Sometimes I get a certain way.
Maybe I'm a little edgy. Maybe I can be saucy on occasion. Maybe.
I'll admit it's possible.
When I get this way, Lucio usually has to intervene. Take me out.
Distract me with something sparkly.
Keep me off the phone with the people who call asking us to support the Police Benevolence fund.
Like 4 cents on the dollar from these cranial giants actually gets back to the local police. And they are so not listening when I tell them 6:10 pm is not a good time to talk. So, yes, call again every night this week at the exact same time...
He usually knows when I am approaching the precipice of cray cray.
Yes, he's a good man. Or maybe, just maybe, the whole reason I married him was because he actually knows what I need before I do. Yikes. Good thing he doesn't read my blog.
Totally serious.
He doesn't read a word of it.
Tangent.
Here's my side of a recent conversation we had after a dinner he claimed to have made.
Technically, he re-heated pork chops I had cooked the night before, steamed a bag of brown rice from Trader Joe's in the microwave and opened a can of green beans and put them in a pot. He gets to count this one as "making a meal" and therefore I am on clean-up, which is redonkulous, because he didn't actually cook anything as much as he made stuff I cooked hot again, but I digress.
"Don't you need to go to DC sometime soon?" Lucio asked with a shaky voice. "I think you maybe need to get home soon."
'
"Why exactly?"
"Um, well," he stammers...
"WHAT?" I snap the cabinet closed. My husband seemingly is unaware that the clicking noise means the cabinet is closed and will stay that way.
Straightening his spine, he clears his throat. "Every 6 months or so, everything about Illinois starts to really bother you. Before it's me or the kid, or in the interest of our mortgage, one of your colleagues, maybe you should try to book a weekend back east."
I cock my head at him and smile. Every six months? Perish forbid I am becoming predictable.
"For how long have you known this?", I ask, loading the dishwasher.
"Since you ran away the first Memorial Day weekend we lived here and you didn't let the ear infection Jack was nursing get in your way."
"Well that was different. Flights were cheap and he could still sit on my lap for free."
"I also remember the following October when he was not under the age of two, nor did he have the slightest interest in sitting on my lap for any length of time and you told the airline he was just about to turn two, even though his birthday was three months prior so he could still be free. But you wanted to have margaritas with the girls and go to some exhibit with Leslie and swoosh - off we went to DC. And none of this is important. Jack told me you used your horn twice today after picking him up from school. There are only three traffic lights between his school and our home. In that space of time, three horn uses seems excessive. You want to wind up in the paper? It's a small town, Heather. You need your east coast fix."
"Fine, smarty, but I went to the library and Walgreens after I picked him up, which involves like 11 lights."
"Are you or are you not the same woman who used dream of a cigarette lighter plug in hair-dryer for your nine mile, 45 minutes commute from the ghetto house to American?"
"That would have been a totally amazeballs inventions and I am for sure not the only one who would have used it. But, yes, maybe you're right."
"I am sorry. Someone used their horn in front of our house. Can you repeat that?"
"You're right. Almost everything and EVERYONE in Illinois is annoying me lately. Present company included."
Silence.
So happy is he to hear these words he's singing a little song as he makes his way down to the basement.
"Don't you want to know some of the things that are making me crazy?" I call after him.
"Do I have a choice?", he replies from the bottom of the stairs.
I can hear his damnable grin from the kitchen.
"You did. Now you don't. In the past three days, our surname has been mangled by no fewer than seven people. Vaz. Quez. Like it's two words. Like there's a pause in the middle. And even when I said it correctly to a couple of these people, they repeated it back incorrectly. They make the QUEZ part "kwez".
Then I went to arrange for a campus car for an upcoming trip and I was told it was a vee-hicle. Not a car and not a vehicle. But a VEE HICKLE. Again with the making two words out of one. Why again can we not call it a car? Turns out, here in Illinois, they are all vee hickles.
Then, while Jack was in Tae Kwon Doe, I chatted with a woman who was so artificially tan - fake bake tan, you know, from light bulbs, who looked like Magda from There's Something About Mary - who tried to give me a free pass to her tanning salon. And she's sitting there the color of maple syrup and I politely decline and tell her I don't like to use tanning beds. I laugh and point to my whiteness. You know what cafe crayola tell me then? "Oh, a tan always make you look better." Um, listen much? So I told her, no, actually, it's the vacation at the beach that usually makes me look better and the tan that comes with it from spending my days languishing in a beach chair watching the boys race cars across the sand is just a really nice perk.
She smiled at me, clearly not understanding, and that's when I realized in lieu of vacations, this raisin goes tanning to look like she's been somewhere! The irony? The only place she looks like she's been is on a watch list for the next George Hamilton dating show! And she had that Illinois Angle haircut. And you know how I feel about that. Then she leaves me the card to get a free tan and says "Just make sure they see my name on the card." Um, hello?
And lastly, I had woman in my office today who is educated in the traditional sense - all sorts of letters after her name - who stood up at the end of our meeting, thanked me for my time, turned around and upon seeing my signed photograph of me with my arm around HILARY RODHAM CLINTON asked me, "OMG! Do you know Ellen DeGeneres?"
I take a deep breathe and wait.
Still waiting. He knows I hate waiting.
"Honey? Are you there?"
He pops his head around the corner.
"They're still getting our name wrong? Really?"
"I KNOW!!"
"You should really tell the girls about this in person. Maybe there's a deal on Airtran?'
Seriously, who's better than him?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Deep Cleansing Breathe
Of all the things I've tried in my efforts to make there be less me without losing what is innately moi, this was by far the worst.
Super far.
Can't get there from here far.
Way worse than the breathe that accompanies the complete lack of carbohydrates. I guess what with a good portion of a cow and 43 eggs doing the hokey pokey in your belly, breathe is bound to get rough.
But wowsa.
The smell of dog shit is the closest I can equate it to. In your mouth.
Jarringly worse than the cabbage soup gas. An overachiever when it comes to flatulence, the cabbage soup diet put me in the Olympics trials. Easy.
Even worse than the "oily anal leakage" situation from 2001 when Lucio was forced to ask the question, "Ah, Dios Mio, Heather, what did you eat?" as he woke in a bed quite literally full of orange oil.
Stupid Dorritos.
A simple cleanse. For three days, no food. Sounds like something Goldie Hahn would do. Admittedly, she'd probably do it to jump start her no doubt marrinated liver, but whatever.
Here were my instructions.
No food.
Just OJ, Pineapple or Carrot juice when I found myself hungry.
Water all the rest of the time.
Work out like normal.
Hungry? Have 5-7 ounces of juice.
Hell, if it's day 2 or three, you can even add Apple Juice to the mix.
Keep drinking water.
Par...tay.
Toxins. OUT!!!
Caffeine addiction. BEAT IT!!
A quick 5 pound loss. COME ON!!
Originally, I thought if I started on Friday, it would some how be easier.
For me, it's too hard to be that disciplined on a Friday.
It was almost impossible for me to not eat on Saturday, what with all that goes on in our world on any given Saturday. Like I don't want to cook, and we have pizza and usually go out for at least one meal on Saturday.
Oh, and I forgot to buy juice.
Whoopsie.
So, I begin my fast in earnest on a Sunday.
The Lord's day.
Sounds meant to be.
I muddle through. Barely.
Lucio takes lead with child, as I am cantankerous by 2 pm without benefit of diet coke.
Actually, I kept dozing off, what with no outside influences of energy in my system.
I find napping helps almost everything.
30 minutes can be magical.
Try it. I dare you to be as whatever you were before you let yourself doze off watching Toddlers & Tiaras. If nothing else, you know you're a better person than those nuts.
Just a little pearl of wisdom from me to you.
I make it through work on Monday and Tuesday basically without too much trouble because, well, it's work, and I am expected to not just think about myself there, and I almost always manage to meet that expectation.
The paycheck is a solid motivator.
Almost always.
Tuesday night arrives. Trip my way through a Junior League meeting.
Avoid snacks, water and invitations to grab a cocktail post meeting.
Head home for the finale.
Oh, did I not mention?
The Finale goes like this.
Stop drinking and eating at 8 pm.
At 9 pm, drink a combination of 2 pints of olive oil and 2 pints of lemon juice.
Lay on right side.
Be still.
And wait.
I know? Right!
I choke down the olive oil/lemon combo. Do them in one NOT CLEAR container.
Trust me, you don't want to see what's in the glass. I don't like remembering what it looked like.
But, on the other hand, if I ever need to induce vomiting, I do have the image now to get things started.
I brush my teeth.
I lay down.
I am still.
I taste like Italy.
I brush my teeth again.
(I bought really expensive olive oil. If I am going to drink it, and pretend it's a drink, it's going to be the best I can find)
Lying there, I begin to congratulate myself.
Such discipline. So strong.
"I'm every woman...it's all in me... anything you want...."
I wonder when I will have to go to the bathroom?
Oh, that's right. I haven't told you about the real finale.
Like, in a scary movie, when the naughty killer is downed by our heroine, and she turns to check her wrongly accused beau, and then she turns around, and poof dead bad guy is GONE.
Oh my! Where did he go?
He's right there!! With one last evil deed in him!
BAM. BOOM. BLAST.
That is what it going on in my tum tum.
Keep staying still, Heather.
"Baby, you're a firework...come on show me what you're worth..."
Wait. What is that?
Uh oh. Urgent and seizing.
Quickly to bathroom.
Door closed.
Fan on.
Time for the final finale.
The final finale is all about the, um, output.
If you've done this correctly, it's entirely possible you're are going to finally part ways with a cheeseburger you ate in '87.
In the form of green pellet like substances.
The size of peas.
At top speed.
Well, I did it right.
Way right.
It sounds like a firing squad had our toilet bowl in its cross hairs.
The noise jostled my usually fairly oblivious husband from his permanent seat in front of the computer doing homework.
Hurrying down the hallway, Lucio calls, "Honey bunny, are you okay?"
"I think I'm alright."
"That didn't sound alright."
"It didn't feel great either, but I think it's okay."
Gripping the side of the tub, I wait for everything to settle down.
Which it totally does.
I go to bed, and basically, pass out.
Nine hours later, I wake and I am horizontally across our bed, with Lucio gripping the side and using his Columbia fleece as a blanket.
I get up, scrape my tongue clean, use the loo.
Stripping down, I step on the scale.
7 pounds down.
S-E-V-E-N P-O-U-N-D-S!!!!
Totally worth it.
It wasn't that bad.
Completely doable.
Highly recommend.
Just make sure you buy good olive oil.
That's the key.
That, and being able to not accidentally chew your own elbow off when you just cannot stomach another ounce of OJ.
Maybe it was be easier to just watch what I eat and exercise.
Damn it.
Super far.
Can't get there from here far.
Way worse than the breathe that accompanies the complete lack of carbohydrates. I guess what with a good portion of a cow and 43 eggs doing the hokey pokey in your belly, breathe is bound to get rough.
But wowsa.
The smell of dog shit is the closest I can equate it to. In your mouth.
Jarringly worse than the cabbage soup gas. An overachiever when it comes to flatulence, the cabbage soup diet put me in the Olympics trials. Easy.
Even worse than the "oily anal leakage" situation from 2001 when Lucio was forced to ask the question, "Ah, Dios Mio, Heather, what did you eat?" as he woke in a bed quite literally full of orange oil.
Stupid Dorritos.
A simple cleanse. For three days, no food. Sounds like something Goldie Hahn would do. Admittedly, she'd probably do it to jump start her no doubt marrinated liver, but whatever.
Here were my instructions.
No food.
Just OJ, Pineapple or Carrot juice when I found myself hungry.
Water all the rest of the time.
Work out like normal.
Hungry? Have 5-7 ounces of juice.
Hell, if it's day 2 or three, you can even add Apple Juice to the mix.
Keep drinking water.
Par...tay.
Toxins. OUT!!!
Caffeine addiction. BEAT IT!!
A quick 5 pound loss. COME ON!!
Originally, I thought if I started on Friday, it would some how be easier.
For me, it's too hard to be that disciplined on a Friday.
It was almost impossible for me to not eat on Saturday, what with all that goes on in our world on any given Saturday. Like I don't want to cook, and we have pizza and usually go out for at least one meal on Saturday.
Oh, and I forgot to buy juice.
Whoopsie.
So, I begin my fast in earnest on a Sunday.
The Lord's day.
Sounds meant to be.
I muddle through. Barely.
Lucio takes lead with child, as I am cantankerous by 2 pm without benefit of diet coke.
Actually, I kept dozing off, what with no outside influences of energy in my system.
I find napping helps almost everything.
30 minutes can be magical.
Try it. I dare you to be as whatever you were before you let yourself doze off watching Toddlers & Tiaras. If nothing else, you know you're a better person than those nuts.
Just a little pearl of wisdom from me to you.
I make it through work on Monday and Tuesday basically without too much trouble because, well, it's work, and I am expected to not just think about myself there, and I almost always manage to meet that expectation.
The paycheck is a solid motivator.
Almost always.
Tuesday night arrives. Trip my way through a Junior League meeting.
Avoid snacks, water and invitations to grab a cocktail post meeting.
Head home for the finale.
Oh, did I not mention?
The Finale goes like this.
Stop drinking and eating at 8 pm.
At 9 pm, drink a combination of 2 pints of olive oil and 2 pints of lemon juice.
Lay on right side.
Be still.
And wait.
I know? Right!
I choke down the olive oil/lemon combo. Do them in one NOT CLEAR container.
Trust me, you don't want to see what's in the glass. I don't like remembering what it looked like.
But, on the other hand, if I ever need to induce vomiting, I do have the image now to get things started.
I brush my teeth.
I lay down.
I am still.
I taste like Italy.
I brush my teeth again.
(I bought really expensive olive oil. If I am going to drink it, and pretend it's a drink, it's going to be the best I can find)
Lying there, I begin to congratulate myself.
Such discipline. So strong.
"I'm every woman...it's all in me... anything you want...."
I wonder when I will have to go to the bathroom?
Oh, that's right. I haven't told you about the real finale.
Like, in a scary movie, when the naughty killer is downed by our heroine, and she turns to check her wrongly accused beau, and then she turns around, and poof dead bad guy is GONE.
Oh my! Where did he go?
He's right there!! With one last evil deed in him!
BAM. BOOM. BLAST.
That is what it going on in my tum tum.
Keep staying still, Heather.
"Baby, you're a firework...come on show me what you're worth..."
Wait. What is that?
Uh oh. Urgent and seizing.
Quickly to bathroom.
Door closed.
Fan on.
Time for the final finale.
The final finale is all about the, um, output.
If you've done this correctly, it's entirely possible you're are going to finally part ways with a cheeseburger you ate in '87.
In the form of green pellet like substances.
The size of peas.
At top speed.
Well, I did it right.
Way right.
It sounds like a firing squad had our toilet bowl in its cross hairs.
The noise jostled my usually fairly oblivious husband from his permanent seat in front of the computer doing homework.
Hurrying down the hallway, Lucio calls, "Honey bunny, are you okay?"
"I think I'm alright."
"That didn't sound alright."
"It didn't feel great either, but I think it's okay."
Gripping the side of the tub, I wait for everything to settle down.
Which it totally does.
I go to bed, and basically, pass out.
Nine hours later, I wake and I am horizontally across our bed, with Lucio gripping the side and using his Columbia fleece as a blanket.
I get up, scrape my tongue clean, use the loo.
Stripping down, I step on the scale.
7 pounds down.
S-E-V-E-N P-O-U-N-D-S!!!!
Totally worth it.
It wasn't that bad.
Completely doable.
Highly recommend.
Just make sure you buy good olive oil.
That's the key.
That, and being able to not accidentally chew your own elbow off when you just cannot stomach another ounce of OJ.
Maybe it was be easier to just watch what I eat and exercise.
Damn it.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Not from these parts
None of you are under the impression that I am some young chickie born in the 80's, right?
Most of my dear readers have conscious memories of the blessed 80's.
Some of you were next to me when I was taking my hits.
At least one of you is completely at fault for me never not being punished for '86 in its entirety.
You know you are.
I have to own it. So do you.
So, me. Not so young.
Everyone still okay? Cause there's more.
The readership of this blog is also not so vast that you cannot not know that it is our goal -mine and Lucio's - to have another child.
So we tried.
A lot.
For months.
Having been bit by the age bug a while back (twazzoo will not stop rearing her ugly head) I assumed we needed some help in the fertile department.
Of course, my handsome spouse is young and spry.
Evidently he is also a great white because his equipment is totally all pristine to do nothing but making little sharks.
He still had to make a deposit to demonstrate said ability to make little sharks.
Still not sure he's forgiven me yet for that lovely machismo moment when he learned he now had a urologist and a deadline.
So, it's my old parts.
I knew it would be.
When you have old parts, you check things out.
Couple of scans here.
A vile of blood drawn there.
No worries.
Five pills...a couple of hormone shots...one big shot and BAM!
We're off to the races again...
Then came June.
Conception.
Triumph! Delight! Joy!
Oh, yeah, that's right!
Wait, what?
Doom. Tears. Failure.
Learn a world of women are member of this club.
A few months pass and we're back to the drawing board.
Call doc.
Says come it for a treatment and then we'll see.
"So Heather, we'll want to do this scan to make sure your tubes are not bent."
"Really, that wasn't mentioned as an option in the video "Blossoming Into a Woman" in 4th grade. Sorry, okay. What happens?"
"Well, Heather, we'll flush your who-ha-ha with water and do a scan."
"Will it hurt?"
"It's uncomfortable, yes, but it's fairly quick."
"Um, okay."
Scooched to the edge of the chair, feet in place, I take a deep breathe.
Moments pass.
My left forearm is across my eyes and I am holding the side of the chair.
Wow, that is uncomfortable.
Wow.
Really?
Seems like there has to be another way.
"Okay, Heather, here's we go..."
What? Shut the Front Door! You've haven't gone yet!?!!
Seizing pressure cooker what in the name of all that is good and holy...
And then the Jersey just came screaming out...
"Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck! Hurry up and get this shit done!!!
Crickets.
Hand to God.
Now one said a word.
15 minutes later, sitting up and look like I've been swimming.
Feel like I've been gladiating.
Sweet midwestern masochistic who just completed scan that tells me tubes are totally tubular and we can proceed to level 2.
"Wow, Heather, we've had women pass out from that procedure, but never one who screamed the "F" word twice."
"I'm not from around here."
But maybe my baby will be. For a little while at least.
Most of my dear readers have conscious memories of the blessed 80's.
Some of you were next to me when I was taking my hits.
At least one of you is completely at fault for me never not being punished for '86 in its entirety.
You know you are.
I have to own it. So do you.
So, me. Not so young.
Everyone still okay? Cause there's more.
The readership of this blog is also not so vast that you cannot not know that it is our goal -mine and Lucio's - to have another child.
So we tried.
A lot.
For months.
Having been bit by the age bug a while back (twazzoo will not stop rearing her ugly head) I assumed we needed some help in the fertile department.
Of course, my handsome spouse is young and spry.
Evidently he is also a great white because his equipment is totally all pristine to do nothing but making little sharks.
He still had to make a deposit to demonstrate said ability to make little sharks.
Still not sure he's forgiven me yet for that lovely machismo moment when he learned he now had a urologist and a deadline.
So, it's my old parts.
I knew it would be.
When you have old parts, you check things out.
Couple of scans here.
A vile of blood drawn there.
No worries.
Five pills...a couple of hormone shots...one big shot and BAM!
We're off to the races again...
Then came June.
Conception.
Triumph! Delight! Joy!
Oh, yeah, that's right!
Wait, what?
Doom. Tears. Failure.
Learn a world of women are member of this club.
A few months pass and we're back to the drawing board.
Call doc.
Says come it for a treatment and then we'll see.
"So Heather, we'll want to do this scan to make sure your tubes are not bent."
"Really, that wasn't mentioned as an option in the video "Blossoming Into a Woman" in 4th grade. Sorry, okay. What happens?"
"Well, Heather, we'll flush your who-ha-ha with water and do a scan."
"Will it hurt?"
"It's uncomfortable, yes, but it's fairly quick."
"Um, okay."
Scooched to the edge of the chair, feet in place, I take a deep breathe.
Moments pass.
My left forearm is across my eyes and I am holding the side of the chair.
Wow, that is uncomfortable.
Wow.
Really?
Seems like there has to be another way.
"Okay, Heather, here's we go..."
What? Shut the Front Door! You've haven't gone yet!?!!
Seizing pressure cooker what in the name of all that is good and holy...
And then the Jersey just came screaming out...
"Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck! Hurry up and get this shit done!!!
Crickets.
Hand to God.
Now one said a word.
15 minutes later, sitting up and look like I've been swimming.
Feel like I've been gladiating.
Sweet midwestern masochistic who just completed scan that tells me tubes are totally tubular and we can proceed to level 2.
"Wow, Heather, we've had women pass out from that procedure, but never one who screamed the "F" word twice."
"I'm not from around here."
But maybe my baby will be. For a little while at least.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Broken News
I've been concerned - maybe even a little worried - about my news sources lately.
I've wanted to blame the small town newsrooms for my diminishing interest in tuning in at 6, 10 and on Sunday mornings, but honestly David Gregory wasn't doing it for me any more than Jennifer Ketchmark was.
Partly it's the news at 10. I'm still not used to the the time difference with the east coast.
But, does that explain my choosing to watch re-runs of The West Wing during the 7 am hour and not the Today show?
I guess my thinking has been that if CNN considered Lindsay Lohan getting released from 9 whole scary days of prison as BREAKING NEWS, then I am well within my rights to seek alternative sources.
CNN also told me she couldn't tweet, blog of have hair extensions.
Whew! Where would we be without hard-hitting journalism?
The 24 hour news cycle should at least afford me a strong foundation for the news of the day.
But did I know enough about the horrendous flooding Pakistan?
Or have there simply been too many international weather related disasters of late and what with the oil spill and Haiti we just don't need to know nearly as much about the suffering of people that let's face it, live really really close to Afghanistan.
I mean hell, they live next door to Afghanastan.
They could be terrorists, right, FOX News?
You want to know why I know there have been fires in Russia?
Not because Matt Lauer told me.
Because Emile Hirsch is filming a movie there and his movie was shut down because of said fires.
My Emile also guest blogged about the fires for the Huffington Post, by the by. You should check it out. And then totally read about Harry Reid breaking with Obama and how Danielle Staub has been FIRED from the Real Housewives of NJ.
FIRED!!
Really Andy Cohen?
Really?
You think this is my first time at the Bravo talk bubble?
We know it's a publicity stunt orchestrated by Bravo.
Because let me be perfectly clear.
The only reason to watch RHONJ is Danielle Staub.
Even that two head Theresa and those delightful children she's...raising isn't the right word..what is it..those children she buys things for are nothing without Danielle and her special K-razee.
So maybe I have nothing to worry about.
Jon Stewart's finger has been firmly on the pulse of the gulf oil spill and Chelsey Handler made some solid observations about that whole Freedom of Religion thing and where the Mosque is or is not.
Like the Gentleman's Club adjacent to Ground Zero isn't equally as upsetting to, I don't know, WOMEN than a place of worship might be.
So I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
I am going to stick with The Smoking Gun and The Colbert Report.
I will continue to await the return of Bill Maher and his pithy little NEW RULES.
Yes, I will check Perez and Dlisted every day too.
Maybe just in between I'll read more than the Wedding page of the New York Times.
I've wanted to blame the small town newsrooms for my diminishing interest in tuning in at 6, 10 and on Sunday mornings, but honestly David Gregory wasn't doing it for me any more than Jennifer Ketchmark was.
Partly it's the news at 10. I'm still not used to the the time difference with the east coast.
But, does that explain my choosing to watch re-runs of The West Wing during the 7 am hour and not the Today show?
I guess my thinking has been that if CNN considered Lindsay Lohan getting released from 9 whole scary days of prison as BREAKING NEWS, then I am well within my rights to seek alternative sources.
CNN also told me she couldn't tweet, blog of have hair extensions.
Whew! Where would we be without hard-hitting journalism?
The 24 hour news cycle should at least afford me a strong foundation for the news of the day.
But did I know enough about the horrendous flooding Pakistan?
Or have there simply been too many international weather related disasters of late and what with the oil spill and Haiti we just don't need to know nearly as much about the suffering of people that let's face it, live really really close to Afghanistan.
I mean hell, they live next door to Afghanastan.
They could be terrorists, right, FOX News?
You want to know why I know there have been fires in Russia?
Not because Matt Lauer told me.
Because Emile Hirsch is filming a movie there and his movie was shut down because of said fires.
My Emile also guest blogged about the fires for the Huffington Post, by the by. You should check it out. And then totally read about Harry Reid breaking with Obama and how Danielle Staub has been FIRED from the Real Housewives of NJ.
FIRED!!
Really Andy Cohen?
Really?
You think this is my first time at the Bravo talk bubble?
We know it's a publicity stunt orchestrated by Bravo.
Because let me be perfectly clear.
The only reason to watch RHONJ is Danielle Staub.
Even that two head Theresa and those delightful children she's...raising isn't the right word..what is it..those children she buys things for are nothing without Danielle and her special K-razee.
So maybe I have nothing to worry about.
Jon Stewart's finger has been firmly on the pulse of the gulf oil spill and Chelsey Handler made some solid observations about that whole Freedom of Religion thing and where the Mosque is or is not.
Like the Gentleman's Club adjacent to Ground Zero isn't equally as upsetting to, I don't know, WOMEN than a place of worship might be.
So I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
I am going to stick with The Smoking Gun and The Colbert Report.
I will continue to await the return of Bill Maher and his pithy little NEW RULES.
Yes, I will check Perez and Dlisted every day too.
Maybe just in between I'll read more than the Wedding page of the New York Times.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
{22-5=17, 39-22=17}= shame
June 30th.
5:15 pm (central time)
Dashed from meeting to purchase three tickets for the film event of the summer.
One for me.
One for Julie.
And one for our 11 year old beard.
What? It's opening day people! And I am grown (some might call middle aged) woman who finds herself juggling self respect and a smoosh of shame that I had to had to see it the day it was released.
Whatever.
I am still - forever in fact - Team Jacob.
Doctor Jones (shout out, Denisha!) tells me I cannot possibly care about the essence of the story - and the connection between Edward and Bella - and still identify myself as Team Jacob. She says if I cared about the story, I'd know there never could be a Team Jacob in the first place.
I told her I care about my eyesight, therefore, Team Jacob.
Not that Edward isn't dandy.
Not that Bella isn't just a lovely heroine.
Absolutely the angst of the undead and the headed to undead is well worth the price of admission.
Holy shut the front door!!!
That manboy's body is ridonkulous!!
Six pack? Nah. I think I counted eight.
Yes, I counted.
Shame.
You go see it. I dare you not to count.
The only reason to own the DVD is to paused the damn thing and COUNT!!
Maybe math can be fun?
Film ends.
We are happy and entertained.
Bella took an acting class! Good girl!
Sparkle Tits went the gym. Thank you!
When did Peter Facinelli become British?
You go, Director David Slade!!
I say silent prayer that the people adapting Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows are equally as attentive to the book (Talking to you, Director David Yates)
I returned our up past her bedtime partner in shame, flapping my gums at Julie with insightful little notices like "do you think the nine year old in front of us understood the allusions to foreplay in the training scene?" and "Edward is a cwabby vwampire when the WAY FUCKING HOTTER Jacob is keeping Bella warm on the top of Mt. Kilamongaro!"
I arrived home, kissed Lucio squaring on the lips and headed for the shower.
Evidently my kiss was a smoosh too much for a Wednesday causing Lucio to posture, "How many women your age do you think are going home for a romp with their spouses and thinking of vampires and wearwolves?"
"Does it matter?" I ask. "If it offends your masculine sensibilities that I would like to take my frustrations out on you, you can stay here and watch Brazil and I can see what Pete is doing tonight." (see Pure Romance entry)
"We can't have both?" he asks with a smile.
Gads. I love this man.
Off to the shower.
I daydream a bit while shaving...thinking of Jacobs remarkably hairless chest for a wearwolf.
And then it hit me.
He has no hair on his chest because it hasn't started growning yet.
The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
I am 39 years old. What? I have a month. Shut up.
A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.
Uh oh.
Mean stupid math.
The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
Jack is 5 years old.
A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.
Shudder.
Cringe.
5 minutes later I am in bed, wet hair, sensible PJ's in place, reading Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.
Lucio crawls in and looks optimistic.
Hopes dashed in an instant.
"I don't think my hearts going to be in it, honey. I did the math, and we need to go see The A Team or something to wash away the shame of it all."
All is not lost though.
Bradley Cooper and Patrick Wilson in the same movie.
39 and 35 and 37.
That oughta work.
5:15 pm (central time)
Dashed from meeting to purchase three tickets for the film event of the summer.
One for me.
One for Julie.
And one for our 11 year old beard.
What? It's opening day people! And I am grown (some might call middle aged) woman who finds herself juggling self respect and a smoosh of shame that I had to had to see it the day it was released.
Whatever.
I am still - forever in fact - Team Jacob.
Doctor Jones (shout out, Denisha!) tells me I cannot possibly care about the essence of the story - and the connection between Edward and Bella - and still identify myself as Team Jacob. She says if I cared about the story, I'd know there never could be a Team Jacob in the first place.
I told her I care about my eyesight, therefore, Team Jacob.
Not that Edward isn't dandy.
Not that Bella isn't just a lovely heroine.
Absolutely the angst of the undead and the headed to undead is well worth the price of admission.
Holy shut the front door!!!
That manboy's body is ridonkulous!!
Six pack? Nah. I think I counted eight.
Yes, I counted.
Shame.
You go see it. I dare you not to count.
The only reason to own the DVD is to paused the damn thing and COUNT!!
Maybe math can be fun?
Film ends.
We are happy and entertained.
Bella took an acting class! Good girl!
Sparkle Tits went the gym. Thank you!
When did Peter Facinelli become British?
You go, Director David Slade!!
I say silent prayer that the people adapting Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows are equally as attentive to the book (Talking to you, Director David Yates)
I returned our up past her bedtime partner in shame, flapping my gums at Julie with insightful little notices like "do you think the nine year old in front of us understood the allusions to foreplay in the training scene?" and "Edward is a cwabby vwampire when the WAY FUCKING HOTTER Jacob is keeping Bella warm on the top of Mt. Kilamongaro!"
I arrived home, kissed Lucio squaring on the lips and headed for the shower.
Evidently my kiss was a smoosh too much for a Wednesday causing Lucio to posture, "How many women your age do you think are going home for a romp with their spouses and thinking of vampires and wearwolves?"
"Does it matter?" I ask. "If it offends your masculine sensibilities that I would like to take my frustrations out on you, you can stay here and watch Brazil and I can see what Pete is doing tonight." (see Pure Romance entry)
"We can't have both?" he asks with a smile.
Gads. I love this man.
Off to the shower.
I daydream a bit while shaving...thinking of Jacobs remarkably hairless chest for a wearwolf.
And then it hit me.
He has no hair on his chest because it hasn't started growning yet.
The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
I am 39 years old. What? I have a month. Shut up.
A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.
Uh oh.
Mean stupid math.
The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
Jack is 5 years old.
A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.
Shudder.
Cringe.
5 minutes later I am in bed, wet hair, sensible PJ's in place, reading Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.
Lucio crawls in and looks optimistic.
Hopes dashed in an instant.
"I don't think my hearts going to be in it, honey. I did the math, and we need to go see The A Team or something to wash away the shame of it all."
All is not lost though.
Bradley Cooper and Patrick Wilson in the same movie.
39 and 35 and 37.
That oughta work.
Monday, June 21, 2010
My Eyes!! My Eyes!!!
We got trouble.
I say we got trouble.
And it starts with T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.
The T of T&A fame.
The Pool of Sholem. For everyone reading this outside of Illinois, you're pronouncing Sholem wrong. It's not "shawl-ohm" or even "shawl-em"
It's Show Lom.
I know. I know. Redonkulous.
Just go with it.
Let me set the stage for you.
Sunny Saturday afternoon, post lunch crowd at the Champaign Park District pool.
Temperatures exceeding 90 degrees in solid humidity.
In this heat, the only place to be in Champaign is at the pool. As a result, everyone who lives in Champaign is there. And a few from Urbana, a couple from St. Joe and a handful from someplace called Bondville.
I feel like I knew people with pools in their yards when I was a kid? No?
Not anymore. Here we are. With the masses. Shiver.
Splashing abounds.
There is neither sufficient reclining chairs for sunning or space in pool ot swim more than three strokes without bumping into someone's ass to whom you're not related.
Ick.
Squeeling children. Balls zooming around.The round playing kinds and a few tucked into Speedos. Gotta love the European trained faculty.
Parents holding, coaching, reprimanding and ignoring their offspring in every corner of the pool.
All in all, a typical Sholem Saturday.
That is, until I saw her.
Clad in a black bikini, a woman ca-thwumping her way into the big pool. Her remarkable gait rivaling the grace of any given rhino is not what made me take notice of her.
Neither that she maybe doesn't have the figure to pull off a bikini (see ca-thwumping reference)
The maybe part? About whether sister can pull off a bikini?
Is a for sure.
You want to know whose judge and jury here sister?
Ding Ding Ding!!!!
Yes, she's smaller than me.
But she absolutely shops at Lane Bryant and if she had ever heard of Nordstrom (which, let's be honest...)she'd be wandering the 3rd floor, next to the kids clothes, same as me.
New Rule: If you're sizing outside of Ann Taylor by at least 4 sizes, a bikini is wrong.
Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong.
Show some respect.
For me.
No wonder people associate fat with lazy!
This twazoo cannot be bothered to notice she is fat in the first place. Hello?
But I digress.
Sister in black bikini had two body parts on full display for anyone to see.
No, not her bubies. Those were both racing towards her toes held up by the same sort of support I use to hold Jack's toys in the tub.
Say it with me. Min-i-mal.
And no, neither was it her twazoo or her tush escaping the confines of her $14 KMart bottoms.
It was her TWO BELLY BUTTONS on full display.
One, in the normal place. and another, about 5 inches above.
Two Belly Buttons.
In a Bikini!!!!
Lucio had to tell me to put my sunglasses down, telling me "The staring with your mouth agape is not helping".
"I think I am well within my rights as a human to ask her to return to the mothership and get the fruck off my planet!!"
Upon hearing this, Lucio grabbed Jack and headed for the lazy river. Incidentally, Jack seemed as phased as his mother and if he someday tells me he simply doesn't fancy women, I will recall this day as the one where I am certain he began to wonder.
Walking back to my chair in my figure appropriate halter suit with rooshing and skirt, thank you very much, I looked around at my fellow pool dwellers.
Yikes. "The People of Sholem Pool" is fast replacing "The People of Walmart".
If you don't know, google it.
And yes, I will try to get a picture next time.
Do aliens react poorly to having their photo taken?
I say we got trouble.
And it starts with T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.
The T of T&A fame.
The Pool of Sholem. For everyone reading this outside of Illinois, you're pronouncing Sholem wrong. It's not "shawl-ohm" or even "shawl-em"
It's Show Lom.
I know. I know. Redonkulous.
Just go with it.
Let me set the stage for you.
Sunny Saturday afternoon, post lunch crowd at the Champaign Park District pool.
Temperatures exceeding 90 degrees in solid humidity.
In this heat, the only place to be in Champaign is at the pool. As a result, everyone who lives in Champaign is there. And a few from Urbana, a couple from St. Joe and a handful from someplace called Bondville.
I feel like I knew people with pools in their yards when I was a kid? No?
Not anymore. Here we are. With the masses. Shiver.
Splashing abounds.
There is neither sufficient reclining chairs for sunning or space in pool ot swim more than three strokes without bumping into someone's ass to whom you're not related.
Ick.
Squeeling children. Balls zooming around.The round playing kinds and a few tucked into Speedos. Gotta love the European trained faculty.
Parents holding, coaching, reprimanding and ignoring their offspring in every corner of the pool.
All in all, a typical Sholem Saturday.
That is, until I saw her.
Clad in a black bikini, a woman ca-thwumping her way into the big pool. Her remarkable gait rivaling the grace of any given rhino is not what made me take notice of her.
Neither that she maybe doesn't have the figure to pull off a bikini (see ca-thwumping reference)
The maybe part? About whether sister can pull off a bikini?
Is a for sure.
You want to know whose judge and jury here sister?
Ding Ding Ding!!!!
Yes, she's smaller than me.
But she absolutely shops at Lane Bryant and if she had ever heard of Nordstrom (which, let's be honest...)she'd be wandering the 3rd floor, next to the kids clothes, same as me.
New Rule: If you're sizing outside of Ann Taylor by at least 4 sizes, a bikini is wrong.
Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong.
Show some respect.
For me.
No wonder people associate fat with lazy!
This twazoo cannot be bothered to notice she is fat in the first place. Hello?
But I digress.
Sister in black bikini had two body parts on full display for anyone to see.
No, not her bubies. Those were both racing towards her toes held up by the same sort of support I use to hold Jack's toys in the tub.
Say it with me. Min-i-mal.
And no, neither was it her twazoo or her tush escaping the confines of her $14 KMart bottoms.
It was her TWO BELLY BUTTONS on full display.
One, in the normal place. and another, about 5 inches above.
Two Belly Buttons.
In a Bikini!!!!
Lucio had to tell me to put my sunglasses down, telling me "The staring with your mouth agape is not helping".
"I think I am well within my rights as a human to ask her to return to the mothership and get the fruck off my planet!!"
Upon hearing this, Lucio grabbed Jack and headed for the lazy river. Incidentally, Jack seemed as phased as his mother and if he someday tells me he simply doesn't fancy women, I will recall this day as the one where I am certain he began to wonder.
Walking back to my chair in my figure appropriate halter suit with rooshing and skirt, thank you very much, I looked around at my fellow pool dwellers.
Yikes. "The People of Sholem Pool" is fast replacing "The People of Walmart".
If you don't know, google it.
And yes, I will try to get a picture next time.
Do aliens react poorly to having their photo taken?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Elastagirl, sadly, I am not
I am feeling protective.
Wanting to get my arms around everyone I love and hold them close.
Keep them warm.
Safe.
Protected.
Loved.
Wish I was Elastigirl.
From The Incredibles.
I already have her hair.
And her ass.
Wish I had her waist.
Want my arms to grow and stretch all the way to Jack's classroom, where he is completing Kindergarten and growing with such speed I fear if I don't grab him now, he will soon tell me he doesn't want to snuggle me anymore.
Want to grab Lucio in that warm hold and tell him that we can be successful in everything we do as long as we try.
Together.
Wish I could stretch a little more to hold tightly to Harrison and Piper, who are slipping from my arms a little more each day.
Want to grab Kevin and Steph everytime I see them, tell that living next to them has changed our relationship forever, and that for every up and down we've had, I love them each more than I ever knew I could.
My arms are letting me down.
I cannot reach my mother to hold her and tell her she is proving to be a stellar grandmother. The best ever, in fact. We've done some checking and she really is top of her class.
Nope, cannot reach Florida, to assure Caye she looks amazing and the woman in Ross was clearly "special". No hugging, Caye. I know.
Cannot stretch my way to Leigh and hold her hand when we walk, which she always lets me do.
I cannot get to Becca and tell her I knew happiness would find its way back to her home. Or how happy I am that it did. I cannot throw my arm around Lori's shoulders when she frets over her first home purchase. Cannot offer reassurance to Danielle when a tree falls on their house, let alone laugh with her until it hurts.
Cannot catch Jamie as he moves to quickly.
Can barely grab hold of Julie as she jets off west again.
Wishing wishing my arms could hug Vivian everyday. Hardly seems believable that our friendship is this strong when we only lived near each other for 21 months, long ago, in the mid 90's.
Can't reach Denisha and tell her it's their loss.
Cannot contain my want to show happy fingers when I think of a week in July in Walloon Lake with Leslie and the girls.
Cannot control my glee at thought of sitting snug in chairs with Laura and Kayrn in Colorado later this year, maybe. Just the thought of getting to them makes me smile.
Yes, I am feeling the need to protect what I love.
I think it's okay.
I think it might be Facebook's fault.
If I want to throw hugs to people I have not seen in decades, some of whom I was only marginally close to, it's no wonder I consider smothering love on those few people whom I've loved all along.
If I see you and I hug you, please let me.
You can even hug first.
Wanting to get my arms around everyone I love and hold them close.
Keep them warm.
Safe.
Protected.
Loved.
Wish I was Elastigirl.
From The Incredibles.
I already have her hair.
And her ass.
Wish I had her waist.
Want my arms to grow and stretch all the way to Jack's classroom, where he is completing Kindergarten and growing with such speed I fear if I don't grab him now, he will soon tell me he doesn't want to snuggle me anymore.
Want to grab Lucio in that warm hold and tell him that we can be successful in everything we do as long as we try.
Together.
Wish I could stretch a little more to hold tightly to Harrison and Piper, who are slipping from my arms a little more each day.
Want to grab Kevin and Steph everytime I see them, tell that living next to them has changed our relationship forever, and that for every up and down we've had, I love them each more than I ever knew I could.
My arms are letting me down.
I cannot reach my mother to hold her and tell her she is proving to be a stellar grandmother. The best ever, in fact. We've done some checking and she really is top of her class.
Nope, cannot reach Florida, to assure Caye she looks amazing and the woman in Ross was clearly "special". No hugging, Caye. I know.
Cannot stretch my way to Leigh and hold her hand when we walk, which she always lets me do.
I cannot get to Becca and tell her I knew happiness would find its way back to her home. Or how happy I am that it did. I cannot throw my arm around Lori's shoulders when she frets over her first home purchase. Cannot offer reassurance to Danielle when a tree falls on their house, let alone laugh with her until it hurts.
Cannot catch Jamie as he moves to quickly.
Can barely grab hold of Julie as she jets off west again.
Wishing wishing my arms could hug Vivian everyday. Hardly seems believable that our friendship is this strong when we only lived near each other for 21 months, long ago, in the mid 90's.
Can't reach Denisha and tell her it's their loss.
Cannot contain my want to show happy fingers when I think of a week in July in Walloon Lake with Leslie and the girls.
Cannot control my glee at thought of sitting snug in chairs with Laura and Kayrn in Colorado later this year, maybe. Just the thought of getting to them makes me smile.
Yes, I am feeling the need to protect what I love.
I think it's okay.
I think it might be Facebook's fault.
If I want to throw hugs to people I have not seen in decades, some of whom I was only marginally close to, it's no wonder I consider smothering love on those few people whom I've loved all along.
If I see you and I hug you, please let me.
You can even hug first.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
My Mother's Daughter
My mother visited last week.
Arriving essentially at a moments notice to look after my niece and nephew whilst their parents sought to find a home in South Carolina before the tax credit expired.
Lois got the call on Saturday and was here for dinner on Monday.
Lois rocks.
You know what else?
I am so completely turning into her.
Lois stereotypes.
She says things become stereotypes because they are true.
I say, yes, that is right, but that doesn't mean we can call an entire sect of the population stubborn just because of their ancestory.
I've tried logic.
"Mom, you're Polish. Are you stupid?
She looks at me with not a trace of a smile.
"I am Irish. Am I drunk?"
"The Irish are impervious to analyis," declared Lois.
She has said this before -usually to illustrate my father's rigidity.
She wasn't wrong about Dad, but I still think my message was lost.
"Mother, please don't stereotype like that. It makes you sound foolish, " I plead mixing love with just enough mortification to make my point.
Yes, my vantage point from perfection is lovely. Thank you for asking.
Fast forward to dinner on Saturday night.
We are wrapping up, boys are already playing in the other room.
A loud motorcycle roars past the house, catching the attention of 15 month-old niece.
"No motorcycle men for you, " Stephanie trills, bouncing her daughter.
"That's right," I chime in, "Motorcyle boys are never sufficiently educated."
Lois looks up.
Gulp.
Double gulp.
Have completely forgotten she is dating George, who both owns and rides motorcycles.
And is also an educated, well paid engineer.
"Sorry about that," I tell her looking at my plate.
It's hard sometimes for me to get my head around the changes in my mother in the last three years.
At the ripe age of 70, she now rides motorcycles, goes to backyard jams (whatever the hell that is) and goes deep sea fishing. She is also, much to the surprise of the children she put through Catholic School, part Jewish.
I love the internet and am gleeful for sites like www.ancestory.com and the nugets they've unearthed, but I think she found the Jewish part mostly to make my oldest living relative, Aunt Vivian (see Jamie Davis blog) certifiably crazy. Vivian and Lois are basically the same bloodline yet somehow my mother is Polish and Vivian is Scandanavian. It's a puzzler.
Lois is clearly ready and eager to respond to my stereo-typing ways.
"Most of the cycle people I know, Heather, are well educated and earn quite well. It's actually a very expensive hobby."
Having no retort, I wait for someone to jump in.
All Steph can come up with is "Oh, of course. We just meant the Hell's Angels."
Like Hell's Angels is recruiting and looking for a nice crop of toddlers to round out their memebership.
There's a bit of off silence in the room.
A few minutes pass.
We all pray one of the boys will set off the fire alarm.
Finally Mom decides I can be let off the hook for being narrow-minded about motor cycles.
"Was that your neighbor before when we were on the porch, Heather?" Lois asks while Lucio and I are gathering dishes.
"Her boyfriend," I tell her, getting up from the table and walking to the kitchen.
"Those were two mieskeits!" Lois declares.
Look it up. I had to to spell it correctly.
I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Lucio is grinning like a idiot.
Through my smile I whisper, "how can she be so judgemental?"
To which Lucio answers, "You mean like when you saw the Grow -Don't Mow bumper sticker on his car and decided you would call the police if the lawn went more than 2 weeks without a cut?"
"Well, that's completely different."
Arriving essentially at a moments notice to look after my niece and nephew whilst their parents sought to find a home in South Carolina before the tax credit expired.
Lois got the call on Saturday and was here for dinner on Monday.
Lois rocks.
You know what else?
I am so completely turning into her.
Lois stereotypes.
She says things become stereotypes because they are true.
I say, yes, that is right, but that doesn't mean we can call an entire sect of the population stubborn just because of their ancestory.
I've tried logic.
"Mom, you're Polish. Are you stupid?
She looks at me with not a trace of a smile.
"I am Irish. Am I drunk?"
"The Irish are impervious to analyis," declared Lois.
She has said this before -usually to illustrate my father's rigidity.
She wasn't wrong about Dad, but I still think my message was lost.
"Mother, please don't stereotype like that. It makes you sound foolish, " I plead mixing love with just enough mortification to make my point.
Yes, my vantage point from perfection is lovely. Thank you for asking.
Fast forward to dinner on Saturday night.
We are wrapping up, boys are already playing in the other room.
A loud motorcycle roars past the house, catching the attention of 15 month-old niece.
"No motorcycle men for you, " Stephanie trills, bouncing her daughter.
"That's right," I chime in, "Motorcyle boys are never sufficiently educated."
Lois looks up.
Gulp.
Double gulp.
Have completely forgotten she is dating George, who both owns and rides motorcycles.
And is also an educated, well paid engineer.
"Sorry about that," I tell her looking at my plate.
It's hard sometimes for me to get my head around the changes in my mother in the last three years.
At the ripe age of 70, she now rides motorcycles, goes to backyard jams (whatever the hell that is) and goes deep sea fishing. She is also, much to the surprise of the children she put through Catholic School, part Jewish.
I love the internet and am gleeful for sites like www.ancestory.com and the nugets they've unearthed, but I think she found the Jewish part mostly to make my oldest living relative, Aunt Vivian (see Jamie Davis blog) certifiably crazy. Vivian and Lois are basically the same bloodline yet somehow my mother is Polish and Vivian is Scandanavian. It's a puzzler.
Lois is clearly ready and eager to respond to my stereo-typing ways.
"Most of the cycle people I know, Heather, are well educated and earn quite well. It's actually a very expensive hobby."
Having no retort, I wait for someone to jump in.
All Steph can come up with is "Oh, of course. We just meant the Hell's Angels."
Like Hell's Angels is recruiting and looking for a nice crop of toddlers to round out their memebership.
There's a bit of off silence in the room.
A few minutes pass.
We all pray one of the boys will set off the fire alarm.
Finally Mom decides I can be let off the hook for being narrow-minded about motor cycles.
"Was that your neighbor before when we were on the porch, Heather?" Lois asks while Lucio and I are gathering dishes.
"Her boyfriend," I tell her, getting up from the table and walking to the kitchen.
"Those were two mieskeits!" Lois declares.
Look it up. I had to to spell it correctly.
I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Lucio is grinning like a idiot.
Through my smile I whisper, "how can she be so judgemental?"
To which Lucio answers, "You mean like when you saw the Grow -Don't Mow bumper sticker on his car and decided you would call the police if the lawn went more than 2 weeks without a cut?"
"Well, that's completely different."
Monday, April 26, 2010
It's a little something we call patience
Our son, Jack, is the light of our lives.
He is funny, kind, inquisitive and silly.
He is soft when I need him to let me rest my head on his overlong curls.
No, I am not cutting his hair anytime soon.
I like it.
I am waiting for the humidity to see what these curls really look like.
What?
He's mine. It's not like I tattoo'd him or something.
Oh, how cute would that be?
Tangent...
We've been told countless times he is the perfect combo of us.
In looks.
For personality, it's about 90 percent me.
Mostly my worst things.
Noisy. Not so much for the patience. Back-talky.
Example.
Begged me to rent Super Mario Brothers for Wii.
He is neither sufficiently mature or Wii-ified to handle this game.
But, it was raining and I passed the desicion to his father.
I thought Lucio knew the party line.
He told me he'd have time to read my mind again after finals.
Suffice to say, fucking Luigi was back in my living room yesterday.
Darling child calls to me from the living room in his sweetest voice, "Mommy, will you come play with me? Daddy doesn't know how to get to Bowser."
I chime back, "Coming, buddy. Give me a few minutes."
I am folding fitted sheets. I had to watch a video on the internet and still I need to take out my Martha Stewart Housekeeping book for a ready reference.
"How long,Mommy?"
"Three minutes, " I relay. I am almost caught up on "Real Housewives of NYC".
I just know that bitch Jill wants to make nice nice with Bethany so she can be a bridesmaid.
A bit dejected, but otherwise on board, Jack trills, "Okay, Mommy."
He is patient. Maybe I am adequate parent who can balance work and family.
Sheets finish and put away.
Closing line, "Only by Bravo."
Team Bethany.
Jill is a classless twazoo.
And don't even get me started on the pot-stirring countess.
Class? Try steerage.
14 seconds later, "Mommy, I don't like to be kept waiting."
I turn around, remote control in my hand and see the image of me, hands on hips, taping is foot at me.
Really? Really.
Let's see how he likes a standoff.
He is funny, kind, inquisitive and silly.
He is soft when I need him to let me rest my head on his overlong curls.
No, I am not cutting his hair anytime soon.
I like it.
I am waiting for the humidity to see what these curls really look like.
What?
He's mine. It's not like I tattoo'd him or something.
Oh, how cute would that be?
Tangent...
We've been told countless times he is the perfect combo of us.
In looks.
For personality, it's about 90 percent me.
Mostly my worst things.
Noisy. Not so much for the patience. Back-talky.
Example.
Begged me to rent Super Mario Brothers for Wii.
He is neither sufficiently mature or Wii-ified to handle this game.
But, it was raining and I passed the desicion to his father.
I thought Lucio knew the party line.
He told me he'd have time to read my mind again after finals.
Suffice to say, fucking Luigi was back in my living room yesterday.
Darling child calls to me from the living room in his sweetest voice, "Mommy, will you come play with me? Daddy doesn't know how to get to Bowser."
I chime back, "Coming, buddy. Give me a few minutes."
I am folding fitted sheets. I had to watch a video on the internet and still I need to take out my Martha Stewart Housekeeping book for a ready reference.
"How long,Mommy?"
"Three minutes, " I relay. I am almost caught up on "Real Housewives of NYC".
I just know that bitch Jill wants to make nice nice with Bethany so she can be a bridesmaid.
A bit dejected, but otherwise on board, Jack trills, "Okay, Mommy."
He is patient. Maybe I am adequate parent who can balance work and family.
Sheets finish and put away.
Closing line, "Only by Bravo."
Team Bethany.
Jill is a classless twazoo.
And don't even get me started on the pot-stirring countess.
Class? Try steerage.
14 seconds later, "Mommy, I don't like to be kept waiting."
I turn around, remote control in my hand and see the image of me, hands on hips, taping is foot at me.
Really? Really.
Let's see how he likes a standoff.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Pure Romance
On a warm spring evening in quiet midwestern town, 16 women got together for an evening of giggles, wine, and cheese.
Most knew the hostess from Junior League.
Well dressed. Well spoken. Well educated.
Fine women.
Good, all american women.
Salt of the earth.
As the wine poured and the nibbles were passed around, these women appeared unphased by the appearance of a 9 inch long purple dildo stuck to the windsill of the hostesses living room window.
The x-scream cream raised nary an eyebrow when it was promised to stimulated both partners at the same time.
Whips with delicate pink feathers protruded from the purses of these fine citizens.
Our hostess, who hails from the land of the loud and the pushy was stunned to learn her friends, colleagues, neighbors, and fellow volunteers had spent more that $1,450 on sex toys that evening.
It's possible I've been misjudging Illinois.
Just when I think I have this state completely figured out, it throws me curve.
Women were marching out of our 5 year old son's ocean themed room laden down with handbags they could no longer carry.
The best part?
The hostess orders last, getting 10 percent of the take off her order. Schwing!
And free stuff.
I love free stuff.
Platimum Pete will be all mine by the end of the week.
Oh, yeah, that's right. These same midwestern women bought out most of the supply of absolutely everything.
By 10:55 pm there wasn't a whip to be had, a cream to be smelled or licked, or a on switch in the vicinity.
They came.
They saw.
They shopped.
And then the came again.
Most knew the hostess from Junior League.
Well dressed. Well spoken. Well educated.
Fine women.
Good, all american women.
Salt of the earth.
As the wine poured and the nibbles were passed around, these women appeared unphased by the appearance of a 9 inch long purple dildo stuck to the windsill of the hostesses living room window.
The x-scream cream raised nary an eyebrow when it was promised to stimulated both partners at the same time.
Whips with delicate pink feathers protruded from the purses of these fine citizens.
Our hostess, who hails from the land of the loud and the pushy was stunned to learn her friends, colleagues, neighbors, and fellow volunteers had spent more that $1,450 on sex toys that evening.
It's possible I've been misjudging Illinois.
Just when I think I have this state completely figured out, it throws me curve.
Women were marching out of our 5 year old son's ocean themed room laden down with handbags they could no longer carry.
The best part?
The hostess orders last, getting 10 percent of the take off her order. Schwing!
And free stuff.
I love free stuff.
Platimum Pete will be all mine by the end of the week.
Oh, yeah, that's right. These same midwestern women bought out most of the supply of absolutely everything.
By 10:55 pm there wasn't a whip to be had, a cream to be smelled or licked, or a on switch in the vicinity.
They came.
They saw.
They shopped.
And then the came again.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Just some things to think about
April 7th
Dearest self,
Though I find you nothing but funny, charming and an all around crowd pleaser, it's possible this sentiment is not shared by all.
I know.
I was shocked too.
Breathe. I said possible.
Things to consider...
You're the loudest person many people know. I point this out because a few of the people who have told you that you are the loudest person they know (gentle reminder here that you asked them this question directly) genuinely love you.
Maybe not every second of everyday.
Maybe not in the confined space of a hotel room.
But in general, these are the people that love you.
So, maybe you are a touch too loud. Dial it down just a smoosh.
Just putting it out there.
And another nugget to consider..respectfully, you are fairly quick to judge. I assume you know this one already, given the name of your blog and all. Still, I would feel remiss had I not mentioned it.
You've said it before - you idle at challenging. So, maybe a touch more patience would do wonders.
Maybe pointing out the cultural failings of your neighbors and colleagues, especially those who might be genuinely fearful of, I don't know, people from New Jersey, speaks as much to who you are as to who they are.
I remind you. You cannot change them. Or their hair. You can only change you.
And Lucio and Jack. I know I know.
Again, just roll around with it. See if you like how it moves.
Finally, I suggest you consider the reckless abandon with which your body releases sounds.
I'm talking about the gas, lovely.
The gas in your ass.
And elsewhere.
We're not 12 anymore, and we're not boys. You need to invest in both some Bean-o and scented candles. Maybe cut out the soda. I'm not saying this is what will cause friendships to collapse, but really, it's not helping.
See, how hard was that?
You still have way healthy hair without spending a fortune (XOXO Suave), a biting sense of humor that the really smart people in your life both appreciate and welcome and, let's be honest, the best friends on Earth.
And you have cutest new pair if Wedges coming from Zappos.com
Extra Exta love,
Me
Dearest self,
Though I find you nothing but funny, charming and an all around crowd pleaser, it's possible this sentiment is not shared by all.
I know.
I was shocked too.
Breathe. I said possible.
Things to consider...
You're the loudest person many people know. I point this out because a few of the people who have told you that you are the loudest person they know (gentle reminder here that you asked them this question directly) genuinely love you.
Maybe not every second of everyday.
Maybe not in the confined space of a hotel room.
But in general, these are the people that love you.
So, maybe you are a touch too loud. Dial it down just a smoosh.
Just putting it out there.
And another nugget to consider..respectfully, you are fairly quick to judge. I assume you know this one already, given the name of your blog and all. Still, I would feel remiss had I not mentioned it.
You've said it before - you idle at challenging. So, maybe a touch more patience would do wonders.
Maybe pointing out the cultural failings of your neighbors and colleagues, especially those who might be genuinely fearful of, I don't know, people from New Jersey, speaks as much to who you are as to who they are.
I remind you. You cannot change them. Or their hair. You can only change you.
And Lucio and Jack. I know I know.
Again, just roll around with it. See if you like how it moves.
Finally, I suggest you consider the reckless abandon with which your body releases sounds.
I'm talking about the gas, lovely.
The gas in your ass.
And elsewhere.
We're not 12 anymore, and we're not boys. You need to invest in both some Bean-o and scented candles. Maybe cut out the soda. I'm not saying this is what will cause friendships to collapse, but really, it's not helping.
See, how hard was that?
You still have way healthy hair without spending a fortune (XOXO Suave), a biting sense of humor that the really smart people in your life both appreciate and welcome and, let's be honest, the best friends on Earth.
And you have cutest new pair if Wedges coming from Zappos.com
Extra Exta love,
Me
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
"Did you wash with vigor?"
Setting: Master bedroom. Evening. Lights on in all corners, TV on, but muted.
Clothing strewn acoss bed, dresser, hanging from closet door.
Suitcase open and empty except for pair of flip fops tossed in.
Julie sitting on lavendar chair, feet up on bed.
Heather standing in front of closet, hands on hips.
Jack running back and forth from bed to kitchen, wearing only his transformer underwear.
"Jack, that's it. Shower. Now. Hey, come back here!"
Running straight towards Julie, Jack stops short, jumps on the bed and assumes the "menacing Tae Kwon Do" ready stance.
"It's hard to be tough, little man, when you're only wearing Bumblebee underoos," Julie tell him.
"Nu uh," says Jack unphased, and with one quick motion, he remove the underpants, kicking them off with the same florish reserved for Chippendale dancers. Once again, he gets into position.
"Better. Much better," Julie observes, shaking her head.
I have reached my limit. The time on the clock says clearly, 7:48 pm. 18 minutes late already. "I said shower. Now. Come one, toothless naked wonder. Let's go!"
"I am a big boy Mommy. I need my privacy."
"It's all yours!" And off he runs into the bathroom. I can hear him talking to himself, grunting with the effort of being a big boy.
Waiting a few minutes for him to finish his business, I peek around the corner of the bathroom. There is Jack, hands on the floor, ass in the air in a downward-facing-dogish position, waiting for me to check if he's whiped himself clearn.
"You need privacy for the going and not the whiping? Doesn't add up, dude," I tell him, after giving him a pass. He stands up, grabbing a boat, a shark and two Egyptian princes, ready to act out his version of Jaws, King Tut style.
Turning on the water in the shower, I turn to Jack.
"I think you're getting big enough to wash yourself. The soap you like is right there," I tell him, pointing at the green bar on the lower corner. "I will put the shampoo on you, but I think you can do the rest. I'll check you over at the end. What do you think?"
"Okay Mommy. I'll try," Jack tells me, hopping over the ledge.
Shampoo'd and sufficiently wet, I leave Jack alone in the shower and go back to looking at the piles of clothes. Piles, incidentally, that will get pushed into the biggest single piece of luggage we own, weighing well over 50 pounds when it's full and brought to California for a long weekend. And exactly two pairs of shoes, three pairs of pants, two dresses and four tops will never see the light outside of the hotel room before being rejected.
Julie is still sitting where I left her. She gently reminds me that turtlenecks are not really California appropriate.
"I'd wear a turtleneck swimsuit if someone would make one, Jules."
Two pairs of pants and a kicky multi-colored blouse have been added to the suitcase when I hear the hearty yell of our son shout, "Mommy, I'm done."
Not moving, I yell back from the bedroom, "You're sure?"
"Yes, Mommy. I am sure," he yells back.
"You cleaned everything? Your toes too?"
"It's all clean, Mommy."
"Did you wash your bottom?"
"Yeeesss," he shouts, already with the snark born only to children with loud mothers from the northeast.
"Did you wash with vigor?" I inquire, placing a way cute pair of ballet flats in the suitcase.
Silence.
More silence.
"YOU WANT ME TO WASH MY BOTTOM WITH MY FINGER!?!?!!!"
Julie slides off the chair, laughter echoing through the house. I am sitting crossed legged on the bed, lest I piss my pants while in hysterics.
"ARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" Followed mere moments later by a hearty declaration of "Stop laughing at me. Mommy!
"We're not laughing at you, Bud. I promise. Mommy promise."
"Than who are you laughing at."
Without missing a beat, Julie replies "Jack, we're laughing at your mother. Look, she peed her pants!"
Clothing strewn acoss bed, dresser, hanging from closet door.
Suitcase open and empty except for pair of flip fops tossed in.
Julie sitting on lavendar chair, feet up on bed.
Heather standing in front of closet, hands on hips.
Jack running back and forth from bed to kitchen, wearing only his transformer underwear.
"Jack, that's it. Shower. Now. Hey, come back here!"
Running straight towards Julie, Jack stops short, jumps on the bed and assumes the "menacing Tae Kwon Do" ready stance.
"It's hard to be tough, little man, when you're only wearing Bumblebee underoos," Julie tell him.
"Nu uh," says Jack unphased, and with one quick motion, he remove the underpants, kicking them off with the same florish reserved for Chippendale dancers. Once again, he gets into position.
"Better. Much better," Julie observes, shaking her head.
I have reached my limit. The time on the clock says clearly, 7:48 pm. 18 minutes late already. "I said shower. Now. Come one, toothless naked wonder. Let's go!"
"I am a big boy Mommy. I need my privacy."
"It's all yours!" And off he runs into the bathroom. I can hear him talking to himself, grunting with the effort of being a big boy.
Waiting a few minutes for him to finish his business, I peek around the corner of the bathroom. There is Jack, hands on the floor, ass in the air in a downward-facing-dogish position, waiting for me to check if he's whiped himself clearn.
"You need privacy for the going and not the whiping? Doesn't add up, dude," I tell him, after giving him a pass. He stands up, grabbing a boat, a shark and two Egyptian princes, ready to act out his version of Jaws, King Tut style.
Turning on the water in the shower, I turn to Jack.
"I think you're getting big enough to wash yourself. The soap you like is right there," I tell him, pointing at the green bar on the lower corner. "I will put the shampoo on you, but I think you can do the rest. I'll check you over at the end. What do you think?"
"Okay Mommy. I'll try," Jack tells me, hopping over the ledge.
Shampoo'd and sufficiently wet, I leave Jack alone in the shower and go back to looking at the piles of clothes. Piles, incidentally, that will get pushed into the biggest single piece of luggage we own, weighing well over 50 pounds when it's full and brought to California for a long weekend. And exactly two pairs of shoes, three pairs of pants, two dresses and four tops will never see the light outside of the hotel room before being rejected.
Julie is still sitting where I left her. She gently reminds me that turtlenecks are not really California appropriate.
"I'd wear a turtleneck swimsuit if someone would make one, Jules."
Two pairs of pants and a kicky multi-colored blouse have been added to the suitcase when I hear the hearty yell of our son shout, "Mommy, I'm done."
Not moving, I yell back from the bedroom, "You're sure?"
"Yes, Mommy. I am sure," he yells back.
"You cleaned everything? Your toes too?"
"It's all clean, Mommy."
"Did you wash your bottom?"
"Yeeesss," he shouts, already with the snark born only to children with loud mothers from the northeast.
"Did you wash with vigor?" I inquire, placing a way cute pair of ballet flats in the suitcase.
Silence.
More silence.
"YOU WANT ME TO WASH MY BOTTOM WITH MY FINGER!?!?!!!"
Julie slides off the chair, laughter echoing through the house. I am sitting crossed legged on the bed, lest I piss my pants while in hysterics.
"ARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" Followed mere moments later by a hearty declaration of "Stop laughing at me. Mommy!
"We're not laughing at you, Bud. I promise. Mommy promise."
"Than who are you laughing at."
Without missing a beat, Julie replies "Jack, we're laughing at your mother. Look, she peed her pants!"
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
How long has this problem been bothering you?
There's a lot of things people don't tell you.
Some will say it's for your own good.
I say it's because we secretly enjoy watching others suffer the same fate we ourselves have sloshed through before.
Like before you have a kid, for example.
Breast feeding is natural.
LIE.
It may occur in a natural, organic way.
The magic of me making my precious perfect baby grow.
Looking all idealic in the delicate charcoal sketch in my What to Expect books.
That is where the natural part ends.
Getting it to work, in sufficient amounts, at the right times, without drenching your clothes just because another baby you didn't give birth to is crying. Not natural.
Without giving you mean, horrible red spots that are evidently only a precursor to the real delight of learning that you can get yeasty there and it will make it feel like someone is pulling knives out of two of the most delicate area-olas on the body. . Not natural.
There. I said it.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Want another one?
I likewise was not told by a single married woman that I would be responsible for my beloved husband's complete and total body health in it's entirety. Forever.
Man and woman meet.
Man and woman fall in love.
Man and woman marry.
Man fails to notice leg has fallen off until wife carries leg into garage and asks what happened.
I need to notice when he is sick because he will say he is just tired and it's more than likely my fault he is tired because I asked him to go to the grocery store and get dry cleaning.
I need to get him to a dentist. "No, honey, that's not normal, to bleed when you brush."
I need to convince an otherwise brilliant man that a multi-vitamin is not, in fact, poison, simply because it makes his pee fluorescent yellow.
I need to break the news that he will one day be 50 and need to do that thing with the camera on the long tubes that scrapes the polups. I cannot spell it. You know what I mean. I frankly think he's already a little annoyed with me about that one.
Really, though, how hard can it be to keep an essentially healthy husband healthy?
Except I married a man who doesn't get sick.
At least not according to him.
He calls cough drops "medicine" and has suggested on more than one occasion that I "drugged" him with a Halls.
Exhibit A: Advil.
"Heather, it puts me to sleep."
"Wow, can I get some of those Advil?"
Lucio also has elevated cholesterol. Has had it forever.
Evidently, it's genetic in his case.
Care to guess when he filled his first prescription?
Three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon.
Did I mention we went to Paris and Rome? Elitist leak. Not sorry.
Lucio had seen dentists before we were married, but I suspect they had side gigs as cattle prodders because dentisty wasn't proving to be as lucrative as they had hoped.
The worst? His toes. Or more aptly, his toe nails.
Like he didn't have any.
15 years standing in a puddle behind 2 feet of oak passing beers and refilling ice stations had been hard on my handsome mans tootsies.
I think I was pregnant with Jack when those commericials started for how to erradicate funkitoenailitis. The cartoon one, where the toe nail gets lifted up.
Gross.
I could make them look right?
He could wear something besides sneakers and square toed Cole Haan's?
Sign us up!
Already tired of being forced to wear socks to bed, Lucio was open to the idea.
"Call that foot doctor, baby. I will get you in a pair of flip flops yet!"
Sneakers to the beach. If my own body image issues are not enough in a swimsuit, my beloved is marching across the sand in Nikes. Yeah, he's that guy.
Off to the podiatrist we go.
Upon arrival, Lucio is given a questionaire to complete. I am hungrily pouring over Entertainment Weekly. That Lindsey Lohan! What a rising star!
Lucio's name is called.
Lucio invites me to the consult.
Surprised? Nope. Because he hates hates hates when I ask him to call the doc back two days later because he didn't get all the answers I was hoping for.
We enter an actual office with a desk.
We sit across from the doctor.
Young. Cute thing. Bet he wears Tivas.
Scanning the piece of paper, doc is all "uh huh, yes, I see."
Out of nowhere, explosive laughter from doc.
Really? What could be so funny?
Questionaire: How long has this problem been bothering you?
Lucio's answer: It doesn't bother me. It bothers my wife.
Doc: "I'm hanging this one on my wall."
Tell the truth doc, how much business would you have were it not for the tenacious certitude of wives like me?
Some will say it's for your own good.
I say it's because we secretly enjoy watching others suffer the same fate we ourselves have sloshed through before.
Like before you have a kid, for example.
Breast feeding is natural.
LIE.
It may occur in a natural, organic way.
The magic of me making my precious perfect baby grow.
Looking all idealic in the delicate charcoal sketch in my What to Expect books.
That is where the natural part ends.
Getting it to work, in sufficient amounts, at the right times, without drenching your clothes just because another baby you didn't give birth to is crying. Not natural.
Without giving you mean, horrible red spots that are evidently only a precursor to the real delight of learning that you can get yeasty there and it will make it feel like someone is pulling knives out of two of the most delicate area-olas on the body. . Not natural.
There. I said it.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Want another one?
I likewise was not told by a single married woman that I would be responsible for my beloved husband's complete and total body health in it's entirety. Forever.
Man and woman meet.
Man and woman fall in love.
Man and woman marry.
Man fails to notice leg has fallen off until wife carries leg into garage and asks what happened.
I need to notice when he is sick because he will say he is just tired and it's more than likely my fault he is tired because I asked him to go to the grocery store and get dry cleaning.
I need to get him to a dentist. "No, honey, that's not normal, to bleed when you brush."
I need to convince an otherwise brilliant man that a multi-vitamin is not, in fact, poison, simply because it makes his pee fluorescent yellow.
I need to break the news that he will one day be 50 and need to do that thing with the camera on the long tubes that scrapes the polups. I cannot spell it. You know what I mean. I frankly think he's already a little annoyed with me about that one.
Really, though, how hard can it be to keep an essentially healthy husband healthy?
Except I married a man who doesn't get sick.
At least not according to him.
He calls cough drops "medicine" and has suggested on more than one occasion that I "drugged" him with a Halls.
Exhibit A: Advil.
"Heather, it puts me to sleep."
"Wow, can I get some of those Advil?"
Lucio also has elevated cholesterol. Has had it forever.
Evidently, it's genetic in his case.
Care to guess when he filled his first prescription?
Three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon.
Did I mention we went to Paris and Rome? Elitist leak. Not sorry.
Lucio had seen dentists before we were married, but I suspect they had side gigs as cattle prodders because dentisty wasn't proving to be as lucrative as they had hoped.
The worst? His toes. Or more aptly, his toe nails.
Like he didn't have any.
15 years standing in a puddle behind 2 feet of oak passing beers and refilling ice stations had been hard on my handsome mans tootsies.
I think I was pregnant with Jack when those commericials started for how to erradicate funkitoenailitis. The cartoon one, where the toe nail gets lifted up.
Gross.
I could make them look right?
He could wear something besides sneakers and square toed Cole Haan's?
Sign us up!
Already tired of being forced to wear socks to bed, Lucio was open to the idea.
"Call that foot doctor, baby. I will get you in a pair of flip flops yet!"
Sneakers to the beach. If my own body image issues are not enough in a swimsuit, my beloved is marching across the sand in Nikes. Yeah, he's that guy.
Off to the podiatrist we go.
Upon arrival, Lucio is given a questionaire to complete. I am hungrily pouring over Entertainment Weekly. That Lindsey Lohan! What a rising star!
Lucio's name is called.
Lucio invites me to the consult.
Surprised? Nope. Because he hates hates hates when I ask him to call the doc back two days later because he didn't get all the answers I was hoping for.
We enter an actual office with a desk.
We sit across from the doctor.
Young. Cute thing. Bet he wears Tivas.
Scanning the piece of paper, doc is all "uh huh, yes, I see."
Out of nowhere, explosive laughter from doc.
Really? What could be so funny?
Questionaire: How long has this problem been bothering you?
Lucio's answer: It doesn't bother me. It bothers my wife.
Doc: "I'm hanging this one on my wall."
Tell the truth doc, how much business would you have were it not for the tenacious certitude of wives like me?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Toot Toot
Blop. Blop. Blop.
Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.
Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.
"Mommy, I tooted."
"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."
"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"
"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."
"Really? What foods, Mommy?"
"In your case, broccoli and beans."
"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."
"Really, are green beans beans?"
"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."
"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.
A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.
I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.
"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"
"Do you need lotion on your tush?"
"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."
"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."
"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."
Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.
Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.
Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.
Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.
"Mommy, I tooted."
"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."
"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"
"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."
"Really? What foods, Mommy?"
"In your case, broccoli and beans."
"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."
"Really, are green beans beans?"
"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."
"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.
A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.
I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.
"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"
"Do you need lotion on your tush?"
"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."
"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."
"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."
Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.
Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Hello, AARP? I think I have some interesting news for you.
Cell phone rings.
2:45 pm on a Thursday.
In February.
I answer, "Yes, Mom."
A raspy voice says, "Hi, honey, it's Mom. Do you have any penicillin laying around the house?"
"I don't understand Mom. Do you mean antibiotics?"
"Yes, Heather. Penicillin. Antibiotics. It's the same thing. Do you have a few I could have?"
"Of prescription antibiotics?"
"Yes, Heather. Do you have any?"
"No, Mom, I don't think we do. Why would we? When we get a prescription, the instructions say to take all medication. We usually do, um, well, that."
"Oh, Heather, that's ridiculous. You feel better after a few days. You don't need them all. The doctor always gives a few extra. Don't you usually call for a refill and then keep it around for the next time? I have a terrible sore throat."
Pause. Longer Pause. Is it possible I am doing this wrong?
"Sorry. No. Sore throat, huh? Maybe it's the dry air? It's pretty dry and cold here and you did live in Florida - which is usually pretty um, moist. Maybe you need a cough drop?"
Snarky subtle judgment meets screaming silence.
"I guess I'll call my doctor to get something filled up here. You really should keep those around for when Lucio gets whatever you have or vice vera. You could give it to Jack!"
" Give what to Jack? He's been through day care and is now in Kindergarten - he's doing the backstroke in a petridish as we speak. Sorry, okay Mom. Wait - You're doctor will do that?"
"Do what?"
"Call in a prescription from a phone call?"
"Of course he will. Yours won't?
"I can diagnose pink-eye and strep at 20 paces and I still need fork over my co-pay. Aren't antibiotics for things that are viral. How do you know this is viral?"
"What honey? I didn't hear you. The baby is squeeling. I know it's viral because I had the same cold when I left here after Christmas. Can you pick it up for me? Where should I have it called into?"
"The Walgreen at Springfield and Mattis. Let me google the number. And, um, it was cold at Christmas too. Again, moisture."
"Thank you, honey. Hey, are you feeling better? Did you go to the doctor?"
"No, not for a sore throat."
Click.
2:45 pm on a Thursday.
In February.
I answer, "Yes, Mom."
A raspy voice says, "Hi, honey, it's Mom. Do you have any penicillin laying around the house?"
"I don't understand Mom. Do you mean antibiotics?"
"Yes, Heather. Penicillin. Antibiotics. It's the same thing. Do you have a few I could have?"
"Of prescription antibiotics?"
"Yes, Heather. Do you have any?"
"No, Mom, I don't think we do. Why would we? When we get a prescription, the instructions say to take all medication. We usually do, um, well, that."
"Oh, Heather, that's ridiculous. You feel better after a few days. You don't need them all. The doctor always gives a few extra. Don't you usually call for a refill and then keep it around for the next time? I have a terrible sore throat."
Pause. Longer Pause. Is it possible I am doing this wrong?
"Sorry. No. Sore throat, huh? Maybe it's the dry air? It's pretty dry and cold here and you did live in Florida - which is usually pretty um, moist. Maybe you need a cough drop?"
Snarky subtle judgment meets screaming silence.
"I guess I'll call my doctor to get something filled up here. You really should keep those around for when Lucio gets whatever you have or vice vera. You could give it to Jack!"
" Give what to Jack? He's been through day care and is now in Kindergarten - he's doing the backstroke in a petridish as we speak. Sorry, okay Mom. Wait - You're doctor will do that?"
"Do what?"
"Call in a prescription from a phone call?"
"Of course he will. Yours won't?
"I can diagnose pink-eye and strep at 20 paces and I still need fork over my co-pay. Aren't antibiotics for things that are viral. How do you know this is viral?"
"What honey? I didn't hear you. The baby is squeeling. I know it's viral because I had the same cold when I left here after Christmas. Can you pick it up for me? Where should I have it called into?"
"The Walgreen at Springfield and Mattis. Let me google the number. And, um, it was cold at Christmas too. Again, moisture."
"Thank you, honey. Hey, are you feeling better? Did you go to the doctor?"
"No, not for a sore throat."
Click.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
At least Four per store
Sam Walton, I am sure you had a vision for affordable one-stop shopping.
I bet you were pretty ding dang pleased with yourself with the company you built.
Richest man in America living in Arkansas? Hell, yes. Why not?
I bet the people running the show in Arkansas love to know we're all shopping more and paying less.
Sam, Sam, Sam, I think the inmates are running the asylum.
Sorry, but this place that bears your name that practically runs commerce for our country, it's just plain shitty.
It's just that the people that shop there (regularly, I mean) are always a little sad.
A little "this is the life I've made and it's not great,so let's buy more cheap beer".
It's 3 year olds in pajamas crying in the arms of their older sister (Good God, I hope it's her sister) at 9:45 pm.
It's the sad generic soda.
It's the man in the cart with oxygen reeking of cigarettes.
And yet, there I was, ready to reserve all my elitist Walmart judgement when I saw the mailer that said Wii Fit Plus would be available on February 14th.
See, I've been looking for a wee Wii Fit Plus for over a month.
And there are none.
Nothing.
I looked thoughout my travels to Chicago. Nadda.
I even checked in LA. Bupkus.
Julie checked Vegas. Zilch.
Here I sat - holding a flier that reads "At least four per store"
In writing.
Golden.
I wanted to be sure to get one.
So on the 13th of February, I traveled the worst stretch of town known as North Prospect and entered at least my version of Hell. Walmart on a Saturday at noon.
I made my way to electronics.
I spoke to Kiefer.
Kiefer's maybe 18 years old and looks nothing like the vampire in Lost Boys.
He kindly tells me to come back after 10:30 pm tonight, check with the overnight guy, who would be the most likely to know if my future Wii was going on sale at 12 midnight. Or some other time. Kifer is not sure. But he asures me he has nothing to sell me at that time.
Flash forward to 9:15 pm.
Lucio is studying. Jack is sleeping.
Julie and I were unable to get tickets to see Valentine's Day at 9 pm because evidentally there is no curphew in Champaign County, regardless of how much one is needed. Note to every 15 year old filling every seat in the place - don't you have a bedtime? How about let's leave all shows after 9 pm for the grown ups who don't need rides home. K?
Without our dose of pretty skinny movie stars, Julie and I head to the Walmart in Savoy.
9:45 pm.
Wii less. Empty shelves.
Glenda checks inventory. Nadda.
Weird, I think, considering there should be 4. Each store.
Remain optimistic, I counsel myself. There will be 4. In each store.
At least one for us.
Glenda brings Justin into the mix.
Justin knows something immediately. I can tell.
He won't meet my eyes.
"Um, we sold them."
Pa schwa schwa??
"No, that cannot be right. The sale begins on the 14th."
"I know. They were sold earlier today."
"I don't understand. Who sold them?"
"I didn't!"
"I didn't say you did."
From the other side of the display, Julie, who is playing with the laptop, snickers and announces, "Jesus, this place is a nightmare. Why can't you just order it online?"
To Julie - "Because on Amazon they are selling for $50 over list. And they are only $100 to begin with. And I am not doing that."
To Justin - "I'm going to need to speak to a manager."
Enter Dan.
Dan with his small Hitler like mustache and a visible gold tooth.
"Um, I don't know what happened. We don't got any. I can't ask the manager at either Champaign (oh, yeah, that's right, the very same store I was in just 8 hours earlier with Kiefer. Yeah, those are sold too) or Urbana to , like, do anything, so, sorry, we're out."
Oh, it's on. You, Dan, just became the lead in my letter.
I begin drafting my strongly worded letter in my head and walk out of the Savoy store clutching one glimmer of hope.
The names David and Shane. Supposed managers of Urbana store.
The same Urbana store, according to the person I didn't speak to on the phone, has not sold their 6 copies.
And they will not sell a Wii until 8 am Sunday.
The 14th.
The day after the 13th in case you're keeping score.
Leaving my house this morning with the smallest hope that I will come home successful, I consider that should I come home without a Wii, I will undoubtedly come with the close to my "Walmart better send me a coupon for a Will Fit Plus" letter and a blog entry.
It's now 11:45 am.
Sitting in the plaid chair in the living room, listening to Jack bounce back and forth between the new Penguin balancing game and Ski Jump, I consider not sending my letter to Arkansas.
Nope.
I wouldn't feel right not telling them.
I bet you were pretty ding dang pleased with yourself with the company you built.
Richest man in America living in Arkansas? Hell, yes. Why not?
I bet the people running the show in Arkansas love to know we're all shopping more and paying less.
Sam, Sam, Sam, I think the inmates are running the asylum.
Sorry, but this place that bears your name that practically runs commerce for our country, it's just plain shitty.
It's just that the people that shop there (regularly, I mean) are always a little sad.
A little "this is the life I've made and it's not great,so let's buy more cheap beer".
It's 3 year olds in pajamas crying in the arms of their older sister (Good God, I hope it's her sister) at 9:45 pm.
It's the sad generic soda.
It's the man in the cart with oxygen reeking of cigarettes.
And yet, there I was, ready to reserve all my elitist Walmart judgement when I saw the mailer that said Wii Fit Plus would be available on February 14th.
See, I've been looking for a wee Wii Fit Plus for over a month.
And there are none.
Nothing.
I looked thoughout my travels to Chicago. Nadda.
I even checked in LA. Bupkus.
Julie checked Vegas. Zilch.
Here I sat - holding a flier that reads "At least four per store"
In writing.
Golden.
I wanted to be sure to get one.
So on the 13th of February, I traveled the worst stretch of town known as North Prospect and entered at least my version of Hell. Walmart on a Saturday at noon.
I made my way to electronics.
I spoke to Kiefer.
Kiefer's maybe 18 years old and looks nothing like the vampire in Lost Boys.
He kindly tells me to come back after 10:30 pm tonight, check with the overnight guy, who would be the most likely to know if my future Wii was going on sale at 12 midnight. Or some other time. Kifer is not sure. But he asures me he has nothing to sell me at that time.
Flash forward to 9:15 pm.
Lucio is studying. Jack is sleeping.
Julie and I were unable to get tickets to see Valentine's Day at 9 pm because evidentally there is no curphew in Champaign County, regardless of how much one is needed. Note to every 15 year old filling every seat in the place - don't you have a bedtime? How about let's leave all shows after 9 pm for the grown ups who don't need rides home. K?
Without our dose of pretty skinny movie stars, Julie and I head to the Walmart in Savoy.
9:45 pm.
Wii less. Empty shelves.
Glenda checks inventory. Nadda.
Weird, I think, considering there should be 4. Each store.
Remain optimistic, I counsel myself. There will be 4. In each store.
At least one for us.
Glenda brings Justin into the mix.
Justin knows something immediately. I can tell.
He won't meet my eyes.
"Um, we sold them."
Pa schwa schwa??
"No, that cannot be right. The sale begins on the 14th."
"I know. They were sold earlier today."
"I don't understand. Who sold them?"
"I didn't!"
"I didn't say you did."
From the other side of the display, Julie, who is playing with the laptop, snickers and announces, "Jesus, this place is a nightmare. Why can't you just order it online?"
To Julie - "Because on Amazon they are selling for $50 over list. And they are only $100 to begin with. And I am not doing that."
To Justin - "I'm going to need to speak to a manager."
Enter Dan.
Dan with his small Hitler like mustache and a visible gold tooth.
"Um, I don't know what happened. We don't got any. I can't ask the manager at either Champaign (oh, yeah, that's right, the very same store I was in just 8 hours earlier with Kiefer. Yeah, those are sold too) or Urbana to , like, do anything, so, sorry, we're out."
Oh, it's on. You, Dan, just became the lead in my letter.
I begin drafting my strongly worded letter in my head and walk out of the Savoy store clutching one glimmer of hope.
The names David and Shane. Supposed managers of Urbana store.
The same Urbana store, according to the person I didn't speak to on the phone, has not sold their 6 copies.
And they will not sell a Wii until 8 am Sunday.
The 14th.
The day after the 13th in case you're keeping score.
Leaving my house this morning with the smallest hope that I will come home successful, I consider that should I come home without a Wii, I will undoubtedly come with the close to my "Walmart better send me a coupon for a Will Fit Plus" letter and a blog entry.
It's now 11:45 am.
Sitting in the plaid chair in the living room, listening to Jack bounce back and forth between the new Penguin balancing game and Ski Jump, I consider not sending my letter to Arkansas.
Nope.
I wouldn't feel right not telling them.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Miss Davis if you're nasty
I have this idea in my head where I am too cool for school, but then I remember school - both high school and college - and my dreams are dashed.
It goes without saying, I was never cool in high school.
Who knew everyone felt insecure then though? Is that one of the things Facebook is teaching us? One, just when the page starts to look familiar, they will move it around arbitrarily. And Two, the cool kids in high school were just as shitty to each other as they were to everyone else.
I was cool for two months in 1991.
In said two months, I was older than all of my roommates and could buy beer without making some fairly inappropriate comments to men in parking lots with Anita and Eileen on look out for cops?
Soon enough, Chris Vail was 21 and I knew I had had my time in the sun.
But I digress.
Hands down, my coolest friend is Jamie Davis.
When Jamie calls, he starts talking like we saw each other 2 hours earlier in Peter's kitchen. Sometimes he says "Oh, hello, Heather...it's your younger and prettier sister calling."
Sorry, quick tangent -
Jamie was one of Lucio's groomsmen.
He made the toast at the wedding.
After our big choreographed dance (me and Lucio) all guests were invited to join us on the dance floor.
Jamie and Peter slow danced.
Peter is Jamie's partner. Oh, and Peter looks like Richard Gere - whenever my mother sees him, she touchs him randomly and inexplicably.
Shortly after the whole group dancing thing, my 80 year old Aunt went up to my father and whispered to the table at large, "Tommy, there were two men dancing together!"
To which my father said, "Well, they are partners."
Auntie retorted smuggly, "In business?"
My mother, well into her third Jack Daniels, chimed, "Yes, dear, in a sense. Peter takes very good care of Jamie."
Mom then went to dance with all five of the gay men - including Peter and Jamie - who were tearing up the dance floor.
Back to Jamie.
He called today.
"Heather Finneran (I mentioned he was at our wedding, right?) I had a sex dream about you last night. We were at Peter's house, and we were in bed and I asked you if Lucio was here, and you didn't seem at all concerned that he was downstairs. And I had a total chubby. And you were glorious in your curves and I was so into kissing you. It was amazing!"
Normally, when anyone has any dream about me, my elitism shoots through the roof.
But an actual sex dream?
Too much to hope for.
Especially Jamie Davis.
You see, Jamie Davis is the pied piper.
Everyone wants to be near him.
He's like oxygen. And really, what isn't better with air?
He has his fair share of heterosexual women who've wanted nothing more than for him to tumble off the gay train - even a slip fall - and to be there to catch him.
At one point, there was this new woman friend in his life.
I didn't like her then. I don't like her now.
She believed Jamie Davis could be hers.
She was rigorous in her pursuit of our man.
She managed to get him to make out with her once when he was drunk.
And tired. This is my memory of the story. There are other details that don't leave this woman I don't like looking as bad, but hell, it's my blog, right?
Then she got all girlie nuts when he told her he was still gay.
Um, Hello?
Idiot.
When Leslie, Mel and I heard this news, Leslie announced, "Listen, honey, there's a line of women waiting for Jamie Davis to not be gay, so take a fucking number and go to the end of the line."
With all this said, when Jamie told me he'd had this dream about me, I didn't have the reaction I was sure for the past decade I would have.
I was annoyed.
And you know why.
Glorious in my curves.
Indeed.
Uh, yes, I am still exercising and trying to be better. I am down 10 pounds since new years.
10 pounds is not what it used to be.
It goes without saying, I was never cool in high school.
Who knew everyone felt insecure then though? Is that one of the things Facebook is teaching us? One, just when the page starts to look familiar, they will move it around arbitrarily. And Two, the cool kids in high school were just as shitty to each other as they were to everyone else.
I was cool for two months in 1991.
In said two months, I was older than all of my roommates and could buy beer without making some fairly inappropriate comments to men in parking lots with Anita and Eileen on look out for cops?
Soon enough, Chris Vail was 21 and I knew I had had my time in the sun.
But I digress.
Hands down, my coolest friend is Jamie Davis.
When Jamie calls, he starts talking like we saw each other 2 hours earlier in Peter's kitchen. Sometimes he says "Oh, hello, Heather...it's your younger and prettier sister calling."
Sorry, quick tangent -
Jamie was one of Lucio's groomsmen.
He made the toast at the wedding.
After our big choreographed dance (me and Lucio) all guests were invited to join us on the dance floor.
Jamie and Peter slow danced.
Peter is Jamie's partner. Oh, and Peter looks like Richard Gere - whenever my mother sees him, she touchs him randomly and inexplicably.
Shortly after the whole group dancing thing, my 80 year old Aunt went up to my father and whispered to the table at large, "Tommy, there were two men dancing together!"
To which my father said, "Well, they are partners."
Auntie retorted smuggly, "In business?"
My mother, well into her third Jack Daniels, chimed, "Yes, dear, in a sense. Peter takes very good care of Jamie."
Mom then went to dance with all five of the gay men - including Peter and Jamie - who were tearing up the dance floor.
Back to Jamie.
He called today.
"Heather Finneran (I mentioned he was at our wedding, right?) I had a sex dream about you last night. We were at Peter's house, and we were in bed and I asked you if Lucio was here, and you didn't seem at all concerned that he was downstairs. And I had a total chubby. And you were glorious in your curves and I was so into kissing you. It was amazing!"
Normally, when anyone has any dream about me, my elitism shoots through the roof.
But an actual sex dream?
Too much to hope for.
Especially Jamie Davis.
You see, Jamie Davis is the pied piper.
Everyone wants to be near him.
He's like oxygen. And really, what isn't better with air?
He has his fair share of heterosexual women who've wanted nothing more than for him to tumble off the gay train - even a slip fall - and to be there to catch him.
At one point, there was this new woman friend in his life.
I didn't like her then. I don't like her now.
She believed Jamie Davis could be hers.
She was rigorous in her pursuit of our man.
She managed to get him to make out with her once when he was drunk.
And tired. This is my memory of the story. There are other details that don't leave this woman I don't like looking as bad, but hell, it's my blog, right?
Then she got all girlie nuts when he told her he was still gay.
Um, Hello?
Idiot.
When Leslie, Mel and I heard this news, Leslie announced, "Listen, honey, there's a line of women waiting for Jamie Davis to not be gay, so take a fucking number and go to the end of the line."
With all this said, when Jamie told me he'd had this dream about me, I didn't have the reaction I was sure for the past decade I would have.
I was annoyed.
And you know why.
Glorious in my curves.
Indeed.
Uh, yes, I am still exercising and trying to be better. I am down 10 pounds since new years.
10 pounds is not what it used to be.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Coach Roach
Traveling is part of my job. My commitment to uninterrupted employment means I must partake of planes, trains and mostly my automobile on a regular basis.
The bulk of my travel remains within the confines of the state of Illinois. I journey outside of Illinois on occasion by car, visiting Indiana with alarming regularly considering before accepting my current job the only this I had to say about the Hoosier state was it smelled an awful lot like formaldehyde.
Though I have done one-day trips to Wisconsin and Missouri alike, I prefer to consider any mileage in excess of 220 one-way as over-nights.
Here’s my math – 220 miles takes about 4 hours.
4 times 2 equals 8.
Technically, I should work 8 hours a day.
Each visit I make takes about an hour, and I rarely travel over 440 miles to see only one person.
You add in 2 or 3 visits, and the time it takes to get between visits, and a day of work is pushing 13 hours.
Though it happens more than I think it should, the day after a 13 hour day, I am hardly worth the space I take up in the office.
In addition to not loving winters in Illinois, I am likewise not a fan of Route 57, the road I take back and forth to Chicago and its surroundings.
It’s length, it’s lack of interesting sites, the entire stretch in Ford County where they have evidently cut asphalt out of the budget completely as it rivals any road in in Northeast Washington, DC.
While living and getting educated in our nations Capitol, I once saw a city road crew throw a mattress in a pothole, dump some filler asphalt over it and pound it down with the weight of a crew I am certain only moments earlier had been outside the homeless shelter on 15th and Corcoran. To this day, the car sinkins a little when I drive over it. Barry should have thrown a Tempurpedic in there.
I am on 57 all the time, and I just now know where the dunkin donuts are, where not to stop to piddle (Paxton, this is you)and to always sing out "Rantucky" as I speed past Rantoul. This insult is from a girl who was raised in here, calling her home region Shampoo Banana.
Though most of my travel in and around Illinois, I am thoughtfully released 4 or 5 times a year to places that, though they can be reached by car, it’s not the most prudent use of state dollars.
The DC area, NJ and the greater tri state, and Florida - east coast and gulf.
This particular trip, I headed west. To Los Angeles.
El Lay baby.
Good visits. Fine leads and solid outcomes.
LA has a lot to offer. Blue skies, mountain peaks sprinkled with snow. Beach front without a single skeet-ball game in sight. Minor celebrities sitting across from me while I am talking to a donor about the College's amazing new curriculum and I barely covered my "who the hell is that?" look.
I hope.
Yes, LA has a lot.
You know what LA doesn’t need?
Any more frickin people.
Seven lanes of traffic in each direction and every one of them are full?
I don’t think they actually go to work. I think it’s like the Truman Show, and there are people whose job it is to just congest the freeways.
Maybe I am getting more accustomed to Illinois than I thought?
Could I actually enjoy our sad little two lane roads with views of absolutely nothing except the random driver reading a novel in her lap whilst driving 70 miles per hour? Yes, ma’am, we know the road is rather straight. But, really, reading? An actual book? Maybe next time you swing past the library and pick up John Grisholm on CD?
I probably caused more problems chasing her delinquent ass up 57 and maddeningly calling the police to report her plate number.
Anyway, or this particular trip to LA, I’ll admit it. I was nervous.
Total odgidda. Thank God Prevacid is OTC now, though it takes two, sometimes, three, to really settle my increasing travelers woes.
So fearful was I that I would be late for an appointment as I was trapped in too far a left lane on The 405 (what’s with the The stuff?) or lost in a valley with no signal to Julie, the woman who lives in the windshield now, I was leaving my hotel before 6:30 am each day. Just under 500 miles in 3 days, and I am once again reminded that I don’t really like business travel.
Sure, in my 20’s, I was enchanted by the allure of business travel. I work with lovely people who think I have this glamourous side to my job.
These are the same women who travel outside of Champaign County once a year and it's not uncommon for them to usurp three work days planning an overnight to Memphis. By car.
Yeah, the bloom is off the rose.
I am not meeting handsome innocuous chatty strangers in my middle seat.
Because even if Bradley Cooper was actually in the middle seat next to me, and I was the multi-toothed Julia Roberts, I would still be out of my skin with fury that there was someone in the middle seat to begin with. The only thing that belongs in the middle seat is my discarded copy of Vanity Fair.
Neither is George Clooney in the seat behind me, waiting for his 10 millionth mile.
A basketball player from Naperville currently has his overlong legs – and therefore knees - in my back at this moment and is determined to make me put my seat in its full and upright position. Good luck, kiddo, you’re what, 19 years old? Sit back and enjoy the strength behind my size 24 body pushing back at you.
So, no, I don't love business travel.
Though I do love frequent flier miles and hotel points.
Greed, by definition, is good.
There is only one good reason to love business travel.
The coming home part.
If you could bottle how it feels to come down the escalator and see Jack running towards you, with Lucio standing behind him, holding a diet coke and smiling up at me, we could completely negate the need to depression meds.
It's like seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
I am on a plane now, heading home. The middle seat empty and the man by the window is sleeping soundly enough that he didn’t notice me put down the shade. Mother and daughter in front of me recently escaped from some eastern block nation spitting all over each other and wear more make up between them right this moment than I wore in all of 2009.
Neither one of them actually fit into their clothing but that doesn’t seem to concern them. The A in Hardy is stretched so tightly across the top section of her at least 70 year old breasts that it looks like it might split down the middle and start making two new letters.
Drag Queen wisdom of the day - "Girl, just because it goes on, doesn't mean it fits."
Flight attendants skirting past me (probably crop dusting) collecting trash.
And I am smiling wide, happy as loon.
Here’s what’s waiting for me.
A tiny hand in mine that has grown large enough for our fingers to twine together when he walks next to me.
A warm, inexplicably soft cheek he will let me touch endlessly for the next day or so whenever the mood strikes.
Snuggling in our king size bed with all the lights off as he tells me how he has received not one time out or reset in the past two whole weeks.
A sweetly whispered request thisclose that I not do a Mommy Mommy Attack...as he slowly raises his long arms above his head, a giggle of delight escaping his lips.
Two teeth I suspect have waited for me to arrive back from LA so he can get top dollar.
A tired adult student who will tell me “he’s all yours” and then crawl into the middle of our too small king size bed (seriously, where is emperor size? Tzar maybe?), lay back on the piles of pillows, raising his arms so both of us can put our heads on his chest, wrap us up in a warm hug and fall asleep while my favorite five year old tells me all about his week at school, asking at least three times, “Is tomorrow a stay home day. Mommy?”
And I answer, “Yes, my love, tomorrow is a stay home day.”
I love business travel.
The bulk of my travel remains within the confines of the state of Illinois. I journey outside of Illinois on occasion by car, visiting Indiana with alarming regularly considering before accepting my current job the only this I had to say about the Hoosier state was it smelled an awful lot like formaldehyde.
Though I have done one-day trips to Wisconsin and Missouri alike, I prefer to consider any mileage in excess of 220 one-way as over-nights.
Here’s my math – 220 miles takes about 4 hours.
4 times 2 equals 8.
Technically, I should work 8 hours a day.
Each visit I make takes about an hour, and I rarely travel over 440 miles to see only one person.
You add in 2 or 3 visits, and the time it takes to get between visits, and a day of work is pushing 13 hours.
Though it happens more than I think it should, the day after a 13 hour day, I am hardly worth the space I take up in the office.
In addition to not loving winters in Illinois, I am likewise not a fan of Route 57, the road I take back and forth to Chicago and its surroundings.
It’s length, it’s lack of interesting sites, the entire stretch in Ford County where they have evidently cut asphalt out of the budget completely as it rivals any road in in Northeast Washington, DC.
While living and getting educated in our nations Capitol, I once saw a city road crew throw a mattress in a pothole, dump some filler asphalt over it and pound it down with the weight of a crew I am certain only moments earlier had been outside the homeless shelter on 15th and Corcoran. To this day, the car sinkins a little when I drive over it. Barry should have thrown a Tempurpedic in there.
I am on 57 all the time, and I just now know where the dunkin donuts are, where not to stop to piddle (Paxton, this is you)and to always sing out "Rantucky" as I speed past Rantoul. This insult is from a girl who was raised in here, calling her home region Shampoo Banana.
Though most of my travel in and around Illinois, I am thoughtfully released 4 or 5 times a year to places that, though they can be reached by car, it’s not the most prudent use of state dollars.
The DC area, NJ and the greater tri state, and Florida - east coast and gulf.
This particular trip, I headed west. To Los Angeles.
El Lay baby.
Good visits. Fine leads and solid outcomes.
LA has a lot to offer. Blue skies, mountain peaks sprinkled with snow. Beach front without a single skeet-ball game in sight. Minor celebrities sitting across from me while I am talking to a donor about the College's amazing new curriculum and I barely covered my "who the hell is that?" look.
I hope.
Yes, LA has a lot.
You know what LA doesn’t need?
Any more frickin people.
Seven lanes of traffic in each direction and every one of them are full?
I don’t think they actually go to work. I think it’s like the Truman Show, and there are people whose job it is to just congest the freeways.
Maybe I am getting more accustomed to Illinois than I thought?
Could I actually enjoy our sad little two lane roads with views of absolutely nothing except the random driver reading a novel in her lap whilst driving 70 miles per hour? Yes, ma’am, we know the road is rather straight. But, really, reading? An actual book? Maybe next time you swing past the library and pick up John Grisholm on CD?
I probably caused more problems chasing her delinquent ass up 57 and maddeningly calling the police to report her plate number.
Anyway, or this particular trip to LA, I’ll admit it. I was nervous.
Total odgidda. Thank God Prevacid is OTC now, though it takes two, sometimes, three, to really settle my increasing travelers woes.
So fearful was I that I would be late for an appointment as I was trapped in too far a left lane on The 405 (what’s with the The stuff?) or lost in a valley with no signal to Julie, the woman who lives in the windshield now, I was leaving my hotel before 6:30 am each day. Just under 500 miles in 3 days, and I am once again reminded that I don’t really like business travel.
Sure, in my 20’s, I was enchanted by the allure of business travel. I work with lovely people who think I have this glamourous side to my job.
These are the same women who travel outside of Champaign County once a year and it's not uncommon for them to usurp three work days planning an overnight to Memphis. By car.
Yeah, the bloom is off the rose.
I am not meeting handsome innocuous chatty strangers in my middle seat.
Because even if Bradley Cooper was actually in the middle seat next to me, and I was the multi-toothed Julia Roberts, I would still be out of my skin with fury that there was someone in the middle seat to begin with. The only thing that belongs in the middle seat is my discarded copy of Vanity Fair.
Neither is George Clooney in the seat behind me, waiting for his 10 millionth mile.
A basketball player from Naperville currently has his overlong legs – and therefore knees - in my back at this moment and is determined to make me put my seat in its full and upright position. Good luck, kiddo, you’re what, 19 years old? Sit back and enjoy the strength behind my size 24 body pushing back at you.
So, no, I don't love business travel.
Though I do love frequent flier miles and hotel points.
Greed, by definition, is good.
There is only one good reason to love business travel.
The coming home part.
If you could bottle how it feels to come down the escalator and see Jack running towards you, with Lucio standing behind him, holding a diet coke and smiling up at me, we could completely negate the need to depression meds.
It's like seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
I am on a plane now, heading home. The middle seat empty and the man by the window is sleeping soundly enough that he didn’t notice me put down the shade. Mother and daughter in front of me recently escaped from some eastern block nation spitting all over each other and wear more make up between them right this moment than I wore in all of 2009.
Neither one of them actually fit into their clothing but that doesn’t seem to concern them. The A in Hardy is stretched so tightly across the top section of her at least 70 year old breasts that it looks like it might split down the middle and start making two new letters.
Drag Queen wisdom of the day - "Girl, just because it goes on, doesn't mean it fits."
Flight attendants skirting past me (probably crop dusting) collecting trash.
And I am smiling wide, happy as loon.
Here’s what’s waiting for me.
A tiny hand in mine that has grown large enough for our fingers to twine together when he walks next to me.
A warm, inexplicably soft cheek he will let me touch endlessly for the next day or so whenever the mood strikes.
Snuggling in our king size bed with all the lights off as he tells me how he has received not one time out or reset in the past two whole weeks.
A sweetly whispered request thisclose that I not do a Mommy Mommy Attack...as he slowly raises his long arms above his head, a giggle of delight escaping his lips.
Two teeth I suspect have waited for me to arrive back from LA so he can get top dollar.
A tired adult student who will tell me “he’s all yours” and then crawl into the middle of our too small king size bed (seriously, where is emperor size? Tzar maybe?), lay back on the piles of pillows, raising his arms so both of us can put our heads on his chest, wrap us up in a warm hug and fall asleep while my favorite five year old tells me all about his week at school, asking at least three times, “Is tomorrow a stay home day. Mommy?”
And I answer, “Yes, my love, tomorrow is a stay home day.”
I love business travel.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
That, what they just said, does not exist
I have seen all kinds of weather.
Lived one both coasts.
A few years in sunny California.
With it's sun and it's more sun and it's sometimes wind.
Santa Ana's are rough. Like a coyote cartoon.
Raised mostly in the mid-atlantic, which has sun and rain and snow and sleet. Something for everyone.
Now in the middle of the country.
The middle has the wind. Like whoosh - WIND!!!
I used to be nervous going out in wind.
Now, if it's under 30 miles per hour, we'll still walk the dog.
I have seen a lot of weather.
I made it through Hurricane Isabel in 2003, in the ghet-to, when Lucio had to regularly go out and clear the sewer drains of used diapers and chicken bones so our house wouldn't flood. The only time our lights went off the whole two days? When he was trying to unstick a tire from the sewer. He heard me scream from three houses down. Swear to God. Ask him.
I survived the Blizzard of '96 with only MaryAnn for company and barely two packs of cigarettes between us. For three days. It's interesting to me now that quitting smoking was never a consideration. Hmmm. It's a puzzler.
While we were going to nicotein withdrawl, Vivian was trapped alone in her apartment near AU.
It was in this apartment where just a month earlier Vivian had frozen the pipes to the whole building because she left the window in her kitchen and bedroom open whilst she went home for Christmas.
For two weeks.
To Long Island.
Because...
wait for it...
She was convinced the cockroaches wouldn't enter her apartment if it was too cold.
Like a little chill can scare off a distict roach?
During the 96'r, MaryAnn and I ventured outside while it was still coming down..hoping the 7-11 was still open.
It wasn't.
I am sure we considered robbing one of the old bitties living in our building for her smokes, but none of them smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights.
During our fruitless search for smokes, we sat down in the middle Montrose Road, just off Rockville Pike. Not a car in sight.
Because of 96, I was totally prepared for the big storm in 2001 when Lucio and I lived MacArthur Boulevard in the pre-burbs. While everyone was at the soviet, the social and the unsafeway grabbing milk, we prepared by leaving time for a a trip to the liquor store for Grand Marnier, the bakery for bread, the Italian Store for cheese and the video store for The Godfather, parts I, II, and III. And we got milk and bread too. And plenty of cigarettes.
I also learned how to make lasagna during that one. Jamie and Steve had no idea that I had no idea what I was doing.
Hell, Becca and I trained for the Marine Corps Marathon in 2002, one of the hottest summers on record in our nation's capitol. Running our fat asses from SW DC to Bethesda (and back). Hello? Crossing boarders. In this story, Becca is the real amazing one, as she was three months pregnant with Theo at the time and didn't know it. That's my godchild...the litle Advil baby that could.
I have weathered wind in Illinois that literally knocked Jack off his 18 month old feet walking into Schnucks a few years ago.
Isn't that a ridiculous name for a grocery store? I spent the first two months we lived here thinking it was called Schmucks.
But this is too much.
The forecast for the past few days continues to include FREEZING FOG WARNINGS.
That is made up! There is no such thing as freezing fog!
Like you're driving down the road, and BAM!! Smack right into a sheet of ice just hanging out in mid air?
Fog is what? Really wet air right? I am going to check...
Like I thought. Basically just really wet air.
And here we sit. Day after day. Night after night. The same forecast.
Freezing Fog.
Maybe the people on the news are just making this up.
Is Doug Quick going to hit us with "Gotcha! Fog can't Freeze! Suckers!!!"
When he does, I can say I knew it all along.
Lived one both coasts.
A few years in sunny California.
With it's sun and it's more sun and it's sometimes wind.
Santa Ana's are rough. Like a coyote cartoon.
Raised mostly in the mid-atlantic, which has sun and rain and snow and sleet. Something for everyone.
Now in the middle of the country.
The middle has the wind. Like whoosh - WIND!!!
I used to be nervous going out in wind.
Now, if it's under 30 miles per hour, we'll still walk the dog.
I have seen a lot of weather.
I made it through Hurricane Isabel in 2003, in the ghet-to, when Lucio had to regularly go out and clear the sewer drains of used diapers and chicken bones so our house wouldn't flood. The only time our lights went off the whole two days? When he was trying to unstick a tire from the sewer. He heard me scream from three houses down. Swear to God. Ask him.
I survived the Blizzard of '96 with only MaryAnn for company and barely two packs of cigarettes between us. For three days. It's interesting to me now that quitting smoking was never a consideration. Hmmm. It's a puzzler.
While we were going to nicotein withdrawl, Vivian was trapped alone in her apartment near AU.
It was in this apartment where just a month earlier Vivian had frozen the pipes to the whole building because she left the window in her kitchen and bedroom open whilst she went home for Christmas.
For two weeks.
To Long Island.
Because...
wait for it...
She was convinced the cockroaches wouldn't enter her apartment if it was too cold.
Like a little chill can scare off a distict roach?
During the 96'r, MaryAnn and I ventured outside while it was still coming down..hoping the 7-11 was still open.
It wasn't.
I am sure we considered robbing one of the old bitties living in our building for her smokes, but none of them smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights.
During our fruitless search for smokes, we sat down in the middle Montrose Road, just off Rockville Pike. Not a car in sight.
Because of 96, I was totally prepared for the big storm in 2001 when Lucio and I lived MacArthur Boulevard in the pre-burbs. While everyone was at the soviet, the social and the unsafeway grabbing milk, we prepared by leaving time for a a trip to the liquor store for Grand Marnier, the bakery for bread, the Italian Store for cheese and the video store for The Godfather, parts I, II, and III. And we got milk and bread too. And plenty of cigarettes.
I also learned how to make lasagna during that one. Jamie and Steve had no idea that I had no idea what I was doing.
Hell, Becca and I trained for the Marine Corps Marathon in 2002, one of the hottest summers on record in our nation's capitol. Running our fat asses from SW DC to Bethesda (and back). Hello? Crossing boarders. In this story, Becca is the real amazing one, as she was three months pregnant with Theo at the time and didn't know it. That's my godchild...the litle Advil baby that could.
I have weathered wind in Illinois that literally knocked Jack off his 18 month old feet walking into Schnucks a few years ago.
Isn't that a ridiculous name for a grocery store? I spent the first two months we lived here thinking it was called Schmucks.
But this is too much.
The forecast for the past few days continues to include FREEZING FOG WARNINGS.
That is made up! There is no such thing as freezing fog!
Like you're driving down the road, and BAM!! Smack right into a sheet of ice just hanging out in mid air?
Fog is what? Really wet air right? I am going to check...
Like I thought. Basically just really wet air.
And here we sit. Day after day. Night after night. The same forecast.
Freezing Fog.
Maybe the people on the news are just making this up.
Is Doug Quick going to hit us with "Gotcha! Fog can't Freeze! Suckers!!!"
When he does, I can say I knew it all along.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
My Girls...My Girls...Talkin' bout my Girls
Do you remember when Grey's Anatomy was this show you had to - HAD TO - watch?
I think it's still a good show, don't get me wrong, but there was a time in the second season when it was fucking brilliant.
When we cared who Dereck chose.
When we liked Izzie.
When Burke shutthefuckup.
When Bailey screamed Vajayjay.
As of late, I don't really care if I watch it. I don't move things around to be sure I am home Sure, I DVR, but maybe I forget to watch until Sunday afternoon.
When I have ironing and I want something to look at.
And if I haven't already on-demanded all of the available episodes of Sex & the City.
Maybe television was just better 5-10 years ago?
I appear to enjoy watching shows that I already know the ending.
Anything is better than watching 17 tramps try to find true love on TV.
No, I will not accept that rose - because you people are the reason Europeans can justifiably mock us.
Or some under-fed housewife from LA who whines that her son is in prison and her husband wants to leave her? Um, honey, maybe less time as a "real housewife" on television an a little more time, I don't know, with your son's parole officer?
And before you get all huffy, I know about this Real Housewife show because West Wing is on Bravo...and Bravo really like to run and run and run the same commercials. All morning long.
I don't watch Real Housewives of LA.
The Jersey one? Yeah, that one I watch.
Prostitution Whore!!
My most favorite Grey's was the one when the man had the bomb in his chest, and Christina Ricci was there, and then Meredith switched places with her (and of course, the bomb didn't explode because it was a TO BE CONTINUED...
The part I love of this particular episode is the end.
Meredith is covered in ash of hot (dead) bomb squad guy (sorry if you've not seen it) and Izzie and Christina (Yang, not Ricci) hold Meredith up in the shower, because she needs them. Her needs are not expressly said mind you.
They are her girls and she needs them to.
Without a word, they know what to do.
When I watched it the first time, Lucio came out and asked me what I was crying about. I said, "I know you may never understand how women work but this, right here, is best friends. The people who show up because they just wouldn't feel right not being there. The women I love, and who love me, are amazing like this. Hold you up when you cannot do it for yourself."
He walked over, kissed my forehead, and told me I was silly.
I sent an e-mail to a choice few and told them how much I love them.
And that I hope they know they hold me up.
And that I am ready to do the holding when I am called.
And not to make fun of their sappy friend crying alone in the middle of the country.
They all made fun.
I knew that they would.
They also told me they would totally hold me up too.
The women I call friends are miracles.
People I can't possibly explain to anyone they are so magical.
But, hell, I'll try.
Caye. Over 25 years and still she loves me. Strong and honest and seemingly more beautiful as we approach our 40th than she was as we slid into 30.
Vivian. The single best thing that came out Uno's. She is my effortless friend.
Leigh. The softest part of my heart - where I keep Jack and Lucio. Leigh is right next to that. She is my touchstone.
Eileen. Over 20 years ago, the silliest thing in the world brought us together. I thank God for NKOTB.
Les. Happy fingers. Every single thing I do with Les is fun.
Becca. No one makes me laugh like you. Or can bring me off the ledge faster.
Liz. Passionate and generous. Best voice of anyone I know.
Stephanie. A sister friend. I should spend more time thanking my brother for marrying her.
Danielle. Gentle and strong. And everything she wears is perfect.
Lori. Best laugh ever. Gives the best hugs. Lets me be whatever I want without judgement.
Julie. She's my comet. I didn't even know I was looking for her. Kind and smart and calls me on my shit.
Good night, my friends. Thank you for holding my fat ass up.
Which, incidentally, is four pounds smaller than it was on Christmas.
Me love you long time.
I think it's still a good show, don't get me wrong, but there was a time in the second season when it was fucking brilliant.
When we cared who Dereck chose.
When we liked Izzie.
When Burke shutthefuckup.
When Bailey screamed Vajayjay.
As of late, I don't really care if I watch it. I don't move things around to be sure I am home Sure, I DVR, but maybe I forget to watch until Sunday afternoon.
When I have ironing and I want something to look at.
And if I haven't already on-demanded all of the available episodes of Sex & the City.
Maybe television was just better 5-10 years ago?
I appear to enjoy watching shows that I already know the ending.
Anything is better than watching 17 tramps try to find true love on TV.
No, I will not accept that rose - because you people are the reason Europeans can justifiably mock us.
Or some under-fed housewife from LA who whines that her son is in prison and her husband wants to leave her? Um, honey, maybe less time as a "real housewife" on television an a little more time, I don't know, with your son's parole officer?
And before you get all huffy, I know about this Real Housewife show because West Wing is on Bravo...and Bravo really like to run and run and run the same commercials. All morning long.
I don't watch Real Housewives of LA.
The Jersey one? Yeah, that one I watch.
Prostitution Whore!!
My most favorite Grey's was the one when the man had the bomb in his chest, and Christina Ricci was there, and then Meredith switched places with her (and of course, the bomb didn't explode because it was a TO BE CONTINUED...
The part I love of this particular episode is the end.
Meredith is covered in ash of hot (dead) bomb squad guy (sorry if you've not seen it) and Izzie and Christina (Yang, not Ricci) hold Meredith up in the shower, because she needs them. Her needs are not expressly said mind you.
They are her girls and she needs them to.
Without a word, they know what to do.
When I watched it the first time, Lucio came out and asked me what I was crying about. I said, "I know you may never understand how women work but this, right here, is best friends. The people who show up because they just wouldn't feel right not being there. The women I love, and who love me, are amazing like this. Hold you up when you cannot do it for yourself."
He walked over, kissed my forehead, and told me I was silly.
I sent an e-mail to a choice few and told them how much I love them.
And that I hope they know they hold me up.
And that I am ready to do the holding when I am called.
And not to make fun of their sappy friend crying alone in the middle of the country.
They all made fun.
I knew that they would.
They also told me they would totally hold me up too.
The women I call friends are miracles.
People I can't possibly explain to anyone they are so magical.
But, hell, I'll try.
Caye. Over 25 years and still she loves me. Strong and honest and seemingly more beautiful as we approach our 40th than she was as we slid into 30.
Vivian. The single best thing that came out Uno's. She is my effortless friend.
Leigh. The softest part of my heart - where I keep Jack and Lucio. Leigh is right next to that. She is my touchstone.
Eileen. Over 20 years ago, the silliest thing in the world brought us together. I thank God for NKOTB.
Les. Happy fingers. Every single thing I do with Les is fun.
Becca. No one makes me laugh like you. Or can bring me off the ledge faster.
Liz. Passionate and generous. Best voice of anyone I know.
Stephanie. A sister friend. I should spend more time thanking my brother for marrying her.
Danielle. Gentle and strong. And everything she wears is perfect.
Lori. Best laugh ever. Gives the best hugs. Lets me be whatever I want without judgement.
Julie. She's my comet. I didn't even know I was looking for her. Kind and smart and calls me on my shit.
Good night, my friends. Thank you for holding my fat ass up.
Which, incidentally, is four pounds smaller than it was on Christmas.
Me love you long time.
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