Most Fascinating Person of 2012

If Barbara Walters can name Honey BooBoo as one of the most fascinating people of 2012, then I also have the right to name one of the most fascinating people of 2012.

And I would name him.  I would. If I knew his name.

I only know what they call him, but let me tell you about him first.

This man is 80 years old. He doesn't look a single day over 79.  He was a smoker, but quit 35 years ago.  He didn't want to quit smoking, but his wife made him quit the same day she decided to quit. I have a soft spot for obedient husbands. He and his wife raised their children, and long ago those children all moved away from home.  His wife passed away, and now he spends some of his quality time watching football with my father.

On the day I met him, I was with my father and husband. We were in a local watering hole watching "The" football game of the year.  My dad introduced me to him.

He seemed like an absolutely normal, average, run-of-the-mill, non-fascinating person until I learned the following:

He had a large painful callus on his foot. It bothered him so much that he decided he needed to do something about it.

Proving he is a fascinating person, the man decided to get his electric sander and sand the callus off his foot.  Electric sander!

He summed it up by saying, "You know the callus went away, but you see the skin got really hot."

And by "really hot" he means he burned the bejeezes out of his foot.  The burn then led to an infection which resulted in him needing surgery on his foot.

He was given his nickname prior to the infamous callus incident.
Ironically enough, this man is called Hoppy.

Beat that, Barbara Walters!

David Gregory Must Be Stopped!

If you've not yet heard, sit down because this is going to shoot...errrrr.... knock your socks off!

David Gregory is a gun-touting 30 round magazine carrying journalist who was trying to have a rational conversation with NRA's Wayne LaPierre on Sunday's Meet the Press.  As you can tell from this article, I don't think it turned out the way David Gregory anticipated.

Apparently in Washington DC there is a ban about possessing magazines even if they are not attached to an actual gun.  David Gregory's was not attached to a gun.

And you know what this means, right?

All those politicians in DC are way more valuable than those of us not in DC as evidenced by stricter gun control laws.    David Gregory needs to go to jail for breaking the law.

Duh!  Of course, that's what it means!  Just ask the 7,000 people who have already signed an official petition asking for charges against David Gregory.

Obviously, he posed a threat to Mr. NRA and possibly to our national security. However, certainly Mr. NRA would be opposed to charges because that's a violation of the journalist's freedom, right?  This country doesn't need more gun control, right? Guns don't kill people, right? That's what David Gregory does? On Meet the Press?

I am sooo darn confused!!!!!

I would think, as a nation, we would want to create environments that allow for the safe ownership and use of guns.  An environment were we are more concerned about the safety in our schools and public areas than we are about the safety on the set of Meet the Press.

As I ponder the absurdity of all of this, I'm thinking about whether or not I need to make and sell "Free Gregory" t-shirts.  In the spirit of American entrepreneurship, of course!

Fudge Bisque

Have you ever tried fudge bisque?

Me neither.

I never even heard of it until the day I accidentally made it.

My intentions were good.
Give friends a bag of yummy goodies when they stop by during the holiday season.

So simple, right?
Very Martha Stewart-y of me, right?

W.R.O.N.G.

I swear on my favorite cookbook, I followed the instructions for the easy peanut butter and chocolate fudge.

I put 4 gazillion pounds of sugar, butter, marshmallow cream, and peanut butter in a large pot on the stove over medium heat.

The recipe is quite clear that under no circumstances should I stop stirring the sugary concoction.  I stir and stir and stir.  After the liquid sugar comes to a rolling boil, I am to continue stirring an additional five minutes.

Turns out, it takes the mountain of sugar quite a looooooong time to get to a boil.
So as I stir, while wearing layers of winter clothing, I begin to sweat.  It is winter, after all, so I'm dressed for the weather.  The outside weather.  I didn't realize I would be required to stir until nearly the new year. In addition to sweating, I realize how little upper arm strength I actually possess.  I mean, really, who knew stirring could be such a physically demanding experience?

Finally succumbing to the fact that it is no longer winter in my kitchen, I remove my first layer of clothing.  I drop the fleece by my feet so I won't need to stop stirring for even a moment.  Again, the directions are nearly threatening about the consequences of not stirring constantly.

The second layer of clothing comes off shortly thereafter.  I'm sure my refrigerator is enjoying this slow strip tease cooking experience.

When my husband comes home, he finds me by the stove in a T-shirt stirring 72 million calories of hot melted, sugar while standing near a pile of sweaters and fleeces.

He asks why I am standing on a pile of laundry, but I am too busy sweating and stirring to form an adequate response.  Quite frankly, we've been married so long I really think it is more of a rhetorical question.

Finally, the recipe instructs me to turn off the heat and stir in a bag of chocolate chips.  Obediently I do so.

The chocolate chips melt and I pour this gooey, sweet smelling concoction into a pan lined with foil and then I let it set.  I let it set overnight.

Imagine my surprise when I attempt to cut it in the morning only to discover it remains in a somewhat liquid form.

I have sweet friends who love sweet things so they seem utterly thrilled to watch me spoon their fudge bisque into holiday goodie bags.  Sadly, they'll need to supply their own straws to enjoy it.

Undaunted, I spoon the fudge into bowls for my children.  They, of course, each have a sweet tooth the size of Santa's sleigh.  As they slurp up the fudge, I am quickly crowned "best mom ever."

Now excuse me while I go drink some fudge.

Ho Ho Ho!

Innocence Lost

The news that 26 people had been killed at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut on Dec. 14, 2012 was unbelievable on Friday.  It remained shocking on Saturday, and today it just gets sadder and sadder.

I write this as my own children are taking baths.  Tomorrow is a school day so their lunches are packed and laundry is clean.  I will see them off to school tomorrow with mixed emotions.  I will do my best to make it seem like a typical school day.  I know their teachers will also do their best to make it seem like a typical school day.

It's not a typical school day.

Innocence wasn't just lost in Sandy Hook on Friday. It was lost across this country.

On Friday I was a mother who believed my children were safe in school.
Today I am a mother who hopes my children are safe in school.

Who knew the words "believe" and "hope" could conjure up such different emotions?

This isn't a blog about gun violence or mental illness.  Both issues are complex and complicated. I am neither intelligent enough nor articulate enough to do either topic justice.

This is about recognizing the precious and heroic lives who were lost.
Had I lost a child or a loved one that day, I would want the world to know his or her name.

I would want people to remember my loved one.

Here is a list of the victims’ names and ages in alphabetical order from the Connecticut State Police:

• Charlotte Bacon, 6
• Daniel Barden, 7
• Rachel Davino, 29
• Olivia Engel , 6
• Josephine Gay, 7
• Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6
• Dylan Hockley, 6
• Dawn Hochsprung, 47
• Madeleine F. Hsu, 6
• Catherine V. Hubbard , 6
• Chase Kowalski, 7
• Jesse Lewis, 6
• James Mattioli
• Grace McDonnell, 7
• Anne Marie Murphy, 52
• Emilie Parker, 6
• Jack Pinto, 6
• Noah Pozner, 6
• Caroline Previdi, 6
• Jessica Rekos, 6
• Avielle Richman, 6
• Lauren Rousseau, 30
• Mary Sherlach, 56
• Victoria Soto, 27
• Benjamin Wheeler, 6
Allison N. Wyatt, 6

May God bless us.

If You Give a Klutz Crutches

Can I say for the umpteenth time that I had foot surgery and am now whittling the days away on my bum?  Have I not mentioned my invalid status enough times yet? Have you, oh faithful reader, not yet heard that I had foot surgery? Did you miss this noteworthy event?

Let me say it again:  I am stuck on my bum because I had a bunion the size of Delaware removed from my right foot.

Yes, I can hobble around on crutches, but this is dangerous for me as well as for those around me.

If you give a klutz crutches she will astonish you by immediately walking right into a wall.

After walking into the wall, she will laugh because she is on narcotics and everything is funny.  After laughing she will pass out.

When she wakes up, she will ask for more narcotics and her husband will offer her Advil instead.  The klutz will then realize she has crutches.  Since she clearly cannot use them to safely move around the house, she will consider using them to attack those who suggest she not use the prescribed narcotics.

As the days pass and the pain subsides, the klutz will try to use the crutches again.

When the klutz uses the crutches, it will take her 20 minutes to go 20 feet.

After going 20 feet to the living room, she'll realize she needs to go tinkle.

After a laborious walk to the bathroom she will cry tears of joy on the adult potty chair. She will proclaim the adult potty as the best invention EVER.

She will then painstakingly hobble back to the living room.

After that marathon walk, the klutz is tired and sweaty so she will decide to take a sponge bath.

This will require another arduous walk back to the bathroom. There the klutz will sit with a washrag and a bar of soap and give thanks for running water while contemplating how this whole "sponge bath" concept works.  Defying her klutziness, she will shockingly not injure herself in the process.

After a mediocre sponge bath, the klutz will be too exhausted to venture anywhere other than her bed.

After being in bed, she will begin to wonder about bed sores.

At this point, she will realize the sad truth.
She would rather have bed sores than crutches.

Kudos, Music Teacher

Dear Music Teacher,

I was going to call you on the phone, but I assume you are deaf.

I deeply regret we cannot afford to buy you diamonds this holiday season. As you are attempting to teach musical instruments to both of my children, I know you deserve at least diamonds.

Instead, all I can offer you is this very poorly written poem...

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I am so sorry for you.

Hot Cross Buns and Ode to Joy;
You gave a recorder to my boy?

He plays it madly,
Albeit badly.
He loves it, sadly.

The trumpet was not my idea.
For that you can blame my daughter, Lia.

They love duets and are quite a pair.
That sound makes me want to pull my hair!

I want the noise to dampen down.
I'm getting fine lines from my frown.

You, however, handle it well.
Amazing, 'cause it sounds like hell.

Years of doing this, and you look sane.
I think scientists should study your brain.

I can't stand another honk or tweet.
I am just not that sweet.

Happy Holidays,
  A Mom who hopes Santa brings her earplugs

Cheers to all the teachers who manage to teach our children how to read, write, add, subtract, and most amazingly of all...teach our children how to play musical instruments.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Let's cut to the chase.  I have been naughty this past year with flashes of niceness.  Those flashes should count for something, right?

I mean, come on!  You are one to judge. You don't let your elves unionize and you work them to the bone this time of year. I know.  I've read plenty of Christmas books and viewed countless a holiday films.  You're not the only one who can find out who's been naughty or nice!

PETA is no doubt watching you in terms of your treatment of those reindeer. You cannot tell me that lugging your large ass as well as presents for all the good boys and girls all over the world is easy on reindeer. At our house we leave your team of reindeer one lousy carrot which you don't always remember to take.   You NEVER forget to eat the cookies and milk do you? You really are a piece of work.

Yeah, I've not been the nicest this past year, but neither have you.  You can stop all the Santa judgment and cut me some slack!

So I want to be clear with you about what I DO NOT want to find under the Christmas tree this year.  Here's your opportunity to be nice vs naughty:

1.  Toys wrapped in hard plastic.  I do not want to spend my holiday in the emergency room, and I swear nothing short of a chainsaw can get through some types of plastic packaging.  Did NASA invent that plastic?  Is our military aware of its super human, indestructible strength?  Seems like there could be better use for that type of plastic than for securing one tiny Littlest Pet Shop toy.  I mean really, that plastic defies logic.

2.  Toys with batteries.  Yes, this might be hard to pull off, but you should try.  I inevitably will have some batteries in the house on Christmas morning, but they will likely be the wrong size for whatever loud, overpriced toy you decide to leave for my children.  Odds are, even if I have the correct batteries, I may be forced to deny it depending on how obnoxious the toy appears to be. Do all of us a favor and avoid battery operated toys.

3.  Toys that need assembled.  I want to be clear that I cannot follow directions on Christmas morning.  This is because I am often up at 4 AM telling my sleep deprived, overly excited, obnoxious delightful children that it is too early to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior by opening an obscene amount of presents. They need to go back to bed or the Grinch will come and steal the presents from under the tree and give them to neighborhood children who are still sleeping! My Christmas spirit doesn't kick in until after sunrise and 1 cup of strong coffee.

4.  Unlabeled presents.  Please don't forget to label the presents.  It's really annoying to find a present under the tree that is clearly from you because it is wrapped in your special Santa paper, but there is no name tag on it.  Which sleep deprived little monster angel should open the gift?  Nothing good can come from unmarked presents.

5.  I know it's simple and easy for your over-worked elves to stock my children's stocking with socks, underwear, gum, and candy, but can you go easy on the candy this year?  Last year after yelling at encouraging my children to go back to bed, I told them they could open their stockings if they did so in bed and stayed in said bed until at least 6 AM.  It's amazing how much chocolate and gum my children can consume before sunrise.   That candy is like crack cocaine to my children. Maybe you could replace the candy with math facts?  Yeah, I'm a good time!

So from one naughty, over weight adult to another, please grant me my Christmas wishes.

Ho Ho Ho,
A Naughty Mom

10 Things I Learned After Surgery

Sometimes imagining a scenario is not the same thing as actually living an experience. 

My doctor, as well as perfect strangers, seemed to enjoy telling me about the pain and discomfort I would experience after foot surgery.  I, of course, thought I had a high tolerance for pain and would not suffer as everyone seemed to indicate.

I now know that I know nothing.  I am a total fool.

So in the spirit of enlightenment, I want to share the top 10 things I learned after foot surgery:

10.  When sick from the anesthesia, empty, plastic coffee containers are perfect containers to throw up in if you cannot make it to the toilet.  As an aside, my hubby likes to reuse our plastic coffee containers as popcorn bowls. Should he ever offer you popcorn in one of these containers, refuse the popcorn.  In all likelihood, I've vomited in that container.

9.  11 year old daughters are better caretakers than 9 year old sons.

8.   Narcotics are addicting, but not as addicting as being pampered by your 11 year old tween.

7.   My husband has an unusual desire to protect my liver. When awake and in pain at 2 AM, my husband tries to talk about the damage pain medication can cause my liver.  Well, he can just bite me council me with that knowledge in the light of day or after he has painful, bloody surgery on his dominate foot.

6.  Crutches can be used to hit things (are you reading this, hubby?)

5.  Taking a sponge bath is not as easy as it sounds.  After taking a sponge bath, one can become so exhausted and sweaty from the exertion that she needs another bath.

4. Adult potty chairs can make the difference between peeing in the potty and peeing your pants and/or floor.

3. The expression, "Paper cuts are the worst" is only said by people who haven't experienced the worst.

2.  A double dose of Advil is good.

1.  Percocet is better.

My Used Potty Chair

One of these days I will learn it's not necessary to share EVERYTHING on the world wide web.  Just. Not. Necessary.

Sadly, today is not that day.   I'm about to over share here once again. I'm going to blame it on my narcotic consumption. Wait...did I just over share again? Crap.

I have had bunions.  Now I have only one bunion thanks to a cute doctor who sawed off one of my bunions late last week in what can only be described as the most painful experience of my life.  Although I described my bunions in a previous post, the best description is to say that if I am facing north, my right big toe faced due east.

My right bunion was cut off late last week. Did I already mention that?  Damn drugs! 

Now I know you wonder what any of this has to do with a potty chair, but please rest assured this has everything to do with a potty chair.

I don't recall the day I was potty trained, but I know it happened. For as long as I can remember, I've been going poo poo in the potty like a big girl.

The nice specialist who removed my bunion pointed out to me that I can have no pressure on my right foot for approximately 10 days following surgery.  No pressure.  Nada.  Nothing.  Zip.  Following those 10 days, I will be allowed limited pressure on that damn foot.

I ignorantly thought this would be inconvenient but doable assuming my husband takes over, my children stop acting like children, and the world stands still for 10 days.

Then while tinkling in the toilet I wondered, "Can I stand up using just one leg and one foot?"

So I tried it. Although I managed to get off my rear end, it was difficult.  Doable, but tricky.

Two minutes later when I needed to wee wee again I wondered, "Can I sit down using just one leg and one foot?"

Well, I think the best description of that little experiment would be to say I literally crash landed on the toilet seat with a thud so loud and hard that I later wondered if my bum was bruised.

This experience got me talking with people about their own near death toileting experiences.  Who knew tinkling on the potty was so dangerous!?

I found someone (I'm not saying her name to protect her identify) who had an adult potty chair.  She obtained it after having knee surgery.  The adult potty chair goes over the potty and the seat is much higher up than a typical toilet seat.

She is willing to let me borrow her potty chair.
Since she is a decent and kind human being, she washed it thoroughly ahead of time.

I am grateful for her generosity and most grateful for her cleanliness.

No doubt I will have 100 stories to tell about my adventures on the adult potty chair, but I am going to try my very hardest NOT to share all of them.

'Twas the Night Before the Night Before Bunion Surgery

Twas the night before the night
Before bunion surgery
When all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse

The children were nestled
All safe in their bed
While visions of pretty feet
Danced in my head.

Me and my bunion,
With the rest of my foot,
Had just settled down,
But sleeping was moot.

When out of the blue
My brain started to clatter.
I sprang from my bed
To see what was the matter.

Away to the bathroom
I ran like a pro
Tore off my slippers
And stared at my toe.

My bunion was huge
And angry at me.
I glared at it and...
I swear it starred back at me!

When what to my wandering eyes
Should appear
But a bottle of Ambien
To help me, my dear!

With a twist of the cap
And a swig full of water,
I knew I would sleep
I could not falter.

More rapid than eagles
The sandman did come.
I greeted him warmly
And then I went numb.

Zzzzz

The Day Santa Died

Don't panic.  There will be Christmas this year, but Christmas won't be the same.

My children understand Santa has a HUGE job to do every year.
Managing the elves, keeping the "Naughty & Nice" list up to date, and delivering all those presents is a full-time job.

Add to it the obscene number of public appearances Santa needs to make this time of year, and it's a wonder he can be available to do much else.  This is why there are some who volunteer this time of year to be his assistants.

One year, many years ago, my daughter pointed out the obvious while getting her picture taken at the mall with Santa.

"Mom, that is not the REAL Santa!"

I'm sure my response was along the lines of, "Nope, he's not.  The Real Santa is in Albuquerque  today.  There is no way he can be everywhere.  That's why he has helpers. His helpers are his eyes and ears. They'll get your wish list to the real Santa."

What parent hasn't had a very similar conversation with their child?

The real thrill for my kids wasn't seeing Santa in the mall.  No, the real thrill was when he would arrive at my mom's annual Christmas party.  Halfway through the festivities, Santa always arrived with a few presents and candy canes for all the little ones.

Ohhhh, the squeals of joy!
Ohhhh, the shrieks of horror! (Yeah, some of those little ones are totally chicken shit when it comes to big men in red suits.)

My children would size up Santa and later report they didn't think he was the REAL one.  But..... they were never quite sure, and they always made sure they told Santa exactly which outrageously priced toy they wanted him to deliver on Christmas.

The truth is that Santa wasn't the real Santa, but he was the best!

Of course, he was jolly, and friendly.  Of course, he was dressed in a dazzling red suit.

He also had a heart of gold.  He understood the true meaning of Christmas, and he delighted in the joy of children.  He always had a joke to tell, and he always laughed the hardest after telling it.  His laugh was contagious!  When I close my eyes I can still here it.

Santa won't be joining our family celebration this year.

God bless his soul.

7 Words Not Typically Said During Thanksgiving Dinner

I love my family.
They truly put "fun" in "dysFUNctional."

This Thanksgiving was spent gathered around a table with my husband, my parents, sister, brother-in-law, aunt, cousin, cousin-in-law, and a gaggle of children sequestered at the infamous children's table.

Arguably, the children's table was more civilized than the adult table. This is saying something because the children's table was total mayhem.

You may find this difficult to believe, but the following words were uttered AT THE ADULT TABLE during Thanksgiving:

Clot
Fescue
Mucinex
Table saw
Tourniquet
Vaginia
Vaginal disease

Somewhere there is a pilgrim rolling over in his grave.

I double-dog dare you to try to use the above words during your next dinner party without having at least one person groan in apparent pain.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends and family!  Whether you are fun, dysfunctional, or a little of both, I hope you have a turkey-filled holiday surrounded by those for which you are most thankful.

Adventures in Abercrombie & F#@%!

'Tis the season to grab your holiday shopping list and venture into huge, enormous shopping centers luring you with large, red signs promising "Sales, Sales, Sales!"

My tween wants a hoodie for Christmas.  A very specific hoodie.  I could describe this hoodie for you but why bother?  Just trust me when I say this particular hoodie is seemingly extinct.  Exactly one exists in this entire world, and it happens to belong to my tween.  Since she wears it day and night it is starting to look...well...like an ugly, filthy hoodie.  Now she wants another.

Hours of shopping, and I cannot find a hoodie matching my tween's specific requirements.  Where could such a hoodie exist?

I venture into Abercrombie & Fitch despite the little voice in my head telling me to run away.  Have you been in Abercrombie & Fitch recently?

Even before crossing the threshold of the store, Abercrombie & Fitch immediately assaults my nostrils with the potent smell of cologne. I don't actually have words to describe this smell.  It's as if Abercrombie & Fitch took a nice smell, multiplied it so many times it then miraculously turns toxic. Although I think the intent is for the smell to travel from nostril to groin, instead I feel it go from my nostril to my head immediately.  I am morphed from professional, organized shopper to dizzy, snotty, out-of-place fool.

As I try to clear my head, I realize this is a futile endeavor given the "music."  The music is blaring.  BLARING.  I don't know who is "singing," but it isn't my beloved Rick Springfield or U2. No, this is a very angry singer who is yelling at me.  He is screaming at me while the drum beat goes like this, "BAM, BAM, BAM, BA, BA, BAM, BAM BAM."  I have no idea why he is so angry nor do I actually know what he is saying, but he is not a happy guy.

Although the smell and sounds are distracting, I try to focus. After all, I am a mother.  I've perfected blocking out loud, obnoxious sounds. Any mom knows it's the quiet that is scary.

I try to continue shopping, but Abercrombie & Fitch thinks I should shop in the dark. I cannot see a gosh darn thing.  It's so dark that when I run into a table, suck in a large amount of poisoned air, and cry out in pain, no one in the store takes notice.  How can they?  It's pitch black and too loud to hear anything above the sound of that angry, screaming "singer."

By now I am too far into the store to easily escape.  I've completely forgotten why I have ventured into this funhouse, and I start to think I'll never find my way out.  I look around frantically for an exit sign.  All around me I see young, skinny people.  Although my pupils are undoubtably dilated to the size of golf balls, these young people look calm and unaffected by the sensory overload. I'm reminded of Children of the Corn.

Why is Abercrombie & Fitch torturing me?

Perhaps I'm drunk on the smell of overpowering cologne or perhaps my brain is bleeding.  I don't really know.  However, once I finally escape the store, I realize Abercrombie & Fitch's master plan...

Abercrombie & Fitch wants me dizzy, deaf, and blind so I won't care or notice that they sell ugly t-shirts for $40.  If only they had hoodies!


Tony Hawk Painted Plaid Hoodie (Google Affiliate Ad)

The Ghost of Bunions Past

My grandmother had the ugliest feet on the planet. She was a lovely woman, but her feet!  

I would secretly sneak horrified glances at her feet.  While at home, she often just wore stockings on her feet since her bunions were the size of European cars. Its hard to find comfortable shoes that can fit a small automobile.  Her big toes never pointed forwarded and seemed to be red and angry all the time.

When my grandmother passed away, I thought I would never see her on earth again.  One day while showering, I looked down and saw her feet.

EEEK!  Her feet are now MY feet.
Honestly, some people inherit money, homes, china, or silver.
I inherited bunions the size of a small condo complex.  Lucky me!

Driven by guilt over never buying me quality shoes as a child, my mother insists I've had bunions since birth. I won't dispute this, although it's hard to fathom how I made it through the birth canal with these enormous bunions.

I don't recall ever having attractive feet. That's one of the reasons I like hiding them in cute shoes.  Now in addition to being hideous, they hurt. They hurt all the time.  They especially hurt in cute shoes.  This fact alone was enough for me to seek the help of a professional.

I finally dragged my unsightly bunions to a podiatrist for a little conversation.

The podiatrist, to his credit, did not shriek when I revealed my hideous feet. He examined the X-rays, rubbed my feet (which I secretly loved!), and then recommended that one of my bunions be removed.

This news really ticked off my soon-to-be-gone bunion who seems to be getting redder and angrier as the surgery date approaches.

On the plus side, I will be confined to my bed for 1-2 weeks while taking prescribed narcotics.  On the down-side, when I come out of my narcotic haze, my family may be buried under a mountain of dirty clothes and dirty dishes.

To be continued...

Cozy Feet Heated Shoe Inserts - Heaters (Google Affiliate Ad)

5 Essentials for a Bug Out Bag

That bitch Sandy got me thinking about the time my family was without power for all eternity countless days. (Check out Sociology Experiment Gone Bad if you want to glimpse that madness.)

This then got me thinking about survivalists and other people with whom I have nothing in common.

According to my research, a "Bug Out Bag" is a backpack filled with items you will need when you come face to face with Armageddon.  Survivalist seemingly love their BOBs (Bug Out Bags).Bug-Out Bag (Google Affiliate Ad)

As I understand it, rational people put things like bottled water, canned meat, weapons and a variety of seeds (since, of course, planting a garden following Armageddon is necessary.  Duh!).

I would argue that truly rational people don't even pack a "Bug Out Bag," but what do I know?

All of this to say, either way you look at it, I am not a rational person.

I now want to make a "Bug Out Bag," but mine will not contain water and canned meat.

After giving this a considerable amount of thought, and by that I mean a solid five minutes, I've come up with the 5 essential items to place in my "Bug Out Bag."

1.  Multiple bottles of wine
There's water in wine and it's also sort of like fruit.  I'm not packing a corkscrew so the wine will be in screw top bottles. Notice I am also not packing any cups. Cups would take up much needed space.

2.  Razors
Yes, a zombie might eat my face during a zombie apocalypse, but I refuse to die with hairy armpits.  Simply Venus Disposable Razor - 16 ct. - Shaving & Hair Removal (Google Affiliate Ad)

3.  Cheez Whiz 
I hate to admit it during non-Armageddon times, but when face to face with the end of times, I will totally own up to the fact that I'm a huge fan of processed cheese.  All cheese is good, of course, but it's hard to beat the goodness of a rich, thick processed cheese product... especially while drinking cheep wine right from the bottle.  Cheez Whiz (White) T-Shirt (Google Affiliate Ad)

4.  Aspirin
Wine can give me a headache. I can only assume that wine plus trying to survive the end of times will also give me a headache.

5.  Multiple bottles of wine
Seriously, can you ever have enough wine during an apocalypse?

For scarier other ideas about what to pack, google "Bug Out Bag" bag.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Democracy Unglued

I love voting.
I love, love, love, love it!

I love it so much I wish I could vote twice, but those darn polling people are pretty sharp. I'm 92% sure I would never get past them twice.  As it is, I have a hard enough time getting through the process one time.  This is because I am nearly incompetent.

I wake up excited to vote.  Yes, I'm that person.

I race out the door and down the block to my polling place.  Ironically enough, I vote in a church. Please don't tell Mike Huckabee this or I'm pretty sure he would damn me to hell twice.  Once for voting "incorrectly" and another time for voting "incorrectly" in a church. But I digress...

I race into the polling place with my very fat wallet that contains no actual money, but every receipt or scrap of paper I've ever been handed in the last 31 days which is somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 slips of paper.

I know the nice polling people will need to see my ID.  I know this.

None-the-less, when asked to produce it, I cannot free it from my wallet's plastic cover.  While trying to free my ID from the wallet that binds it, half of those nearly 5,000 slips of paper decide to take flight.  They float around me like large confetti while I continue to dig and scratch at my ID.  Since I am no longer in my early 30s, no one ever asks to see my ID when I'm trying to buy my boxed wine.  For this reason, my ID is permanently glued inside my wallet.

The nice polling man says I can stop my epic battle to free my ID and just show it to him through the crusty plastic.  Brilliant!  So I do this while simultaneously trying to clean up all the scraps of paper that litter the area.

The nice polling man points out to me that my license has expired.  Whaaaat?

Yep.  Two weeks prior to voting I had the audacity to turn a year older and my license expired.  Apparently this explains why my ID could not be extracted from my wallet.  It has been nesting there undisturbed since the last time I voted.

The good news is I am still able to vote.  I just need to provide a bunch of other information including my social security number which is always a fun memory game for me to play at 6:30 in the morning.

After all of that, my moment to actually vote comes.  I love it!
Absolutely my favorite part of the entire adventure!  Uncle Sam wants MY opinion!  Boy, do I have opinions!

My polling place is "old school."  No, there's no hanging chads to worry about.
Just me, my lady parts, my ballot, and a black pen.  I carefully color in the oval spaces next to the candidates I support.

Then it happens.  Why does it always happen?
I start to have flashbacks to all the standardized tests I've failed as a youth.  I mean, come on people, there is a reason I have a liberal (no pun intended) arts education.  It's not because I nailed the math section of the SAT.

Suddenly, I am not 100% sure if I want to vote yes on Issue One or not.

Yes.  No.  No.  Yes.  Crap.

Now I'm forced to read the fine print.  Did I mention how much I hate story problems?  I look around incase my neighbor's ballot will offer me a clue it will come to me.  As I look around the polling place I realize, not for the first time, what a great country this is.

There I stand.
I'm with my lady parts, a wallet containing no money and a plethora of recyclable confetti, an expired license, and a nearly unglued state of mind.  All I have are my opinions and a desire for this country to do well in the next four years and beyond.

Despite all of my obvious inadequacies, I have a voice. I have the right and the privilege to vote.

God Bless America!

Shame on You, Mr. Huckabee!

Sometimes while surfing the Internet I think how smart Al Gore is for inventing the dang thing.  I mean, really, the Internet is the bomb!  If it weren't for the Internet, imagine how much quality time I would be forced to spend with my family.

Other times while surfing the Internet I get confused about the news.  For example, while reading a legitimate news article I start to think I'm reading fiction.  'Tis the season to read and hear dumb shit  stupid stuff.

Well, imagine my confusion when I watched this dark, threatening video starring Fire and the scary voice of Mike Huckabee.  I really wanted to believe this was a joke or a new skit from Saturday Night Live.

Instead, I learned this is no joke.  At least not to Mike Huckabee.
Apparently, he thinks I may go to go hell after voting or at least as a result of my voting.

The Bully Huckabee wants me to believe that my vote could lead me to the depths of hell.  If I were a better Christian,  I would vote the way the bully wants me to vote and thereby skirt going to the bowels of hell.

Anyone else sense the irony?

Certainly Mr. Holier-than-thou is familiar with the following verses:

"Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?"    Matthew 7:3

"Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven;"  Luke 6:37

"Only, let every one lead the life which the Lord has assigned to him, and in which God has called him." 1 Corinthians 7:17

"Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor." 1 Corinthians 10:24

I know we are all (especially those of us in swing states) immensely tired of political commercials. ALL political commercials.

I just think its sad morally wrong to resort to bully tactics and question a person's Christianity as a result of political views the person may or may not have.

Shame on you, Mr. Huckabee.

Happy Adoption Month ~ My Best Decision

November is National Adoption Month.  How appropriate for it to share the month with Thanksgiving!

Despite how effortless Madonna and Angelina Jolie make it appear, adoption is its own form of labor. It comes in the form of countless paperwork, a home study that questions one's ability to parent, a trip in front of an actual real-life judge, and sometimes adoption even includes a trip or two halfway around the world...

My Best Decision

I wonder how many decisions an average person makes in a lifetime?  It must be shocking. Everything from the little decisions like whether to have a bagel or cereal for breakfast to the big decisions like choosing a President.

Having a child was a big decision for me. A huge decision. ENORMOUS.

That wasn't the case for the majority of my friends.  Their life seemingly followed the children's song "Cindy & Johnny sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.  First came love, then came marriage, then came Cindy with a baby carriage."

Stupid Cindy.

Didn't she realize how totally off track her life could have gone?  I was sitting in that damn tree, too.  I even got married, but no amount of k-i-s-s-i-n-g was leading to that elusive baby carriage. Where in the name of everything good was my baby carriage?

Babies literally seemed to be falling effortlessly into my friends' laps via their vi-jay-jays while I looked on helplessly.  In desperation, I started taking my basal temperature daily before my feet left my bed.  My hubby and I started religiously tracking our intimate moments, and soon our bedroom behavior became something I could have displayed on a line graph or colorful pie chart.

All that tracking, led to medicines, which led to stronger medicines, which led to intimate moments when my hubby's sperm was washed, and counted.  Eggs were plucked from my ovaries and introduced to hubby's sperm.  They got along well and several lovely embryos were created.

Oh the joy!  The excitement!

The crushing heartbreak.

Who knew that within my seemingly pleasant self lived a uterus who was a serial killer. Seriously, my uterus is a total bitch.

During one of several invasive procedures, I had what I can call nothing short of an epiphany.  
I was miserable because I wanted to be a mom.  I saw pregnancy as the means to becoming a mom, but what I really wanted more than anything in the whole wide world was to be a mom.  In that instant, I knew there were children who wanted a mom more than anything else in that whole wide world.  I was busy trying to make something that was already made.

In the midst of what would be another failed attempt to pro-create, we made a life-changing decision. We made the best decision of our lives.  I picked up the phone and started calling adoption agencies.

I knew my body would fail me again, and I knew what I wanted to do.
I wanted to leave the quest for pregnancy behind and begin the journey to parenthood.

Some decisions really are HUGE. I love being able to very clearly recall and reflect on the best decision of my life.

I chose adoption.

Happy Adoption Month to all of my fellow friends whose lives have been blessed by adoption.

Crack in a Crock

I am not a crackhead, but I think I now understand crackhead addictions.

I know I don't typically blog about recipes, but I've got to share this recipe with you.
You MUST make it, eat it, and then continue reading.

I admit I am taking liberty with the name, but the recipe is totally legitimate.

Crack in a Crock Dip

In a crockpot place the following items:

A bunch of cooked, shredded chicken
1 cup of ranch dressing
2 containers of cream cheese
1.5 -2 cups of shredded cheddar cheese
Hot sauce (I don't know how much.  It probably depends on how hot you want it to be.)

Turn crockpot on and cook for several hours until the delicious smell draws you to it like a fly to a big pile of horse dung.

You are now, no doubt, wondering why I don't write a food blog.  Clearly, I'm talented at this.

Once the crack in a crock is ready, get a a bag of chips or crackers.

If you're health conscious, grab some celery sticks.  Actually, if you're health conscious just stop reading and go away.  You are already judging me for the obscene amount of cheese in this recipe.  Haven't you realized life is too short not to eat cheese?  Cheese is good!

Ok, unhealthy conscious folks who I totally relate to, commence eating.

Start by putting one appropriately sized spoonful of crack in a crock on your plate.
Eat it with a chip in a civilized manner.

If you are like me, the feeling starts rather quickly.
The crack in the crock makes you start thinking like this:

It's sooooooooo very good that when others approach, tell them it tastes like total crap.  You don't want to share this goodness with anyone.  No sharing!

Add another spoonful to your plate, only this time make the spoonful at least three times the size of your first serving.  Eat the dip as quickly as possible so you can put more crack on your plate.
In fact, who really needs a plate?

Ditch the plate, grab a chip and use it as a spoon while standing over the crockpot. Remind yourself you are burning more calories by hovering over the crockpot than you would be if you were sitting down.

Now you will notice your eyes are darting around.

Is someone trying to eat your dip?
Hunch over the crockpot. Nobody's getting your crack in a crock.

Slowly reach over, unplug the crockpot and carry it to a private place. Might I suggest a bathroom or closet?  You need privacy.

While walking there you may get crack in a crock dip on your new shirt.  Don't worry.  You can lick and suck it off your shirt once you are in the privacy of your closet.

Eat all of the crack in the crock.

You WILL feel your arteries start to clog immediately, and you will actually feel the cells on your butt begin to multiply.

Despite all logic, you will absolutely want more crack in a crock.

Being an addict is tough!

Who Are These Undecideds?

Yes, voting is a big responsibility.  

I already know many of my Facebook friends are going to make the wrong choice.  I get it.  Democracy is complicated.

But I have nooooooooooo earthly idea how there are some people in our universe who still don't know which candidate they plan to support.

Honestly.

Mr. Romney sends me love letters daily.  I can't go to my mailbox without pulling out an oversized, glossy card telling me how much he and Mr. Ryan plan to do for me if I would just vote for them. President Obama visited my hometown and openly admitted he's not too proud to beg for my vote. And I do love it when men beg.

I've watched three debates and approximately 36 million political commercials.  I've watched  Saturday Night Live point out the absurdities of both camps.  The nightly news is literally stalking each campaign and giving me play-by-play updates of what the candidates said, ate, and wore during the course of a day.

I've watched as Facebook friends have "liked" political Facebook pages while other Facebook friends blasted them for their stupidity.

In other words, I can't get the mail, turn on the television, stalk view Facebook without being bombarded with political factoids, exaggerations, mistruths, innuendos, and blatant pleads to vote for a certain candidate.

How are there earthlings who remain undecided voters?  What else do they need to make up their minds?  If they are truly this indecisive, should we even want them voting?

Seriously, even my young, relatively clueless children have opinions about this election cycle.
My son reports his father, who is running for absolutely nothing, has low polling numbers.   Apparently the only way for my hubby to raise his polling numbers is to allow my son to have more desserts.  Clearly, politicians could buy my son's vote with candy and cake.  Maybe that would work for the undecided voters, too!

Hey, Prez and Mittens, have you thought about passing out candy corn?

Undecideds, it's time to decide.

And You Think You Have Problems

You are feeling overwhelmed by your job, your kids are driving you up a wall, the bills are mounting, your free-time is dwindling, and your cat continues to puke hairballs like it's his job.  You just want to shut all the blinds, curl up in the fetal position and have a pity party for yourself.  

Then you read this article about the pain and suffering some people have to endure :
Woman's Non-Stop Orgasm Too Much of a Good Thing?

Of all the lousy crap that happens to you in the course of a week, why couldn't you have the problem of non-stop orgasms?  Wouldn't that make your job more interesting?  It would add some excitement to bill paying.  Heck, even cleaning up cat vomit might be arousing less awful.

I suppose it could get annoying, but I imagine there are several of us willing to be inflicted with this disease for a couple hours days just to confirm that it's an actual problem.

Is this how men feel all the time?  Poor men.  Oh, how they struggle with this in silence!
Strike that.  Men do not suffer in silence.  They struggle loudly and unapologetically over pretty much any ailment they suffer. My hubby talked endlessly for days about a splinter he had in his finger. The splinter was removed by ME, but the discussion about the pain and discomfort continued long after the dreaded splinter was removed.

In addition to being amused by a condition that sounds enviable, the article got me thinking about career choices.  When I was growing up, I had all sorts of career options.  I could be a journalist, social worker, nurse, artist, biologist, veterinarian, accountant.

I never imagined having Jim's job.
Jim "studies the neuroscience of sexual response, and is currently engaged in studying persistent genital arousal."

I can't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure I once knew a creepy guy in college who used the pick-up line "I'm studying persistent genital arousal."

This is a real job????

I'm thinking the economy isn't as bad as the nightly news suggests.
If you can make a living studying genital arousal then there is hope for this nation's future.

10 Reasons Why I Won't Be Running a Marathon

I have friends running in a marathon this weekend.  There are really only ten reasons why I won't be participating, and I'm just sure you will understand.

Reason #10
I have two energetic children, one cat with bowel problems, another cat with a sensitive gag reflex, and a full-time job outside of the home.  Every day is a marathon.  Why would I voluntarily run another one on a perfectly good Saturday?

Reason #9:
Sweat.  Some women glow when they sweat. I just sweat. I sweat a lot.  I sweat in places I didn't know I had sweat glands.  And my sweat smells. And not like roses.  Once I got sweat in my eyes.

Reason #8
Sweat stings when it gets in my eyes, and I have a low threshold for that kind of discomfort when exercising.

Reason #7
Fear of death.  You know people do die while exercising.  It's true. 100% of people die after exercising.  It might be years or decades later, but they do die.

Reason #6
My exercise bra is a death trap. It's difficult enough to put it on dry, but taking it off while it is soaked with my sweaty sweat is a feat of athletic prowess. I've been trapped in my exercise bra in the past and it's a horrifying experience. I would have called 911, but I don't want anyone seeing me hanging half in and half out of an exercise bra that for some reason shrinks to half it's original size when soaked in my smelly sweat.

Reason #5
Is there an intermission in a marathon?  No, I don't think so.  I have needs. I need snacks and pee breaks. Since running walking traveling by foot for over 26 miles would take three days minimum, I'm a little unsure how to have my basic needs met.

Reason #4:
Crying in public is embarrassing. Yes, I cry when I'm sad, hungry, and feeling intense pain.  I'm fairly certain I would cry publicly for 24.6 miles.

Reason #3.
My bunion is the size of Texas.  That's right. I have a bunion that will not fit in Ohio. My bunion could kick your bunion's ass.  When I run, my bunion turns red and angry. I don't like it when it's angry.

Reason #2
I would get lost. I don't care how well marked the course is, after several miles of running I know I experience loss of blood flow to my brain.  All the blood seemingly pulls to my gigantic bunion. With the loss of blood flow to my brain, my brain becomes incapable of following simple tasks like following arrow signs or being able to stay on track.

Reason #1
I own a car. The last time I wanted to travel over 20 miles, I went by car.

Good luck to all my running friends.  My bunion and I wish you the best.

Hook a Left, Alumni Band!

Pssst.  Know any Ohio University Alumni Band Members?
If so, can you forward this to them?  I would be most appreciative.
Ohio University's Homecoming is October 13th, and everyone is getting excited!


Hey, Alumni Band!
Let's cut to the chase. You are in the top 5 best things about Ohio University's homecoming.

Here is my scientifically researched Top Five List.
As a psychology and English major, by "scientifically researched" I mean "my own opinion." Since I am a Bobcat, I am certain all of my fellow Bobcats will agree with my "research."

Top 5 Best Things About OU's Homecoming:

#5.  Drinking beer with friends you haven't seen in forever.

#4.  Watching the homecoming parade while drinking beer with friends you haven't seen in forever.

#3.  Hanging out before the game at Tailgate Park while drinking beer with friends you haven't seen in forever.

#2.  Going late to the game because you're drinking beer with friends you haven't seen in forever, and you know you can miss part of the first half of the game as long as you don't miss halftime.

#1.  Watching the Alumni Band perform during the parade, at Tailgate Park, and at the football game all while drinking beer with friends you haven't seen in forever.

Can't wait to do these 5 things again this October!

We'll line up along Court Street to await the parade....

What?

Are you kidding me?

Ohio University has changed the parade route?
Errrrrr....

So the current plan is to start the parade down at the bottom of a steep hill.
Basically think of it as the bowels of Ohio University.  It's a lovely spot if you're into bowels.

My hubby once rented an apartment in that same bowel area when he was an O.U. student. It's since been destroyed because it was so heinous. Even by bachelor, fraternity boy standards it was heinous. Great place to start a parade.

The route will require parade participants to walk up hill on a winding street.  I'm going out on a limb here, but that hill is pretty darn steep for 21 year olds carrying book-bags. I'm wondering how older mature alumni members will feel carrying their tubas and drums up that hill?

Alumni Band, may I make one teeny, tiny suggestion?

When you arrive at Court Street, can you hook a left?  If only for a few blocks yards.

Yeah, you're supposed to take a right thereby hardly performing at all on your beloved Court Street.
 Yeah, OU says the route has been changed for "safety reasons."
Yeah, following the parade route would be the sensible, conservative, and obedient approach to take.

Yeah.

Um. (pause)  You don't strike me as a sensible, conservative, obedient band.  And I mean that as a compliment.

You are Rock Stars!
You want to please your fans, leave a mark on the world, and be unique.
You play that funky music while gyrating and dancing.  You know you want to play on Court Street. It's in your bones!  You've been playing on Court Street for decades.  You don't want to return to OU just to play in the bowels when you can frolic thru the main artery. You want to play Court Street.

I know you do and Bobcat Nation wants you to do so, too!

Hook a left!  Please hook a left.

And while you're at it, play that funky music!

10 Reasons Why I Can Never Be President

Oh, let me count the ways!

There are actually a little over 16 million reasons why I would never make it as President of the United States of America.

For starters, there are at least 10 reasons why I could never make it successfully through a national debate.

10.  I cannot go 90 minutes without peeing.  I've tried.  I just can't. I have yet to see a nominee ask nice Jim Lehrer if they can take a wee little break to go number 1.

9.  I don't always think clearly on my feet. If lovely Jim Lehrer asked me what national issue is of the greatest concern, I am fairly certain I would blurt out, "Bacon shortage!"  That's right. I wouldn't even be able to put it in a full sentence. I would answer it like a contestant on a game show.

8.  I would definitely end up yelling at someone.  Sweet Jim Lehrer clearly tells the candidates there are time limits, but no one seems to pay attention to that.  I'm a rule follower.  Stop talking and stay on topic!!  I'm fairly certain I would yell this at my opponent during the debate.

7.  Neither candidate in the history of national debates has ever reached under the podium and pulled out a Cosmopolitan. I would totally do that.  Kind Jim Lehrer would tell me I have two minutes to talk about world peace and I would reach under the podium and pull out a Cosmo.  I would then likely look into the camera, smile, and say "Cheers!" before guzzling it on live television.

6.  Eye rolling is not an effective form of communication.  I have a bad habit. When I hear stupid stuff, my eyes literally start rolling around in my sockets. I am seemingly helpless to stop this from occurring especially after drinking cosmopolitans.

5.  On a related note, the F-bomb is not presidential.

4.  I do not have a single presidential-looking outfit to wear to a national debate. Clearly I don't own a red or a blue tie.  I do have a solid red dress, but I always feel like an obscenely large little orphan Annie when I wear it. I would be too self conscious to wear it during a national debate. And I would need to buy new shoes.

3.  I would giggle. Yep, also un-presidential. While my opponent pontificates about the economy, I would giggle while singing in my head, "I'm running for pres-i-dent!  I'm running for pres-i-dent!"

2.  My husband would be sitting in the front row not listening to me.  I would find this greatly distracting and would likely call him out on it.  "Hey, honey! Are you even LISTENING to me?"

1.  The debates don't start until 9 PM Eastern time.  This is awfully close to my bedtime. Unless I could wear my sexy flannel pajamas to the debate, I would obviously have to decline my nomination.

No, I could never be POTUS.

BUT I am absolutely ready to be a voter. Don't forget to register to vote!

Is a Standing Ovation Too Much to Ask?

Apparently so.

A standing ovation is addicting.

I once spoke at an event where miraculously I received a standing ovation.  Whether it was caused by my brilliant, impassioned speech or by the need for everyone to simultaneously stretch their legs, I may never know.

BUT I can say with absolute certainty that a standing ovation is like crack-cocaine for your ego.

When I returned home I made a simple request.  When I am finished speaking, I only ask that my family rise to their feet and applaud.  Is that asking too much?

Apparently so.  My family has yet to rise off their bottoms and break into spontaneous applause.  What's wrong with them??

The other day I made lasagna for my family.  Not one round of applause.  Not one.

I washed sheets later that week.  Not a single clap.  Ungracious ingrates.

Perfect strangers thought I was worthy of spontaneous applause. What's wrong with my family?  Ohhhhhhh....wait....they know me.

Well, there you go.  It must be a scientific fact that it is easier to support strangers who sound good for a few moments in time than a family member who fulfills everyone of your endless needs.

So with that, I am rising to my feet and giving myself a standing ovation.  No, it's not the same, but it's better than nothing!

Plus, my ego needs a quick fix.

Who's Your MAMA A**?

Who's Your Mama Ass?

There is a code. A secret code. Women don't talk about it much. I'm about to break from tradition and put it all out on the table, so to speak.  Mom, please stop reading.

After attending "Not Your Mother's Tuperware Party," I acquired some...um...marital aids.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Here's the thing about marital aids:  you must keep them somewhere.

That may sound obvious to non-neurotic people who don't stress over every detail of their life.  But where do us neurotic people keep them?

A logical spot is somewhere in the marital chamber bedroom.  But where?

The key is to find a spot no child will ever be interested in opening like your underwear drawer.  Or a place no housekeeper would accidentally stumble upon like the back of your closet.  Or maybe you're more decadent about your marital aids and you keep your swing and whips in a separate red room that is locked to keep intruders out and sex slaves in.  Hey, I don't know.  Maybe you are kinky in a Fifty Shades sort of way.

The point is, if you own marital aids then they are in your house.

That's all fine and good right up to the point when you die.
When you die someone will need to pack up all the things in your house.  I am sure this will involve judgement even in a marital aid-free home.

When I die people will know what an absolute slob I am.  When they move my couch, they will discover I never cleaned behind it nor did I ever clean up the mass of crumbs, pencils, hair balls, and other items that no doubt live in the couch cushions.  Nah, I'm not cleaning there.

Although I'll be dead, I'm still confident I won't like the idea of people talking about what a slob I am. Having said that, I'll be dead so there isn't much I can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The crap under my couch is small potatoes compared to the marital aids issue.  It's one thing to remember me in death as a slob who cared little for house cleaning.  It's quite another for people to learn I was a kinky horn dog who owned an odd assortment of creams and lotions that heat up and taste like hot fudge sundaes.  I would, quite literally, roll over in my grave.  (In fairness to me, there is tremendous pressure to buy these "goodies" at parties designed to wake up the teenager in you.  Peer pressure isn't just a teen issue. AND who can resist an edible cream that has zero calories and tastes like a hot fudge sundae?  But I digress...)

The point is every woman who owns any marital aid lotion, contraption, gizmo, equipment, device, gadget, or tool needs a MAMA ASS.

What's a Mama Ass?  Well, it's code for:  "Mourn After Marital Aids Are Secretly Secured."

Mama Ass friends know they have a HUGE responsibility.
When my Mama Ass learns I have died in a freak accident, that is hopefully totally unrelated to marital aids, she will make a beeline to my house.  She has a key to my home, she knows where to go, and she knows what to do.  She doesn't have time to mourn my untimely death.  She needs to dispose of all evidence of my sexuality. Get. It. Out. Of. There. Pronto!

After I'm dead, she pledges not to breathe a word to anyone about the loot she has unearthed.  She can also consider it the oddest inheritance ever!

If she has time to sweep the floors, clean the windows, fold the laundry, and dust behind the couch, that would be great, too.  Are you reading this, Mama Ass?  If so, the Windex is under the kitchen sink.

Who's your MAMA ASS?

Tennis vs. Me

My tennis crush started last year when I picked up a tennis racket for the first time.  It was a surprise love affair because I have a long history of being really bad at sports.

In 6th grade I was a 5'10" flat chested, braces-wearing, permed hair tween who was as awkward as I looked.  Occasionally I was picked first in gym class by an idiot-child who erroneously believed my obscene height would equate to physical prowess. This was simply not true.

In gym class, I would frequently duck during basketball scrimmages.  Once while playing volleyball I was hit right in the face with the ball because I wasn't coordinated enough to lift my hands and shield myself.  In truth, the only physical activity I could do with any amount of competence was run.  Add a ball, and it just got complicated.

Fast forward three decades, and not much has changed (although I'm happy to report my braces are off and I did finally manage to grow some breasts!).

Now I have two children, and every Saturday I sit and watch them take tennis lessons.  Their coach finally convinced me to try tennis.  My kids made it look so easy; I thought I may have a chance.

I completely fell in love.  I wasn't good, but I thought I could get better.
I really worked at getting better.
My goal was to get good enough to wear a tennis skirt without feeling like a fraud.
Finally, I got to that point.  That's when my tennis crush blossomed into love. I was adequate at a sport that allowed me to shop for and wear cute clothes. Awesomeness.

I suppose I should have known Tennis would eventually break my face heart.

It happened on a beautiful fall evening during a weekly tennis clinic.
The clinic instructor groups players based on skill levels.  I was accustomed to playing on the court of shame..the losers' court...the court for newbies and klutzes.  That's my court.
But I'd been practicing...

Finally my moment to shine came. The tennis coach placed me on the advanced court. I was going to play doubles with three tremendously skilled women. I had arrived!  Like a young person moving from the kid table at Thanksgiving dinner to the grown up table, I had advanced.

I stood tall as I approached the court in my snazzy tennis skirt and hip shoes.
I was ready. I would impress them.

After a brief warmup, the game started. My partner and I scored first. I was feeling strong and confident.  The other team served to me. I swung, hit the ball over the net, followed through on my swing, and promptly hit myself in the head with my racket.

"Ouch," I thought.

I continued playing. I wasn't about to let that little misstep slow me down or cause me to lose focus.  Then I started sweating.  Strange because it was a cool evening, but I was under a lot of self-induced pressure to beat the crap out of my opponents play well.

I hit the ball again, and again I wiped more sweat from my face. I was really starting to sweat. I nonchalantly wiped more sweat off my face.

As I hit the ball a third time, I looked down at the ground in time to see a large drop of blood splash to the court. That's when I realized I wasn't sweating.  I was bleeding from my head.

The game stopped as the other three women looked on in horror. Not only had I hit myself in the face with my racket, causing a bloody gash under my eyebrow, but I had then repeatedly smeared blood all over my face.  I was either a tennis bad ass or a complete fool.  Can we go with tennis bad ass?

After being tended to by fellow tennis players who included a nurse, an eye doctor and ironically enough a psychologist, I was sent home to heal.

As I sat at home with a bag of frozen peas on my face, my daughter looked empathetically at me and said, "It's ok, mom.  I think you are still pretty good."  My son just wanted to hear more about the blood.

I suppose I'll never qualify for the US Open, but had anyone taped my obvious display of tennis inadequacy, I'm quite sure you'd be seeing me on the next episode of "The World's Funniest Home Videos."

Tennis, anyone?

Smoke Signals: My Tween Better Master the Art of Reading Them

According to my "well-informed" tween, "everyone" in 6th grade has a phone. 

(Note to "reader":  This "well written" monologue will be heavily "punctuated" with words in "quotes." I do this so you can better "appreciate" the way my "delightful" tween "communicates."  She is a big fan of using "quotes" when she talks in an effort to "prove" her "sophistication.")

Perhaps it's because my daughter is dogged in her advocacy for a phone or perhaps it's because my husband knows I've already started Christmas shopping (started about 9 months ago, but my husband only became aware of it last week). Whatever the reason, my husband has sent me two articles in the last two days about the absolute horrors of cell phones.

I believe he is worried I will lapse into a manic shopping frenzy and accidentally purchase a cell phone for my daughter. I assure you this won't happen unless I find a really good deal at Walmart.

The point is, my hubby and I are totally freaked out about sexting.
I think we both know what horrible decisions my hubby would have made had he had a phone as a tween. Me, on the other hand, I was totally "angelic."

My hubby e-mailed me (Yes, emailed.  We have been married for 16 "glorious" years and we are great "communicators.") the results of a study showing that over 20% of high school students have "sexted" and over 31% had been asked to "sext."  That's an enormous amount of peer sexting pressure!

That e-mail tidbit was followed by one with a link to this article in Scientific American. If I understand it correctly (and I'm not sure I do because I was reading it from my phone), we are happier when we are not near a phone.

This is ironic because my phone is in another room right now and that makes me feel anxious.
Am I missing your call at this very moment?
Or did you just text me something with a "mega funny" autocorrect error?
Now I'm itching. I gotta go get my phone.  Hold on...........................
Ok.  I'm back. Miss me?

The point is, our relationship with our tween is already precarious unpredictable at times complicated developmentally appropriate. Why would we want to do anything to make it worse?

However, a phone doesn't just mean my tween will be able to text until her fingers bleed while sending naked pictures off herself into the stratosphere.  A phone would also give us, her neurotic parents, some amount of peace of mind. If she needs us, she could call.  If we need to talk with her, we could text her.  There are benefits. I get that.  I just remain concerned the benefits don't yet outweigh the risks.

For this reason, she needs to learn the ancient art of reading smoke signals.
That would solve everything!

Lol. Ttyl!

The Homework Wars

I remember being in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade.  Yes, my memory can actually go back that far.  My memory is not completely broken.  Yet.

I remember hating homework.  I remember thinking my teachers were mean for giving me homework and my parents were even meaner for making me do it.  I remember tears, yelling, more tears, and the development of my delusional belief that I would eventually outgrow homework.

Ironically, I am a 39-ish year old woman who still HATES 4th -6th grade homework!
My life has come full circle.  Now I am the mean, thoughtless mother who insists that homework be completed each night.  I pull this off nightly with varying amounts of tears, screaming and liquor in my system.

I want to believe we aren't the only family in the midst of the Homework Wars.
I want to believe our neighbors are fighting this war, too.  Certainly, we aren't the only parents drafted.  I want to believe we aren't alone, but I don't see the battle wounds on my fellow parent friends.

Am I the only one who wants to take "new math" and banish it to the bowels of hell?  Am I alone here, people?

This war has gone on for so many years I have forgotten who the enemy is.
Is it my daughter who has been known to weep loudly while doing math?
Is it my son who denies having homework until 4 minutes before leaving for school in the morning?
Is it both of them when they announce at 9 PM on a Thursday that they have a school project due the next day that will require poster board, styrofoam balls, duct tape, cotton balls and large amounts of green and blue paint?
Is it the teacher who assumes my children are competent enough to keep me in the loop on such upcoming projects?
Is it the school curriculum that has changed the way kids learn how to add double and triple digits?  What's the crime in carrying the one?
Is it me, the helicopter mom? Am I the enemy?

My goal this year has been to sell my helicopter. I will not be a helicopter mother.

I don't actually think I sold my helicopter.
By all appearances, my helicopter crash landed in the midst of the Homework Wars.
Man down! Man down!

What I Wish My Kids Wore on the First Day of School

I simply don't think they make hazmat suits in kid sizes.
If so, I would have bought several on one of my 75 August trips to Target.

Every year.  Every darn year the same thing happens.

My children spend the entire school year carefully building up their immune systems.
They take every opportunity to touch snot, invisible germs, and unspecified slime.
They touch everything in their sight and then promptly stick their fingers in their mouths.

They are walking examples of how to test immune systems.  They practice this throughout the school year.  By May their immune systems are as tough as nails. The bubonic plague couldn't penetrate their systems (yes, I'm knocking on wood).

Summer comes and their immune systems are not tested.  They expose themselves to summer air, ocean breezes, and air conditioning. No exposure to viruses. None.  They are seemingly sequestered from any and all germs.  We must live in a bubble.  Their immune systems are essentially left vulnerable once again.

This is the perfect recipe for the onset of September's inevitable avalanche of return-to-school illnesses.

Is this happening in your house or is this a unique phenomenon in mine?

It starts with a phone call from the school.
Before you answer the phone, you stare at it and will it to stop ringing.
Your Jedi skills need work so, of course, the phone keeps ringing.
When you answer it, you hope against hope this call is about your need to sign some form, volunteer for some activity, or perhaps the school office just wants to see how you're doing. Yes, it's a ridiculous thought, but you can hope.

Instead you learn what you already knew when the phone rang.
You have a child who is vomiting in the school office.  They want you to come get your child.

Imagine that. They don't want vomiting children at school. Total bummer because you don't want vomiting children in your house.

Here's the thing about calls from the school telling you your child is sick:  the school wants you to act like a responsible adult, drop everything, pick up your germ magnet, and lovingly nurse it back to health.

Here's the thing about receiving calls from the school office telling you your child is barfing:  you momentarily consider acting like the school has the wrong number, you then realize this is ultimately the school's fault since clearly your child got sick there, and you want to immaturely shriek "finders keepers," and hang up the phone.

Once you realize the inevitable, and obediently retrieve your obviously ill child, you can focus on the one person to blame for this...your spouse  precautionary measures to keep sick child from contaminating others. This is, of course, a lost cause. Soon every child under your roof along with your spouse is either vomiting or producing amazingly viscous mucous.

Within days the children and your pathetic husband are nursed back to health, and you breath a sigh of relief...and then you sneeze...then your head starts hurting...then you ache all over...and then you know.

You know hazmat suits in kid sizes is a brilliant idea.

Sleep Overs

The person who coined the term "sleep over" was either an adult who never had children or they meant the expression as in "sleep is over and will never happen during the course of this evening."  I'm not sure which.

I'm blessed with children of two different genders. I have a daughter and a farting creature son.  Here's the thing I know with absolute certainty:  although both are absolutely capable of being disgusting in their own right, girls are marginally more civilized than boys.

A girl's idea of a sleep over is to eventually cuddle and giggle their way into the night. They whisper and talk in hushed tones fully believing the silly parent will believe they are sleeping.

Boys, on the other hand, are too busy making farting and belching sounds.  They don't have the good sense to even try to fake out the responsible adult.  This eventually leads to the parent having to threaten their own son while dropping veiled threats and innuendoes about the likelihood of ever having another "sleep over."

"Sleep overs" loosely follow this schedule:

6 PM:  Son's friend arrives
6:01 PM:  Boys begin running throughout the house with high pitched squealing that reminds mother that she has wine in the refrigerator.
6:22 PM:  Boys begin loudly playing video games.  Mother takes 2 ibuprofen with water.
8:12 PM:  Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8: 22 pm:  Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8:30 pm:   Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8:37 pm:  Boys loudly eat snack and put on PJs.  Proper dental care is overrated.
8:45 pm:  Mother opens refrigerator and then closes it.  She's just comforted by knowing the wine is in there should she need it.
8:47 pm:  Boys decide to dump every Lego on the bedroom floor so they can "find them better."
8:52 pm: Loud fart sounds and hysterical laughter erupt from the room.
9:15 pm:  Loud fart sounds and hysterical laughter continue to erupt from the room.
9:16 pm:  Mother continues to ignore the loud farts and hysterical laughter.
9:30 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
9:41 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
9:52 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
10:00 pm:  Mother enters room against her better judgement to find sleeping bags on the floor covering 2 million legos and another 2 million legos have been tossed into her son's underwear drawer.
10:01 pm:  Mother tells boys to whisper or read quietly.  "It's time to slow down," she says sweetly.
10:01 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
10:01 pm:  Mother decides one glass of wine would not hurt anyone.
10:30 pm:  Mother goes back to son's room and tells the boys it's time for lights out.
10:30 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
11:00 pm:  Mother develops an illogical belief.  If she clenches her teeth and speaks without moving her jaw (creating a very attractive facial expression), She believes only her child can hear her.
11:01 pm:  With clenched teeth she says, "If. You. Don't. Put. Your. Head. Down. Now. You. Will. Never. Have. Another. Sleep. Over. ... EEEVVVEEERRR."  She hisses that last word because she is already sleep deprived and she is morphing into something scary and unpredictable.
11:02 pm: Mother's hissing has absolutely no impact on her son.  The other child asks her son, "Hey, your mom is talking funny. Why she sound like that?"
11:03 pm:  Mother gives her son "the look" (I don't need to describe that, right?).
11:03 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
11:05 pm:  Mother realizes first glass of wine has had absolutely no impact on anything.
11:15 pm:  Mother sips second glass of wine while listening to fart sounds echo down the hall.
11:37 pm:  Mother passes out falls asleep to the sound of boys farting and belching.
9:59 am:  Mother sweetly tells the other mother that the boys were "delightful" and "we should do this again at your house."

Most Ridiculous Commercial... Or Is It?

Most Ridiculous Commercial... Or Is It?

Do you remember commercials? I forgot what they were until I started watching the 2012 Olympics religiously every night as if it were my job and the fate of all Olympic gold medals rested squarely on my shoulders.

Do you remember commercials? I forgot what they were until I started watching the 2012 Olympics religiously every night as if it were my job and the fate of all Olympic gold medals rested squarely on my shoulders.

Yeah, commercials are those televised advertisements most people use as the time to tinkle and refill beverages or we fast-forward through them (thank you to the person who invented TIVO and the DVR).

It's been awhile since I've seen an actual commercial, but I'm sad to report they stink just as much as they have in the past. In fact, they are arguably worse now than previously. Apparently commercial writers are on to the fact that no one pays attention to them anymore so they have really lowered the bar on what passes for a quality commercial.

After watching an obscene amount of television over the last several weeks, I believe I have the authority to crown the worst commercial on television.

The winner is....(drum roll)...(suspenseful pause)...

The Air Optix contact lens commercial!

A man who is old enough to know better starts the commercial off looking absolutely grief stricken. Perhaps he has received a devastating diagnosis or maybe his wife and kids have been in a horrific accident or possibly he has made horrible investments and he is about to loose everything.

Nope.  This moron just fell asleep with his contact lenses in his eyes.
He stutters the following statement, "I never meant to sleep in my contacts."

The optometrist kindly tells him "Don't worry."
As luck would have it, this idiot fell asleep in contact lenses designed to be slept in.  Somehow he's managed to forget this tidbit since the last time he's been to the eye doctor.

I have absolutely no empathy for this twit.  Maybe I'm annoyed because the last time I fell asleep with contacts in my eyes I woke up and momentarily thought I had been miraculously cured of my nearsightedness.  At no point did I consider racing to the optometrist to confess my stupidity while looking like I might die as a result of my action.

I hate to sound sexist, (actually this is a bold-faced lie.  I really don't mind sounding a little sexist) but I don't think it's an accident that the commercial features a nearsighted worried man and a female optometrist.  There isn't a woman on the planet who would show this much concern over her own eyes.  She would be too busy changing diapers, cleaning up cat vomit, and wallowing in guilt to even consider rushing her eyes to the optometrist office after sleeping in her lenses.  Hell, she'd just be thrilled she managed to sleep!

The point is, this commercial stinks.  It's horrible.

On top of it all, the pathetic, worrisome man looked familiar to me.  Who is he?

Then while watching it for the 40th time it came to me.  The man looks like Paul Ryan minus the piercing, ice blue, frightening as hell eyes.  If Paul Ryan had brown eyes, he would be doing lousy contact lens commercials.

Then it hit me.  Is it possible this commercial was paid for by democrats to elect President Obama?  You only need to watch the commercial once to know, that worrisome guy is an idiot!

It could very well be the best subliminal message ever relayed via commercial!

A New School Year Begins

"So long, suckers!" I thought after dropping the kids off on the first day of school.

Yes, I'm grossly immature and expressions like "So long, suckers" just naturally pop into my brain.  Not proud, just honest.

My baby girl is now officially in 6th grade.   This means animal prints are totally cool and go with everything including other animal prints regardless of the animal.  This also seems to be the year when one day showering is thought of as a poisonous activity and the next day getting ready requires hours of primping and an assortment of lotions and gels.  This child seems precariously balanced between childhood and adolescence. The wind could blow her any direction.  I am literally holding my breath.

My sweet son is a 4th grader. By "sweet" I mean highly energetic with a dose of narcism and a dash of uncontrollable ornery-ness.  He has exactly 15,000 questions in the course of one day (that's 105,000 questions in a week, but who's counting?).  Recess is his favorite subject at school followed by Physical Education.  I may need to give his teacher diamonds for Christmas.

As for me, I'm a professional now. I've been dropping kids off at this same elementary school since my daughter was in kindergarten.  That's 7 first day of school experiences.  Yes, I am a pro.

Once upon a time, I cried dropping the kids off at school.  This is, of course, laughable now.  No more tears from me on the first day of school.

There was a brief, almost tearful, nanosecond today when I realized this was the last first day of elementary school for my daughter (assuming she buckles down and doesn't need to repeat this year).  The nanosecond passed quickly and I gleefully dropped my "angels" off at school.  I now reserve tears for the last day of school before summer vacation.

I was once a helicopter mom. I counted the hours waiting to hear a minute by minute account of their days.  My kiddos ALWAYS disappointed me in their remarkable inability to recount much of anything from their day.

At dinner I would prompt them with never-ending unanswered questions.
Eventually, I would resort to, "Did you learn anything new today?"
They would look at each other, shrug, and respond in unison with, "Nah."

Sigh.

So this year I am turning over a new leaf.  I am selling my helicopter.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.

Yes, I have my homework cut out for me.