easter eve

My alarm went off at a quarter to seven.  I had forgotten to turn it off the night before.  And like every other morning that my alarm has gone off, I hit the snooze several times before I remembered that I didn’t have to get up so early this morning because I didn’t have to go to work today.  Once that realization sunk in, I was overcome with the familiar warm and fuzzy feeling that I get every time I’m allowed to sleep in, and I rolled over and went back to sleep for another hour. 

But as nice as sleeping in can be, I couldn’t sleep the entire day away.  I was expecting company after all.  So I dragged my tired self out of bed before nine.  My mom is an early riser, and I knew I could expect her to show up at any moment searching for fresh coffee and possibly breakfast!

Several hours later, my mother finally arrived, with her half eaten breakfast (courtesy of McDonald’s) and my niece in tow. 

We decided against going to the museum so close to spring break and opted to go shopping instead.  My mom tried to buy me the ugliest piece of clothing I had seen since the last time she shopped for me and she was going to pass it off as my Easter present.  I admit it, I still feel the yearning each year for a new Easter dress with pretty a bonnet and a new pair of shoes, but this creation she was holding up in front of me (with a sadistic grin, I might add) was not going to satisfy my need in any way.  She wanted me to try it on so she could take my picture in it… “For the blog,” she said. 

Don’t search the website for the picture.  I refused.  I’m all for embarrassing myself for my art, but even I have lines I won’t cross! 

I have decided that I won’t be filling Easter baskets with candy this year.  I was certain my kids would understand.  We sugar addicts have to stay away from the stuff!  My kids should go into politics!  They managed to reposition themselves to request “alternate” Easter offerings. 

After succumbing to guilt and buying each of my girls a new dress for Easter, and a few other little trinkets (including a new watch for myself as a reward for not buying any candy for Easter this year) we piled back into the car and headed home.  Having a concussion makes you tire more easily.  And I am thoroughly convinced that I have one.  More than four days after my little run in with the car door, my head still hurts and I’m dizzy.  But it’s a different kind of dizzy from the normal dizzy.  I’m pretty sure I’ll live, I always have before, but a friend told me today that it takes longer to recover if you’ve had more than one concussion.  And I did have an incident a few years back with a runaway headboard (long story) that gave me my first concussion.  At least the first one that was documented.  So I guess I’ll have to wait out the headaches for a little while longer.

Back at the house we had a lively debate as to whether or not the snakes we found in the yard this week were actually venomous.  I had to usher Mom to the place where the snakes had been to show her the “remains”.  She needed to investigate for herself. 

We trekked through the yard to the spot where we had originally found the snakes and turned back the rock to expose the bodies. 

Fire ants are destructive creatures! 

The little snakes were all but shells of their former selves.  Still,  we were able to see enough of one of the bodies to identify that they were indeed poisonous.  At least to the satisfaction of my mother.  And that’s all that really matters anyway. 

Sadly, Mom and I had to cut our visit short today.  My husband’s grandmother is still in the hospital, and we needed to drive to Florida to visit her.   So there we were…Mike, the three girls, and me piled into the car to drive to Panama City to see his grandma…on Easter eve.  We are apparently having Easter dinner with his entire family tomorrow.  That should be fun!  They aren’t used to my quirky sense of humor, or my colorful vocabulary. 

I might need a little candy after all. 

Until the next time…I’ll be smiling and nodding a lot!

good friday

Whew…my Friday was a long grueling day, and I’m glad it’s over.  I suspect tomorrow may be worse though, because my mother is in town visiting, and I imagine she has a full day planned for us.  Museums…shopping…and a visit to the botanical gardens. 

I’m tired already.

Tomorrow is Easter eve, and as such I need to decide whether or not I’m doing Easter baskets for the kids this year.  I’m getting conflicting input from the children as to whether or not they are too old for chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.  I’m certain there is no age limit for chocolate or sugar consumption, as I am still fighting constant urges to gorge myself on frozen minty chocolate treats, but I’m also certain I would love to skip the holiday altogether this year.  I don’t need anything else to tempt me from my journey away from the dark (chocolate) side. The jury is still out, and I suspect my mother will be the deciding vote.  If I’m not mistaken, she still has a fondness for black jelly beans and marshmallow peeps—two things that I despise yet were never missing from my Easter basket as a child.  I have often suspected she put them there solely so she could eat them.  It’s terrible to suspect your mother of such sneaky behavior, but I’m sure I’m not far off.  I would never do something like that myself.  Just ask my kids.  They only got the really good chocolate.  It’s not my fault that Alexa doesn’t like chocolate and always gave hers to me. 

I think she might like the marshmallow peeps. 

Here’s hoping it’s a great weekend!  I promise to keep you posted tomorrow.

Until the next time…I’ll be heading to bed to conserve my energy!

watch out for them snicks!

I will be very glad when today is finally over.  I think the cruelest April Fool’s Day joke may just be the one not played.  I spent the entire day waiting for it.  Expecting it.  Braced for it.  But nothing.  No one played a single prank on me.  So joke well played.  You got me!

It’s been an interesting week all things considered, and we’re only hours away from the weekend.  The weather has finally turned away from the bitter cold and wet and has finally become spring.  It was in the eighties today—beach weather!  It makes me want to plan a vacation to the beach. It’s been a long time since I’ve taken the kids to the beach, and they won’t be kids much longer.   All week long there have been moments that have reminded me of a certain summer vacation I took with my sister and our kids.  Even the movie I took my daughter to yesterday was set in the same little beach town we visited.  We had a blast on that trip.  But like most things involving me, it wasn’t without incident. 

We rented a two bedroom beach condo in the sleepy little town of Tybee Island, Georgia.  It was right on the sand, just a bit of a walk through the dunes to the water.

Our plans were to cook most of our meals at the condo so we could splurge on dinner in Savannah a few nights during our trip.  But after a quick outing to the grocery store we discovered we had a little problem. The kitchen was supposed to be fully equipped with everything we would need for our stay but there were no pots or pans.  Only microwave safe bowls.  Nothing that could be used on the stove top or in the oven.  Our lunch plans were ruined.  It is impossible to make hard boiled eggs without a pot of water to boil them in.

Or is it?  There was a microwave. 

Don’t worry; I was smart enough to know that you can’t microwave eggs in the shell to cook them.  They will explode.  And that would be bad.  Eggs need to be boiled in water in order to reach a hardboiled state.  But of course, you can boil water in a microwave.  I had done that many times.  So I figured if I boiled the eggs in the water in the microwave it should solve all of my problems. 

I filled the microwave bowl with cold water, placed half a dozen eggs in the bowl and set the microwave for ten minutes.  I didn’t want to overdo it. 

I may have over done it. 

It’s amazing how much power is packed inside a tiny little egg.  When an egg explodes, it sounds like a gun shot, and when more than one egg explodes, well…it blows the door off the microwave!

There were bits of egg literally everywhere.  Egg hanging from the chandelier, egg clinging to the popcorn ceiling, egg on the baseboards…the back of the sofa…in the air ducts…my hair.  And the entire room smelled like an egg fart.

After the initial shock wore off, and we checked each other for bullet holes, we all broke down into fits of giggles.  I called the management company and they sent over pots and pans right away. 

The microwave wasn’t actually broken, but I’m sure it was never the same.  It’s impossible to get that much egg out of the vents. 

Every vacation needs to have at least one catastrophe, and that was ours.  No one was hurt, so we were free to experience the rest of our vacation.  Most of which was spent at the beach. 

Our vacation house was separated from the water by a dune with lots of thick tall grasses.  There was a path every twenty yards or so, but the paths were narrow and long.  You couldn’t see the ocean until you were most of the way down the path.  It would be easy to lose a flip flop or snorkel if it was dropped on the way to the beach, so we had to keep a close eye on the four kids. 

Even then, my sister liked to take midday naps so we made several trips through the dunes each day to the water.  By the third day, we knew the trail like the back of our hands.  Or so we thought. 

I don’t remember which of us had the brilliant idea to trek out to the water after dark, but there we were—kids in tow—walking from the condo to the path with our towels and cameras and not a single flashlight between us.  A security guard stopped us on the way and asked what we were doing.  He was a nice old man with white hair and glasses and he walked a little hunched over, but he seemed to know a lot about the area.  We told him we wanted to see the beach at night, and he offered to walk us to the water by the light of his security guard issue flashlight.  We agreed that it would be a great idea.

He started to the path, and as he led the way, he spoke…

In a very thick, very unusual accent.

“Gotta be kefful out hyar ‘specially at naht.”  He started.  We understood most of what he said, and the rest we picked out by context.  “Gotta watch out fo’ dem snicks!”  

Snicks?

It was dark, but I’m pretty sure we all looked at each other and mouthed the word back to him.  “What’s a snick?” One of us dared ask.

“Snicks!  You know…”  He waved his hand in a slithering motion “snicks!” 

We all stopped moving for a second while it sunk in.

“Specially dem rattle snicks!” 

I grabbed my kids’ shoulders and pulled them closer to me and my sister did the same with hers.  “Rattlesnakes?” We asked in unison.

“Oh yeah.  Gotta watch out fo’ dem rattle snicks.  Day sting a bit!” He went on as if he was talking about a mosquito, or a bee. 

We didn’t have a chance to reply before he went on again.  “And deez raccoons out hyar…Day got da rabies.  Gotta stay away from dem else you be foamin’ at da mouth!” He dragged out the last part of the sentence in grand dramatic fashion and gestured with his hands to make his point. 

We got it!

We broke through the trail finally and we were standing on the beach, the beam from the flashlight barely reflecting off the waves in the distance as they crashed against the sand.  We were out of the dunes, and away from any rattle snicks or rabid raccoons. 

“Ok den.  Y’all be kefful now.”  He waved the light again, sending a wash across the sand before turning and heading back the way he came. 

We wandered away from the dune and headed toward the surf to dip our toes in the warm water and let the kids play along the shore line.  We had no intention of staying out late.  It was actually way darker than we expected.  There was no moon that night, and without the flashlight, it was hard to make out more than the shapes of the waves in front of us.  We hadn’t spent more than ten minutes alone out there—there wasn’t a single other soul other than us on the beach that night—and we were ready to head back.

We quickly corralled the kids and turned back toward the dunes. 

It was very dark.  Very, very dark.  Without help from a flashlight we couldn’t see the narrow opening to the trail we had come down.  The crazy old security guard who had warned us of stinging rattle snicks and raccoons foaming at the mouth had left us out there without a way to get back!

We gripped our children in each hand and walked toward the dunes to find the trail.  We had strayed around the edge of the water long enough to completely lose our bearings.  We decided to hike along the dunes for several yards in each direction until we could find an opening. 

That took a while.  And it didn’t look like the same path we had taken down to the water, but we didn’t have any other options.  With visions of coiling snakes and rabid raccoons in mind, we started up the trail.  We made noise, snapping a towel out in front of us as we walked—with at least two of the children crying “we’re going to die aren’t we?”—and we hoped that if anything was in the path ahead of us, we would scare it away. 

When we finally reached the building, we were on the back side.  We decided to creep around the other side so the security guard wouldn’t see us return.  We sort of hoped he wondered if we all drown out there.  Or were maybe struck down by giant venomous snakes.  He might be telling that story to unsuspecting guests now…as he walks them down to the beach at night.

“Gotta be kefful out hyar…some folks disappeared few years back.  Got bit by dem rattle snicks and day done drowned!”

Until the next time…I’ll be watching out for the rattle snicks in my own back yard!  I hear they sting a bit!

it's been a great ride

I don’t know if my skull is cracked, but it would appear that I am still alive more than twenty-four hours later.  That is probably a good sign. It was still Wednesday when I woke up, so it was off to work I went.  It was a beautiful sunny day.  A scorcher.  My son asked if he could switch cars with me because his car’s air conditioning does not blow cold and the control that operates his windows is shorted out, so he has no air, and can’t open the windows. 

It was 1200 degrees in the little Civic when I climbed in after work.  I only had a mile and a half to go to get home, but it was the longest mile and a half I’ve ever driven.  I was drenched when I got home, and I was greeted by my sixteen year old daughter who wanted to jump back into the oven and drive someplace further than I just drove. 

In a fun little play on words I said, “Hell no!”  (Because the inside of the car was hot as Hell.) Yeah, it was funny when I wrote it. 

So instead of packing into the car and driving into the Sahara, we stayed home and I let her cook me dinner.  She didn’t set fire to anything or flood the stove.  A success! 

I decided to treat her to a movie for her culinary achievements, and we piled back into the still preheated oven and drove the three or four miles (that felt like twenty or thirty in the heat) to the movie theater. 

It was a nice evening.  The sort of evening I don’t get nearly enough of. 

And then we came home. 

The house was teeming with live bodies.  The ninja kitty caught my scent when I came in the door and ran up to greet me by reaching to sink his claws into my thigh.  I let out a yelp and the other cat hissed at him as he vied for my attention.  The dogs were swarming around my legs like a bunch of sharks waiting to be let out.  But the animals weren’t the only ones home.  In addition to the teenagers that live under my roof, there was one extra teen upstairs, my son was downstairs foraging for food and my husband was working on his month end reports in his office. 

I had barely settled in to watch the results on American Idol when the banshee cries echoed down the upstairs hallway.  It was a cat fight of a wholly different kind, and I suddenly felt like I was on an episode of Jerry Springer.  My teenage girls were spouting the most interesting language at each other at the top of their lungs while randomly opening and slamming doors like punctuation as they went in and of their separate rooms.   

It was like a pot of coffee to my nervous system. 

At a quarter to midnight as I write my blog, I am still completely rattled.  In fact, I don’t know that I can keep up this pace.  I really think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this blog.  I just don’t have the stomach for it.  I feel like I’ve just ridden down a rollercoaster in the dark and I’m waiting for the next hill to fall over.  My children are crazed zombies, my animals are something out of a Tim Burton movie, and my husband is ready to drop me off at the nearest train station if I don’t take a break.  So I’ve decided that tonight will be my last blog.  I won’t be writing any more.  I’ve enjoyed it, and you’ve all been great.  But it’s just more than I can take.  Thank you so much for being so supportive.  I will miss you all!  I will be looking forward to getting a great deal of much needed rest and I may even take a vacation.  In fact, I think I’m going to quit my job in the morning.  Maybe I’ll just call in sick.  I cracked my skull pretty hard the other day…surely that gives me license to plead temporary insanity at the very least!  Oh I don’t know.  What do you think?

Until the next time…Gotcha! April Fools!

it's all in my head

My husband came home in the wee hours of the morning and after moving my laptop from his side of the bed, climbed in to snuggle until the sun came up.  It was very nice having him home.  I’d completely forgotten our argument, and luckily for me, so had he. 

It was truly my lucky day.  My husband was home, the sun was shining, and I had the day off.  Rare is the day when all of those things fall into alignment.  And because it was my day off, I took every advantage of the time to cuddle in bed with my husband for as long as possible.  Life is so full of constant activity that it’s easy to forget how important it is to spend time together doing nothing at all.  That is exactly what we did until ten thirty—nothing at all. 

But as they say, all good things must end, and so we dragged ourselves up to shower and dress and set out to find some excitement on the lovely day.  Of course, excitement is always just a little bit dangerous for me…the queen of clumsy.

I should be permanently banned from entering a vehicle without assistance (or a helmet.)  I hit my head getting into the car—so hard that I saw stars and smelled funny things.  I’m not sure if the dizziness is from the crack in my skull, or because I’m always just a little dizzy.  Either way, I spent a good bit of the afternoon with an ice pack affixed to the back of my head and a constant chaperone nagging me every time I tried to grab a quick nap. 

The strange thing is, I feel like everything is finally back to normal.  Any day that I fall down, hit my head, trip over something, or knock over a grocery store display, is a day where I’m truly on my game.

I took a little time to rest, but instead of resting I spent a good bit of time researching head injuries on WebMd.  I didn’t want to miss any important symptoms.  Is it bad that I don’t crave cookies at all?  Should I worry about the bump on my head?  What if I lie on it at night and it pushes back into my brain?  Should I be concerned that it hurts my eyes to look directly into the sun?

These are important questions!

I would very much like to say that the rest of my day was uneventful, but unfortunately, that would be incorrect. 

Mike and I decided that the weather was far too nice to stay indoors, so we decided to do a little work in the back yard.  All four dogs—the Labradors, the Pit-bull-mix, and the grandpuppy—came out to “help”.   The dogs, as it turns out, are wonderful helpers.  They were investigating the upper yard while we tidied up the lower yard.  Winter always leaves things in a total state of disarray, so there was a lot to do.  More than could be done on this one day, but it didn’t stop us from trying.  While we were thoroughly engaged in weeds, drains, rocks and garbage, the dogs were barking at something they found completely interesting. 

Mike decided he should investigate.  I took that as an opportunity to take a break, and I sat down on a bench to watch.  He had barely reached the back of the yard when he called me to come and bring my camera.  Blackberry in hand, I made my way to the back in a half-run, and skidded to a stop when he announced, “rattlesnakes!” 

There was a nice little clutch of young rattlers hidden in a group of large rocks.  After getting a picture, I backed away, watching my footing because the parents of said youngsters were nowhere to be found.  Mike “removed” the snakes, but he’s sure there are full grown snakes still in the area—at least one, if not more.  Needless to say, I won’t be venturing out into the yard anytime soon.  And I’m perfectly happy with that.  I hate yard work anyway. 

So that was my Tuesday…I almost said Sunday, because that is what today has felt like…a Sunday.  Of course, when I go back to work in the morning it will still be Wednesday, and I’ll still have a few days left in the week.  That is if I survive the head injury.

Don’t worry.  I have obviously survived the blow to the head, as I am still typing.  Then again, I don’t want to speak too soon.  We’ll know for sure if I wake up in the morning.  I’m not really worried, I seem to always wake up, but just in case I think I’ll have my husband poke me every so often just to make sure.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping with my eyes open…just in case!

sweet vindication!

The scientific evidence has been presented and the verdict is clear—my addiction to Girl Scout cookies is REAL! I may never stop saying, “I told you so.”  I feel like dancing in the streets!  My willpower isn’t weak…the addiction is just too strong for a mere mortal to fight off without help. 

I have been calling Girl Scout cookies “crack biscuits” for a while now, and as it turns out they (and others of their kind) are more akin to heroin.  And to quote Edward Cullen…they are exactly my brand of heroin!

According to the scientific study I read, eating yummy sweets creates a happy high state in your brain, and after a while, you need the sweets to get that happy feeling, otherwise you are left in a state of despair.  I didn’t need any scientific study to tell me that eating Thin Mints makes me happy.  And I didn’t need any scientists to tell me that when I don’t get my sugary fix I feel a range of emotions anywhere from angry to sad.  It’s sort of like PMS.  And this is starting to explain a whole lot!  

Things are coming together like a puzzle inside my head.  I don’t have PMS.  I have Girl Scout cookie withdrawal!  I had never thought much about it, but it’s perfectly clear to me now.  When I ate the sweets I was happy and when I didn’t, I was miserable.  And I have been all kinds of miserable since I’ve been trying to kick the habit.   It might also explain why I have been so tired lately.

So it’s official.  I’m an addict!  But, I’m working hard at being a recovering addict.  Other than my little slip the other day, I haven’t had Girl Scout cookies in weeks.  And believe me, the temptation was there.  I will likely always have to fight against it.

So I’m thinking I may need to take a medical leave of absence to treat my addiction.  You know…a week or two, maybe a month.  It happens all the time when people are addicted to the hard stuff, and Girl Scout cookies are as hard as they come, right? 

Does medical insurance even cover cookie rehab?  Are there centers to go to for this sort of thing? Some sort of rehab/spa where I can just chill for a while, sipping on healthy smoothies while getting a daily massage? Or am I on my own battling this horrible affliction? I will need a strong support group…are you with me?  And something seriously has to be done about the cookie pushers.  Can they be allowed to move among us with such ease?  The cookie cartel must be stopped before more people fall victim!

All joking aside, I am buoyed by this new information.  Knowing is half the battle, and now I know how dangerous these types of foods are to our precarious balance.  I’ve never smoked or done drugs and I’ve never been a big drinker.  Why?  Because all of those things are bad for you…dangerous.  I tend to steer clear from things that are dangerous to my health.  But a few cookies?  What could be more benign?  I know better now.  My enemy has been identified, and my battle lines are drawn.  I will come through on the other side as a stronger, healthier person. 

Right after I finish my experiments. 

I am convinced that the girl scouts are adding something extra to the already addictive cookies to make them doubly difficult to resist.  I am experimenting with the Keebler chocolate mint Grasshopper cookies to see if eating them will cause the same euphoria as when eating a Thin Mint.  They are in the freezer now.  I will keep you posted!

Until the next time…I will be weaning myself of all things sugary!

a house divided...sort of

I can’t blame everything on PMS, as much as I would love to do.  First of all, no one would buy it.  It seems too farfetched.  After all, PMS lasts a couple of days at best.  Most problems aren’t created or solved in that span of time. 

My husband hopped into the car today—suitcase packed—and headed south.  I only half jokingly exclaimed, “You’re leaving me,” as I bid him farewell with a kiss.  The statement was true enough.  He was definitely leaving me behind.  I imagined he would have rather not, all things considered.  His grandmother was in the hospital, and she’s not doing very well at all.  I’m certain he would have liked for me to be there to stand with him.  Even just for moral support.  And I wanted to go, but he didn’t know how long he would be gone, and I have other commitments that keep me here.  Work being one of them, but also the children.  They aren’t quite self-sufficient enough to leave them the keys to the car, some money for groceries, and the instructions, “don’t do anything illegal while we’re gone.”  Not that I would be worried about wild parties at the house or anything like that.  My oldest child is a stricter parent than I am.  They would be lucky if he let them watch R-rated movies in my absence.

But still…I had to stay, and maybe it was better that way.  There was still a hovering tension between us—something that had “blog” written all over it.

Its funny how something your family was wholly in support of when you started can disintegrate into something they resent and despise.  Mostly because I do this every day, without fail, and in some small way they feel as if it is stealing time meant for them. 

My husband encouraged me to write the blog.  He doesn’t read it most days, and he doesn’t really want to talk about it, but he has been, in a large way, very supportive of it.  He wants me to write.  He would love if that was what I did for eight hours of every day.  But because eight hours of every day is spent toiling away at my day job, the additional hours spent writing is beginning to wear thin. 

Writing a daily blog is a huge undertaking, one that cannot be underestimated.  It requires planning, and thought, and notes, and revisions—things that often last into the wee hours of the night.  But when it finally comes together…it can be truly magical.

I could quit.  It would be easier for me, I’m certain.  No more late nights.  No more struggling for a brilliant topic on a day when absolutely nothing exciting has happened.  No more taking note of the mundane in hopes for magic.  But the simple fact is I love my blog.  I just plain love writing.  It’s part of who I am, and I’ve spent far too many years of my life suppressing it for other things that always seemed “more important.”  There just had to be away for it to coexist in my world without taking away from my job or my family.  There just had to be.

So maybe I just need to take a day of every once in a while.  I’m not totally sold on the idea yet, but I’m thinking about it.  Maybe I can give up other things instead.  Like sleep!  I like sleep, sure, but how much of it do I really need?   I don’t know.  I’m sure I’ll figure it out.  I know what I want to do for the rest of my life, and that is to write, so I will do whatever I need to do to make that become a reality.  I think maybe I just need to run headlong into the fray a little more often so I have interesting things to write about.  Of course, that would mean I would have to run.

I read a great book this weekend, Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith.  It reminded me what being a writer is all about.  It also made me want to sleep with one eye opened tonight.  Especially with my husband out of town.  

Of course, my husband is more like my father than I care to let on, and he has a security system to rival Dad’s, so I’m fairly certain I’m safe.  I’m not taking any chances though.

I’ve armed the alarm system, including the laser motion sensors.  Set the outside cameras to capture the slightest movement on the perimeter of the house.  Every light, inside and out, is on.  The geriatric dogs are prepared to watch for intruders and blind or not my old Labradors would take a leg off anyone who tried to set foot side my house unannounced.   My little pitbull mix has his tennis ball in his mouth and is wagging his tail, but his presence makes for a very frightening visual deterrent.  The fancy decorative swords picked up at an outdoor Renaissance faire are tucked carefully under my mattress where I can easily reach them. They may not be authentic, but if wielded properly would definitely get the job done.  And last, but most certainly not least, the ninja kitty is at the ready—his bed just inside my bedroom door.  You just never can be too careful when your husband is away.  Of course, I do have an adult son in the house, and two teenage daughters (the scariest creatures I’ve come across in the whole of my life!) so I’m not really alone. 

As I finish getting ready for bed, and stare at the cold empty spot where my husband should be snoring away, I suddenly can’t remember any reason to be irritated at him.  Maybe he’ll miss me so much tonight that he’ll read my blog for a change.  I’m pretty funny sometimes, he might actually enjoy it!

Until the next time…I’ll be cowering under the covers until daybreak!

the pms defense

I know I’ve said this before, and I know it doesn’t need to be said at all, but there should absolutely be an early PMS detection system. 

My husband and I had a fight today, and it was a doozy.  It was one of those fights where people all around us could sense the awkward tension surrounding us.  They could tell we were angry, but only because of body language and facial expressions.  My husband and I would never fight in public.  But once we got into the car? The fur was flying. 

Have you ever watched a car pass by and the driver, or maybe a passenger is obviously singing at the top of their lungs, oblivious to the unwitting audience in the surrounding cars?  That was us—a duet of angry words. 

The more we argued, the more I began to think.  I was counting the days in my head.  We rarely fight—it had been weeks…just about four weeks to be exact…right about the time I was…

PMS!!

I tamped down my anger, pressing my lips into a tight line.  I would say no more.  I would not concede defeat—I was right after all—but I would not add to the fray any further.  That’s the thing about PMS, even when you are aware of its effects; you are just too afflicted to give a damn.  That was where I was at that moment…and it suddenly explained a lot.

It’s not unusual for me to wake up tired, especially on a Saturday morning when I have to go to work.  I often long for the days of old when “banker’s hours” actually had meaning.  But this morning, as I dragged myself through an abbreviated version of my morning routine—I woke up late—I was feeling a little cranky.

I didn’t let that cranky feeling spill over to my coworkers, they deserved better, so I put on a happy face, and attacked the day with a plastic vigor knowing that I only had to survive until one. 

It didn’t help matters that the Girl Scouts were outside again.  Like a pack of zombies, poised to tear me to shreds if I dare step one foot outside.  I could see them, running patrols across the front of the building, their little smocks plastered with badges, one for every person now addicted to their wicked sweets.  It was more than my willpower could bear.

I toyed with the crisp bills in my fingers, folding them and unfolding them with nervous precision.  I had just enough cash left for two boxes, but I was fighting an internal battle with my self-control.  I had completely broken myself of the habit.  Was I willing to fall over the edge again into a self induced cookie stupor? 

No.

Instead I retreated into the break room where I knew there would be some substitute that would hold me over for just a little while. 

There was little left.  The cake had been polished off the day before.   The M&M’s had been all but annihilated.  There was a box of pistachios left, but my craving wasn’t for a salty snack, but a sweet one, so I checked the freezer hoping to find a frost bitten popsicle at the very least.  What I found was more like the treasure at El Dorado. 

A box of Thin Mints—frozen to perfection—and one of the tubes was already open.

Jackpot!

I think I might have blacked out, because the next thing I knew, I was sneaking three of the frozen Thin Mints, closing the box up again like I found it, and slipping away like a thief in the night.  I didn’t know who they belonged to, but at that moment, I didn’t care.  I knew I had taken my life into my own hands.  Pilfering Girl Scout cookies was a killing offense.  I was afraid to take more than three, and I was afraid to do anything but eat them in rapid succession, chewing as fast as I could so as not to get caught.  I would like to say I felt guilty, but in truth, I was overwhelmed with euphoria.  I didn’t go back to the cookies again.  I was satisfied with three.  I was even able to look the Girl Scouts in the eye after that. 

I’m blaming my behavior on PMS.  A woman cannot be held responsible for things she does when suffering from the monthly affliction.  I’ve read about people getting away with murder…surely I can get away with taking three little Girl Scout cookies. 

I should be fine in a few days.  By then the hormonal surges should revert back to normal.  I’m taking extra precautions until then.  I’ve asked my husband to lock me in the closet at night, when the moon is high, and the wolf bane blooms.  Oh wait, that’s for werewolves.  Nevermind.  I’ll just be taking a few Midol and going to bed early.

Until the next time…I’ll be avoiding eye contact and confrontation!

attack of the girl scout cookies

Today my willpower was tested like no other day in recent history.  The little cookie dealers in their innocent looking Girl Scout getups were camped outside of the bank pushing their crack biscuits again.  It was like a sucker punch to the gut when I saw them.  It knocked the wind straight out of me, backing me up a few steps from where I stood in the parking lot. 

I wasn’t at the bank when they arrived. I was at a meeting offsite, and when I came back, there they were.  The crazy thing is…it was my idea.  I’m the one who got them permission to hawk their goodies practically on my doorstep, but that was weeks ago—before I discovered I had a problem.  I didn’t expect to see them today—cases of Thin Mints at the ready—so close to where I keep all of my money. 

I’d given them up, the Thin Mints.  Gone cold turkey weeks ago.  But there they were in all their minty goodness, staring me in the face like a bad nightmare.  I even had a wad of cash in my purse just begging me to spend it. 

It didn’t help that the little cookie peddlers were totally not shy about running up to everyone they saw, waving the damn things under my nose until the saliva glands kicked in, making me drool like Henry Chow in a fish market.  If only my legs could carry me faster, but as we all know…I don’t run.

I steeled myself against the temptation, and set off at a hobbled clip until they were on the other side of the glass door.  I could still see them.  It was still hard.  But I had done it.  I had walked away from my biggest temptation. 

And straight into another one.

Why the hell is it that working at the bank means I have to be in constant, close proximity to all things sugary?  In the break room at any given moment one will likely find boxes of cookies, bags of candy, loose M&Ms, a box of pistachios (healthy in small doses, but lethal if you eat everything your pockets can hold) and even an entire cake!  Is it any wonder I’m having such a hard time resisting the temptation of confections?  Can’t we have carrot sticks and celery once in a while?  Maybe some granola bars?  Some yogurt?  

No, because apparently bankers like sweets. 

There is most certainly a joke in there somewhere, and I can’t wait for my readers to draw it out and post it for me below!

To make matters worse, the minute I caught sight of the Girl Scout cookies, I started having an unnatural craving for Diet Coke.  I made a beeline for the bathroom and locked myself in to do deep breathing exercises, while chanting to myself, “I will eat a healthy meal today…I will eat a healthy meal today!”

Because healthy meals are what I’m all about these days.  My husband is adamant that I eat right and give up the junk food for good.  He’s taken to checking up after me in the bank account.  He was counting the frequency of fast food encounters and calculating my extravagant spending on the same.  It is quite sobering to have someone show you a spread sheet documenting how many times you’d been to Chick-Fil-A in a week’s time.  I swear it’s just for the lemonade.  They have the best lemonade, and it even comes in diet!

So I’m doing a bit of counter intelligence.  I’ve been getting cash back at the grocery store.  Cash is untraceable.   And my husband is quite pleased with me, because my fast food consumption has dropped off considerably in the last week.  So everybody wins!  And just for good measure, I have actually been eating healthier, and even cooking more at home.  I know…I may ruin my reputation, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take! 

I keep hoping that spring will eventually show up, and it if does, I might actually want to wear a cute skirt, or a pair of shorts.  I can’t keep putting off the groundhog diet, even if the groundhog isn’t holding up to his end of the bargain.  With only a few days of March left, it was still ridiculously cold in Atlanta today.  The story is, tomorrow will be warmer.  I’ll believe it when I see it.  I’m not taking any chances.  I’ll be sure to pick out two set of clothes for the morning, just in case. 

So it’s about that time again…time for me to try to grab a few uninterrupted hours of sleep.  I’ve been trying for years, and I’m determined to get it someday.

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of Thin Mints fighting carrot sticks in a food channel version of Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots.

things you should never do while driving

I had a great day today.  It was almost nice outside.  I didn’t need a jacket or an umbrella and I was able to spend half the day on appointments out of the office.  I love those days when I get to go out to visit clients.  Especially when I get to do it with my favorite coworker/friend.  

The first order of business today was getting a snack.  It was ten-thirty, and ten-thirty equals mid morning snack time!  Somehow we always end up eating when we’re together.  But we’re both trying to eat healthier (it’s been over two weeks since I’ve had diet Coke or Thin Mints) so it was a healthy treat for us today. 

The local CVS pharmacy isn’t usually known for its health food, but that didn’t stop us.  I cruised the protein bar aisle while she disappeared down another row.   I decided to go with the “Full Bar” a new all natural healthy snack bar developed by a weight loss surgeon.  What could possibly be a better recommendation than a snack bar made by a real doctor? Especially a real doctor that specializes in weight loss!  It was guaranteed to make you too full to eat a lot.  And it was peanut butter flavored.  That’s what it said on the package anyway.  So, of course, I bought it, along with the bottle of Smart water that I was supposed to drink in conjunction with the “Full Bar.”  

My friend bought a bag of beef jerky. 

Once we were buckled back in the car and the GPS was programmed for our destination, we pulled out our snacks.  While I was discovering that my “full bar” was the closest I have ever come to eating Styrofoam, my friend was scarfing down the entire bag of beef jerky.  That in itself was a sight to see.  She doesn’t look like the beef jerky type.  Actually, she looks a little bit like a Barbie doll, and I can’t imagine Barbie chowing down on dried meat products.  Then again, I’ve never been a fan of beef jerky.  It looks and smells like a dog treat.  So watching my friend devour it like it was her first meal in days, was a little off putting. 

Now I’ve seen everything.

I admit it, I’ve done a lot of things that I should not have done while driving.  I frequently talk on my phone while driving.  I have been known to text while driving.  I occasionally eat while driving.  I’ve even listened to my iPod with headphones while driving.  But I have never, ever, engaged in dental hygiene while driving—and it should definitely go on the top of the list of things you should never do while driving.  My jerky loving friend had obviously done this before.  She was traveling at fifty miles an hour on a major roadway at the same time as thoroughly flossing her teeth.  I don’t know if I could have flossed my teeth that skillfully while standing firmly on the tile in my bathroom.  And I definitely couldn’t have stayed between the lines in our lane while flossing my teeth (even one handed!)

I couldn’t watch.  But I couldn’t look away—and trust me, it wasn’t a pretty picture.  It was so gross it was hysterically funny.

When we arrived at our destination, she had to carefully get out of the car to brush the jerky crumbs from her dress.  At least we know she has very good oral hygiene. 

As for me, I’ll keep the dental floss in the bathroom where it belongs. 

And I need to find something healthy to eat that doesn’t taste like Styrofoam packing peanuts or dog treats.  I mean, what’s so great about all natural anyway?  Pine needles are all natural.  Twigs and rocks are all natural.  You won’t find me eating any of those either!  There has to be a happy medium between bad for you and good for you.  A place where the food even tastes good.  I suppose I’ll just have to keep experimenting until I find something. 

Until the next time…I guess I’ll just wash the healthy food down with a chocolate shake!

have you hugged your blogger today?

I think I had a rough day today, but Vivian (one of my best friends) took me out for a Margarita right after work, and I suddenly couldn’t remember why I was so irritated to begin with.  She made a special point to hug me before we left—something she has done every day since returning from Brazil.  This is not because she is a hugger.  This is specifically because I am not. 

And so it continues…

I have done more hugging in the last week than I can ever recall.  All because I made an innocent remark about not being a hugger.  Oh, it was a true enough statement, but not at all meant to be an invitation.  And yet, everyone I know has taken this as not only an invitation, but a challenge. 

Not that I mind the hugging…on the contrary…I feel I need to go on record with the statement that I am not against hugging, I’m just not very good at it.  Hugging, in and of itself, is actually very pleasant.  On a cold day, the combined body heat can even help to chase away the chill.  How could that possibly be bad?  Although, I think that hugging should be suspended during the hot months, as I have no desire to experience anyone else’s sweaty embrace.  Which brings up another point about hugging.  I think one reason I find it so awkward to hug people in public is that I’ve always thought of hugging as a “naked only” activity.  You know…as in, man and woman hugging, while naked, hopefully in the privacy of their bedroom, bathroom, or backyard hot tub. 

So when approached by fully clothed friends, or distant family, determined to pull me into their loving arms for a platonic embrace, I may subconsciously shrink away because I’m imagining them in their all together, and it’s not altogether comfortable.

Relationships are so complicated!  Even the uncomplicated ones. 

I’ve decided that my entire life is too complicated, and it would be infinitely simplified if I just had a genie. 

The kind that comes out of a lamp. 

The “magic” kind that comes out of an ancient tarnished brass oil lamp.

But I’ll need a few more than three wishes, thank you very much. 

I would take my genie everywhere with me. 

First off we would start with the house.  I would like it cleaned from top to bottom until every trace of dust, grime, and Henry Chow’s fur is gone (the fur not currently attached to Henry Chow, that is.)  The cabinets should be organized neatly, including the removal of every expired prescription bottle, over the counter cough syrup, and multivitamin (most of which still have more than half of the original contents remaining.) Every dust bunny trapped under my bed would be captured and set free into the wild.  And the cobwebs in the corners of my vaulted family room ceiling would be finally and permanently laid to rest. 

Once the house was in order, my genie would be happy to landscape the yard into a lush paradise complete with fountains, pools and a Koi pond.  My husband’s raised vegetable gardens would be brimming over with enough organic plants to feed the family for the entire year.  And the dogs would all be well groomed, well fed, and well behaved without any effort on my part. 

There would be no need to work, other than writing my blog, and the occasional book or two each year.  I would have time for more exciting pursuits…like pole dancing…bungee jumping…and fire walking.  My genie would see to it that I was perfectly safe in everything I decided to do.

But like anything that is too good to be true, life with my genie would cause me to grow complacent.  I would take genie for granted and expect him to cook dinner every night and do the dishes.  I would insist the he clean up after the animals, the children, and even the adults in our house without complaint.  My genie would in turn grow bitter as the resentment would fester in him until he snapped, raining his wrath down upon us like something out of a Steven Spielberg movie.

I can’t have a genie.  It would just never work out in the end. 

Maybe I could start small and hire a maid to come in once a month.

Until the next time…I’ll be cleaning my bathrooms!

could you pass me that holy water?

Do you remember back when you were in high school and you had a major paper due (or a small homework assignment for that matter) and you waited until the very last minute to start it?  And then as you sit down to do it, you yawn—a great big open mouth yawn.  Yeah, that’s how I feel right about now.  I haven’t even thought about what to write in my blog tonight.  I have had the day from Hell!  It was the kind of day that makes a person wish they could curl up into a tight ball and stay in bed until the real spring shows up.  I feel like I’m stuck between the witch and the house and I’m not sure which is worse.  Everywhere I turn there is evil staring back at me.   In fact, at this very moment my daughter is shaking the last drops of water from her water bottle at the ninja kitty, crying out, “and the power of Christ compels you!”  Hardly a persuasive exorcism, but I tend to agree with her.  It would appear that Henry Chow is possessed by some dark powers that make him demand to be petted constantly.  Defy him and he will sink his claws into you until you comply.  Ok, so maybe Henry Chow isn’t the antichrist, but I definitely think there is something strange about him.  When you rub his back he looks skyward, turning his head from side to side and licking the air like some sort of animatronic cat.  It’s almost creepy, and yet you just can’t stop doing it.   I think sometimes that I will video record this and add sound that makes him appear to be speaking (in a Chinese accent of course.)  But that will have to wait for another day…a day I don’t have to go to work.

My daughter has chased Henry Chow in my direction, and I can’t help but wonder why it is that cats show their love by digging their claws into your skin?  I feel like I’m a pillow that needs some fluffing.  Or a lawn that needs to be aerated.  And yet again, after much petting, Henry Chow has shed enough fur to build a new kitty without changing the size or shape of the whole.  This cannot be normal or earthly.   

But today wasn’t a total loss. My shoes were a big hit…everyone loved them (everyone but my feet who are still complaining loudly about the loss of their old friend.) I got a lot done.  Things I had been working on for months finally came together with a resounding success.  So out of the ashes a flower grows.  Now I just have to grab a few hours of sleep and start the cycle over again.  Is it just me, or does everyone get dizzy when life spirals completely out of control?  I know it’s just temporary.  All things are, after all.  Life is a cycle that has its ups and its downs, and the smart ones among us learn how to ride it like a rollercoaster, hands in the air, screaming as loud as they can until their lungs burn—all of it with a big smile on their faces.  So maybe that look on my face just means I’m screaming as loud as I can…on the inside.  And when I throw my hands up, maybe I’m just enjoying the ride.  And hey, if I throw up once in a while, that’s ok…it just means my stomach was having so much fun it couldn’t contain itself. 

Or maybe I just ate a bad piece of cheese or something.  It happens.

Until the next time…I’ll be getting some much needed rest!

bibbity bobbity boo hoo hoo

What is that saying about March coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb?  I’m beginning to think that March doesn’t have a clue what it’s supposed to be doing!  In fact, March is behaving like a Polar Bear if you ask me. 

With only nine days left before April is officially heralded in, there was snow again in Atlanta, Georgia.  Did I happen to mention that this is Georgia?  In the south?  Where it almost never snows in December or January, but on March 22, 2010, there were unmistakable snow flurries dotting the sky yet again.  Of course, we’ve had our share of show this year—more than our fair share, I would argue.  So much so that I would seriously like to know what “they” did to so thoroughly piss off that groundhog this year!

I suppose that waking up in winter after having such a nice weekend didn’t help my already fragile mood.  The simple fact of that matter is…sometimes life just isn’t all that funny.  Sometimes it’s all we can do not to cry!  And sometimes we have to pull ourselves up by our boot straps and carry on.  I don’t even know what a boot strap is, but I’m tugging on mine as hard as I can just to stay afloat! 

It’s really ok to cry sometimes.  Often times it’s just what the doctor ordered.  Just go ahead and curl up into a tight ball in the middle of your bed, make sure all the lights are off and the door is shut, and let loose with a barrage of tears.  I like to throw in my favorite swear words, and yell at the top of my lungs about how no one understands, and no one listens, and no one really cares.  It’s all part of the therapy.  It’s a process.  Like mourning.

I am officially in mourning today. 

I had to say goodbye to my favorite pair of shoes.  I loved them, and they were once as stylish as they were comfortable, but apparently, they had passed their prime and I was told that it was time to put them to sleep.  

My favorite shoes had wooden wedge heels, and the stain was worn away across the back where the shoes rested when I would drive.  It left a mottled finish somewhere between blonde and nearly black.  The fine Italian leather—once a burnished black—had weathered slightly, losing its luster as the shoes became perfectly broken in for my feet.  But, the stitching was still tight…the shoes were still good! 

But alas no…too many times I had been told that they weren’t perfect enough for the outside world.

I didn’t want to let them go.   After all, they weren’t bad shoes, they weren’t even ugly shoes—they were just a little old.  And I think it’s really sad to have to part with something just because it’s not young and beautiful anymore.  After all, won’t we all be in that same position someday?  When I’m too tired to color my gray will I be set aside as unwanted?  When my joints creak and my skin wrinkles, will I be told that I am being replaced?  Isn’t there something to be said for standing the test of time?  Is there no prize for weathering adversity?  Apparently, I am the only one who has an appreciation for antiques.

So off to the shoe store I went to find a replacement pair. 

If there is a more depressing endeavor, I’m unaware of it.   Shoes are not what they used to be, and I am no Carrie Bradshaw!  I don’t wear a size six and a half shoe, nor do I care to pay three hundred dollars for a pair in the right size.  I am not interested in fashion for the sake of fashion.  I want something that does not induce tears after mere moments of walking.  I have no desire to behave like one of Cinderella’s horrible stepsisters, attempting to jam my toes into a beautiful shoe that is tantamount to a bear trap.  I want my shoes to afford some level of comfort in addition to their stylish appearance.  Where is that section of the shoe store? 

Apparently, shoe stores don’t have a fantasy section.

I had a hard time finding an assortment of shoes in my size that I could even select from.  And from that group there was an even smaller selection of shoes that even came close to fitting my required criteria.  From those shoes I selected one pair.  I wondered where my fairy godmother had gotten off to.  Why couldn’t she just pop in and wave a wand to change my old shoes into something pristine and wonderful on the outside while retaining the luxurious comfort on the inside? 

Right…so I slid my feet into the new shoes and my eyes welled up with tears.  These were nothing like my old shoes.  They couldn’t even compare to my old shoes in any category other than that they were both black.  I took them off, threw them back into the box and immediately paid for them and left the store before I broke down in more tears.  Shoe shopping is traumatizing.

I didn’t spend three hundred dollars, (not even close) but I did pay lot of money for a pair of shoes that aren’t even that comfortable.  They don’t pinch…much.  And they don’t hurt…constantly.  I can sit in them very comfortably, and they are very pretty.  But they are not my beloved old shoes that were no one’s favorites but mine.  I will wear the new shoes, because I have no choice, but I will miss my old shoes with every step I take.

Until the next time…I’ll be stocking up on band aids to go with my new shoes!

i'm on team edward

So much for spring. 

I woke up to dark gray skies and spitting rain.  And it was cold again.  Not winter cold, but definitely not the glorious spring weather from just a day ago.  To make matters worse—as if the weather wasn’t enough to curdle my mood—my house was in a frightening state when I finally rolled out of bed and made the rounds throughout the public rooms.  There was no evidence of the time spent cleaning the day before.  There were dozens of spent soda cans and paper plates littering every available surface.  And Henry Chow had fallen asleep in a piece of cake.  

I wasn’t the only one to have guests at last night’s Twilight party, but my guests were the only ones to go home.  Somewhere in the bowels of my house was an assortment of teenage girls and one teenage boy—their very good friend who just happened to be just “one of the girls” and therefore didn’t count with regard to the “no boys upstairs” rule.  

The teenagers were still sleeping after the long hours spent debating the merits of Team Edward vs. Team Jacob.   It was a heated debate that carried on into the wee hours of the night.  I know because I heard the death screams of laughter from time to time.  I didn’t bother to investigate.  Sort of like a baby’s cry, a teenager’s death scream varies depending on the situation.  There is a scream of hunger, a scream for attention, a scream of delight (the scream I was hearing), a scream for no reason whatsoever, and a scream for reasons that need to be immediately and thoroughly investigated just in case someone is moments away from stepping out on the roof!  All things considered, I might rather they were still babies…but that wasn’t an option.

I couldn’t complain too loudly, after all, my house was still standing—if just a little askew.  In addition to the mess, there were a few casualties from the night before—my favorite lamp for one.  It was displaced from its perch on the side table by a few too many plates of food and cans of soda until it slipped to the floor with an explosion of metal and glass.  But what is a party without a little broken glass?  The only thing missing was a visit from the police.  Still, I would definitely call that a successful party!

But the party was over, and all that was left was a few sleeping teenagers and enough garbage to star in a Hefty commercial.  Which reminds me…when I was buying garbage bags the other day, I noticed that almost every package of bags featured a dog jumping up on the side of a trash can, peering in to see what was inside.  Am I supposed to discern from this that the bags are approved by dogs everywhere? Or that the bags are dog proof?  Because neither of those things is a ringing endorsement for trash bags as far as I’m concerned.  For my dogs to endorse any garbage bags they would have to be easy to chew through—not something I would buy if I was aware.  And the idea of a dog proof garbage bag is, in and of itself, silly when you see the dog peering in over the top.  Do the bag makers not realize that dogs know the garbage is in there?  My dogs rarely chew through the bags, but rather go right for the top access.  I hide my cans now.  I think they should show the can inside a closet with a dog sitting on the outside with a sad face because he knows there are food scraps in there that he will never eat.  But that’s just me.

As the morning dragged on, one by one the teen revelers slipped out of the house without a word until the only three left were the two that lived there and their best friend, who may as well.  

Those of us who were left made pancakes and maple syrup sausage and proceeded to pour out the half drank remnants of at least two twelve packs of soda. I wasn’t in any hurry to do anything exciting.  I was more than willing to have a lazy Sunday for a change.  Eventually I would be forced to shower and do my laundry.  I would have to cook a meal, and write a blog…that was inevitable…but at the outset, I was content to do nothing at all.

I suppose I should feel guilty that I did nothing all day—nothing, outside of putting my house back in order, something that didn’t take nearly as long as I expected it to.   And now, it’s almost time for bed, and the vicious cycle that I call my life will begin again with another Monday.  I will think about that with as much positive energy as possible.  It certainly could be worse!  I could just not wake up at all in the morning.  And how sad that would be for all of you to be without a daily blog…

Until the next time…I’ll be watching New Moon again while I do my laundry!

beauty is only skin deep

It was a wonderful Saturday off.  I spent the entire day preparing my house for my second annual Twilight party.  I was so busy readying the house, and the food, and the movie that I didn’t bother to get ready myself.  There just never seems to be enough time in the day.  It was my closest friends coming over, so I knew I don’t need to go overboard, but it would have been nice to at least look nice. 

I didn’t look so nice.  My hair wasn’t fixed, I wasn’t wearing make-up, and I was wearing baggy jeans with a t-shirt.  But seriously, I’ve spent too many hours of my life being concerned with my looks.  Once upon a time, I was a single girl looking for my Mr. Right.  Back then, I spared no effort to look beyond my best. 

Thank God those days are over!

Dating in itself is a dangerous excursion destined to bring out the awkwardness in all of us.  And I don’t think anyone would argue the issue of my innate awkwardness.  As a general rule, men have it comparatively easy when it comes to dating.  They just have to shower, brush their teeth, apply deodorant and dress in clean clothes.  And, to all you men out there, this is not merely a suggestion, but a hard and fast rule.  You MUST shower, brush your teeth, apply deodorant and dress appropriately before ringing our doorbell.  I can’t even count the number of men I know who root through the dirty laundry pile for something to wear.  Needless to say, this is not an acceptable practice.  Your task of getting ready is a fairly simple one to begin with and taking such “short cuts” only manages to turn women off in the worst possible way.  

Unless you happen to be Rob Pattinson.  And trust me guys…you aren’t!

Women, on the other hand, have the added undertaking of becoming beautiful.  I know it seems simple, but even for the most beautiful woman in the world; there is the necessary chore of constant, painstaking maintenance.  Think of a woman as a car.  (Most men do anyway.)  We need to be constantly lubricated, detailed, occasional rust removal and parts overhaul. 

Just imagine the repercussions if a man showed up to our door and we had yet to fix our hair and do our makeup.  If we neglected to wax, shave or tweeze the countless body parts that require waxing, shaving and tweezing.  If we ignored our finger and toe nails, our chapped lips and un-moisturized skin, not to mention the simple tasks of showering, brushing our teeth, applying deodorant and dressing in something recently laundered.  It’s no wonder that it takes us hours to prepare for a single outing.  And I often wonder why we bother at all when we’re completely exhausted before even leaving the house.  Like I said before…thank God I don’t have to worry about dating anymore! 

Then again, I do have a handsome husband in the other room who just might appreciate it if I showered, shaved my legs, and slathered myself in fragranced lotion before climbing into bed tonight. 

I suppose that might not be a bad idea. 

Until the next time…I’ll be primping!

new moon rising

Spring was in the air today.  It was a clear blue day and it was warm.  It was a day to snub your nose at the groundhog.  And I did.  I thought about him far too many times today.  Furry little jerk who had cursed us to the eighth worst winter on record! But today was our day, not the groundhog’s day.  It was the day before the first official day of spring.  And it was spring already!  I didn’t get to spend much time outside, but I could see the sunshine from the picture window in my office, and I caught myself more than once gazing out longingly, counting the hours until the day would be over.  There is almost nothing better than a beautiful Friday when you have Saturday off!

And once the bank closed, and I was buckled into my car, the countdown continued to the midnight DVD release of the Twilight Saga’s New Moon.  Since I didn’t have to get up for work the next morning, I decided it would be a splendid idea to stay up late and get the movie the minute it was released!  My only hesitation was that I would be forced to stand in line.

I recruited my best friend Melissa and my daughter into my plan, and we piled into the car at precisely eleven pm to set out for the most dreaded of all places…Wal-Mart. 

We were going for total Twilight submersion, so before we were even buckled in, I plugged the iPod into the car stereo to listen to the New Moon book on the way.

We were parked and headed across the parking lot with more than thirty minutes to go before the film would be released to the public.  The thought of standing had my knees throbbing with anticipation.  My poor joints had been really bothering me lately (years of tripping over things, and falling down stairs had apparently caught up to me) so I had the brilliant idea to use one of the motorized Wal-Mart scooters to navigate the store.

I had never used a market scooter before, but I knew that standing in line would have been excruciating, so I was willing to give it a go.  It was daunting at first, but after a quick lesson on how to operate the contraption, I was zipping through the store on my granny scooter and it was fun.

The scooter can turn on a dime!

I was doing donuts in the aisles, much to my daughter’s horror.  But, it didn’t have much oomph.  I was pressing the gas as far as it would go, and I was being passed by old ladies walking. 

There is something surreal and amusing about riding through a Wal-Mart in the middle of the night on a motorized scooter.  You see the most interesting people at that hour of the night in the one place that never closes.  I overheard a woman dressed in a purple polyester sweat suit say to her companion that “it never fails…every time I come into the Wal-Mart, I get all hot.”  The only hotness I saw in the Wal-Mart last night was the Edward Cullen posters pinned to every display. 

Once we were situated in the line with only twenty minutes to go, we were able to participate in a giveaway.  Out of the hundred or so people who showed up, twenty-there were awarded with an aluminum water bottle with Edward Cullen’s picture emblazoned across the front.  All three of us won one!  And we were given other little prizes too. I will be proudly wearing my Cullen crest tattoo until it washes off.  

Finally it was time! 

We queued up to the cardboard display table to collect our prize (in my case it was the Blu Ray ultimate fan edition.) I sat in my scooter and stared at the movie that was handed to me.  This wasn’t right! After thorough research as to which store would be selling what special features, we still chose the wrong venue! Where were the deleted scenes? How could I go to bed without watching at least that?  I will cop to the possibility that this very behavior might actually be bordering on pathetic. But that being said, I really don’t care. What’s wrong with being pathetic if it’s for a good cause?

Target was closed by the time we got there somewhere around twelve-thirty, so I will be arriving sometime up before eight in the morning to pick up my three disc set with the deleted scenes.  

You can call it an addiction if you like, but I just gave up caffeine, Girl Scout cookies, and (preemptively) Easter candy, so leave me alone with the only real vice I have left!

I could have worse addictions than Twilight you know.

Until the next time…I will be preparing for my girl’s only Twilight party tomorrow evening!

the international order of old bastards

I had a frustrating morning.  All I wanted to do was to bury my head under the covers and play groundhog for awhile, but unfortunately, I had a day job that required my presence.  And I was under strict instructions to get there on time!

So I dragged myself up, danced through the dwindling hot water after my husband’s lengthy shower, and made it to work with minutes to spare.  Most of my day was strictly status quo.  It can be eerily similar to the movie Groundhog’s Day around the bank which is doubly eerie since I’ve decided to have such a facination with the groundhog this year. 

I took advantage of the fact that my son was off today and had him run my errands for me in an effort to relieve some of the stress of being a full time mother, banker, blogger and wife.  It was an even exchange considering that I have been puppy sitting this week while he has been at work. 

Smack dab in the middle of my less than electrifying afternoon—just when I’d completely given up on excitement or even a bit of levity—an old man came into the bank.  He was easily in his seventies, maybe older.  He was in good health; at least he appeared to be from what I could tell of him in the short time we spoke.  He had the look of former military—tall, athletic build, with a spring in his step.  I took notice of him immediately because he was pleasant.  He smiled at me when he came in.  I was standing in the lobby, greeting customers as they came into the bank (not really my job, but I was helping out.)

The man was dressed casually, and because it was an almost spring-like day, he was wearing a light jacket.  It was black satin with his name stitched in gold letters across the left front pocket.  It was the kind of jacket you might see a bowling team wearing on league night. 

We shared a few brief words before he turned away to take his deposit to the counter.  The minute his back was to me I was able to read the fancy gold lettering on the back of his jacket.

“The International Order of Old Bastards”

Oh my gosh!  For most of my childhood my mother referred to my father as an old bastard, and now I discover there is actually an international order devoted to the same?  I needed to get an application for my dad!  He definitely needs one of those jackets!  Is he already a member? Does he even know about this?  I have no idea, but I can guarantee you I will find out. 

I only wish I’d taken a picture.  What was I thinking?

The rest of my day went smoothly after that.  How do you have a bad day after meeting someone from the International Order of Old Bastards?  It’s just not possible! That being said, I did have to take Alexa to the chiropractor after school. 

Going to the chiropractor is usually a risk free affair, especially for the spectator.  But we are talking about me, aren’t we?  Is anything really a risk free endeavor where I’m involved? 

No.  Unfortunately not.

The examination rooms at Alexa’s chiropractor are small.  They aren’t meant for an audience.   Most of the space is taken up by the exam table, with a good part used by the desk.  The floor space was barely enough for the doctor to maneuver, but my daughter doesn’t like going in by herself, and what mother can turn her back when asked to stay?  So there I was, trying to squeeze myself into the corner without getting in the way.  At one point the doctor stepped out while Alexa changed her clothes, and I once again, struggled to find a place to stand where I wouldn’t be a disruption. 

I didn’t pick my spot wisely.  I tucked myself between the wall and the desk, trying in vain to stand clear of the door that would swing open when the doctor came back.   I misjudged the space available, and bumped a wall shelf.  The end of the shelf slipped off the bracket and all of the shiny stainless steel implements resting upon the top slid in rapid succession until they fell with a reverberating “clink, clink, clink, clink” on the desk below.  Alexa shook her head and said something to the effect of, “can’t take you anywhere, Mom,” while I scrambled to restore the shelf and return everything to its rightful place before the doctor came back in. 

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.  I’m his banker, so maybe he was just being nice. 

I won’t be taking Alexa to her next appointment.  Her brother will be doing the honors.  I doubt she will invite him in, but even if she did, I doubt he would clear a shelf in the first five minutes.  He may not look it, but he’s more graceful than I am.  Then again, it doesn’t take much to be more graceful than me. 

The rest of my night was far more uneventful.  I made dinner (by myself) and didn’t burn the house down or flood anything.  I didn’t even drop or spill anything.  Don’t worry…there’s always tomorrow!

Until the next time…I’ll be filling out that application for my dad!

he’s always after my lucky charms!

I woke up at seven thirty this morning (my day off), not by choice, but because I had a client appointment at nine.  Yes…on my day off.  Funny thing about that—the client didn’t show up.  Nice, huh?  I could have slept in.  Oh well, I still had a lot of day off left.

Interesting thing about having my day off fall on Patrick’s Day—I didn’t have anything green to wear. This left me open to frequent pinching.  Woopeee!  Who came up with that little nugget?  “If you don’t wear green today we get to pinch you.”  I think I should come up with a random day and call it hot pink fur sweater day.  If you don’t wear a hot pink fur sweater on that day I can pinch YOU.  I’m not sure what day I’ll pick, but it would be sort of funny if after I picked the day, I forgot to wear my hot pink fur sweater.  It would figure.  

After my imaginary client appointment (I sat at my desk for an hour reading emails and doing other assorted busy work) I set out to find exciting things to do on my day off. 

There wasn’t anything overly exciting to do for the morning.  I had a prearranged lunch scheduled with an old friend, so I busied myself until noon. 

Lunch was nice, if not overly exciting.  We caught up on our jobs and kids in the forty minutes we had to spend, and at the end she went in for the hug.  She was kind enough to preface it with, “give me a hug.”  And she added, “I know you’re not a big hugger,” for good measure. 

Was it that obvious that I wasn’t a hugger?  And exactly why am I not a hugger?  I had to ask myself that question.  We hugged, and it wasn’t horrible to hug her.  There was nothing untoward about it.  Friends hug all the time, right?  I’ve hugged people.  So I felt compelled to break it down for her…and myself.

I don’t hate hugs; I just never know what to do.  Which way do I turn my head?   Are you supposed to make eye contact?  And what about your hands?  Do you pat their back or rub it…or just keep your hands perfectly still?  How tight is too tight?  Are you supposed to say something while you’re hugging?  How long is too long to linger?

These are difficult questions!

I have a history with hugging.  While serving as her maid of honor, I once almost ruined my best friend’s wedding gown after a hug that went terribly wrong.  I mistook the signal and turned my head the wrong way, catching the padded shoulder of her white taffeta dress with my bright coral lips, getting lipstick all over her.  It was a near tragedy salvaged only by a quick thinking bridesmaid and a piece of white bread. (I have no idea how the bread helped, so don’t ask me what the trick was.)  It all worked out in the end.  The wedding was a success—the marriage…not so much—they were divorced eighteen months later.  But she looked beautiful!

So what is it about me and hugging?  I don’t know.  I hug my husband all the time with no difficulty.  I hug my children.  I think I’ve hugged my mother recently.  The cat doesn’t count, because he ensures his hugs by digging his claws into my skin so I can’t pull away.  I think Henry Chow may have developed an unhealthy fixation on me.  He scratches on the door when I’m in the bathroom.  I think he would sit in my lap if I let him.  But that would be weird.

So I figured it was worth delving into my hug phobia…and I think there is an actual name for it, but I got to the H’s in the list of phobias and gave up looking.  There are a whole lot of phobias out there.  I think they may have gone a little overboard with naming every fear.  I would say that the fear of dirt or of the color white is probably a little strange, but some fears are just smart.  Merinthophobia is actually the fear of being bound or tied up.  That might not be a bad fear to have!  Especially if it involves strangers!  Lachanophobia, on the other hand, is the fear of vegetables.  But, I think that may have been something cooked up by a really smart kid who just didn’t want to eat his broccoli.  Amathophobia is the fear of dust, and if you have that, you can’t come to my house! Unless you’d like to help me get caught up on my vacuuming! 

I could do an entire blog on phobias!

But as for my hug phobia…I have no answers.  I suppose I just need a lot more practice—you know—I should start hugging everyone until I get over my fear.  It would make for interesting blogging I’m sure.  I wonder if my dentist would object.  Or my gynecologist?   Or maybe I should just rethink this whole thing.  I’ve made it this far without hugging the whole world.  I’m going to need to take this on a case by case basis, I think.

As for the rest of my day off?  I didn’t find any leprechauns or pots of gold.  No rainbows at all, just lots of rain.  I didn’t drink green beer (or caffeinated beverages) I didn’t even buy a lottery ticket.  I did have a craving for a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast, but just my luck, we were totally out!  Mike and I tried to go out for dinner, but the wait was so long we left the restaurant and ended up at the grocery store buying frozen pizzas and one lonely can of beer.  After all…it was St. Patrick’s Day…and according to ancestry.com, we both have just a dash of the Irish in us. 

Until the next time…I’ll be picking my hot pink fur sweater day, so you’d better go find one or you’re going to get pinched!

hooray for humpday!

Tuesday night is officially my favorite night! 

I feel a wonderful sense of relief—almost euphoria—just knowing that I have the day off tomorrow.  It doesn’t matter that I need to go to my office for an hour in the morning.  I can handle an hour.  And I don’t care that my entire house is covered in a thick layer of white fluff because the grandpuppy and his uncle Joey (my boxer/bulldog mix) thought it would be great fun to disembowel every stuffed animal in my house.  We can clean tomorrow.  And I don’t even care that I have nothing green to wear for St. Patrick’s Day, and therefore I am risking life and limb just by leaving the house in my non-green attire.  I don’t exactly know why it’s dangerous, but hey with my luck…

Still, with all those things hanging over my head, I have a day off and I’m going to enjoy it!

So what shall I do on the night before my day off?  I could go to sleep early so I can get a jump on the day…I could stay up late and take advantage of every extra minute to write…or some compromise between the two.  I haven’t had caffeine in three days now, so it’s entirely possible that I will quickly drift off to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.  As long as I don’t dream about Girl Scout cookies.  I haven’t had any of those in days, but they’re still out there, so I can’t afford for my willpower to slip even in my subconscious.  It is remarkably difficult to give up caffeine and sweets at the same time, but that groundhog only gave us so long to get into our bikinis, and time is running out!  So no dreaming about thin mints—got it?

For as little as I get, I actually really like sleep, and I wouldn’t complain if I got an extra hour or two tonight.  But as it always seems to turn out, I hate to miss any fun, and there is always something to do when it’s time to go to bed.  Like this evening for example: I’m working on two different manuscripts intermittently while watching a movie and reading a book.  It’s not ADHD…I’m not having a hard time concentrating…I just have so many ideas running around inside my head that I have to get them down in print as they come out.  Oh, and I really like the Sixth Sense, and it’s on Encore again. 

I managed to misplace my husband in all the excitement.  He was there in his chair a minute ago, working on something on his laptop while we watched the movie together, and then he was gone.  Off to bed, himself, no doubt.  He has to get up early. 

Then again, maybe he’s just in the other room playing the guitar.  (She said as she heard familiar chords coming from the bedroom)

I read somewhere that couples that live together for many years begin to look alike, and it made me wonder about my animals.  I’ve recently noticed that the cat (not Henry Chow, but Kitty Bartholomew—also known as Bart) is starting to resemble Lady, the geriatric Labrador.  They are both sleeping in a chair and their positions are so similar it would seem that someone had purposely posed them in this way.  I always knew Lady was just a cat in a dog suit.

Well, as the evening draws later, I feel I need to have some purpose in my life.  And that purpose is sleep!  The lethal combination of daylight savings and no caffeine is still causing me to drift in and out of sleep while thinking.  I am hopeful that this goes away by the weekend, as I have friends coming over Saturday night for our second annual Twilight party.  New Moon is coming out on DVD, and we’re going to have a “girls only” night to celebrate.  It should be fun, and it should make for entertaining blogging. 

But for today, I think I’ll grab a few extra hours of sleep, so I can do something exciting tomorrow.  Something worthy of a blog.  Something embarrassing and funny…I should be so lucky!

Until the next time…I’ll be digging through my closets for something  green!

the morning after

Daylight savings time totally kicked my ass this morning.  It started the night before as I was having a horrible time falling asleep.  As I spent the day walking around like a flesh eating zombie, I tried to make the impassioned plea to the world, blaming daylight savings for why I was so tired, but I was told that the time change was no excuse.  It’s just one hour, said they. 

Now, why anyone could possibly think that simply telling me to turn the clocks ahead by one hour would suddenly cause my internal clock to shift into gear at the mere mention is beyond me.  I told my clocks what time it was.  The time was changed in my cars, my phone, my computer, my television, even my microwave.  Those devices responded by accepting the new time without putting up the slightest fight.  My body—my brain—on the other hand, was having nothing of it.  When midnight rolled around on the bedside clock, my internal clock called it a liar, and refused to send the sleepy time signal to my brain.  And when the alarm went off at seven the next morning, that same internal clock let out a string of obscenities that would make even me blush, and I was a sailor in a previous life!  My entire day was a casualty of the change in time.  

Well, not everything.

In some ways, today was a wonderful day.  I really felt the outpouring of love from my readers after yesterday’s blog.  I would have never expected so many people to have so many nice things to say.  And then, after much thought and careful consideration, I came to the conclusion that being verbally attacked on my blog just meant that I had hit the big time.  I mean, who goes after someone unworthy of examination?  That would be a complete waste of time, right?  No, they go after people who are going someplace.  Someplace up. 

And let me tell you, the view from up here is fabulous, I have to say.  I can almost see Alaska…or is that Acworth…I can never tell.  You know, a big chocolate Labrador running through the yard late in the evening looks remarkably like a grizzly bear bearing down on you.  Especially now that she’s shedding so heavily.  Her internal clock appears to be telling her that spring is just around the corner despite the fact that I swear those were snow flurries I saw floating around the air tonight. 

And speaking of the animals…I seem to recall someone asking about Henry Chow the other day.  Henry Chow is alive and well (not part of the stew) although it was touch and go for him today.  My fearless ninja kitty was accosted by the grandpuppy this evening.  Grandpuppy Rowdy apparently mistook Henry Chow’s tail for a stuffed animal and managed to remove a mouthful of fur.  I know this only because I saw him spitting the fur out of his mouth.  I inspected the cat for damage, and could not find any evidence that he was short any fur.  This further proves my theory that Henry Chow has a constantly replenishing coat.  He sheds enough fur on a daily basis to create an entirely new cat, and yet there never seems to be any change his appearance.  Despite his supernatural abilities, I have found a new respect for Henry Chow after watching him interact with the puppy.  Regardless of his standing as the new alpha, the fearless ninja kitty, unafraid to take on ninety pound Labradors or two hundred pound humans, did not strike out at the puppy even after having his tail thrashed about in the razor sharp teeth of the pup.

I definitely think animals have far more intelligence than we give them credit for. 

Unless you leave a window open that is.

Oh hey, I passed a troop of cookie dealers on the side of the road today and kept on driving.  Well, I wasn’t actually driving, my daughter was, but I didn’t ask her to stop.  And that was a huge step for me.  I may have officially burned myself out on the Girl Scout cookies once and for all.  It was bound to happen.  Can’t have too much of a good thing, and all that.  It was a good run.  I really enjoyed the cool crisp crunch of the chocolately mint crack biscuits.  But I think I’ll move on to a new food obsession.  Maybe spinach sautéed in garlic and olive oil.   That’s even good for me.  I don’t know.  Maybe tomorrow. 

I haven’t had caffeine in two whole days, so I’m falling asleep as I think.  It may just take me a week or so to get used to this new time change thing.    

Until the next time…I’ll be working hard to readjust my internal clock.