even a daily blogger deserves a night off

Today was a fairly quiet day for me.  I went to work this morning, armed with the new medication that makes me even more loopy and dizzy than I am normally.  It was interesting at best.  It was all I could do to keep my eyes open, but I don’t think anyone noticed.  I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.  I discovered that my husband loves me even more than I realized, and I was pretty sure he loved me a lot.  This is always a good thing.  Apparently, I frightened him with my health scare, and he had to imagine what the world would be without me.  I’m sure it would be much less entertaining if nothing else.  I did make him promise to write the blog every day for me if I were to become temporarily incapacitated (as in hospitalized.) Not that I have plans to spend any time in the hospital, but sometimes these subjects need to be discussed.  I have promised to take it easy for at least a few days, so there will be no pole waxing or relay races for me this weekend!  I am still planning a trip for me and my posse (yes I have a posse) to go belly dancing.  I’ve decided that every modern woman should learn how to belly dance, and I’m long overdue. 

Until the next time…I will be taking it easy!

relax? what the hell is that?

Have you ever had one of those days that practically screams at you to jump back into bed and pull the covers over your head?  A day that actually makes you re-evaluate your life and your priorities?  A day that gives you pause to contemplate your own mortality?  A day that tells you how utterly and completely insignificant you really are in the grand scheme of things?

Yeah, those days suck.

I’m not saying that I had a day like that, but I am saying it wasn’t my favorite day out of a whole lot of other days.  The good news is…that little thing on my shoulder that I was really worried about isn’t skin cancer after all.  Whew!  Dodged a bullet there.  That wasn’t why I was lying on a table (and asking the doctor about every single thing that might be wrong with me) but I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask while my shirt was off.   I also managed to tell him that I happen to be an excellent business banker if he was looking for one. 

He wasn’t. 

But he did think it was funny that I would ask that while hooked up to an EKG. I figured…why not?  I’m not doing anything else while I’m lying here.  And I do tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous.

I almost had to have a “guest” blogger tonight!  Can you even imagine?

More good news…I’m alive.  And I’m home.  And all signs point to me still being alive and home tomorrow—if I avoid all types of stress.  I think I can do that. 

You can still get internet in a plastic bubble can’t you?

Until the next time…I’ll be attempting to relax!

a blog about writing a blog about nothing

Ok…so you know when you’re writing your blog and the dogs won’t stop barking and jumping on you? And the kids are asking to get a ride to a friend’s house, and “by the way,” they toss in, “can we stop and grab something to eat because we don’t like what you had planned for dinner?”  And you come back thirty minutes later with a greasy pizza that you flop down onto a paper towel to avoid messing up a plate, because you really hate doing dishes, and besides, you have to find time to write, but your eyes are fighting to stay open because you haven’t slept well in days.  As soon as you sit down at your laptop, the ninja kitty with his unmanageable shedding problems decides to snuggle up on top of the keyboard, lodging tufts of fur under the keys.  So you have to go find that can of compressed air (the blowy thing, you call it) and it’s never where you left it.  The kids invariably took it upstairs to do God knows what to you don’t even want to know, and now the can is completely empty, so you have to just blow really hard on the keys while holding the laptop upside down over the bed (just in case you drop it) and hope the fur all comes out. 

Once you finally have the keys working again, you plop back down into the bed to write just as the dogs (the same ones you booted outside for being irritating) start barking at the back door to come inside.  Once you corral them into their beds and they settle down, you shut the cat into the hallway, turn the TV to mute, adjust the pillows so you’re completely comfortable, pull the laptop onto your lap and flip the screen open, type exactly three words onto the blank white page when the phone rings.  It’s the kids.  They need you to come pick them up. 

You miss the driveway three times picking them up because you can’t see for crap in the dark, and it doesn’t matter that you’ve been to this house no less than twenty times in the past thirty days, you still can’t find the turn in the pitch black night.  You finally inch your way to your destination and surrender the driver’s seat to your sixteen year old daughter who may not have the years of driving experience, but can see infinitely better at night than you. 

You arrive back home to the dogs jumping, and the cat shedding, and the pizza calling you to have “just one more piece.”  Your husband is now home and settled into the bed beside you watching a movie that would be distracting if you weren’t very focused on the task at hand.  You only have three words written, and there are hundreds more to go before the night is over.  You are committed to tuning out the TV, ignoring the dogs, avoiding the cat, saying goodnight to the kids, picking up the laptop and finishing your blog because there are hundreds of people expecting you to come up with something brilliant!  And you would be delighted to do just that if it weren’t for the horrible acid indigestion (probably due to that last piece of pizza) burning a hole in your esophagus.  So you put the laptop down (again) and stomp off to the kitchen to find antacids.

Armed with a bottle of Tums, and a glass of ice water, you trudge back to the bedroom, flop down on the bed to write, fluff the pillows behind your head, pull the laptop back onto your lap, lean into the soft pile of pillows to stare at the blank screen (because you just erased the only three words you typed because they were inappropriate, and mostly untrue) and wonder what in the hell possessed you to write a daily blog in the first place?  It’s nearly impossible some days to come up with something entertaining.  And sleep used to be your friend, but now you’re almost completely on the outs.  Your husband has forgotten what you look like without a laptop attached to you, or a cell phone in your hand and your children call you the crazy blog lady instead of Mom. 

But in the back of your mind you remember that you‘re a writer.  Even when you’re so exhausted you can’t keep your eyes open.  Even when it’s inconvenient.  Even when the inspiration doesn’t flow easily.  Even when the subject wavers in and out of focus.  At your core, you are a writer.  And writer’s most definitely write!

Until the next time…I may be tired…but I’ll be writing!

win lose or draw

It’s that time of the month again…

No, not THAT time of the month.  I wasn’t suffering from PMS or any of its nasty little symptoms today.  I was referring to book club. 

I actually read a really good book this week.  It wasn’t the one we were discussing tonight, but no one really expects me to read the book, and it’s gotten to the point that I feel it might be a disappointment if I change my tactics this late in the game.  So, of course I was unprepared—not that it really mattered tonight.  Our new and improved book club format includes a quick rundown of the book followed by a rousing game of something or other.  Last month it was Scattergories.  This time…Pictionary. 

All the usual suspects were in attendance, and as you may recall, Mrs. Jones and Miss Congeniality are very competitive.  There was some debate as to whether it would be better or worse to have them on the same team as they originally argued for, and it was decided that it would be far more entertaining, if nothing else, to have them on opposite teams.  In fact, they would be team captains and would pick their teams. 

The host tonight was Mrs. Van Gogh (not her real name) and she is quite artistic.  She has painted a number of the art pieces in her own house, so it should have been obvious that she would be the one to beat in a game based on artistic talent.  Mrs. Jones would have been crazy to pass on her as the first pick.  But I won’t call her crazy.  I’m sure she had another strategy in mind. 

Mrs. Jones picked Tex and Picasso (not their real names) to be her team mates—the two people in the room who had vehemently declared from the outset that they could not draw at all.  Her strategy was so diabolical, that I still haven’t figured it out!

Being a writer, I would never claim to be an artist, but I would definitely say that I am creative.  My drawings may not have been Michelangelo quality or anything, but they were all guessed before the buzzer went off.  I even managed to guess a few to keep us ahead.  My team mates were equally talented at the guessing, and Mrs. Van Gogh far exceeded either of us at the drawing.  Miss Congeniality was a good guesser.  Drawing was not her strong suit.  But I gave her extra points for her superior captaining skills as she picked the strongest players to be on her team.  We managed to stay half a board’s length ahead of the other team for most of the game. 

Mrs. Jones does not like to lose.  This made it that much more fun to watch her non-drawers attempt to sketch out clues for her team to guess.  Picasso was tasked to draw a bottle cap for her turn.  I say this only because the game is long since over and I now know what she was supposed to be drawing.  During the competition I would have never guessed.  Her bottle resembled a length of PVC pipe with a cover on each end.  She blamed her drawing on the piña coladas.  She had a few.  So did I, but I wasn’t convinced that Pictionary was the same thing as karaoke and a few drinks would help me draw better.  Picasso Piña Colada, as I was now calling her, was holding on to that notion with both hands! 

Tex came up to bat next for the other team.  As his name implies, his clue was Texas.  His drawings, however, were hardly Texan.  His longhorn steer sort of looked like a donkey constructed out of Lego’s.  His cartoon sombrero was supposed to resemble a ten gallon hat.  But his drawing of the state of Texas looked a little like Abraham Lincoln’s profile.  We didn’t even disqualify him for cheating when he drew the letter D (strictly forbidden in the game) at the top of the white board.  D was absolutely no help to anyone and may have actually hindered their ability to guess correctly. 

Team Van Gogh was up at bat again. 

I drew “nut” for the next clue.  My brain immediately shifted into inappropriate territory for this one.  I could only think about my kindergarten drawings of my parents (sans clothing) as I was trying to formulate a plan to get my team to guess correctly.  I ended up going with a squirrel, a tree, and something that looked a little like an egg.  Mrs. Van Gogh actually guessed that it was a squirrel eating an egg before Miss Congeniality shouted out the correct answer.  Several turns later, Picasso drew something that looked suspiciously like the nut I wanted to draw but didn’t.  I figured I should at least pretend to have a little more decorum than that.  You know…for the neighbors.

I have come to the conclusion that Pictionary turns everyone into really old deaf people.  The wrong answer is yelled out louder and louder the more times it is wrong.  As if saying it louder will suddenly make it the right answer.  And amazingly, there were several people that believed there were objects known as a moon head, a bee arrow, and a house butt.  At one point, Tex managed to shout out the answer to the clue HE was drawing (we gave him a do-over just to be sure Mrs. Jones didn’t have a reason to call a stalemate later in the game).  Oh, and no one could draw a bottle. 

Did I need to mention that my team won?  Yeah, we did.  I hate to say it, but I just don’t lose at board games.  I suppose it could happen, but not today.  Oh, and I got picked last.  Just like in elementary school kick ball.  Some things just never change!

Until the next time…I’ll be brushing up on my bottle drawing skills!

mother's day revisited

Have you ever noticed that sometimes the perfect day you had planned looks absolutely nothing like the perfect day you end up with? 

That was precisely the way things worked out for me today. 

I had every intention of getting up and having breakfast with the entire family—Mom, my sister, our husbands, and my kids.  It was going to be a beautiful sunny Sunday and we were going to dine on the patio at my favorite local restaurant.  Our reservations were for ten this morning, and in a cruel twist of fate, the hot weather we’d been having decided to take a little respite for the day, and it was barely fifty degrees in the shade where we were sitting.  On a positive note, none of my children were up for the task of getting out of bed that early, so I didn’t have to listen to them complaining about the cold as we huddled under our jackets and warmed ourselves with hot coffee.  Breakfast was still very good, even if my fingers were going numb and my teeth rattled as I tried to chew. 

Not surprisingly, we didn’t linger after our food was gone, and I said goodbye to my mother so she could head back up to Tennessee, and I jumped back into the car with my husband.  We were barely on speaking terms after a slight disagreement the night before, so we rode quietly on the way back to the house. 

I didn’t get out of the car when we got home.  Instead, I put Barry White on the radio, and sang along to Can’t Get Enough of Your Love.   It is one of those songs that puts you in a good mood whether you like it or not.  And I liked it. 

Within a few minutes we were backing out of the driveway and heading off to points unknown.  I didn’t ask where we were going, and he didn’t offer up the information.  Thirty or so minutes later we were out in the middle of nowhere, driving past cows in open fields. 

There is almost nothing more relaxing than vintage Paul McCartney on the radio as you fly down an old country road.  Before long, Mike and I were talking again as if nothing had happened. 

Fast forward to several hours later after a leisurely afternoon nap, a Mother’s Day dinner with my son and my husband, a shopping trip that found both of us in the same changing room (minds out of the gutter please, I was merely reading a book while my husband tried on clothes), one floppy hat, and at long last, a pair of comfortable sandals later…we were in line for a movie. 

Of course, our movie was sold out.

I was not willing to let that ruin my day.  Instead, I insisted that we wait for the next showing (an hour later) and we were first in line for the theater. 

That brings us full circle, where I sit in my bed contemplating my mother’s day in the same spot it started.  I never did see the girls today.  I assume they are asleep in their beds after their brother collected them from a friend’s house while I was watching my movie.  Ideally we would have spent the day together, but these things don’t always work out.  The girls got what they wanted, and I get the entire house cleaned and dinner cooked for me tomorrow evening.  It’s a win-win situation—my favorite kind.  And maybe I’ll toss a little guilt trip in there for good measure.  It’s a mother’s prerogative after all.  We are the givers of life and all that crap. 

Until the next time…I’ll be spending a quiet day off…on a Monday of all things!

we can all be a real mother sometimes!

For Mother’s Day, I was going to dredge up some amusing story about my mother to share with everyone (including her.)  Something that would bring laughter, and maybe a few tears.  But as I was combing my brain for all the funny moments that would be appropriate (as in wouldn’t get me in big trouble with Mom) I came to the realization that there are just far too many stories to tell.  I decided it might be fun to just mash them together and pull out a few special moments from my childhood.  So here goes…

Dear Mom,

Thank you for teaching me why it is bad to put a cat into the washing machine. (Especially when it is full of hot soapy water and cloth diapers.)

Thank you for putting the marshmallow peeps and black jelly beans in my Easter basket every year to keep me from eating too much candy! And thank you for eating all of the candy I didn’t like so it didn’t go to waste!

Thank you for learning how to sew so you could make my clothes for me when I was little.  And thank you for using the rick rack trim because it still makes me laugh to say that!

Thank you for cutting my hair when I was little.  And thank you for taking pictures of me with the terrible haircuts so I can prove how bad they really were! 

Thank you for always making my birthday a special day all on its own, even though it falls just a few days after Christmas.

Thank you for never making me eat liver and onions even though it was your favorite.

Thank you for watching the Wizard of Oz with me every year, even though you were afraid of the wicked witch.

Thank you for letting me believe in Santa Claus long past the age most kids did.

Thank you for eating the pickles in my McDonald’s hamburgers because you knew I didn’t like them, even though you didn’t like them either.

Thank you for teaching me how to bandage a wound using toilet paper and scotch tape!

Thank you for knowing how to bake everything from scratch even though you don’t like to cook.

Thank you for making sure I had the best Halloween costume every year! And thank you for teaching me that sometimes the best costume is the one you made from scratch!

Thank you for teaching me that it’s ok to like younger men.

Thank you for teaching me that you don’t have to be a good dancer to have a whole lot of fun doing it!

Thank you for making sure I knew at a very young age that it was ok to draw pictures of my parents, but only if they were wearing clothes!

Thank you for introducing me to the music of Elvis Presley and the Jackson 5.

Thank you for letting me make my own mistakes sometimes, even though you could have stopped me.

Thank you for teaching me how to back up the car. (Oh wait, never mind, that was Dad.)

Thank you for showing me that it’s perfectly ok to send your eggs back (in a restaurant) until they get them right!

Thank you for going to karaoke with me, and thank you for getting up there to sing just so we could laugh at your singing.

Thank you for telling the very best dirty jokes.

Thank you for being a nurse so I have someone to call at two in the morning when I think something is terribly wrong with me, and thank you for telling me it’s probably just gas.

Thank you for knowing how to draw blood so you could tell the nurses how to do it when it was my turn to have blood taken.

Thank you for being strong enough to survive the things that would have killed weaker people.  And thank you for flipping the bird at us while you were on a ventilator so we could find some humor in a scary situation.

Thank you for teaching me that being a good mother doesn’t always mean being a perfect mother, and some mistakes can be happy accidents!

To all you mothers out there…have a Happy Mother’s Day!

Until the next time…I’ll be spending the day with my children!

a proper lady never farts

Friday.

It all started out fine this morning.  Got a decent amount of sleep (all things considered).  Woke up on time (thanks to my new alarm strategy).  Used my time wisely getting ready, and was perfectly on time to work (as usual). 

It was all downhill from there.

Not that I can really complain about my day job.  I am quite lucky to have a good job, and a great group of coworkers, something that at least a hundred people would just about kill for.  No, I can’t complain.  Especially since it wasn’t a bad day.  It wasn’t inordinately busy or hectic.  We had “visitors” from the head office (always a little stressful), but they were a pretty nice bunch, and I couldn’t complain about them either.  But it was warm today.  The uncomfortable kind of warm that people dream about in the dead of winter. I would go so far as to say it was a scorcher.   It was a perfect day for lying by the pool sipping on a pink frozen drink with a little paper umbrella in it. 

Even at eight-thirty in the morning it was hot.

I’m sure it didn’t help that I ate a steaming bowl of oatmeal for breakfast.  I wasn’t even halfway finished when a bead of sweat started to roll down my neck. I would have cranked down the air conditioning, and I wouldn’t have been first in line to do so, if it was possible.  Somewhere—in a perfectly cool, climate controlled office—there was a sadistic little man, with his finger on the button that controlled our temperature.  At least that’s how I imagined it.  I don’t know if there is actually a human being monitoring our climate.  I only know that WE are not in control of our comfort. 

That doesn’t stop us from repeatedly pressing the unaffected down arrow every now and then, in a psychosomatic effort to trick our brains into thinking it is getting cooler. 

It doesn’t work.  I’m not fooled.  That tell tale bead of sweat is a dead giveaway.  Still, after a while the body gets used to the heat, and the sweat tapers off to a light sheen. 

I couldn’t help but to wish the temperature control sensor was on the wall inside my office, where the sun was beating down on me through my plate glass picture window, instead of in the darkest corner of the bank, in the only area completely shaded from the sun. 

The heat was making me sleepy.   

I jumped out of my chair at a quarter to one, snatched my sunglasses from my desk, and yanked my purse onto my shoulder to go have lunch (my favorite time of the day.)  I didn’t make it more than a few steps out of my office when I was beseeched to help just one more client before heading out to eat. 

The well dressed older woman sat stiffly in the chair across the desk from me.  As a writer, I often see people as adjectives, and she was petite, classy, well-mannered, wealthy, impatient, and just a little snobby.  She didn’t say more than was absolutely necessary to convey her requests to me.  So the air around us was mostly quiet. 

It made it much easier to hear the loud crack coming from her side of the desk.

My first reaction was to widen my eyes in surprise.  Was that what I thought it was?  I expected her to comment on the sound.  She acted as if she was completely unaware, and I began to suspect I had overreacted.  Perhaps it was just the chair creaking.  She was as light as a bird, so it didn’t seem likely that her weight had stressed the sturdy chair, but it was possible. 

I went back to working on her request when the first wave reached me.  I lifted my head from my work to stare into her blank expression.  Instinctively, I held my breath, and tore my eyes from her face.  In the heat of the room the smell hung there, no breeze to wash it away. 

Even my dogs would have been impressed!

My eyes were tearing up as I hit the print key to send the document I was working on to the printer.  I jumped up from my chair, using the last of my breath to excuse myself to grab the paperwork.    

I lingered in the clear air of the lobby, taking a moment to share with my coworkers what had happened in my office.  There was a little debate as to whether the woman should have excused herself or ignore the occurrence.  It was either unladylike to admit it, or unladylike to ignore it, but under the circumstances, I felt it was unladylike to smell it, so I busied myself with a few things before going back in the office.  I wasn’t in a hurry.  I suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

She never did mention it.  She was definitely more refined than I am.  I would have certainly broken down in a fit of giggles, unable to ignore my faux pas.  I sort of wondered if she had held her breath until reaching her car, hysterically laughing once she started the engine and pulled away.  I mean, no matter how sophisticated a person may be, they can’t prevent the occasional escape of “impromptu bodily functions.” 

All in all, it could have been worse.  Another banker in another center had a customer who had a similar mishap, but in her case, it wasn’t just the smell that escaped. 

I guess that’s where the saying, “shit happens” came from.

Until the next time…I’ll be packing a gas mask in my briefcase!

I'm the envy of zombies everywhere!

It’s that time of the year again.  The time of the year when I contemplate a fresh new youthful haircut.  The inspiration came, perhaps not coincidentally, right about the same time I cruised down the magazine aisle at the grocery store this evening and discovered all the new hair style magazines.  There is almost nothing more exciting than new spring fashions on display! 

So I parked my cart filled with dog food and blueberry yogurt along the aisle and leafed through the pages of three different magazines.  It was much of the same thing in all of them.  And it would seem that the new “in” style is to have that “long since dead” appearance.  And by that I don’t mean, resembling some famous starlet who has passed on to the next place, ala Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn.  I’m referring to “dead” as in “the walking dead” or “hey, you look good for a dead person.” 

Zombie chic.

So, of course, I find myself wondering how I can get that look.  I want to look chic and zombie-like if that’s the new style.  I already have the proper pallor—vampire pale.  I just need a few more dark circles.  And I’m sure I can handle that, with my current “lack of sleep” situation and all.  But then I started thinking—do I really want to look like a lifeless wax statue of myself during the sunny spring and summer? 

Probably not.

Wax melts in the sun, and it will most definitely be a sunny summer in Atlanta.  So, I guess it’s just a new hair cut for me instead of a totally new “look”. 

I went back to leafing through the hair magazines.  Aside from the striking fashion statements of the pale, lifeless (in desperate need of a sandwich) models, the hairstyles were all very ordinary.  Boring even.  I didn’t see anything that was perfectly…me. 

So what did I decide?

I decided that I don’t need to make a decision tonight.  There’s nothing really wrong with my current haircut.   And why should I find some starved fashion model to copy when I have such an enviable style all my own?  I’m all about bed head chic for my hair.  It’s has the look of someone who has just had to pick herself up off the floor after an unexpected fall.  Or perhaps someone who has just caught her hair in the car door, or on a low hanging tree branch.  My hair works for me, and I’m not really ready to change that.  Besides…I’m a trend setter now.  Wouldn’t you agree?

Until the next time…I’ll be tousling my hair while driving fast with the windows open!

some days even the detour has a detour

Spring is busting out all over.

I heard a joke once that referred to the seasons in the north as Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter, and Construction.  I don’t live in the north, so the seasons here must be Light Construction, Sort of Winter, More Light Construction, and All Roads Closed for Construction.  And here in Atlanta we are fully into the latter.  Everywhere you drive there are orange traffic cones, aluminum detour signs, road barricades, and men in reflective vests.  They are stationed on every road side, directing the traffic in ways that can only be described as unbelievable.  The cars are stacked up in lines that stretch beyond my eye sight, and I have pretty good vision in the daytime. 

I sat at a handheld stop sign today for no less than six minutes while every other car in town drove past as if they were in a massive funeral procession.  I think they even looped back around and came through again.  I’m certain of it.  I saw the same yellow VW bug go by twice! 

It’s not like I disagree that we need better roads.  I just wish they would work on them at night…while I’m sleeping.  Then again, that’s when I want it to rain.  I suppose they could alternate—rain one night, construction the next, leaving us with beautiful sunny days with clear roads.  I suppose there isn’t much point in planning it.  They are likely going to continue tearing up the roads during the day, and I’ll continue to sit in my car making up new swear words while I wait for my turn at the light.  And it will still rain on my days off and all weekend long.  It’s better for road construction that way. 

I’m beginning to think my husband was right when he suggested we leave the big city to live on a farm, far away from civilization.  I guess if I have internet and cell phone service I could manage that.  As long as I don’t have to milk a cow, or shave a goat, or mow anything.  I can write from anywhere.  And I imagine I would have lots of interesting stories to share from down on the farm.  There are so many things to trip over, step in, and fall from. 

I’ll just hold on to that happy thought for now.  I have to work tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep tonight.  I’ve been trying to do that more often—sleep.  It’s not really working out yet, but I keep trying!

Until the next time…I’ll be taking the alternate route to dreamland!

and you didn't think I could count that high!

100 blogs.  Amazing!  I don’t think I’ve ever done anything quite this challenging for a hundred straight days.  Not dieting, not working out, and not even writing.  There has always been a lull of some sort—a break in between.  But I am proud (and maybe a just little surprised) that the daily blog has had a post every day for the past one hundred days.  This is something of a milestone and I certainly hope it is a trend that will only gain momentum (and readers) in the weeks and months to come. 

But before I get ahead of myself, I think I should take a quick look back at where we’ve been over the past 100 days. 

Modern Definitions:

We have discovered what a “dongle” is, and why there is no shame in dangling it around in public.  We have learned that sometimes a rose isn’t just a rose and even our own name doesn’t smell as sweet as we thought it did…and maybe we should keep that definition to ourselves!  Some sandwiches are not meant to be eaten, but still manage to come out of our mouths at the most inopportune times.  And sushi  just might have more in common with sex than food. 

Shopping Expeditions:

I have discovered that a nice omelet pan doesn’t have to cost as much as a night in a nice hotel, but a nice pair of shoes just might.  Shopping with teenagers is a terrifying experience—especially during Prom season, or on a Wednesday, or on any other day of the week.  Even if it was just a dream.  And one crazy sweater is good for your soul.

Spring and Cleaning:

As spring approaches, we noticed that the curse of the groundhog was coincidentally timed with the arrival of the dreaded Girl Scout cookies, as if they worked in tandem to derail our plans to look fabulous in our bathing suits.  And no matter how good the idea sounded on paper, the chopstick diet was a completely failure.  There are just far too many bad foods that are easily eaten with chopsticks.  Perhaps I wasn’t the best role model for healthy eating, but then again, I did teach you how NOT to clean your stove.  It is never a good idea to wash the stove using the pot filler faucet.  That is why they invented oven cleaner!  Another valuable lesson has taught you that underwear should ALWAYS be worn right side out, and immediately put into the hamper to avoid mysterious disappearances.  Panty hose, on the other hand, should never be worn.  Under any circumstances! 

The Family Tree:

There is an old saying…the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  If that is true, then I should avoid standing under apple trees, because I have a lot of family, and they have very good aim!  My father especially.  He practiced on moving targets—bats.  And he’s always packing!  Of course, I can’t complain about my family—we come from nobility; this is where we get our sense of balance and grace! 

PMS:

Comes around once a month whether you wanted it, needed it, or asked for it.  It doesn’t have an early detection system and you can’t protect yourself (or others) from it.  You can run, but you can’t hide! Not even on the roof.  Not even if you’re a dog.

Maybe I should have given more thought before attempting this:

If you have learned nothing else from me, I hope you have learned that a bikini wax should always be left to the professionals.  And so should pole waxing.  Hot tubbing, on the other hand, is perfectly safe as long as you stay in the hot tub until spring.  Even a dry blanket will freeze to a handrail if it’s cold enough!  And be sure to take the keys with you when you take your dogs outside at night in your underwear.  You never know when the door might lock behind you. 

Here’s looking forward to the next 100 days.  I can’t wait to see what life has in store for me!  How about you?

Until the next time…I’ll be blogging…and blogging…and blogging…and (you get the idea!)

ninety-nine days of blog on the wall

Yes, this is the ninety-ninth blog.  I can hardly believe I have lasted ninety-nine days or ninety-nine blogs, whichever came first.  I think I actually did two a day in the first two days.  All I can say is, I’ve enjoyed every single one.  I’m planning something extra special for tomorrow’s 100^th blog, but don’t ask me what, because I haven’t worked that far ahead yet.  It has certainly been a fun ride, and don’t worry, I’m not planning on slowing down just because I hit a milestone.  I think records are made to be broken.  But I do think I deserve a cake or something.  Don’t people usually get cake for reaching 100? 

Speaking of long stretches…I had a long day at work today.  I finally left the bank at a quarter to six, way past my normal banker’s hours on a Monday afternoon.

I realized as I was driving down the road that I hadn’t had a single drink of water, juice, milk or even soda, all day.  I was so busy that I never had a chance.  I barely left my office all day.  I grabbed a bite to eat at the same time as running an errand at lunch and didn’t get a drink then.  I hadn’t even notice all day that the last liquid that had passed my lips was when I brushed my teeth. 

But the minute the realization dawned on me, I was thirsty—so thirsty that I would have cried if I hadn’t been so completely dehydrated.  And I think dehydration might be bad for you.  I know it was bad for me.  I found myself feeling frantic.  It was all I could do to navigate my car to the nearest drive-thru for a bottle of water, a diet soda, and a milk shake. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that these kinds of days need to stop—days where I can’t find a minute to sip from a bottle of water, or a fountain.  And I can’t blame it on the blog.  I don’t write until after I get home, and by then I am propped up in bed with my laptop and my ice water—and most evenings, Henry Chow is parked beside me on the bed while I write.  Admittedly, I tend to multi-task while writing.  I often go back and forth between the blog and the book, sometimes pausing to update my Twitter, or Facebook. 

I find this time of the day to be relaxing.  Not like the wild ride of the day job.  I have no idea how I managed to get on that ride, and even less of a clue how to get off.  I had a nice talk with my dad tonight and he suggested that this is something that goes back almost to the time of my birth, when someone somewhere decided that women should have equal rights as men, and therefore equal status in the work force.  Although, I’m all for the idea of equality, I’m in agreement with my dad that there is very little equality in the role the modern woman plays.  Once upon a time, it was a woman’s job to take care of the man, the children, and the house, while the man worked to support the family.  Now it seems as if the woman is expected to take care of the man, the children, and the house while at the same time working a full time job.  Modern man goes to work with a great big smile on his face as he knows when he is off he will find time to play a round of golf.  This does not scream equality to me. 

Lucky for me my husband doesn’t play golf, poker, or fantasy football.  When he comes home he is either tending to his garden, his children, or to his exhausted wife as she struggles through her nightly blog.  And that brings us full circle.  Ninety-nine full circles in fact. 

Until the next time…I will be preparing to turn 100!

when I said I loved sundaes, I meant the ice cream kind

Sunday has never been my favorite day of the week. 

Just knowing that when I fall asleep on Sunday night I will wake up to the blaring of the alarm clock on Monday morning is enough to sour the entire day for me.  I think it might actually make me a little cranky all day long. 

Funny thing about today, it wasn’t a bad day at all. 

The weather (minus the expected thunderstorms) was downright tropical.  There was a strong wind blowing all day, and it managed to slightly cool the steamy air to a point where it was comfortable.  I had every window in the house open and the curtains were flying around in the gusts of wind. 

We spent a large part of the day outside playing in the yard—the dogs, my husband, and me.  My husband is still working on the raised planting beds for his vegetable garden.  Our dogs thought the beds were put in for them.  Like actual beds.  They were laying in them, so we built a garden fence to keep the “rabbits” out.   I just hope we get some actual vegetables in there.  I’m looking forward to home grown food.  The kids don’t agree.  They think the vegetable gardens are signaling a turn toward a vegetarian lifestyle.  I think the garden just mean we won’t have to make as many trips to the farmers market.  My husband’s thoughts may hover somewhere in between.  I guess time will tell.  For now I’m just trying to get ready for another full work week.  I need to get some sleep tonight if I’m going to be worth anything at all in the morning.  I try so hard to cram so much into the weekend, I never seem to find the time for sleep.  Sleep and I used to be such good friends.  I sort of hope we reconnect soon.  Maybe we can take a few days and catch up on lost time.  I do have vacation coming up soon.  That would be a perfect time to catch up on lost sleep. 

Until the next time…I’ll be brushing up on my dreaming skills!

no rain on prom night

Today was a great day!  Prom was a tremendous success, and the girls looked beautiful.  Most of the day was spend watching the sky for the possible threat of rain (it never materialized) and running around collecting last minute beauty products for hair, nails, and make-up.  I found myself the unwilling “color wheel” for the make-up choices the girls were contemplating.  My hands and arms were painted in sample colors of sparkly eye shadows and my fingernails each had a different color of polish.  

My eye was still twitching slightly, so of course we had to paint my lids with the most outrageous colors I could imagine.  It made it interesting to walk through the mall on a crowded Saturday afternoon, but I honestly didn’t care.

And I didn’t look that bad, as long as I squinted my eyes up until the colors blurred together.  I ended up with a nice selection of new eye shadows too.  I was pitifully off my game when it came to price negotiation today.  There was just too much to do.  But once the girls were safely dropped off at the dance, I was actually able to spend a few quiet hours alone with my husband.  I think we needed that time more than I even realized.  It’s amazing how exhausted you get when arguing with the people you love.  It was a great relief to finally come to a consensus on all the things we were divided over. 

I don’t want to gloat and say I won, but I will continue to write, and he will continue to speak to me, and that’s a pretty nice victory. 

Compromise—that’s what it’s all about. 

That and a few other tricks I keep up my sleeve for emergencies. 

Until the next time…I’ll be wearing my bright blue sparkly eye shadow with my hot pink fur sweater and climbing into my time machine to visit 1984!

someone up there must not like me

Someone is playing a harmonica in my house.  I’m not allowed to talk about this person anymore, so I can’t say who.  But I will say this…it’s bad enough that I live in the south, do I have to feel like I’m in Deliverance too?  After the day I’ve had, it doesn’t seem that far off.

It is entirely possible that I’m easily irritated tonight.  I’m going to blame PMS, because it’s just easier that way, but honestly I don’t think anything could have savaged this day.  PMS or no PMS.  The only bright spot in my black hole of a day is that I don’t have to work tomorrow. 

But in a cruel twist of fate, the weather this weekend is supposed to be the worst in months.  They are predicting severe storms and possible tornadoes.  That would be a fitting end to my week if I was swept up into a gigantic cyclone and carried off to be the witch in someone’s fairy tale.  And don’t forget, the girls have prom tomorrow night.  So if it rains, I will never hear the end of it.  Because everyone knows it will be my fault if the weather is not perfect.  I should have prepared better.  And we all know how good I am at preparing. 

Not.

I don’t know how I could have prepared for today.  It started out fine.  I actually got up after the second time my alarm went off and was ready twenty minutes early.  I even had time to eat breakfast before leaving—something I never have time for.  I would have been early to work too, if I hadn’t taken time to burn CD’s for the bank.  We needed soothing music.

Friday is arguably the worst day to be a banker.  Today was doubly bad.  Not only was it a Friday, it was also the last day of the month.  Add to that the fact that the pollen count was soaring and my eye was twitching uncontrollably all day.  Thankfully I had eaten breakfast because I had to drive my daughter to school during my lunch break, so I didn’t have time for lunch.  I managed to grab something and quickly scarf down a few bites before going back to work, but I was hungry for the rest of the day—and Friday at the bank is an extra long day.  Even chocolate didn’t help.  And believe me I tried. 

I dug through my purse looking for medicine to relieve my headache and found a peanut M&M that had fallen in there at some point—I have no idea when—so of course I ate it.  The euphoria was short lived.  I had a line of customers waiting to see me and a “to do” pile that was several days deep.  I also had a son pacing in the lobby with a look on his face that spoke volumes.  I was not going to like what he had to say, and he was irritated to have to wait his turn to say it. 

“I need your keys.” He told me when he finally managed to get into my office. 

“Why?” I questioned as I tried to look out the window to see if his car was in the parking lot. 

“Only the driver side window will go down and it’s hot.  I’ll sweat to death if I have to drive my car.”  Which really means, “You can sweat to death, Mom, I have things to do with my life, and you’ve lived a good long time already.”  Oh sure, he tried to sugar coat it, but I can translate their language.  I got the message loud and clear. 

“I need my car.” I argued.  It was a pathetic argument, because I was stuck at the bank until six-thirty, and he knew it. 

“What do you need?  I’ll get it for you.” His argument was much better thought out than mine.  Lucky for me, I think fast and I remembered his initial argument. 

“You need to toggle the button to unlock the other windows.  You don’t need my car.”  I said with a sly grin.  He wasn’t impressed with my brilliance and he stormed out of the bank to unlock his windows and drive off without my car or my sunroof or my air conditioning that only halfway works. 

He was back after only a few minutes time.  “I need your keys.” He said again.  Like he was trying to Jedi mind trick me or something and just completely start over with his argument. 

Two could play at this game. “Why?” I asked again, exasperated—eye twitching like some crazy person. 

“I have a flat tire.” He played his final card and I could feel my face fall.  Had he let the air out just to use my sunroof?  “It wasn’t flat when I left home, and it wasn’t flat when I got here, but it’s flat now.  I don’t have time to fix it.  I need to go to work.” 

Out played again!

I don’t remember much about the rest of my work day.  I was too keyed up thinking about how I was supposed to get home on a flat tire.  Luckily, I didn’t have to worry for long.  One of my male coworkers took pity on me and offered to change my tire.  I think he was trying to make up for a snarky comment he made earlier in the day about my driving my daughter to school three days a week—like I’m supposed to stop being a parent when I walk through the doors of the bank every day. 

I let him fix my tire, not because I wanted to give him a chance to redeem himself, but because I don’t change tires and my husband would not be home for over an hour…and I had an appointment to sing at the House of Brews again.  They even put my name up on the electronic marquis outside the building. 

Important tip: Always make sure you have air in the spare before getting a flat tire.

I wish someone had warned me that I would need that tip earlier.  The spare wasn’t completely flat, it had more air than the regular tire, but I would need to stop at the gas station for air before driving the mile and a half home.  I was within walking distance to the gas station, so I wasn’t too irritated.  I could put air in a tire.  I’d done that many times. 

I wish someone had told me that the gas station had taken the air compressor out several months ago.  That would have been a valuable piece of information.  But since no one shared that tidbit with me, I had to drive home on a semi-soft donut spare that left a black line trailing behind me the entire way home.  I got out of the car in my driveway and said almost every bad word I knew, and a few I made up specifically for this occasion. 

I wasn’t going anywhere. 

In a quick recap: I had gotten up early this morning, eaten breakfast before eight-thirty, had a few stale chicken tenders for lunch, and a lint covered peanut M&M for desert.  I had spoken with dozens of customers, many of whom wanted to share with me their distaste for my bank because THEY don’t know how to balance their checkbooks and spent money THEY didn’t have and were angry because they incurred fees for that privilege.  I had listened to a coworker refer to me as a “bus driver” because I care enough to take my child to school to ensure she has a good education.  I gave my perfectly fine automobile to my son in exchange for his tire-less, hotbox, that didn’t even have a usable spare.  I had a muscle tic in my eyelid that made me look like I was some deranged lunatic who had just escaped from the asylum.  And on a beautiful Friday evening when I had someplace to be, I had no way to get there.  Oh and yeah, I had a bad case of PMS.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re wondering how I managed to stay off the roof of my house to write tonight’s blog.  Well, my story has a happy ending.

As it turns out, I’m a pretty damn good singer, so when the House of Brews found out that I was stranded they sent someone to come get me.  So, after a few hours singing on the deck in front of a crowd, my faith in the world has been restored.  Well, mostly anyway.  My eye is still twitching.  But I have a cranberry wine cooler, and after a few more I probably won’t care. 

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping in!

I don't think that's even legal

These four things will always be true…

1. Women who work or live together will ultimately sync up their monthly cycles to be miserable together.
2. No matter how good you are at hiding, PMS will always find you!
3. The one day you DON’T want attention from your cold and aloof cat will be the exact same day the cat decides that you are his entire reason for being.
4. Your husband will find any reason to avoid being in the same room with any of you! 

I was informed last night that living in our house feels a lot like living in a reality TV show.  Even the cat is starting to show off for attention!  The only saving grace in that sentiment is that we are not actually being filmed.  I tried to soothe the worries with a reminder that I do leave things out when I write the blog.  I don’t share the most intimate details of our lives, just the amusing ones.  And occasionally, some funny but frustrating moments.  I don’t even mention certain people on a daily basis.  I think my readers may even wonder who actually lives in my house.  Maybe that’s part of the problem.  People wonder about our lives.  People have just enough information to form an opinion and maybe that opinion is not close enough to the reality for everyone’s comfort.  Maybe it’s just a little too close. 

Basically it comes down to this…not everyone loves the blog.  I suppose that is to be expected.  There is definitely the element of “intrusion” when you write a daily blog about your life and those involved in it.  Not everyone wants to be involved.  Not everyone wants to have their day to day lives chronicled in a public forum.  This is something I have chosen for myself, I just have to be conscious of the fact that this was not something chosen by the family.   I just don’t always know how to separate myself from everyone else. 

So here goes…

I had an interesting day at the bank today—or rather an interesting day away from the bank today.  I had an offsite client visit today with two colleagues.  The three of us are quite friendly outside of work, so it made the appointment that much more interesting.  We were able to dish about it afterwards without pulling any punches! 

We had gone on interesting appointments before.  And by interesting I mean gross.  We once met a client for an appointment at their home office and had to tip toe around dog poop to get to the conference area.  The client had a pair of dogs that were less than house trained, and wasn’t embarrassed by the evidence.  We were somewhat horrified, but maintained our business decorum throughout the meeting. 

Today was different.  There was no doggy poop to step over, but there was a trash can stacked with beer cans and a cloud of what I HOPED was ordinary cigarette smoke.  The man who welcomed us at the front door—“New York” they called him—was easily one hundred years old, with long gray hair that he wore in layers feathered around his face.  He was dressed in a black shirt and formfitting black pants that left nothing to the imagination, and his feet were bare.  Bare but filthy.  He greeted us by speaking in a rumbling tone, “don’t mind my feet, it was hot.”  And watching all the smoke pouring out the door as we stepped in, I had no doubt that it was hot in there. 

My first thought when the door closed behind me was, “I am going to die of smoke inhalation.”  Then I wondered if it was even legal to smoke in a public building anymore.  Could I make a citizen’s arrest?  Then I took in my surroundings and decided it might not be the best  place to bring up that subject. 

“New York” wasn’t the only odd character in this strange little circus. The business owner had completely forgotten that we were coming, and was a tad underdressed for the appointment.  He was wearing a white undershirt and loose shorts, but that was not the most interesting thing about him.  His hair caught my attention and I could focus on little else for the entire meeting.  He had a buzz cut and bangs.  The hair screamed “porn star”, and because he was otherwise unattractive as well, it was more so a dead giveaway.  It’s a well known fact that men in porn are not at all good looking.  They aren’t hired for their faces after all.  

I started looking around the dismal office for other signs that may confirm that this so called “magazine” company was actually a poorly disguised front for a gay porn operation.  I say gay porn only because, other than myself and my two colleagues, there were only men in the building—the client, “New York”, a few anonymous faces wandering in and out of different rooms, and a young musician that just happened to sell magazines despite being hailed by the others as a musical genius of the highest caliber. 

I had this whole thing figured out.  The musician was undoubtedly the guy who played the music for the filming.  “New York” was the director.  The client was the “talent” as they say, and obviously any one of the other guys milling around the fringes of the building were the co-stars and or extras.   

At one point near the end of our conversation, the client mentioned going back to his reading after we left.  One of my colleagues politely asked what he was reading.  You would have thought she asked to see the back rooms!  He struggled for several moments to come up with the name of a book, finally settling on a book about the aliens landing in Roswell, New Mexico.  Riveting literature, I’m certain.  I was even more convinced. 

It was all we could do to keep from running from the smoke-filled building after making our farewells.  One of us made the comment that we had all contracted lung cancer just by sitting in there.  I’m not sure who said it, because I was definitely thinking and it could have been me.  Being women, we couldn’t help comparing notes after we reached our cars and were out of earshot of the building.  I wasn’t the only one who was suspicious of the client and his business.  Everyone agreed there was something going on, and it wasn’t something found in a grocery store checkout line!

We’ve decided to ask for a full tour when we go back for the follow up visit.  There is always a follow up visit.  I will be on the lookout for camera equipment and costumes.  My colleagues suggested we look for the bong too.  They were certain there was a bong in that place somewhere.  And someone suggested that it was entirely possible the smoke was clouding our thought processes more than normal.  I don’t know.  I wouldn’t know a bong from a bed pan.  I’m just a boring writer with a bad case of PMS.

Until the next time…I’ll still be here if you’ll keep reading!

all I need is a pumpkin and a few good mice

Ah, my day off!

I went to bed last night feeling like a domestic goddess—having played wife and mother to perfection—and woke up this morning in a Disney movie.  It was one of those Disney movies where the downtrodden princess was made anew by the off-center fairy godmother.  Of course, I was the fairy godmother for most of the day, but in an unexpected twist, I got to play both parts at different moments throughout the day.  My daughter and I took turns. 

Just as I had predicted last night, it was a great day. 

We tried on wigs and sunglasses at the mall.  We used the “I’m not sure if I’m willing to spend that much…let’s look elsewhere” price negotiating play when we were ready to purchase something from a kiosk vendor.  We shared Japanese for lunch, had banana milk shakes for desert, and we even got to see an old friend before heading home. There were no temper tantrums, no arguments, just a good old fashioned mother/daughter day.

But what is a good old fashioned Disney movie without the villain?

Today our villain was traffic.  We were stuck in the middle of six lanes of seventy mile an hour traffic rushing through the city limits of Atlanta.  Perhaps foolishly, and yet with a large dose of faith, I let my sixteen year old drive.  She has gained loads of experience in the three months she has been driving, and she managed to navigate the traffic like a pro.  She was only mildly nervous, and I dare say, did better than many a seasoned driver out there would have.  And like the responsible parent that I am, I didn’t text or talk on my phone while she was driving.  I was honestly too nervous to carry on a conversation. We passed the wreckages of two fairly messy collisions on our travels, but we managed to stay more than clear of any trouble. 

For almost two hours.

Anyone who would doubt that Atlanta has the worst traffic imaginable has not driven in our fair city before.  But because we are accustomed to the traffic, the worst part of the whole journey was trying to find a comfortable temperature in the car.  We continued to switch between open windows and air conditioning, depending on the speed of traffic.  The outside air was cool, but the sun was very hot, and my air conditioning does not cooperate when the car is standing still.  But no matter if it was too hot or too cool, we had a wonderful afternoon.

Once we arrived safely back inside our own zip code we hit a few more shops to satisfy the final items on our prom shopping list.   I think we finally have everything.  At least I hope we do.  The prom is Saturday night, so time is running out. 

I almost wish I was going.  I never went to my prom, and all this “princess” shopping has me longing to go back and do things over.  I want to pick out a beautiful dress and shoes, and I want to have my hair and make-up done and get picked up in a shiny coach to be driven to the ball.  I want to dance the night away under the stars and be so caught up in the excitement that I forget to worry about the strike of midnight. 

But you can’t be a princess without a charming prince, and I’m lucky enough to say that I found mine.  Even if some days he’s more like the frog than the prince, I can honestly say that I don’t mind the warts when they come with the rest of the package. 

As for my daughter?  I guess she has her prince du jour.  He isn’t taking her to prom though.  She would rather go with someone who likes to dance and socialize.  Her sister.  It doesn’t really seem fair that I have to pay for the dress plus the accessories, (for two) AND pay for the tickets.  But at least I’ll have two happy teenagers on Saturday night.  And what more could any mom ask for? 

Until the next time…hi ho, hi ho…it’s back to work I go!

yes she can cook!

I’ve decided to ban octopus from my kitchen permanently. 

Octopus and potatoes.  Especially in the same dish.  After two consecutive blogs about kitchen gross outs, is it any wonder I prefer eating out? But despite my preference to make reservations for dinner, I was desperate to be domestic today.  I needed to feel like a wife and a mother.  And I needed to feel like I still knew how to do both.  So, I made dinner tonight.  Spinach lasagna.  It was really good.  Despite contrary rumors, I’m an excellent cook.  I think my husband was quite surprised that it wasn’t from the grocery store freezer section.   

My lasagna was perfection. 

That is precisely why my daughter picked every bit of spinach out from between the layers and left it in a pile on the side of her plate.  But at least she ate it.  In fact, she had two helpings.  She was probably still starving after missing dinner last night.  We tried to convince her to eat the octopus stew by omitting the fact that it was chocked full of tentacles.  That worked only as long as it took her to discover the little sucker things floating in her stew.  She didn’t eat another bite.  So I was pleased that she ate the lasagna, even if she did pick out the spinach.

I have the day off tomorrow, and we’re going to a have a girl’s afternoon.  I’m certain she has things in store for me that I’d rather not do.  And I’m sure she will drive me just a little nuts before dinnertime.  But I’m also sure I’ll cherish the time for years to come. 

I don’t get enough time to just be a mom, so I’ll take what I can get.

Until the next time…I’ll be shopping with teenagers!

they don’t actually grow octopus in the garden do they?

Monday has become my official day to buy lottery tickets.  I don’t buy them every week, and I never spend more than a few dollars, but I bought tickets today.  Two chances to win millions.  If I had millions I wouldn’t have to go to work!

Today was a day that was custom made for the lottery.  And the funny thing is…nothing really bad happened.  The alarm went off the same way it does every Monday.  I didn’t even oversleep.  I only hit the snooze bar five times before dragging myself out of bed.   It was just cold and dreary after such a beautiful weekend, and I had to go to work when I would have much rather slept in. 

Work was busy.  Like work tends to be.  That’s why they don’t call it “play.” 

I often feel like I have way more to do than I have time to do it in.  My backlog keeps building because  there is always something new to add to the stack, and I can never get to the bottom of my thick “to do” pile. Most days I love my job.  But then there’s Monday.

And Monday doesn’t just affect work. 

Monday is the day the dogs have to get readjusted to being home by themselves all day after getting used to having their humans around all weekend.  Monday is the day the kids have to run around reminding their tired parents that they need a check for a field trip, or their lunch account has run dry.  Monday is also the day that I seem to discover that we are completely out of milk immediately after pouring a bowl of cereal.  And that’s just in the morning. 

When I get home from work the fun just keeps going. 

I love my husband so much.  And I love that he has an adventurous streak.  I just don’t always love that streak finding its way into my food. 

The adventure tonight consisted of octopus stew for dinner. 

I like seafood—lots of different kinds of seafood—shell fish, salmon, tuna, scallops…you name it!  But there are some things that I just don’t eat.  And octopus is at the top of the list. 

My husband is a great cook (most of the time) and admittedly, the stew smelled divine.  And maybe if I didn’t know what was in it.  Or maybe if I couldn’t see what was in it.  Or maybe if it had been made with crab or shrimp instead of slimy, tentacle covered octopus!

My husband asked me to try it.  He promised I would like it.  I compared it to eating fish flavored rubber bands, and I hadn’t even tasted it yet.  I just couldn’t get past the idea of eating the outside of something.  I don’t think we are meant to eat the outside of animals.  We’re meant to remove the outside and eat the inside.  Preferably after it has been cooked to perfection—whatever that might mean.

I lifted the spoon to my lips and savored the wonderful smell.  How could something that smelled so delicious be bad? I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and in went the octopus stew.  I chewed quickly, trying not to think about what I was doing.  It wasn’t easy.  As wonderful as it tasted, it was grossing me out beyond words.  I swallowed my bite tentatively and it stuck halfway down.  I think it was a tentacle gripping the inside of my throat with its sucker things—hanging on for dear life!

I took a swig of a watered down soda left over from lunch to wash the thing down.  I’m not sure if it actually went down.  I think I can still feel it, hours later.  But I’m still here, so I guess I’ll be fine. 

The moral of our story is that I didn’t die from eating octopus.  I didn’t even get sick.  It wasn’t even terrible.  But it just goes to show that the imagination is a powerful thing—and mine tends to run wild. 

So I’m taking my wild imagination to bed where it will likely invent something interesting in my sleep.  With my luck I’ll have a nightmare that I’m being attacked by the monster from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.  If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, send a search party!

Until the next time…I’ll be navigating the deep in my leaky submarine!

you say potato...I say oh hell no!

I had a wonderful Sunday.  I cleaned my kitchen from top to bottom.  I had to.  I discovered a strange smell and I had to find out where it was coming from.  It smelled like something had used the bathroom or died or maybe used the bathroom just before dying.  But since all of my animals were accounted for and most of them are much too large to fit into the small areas I was searching, it was unlikely that either of those scenarios was possible.

I washed the stone countertops with disinfectant.  I scrubbed both sinks and cleaned out the drains.  I scoured the stove top and the oven.  I cleaned the inside of the microwave.  I ran the half a load of dirty dishes in the dishwasher.  But still the smell persevered. 

I damp mopped the wood floors, paying special attention to the dark places under the stove and the refrigerator.  But I still didn’t find the source of the foul smell.  Finally I stepped into the pantry and there it was.  The smell hit me in the face like a bag of bricks. 

I had to pull everything out of the pantry. 

All the pots and pans that were stored on the lower shelves.  All of the bake ware.  The cereal boxes that were too tall to fit in the other cupboards with the rest of the food.  And once I had nothing left to move but the array of crock pots, waffle irons, blenders and the like, I finally discovered the source of the smell.  It was hidden behind the rarely used Panini maker—a big bag of potatoes.

At least I think they were potatoes.  I don’t remember buying them, and I had already tossed out a bag of potatoes earlier in the week, but these were older.

As potatoes get old, they start to grow eyes, or legs, or roots, or whatever it is you call the long trailing buds. This bag of potatoes had long since passed that stage and gone on to the mushy, liquefied state that I found them in.  And the closer I got to the bag, the more I wished I’d had an oxygen mask. 

I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves and a few garbage bags and I managed to contain the putrefied goo (and the smell) without losing my lunch.  I didn’t even know that could happen to potatoes!  In fact, I am officially giving up French fries as of right now.  I don’t want to eat anything that has a life cycle anything remotely like that bag of potatoes.  How long does it take a potato to turn into a toxic vat of smelly liquid mush anyway?   I’m thinking maybe since Christmas.  But I’m not sure. 

At least my kitchen is really clean now.  And I finally colored my hair (without a single disaster.)

Oh, and my husband came back from the beach today with a cooler filled with fresh fish and a slimy slab of octopus.  He has it in his head that I will be eating octopus for dinner tomorrow night.  I feel a stomach virus coming on.  But for now, I’m going to enjoy his company.  I missed him while he was gone.  We can argue about tentacles tomorrow. 

Until the next time…I’ll be practicing my sick face!

can you really die of hypochondria?

Growing up, my sister had this debilitating fear of blood.  It didn’t matter if it was hers or someone else’s.   The minute one drop was spilled; she would bolt from the room like she was shot out of a cannon.  It was as if she could smell it!  And if it WAS hers—look out!  She once got a deep cut on her knee that miraculously didn’t bleed.  She was calm as could be despite the fact that I’m sure it hurt.  But the minute our mother told her she would need stitches, she freaked out!  Her fear?  That it would bleed! 

Fast forward thirty odd years and this same sister now favors slasher and horror movies over all others.  The more blood the better.  All I can say is…what the hell?  This is someone we warned against going into nursing for fear she would faint on her patients, and now she would rather watch the Ring or Scream 17 than enjoy the romance of Twilight.  I’m not sure exactly when this change occurred. But I’m certain there is something genetic involved.  It’s in the bloodline.

And it just might be contagious.

I’ve always been a little OCD.  I don’t really like other people’s germs very much.  I don’t like the thought of touching stripper poles after someone else’s skin may have slid down it.  I don’t like strangers using my phone or my keyboard at work.  And I don’t like touching the door in a public restroom.  But mostly my OCD is balance related.  I don’t like when things are out of balance.  When the sofa isn’t perfectly lined up with the coffee table, or when the lampshade is turned so the seam is visible from the front.  I couldn’t care less if there is dust on the shade.  And I don’t worry about the germs on my dogs’ tongues when they lick my face.  I probably should, but I don’t.  My OCD just doesn’t work that way. 

However, another of my close family members has a terminal case of exactly that kind of OCD.  And she has the added complication of having a life threatening case of hypochondria on top of everything else.  Florence Nightingale (not her real name) is so terrified of catching something that she can easily be manipulated by her fear.  I once convinced her not to travel by telling her that the “bird flu” was rampant in that area.  In fact, she got so afraid of contracting “bird flu” that she wouldn’t linger outside for weeks.  

We have a large supply of nurses in my family, so it’s not unusual for any one of us non-medical people to call one of them in the wee hours of the night with medical questions.  I have personally been known to call my mother well after midnight to inquire about strange symptoms or illnesses in my children.  Florence called her just the other night to tell Mom that she was certain she had colon cancer.  My mother asked Florence if she’d seen a doctor, and Florence said, “No, I was reading WebMD, and it said I have colon cancer.” My mother talked to her for the better part of an hour, finally forbidding her to search for symptoms on WebMD ever again.  And this wasn’t the first time she was convinced she was dying.  She once got a paper cut on her tongue licking an envelope and used a cotton ball to clean the cut.  Not more than a few minutes later she was running through the house, screaming and crying for help because she’d gotten cotton stuck in the wound, and she would certainly die of toxic shock syndrome.  Cooler heads attempted to explain to her that having cotton in an open wound was not how one contracted toxic shock syndrome, to which she replied quite vehemently, “I know how you get toxic shock!  I’ve read warning inside the box of Tampons!”  And I’m certain she had read the warning on the box of tampons.  Probably more than once as she once believed she didn’t have a vagina because she was having a hard time using said tampons.  Admittedly, it is a challenge for first time users, but to question the existence of one’s vagina is taking things to the extreme, even for Miss Nightingale.  She required a trip to the gynecologist to convince her that time. 

It really wouldn’t be that big of a deal if Florence hadn’t just decided to change her major to follow in the footsteps of so many others in our family to become a nurse.  I can’t even imagine her being that close to bona fide sick people.  I fear she may actually die of hypochondria.  It might give her some satisfaction to know she was right all along.  Then again, maybe if I tell her that hypochondria is fatal she will stay away from medical journals and steer clear of worrying about her health constantly.  I suppose it couldn’t hurt!

Until the next time…I’ll be contemplating going to the emergency room.  According to WebMD, my stiff neck means I might have meningitis!