In 2009 I will NOT

Scream really loud when Dave is about to hit another car because it drives him nuts.

Be super pissed at Dave for not answering his Blackberry, not knowing where it is, or not taking it off vibe so he can hear it ringing when I’m calling him.

Fight with Trish like we are 13 years old.

Keep telling Trish her Texas accent (which comes and goes) annoys the crap out of me.

Mess with Trish’s match.com account, even though I know her password and could change her settings to attract only beer- bellied mama’s boys who live on farms.

Yell out a cuss word in front of the offspring and then try to turn it into a normal word (example: yelling shit really loud but then turning it into shiitake mushrooms).

Drink so much red wine it looks like I’m wearing purple lipstick.

Make disparaging remarks about the meeting leaders at Weight Watchers.

Keep referring to girls I don’t like as stupid crack whores.

Acknowledge stupid e-mail chain letters. Nothing BAD is going to happen to me if I don’t forward it to 10 of my friends. P.S., they don’t want it either.

Keep talking about the Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather that I still don’t own.

Say out loud all the inappropriate things I may be thinking in my head.

Would you bite me, Edward Cullen?

I’ve got it bad for the vamps. I wish they were real. They’re gorgeous. And strong. And fast. A vampire is the ultimate bad boy. Yes, technically one could snap my neck like a twig or drain me of all my blood but those are just RANDOM DETAILS I’m not concerned with. Because lately I find vampires simply irresistible.

I didn’t lose my mind overnight and decide to lust after undead make believe men. It started when I read all four books in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series. I also saw the Twilight movie last month with Amy. Then I moved on to The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris (I’m on book eight). The HBO show True Blood is based on this series. We dropped HBO after Sex and The City ended but I think we might need to add it back.

First: Twilight. It’s a book about Bella and Edward, who attend high school together in Forks, Washington. Bella is the new girl, having just moved from Arizona, and Edward is a vampire. They slowly fall in love and Stephenie Meyer does an incredible job of building tension between Edward and Bella. Lot’s of tension. Smoking hot 41-year-old housewife caliber tension. Seriously, by the time I finished the first book I was ready to combust. I wasn’t really lusting after Edward, per se. He’s 17. I’m 41. We’re both in our sexual prime so we’d probably be quite compatible but I find that kind of creepy (to clarify – I only find the age difference creepy. I’m obviously okay with the vampire part).

I really loved this book series even though I wasn’t expecting to. Stephenie Meyer has managed to create a believable love story between two people that shouldn’t be together in the first place. That which is forbidden has a really strong attraction.

When I was done reading all the Twilight books, I moved on to Charlaine Harris’ Southern Vampire Mysteries. Finally, vamps closer to my own age. It’s much easier to lust after a vampire when he is not actually in high school. This series is about a telepathic barmaid named Sookie Stackhouse. She is an attractive, but quiet, young woman and she begins dating Bill the vampire after he walks into the bar where she works. She was a virgin but now she and Bill do it all the time. Then she and Bill broke up and she started doing it all the time with Eric the vampire. Now she’s getting ready to do it with a couple other vampires and I’m wondering if Sookie’s becoming a slut or she just can’t get enough. Either way, my infatuation with vampires does not show any sign of going away in the near future.

I think if I can actually find a real vampire I should be allowed to have my way with him if only to see for myself what all the fuss is about. And Dave? It’s a real shame you told me you never read my blog anymore because if you had read this post you wouldn’t be so blindsided when I tell you about my vampire lover. If you want to try and snare one of the Victoria’s Secret models you have my blessing. I am totally equal opportunity, especially when it comes to THINGS THAT DON’T HAVE A CHANCE IN HELL OF HAPPENING TO EITHER OF US.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep searching for the vampires. Maybe the werewolves of London know where they hang out and will point me in the right direction. Because I really need to know if the vamps are worth the hype.

You! Suck! Santa!

Santa Claus is one big, fat, mean, purse-teasing sack of crap. There was no Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather under the tree this morning but you can bet your ass all the cookies I left out for him were gone.

I have coveted that purse since last spring and I STILL don’t own it. I am getting tired of visiting it at Dillard’s. It should be hanging on my shoulder by now and when I’m not carrying it, I plan on placing it on a special shrine I’ve constructed in my closet.

Since I’m not willing to mainstream and get a normal job (and I’m apparently not super employable for some reason) I have to find a way to increase my cash flow and BUY THAT PURSE MYSELF. Here’s the plan:

On Tuesdays and every other Saturday I will be selling my blood and platelets to the Blood Center of Iowa. I know they like my blood because they leave at least 15 messages per month on my voice mail begging me to come in. I gave them a couple pints back in 2005 and now they won’t leave me alone (imagine how excited they’ll be when I tell them about my super preferred life insurance rating). I’m going to ask them to install one of those vibrating massage chairs like the ones I sit in when I get a pedicure because I’m going to be there a lot and I want to be comfortable.

On Mondays and Thursdays I will be stripping at The Lumberyard. My stage name will be Peaches Honeyblossom and I will be wearing long fuchsia hair extensions, white thigh high boots, and my birthday suit. Every hour, I will be workin’ the pole to a three-song set by Def Leppard. Please stop by and contribute to my purse fund by slipping me a buck or two over the tip rail.

I have also put my eggs up for sale on Craig’s List. Because I’m 41 and my eggs are possibly a little funky genetically, I have priced them very competitively and I expect them to go quickly. My profile states that I am a teetotaling midwestern housewife who enjoys biographies and knitting (I am totally screwed if they find my blog and discover that I am really a wino with a potty mouth).

By my calculations, I should have that purse in about a month and I can put all this nonsense behind me. But if you have any other good money making ventures to suggest? Please leave them in the comments section of my blog. I think I’ve proven I’m open to just about anything.

Christmas Eve weigh day

Today was my 3rd Weight Watchers weigh in and I must be doing something right because I lost another 1.4 lbs. That makes 7.2 lbs. total lost in December (or as I like to refer to it, the month I usually put on 6). I didn’t want to stay for the meeting because I had PLENTY to do at home to get ready for the Christmas Eve dinner that Dave and I are hosting but Arlene was shaming someone into staying and I somehow got caught in the crossfire.

Today’s meeting was interactive which means that Arlene stood up in front (very festively dressed from head to toe) and asked us to yell out our favorite tips in various categories.

Category 1 was dining out. Everyone in the meeting was very worried about that one. Really? How about, don’t order fettuccine alfredo and cheesecake? Or, plan ahead, figure how much you can eat (and more importantly, how many glasses of wine you can have) and then go to the restaurant and DO THAT.

Category 2 was how to move more. Um, get off your ass? Get up? Get vertical? Put one foot in front of the other? GET IN YOUR CAR AND DRIVE IT TO THE GYM. Stop me anytime, I’ve got more and I can keep ‘em coming. I mean, do the people in the meeting really and truly need these tips or is Arlene just filling air space and we’re all too polite to tell her what a waste of time this is.

The final category was all about emotional eating. Arlene first asked who could tell her what feeling hungry felt like. How did we know when we were hungry? Are you fucking kidding me? If I can’t tell whether or not I’m hungry I am not intelligent enough to live on my own. Or reproduce. Apparently I was the only one that felt this was a completely retarded question because everyone else started saying things like, “my stomach growls.” Or “I feel weak and get a headache.” I understand that she was trying to help us differentiate between real and emotional hunger but I’m having a hard time believing anyone at the meeting couldn’t figure that out on his or her own.

Before anyone thinks I am being unfair, I understand that Weight Watchers is a program that was written for the masses. Some people may truly find these tips helpful. I am not one of them. My only problem is making sure not to eat MORE than the amount required to lose or maintain my weight.

I think the older members of Weight Watchers do find the meetings informative. The meeting I went to today is not the one I’ve been going to for the last two weeks but it was also chock full of old people. I commend these senior citizens for still giving a damn about their weight and being willing to exercise and follow a weight loss program.

When I’m their age I have no intention of watching what I eat or exercising. I plan on driving my golf cart from the front door of my retirement village condo to the bar and nail salon, even if they are only located 1/8 of a mile from my home. I will be wearing one of many velour elastic waist tracksuits and there will always be French silk pie and a cocktail within reach. In short, I will be letting myself go PERMANENTLY.

Until then, I will keep following the Weight Watchers program. If I can survive December on a diet, the rest of the year should be a cakewalk. In the meantime, I need to find another meeting. The one all the housewives are going to.

The Real Housewives of Orange County

Last night’s episode of the Real Housewives of Orange County began with Tamra and Vicki, and their families, preparing for a day on the river at Vicki’s vacation home in Lake Havasu to celebrate the fourth of July. The overall theme of the day was partying and Vicki and Tamra wasted no time in getting completely hammered. In the words of Chelsea Handler, whom I adore, those two were a hot mess. (As a side note they both wore these really cute cowboy hats and I plan on getting myself one to wear at Tom and Amy’s lake house this summer).

Throughout the afternoon, Vicki and Tamra continued to drink and Vicki was very upset because Jeana brought Frankie to the lake. Frankie is a former tenant of hers and she is currently suing him for back rent. Vicki would not join Jeana and Frankie at their table so Tamra acted as go-between and went back and forth between the two while simultaneously trying to prevent her three young kids from drowning.

Later on the boat, Tamra started stroking Simon’s you-know-what through his swim trunks. I hope Tamra was mortified when she watched last night’s episode. Vicki got hit in the head with a football which was funny because I thought it was like Karma telling her to shut the hell up.

The new housewife Lynne was featured heavily on tonight’s episode. She has the strangest set of breast implants I have ever seen. They are perfectly round and sit very far apart on her chest. Other than her horrendous boobs she has a good figure but I don’t know what the hell is up with her face. She has tanned herself into a handbag and she is quite a bit more wrinkled than the other housewives. Her two teenaged daughters are nauseatingly spoiled and will no doubt follow in the footsteps of their vapid mother.

Gretchen’s fiancé Jeff was in the ICU at the hospital but Gretchen was partying at another lake with her family and they showed her drinking and having a great time. Frankly I think she has some “daddy issues” because the way she and her dad interacted gave me the creeps. He was taking a picture of her while she pretended to ride a big yellow pool noodle. Meanwhile, Jeff’s children had flown in to be with their dad at the hospital. They showed Gretchen on the phone with Jeff later and it was really sad because she kept asking him if he felt better and he kept saying no. He sounded very sick and I could not understand her partying with her family while he lay there in a hospital bed.

This episode was hard for me to watch because last week I read an article in US Weekly that Jeff DIED last September. He must have been fighting his illness very hard during the last couple episodes and that bothers me.

I can only imagine what the producers of this show were thinking when they cast Gretchen as the newest housewife, knowing her fiancé was so ill. And I’d love to know what Gretchen and Jeff were thinking. I am going to HOPE that Gretchen really loved Jeff and that she did her best to take care of a dying man. I’m going to HOPE that she did everything in her power to help him face a terminal illness with dignity. Because if she was anything but sincere I don’t want to watch this show anymore. I hope that the producers really didn’t realize Jeff would lose his battle with cancer so quickly. But if they did, shame on them and shame on Bravo.

In the previews for next week’s show, they show the housewives ganging up on Gretchen for not being by Jeff’s side. They also introduce Lynne to the other girls and it’s always entertaining to watch the housewives haze the newbie. I’m sure next week will have all kinds of conflicts and startling revelations. For the first time since I started watching this show, I’m not sure I care.

Tales about my nails

I went to the nail salon today to get my fake fingernails filled and all the dead skin scraped off my heels before Christmas. There were only 3 technicians working when I walked in, two women and one man. The girl behind the counter told me to sit down and since one of the women was plucking her eyebrows and the other one was talking on the phone you can probably guess who she sent over.

I hate having the guy do my nails and this is the 3rd time it’s happened at this salon. He doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak pot sticker so we basically spend the next 50 minutes in awkward silence while he holds my hands.

Today his Black and Decker super fast fingernail sander thingy cut my cuticle and I started bleeding. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the cooties that were probably entering my skin via the exposed germ superhighway and wondered once again why I keep taking my life into my own hands for the sake of vanity.

I really needed a pedicure, because my heels looked like those of a ninety year old woman plus I wanted to have my toenails painted with OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress because it’s red and sparkly and perfect for Christmas. But when the nail technician who was done plucking her eyebrows started walking toward me, I recognized her as the one that almost broke my tibia last summer during the “massage portion” of the pedicure. I still have a Pavlovian pain response when I see her so I decided I’d go to a different salon in a couple days where hopefully I can get a pedicure from someone who is not a sadist.

I put some Neosporin on my cuticle when I got home and prayed that gangrene would not set in. Maybe someday when I catch something worse than funky toenail I’ll quit going to the nail salon. But until then, mama’s still got some grooming to do.

I'm such a loser!

I went to my second Weight Watchers weigh in today and I’ve lost another 2 lbs. I was pretty confident the scale would show a loss because the chest strap on my heart rate monitor had to be tightened this week (which means my boobs are already shrinking) but my ass is exactly the same size it was when I started WW and that is UNFAIR. However, thanks to J.Lo and Kim Kardashian, my honkytonk badonkadonk is a little more accepted these days. It will never be as small as I’d like though, because when you’re pear shaped like I am, your upper body will always be smaller than your lower body. It sucks wearing jeans that fit my butt but gap so much in the waist that every time I bend down to tie my shoes, the world can see my coin slot.

I don’t know what got into me today because not only did I PUT ON A NAMETAG, I fully participated in the totally gay meeting. And it was AARP city there today. No one but me and 4 chubby retired women (I had a vision of myself at a WW meeting 20 years from now and I was so traumatized by it I almost drove over to Jenny Craig). But then I remembered the tabloid photo I saw of Kirstie Alley the other day and she looks like she ATE Jenny Craig. And I heard alcohol is not allowed on Jenny’s program and that is just WRONG.

Once again I stayed within my points allowance but I didn’t do very well moderating my red wine consumption (shocker!). I did not get to go out for a greasy hangover lunch on Sunday at Ruby Tuesday like Dave did which pissed me off a little. It’s my own fault though as I do not remember anyone holding the offspring for ransom and forcing me to knock back a bunch of cabernet sauvignon.

So far I feel pretty good on WW. I think I can go the distance if I keep following the program. It’s not as FUN as eating and drinking whatever I want but unless I want to look like Kirstie Alley’s twin, I don’t have much choice. And when January 1st rolls around, I’ll already have made good headway on all those resolutions.

Watch out for werewolves, and me

According to the MSN homepage, the full moon tonight will be the biggest one of the year as Earth's natural satellite reaches its closest point to our planet. The moon will rise this evening around sunset, no matter where you are.

Yay! A loophole to explain my vile behavior this week. I have the most horrible PMS I’ve ever experienced in my entire life and now I can blame it on the lunar cycle instead of MY cycle. They say there is no proof a full moon makes you crazy but they are WRONG. Plus the barometer is all over the place and that alone can mess with your mood. Everything happening at the same time is creating a perfect storm of pre-menstrual psychosis. Consider yourself warned.

I've gotten some relief this week from exercise. I need all the endorphins I can get to help balance my whacked out hormones. But when I got ready to work out on Wednesday, I discovered my ipod was dead because Matthew left it on all night. I was forced to listen to FM radio on Lauren's Hello Kitty boom box. And our treadmill is such an incredible POS that it moves forward when you're walking on it and unplugs itself every ten minutes. What that happens, it feels like someone has yanked me backward really hard by my ponytail. I felt just as bad when I finished Wednesday's workout as I did when I started.

A couple years ago my friend Stacy told me about a pill her doctor prescribed that was supposed to help alleviate PMS. I made an appointment with my doctor and got a prescription for my own Mother's Little Helper. I followed the instructions and started taking it 7 days before my next period.

By the time Aunt Flo showed up, I felt like my world was being filtered through a giant marshmallow. I was sitting in a big pile of "I don't give a shit." My anger was gone and so was most of my personality and sense of humor. I'd rather have PMS than feel like I'm walking through life underwater. And P.S. Eli Lilly? If you're going to make a pill that treats PMS, make sure there are no sexual side effects. I'm a 41 year old housewife in her sexual prime and I don't want anything messing with my mojo.

It’s not that I’m all Tom Cruise about pharmaceutical drugs. It’s just that I don’t think swallowing a synthetic pill developed by some freaky poindexter in an industrial laboratory is the solution I feel the most comfortable with. I tried it and didn't like it.

It would be great if there really was a magic pill for PMS that didn't have a bunch of undesirable side effects. I certainly need one this week. But until they get it right I will just have to deal with it like everyone else. But be careful tonight. You don't want to get your head bitten off by a werewolf, or by me.

Help, I'm fading away........

I had my first weigh in at Weight Watchers and I’m proud to announce that there is now 3.8 lbs. less of me. I stayed within my points range and still had enough of my weekly points allowance left to use on an entire bottle of cabernet sauvignon, even though that SLIGHTLY exceeds the WW suggested alcohol consumption guidelines. Pffft, details.

I even attended the meeting again but that’s only because I ran into a friend of mine, who is a trainer for WW, and I was afraid she’d bust me if she saw me sneaking out after getting weighed. I still refused to put on a nametag.

Arlene was excited because she was going to explain the new plan to us at the meeting. It’s pretty much the same as the old plan. Then she started asking random people what they did that week that helped them be successful and this is exactly the reason I hate these meetings. No one needs to hear I passed up frosting out of a can or that I chose not to drink 5 cosmos in 2 hours like I did a couple weeks ago.

Oprah Winfrey talks openly about her weight struggles in the January issue of “O” magazine. She claims to have fallen off the wagon and now weighs 200 lbs. I guess Oprah likes to shove canned frosting into her pie hole too.

“I’m mad at myself,” Winfrey writes in an article provided to the Associated Press by Harpo Productions. “I look at my thinner self and think, how did I let this happen again?” She also blames her weight gain on her ongoing “thyroid problem” which caused her to “fear exercise.”

This I don’t understand. That Bob Greene guy basically lives with her and Stedman and she still can’t get off her ass to go to the gym? I manage to exercise 4-5 times a week and all I have is a 12-year-old Treadmill from Montgomery Ward and a Y membership.

Winfrey also writes that her goal is no longer to be thin; instead she wants to be strong, healthy, and fit.

Not me. I’m already healthy (and SUPER PREFERRED in case you’ve forgotten). I’m just vain and want to look good in my clothes. And if that means that I can’t eat frosting for a while? I don’t think it’ll kill me.

In case you'd like to buy me a gift

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with string
Here are a few of MY favorite things


The wine aisle at Dahl’s
All day Kindergarten
Tom and Amy’s lake house
Tom and Amy’s pontoon boat
Tom and Amy’s wave runner
Tom and Amy (yes they’re PEOPLE but they own a bunch of the things)
Diet coke
People Magazine
The Internet
Vodka
My ipod
Sushi
The F bomb
Books
When people fall down
Spicy food
My DVR
Grilled shrimp
Face book
The Real Housewives of Orange County
The Real Housewives of New York City
The Real Housewives of Atlanta
Online shopping
Snowstorms
Fresh lime juice
Sandalwood incense
Sex and The City, series and movie
Halloween
Lemons
Avocados
Twilight, books and movie

Everyone please get out of my way

Amy was telling me the other night that she and her mom went to Kohl’s and Target and both stores were packed with holiday shoppers. Then she proceeded to tell me she and her mom kind of LIKED it that way and didn’t mind the Christmas crowds. I think they both had a big fucking cup of crazy for breakfast because I find nothing more annoying than shopping during the month of December. Mostly it’s because I have no patience whatsoever.

I can’t stand how long it takes to complete my shopping transactions. God forbid there are more than two people ahead of me in line. Then, when it’s finally my turn, the retail employee wastes more of my time asking for my phone number and zip code. And NO, I don’t want to save 10% today if it means I first have to apply for your shitty credit card.

This is the conversation I had with the employee running the cash register at Pottery Barn:

Her: Will this be credit or debit?
Me: Debit
Her: And can I have your e-mail address?
Me: No.

She wasn’t very friendly to me after that and didn’t seem thrilled when I asked for a gift box. If I had been in a restaurant and she was my waitress she probably would have spit in my food.

I need e-mails from Pottery Barn like I need a hole in the head. In fact, I had to block them as a sender because they inundated my inbox with so much crap I got really annoyed and cursed myself for giving them my e-mail address LAST December. And P.S., Victoria’s Secret, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Pet Smart, Kmart, Banana Republic, etc…. YOU’RE ALL BLOCKED!

We had Chloe embedded with a microchip so if she ever ran away and someone found her, they could scan her and find out who she belonged to. I want to have my debit card number micro-chipped under my skin so I can just wave my arm in the general vicinity of the cash register and not have to enter my PIN or sign anything. Transaction time: 20 seconds.

The other day Brooke and I were in Brighton and it was taking the salesgirl a really long time to ring up Brooke’s purchase. She was so slow I was almost embarrassed for her. Then, completely oblivious to her own inefficiency, she proceeded to tell Brooke and I the story of the history of Brighton. I left Brooke in the store and went out into the mall because I wasn’t positive I could control myself. I often fear a sudden onset attack of Tourette’s that might result in me saying out loud what I’m thinking in my head.

Next I had to go to Abercrombie and Fitch to get my niece Genevieve a gift card. I never shop there because at 41, I don’t think I really fit into their demographic and there are plenty of other places I prefer to shop.

FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHO IS IN CHARGE OF VOLUME CONTROL AT ABERCROMBIE?

When I walked in the music was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think. There were two teenagers behind the counter and one of them was helping an old lady. I walked up to the other one and SCREAMED that I needed a $40 gift card. She SCREAMED back at me to ask if I wanted a gift box for it. I SCREAMED “YES!” and was thankful this transaction process was actually very quick. I looked at the poor old lady next to me and noticed she was having trouble communicating with the other Abercrombie employee. My God if my ears were bleeding hers had likely suffered permanent damage and she probably had to buy a Miracle Ear on her way out of the mall. I like my music loud and I’m pretty sure I do plenty of damage by turning my ipod up as far as it will go when I’m working out but this was a total assault on my senses. I grabbed my gift card and got the hell out of there.

My last stop was Scheel’s because I wanted to get Dave a North Face coat for Christmas. Whenever Dave wants to buy me a gift he finds a salesperson, tells them what he is looking for, and then finds a comfortable chair to sit in while THEY shop for me. I decided to employ his method.

I walked up to the first employee I saw. His nametag said Lance and I told him what I was looking for. He led me over to the North Face display and started showing me some of the coats. Dave was right, this was so much easier than doing it myself.

I was a little confused about the correct size to buy when I noticed that Lance and Dave were about the same height and build. I asked Lance to put the coat on and give me a little twirl. Fun! Kind of like my own Ken doll. I had no idea Scheel’s employees were so helpful. I thought about having Lance try on the whole men’s North Face clothing line but that seemed a little excessive. I thanked Lance for all his help and walked to the cash register to pay.

I was done shopping, for that day anyway. It was a pretty successful trip to the mall. I bought several gifts and did not have any altercations with the Kiosk employees I hate so much. I’ll probably have to go back at least once more to finish up. Maybe Amy will go with me.

Trish is leavin' on a jet plane

My sister is flying to Austin today to stay with Stacy over the weekend before continuing on to Phoenix for a work training session. I’m a little nervous about her flying, not because I think the plane will crash but because Trish has had some ISSUES with flying in general and the TSA folks in particular.

First of all, she thinks none of the rules of airline travel apply to her and will try to sneak all kinds of shit past security. She just texted me that “flying sux – airport security is not my friend.” I immediately texted back to inquire if she’d been arrested. She replied that she had not been arrested but that her liquids weren’t in baggies and both laptops were now separated. The airport personnel hi-jacked her water bottle but not to worry, she’d just buy more once she got through security.

I should be glad she made it to the airport at all because she misses more flights than anyone I know. She managed to miss her flight home for Christmas two years in a row and would spend the whole day trying to finagle her way onto the next one so she could make it to DSM by midnight. I assure you my dad will be calling my house around noon today to ask, “Have you heard from your sister? Do you know if she made it to Dallas and Austin okay?" She makes my dad really nervous when she flies.

You know how NORAD tracks Santa every year and the kids can pull up the web site to see where Santa is? I wish NORAD would loan me some GPS to stick on the back of Trish’s head so I could monitor her whereabouts or better yet a web-cam I could mount on her shoulder so I wouldn’t have to miss any of her interactions with both airline employees and fellow passengers. I guarantee you it will be entertaining.

(Trish just texted me to say the TSA Nazis missed a travel sized hair spray. Then she referred to them as “minimum wage schmucks that think they’re so cool.”)

Trish flew home for dad’s birthday many years ago. When it was time for her to fly back to Austin, I dropped her off at the airport and drove back home. I hadn’t been there very long when the phone rang. I checked the caller I.D. and noticed that the call was coming from the Polk County Jail. Turns out if you argue with security and keep insisting that it’s only your under wire bra that is setting off the metal detector and then you get really lippy about it the TSA Nazis will throw your ass in the clink for a few hours until your sister and brother in law come down and bail you out.

I don’t like airline travel at all. I refer to all aircraft as “smelly germ capsules.” I am thisclose to donning a mask a la Michael Jackson the next time I have to fly somewhere. I cannot handle having to breathe the exhalations of all the other passengers, especially the guy in the back row who has passed out with his mouth open and is drooling all over himself. And there’s no fucking way I would ever use one of those airplane pillows because I KNOW they are crawling with cooties. Gak!

Even though I don’t enjoy flying I don’t find the rules of airline travel all that hard to live by. I’m not sure why Trish insists on making it so difficult. I do know that I won’t totally relax until her plane touches down in Austin and then she’s Stacy’s responsibility. I’m sure she’ll have some stories to share. I’ll be sure to pass them on.

There's more of me to love right now

Recently I noticed that a lot of the clothes in my closet have mysteriously shrunk. At first I blamed our dryer but when I realized no one else in my house was complaining it became obvious that my clothes weren’t getting smaller. I was getting bigger. I didn’t want to confront the problem because I was pretty sure that would curtail my appetizer snarfing and cosmo guzzling. But I’m afraid nothing will fit by January 1st so maybe it would be prudent to get a head start on my New Year’s resolutions right now.

I walked in to the local Weight Watchers center. The program really does work if you follow it and I should know. I had great success with it in 2001. And 2005. And now hopefully 2008/9. Perhaps it is MAINTENANCE I need to get a handle on and then I would not have to visit the helpful staff at WW every 4 years.

I filled out a shitload of paperwork and got weighed. I really wanted to just leave because I have always found the WW meetings a big waste of time. I don’t like sitting around with a bunch of fatties talking about my feelings and I hate having to wear a stupid nametag. I much prefer going incognito and don’t even like to take my sunglasses off while I am there.

I decided to stay anyway because I had the time to burn and I wanted to see if anything had changed since the last time I’d been there.

Arlene was leading the meeting! Hey, she’s been there since 2001. And she hasn’t changed her presentation since then either. She’s pretty old and reminds me of a grandma but she’s very sweet and you can tell she genuinely wants to help people reach their weight loss goals. At the end of the meeting, Arlene reminded new members to stay after so she could explain the program to them in detail. Arlene, I could teach the program. Just because I’d RATHER enjoy a mountain of Kung Pao Shrimp from P.F. Chang’s instead of calculating the points value of every bite I shove into my pie hole does not mean I don’t know HOW to follow your program. It just means I chose not to.

After the meeting I met with Arlene. She was really nice to me and I shared some of my concerns with her about the program. I also made several suggestions on how Weight Watchers could make the Flex plan even better. I’m sure she forwarded them to the corporate headquarters after I left.

So, to recap:

Eating like a truck driver+drinking like a barfly= Troll

Following Weight Watchers+sweating my ass off at the gym=MILF

It really isn’t hard to choose when I think of it that way. Plus Tom and Amy are doing WW too so we can discuss the plan and support each other’s efforts while drinking straight vodka because we can’t afford any points on drink mixers. And that? Sounds like the kind of meeting I would like.

Ladies, start your engines!

Hallelujah! The holiday drinking season is firmly underway. Actually I started indulging last week but that’s mostly because the offspring got 5 days off from school for Thanksgiving and drove me to drink within the first 12 hours they were home.

And although I often portray myself as a total alcoholic on this blog, I actually PREFER to limit the happy juice to once a week. I am not always successful but I TRY. But this month is a whole different story. I will be positively filled to the brim with holiday spirit (and alcoholic spirits) and for the month of December I provide no excuses or explanations for my behavior. And absolutely no photographic evidence. You can TELL everyone what I did while under the influence of 14 Jack Frost martinis but you cannot PROVE it.

Our neighbors Brooke and Spence had an awesome holiday party last year. They served vodka cocktails with pretty little cranberries floating in them and all the housewives drank so many we felt it was totally acceptable to put our hands on Wendy’s recently augmented breasts. We had been dying to check them out as soon as she got them but we are much too ladylike for that kind of behavior. However, once we were hammered none of us had any qualms about going to second base with her. Our husbands did not find this behavior amusing at all and wandered into the other room to watch the basketball game. They're just jealous fun haters!

The rest of the evening is a little blurry to me. I could have sworn I left my high-heeled boots at Brooke and Spence’s house but when I woke up the next morning, there they were next to the bed. I have no idea how I navigated the icy sidewalk in them.
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I did not have a single trace of makeup on or mascara ringed eyes a la Alice Cooper because I still managed to wash my face before I passed out. I did, however, wake up in full jewelry, my sparkly holiday top, and no underwear.

We were using a brand new babysitter for the first time and neither Dave nor I could remember if we paid her. I ran downstairs to check the drawer where we keep the babysitting money and was relieved to find it empty. Bet she was TOTALLY impressed with us!

While I am in no hurry to have another hangover of that caliber, I am certainly looking forward to all the holiday festivities this month. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and I’m sure we’ll be all kinds of jolly here in the ‘hood. We may not remember all of it but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

Please let me know what YOUR favorite holiday cocktail is. I finally figured out how to open the comments to everyone (not just those with a blogger.com account). If you have read this blog post, please take a second to tell me your favorite cocktail. I’m always looking for ideas! (And if it doesn't let you leave a comment then I've done it all wrong).

Are you there Santa? It's me, Tracey

Dear Santa,

Happy holidays! I was wondering if you could check your “list” for the name of a certain midwestern housewife. Though you did not bring me anything last year I think you’ll agree that I have most of my behavioral issues under control.

I have been such a good housewife. I have not insulted the hairstyles of any retail employees in a really long time and there were hardly any altercations in the Target parking lot. I did not stab Dave in the head with a fork during a particularly bad pre-menstrual frenzy nor did I try to curtail his endless pre – election MSNBC viewing. I think you’ll agree that I am pretty “present worthy” this year.

Please bring me the Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather. I asked Dave to get me one but he said something about the price being “exorbitant and ridiculous.” He also said something about me getting a job so basically you’re my last hope.

And Santa? Why do all the 13-year-old girls have Ugg boots in a rainbow of colors while I walk the offspring to the bus stop in my Target knock-offs? Does this seem fair Santa? It doesn’t to me so please throw in a couple pairs of Uggs too.

And lastly, do you think you can bring me a machine that makes Cosmopolitans? I want to put limes, vodka, cointreau, and cranberry juice into a little hole on top and when I push a button, I’d like everything to stream right into my martini glass. Thanks in advance!

Our fireplace (like our Christmas tree) is totally artificial and activated by flipping a switch on the wall. We don’t have an actual chimney so I will forward you the code to our garage door when we get a little closer to Christmas. Please keep the code to yourself because your elves creep me out and I don’t want them to know how to get into my home.

Well Santa, I’m sure you’re very busy so I’ll sign off now. I just know you’ll come through for me and I’ll be carrying that handbag, drinking some cosmos and wearing my new Uggs in no time.

Kisses,

Tracey

What's cookin'?

Think you’re a foodie? Take a quiz and prove it.

I saw that on the MSN home page the day after Thanksgiving, and being the food snob that I am, I absolutely had to play. I clicked on the link and discovered the All About Food trivia game.

While Dave was doing all the shit work on the Christmas tree (untangling and testing all the lights) I was working my way up to a Master’s level 9 playing badge with a score of 56,800.

The first round was so easy I almost lost interest. It was unchallenging and asked things like “which T.V. chef coined the phrase EVOO?” (Rachael Ray) and what is the main herb ingredient in pesto (basil). Pffft, next.

Level 2 was a bit harder and still I got every question right. Do you know what flower vanilla comes from? I do (it’s orchids). Apparently there is no level 3 which sucked because I was not ready to stop playing.

My friends don’t call me Martha Stewart for nothing. However I am so completely elitist and obnoxious about food that I’m surprised they can stand me at all.
One time at a restaurant, Amy asked what farfelle was and I replied “bowtie pasta” with such a “know it all” tone I can’t believe she still wants to be my friend.

I am a perfectionist in the kitchen. Whenever I host a dinner party I will go through all my cookbooks and search the internet to make sure the recipes I’ve chosen are the best I can find. But if anyone tells me how much they like everything or how good they think it tastes I find myself unable to accept their compliments graciously. Instead I will tell them all the things I think I did wrong and how I’ll do it better next time. My dad does the exact same thing when he makes his AWESOME barbecued ribs so I’m guessing it’s genetic.

I brought a salad to Thanksgiving dinner. It had spinach, dried cranberries, toasted walnuts, and red onion tossed with walnut cranberry vinaigrette. I wanted to make candied walnuts but that would require egg whites and Lauren is allergic so I had to leave them plain. I got to thinking in the car on the way to dad and Debby’s that I shouldn’t have used red onion but I really should have added blue cheese and it was all I could do not to convince Dave to stop at a grocery store so I could pick some up. Then I proceeded to tell all of this to my dad when we arrived and he and I analyzed the salad for a little longer and this is CRAZY. Trish LOVED the salad and told me so but I still could not stop thinking how I could have made it BETTER. Christmas Eve dinner is at my house so I will be doing the salad again and this time it will ROCK.

Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving with Dave’s side of the family. There are so many people that they always wait until Saturday of Thanksgiving week to celebrate and they rent a hall big enough to hold everybody. The turkey always looks like the one from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and is so dry I have to dump a bunch of gravy on it. Until Dave met me and started going to my family’s Thanksgiving dinners he said he thought that’s how turkey was supposed to taste. Also their stuffing looks like hairballs so I don’t eat it.

I’m kind of glad Thanksgiving is over. Even though I am thankful for the time we have spent with our families, the offspring have been fighting all week and it’s time for them to go back to school before I am pronounced clinically insane. It's going to take me a couple days to get back into my routine and clean up all the messes they made.

And then this foodie's got some trivia to play.

A double dose of Real Housewives

The Real Housewives of Atlanta had their reunion show last night, followed by the season premiere of Season 4 of The Real Housewives of Orange County. I think we can all guess who the excited housewife in Dallas County was.

Generally I do not enjoy the reunion shows. The housewives are a bit boring when their lives are not filtered through Bravo’s fine editing process. And they mostly come across as bitching backstabbing little harpies. They are like sharks, turning to feed on the weakest link. The yelling starts to get on my nerves after a while and it’s such a Jerry Springer fest that I kind of start to tune out.

However, last night’s target was bobble head Kim with the bad weave so I paid a little more attention than usual. And apparently I was wrong. It’s not bobble head Kim with the bad weave, it’s bobble head Kim with the bad WIG! No wonder her hair always looked styled and curled and EXACTLY THE SAME. Maybe if I owned a wig (a good one, not a shitty big haired one like Kim wears) I would stop putting my hair in a ponytail 365 days a year.

In a failed bid to gain the sympathy of the other housewives, Kim started crying and talking about how during her “cancer scare” all her hair fell out after she lost 25 lbs. But it turns out she did not really have cancer and the hair loss was due to “some other stuff” (What stuff??? I NEED TO KNOW). The host kept saying over and over, “so you never really had cancer then?” which forced her to say no about 4 times.


The show continued with more bitching and yelling and frankly, I’m not sure any of those housewives showed much class last night. I though Lisa was until she told bobble head Kim with the bad wig not to mess with her “or she would flip her over the couch.” Lisa, you were doing so well! Now you’re just like the rest of them.

Anyway, I was really more excited about the season 4 premiere of The Real Housewives of Orange County.

The show opened with Vicki pricing big expensive yachts. She took her son Michael so she could “get his vote” and he told her to go for it. Uh, Vicki? I think Don should probably be checking out the yachts with you. You know, your husband? I am not a psychic but I think I see trouble ahead for Don and Vicki’s marriage. In Season 3, when she wistfully mentioned to Jeana that she sometimes wished she were single it was kind of a tip off to me. And probably Don when he watched the show.

There was a scene with Laurie and George at a restaurant and can I just say that Laurie is reaching the maximum allotment of Botox and Restalyne. She is starting to look “not cute” to me because there is something really scary going on with her face.

I like Laurie and have always thought that she was one of the sweeter housewives (some of the other ones will cut you just for asking if their boobs are fake) but she and George are quite possibly also retarded. They were sitting at dinner discussing where they should go on their honeymoon and after dismissing Dubai as a destination (except for shopping), George mentioned they should go to the private island owned by Charles Branson. Yoo hoo stupid, it’s Richard Branson. Obviously George and Laurie were confusing Helter Skelter and the guy who owns Virgin Airlines/Records/Etc. Dave and I rolled our eyes at each other because we both knew who they meant and neither of us had to get up and Google either. So apparently you can be stupid yet very rich which is so unfair.

Then they introduced Gretchen, the newest housewife. She is 30 and engaged to a man who “looks like a younger Kenny Rogers.” He is also suffering from leukemia and apparently has a shitload of money. She admitted on camera that she was not physically attracted to him (she also said he resembled Santa Claus) but he was the first man who ever loved her like he does. Let me explain something Gretchen: Young+hot=boyfriend with big bucks. Ugly+rich=girlfriend with big boobs. Everybody clear?

It’ll be interesting to see how this season pans out with the addition of Gretchen. I foresee lots of drama between her and the other housewives, especially Tamra. Looks like Gretchen is gunning for the title of “hottest housewife in Orange County” and Tamra will not like that at all.

So come on everyone! Set those Tivos and DVR’s! My blog posts will make a whole lot more sense if you do.

Go ahead, ask me how I am

Dave and I recently made some changes to our life insurance policy after I figured out that it was the WORST POLICY EVER. We actually purchased it as a supplement 10 years ago when I was pregnant with Matthew but now, after some improvements, it has become our primary policy.

Our agent came to the house and had us sign a shitload of papers. She told us we would have to complete a phone interview with the underwriting department and then a nurse would visit us to collect some blood and urine and take our blood pressure.

I was a little worried about having to go through the underwriting process again. On our old policy I was rated preferred and Dave was standard due to the fact that he was still smoking back then. Our agent quoted us based on those same ratings and since we were increasing our coverage quite a bit, I wanted the premiums to stay as low as possible.

I was pleasantly surprised when our agent called us to say our policy was being issued and Dave was now rated preferred and I was SUPER-PREFERRED. She mentioned she rarely ever sees anyone receive that rating so you can imagine how pleased I was.

Dave is getting a teensy bit tired of me rubbing it in. For a while, every time he said, “how are you?” I said, “super, super preferred that is!” Surprisingly he does not find that very amusing. And now might be a good time to mention that if I should die in a fiery car crash, please someone check my brake lines and launch an investigation STAT!

Quite possibly there was a mix-up in the underwriting department or the nurse swapped my vials of pee and blood with someone else’s. I’m not sure how I can be rated better at 41 than I was at 31 when we first took out this crap policy. I’m not complaining, mind you, I’m simply confused.

I was surprised at how low my cholesterol and triglycerides were. Clearly all the red wine I drink is contributing splendidly to my good health. My body is positively awash in anti-oxidants.

So, Wine+Cheese=SUPER PREFERRED!

Dave is still miffed at the nurse. She recorded his waist measurement at 37 inches even though he wears a 34. He blames his lack of super preferred status on her error. I however love the nurse because her scale weighed me 7 lbs. less than the one in my bathroom and I did not say anything because I am not STUPID.

Dave and I are glad we took the time to make this change to our life insurance. We can both take comfort in the fact that if anything happens to us, the offspring will not have to worry. And if you ask me how I’m feeling these days? The answer is SUPER. SUPER PREFERRED THAT IS.

How Clean is Your House?

The other day I was watching T.V. and thought I’d stop by my new favorite channel, BBC AMERICA. I came across a show called How Clean is Your House. I was almost afraid to watch but since I had already viewed all my DVR’s cache of The Real Housewives of Atlanta I decided to see what this show was all about.

According to the BBC AMERICA web site, the two women who star on the show, Kim Woodburn and Aggie Mackenzie, are unstoppable hygiene experts who get to see inside some of the dirtiest homes imaginable and meet the occupants.

Why? Why do they want to do this? I was so horrified during my viewing of this show that I threw up in my mouth a little and washed my hands 17 times.

They showed the home of this couple and it was sofa king dirty I could not wrap my head around it. The inside of their microwave looked like an autopsy had been performed in there and there was so much filth in their family room I covered my eyes.

Then, they showed the bedroom of the mom and dad and they zoomed in on their bookcase and it was filled with books like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and 101 Sexual Positions and yet their room was sofa king dirty that I was like not only is their bedroom dirty but their minds are too and then I started thinking about hygiene and sex and the top of my head BLEW OFF!!!!!

Then, they took swabs off their kitchen counters and let that shit grow in petri dishes. They were able to identify about 15 strains of reallybadstuff that could give you everything from diarrhea to Ebola. And the mom was all like, “yeah that’s pretty bad.” And then Kim and Aggie mention that the home has not been cleaned in TEN YEARS.

These people are so filthy I imagine big greasy shimmering waves of stink coming off of them a la pigpen. They have probably spread Ringworm all over the U.K.

Luckily, Kim and Aggie (who totally have their work cut out for them and probably gossip endlessly about all the slobs whose homes they have to fix) get everything cleaned up and give the mom and dad a little pep talk about MAINTENANCE because they are coming back in a few weeks to see how the house looks. I felt really sad at one point because the couple has two children and the kids mentioned (on camera) how they did not want to invite their friends over because they were so embarrassed about the condition of their home.

Their mom better keep the house in order or I will totally fly over there and slap the shit out of her. She needs to mommy up and keep that house clean for her children.

However, I should probably point out that on the cleanliness spectrum, the dirty mom is on one end and I am on the other. For as long as I can remember, even in college where being messy was as normal as selling your textbooks back for beer money, I have been really particular. I get anxious and stressed when things are dirty and I am calmed by cleaning. I also really get off on the smell of new carpet. Whatever.

Having a husband and two kids has put quite a kink in my preferred environment. I simply cannot keep up sometimes (yet you will never find our germs living in a big fucking colony on the kitchen countertop).

I have been, ahem, told by some that I am a little too anal about the cleanliness of my home. But I challenge you to find a floor you cannot eat of of or a toilet you might not drink from in my house. As a housewife, this is my job. My home SHOULD be spotless because I am here all day to clean it.

But P.S.? Everyone needs to start wiping their asses a whole lot better around here or else their underwear is going to disintegrate from all the bleach I am forced to pour into the washing machine. I asked Amy one day, “what age do boys stop having all these skids in their underwear”? And she’s like, “Tracey, do you DO Dave’s laundry? Hmmmmm, so apparently never. None of the people that live in my house can be bothered to do a good job with this small detail of personal hygiene. I have Cottonelle wipes in every bathroom and still no.

And Dave thinks he’s covert about his underwear because he replaced all his tighty whiteys with dark colored briefs. Yeah, not foolin’ me. Besides, I just wait until there’s a pile and then I quarantine them in their own load.

A lot of this cleanliness just comes naturally to me. It’s not like I have to think about whether something is gross or not. Either it is, or it isn't. Here are some of my tips:

Do not ever fill one of your own roasting pans with water so you can soak your feet in it before you give yourself a pedicure. Go to the nail salon like the rest of us. I assure you that Top Nails will not soak your feet in their foot bath and then try to bake a roast in it. (They may, however, give you the fungus).

And don’t put your big plastic mixing bowl by your child’s bed when they have the stomach flu. People! People! People! I can’t take it. And I will NEVER eat at your home ever again.

And to my twin sister Trish, who is the Oscar to my Felix, I love you but please don’t act shocked when I completely gross out after you tell me you have stored your dead cat in the freezer “because it’s going to be a couple days before I can bury her.” And then don’t act all indignant when you offer to give me the freezer when you are moving out of your townhouse in Austin and I TURN YOU DOWN. I am still not over the dead fly I found in there when I was visiting you back in ’04. It’s really sweet of you to offer but no. Fly+cat=nofuckingway.

So, in conclusion. I am the most anal person you will ever know. I can’t help it and I’m not sure I really care. Clean=good. Dirty=bad.

And you? Are one or the other. So either keep it clean or be dirty and don't tell me about it. Because seriously? I do not want to know.

Twilight!!!!!!!

Yay! The Twilight movie opens today and Amy and I are channeling our thirteen-year-old selves by being two of the first to see it. Betcha all the teenage girls stuck in school today are JEALOUS. I love, love, love the Twilight series. I introduced Amy and Kathleen to the Stephenie Meyer books and we all agree they are “fab.”

We fandango’d our tickets and everything. And by “we” I mean Amy because my Dell printer is such a craptactular piece of shit that it would only print every third line of the tickets and I don’t think the fine folks at the Century Theater would find that very amusing. Or valid.

Hmmmm, while I’m thinking about it:

Dear Dell Corporation:

Your printers truly suck! I will never buy another Dell product for as long as I live (unless it’s free and then I will totally accept it).

The fact that I cannot buy ink anywhere but on your web site makes smoke come out of my ears. When the offspring have run the printer completely dry, I need ink NOW, not three days from now which is when your shipment will arrive. And I am not paying exorbitant extra charges so that you will ship it faster. So there.

I hate you,

Tracey

(HA, I showed them!)


Since the movie is at 11:00 AM, we are going to take ourselves out for a nice lunch afterward. Much as I would enjoy a lovely glass of wine with our meal, the two glasses I had at lunch one day with Sherry proved to me that I will be worthless for the rest of the day. So I CANNOT DRINK. I have lots to do later today to get ready for Lauren’s TWO birthday parties tomorrow. I can’t believe my baby is 6!

Have a great weekend everyone!

We had a little fire

When Matthew was 14 months old we were getting ready to go somewhere and I wanted him to let me put on his shoes. He had other ideas and decided to make “putting on our shoes” a battle. A battle I would win. Surely a toddler was no match for mommy and if I wanted those shoes to go on, they were going on. I wriggled one foot in and was working on the next when, BAM! Matthew, who had been sitting between my legs while we wrestled with the shoes, stood up fast and since I had been looking down, his head clocked me right in the eye. I managed to get to the bathroom to remove my contact lens and by the time I got it out, the lump over my eye was the size of a grape. Over the next day it swelled shut completely. Matthew: 1 Mommy: 0.

A couple days later my eye was still swollen shut and had started turning deep shades of blue and purple. I was forced to wear my glasses so I could see. I decided Matthew and I would stay home that day. I was tired of getting all the “honey I hope you feel safe in your home glances” and it was really hot out anyway. It was mid September and we hadn’t had any rain in a long time. Our grass was dead and we lived in a neighborhood where there weren’t a lot of sprinkler systems. Pretty much everyone on our street had let his or her yard go dormant so we didn’t really look all that ghetto. There were huge spider webs covering all the shrubs and bushes and I remember wishing it would get colder so I could stop sweating all the time.

It was cool in the basement so Matthew and I hung out and played down there until it was time to have lunch. We came upstairs and as I glanced out the window at my front yard, (using my ONE GOOD EYE), I noticed something very odd. You know how, when you’re camping and roasting marshmallows and you look away for one second and your marshmallow catches fire and bursts into flames and you have to pull all the burnt black shit off so you can at least eat the gooey marshmallow inside? Well some kind of burnt black shit was covering my entire yard. As were numerous policemen, firemen, and random Mid American Energy employees. The fire truck was parked at the curb and a police car was in my driveway.

(I WAS SO CONFUSED, SO CONFUSED, SO CONFUSED, SO CONFUSED, SO CONFUSED).

It seriously took me a while to process what had happened. Actually, I couldn’t process because I simply didn’t have enough information to figure out what the hell was going on. Which is probably why I slung Matthew onto my hip, unlocked the front door, and marched out onto the sidewalk screaming “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

Everyone turned to stare. I had not showered. My hair was a mess and was probably up in one of those butterfly clips I am so fond of. I was in a ratty t-shirt and shorts and was barefoot. I think I had a bra on (God I hope I did, I can’t remember), and I had that big whopper of a black eye. I was screaming like SUPER BITCH at the top of my lungs while holding a squirming toddler. I was a lit cigarette and an ankle tattoo away from White Trash Housewife.

No one moved or spoke. Clearly they did not know what to do with me and had not expected me to come charging out of the house. Apparently they had banged on my front door repeatedly but since we were in the basement, I didn’t hear them.

The transformer that was mounted on a big light pole close to the house had EXPLODED (didn’t hear that either), showering our dormant yard with an array of sparks which caused the dead grass to combust pretty much immediately.

So while I was downstairs in the basement with Matthew playing “show mommy where your nose is” the fire was spreading from corner to corner of the front yard. A passing jogger grabbed our garden house and started spraying the flames that were threatening to start the house and fence on fire. When the firemen arrived they doused everything and were now conferring with the Mid American Energy people (and giving them a good “talking to” about their shitty transformers, I hope).

I managed to calm down after a while and pretty soon everyone left. A MidAmerican Energy employee gave me a business card, which was good because I figured Dave and I would have some things we might need to discuss with them, like the replacement of our two trees that were now burned to a crisp. I went inside to call Dave because he was just not going to believe the shit that happens while he is at work.

For weeks afterward we would run into random people in our neighborhood that would ask asinine questions like, “hey did you guys do that on purpose?” Yes, yes we did. We chose to voluntarily torch our grass. Next spring we’re planning on letting the back yard go fallow so we can plant poppies in the front yard and grow our own opium.

What, are we suburban sharecroppers now? We lived in the city limits of Urbandale where I’m pretty sure they discouraged and prohibited this kind of tomfoolery.

Anyway, MidAmerican paid to have our lawn aerated and they replaced our two trees so no hard feelings there. And when the grass grew back the following spring? You’d never know we’d had a little fire.

Maybe Chloe had a headache

When I walked into the house this morning after dropping Lauren off at school, I thought it was strange that Chloe did not meet me at the door. Usually she comes tearing around the corner and starts jumping on me like she hasn’t seen me for days. I called her name and when she didn’t come, I went to investigate.

I walked up the stairs and heard a strange sound coming from Lauren’s room. Chloe was on the floor going to town on a cardboard box full of Jr. Tylenol that had been on Lauren’s desk, leftover from her bout of strep throat and an ear infection last week. I picked up the box and noticed that 5 of the chewable tablets had been chewed right out of the packaging. Chloe was still bouncing up and down, tail wagging at this point wondering why I took away her awesome grape snacky-snacks. I ran down the stairs with her and called the vet. My fear was confirmed when the receptionist panicked after talking to the vet tech and screamed at me to “bring her in right away – don’t dawdle.” Chloe and I hauled ass.

Chloe is the first dog we’ve had as a family and the first one I’ve been around since Amy, Janice, and I lived together in our sweet bachelorette pad in the late 80’s. The three of us shared a dog named Sidney who was fond of dragging our shit out her doggie door into her poop filled pen. We were forced to pick through it looking for our purses, cigarettes, shoes, and once my bra. We learned not to leave anything on the floor or within the dog’s reach. She would, and did, take everything.

But Chloe isn’t really a stealer. Sure, she’ll make off with the occasional Webkinz and she loves dirty underwear but she never touches my shoes and hasn’t torn up anything worse than a new box of Kleenex. However, we feed her all kinds of crap from our plates and have turned her into the worst beggar EVER. She must have smelled the Tylenol and figured it was something that would taste a whole lot better than her dog food.

Anyway, when we got to the vet they took Chloe back right away and Ashley (who is my favorite vet tech) told me they were going to administer Morphine so Chloe would throw up. I was on the phone in tears with Dave when Dr. Bunn came out to get me. He took me back to an exam room and told me that after Chloe puked they would give her activated charcoal and then pump her full of fluids because “the solution to pollution is dilution.” Which I totally understood because that’s EXACTLY what I do after drinking a shitload of red wine.

I went home and an hour later Ashley called to say they had given Chloe the charcoal and about half the I.V. fluids. As soon as Dr. Bunn gave the all clear, I could pick Chloe up and bring her home.

They take great care of us at the vet clinic. Quite possibly it’s because I paid $76 for Matthew’s HAMSTER (who had about 4 months of life expectancy left) to have an office visit and a steroid shot after Lauren dangled it by it’s tail. I think when it comes to paying vet charges they have figured out we are a SURE THING.

It’s obvious each and every one of them at the vet clinic loves animals as much as we do. I have nothing but good things to say about Ashley and Dr. Bunn. They rock. They did an awesome job today saving a very important member of our family.

And next time there is a pet debacle at our house I’m pretty sure I know who will get our business.

Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

Dear Jordan Creek Mall kiosk employee,

Happy Holidays! I was enjoying a stroll through your lovely mall with a friend of mine the other day and feel compelled to discuss a few things with you.

Firstly, while I am totally aware that you may have been presented with some pretty challenging sales goals, I must tell you that it does not give you the right to ignore my very pleasant “no thanks.” When you continue advancing toward me with your spray bottle/hand lotion/other crap, I do not want you to think I am going to change my mind and decide I WANT to hear what you have to say or sample whatever the hell you are holding.

Lastly, if you continue to ignore my response, I will be forced to release my inner bitch and she WILL cut you.

Peace out,

Tracey

The House On The Corner

Dave and I built our house in the ‘hood about three years ago. There were a few families already living here but mostly there were empty lots. Luckily most of those lots now have houses sitting on them and we are close to being done with all this construction nonsense. It’s something all of us have to tolerate because, well, our houses were once under construction too but I think I speak for everyone when I say we’ll be glad when our street is finished. I know our bus driver J.R. will be and frankly I’m surprised that he has not yet suffered a brain aneurysm while trying to navigate the big yellow bus around all the dump trucks and cement mixers on our street. He is really pissed!

And while I’m thinking about it, there’s something I need to get off my chest:

Dear Construction Worker,

Quit speed - burning down our street at 45 mph in your Toyota Celica. We love our children and want to keep them safe. And remember, hell hath no fury like a bunch of pissed off housewives. Hurt one of our kids and we WILL fuck you up. Thanks in advance!

News travels fast in the ‘hood. The backhoe will have barely broken ground on the next new house and we already know more than a normal amount of information about the people who will live there. Mostly it’s because we’re nosy.

Then, when the house has been framed and the roof is on, we all stroll around in it whenever it gets dark and we can be reasonably certain construction has halted for the day. Surprisingly no one has encountered the owners during one of these forays.

When the house is getting close to being finished and is locked up every night, we get real curious and call in the pro. Lisa has been able to get into every single new house on this street (including mine I’m sure – she was here before me). We are all perfectly happy letting Lisa do the B & E. Seriously, she could burgle for a living if she wanted to. Plus she’s really skinny so she can squeeze into tight spots like a crack in a sliding glass door if she has to.

A collective cheer goes up when we see Lisa’s head pop out the front door because she has made it in and now we can check out the interior of the home. And before you start thinking we have no manners whatsoever I want to point out that we usually take our shoes off and lock up when we’re done.

Which brings me to the reason I chose to blog on this topic today. There is a house on the corner of our street that has everyone rubber-necking when they drive by and is, quite frankly, the source of lots of speculation here in the ‘hood. Mostly because no one can figure out what the hell these people were thinking when they started building this house because it is an architectural shit-storm of massive proportions. I almost don’t even know how to start describing it. Word on the street is that it started out as a two story but then the owners decided to add a THIRD story as well. Who does that? It is a wind tunnel on our street so I really hope they anchor that thing well because it is WAY, WAY taller than any of our houses. The back of the house looks like something you could downhill ski off of if you started on the roof and got good and drunk first.

And I have to mention the front door and window. When they first cut the outline for them, I thought it made the house look kind of sinister. I mean, they look like something you would find in a crumbly abandoned 16th century monastery. The door and window both have a point on the top and then curve down on both sides before straightening to the bottom. Everyone was all like “oh it looks like a church” and I’m all like “doesn’t anyone see devil house when they look at it?” No one but me did so apparently they are all pious and holy and I am the anti Christ. I don’t know. Maybe I was channeling Hansel and Gretel or something but the house does not look like a church to me.

Dave and Matthew walked through it the other day and said the layout is quite strange. The rooms are really small and smashed together on the main floor and then the upstairs (third floor?) has a really big empty room that everyone thinks the owners are planning on using as a big rec room. Which I think is funny because even though we know they don’t have children yet (see, we know everything) I see that man-lair full of plastic playskool toys in a few years and then when they decide the house isn’t very kid friendly and they want to move they’ll find out just how impractical their real estate roulette turned out to be.

However, I noticed the dumpster they are using has a sign on it that says it is the property of the Chitty Garbage Service Company so I have to give kudos for their sense of humor which bodes well for them here on our street. Maybe we’ll get to know them and find out they’re really fun people. Maybe we will do a lot of laughing with them instead of at them. Meanwhile, it’s almost time to call in the pro and have a look around.

My Funky Toenail, The Sequel

Many of you, and I mean the three people not counting my husband who read this blog, are probably curious about my funky toenail and whether or not I ever got it taken care of (please see archives for Part I - My Funky Toenail). That was four years ago and luckily I was able to have it successfully treated without growing a third eyeball.

I consulted the yellow pages and made an appointment with a Podiatrist. I didn’t know what to expect but sandal season was fast approaching and I was damned if I was going to keep painting over my mess of a toenail pretending it looked like the others. It looked like shit and it was really scary by now. I held little hope that this would end well.

The Podiatrist took one look at it and confirmed what I already knew. I had the fungus. He told me that he almost never prescribed medication to clear it up because he really didn’t feel comfortable with the side effects. I felt defeated. Certainly that meant I would have to go through life with this shitty toe because if a TOE DOCTOR can’t help you, you are kind of screwed. However, he must have sensed how vain I am because he threw me a lifeline. He very calmly said he could just TAKE THE TOENAIL OFF. Hmmm… what?! He explained that a very effective remedy was to remove the toenail and then apply an anti-fungal for 10 days, after which the new toenail would grow in and voila, pedicure city! And just for the record? Yes I am still regularly getting pedicures because I figure what are the odds that it will happen again? Actually they’re probably pretty high and yet I DON’T CARE.

The podiatrist put a small tourniquet on my toe, shot me up with some Novocain, and popped that sucker right off. He forgot to mention how much blood it would produce. I couldn’t even look at it but I was glad to finally be rid of that crumbly yellow toenail.

He gave me a prescription for the anti – fungal and told me what to do with it. I went home and spent the rest of the day with my foot up wishing I could construct a fence to keep the toddler and the pre-schooler from using my leg as a jungle gym. Kids, mama does not have a TOENAIL there anymore. Back off!


Dave felt so sorry for me he actually went to the store on his lunch hour and bought me some new books and other stuff I can’t remember. But strangely, no wine. If the removal of a toenail were to happen today it would require not only copious amounts of alcohol but also possibly a Vicodin or two left over from when I did something bad to my back. And yes everyone, I lied when I said I didn’t have them anymore. What, am I Walgreen’s? My point is that we must not have been drinking as much back then as we are now. Our current consumption is directly proportionate to how old our children are and at 9 and 6 it’s positively Betty Ford-y around here.

Luckily a couple days later we were over at dad and Debby’s and my McGyver step-mom gave me an empty pill bottle (because she saves EVERYTHING) to tape over my toe to act as a barrier from the children. Even though I looked totally retarded I gratefully accepted her cock-a-mamie solution because anything was better than having my toe stepped on repeatedly.


*******And dad, it is apropos of NOTHING to inquire about my toenail and “whether or not it has started growing back in yet” in the middle of Easter dinner. I could not hear anything over the din of forks clattering on the table as everyone turned to stare. P.S. Dad - If you’re going to start the story you’re going to have to finish it after everyone is done eating.

Anway, I kept using the anti –fungal cream and slowly the toenail grew in. Sometimes I forget which toe it was. And I like to think I’m kind of like the toenail fungus ambassador because I have a couple friends who have the fungus and I very enthusiastically point them in the direction of Dr. Wonderful. Because when sandal season truly arrived? I was looking fine.

Entrepreneurs or we have a drinking problem? You decide

Last Saturday our good friends Tom and Amy and their kids came over for one of our bi-monthly get togethers. The kids are always happy because we pretty much give them whatever they want and we adults get to drink as much wine as we can hold. For a while Matthew was collecting corks but there were so many of them I got embarassed and threw a lot of them away when he was at school. He's still looking for them.

Anyway, we sent the kids downstairs to the playroom and got ready to get our drink on. We were having a great time talking and catching up while we waited for the pizza delivery guy to show up with our dinner.

About a fourth of the way through our bottles of wine, Amy and I amused ourselves by perusing urbandictionary.com. Amy was not familiar with the site so I spent a few minutes showing her my favorite dirty words and phrases. Neither of us knew what an Alabama Hot Pocket was and now that we do? Neither of us will ever be able to enjoy a REGULAR Hot Pocket for lunch ever again. Also you may want to click on Cincinatti Bowtie, Birmingham Booty Call, and Strawberry Shortcake because you will not believe what people will do in bed. And if you don't need the urban dictionary to tell you what those mean? You seriously scare the shit out of me.

Meanwhile, the boys were talking about the boring old economy and how shitty it is. We started talking about how Dave's job was in jeopardy and that we better come up with a back up plan to get us beyond the six month's of severance pay he would receive. Dave mentioned off-handedly that we needed to invent something and sell it to make money. Having now polished off half our wine we came up with the following: stinky candles. You know, like those Bertie Bott's every flavor beans from Harry Potter that come in flavors like vomit and booger. Except our candles would smell really bad when you lit them and would sweep the nation as the best gag gift EVER. You could totally take them to birthday parties and instead of showing up with some queer beer mug that says "Lordy, Lordy, looks who's 40" you could say, "dude, I brought you a candle that smells like ass." And you know everyone would rush to light it to see if in fact it did smell like it said it did. But alas, a quick google search pissed on our parade as we discovered WE WERE NOT THE FIRST TO HAVE THIS IDEA.

However, their idea of a gag candle is one that smells like beer, urinal cake, or stripper. Hold onto your hats folks 'cause we're almost done with our bottles and we are a whole lot raunchier than that.

Presenting the top ten list of smelly candles our endeavors would produce (if we could just find a willing chemist).

#10 Whiskey and feet
#9 Armpit
#8 BO
#7 'taint
#6 VO
#5 Wet ass
# 4 Sweaty balls
# 3 My old French whore
# 2 Toe jam
#1 Wang, dang, sweet poontang!

(Patent pending) Jealous?

Mama's going back to work (maybe)

I’m thinking about getting a job”, I told Dave.
“Why do you want to get a job?” he asked.
“Uh, because we keep discussing how thanks to this shitty economy you may lose yours. And because they’ve already laid off 45 people in your department. And they’ve taken away your holiday gift boxes, summer ticket to fun, and no one will get a merit raise in 2009. Ringin’ a bell yet?”
“Well at least I have 6 months of severance. We’ll be OK for a while.”
“Yeah I know, I just thought I’d get my resume out there so if something happens, I’ll be prepared.”

Once upon a time, before babies started coming out of me, I used to work as a headhunter/IT recruiter. For the most part I enjoyed it. I’ll be honest though, I’m not (gasp!) very career driven. I always had to stop myself from rolling my eyes in meetings when someone would get all passionate about whatever lame thing we were there to discuss. I almost always doodled or daydreamed during these meetings. I think it's safe to say that being a stay at home mom was something I liked a whole lot better than corporate America.

But last spring I thought it would be a good idea to start doing some freelance headhunting for no other reason than I could work from home and the potential income is pretty lucrative. I designed some cute little business cards on the Internet and bam! I was in business. It went OK for a while but then school let out and I got tired of making marketing calls in the bathroom because it was the only place I could sort of guarantee whoever I was calling wouldn’t hear my offspring trying to kill each other in the next room. I decided it was better for everyone, and certainly for the kids’ safety if I just tabled everything until school started.

But when school started I didn’t really have the drive I had before. For the first time in 9 years I could do whatever I wanted. And apparently I wanted to do, well, anything other than work. Plus, when I started making a few calls again I found I was treated slightly worse than your average telemarketer. Even though I’ve always felt I have a pretty thick skin, I really hated how bitchy they were to me.

So I decided to visit a headhunter (which was really weird because my business cards say I AM A HEADHUNTER) to see if there might be a contract IT Recruiter position available and I could work during the hours the kids are at school. And I read somewhere, or made it up, that former stay at home moms who wanted to return to the work force were a very valuable part of a previously untapped labor pool. Just like senior citizens! Remember those McDonald’s commercials that used to air a long time ago where they tried to convince senior citizens that retirement sucked and they should really work part time at McDonald’s? And they showed this nice little old man and he was all smiley about getting the chance to work there? However I feel it necessary to mention that my husband, my sister, and my BFF Amy all worked at McDonald’s and all three of them will tell you it was the worst job they’ve ever had. In fact, 2 of the 3 of them may have stormed out in a big hissy fit (one was Dave) while wearing their fugly polyester uniform. ***As a side note I did not work at McDonald’s. I chose instead to work at the cool Scoops Ice Cream and Potato Bar (preen). My only uniform was a stupid hat that I refused to wear. I may or may not have gotten some of my hair into your food. I am not sorry.

Oh Christ what the hell was my point and what was I talking about? Possibly I have housewife ADD from being forced to multitask endlessly over the last 9 years.

So I made an appointment with the headhunter, shoved my resume into an old portfolio, and went off to see what my options were.

She kept me waiting for a good 20 minutes in the lobby. When she finally came out she introduced herself and took me back to a conference room. She then tried to tell me again about a job she already told me about on the phone when I called to make the appointment. I had to tell her again that I was probably not qualified for the position considering I didn’t have the amount of experience they were looking for. Which, since I had already e-mailed her my resume I thought she might have figured out.

I told her that I didn’t really want to go downtown (because of the longer commute and the fact that Dave already drives downtown every day and it would be nice not to give all our money to the oil companies) and I hoped to find a contract position that would allow me to start early enough so that I could be done in time to beat the school bus back home. She asked if she should still call me if she had an opening that was downtown and didn’t have flexible hours and I said “sure.” Because frankly, you just never know.

So one day this week it was brought to my attention (by my friend Paige) that my headhunter’s firm had an opening on their web site for a contract recruiter. Right away I e-mailed my headhunter to see if I was qualified for this position and if so, to let her know that I’d like to hear more about it. Four days went by and since she still hadn’t responded to my e-mail I called her office and asked to speak with her. I got her voice mail, told her I was calling to follow up on my e-mail, and asked her to call me at home or on my cell phone. I called first thing in the morning and waited all day for her to call me back, and so far I haven’t heard from her. I called again the following week and she still hasn't found it necessary to call me back. And P.S.? That pisses me off. Maybe I’m just flat out not qualified for the position (but, seriously, just call me and tell me) or maybe my headhunter has bad time management skills and she’s planning on calling me back around the 12th of never. Whatever. But when she does call me back? I'll tell her McDonald's was hiring.

The Real Housewives of Atlanta

During yesterday’s sloth fest I had the opportunity to watch one of my very favorite reality shows that I DVR’d on Tuesday, The Real Housewives of Atlanta or as I like to call that whole franchise, The Real Housewives of Crack Whore County.

I don’t even know where to start. And I beg of you, if you’re not already watching this train wreck of a show set those Tivo’s NOW!

First of all, I have never seen this level of vapidity and narcissism, even on the show that started it all, The Real Housewives of Orange County or it’s spin-off The Real Housewives of New York City, AKA, let’s ratchet this shit up a notch so we’re the only franchise being discussed around the water cooler.

Anyway, Tuesday’s episode was Kim centric which pleased me greatly because she is the bobble head with the bad weave that I most enjoy watching right now. When she announced the other day that she was 29 and looked “damn good” I actually snorted. She has celebrated her 29th birthday about 7 times. And for the record, Dave has been sucked into the vortex of this show with me but will probably vehemently deny it if anyone should ask.

Kim lives with a sugar daddy she affectionately refers to as Big Poppa. Big Poppa refuses to appear on camera and Dave and I have a few theories about that. Dave thinks Big Poppa is a huge, black, possibly retired, professional athlete. I think it’s Ted Turner. Oh come on, he lives in Atlanta, he’s rich, and he looks mean. And the reason I think it’s necessary to point out that he looks mean is because whoever Big Poppa is, he certainly is not going to win boyfriend of the year. If he were a nice guy, and really loved bobble head Kim with the bad weave, he would never, ever have agreed to bankroll her dream of becoming a country singer. BECAUSE SHE CAN’T SING. Surely he has heard her humming along with the radio. What kind of diabolical person would go as far as to contact a well-known producer and get them to let Kim go to their recording studio? And sing! Had Big Poppa not one inkling of how that would turn out? Does he not care? Are record producers in fact miracle workers? Big Poppa I think all of America and I feel you have some 'splainin to do.

Then, and I crack up just thinking about it, there was a part in the episode when bobble head Kim with the bad weave meets with a vocal coach. She has trouble matching her voice to the notes the coach plays on the piano. She is obviously frustrated at having to do this and wants to know how it, like, comes into play when recording in the studio. Um, bobble head Kim with the bad weave, it’s VERY IMPORTANT because without that ability, your voice will sound like shit.

When she starts singing it is so cringe-worthy I actually want to mute it and run out of the room screaming. No one can be this clueless about their singing ability, or lack thereof.

I hope that by next week bobble head Kim has pulled her bad weave out of her ass and waved the white flag on a singing career. I’m pretty sure I will be disappointed.

My Funky Toenail, Part I

“I think there’s something wrong with my toenail,” I whisper to Dave. I’m sitting on the couch 17 months pregnant contemplating my horrendous lack of pedicure ( which is second only to my overgrown bikini area that resulted in Dave pointing and shouting “oh my God!” when I was walking around in my maternity underwear).

“Why do you think there’s something wrong with your toenail?” he asks.

“Because both the OB/GYN and my regular doctor say I have the fungus, you know the one where in that commercial that I can’t ever watch now those little monster guys pry up the toenail and jump in?” (Whisper) “I have that.”

Between the bitchiness, the bikini line, and now fungus, I would not hold it against my husband if he CUT AND RAN right now. The fact that he didn’t is either a testament to his love and loyalty or his laziness. Either way, I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve him.

“So what are you going to do”, he asks.

“Well, apparently I have to wait until this kid finally decides to come out and I’m done breastfeeding. The drug I’ll have to take to get rid of it has some pretty bad side effects like growing a third eyeball or something. But I really wanted to get a pedicure so that my 9 other beautiful toes can distract the medical staff from the horror going on down in cooterland.”

“Then just go get a pedicure, for God’s sake. You know they’ve seen it all”, Dave says.

“Yes, but this time I will be bringing some of the “seen it all” with me because it’s actually on MY TOE.”

“Do you really care what they think at the nail place? You know they don’t speak English anyway.”

“No (yes) I don’t care. And besides, if they don’t speak English they can RIDICULE me the whole time I’m there and I won’t even know if they’re talking smack about me.”

“I’m sure they won’t even notice.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just going to go get it over with.”


I sail (waddle) in to Top Nails as if I haven’t a care in the world. I decide to get the whole shebang and notify the 9-year-old girl behind the counter that I’d like a manicure and pedicure. A voice at the back of the salon starts screaming, “pick color, pick color! She truly must have bionic ears because I can’t even believe she heard me from way back there. I pick out a dark color I will later decide I hate and sit down to wait my turn.

The only fat Asian woman I have ever seen (although in my pregnant glory I am still fatter) motions me over to her station and begins making small talk. Even though I am often guilty of total verbal diarrhea, this woman speaks more in the first five minutes than I have ever heard any of the employees speak ALL TOGETHER in the year I have been coming here.

Her: “So, how much weight you gain?”
Me: “What????”
Her: “What your husband do”
Me: “What????”
Her: “You want me to keep pinky finger long to pick booger???”
Me: (Thinking) where the eff are the Candid Camera people because she.cannot.be.for.real.
Her: “He, he, yeah I wonder who will do your pedicure – I saw your feet when you came in.”
Me: Looking around for cameras, wondering if anyone else will notice the hell I’m in and come replace this psycho broad with a normal employee. Bring on the 9-year-old girl, she can do my feet.
Her: “All done. Oops. Looks like everyone is busy. I do your feet now.”
Me: “Of course.”

Maybe she won’t say anything about my toe, maybe she won’t say anything about my toe, maybe she won’t say anything about my toe…..


Her: “Ooooooh, you got that fungus don’t you.”
Me: (Whimpering) “Yes.”
Her: “Yeah, we see all the time.”
Me: (LIGHTBULB) “Really? You see this all time huh? Then it’s quite possible I now know where I got it!”

She finished, I paid, and then I made as dignified an exit as I could while 17 months pregnant wearing flimsy (probably pre-used) nail salon flip-flops.

I’m not sure but I think there might have been some cackling going on when I left and that’s something that sounds the same now matter what your native tongue.

Don't hate me because I'm lazy

My motivation and efficiency is at an all time low. How is it that I get less done now, with both kids in school, then I did when I had a toddler and a newborn clinging to me for the better part of a day? I could nurse my daughter on my left boob, turn the pages of my son’s book with my right hand, get dinner on the table, pay the bills, pick up the dry cleaning, buy the groceries, work out, and shower but I cannot accomplish even half that now? It just goes to show that if you want something done you need to ask a busy person. And right now? That person is not me.

Lately my slovenly habits include blowing off the gym and settling in on the couch after I put the kids on the bus to read magazines, newspapers, and books while simultaneously watching DVR’d episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I’ve started jumping off the couch after an hour or two looking around in a panic wondering if Dave’s installed a housewife - cam and is in fact watching streaming video of me sitting on my ass.

However this morning I got all “efficienty” and announced I’d take Matthew’s bike to the bike shop for repair and would replace the water filter on our refrigerator. But sadly there’s not enough meth in Iowa to get me to hustle right out for those errands.

So, finally, at noon I decided to shower and get going. First things first, I need to get Matthew’s bike off the hook thingy it’s hanging on in the garage. I lift it up and promptly get smacked in the face with the tire. An F bomb may or may not have been dropped. I manhandle the bike into the back of my mommy – mobile (SUV not minivan) and off I go.

When I reach the bike place I inexplicably morph into one of those women I hate. I start talking to the bike guy and I’m using phrases like “the gear dealio isn’t working because something might have poked through that spoke right there and done something bad.” I tell him I don’t know for sure because it was my husband on the bike ride with Matthew and not me (so now he also knows I’m lazy). Then, for the piece de résistance as he’s trying to decipher my psychobabble I triumphantly pull my cell phone out and announce “I can call my husband at work if you want me to.” Luckily he was a very nice senior citizen bike shop owner and he sent me on my way with promises to call very soon and let us know about the bike. And I’m thinking he’ll probably ask to speak with DAVE and not me.

So, off to Lowe’s for the other exciting errand on my list. I find a really close parking spot so God forbid I don’t even have to accidentally exercise today and head in. I congratulate myself on finding the right department without having to ask someone and I march up and interrupt the conversation of the three Lowe’s employees who are standing around chatting.



I pull the old filter (which I’ve intelligently stuck inside a big Ziploc bag so as not to get the inside of my purse icky) out and tell the Lowe’s employee (who obviously got the short straw) that I need one JUST LIKE THIS. I figure they will totally appreciate my visual aid and will not have to listen to me blather on about serial or model numbers.

He immediately takes me to the display where I question him briefly about the fact that this filter does not look EXACTLY like my filter and in return have to hear some drivel about Kitchen Aid and Whirlpool. When he’s convinced me I have the right filter I head to one of the only two checkout lanes with their lights on at Lowe’s.

Ahead of me is a very senior citizen (what, is Tuesday senior citizen day or something? I actually think it might be) with a big old flatbed full of shit. He’s really old and looks like he might have trouble with the checkout process so I’m all (sigh) this is going to take forever (sigh). Now I know what you’re thinking. Why in the world am I complaining when I clearly have all day? But that’s where you’d be wrong because instead of leaving the house right after my shower I sat down on the couch to read some more and now mama’s on a deadline to make it home before the school bus.

I cleverly and efficiently leave the checkout lane to go to the one next to me, figuring this one will move along faster. I am wrong. The senior citizen in this lane has bought something that has “Kathy” the cashier in a big lather because she keeps scanning his shit and making big old sour lemon faces. She also has a huge rose tattoo on her neck that I CANNOT STOP LOOKING AT especially because Kathy is at least 55 years old and didn’t anyone warn her when she was 19 how stupid that would look in her middle age? And even though this is Iowa our turtleneck season is still not that long.

So anyway, I decide to dash back to my original lane where yet another senior citizen is writing a check. Who writes checks anymore? Oh yeah, all the senior citizens. So I stand there, foot a – tapping, waiting for him and the equally s-l-o-w Lowe’s employee to complete the transaction.

As my business is finally completed and I’m getting ready to grab my stupid filter it occurs to me that the real dumbass here is me. Not only would I have been out of Lowe’s days ago if I’d stayed in my original lane, if I was really smart I’d have bought two filters so that I wouldn’t have to repeat this shitty errand again for 6 months instead of 3.