stumbling towards perfect

And THAT is why I love him.

2012-02-16T07:01:00.001-06:00

Last night, Big V played basketball while wearing two completely different shoes. And when I say different, I mean one was an athletic high top and the other was a black reffing shoe similar to those tacky styled orthopedic shoes. Seriously, we can send men to the moon but no one on the face of the planet can successfully bring together style and function for diabetics?

If you've ever wondered why I love Big V I'll tell you exactly why: because he actually called me to tell me he was wearing two different shoes.

Any normal guy would have faked a sprained ankle and hobbled out of the gym, but not Big V. No, sir-ee. When he unzipped that duffle bag and stared into the humiliation that greeted him he threw his head back laughing and started lacing up. And then, instead of swearing all the other players to secrecy in a vain attempt to pretend this never happened, he picked up his cell and dialed my number.

You are so going to wish you had come to watch this game!

Uh, probably not. I've got both kids in bed and my own private bowl of popcorn smothered in a stick of melted butter.

Oh, no. You're really going to regret not coming... my shoes don't match. At all. I only have one of my basketball shoes in my bag and the other is the shoe for my referee uniform. You sure you don't want to come get pictures of this?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am in love with Big V. And also why I'll be dressing him before we go out together in public.

Stay Tuned for the Real Comedy of Errors....

2012-02-15T07:01:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow, Big V and I are going to the thee-ah-tah. He's awesome at supporting my interests (theater being a pretty big one) and doesn't mind going .... but he may be in over his head this time.

When the season dates came out and I was busy circling every event I wanted to attend, Big V was busy making himself a sandwich. He uh-huh'd and mm-hmm'd and oh yeah'd and then I asked what he would like to go to.

And he scanned the page and saw the words Comedy of Errors. Except I think he skipped over the 'of errors' part and just saw comedy.

You know that's Shakespeare, right?

"What's Shakespeare?"

Oh, boy, is he in for a treat.

Feel free to come with! We can giggle at Big V together over cocktails during intermission....

Obligatory Valentine's Day Post Complete with Hairy Lips and Crazy Socks

2012-02-14T07:01:00.003-06:00

Thanks to my new obsession, Pinterest, I scored an idea and was able to create these lovely Valentine's for Dotter's class. The minute I showed her the Pinterest version she was like yes! I must do this!! We taped various styles of mustaches on the back so every kid in class will be lucky to sport a furry lip if they so choose. I think they turned out awesome. (Unfortunately she suffers from the same disorder I happen to have, which makes taking an I am Awake and Seemingly Normal photo nearly impossible.)

In other news, yesterday was Crazy Sock day at Dotter's school:

This is what I love. Right here. Zany, crazy, unique, express yourself the way you want to kind of kids. Somewhere between this and adulthood so many people lose that. Sure, there are adults who claim they never lost it, but the truth is, they're just slapping away getting older by acting like idiotic morons. Remember, there is a huge difference between keeping your childlike spirit alive and acting like an ass others would find no greater pleasure than driving a pitchfork through your skull to get you to shut up. Immature idiocy is not cool. Don't be an immature idiot.

This kid here? This kid is cool. And I hope she's always keeps her zany, crazy, unique way of expressing herself.

We All Do Better When We Work Together

2012-02-07T07:01:00.002-06:00

The last company I worked for were completely those Rah! Rah! Go Team! kind of companies. There were employee appreciation lunches, contests designed to spice up the workplace with fun and a lot of thank you for your hard work heartfelt thanks from the Higher Ups. The genuine feeling was our employees come first; if we treat them right, they'll work hard, pump out tons of awesome work and our company will flourish. If they kept our morale up, we wouldn't notice they were driving Escalades while we were rocking the hand-me-down Cutlass Supremes from our parents.

Not so much where I work now. There's a lot of backstabbing and finger pointing and blame and disrespect and an overall climate of who's getting shoved in front of the bus next. The only thing we do as a team is watch each other with an air of distrust and suspicion. I've never heard a thank you from a Higher Up, other than a sarcastic one, or the goaded version: of course you're appreciated but I still think you suck.

Personally, I liked my former company's philosophy better.

That's why I think it would be a swell idea to do a Team Building Exercise. And by that I mean compete in the local gentleman's club Pole Dancing Contest because the winner gets 750 bucks.

There are five of us in the office; 3 girls and 2 guys. Obviously, we'll need a girl for the pole. And I pick not me. Mostly because I'm not that flexible but also because I get dizzy pretty easy and from what I've seen on late night Showtime there's an awful lot of upside down, whipping your head back & forth and side to side action going on. I think it's safe to say that puking in the laps of a bunch of drunken horny perverts is not going to clinch the $750 prize.

So, I figure we'll need at least two bases to heft the Pole Girl up because, let's be honest, the most strenuous physical activity any of us do in the office is raise our cup of coffee. There's no way any of us can haul our own body weight up and hold it in an attractive position.

If we have two Bases and one Pole Girl, that leaves two of us to help manipulate body parts and spin Pole Girl around. Spinning is very important when pole dancing because drunk people like to be amazed. The easiest way to amaze them is by quick movement. Did you see how fast she moved? She was awesome! Shoot, a girl sneezing would be awesome if she were naked. Did you see how fast that snot flew out? I think I'm in love.

Of course, we'll need costumes. I'm opting for one of those large oversized t-shirts that have the sexy body screen printed on it....

I'm sexy and I know it.

Also, I might have to invest in legwarmers because I get cold easy and ain't nobody going to be checking out my ankles.

Experts say that by being forced to work together as a team people will learn to trust each other. I was in the military and we did all sorts of things like that. Once we climbed this super tall tower and you basically just had to pray to God that the people reaching their hand down to you would continue holding on as you were left dangling over the edge, ready to drop to your death at any moment. I wouldn't say that particular exercise made me trust anyone better, but it sure taught me to make sure my hands are dry at all times.

More than anything I'm thinking about what we could do with 750 bones to help build morale in the office. We could host a paid lunch for the employees once a month for an entire year. Or longer if we settled for Subway Party subs and those $5.00 Monday Only Special pizzas.

Or we could just save the money and use it to buy envelopes and letter head in November. Because we always run out towards the end of the year, usually around the same time it's noticed that we're over budget, and so a No Mailing or Letter Writing rule gets issued. (You'd be amazed at the amount of correspondence that doesn't get printed or sent until January. And how crabby it makes people when they can't print anything because there's no paper.)

Either way, I say it'd be a huge improvement if we can work together for the big win.

10 Things I'm Going To Do When I Grow Up And Get My Own Apartment

2012-02-03T07:01:00.000-06:00

1. Enjoy crunchy, non-stale crackers because all food packages will be properly sealed according to the Pantry Re-entry System.

2. Buy new underwear since I no longer have to pay additional $150 surprise teen fees on my cell phone bill.

3. Block the Disney channel using the parental control system on my brand new television set. (My brand new television set that has all its buttons and does not have a permanent marker doodle in the left hand corner of the screen.) And I'm also blocking Nickelodeon.

4. Never, ever, ever put my hand in a crusty, grungy sock to turn it right-side-out in order to effectively wash the sucker. People who leave their balled up socks in my living room will not be allowed over to play.

5. Enjoy meals that include dishes like mashed potatoes with goat cheese and kale, or tandoori chicken or spicy black bean soup in the absence of whining.

6. Go to the bathroom. by. myself.

7. Read in silence. And actually recall what it was that I just read.

8. Walk barefoot through my living room without threat of severe injury or impalement. (No matchbox cars.)

9. Enjoy the fact the dish rag is effectively wrung out after each use and not left in a wadded sopping mess shoved between the kitchen faucet and the wall.

10. Buy really good shampoo and conditioner now since the only user has a keen sense of portion control.

The One In Which I Realize The Very Real Possibility I May Be Completely Outwitted.

2012-02-01T07:01:00.002-06:00

On December 1st, 2011, I retrieved a jar of treasured spaghetti sauce from my pantry and handed it to Big V with explicit instructions to put the remaining sauce in the refrigerator so it was not wasted. I then exited the residence confident in his compliance.

However, he did not put the jar in the fridge.

The freaking jar sat on my kitchen counter for days.... weeks, even... because we are both incredibly bull headed and stubborn, if not also incredibly cute.

On December 24th, 2011, as we prepared dinner for my parents, I noticed Big V had finally thrown the stupid, nasty, moldy jar of sauce away. And I had won.

Or so I thought.

Readers, I present to you January 28th, 2012:

It should be noted that in order to place the jar next to the bird seed in the garage one must walk past not one, not two, but three large garbage cans and two recycling bins.

When confronted with my discovery, Big V calmly pointed out that he never said he had actually thrown the jar away, that I had simply assumed so when I realized the extent the counter was cleaned, nor did he feel compelled to correct me while I was jumping around the kitchen singing you threw it ou-out! you threw it ou-out! I knew you wo-ould! I knew you wo-ould!

Well played, Big V. Well played, indeed.

Three Kids and a Prancing, Dancing Cat

2012-01-31T07:01:00.026-06:00

This weekend my sister and I gathered up some children and headed over to - you guessed it - THE YOUNG AUDITORIUM - to see the children's musical Seussical. (Don't worry, they were our children. It's not like we just grabbed at the supermarket.)

Alex, age 7, did not especially feel like going. I thought maybe he was going to say he was far too cool to sit around watching a prancing cat, but his honest explanation included the fact that there was no popcorn at the theater. You just had to sit there. And, uh, watch.

I could totally see his point, because one time, I was craving movie theater popcorn so bad I insisted (perhaps also forced by threat of violence) that we please just stop and grab a large bag to go, sans actual movie watching. Turns out you can totally do that in most movie theaters around here, except for the bitty one behind Toys R Us where they force a ticket purchase before you can even enter the building, which I think is total bunk because that movie theater popcorn is like crack and you don't want to see a crack addict withdrawing. It can get ugly. They make that popcorn addicting so you keep coming back. And it totally works.

Personally, I was anticipating slight personal boredom during the show because I am an adult but I was super stoked to find out that Cat in the Hat is cah-RAZY fun! I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. It kind of reminded me of the first time I saw Toy Story and I was all bah! That was adult humor! Awesome!

I was also worried about bored, fidgety kids. Which I totally shouldn't have worried about at all because Shannon drugged her kids before the show. I'm kidding. But really that's the only explanation I've got because that entire auditorium was full of fidgets except the kids I was sitting next to. At one point I almost leaned over to Shannon and suggested she take their pulses.... they just sat there, mesmerized by the dancing and singing and bright colors....

Taking kids to the theater is somewhat risky. Television and movies are full of camera angles and zooming in - thousands and thousands of hit-you-over-the-head hints of where you ought to be looking. With a live presentation you only get one angle. One view at the same depth. That's it. I wondered if the kids would keep up; if they would be able to tell where to look during a scene where everyone is on stage, but the main action is only in one area.

And then it dawned on me that THAT is exactly why live performance is so utterly cool. It's different from everyone's individual point of view. It's different no matter how many times you see a show because the lines might be delivered different, or forgotten, or stepped on, or an action added after an actor says, "you know what would be good here; what if we tried______."

Live theater is different and it respects that fact. And it respects you, the audience member. It says, "I believe in you enough to know that you are going to get this." It's not "gee, we've got this audience, but they really need help understanding the movement here, so let's pan out and then cut to a close up of Horton the Elephant."

Live theater allows kids to sit and become immersed in a make believe world that is playing out before them and kids totally learn from that. Ever come across the kid who has spent every waking moment with one person? They creepily mimic only those actions they've been allowed to see. "Oh, she has all your mannerisms!" No, duh. You're the only example of action she's ever seen. She had no choice. That is, until the child comes across someone else that does it different. Suddenly, their world opens up in leaps and bounds just by being exposed to others; especially watching someone else play make believe.

I wish all kids could go to the theater. But, let's be honest, the cost of theater tickets is usually more than the cost of a matinee movie. For the cost of a live theater ticket you could get a movie ticket and popcorn. (And we all know it's really about the popcorn.) That's why I get so excited when I see theaters like the Young Auditorium opening up their doors to a daytime performance for area schools. I suppose there are some parents who feel it's a waste of a field trip, but then I'd question those parents to see if they ever took their kids to the theater and watched as their minds took in the movement on stage; saw how a person suddenly became a bird, or an elephant or a very small shirker named JoJo, simply by the way they held their bodies, or walked across the stage, or how they chose to deliver their lines, and through no computer animation whatsoever...

Maybe that's what I'll do when I grow up. Or win the lottery. Find a way to expose as many children as I can to the theater. Find a way to encourage parents to take their children to more live performance activities and less computer/technological media zone out blitzes with their children.

Or, maybe tap in my love for acting and find a way to tour the country entertaining kids... can you see me as Amazing Mayze? Or, perhaps the dowdy Gertrude McFuzz is more a role meant for me....

The One In Which Jenny Is Moved to My (Literal) Sh$t List.

2012-01-26T07:01:00.001-06:00

If you've been following my blog you know that I've decided to learn to knit. Except I'm finding out it's way harder than it looks and my scarf that started out with 30 stitches in Row 1 has now grown to 47 stitches. (Somehow I added two more last night when I was "purling.")

Suffice it to say, my scarf has grown to epic proportions and no longer looks like a scarf but more like a shawl. So my funny friend Jenny said I could call it a sharf. Which I thought was completely awesome!

And so I've spent that past two days blogging about my sharf.

My sharfing skills.

My sharfing abilities.

My sharfing expertise.

My sharfing enjoyment.

And how I'm going to give my sharf to my sister.

And then I wrote about Crazy Ed the Knitting God and how in response to his pompous self-righteousness and also his (probably) sociopathic tendencies to tie women up in his basement and use their hair to knit sweaters (thanks a lot for that comment, Tina; I didn't sleep all night.) I announced I was working on a sharf. And had plans to sharf some more when I was done.

And then I got pretty much every woman in the class wishing me luck on my sharf.

And then my Mom came over to my house and said, "uh, remember how you blogged about your sharf? And you said that guy didn't know what a sharf was? And one of your readers said he probably went home and googled it? Well..... perhaps you better hope he doesn't."

And that would be the point in the evening when my mother handed me a folded piece of paper printed with information from the internet search she did on sharfing;

Sharf:

1. The feeling that you are barfing out your ass. Occurs

frequently after a night of drinking and is usually followed

up by dry heaving out your ass.

2. To have to both shit and barf at the same time.

3. The act of soiling your pants while vomiting.

4. To shit and barf at the same at the same time; a shart will

sometimes preclude a sharf.

Crazy Ed will be giving a group lecture on gastrointestinal disorders next week.

I, in turn, will be inviting Jenny to knitting class.

I'll take your vicuña and raise you a sharf.

2012-01-25T07:01:00.002-06:00

Last night was my second mad skillz knitting class... I proudly showed off what I had worked on throughout the week:

I'm in the process of getting a cat so I can blame this mess on it.

I have no explanation. Except that I pulled when I shouldn't have and didn't stop when I should have.

After much laughter at my expense (there was no laughing with me) two women decided I needed help. And lots of it.

After 45 minutes.... yes, forty-five minutes... the two amazing souls --- yes, TWO WOMEN worked on this mess for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES --- presented me with this:

It's the Holy Grail of Yarn Balls, y'all!

It was like suddenly I was a professional and could conquer all things knitting related! But not really because somehow over the course of time I've acquired fifteen extra stitches that weren't there in the first row. But that's why I'm telling everyone I'm making a sharf (Jenny's term for half scarf- half shawl).

I had assumed the class would be a coffee clutch of 83-year old women who sat knitting tacky colored afghans but our class is filled with people all over the place. A couple younger kids, a high school student and her mother, a bunch of women around my age, and two men. One obviously gay and the other obviously mentally unstable. His name is Ed and he's a freaking genius lacking all acceptable social skills. The man is a living, breathing Wikipedia and never stops talking. I learned about ancient Egyptians and mathematical optimization, as well as 18th century darning techniques and the fact that his blood pressure medicine nearly killed him. (Oh, and he's had six surgeries on his hand. Not all at once; over the course of his lifetime.)

Ed was creating something magical and awesome and told us all about this super expensive yarn with flecks of real gold in it that he purchased in some exotic locale. His project was flawless. He is obviously not a first year student.

He then looked over at me and my knitting disaster and asked what I was working on. I looked up at him and as serious as ever announced, "Oh, I'm making a sharf... for my sister."

"A sharf?" You could see him shuffling through the card catalog in his brain.

"Yeah, after I make my sister's I've got about three friends who want one, too. I am gonna be busy making sharfs!" (Or would it be sharves?)

Anyway, Ed one-upped me by announcing he had a baby blanket to work on next that would be made from the rare hair fibers of the Vicuña (which live in the upper altitudes of the Andes Mountains and can only be sheered once every three years).

But I won the battle of the wits because when I left everyone wished me luck on my sharf and you could tell Ed still had no idea what the hell a sharf was, nor was he going to lower his standards and ask what one was. That right there tells you my fellow knitters are awesome. And also that Ed can be somewhat annoying.

Some people want to jump out of airplanes... I just want to make a sharf.

2012-01-23T17:10:00.006-06:00

Personally, I'm too chicken to have an exciting bucket list. There is no way you'll find me jumping out of airplanes or bungee jumping into raging waters. It's just not for me. I prefer things a little less death-assuring.

So, I decided to learn how to knit.

Slapped knitting on my bucket list and high-fived myself for finding a free class offered at our local public library. I was on my way!

Let me just say that the class is taught by a lady who really likes knitting. A lot. She is very energetic about knitting. She knows a lot about knitting. And she is very energetic about sharing everything she knows about knitting.

Within seven minutes it was painfully obvious that only 4 of us had never picked up a pair of knitting needles in their lives. The other 16 students were finishing up details on their Winding Cables Pullover Knit Sweaters. Showoffs.

Bound and determined not to fail, I listened, inserted snarky comments loud enough for the lady next to me to snort at, and took my newfound skills home to practice.

It should be noted I am very good at adding stitches.

As the what-started-out-to-be scarf got wider and wider my mother suggested I count my stitches. I was amazed to find out that Row 1 (the one already on the needle when I arrived for my first class; the one the instructor did) had 30 stitches. I was now up to 45. This was going to be the strangest looking scarf ever.

My friend, Jenny, commented that I could call it a sharf: half scarf - half shawl. I think she's genius because now I don't feel like such a loser for messing up a scarf. All the cool people are wearing sharfs this season. Duh.

I was hoping to get a gold star for Most Practiced so I sat down and, well, practiced. Except just when I was getting into a groove the darn yarn started knotting up. I'm not sure how that was even possible because it wasn't like I was doing cartwheels and somersaults. I mean, I was sitting in a chair, unmoving but for the skillful clacking of my knitting needles (which, by the way, can easily be used as a murder weapon; those suckers are sharp! The irony that I chose to try something just as dangerous as jumping out of a plane is not lost on me). So, there I was, practicing my knitting and I'd try to pull the yarn up from the skein of yarn....

Sidenote: a skein is balled up yarn with a center pull strand (in my case, a defunct center pull strand)... and also what you call a flock of geese flying in a V formation. Keep that in your Trivial Pursuit pocket.

.... anyway, I'd tug on the yarn and out popped a snarly hair ball, well, yarn ball; you get my point. So I called my mom and was all what am I doing wrong? I can't even pull the damn yarn out properly! and she proceeded to tell me about how she had to take a knitting class in 4th grade at their little parochial school she attended and she hated it so much that she skipped class. Of course, it wasn't hard to find her since she was only in the 4th grade and obviously not smart enough venture very far. Anyway, she got in a lot of trouble. But she did learn to knit. And she has learned that sometimes yarn just gets a wee bit tangled and it's easy to undo.

I now have approximately 450 yards of yarn strung all over my living room, dining room and part of my kitchen that is tangled.

It is safe to say the yarn is winning.

I was NOT kidding.

Will Someone Please Get This Dad An Instruction Manual?

2012-01-20T07:01:00.001-06:00

The note was printed on bright pink paper in bold letters: SCHOOL WILL BE CANCELLED TOMORROW.

I mean, I wasn't that surprised. They were scheduled for a half-day anyway - which, by the way, make no sense to me whatsoever. I'm a working mother; do me a favor and make me scrounge for one full day of daycare once as opposed to two separate half-days. And don't tell me they do anything that important on a half day. Half-days are spent watching videos and celebrating some obscure fact with soda and bags of barbecue potato chips. But for whatever reason the half-day was scheduled.

Since the Epic Snowstorm of 2012 was fast approaching [also known as the Remember You Live In Wisconsin Snowfall], school was cancelled.

But this actually worked out well because Big V had the day off! Yay!

But he said he had errands to do so I should probably find someone else to watch Dotter. Boo.

And the Nanny was still scheduled to spend the day with Cletus! Yay!

But she would probably be looking to go home early due to the snow. And the fact Dad was hovering around. Boo.

However, the time of day would come when Big V would be home, and the Nanny would leave, and Grammy would drop Dotter back off because the roads were getting slick and this would mean that two hours before I was scheduled to leave work, Big V would be in charge of the children.

By himself.

Phone Call #1:
Should I put Cletus down for a nap? Nanny just left and said he didn't nap. He usually goes down around 1:00 but now it's 3:00 so if I put him down he might sleep so late that then he doesn't fall asleep at bedtime but he's not crabby or anything so I don't know if I should try to get him to nap or not.

Umm.... do what you feel is best.

Phone Call #2:
Should I take the kids sledding? Dotter wants to go sledding and I don't mind going but I didn't know if I should take Cletus or not because I think it might be too cold for him. Do you think it's too cold for him? I could probably call the time and temperature; do you have that number?

Umm.... or you could just step outside and see if it's too cold.

Phone Call #3:
We just got the mail and there's an envelope with Dotter's name on it. Can she open it?

Umm.... yes.

Phone Call #4:
I just changed Cletus's poopy diaper and it was all green. Is that normal?

At that point I requested all phone calls be placed directly into my voice mail.

What are YOUR plans tonight?

2012-01-19T07:01:00.000-06:00

You know what's awesome?

I'm going to go out with my girlfriends tonight.

We're going to drink coffee.

And laugh.

And talk about roughly 487 different topics.

And I am going to love every second of it.

That is all.

She thinks you're really going to like this post.

2012-01-18T07:01:00.006-06:00

I had a meeting at work today. One of those pretty important meetings where three attorneys and the president of a local agency wore their best suits. I sat down with my 47-pound code book and cold can of Mountain Dew because I know that attorneys tend to be long winded, plus there's that whole "where there is Ego, there is no logic" thing so they tend to resort to lengthy verbal beat downs.

[That's my quote by the way. You find that sucker being sold on a mug at some Long Island gift shop and you contact me. I'm suing for copyright infringement. I have contacts, you know.]

Anyway, I figured it'd be in my best interest to stay awake, thus the Dew.

And I watched as The Suit next to me took out his pad of paper and fancy pen. And he does what everyone does at Very Important Meetings and puts the date in the top left-hand corner. And then he lists everyone at the meeting, starting with the person to his left.

First, he draws a little black bullet point, and then he writes in the name.

Ms. Jane Doe
Mr. John Doe
Attorney Mr. Smith
Attorney Mrs. Smith

Around the room he goes.... and then he gets to me. And I watch his hand hover after the bullet point. He has no idea who I am. Even though he smiled broadly, shook my hand and gave me an overzealous, "Good Afternoon! How have you been?" when I first walked in, he is now realizing he has no idea what my name is.

And he taps the bullet point two times with the tip of his fancy pen and I watch him lay down the pen on the pad of paper.

And there sat a left over hanging bullet point.

And this is what bugged the hell out of me for the next hour and a half: he has a hanging bullet point.

Good Lord, I don't care that you don't know who I am - just write something in: a question mark, GIRL WITH SODA, even Unknown Female.... but please, oh, please do not leave the bullet point hanging there with nothing following it.

I thought about ways I could drop my name without making it obvious that I knew that he had no clue who was sitting next to him. (It's my personal opinion that the fancier the suit, the more sensitive they are to having things pointed out to them that might make them look human. Or lame.)

Maybe I could start speaking in third person. "Bridget thinks that Subsection E of Chapter 18-110 needs to be clarified." And that made me laugh out loud. Because how freaking funny would that be to suddenly speak in third person throughout an entire meeting?! "Bridget agrees with your point." So there I was, in one of the most boring meetings of the century trying to stifle my laughter. I certainly couldn't drink anything for fear I'd end up spitting it all over the table. "Bridget thinks this meeting has gone on long enough." And then I thought how I could try to do that with Big V later but the only way it would work is if I didn't laugh which is incredibly difficult for me to do. But I'm going to try it anyway.

And then I thought about how funny it would be if everyone started talking in third person, just for tonight. How confused our kids would be. And our spouses. Or the lady at the checkout at Target. "Bridget really appreciates your help this evening and wishes you a good night." And how awesome would it be if I got one of those stupid sales calls.... "Bridget would like you to explain how the free window installation works again."

But now that the meeting is over I'm wondering if the dangling bullet point is still dangling or if The Suit filled something in, like: Girl Making Strange Snorting Noises.

New Studies Show the Man Cold can be Cured by Sex.

2012-01-17T07:01:00.002-06:00

Last night, Big V followed me around complaining that his right nostril was stuffed up but not the left one. This included several "examples" by which he held one finger to the side of his nose, thereby closing off said nose hole, and attempted to SNIFF. Loudly. One side worked; the other didn't. This happened roughly 672 times until I figured out the correct response was, "Oh, no, honey! I pray to the good Lord above that you aren't near death! Let me stop everything I am doing and apply a cold washcloth to your forehead and hold vigil as you ponder your short but fabulous life while lying on the couch, moaning."

As we all know, the Man Cold can be fatal. The majority of men who come down with the sniffles will more than likely die; it's a slow, painful death... but with non-stop attention from the Lead Female (tucking in blankets, handing out tissue that has the lotion in it, serving up endless bowls of strawberry ice cream, and agreeing to watch nonstop Sports Center), there is hope.

I'll take the snotty toddler who has no clue there's even snot dripping down his face any day.

V was able to raise his head just long enough to ask, "were you comfortable last night?"

What?

"I noticed you slept in your jeans."

Oh. That. Yeah.

"Why were you sleeping in your jeans?"

I was done with laundry and didn't want to make anymore.

"What?"

I had spent the entire day doing laundry and I was actually done - as in not a single item in the house left to wash, but if I changed for bed then the clothes I was wearing would be in the dirty laundry and then I couldn't say I had finished ALL the laundry. It's a matter of saying 'I win, laundry; you lose!'

"Sounds like you lost because you had to sleep in your jeans."

Touché.

"Why didn't you just wash the clothes and come to bed naked?"

Because then you would have thought that I was giving you a loud and clear signal that I wanted to have sex. Which I didn't. Because I was exhausted from doing 27 load of laundry. Also, it was really cold.

"Well.... what about now? I mean.... the laundry's all done......"

Oh, how quick these men can recover.

Parenting Lesson #1: Remember, YOU are bigger than they are.

2012-01-16T07:01:00.003-06:00

Hello? I snuggled deeper into the overstuffed chaise lounge, pulling my blanket tighter around me. I was at a really good part in my book, but considering Big V had my baby out on a sledding hill I figured I ought to answer this ringing phone, lest the child be broken in a million pieces, requiring me to immediately rush to the nearest trauma center.

"Cletus LOVES sledding! We've gone at least twenty times and he keeps wanting to go again. It's hard, though, because there's no rope on this sled; if there was a rope I could just pull him to the top, but there isn't so I have to carry him and the sled."

Oh. that's nice. I nestled in deeper. Could I get lost in here? If I went missing they might want to start with these couch cushions. Is a chaise lounge even considered a couch? I mean, it's not as big as a couch, but it's bigger than a chair, and you can put your feet up on it. Chaise lounge just sounds so hoity-toity.

"Yeah. I keep asking him if he wants to go home or if he wants to go again and he just keeps saying he wants to sled. I tried to get him to come home but when we started walking to the truck he started screaming."

Hahaha. Okay, I admit. It was a weak chuckle but he was interrupting my Me Time.

"Yeah, and, uh, the game's gonna start pretty soon and I really want to watch it but I guess I won't be able to if I'm still sledding, hahaha."

Wait. Did he just weak chuckle back at me? I believe he did.

"So, yeah. Uh. Well, hey! Maybe if you came and like, parked at the bottom of the hill, you could video tape him sledding or something and then when he saw you he'll probably just want to go with you."

*crickets*

Let me get this straight. You want me to bundle up, drive to the sledding hill, pretend to video tape your child in the hopes that said child will see me, get excited and want to come with me, allowing you ample time to return home to watch a football game?

*crickets*

Might I offer you a suggestion?

"....uh.... sure....."

Pick the kid up, strap him in his car seat and drive home.

Rookie.

Schrödinger's Cat and the Life of Unopened Possibilities.

2012-01-06T07:01:00.009-06:00

Because I believe in higher education and the idea that there is an infinite amount to learn in the world so wouldn't you want to learn as much as you possibly can? I try to surround myself with people I can learn from. Since I haven't found too many super smart people in real life that don't get creeped out by me following them around gawking, in the hopes some of their intelligence will rub off on me -- [tip: you don't have to physically rub someone; it's more a figurative concept than a literal one. Trust me.] -- I am absolutely stoked to have stumbled upon The Big Bang Theory. I realize the television series has been on since 2007, but that is not the point. The point is, it's a show filled with just the geeky lovable types I yearn to hang out with in real life.

A couple nights ago (in a re-run that probably aired years ago), Sheldon mentioned Schrödinger's cat. Schrödinger was a scientist who sealed a cat in a metal box with a vial of poison that would kill the cat. Essentially, everyone knew the vial of poison was in the box with the cat but no one knew whether or not the vial would break, thereby killing the cat. The possibility existed that the cat could either die, or remain alive. No one knew until the box was opened.

On a most VERY BASIC LEVEL (save your hate mail, super intellegent beings, I'm not as advanced as you. Yet.) this meant that during the time the cat was sealed up in the box with poison, one could think of the cat as alive! [yay for positivity!] And one could think of the cat as dead. [oh, you glass is half empty Negative Nelly.] The point is that both possibilities existed at the exact same time and would continue to exist until such time as the box was opened and the outcome actually revealed.

Schrödinger's experiment was really an illustration of superposition; a principle in quantum theory that occurs at the subatomic level - which honestly does not mean a lick to me, however, I couldn't help but immediately think of how often it occurs at our basic most emotional levels.

Meaning:

When you purchase a lottery ticket, the ticket can be thought of as the winning ticket at the same time it can be thought of as the losing ticket. It is only when the winning numbers are actually drawn - and the metaphoric box is opened, do both possibilities cease to exist and only true scenario remain.

Or:

You sit at your desk dreaming of a new job. The possibility exists that you could land a fabulous job and make twice the amount of money and work with an amazing group of awesome people at the same time the possibility exists that you could end up working for the devil with a bunch of creepizoids worse than the ones you're used to. Until you actually unseal the box and apply for the job, you will never know.

In a crappy relationship? Unsealing the box means actually leaving and finding out if you find the partner of your dreams or never get asked out on a date again.

It dawned on me how long we walk around with our boxes too afraid to open the lid. Because once we open the lid there is no turning back. It's the moment of truth. The cat's either alive or it isn't. But not knowing offers some comfort. Because we can trick ourselves into thinking the cat is still alive.

I mean, I don't blame anyone. It's hard to open that box and face the unknown outcome. I walk around with my own unopened boxes all the time because I'm just not ready to take the lid off. Sure, logically I know that if I take the lid off now and the cat is alive I get this fuzzy, fluffy, warm and cuddly kittie to enjoy and that's good, right? What a shame it would have been to be walking around with this unopened box when I could have been enjoying the cat all this time. And I also logically know that if the cat is dead, well, then at least I know I have to get busy digging a hole and bury it and move on. As disappointing as a dead cat would be, at least I would know what direction I was headed in.

I guess you can choose to spend your whole life carrying around a bunch of unopened boxes and unconcluded possibilities, but that isn't living the way your life was intended, that's just.... well, storage.

It's time to start ripping the lids off those boxes once and for all. What box are you going to finally open?

Open the box, people. Open the box.

Everyone needs a Shannon. And some Sharpies. And maybe even a cat.

2012-01-05T07:01:00.075-06:00

I have a sister.

Her name is Shannon.

She's some sort of counselor/psychologist/social worker type person. I can never remember what her technical title really is because:

(1) I'm totally distracted by the fact she can put a bunch of capital letters after she signs her name - that is so freaking cool! and,

(2) I also tend to get totally distracted that someone who once brought the farm goats inside our house to give them spa treatments is allowed to be responsible for the mental health of human beings. They got loose and ran wild throughout the house half-shaved (she was giving them a new look) and scared out of their wits. Do you know that goats drop a lot of turds when they are scared out of their wits? Also, they are incredibly speedy galloping up and down staircases.

I'm always like what advice do you actually give?

"I don't know... I just feel stuck. Like, I'm just sitting here waiting for something and... I dunno... watching life pass me by...."

"Perhaps you should consider coordinating a song and dance routine to 'Daddy Sang Bass' and force your siblings to perform it in Aisle 7 at the local Piggly Wiggly."

Anyway. She gets me. She just doesn't want to say it out loud. More than likely because she's just like me but she's scared to face the truth. Face your fear, Shannon, face your fear.

Today I posted this on my sister's Facebook Wall so all her friends can see how magical our relationship is. (I know, I'm kind of surprised she hasn't blocked me yet, too.) Before you read you should know that I recently sought her advice on how I could learn to be more positive and not so negative and critical all the time.

Bridget

I just wanted you to know that my ultra fine point blue Sharpie has been used! I know this because whoever used it SMASHED THE
POINT! (I know you know what I mean.) I believe I am currently experiencing a psychosomatic reaction that includes rapid heartbeat,
dizziness, and irrational amounts of anger. Perhaps you should do your thesis on this particular phenomenon. You might even get a
recognized syndrome named after you: i.e., Werf Syndrome: a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, and
irrational levels of anger when an individual is exposed to a Sharpie whose point has been softened and smashed by an unknown idiot
who obviously doesn't respect the Sharpie. (Say that last bit with a British accent; it sounds so much more distinguished.)

- Her name is Shanno
  Shannon Symptoms also experienced when one finds an UN-CAPPED Sharpie. All its potential lost. Dried up before its time. So very sad.
  3 hours ago ·
- Bridget That's like the equivalent to finding a dead kitten on the side of the road. Makes my heart hurt just thinking about it. Especially if it was once a bright red Sharpie. Or once a fluffy white kitten.
  3 hours ago ·
- Shannon You and kittens lately. We might need to increase the therapy time.
  3 hours ago ·
- Bridget They're just so fluffy and cute... but then I remember they also have teeth and could easily rip someone's face off. But they have the POTENTIAL to be cuddly and sweet and so entertaining when they bat that little feather on a string toy around.... Besides. It's not like my heart aches when I see a dead possum by the side of the road. That's like finding out some kid chewed on your wooden pencil. It's just gross.
  3 hours ago ·
- Beth You two totally crack me up!
  2 hours ago ·
- Shannon Seriously. Re-read your post. You don't find anything just a bit 'off' with it. Nothing? I do believe last night's topic was 'negativism'. So great work identifying fluffy, cute and sweet. I think we need to work on staying in that moment just a bit longer.
  2 hours ago ·
- Bridget Which post? There's just so many to choose from.... in my defense, I don't think identifying possum roadkill as gross is negative. Unless the possum was like super sweet or something. Like the matriarch of a whole possum nation - but not a mean, stuffy matriarch like you'd see in 18th century England, rather an unselfish, caring matriarch of the poor and downtrodden - like Mother Theresa. Because there's no animal more downtrodden than a possum. Unless you consider the downtrodden animals of Manor Farm... "FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAD!"
  about an hour ago ·
- Bridget ‎"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others!"
  about an hour ago ·
- Bridget ‎"I will work harder!"
  about an hour ago ·
- Bridget Okay. The Animal Farm quotes will stop. But can you imagine how much fun it would be to write out those quotes with an ultra fine point blue Sharpie?
  about an hour ago ·
- Shannon Oh if only you could see how many shades of blue I now own thanks to Emily and Heidi. Be jealous. Very, Very jealous.
  about an hour ago ·
- Bridget I think I'm more jealous now than I was of your 6" high bangs in high school. I swear, no matter how much Aqua Net I used - nothing.

Also, Shannon is way, way obsessed with Sharpies. I think she's planning a room addition to her house just to store her inventory. I'm only normally obsessed. There is a difference. Albeit a slight one.

Also -- do goats really gallop?

"Maybe we can recycle kittens after they're dead."

2012-01-04T07:01:00.005-06:00

In honor of the current and upcoming political nonsense...

(something about Sarah Palin's new hair style?)

and also because I work in government

and this is (sadly) pretty dang accurate....

and also because I don't have anything to post about

but this made me laugh out loud.

Like, really loud...

I've decided to share this video with you

(which was shared with me earlier today by a pretty awesome lady

who happens to live in a house the size of a Subaru,

but that's beside the point)....

Green Bay City Council discusses kittens.

I'm cool. The hell with kittens.

Also:
This blog is dedicated to my seemingly one (and only) reader:
Johi at Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl

Because she actually missed my blog posts.

And then posted something on my facebook.

Which made me think:
why does she have all this time to harass me on facebook?
Shouldn't she be practicing her guitar for her upcoming video blog?

If someone could possibly make a nativity out of buttons this would all make sense.

2011-12-21T07:01:00.000-06:00

Last night was Dotter's school Christmas Program. (It's okay; she goes to a parochial school so we actually get to say the word "Christmas.") Anyway, Big V spent a good portion of the program pointing the giraffes out to the toddler. And I spent a good amount of time giving him the sideways eyeball.

Dude. They're not giraffes.

What?

Quit saying they're giraffes.

Why?

Because they're camels.

Well, they look like giraffes.

No they don't. Those are plain; giraffes have spots.

Giraffes don't have spots... they have blobs and blotches.

Whatever. Just stop saying they're giraffes. They're camels.

I don't know what that bothers you.

Because giraffes weren't present at the birth of the Lord our Savior.

Do you have proof?

And then I just glared at him until the toddler drove us both nuts and he had to take him out for the rest of the program at which time I was able to update my Facebook status to something snarky about Big V's Jesus being born under the watchful eye of an 18-foot cud chewing mammal.

Then, today I was reading what The Bloggess wrote about how there's probably hula hoop porn - but she doesn't necessarily partake in it, regardless of what her neighbor might think, and sure enough, there really is hula hoop porn (but I was way too chicken to click on that link) and then The Bloggess said that there's basically porn for everything and that got me thinking about hopscotch porn because if you think there's a lot of wiggly and jiggling going on while hula hooping imagine what the jarring motions of hopscotch could do?

Then that got me thinking about Big V and his giraffe attended nativity and I thought huh. Maybe if there's hula hoop porn there might possibly be a nativity with a giraffe in it and guess what I found?

Yes, Virginia, there really was a giraffe present at the birth of Jesus Christ!

And then that got me thinking about how I've been wanting to collect things for awhile now but I just can't come up with the right thing to collect. I thought about collecting buttons because they don't take up much space, plus every shirt and sweater I buy seems to include an extra one in a mini plastic Ziploc bag and I never know what to do with them. But then I thought what if people find out I collect buttons? They'll want to give me buttons as a gift. Which is cool to grow my collection, but let's be honest. Who wants to open a button for their birthday?

So then that made me think maybe I'd start collecting nativity scenes. Only strange ones. Like this one:

But that got me thinking about how I am actually terrified of owls for two reasons: (1) they're always glaring and I'm basically terrified of anything and anyone that glares (which explains my irrational fear of Jack Nicholson) and, (2) my sister once loaned me a book and said I had to read it and it was this horrible psychological thriller about a guy who kills his friends off one by one and leaves this little owl figurine at the scene of every crime.

And so then I thought about what messed up nativity scenes I'd surely receive because I've got some really twisted relatives. And friends.

And then I decided I'm definitely not collecting nativity scenes. Because of the nightmares and also because they take up way more space than buttons and I hate clutter. So, I guess I'm basically saying I'm open for suggestions. Because I want to be the type of person who is remembered by others when they're out shopping.

"Oh, look at this beautiful music box! Aunt Susie will absolutely love it!"

"...and then we saw this gorgeous dolphin sculpture and immediately thought of you!"

See, there really isn't anything out there that people see and go, "A-ha! This is absolutely Bridget!" Although, now that I think about it, maybe buttons is the direction to go because they're basically everywhere.

"I was about to throw out this sweater but then I remembered you collect buttons, so I took them all off and here, I'm giving them to you."

"And then I looked down on the ground and wouldn't you know it? A button! Like it was a sign from God!"

"So, I come out of the john, buttoning up my pants and I totally started thinking of you!"

When A Child Goes Missing

2011-12-20T07:01:00.015-06:00

A girl went missing Sunday afternoon.

Missing.
Gone.
Vanished.
Disappeared.

She was 13 years old.

Thirteen.

The day that I was Christmas shopping and chiding myself for almost forgetting the Santa wrapping paper and performing in my last holiday show of the season and gathering with friends for their annual White Elephant Exchange Christmas party - a mother across town was frantic.

She was panic stricken and not knowing what to do.

She was worried and afraid and scared and confused and overwhelmed.

And I was at a party, sitting in a circle, unwrapping my gag gift: a trashy supermarket check-out novel; you know the kind, with the shirtless man posed on the front cover, long hair blowing in the wind, called The Lady and the Falconer. And I swore to everyone I would read it.

As I was laughing, the mother of a beautiful 13-year old child, was living her worst nightmare.

Her child was missing.

Her daughter wasn't at a friend's house.

She wasn't where she was supposed to be.

No one knew where she was.

And no one knew if she would ever be seen again.

It's those things that aren't said that goes through a mother's mind; things that you must push down and push aside so you can try to remember something, anything, no matter how small - something that will make a difference.

How do you sleep when your child is missing? How do you eat? Where do you go? Do you stay? Do you go out looking? Where do you look? What do you do when you can't find your child?

Within hours news hit our small community; a place where everyone knows everyone else and everyone is connected by just two or three degrees of separation:

Her aunt is my friend.

My daughter is in her dance class.

I work with her grandmother.

They live across the street.

I went to school with her mother.

Everyone in this small community seemed to be thinking the same thing: this is way too close to home.

Fliers went up everywhere. In every store. At every corner. In every school. The rate information was shared virtually was astounding.

People prayed.

Family prayed and strangers prayed. Please, please bring her home safely... Protect her, dear Lord... Don't let her go, Lord... help bring her home... please, please just find her and bring her home....

And all those prayers were answered.

She was found last night.

The media release the news that police gathered information from her computer and quickly came to realize there was a very real possibility she was in the company of a 21-year old man from Nebraska. An Amber Alert was issued which included a description of the car and the Nebraska license plates. The car was found at a motel in a neighboring community. So was the 13-year old girl.

And this news brought together a great sigh of relief...

and also some incredibly insensitive commentary.

I suppose it's easy to jump to the assumption that this girl's parents are a bunch of morons who allowed their young daughter unsupervised time on the internet and so what did they expect? It's easy to say that this happened because the computer should have been in the living room where all the perfect parents of all the perfect children keep their computers. (Even though none of us truly know where the computer was stationed in their home.) And I suppose it's easy to say that this would never happen to our child because we don't allow our daughters to talk to 21-year old men.

I suppose if you said any of that then you wouldn't have to really deal with what this situation has brought to our attention:

Is the answer unplug the computer?

Or do we have some real work as parents to do?

I have a daughter who is 10. Once, at a local high school football game some high school boy was walking by and said hi to my daughter. By her name. Who was that? I asked. And how on earth does he know you? "Oh, that's one of Katie's brothers friends. He was there when I was spending the night."

Now, I'm pretty confident saying Katie's mom wouldn't invite a child molester to spend the night in her home. But then I thought -- how does one actually recognize a child molester? Because I usually do only after their booking photo is released.

I have another daughter who is a junior in high school. She has friends who are freshman in college and we happen to live just twenty minutes away from the college. It is not inconceivable for her to get together with her friends for dinner in order to catch up. In fact, I would encourage that. Learn about college life! Listen to how fun it is to live in the dorms and meet all sorts of neat people and then perhaps that will encourage you to choose more seriously when you're considering colleges. And so it wouldn't be so out of the realm of possibilities to have my daughter get together with her freshman college friend... who happens to bring along a sophomore college guy friend because it's his birthday.... and now my 16-year old daughter is hanging out with a 20-year old.

I pray that 20-year old is interested in other 20-year old's. But that isn't always the case.

I think back to when I was a teenager. And I thought I knew all the answers. And I thought I could handle it all. And then I remember how I felt when I found myself in the middle of a situation I didn't know how to get out of. Because I was young. And I didn't have the experience or knowledge or know how.

I pray that every older person in my children's life will forever have my children's best interest in mind and not their own. And I pray that for your children as well.

It's easy to say the answer to keeping our children safe is to unplug the computer.... and I absolutely, 100% agree that there needs to be very real controls when it comes to children and the internet --- but we say the fault is the computer's because as parents there is a comfort in that.

A 13-year old should not be allowed on the internet.

There. We wrap it up nicely with a neat little bow so we can go back to our holiday prepping and reminding ourselves we still need a gift for the Sunday School teacher because the reality is we don't know how to keep our children forever safe and that reality scares the life out of us.

We don't know how to glance through society and pick out and stop the 21-year old creep who would actually drive all the way from Nebraska to a small town in Wisconsin to pick up a 13-year old girl.

We don't know how to stop the teenage boy who happens to be at the same house during a sleepover from inappropriately touching our daughters - and if you think that would never happen, I have a good friend of mine who would tell you otherwise. And she would unapologetically explain it is that exact same reason none of her children have ever been allowed to sleep over at anyone's house.

We don't know how to stop the college boy from trying his luck with the cute high school girl because, well, she looks older than what she actually is and she was totally flirting with him and so obviously she wants it.

As adults we need the answer to be unplug the computer because the real answer is so incredibly overwhelming.

Because the real answer involves raising moral children against a sexually charged society - where babies are put in bikinis at 9 months and girls with huge boobs sell chicken wings. Where images of men seducing women are casually displayed in ads painted on the side of a city bus and during a commercial break at the 6 o'clock showing of Wheel of Fortune.

The answer is raising young boys who believe with every fiber of their being that it shows true strength of moral character to respect a girl and not that it's cool to have sex by the time they're a freshman in high school because 'they're the man.'

The answer is raising girls who don't want to have sex just to get it over with because the pressure from their friends is just too much, but rather patiently waiting for the guy who will happily sit at the family dining room table and study with them; and not to even bother with the guy who defines a date by honking the horn in the driveway and parking alongside some cornfield for a quickie.

The answer is cleaning up song lyrics and music videos and what's flashing across our television sets. I grew up when George Michael was scandalous. My children are growing up when Lady Gaga is flopping around topless in a tank of water and Rose McGowan shows up on the red carpet wearing a see through dress and thong.

And even then the answer doesn't come close to figuring out how to identify and deal with the sexually deviant. The answer doesn't stop the kidnapper from taking a girl walking down a street so that the last image of her alive is him pulling her by the arm behind a local car wash. Even then the answer doesn't stop the seemingly nice looking man from grabbing the young lady running through the hiking trails and leaving her for dead.

The answer doesn't keep our children forever safe. It just does the best that we can.

For the rest we rely on our community.

We need our neighbors to keep an eye out and stop when they see something that doesn't look quite right.

We need our friends - and the friends of our children - to say something to us when they hear something concerning.

We need our community to pass out fliers, and share information on Facebook, and search in the nearby woods --

and we need them to pray.

We need to remember that we're all in this together. Each and every one of us should do our part to keep all the children safe because in today's society we need all the help we can get.

We need to remember that support proves far better than judgment and working together for the common good will reap benefits far more becoming than pointing fingers and laying blame.

This beautiful, young child is only 13 years old. This is a defining point in her life, but with the right guidance and support this will not define who she is.

Although, I wouldn't mind if the way we came together as a community defined who we are.

**

I believe very real controls should be in place with children and the use of computers. Computers should be located in main/open areas of the home and not used late at night. Webcam use needs to be clearly defined. In a world where families benefit from webcam conversations (like the father serving in the military overseas) some very candid discussions and absolute rules need to be in place. However, the reality is, we don't always have control over what happens in other homes. I know children who don't have their own Facebook account, but actually sign on using a friend's account password. In my belief, every bit helps - so control as much as you can in your own home, and educate, educate, educate! Also, make sure your children have someone they can go to - no questions asked - if they think something not quite right may be going on.

The One In Which I Bestow Upon You Awesome Gifting Ideas. (You are welcome.)

2011-12-16T07:01:00.006-06:00

Christmas preparations are in full swing in my neck of the woods! And by that I mean just about everyone I know is finished shopping and wrapping their gifts and they're all sitting around cozy fires drinking eggnog and reveling in holiday cheer. Except for me. Because I pretty much need to get my butt in gear ASAP or Santa will be issuing a statement to my children stating Christmas has been postponed until March. (Don't think I won't.)

Since the spirit of the season is all about helping others (and not complaining about my own situation) I figured I'd help you brainstorm some last minute gift ideas for those Hard to Buy For people you've got sitting on your list. Sure you could always fall back on your standard gift card to the local big box store but everyone knows that's basically another way of saying I didn't care to expend actual effort figuring out what to get you so instead I met my friends for a glass or three of wine and stopped half sloshed to grab you this gift card. You should be thankful I physically got out of the car to purchase it. Which reminds me, when is Walmart getting a drive through?

Yes, gift cards say all that. So, allow me to move you back up to Best Gift Giver EVER status with the following suggestions:

Perfect for your four year old nephew who can't
stop body ramming you around every corner
and who still hasn't learned to shut the hell up.

Ninjabread Cookie Cutters

Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without Mary.
Here's a little something for your Catholic grandmother...
it's perfect because old people eat a lot of toast.

Holy Toast

For the person who needs everything to be just so....
the perfect solution to avoid crazed murderous
holiday meltdowns in the kitchen
(although, admittedly, they are fun to capture on video
and upload to your YouTube account).

Cutting Board for those suffering from OCD

Every parent likes to know how they can improve
on what they're already doing:

How to Traumatize Your Kids Book

For that really weird cousin whose name you drew
that you're pretty sure has never succeeded in any
normal social interaction:

Geeky Measuring Cup

Finally! A bedtime classic kids can actually relate to:

Bedtime Book for Babies: Goodnight iPad

For the man who has everything;
including an odd obsession with bacon...

(I'm thinking of you, Joe Falcone.)

Bacon Scented Soap

Ladies! A little book to help get you in the mood....

or to just leave around the house

in the hopes that your man will open it and TAKE THE HINT.

Porn For Women

and for my Jewish friends -

you know I would never forget about you
during this snowy season:

Dancing Rabbi Menorah

Girls Night Out: Thirty(ish) Style!

2011-12-15T07:01:00.014-06:00

Sometimes I do something and I think why the heck am I not doing this more often? Because it's awesome. And awesome needs to happen way more often.

Case in point:

The Ladies Who Lunch.

Or in this case:

The Ladies Who Eat Double Their Body Mass And Then Go To The Theater And Then Eat Some More.

Which is totally what we did!

As you may or may not have realized by now, one of my most favorite places on the planet is the Young Auditorium at the University of Wisconsin - Whitewater because:

1) I love theatre.
2) It's close by.
3) The eclectic array of performance choices each year never fails to impress me.
3) Their prices are very reasonable.
4) This is the closest I'll ever get to Broadway. Again. (Because I've actually been to Broadway but I don't see the probability of revisiting in the near future.)

So my friends and I planned a night to go out to the thee-ah-taahhh. And every cultured woman in America knows that to begin a Girls Night Out you need to start with food. And drinks.

My dear friend, Kim, suggested the restaurant - which ended up being a Mexican joint in a strip mall called Cozumel. And Holy Mary Mother of Jesus was this food awesome! And the drinks were ginormous! And we asked the waiter to take the obligatory we're all here at the same time picture except he was kind of weird about it so we all look like we're slightly afraid of him. Which I admit I totally was.

Ummm... does he know he has to push the button?

The food was delicioso (delicious) y barato (cheap) and I'll totally go back with Big V because that guy could eat a horse and still be hungry.

Then we made our way to the theater to watch a musical comedy called Church Basement Ladies: Away in the Basement - and I can sum it up like this:

do-whopping bible verses = AWE.SOME.

Although we did have to Google egg coffee (which I would recommend you doing the same because there is no way I can do it justice here) since the show kept making reference to Lutheran/Norwegian foods, of which none of us had any experience.

We also learned about a smelly fish they served at a church supper which had been soaked in lye called Lutefisk. It sounded funny and cute when they were singing and cracking jokes about it but I have a hard time understanding why a church would want to serve poisoned fish to its congregation. Apparently Lutherans have tough stomachs.

They also have teenagers that acted just like my teenager! Seriously - the actress that portrayed the 15-year old was freaking amazing. I bet even she hates herself after a show.

There were a lot of laugh out loud moments in the first act (the pastor walking in on a crotch shot comes to mind) which was just what I needed. Then I decided I also needed a drink. Which me and gal pal G decided to track down at intermission.

Being that the coffee was at one end of the lobby and the alcoholic beverages (a.k.a. Bar) were at the other end, and also that the cardinal rule of girlie friendship is Always Do Everything In Pairs, my dear friend G waited patiently for me to get my booze. Then she came to my rescue and paid when I was told they only accepted cash, which to me is kind of one of those things you might want to point out before they pour the drink because it's the 21st Century and I don't carry cash. Neither do millions of other people. Except G, obviously, because she actually had cash on her person but that is so not the point.

Then we wandered across the lobby to the coffee side and I pretended not to feel like the sole lush of the group. G asked the pretty girls behind the pots if they had regular coffee, which they did not at that particular moment but would shortly should she like to wait. Which G gladly agreed to because she needed her caffeine whereas I was content sipping my booze through my theater friendly plastic cup and didn't even realize we were waiting for anything at all.

Then the lights flickered which meant we had two minutes left. But that was okay because the regular coffee was finally ready and the pretty girls behind the pots were team working to make it happen: one pouring a cup, the other collecting G's cash. And then we power walked back to the auditorium doors to find our seats before curtain only to be told excuse me, but you can't have that drink in there.

Huh? Me?

The coffee. It doesn't have a cover.

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see the covers - I'll go back to get one.

There are no covers.

Excuse me?

Nope. There are no covers for the coffee. No cover; no coffee. That's the rule. You'll have to drink it in the lobby. By yourself. While your friends are watching the show.

(Okay, so only half that sentence was actually spoken. You get the point.)

And so it was that G had to throw her coffee away if she wanted to see the rest of the show. She did say the one sip she had was pretty good.

But here's what I'm thinking:

They had theater friendly cups for the hard stuff but not for coffee. Regular or the decaf. And who can slam a cup of coffee at intermission? Coffee is sipped, not slammed.

Hey, pretty girls behind the pots... it might be a swell idea if you told people something along the lines of "there's just two minutes left of intermission so you can certainly choose to stand here and wait for this pot of coffee to finish brewing but the fact is you won't be able to take it with you into the show and I highly doubt your taste buds or esophagus will appreciate the scorching if you attempt to guzzle it. I suggest saving your cash and then getting a cup of coffee after the show."

Is it just me or does this whole thing come across as they'll encourage the drinking of alcoholic beverages but the coffee drinkers are shit out of luck?

To get past the coffee letdown (and maybe also to prove we weren't old fogies who were home by 10pm on a Saturday night) we headed over to Perkin's for a late night cup of coffee and piece of pie. Except I couldn't eat the pie now that I know I have celiac (gluten is my lye) so I ordered sausage links and bacon. Best late night snack ever.

And then we went home because it was midnight and sooner or later we had to accept the fact that we weren't in college anymore and there were little human beings waiting for us at our homes that depended on us for their emotional and physical well being and, let's face it. we're not getting any younger.

There's just something special about gathering your friends together for a night out. As we get older there seems to be a lack of places to go. The bar makes me feel old. And hard of hearing. But the theater was the perfect place. I do believe we'll have to go again.

We asked some guy in the lobby to take our photo.
He totally looked like he was zooming in on our girlie bits.
Not a bad photo for a perv.

Necessities: an imperative requirement.

2011-12-12T07:01:00.002-06:00

Dear Teenager:

Please take up a hobby. Because right now you have way too much time on your hands attempting to badger me into purchasing a brand new phone for you. Again.

Here's a few thoughts - things I would tell you if you quit whining long enough to listen:

(1.) No where in the Parenting Manual does it say I owe you a phone.

(2.) Your current phone seems to be working just fine since you've called me no less than three times in the last two days to complain about it. Not to mention the various text messages you've sent to remind me of what a piece of crap it it.

(3.) I don't care that so-and-so's mom just got her the brand new iphone 4s super-soaker deluxe model with real 3-karat diamonds for buttons.

(4.) Actually, "just a hundred dollars" is a lot of money. If it wasn't, you'd have it.

(5.) It's one hundred dollars. Not a hundred.

(6.) Get a job. That way you could buy a new phone every week if you so desired.

(7.) In case there's an awful emergency and I need to get a hold of you I will more than likely call the land line. It's an ancient procedure but one I'm proficient at.

(8.) Yes, I realize it's so unfair that I won't get you a new phone.

(9.) It's also so unfair that 1/3 of the world is starving and that more than 15 million children die from hunger each year.

(10.) Maybe you ought to take a few minutes to rethink your priorities.

Merry Christmas,

Love Mom

Nothing honors the birth of Jesus Christ more than a perverted Santa.

2011-12-08T07:01:00.011-06:00

The phone rang that cold, wintery evening several years ago as snow began to fall. There had been talk of a blizzard, worsening road conditions, lots of drifting. It was a night where you just wanted to pull on your sweatpants and cuddle on the couch. Which was exactly what I was doing.

"Uh, Bridget?" [That's me, for all of you who thought my real name was Phoenix.]

Yes?

"That was my friend, Sean - you remember him... the teacher over at the Catholic school?"

Yeah.

"He needs me to do a favor.... tonight.... uh, right now?"

Okaayyy.... what kind of favor?

"Well, it turns out they have some sort of Christmas Party thing at the school and Santa comes and delivers gifts to the kids and stuff except the guy that was supposed to be Santa just called and said he can't make it because of the roads and so since Sean knew I lived just a few blocks away he asked if I'd be willing to play the part of Santa. Do you think I should do it? He said you and the girls can come with."

Let me get this straight. Some teacher at a private Catholic school wants you to dress up like Santa Claus and interact with young children under a false identity?

"He said they have the costume there."

Hell, yes, you should do it! I'm not missing this for the world! Grab your coats, kids - we're about to witness something spectacular!

And so we all piled into the truck and carefully made our way the six blocks over to the big church on the corner.

Remember, you can't promise things like a new baby sister or a puppy - parents get pissed at that stuff. Hey, wait, do Catholics even believe in Santa Claus? Shouldn't they have asked you to dress up like a Shepherd? Or Joseph? Even a gift giving angel makes more sense than a Santa. Also, you have to stay in character the whole time... even when you talk to another adult, or a teacher, or me. You never know when kids are listening - they're sneaky like that. You have to use the Santa voice the whole time. Do you even *have* a Santa voice? You should practice. Are you going to have to lead a prayer as Santa? Do you even know how to pray? Is Santa even Catholic?

And then Big V was whisked away to a back classroom at the end of a dark hall while the girls and I were escorted into the Lunch/Gym/Basketball Court/We Only Have One Big Space In This Entire School So This Is Where We Party At room. And it was filled to the brim with kids. Lots of them. Hyped up on sugar. Lots of it.

"Hey, Ma." My littlest leaned towards me. "Does Big V even know how to be a Santa?"

I don't know, honey. But we're about to find out....

And as if on cue, jingle bells began to chime in the distance.

The teacher gathered the attention of the children and their parents, "Shhh.... do you hear what I hear?"

SAAAAANNNTAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

And just like that way too many children were making way too much noise and jumping up and down.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" In walked Big Santa V, decked out from head to toe, and he looked, well, like Santa.

"Hello, boys and girls! Have you been good?!"

YYYEEEESSSSSSSS!!!!!!!

Again with the screaming.

My oldest leaned towards me from the other side, "he looks... good?" Trust me. I was in as much shock as she was. He did look good. And he sounded good. And, hey, maybe he could pull this off. Look at all those smiling faces....

And just then the teacher announced that it would be piñata time ... because apparently Catholic Santa's are known for busting candy out of papier-mâché containers shaped like Sponge Bob Square Pants. Who knew?

So all the excited kids formed a wide circle around the surprise piñata which was being hung from 40-year old ceiling tile, which was probably dropping toxic asbestos on to the heads of the innocents, but no one seemed to mind. Not even the parents, who busied themselves with their video cameras because you can't miss an opportunity to record the destruction of artwork with a stick for the sole purpose of immediate sugar gratification.

Then, into the center of the circle strutted Santa. Oh, yes. There was a strut. Because, you see, Big V is a very athletically competitive person. And in his mind, he had a baseball bat and he was walking up to home plate ready to score the winning run.

Until the day I die, I will never fully understand why Big Santa V chose the following words... as he strutted around the children, twirling that stick:

"Who wants to see me WHACK IT?! Who wants to see Santa WHACK IT?!"

And - my personal favorite - as he pointed his big stick to some unsuspecting 5 year old boy: "You! Do YOU wanna see Santa WHACK IT?! Do you wanna see Santa WHACK IT HARD?!"

And that would be the one and only time Big V was ever asked to portray Santa Claus at the local Catholic School.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a most Joyous Hanukkah
to you and yours!

This Moldy Spaghetti Sauce is a symbol of my love for you. Or perhaps not.

2011-12-07T07:01:00.002-06:00

When I see a ladybug I think of my cousin. She loves ladybugs. Even sports a tattoo of one on her foot. To me, the ladybug is a symbol that reminds me of my fun loving, not afraid to laugh out loud cousin.

When I see an apple I think of my aunt. Her kitchen was decorated with apples. Cheery red walls and apple topped canisters on the counter. I can't help but smile when I see a kitchen towel designed with a screen printed apple for sale. There's my aunt. Right there.

My relationship with Big V has symbols, too.

I remember when Big V finally got around to putting up the shutters. The house had just been painted and those shutters were the first step in our process of beautifying the outside of our home. Don't you just love the shutters? I'd swoon. Big V put them up just for me!

Those shutters were a symbol of my knight in shining armor. The man I would happily be marooned on a desert island with. Those shutters showed the world that he was my one, my all, my everything.

Relationships, like life, have seasons.

Currently we're in the Symbol of Spaghetti Sauce Season.

Six days ago, I lovingly prepared a boiling pot of water and dumped some pasta in it before rushing out the door to get to my curtain call in time. I had exactly 27 minutes between arriving home after work and hustling out the front door to get to the show. In those 27 minutes I chose to feed my loving partner.

After quickly applying another coat of mascara and brushing my teeth, I managed to drain the noodles and take out a jar of sauce. Now, let me explain. This is not just any sauce. This is my secret sauce. As in I want to make you believe I can cook so I'm gonna use this $8 jar of sauce that seriously tastes like heaven in a jar. Or, as it's more commonly referred to: Big V, you have no taste buds of which to speak so there is no way in hell I'm wasting this phenomenal $8 jar of sauce on you. Go get the Ragu.

But I felt bad because I haven't been home lately and, well, he was agreeing to actually sit through my show later... so I set the jar on the counter and said, "Here. You can use some of this - BUT REMEMBER TO PUT IT IN THE FRIDGE WHEN YOU ARE DONE. If you don't, I will have to kill you."

The next morning I saw the jar - half used - still sitting on the counter.

My wonderful, beautiful, heavenly Victoria Arrabbiata sauce - left to rot alone on the kitchen counter.

"Uh, why is this still here?"

Oh. I must have forgotten it. I'll put it back in the pantry.

"It can't go back in the pantry; it's open. You have to put it in the fridge. I told you to put it in the fridge. Why isn't it in the fridge?!"

Fine. I'll put it in the fridge.

"You can't put it in the fridge!"

You just said to put it in the fridge.

"Yesterday. Yesterday I said to put it in the fridge."

No. Just now. Just now you just said 'put it in the fridge.' You said it like thirty times. How can you not remember?

"How can you not remember I said it last night?! This was my only jar of good sauce - and now it's filled with germs and eColi and the Black Plague!"

It's fine.

"No it is not fine. It says right on the label to 'refrigerate after opening.' That means, after you open it - you put. it. in. the. fridge. It's not that difficult."

Well, since it's not that difficult maybe you could figure out what to do with it.

"Me?! You're the one that should have to throw it away now that you wasted it!"

And so it sits.

On the counter.

Where it has remained for the past six days.

Getting moldy.

A jar of spaghetti sauce symbolizing the stubborness of the active participants in this relationship. (Although, he did admit that it was one mighty fine jar of sauce.)

What's your symbol?