The other day, a friend sent me a text. In the last year, this friend has had some turmoil: she had to leave the job that she loved to take one that paid enough to live on (but is "sucking out my soul") and had some, as she put it, "Cliche bullshit" in her personal life. On top of that, we both turned 40. Her text read: "How do you know if you're having a midlife crisis? It's easy with men: young woman, fast car...Maybe I'm just depressed." And that got me to thinking. Me being me, I've pretty much been in "mid-life crisis mode" since I was 24. But that's another blog. How do women have a genuine MLC? Let's start with the easy answers: facelifts, boob jobs, suddenly mad that our husbands sit on the couch watching football instead of doing spontaneous romantic things, wearing low-cut shirts (that are steadily more low-cut as our cleavage travels south), that sort of thing. But really, what's going on? And are we allowed? I've been 40 for almost a year now. At the time it happened, I really hadn't thought much about it other than acknowledging the fact that it truly was no longer going to be acceptable for me to do some things, like wear a bikini or hog the dance floor at the club where they are apparently letting in younger and younger people (they keep looking younger and younger to me, anyway). Probably shouldn't do 5 Jager shots in a night and not expect repercussions. I should probably start excising the word "Fuck" from my everyday conversations. I would have to gain some, ahem, mature decorum. Ok; no biggie. I can do those things. Then I realized that in pictures, I suddenly look different. Like, DIFFERENT different. I'm all puffy in the eye area and OHMYGOD, are those jowls? Why do I look like I weigh 160 pounds? Oh, right, because I do. My nose has always been of the non-petite type, but it seems to have taken on a new curve and is sagging. MY NOSE IS SAGGING. That's almost worse than my boobs sagging, because there is no socially acceptable nose bra. And overnight, my waist went inside-out. And my butt flattened, apparently under the weight of the flanks it is hefting around. The schema in my brain labeled "What I Look Like" was incongruous with what I was seeing. And I've never considered myself to be a beauty, but I was no slouch, I thought. What do I do now? Freak out? Go low-cut? Get a cub? Or go the other way and stop coloring my hair, buy high-waisted big-pocketed acid-washed jeans and wear them with big polo shirts and trainers? How do I have a physical mid-life crisis? I'm 40 in a society that doesn't like women who look 40. Oh, sure; there are all kinds of role models that we can look at and say "See? Over 40 can still be lovely." And it can be, but I don't have a couple hundred grand sitting around for Botox and implants and laser contouring and personal trainers who will come to my house and make me cry and vomit. So, is there a place for us who are reluctantly aging gracefully? Part 2 will most likely deal with the non-shallow part of all of this: Who am I now? But right now, I need a nap. And a martini.

I TOLD you I was sick.

(I could say something flip like "that'll be my epitaph", haha. But it's just not funny right now.)
So, I haven't been feeling well. For about 2 or 3 years. It started with a rolling, oogy feeling in my tummy accompanied by a pain in my upper right abdomen. I went to my regular FP doctor, Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy, whom I love. He always listens and is very definitive with his diagnoses.
"It's your gall bladder. Let's get an ultrasound."
It wasn't my gall bladder. Just to be sure, he ordered a Hydroscan, which is an hours-long ordeal with much fasting beforehand and then having to lie very still in a scanner while gall-bladder-contracting-stuff is pumped into your veins.
Nothing.
The pain went away for a while.
Then it came back. This time Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy scheduled an endoscopy with a gastroenterologist friend of his. I talked to Dr. GI for about 2 minutes before he taped an O-ring in my mouth (making me feel ludicrously like a blow-up doll), knocked me out and stuck a camera down my gullet. While he was in there, he took pictures and nicked a chunk of my duodenum for a trophy.
Nothing.
It took 3 months to get in to see this gastroenterologist for a follow-up office visit. When I did, he joked that maybe I was faking it. Haha.
I went on a gluten-free diet and decided to shut the hell up about it for a year. I would be fine. I would make myself be fine.
Then I started having increasingly crazy PMS. For 2 weeks of every month, I would be exhausted, brain-dead, moody like you wouldn't believe, and felt like I had a pair of molten-lead bowling balls strapped to my chest. Then I would be okay for 2 weeks, would apologize to my family for being a bitch and to everyone else for being a flake, and would try to get caught up.
And the pain came back, bigger, more widespread and I kind of wanted to throw up a lot. I called Dr. GI. He ordered a full abdominal CAT scan. Right before this scan, I spent an AWESOME weekend water-skiing and wake surfing with some wonderful friends in a lake surrounded by cows. I might have swallowed some water. I know some water got into at least 2 orifices when I wrecked spectacularly while slalom skiing. It was brilliant. Then I came home, had the scan (fasting for a day, drinking a gallon of barium and then lying very still in a big machine again), and the next day started barfing and...well...the other thing that goes with barfing, only the other end. Ahem. Called Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy, who chewed me out for swallowing lake water and diagnosed me with giardia. Between talking with him and a friend of mine whose father is a GI doc, we started to think that maybe I had had a chronic giardia infection all along. Okay! A diagnosis! A treatment! Yes! Dr. GI did not take the news well and basically told me not to call his office anymore. Well, okay, I guess. Now I can move on and focus on this fucking PMS.
In the midst of the gut stuff, I had timidly asked my Gyno doc, twice at annual exams, if she could maybe check my ovaries, just to make sure that everything down there was okay and wasn't contributing to this gut stuff and the PMS. She said they felt fine. And if I wasn't going to take birth control pills, she couldn't help me. The pills made the PMS worse, I told her. She sighed and told me I was fine, it was nothing to do with anything down there and she wasn't going to test my ovaries because false positives are common and just not something she wanted to deal with. I was fine.

Yes.

I was fine.

Or not. But I decided, again, to just shut up. Maybe I was fine. Maybe I was faking it and didn't even know I was faking it. Maybe I was just that much of an attention whore.

Yes. I was fine.

Flash forward to March of this year. Everything started getting worse. The pain, the PMS. I read up on bioidentical hormones, found a (very expensive, non-insurance covered) Women's Health CNM. She made me spit into a handful of vials, sent them off for testing and then declared I was almost maybe peri-menopausal. It was something. So she gave me some (also very expensive) progesterone pills and cream and I dutifully used it.
I also saw a new GI doc, who was and is flummoxed and determined but decided to start by clearing my whole system and re-biotizing it. Great. I felt okay for 2 weeks. Then not. Really really not.
A month ago I got a postcard, randomly, for an ObGyn clinic specializing in "pelvic problems". I needed an annual poking and prodding and wasn't going back to the bitch who made me feel bad for asking if she could help me, so I scheduled an appointment.

Have you ever met one of those people who just...listens? And cares? And validates you, even when you come to them defensive and exhausted and at the end of a rapidly fraying rope? Yeah. He got it. He did the poking and prodding, then told me he would do every test that he thought might, at least, rule out anything wrong down there.
I cried. In front of him.

(Any men reading this might want to skip the next few paragraphs. Just sayin')

So yesterday I saw him in his ultrasound and super-poking lab office. He cranked open my uterus and poked it. That does NOT feel pleasant. At all. Then he wheeled over an ultrasound machine with a wand that he actually put an actual condom on. After I swallowed my humiliation and we giggled about it, he turned on the ultrasound and...started taking pictures of my inside. It took exactly 2 seconds before he said,
"Wow. Well, there you go. There's your problem."
On the screen was a big black ball. The size of a baseball. 700 cubic centimeters. (That's more than half a liter. A water bottle.)

I have a cyst on my ovary that would make a decent water balloon. It's making everything hurt just by being where it isn't supposed to be, and fucking up my hormones enough that my gut is discombobulated and my PMS is crazy.
I cried, again, in front of him. That insane laughing cry that just blasts out and you can't stop it. He hugged me. And I cried some more.

Because after 2 years of being sick, having my mental state and honesty questioned, tens of thousands of dollars in unnecessary and uncomfortable and humiliating tests, being an emotional wreck and a physical noodle, it's going to be over.

He's taking it out on Tuesday. With a robot!

And then I'll be fine.

Yep.

Fine.

Update and Explanation on the Saga of the Drama with the Excitement on Gregson Street, Part II

Sara is my best friend. Like my BEST best friend. She's that friend that gets me and likes me anyway and isn't afraid to tell me what to do. We used to be stay-at-home moms together but now our kids are in school all day, they go to different schools, and she went back to work (Huh. I seem to be the only one that no longer has an actual child at home all day who hasn't returned to the real world. Weird.). Thursday is her day off. So, Thursday is also my day off. Day off from what? Doesn't matter, really. What matters is that every Thursday I am lucky enough to be able to sit in my living room and have a drink and talk with my best friend. And when we talk, it's AWESOME. We could totally solve all the world's problems.

Last Thursday was Dirty Martini Thursday. (We generally pick a different cocktail every week. Recipes and suggestions gladly accepted). We were meeting at my house at high noon and the plan was that Sara would distract me with the awesome talking while I made fresh salsa. It's tedious, with all of the chopping. Right before noon, my dachshund started barking out in the yard. Not wanting to be the rude neighbor who lets their dogs just barkbarkbarkbarkbark, I stuck my head out the front door and hissed, "Wiener! Knock it offffff......" and then I choked. Because walking up the street past my house (along the cross bar of the T that I live on) were about a half dozen police officers, some in uniform, a couple in windbreakers that said SHERIFF on the back, one in a shirt and tie. All with their guns drawn. As they approached...wait for it...Creepy Gary's house, they trained their sights on his front door. Three of them ducked behind his car parked in the driveway. Two went to the porch to pound on the front door. One scampered one more house up the street and covered the front door with a big-ass rifle from behind a light pole. I decided there was something serious going down and called the dogs inside. And got Sara's ass on the phone.
"Where are you?" (I whispered so as not to tip Gary off that there were cops outside his house).
"I'm almost there! Sorry!"
"K, when you get here, park in front and then RUN to the side door. Hurry! There's cops surrounding my neighbor's house!" (I was yelling now, realizing that Gary couldn't hear me from way over here. That and the cops were knocking really loudly on his door and yelling for him to come out and it was very exciting). "Duck and cover! Hurry!"
"What the hell's going on?"
"I don't know, but it's some serious shit!"
I had no idea how serious it would get.

Sara pulled up and parked crookedly, almost like a movie-car stop. She scurried inside and she and I watched the half-dozen police officers give up trying to get someone to come out of Gary's house. They stood down, signaled to each other and then commenced closing the streets of the T. No one could get in, or out. So we poured a couple of extra dirty 'tinis and settled ourselves in my dining room so we could see out the big front windows and I could chop salsa. A while later, three enormous motorhomes and a bevy of cop cars flooded the bottom of the T. "Mobile Command Unit" said one motorhome. One was painted black. From that one, what looked like Army guys came flooding out. They positioned themselves in scary sniper-type places including the roof of a garage and behind some hedges. After about an hour, there was a small flurry of excitement, and the Army guys surrounded someone on the sidewalk. It was *dun dun dun* Creepy Gary himself. Looking scared and weak and like a crazy pedophile who has been in a stand-off with the cops should look. Wild-grizzled-hair-and-beard crazy. He's a cliche, really. They handcuff him and hustle him off toward the command center.

So we thought at that point it might be over. Wrong! Information about what was going on started trickling in from friends calling and texting. Apparently, Creepy Gary's latest boy toy was in a peck of trouble. He'd killed a young woman that morning; his girlfriend. And was now holed up in Creepy Gary's house with an unknown quantity of guns. Yep. These are the people Creepy Gary is bringing to this sweet quiet neighborhood.

Now I was getting worried. It was almost time to start thinking about children that would need to be picked up from school and there was no indication that the police were going to let Sara or I leave. Not that we wanted to, really, it was just getting interesting. So we made arrangements for our respective children, poured another drink and decided to watch more. But first we went out to the back yard for a minute. You know, for some fresh air.
I live on a corner. So my back yard is exposed to the cross-bar of the T of streets. The up-down part of the T starts at my front yard. This visual will help, trust me.
So Sara and I are in the back yard and can't really see what's going on, but we figure since my house is between us and Creepy Gary's house we're safe. As we're chatting about our current situation, I look up just in time to see a line of Army guys (turns out, they're SWAT team. I didn't know they wear camo) at my front gate. My front gate is locked with a carabiner to keep dogs in and small children out, and the lead SWAT guy can't get it open what with all the big-ass guns he's holding. So--BAM--he kicks in the gate and the whole team just files through my front yard, along the side, through the back yard and out the back gate. Would have been really sexy had I not just about peed myself. As they passed us one of them yelled at us to get inside and into the basement. Really? Yeah...No. We're not about to miss this action. But we nod and thank them for being awesome. Then we run back inside and duck down to watch through the front door and big front window.
Another hour or so goes by. There are little flurries of activity. Someone brings the SWAT guys hunkered around Gary's car a drink. Various official people go by my house, ducking behind Sara's car and using it as a shield which doesn't make Sara happy. A K-9 officer hunkers down behind of her car too. My dogs decide to bark at him, at which point I have to remind them that that dog has a JOB and they should just pipe down. My husband calls for an update and is righteously pissed that they cops kicked in our gate. Were they going to fix it? Pay for it? What the hell?
I gently reminded him that his beloved wife was trapped in the house surrounded by an alarmingly large arsenal of guns and nobody knew how much deadly weaponry was at the house across the street, potentially being tended by a wack-job who had already committed murder today.
"They just better fix our gate."
I feel cherished. Really.
(To give him credit, he called right back and apologized and said he loves me and hoped everything would be okay).

And finally, it was okay. The SWAT team brought out their door-basher-inner and some shield thingies and put on gas-masks. Oo! It's about to go down! They holler on the bullhorn for whomever is in the house to either answer the phone or come out or they're coming in. After some noises and more flurry, they're wrestling with someone on the front lawn. Five of them are dragging him away, right past my house to the command center.

He looks about 15. He's crying and looks like he's the one who peed his pants.

He's a boy. A lost sad boy who killed a girl and holed up with a crazy perv and nearly got himself shot by a sniper.

And it's over. The SWAT guys high-five each other, the cops in plain clothes pat each other on the back. Sara and I hug and laugh nervously and she leaves to get her kid. Cars being held back flood into the T. We neighbors gather in small groups and discuss.

And, to my utter indignant astonishment, Creepy Gary shuffles up the street. Free to go.

Part 3 soon. Must go do real world type stuff.

Update and Explanation on the Saga of the Drama with the Excitement on Gregson Street

Whew. Okay. So.
We moved to this neighborhood when the Girl was 2. Mostly because she was getting to the age of wanting to make friends and we lived in Crack Central and I didn't really want her having playdates at the meth house. We didn't have a lot of money, but we managed to get a sweet teensy cottage bungalow in an old neighborhood on the east side not far from the city. It's a neighborhood that was mostly planted during and after WWII, and many of the houses still contain widows and widowers who have lived here since they bought their first house as newlyweds just after the Big War or their children who grew up loving this neighborhood. Neat yards, trimmed bushes, picket fences, a few odd additions. But lovely. And quiet. And no hookers walking past the house. Nor crying toddlers wandering through whose moms have passed out at noon. It's a small-yet-nice-house neighborhood full of people who love it here.

You know how there's always the ONE house? That one with crap all over the yard, needs paint and new awnings, weedy used-to-be-flowerbeds, either a rental or an inheritance? Yeah, we have one of those. His name is Gary. Bonus that he's a creepy fifty-something year old single man who has Hoarding Disorder. And likes little boys a little too much. He lives across the street from me. (Sort of. If you need a visual to enjoy this story, I live on the corner of a "T". My house is at the top of the up-down part of the T. Gary's hovel is across the street, on what would be the cross bar of the T. Clear? All righty then).
There have always been rumors about Gary. Even someone who doesn't cotton to rumors has to admit that there are just too many stories about Gary to ignore the feeling that we should all keep our kids away from his lawn. And maybe our dogs too.
Gary "rescues" young men with criminal pasts from homeless shelters and jail. He brings them to his house and gives them a place to stay (assuming they can clear a spot amid the piles of stuff in his house, that is). That's all I know for sure. I sure wouldn't want to be accused of slander by writing that we're all pretty positive that he buys them drugs in exchange for sex. Nope. But I have seen him and his creepy friends standing around the front yard and then one or more young men scurry from his house to the bus stop. But I'm sure it was all...innocent. And helpful. And Morally Upstanding. I'm sure his medal from the mayor is in the mail. Is there a sarcasm font yet?
Somehow, he has managed to get away with it. The cops know about him. He has a rap sheet, but doesn't appear on the sex offender list. We've had the U.S. Marshall on our doorstep showing us 'Wanted' posters and asking if we've "seen this man" at Gary's house. It's always a picture of a defiant young man, dark skinned, thin. But Gary is smart in that disgusting slimy way; he knows the line between legal and illegal and he skates it well. He knows the technicalities and he exploits them whenever attention is called to him. (When I confronted him Friday after the whole Saga of Drama with the Excitement, his only response was to make sure I knew that the boy in question is 23 years old. That was all). So we all live with Gary and his drug addicted boy-toys. And hate him. I feel sorry for the boys, but only to a point. They still make their own choices and choose to be there.

I'm a housewife. I'm not going to deny that there could be a chance that my inherent nosiness and writer's imagination may have...exaggerated...what I think is going on over there. I also won't deny that I've looked into how much trouble I would get into if I planted a sign on his front yard that reads: "Warning: Pedophile on Premises." The one time Gary saunter/shuffled over and tried to make friends with me over my fence, I made sure that Phoebe the Great Dane kept barking at him and let him know that she hates people (a lie; she's a marshmallow). I wouldn't let him in the yard. I've told my daughter and her friends to never, EVER talk to him or anyone at his house. EVER. I've let everyone who moves onto the streets of the T know who the Creepy Guy is. Sometimes I felt bad; was I rumor-mongering? Spreading nasty stories for shits-and-giggles because I am, after all, a bored housewife? Hmmmmmm.....

Sorry, gotta go have dinner with that wonderful man I live with. He smoked stuff all day on a grill-thingy for me. I opened a bottle of good wine. Will continue Part deux tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever.

Help an Up-on-her-luck housewife for charity? Please?

I am a lucky person. If the world is, indeed, separated into the Haves and the Have-nots I am fortunate enough to consider my self squarely in the first category.

I'm married to a wonderful hard-working man who gets up unimaginably early and spends ten-plus hours every day at a stressful job that I don't completely understand. He's handsome and a great dad to boot. I have a smart, beautiful, healthy daughter who only drives me bonkers 48% of the time. I have supportive caring parents who are generous with their time and love. I have awesome friends who (mostly) aren't embarrassed to hang out with me. I live in a sturdy, albeit small, house that has heat and clean water and a pantry full of food and wine. I have dogs who are always happy to see me (until I kick their lazy bums off the couch, anyway). I have a car that takes me wherever I want to go. I'm healthy.

Yep; I've got it pretty good. I really can't complain. (Although, if you know me, you know I somehow manage to anyway. I'm working on that.)

Being a fortunate person, I feel like it's my responsibility to give back. To help others. In that spirit, I've volunteered (sort of) for a few different charitable events coming up. Unfortunately, I've somehow managed to volunteer in ways that put me in the position of having to do the one thing I hate the most: Asking for money. It makes me squirm and I'm not even really sure why. It probably has to do with the little bit of low self-esteem I've got going on; I'm always afraid people won't think I'm worthy of their hard-earned money. I also do not like being told "No" but do not have the cajones to persist. Having not had a lot of money in the past, I feel bad putting others in the position of unwillingly giving money they may not be able to spare. Even though this money is not for me and will be going to causes much greater than my little self...I dunno. I just suck at asking people for money. I'd much rather just sneak into my daughter's classroom and help the teacher a few hours a week. I'd rather go to the adult literacy center and teach people to read. I'd rather go to the Humane Society and clean kennels for animals who have known evil people and abandonment.

But that's not what I'm doing at the moment. I'm asking for money. Specifically, I'm asking YOU for money. Or stuff. If you can spare even a few (tax-deductible) bucks for a good cause, please read on:

Accidental Volunteer Position #1:

Junior Achievement. The wonderful husband works for the Evil Empire. The Evil Empire does a TON of good, honest charity work. More than most people would ever believe. The hubby put together a team to participate in the Junior Achievement Bowl-a-thon to raise money for JA Utah. The money raised will go to help kids who are not as fortunate as our daughter get a better education. If you'd like to help me out (Um, this happens tomorrow. I've raised exactly zero dollars. I was supposed to raise $200.), please click the link below:
Help Me Support JA of Utah

If you're nice, I'll post videos of me bowling. Now that is worth $20 and a laugh, right?

Accidental Volunteer Position #2:

Highland Park Elementary Arts Night Silent Auction Committee. Oy vey. I so did not mean to get on this committee. But here I am and I'm really trying to do what I'm supposed to do. But if one more business owner looks down their nose at me and lies to my face about getting back to me and smirking as I slink out the door, I'll...I'll...slink faster.
Ok, we're not looking for cash donations. What we are looking for is anything else. The committee wants lots of gift cards that parents can bid on. Honestly I don't get that, but ok. We also need art. Nice-looking art items that might bring in a few dollars. Big or small. Got anything? Please let me know. I'll even come pick it up from you! Etsy sellers, artists, hobbyist; this is your chance to showcase your wares! Businesses, we will pimp you out BIG TIME. Also, if you are feeling particularly philanthropic today, we really really need a Big Ticket Item to raffle off. Last year we had an iPod touch. Anyone have a spare new-in-box Wii sitting around? Yeah, something like that would be great. Thanks.

Whew. Ok. That's it for now. Seriously, if you are one of the lucky Haves and can spare any of your fortune, no matter how small, I will be forever grateful.

Thank you.

(But don't get too comfy. I have one more plea for donations to hit you with. But it's special and will get it's own blog. Or three. )

Sorry. Sorry. Oh, crap, I'm sorry.

I'll come right out and say it: I'm a flake. A huge, monstrous, ginormous fucking flake. Chances are if you ask me to do something, need me to call you, expect me to help you with something, 74% of the time you'll be shit out of luck. No matter what I've said or how bright-eyed-bushy-tailed I was when I told you I would do/call/be there.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not bragging. I'm not proud of it. Hell, I'm not even conscious of it most of the time. I agree to do something, be somewhere, maybe even write it down. Maybe you call me or text me right before to remind me of my obligation. And I have every honest intention of following through. And then I just...don't.

Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad personality flaw, really, if I just didn't offer to do stuff in the first place. Or if I didn't care what people think of me. Or if my feeble excuses and apologies really made it all better. (Why do we tell kindergarteners that "Sorry" fixes things? It doesn't. Really. Right?) But the problem is twofold:

1) I volunteer for way too many things, whether it's being on the PTA board or offering to edit someone's manuscript or help my husband fundraise so he looks good at work. I just can't say no. It started in college, really...but that's another story.

2) I'm horribly disorganized and forgetful, and I procrastinate like I invented the concept. I also don't make much of an effort to force myself to do things that make me uncomfortable, like ask people for donations to charities.

So I guess my problem is partially unconscious and partially bad behavior. Does that make it a personality disorder?

Blog Vomit

Because at some point, it aaaaallll just has to come out. Because my brain is overflowing with crap that is mucking up any creative anything that might be lurking in a dark corner of my frontal lobe.

I think I really need to get my ass in gear. Yeah. I'm sitting in my teeny house, surrounded by too many furry creatures whom I love but who also just keep making messes and wrecking my stuff. My stairwell, which I started painting 2 years ago, is in a limbo of incompletion that is starting to make me twitch. Yet I can't seem to get it done somehow. Just the thought of finding the stuff I need to finish it....ugh. Ditto starting to paint the rest of the house, which really really needs it. 6 years of dogs and people and rabbits (oh my!) means dings, scuffs, splashes, crackles, and giant splashes of red hair dye all over the bathroom door. I'm not very good at aiming the little squirty bottle at the back of my head, so the door looks like a prop for a low-budget Friday the 13th remake. But I just can't seem be be arsed to fix it.

My yard is full of junk. Junk I don't know how to get rid of. I shouldn't say yard; it's mostly confined to an out-of-sight out-of-mind covered patio behind my garage. It's there because the garage is full. The garage is full because I have that genetic predilection to not throw stuff out. Bonus: the genetic predilection of being afraid that whatever I do with it will be the wrong thing so it might as well
just...stay...right...there. Ugh.

I keep making goals. No. I keep setting goals and then not making them. Because it's just too damn easy to...not do anything different. My day is typically made up of running errands, doing something at or for the Girl's school, doing the dishes and facebook. Something has got to change. I've been saying that for...what, 5 years now? When do I really get off my proverbial and literal ass and do things?

Ugh.

People need to stop making more people. But maybe my priorities are wonky. 'Nuff said.

I need to make a copy of my car key.

My cat is deaf. It's both funny and annoying.

These extra 20 pounds just don't seem to be losing themselves.

K. I'll stop now before anyone who might accidentally read this really starts to worry. Or starts to seriously avoid me.
I'm not crazy, I'm just...distracted.

Mama’s Holiday Wish List Meme

TodaysMama and GameStop are giving away a sleighful of gifts this holiday season and to enter I’m sharing this meme with you.

1. What is your holiday wish for your family?

That we are all safe, happy and healthy together.
Yes, I know that's a very white-bread, vanilla, generically vague wish. We're lucky; we don't have any major issues right now, knock wood. But the alternatives to safety, happiness and togetherness are scary, and we need to remember to be grateful for every simple moment and (non-)thing we have.

2. What is your Christmas morning tradition?

We all wake up together, go into the living room and make sure Santa has eaten his cookies and milk and read the note he has left. Then we rip and tear and thank each other. Stockings are last, and finally we have a giant greasy breakfast.

3. If you could ask Santa for one completely decadent wish for yourself, what would it be?

To fly away to London with my favorite fellow Anglophile girlfriends, meet up with AdieToots there and shop, relax and party British style.

4. How do you make the holidays special without spending any money?

We go for a walk with the dogs, all of us together. It's the best when it's snowing and completely silent.

5. What games did you play with your family growing up?

Monopoly, mostly. That or anything that involved throwing and catching something in the yard.

6. What holiday tradition have you carried on from your own childhood?

Santa leaves each person's gifts in a pile on their own special chair where we get to curl up and take turns opening.

7. Where would you go for a Christmas-away-from-home trip?

I'd love to spend Christmas Eve night at my parents' house and let my daughter wake up to Santa's gifts there. My mom has always lamented never getting to see any of her granddaughters' faces when they first see what Santa has done. Unfortunately, actually doing this would be a logistical nightmare and my mother-in-law would never speak to me again. Hmmm....

8. Check out GameStop and tell us: What are the three top items on your GameStop Wish List this year?

Ummmm, I'm going to go with a Wii Fit or the new Kinect system, Super Mario Bros for the DS because my daughter keeps asking and asking and asking for it, and Donkey Kong Country Returns (that is one of my all-time favorite games to play on our 12-year-old Super Nintendo. That's right; I still play on a Super Nintendo...I really need to win this contest, right? Sigh).

Merry Everything and Happy New Year!

Can I get some help here, please?

So, I've been pretty quiet lately. In case you haven't noticed. Trust me when I say there are some people who were breathing a sigh of relief when the Myspace blogosphere quietly fell apart and I got writer's block. The attention whore took a break. I haven't asked for much; I haven't given much, either. And for that I'm chagrined. And it's about to change.

I'm asking you all now for help.

Usually by this time of year I've burst my little bubble of housewifedom and lit out for greener pastures with at least a few of my wonderful, raucous, caring, beautiful girlfriends. We load up on the food we won't let our kids eat, stuff our suitcases with more booze than clothes and go to Lake Tahoe. We sleep. We eat. We drink. We sit and read trashy magazines. We drink some more. We bitch and piss and moan and commiserate. Then we hit the casinos and spend money at the blackjack table and drink and laugh and drink and I dance. Well, I call it dancing. It's more accurate to call it "flailing like a decapitated turkey". We're mildly inappropriate and then we drink some more. Then we come home and immediately start planning our next getaway.
This year, through agonizingly horrifyingly unfortunate accident in one case and just general malaise and financial woes in the other case, both of my trips were canceled. I moped. I whined. I withdrew. I threw myself a huge pity party and wallowed in it.

Then I got an email from my friend Kim. Kim, whom I only know through her mostly hilarious and blush-inducing blogs back in the MySpace days. Kim who has no problem telling people exactly how she feels about them. Kim who has an adorable son and devoted husband and loyal friends. Kim who is best described by the word "spunky" (which, if you read her blogs, should make you giggle). Kim who has Multiple Sclerosis, a debilitating disease that has no cure. A disease she has mentioned but never complains about. A disease that she wakes up every morning with, says "fuck you" to, and leads the charge to destroy.
She was looking for team mates and/or donations for a fundraiser walk. Not just any fundraiser walk; a 3-day, 50-mile march of insanity. In Wisconsin, which is half a continent away from her. And from me.

She has MS and works full time, and she walked 50 miles last year. I have a cushy life as a housewife, and I drank my way down the strip at Tahoe last year.

Yeah. I think it's time for a change. So, I've taken all the cash I saved up for my Tahoe drunkfest trips and I bought a plane ticket to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I paid $125 entry fee to join her team (the LaDorkas, and a finer bunch of women you will never find). I bought new walking shoes. I've been training by dragging my overly energetic Golden Retriever all over town in 95 degree heat every day. I'm ready.

Here's the catch and where you, my patient and excellent friend and reader, come in. Ready?

I can only participate in the walk if I raise $1500 in donations. No funds, no walking. I'll fly to Wisconsin and watch while my brave friend Kim, who has MS, walks 50 miles hoping some medical genius will use the money to make it so that she can play with her son forever.

I don't want to watch her walk, no matter how cute her ass is. I want to do this walk with her. I want to do it for her. I want to do it for my friend Eric. I want to do it because horrible things happen to excellent people and maybe I can help. I want to not be selfish for a minute. I want to do it so that I can meet Janet and Kathy and Patty and Donna and the other Dorkas. I don't want to watch their sweet jiggly asses walk away without me.

So please, help a girl out, will ya? Click on the link below and donate in my name. The minimum suggested donation is $25. If every single on of the people on my friends list gives me $15 or even $10, I'm good to go and can leave you all in peace and not bother you any more. Nor will I have to resort to putting change cans on the counter at 7-11. I have 60 days left to raise this money. And I'm really pretty good at bothering people.

I can't promise much in return besides a heartfelt "Thank You". But I will mean it. And I will promise to continue trying to be a better person, a better friend, and a better writer. Which should make you feel better, right?

Thank you for your time. Now grab your credit card and click, please. Have I mentioned how fabulous you look today?

My link: Wisconsin Challenge MS Walk 2010--Vanessa Fravel

If you prefer to pay with cash or check, you can mail it to:
National MS Society - Wisconsin Chapter (include my name with your donation):
1120 James Drive, Suite A,
Hartland, WI 53029.

Or to me. If you send me an email, I'll send you my address.
Or you can give it to me in person. You know I'm going to ask, so you might as well just fork it over as soon as you see me.

Stop Protesting BP...

...unless you are living a life without petroleum, petrochemicals or natural gas. Because otherwise, you're a hypocrite.

Don't get me wrong; I'm horrified by the spill in the Gulf. Saddened by pictures of guck-covered pelicans struggling to fly. Angry to read that sea turtles are being burned alive inside open-water booms. Disgusted at the stories emerging that British Petroleum side-stepped safety procedures, which may have ultimately caused the blowout. Indignant that many of BP's "cleanup efforts" were staged photo-ops.

But I am also willing to admit that I personally have some culpability in the root causes that lead to a massive oil spill.
I drive a car that runs on gas.
My house is heated by natural gas, my kitchen stove runs on it.
Right now, within reaching distance, there are at least 14 things made of plastic. That's just on my desk. Hell, the keyboard I'm typing on is plastic. (Plastic is made from petroleum. We all know that, right?)
I use lotion and cosmetics.
I dust my house with a microfiber cloth, wrap up in a microfiber blankie when I'm chilly in the evening, wear clothes made of polyester, love my flip-flops.
Click here for some more things made of petroleum. Surprised?

My point is: Oil and its refined, manipulated and packaged byproducts are ubiquitous in our modern society. We're addicted to it, and not only because we love to drive. We also firmly believe that our food is only good if it comes sealed in plastic or is deposited safely in plastic baggies before going anywhere; that tap water is inferior to that which sloshes around in a plastic vessel from a store shelf; that products we buy are only "new" if they come sealed in blister-pack plastic that one risks personal injury opening; that our cars, cell phones, computers, hairbrushes, garbage cans, children's toys, cleaning products, storage bins, shall-I-go-on must be lightweight, indestructible, ergonomically convenient and above all disposable.
Recycle plastic? Sure! But where does it go then? Who cares! I feel better just tossing it into the bin with the triangle of chasing arrows. Does anyone think to look for products made from recycled plastic? Or choose to purchase items that don't come in plastic, if that option is available? Use refillable water bottles? Take your own grocery bags to the store? Walk to the store?
For some depressing mythbusting about recycling plastic, click HERE.

So back to BP and the other oil companies. What is their responsibility in all of this mess? They are simply applying the rules of capitalism: Give the people whatever they are willing to pay for. And as the universe always manages to show us: Accidents and mishaps will happen. Nothing is ever perfect. And there is never any one entity responsible, no matter how opportunistic and dishonest the service provider might be.

Just like the current US housing crisis that was caused by companies willing to use devious and unfair lending practices because every Joe and Jane Sixpack suddenly felt it was their God-given American Right to own a big new house, whether or not they actually earned enough money to pay for it. Someone gave them a loan for it. Then the Sixpacks were astonished and angry when they couldn't make their mortgage payments and the evil bank took away their house.
Just like everyone on facebook was shocked that their personal information was being given out to any and all advertisers and other web sites, even though they entered all of it themselves. On the Internet. Where nothing, ultimately, is private because we've all demanded to know everything about everything. But not our own everything. Just everyone else's everythings.

Et cetera, ad nauseum. Personal responsibility, anyone?

Everything has a cost, monetary or intangible. What are you willing to sacrifice, really, to show Big Oil that there needs to be a change?

Until you (and I) can answer that question and behave accordingly, put down your placard, get in your plastic car that runs on gas and go home.

Motherhood of Squirrels.

So, I'm a mom. Of one. Yes, on purpose (well, the One part, anyway). I love my daughter, I love being a mother, but I gotta tell ya: It hasn't been easy. I was terrified to become a mom, scared shitless that if I was left in charge of a small human being I'd probably wreck it, like I did my first car, or lose it like so many cell phones and keys. It's a learn-as-you go task, this Motherhood thing, and that in itself took me a while to figure out. But we soldier on. Just in case, along with her college fund, I've squirreled away a "therapy fund" for her as well. Because everything, as we all well know, will be my fault. Right?

Along with mothering my human child, I've raised several dogs, evil cats, rabbits, fish and hermit crabs. I've rescued wild birds.

And now I have squirrels. (Yay!)

After watching several of the Fingered Rodentates visit our oak trees every fall, I decided I wanted one of my very own. So I got a feeder and had The Husband attach it with large screws to our big messy pine tree in the back yard, filled it with peanuts and sat back to watch. It didn't take long for a bushy-tailed visitor to figure out this was a gold mine and take up residence in the tree. She was quick, cute and oh, so very bossy. Being territorial, she would promptly yell at any other squirrel who tried to belly up to the buffet. The dogs, cats and people in our yard are berated regularly for existing. Sometimes she will deign to grace us with her presence, resting comfortably on top of the feeder box, stretched out, little prehensile feet hanging off the corners. And every time she's there, you're guaranteed to see me standing entranced, quivering and giggling and wanting to love it and hug it and squeeze it and call it George. (But we named her Peach, instead). We watched as she, being compulsively squirrelish, stashed everything she could find in various caches around the yard. When I, in a rare show of industry, tried to rake up the leaves and pine needles last Autumn, she promptly ran to the branch above my head and held out her little paw, chittering anxiously as I turned over stashed acorns, peanuts and sunflower seeds. If I could have super slow-mo'd the audio I'm pretty sure it was an action-movie "NOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo!!!!!!" I apologized, stopped raking and poured a drink. Yard work is overrated anyway, right?

This Spring, Ms. Peach showed up at the feeder with teeny faucets on her belly. Been whorin' around, had Peach. Oh, Rapture! To think there might be baby squirrels! Teensy nekkid blind baby squirrels nesting somewhere above my head! Oh!

Having watched more than my fair share of Nature episodes, I know how perilous it is to be a baby in the wild. Watching her, that knowledge was confirmed. Peach has been an exemplary example of the Trials of Motherhood. I am a mother. Everything Peach has been through, I have shared in empathy.

Nursing babies is no picnic. Peach would regularly sit on the feeder, belly exposed, as if too cool off the radioactive nipples. Then she would frantically cram as much food as she could down her pie-hole. Been there, done that.
Kids eat. Kids eat a piggin' lot. She was in perpetual motion, gathering treats I left on the feeder, digging up her remaining autumnal stashes, back and forth, up and down, tightrope running across the power lines precariously with her mouth full. I would sigh and wave to her as I walked to my car, again, to go to Costco or Smith's or Big Lots or Shopko or Harmon's. Again.
Late one night last week as I sat watching something brainless on the boob-tube refusing to go to bed because going to bed means I have to wake up to another chore/errand/mess-filled day, I was alerted to Peach's signature chitter. But not her usual "Get-outta-my-sight" ranting, but a more distressed lament. Arming myself with a flashlight, I went to the back yard to see if I could find out what she was upset about, stepping gingerly in case my worst fear of fallen babies had come true. My search was fruitless, I have no idea what she was so upset about and my presence only seemed to fuel her fire. So I went back in, had another glass of wine to calm down, and listened to her yell for another hour. I can only imagine that one of her precious brood had possibly woken her in the middle of a good dream, had wet the bed, had a nightmare, needed a drink of water, wanted to write their Santa list, something. Motherhood, by definition, means very little sleep.

I've watched her for the past month run frazzled up and down that tree. No sign of the babies, the venerable pine kept them hidden. Until today.

The Girl had a sleepover at my parents' last night, and I almost slept in. But my Mom alarm went off at 7:30, so I was up. Feeling rebellious at not having to make anyone breakfast, I went out to read the paper at the patio table. And saw a squirrel at the feeder. A teeny one. He was unsure, clumsy, and hyperactive. Biting everything to see what was food and what was not. I froze, thinking I should grab the camera, knowing that if I did he'd probably disappear. He was soon joined by a teeny sibling, also clumsy and determined. Then a third. Three babies! Aw. They're striking out on their own now, nibbling sunflower seeds and trying to figure out how to open a peanut. One very brashly tried to carry the strawberry top I'd put out up to another branch. He made it, but only barely. He sat proudly, stuffing his gob and pushing away his little sister.
And the whole time, Peach was a wreck. She ran to the edges of her turf, chittering and swinging and yelling, looking like she would remove the face from anyone who got too close, looking like she really really needed a drink, chiding her babies when they explored too far. Finally, she got them back to the nest for a nap and sat on the feeder, gratefully nibbling the apple core I provided.

The Girl finished second grade this week. Now there's talk of her walking to school with friends, sans parents, next year. She wants a phone. She wants to go to overnight camp this summer. I think there's a boy she likes at school and another one down the block.

Sigh.

*lifting my martini* Here's to Motherhood, Peach.

Button it!

We've all had it happen to us, right? We go about our day, interacting with people, maybe even engaging in some kind of large public event at which we may or may not be a focal person, only later to discover to our horror that we've been parading around with some small yet infinitely embarrassing physical gaff. Your fly is unzipped. There's a prominent booger boogying out of a nostril. The front of your hair is doing some sort of levitating trick (this applies mostly to me and my fellow cowlick-infected BFF). Something like that. Something that, once you've stepped in front of the mirror, makes you feel like never going in public again.
Good Lord, how many people noticed THAT?Was that there when I was talking with______________?(fill in the blank with appropriately important personage whom you really, really thought you'd impressed today).

Yeah. Yesterday was my turn.

I wore a very cute shirt-dress with leggings. Very outside my normal lazy-housewife-uniform of a t-shirt and possibly clean capri jeans with flip-flops, but I was feeling sassy. And I'd had to work that morning at my ever-so-demanding one hour per week job as a story-lady at an largish bookstore. They frown on my wearing something that might or might not have been purchased at Costco, so I dressed up a little.

Feeling ever so stylish and kicky, I left the outfit on even after having returned home from the exhausting hour of reading books to small people and making them color. I had a few hours before picking up The Girl from school, so I put on the good old iPod (which is never not on my body) and may or may not have attempted to clean something. Or fold things. I dunno, housework is all one big blur to me.
Anywho, for the safety of My Precious, I dropped it down the front of my shirt and threaded it through an opening between the buttons of my shirt-dress so it could rest comfortably in my pocket with the cord tucked away while I did those housewifey-type things. (Too many times has My Precious been ripped from my ears and person by the crafty cord-grabbings of drawer corners and vacuum handles. It's a dangerous game for the iPod, this cleaning gig).

When it was time to get The Girl, I jumped in my car, unthreaded the cord from my garments and went on my merry way. The earbud jack kind of caught on one of my buttons, but I was late as usual, so I yanked and drove on. I then talked to three of my daughter's classmates. Chatted with her teacher. Discussed the camping trip with my friend Lisa. Took The Girl to flute lesson and sat on the teacher's sofa brimming with pride at my budding musical prodigy. Went to see the flute teacher's new parrot, which was downstairs with the teacher's husband and three kids. Stopped at the pet store on the way home. BS'ed with the neighbor about the power outage. Went in to powder my nose and upon washing my hands glanced in the mirror to see:

My bra. And my belly button.

And came to the sinking realization that they had been having their world premiere for about the last 3 hours.

My first reaction: humiliation. Might as well go ahead with the big L tattoo on the forehead that I've been contemplating for the last few years. No wonder the pet store guy wouldn't make eye contact. I just thought he was one of those weird lizard people who disdain us bunny-food-buying folk. No, no: he was trying not to look at the blue lace and the mole I should have checked.

Sigh.

Then: indignation. What the Fuck?! Why didn't anyone SAY ANYTHING? A discreet "Hey, V, you're giving the kids a show" from someone in the hall at school? "Um, your button has come undone" from the flute teacher? Something? ANYFUCKINGTHING? No! These people let me wander around all day looking like either I'd lost the plot, or that I'd finally gone completely round the cougar bend to one of those desperate-to-still-be-sexy middle aged women who resort to getting their jollies by exposing their aging saggy boobs to any hapless passersby. (Ohhhh...is that what people think? Then that makes sense). See? THIS is why I live in t-shirts. Long enough to cover my zipper, no less.

Then I thought about the girl I'd seen in the largish bookstore earlier that day. She was with her big hunky boyfriend, buying coffee. She had pretty hair. Straight and layered and styled...except for the frizzy fuck-bump on the back of her head that she'd neglected to smooth after their afternoon delight. I could have said something to her, right? Whispered in her ear, smoothed it myself while pretending to bump into her, something. Save her from the whole of humanity knowing that she had gotten freaky with her man just moments ago.

Or the fellow housewife in Costco's parking lot last week who had the foot-long plastic size sticker still attached to her pants. Could have walked over and discreetly yanked it for her. I've been on the other side of that exact scenario and am endlessly thankful to the kind stranger who saved me. But I had not the courage to be her hero.

Why not? Why is it so hard sometimes for us to help someone save themselves from looking like more of a moron? Well, we're afraid we'll embarrass them, right? Even if we know that embarrassing them for a moment has got to be better than letting them be an embarrassment to their children and/or friends or possibly breaking some decency laws, it's just too awkward to intervene sometimes.

Well, not anymore, not for me. From now on I will point out every booger. I will XYZ every old man. I will yank tags and desticker cargo pants. I will smooth flyaway tresses (yes, my dear Sara, I mean you too). I will giggle at toupees. Can't help it.

But mostly, I will always, ALWAYS double check my buttons. Always.

So, I'm going to write today! Yep...yes I am...Um...okay! Here we go! This'll just be a warm up for all of the brilliant literary crap that's about to spew from my noggin and light up the printed page! Here goes!

Floors downstairs are finally going in today. Fin.a.lly. It's been a week long ordeal (although at this point it feels much, much longer) of sleeping in the living room and all the shoes in the dining room and hoping the hermit crab is okay because no one can get to his tank right now. It was supposed to be done on Monday, before the husband left for NYC. But instead, I'm here by myself with the Girl, the dogs, some rabbits with a serious case of cage-fever and let's not forget we're all stuffed into 700 square feet of usable space right now. Well, minus the living room because it's got beds on the floor. So, roughly 550 square feet. And every one of those square feet is now---

Breaking News: Oh, my Effing Gawd.

The owner of the flooring place doing our install just called me with more GREAT news (.) The bamboo flooring we bought, which we thought we were getting a good deal on because we bought for a discount from Costco, is crap. First it wasn't acclimating and that's why we've had to wait 5 extra days for it to be installed. Now it's sort-of mostly acclimated and as the floor guy is laying it he finds it's bowed, warped and milled crookedly. So he might not be able to install it. Can I cry now? Would now be a good time or should I wait until he leaves again?

So now I get to call Costco and demand my money back, which I am not good at doing. I'm a retail wussy. And I get to call the Husband in NYC, interrupt his Very Important Meetings with industry bigwigs and tell him we now get to pay DOUBLE what we thought we were.

Thank the Gods that my Sara is coming to rescue me tonight and take me out for a very needed dirty martini at the Bayou.

Bookstore etiquette 101

Ahem.

If you find yourself in a largish national chain-type bookstore, please observe the following suggestions in order to keep your booksellers from wanting to hurt you.

~Feel free to take a book off the shelf to browse/peruse/consider purchasing. If you do not wish to buy said tome and are not 100% certain where you pulled it from, please don't just stuff it somewhere hoping we won't notice. We'll notice. We'll be pissy. Please be a grownup and hand the book to a bookseller nicely. We'll reshelve it.

~Speaking of being a grownup, please don't turn your children loose in the kids' department. The train table only distracts them for so long and then they just start grabbing shit and screaming. I get paid to play with books, not your kids.

~On a related note: if you can't find anything free to do on a Sunday and can't grow a sack big enough to tell your kids to turn off the t.v. and go play, please do not come camp out with them in the bookstore children's department. All effing day. Yes, I do see you napping in the corner and/or reading an entire book for free while your brilliant offspring chuck every Spongebob Easy Reader from the spinner onto the floor and wipe snot on the stuffed Despereaux.

~And, while we are happy to see you browse and read a book, it is really bad form to sit for three hours and read the whole thing and then hide it on a shelf no where near the area you pulled it from. Or spill coffee on it. And dogear it. Yes, we do see you. Also, we are not a battery-charging center.

~Please do not get snotty with your bookseller. Yes, some of the booksellers seem snotty but that's only because being someone who loves books goes hand in hand with being slightly socially awkward. But if you come in looking for a book that you think you heard about on NPR maybe and you don't know the author's name but you think the title starts with the word "The" and the cover might be red and gold or maybe green and pink and we don't know what your talking about, leaving in a huff will get you branded as a snotty moron.

This public service announcement brought to you by your local cheerful bookseller. Me.

Wait. What time of year is it?

We have the tree. We have the lights. I have the pile of well-chosen and very exciting gifts from the Big Guy stuffed into a corner of the garage and nonchalantly covered with an old sheet so it looks like just another pile o' crap in my crap-piled garage. I'm behind on the wrapping, can't remember what I've bought for whom (there's a very organized list around here somewhere, but I can't seem to get arsed enough to find it and make the little check-marks), I've bought but not sent the cards, I can't for the life of me come up with a gift for my dad that doesn't involve food.
Yep. Must be Christmas.
But, honestly, I'm just not feelin' it this year.

Maybe it's the music. Instead of flooding my auditory canal with the Nutcracker or Manheim Steamroller or even the Chipmunks Christmas, I've been obsessed with Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. I know. It's like a train wreck, that video; I can't look away. My fingers automatically click-click-click the click wheel on the iPod (aka the iCan't Be Without It) to the 'rah-rah-rum-mah-mah' and just. Can't. Stop. Between that and the Susan Boyle on endless loop at work, I'm just not dreaming of a white Christmas or walking in a winter wonderland.

Maybe it's work. Mine and The Hubby's. I got 'promoted' *polishes nails on shirt* from the one-hour-a-week story lady to a full-blown (albeit part-time) Bookseller at the B&N. Impressive, no? I like it; finding obscure books in the theatre/drama section for frantic students taking Drama 2, figuring out what book the customer needs when all they can tell me is "Um, it's like, square? And has, like, quotes in it?" And let's not forget the joy of watching the Sugarhouse Crazies wander through. Smudged-Glasses-Guy really put in some time lately. Both our Sweet Trannies got new wigs. Meth Gal buzzed around the store all day yesterday and only one guy passed out in the bathroom. Love the Sugar House neighborhood.
The Hubby, who works for the Evil Empire of banking, is still putting in 11 hour days and hitting the gym every night. So, when he's home, I'm usually at work or soaking my tired tootsies and when he's at work or the gym I'm...on facebook. When we're both in the same room at the same time we're too tired to do anything. And so is the Girl who wakes up at 5 a.m. We haven't done any Family Quality Time Holiday Things.

Maybe it's the chaos of my house. It's reached new heights, really. Besides having brought in all 3 rabbits so they wouldn't become bunnicicles, we got a puppy! A BIG puppy! So, crowd 3 cages in the dining room and three dog beds in the den and a Christmas tree and lots and lots and lots of puppy toys and viola! It's a wreck! Not to mention the fact that I still haven't gotten the floors done downstairs. So there are currently about 15 or so boxes of bamboo flooring taking up considerable room in the 'utility room' in the basement. And crap piled around them. And spreading.

Christmas parties? Yeah. Don't get me started.

Hm.

Ok.

Time for Operation Ho-Ho-Ho-Dammit!

I will use the handy-dandy "family share" feature on the iTunes and steal some of the Hubby's vast collection of Christmas music. I will play it. I will like it.

We will, as a happy-frickin'-fambly, go ice skating, see some uber-carbon-footprint lights display somewhere, I will buy Nutcracker tickets.

I will wrap the myriad of probably-not-quite-what-they-want gifts and put them under the tree. I will devise a method of keeping the puppy out from under the tree. I will sit and write addresses on envelopes and put cards in them. I will put them in a pile and forget to mail them.

I will sit on the sofa snuggling with my daughter and a cup of homemade peppermint hot chocolate and just...listen.

Complicated Santa

It has begun. For the last 7 Christmases I've had it fairly easy (at least nothing in my pickled little brain jumps out as being hard to find on the Girl's list for Santa). A book, a puzzle, a rabbit or three, some of those foot-nabbing Littlest Pet Shop critters. Nothing I couldn't just stroll into any largish toy retailer and get it all in one fell swoop. I'd stop at the quaintly cool locally owned toy shop and get some brain-using thingie and call it good. Santa would then dust off her hands and pour a nice stiff peppermintini.

This year, I'm drinking the peppermintini in an attempt to calm the frustration and desire to choke the living you-know-what out of whoever decided that 7 was a great year to get them started on electronics. I know, I know. What's the big deal? Hey, here's the big deal:
I'm a moron who thought it would be cool to get her the green Nintendo DS instead of the pink DS because I found a green one at best buy.com for cheaper and it came with a really cool cooking personal trainer for me. I figured I'd just buy her little bimbo-in-training and a few college-bound-child games and call it good. Made sure she was okay with green instead of the boring pink that all of her friends have and wouldn't it be GREAT not to worry about getting yours confused with anyone else's because it's GREEN? Santa wanted to know, of course.
Notwithstanding the fact that I gained cool points for having talked to the big man himself, I was pretty proud of the Girl for being willing to break out of the pink mold. I'm tired of pink.
So I smugly snuck back to the computer and ordered the green one. Clicked 'checkout'. Was informed that it was no longer available. NO LONGER AVAILABLE? Then why in the great blue beyond is it still on your everloving website!?!?! And hey, guess what? You can't actually buy a green Nintendo DS lite anywhere in the US of A. It was a Mother's Day special. Ha ha all over me.

Ebay? Ebay! Of course! Oo, look, there are three of them!


Hang on, I'm the highest bidder right now, my ebay bid only has 30 more seconds. I'll be right back.

Crap.

I'm gonna need more Schnapps.

Trauma on 7

It was a normal day. The Girl went to school, I wrote something and was so tired I gave in and took a nap, then dusted the living room while gabbing to my friend Susan for an hour about swine flu vaccinations, husbands' work, the stupid little bimbo-in-training trying to start an exclusive clique in the second grade at our daughters' school. I contemplated an afternoon gin and tonic but decided that would be a good start down a slippery slope. Normal stuff. I picked up our G's (they have the same name and oddly similar personalities, as do Susan and I. Love her. Wish she would drink with me) from school and headed with my G to meet a potential new flute teacher.
I had to stop for gas. The tank meter stood at a half, and that just isn't good enough for the Girl. She insists the tank be full at all times. One thing about my daughter: she's observant. Another thing about her: she's paranoid. She goes 'worst case scenario' in her head for any given situation. So, we stopped at a station/convenience store. I got the gas started, asked her if she wanted to come into the store with me to get a drink. I gathered my wallet and keys, noticed that a sheriff had pulled into the pumps behind us, was grateful it wasn't Friday night. (Me and my girls, New Moon private screening, yeah baby).
Heard the pump auto-feed kick off as we were about to head into the store, and decided to just get that wrapped up before leaving the car. G has never actually seen the process of gassing up a vehicle. She's always inside the car. When she was a baby, I was so paranoid about the whole "this thing could blow at any time' 6 o'clock news feature, I wouldn't get gas if I had her with me. I, despite what snopes.com says, won't use my cell phone at a pump and make sure I shock myself on the car frame before touching the gas pump. I'm careful, I think.
"How do you get that out?" asks the Girl, grasping the pump handle and peering at the hole in the car where the gas goes. She is almost exactly the same height as it is. I put my hand over hers and we pull it out of the car, just like I have done a thousand times. A thousand times I've pulled that fucking thing out, turned around and seated it in its little holster, pushed the three buttons it takes to get my receipt, and gone on my merry way.

So imagine my shock and awe when about a half-gallon of gasoline spurts out of the tank and nozzle. And hits my baby square, soaking her face, hair, shirt, and ohmygod, her eyes.

Thanks to Karma or God or Luck or Whatever, the Sheriff was still there. And now he was chatting with a guy in a SLFD sweatshirt. I yelled for help, and the sweatshirt guy turned out to be an off-duty firefighter/EMT. He very calmly took G in his arms and propelled her toward the station's water hose on the building. She's screaming, I'm freaking inside but trying to stay calm to not further traumatize my daughter, and he got her to lie down on the sidewalk and hosed her off. It's about 50 degrees today, and after a minute or two, she just couldn't take the cold water on her head and face anymore. The sheriff wrapped her in a blanket he had in his patrol car, and I tried to flap away the useless cashier who wanted me to sign a waiver. We huddled on the sidewalk, soaked and crying while the wonderful EMT made sure her eyes were okay before he sent us home with orders for a shower and to call the ER if her eyes started to burn. But, he said, she looked fine.
I think I asked him his name. I think it was Jim. Jim rocks.

So, a shower (her) and a gin and tonic (me) later, we're okay. She's downstairs playing with her other best friend, a little upset that she'll have to have another shower later and have her hair washed with lemon juice to get the rest of the smell out. Shampoo just didn't cut it. I told her it would make her more blonde, and she seemed a bit more receptive. She absolutely and unequivocally will NOT ever put gas in the car again, and doesn't want me to do it either. This little trauma on pump 7 didn't help her inborn sense of paranoia, at all.

I was really tired this morning. Now, not so much. It could have been so much worse; it was just gas on her, after all.
I don't want to think about the 'worse'.
I don't want to think about all the moms who have witnessed and lived through the 'worse'.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to let her sleep with us tonight, and I will be tired at work tomorrow and it will be okay.
Because she's okay. And this was pretty bad, but not too bad. And it could have been worse.

Not my usual post, I know...

...but they're giving away a kickass bike. I need a kickass bike. I need something in my life that kicks ass. (My apologies to the TodaysMama person who had to read the word 'ass' there three times. Welcome to my blog.)

Mama’s Holiday Wish List Meme (And hey; what the eff is a 'meme'? Is that a pseudo-intellectual word for 'list of questions and answers?')
TodaysMama and Provo Craft are giving away a sleigh full (Sorry, TodaysMama, I can't let the word 'sleighful' onto my blog. It's not a word and I didn't make it up) of gifts this holiday season and to enter I’m sharing this meme (whatever the eff that is) with you.

1. What 5 items are on your holiday wish list this year?
~Case of Hendrick's gin and a cucumber plant.
~An account at the local plastic surgeon's. I'm getting on in years. Things have begun the sag.
~Cabana boy. With a cabana.
~Whirled peas.
~My daughter being thrilled with all her gifts, which I have already begun to stress over.

2. What is your favorite handmade gift you have received?
A scratchy afghan someone's great grandma crocheted for my wedding. I keep it on the dirty, smelly, squashy old chair under the patio by the garage. It's a good cat blanket. Keeps me warm when I sneak out for a smoke.

3. What handmade gift have you always wanted to tackle?
If by 'tackle' you mean throw to the ground and stomp on? I'm going to say all of them.

4. What was the best Christmas gift you received as a child?
Atari, dude. 1983 or so. Original Atari. I wasted SO many brain cells on Asteroid. That, or the time my brother spent the day puking on Christmas. That was pretty nice of Santa too.

5. What items are on your kid’s wish list this year?

~Nintendo DS (She hates video games, but can't stand the fact that her best friend has one and she doesn't.)
~Moxie girl. (The new brainless, anorexic, hair-styling whore on the street. Look out Barbie; she comes with markers).
~Littlest Pet shop cow, porky pine (sic because Awww, how cute she spells!) and bunny. (Because you can NEVER have too many small plastic animals whose heads bob and can break an adult's foot arch when stepped on).
~a Toy Chinchilla (not a real one because her evil mother has said that three rabbits is plenty of caged rodents in one house, thank you)
~Something called a "paper roonys"? I have no frigging idea. Suggestions are welcome.



6. What is your favorite holiday food?
Candy canes. In my peppermintinis, spiked hot chocolate, and just to suck on to cover the booze on my breath so I can survive the holidays with my mother-in-law.

7. What will you be hand-crafting for the holidays?
I very lovingly and carefully pour, shake and garnish some kickass peppermintinis. I put my heart and soul into every one. They'll put a twinkle in Santa's eye. Yes sir.

8. What is your favorite holiday movie?
Christmas Story, duh. That or the old "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" with the horrible stop-action animation and cheesy hippie-free-lovin' song they snuck into the middle.

9. Favorite holiday song?
"The 12 Things At Christmas That Are a Pain to Me".
Okay, and even though it pains me to admit it in public, I mist up every time I hear "Do They Know It's Christmas?". Young Bono, George Michael and all those other yummy British 80's Pop icons on one song. Sigh. It's inspirational.

10. Favorite holiday pastime?
Did you read the bit about the peppermintinis?

Man, I am SO going to win this contest! Kickass bike, come to Momma!

Stuff I noticed today

~If you own a hair studio and you're going to hire someone to stand on the corner and wave a sign at passing cars, it might be prudent to not hire a homeless dude with dredlocks and a ZZtop beard.

~ If you are a grown-ass adult and the samples at Costco get you so excited that you find yourself crammed into the corner between two seafood cases ramming a ravioli down your throat and grunting, or so enraptured by the fudge bar samples that you wander into oncoming cart traffic, it might be time to reevaluate where you are in life.

~ People call them "Weird Cat Lady" for a reason. Buying four tubs of litter and a case of K-Y, holding up the line by showing people pictures of your pwecious beeboo keekees and not making eye contact is not helping the image.

~I'm becoming more and more convinced there is a secret Grocery Store Baggers society that has a multi-level plan to circumvent the attempts of well-meaning shoppers who bring reusable bags. That or they are ALL fucking morons.

~If you work in a consignment store, you have no room to be snotty. You sell used shit. You give people money for their old shoes and then sell them for two dollars. Don't talk to me like that. Snot.

~There's a chance I'm in sort of a bad mood and don't like people today.

Thank the Gods for Girls Night Out.

We've all heard the story: Stay-at-home-mom dutifully makes sure her flock gets their flu shots, even if she has to elbow old ladies out of line to get the last dose for her child. In the chaos her busy daily existence, she forgets to get her own flu shot. (Her dr.'s office is too far away and is out of vaccine, the grocery store clinic is also out, the other grocery store only offers shot clinics at the same time as the Girl's soccer game, the wondrousness of Costco overwhelms her and she forgets to get one when she's there...etc.) So, she gets flu. She fights it, she does not succumb, she faithfully and dutifully arises early in the morning, sees her beloveds off to work and school with fresh homemade lunches, does all her regular chores to keep the household running smoothly, has a hot homemade dinner ready when the family returns in the evening. (And if she's a working mom, let's just add 'goes to work' on top of all that, mmmkay?) She then collapses into bed at the end of the evening, melting into a sore sniffling puddle of goo. But she makes sure to set the alarm and feed the cat first.

Yeah.

That's SO not happening here this week.

I did forget to get my flu shot, again, this year. That part is true. The rest of it, for me anyway, is a cruel joke that society has decided to play on us Domestic Goddesses. It has told us that the very fabric of our family's existence will fray and decay if we take a day off. That chaos will reign if the laundry doesn't remain on schedule. That husbands will implode if asked to make dinner and help with homework. That children will be irreparably scarred if they see their mum prone on the sofa with a cup of tea in smelly frayed sweats for three days. Nay; we must soldier on, there are things more important than our minor discomforts.

Well, I'm calling bullshit on that. Okay, maybe it's just me; maybe I'm a huge whiny baby when I get sick, I won't deny that. But I'm putting out the call to all moms who didn't get their shots or who end up with the creeping gamboo that their kids bring home from the germ-factories we call "school":

Be sick. Lay on the couch all day. Ask for help. Eat crappy comfort food and drink hot chocolate and watch reruns of the Office online. Read a no-brainer novel; maybe something from James Patterson or Nora Roberts. Don't shower, wear your most comfy sweats, don't put on makeup or do your hair. Order Chinese delivered. Watch your husband bond with your kids as he tries not to go crazy helping them learn fractions and write a book report about a book about fairies and/or magical ponies.

If the world cannot deal without us, the world will have to hold on and just fucking wait.

I'm going to go get a cupcake and lie down now.