put on a sort of flowy white shirt that always looks like a terrific beachy summer top in the store, and looks suspiciously like a maternity top or the Krispy Kreme Fan Club tunic at home.  I walked into the dining room where CH was working, and said, "Does this top make me look pregnant?"

He finished typing his e-mail, surfed the Net for another moment, and then looked up.  He looked me up and down, raised his eyebrows, and said, "You look like you want me to bend you over."

Perdon?  This answer:
A)  Gets you out of answering the question.  If you tell me that the outfit I am wearing makes me look like I want nothing more than to be ravaged by you, it does not give the crucial information I need, such as:

•  "Is my muffin top spilling out anywhere?"
• "Are the edges of my underwear forming permanent creases in the butt of these pants?"
• "Is there an extra boob roll present?"

News Flash - I KNOW YOU WILL HAVE SEX WITH ME IF I LOOK FAT.  I also know you will have sex with me if I don't shave for months, get a hairy mole, or smell like garlic.  You won't like it, but you'll do it.

B)  It assumes I prefer to be bent over for ANYTHING, which honestly, I don't.  Hello, knees of an Octogenarian here!  Hips soon to follow!  The only thing I like to be bent over is a sushi bar, and that is only to reach for my second cup of sake.  However, I would like to see YOU bent over something - how about the garbage, or that pair of work shoes in the doorway everyone is tripping over?


C)  This is actually a soliciation for some spontaneous sex.  The chance of me actually putting down the keys and saying, "You're right.  Do me like a dog in heat" are incredibly slim, and yet, you are willing to take that chance, even if it might piss me off.  I appreciate your optimism, really I do.  Someday, when I put on those capri pants that are a little snug in the trunk and I say, "Are my granny pants totally showing through these?" and you say, "You know you want me to tap that," I am going to take the fifteen minutes to peel those pants back down like a banana over my Spanx and then remove said panties and then the kids will come around the corner and scream "WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!?!" and we'll be late for the school function, but we'll both know in our heart of hearts that it was going to be THE BEST SEX WE'VE NEVER HAD.


D)  Puts the ball in my court.  Because if I grimace, or complain, then you can be affronted.  "What?  Why is that bad?  Lots of women would LOVE it if their husbands said stuff like that to them!"  Um, honey, WHAT stuff?  You mean the part where after I ask if my stomach is visibly hanging below my hem you imply that I am begging you to bend me over and mate with me like lions on Animal Planet?  My bad.  You CLEARLY understand exactly what lots of women would love.

Now.  Does this shirt make me look pregnant?  Because there is a skinny vanilla latte and scone waiting for momma, and if you want me to play cheerleader to your quarterback later, I need you to reinforce my delusion that I am keeping my midlife weight gain from the world at large.  I need you to back me up, not bend me over.  Are we clear?  Excellent.  Now get your hand off my boob, I'm going to be late.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Please, Don't Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Let me just preface this with my usual disclaimer:

I know I am a Slacker Mom.  

If you are looking for parenting advice or laundry tips, 
you'll need to keep on Googling.

Fortunately, my kids love me just as I am, and really, it's all between them and me, no?  (Oh, unless I write it all in a blog.)  That said, I really try to discourage my offspring from doing too much stuff.  I was a latchkey kid who grew up in a house on a lake nine miles out of town with full-time working parents.  We did not participate in after school activities, we didn't take classes, and we spent our summers generally alone, but on a lake, so no complaints there.  My idea of a perfect day consisted of two ideals, and was divided by the temperature:

1. Temp is under 90 degrees, sit on the beach or on the deck drinking Kool-Aid and reading a book; or,
2. Temp is over 90 degrees, sit inside the house drinking Kool-Aid and reading a book.

Oldest Daughter is in dance and plays cello, but not due to any great encouragement from me.  I support dance because it will help her be more coordinated than I, and I get to sit in Panera's for 45 minutes and read or write.  She's played cello for four years, and seems to like it, and it seems like a good way to prevent pregnancy, because what high school boy wants to nail the cellist?  It's a win-win.

Youngest Daughter is in dance, which is conveniently scheduled during OD's class.  Oh, you don't want to take German Clog Dancing?  Well, sorry honey, but they don't offer ballet from 6-7 on Wednesday night.  I heard Taylor Swift is using clog dancers in her next video.

Middle Son...he wants to be in EVERYTHING.  We've come to the point where we tell our friends, neighbors and his teacher not to tell him about any extracirriculars.  At the moment, he is doing the following school and after school activities:  Safety Patrol, Student Council, Cello, Piano, and Baseball.  This summer he is dropping piano, but adding swimming and starting a lawn mowing business on top of his can collecting business (don't ask).  Next fall, he'll be done with baseball, and will start tackle football, and is begging to be back in piano.  He also wants to do all of the intramural sports at the school, and would like to be on a Lego Robotics team.  Oh, the don't have one?  Let's form one!

I've studiously avoided baseball and soccer for a very good reason:  They have the longest seasons and require more than one practice a week.  The Son hadn't been in baseball since 4-year-old T-Ball, which we told him was as far as he could go in baseball.  Then he learned that boys his age play, and he asked to be on a team during the winter, while he was in his second session of YMCA basketball.

SON:  "I heard there is a good baseball league over the summer."
ME:  "I think that is only open to middle schoolers."
SON:  "No, I looked it up online and sent a link to you.  It's for 10-year-olds."
ME:  "I heard three kids got hit in the head with baseballs last year.  Never played piano again."
SON:  "No, they have protective gear."
ME:  "Well you'll have to pay for it, and I've heard it's about $5000 in fees and equipment."
SON:  "I have $5500 in the bank from the cans, the cash is on your dresser."
ME:  "I don't want to drive around all the time."
SON:  "I bought you a Starbucks gift card, a folding chair, and a new iPod."
ME:  "DAMN IT!"

And so we are in baseball.  We've been to three two-hour practices a week for the past month, and today was a scrimmage scheduled from 2 to 4 p.m.  Since The Son has diligently sat in the audience for various piano, cello and dance recitals for the girls, we told them they needed to come and support their brother.  OD agreed if she could bring her phone and get ice cream afterward, YD agreed when she found out there was a big playground by the ball field.  OD wore a tight t-shirt, jean shorts, Kanye West sunglasses and a slight scowl.  YD wore a flowergirl dress that was two sizes too small and flip flops.  We left the safety of our home and loaded up en masse in the rolling White Trash Mobile Unit.

When we pulled up they were handing out the new jerseys, and The Son's face was the picture of joy.  He proudly donned his purple jersey and socks and cap and stood by the dugout, practicing his swing with the other 10-year-old boys, and I swear to God he looked so flippin' sweet I wanted to sop him up with a biscuit.  And then I thought about that little vixen who is going to break his heart for the first time and I vowed to never let myself become attached to any of the girlfriends.  She's out there, the Vixen - be warned, little girl!  I have your number!  Where was I?  Oh, so cute in the little baseball pants that were white on every other boy but oddly had stained knees on my son.  I really need to sign up for that Laundry class at the local community college.

The game was almost ready to begin when I stopped gazing adoringly at my son and began to notice some things in the bleachers:

1. Two of the women from Real Housewives of New Jersey were somehow plunked in folding chairs behind home plate.  They had matching dark roots/orange highlights with the old Kate Gosselin/Posh Spice haircut, huge designer sunglasses, bright dark blood lipstick, dozens of gold bracelets/hoop earrings/necklaces, and animal print outfits.  (Note to self - a little animal print goes a LOOOONNG way.)  They spoke loudly about their pedicures, how crappy the other team is, and donuts.
2. No less than FIVE people brought their dogs.  To a baseball game.  Because the dog thought to itself, "Hey, I want to sit in the dirt and full sun on a retractable lead and have someone yell "SIT" at me for two hours."  I'm thinking the dog would rather be at home licking its balls on Mommy's favorite couch after going through the garbage, but maybe that's just George the Superpet.  
3. People really love to outdo each other in the folding chair department.  I saw chairs with cup holders, side tables, umbrellas, MP3 players, hydraulics, GPS systems, and Playstations.  I saw chairs in canvas, nylon, suede, leather, actual cheetah hides, and color-coordinated with their highlights and pedicures.  I sat on the bleachers, old school, earning every bruise on my sciatic nerve.
4. Mothers love to yell their child's name in encouraging ways, and flinch when the ball or bat comes within a foot of their kid.  Some fathers like to yell emasculating things at the boys, like "C'mon Joey, swing like I taught you in the yard until midnight last night under the Kleig lights!!!  (looks at other parents) He did so much better last night, I don't know what's going on today!"  Perhaps if you could actually beat him here, in front of everyone, he'd play better.  The last time I checked, these kids are TEN!!!  Get a grip, Ike Turner!

Again, I'd like to clarify something.  I didn't shower before this game, and I had on no makeup and a t-shirt I'd worn for the previous three days that is hot pink with huge red lips on it reading "Antique Archaeology".  I know very little about baseball and I'm completely disorganized and unprepared.  I can TOTALLY go crazy-ass mom at these things with the yelling and clapping, and I am FOR SURE not the classiest person there.  But there seemed to be more competition in the bleachers than out on the field.  And?  The practice scheduled from 2-4 p.m. ended at 5:30.  Five FRIGGING thirty.  And not one person there seemed the least bit put out about it, like "Hey, what else do I have to do today but hang at the ballpark with my dog in my folding Cadillac Escalade and encouragingly berate my kid?"  And Dude?  I had to pee in the worst way and I just couldn't go to the public bathroom at the four-plex after 300 ten-year-old boys had used it.


I guess I have to learn that I Don't Care if I Ever Get Back.  So take me out to the friggin' ball game already.  And don't stare if I laugh when the coach yells "BALLS IN" as the game starts.  It's all class, all the time with me.

The Sixth Food Pyramid, Part 1. Resolution #10

The Midwest had best warm up soon, or I will be forced to eat myself into Type 6 Diabetes.  Type 6 Diabetes, a lesser-known form of the disease, happens when you leave the traditional five food groups and exist solely on the Sixth Food Group Pyramid, which looks like this: 

I revert to the pyramid when I am cold and uncomfortable, having a bad day, or am celebrating something.  So kind of all the time.  Let me explain how the pyramid works.  Today is Part One in a three part series.

At the top of the pyramid is Starbucks.  

I didn't drink coffee until I birthed Oldest Daughter.  While the other fully Cliniqued and accessorized moms gazed lovingly at their clean, Gymboreed children at the park, I would walk around in a sleep-deprived haze in mismatched, nasty outfits and call my daughter by the wrong name.

"My baby slept through the night at 8 weeks!" they would chime.

My baby was two before she would sleep for more than four hours at a time.  This made me verrrry sleeeepy.  Incoherent, really.  And it was hard to get myself put together for public consumption.  I could barely get it together to make it to my full-time job, so on evenings or weekends, fuggetaboudit.  For me, one sleep-deprived Saturday morning stands out in excruciating detail.

I was at the park with a few other moms who dressed down a bit and wore baseball caps to make me feel good, and from across the park someone yelled "Julie!?! Is that YOU?" 

I looked up from my group to see this gorgeous woman walking across the park with her baby.  She had chin-length highlighted hair, parted on the side, with a youthful barette holding some of it back.  She had on light, daytime makeup, but not so much to cover up the adorable sprinkling of freckles across her perky nose.  She wore cute boyfriend jeans and a t-shirt with matching cardigan.  She looked rested and fresh.  "Susan?" Oh no.  I'd responded to my name.  I missed the opportunity to get up and run like hell across the park, leaving the moms I was with to care for Oldest Daughter.  Because Susan, whom I knew from college, was the epitome of lovely, inside and out, and I was Hagartha, Queen of the Haggard Sleep Deprived Breeders.

We talked for a few minutes, both of us holding our babies, me in my stained t-shirt and I-just-had-a-baby-give-me-a-friggin-break tight khakis, and I was having a little trouble completing sentences when my baby had an explosive eruption and baby poo shot out all over my already icky outfit.  (Hand to God, this is true.)  I took a deep breath, smiled through my dark-ringed eyes, said, "It was great to see you Susan!" and marched to my car.  I strapped the squishy baby in her soon-to-be-bleached carseat, drove home, and sat in my driveway and bawled for about 20 minutes.

That night, I broke out the coffeemaker and supplies we kept on hand for when our parents would visit, I set it up for a 7 a.m. brew, and I never looked back.  I made a conscious decision to become addicted to coffee.  It was crack or shame, and at the time, I chose crack.  Did it end up making me more fashionable, get my hair highlighted or put on makeup?  No.  But I was definitely more alert and aware of the fact that I looked like crap.  I owned it, honey.

Like the leap from Nyquil to meth, the day I walked into my first coffee house, Java House in downtown Iowa City, the clouds parted and the angels wept.  Wait...do you mean I can have the coffee with chocolate?  And some kind of whipped cream on top with chocolate syrup?  The essentials of espresso with the benefits of a short but powerful sugar high?

Sign.  Me.  Up. 

Starbucks then brought my favorite sugary coffees to the masses.  Starbucks in Target, Starbucks in Hy-Vee grocery stores, Starbucks in Barnes & Noble, Starbucks in prison, Starbucks Drive-Thrus...I'm waiting for someone to punch a hole in my bedroom wall and tell me they are building a Starbucks in my yard with bedside delivery.

Herein lies the rub - my favorite beverage at the time was the White Chocolate Mocha, with whip.  Venti, of course.  Just listen to the description...

"A delicious variation of the classic mocha. Rich, full-bodied Starbucks® espresso is complemented with our proprietary, creamy white chocolate syrup and topped with whipped cream."

I mean, what's not to love, right?  Oh, except that this particular beverage has 580 calories in that snappy paper cup.  Now that I thought I was burning it up with my caffeine intake, I couldn't believe I was actually getting fatter.  And then when I found out I was DRINKING over a fourth of my daily recommended caloric intake, that flabby stomach was no longer a mystery.  I had developed a Mocha Top.  With Whip.

I still love Starbucks (although I prefer my friend Tommie's coffee shop, Fuel, in Mount Vernon, and her mom's homemade scones.  Dang.  I am salivating.), but now I either get the brewed coffee or a grande skinny vanilla latte.  But when the temperatures get down below 32 for protracted periods of time, I am only complete with a hot, sugary coffee in my hand.

RESOLULTION #10:  Replace coffee addiction with methamphetemine.

This would actually burn away the Mocha Top with Whip, and I could LOSE weight.  And hair.  And teeth.  And maybe my house would be clean and I would get everything on my list done for a change.  

Damn you, Starbucks.  Damn you for making me love you.

What Can Brown Do For You?

Laura was surprised to see the dark shape of Sukey, the brown cow, standing at the barnyard gate. Ma went up to the gate, and pushed against it to open it.
"Sukey, get over!" She reached across the gate and slapped Sukey's shoulder.
Just then one of the dancing little bits of light from the lantern jumped between the bars of the gate, and Laura saw long, shaggy black fur, and two little, glittering eyes. Sukey had thin, short, brown fur. Sukey had large, gentle eyes.
Ma said, "Laura, walk back to the house."
Ma ran with her into the house, and slammed the door.
Then Laura said, "Ma, was it a bear?"
"Yes Laura," Ma said. "It was a bear." - Little House in the Big Woods

So maybe that morning the bear got up late and didn't have a chance to wash her hair and she put on a cap, and it was cold in the Big Woods, so she had to put her brown fleece jacket on to stay cozy warm while she strolled around the barn looking for a venti skinny vanilla latte. And then Ma comes outside and starts calling her a cow, saying "Move it, Sukey!" and smacking her on her big bear butt, which she has been a little sensitive about lately after a fall of eating fat, tasty bunnies.

It could happen. I'm just saying maybe we should look at it from the bear's perspective.

This morning I had an early morning "meeting" with a friend of mine who enables my Starbucks addiction, but I am not much of a morning glory, so I pulled on my trusty brown corduroy cap, which is both stylish and fall-like. After surviving 40 winters in the Midwest, one would think I am used to the dipping temperatures at this time of year, but alas, I am a creme puff. (Did someone say Creme Puffs? Drool.) So I pulled on my equally trusty brown fleece jacket and a scarf and headed over to the opium den the world knows as Starbucks. And I did get a skinny vanilla latte. And it was delicious.

After my "very important business meeting" was over, I drove to my local car dealership for a scheduled oil change in my family minivan. Because I rock that minivan. I left the keys in the ignition and Linkin Park turned up in the CD player so that the guy who would be changing my oil would understand that I am a tough mother. Don't even try to upgrade me on unnecessary wiper blades or the most expensive synthetic oil produced. I'm onto you people. Because I listen to Linkin Park. The connection is very clear.

I walk into the service area to check in my van, and there is a lovely little old lady and her daughter in front of me, deep in discussion with the service bay manager. The check-in area is behind a cinder block half wall, so you can only see people from the waist up. I'm peering over the cinder block wall, looking at the various vehicles up in the air and thinking about how fun it would be to stay in the car while they change the oil, drinking coffee and reading my book while the lift raised and lowered, when I hear someone ask me a question.

ME: Smiling in direction of questioner, a guy who works there. "Huh?"
GUY: "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: Still smiling. "Huh?"
GUY: Walking closer. "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: Getting confused. "Huh?"
GUY: Walks around cinder block wall, wiping his hands. Gives me a once-over, and he turns red. "Uh, okay, they'll be with you in a minute."
ME: Smiling again. Oblivious. "Okay, thanks!"

I stand there for a minute, take a drink of my coffee, and look down at my brown arm. And then I think about my brown cap. And I realize that he just mistook me for a UPS driver.

So much for stylish and snarky. He thought I was delivering those fancy new fexor valves. (Because it's all about ball bearings these days.) I was not a Hot Momma, as I had envisioned in my cute corduroy/fleece/Linkin Park world. He was coming to see what Brown had done for him. To make myself feel better, this is how I think it was really going down:

(Porn movie base playing - Bow chicka wow wow...)
GUY (Looking like CH or Edge): "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: "Oh yeah. I have your package. Right. Here."
GUY: "Then let me sign it for you."
ME: Slowly unzip my brown fleece jacket. Unbutton sexy UPS shirt.
(Bow chicka wow wow...)
GUY: "My lift is raising." He grabs a can of Castrol 10w30.
ME: I wink. Unclasp brown UPS bra. Breasts fall out and smack against concrete...SCREECH! Fantasy over, due to aging and gravity. But at least he didn't call me Sukey and smack my hindquarters.

And I guess that's all Brown did for me today. You can bet I will be wearing my stylish gray cap and black fleece tomorrow instead.

This is the last Laura Ingalls Wilder post - thanks for enduring LIW Month, and you can sample a little Linkin Park, "In The End" on the player.