What does A&E stand for?

A&E channel offers us a new show - well - new to me - called Hoarders.

I have never watched it.

I am quite certain the commercials are sufficient.

It's the kind of commercial - or trailer at the movie - that I simply know will stay with me long past the credits. Like the video Jim McConnell showed me of a woman performing a job on a horse. He showed it to me in like 1998. And I can still see it. Or that youtube thing about chickens getting their beaks pulled off. That shit is there forever.

Have you seen these this Hoarders thing? I mean does it exist just to make me feel better about not filing my receipts? Is it there just to make the lack of precise organization of Jack's toys seem managable?

Oh, yeah, the bad new about me?

The commercials make me wish just a teenny tiny bit that my televison emitted odor. For like a second.

So I could know for certain WHAT THAT PLACE SMELLS LIKE.


I sometimes cannot handle the smell in Jack's laundry basket. Sometimes the garage makes me gag a little.

I just cannot get my head around this show.

Julie told me some woman hoarder evidently made an argument that the canned goods had not gone bad because the can hadn't expanded yet. Are you serious? That's your gauge? I cannot imagine the amount bacteria needed to make a tin can expand. That takes serious stick-togetherness on the part of the ick.



For some reason I thought it was on Bravo.

It's not.

It's on A&E.

What does A&E stand for these days?

Abhorent and Exercrable?

Can you imagine the poor producer for this show? All of 23 years old, first real job after interning for the past two years - she finally lands a real adult job. No more Unos for her. Emails everyone she knows - "I am a producer for this new hot show called Hoarders on A&E! The director totally loves me and I am learning so much!! You have to watch!"


And then she spends day after day in locations that make "smells like ass" feel like holiday baking.

seven year itch

Lucio married me on November 29, 2002.

As I type, our five year old is taking a way too late Sunday nap after being up too late last night putting lights on our tree.

As I type, the laundry is done and we'll have one more night of left overs. The house is clean and most of the things I wanted to get done this weekend are complete.

As I type, Lucio is at the library studying for finals, almost done with his first full-time student semester.

As I type, the glow from our lovely Christmas tree is lighting the living room of our smaller but perfectly affordable on one income home.

As I type, I wonder what the holidays will bring. And what 2010 will look like. I wonder if I finally had my ah-ha moment last night.

I wonder a lot.

Except about one thing.

I don't wonder if I made a good decision seven years ago today.

I know it was the best move I could have made.

I could not have imagined we'd be where we are today. But I could never be anywhere worth being if Lucio wasn't standing next to me. Holding my hand.

Happy Anniversary baby. I love you. Extra Extra.

I hate Malls

DISCLAIMER - I meant to post this on Sat. Making it the blog post for Sat. November 28th.

Background – A little over a month ago, we learned we had won bleacher seats for the Oscars in March. I will go over this to the point of exhaustion soon enough so I am going to focus on today

Round about the same time we learned we (Me, Becca, Lori and Danielle) will be heading to LA for the Oscars, I also figured out that we (I) had been using our credit cards too often. For things we needed (tires) and for things we didn’t (pretty much everything I buy at Sephora). I was using the credit too much.

I had to wonder (sorry, Carrie Bradshaw blog moment...it's over now)

Hmm, I wonder how much we owe?

So, I did that thing we all fear doing. I got out my calculator. And added it up. Holy Shit.
Really? That cannot be right.
It is right. Those fuckers at Visa can really count. And add.

I spent a nano second wondering about a home equity line, but nixed it quickly. Those things are not “oops piles” – it comes of the principle when you sell the place. I know? Right? That not mentioned in the commercial.

So I decide to see about a small part time job. I think we can pay down some debt on credit cards, pay cash for Christmas presents and I can save for our trip to Cal-ee- forn- I- a
I recall a colleague did something fairly anonymous a few years ago so I ask. She gives me some ideas and two days later I have a call from Metitech. I get hired as a scorer. I am told I will start the middle of November and it will be through early winter. I sign up for 12 hours a week.

And then I wait.
And wait.
Still more waiting.

Have I mentioned I am not so good with waiting?

All the time worrying that they will ask me start the same weekend as work in Peoria. Which was in mid November. Or the same weekend as Festival of Trees More mid-to-late November but okay. Maybe they’d ask me to begin Thanksgiving weekend.

I know, you’re right, that’s not the middle of November.

I received a letter from MetriTech the day after Thanksgiving telling me I would not be needed for this project after all and I could apply again in January. Seems I didn’t get the job after all. The tests they were scoring weren’t as plentiful as once imagined. Or they hired too many people. And to add insult to injury, seems I didn’t do so hot on the training night.

Still need something. Looking online. At the holidays.
I HATE MALLS.

I'm not sick but I'm not well

On the off chance this past weekend wasn't full enough, I made certain there was time to see the new Twilight movie. I know, I know, it has a name, but I don't actually care what it's called. Before we get to that, my rant on the books.

I read the Book #1 on the beach in 2008.
Perfect. Loved it.


Paid full price for Book #2 at a resort book store so I could read on the plane home. Not as good as first book, but perfectly fine. Not entirely unlike my feelings for Chamber of Secrets on first read. (I have since listened to Jim Dale read EVERY SINGLE WORD OF ALL SEVEN BOOKS and have seen the error of my ways. Sorry JK)

Books #3 and #4 arrived together from Amazon a few weeks later.
Happy fingers. I jumped right in.
And you know what?
The water was not nice.
Parts were too hot and then too cold. And then parts were totally, wait, What does that say?
By the end of Book #3 I was embarrassed. But I couldn't stop.

I basically taught myself to speed read for Book #4 as the ridicule was too much. And that was just of myself.

See, then there was a baby. And how it got out.
And that name.
And then the immmm - printing.

Judge all you want. I am hardest on myself.


2008 rolls around and we are placated by hearing there are going to be movies.
Total dee-light, right?
Edward/Cedric. He's a cutie. The chick from Into the Wild (ah, Emile moment...wait...okay, I'm done). Even that doll boy from Cheaper By the Dozen 2 - totally could see it back then. He was going to be a hottie. Good previews. Okay, I am in. Show me what you've got.


Movie #1.
Rob Pattison doesn't look finished to me. Like he needed a few more hours of cookin.
That's all I have to say about that.

Movie #2.
Has a lot of making up to do. We are in a big fight. BIG FIGHT.

And you know what?

We are totally made up!

The CGI stuff was so much better. No weird "looks like a Ken doll running up a tree" moments. The wolves were a smoosh too big, but I can get on board. I can even overlook Ms. No Tears (KStewart - I am talking to you) because we were given so much else to look at.

And by else, I mean HOLY, How the fuck old is he?

The mother in me is really really trying to focus on Jacob's real life mother. And that she is probably my age - if not younger. If I think about her, I cannot as readily think about...shudder...judgement. Damn it. Why? Why? Why even show us stuff like this?

And as for old Sparkle Tits (totally from skepchick.org)...

You may be Bella's choice. And that is fine.


Because if you make me choose, Eddie, I am always going to be Team Jacob.

Someone has to protect this wolf from all those nasty cougars.

(Semi) Perfect

Home with a semi-sick child.

Semi because we're are at the tail end of sick. The part that has mostly just a lingering cough with a dash of blech. But he still cannot eat any dairy. So of course that's all he wants. I just convinced him there is some cheese in goldfish crackers.

Semi also because with the current flu climate at school, I would rather keep him home one day than have him returned to sender. Because that is how reputations are made. Must not be the working mother who sends a sick child to school. She is never asked to be room mother. And though I need to not volunteer for literally anything else, I really really really want to be the mother that makes other mothers wonder "How does she do it?"

Jack's Halloween costumes are a perfect example -- I love love love making things with him and for him. I love the challenge and figuring and the trial and error but mostly I love the moment when he sees what we've made. Priceless.

Still, as an admitted egomaniac, I also love when someone asks me "Did you MAKE that?"- so I can make quite a show of my almost perfected "smile and nod" routine that I hope looks humble and would convince Spielberg.

Sorry, back to Jack...

If you were to hear him cough, sadly, you would invariably think he started smoking shortly after his first day of daycare in 2006. He is still stuffed up. He still has the sick breathe. Luckily, he doesn't have fever eyes.

I asked my mother when I was pregnant "How will I know if he has a fever?"
She was sweeter than I deserved at the time (I was a real challenge pregnant) and replied "You'll just know."

I thought she was crazy. How would I know? I have never been able to tell a fever from touch. I frankly don't enjoy sick people. Most sick people are not nearly as grateful as I think they should be. (Not like sick, sick - but you know, episodic sick) I couldn't imagine my reaction were I to be thrown up on. (that will have to be a blogspot next- remind me to tell you about Liz watching me nurse)

Another of the millions of things no one tells you before you have a kid - no one tells you that once the kid arrives there are fever eyes and sicky breathe and you'll know the difference. Or that after the 4th ear infection you can diagnose like Dr. Spock. And Strep? Forget about it - I can smell Strep at this point. Pink eye? One month in a daycare and you can spot pink eye at 20 paces.

Amid the chaos of a sick day (semi or otherwise) I look around my tiny house and think how far I am from the picture perfect mom I fancy I could be (if I had the time to get everything together).

I am thinking of the commercials I've seen of children in bed with colds, propped up in their perfectly appointed bedrooms, hair perfect, gently coughing and reaching for a tissue on their side table. Pajamas are pressed, sheet folded at their chest, teddy at their side. Mother looking lovingly from the doorway, hair and makeup all did'ed up.

Yeah, that's not me.

This is my current view.


I am sitting on the floor of our living room under a fort made out of sofa pillows. I am wearing a cape and trying to reply to a work e-mail on my blackberry. Jack is wearing a swimsuit over his pajama bottoms and a OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT t-shirt that could be Lucio's. We've made a table out of Tinker Toys and there is a yard crain fixing what I thought was a fort but have learned is a hotel. Jack's DNA is everywhere in tissue form and he is calmly explaining to Buddy (our aging mix breed dog who does not enjoy dress up) that he needs to stay in the tent to be safe from the Tsunami. I need to figuure out what to make for dinner that he will eat and doesn't contain dairy. Breakfast dished are in the sink and at the table and for some unknown reason, on the back of the toilet in our bedroom. Beds are not made. My cell phone is blinking and I need a shower. Jack's crawls over to me and asks me if he has to go to school tomorrow. I tell him it will depend but he appears to be getting better and he will probably go. He crawls into my lap (almost 4 feet tall and about 50 pounds) and kisses my cheek. Then he coughs.

This is what perfectly happy looks like.

You know why I yell? Because YOU DON'T LISTEN!!!

Festival of Trees is almost over. Festival of Trees Baby. FOT.
Or depending on the day Eff Oh Tee.

I was an assistant chair for a FOT committee. I learned a fair bit about League and here I sit on the other side of Girls Night Out, Daddy/Daughter Dance, Mommy/Son Breakfast and of course, Gala. What can I say? I feel such genuine pride telling people I am in League. Yes, yes, there's that elitist thing. I know it's not my best quality. But I cannot help it.

League. That's what we call it. To the ousider, we might say Junior League. But when we talk about it conversationally, it's just League. I am a member of League and I love it. I have real friends now - right here, in Champaign. For all my longterm friends back east, a collective sigh of thank fucking goodness...she has met people. I fear my problems were exceeding their pay grade, so yes, local friends are lovely. Some are fucking amazing.

No, we don't only wear pearls. Or twin sets. I might need to invest in some Tory Burch but I wanted to do that anyway. And finally, yes they really let me in.

Anyway, my committee was responsible most printed items. Save the dates, email texts, invitation design, posters, billboards, lawn signs. If there was printing on it, we had a hand. If it was read in a newpaper, came out of an envelope or was on the radio some member of my committee was involved.

Big departure from last year where as a new member and all I had to do was volunteer 13 hours and help design a tree. We designed the Sex and the City tree (Biggie shouts to Mary Beth who came through with a Jimmy Choo clutch worth over $950.00 Miss & Love you long time!) It was all pink and sparkly. It was also the only part of FOT 2008 I enjoyed.

2009 - totally different. I knew a little more and I had a title. I love a title. (again, elitism)

My committees' work was really done by late September. Marketing picks up speed early - like in June. We were cooking with gas by July. Nope, not everything was perfectly smooth. There were moments of I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS... and REALLY? ANOTHER E-MAIL FROM. Being a fund raiser by profession, marketing is mostly something I dabble with in a staff meeting when I have an idea that warrents speaking out loud. Each item we worked on had nuance. Some pieces needed to be bright and eye catching. Some needed elegance. Some needed information. The only thing I can assure you was everything I did had something to do with marketing.

Get it? Let me be clear. I never once in the past 6 months mentioned an actual tree.

True to form, Lucio handled my new title well, listening to my rants and congratulating me when he suspected I needed a boost. Getting out of the house a few times with Jack so the committee could take over our dining room. Picking up Jimmy Johns. He knew what I was working on and he liked what I was doing. Or so he had me thinking.

I told him about the laborious choice of printers, lamented when the designer had evidentally stopped listening to us and needed a stern talking to (she totally rallied) and shared moments when I was being such a totally superb team player and never once called a name or used my jersey gene.

Flash forward to this morning. Public Hours. 9:40 am.

In Lucio walks with Jack. I am headed to help set up for Gala. I'm in my apron and sharing which trees could use some more of our tickets. I kiss his cheek and tell him we've already put about $20 worth of tickets in the UP tree. I turn to walk away and I hear Lucio say the following.
"Okay, see you later. Love you. Hey -which tree is yours?"

Argh. You want to know why I yell? Because you don't listen.

I was never in a sorority. Didn't make the cut. When I hear Julie and Valerie chide Lucio (gently, or course) for not knowing that I didn't design a tree - as I was on the marketing committe - I have my first sorority moment.

It turns out I pledged at the tender age of 37.

Just under the wire.

If you can't say anything nice, you best not be talking about anyone I like

We worked the photo table at the JL Daddy Daughter dance tonight. You know what we did? We helped fathers describe their daughters dresses. And never once did we say (to their face) "It's a Mariah Carey Christmas" or "Toddler first faux fur". Because let's be honest, it's east central Illinois and this is no ones first faux fur. We took cash and credit and checks and said things like, "Sir, it's probably better to describe your daughter's dress, rather than your suit. Where is your daughter? I can help."

Oh, right, the daughter. Where is she? GONE. Running around barefoot (no fewer than 4 pairs of shoes were found underneath trees waiting to be reclaimed) Not with her father. Nope. Already pulling shit off trees and trying to get on the stage to play American Idol.

So we wrote things like "purple bow with silver sash" and "red headband". Our favorite was from a Dad.
"Two blondes with a bald man in brown"

Daddies were happy to have the pictues taken. You know what they didn't love? That we didn't put a bar in the dance room. What? Say it ain't so. You mean I have to watch my daughter while I am at this thing? What are all you women doing while I am watching her?

We gave you a bar the last two years and you simply didn't handle it well. Two years ago some of you sent your small princesses to procure beers. Last year, you let them run all over the stage and play dress up with some stuff in the auction (including a playhouse that they had to climb over faux snow to get at). So, no bar in ballroom this night fellas. Sorry - you have only yourselves to blame.

Um sir, do you know it's considered poor parenting when you leave your 5 year old alone in a conference center so you can get a drink. IN ANOTHER ESTABLISHMENT. And stop to watch TV for a bit.

Here's my breakdown on being a part of League - it's the snark. I am guilty of snark talk. I do it all the time. Mostly with Julie, though I may be guilty of a few bitch leaks on occasion with like minded ladies (shout out to..well, you know who you are)

But O M effing G - if I think you're out of line, sister, please, you have passed snark and moved into MEAN.

Mean showed up tonight. With really bad hair. Talking about anyone the second they were out of earshot.

Personally, I think snark girl is just really upset about the haircut and it's making her meaner than normal. Every single woman here is a volunteer. Like not for money. And it's Friday and we all had busy weeks and lives and Thanksgiving is 5 days away and maybe we should all cut each other some slack.

Snark has it's place. And it's at League. Just not when were are all trying so effing hard to get through FOT weekend.

Put on your big girl panties and BE NICE. Don't make me whip up a can of Jersey on you. Because I would love to.