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.