“Mo-om!” My three year old daughter called from the bathroom. I slowly shuffled to where she was brewing with excitement with what awaited me. I helped her get herself in order. Then I washed my hands, dried them, and started heading out into the small hallway by my bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in my bedroom. I quickly completed a status check in my head. It took me about half a second to realize son and dog upstairs, husband in his office, daughter and I in the doorway of the downstairs bathroom, but something moved in my bedroom.
I turned my head quickly and held my hand flat against my daughter’s chest to keep her in the bathroom. Just then, I saw a tail. Continue reading →
I may be a little late to the party, but there is no way I’m missing this one.
Happy Frist Birthday to the Ten Things of Thankful hop!!
I may not write a post every week, but I do in fact read several of the thankful posts, and I am always so inspired by all of you who are able to find the sunshine through some rather rainy days and post about gratitude.
Having a bit of a rainy week myself, and not just because it started out in fact raining, but because…pfft…life, I thought it might be difficult to summon ten things, but as it turns out, I have a lot for which I should say “thanks.”
My mother is going through the mean stage of her dementia this week, so I’ve spent most of the week on the phone to her getting berated and feeling terrible and helpless and wondering what I can do to help my father. In the middle of an almost all out breakdown on my part, I decided it was time to check my mail, which I’m pretty sure had not been done in over a week because…pfft…life. I sifted through bills and catalogs and junk mail, and then laid my eyes upon an envelope that was addressed to me in writing I did not recognize, and I instantly knew that my favorite Brit in the entire world sent me something. Immediately, my frown turned upside down and I ran into the house and carefully opened the package excited that there might be my first official glitter bomb waiting to explode. Inside was not just a glitter bomb, but a very pretty decorative ornament that is just so Lizzi, a beautiful and kind letter written way before my mother started her downfall, and a poem that is so perfect and so beautiful that it should in fact be song lyrics. Wow. To be loved by Lizzi, how did I get so lucky? And the timing was just perfect.
My son plays baseball with other kids his age (7), and although he had a rather good season last season, he has struggled this year and had a difficult time finding his mojo among his team who all seem to be more advanced in skill than he. I worried for a while that he was going to want to give up with all of his strike outs and missed outs, etc., but this week, something clicked in him as we made up three rained out baseball games, and he found his mojo. He hit the ball, and scored, and even got a kid out on second base, but most importantly, he scored the tie-breaking winning point, which with aged 7 year old boys is not that big of a deal, but his coach made a huge deal about it, and my son’s esteem soared. He said to me on the way to the car as I was forcing him into a hug with mom, “Hey, Mom. Did you know that I won the game for my team?” And the smile that spread across his face, and the pride in his shoulders almost made my heart leap out of my chest. That boy…sometimes I wonder if he makes the world turn.
Having had such a great game, we treated him to a late dinner at his favorite restaurant, where he got to tell the waiter about his glory and order the dessert of his choice, and while we were there, my three year old daughter finished her dinner and with a messy face and sticky fingers climbed into my lap, and fell asleep in my arms. I’m not sure there’s any better feeling than having your sweet child sleep on your chest.
Sleep Baby Sleep
Early in the week, my best friend, Kimberly, called and invited me to the first official “sister day” with her and her two sisters. Being that I have no sisters of my own, I adopted Kimberly and her sisters the minute that we met. These girls and I share our childhood. We grew up next door to each other and lived in each other’s homes. Where they were, I was. Where I was, they were. Without them, I wouldn’t be me. We’ve been through everything together: first loves, first heart breaks, first marriages, teenage pregnancy, loss, so much loss, and we’ve held each other’s hands and loved each other and cheered each other through every heartache and every milestone. This is our 30th year of friendship. That’s right…Thirty Years. And I have no doubt that thirty years from now, my pseudo sisters will still call me and invite me to sister day. I am so thankful to share my life with these gorgeous amazing women. Oh, and we watched Dream a Little Dream (a childhood favorite of ours), from which I’m pretty sure I learned life’s most valuable lessons.
So happy birthday to the most uplifting blog hop I’ve seen in the blogosphere. Cheers!!!
Aussa Lorens is a bonafide Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy, and I may or may not have a huge cyber crush on her. I’ve had a long spell of writer’s block, and in a recent conversation, I mentioned rather casually that I once had a stalker, which led to her insisting that I blog about it, so here it is….my stalker story. Continue reading →
I’m kind of a big deal. Actually it’s the exact opposite of that. I received a nomination for the “coveted” Liebster award (it doesn’t matter how) from this crazy lady/awesome blogger, Joy at Comfy Town Chronicles, who makes me spew wine (or coffee depending on the time of day) every time I read her blog, . Thanks, Joy. You rock! Go check her out. But swallow before you read unless you like to spit. Then by all means, spit.
She said she was too lazy to Google what the Liebster is all about, but I’m not, so I will. Hold on a sec. Ok, here’s what I found. These are the rules.
1. Post the award on your blog.
Ok – done.
2. Thank the blogger who presented this award and link back to their blog. Thanks, Joy, for letting me nominate myself.
3. Write 11 random facts about yourself. I’ll get to that.
4. Nominate 11 bloggers who you feel deserve this award and who have less than 200 followers. Hmmm.. How do I know if they have less than 200 followers? I have less than 200 followers, but I’m not normal. I’ll find as many as possible.
5. Answer 11 questions posted by the presenter and ask your nominees 11 questions.
11 Facts about Moi:
I keep hot tamales in my underwear drawer. I mean panty drawer. (Haha to those who squirm at that word.) Shut up. I don’t like to share.
I sound just like Katy Perry when I sing…in my car…or my shower.
This is more of a confession. I am addicted to the shows The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. I watch every season because I’m a sucker for true love. Pfft. I like to watch a good cat fight over a mediocre looking dude who wouldn’t snag these girls in real life, but they paw all over him because he is “The Bachelor.” A few season ago, I joined a Bachelor Pool, kind of like a Fantasy Football League or a bracket for March Madness. It is So.Much.Fun. I’m pretty sure Chris Harrison wants to hang out with us at our pool party. Every Tuesday, (because the show airs on Monday nights) I get an email/blog post from Hellabuzzed who writes a hilarious recap of the show from a straight dude’s point of view. If you watch the show, you need to read these recaps.
My blog is a secret from the majority of my real life people. I’ve only shared it with a hand full of my close friends. Is that weird?
When people say, “to be honest” or “honestly”, I immediately think that they’re lying.
My dishwasher quit working on Christmas day, and I still don’t have a new one because I absolutely HATE shopping. (It can’t be repaired. I tried that.) I finally broke down and ordered one online this weekend, but then they called and said it was out of stock. I’m officially screwed, and I have dish pan hands.
I hate the word facetious. Just say sarcastic, for crying out loud.
I have dyed my hair almost every color. I asked my hairdresser to put lilac low lights in my hair over a year ago, but he won’t do it. I keep bugging him, but I don’t think I’ll win. Once he died my bangs the color that we now refer to as “rainbow bright red.” It was fun. I’m keeping it blonde now though because I don’t want to confuse my mom since she has dementia.
I am addicted to sunglasses. I HAVE to wear them outside, even when it’s cloudy and not just because they hide my face. They are always on my eyes or pushed up on my head. All.Day.Long. I hate squinting. When I leave a theater, I feel like a vampire meeting the sun, so sunglasses are essential.
I listen to music all of the time. I play music when I get ready. Music is playing when I’m in my car. I listen to music when I clean and cook. I really only turn it off for important things like homework, dinner, and when I sit down to watch T.V., but I would be willing to bet a song is playing in my head. When I hear a really good song, I get obsessed with it and have to listen to it ALL THE TIME, but I
Never really listen to the words unless someone specifically tells me to listen to the words. I’m more interested in the different songs that each instrument plays. If you really listen, you can pick out each sound, and you might just find it as beautiful as I do.
Below is my current obsession. Listen to the different melody from each guitar. (12. The squeaking sound that is made by the movement of a guitarist’s fingers when he slides them over the neck to change chords makes my mouth water. Hubba hubba.)
Joy came up with some very interesting/funny questions. Here’s what I had to say:
1. What can I legally write off as a home daycare provider? KIDDING. (But not really if you know.)
Well if you work from home, you can write off a portion of almost everything. You take your square footage of your say “office” the portion of the house that you use the most for your work, and you divide that by the total square footage to determine the percentage of space you use, so if it’s like 20%, then you can write off 20% of utilities, gas, water, electricity, all of that. And then there are entertainment write offs…and food write offs. If you advertise your business anywhere on your vehicle, you can write off at least a portion of your payment. If you use Turbo Tax, it will walk you through it step by step. It’s a lot of leg work to get all of the totals, but my husband works from home, so we’ve been writing off shit for years.
2. What’s your favorite rock and why?
Rock & Roll. Because it’s much more interesting than river walks or lava rocks or granite or anything else. I took Geology in college. Ask me what I remember…not a damn thing. But I got an A!!
3. Number 2 was a joke, but I’m curious to see what answers I’ll get. Also to see if people read and answer, or read all the questions first. Plus, I could stand to learn a thing or 2. I don’t know any kind of rock other than “river” because they’re all over the Pinterest. They look smooth.
This is not a question, so I’ll just agree. River rocks do look smooth, and they feel smooth, too. I have some in my backyard. The people who lived here before us put them there.
4. If you could change the end of any movie or book, what would it be, how would you change it?
SPOILER ALERT!!!! Too many to name. Most recently, I’d change the end of The Fault in Our Stars b/c it made me cry, and I don’t cry. It was that good. Movie: I’d change the end of Drive Me Crazy, and instead of Sabrina the Teenage Witch waiting in the treehouse for my boyfriend, Adrian Grenier, I’d be waiting…naked.
5. Have you ever had to stifle a giggle at a funeral or other inappropriate place? How did you do it?
OMG – too many times to even try to name them all. Remember, I’m a preacher’s kid. My bestie’s dad was hilarious, and he would always make fun of these two women who would get up and sing every Sunday in church, so anytime they started walking up to the stage, I would do everything I could to avoid eye contact with him, but he was like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away. Most of the time, I was sitting at the piano, waiting to accompany the terrible that came from their vocal chords, knowing what was coming, and as soon as I would look at him, I’d do that laugh where you blow air out of your mouth in short breaths until you blow fart through your lips and eventually double over laughing while holding your belly.
Another time, same friend and I were at a different church, a Pentecostal church, you know the kind, holy rollers on speed. A really tiny lady stood up right next to my BFF and started speaking in tongues. I looked over at my friend and whispered, “Meka Leka Hi, Meka Hiney Ho, and the two of us burst out laughing, uncontrollably, hyperventilating laughter, and we could not stop. My dad never asked me to go back to that church again.
6.And do tell, in the previous question: What was SO FREAKING FUNNY?
When the fat lady sings, tongues, and Jambi.
7. Did your father or any other relative walk around the house in their underwear?
Walking around in one’s underwear was strictly prohibited in my home. My Dad was a complete psycho about it. Didn’t want baby girl to see his or my brothers’ junk. I’m not mad about it.
8. Am I the only person who didn’t have such a relative? My friend Jennifer’s father told her she had the “brains of a soda cracker” (yes he used the plural) for bringing friends over when he was walking around in his underwear. I see people talk about it in books and whatnot, but that was the only time I’d ever seen it. (He was wearing Walter Whiteys *patent pending on that phrase* and a white Tshirt if you’re wondering. I know I would be.)
My friend’s dad always sat in his Walter Whities and wife beater, cigarette hanging from his mouth, can of beer in his hand. Think Rodney Dangerfield in Natural Born Killers.
9. Do you kind of wish society was less uptight about things like walking around in underwear? Why or why not?
I totally do. I think Muricans are too uptight about nudity in general. I mean, it’s all so effing taboo. They’re boobs. Everyone has them. It’s a package. Nobody needs to look at it, but they mostly all look the same. Get a grip, people. I think this answers the question.
10.Why do I keep answering my own questions? In your professional opinion.
Well, since you asked for my professional opinion, you bring up some very interesting and thought provoking topics; therefore, you are justified in wanting to answer the questions after presenting them. It’s natural to ponder them yourself. Your answers are important. And maybe you’re a bit of a narcissist. I’m the pot, dude, so it’s ok if I say that.
11.What is your most irrational fear? Or pet peeve if you don’t have any fears.
Fear: Suffocating. I swear. The worst thing in the world would be to die because I CAN’T BREATH.
Pet peeve: It’s simple and a lesson in grammar. Your is the possessive form of you. You’re is a contraction for you are. Its is the possessive form of it. It’s is a contraction for it is. There is a place. Their is the possessive form for they. They’re is the contraction of they are. Lose means unable to find. Loose means it is not securely fastened. Where indicates a place. Were is the past tense for are. AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, A LOT IS TWO WORDS AND CANNOT IS ONE!!!!! But it’s really no big deal.
12. Have you ever had an epiphany? Or do you think that’s just a word people throw around to make the rest of feel like they’re smart or inspired?
My epiphany is that social media has brought out the stupid in most people. I am amazed at the inability of most to string two sentences together. Don’t even get me started on punctuation.
My nominees: Drum roll please…
1. Beth at Writer B is Me, hilarious, uncensored, thought provoking, and she wants to sleep with me. You win, Bethie. Come on over!!! (and I know you probably have more than 200 followers, but you’ll always be #1 for awards for me…no matter what the rules are.)
2. Hellabuzzed because haters gotta hate, and his hating makes me laugh.
3. Lizzi, at Considerings because she’s everything that is *sparklybeautifulgoodness*, and her guest post got me the most views I’ve ever had.
4. Laura who writes at History of a Woman and not just because she likes to fall asleep to the sound of gun shots. She’s a super cool chick, and I really enjoy her writing, and I may or may not have total blog envy with how beautiful her blog is.
5. Sharn at Spankalicious. She’s funny, hot, and you never know what to expect when you click on her posts. I love a good enigma.
6. Adrea in Wonderland who writes about online dating. She gives each guy a smurf name, and The Smurfs was my favorite cartoon growing up, so that’s how I relate to her.
7. Jana at Stop Me If I Told You who always has hilarious posts. Plus she’s a loyal reader, and when she comments, it usually has something interesting that she found from doing research on some little piece of what I wrote. I love her.
And these people probably have more than 200 followers and also have probably received the Liebster in the past.
8. Dana at Kiss My List because she always has something interesting to say, and she wants to take me on a vacation. Plus, her blog just got a nice makeover, and it looks fabulous!
9. Phil: The Regular Guy NYC because he says I’m hot, and flattery will get you everywhere with me…even awards.
10. Don at Don of All Trades. He can make me laugh one day and then sob into my sleeve the next. I’ve loved Don since that night we had a party at my blog.
11. Mike and Phoenix at Past My Curfew. What’s not to love about Mike? He is a great writer, makes me actually want to try and cook something, always supports me, and has this cutie little Golden Retriever that I love.
And I’m throwing in a bonus because I just love her so much: Sandy at Mother of Imperfection. Sandy Why yi yi Oh Sandy…she’s just golden and in my opinion all things *perfection*.
One more bonus even though she’s probably way too busy responding to the 900 comments she gets on each post to ever play along, but I just can’t leave out one of my absolute favorite bloggers who is feisty and hot and addicted to Nutella: Aussa, the infamous Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy
Thought provoking, prolific, questions to ponder and then answer.
1. Who is number one on your exemption list? (An exemption list is a list of people who are not in your every day life (celebrities, authors, sports figures) who you’re allowed to sleep with should the opportunity arise…no pun intended *snickering like a teenage boy*) Mine is Adrian Grenier. No surprise there. I have about 599 people on my list.
2. What is your favorite smell and why?
3. What book can you read over and over again. If you’re not into books, what movie never gets old?
4. What is the story behind your blog name?
5. What is your favorite song and why?
6. What is your least favorites song, the one that makes your put your fingers in your ears and say “lalalalala”?
7. What’s the best book you’ve read lately? (I’m reading God Shaped Hole, and it is brilliant.)
8. What did the last text you sent say? Word for word. (K does not count. If “K” was your last text, then I want to know what your second to last text said.)
9. What gives you the heebie jeebies? It doesn’t have to be scary. It can also be gross. I hate nose hair. That’s a heebie jeebie thing for me.
10. Do close talkers bother you as much as they do me? If so, why?
11. What are you wearing? I’m not even kidding.
Nominees: Do what you will with this award, but for the record, I really enjoyed reading Joy’s post and then writing this. I hope you have fun with it, too.
She paces back and forth in her bathroom in nothing but a sexy bra and panty set, heart pounding in her chest. Just do it. She tells herself, taking a quick peek at her reflection in the mirror. Not bad. She adjusts her bra for the 27th time. Just do it. She silently says again, taking a deep breath. She walks into her bedroom, picks it up off her nightstand and holds it out in front of her at arms length.
Click. She looks at the photo. Ick no. She shakes her head and ruffles her hair, pulling it over her near naked shoulder. Blonde hair splays across her chest. She stretches her arm out again, holding it a little bit higher than the last time.
Click. She tilts her head. Click. She looks up. Click. She looks down. Click. She looks to the side. Click. This time straight at the camera, pouty lips.
She holds her phone close to her face and goes through the camera roll. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.
She growls and throws her phone on her bed. Why is this so hard? He’s your husband. He’s seen it ALL before.
Deep breaths, back to the phone. Click Click Click Click Click.
Camera roll. Sigh. Okay, that one’s not so bad. She bites her lip and stares at the photo for few more minutes finding every single possible flaw, anxiety billowing deep in her belly.
Ding dong…ding dong…ding dong. She drops the phone when she hears her best friend, Kimberly’s, signature ring. Then she laughs and picks it up answering with a chuckle.
“Hello.”
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Taking sexy selfies of myself, ” she says holding the phone with her shoulder as she pulls on her jeans.
Kimberly lets out a breathy laugh. “Why?”
“To send to Huz.” She puts her arms through her shirt and pulls it over her head.
“Send it to me.”
“Dude, no way. I can’t even look at them. I’ve taken at least 30 pictures. One is just okay. ”
They talk for 30 minutes about 247 different subjects, their typical daily chat that takes place every day during Kimberly’s commute home from work.
“Okay, I’m here at the daycare. Talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and send me that picture. I’ll tell you if you should send it.”
“Okay, whatever. Bye.”
She waits the 20 minutes it should take Kimberly to get home before she hits “Send” along with the message, “You better fuggin delete this.”
Nothing.
Another text.
No response.
Then she paces back and forth, stomach twisted in knots, and waits for her alleged “best friend” to respond with…anything.
She convinces herself it’s terrible and decides not to send it.
Then she hears the ding on her phone.
She responds with a sigh of relief. Huz leaves for the store, so she decides it’s the perfect time to send it to him.
Send. Sigh. Done. Wait.
Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc.
Huz comes home, says nothing. She waits until the kids are in bed and says, “Did you get my text?” He smiles a half smile “Yeah. Why did you send that?”
“Really?”
She looks at him, rolls her eyes, and walks into her room. If he only knew. Later he says, “I like it.” Too little. Too late. Not good enough. She grabs his phone and deletes it after already deleting it from her phone and vows to never ever take a sexy selfie again.
The sun beat down on the hot pavement as my sandaled feet walked briskly, matching the pace of the other walkers on 5th Avenue. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Mind over Matter, I thought to myself. I twisted out of my sweater, trying to keep up with my friends and shoved it in my bag, madly searching for my sunglasses to no avail. After retracing my steps in my mind, I furiously cursed myself for leaving them on the subway. Who does that in August? Water like mirages littered the road ahead. I squinted trying to make out where we were going. We turned a couple corners and headed down 6th Avenue. And what did we find? A street fair.
The smell of Gyro’s mixed with empanadas teased my nose. Tents lined both sides of the street. Among them were vendors of all kinds: food, drinks (even the frozen kind), clothing, shoes, hats, and yes…sunglasses. I dismissed myself from my entourage and headed straight for the shaded sunglasses booth.
Being my first time in NYC, I didn’t want to look like a dumb blonde from Texas who didn’t know what I was doing and probably road a horse to the airport, so I squared my shoulders and tried to look coy, like I Ain’t New Ta This. I walked around the booth, eye shopping until I found a pair of gorgeous light brown Dior knock offs. I reached down to pick them up at the exact time a tan hand with long red fingernails reached for the same pair. She giggled. My eyes travelled from her cherry nails up to her…ahem…to her boobs. The biggest boobs I had ever seen, and they were out and proud. Two bronzed melons squished together under a tight, white very deep v-neck tank. She giggled again and said, “You have good taste.” I may have said, “Well, that’s because you’ve got big jugs. I mean your boobs are huge. I mean, I wanna squeeze ’em. Mama!” Or something like that.
Finally, she broke my boob trance and said, “Try them on. They’ll look great on you.” So I did, and she was right. The fake Dior glasses were made for my face. She said, “You have to buy them.” And I said, “No, you get them. You saw them first.” I really wanted those glasses, but I’m from the South, and I’m polite, so I did the polite thing and handed them to her. She looked at me. I shot her my best, “I’m really sweet, and I want these effing glasses” smiles. She bit her lip for a minute while I checked out the rest of her attire. Which didn’t take long. Then she handed them to me and insisted I get them. MyLethal Weapon, my Texas charm, always works.
Just as I started to leave, she motioned me back and pointed to a duplicate pair and said something about us being sunglasses twins. I thought to myself that we couldn’t be further from twins, but I humored her, and we both tried on the shades admiring our reflections in the hand mirror that she held out for us. I watched her go buy her glasses, and then I headed to the same guy to buy mine.
He had I’m Your Pusher written all over him mainly because he had a huge wad of cash in his hands and was wearing sunglasses and a smile on his face when Boobs Mctits exchanged cash with him.
I started walking over and realized I only had credit, and I was pretty certain this was a cash only kind of place. By this time, my husband (who was fiancé at the time) and the rest of our crew had purchased drinks and made their way to the sunglasses tent. I asked him for the money to buy the shades, and he happily obliged. I walked over to the sunglasses vendor, pulled the cash from my purse and started to hand it to him when I felt fingers grip my bicep and yank me back. My fiancé whispered, “What are you doing?” Pulling me away from the vender.
I whispered back, “Buying sunglasses. What are you doing?” And pulled my arm from his grip.
He laughed. Then he said with a big shit-eating grin, “From him?” Gesturing with a nod toward the vendor holding the cash.
“Yes,” I said turning back toward the guy with the cash.
He pulled me back again, got super close to my ear, and whispered, “Do you not know who that is?” I furrowed my brow and shook my head. He bit his lip, stifling a laugh, “That’s Ice T.”
I stood there, mouth agape, and watched as Ice T and Coco walked to a different tent together, his hand comfortably resting at the top curve of her perfectly round ass.
We had a good laugh and told everyone for the rest of the trip how I tried to buy sunglasses from Ice T. I often wonder though what would have happened if he hadn’t yanked my hand back. I’m pretty sure Ice T would have gotten a kick out of it, or we might have had to Escape From the Killing Fields.
photo credit: factmag.com
***If you’re not an Ice T fan, you may not have caught my bold italic references to a few of his songs. Disclaimer: You may or may not get offended by some of the lyrics. You also may or may not understand my confusion.
I couldn’t sleep last night. At all. My husband travels for work, and he happened to be out of town, so I spent the night by myself, drinking wine, watching shows he would never watch with me, and looking forward to getting into my nice comfy bed…all by myself. Don’t get me wrong. I love my husband, and I enjoy having him around, but he’s a giant man, and he takes up a lot of space, and he practically sleeps on top of me. Every night. And I’m claustrophobic.
I went to bed around 12:30 am after watching lots of trash TV. I totally caught up on the happenings of those classy ladies of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and their stripper poles. So clearly, I felt enlightened and enriched as I slipped into the nice cool sheets. As I lay there, eyes covered by my sleep mask, I heard something. I sat up in my bed and listened closer. Then I remembered something my husband said as he left town, last Friday. Almost a week ago. “Hey, keep your eye on the water level of the pool, and make sure you clean out the skimmer baskets every day.” To which I said, “Duh. Of course.” And he said, “You really have to do it this time. Seriously.” And I said, “Ok. Whatever. Got it. Go.” Or something like that.
As I lay in my bed, listening to the strange gurgling of my pool, I realized that it had been six days, and I had yet to even step foot into the backyard. So I played every worst case scenario over and over in my head, tossing and turning, and not sleeping. At all.
Fast forward to this morning. Before I dropped my son off at school, I stepped into the backyard to take inventory of the task at hand. Pool level, lower than I’ve ever seen it. Leaves everywhere. Strange consistent gurgling sound. I decided this would take some time, so I took son to school, turned on Doc McStuffins for my daughter, and headed out to “fix” the pool. First things first…I started the water. Already, I felt better. Second, clean skimmer baskets. I lifted the lid to the first basket, and looked into a sea of leaves. I reached in, pulled out a handful of soggy leaves, and threw them into the trash. Then I pulled out the skimmer basket, emptied it, and set it back in its little watery home. Nice. I’m taking care of business. Husband will never know I’m a slacker. Feeling much more confident, I reached into the second skimmer, also full of limp wet leaves, so full that I couldn’t get to the handle of the basket to pull it out of the water. So I shoved my hand in further. I stretched my fingers, reached in and grabbed a huge cluster of ice cold leaves. Hmmm. Why are these leaves so heavy? I thought to myself, but I was in a hurry, so I just squeezed my hand around the leaves and pulled them out further. Then I felt it. Fur. An animal. A cold furry dead animal. In my hand. My bare hand.
I dropped the dead animal and leaves back into the skimmer basket and squealed like a little girl, jumping up and down, in total complete freak out. My first instinct was to run inside and wash my hands, so I sprinted, full speed to the back door, and turned the handle. Locked. Come on! I banged on the door, hoping my three year old would tear herself away from her fictional doctor cartoon to let me in. Nope.
This has happened before. My daughter likes to lock the bottom lock, the one that tricks you when you turn it and it lets you go outside completely ignorant of what’s to come when you try to go back inside. Thank God for good neighbors. Crisis averted. Back in the comfort of my kitchen, I washed my hands for twenty minutes calculating my next move. I still had a dead rabbit and a bunch of leaves in my pool, which might have been the cause of the strange gurgling sound, so clearly, I had to get them out if for no other reason, I need my sleep.
My rubber gloves were somewhere in a landfill, having been thrown away last time my husband left and I had to fish a dead animal out of the pool, so gloves were not an option. I cursed myself for forgetting to buy some replacements, but who would have thought I’d be fishing dead animals out of my pool so frequently? I had to come up with a plan.
What would MacGyver do?
I grabbed a wire hanger, twisted it into a hook, and stepped back out to the watery morgue in my backyard, feeling brave and not at all freaked out. Right. I hooked my hanger pully thing around the rabbit, and pulled him out. I tried not to look. I held it, hooked to the hanger, with my arm stretched out as far as it would go, squealing with every step, and threw it into the field behind my house. And then I sent my husband an explicit text message that we needed a bunny lifeguard because I’m over fishing dead animals out of my pool. He responded with this: When was the last time you checked the skimmers? Really? Pfft.
Why is it that the “sh*t hits the fan” when the husband leaves town? If it’s not a dead animal in the pool, the water heater explodes, the kid needs stitches, the roof leaks, and every single time there’s a tornado, I’m here by myself with the kids. I can handle tornadoes, roof leaks, exploding water heaters, and even ER visits for stitches, but I cannot be the undertaker for these foolish animals that can’t swim.
Rabbits – they’re smart.
Does this happen to anyone else? What’s the worst thing that’s happened while the husband or wife were away?
I hear my name called. I put a hand over my mouth and make my “what? I’m shocked” face. I hug my husband who sits to my right and Adrian Grenier who sits to my left. He grabs my ass discreetly. I giggle, and he kisses my cheek. I make my way down the red carpeted aisle to the marble steps, my red silk dress flowing behind me. My four inch Valentino heels click click click on each step. I reach the podium, look out at the crowd and begin.
“Thank you, Beth from www.bethteliho.wordpress.com for this nomination. I am truly grateful and humbled that you thought of me. The Sunshine Award…wow. And from you?” (I sigh here for dramatic effect) “I remember sitting across a table at a restaurant with my friend, Beth.” (I point to her where she sits on the first row, smiling and blushing in a green dress that brings out her eyes.) “We were talking about her book, which is so incredibly awesome, and one day you’ll all read it, and I told her that she needed to get on Twitter and Facebook and maybe even start a blog, and then she did, and wow….she’s one of the best bloggers out there, and then she…that same girl…the one who’s my blog hero…creates an award and nominates me. I’m speechless.” Well…not really.
I told her that I wrote an acceptance speech in jest, and she said I should, so I did. That’s the best I could come up with, Beth.
I’m supposed to tell you seven things about me. Seven (funny, funny Beth)…here ya go. Brace yourself…actually I’m not all that interesting, but I follow the rules:
1. I have FOUR brothers, eight nephews, and no nieces. My mom had four brothers. My dad had four brothers, and my husband has two brothers. Somehow in all of these XY chromosomes, a second X appeared, and my mother birthed a girl, and then weirdly and unexpectedly another XX – my daughter.
2. I have an unhealthy, slightly obsessive, high school girl crush on Adrian Grenier. It started 15 years ago and hasn’t stopped. My friends think I need an intervention. I know what I need.
3. I hate shopping, and make-up, and most things girly…to the point where my husband gets annoyed and always asks why he married a boy. See #1.
4. I am extremely competitive in sports, games, and anything that is a competition. I get really into it, and I really really dislike losing.
5. I once had to have over 50 stitches in my face. Actually it was more, but I never could get past 50 when I counted. The driver side window of my car decided to go through my head.
6. I play the piano, and I’m not too terrible. I love to hear a song and then tinker around on my piano until I figure it out, playing it over and over and over until it’s perfect. Sometimes I break down and buy the music, but I prefer to play most songs by ear. My kids love playing, “play the song from…” game. And they get really excited when I play their requested song for them.
7. I attended the 2007 Emmy awards. I even got to buy an awesome dress and walk the red carpet with the celebrities. My husband won a contest at work, and he chose me to be his date. Highlights of the night: I sipped champagne with Ali Larter. She’s even prettier in person. Keven Bacon winked at me, so next time you play the “Six Degrees of Separation” game, you’re one degree closer. You’re welcome. And the best and biggest highlight: I breathed the same air as Adrian Grenier. I missed him on the red carpet though. Apparently, punctuality wasn’t important to him that night. It’s ok. I forgave him.
My Questions from Beth:
1. If you could go back in time ten years and tell yourself one thing, what would it be? Hmmm…to go back to 25. I would tell myself to wear more sunscreen and to stop smiling all the time that those laugh lines would be permanent. Nah….I think I’d tell myself… “Be still. The best is yet to come, and spend more time with your mother. She won’t always be the same.”
2. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked and not just because I like that feeling…wait…who said that?
3. Beth asked: If you were to take me on a date, where would we go and why? I think I would take you to Rosa’s on a Tuesday for lunch. It looks something like this: We sit and talk for hours, face to face. You eat a delicious vegan burrito (I called ahead and had them prepare this. I’m awesome and thoughtful.) while I eat my non vegan tacos full of trans fat and cholesterol. We sit and eat and talk, and of course, we notice that every time we look out the window, another giant truck is going through the drive thru, and then about three hours into our lunch, a huge, silver F250 creeps slowly through the drive thru and stops right in front of the window. We turn our eyes to the big silver truck as the driver side window rolls down and this tattooed bearded guy sticks out his finger and points to you and gives you that “come here” sign coaxing you with that teasing index finger of his, and you look at me and say, “really?”, and I say, “well yeah…I know I’m a catch and all, but I knew if you were to have a fantasy date, you should get your fantasy, so here you go. You’re welcome.” He looks at you, smiles and says, “Wow. You’re even prettier than your Avatar photo.” And I watch as you and your almost fiance/sex tape partner walk back to the silver truck and get in. The window rolls up, and there may or may not be rockin’, but I’m not knockin’ because well…I still have a big trans fat cholesterol full taco to eat, and it’s delicious.
4. Above all else, what are you afraid of? Suffocating, literally and figuratively.
5. What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail? Adrian Grenier – and publish a book.
6. What has been your favorite age to be and why? I’m 35 now, and I really thought it was going to be tough, but so far, 35 has been my favorite. I think it’s because every new year with my kids is better than the last. I always say, “I love this age,” talking about my kids’ age, and yet, I like the next age even better.
7. Coffee or tea? Wine – oh ok. Coffee.
BLOG NOMINATION TIME!
Nominees: do with this what you want. No obligations. If you choose to do an awards post, answer the questions I had to answer, and give 7 facts about yourself. Then nominate any amount of bloggers you choose up to eleven. Because Beth is funny – see: 7:11
Beth over at http://www.bethteliho.wordpress.com – because she’s Beth. I read the rules like 14 times, and it doesn’t say that I can’t nominate her even though she created the award. I mean…she is sunshine, in every way, and she makes my world…brighter.
Clair Duffy at http://www.thegrassisdancing.com/ She always seems to post while I’m sleeping (maybe because she’s in Sweden), but I usually read her words from my phone while I’m trying to make myself get out of bed, and she always wakes me up with a smile.
Dana with http://www.kissmylist.com She probably has about a zillion awards, but she’s funny and snarky, and I like her. She is also very supportive, and that’s great to this baby blogger.
Aussa: http://aussalorens.com/ another great blogger who always makes me chuckle. Always! And she’s hot, too. I’m sure she has more followers than God, but still, she brings me sunshine, and I love her blog!
I could keep going, but Beth already nominated most of my favorites, and I don’t know if I’m allowed to renominate them, and I’m still not sure I deserve to be nominated in the first place. I’m going to try to say nominate again. See, “nominate!”
Hey! It’s New Year’s day, so whatever you do, DO NOT EAT THAT CHICKEN!!
Let me introduce you to my husband, Dr. Gellar. No, not Ross from friends, but Ross from friends. See where I’m going? He’s a scientist at heart, a chemistry major (I know!), and he’s brilliant, a sponge who soaks up information and when squeezed, will drench you with his knowledge. He makes life interesting, and I adore him. And his porous brain.
Here’s a little glimpse into our life today.
Dr. Gellar: “Do you want steak or pork chops for dinner?” (He’s the cook in the family. I can make spaghetti and frozen pizza. And I’m not even Italian.)
Me: “I thought you were going to make chicken.”
Dr. Gellar: “I can’t make chicken on New Year’s day,” he says as if I should know this already, his brow furrowing in frustration at my stupidity.
Me: “Why?” I really don’t want to know. He’s probably just watched some show on National Geographic about how chickens contain arson and that people who eat chicken end up losing brain matter with every swallow. And we eat a lot of chicken. So that must explain why I’m so stupid.
Dr. Gellar sighs and looks down at me, not because he’s condescending, but he’s 6’3″, and I’m 5’3″, so if he looks at me, he looks down. I digress.
Dr. Gellar takes a big cleansing breath, one that I am all too familiar with, one that tells me he’s about to lecture, and I’m going to wish I could take back my question.
Dr. Gellar: “You know how we always eat black eyed peas and cabbage on New Year’s Day?”
Me: “Uh-huh.” Where in hell is he going with this, I think to myself.
Dr. Gellar: “Chickens scratch in the dirt for food, which is symbolic. We don’t want to be scratching in the dirt for food. And another thing, as the chicken scratches in the dirt for his food, he moves backward, which is also symbolic.” He demonstrates, standing in front of me, scratching at he air with his imaginary talons, walking backwards. Then he looks up all serious and says, “We want to go forward, dude.”
Me: “So you want to eat pork?”
Dr. Gellar: “Yes, pigs route forward when they forage for food.” See, who talks like that? This is what I live with, people.
Me: “Yeah, but pigs roll around in their own shit. I don’t want to roll around in my own shit this year.”
Dr. Gellar sighs again. “You’re missing the point.”
Me: “You want to move forward, but you’re ok with rolling around in shit. Is that your point?”
Dr. Gellar: “Then get steaks.” He resigns. All frustrated and annoyed with me.
Me: “Eck. I can’t eat beef.” Dr. Gellar made a superb prime rib for Christmas dinner, a huge prime rib, on which we’ve feasted for a week. Then I got the flu and faced death. I’m not exaggerating. The thought of beef turns me green. I can’t imagine eating any kind of meat really. But beef. I just can’t.
Dr. Gellar: “Then get pork.”
Me: “But I don’t want to get a brain worm.”
Dr. Gellar sighs and starts to lecture me for the 97th time about how I cannot get a brain worm from eating pork that I buy at our grocery store, but I’m not convinced. We’ve danced around this subject so many times. I argue, but in the end, I get the pork, and he’s currently seasoning said pork, which will probably be delicious, but if I never blog again, well then you’ll know. I got a brain worm.
What are your New Year’s traditions? Do you eat black eyed peas and cabbage? Do you fear that feathery little chicken like my husband does? Are you superstitious? Am I missing something? Dr. Gellar seems to think so…a lot.
He brushes a curl out of his eye then leans down and kisses me, soft but sensual, sending electric bolts of desire through every inch of my body. Stubble tickles my chin. He pushes me to the bed, and I feel his weight on top of me. We kiss again. This time, hard and hungry. I wrap my fingers around his curly locks and pull him closer, arching my back. Our faces are so close that our noses touch. My eyes meet his. Green with need, asking, begging. I nod my consent.
He leans in a little more, takes a long, slow breath and says, “Mom.”
Wha?
“Mom,” he says again in my six year old son’s voice.
“MOM!”
No. No. No. No. No!!!!
“Mom.” I close my eyes, envisioning him again to no avail.
“Mom.”
My blurry eyes try to make out the time. I think it says 5:24…AM.
“What is it, baby?” I ask the dream sex interrupter.
“Have you seen the helmet that goes to my police officer?”
I want to scream, “Are you effing kidding me? You just interrupted my sex dream with Adrian Grenier for a Lego, a tiny little centimeter sized helmet???” But he’s six, and I haven’t explained sex dreams and their importance to him, and his world revolves around Legos.
“Buddy,” I say as sweetly as my 5:24 awake self can, “It’s still night time,” because the 5 o’clock hour is still night time in this house, “Go back to bed. Don’t turn on the lights, and don’t play with your Legos.”
“But mom..”
“No ‘but mom’. GO!!”
I roll over, put my hand under my pillow, close my eyes, and summon the picture of my celebrity crush back to my mind. I start to float in the softness of a sleep cloud willing the sex dream to reoccur when….BANG! My bedroom door flies open and slams into the wall.
“Mommy. Mommy. Wah wah wah!!!” In nails on a chalkboard whine.
“What is it, baby?” I ask my 2 year old daughter while looking at the blurry clock again. 5:39. Awesome.
“I’m all wet.” Oh dear God. Please tell me this isn’t something involving a bodily function.
I reach out in the dark and pat her down. Dry. “You’re not wet, baby,” I say to her softly trying to keep her drama at bay.
“No, mommy, yook. I’m all wet. Yook. See?” She shoves her arm in my face. I feel a trace of dampness on her sleeve. Not even slightly wet.
“You’ll dry. Come on. Let’s get you back in bed.” I sigh, hesitant to leave the warmth of my bed and sleepily walk up the stairs holding her hand.
We get to the top of the stairs when it hits me.
“What’s that smell,” I ask, already knowing the answer. Then I feel it, cold and wet on the bottom of my bare foot.
I scream explicits in my head and tip toe to turn on the light avoiding getting anymore of what’s on my foot on the carpet. The light confirms my suspicions illuminating a trail of child sized shit prints from my daughter’s room to the bathroom.
I take a deep breath, a deep cleansing breath. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.
I lift my foot into the bathroom sink and begin to scrub the shit off of it. “What happened here?” I ask my big blue eyed daughter who seems completely unhinged by the amount of shit everywhere.
“I pooped.” Like it’s not all over the floor.
“How did it get all over the floor, baby?” It’s not even 6:00 am. I’m never getting back to the sex dream.
“I took my pull-up off.” Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Deep breaths. Picture a happy place. There he is again. He’s so so pretty, that Adrian.
I quickly assess the damage. Said shitty pull-up sits in the middle of the floor taunting me, laughing at me, begging me to take it and toss it across the house, but I don’t have time because I still have a stream of shit prints to clean, and now with the lights on, a three year old who needs a bath. Desperately.
I toss the child in the bathtub, filling the water with heavily scented baby wash. I run downstairs and throw on some pants, grab two towels and the carpet cleaner, and run back upstairs. Daughter is happily singing “Let it Go” from Frozen in the bathtub. I clean up the shit prints with a wet towel first. Then I grab the carpet cleaner, and start to spray the prints. “Foof,” says the empty bottle of carpet cleaner as I spray again and again. I turn it upside down and try it that way. “Foof,” it says again as nothing comes out. I’m pretty sure, it’s laughing at me. I shake it. “Foof.”
Dammit!!!! Of all the times to run out of carpet cleaner.
By this time, the six year old is no longer pretending to be asleep in his room with the light on. He comes out to see what’s going on, so I send him down to the laundry room to get my stain remover. I mean, I have shit prints here, and no carpet cleaner. I gotta do something. He brings it to me. I spray all of the prints, scrub the shit out of them…literally…soak the entire area in Gain scented Febreze , scrub my hands for 14 minutes, and then get my daughter out of her bath.
And we haven’t even had breakfast.
I coax my children to the kitchen, take out the Cheerios, and pour them each a bowl. They’re happily arguing with each from across the table, so I sneak to my bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my uniform: yoga pants, sports bra, and tank top. I make it back into the kitchen just in time to see my daughter reach up to the counter to grab the box of cereal with her slippery little hands. Crash. Cheerios everywhere.
Le’ sigh!
I scoop a handful from the floor and put them in her bowl. (Don’t judge.) As I’m getting the broom out to sweep up the remaining honey oats, my husband enters the room, completely oblivious to my morning struggle. He stretches and yawns, letting out a huge groan (like he’s spent the last thirty minutes cleaning up shit prints). Then he looks at me and says, “Can I have some coffee?”
“Get your own mother @#^&&%#@ @#^@ @#%^&* @#$$@@ ^#@#^ coffee!!!” I reply…calmly.
He looks at me like, what? Then says, “What’s your problem?”
I answer under my breath…You’re not Adrian Grenier.
Cellulite Looks Better Tan 