Get in the Van. I Have Candy. Part 3

Just to clarify, I wasn't really *that* tipsy last Thursday night, but I was tired and feeling my Patron.  Because I am old.


I didn't blog over the weekend because last weekend was the Bix 7 race in the Quad Cities, and RAGBRAI stopped in Davenport and the riders dipped their bicycle tires in the Mississippi.  Since I generally avoid exercise on the advice of my barista, I did not participate in the Bix with the 18,000+ runners, and I wasn't one of the nearly 300,000 people who have biked across Iowa.  However, my sister-in-law and her family stay at our house annually for the Bix, as they are exercisers, and I make guacamole and open a bottle of wine and listen to their tales of  people vomiting on the race route from overexertion.  You can see why I didn't make time to write.  Vomiting fascinates me.  So does exercise.  But I prefer to do neither.


Speaking of vomiting, I left you when our family had left Hotlanta and made our way to Nashville.  Many texted and asked if I was going to see Elvis.  That is MEMPHIS.  And of course, Graceland is my Mecca, so we'll be heading there in the next year or two.  How can the children complain about not getting to see Disneyland when they've been to GRACELAND?

 "We're caught in a (tourist) trap...we can't walk out..."

No, we went to Nashville.  And I have an announcement -

I have found the Mother Ship.

I'm in complete and total love with Nashville.  I love everything about it.  The beer, the heat, the cowboy boots, the inexpensive jewelry, the funkadelic shops, the awesome food, the slight drawl, even the Grand Ole friggin' Opry.  The whole thing.  I want to lick that town up the side of it's face.  And I sort of did.

We pulled up at our hotel, which I found on priceline because my sister works for Hyatt, but the entire Hyatt line was inexplicably booked, so I booked the best three-star hotel I could find.  We pulled up in Nashville and here is how we were greeted:

I don't believe that included the heat index.
Where the hell is Chardonnay Tony when you need him?

I left the fam in the AC van and checked us in.  The front desk had two women working behind it.  One of them was busy with a police officer, who was loudly filing a report for something stolen from one of the rooms.  The other one was named Svetlana, and she was from Latvia.  I know this because her nametag said "Svetlana, I'm from Latvia!" and she looked as though she didn't understand a damn thing that was going on.  She stood under two ceiling tiles that looked slightly moist and very bowed.  We stared at each other for a moment, she sighed, and decided she had to take me on.  We started our stilted dialogue.

"You have room....?"  Thirty minutes later, the police officer had filed his report for boxes of sample products worth about $35 each, stolen from room, and Svetlana and I had forged some kind of understanding that involved me surrendering my credit card to her and getting a key in return. 

I returned to the Van of Pain, and led my familia through the hotel lobby, where they looked around and assessed the scene.  As soon as they saw the pool, all was forgiven.  On a whim, I texted my friend Stan, who lives with his family in a bucolic Iowa town in which I used to live.  Stan is a lighting designer (did I mention a multiple-Emmy nominee?  I didn't?  oh.) who happens to do quite a bit of work in Nashville, so I asked him what we should see while in The Music City.  Stan texted back - "ME!"  Stanley, in the dream job of the century, had just flown in from London, where he is lighting the iTunes Festival.  He was in Nashville for one day only to light country singer Luke Bryan at the Grand Ole Opry for Jimmy Kimmel Live that night, and flying back to London the following morning so he could get back to light Coldplay and Linkin Park and such.  Loser, right?

Stanley and Oldest Daughter being Shiny Happy People.

In the happiest of accidents, Stan got our White Trash Express through the backstage guard hut and inside the GOO on the best backstage insider tour ever.  My children now despise me and CH, and are petitioning Stan for adoption.  Here are a couple of pics:

I told The Son to hit the power to the

entire building.  Good boy.

The lighting was perfect, the family unprepared.

The closest OD will get to being onstage

with Jimmy Kimmel.  For now.

My thoughts exactly.  It's like this guitar

WANTED me to steal it.

CH does a little camera work.

So much fun, best time ever.  We left our friend and the GOO behind us and drove the White Trash Machine to the hotel, where we spent the rest of the night in the pool, soaking our bunions.


The next morning was The Big Day.  It was time to teach the children how to be good groupies.  I am a hug fan of The Black Keys.

Yeah, these goofy looking guys from Akron who

have a fatass gritty sound.  Love them.

So Dan Auerbach, guitarist for The Black Keys, recently built a studio in Nashville.  I know this because I am a very thorough stalker.  And I found the address, even though the Keys would prefer it is secret, because it is not a public studio.  You might as well be waving a donut and a latte in front of my face, because there I was, parked in my Iowa minivan with my family behind the studio at 11:30 a.m.  The Black Keys are currently working on a new album in said studio, and took a few weeks off of touring in July to work on said album.  Here is what we are looking at from the van - back of the studio, barbed wire on top of the fences, and a lovely deck above where one might go to have a drink and a smoke in between takes.

Cool vintage green station wagon-type vehicle

with a brand new BMW X3 next to it.

But I didn't write down the plate numbers

because I have standards.  And didn't think

of it until we left.

While we are sitting and contemplating our next move, an Escalade pulls up to the keypad and rolls down the window, and a dude looking suspiciously like the producer Danger Mouse, who produced the multi-Grammy winning album Brothers for The Black Keys, taps in a code and waits for the chain link gate to open.  He stares at us.  We stare back at him.  He pulls into the compound and the gate closes.  The kids start getting nervous.  "Mom, we need to leave before you get arrested."  "No way, we are getting a picture in the front."

Security camera?  Check.

Prison lighting?  Check.

Large padlocked mailbox? Check.

Huge peephole in a steel door?  Check.

Mom climbing the chain link fence?  Undocumented.

It is 10:36 on a work night and I have to get up at 6:30, and my server is now rejecting new photos, so I promise I will finish this vacation series tomorrow and never mention my damn trip again.  Part 4, Conclusion, tomorrow night.

Heavy Bunkbeds and Lukewarm Showers

I have an announcement - I'm still slacking.

Today was Current Husband's birthday, so we started with donuts and ended with margaritas, with a tackle football game in the middle (The Son's, not us).  I had two freelance projects due tonight, and we spent a large part of the evening looking for the bill holder.  You know, the one thing that while you're moving you say, "We can't lose this, bills are due next week!"  We spent much of the weekend looking for this 8 1/2 x 11 plexiglass object, stuffed with bills, but alas, we cannot pay.  

In the middle of the day, we decided to unload The Son's new bunkbed.  We paid to have it assembled, and felt like we were being extraordinarily clever, but the store made it clear that the bed wouldn't be assembled until it was in the house.  CH and I unloaded the huge 5' x 8' box, and it became clear that my Little Engine blew a gasket and lost a wheel.  OH HELL NO is what my engine was saying, followed by SON-OF-A-BITCHIN' THING and then (*&$#)*&$&@)&@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We tried to push it across the grass, and in the process we plowed a nice furrow in the yard.  On the plus side, the front yard looks more like a Grant Wood painting than it did.  

Our neighbor across the street, husband half of the cat feeding team named, I kid you not, Darryl, was mowing, and he actually stopped his mower to watch us try to manipulate the box across the yard.  Already, we are entertaining the neighbors.  Later, I started fantasizing that the neighborhood is really evil, and maybe the current residents are all possessed and throwing hexes at us, like "Make the box 100 pounds heavier" and "Sic the feral cat pack on their children" or "Start the dripping in the pipes under the sink".

Tonight's curse was on the water heater.  I got in the shower at 10:10 p.m. to take a lovely hot shower before I blogged and got in my warm bed, and instead, my shower never got above the "tepid" mark on the heat index.  I didn't even bother to shave my legs, because they were covered in goosebumps and I would've cut the heck out of them.  I am currently standing at our computer in the kitchen (my laptop is still out of commission from the Vanilla Ice virus), surrounded by cords because we can't find more than two phone jacks in the house to hook up the computer, in my towel and robe, hoping the electric doesn't get shut off from non-payment, shivering, and praying the Prilosec I took an hour ago helps keep me from guppy puking my margarita all night long. Again, I am bringing sexy back.  

Happy Birthday, CH.  You are clearly one lucky man.

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.

News Report From Dayton

WHO:  Me.  Again.
WHAT:  Undercover report from Erma Bombeck Writing Conference
WHERE:  Dayton, Ohio
WHEN: Friday, April 16, 11:38 p.m.
WHY:  Because the Bombecks are making me apologize.


Something you all need to know if you are going to read this blog - there are rules.  Actually there is one rule, and this is the ONLY rule on A Day In the Wife:  
Remember I am an entertainer, not an historian.
(As an aside, it always bothers me that it is grammatically correct to say "an" before historian, because I say the H.  I just want to state for the record that I WANT to say "A" historian, but my fingers, which do the actual typing, won't let me.)

I've met two of Erma Bombeck's children, Betsy and Matt, and her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter Eva, who, other than Oldest Daughter, is the smartest seventh grader I've ever met.  She is getting up, taking the microphone, and asking questions at the seminars!  It is so flippin' cute.  Erma would be proud.

So her family members pulled me aside today and said they heard about my 1960's housewife-LSD-Florence blog post, and they asked that I keep the conference classy by not saying such things are going on here.  (They didn't really say that, but I didn't feel like blogging about Jello molds tonight, so lying is easier than being creative.  You can always rely on the fact that I will lie to you, gentle reader.)

• FACT:  I'm at the Erma Bombeck Writing Conference in Dayton, OH.

• FACT:  It's actually a writing conference, with real writers and such.

• FACT:  No one is wearing polyester that I'm aware of, unless it's a blend.

• FACT:  I didn't tell anyone "That's how we do it in the Quad Cities", although I must admit that I'm DESPERATE to do so.

 So now that you have the facts, I am going to keep this classy and tell you what is really going on:  This is a total Cougar Fest.  The male authors are falling all over themselves to bed these older, experienced women, and I say "Why not?"  We have more experience sexually than most of them do, and hey, we're funny.  If we weren't funny, or had delusions we are funny, we wouldn't be here.  Funny women are confident women, and I found that male authors were constantly trying to punch their Cougar Card with me.


Case in point:   Mo Rocca.
Some of you know Mo from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  Some of you know Mo from PBS's Wishbone.  Some of you know him as a regular contributor to NPR's "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me" and CBS Sunday Morning.  Sunday Morning is here to purportedly film a bit for their show, but I think it's all a cover-up for their Cougar Hunting.

So Mo (I call him that now because we are friends) approached me and we had a conversation.  It became obvious he was totally hitting on me.  

MO:  "Hey, I graduated from Harvard the same year you graduated from Iowa State.  Isn't that cool?" 
ME:  "Um, sure.  How much have you made since you graduated?
MO:  "Probably around $200 million dollars.  How about you?"
ME:  "$1, 443.25.  But I've passed three human beings through my vagina."
MO:  "That is so hot.  I was totally drawn to your turkey gobbler chin.  Not all women have those.  May I put my arm around you and make an expression like you have a knife in my side, and then I will take you to your room in the Marriott and make sweet sweet love to you?"
ME:  "Sorry Mo, but the best thing I got from Iowa State was Current Husband. This cougar is taken.  But I would love to take a picture.  Do you mind if I pretend to look fatter than you?"
MO:  "Absolutely not.  I'm just sorry I'm 20 years too late."

Throwing my white person gang sign.

 Then I went to Christian Lander's seminar on his blog-to-book sensation, "Stuff White People Like".  He, too, tried to bed me, saying that he could tell I was a bit psychotic from my stalking of him, and that I seem to have a strangely attractive super-long thumb, but I shut him down as well, saying that CH is the only 5'9" man I need.

 He is throwing Canadian gang signs, I am throwing white person gang signs.  Blogger Danny Gallagher is in the back, playing the part of the guy who pops up in photos and makes Muppet faces.

Then I met the mayor of Dayton, Ohio, who heard I was in town and came to formally welcome me by buying two Blue Moons and getting me slightly inebriated for the conference dinner.  Apparently they try to get everyone intoxicated, thus the town slogan, "Get Drunk in Dayton".

 The Mayor of Dayton also throws white gang signs.

Okay, this is actually one of my sorority sisters from the Chi O house at Iowa State.  Isn't it cool that she's the mayor of Dayton, Ohio?  Today was "Casual Day" in city government, part of the budget cutting procedures.  That, and firing teachers.  The gentleman behind us is giving himself the Heimlich maneuver, but the Mayor saw his suffering and ran over and saved his life.  It was a truly inspirational moment.

So that is the scoop.  I have three more seminars tomorrow, and then I drive back to the Quad Cities, bringing all of the culture and knowledge I can steal from Dayton, Ohio, and delivering it back to Iowa.  It's like taking candy from a baby.

Yard Work Be Dammed

On Friday I wrote about Spring Cleaning.  Back in the 70's when I was a kid in the 'White Lights Christmas City' in Nebraska, one of my Spring Cleaning responsibilities was raking the leaves.  We lived on a lake, so there were lots and lots of trees, and the damn things littered those leaves everywhere.  I was a lazy and asthmatic child, so I usually got out of some portion of the raking in one of two ways:

1. I would have to go to the bathroom, A LOT, and each trip would usually take about a half hour.  I would saunter into the house, grab an apple, watch a little TV, all the while looking out the window to see if my dad was coming in to check on my whereabouts.  Eventually they would come looking for me, and I would be on my way out the back door as they came in to check.
2. Once the bathroom excuse was exhausted, I would just stick my face in a pile of leaves, which would make me sneeze and get wheezy, and then my parents would send me inside so they could avoid a hospital trip.  Have I mentioned that I was a deviant and manipulative child?  (But I really did have asthma.)

The leaf did not fall far from the tree with my children.  We live on a corner lot with lots of trees, and every spring and fall we force the children to grab their rakes and head out into the yard, where multiple bathroom trips and small injuries ultimately occur.

Since I like to think I am cleverer than the children, I sometimes disguise work activity as play.  We have a huge crabby tree in the front yard that spends its time swearing and throwing small branches at our house, and in the spring we will end up with hundreds of branches in the yard.  Over Spring Break, The Son had an out-of-town friend over for a few days, and I suggested to them that it would be really, REALLY fun to build a beaver dam in the front yard.

ME:  "I bet you guys could build a HUGE beaver dam here."
THEM:  "How would we do that?"
ME:  "Just like beavers do!  With all of these sticks!"
THEM:  "But won't they cave in?"
ME:  "Nah!  First you put up a frame with the bigger sticks, and then you build around it with the smaller ones.  It will be easy."
THEM:  "Hey!  That sounds like fun!  Let's do it!"
ME:  (Walking back into house) "MWAH HA HA HA HA HA...suckers."

The idea was that the sticks would be in one location, and therefore easily bound and prepared for pickup.  Four hours later, I did an abduction check (and really, they could've been in Ohio in that amount of time) and found a beaver dam in my front yard.  A real, legitimate beaver dam.  And not only had the boys built a four foot by six foot hut next to my front door, they walked over the three million leaves in my yard to get the BAGGED leaves by the garbage, and dumped them over the top of the dam.  

DAM IT ALL!!  Now I had the same amount of sticks in the yard, AND my previously bagged leaves were back in the grass.  Just when I started to think about getting annoyed, two of the happiest boys I've ever seen came bounding out of the Dam Thing.

"MOM!  This is the COOLEST thing EVER!  Take pictures of it!  Can we sleep out here?  Do you think actual beavers will move in?"  

 Boys.  Enough said.

I was a goner.  Who cares about the Dam leaves?  Or the daffodils coming up that are now in the side room of the Dam.  There is nothing like the joy of a 10-year-old kid.  So we took pictures of the boys, and of course, pictures of Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein in his formerly natural habitat.  Now that he is a dead taxidermied squirrel and unused to the elements, he needed his stocking cap.
  

 Todd loves the Dam Thing.

Youngest Daughter carried approximately 12 sticks to "help" with the dam, and she was angry at the end that she was not included in the Building Credits.  Hell hath no fury like YD scorned, as the boys were soon to discover:

 Sleep lightly, boys.  YD will have her revenge.

It snowed over the weekend, and as we live two blocks from the Mississippi River, Current Husband and George the Superpet found themselves wondering how many critters were squatting in the Dam Thing for the night.  Our neighbors found themselves wondering why no one thought of writing a neighborhood covenant when we moved into the area.  The boys found themselves wondering how much candy it would take to buy their safety.  And I found myself wondering how I got outwitted by the children, again.  Dam it.

Even My Fourth Grader Thinks John Edwards is a D-Bag

WHEN:  Yesterday afternoon.

WHERE:  My living room.

WHO:  Oldest Daughter, Middle Son, Me.

WHAT:  Reading, playing iTouch, hanging out.

WHY:  Because this is how I learn things.

It's Saturday afternoon, and OD and I are sitting on the couch like we do, with her legs propped on the coffee table and my legs stretched over her lap.  She's reading the latest book in the House of Night series by P.C. and Kristen Cast, Tempted. 

Let me take a brief moment to address the House of Night series.  If you are unfamiliar, it is another vampire series, which was written at the same time as Stephenie Meyer was working on the Twilight series.  HON makes Twilight look like Bambi.  I read these books to see what my daughter is reading and talk with her about anything questionable.  I'm not really a book-banner, especially if it is a YA Novel, which these are, but HON pushes my boundaries as a mom.  Within the first couple of chapters there is blood drinking for sexual pleasure, light cutting, and a blow job is offered up.  Not by the heroine, but still, so we've had a lot of interesting mother-daughter convos.  I had a friend ask why I would let her read them, and my response is that OD already KNOWS what all of this stuff is - they had "the film" in 5th grade, and everyone in middle school knows what a BJ is, don't kid yourself.  What, really, can we shield them from anymore, unless you throw your TV out the window?  Have you watched prime-time network TV lately?  I give you Two and A Half Men...but I digress.

Here is the subject of my parenting lesson for the day:

HINT:  We ended up talking about douchebags.

So MS is playing some app, and I am reading People magazine, which is coming on Saturday instead of Friday all the time now, driving me nuts.  The cover this week says "Elizabeth's Breaking Point - After facing John's lies, and even bringing Christmas gifts to his love child - a determined Elizabeth Edwards finally sends her husband packing."  OD looks up from her blood-sucking BJ book and the following conversation ensues:

OD:  "What are you reading, Mom?"

ME:  "A book called 'The Help'."

OD:  "No, Mom, what are you reading right this minute."

ME:  "Oh, People." (Because I don't really think of People as "reading" so much as "stalking from the comfort of my couch".)

OD:  (rolls eyes) "Ya think?  I mean what is the cover story about - what did her husband do?"

ME:  "Well, her husband is John Edwards - do you know who he is?"

OD:  "Isn't he like a politician or something?"

ME:  "Yes, he ran for President.  But he had an affair, and another woman had his baby, and his wife Elizabeth is dying of cancer.  Oh, and he has three kids with his wife."

OD:  "Wow.  That's terrible!  And he wanted to be President?"

ME:  "Yes, which is really selfish because if he would've been President, all of this would've come out and it would've stopped him from being able to get anything done.  He probably would've had to resign.  And he wanted to be Vice President or Attorney General.  We are very lucky he didn't get any kind of important job in the government."

OD:  "He sounds really slimy."

ME:  "Yes, he is sleazy."

MS:  (looks up from his iTouch) "What a douchebag."

(STUNNED SILENCE FOR A MOMENT)

(OD suddenly smug, realizes MS is going to get in trouble.  She puts down her book to enjoy.)

ME:  "MS!  Where did you learn that word?"

MS:  (suddenly VERY nervous) "From a movie."

ME:  "Do you know what it means?"
MS:  "Uh, no."  (Which I believe, because if he did he wouldn't have said it in front of me.  He freaks out if anyone says the word "tampon" or "bra" in front of him.)

ME:  "Well it is a word that is bad enough to get you sent home for a two-day suspension from school.  And it is verboten for you, okay?"

MS:  (very red by now) "Okay."

(OD is very disappointed there was no violence in this reprimand.)

But John Edwards is a douchebag, and even my fourth grader knows it.

Here is an excerpt from the official John Edwards website:

"John dedicated his life to representing families and children just like the families he grew up with in Robbins, who were being victimized by powerful interests."

 I'm going to finish this paragraph for the Edwards webmaster, for free:

"Until John decided to victimize his own family  and children with his seemingly endless stream of narcissistic behavior and lying.  Time to get 'American Beauty' on Netflix, because karma is a bitch, pretty boy!"

And people are worried about middle schoolers reading YA novels.  At least the kids understand THOSE are works of fiction, where what they see on the news and in Time magazine (or People) are how people really behave.  Ish.

I can't imagine it's been rainbows and ponies to be Elizabeth Edwards lately, and it's probably no fun to kick out your husband of 33 years, with whom you've had four children, while you are in Stage Three of incurable cancer, but I'm glad you told him to drop off the key, Lee, and set yourself free.

FREE TIPS FOR THE GUYS!!!  

1. Valentine's Day is just two weeks away.
2. Don't screw around, you will get caught, and we will cut you.
3. Replace the toilet paper roll when empty.

You're welcome.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 13

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:  Female Fossil Fuels


Here is my morning routine:

• Press snooze button three times
• Swear
• Brush teeth
• Pour coffee (thus negating positive effects of tooth brushing)
• Wake up mini-teen
• Swear
• Surf Internet 
• Make lunches
• Put on jeans, shoes, and drive various offspring to various schools
• Remember I didn't put on a bra.  Wish I had.  Particularly when it's 11 degrees out.
• Eat breakfast bar, drink more coffee, surf more Net.
• Get to work.

These are my usual Internet stops, in no particular order - Jen Lancaster, The Bloggess, my fave blogs on Blogger, The Onion, The Daily Show, and US magazine.  (And Stephenie Meyer's website, in hopes she'll announce that she finished Midnight Sun.  It is my stalker vigil.)

But Julie, don't you have a subscription to People magazine?  Why would you go to US?

Yes I do have a subscription to People.  It's classy celebrity gossip.  US Weekly is a trashy gossip rag, and their information is totally unreliable.  That is why I only look at it online, without paying them anything.  I like to lower myself to their level, as cheap freeloading trash.  It's starting to sound like one of Tiger Woods' fetish festivals with his call girls.

So today I am sitting at my computer, coffee cup in hand, when I pull up this headline on US:

Exclusive: Oops! Jessica Simpson Farts During Business Meeting

Thursday – January 28, 2010 – 10:05am

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Let's end this meeting on a high note!
A source tells Us Weekly that Jessica Simpson had a, ahem, windy moment during a business meeting for her denim line in late January. "While one of the executives was speaking in a room full of five people, Jessica let out a very loud fart," says the insider.

"Her mother [Tina Simpson] was there, and it prompted her to turn around and yell, 'Jessica!' The tension was extreme. No one knew what to say."

It wasn't Simpson's first brush with public flatulence: She famously cut loose on an episode of Newlyweds, telling then-husband Nick Lachey, "You love my stinky ass," and professed her fondness for between-the-sheets poots (a.k.a. Dutch ovens) to a radio station in 2008.

And to this I say:  What.  The.  Hell.
I hate you, US Weekly, for making me feel SORRY for Jessica Simpson.  Yesterday I read a story somewhere that Jess was donating a bunch of shoes to Haiti, and all I could picture was a bunch of poor earthquake victims toddling around in four-inch-heeled patent red leather cougar shoes, and I thought "You dumb cow, send money, not your reject shoes."  And then today, you make me feel sorry for her.  Because isn't it totally obvious that her mom farted and then blamed it on Jessica?  I have an announcement to make:

I fart.

Sometimes publicly.  And I miss the days when I could blame it on my kids.  "Whoa, YD, someone has a smelly diaper!" and people look at the cute baby and smile sympathetically and say, "Oh, I remember those days!", unaware that I had the #5 on the Taco Bell Value Menu only a few hours earlier.  Suckas!

Current Husband knows this about me, and he is appreciative of it because it lets him off the hook.  The children are suspicious, but I can still get away with blaming it on CH or George the Superpet, because he is 106 pounds and is truly the burpiest, most flatulent dog I have ever met.

Before CH and I were married, I worked at a high-end retail store in Ames while CH finished school.  Many nights we would order daVinci's cheesesteak hoagies (you Ames and Lincoln people know what I am talking about - they are absolutely divine.  If there was a daVinci's here, it would create a whole new food pyramid.) and drink a couple of beers.  This didn't always bode well during my morning shift at the high end retail store.

Once, I had to let one fly.  Being generally respectful of other people's space, I moved to the front of the store by the door, but unfortunately, another clerk followed me up there.  It was too late.  Desperate, I looked around for someone or something to blame.  Just then, a street work crew caught my attention, and we had a Bingo.

"Wow, they are really going overboard with the sulfur on that street work!"  I said.
"They sure are!" exclaimed Beulah, the sweet older woman who worked with me, and wouldn't have believed that a nice girl like me would pass gas publicly.  But I am the daughter of a bricklayer, and some things come easier to me than to other women.



An open apology to the world:  "Excuse me.  I am sorry."


I can start today with a clean slate.

RESOLUTION #13:  Stand next to Jessica Simpson the next time I have gas, and then yell, "JESSICA!!!"  Or maybe don't stand next to Jessica Simpson, but yell her name anyway.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend, and please fart responsibly.  Remember, Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's Taxidermied Advice Squirrel site starts Monday.  Send your life questions to him at todd.hotnuts@gmail.com.

The Big Turkey That Couldn't

Almanzo simply ate.

He ate ham and chicken and turkey, and dressing and cranberry jelly; he ate potatoes and gravy, succotash, baked beans and boiled beans and onions, and white bread and rye'n'injun bread, and sweet pickles and jam and preserves. Then he drew a long breath, and he ate pie.

When he began to eat pie, he wished he had eaten nothing else. - Farmer Boy

Damn. I'm feelin' you, Manly.

The major difference between the books about Laura's childhood and Farmer Boy, about Almanzo's childhood, is food and stable housing. Laura's story is about moving from log house to sod house to wood house, and Pa's restless nature (and his tendency to kill). Laura's story is full of corncob dolls, riding across the prairie in wagons, blizzards, men nearly dying in wells, grasshopper plagues, illness, lots of cornbread and johnnycakes and Nellie Oleson (I was spelling it wrong - cardinal Little House sin!)

In Farmer Boy, every third page is about food. Salt pork and potatoes and brown ham-gravy and biscuits and homemade ice cream and pancakes and popcorn with real dairy butter and pies...oh Lord, the pies. Almanzo even gets smacked in the eye with a burning potato that shot out of the fire - they get hurt by the food! This I can wrap my muffin top around.

In the spirit of Farmer Boy, on Friday night we had a dinner party. It's actually generous to call it a dinner party, because that would imply it was nice. We put out a bunch of bulk food items and told about 40 people to show up and fill their paper plates while our dog nosed them in the crotch.

We never do things like this because they make me extremely nervous - it's like opening all of your curtains and turning on all the lights at night and changing your clothes. Everyone can see in, you aren't sure who is looking at what, but they can see it all. I can do family on family, but the larger groups seem to require organization I don't possess. We've eaten at so many dinner parties in our community in the past couple of years and not reciprocated, it was time for us to pay our dues.

I thought, "How bad could it be?" which is funny, because it's the same thing I thought before birthing our three children or buying four different special needs houses or opening a retail store or walking in the front door at 3 a.m. when I was a teenager locked out of the house after sneaking out or having just...one...more...drink. How bad can it be? Bad. Real bad.

We told people it was a White Trash party, but mostly just because it was at our house, hosted by us, and we didn't feel like cleaning. We emphasized our stuffed and mounted squirrel (yes, we have one) and put sheets on the furniture and bought disposable dinnerware. Theme fulfilled.

Menu-wise, I thought I couldn't go wrong with a turkey on the grill. A nice 20-pound bird ought to keep people fed, and what goes better with turkey than mashed potatoes? And a creamed corn/cornbread casserole? Oooh, and some cranberry conserve? And asparagus? And then dinner rolls? Super! Except that I got about 2 hours into the preparation of this meal and had a little Come To Jesus moment:

A) I've never grilled a turkey.

B) I've invited nearly 40 people, and have 6 chairs indoors. And it's 40 degrees and rainy outside.

C) My menu was going to ruin everyone's Thanksgiving.

So it seemed like an appropriate time to open the first bottle of wine.

Since I live in 2009, I consulted the Internet. Everything is on the Internet, right? Three different websites told me to grill the turkey at 300-350 degrees for 15 minutes for every pound. I'm no math genius, but I deduced I should grill my 20-pound turkey for 5 hours. At 11 a.m., I put the bird to flame. The guests were coming at 5 p.m. My turkey was done at 1:30. By 2:30, the popper that tells you the turkey is done had actually propelled out of the turkey and through the foil into the pan. By 2:45, the turkey carcass had literally split in half, with the breast bone cracked in half and meat falling off of it into what turned out to be about 6 cups of butter. My turkey was saying Uncle.

"At least I have potatoes," I thought as I walked to the basement fridge. I took the stockpot holding 15 pounds of potatoes I cleaned, peeled and diced the night before. But when I pulled the potatoes out of the fridge, I realized my error. Cut potatoes oxidize, and my diced white potatoes were all a nice charcoal color. With nowhere else to go, I boiled these gray potatoes, and skimmed the black foam off the top of the pan as they cooked. My youngest daughter squealed, "Oooh! Halloween potatoes!!"

When it was time to mash them, I found white things to put in the pot to lighten them, as one would with paint. Sour cream, salt, milk, half and half, all were added to the pot, but to no avail. The gray roadkill potatoes would be seated next to the broken down turkey on cinder blocks. With the corn playing banjo music next to it. Again, theme fulfilled.

I could go into the other food debacles of the night, like the dry creamed corn, or the shallow church social steamer I used that only kept about 5 servings of food warm at a time, but in times like these, I know people will forgive all of your food faux pas if you have dessert and liquor, and I had those in spades. My pastry chef/gourmand friend made the most amazing pies and homemade cinnamon ice cream, two other friends brought lots of wine to add to our stock, and one guest owns a brewery and brought a keg, so instead of asking "Can I get you more food?" our mantra became "Let me fill your glass".

All of the guests got lightly toasted (and a couple got quite fried), people sat on each other's laps or on their spouses shoulders (and pulled out lighters and yelled "Freebird!") minors were banished to the basement, and the last people left at almost 2 a.m. so it seemed to be a success.

Mother Wilder would have been proud. Or plowed. Because I'm hoping if I filled her glass often enough, she would forget about that busted up turkey and gray potatoes and only dream of pie and wine.