Fart jokes always go over big.

Maddy: Look at that horse's buttocks!
Brady: Buttocks? My buttocks- it says "Pfffffffttttttttttttttttttt!"

American Idle

I know few of you are as obsessed as I am, but this had me smirking and saying "Oh, I know! TOTALLY!" at my computer.

Slipping into frumpville.

If I had a nickle for every time I've been out running errands this week, and then looked down and realized that I'd left the house in my slippers again, I'd have about thirty cents. Just sayin.

Chris has a REALLY BIG... sense of humor!

Happy Valentines Day, from The Artist Formerly Known As The Valentine Slayer. The holiday has become marginally less annoying to me, and I actually chose to celebrate it this year! I am turning over a new leaf. Next up? Maybe I'll actually start liking puppies.

Chris and I completed not one, but two wedding registries in the last 24 hours. We did one at Target, because not completing a registry there would be tantamount to not inviting my own mother to my wedding. Besides, if I don't pop in there at least every 48 hours, they issue a Missing Person's Report. In addition to a coffeemaker, some new glasses, and various home-related items, Chris also managed to divert my attention long enough to scan a box of condoms. [Clears throat] Magnums.

I hope the grandparents get the joke.

Here's a story of a lovely lady who was bringing up two very something blogs...

I finally published a couple entries that had been sitting in blog purgatory... I just wanted to inform you of their existence, because I fear otherwise, they will go completely unnoticed- the Jan Bradys of Prose and Converse.

Men In 2006: Is "Pussy Whipped" the new "Alpha Male"? (This actually came from 2006, so no judgement, ok?)

and

Not-Mommy-Approved-Licious, from waaaaaaaaaay back in January.

You know me, unless something isn't attached to my body or screaming at me to make it a PB&J, I am at high risk for forgetting it entirely. I rescued these mere moments before they went the way of The Pythagorean Theorum, The Doogie Howser Theme Song, Making Birth Control Work Effectively, and other things I've completely forgotten.

I'm so lucky I was outside today.

(Forgive the camera-phone pic, but Leonard III was at home.)

Should be: cleaning out my dresser so Chris can have some drawer space.
Am: popping bubble wrap.

Notice anything different about me???

Yup, I'm well on my way to becoming a REAL grown-up!!!

All I need is a (Super)bowl of chips.

Disclaimer: I am not a football fan.

Having said that, I'll tell you that the highlight of Superbowl Sunday (aside from the commercials and making fun of Prince durning half-time) was when my friend Andrea and I were sitting on the couch, trying to decide who we going to root for. She chose the Bears because she has friends in Chicago and family from Illinois. I chose... well, actually, I didn't, but that's beside the point. So, we're parked in front of the dip, which is parked in front of the TV, discussing what team's uniforms we liked better, which players looked too fat, and why some of them were wearing Victorian Muffs/Fannypacks. Then we noticed that she and I, the only two people who didn't even know who was playing until we got to the party, were the only ones watching the game. That made me laugh harder than the Kevin Federline fast food commericial... but just barely.

By the skin of his baby teeth...

When Brady was being assembled in the Baby Building Factory, he was equipped with a life-preserving device, something I have come to refer to as the "Charmometer". This child can tell when he is within seconds of pushing me over the edge, and at the precise moment where I am seeing red and about to have a nervous breakdown, he whips out the most angelic, TV Sitcom Cute Kid routine and earns himself the privilege of seeing another birthday. This picture was taken in the midst of one of this morning's many tantrums/fits/crying jags. To narrow it down for you, this one didn't involve urinating- that came about 20 minutes later. This entire morning felt like Brady was at war with the little angel/devil on his shoulders. The angel was bound and gagged, and the devil was slipping Brady skittles and double-dog-daring him to see how far he could go before I threatened to send him away to Swiss Boarding (Pre)School. Let me just put it this way: I was so overwhelmed this morning that I wanted to tell Brady, "Oh yeah, keep it up Kiddo. I'M ALREADY GROWING YOUR REPLACEMENT!", but I didn't. Instead, I called my breakfast date to tell her I was running late, and cried the whole way to my pancakes.

Needless to say, when it was time to pick Brady up after school, I wasn't looking forward to it. As I walked through the door of his daycare, Brady came barging towards me full speed and locked himself around my legs. "Mommy! Know what? I missed you!" (Insert maternal heart-melting noises here.) All I really have to say is that I am so thankful that the aliens who abducted my son while he was at school could not have picked a better day to do it. Boarding School will have to wait until next semester.

Good intentions and interventions.

I had to make a quick grocery store run on my way home from work/picking up the munchkins, and I had a very strict list. All I wanted to get was something to cook for tonight's dinners. I use the plural because I've become accustomed to eating two dinners- a little snack with the kids when they eat, and then another little something with Chris when he gets home from work a few hours later. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that my health care professional recommends that I eat many small meals a day, and I'm not just a glutton. For the most part.

I asked Chris what he wanted to eat tonight, and he asked me to just pick up some snacks. He said he wanted apples with peanut butter, or maybe a ceaser salad. (I might have mentioned something about not wanting to buy any more junk food- and for the record, I meant it at the time.)

I didn't manage to make it out of the grocery store with apples.
Or peanut butter.
I did remember to grab a bag of ceaser salad mix.
And ice cream.
Or, more accurately, ice creams.

I use the plural because... I couldn't help it. I was powerless! Last night after dinner, I was hit with an overwhelming urge for something cold. (I know. Most people crave flavors, and I'm the weirdo who goes and craves a temperature.) I would have killed a man bare-handed for some ice cream last night. Not wanting to find myself in a similar predicament tonight, I thought there was no harm in strolling through the frozen food aisle. Well, once I opened the door for my urge for dessert, common sense had not only left the building, but got ran over in the parking lot. I couldn't stop at one pint of Ben & Jerry's, because I couldn't possibly decide between my Old Standby and a new flavor I'd never seen before. I had every intention on stopping there... but then, when my kids began salivating the moment said pints hit the shopping cart, I became really protective. Sure, they're my hearts and souls and all that sappy stuff, but do I really want to share my ice cream with them? The answer to that question is embodied in the quart of Root Beer Float ice cream that I threw in the cart so quickly, it almost bounced. Then I noticed the bright yellow tags behind that freezer door, yellow tags teasing me with the promise of a better bargain if I bought two. I would be very impolite of me to turn down such hospitality, so I picked up some Breyer's All Natural Strawberry. Did you see that? "All Natural." So it's good for me. Natch.

The "low" of my shopping experience had to be when Madelynn was unloading the shopping cart as we were getting ready to check out.
"FOUR ice creams, Mom?"
"Yeeeeep!"
"But Mom," in a hoarse whisper, "what are people gonna THINK?"

Breyers Ice Cream: Two for $6, with Club Card
Ben & Jerry's: $3.99 a pint
Having Your Six Year Old Discourage Your Ice Cream Purchase: Effed Up.


Half of Brady, with our magnificent array of frozen delights. (Maddy was too embarrassed of me to be pictured.)

I'd actually prefer to wake up and smell the roses.

Very high on my To-Do List:
Teaching my son the importance of flushing.

Nothing says "Good morning!" quite like a little poop floating around in the toilet.

Not-Mommy-Approved-licious

At the risk of all my street cred flying out the window, I'm going to be brutally honest.

Last week, I purchased my first ever... deep breath... first ever Edited Version of a song.

Maddy has developed this penchant for Fergie- and more specifically, the song "Fergilicious." I blame my sister for that one. Now, if you know me, you know my taste in music is wide enough to include my fair share of guilty pleasures that I don't mind owning up to. (I call to reference Ashlee Simpon and Kelly Clarkson.) However, please believe me when I say that the choice to add this song to my iTunes library was strictly for Maddy. With that in mind, having never heard the song in it's entirety, I opted to purchase the edited version.

So, the version of the song that Maddy gets to listen to says "shhhhh" instead of "shit". Whoopee! I had only heard my daugher and sister singing the chorus of the song when I bought it, and had no idea it contained lines like "I got reasons why I tease 'em, boys just come and go like seasons," and "I know I'm comin off just a little bit conceited when I keep on repeating how the boys wanna eat it." Hearing my six year old sing that made me fear getting arrested in my own home... not to mention the conversations I'll be having with her ten years from now.

The complete dorkiness I felt for buying an edited song was quickly eclipsed by worries of my daughter becoming a stripper. You think I would have learned my lesson after the great Pussycat Dolls Debacle of 2005, but I guess I'm still learning.

This begs a bigger question- one bigger than "What's wrong with Maddy saying things like 'They'll be lining down the block just to watch what I got'?" That question is this: does this mean I have to start listening to KidzBop???

Another one where I compare myself to Santa.

A few weeks ago, I had one of "those" days. By that, I mean that at 3:07, I wanted to kill the man driving the blue Ford F-150 on the corner of Fred Waring and 111 because he didn't leave me enough room to make a right hand turn during the red light. At ten past three, I got teary-eyed thinking about orphans. No orphans in particular, just orphans in theory. Before the clock struck four, I swiped my debit card at the register of Old Navy, and came out with one red velour sweatsuit, because I felt like lounging around my house in something warm and cozy, and everything else I owned of the warm and cozy variery was getting on my nerves. When clothing is getting on your nerves, you're having one of "those" days.

Fast forward to today. I changed into afformentioned sweats faster than Clark Kent becomes Superman and was on the couch, horizontal, before my daughter could say "Let's watch Cartoon Network!" As I lie there, not unlike a beached whale, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the TV screen.

I learned a priceless lesson today. Never buy an entire outfit made of red velour, unless you want to look like the bastard lovechild of Santa Claus and the Koolaid Man.

License To Drive.

Brady: Mom, can I drive my nuts?
Me: WHAT?!?!?!?
Brady: Mom. Can. I. Drive. My. NUTS?
Me: Brady, what are you talking about?
Brady: Maddy said I was driving her nuts, can I drive mine?

Santa Baby

I used to love Christmas. The entire season was magical and almost hypnotic, something to look forward to all year. Now? Now I just think it's a huge pain in the ass. I'll tell you what I like. I like the idea of Santa, jiggly jello belly and unruly facial hair, going about his business from the North Pole all year long, delegating toy-making tasks to his minion of elves while he meticulously checks, rechecks, his list. I like to think of Mrs. Claus, puttering around the kitchen in her apron and halo of curly silver hair, her only goal to have a batch of cookies fresh from the oven as soon as Santa walks through the door. I stopped believing in Santa aroundabouts my eighth year of life when I woke up Christmas morning and tore down the stairs, only to find out that in addition to the cookies I left out for Santa, he devoured a whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream. MY whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream, might I add. And a twelver of Bud Light. I knew immediately that Santa would not do something like that, not to me. My step dad really dropped the ball that year. Instead of stepping up to bat and admitting that he ate my ice cream and washed it down with a dozen beers after I was asleep, he penned a Thank You note from Santa.

"Dear Nikki, thank you for the delicious cookies. I was still hungry from my long journey, so I hope you don't mind that I helped myself to your ice cream. I know it's your favorite, and I know you had to beg your mom to get it, and I know you were saving it for later, but it was really good. Don't worry about those beer cans, it's Rudolph who drives the sleigh anyway. So yeah, thanks for being such a good girl this year! Next year, try not to be such a smartass to your step dad. He's a cool guy. Love, Santa."

The note might have been convincing, had my step father remembered to disguise his handwriting. So there I was, Christmas morning, wearing pajamas with feet, and realizing that not only did Santa not exist, but my step dad was a real piece of work.

Fast forward almost two decades later, where I find myself, almost comically, on the other side of the chimney. I wish I could have the innocence of my children, and more importantly, the enthusiasm and optimism. I am a Scroogey McScrooge, bah humbugging all over the place. Once you know all the tricks, the illusion isn't so fun anymore. Santa really is just some man in a suit- and I don't even get to sit back and enjoy the show. Now I'm forced into the suit myself; tired, broke, and with an extreme inability to attractively wrap presents. I will put on the Santa show for my children while they're still willing to believe it, because they deserve a little magic. Well, and because "Santa is watching you" motivates them to be a hell of a lot nicer than "because Mommy said so!"
But who's gonna sneak presents under the tree for me? Because I really want a Wii and a Scooba and some new jeans and those Vans I've been lusting after since last March, and I really want to believe that some fat man is just going to give them to me, on account of me being a good girl all year. I almost wish I'd chosen to still believe in Santa, even if that meant accepting him as a fridge-raiding binge-drinker. It's still a whole lot better than Santa being... me.

Mrs. Sprat

It's not like I'm superficial or anything, but seeing my boyfriend wearing my jeans makes me never, ever, ever even want to be in the same room as a calorie for the rest of my life. I shouldn't complain, though. I suppose it could be worse- at least we don't have the same bra size.

Men In 2006 : Is Pussy-Whipped the New Alpha Male?

It's almost half time. The opposing teams are playing their hardest, but losing steam. Offense and Defense keep getting confused. When the whistle blows to pause game play, the rivals approach each other and meet centerfield. The opponents size each other up through narrow eyes, appraising the other while sending messages of intimidation. And then, they all switch jerseys. Game play resumes.

Imagine sitting at your favorite local watering hole, watching this very game go down on TV. You'd be so shocked you'd drop your buffalo wing in your lap, right? You'd tilt your pint of beer warily, looking for evidence of hallucinogens. Calm down, sportsfans, it's only a metaphor.

In this big game we like to call Relationships, what happened to The Blue Team and The Pink Team? Manly men and girly girls? Don't get me wrong, equal rights are a good thing, in as much as sterotypes are detrimental. I've just noticed lately that it seems like women nowadays are more eager than ever to wear the pants in their relationships... and their significant others don't seem to mind wearing the pink shirts.

We asked for it, we got it. From Suffragettes to Feminists to every woman who's ever implored her man to get in touch with his feminine side, we've got no one to blame but ourselves. And it's not like I, personally, want to place blame on any one- I just want someone to open doors for me and change the oil in my car. Is that so wrong? At the end of working a long day, the last thing I want is a guy coming to me with his... feelings. WHAT THE? Excuse me? You have those? You want to "talk" about "our relationship"? Unless that's the new slang for "fuck like bunnies", I'm really thrown off here.

It's bad enough that no one really dates anymore. If you've ever gazed into someone's eyes and thought, "Does this mean I have to change my relationship status on MySpace?" you know what I mean.

If it wasn't for the lack of cell phones, the internet, Squirt soda, and Christopher Cantwell, I would totally want to live in the 50's.

Kids, these days...

And we wonder.

Revenge is a dish best served after the kids are asleep.

Parenting is a thankless job most of the time. Do my children ever look at me adoringly and say "Gee, Mom, thanks for enduring that really painful labor!" or "I really appreciate the fact that even though I threw up all over your favorite pillow, you still let me sleep in your bed when I'm sick!"? Um, no. They have no idea about the sacrifices I make for them to have happy kiddie lives. I do it because I love them more than I'd ever imagined possible. I do it because one day, they might have to take care of me. I do it because on Halloween, they get an infinite supply of candy that I can totally raid as soon as their sugar-highs wear off and they fall asleep.

Winosaur.

My boyfriend, being the culinary genious that he is, knows a lot about wine. He can talk about tanins for hours, and even owns half a dozen differently-shaped wine glasses to best compliment the different varieties. I know a lot about wine too- like, for example, if you chug it like beer you'll wake up after an hour-long blackout drooling all over your best friend. We both have a lot of knowledge to bring to this relationship, which is probably why it works so well.

While he was at work the other day, I started flipping through one of his hoity-toity food magazines. It was one of those magazines that contained recipes with no less that eighty-seven ingredients, most of which are only available on the black market. It's a striking contrast to the food magazines I get, which shed enlightenment along the lines of "Try putting sliced hot dog in your Kraft Mac-n-Cheese!"or "How To Sneak Vegetables Into Your Children's Food Without Them Throwing Them At You!", so I'm sure you can imagine my intimidation. In Boyfriend's magazine, somewhere between a recipe for Sauteed Liver Of Firstborn Son and "How To Blow Your Rent Money On A Mushroom", I came across a nice article on wine, geared towards complete schlemiels like me. I said to myself, "Well, this can't hurt to skim over. Maybe they'll even interview Charles Shaw!"

The article had a lot of interesting and informative things to say. I'm probably light years away from ever being able to taste the difference between a merlot, pinot, and cabernet, but at least I'm not pronouncing the "t"s in them. And, although I actually like White Zin with ice cubes, I know better than to ever do it while anyone is watching.

Proud of my freshly-gleaned wine knowledge, I started rattling off facts to Boyfriend as soon as he got home from work- over two glasses of Vintage Year Subject Matter, Red. A few sentences into my diatribe, Boyfriend got that really amused look on his face, like he was watching an elephant paint the Mona Lisa or a bunch of one-legged preschoolers tap-dancing to The Good Ship Lollipop.

"And, and, and, and, did you know that you don't have to drink white wines chilled, or reds at room temperature!?! You totally can do whatever you want! As a matter of fact, I can totally drink this Pinot Noir chilled, and it's not even tacky! I think I'm gonna do that right now."

As I lept up out of my seat, Boyfriend pulled me onto his lap. "Sweetheart, do whatever makes you happy... but there is a difference between 'chilled' and 'I'm gonna throw some ice cubes in there.'"

Damn.

Putting the "Strange" in "Stranger"

I've only been back to the Wonderful World of Myspace for what? a day? maybe two??? and already it's been Open Season for weirdos. I'm sure this is why the term is "Stranger" and not "non-acquaintance."

First, there was Stranger Scott, who was a little confused that I listed my location as "The Devil's Buttcrack" and wanted some clarification. Sure, yeah, I'll give him that. Next up in the line of queries was "ru single?" Um, ru kidding? I'm sorry, call me old fashioned, but if you don't have the time, let alone the attention to detail, required to type out the extra FOUR LETTERS to make that sentence grammatically correct, then buddy, there's no way you've got the time and attention-to-detail required to make it to first base* with me. (*Second base if I'm drunk, I ain't gonna lie.) As if that wasn't enough, he closed the email by signing his name as "Scotti". Nick-names, sure they're endearing. I go by mine all the time! But, I don't know, maybe save it until you've exchanged the introductory email? And what's with the i instead of the traditional y? Something about the i immediately emasculates him in my mind, and aside from that, I'm totally annoyed. I think I've got Irritable Vowel Syndrome.

Next up: Someone with a picture of Prince Charming as his default photo, with the title "You Know The Name". No, actually, I don't know the name, but if I had to guess it would be Something Is Wrong With Me Because I'm 32 And Have A Disney Cartoon of a Prince As My Photo. (Maybe that was just too long.) Mr. Latent Homosexual (Or Child Molester) told me I was stunning despite the fact that I have no nose in my default picture. He'd also really appreciate if I would holla back at him. Unfortunately, I'm all out of holla at this present time. (Maybe I should have linked him to Jesse?)

Next came Jonathan, who at first I thought might be Jonathan I Actually Know In Real Life. Alas, it was Stranger Jonathan, who just wanted to know "Whazzzzup and where da party at? I see you around town and at your work and you be fly." Um. Yeah. Da party is at the police department, where I'll be filling out a restraining order.

Most disturbing, however, is Rocky. Rocky wanted to know if I would like to earn an extra $200-$600, because he has piles of money to give away and really likes to see how crazy people will get for it. I think I've heard about that somewhere, and I think it's called Prostitution, but I'm not sure. Now, on rare occasion I'll talk to just about anybody who sends a drink my way, but that's just manners, ok? Something about a stranger dangling money over my head under the condition that I do something crazy for it just makes the Weirdometer go off. People do it on Fear Factor all the time, yes, but they also do it on Indio Boulevard, and I just got the feeling that Rocky's definition was less "eat a cockroach" and more "eat my cock."

Why, just in the time it took me to write this, I got a friend request from this really lame boy band and an invitation to join the group Frankie's Pimp House. The Pimp House got denied, but I'm actually considering adding the band, just in case I can be around when they all realize that trying to pull of heterosexuality is futile and they're in love with each other.

If this is any indication of what MySpace is going to be like, all I have to say is I'm damn glad to be back. Sure, it was nice taking a break, but I was running out of people in real life to make fun of. I used to say that it interfered with my writing, but I'm going to use this post as evidence to the contrary.

And I think to myself...

Have you ever met somebody, bonded with them, and then tried to remember what it was like before you knew and loved them? Have you ever answered the question "How did you meet?" with, "Well, through a friend of a friend of a friend?" I have the internet eqivalent of that, and it's the site Crazy Hip Blog Mamas. Although I might be on the wilder, more unconventional end of the spectrum of Mamas, I have lost hours reading the blogs of the members, laughing and crying and knowing exactly what they mean.

Long story short- I know, TOO LATE!- every so often, they post a Writing Prompt, and it's that time again. It's not an assignment or a competition, but a collaboration to a group that I would love to contribute something to. I can't give every Mama a pedicure or bake cookies for every child in the world, but it's nice to be a part of something and I gotta earn my keep somehow. Let's face it- answering a question is a lot easier than dealing with dirty Mommy Feet (no offense, mine are the worst!) and probably more appreciated than loading kids up with sugar ("Junior get off the ceiling this instant!").


Q: "What song/movie best tells the story of your life/family?"
A: There are no movies that I can compare my life and family to. No movies, but plenty of Soap Operas. All My Children, for one. The Young and the Restless! Daze (I totally meant to do that) of Our Lives. (Ha! But I digress!) So I ruled movies out pretty quickly, and started racking my brain for songs. Music is more my thing anyway, there has to be something... (Elapsed Time: 27 hours) No, nothing really here either. Instead of dwelling so much on finding something that mimics my life, I figured that I'd be better off just trying to identify with something that can describe it. What's my anthem?

When I'm going out, I have to play "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett. When I'm working out, I listen to Metroid The Band. When I need a pick-me-up, it's "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure, and nothing makes traffic more tolerable than Boston's "More Than A Feeling." When I think about my life, as a whole, and the family I come from and the family I've made, the one song that sums it all up is What A Wonderful World. (Not to loose all street cred, I'd like to add that my favorite version is the Joey Ramone cover, although the original by Louis Armstrong is divine. Obviously.) The song, like me, expresses the sentiments that life is great and we're lucky to be living it. Is getting a flat tire really that bad- we have red roses and fluffy clouds and people to share them with. Even when you have a bad day... you have a new one tomorrow. Usually this song inspires me to get lost in optimistic existential thought, and by the time it gets to the line "I see babies cry, and I watch them grow/ They'll learn much more than we'll ever know", I can't help but tear up. What mother doesn't think her world has been made a wonderful place only because of the child(ren) we've been granted to show it to? Who isn't humbled by the thought of that? A chocolate shake is DAMN good in and of itself, but something as simple as watching as my kids get their first taste of the magic that happens when you mix chocolate syrup, milk, and plain old vanilla ice cream together makes me giddy. Our world, with terrorism and taxes and people who tip less than 15%, might not be perfect, but when someone looks up at you and says, "I wub you, Mommy!", it sure is wonderful. I might be discontent with my job, with my relationship status, with my laundry pile taller than my six-year-old, and my bank account that is so low that afformentioned six year old can count higher than my current balance... but at least somebody wubs me.

Through the terrible twos and the teens and probably every year in between, I might need Joey Ramone to remind me of that every now and then.

I wanna be a lexicographer when I grow up!

I was out with friends over the weekend, and Boy-Crazy-Gina was practically getting whiplash as she checked out every boy that walked past.

I coined a phrase that the punster in me is quite proud of, although I responsibly share all credit with my two friends Jack and Coca-Cola. (Actually, just one friend- separate yet inseparable, in the manner of Siamese Twins.)

"Gina's got her radar going tonight... No, no- wait a second- Gina's got her LAY-dar going tonight!"

::giggles::

This officially wins me a star on the Geek Walk Of Fame.

Don't cry over sour milk.

My relationship history has become a bit of a running joke at work. The on-again-off-again drama with a certain ex-someone is laughable in any context, but I get teased mercilessly at my place of employment. This probably has something to do with the fact that Ex and I worked together, and when I say "worked" what I really mean is "fought". Because everyone at work knows him, everyone at work asks about him. Because everyone at work is nosey, everyone asks about us.

Today, one of my favorite managers asked about Ex's well-being. Before I could formulate an answer, my manager was laughing at me. Maybe it was the huge sigh I let out, or the fact that my eyes became red lazer beams and steam was shooting out of my ears. Anyhoo, I gave the politically correct answer and tried to change the subject. He wasn't having it.

"You're Sour Milk Girl!" He shouted at me. He even pointed.
"What the? I'm who?" Really. I don't even like milk.
"You're Sour Milk Girl. You have milk in your fridge. It's been in there, but you don't drink it for a while, and then you have a craving for milk so you pour yourself a glass. You take a drink, only it's gone bad. You spit sour milk all over the kitchen. And then, Nicole? And then you know what you do?"
"I don't know, bribe one of the kids to clean it up?"
"YOU PUT THE MILK BACK IN THE FRIDGE."
"I do?" A beat. "I do."
"And then you know what you do?"
"I do." A beat. "I do!"
"You leave it in the fridge, thinking that it'll get better! Well, let me tell you something, Nicole. It's sour milk, and it's gonna stay sour. It's time to throw it out."
"I get what you're saying, Mike... but... I think I'm just kinda hoping that eventually I'll have some cottage cheese."
"No, Nicole, not gonna happen. And the worst part about you? As far as this metaphor is concerned, you're lactose intolerant."

All Growds Up

I just paid an arm and a leg for a very grown-up, all-natural, 5-step skin care regimen.

I will now join the ranks of adult women who cleanse, tone, exfoliate, moisturize, and use eye cream(!!!) twice daily.

Next up: a 401k plan, bifocals, and eating dinner every night at 4:30.

A day in the life:

Maddy: Brady, Mom’s taking us to the donut shop!
Brady: The donut shot?
Maddy: No, shoP! ShoP! Shop, with a P.
Brady: The Pee Shop? I don’t wanna go to a Pee Shop!

My Biological Alarm(ing) Clock

You know the phrase, "My Biological Clock is ticking!"?

I don't.
I know the phrase, "My Biological Alarm is going off! AND I KEEP HITTING THE SNOOZE BUTTON!"

My genetic makeup is such that I will always enjoy the company of my friends. I will, most likely, always enjoy the occasional dips into the pool of Chemical Substances. I don't want to cut either of those out of my life entirely, but I am becoming increasingly aware of the futility of "the scene." I've said all this before. I usually stop there, but tonight I feel like taking this point through its logical progression. (Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle. Do not disembark until the ride has come to a complete stop.)

I want to settle down. I want someone to find enough worth in me to pledge unconditional love. I want to have fights without anticipating a break up. I want to fight over the remote control. I want someone to acknowledge the fact that I had a hard day and tell me "good job," and cuddle. I want someone to back up my parental decisions and occasionally tell the kids, "You heard your Mom." I want someone to notice when I make the bed.

I have, almost overnight, developed the compulsion of checking the ring fingers of strangers' hands to see if there's a band there. Everyone who appears to be over the age of 18 is getting their left hands covertly ogled by me. Young, old, fat, skinny, balding, wearing socks with sandals, it doesn't matter. I am so interested in knowing who is part of this elusive club.

I'm pa"NIK"ing.
It's all too much, it's way too soon, but I just want to secure a place in that big Happily Ever After. NOT ANYTIME SOON, mind you, but maybe one day. You know, in that window of opportunity right between pigs flying and hell freezing over- that's when I see it happening.

This entry is such a mess.

May 3rd, 2006

and then there was one.

Mosquit-oh-my-god! I'm PEST-rified!

So, there I was.
I finished the novel I've been pouring over for the last couple days, smoked my last cigarette of the evening, text-messaged the boy to say goodnight. All that was left of my exhausting day was the requisite washing of the face and brushing of the toothoids. I got up out of bed and shuffled to the sink.

So, there he was.
It's not every day that I'm faced with an insect in the safehaven of my own home, and certainly not often that said insect is the size of my own clenched fist. This mosquito was so large that I immediately named him Maximus. Or Claudio. Maybe Mosquimoto... but that's neither here nor there. This was a bug so intimidating , the only way it could have possibly gotten into my house was by dressing up like a door-to-door vaccuum salesman, ringing the doorbell, and then buzzing in, knocking over my roommate. I figure that its next step was to hide out in my bathroom until my guard was down. If he had his way, you'd be reading about my death in tomorrow's headline: "Serial Blood Sucker Strikes Again!" I'm just lucky the damn thing didn't fly out from behind the bathroom door, shout "BOO!" and then make off with my purse.
I was certain that this thing could have drained me of all the blood in my body faster than I could chug a Bud Light. I wasn't so worried about a few pesky, itchy bumps as I feared it flying off into the night carrying my children. For that, Dracula must die. I must wage in hand-to-wing combat. I must gain the respect of tabloid readers all over the world by slaying the real chupacabra!
My first reaction was to run for my life. The odds were already against me- although we'd both be in the same weight class, he's got three times as many limbs as I do, not to mention the whole flying thing. He can suck blood and implant disease- what the hell can I do, aside from flinging a shoe?

So, there we were.
He bobbed and weaved like Ali.
I flailed and swung like a mental patient on an acid trip doing the hokey-pokey.
He feigned disinterest and flew up into the shutters high above my shower.
I clenched my teeth, channeled Schwartzenegger, and hopped in the tub. Balancing precariously on the rim, I jabbed at the shutters with my weapon of choice- an Old Navy Flip Flop- taunting my enemy to come out of hiding and prepare to meet his doom.
That sly fucker waited, bid his time, until I tried to gain more altitude by shoving the ball of my right foot onto a ledge about waist high on the shower wall. He had the patience to hide out until I hoisted myself up.
He dive-bombed me like a kamikazi.
I screamed like a girl.
With one foot on the tiny projection from the wall, one hand on the windowsill, and the other hand gripping both my sandal and the top rail of the sliding-glass shower door, I had a limited range of motion and no balance to free up a hand to swing with. I'm not sure if karate kicking a bug with one dangling limb was the greatest idea, but it was all I could do.

So there I was,
shreiking, swinging like Tarzan, practically bicycling midair in my shower, thinking that I have sunk to a new low. Anyone who knows me can guess how the story ends: of course I fall. Of course, I laugh.

And of course, Mosquimoto flew into the kitchen, opened up a beer, and started making himself a sandwich.


(i totally yoinked that image from a google search. mad props to whomever created it... http://www.delarge.co.uk/dv/mosquito.gif)