Where IS Everything?

Merry Christmas Wifers!

I know, I'm an ass and haven't posted, but I think of the blog often.  And then I say, "Meh.  I'm drinking right now."  (NOTE TO MY MOTHER:  No Mom, I'm not drinking all the time.  I don't have a problem.  And perhaps I'm drinking Diet Coke?  I never said it was booze.  Who has the problem NOW?  Take a look at yourself.  What's in your hand?  That's what I thought.)

Really, I've meant to post, and I have a few great things to share, but I can't find my cord to download photos off of my Blackberry.  And then I can't find my charger.  And then I can't find my phone.  In the past week I've lost keys, gifts, eyeliner, a Starbucks gift card, $1400 in credit card receipts for a hooker convention, a red sweater, and my favorite jeans.  Just now, I helped Youngest Daughter through a lost DS emergency, and then I couldn't find my Mike's Hard Lemonade.  I can't find the receipt for the custom door we ordered for Current Husband's office now that we need to pick it up, and I'm losing my mind!  WTF, Universe?  I know there are people in the world battling cancer and depression and oppression and erosion, so I know I need a perspective check, but seriously, WHERE THE HELL IS MY BLACKBERRY CORD?

We had a great Christmas here in Wiferville.  It was all awesomeness and unicorns and ponies.  The kids were great, we had a wonderful bunker-down weekend, Christmas Eve Mass was uncharacteristically short, we sat behind a cute baby, the weather was great and we didn't run out of Gruet or cheesy potato casserole and no major appliances broke or malfunctioned in any way. 

Downside?  I may have undercooked portions of the ham and therefore my family may or may not have trichinosis.  Also?  I got my period four days early and had to go to Walgreens on Christmas Day to buy 60 Super Plus tampons and 48 Super tampons and 48 super maxi pads and a box of Dots and Aleve and a handgun, because honestly it was a Ten Year Period and it's a miracle I didn't need a transfusion or Depends.  The checkout girl said, "How is your Christmas going?" and I looked down at my 108 tampons that were getting me through the next 48 hours and said, "Yeah.  It's shaping up really well right now" and she looked at me in a pityingly way and said, "But you have the Dots!" and then I felt bad because at least I was hemorrhaging to death at home and in flannel sock monkey pajamas and not doing it at Walgreens on duty.  So I said, "It's great, I'm so glad you were open, thanks for working on Christmas!" and she smiled and probably thought, "Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in.  Go eat some more of that Death Ham, bitch."

I have to find that cord because I have a photo on my phone of one of my best Christmas presents EVER.  I'll get right on it.  Side note - super big scare tonight with George the Superpet - my kids called me at work at 4:10, yelling that I need to come home RIGHT NOW because George wasn't using his back leg, was walking like he was drunk, and threw up yellow stuff and then laid down on the floor.  I walked out of the office, freaking out, and on the way home called and told the kids to call the vet that I was bringing him in and I thought, "Dear God, Do NOT let me come home to a dead dog."  I screeched up to the house, threw open the back of the swagga wagon, and tried to figure out how I was going to get a catatonic stroking-out 107 lb poodle in the back by myself, and when I opened the door he came trotting around the corner smiling and wagging and miraculously all better.

BUT STILL.

As an FYI, when I lose George the Superpet, I will NOT. COPE. WELL.  He is only 5, so this kind of behavior is ridonkulous and I won't stand for it.  We've been watching him all night and he is acting perfectly normal, but of course I'm hearing the Voice of Unreason in the back of my head.  I can lose Blackberry cords and eyeliner and Starbucks cards, but the one non-human thing I can't lose right now is my dog.  CH, you have been demoted.  George gets the bed tonight.  Poor little poochie-pie.

I'm Sorry, 1034 Hall Street

Can you believe Christmas is this weekend?  I. Can't. Wait.  Excited kids and good food and elastic waistband pants and sleeping in and staying up late and wine.  Yippee!

Like us, many of you might have celebrated some kind of Christmas last weekend.  The Son had a basketball tournament, so Current Husband's Dad and Stepmom and younger sister came down for the day to see it and have our Christmas.

The Son's first game was at 8:30.  Thrilled that I had to wait for CH's Dad to arrive, and thus could sleep a little later, I missed out on the first game.  They were supposed to arrive around 8:30 a.m., but that came and went and no Dad.  It was inching toward 9 a.m. when the phone rang - it was CH's stepmom, wanting Youngest Daughter to stand in the yard so they could remember where we live.  We moved a year ago, and they've been here once, but their Garmin was still programmed for the old house, which is about three blocks away.  The Stepmom was laughing so hard I could barely understand her; she said they had something to tell us.

They pulled up in front and walked in the house.  It turns out that CH's Dad really had to use the bathroom, but they were so close he figured he could wait.  By the time they pulled up to our house, he REALLY had to go, so he jumped out of the car, ran to the door, and rang the doorbell repeatedly.  He started yelling, "C'MON JULIE, OPEN UP, I REALLY HAVE TO GO!"  Then he gave up on my getting to the door on time and....

Oh Dear Lord.  He peed in the back yard. 

Just in time to figure out
that it wasn't our house.

They jumped back in the car and took off down the street, where they saw Youngest Daughter, turning blue and jumping up and down.  They came in the house, where The Dad told me his story, and pointed out that, according to the front of his jeans, he didn't even completely make it to the back yard.

People of 1034 Hall Street:
Let me take this opportunity to apologize.  I know it wasn't a pretty sight to look out of your kitchen window, take that first sip of coffee, and see a strange man pissing in your yard, but his prostrate is weak, as is his willpower to turn down pots full of coffee when driving three hours.  He means well.  And if, by chance, he happened to say our last name or address while wetting himself on your front step or back yard, please stop by and pick up your complimentary bottle of Gruet.

You Deserve It.

Who's Ready For A Good Cry?

I don't know about y'all, but every once in a while, on the estro-coaster I'm riding, I have a morning where I just sort of break down and have me a little old fashioned cry-it-out.  Current Husband looked a little nervous, but pulled me over and gave me a hug while I told him all the things that are wrong at the moment.  He listened, and for once didn't try to tell me what to do or how to fix it, or my favorite, tell the person who was hurting my feelings a little bit to "just fuck off".  I got it all out.  I painted the basement and stewed.  I got a call from our school principal, who takes her time on the weekend to drive around picking up Secret Santa gifts to deliver to families in our school community who can't afford to have much of a Christmas, and she told me she was ready to pick up my gift, which I hadn't had time to purchase yet.  Of course, I felt a little grumbly about it, because I was stuck in my Poor Me mode, and thought, "Oh great, ANOTHER thing I have to go out and do today", because aren't those poor little kids who watch the "Haves" get everything they want just a pain in my busy schedule?  And then I saw this:

http://news.yahoo.com/anonymous-donors-pay-off-kmart-layaway-accounts-221000605.html

I tried to embed this story, but no dice, so it's just an old-fashioned link, my friends.  But it's a nice kick in the butt perspective-wise.  No matter how bad my day may be, it's nothing compared to what some people go through this time of year.  And for all of the assholes out there, and I know a couple, there are so many wonderful, giving people with hearts 10 times too large, and I know dozens of this kind, and they DO outnumber the assholes.

 Kids can't help the situations their parents are in, but they can sure see what everyone else is getting at school.  Not only am I going to go out and get my Secret Santa kid his gift now, I'm going to up the ante and get another gift card to go with it, and it's because of the examples of people like the KMart donors, the Bloggess and her Great 2010 Pay-It-Forward, and everyone else who tries to make a difference. 

Yes Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus.  And it's you.
An early Merrry Christmas and blessings to you all!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 74

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or my OB-GYN.

Today's topic: Gettin' Nekkid

First of all, I haven't been.  Ever since the tubes were blocked I've been living a monk-like existence of contemplation and chocolate.  Today I had a quick check-in at the gyno and we are good to go until February, when I get the dye shot up in my turkey cavity and then presumably have to walk around work all day explaining that my pen exploded in my pants pocket.

So, speaking of nakedness...have you ever noticed that nudity is so much about perception?  You see a sculpture of David and think...

I'M CULTURED.

You see this picture of a naked guy and you think:

I'M NOT SURE.

(But this is a Mapplethorpe portrait, and I actually really like most of his stuff.)

Then you see this picture of a naked guy and you think:

I'M CALLING THE POLICE.

When does nudity cross over that line from art to trash?  I was thinking about this today when I perused my new issue of Vanity Fair with Lady Gaga.  There is a photo of her buck-ass naked in Tony Bennett's art studio, with Tony looking on, thinking, "That girl is bendy."  For some reason, I look at this photo and think, "Huh.  She's an odd little thing." and I want to buy her a $2 Subway Meatball Sub.  Or two.

WHAT A KOOKY ARTIST!

Then I see the new "leaked" photo of Lindsay Lohan and I have a totally different reaction:

WHAT A SLUTTY METH ADDICT!

Again, two naked celebrities, two different reactions.  This topic came up at a hooker convention I recently attended.  There was a rug hooked by a grandma displayed:

Yep.  That's her grandson and his bits.  It's an interesting choice, to be sure, and if my mother-in-law gave me this rug I would be like, "Um, you don't need to watch Leo while we're in Bermuda, we're taking him."  Everyone is going to feel awkward when she asks him to do a revision rug when he's 18.

I was having dinner with some hookers that night and asked if there is much nudity in rug hooking.  They all looked at each other, and one said, "Are we all thinking about the self-portrait class?"  Apparently there was a class last year where the instructor asked the class to disrobe and sketch their bodies on linen, and then hook themselves naked into a rug.  Even back when I was rockin' this body 20 years ago I wouldn't want my birthday suit immortalized in wool.  If I did do that rug today?  I would totally get rid of this double chin, shave a few inches off the thighs, delete the shadowy area under my muffin top, and my hair would be bountiful and not have these wiry old lady hairs sticking out.  And even with the body revisions in the rug?  Still wouldn't hook it.

When does art become trash?  I guess it's in the eye of the beholder.  But NO ONE is wiping their muddy feet across my ass, that is fo sho.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Hello Teen Daughter, Have We Met?

Honestly, I thought I was going to be an awesomely cool Mom of a Teen.

Really, I did.

Stop laughing.

We read and watch Twilight together, and share a crush on Edward.  We both love chocolate milkshakes and hanging out at Starbucks and crab rangoon.  We like SNL and Project Runway and the same music.  We're both sarcastic and curmudgeonly.  But lately, something has come between us:

You bitch.

I don't know exactly WHOSE estrogen is getting in the way.  On Saturday, I had her in tears in the morning, she had me in tears in the afternoon.  I can't tell you who was being unreasonable.  All I can say is that there was so much estrogen in the van that it smelled like cherry chip cupcakes and the Queen Mother and Summer's Eve in there.

This is just a sampling of the accusations flying around on Saturday:

1. I commented on one of her facebook posts and she deleted me.
2. She was 10 minutes late getting in the van when I picked her up at a friend's house.
3. She wouldn't help pick out a sweatshirt/Christmas present for her brother.
4. I mentioned facebook to her boyfriend's mother.
5. She says everyone in our family says she is angry and mean.
6. I pointed out that she is slightly angry/sometimes mean to everyone in the family.
7. She may have said we are the only parents who complain to their teens about scheduling their social lives better vis a vis rides to and from.
8. I might have mentioned that it is unfortunate she ended up with such assholes for parents.

And things really just deteriorated from there.  But on the screaming upside-down roller coaster that is parenting a teenage girl while going through peri-menopausal symptoms yourself, there are exhilirating ups, and there are terrifying downs.  We are back to being friends at the moment, but I can almost hear the chain pulling our car up the steep metal hill - chink chink chink chink chink chink chink - before we hit the top and go plunging downward again.  Perhaps over math homework or texting.  Or the lack of protein in her diet.  Or the windchill.  It could be anything, really.  But I'll take the moment of detente and relish it.

On a side note, she is having terrible cramps and such while enjoying the curse of Eve, and when she went to cello lessons tonight, her male cello instructor said, "You look like you aren't feeling well", and meaning to say something along the lines of It's the Season When People Start to Get Sick, she mistakenly said, "Well it's that time of the month!"

 

Awesome.  I bet he didn't criticize her playing AT ALL tonight.  Be safe, cello instructor.  These are trying times.