Smoke 'em if you've got 'em

One weekend in 1987, when I was still attending the University of Iowa, I decided to go visit Stacy and Lisa at Iowa State University for VEISHA.

VEISHA is an annual weeklong celebration held each spring on Iowa State’s campus. There’s a parade and open house demonstrations of university facilities and departments. The acronym VEISHA stands for the colleges of the university that existed when the celebration was founded in 1922. Now they just call it Veishea since some of the names of the colleges have been changed.

We could have cared less about what VEISHA stood for (and probably couldn’t identify all the colleges anyway). All that mattered to us was that VEISHA meant two things: Boys and beer.

I met up with Stacy and Lisa at their dorm and Kristin joined us a short time later since she was driving up from Des Moines.

We started the evening at a party that Stacy and Lisa knew about. We stood around holding red plastic solo cups of cheap keg beer trying to meet as many guys as possible. After a while, we decided to head to a bar since no one seemed to be having any luck at the party.

I was driving, and we tooled around Campustown in my 1981 Honda Prelude, sunroof open, Scritti Politti or the Outfield blaring from the stereo. We had all taken our keg beers for the road and I was less worried about being pulled over for a DUI than I was about driving a car with a manual transmission while simultaneously chain smoking Benson and Hedges deluxe ultra light 100’s and trying to keep my beer from sloshing all over the front of my miniskirt when I went around a tight corner.

We decided to see what was happening at the Cave-In, a favorite Campustown bar known for its dime draws. I parked around back and we all got out of the car.

I don’t know exactly how it happened but Kristin tripped by the back of the car, hit her chin on my bumper (the force of which spun her around), then hit the back of her head on the bumper and landed on the pavement hard, sending one high heeled white pump flying across the parking lot.

I lost it. We all did (well, not Kristin). Lisa was pretty near peeing her pants and we were all on the ground by this time trying to get a hold of ourselves.

But wait. It gets even better.

What we didn’t notice right away was that the cigarette Kristin had been smoking was someone extinguished by the beer in her plastic cup that splashed up when she fell (or landed). And that extinguished cigarette had enough beer on it to make it sticky enough to stick to Kristin’s forehead.

And she didn’t realize it.

And we didn’t tell her.

Because we were too busy having hysterics in the parking lot. And Lisa was now telling us that she was going to pee her pants any second. I was pretty much in the fetal position on the ground of the parking lot because I could not get myself under control to save my life.

Kristin still doesn’t know there’s a cigarette stuck to her forehead. And what are the odds that the only one of us who doesn’t have bangs is Kristin? She did have big, huge, shiny waves of late eighties hair shellacked a couple inches high with no less than a quarter can of Aqua Net. But she wore her hair off her face, which left a veritable sea of forehead available for errant Marlboro Light 100’s to land.

I guess she couldn’t feel the cigarette. Not that we helped by pointing it out or anything.

(Straight-to-Hell, party of three? I believe your table is ready!)

So then we walked around to the front of the bar and got in a very long line with a whole bunch of other drunken college students. We managed to turn it into our own personal mosh pit because we were so out of control and hyper and Kristin kept falling down. Random people kept asking her if she needed a light and she kept saying, “I don’t have any cigarettes” which frankly did nothing but set me and Lisa and Stacy off again.

It sounds horrible that we didn’t help our friend. Kristin was, and still is, a very pretty woman and I think we were a little bit j-e-a-l-o-u-s. She never could hold her alcohol though and this mishap was just not going to get by any of us unnoticed.

Finally, after a couple more falls, the cigarette fell off and we waited in line until we got into the bar.

The next morning, when we told Kristin what had happened, she was kind of pissed. But not only was Kristin pretty, she was sweet and good natured and didn’t hold it against any of us, even though she would have been justified in doing so.

I told that story for years, complete with re-enacting the fall. Maybe that’s when I started being so entertained by people wiping out.

Kristin set the bar pretty high. There hasn’t been a fall I’ve witnessed since that has come close to making me laugh as hard as I did that night. Then again, maybe nothing can compete with a college memory of girlfriends, cheap keg beer, and a wayward cigarette.

If you have an opinion, will you share it?

Has anyone seen Slumdog Millionaire?

Dave and I have a babysitter for Saturday night and we were firming up some plans on the phone this afternoon.

Dave asked, "What are we doing again?" And I said, "well, you wanted to go see Slumdog Millionaire so why don't we go to the movie and then go have an appetizer and a couple glasses of wine somewhere afterward." Dave thought that sounded great and I said, "Okay, that's what we'll do on our date night." To which Dave replied, "Ugh, I hate it when people call it that." "Really?" I said. "You mean because you think it's odd to date someone you're already married to?" "Yeah," he said. "That seems kinda weird."

And I understand because I am always amazed when I ask a woman "who is babysitting your kids tonight" and she says something like "my husband." Um, no, your husband cannot babysit his own kids. He's home PARENTING while you're out with the girls.

So anyway, all that aside, now I'm not really sure I want to see Slumdog Millionaire. I heard it got some awards recently and everyone says it's fabulous and it got five stars but will I like it? The review said something about disturbing images and if there's one thing I hate at the movies, it's disturbing images. Does anyone know if any of the child characters has something "really bad" happen to them or anything? Is that what's disturbing? Something happens to a child? Also, is there any throat slitting or execution style killing because I will totally come unglued if there is. I am still haunted by that scene in Air Force One where the hijackers kill the press secretary and I was sure that Harrison Ford was going to save her at the last minute AND HE DIDN'T.

So, can someone tell me why I should see this movie? Because I'm thinking Confessions of a Shopoholic is sounding pretty good right now. I read the book and nothing bad ever happens to Becky Bloomwood. But I think Dave is really looking forward to Slumdog Millionaire and I can see the chick flicks with my friends and Trish.

So please, help me out. I'm not very good with the unknown. I prefer to see movies based on books so I know exactly what will happen and I can prepare myself ahead of time if there are any "disturbing images." If you loved Slumdog Millionaire, can you tell my why?

I appreciate any feedback you can give me if you've seen the movie. I really want to have a good time on "spending some quality alone time with my husband without screaming kids movie appetizer wine night." That's what I'm calling it instead of "date night." I just made it up. I'm sure that's painfully obvious.

Let's Ask Tracey More Stuff!

Once again, totally fictitious answers to totally fictitious problems from totally fictitious people I don’t know because they're make believe.


Dear Tracey,

My husband and I recently moved into a new home. The next door neighbors brought us a pie and introduced themselves. They seemed nice enough and they have children the same age as ours.

I am concerned about a few things, however. We invited them over for cocktails last weekend and it got weird toward the end of the evening.

The husband seemed to be giving me googly bedroom eyes and then he reached across me for his drink and touched my boob. He also wanted to know if I‘d show him “where the master bedroom was.“ Meanwhile, his wife had my husband cornered in the kitchen and she was trying to rub her body up and down his leg. My husband said he thinks he heard her purr. She also said she needed to take a shower because she was a “dirty, dirty girl.” I managed to cut the evening short by pretending to pass out on the couch while my husband hustled them out the door.

Before they left they invited us to their home next weekend to meet several of the families that live in the neighborhood. We don’t know what to expect and neither of us is remotely interested in becoming a swinger. My husband and I have a great relationship and he’s not interested in anyone else’s hoo-ha. There’s no way I’m getting up close and personal with my neighbor’s wiener either. How should we handle this unfortunate situation?

Signed,

We didn’t realize we were moving to Swingtown.

Dear ‘We didn’t realize we were moving to Swingtown‘,

Well, you do have quite a problem on your hands and it’s one I’ve frankly never encountered before. I had to do a little online research since I’m not personally privy to how the swinging lifestyle works.

I discovered that being disease free is very important to swingers so I have no choice but to recommend that you start a rumor in the neighborhood that you and your husband both have uncontrollable, rampant, super-herpes. It’s the only way. If either of you ever have a really gross cold sore on your lip it would go a long way toward validating this rumor. Please also mention frequently that you are allergic to latex because a die-hard swinger may not be put off by one little STD.

You also need to identify the non-swingers in your neighborhood, invite them over for drinks and dinner, and do some serious damage control. They may not totally believe you but since you aren’t going to try to have sex with them, they probably won’t care.

I believe swingers and non-swingers can peacefully co-exist. If you find that’s not the case, wait until the housing market improves, stick a for-sale sign in the yard, and move to a more normal neighborhood. You might want to do some advance research on your neighbors this time. Good luck!


Dear Tracey,

I’m a member of the PTA and I’m working on a fundraising committee with three other parents. There is one mom who is really starting to piss me off. She keeps sending elaborate e-mails with flow charts, Excel spread sheets, and summaries about everyone’s responsibilities and she has suggested “goals and benchmarks” for completing everything. I heard through the grapevine that she’s an out of work former business executive that got fired late last year, probably for being totally annoying.

The other moms and I are not her “minions” and I don’t appreciate her trying to turn this fundraiser into the social event of the year. We are supposed to be organizing a bingo game, bake sale, and a raffle so we can raise money for new library books. I’m about ready to tell her to shove her ideas about “swag” and “black tie only” up her butt. And seriously, if she asks me one more time to tell her about the dress I’m going to wear, I will throttle her. I’m wearing jeans and so is everyone else.

Signed,

Drama with another mama

Dear ‘Drama with another mama‘,

Working on a committee is never easy, especially with someone who has decided to use the fundraiser to fill the empty void created by losing her job. She is probably wishing she had an excuse to get dressed up again and hasn’t been able to get used to the fact that wearing sweats every day is perfectly acceptable.

Remind her of the common goal to raise money for books. And since it might help to make your point in a language she understands, why not put your suggestions into a nice PowerPoint presentation so she can feel like she‘s at work again.

Then, ask her to come to your house and discuss the fundraiser over margaritas. Show her that it’s OK to drink on the job when you’re not getting paid and can’t get fired. Get completely liquored up and make fun of anyone else working on the fundraiser that you don’t like. Then drunk dial her old boss and hang up when he answers (remember to *67 first, natch).

My prediction is that you’ll be BFF’s in no time and the fundraiser will be a huge success.



Dear Tracey,

My life sucks. I got fired from the insurance company where I’ve worked for ten years because the cute blonde receptionist they hired didn’t like me. Since she gives my boss a hummer every day at lunchtime, she has become the most powerful and influential employee in our department and she got me canned.

Then my boyfriend Jason broke up with me because he’s in love with some whore named Terry. I ran into Jason and Terry the other day when I stopped at Kum and Go for a bottle of wine and a Slim Jim. Terry has a fucking Adam’s apple and a five o’clock shadow and was holding Jason‘s hand. Terry is way better groomed than me and acted like he’d never seen someone at Kum and Go in pink flannel pajama pants, purple Crocs, and yesterday‘s underwear.

I’ve also gained some weight so in an effort to lose a few pounds I started taking Alli, the over the counter weight loss drug that Wynona Judd recommended. I had one ill timed cheeseburger from Sonic and crapped my pants in the car on my first date with a hot guy I met on Match.com. Now he’s got a big orange stain on the upholstery of his passenger seat and I‘m (surprise!) still fucking single.

Lastly, I had to spend money I don’t have to sign up on eharmony.com because word’s gotten around at Match.com that I’m a “shitter. “

Signed,

Should I just hang myself?




Dear ‘Should I just hang myself‘,

When life hands you lemons, grab a cocktail shaker, sugar, and vodka and make yourself a lemon drop martini as big as your head. Consume. Repeat. Consume. Repeat.

And seriously, wouldn’t you rather know you and Jason both liked boys sooner, rather than later?

I know jobs are scarce in this economy but try to look at your recent firing as a good thing. Treat this as an opportunity to switch careers and only accept offers from companies with ugly receptionists.

As for Alli, taking a drug that makes greasy orange poop leak out your bunghole is never a smart move. Please listen to me and not that washed up fat country singer Wynona Judd, and stop taking it immediately.

Trust me, things can only get better. Good luck to you!


*****Do you have a problem you'd like my help with? If so, leave it in the comments section of this blog post and I'll make up an answer for you. Remember, no question is too outrageous or inappropriate for me to handle. Just make something up. I do it all the time.

You're going to want to make this dip

My neighbor Wendy gave me an awesome recipe for habanero and roasted pineapple dip.

I know. It sounds gross. But it’s not. It’s so not gross that I have re-named it Wendy’s crack dip. Every neighbor in the ‘hood knows what I’m talking about when I’m say I’m bringing crack dip whenever we’re having a big get-together.

I haven’t had any crack dip since I started Weight Watchers. I made some to bring to a party and I’d forgotten that I had given the hostess the recipe. When I showed up with my bowl of it I felt bad for not calling ahead and telling her because she made it too. I’m planning on running the recipe through Weight Watcher’s online recipe builder tool even though I’m pretty sure it will implode when I get done entering the ingredients. I really want to have some crack dip soon but I need to know how many points it’s going to cost me.

Last summer I gave the recipe to Dave’s cousin Cassy. We were talking with her when we got together with Dave’s family for Thanksgiving. She was telling us about how she gave some of the dip to her insurance agent to try. I was like, “did you have some dip in your car or what?” And she was like, “yeah, I drive around with it sometimes.”

Here’s what you need:

(2) 8 oz. bricks of Philadelphia cream cheese. Do not use the fat free kind because Wendy will feel a chill go down her spine if you mess with her dip. Leave the cream cheese out for several hours so it’s very soft.

(1) 9 oz. jar of Archer Farms brand Habenero and Roasted Pineapple dip. This is only available at Super Target. Sometimes a regular Target will also have it. It is located between the pickle/olive section and the mustard section (Kathryn I think I told you it was with the salsas but I was wrong). I just stocked up because I like to have no fewer than three jars of this stuff in my pantry at all times.

Shredded sharp cheddar cheese. Start with about 1-2 cups. You can add as much or as little as you like.

One-half a red onion, finely diced. Again, you can add as much or as little onion as you like.

Take the cream cheese and mix it with the entire jar of Habenero and Roasted Pineapple dip. Make sure you combine it well. Add the shredded cheddar and the onion and mix again. Chill for at least 1-2 hours so the cream cheese can firm back up.

Serve with Ritz crackers. Occasionally I will spread the dip on tortillas, roll them up, and slice them for tortilla roll-ups. I think serving it on Ritz crackers is better but the roll-ups are very portable.

If you have somewhere to go this weekend and you need to bring an appetizer, give this one a try. Seriously, you will find that certain people will just park themselves next to it and not leave.

If you make the dip, and you love it as much as I do, please leave a comment on this blog post and let me know what you thought. You have plenty of time to buy all the ingredients so you can make it this weekend.

Enjoy!

Don't be jealous of my W-2

I’ll always remember 2008/2009 as the “maybe Dave’s getting laid off years.” When your household only has one income, the possibility of that income going poof can be quite unsettling. And it’s not like I’m kicking anything in to pay the bills. I have the coolest job in the world, as a stay at home mom, but unfortunately it’s not a very lucrative gig.

If I were able to find a job right now, I’d take it. I’m not super positive about being hired in this economy but I am thinking ahead about what I might do next fall when the offspring go back to school and the economy has (hopefully) rebounded.

Top 5 Careers and Training for Social Butterflies

I saw this headline on the MSN homepage Saturday morning and thought, “What a coincidence. I’m totally a social butterfly and I could really use a job. Perhaps I should see what this article is all about.”

Apparently, social butterflies can’t get through the morning without checking Facebook, MySpace, e-mail, and text messages (so obviously we have the attention span of a fruit fly). Personally, I also have to check for new posts on fifty-seven different blogs, see if Lostpedia has posted any new Lost theories, and confirm whether anyone at Classmates.com has signed my guest book. Sometimes I also go to TheHairStyler.com and put different hairdos on a picture I’ve uploaded of myself. (Maybe these sites are not so much for networking purposes but rather because I have a pretty wicked Internet addiction and too much free time).

The article listed the top five jobs for anyone who craves social interaction. The first career they recommend is Promotions.

To determine if I’m a good fit for a career in Promotions, I was to ask myself if I always seem to know where to find the best parties. Absolutely! They are all at my house. Then I was to ask myself if I’m always shopping for the latest trends before my paycheck can catch up with me. Yes! Wow, this is so accurate it’s freaky. And probably they mean Dave’s paycheck because technically I don’t receive one of my own (which is why I’m reading the article in the first place). However, for the last six months it’s only been pseudo shopping and not real shopping. I have online shopping carts filled with all kinds of crap but I never actually click the checkout button anymore. Progress, yes?

And guess what? For a managing position in Promotions, you need a bachelor’s degree in business administration AND I HAVE ONE OF THOSE!! And Advertising and Promotions managers earn annual salaries in the neighborhood of $91,100. This just keeps getting better and better. Dave would probably do cartwheels if I got me a Promotions job.

The next career recommended for a social butterfly is Culinary and Hospitality, which sounds a lot like cooking and cleaning to me. I do a lot of both (though maybe not quite as much cleaning as blogging these days). I actually thought of going into catering because I make the most awesome chicken enchiladas you’ve ever had but probably you can’t build a catering career from one recipe. And even though I love to entertain and will spend days planning menus I only like to do this if I’m also going to be eating, drinking, and getting tipsy with everyone. Working as a Catering Manager or Executive Chef means I’ll be making stuff for other people to eat and drink while I just watch so I’m going to have to pass on this career.

The third career recommendation is Fashion Design. This one in not going to work for me either. I love Carrie Bradshaw but if her wardrobe on Sex and The City is considered fashionable by designers then I’m not qualified. Please, did you see the butt ugly hat she was going to wear to marry Mr. Big? It had a big fucking bird on it! Blechh! Plus I think fashion designers might have to sew and I’ll have none of that.

The fourth career that might be a good fit for me is Nursing. Another big coincidence because when I was a freshman in college my major was pre-nursing. Then I hit a little snag called Chemistry. I have flunked chemistry once and dropped it twice. Three chemistry strikes and I had to change majors. I’m totally cool with science classes like biology and anatomy (except when I took anatomy at the University of Iowa and we had to go to anatomy lab with real dead people and it grossed me out so bad I refused to breathe through my nose or eat chicken for two weeks). Any science class that also requires math means I’m out. If your bus was determined only by math abilities, I’d have arrived at my elementary school on the short one. This is too bad because have you seen how much money nurses are making these days? They’re really in demand right now.

The last career to consider is Entrepreneurship. Ding, ding, ding!!!!! We have a winner folks! It says this career is for people who march to the beat of a different drum and for whom the traditional work week has never held much appeal. A bachelor’s degree in business administration (check!) can pave the way for me to own my own small business, franchise or entrepreneurial idea.

Now I just have to think of an idea.

Thinking.

Still thinking.

That big empty vacant space in my noggin doesn’t seem to be producing any viable ideas. This is harder than I thought. I’m sure a fabulous idea will come to me if I’m patient.

I could run some ads on my blog but I think I’d earn like seventeen cents a month so probably blogging isn’t going to pay the bills either. My W-2 for 2008 shows I grossed $18 for one hour of freelance work I picked up last February but if I can earn $36 blogging in 2009 then I will have doubled my income from last year so I won’t rule it out.

I’m sure I’ll find something. Dave’s been supporting everyone all by himself for a long time and I want to help him out. If companies would start doing more hiring and less firing that would have a positive impact on my job search.

I would actually love to find a Promotions-type job. I think I’d be pretty good at it. Until then, I’m a mommy-blogger-enchilada maker-wine drinker. The pay may not be very good but the job satisfaction is incredible.

Tweet Tweet

I'm on Twitter.

I don't know how it works.

Kind of like when I first joined Facebook and had no cool applications.

I'm stalking Ashton Kutcher @aplusk.

He's an Iowa boy.

My tweets are boring.

Do I need to spend more time on the Internet than I already do?

Probably not.

If you are a Twitter expert, can you help me out?

If you're on Twitter, leave your user name in the comments section and I'll follow you.

If you can.

Comments aren't posting well these days.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

I don't know why.

Tweet.

Guess what I'm thinkin' 'bout drinkin' tonight

Just kidding! Well, I'm still planning on wine but not that bottle and not out of that glass!

I was cool with everything but the spiders

(click on photos to enlarge)



There’s some land in rural Iowa that’s been in my family for as long as I can remember. It’s been handed down from my grandparents to my dad and now to my brother Georgie. He and his wife Stefanie live there in a house they built.

It’s a beautiful place and I have a lot of childhood memories of time spent there. There are acres and acres of land to explore.

There’s a lot of wildlife too. One time the trail camera Georgie set up in the woods took a picture of a large bobcat, which freaked me out. Some time later, when we saw a fox in our yard, I called Georgie right away. I had to tell him he wasn’t the only one who had wildlife on his property.

There’s a pond where we used to swim when we were younger. I don’t really like to swim in the pond now because the water isn’t as clear as it used to be and I’m convinced there are giant scary fish in it like the gargantuan catfish Trish caught when we were ten. My dad threw it back and I’ve always wondered what the life span of the average catfish is.

When I was about nineteen Georgie, Trish and I were fishing in the pond, and Georgie didn’t look before he cast his line. We had to drive to the urgent care clinic in town to have the purple mister twister lure removed from my jaw.

The pond is just big enough to be able to ride a jet ski on (sort of) so you have to pay attention not to hit the bank. And it’s a Jet Ski that you have to stand up on, not a wave runner where you can sit comfortably while you ride around. You steer a Jet Ski by shifting your weight and you have to keep your speed up or you’ll tip over. It’s kind of like riding a bike on the water and it’s not easy.

Trish was taking a turn on the Jet Ski once and crashed into a tree that grew at the water’s edge on the south side of the pond. Even though we were all yelling at her to slow down, I don’t think she even backed off on the throttle.

A few years ago, we went down to Georgie’s and I was riding the Jet Ski. I could hear Georgie yelling something at me as I went by. “What? I can‘t hear you,” I yelled. I had to do another lap and come around again. Georgie yelled a little louder this time. He said, “My ice fishing shack fell through the ice because I didn’t pull it off the pond in time when it started to thaw. It’s under the surface of the water about three feet so don’t crash into it. “

I got off the Jet Ski immediately. I would rather come face to face with Trish’s big mutant catfish from 1977 than wipe out on a jet ski and then body slam into Georgie’s submerged ice shack.

Dave and I went to visit Georgie and Stef when Matthew was about two. It was summertime and I noticed there were daddy long-legs spiders everywhere. I hate spiders and even though daddy long-legs spiders aren’t as bad as a wolf spider or a brown recluse, I still don’t like them. I went to Girl Scout camp when I was ten and instead of tents, we slept in teepees. The teepee walls were covered in daddy long-legs spiders and our cots were pushed right up against them because the teepee was so tiny.

The spiders were crawling all over Georgie’s deck. Dave and I commented that we had never seen so many all in one place before.

Georgie tried to freak me out. “Tracey, daddy long- legs spiders are the most venomous in the world but their fangs are too short to penetrate human skin,” Georgie said. (He was totally lying but I didn’t know that until I got home and googled it. It’s actually a popular urban myth).

Later that night, after we put Matthew to bed, Georgie built a huge bonfire in the fire pit. I was wearing a white t-shirt and Stef said, “I think there’s a spider on your shirt. I see a little dot and it’s moving.” I jumped off the tree stump I was sitting on and started doing the spider dance, brushing off the front of my shirt while simultaneously screaming. I managed to calm myself down and returned to my tree stump.

Georgie and Stef had to leave to fill up their giant water tank so they could add water to their well. They said they’d be back soon so Dave and I waited for them on our stumps around the fire pit.

As the flames grew and the air above the campfire heated up and filled with smoke, about fifty squillion kajillion daddy long-legs spiders started raining down out of the pine tree branches that hung over the fire pit. I jumped off my tree stump shaking my arms and legs and I flung my head up and down and side-to-side to dislodge all possible spiders. I had a complete and total kook-out meltdown and by the time Georgie and Stef pulled back into the driveway, I had relocated Dave and I back onto the deck. That wasn’t good enough though because the spiders were still all over the deck so I went into the house, changed my clothes, medicated myself with beer, and refused to go outside for the rest of the night.

Everyone thought it was hysterical. Maybe I slightly over-reacted but I can’t imagine trying to relax around a nice campfire if there are spiders crawling all over me.

Now whenever we go to visit Georgie and Stef I keep a close watch on Matthew and Lauren. I scan the horizon for wild animals and I make sure no one goes near the pond without a life jacket.

The last time we were there, we let Matthew have a turn on the Jet Ski. He did a good job riding it. There was no ice-fishing shack to watch out for but there are still a couple of trees.

And I didn’t see a single daddy long-legs spider anywhere.

If you click on the picture you can see the Weight Watchers sign near the top of this building. This is where I weigh in every Thursday morning and as of today, I'm down 17.4 lbs.

Put that in your cone and LICK IT Baskin Robbins!

Ha!

Valentine's Day, Dave and Tracey Style

For the first Valentine’s Day Dave and I celebrated as a couple, Dave sent flowers to me at work. When the receptionist called to tell me she had a delivery for me I was thrilled because Dave and I had only been dating a few months and I wasn’t sure if he was going to send me anything at work.

I acted a bit smug when I got the call because one of my work friends had started dating her boyfriend around the same time and we had been locked in an unspoken competition all morning to see who was going to get flowers first.

Possibly my return to my desk would have been a bit more triumphant had Dave sent a dozen long stemmed red roses and not six carnations that had a scary red Valentine’s troll doll with Don King hair sticking out of them.

I deserve an Oscar for the performance I gave that day, both in the office and at home. I was madly in love with Dave so even though I hate carnations, I acted like I loved them (I threw the troll doll in the back of my closet and piled a bunch of crap on top of it).

Over the years, as Dave's Valentine's Day budget grew, he did start sending the long stemmed red roses until I finally told him not to spend so much money on flowers that were just going to die anyway.

This year Dave gave me a card with a dog on the front. I was confused because I thought maybe it was from Chloe but when I asked him he said "No, it's from me. I bought it almost a month ago! But I didn't get you any candy because I didn't think you'd eat it."

He's right about that. This is the second food-centric holiday I've missed out on since I've been on Weight Watchers but I don't really mind skipping chocolate as long as there's wine.

We couldn't get a sitter for Valentine's Day so I made dinner and a heart-shaped cake for everyone. I was really tired because Matthew and Lauren had gotten up at 6:30 AM to see what we'd given them for Valentine's Day. They were so jacked up on sugar by 7:00 they were bouncing off the walls and wouldn't eat a normal breakfast.

I told Dave I might have to go to bed right after we got the kids down for the night but he suggested I pour a glass of wine instead. He seemed worried that our Valentine's Day celebration might entail him drinking and watching Saturday Night Live by himself.

The first glass went down so well I immediately poured another. I was still drinking Sauvignon Blanc from the night before because I've recently come to the conclusion that red wine gives me a bad headache (I tell myself the headache is from the tannins and not over consumption).

Dave was on his second glass too and I noticed he was doing something on the computer. I had left my Facebook page open and he was going around writing "burp" and "dude" on some of my friend's walls. He was also friending people without asking me first. He wanted to know if instead of poking people he could "bitch-slap" them. I made him get off Facebook and told him if he wants to mess around he needs to set up his own profile.

We spent the rest of the evening in front of the fireplace drinking wine and listening to music. Tom and Amy started texting us and we sent some messages back and forth. Tom texted that they found another fly in their house. I texted that I'd used so many WW points I couldn't eat again until Tuesday.

Eventually we stopped drinking and went to bed. We both had a bit of a headache on Sunday.

Maybe next year we'll try harder to get a babysitter. Even though we stayed home this year and didn't celebrate Valentine's Day in the most sophisticated manner, at least we celebrated together. I'd rather have Dave than carnations or roses or scary troll dolls anyway.

100 more things

Keri in MA recently tagged me in her note 25 random things on Facebook. I enjoyed coming up with my own 25 things so much I thought I’d write a new list and try to come up with 100 more things.

Here they are:

100. Trish is five minutes older than me.
99. My parents went to the doctor when my mom was seven and a half months pregnant and they found out there were going to be two babies instead of one. My mom went into labor later that night and they didn’t have a name or a crib for me. I guess they thought Tracey sounded good with Trish.
98. We are fraternal twins meaning there were two separate eggs.
97. We look nothing alike but people still ask us if we’re identical twins.
96. I am a little bit taller.
95. Trish and I both have brown eyes.
94. I was born breech.
93. I have a really cool younger brother named George but I’ve been forbidden to blog about him. I probably will anyway. I still call him Georgie even though he’s thirty-nine years old.
92. I abhor jazz music.
91. Not crazy about R&B either.
90. Dave is always trying to convince me to like both.
89. I hate riding my bicycle.
88. And not because my helmet is super queer which is why Dave thinks I don’t like to go on bike rides.
87. I would never attend a spinning class at the YMCA either.
86. I have no desire to ever participate in RAGBRAI which is when thousands of bicycle riding enthusiasts pedal their way across Iowa.
85. But I’ll show up when RAGBRAI swings through Des Moines and drink beer with all the bicyclists. To show my support and stuff.
84. I just think biking is boring.
83. Dave’s always trying to convince me it’s not.
82. To me it is (shrug).
81. I make Dave’s lunch for him every day.
80. I make him a PB&J sandwich and throw in a carton of AE yogurt.
79. We only eat natural peanut butter. You have to keep it in the fridge and when you first open it, the oil and the peanut butter have to be mixed up.
78. I pack either strawberry banana or cherry vanilla yogurt.
77. I started packing his lunch because he works out on his lunch hour and he doesn’t always have time to go get something to eat afterward.
76. Dave appreciates that I pack his lunch and never takes it for granted.
75. Dave is way nicer than me.
74. “Hey, is that your real hair color?”
73. That was the pick up line Dave used on me the night we met.
72. I was a redhead at the time.
71. We met at a party being thrown by a guy I was pseudo-dating.
70. Pseudo because he usually just tried to booty call me. Or convince me to go home from the bar with him.
69. Luckily I would usually sleep through the booty call and not listen to his message on my answering machine until the next morning.
68. Which translated into me accidentally playing hard to get.
67. Which is why pseudo-date guy actually called me during daylight hours and invited me to come to his party.
66. And then IGNORED me the whole night.
65. Except for making a rude remark about my blazer (it was brand new, I bought it at The Limited, and it was THE blazer to own).
64. But then Dave uttered his magic pick up line and I fell in love.
63. That party was sixteen and a half years ago.
62. Dave is my best friend.
61. Dave and I are not car people.
60. We’ve only had one income for almost ten years so we had to choose between a nice house or nice cars.
59. Our cars aren’t nice.
58. I drive a 1999 Ford Explorer. It’s white and it does have all the bells and whistles like keyless entry and butt warmers.
57. I bought it from my dad when it was three years old.
56. It was in pristine condition because my dad is very clean.
55. I am super clean too yet the kids and I have managed to turn the Explorer (which we call “the exploder” for no apparent reason) into a giant garbage can on wheels.
54. Dave cleans out the interior every six weeks or so.
53. He’s usually muttering something under his breath about how filthy it was.
52. Dave drives a 1995 Honda Accord that we also bought from my dad and Debby. It was only two years old when we got it.
51. I’ve only had one new car in my life. In 1990, I bought a red Acura Integra.
50. I drove it for the next twelve years.
49. I was pregnant with Lauren when we sold the Acura and bought dad’s Explorer.
48. I loved my Acura.
47. It was a five speed.
46. I miss having a clutch.
45. I’m a pretty good driver. I haven’t had a speeding ticket in fifteen years and I had never had an “at fault“ accident until last winter.
44. I slid into a parked car at cost cutters when I took Matthew to get a haircut.
43. It cost $500 and we paid out of our pocket because it wasn’t worth submitting to our insurance company.
42. I love to read.
41. I just finished reading all eight Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Mystery books by Charlaine Harris.
40. Currently I’m reading two David Sedaris books simultaneously.
39. I’m really into reading memoirs right now.
38. Dave and I still read to the kids every night at bedtime.
37. We started reading at bedtime when the kids were infants
36. Dave and I have read the first four Harry Potter books aloud to Matthew at bedtime.
35. I had already read all seven Harry Potter books.
34. So I’m getting really tired of Harry Potter.
33. Both kids are pretty good readers.
32. Dave and I drink more since having kids then we ever did before.
31. But I hardly ever drink Sunday-Thursday. I’ve never been a big “school night” drinker.
30. I’d rather consume seven drinks in a weekend rather than have one drink every night for a week.
29. There’s a name for people like me.
28. Binge drinker.
27. During the week I like to work out, get up early, and get things accomplished so I can have fun on the weekends.
26. With wine.
25. Or cosmos.
24. Or sometimes beer if it’s hot out.
23. I also really like iced tea.
22. Not sweet tea!
21. I like diet coke.
20. I hate pepsi products.
19. I only drink soy milk.
18. I hate spiders.
17. I hate snakes.
18. I don’t mind mice.
16. I don’t love mice but I can’t remember the last time I saw one anyway.
15. I’ve seen some scary spiders in my yard.
14. We had a fox in our yard two years ago.
13. Say it with me: Urban sprawl.
12. Matthew walked right by it on his way to the swing set.
11. He didn’t know what it was.
10. It ran away.
9. I don’t throw stale bread off the deck anymore.
8. Although I wish the fox would come back and eat Sandy the yeti.
7. But I’m afraid the fox will eat Chloe someday.
6. We have an invisible fence which will only keep out invisible foxes.
5. We are planning on putting up a volleyball net in our back yard this summer.
4. I am also going to teach the kids how to play croquet.
3. I used to love playing croquet in my yard with Trish and Georgie when we were little.
2. Except one time a bird pooped on my head when I was playing croquet.
1. One time a bird pooped on Amy’s head when she was at a cemetery.
*Amy wins.

Psst, Cupid

Dear dude with the arrows,

I need a favor. My sister Trish had a date last Friday with a guy named Ian. She met him on match.com and discovered he was just as attractive in person as his profile picture promised. He was also really nice and he and Trish had a lot in common.

They went out for dinner and then to a bar. Ian asked Trish if she wanted to do a shot and she said “sure!”

Trish does not do shots.

Trish certainly does not do tequila shots.

Yet somehow Trish had five tequila shots on her first date with Ian.

How she managed not to turn into a big vomit volcano is beyond me.

When they got back to her place, Trish changed into her bathrobe and did a lot of dancing and singing in the kitchen. Ian tucked her into bed, alone, at 3:30 AM. Trish didn’t remember much of it. She texted Ian the next morning to apologize and he filled in the gaps.

He must be quite a gentleman considering Trish slipped herself a tequila roofie.

And yes, I gave Trish a good “talking to” about how dangerous it is to drink a crapload of liquor and then invite a guy she just met back to her house.

Trish hasn’t heard from Ian since, except for a couple texts. She knows she might not have made the best first impression and she’s worried it might have cost her a second date with a great guy. I’m still secretly hoping Ian will ask Trish to be his valentine and that’s why I need your help cupid.

Could you please shoot Ian with a big-ass arrow? I know you’re wicked busy but I’d sure appreciate it if you could help me and Trish out.

Lots of love,

Tracey

P.S. I know you’re not santa but could you also drop off a box of chocolates at my house? A very small box will be fine, as I will mostly be celebrating Valentine’s Day with sauvignon blanc and my extra weight watchers points will only go so far. Please make sure there are no chocolates with pink, white, or maple centers because if I bite into one of those I’m just going to spit it back into the box and Dave gets all bent of out shape when I do that. Thanks in advance!

The Marble Jar Method, Is It Working?

Recently I wrote about a positive behavior reinforcement method I implemented to help me manipulate my devil’s spawn offspring into listening to me and doing what I wanted. I am pleased to announce that the marble jar method, when executed properly, will absolutely allow you to modify and/or eliminate the undesirable behavior of anyone participating. However, the plan is only as effective as the individual administering it and that’s where we had some problems.

When I first set out the marble jars, not only did Matthew and Lauren keep acting like hooligans, they weren‘t even trying to earn marbles. I couldn’t figure it out. Why weren’t they participating? Weren’t they excited about getting cool stuff? It finally occurred to me a day later that for a positive behavior reinforcement method to work there needs to be some positive reinforcement.

The next morning I gave Lauren a marble for being so cheerful when she came down to breakfast. I gave Matthew a marble for answering me quickly when I asked him what he wanted to eat. I gave both of them marbles for brushing their teeth, putting on their boots, and walking to the bus stop.

They were thrilled. “You mean this is all we have to do to earn marbles?” they asked.

“Yep”, I said. “Just keep doing what I ask and you’ll have a jar full of marbles by Sunday.”

The more positive behavior I reinforced, the more positive behavior they exhibited. The backpacks were hung up, the boots were put away, and all the dirty clothes were placed in the laundry basket. Matthew and Lauren said please and thank you to each other. Whenever Chloe rang the bell to let us know she needed to go out, Lauren ran to the front door to open it, screaming, “I get a marble, I get a marble!”

By the end of the week, Lauren earned enough marbles for a new DS game and Matthew earned enough marbles for duct tape, glue, paint, and other building supplies for a project he’s working on in the spare bedroom.

Clearly, I am some kind of rock star mother. If my eggs weren’t so old and Dave hadn’t had a vasectomy, I might consider having another baby since parenting is so easy for me. I thought about writing an article detailing how effortless it is to raise polite and obedient children and sending it to Parenting magazine so other moms and dads could learn from my example.

After about a week, when Matthew finally realized that letting Chloe out was a really easy way to earn marbles, he raced to the front door when he heard the bell ring. So did Lauren and since they both refused to yield to their sibling, they collided, got pissed, and had a knock down drag out fight about who was going to open the door. I sent them to their rooms, took a marble out of their jars, and let Chloe out myself.

A few days later, I asked Matthew what he wanted for breakfast. He thought answering me was optional. I asked him again and when he started demanding things for breakfast that we didn’t even have in the house, I got a little peeved. I gave him a couple choices and he decided to get lippy with me. I warned him that I was going to take a marble out of his jar if he did not answer me immediately. He said he didn’t care. I removed ALL the marbles in his jar and asked him if he cared now. He responded by sticking his tongue out at me, making a face, and opening and closing his hands up by his mouth to mimic my talking.

I snapped. I yelled so loud people in the next county probably heard me. I slapped my hand down on the island so everyone would be crystal clear on who was in charge.

I’m going through the “terrible forty-twos” and I’m not always able to control the temper tantrums that accompany this adult developmental stage.

I grabbed a slip of paper, wrote “negative 45 marbles” on it, and shoved it into Matthew’s jar. I put myself in a time out and barely got Matthew and Lauren to the bus stop in time.

It took me twenty-four hours to cool off enough to remove the slip of paper from Matthew’s marble jar and start him over at zero.

I’m not giving up on the marble jar method. I believe it works if administered properly. I will come up with an action plan for how to deal with occasional behavior deviations and I realize that throwing a parental hissy fit is not very effective in terms of positive reinforcement.

Matthew hopes to earn enough marbles next week to earn Mario Kart for the Wii. Lauren is thinking about another game for her DS.

And I’m going to try harder to be a rock star mom.

Farewell Top Nails

I decided to break up with my Top Nails boyfriend today. I needed to have my pink and white artificial solar nails filled again and I could not bear the thought of sitting across from him for an hour while he touched me with his clammy hands and tried to speak to me in Mandarin. I’m sure the tibia crushing sadist would have been there too, lurking by the pedicure chairs waiting to pounce on unsuspecting women with pain thresholds not nearly high enough to offset the misery she would likely inflict upon them.

I went to Elegant Nails instead. Unlike Top Nails, Elegant Nails did not have a single dude in the whole place. I’ve been to Elegant Nails before, with Trish and Wendy, and I’ve always had a good experience. It’s a little farther from my house, and busier than Top Nails, but it’s totally worth waiting a little while if you have to (there’s a reason they have a large clientele). I am sometimes the only customer at Top Nails.

The female nail technician who assisted me spoke excellent English and we were able to communicate with ease. Conversely, my Top Nails boyfriend likes to ask me questions and since I can’t understand him, I usually answer one of three ways: “uh-huh”, “yes”, or with an awkward giggle even though he probably just asked me my bra size and whether or not I like to watch pornos (36 C and occasionally).

The girl at Elegant Nails completed the nail fill in a speedy thirty-five minutes instead of the fifty minutes it takes my Top Nails boyfriend, thus proving that women are faster and more efficient than men at pretty much everything.

At Top Nails, I am forced to watch One Life to Live. At Elegant Nails, I was able to watch Ozzy Osbourne’s True Hollywood Story on E! This delighted me as I am a fan of Ozzy’s and used to love watching The Osbournes on MTV. I also live in a suburb of Des Moines and everyone knows Des Moines is where Ozzy bit the head off a bat in 1982 at Veterans Memorial Auditorium. Any mention of Des Moines that does not result in my city being ridiculed is good publicity in my book so I think I should support Ozzy whenever possible, even if it’s just by playing Crazy Train on my ipod or watching him on television.

She even trimmed my cuticles at Elegant Nails. I noticed she pulled the clippers out of a drawer and not, say, an autoclave, which probably means that sterilization guidelines weren’t totally adhered to but I don’t even care. I know it’s just a matter of time before I catch Ebola from one of these places so what the hell.

Overall, I had a very satisfactory customer experience. Elegant Nails will definitely be getting my business from now on.

Sorry Top Nails boyfriend. I’m just not that into you.

Sometimes You Have to Take a Detour

In the spring of 1988, I dropped out of the University of Iowa and moved home to Des Moines to take a job at my dad’s motorcycle dealership selling extended warranties and insurance.

In addition to providing me with an all expenses paid, albeit temporarily incomplete, college education, and now a job, my dad also drove to Coralville, moved everything out of my apartment into a big truck, and drove it home. He had also moved Trish in and out of various apartments and I rode shotgun with him once. The two of us transported everything Trish owned to California, unpacked it, and headed back east stopping only in Vegas because my dad wanted to show me the lights and buy me a shrimp cocktail.

After my dad moved my things back into my high school bedroom, I began my new job at the motorcycle dealership. I was unapologetically boy crazy so working in an environment that was, by its very design meant to appeal primarily to the opposite sex seemed like a smart move in my opinion.

Since I lived at home, every penny I earned was spent at the mall. In my twenty-one year old world the only worries I had were whether Target would continue to sell the hairspray I’d discovered (Stiff Stuff, perfect for my late eighties mile - high hair) and if my brown leather skirt was in fact too short to allow me to sit on a bar stool without flashing everyone my hooha.

I wasn’t responsible for paying any property taxes and I’m not sure I could have explained their function in relation to the free roof over my head. I’m certain I was not registered to vote and wouldn’t have been able to name a single branch of the United States Government.

I spent the time I was not working baking myself brown in a tanning bed and smoking Benson and Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light 100’s.

One afternoon when I was working at the dealership the sales manager sold several Honda scooters to three customers, two men and one woman, who came in together. They paid just under ten-thousand dollars in wilted twenty-dollar bills. I spent a half hour sitting on the floor counting and re-counting the bills which were wrinkly and smelled like dirt and sweat. I also completed all the sale paperwork. I remember the woman had the longest fake fingernails I’d ever seen and they were painted red. Her name was Mary and I wanted to ask her how she buttoned her shirt with nails that long but I didn’t.

A couple years later I took the skills my dad had taught me and, with his blessing, started working at a car dealership.

One day a man in a dark suit came in and asked the receptionist to page me to the sales floor.

When I arrived he handed me a subpoena to appear in federal court in the case of the state versus “the three scooter-buying drug dealers.” Even though I hadn’t actually been the one to sell the scooters, my name was on all the paperwork which is how I ended up in federal court as a witness for the prosecution.

I didn’t think they meant court like placing my hand on a bible and swearing to “tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God.” But that’s exactly what it means when you are subpoenaed to federal court.

If I had been paying the slightest bit of attention to anything I would have presented myself better and not shown up in a short blue miniskirt, white tights, and navy blue pumps. The minor witness for the prosecution looked like a hooker.

I was called to the stand, which was located directly in front of the defendants, in this case unrepentant drug dealers who were allowed to glare at and terrify the twenty-three year old hooker/witness that had been forced to testify against them.

I swore to tell the truth and I did. The prosecuting attorney wanted me to state that it was unusual for the defendants to have paid in cash. I told him farmers did it all the time when they came in to buy ATV’s. He wanted me to agree that paying just under ten-thousand dollars in cash, thus exempting us from having to fill out a special form, was suspect. I simply stated that that was what the total ended up being for the three scooters.

My time on the stand was done after that. I’m not sure what they thought an inconsequential witness like me could add to the case. I had listened to enough testimony before I was finally called to the stand to realize that whatever I said would have no influence on the outcome of the trial.

I never feared retribution of any kind. This was due in part to my immature and undeveloped cognitive thought processes and the fact that the drug dealers were going to prison for a while. After my day in court I simply returned to my simple life of hair spray, limited responsibility, and boys.

Eventually I started having a recurring dream that I was still attending the University of Iowa but I’m late for all of my final exams and I haven’t completed any of the semester’s assignments for a single class. I’m so far behind there’s no way I will ever catch up.

It’s that feeling that sent me back to school in the fall of 1992, shortly before I met Dave. I went to night school at Grandview College and graduated with a degree in Business Administration.

Sometimes I still have that dream and I regret dropping out of college more than anything I‘ve ever done in my life. I wish my dad had thrown a fit instead of a lifeline.

But when I hear about a marriage breaking up or an irresponsible mid-life crisis being attributed to oats that weren’t sown I sometimes feel a little better.

These boots are made for walkin'

Here is your mission should you choose to accept it:

You have 24 hours to find a pair of size six snow boots for a nine and a half year old boy.

Good luck. You are going to need it.


Probably you should just blow off this mission and go to a bar. It’s impossible.

Had I known I would need to buy Matthew new boots I could have started looking for them months ago when they were still available. I didn’t discover the need for new boots until four days ago when I picked up a pair of wet socks by the front door.

“Matthew why are your socks all wet?” I asked.
“Because my boots have holes in the bottom.”
“Both of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“I don’t know.”

How odd because Matthew usually tells me every single thing that’s bothering him in regards to his personal comfort. Anything being wet usually sends him over the edge. He can’t stand tags of any kind and will complain if his clothes don’t feel right. Actually, he’ll start jumping around and screaming until I get the scissors and cut out the tag. Lauren doesn’t care if her underwear is on backward and could probably wear a shirt made entirely OUT of tags. She’s easygoing that way.

I know teenaged boys are not the most communicative specimens on the planet but Matthew is only nine and a half and I thought he’d be at least thirteen before we reached the communication breakdown years.

Since I love to shop, I thought replacing the boots would not be a problem. I’d simply go to Target and buy another pair. I’d probably get a huge discount on them and pay next to nothing. I’d buy them one size bigger and he could wear them again next winter.

I was clearly deluded and I have no grasp of how the retail inventory system works. Only Punxsutawney Phil and I are admitting its still winter. Target thinks its sandal and swimsuit season. Where does all the winter stuff go? Is there a giant secret winter warehouse somewhere that they store it in or does it all get shipped to Australia?

Next, I frantically searched the Internet and Land’s End is on my shit list. Their website is nothing but a big bait and switch. It appears that they have the boots but when I get ready to place them in my shopping cart, the only color they actually have is magenta and the only size available is four. Ditto LL Bean.com, zappos.com, and any other web site that claims to still have boots in stock.

I got out the phone book and started calling all the local shoe stores. The high school employees laughed at me.

I asked my neighbor Lisa for help. She didn’t know where I could get boots but she told me the next day at the bus stop that she’d had a dream that there were boys snow boots in Oelwein, IA.

Trish had a roommate in college named Janis whose boyfriend lived in Oelwein. Janis somehow convinced Trish and me to go home with her one weekend to stay at her much older, farmer boyfriend’s house for some sort of party.

I was so traumatized by the 48 hours I spent in Oelwein that I’m never going back, not even if the town’s welcome wagon lady hands me a cosmopolitan and a Dooney and Bourke handbag upon my arrival. Not even if every boys size six snow boot in the world is being stored there in a giant warehouse. Not even if you can grab as many pairs as you want. For free.

And if you’re reading this blog post and you live in Oelwein, I’m sorry (but get the fuck out right now before the pod people convince you to stay there for the rest of your life).

I couldn’t find boots anywhere. I admitted defeat and the thought of Matthew having to go to school with cardboard and duct tape holding his boots together was more than I could endure. I considered home schooling him for the next six weeks.

And then, I remembered something. I ran to the front closet and dug out my navy blue Sporto winter boots. They weren’t magenta. They were warm and the soles were perfectly intact. Matthew’s feet are only a little smaller than mine so they’d probably fit OK.

“Matthew, come here. Look what I found in the closet.”
He tried them on. “I don’t like them mom. I love them!”
“Do they fit?”
“Yeah!”

Matthew needed new boots and mama worked it out. Sure, I sent my son to school in his mother’s boots. Sure, some dick headed older kid could pull the old “your mama wears Sporto boots” and it would be true. And I have no idea the psychological damage I might have done by sending him to school in said boots. Someday Matthew might by lying on a shrink’s couch saying, “my mom made me wear her boots, man. She totally tricked me and I wore those boots for two years because I didn’t know it was weird.”

I don’t care. His socks are dry and his feet are warm and that’s all I care about.

Mission impossible, my ass.

The Real Housewives

I know I said I was not going to watch those attention whores out in Orange County anymore but I lied. Maybe I need some kind of twelve-step program or support group to wean myself off this producer manipulated and highly edited reality piece of crap. Every time I watch it, I feel myself getting dumber and yet I can’t stop.

When I saw that the little red light for the DVR was on and I figured out what it was recording I was all “hey Dave, Real Housewives is on. Wanna watch?”

And since Dave secretly likes watching the Real Housewives and probably wanted me to stop talking so he could have some peace and quiet he said “sure.”

This week’s episode of the Real Housewives had so many things I can make fun of I don’t even know where to start.

The show began with Tamra and her mom going out for dinner for the first time since her mom’s face-lift. She obviously went the whole extreme makeover route because her trailer park hairstyle had been replaced by a tasteful shorter ‘do and her makeup looked nice. I thought she looked great and the plastic surgeon did a good job.

Tamra asked her mom what she wanted to drink and her mom replied that her new look needed a new drink. Otherwise, she’d just have a beer. Tamra replied, “We took the beer out of you, remember?”

How fun! Tamra and Simon are both working on their own little Eliza Doolittle projects. Tamra’s husband Simon is going to class Tamra up (he started by making her go to etiquette class a few episodes ago because she doesn’t know how to hold her fork) and Tamra is going to class her mom up with a new face, hair, and alcoholic beverage. I can’t wait to see how they both turn out.

Tamra decided that her mom needed to start online dating so she signed her up. She suggested her mom’s user name could be ‘mom of the hottest housewife in Orange County’. OK, whatever Tamra. I hate to break it to you but Gretchen is way hotter than you are.

Tamra was helping her mom build a profile and when she got to the part where you have to choose your turn ons, something rang a distinct bell.

Tamra mentioned erotica, skinny-dipping, flirting, and candlelight. Hey! Those are Trish’s ideal match turn ons (except erotica, she FINALLY took that off after I threatened to do it myself). Tamra’s mom didn’t want erotica either but she was fine with the other three.

And by the way, last season Tamra went to her own plastic surgeon to get the size of her breasts reduced but I think that was a big fat lie because they are still huge, obnoxious, and distracting.

Tamra is not a big girl but her boobs make her look top heavy and cheap. I know I’ve mentioned getting my own boob job someday but just to clarify, it’s not because I want them to be bigger. I just want them returned to their original pre-pregnancy location.

The housewives took a girl’s only road trip to Vegas. The producers at Bravo aren’t dummies and they know a good opportunity to exploit drunken housewives when they see one.

They played blackjack and several housewives had a little trouble with math. Lynne didn’t even realize that getting twenty-one was a good thing. She also didn’t know if her home had air conditioning.

I can understand not knowing your cholesterol level or maybe your current homeowner’s insurance deductible. Maybe you aren’t sure if your car has four or six or eight cylinders. But not knowing whether you have air conditioning at home means that you are completely and certifiably stupid.

I had a mental image of Lynne coming home from a workout or playing tennis. As she opens the door she crosses her fingers and thinks to herself “I wonder if the MAGIC that controls the internal temperature of my home has cooled it down while I was gone. I’m awfully sweaty and the icy MAGIC feels so good when it’s hot outside.”

The other housewives (none of them members of Mensa) were totally giving Lynne a hard time about how stupid she is. And Lynne IS so stupid that she couldn’t even comprehend that they were making fun of her. I think she might have taken a few bong hits up in her room because she seemed even spacier than normal. She did finally say there was a big machine in the house and sometimes she heard it turn on so maybe that was the air conditioner.

The housewives went out for dinner and drinks and Vicki got really territorial about dirty martinis with blue cheese stuffed olives. Everyone but Gretchen already knew that was Vicki’s signature drink, DUH! But when Gretchen exclaimed that it was HER favorite drink and she had no idea Vicki liked them too Vicki got all pissed off and Gretchen was accused of being a copycat. Vicki, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery so cool your jets.


I don’t know why a grown woman would care if someone ordered the same drink. Besides, she’s going to drink too many dirty martinis and fall down later anyway. On last week’s episode (yes, I watched that one too) Vicki accepted an award in front of a big group of people and when she turned to walk away she missed a step and fell flat on her ass.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I think people falling down is hilarious and I laugh so hard I pee whenever anyone (including myself) wipes out. Tom thinks it’s funny too, which is why I’m saving a place for him next to me in hell.

When they were hanging out at the pool, Gretchen told everyone she’d rather be absolutely ridiculous rather than absolutely boring. She said that was actually her motto. I think she made her point spectacularly and Vicki finally had to tell her to go sit down and stop blowing the “hottie’ whistle she picked up somewhere.

Jeana mentioned that she and Lynne were past the hottie whistle stage and that was totally news to Lynne. News that did not go over well.

The housewives finally stopped wreaking havoc on the state of Nevada and got back in their limo and went home.

Next week, Tamra tries to work through her abandonment issues with her dad. Jeana goes on her first date since separating from Matt. And I need my head examined for knowing so much about this show. *****The Real Housewives of New York premieres February 17th!!!!!!!!!

I can see clearly now

Two years ago this month I had LASIK eye surgery at the Wolfe Clinic. It was a life changing procedure and I cannot believe I waited so long to have it done. However, I do live in fear that some day in the future I’ll wake up and be blind like Ned Flanders in that Simpson‘s episode.

My eyesight truly sucked. I started wearing glasses in third grade and switched to contacts in eighth. I could not drive a car or see across the room without my glasses or contacts. I had been thinking about LASIK surgery for a long time but my eye doctor did not think I was a viable candidate. Then all of a sudden she said I was so I think they just decide willy- nilly whether or not it will work for you.

My dad had recently bankrolled the solution to some sort of debacle Trish had gotten herself into and in a desperate attempt to regain parity between the amount spent on each of his grown adult children, he insisted on paying for me to have LASIK eye surgery even though Dave and I had already arranged to cover the cost through our flexible spending account. I accepted his generous offer. I think there is a good chance Trish will do something in the future that might result in my dad paying for a tummy tuck.

On the day of the surgery Dave dropped me off at The Wolfe Clinic. I was part of a group of ten and we were all there to have the surgery. They gave us a short presentation about what to expect and said they would be calling us up individually to give us a dose of valium. Some of the people in the group were nervous and had a lot of questions about the procedure and whether or not it would hurt.

I mostly had questions about the valium.

I wondered if we would need more after the initial dose wore off and inquired as to whether there would be some valium in the postoperative packet they told us we would receive when the procedure was complete. I had read Valley of the Dolls and did not want to miss my golden opportunity to mix alcohol with pills that were legitimately prescribed for me by a doctor. If having your corneas sliced end to end is not a good enough reason to anesthetize yourself with cabernet and valium I don’t know what is. The woman that answered my question told me no and probably also thought I had a drug problem.

I had the distinction of having the largest astigmatism of anyone being operated on in our group (which should have automatically made me eligible for additional valium but whatever).

They called my name first which was fine because I wanted to get it over with. I’d just signed all kinds of documents stating about fifty different ways I could come out of this whole thing blind and I wanted to know sooner rather than later if I’d need to learn Braille.

The procedure starts with numbing drops and then a big suction cup thingy is attached to your eyeball. Everything goes black after that and you need to remain calm and daydream or something while the Wolfe Clinic doctors and nurses do the hard stuff like calibrate the laser beams and make sure there aren’t any technical difficulties. This is the part of the procedure where they make the big flaps in your cornea.

Then you walk from that chair next door to another chair where they use laser light pulses to re-shape the corneas. It’s not a big deal at all as long as you do what the doctor tells you to and don’t have a big freak out or anything, especially when you smell the laser burning off some of your corneal tissue.

When my doctor was done with the procedure he spent a lot of time telling me how well I had done and how calm I’d been. He mentioned how quiet I was and that I followed his instructions very well. All the while he was smiling at me and patting me on the back. He seemed genuinely appreciative.

I’m very perceptive and figured out he was really telling me that most of the male patients he’d performed the LASIK procedure on were big wussies and had probably requested that the procedure be halted while they got themselves under control.


The nurse took me to another room to lie down for a while and I was shocked to find I could read the clock on the wall, even with two plastic eye shields taped over my eyes.

After about fifteen minutes they told me I could leave. I was given a giant pair of those black terminator goggles that old people are always wearing. They’re not quite so funny when you’re the one wearing them.

My numbing eye drops had started to wear off. I sat on a bench in the entryway of the Wolfe Clinic and somehow managed to open my eyes long enough to hit the speed dial for Dave on my cell phone.

When he and Lauren arrived five minutes later the stinging was so bad Dave had to lead me to the car because I couldn’t open my eyes. I was not thrilled with their decision to go through the drive thru at Wendy’s. I wanted to get home and crawl into bed with all the shades drawn.

I had been instructed to try to sleep for two to three hours because resting my eyes and keeping them closed was the best thing for them.

When I woke up and came downstairs I flipped up my plastic eye shields and used the tape to stick them to my forehead so I could take my new eyesight for a test run.

It was awesome. I watched TV that night and could see the clock on the bookcase clear across the room. My vision continually improved over the next forty-eight hours and at my post-operative eye exam a week later my vision was 20/20 in each eye.

I still have perfect eyesight. The Wolfe Clinic is dynamite with a laser beam and I’d recommend their doctors to anyone who is contemplating LASIK eye surgery. But just so you know, they are quite stingy with the valium.

I Heart Phil

Punxsutawney Phil is totally my homeboy. The world’s most famous groundhog saw his shadow yesterday thus predicting six more weeks of winter.

Yay for me, boo for you! I love winter. I do not have a problem with things like ground blizzards, ice storms, and major winter events that might dump 10 inches of snow on my house.

I once drove to the store in the middle of a blizzard to buy supplies (alcohol and a movie). It did not even bother me that I had to drive the car with my head hanging out the window like a dog in order to see the road. It was my own personal REO Speedwagon moment because I was so ridin’ the storm out.

One night when I was in my twenties, the weatherman on the news was warning everyone to stay inside and not leave their homes due to dangerously frigid wind chill temperatures. Lisa and I thought it would be a better idea to go to Plaza Pub, drink ourselves silly, and dance on our chairs.

We then thought it would be an even BETTER idea to go over to Kent’s house after the bar closed to join a bunch of people partying in the hot tub.

Then it seemed like an even BETTER idea to challenge each other to run around the perimeter of the house in our bare feet to see who could make it back to the hot tub first.

I had so much ice built up on the soles of my feet that I accidentally overshot the hot tub and skidded into some trees at the end of the property. Someone managed to grab the neck of my t-shirt and pull me back before I hurt myself.

The death flu I came down with thirty-six hours later is not my favorite part of this story.

In the summertime, if the weatherman predicts a dangerously high heat index I have no problem not leaving my air conditioned house for the next twenty four hours and will pay Matthew or Lauren to bring in the paper and mail for me so I don’t have to go outside.

We could use some snow right now. A lot of it melted last weekend, which exposed a big layer of what Chloe has been doing in the front yard all winter. Either we need snow to cover it back up or someone needs to get out there with a pooper-scooper because we are going to look pretty ghetto if this continues.

Sometimes I wonder if I have the opposite of Seasonal Affective Disorder because instead of getting sad when the days get shorter, I get happier. My favorite month is October because that means that winter is not far away and I like the anticipation of colder weather, the holidays, and snow. I also like cloudy days and spring is my least favorite season so perhaps I am not right in the head.

I am kind of excited for this summer though. Dave and I are looking forward to spending time with Tom and Amy at their lake house. In addition, we cannot wait to get out on our patio so we can start annoying Neal and Sandy as soon as possible.

Until then I will continue monitoring the weather channel for impending winter storms. We have a good chance of at least one blizzard in March.

Dave really wants to buy a hot tub some day. Phil and I are totally on board with that.

I don't know what happened to my paragraphs

I am having a few technical difficulties with The Psychic Party post and nothing is in paragraph format toward the end. I'm pretty sure it's my fault and I keep getting a message from Blogger.com that saving and publishing may fail. I'm getting off this blog now before it explodes and I lose all my posts.

The Psychic Party

First things first. Our digital camera sucks. Or the shutterbug who took most of the pictures at Saturday night's psychic party drank a lot. Either way, I have only a handful of pictures that aren't blurry. If you're one of my Facebook friends you can see more snapshots from the party on my profile page (sort of).

You probably can't read my shirt in these crappy photos but it says "wines constantly" on the front. My BFF Amy, who is standing next to me is wearing a shirt that says "group therapy." We didn't want anyone to think we weren't serious about our wine drinking. Brooke and Julie are making a Tracey sandwich in the middle photo. They're my girlfriends who live next door and across the street, respectively. They stayed really late and I actually informed them I was going to bed at 1:00 AM instead of pulling a slink and sleep like I did a couple weeks ago when I disappeared and put myself to bed without telling anyone.

Dixie started the party by telling us about her psychic abilities and how she came to realize she she could see things other people couldn't (not 'I see dead people' a la the sixth sense but stuff that would probably happen to you someday).

Dixie prepared to do the first reading. If you've never been to a psychic party with Dixie before it's a little unsettling to watch her "pull in" as she calls it. It takes her a minute or two and she closes her eyes and sometimes rubs her temples. It needs to be very quiet so she can concentrate and usually no one makes a sound. Note to Trish: your humming of the Twilight Zone theme song was ill timed and not appreciated.

Everyone was sitting in a circle and we took turns asking Dixie a question and giving her the name of one person. After Dixie was done answering the question and telling you about the person whose name you had given her you could go upstairs and have a 5-10 minute private reading with her son Patrick.

Shelly brought her friend Julie who asked how old her soul was. I thought that was a good question and found it interesting that Dixie took Julie backward to the cavemen days and also told us Julie had lived in Egypt. Dixie is a big believer in reincarnation and told us that many of the choices we make in our lives are the result of things that happened when we walked the earth in another body.

Dixie told Kristi, Tammy, and my neighbor Julie about some health issues that might affect them or one of their relatives. Tammy is going to book a mammogram sooner rather than later and Julie is going to follow up with Dixie once she has the name of the doctors her mom is thinking of consulting. Kristi will continue to be optimistic about her husband's good health.

Jen cried. At my last psychic party it was Sherry who needed the Kleenex. Jen asked an interesting question about what animal she most closely identified with. The answer was wolf and Dixie shared with Jen some information about wolves being pack animals and how that related to Jen and her position in the pack. I didn't understand the significance but Jen obviously did and I felt bad that it made her cry. She insisted she was fine and I got the impression the crying was an emotional release of some kind.

Julie asked whether or not she would have another child. According to Dixie there will be two more babies. Brooke asked about her brother and wanted to know what was in store for him regarding love, family, and relationships. Dixie was able to accurately guess his profession but gave a vague answer about his future. Charlee asked about her cousin Chloe and I loved the fact that Dixie correctly identified her as a dancer.

I asked about my writing. I wanted to know if there was a certain genre I should focus on or a particular direction I should try to go in. Dixie told me I had a bit of talent and should take a class or a writer's workshop. She told me it was time to start sending some things out so that I could receive a professional critique of my work. She told me I would be rejected a lot but not to give up because I had a good chance of being published someday if I worked really hard. As far as the preferred genre, all she said was to write about what I know which is common advice for anyone who wants to be a writer.

Overall I think everyone was happy with their reading from Dixie and felt she was pretty accurate. Dixie usually manages to tell you a couple things that are really dead on even if the rest of the reading is somewhat general.

The group consensus was that Patrick was full of crap. I don't know what was going on with him but my bullshit meter was off the charts when he was doing my reading. Dixie had mentioned that all psychics should be able to see the same things so I asked him about my writing and while he generally agreed with Dixie I got the distinct impression he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. I asked him what other career he could see in my future and he told me I was going to be a photographer. That couldn't be farther from the truth because not only do I hate taking pictures, I really suck at it. I think he just made that part up because he was getting tired.

I probably won't have another psychic party for a very long time. It's fun to do once in a while but it takes several hours to complete all the readings and Patrick got really backed up with his so it made things kind of hectic. It also needs to be fairly quiet and when there's 14 people and lots of wine being consumed things have a tendency to get pretty loud. I am amazed Dixie put up with us so good naturedly. Then again, maybe she knew exactly what she was in for.