Everyone has that one crazy friend. The one that can never find her car in the Hannaford parking lot. The one who always wears her yoga pants and then wears them to bed and then the next day and the next night until they do the downward dog to the laundry basket. Today this is me.
I have always likened myself to the chicken in the coop that has all but 3 of her feathers pecked out and tries to escape every time the gate opens. The one that all the other chickens look at and cluck. She looks kind of different and no one wants the eggs that she lays. And all the little chicks peck at her tired chicken feet and boss her into giving them her last morsels of chicken feed. This was me at the PTSA meeting tonight. Truthfully, I only go to these meetings to get out of the house. I don't have anything value to add except perhaps my vote for the allocation of the funds for sweatshirts or rockclimbing wall days - I wasn't really paying attention. What I was doing was looking at all these other women - these lovely feathered chickens with nice eggs and complete thoughts and matching shoes. They cared about stuff like movie nights and healthful living and soccer. Why am I not that chicken?
Which leads me straight into losing my car for the second time today and then sitting in found car and crying for an hour. Crying for everything and nothing and who I am and who I thought I should be. Why am I so disappointed? Disappointed with myself for being disappointed? For having stretch marks? And white hairs? And inappropiate thoughts? For having a messy house and fresh kids? For being a horrible sister? And a worse wife? For all of those things and oodles more. The absolute truth of the matter is that I am all of these things today. But I don't have to be tomorrow. Tomorrow I will not text and drive (horror of horrors) and I will wear pants with a working zipper and drink fewer cups of coffee. Or I might not. I might have a repeat day. Who knows? But isn't that the beauty of each new day? Perspective after a sleep and a shower (god willing)? Why am I the shit chicken? Probably shouldn't say shit. Shit.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
this woman's liberation
With the husband gone away on business (again), I am left with the usual household chores and responsibilities and all the other crappy ones that he does. Now, before anyone gets his/her knickers in a bunch, let me preface this by saying that, yes, I do believe in equality amongst the sexes and in relationships. I think that there should be a division of duties with the home, the finances and the children that works best for each individual family. Anything men can do, women can do and vice versa. Bla bla bla. That being said, there are things that are designated the "hubby" chores - not because I can't do these things, but simply because I don't want to do these things. I carried three children in my body and pushed them out of my body and it hurt - a whole lot. Because of this fact alone, I insist that I be excused from certain things that I detest. However, when one is away from the home for an extended period of time, the other must pick up the slack in these certain areas of ickiness or else the neighbors might complain. I have composed a list (remember how much I love those suckers?) of things that should be left to the menfolk.
1) unclogging the toilet. I hate this daily, yes daily, stink job. How is it possible that a 57 pound child could possibly poo bricks each and every day? I don't know but I think he is a medical marvel.
2) folding laundry. I don't mind washing, drying, schlepping the baskets, but I really don't like the folding. Especially the matching of the socks. Torture.
3) bedtime. This is way more effective when there is a tag team - good cop bad cop style. I get weary trying to be both and I think it confuses the kids when I pretend to be both. Just go the *bleep* to bed!
d) middle of the night peeing of the dogs. Obviously.
5) trash. It smells and more often than not, the racoons feast during the dark hours and leave messes that need to be addressed in the light hours.
6) checking to make sure that all of the windows, doors, bulkheads are locked and secure before sleeptime. I can never remember and so I panic and OCD takes over.
7) making the coffee. I don't know why, I just prefer that someone else does this.
So, needless to say, here I am with the plunger and threatening the kids and scooping shovels of filthy rubbish and suffering from the inability to work the wII remotes and praying that I unlocked the front door before peeing the dogs in my pjs at 2A. If you happen to bump into me this week, or if I literally bump into you with my grocery cart or van, please be kind and forgive me. I have lost my marbles.
1) unclogging the toilet. I hate this daily, yes daily, stink job. How is it possible that a 57 pound child could possibly poo bricks each and every day? I don't know but I think he is a medical marvel.
2) folding laundry. I don't mind washing, drying, schlepping the baskets, but I really don't like the folding. Especially the matching of the socks. Torture.
3) bedtime. This is way more effective when there is a tag team - good cop bad cop style. I get weary trying to be both and I think it confuses the kids when I pretend to be both. Just go the *bleep* to bed!
d) middle of the night peeing of the dogs. Obviously.
5) trash. It smells and more often than not, the racoons feast during the dark hours and leave messes that need to be addressed in the light hours.
6) checking to make sure that all of the windows, doors, bulkheads are locked and secure before sleeptime. I can never remember and so I panic and OCD takes over.
7) making the coffee. I don't know why, I just prefer that someone else does this.
So, needless to say, here I am with the plunger and threatening the kids and scooping shovels of filthy rubbish and suffering from the inability to work the wII remotes and praying that I unlocked the front door before peeing the dogs in my pjs at 2A. If you happen to bump into me this week, or if I literally bump into you with my grocery cart or van, please be kind and forgive me. I have lost my marbles.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
not amused with the amusement
Funtown Splashtown USA is totally outside walmart - otherwise know as the foul underbelly of present southern Maine society. But the kids love it, so each summer we go, knowing full well that the soundtrack from 1992 will blare over the loud speakers and the bracelet on our right wrist will be a skosh too tight and we will all depart crying and sweaty and swearing (ok, maybe just me). Begrudgingly, I offered my money and my arm to be banded and took a map of my personal hell and a coupon for 50 cents off an arcade game I would never play. First stop - waterpark. After a thorough slathering of sunscreen on my palest blondies we marked our territory with beach towels and backpacks, kicked off our flip flops and climbed the watery stairs (OSHA hazard?) to the tallest slide atop the pirate structure only to be met with a tie-dyed t-shirted boy who was strategically perched over us with buckets of frigid water. Before I could move an inch, I was drenched by 2 buckets of polar ice cap runoff. Strike 1 boy. If only I could find his mother... And just then, I think I did.
I tried to calm and warm my freezing girls when I noticed a skinny, tattooed, nipple pierced man with 2 lady-ish companions light up cigarettes next to my lounge chair - right under the NO SMOKING sign. Directly under the sign. They could have reached up and touched the sign. I gave them the head shake. Nothing. Cleared my throat loudly and pointed above their heads. Nothing. "Um, excuse me, no smoking area." Nothing. Little more aggressive, after all, I paid as much to be here as these yahoos. "Hey, you - NO SMOKING area. Right here. No smoking." They laugh. With a firm and shaking finger now, "NO SMOKING!!" So I get up and grab the closest team member and tattled. Why is there even smoking at a childrens theme park? If people must smoke, they should have the most uncomfortable spot in the place - not in the shade near me. The smoking area should be located at the end of a long trek through the park and only reached upon completeing a miriade of torturous tasks: 1) Pirate Ship, 2) ingest 7 hot dogs, 3) Tilt-A-Whirl, 4) walk over hot coals, 5) arctic water bath,
6) climb the side emergency ladder on Dragon's Descent, 7) climb back down, and then, 8) go home to smoke. Sidenote - if you are ever feeling in the downy dumps about your life as a swimsuit non-model, look around. You are guaranteed to get a bit of a morale booster.
So next, we decided it might be fun to schlep 3 kids and 3 tubes up to the steepest point in the park. There is a blue carpet runner that funnels people up the ascension to the clouds that is supposed to prevent slipping, but I swear that I could hear bacteria breeding under my feet. (Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus... Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus...) As soon as the carpet ends, we are on scolding hot cement and let me tell you, there is not one drop of shade on this cemented beast of a fake mountain. But there is gum - lots of gum. I shouldn't have to say it, but as I am thinking it, I see Thing 2 reach for a pink piece stuck to the great wall. "Seriously? What is wrong with you child??" A shrug was the only answer. Now we are hot and the tubes are heavy because we have been in line for a good solid 47 minutes and as we are nearing the summit, I have a toddler clinging to my neck, a 6 year old in tears because she has changed her mind and 2 tubes in my hands. It was at my weakest moment that I noticed a sign - "No hats, --asses, or goggles on waterslide" Hehe.
Me: Hey, boy, look at the sign!
Thing 1: What sign? (he is 9 and always asks first before he looks)
Me: Right there. Read that sign, but not outloud.
Thing 1: Oh my gosh! I can't believe someone actually ripped off the "G" and the "L"! That should be glasses! Hey mom, you are wearing glasses.
Me: (blank stare) Yah, but it read it! It says (whisper) a bad word! It is funny. You get it? We all have those! Those are prohibitted! See why it is funny?
Thing 1: eye roll.
I really wanted to take a picture of the funny sign so I could send it to the Signspotting website I love, but we didn't have the camera (apparently those aren't allowed on the waterslide either) so I proposed to husband that when we are done with the slide, that he take a jog over to the backpack, retrieve the camera, climb the ramp, snap a shot, come back down and then I could have my funny picture. "No. I am not going to do that. I don't think you should either. That is stupid." I thought it was a brilliant plan. Bugger.
A quick change later and the kids are now starving, but not for cucumber slices from our garden or PB&Js or goldfish crackers or water. Not even close. They want crap. I glance around to see 96% of the amusement park population in a high fructose coma. Deep fried crap smothered in ketchup. Drinks named after colors instead of flavors. Ew. Sorry shorties, I just can't do it. So now, crying. "Bah! You never let us have anything good!" "Nectarines are yummy." Fortunately, I was able to distract them with a ride on the Wild Mouse - the worst for one who is a) afraid of heights and b) sharp drops and, 3) mice. On the inside, I yell, "I hate it here! Agh!!! Kill me now!!" And then I see death, or zombie-like strangers filing out of the Astrosphere ride, blinded by sunlight and choking on fresh air. They look worse than I feel. And so now I am done.
I head to the car with the girls while the boys go on one last ride. The air conditioner feels great and we wait patiently for the rest of our family so we can finally go home when the little one screams of a belly ache. I spring to the rescue with the portable potty because "my belly hurts!" usually is code for "I need to pee". Not pee. Diarrhea. In the potty. In the car. I contemplate leaving it under the car beside mine, but settle on just adjacent to my own vehicle. When husband returns from the final adventure, I fill him in on the poo problem and tell him about the plan to leave it all behind. Vetoed again. We gather the kids, buckle around the complaints of the smell, roll down the windows and drive to the nearest McD's to dispose of the parcel. Good thing the guy searching for returnables has already hit this can because, wow, that would not be a good surprise.
I am glad that we only have to go once a year, kind of like the fair, because I really hate it. Why do we subject ourselves to misery for our kids? Think I need 2 anti-crazy pills after a day like this...
I tried to calm and warm my freezing girls when I noticed a skinny, tattooed, nipple pierced man with 2 lady-ish companions light up cigarettes next to my lounge chair - right under the NO SMOKING sign. Directly under the sign. They could have reached up and touched the sign. I gave them the head shake. Nothing. Cleared my throat loudly and pointed above their heads. Nothing. "Um, excuse me, no smoking area." Nothing. Little more aggressive, after all, I paid as much to be here as these yahoos. "Hey, you - NO SMOKING area. Right here. No smoking." They laugh. With a firm and shaking finger now, "NO SMOKING!!" So I get up and grab the closest team member and tattled. Why is there even smoking at a childrens theme park? If people must smoke, they should have the most uncomfortable spot in the place - not in the shade near me. The smoking area should be located at the end of a long trek through the park and only reached upon completeing a miriade of torturous tasks: 1) Pirate Ship, 2) ingest 7 hot dogs, 3) Tilt-A-Whirl, 4) walk over hot coals, 5) arctic water bath,
6) climb the side emergency ladder on Dragon's Descent, 7) climb back down, and then, 8) go home to smoke. Sidenote - if you are ever feeling in the downy dumps about your life as a swimsuit non-model, look around. You are guaranteed to get a bit of a morale booster.
So next, we decided it might be fun to schlep 3 kids and 3 tubes up to the steepest point in the park. There is a blue carpet runner that funnels people up the ascension to the clouds that is supposed to prevent slipping, but I swear that I could hear bacteria breeding under my feet. (Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus... Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus...) As soon as the carpet ends, we are on scolding hot cement and let me tell you, there is not one drop of shade on this cemented beast of a fake mountain. But there is gum - lots of gum. I shouldn't have to say it, but as I am thinking it, I see Thing 2 reach for a pink piece stuck to the great wall. "Seriously? What is wrong with you child??" A shrug was the only answer. Now we are hot and the tubes are heavy because we have been in line for a good solid 47 minutes and as we are nearing the summit, I have a toddler clinging to my neck, a 6 year old in tears because she has changed her mind and 2 tubes in my hands. It was at my weakest moment that I noticed a sign - "No hats, --asses, or goggles on waterslide" Hehe.
Me: Hey, boy, look at the sign!
Thing 1: What sign? (he is 9 and always asks first before he looks)
Me: Right there. Read that sign, but not outloud.
Thing 1: Oh my gosh! I can't believe someone actually ripped off the "G" and the "L"! That should be glasses! Hey mom, you are wearing glasses.
Me: (blank stare) Yah, but it read it! It says (whisper) a bad word! It is funny. You get it? We all have those! Those are prohibitted! See why it is funny?
Thing 1: eye roll.
I really wanted to take a picture of the funny sign so I could send it to the Signspotting website I love, but we didn't have the camera (apparently those aren't allowed on the waterslide either) so I proposed to husband that when we are done with the slide, that he take a jog over to the backpack, retrieve the camera, climb the ramp, snap a shot, come back down and then I could have my funny picture. "No. I am not going to do that. I don't think you should either. That is stupid." I thought it was a brilliant plan. Bugger.
A quick change later and the kids are now starving, but not for cucumber slices from our garden or PB&Js or goldfish crackers or water. Not even close. They want crap. I glance around to see 96% of the amusement park population in a high fructose coma. Deep fried crap smothered in ketchup. Drinks named after colors instead of flavors. Ew. Sorry shorties, I just can't do it. So now, crying. "Bah! You never let us have anything good!" "Nectarines are yummy." Fortunately, I was able to distract them with a ride on the Wild Mouse - the worst for one who is a) afraid of heights and b) sharp drops and, 3) mice. On the inside, I yell, "I hate it here! Agh!!! Kill me now!!" And then I see death, or zombie-like strangers filing out of the Astrosphere ride, blinded by sunlight and choking on fresh air. They look worse than I feel. And so now I am done.
I head to the car with the girls while the boys go on one last ride. The air conditioner feels great and we wait patiently for the rest of our family so we can finally go home when the little one screams of a belly ache. I spring to the rescue with the portable potty because "my belly hurts!" usually is code for "I need to pee". Not pee. Diarrhea. In the potty. In the car. I contemplate leaving it under the car beside mine, but settle on just adjacent to my own vehicle. When husband returns from the final adventure, I fill him in on the poo problem and tell him about the plan to leave it all behind. Vetoed again. We gather the kids, buckle around the complaints of the smell, roll down the windows and drive to the nearest McD's to dispose of the parcel. Good thing the guy searching for returnables has already hit this can because, wow, that would not be a good surprise.
I am glad that we only have to go once a year, kind of like the fair, because I really hate it. Why do we subject ourselves to misery for our kids? Think I need 2 anti-crazy pills after a day like this...
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The FDA has just approved a new form of birth control called "waytoomanyinabed". A longitudinal and horizontal study reports that this Rx, taken properly over the course of several years, will absolutely and effectively prevent prenancy. Research dating from ancient heiroglyphics, early Chinese cave paintings and recent texts confirm this data. The recommended dose varies by individual, but a benchmark of 3 children, 1 old dog, 1 smallish biting puppy and 1 screeching guinea pig is a suitable start.
Side Effects: sleeplessness, drowsiness, abnormal hair growth, alopecia, pregnancy, irritability, restlessness, lethargy, confusion, headache, backache, toothache, belly ache, indigestion, nausea, anger, hostilty, hallucinations, drug abuse, midnight snacking, late night infomercial watching, impulse buying, blogging, FB stalking, paranoia, bad hair, mismatched shoes, strained eyes, strained peas, messy pedicures, sloppy speech, incomplete thoughts and sentences, loose synapses, yelling, crying, giggles, the crazy eyes and swearing.
Warning: Do not operate heavy farm equipment or firearms while under the influence of waytoomanyinabed.
Best if taken before midnight with a whoopie pie or a pint of ice cream.
Side Effects: sleeplessness, drowsiness, abnormal hair growth, alopecia, pregnancy, irritability, restlessness, lethargy, confusion, headache, backache, toothache, belly ache, indigestion, nausea, anger, hostilty, hallucinations, drug abuse, midnight snacking, late night infomercial watching, impulse buying, blogging, FB stalking, paranoia, bad hair, mismatched shoes, strained eyes, strained peas, messy pedicures, sloppy speech, incomplete thoughts and sentences, loose synapses, yelling, crying, giggles, the crazy eyes and swearing.
Warning: Do not operate heavy farm equipment or firearms while under the influence of waytoomanyinabed.
Best if taken before midnight with a whoopie pie or a pint of ice cream.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
3 AM eternal
Seems like I am not the only one who is awake in the house at 3A today.
This is Lola. My creative juices are flowing and so is her bladder. Let me rewind 40 hours...
On the stiletto heels of a successful freelance writing interview, I decided to find a dwarf lionhead bunny (gray or tan) for my daughter's birthday. I have been looking for quite some time, but until this very morning as I was eagerly awaiting my the job opportunity that would change my life, I searched for the fluffy critter in the pages of Uncle Henry's (a publication I haven't seen the likes of since college). Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies $10. Perfect - cheaper than the petstore. Oh, lucky day! After *starring* the ads for future follow-through. I kept flipping. Goats. Guard llama (interesting). Chickens (more interesting *****). Yorkie pups. Hold the phone! I do like Yorkie pups - heck, I have a really old one already. Maybe I will just call, you know, research. After 3 minutes on the phone, I am sold. But will my husband be so easily swayed??
We (me) tentatively agree to meet to take a peek at the 4 lovely girls the next day. I don't really have much else on the calendar and I certainly don't have the moola to ponder a puppy. Besides, it is only an hour away and we are just looking. I tell the 4 children repeatedly - "we are only looking. You people hear me? We are NOT buying a puppy today. FYI, they are not even available until mid-August. We are NOT bringing home a puppy. Period. Seriously."
Our 1 hour drive to Augusta slowly turned into a 2 1/2 hour drive to Bangor ("banga? I hardly know 'er!" Sorry. I can't help myself. No disrespect to Bangor...). Shoot. I only packed enough snacks for a medium sized outing. Solution munchkins - nay, timbits (I was scolded by the drive-thru girl). We inhale the box, take a pee break and head back out on the road. We finally reach our destination - a truck stop on the outskirts of town. Not my first choice for a first date, but ok. As far as truck stops go, this one was classy. The children unbuckle and stick their loud blonde heads out the window and try to guess which is the puppy chariot. We settle on the giant RV towing a PT Cruiser (or PT Loser like Auntie Patty says). Upon the approval of the driver, the side door swings open and a skittish dog bolts out into the middle of the bus rest area until she is smack dab in the middle of underneath the Winnebago. "Grab her!", yells the man with the bum leg (a term of endearment really, as I don't recall his actual name). Easier said than done buddy. She is the mother. She is no dummy. Stay on the bus with all those sharp puppy teeth or take her chances with the truckers. I don't blame her for a second. It would have been a no brainer for me, too. Reluctently and after some gently poking from M.W.B.L.'s cane, I am able to crawl under some patrons vehicle and drag the poor old broad out by the leg.
The children knock each other down on their way up the stairs of the giant RV and scoop the wee babies into their arms. Trouble. But do not worry as I have put on my "not gonna happen" glasses. Besides, they are not ready and I don't have money in my wallet or definitive permission. Immediately, all of these thoughts disappear and are replaced by, "I wonder if they will accept Lewis (the 12 year old spinning Yorkie with separation anxiety) as a trade? Or maybe a child? Or maybe the van??" I was saved though. They only accept cash. I don't have any. "You could go to the bank," says the M.W.B.L.'s big momma. She is already ratttling off the address to the nearest TD Banknorth before I can object. That sounds reasonable. And we can take one of the puppies with us home today. Imagine my good fortune! I pry all but one of the wriggling pups from my childrens' arms and set off with the man's wife (Tammy, I think?) to get cash. Apparently, I am not as trustworthy as I thought.
Getting to the branch was easy peesey Gary Sinese. I marched in and demanded a withdrawal. Shady. "It's for a puppy!", I barked, "she is in the car with my children and my old dog and the lady and she only takes cash. She is so sweet and it is almost my little girl's birthday and I don't know how long the other dog is going to live because he had almost all of his teeth pulled last year but they left 2 teeth and I don't know why but I am certainly not going to bring him back for another cleaning ever. It's for a puppy." Hello Slim Shady. Take money. Exit. Back to truck stop, but only after getting lost for 40 minutes with new friend. I joked, "hehe. If we can't find our way back, you can just come home with me. Hehehe." She gripped the door handle tighter. Does everyone think I am nuts? I bet it was the kids. They are totally scary.
So, here I am at 4:59A. With the puppy I was NOT going to get. My friend asked if I got her so I would have something to blog about. No way. Maybe. Lola is peed and pooped and asleep again. I really must me insane. But insane with a super cute puppy!
On the stiletto heels of a successful freelance writing interview, I decided to find a dwarf lionhead bunny (gray or tan) for my daughter's birthday. I have been looking for quite some time, but until this very morning as I was eagerly awaiting my the job opportunity that would change my life, I searched for the fluffy critter in the pages of Uncle Henry's (a publication I haven't seen the likes of since college). Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies $10. Perfect - cheaper than the petstore. Oh, lucky day! After *starring* the ads for future follow-through. I kept flipping. Goats. Guard llama (interesting). Chickens (more interesting *****). Yorkie pups. Hold the phone! I do like Yorkie pups - heck, I have a really old one already. Maybe I will just call, you know, research. After 3 minutes on the phone, I am sold. But will my husband be so easily swayed??
We (me) tentatively agree to meet to take a peek at the 4 lovely girls the next day. I don't really have much else on the calendar and I certainly don't have the moola to ponder a puppy. Besides, it is only an hour away and we are just looking. I tell the 4 children repeatedly - "we are only looking. You people hear me? We are NOT buying a puppy today. FYI, they are not even available until mid-August. We are NOT bringing home a puppy. Period. Seriously."
Our 1 hour drive to Augusta slowly turned into a 2 1/2 hour drive to Bangor ("banga? I hardly know 'er!" Sorry. I can't help myself. No disrespect to Bangor...). Shoot. I only packed enough snacks for a medium sized outing. Solution munchkins - nay, timbits (I was scolded by the drive-thru girl). We inhale the box, take a pee break and head back out on the road. We finally reach our destination - a truck stop on the outskirts of town. Not my first choice for a first date, but ok. As far as truck stops go, this one was classy. The children unbuckle and stick their loud blonde heads out the window and try to guess which is the puppy chariot. We settle on the giant RV towing a PT Cruiser (or PT Loser like Auntie Patty says). Upon the approval of the driver, the side door swings open and a skittish dog bolts out into the middle of the bus rest area until she is smack dab in the middle of underneath the Winnebago. "Grab her!", yells the man with the bum leg (a term of endearment really, as I don't recall his actual name). Easier said than done buddy. She is the mother. She is no dummy. Stay on the bus with all those sharp puppy teeth or take her chances with the truckers. I don't blame her for a second. It would have been a no brainer for me, too. Reluctently and after some gently poking from M.W.B.L.'s cane, I am able to crawl under some patrons vehicle and drag the poor old broad out by the leg.
The children knock each other down on their way up the stairs of the giant RV and scoop the wee babies into their arms. Trouble. But do not worry as I have put on my "not gonna happen" glasses. Besides, they are not ready and I don't have money in my wallet or definitive permission. Immediately, all of these thoughts disappear and are replaced by, "I wonder if they will accept Lewis (the 12 year old spinning Yorkie with separation anxiety) as a trade? Or maybe a child? Or maybe the van??" I was saved though. They only accept cash. I don't have any. "You could go to the bank," says the M.W.B.L.'s big momma. She is already ratttling off the address to the nearest TD Banknorth before I can object. That sounds reasonable. And we can take one of the puppies with us home today. Imagine my good fortune! I pry all but one of the wriggling pups from my childrens' arms and set off with the man's wife (Tammy, I think?) to get cash. Apparently, I am not as trustworthy as I thought.
Getting to the branch was easy peesey Gary Sinese. I marched in and demanded a withdrawal. Shady. "It's for a puppy!", I barked, "she is in the car with my children and my old dog and the lady and she only takes cash. She is so sweet and it is almost my little girl's birthday and I don't know how long the other dog is going to live because he had almost all of his teeth pulled last year but they left 2 teeth and I don't know why but I am certainly not going to bring him back for another cleaning ever. It's for a puppy." Hello Slim Shady. Take money. Exit. Back to truck stop, but only after getting lost for 40 minutes with new friend. I joked, "hehe. If we can't find our way back, you can just come home with me. Hehehe." She gripped the door handle tighter. Does everyone think I am nuts? I bet it was the kids. They are totally scary.
So, here I am at 4:59A. With the puppy I was NOT going to get. My friend asked if I got her so I would have something to blog about. No way. Maybe. Lola is peed and pooped and asleep again. I really must me insane. But insane with a super cute puppy!
Friday, July 29, 2011
la vida es asi
Zumba - one part aerobics, one part dancing with the stars, one part rosetta stone, and one part stripper shaking equals one sticky, sweaty, beet red mum. If you know me at all, you know that I am not actually physically fit. I run for clothing sales - not for sport. I conceded to go last night because, well, any excuse to get out of the house around bedtime is a great one and also because I really needed blog inspiration. Inspired I was. By the first note of the first Spanish dance party rave song, I was oozing inspiration (and some perspiration).
I quickly picked my place at the rear of the gym so I could sneak Zumba out the door if I needed. The instructor, an obvious "WOO!" girl, cranked her iPhone to stun and set off on a mission to kick my untoned bottom. She moved in a girating, brandish style that left me a few steps behind and left my behind a few steps further behind me. I have heard that one's keister can become estranged from the rest of one's body and assume it's own, totally separate entity and folks, tonight, the urban myth that I balked at as a naive teenager, morphed into my rural truth. My backside was finishing the macarena while my arms were swinging to the salsa. I make it a steadfast rule to avoid any and all activities that may inadvertently showcase my jiggly bits. How do the French dance? Those people might be more my speed.
Ten minutes into the hour, the garlic green beans that I inhaled on the way to the car reappeared in objection. I choked them back down (not as tasty on the second go) and shuffled my tree trunks around near the foul shot line. Surely, we must be nearing the cool-down song, right? Wrong. A solid 40 more minutes of grapevineing and crazy arms and lady cha-cha chicky bon-bon hadn't even broken a sweat. Heck, she was singing along with Ricky Martin. I tried to ignore my imaginary audience's snickers, but those guys are so loud I tell you! As I was commanding them to take an imaginary hike, I noticed that we had real life onlookers. Were those cameras? I shuddered at the thoughts racing through my sorta warped brain and skulked to the farthest corner of the room praying for a bolt of lightening to strike Newbegin Hall that would result in my certain death. (Headline: Local Mum Struck Down in Freak Electric Storm! Witnesses claim she was so painfully uncoordinated, that they began a ritual rain dance to end the misery. "We didn't know the dance would really work...", said one anonymous participant.)
Thankfully, the gathering spectators were not equipped with recording devices, but musical instruments instead. I contemplated offering to stick around and inspire them with the interpretive dance moves I had just learned, but thought they might be offended. Apparently, not everyone is as amused by me as I seem to be. I might save my new moves for a family wedding this weekend or perhaps join the Zumba girl at Bubba's Sulky Lounge later. It's 80's night.
I quickly picked my place at the rear of the gym so I could sneak Zumba out the door if I needed. The instructor, an obvious "WOO!" girl, cranked her iPhone to stun and set off on a mission to kick my untoned bottom. She moved in a girating, brandish style that left me a few steps behind and left my behind a few steps further behind me. I have heard that one's keister can become estranged from the rest of one's body and assume it's own, totally separate entity and folks, tonight, the urban myth that I balked at as a naive teenager, morphed into my rural truth. My backside was finishing the macarena while my arms were swinging to the salsa. I make it a steadfast rule to avoid any and all activities that may inadvertently showcase my jiggly bits. How do the French dance? Those people might be more my speed.
Ten minutes into the hour, the garlic green beans that I inhaled on the way to the car reappeared in objection. I choked them back down (not as tasty on the second go) and shuffled my tree trunks around near the foul shot line. Surely, we must be nearing the cool-down song, right? Wrong. A solid 40 more minutes of grapevineing and crazy arms and lady cha-cha chicky bon-bon hadn't even broken a sweat. Heck, she was singing along with Ricky Martin. I tried to ignore my imaginary audience's snickers, but those guys are so loud I tell you! As I was commanding them to take an imaginary hike, I noticed that we had real life onlookers. Were those cameras? I shuddered at the thoughts racing through my sorta warped brain and skulked to the farthest corner of the room praying for a bolt of lightening to strike Newbegin Hall that would result in my certain death. (Headline: Local Mum Struck Down in Freak Electric Storm! Witnesses claim she was so painfully uncoordinated, that they began a ritual rain dance to end the misery. "We didn't know the dance would really work...", said one anonymous participant.)
Thankfully, the gathering spectators were not equipped with recording devices, but musical instruments instead. I contemplated offering to stick around and inspire them with the interpretive dance moves I had just learned, but thought they might be offended. Apparently, not everyone is as amused by me as I seem to be. I might save my new moves for a family wedding this weekend or perhaps join the Zumba girl at Bubba's Sulky Lounge later. It's 80's night.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
oh, no you di'int!
Yuppers. I must be a looney bird, but oh, yes, I did. This time though, it was by a professional. Close your eyes children and let Mum tell you a story... On second thought, you probably need them open to read this tale.
Once upon a time (yesterday), there was a fairy mum who spent the livelong day at the beach with a lot of children. She ate sandy-wiches and drank mouthfuls of salt water. She got to spend more time in the public loo stall with her 3 year old than she did relaxing in her chair. Her favorite sounds of the ocean were drowned out by the tattling and complaining of the smallish people that surrounded her. And a horsefly bit her on the leg. She thought, "you know what what make this day even more lovely? A bikini wax!"
(I think body hair, by nature, wants to remain attached to one's body. It is especially stubborn in the most unsightly places - the chin of a lady, armpits and, of course, down under. It grows wild and in different directions and when disturbed, it overreacts angrily with rashes and stubble. Meanwhile, the hairs atop my head fall out freely and clog the shower drain daily.)
Anywho, back to the story...
Fairy Lady Rainbow Mum, gathered her overtired, sweaty, salty and sandy yowlings, strapped them into the belly of the royal minivan carriage and headed to a town far, far away. As best as she could while driving, she tidied her hair and straightened her dress and brushed as much of the ocean as she could from her tired old self. She met, at the salon, a woman who promised to be make this a most pleasant experience and as they ascended the 98 degree stairwell to the attic spa, she knew it would be anything but. But she was a wise Mum and she came equipped with goldfish crackers and water. The three wee ones should be capable of behaving for a mere 20 minutes, right? She waved a magic wand over their blonde heads and asked them quietly and calmly to, "sit nice, share, look at a magazine if you like" and then proceeded to enter the designated beautification room. The room, as you can well imagine, is air conditioned, thickly scented by aromatherapy, soothing colors, the softest blankets, and the sounds of the rainforest tie the entire motif together. I sit on the table - nervous about the pain, but more so about the children in the adjoining room. My charming aesthetician tries to ease my fear with words of encouragement and understanding, as I lay on the table in the most precarious, vulnerable position ever...
Marsha: 1, 2, ...
Me: You three better be good out there - OUCHIE!
Marsha: you live close by honey? Ready?
Me: I am serious you little hooligans! If I have to get up - HOOCHIE MAMA!
Marsha: How was the ocean water?
Me: (glass nailpolish bottles crashing down noise) What is going - HANNA MONTANA!!!!
By the time the 23 minutes in the room of horrors was over, my sweeties had rearranged all of the Opi nail colors by size and favorite. Thing 1 figured out how to turn on and operate the pedi-spa soak machine. The crackers were gone. The plant was wet - presumably with the water they were supposed to drink and I had 3 slightly traumatized sorts to escort home because they all took turns peeking in at their yelling fairy rainbow sparkle mama. Also, she missed a few spots and so now I have to do tweezer duty. Good news though - I can now threaten them with a visit to the waxing museum should they dare misbehave and I am pretty confident that I have entirely horrified the girls from ever attempting hair removal (good to keep the teenaged boys away) and my boy will be forever scarred and afraid of womenkind (he thinks I am quite tough though with my pain threshold and all) so he can live with me forever and rub my old lady feet...
Once upon a time (yesterday), there was a fairy mum who spent the livelong day at the beach with a lot of children. She ate sandy-wiches and drank mouthfuls of salt water. She got to spend more time in the public loo stall with her 3 year old than she did relaxing in her chair. Her favorite sounds of the ocean were drowned out by the tattling and complaining of the smallish people that surrounded her. And a horsefly bit her on the leg. She thought, "you know what what make this day even more lovely? A bikini wax!"
(I think body hair, by nature, wants to remain attached to one's body. It is especially stubborn in the most unsightly places - the chin of a lady, armpits and, of course, down under. It grows wild and in different directions and when disturbed, it overreacts angrily with rashes and stubble. Meanwhile, the hairs atop my head fall out freely and clog the shower drain daily.)
Anywho, back to the story...
Fairy Lady Rainbow Mum, gathered her overtired, sweaty, salty and sandy yowlings, strapped them into the belly of the royal minivan carriage and headed to a town far, far away. As best as she could while driving, she tidied her hair and straightened her dress and brushed as much of the ocean as she could from her tired old self. She met, at the salon, a woman who promised to be make this a most pleasant experience and as they ascended the 98 degree stairwell to the attic spa, she knew it would be anything but. But she was a wise Mum and she came equipped with goldfish crackers and water. The three wee ones should be capable of behaving for a mere 20 minutes, right? She waved a magic wand over their blonde heads and asked them quietly and calmly to, "sit nice, share, look at a magazine if you like" and then proceeded to enter the designated beautification room. The room, as you can well imagine, is air conditioned, thickly scented by aromatherapy, soothing colors, the softest blankets, and the sounds of the rainforest tie the entire motif together. I sit on the table - nervous about the pain, but more so about the children in the adjoining room. My charming aesthetician tries to ease my fear with words of encouragement and understanding, as I lay on the table in the most precarious, vulnerable position ever...
Marsha: 1, 2, ...
Me: You three better be good out there - OUCHIE!
Marsha: you live close by honey? Ready?
Me: I am serious you little hooligans! If I have to get up - HOOCHIE MAMA!
Marsha: How was the ocean water?
Me: (glass nailpolish bottles crashing down noise) What is going - HANNA MONTANA!!!!
By the time the 23 minutes in the room of horrors was over, my sweeties had rearranged all of the Opi nail colors by size and favorite. Thing 1 figured out how to turn on and operate the pedi-spa soak machine. The crackers were gone. The plant was wet - presumably with the water they were supposed to drink and I had 3 slightly traumatized sorts to escort home because they all took turns peeking in at their yelling fairy rainbow sparkle mama. Also, she missed a few spots and so now I have to do tweezer duty. Good news though - I can now threaten them with a visit to the waxing museum should they dare misbehave and I am pretty confident that I have entirely horrified the girls from ever attempting hair removal (good to keep the teenaged boys away) and my boy will be forever scarred and afraid of womenkind (he thinks I am quite tough though with my pain threshold and all) so he can live with me forever and rub my old lady feet...
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