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,

Sweet Caroline, my calves hurt!

Where it began, I can't begin to knowing
But then I know it's growing strong
Was in the spring
Then spring became the summer
Who'd have believed you'd come along?

With Neil Diamond Month coming to a close, I'm feeling pressure to get some other songs up. What is Neil Diamond Month without Sweet Caroline? Huh? Or Soolaimon (soolay...soolay...soolaimon!)? Or who can hear Heartlight and not think of E.T.? How can I not write about Coming to America and call myself a fan? These are the things that keep me up at night.

Another thing that keeps me up at night is pain, particularly when I exercise. I try really hard not to exercise because my body seems to not like it. When I was an asthmatic kid, I was told not to exert myself. Okay. (And don't think for a second that my high school friends didn't LOVE to razz me about my trifecta of asthma, my speech and debate letter, and the Flock of Seagulls haircut. Don't even get me started on your haircuts, girls!)

Last spring, Mommy got punished. (I realize this is an older bit I wrote last year, but it was very traumatic and bears repeating. And I can make it work with the song, so zip it.)

I'm not talking about "Oh, is Big Daddy going to spank me?" kind of punished, but actual, public, physical punishment. Mommy attended a Boot Camp workout with a bunch of crazy people, and it took four days to sit down without crying out in pain.

I should have known what to expect by the person who invited me in the first place. She's a clean, organized mom who is uberfit and very energetic, like the head cheerleader/prom queen/track star all rolled into one. I say this with the greatest affection, because I have witnessed her drinking beer and eating dessert, so she's not scary-perfect. She sent a chipper e-mail to a group of moms from the school, saying, "Hey, let's all get together and exercise! One of the moms is a trainer, it will be SO FUN and we can all do it TOGETHER!!"

After deleting the e-mail that was clearly not meant to come to me, I got a follow-up call from her: "Julie, you have to come, it will be fun! You are always talking about getting in shape; this is a great way to do it with a bunch of people of varying fitness levels! It's only an hour, YOU CAN DO IT!"

And then I said yes. Because I have absolutely no spine, and if someone asks me to do something, anything, my first response is to say yes and then spend the rest of the time trying to figure out how to get out of the commitment. I knew full well that I was the weak link in this fitness chain. I'm the mom who wears workout clothes so people think I work out. I'm the mom who will sometimes drive the block and a half to school because it is too cold to walk or it might rain.

After I said yes, I remembered that this session was to be called "Mom Boot Camp," not to be confused with "Making S'mores" or "Singing Around the Campfire" camp. This was not a "Mom scrapbooking party" or a "Mom candle party" or a "Mom sex toy party." This was a "Work your ass off until you cry like a baby" party, and I had already RSVP'ed.

Another friend, who is secretly at the same yoga level as Madonna, e-mailed to plead with me to come to Boot Camp, as she was purportedly out of shape. I met her in the park that fateful morning, me in my dumpy tank top and black sweats, she in her skin-tight Lycra shirt that showed off her sinewy guns. Damn her. Cheerleader Mom showed up next, fresh from her MORNING workout (yes, I mean before Boot Camp!), so damn her, too. Then Trainer Mom showed up, chewing a bar of steel and spitting out bullets. Damn them all!

The Big Engine That Couldn't looked for an escape hatch, but the session was starting. We all ran around the park, past the group of City workers spreading mulch at the play set and anticipating the show. We then progressed to the park picnic tables, hereafter known as the Den of Pain, to climb up the tables in rapid stair steps and then down into lunges, triceps curls, dips and push ups. This was followed by sprints up a hill that has a 10% incline, and then over to the tennis courts to do Navy Seal crunches and jumping jacks.

Hands, touching hands
Reaching out
Touching me, touching you...

Let me make a few small observations. First, I don't do sprints unless the ice cream truck is at the top of the hill, so I didn't. Another mother in pain joined me as we pretended to power walk up the hill while the suckers sprinted it. Second, I don't have triceps, I thought those became extinct during the dinosaur age. Third, anything the Navy Seals are doing should not be on my list of activities, and therefore I threw my legs up in the air and waved them like I just don't care. Finally, anyone who has survived one vaginal childbirth, not to mention three, knows that all the Kegels in the world won't get you through a session of jumping jacks dry. It is just a fact. In my one moment of comfort, I was doing push ups on the picnic table benches, and every time I would rise, I would see a Nazi symbol and a "f*ck you" carved in the table, no doubt by an empathetic teenager. Indeed.

I'm not sure how I got through that hour and fifteen minutes, but I lived to tell about it. The rest of the day I flaunted my post-workout body for my husband, throwing in terms like "feel the burn" and "quadriceps" and "optimum heart rate." The next morning I woke to a world of pain I hadn't known since labor. Who injected lead into my legs? Why do these children need me? How can I get to the hospital?

And when I hurt
Hurtin' runs off my shoulder
How can I hurt when I'm holding you?

I do not belong in something called "Mom Boot Camp." I am too old, too soft, and too weak, and not one of those women brought snacks. Someone needs to remind these fitness-obsessed moms what reckless abandon looks like. And that is exactly why I went back. With donuts. And that time, good times never seemed so good.

Shilo is going to kill me

Young child with dreams
Dream every dream on your own
When children play
Seems like you end up alone.

I've never been a big doll person. When I was a child, and my mother was concerned that I wasn't playing outside with the other kids, I would say things like, "Who needs friends when you have a book, Mom?" She would smile and walk away, and then a half hour later I'd find her sobbing at the kitchen counter with a rum and Coke.

I didn't play with Barbies, I didn't play dress-up, and I didn't want to be a ballerina. However, I did have an imagination, and along with it, my imaginary friend named Tony. I don't remember Tony, but my parents do, and I'm sure in their minds it is categorized as "That Creepy Tony Phase" when they considered calling in a priest.

This is one thing Neil Diamond and I have in common. Neil had an imaginary friend growing up, and she was the inspiration for the song "Shilo". Before Neil could have his pick of the real babes, he had to make up an imaginary chick. I wonder if he would dress in a size 4T sequined shirt and tight black pants during his playtime with Shilo? These are the questions I want answered. With visuals.

My youngest daughter has a HUGE imagination, and is waaaaayyyyy into playing dolls. She is a Girlie Girl with a capital "ME!" She has a full battalion of American Girl dolls inherited from her older sister, a Bitty Baby, a box of Barbies, a box of Littlest Pet Shoppers (our name), a box of Polly Pockets, and boxes of Puppy in my Pocket, Kitty in my Pocket, Jungle in my Pocket...you get the picture. She doesn't just have one imaginary friend - they are ALL her imaginary friends.

Why does she have so many little creatures at her disposal, you may ask? It's because she must rule everything around her. If she cannot bend the rest of us to her will, she goes to her room, dresses in her best princess outfit, builds a circle compound on the floor of her little people, and runs them ragged. It's like Jonestown, except Jim Jones is dressed in pink satin and feather boas and won't share the Kool-Aid with anyone else.

Shilo, when I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
Shilo you always came,
And we'd play...

A few weeks ago, she had a friend over. The friend walked in the door and was immediately whisked to Jonestown, sequestered, and pinked out. The Imaginary World commenced. I could hear them busily setting up the scene. I took the opportunity to pilfer some of the kids' Nutter Butters and read a book. Soon, the girls came into the room requesting snacks.

THEM: "We're hungry."
ME: "How do we ask for food?"
THEM: "We're hungry NOW."
ME: "How about a please?"
THEM: "Please." (They then exchange a knowing glance and giggle.)
ME: "What?"
THEM: "Oh nothing!" (More giggling.)
ME: (Playing nonchalant) "So what are you playing?"
THEM: "We are playing this really fun game where we are sisters and we live alone in a house because both of our parents have died in a car crash. We are princesses and we can have whatever we want!"
ME: (Figuring out my odds if they both turn against me) "But isn't it sad to not have parents?"
THEM: "Oh no, it's very fun! We always have dinner in our best dresses and never say please and eat in the living room!"

I gave them their snack and made them sit at the kitchen table, but I did not turn my back to them.

They were hit with Disney Princess Syndrome (DPS).

DPS generally occurs in little girls between the ages of three and seven who have been exposed to more than three Disney movies. The symptoms include a rash of regal behavior, breaking out in song, feverish outfit changes, and coughing up scenarios that include the subtraction of parents and the addition of princes. According to Walt Disney, the only way to be a Disney princess is to be an orphan, or at the very least, lose your mother. I give you Cinderella, Snow White, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty (whose parents are alive, but she is removed from them), Belle, Ariel, and Jasmine.

If you are lucky enough to lose your mother, DPS tells you that this small bump in the road will surely be followed by beauty, charm, smarts, grace, character, the ability to manage conflict and take the high road, and eventually the trifecta of a prince, royal wedding, and a kingdom.

My daughter has seen all of the Disney Princess movies, and all of the Barbie movies with the same recurrent, motherless, marry-a-prince plot. She seems to watch me with thoughtful, calculating eyes.

Shilo when I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
Shilo you always came
Come today

No, Shilo. Stay away. I saw the movie Child's Play. I'm going to write the next Disney movie. It's going to show a motherless girl who could have been a princess, but she is in prison for dealing meth. She works in the laundry room and no one tells her about periods. It will be called "Shilo and the Girls in Block B." The plot twist is that the mother lives, manages Shilo's release, takes the high road, forgives Shilo and teaches her how to be a princess without a prince. Because that's what the REAL, LIVE moms do.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

Barbra says:
"You don't bring me flowers,
You don't sing me love songs."
Neil says:
"You hardly talk to me anymore,
When I walk through the door at the end of the day.
I remember when..."

I'm feelin' you, Barbra.

My Current Husband (CH) and I attended the U2 concert in Chicago Sunday night, where I made it perfectly clear that if I had a shot at The Edge, I was taking it. He is definitely Numero Uno on my "list," followed by presumable booze hound Vince Vaughn and current hottie Bradley Cooper. I don't even see those three guys drinking or bowling together, so don't ask me how they find themselves on the same list. (Vince would probably drink with anyone, but you get my point.)

Number One on CH's list? The first woman who would give him the remote, get him a beer and a sandwich, and rub his back. 'Not Much of a Talker' would probably be a big turn-on as well. 'Doesn't Blog About Him' would be even better.

We get to our hotel room in Chicago and check in at around 3 p.m. We are meeting another couple for dinner at 5, and I've found myself needing a belt. The jeans I'm wearing to impress The Edge are a little big, and the belt I brought is from college and was made for jeans that go around the waist, not the lower hips. I mention to CH that I would like to walk a couple of blocks to a store that sells belts. When CH does not answer, I look around the corner and he is asleep, remote on his stomach, the Cowboys game on TV. We have now been in the room for 4 minutes and 17 seconds. I sigh and sit down next to him. I change the channel to a forensics show about how to cover up evidence in a murder. I take notes.

CH wakes up at 4:40 and wants to know when we need to leave for the restaurant. I tell him I've been waking him up every five minutes since 4:15, and we are walking out the door in five minutes. He gets in the shower. Sadly, he is ready in five minutes, just in time to help me cinch the belt I've managed to pull through to the first hole. The belt has created a tourniquet around my hips, giving me additional muffin top and the beginnings of a rash. The Edge's wife is very beautiful and slender, so I'm hoping he's sick of all that.

We meet said couple and go to the restaurant. We eat delicious food. We drink delicious drinks. We share a fabulous dessert. We drink more delicious drinks. I start to get that "I'm king of the world!" feeling. I should remember that feeling comes just before the Titanic sinks. We go to another restaurant and have two more rounds of drinks. (In Chicago, this means we could've bought one of those cute little Cuban cars for the price of eight drinks.) The years are melting off with every sip, and thanks to the magic of vodka, suddenly I am 22!

After a fun cab ride to Soldier Field, and a round of beers before we get to our seats, the lights go down. The Edge is coming. The music starts, and I'm standing up yelling, "I'm up here, Edge!" but he does not seem to hear me. CH and people sitting around us do. Soon, they too are yelling at The Edge, "For all that is holy, get her out of here!" but the Edge does not hear them either. I start saying things to CH like, "The Edge would leave right now to get me another beer." The concert ends, and with it, my chance to be Mrs. Edge.

So CH and I leave Soldier Field with 70,000 of our closest friends, and try to get a cab. Cab drivers are running over people who jump in front of them with their hands up. Full buses are driving past us. People are riding horses and Vespas and unicycles and roller skates and jet packs past us, while we fall into a large group of people trudging toward downtown Chicago like a bunch of cattle. My belt is cutting off the oxygen to my brain, and my shoes are starting through their second layer of foot skin. I say to CH, "The Edge would've gotten us a cab." CH isn't laughing at these jokes anymore.

Neil says:
"Was it good for you babe?
Are you feelin' alright?"
Barbra says:
"Well honey just roll over
And turn out the light.
'Cause you don't bring me flowers, anymore."

Fast forward one hour and perhaps two miles later. CH and I are on opposite sides of Michigan Avenue. It is 1 a.m. Some crazy woman on my side of the street is screaming things at him like, "You are the worst husband! You are supposed to take care of things like this!" and he is yelling at her, "What do you want me to do!?" and she is screaming back, "Well not abandon me in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. without any money, you $&**&@#!" She doesn't seem to realize that he hasn't abandoned her, he is perhaps afraid of her. A limo driver pulls over and motions her across the street. I go, because maybe The Edge is in the limo.

Limo driver: "You shouldn't be yelling at each other like this. Let me solve your problem. I will give you a ride."
Me, bloodshot eyes narrowed: "We are at the Hyatt on Wacker - how much?"
CH: Silence
Limo driver: "$30 for you, pretty lady."
Me, jerking thumb at CH: "We have $16 between the two of us. Give him the money, CH." And I get in the limo.
CH: Silently hands over money and gets in limo. He is angry, but tired.
Limo driver: Contemplates how to get crazy/cheap woman out of limo. Decides to drive her away.

So there we are. Married 14 years. Riding in a limo down Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. with the skylight open and fresh out of a most amazing U2 concert. And we are looking at each other like two roosters in a cock fight.

Barbra: "Baby I remember, all the things you taught me..."
Neil: "I learned how to laugh, and I learned how to cry..."
Barbra: "I learned how to love, even learned how to lie..."
Together: "So you'd think I could learn how to tell you goodbye...."

I am thinking bad things about CH, which is funny, because two hours earlier I was in my happy place, thinking rainbows and ponies about him. We get to the hotel room, and he is asleep in less than a minute. I get a text from some concertgoers from the Quad Cities, telling us to come downstairs for one last drink. I am thinking he isn't bringing me flowers anymore, I'm getting those bad shoes back on and going downstairs. I take his debit card. I leave the belt.

I go to bed at 3 a.m. As my head hits the pillow, I know everything I've done for the past 4 hours has been a really bad idea.

I wake up at 8 a.m. I know we have to leave within the next 45 minutes for a 4-hour trip in the car to get our three children. I am unwell. I start thinking about all of the things I said to CH after midnight. Ouch. Suddenly, I hear a noise. It hurts my head, but I open my eyes. It is a glass of ice water and an Aleve. It is not coming from the hand of The Edge. It is coming from the hand of CH, who was so abused only 8 short hours ago. He is laughing at me.

He doesn't bring me flowers. He doesn't sing me love songs. But he brings me aspirin and water when I need it and has a short memory. I'm keeping him.

Hello again.

In the words of the legendary poet Neil Diamond, "Hello, again, Hello."

I'm channeling Neil today as I begin to blog again, after a year or so off. For those of you who haven't seen "The Jazz Singer" from the 1980's starring Neil Diamond (as Jess Robin, aka Yussel Rabinovitch), I weep for you. You are, by definition, "Love on the Rocks." You should consider "Coming to America." Because what other classicly 80's film saw it's lead actor nominated for both a Golden Globe AND a Razzie? It's just that good, and that cheesy. Much like Squeezy Cheese on Chikin in a Biskit crackers. Oh yeah. THAT good.

So perhaps my time off from blogging is akin to the scene in "The Jazz Singer" when Jess's father, Cantor Rabinovitch (played deftly by Sir Lawrence Olivier) learns that Jess is a pop songwriter and perhaps won't take over as the family blogger when his father dies. His father comes to see Jess where he is living with his agent Molly (Lucie Arnaz) in California to get a record deal. Cantor Rabinovitch tells his son to come home and blog like he used to, and Jess says "No, I am busy drinking wine, being a songwriter and nailing my music agent." Distraught, Jess's father tears his clothing over his heart, and says, "Your blog is dead to me."

Okay, it didn't really happen that way in the film. But to honor Neil, and to kick off my blog again, I am wearing a peasant shirt of silver sequins open to my navel and very tight black pants, so get out your lighter and let's get ready to rock this blog in the coming year!