Plain-Jane

More Vacation

2008-08-07T10:42:00.005-05:00

Holly was excited because we were in a cloud. I just wanted DOWN.

We are heading north this morning toward Winter Park, where we have secured a condominium with a kitchen and bedrooms and shit and words cannot describe my anticipation. Our motel in Manitou Springs, while certainly adequate, did not cause me joy. Paco and I are very well suited to each other in most ways, but an area of disagreement? Vacation accommodations. He grew up in a family which never stayed in hotels and drove a rebuilt motor home all over America. They took that motor home to the top of Pike's Peak FOR THE LOVE OF GOD and after I clung to the inside of a four-wheel drive truck up to Satan's atmosphere yesterday, I cannot imagine that fresh hell. Even now, when his parents have plenty of money, they still drive to Colorado in a big V8 pickup truck with a topper and sleep in the truck bed on an air mattress because they LIKE IT. Anyway, Paco and I had to compromise like motherfuckers when planning this vacation, because I think it's awful to have to wear flip flops in your motel because the floor is iffy and he doesn't give a shit and reasons that we're not in the room that much so who cares? (I do, for the record) So we agreed for the first half of our vacation when we were going to be doing touristy stuff all day we would stay at the Iffy Inn and the second half when we are going to hike and sit around watching the Olympics Opening Ceremony we would stay somewhere with mattress pads not made of plastic.

So...Pike's Peak. I hate driving up mountain passes, but Paco acts like I'm just being silly and defiant, so I was like okay, fine. You'll see. Before we went up the mountain, though, we stopped at the bottom at this Santa's Workshop Amusement Park place. We worried Elliot would find it too babyish and stupid, plus he's a Jew, but as always, he ran around and rode rides meant for kids half his age and loved it. And Holly was fearless, as usual, riding an evil Ferris Wheel that was just ridiculously big and menacing. Elliot and I stayed on the ground and shook our heads at their foolishness.

That foolishness, however, was nothing compared to driving UP THAT FUCKING MOUNTAIN. Oh my god. When we got to about mile 13 the road started doing hairpin turns and there were no guardrails and you could see 11,000 feet down and Elliot and I were green and clutching the inside of the car as if that would help if we plunged to our deaths. At some point I actually whined like a little kid (if little kids cursed like sailors) (which I'm surprised my little kid doesn't with me as a parent), "When is this going to be OVER! God DAMN it! I can't stand this!"

It was over eventually, of course, and I couldn't have cared less about the dire warnings about the altitude and no oxygen and drink water blah blah, I ran inside the Summit House/Gift Shop/Money Grubber Palace and flopped down in a seat. Fuck altitude, I can breathe fine as long as I'm not teetering on the edge of a dirt road. We bought incredibly overpriced coffee and donuts (yeah, what are you supposed to do, go to a competing restaurant?) and took pictures and peed three times. All the pamphlets said crap about how your body loses a liter of water just driving up there and I guess it goes straight into your bladder? All I know is that I had to pee every time I turned around. Then we got ready to drive back down and OF COURSE a giant black cloud rolled in and while Holly was thrilled by this, I was all, "Oh GREEEEAT." So we drove down in the pouring rain.

I have to stop now because we have to find a Costco and buy ourselves a new GPS before Paco busts a gut.

Vacation Entry

2008-08-05T16:26:00.002-05:00

We are at our hotel in Manitou Springs, Colorado, which is a freaking touristy awesome place. If you've got kids and need activity after activity after activity ("Now what are we going to do? And what about after that??"), Manitou Springs/Colorado Springs is great. Yesterday we arrived around lunchtime and had chicken fried steak and then went to Seven Falls, an overrated park with a big waterfall (Yeah. You figured) We had some dinner and went to an arcade in town, where I discovered I can't play Asteroids anymore which made me feel old. Maybe I just wasn't drunk enough.

Elliot got an iPod for his birthday and I thought it was good timing since we were going on this trip, but GOD DAMN. Why didn't you parents tell me about this iPod phenomenon?

"Hey Elliot, look at that moose!"

dead silence

"Do you see it?"

dead silence

"Elliot? Elliot!"

"WHAT?"

"The moose?"

"WHAT??"

Damn, it's irritating.

Paco bought Holly a little journal to keep on vacation and she, in her usual industrious fashion, has carefully documented everything. Here is her entry for yesterday:

Monday, August 4, 2008

I got up in Hays (we were in Colby--ed.) and it was freezing! Anyway, I had a waffle for breakfast. It was yum! Then we went back to our room. We packed up and payed. Then we headed for Colorado! When we got to Colorado we went to lunch. Then we went to Seven falls. It was beautiful there! Then we went to our hotel. Then we went to the Park. Then we went to a store. Then we went to dinner. Then we went to the arcade. Then we came back and went to sleep.

Hm. She kept better track of things than I did. I forgot we went to Safeway. We have a fridge in our room and we laid in some supplies because these children are always starving for god's sake. Every time I turn around, it's all, "I want some beef jerky! I'm thirsty! I want some powdered donuts! I want chicken fingers!" And this is BEFORE TEN A.M.

I am tired now since we went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo this morning and stayed four hours and climbed the equivalent of a ten story building. I complained about the altitude and the walking and was all, "Why does this zoo have so many hills?" and Paco said, "It's a MOUNTAIN zoo." I'm like, "WHATEVER, my feet hurt!" So we took a ski lift to the top of the mountain and came back down and that made my feet feel better. For some reason I'm scared to death of heights and ferris wheels, but ski lifts don't bother me. Elliot wouldn't ride it no matter how we begged him, so he patiently sat at the bottom with his WHAT??Pod. I guess it has come in handy. Still. "What??" argh.

I thought traveling with a 15-year-old would be more annoying, but other than his farting and his neverending use of "That's what SHE said!" he's been all right. He has a lot of energy and he gets up early without complaint and I appreciate that.

Okay, I guess I'll go...do something. Holly is at the hotel pool with Paco (we drove all the way to Colorado so she could swim in a pool quite similar to the pool 2 miles from our house in Kansas) but will soon be back here staring at me, waiting for the next activity.

Driving

2008-08-03T21:37:00.007-05:00

It's 9:38 p.m. on my birthday and I am in the backseat of our GMC Sonoma, smushed into a question mark, traveling across Kansas. We are 28 miles east of Colby, which is in the middle of nowhere, for those of you wondering. Our destination is Manitou Springs, Colorado, a touristy destination perfectly suited for our little non-traditional family. Some people reading might remember that we went there BACK IN THE DAY and I mean seriously back in the day, like six years ago or something. I would link but my thighs are on fire, goddamn laptops are hot. Goddamned electricity.

Holly had an ice skating competition today. Remember how I was all mad at her and thought she should quit skating and blah blah blah? I removed myself from skating practice since then and Paco decided to place less emphasis on it and decreed that she would have her one private lesson a week and we would not push any other practices. "It's her funeral!" we declared. "She won't do well at this competition, and she'll learn that no practice means no medals and if that means she doesn't want to skate anymore, so be it!"

She has moved up a level in her compulsory and TWO levels in her freestyle and both routines had been changed. I warned her extravagantly on the drive over that she had moved up, was in an older group with harder moves, that she shouldn't be disappointed if she didn't medal. "It's just for fun, right? Erin's in your group, right?" Erin is a little friend of hers from group lessons. I had a feeling Erin was going to do well, because she practices.

"Yes, Erin's in my group. I'm going to beat her."

"You are?"

"Yes," she shrugged and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

I watched Holly do her practice ice and I wasn't impressed. I thought it was a crap shoot. She didn't look too bad, but I didn't feel confident about her chances.

"Are you nervous, baby?"

"No."

"Do you have your routines in your mind?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to close your eyes and go over them a couple of times...."

"I know them."

After she left us to go stand with her group and her coach and bounce up and down and wait to skate, I clutched Paco's arm and said, "I'm just so worried she's going to suck! What if she gets last place!?"

Paco said, "She'll get the place she deserves."

Well, fuck, she got first place in compulsory and second place in freestyle, which makes me have to reevaluate "deserves." I don't get it. She gets out there at practices and stinks up the joint, but when there are a bunch of people watching her and judges and anticipatory silence, she draws her tiny little self up and kicks ASS. The other girls look great in practice but when their music starts they look stricken and get shaky and can't pull it together. I guess if I had to choose I'd rather have the kid who makes you worry but comes through in the end.

Cool, I killed 27 miles typing this!

I'll try to do entries while on vacation, especially if they make drives go faster!

Elliot's Birthday

2008-07-30T10:04:00.002-05:00

Today is Elliot's birthday and even though we gave him a VERY NICE gift, I had all kinds of guilt eating at me because not only did I have to work all day and he would be home alone, I insensitively scheduled him to go to the dentist early in the morning to get a filling. His first cavity!

He went for his cleaning Monday, and the hygienist called me back there when she was done to painstakingly show me pictures of his cavity and carefully explain every single aspect of tooth decay and practically lay out the history of dentistry since time immemorial until present day. They are afraid of me there ever since my inlay debacle and WELL THEY SHOULD BE, the fuckers. That tooth is still so sensitive to temperature that I have to rinse my toothpaste out with warm water and floss like three times a day. My gums are so healthy it's ridiculous. Anyway, she showed me a "problem area" on another of Elliot's teeth they were going to "watch" and she said, "He'll need to brush carefully back there.." at which point I interrupted and added, "Or brush AT ALL, SON." He snorted and replied, "You have to remind me!"

REMIND HIM? What the fuck? I swear, this child will vex me until I die. He's 15 years old today (WHAT?) and his mommy has to remind him to brush? I despair.

At any rate, fate intervened to soothe my guilt with a phone call at 6:00 a.m. telling me that my turtle parkway was flooded and my workplace had no power so we didn't need to show up. I upset the balance of nature and that dear little turtle must have used its ninja karma to fix it so I could stay home on Elliot's birthday! Totally worth getting peed on!

For those who asked, the turtle peed on my hands, which I washed immediately upon arriving at The Fat and on my shoes, which I ignored. I know, I know. Some of you just became deceased from grossness, but whatever. Somehow turtle pee doesn't bother me. Now goose poop, which I stepped in yesterday and tracked into my building and got all over my car's floor mats..that is a different story. I discovered it touching my bare toes and hopped all the way to the bathroom. I ran my entire shoe under hot water and used disinfectant wipes on my feet, which made them sticky all day and caused my mules to make an unflattering "thwack" sound every time I took a step. Fucking geese.

Who wants to hear Elliot's birth story? No one? He sure didn't. I tried to start it and he was all, "HOW 'BOUT NO??" and I countered, "No, it's short. I labored for hours and hours in terrible pain and after 27 hours of that crap they cut a hole in my gut and hauled you out. The end."

"Wow. I don't deserve this iPod."

"Right?"

Animals

2008-07-25T15:19:00.004-05:00

Oh heavens, I must move another entry in here before someone gets all huffy and says we're making fun of people's looks in the comments. Not that I think there's any damn thing wrong with making fun of people who WILLINGLY don purple tights and go out in public, mind you. Oh, no, I'll make fun of people all the live-long day and people are more than welcome to make fun of me. More than anything else, I'm always stunned by Heather Armstrong's apparent lack of self-esteem and confidence. I mean jesus christ. Look at her. I think she's a dipshit and dislike everything about her, but even I have to admit she's successful and smart. Why on EARTH can't she take a joke? It truly baffles me. But not enough to keep talking about it.

I was on my way to meet Paco at TGIFridays for lunch today (I know, I KNOW. I'm a barbarian, you're all healthy vegans with long telomeres or whatevs but I like fat, so suck it). I work on this stupid parkway-type street with a grassy median and all sorts of appealing looking nature around it: parks and ponds and lovely trees. I often see a great blue heron standing there all, "What the fuck?" when I drive by one pond and there are occasional goose and gosling parades across the thoroughfare and everybody stops their cars and acts all delighted while I tap my foot and think for chrisSAKES just go! Those goddamn geese will move!

I've driven down this road a million times so the only nature I usually notice is the everpresent cop with his radar gun who hides by the park entrance and the god damned rich old guys on their incredibly tricked out bicycles who are in my way. This parkway is not a great place to share the road because there are no curbs and it's all curvy (my suburb wants to compensate for allowing office buildings to go up by making all the damn streets look like meandering rivers). Now I'm cool with people who commute on a bike. What I take issue with are doofuses who deck out like Lance Armstrong to take a recreational bicycle ride. Some of them have those water bladders on their backs and crap. I know from examining their musculature (you can't NOT in those outfits) that they're not riding so far that they can't carry a bottle of water in a damn backpack.

I'm off the subject, aren't I? Well, while I'm off the subject, I had to laugh the other day because I was behind a guy on a bike who looked to be a commuter the other day. He was wearing regular clothes and a crappy helmet and didn't appear to be very physically fit. There are two really big hills before I get to the parkway and as we approached the first one I thought god almighty, I bet this guy is going to pop a lung. Then I noticed he seemed to be moving way too fast for his amount of effort and as I passed him I saw that he had an electrical assist thing on his bicycle. I'd just heard about these things on NPR; some bicycle people were debating whether the added weight of the assist was worth the added power, blah blah boring, ANYWAY! He kept catching up to me at lights and I saw that the dude wasn't pedaling at all. I started laughing because..well, it was amusing. Get a scooter, lazy ass!

Okay, so. Fat, nature, bikes, lazy asses, where was I?

I was driving down the parkway on my way to Fat, when I slowed down to take a turn and saw something in the road lift its head up. "Oh crap," I thought. "If that's an injured goose my day is going to be ruined."

Why, you ask? Because I am afraid of birds and I hate geese, but I would feel ten kinds of terrible if a poor goose was lying in the road hurt and I just drove by, WHICH I WOULD because I'm not touching a goose.

As I approached, though, I saw that it was a huge turtle. Then I felt even worse, because I like turtles and something about a dumb slow old turtle plodding across this parkway with cars racing past made my heart break. I slowed down and made my turn then looked back. People were going around the turtle but every time a car would pass, he would pull his head in and hide. Then he'd move a little and another car would whiz by and he'd pull his head in and hide. The purity of that action and the disconnect between that turtle's protective instinct up against two tons of car made me want to lay my head down and cry. But I said to myself, what the hell, he made it that far and I'm late for my fat.

Then I pulled into TGIFridays and said, "God damn god damn god damn," and whipped back out of the parking lot and drove like mad back to the intersection. The turtle was still alive. I parked at the entrance of the park where the radar cop usually is and leaped out and ran across the north side of the parkway, and jogged across the median. It felt so strange. I have driven along that median for years and never once stood in the grass. I looked both ways and saw a huge landscape pickup with a trailer coming and thought, "It's now or never for you, turtle! That fucker isn't going to see you!" and I stepped out and waved my hands frantically at the guy. And I'll be damned if he didn't slow down, put on his hazards and pull sideways across the lanes to block traffic so I could rescue that fucking turtle!

Then I though, Oh shit. Now I have to pick up a turtle. And it's probably a snapping turtle who will bit my hand off to thank me for saving him. Landscape guy's largess didn't extend to helping me with the animal rescue and he smiled at me sardonically from the pickup cab and I was like, Yeah, OKAY, watch me! I grabbed the turtle's shell and it was slimy and the minute I hefted him he waved all four legs frantically and peed on me. I put him back down and shrieked, "Don't pee on me you son of a bitch!" I tried to push him with my toe and he peed on my shoe and his big ugly head reared around like he was going to bite me and I was like, Oh for the love of god, I was sentimental about this bastard? I finally just grabbed him hard and ran like a duck to avoid the turtle piss and hefted him into the soft grass and he hurried off. I waved at landscape guy who may or may not have been laughing his ass off and jogged back to my car.

Turtles are like kids, I've decided: ingrates who pee on you.

Snarfle

2008-07-24T15:17:00.004-05:00

HAHA! Dooce acted like an asshole at BlogHer! The "little" bloghers are wounded that the "big" bloghers acted like they're "better" than they are. The "big" bloghers are wounded that they have been taken the wrong way. This NON-BLOGHER is cackling with amusement at the very idea of any of this mattering in the slightest! Have a piece of my sage advice, Lady Blogger Titans: quit acting like high school cheerleaders and maybe you'll finally get some of that there empowerment you whine about. And to you Little Bloggers: those bitches aren't your friends! They're social retards who take pretty pichers with their expensive cameras.

I, however, am your friend! I love you bastards! I will have lunch with each and every one of you. Ten lunches, what's the big deal?

So after all my talk of the hamster yesterday, I felt guilty and went and bought a cage topper so our rodent could have a three story abode. WHY? It was a bad idea for so many reasons, all of which a logical person would have noticed before buying. First off, duh, if you want to get into the original bottom part you have to take off the giant topper thing, which makes it hard to go in there at 3:00 a.m. and move her fucking "silent" spinner away from the wall it is clack-clack-clacking against. Also, hamsters are industrious little fuckers so if your husband puts her food all the way up at the top, the hamster will spend the whole night individually transporting cheesies down to the bottom part and hiding them in her shit-laden mulch, causing your daughter to keep getting up and narc-ing on the hamster like she's getting points for it.

"Mah-mee! The hamster keeps making NOY-zezz!"

What, does she want me to put the hamster in time out? Because I've got a naughty chair for that noisy son of a bitch and it's called a food processor!

Meanwhile, the cat still seems unaware there is a rodent in the house. Last night we had the topper off the tank for a little while so Paco could mess with it and Greeley strolled into the room. Holly dramatically shrieked, "NO! Greeley NO!"

Greeley blinked.

"NO! Don't bother my hamster! Mommy!"

"What? The cat isn't anywhere near your hamster."

"NO! GREELEY NO!"

Greeley looked bewildered.

"DON'T GO NEAR THE HAMSTER!!"

Greeley yawned.

"Mommy!!"

"SIS! For god's sake!"

She so wanted to make that situation an emergency, but the cat would not cooperate. He eventually sneezed, snarfled, and ambled into the other bedroom to snooze on a pair of clean jeans.

"THANK GOODNESS! THE CAT'S GONE ROSIE! DON'T WORRY."

I wonder where she gets that flair for the dramatic.

Habits

2008-07-23T13:00:00.003-05:00

Holly gets up and leaves her cereal bowl on the table every single morning and it gripes me to no end that before I leave for work I have to take the bowl to the sink and dump it out and put it in the dishwasher. In fact, I believe I griped in Paco's direction. Now occasionally I have a flash of "Hey dummy quit complaining about shit YOU caused and YOU can change." I would leave my dishes on the table too if someone would clean up after me, wouldn't you?

I once read somewhere that you have to do an action a specific number of times before it becomes a habit. Don't remember where I read it or when or actually how many times it takes, but...okay, fine.

I read in a Newsweek article last week that you have to repeat an action 22 times before it becomes a habit.

Wow. That sounds better, doesn't it? But I like to tell the truth! I'm buh-rutally honest and shit!

So a couple of weeks ago, I started making Holly take her cereal bowl to the sink. Every damn morning, she'd leave it there and go back out into the living room and sit back down on the couch to vegetate like she does and I'd bust her and say, "Sis, take your bowl to the sink please." And she'd do it.

Mostly she was cheerful about it, but one time she got grumpy and I said, "I read that it takes 22 times before doing something becomes a habit, so I'm just doing a test to see if that's true. You've only done it 10 times, so I guess I'll be reminding you for a while more."

Holly's so competitive and I was positive the next morning she'd do the cereal bowl just to prove she was ahead of the curve.

FAIL.

But I stuck with it. I never stick with anything, but I was establishing a nag habit here! That's worth doing!

This morning I heard Holly yell her traditional "BYE MOMMEEEEE," and I yelled my traditional response, "BYE BABY DOLLLLLL," and then I realized I'd forgotten to nag about the cereal bowl. I raced downstairs and heard the door shut and I really didn't want to chase the car down in my robe to issue my cereal bowl reminder. I shrugged and walked back into the kitchen and...

THE FUCKING CEREAL BOWL WAS IN THE SINK! TAAAAA-DAAAAAA!

It's the little things, people.

Wait! I thought. Reinforcement! Augh!

So I raced to the garage and Holly hadn't left yet. She was standing around while Paco looked at some varnish or something (I complained about our crappy garden bench because it was literally turning into splinters and I threatened to buy a new one and Paco sprang into action-took it apart, sanded it, bleached it, stained it--awesome). I cheerfully said, "Sis! I saw you took your cereal bowl to the sink! I am so happy and proud of you! It didn't even take 22 times. You're sure smart!"

And she scowled at me and didn't answer.

"Sis?"

"I KNOW."

Fucking kids never do what you want them to, even when they do what you want them to.

Toni, whose sister ammogirl hated her hamster with a rage so towering she still has PTSD, wanted an update on our hamster, Rosaleena Rosetti. That hamster is huge. She looks like a damn rat and she hates everyone. I am actually beginning to think we would have been better off with a real rat. In keeping with my repeated action/habit theme, I started going in there every day and talking to the fucker, so she might possibly begin to recognized my voice and calm the hell down instead of morphing into plasma every time I try to pick her up. But nay, she still believes I am trying to kill her and darts around like a cockroach if I so much as breathe on her. I do not hate her with poisonous rage, however. In fact, every few days I feel sorry for her and put her in her shitball and she zips around. We changed her food so her poo is hard, so the shitball experience has become less traumatic. Paco's got an elaborate system to keep her wheel silent and also if we give her about two hours of shitball time, she doesn't use the wheel anyway. The other day Paco caught a katydid (which he insisted on calling a grasshopper-it's not a grasshopper, Grasshopper, it's a cricket! You are losing your "grew up in the country" cred) and fed it to her which grossed me and Holly out, but the hamster seemed to enjoy it. We need to get her a bigger cage, but all in all the hamster situation is going well.

Vice Versa

2008-07-22T14:33:00.002-05:00

Someone with kid handwriting wrote, "Holly is awesome and cute!!" on a drawing she brought home from camp the other day. I asked her who did it and she said, "Michael!" and then shrieked and ran to hide in the dining room while I sat bewildered on the couch. Weirdo. I don't tease about things like that! I guess I've learned from Elliot that kids don't ever ever want to talk about potential love interests so I don't even try.

That's a lie. I do try occasionally. Elliot seemed sort of receptive the other day, so I asked him, "Hey, why didn't you and Hermione work out?" and he almost literally turned to stone before my very eyes.

"What?! I'm sorry, I just wondered if it was you or her! I'm just trying to be supportive!"

MOUNT RUSHMORE.

"Okay! God!"

I don't want Holly to like boys or vice versa, not because of some silly, "no one shall touch my virginal china doll daughter" bullshit, but because I'm afraid she'll turn out like me and make horrible choices. God, I have dated some jackasses in my lifetime.

I had this asshole boyfriend once who commuted between Kansas City and Chicago and he was such a dick to me one weekend while I was visiting him that I picked up the phone and called a cab to go to the airport. Then I called Southwest and ascertained that I could fly standby and I didn't care anyway because sitting at the airport had to be better than sitting anywhere with his dumb ass. Just as the cab pulled up, his highness came out of the bedroom where he was sulking and said, "Wait, please don't go."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because if you go it'll mean our relationship is over and I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that."

AND I STAYED. GAH!

More than anything else in the world, I hope my daughter doesn't do idiot shit like that, at least not in her thirties.

Oh my god, I hope Elliot's not an asshole! I just naturally assumed that Hermione didn't want to date him, but maybe he isn't interested in her! Maybe that's why he didn't ask her to the prom until the day before! Augh!

I am not going to think about that because it doesn't concern me. What concerns me is the fact that Elliot is going to high school in four weeks. What the fuck is that all about? Oh, I KNOW it's cliché, but how can that child be old enough for high school? I am going to practice denial and think of him as some sort of Doogie Howser-like freak prodigy who skipped elementary school and is way too young for high school. I can just ignore the fact that his grades are barely good enough to keep him in the grade for which he's actually the right age.

I found out his tenth grade schedule today and among other things he is taking Chemistry. Uh...what? He barely made it through Advanced Biology! But you know what? I say that, but he ended up with a B in Advanced Biology, so I really can't make the argument that he can't handle Chemistry. But I don't think he can. But we'll see. I'm sure I'll be tearing out my hair well into his 30s.

Now I have to fret about something work-related so I gotta go.

Panic! In the Shower!

2008-07-18T14:37:00.003-05:00

I didn't feel like getting out of bed this morning. I woke up at 7:15 with a start from a dream about a beautiful bathroom with a giant jetted bathtub. The tile over the bathtub was crumbling and I was mad that no one would fix it (quite Freudian, but that's another entry). I blearily shuffled around and procrastinated and mumbled that I didn't want to go to work and stared at my closet and complained that it is a sad state of affairs when I have nothing to wear even on casual Friday for god's sake. At 7:55 I begrudgingly got in the shower.

At 7:56 I realized I had an 8:30 meeting and that I hadn't sent out the agenda the day before like I was supposed to! PANIC ENSUED.

I finished my shower 30 seconds later (TMI: all hair removal was waived and only my important parts were washed) and ran shrieking from the bathroom, "AAUUGGHH I have a meeting at 8:30! I haven't sent out the agenda! Augh! Augh! God damn!"

I grabbed pants and a shirt, slathered deodorant in the general area of my armpits, dried my two inches of hair into an old lady perm, threw on flip-flops (MY GOD IN HEAVEN THE TOE HAIR) and brushed my teeth. I was in such a hurry that I tried to reach for the towel at the same time I was supposed to spit into the sink and managed to spit out my toothpaste onto the floor. "Fuck that shit!" I yelled and threw the towel down and skidded out of the bathroom.

Somewhere in the mad drive toward my office, I remembered a friend saying the agenda for this meeting looked "soooo boring," and I realized I must have sent it out. I got to work by 8:21 and ran into the meeting room and my boss remarked, "I thought you didn't get here until 8:30. Oh, and we don't need notes for this meeting. Thanks for sending out the agenda!"

OKAY THEN GLAD I HURRIED. I went home at lunchtime to do massive repair work on my hair, but my light, airy summer outfit of cords and a long-sleeved polo turned out to be fortuitous. It got coolish right around noon because the weather gods felt sorry for me. And also it started raining, but I prefer to believe my misfortunes control the weather (wink to my snark peeps). I flat-ironed my hairdon't and put on some makeup and reflected on the fact that even if the inside of my house isn't exactly what I want it to be, its location enables me to get from shower to desk in 24 minutes and that rocks ass.

I don't have any set plans for this weekend which kind of bothers me. When things are unstructured Holly gets all up in my shit about not knowing what to doooooo and I get irritated and blow up and then bore you fine people with my subsequent guilt, despair, and regret. Speaking of which, I made Paco take Holly to her skating lesson last night and he reported when they got home that she wouldn't practice after her lesson was over (her lesson is a half-hour and then she has the ice for another half-hour to practice) and he got mad at her too. I felt vindicated and meanly triumphant until later when she was lying with her head in my lap and I commented that her eyes were all red.

"That's because I open my eyes underwater at swimming lessons. Also I cried at skating because Daddy yelled at me."

DAMN IT. No wonder she doesn't want to skate! Every time she goes to the rink someone yells at her! Her ice-cold Russian coach is nicer to her than her parents are!

(fill in the rest of the guilt, despair and regret here)

Cheezy

2008-07-17T15:58:00.003-05:00

Oh, I don't have time to do this, but I promised myself I would say something in an entry about this totally rad website Elayne alerted me to (it's in my Twitter but I know some of you snobs don't read it):

Running for Office XKCD Style

I don't know if I exactly agree with all his politics, and I don't even live in his district, but I donated money to him anyway because:

1. He went to my high school.
2. "I'm going to win."
3. "Verbal Rick Roll"

He deserves to win on the merit of number 3 ALONE. Love!

So what else is going on? I'm pretty sure I made a wardrobe mistake today. You know how I know? I looked down at my outfit in the elevator and thought, "Hey! This outfit would look good if I had on an ankle bracelet."

Whaaa?? Any item of clothing that inspires an ankle bracelet is suitable for a Ren Faire or a Halloween costume, but is probably not professional for the workplace. Damn it.

I am NOT posting my recipe for Macaroni and Cheese! For god's sake! I don't really have a recipe for one thing and for another someone, probably grumpy Lesley, will yell at me for using Velveeta!

Oh, fine. Boil some macaroni. Three cups, maybe. Make white sauce-melt 2 tablespoons butter or margarine, who cares which, add 2 tablespoons cornstarch and stir it around until it's smooth, then add 2 cups milk and whisk the shit out of it so it doesn't get lumpy. Then stand there and wonder if you used enough cornstarch, but DO NOT FALTER. It will thicken up! When it does, whisk 2 teaspoons of ground mustard, 1.5 teaspoons of worcestershire sauce, and a whole shitload of white pepper into it. Then add about 4 oz of Velveeta and two giant handfuls of grated sharp cheddar cheese. Mix it all up with the macaroni and then bake it in the oven for a while.

I don't know, it might be 8 oz of Velveeta. I don't think so. It's like a chunk about 3 inches wide.

That's it. Don't come bitching to me if you don't like it. And you are dead to me if you put ketchup on it.

Gimme some sugar

2008-07-16T13:53:00.003-05:00

As far as sugar and kids (and I shouldn't even enter into this discussion because people believe what they want to believe but I can't help it): there is NO medical evidence that sugar makes kids hyper. None! It's been well studied, over a number of years, and they just can't replicate this idea that if you give your kids cake they'll bounce off the walls. And anyway, why would it just be kids? I myself ate 5 Ghirardelli truffles this morning and the only thing I felt was disgusted.

In the end, though, I give the sugar debate a big who cares! Believe what you want to believe! I believe kids are generally hyper and pains in the ass and also eat a lot of sugar, so any kind of behavior at any time can be explained away with sugar.

Colds aren't caused by being cold either. I'll shut up now.

The flu is an upper respiratory virus and has nothing to do with the 24-hour stomach bug.

OKAY. I'M DONE.

What other food topics can I discuss? I am not going to have exercise anecdotes for a while, Texxie, because I still can't figure out how to get it done. Holly gets so mad at me when I pick her up late and Paco's job is all over the place right now with regard to quittin' time. Yeah, I should just tell Holly to suck it up, but I can't quite do that yet, even with the new who cares! mantra. Besides I'm wearing a thong today and am so uncomfortable that I can't even contemplate walking to the copier, much less on a treadmill. Thongs. They fool me every time. Wear a thong! all you crazies say! They're super awesome! No panty lines! THEY HURT MY ASS. I'd rather have giant, mogul-like panty lines outlined in Sharpie than feel like something's shoved up my ass all day. I'm throwing this damn thing away when I get home (the thong, not my ass) so I will never be tempted to wear it again.

You know what food I find entirely unnecessary? Fruit pies. Why not just eat the fruit? Paco wanted a cherry pie for his birthday "cake" and I dutifully bought a frozen one and that shit is gross. I would happily eat a big bowl of cherries, but that gooey gelatinous mass with the flaccid hunks of WHATEVER in it? BLEAH.

Oh, speaking of kids and sugar. Elliot's a weird eater, right? He's not as picky as he once was, but still weird. He'll eat bison tacos, but dislikes meatloaf. He'll eat Thai food but dislikes french fries (for the love of god). Anyway, for Paco's birthday dinner, we had meatloaf and macaroni and cheese and canned green beans and salad. A light meal for a summer day, eh, but it was at his request! I do what I'm told, right down to the blechy cherry pie! Now, Elliot may be weird, but he does love macaroni and cheese. And I make macaroni and cheese from scratch the way it SHOULD BE MADE. Here's another fun food fact: I would rather eat dirt than that Kraft Macaroni and Cheese travesty. Elliot served himself a silver-dollar-sized portion of meatloaf and a bucketful of macaroni and cheese and then he asked for the cinnamon sugar. For his macaroni and cheese. I thought my in-laws would plotz.

His dad always did that shit too, which makes me wonder if it's a cultural thing. I've never heard of putting sugar, much less cinnamon sugar, on macaroni and cheese ever in my life.

But Elliot won't eat french fries.

Mazel Tov to Jackie and Marian who did indeed get married, but didn't INFORM ME. Hmph. Here I was all worried and they were kicking it California-style. Many happy returns, you kids.

WHO CARES

2008-07-15T11:25:00.007-05:00

Oh, I hope no one out there is all worried they were an asshole. Don't be. Remember, my new slogan is WHO CARES?

You know, I got a wounded e-mail a while back from someone whose comment I referenced in an entry. She was quite huffy and did the usual "I'm never reading you again!" I felt bad and apologized, sort of. I mean, sheesh. I didn't prostrate myself, because damn. Don't comment if you're chicken! I don't operate this deal in a vacuum. Hey, maybe I need to add that to my user's manual....which appears nowhere on this site. Duh. You know, something like "If you comment on an entry, I may refer to it in a later entry. Please do not be distressed because none of these people know you and neither do I, for the love of god."

Come on, people! I'm not a big giant famous-ass blogger! I don't get so many comments that I don't read them and/or can't keep up with them. Shit, man, I could probably respond to each and every one, were I so inclined. I even read them all more than once, for pete's sake. I HAVE A HUGE EGO. DUH. Ask anyone!

(I am a little worried, though, because Marian and Hannah have not commented for ages. Have I done something, you two? Have I finally pushed you over the edge? E-mail me! God! )

ANYWAY, NOW I'M GOING TO REFERENCE A COMMENT AND DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY GODDAMNIT.

Amy asked about pencil stands and I realized I was being a bit obscure. Back during the Great Depression, out-of-work people were so desperately poor they set up stands to sell pencils for pennies (or so the story goes). So what I'm saying is our economy's in the crapper, but trying to give that sentence some flair by using a metaphor. Thus endeth the writing lesson.

Amy also expressed some veiled dismay about me giving a seven-year-old a frappuccino. I get that a lot. I don't know if the dismay's about the sugar or the caffeine, but I do order decaf for her. If it's the sugar, well, I just don't care about sugar and besides the sugar/hyperactivity link is a myth.

Funny, I actually don't really worry that much about caffeine in general. I mean, yeah, probably not the greatest idea to give Holly a bunch of it. Elliot, however? Caffeine's a stimulant and I gave Elliot Ritalin back in the day, so really don't see how caffeine could be any worse than Ritalin. And as far as caffeine for myself? I flat out don't even think about it, except to avoid it if I'm getting close to a time when I need to sleep. I drank caffeine when I was pregnant, I drink it now, I'll drink it forever because I just don't give a rat's ass. I've yet to see any consistent data that proves that it's bad for you.

If it makes you feel any better, Amy, I am totally judgmental about kids who drink soda. I can't stand it when Paco lets Holly get a diet Dr. Pepper at McDonald's when they go to breakfast. Never mind that she's also eating a sausage and cheese McfuckingGriddle which is just obscenely calorific, no, I'm upset about the aspartame. It's evil I tell you! It's a conspiracy to get people to eat more! I don't want her to drink a full sugar Dr. Pepper either, though. Because she's already eating a sausage and cheese McFuckingGriddle, what does she need another 120 calories for? Plus, the high-fructose corn syrup is a conspiracy! To get people to eat more!

My poor brain.

(I'm going to be trading on that for a while, Mary, not because it made me mad, but because it's just plain made of awesome.

TWINGE

2008-07-14T13:44:00.003-05:00

I got several e-mails today saying, in general, "God! Your commenters are ASSHOLES!"

Ah, yes, but they're MY assholes. If you ponder that statement carefully it's not a compliment, but I don't mean it that way. I don't think.

I can only guess that since I'm rather blunt and direct, I attract the blunt and direct. Also, things look worse in print than they would sound in person. I have friends who would damn well follow up yesterday's litany of complaints with a brisk, "QUIT FUCKING WITH YOUR ANTIDEPRESSANTS! GOD!" In fact, Paco's immediate response to some painful admissions I made today was, "Are you taking a half-dose of Zoloft or a full dose?"

Anyway, I agree with some of you and I don't agree with some of you but for the most part, I don't think anyone acted like too big of an asshole. I appreciate the insights. Of course, I think we've established that insights don't help shit, but still the comment I liked the best (besides the one about smoking more pot, but that was a gimmee) was Jane from Austin! Come On Down! I have....no prize for you, but whatever.

I think I have a great deal of anxiety about parenting perfectly. I don't feel like playing Monopoly or Polly Pockets or whatever and in my warped mind that means I SUCK, but I still don't want to play kid games so I get angrier and angrier and more hopeless and frustrated until I just fall apart and blow up. I want my daughter to do what I say at the rink and not resist my authority and quit acting up and when these things don't occur, I am not only angry that she's not conforming to my standards, I'm also disappointed in myself because I ought to handle her better and it all rolls around in "my poor brain" until I explode.

All of these problems could be solved with a great big "WHO CARES?" but I'm not able to do that. I'm not able to say, "Nope, I don't want to play Polly Pockets, sorry," because that means I do not love Holly.

I'm not able to say, "You don't want to practice skating? Let's go home then," because that means I have failed in my parental authority.

When Holly sidles up to me and says, "I don't know what to dooooo," I can't say, "Really? I can't help you there, now shoo," because that means I am an disinterested, neglectful parent.

NONE OF THIS SHIT IS TRUE. WHY DO I BELIEVE IT?

And finally, there is another element here. I hate talking about womanly stuff. Wait, you know what? I don't. I like talking about womanly stuff, I'm always just worried someone out there is going, "OH for the love of god with the uterus talk!" Hey! WHO CARES!

I get my womanly affliction every three months now. I don't know what's up with that, but anyway, the lead-up to it is horrible. Saturday, the Day of Rage, heralded the quarterly arrival of the crazy-making cycle and there is no antidepressant made that can touch the specialized sort of irrational haze. Here's how the three-month plan works: about a week or two out, I get a backache that puzzles me. I say, "Why do I have a lower backache? I never get lower backaches? Maybe it was (insert perfectly normal activity here). Oh well." Then I start to get fatigued in the afternoons, like to the point where I contemplate making up a meeting at work and instead driving home to nap for half an hour.

Then I get hungry. I eat and eat and eat and my pants get too tight (see two entries back). Then for a couple of nights I have trouble sleeping, even after taking a horse's dose of clonazepam. About two days out I get..um. Let's say an IBS flareup (I know. I'm sorry.) and nausea, bad enough that I think I might be getting a stomach virus. The day before D-DAY I start to get angry and at various points in the next 24 hours I fantasize about beating people up and I hate everyone and I can't stand it anymore and everything's messy and I'm so tired and I want to move to South Dakota ALONE and what the FUCK are you looking at? I make it through the day without committing any crime ending in -cide and at some point I just sit down and within about three hours I go, "OH. This was the problem."

This quarter, I actually FELT something in my abdomen moving around, I swear to god. It felt like a baby kicking for pete's sake. Soon after that weird twinge I got a headache and a backache and a frontache and I had to take four ibuprofen and go to bed. For this I had an endometrial ablation four years ago. Damn, that was a waste of money.

Making up for it

2008-07-13T08:09:00.003-05:00

I was a complete beast yesterday, mean and frustrated and moody and full of temper. I despaired; I wanted to hit those I love; I rolled my eyes; I burst into tears. My husband and older child are skilled at getting out of my way on days like that. Poor Holly hasn't learned quite yet. I wonder...when my kids grow up, is this what they'll remember? Will they tell their friends, like PeeWee tells me in my comments section, how I let them down and what a unpredictable, crazy bitch I was? (PeeWee, you break my heart even though you act like you don't care. Your mom is a hag and made you wear bread sacks and never attended your soccer games or whatever. OH MY GOD the bread sacks! HAHA I forgot about that whole conversation. Okay, another time folks. Having a revelation here.)

I still have time to make it right, I think. My dad was just like me until I was about 12 years old. He might not want me to share this, but then again he probably doesn't care because another quality we share is the blatant honesty. My mother despairs at this tendency, by the way. She used to wring her hands daily when I'd call a spade a spade in front of people. "Why do you have to TELL everyone everything?" she'd moan.

"What?" I'd protest. "It's the TRUTH!" See why I was destined to have an online journal?

My point is I remember my dad having incidents of temper and being prone to colossal blow ups and then something happened to change him dramatically--so dramatically that 30 years later I still cite it. Who knows what happened. Maybe my mom quit wringing her hands and kicked his ass. Hey, maybe I should ask? I think I have his number.

I realized yesterday that Holly has an ice skating competition on August 3 and that's only four weeks away. She changed her routine because she moved up TWO levels but Paco has decreed we're only paying for one lesson a week. Holly's skating coach was on maternity leave and now seems to be trying to get us to personally recoup her losses by scheduling unnecessary lessons. She has also been lengthening the lessons to a point I think is unreasonable for a seven-year-old girl who has been at an outdoor camp all day. When I demurred at a proposed one-hour lesson the other evening, saying that Holly had been at camp and had had two hours of swimming already that day, her coach declared, "Little keeds do not get tired! Why you tink they not allowed in Oleempics?" Um, because they suck? Because I have never seen seven-year-old kids able to skate at an Oleeeeempic level anywhere because they don't have the coordination no matter how much their crazy fucking parents make them practice? Anyway! Ms. Coach will eat her words when her kid is seven years old, I expect. Little keeds most certainly get tired, even ones with steely deprived Russian fortitude in their DNA.

Also, and I'll open myself up to criticism here (but watch out, I'm meaner than shit today too), an hour skating lesson is $75 and the ice time costs $12. In case you need help with the math, that's EIGHTY-SEVEN FUCKING DOLLARS for one hour of skating. I'm sorry, we have plenty of money but we won't for long with that kind of cash going out the door. Gas was $4.09/gallon around here yesterday and Paco's job isn't secure these days and in general I am starting to feel like we're going to see pencil stands going up on corners soon so something's got to give.

Still, I hate to see Holly go to a competition and fail because we didn't give her time to practice, so yesterday I suggested we go to the public skate for a while, since it was raining and she was bored and public skating is free for us since she owns her skates.

She didn't want to go. I told her she had no choice. When we got there she didn't want to practice. She kept coming over to the side and doing this thing where she throws her head back and stomps her foot. I'd tell her to go out and practice her one-foot spin five times and she'd do it and skate back and I'd say, "Now do it [the right way it's boring to explain the right way]," and she'd roll her eyes and whine, "I'm TRYING!"

At first I would say, "I know you are, honey, can you do [this and that to stabilize the spin again boring]?" and she'd get mad and repeat, "I'm TRYING!" and then she'd go out and act like someone was getting in her way and throw up her hands and hang her head and I'd indicate for her to hold up her arms which is a big problem for her and she'd glare at me and pantomime "I'm TRYING," until I gave up TRYING to hold my temper and blew a gasket.

"GET OFF THE ICE! NOW!"

There was a birthday party going on at the and I suspect those parents were looking at me like I was some sort of insane skating mother, which I guess I am.

I grabbed her skate guards and marched her to the bathroom, checked under all the stalls, then started yelling at her like I was Tonya Harding's mother minus the cigarette, all, "DO YOU WANT TO QUIT SKATING? BECAUSE I'M TIRED OF THIS! YOU ARE DISRESPECTFUL (oh the irony) AND FULL OF EXCUSES AND DON'T WANT TO PRACTICE AND IF YOU KEEP THIS UP YOU WILL GET 6TH PLACE AT THE COMPETITION (oh my god I really said that), DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP YOU AND I'VE HAD IT NOW YOU GET BACK OUT THERE AND DO WHAT I SAY DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?????"

I was waving her skate guards around like weapons, gesticulating wildly. I had straight up gone over the edge (ha puns only it's not really funny because yeah).

I do think she should quit skating, not because of her, but because of me. It costs so much money and she doesn't seem that interested in it anymore and I can't manage to let her just be casual about it. I also don't know what you do with kids this age who have a talent for a particular sport. Do they all have to be prodded? She's seven years old. Are there seven-year-olds who actually have dedication to a sport and want to practice it all the time? Or are those kids weird prodigies?

And does it matter if she goes to the competition unprepared? NO. Does it matter if she gets 17th place? NO. Does it matter that I yelled and shrieked and belittled her? YES.

She went back out and practiced, red in the face from crying, but obviously without any enthusiasm, and I stayed mad. Usually I feel like an shithead almost immediately but I was so horrible yesterday that I didn't get over it for a good hour. We drove home in silence, picked up Elliot and drove him to his guitar lesson and then walked down to Starbucks to wait. I ordered Holly a frapuccino and I got an iced tea and we sat down. She played Mario or something on her DS and while she was staring at the game she said, "I'm sorry I didn't practice, Mommy."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, baby."

"It's okay."

Ugh, it was such a bad day. On the way home from the lesson, one of Elliot's friends called him and asked him over. I dialed my phone to talk to Paco (who had wisely spent this entire day at his mother's, helping set up her internet) to see what our dinner plans were. Elliot asked me why I was calling and then gave me grief when I commented that it would be inconvenient for me to take him to Lawrence right during the dinner hour and he talked back and I threw my phone into my console with great force, yelling, "FINE YOU'RE NOT GOING!!"

I finally got the clue at this point that I was nutz. I'm throwing shit around, I'm yelling at little kids, I'm storming around, hmmm...what's a good thing to do right now? How about remove myself because I'm the problem? Ding!

I called Paco, found out there were no dinner plans, drove Holly to his mother's to hang out with the sane parent, drove the other kid to his sane parent's house and then drove myself home where there was no one to scream at. The cat hid, just in case.

So that day is over. Now I have to start over from scratch, like I always do, and try to pretend like I wasn't an unstable crappy mother yesterday. Bleh.

I know everyone yells at their kids. I know you've all done it and will tell me so. But I don't want to do it anymore. I want to be BETTER than this. I need anger management but I don't know how you go about getting that. Every time I go to a therapist I overwhelm them. I have only ever met one therapist in my life who didn't fold under my bullshit. I talk over them; I make jokes. I surprise them with my insights and they have nothing to say. I KNOW what's wrong with me and I KNOW what I'm supposed to do. The problem is I can't do it. Are there therapists out there who specialize in implementation, not theory? Anyone who lives around here, tell me who you see and tell me if they can help me. I don't have any other options except having my ovaries removed, which I do think would help and which course of action I actually considered yesterday. I'm just so angry with myself, most of all.

Nothing! To Say!

2008-07-11T14:15:00.004-05:00

I would like to announce, with the subdued fanfare appropriate for a dumb, boring nonevent that matters to no one but me, that my hair has finally grown out to an acceptable point. It took an entire month. The color has also faded such that my head no longer resembles pollen. PLEASE, people. Don't let me cut my hair so short ever again!

And while we're on my favorite subject, Me, and my favorite sub-heading, My Physical Plant, I have been eating too much lately and my pants are too tight. Here's what I don't get: I weigh myself fairly often and have a pretty good idea what I weigh. So last night when a pair of pants that usually fit all right were cutting me in half, I got on the scale expecting to see something horrifying...and I've only gained three pounds? WTF? The upside of that is that it's pretty goddamned easy to lose three pounds. That's one week of watermelon for lunch and an immediate hiatus for the lunches out. Booo.

Or I suppose I could start going to the gym again.

Mmm. Watermelon.

Greeley is sick with some sort of upper respiratory virus. We couldn't find him for a day or so, and then I heard him sneeze while I was doing my crossword puzzles at night and found him hiding under the bed in our guest room. He looked at me just like a sick little kid.

Scratch that. He looked at me like I wish a sick kid would look at me, all "I am lethargic and tired and pitiful and I want to be left alone," not "I am sick and so I wish to make your life miserable also SIT UP WITH ME I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED PLAY WITH ME I'M GONNA BARF AHHHH." I went home at lunchtime today and opened some dreaded canned cat food and he just looked at it. He drank some water and then just stood there staring at the water dish. I finally got out some cream cheese and let him lick it off my finger, but maybe I better start thinking like Robyn Anderson and go cat-goofy and buy baby food or something so he doesn't starve to death.

I did not just say that.

It's Paco's Birthday!

2008-07-09T08:46:00.004-05:00

I need to respond to some comments (read: I don't have one shred of creativity today because I've been working on a big fat long meeting summary that is TEH SNOOZE):

My Webkinz animal is a Chihuahua named Gomez. I have always wanted a chihuahua named Gomez. And I fucking LOVE Webkinz. I decorate the little rooms, I buy food, I take my dog to training classes, I rule at Zingoz Pop which is like Snood but easier. Don't even start with me!

The picture of Holly features Bailey, her uncle's Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy, and Hank the Destroyer, a mean old snapping turtle who got lost trying to get to my in-law's pond. He's not a cutesy-poo TORTOISE, Miz S, and he resents your implication. He will bite your finger off. Note how the dog is trying to hide behind Holly. I'm told he got schooled by the turtle just before the picture was taken.

Scribble is on Facebook. If you don't use Facebook there's something similar called iSketch that's fun, and honestly the people on iSketch behave themselves better. On Facebook we often get a group of people who draw pictures of penises for every word or just write the word. Okay, the penis pictures are funny for a while, but not when Holly's there. (I want to be friends with you on Facebook, people!)

Liverpool is indeed the Beatles cover band I have now seen twice. I'm probably a default groupie. How many times do you have to see a band before you get up the guts to tell the lead singer he's singing flat? I think it's three, personally.

As far as winewoot.com? I live in Kansas. You can't mail liquor to people in Kansas and I only wish I were kidding. Technically, I believe when I drive two blocks to the liquor store over in Missouri and then drive back home, I'm committing some sort of misdemeanor that dates back to Prohibition NOT THAT I EVER DO THAT.

okay bye I wrote something like 5,000 words today and I hate the English language right now.

Oh yeah, it's Paco's birthday! Wild applause! He's 12 or something! xoxo

I Am Not Hot

2008-07-07T15:03:00.003-05:00

I'm bored!

Friday, July 4, 8:26 a.m.: Holly says, "I'm booooooooored."

8:26! I mean Jesus H. I know I'm unusually irritated by kids who can't amuse themselves, but come on! I knew this early start on the agitation for entertainment was going to make me feel like jumping off a cliff, so I immediately got out a piece of paper and a pen.

"Let's make a list of activities you can do today, so that you aren't constantly whining for something to do, okay?"

We collaborated and came up with:

Take a shower

Play Guess Who!
Play Webkinz (We play together in Webkinz World--one of us on the upstairs computer, one of us on the other and we talk on the intercom. It's like Halo3 with more fuzz and less heads blown off. And YES I have a Webkinz character of my own)
Rollerblades
Snack
Play in sprinkler
Ride scooter
Watch a movie
Play Go Fish
Lunch
Practice piano
Play Scribble (online computer game like pictionary--Holly guesses the pictures way better than any adult and I'm not even kidding)
Dollhouse
Hamster
Coloring
Drawing
Brush the cat
Water flowers
Go to pool

Now I'M SORRY but that's a LOT OF SHIT TO DO and that kid had no business being bored, but it was still bad, you guys. She was like a minimum wage clock watcher. She decreed that we would change activities every 15 minutes! If I tried to get her started on something and then sneak off and try to, oh I don't know, BATHE or drink a little bit of coffee she was immediately on my case. I just don't get it. She is seven years old! Must I engage her every second?

I must? Oh. Hm. Why did I have kids again?

I managed to keep her busy all day and even went to the pool (which I hate? Have I mentioned) but I was straight up pissy by evening, I'll admit it. We always go to our little tony suburb's Independence Day Festival, which features inflatables and rides and greasy carnie food and a band and a ridiculously large fireworks display. Because of my karma, the band was the same Beatles Tribute band we saw two weeks ago. Yay. It wasn't so bad, I guess. Elliot was excited to see them and they did drop "Let it Be" from their set list. Angry George Harrison was calmer this time, too. But I had june bugs in my hair, and I rolled the dice and got the sullen asshole Elliot and Paco and I somehow ran out of money so I didn't get a funnel cake, which is just cruel.

The next day we went bowling and drank beer at 1:00 pm and now THAT was a good day. After bowling we headed to dinner at nitpick's house and since we were running a little early, I bade Paco to pull off the highway so I could buy a bottle of wine at an unfamiliar liquor store. As we parked in front, I instructed Paco to take a picture of this sign because I found it hysterical:

Right? Or is it just me? I mean, talk about brevity. No long-winded tirade ending with "This means you!" no stupid initials down the side "NoShoesNoShirtNoService!" No frantic punctuation!!!111!! Just flat out, "SHIRT" I want to send it in to passiveaggressivenotes.com but I'm not sure anyone else would be that delighted by it.

And actually, the funny thing about it was the sign isn't passive aggressive at all, but the guy in the liquor store was. The place turned out to be the kind of place you buy beer, not wine, which..fine, if all I have to choose from is crap, I go for cheapest crap, right? So I picked up a $5.99 bottle of Barefoot White Zin which I later found to be absolutely heinous and I *like* cheap wine. I proceeded to check out and the overly friendly guy at the counter booms, "That all for ya? $6.47! I can spot ya the two pennies!"

"Oh, that's okay, I'm using a card."

"Sorry, she (Owner? Wife? Random auditor? GOD?) doesn't want us to take cards for less than 10 dollars."

So I did what any self-respecting drunkard would do, turned and said, "Okay, then I'll grab some beer too," because who cares?

The guy went nuts on me! He was all, "NO! NO! I am not trying to coerce you into buying more liquor!! NO! I'll just run it and pay the difference myself!"

We then had a five minute argument in which I demurred politely, then more firmly, then not-so-politely. Finally I allowed as to how I thought I'd buy nothing at all rather than have a total stranger fork over money to keep me from crossing the street to the Missouri side where a person can put a $1 jello shot on a credit card and get a THANK YOU MA'AM instead of a fight. He retaliated by running my card so I had to pay! He ostentatiously snatched the receipt from me after I signed and wrote, "$1.75 kfa" on the corner of the receipt to remind himself to pay it back and I stared at it for a second and was like $6.47 + $1.75 = $8.22 which is less than $10 and I DON'T GET IT? I stormed out, threw myself and my disgusting guilt swill into the car, announcing, "I shall never darken the door of that place again!"

"SHIRT?"

"What?"

"The picture! He saw me taking the picture?"

"What picture?"

"SHIRT."

It must have been my day for strange commmunications.

I have no idea what that whole thing was about, unless $1.75 is the transaction fee for a credit card and "She" has figured out some margin at which it isn't worth it for her to take a card. It was a debit card anyway. I don't know if that makes any difference. HOWFUCKINGEVER. This speaks to one of my bigger pet peeves and that is people who don't want to take my money! Surely slapping a $1.75 transaction fee on a bottle of wine that is probably worth about 5 cents (it tasted like 2 cents worth of CRAP) still nets "HER" a big enough profit?

So where are we so far?

Friday: I'm bored.

Saturday: Shirt.

Sunday: OHMYGOD our airconditioning broke.

I was at the pool and it was member appreciation day so naturally it was crowded and coincidentally hotter than balls when I got a text of doom from Paco: Our a/c is broken. Oy, the schfitzing. Sis and I went to Dairy Queen for sustenance and then went home and proceeded to ROAST while Paco tried various tests to see what was wrong (and determined it was...broken). There was nothing to do of course except wait because I may be a baby but there is no heat so hot that it will make me pay for an emergency call to an HVAC guy.

Eighty-five degrees inside the house. See how I have Celsius on there for the rest of the world? Okay, I only mention it because I was all like wtf? July 6, 1933?

Thank god the air got fixed today and for a relatively low cost. Paco was all ready to buy a new furnace and air conditioner and everything else because he overdoes, but he was thwarted, ha ha! Now I'm sitting at a skating rink and I shall never complain about my ass being cold again.

Zzzzzzzzing

2008-07-03T13:38:00.003-05:00

I've been a titch testy the last few days. Okay, fine, I decided to try not taking Zoloft for a couple of weeks just to see if it made a difference. I was not being cavalier about this! I have a good reason and it's spelled S-E-X and that's all I HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT I'M HORRIFIED I SAID IT TO BEGIN WITH AAAGUUUGH.

Outcome of experiment: I started taking Zoloft again yesterday. I just can't manage to cope with life, it seems, without my chemical friends, cope with life in an acceptable way, I mean. I could live without Zoloft. I'm not suicidal. I might make those around me suicidal, though. Back in the day, before antidepressants, I have no doubt I would have been one of those women who was a screaming, bitching shrew all the time. Now I hope I'm just sort of an amusing semi-shrew who has flashes of rational behavior.

Like every other parent in the world, I worry I'll pass down all my worst qualities to my children. I never think I'll pass down anything beneficial, of course. I don't believe I've ever said, "Boy, I hope Holly inherits my ability to be assertive with salespeople." Why is that? Maybe it's just my negativity. It probably is. I hope my daughter doesn't inherit my negativity. HA.

The other day, my daughter made me sad by displaying a personality trait I've believe I've seen before somewhere.

You would think Holly, who has shown herself to be crazy organized in her thoughts, would be crazy organized in her actions, but nay. She's the messiest kid in the house and that's saying something with Elliot around. For instance, every morning when she decides to change into her clothes for the day, she leaves a pile of pajamas and underwear on the living room floor. When she comes home from camp and changes into her second outfit of the day (argh), she leaves her clothes from camp in a pile next to her hamper, touching her hamper, even. When she's done eating her morning bowl of Cocoa Pebbles and tiny juice glass of water, she walks away from the table and leaves everything intact.

She and Paco usually leave while I'm in the shower so I toss the cereal bowl and glass of water in the sink when I rush into the kitchen to take my mountain of pills before I depart. Paco doesn't seem to think it's his job to clear the table (neither is making the bed or picking up the aforementioned pile of pajamas BY THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE WAY).

This week I was testy, obviously and when I came home from work with Holly in tow for the 10,123rd day in a row and saw the pile of pajamas I said, "Miss, pick up those pajamas right now and take them to your hamper." She was cheerful about it and complied.

The next evening: "Miss, pick up those pajamas right now and take them to your hamper." Not quite so cheerful.

Third evening: "Miss, pick up..."

"I KNOW."

"Well if YOU KNOW, then why don't you put them in the hamper in the morning when you take them off"

"I DON'T KNOW."

"I see," I replied, resisting the urge to laugh.

I realized that no kid--and this is a big DUH--is going to pick up her clothes/put her dishes in the sink/do anything at all unless someone makes her, and said kid is especially disinclined to do it if her parent does it for her, that's Piggle Wiggle 101. So the next day I went on a spree.

Undressing for bath: "Miss, the towel goes on the rack, not on the floor."

Dressing for bed: "Miss, your clothes go in the hamper, not on the floor."

Eating breakfast: "Miss, your bowl goes in the sink."

Dressing for camp: "Miss, those PJs go in the hamper, not on the floor. Miss, you need to brush your hair, Miss you need to wear socks, MISS MISS MISS MISS" until I was sick of my own voice and seriously rethinking that nickname.

What finally broke her was this: "Miss, you need to brush your teeth."

She broke into sobs.

"I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING!!"

I feel like that when I don't take Zoloft. I have to do everything! I have to wake up! I have to get dressed! I have to walk to the door! I can't staaaaaaaand it.

In reality, Holly was probably just sick of doing anything, considering the life of Riley she has had up until now, what with her personal maid following her around as she tosses off her clothes and pushes aside her meals and drops her towels and never brushes her teeth or hair. It's such a rip off when your mother makes you tidy yourself and your surroundings. What the fuck, in fact. *I* have to do everything! Damn kids.

Tater Tots

2008-07-02T12:25:00.002-05:00

I have the sneezies. I think I'm allergic to my pants. No, I'm serious. I am so sensitive to wool that if there's like 2% wool in anything I wear I get itchy and sneezy and my eyes feel like they have fibers in them. Goddamned sheep! Conspiring to make me scratch!

My husband needs to read more. He just sent me an instant message saying, "So and so is pursing his lips," and then hastily sent another message, "Is that the correct spelling?"

Bewildered, I replied, "Of WHAT?"

"Pursing."

"How the hell else would you spell it??"

I mean...purcing? purssing? Wtf?

Speaking of Paco, he is on one of his infrequent sprees where he decides to start "eating healthy" which is code for "go on a diet." I don't agree with dieting and think it makes you eat more, and besides any kind of dieting without exercise is a waste of time, but who listens to me? Paco proposed a week of eating "healthy food" and taking our lunches instead of eating out, but when I agreed and proposed adding a paltry THREE DAYS of walking at the lovely gym for which we have paid a year's membership, he ignored me. Furthermore, guess who's having to come up with and deal with subsequent criticism of this "healthy food?" Yeah. And on the first day of taking our lunches, guess who didn't take his lunch even though I went out of my way to buy lunch fixings? I give up! The only reason I may keep up the taking my lunch thing is that I bought some hoagie buns for sandwiches and I like them and I can save up my lunch money to buy something I want, like a Dooney Wristlet or some Coach sunglasses. Fuck health, I just want to die with nice stuff.

I even bought That Man a copy of You: The Owner's Manual even though I hate Dr. Oz! And it is sitting unread in favor of Dirt Bike Weekly or some shit.

I and my apple shaped torso are having tater tots for dinner.

Bad Ideas

2008-06-30T14:37:00.002-05:00

Holly felt left out yesterday since Elliot got to have friends over, so I let her call her friend Mary (the one whose mom never calls us for a play date, ever) and invite her to go to the pool with us.

LET ME JUST SAY: hosting teenage boys is nothin' compared to dealing with girls. GOD. Teenage boys stink and make a lot of noise, but at least they get along. Holly and Mary were fighting before we even got in the car! Sheez!

"Mary, why don't you wear bikinis?"

"I don't like them."

"Bikinis are better than one-pieces."

"Are not."

"Are too."

ETCETERA.

Holly refuses to wear a one-piece swimming suit, of course. She doesn't even like tankinis. I weep for her father, who likes to go to the pool, because unless Holly develops some body shame somewhere along the line here, he's going to be going to the pool with a daughter in a string bikini in about five years. And that ain't right.

When we got to the pool, the girls ran into another kid from their school and that girl latched onto Mary. Mary and the other girl, also named Mary, are tall and they immediately went to places in the pool where Holly couldn't touch. Holly refused to acknowledge the water was too deep and wouldn't use a noodle and kept struggling to tread water and keep her head and face above the surface and all this shit and finally I made her get out and took her aside.

"Miss. You need to use a noodle or move to the shallower end."

"I CAN SWIM."

"I can swim too, but I wouldn't play in the six-foot end! It's too tiring when you can't touch bottom!"

"I CAN SWIM."

"Miss!"

"I CAN SWIM."

I got pissed at that point and threw off my cover-up and jumped in the water because it seems like a good parenting tactic to make sure your kid doesn't drown from pride. The water was fucking cold and the wind was ridiculous and I hate pools, but god damn.

Then Mary II, who is reportedly a bully or at least that's what I've heard from the Brownie Mothers (eyerollz), loudly remarked to Mary I, "I feel sorry for Holly because she can't play with us because she's short."

OH REALLLLLLY, MARY II?

I hauled my dumpy ass up onto the side and briskly remarked, "Mary R. Come with us, we're going over to the fountains. Mary K. your dad wants you. He's over there."

No, her dad didn't really want her. Her dad was sunbathing, thrilled that someone else was watching his kid for free. I was lying and I do not care because Hell No you're not horning in on my daughter's play date and calling her short, you HOSS.

But even though I tried to manage the horning (hee!), Mary II kept showing up and Mary I seemed to prefer playing with her and Holly just didn't have a very good time. We left at the appointed time (I *always* have a designated time to leave the pool because as I think I've mentioned I HATE POOLS) and Mary and Holly fought all the way home.

"Mary, I don't see why you were playing with Mary K on OUR play date. That wasn't very nice."

"We asked you to play but you were too short."

"I am not short!"

"Are too."

"Are not."

ETCETERA.

I finally said, "Ladies, if we can't get along I believe I'll drop Mary off at her house and end this play date. You're supposed to be playing, not fighting."

There was silence for the rest of the ride home.

When we got home, I had to change and take Elliot and his friends back to Lawrence and unbelievably, a 40-minute drive with a carload of 15-year-olds eating Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches was more tolerable than a five-minute trip filled with girlish whining. Paco reported that Holly and Mary continued to clash after I left, disagreeing on which vehicles to ride around the driveway (scooters, bikes, or trikes) and which traffic pattern to follow (figure eights or S) and ended up running into each other and bonking heads. CHRIST.

I wish Holly didn't fixate on this one girl, but I know it is a hopeless task trying to get your kid to pick a new best friend. There are other little girls who want to be friends with Holly and she is just stubborn about only wanting Mary. It seems like this hasn't been as big a deal with Elliot, but I don't know if that's a boy/girl difference or an Elliot/Holly difference. Elliot is Mr. Social and while he does have one kid that he calls his best friend (the one he'll NEVER see again once high school starts, even though they live 5 blocks from each other), he never just wants to do something with one person. Nay, Elliot always wants to invite 10 kids over and then pushes for 11.

In fact, I'm sort of embarrassed about this one little girl who has invited Holly over several times, but when I try to get Holly to return the favor, she refuses and lobbies for Mary. Gads! I'm the mother who doesn't reciprocate! I hate me! God damn it, next weekend I'm going to invite that girl over and not even tell Holly until the deal's been made.

That's a bad idea, isn't it?

Hardly worth reading

2008-06-29T10:18:00.003-05:00

Sunday entry! Paco and Holly have gone to fetch his four-wheeler from his dad and I am babysitting three teenage boys that were up until 4:30 a.m. and are, I believe, still sleeping. I'm not going to check. It's like a barnyard up there.

We left Elliot and his friends alone last night for about three hours while we went to California Pizza Kitchen and then to nitpick's house for dessert. Before we left, I placed a taco bar (I just caused Kathy to drop dead) out for the boys to eat and then pulled Elliot aside and said, "You know, we are going out for a couple of hours and if I come home and find that you've been drinking or doing any other kind of teenage bullshit I will kill you. Literally. And call your friends' parents. And put up a sign at the high school saying, "Happy first day of high school Elliot Friendly! LOVE MOMMY!" While we were eating dinner, I texted Elliot just to make sure everything was all right and Jenny asked me what I was doing and I jokingly said I was making sure Elliot knew my electronic eyes were on him. I added, "I don't think there's a problem, really, because these two kids he's with aren't the type to get in trouble."

She snorted and was all like, "HAH! Were YOU the type that the parents trusted?" trying to make a point that parents are clueless about the characters of teenagers. But actually? I *was* the kid other kids' parents neither liked nor trusted. I think maybeee it was because I cussed and smoked and drank. But it's not like I influenced anyone! I was then, as I am now, pretty transparent when I wasn't paying attention and also my friends didn't know how to lie to their parents. Idiots. They'd come home reeking of smoke and half drunk and instead of saying, "Yeah, Johnny's parents smoke SO MUCH it's ridiculous! They must have smoked a pack between them while we watched Billy Graham Crusade. Gosh! I'm so tired and bored I am slurring my words, even! Gotta go take a shower and get to bed!" they'd crack under pressure and confess all and the best lie they could come up with was, "Janie is a bad influence!" Fuckers.

Jenny told me to start marking my alcohol bottles with Sharpie but said it would only work once before they'd figure out to dilute with water. A-hem. Parents of Jenny's friends: you trusted the wrong kid.

Okay, so Swistle tells me I'm supposed to "pay it forward" and ask a question that everyone's supposed to answer in the comments and then I'm supposed to pick one of you and send you a gift on which I spend my own money. I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS CONCEPT. I don't really see what I get out of it, Swistle. More comments? I already get tons of comments when I ask a question and half the time they're fraught with anger and condemnation. Someone will yell at Marian for saying librarians should dress well so the public takes them seriously. Marian yells at everyone for saying lesbians have short hair. I yell at people to quit being assholes. I piss people off for calling them out on a comment! People yell at me for being inconsistent or a hypocrite! kinderczenainfajbfa I can't spell it yells at me on a daily basis (and I love it)! Oy, and the hair comments! The toe hair pride parade in the comments was worth gifts ALL AROUND. But I'm not doing it! I sent Kathy the Millionth Reader a mug--isn't that enough? God damn it, when I get to 2 million I'll send someone else something cheap and tacky. Where IS Kathy the Millionth Reader by the way? Kathy, you used to delight people with your handle and now you leave them all in despair. guilt guilt guilt

I've lost track of a bunch of commenters. I wonder if I pissed them off. Where is Ricci/Tori? And Catie? And Sandy? And craige? CRAIGE? I know you exist! I read your Twitters. Tweets. Twits? Whatever they are.

Okay, my arms hurt. And those kids still aren't up. I bought donuts for god's sake and now it's lunchtime.

FTW

2008-06-25T10:21:00.005-05:00

You know, every time I write about sleeveless shirts or tank tops or halters or whatever, a bunch of people pathetically ask, "What? What's wrong with sleeveless tops!? It's hot in the summer! Are sleeveless tops WRONG?"

I'm going to explain my point of view and then from now on I'm going to link back to this so I never have to talk about it again.

I am a secretary/executive assistant. I only throw EA in there because Paco gets fussy and says I always "downgrade" my position. Whatever! When I say "executive assistant" I feel like I'm pulling the "sanitation engineer" gambit. I have worked mostly in so-called "professional" environments and all have had dress codes. In super-professional environments such as Big 6 (8, 4, however many there are now what with all the mergers) Accounting Firms (one of which I worked for) sleeveless tops, tank tops, spaghetti straps, and halters are generally forbidden, along with open-toed shoes and denim and bare legs with skirts and collarless shirts for men and t-shirts for women. The office in which I work right now is "business casual" and we can wear sleeveless tops, but halters and spaghetti straps and rubber flip-flops are not allowed. Now, you may love these styles and look fantastic in them with your teeny boobs and lovely tans and fit arms, but the dress code gods say that showing your shoulders, side boob and most of your back isn't even "business casual," much less professional attire. Apparently institutions of higher learning and places like wineries and hemp factories and Whole Foods have a different ethos, but I have never worked any of those places, so I can't speak to the appropriateness of halters in your workplace, OKAY? All I know is many many MANY people have abominable judgment with regard to clothing. You know what I mean. You do. Because of these people, we all suffer. You hotties who look great in halters get shafted because of the woman of a certain age who hasn't looked in the mirror for 20 years and thinks shoving her braless 42Ds in a halter is a-ok. You physically fit, pulled together gals who look great in neatly pressed khaki bermuda shorts and a nice polo are screwed because of the 20 year old receptionist who dresses like a hooch in stilettos and "dress shorts." Life sucks, but I have trouble feeling sorry for people who don't get to wear a tank top to the office. If you pick fruit for a living or lay pipe, we'll talk.

Why does "lay pipe" always sound dirty to me? Oh yeah, it's because I have a male teenager in the house this week. Jesus, it's like living with Beavis with all the "That's what she said!s" and the "heh heh heh you said HanCOCK."

I get all like, "I'm your MOTHER for the love of god! That's gross!"

And then he says something like, "Good taste for the lose!" or some other indecipherable form of teen lingo and I laugh in spite of myself.

Elliot's taking a digital movie making class this week in the afternoons so I am frantically using my lunch hour to drive him to it and leaving on the dot of 4:27 to get there to pick him up. Every day I get a different kid in the car. Some days he's chatty and funny and talks about his friends and the girl who called him douchebag and how she's flying to Las Vegas this week to visit the guy she calls her "boyfriend" but "Jesus Christ Mom they've supposedly been 'dating' for a year and she's met him in person once! It is NOT going to end well, but she doesn't want to hear it, I mean how is a 'relationship' that started in World of Warcraft going to work out?"

I gasped for words like a fish gasps for air on a dirty beach.

"WHAT THE HELL?? How...where...her parents are letting her...?!"

"Right?" smirked Elliot. "I'm not so bad, am I?"

Then there are days like today when he sits there defining the word sullen and claims his dad "never" lets him do anything with his friends and he's never changing his Facebook picture ever ever because it's of him and his best friend and since his evil parents are making him go to a different high school he'll "never" see him again once summer's over.

"I think you're exaggerating a bit there, son."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him flip me off. HE FLIPPED ME OFF.

I slammed on the brakes, which sounds more dramatic than it was. I was in a parking lot next to the bank where I withdrew ten dollars in ones so he could buy a damn Coke at the break of his stupid class I paid for so he wouldn't sit around and play video games for an entire week.

"Oh, come on Mom! You know what I mean!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean! You basically just told me to fuck off and I know I let you talk casually to me and cuss and stuff, but I draw the line at you telling me to fuck off! Damn it!"

Then I was sullen.

"Give me my money back!"

He rolled his eyes and handed back the ten dollars.

"I can't believe you! Your dad let you walk around downtown and eat at Chipotle every day for a month with your theater friends and you know Luke was in Europe so you wouldn't have been able to do anything with him ANYWAY and I give you money and try to talk to you and you FLIP ME OFF."

"I'm sorry! Quit trying to make me feel guilty!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW FROM GUILT."

We pulled up to the school and I rolled to a stop so he could get out.

"Bye, Mom."

"Here. Take this dollar for your stupid Coke."

"Thanks."

I should have flipped him off. Instead I gave him inconsistency, for the win.

Four Wheels

2008-06-24T13:57:00.002-05:00

When we were at that Beatles Tribute Band concert last Friday, after it got dark, Fat Lennon asked everyone to wave around their cell phones in the Bic lighter fashion when they played Let It Be. (Oh, and I sang along too. Such a sweet moment: “He’s off key, he’s off key! He’s off ke-yee-eee he’s off key! OH DEAR GOD PLEASE KILL ME HE’S OFF KEE-HEE-HEE-HEE.”)

Holly was thrilled by the phone-waving practice and demanded one so she could participate. My battery was dead so Paco reluctantly surrendered his Q and then fretted when she ran off with it to go stand right in front of the stage. I don’t know what he worries about. That child never loses anything.

Pretty soon she came running back and hollered, “You got a camera on this thing?” like she was a longshoreman or something, wtf, and Paco showed her how to take a photo with the Q, a surprisingly annoying and ineffectual process. I love our Q phones, but the camera is the worst. I took better pictures with my crappy Samsung flip phone than I ever have with the Q.

Holly ran off to take a picture of the band (which turned out like shit) and then came back and started taking pictures of me and Paco (which turned out like shit). Paco did some magic with the phone and somehow took this crazy awesome picture of Holly where she looked like the bottom half of her face was all white like a ghost and Holly laughed and hooted and he took another one and she was in hysterics and just as the song ended and there was relative silence, she yelled out, “TAKE A PICTURE OF MOM’S MUSTACHE!!!!”

I think I might have talked about my mustache a little too much.

Picnic

2008-06-23T15:08:00.003-05:00

I have been reallllly productive at work lately and I can't figure out why. Usually I can pinpoint some reason like I started taking my medicine correctly or I implemented a planner or some such, but I don't know this time. I'm actually...um....sorta HAPPY with my JOB? Remind me of this when I want to quit next week, k?

I had my company "picnic" on Friday. Have I described these things? They're not like real picnics with plaid blankets and baskets and shit (thank god). We usually go to some kind of family-friendly destination and the meal is always barbecue because that's what you have in Kansas City ALWAYS. BARBECUE. ALWAYS. We raffle off prizes, too, which I never win, ever. Now, no offense to...well, uh me or any other Kansas Citians reading but this town only has about 10 places you can go that will accommodate 300 people and has family activities so I'm never all that excited about the picnic per se, but what I do like is you can go and sign in and then you can leave if you're not interested in the venue. And no, I'm not risking getting myself in trouble here...that's what we do! It's fine! As long as you show up, you're good for the day. This year we went to Union Station and they have good food, so I stayed for lunch (Barbecue! NO!) and then ended up having a martini at 11:55 because they weren't giving away the prizes until 12:30 and who wants to sit around when there's a martini bar nearby? Not I!

It's not a good idea to have a martini before noon. bleah. I ended up leaving and driving to Kohl's and wandering around with a headache cursing the fact that someone in the fashion industry thinks everyone on earth has arms like Jennifer Fucking Aniston. Who is wearing the halters to work? I want to know? Drop me a comment if you have worn a halter to work lately (and don't work in a tanning salon, a bar, or an amusement park).

I ended up buying some of those plaid shorts. You know. The plaid shorts that are supposed to be in style? I held my nose and bought them because when I see them on other people they look cute with a polo and flip flops. Of course those "other people" are usually teenagers. But at least my arms are covered, Jesus H.

Friday evening Paco and Holly and I went to Paco's company "picnic" which actually was a picnic, only with a Beatles tribute band and oh mein gott in himmel. Okay, first off? The guy who was supposed to be George Harrison looked disconcertingly like Keith Richards except for the wig. The guy who was supposed to be John Lennon looked EXACTLY like Elton John. Like Elton John looks now, I mean. Yeah.

I didn't enjoy them, I have to say. The lead singer sang so off-key during "Yesterday" that I hooted and yelled, "Dawg! It's pitchy!"

"George Harrison" kept getting pissed because something with his guitar wasn't working right and he kept storming back to his amp (?) and dicking around with it and then he would throw up his hands and stop playing and I'm like...DUDE. Get a grip on yourself! You're in a tribute band playing for a bunch of telephone company employees, and plus? George was the nice one.

But hey, it was free. Holly enjoyed running around and dancing and Paco and I enjoyed people watching. We got there rather early because I didn't want to have to deal with long lines for food and also, I always worry about little Holly being able to see. It's a weird obsession of mine. I was short as a kid (and I'm short now! Why do you people always assume I'm tall?) and my childhood took place before the advent of stadium-style seating, so I spent many a theatrical/cinematic performance staring at somebody's shoulder blades or sitting on my heels until my legs went numb. There was hardly anyone there when we arrived at the GIANT, UNSHADED soccer field, so I hustled right up to the front by the stage and staked out our lawn chairs right behind a grouchy looking guy of about 450 pounds who was wedged into a camp chair and sweating like nobody's business. He had some spaces next to him marked off with a blanket and a jacket and a bag and he kept barking at people who would try to move in that he was saving those spaces. It worked out well for us because the spaces stayed open for a long time and Holly could see well. I started to speculate he just didn't want anyone sitting by him. Or he was being stood up. He looked miserable and he didn't seem like he could move and it was fucking hot and I started feeling sorry for him.

Eventually, though, his wife and daughter and son-in-law showed up. His wife went and got him a plate of food and he continued to sit there and look pissy. At intermission I took Holly to the bathroom and when I got back the guy was gone and I looked around and saw him walking slowly, painfully back from the bathroom and as he prepared to sit back down in that camp chair everyone in the vicinity held their breath and I thought, that's no kind of life. I bet he is so unhappy. I bet his wife is unhappy. I bet...

Then the band started playing the "Long and Winding Road" and his wife squealed, hopped up, planted her feet and hauled that guy out of his chair and kissed him and they danced. And he smiled and smiled and she did that stripper dance thing all the women these days seem to know how to do and I was like, damn, Jane, you're an imbecile. You don't know anything about anything. Nobody's dancing with me, and I have no problem at all getting out of my camp chair. Sheez.