Tequilacure

June 3, 2005

There is only so much naked, ice-cream eating dancing to the 80’s that one person can do.  Yeah right!  I am so not finished yet!

I got a Manicure!  And a Pedicure!  And a Tequilacure!  (Okay, I totally made up the word tequilacure, but seriously, what can’t tequila cure?) My toes are now a yummy hue of purple.  I have never gone purple on my toes, but I am living on the edge, people.  I sort of like my purple toes.  But for the record, Clint totally doesn’t appreciate my purple toes when I thrust them up onto the dashboard of the car in front of his face for him to admire while he is trying to navigate rush hour traffic.  What?  I was just showing him how yummy they looked.  How was I to know he thought my toes on the dashboard were “distracting his driving.” And the manicure?  Totally cute.  French manicure with just the perfect length.  Not too long that it makes typing difficult.  Not too short that it wastes my time.  Just perfect for drumming on my keyboard when I am stuck for a word so that they make just enough noise for me to tune them out but loud enough for the dog to freak the hell out trying to find the source of the noise.  (I find my amusement in simple ways.)

Apparently I needed this break more than I realized.  I have had people make comments like, “You look so different!  Is it the hair?  New outfit?  No, wait!  You aren’t foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.” Or ever the popular “Hey, I totally didn’t know you weren’t a bitch in real life.  You’re actually pretty laid back.” And then there was my all time favorite, “Oh for the love of God are you doing drugs again?  You look way too calm and relaxed.  Just say no, Jenn.”

I am thinking of sending my sister child support payments and just having a kid-free summer.  I don’t think she will go for it, but it is worth a shot.

Oh and speaking of things that freak me the hell out.  (No, I really wasn’t speaking about things that freak me the hell out, but I was reaching for a segue.  Do you mind??) I happened to catch Hit Me Baby (1 More Time) last night. WTF?  No, really…WTF???

I would like to say I handled this as an adult, but I would SO be lying. I admit it.  I was totally confused when I saw this. I am all “Who the hell is that?  Is that Brent Spiner?  What the hell is this?  Why is he singing 80’s music?” And then I get a close up and see something more like this and am seriously confused and more than a little freaked out.  No, really, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”

Then I hear the announcer.  “Let’s hear it for LOVERBOY!”

WTF?  *faint*

Loverboy?  As in THIS Loverboy? Best known for this album cover?

Talk about freaking me the hell out.  I began to shout, “Noooooo!  WTFWTFWTF??  They look so OLD!” Then I dove behind the couch to hide from the horror of the moment.  After a few moments curled in the fetal position and sucking my thumb, I came back out.  Only to hear that after 22 years Tiffany is singing again.  And not in a mall. 

I am afraid. Hold me. 

I think I need my Tequilacure again. Bartender, hit me baby 1 more time and make it a double!

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PSA

April 15, 2005

Today’s Public Service Announcement

If you have a pillow- especially one of those really mushy Moshi ones that has about a billion trillion umpteen million tiny beads in it- that has cleaning instructions that say “Spot Clean Only”, THEY ARE NOT KIDDING.  It is not a suggestion or a recommendation. It is a proclamation by God himself telling you not to put the fucking things in the washing machine.

You’re welcome.

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Blogger by nurture or Blogger by nature?

February 8, 2005

It was bound to happen.  You try to protect them as long as you can.  You educate them on the dangers and the downfalls of doing it.  You pray at night that they will never be faced with giving in to the pressure.  But you wake up one day and it has happened.  You’ve lost them to a force that, although you yourself have been sucked in by, you hoped they never would be a victim.

Yes, friends, Brandon has a blog.  (And, no, I am not going to give out the url.  It is bad enough that I talk about him as much as I do here.  You certainly don’t need to read anything he has to say about me.)

Ahhh, those first days of blogging.  Several entries a day.  All the bells and whistles you can find to put on your new space on the internet.  And asking Mom NONSTOP questions about how to do things. 

“Mom, how do you add pictures?”

“Mom, how do you get more traffic to your site?”

“Mom, can I link to you?” (I believe my answer was something sweet like: ‘Oh for the love of god, hell no, son!’)

“Mom, come look.” (This one is heard only about 9,745 times a day.  On a slow day.)

But it made me think about something.  I wrote yesterday at DotMoms about seeing your children inherit traits of yours that are less than stellar.  (Not that blogging is a bad habit.  I’m a blogger.  A lot of you are bloggers.  It’s not like he is broadcasting personal information across the internet.  I am careful to monitor that part of it.) But it does make me wonder what he would have picked up from me had I not been a writer.  Had I been into art or music. Would he be as eager to get his artwork displayed or his music played?

I know that there are a lot of teens that blog.  A lot.  So, would he have become as caught up in it because he found it through his friends or was he doomed to be a blogger because he is raised in a home where it is more common to hear “I am SO going to blog that” than it is to hear “Eat your vegetables”?

We may never know.  When it comes right down to it, I suppose there is only one thing about his blogging that really worries me…

There is another person learning the phrase “I am SO going to blog that!” (It’s bad enough when I have to compete with him!) My own son damn well better not steal MY blogging fodder. 

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Sometimes all you can do is babble-ass.

February 7, 2005

Sometimes Mondays are only good for babble-assing.  Here is just a bit of randomness.

They are gone.  Out of the house.  Not underfoot.  What am I talking about?  Both boys and

Clint are healthy again.  The boys are in school and the hubby is at work.  Oh hallelujah the angels are singing!  Of course, that means that Gabriella is home without ANY playmates except me.  I am not sure she has taken a breath since she woke up.  There is no time to breathe when you are TALKING nonstop as LOUDLY as you can.  I am considering jamming a couple of chopsticks in my eardrums to find relief from the incessant chatter.  (Of course, the dog misses the boys, too.  I have thrown that damn ball so many times my arm and shoulder are sore.)

Miss a commercial last night during the SuperBowl?  (It was tough to catch them all when the game was so good.  If the game is a blow out, you can get more snacks and go to the bathroom during the game and see all of the commercials.  Gee, thanks, players for making the game so much FUN to watch!) So, if you missed one, check out this page that has all of the commercials.  ALL of them.  It’s like watching the SuperBowl without the silliness of the game.  *[Hat tip to Life with Buccho for the heads up on that.]

Is there life after laundry?  For that matter, is there an “after laundry?” I have never caught up and have never been completely laundry free.  Is this like some cosmic joke?  The laundry demons from hell who sneak in at night and dirty up more clothes than any one family could ever use?  For those of you who have children, do you make them do their own laundry?  If so, at what age did you start?  Is 3 too young to make her do her own laundry? I know there are moer than enough maid services to clean every house in the metroplex.  Are there any services that will come into your house and do your laundry for you?  I don’t have the money to pay someone, but I am willing to sell a kidney if I can get someone to do all of my laundry.  (For the “helpful husbands” like my own, that means wash, dry fold and PUT AWAY.  Just so you know.)

And there you have my Monday babbleassing.

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Cooking sucks. Eating rocks.

January 19, 2005

I don’t like to cook.  When I say I don’t like to cook, I mean I really detest having to cook.  Of course when I say I really detest having to cook I mean I would rather sit in the corner of the room and slowly peel the skin off of my own face than have to cook.

Getting the sheer loathing I have for cooking?

I have a crockpot.  I can do the crockpot.  You throw in a few things.  Turn it on.  Go about your life and dinner is ready when you need to eat.  No fuss.  No crying.  No sitting in the corner peeling off my face.

But you see, I have 2 recipies.  A roast and some sweet brown sugar-terryaki chicken thing.  Two.  Oh wait, I did make this orange juice chicken thingie before that everyone liked.  That makes 3.  Last time I checked a calendar, there are 7 days in a week.  Allowing for pizza night and cereal night I still need to figure out more things to cook.

Here is where you come in.  Any easy recipies?  Crockpot or not.  But remember, you really don’t want to be the one responsible for me having to peel my own face off.  Make it easy.

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Rambling nonsense

I have opened and closed this blog several times since this weekend, but there just wasn’t a muse to help me.  Something happened this weekend that rattled me and I couldn’t move past it.  I am doing better now.  Sorry if you thought I abandonned you.  Never, Internet.  Never.

However, this weekend did allow itself a few moments of humor.  I live in a home of smartasses.  It’s true.  I have no idea where they get it.  I am guessing their father. 

Me: “I probably don’t want to know, but why there is a spoon in my boot?”

Clint: “Because they were eating pudding.”

*huh?*WTF?

Me: (standing in the doorway of my son’s room)“Why do I see dirty clothes all over this floor?!”

A voice from down the hall: “Because you’re standing in the open doorway looking at them!”

In other news, the Puppy Poopinator (affectionately referred to by me as Captain Carpet Crapper) is getting a bit better.  Apparently he only has issues with me.  I think he waits until we are alone and then treats it like a game.  “Hmmmm, I haven’t crapped in this corner before.  Let’s see how long Super Olfactory Girl takes to discover that I hid it there.” I am NOT a big fan of this game.  In fact, this game makes me crazy and a bit irrational.  I even went as far as suggesting that maybe duct taping his ass would help keep him from this game.  No one thought that was a good idea but me.  Figures.

Thanks for all of your suggestions on housebreaking him.  We are crate training him.  He is doing great with it.  No howling of anything.  In fact, at “bedtime” he goes to his crate willingly.  It is beginning to feel like his safe place to him.  Which is what we want of course. 

Now if only he would stop this game of Crap and Seek, I would be much happier!

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Too trusting

January 13, 2005

I am a trusting person.  Usually to the point that I get taken advantage of. I just don’t see the point of assuming the worst and hoping to be proven wrong.  But sometimes, no matter how much you want to believe the best, all evidence points to what you don’t want to see.

Just before the kids went back to school after the holidays, they had a few friends over.  (Three of them are the kids of my coffee neighbor who moved.  It was great to see them again.) The other two are neighborhood kids that I have known since they moved in about 4 years ago.  So, all of the kids (Do the math- my 3 + my friends 3 + 2 neighbors = chaos) were playing in the playroom.  I could see everyone and they were behaving.  Two of the boys were playing Zarek’s gameboy.  I watched to see who had it and when.  The last boy to play with it was the neighborhood boy.  (Everyone saw him with it last.) When it was time to go and everyone left, guess what was missing? 

If you guessed the Gameboy along with the Gameboy bag with about 20 games, you would be right.

I have searched this house top to bottom looking for it. I have torn the house apart hoping to find it.  Neighbor-boy claims he didn’t have it.  Says he wasn’t the last one with it.  (Lie #1)

Do you know how much I want to believe him?

Do you also know how much I want to chase the little booger down and search his house?

So here is the deal.  I can report it and file a theft report pointing the finger at this kid and thus ruining the neighbor relationship forever as well as knowing we are opening ourselves up to the vandalism etc that we know this kid is capable of.  OR I just totally cut ties with the family anyway and chalk it up as a “damn we got burned by that punk.”

We will replace the Gameboy for Zarek.  That isn’t as much the issue as the fact that he feels violated and hurt by it.  My trust in a CHILD (He is has been shattered.  I opened my home up to these kids and they stole from us.

And then, in the back of my overtrusting mind I begin to worry that maybe he didn’t take it and it is still somewhere in the house and we overlooked it.  (Granted, that means that someone would have had to hide it while they were here.) I hate thinking the worst, but is there really any other option.

What would you do?  Report it to the police or deal with it on your own? 

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Put their money where your mouth is

January 9, 2005

My previous post showed some horrific before and after pictures of the tragic tsunami.  (If you didn’t look, you really need to to fully grasp the enormity of the situation.  We’ll wait.)

Michele is doing a wonderful thing over at her blog.  She has teamed up with Sigmund, Carl and Alfred and they’ve agreed to put their money where your mouth is.  If you go comment on this post, a donation of one dollar for each person who comments will be donated to Oxfam International.

Now, I know a lot of you came out of the woodworks to comment on delurking day.  How much easier and more beneficial it would be to go say hi here and help contribute to a wonderful cause.  Be sure to tell Michele that Jenn at Mommy Needs Coffee sent you.  (Not because I want the credit for sending you, but so that they will see how many other bloggers are supporting her and in this effort.)

Thanks, Internet.  You are good people.

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De-Lurk already

January 5, 2005

Apparently today is a nationally recognized holiday.  And by Nationally Recognized Holiday I mean a day that bloggers said is a holiday for other bloggers.  Sheryl at Paper Napkin has declared it De-Lurking Day.  Which means that if you are used to coming to this blog and reading and then moving on without commenting, today is the day to leave your mark.  Have your say.  Speak your peace.  All that crap that you have know the bloggers love to have on their site.

What are you waiting for? 

*(For my lurkers who have already come out and said howdy, thanks.  You SO are my favorite commenter.  You know who you are.  You know I love you.  Yes, you. And really, I don’t say that to just anyone. )

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The one with all the odors

Oh for the love of Carpet Fresh and Tough Stuff, I long for the day no one pees on my carpet!  How much can one carpet take anyway.  I am thinking of trying tequila next.  No, no.  Not for the carpet.  For me.  I figure I will care less if I am drunk than if I am stone cold sober on my hands and knees scrubbing and sobbing over the fact that once again something peed on my carpet.  I finally see that beautiful light at the end of the tunnel when it comes to potty training Gabriella. My last baby. The last trip through the hell that is known as potty training.  Alas, the only pee accidents come from me when sneezing or laughing too hard.  (I have given birth 4 times, you know!) So finally, I reach the point where I am pretty sure that my daughter has decided to stop peeing on my carpet.  (Of course, the fact that I offered her a Porsche and a diamond tiara that announces to the world that she in fact THE Royal Princess might have helped break her of that habit.)

Now it is the dog.  (Oh, and Internet, if you ever meet Clint in person or talk to him online, please do not ask how his dog, Mr Tampon Ears, is doing.  He is SO not amused by that.)

Besides the overall nuisance and disgust factor of anything peeing on my carpet, it is my own personal hell because, unknown to many, I have a super-power.  I am Super Olfactory Girl.  I have the most sensitive sense of smell of anyone I know or have ever known.  I can smell (and be revolted by) something that no one else is even aware of.  In fact, a few years ago, the most god-awful smell was seeping from our master bathroom that had me shoving things up my nose to avoid smelling it and causing me to puke into my own mouth. (And no, it wasn’t one of the males in my home causing it.) No one else smelled anything.  A few days later, a leak was discovered in the bathroom and the rest of the house began to wreak of the horrendous smell that tortured me for days.  I had to move out until it was fixed.  No, not really, but I did bitch about it until the carpet was replaced.

Clint is now receiving phone calls at work that are along the lines of:

“YOUR dog just PISSED on my carpet.  Do you KNOW how badly that smells?  He POOPED in the kitchen.  IN THE DAMN KITCHEN!  I cannot have a kitchen that smells like ass.  I vomited in your shoe to get back at you.  AND IT SMELLS TERRIBLE!”

On the plus side, I have scrubbed my carpet and my floors to a point where they have never been cleaner in the history of the world.  Of course, my house has the disturbing odor of vanilla scented pine trees most of the time now.

This puppy is totally stressing me out with the peeing and the pooping.

I am going to go gang bang Ben & Jerry

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