Saturday was day 4 of not smoking, and honestly, it was wearing on me. That morning I had spent the morning cleaning my disaster of a house after my "ungrateful children and husband" who had left a sea of laundry, dishes, carpet stains and sticky floors for me to clean. Of course the kids were with their dad and Chris was working, so I had no one to vent my building anger to. By the time Chris got home, I was a little better, I'd tried really hard to let it all go. I bitched a little, but pretty much let it go. Chris suggested we get out of the house, maybe that would help relieve the building stress. Couldn't agree more. We had a great afternoon, we went to an antiques store, we got Chris some new sandals, had a great late lunch, not a cross word was spoken, not a sideways look given. Then we went to TJ Maxx and all hell broke loose. I've been telling Chris for God knows how long that we need new sheets. Now you might be asking, why don't you just buy sheets yourself? Good question, and I could. But we try really hard to make all household purchases together, or at least with each other's input. Every other time we've gone to get sheets (and we've done it no less than 20 times) we always end up leaving empty-handed. He freaks out about the price, I try to explain the value of a high thread count sheet, he doesn't get it, I think he's cheap and being difficult, he thinks I'm being a spoiled princess, we usually just leave well enough alone and don't get into it. I mean really, who fights about sheets?
So we go to TJ Maxx in search of the aforementioned sheets. We can't seem to agree on the price/thread count/color, but I'm determined. We're not walking away this time. So after about 45 minutes of me handing Chris sheets to feel, fretting over percale or sateen or Egyptian cotton, he'd had enough. He takes a deep breath and says, does it really matter? They're fucking sheets. Well, as you can imagine, that went over like a ton of bricks. I said (getting increasingly upset), Of COURSE it matters! I just want something nice to sleep on. Don't you care? He says, babe, c'mon. They're sheets. I turned back to the sheets and completely ignored him. He sighed and wandered off. I finally pick some, and I track Chris down, but I'm really irritated. I showed him the sheets, and he was less than impressed. He was all, yeah, they're fine. They're sheets. So now I'm pissed. Not a little angry, not a little cranky, I'm fucking PISSED. Was it because he didn't "care" enough? Was it because I couldn't find the "perfect" sheets? Or was it just because I hadn't smoked in 4 days? I put the sheets on the shelf and say, forget it. Take me home. And he's all, why? What's wrong? Again, I ignore him, certain that this had nothing to do with smoking, Chris was just a big jackass who obviously didn't care about what's important to me (sheets).
We get home and I stomp around for awhile, and then he's all, what's your problem? Are you that mad about sheets? I'd like to say that I handled this well, that I was the picture of calm. I so wasn't. I came unglued. I said just about every hateful thing I could think of, I threw books on the floor, I threw a shoebox at him, I mean I had an all out temper tantrum. He's just standing there during all this, probably in awe of my dramatic scene, and he says in the most calm voice I've ever heard, that's enough. Well, if I wasn't really, really mad before that, I was now. I said, Enough? I'll show you enough! Go to hell! I'm leaving! So I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. By this time it's starting to occur to me that perhaps I'm overreacting a bit, maybe I should just go back in and apologize for being such a drama queen, and that made me more mad. I hate being wrong. So I figured, I'll show him. I won't be sitting outside. I'm really leaving! So I start walking down the street. In my big dramatic exit, I've left my wallet and my cell phone on the counter, so it's not like I can go far, and that makes me even more mad. So to cool off and decide how to tell my family that I'm getting a divorce, I walked...for a fucking mile. I had my flip flops on, which aren't great walking shoes, and it was getting dark and I was cold in my tank top and capris (also forgot to grab a long sleeve shirt), so I went home. Chris wasn't there, he was out looking for me (which made me more angry). He eventually came home, and was understandable concerned. I was like, I'm so mad at you, I hate you, and I want a divorce! So we spent the next 45 minutes with me sobbing/yelling about how he really hated me and didn't care about the sheets that were so important to me, and him trying not to laugh at my utter ridiculousness.
Suffice it to say, we didn't get a divorce. We did buy a pack of cigarettes though. As it turns out, I wasn't really mad about the sheets, I was just being an uber bitch, probably because of my not smoking. Go figure.
P.S. Sunday afternoon he took me back to TJ Maxx and we bought sheets.
How was your weekend?
Friday I woke up to the sun shining, the birds singing, it was a beautiful day. It's been raining for so long here, I desperately wanted (and needed for my own sanity) some sunshine, so I said, screw it, I'm not working today. I called my boss and told her that it was just too nice of a day to be stuck inside and I was taking the day off. I got her voicemail, so I think she had the same idea I did. I spent the day outside with the kids, they played in the sprinkler, I channeled my inner diva:I sat in my lounge chair, my hair wrapped in a scarf like an old Hollywood movie star, my oversized sunglasses and my chilled beverage by my side and read sTORI Telling by Tori Spelling (which if you haven't read it, is a deliciously fun read). Of course because there's been no sun since March, my pasty pale ass got sunburned, but that's ok, at least I wasn't working.
Saturday, I spent the morning cleaning and then went shopping with Chris for sheets. We decided that instead of buying sheets we'd have a screaming match that ended in me literally walking for a mile to cool off, a pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, I suck), and some really ridiculous drama, but more on that tomorrow.
Yesterday was another beautiful, sun-filled day. We took the kids swimming, I even went in the pool. I put on a bathing suit for the first time in over a year, which was a bit traumatizing. I really think that we should go back to the 1800's style bathing suits, with the almost knee-length shorts and full coverage tops. Ahh, those were the days big girls could prance around by the pool without their cellulite scaring small children. Sigh. Anyway. We decided that since we were on a roll for family fun day, we'd rent some movies, unwittingly subjecting them to inappropriate adult topics. We rented Bedtime Stories and Yes Man for the kids. Bedtime Stories was cute, it was a Disney movie, so there were no surprises. Yes Man, good movie, but not really for kids. I'm not giving away any plot points or anything, but if you don't want to know anything that happens, stop reading. It was rated PG-13, which is usually not bad, but there was one scene that Jim Carrey's old lady neighbor propositions him. He has to say yes, which has it's own ickyness. So she throws him on the bed and the camera shows his face, she's, ahem, going down. Then you see her put her false teeth in a glass by the bed. I'm laughing hysterically, because it's really, really funny. The scene ends, and I think we're in the clear and Kat says gross. I didn't say anything, surely she can't know what that was all about, right? And if she does, well, I'm not having that conversation yet. "Gross" works for me. Then Davey says, Mom, what's she doing? Why'd she take her teeth out? Ehhh...there's really no good answer here. I was like, she must've lost her contact on his pants and then had to take her teeth out to brush them. Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to say? Oh, she's performing oral sex on him, and apparently he likes it. You see, oral sex is... Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. I don't know if he believed me or not, but he didn't question it, so I just breathed a sigh of relief and let it go.
So that was my weekend, sunburned, almost divorced and exposed my kids to totally inappropriate oral sex references. How was your weekend?
Saturday, I spent the morning cleaning and then went shopping with Chris for sheets. We decided that instead of buying sheets we'd have a screaming match that ended in me literally walking for a mile to cool off, a pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, I suck), and some really ridiculous drama, but more on that tomorrow.
Yesterday was another beautiful, sun-filled day. We took the kids swimming, I even went in the pool. I put on a bathing suit for the first time in over a year, which was a bit traumatizing. I really think that we should go back to the 1800's style bathing suits, with the almost knee-length shorts and full coverage tops. Ahh, those were the days big girls could prance around by the pool without their cellulite scaring small children. Sigh. Anyway. We decided that since we were on a roll for family fun day, we'd rent some movies, unwittingly subjecting them to inappropriate adult topics. We rented Bedtime Stories and Yes Man for the kids. Bedtime Stories was cute, it was a Disney movie, so there were no surprises. Yes Man, good movie, but not really for kids. I'm not giving away any plot points or anything, but if you don't want to know anything that happens, stop reading. It was rated PG-13, which is usually not bad, but there was one scene that Jim Carrey's old lady neighbor propositions him. He has to say yes, which has it's own ickyness. So she throws him on the bed and the camera shows his face, she's, ahem, going down. Then you see her put her false teeth in a glass by the bed. I'm laughing hysterically, because it's really, really funny. The scene ends, and I think we're in the clear and Kat says gross. I didn't say anything, surely she can't know what that was all about, right? And if she does, well, I'm not having that conversation yet. "Gross" works for me. Then Davey says, Mom, what's she doing? Why'd she take her teeth out? Ehhh...there's really no good answer here. I was like, she must've lost her contact on his pants and then had to take her teeth out to brush them. Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to say? Oh, she's performing oral sex on him, and apparently he likes it. You see, oral sex is... Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. I don't know if he believed me or not, but he didn't question it, so I just breathed a sigh of relief and let it go.
So that was my weekend, sunburned, almost divorced and exposed my kids to totally inappropriate oral sex references. How was your weekend?
What would you do with an extra 3 hours and 20 minutes a day?
So it’s day 2. So far no one has died, no one has lost any limbs, and I haven’t smoked. I found out today that not smoking means I have a shitload of time on my hands. I spent an average of 3 hours and 20 minutes smoking every day (10 minutes per cigarette, 20 times a day). Today I:
- Cleaned my entire house. Twice. Before 9 a.m.
- Went grocery shopping and bought 732 boxes of Little Debbie snacks. I’ll worry about being fat later.
- Found out that I really, really hate it when people change the radio station too often.
- Found out that it irritates me even more when it’s my ex doing the station changing.
- Watched three episodes of Touched By An Angel on the Hallmark channel and cried. I DVRed the rest of the season.
- Spilled a whole glass of Diet Coke in the living room. It got all over the curtains, which gives something to do tomorrow.
- Helped Chris grill hotdogs. Then he told me to go away and take my “opinions” with me. I merely pointed out he’d set the rolls on fire. I thought it was helpful. He disagreed.
- Accidentally stuck my tongue in a fan.
I’m thinking I may take on a new hobby. I have way too much time on my hands. Any suggestions? At this rate, I’ll either be in the hospital trying to loosen my straps or will have figured out how to make cold fusion.
I might bite your head off
Last night Chris and I were outside smoking, and he says to me, so I think I’m really ready to quit smoking now. I say, oh yeah, why’s that? He says, well, you know my granddad died of emphysema (to which I nod), well, it’s just been weighing on me lately, you know? (I nod again, feeling increasingly like a large pile of shit for smoking). I knew. I’ve smoked since I was like 12. There was this girl, who I won’t name because I actually see her from time to time and she still scares the shit out of me, who made me smoke. I know what you’re thinking, yeah right, she made you, pfft. No, for real, it’s totally true. I was walking home after school and this titan of a girl grabbed my arm (I was scrawny and skinny when I was a kid), and was all, You smoke now. Don’t make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Ok, so I’m not sure if that’s what she actually said, it could’ve been The Incredible Hulk, I’m not sure, but the point is she was ginormous and I was not. So she gave me a cigarette and showed me how to smoke and laughed when I coughed my head off after trying to inhale. A couple of weeks later, I thought I’d be really cool and try it again. So one day when my parents were at work, I stole my mom’s cigarettes. I couldn’t figure out how to use the lighter and I wasn’t allowed to play with matches (yes, I did follow SOME rules), so I stuck my head in the oven and lit the cigarette on the bottom burner. In hindsight, sticking your head in an oven probably isn’t a good idea, I could’ve just used a burner on top of the stove, or better yet, used a match, but I was 12, what do you want from me?
So I smoked off and on until I was about 16, then I just went bad. Very, very bad. I smoked, drank, did drugs, blew off school, dated guitar players, developed a permanent scowl (hence the wrinkle branded on my forehead), you name it. See then, back before political correctness/health awareness smoking was cool. I did quit when I was pregnant (at 19 mind you. I told you I was bad), but I had my friend wheel me across the street from the hospital to smoke. I know, I know, going outside in your hospital gown and wheelchair just isn’t cool . I don’t (and haven’t) smoked in my house in a long, long time, I do have some parental standards. About a year ago, I quit for a month. Then I got into the accident with my Jeep and almost had a nervous breakdown on the side of the road, so I started up again. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since. So when Chris laid his guilt trip about oh, I love you, I want to grow old together, I don’t want you to die early, blah, blah. I was like, SIGH. Fine. I quit. So here I am, day 1. Armed with Nicorette and grape Bubble Yum quitting smoking. I hope for real this time, I hate smoking, but I know it’s time, and it's for the best. Keep that in mind if I become an unbearable bitch and tell you all to go screw yourselves, which is entirely possible.
So I smoked off and on until I was about 16, then I just went bad. Very, very bad. I smoked, drank, did drugs, blew off school, dated guitar players, developed a permanent scowl (hence the wrinkle branded on my forehead), you name it. See then, back before political correctness/health awareness smoking was cool. I did quit when I was pregnant (at 19 mind you. I told you I was bad), but I had my friend wheel me across the street from the hospital to smoke. I know, I know, going outside in your hospital gown and wheelchair just isn’t cool . I don’t (and haven’t) smoked in my house in a long, long time, I do have some parental standards. About a year ago, I quit for a month. Then I got into the accident with my Jeep and almost had a nervous breakdown on the side of the road, so I started up again. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since. So when Chris laid his guilt trip about oh, I love you, I want to grow old together, I don’t want you to die early, blah, blah. I was like, SIGH. Fine. I quit. So here I am, day 1. Armed with Nicorette and grape Bubble Yum quitting smoking. I hope for real this time, I hate smoking, but I know it’s time, and it's for the best. Keep that in mind if I become an unbearable bitch and tell you all to go screw yourselves, which is entirely possible.
Karma gets you every time
If you have a problem with poop, tampons or toilets, you should not read this post. You really probably shouldn't read it anyway...
The other day I was working in a different building, cleaning up some odds and ends before the long holiday weekend. Chris called and said he would be there in a few minutes to pick me up, and I knew that in Chris language, that means like an hour, so I pretty much ignored it and continued doing my work. I gave it about 40 minutes and decided I should go to the bathroom before I left. So in the building that I was working in, there’s a private bathroom. I decided that since I was pretty much alone in the building, screw using the public stalls, I was gonna use the private bathroom. Still no call from Chris, so I decide, what the hell, I’ll poop too. So I’m doing my thing in the bathroom, and decide that Chris and I probably won’t go straight home, so I ought to change my tampon while I’m at it. I finish up, and I’m getting ready to flush and Chris calls, says he’s pulling into the parking lot. Perfect timing! I reach over and flush the toilet.
The water starts filling, and filling, and filling. I’m like, well, I probably just didn’t hold the handle down long enough. No luck, the water splashed up nearly to the very top of the bowl.
Oh my dear God, I’ve overflowed the toilet and there’s poop and a used tampon floating in the toilet! I start frantically searching for a plunger, no go. The only thing I can find is a toilet scrubber. I don’t know what the hell kind of bathroom has a toilet scrubber but no plunger. So I grab the toilet scrubber, thinking that maybe I can swoosh everything around enough to maybe unclog it. It’s still not working. I’m totally afraid to flush again, because any more water, it’s gonna be all over the floor. At this point, I’m totally freaking out because I’m not even supposed to be using this bathroom, so it’s not like I can just go ask a janitor for help. And really, there’s no way I’m going to walk up to some random stranger and be like, excuse me, I plugged the toilet, would you mind plunging it for me? Don’t mind the poop or the used tampon floating around in it. So not happening. So I debated for a minute, ok more like a split second, and I decide I’m bailing. Because I’m one of the youngest people (everyone else is well over 50 and post-menopausal) that work for my department, anyone seeing a floating tampon could deduce that it was me who plugged the toilet and left it all weekend. Actually, now that I write that, it sounds kinda asinine, that someone would actually be like, hmm, plugged toilet, floating poop, I have no idea who would…OH MY GOD! There’s a tampon! It HAS to be Merritt! It sounded so much more plausible at the time... Anyway, I decide that I’m leaving the poop and toilet paper, but taking back the tampon. I grab the toilet scrubber and start trying to use it as a pole to fish out the tampon. I get it the first time, but the string wraps around the handle of the scrubber and I fling toilet water on my feet and fling the tampon across the room. Ohmygodoymygodohmygod. Totally freaking now. I pick up the tampon off the floor with a paper towel, wrap it in like 587 more paper towels and bury it in the trash, I clean up all the water and mess, I do a little gross out dance and scrub the hell out of my hands.
I get to the door and reach for the light switch, the toilet makes this wooooosh sound and the water spins around, and flushes, taking all the contents of the bowl with it. Son of a bitch! I turned around and said (to the toilet), stupid motherfuc… The fucking toilet GURGLED at me. I hauled ass out of there, I wasn’t about to stay in there with the toilet from hell, who was clearly possessed. I suppose it serves me right for using the bathroom in places I don’t belong, then trying to leave my shit (literally) for someone else to deal with.
The other day I was working in a different building, cleaning up some odds and ends before the long holiday weekend. Chris called and said he would be there in a few minutes to pick me up, and I knew that in Chris language, that means like an hour, so I pretty much ignored it and continued doing my work. I gave it about 40 minutes and decided I should go to the bathroom before I left. So in the building that I was working in, there’s a private bathroom. I decided that since I was pretty much alone in the building, screw using the public stalls, I was gonna use the private bathroom. Still no call from Chris, so I decide, what the hell, I’ll poop too. So I’m doing my thing in the bathroom, and decide that Chris and I probably won’t go straight home, so I ought to change my tampon while I’m at it. I finish up, and I’m getting ready to flush and Chris calls, says he’s pulling into the parking lot. Perfect timing! I reach over and flush the toilet.
The water starts filling, and filling, and filling. I’m like, well, I probably just didn’t hold the handle down long enough. No luck, the water splashed up nearly to the very top of the bowl.
Oh my dear God, I’ve overflowed the toilet and there’s poop and a used tampon floating in the toilet! I start frantically searching for a plunger, no go. The only thing I can find is a toilet scrubber. I don’t know what the hell kind of bathroom has a toilet scrubber but no plunger. So I grab the toilet scrubber, thinking that maybe I can swoosh everything around enough to maybe unclog it. It’s still not working. I’m totally afraid to flush again, because any more water, it’s gonna be all over the floor. At this point, I’m totally freaking out because I’m not even supposed to be using this bathroom, so it’s not like I can just go ask a janitor for help. And really, there’s no way I’m going to walk up to some random stranger and be like, excuse me, I plugged the toilet, would you mind plunging it for me? Don’t mind the poop or the used tampon floating around in it. So not happening. So I debated for a minute, ok more like a split second, and I decide I’m bailing. Because I’m one of the youngest people (everyone else is well over 50 and post-menopausal) that work for my department, anyone seeing a floating tampon could deduce that it was me who plugged the toilet and left it all weekend. Actually, now that I write that, it sounds kinda asinine, that someone would actually be like, hmm, plugged toilet, floating poop, I have no idea who would…OH MY GOD! There’s a tampon! It HAS to be Merritt! It sounded so much more plausible at the time... Anyway, I decide that I’m leaving the poop and toilet paper, but taking back the tampon. I grab the toilet scrubber and start trying to use it as a pole to fish out the tampon. I get it the first time, but the string wraps around the handle of the scrubber and I fling toilet water on my feet and fling the tampon across the room. Ohmygodoymygodohmygod. Totally freaking now. I pick up the tampon off the floor with a paper towel, wrap it in like 587 more paper towels and bury it in the trash, I clean up all the water and mess, I do a little gross out dance and scrub the hell out of my hands.
I get to the door and reach for the light switch, the toilet makes this wooooosh sound and the water spins around, and flushes, taking all the contents of the bowl with it. Son of a bitch! I turned around and said (to the toilet), stupid motherfuc… The fucking toilet GURGLED at me. I hauled ass out of there, I wasn’t about to stay in there with the toilet from hell, who was clearly possessed. I suppose it serves me right for using the bathroom in places I don’t belong, then trying to leave my shit (literally) for someone else to deal with.
Happy 4th of July
I hope everyone had a great holiday weekend. Our was pretty near a bust. It rained. Again. I'm so sick of this rain, I think we had more sun in January. Kat was supposed to do a cheering performance, but it got rained out. We did make it to the parade, which wouldn't have been complete with the psycho Shriners with that force you to pull your children back from the sidewalk so they don't get run over by their little death cars. Other highlights were the Hispanic Elvis impersonator, who not only forgot the words to "Don't Be Cruel", but only made a vague attempt at pretending to play the guitar, he kept swinging the guitar over his back to do his best Elvis hip shaking, and then would mistakenly hit the guitar strings on the way back. It was kinda sad. There were the line dancing ladies, who seriously have more balls than I ever would. Over my dead body would I get up on a float with a red and white checkered dress, a la Hee Haw, with white fringe cowboy boots and line dance to "Achy Breaky Heart". My mom said, Oh that looks fun Mer, let's do that ! Yeah, that's not ever gonna happen. I can't imagine a scenario in which I would ever, ever do that, but they all looked like they were having a blast, so whatever works for you, I guess. There was a fair amount of candy throwing. As always, my kids could be counted on to knock over any other kids who got in the way of their candy scavenger hunting. They're at the age where they're not sure if they really like the parade or think that it's "boring" or "totally retarded" (which just about everything is these days). Chris did buy them hats, so that perked them up a little.
We ended up not going to the fireworks, because (surprise) it was raining. I was really bummed about it, the 4th just isn't the same without the fireworks. So I'm washing my face getting ready for bed, totally pouting about the crap day, when he phone rings. It's like 11:30, and I'm like, who the hell is calling so late? I figured Chris locked himself out again. I have soap all over my face and I'm yelling to Chris to pick up the phone, and he doesn't even answer (I'm hoping that he's just watching tv and ignoring the phone, and not really locked out, so I don't have to go back downstairs to let him in), so I run into the bedroom, cursing Chris. I answer in my best "I'm really, really annoyed" voice, hello? It's Chris, he says, hey, look outside. I'm like, what the hell, I'm kinda busy here (the soap dripping onto the phone at this point). I peer through the blinds and there's Chris standing in the rain waving two sparklers like a crazy fool. He says, I know you were bummed about missing the fireworks, so I brought the fireworks to you. Happy 4th of July, baby! What can I say, except, awwwwwww! I got over being pissed really quick. As usual, Chris reminded me of what it's really all about. Enjoying your family and celebrating the fact that we live in a great country, where you can have bad Elvis impersonators, ladies in white fringe cowboy boots, greedy, candy hungry kids and a crazy man standing in the rain waving sparklers at 11:30 at night all exercising their birthright of freedom. God Bless the United States of America!
Braking and entering
A couple of months ago we were all in the car, and brakes made an audible squeal, the one that’s the tell-tale sign that it’s time for new brakes. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No. They’re fine. We don’t have the money to be dropping $200 on brakes just because of a little squeal. Hrm, well ok then. So fast forward to a month ago. We’re all in the car and the brakes make a grinding sound. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No, the brakes are fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little grinding. We’ll get them looked at before winter, but we just don’t need to be spending money on stuff like that. Well, alright I guess. So fast forward again to last week. The brakes are now make a horrendous grinding sound, metal on metal, the car shudders when the brakes are pressed, it’s bad. So I try again, you know, I think we REALLY need brakes. Chris says, yeah, maybe we do. Yeah, ya think? So I made the appointment for 8:00 a.m. Chris leaves for work at 5:30 a.m. and I still don’t have my license back, so I asked Dave to help me out. He agreed, and I told him how simple this would be. All he’d have to do is go switch cars with Chris and bring Chris’ car to the garage. The garage would call me when they had the price, and I’d pay it over the phone with my credit card. He’d switch cars again with Chris, the whole thing shouldn’t take longer than 2 hours. Easy enough right? I wish.
At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.
I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.
At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.
I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.
A trip down memory lane
I was reading my gossip sites because I, for some reason, can’t stop reading celebrity gossip, even though I think that the photographers and “reporters” who follow celebrities are deplorable at best. It makes me a total hypocrite I know, but I don’t really care. So I’m reading about the latest in the Michael Jackson saga and about how Madonna is in the new fall 2009 Louis Vuitton ad campaign, which by the have you seen? She’s gorgeous, totally airbrushed and flawless, but gorgeous. I told Chris that for our 10th anniversary, I wanted a trip to Paris and a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk. He said he could buy me a house and it would be cheaper, so I don’t really see that happening. But a girl can dream, right? I’d settle for a kick ass bag and a trip to Paris. Or even just the LV bag would be ok. But I want a big one, not one of the dinky little ones that hold a cell phone, lipstick and a tampon. I carry way more crap than that with me, and I’m dropping $500+ on a bag, it better be big enough to carry all my shit. And hell, if Madonna looks that good next to LV, then surely it would work for me. Yeah, I’m a sucker for the power and suggestion of good advertising.
Ok so, where was I? Right, Michael Jackson and Madonna. So I’m reading about Madonna when “Billie Jean” came on my iPod. It was kind of nostalgic and sad. It got me thinking about when I was a kid and I used to strut around with my 387 jelly bracelets and side ponytails listening to “Material Girl” and “Bad” thinking I was the coolest shit on the block. It made me sad that my kids won’t ever really get it, and the world is totally different than it was then. We were watching the news with the kids after Michael Jackson died, and they were like, did he sing other songs than “Thriller”? Yeah, yeah he did. MTV was showing Michael Jackson videos and the kids didn’t even know that MTV used to show ONLY videos. I was telling Davey about how I used to listen to the Thriller album in my walkman, and he was like, what’s a walkman? Sigh.
Me: A walkman is kind of like an iPod. But it played tapes.
Davey: What are tapes?
Oh dear God.
I tried to explain how different it was in the 80’s, how the world was different: before the internet, before cell phones, back when parents would let their kids walk to the corner store alone, and you could play outside until dark, but they really just didn’t get it. To them, the 80’s was like the stone age, filled with laughable hair styles and bad fashion. To them, Michael Jackson will always be that weird guy that wore the masks. To us, he’s the man who made the music that helped define a generation. Regardless of what he did or didn’t do, guilt and innocence aside, he will be remembered for forever changing the face of music as we know it. For that I’m grateful, as are my children, even if they don’t know it, or really understand it.
Ok so, where was I? Right, Michael Jackson and Madonna. So I’m reading about Madonna when “Billie Jean” came on my iPod. It was kind of nostalgic and sad. It got me thinking about when I was a kid and I used to strut around with my 387 jelly bracelets and side ponytails listening to “Material Girl” and “Bad” thinking I was the coolest shit on the block. It made me sad that my kids won’t ever really get it, and the world is totally different than it was then. We were watching the news with the kids after Michael Jackson died, and they were like, did he sing other songs than “Thriller”? Yeah, yeah he did. MTV was showing Michael Jackson videos and the kids didn’t even know that MTV used to show ONLY videos. I was telling Davey about how I used to listen to the Thriller album in my walkman, and he was like, what’s a walkman? Sigh.
Me: A walkman is kind of like an iPod. But it played tapes.
Davey: What are tapes?
Oh dear God.
I tried to explain how different it was in the 80’s, how the world was different: before the internet, before cell phones, back when parents would let their kids walk to the corner store alone, and you could play outside until dark, but they really just didn’t get it. To them, the 80’s was like the stone age, filled with laughable hair styles and bad fashion. To them, Michael Jackson will always be that weird guy that wore the masks. To us, he’s the man who made the music that helped define a generation. Regardless of what he did or didn’t do, guilt and innocence aside, he will be remembered for forever changing the face of music as we know it. For that I’m grateful, as are my children, even if they don’t know it, or really understand it.
Lamb and tuna fish
Remember that time that I caught the paper towels on fire in the kitchen and you just smiled said, “let’s eat out”?
Remember when we went to Charleston and saw the wooly mammoth that was really a pigmy pony but was seriously the dumbest looking animal on the planet?
Remember when we ran out of oil and huddled together with our hats and mittens on watching Sex and the City?
Remember when the crazy old couple that lived downstairs tried to attack me and you threatened them with a broom?
Remember when my flight got delayed and I spent the day in the airport lounge drinking cosmopolitans and you had to guide me through the terminals over the phone because I was so lost?
Remember when you took me to the Rocky Horror Picture Show when I had pneumonia and sang all the songs and did all the dances for me because I couldn’t?
Remember when I told you I wouldn’t ever forgive you, and you jumped in the snow bank in your underwear to prove you were really, really sorry?
Remember when you tried to put an ice cube down my shirt and you totally missed and it hit me in the nose?
Remember the cockroaches and “deadbolts” at the Master’s Inn?
Remember when I farted and told you that I had been especially gassy and you laughed and asked me to marry you?
You’re still the most fun person I’ve ever met, and make me laugh like no one else can. So here’s to all the “remember whens” we’ve had and all the ones we will have. Like lamb and tuna fish, baby.
July 1 marks the time that Chris and I got together, neither of us know the actual date, just that it's in July, and that it's been 5 kick ass years.
Remember when we went to Charleston and saw the wooly mammoth that was really a pigmy pony but was seriously the dumbest looking animal on the planet?
Remember when we ran out of oil and huddled together with our hats and mittens on watching Sex and the City?
Remember when the crazy old couple that lived downstairs tried to attack me and you threatened them with a broom?
Remember when my flight got delayed and I spent the day in the airport lounge drinking cosmopolitans and you had to guide me through the terminals over the phone because I was so lost?
Remember when you took me to the Rocky Horror Picture Show when I had pneumonia and sang all the songs and did all the dances for me because I couldn’t?
Remember when I told you I wouldn’t ever forgive you, and you jumped in the snow bank in your underwear to prove you were really, really sorry?
Remember when you tried to put an ice cube down my shirt and you totally missed and it hit me in the nose?
Remember the cockroaches and “deadbolts” at the Master’s Inn?
Remember when I farted and told you that I had been especially gassy and you laughed and asked me to marry you?
You’re still the most fun person I’ve ever met, and make me laugh like no one else can. So here’s to all the “remember whens” we’ve had and all the ones we will have. Like lamb and tuna fish, baby.
July 1 marks the time that Chris and I got together, neither of us know the actual date, just that it's in July, and that it's been 5 kick ass years.
I'm the Rainman of cooking
So I don’t know if I’ve ever admitted this publicly, but I’m a horrendous cook. I can burn water, and I mean that literally. You know those people who can look in their pantry and grab like 5 ingredients and make the most delicious meal you’ve ever tasted? It’s like that show on Food Network, Chopped, where they get a basket full of stuff like pepperoni, grapes, veal liver, yogurt and hot dogs and they make some world class meal totally suitable for the Waldorf-Astoria. I’m exactly like that, only completely opposite. I can take lobster, filet mignon, and black truffles and turn into world class shit. Like I tried to make something simple like kielbasa and rice. Easy enough, right? I mean hell, I even used boil-in-bag rice. Really hard to screw up. Not for me! The rice got stuck to the bottom of the pan and half of it was crispy and the other half was mush, and I burned the kielbasa to a crisp. It’s not like I’m not paying attention, I really am, I just get sidetracked and before you know it, the smoke alarm is going off. The kids like to say that when the smoke alarm goes off dinner is ready. Chris enjoys telling people that my specialty is “blackened” food, like Cajun-style without the spice. I think they’re mocking me.
I suppose I can follow a recipe, but even that I usually mess up. There is one thing that I make really, really well: apple pie, from scratch. I make the crust from scratch, the filling, everything. It’s perfect every time. Now, why I can make something as complicated as apple pie and I can’t make fucking instant rice, I don’t know. I can even make the fancy lattice-work top. I’m a cooking idiot savant. I saw this ad for a contest for the best desert, and I’m actually considering entering, and I totally think I could win. As long as I don’t have to boil water, I should be ok.
I suppose I can follow a recipe, but even that I usually mess up. There is one thing that I make really, really well: apple pie, from scratch. I make the crust from scratch, the filling, everything. It’s perfect every time. Now, why I can make something as complicated as apple pie and I can’t make fucking instant rice, I don’t know. I can even make the fancy lattice-work top. I’m a cooking idiot savant. I saw this ad for a contest for the best desert, and I’m actually considering entering, and I totally think I could win. As long as I don’t have to boil water, I should be ok.
