Last One in Single Digits

WARNING:  Anyone who lives in the Quad Cities and sees me coming should politely find something to do in the opposite direction.  I am scheduling a nervous breakdown for next week.   Unless you have a lovely chardonnay or some Xanax or a minivan with a full tank of gas and you're dying to drive kids around, and then I beg you to run toward me.  RUN, FORREST, RUN!  Run into the light!

"Oh Julie," you say.  "Quit yer whinin'!"

POP! That is the sound of me smacking you sort of hard and then saying I was kidding.  Trust me, I KNOW I'm whining.  I've always maintained that I was built to handle the responsibilites of a 27-year-old, maximum.  Right now I'm juggling some priceless Wedgewood china, previously owned by George Washington, all coated in the Ebola Virus, and I know one or more pieces is going to hit the ground and shatter into a million little priceless irretreivable shards and kill all of mankind, and I don't know which one yet, so keep juggling, keep juggling, keep juggling...There are FOUR STRESS POINTS right now in my little life, and I think a number of you mom-types are going through similar scenarios:

1.  THE DRIVING SCHEDULE

Here was our schedule Monday night: 
4:45   Get home from work
5:15   Leave with The Son, his bass, and Oldest Daughter's cello in van.
5:30   Drop Son at string lessons, drive to high school to get
         Oldest Daughter from musical practice.
6:00   OD in cello lesson, Son comes out.  Current Husband meets me in parking lot
         with Youngest Daughter.  YD gets in my car, Son gets in CH car to be driven
         to baseball practice.
6:30   OD leaves cello lesson, drive back to high school to drop her at musical practice.
7:00   Arrive home.  Carry instruments in.  Feed YD.  Let George the Superpet out.
7:15   Let GTS in, put YD and piano bags in car, leave for piano lessons.
7:30   Drop YD at piano, go shop for YD birthday gifts.
8:00   CH takes Son to piano from baseball practice.  Picks up OD from musical practice.
8:30   I pick up The Son and YD from piano, go home.
8:45   Start homework, showers, etc.
10:45  Think "What The Hell Just Happened?"  Assess what can change. 
           Determine nothing can.  Count days until musical is over.  Throw up a little in my 
          mouth.  Take a Prilosec and eat Tums.  Sleep fitfully, dream of dogs on skis.

So because of the high school musical, coupled with the fact that no children drive, our lives have been a little chaotic lately.  Plus, we have three children in three levels of school - elementary, middle, and high school - and this is the time of year when all the shit goes down.  Conferences. Scheduling classes. Solo festivals and concerts to determine what chair you get next year. End of year picnics/festivals/fundraisers/volunteer opportunities.  Sign up for the camps you need to do during the summer. Bleh.  It makes me want to eat Lucky Charms on my mom's green and gold velvet couch and read a Nancy Drew book and imagine what it will be like to get my period someday.

2.  FOREGOING DIET COKE

What in the name of Baby Jesus was I thinking?  This is not the time of year to go on the wagon.  But in the wrestling match between my now-insecure colon and Diet Coke, the colon won.  I am now nearly 72 hours soda-free, and I've never wanted a beer and a smoke more.

3.  TODAY IS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY

Nine years ago I was 4 days overdue with my third baby.  We lived in a small town, and I owed a gift shop, so everyone knew I was overdue.  I would waddle down the street and people would yell things at me like, "Eat Eggplant Parmegiana!" or "Watch the movie Chicago!" or "Drink Raspberry Tea!" or "Try Nipple Stimulation!".  I'm not kidding.  So on April 11, 2003, I was sitting on the couch eating Eggplant Parmegiana with Raspberry Tea watching the movie Chicago and giving myself purple nurples when my water finally broke.  Then CH and I were almost hit by a drunk driver going the wrong way on a one-way street into Iowa City en route to the hospital, because the bars were closing.  And then I got my first epidural, thank you God.  Little MuMu Kowski was born the next morning, April 12, bright and early and on her own terms.  Seeing this sweet little muffin turn nine, and knowing it's my last year with a child in a single-digit age, is hitting me kind of hard today.  I took an hour off work and took her into school with her butt-ass-ugly "brownie kites" she wanted me to make, and CH and I took her to lunch at Wendy's today (no Diet Coke!  AAAAHH!), and tonight she wants spaghetti and meatballs and she'll open some Lalaloopsy stuff, and I know this is all so fleeting.  What a cutie patootie.  I already miss her and she's still around for another 10 years.  Do you ever stare at your kids and think, "I HAVE to remember this moment!" like I want to remember their voices and the feel of their little hands holding yours or the smell of their hair...  Jesus, I'm going to cry.  WHERE IS MY DIET COKE!?!?

4.  I'M TURNING 43 NEXT WEEK

and my face is melting off and my middle is getting thicker and my varicose veins are really putting down some roots and I have acid reflux and apparently some up-and-coming digestive issues and I can't just drink and eat whatever I want to anymore and my hips hurt in the middle of the night and I'm forgetting shit all the time and I'm tired but I can't sleep, and I'm constantly bitching in my head (and on my blog, you're welcome!) about how busy I am, and I feel like I'm running faster and faster on a treadmill and even though I run faster I'm not going anywhere, and I know these kids are going to be out of the house before I know it (three years, it begins....) and I'm going to miss them so much it makes my gut hurt (or that's the Diet Coke) but I can't wrap my head around it because I'm just DRIVING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME!!!!  And I've stopped drinking Diet Coke!  And my colon is occasionally exploding!

In sum?  Happy Birthday YD, I need a Diet Coke, and for my birthday?  Baby you can drive my car.

And baby I love you.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

A terrible, terrible thing is happening to me. It’s akin to changing my blood type or my eye color, or getting a new identity, or having a sex change. I think my body is starting to reject Diet Coke.


(Take a moment. I know, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around too.)


I’ve been a Diet Coke fan since it was born in 1982. This was the first can design from which I can remember drinking:

Memories.  Like the corners of my mind.

I had a brief fling with Fountain Mountain Dew from about 1988 through 1993, but eventually returned to my original love. I also gave up Diet Coke entirely during my first pregnancy, and drank limited amounts of it during pregnancies number two and three and while I was nursing. But the first thing I had after each baby? A Diet Coke and a very large Tylenol. And then a malt. And then a large pile of blow accompanied by a Neil Sedaka album. (Just kidding Mom. You know I can’t take Neil Sedaka.)

TANGENT ALERT:  I just typed "Images A Pile of Blow" on Google and the weirdest shit ever came up.  I couldn't even pick anything, my mind was so confused, particularly by the 'Reeses peanut butter cup in hair' image.  Might have to quit those now too.  And now back to our story....

I’m the kind of person who won’t have soda if the restaurant exclusively serves Diet Pepsi. Why would I give up the most delicious, refreshing drink in all the free world? Well, I’m going to be deliberately vague so as to not make you lose your cookies, but here goes.


A couple of weeks ago, Current Husband and I went on a little date and had dinner at Biaggi’s. I had the shrimp and crab cannelloni, because CH is allergic to shellfish, so since I don’t cook with it I try to order it when I’m out on the town. It was spectacularly delicious. CH thinks I got sick from the shellfish, I think I got rotavirus from someone. Let’s just say that something terrible has been happening in my colon. Something very, very terrible.


I try to stay away from the bathroom at work. I use it, but not unless I have to, and I restrict myself to #1 activities only. I go home for lunch if I have other business to do. I feel that it’s a favor to me and a courtesy to my co-workers. Let’s keep our biological issues as human beings as separate as possible. The Monday after Biaggi’s, I found myself unable to wait. Or drive. There was no time. NO. TIME. So The Bad Things happened. As I was walking out of the bathroom, another female co-worker, whom I like, was approaching the door. As she put her hand on the knob, I put my hand on her arm.


ME: “Don’t.”
HER: “What?”
ME: “As a friend, I’m telling you not to go in there.”
HER: (smiling but flustered) “But I’m just rinsing out my coffee cup.”
ME: “Not in there, you aren’t. Don’t pass that door for at least an hour.”
HER: (Laughing as I’m leading her to another sink) “You must have what R had last week!”
ME: “Was R sick?”
HER: “I’m not sure, but I know she alternated bathrooms and advised I go at home.”
ME: “Ditto.”


Anyone with a uterus knows that women just don't talk about these things.  But at that moment, I was going to lose her respect in one of two ways - either let her keep walking through the door and into my Cloud of Shame, or to stop her from walking in and admit I have a cranky colon.  I like her, so I chose Option #2 (no pun intended).  And I’m going on Week 2.


I’m finding that The Bad Things happen soon after I drink Diet Coke, and I’ve even been finding that lately Diet Coke doesn’t taste as good. I’ve been on Web MD researching. I’ve tried to eat healthier (okay, not really, but I’ve INTENDED to, which is similar). I’ve texted a friend for the name of her probiotic (Florastor). I have NOT cut back on coffee. I have not given up Pinot Grigio. I have a lot of work to do.


I’m sorry Diet Coke, but I think we’re going to need to take a Ross and Rachel Break. In the words of Neil Sedaka, Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.  Time to do some blow and have a malt.  But not a baby.  (Thanks again, Essure!)




Happy Easter!

Since I'm probably rushing around trying to find my shoes to get to church and figuring out how to cook ham without giving people trichonosis, I'm re-printing an older Easter post from what I can now refer to as "The Early Days" of the blog.  Happy Easter, and I dearly hope you have eaten fewer Reese's peanut butter cups than I on this blessed day.

The Son has started baseball, which means we spent an inordinate amount of time in large, grassy areas.  As we are pulling out of the ballpark, we see a costumed Easter Bunny standing in the middle of a huge field where presumable volunteers were throwing a gazillion eggs and candy all over the place.  I shudder.

ME:  "Did you know I was the Easter Bunny once?"
HIM:  "Really?  Like in a costume and everything?"
ME:  "Yes.  When I was Marketing Director at the mall, we had an Easter Egg Hunt, and my bunny bailed at the last minute, so I had to suit up."
HIM:  "Whoa, cool.  What was that like?"
ME:  "Extremely hot and sweaty and painful.  The kids beat me up.  I've tried to block it."
HIM:  "Did you make them mad?"
ME:  "No.  They were non-believers intent on disproving the whole Easter Bunny thing."

It's true.  I was the Crayola Easter Bunny at the Pentacrest in downtown Iowa City in 1995.  Freshly engaged, I thought perhaps with marriage and potential children in my future I should try to soften up toward kids, since they had always sort of annoyed me.  I donned the fur suit, which was hotter than the pits of Hades, and started sweating it out.  Let me just reassure you now that while some of the minor details may have faded, this is a Hand-To-God true story.


I walked over to the field with the assistance of one of the mall cops, because you can't see a damn thing out of those bunny heads.  You can't hear in the bunny head.  You can't walk in the bunny feet.  The Crayola outfit comes complete with pastel-hued overalls with a huge pocket on the front, and white furry feet that are about two feet long.  It's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

 Photo of actual costume.  But my feet were bigger.  

Now you can feel my pain.

When the kids saw me, they went apeshit crazy.  I was like the Beatles after Ed Sullivan, but with candy instead of sex appeal.  I stumbled over the field, little arms from invisible children hugging my legs and tripping over my enormous feet.  I tried to pat them on the head, but managed to poke more than one kid in the eye or punch them in the face.  I couldn't tell if they were screaming in joy or pain, I just knew I Must.  Keep.  Moving.  

 But at least I wasn't THIS guy, because that looks hot.  

And someone might accidentally shoot you.

After a while, the toddlers made way for the fourth graders, who ganged up on me and kept saying, "I know you're not real".  Since my Crayola Easter Bunny costume didn't have a moving jaw, I opted for Mute bunny so as to not ruin it for the believers, and I was more like Helen Keller in this costume than I thought possible, so I just waved and patted at the hecklers while the mall cop tried to shoo them away.  And kids listen so well to mall cops.

 Now picture every one of these kids 

with a club and a taser gun.  Scary, no?

"You're NOT REAL!  I Don't BELIEVE YOU!"  Then the poking and shoving started (the kids, not me).  Sweat was pouring down my back, and I could swear my overalls were sagging.  I started to hyperventilate.  Is this how I was to die?  By asphyxiation in a full fur body suit with long floppy ears and a cute cotton ball tail with a pack of fourth graders kicking the crap out of me like a bunch of skinheads?


Then, it happened.  A kid actually stuck his hand down my overall pocket and started groping around, saying, "You got any candy in there, bunny?"  

That.  Just.  Did it.

"ENOUGH!"  I growled through my enormously disproportionate head.  "You kids need to move away from the Easter Bunny RIGHT! NOW!"  

 Don't.  F*ck.  With.  My.  Pocket.

I stood in my most threatening costumed fantasy creature pose, pastel overalls trembling, sweat pooling in my pants.  I now looked like the rabid Tourettes bunny who had just wet himself.  "You kids had better move along," the mall security guard said quietly and slowly.  The kids went eerily silent, and walked away.  "Um, are you okay in there Julie?"  

"Just get me back to the mall, Bob.  I need to get back to the mall."


The Easter Bunny left a little early, soaked in her own sweat and feeling violated.  She can't remember much from the rest of the day, except that it involved tequila to dull the burning rage she had toward grade schoolers.  I'm not going to say that's the last time I got into a costume, but I will tell you it's the last time I got in one without a sidearm.

As for those kids who touched me?  Let's just say I still have the costume, and the Easter Bunny makes a visit to their houses every damn year.  Bock bock, Easter Bunny.  Bock, bock.

Hump Day and Kardashians

Hey Wifers, what's up?  Say hello to your mother for me.

So it's Hump Day as I'm writing this, and honestly I don't have much going on, so I'm going to just recap today for you.  Since this blog is called A Day In The Wife, I like to occasionally throw in one that is an actual day in my actual life.  In sum, I'm trying to bore you to death.  Here we go:

6:21 a.m. - my clock says 6:21, but it is actually closer to 6:10.  I like to try and trick myself in the morning by setting my clock for a later time, but I know what the actual time is, so who's the fool now?  Oh.  It's still me.  Additionally, I push my snooze twice because I know my snooze gives me another 9 minutes per push.  If I push it twice, I will get up at 6:39, which is actually 6:28.  I get ready to take a shower, but wake The Son up and he has a fit because HE needs to take a shower, so I have a cup of coffee and make some lunches while he uses up the hot water.

7:36 a.m. on my bedroom clock, which is 7:24 on my oven clock, which is 7:26 in my van.  We're late.  Anything before 7:26 is early, anything after is late.  I take five middle schoolers to school in the morning, and they like to be there a little early so they can hang out before school and find out what new drama is going on in the life of the American Teenager.  There is another parent who drives a big black Hummer with Iowa Hawkeye plates that, unbeknownst to him, races us to school every day.  We beat him there a lot, but today he beats us.  Damn it.  I'm very competitive with that Hummer.

7:48 a.m. on the van clock.  I get to work, unpack my stuff, get my coffee, and have a few quiet minutes to check my e-mail, voice mail, Facebook, blog, Twitter, and plan my day.  I have one direct report, she is almost always at least 15 minutes late, which is fine because she stays late too, but once she gets there, we all start talking.  I have GOT to find a way to break the talking.  It's not like I don't enjoy talking to her, but I can hear company money cha-changing in the background, and I feel guilty after about 10 minutes.

8 - 11:30 a.m. I deal with hooker issues.  I actually blog about rug hooking.  It is noteworthy that my rug hooking blog does not have a Whoreticulture Friday.

11:30 a.m.  I pick up Oldest Daughter's boyfriend's mom and we go to the high school to buy musical tickets.  I buy $120 worth of tickets.  I have just committed myself to 9 hours of "Anything Goes" in mid-April.  I hope anything goes, because by my third show I'm coming in sweatpants, flip flops and my carrying my full Snoop Dogg chalice.

12:05 p.m. - Drive thru at Taco Bell.  Take my first drink of Mountain Dew and smell my chicken quesadilla and wonder yet again why I can't lose any weight.  It just makes no sense.  Is that an extra taco in my bag? 

12:15 p.m. - Back at work.  I walk in and someone who is off the clock has pulled up a chair and is eating her lunch in my direct report's cubicle, who IS on the clock for another 45 minutes, so after 10 minutes of me and the two men in customer service having to listen to their personal conversation, I say in a sing-song voice, "Okay, time to go, she's still working for 45 minutes!" and they go silent and I'm sure making facial gestures about what a bitch I am, but honestly people.  Let's get back to work.  I'm her boss and you are flaunting it in front of me that you are monopolizing her time and keeping her from working.  You aren't the first, or the last, people to be mad at me today.

12:15 -4:45 p.m. - More hooker issues, including one person who orders product, tells me she is from out of town and will pick it up in our office on Friday, I agree, get off the phone, and realize we are closed on Friday.  I tell her if she calls me on my cell phone when she is done with her tax appointment in town, I will meet her to give her the rug hooking equipment on my day off because I AM A BIG FAT IDIOT WITH A SOFT SPOT FOR OLD HOOKERS WHO DON'T WANT TO PAY SHIPPING.

4:50 p.m. - Drive home, relish the silence.

5:00 p.m. - George the Superpet greets me at the door, shoves his snout in my crotch, and will not allow me to pass until his ears have been adequately scratched.  Walk in, set my stuff down, start making a delicious dinner of Pizza Rolls, along with yogurt with granola.  Seriously people, this is dinner lately.  CH is taking The Son to baseball practice, I'm taking YD to dance class, but we have to stop at the high school and pick up OD from musical practice first. 

6:00 p.m. - Picking up OD from practice when YD announces she has an upset stomach, and actually she has had one all day, and doesn't think she should go to dance.  (NOTE:  She didn't have any pizza rolls, lest ye think the Totino's did it!)  I sigh, say okay, and pick up my phone to text the friend who was meeting me out for an hour while the girls were in dance.  Sorry Friend!

6:30 p.m. - Go to grocery store because a few people are stopping over late tomorrow night for a quick drink.  Check out and see that out of my $200 grocery bill, $100 is for liquor and brownies.  Just the staples for Easter.

7:45 p.m. - Home.  Time to sign planners and homework showers and brush teeth and get ready to do it all again tomorrow. 

8:30 p.m. - Everyone is in their respective bedrooms, reading or studying, and YD comes back out to me.  She is holding an M Magazine, which features about 16 celebrity heads on it, like Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner and the Beebs.  I think of it as Junior People, and features a lot of Nick and Disney stars.  I never consider the articles.  "Mom.  I need to ask you a question, but don't tell Dad."  Okaaayyyy.  This is always tricky because CH and I make it a practice to tell each other everything.  It's less complicated than lying and I don't have the energy or the memory to do that anymore.  "Well, tell me what it is and I'll let you know if I can keep it a secret."  YD looks sheepish.  I look down and see a picture of the Kardashian sisters in her pre-teen magazine.  Is nothing free of the Kardashians? 

 "Mom...what's a period?"

Fucking Kardashians!!

I guess they are shilling for Kotex now.

So PLEASE, explain to my child how periods work.

And is that "Berlin Wall" supposed to be a metaphor? 

Why do you have a sledge hammer and 6-inch heels? 

In a red dress?  Are YOU the period Khloe?

9:30 p.m. - Because of the Kardashian sisters, my soon-to-be 9-year-old is now terrified of getting her period.  I know this is my own fault for not screening her M Magazine, which we buy for Victoria Justice and get a sneaky bitchy Kardashian.  It's like buying a Capri Sun juicebox for your child and finding out it's 10% vodka - you know it's not the BEST thing for her but you don't expect that crap in it.  So she's a little traumatized, and she will also never enjoy a raspberry-filled donut because I sort of used that as my metaphor for a uterus and the lining.  But?  A baby who developed in a raspberry-filled donut?  Would grow up to be the HAPPIEST ADULT EVER.  I wish I was in a raspberry-filled donut right now.  And obviously?  Don't mention this to YD.

10:30 p.m. - Take two Benadryl and finish Mindy Kaling's "Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?"  which is a funny title because it's what I always asked my friends in high school, and what actually happened in college.

11:00 p.m. - WHAT WILL PROBABLY HAPPEN: Go to sleep to fitful dreams that I have overslept and didn't set the alarm.  Wake up at 5:58 (really 5:47) and realize I have about 20 minutes left to sleep.  Cling desperately to the idea that I can still sleep.  Oversleep slightly and get out the door late.

But I do have Good Friday off, so that's good news.  Except for that quick hooker meeting in the afternoon, which is conveniently located near a Starbucks.  The perfect way to start the weekend.  A good Good Friday to you, Wifers!

I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

I love food.

I mean really, really love food.  Lately, I don't like to make food or clean up from cooking food, so I just order a lot of food.  Fatty, salty, or chocolately food.  And it's all been delicious.  But it's time for the party rockin' to stop in this house, because there is a whole lotta wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle hey going on in my pants.

I break down the gluttony into a few nicely compartmentalized issues:

A)  GIRL SCOUTS - Those little girls in green get right under my radar every year, with their deceptively sweet sales pitches and pictures of them going to camp or whatever.  This year was yet another banner year in my house, with the purchase of at least 16 boxes of Girl Scout cookies.  I can pack away a half box of Thanks Alot before I even REALIZE the box is open and 10,000 calories are shoved in my pie hole.  Don't even get me started on the Shortbreads.  Thankfully I'm not a Caramel Delights fan, but they are crack to Current Husband.  We're gross.

B)  FRIENDS - all of my friends also love food, and since we never have time to get together we tend to schedule it around meals.  Hey, let's meet for a margarita, and a bucket of chips and a trough of salsa and maybe a vat of cheese.  I love my friends, what am I going to say, NO?  I think not.

C)  BOOK CLUB - I love book club, and not just for the kick-ass chicks in my group, but also because they all make great snacks.  So I pack away 3/4 of a bottle of wine and six handfuls of peanut M&M's and that key lime dip with the little graham crackers and the little bruschetta and some kind of delicious meaty thing ...oh, what book did we read?

D)  KIDS - Because I'm almost NEVER going to say no to McD's or pizza or ice cream.  When you're eating like you're 15 but moving like you're 70 and have the metabolism of a dead person, you're going to keep that Canadian Bacon pizza around your waist to keep you warm in the winter.  It's like I'm one of those Doomsday Preppers, I'm just storing the food in my body because I don't have room in my house.

E)  CURRENT HUSBAND - Because I blame him for everything.  Duh.

So about a month ago, a co-worker was complaining about how fat she's getting and I was all, "Oh I'm getting fatter than you!" and we turned it into one of those woman "whose fatter" smackdowns.  We agreed to a few simple rules to try to make ourselves stop eating the 7th meal and lose a few pounds before we had to show some calf:  Weigh in on the Wii Fit, Drink 900 ml of water per day, exercise 30 minutes PER WEEK.  I mean seriously, it's almost embarrassing how low we set the bar.

I go home and get on the Wii Fit Board to weigh in.  First, I get chastised by the woman voice, as in "Well, is this Julie?  It's been 123 days since you last checked in!"  Yes, yes, save the guilt, I've been busy eating Mexican and Girl Scout cookies.  I get on the board and she gives me the surprised groan, "Oooh!!??" Like WHAT THE HELL, FATTY but she can't say it because I'm the customer.  I cringe and wait.  "You've gained 13.8 pounds since your last visit.  It looks like you've passed the deadline for your goal.  Would you like to set another goal?"

Um, yeah.  I'd like to lose 13.8 pounds and appreciate November Julie more.

So far, I've managed to avoid the Y entirely, because I've had pre-planned dinners out with friends, so instead of getting on the elliptical and listening to Kanye, I've been riding a barstool and listening to the sound of fajitas sizzling.  I am down to 200 ml of water left from my original 900 ml from last week.  I have two lunch dates and two dinner dates scheduled in the next three weeks, and Youngest Daughter's birthday is coming, my birthday is coming, and OD's musical is coming, which means people visiting from out of town to see the musical and me making fatty delicious things for the guests to eat, because I'm a giver that way.  It's all about them, of course.

Unless a burqua comes into fashion in the US for Summer 2012, I'm screwed.  It's all very depressing.  What's an instant mood lifter!?  SUGAR!  I'll just eat this last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and plot my new strategy.  Like a tape worm.  Or amphetamines.