February 28, 2005
Are You Sitting Down?
I bought Girl Clothes on Saturday.
No black hoodies. In fact, nothing with a hood or a zipper! Although, yes, it’s all v-necked. But when you have large melons and shoulders like a linebacker, v-neck is really the only way to go. Plus, it makes it easier for people to look down my shirt! Bonus!
A was with me, and after I’d tried on my usual heap of Anything Black In An XL, she wouldn’t let me out of the dressing room. Seriouly, she may be little, but she's scary, man. She held me hostage and just kept bringing me stuff I never would have picked out myself. Some of it in size L! And it fit! And there were colors! Oh dear God, the colors!
And you know what? Some of it looked damn cute on me. I'm sure my mother heard angels singing.
I was scared at first. Hey, this is pink! And this one has flowers! Are you trying to get me beaten up? Cuz Anne will totally beat me up for wearing flowers!
But it became kinda fun as I realized that A and I were both living out our dreams, right there in that little dressing room.
No, there was no hot lesbian sex, sorry.
But A was clever and helpful, a la her favorite t.v. show, "What Not to Wear." And I was a living, breathing Barbie doll. It rocked.
I ended up with three shirts and a sweater. Aqua, violet, periwinkle and lavender. (Don't panic -- I didn't let her talk me into the shirt with the sparkles.) I hung them up, but my other clothes don’t know what to do and are scooting away from them.
Don’t worry, black hoodies, this is not a new trend! You will always be my first love!
2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten 4 Evah!
February 25, 2005
Husband Is NEVER Going to Let This One Go
There exists an agreement between God, the Devil and myself. The agreement is that I never drive over 80 mph, and they leave me alone. So far, it’s worked. Eighty is the maximum speed at which I feel safe -– physically, mentally, spiritually, ethically, financially, whatever.
So Husband and I were driving up north -– well, I was driving because he can’t drive and live at the same time -– and we were talking about the possibility of getting me my very own computer.
Needless to say, this prospect has me DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY! This means I can blog away to my heart’s content, a) in the privacy of my own home office, which has a door on it; b) without fear that the stepdaughters will be able to find some shred of blog material on the family computer and trace it to this website, which I have given the rating “SDI” or “Step Daughter Inappropriate.”
All of a sudden, Husband goes, “POLICE CAR!”
I immediately crawl into the back seat and tell him to take the wheel. No, I don’t really. I glance down to the speedometer to realize that “keeping up with traffic,” to my brain, apparently means “going 90 mph.” I hit the break and FREAK. I’m sweating, I’m whimpering, I’m pretty sure I’m speaking in tongues.
Sure enough, Mr. Copper glides up behind me and turns on his lights. A million things are running through my brain. I’m scared to death. I’ve only been pulled over once before, and that was because they ran my plates and were hoping to stop my ex-husband, who’d had his license taken away for drunk driving.
But my record is SPOTLESS. I’m the cheapest person in the family to insure (wait, perhaps I should rephrase the cheap part…), and Governor Blago himself sent me a handwritten note on “From the Desk of Rod” memo paper, to congratulate me on my fabulous driving record. It can’t be marred! How will I define myself without my snowy white driving record?! I’ll just be “that tall blonde with the nice rack.” How pathetic! I can’t bear to think of it!
Even more terrifying, I’m in Wisconsin, and I’m from Illinois. You know what people from Wisconsin call people from Illinois? FIBs. Fucking Illinois Bastards. Kind of a harsh rebuttal to Cheeseheads, but whatever. I’m screwed. I’ve heard about how Wisconsin cops treat Illinois ne’er-do-wells, and I know I’m never going to see my loved ones again. I roll down my window, take off my sunglasses and put my hands where he can see them.
The first thing Officer Weber says is, “I have you clocked at 86. Why were you going so fast?”
“Um, we were talking, and I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.” Oh God. Did I just tell a traffic cop that I wasn’t paying attention to my driving?!
He chuckled, “Well, that’s an honest answer!”
He then explained that I was doing more than 20 over the speed limit, so he was going to have to write me a ticket.
I said, “I know. I was stupid. I accept my fate.”
Which made him laugh again. Then he explained, rather apologetically, that I wasn’t really driving dangerously because lots of people were going that fast. I just happened to be the one he clocked, and it wasn’t personal.
He was SO NICE! I couldn’t believe it! I was so relieved, I was practically smiling when he handed me the ticket! “Thank you, Officer!”
“Don’t thank me!”
He didn’t realize that I wasn’t thanking him for making me pay $255.40; I was thanking him for not crushing my skull with his bare hands. Also, for not questioning my alleged weight on my driver’s license.
February 24, 2005
Popcorn! Peanuts! Cotton Candy!
I work with some real snazzy dressers who definately deserve to be immortalized on a cheesy website, so I created the "Cosby Sweaters & More" category.
This is just a test post, so me 'n' Heather can see what we're doing and tweak things. It's all about the tweaking with us. Hee.
Eventually, I'll show you some of the truly amazing fashion choices I've seen around here. Well, at least the ones I was allowed to take photos of.
This, however, is not a co-worker. This is Heather, doing a little modeling for the Barnum & Bailey catalogue. Hey, she was young and needed the money! For cream pies. And a little, tiny car.
Seriously, she's a techno-goddess and a model. I hate her.
Posted at 07:59 PM | Comments (0)A Banner Evening for Husband
Okay, this is Husband eating his Jello last night.
“This is an excellent example of the time-space continuum.”
My eyes start glazing over as he gently pushes the rounded handle of his spoon into the Jello without breaking the surface.
“Now, this is a planet, or the sun, and blah blah blah displacement blah blah blah…”
And then we proceeded to gross each other out by squishing Jello through our teeth. And it was green. Bonus!
EXPLODING DOG UPDATE: Husband and I arrived home last night at the same time... to four new piles of dog vomit. I don't know where the hell her stomach is getting it all. We didn't feed her! Are other dogs sneaking into our house and vomiting? Is Daisy throwing keggers in our absense? I'm going to have to set up a nanny-cam or something.
February 23, 2005
Adding New Meaning To The Phrase "Sick as a Dog"
You wanna know why I wasn't here yesterday? Huh, punk? Do ya?! Oh, I'll tell you why I wasn't here yesterday! I wasn't here because my dog had been ill -- in a geyser-like manner -- in my living room and dining room!
And you know what she threw up? She threw up undigested CARROTS and GREEN BEANS. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in. MY DOG. VEGETABLES.
Not that there's anything wrong with carrots and green beans, mind you. But my dog's diet consists of excatly five things: fancy-ass kibble, Milkbones, rawhide chews made from American beef, the occassional pizza crust (I don't eat crust), and a bite or two of banana when Husband is eating one. That's it. Five things.
So you don't go introducing a smorgasbord of new things to a creature who only eats from a menu of five things! Of course she hurled her guts up!
AND she had projectile diarrhea. Did I mention the projectile diarrhea? Cuz she had that. In my dining room. On the rug, floor, woodwork, vent cover, wall, mirror and the little wrought iron table that holds our meager wine "collection." In my dining room. Where we DINE. Thank Odin she missed the wood furniture by an inch, or I would have been forced to just set the whole place on fire and walk away.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I woke up in the middle of the night to a foul stench and assumed that it was Husband, and he'd eaten something stupid again. Turns out it was the Hershey squirts melding to the very fiber of my home, but I wouldn't know that for several more hours.
A little before 5 a.m., Husband and I awoke to the telltale retching sounds of a dog about to blow chunks. Alas, in our pre-dawn stupor, we were too late, and undigested veggies made Technicolor contact with our living room rug.
Have I mentioned that the living room and dining room rugs are the most expensive rugs in the house, i.e. not from Target? Cuz, seriously, replacing them is just not an option.
As Husband hurled obscenities at the pool of vomit, I discovered the splatter of ass-juice in my dining room. It was like the St. Valentine's Day ASSacre in there. So Husband tackled the fresh sick while I got to work on the dried sick.
(Those of you on a diet, feel free to print off this post and hang it on your refrigerator door.)
Determined not to let the stains set any further, I called the boss, took a "personal day" (like a sick day, only you don't really have to be sick -- we get two a year), and employed much time and many methods to rid my house of The Smell of Ass.
To no avail.
The rugs are currently rolled up in the garage and going to the professional rug cleaner's after work today. I get 20% off if I bring them in myself -- whoopee.
Posted at 05:02 PM | Comments (6)February 17, 2005
The Birds, the Bees & the Corn
Since I am now forbidden to blog about Anne’s mom or anything that happens at Anne’s house (mice), I have to blog about detassling corn. [Excerpt from an email from Anne: “P.S. My mother has taken to writing “No Blog!” in bold at the end of every e-mail she sends to me."]
Now, I work in an OFFICE in a fairly URBAN area, i.e. CHICAGO. The closest I’ve ever come to a farm is yelling “Moo!” at the cows while driving through Wisconsin, and I gotta say that 99% of the people I know are in the same boat.
So why the hell did the words “detassling corn” come up THREE TIMES in ONE DAY by three different people?! What are the odds?! I mean, unless one is a corn farmer or employed by a corn farmer, there’s just no call for it in normal conversation. It’s like, “Hand me that piano.” There’s just no call for it EVER.
So Anne came over to my desk to make sure I understand that I cannot blog about her mom (clean freak) and then stood there looking bored, obviously waiting to be entertained. So I told her about “detasseling corn,” which she found as inherently wrong as I did.
The she asked the obvious question, “What’s a corn tassle, anyway?”
Since it’s Anne and she would just hit me, I opted out of the obvious stripper joke forming in my mind and said, “Let’s ask Tim! He’s a hillbilly! He’d know!”
[Tim is one of my bosses, and he’s hot. And he’s from downstate Illinois, so he’s basically southern, as far as I’m concerned.]
To Tim’s protests, I said, “Dude, you’re wearing a Cosby sweater – therefore, you’re a hillbilly. Now what is detasseling corn?”
And, not surprisingly, he knew and proceeded to provide us with an explanation, complete with pictures of corn and stories of detassling corn with girls in bikinis.
At one point, Tim was like, “It’s to avoid…” and couldn’t find the word, so I said, “Pollenation?”
And he said yes, and both he and Anne looked mighty surprised and impressed with my great, big brain and vast knowledge of agricultural practices.
And then he goes, “So, yeah, basically, you’re deflowering the corn.”
Sure, Tim, you’re not a hillbilly. Uh-huh.
February 16, 2005
How Come You Never See P. Diddy and Puff Daddy Photographed Together?
Snippet of Wednesday morning conversation between Nicholle, S (the balding, bespectacled, 40-something, white accountant) and I, about a Mardi Gras party:
N: Neither of my sisters-in-law need to wear a bra. They're like 4 year olds. They're not getting on video.
Me: P. Diddy is not coming to see them.
N: No.
Me: Or is it Coolio? Who's the guy on the "Girls Gone Wild" videos?
N: I don't know.
Me: Is it Puff Daddy?
N: Um, P. Diddy and Puff Daddy are the same person.
Me: Really? Oh. Hey, S, who's the guy on the "Girls Gone Wild" videos?
S: Snoop Dog.
Me: See? I knew he would know. I get them all confused.
S: Geez, Snoop Dog and P. Diddy are, like, on total opposite sides of the spectrum!
Me: Hey, they both rap, and that's all I know.
S: Snoop is awesome. He's the shnizzle.
Oh, my God, he said shnizzle. Yeah, there was no more conversation after that because none of us could stop laughing. It's ironic how something so sad can be so funny.
February 15, 2005
My Heart Wasn't Broken, But It Sure Did Burn
It has become obvious to me that, when Husband chose me, 12 years his junior, to be his Trophy Wife, the desperate, child-laden soccer moms who came crawling outta the woodwork when he went back on the market 5 years ago got together and hired a voodoo priestess to curse our Valentine's Days.
Not that I expect more than a card and a kiss on this bogus holiday anyway, but since we've been married...
V-Day 2003, I spent packing my things to move out.
V-Day 2004, we spent under a tentative truce.
V-Day 2005, he drove me to the E.R. at 2:30 a.m.
Yeah, I was so excited that Husband and I weren't fighting this February. I thought we had broken the curse, but there's more than one way to skin a cat, and if there's one thing those voodoo priestesses know, it's animal mutilation.
About 3:00 on Sunday, my stomach started feeling a bit ooky. Not a huge surprise, considering the amount of cookie dough I had just consumed, but cookie dough over-indulgence is nothing new to my system, so I took a couple of Tums, confident that would take care of it.
At 4:00, I tried some Rolaids to tackle my misery. Nada.
At 6:00, we had PJ, R and Egrau over for dinner (J was home sick). But I thought nothing of having pepperoni-sausage 'za, Pepsi and ice cream cake roll because I know my body and knew the heartburn would be gone any minute.
Oh, what a fool I was. By the time we went to bed, I was sure I had stomach cancer and was almost looking forward to languishing away bravely in a first floor bedroom of an old, woodframe house and being deified in death, the fate of all stomach cancer victims as scientifically documented in "Fried Green Tomatoes."
And if it wasn't cancer, well, surely it was something else horrible. Everyone in the world I know has some illness or another. Younger Step Daughter has Kennel Cough. Older Step Daughter has Consumption. R and PJ has just gotten over Synchronized Projectile Vomiting. J was home with Mad Cow Disease. And Husband is still bravely battling Malaria, Ennui and Cervical Cancer.
All these diseases had probably converged in my stomach and mutated into a whole new disease, and I was looking forward to much media coverage and probably a book deal, should I survive.
Went to bed at 10:00 but woke up at 1:00, praying for death. I was like, "Well, it's just hearburn. I can't go to the E.R. for heartburn. They'll laugh and me and send me home!"
But by 2:30, I was like, "Fuck this. I'm in pain. I'm going to the E.R. They've probably been missing Mr. Drillbit anyway."
And my sweet, sweet husband gave me a great V-Day gift. He insisted that his belchy spouse not go to the E.R. alone, even tho' it meant him giving up several hours of sleep. So I'm there checking in, and the nurse is asking all the embarrassing questions.
"Belching?"
"Oh yeah."
"Diarrhea?"
"Nope."
"Last bowel movement?"
"Well, since you asked, I've had three in the past twelve hours, and that's really weird for me."
And the paper-pushing broad checking me in goes, "Oh, that's totally normal for me!"
Oh my God. You know, just because it's a hospital doesn't mean that anything goes as far as personal information is involved. Ugh. And then I did the math and realized that she poops SIX TIMES A DAY! What the hell is she eating?!
Okay, long story short -- which it's totally too late for, but anyway -- my gall bladder is fine, says Mr. Ultrasound, and they gave me some hospital-strength antacid.
Buffy the Nurse was like, "I recommend that you down it like a shot, and then wash it down with some water." And she wasn't kidding. I can only describe it as chalky snot.
So I stayed home yesterday because, seriously, I'll take any excuse, and that's why I wasn't around here. I'm on Pepcid for a couple weeks, but I'm fine. No romantic death or book deal for me.
Posted at 10:32 AM | Comments (0)February 11, 2005
This Is Why I Sometimes Hate the World
Heard in a radio spot yesterday:
"Small is the new big!"
...
I can't even express how that shreds my soul.
I mean, I know that toasted pumpkin is the new black, because Carson on Queer Eye said so, and even though he wears little pink argyle sweater vests, I accept his word as law. He's gay and funny -- he has to be right!
But small is the new big? It's just... GAAAAAAAH!
The radio has really been upsetting me as of late. From now on, it's all Britney, all the time.
Posted at 10:29 AM | Comments (0)February 10, 2005
The Piece of Utter Crap I Currently Have Stuck In My Head
So, apparently, there is an American Idol contestant or winner named Fantasia. And I say "apparently" because I don't watch the show; it hurts to watch people less talented than me; I heard this on the radio.
Anyway, Fantasia has put out a song called "Baby-Mama." Or "Babymama." Is it one word or hyphenated? I could Google it, but I just don't care. But Fantasia's mother was a babymama, so she really felt the need to give a shout-out to all the babymamas out there. I'm totally not making this up. You'll hear it.
It starts with a few select babymamas -- perhaps friends of Fantasia? -- saying Hi to the children (mamababies?) who made them babymamas. Which is odd since I believe it had to be, in fact, the babydaddies who made them babymamas, but we'll just let that slide.
The chorus goes like this:
B... A... B-Y... M... A... M-A
This goes out to all the babymamas
This goes out to all the babymamas
Now, I don't mean to go all Rush Limbaugh on your asses, but is this the sort of thing we should be glorifying -- unwed mothers? Do they really need to be immortalized in song? Wasn't "Love Child" enough?
No, I know, this song is not really that offensive like, say, "Cop Killer" or "Camel Toe" or "When Doves Cry," but something about it just doesn't sit right with me.
Perhaps it's just the word. When did babymama become a word? And how unhip am I for even asking that?
And, Fantasia's babymama, if you're going to name your child after a Disney flick, I think Herbie the Love Bug would have been the better choice.
Posted at 10:25 AM | Comments (1)February 09, 2005
Barbie Watch 2005: Crisis Averted
After lunch, J in Marketing (who is also married to Husband's Ex, by the way -- I know, it's all so disgustingly incestuous) comes up to me and goes, "Um... there's a... Bondage Barbie... on my desk. Is it yours?"
No, Einstein, the janitor left it there. YES, IT'S MINE!!!
Idiot.
So her hands and feet are tied, and there's a gag on her, which is pretty funny. And I left her bound and gagged for all to see. For a while anyway. I don't think she minds, the little whore. And it makes my co-workers laugh.
Nothing conclusive on who did it (it wasn't J, trust me, the man has no sense of humor), but I think, based on traffic patterns at the time, it was probably a couple of the actuaries. Which is unusual for actuaries, you know, to have personalities.
Needless to say, the Barbies will be coming home with me on weekends from now on. Obviously, when forced to work weekends, people get a little wonky, and Barbie is just too tempting.
Posted at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)Barbie Watch 2005
Still no Barbie, and no note.
And when someone takes something personal off your desk, and you don't know who did it or when you're getting it back, I believe it's called stealing. I'm just sayin'.
Okay, ha ha, it was cute, but now I'm just irritated. It's the priniple of the thing, ya know? I don't take other people's stuff; leave my shit alone. And I'm sure they're thinking, "Oh, hee hee, stupid dumb doll." But you know, as with all collecting, every doll has a story and memories attached to it, especially the really good ones.
Like the one that's been stolen. She was my first Silkstone, and I got her at a doll show with Joe and Kara, after which we all went over to Kara's and fussed with our new stuff and ate Arby's and drank champagne. It was the last time Kara went to a show because then she had a baby and never goes anywhere anymore.
I mean, if they'd taken some crappy play-line doll, I wouldn't be so miffed. I still don't like my stuff being taken, but some generic doll wouldn't irritate me nearly as much as them taking something of value, both monetary and sentimental.
Sorry for the bitchy non-funniness. I have an actual funny blog in the works, I promise.
Now they're gonna have to buy me Barbie clothes to make it up to me.
Posted at 10:00 AM | Comments (0)February 08, 2005
I Work With Freaks
Okay, I bring a different Barbie to work every week. It's just not fair to leave her where no one can admire her! ("And she's calling them freaks?!" Yes, very clever of you to point that out. Shaddap.)
This week, it's my beloved, newly-acquired Hard Rock Barbie. Last week, it was my exquisitely beautiful Delphine Silkstone Barbie.
Only now, Delphine Barbie is gone. There was only a note where her regal snootiness had once stood in judgement of my entire cubicle.
"We have Barbie. If you ever want to see her again, buy candy. Lots of it. Load up the jars on Toni's desk! You know what we like! Oh, and a million dollars would be a good idea, too! The Kidnappers"
[Toni sits near me and is known for the jars of candy she keeps on her desk, which I contribute to regularly... because I partake of them regularly.]
Now, I gotta admit. As much as I'm freaked about one of my most expensive Barbies going missing, that's pretty fuckin' funny. And since it's not very often that anyone pulls one over on me, I gotta admire the culprit. I also must admire his/her Word skills, as he/she has varied the fonts so as it make it resemble words cut from a newspaper. Cute!
My main suspect is Nicholle (in cahoots with Anne, possibly) because a) they're demanding candy; b) they're demanding money; c) the demand of candy came before the demand of money; and d) it's something I would have done, and very few people here are as cool as me.
My other suspect is Tom because a) he's a total buttmunch.
I sent out an e-mail to my list of about 15 possible suspects:
"I got your note, and I'm going to Target after lunch, where I will get lots and lots of candy. I hope you are treating Barbie humanely."
To which I got this reply: "If Ken wasn't such a wuss, he'd be out searching for these low-lifes."
And while he does have a point, that kind of attitude isn't going to get Barbie back, now, is it?!
So what choice did I have? I went to Target and plopped down $12.50 for various chocolate tidbits, put them on Toni's desk and sent out a follow-up email:
"I'm back from Target, and Toni has a buttload of chocolate on her desk, as per your demand. Now hand over the dame. Don't make me bring in G.I. Joe and Xena."
Which provoked another unhelpful reply: "G.I. Joe is probably too busy going down on Xena, anyway."
Nice. So this morning, I arrived to find another note, in the same style:
"You have met our demands, nice lady. Barbie will be returned to you, unharmed, in do time!"
Yes, that's right, in do time. And now I can narrow my list of suspects to the small crop of hobos I work with, for whom English is a second language.
And no, Barbie still isn't back.
Posted at 09:55 AM | Comments (0)February 07, 2005
I *Heart* Midwestgrrl
I love Midwestgrrl almost as much as I love Dooce, partly because I, too, am a Midwesterner. And partly because she's so funny I often laugh out loud, causing my coworkers to eyeball me, and that's awesome. Cuz if they think I'm crazy, they stay away!
Anyhoo, I was reading some of her archives, and I found this post, which kind of, in my interpretation, gives a big ol' FUCK YOU to those on the coasts who call our home "flyover country." Uppity bastards.
Okay, I'll reprint her post here, in case you're too lazy or inept to use the link. It's short enough. And I cannot make this clear enough: THE FOLLOWING WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ME. IT BELONGS TO MIDWESTGRRL (from Nov. 26, 2003).
"Caught a repeat episode of Rich Girls on MTV last night and am positive I heard the following from our Jaime: "People in the Midwest don't buy cargo pants to go with a sexy top and stilettos, like I would... they buy them because they have lots of pockets, and they work in the fields, and they need them.""That is so stupid. I mean, particularly if you work in a corn field. Because corn is like, very big. And so you carry it in a backpack or something. Pockets are more for carrying like, beads to trade with Indians for land, or maybe carrots to give the horses when they tire of pulling the wagon. I would have a lot more to say about this but the candle-dipping racks are all set up in the keeping room and I have to go."
And of course, I had to show Heather, because we so envy people who are funny, and because we were talking about our loathing of coastal folk earlier that very day.
H: and, the only thing I wear when detasselling corn, in the fields? sexy stillettos.
Me: I prefer thigh-hi boots and a spandex mini, but I'm old-fashioned
H: I've noticed that about you. and your sensitive skin and all.
Me: and really, stillettos? with cargo pants? clearly you should be wearing overalls with any heel over 1 inch. puh-LEEZ. it's almost like they've never even BEEN to a barn raising!
H: OBVIOUSLY. now she's going to say she wears flip flops with cutoffs. tacky!
Me: cutoffs are for HIKING BOOTS!
H: heh. or t-straps with 3" heels!
Me: or moccassins with argyle socks, depending on the event
H: I've been to several barn raisings. Seriously. but I think I got to wear a tube top to one, so I am at least somewhat fashion-aware...
Me: oooh tube top. so it was an after-five barn raising?
H: eventually, yes. and I REALLY DID. have a tube top. it was awesome.
Me: I'll bet you looked so hot, old Jebediah went home and "knew" his mule that night.
H: NO idea how it stayed up, but I was 5, so...whatevah.
Me: oh, you were 5, sorry. did you really go to a barn raising? cuz I'll be so jealous
H: well, every October until I was in high school, we stayed at my cousin's farm in Door County. and we had several barn raisin's that I can recall. one on our property, and the others with neighbors.
Me: ohmigod! That's so cool!
Oh, it's no wonder they mock us.
Posted at 09:46 AM | Comments (0)February 04, 2005
Oh, God, She's Doing It Again
I'm talking about The Boy Child. I'm sorry, but the kid is just so friggin' hilarious.
His new thing is Angry Eyebrows. I don't know where he got it, but it's a new face he makes. He tilts his head down, furrows his eyebrows, and then just moves his eyes to look up at you. AND there's hand motions. He makes fists and puts them up about face height and shakes them. I have no idea why.
And he'll go, "Angwy eyebwoooowwws!" And run across the room. It's quite a sight, although probably not as intimidating as he might hope.
Anyhoo, he was doing Angry Eyebrows at the dining room table, while we were all eating pizza, when suddenly Angry Eyebrows contorted into Disgruntled Salamander. Although I'd never seen it before, it was easy to recognize it as his Poop Face.
Now, how I've managed to go two years, visiting twice a month, and never see The Boy Child's Poop Face, I don't know. Just lucky, I guess. Or unlucky, considering it made me laugh until I was a contorted, weeping mess. Poor kid is working so hard, and all I can do is laugh at him.
Now, when I walk past the bathroom to see The Girl Child sitting there (yes, the door is always open), reading Entertainment Weekly, all purple-faced and grunting, that's normal because it's in the context of the bathroom, and that's what people do in the bathroom.
But to see that spectacle at the dining room table, where people consume food, which is the exact polar opposite of what The Boy Child was dishing out, well, it's just disconcerting, to say the least. And apparently, it was quite a stiff poop because the back of his diaper was tenting.
And then The Girl Child started imitating The Boy Child's Poop Face, and all was lost.
Posted at 09:42 AM | Comments (0)February 03, 2005
Another Totally Obnoxious and Biased Movie Review
So. While Billy was napping for 14 consecutive hours last Friday, rendering it impossible for me to use the ridiculously ancient and loud binding machine anywhere in our modest ranch home, I decided to watch a movie that I knew Husband wouldn't watch with me. And rightly so.
I apologize to all of you who thoroughly enjoyed "Under the Tuscan Sun." It was very pretty, but I felt horribly cheated by the whole thing.
I mean, I liked the overall message of "Even if you don't get exactly what you wish for, you probably still get basically what you want, if you'd just suck it up and look around for one damn minute!" But I've seen it done much better many times before.
"UtTS" was, plain and simple, leisure porn. Oooh, let's all wistfully marvel at the kind of lifestyle NO ONE leads, let alone some freakin' mediocre writer who hasn't put out a book in years! How much did she make off one-half of the sale of her old house, anyway?! ON WHAT PLANE OF EXISTANCE DOES THIS HAPPEN?!
"Oh, poor me, my husband is an asshat, so I simply can't bring myself to do anything but wander around and have chance encounters with utterly fascinating people while exotic men are taking care of every aspect of my new house!"
Leisure porn. So utterly unbelievable that any "message" of "character development" (and yes, I'm totally making little quote signs in the air while I say those words) is lost in the din of me screaming, "You ungrateful, retarded bitch! How am I possibly supposed to empathize with your plight?! WHERE'S THE PLIGHT?!"
I'm so irritated. What a waste of time.
And I know what you're thinking. That I'm jealous of her. And of COURSE I'm jealous of her. But that's not why I hated the movie! It was, I think, trying to lead me along her path of healing and whatever, but it was so hard to watch, what with me having to roll my eyes every two minutes.
Opps. I forgot to use the words "pure awesome" in my review. I think Heather will understand -- they're just not applicable here.
Posted at 09:39 AM | Comments (0)February 02, 2005
THERE WAS NO LAVENDER!
So, when Husband was first evicted from his daughters' lives and his beautiful home of 15 years which he had just gotten the way he wanted, he went a little bachelor-nutty and made some decisions -- mainly purchases -- that his normal self would not have made. Like the Ab-Master, bought off the television at 2 a.m. And the 500 lb. leather vibrating couch with the phone in it.
He also let his daughters decorate the bathroom in his new house. They were 11 and 14 at the time. To this day, Case cannot match shirt to pants, but he let them pick the color scheme. And they chose TURQUOISE.
But things have a way of working themselves out. The dusty Ab-Master has long since been thrown away, and even tho' the vibrating and the phone were never hooked up, I have come to love the leather couch with the two built-in recliners and fold-down beverage holders. Husband can chat pleasantly with Ex without breathing fire, and I've managed to get rid of the TURQUOISE bathroom.
Did I mention there were fish? On the shower curtain, on the bathmat, on the rugs, on the towels. Oh my God, it was just so juvenile. Not to mention that the rest of our house is EARTH TONES, so Sponge Bob's underwater lair stood out. Just. A little. Bit.
But for two and a half years, I've been reluctant to mention my burning desire to change it because I assumed he'd have some sentimental attachment to it. And yes, I know that sounds odd, but this is the man it took six months to convince that Ophelia's room does not need to remain a shrine to her but can, indeed, be turned into My Office, without erasing her from the face of the earth.
I'm ashamed to admit that it took me two and a half years to come up with a foolproof plan to get my way. The answer was so obvious -- pinecones!
Pinecones, you say? That's random... or so it would seem. But the thing is, Husband is OBSESSED with pinecones. Seriously. He collects them -- from walnut-sized pinecones to football-sized pinecones -- and we have then in every room of our house. Hence the earthy theme; the pinecones had to be incorporated. It was in the wedding vows. And hey, I have about 150 Barbies, so who am I to question?
I printed off some pinecone decor I'd found online and presented him with it as an alternative to SCREAMING AQUA BLUE. And he totally went for it. Natch.
But then I hit another possible snag. He didn't like the color I picked out. Actually, HE picked it out,... from a choice of colors I gave him. But when he saw Behr's Moss Green on the walls, he started getting reeeeeeeeally nervous.
"It's brown."
"It's not brown!"
"It's too dark! It's brown!"
"There's no brown! Just like there was no lavender in the Robin's Egg Blue in Case's room before you repainted it turquoise! IT'S MOSS GREEN!"
"Oh, there was lavender!"
"Twenty people came over and saw no lavender! You're COLOR BLIND!"
"It's too dark."
"Suck it up."
But now the cabinet is back up, with the new wrought iron towel bars, and the pinecone border is up, and the pinecone shower curtain, pinecone towels, decorative basket o' pinecones, etc. Yes, I know I have just replaced fishie overkill with pinecone overkill. But I'm okay with that. And so is Husband. Which means he'll be spending even MORE time in there. So I got a nice vanilla scented candle, too.
And as we were falling asleep Sunday night, I rolled over and said, "So, who's the best husband in the world for going along with what his wife wanted and is totally getting a blowjob?"
And then I realized, "You know, it's probably unethical to reward desired behavior with sex..."
"I DON'T MIND!!!"
Heh.
Posted at 09:34 AM | Comments (0)February 01, 2005
Nyquil = Awesome Sex Dreams
The Husband couldn't sleep last night, and I think I know why. It's because I was having the most AMAZING sex dream about Orlando Bloom, and the moaning and writhing probably kept him awake.
*sigh* So pretty...
And normally, I don't go for the pretty guys because I'm WAY too insecure to be with someone prettier than me (which is why my forbidden love of Heather will most likely go unconsummated**). But hey, when Mr. Languid Eyes & Curly Hair & Fetching Smile is standing in the bedroom of my teenage years in nothing but navy blue undies, I'M NOT MADE OF STONE!
And besides that, he was, for some inexplicable reason, totally into me, and seriously, I'm 35, married and carrying around an extra 20 lbs. I got no business being selective. Or scrupulous, apparently.
But as I said, it was the bedroom of my formative years, and I was in it, so I was single in my dream, and that makes it okay! (Hi, Husband! I love you! Kissies!)
So there were various petting and sex acts, and none of it was linear or cohesive. Kind of like a sex montage, minus the "Eye of the Tiger" soundtrack. But one part stands out in my memory.
Orlando totally farted. He was getting his clothes back on at some point, and I was in the bathroom fixing my JFL hair or whatever, and I heard him fart.
And I remember thinking, as I smiled dreamily to myself, "He's probably hoping I didn't hear that, and since he's so fucking hot and just rode me like a pony, I'm gonna pretend I didn't. But it kinda makes him more... human. Orlando Bloom farts. I don't think 'Tiger Beat' will be printing that headline anytime soon. It's just my little secret. He's a real person. And I did him."
Yes. So. Even in my fantasy sex life, I can't escape the escape of gas. Next thing you know, I'll have Bruce Campbell's dog watching us and licking himself.
[**As I was sketching out this blog in my head (as I am wont to do, constantly) the next morning, I was standing in front of a full-length mirror and putting on lipstick. This parenthetical sentence popped into my head, and I was struck with déjà vu.
I had to wonder when the hell, before now, I'd ever been putting on lipstick and thinking about the possibility of consummating forbidden love.
And then I realized, it's probably not as unlikely a scenario as I'd like to pretend.]
Does "Tiger Beat" exist anymore?
Posted at 09:29 AM | Comments (0)A Bit of Marital Advice
If your wife is down on her hands and knees, with her face pressed up against the toilet -- the place where you poop and pee and whatever it was that you did in there last Thursday -- so as to paint behind it, and you did not at least offer to help, do not walk into the room and start singing: "She'll be paintin' 'round the toilet when she coooooooooomes!"
Just a little tip from me to you.
Posted at 09:28 AM | Comments (0)