Real Drivers of the QCA

For those of you expecting Whoreticulture Friday, I’m sorry to tell you that WF and I are on a break, like Ross and Rachael. I’m sure we’ll get back together and resume our dysfunctional relationship soon.


Today, I’m writing about my kids, which I recently promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore. I also say I’m going to exercise more and eat fewer donuts and drink less wine, but that doesn’t happen either.

Oldest Daughter recently turned 14, and instead of finding a secret boyfriend or a stash of Cosmo magazines in her room (“14 Ways to Enjoy Kinky Sex!”), I discovered rather quickly that she has been secretly studying the driver’s manual.


Things could be worse – it could be Youngest Daughter, who will surely break curfew on a regular basis and secretly date a vampire. Oldest Daughter has always been very responsible and has a healthy dose of fear of operating large equipment. I find it interesting that in our house, Current Husband is a little more afraid of her driving than I. He sees this:




On the other hand, I see a future where I’m not driving everyone around everywhere. Those nights when I’m making dinner and I find I’m out of onions? No problem, send OD! Running a little behind from work that day and might get the kids to piano late? No problem, send OD! Cello camp starts at 7 a.m.? See you later OD, I’m sleeping in! A mom can dream, no?

 CH has taken OD to practice driving before. The Hobby Lobby parking lot is the best place to go because it’s closed on Sunday, it’s big, and the only obstacles are the lampposts, which our Jetta probably can’t knock down. Probably. But CH is a little nervous about his baby driving, so he’s a little ramped-up when they get in the car. They practiced at the Hobby Lobby lot for a little bit, and then a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and CH told OD to stop because she doesn’t have her learner’s permit, but OD managed to slam on the brakes and skid out a little, and then she freaked out because she thought the po-po was coming to write her up. She got home and vowed never to practice again.

That attitude is NOT going to help me lose my Taxi Driver designation. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Last weekend, I told OD that if she would practice with me at Hobby Lobby, I would buy her a malt at Whitey’s afterward. OD is easily bought with ice cream, and she agreed. We drove to the Hobby Lobby lot, where there were two other wanna-be’s practicing, and OD got behind the wheel. We spent the first 10 minutes practicing great-grandma driving at 5 mph and power-braking. I opened the door and pretended to throw up. OD asked what I was doing, and I said, “That’s what all of your passengers will be doing if you drive like this.” We picked up the pace a little bit, and then she hit a pothole in the parking lot. She looked at me, nervous, and I said, “Now you yell ‘Damn government! Where do my taxes go?’.” OD said it, and smiled. It felt good to get that repressed anger out. And really – where DO our taxes go?

Then the other drivers left the lot, and it was just the two of us. I told her to get in a place where she had some space to drive, and then floor it.
OD: “Floor It?”
ME: “When you put your foot down on the pedal and go fast.”
OD: “I know what it is. I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “You have to. It’s for safety.”
OD: “How is that safe?”
ME: “Don’t you watch ANY TV? Everyone is involved in a car chase eventually. This is how you will escape the terrorists. Or a bad vampire who is determined to kill you to anger your good vampire boyfriend.”
OD: “Oh. Whatever.”

We can always communicate when we speak Twilight.

Then OD let me know that she was ready for Whitey's, so we switched back. She got her seat belt on, and I turned up the radio, pulled out my cell phone and started to text, and then floored it. We’re shooting across the parking lot, Lady Gaga is yelling at us that she was just Born that Way (does anyone else hear Madonna singing “Express Yourself” when they hear that song?), I’m texting, and OD is yelling, “MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?! STOP!” I stopped the car and looked at her.

ME: “Were you scared?”
OD: “OMG! YES! Why did you do that!?”
ME: “To show you why you shouldn’t text or talk on your phone and drive. Did it work?”
OD: “You could have just said it. Sheesh.” And rolled her eyes, because she is 14 and obligated to do that every time we have a conversation.

We got home, and CH asked how it was. OD indicated that it was terrifying, but fun. I imagine this is what it was like to date me in high school. 

Have a great weekend!

Seeking Stove Assassin

I know I haven't posted since last week, Mom, but you and the two non-English-speaking co-workers you coerce into reading this blog are going to have to accept some news - Whoreticulture Friday and I are on a break.  Like Ross and Rachel.  And maybe we can see other days of the week, but then we really want to be together, but circumstances beyond our control just somehow keep us apart.  Maybe in the future, when I'm making a commitment to Wednesday, I'll accidentally call it Friday, and then Wednesday will storm out on me and go back to England and I'll stare out of a window with the U2 song "With or Without You" playing and it will ruin that song for me forever.

I'm not saying I'm quitting Whoreticulture Friday.  I ain't quittin' you.  But I think we need to see other days of the week for a while.  Every once in a while I'm sure I'll go on a binge and drunk dial you and we'll end up together for the week, but it's going to be an open relationship.  Like Bill and Hillary.

Last week was kind of hectic at Current Full-Time Job, and I had a few days where I might have considered kicking a kitten and needed a Xanax intervention if I took Xanax, so by Friday night I paged Dr. Blue Moon and Orange Slice and I planned my strategy for NCAA basketball watching.  (My bracket, by the way?  Totally blown since the Sweet 16.  I needed you, Ohio State and Kansas.  I needed you both bad.  But I am now all VCU and Butler, because who can't get behind a Cinderella story?)  The strategy included more beer, guacamole, cheese, blue corn chips, and some homemade buffalo wings from the Barefoot Contessa cookbook.

Saturday morning (okay, around 10 when I actually got up) I made cinnamon rolls from a tube and coffee and laid out the ingredients for my feast.  I melted the sweet dairy butter and added the cayenne pepper and kosher salt and Frank's Hot Sauce until it was melted and buttery and delicious.  I took out the wings, pulled the saran wrap off, and...

Sweet Baby Jesus, these are rancid!!

But wait!  There's more!  So was the milk, and the mayo, and the dip...are you getting the theme here??  Yes, my damn refrigerator was as lukewarm as the public's support of Chris Brown's new album.  I know you aren't supposed to play favorites, but my fridge was my top appliance.  My dishwasher is a lazy sack of crap, the microwave doesn't have a rotating tray (Hello!  When did they stop making those, 1995?) and the stove is a flat surface, which takes about 20 minutes to boil water and then 1 hour to cool down.  Since we moved into Current House, I've been dying to replace all of the appliances - except the fridge.  Et tu, Frigedaire.

Did I worry about the fridge?  No.  I drove to the store for more wings and $5 of lottery tickets.  I started formulating ideas about the kitchen.  Here is a transcript of my brain on the way to the store.  The fridge has been known to be dead for about 10 minutes:

"Okay, so as long as the fridge is a goner, I might as well replace it with French doors and a pullout freezer below, and I want the model with the ice maker/water dispenser I used to have at Previous House.  I suppose I should get it in stainless steel because even though it shows fingerprints the resale will be higher in a kitchen with stainless appliances.  As long as the fridge is being replaced, I might as well get a gas stove, new microwave, and dishwasher with stainless tub like the one at Previous House, and they all have to be stainless steel because they all need to match.  Resale, of course.  And I'm sure it will be cheaper in the long run to buy them all now because we'll get some kind of 0% interest deal if we spend over $3000, which we are sure to do.  Maybe I can get my British/Australian installer back, he was fun.  Then, as long as the fridge is out and the other appliances too, we  might as well rip out the vinyl floor, replace the questionable plywood flooring underneath left by Previous Owner, and then tile it in my beloved black/white checkerboard squares.  Wow, this fridge thing is a bummer, but I'm sure it will work out for the best.  Yay, me, and my new kitchen!  For resale value!"

By the time I got home, I had mentally prepared to spend approximately $8000.  And have a party celebrating my new kitchen.  Current Husband, on the other hand, had been Googling "Broken refrigerator" and had The Son using a blow dryer to defrost the coils in the freezer.  Apparently they can freeze over with frost, blocking the cold air that goes up into the fridge to keep everything cold.  By Sunday afternoon, the fridge was fixed.

yay.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy to not spend the money.  But in the words of Air Supply, I'm all out of love with the old kitchen now.  I have New Kitchen on the brain.  The clock has started.  It's only a matter of time before something else dies and I am forced to completely remodel my kitchen around the dead appliance.   Consider yourself warned, CH.

Does anyone know how to accidentally break a flat surface stove?

Girl Scouts - The Second Oldest Profession

Girl Scout cookie season has come and gone, and here I sit at the computer with a fresh muffin top rollin' rollin' rollin' over the top of my pajama bottoms.  Effing Girl Scouts and their irresistible crack in a box.

Let's get in the Way Back machine and talk about the root of my initial bitterness with the Girls in Green.

When I was of Brownie age, I wanted to sign up.  I mean, please.  Who wouldn't want to belong to something called "Brownies"?  I would join a group TODAY called Brownies.  Perhaps I will start a club.  It will be open to women over the age of 30, and we will earn badges in things like "100,000 Taxi Miles on Minivan/SUV" or "Fastest Drink Maker" or "Least Conflicted Children" or "Best Camoflauged Eye Bags".  We'll call ourselves something snappy like "Shrimp Cocktails" or "Mocha Lattes" or "Post-Bloody Marys", and once a year we'll sell fellatio tickets to our husbands/boyfriends.  Who wouldn't give it up for a good cause?  The cause  - a Group Retreat somewhere sunny next to a pool.

Time to get off the Tangent Train - the Brownies wouldn't let me in.  The story was that I lived too far out of town, but I think it had more to do with the fact that I looked like Laverne DeFazio.  I was crushed.  No cookie sales for me.  sniff.

Fast forward past years of therapy to deal with my non-Girl Scout life, and I've just given birth to my first child.  We've been home from the hospital for about 48 hours, and the hormones are out of control.  I'm standing in the kitchen, weeping and looking at my Play-Doh post-baby stomach, when someone knocks on my door.  It's a little Girl Scout, with the 12 boxes of cookies I had forgotten I ordered.  Current Husband came home from work, and I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, holding the baby, with an empty box of Shortbreads and another empty box of Peanut Butter Patties.  I had ingested about 10,000 calories, and I don't believe I've known a moment of satisfaction like that one since. 

All was forgiven, Girl Scouts. 
You saved me in my time of need.

I've never looked back.  I cannot resist a Girl Scout cookie order.  I used to tell myself it was because I support the Girl Scouts, and that I just can't say no to a girl with a green sash at my door with an order form.  This year, however, I realized that I did not order ONE BOX of GS Cookies directly from a Girl Scout.  All 22 boxes (seriously), were ordered from adults.  Parents of the Girl Scouts, who were sent out by their little dictators to sell! sell! sell!  For this reason, I am suggesting that the Girl Scouts change their cookie badge to a Pimpin' Badge, because little sister is sending out her girls (and men) to bring home the money.  They sit at home playing Wii and waiting for their stable to bring back the goods.  My proposed Pimpin' Badge will look like this:

Yo. Here's your boxes of Thanks Alot.

Because those cookies?  Are full of Flava.

God Bless you, Girl Scouts.  You are the epitome of the American Way.

Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture minivan. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture. I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic. It's like having an actual conversation with me.


Today's musical: Avenue Q

The other day I was behind a car with a bumper stick that read, "Friends Don't Let Friends Drink Starbucks", and I had to laugh.  I do love me some Starbucks, but I would really prefer to drink Rocket Fuel from my friend Tommie's coffee shop in Mount Vernon, Iowa.  She has awesome coffee and kick-ass scones and cookies baked by her mama, Pat, and it is a complete funkatorium of art and antiques and badass tshotckes.  Here is her facebook page, I'll wait.  Fuel... art and espresso. You might have to be signed in to Facebook to link up.  If you see something you like and it is smallish, I'm sure Tommie will happily ship it to you.

Coffee addictions aside, Current Husband and I made it out to see Avenue Q.  It's kind of a shock that I got him out, musicals aren't really his thing, but when he found out I was chatting up the guy next to me at Mamma Mia, he decided to get some culture.  No matter that I was talking to the guy next to me and his husband, still, I was mixing it up at a musical.  CH's danger siren went off.

Avenue Q is pretty hysterical.  Some of it is a little bit "Hey, we're swearing!  Isn't that hilarious!" but other parts are priceless.  Here is my favorite song:



Because really, everyone IS a little bit racist.  The other one I really love is called "I Wish I Could Go Back To College", which honestly almost made me tear up, but really.  I do.  My life now is great, but there were moments in college that the fun just didn't seem like it could ever end.  *sigh*



So let's address the creepy factor here.  As evidenced in this video, there are times in the musical where two people run a puppet, and usually it's a spare woman.  You find yourself paying less attention to what is going on, and instead look at that chick and think, "Is she really necessary?  That guy couldn't run both puppet hands?  What a lazy jackass."  The spare puppeteer walks around a step behind the main puppeteer, trying to convey the puppet emotions without actually saying anything.  She ends up looking like a sign language interpreter who isn't really signing to anyone.  I was a little fascinated by her.  Does the rest of the cast exclude her from things because she isn't "really" a cast member?  Does she sit outside of the main puppeteer's dressing room and weep until it's time to go on?  Do the puppets get a better seat on the tour bus than she does?  These are questions I need answered in the Playbill.

CH was very excited about our seats, because they were in the balcony, and they were seats 1 and 2 in our row, which were the only two seats in that row.  He thought that made them more ideal.  When the show started, we figured out quickly that the audio wasn't very good, so we couldn't hear about 50% of what was said.  I already know the songs, so I know when to laugh, but CH just got more frustrated with the whole thing.  It necessitated another drink at intermission.

What did I learn?

1. Everyone IS a little bit racist.
2. The Internet is for porn.
3. Naked puppets having sex can be just as graphic as real people having sex.
4. I want to go back to college.  Just for a couple of weeks.  Or for a mulligan if I could end up with the same husband and children.
5. I'm losing my hearing, along with mobility in my knees.
6. Season tickets to musicals would make CH an alcoholic.

In sum, Avenue Q gets four furry paws up.
Happy Monday, Wifers!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 60

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




Today's topic: Massages and blockages.

This was spring break week for the kids.  Since I don't want to take crazy vacation days because I need to see The Black Keys this summer, and we are hoping to take the kids on the lifetime pilgrimage to Graceland and then Atlanta this summer, I only took Monday off.  Current Husband took the kids, plus another teen, to the Wisconsin Dells to party like a rock star, if the rock star was underage and liked waterslides.

I sacrificed and stayed home to work.  By sacrificed, I mean had a delicious meal of Spicy Basil Noodles with one friend one night, and a spa night and meal with another friend the next night.  It was tough, but someone had to do it.  On spa night, I opted for a facial and a pedicure, while my friend took the one hour massage.  During our post-rubbing analysis over a couple glasses of ice-cold Blue Moon, we had a massage discussion.

HER:  "The person was great, but she spent a lot of time on my butt."
ME:  "You have a nice butt.  I would probably spend most of my time there."
HER:  "I was starting to wonder if she would move in."
ME:  "I don't think people in the Quad Cities give Happy Endings."
HER:  "You might be surprised.  I wonder if someone has ever been giving a guy a massage,
          and then suddenly he has an erection."
ME:  "You know that's happened."
HER:  "Yeah, because any guy, if you rub him anywhere near there, has to get a hard-on.
          I don't think they can help it, it's automatic."

We interrupt this Whoreticulture Friday
for an intestinal blockage.  No shit. 
(HA!  GET IT!?!?)

I started this post last night, as I usually try to do on Thursdays.  Then CH took an Aleve and it went down his airpipe, and I briefly thought he was going to die, and then, even though he repeatedly assured me he was okay, I had to call the doctor on call to be sure he didn't need to have his lungs aspirated, which he did not.  But it sort of took the wind out of my sails on Whoreticulture.  "I'll do it tomorrow," I thought, while I watched CH sleep and looked for signs of respiratory distress.  (He made it.)

Then I'm at work, and it's Friday afternoon, and everyone else seems to have left for the day, and I never took a lunch, so I thought, "Hey, I'll blog for a little bit."  I tried to start blogging, and then this very nice co-worker man comes in to my office area, I'm the only cubicle-dweller left, and we started discussing a co-worker's medical issue.  (Productivity at work today peaked around 2 p.m., and then I think everyone just sort of phoned it in.  If you are my boss, or think you are my boss, you are mistaken.  Go to thebloggess.com.  There is nothing to see here.)  Before long, I found myself victim to a 40-minute detailed description of his intestinal blockage.  Really.  Did you know if a doctor wants to "Run your Bowels" it means they cut you open and take out your bowels and hang them on hooks so they can examine your entire colon?  Now I do.  It's not something easily forgotten. 

Current Husband and I went out for drinks and then to see the musical production of "Avenue Q", and while I was eating my bruschetta and drinking vodka cranberries (River Baron vodka, made here in the Quad Cities and fabulous) I wasn't thinking about Whoreticulture Friday, or about whether or not guys get erections during massages, but instead about what that bruschetta might look like in my colon if it was hung out on hooks in the ER.  It made me think, "I hope if they ever have to Run my Bowels I am caught with broccoli in my colon, and not two boxes of Dots damming up a strawberry cheesequake Blizzard."

I'm sorry if I've failed you in the Whoreticulture department, people, but think of it as a public service.  Here is what we've learned:

1. Sometimes it is good to stay home while everyone else goes on vacation.
2. Guys probably get aroused during massages, but it's unintentional.
3. Be careful when swallowing pills.
4. Don't tell casual acquaintances about your bowels.
5. Eat healthy food if you think you'll be going into the hospital.

You're welcome, America.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!