The Sometimes Almost Fictional Life of Penney

If We Weren't the Absolutely Perfect Couple...

2011-12-13T22:52:00.001-05:00

The Unsupportive Louse and I were having an argument the other day…we never actually fight in real life of course, this is just a totally and completely made up story for the sake of a good blog post. Obviously.

During this completely fictional argument, our offspring were present. (Obviously also fictional as if the Unsupportive Louse and I were to fight, we would never, EVER do so in front of our children.)

But, pretending for the moment that this DID in fact happen, and realizing that if we were to argue, it would never be over something ridiculously unimportant or include and miscommunications or become blown out of proportion in 3.5 seconds at all. Ever. Because we (especially me) are very intelligent, rational grown-ups and are capable of having calm, rational discussions. Of course. But if we weren’t so wonderfully mature and expansive and DIDN’T wait until our kids were tucked snuggly in bed to peacefully ruminate over our minor disagreements, it would have gone something like this:

      “I swear sometimes you don’t even know me at all!”

      “Yes, he does Mommy, don’t you, Daddy? He just sometimes forgets, huh?”

      “Yes, cutie, he does, you’re right.”

      “What the hell does me knowing you have anything to do with it?” (We also never, ever, ever swear in front of the kids.)

      “You shouldn’t say hell Daddy. I might say it at daycare.”

      “Well, it’s either that or you’re just totally inconsiderate and don’t give a rat’s ass about us at all. And you’re right, sweetie, we shouldn’t say hell. And I shouldn’t say ass either.”

      “How can you even say that? You know you guys mean everything to me.”

      “Yeah, Mommy, Daddy loves us.”

      “Of course he does baby. But you have a shitty way of showing it!”

      “It’s not because I don’t love you, I just need some time alone sometimes to reboot.” (The Unsupportive Louse does in fact say things like reboot in regular conversation, even if this dialogue is all fake…)

      “Mommy should we make an ID card for me now?” He wants an ID card. Don’t ask me.

      “We need to get the picture from the store first, remember kiddo? And I GIVE you time off, I give you time off ALL the time, besides, when do I get any time off?”

       “You don’t need time off from people, you’re an extrovert!”

      “What’s an eggs-a-vert? NO!! That’s my ID card!!”

      “Baby, give the card back to your brother, no no, don’t eat it, no sweetie, don’t cry.” The tiny drama queen proceeds to have a melt-down in which no other small piece of cut out cereal box will substitute for THE piece of cut-out cereal box. I would like to say this minor temper tantrum interrupted the argument. But as only veteran parents can, we soldiered on. Or, er, I mean, we would have…it’s just a story, not real, all that…

      “What does being an extrovert have to do with needing a break? Just because I actually LIKE people doesn’t mean I don’t need a break sometimes.”

      “Maybe, but not as much as I do.”

      “Can I have a break?”

      ”What? You think you do more work then me? You seriously think you need a break more than me? Of course you can have a break, kiddo, just lay down on the couch with me, we can cuddle, do you want to cuddle?”

      "Why does Daddy not like people Mommy?”

      “Great, thanks, see, you made him think I don’t like people.”

      “Of course Daddy likes people kiddo, he just likes to be alone sometimes to think. Some people like to be alone more than other people, and some people like more time alone than other people. YOU just happen to want WAY too much time alone. Am I supposed to be a single parent here? Oh, our sweet tiny drama queen wants to cuddle too, come cuddle baby.”

      “No, you’re not supposed to be a single parent! Damn it! You know what I mean! I just don’t know why you get so frustrated with me!”

      The Energizer Bunny looks up at me from our cuddle session on the couch, “Mommy, why are you mad at Daddy?”

And can I tell you that for at least 30 seconds I had no idea. I would like to tell you that that realization ended the argument…but such a realization so deep into the land of pissed off can only cause further irritation. Besides, I'm sure I would have remembered right away if it weren't for the kids.

In other news, we’ve begun a savings fund for the kids’ future therapy sessions. You know, just in case.

I Hit Because I Care

2011-12-05T22:34:00.001-05:00

I only do it because I care.

I know, I know, that’s what they all say, but in my case, it’s true! Besides, if the Unsupportive Louse just listened occasionally, I would HAVE to hit him anymore.

You don’t believe me, I see it in your eyes. You’re horrified. But listen, you have to hear my side of the story. By the end, you’ll side with me just like you sided with Lorena Bobbit* after she cut off that cheating bastard’s faithless piece of anatomy. Taught him! (Quick advice interjection here – you can use Ms Bobbit’s knife to teach your own Mr. Bobbit a lesson. Go public with your opinion on her (whether it’s your real opinion or not.) Your willie is MINE, buddy.)

But to get back to the very deserving Unsupportive Louse…at first, as is true with all relationships, he was perfect. Or rather, we didn’t have kids to wake us up in the middle of the nigh to make me realize just how imperfect he was.

But then, post Energizer Bunny, in the middle of the night, it started to keep me up. Constantly. His major imperfection.

At first, I just flicked him a bit. Nothing big, not even noticeable really.

But then, it started to annoy me that he didn’t notice. So I’d flick him a bit harder. Or maybe whack him a bit on the shoulder. Or the back. Or his head. Just a bit. Then a bit more. Just until he rolled over. Because at first, rolling over helped.

But then it stopped helping. Instead of stopping, he’d just start snoring louder. And he doesn’t just snore loud, you see, he snores imperfectly. Every snore is different from the last. Like snowflakes, except without the pretty part.

So then, I had to hit him harder. Just hard enough so he’d almost wake up. Because if he didn’t almost wake up, he wouldn’t stop anymore. And if he didn’t stop, I couldn’t sleep. And if I don’t sleep, I might not be hitting him in bed where no one can see and only in places where the bruises don’t show…I might just start beating him for real for real. And that would be his fault too.

For years I’ve been telling him that if he’d just get some help, I could stop hitting him. And he never listens. Some mornings he wakes up complaining of a headache or a sore shoulder. I assure him if he’d see a sleep specialist, he wouldn’t get the oxygen headaches anymore. And I’m sure the shoulder is sore from all that nerdy computer gaming he does late into the night.

See, like most of the abused, he doesn’t think there’s a problem. Like most of the abused, he doesn’t realize the problem is his. If only he’d listen once in awhile.

I make sure he doesn’t quite wake up so he doesn’t have to live with the shame of knowing how terrible he is to me. Like most abusers, I only do it because I love him so much.

You’re welcome, Unsupportive Louse, you’re welcome.

*Lorena Bobbit is another antiquated “current” event that I have faith all my readers will remember anyway, or google to get the joke. Pretty much the entire story is here though, so you don’t really need to.

Dimpled Balls and the Number Two Reason I'm Too Tired to Post a Blog

2011-05-09T11:32:00.000-04:00

The Unsupportive Louse has dimpled balls.

He hasn't always had dimpled balls, but now he does. When one looks at a pair of hairy, wrinkly balls, one does not instantly think "cute," but I'd say the dimples are pretty cute. Not cute like Baby, another category of cute altogether, but cute none-the-less.

And apparently when one has cute, newly dimpled balls, one wants one's wife to look at said cute dimpled balls and really...do Mother's of tiny babies have TIME to look at cute dimpled ball sacs? The answer, my friends, is no.

You see, having a baby will not ruin your social life, it will not ruin your body, it will not ruin your sex life. Having a SECOND baby...will. Everything you thought was a myth about the first baby after you had him or her; all those things that you thought you could throw back into under-educated and ill-informed parents faces; all that inner boasting you'd done...it's all come back to haunt you.

Because there's TWO of them now. There's no nap time phone calls to catch up with long lost friends, no easy runs with the immobile baby strapped into a jogging stroller, no afternoon quickie while the baby sleeps. Long lost friends? Forget you ever knew them. Jogging? A waste of time anyway. Quickie? Quickie what? No, really...what?

And even if, by some crazy chance, both of the product of your loins ARE sleeping at the same time, the LAST thing you're going to want to do is check out a couple scars between your husbands legs. Sleep would probably be the first choice.

Facebook the second, of course.

Number One Reason Why I'm Too Tired To Post A Blog This Week

2011-05-05T10:22:00.001-04:00

I have a baby.

Do I really have to say any more?

Really, yes, I do. I always need to say more, otherwise this whole blog thing wouldn't be nearly as entertaining. When the whole blog thing actually happens, that is. And for as often as that is these days, it'd better be damned entertaining. So, yes, I will say more.

I have a baby. And that baby is the sweetest, most darling little creature I've ever set my eyes on. Even at 1am. And 2:15. And 3:07. And 4:23. And 5:19am. Of the same night. By 6:34 she may have moved to second place. But probably not. Because she really just is friggin' adorable.

Especially when *I* am the only thing she really wants. And I know I'm the only thing she wants because I've begun abandonning her EVERY DAY to the EVILS that are DAYCARE so I can go do something completely unexplanable and unimportant to a tiny precious baby like her.

Guilt has taken me a long way in life...but I confess this is the best guilt trip I've ever gotten. If only cuteness came caffeinated.

Don't You Hate Those People?

2011-04-29T14:12:00.001-04:00

Who forget about the really important things in life? Like blogs?? What could be more frustrating than finding a good blog to read and then having the author run off and have a baby or some shit? If you're going to start a blog, you should give your readers or potential readers the benefit of your entire existense. Are you with me on this? Huh? Really?

In unrelated news, I've returned to work since having my baby and STILL cannot get my priorities straight (inform world of hilarious and/or heinous events first, calm screaming baby second.) But, never fear, I have made a pact to ammend this problem! Because the world needs to know about my life! Oh yes, they do!

So, if you don't see a new blog on here every week, you are welcome to come to my house, bang on my door, pull my out of bed and stand over my shoulder while I groggily type up some random BS to post on public access internet. Really.

So...see you next Friday! Just...try, not to wake the baby, would you?

2010 New Year’s Resolutions in Review

2011-01-03T09:54:00.000-05:00

As decreed at the beginning of 2010, I am holding myself completely accountable for my New Year’s Resolutions. I have given myself simple pass or fail grades, but as you must realize, a failure at one silly little resolution may not really be ALL my fault and often can be explained… As it turns out, I did pretty awesome.

Resolution #1. Arriving at work on time. Initial Grade: FAIL.

I wholeheartedly blame my pregnancy for the capitol letters in the word fail – it is beyond impossible to get enough sleep while in either the first trimester or the third trimester, or a vast number of days during the second trimester, to actually not only be able to get up on time but WANT to as well. I can say with a fair amount of confidence that I not only did I NOT arrive at work on time the majority of my pregnancy, but that I could actually probably count on my fingers the number of days I DID arrive at work on time for that really very small portion of the year that was taken up by my pregnancy.

Of course pregnancy related lateness is completely forgivable, and I must only focus on the three months before pregnancy occurred to REALLY grade myself. And for those three months, I will blame the Unsupportive Louse and his terrible unsupportiveness for my chronic lateness. I mean come on, how selfish can a husband be that he is more concerned with his thesis than with the amount of sleep his wife is able to achieve?

Ultimate Grade: Excused.

Resolution #2. Decreasing my Facebook Addiction. Initial Grade: FAIL.

Not only has my Facebook addiction not decreased, it has undoubtedly worsened. Perhaps exponentially. But in my defense, I completely forgot this was a resolution. Who the hell would make such a dumbass resolution? And really, there are so many more people on Facebook now, and so many more of them are utterly addicted than before, leading to a massive increase in daily status updates, picture uploads and wall postings that it’s hardly my fault. I didn’t allow it to interfere with my work (to a noticeable extent), nor my social life (one could certainly argue it only helped in this category) and almost never checked it at all from home – which proves it’s really hardly an addiction at all. Not only that, I actually don’t have a smartphone from which I can log on, which means my “addiction” is most likely far less than the rest of the addicted population.

Ultimate Grade: Excused.

Resolution #3: $20 minimum balance in my checking account at all times. Initial Grade: PASS!!!

Go Penney, you’re fricking awesome! And not only did I pass, I actually passed without using my built-in pass protector. I actually could give credit to the Unsupportive Louse’s new high-paying job (which is still significantly less than mine, PhD or not…) but really, we have separate accounts, what does his money have to do with me? Besides, it’s way more fun to give myself all the credit.

Ultimate Grade: A+++

Resolution #4: Contributing to my savings account monthly. Initial Grade: pass.

The first few months, I did put a little bit in the savings every month, so I started off perfectly fine. Then the tenant in our beautiful but poorly purchased, un-refinanceable, and over-mortgaged condo decided to stop paying her rent. Not only did I have to stop putting money in savings, I had to start taking money OUT of savings. This, however, is clearly not my fault and is completely forgivable. AND we also made a great big, huge, massive, ginourmous contribution to the Energizer Bunny’s college fund this year, so I feel that counts for a lot. And there’s always the pass protection clause added in to the resolution which allows my automatic retirement fund/college savings plan contributions to count towards savings account contributions in case of failure to deposit monies in ACTUAL savings account, and since those in fact are automatic, they always occurred and allowed me to pass this resolution despite the perceivable failure.
Ultimate Grade: B.

Resolution #5: Pay off my last credit card. Initial Grade: fail.

But it’s close, it’s SOOO close. Way closer than at the end of last year. Under 100 bucks close. I could just write the check now and you wouldn’t even know that I’d lied and hadn’t actually paid it off in 2010 close. In fact, I’m writing the check right now. And pretending I sent it last week. Done.
Ultimate Grade: A!

Resolution #6: Yelling a little itty bit less at the Unsupportive Louse. Initial Grade: FAIL.

But come on, dude, I’m pregnant, how can anyone expect a pregnant woman to yell LESS at her unsympathetic, encouragement-incapable, unassistive husband?? It would be unfair to even begin to expect such a thing.

Ultimate Grade: A. Seriously, the guy’s lucky he’s alive. If it weren’t for this resolution, he might have been.

Resolution #7: Being nicer to the Walking Guilt Trip. Initial Grade: Fail.

See #6. Also, I was WAY better before she chose to exert her passive aggressive tendencies regarding a slight propensity of mine to arrive late to engagements. Then she pissed me the f”*& off and I think it is completely understandable that I couldn’t treat her any better than she was treating me; after all, I am only as good as I was raised.

Ultimate Grade: Forgiven. Who could blame me?

Resolution #8: Eat fewer desserts. Initial Grade: Pass. Ish.

While I may have in fact eaten more desserts, I WAS, after all, eating for two for the majority of the year. And I most definitely put extra effort into baking any homemade desserts healthier, which I think may have been the most important factor in my list of options - after all, if I’d just bought cookies instead of making them on my own with some whole wheat flour and maybe some dried fruits, I would have not only been eating less healthy I would also have not had the great exercise of standing on my feet while doing the baking. Plus, I almost always stole any desserts for the baby while no one was looking, which means they didn’t count, which means my dessert consumption most likely decreased, even if we’re NOT counting the healthier bit.
Ultimate Grade: A.

Resolution #9: End the year 5lbs lighter than I began it. Initial Grade: fail.

First of all, I had a baby 3 weeks ago, so let’s just give me a flipping break here. Second of all, when I wrote these damn resolutions, I actually thought I might be pregnant AT THE TIME, which would have meant I had over 3 months to go from my pregnancy weight back down to a reasonable size. As it turned out, the Unsupportive Louse’s sperm were not nearly so potent as we once believed and it took him a few extra months. But let’s not blame him, after all he IS getting old. And since I did just push a baby out of my uterus and have not yet stopped bleeding and therefore can’t yet exercise intensely enough to actually lose any weight, I’d say the 15lbs less weight I have on me today than 3 weeks ago is enough to pass this stupid resolution anyway.
Ultimate Grade: Discarded. But if it had been kept, it would have been an A.

Resolution #10: Writing lots. Inital Grade: fail.

Unless you count solely Facebook status updates, then it’s a Pass with a capital P. But I actually really did write lots for the first 9 whole months of the year. Lots of blogs and lots of e-mails and even the real writing that this resolution was actually intended for: my book. Then my stomach became so massive that my laptop could no longer sit anywhere near my former body and my arms actually could not reach the keyboard and my back could not actually support the excess weight so that even sitting up caused spasms and my bladder became so squashed that I literally had to get up once an hour to pee even overnight which combined with everything else meant I had to spend 12hrs in bed a night to come even remotely close to getting enough sleep, which all led to a complete lack of time, patience or ability to write anything at all during the last few miserable months of my pregnancy. Which means, once again, it could hardly be blamed on me that I did not accomplish all I had hoped to accomplish in those last few months of 2010.
Ultimate Grade: A-. I could have written a few more blogs, yeah? Yeah. I’ll do better this year…promise.

The Many UN-expected Joys of Pregnancy

2010-10-15T10:42:00.000-04:00

Some things women have been taught to expect in pregnancy. The puking, the moodiness, the fatigue, the backaches. Other little joys are just an added bonus.
Because my job is awesome, I get to spend a lot of time in the creepy, dark basement. And, being pregnant, I have recently (perhaps not surprisingly) spent a LOT of time in the basement bathroom.
To save the earth (or more likely to save money) but mostly to add to the creepy ambience of the basement, the bathroom lights are on a motion sensor. Occasionally some other poor soul has spent enough of their life in the basement to need to use the basement bathroom and the lights are actually on for me. Most days, I walk in, they flutter on as I pick out my stall and life goes on as expected. As my bladder currently holds 10cc or less, the bathroom and I are on great terms these days, and I no longer hesitate even a stutter step’s worth before heading on in.
But even the bathroom loves a good joke now and then. Hey, life in the basement has got to be pretty boring, ya can’t blame a guy for wanting a laugh.
And so not once but TWICE this week, I’ve peed in the dark. Absolute pitch-black dark.
At least it was reassuring to discover there is a smoke detector in there.

I Bought a Bridge. And It Was Worth Every Penny.

2010-10-13T09:38:00.003-04:00

I answered my phone one day to an angelically sweet voice asking me hadn’t my Much-Older-and-Ridiculously-Talkative cousin we will heretofore refer to as Motormouth Mary told me she was going to call?
In the 2.7 seconds it took me to respond that No, in fact, Motormouth Mary had NOT told me to expect her call, I had decided that as Motormouth Mary is a teacher, and it was the beginning of the school year, she must have met this new young teacher who had just moved to the area and was lacking a social life and thought of me, as I am clearly more this young voice’s age than Motormouth Mary herself, and thought I could act as her social director.

I’ve got a good imagination. But I was totally wrong. Way, way, way wrong.

Her name was Ida. Who names their kid Ida? It should have been my first clue. She just wanted to give me a quick presentation. 15 minutes, no more. Nothing to buy, I promise. Just get me some credits. It’s for a scholarship. Motormouth Mary said you were so sweet, Penney, I just thought you’d say yes.

I said yes.

First words out of her mouth were, “I’m not a salesman.” Should have been my second clue.

There were scissors. But who NEEDS scissors that cut pennies in half anyway? Of course, the cutting with ease of that terrible indestructible plastic surrounding children’s toys was way cooler.

And there were knives. Knives that sliced through carrots like butter. Knives that chop like the chef does on the Food Network. In MY hands. Knives that cut bread slices in thirds. The thin way. For real. Clearly this is something we all need in our lives.

I bought three.

She was a damn fucking good salesman if you ask me.

When the knives hadn’t come two weeks later, I got buyers remorse. Like WOAH. Because these WEREN’T cheap knives. And we have really nice knives already. REALLY nice. And an electric sharpener. So even though the really nice knives are a bit dull, it should take us approximately twenty-eight seconds to sharpen them all. Not three hundred dollars.

And how exactly would I tell the Unsupportive Louse that I no longer thought the fantastic purchase I had made was most definitely worth the fantastic amount of money I had spent? I’m pregnant. So I didn’t. (This excuse works for numerous things, you should try it sometime.)

The knives finally showed up.

You know how you make a gorgeous homemade loaf of bread and then when you cut it it gets all squished down and kinda torn up and the pieces are still way thicker than they need to be? Not with Cutco’s bread knife.

You know how tomatoes squirt all over the place when you try to slice them? Not with Cutco’s knife.
You know how much of a pain in the ass it is to make that first half cut through a watermelon? Cutco’s butcher knife makes it child’s play.

Yes, I thought, they were indeed a good purchase.

Then I bought a couple pie pumpkins. Jokingly (though admittedly I was the only one in on the joke), I hacked the butcher knife into one a la Freddy Crougar…and cut the damn thing straight through.

Worth every penny.

I’m So Smart, I Don’t Even Believe Myself

2010-10-05T08:14:00.000-04:00

First time pregnant ladies are told a lot of stories. This is simply a proven fact. Stories of someone’s pregnancy, of their wife’s pregnancy, their friend’s pregnancy, their mother’s pregnancy. Most of the stories come with a heavy load of advice. Some simply come with a “you’re fucking screwed” chuckle.

Now, any pregnant woman would go insane if she fully concerned herself with everything that could possibly be taken from these stories - all the things that could go wrong or just go the way pregnancy goes - much less if she tried to follow all the unsolicited, and often conflicting, advice.

But, me being me, all throughout my first pregnancy there was also this little arrogant voice in my head that said, “Yeah, but THAT woman was a dumbass. I’m WAY smarter than she was.” Because, obviously, I’m smart. And spend far too many daytime hours reading pregnancy and health and science and baby and medical studies (all work-related if daytime hours happen to include work hours, of course.) So, it’s clear to me that I know more than the average preggo, and knowing more, am without a doubt treating myself and my parasite – er, fetus – better than all those “normal” women out there. Duh.

Interestingly, I haven’t gotten nearly as many of the un-requested stories or unwelcome advice this time around. I’d like to think people are keeping it to themselves because they know I’ve already been there, done that. More likely though, I’ve just gotten bitchier in the past three years. I’ve probably already forgotten that I ate an annoying storyteller or two and the rumor has gotten around. (I have the slightest touch of pregnancy brain – I walked two blocks past my bus stop the other day without ever wondering where I was going… So really, anything is possible.) Pregnancy brain and digested storytellers aside, it’s not like I don’t remember all the stories and advice from last time around. I do.

But dude, I’m SMART. Even smarter than last time. ‘Cause I HAVE been there, done that. And let’s face it, most of those jackasses were EXAGGERATING. Like…a lot. Scare tactics, you know. I'm almost positive I remember that.

But, while telling myself it wasn’t going to happen to me because I’m smart enough to….drink enough water/eat healthy/not gain too much/not gain too little/keep exercising/blah blah blah…I STILL freaked out about certain things. But it doesn't matte, because looking back, I clearly remember all those stories being way over the top. Swear to it. If everyone were perfect like me they’d be fine. Exaggerated. All of it. Not untrue, no. But definitely exaggerated.

Even my own stories.

See, I remember this ridiculously impossible story where I loudly cursed out my ever-loving Unsupportive Louse for his jackassishness of walking FAR too quickly up the GIGANTIC hill that was the grocery store parking lot.

This is a fantastically embellished tale. Must be. First of all, I don’t curse. Ever. Certainly not in public. Or loudly. And never at a loved one. Ever. Really. Just ask the Unsupportive Louse.

Secondly, and much more importantly, (and perhaps slightly more honestly) I’ve always walked fast. Significantly faster than my 6’5” tall husband. Enough so that sometimes he even whines about it. It would make no sense for me to have slowed down THAT much in just a few short months.
Third of all, after years of walking this same Meijer parking lot…there is no hill. At all. Maybe if you got down on your hands and knees and look at it straight on you could delude yourself into seeing a slight incline. Very slight.
So, as seems to be the case with all pregnancy stories, this one too, must be exaggerated.

Except…suddenly I’m no longer at the head of the crowd when walking away from the bus. And suddenly I’m noticing that a bit of a hill has developed on the way home. A hill I’m almost certain hasn’t been there for the past two years.

And now, I’m slightly terrified. Because maybe that story isn’t so exaggerated after all? And if it’s not…what about that whole labor thing...??

Do I really have to go through with this?

Don’t Get Up for the Pregnant Lady. Really.

2010-09-20T08:52:00.003-04:00

Now that I’ve grown too fat and slovenly to ride my bike ten miles on a daily basis, I’m back to taking the bus to work and daycare. Which, as much as I love the availability and world-saving possibility of the bus…can really be obnoxious.

Because some days I’m running 30 seconds late, and on those days, the bus is right on time and then I’m 20 minutes late. And some days, when I’m right on time, the bus is running 30 minutes late and then, no matter what, so am I. And that’s just not fair really.

And some days, the bus is crowded. Some days, I have to stand. Some days, I have to hold on to that flimsy strap of material way the hell up on that bar that to reach stretches my arm beyond good balance even when I’m not middle-heavy. And I know there are plenty of young women out there these days with beer guts and I know I’m not so pregnant that there is still a good chance to the outside observer that this baby is just a beer baby like all the rest of those girls. And so when I have to stand, I don’t whine. Really, I don’t.

It’s days that I have to stand and watch the jackasses who didn’t bother to get up for me also not bother to get up for an ELDERLY (1) WOMAN (2) whose left leg is clearly not in working order (3) who is fumbling to put her wallet back in her purse because her left hand doesn’t seem to be as functional as the rest of ours (4) and her right hand is desperately holding on to the pole she is forced to hold because those dumb jackasses are pretending to look the other way and not notice her so god forbid they have to give up their precious seat for the next 5 stops.

Even WORSE, there is always one jackass, most often a chatty regular who thinks she owns the bus, with her FLIPPING BAG on the seat next to her, so involved in her overly loud conversation that she can’t possibly observe that the poor woman needs to sit down and she wouldn’t even lose her seat. Her bag (or, in most cases, her three different cat stamped, homemade, Ikea-looking bags) would lose its seat. And now wouldn’t that be tragic.

So really, don’t get up for the pregnant lady. I’ll gladly fall on you. But if you don’t get up for that elderly woman with a bum leg AND bum hand next time? I’ll throw up on you. Because my motion sickness has been getting better and better every time I have to stand on the bus.

Pet Peeve #57,692 (I have a few) - Not NOT Trying

2010-09-16T20:32:00.000-04:00

It seems now that I’m visibly pregnant, everyone wants to tell me their baby story. Some I actually care about, others I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if I tried. But I pretend like the best of them. Probably why they keep talking.

Perhaps I should rethink this great pretending skill of mine?

But not the point, the point is recently, I’ve had several people, especially men, tell me they were “not NOT trying, you know?” when they got pregnant.
No, dipshit, I don’t know.

‘Cause here’s the thing – were you having sex? Without a condom? Without pills? Without a patch or a ring or some spermicide? Or even without the 23% effective rhythm method? And haven’t you, for your ENTIRE life before been terrified of doing precisely what you were doing because you might’ve knocked the girl up? Right. You’re fucking trying. Just because you’re not seeing a doctor or taking hormones or giving your wife a daily shot in her ass or harvesting her eggs doesn’t mean you’re not trying.

You’re doing it, without protection. Joyfully. Not because you’re stupid or drunk or just that fricking horny. You’re god damn TRYING. Just because you haven’t looked at ovulation calendars or bought ovulation kits or taken a temperature daily, or even felt that nasty discharge doesn’t mean you’re not trying.
Oh, and really…just because YOU haven’t? Doesn’t mean your wife hasn’t. You want my opinion? Most of those women telling their husbands they're just going to not NOT try is her way of convincing their dumb ass to try because they were too much of a pansy to actually try.
So next time? Ask for a blowjob. That’ll convince me you’re not not trying.

Warning – This Could Be the Hardest Thing You Have to Do as a Parent

2010-09-03T09:32:00.000-04:00

Now, don’t get me wrong, it could easily not. You could wind up one of the many unlucky parents who has to deal with drugs or truancy or a high-school dropout or a car wreck or a teen pregnancy. All of which would certainly be harder.

But let’s say you have a good teenager. This will undoubtedly be harder than all those endless diaper changes. Late night wake-ups pale in comparison. A litany of “whys” for the rest of your life you could manage. Missed naps and break-downs and temper tantrums can be overcome. Geometry homework? You can do it. Parent-teacher conferences? Time outs? Detentions? Done.

If only you can manage to put together all that cute, tiny baby furniture…without killing your partner.

30 Things I’ve Managed to Accomplish by 30

2010-08-24T18:04:00.003-04:00

On this Holy Day of 2010, your one and only favorite blogger is turning 30. (No, not that one - me, damn it!) And so, for my big day, I’ve decided to make you all a list. A fabulous list of 30 Grand Life Accomplishments that I’ve succeeded in completing, all in less than 30 years.

1- Lived happily in four distinct regions of the US. A non-accomplishment but what I’m saying is I’m not one of those bitchers and whiners constantly complaining about something that’s "just not like [enter home state here]" and I’m damn proud of it.

2- Got a darn good degree from a darn good university that I’ve actually gone on to use. Ha! That’s a good one.

3- Without racking up huge student loan bills. (Despite depleting the savings I had solely because my father died so young…but hell, that IS what it was there for.)

4- While there, wrote several essays and a couple short stories in a foreign language. Even if I couldn’t begin to PRETEND to read them now, I still did it.

5- Found a career I like (most of the time), using the degree I actually got (it’s a science job and science is the degree and even if it’s not biochemistry/chemistry, you all don’t know any better), AND I’m actually good at. Most of the time.

6- Found myself somewhat accomplished in said career, including a first author paper that was featured on the cover of the kinda good journal it was published in! (Even if I am destined to never be fully respected as I do not have a PhD, STILL.)

7- Not yet really regretted not getting my PhD. Most of the time.

8- Drank beyond my limit enough times to learn my limit. Until I got pregnant and had a kid and even the idea of tolerance flew completely out the window, at which point one sip was beyond my tolerance, which doesn't seem to be enough to preclude me from accepting drinks from a cute guy at a bachelorette party, even if I did already tell him I was married, and learning all over again, ten years later, what drinking WAY beyond one’s limit really means. But that’s beside the point. I learned it when it was important.

9- Never been fired (despite #8). And while they might have been contemplating firing me at Round Table Pizza back in college, they were contemplating firing everyone all the time – and either way, I quit before they could make up their minds. Besides, that barely counts as a job at all.

10- Saved a life. Well, no, okay, probably not. But I rode around in an ambulance in the middle of the night with reflective tape declaring “EMT” on my back and got pissy that I’d been woken up AGAIN, as a VOLUNTEER, for a darn stomachache, but I’m sure someone thinks maybe I was some help to them and that’s an accomplishment, right?

11- Managed to remain (mostly) on speaking terms with my entire family, despite me being me and them being…them.

12- Birthed one beautiful baby boy and have grown half way to completion a baby girl and despite this not actually being something I really had anything to do with and being something hundreds of morons do every day, I’m still calling it an accomplishment.

13- AND I did the whole birthing thing with NO drugs the first time around. Granted it wasn’t really my idea, well, no I had that idea BEFOREHAND, but no one knows what the hell they’re talking about beforehand...point being, if I’d had the opportunity during the whole shindig, I would have shot MYSELF up with an epidural, chance of paralysis be damned, but either way, I did it all naturally and that’s an accomplishment.

14- Maintained a few good lasting friendships and a shit ton of Facebook-worthy friends. We all know how much I love Facebook, and Facebook just wouldn’t be Facebook without the 400 friends.

15- Not created (to my knowledge) any lasting enemies. If you know otherwise, just don’t tell me till tomorrow, k?

16- Not killed or physically maimed anyone who may have become a short term or long term enemy, despite any inclination I may have had to do so. With my temper, this is definitely an accomplishment.

17- Managed to get two men to fall desperately enough in love with me to marry me, and only one regretted it. So far.

18- Got divorced before the VAST majority of my friends had even gotten married. Or engaged. Wait, is that an accomplishment? Right, I got that whole “starter marriage” crap out of the way, so you know, that was nice. And learned how the court systems work in three different states along the way! And how shitty divorce really is, in all three states. (Only got divorced in one state, geez, can’t you follow me here, people?) K, let’s just call this an accomplishment and move on.

19- Broken a heart. Or two. Or ten. And had my heart broken back once or twice. Or, more like a dozen times. I like to know the variables on these things.

20- Racked up massive credit card debt (I blame the ex) AND managed to pay it all off again so I have none today. It’s the accomplishment we’re concerned with here folks. If I hadn’t had the debt, I couldn’t have paid it off, now could I have?

21- Actually maintained a savings account that is (finally) staying above the monthly minimum, AND not only that, is increasing! By like, at least $1.27 a month!

22- Begun a retirement fund that would allow me to live somewhere other than the local underpass for my final years…so long as I keep adding to it for the next 50 years or so… and the cost of living doesn’t excessively spike…and the stock market doesn’t crash…again…

23- Started a college fund for my little boy. He’s GUARANTEED to be able to attend at LEAST one semester of college, TOTALLY covered. (Besides books, supplies, rent and probably food.) Totally covered.

24- Bought a beautiful house in a beautiful neighborhood with a mortgage that is actually affordable and I absolutely love. And better always love, because according to my sweet and loving and supportive husband, if I ever want to move again, he’ll kill me.

25- Maintained good (albeit not always great) credit throughout it all. Obama thinks it’s an accomplishment.

26- Gone parasailing despite my fear of heights, ridden a motorcycle despite my fear of speed, constantly tried new things despite my fear of failure AND, most importantly of all, ridden my bike to work daily (in the warm-ish months) despite my ENORMOUS fear of an untimely death by a big rig while biking to work one sunny summer morning.

27- Realized my massive personality flaws (at least a couple of them) and vaguely attempted to do something about them, which never really worked because my biggest flaw is being so damned stubborn even I can’t get through to myself.

28- Ran two marathons and one half-marathon and didn’t do too terribly at them, even if I never will win my age bracket. Or the 65 plus age bracket who always has some hippy-type crazy runners thrown in just to piss people like me off, usually running barefoot as an added insult.

29- Wrote a novel. I haven’t done anything with it, but hey, I wrote it. There’s gotta be something left for the next 30 years, you know.

30- Created a STELLAR blog with even MORE stellar followers. ‘Cause I’m awesome.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive...Occasionally

2010-08-17T10:55:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing. When you’re having your first baby, (especially if first baby happens to be the first grandchild cubed, and the first great-grandchild quadrupled), you barely have to spit out the “p-word” before the gifts start rolling in. Everybody and their brother and their brother’s mother is excited for you. Everybody wants to give you something.

The gifts range from the extreme (a couple hundred bucks worth of goods from some distant friend of the family whom neither of you have ever met) to the extremely heartfelt (knitted homemade blankets and croqueted homemade blankets and quilted homemade blankets…and throw in a knitted bonnet or two for variety…) When I finally stopped counting I believe the Energizer Bunny had 14 homemade blankets, including the one I naively chose to labor hours and days and weeks over myself before realizing it would be joined in the laundry basket coated in spit up and by a permanent smell only a mother could love, by 13 other equally heartfelt and quite possibly better constructed homemade blankets, 17 brand-new store bought blankets and 12 hand-me down blankets. Not to say I don’t love every one. Of course I do. There are just a lot… Because a lot of people care. A lot of people are excited. And everyone wants you to know.

In stark contrast, there’s the poor neglected second pregnancy. You know, it’s not like no one cares, it’s just they ALREADY told you this. They already tossed you a couple hundred bucks for your first baby and they still haven’t even seen the kid. They already spent hours and days and weeks pouring love into a teeny tiny baby blanket that you so carelessly allowed to be spit upon and chewed on and torn at the seam and in the measly, pitiful three months that you actually bothered to use the beautiful creation in which they weaved a tiny piece of their soul, you only managed to get one picture of it in use (out of the 15327 pictures you took…after all, it was your first baby) and that can only mean you really didn’t FULLY appreciate the amount of effort and love put into the homemade blanket to begin with… So why the hell would they make another one? Why the hell would they buy another gift?

Fact is, they won’t. But it’s not that they don’t care. They do. It’s just maybe not quite as much. And even if they did care as much (which they don’t, not quite, no matter what they say), you’ve still GOT all the shit from the first one. What could you possibly want? Much less need?
But I DOOOO want things. And NEED things. No, really. Desperately need. All right, not a desperate need like an air conditioner in the Sahara Desert but more like a desperate need for a raise when your bills are already covered, you’ve got plenty of food on your table and you’re putting 10% in savings, just not enough for all the fun things you want to do. So you know, good ol’ fashioned American desperation for more stuff.

But we’re not going to be able to buy EVERY thing we (and by we I mean the baby and by the baby I mean mostly me) desperately need. And there’s no politically correct baby shower for the second baby. There aren’t oodles of friends to buy us oodles of things so we don’t have to spend every penny we’ve managed to save in the last three years on all the new desperate needs that we have (which is approximately 5 pennies anyway.)

So we asked. Against my better judgment, we put a politically incorrect not-quite-request out for more desperately needed shit. Hoping, hoping, hoping, that maybe we’d really get some of it. That someone would care just enough to fill in one or two of the huge gaping gaps in our already overstuffed nursery.

And someone did.

The most fantastic Female PILL ever (and most of us either have one, had one or are one, and let's face it, there still aren't many we can call fantastic) bought the fantastically overpriced (but new! and exciting! and patented…) sit-n-stand stroller for the second child. This baby will be overjoyed to know that her paternal grandmother really did care that there was yet ANOTHER baby coming along. At least she’ll know there’s one.

The Guilt Trip in a Nutshell

2010-08-10T12:31:00.000-04:00

My little family recently had the vast and undeniable pleasure of being secluded in the middle of nowhere, in a tiny cabin, with no recognizable escape, with my mother – The Walking Guilt Trip, and my brother – The Mooch. Now, to clarify, this is a family “reunion” of sorts – in which the brother who lives with me, and the mother who lives 4 miles from me are confined to even smaller quarters, while the sister who lives 3000 miles away and therefore might be enjoyable to see for at least 57 seconds has backed out.

For my part of the duties while isolated in the wilderness with said loving relations, I had the joy and pleasure of doing something completely new and exciting. Cooking. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. New. And exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. It’s just, you know…vacation… (please add sufficiently annoying whiny voice.)

Standing in the kitchen while the chitlins splashed and played in the lake and on the boats, I slaved away at yet another meal.

The Walking Guilt Trip, needing to pee, enters said kitchen through the side deck door. Perhaps some of her own guilt trippage slipped into her beverage that morning, because on return to the fun area of life, she asks, “Could I help with anything?” While her swimsuit drips on my toes.

This is quite an unusual offering. I internally debate my options. Deny her and be made to feel ungrateful for everything she has offered and provided throughout the years? Or accept and have to hear how she “helped cook” all week, and probably all year, long? I chose the latter.

“There’s some bacon to crumble and chives to chop over there if you want. Otherwise, I think I’m fine.”

She stares at me with that blank stare of hers while I pretend to ignore her and contentedly cut my tomatoes.

Without a word, she walks off and organizes her stuff in the living room.

When she returns, she watches me put my cute little tomato cubes on bread slices for a minute or two. “Do you need help with that?”

You’ll Thank Me Someday

2010-08-05T11:17:00.002-04:00

One beautiful sunny morning I am happily singing along in the kitchen to show tunes or something equally cheesy, cheerfully chopping veggies and spices for our crock-pot dinner so I won’t spend the gorgeous evening hours cooped inside cooking and yet my perfect little family will still have a fantastic home-cooked meal made by none other than me.

As lucky as I am to be blessed with such a loving and wonderful family, and home, and food, and summer (and any other crap you can add to the list) let’s not forget I am also lucky enough to be joyfully pregnant. And by pregnant, I, in this case, really mean immunosuppressed. ‘Cause that’s right folks, I’ve gotten every fuc*ing illness you can think of in the past 19 weeks, 6 days and 8 hours.

So I’m happily chopping away at a jalapeno or two, singing a show tune or two, when, not surprisingly at all, my nose begins to twitch. To quiver. To, maybe, just a little bit, run. My memory SWEARS to me I finished the chopping, tossed the jalapenos in the slow-cooker, rinsed my hands and grabbed a tissue from the bathroom.

But I’ve been known to suppress a memory or two.

Back in the kitchen, I move on to the green peppers. Chop, chop, chop. ABBA song lyric.

My nose twitches again. My first thought? A simple “stupid runny nose.” And then, the twitch became more of an itch…maybe a little bit of a sting. Maybe even a burn. And before I had time to wonder “What the FU*K?” My eyes were watering from the searing pain of what could only be a jalapeno acid burn.

Shit, shit, shit.

I rinse with water. Repeatedly. Soap. Up my nose. As much as I can get. No effect.

Finally, in desperation, and I could only ever admit something like this in a most desperate form of desperation, I yell to the Unsupportive Louse a demand for cures possibly including a burst of offensive language. Completely unlike me.

He suggests vinegar. Vinegar, he claims, neutralizes lye burns. Lye and jalapeno might, perhaps, maybe, possibly, be in the same category. Kinda. I hastily pour half a bottle of distilled vinegar up my nose. As if the Unsupportive Louse planned it, the burn instantly INTENSIFIES. Beyond belief.

I further swear at the louse and demand information from the internet, a clearly more reliable source. Google knows everything.

While I await his quite pointedly unhurried web search, I have an epiphany. Baking soda. Sodium bicarbonate. Used in undergraduate chemistry laboratories across the country to neutralize the pH of countless solutions before pouring the shit down the drain. This is a BRILLIANT idea.

I expeditiously make a paste through my pain. Shove it up my nose. Gag, snort, sneeze. And realize the burn has decreased NOT AT ALL.

“Most of these pages just say to avoid getting the oil on your skin to begin with.” My very, very, very helpful husband calls from the other room where he has yet to push his ass up out of his lazy-boy, not even to reach for his laptop. I feel the concern oozing from his every pore.

I’m quite certain I called him a name or two.

Unfazed, he patiently waits for my tirade to end before lackadaisically mentioning, “Wait, this one says to try milk. Maybe?”

There is just no easy way to pour a gallon jug of milk into your nose. With yet another Einstein-ian idea I fill a bowl full and dunk half my face in. I come up sputtering, dripping, gasping for breath. And still breathing fire.

My only hope is to inflict serious injury on the Unsupportive Louse in order to decrease my own pain. I swear it works. It’s kind of like voodoo.

So I storm to the living room imagining the various instruments I can torture him with, visualize myself dumping the whole crockpot on his head – imagine where the jalapenos might land! Because misery truly does love company.

Not even aware his very life is threatened, he barely saves himself with just one more suggestion. “This person swears by sour cream.”

At first, the thought of shoving sour cream up my nose only makes me want to cause him greater agony and torment. But you can only imagine someone else’s pain to decrease your own for so long and the very fibers of my nose were shouting, screaming, pleading to be helped. And so I did it. I tried one last thing. I thrust some sour cream up my nose.

Relief. Sweet, sweet, instantaneous relief.

And so, my friends, one day, when you have been negligent enough to chop a jalapeno pepper (or worse!) without wearing your rubber gloves…and if, by chance, you carelessly rub a more sensitive area of skin with the tiniest tip of a finger before you thoroughly wash away the oil, you, on that day, will thank me. On that day, you will never be happier to force sour cream up your nose.

I say in advance: You’re welcome.

Whacha Makin?

2010-08-03T10:06:00.001-04:00

Some days…okay, every day…when the Mooch saunters lazily into the kitchen, conveniently (and completely uncomplicitly) catching me in the middle of dinner preparations and asks, “What’s for dinner?” I really just want to yell, “None of your god-damned business!”

Which is completely at odds with the nice little family scene that will take place at the kitchen table just 20 minutes from then when we all sit down with our cloth napkins and calmly ask each other, one and all, “How was your day?” and considering he will, indeed, be eating said meal-in-preparation with us and it therefore, maybe a little bit, IS kind of his business.

So, why, I ask myself, do I still have this overwhelming NEED to curse him out of my kitchen? A part of it is more obvious – that he makes little contribution to the household and if he’s lucky enough to get a homemade dinner to eat, he’d better just shove it and eat without complaining.

But, unfortunately, I must tell you, this is only a small part of my reasoning I discovered during my deep soul-searching.

For the other part, I can only blame my mother. You see, the other part is my concern, my worry, my FEAR that, perhaps, just perhaps, my big brother won’t actually LIKE what I’m making for dinner. That he won’t APPROVE of my choice.

I’m concerned that my older brother, who lives with his little sister, in her house, with her husband and kids, might not approve of my meal.

That my big brother who leaves my good wedding china in his room until the food is dried and caked on so effectively that it has to soak for days before it comes off might not like what I’m cooking.

That the mooch who makes a bigger mess around his plate than our 3-year old every night and has never once, in two years, cleaned a single dish* much less the table, might dislike my choices.

That my big brother who quits jobs and avoids new ones like they’re STDs** might disapprove of ME.

That my big brother who never bothers cleaning up those nasty little pubic hair looking shaving remnants from around the sink, who goes for weeks without using toothpaste because he forget to write it on MY grocery list and couldn’t possibly buy any himself (because, after all, he didn’t NEED to go to the store in all that time), who misses the bowl and blames it on the toilet leaking might be judging ME.

This kind of concern can only be blamed on the guilt trippage of my mother (as clearly, all things must be blamed on SOMEONE). And I believe I lived with my mother far too long for therapy. I am beyond all help.

* he does occasionally claim to “do the dishes” which involves him putting (generally without rinsing) his own single plate and possibly his glass as well into the dishwasher. He has not yet once started the dishwasher, nor has he put any dishes away to my memory.

**did you know they’re called STIs now??

What You Just Might Have to Look Forward to if You're Not Good

2010-07-23T13:59:00.005-04:00

Try something for me. It'll make this just a teensy bit more understandable for you. Close your eyes and try not to move your eyeballs or twitch your lids even just the teensiest tiniest little bit at all. For a whole minute. Think you did good? Now try it for a whole day. Think you're still doing good? Now imagine putting the barb from one of those really annoying plants that gets caught on you clothes and takes froever to pick out under your eyelid so that if you actually DO move your eyeball just the minutest amount or wiggle your eyelid ever-so-slightly, you'll feel it. And it'll hurt like hell. I mean, those little fuckers have prickles all over them and their fucking little barbs get caught in everything.

K, but you're not done yet. Now, put that barb-y planty thingy in there, then add a light-sensitive dimension to the pain - every time you look at light, or every time the intensity of light changes - say the sun goes behind a cloud or someone turns off a light down the hall, or your neighbor's motion sensor light flips on and off every time the wind blows that god-damned tree branch in front of it? any time something like that happens, the barb gets squished in your eye. Like, someone huge shoves their fist in your eye and holds it there for 15 or 20 seconds.

Now, the day this first occurs, add an emergency room visit, with fucking brilliant fluorescent lights and constant flashes and inconsiderate arrogant assholes opening and closing flimsy curtains designed to keep nothing out and constant loud noises (which attract your attention and FORCE your eyes to move...really, try it) and only a dentist's chair to sit in.

Stay in that emergency room for a minimum of 7 hours, until 4 in the morning, ensuring that you WILL NOT get a good night's sleep.

For fun, throw in a nurse's warning that the numbing drops they've been pouring profusely into your eyes for the past 7 hours (causing burning and stinging sensations just before your eye goes mindlessly numb and your head begins to spin from some weird side effect) WILL MELT YOUR CORNEA if you use them too much. But not tell you how the fuck too much is too much, of course, and you KNOW she has no idea how many medical students and residents and attendings and specialists and opthamologists and janitors have come in and dumped some of the shit in your eye in the last 5 hours. So now you've got a nagging worry in the back of your mind. Just a little one. After all, you have one good eye.

Now stay in bed for two days, unable to read, unable to watch TV (cause THAT fucking hurts) unable to have conversations (you'd be shocked that you can't just keep your damned eyeball still while you talk), unable to pee because you can't find your way to the bathroom, unable to eat because the food can't find it's own damn way to your mouth, unable to cry because it hurts like a bitch.

Then have the brilliant 83 year old opthamologist tell you he's not happy with the way your special little 3-yr old's finger hole in your eye is healing, and have him SHOVE gauze in your eye (which, PS, hurts), tape it on your face with approximately 67 pieces of surgical tape (which isn't SUPPOSED to come off), in what he calls a "pressure patch." Now stay like that for another day. Peel the tape off, because you're NOT ALLOWED to just leave it on there until the stickiness just fades away, you've got to peel it out of your eyebrows and sideburn fuzz. Because that's what hell is.

And here is the reason why you need to eat your vegetables and mind your manners and not chase girls and be nice to animals and clean up your room and not waste your food and all those other things that your Momma always told you you should do. Because this could be just one of the many versions of hell that you may have to look forward to in your afterlife. And believe me, you don't want it.

That’s It. We’re Suing.

2010-07-01T11:30:00.002-04:00

A little over a year ago, we had some good friends who were moving out of town, selling their house and moving into an apartment for awhile. As their move coincided closely with the beginning of our first spring in our new house with a gloriously huge backyard, these friends were nice enough to donate, free of charge, their lawn mower to us.

Which was fantastic. And we used the lawn mower all last spring and summer and fall on our gloriously huge backyard and all this spring and… then the fucker broke down. Approximately ¾ of the way through the yard. Which, I might add, makes the yard look fantastically terrible.

Of course the Unsupportive Louse spent hours letting it cool and checking the oil and triple-checking the gas and unclogging the blades and re-priming the primer-y thingy and yanking on the cord-y start-y thingy. And nothing worked.

And of course there was all sorts of swearing and all sorts of “shits not made like it used to be” yells and “good money” curses thrown in to unintelligibly mumbled screams. Of course, it wasn’t OUR good money, but I’m sure SOMEONE paid good money for it.

When slightly calmer, the Unsupportive Louse decides that we should opt for a hand powered push mower in the future, rather than rely on machinery that’s bound to die or need repairs in no time at all, and being the environmentalist hippy that I am, I think this is a great plan.

The next day, he purchases our first hand mower. And painfully (oh so very painfully) puts the thing together. Because it seems hand mowers, like all of Santa’s best toys, don’t come assembled. Once we’re happily back in the land of cursing and yelling, the damn thing is pulled and dragged and kicked and manhandled into the backyard to finish off that last crappy looking bit that now has massive dandelions that are actually bold enough to laugh out loud at the new mower…and with good reason.

The thing blew. Some spots The Unsupportive Louse went over a dozen times before it looked vaguely trimmed. And even then, the dandelions would simply pop back up and spit in his eye before spewing their seeds across the rest of the lawn.

So it gets thrown into the back of the very manly cruck and driven right back to the store (possibly with a few corners taken a few miles too fast just to teach the damn thing a lesson) and returned. With no replacement purchased. I refrain from asking any questions.

But the grass is growing fast this rainy season and I can’t stay too quiet for too long. And my very own little old lady of a mother used a hand mower for years while she lived all alone and lonely after we’d all deserted her in California. They can’t all be terrible. So back the cruck goes to a different hardware store and home comes a new hand mower, assembly required.

Yelling, screaming, cursing ensues, lawn mowing is attempted…and you guessed it, the lawn wins again.

And so now we must discuss what our plans are, because clearly we (and by we, I mean he) cannot purchase, assemble, and return a hand mower EVERY week for the rest of the summer.

We’ve come to a decision. We’ve decided to sue the friends who gave us the lawn mower that broke down in the first place. After all, this pain and suffering and loss of valuable family time and gas money and mental anguish is truly their fault for giving us, free of charge, such a shoddy lawn mower in the first place. I think this is a fair and reasonable decision. (And as an added bonus, will place us firmly back in the sphere of “Californians” rather than “Midwesterners” which we’d really prefer not to be considered, 'cause, dude, they're weird.)

So – you know who you are. The next time your doorbell rings? You’ve been served. And it serves you right.

PLEEEASE, Mommy?

2010-06-28T11:27:00.001-04:00

It was one of THOSE mornings…

One of those mornings when I overslept and I’m already running late and everything is going wrong and I keep forgetting things and the Energizer Bunny is doing everything he can to slow down the process and then it happens.

He declares he wants me to stay home. “Alllllll day, forever and ever and ever.”

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I’d just gone from being really late to might as well have called in sick ‘cause you didn’t have any time to get any work done anyway late.

Commence Energizer Bunny crying. And what kind of a mother would I be if I left the Energizer Bunny crying for his Mommy? And what kind of a wife would I be if I simply left it for the Unsupportive Louse to deal with? And so, of course, like all good mothers and wives would do, I stayed.

Half and hour later, the Energizer Bunny was physically holding me down (I’m sure I could have thrown him off, but this takes us back to the “what kind of a mother would I be if…” question and really, this isn’t a question I want to have to ask myself more than once in a day), all while holding my bike helmet hostage to be certain I won’t be able to leave, even if I do attempt a violent escape.

Having tried everything else, I put on my sternest grown-up voice and say, “Bunny, I AM going to work RIGHT NOW, so you need to let me up and give me a kiss goodbye.” I can’t be ALL mean, geez. And I get up. And he seems to be okay with this. And then he runs off with my helmet. Dammit.

So I track him down and try to convince him it’s really a better idea for me to have my own helmet than his tiny yellow frog-speckled helmet, as, after all, it doesn’t fit me.

And then I did it. I am ashamed to say… I used a tactic my mother would have used. I tried to guilt him. I’m hanging my head. It was a last ditch effort, the only thing left that I hadn’t tried. But you’re right, it was terrible none-the-less. But never fear, in the end, I got what I deserved.

You see, my father used to ride his bike to work, and my father (who wore a helmet every time he rode) was hit by a truck and was killed. On his bike. On his way to work. It’s a terrible story. But the little, sweet, innocent, conniving, manipulative Energizer Bunny who is holding my helmet hostage has heard it before. So I simply reminded him that sometimes, only sometimes, people driving aren’t careful, or if a biker isn’t wearing their helmet – a helmet that fits them well- maybe, just maybe, something terrible could happen. Say…that person could die. So please, pretty please, may I have my helmet to wear to bike today?

The Energizer Bunny screams “NOOOO! I WANT you to DIE!” I told you I got what I deserved.

I closed my eyes to control the milieu of emotions coursing through my head and simply said, “Sweetie, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

He screws up his face in concentration and then, as he’s been so well taught, asks in a calm and rational voice, “Please, Mommy, can I take your helmet so you can die?”

Mexican Mishap #4 - Goggles? Weed?

2010-06-21T10:38:00.000-04:00

Ever since last summer when the Energizer Bunny watched the Male Pill swim out into the ocean with his goggles on, he has been obsessed with goggles. (An obvious obsession, really.) And every visit, he asks the Male Pill where his goggles are.

So for this vacation, the Male Pill visited one of his favorite (read: dollar) stores and purchased a pair of goggles for the Energizer Bunny.

Upon arriving in Mexico, the Male Pill related this information to us and brought us to their room, opened the closet in which the goggles were stashed...and out poured the very strong, very clear scent of good ol' marajuana.

The Unsupportive Louse and I crinkled our noses and gave each other funny looks, but waited until we'd left the room to comment, as it seemed the Pills were completely unaffected by the overwhelming smell.

Perhaps, we surmised, the previous tenants of the room had hidden their stash in that closet and the stench simply carried over. Perhaps. But it was awfully strong. It would be HILARIOUS to me if my in-laws had taken up the habit of smoking weed. HILARIOUS. So funny I wish I could say I thought it was true.

(In an aside here, I'd like to add that the goggles were too big for the Energizer Bunny otherwise, this story may have had a very different ending, most likely including Custom officials and drug dogs and jail time...)

But we brought those goggles back to our room, tossed them on the table and headed out for lunch. And when we came back? The ENTIRE condo-type "room" (kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom, two full bathrooms...) the ENTIRE thing smelled of maryjane. As if the maids had come in and had a full-blown, no holds barred joint smoking party while we were gone, then cleaned up after themselves (as all good maids would), and continued on cleaning other rooms, red-eyed and giggly.

Picking up the goggles by the strap, I held them to my nose. And made what I can only imagine was the most attractive face I made all week. Even in light of the back-flipping beach gymnasts. The damn things SMELLED.

So we decided to put them out on the porch overnight, let them air out a bit. Nothing a little ocean air and hurricane force winds can't fix.

Wrong. TWO days and nights later, those damn 99cent goggles still smelled like they'd been smuggled into the country amongst and entire shipment of cannabis.

So we thought maybe we'd soak them in some hot, soapy water. We put them in the sink, with hot as can be water slowly draining and constantly replenishing with fresh hot water, an entire bottle of the hotel shampoo crap poured in...for 6 hours (environmentalists be damned!) and they STILL smelled like a drug bust waiting to happen.

Run them through the dishwasher? Take them in the pool with the chlorine? In ocean's salt water?

Nope, nope, nope.

We left the damn things on the porch. Hope some maid's kid gets a nice high off of them.

Mexican Mishap #3 - Beach Acrobatics

2010-06-18T11:32:00.000-04:00

Energizer Bunny, the Unsupportive Louse and I are busily making a fortress of sand castles when construction on my left abruptly stops. I scan the beach to see the cause of the delay (while the Energizer Bunny takes this interruption in supervision to destroy the entire aforementioned fortress.) My eyes flow past dark tans on toned bodies, string bikinis, silicon boobs - these things are just too commonplace in our beautiful resort town for even the Unsupportive Louse to stop filling a sand bucket.

And then I see them. Three extremely athletic, extremely shapely, extremely beautiful, extremely tanned, extremely young, extremely blond women. In bikinis. On the ocean's wave line. Doing back-flips. No joke. Back flips.

The Unsupportive Louse begins, "If they can do the splits..."

I quickly admonish him - "You have a CHILD on the way, don't even finish that THOUGHT." (as if it would make a difference)

He simply smiles the smile of the Cheshire cat. "If they can do the splits, I might have several children on the way."

Mexican Mishap #2 - Repeat Performance

2010-06-17T09:17:00.000-04:00

I loved our Mexican vacation, but we DID spend a week with the Pills...and I can't spend an entire week with my in-laws without complaining about *something.*

Saturday -

Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)

Me - some extended version of "Yup, he really is." while it is the Unsupportive Louse's high school friend and not mine that is coming to visit, really, he doesn't know much about his own life any more, it's best I just head things off at the pass and answer for him.

Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"

Me - some extended version of "Sure did."

Tuesday -

Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)

Me - slightly abridged version of "Yup, he really is."

Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"

Me - slightly abridged version of "Sure did."

Wednesday

Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)

Me - pretending to help the Energizer Bunny so my massive eye roll is not quite so obvious, thus leaving the Unsupportive Louse (who HAS BEEN PRESENT for BOTH other conversations, I will remind you) to answer the question

Unsupportive Louse - "Uh, yeah, I think so."

Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?" I AM NOT kidding you that the words were EXACTLY the same. EXACTLY.

Unsupportive Louse - "Um. I don't know, I think so. Do you know, babe?"

The apple truly does not fall far from the tree, does it?

Mexican Mishap #1 - The Best Laid Plans

2010-06-16T10:58:00.000-04:00

If you know me at all, you know I'm slightly (ever so very slightly) OCD. I tend to plan my life...my ENTIRE life, down to teeny-tiny minute details, years ahead of time. And write it down so I won't forget. Of course, I must admit, the minute details do not *always* work out quite the way they were planned...but I continue to plan them all the same.

So of course I planned for our 2010 beach vacation while planning for our future child beginning approximately two years ago...I mean really, who wouldn't? We knew (read: I knew I could convince the Unsupportive Louse to agree with me) that we wanted our children to be about 3 years apart. And after considering beach vacation time frame, I decided to start systematically raping the Unsupportive Louse... I mean we decided to start "trying" in October - giving myself a month or two for conception, this brought me to about 6 months pregnant for vacation time.

While this may not be the most comfortable time in the world to travel, there are more important things in life than travelling folks. And besides, it's not as bad as 7 or 8 months, I'd survive. But most importantly, a 6-month pregnant woman looks pregnant. Looking obviously pregnant garners a woman sympathy and favors completely unrequested. Because everyone knows she is pregnant. And everyone feels bad that she has to be pregnant on vacation. On the beach. Or for the poor dude she's with. But whatever, as long as I'm the one that gets the goods, they can feel as bad for him as they want.

Now, a THREE-month pregnant woman, who has gained only 5 lbs (but, in my completely impersonal opinion, looks significantly larger than just 5 extra pounds) really just looks decidedly pudgy and a bit jiggly... just a bit fat. No matter what swimsuits said pregnant woman might have bought to try to cover up the flab while accentuating the PREGNANT look of the belly.

And sure, YOU say it's all fine and good that a 3-month pregnant woman looks a little flabby. Because, after all, YOU'RE not the one who is 3-months pregnant and on the beach. In a swimsuit. In a resort surrounded by liposections and tummy tucks and silicon breasts and fake-bake tans and paid-for-perfection.

Those damn emaciated, tanned, toned, implanted bathing beauties? They can't tell a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway is pregnant. They just think she's a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway. Damn sluts.

The Guilt Returns

2010-06-08T10:32:00.000-04:00

That's right, my mother is back in town. She was off galavanting across the world as if she's retired (she is) for three weeks. And it was a calm, pleasant, peaceful three weeks.

We told her the day before she left that I was pregnant.

We didn't talk to her at all while she was gone. (She was in Europe, this has nothig to do with me not missing her guilt trips.)

As soon as she returned, she came over to see the Energizer Bunny. She played baseball with the Energizer, she showed us her pictures from her trip, she ate dinner with us. She talked non-stop.

She did not once ask me how I'd been feeling. She did not once ask us how doctor's appointments went or how the Princess took it, or how the mooch took it (after all, he might get even less attention from us if we have another one!), or how the Energizer Bunny was handling it - he was the first to know - or how my boss took the news. Nothing.

Though she did bring home a pair of slippers, sized 12 months, one can only assume are for a new baby as they wouldn't have fit the Energizer Bunny for the past two years.

Still, as she's about to leave, I think to myself, that wasn't SO bad. She may still be slightly self-centered, but at least there was none of that other standard Walking Guilt Trip stuff. Maybe I'm just too hard on her.

And then as she's walking out the door, she gives me a guilt trip. See, we're leaving for vacation just three days after she returns. And going on vacation with the OTHER set of grandparents. What TERRIBLE people we are.

Does it make me an even worse person if I say I don't think I'll miss her while we're gone?

My Biggest Pregnancy Fear

2010-06-05T08:22:00.002-04:00

The one thing that TERRIFIED me about this whole getting pregnant thing (besides the gaining of 3 billion pounds, the possibility of permanent stretch marks, the mutilage of my girly parts, the weight of bringing another life onto our overcrowded and dying earth and then of sending that new little life straight into therapy...) was telling my boss.

Don't get me wrong, my boss is kind, understanding, friendly, family-oriented - any good word or phrase you can think of to describe a boss, probably describes mine. (Even "seldom there!")

But I was still terrfied.

So I made the Unsupportive Louse come with me. Because this time if my boss threatened to fire me if I didn't come back after 6 weeks maternity leave, I was going to have a WITNESS damn it! And he is the douche that knocked me up after all!

So he did. He stood by my side and smiled at all the right times and looked all proud of his sperm at all the right times and said all the right things at all the right times. (If anyone ever tells you that man isn't supportive, you shouldn't believe a damn word that comes out of their mouth!)

And my boss congratulated me and didn't bat an eye when I told him I wanted to take four months off.

And now my worst fears are over. Besides the whole mutilation of my girly parts thing... (It's not too late to change my mind, is it??)

Conception Story

2010-05-27T14:21:00.000-04:00

Because you all want to know EXACTLY how this baby was conceived, right?

Right.

So, it was decided, by us, on towards a year ago or so, that we would begin “trying” for our #2 soon. Three-ish years separation is a good one, we thought. It was then decided (by me, because, I’m the one that really matters since I’m the one who’s going to be, you know, PREGNANT) that I did not want to miss (or otherwise HATE) our summer vacations because I was 18 months and 9000lbs pregnant. I thus decided to put off the trying until October, which, if we conceived in the first second post-IUD removal would make our children precisely three years apart. As The Energizer Bunny was…shall we say “no problem” to conceive, I assumed #2 would not be either. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think they’d be precisely 3 years apart. In fact, it would have annoyed me if their birthdays were REALLY close together. But I expected them to be 3 years and 1 month apart…maybe 2…

So 5 ½ months go by with no success, due completely and totally to my body’s lack of any kind of schedule. Apparently my uterus has become just as lackadaisical about her work schedule as I am about mine…don’t worry, she gets the work done, just kinda, you know, whenever she wants to do it.

By this point, of course, I have mastered the time-honored ovulation discerning technique known as the “Cervical Mucus Method.”

Oh, I tried the easier ones, like the Basal Body Temperature, but it turns out I’m constantly living in a half-dead state based on my body temperature, which never rises above 96 degrees based on my home thermometer (despite the fact that the thing works appropriately in both the Unsupportive Louse and the Energizer Bunny…) But even ignoring my near-zombie-ness (which would explain a lot really) and blaming the stupid broken thermometer my temperature never fluctuated the entire 1.4 degrees it was expected to, to show ovulation had occurred or was about to occur or whatever. If I hadn’t managed to conceive previously, I would have at this point, completely freaked out. Instead, I threw the thermometer away. (Nice digital one too. Damn it.)

I want you all to know that I am completely, absolutely, utterly horrified by the mere THOUGHT of the Cervical Mucus Method. Probably not as much as you men reading this, but close enough. Nevertheless, lives were at stake. I rallied my courage and even managed not to puke. And quite confidently figured the grossness out in just two cycles.

So 5 ½ months after the “trying” begins, produces much grossness and no fertilized egg, I count very scientifically on my fingers and realize a baby conceived during whatever week my crazy ass uterus decides to ovulate this cycle would be due right around Christmas. And ugh, what a terrible time of year to be about to pop. Imagine the holiday parties you have to stand on your feet and look happy and talk with people you barely like that you couldn’t even drink at. Imagine the pain of getting gifts ready and wrapped and the house cleaned and the tree trimmed all while 9 months pregnant? Lord, imagine the in-laws being in town when you ACTUALLY deliver??

So we decided to take the month off. Now, remember we’d been trying with no success forever, so taking the month off just meant I didn’t force the Unsupportive Louse into un-consensual sex a few days of the month when it seemed most likely to be good timing. (This included the calendar method based on a 28 day cycle, and the calendar method based on my shortest and longest cycles in the last 5 months and the evil Cervical Mucus Method. Generally none of the 4 lined up which meant there was a whole lot of un-consensual sex going on.) Taking the month off did NOT mean abstinence (who the hell do you think I am?) nor did it mean actually using some sort of contraception, I mean, really, we are TRYING to get pregnant, that would just be dumb.

Only a day or two after my monthly bleeding session (sorry boys) I happened to notice (no, I wasn’t really checking, we weren’t trying, remember??) that my cervical mucus seemed to be telling me I was ovulating. As this is clearly impossible, being that a NORMAL uterus would wait 2 weeks before ovulating, I ignored said cervical mucus.

So of course we got pregnant.

Due date – December 20.

(Or Dec 27 if you use a normal cycle calendar, which the stupid nurse insisted on doing…because she knows more about my body than me.)

Love of my Life

2010-05-24T10:14:00.001-04:00

Let me just say, it seems I'm frickin' terrible at keeping secrets. Other people's? Fine, whatever, it's probably not as excitng as they think it is anyway. But my own? EVERYBODY MUST KNOW NOW!!

So I am proud to say, you all, my fabulous blog followers/readers/stalkers will be the first to know this long-kept secret of mine. Besides the Pills, the Walking Guilt Trip, The Princess, the Energizer Bunny, obviously the Unsupportive Louse, and a few select friends who water-boarded me/twisted my arm/didn't even really ask but maybe hinted in the right direction and I gave in. But you are the first ones I don't HAVE to tell, and I'm telling anyway! Because you are so special to me. Even more special than my Facebook friends. Or maybe just because this blog doesn't quite work as well without said secret being revealed.

So here goes... I'm pregnant!! (All females, please read this to mean - I expect lots of oohs and aahs and is it a boy or girls? and what are you gonna name thems? and traded pregnancy stories and birth stories and baby stories for the next 6 months or so. All males, please read this to mean - I now have an absolute right to be the biggest, mood-swingiest, crankiest, tiredest, manipulativest, demandingest bitch you've ever met, and you're still required to think I'm beautiful and sexy and sweet and loving for at LEAST the next 9 or 10 months.)

Now, for the real story.

This first trimester has kicked me on my flipping ass. I'm exhausted, I'm drained, I'm cranky, I'm moody, I'm just plain tired.

Friday night after work the Unsupportive Louse offered to cook dinner, and let me relax and read and go to bed early - I was absolutely in heaven. What a wonderful man, husband, father, partner, love of my life. So caring, so understanding, so perfect. He even brought home ice cream. My life is perfect. Ideal. A fantasy, a fairy tale. I married Prince Charming. Not even Cinderella is happier than me.

Two hours after I head up to bed to read in blissful peace and ignorance of the rest of the household, imagining the romantic things we can do when he makes it up to bed and I'm actually well-rested... the ever-present Mooch barges in to the room. "Hey, I'm pretty sure the Unsupportive Louse is passed out down there. I didn't want to wake him up." So he woke me up instead. Of course.

I groan and pull myself out of bed and head down to see if he's perhaps exaggerating the situation. It is, after all, barely 9:00. (In other news, the Energizer Bunny's regular bedtime is now 10:00 as he wakes up before the college version of myself went to bed if he falls asleep any earlier than 10.)

Turning the corner from the stairway, I see the Energizer Bunny expertly turning off the TV and DVD player with the remote (we don't even have cable, there's no reasonable explanation for his knowledge in this capacity.) He then informs me he just watched a WHOOOOLE movie. The WHOOOOLE thing. He is very proud of this fact.

And....slouched off his bean bag chair in the middle of the floor is the Unsupportive Louse. Snoring, mouth hanging open, drooling. The Energizer Bunny runs over to him and tackles him with gusto, climbs on top of him and jumps off. Repeats. The Unsupportive Louse doesn't move.

Spread around him is our favorite board game, the one we don't let the Energizer Bunny play with, ever... it's hundreds of tiny pieces out of their individual bags, spread from the TV to the window to the couch, the cards out of their boxes, all shuffled together, along with the tiny circles game board pieces.

On the end table is his "mystery cup." The cup he's held on to since college like a talisman of days when he could do what he wanted when he wanted and never have to hear a word about it from anyway. It's the cup he uses to steal illicit drinks. It smells of vodka.

The vodka bottle on the kitchen counter was brand new that afternoon, as is apparent from the crumpled receipt on the counter - ice cream and vodka. It's half-empty. In less than two hours.

Love of my life my ass. Pain in my ass is more like it. Giving me a night off just so he can get drunk? Jackhole. Falling asleep so the Energizer Bunny can get into one of the few things that are still sacred in this house? Dumbass. Building up my dreams of a relaxing night before making me put both the Energizer Bunny AND him to bed?? Stupid chauvanistic bastard. (I'm pregnant, I can turn on Mother Teresa if she looks at me funny out from under her halo, what kind of man would think this was a good idea?)

I spent all night cursing the man and wondering why I had ever decided to have another baby when really I already have two and am practically a single mother (I mean, for real, he can't consider himself a PARENT after this, can he?)

Luckily for him, he realized what trouble he was in, let me sleep in (he swore he didn't have a hangover...) made me breakfast, cleaned the house and even bought me "contrition shoes."

So I forgave him.

Personally, I think he's lucky he still has his balls. After all, I probably won't be needing them any more. ;)

"Study Break"

2010-05-21T20:06:00.005-04:00

Here's the truth, people - I went to a nerdy college. It's true, I did. I'd apologize for possibly offending all those who went to the same nerdy college as me, but the fact is, if you went to UCSD, you're most likely not denying it, you're solemnly nodding your head. If you ARE denying the nerd-dom that dwells within...you're a nerd in denial.

That being said if at any time in our school schedule, whether it be the first day of classes or the day before finals, if we had a scheduled "Study Break," even 5 minutes, we would have used it to...study. Yup, told you, nerd school.

In my current cute little midwestern college town, they have an ENTIRE WEEK before finals which is devoted to "studying." A week off of classes. A week to prepare for the grueling tests that are rumored to be open note, are definitely all multiple choice, and are scheduled for one THIRD the time ours were.

And what do the brilliant U of M college students do during this "Study Break?"

Drink, of course.

Other than football Saturdays there isn't any other time the streets are so littered with red dixie cups, crushed beer cans or empty liquor bottles.

Which I've grown used to. It IS the beginning of Spring after all, since they also end their term well over a month before we did... and while we nerdy little San Diegans could lay out all year round, these poor kids are trapped inside their well-heated dorms all winter long with no reprieve - it's time to get OUT, time to PARTY.

So fine, I maneuver my bike around the glass shards and puke piles and cowboy golf racks and bean bag toss boards with no longer even a second glance. But this...this made me pause:

I cannot begin to imagine a study break drinking game that involves a beer bottle graveyard, metal spikes and a broken vacuum cleaner.

Seriously, we weren't THAT nerdy that I can't even IMAGINE a cool drinking game out of this...were we?

Stress Counselor?

2010-05-13T21:47:00.004-04:00

My place of employment is giving it's employees an incentive hundred bucks if we participate in a health/preventative program. If you at all understand me, you know that for a hundred bucks I'm willing to do pretty much anything. So, of course, I signed up.

To start, you take a questionnaire, enter in all sorts of information you're probably lying about because you have no idea (BMI? cholesterol levels? triglycerides?) and all sorts of personal questions that you have to answer using only the A, B, C or D options they give you (which they've cleverly devised to not *actually* fit any real life situation so that no single person can truly answer the question by choosing either A, B, C or D.)

Once you've taken the fabulous questionnaire, you are given your "risk factors." What, from the very in depth questionnaire, they have determined to be your future cause of illness/death/disablement.

From these risk factors, you choose programs to participate in in order to achieve your final goal of... ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS! or, I suppose they want me to think the ultimate goal is not dying of whatever disease, but really, I'm going to die eventually. And yeah, they're probably going to have to pay the insurance when I go. I just want my hundred bucks.

My number one risk factor? Killing the Energizer Bunny. I think what I read between the lines was "having stupid parents is a risk factor for children." So educating me, as a parent, means big points on my hundred buck scale. And as I am actually concerned about the Energizer Bunny, I chose this program. It was 6 weeks, on-line, a bunch of articles, a quiz or two that you could change your answers to after they gave you the right ones, no big deal.

Next risk factor: stress. Apparently I am stressed out. I momentarily thought to adamantly deny this while throwing a fit regarding said retarded questionnaire, then realized this might simply increase my stress level to the point that they were right. And THAT would be terrible. Almost as terrible as the Unsupportive Louse being right.

So I choose to enroll in the stress counseling instead. Three 15 minute phone calls is all it is. No biggie, I can manage.

My first phone call with my brand-spanking new stress counselor, Annie, goes something like this:

"What's one major thing that's been stressing you out recently?"

"Well, my husband was writing his thesis and was gone 16 hours a day and stressed out himself, so that was huge."

"Oh! What degree was he working toward?"

"A PhD in Immunology."

"You said you're in science too, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"But you don't have an advanced degree?"

"Nope."

"Have you ever thought about getting one?"

"I've thought about it occasionally."

"I'm sure you know it can change the way you're regarded in the field, increase your respect, as well as your pay."

"Yep."

"If it's something you're considering, you should go for it, you're still young!" A slight pause. "You know, I just read an article that found that graduate students have less sex than geriatrics."

Wait a second... have I been having less sex than OLD PEOPLE for the last SIX years?

Wait a MINUTE... isn't this supposed to be stress counseling??

The World is Going to Hell in a Handbasket

2010-04-28T22:55:00.005-04:00

My grandfather's death left 50 years of collected parapharnelia filling an entire house, which of course, his survivors must dispense of somehow. And HOW, you may ask? Well, how else!? An estate sale!

As The Walking Guilt Trip tends to raise her nose at buying other people's used crap, she was not inclined to sell used crap to other people. She intended to pay Crap-Picker-Uppers thousands of dollars to haul away said crap.

For a few reasons - I hate seeing usable things go into the landfill, I can't stand not making money when I otherwise could have made money, and indeed, because I am a masochist - I volunteered to help dispose of heaps and heaps of crap and named myself the Very Important Person in Charge of This Estate Sale.

Now, everyone knows a garage sale is a lot of work and while you can make a couple hundred bucks, you've gotta kinda really WANT that hundred bucks... because you're going to have to deal with Garage-Salers. The ones that ask you if you'll take 75 cents instead of a buck for that brand new snow shovel that cost you 20 bucks just last year.

Everyone knows to expect this. I knew to expect this.

There are two things that I did not expect.

One: a nice looking lady who asked me the price of two chairs which were clearly labelled as $20 apiece, $30 for the pair (while "accidentally" covering the price tag with her thumb), talked me down to $20 for the pair, then LIED to The Unsupportive Louse, telling him I'd agreed to $15 for the pair, told me I simply didn't remember when I corrected her, and finally, after paying only $28 for crap we'd labelled for at least $60 and that really would have cost her $400, she picks up a 50 cent plate and asks, "Will you throw this in for free?"
Now, clearly, I wanted to yell "No, ya dumb bi-otch, pay the F-ing 50 cents- it's only 50 god damned cents!!" But, you know, it IS just 50 cents, so I didn't. But I still hated her a little bit.
Which is why what she did next shocked the shit out of me.
She gave me her real estate card, told me to give her a call when we were selling the house.
Give you a call? Give me my $32.50 and you can have my seven THOUSAND dollar commission! Think maybe it would have been worth it? Dumbass!!

But story number two may have surprised me even more. Why? Because it was a sweet, sweet little old lady.
Three of them showed up together - as several of my grandparent's friends were stopping by to say their farewells to the house and maybe pick up a Doris flower pot memento, I momentarily thought they may part of that crowd...but I sure as hell hope not now.
They picked over stuff all slow and old-lady like, and one bought a 25 cent piece of costume jewelry. Sweet, sweet little old lady had a $2 "Santa Stops Here" sign in her hand at that moment, standing at the little cash table. I ask if she's ready. She says she's going to go inside to look at the furniture first. Because you're going to actually BUY the furniture, lady? You're like 97. But sure, whatever, feel free to pretend. She ambles inside, checks out the furniture. Ambles back out just about two seconds later. I'm busy helping another cheapskate but see them out of the corner of my eye, walking to their car. Sweet, sweet little old lady STOLE a TWO DOLLAR Santa sign. Are you kidding me? And old people think it's the YOUNG people that are screwing up this world? UGH! (Oh, and don't even TRY to tell me she forgot, that malicious old devil did it on purpose without a doubt!)

No thanks to these two jerk-offs, the estate sale was quite successful. You can rest assured The Energizer Bunny will now be able to enroll for 2 college units. So long as the rate of our education fund keeps up with the rate of the rising tuition. And so long as he goes to a community college. And lives at home. And walks to school. And eats Ramen for every meal.

Definitely worth it.

2010-04-21T16:36:00.001-04:00

The Curse of the Middle Child

If you’ll recall, my Grandfather died recently. For his funeral and visitations, I put together two large picture boards including dozens of pictures from my grandparent’s home, a few from my mother, and all of mine. Let me repeat that – every single picture that I had of my grandfather I pulled out of photo albums, scrap books, out of frames off my wall.

When handing the boards off to The Walking Guilt Trip to take to the funeral home, this conversation ensued:

“So the funeral home is making that memory book from all of these pictures?”

“That’s what they say.”

“So could I have these ones after the funeral?”

Silent look of death. How could I ask such a thing of her?

“I’d really like them and you’ll have the book with copies of all of them anyway, right?”

Close of eyes in disbelief.

“Maybe just a couple of the ones with Papa and Grandma young then?”

Deep sigh. A look that asks - You just don’t give in, do you?

I chose to stop speaking to her altogether at this point.

It was clear to me that I would not be getting the pictures, which annoyed me and I thus needed to make sure she was aware that I was annoyed because it’s really the only way I get what I want - by making her think I don’t love her anymore - which she will of course guilt me about later, but every once in awhile, it’s worth the effort and the pain. I’ve found not talking or not smiling at all works best. Unfortunately, smiling wasn’t really expected at the funeral…

Anyway, the funeral comes and goes and we return home without once thinking of the pictures.

Theses are written, theses are defended, in-laws and Easter are come and gone, and suddenly the obnoxious empty frames on my wall start whining to me that I have not gotten my pictures back from the funeral yet.

So I ask The Walking Guilt Trip, “Could I get my pictures back from Papa’s memory boards? I keep forgetting to ask you about them.”

“The pictures?” Blank stare.

I stare back because WTF. I spent HOURS on those boards. She BETTER remember them. “From the funeral?”

“Oh. I gave them to the Princess. They were all in one bag, it was just easier to give them all to her.”

Lesson Learned

2010-04-13T11:43:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you a little something about myself: I like to entertain.

When I was 12 years old, I planned a formal dinner party for my birthday – not just the menu, but the recipes to be used, the “mocktails” to be offered, the napkins to be put on the table, the timing of the dishes to be served. (I told you, I’ve always been this crazy.)

For New York Thanksgivings (when there was a huge crowd) I literally spent a month planning my menu and the timing and began making desserts a week in advance.

For the Walking Guilt Trip’s 60th birthday, I planned a whole surprise shebang at my place for OLD PEOPLE.

Let’s rephrase – I love to entertain.

So you may be surprised to hear that I planned nothing, NOTHING for the Unsupportive Louse’s post-thesis defense party.

But I was SO DAMN proud when, the first day of their stay, the Female Pill pulled out a stack of recipes and said, “I thought we’d make a couple little appetizers for the party on Saturday; we always just do the standards – chips and dips, those little mini-hot dogs, chicken wings, pizzas. Nothing special.”

I could smile and say, with sincerity, “That would be great.”

And when there were enough leftovers to feed all of Djibouti for a week, I felt asbolutely vindicated for having contributed precisely nothing to my own party.

I feel a lesson has been learned here. 1 point tallied for Penney. Only 999,627 to go.

Unsupportive Louse, PhD

2010-04-12T14:11:00.001-04:00

The Unsupportive Louse graduated!!! He is now to be known to all those who know him (or perhaps just those who care) as: Unsupportive Louse, PhD.

Of course, for his thesis defense, the Pills came to visit. (Did you really think I'd write an ENTIRE blog about something GOOD the Unsupportive Louse did???)

Please remember that I do love my in-laws even if, by some odd quirk of words, they are at times portrayed somewhat less than fantastically in this silly little blog of mine. And it IS true. Even if I am just saying it because there may be a chance that they’ve discovered this piece of my personality and may or may not stop by someday and may or may not read this very blog.

My favorite Female Pill moment of the week –

The Female Pill is in MY kitchen cooking (all sorts of implications of it’s own…but we’ll ignore those for the moment) – the Unsupportive Louse, the Male Pill and I are sitting in the living room, the Energizer Bunny is napping.

Let me remind you of a few things –
1. it’s MY kitchen
2. it’s OUR house
3. we’re ALL in the living room
4. the Male Pill does not cook

From the kitchen, the Female Pill calls out,

“Hey, Male Pill, I don’t remember how to turn this oven on, do you remember?”

(P.S. – you turn the knob, just like any other oven…)

Unfortunately Related

2010-03-31T13:28:00.001-04:00

My grandfather died last week.

It was sad, obviously, but not tragic. He was 89 years old, had quintuple (that’s 5 if you can’t uple that high) bypass surgery 15 years ago, another bypass surgery 2 years ago and a heart attack a week before he died. So while sympathy is ALWAYS appreciated (after all, what is a blog for??), it’s not the point here.

His funeral meant we had a mini, impromptu family reunion. As plans were coming into place, I confess I had a minor panic attack at the thought of sharing a 1000-square foot house (namely, my grandparent's old place) with my husband, son, mother, brother, sister, Aunt and Uncle.

Fortunately, the Mooch has no soul nor desire to spend quality time with the extended family and drove 2 hours to spend 3 hours at only the funeral and reception. Then the Princess and Walking Guilt Trip declared themselves above sharing facilities with the recently departed and so rented a hotel room for the weekend, as did my Aunt (which I will only assume was a charitable act to us and had nothing to do with her more than minor hatred of small children.) Her husband chose not to come. I’d comment, but I believe he was taking care of his own old, sick relatives, so I will refrain this one time only.

Now, as I’m sure all families must be prone to discuss during the visitation hours in the funeral home following the death of a love one, mine began to discuss the new positions the family members had required. In other words, The Walking Guilt Trip announced that she was now The Matriarch.

A common thing to announce at a funeral, I’m sure.

Thus began a lively debate on the Princess status. You see, both my Aunt and my sister wanted the title. In the end, they shared. No lingering bitterness from either side. Really. (PS - I would find it more amusing that The Princess titled herself The Princess if it weren’t such a fitting title and really rather obvious and therefore not at all clever on my part.)

Discussion moved on. The Energizer Bunny became The Little Prince. Stares turned to me. I chose to kindly exit the conversation with the pretense of entertaining the newly dubbed Little Prince, who was not at all entertained by the grievously incorrect topic. It was a good excuse.

Upon my return, I was told I had been named “Unfortunately Related” to the Family.

SO TRUE, so true!! I accept!!

Only later did it occur to me that THEY named ME. THEY were unfortunately related to ME. HOW DARE THEY!? Bastards! All of them!!

True Story

2010-03-22T13:28:00.000-04:00

The Energizer Bunny, like all good two-year olds, is becoming quite adept at story-telling. He is telling stories - some true stories and some that he makes up - usually mildly clever but highly endearing. The problem is that he really can't tell you which ones are ACTUALLY true. He really believes if he's told the story, it's REAL. And real in his mind, is the same as true. That just seemed cute to me. Except...

While I was washing dishes in the kitchen, the Energizer Bunny was talking to his trains (Thomas and Duncan, they're his favorites).

"One time, Momma and me went sleddin' on the big purple sled, and Momma pushed me down the green driveway 'stead of the white snow, and I goed into the street and got hit by a car!"

Dear Lord, my child is telling people I pushed him in front of a moving vehicle!

Fabulous Fitness Friday

2010-03-19T09:58:00.000-04:00

Spring is here!!! The past two weeks have been blue skies with temperatures in the 50s and 60s! March in Michigan!!! This is insane!

And because the weather has been so fantastic, I've been able to start riding my bike into work this week! This is particularly awesome, because I don't have to deal with the crazy stalkers or Hannibal Lecter types on the bus OR the even crazier bus schedule (if I'm perfectly on time walking to the bus stop, I'll watch it go flying by, but if I'm even 30 seconds early, the bus is bound to be 13 minutes late...)

But that's not the point, the point is, you too, should start riding your bike to work! But...with the way my ass feels after only 3 days of riding, it would probably be a good idea to start slowly instead of jumping right into it full speed...

Loving Concern

2010-03-17T21:17:00.003-04:00

One late night recently, after the Unsupportive Louse returned home from yet another day spent slaving over a document no one will ever read, he was generous enough to ask me how I was.

"I have this horrible hacking cough, my throat is dry and scratchy and my nose is all congested and the congestion is making my head pound too. Plus my mouth and tongue are all dried out because I can't breathe out of my nose. I'm frigging exhausted and the Energizer Bunny didn't take a nap today so I didn't even get a break all day."

He regards me calmly and replies, "If I'm sick the week before my thesis is due, I'm gonna be pissed."

It's so good to know he cares about me!

Gamma Guilt Trip

2010-03-14T17:07:00.006-04:00

The morning after a quasi recent date (because it's been that long since I've actually had time to write blogs consistently) I asked the Energizer Bunny how his evening with The Walking Guilt Trip had been.

"Good, Momma."

"Did you eat dinner?"

"Yeah."

"What did you have?"

"Omm... chocolate!" (This could be a wish on his part because he can't remember at the moment, or most likely, it is simply the truth. While I never would have had chocolate anywhere near dinner, I believe it actually pleases The Walking Guilt Trip to break my rules and see how I respond. Clearly getting mad at my own mother would incite ridiculous guilt, that for her to watch must be almost like a fortune-teller watching a self-fulling prophecy come to be. For the time being, I chose to ignore the response.)

"Did you play?"

"Yeah." Getting information out of a two-year old who does nothing but ask "why" all day and therefore should know very well what it means to answer a question is a billion times harder than it should be.

"What did you play?"

"Umm... played trains..." He has this really cute way of dragging out the words in a list while he thinks of the next thing to add, "cars... puzzles... books on Gamma's lap..." At this point, a terrible sadness overcomes his entire face, his eyes fills with tears and his lower lip sticks out and begins to quiver. Enough to break a mother's heart.

"Kiddo, what's wrong?"

"Gamma got mad."

This does not surprise me even a little bit, my mother has the patience of a fly (something, I might add, I perhaps inherited just a little bit of), but it still upsets me, obviously. "Why did Gamma get mad?"

"'Cause I peed."

"Because you peed?" I have the brilliant ability to extrapolate (something the Unsupportive Louse is completely inept at), and you see, the Energizer Bunny is in the process of being potty trained (or potty-taught or learned or whatever politically correct but grammatically incorrect phrase you prefer to use) and still has occasional accidents. So I asked, "Did you pee in your underwear?"

Looking at the floor, full of shame, "Yeah."

"And Gamma was upset?" This seems extreme to me even for my mother to get mad at a two-year old simply for having an accident.

He looks up at me, eyes brimming with tears, "'Cause I peed on her lap." I did everything in my willpower to keep from laughing at this hilarious scene: my perfectly composed mother in her freshly pressed slacks discovering the warm feel of pee on her leg.

A tiny tear trickles out of one eye. It's amazing the power a single real tear has over me. "Gamma don'nt wanna come over any-more 'cause I peed."

The guilt trip. I can hear it now, "Gamma isn't going to want to come over anymore if you pee on her."

Way to start 'em young Gamma Guilt-Trip, way to start 'em young.

Can You Feel the LOOOOVE Tonight?

2010-03-03T10:47:00.000-05:00

To give me a break from my single parenting, the Unsupportive Louse came home early one day and made dinner!! No way! I was allowed to put my feet up...and chase the Energizer Bunny, set the table, fan the smoke detector and otherwise calmly relax while my dinner was prepared for me.

And dinner was fantastic. (No really, it actually was. Like FanTAStic. No exaggeration. Nothing was even burnt. The smoke detector might have just been having a little fun with me. Like the Energizer Bunny when he sees me sit down. It just makes them want to f*(k with me a bit, you know?)

So after dinner (which may have been just a teansy little bit later than we normally eat dinner) and the lengthy clean-up (which may have seemed like a lot more of a clean-up than we normally have when I make dinner), the Unsupportive Louse makes some very romantic and classy comment in regards to doing me, like, "I can't wait to do you later."

Remember I've been single-parenting for two months now, so I respond, "What if I'm too tired?"

"It doesn't matter, I made dinner, I have free access to your pants."

Famous By Association

2010-03-01T10:02:00.000-05:00

There's the cutest little story posted on Everydayfiction.com called Conversation with a Giant:

http://www.everydayfiction.com/conversation-with-a-giant-by-kate-sheeran/

Of course you should all read the story because it's cute, and give it a good rating because it's cute. But let's focus on the more important things here - me.

You see, the author, Kate Sheeran (who is clearly now famous, being a published author and all) is my critique partner. Which means I critiqued that cute story. Which means I am famous by association. So make sure you read it and give it a good rating because it makes me look better. Thank you very much.

Abandoned Blog

2010-02-27T10:36:00.003-05:00

Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #1: Dude, does anyone even live here? I swear I haven't seen movement in like...weeks.

Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: No, man, I think the place is abandoned.

Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #1: Really? You think?

Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: Betcha anything. Watch this. (Proceeds to throw stones at computer screen.)

Friendly Neighborhood Blogger: Hey, you kids leave that poor blog alone!

Obnoxious Teenage Blogreaders log off for their lives.

Jokes on you, kids, I couldn't see any cracks on this screen through the fingerprint smudge and grime of the Energizer Bunny even if it WEREN'T plastic and shatter proof.

Understanding has occurred to me why there aren't all that many single parent bloggers in the blogosphere. It's because they're too f*ing tired!! (All single parents should feel free to brag about yourselves if you even have time to read this...)

Fabulous Fitness Fridays

2010-02-19T14:46:00.000-05:00

Buy smaller glasses.

We are lucky enough to have the Energizer Bunny to teach us this lesson – by breaking a majority of our large glass glasses, we had to purchase new ones. While in the store, I actually took the time to look at the ounce size on the side of the boxes (don’t worry, the Energizer Bunny only broke one glass during the entire shopping trip!!)

Would you believe the most common size glass in the store is 16oz? Even the short squat ones that you think are smaller are only 2 or 4oz smaller. There is nothing we need to drink 16oz of at one sitting. Not juice, not tea, certainly not soda. Not even milk! Water, sure, you’re right, but you know what? Walking back to the tap a second time is only going to help us in our fantastic quest for fitness. =)

Single Parenting is Cake

2010-02-02T10:38:00.001-05:00

Seriously, I don’t know what all these single moms have been complaining about for years.

The Unsupportive Louse has been writing his thesis these past few weeks, as it seems his lifelong stint as a student is about to come to an end, of course the only reason you should care about this fact right now is because it leaves me as an almost single parent.

So, the Energizer Bunny and I have been having a grand time, just the two of us. And I’ve decided being a single parent is really quite easy.

The Energizer Bunny always gets a well-balanced diet – as long as you count processed cheese as dairy, freeze-dried packaged vegetables as real food, graham crackers as a source of grains and fruit snacks as fruit (they ARE Welchs; made with real fruit AND no high fructose corn syrup!!)

And the Energizer Bunny always gets plenty of exercise, for though I can’t be entirely sure what my 2 ½ year old is doing out in the backyard without me, as I really don’t have the time to watch him, I’m sure it involves movement (and movement is always exercise, right?), and that doesn’t even include the putting on and taking off of jackets and boots and hats and gloves and the help he gives me cleaning up all the snow he’s tracked all over the hardwood floor… I DO know that the couch and armchairs can double as trampolines and serving bowls can effectively become basketball hoops and stairs can work perfectly well as a sledding hill.

He always gets to bed on time…or somewhere near bedtime. As long as an hour past is still considered “somewhere near,” and as long as getting to bed doesn’t necessarily include the actual act of going to sleep.

He is bathed regularly. At least every 3rd day, but come on, it’s not like we don’t wash his hands constantly. Or at very least after he goes potty. And just because the 3rd day happens to coincide with the evenings the Unsupportive Louse comes home just before bedtime (or, you know, slightly after) doesn’t really mean I couldn’t have done it by myself.

The house is absolutely SPOTLESS, if you compare it to Ms. Cleanly and Mr. Communicative's...

And personally, I think my hair looks very nice when it’s greasy. It’s a fashion statement I’m sure will catch on soon. And there’s no hygienic or other real reason to shave my legs more than monthly. And I’m fairly certain my lack of progress at work has nothing to do with my lack of sleep.

And of course, all real single moms are sure to get the one night off a week (free of charge) that the Unsupportive Louse generously allows me, plus a free handy-man (albeit a rather incompetent one) who can rub his chin and nod at the little problems that arise during the rest of the week – like the sliding glass door that won’t close or the ridiculous draft coming in from the garage door, or the car that just won’t start one morning – and effectively fix them just by the virtue of being a man and having been told.

So really, all you single parents out there, my hat’s off to you.

Meaning of Life

2010-02-01T15:54:00.002-05:00

We all know how two-year olds love their "Why?"s and the Energizer Bunny is no different.

So I can't say I was shocked last night after rushing to his bedside following a torturous scream of "MOOOOOOMMMAAA!" his first word to me was, "Why?"

Sighing, I asked, "Why what, kiddo?"

"Why WHY?" came the sad, desperate question.

And really, how does one answer such a question?

Fabulous Fitness Fridays

2010-01-29T10:36:00.000-05:00

This week’s tip stems from my wonderful illness last week as well, and therefore I'm sure you will all appreciate it.

Milkshakes are a great way to get ice cream in your stomach in case of bouts of puke) which I did use while actually sick, but then of course, there was a lot of leftover ice cream, which SOMEONE had to eat, so I continued to make a few more milkshakes…

And I discovered that if you drink the milkshake through a straw rather than eating it with a spoon or drinking it out of the side of the glass, it takes longer to finish and you feel more full afterwards.

It’s also helpful to throw some mashed fruit in there, as chunks will likely get stuck in the straw, making it take even longer to finish and of course, making it a tiny bit healthier. (Every little bit counts, right?)

How bad does that hurt?

2010-01-26T10:17:00.001-05:00

The Energizer Bunny is at a fantastic age where he likes to go over events, telling it different ways, asking questions, figuring out if he really got the whole story.

So here's the whole story - last weekend I slammed my finger in the car door. It blew.

But it seems the Energizer Bunny's may have gotten slightly more education from the incident -

"Your finger hurts Momma?"

"That's right, kiddo, my finger hurts."

"Your THUMB hurts Momma?"

"Yup, it's my thumb that hurts."

"You closed your thumb in the door?"

"That's right, I closed my thumb in the car door. Silly, huh?"

"That was silly, Momma." Insert fake laugh. "It hurt your thumb, Momma?"

"Yes, it hurt my thumb very badly."

"It hurt a lot?"

"Yep, it hurts a lot."

"It hurt like a bitch, Momma?"

Damn it, I don't even remember saying that.

Fabulous Fitness Fridays

2010-01-22T09:22:00.000-05:00

Get the stomach flu.

It's like having bulimia for a day or two, without having to gag yourself. Just imagine, 24 calorie free hours!! But you still get to eat ice cream, because it really helps when all that calorie free food is coming back up.

Unfortunately, as it totally blows to have to throw up all the time, I wouldn't recommend doing this more than once or twice a year. But you know, if you're desperate...

Uh, okay, misery really does love company. Just throw up a few times and make me feel better, k?

My New Hobby

2010-01-20T10:45:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago, during a snowstorm, when the bus was an hour late and the patronage attending said bus were multiplying to the point of creating close quarters on our little street corner, said patrons finally saw their compatriots were not in fact all socially outcast, extremely contagious lepers but really rather normal looking, and overwhelmed with the desire to protest the lateness of their transportation, deigned to speak to one another. (Me included.)

My bitching partner was a nice gentleman a generation or so older than I.

I promise you I have never once set eyes on this man in my life before. Not even on the bus.

His name is Bob. He apparently lives in my neighborhood, where he has lived for twenty-five years this March. Last year they added insulation to the attic and this year they’re having their siding re-done; it’s still the original siding from when the house was built in 1968. I could even point the house out to you if you’d like.
He has three grown children, all three of whom went to BYU – which only cost $6000/year, room and board!! – two of whom still live in Utah, the youngest of whom just turned 30, and eight grandchildren. They are members of LDS but they only got a 500 or so dollar discount off tuition for being members.
He works in IT at the University and his wife just recently retired. She was a nurse. He has a Bachelors in Zoology and a PhD in psychology but not the clinical side (though I can’t tell you what other side there is) and somehow his job morphed over the years into basically being IT.
He and his wife lived in Boston for a few years after grad school, then Montana (where he worked for the government and got paid crap but still thought it was beautiful), then Phoenix and finally here.*

I can’t tell you that much information about half of my friends. One of my friends just had a baby and I didn’t even know she’d moved to San Francisco until I got the pictures of them in front of their house.

But I swear I got all that information directly from him. Really. No stalking involved. Really.

Except now everywhere I go, there he is. Or rather, there he already was. Perhaps - everywhere he is, here I come!

I have seen him LITERALLY every day on the bus. I miss my bus by thirty seconds and there he is, already at the stop. I catch the early bus, he’s there waiting before me. I make a detour to the convenience store and get on the bus a few stops away, and he’s sitting front and center.

I grab a cup of coffee on the way in to work (which I never do) – and who’s in line two people in front of me? Why, Bob of course!

We grab the sled and head to the park, and who do we see cross country skiing back home? None other than Bob!

I take the Energizer Bunny and the Engine of Chaos and Destruction out for a pleasant winter walk and who do I run into? Bob! We, of course, have to cross the street for fear of the dog actually eating my new friend…but really this can only make me look worse. I mean, really, what a disguise – a mother walking her dog and child that immediately crosses the street when she “accidentally” runs into the man she has run into every day since last Tuesday?? A likely story.

Now, you might think he’s following me or running into me on purpose…but he’s ALWAYS there first! There is only one conclusion I can make.

It's me.

Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood stalker!

*I’ve changed some of this information so that if someone actually decides to stalk my nice gentleman stalkee, they cannot quite as easily do so. So please choose not to. Thank you.

Fabulous Fitness Fridays

2010-01-15T12:32:00.001-05:00

Allow yourself occasional special treats. Otherwise you'll probably eventually just give up your new-found healthy lifestyle altogether, or go on infrequent but damning binges.

I personally allow myself an extra dessert on Wednesdays, my intense "writing workout" nights.

I try to stick to something small...like a 1000 calorie Ultimate Brown Sunday with ice cream, lots of whipped cream, maracino cherries (really a miracle in themselves), tons of nuts and extra hot fudge sauce. This is extra good with a large sweetened and flavored iced tea to wash it all down. And, since I'm there for so long, I always make sure the drinks have free refills.

Like I said, an occasional special treat is fine.

Penney’s 2010 New Year’s Resolutions

2010-01-14T10:42:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah, they’re late. Get over it.

My TEN most important Resolutions for 2010, which I will revisit and hold myself completely accountable for at the end of the year. I promise.

1. I resolve to arrive at work “on time” at least one day per week. While “on time” technically means 8am, the phrase still definitely includes days that I arrive prior to the boss, no matter what time, and most days that I arrive prior to the girl who comes in really late, as long as it’s not TOO late.

2. I resolve to attempt to decrease my work-time Facebook addiction. I am still allowed to post daily status updates, of course. And read the first page or two of friend’s status updates. And look at any new pictures friends’ may have posted. As long as I am able to stay away from Facebook long enough for there to be five new status updates since the last time I checked, this can be considered semi-de-addicted.

3. I resolve to maintain a $20 minimum in my bank account at all times. This is important because I actually have no idea when Netflix steals my money every month (for the two movies that we managed to watch) and though I never actually got overdraft fees from that measly 12 bucks this year, it was close a couple times. Which is pathetic, really. This resolution only refers to the checking account unless I wasn’t able to do it, and then it includes the attached savings account. I do have overdraft protection, after all, may as well be good for something.

4. I resolve to contribute to my savings account every month, even if it’s a tiny amount. This doesn’t include the automatic contributions to retirement or to the Energizer Bunny’s pathetic college savings plan, or the tax rebate. Unless I can’t save anything that month, and then it can.

5. I resolve to pay off my last remaining credit card. Technically this should not be a hard thing to do, but the key is to not put anything else ON the credit card. Much harder. However, paying off the credit card trumps savings, so if I manage this, I automatically accomplish #4 too.

6. I resolve to only yell at the Unsupportive Louse when he really does deserve it. Or when it really does make me feel better. Or if he is becoming too complacent and needs to be kept on his toes. Preferably kept to once a month. However, this does not include certain times of the month when my body chooses to remind me why females are inferior and bleeds incessantly. Nor does it include days before, days of, or days following a visit from either the Walking Guilt Trip or the Female Pill. Nor bad work days, bad hair days, bad clothing days, or bad body days. Nor days I’m excessively tired.

7. I resolve to be nicer to the Walking Guilt Trip. She truly does mean well. Unless she provokes me at which point she clearly does not mean well and does not deserve my kindness. Or if my brother or sister is around at which point I instantly revert to approximately twelve years of age and therefore cannot be expected to uphold any resolutions, and certainly not one involving my mother.

8. I resolve to eat fewer desserts. This can be accomplished by taking smaller portions. Refusing to take leftovers home or demanding that our guests take any dessert leftovers home. Buying those cereals most people call “breakfast” and eating them as dessert, because then they won’t really count as dessert at all, but rather a very late or very early breakfast. Baking smaller volumes to begin with. Or at least making them ever so slightly more healthy when I do bake them. Or eating them when no one can see me, because clearly if no one is in the forest to see a person eat a piece of cake, you can blame it on the tree.

9. I resolve to end the year 5lbs lighter than I began it. Clearly I have to lose weight to do this, but that’s not really the point. I pretty much always lose the tire of fat I put on during the holidays by around Spring sometime, but next year I’d prefer just not to have had it to begin with. But if I perchance don’t lose the 5lbs I gained from November 2009 thru January 2010, this resolution only refers to not gaining another 5lbs over this years. And if I’ve managed to lose an extra 5lbs, gaining it back, is of course, completely within the limits of the resolution.

10. I resolve to write lots. I’ve been told the only way to get better at writing is to write lots. So I will write “lots.” Of course, only I can define lots and only I can determine what is considered writing. If you don’t think “lots” was written in, say, my book, or something, you will have to consider the blog “lots” and the e-mail “lots” and the Facebook status update “lots” and the blog comment “lots” and then you can go ahead and refigure.

Fabulous Fitness Fridays

2010-01-08T10:41:00.000-05:00

Convert to Mormanism or Jehovah’s Witnessism (yes, that’s the right way to say it. Duh.) I know this doesn’t immediately SOUND like a fitness technique, but really, it is.

The number of times they come to my door MUST mean their requisite door-to-door walks are at least weekly. And walking for three hours once a week is definitely a fitness technique.

I considered this technique for my own health, but it turns out they require the 10% tithe…or maybe not quite require, but God doesn’t love you as much if you don’t do it, and I’d prefer to beg ignorance rather than be told that God isn’t going to love me when I don’t do something. And I clearly cannot do this particular something since if I did, we’d be eating Ramen every day. For every meal. If I don’t join, I can pretend I didn’t know God wanted me to give him all my money so I could barely feed my family and God is sure to forgive me. He doesn’t read blogs, right?

Especially since He’s eating so well up there in heaven. (Calories don’t count in heaven, haven’t you heard?)

Would You Still Love Me If...?

2009-12-22T10:07:00.001-05:00

We were watching some lame made for TV movie and one of the main characters - the boyfriend of the female protagonist - *almost* had a lisp. You only almost noticed it every once in awhile but it wasn't ever completely obvious and it wasn't constant...either way, he's in a movie, he really shouldn't have a lisp...I mean really. But the Unsupportive Louse was the one to point this out first, adding how lame a boyfriend he is.

Which means I can use it against him.

So I ask the requisite female question - "Are you saying you wouldn't love me if I developed a lisp?"

"I'd still love you," he says - OOOHH!! How sweet!! Has all the eggnog gone to his head?? - "But I wouldn't take you out in public." That's more like it.

Selective Memory

2009-12-21T12:03:00.002-05:00

Two recent conversations regarding California friends we may see over the holidays I’ve had with the Unsupportive Louse

#1:

“Do you remember Andrea?”

“No.”

“She came to your parent’s party, she’s tall, thin –“

“Is she the sorority one?”

“No, from high school – she was my best friend, remember? She gave us the bed set for Energizer Bunny?”

“Uh…”

“Short brown hair? We went to her wedding? Her husband was Connor? They just got divorced?”

“Oh…oh…uh…yeah, I remember…I think.”

***
#2:

“Do you remember Daphne, my—“

“Yes.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“Maybe you’re thinking of someone else, I think you’ve only met her once.”

“Nope, I’m sure – short girl, long black hair, right?”

“Uh…yeah. Really? That was like 3 years ago.”

“Yeah, she was wearing a red shirt and a black skirt.”

I stare incredulously.

“The shirt was low cut. She has huge boobs and was showing massive cleavage, what do you expect?”

Fabulous Fitness Friday, Tip #12

2009-12-11T13:22:00.001-05:00

Hire a two-year old to help you make your holiday pies/cookies/candies/cakes/whatever. You will be shocked at the extra exercise you get cleaning up flour, chasing down your measuring cups, returning to the cupboard five times for the same thing because there was imminent danger or massive distractions the previous four trips, running to the oven when the timer goes off so the two-year old does NOT in fact open it first, as he is declaring he will, etc.

As an added bonus, if (or rather, when) your goodies don't taste *quite* right...you'll eat fewer and save even more calories! Hurray!

P.S. On a completely unrelated note, the Energizer Bunny is available for hire, and we promise any money he makes will be spent on his Christmas presents. Or college education if there happens to be any left over...

Energizer Psychopath

2009-12-10T08:51:00.002-05:00

I may be raising a psychopath.

We’re driving down the road to the store and the little Energizer Bunny is in his carseat, “Look, Momma, blue car.”

“Follow blue car, Momma.”

“Okay, I’ll follow the blue car, kiddo.”

“Momma following blue car.”

“Truck, Momma! Like Daddy’s truck, Momma!”

“You’re right, it IS just like Daddy’s truck.”

“Siiilver truck” (silver is a hard word)

“Red light, Momma! Red light, stop!”

“Yep, I’m stopping, kiddo.”

“Green light, Go!”

A lull of an entire twenty seconds, towards the end of which I was starting to stare at him in the mirror to make sure that he was indeed still breathing. And then…

“Momma?”

“Yes, baby?” (Just because he speaks in full paragraph form does not mean I have to stop calling him baby.)

“Wanna run someone over, Momma.”

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #11

2009-12-04T09:42:00.001-05:00

If you must eat fast food, don't buy an entire meal. Just buy the sandwich or whatever it is you want. It's more than enough calories...I mean, you can check on their websites ahead of time if you're not sure, but come on, we all know they are.

So skip the fries and soda, get a cup of water instead. And steal fries from your husband's meal (who cannot possibly be convinced to give them up...but then again, I don't try THAT hard) like I do. Think of it this way, you're helping HIM to stay slim too, even without giving them up altogether!

And they say E-mail Can't Convey Emotions!

2009-12-02T13:31:00.003-05:00

The Walking Guilt Trip tells me the other day that old family friends of ours (who moved to Georgia long before I even moved to San Diego for only my second of five very different lives I’ve led…) will be in San Francisco at the same time I will be in Northern California (ie Christmastime)

My first thought was, “Great…and why do I care?” This I stated, in somewhat less rude terms.

It finally comes out that perhaps they would like to see The Energizer Bunny. This I understand.

So I e-mail her today, telling her I’m planning out the billion different little meetings I have to shove into a 6 day period during which we also have Christmas, Christmas Eve, 2 separate extended family gatherings and friends from both my and the Unsupportive Louse’s childhood to see, and wanted to know more information about this trip these old folks I haven’t seen or talked to since I was a teenager are planning – when will they be there, are they renting a car, where will they be staying, yada yada yada. Here is my mother’s full response:

***@mindspring.com and I do not know exactly when they plan to be in SF

Full. Response.

I love my mother.

Fabulous Fitness Friday, Tip #10

2009-11-27T09:47:00.001-05:00

You PROBABLY have today off, right? Let's just assume you do.

SO, now that we've all gorged ourselves on excessive amounts of turkey, cranberries, stuffing, candied yams, green bean casserole, homemade bread, creamed corn, potatoes au gratin, apple pie, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie, and cherry pie (and that was only for "dinner" - let's not forget about the breakfast out so we didn't have to do those dishes and the "taste-testing" up until dinner, plus the multiple late night snacks since we MUST eat Thanksgiving dinner hours before we'd normally be eating dinner...), now that we've all done that, let's use our day off wisely.

Take a long walk, play some pick-up football, throw a frisbee, actually use the basketball hoop out in front of your house despite the fact that your kids (and neighbors) will give you odd looks, jump in the leftover leaves that fell after the last street pick-up and will thus remain until Spring, and of course, wash all 358 dishes piled on your counter from yesterday.

20 Things I'm Thankful For This Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T09:39:00.001-05:00

Twenty things I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving –

1. The Energizer Bunny for being the most perfect, most beautiful child ever, and the only thing capable of making Mommy sound like a total sap.

2. The energy to keep up with the Energizer Bunny…or at least if not “keep up,” not keel over as he runs me ragged day after day.

3. The Unsupportive Louse’s never-ending support.

4. The Walking Guilt Trip’s multiple guilt trips. I’m not sure if I could cope with a let-down without a guilt trip added on top.

5. The Mooch and the rent that I actually got from him this month, allowing us to actually eat turkey on Thanksgiving day and not some ground turkey I had to press into the shape of a turkey to make myself believe I could afford a real turkey.

6. The Princess’s best friend’s family who are keeping her from being lonely and deserted on Thanksgiving.

7. The PILLs who are sure to keep the Energizer Bunny alive if we are ever incapable of doing so ourselves (financially or otherwise).

8. The many friends I have who keep leaving me to move on to bigger and better people, places or things. No, I’m not bitter. Thankful is the word you’re looking for. Really.

9. The house I absolutely love in the neighborhood I used to go out of my way to run through because it’s so beautiful and I was so jealous of everyone lucky enough to live here.

10. The terrible economy for causing some poor couple to have to short sell their house, thus allowing me to live in a beautiful house in a perfect neighborhood and no longer be jealous of every one here.

11. The thousands of squirrels still managing to burrow into our house with new holes practically every day, reminding me that if I am ever truly too broke to buy food, I can always just kill one of them.

12. The job I still have that keeps me from having to eat squirrel on a daily basis.

13. The boss at the job I still have for being an all-around good guy. And not being sucked in by the other boss I have who is just really not an all-around good guy.

14. The President for believing that science is in fact…a science…and not decreasing the budget for said science, hence allowing my position to still exist, hence keeping me in a job, and possibly curing your mother’s/aunt’s/cousins/great-uncle’s neighbor’s multiple sclerosis. In 87 years. When they’ve already been dead for 62. But your niece’s step-cousin’s goddaughter’s son will care.

15. Facebook for allowing me to occasionally avoid real work while at the job I still have, but managing to make it look like I’m working in case either boss stops by, AND keeping me in touch with all the friends who have left me for more “important” things like school, jobs, family. More important than me? Really?

16. The wonderful mass transit system in Ann Arbor which keeps us from having to buy parking at the University, which would be sure to put us in the poorhouse within a month., and from slowly destroying the earth one smoke fume at a time.

17. The Engine of Chaos and Destruction (as the Unsupportive Louse loves to call our dog) for not destroying too many things or eating too much food from the counters, my backpack, my lunch bag, the diaper bag, or the pantry this year. And only eating one cup of butter at a time because I can’t imagine the smell the puke would have made if you’d eaten all four sticks from the counter.

18. Krista, the bitchy female cop who my first husband slept with, for sleeping with him, so that I could divorce him and move off of that god-awful Long Island and meet the fantastic new man that is the Unsupportive Louse and thus live this fantastic life.

19. My writing critique group, for keeping me from sounding like a total dumbass every day of the year. Well, in my writing anyway.

20. The massive sarcasm and wit I’m gifted with. (It’s a gift, I swear it.)

Be A Good Person

2009-11-24T09:00:00.002-05:00

Do some early on-line bidding type Christmas shopping and support the family of a sweet little 2-year old boy with neuroblastoma, Thursday (the 26th) through the 6th of December.

http://supahmommy.blogspot.com/2009/11/jadens-jingle-bell-bonanaza-home-page.html

Or "catch" Santa Claus (or other holiday character) on camera (to benefit Jaden) here

A Love Letter

2009-11-23T10:49:00.000-05:00

Dear Unsupportive Louse,

Despite our agreement that when I make dinner, you do the dishes, and when you make dinner, I do the dishes, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven on Sunday night when I'm not home and then not even saving any for me when you knew I was expecting dinner when I got home barely qualifies as making dinner at all, and it certainly doesn't mean I have to do the dishes that you've been avoiding for the last five days.

Love always,
Your pissed wife

Blatant Advertisement

2009-11-21T12:44:00.000-05:00

I've "discovered" an awesome new ecards website...and I'm kinda in love with it. I may or may not have gone through my e-mail address book and sent a card to everyone I could think of because they're kind of hilarious.

I may have even sent people cards I think THEY should use. Yes, yes, I did.

To stop myself from further embarrassment and/or harassment, I'm just going to harass all of my wonderful blog readers for a moment.

http://www.someecards.com

Fabulous Fitness Friday, Tip #9

2009-11-20T10:03:00.001-05:00

Next week is Thanksgiving. So we're all planning out our Thanksgiving menus. Obviously we all fully intend on cooking way too much and gorging ourselves on what we've cooked. That's fine, it's tradition, it's way too hard to get people to ignore tradition, I wouldn't even think to try. (Especially since I'd be even more hypocritical than normal...)

So, instead of pretending we won't eat too much on Thanksgiving this year, plan to not eat quite as much in the week leading up to it. Add more salad or other vegetables to your menus and less meat, fewer desserts and healthier snacks, less soda and juice and more water and milk. But it'll be easier this week, because every time you think about that stale cookie left out on your office counter, picking up the soda can, ordering dessert, or leaving off the vegetables in place of more entree, you can remind yourself - Thanksgiving is SO MUCH MORE worth the extra calories!!

Real Men Don't Cuddle

2009-11-17T10:12:00.004-05:00

Warning- possible TMI. But you'll get over it.

We got home from a friend's house this weekend, at which I was the designated "DD" and the Unsupportive Louse was the designated "Parent Who Doesn't Get Out Enough so Gets Wasted at a Dinner Party" and put the Energizer Bunny to bed. As it's almost 11 o'clock, he actually falls asleep fairly quickly.

SO...I ask the Unsupportive Louse, "Are you too drunk to...?" and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

"I have noooOO idea." (when he's drunk, he frequently puts weird emphasis on his words, and I'm pretty sure he has no idea he does this.)

"hmph" Since he only continues to lay unmoving, I try to figure out the answer without him guessing what I'm trying to do. This is much more difficult than it sounds.

Apparently he figured it out anyway because he wraps his arms around me and says,
"Sometimes I just want to cuddle."

Who's the man in this relationship anyway??

And now some words of wisdom from the Energizer Bunny, which are clearly very important, as he's typed them all in caps. If you would like to learn to read Energizer Bunny's language, please send your name, address, and 3 easy payments of $39.95 made payable to "Fictional Penney" and we guarantee your book and complimentary CD will arrive in approximately 6 months.

J L CXHXRCTJVKYBVCTJ RXEZTWQCRZTWEXYTVI6CREXRMC EXHZGWQF
H HBHJYTFJGJH.KJHHBNNMNNNNN BHYYYYYHN NH NB CF[;PO ONGHDSASDH./,FSXSW2

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #8

2009-11-13T09:36:00.001-05:00

Put down the fuuuulipping leaf blower and pick up a fuc*ing rake.

You do not need to use gas to blow the leaves off your tiny ass front yard. Mother Nature is CRYING people, while you’re all getting fatter! It doesn’t take THAT much longer to rake, plus you actually get EXERCISE doing it (I know, the horror!) and you don’t make all the neighborhood dogs go crazy. Bonus!

(And P.S. – if you choose to use a leaf blower? Don’t choose to do so at 7am on a Saturday morning. ‘Cause if you wake up the Energizer Bunny? You’re watching him until I get up. And I’m sleep deprived, so when I sleep in…I sleep IN.)

Would you still love me if...?

2009-11-12T15:32:00.001-05:00

When my radio alarm went off this morning, the hosts were discussing what apparently everyone and their mother has heard about (except me, because as a California hippie, I don’t watch TV and therefore effectively sequester myself from the gossip line that is the news) – this man who had to have his entire face removed because of some bizarre nasal infection.

I vainly searched (for almost an entire minute) for the photo of the dude, but eh, you’ve probably all seen it anyway. Besides, it might look odd if my boss walked by and there was a picture of a faceless man on my monitor.

So anyway, these people are describing the horrors this man went through and I just have to ask the Unsupportive Louse: “Would you still love me if I had my nose and eyes and practically my whole face removed?”

Without a second’s hesitation (despite the fact that he was in the other room and hadn’t heard any of the radio discussion) he answers:

“Yes, but I’d sleep around.”

November is NaNoWriMo!

2009-11-11T11:23:00.007-05:00

What I'm saying is...I have more important things to do this month than entertain you people. That's all.

That's right, go on now.

Shoo, shoo.

(Um...but come back soon, k?)

www.nanowrimo.org

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #7

2009-11-06T07:30:00.001-05:00

If you’re like me, you always eat all the leftover Halloween candy that didn’t get passed out to the kids on Halloween night.

AND if you’re like me, you always buy an extra bag of candy, *just in case* there TONS of kids this year.

So, NEXT YEAR, my advice to you is to make that extra bag of “candy” those little brown bags of pretzels that are sold right along side all the not-nearly-as-good for you sorts.

Then, when you fill up your candy basket, leave the pretzels out. Only put the “real” candy in first. Then, when there’s an entire bag of Halloween goodies left, it’ll just be pretzels, and NOT an entire bag of mini-Snickers. (With Halloween wrappings so you can’t possibly pass them off as treats for the NEXT season, and they therefore must be eaten immediately.)

Female Pill

2009-11-04T23:20:00.001-05:00

My mother and father-in-law (whom I like to think of collectively as the Pills) came to visit. While I sincerely do like my in-laws, they still are slightly insane, as all people are required to become once entitled with the words "in" and "law." And, after all, if a girl can't make fun of her in-laws, what would be left in life??

So I would like to share with you a few REAL conversations with my mother-in-law -

at the dinner table, halfway through the meal that my mother-in-law cooked because she loves being the Unsupportive Louse's mommy...

me (to the Unsupportive Louse) - "How was your presentation today?"

UL - "Eh. It's done."

Female Pill - "You don't like it?" it becomes clear after a moment that she's referring to the food we've been eating for the last fifteen minutes, and not actually anything to do with the question I just asked.

UL - "N--" even the Unsupportive Louse is smart enough to catch this...responding 'no' could be disastrous -- "Penney was just asking about my meeting at work. I was just saying I was glad it was over."

Female Pill - "Oh. well, if you don't like it, there's always leftover chicken in the fridge."

I simply blink in her direction. Best not to defend or deny a non-statement. Ignore.

after our heater broke...on a weekend...while they were visiting and the highs were in the 40s (...by the way, if you're interested in offering sympathy...or money...we had to pay $517 to have it fixed)

Female Pill - "This space heater actually works great." This said with a shocked expression on her face, despite the fact that I've already told her as much two times already. "It was really quite chilly when we first came down, but now the whole downstairs is rather nice." I casually glance at the thermostat, which is in the living room while she and the space heater are in the kitchen; it reads 72 degrees. I keep the house at 66 all winter.

me - "I told The Unsupportive Louse we might just have to use the space heater all winter if it ends up costing too much to fix the real heater; just leave it downstairs during the day and move it upstairs overnight."

Female Pill, laughing at my obvious stupidity - "You'd have to all strap one to your backs and take it with you everywhere you went!"

Did she follow the conversation...or did I just miss something?

at a restaurant where the in-laws very generously treated us to lunch - we're just ordering drinks -

me - "Can we get a milk for the little one" (pointing towards the "little one")

Waitress - "We don't have milk."

me - "You don't have milk?"

Female Pill - "They don't have milk?" A pause during which I request water instead. "They really don't have milk? What kind of restaurant doesn't have milk?" We're at Buffalo Wild Wings. For all intensive purposes a sports bar. That kind of restaurant doesn't have milk.

Two minutes later, the drinks arrive. The Female Pill picks up The Energizer Bunny's plastic cup with straw. "Don't you want some milk, Energizer? Why don't you drink some milk?"

me - "It's not milk."

Female Pill - "Oh. It's not? Is it water then?"

the males are talking about football, and begin discussing a former USC player who went to high school with the Unsupportive Louse and was drafted in the tenth round or something and was all annoyed about it...my silly little female brain didn't follow the whole conversation (possibly more to do with the Energizer Bunny than the femininity of my brain, but let's not split hairs) here's what I DID hear -
Male Pill - "Was he a year below you at school? Or was he in your class?"

Unsupportive Louse - "Uh, I think he was younger. I never had any classes with him." UL went to a fairly small private school

FEmale Pill - "Yes, he was." all three nod knowinlgy. Conversation continues surrounding the horror of being the tenth round draft pick, using dude's name continuously. I no longer remember dude's name. Blame the female brain if you must.

FEmale Pill, pretty much out of nowhere, in the middle of a sentence, breaks in, "Didn't you go to high school with him?"

Date Night!!

2009-11-02T15:47:00.000-05:00

I go to pull on my cute little short date-night skirt, proudly look down at my long sexy, freshly shaved…crap.

I forgot to shave a leg. Not my legs. One LEG. Singular.

And this isn’t like in high school when I shaved one leg every other day so they were always practically perfect, AND on weekends I shaved them both, both days anyway.

No, no, this is “Penney has an Energizer Bunny, has been working 60 hours a week and hasn’t had a date night in a month” legs. This is bad. One leg is smooth and glistening. The other leg? Hairier than a porcupine on Rogaine.

I didn't have time to dry-shave (I have the Energizer Bunny, I'm always running late)...so I pulled on knee high socks and hoped nobody looked at the six inches of left leg that was now showing.

The Unsupportive Louse didn't notice, so I'm taking that to mean no one else did either!

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #6

2009-10-30T13:13:00.000-04:00

Stop drinking soda/pop/soda pop/coke/whatever you call it. For real. The NYPD uses Coke to disintegrate blood from the street. You want to put that crap directly into your stomach? It eats through blood, people! It's terrible for you!

I just don't keep soda in the house. (Though this also may have to do with the rather tight grocery budget...) Either way, the Energizer Bunny knows what "al-kee-hul" is, but not soda. And no, that doesn't say anything about my parenting skills, so stop thinking it!

(Oh, and don't just buy bottled water instead. Save the money and the earth, use your damn tap, people survived for thousands of years drinking straight from the ground, you'll survive drinking from your tap.)

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #5

2009-10-23T10:10:00.000-04:00

Take MY dog for a walk. Sure, sure, you think taking your dog for a walk would be just as good, and I'm not saying it wouldn't help, but taking my dog is way better. I promise.

You won't just get a brisk 15 minute walk, you'll be required to stay outside, for a minimum of 30 minutes, and it won't just be walking. You'll have the pleasure of increasing stamina by chasing squirrels, birds, dogs and cyclists; increasing bicep strength by playing a random game of tug of war; and increasing heart rate by dealing with intolerant strangers after a tug of war the prize of which is said strangers. She will also force you to continue this shirade well into the depths of sub-zero winter.

She is for rent. Will consider adoption to a loving...er...tolerable home.

Silent Treatment

2009-10-22T09:01:00.001-04:00

When I get mad, I get PISSED. I yell, I scream, I stomp my feet and throw things and break things and hit things...

When the Unsupportive Louse gets mad, he sulks. He introverts himself and ignores the world and maybe pounds a drink or five...but mostly, he gives me the silent treatment. (Which of course pisses me off more, because all I want to do is yell at him.)

The Unsupportive Louse likes to point out to me that my version of mad is a terrible example to set for the sweet little, as yet still innocent, Energizer Bunny.

And damn if he doesn't have a point.

So the other day we got so ticked at each other that he actually raised his voice at me (haha!!) and I thought to myself, "Fine, I'll be a wonderful example since you can't seem to handle your job and give you a little taste of your own stupid silent medicine at the same time. See how YOU like it." This all thought in a very mature and not-at-all snotty or whiny tone. Of course.

I say nothing in response to his almost-yelling. Other than to go away and leave me alone. Which doesn't really count. Besides, I didn't yell it.

He proceeds to invite The Mooch to drown his sorrows in cheap vodka with him, then very loudly begins to relate all our recent sexual encounters to him. (The Mooch is getting free alcohol and therefore will endure pretty much anything.) And since the Unsupportive Louse knows I'm attempting to give him the silent treatment, and he's actually still really really ticked at me (possibly deservingly, but whatever), he KNOWS I can't come down and stop him without admitting defeat AND apologizing. Which I am not likely to do.

So not only did I not get to yell and scream, I also had to listen to my most embarassing moments told to my BROTHER, which will certainly be passed on to my MOTHER (after all, if the Mooch had to endure it, may as well make me endure whatever The Walking Guilt Trip can give me.)

Screw this good example shit.

Adventures on a Bike - Purple What??

2009-10-20T09:26:00.002-04:00

Adventures on a Bike, Part 4

I don’t wear underwear under my exercise pants. Whatever, I’ve said it, it’s true, and I don’t care if you think I’m weird. I think you’re gross getting your underwear all shoved up your crack while stretching/running/biking/toning/jazzercising/curving/whatever. So there. Now, on to the important part of the story.

After work every day, I change out of my jeans or other much-less-dressy-than-you-wear-to-work pants (and underwear) and change into my biking pants. I then put my jeans in my backpack and ride my wonderful purple bike home.

For my birthday, the Princess, my darling though somewhat spoiled “baby” sister (of 25…again…years), got me a bike basket. The first week with my new fancy shmancy bike basket on the back of my bike, I get down with my backpack stuffed full of jeans and think to myself, there’s really no reason to carry this extra weight on my back now that I have this ever-so-useful bike basket! So, OUT come the jeans, straight into the basket and off I go riding home.

Now, it just so happens that my birthday closely correlates to the beginning of the undergraduate school year here on beautiful University of Michigan campus. Meaning, the undergrads are back. (Ugh.) So I got about a billion odd looks on the way home. This is standard. I believe between the ages of 18 and 22, developing and perfecting as many ugly, odd, dirty, bizarre looks as possible is almost as important as underage drinking and promiscuous sex. So fine, whatever, I got funny looks.

I arrive at home, get down off my pretty purple bike and go to grab my jeans from my new oh-so-practical bike basket. And yes, there is my lacy purple thong hanging not only out of my jeans, but out of the basket altogether, caught by one simple thread to maximize the viewing pleasure of undergrads and commuters alike, dancing along in the wind behind me.

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #4

2009-10-16T13:45:00.000-04:00

A great way to add more whole grains to your diet is to start using whole wheat flour in your cooking and baking. Whole wheat is not only better for you, it's also more filling, and will keep you full longer.

As an added bonus, nothing tastes nearly as good, so you're sure to eat less of it. This tip will save you both calories AND money!

*added tip - don't substitute the entire amount of whole wheat flour for the standard bleached flour, start with a max of half and half. Unless you want to save a LOT of calories. And perhaps feed the dog something special tonight.

Adventures on a Bike - Repairs Needed

2009-10-15T09:31:00.000-04:00

Adventures on a Bike, Part 4

Undergrads are dumb. Phew, now that I’ve said that, I can continue to type with much less bitterness.

It’s not even vaguely unusual for an undergrad with earbuds in or phones to their heads or deep in a ever-so-important conversation about who Emma slept with last night, AGAIN… to not be able to hear me coming by. I quite frequently hop curbs or ride on the grass to avoid them. Sometimes even when they don’t have good excuses they don’t hear me. Whatever, they’re dumb, we’ve established this. All people not biking hate bikers, this has also been established and therefore all people side with the undergrads for their right to the sidewalk over dumb cyclists. Fine. I accept. (And freely admit that when I’m not the one on the bike, I hate them too…) So I always make accommodations without rolling my eyes too openly.

But one particular sweet red-headed, ear-budded Freshman (she just looked too naïve not to have been a freshman) could not have treated me worse if she’d tried to. She’s walking along a ridiculously wide stretch of sidewalk, looking down at her Ipod or other brand-name MP3 player, absolutely ignorant of the world around her. The sidewalk is so wide, I don’t even try to warn her.

Of course at the last second, as I’m about to pass her on the right, she glances up, see someone walking towards her and jumps 3 feet in the air at the massive shock of actually coming face-to-face with another human being and scuttles out of their way, directly into mine. I swerve and slam on my brakes, avoiding cute undergrad altogether, but making loud contact with a parking meter.

She stops and offers me a bandaid. I can only stare at her. What am I going to do with a bandaid?? Plus, I’m still standing. Bandaid…really? She then asks me what happened. I choose to pretend to be mute.

After I have made sure she is a respectable distance away from me, I begin again.

A few minutes later, I begin sailing down my favorite hill, on a street little traveled by either cars or pedestrians. As I’m nearing the end, I spot a car turning the corner and I squeeze my brakes to slow myself down…and I don’t. I squeeze harder. I can tell I’m slowing down, but certainly not much. To avoid certain death, I turn the corner myself and gradually stop.

Apparently my collision with a parking meter frayed the wire to my front brakes so badly that the brakes were no longer even touching the wheel.

If you find my little co-ed, please inform her she owes me $10.07 plus mental damages.

Adventures on a Bike - Sweet Little Old Lady

2009-10-13T09:28:00.000-04:00

Adventures on a Bike, Part 2

You know no one likes a biker. It’s true. You people in cars hate waiting for cyclists. You people walking hate having to move aside for a bike to fly past. It’s just a fact. So if I get a dirty look now and then, I deal with it and get on with life.

One particularly nice, early summer day, I’m riding along, thinking how blessed I am that I live in such a beautiful town with such fantastic people (the undergrads weren’t around, remember) and have such a perfect family. Nothing can ruin my mood.

I throw my hands out wide “king of the world” Titanic style, speeding down the hill a la Meg Ryan just before she gets slammed by a truck in that movie with Nicholas Cage from a million years ago, and when I slow down at the end, I’m coming up upon a sweet little old lady.

“Excuse me!” I sing it out sweet and in-love-with-life style.

No response. Nothing new. Plus, she’s old so she’s probably deaf.

“Excuse me, ma’am, coming by on your right!”

Still no response, but she’s enough on the left that it’s fine for me to ride right on by, I just don’t want to shock the living daylights out of poor old granny.

One last try as I pedal by, not too fast, not too slow, “Good evening, ma’am! Coming by!”

“Shit!” she yells as I pass by her. If this was all I’d heard, I would have continued to assume I’d misheard, just as I immediately did. But no, she continued.

“Fuc*ing bikers! Should all go to Hel*!”

Apparently all is NOT right with the world. Old ladies do NOT swear when all is right with the world. Do they?

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #3

2009-10-09T13:13:00.000-04:00

At every meal, make sure you have more fruit or veggies on your plate than meat. The FDA recommends 5-6oz of meat/beans/protein per day. PER DAY. Do you know how much that chicken breast weighs? Probably 7 or 8 with the way they're going these days. And don't forget about what you had for lunch...

If I make large slabs of meat for dinner, I only make 3 - one for the Unsupportive Louse, one for the Mooch and I share mine with the Energizer Bunny (who only needs a total of 2oz per day). As an added bonus, this also teaches the small child all about sharing. And if the Unsupportive Louse is really hungry after he's eaten his slab of meat, he can eat some half-chewed, slobbered on pea-sized bites from the Energizer Bunny's plate. Shockingly, this prospect keeps him lean too.

Adventures on a Bike - Red Hot Spandex Biker Shorts

2009-10-08T09:25:00.000-04:00

As biking season is quickly coming to an end, I thought it might be fun to write a little series of blogs about the exciting adventures I’ve had this year.

Adventures on a Bike, Part 1

I’m riding along one day, when I get that eerie tingly feeling, the one you feel when you’re sure someone is watching you. I glance back over my shoulder and see a rusty blue pickup truck slowing down and pulling into the right lane, closest to the sidewalk, but no people. I shake my head, thinking I must be going crazy…er.

Not ten seconds later, I see the old pickup ease next to me, going maybe 10 miles an hour. I wrinkle up my forehead wondering what this could be about and try to sneak another glance at the truck without falling off my bike. As I do, the passenger side window rolls down.

The driver leans waaay over and yells out the window at me, “Damn, you look ree-eal good on that bike!” I could only laugh.

Not many people can pull off red hot, short short, spandex biking shorts, but apparently you are acquainted with one of the few. Aren’t you proud?

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #2

2009-10-02T13:02:00.000-04:00

Pretend you're broke. For most of us, this won't be a problem. But, if it is, just pretend you're me. Really broke. Budget $50 per week for groceries to feed four people - two grown men, one ravenous energizer bunny and yourself. This needs to be a very strict budget, it's best if you take fifty dollars in cash to the store and know if you go over the limit, you will be shockingly embarrassed.

In no time at all, you'll find yourself avoiding most snacks, the chips and candy aisle altogether, and practically all meat as well. This will do wonders for your waistline.

Dead Man Walking

2009-09-30T23:13:00.003-04:00

Some of you...okay, maybe a few...or all right, maybe none, but I'd like to think it's some, so just let me, k? Anyway, some of you may have noticed that I've been rather absent from the world of blogging recently. Emotionally withdrawn perhaps. I've been posting mostly consistently, nothing different than normal, but I haven't been...well, whoring myself out on YOUR blogs nearly as much.

Let me tell you why. And then you, of course, will forgive me.

The fact is, I've been working (you know, the work in my "real" life) a lot of late nights. Not staying at work late, but rather, leaving work at the normal hour, after an 8 hour day, picking up the Energizer Bunny, (who runs up to the door every day yelling, "I be good t' baby, Momma!" as he is no longer biting/hitting/kicking/punching the baby), making a well-rounded dinner (things like mmmmacaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper....mmmm delicious!), taking the wondrous dog for a walk, tucking the Energizer Bunny in to bed (who will continue to play/talk/read to himself for at least another hour) and then going BACK to work. And staying for an hour or two.

Unfortunately for me, my work is not sitting down in front of a computer screen. It's on my feet, moving, thinking, calculating, blah blah blah kind of work. It's draining, people, that's what I'm telling you, it's draining.

So I get home 12/12:30 about to keel over. Not exactly my ideal time to write comments on others' blogs. Believe, you don't want the comments I could come up with on such a dead body and brain. But really, to be honest, I'm not reading your blogs at midnight anyway. Sorry, dudes, just don't love you QUITE that much.

If I read your blogs at all these days (omm...if you're reading this, OF COURSE I READ YOUR BLOG!!!) I read them as contraband at work. Much more exciting that way, I promise. But really also not a good time to comment...

So I'm not commenting on your blogs as much. But you wouldn't want me to anyway. 'Cause here's the thing. Not only am I tired and cranky? I'm also sex-deprived.

When the hell am I supposed to have sex with a 2-year old running around and the late night work requirement!? There's just no time for it. And I like me some sex. Sex puts me in a good mood.

But when I'm not getting any? I'm in a PISSY mood. BAD BAD BAD mood Penney. Just ask the Unsupportive Louse. Even he's smart enough to stay away from sex-deprived Penney. And it's been like 6 weeks or something ridiculous. (Okay, that's a huge exaggeration, but it's been 6 weeks since I could do it any day I wanted...and 2 years, 2 months, 24 days since I could do it any time I wanted...)

And to make it worse? I'm not even getting paid extra for this crap!!

Fabulous Fitness Fridays, Tip #1

2009-09-25T12:45:00.002-04:00

Due to both the healthcare/insurance "crisis" and the obesity epidemic, I - as a still slim, young...ish adult - feel compelled to offer my valuable lifestyle advice and (obviously) healthy habits with middle, blog-reading America.

Therefore, I will begin Fabulous Fitness Fridays with tried and tested tips on how to stay skinny or skinnyify yourself in no time.*

(I cannot promise I will manage to post a tip every Friday, but I CAN promise that if I don't, I will blame either the Energizer Bunny or the Unsupportive Louse, guaranteed.)

*no guarantees...and yes, skinnyify is a word. Where have you been?

SO, what you've ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!! TIP #1!!

Don't skip meals. It only makes you hungrier and more likely to eat unhealthily. (dude, good word.)

When I'm considering skipping lunch, I grab an easy snack, like a 660 calorie chocolate chocolate chip muffin leftover from that morning's meeting.

Family Dinner

2009-09-23T16:05:00.001-04:00

Had the Walking Guilt Trip over for dinner. It was very nice. Happy little extended family.

After dinner, The Walking Guilt Trip and I commense the necessary mother/daughter "small talk."

"How's your book coming?" she asks.

"Actually, I finished it." I hesitate to give my mother any good news without a justification, soI quickly amend, "Only the first draft, of course."

"Are you going to send it out to Publishers, then?" (Any publishers out there, please forgive my mother, she doesn't know what she speaks of. I wouldn't think so highly of myself as to send you any manuscript without an agent first accepting it as halfway decent.)

"It's just a first draft, Mom, I still have to revise it like 16 times before I can send it out."

"Not if you're good enough." Is it just me, or does anyone else now assume they're not "good enough" either??

Rather than blow a gasket as I might normally do, only to have a ridiculous guilty conscience later, I try to calmly explain why this comment may offend me. "It's not good enough Mom, and can you understand how telling me that if I was good enough it could be published right away might make me feel more like I've failed at something rather than accomplished something?"

I thought I was AVOIDING a guilt trip...hahaha The Walking Guilt Trip knows no boundaries! She began to CRY. On cue. Immediately. "Oh Penney, can't I do anything right?"

Oh glorious guilt trip! YOU MADE YOUR MOTHER CRY!

Vasectomy, anyone?

2009-09-18T19:41:00.007-04:00

I left the Unsupportive Louse alone with the Energizer Bunny for 3 hours last weekend. WHAT was I thinking?? THREE WHOLE HOURS?

They had dropped me off at a meeting because we'd all been in the general vincinity just before it began, and they were going to pick me up if the timing was convenient to naps, snacks, whatever else is involved in the life of an Energizer Bunny. Otherwise, I would just walk or bus home. A fine plan.

So, my meeting ends. I call, the Energizer Bunny is desperate to see me; they're excited to come pick me up. Wonderful.

Two minutes later, the phone rings -

"Hey, everything okay?" I ask

The Energizer Bunny is screaming in the background. "FIND YOUR OWN WAY HOME!" Click.

Hm.

I begin the 3 mile walk home.

15 minutes later, I get a text message -

"I'm getting a vasectomy tomorrow"

Obviously such a procedure needs to be performed immediately, no time to delay!

I call.

The Energizer Bunny is crying in the background. "He's being unreasonable!!"

"He's 2."

"So!?"

"He's frustrated. He's having trouble trying to communicate with you."

"Tell him to speak English!"

"He's 2."

"EXACTLY! He's had TWO YEARS to learn! It doesn't take two years to learn a language!"

I pause. How does one respond to such a rational statment? "Give him a little more time. Try to be patient with him for now."

"Just come home before I strangle him." Click.

I speed up.

Ten minutes later I'm almost home. I call to make sure they're both still breathing.

The Energizer Bunny is wailing in the background. "Where are you!?"

"Almost home. Why don't you guys walk to meet me?"

The Unsupportive Louse suggests such an outing to the Energizer Bunny. The wailing stops.

"Yes. Go find Mommy."

"Fine." Click. Sigh.

Two mintues later, I hear the creaking, wobbling wagon the Energizer Bunny adores. No wailing. This must be a good sign. The wagon turns the corner.

The Unsupportive Louse spots me. The wagon is flung down the sidewalk toward me. "He's all yours." He turns around and walks away.

The Energizer Bunny jumps into my arms and yells over his shoulder, "I luuub you, Da-dee!"

The Unsupportive Louse later tells me that The Energizer Bunny gets his "insanity" from me. Hm.

Mother-of-the-Year

2009-09-09T21:44:00.007-04:00

The grown-ups (very loosely used, since it does, after all, include my brother The Mooch) in the household came down with what can only be attributed to food poisoning after our rainy labor day garage barbecue (hey, the best laid plans can't be completely foiled by a little rain...) While I might be more willing to credit carbon monoxide poisoning to our illness, as the majority of charcoal produced barbecue smoke poured into our kitchen from the garage door throughout the entire affair, I would assume the small child would be most prone to said poisoning, and thus must toss out that idea altogether.

So the Energizer Bunny, having refused the delicacy commonly known as a hamburger for dinner, remained ever so energetic while any and all caregivers were stuck in the (thankfully three separate) bathrooms throughout the day. Not to be vulgar or anything, but, there is nothing like taking care of a two-year old while requiring to alternatively hurl and shit oneself. Really. You should try it.

Following a desperately long day praying to the porcelain god after doing nothing even vaguely close to deserving such a pleasure, one must make sacrifices. I am sorry to relate to you now that my sacrifice was the safe care and well-being of the Energizer Bunny.

We went to bed before him.

That's right, folks. We plopped him down in bed, gave him some books and blocks, and told him to be good. Tucked ourselves in good and tight and drifted off to dreams of happier days while our child fended for himself in the other room. I hereby nominate myself for Mother-of-the-Year.

You'll be glad to know he's still alive AND the house is still standing.

Please don't tell The Walking Guilt Trip.

They’re Baa-ack

2009-09-07T15:25:00.001-04:00

The problem with living in a college town is that you have four months of gorgeous summer to forget that you live in a college town. (Ironically, this is also the problem with living in Michigan in general…four solid months of warm weather that allows you to forget that the other eight are below zero.)

All summer long, you can walk, drive, bike, eat, shop without a care in the world.

And then comes September. Anywhere you look there’s exposed skin and mid-afternoon underage drinking, I-pods and earbuds and excess stupidity. Kids who have had nothing better to do all summer but run to amplify the perfectness of their still teenage bodies and lay out for endless hours to improve their tans, and of course spend Mommy and Daddy’s money on new clothes, shoes, Coach bags and enough make-up to camouflage a cow.

In no time we can add to this clever group the infamous leggings/Uggs combination, since winter immediately follows the return of undergrads in this glorious town we call Ann Arbor.

And now they’re back. They’re walking in the middle of streets and throwing red Dixie cups at passers-by. They’re tossing footballs over cars and playing their ipods loud enough to get the cops called. They’re wandering around like lost little doe-eyed sheep when alone but confident as vultures in large groups. They’re obnoxious.

And what’s worse? Their parents are here too. For this first fantastic week before Labor Day, the parents drive their sweet babies to their new big city school.

And their parents are the ones who, rather than stop or just keep going at a crosswalk will slow down to the point where I have to fully stop on my bike, then continue along their way once they’ve made sure I’ll have to work extra hard to make it home today. Their parents are the ones who demand different seats in the restaurants because “this table has a little something on it” or “that table has better lighting.” Their parents are the ones who unload their luggage into the middle of the street while their precious little angel is carrying a bookshelf up the stairs in her miniskirt and heels, and then wonder what all the drivers are getting annoyed at.

To ensure me that all of Ann Arbor is excited for the return of the undergrads, I actually saw my three favorite Ann Arborites today, for the first time this year. The bikini wearing, bicycle riding homeless man. And the pinkie holding, tie-dye shirt wearing unicyclist couple. Ahh...college towns.

Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Day

2009-09-04T09:28:00.003-04:00

So I wrote this blog last week and then a ridiculous combination of my work computer hating blogger, blogger hating Word and my laptop hating the internet, I was completely unable to post. So whatever, pretend it's over a week ago and once you're done reading, you can go ahead and skip back to the present.

Thank God I got those awards last week ‘cause otherwise, I just might have had to slit my wrists. Or possibly moved to Australia. No, really. My day was THAT bad.

It was an accumulation of a week’s worth of crap ending in one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I told the Unsupportive Louse I was moving to Australia. He said they don’t have internet in Australia. I’m quite sure they do; you wouldn’t even notice the difference.

First, our basement flooded. The air conditioning was leaking. And the earliest “non-emergency” appointment we could get was five days later. (An all day appointment, of course.) We therefore had to leave it off…through the boiling, humid weekend. The ONLY boiling, humid weekend we have had all summer.

And when we went to pick up the dehumidifier someone offered to us, someone else had taken (stolen?) it from their driveway. Jackholes. Of course we then discovered mold on the couch down there because it was so freaking humid. And a light shorted out after literally DRIPPING with condensation. We had to turn the HEATER ON to dry it out. In 95 degree weather.
Granted, it was only 62 degrees in the basement (a part of the problem) but F#*@ I don’t even let us use the heater in the WINTER, much less the summer!!

And the Energizer Bunny learned to say something that sounds suspiciously like “bucket.” (perhaps better written Buck It?)

It was also his first week at a new daycare, and I’m certain that will make a good impression.

Not only that, he’s decided to show us how pissed he is about having to change daycares by biting the other kids. And then laughing. (Oh, but he knows how to get away with it; he always looks very sweet and contrite when he tells me he’s sorry he bit the baby.)

So I spent an excessive amount of time settling the sweet, contrite, biting Energizer Bunny in at daycare Thursday morning and when I got to work an HOUR AND A HALF late, I have a concise little e-mail waiting from my boss. “Let’s meet as soon as everyone gets in.” AS SOON AS EVERYONE GETS IN. SHIT.

As if this can get worse, the meeting was all about a huge mistake I made that I cannot live down for the life of me. Awesome. I’m fairly certain I could get fired over this.

Oh but no, it doesn’t end there, it gets worse. I TOLD you God hated me!

I pick the Energizer Bunny up and flop myself on the couch immediately upon arriving home. He commences to tell me “Water down dere, Momma. En ba’ement, Momma. Buck It. Water en ba’ement.” He narrates everything he sees or thinks these days. Adorable really. Except when it includes words like bucket and reminders of your quickly decaying life.

“Momma, hole up dere. Hole Momma’s seel-ing. Flour on floor. Make cake wi’ dat. Momma, make cake?” He comes running to the living room to beg me to make a cake, but my mind is still stuck on that damn hole. I wish I could just sit on the couch. I wish I could ignore it. I wish there was an explanation, but…?

Oh, yeah. There’s a hole in the ceiling. A hole the size of my fist. (The “flour” is the fine chalky white bits of paint and drywall all over the floor.) It would seem we have new friends who would like to share our home. Squirrels. They’ve clawed through the mesh over a vent on the outside of the house.

AAAHHHH!

I’d love to have a shoulder to cry on.

Just my luck, the Unsupportive Louse arrives home at this very moment. He does some hairpulling, some “hemorrhaging money” and “shoulda stayed in the studio” yelling, and then lets me go garden to relax myself.

Day’s over, right? Oh no, not yet. God has more in store for you!!

I knocked a beautiful, bright green tomato right off the vine. The Energizer Bunny then pulled a second, tiny green tomato off the vine. “I he’p, Momma. I pick ‘mato! Turn red now!”

Now here’s the clincher. The beautiful pumpkin plant that had several tiny little starter pumpkins on it last week…now has 2 GOURDS. No mistaking them, they’re not pumpkins, they’re gourds. Whatever, I know a pumpkin is a gourd, that’s not what I’m talking about. These are stupid, useless, warty yellow gourds. I bought pumpkin seeds.

Really, God? What must I do??

"Yes, Mother, I'd love to carpool."

2009-08-26T18:40:00.000-04:00

So, The Walking Guilt Trip called me today.

Her first words were, "Do you want to carpool this weekend?"

Crap. This weekend. What is this weekend??

I racked my brain, I swear to GOD I racked my brain as hard as I could before I meekly curled myself into the fetal position and whispered, "What is this weekend?" At this point my mind pretty much beats itself, but The Walking Guilt Trip doesn't accept the abuse as true guilt, she prefers to do the dirty work with her own two hands...or her own two lips as the case may be.

"Well, it's fine if you don't want to go. I only asked because you'd said you wanted to go, but there's no reason for you to go if you don't want to. I just thought you'd might like to, but I don't want to force you."

"Go to what, Mom, you still haven't told me where we're supposed to be going?"

"Well, I did tell you, I told you when I asked you if you want to come, but obviously if you don't remember it's not important enough to you. So I'll just go by myself. It will be fine, I'm sure I'll know someone." If this sounds sweet and innocent to you, you're not adding the dripping sarcasm that is vaguely veiled as only a mother with the power to disguise guilt trips can vaguely veil anything.

"I'm sorry Mom, I just can't think of what it was you asked me to do this weekend. When did you ask?"

"I asked at least two months ago, you've had plenty of advance notice. If you planned something else, of course, that's fine, you don't have to go. Don't cancel anything on my behalf, I know you've got more important things to do." First, I'd like to point out that asking a longer time ago does not in fact make it more memorable in my mind. Two months ago in Michigan was practically winter, how am I supposed to think about anything that far away?? I have a two-year old, a husband who's lucky to remember my name, a live-in brother who can't even remember what month it is, and I'm supposed to remember something my mother asked me, in passing, I'm sure, AT LEAST two months ago? AND remember that it's this weekend?

So now, in an attempt to protect my poor brain from overdosing on guilt, I start throwing out things I think she may have mentionned to me a few months ago..., "Is it apple picking time? Do you want to go to that new restaurant that's supposed to be opening...is it already open? Did I miss that? Crap, sorry if I did. Was there a car show you wanted to go see? Wait, was that last weekend? Om, never mind. What about the art museum, is that opening back up already? Oh, no, I think I saw people going in there recently, didn't I?"

WRONG strategy.

"Yes, the restaurant opened last month, I already went with Karen since you were so busy, and the car show was a few weeks ago, remember, I brought The Energizer Bunny a little car back? I had to go by myself to that, no one was available that day. I'm not sure what you were doing, but I'm sure you would have called if you'd really wanted to go. And the Art Museum has been open for awhile now, but they already took down their special exhibit. I'm sure it will come back sometime, they usually rotate every few years, I'll just go next time."

I never did figure out what I was supposed to be carpooling to this weekend.

Double-Mint Famous

2009-08-21T11:51:00.007-04:00

I left you hanging yesterday, and I know you're concerned. I told you I'd been nominated for TWO (not one, but TWO) awards, and I only expanded upon one of them. I don't want you to die of curiosity, so I'll hurry to get this blog finished up and posted (between "real" work of course...but if it makes you feel better, I don't plan on leaving my desk for lunch...again...you'd BETTER love me for this!)

I've decided it isn't in fact blogger.com that hates me (that would just be silly, now wouldn't it?) but in fact it is my work computer that hates blogger.com (which makes complete sense) and it is my work computer that is not allowing me to post the damn picture in the MIDDLE of the fricking blog instead of at the top. But whatever. I endeavor to NOT CARE.

AHA!!! I am RIGHT! My laptop let me move the very same picture my work computer refused to let me move!! My work computer DOES hate blogger.com!! I cannot say I'm surprised, but slightly offended none the less.

So, this award is also from Rick at The Daley Rant because he loooooves me. (It's all right, you don't have to admit it, I already know) Or because he's lazy. But I prefer the former. So, on to the rules

- each Superior Scribbler must nominate 5 Superior Scribblers
I rebel. I'm nominating 3. This is because I decided not to doubly nominate people, or nominate people who had already been nominated and it seems this decreases my pool considerably. So 3 (extremely deserving people, I might add) it is.

- each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and blog that has won the award.
That Girl From Shallotte
Mindful Drivel
Brit Out of Water

- each Superior Scribbler must show the award on their blog (check) and link to this post

- each Superior Scribbler must add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List (check)

- each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on their blog. I'm not entirely sure why, but they're here anyway.

Now, I must say, this one did not command me to actually TELL these people that I nominated them...SOOO tempted not to and wait until they see it for themselves. Visit my blog and THEN you will be worthy!!!

All right fine, I'll tell them. Wouldn't want to upset them, after all...

It's Okay, You Can Have my Autograph

2009-08-20T12:30:00.012-04:00

Dude, I'm famous! Some very important bloggers made up very important awards and I have been nominated. Obviously I am famous. Not only that, I've been nominated for TWO blogging awards!! Take that, Unsupportive Louse, this blogging crap *isn't* just a waste of time! HA!!

Good thing too, 'cause I apparently am trying really hard to get myself fired this morning, so maybe I can use this whole famous thing to make a buck. Or two. I don't know, but I needed the pick-me-up, so thank you very important bloggers for making up very important awards.

To keep you in desperate suspense, as any good writer is prone to do, I will only address one of the awards now. (And well, I am at work...you know, the "real" job..., and did already get a good flogging this morning, I'm not sure how much more I can really handle, so it might be prudent to stick to one for the moment...)

Ok, because Blogger.com knows I'm having a crappy day, it has decided not to let me put the little award picture down here. It has decided it will stay at the top of the blog. So whatever. It'll stay at the top. See if I care.

Now, for my tasks.

1- Thank the person who nominated you. check. You can thank him too, if you'd like, for making your favorite blogger famous and possibly, even you, by association of course.

2- Copy the logo and paste it in your blog. Uh done, but not here, cause life sucks at me. (I don't suck at life, I swear, it just sucks at me)

3- Link to the person who nominated you for this award. Rick at The Daley Rant was crazy enough to nominate me. He also has a cool query letter blog for any aspiring writers out there (and really, aren't we all?)

4- Name seven things about yourself that people might find interesting.

4.1- I haven't eaten lunch yet, but I HAVE eaten two gi-normous cookies. (Despite the fact that I cannot help myself but to eat any and all sugary products placed vageuly near me, I am not yet ginormous myself. I'm trying to stave it off with running and biking...but give it 15 years, I'm still young.)

4.2 - I have insomnia. I blame this on actually being a REAL night person (which is wholly different from you people who *think* you're night people...) who goes to bed early only because I have to get up early. If it were up to me, I'd stay up until 4 every morning and not get up until 11 or 12. Hence, going to be at 10:30 is very difficult for me.

4.3 - I'm addicted to Facebook. Like, for real. I may have checked it three times while writing this blog. So far.

4.4 - Last week I was told by a high school friend on Facebook that I looked like I was still in high school and I'm still giddy about it.

4.5 - When I was little, I wanted to be a psychiatrist, an artist, an author, a teacher and a scientist. All at the same time. I was sure I could swing it. (Science teacher who does a few real experiments on the side, draws while the students are working, writes at night and sees patients on weekends. Duh. And I didn't just make that up now, I really thought it through back then.)

4.6 - I had my whole life planned when I was little, down to marrying someone with the last name West (at age 23, of course) so that I didn't have to change my name or choose my real last name over my step-father's last name (as a middle name) which I knew would upset him. I hate to upset people. My first college boyfriend's last name was West. When I discovered this (on our third date, whatever, it's not like it was a one-night stand, I just didn't know his last name, all right? Get over it.) anyway, when I discovered it, I was sure it was either a sign I should marry him instantly or get the hell out of town as quickly as I could. (In the end, I did neither.)

4.7 - I'm still that insane.

5. Nominate seven "Kreativ" bloggers.

6. Post links to said Kreativ bloggers.

I'm just gonna combine 5 and 6, cause I think they're only split up so previously mentionned Very Important Blogger could have seven rules.

5/6.1 Chief

5/6.2 Azucar (sorry, don't know how to get the accent on the u...)

5/6.3 Kel

5/6.4 Amy

5/6.5 Backpacking Dad (I don't know his name)

5/6.6 Different Girl (also don't know her name)

5/6.7 Kate

7. Comment on Kreativ bloggers blogs so they know they've been nominated.

While I'd prefer for them to have to return to my blog and read it to find out that they've been nominated to be as cool as me, I'll do this, since it's a rule. And I'd hate to break a rule. It might upset someone.

By the way, I spent way more time deciding which 7 to use for this award and which 5 to use for the other award, considering they're Very Important Awards *made up* by Very Important Bloggers.

And, with that in mind, I would like to post a link to a very, very profound comment.

Why I Still Love My Ex

2009-08-18T20:17:00.006-04:00

Now, I do desperately love my Unsupportive Louse, despite any minor flaws he may, at some inopportune moments, exhibit. The thing is, he’s very different from the previous Mr. Penney…VERY different – macho vs nerdy, clean-shaven vs scruffy, illiterate vs bookwormy, lightweight vs alcoholic, EAE sports player vs role playing gamer. So many important ways that they’re so very different. But really, on almost all counts, the Unsupportive Louse is a better pick, and I’m not just saying that because he might deign to read my measly little blog one of these days, no, it’s really true.

However…the Macho ex-Jerk was far and away (I mean, by like…a billion times) better at communicating. Oh yeah, I know, I went to marriage counseling, I KNOW communicating is one of the MAJOR “needs be” of marriages…the Unsupportive Louse just happens to suck at it. He does try, he really does, but when you start from next to nothing, trying doesn’t get you much better too fast. And the thing is, the Macho ex-Jerk LOOOVED to talk. He was one of those who’d call me on his way home from work (which was a 10 minute drive) because he had SOOO much to talk about (even though he’d called me three times throughout the day), and then he’d still be talking to me as he walked in the door and never stop while he hung up his phone. We talked about anything and everything and anyone and everyone and all their anything and everythings too. Now, I’m not saying we never fought, cause that’d be just one huge f-ing lie, but we’d talk about it afterwards anyway.

So every once in awhile I start to question myself, if I couldn’t make a marriage work with this guy who was GREAT at communicating (though, as it turns out, talking doesn’t necessarily equate to communicating…), why oh why do I ever think I can make it last with one who is just absolutely terrible at it? Which gets me into the what-ifs. What if it was actually all my fault? (which, clearly, it isn’t, since after all, nothing is…but for the sake of argument, I let my brain ramble on occasion.) What if I had realized sooner that he’d stopped talking so much; what if I’d realized that the lack of talking was a sign of distress in the relationship and not just due to the overuse of his cell phone minutes that I bitched him out about a time or two? And what if, on some very critical day six years ago (because this kind of willpower couldn’t have lasted longer than a day), I had decided NOT to be a demanding, obsessive compulsive bitch…would that have changed everything? Would I have never had to go through the devastation and depression of that divorce? And if I hadn’t…would I be happy now?

And now, that’s the key question. Where my what-ifs really get me. Could I have been happy forever with the Macho ex-Jerk if things had just been a little different? Because the thing is, I’m not a quitter. I’d have never left even if I was slit my wrists miserable (and I was close there near the end), but it’s just not my way. I’m damn stubborn when I want to be, and getting divorced?? NOT on my list of things to do. I HATE the fact that I’m divorced. Even though I’m happily married again, I can’t stand anyone knowing this huge failure in my past. Plus, I did actually love the dipshit. So I’d still be there if he hadn’t made his fateful pronouncement one gloomy night…

So my damn overactive brain starts wondering the what-ifs on occasion and my damn overactive guilty conscience (thanks, Mom) starts telling me I’m an ungrateful wife for even considering the what-ifs (because, believe me, I’m much happier now than I ever could have been stuck on Long Island – forgive me if you’re unfortunate enough to live there – with the Macho ex-Jerk for the rest of my life.)

Recently I had the wonderful fortune of remembering all over precisely why I still love the Macho ex-Jerk so much.

The Macho ex-Jerk’s best friend, the best man at our wedding, the only guy to do more than slap him on the back when he told him we were getting married, the guy close enough to him that they both asked each other to check up on their wives while they were sent to die in Afghanistan (don't worry, they didn't die), the guy who actually teared up at our goodbye party… just had a baby. Let me add here that he totally cussed the Macho ex-Jerk out for his dumbassed-ness when we were separated, and TOTALLY chose me when we divorced (you KNOW you have to split up your friends in the divorce papers as well as the towels, the photo albums, the gigantic plastic souvenir cups, the toothpaste...)

So, MeJ’s best friend had a baby who came 8 weeks early and weighs only 2lbs13oz, is doing well considering, but they’re asking for everyone’s thoughts etc. (And by the way, he e-mailed me to tell me, because I still have custody of his friendship, even if I no longer have the towels, photo albums, toothpaste or gigantic plastic souvenir cups.) I think to myself, perhaps the Macho ex-Jerk would like to know this, would like to send his wishes. So I forward the e-mail. What a nice person I am. I’ve done my good deed of the day. I pat myself on the back and begin to think some what-ifs just to get a healthy dose of guilt.

Macho ex-Jerk e-mails back, (and I quote)

“That’s nice. We don’t talk anymore.”

Because I can’t handle such a stupid response, and certainly can’t let sleeping dogs lie, I write back
“Uh, duh, that’s the point, I thought you might like to send your regards to your BEST FRIEND. Fuckhead.”

“I’m glad he’s doing well, but I’ve moved on in my life.”

Yes, and moving on definitely means you can’t be a nice person for three goddamn seconds and send well wishes to the best friend you ever had when his first child is in danger of DYING*. And all because he told you you were a dipshit for divorcing your gorgeous, intelligent, far too good for you wife five years ago. (And since MeJ’s best friend is now my property, I know from him that this is indeed the only rift that caused their best friendship to completely crumble.) What an asswipe.

And this makes me realize what a good man the Unsupportive Louse truly is, who would not only never be stupid enough to divorce his gorgeous, intelligent, maybe not quite too good for him wife, he would also never give up his best friend in the divorce (unless, of course, I really wanted her) and even if he did, he’d never be so much of a dick as to ignore the peril of her as yet unborn children. Which is why I love the Macho ex-Jerk so – he’s able to remind me how much better my life is now and how absolutely miserable I would have been if all the “what ifs” were “indeed trues.”

*Author' note - Baby is actually doing great, not dying, just a bit of overdramatism. I'm sure you're not used to it, since it so infrequently occurs in my blogs.

OCD - Obsessive Compulsive Dogsitting

2009-08-12T19:44:00.001-04:00

We’ve been dogsitting for some friends…we’ll call them Mr. Communicative and Mrs. Cleanly (I’m actually laughing out loud as I type that…even though I’ve known I was going to type it...)

Anyway, Mr. Communicative and Mrs. Cleanly’s house…well, let’s just say Mrs. Cleanly is ironic. Very, very, very ironic.

But as I’m looking around at the disaster that is their home, I think…my God, this could happen to anyone! One day the shirt you throw at the laundry basket tumbles off the top of the pile, the next day the closest door won’t close, and then suddenly half the room is full of clothes. So many clothes that even when you do a load or two, you’re overwhelmed and can’t even convince yourself to finish folding them all. Or maybe you don’t have time to because your two-year old is being anything but helpful and quite enjoying strewing the newly cleaned clothes around the remaining uncluttered sections of floor. So you stop. And then they’re covered with dog hair and wrinkled and pretty much dirty again anyway.

And the day you’d thrown that first shirt that overflowed the laundry basket was the day of your child’s birthday party, and at that party he received such an inordinate number of gifts that you literally don’t have room to store them all in your home, and your living space is quickly being encroached upon by toys that are actually “away.” Not to mention the toys that are quickly and easily dumped by joyous hands: blocks, cars, balls…everywhere.

And while you’re busy worrying about the tragedy that is your laundry situation, suddenly the kitchen rebels from lack of attention and the dishes overflow the sinks, the counters are covered with food stains, the stove is protesting by flinging grease and garbage, paraphernalia, crap piles any open space. (The easiest thing to do in this instance is blame your husband, of course, and try to convince HIM to clean it, thus washing your hands of the situation altogether...)

And suddenly your house looks just like theirs. And then maybe some evil “friend” will write a nasty blog to nationally publish your disgrace as a housekeeper too.

Needless to say, I came home from feeding the dogs and began organizing toys, scrubbing counters, cleaning the stove, polishing the table, swiffer-ing the floor, and yelling at the Unsupportive Louse for letting things get SO out of control. (After all, it is CLEARLY his fault.) He raised his eyebrows at me and went back to his video game.

Quote of the Week

2009-08-09T14:25:00.002-04:00

My favorite quote of the week – The Mooch asks “Where’s The Walking Guilt Trip?”

I answer “Omm…she’s laying out on the dock…been there for awhile…she kinda looks dead.”

The Princess - “Think we should make sure she’s okay?”

Me - “I don’t know, she’s probably fine.”

The Mooch – “She already paid?”

Me - “Yup.”

The Mooch – “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Please Excuse My Absence

2009-08-08T13:26:00.005-04:00

The Unsupportive Louse and I took the Energizer Bunny (after a full day of jumping off the dock, throwing rocks, swimming, building a bonfire and roasting marshmallows, an hour and a half past his bedtime, our two year old says, "No mommy, no nigh' nigh'. I go 'wimming.") to a cabin on a lake close to Lake Michigan this past week, with my mother (The Walking Guilt Trip - never had a guilty conscience? Don't believe that my sweet little mother could give you one? I DARE you to try to avoid one. Double dog dare you.), my brother (The Mooch - we'll just say something seems to come up quite frequentlywhen the rent is due...) and my half-sister* (The Princess - it's not her fault, would you NOT accept being lavished with gifts? No, you'd probaly greedily take any gifts sent your way, and the more gifts you got, the more used to getting gifts you'd become.).

Top 10 Things I learned at the lake:

1. Teaching a two-year old to skim rocks is really just teaching a two year old that it’s okay to throw rocks.

2. I hate the TV…hate, hate, hate the TV. (Now, I knew previously that I didn’t like having the TV on all the time; would prefer to do something productive or exercise-y…but now I know that I HATE having the TV on in the background constantly. I hate thinking whatever the chauvinistic doctor on MASH said is more important than what I’m saying.)

3. The water in the lake will stay the same temperature two days in a row, but will feel shockingly colder when it’s 83 degrees and breezy than it did when it was 61 degrees and raining.

4. It is smart not to dive into a lake while wearing a bikini, with mother, brother, sister, and two year old watching. No worries about the husband watching.

5. When I am with my siblings and my mother, I will always revert to pre-pubescent behavior. It does not matter how old I will get, how many children I have or how mature I become in my “normal” life.

6. It would be stupid, ridiculously, undeniably stupid, to forget to bring bug spray (or DEET as you non-California types call it) to a cabin by a tiny inland lake. Stupid.

7. Black labs are thieves.

8. It is best to go skinny-dipping when you are certain no one is watching.

9. Leeches come in many sizes. They are not all huge “as seen on TV.” And the microscopic ones can make it pretty much anywhere.

10. You can’t catch fish if you’re terrified of worms.

*growing up, she was my sister, now she is my half-sister. The change occurred when her father realized that I since I had moved far away (to NY with the ex) and was all but out of my sister’s life, he no longer needed to pay me any attention and my sister determined he was right, he is, after all, not my father. She also loved my first husband. When we divorced, I think the other half of her went with him.

Know a Good Lawyer?

2009-07-22T21:06:00.004-04:00

I have had my first official bike accident.

The good news - It wasn't July 16th.
I was riding on the sidewalk.
I hit them, they didn’t hit me.

The bad news – I hit a pedestrian.

It was totally her fault – she was one of those weavers; the ones who can’t decide which part of the sidewalk they really want to claim. I find these types tend to scare easily. Don’t ask me ask…stuck in their daydreams maybe? So I followed my normal protocol, and using my “indoor voice” I said “On your right.”

She responds not.

“On your right.”

She begins to veer to the right, completely unaware of me. Shit.

“ON YOUR RIGHT!” The distance between us becoming dangerously small, not leaving me enough time to change to an “on your left,” I felt the need to yell at her.

The dumbass jumped a mile as if there was no warning, no groaning rusty tires, no squeaking breaks, no previous mention of “on your right…”

Landing from her short flight, she threw herself to the right. Of course. And I mean THREW herself, clearly trying to avoid certain peril and instead throwing herself directly in it’s path – the path of my bike.

As I flew over my handlebars, the only thing I could think was whether one could be sued for hitting a pedestrian with their bike.

Yet the first words out of my mouth were: “That would be your right.”

Obviously I had a concussion. I would never say such a thing under normal circumstances. (I swear.)

As I then contemplated the bump on my head, the grass in my hair and the dirt in my pedals, it occurred to me that I had too much work to do to spend the day in the ER, and decided to go the way of Natasha Richardson*…which required me appearing sane, if only momentarily.

“Are you okay?” I was still staring at the sky, not having the energy to force my muscles upright again. But after a few minutes of addressing the sky with the reciprocated polite concern and personal bone palpation, I decided she was not the suing type. I road my bike on the street (almost) the rest of the way to work. I figured God couldn’t hate me enough to let me have two accidents in one day… Perhaps that was pushing it…but again, obviously I had a concussion.

*I know it's dumb to use a pop-culture reference in a blog, especially one that is ALREADY out dated, but whatever - so if you don't remember, she's the English actress, married to some other unknown European actor that fell and hit her head skiing, told the paramedics to shove it, and later died of a brain injury. Now you're all caught up.

Vampire Porn

2009-07-20T22:54:00.005-04:00

I don't like science fiction. I don't like it (most of it...I'm certain the Unsupportive Louse will out me for liking some of it if I don't fess up) because there's no good explanation. Aliens look like blue people. Yes, I'm sure the life that developed on a completely different planet looks exactly the same for us except those three eyes and that pesky blue colored skin. Dumb. Just dumb.

I especially hate vampires. I think whoever invented vampires was an uneducated, wholly unimaginative retard. (I know, I know, I should say what I really mean...I'm always trying to be so nice to people, I swear.) But really, they're a separate species from humans, right? That happens to be exactly the same except for elongating teeth and a propensity for blood. Uh huh. And don't forget their undead human slayers. 'Cause that makes them more believable. By the way, teeth are a calcified solid - how exactly do they elongate? And what does drinking blood do? And why vampire blood? They've already got the shit in their veins - why can't they just drink their own? Really, how does this make any sense? And what's the deal with the sun? I mean, I'd believe it if they told me they'd get really burnt really fast, but die immediately? Incinerate on contact? Turn straight into ash? REALLY?? So whatever, they're dumb, but you can like 'em if you must, that's fine.

On a very related note (oh, it is, you'll see) I also hate romance novels. I mean, every once in awhile I enjoy me a little romance slumming, but Danielle Steel-esque romance? BLOWS. I mean, middle aged women, done nothing with her life but serve her husband and pop out some babies and now her husband is leaving her for a ridiculously younger woman (who, in the end, will discover that he's a douchebag after all and leave him all alone, only to realize that his first wife might have been the one he wanted all along...) and first wife has since moved on to find a man and a career. Barf. Just barf. And every one is exactly the same barf. (ah, whatever, she's got enough followers, I'm not hurting her business any)

So...a few months ago, a friend of mine (who we will call "Creative" because...well, she's creative) sent me a box of books. I asked the Unsupportive Louse to grab me a book from the box, and he comes up with a vampire romance novel. For real. A friggin' vampire sex book. Oh hell no. If I hadn't momentarily grown a conscience and not wanted to send him back downstairs for a different one, I might have just burnt the book right then and there. I suppose I probably did as much with my mocking comments for the first three chapters.

But...uh, as it turns out? I like it. Oh, fine, fine, I love the stupid things. I even went out and bought a few more. Told my husband it would be a good thing if I got a few for my birthday. Really crazy stuff. Like, can't put it down, considering sending out mass e-mails to see if anyone has the ones I skipped in between. But that would be tantamount to admitting I maybe kinda sorta liked the thing... (and while clearly a TOTAL understatement) I've been a feminist science fiction hater for far too long to take it all back now.

But JR Ward? You can consider this your shout out. Your writing must be awesome, because I hate vampires and I'm not too keen on romance and I LOVE your damn vampire porn!

July 16...

2009-07-16T10:56:00.002-04:00

Only two little ants in the kitchen this morning...I'm going to assume this is a good sign...I think. And I made it to work alive. Even braved riding my bike.

But today is the lab picnic. And the lab picnic happens to be in Dexter. Where my dad grew up. Where my dad is now buried. (We were living in California when he died.) How ironic would it be for my little evil fairy godmother to have me knocked off right next to his grave??

Or perhaps that's just too much coincidence.

Superstitious

2009-07-15T21:08:00.003-04:00

I'm educated, I'm intelligent, I'm liberal, I'm a scientist, I'm trained to question anything I haven't seen supporting data for. But I'm superstitious.

Not COMPLETELY superstitious; it's not like I think I need to throw salt over my shoulder to avoid bad luck or that saying "Bloody Mary" three times fast at midnight will cause Bloody Mary herself to pop out of the mirror and come get me (...not that I would try it...) I'm ridiculously superstitious on just one point. It's not one that you've ever heard of, I promise. But I'm sure this one is true.

I'm pretty damned sure that if there is an invasion of ants in my kitchen on the morning of July 16 (yup, tomorrow) I am going to die. I know, you're a little shocked. You thought it was going to be something little and amusing. Well, it is amusing really, but the whole death thing is a little over the top, don't you agree?

Here's the deal. 28 years ago, on July 16 1981, after my mother discovered a massive ant infiltration in the kitchen, my father left the house to ride his bike to work. He'd had a meeting scheduled that morning, so despite my mother's pleas for him to stay and help clean up the nasty little buggers, he left. And never made it to that damn meeting.

Now you agree I've got a pretty good reason for this stupid, overly dramatic superstition, huh?

Want to know why it's even worse? Every year, every single freaking year after that, there were ants in our kitchen on July 16. Like a little reminder. Like some cruel supernatural being was having a little laugh somewhere.

There were three little scavenger ants in my kitchen today. If they find anything, a single damn crumb (and I'd like to point out that I'm sitting here writing my mandatory blog and therefore NOT cleaning...rather leaving the scrubbing to the Unsupportive Louse who, true to his name, does not understand my ridiculous superstition), there's sure to be a mass attack tomorrow. And then I'm going to die. Possibly on my bike on my way to work. Or perhaps that vindictive little god will laugh in my face and crash my bus when I try to avoid destiny by not riding my bike.

But here's the thing, if I were a malicious celestial being, I'd wait until it was really appropriate. And when my dad died, he had TWO kids, my older brother and I. I've still only got the one. So perhaps my three little scavenger ants are just a friendly warning to enjoy life while I'm here and I won't in fact die this year, but possibly next year, or maybe two years from now...

But if there are no future blogs, you'll know why.

"You have 24 Friends in Common"

2009-07-10T13:48:00.005-04:00

This blog was not originally supposed to be all about Facebook. I just want you to know that. But, as previously stated, I'm clearly addicted. And when you're not drinking, all you can think about is drinking.

So, recently I've been noticing that while I have an ever increasing number of friends, so do MY friends. And I happened to notice that my best friend from high school has 217 friends. Not surprising, really, just another way to avoid the real world (right, Dr. Jealous?).

Now here's what surprises me: we only have 26 friends in common. And for real, I spent half an hour perusing her friends. I maybe knew of 10 more of them. I sincerely don't know the other 181. That's a lifetime of friends I don't know.

Calmly, I reassure myself that we went to different colleges and now live in completely different states. We can't know every person the other person knows.

To reassure myself, I look at a good friend from high school who ALSO went to college with me. The bastard has 278 friends. 24 friends in common. What the fuck?? I thought we knew so much about each other! Not everything anymore...it's been a long time, but really? 24 friends in common?

My sorority sisters, my absolute best friends from college whose friendships have extended into my "grown-up" life- 180, 20 in common; 264 - 21 in common, 239 - 19 in common (clearly there are about 20 of us sorority sisters on the site, huh?) then 547!!! 28 in common. Well at least I have more sorority sister friends than the rest of you losers!! But for real? Who even knows FIVE hundred people???

I must look at a page that makes me feel better. Uh, duh!? The Unsupportive Louse's page!! While I was pleasantly mollified to discover we had 77 similar friends (clearly, he must have only 80 friends total, right?) I was absolutely HORRIFIED to find he had more friends than me! 231 to my measly 222! And who the hell are these ONE HUNDRED FIFTY FOUR other people I DON'T KNOW ABOUT??

Who is Becky Jones who lives in Ann Arbor?? And Betsy Pickney who is a UM alum?? All these women who have been right here under my nose!! Abby Shaw and Amy Richards and Maureen and Natasha and Rachel and Lisa...oh, Lisa Appell. At least I know one of them actually DOES want my husband. Well, now, somehow, I feel better.