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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
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 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!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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
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
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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?
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?
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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.
“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.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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.
“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.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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.
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.
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