How I've Spent My Last Two Weekends

Remember in this post I said I might not always have time to come up with clever and funny blog entries this summer? That self fulfilling prophecy has turned out to be true because I find it almost impossible to construct a single sentence with all the fighting and attempting to beat the crap out of each other that starts the minute the offspring wake up which forces me to constantly get up off my chair and put the hammer down on one of them (It's also why I had to suspend my "no drinking during the week" rule because if it were not for alcohol, I would slowly go cuckoo insane). So remember how I said I might just post about what I've been up to so my readers (and you seventeen people know who you are) wouldn't click on the 'don't follow' button and leave me in the dust?

This is one of those posts. And just so you know, my behavior and maturity level is sometimes akin to that of a seventeen year old boy (but I have a shitload of fun wherever I go so deal).

We kicked off the weekend of June 19th celebrating my neighbor Lisa's birthday with a bunch of friends from the 'hood.


We started off at Clive after Five which is an outdoor drinking thing in the 'burb where I live. It was kinda lame and I think the turnout was low because there'd been a big rainstorm earlier in the day and maybe people thought they'd melt or something. Wussies. We still showed up and had a great time. Later we re-located to a bar super close to the 'hood where we sang Karaoke for the next several hours. Despite my constant badgering, Dave refused to sing "Afternoon Delight" with me like he used to when we were dating. I sang "Let Me Be There" by Olivia Newton John and then Julie and I sang "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Convoy." Yes, really. We pretty much had the bar and the microphones to ourselves because the place was dead. We finished up the night with all of us singing Madonna's "Material Girl."

I took a picture of this girl while we were at the Clive after Five festival because I thought she was a perfect example of what not to wear EVER.


My friend Janice was in town and she came to visit Dave and me the next night. Here's a picture of us after we'd been drinking on the patio for uh, a while. Check out our shiny Chardonnay eyes.
It was super hot here in Iowa so I put together a buffet of cold food and made sure there was a bottle of wine in the ice bucket on the table in front of us at all times. I would have taken a picture of all the empty bottles and posted it here on this blog but there were so many of them I was embarrassed (♫ they tried to make us go to rehab but we said, no, no, no......♪).

Janice wanted me to make crack dip because she had never had it. She loved it so much we actually had it again for breakfast the next day, along with some leftover chicken salad from the night before. Side note: Even though I did reach my goal of losing 25 lbs. on WW (25.5 to be exact) back in April, my diet the last six weeks has included a frightening amount of cream cheese, mayonnaise, guacamole, and alcohol and now I'm too skeered to step on the scale because I'm afraid the spring on it will explode with a big boing! I totally plan on addressing this problem and getting back on track but not until after the fourth of July holiday weekend.

I gave Janice a jar of Archer Farms roasted pineapple and habenero dip to take with her, along with the recipe for crack dip. The following paragraph is an excerpt from an e-mail I received from Janice after she got home:

P.S. That fucking TSA whore took your jar of shit for the crack dip. I knew I was taking a chance but I thought hey, what can they possibly think I am doing with this? But, I also didn't want it breaking in my suitcase since it's glass. She better hope that I can get that stuff at my target!!!!

At least Janice was wise enough not to tangle with the TSA. Trish, not so much.

This weekend we kicked off the night by attending a friend's birthday party at a bar up the street. My friend Stacy has been in town for her annual visit to Iowa to see her family and she, Amy, Trish, Dave, and I headed out to see what kind of trouble we could get in.


Somehow my shoe broke and Amy tried to McGyver a solution out of dental floss and a buffalo wing stained napkin. Fail. I'd rather go barefoot.

They were giving out plastic cups at the bar for everyone at the birthday party to write their names on. Just so you know, we are not grown up enough to have beer and a sharpie at the same time. And if you left your plastic cup unattended on the table when you went to the bathroom, upon your return there would most definitely be some dirty words written in big, black, permanent capital letters (cock gobbler being my favorite). I never let my glass out of my sight but I did write "Princess" under my name because it sounded much prettier than some of the other words.

That's all I've got for today. I'm still working on some other posts so hopefully I'll have something to put on this blog later in the week.

P.S. Sandy the Yeti walked by her sliding glass door while we were out on our patio Saturday night. In a nightgown. Shudder.

The Kenny Chesney Concert

Last Thursday night, Dave and I kicked off the Mother's Day weekend a little early by attending the Kenny Chesney concert with Julie, Dean, Trish, Bridget, and Diane. The unpredictable Iowa weather almost dashed our plans for pre-concert tailgating but by 5:30 PM we were chugging sipping *superritas in the sun.

That's Dave and Dean. See the truck right behind them? We were worried Dave and Dean might become victims of vehicular manslaughter because the crazy parking lot attendant let the pickup truck back up until the bumper was mere inches away, just so he could make another six bucks. THEN, even though we already paid when we entered the parking lot, the parking lot Nazis came around and charged us again, just for tailgating on the grass. Here's Julie and I below. I'm holding a beer and the ticket that proves we paid six more dollars. Say it with me: Extortion.


Here we are enjoying sandwiches, chips, taco salad, and crack dip wrapped in tortillas (**crack wraps!). Below is Mark and Kim. Even though we'd never seen them before in our lives, they seemed nice and since they said "hi" when they walked by, we invited them to join us because that's just how we roll here in Iowa.


Here's Julie enjoying a superrita before our tailgate utopia became a used car lot. The next picture is in Wells Fargo arena. Bridget, Julie, and Dean have wisely grabbed a fresh beer as the concert is about to start.



Kenny came out of the audience right behind where we were sitting. I noticed some guy messing with something that was all covered by a large piece of black fabric. The girl standing behind me told me Kenny would be coming out from under it and she was right. He got into a little chair on cables and flew right over our heads. I can't believe how close we were to him.

Kenny Chesney put on a great show and we had a wonderful time, even if we all felt like crap on Friday. It was totally worth it.

*Dan's Superritas
500 ml Mott's apple juice
200 ml 100% blue agave tequila (Jose Cuervo)
200 ml cointreau, citronage, or grand marnier
100 ml key lime juice (you can find this in a plastic bottle in the juice aisle)

Stir above ingredients and serve over ice in salt-rimmed glass. Enjoy!

**Crack Wraps

You! Suck! McDonald's!

I recently posted about a weekly occurrence in our household called McDonald's Monday.

Unfortunately, despite my quality control, a six piece order of Mcnuggets did not make it into the bag with the rest of our food last Monday. I blame myself for not looking closer. However, that did not stop me from calling McDonald's and delivering a scathing, two minute ass-reaming to the GED holder store manager that answered the phone.

I am not positive they know what I look like but there may be a crude caricature of me with a diagonal slash through it on the wall of the break room at McDonald's. There's also a good chance someone has drawn a Hitler moustache and devil horns on me with a black magic marker.

I can no longer guarantee that, even if my neighborhood McDonald's manages to give me all the Mcnuggets I've paid for, they will not include a spit garnish. I also feel compelled to mention that I don't think it's fair that I have to be so involved in the fulfillment of my fast food order.

Therefore, McDonald's Monday in our house is now known as "Something from Subway."

Really Mother Nature?

Seriously?

McDonald's Monday

Yesterday was McDonald’s Monday at our house.

Lauren has tap and ballet after school and by the time we get home an hour later, the offspring are threatening to gnaw off their own arms unless I produce dinner immediately. A quick detour through the McDonald’s drive thru after dance class is a convenient and fast way to make everyone happy.

I realize they’re hungry. Lauren has just danced for an hour and Matthew is a nine and a half year old bottomless pit. Mama’s hungry too, especially since I’m following the low-fat reduced-calorie eating plan that Weight Watchers doesn’t think is a diet (ok, whatever).

I still make Dave and myself a healthy dinner when I get home although I’m starting to wonder if he wouldn’t like his own McDonald’s meal since he pissed Lauren off by eating half her fries and stealing a chicken McNugget.

The McDonald’s near our house has about a 60% accuracy rate when filling our order. It only took one or two instances of somebody’s happy meal being fucked up before Dave and I learned to always check the bag before leaving the drive thru.

When we went to McDonald’s last night, I pulled up to the window and prepared to launch my usual quality control efforts to ensure there would be no shortage of food.

I try to be quick when I do this because I don’t want to jack up the whole drive thru at McDonald’s and make all the other customers mad.

A teenaged boy who desperately needed Accutane handed me the bag and I quickly checked to make sure there were two orders of nuggets and two fries by counting them out loud.

I turned back to the window for the drinks and the boy handed me the cups one at a time. As he handed them to me he said, “here’s o-n-e and here’s t-w-o.” He spoke extra slowly and exaggerated the motion of handing me the drinks one at a time.

Wait a minute. I think Jr. McZitty Face might be mocking me.

Does he have any idea he has a pre-menstrual housewife in his drive thru and she’s not hormonally stable?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I am a mature mother of two and perhaps he’s just a slow talker.

I suddenly realize that they have forgotten to include Matthew’s order of apple dippers and I inform Jr. McZitty that they’re missing. I feel simultaneously vindicated yet irritated.

Zitty hands me the apple dippers and says (very condescendingly) “do you need me to put them in their own bag?”

“No,” I said. “I need you to stop being a smart-ass!”

I grab the apple dippers and haul ass out of the drive thru, forgetting about the big bump in the parking lot and I think my Explorer might have suffered minor axle damage.

Lauren asks from the back seat, “Did you just say ass?”

“Yes Lauren, yes I did. And I was wrong to say that in front of you.”

“Is this like that one time when you got in a fight at McDonald’s about the happy meal toy?”

“Um, yeah, a little bit. But its okay, I’ve calmed down now so don’t worry.”

I got home and re-enacted the whole thing for Dave. He’s not a fan of our neighborhood McDonald’s but my prefacing the story with “maybe I just have PMS” probably convinced him that nodding and agreeing with me was the only safe option.

Maybe Jr. McZitty didn’t mean anything by his mannerisms and comments. Perhaps I am wound a bit tight right now but I’m dealing with a serious Estrogen/Progesterone deficit so it’s not intentional, it’s just out of my control.

Hopefully things will go better next week on McDonald‘s Monday. I can’t promise there won’t be a smack down but I can promise to try harder.

An attitude of gratitude

I’m not sure how it happened but I’ve kinda been cyber-stalking Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore.

I follow them on Twitter @aplusk and @mrskutcher. They post a lot of tweets and even though they’re only 140 characters long, I’ve noticed that they are often very positive and have an enlightening spiritual vibe.

They seem like they’re really nice people. Ashton is from Iowa, and I think Iowans are very nice, but Demi, who is not an Iowan, comes across as a very nice person as well.

I’ve never sent them a tweet, of course, because I’m not crazy. And I’m certainly not going to send Ashton a tweet to tell him about my completed screenplay that stars him in a role that will most likely earn him his first Best Actor Oscar (but that’s mostly because the screenplay is only complete in my head and loses validity when you can’t see the words in my head converted into scenes on paper. That you can, you know, read and stuff. Details).

I was telling Dave the other night that I was really impressed with how kind and gracious Ashton and Demi are.

Mr. Cynical said, “It’s probably easy to be kind and gracious when you’re a rich celebrity.”

“That’s true Mr. Glass-half-empty, but I still think it’s nice to see celebrities acting truly grateful and not like assholes, “I replied.

Demi and Ashton, and their positive, grateful, and uplifting tweets, have inspired me to reflect upon some of the things I am truly grateful for this week.

1. The offspring have been on spring break all week. Even though we decided to “vacation at home” this year, we’ve had a wonderful time. Dave was home on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday so we were able to enjoy some great time together as a family.

2. We had two days this week that were in the 70’s. Is this Heaven? No, it’s Iowa.

3. Dave is still employed and even received his annual bonus. The fact that it was half of what he received last year doesn’t matter because he still has a job and a bonus is a bonus.

4. Most of Dave’s bonus was allocated to the achievement of pre-determined financial goals. Even in this economy, we were able to meet two of the three goals and that makes us very happy.

5. The remainder of the bonus was split between house stuff (new lawnmower and grill), the offspring, Dave, and I.

6. The offspring received Rock Band 2. This should really be considered a gift to all of us because the whole family has been playing it this week. I am especially skilled on guitar. I’m like the housewife version of Eddie Van Halen.

7. Dave has a little jingle in his pocket to spend on whatever he wants.

8. A certain suburban housewife also has a little jingle in her pocket so she marched her butt to the mall to buy a Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather! Yay!!!

9. A certain suburban housewife DID NOT break down and cry when she discovered that the purse is no longer available at Dillard’s or Younkers.

10. A certain suburban housewife has decided that a designer handbag will take up a substantial chunk of her fun money and is going to buy an inexpensive, brightly colored spring purse instead (and maybe price Botox or Juvederm).

I’m also grateful that I can get back to my usual routine on Monday after I put the offspring on the bus and send Dave out the door with a kiss.

I’ll sit down in front of the computer. Maybe I’ll work on getting that screenplay down on paper.

Then I really will send a tweet to Ashton. We have some business to attend to.

Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me

The other day, the offspring and I went to the library. I came home with seven books, three of which I’d already read. Dave doesn’t understand why I do this.

Sometimes I like a book so much I want to read it again, especially if it’s been a while. And I’m trying not to buy so many books, even though going to Barnes and Noble, and purchasing a few new releases is one of my favorite things to do. However, the library is a lot kinder to our budget and there are plenty of good books for me to choose from.

One of the books I came home with was The House Next Door by Anne Rivers Siddons. I read this book for the first time in 1978, when I was eleven years old. I don’t know which parent bought it for me and I’m amazed they let me read it. However, my dad also gave me Stephen King’s The Stand and The Shining for Christmas that same year so they either thought I was not an easily spooked child or had absolutely no clue about the content of any of the books they bought for me.

The House Next Door is a horror novel. All of Anne Rivers Siddon’s other books are literary fiction but for some reason she took one foray into the horror genre.

The book is about Walter and Colquitt Kennedy. They are childless, by choice, and live in a beautiful home next door to an empty lot. A young couple has purchased the lot and hired an up and coming architect to design their dream home.

The Kennedy’s become good friends with the architect and each of the home’s subsequent owners.

Something tragic happens to everyone that lives there. The house has a way of bringing out the worst in all of them and the evil gets more prevalent with each new owner. Walter and Colquitt become entangled in the lives of their neighbors, whether they want to or not.

The book is not overtly terrifying. The creepiness is subtle and builds slowly and you are able to understand how Walter and Colquitt are ultimately forced to acknowledge that an evil supernatural presence is the only way to explain what happens to everyone who moves into the house next door, especially when the “house” starts killing pets and homeowners.

I finished re-reading the book Monday night and for some reason, had a lot of trouble sleeping. I kept waking up and thinking about the book.

I woke up again because Lauren came into our bedroom complaining of a headache and sore throat. I asked her if she wanted Motrin and she said she did so I walked downstairs in the dark to the kitchen (I’d keep the Tylenol and Motrin upstairs but ever since Chloe ate the Tylenol on Lauren’s night stand, and had to have her stomach pumped, I keep it in the cupboard in the kitchen).

I felt uneasy walking downstairs in the dark. I hurriedly flipped on the kitchen light and glanced up at the microwave to see what time it was.

Imagine how I felt when I saw that the time on the microwave was 3:15 (or, as I like to refer to it, Amityville Horror time!). I grabbed the Motrin and pretty much ran back upstairs, leaving the kitchen light on. I'm sure if I had looked out the sliding glass doors I'd have seen the glowing red eyes of Jody, the demonic pig.

In case you’re thinking I’m a colossal scaredy-cat, let me explain.

I have a habit of waking up at scary times. A couple years ago Dave and I rented The Exorcism of Emily Rose one Saturday night (ironically enough we had taken the offspring to Saturday night services at church and picked up the DVD on our way home). I was reluctant to watch it, because I don’t like scary movies, but it was billed as a courtroom drama based on a true story and Laura Linney was starring in it.

It pretty much scared the holy crap out of me. It’s about a girl named Emily Rose who is possessed by the devil and the priest who tries to perform an exorcism on her is charged with criminal negligence after her death.
Laura Linney plays the lawyer who is hired to defend the priest. The story is then told in flashbacks as Emily Rose begins, and ends, her struggles against the demons that possess her.

Laura Linney is warned that, by taking on the case, she will be targeted by demons for exposing them. She begins to experience strange occurrences at 3:00 AM, just as Emily Rose had. The priest explains that 3:00 AM is the witching hour that evil spirits use to mock the Holy Trinity. It’s the opposite of 3:00 PM, which is traditionally known as the hour Jesus died.

For almost two weeks I woke up at 3:00 AM. It freaked me out and I told Dave I wondered if it was possible to somehow set your mental alarm clock to wake you up at a time guaranteed to mess with your head. And every single time Matthew or Lauren woke up sick in the middle of the night it was straight up 3:00 AM on my bedside clock radio.

The other night Chloe’s barking woke me up in the middle of the night. She paced back and forth by the sliding glass doors in the kitchen and the only reason I was able to open them and look outside was because I didn’t look at the microwave to see if it was Amityville Horror or Emily Rose o‘clock. And I guarantee you it would have been one of those times.

So basically I can read scary books and watch scary movies but only if I’m okay with waking up at scary times.

Has this ever happened to anyone else? Wouldn’t this be a great time for everyone to share his or her story on my blog?

Please tell me the name of the scariest movie you’ve ever seen or the scariest book you’ve ever read. Or just tell me about a time you had the crap scared out of you. It’ll be fun, really. You can leave your comments anonymously if you want.

I promise to read the scary book suggestions but I’m not watching any more scary movies.

And I need to find a way to store the Tylenol and Motrin upstairs.

Seriously, like a bull in a china shop

You know how I was saying that the vase I bought at Pier 1 was going to require moving all the home accessories on my main floor around?

I wasn't kidding.

Our house is in shambles right now. Everything that used to be on a shelf or table in the family room is now piled up in the dining room. I think Dave is getting a little tired of me asking him if he likes "that candle over there" and does he think that vase "should be up a little higher." I bet my spending all day on the computer is starting to sound pretty good compared to my spending all day on the computer AND tearing the house apart and not putting anything back.

I went to Pier 1 again today, sans husband and the offspring, ready to knock this mother of a decorating project out.

I got there right at 10:00 which, according to the sign on the door, is when they're supposed to open. The doors were still locked so I kept peering through the windows like a crazy person. At around 10:05 I gave the doors a little rattle because I'm thinking, maybe if they can't see me they'll hear me. Finally, someone opens the door, apologizing for not opening it sooner. I'm all "oh it's no problem" but what I'm really thinking is get out of my way because all the inventory I've been looking at through the window is starting to resemble home decor crack and I must get me some RIGHT NOW!

First I tried to locate a huge vase that Dave and I had seen on Sunday. We have a two story entryway and there's a big shelf high off the ground that would be perfect for an oversized piece of pottery with maybe some of those floral stems sticking out the top. That would be a big improvement over the two inches of dust and one pink fleece lined croc that's up there now (no one will admit to throwing the shoe).

I thought for sure they had sold the vase I wanted. I couldn't find it anywhere and since I was the only one in the store, both the manager and another employee were trying to help me find it. They kept showing me things and I kept saying, "I don't think that's it."

Finally I chose a different vase, which wasn't quite what I wanted, but I thought it would work anyway. Then, the Pier 1 employee and I started trying all kinds of different floral stems and sticks to see what looked best. I didn't like the little eucalyptus but I did like the big leaves. But then I liked the tall grasses better so we switched everything out several times.

Then, I actually found the vase I was looking for in the first place. The Pier 1 employees switch everything around every forty eight hours and they had different stuff coming out the top and I got confused. So we took all the stems out of the other vase and the manager tried out several for me in the vase I had wanted from the start. She had to climb up a ladder every time we tried something new and I felt bad because she was starting to sweat.

Using my camera phone, I sent Dave several pictures of the vase with the stems sticking out the top and also a piece of wall art that I liked to his Blackberry, NONE of which he received, thus proving I really don't know how to use any of the electronic devices in my possession. I'll never own a Blackberry of my own because frankly, I'm afraid the learning curve would be too difficult for me. Think how much better this blog would look if I mastered HTML and wasn't afraid to install widgets.

Next I pulled out a bunch of really tall stick things to put in ANOTHER vase I already own that's in the corner of my dining room. I turned to the side while holding the sticks and wham, knocked a reed diffuser full of scented oil onto the floor. The glass didn't shatter but it made a big freaking mess.

Seriously, I have no idea when I became such a messy, clumsy, PITA shopper. I must have said "please" and "thank you" and now "I'm sorry" about fifteen times. I thought, "if I damage anything else during this visit, I'm just going to leave." This is not the first time I've broken something in Pier 1 either. I once reduced a pyramid of plastic wine glasses to smithereens. You'd think they'd be kind of unbreakable since they're plastic but they're not.

I finally found everything I was looking for and went up to the cash register to pay. Meanwhile, a couple more customers came up to the counter and were waiting patiently to pay for their items. The employee helping me told them someone would be with them in a minute and I'm thinking, no they won't, because they're busy cleaning up the path of destruction I just left in the home fragrance area.

Finally I left. The really nice, and totally forgiving staff at Pier 1 helped me load my giant vase into my car, thanked me, and sent me on my way. I'm so going to have to go to the other Pier 1 on the south side for a while.

I got everything unloaded from the car by myself but I can't put the big vase up on the high shelf without some help. It's going to require the really tall ladder that Dave used when he painted our last house. Plus, I never like to attempt anything that might require a 911 call when I'm home alone because if I knock myself unconscious during the fall someone needs to be able to call an ambulance.

I wonder how Dave will feel about helping with the vase relocation project BEFORE dinner. It would probably be better if I wait until he's taken off his coat and I've plied him with the fajitas I'm making tonight.

But after that, I'm gonna need some help from handyman Dave.

Cupcakes, Vases, Birds, and Bees

My alarm goes off every weekday morning at 6:30 AM. I get up and let Chloe out and then I pour the first of eight cups of coffee (with a little soy milk) and sit down on the couch to watch the local news. Here in Iowa, our weather changes so fast, that I like to make sure I knew exactly how to dress the offspring and whether or not they will need boots, snow pants, and hats and gloves. Then, at 7:00, I watch the Today show for a half hour because Matt Lauer is hot and I need to know what’s going on nationally. Then, at 7:30, I wake up the offspring.

Today they woke up on their own and were both down on the couch with me by 7:15. They proceeded to talk so loud I couldn’t hear what hottie Matt Lauer was saying. Then Matthew demanded that I get his clothes because he wanted to get ready early so he’d have plenty of time to play Marble Blast Gold on the computer.

I told Matthew I was not doing anything until 7:30. Finally, when I was good and ready, I started our morning routine.

I am not a big fan of spending a lot of money on kid’s clothes. They are hard on them, they grow out of them almost immediately, and buying expensive stuff is like flushing money down a toilet. Old Navy and Gap are my favorites with a little Target thrown in.

I usually get the kid’s clothes ready the night before because I do want whatever they wear to match, be weather appropriate, and be wrinkle free (even though I loathe ironing I do it anyway).

However, this morning both kids did not like what I had selected and ironed the night before. Matthew’s pants “fit funny” (probably because he’s going through a growth spurt and keeps “incredible hulking” right out of his clothes). I ran upstairs and found another pair of pants that were, luckily, wrinkle free. Then he put on the new shirt I had pre-washed but hadn’t done a thorough tag-ectomy on so I had to grab the kitchen scissors and cut every possible tag off immediately.

Lauren was worse. She didn’t like her shirt because it was purple, her pants were too long, and the first sweater I picked out was too hot. I ran upstairs two more times and she finally settled on wearing black pants with a long sleeved white t-shirt and her Hawkeye jersey.

During all this up and down the stairs nonsense Matthew and Lauren took it upon themselves to get into the cupcakes Dave and Lauren made yesterday (she guilted Dave into making them by saying, “Daddy, can you please make me some egg free cupcakes? I didn‘t get to have any of the banana bread you made with Matthew the other day.”)

Then Matthew guilted Dave into making more banana bread because the bread they made the other day was “so awesome” and he wanted more.

The mess all three of them made was catastrophic and fully worthy of a haz-mat team. I refused to clean it up by myself but I wish I had insisted on loading the dishwasher because Dave loads it like a crazy person.

Therefore, even though I had offered a breakfast of smoothies and oatmeal there was no way to stop the feeding frenzy chocolate blizzard I found them in the middle of. Cupcake crumbs were flying when I returned to the kitchen.

When Lauren came back from brushing her teeth, I noticed the sleeve of her white t-shirt was covered in chocolate frosting. I went upstairs one last time, grabbed the only remaining long sleeved white t-shirt in her closet, and made her change.

I kept my cool though. Sometimes I have to remind myself that they are not intentionally trying to drive me insane. I pretended the cupcakes were the same as donuts, which, while not healthy, are in fact a common breakfast choice for lots of people, and I let it go. Luckily, we are not in the PMS zone so things went pretty smoothly for a Monday morning.

Yesterday we went to Pier 1 because I’m looking for a vase for my mantel to replace the red one with the snowflakes I’ve had up there since December. I really wanted to go alone but Dave wanted to get out of the house too and we promised Matthew and Lauren we would go to Toys ‘R Us, which is right across the parking lot from Pier 1. Matthew had a gift card to use and Lauren wanted to pick out a marble jar reward (Matthew’s reward was the aforementioned Marble Blast Gold).

When we got to Pier 1 I said, “Hey, why don’t you guys and daddy go over there and I’ll be over here looking at some vases.” I took off and when I stopped thirty seconds later to examine a vase, I was summarily rear-ended by Dave, Matthew, and Lauren (in that order).

“Why are you following me?” I asked. “Go somewhere else.”

They just kept following me anyway. Dave kept suggesting things I didn’t want and then both kids had to go to the bathroom. I finally found a vase I liked but now that I’ve put it up on the mantel, I don’t know if I like it there. I might like it somewhere else which means one vase will be the catalyst for me to move around and re-arrange every home accessory I have on my main floor.

Dave also decided to have “the talk” with Matthew over the weekend. When I met Sharon and Kathleen on Friday morning for a big gabfest, the subject of the birds and the bees came up. Kathleen has three boys, one of them older than Matthew so I asked her what age we should start talking to Matthew about sex.

“Right now,” she replied. “It’s not too early and you don’t want him to get inaccurate information on the bus or from older kids.”

I told Dave what Kathleen recommended and he went up to Matthew’s room yesterday and opened the dialogue. I told Dave that Kathleen recommended asking Matthew about what he already knew and then going from there. I also told Dave that Kathleen mentioned stopping if Matthew appeared to stop paying attention as we shouldn’t overload him all at once.

When Dave came back down, I asked him how it went. Dave said he told Matthew that there would be lots of changes going on in his body and that these changes would take several years. He told Matthew that hair would start to grow under his arms and on his penis. He also mentioned that some boys grow hair above their lips. He briefly talked about body parts and how some of them might feel good when touched and that that’s totally normal but something that should be kept private. Dave said at one point Matthew started spinning around in his swivel desk chair. When Dave asked Matthew if he had any questions, Matthew nodded. “Dad, when do you think I’ll get that moustache?”

I think that’s enough birds and bees information for one day. We’ll keep building on that and by the time Matthew turns ten this summer, we’ll hopefully have given him the information he needs to ease his way into the puberty years.

As for Dave and I, we had a great time Saturday night when we saw Slumdog Millionaire. I’m in the middle of writing my review which I’ll post later today or tomorrow.

Right now, I’ve got a vase to find a home for.

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.

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!

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 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.

Weigh in, highlights, and psychics

I weighed in at Weight Watchers yesterday and was happy to find that even after exceeding my allotted points for the week, I still lost .8 pounds.

I didn’t think that was too bad considering I allowed myself to have dinner from Macaroni Grill on my birthday and I ate pasta and bread.

I actually wanted P.F. Chang’s for dinner but Matthew was so hopeful that I would choose Macaroni Grill, which is his favorite restaurant ever, that I didn’t want to disappoint him.

When I got to Weight Watchers there was a big line for both the scales and the bathroom. If the ladies there knew the laxative effect my Augmentin antibiotic was having on me they would be very jealous. I felt light as a feather.

When I was standing in line a woman in front of me started telling me how nervous she was about weighing in and how she was wearing shorts under her sweats so she could take them off and then she told me she really wanted to take off her bra too. When she finally got on the scale she was down to a t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet.

I noticed the woman before her stepped on the scale in bare feet too. And I thought to myself that if I’m still going to WW when sandal season gets here I’m bringing socks.

I shouldn’t be grossed out by this considering I am always dunking my feet in Top Nail’s polluted pedicure water but at least they pretend to clean out their foot baths between customers. There is no cleaning of the scale at WW.

After weigh in I went to get my hair done because Trish told me, in a brutally honest moment, that my hair was too dark and she didn’t like it one bit.

It didn’t occur to me until I was sitting in the chair at the salon with about 100 foils covering my head that I had taken hair color advice from my sister, who had talked dad into bringing home a box of Clairol Nice ‘n Easy from the grocery store when we were fifteen and has been bleached blonde ever since.

It took Joann almost three hours and no fewer than four different mixtures of hair dye (and something called toner) to undue what I had done with thirty minutes and a box of Garnier Nutrisse that I bought at Walgreen’s for $6.99. Now my hair is light brown with lots of highlights. I love my new hair color and will gladly sell my kidney on EBay to afford the maintenance.

Tonight is my psychic party. I’ll be posting pictures and blogging about it tomorrow. I’m not sure what question I’m asking Dixie tonight. Maybe I’ll find out who wins the Super Bowl a little early.

I get by with a little help from my friends

I went to the doctor yesterday. Since we also needed cocoa puffs and toilet paper I decided to play medical roulette by going to the urgent care clinic conveniently located inside my neighborhood grocery store.

I wasn’t really that sick. I’ve been working out and generally going about my business but the cold I got a couple weeks ago never really went away and I was pretty sure it had turned into a sinus infection.

At the grocery store doctor you don’t actually see an M.D., you see a nurse practitioner. I don’t care who it is as long as they cough up the antibiotics. Once I’ve decided to go to urgent care I’m not leaving without a prescription even if I have to invent extra symptoms and give an academy award winning performance to get it. I’m sure the antibiotic resistance I’m building will someday get me killed.

The nurse practitioner took my temperature and blood pressure. She was impressed with my blood pressure reading and told me how good it was. I swear I had to bite my lip to keep from telling her just how super healthy I usually am. I wanted to tell her all about my low cholesterol and triglyceride levels and how my life insurance company loves me so much it gave me the super preferred rating. I could feel it building, tourettes like, but I managed to gain control and keep my mouth shut because I knew there were probably other, sicker patients waiting and I needed to make sure I didn’t take more than my fair share of time with the not-quite-a-doctor.

We could have saved a lot of time if she’d treated my verbal diarrhea first and then diagnosed my sinus infection and sent me on my way. But she was afflicted too. I think it must get boring in the urgent care office back in the corner of the grocery store because she would not stop talking to me. We spent 10 minutes just talking about The Biggest Loser. I totally held my own in the conversation which is weird because I don’t even watch that show. We also covered wine, Weight Watchers, book clubs, and we swapped a couple recipes.

I must be a catalyst of sorts because I’m always having long conversations with women I just met. If you walked by us you’d think we went to college together or maybe our kids were in the same classroom in school.

I made a new friend at Nobbies Party Store on Monday when I stopped to buy supplies for my psychic party.

I walked in and before I could even grab a cart my new friend (who turned out to be the head of marketing) asked if she could help me find anything and I told her I was looking for stuff for my psychic party and we started talking and didn’t stop for 25 minutes. She made some suggestions and showed me where everything was so I didn't have to find it by myself. It was like having a personal shopper. Her name is Kristen and I’m supposed to call her on Monday and let her know how the party went.

Back at urgent care, my new friend Liz wrote me a prescription for Augmentin after she checked me out and determined I actually did have a pretty bad sinus infection. I swallowed a pill as soon as I got home so I should be feeling fine for my psychic party on Saturday.

Liz warned me that the Augmentin might be hard on my stomach (I know she meant it might give me the non-verbal kind of diarrhea). I’m not worried. And next time I’m sick, I plan on stopping by for a chat with a friend.

I'm too lazy (hungover) to think of a title for this blog post

She’s forty-one and her daddy still calls her “baby“,
All the folks ‘round Brownsville say she’s crazy,
‘Cause she walks downtown with her suitcase in her hand,
Lookin’ for a mysterious dark- haired

---Helen Reddy, Delta Dawn


As of today I’m no longer 41. And my dad calls me honey, not baby, and has for as long as I can remember ( I call him dad because I don’t live in the deep south and I think calling anyone daddy when you’re older than 11 is super creepy).

I’m not freaked out about being forty-two years old. I’m not worried about getting wrinkly (Botox), or flabby (tummy tuck), or saggy (boob job) because when the money tree I planted in the back yard starts sprouting fifty dollar bills, I’m giving Dr. 90210 a call.

I have no regrets so far and worrying about things I can’t change is a total waste of time. And since the DeLorean is in the shop, I can‘t find my flux capacitor, and Dave used all the plutonium I can’t go back to the future even if I wanted to. But if I could, there are a few things I might mention to my younger self:

1. Don’t let Trish get so smashed at your bachelorette party. Everything was fine until she fell down Angie’s stairs and broke her leg a week before the wedding (also warn Angie about tricky stairs).

2. Always wear sunscreen and don’t climb into a tanning bed ever again. The more sunscreen you use now, the fewer dollars Dave will have to spend on chemical peels and microdermabrasion (leaving more money in the kitty for better boobs).

3. Don’t waste so much time on the couch with Dave watching Real World/Road Rules marathons on MTV. Once the babies start coming you and Dave will feel like two ships that pass in the night so get off your ass and go see a movie or something.

I’m sure I could think of more but mama had a lot of wine last night and I don’t think the part of my brain that creates the content for funny in the ‘hood is firing on all cylinders today. I think I need to put myself down for a nap.

But first I need to search itunes for a song about a woman who’s 42.

It's my blog and I'll write if I want to

My sister in law Stefanie sent me an e-mail the other day letting me know she left a comment on my blog. She mentioned she had never heard the adult diaper story and thought it was funny. She said she hoped Debby never got a hold of my blog because if she did, she’d need her own diaper because she’d probably crap.

My mom and dad got divorced when I was seven years old. Debby is my step - mom. She’s an important part of my life and she’s been with my dad since I was twelve. Even though Debby will never take the place of my mom, who died when I was 18, she comes pretty damn close.

Lots of people have asked me what I’d do if my dad and Debby found my blog. Damage control, probably. But I’m 41 years old and at some point we all have to come to the realization that we only really need to answer to ourselves (and maybe the police and God).

I have no such concerns about my mother in law reading my blog posts. Dave and his siblings spent a year of their childhood living in a Winnebago touring the west coast with their mom and her boyfriend (who went by the moniker Poet). I’m guessing she’d be A-OK with everything I’ve written.

Since I haven’t told my dad and Debby I’ve started a blog, they’d have to stumble across it on their own. That might not be so difficult since I used traceygarvisgraves.com for the domain name. If they Google me, they’ll see it. They’re getting pretty technically savvy at their house.

I’m not trying to hide anything. Some might wonder why I even care, at my age, if my dad and Debby read it. But I do care. I have a lot of respect for them and some of the things I blog about are things they might not necessarily be proud of.

I’ve posted about things I’ve done that are “technically” illegal. But much like the proverbial tree that falls in the forest when no one is around to hear it, I like to think my illegal shenanigans don’t count if certain people don’t know about them (plus the statute of limitations has long since run out on any of the crap I’ve pulled. I’m not entirely stupid).

I’ve always been the one no one has to worry about. I’ve only had one husband, both my kids are by the same father, and I don’t do anything freaky like practice witchcraft or swing with my neighbors. I try not to embarrass anyone with my blog posts but myself (and sometimes Trish).

I’ve never been arrested. The closest I’ve come to the clink was when the campus police pulled Noelle and me off the roof of Seashore Hall after we ate a big pile of ‘shrooms. The officer loaded us into his pseudo cop car and drove us back to the dorms. Even though we asked nicely, and thought it would be hysterical, he wouldn’t turn on his lights and sirens and run all the red lights. He deposited us back at our dorm and promised us the incident would appear in the Daily Iowan (we made sure he wrote down our first and last names). He must have been lying though because we never saw any mention of it in the paper.

I’d have to do a lot to surpass some of the stunts my siblings have pulled. God knows Trish has set the bar pretty high. But as I sit here polishing my sparkly good girl tiara, I realize my perch on the pedestal I’ve placed myself is growing more precarious by the day. The more people that read the blog, the better chance I have for someone to mention it to dad and Debby.

I should be more worried about a potential employer finding it. I’m guessing even if I’m hired by a company that doesn’t drug test, I might be asked to pee in a cup (I would like to think I’d pass but I might go to Jamaica again). I’d rather cover my naked body in honey and roll around in a pit of fire ants then put my neck in the noose of corporate America again but I may not have a choice. And blogging might make me less employable than I already am after a nine year hiatus from the work force. Let’s hope Human Resources has a sense of humor.

Sometimes I think about telling my dad I’m writing a blog. He knows I like to write and he’d be happy I was doing something I enjoy. But it would be kind of like telling him I’m earning some serious coin as a stripper. On one hand, yay for me for earning a nice living. On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t brag about me to his Friday morning breakfast group. I’m guessing telling all his friends I write a blog that highlights my love of wine and showcases my potty mouth wouldn’t be something he could get real excited about either.

My dad has always operated on a need to know basis. I once rolled in at 6:30 on a Sunday morning without a shirt on under my coat (I couldn’t find it in the dark. Could happen to anyone). He didn’t ask any questions, just offered me a cup of coffee. I was 21 at the time and home on break from college so he probably figured there wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. I love that about him. Debby is the one I’m worried about. She thinks Redbook magazine is kind of racy so if she reads the blog, the top of her head might blow off. She’s a bit more conservative than me.

When Matthew was a baby Dixie the psychic told me I would start writing again someday when the kids were out of the house. She said I would want something just for me. I never forgot what she said and I don’t know if the blog is just a self fulfilling prophecy or she really could see into the future.

For the first time in 9 years, my house is quiet during the day while the kids are in school. Blogging is something I tried and discovered I really liked. That fact that some people read it regularly blows my mind and I appreciate it. If you’re one of them, thank you.

Sooner or later I’ll tell dad and Debby about the blog. They’re welcome to read it at their own risk, of course. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve written but my dad would probably be a little surprised by my language and some of my behavior. His opinion will always mean something to me. And no matter how old I am, there will always be a part of me that is still daddy’s little girl.

Tracey is having a birthday!

Dear David,

There are only 6 shopping days left until I turn 42. Though you probably won’t go near a mall until the day before my birthday, I’ve compiled a list of things I would enjoy receiving from you (in case you want to start shopping early).

1. The Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather (not the patent leather one - patent is shiny. Just do what you usually do and tell the salesperson exactly what you need and then let them find it). I am going to ask for this handbag on every gift giving holiday from now until eternity (or I receive it, whichever comes first. To hell with my New Year’s resolution not to keep talking about it).

2. Black Uggs (the tall ones). I saw a 7 year old girl wearing them the other day and I almost snapped. The bastards at Younkers don’t sell them so you’ll have to go to Dillard’s (where the Dooney and Bourke handbags are also sold).

3. Nike Shox workout shoes. I need to replace my shoes if I’m going to continue going to Body Jam classes at the Y. My current shoes are getting worn out and if I trip and fall on my ass I won’t be able to wait on everyone hand and foot. Think of the shoes as a gift to the whole family.

4. Approximately 40 units of Botox. Stacy told me all about what Botox can do and I want to try it (no medi spas please. Dr. Feldman is the only one I trust to shoot poison into my forehead). While you’re at Dr. Feldman’s please grab a brochure for Restalyne (Stacy’s just recently filled my head with what this wonder drug can do).

5. Jo Malone Grapefruit Cologne. You can find this at Sephora at Jordan Creek Mall. You were so sweet to buy me Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle (that I asked you for) as one of my past birthday gifts but unfortunately it smells horrible on me. I do not smell like a mademoiselle, I smell like a 90 year old Madame when I wear it. I’ve done my research this time and the grapefruit scent is fabulous.

6. Please, no gifts from Dr. John’s lingerie boutique (and sex toy emporium). I’ve got enough of their inventory already. I know you like going there and they recently drew your name in the raffle but enough is enough (and the lingerie you “won” in the raffle wouldn’t fit an anorexic 9 year old so you’ll probably never see me wearing it).

Hopefully you’ll find this list helpful David. I want your shopping experience to be a pleasant one.


Love,


Tracey