little girl :: big glasses

Good boy.

2011-09-28T17:20:00.000-06:00

We recently had to put down one of the labradorks. He was a goofy brown 13 year old and this post is not about how sad it was and how much we miss him and how the 11 year old kid couldn't catch his breath in his sleep he cried so hard or how the 14 year old giant kid wept silently save for the big giant kid tears plopping on his geometry homework. I'm not going to write that post, you are not going to cry. Go ahead and read it even if you're wearing regular mascara.

Although I totally wrote that post. Then I deleted it though because, ugh.

Anyway, this post is about how, in his final months on this planet said labradork lost control of a few key bodily functions, one of them the ability to keep all his parts tense as he stood up, slept or walk. At the same time, standing up, sleeping and walking also came with greater strain. These factors combined created what scientists call "poop balls." Okay, not scientists, just us.

Each time the poor old dude would struggle to get up, plop. Poop ball.

He'd chase bunnies in his sleep. Poop ball.

Grazing on the front lawn when someone lit a firecracker. Array of poop balls up the front steps.

We started calling him Poopball.

Admittedly, we let it go on too long, but it really wasn't that bad hopping around the house, using my iPhone as a flashlight to avoid kicking them on late night bathroom trips. It wasn't like it was big gross dog piles of poop. Just cute poop balls. More like rabbit pellets. Really big rabbit pellets. And the fact that it really embarrassed him sort of made it forgivable. He'd look behind him with his gray eyebrows raised and then look at me as if to say, "How in the hell did the bulldog do that back there?" And I would look at him and say, "I dunno, brownie. Bulldogs are sneaky." Because when you're 91 in dog years you deserve a little dignity I think.

We did, however, go through a lot of plastic bags picking them up. In fact, there were times when I would ask for double bags at the grocery store just so we'd have enough to keep the poop balls in check. One of the last times I was doing this, I got the evil eye from the lady behind me in line. She is typical for my grocery store in that she was wearing yoga clothes and $30k worth of jewelry, holding the keys to a European SUV and looking down a surgically-altered nose to shun my use of plastic bags.

I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Would you prefer I picked up dog shit with your Whole Foods bag?"

Apparently she did not prefer that.

In any case, RIP Sedgwick Fletcher's Honor. AKA: Sedgie. AKA: Browndog AKA: Poopball. You were a good dog. A very good brown dog.

Labor Day 2011

2011-09-04T13:40:00.001-06:00

Since it's labor day weekend, I'm now going to treat you to a minute-by-minute rundown of the two times I was actually in labor.*

Go grab yourself a big frosty Bloody Mary and get comfortable kids, this is going to be goddam riveting.

Not really. I'm going to go outside with a beer and a bulldog and pretend I have a union job.

Happy three days off in a row.

xoxo,
LGBG

PS - Exactly why do people write about that for the whole internet? Because, bluck.

I'm marrying a cage fighter. FOR THE CHILDREN.

2011-09-02T16:05:00.001-06:00

I've got so much on my plate lately that I need to change to one of those melamine cafeteria trays to hold it all. I'm not complaining - just wondering if karma is kicking my ass for something terrible I did and don't remember, or if other people have been so damned good that karma is rewarding them by having me take over and give them all a little break?

Or, maybe this is like a final exam for karma. Or maybe karma's version of that last part of Indiana Jones when he has to go through all the caves and creepy shit and jump on the right stones past all the skeletons and the big rock is coming for him...the world is just seeing how quickly I can jump out of a mining car and into a pile of venomous snakes. To quote my 7-year-old self, "Neato."

Once when I was in about 9th grade, my maternal grandparents were moving from California back to Colorado. While they decided where in Colorado they'd live, they lived with us. I can't recall how long they were there, I just know it was longer than it should've been - but it taught 14 year old me a valuable lesson: My Parents Don't Suck As Bad As I Thought.

While I thought my grandparents were perfectly awesome and adored them, being underfoot was too close for comfort. My children are learning that lesson right now. Be on the lookout for my Mother of the Year press release in your local paper any day now. And, I really must say? This mother-in-law living with me? Is the least of my admin.

In other news, my charming and handsome first born, formerly referred to as the Gigantic Middle Schooler is now a Gigantic High Schooler. And my younger son, whose name is Miles but we totally call him Pete, is now a Regular Sized Middle Schooler. Hard to fathom.

I leave you today with a conversation that Pete had with Big Dude just yesterday.

Pete: Man, it would be hard to be like Billy,* I mean, his parents are divorced and they each live with a new person.

Big Dude: Yep, that'd be tough.

Pete: I mean, he doesn't even like his mom's boyfriend at all but the guy's always there in his house.

Big Dude: That's too bad.

Pete: Seriously. If you and mom got divorced... the only way I could handle it is if you guys hooked up with Megan Fox and Chuck Liddel. Hmmm. Actually, that'd be really cool.

Don't know Chuck Liddell? I didn't either. Apparently he's a scholar of some sort. And my children's future stepfather.

Pete wants this person to be his stepmother. Hmm. Getting easier to believe he is a middle schooler.

*Of course his real name isn't Billy. Nobody's real name is Billy.

Honestly, I'm starting to like it warm.

2011-08-19T17:02:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time, Big Dude and I remodeled our kitchen. Not remodeled in the sense of "change out the counter tops and buy new cabinet handles," but more like "rip out five layers of flooring, 90 years of wallpaper changes, gut the place down to the studs and try not to inhale too much plaster dust."

I was going to post pictures of the demolition and rebuilding, but then you know what would happen, right? I'd spend two hours looking for pictures, then two hours cussing at the scanner, then decide to do it later, and POOF six months has passed and there's no blog post. So youse guys are just going to have to trust me on this without photographic evidence, kapeesh?

In any case, much as I do with all projects, I made a big ol' wish list of everything I'd want if I could have everything. That wish list kitchen kicked ass. I miss it. But after whittling it down with budget considerations, I realized the fireman pole had to go, along with the built in espresso machine with wifi so I could email it to make me coffee.

One thing that I decided I could NOT live without, however? A beer fridge. Now, if you enjoy beer as much as I do and of course you don't, you'd understand. If you are a normal person, you call it a "beverage refrigerator." I decided to justify it with the fact that it could hold pies at Thanksgiving. Obviously, then, it was FOR THE CHILDREN. My passionate longing for said fridge was exacerbated by the fact that for four long months during the construction, we used an old dorm-sized beer fridge covered with stickers as our only fridge. It sat in the dining room and had to hold beer, food, milk, chicken nuggets, beer. Also beer. And I just wanted to reward myself with a little spreading-out when the project was done.

The little extra fridge just for mommy's beers then turned into a whole wonderful area for mommy. The end of the kitchen had held a tiny sunroom, we took down the walls and I imagined a space with a comfy chair, my own television, a beer fridge and a wine fridge, maybe a plant and some books... I would start dinner and then recline, ever so lady-like with a cocktail while my pots bubbled happily. I knew then, that this area was non-negotiable. Under cabinet bread warmers would be sacrificed, it must be included.

And so it came to be.

On the left, beer fridge. In the center, TV. On the right, wine fridge. Across the way, girl-sized leather recliner. Ahh.

And it was very good. I never actually sat in the chair and watched TV while pots bubbled, but a lot of other people did. And after some time, I totally forgot how expensive it is to order a custom-sized beverage refrigerator.

Hmm. Let's have a closer look. What's that next to the recycling bin? A BB gun? Huh. Figures. And what's that indentation on the beautiful fancy recycling bin? Looks to be about the width of a teenager's shoe. No one knows why.

Look! Up above! Mommy's half yard glass. It makes her so happy she almost can forget about the dent in the stainless steel recycling bin.

So, it wasn't totally my space. That's cool. Other people live here, too. I can't just claim corners all for myself. At least I still had my sweet little beer fridge, just for me, with a pretty cherry door. I heart you, little beer fridge.

What treats await? Cold frosty barley pops, praytell?

Afterall, Big Dude's beers were not invited to my civilized in-house beer fridge. They could stay out in the garage...in the fridge he'd brought home from work, 10 years ago. Icky.

No pretty stainless steel recycling bin for you, old dumb beer fridge. You can sit under the city-issued purple one, in between the Swiffer mop thing and the dog food. Here, have another ironic sticker.

But all fairy tales must end, don't they? Recently, I went to pretty little beer fridge and her stores were less than frosty. Nay, they were oddly lukewarm.

"Gol-darned kids!" I proclaimed. "Messing with my little turny dial! I need this bitch at a 7!"

But she was at 7.

So I turned her to 9.

She sighed and shuddered her last breath.

I wept.

My beautiful, lovely, wonderful, feminine, custom-made, suitable for indoors beer fridge had died.

I don't think I'm being overly dramatic when I say taking warm beers out of her was one of the saddest times of my life.

Now, as I sit and wait for a repairperson to bring her back to life, which I'm sure will be a completely affordable experience since the warranty has expired and all her parts are custom... I lean on the hood of my car and enjoy a perfectly chilled beer.

You don't always have to dance with the purtiest girl, I guess.

Okay, okay, I'll give you another sticker.

Turns out, I've always been sort of an a-hole.

2011-08-08T09:42:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I know I've not been here very much, sorry 'bout that. Doesn't seem to have stopped the world from moving forward. Although...there have been some seriously weird weather patterns that can only probably be explained by the lack of me tapping on a keyboard.

Nevertheless.

I was digging through old papers recently looking for something important and instead found a folder from my first semester at college. I was not good looking enough to not get any classes I really wanted, so was stuck in anything that had an opening, including a German class that met at 8:00 AM. Every. Freaking. Day, and a 300 level course called "Science, Technology & Public Policy." It was taught by someone who was most surely a relative of James Earl Jones - either that or his voice coach - because they sounded exactly the same. He made a lot of big bold statements and afterwards would survey the class, looking us each in the eye and say,

"Questions?"

"Comments?"

"Concernnnnns?"

The rest of the class usually had at least a question. The bolder ones had comments. A few would even sometimes come up with a concern. I generally was just trying not to be noticed. Which was difficult, because there were 9 people in that class. Eight of them were over 21 years old, wearing varying layers of tie-dyed global patterns or ironic t shirts with Army surplus cargo shorts, unshaven legs and faces and smelled of patchouli. One of them was 18, had braces, a Duran Duran asymmetrical haircut, excess eyeliner, Esprit overalls, multiple black rubber braceleets and smelled of Love's Babysoft.

In between lectures, Professor James Earl Jones' Brother would assign reading and expect a written evaluation, so in the folder I found several word processor'ed attempts at sounding intelligent, obviously with a great deal of assistance from a thesaurus. And then I found this one - handwritten in class as a quiz.

It would be incredibly difficult to call this book compelling, perhaps even scandalous to use the word "interesting" when describing it. In fact, it would be most appropriate to call Dorothy Nelkins' Controversy "kindling" rather than "literature." There are many texts in this world that are difficult to trudge through. There are a great number of tomes which do not appeal to anyone. Perhaps Nelkin was raised in a lifeless, loveless library of such volumes, surrounded only by her captors and an occasional visit by a sadistic dentist. In any case, her book sucks. Questions? Comments? Concerns?

And the professor's comment below:

I like you. B+

It was the only class I attended regularly that year.

Reason #458 that my children are not homeschooled.

2011-03-10T05:45:00.000-07:00

I'd be tired from training them to kickass in spelling bees and coming up with recipes for my baking blog, so I'd order pizza instead of making the asparagus and salmon I'd planned.

I'd worry that I was going to waste the asparagus and it would get all wilty (although I'd use a word other than wilty because I'd have a thesaurus on the kitchen counter) so I would stick the asparagus in some water overnight.

I'd get up in the morning to find crazy alien asparagus has decided to mutate and I'd change the lesson plan for the day to "Investigations into Creepy Asparagus that Obviously has Intentions to EAT US."

I think we're all better off with someone else handling their education.

Storytime.

2011-02-16T11:28:00.001-07:00

Last week I finally admitted that my wee little firstborn who is 6 inches taller than me and many pounds heavier (thankfully) is growing up. So I took the huge step of removing all the picture books from his bookcase.

I could get all sappy right now and tell you that picking up each one of them and remembering his fat little hands with their indented knuckles holding them was one of the hardest things I've ever done...y'know, cleaning-wise. We read to him every night. Farmer Duck. Cows Can't Fly. Slug. THE CLASSICS. So moving them into a box was more than just admitting he is closer to adulthood than babyhood. It was saying goodbye to some of the most awesome rhymes ever.

To wit...

"A small girl yelled out, 'Mommy! What's that creeping on our food?'

She didn't know that Slug was just a hungry little dude."

Beat that, Bob Frost.

And it was heavy. Like really heavy, man. They're books, people. Not like when mommies of today just download Bennett Cerf onto their iPads.

Is Bennett Cerf even available on iPads? Because it should be! Seriously, if your child doesn't know what is big and red and eats rocks, you are not really a very good parent. Just saying.

Anyway, I spent a couple of days being all nostalgic. I'd go look at his new teen-agery version of a bookcase with it's clever novels and dark comic books and middle school yearbooks and wish that just for a minute, I could have that boy that's shorter than me back.

Then, I got in my car. That smelled like three day old milk left in a sippy cup.

Turns out teenager snowboard boot has exactly the same chemical makeup as curdled dairy product in plastic.

And I longed for short people no more.

Everything that's wrong in the world. A special LOVE edition of LGBG.

2011-02-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last 48 hours desperately looking for a letter sent home by a teacher several years ago regarding Valentine's Day so that I could tell the internet about it... I've instead found my birth certificate, my sister's 10th grade report card and an overdue bill from the milk man so I will have to recreate it here for you from memory.

Disclaimer: The teacher was a lovely woman in every way and a perfectly wonderful, engaging, charming educator.

Disclaimer disclaimer: But obviously had issues.

Disclaimer disclaimer disclaimer: Also, she looks exactly like a waitress at the pub around the corner so every time I go get a beer I remember this story.

It went something like this.

Dear Parents,

As Valentine's Day approaches, I would like you all to talk to your children about being especially careful of other's feelings. Many children dream about Valentine's Day being a day to express their affection for someone special. Sadly though, other children use it as an opportunity for cruelty! They might purposely avoid giving a Valentine to someone...or even...send a Valentine with a negative message.

(Right about here is when I said, "Huh? Really? Freaking dreaming about it?" "opportunity for cruelty? OPPORTUNITY? For CRUELTY?" Also... do they even make valentines with negative messages? What are they? Scooby Doo looking at Shaggy and saying "Dude, you reek like bong water and van mattress, take a shower, a-hole." I almost crumpled the letter up right there, but I forged ahead. Because I am a good parent.)

I speak from experience. I remember a particularly horrible Valentine's Day in my own elementary school years when one student had a "crush" on another and when her feelings were not returned by the object of her affection she was teased mercilessly and cried on the playground for an entire recess.

(Hmmm. You seem to remember this in great detail. Almost as if it had happened to someone rather close to you. So, what happened? You brought in homemade cookies and a dozen roses to the math teacher and he told you he was 30? And married? To a dude? Or was it that your evil twin who is now a cocktail waitress around the corner wrote you a mean valentine and read it in front of the class? Something along the lines of "Mommy says I'm the pretty one and you're going to end up alone?")

For that reason, please have your child bring enough valentines for the entire class, and do not put a "to" name on them OR a "from" name. This way, everyone will get equal attention from all members of the class and no feelings will be hurt.

Sincerely,

Your Child's Miserably Lonely to this Day Teacher

And that right there is why the Japanese are getting ahead.

I don't actually know what that means.

But I do know that in 1977 I would've been particularly thankful to have a teacher like this, because instead of an anonymous Holly Hobbie or Mickey Mouse card, I got a creepy big lumpy envelope from a chubby freckled kid. Inside was the kind of card you'd buy your grandmother, all covered in plastic with a photograph of flowers and some gooey poem about love. On the interior, he'd taped an Avon necklace. My stomach hurt for three weeks and I almost quit school. But I didn't make him cry on the playground.

Because I believe in love.

Also recess.

I don't actually know what that means either.

Yearly Recap: 2010.

2010-12-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

I'm usually not all quizzy and resolutiony but I am a gigantic ~~stalker~~ fan of Linda at All & Sundry and have enjoyed reading these posts of hers, so I'm fully ripping off the concept. Although to be fair, I'm not really ripping it off since it was her idea for me to do this - she practically begged me to. Or not.

If you care to do it as well, leave me a link in the comments so I can go read yours. If you don't blog, send me an email.

A sidebar - go read Linda's stuff. All her stuff. She writes in a lot of places and she's the kind of writer I imagine that I would be if only I was talented and good with words. And stuff.

Here goes.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you'd never done before?
I got on an airplane and flew three states away to see my child compete in a sporting event. And to think I used to bitch about driving across town.

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions and will you make more for next year?
I like to keep my resolutions completely immeasurable so that I can't judge myself. One year it was "Become more gracious." Last year it was "Stop interrupting people even if what I have to say is really funny." I think I did okay. For 2011? Maybe something about making sure that people I love know I do. Either that, or I may try switching to light beer. "A moment on the lips..." and all that.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 
OMG, YES. My wonderful newest sister in law had Alexander in October. And it's practically like he's MINE, because a) it was completely my idea that she date my husband's brother, and b) the baby looks exactly like my husband. Which is nice for him since our children do not.

4. Did anyone close to you die? 
I, very gratefully, did not attend any memorial services or funerals in 2010. Although, my husband lost a favorite uncle, my son's friend lost his dad. There was sadness to be sure, but less than years past.

5. What countries did you visit?
Well, dammit, none except this one I live in.

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
A winning lottery ticket worth more than $5. Focus. A full night's sleep. Time on the front porch with a book, a bulldog, a beer.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
There isn't a single day that stands out. Although this is the year my cute little boy became taller than I am, the year I stopped caring if the house was perfect all of the time, the year I got brave enough to wear accessories and skinny jeans.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 
Hmmmm. I maybe need to work on achieving things.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I registered for school and didn't do anything about it. Nothing. I guess you can't fail what you don't even attempt, right? Right? Mr. Freud, are you even listening?

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, I drilled a wood screw through my thumb. I smashed my face into a VCR at mach-3 and broke my nose. I fell down the stairs a couple of times. Just the normal shit.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
I sent my husband to motorcycle racing school, helping to fulfill a lifelong dream of his and pretty much insuring that at some point he's going to buy a racing bike and we'll need a bigger garage. Also, after years of driving his hand-me-down but very cute little pickup, I picked out and purchased a car that I am totally and completely in love with and will be driving when I am a grandmother. Which hopefully is many many years from now.

12. Where did most of your money go?
Mortgage. Bulldog nuggets. Youth sports registrations.

13. What did you get really excited about?
Excited in a good way or bad? Because I spent the greater part of the year being pissed off at something I had no control over. As far as a positive type of excited - It was exciting to see older son be passionate and successful in rowing. It was great seeing his fire ignited by something that I love. Live vicariously much? Be quiet.

14. What song will always remind you of 2010?
There's a bunch, but probably Not Afraid by Eminem. For many reasons, not the least of which being my 10 year old sings it while he does his math homework. The non-explicit version, should you be assessing my parenting skills.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you: 
– happier or sadder? Happier.
– thinner or fatter? Thinner, but it was water weight. Or something.
– richer or poorer? About the same. Which is certainly nothing to bitch about.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of? 
Read. Written. Travelled. Painted the dining room. Danced with my cowboy.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of? 
Harboring ill will towards persons with poor design skills.

18. What was your favorite TV program?
I don't watch enough TV. Really. I rarely hold the remote, and when I do there's nothing on anyway. I'm pretty sure I'm missing out on a whole bunch of amazing programming if I could only spend more time on it. Reruns of The Office amuse me, however, and are fortunately on at any given time of the day.

19. What were your favorite books of the year?
Oh golly. Let's see. Shop Class as Soulcraft. The Art of Racing in the Rain. Girl with a Pearl Earring. In 50 Years We'll All Be Chicks. The Beauty of Different.

21. What was your favorite music from this year? 
I renewed an old affair with Social Distortion and played around on the side with Weezer, Fountains of Wayne, Cake and my old favorite Merle Haggard.

22. What were your favorite films of the year?
So, "films." I'm not good at "films." I don't even see regular old movies all that much. If I get out of the house, I like live music or a football game on a big screen where someone else has to fetch the nachos. Lame, I know.

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Well, according to GoogleCalendar, I went to work, then skipped out at 11 for a private Pilates session, then meandered down the street to have lunch with my oldest friend Harvard Barbie. And by oldest, I mean I've known her longer than everyone else, not that she's the oldest person I know. (See? If I was a better writer I wouldn't have had to do that whole explaining thing right there. I would've said, "best friend from childhood" or "homey" or something.) After that, I had a meeting with Lingerie Barbie and then came home to my darling family and no doubt drove someone to baseball practice.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
My first response is immediately "money" because then I would have about 50 hours more a week to do whatever I wanted. But I'd probably just end up doing laundry or something boring, so it's best that I'm otherwise occupied during the day. I think satisfaction comes from not wanting for things (pretty sure I got that from Mick Jagger) but I really don't desire anything other than time with my nice husband, cool kids and good friends. I should have used all my vacation time, though.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
Boots. And anything that goes with boots. Summer was hard on me, obviously.

26. What kept you sane?
It sort of sounds ridiculous, but Facebook. It's a lifeline to people who remember me differently than who I am today. I know people who avoid those reminders, but I like having contact with people that represent different little slices of my history. I talk to a 29 year old History professor whose diapers I changed when I was in High School. I talk to a college room mate. I talk to my dad's cousins and my son's friends. It's interesting.

26. Share a valuable lesson you learned in 2010.
No one is worried about what I think of them. They're just not. It's a waste of time worrying about what they think of me.

Fast and thorough and sharp as a tack.

2010-12-16T13:02:00.000-07:00

While some people take inspiration from poetry or speeches, operas or beautiful landscapes, biblical passages or literature, I make all of the important decisions necessary to run my entire life on the principles set forth in the Cake song, Short Skirt Long Jacket.

It's a good strategy.

Can't decide what to wear? Got that one covered. Just add shoes that cut.

What type of vehicle should I get? One with a cupholder armrest that gets me there.

How should I get ahead at work? Tour the facilities and pick up slack.

How many hours sleep should I get? Get up early. Stay up late.

See? It can be life altering if only you open your mind to its wisdom.

Because I wasn't intelligent enough to write this blog anonymously, I am often muzzled in what I can share here. And I realize you probably don't really want to come here to hear me whine anyway.

So, suffice it to say, there are several - nay - three - highly annoying situations in my life that are causing Little Girl to fill Big Glasses with whiskey and Pepsi. However, I'm working on immediate solutions... because why?

My fingernails shine like justice and I'm using a machete to cut through red tape.

And when that's all done - I'll be back with some funny stories about weird people I grew up with. Because I'm not anonymous so they shouldn't be either.

This may be hard to swallow.

2010-12-13T16:50:00.000-07:00

If you've been a reader of this drivel for any length of time, you know that I really really really like Thanksgiving, and over the years have become quite adept at cooking loads of yummy food for copious amounts of people. Let's just say it requires spreadsheets.

This Thanksgiving, I broke my #1 rule about Thanksgiving and invited family members. Specifically, my in-laws. And that set off a horrible chain of events that included:

1) the turkey, while beautiful and lovely on the outside, was completely raw and disgusting on the inside,

2) I totally forgot to get out the cranberry relish from the refrigerator,

3) Ditto on the pheasant and wild rice,

4) Spanxy at some point french-kissed my ear in front of her mother-in-law,

5) I completely and thoroughly lost my voice, and eventually wound up with a 10 day virus that nearly killed me.

So, not only was I completely a) hungry, but also b) embarrassed and c) dead.

The best thing about nearly dying when there's a lot of company around is that you can pretty much curl up in a chair under a blanket and no one notices. But days later, they all left so I went to the doctor and told them that I was close to death and I could not swallow because my throat felt like I'd swallowed razors and also I was dying and also I think maybe Spanxy gave me Ear Mono that scientifically transferred to my throat, most likely traveling on a sea of mimosas.

They looked at me real sympathetically and gave me a bottle of pills. A bottle of gigantic freaking pills that I couldn't swallow if I didn't have Ear-transferred Mono. Why are these things even made? Lest you think I exaggerate...photo evidence.

Here is the horrible stupid pink pill with a cough drop for comparison. Not a good enough example? Here:

Horrible stupid pink pill with a dime. The dime would be easier to swallow because it's flat.

For my readers South of the Border. I'll admit, horrible stupid pink pill might be easier to swallow than 2 Pesos.

HOWEVER. It would be easier to swallow a Lego sword than the horrible stupid pink pill.

And, possibly, it would be easier to swallow a .38 round than the horrible stupid pink pill. Actually, that might be a tie. I'd sort of be scared to swallow a .38 round, so it might not go down easily.

Most interesting, perhaps, is that all the items I used for comparison were in the pencil drawer of my kitchen. Not sure what that says about me, exactly. Huh.

Anyway - besides they horrible stupid pink pill, they also gave me some meth, so that was kind of cool. I didn't figure insurance would cover that kind of thing.

I'm all better now. Obviously.

Tales from the Laundry Room - Part I.

2010-11-23T16:56:00.000-07:00

The youngest child, known as Pete although that is totally not his name, was helping me with laundry by checking all the pockets of the mountain of jeans that lay before us. Because really? No one wants to be known as the Person Who Has Laundered Four Mobile Phones.

As I took shirt after shirt after god-foresaken shirt out of the dryer and folded them into beautiful rectangular perfection of which a Gap Second Key Holder would be proud, we chatted. He dropped change and guitar picks onto the counter, tossed jeans into the washer, and then, reaching into Big Dude's Wranglers, pulled out a handful of goodies, stared at them and exclaimed in awe,

"Oh my gosh. When I grow up I want to be just like Dad. He is prepared for EVERYTHING."

Ah, yes. Prepared indeed.

I bet Oedipus' mom didn't have this kind of trouble.

2010-11-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

The gigantic middle schooler took a few days off of school recently to elk hunting with Big Dude. Generally, we only let him ditch school to snowboard or go to the orthodontist, so it was a pretty big treat. Now for you naysayers who think that I am somehow shirking my parental responsibilities by letting the child avoid education, I offer this argument... If he gets an elk, that is 100 trips to the grocery store for hamburger I do not have to make. So who cares if he can't spell?

Of course, they did not get an elk. But he did end up with a big pile of homework. So I let him ditch another day of school to catch up.

I'm kidding. Relax. It was only a half day.

So he's rushing through a bunch of homework and realizes that the class heard a few lectures he didn't hear and he's got a scads of questions to answer about things he's never heard of, and so he hollers for me to provide him with a laptop so that he can Wikipedia all the info he's behind on.

GMS: MAWM! Can I Wikipedia Antigone? (which he pronounces Aunty-Gone.)

ME: Do you mean Antigone? As in Sophocles' Antigone? Oh my gosh, giant child, that is one of my favorite stories of all times! The three tragedies...seriously - I LOVED them!

GMS: I just have to answer some questions, can I please just Wikipedia it for the plot and characters?

ME: No no no no! It is a short story! We will read it now together and I will share my love of it with you! You will understand this classic and we will bond! Later, when I am an old woman, you will put an afghan on my lap and recount to me how great this day was and read it back to me.

GMS: Please mom, please oh please don't read it to me please...

ME: One minute! It is on my bookcase! I have such love for this book that I have kept it in my bookcase since 1983 when I first discovered how wonderful it was!

I ran upstairs and ran right to it, the familiar bright green cover beckoning to me. Only this time, dear Sophocles, I'm not just going to dust you as I have for the past nearly 30 years...today my friend, you will be read once again by a young mind!

I flew into the kitchen, ready to share the past with the future. Ready to open the eyes and mind of my offspring. Ready to love the story again just as I had as an 11th grader lo those many years ago.

And then, I opened the cover and found this note from 1983 me.

Should you not be able to read teenage-girl handwriting, it says:

A note to future students who attempt to read this book. DON'T. The Cliff's Note sare only $2.95. And well worth it. Just a little advice! Sincerely, Me.

And then I brought him the laptop and told him to only go to Wikipedia because if he went to Facebook, I'd totally figure it out.

So, if you're a PETA member or otherwise like small cute furry things you should probably move along. I think there's a baby photo blog next if you just push that little "next blog" button up there.

2010-10-25T13:23:00.002-06:00

Furry little jackass.

It's autumn in Colorado which means several things,
1) dark beer
2) peaches
3) youth/college football
4) sweaters make it possible to gain 10 pounds eating cheese
5) all the little freaking furry rodentia that spend their summers frolicking in the sunshine try to suddenly converge on my house.

I have mentioned my overall general un-love for the creatures. In this post, and then again in this one, I chronicle my efforts to rid the world of their creepy little poky noses and weird feet. Their whiskers? Pretty cute, admittedly. But not cute enough to lessen my urge to smash them flat with an Acme safe.

This weekend, as I ~~yelled at children about laundry and drank whiskey to ease the pain of the drudgery that is my life~~ sat peacefully in a reading chair with an afghan and green tea, the gigantic middle schooler ran into the house, "MAWM! Where's the bb guns?"

This is aligned closely with other questions I dread, such as "MAWM - we got any glue?" And "MAWM - which is it I'm not supposed to date, debate team girls or cheerleaders?"

I steeled myself. "Ummm. Why, pray tell?"

Sidebar: I try to use phrases like "pray tell" in everyday conversation with my children. It not only helps keep outdated language alive, but it also makes them look nerdy to both debate team girls and cheerleaders.

The 165 pound cherub retorted, "There's baby mice all over the patio!"

To which I replied, "The bb guns are in the camper, son. Getcher pellet gun."

And then, because we are all about safety over here, I added..."but wear eye protection!"

Spoiler Alert: the mouse in this neighborhood are safe. Apparently, while my children can hit flying clay targets at 30 yards, little furry things 5 feet away pose too much of a challenge.

However, if those little bastards with cute whiskers cross the threshold of my house, it's bets-off, Mickey. I'm bringing out the big guns.

I'm borrowing a cat.

Dude. I'm sick of him taxing my gig.

2010-10-19T19:57:00.000-06:00

So, starting today, no more Bulldog Haiku on LGBG.

He's got his own blog, like any self-respecting flat-faced pooch would.

Check it. http://bulldoghaiku.blogspot.com/

If he gets more followers than me, I told him he could sleep on my bed.

Strange bedfellow.

2010-10-12T14:44:00.000-06:00

In my home, there is a 50 pound ball of ferocious cute called a bulldog. I don't recall if I've mentioned him here ~~today~~, but it's true.

If you've ever met a a bulldog, you know that besides being ferociously cute, they snore. And not like a little cute wheezy heavy breathing thing that makes you put down the paper and say, "Why look darling! I bet he's dreaming of chasing rabbits! Now bring me my pipe, won't you?"

When a bulldog snores, you say, "Holy shit! Is someone demolishing the house next door? Is there an earthquake? Get under something, there's an earthquake! Oh sweet mother of God, an EARTHQUAKE!"

Yeah, it's loud.

For this reason, the 50 pounds of loudness sleeps in a kennel on a separate level of the house from everyone else, and even still, the vibrations are disturbing. Also, he sheds and smears eye boogers on duvet covers. And, he is a total bed hog. His 50 pounds spread out sideways is more like an obnoxious, smelly, dripping, snorey hobo on your bed. To further complicate matters, we have a queen size bed. And Big Dude already takes up more than his allotted 75% of it.

It is safe to say I stop thinking he's all that cute at bedtime. The bulldog, not Big Dude. Ahem.

So, every night before I go to bed, I fill a glass with ice and then say, "Box" to the bulldog, which, in bulldog means, "Yo dude, get in your box." He hops off the couch and happily takes refuge in his kennel. Probably because it's a an extra-large kennel intended for a pony-sized labradork, so he's got enough room in there for a pool table. Also? Down pillows. Anyway - because bulldogs do not like being told what to do, now when I get ice he goes to the box. Pavlov would be proud. I go lock the kennel and life - and sleep - is good.

But here's what would make Pavlov sort of freak out.

For the last three nights, in the middle of the night, I am startled by a 50-pound of dripping snorebag jumping on to the bed. Always, I am too deep into ~~a dream about Lenny Kravitz playing the trumpet topless~~ restful slumber to kick him off and take him to the box downstairs. What's different? He's been pretending to be in deep REM sleep when I go get the ice. His juicy steak lips are spread out across Big Dude's lap and his eyes closed tightly. I say "Aw, lookit how cute him is wid his widdle wips all sweepy." Actually, I don't. I have never babytalked in my life. It gave me hives just now typing that.

Anyway - I decide to leave him be for awhile, and Big Dude swears he'll "box him."

BUT! Here's the tricky bulldog part: As soon as I am out of Big Dude's sight, the bulldog tippity toes into the box and jumps in hard enough to make the door slam. So Big Dude thinks I PUT HIM IN THERE. When the world is quiet, he escapes and makes his way up to my chocolate brown bedding to shed, drip and SNORE - leaving me to sleep fitfully, dreaming of earthquakes while clinging to the edge of the mattress on the 2 inches left for me.

And that, Officer, is why I'm driving erratically.

Q&A for some of the residents in my home.

2010-10-08T12:42:00.000-06:00

Q: Where is the laundry chute located?
A: In the upstairs hallway, directly behind the pile of your dirty clothes.

Q: You want a bowl of cereal, but when you look in the cabinet, there are no clean bowls. What do you do?
A: Eat directly from the box. Preferably in the living room. Laying on your back while watching MTV2.

Q: Two cute girls from school are standing on the front porch. They want to jump on the trampoline with you, but you've not picked up the dog poop in the backyard for two days. What do you do?
A: Who cares? You're watching MTV2 and eating cereal.

Q: You're returning to the living room after fetching another box of cereal. How can you determine exactly where you were laying before?
A: By the outline of your body made of cereal crumbs and the empty box.

Q: Where is your underwear drawer located?
A: Look in your room for a large piece of wooden furniture under a pile of electronics, empty cereal boxes and remote-controlled vehicles. Lift the stack of folded underwear and you'll find a pair of pajama pants. Lift the legs of the pajama pants and you'll see the top drawer. You'll know it is the right one if it is completely empty.

Bulldog Haiku - Teenagers.

2010-10-04T17:03:00.000-06:00

Sometimes it's better

To hold them down and feign sleep

They grow up too fast.

Is this heaven? No. It's Iowa.

2010-10-01T13:53:00.001-06:00

If you read the post I wrote yesterday - I hope you remember it well, because I've taken it down. Although LGBG is often silly rants about things, I don't want it to be about people. Not cool. So, it was a limited edition collector's item post and it's no longer available. Maybe you can find it on eBay or something.

What I should've been ~~ranting~~ writing about was last weekend! Because it was nearly almostly as fun as I thought it was going to be. Most of the parts anyway.

It began at midnight Thursday.

I drove across town and put the gigantic middle schooler on a bus.

Please note dashboard clock. Midnight thirty. Yawn. I am such a good parent

Buh-bye gigantic middle schooler! Hope that's really your rowing coach and not that creepy guy from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who tricks kids with candy but they're really getting into a jail cell! On wheels! I hated that guy.

Then I came home and slept for a few minutes then got up and said goodbye to the future politician kid.

I didn't say "stick-em up" so not all together sure why he's doing that. It's a little Nixon-esque. Hmmm.

Then, I got on an airplane.

And I didn't get off that bitch until it landed in Iowa, baby. Then I found a shuttle where a guy who was going to his 55th class reunion completely ignored me because I'm a girl and totally monopolized the conversation of everyone in the van. So when we got off and he looked down his nose at me I made sure that I tipped the driver way more than he did right in front of him. So there, old dude.

And then I checked into a historic hotel in downtown Des Moines called the Savery. Have I told you I really like historic hotels? I do. Most of them aren't that nice room-wise, but the lobbies, lawdy. I highly recommend old hotel lobbies.

Then. I waited. And waited. And waited. Because my kid was still on the bus. And my sista-from-anotha-mista who is my best friend I've never actually met? Was working. Bored. Bored. Bored. Damn, I thought. Iowa sucks.

Then she finally texted me and I felt better. It went something like this:

Tracey: I could sure use a beer right now.
Penne: There's no minibar in my room. I should've had drinks on the plane.

Long wait. I'm bored again. Stupid Iowa. But I find a good movie on TV with that kid in it who used to be on Third Rock from the Sun but in this movie he's all grown up and he's an architect only he writes greeting cards for a living and I start thinking...hmmm, it's kind of weird that I'm going out for dinner with someone I've never ever met ever, I think I should order room service and finish this very awesome movie with the Third Rock from the Sun kid in it. Only all grown up.

But then I get this text:
Tracey: We're five minutes away! Will pick you up in a white Explorer.
Penne: This feels like eHarmony a little bit.
Tracey: Nope. Match.com!
Penne: I just flashed a white Explorer. Totally wasn't you.

And then she pulled up and I actually met a real life person, not just a blog. She was funny and awesome and if she lived on my block she and Spanxy and I would be a FORCE, I tell you. All through dinner one of us would say "You should know this about me..." and then the other one would say, "OMG, me TOO" and we laughed so much our cheeks hurt. And then we said goodbye, but hopefully not forever. I love Iowa.

Me and the Sista. Lookit how awesomely our hair matches. Separated at birth, I tell you.

I shall report on the kid's regatta at another point - but you should know that Iowa in the morning is pretty lovely.

Photo courtesy of the gigantic middle schooler. I was totally asleep for this part.

Color my world.

2010-09-28T16:53:00.001-06:00

Do you guys know what Pantone is? Being in a designer-y, advertising-y, creative-y type marketing sort of career, I live by it - it's basically a universally accepted ink color that printers use. In the old days of graphic design, like before computers, I got my first Pantone Matching System color books, and they still sit on my desk.

Way back then, they were called PMS colors...for Pantone Matching System - because the other PMS hadn't been invented yet either. Nowadays, even brides use it so that their napkins match their shoes that match their flowers that match their hair ties that match their fiances boxers.

I love Pantone because it helps my little world make sense. My bulldog is Pantone 465C. The chocolate labradork is 469C. That's why they look so nice laying next to each other on my living rug, which is shades of both those tones as well as a graduated DM292-5.

My subconcious need to identify every color I see by PMS number is second only to my font neurosis, whereby I cannot read any text on any sign, book, magazine or T shirt without first identifying the font it's printed in. Now you know why I'm always late.

And, you can see why I am now obsessed with visiting this hotel. And living there. Forever. It makes my head not hurt.


The Pantone Hotel in Brussels.

Yes, it will be a long commute, but can you just picture a 465C bulldog on that bed?

Gently down the stream.

2010-09-23T12:56:00.000-06:00

The giant linebacker kid is taking a year off from football and has joined the crew. As in rowing. I was going to say "crew team" but that's kind of repetitive. Like a neighborhood I once lived in called "Table Mesa" which is not only dumb, but stupid.

See how I did that? Try to keep up.

Four nights a week, I drive the hulking man-child to a reservoir 30 minutes from our house and he runs and jumps rope and works hard to glide across the water and make it look effortless. I think it's really the most beautiful thing in the word to see 8 people moving in synchronization on a skinny boat (or 4, or 2) and I'm proud he's taken it up. I've done it purely amateur-ly for several years - and only in a single scull because I am very muchly not a team player. I'm glad that he's got the mental and physical fortitude to try something unknown - and I must admit that it doesn't suck to live vicariously through your children - something I haven't really experienced while watching him cream the living hell out of offensive linemen.

To make things even more bettererer than just watching the kid, he's competing this weekend 18 hours from our house at the Head of the Des Moines.

Which means, I not only get to see my boy living out my dream...

Me on a big ol' trainer boat a long time ago. It's very difficult to take pictures of yourself sculling.

I get to see my high school partner in crime from high school who lives nearby...

Partner in crime, circa 1990. As if you couldn't tell by the perms.

And I get to meet my sista-from-anotha-mista, Tracey, who I've never seen in person but I am pretty we were separated at birth, who...can you even believe it...lives right smack in Des Moines.

She looks sorta fun, huh? I'm taking sturdy drinking shoes.

It is so freaking fate, destiny, coincidence and good luck that I cannot fathom it. We're going to Oktoberfest together. In Iowa. Talk about living out dreams.

This is obviously Karma's way of apologizing for smashing the hell out of my face last month.

Apology accepted, Karma.

Wherein I get a Brazilian. And provide photographic evidence.

2010-09-21T14:48:00.002-06:00

Earlier this year, I spent an unholy sum of money for eyelash extensions. Not one single person noticed. I determined that either:

a) no one really looks at me,
b) they looked so ridiculous everyone I knew was embarrassed for me and didn't mention it, or
c) I have such incredible boobs that everyone I know, including neighbors and children couldn't look past them to see my luxurious puppydog/Brooke Shields lashes.

Pretty sure it's A.

So that's why when I considered getting a "Brazilian," I really had to think twice about it. I mean, is it really worth the time and money, and ahem, pain...if no one even really knows about it?

So - I figure - yeah, sure it is. You bet. Dealing with all that curly hair is a daily chore that I just don't have time for. And, if I put it out on the interwebs - people HAVE to notice.

So, without any further ado, the before and after pictures.

BEFORE

It's blurry. I know. Hoping you'll be too distracted by the sequined bulldog to notice. It's smooth enough, but it took 20 minutes, a gallon of product, a hairdryer and a round brush to get it like this.

AFTER

Sort of the same. A little less fluffy, but it only took, like, 3 minutes to dry it straight. Paired with a chartreuse naughty librarian cardigan to distract from the breastillary-region.

So I'm all cool and low maintenance with my Brazilian Blowout now. You knew that's what I meant, right?

People better notice.

PS - you can totally tell my nose is broken, too, but it's okay if you don't point that out.

PPS - I should've cleaned the iPhone lens for that first picture.

PPPS - I should've worn makeup in that second one.

PPPPS - Or eyelash extensions.

Where to begin?

2010-09-20T14:51:00.000-06:00

I should start by saying that I've spent a goodly amount of time considering changing the name of my blog to "Adventures in the ER" or "Super Fun Times Bleeding in Public"...but I know how mommy blogs are kind of popular, and referencing drinking whilst mommying is also big...so maybe it should just be "Mommy's Bleeding - Get her a Cocktail!" Oh ha ha, that'd be rich.

Turns out, I'm just sorta clumsy. Or I go too fast. Or the bulldog wants me dead. One of those things. Or all of those things put together.

I won't go into terrible bloody detail, because if you know me in real life, I've already bored you with the slow-mo reenactment of tidily drilling straight through my thumb with a wood screw and the resulting fleshy hamburger that exited my body through the new hole as the drill bit reversed and returned. I've already relived in exacting detail stepping onto a dog toy, accelerating due to a combination of freshly polished hardwood floors and completely treadless Birkenstocks and slamming forward at Mach-3 stopping only when my already substantial nose broke my fall into the large DVD player I was carrying.

If you know me, I've described to you the five stitches it took on the outside of my nose, the crimson and violet bags drooping underneath my eyes for the week following, the vertical fracture of my proboscis that still throbs daily, the clouds in my brain as the concussion cleared. I've demonstrated the lack of feeling in my thumb by poking at it in front of you. I've shown you the bills from the ER.

What I have not done is post pictures of my temporary disfigurement like I did with my children. Ethical? Perhaps not, but it is afterall, my blog.

I will tell you, however, that after receiving three shots in my face to numb my nose enough for stitches, I will never, ever, even consider Botox.

And, I will tell you that none of it compares to the pain I experienced when my hard drive crashed and the online back-up system I've trusted for years didn't really do everything I thought it was doing.

In short, it's kind of been a mess over here in Little Girl Land.

But the stitches are out, the bruises are gone. I sort of remember most of everything, and I have a big fat shiny new hard drive with almost everything I want on it. Somewhere. And I have a new external harddrive that holds a terabyte of information and is so beautiful I want to have children with it.

Thanks for waiting on me.

PS to Cupcake Murphy: I think "Haiku Laureate" is the nicest thing anyone's ever said regarding the badass bulldog. Thanks for giving me the oomph to dive in again.

Bulldog Haiku - An unrecognized threat.

2010-08-16T13:21:00.000-06:00

When people are gone

Pillows escape and fly off

Good thing I was here.

Rage against the machine.

2010-08-13T16:23:00.000-06:00

Before I became the wisened, mature, matronly type of gal I am now, I had the particularly satisfying habit of - as an ex-boyfriend called it -"beating the hell out of inanimate objects."

This habit consisted of, well...mainly beating the hell out of inanimate objects. For the most part.

In my defense, they totally deserved it. I was only giving them what they so richly had coming. But he found it disturbing nonetheless, so I tried to cut back and would only kick my car or smack the side of the television or throw myself violently into a stuck door when he wasn't around.

The relationship ended anyway, but those of you who know me in real life know that my sophisticated and genteel manner remained. And it's probably a good thing, too, as occasional slip-ups (one memorable incident where I ever so gently applied a BFH* to the icemaker, par example', have proven to scare both young children, innocent spouses and domesticated animals. (Although the icemaker has not given me a lick of trouble since.)

I write here today only to seek your support to keep me from smashing the living hell out of my dryer, whom I previously loved With. All. My. Heart. It is beautiful and shapely and has logo badges so exquisitely reminiscent of a vintage automobile that I matched my laundry room tile to them.

After twelve years of faithful service, it has suddenly decided that all my clothes are better suited for a four-year-old than me. "Ahhh," you say, "Little Girl, use your Big Glasses and see the light! You should not dry your apparel! Rather, you should take all damned day to spread it jauntily around your home! It should lay or lie or whatever perfectly flat and air dry! Afterall, that's how the pioneers did it, and you never saw Laura Ingalls Wilder bitching that her tank top was the width of a iPhone!"

That'd be great, dear helpful reader, but here's the thing. The freakin' washer is in on it. My lovely, reliable, kind and wonderful front load dream washer with matching vintage automobile logo on the front is either in cahoots with the 2000 degree as only setting dryer or it's being seriously peer pressured to ruin me. It spends the entire wash cycle carefully taking my shrinkable tops, my air-dry-only shorts and my "fine washables" and hiding them - sneaking them into other clothes where they cannot be found until after the dryer has done her evil deed and I am left to open the door to the steaming horror of an organic cotton sweater now just an organic cotton ball.

So I'm just saying, I'm probably going off the wagon. If you hear crashing, pounding, perhaps blow-torching...that's me. This bitch ain't goin' down without a fight. You hear me, inanimate object?

*BFH - Big effin hammer, for those of you not violently inclined.

Guest Post - Another Little Girl, Even Bigger Glasses

2010-08-06T08:00:00.001-06:00

Today's installment of I'm On Vacation and You're Not features another of my favorite people I found floating around the ol' dubyadubyadubya, Heatherty Featherty. She is a super smart super talented super busy mommy of two little boys. She has a full time job that makes her travel all over the place, a husband who surprises her with old car parts and a puppy who is to being potty trained. and for fun? She sews. Like really well. Not like how I hem up a sheet and call it a "duvet cover" and act like I'm all talented. She actually uses patterns and fancy fabric that isn't sheets and makes wearable, cute clothing. Weird, huh? Her stories are funny and real and I'm pretty sure if we lived in the same neighborhood we'd have a bunch of fun.

I asked Heather to give me her memories of being a Little Girl with Big Glasses...because I just had a feeling...

Penne is the greatest. There, I got that out of the way. I think that's a prerequisite to writing a guest post, right? Thank God this time the praise wasn't hard to do or totally lame like "Oh, I'm sure if I knew Penne in person she would...ummm...smell super great and have the right toenail polish on."

Back to how she's awesome? Yeah, she's also on vacation. So she asked if I would be so kind as to fill the silence here on Big Glasses with a little story about how super cool I was when I was a little girl with big glasses. Because weren't we all, at one point in time? Don't pretend you were born with your flashy Lasic surgery. I hope she doesn't go gambling on one of those Indian reservations and blow her life savings. My therapist charges $200 an hour and after effectively suppressing these memories, thanks to Penne they've all come flooding back. It could literally take me months of changing diapers and folding laundry to forget about them again.

Oh, well. Here we go.

Yes, I had the big glasses. The oddly shaped, pearlescent specs with the bendy arms that had little bits of golden flecks in the resin. God, they rocked when I picked them out. It's only in hindsight that I look at the pictures and think "huh?"

And I certainly had the accompanying accoutrement of the time - the permanent wave, the Flock of Seagulls left-to-right bi-level wedge haircut, the jeans rolled super tight at the ankles and preferably Guess by Georges Marciano with the appropriate triangle-shaped tag on the bum, the slouchy sweater with a turtleneck underneath. But that was in eighth grade. The peak of being cool, because the next year you're knocked back to being a total loser freshman again.

As I was doing my little walky walky down memory lane, I started back in Ye Olden Days of Olde, back when Heather was a young'n. When my mom still made a lot of my clothes. And then, dammit, I was suddenly flooded with memories of sixth grade. Of a certain boy in my class who shall remain nameless but I can tell you his initials were FRANK, who wrote me the kindest note one day, sort of a public service announcement where he gently informed me that all the boys in class hated me and also they hated my plaid pants, the ones my mom had made for me.

Stupid Frank! He ruined it for me, wearing those killer red plaid pants my mom had made out of Pendleton wool. I so loved those pants. She'd lined them with swishy red lining that made swishy lining noises when I walked and made me feel like an important secretary or librarian. Oh, I suppose in fairness he was possibly right about them, but why do kids have to be so mean?

So I quickly pushed past sixth grade memories and landed in seventh. Ahhh, sweet seventh grade. I weighed somewhere around a hundred pounds, maybe 110, and hit five foot nine inches tall that year. Good times.

You know what girls love? They love to be way taller than all the rest of the kids. And freakishly thin, that's a great combination. I have an abundance of faded stretch marks on my upper thighs that I'd love to say came from the two stints I spent as a gestating mom to two gigantic male babies, but alas - it wouldn't be true. The only stretch marks I have on this here goddess-like figure of mine came when I was in seventh grade and I grew so fast in one year it literally split my skin.

I can hear the doubt in your minds. Well, behold the photographic evidence, complete with big glasses.

Guest Post - My Sista from Anotha Mista

2010-08-04T08:00:00.003-06:00

In today's edition of "I'm On Vacation And You're Not," my homegirl Tracey from Funny In the 'Hood has been gracious enough to guest post. I started reading Tracey more than a year ago, and every time she posts, I not only laugh my arse off, I also usually say, "OMG, me TOO!" and then she reads this here blog and says "OMG, me TOO!" So now we're Facebook friends who "like" everything each other says and then our friends in real life are all, "Who is that person?" and we're all "My totally best friend ever that I never met."

Tracey has slowed down her blogging as of late because she's writing a real life BOOK. On paper. Which I cannot wait to read. But here, for your amusement today, is a recent post that was not only funny but also quoted by Time Magazine. Time FREAKING Magazine, people. So, she's like totally famous. Sort of.

Enjoy.

The other night I was lying in bed trying to find something to watch on TV and despite Dave's claim that switching from cable to satellite would give us loads of additional channels, my only choices seemed to be either Khloe and Kourtney take Miami or Keeping up with the Kardashians.

Personally, I think the Kardashian family jumped the shark a long time ago and I'm not sure why they're still all over the TV but whatever, I was certain I could find something better to watch on one of the other 70 million channels Dave said we now had.

And then I stumbled upon TLC's I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. I was so amazed that such a possibility even existed I forgot all about how tired I was and proceeded to stare at the screen transfixed. One by one, women started explaining how they didn't know they were pregnant and they really just thought they were constipated and needed to take a poop and while I watched the show I could only think of one thing:

You have got to be freaking kidding.

As any woman who has ever given birth will tell you, not knowing you are pregnant, during the approximately 40 weeks you are growing a human being means that not only are you unobservant, you might be slightly out of touch with your own body.

I knew I was pregnant even before I peed on the little stick. My boobs were so sensitive just the wind blowing on them was agony. I felt certain that people at work could see them throbbing and would think something was terribly wrong with me. They got bigger immediately and Dave was all, "Wow! Your boobs are getting really big!" and I'd be thinking "Enjoy 'em now loverboy because in a few months you're going to be all, "Wow, your butt is getting really big too."

To be fair, I have two really good friends who did not know right away that they were pregnant with their second children because they had needed fertility treatments in order to conceive their first babies and neither of them expected to be able to conceive on their own. They were both pleasantly surprised when they discovered they were going to be blessed with another child. Yet neither of my friends actually went into labor, delivered a baby, and told everybody later, "You know, I didn't expect there to be a baby, I just felt like I had to poop."

And that's why I'm starting to believe that maybe TLC has gone a bit "Jerry Springer" on me because they know shit like this (heh, heh, I said shit. I made a pun) is going to grab my attention and generate higher ratings and a whole bunch of talk 'round the old water cooler. I mean, who confuses labor with a #2? And then admits it! On TV!
If the women on I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant had never been in labor before it's understandable they might not know what it feels like but it's also like they're a little sketchy on the mechanics of poopin' too.

And I may not be as familiar with labor pains as professional baby mama Michelle Duggar, but I've done it twice and both times my main concern was figuring out how Freddy Krueger had gotten inside my uterus because it felt like he was trying to stab his way out with those finger knives every two minutes or so. Never once did I think, "Hey, maybe I just need to take a poop." Yes, your stomach can feel kind of upset during labor and there's the all too real fear of actually crapping on the delivery table but I can still tell the two bodily functions apart.

"Oh hi. You're a baby, not a #2!"

I know I kind of look like shit here. It's 2:17 AM and I just shot a 9 lb. 6 oz. baby out my hoo-ha without the benefit of any drugs whatsoever.

Can you imagine sitting down on the toilet and thinking something is going to come out of somewhere only to discover that something totally different came out a completely different orifice? That's what happened to one of the women on I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. She thought she had to go to the bathroom so she sat on the toilet, grabbed the counter and the towel bar because it hurt so bad and her baby plopped out of her into the toilet water and when she tried to get up, she was slammed back down onto the toilet seat because she was still attached to the baby by the umbilical cord! And while she was in the bathroom all confused and laboring and delivering and stuff her baby daddy was sitting out on the couch with the popcorn bowl yelling helpful things like, "Hey, are you almost done in there?"

I mean, did it not occur to her to yell, "Put down the popcorn bowl you dumbass because something that is NOT a turd just came out and oh my God tell the paramedics they better haul ass!"

That's what I would have done.

On the show's website I found the following: "We are looking for new stories for new episodes of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant." Or, as they probably like to call it, "more unaware women who had babies and not number two's and aren't afraid to have it re-enacted on national television."

Oh, and there was a woman on the show one night who didn't know she was pregnant TWICE.

Probably you can tell I watch this show a lot. I've seen all the episodes. Some of them more than once.
So, I'm guessing TLC pays these women to go on the show? There's got to be some incentive for admitting you didn't know what the hell was going on. But in that case, maybe the women are actually pretty shrewd. Maybe they don't care if everyone laughs at how clueless they are.

Perhaps they're even laughing all the way to the bank.
Good for them. Maybe they'll start a college fund for their little miracles.

P.S. Guess what other TLC show I'm obsessed with? My Monkey Baby. Oh my God, how I love this show.
P.P.S. And now I totally want a monkey baby.
P.P.P.S And I want to go to Baby Gap and buy cute little clothes for my monkey baby.
P.P.P.P.S. And I want my monkey baby to sleep with Dave and me in our bed.
P.P.P.P.P.S Dave just saw this and said my monkey baby cannot sleep with us.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S I know Dave will change his mind when I bring my monkey baby home so I'm not worried.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S And then we'll be as happy as these two!

Guest Post - Mr. Morning Sunshine Himself

2010-08-02T08:00:00.002-06:00

In today's edition of I'm On Vacation And You're Not, you'll be hearing from Denver radio personality and my pal, Mike Casey. Mike is the early morning/drive time host guy at 99.5 The Mountain and a not-half-bad writer. I would have said he was a completely good writer, but you'll notice in his post that he felt obligated to mention that I am older than he is, so eye for an eye and all that. His blog entertains me on a regular basis, and very often chronicles the adventures and wackiness of my younger son, who hangs out with Mike's kids.

The best part of getting him to guest post was that he's inherently lazy (or really super tired from getting up at 3 AM five days a week maybe) so he's always trying to get ME to write stuff for HIM. But who got who to write for them first? Huh? Who is more clever? Huh? (Mike - it's Me. I'm more clever.)

A Sidenote: I've always wanted to be a DJ. When I was growing up, I memorized song titles and artists and even used to play a game with my younger sister called "Who sings this?" wherein I would give her five seconds to tell me the band currently playing or I'd punch her. Turns out, however, you can't have the voice of an 8 year old boy with a wicked sinus infection and introduce Depeche Mode records. Dangit.

Enjoy.

An offer to guest post from my pal “Little Girl Big Glasses”? Wow. What an honor! The pressure has been durn-near all-consuming. I haven’t slept a wink since I got the invite.

Okay, maybe I slept a wink. But no more than that.

Hmmm. How best to properly use this hallowed venue to communicate some nugget of wisdom that I have gleened over lo these many years? (Fewer “many years” than “Little Girl Big Glasses”, it should be noted.)

Here goes.

Anne and some of her friends put together a monthly book club a few years ago, and last night, the gals decided they’d invite their spouses along so we could get an up close and personal look at this women’s book club phenomenon.

Here are a few quick observations on that subject:

1. From what I can tell, the key to the success of your book club does not depend on which friends you ask to participate or which books you decide to read but rather on the quantity and quality of the wine you provide when it’s your turn to host. I don’t claim to understand women’s book clubs but if you switch the wine out for beer, this is an idea I can get behind.

2. I love Sports Illustrated as much as the next guy, but do not try to convince your wife’s book club that it should be a considered “a book”. They will mock you for this and then you won’t get any h'ors d'oeuvres.

3. Guys: Don’t think for a second that actually READING the book is a required part of book club participation. I suspect that the real point is for your wife to stick you with the kids for the night while she tosses back some vino with her friends. Once you understand that everything gets easier.

4. For a woman’s book club, when it comes to choosing a book, you can either consult the New York Times best seller list, or just pick the latest offering from Oprah’s Book Club. At least this way you know you’ll get a good cry and a “spiritual cleansing” out of whatever you read. Apparently, this is desirable. Guys, on the other hand, would prefer to avoid crying all together. ESPECIALLY in a group setting. Unless of course their team loses the big game.

5. Book clubs hosted by women seem to revolve around an excellent selection of wines and h’ors d’ouevres and bonding over the shared emotional experience that comes from the power of the written word. If guys hosted book clubs, they would revolve around a lukewarm keg of beer, a stale bag of chips, red plastic cups, and a two dollar cover charge. We may be the simpler of the two sexes, but you gotta admit, we’re incredibly efficient.

6. I think women’s book clubs intentionally choose books that revolve around at least one of the following three subjects: romance, intimacy, or chocolate. I think they pick books like this so they don’t have to worry about the men in their lives taking their books into the john with them.

7. If you are a guy and you get invited to a meeting of a women’s book club, do not stand up and say “Hey, anyone mind if I put on ESPN? I gotta check the stats on my fantasy football team.” Women, especially those who read books, will not see the humor in this.

8. Here’s a rule of thumb for guys everywhere: if your wife or girl friend invites you to a meeting of her book club, whenever you feel the urge to talk about sports, talk about your kids. Whenever you feel the urge to talk about politics, talk about your kids. Whenever you feel the urge to talk about the stock market, talk about your kids. If you don’t have kids, talk about someone else’s kids. If you don’t know anyone with kids, just sit down, shut up, and don’t say anything the entire night. This is your only hope for survival. Trust me on this.

9. Given that men do most of their reading in the bathroom, I figure the only way you could make a men’s book club work would be to rent about ten porta potties, set them up in the backyard, and assign each guy a throne to work from. Sure, it’d make the discussion part a little more difficult but most guys have already made up their minds about a book within the first 3 pages anyway. So what’s there to discuss?

10And finally, when it comes to book clubs always remember, as Groucho Marx once said, “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

Bulldog Haiku: I'm not sure why you're putting all your stuff in the car but I am damned sure I don't like it.

2010-07-29T15:26:00.000-06:00

The last time you left

it was forever - a week.

No one heard my snores.

Lenny Kravitz and me hanging out in 1992. And by "Lenny Kravitz" I totally mean "Merle Haggard."

2010-07-27T07:41:00.000-06:00

I'm pretty sure Lenny wanted to hang out with me that night in Branson, Missouri, but he was sort of busy being married to Denise Huxtable just then and she was all, shall we say, "possessive," so he sadly, very sadly, had to stay home and work on their marital dreadlocks or whatever.

Fortunately, Merle had the good sense to recognize the absolute artistry of a good spiral perm with mall bangs and the fashion know-how it requires to pull off a v-neck floral tee.

I think he looks super psyched.

And for a few brief moments, they forgot all about their mandatory summer reading list.

2010-07-21T08:10:00.000-06:00

The little dudes had friends over for the afternoon this week and it was too hot to go swimming. Not too hot to swim, to hot to GO swimming. Apparently, the heat radiating off the two tree-lined blocks between our house and the pool was just too much to endure.

So they plopped themselves down in front of MTV. Which I totally don't allow, because if MTV wasn't invented when I had long boring summers, then there's no way I'll let my children enjoy it. I also make them walk uphill to school. Both ways. In patent leather maryjanes.

So they asked to Slip-n-Slide. Which Big Dude promptly shut down. It smashes the grass, doncha know. (Big Dude hails from a long line of Nebraska fluffygrass farmers. We have very fluffygrass.)

So they did the obvious thing that any child would immediately think of. They coated the trampoline in dishsoap and put the sprinkler under it. Instant waterpark, baby.

However, they learned that the sprinkler dissipates the dishsoap too quickly. Not their words. I put those words in there so that it would seem like I somehow turned their fun into a science lesson. Which I totally did not. I wouldn't dare impart knowledge to them over the summer.

They solved their dilemma after much hypothesizing and experimentation. Okay, sorry. That's not true either. What happened was one flopping sopping giant middle schooler slipped (and slid!) through the house and retrieved the Mr. Bubble, while another disconnected the sprinkler, attached the sprayer, and bungee-corded the hose to the side of the trampoline.


It's like they're engineers. Water engineers. Forget it. I give up. They're just normal kids. Sigh.

Normal kids who dive like freakin' Superman!

Nicely taking turns. Because we raised 'em right. Although this particular child isn't mine. So really, HIS parents raised him right.


Sideways turns. Technically more difficult, but you'll get a higher score from the Czech judge.

It's important to make sweet surfing faces whilst doing this. Somewhere, someone is humming the theme to Hawaii 5-O right now. Oh, it's me. Whenever I hear the Theme to Hawaii 5-O, I always immediately think of Kojak. Because I wasn't allowed to watch either show. I was like 4 at the time. I then immediately think of Mannix, which I claimed to be my favorite show from age 3 to 9, even though every episode I'd ever watched was through the crack of my bedroom door. It came on at 9 o'clock, and that was bedtime in those parts.

Thumbs up for Mommy! (That's probably not what he was thinking at all. In reality he was thinking, "Mom, please do not put this on Facebook and tag me. I'm not wearing a shirt and all the little middle school girls will see it.") Don't worry, dude. It's not on Facebook. Not on Facebook at all.

Raised by children o' the 80s, my offspring are adept at the Robot and many other superfly dances.

Even in mid-air. I bet Bell Biv DeVoe is in his head right now. No, wait, that's me again.

Dude's got hops.

15 Style Points.

Ka-rah-tay.

They're completely itchy and I'm out of all liquid soap products, but there were no lawsuits, so I called it a good day. Hooray for summer.

A compact tale, 13 or so years in the making.

2010-07-08T18:09:00.001-06:00

On the solemn and momentous occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of my birth, my friend, herewithin these blogparts known as "Harvard Barbie," announced that we would celebrate by drinking wine and then visiting the Clinique counter for a makeover, because I was all grown up, apparently, and should stop wearing Bonne Bell. Which was not altogether accurate, because at the time, my beauty routine had graduated to the very sophisticated CoverGirl mascara and cherry chapstick, but whatevs.

So, I dropped off my newly-acquired husband with Harvard Barbie's sort of broken-in husband and their infant twins, a twelve pack of microbrew and off to the mall we went.

I may have mentioned my disdain for malls.

And shopping.

And all things girly.

And pretty much anything that has to do with malls or shopping or all things girly.

Proving how dearly I love Harvard Barbie.

Also, at the time, I had a little mantra going of "VPx33" or, VP by 33. I was on a fast track and was certain that if I did everything just so, right down to the eyeliner, I'd be a Vice President at the company I was working before turning 33 years old. I figured a night out with my oldest homegirl would be fun, and if I looked all professional and shit in the process, then BONUS, the only hazard would be I'd be VPx32. Which would suck because it doesn't rhyme but I was willing to take the risk.

In any case, HB and I had a fab evening at the mall, complete with appetizers and copious amounts of Merlot and then we made our way over to the white-coated ladies at May D&F for my official entre into grownupness.

I cannot be sure, but if I had to venture a guess the woman who denounced everything about my appearance was 22. She smelled like Marlboro Reds and TransAm seats. (But in a nice way.) She had acrylic fingernails and hoop earrings and was shocked - SHOCKED I tell you - that I didn't wear eye shadow.

It went something like this:

Clinique Girl: (in between chomps of Wrigley's Big Red) You have really great eyes. So, you like brown eye shadow, then?

Me: Ummm. Thanks, and I don't think so? I don't know. I mean, I don't wear eye shadow really much since like, um, prom.

Clinique Girl: Wow. Huh. That's like totally weird, because your eyelids are totally like sparkly and have like brown on them.

Me: Really? (Leaning into hand mirror) Oooooh. Yeah, that's smeared mascara. I was rubbing my eyes because my friend here and me just had like, beaucoup Merlot.

Clinique Girl: (empty stare)

Me: That's like francois for "buncha wine."

Clinique Girl: Ew. Whateverrrrr. (chews acrylic nail)

Me: So... would another color be better?

Harvard Barbie: What about this awesome lavender?

Me: Would it cover up smeared mascara?

Clinique Girl: Yeah, maybe.

Me: Sold.

Today, 13.4 years later, I was digging through my very grownup makeup bag looking for cherry chapstick and I find this.

No damned wonder I'm not a Vice President.

This might be why people in other countries think we're spoiled.

2010-07-05T12:15:00.000-06:00

Behold my younger son. You may remember him from an earlier post where we had to staple his head shut.

We call him Pete, which is totally not his name, but it really fits him, so we go with it. Sometimes you just name your kid the wrong thing, that's all. This picture was taken four years ago, when he was six and on a golf team with a bunch of bigger kids. I was dropping him off for a tee time and he noticed this sign.

My older son, being of extremely ethical character like his father, would've seen this sign and been worried that he shouldn't play. My younger son, being of my character, thought it was awesome that we were breakin' the rules, man, and thought we should document it with a photo. This will probably not serve him well in life - I'm trying to teach him that it's generally better to hide the evidence - but for minor infractions that don't include incarceration and/or fines, I like to play along.

Last week, he played the same course where the photo was taken, but this time instead of just nine holes like he's used to, he played all 18 for the first time ever. It's a long course, and he was out there in 90+ degrees for about five hours. Afterwards, we went to celebrate (because I always favor celebration over dinner making) at our local watering hole.

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation ensued.

Pete: I am STARVING.

Waiter Guy: You're not starving, Pete, you're hungry. Kids in Africa are starving.

Pete: Yeah? Well, did any kids in Africa play 18 holes of golf today? Well? Huh? That's right. I thought not.

At least he's not shy.

Two stories that seem completely unrelated until you realize they both are good examples of my social ineptitude.

2010-06-18T07:19:00.000-06:00

Last week I attended my 25th HS Class Reunion, which sounds so official that I capitalized it, but really, it was 6 people at the tavern around the corner from my house. (My high school? Not so big.) Also - because the other 30 people in my class were busy last weekend, we're having another reunion in August. Huge schools with hundreds of kids only need one, but we're special. Not special like short bus special, just special like, oh forget it.

Anyway, while I was there I was talking to someone that the last time I talked to her I was wearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch. She's got 4 kids, the oldest of which is 14. And female. And she home schools them, so they're always at home. When she told me this, I laughed and said, "Wow - that must be fun - having a teenaged girl in the house all the time...I'm so glad I have boys." (This is called SMALL TALK. People do it when they have nothing real in common other than where they went to high school.) She looked at me as if I WAS STILLwearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch and said, "Well, I LOVE my daughters."

And that is when I went to talk to someone else.

Two days later, a friend, we'll call her Professor Barbie, because, well...she's a professor, called and told me about an unfortunate experience she'd just had with her daughter. Seems a bunch of moms and a bunch of 7 year old girls were all at a house having their Mother-Daughter Book Club, and afterwards, the homeowner's sweet labradoodle bolted out and decided that under a moving car would be a fun place to play. Sadly, very sadly, the Mother-Daughter in the moving car didn't realize the doggy did that, and the labradoodle - named Charlotte - was killed. In front of the entire Mother-Daughter Book Club.

And again, I said, "Wow - I am so glad I have sons."

Only this time I said it very very quietly, and only in my head. Because regardless of what you've heard, I do actually learn.

What I said out loud was, "And that, right there, is why I will never join a book group."

PS - RIP Charlotte. She really was a lovely creature, even if she did have poor depth perception.

In which I determine he is normal afterall.

2010-06-16T08:50:00.001-06:00

The giant middle schooler is in the throes of his summer schedule, which is, while relaxing and fun, waaay harder than his school schedule.

By way of illustration:

School Schedule
6:45   Wake up. Take long shower. Eat big breakfast.
7:45   Go to school. Schlump through hallways. Eat lunch. Slouch in polystyrene molded chairs.
2:45   Come home. Eat.
4:00   Some type of sports practice.
6:00   Eat.
9:00   Sleep. Dream. About eating.

Summer Schedule
6:30 Wake up. Throw on swimsuit, still damp from yesterday.
7:00 Two hour swim team practice
9:00 Assist tennis coach teaching 5-6 year olds for two hours
11:00 Finally eat.
12:00 Golf Practice or Golf Tournament.
3:00 Mow lawns.
5:00 Baseball.
7:00 Eat.
10:00 Watch "Whose Line is it Anyway" until your parents make you go to bed.

Because he has suddenly realized that both a) mirrors and b) girls exist, he has also added to his summer schedule Working Out. Which means, if he has a few seconds before, between or after any given activity, he is doing pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope, Wii Fit, or running.

Last night, after two episodes of "Whose Line is it Anyway" we finally made him go to bed at 11, because we were too tired to watch anymore. On the way up the stairs, he did calf raises, and I had to yell at him to stop jumping rope before bed. I believe my exact words were, "Dude. At bedtime, we try to relax, and sloooow our heartrates, so get your ass in bed before Mommy breaks your legs I love you goodnight."

As I fell gratefully into bed, I pondered the energy of youth. Was I EVER this active? (The answer is a resounding NO.) I mean, really. This kid is frickin' super-human to do this much stuff on very little sleep. Maybe he's got a ginormous heart like Lance Armstrong. Maybe he's a future Olympian. Tomorrow, I shall have his VO2 Max tested, and I will plan his future! I should check in to Wheaties endorsements now so that I'm ready.

And then, this morning, while I was finding him a dry towel and he readied himself for swim team, this happened.   (Please pardon the photo quality - Big Dude took it with an iPhone and the sunrise is a little blinding.)

On the left, Giant middle schooler. Completely passed out after having been awake for like, 6 minutes. Exactly like he used to pass out in his highchair, sitting up and mid-bite. On the right, loyal bulldog, apparently so tired from his excruciating bulldog summer regimen that he fell asleep sitting up as well.

Looks like everyone's normal afterall. Although I am going to look into a Wheaties endorsement for the bulldog. Dude's got hops.

Brad Pitt is probably too exhausted to shave.

2010-06-07T17:42:00.001-06:00

First of all - 50 followers with nary a giveaway! Thanks, you guys! I am truly humbled that fives of you exist willing to tolerate me. I've been a little swoony over it, feeling sorta popular and everything. Apparently, word has gotten out that I'm all cool now, because suddenly this is in my inbox:

Mmhm, That's right. Angelina wants ME to join Facebook AND be her friend. Well, I'm sorry, Little Miss Thang, but homewreckers piss me off. You're just going to have to depend on your gaggle of children and Jennifer Aniston's husband* to keep you company. Maybe Octomom would like to be your friend. *Yeah, I know. It was years ago and Jennifer's over it. I'm not.

So I delete her invitation, move on happily with my life, work a little, eat a little cereal, throw in a load of laundry and come back to the inbox to find this:

Really? Aren't the Beatles kind of broken up right now? Oh, and also? GEEZ. Angelina, leave me alone, dude. There's something to be said for being persistent, but seriously. It's sort of overkill. Okay, I get it. You like me. Understandable. I make a mean lasagna, my beer fridge is always full, I know a sh'load of Helen Keller jokes. Basically, I'm fun at parties. True dat. But I do not want to be your friend, Ange.

Is it that you think I'd be a good babysitter? I do live close to some good restaurants you and Brad might want to drop in on. Oh...so that's it. You've heard my husband shaves his head, so you're thinking we've got a razor sturdy enough for whatever the hell it is growing on Brad's face. Well, sorry. I'd prefer to not subject any of our appliances to your husband's dreadlocked beard-thingy. Even the dogs' Furminator is off-limits, sister. And don't even think about dulling the weed-wacker, I need it for the yard.

I bet Brad didn't even like you in the first place, but you just kept emailing him until he gave in. Well it won't work with me, Ms. Needy Needington. I've got standards. And 50 other friends. So there.

And she didn't even charge me a co-pay.

2010-05-24T11:22:00.000-06:00

Real live conversation I just had with neighbor Spanxy.

Spanxy: Do you feel better yet?

Me: Nope. But I slammed some theraflu and whiskey last night and antibiotics today. It's mostly just in my throat.

Spanxy: Oh my gosh, do you still have your tonsils?

Me: Yes.

Spanxy: THAT'S IT! They're a breeding ground for germs. You gotta get rid of them.

Me: My dad had his removed, and they grew back.

Spanxy: Yeah, so did Mr. Spanxy. But no one noticed because he's a middle child.

Me: I'm a middle child. Maybe that's why I have tonsils.

Spanxy: Well. You can't get them out now. You'll die.

Me: I'll die?

Spanxy: Yeah. Only kids can handle it.

Me: So, don't get them out?

Spanxy: Nope. You're too old. But hurry and get better, we've got a holiday weekend coming up.

Me. Right. Okay. I will.

Flashback Friday. Marriage is a solemn occasion that must be taken seriously.

2010-05-21T09:29:00.001-06:00

Unless you're 22 years old. And it's Valentine's Day. And you're in a small town in Northeastern Colorado. And you're a bridesmaid in a shiny pink satin dress, white nylons and pink frickin shoes that cost $20 for the shoes and $20 to dye them craptastic pink. Also some strange white piece of shit in your hair, and mandatory-nail-polish-assigned-by-the-bride.

In that case, right before the solemn ceremony, you should high-tail it to the one liquor store in town, get a quart of beer and ask an old cowboy guy to take your picture. Then, jump in your Toyota Tercel, drink the quart of beer without dripping too much of it on your dress and get your asses over to the church.

Where the bride is also burping beer. At 10 AM. But that might possibly be leftover burps from the night before. I'm not sure.

Hard to imagine, but the marriage didn't last five years. Go figure.

My pal Connie and me in all our pinkness. She's the one with Miller Lite. And dimples.

Postscript - I was also invited, that same Valentine's Day, to another wedding that I couldn't make due to my obligation to wear a shiny pink dress elsewhere. That sacred union lasted less than two years. Note to the Internet: Please don't get married on Valentine's Day. When you're 22. The end.

No one ever considers the orphans.

2010-05-20T12:09:00.000-06:00

I was watching American Idol with the giant middle schooler last night, and a contestant was asked, "How does it make you feel to see your parents supporting you like that?" Which made me think, "Hey - maybe I should get a job writing questions with really obvious answers for Ryan Seacrest, because that's just moronic." Why not ask, "So - how'd you feel when you had that safe dropped on your foot?" Or, "What were you thinking when your oxygen tank ran out of air while you were 500 feet below the surface?"

Anyway, as I'm writing my cover letter to Randy Jackson in my head (because really, Simon just has short-timers disease and probably isn't even opening his mail anymore) the contestant answered the question.

"It's amazing. To know that my parents support me in my dream is just the best feeling in the world."

To which the giant middle schooler said, "Nice job, dude. You just made a thousand little orphans really, really sad."

And that's when I knew, even though I could really contribute to the teleprompted genius of Ryan Seacrest, my work here is more important.

Cross walks. Cross dressers. Hot cross buns. It's been a busy day.

2010-05-18T14:56:00.000-06:00

I live in a very, very doggy neighborhood. Just about everyone has at least one dog, several neighbors on my block have three or more dogs. Because we all have older homes on small lots, dogs are spoiledy-rotten house dwellers who get to go on walks a lot. The few times Big Dude's labradorks have gotten out of the yard, they are not only scooped up and rescued within half a block, they're often taken back to someone's house and fed a nice warm meal before we are contacted. A couple of years ago, the big black labradork was missing for more than 24 hours without his tags on. While we were visiting every pound and dog morgue in the city, he was languishing on a floral sofa, being catered to by a pack of Girl Scouts who had found him, bathed him, fed him pizza, taken him to the vet for a check-up and were working on rewriting their parents' wills so that he might inherit a goodly chunk for his future care.

At any given time, I can look out at the parkway steps from my house and see doggies on leashes, doggies tied to strollers, doggies riding in strollers, doggies trotting next to runners, etc. And, generally, without fail, these dogs all have the same trick that owners proudly demonstrate.

It's the You-Sit-On-The-Curb-While-I-Step-Off-It trick. I agree that the intent is a good one. It allows the owner to check for oncoming traffic, and teaches Fluffy or Fido to not run in front of a car. However, my observation is that most people only make their dog do this if there's already a car at the stop sign. Which means, they're basically just showing off. "See here, car? What my St. Labradoodleshire knows? How to sit! Please wait while I reinforce his training on your clock."

And I patiently wait and nod with a knowing, "Wow, that's a super dog you have there, and what an original trick!" smile on my face.

This morning, though I saw the ultimate.

I was dropping the giant middle schooler off at his giant middle school. He hopped out of the car just as the light turned green, and I needed to turn right. But I couldn't turn right because Dudely Dogwalker wanted to cross the street and Denver says pedestrians in crosswalks have the right-of-way. FINE. Please let me now paint you a picture of Dudely Dogwalker. Imagine if you will:

1. Dorothy Hamil haircut
2. Liza Minelli sunglasses. Large. Like 5" circles per lens.
3. White mesh tank top. Tight.
4. Levi's cutoffs, with an approximately 3/4" inseam. Again, tight. As in, I know for a fact he was circumsized tight.
5. Striped knee socks. Red and yellow striped.
6. Those Skecher shoes that are supposed to work your ass out.
7. Mesh backpack.
8. At least 6'8" tall, approximately 167 pounds.

Can you see this fella in your mind? Got it? Add a bitchy smirk. And a sweet little yellow lab who was in desperate need of a sandwich. The image should now be complete.

So Mr. Dudely "My friends call me Cameltoe" Dogwalker pulls the ultimate trick by parking the dog on one sidewalk and then sashaying across the street. Alone. At a snail's pace. With his carefully powdered nose in the air, completely ignoring the dog, the fifteen cars waiting to turn, and his gender. He then makes it to the other side of the street and, still not ever looking at the dog OR traffic, looks up to the sky and slaps himself on the denimed ass. This was apparently the leashless, collarless dog's clue to run to him.

The only reason his dog is alive is because I didn't feel like having to furminate my front bumper. The only reason I didn't get out to kick his ass is because I had fourteen cars behind me. And pajama pants on.

But tomorrow I'm totally getting dressed and bringing an extra leash. Being weird-looking to get attention is one thing, endangering your doggy so that you can feel special is just plain wrong.

2010 - 1960 = FIDDY GOLDEN YEARS.

2010-05-14T09:00:00.002-06:00

(Spoiler Alert: If you're my Mom, don't read this until after the FedEx man comes.)

Today is the 50th Wedding Anniversary of my parents. Happy Anniversary Mommy and Daddy!

It doesn't seem entirely possible, for a number of reasons - probably first on the list is that they just don't seem that old. If you ask me, they're in their late 50s or early 60s...then I do the math and guess that must not be right. Secondly, people just don't stay married that long anymore - you don't hear about "Golden Anniversaries" that much. And we marry later...my parents were barely out of their teens when they tied the knot. But, I suppose they've been married as long as I've known them and that's ~~forty-three~~ twenty-eight years, so it must be true.

Last year, I wrote an abbreviated history of their marriage. This year, I commissioned a poster. Totally what everyone does right? Okay, so it's not typical. But I really love it and I hope they do, too.

My friend, the extremely talented Jonathan Scheele, is a master of travel posters and poster art. Since he is far and away the best illustrator I've ever met next to my Dad, I asked him to create a retro-looking poster honoring my parents. Now, I suppose that really it should be only about them, being all romantical or something - but some of the best memories of my childhood are my parents showing us the world around us on the open road. We got dirty and saw the natural wonders of our country, close to home and far away. And I love them for that. We ate berries that were probably poisonous. We took ungodly long hikes. We drank mineral water as it bubbled from rocks. We read every. single. roadside. marker. My sisters and I are masters of peeing outside. We spent hours whittling sticks with little souvenir shop pocket knives and roasted countless marshmallows. We were a family. And that is the greatest testament to them, and their marriage I think.

So - here's the poster that will be showing up on their doorstep via FedEx today. ( Mom. I said not to read it yet. Go unload the dishwasher or something.)

Jonathan did a beautiful job of representing our 1968 Plymouth Satellite and adorable Cardinal Camper that took us on our adventures.

I'm the one with ponytails.

Happy Anniversary, Parents. You're an awesome example and funny, good people who I'm proud to be related to. Sorry I can't be there to help you celebrate. Now go eat some cake or something.

Love, Penne.

PS - the frame will be there next week.

Following in my footsteps. Sort of.

2010-05-13T09:41:00.001-06:00

Because Bill Gates had not invented MS Word yet, penmanship was very important in my childhood. We spent hours practicing and perfecting letters, and just when we got them all down and legible, they threw cursive at us. My parents and grandparents were even more old-school and demanding than my teachers, so I was treated to extra practice at home by way of Palmer Penmanship workbooks. I remember a particularly annoying one with a rabbit on it, and I hate bunnies still to this very day.

Even after my teachers had marked up my work, it was then under scrutiny at home. My dad would point out if my letters leaned backwards, my mom would show me how all the lower case letters should be the same height. I eventually figured out it was a giant game of Copy the Shapes While Paying Perfect Attention to the Spaces Between Them and suddenly, all was good. I could write exactly like the loopy letters in the Palmer book, or exactly like George Washington, or exactly like my 4th grade teacher, or exactly like my grandmother, if she was the one who'd be looking.

I could write exactly like freakin' anybody. I realized it Friday, October 17, 1980. Our class was headed on a field trip. Everyone except my friend Connie; she'd left her permission slip at home. The wheels in my prepubescent mind started turning. I thought back to a store counter where I'd seen Connie's mom write a check. I'd noticed the simple way she wrote her middle initial, but that it was larger than her first and last names, it struck me how unflourished her writing was. Thus, my first forgery.

I generally didn't use my skills for evil - an excused absence here, a permission slip there...and my favorite...an afternoon in April when I was called to my high school office to find my mom with her tax returns. "Sign Daddy's name, and get back to class," she said under her breath.

So when I found this in the 12 year old's pocket, I just had to smile a proud smile.

"please alow (kid) on the Bus with luke. I am unable to pick him up this thurs. Thank you."

And then point out to him just how shitty his efforts were. First of all, date the thing. And seriously, you can't spell "allow?" You capitalize "Bus" but not "Luke" or "Thursday?" And what the hell kind of lame excuse for a signature is that? What does it even say?

I obviously have a lot of work to do with this kid. I'm getting him that stupid bunny book this weekend. And a nice box of Crane note cards for his backpack. Nobody forges my name on notebook paper, man.

Bookish.

2010-05-05T13:10:00.000-06:00

I am pretty sure I have figured out what is wrong with kids these days. Because, oh yes, there is something wrong.

It's all the damned fantasy books. Harry Potter and Eragon. Lightening Thieves and bands of roving cats fighting bears and those damned annoying vampires who won't go away regardless of how much garlic I sprinkle around the perimeter of my neighborhood.

When I was a short person with a valid library card, (because Amazon hadn't been invented and Kindle meant...well, something other than what it means now...) there were three fantasy books in the whole world and they were called the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. We all read The Hobbit, who was really cute and lived in a mushroom or something and then we tried to read the other ones, but they were sort of boring and weird, and more importantly - really heavy, as in they weighed more than a Judy Blume book, so we took them back.

My generation's genre of choosing was the far more routed in reality: mystery. Nancy Drew. Hardy Boys. Harriet the Spy. Encyclopedia Brown. Miss Marple. Ellery Queen. Because the stuff in those books could really happen, we grew up inquisitive, looking for clues, curious, resourceful... Modern kids just sit back waiting for their sparkly boyfriend to beat up werewolves for them, we knew that if we wanted to find the bad guy, we'd better jump in our Camaro and find him ourselves.

TV shows were mostly about detectives too, Rockford and Magnum PI and aforementioned Hardy Boys... and it all just seemed so freaking AWESOME that I was pretty sure I was going to grow up to be a detective. Which may be the reason I spend an inordinate amount of time googling people now. It's not stalking - I'm INVESTIGATING. Just because I happen to know the whereabouts, occupation and home value of every person my friends and I have ever dated or worked with does not mean I have too much time on my hands - it probably means I'm well informed.

A totally unrelated side note and piece of advice to you young kids out there - to make things easier on yourself, only date people with uncommon surnames. Wendall K. Jabloney is way easier to find than Mike Smith. Just sayin.

I guess as teenagers, we moved away from the detective mystery stuff - Jackie Collins and VC Andrews were so much more tantalizing. But at least they weren't fantasy. Because it's totally possible for your rich grandmother to lock you in the attic causing you to fall in love with your biological brother while she slowly poisons you with powdered donuts. It is. Look it up.

I'm pretty sure nobody has ever gotten seriously injured sitting on the couch and watching TV. At least I haven't.

2010-04-19T15:57:00.000-06:00

Hey remember how I was just at the emergency room like LAST WEEK because in the course of my 10 year old having "fun" he actually had his head split open and required four staples in his skin to hold it all back together? Remember that?

Well, would it be irony or coincidence or kismet or karma or sibling rivalry or what exactly if the very damned day I got the bill from the hospital for said incident I also got a call from my 12 year old son that HE needed to go to the emergency room?

It would be coincidence, I think. Irony is really over-used, and often, incorrectly.

But really, that's not quite how it happened, it happened more like I was reading the bill from the emergency room and focusing on the part where it said, "NOT COVERED" when my phone rang and it was the giant middle schooler, who I knew was at his giant middle school baseball practice, which is only a few blocks from my house. I assumed he would be asking for a ride home those few measly blocks, so I steeled myself and answered as unlovingly as possible, "Yeah, what?"

"Can you come get me?" Sniffle. Pitiful Sniffle.

"Why?"

"I'd like a ride."

"Are ya dyin' or something?"

"Nope. Just bleeding. I think maybe I broke my nose."

"Really. And why would you think that?"

"Uh, a baseball hit it and it made a loud cracking noise."

So, that is when I got a lot nicer and sent his father to go pick him up. They came back home and I kid you not even a little bit that the child's nose was on the SIDE of his face instead of nicely mounted in the center where I made it. I am rather big on symmetry, so I suggested we visit the ER since we've got frequent flyer miles there and our own parking space and everything, and I kid you not AGAIN when the giant middle schooler, who plays tackle football and creams people twice his size AND just took a baseball to the face suddenly looked panicked and squealed, "Will I have to get a...shot?"

And that is when I used foul language right at my beloved first born who stood before me covered in his own blood.

"Aw, for f*%k's sake, Calvin. Get your ass in the truck."

He did.

And we went, once again to the ER where they were just getting done cleaning up the blood from my other child, and once again our very swell doctor friend came and comforted us.

And then she made a call to one of the best plastic surgeons in the city to make my baby pretty again.

And then she made a sign that she layed on his belly as he was wheeled to have his nose straightened back to its rightful place in the center of his facialary region.

Not only a damned fine doctor, she's also

some sorta comedienne, apparently.

Don't know about the rest of ya's, but I'd be okay if we just stayed home and watched TV for awhile.

Wherein spring break is more of a spring stress fracture, contusions and possible concussion.

2010-04-09T15:10:00.000-06:00

Last week was spring break for the Little Dudes, which meant Working From Home And Pulling My Hair Out And Shushing People Because Mommy IS.ON.THE. PHOOONE. I managed to arrange ~~free babysitting~~ playdates for much of the time fortunately. Or unfortunately, as it would turn out.

A sidenote - I hate the term "playdate." Since when is kids playing together a noun? When I was little, we'd say, "Can I go over to Pam's?" or "Can Pam come over?" For a time, I forbid my children to use the word "playdate" so they started saying "PD." Which is even dorkier.

Anyway - My younger son, whom I rarely talk about here - not on purpose, it just sort of seems that way, don't judge me, was over at his buddy Evan's house. They were being supervised by Evan's dad, Mike, who is a morning DJ in Denver. Usually, I don't stick dads with playdates because a) they're not really watching the children and b) please see a). However, Evan's mom and I had been putting off a beerdate (because if there are playdates, why should there not be beerdates) for weeks, so we decided this was some kind of spectacular timing and the universe was practically forcing us to have her husband watch all the short people so that we could enjoy some barley pops on the patio. Also, Evan's dad has actually praised the merits and character of my boy on regional airwaves, leading me to believe that he has some sort of fondness for him that might keep my child out of harm.

Who here knows what foreshadowing means? Cause I just dropped you a big ol' nugget of it in that last paragraph.

Anne and I had our feet kicked up and the beers flowing, happily talking about what superior parents we are to everyone else we've ever met, because seriously? Just look at our children, oh my gosh they're perfect, when Mike calls and says he's taking his three kids and Miles out to dinner.

We glowed. We were not only superior parents, but we'd married well. Life was good. Let's drink to that.

In the interest of time, I'll fast forward to Mike calling that my sweet baby's head was split open and he may or may not require emergency medical care, so could we please hustle on over because the blood, oh my god. The. Blood.

Way to be a buzzkill, Mike.

I suggest you go now to his blog for the rest of the bloody tale.

You should know it ended with stapling. And ice cream. And a sleepover that I'd prefer to call "a friend spending the night." But whatever.

Happy spring break. Literally.
(Get it? Because, like, a spring broke. On his head. You gotta go read Mike's version.)

How I know that I'm officially a grown up now. Either that or I maybe need to buy a ThighMaster.

2010-03-29T11:54:00.002-06:00

The schwipzipzip of my corduroy pants is more irritating than interesting.

Planning for the future.

2010-03-26T11:28:00.002-06:00

Forgive me blogosphere, it's been a week since my last post. But it's not like I've just been sitting around doing nothing. Except for that one day, but that's only because I consumed both fish and beer in one evening, and I've figured out that's a really bad idea. At least for me. Also, I was up and at 'em by like 2:30 and totally did 87 loads of laundry, so shut up.

All the other days, I was busy writing my posthumous Facebook updates.

Lisa, over at Smacksy, wrote this tender little post about her friend of hers on Facebook who died - and it got me thinking. First of all, about a friend of mine that passed away last fall whose profile pops up every now and then in my sidebar and secondly... What would my 173 closest friends ever DO without my witty Facebook banter? Without weekly bulldog updates? Without knowing what I'm wearing, what team I'm rooting for, what 80s rockstar I'm most like?

So, although my will is incomplete and who knows who will be guardians of our children should I suffer an untimely end, I have completed five years of weekly Facebook posts to be published after my death. I'm hoping they'll either cheer everyone up or freak them the hell out.

A few examples:

I can totally see you right now.

I know what you did last night, but more importantly, I know what your spouse did.

Stop picking your nose while you're on the computer.

I wouldn't describe it as "hot" here. It's more like "uncomfortably warm."

Please stop playing Farmtown. Take it from me, you don't live forever! Ha ha!

I'm totally skinnier than you now, bitches!

Uh, guys? Sorry to ruin everything for you, but that whole "rainbow bridge" thing? Not true.

I met your grandpa and he's utterly disappointed in you. Also, he still smells funny.

I've put them on a disk with my login info and stuck it in my closet with all the shoes, because I know that where my sisters will head first upon my demise. I'm always thinking.

Does this Kindle make me look fat?

2010-03-19T12:39:00.002-06:00

I rarely read the newspaper at all anymore. Mostly because piles of newspapers are annoying but also because:

1. They're all grocery store ads. I do not require advertisements to remind me to buy food. I also do not comparison shop for food. I go to the store, buy the stuff we eat and I leave. Because I flunked home ec probably. Also I hate the grocery store. I could link back to all the times I've mentioned that, but it would be very time consuming. Just believe me.

2. They're ridiculously biased and anyone who says they're not isn't reading the whole thing. I took journalism classes. It was, for at least three semesters, my major. And one thing I sort of remember from the whole experience, besides one really cool party called "the Dacquiri Factory" which, truth be told, I don't really remember AT ALL, is that you're supposed to be impartial. Go ahead and try and find an impartial newspaper article, you can't do it. Okay, maybe you can, but that would only be because you found an article about impending doom and despair due to weather.

3.They're full of excellent advice for criminals. If you're a bad guy, and a dumb one, you need only read the paper for all kinds of cool ideas on excellent crimes. In the last six months, I've seen how to disassemble sprinkler systems, catalytic converters and frickin' doorknobs to get to high-priced scrap metals. I've seen diagrams for pipe bombs, and learned how to best sneak contraband onto airplanes. I don't know why they don't just put a map of my block and show where all the keys are hidden and the guard dogs who are sleepy or deaf.

4. Calvin and Hobbes. Gone. Enough said.

With that background in mind - I accepted a temporary subscription to the Denver Post on my Kindle, because it at least cancels out that "they pile up" excuse for not being aware of current events. Have I mentioned yet my love of the Kindle? Oh sweet mother, it's the only device I value more than my Dyson. BOOKS! Delivered through thin air! Portable enough to take entire libraries to youth football practices. I received it as a gift from my sons and husband, who presented me also that day with a handgun...which caused me to realize that a) wow - they sure do trust me and have somehow gotten the idea that I am mentally stable, and b) they have no idea how much I don't like to be interrupted while reading.

So - I'm reading the Denver Post yesterday, on the Kindle, which basically means reading a headline and pressing "next page" because I'm annoyed or already know how to make that particular sort of bomb, when I find an article about clothes that make you look fat.

I perused it, thinking, "Umm. Tight ones? Horizontal stripey ones?" But I'm pretty sure the author just made a list of all the stuff she hates, since at least 6 of the 20 things were particular types of shoes. SHOES. That make you look fat.

I'm no fashion journalist, but if your shoes make you look fat, dude..you're frickin' fat. The list was so random I think she just listed all the things her ex-husband's new girlfriend wears. It included two types of sandals, ballet flats, birkenstocks, t-shirts, rolled up jeans and cargo pants. Also shorts - all kinds of shorts. Apparently, just stay away from t-shirts, shorts and birkenstocks and you'll instantly be thinner.

Unfortunately, that's my entire wardrobe. Guess I'll just have to hide behind a newspaper from here on out.

Yo, Dian Fossey. You dropped something.

2010-03-15T14:58:00.000-06:00

I'm assuming it's because I was raised by a practical farmgirl and an automobile enthusiast, but the first thought I have when someone tells me they've been in a car accident is not, "Are you okay?" but "Holy crap, how's the car?" It could also be because I'm a heartless asshole.

In my defense, if they were really hurt or dead, they totally wouldn't be calling me, because that's the candystriper's job but whatever.

In either case - I noticed this at some point in young adulthood, right around about the same time I noticed I was the only one I knew that said "supper, couch and billfold" instead of "dinner, sofa and wallet" and I've taken great care to always ask people first, "Oh, are YOU okay?" before ever checking on the condition of their vehicle. It has served me well, and currently, several people I know actually think I am kind and considerate.

So, when Big Dude called me last week to tell me he'd nearly gotten in a big gigantic accident, I tempered my curiosity and said, "Whoa? You okay?" Which I knew he was because: please reference the first paragraph, dead people don't use cellphones. As I suspected, both he and the car were fine, because of his bitchin' defensive driving skills that he learned at motorcycle racing school kicked in and he avoided injuring both his truck and his cute bald head by swerving around a huge 10'x10' dog kennel that had fallen off someone's truck. Without them noticing. I know, happens all the time, right?

After I showed appropriate wifely concern, and determined that he was not in fact calling from his grave, I asked if there were by any chance DOGS in the dog kennel in the road? Because, dude, that would be weird, right? And kind of mean to dogs.

But there weren't. And I'm pretty sure Big Dude thought that was a ridiculous question, but I thought it was a vital factoid to have and also it would've been super fun to call the news channels and tell them about it. But there weren't. Bo-ring.

Later that night, I overheard him talking to the gigantic middle-schooler about it.

Big Dude: So. I had a harrowing experience today.

Kid (without looking up from tv, cellphone and a science book all at once): You did? Wait. A what?

BD: A harrowing experience.

Kid (looking up, worried voice): Dad? Heroin? You had a heroin experience...? Wha?

BD: Har-row-wing. A HAIR. OH. ING. Experience. Harrowing.

Kid (eyes back on the tv and stuffing a pound and a half of bologna smeared with mustard down his piehole): Oh. What is that?

BD: You know, like a stressful experience.

Kid (texting twenty 7th graders an important message regarding meeting their true love tomorrow if only they forward this message to twenty other 7th graders): OH! Harrowing. Yeah? Really. What was it?

BD: Well, I was driving down the highway and there was a huge cage in the middle of traffic, just sitting there and...

Kid: (dropping cellphone and coughing up a box of Girl Scout Thinmints): Holy Crap! Was there an ape in there?

BD (wishing we didn't have the Cartoon Network and that he'd married someone nicer to pass genes along to his offspring): No. No, there was NOT an ape in there.

Kid: Then why was the cage there?

BD: It just fell there. In the road. Someone left it.

Kid: Without the ape?

BD: Don't you have homework or something?

Valuable lessons gleaned from my actual true life experiences this week that I am generously sharing with you, dear reader.

2010-03-09T08:32:00.000-07:00

1. Do not use the expression "you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a coffee shop in my neighborhood - Hohoho!" if someone wants to meet you for coffee to talk about how sad they are about putting their beloved 18-year-old cat to sleep.

2. Do not lazily take off your underwear and jeans at exactly the same time, leaving your raspberry pink Hanky Pankies in the leg of said jeans if you have borrowed your 12 year old son's jeans that day. There is an ever so slight chance they might stay there throughout the entire falling two stories in a laundry chute, going through the washing machine, tumbling in the dryer, getting folded and going back to son's closet process.

3. Do not allow your bulldog to leave his superfun rubber ringy toy thingies in the front yard because at 3 o'clock in the morning you will hear a 110 pound labradork on your sofa barking the OMG-Burglar! bark alerting everyone in the house to eminent danger. After loading your 9mm handgun and carefully reviewing the Colorado "Make My Day" statute online, you will see that it is not a meth-crazed maniac causing the dog to bark, but rather, two foxes frolicking on your front lawn. With bulldog toys. Because you live in a goddam Disney movie. Apparently.

4. When your employer says, "Do you have time to get to this project in the next couple of days?" do not guffaw and reply, "You bet. Unless I win the freakin' lotto between now and then. HAHA!" It could cause them to question your dedication and they won't think it's funny even a little bit.

Anybody tired of looking at my kickass new car yet? If not, I'm happy to post additional views. Or talk about it some.

2010-03-02T14:22:00.000-07:00

Even though we have a two-plus car garage, only one person gets to park in it because there are no less than four motorcycles, six bicycles, two Vespas and a lawn mower occupying it as well.

Until I got a new car, the lucky indoor parker person has been the Charming Czech, Big Dude.

Big Dude offices from our house, so his truck doesn't leave much, whereas I am a career gal outside of the home and principle go-getter of groceries and offspring, which means for the last half a decade, my vehicle has been parked on the street in front of our house. Susceptible to hailstorms, squirrel attacks and pigeon droppings. This has garnered me all kinds of sympathy and martyr points, at least in my own mind. As I stood scraping the windshield of ice in sub-zero temperatures, I imagined the neighbors all peeking around their curtains, steaming coffee in hand, saying, "My, what hearty stock that woman is! And her husband, the scoundrel! Do you know he parks IN THE GARAGE and he doesn't even GO TO WORK? That poor, poor woman. Have you seen her lug the groceries up the steps? My, but I admire her fortitude."

It's exactly the same reason I like to mow the lawn at least once a year. But only when all the other women are getting pedicures and drinking mimosas. Good for my image.

Now that I have the newest car, Big Dude has given up his garage stall and insisted I move indoors. I'm not particularly sure I like it - not only is it all weird and fluorescenty in there, I've totally lost all my street cred.

I'm certain that the neighbors are all peeking over their newspapers, swirling gin and tonics and saying, "You know, he bought her a brand new car. In THIS economy! And how did she thank him? By making him park on the street! He's such a good, good man. I really pity the dear soul...he's stuck with that ungrateful wench and she's driving around on entitled heated seats like she's some kind of royalty. The bitch probably doesn't even know how to use an ice scraper."

Which is why I'm going to have to mow the lawn at least twice this summer. And I'm thinking of sending Big Dude for a pedicure.

Get outta my dreams. Get into my car.

2010-02-23T14:00:00.001-07:00

Okay, I wasn't going to tell you guys this because I didn't want you to be all, "Hey - take me for a ride on your buttery soft heated seats, baby," but then Kimmie Haha showed her new badass Land Rover on her blog and since I ~~am fiercely competitive~~ cannot compete with her artistic endeavors which include painting bulldogs AND belonging to art guilds for Pete's sake, I decided to post a gratuitous photograph of my own bitchin' new hooptie, which was likely the only Toyota sold in the United States in the month of February. You're very welcome, Toyota employees.

Lean, mean, grocery-gettin' machine.

(With friend Jane in passenger seat.)

(We were not really parked on Make-out Hill,

it just looks that way. Clean it up, people.)

You may recall that my previous vehicle was consumed, in its entirety* by squirrels. Therefore, upon parking the new ride, I took out a full page ad in the Nutty Bucktooth Gazette to let them know that my children have firearms and are not only trained to use them, but are compensated richly for bringing they Mama squirrel carcass.

And so far? All's good. Except for the one wiseass squirrel that apparently stole a rhubarb pie while it cooled in Aunt Bea's window and then hung in the tree above said new car with a Sports Illustrated for a couple of hours.

I can't have anything nice.

*That thing about them eating my old car in it's entirety? Not completely true. The bastards only ate the electrical system. Because they're from the devil. And also I am prone to exaggeration.

J. Crew's email copywriter is evil and must be stopped. Still.

2010-02-22T14:34:00.000-07:00

Never content to just let me be (see here) the J. Crew email copywriter has just blasted me and the eleventybillion other people in their database to let us all know that this is "the statement piece OF. THE. SEASON." (Mid-winter? Early Spring? Hockey?)

Apparently, the "statement" is that you've

been playing in your grandmother's costume

jewelry and somehow managed to tangle it all up.

In all fairness, I am not known for my fashion sense and my fine jewelry collection consists of a wedding ring, a Ducks Unlimited watch and a pair of diamond stud earrings I've had in since 1999. Maybe I'm not the right person to consult since my version of accessorizing is wearing chapstick with sparkles instead of the black label kind.

But I'm just thinking the above gnarled macramed twist of materials is not really worth $150. How much of a statement is it, really, if we're all wearing it? Eventually, it won't be "Have you met my interesting friend Anastasia-Marie? You know, the one with the clever statement necklace?" But rather, "Oh, her. That's just Joan, that sad woman with the rhinestone-starburst-ribbon-bead-gold chain like everyone else."

My father used to call Ford Mustangs "belly button cars" because "everyone has one." We can only hope this doesn't become the belly button necklace of 2010. But if it does, I've got a shoebox of "vintage" beads and chains that I'm happy to stir up and sell you for $150.

Flashback Friday. If they'd had Facebook in 1922, this would totally be my Great Grandmother's profile picture.

2010-02-19T13:42:00.004-07:00

I had the very awesome fortune to have the coolest great grandmother that ever walked the planet. I could go on for days and days with stories about her overall wonderfulness.

Like how she lived for 99-1/2 years flirting innocently with any male I'd seen her around for 90 of them, including my dad and husband. How she memorized sports statistics and the children's names of celebrities and newscasters. How she was a baseball fan and if she wasn't at a Denver Bears game, she was listening to it on the radio, how she played dominoes and Yahtzee to "keep her mind sharp" and it worked because she lived on her own in her own house until a few months before she died. How she was the stepmother to my grandmother, but accepted her as daughter - even though they were just 15 years apart. Never mind that she divorced my grandmother's father, she kept my grandmother as her daughter for the rest of her life. My mother held her so dear that I have her first name as my middle name, and if I'd had a female child, I would have named that child after her. My parents were married at her house. The first New Year's Eve I stayed up until midnight was at her house and I wore her bathrobe the whole night. I was six. The robe was way too big.

In short, she rocked. And I know that she wasn't just a cool old lady, because I have this.

"To nightgowns!"

You'll notice she's the only one stylish enough for a floral nightgown. Look at all the losers in their boring white. And she's the only one laughing. She was always laughing. This was in a young ladies boarding house she lived in with what appears to be her sister and a bunch of lame girls who are apparently worried about Prohibition. Party on, Great Grandma!

Here she is at age 98, with her great-great-grandson, my oldest little dude.

Still laughing. And cracking up a 4 month old.

The day I took this picture, she told me, "Don't have any more kids. It'll kill ya." She meant it, but I didn't take her seriously, because when I was 15, she told me, "Never learn to drive!" When I said, "but I want to, Great Grandma!" She said slyly, "But if you don't learn to drive...the men will HAVE to take you with them..."

Interesting ploy. If only she'd said, "If you don't learn to drive, you'll never have to go to the grocery store." Now that would've been some helpful advice.

A public service announcement, because I'm greener than thou. Also I care about the earth. You are very welcome, Ma Nature.

2010-02-17T11:10:00.002-07:00

If you ever had the considerable honor to talk to me in person for longer than 38 minutes, I have no doubt mentioned to you the utter disdain I have for printed phone books. If you've never had that distinct pleasure, then you may have read about it here.

Even before Al Gore invented the Internet and put all the phone numbers you could ever want on the worldwide web (thanks Al!), phone books bugged the living crap outta me. It's probably because I grew up in a community where seven towns fit in one tidy 1/2 inch book, yellow and white pages, and there was no need to print a new one every year because no one moved in or out. If someone died, you simply got out a Magic Marker and drew a line through their name. And it was a Magic Marker, because no one used Sharpies yet. Because Sharpies can't make you high. It was all we had, because cable TV hadn't been invented yet either.

When I moved away from the idyllic land of little phone books, I was amazed and dismayed by the stack of slippery yellow and white tomes that graced my steps. At first, I put them on the shelf, carefully folding the pages over for Pizza Delivery, Video Rentals, Drive-Up Liquors, Tanning Salons and University Note Taking Services. But a few months later, more books arrived. Wanting to be a responsible adult, I scribbled the numbers I used often on the cover and stuck the old phone books under the bed in case I needed to reference them. By the time a couple of semesters were over, I had enough phone books to prop up the entire Lollipop Guild at Thanksgiving Dinner.

Every apartment I rented, phone books appeared on the steps and more were hidden under the kitchen sink. I had an address book I wrote down the good stuff in, and threw the big books in the dumpster, effectively ridding half of the Oregon coast of old growth timber in the process. Later, I joined the ranks of the real world in advertising sales and learned that they have to print 80 billion phone books just to sell the ads, and they don't really care if you open them or not, just as long as some guy in a Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon sends his 8 kids out on every city block to deliver them, then they've done their part to get your ad in the hands of the people.

Still. Don't. Care.

Every 4 months, I get a plastic bag of unusable paper on my front porch and it just plain pisses me off. But the pain ends today. Because today, I found this:

http://www.yellowpagesgoesgreen.org/

And I clicked on some stuff and gave them our address and opted out of getting phone books. Forever.

It's because I'm all green and eco-awesome and I'm wearing vegan fair-trade shoes and weaving a baby wearing device out of hemp right now as I type on my solar-powered laptop made from recycled goat hair, grass clippings and soy.

Meh, not really. I'm just easily annoyed.

Flashback Friday. Also Valentine's Day. And Presidents' Day. And I am not exactly sure why we have to try and stuff everything into one weekend. Gah.

2010-02-12T16:49:00.002-07:00

In recognition of 13.6 years of ~~him putting up with me for my boobs and lasagna~~ wedded bliss, I present you here today with a photo of Big Dude and me on our wedding day. By the looks of things, we were surveying the plot of Oklahoma land we planned to homestead. (My! Such optimism! We had no idea the Dust Bowl would totally crush our dreams as well as our sod-roofed shack. Fortunately, love and our ability to surf real estate ads online have carried us through such dire hardships.)

You'll notice my bouquet made of piece of crap flowers that I did not pick out because the florist didn't realize I was serious when I placed my order for a ball of half-opened dark pink roses. Apparently my deposit check still didn't convince her. However, my phone call the night before the wedding...that made her wonder. "Oh - you still want them? Wul, I dun't have no dark pank roses." So she gave us dead white roses and some friggin' carnations. Because that is what every bride dreams of. Dead Stuff and Carnations. (Possibly the name of my band.)

What you won't notice is that I'm wearing my friend Harvard Barbie's wedding ring, because my betrothed's brother forgot to bring my ring to the wedding. No biggie. It was safe back in the unlocked motel room.

You also cannot tell that the judge that was to marry us called two days prior and said he decided to marry someone else that day instead. Or that my future-father-in-law went to the wrong place, causing him to be 45 minutes late. Or that as I came down the aisle, my father's mother said loudly, "Y'know she's pregnant, doncha?" ...meaning my barely pregnant sister / bridesmaid, but of course everyone thought she meant me. Or that our garage door was hanging off one hinge after an incident with several groomsmen and an electric golf cart with "LambRover" painted on the front of it.

Also, for some damned reason, one week before the wedding, after years of long, single-length hair, I went to a brand new hair-dresser and requested layers. Short layers.

I was completely sober, so I didn't even have an excuse.

OOOOOOOOOHK! LaHoma.

Enjoy your hallmark-holiday o'love. Also President's Day, or as I like to call it, "Another damned day that teachers and bankers get to stay home but I have to drag my children to work day." I plan on making stovepipe hats and wooden teeth in celebration.

Fully deserving of a space on your bookmarks toolbar.

2010-02-08T17:59:00.001-07:00

In addition to all the funny peeps I read, thought I'd share with you some of my favorite little diversions. In case you're interested, and even if you're not, here's what I'm looking at instead of doing whatever it is I told you I was going to be doing.

Missed Connections - painfully adorable illustrations of actual personal ads. Funny, charming, heart-warming and heart-breaking all at once. The artist is Sophie Blackall - and she has an etsy site, too. Go buy her stuff.

Dinosaurs and Robots - They had me at dinosaurs. This one is about all kinds of cool stuff...as in actual stuff. Like Roald Dahl's writing hut or a vacation home made from shipping containers, Ipod amplifiers, vintage advertising or Guinness posters. It's always different, unexpected and cool. As far as I'm concerned, it's why the internet exists.

Sketch for the Day - Artist Ira Robbins gives the whole world little glimpses into his everyday life and they're awesome. I love his people on the subway, and there's a dude in a hat that reminds me simultaneously of Walter Mattheau and my bulldog.

Forgotten Bookmarks - A guy who works in a used bookstore finds photos, notes, cards, and all matter of flat stuff in the books - and very kindly shares it online. Sometimes it's multi-page letters, others just a photo, but it is always interesting and voyeuristic. And makes you go through your own bookshelves to make sure you haven't stashed anything wacky in there. Recently, there's been a bunch of contests, which aren't all that interesting, but it's worth checking a couple times of week anyway.

Happy surfing.

By the back door.

2010-02-05T09:00:00.001-07:00

Dammity damn damn.

On the bright side, I'm wearing his jeans today.

I'm not high quality enough to read Elle Decor. And by "high quality" I mean, I'm not a gay guy. Apparently.

2010-02-04T13:01:00.002-07:00

I really have nothing against Woman's Day magazine. I bet, in fact, that loads and loads of perfectly lovely Women read it and it makes their Day.

But I don't. I don't buy it. I don't want to buy it. I've accidentally picked it up when I'm stuck in a waiting room and I have purposely put it back down and read old emails on my iPhone instead because I am very NOT interested in anything about it.

And dude, my homey Bobby Brown will back me up on this...that is my perogative.

However. A bunch of wise-asses at a giant media conglomerate called HFMUS have decided that I do want Woman's Day magazine. So much so, in fact, that they'll send me 17 of them a year instead of the magazine I paid for, Metropolitan Home.

It seems that Metropolitan Home (that I paid for, did I mention that?) has gone the way of so many other print publications. Even the 100-year-old newspaper in Denver is dead, so I can't really expect that Met Home is going to make it. I'm cool with that. I only bought it because someone was standing on my doorstep looking sideways at my bulldog.

So, a little postcard with a note that says, "Hey, we ran outta money, better go read your Kindle" would have sufficed.

But nope, the marketing geniuses at HFMUS sent me a little postcard that says, "Lucky You, Woman! We're sending you 17 issues of Woman's Stupid Day Magazine even though you only had 3 issues remaining on the subscription to the magazine you really liked! Yay!"

No big deal, right? I'll just call and tell them No Thanks and it will all be over before the mailman has time to wonder why I'm suddenly reading hastily published crockpot recipes on cheap paper crap.

But I couldn't let it go. Mainly because, every time I got Metropolitan Home Magazine in the mail, I thought, "Oh! I bet me and 150,000 gay guys are all settling in right now on our divans and just looooving this tile!"

Are 150,000 gay guys going to also going to get Woman's Day Magazine? I'm no gay guy, but if I was I am pretty sure that'd piss me off. Did they just sign me up for WD because I have a female name? Being the Encyclopedia Brown Internet Detective that I am, I looked it up.

Seems that the rat bastards at HFMUS are not sending everyone WD. In fact, they are sending their "HIGHEST QUALITY SUBSCRIBERS" Elle Decor magazine.

Mother effers. Where do they get off deciding who is and who is not "highest quality?" What are the determining factors? I downloaded the advertising sales media kits to read the demographics of WD and Elle Decor. I won't go into details, but apparently, the asshats at HFMUS have decided I am ten years older than I really am, my home is worth a tenth of what it actually is worth, and my hobbies include playing harmonica with my uncle daddy while he taste tests moonshine. Really. It said that. Maybe.

And who is to say that people in that demographic don't still really really like to look at pretty tile? Seems to me, the less my house was worth, the more I'd want to see fancy ones. I'm not saying it's just because the parent company of HFMUS is a bunch of snotty French guys, but I'm not saying it's not, if you know what I'm saying.

I feel like the cool kids won't let me sit at their lunch table. Somewhere, 150,000 gay guys are saying, "Finally! I was sooo tired of hanging out with her."

Why it's best just to hold your breath in middle school hallways.

2010-02-03T16:13:00.001-07:00

As I left yesterday for the grocery store for the 342,452nd time this week, I hollered behind me, "Anybody want anything?" and then, under my breath, "Besides, of course, the damned FOOD you all insist on eating? Every day? Like several times a day?"

The giant linebacker of a middle school child yelled back, "Yeah. Chocolate Axe."

Oh, that boy. So clever and witty. I smiled, proud of my caustic offspring, and said, "Dude! You're a genius! Smelling like chocolate would certainly get the attention of middle school girls! Ha ha ha!"

Then, walking down the aisle of aerosol smelly shit, I came across this.

Holy ozone layer. He was serious.

Yeah, I bought it. But frankly, I'm a little worried that he'll become not a target for the affections of pubescent girls, but possibly middle-aged teachers. On diets. Right before lunch. I really would like to have been in the Axe marketing meeting where they came up with this one.

"Hmmm. What smell do chicks dig?"

"Um. Chocolate?"

"Hey! Good one! Let's do it!"

It certainly makes more sense than the scent of choice when I was 12 years old.

Nothing hotter than the scent of...a baby?

Really. Baby powder is sexy. It is. Don't believe me? Read the ad.

"An irrestible clean baby smell, grown-up enough to be sexy."

Apparently, sex-offender work-release programs used to include copywriting gigs. Years after abandoning Love's Baby Soft, I sat in a media class at college, where the professor spoke for at least an hour on phallic symbols and using them in advertising. Guess what his primo, number one example was?

Good thing I was mature and wearing Coty Wild Musk by then. In case you're wondering, "musk" is defined as a "odorous glandular secretion."

Chocolate might have been a better choice.

Six degrees of separation. Or more like four. Possibly, three.

2010-02-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

There is, in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, a lady who blogs under the name The Pioneer Woman. About eleventy-bazillion people visit her website every day. She is cute, charming and funny. Besides running a website with a whole lot of pages that she updates like, gah, every day, she home schools her four kids, helps out on a huge cattle/horse ranch, experiments with photography and remodels a guest lodge. Without cursing in public. And because she was apparently bored last year, she wrote and photographed a cookbook.

That went to the top of the best seller lists.

Obviously then, we have a lot in common.

If you follow PW, you know that she went on a book tour recently. She traveled all over the country, letting us see her hotel rooms and the throngs of readers that showed up to meet her and get their cookbooks signed. Her second or third stop was in Denver - and while I'm not usually a stand-in-line for anything type of gal, I thought, "Hey, I should support a fellow blogger with whom I have so very much in common!" Then I thought, "Eh, it's on a school night, and it's sort of cold out. Maybe next time."

Then I got an email from my friend Claudia asking if I wanted to go with her to the booksigning.

All the sudden, I was interested again. Not only because Claudia is a sh'load of fun, but also because Claudia is from Pawhuska, Oklahoma. You heard me. Pawhuska. Home of P-Dub. Try to follow along.

Several months prior, Claudia had sent me an email saying, "Hey check out this blog - it's by a lady from my hometown and today she wrote about my brother's feed store." To which I answered something to the affect of, "Wha?"

I determined that in all the eleventy-bazillion PW readers in the world, it was likely that only Claudia and I would know about the Denver book signing, and even if a couple other people showed up, we'd totally be in the front of the line and PW's new best friends, because, A) Claudia's from Pawhuska, and B) I was wearing my favorite shoes, which The Pioneer Woman would surely be so enamored with that we'd instantly be new best friends and she'd feature me on her website under the tab "up and coming bloggers:

Patent leather aqua Ferragamo driving moccasins.

I know, right?

Well, I could go on and on about how we waited patiently in line with a bunch of other people, and then we heard her speak and she was funny and sweet and then we had her sign our books and then took our pictures with her and went home.

But that would be a big fat lie.

Because what we did was each buy several cookbooks, head down to the basement where she was signing and go, "Dude, it's hot in here. We should go get a beer."

Now, lucky for us, the swell independent bookstore in Denver just happens to have a swell independent bar in it. Besides 362 days of sunshine a year, that's one of the main things they put in the Chamber of Commerce brochures. Claudia and I decided we'd just run up real quick for one cool frosty beverage and then head back to the basement for the signing.

I may not have mentioned before, but Claudia and I used to be in advertising together. And not like Mad Men advertising where we wore pencil skirts and thought up clever slogans. Advertising Sales. Which means, among other things, that we are capable of drinking and cursing like sailors. While selling you a thirteen week ad run on The Weather Channel.

Being a classy dame, I ordered me up a Lone Star. They were outta PBR cans, apparently.

Did you know Lone Star beer has little puzzles on the insides of the caps?

That first one says "Who-Ray!" The second one says, "Owl Be Clammin this O!" Or something. I'm not sure. I never actually figured that one out.

Being the excellent parent that I am, I recognized right away that these beer caps could be educational but that I couldn't take home just two puzzles to my children. That wouldn't be fair. In order to properly intellectually stimulate them, they'd need several. I sacrificed and ordered another Lone Star. For the lid.

Right about now is when bartender asked us for the third or fourth time, "So you're really here to have a cookbook signed?" And we assured him that maybe we were, maybe we weren't, maybe we needed an appetizer first.

Claudia, looking innocent.

Me, posing perfectly for an ENT specialist.

This is when two things happened: 1) People began filling up the bar because there was no more room in the basement, and 2) I realized I had an odd number of caps and an even number of children so I'd need to order another Lone Star. For the children.

Other folks who like Pioneer Woman but don't like lines.

Also, Claudia.

Those people are totally nice, and one of them might be named Jill, and she might've had to borrow a car to get there from her home 80 miles away. That guy at the end just came to keep his girlfriend or possibly his wife company in line. Aren't those lovely chandeliers?

Since Claudia and I had no ads to sell, we drank more beer. I let everyone in the bar know that she was from Pawhuska, which made me sorta famous. Then Claudia admitted that not only has her brother been featured on the blog, you can very often see her other relatives' heads when PW posts shots of church, and...back in high school...Claudia babysat Marlboro Man.

This means absolutely NOTHING to you if you've never read The Pioneer Woman.

But if you have, well, you're kind of impressed right now. The nice people at the bar certainly were. Eventually, one of us, probably Claudia, realized that instead of us making our way through the crowds in the basement, we could send the books to Pawhuska...I mean, we're talking about Marlboro Man's babysitter, here. Because we had that kind of clout.

Claudia calls in a favor from Pawhuska.

The next day, PW posted about the lovely quiet dinner she had at a restaurant 4 blocks from my house. A half-empty, nobody in it, I coulda walked, restaurant FOUR blocks from my house. Meaning I could've put on my bitchin' shoes and swung by on my way to the liquor store to purchase beer that did not have puzzles in the lids and would not have left me with a ginormous head ache the next morning.

But alas. I would not have gotten to hang out with Marlboro Man's babysitter and drink beer on a school night. And I would not have this.

There's just no easy way to do this.

2010-02-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

You know how when you ditch school for like three weeks it is super hard to just show up in class again? You don't? Yeah, well, Quentin Tarantino does, so I'm not alone. Anyway - not posting on your blog for a few months is kind of like that. Only I probably won't turn into a famous movie director. Also, it's highly unlikely Playboy will ever interview me. But a girl can dream.

So I suppose I'll just start typing. Today and then tomorrow, and the next day. And then, all the fives of you who are nice and kind and tell me they enjoy reading my drivel will eventually forget the Great Dry Spell of Winter '09-'10. Sound good?

In the spirit of transparency, you should know that while I was away, I almost met a famous blogger, one of my children outgrew me and I made $75 writing about sandwiches.

Whew. That was easier than I thought it would be.

I'm just going to go ahead and apologize now to his future college roommate.

2009-11-23T15:09:00.006-07:00

I remember when my first son was a toddler - he was a thick, strong kid with a huge heart and infectious laugh, an incredible sense of humor and a sensitive side well beyond his years. None of our friends had kids yet, so he hung out with adults a lot, and was thus mature and well-liked by big people.

He was also very cute. And people would say, "Oh - don't you wish he could stay this age forever?"

And I would say, "Um, no."

You see, as delightful as he was, he had a terrible habit of shitting his pants. Well, until he was about three anyway.

The price you pay for all that adorableness is cleaning up the Adorable One's bodily fluids. Also solids. At any time of day or night. And I was pretty much willing to give that up.

In fact, I'd daydream about times when he would be my cool big kid with an awesome personality, capable of hopping in a shower and handling his own hygiene. In my dreams, I'd be reclined on some sort of cushy furniture, reading a magazine with a wistful look and a pitcher of mimosas. He'd appear before me all sweet smelling and clean, without any effort on my part. And I'd smile.

And I have that now. Admittedly, I do not get sweet-smelling. I get an odd mixture of Crew mint conditioner and some type of Axe body spray. But it's not bad. And I don't really have any magazines or that pitcher of mimosas either. Also, there is a bulldog on the furniture right where I'd sit if I could. BUT, the boy IS responsible for his own hygiene. And he does appear to me each morning, shiny and clean. After tousling his minty conditioned locks and kissing his astringented mushy cheek, I get a warm feeling in my heart. This boy is good. I love this boy.

Then I walk into his bathroom. And I realize, there is still a price.

Friday Flashback - Actually happening on a Friday which is somewhat amazing when you consider my track record.

2009-11-13T13:17:00.000-07:00

This week's photographic gems come from a time in my life archaeologists will call the SSLJ Era. (Short Skirt Long Jacket.) Actually, most of my life fits within that era, but whatever. It's my signature look.

Pay no nevermind to the strange forced smile here. I was probably trying not to kick this dog's ass. (You're probably asking yourself, "But where's the skirt?" Look closely, now. Can you see it? There, under the long jacket?)

I was in advertising sales for a cable company. To answer your question, why yes, it ~~totally sucked~~, was a DREAM JOB. I lived with my pal who was in law school, her cat named 8-Ball, and the aforementioned nutjob pyschopathic killer beagle, Opie.

We rented a cute little brick house with a big crabapple tree and our days were filled with bliss. Actually, our days were pretty shitastic because she was in law school and I was trying to sell ads on cable TV which is almost nearly as exciting as trying to sell ads in the fricking phone book. But our nights?
Actually pretty fun.

First of all, we not only had a papasan chair...we also had a papasan COUCH - which equals, if you're following along...an ENTIRE PAPASAN ENSEMBLE. An entire room of furniture made overseas (fancy!) and imported...(like caviar!)for less than $300 retail. Not that we paid retail. Behold it, if you dare, in all of it's pinkness.

We also had a fireplace. With a fire in it. Lucky ducks.

Here we are at our sweet pad entertaining friends... including a cute cowboy that will someday become Big Dude, and my ol' friend Harvard Barbie. Who I'm sure returned back to Harvard thoroughly impressed with a) our pink papasan couch - they don't have that kind of classy stuff back East..., b) my fancy choice of beverage - Keystone Light in a can, and c) the beagle hair on her ass from sitting on the pink papasan couch.

Here you'll see a depressed psychopathic beagle off his meds and pouting because humans are using his papsan furniture, so he's having to use a dog bed like a common-everyday-dog. Please note in background me in my other outfit of choice; Short Skirt Long Sweater. Perfect for Cowboy-Catchin', should you be interested.

Also please note the small black head under the beagle chin. See the little feline ears perfectly framing his jowls? That would be 8-Ball. They had somewhat of an unnatural relationship. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Like all things, except teenage vampire book series apparently, the time in the cute brick house came to an end. Our cool fireman landlord decided to sell the house. It probably took him longer than he expected to sell it, but that's only because some terrible vandals kept removing the "For Sale" sign out of the yard. It would mysteriously end up in all kinds of weird places...sometimes at far away cable companies for example.

Alas, it did eventually sell, but we figured if the sold sign wasn't there, they couldn't make us move. We congratulated the Realtor's diligence, perserverance and top-notch marketing skills by giving him a little promotion down at the local post office.

I circled "United" so you'd know it was the US Post Office, but really it just looks like an aircraft warehouse. But it's not. Really. It's the post office. Which is kind of federal property, which makes defacing it with a real estate sign a felony, probably. So pretend that you never saw this. Mkay?

Or maybe they make dog Ambien?

2009-10-26T15:02:00.001-06:00

If you've been a parent for more than 15 minutes, someone has suggested to you that it is possible to sedate your offspring with Benadryl. Going on a long car ride? Benadryl! Cross-continental redeye flight to to see grandma? Benadryl! Mommy wants to watch ~~The Office and drink whiskey~~ make dinner without ~~hearing any whining from your miniature cake-hole~~ interruption? BENADRYL!

Sounds great, but the problem with it is that the entire thing is an evil plot invented and perpetuated by either pharmaceutical companies or communists. Or communist pharmacists. If it works for your kid, hooray for you, but I tried drugging each of my children at different times in their lives, and each time I got exactly the opposite reaction than I was going for. As the other 167 unfortunate passengers of a flight from Denver to Tampa in 1998 can attest, Benadryl in my kids is like methadone. Or crack cocaine. Or acid. I guess I'm not super knowledgeable on the effects of hard drugs, I'm sure I was supposed to study it at some point, but I think I watched Mork and Mindy instead. Anyway, it turns them into whatever drug it is that makes you a wild-eyed, spitting, jumping on your mom's lap, unable to sleep wolverine-monkey.

And, now, because I am nothing if not a bastion of information and this blog is pretty much a public service announcement, (you're welcome) I'm here to inform you that Benadryl in a bulldog has pretty muchly exactly the same effect as it had on my toddlers. It turns him into a drooling bag of crazy.

If you're a fan of bulldogs, and hello? Who ISN'T? You'll know that despite their tough appearances, they are actually delicate little flowers with all types of issues that you wouldn't put up with from any other less-cute animal. Chronic puking immediately after eating comes to mind. As does 40 decibel snoring, incessant shedding, tears that stain your furniture and only being able to give birth by c-section. Also? Dry skin. Bulldogs have very dry, itchy skin and all kinds of things irritate it, like say, oh...air. And Taylor Swift songs. Or so I tell my children.

Anyway, I'm cruising through life feeding my bulldog extra greasy food and keeping him all humidified when suddenly he's covered, like totally COVERED in hives. Everywhere, little jellybean sized bumps all over his cuteness. You could tell they itched like hell. He was rolling and crying and scratching and I ~~just wanted to go to bed~~ felt so badly for him. So, after a quick google-search for itchy bulldog cures, deciding against a calamine and baking soda dip, I went for the Benadryl. Without even thinking, without even remembering, without even considering that it wouldn't work. I imagined him taking the magical elixir of yum, slowly laying down, licking his paws for a few minutes and then passing out until morning.

Yeah. Nope. It's currently 3:48 AM, and I'm watching him jump from sofa to coffee table to ottoman to my lap to floor to door to the other sofa to OHMYGAWD this is exactly like the flight to Tampa only there's not a grumpy autoparts sales person sitting next to me.

Flashback Friday wherein you should actually flash back TO Friday and pretend you were reading this post. Because today is Tuesday, dudes.

2009-10-20T05:48:00.001-06:00

Due to renewing some old friendships on ~~the~~ ~~ultimate timesuck~~ Facebook, I've been thinking about college lately. It was a time to discover myself - to look introspectively and determine my strong suits, my potential, my skills. To put it simply - it's when I really learned to answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Within a few weeks of my freshman year, I knew definitively what I wanted to be.

A frat boy.

Who has a better life than a frat boy? I offer for your consideration: They get to hang out with other dudes. If they want the company of females, they post a flyer and boom - girls are there. But if they want to lock the door and watch sports, it's all good in the name of brotherhood. Speaking of their doors, they're usually attached to a pretty nice piece of architecture. Except for the Pi Kappa Alpha house on Colorado State University's campus (ie: "The White House" because really, it was a shack and all it had going for it was a new coat of paint) MOST fraternity houses are beautiful old homes. Sure, they smell on the inside, but the columns and sweeping porches and grand entrances totally make up for beer-soaked carpets behind those doors. Oh - and beer? There's always beer. I'm a fan of beer. Besides used kegs on those porches, there's often really comfortable furniture. And not patio furniture that just looks comfortable, either. Real, live, inside couches outside on the porch. That's not just a good idea, that's living, my friends.

Alas however, I couldn't figure out how to actually join a fraternity...so I just hung out on the fringes of them, wearing my converse lowtops, cargo shorts and aviator sunglasses, holding a red party cup and trying to blend in. One particular SAE intrigued me. Besides having really great bangs, he owned a Honda Interceptor - one of the best crotch rockets of the 80s. Did he keep it polished and shiny to impress everyone? Nope. It was covered with stickers and decals and a couple of dents in the gas tank. Because that's how he rolled, man. Everyone recognized this guy - most people hated him. I wanted to be him. Or at least get my hands on that bike.

Or one just like it. Only better. Today, I present you with a delicious retro example of my extreme badassery, and the culmination of my frat boy ambitions.

Behold, a 1992 Little Girl Big Glasses - complete with windblown pageboy permed hair, mock turtleneck sleeveless striped tee, pleated shorts, leather Keds...and my rockin' pink and blue crotch rocket. At the time, I was working my first real job, making tens of dollars a month. I realized that after making the $155 payment on my Toyota Tercel and the $249 rent payment, there was money left over...and since food was optional, I had the perfect amount to finance a 1990 Honda VTR 250, the 'baby' Interceptor. I paid 11% interest on an RV loan to buy it and it was worth EVERY penny. Frat boys had nothin' on me. Except maybe better bangs.

I am pretty sure Aveda has a crush on me.

2009-10-13T12:49:00.001-06:00

A million years ago, before Big Dude and Little Dudes and mortgages and bulldogs, I went to lunch a couple of times with a good-lookin' tall guy from work. Putting aside the facts that he lived with his mother and had a dead-end job (it was just my summer job, it was his ~~fate~~ career) he was a decent fella. He had a sweet car, was very polite, listened to good music, liked beer, smelled good. All positives to a 22-year-old me. Here's what was wrong with him: He gave me stuff all the time.

I know what you're thinking. "AHA! Proof! Women never like the nice guys! They want the bad boy!" Yeah, well, no, that's not it. This guy was the King of Creepy Gifts. For example, we went to lunch, the next day he bought me a hat.

A hat. Because apparently all the flower stores were closed? Where do you even go to buy a hat? And what makes you think..."That temporary file girl at the office sure is cute. In fact, the only way she'd be cuter is with a black felt fedora! To the mall!"

We went to lunch again. I had boots on my desk. Because? He wanted me to know that he knew my shoe size. Uh huh.

We went to lunch with a big group of people, he found a way to be smooshed into a back seat with me where he pointed out the church he'd like us to be married in. Yeah. He did.

Eventually, I lost my appetite and stopped going to lunch with him. I received a Victoria's Secret box. To entice me to go to Burger King, I guess? I returned it, unopened, to his car, all the while holding my keys sticking out of my fist just in case he jumped out from under the car with a gift-wrapped toaster.

Fortunately, the summer ended and I got to move back to school 90 miles away. Unfortunately, he asked someone where I lived and they told him. (Thanks, HR Department!) When I rode up on my bike with a group of friends and saw him sitting on my porch he asked why I wasn't driving, and who were all these people?

I explained loudly that he gave me the creeps and I'd like him to leave and that my car wasn't running just then.

I then double locked my doors, asked him to be gone when I got back and rode off to find my biggest, largest, male-est friends.

When I got back, there was a tear-stained letter and a check for $1800. Because that's all he had, and he wanted me to buy a car with it. (And I'm totally not kidding, he either cried or spit all over it, because it was all warpy and wrinkly like it'd been wet.)

Why now, do I bring up this freak-tale while I live happily with dudes of all sizes, a mortgage and a bulldog? Because I was reminded of this gifty-stalky guy today. Much like innocently going to lunch with a cute guy, I innocently ordered Aveda product online. I got suckered in. It looked good, I like how it smells, I hate the damned mall. I figure, what's a non-committal online order gonna do?

And then Aveda began it's creepy genuflection. I ordered shampoo. Aveda offered a free sample of conditioner. I ordered conditioner, Aveda wanted me to try extra infused deep treatment FREE. I put in the special offer code for free shipping... suddenly there were three other free gifts in my basket. By the time I was done, I had SEVEN free gifts, and when I checked my email and read the order confirmation, I had two more waiting for me.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the cute little bottles and will more than likely use each and every one of them. But you might wanna try playing hard-to-get once in awhile, Aveda, or you might find yourself crying all alone on the steps of a hastily built condo someday wondering WHY oh WHY I don't love you back.

Friday Flashback - Tandemonium.

2009-10-09T06:00:00.006-06:00

Welcome to the first ever edition of LGBG's Friday Flashback! (applause) Which means two things. One...I stole the idea from my long-lost twin in Iowa that I've never met: Tracey, and two...I finally opened the scanner that I've owned for 10 months and have been using as a footrest under my desk.

Today's vintage circa 1967 Instamatic print features my daddy, an infant Little Girl Pre Glasses, (me) and the most bitchin' 1966 Rollfast Tandem bike EVER.

A few things to note:

• I can really rock a bonnet, no?

• Check out my dad's awesome Elvis hair and tortoise shell shades.

• And, see that basket? They used to put us kids in there. And ride around. Which was totally cool. Later, when my younger sister was born, she'd be up there in a baby seat, my parents would be on the bike seats, my older sister sat on the luggage rack, and I was somewhere... anyway, the whole fam damily could fit on this bike. It was like an eco-friendly open-air SUV before its time. Also it had a headlight. For night trips.

I have recently become obsessed with getting myself an exact replica of this bike. We live in a very bike-y neighborhood, all kinds of great places to go like taverns, parks, bars, taverns - all within biking distance on pretty tree-lined streets. And, didja know? The person on the back only has to pretend to pedal, so basically I could just ride around relaxing with a cool beverage and possibly even a book while Big Dude pedals me around and works out his thigh muscles. (Which are really fine the way the are but he seems to enjoy working out, so who am I to deny him?) A win-win, really.

So...I'm searching for a black and white 1966 Rollfast Tandem Bicycle which means, of course, they're rare. Apparently, they made a gazillion red ones, but not too many black ones. I've found them on craigslist in other states, but no one will ship me a $200, 200 pound bike.

I also found this ridiculously cool painting of one.

Sweet, huh? The artist's name is Taliah Lempert and she paints all kinds of bikes...you can see them here. I emailed her while ago and asked her to buy her Rollfast and she said, "NOPE, it's too awesome!" Or something to that effect. So I just ordered a print of her painting instead which will no doubt be completely fantastic. But I still want the damned bike.

If any of you out there in webosphere have a dusty black Rollfast tandem bike in your garage/barn/grandma's basement/neighbor's toolshed, let me know...in the meantime, I'm trying to fit a 135 pound twelve year old on the handlebars of my mountain bike and it's just embarrassing.

UPDATE! I just got an email from Taliah (The bike artist. Try to keep up.) and she's going to paint a whole new version of the Rollfast Tandem in acrylics on paper, kind of like this painting and I'm so excited I could dance like Snoopy because honestly I was totally going to have to redecorate most of my house (or move to a loft) to match that red background. If you know someone who appreciates the bike form as art, please go to her website and get them some nifty notecards or a shirt or something. She's totally cool.

Many Open Letters Inspired by a Not-So-Quick Jaunt To the Giant 12-year-old's School.

2009-10-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

#1: Dear friendly construction folks who bring their own flashy "move over two lanes" lights and park their earth-moving equipment across two lanes of traffic on a busy city thoroughfare at 7:30 AM with no advance warning, Have you heard of Mike Mulligan? He parked his shit INSIDE the construction site, not across from a middle school on a busy city thoroughfare. Sure, he ended up having to leave it there after the building was done, but it turned out fine because as I recall, they gave him a rocking chair, a pipe and plenty of pie. Why did he get pie? Because he didn't piss off everyone parking his damned steam shovel in their way. Do you like pie? Sure, we all do. Here's some advice - WAIT UNTIL AFTER THE BELL RINGS AT THE MIDDLE SCHOOL AND YOU WON'T HAVE NEARLY AS MANY MOMMIES FLIPPING YOU OFF, THEY MIGHT GIVE YOU PIE INSTEAD. Also, it'd be great if you actually involved the city, they might lend you some detour signs or something or advise you to park on, I dunno, the fricking side street?

#2: Dear River Rock Mica Green Toyota Prius Driver with Namaste Bumper Sticker, Your karma will NOT be improved by letting one mile of traffic merge in front of you. Those people are bad people. They are people that saw the "get the hell over two lanes" flashy lights and DID. NOT. GET. OVER. Instead, they zoomed ahead. They let you wait in line forever (and me, two cars behind you) and then they drove 52 miles per hour, slammed their brakes on at the last possible moment, smiled devilishly at you and you let them in. Their flippant little wave filled you with a feeling second only to freeing Tibet, but they started out three miles behind us, and now they're three miles ahead of us, and here we sit. YOU, Prius lady, have helped contribute to EVIL in this world, and for that, karma will NOT smile at you with an extra pinch of organic cinnamon in your sumatra blend soy latte. Oh no, you're looking at a split seam in your yoga pants at the very least, and very possibly a huge tax increase on xeriscaping and loose leaf tea. Not to mention what karma is going to think of you denying a child his education by promoting evil. I worry about you.

#3: Dear Cool Dudes in an Orange Geo with a huge Vans Decal, Hey, thanks for giving me a "teachable moment" this morning. There I was sitting in traffic, thinking that the boy and I would have nothing meaningful to talk about when you provided me the perfect opportunity for a Just Say No session.
The boy: Hey Mom, that's kinda gross, those guys in the Geo are sharing a cigarette.
Me: Hmm. Why they certainly are, son. Swine flu aside, pretty grody. OH, it seems to be a hand-rolled version.
The boy: Wait. Is that pot?
Me: (rolling down window and taking a sniff of the chilly early morning autmn air) Well, yes, son. I believe it is a marijuana cigarette. Yes, indeedy.
The boy: Soooo, they're doing drugs, in their car, at 7:30 in the morning?
Me: Uh, huh.
The boy: 'Spose that's why they're 30 and still have a crappy car with a skateboard sticker on it?
Me: You're gonna be just fine, boy.

Ohemgee. I'm kind of a big deal on the Internet.

2009-10-07T10:09:00.001-06:00

If you're like me, you probably forgot that I have a blog. This blog right here, in fact. You're likely blocking it from your memory because you cannot stand to read that story about how my dog died ONE MORE TIME. I know I can't. However, what you probably do NOT know is that while poor little LGBG has been lifeless (get it, lifeless? Because the dog DIED, right?) I have been flitting all about the worldwide web, spreading my own special brand of joy. JOY, people. Friggin look happy already!

First of all, I was the proud winner of some super sweet business cards on Catootes. Of course, I have not designed them yet, but when I do, they will be SUPER SWEET. And, I shall pass them about whenever someone says "What's your blog? Why is it called that? Wha?"

Nextly, I was a little preoccupied with launching a little 112-page website for work. Not really a great excuse, but not really a bad one either, because holy crap - 112 pages. With 40 gazillion pictures. And a bunch of forms, and at least 19 people telling me immediate edits to make. If you see a typo on it, keep it to yourself, pretty please. When you're drinking later this evening, feel free to peruse it in all its loveliness and then send a comment form telling how fricking beautiful it is and how the marketing director must be A GENIUS. But, dudes, use your own words or something. Just make them be sort of synonymous with genius. K, thanks.

And lastly - and this is the part where my amazing level of fame-itude comes into play...I was the featured topic on a website about FABULOUS THINGS. Yeah, you heard me, every boy who ever broke up with me. I am fabulous. People who KNOW fab, they know me. And they think I'm fab. Also, I totally have shiny hair, as this post attests. I'm really going out on a limb sharing this link, since I like to just be the little cartoony avatar person over in the corner, and the HowFab post actually features real live unedited photos of moi, but I like living on the edge. Also, since Kara of HowFab lives in San Francisco, is hip and has unlimited fashionability, if she wants to steal photos off my Facebook page and put them on her website, who am I to keep her unique brand of Internet Gold to myself? Also, please go buy cards from her and she will send you a very nice moustache for FREE that you will find very handy in many situations. Like, for example, your wedding photos.

That would be Ms. Fab herself, at her wedding, with her Fab British husband. Because all the very hip people marry foreigners. But not foreigners that speak a different language, because that'd be a pain in the ass.

I promise I will still write you little stories even though I'm totally famous with business cards now. Really I will, because deep down, I love you little people. You made me the Internet sensation I am today.

Loss and found.

2009-09-15T17:25:00.001-06:00

One day, at around age 19, I realized that I had never seen any of my pets die. In fact, to my knowledge, not a single one of my pets ever HAD died. Save for one very flat kitty cat I discovered in the road with a very flat mouse in her mouth, every animal I'd ever owned had grown to a nice old age and then run away while I was at school. Meanwhile, my best friend had an actual graveyard in front of her barn filled with goldfish, hamsters, kitties and a couple of German Shephards. It never seemed at all peculiar to me until I was nearly all grown up and I said it out loud to someone who was all, "What? All your animals ran away? All of them? Dude, your parents made that up, man." And I was all, "No, seriously, they even put ads in the paper sometimes." And my friend was all, "Um. Yeah, kind of like you wrote a letter to Santa? And mailed it?" And I was all, "Nope. I was raised by realists, dude. Santa's fake, there's no tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny is made up. But it is totally true that all my dogs ran away." And my friend shook her head sadly and asked, "Ooooh. I understand so much more about you now."

After much contemplation, I realized that probably my 11-year-old tumor-ridden Basset Hound Towser probably did not, in fact, run away. But I appreciated the fact that I was always left with some amount of hope he and all the others would eventually return.

At age 24 or so, I was dating a cute cowboy guy who would one day become Big Dude and living with my arthritic dachsund-poodle mix and a Beagle puppy. The dachsund/poodle was 6 pounds of pure bad-ass, evidenced by the fact that even my cowboyfriend loved him. His name was Peppy, because I named him when I was in the 8th grade. That right there is the main reason why middle school girls should not be allowed to have babies even if they are biologically capable. It has nothing to do with the fact that they don't have the means or common sense to raise a child, it is purely because 13 year old girls would name babies something stupid and there would be a bunch of babies running around with ridiculously dumb names like Peppy or Sparrow or something and they would find a way to put smiley faces and hearts on birth certificates where the dots on the i's should be.

Anyway, Peppy eventually started showing his age, caused mostly in part by that damned beagle puppy pestering him, and the day came where I had to put him to sleep. Because I'd never really gone through losing a pet, the Cowboyfriend in Shining Armor left his job early to accompany me to the vet. Peppy had been there all day, struggling, his little bitty heart valves failing. I wanted to see him one more time before the fatal injection.

Big Brave Cowboyfriend and I walked in from a mid-August heat wave into the cool air of the animal hospital. We were standing in a big room with high ceilings that started swirling around me as the gravity of the situation hit me. A kind woman in sea green scrubs walked towards us and asked if she could help us. I couldn't speak. A lump rose in my throat. I looked to the Cowboyfriend. He looked at the ground. I grabbed his hand so he would speak for me. It was ice freakin' cold. He started to shudder, his shoulders raising up and down, and big ginormous cowboy tears began to plop on the grey tweed rug.

So. I guess I'd be handling the details. I summoned strength, stood up straight and told her we were there to euthanize Peppy, could we see him first? She led us back where I told him he was the coolest dog ever and he licked my hand with his teeny tongue. I tied a friendship bracelet I'd made around his neck (it was the 90s, after all) and removed his collar and put it on my wrist. I held his head while they put him down, his breathing slowed, the weight of his head became heavier. I scooped him up and carried him out in a light blue towel.

We walked out with our heads down, the heat of the day blasting us, radiating off the blacktop and drying the tears that streamed down our faces. I put the limp little body in the backseat. The Cowboyfriend/Big Dude-to be recovered somewhat and drove me and the little body of my friend 45 miles to the house where Peppy and I grew up. The Colorado clay was rock hard and it was at least 98 degrees as afternoon slipped into evening, but we took turns digging a hole in an iris garden. I highly recommend swinging a pickaxe and hard ground when you're upset. Sweating out the grief, I call it. We patted the ground, cried some more and said goodbye to a friend.

I learned a few things that day.
1. Pets do die and it sucks even more than wondering why they ran away.
2. Supporting someone doesn't necessarily mean you take over and fix everything. Sometimes it just means you cry with them.
3. Knights in shining armor sometimes wear cowboy hats.

Just make things easier on everyone and make all your passwords be "password."

2009-09-11T18:04:00.000-06:00

Have you ever looked out of your window and seen someone sitting on the street in front of your house on their computer? If you have a unsecured wireless internet connection, that person is in a Toyota pickup, listening to Depeche Mode and frantically typing their ass off to meet a deadline, c'mon out and say HI! It's just me.

I am an ~~stalker~~ expert on unsecured wireless internet connections. I can sniff 'em out. This is because I spend most every evening of my life waiting for a child at a sports practice. I used to wait nicely in a folding chair, socialize with other parents, maybe even read a book. But one day I forgot the book and I sat in the chair thinking only "OH MY GAWD I AM SO BEHIND AT WORK I CANNOT BELIEVE I'M WASTING ALL THIS TIME JUST SITTING HERE ENJOYING MY CHILD'S FLEETING YOUTH." So the next night, instead of sharing cocktails with the other football mommies, I packed a laptop and a cooler for myself (much cheaper than sharing, btw) and cruised the streets around the park for my fix of sweet sweet internet.

For a price, I can tell you where to get the juice - but you've got to be discreet about it. One of my favorite high-speed highs figured out that there was a line of minivans outside his house and went all locked and shit on me. So, "LandsbergsLAN" - you asshole, don't be surprised if you find a couple of empty Bass bottles and some Toyota tiremarks on your lawn some Thursday evening.

Next to an unsecured wireless network, I love me some home set-up security. I don't even try to figure out the bullshit WEP key stuff that real networks have, however, my children play baseball at a park next to a little building full of offices and apartment buildings, and it's quite entertaining to try and guess those people's passwords. There's one guy who calls his modem "JUICYFRUIT" and I haven't broken his code yet, but I am having a very good time trying. Besides the obvious gum references, there's a lotta good material there. One night as I sat with my lap overheated from a tired MacBook, I was growing desperate. I hadn't been able to get any unsecured networks, there wasn't a Starbucks for blocks and my battery was low. I found a modem called "MICHELLE." I looked to the darkening sky for inspiration, looked down and tapped in MAY10.

And I was fricking in. That night I was as close to God's grace as I'll likely ever be.

Anyway - because of this shit and more - the high-speed wireless internet at our house is completely unsecure. C'mon by. I'm guessing you're not gonna hack into my computer and steal pictures of my bulldog. You just wanna check your damned email and that's cool with me. Enjoy the shade, surf some stuff. It's on me. Just paying it forward, y'know. You're welcome.

Forget about clean underwear, if you're in mangled in a horrible accident, your playlist is all that really matters.

2009-09-10T18:00:00.000-06:00

Most people relate certain songs to certain points in their lives - high school dances or college parties or holidays or their parents. Much like my uncanny ability to remember exactly what I was wearing while getting hurt, I also remember every song that was playing while I was getting pulled over for speeding.

For your consideration:
March 1984 - Chambers & Colfax - 1974 Plymouth Duster - 45 in a 30. J. Giles Band: "Freeze Frame." (Was ditching school at the time, and had somehow, magically, actually asked my mom's permission to do so. Which was awesome because she said YES, which was a damned good thing because when you're under 18 you have to take your mom to court with you when you get a ticket and it woulda been awful hard to explain why I got a ticket 35 miles from English class. I digress.)
April 1985 - State Hwy 79 - my friend Karyn's '75 Le Mans. 98 in a 55. Prince: "Delirious."
June 1986 - State Hwy 36 - Again, the Duster. 7am. Howard Jones: "Like to Get to Know you Well"
July 1987 - Canyon Blvd., Boulder, CO. 1980 Mustang. 75 in a 30. Orchestral Maneuvers in Dark: "Locomotion."

And so on. This was only a sampling of my offenses, I was quite speedy as a youngster.

I think that patrol officers should be required to ask you what you were listening to and record it on the ticket so that later on in court, you can plead, "FUNKY" or "DANCEY" or whatever. "You know how fast you were going? What were you listening to, "Hot for Teacher" or something?" Because really? It is not MY fault that Prince was getting me all worked up like that. Duh. It is Prince's fault. And there's not a judge in the world that would try a person for speeding, with the windows down, on a boring highway...once they knew said person was bopping to "girlyougottatakemeforalittlerideupanddowninandoutaroundyolegsigetdelirious."

Along the same lines, if I'm ever in a fatal accident, I'd really like someone to carefully comb through the wreckage and figure out if I was listening to a CD or the radio. If the radio, please figure out what station and contact them for that day's playlist. Carefully coordinate with investigators and program directors to determine the exact time of the crash and discover the last song I ever listened to. I will do this should anyone I care about die in a car. Because I would HAVE to know. Were you careening out of control to Celine Dion? Because that would be totally uncool. Were you lulled to sleep by Sade and flew down the embankment totally at alto-induced peace? Or were you thumping your foot on the brake, jamming to the Phil Collins' drum solo in In the Air when you were rear-ended by a semi?

It is for this reason that whenever I drive treacherous roads (which is pretty muchly every Thursday of the winter) that I only listen to totally hip CDs. If I am to be found splattered across the highway and/or embankment, I want the people scraping up my innards to be impressed. "Wow. She was a shitty driver, but for a 42-year-old she was into some sweet tunes!" If, for some reason on Thursdays I'm feeling all high schooley and take along REO Speedwagon-Hi Infidelity, the Best of Rick Springfield and Pat Benetar's Crimes of Passion...well, you won't know it unless there's a hell of an impact because I totally sneakily put the disks in different cases. Or hide them when on the slippery-cliffy parts of the road.

The other reason I keep a good selection of cool music in the car is in case I'm at a stoplight and a limousine pulls up next to me. If I am not listening to cool music when there's a limousine next to me, and say, just for example, I'm listening to "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" on NPR or I don't know... "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler... Well, that's when my awesome acting and lip synching skills come into play. It's important to look like I'm singing something really current and with very few words. That way, if the limo contains say, Mick Jagger looking for a new background talent, or Steven Spielberg looking for the next middle-aged hot chick to play the wise-cracking mother of Shea Lebeuf, then I'm all ready for my closeup.

Did you know Edie Brickell was totally just a normal person who sang outloud in front of someone famous accidentally in a bar one night and NOW SHE'S MARRIED TO PAUL SIMON? I know, right? That's why you must always be prepared when a limo is next to you.

Elk and swine and bears, oh my.

2009-09-01T14:11:00.004-06:00

I am home all alone with two children and three dogs and fourteen appointments and thirtyseven deadlines and school pictures and back to school night and 7 football practices this week because the Big Dude is away sneaking up on elk with his bow and arrow. You may recall last year when he did this and I totally figured out that he was in Vegas and not hunting AT ALL.

If you're thinking it is a bad idea for me to tell the whole internet that I'm home alone with no Big Dude to protect me, well then you're silly. Because he's bow hunting. Which means that I'm here, all alone, with a sh'load of hunting rifles. Probably not a good idea to drop by unexpectedly, if you catch my drift.

Also, if that's not scary enough for you, I have every single symptom of swine flu except for the mask thing that Michael Jackson's kids used to wear. I am certain I have swine flu not only because I have checked my symptoms online, but also because I emailed my doctor friend to see if she thought I had swine flu and she didn't email me back. Which means, she doesn't want to catch it. Obviously. I totally hope that the people I have fourteen appointments with don't mind, but I'm not going to wear the Michael Jackson kids' mask thing because I can only imagine how completely gross it would be after I sneeze in in about 42 times. Or once. Either way.

You should also know that I'm very possibly about to be widowed, because the Big Dude has seen more bears than elk and I'm pretty sure even though he's a very strong guy with really big fists and an incredible will to live, there's a good chance a hungry black bear might be a teensy bit stronger.

Oh - and an update from last year... If you've actually been in my garage and seen the big freezer full of elk meat, you are probably saying to yourself, "Geez, Pen. You're awfully harsh on the guy, making fun of his little Cupidy bow and telling him to take a frickin' rifle." To which I say, "See here, in this roast? The bullet hole?" Nuff said.

I realize this post is somewhat rambling. Blame the swine.

If my cabinets are cluttered, it's probably Debbie Reynolds fault.

2009-08-26T08:06:00.010-06:00

Growing up in Colorado, I was very aware of the story of Margaret Brown - a child of Irish immigrants who grew up very poor, promised herself she'd marry for money but then fell in love with and married a child of Irish immigrants who was also very poor. Of course the reason we know about them is that they didn't end up poor at all - because her husband discovered a gigantic seam of ore and the owners of the mine he worked at rewarded him with a bunch of money, stocks and a position on the board of the company.

If you're not from Colorado (or maybe if you are) you probably know her better by the nickname given to her by the folks who wrote a musical about her, Molly - as in The Unsinkable Molly Brown. Remember Debbie Reynolds jumping on the bed and screaming "And if that house is red and has a big brass bed...?" Of course, the real Molly Brown probably did not jump on her bed at all - most poor people who get money sort of appreciate the furniture - but she did do all kinds of amazing things including survive the sinking of the Titanic, fight for women's suffrage and show the old-school socialite Denver beeshes a thing or two about how real ladies should behave. The house she had in Denver is now a museum and is just a few blocks from mine, so I pass it all the time and think of her.

Mostly what I think about is that the very first time her husband brought home a pile of money, she freaked out. She didn't know where to keep it. She'd never had any and thought she should hide it. So she put it in the most secure place in their meager cabin, the place no one would ever look: The stove. You know where this is going, right? Her husband comes home from celebrating with the boys, decides to warm up the place, starts a fire and burns up their newly acquired fortune.

I think of this every time I pass her house. I think of this every time I take money from the ATM and stuff it recklessly in my pocket, I think of this when my children squirrel away money in weird places. And I think of Molly Brown when I order Chinese food. Because of this peculiar, historically-based obsession, I have this in my cupboard.

Because of Molly Brown, I find it impossible to throw away a fortune cookie. Because what if one of them says, "you will discover a seam of ore" or "hey dumbass - you left your wallet in the stove." I don't feel obligated at all to EAT them. Or even read them. But I keep them. Which comes in handy when there's nothing for school lunches or the trick-or-treat basket runs dry, but otherwise, even I gotta admit it's really, really weird.

Sit on it.

2009-08-22T07:39:00.007-06:00

This summer we spent days upon days on youth baseball fields, which means one thing: PortaPotties. Well, it means all kinds of things actually. Including feet sunburned with sandal patterns, raw tongues from sunflower seed overindulgence, children in doubleknit polyester...but also: PortaPotties.

PortaPotties that are not regularly maintained, emptied, cleaned out...whatever it is they do to above ground temporary toilet facilities sitting awkwardly and not quite level on old pallets in the middle of a ballpark. And, while I've learned to totally avoid hydration or elimination of such on these days, my friend Anne's little girls are not quite so finely in control of their bodily functions and are forced at least once per game to enter the fiberglass hulls of stench. Their little whimpers of "Momma? I gotta go..." usually come at a really convenient time of the game, like when their brother is up to bat or about to steal home. This is when I offer up a silent prayer thanking the powers that be for male children who can pee pretty much anywhere.

At one such game, Anne sent the older of the girls to the potty ahead of her so she could watch their boy's at-bat with the stern advice: LILY, DON'T TOUCH THE SEAT. Seconds later, she ran to catch up, opened the door and found her freckly-sweet curly haired angel proudly sitting on her hands so her bottom wouldn't be on that icky seat. Her blood-curdling scream nearly stopped the game.

I hearkened back to a Phillips 66 station in New Mexico, circa 1972, where my stunned and horrified mother saw exactly the same thing. We had always been warned to not let our bottoms TOUCH THE SEAT. Stand. Squat. Anything, but there were malicious diseases and terrible consequences to be had should any part of our little backsides came in contact with strange porcelain. Considering all these factors I did what any self respecting five year old would do to keep their bottoms off of something. Sat on my hands. And I'd been doing it for years before I was finally caught.

A question. What disease exactly enters from a non-porous surface through the back of the thigh? What germ is quick enough to stick to your leg and crawl its way up to your nether regions while you pee? We wear shorts on public buses. We wear shorts on amusement park rides. We wear shorts on grody ballpark bleachers and community park picnic tables and tree stumps. Why oh why oh why is it horrible to sit on a toilet seat?

I'll tell you why. Because of the Hover Generation. The very same people who holler at us not to touch the seat are the very reason we cannot. Because of their SHS Technique (Squat, Hover, Spray) we are all forced to do the same. Their paranoia caused by some middle school hygiene class from 1954 has made every public restroom and outhouse in the country disgusting. If men peed all over the seat women would throw fits, write books and call Dr. Phil. But they think nothing of hiking up their skirts around their midsections, blasting urine all over a public place, smoothing their skirts and smiling kindly at the next poor being waiting for the stall.

I would like to propose the following, slightly inspired by Fonzie.

Just sit on it.

Sit the hell down.

All of us.

Every woman out there. Save your thigh muscles for the gym. Relax. Put your bare ass on the seat and pee in the water, friends. It will be liberating. It will be tidy. It will put the creepy wax paper toilet seat cover people out of business. Which is probably an eco-friendly gesture. You'll save the planet and little girls all at the same time.

And we're back.

2009-08-21T13:59:00.003-06:00

After what Blogher Ads purports to be years of inactivity (only three weeks, gah) the LGBG spaceship has finally landed back home. We've experienced a whirlwind trip to Kansas for a baseball tournament for nine-year-olds (and felt really sorry for ourselves until we played the team that drove there from frickin' Canada) we spent a relaxing week by a lake with only one trip to the emergency room, and Big Dude and I were treated to a quick getaway to the hotel where we spent our wedding night...all which means we spent more time in strange beds than our own in August. Which is pretty much like college, only with clean sheets. That's a joke, mom.

This week has been the mad rush for football gear that fits, buying sh'loads of school supplies that will be returned back home in May completely unused except for broken colored pencils, the where-the-hell-is-your-lunchboxing, oh shit you both need haircuts and what? Your shoes don't FIT? Then, mercifully, finally, and with great gusto: the first day of school. Ahhhh.

Seems like if I really was a nice person, a real blogger or someone who really was on top of things, I could've maybe gotten some guest posters to write clever quips about me or tell embarrassing stories of how my skirt got tucked in my pantyhose at Blogher '06, only I've never been to Blogher and I don't wear pantyhose. Or I would have left you all with something better than the turtlevator story to read for lo these past weeks, huh? Well, imagine your surprise, little miss smarty-reader-pants when I tell you that I've been contacted by a major online and television direct marketer who wants to produce and market the TURTLEVATOR (patent pending, registered trademark) as the next big thing since the Shamwow? Imagine my surprise as well. And PETAs. Okay, that didn't happen, but I bet you totally could sell at least of few of them if you put it on right in the middle of the Spongebob "Band Geeks" episode. However, I will say that the Turtlevator (pp & rt), while limited in its ability to provide comfort to aquatic reptiles, is simply dandy for sending up last minute drinks of water at bedtime, DS games, and rolls of toilet paper. And, I am currently working on a prototype with much larger mardi gras beads that will be able to handle laundry baskets full of clean towels.

And when Blogher Ads comes knockin, I'll tell them this ship has sailed, ladies. This ship has sailed.

Left to their own devices, they're somewhat resourceful.

2009-07-28T10:42:00.010-06:00

If I have learned anything in the past twelve years, it is when someone shorter than I am says, "MOM? Do we have any string?" to simply ignore it.

Same goes for duct tape, gun powder or extension cords. This morning, the little dudes were in their rooms for an inordinate amount of time considering they're both scared of being more than four feet from one of us at any given time, so I was growing suspicious. I asked what was up, they claimed to be feeding pet turtles, so I tiptoed away before they remembered they might possibly need me for something.

Moments later, a breathless blonde child appeared behind me at my desk. "MOM? Do we have any string?"

Me: Nope.
Kid: Are you sure? Because we need some.
Me: Sorry, buddy, you used it all up when you whittled the bow that shoots chicken skewers, remember?
Kid: Hmm. How about in your sewing stuff? Do you have yarn or something?
Me: Feeling like knitting?
Kid: Ma-ohm! Just tell me!
Kid #2 from upstairs: MILES! HURRY UP!
Kid: Oh - Gotta go.

At this point, I could've stopped earning a living to go check on them, but since there were no smoke detectors or other immediate sounds of danger, I forgot about it.

Thirty minutes later, I hear giggling and follow it to find the very first TURTLEVATOR, created from paper clips, mardi gras beads and a pipe cleaner. No string required.

Meet Howie, Turtle Astronaut. Safely returned to terra firma and super grateful to have not been sent down the laundry chute.

Respondez sil vous plait. Just not respondez TOUT sil vous plait.

2009-07-24T20:10:00.006-06:00

You know how when you try to delete something Windows pulls all this crap and says, "Really? You really wanna delete that? You sure?" And you're like, "Dude. I pushed delete for a reason."

I contend we need exactly the same function whenever some a-hole pushes REPLY ALL on a group email. For example, when a delightfully enthusiastic mommy tries to let the entire baseball league of 158 players know that her child can, indeed attend the end-of-season BBQ, this little program could pop up and say, "Really, Dumbass? Really? Do you think the other 157 families on this email give a mother-lovin piece of hell that your sweet little Kailey/Kiley/Keifer/Keenly/Whatever is going to attend?"

And then the delightfully enthusiastic mommy could stop to think. And she might think, "Yup. Everyone should know that." And she'll click "Yes."

And then the program could pop up another window that says, "ARE YOU SURE? Because you're totally going to look redorkulous and people will totally make fun of you, possibly on their blog that fives of people read?"

And then the delightfully enthusiastic mommy could say, "Why so many questions? OF COURSE! We're delightfully enthusiastic! People love that about us!"

And then the program could sigh really loudly and let the delightfully enthusiastic mommy type "BARRING INJURY OR BAD WEATHER...WE'LL BE THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" in all caps. With fifteen exclamation points.

And then, sadly, a lone blogger will recreate the fifteen exclamation points. And the false enthusiasm. And pour herself another lemonade vodka. And she will sigh too.

PS - You should probably know that I did not really pay that much attention in French class, so there is a very likely chance that I did not say what I meant to in the title, but oh fricking well, it's a pretty good guess for someone who took French like 25 years ago, so deal with it. I'm German.

Gas up the DeLorean Marty, it was our density.

2009-07-23T10:27:00.006-06:00

You know how in Back to the Future Alex P. Keaton (yes, I know he’s Marty McFly then, but I will always think of him as Alex P. Keaton) has a picture of his present day family, and as he goes back in time and starts messing everything up his family starts disappearing because he is changing the past, thus effectively changing the future? Yeah. That part. Anyway, this weekend I was flipping through an old photo album of stuff from high school and college and saw a picture of me in 1989 with a friend that I did not meet until 2004. I’ll wait while you go back and read that again.

Done? Did you get goosebumps?

Seems I was at a party on February 10, 1989 with my room-mate, we’ll call her “Puddin,” when the party pic guy goes by . Puddin sees her old friend from the dorms, yells, “Shelby Shoeshine, get yo’ ass in this picture!” pulls her and her friend into the picture and there’s a photo of me, Puddin, Shelby Shoeshine and a random chick. A few weeks go by, and one of the fraternity guys that doesn’t even really hang out with us that much and when he does is pretty much an a-hole (Hi Rich!) says he paid for a picture of us all at their last meeting and gives it to us. Random to be sure.

Fast forward 15 years. It’s February 23, 2007. I’m a respectible-ish mommy who hardly ever goes to frat parties anymore. I have two little boys and the younger one goes to school with a nice little girl we’ll call “Bella” because, well, it’s her name. Bella and Miles become really great friends and Bella invites him to her birthday party. The day of the party, I wake up in horrible pain with a burst eardrum. There is goo leaking from my head. Through my ear. It hurts. A lot. The Big Dude is recovering from hernia surgery the day before and cannot stand up except to shuffle to find pain medication and the 11 year old is throwing up. INTO A DRAWER. Filled with Legos, Pokemon cards and now, PUKE. The child has never puked into anywhere reasonable to clean in his life and that day was no exception.

So I take Miles to school with a heat pack stuck to the side of my head to dull the pain of my ear and after medicating the Big Dude and administering a television remote and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition to him, drag the Drawer Puker-inner and myself to the doctor. We sat in the waiting room for approximately two minutes before the freaking SWAT team rushes in announces the building is under lockdown because…are you following along? Because there is a SNIPER IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD. Need more time to review that?

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Yeah. A sniper. In a neighborhood that clever magazine writers like to call “tony.” Tony like the adjective, not the Italian guy. Anyway, we were LOCKED IN THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE FOR THREE HOURS WITH NO FOOD AND MY EAR IS KILLING ME AND THERE ARE NO PAIN KILLERS STRONG ENOUGH AND THE KID WAS STILL PUKING AND WE CANNOT LEAVE BECAUSE WE MIGHT GET SHOT. And I type that in all caps because that is exactly how it felt, that day was in ALL CAPS. And a very bossy 4’10” nurse would not let me look out the window or even move because, well, there was a sniper in all caps out there somewhere. OH, and the battery on my phone died so I couldn’t call work, the husband, no one.

You are kind of wondering about the picture aren’t you? Or did you forget?

I eventually escaped the building (serpentine!) drove the car around, went back in for the puker, used myself as a human shield to get him out (serpentine!) picked up the prescriptions (finally) and made it back home…just in time to pick up the little kid from school where he reminded me that “Mom! Today is Bella’s birthday party!”

Oh yeah. The birthday party. That we haven’t purchased a present for because Mommy was bleeding from her eardrums and being held under lockdown by a SWAT team. That party. I grabbed the kid, swung into a Hallmark, handed him $40 and looked longingly at the unopened vicodin prescription. He returned with a gift bag of goodies and I drove him to the party. I considered kissing him goodbye at the curb but decided against it since I’d never really met Bella’s parents. I entered a peaceful room of three very lovely women chatting who introduced themselves and then made the very big mistake of asking me “How are you?”

And I made the even bigger mistake of truthfully telling them how I was. I told them every detail of my DAY IN ALL CAPS and then I told them that I was sure they all were very nice but I’d really like to leave now because there was a bottle of vicodin and a Jack and Pepsi waiting for me back at the house. And they all looked at each other knowingly, and then my child sympathetically.

All I can say is that it’s a good thing that kid is cool, or they’d probably all have hidden from me for the next few years. More than they did.

Fast forward two more years to me entering a lingerie store where Bella’s mother got to second base with me in a dressing room, I MEAN - expertly fitted me for bras.

Fast forward to this post where I talk about her awesome store and proclaim her Lingerie Barbie even though she’s totally not because she’s a hot tomboy which means she’s actually Barbie’s little sister Skipper.

Fast forward to this week when I found a picture of her and me together in 1989. Twenty frigging years ago, can you believe that shit?

See? Just like Back to the Future. Only backwards. Or something. Everything is the same except for (and, dude - this is creepy) somehow the flux capacitor caused a wrinkle in the space-time continuum, Skipper’s beer has disappeared right out of her hand! Wha? (Or she's preparing for the future by guessing Shelby Shoeshine's cupsize. Not sure.)

-click to embiggen-

“Yes'm, old friends is always best,
‘less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of.”
SARAH ORNE JEWETT (1849-1909)

Imagine how long 100 posts would be if I double spaced them.

2009-07-21T18:30:00.004-06:00

In the past couple of weeks, while I’ve busied myself with youth baseball, house guests, middle school football camp, general chauffering and oh yeah, WORK; a very important anniversary has come and gone. A year and several days ago, I got a wild hair, Googled “free blog hosting” and started typing. With this brilliant witticism I was officially a blogger.

I was not someone who really read blogs. For one thing, it’s a horrible sounding word and I wanted no part of it. Blog. Blogh. Bluh-og. Sounds like a belch after you throw up. But my friend Kara said, “sometimes things you say remind me of Dooce. Don’t you love Dooce?” And I said, “Doo-what HUH?”

For the record, I am not comparing myself to the 26th most influential woman in media, and neither was Kara. I think that it was more that I tend to curse when discussing my children or something. In any case, I sat down one afternoon to see what this Dooce person was all about and thought, “Hey, instead of driving my friends and my family away with my constant rambling – I could write something everyday on the Internet.”

Um yeah. Apparently, I so can NOT write everyday. Not even every week. But that is why fives of people read this and why Blogher emails me every ten days or so to pull their ads that they don’t pay me for anyway, right? If I wrote something pithy everyday then the entire economy would fall apart because everyone would be sitting on their computers laughing instead of working hard and paying their mortgages. Or something like that.

I wasn’t really sure what my blog was going to be in the beginning – a Little Girl with Big Glasses is just how I saw myself most of my life. I've always been more a spectator than a participant. I was a fly on the wall that could make people laugh when I told them how they appeared through my eyes. Or, I could really piss them off. Either way, I amused myself. Also, the name was available, and none of the other things I thought of were. At the time I wasn’t thinking at all of what search engines might think of the name and it never occurred to me at all that I might have a whole legion of visitors who stumble upon me while searching for “little girls” or “hot girls with glasses” and my personal favorite: “little girls with big asses.”. I have to admit, it’s really those folks I write for. As I sit down at my sleek MacBook Pro, I think to myself, “Now. If I was a lonely middle school custodian with repressed issues about my mother and I was in the mood for illegal pictures of underage girls and I found little essays by a plain-looking 42 year old woman INSTEAD, what would capture my attention and keep me reading?” And then I type what I was going to type anyway. Or more often, I just open an excel spreadsheet, and forget the whole thing.

The thing has kind of stayed relatively true to my original intent of observations, essays, rantings, et al. I follow very few, like NONE, of the suggestions for creating a successful blog. I hardly ever have interesting pictures, I don’t let the reader into my personal life all that much, hell - I have an avitar where my picture belongs, I use bad words and made up words. But I entertain myself, Spanxy, a couple of friends from high school and at least two people in Cheyenne, Wyoming, so I guess it’s all good. I probably should have started when my children were toddlers and still smelled so nice that you didn’t want to beat them for waking you up in the middle of the night. They said adorable little things and took nice long naps which would have made for a lot of good material. They were extremely photogenic so I could have had days where I just posted their edible cuteness when I was lacking for words. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

So here I sit, one year later after diving in, and I’m kinda proud that I’ve kept it up this long. I am flattered when someone I didn’t know reads LGBG tells me they do and that they like it. I love the feeling of clicking ‘PUBLISH’ and watching my rambling go live. I hate when two days go by, then five, then eight with no words. It feels like I’m letting myself down.

My friend KC asked me a couple days ago how many posts I’d written. I guessed, Oh, about a hundred? And he said, “Huh. You could’ve written a book by now.”

Hmm.

My high school English teacher once wrote on the side of a paper I’d turned in, “HA! You’re an amusing writer! You may be the next Erma Bombeck!” And then a nice big fat “D- Try to stay on topic. Antigone really shouldn’t be reviewed by Erma Bombeck.” (I took it as a compliment, but would’ve preferred she call me Dave Barry.) I wonder if Erma Bombeck would’ve been writing now if she’d have even bothered to try to write a book? Or would she be another Mommy Blogger, content to post here and there about beans in noses in between loads of laundry? I also wonder if a book of unrelated essays about shit that bothers me is worth the paper it’d be printed on and I realized, that eh, probably not. Also, screw you, English Teacher. I personally would be fascinated by what Erma thinks about Antigone and her beyotchy sister.

I’m considering trying harder, making something more permanent than this. When I read back to this and this and this I can remember what I was doing and thinking and listening to when I wrote it. Well, actually first I think, "Cripes, I am a genius!" THEN I think that other stuff. But I wonder if it lost forever? After Blogger moves it to page two, is it done? Is it even worth saving? What if aliens or pirates or ninjas attack the Internet and delete all my words? If a blogger deletes in the forest did she ever really blog?

So – here’s to a year ahead. I’m not sure what it will be. I'll probably just keep driving people to baseball and football and golf, doing the laundry, buying the groceries, oh yeah going to work, and sneaking in a post or two when I can.

We’ll see. Thanks to the fives of you who’ve been along for the ride. Except for the time that the Ace Young fans attacked me, I for one, have thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

No longer content to blog about blogging, I am now posting about posters.

2009-07-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

So I realize this happened awhile ago, so I’m coming to this party rather late – but Farrah and MJ dying on the same day was weird, huh? Two huge entertainment icons to be sure, but more importantly, two huge POSTER icons.

Remember posters? Not like reproductions or framed art prints. Posters. Like stupid cheap pictures you plastered on your walls to decorate along with fishnets with those glass balls and Greg Brady beads. Do kids even have posters now? My kids have framed stuff on their walls that I put there, because if I hadn’t put stuff there, there would be nothing there but flicked boogers and thrown shoe marks. Pottery Barn Teen and Restoration Hardware have pretty much ruined it for modern parents who can no longer just ignore children’s living spaces – we’re forced to make every room look like either Martha Stewart or Vern Yip just got done with them.

When I was in junior high and high school, EVERYONE had posters. Loads of ‘em. The more you had, the cooler you were. My friend Sheila had posters overlapping posters overlapping TigerBeat pages of Shaun Cassidy and Parker Stevinson and (gag) Scot Baio. I never really understood the Scot Baio thing. He was like a shorter version of Henry Winkler, and seriously? Henry Winkler as a teenage dreamboat? Uh, not working for me.

My friends Dorothy and Tracy had the most anal-y hung posters you would ever see. Whereas I slapped tape across the corners, these guys carefully reinforced the corners with invisible tape, then, after double-checking with a level, measured with a micrometer to exactly insert a pushpin in the precise corner of the tape reinforcement. I skirted the leveling issue by placing all my posters at jaunty angles, as if to say, “Screw authority, man! I hang my posters all crookedy on purpose! Mob rules!”

My best pal Pam had the quintessential poster of the 70s: A kitty hanging helpless by its front legs from a tree branch, her fuzzy little pink belly exposed to the whole world for the whole world’s amusement. What better relaxing sentiment for sleeping quarters? A young animal, inches from death. CUTE! Of course reading the caption “Hang on – Friday’s coming’” only reinforced the outright damned adorability. Decades later, I’d learn that my husband had the exact same poster in his room as a child. Only Pam’s was the nice rolled version, probably from Spencer Gifts, whereas my husband’s was the Scholastic Book Club version, which meant it had fold lines. Okay for kitty posters, not so good for Lynda Carter, which is who my high school boyfriend had on his wall, all decked out in her bitchin’ Wonder Woman costume. He also had Farrah, because every male child born from 1965 to 1983 had Farrah.

My poster inventory, circa 1983, consisted of this gem… preppy Michael, pre-extreme-plastic surgery and wearing Mom-jeans...

Also, a Rocky Horror picture show poster with this image and the caption “Don’t dream it, be it.” I totally had no idea what they meant by that.

I was also the proud owner of a Walter Payton poster made specially for the Post Office to encourage 18 year old boys to register for the draft…I got it at, well, um…the Post Office. Oh hey - is it a federal offense to steal a poster from the Post Office? Because if it is, Pam did it.

Lastly, I had a Prince poster whereon he sprawled across a pile of purple satin sheets, his diminutive bare ass crawling towards the edge as if to say, “Hey! Buy this poster or I’ll stand up!” If I had a daughter who hung it in her room I’d probably accidentally use it as a drop cloth.

So my “artwork” was three black guys (one butt naked) and a transvestite movie. It is so hard to be a rebel in a small town. Without, actually, you know…being rebellious.

I always wanted the poster of the guy sitting in a chair being blown away by his own speakers but never got it. Now THAT is art, man. Seriously, even the lamp was at an angle. So how about you fives of people who read this? What adorned the walls of your teenaged lair? What did you want but never get? Yearning for a "If life hands you lemons..." or an autographed Joni loves Chachi? Still hanging on to a Nagel in your storage unit hopin’ they’ll become popular again? P.S. They won't.

Summertime.

2009-07-07T08:22:00.009-06:00

Apparently, I get one ounce of recognition and then never post again. I always knew that deep down, I was shallow. Heh.

The past few weeks have been filled with little league baseball games, rainouts, playdates, parties, golf tournaments, sleepovers, swim meets and more. I'd like to say it's been SO FUN but none of these activities actually involved me at any level other than chauffeur, so...not so much.

When the boys were very small, I used to expound the virtues of extra curricular activity. I'd say, "We must put them in many sports when they are young! This way, they will be good athletes! They will make their high school teams and I will know that after school they are at practice and not smoking behind a dumpster somewhere!"

At this point, I'm considering purchasing them some Marlboro Lights and dropping them off behind the 7-11. Because really? I know a lot of successful people who were total losers in high school. Okay, more like two people, but that's actually really good odds I'm thinking. Right?

I'm kind of one of them. I wasn't exactly a stoner in elementary school, but I was not in organized sports at age 9. I wasn't on tournament teams that practiced ohmygawd TWICE A DAY. Not because I couldn't make a team...there just wasn't any such damned thing then. In the bustling metropolis (not) where I grew up, summer time activities included:
1. swimming lessons in the morning, Tuesday-Friday mornings.
2. swimming at the pool in the afternoon, Tuesday - Sundays, 1pm to 6pm.
3. riding your bike in circles in between swimming lessons and 1pm.

Mondays sucked.

There was a summer reading program at the aqua metal barn we called a "library," but that was fairly lame since you had to read 8 books to earn one point, and all five points got you was a ticket to storytime, read by the bewigged librarian who didn't ever believe me that I read 8 books a day, oh and it was also closed on Mondays. You'd think in a town of 900 people, they could coordinate to have the stupid library open on the day the pool was closed, but whatever. Maybe the librarian was the pool cleaner.

Actually, there was one other option for little girls. Softball. But I wasn't on the softball team. I remember getting the flyer and running it home, completely psyched to get to play, to get a uniform, to be on a team. My parents didn't agree. For some reason, they didn't want me wearing a tshirt that one of the moms handpainted with the team name: Kuntry Kittens.

Boring summers led me to look forward to school starting - almost as much as I do now. Then it was to have something, ANYTHING, to do. Now, it's just so I can let my kids sleep in. I love seeing them succeed - I love seeing them grinning with big trophies and cute uniforms and All Star caps with their names embroidered on them. I love home runs and double plays and sliding in for the winning run. But just once, I'd like to hear them whine that they're bored. I'd like them stay out past dark finding worms or playing tag with the neighbor kids without worrying they have to be up early the next day. I'd like them to have time to get in trouble. I'd like to let them be kids.

I'd like to thank the academy.

2009-06-17T19:05:00.006-06:00

Holy catfish you guys. Look what I got yesterday.

This is the first time my writing has been recognized since that time Highlights Magazine printed my stirring poem "A Dandelion" back when I really truly was a little girl with big glasses. But I was published, baby. And every kid who went to the dentist in April 1973 knew about it.

This award, however, comes from the very talented and entertaining Heather over at Heatherty Featherty. Heather has not only said very nice things about me, I am pretty sure she actually believes them. I know, right? Heather has two cute little boys but in a crazy twist of fate, makes totally adorable girl clothes. And, she has perfect grammar. But probably the most amazing thing about her is that she is THE ONLY COOL HEATHER I've ever met. So I think that possibly her name is a big mistake or somehow she was switched at the hospital with an evil baby who is now wreaking havoc everywhere being named something perfectly innocent like "Susie" or "Nancy" or, I don't know, "Penny."

Just like Miss America, this award does not come without responsibility. I have been charged with granting it to others who strive daily to change the world for the better, one little blog post at a time. Therefore, I don my tiara and hereby sprinkle pixie dust and virtual awards on the following blogs that amuse me:

Funny in the 'Hood - Geezopizza, I am pretty sure Tracey and I were either separated at birth or lived parallel lives in the 80s. She is high-larious and has some wacky neighbors that make you want to drive to Iowa just so's you can slap 'em. Her "Friday Flashback" is always awesome, and I'm thinking of stealing the concept, so when you see me do it, pretend like I made it up, k?

Yellow Trash Diaries - This woman certainly doesn't need me to help boost her ratings. She's a funny writer and last week had a contest with Libby for followers, and is now the hottest thing on the Internet. Well, the hottest adopted Korean blogger who lives in the South anyway, and I think that is saying A LOT. She's honest and funny and funny and honest. I'm not quite through reading every word she's ever typed, but almost. I think if she lived next door, we'd have a bunch of fun ridiculing others together.

So - you guys, pass it on if you can. Thanks for entertaining me when I should be writing genius copy and reconciling advertising invoices. And thanks, Heather, for deep down being a Susie. I'll try not to get a big head. I wouldn't want to outgrow the tiara.

Dogs don't even LIKE mimosas.

2009-06-17T06:38:00.009-06:00

So, apparently having a twelve-year-old is so traumatizing you can't write a blog post for at least two weeks. Or, maybe it was seeing this that sent me screaming into a closet scared of the planet Earth and all humanoid creatures who inhabit it:I know what you're thinking. "A cute widdle pink bike trailer?" Let me clarify. This is not a trailer for putting your darling daughters with Shirley Temple curls in and pulling them down a flower-lined pathway whilst they eat ice cream cones and think happy thoughts. I saw this trailer, being pulled by this bike...The woman driving said bike was wearing, of course, pink biking shorts, pink biking jersey and a pink helmet. Still not enough to cause the trauma I experienced. Stupid? Yes. Matchy? You bet. Ridicilous get-up for a woman pushing 60? Oh yeah. But the kicker, the thing that made me question EVERYTHING in life was what was in the trailer. Her grandchildren? Groceries? Nope. This. This was in her peptopink trailer:

On a leopard print doggie bed. With that exact skirty fruity haircut. Lest you think the poor little creature was disabled in someway, which crossed my mind after I shook off the creeps from seeing Grandma bend over in those shorts, he wasn't. He had a PINK leash which she attached on his PINK bandana and sashayed him down the sidewalk that she parked her 15-foot long contraption in the middle of.

Did I mention we were at a dog park? No? That is because we were NOT at a dog park. We were at a GOLF COURSE. Granted, it wasn't exactly the country club, just a city course, but really? You not only own all this crap to take your dog FOR A BIKE RIDE, you then take him to SUNDAY BRUNCH AT THE GOLF COURSE?

While Rizzo was certainly the most flamboyant, I will add that her and little Fluffy were not the first dogs to attend Sunday Brunch at the Golf Course...we had already been joined by a 150-pound drooling mastiff and a sprite Springer Spaniel who was so Well Behaved that his owner didn't even bother to leash him. At the golf course. At brunch. Good boy!

What. The. Hell. It's gone too far, people. Is it just laid-back Colorado where were take our dogs everywhere? You cannot walk through a Home Depot without having your crotch sniffed. The dudes have come home with dog poop on their shoes from inside the Bass Pro Shop. I've seen giggly twenty-somethings shopping for GROCERIES with a labrador puppy in their cart. And now we take them to brunch. At a golf course. In a pink fricking trailer, because everyone knows, dogs hate to walk. I totally blame PetSmart for giving people the idea that dogs should go shopping. Or maybe Paris Hilton. Yeah, let's blame Paris Hilton, too.

I understand that you love your pets, people. Stay home with them, then. Take them to a park or a lake. Take them on a hike in the mountains! They're just to the west a few minutes. Sure, not as many people will see all your Interesting Canine Gear and Matching Outfits, but I promise you'll have a nice time, and you can put pictures on your Facebook page so everyone will still know that YOU and YOU ALONE are clever enough to own a dog and put a bandana on it.

Look what I made.

2009-06-03T10:37:00.005-06:00

On June 3, 1997, I lay in a hospital bed slurping orange popsicles, talking to my buddy Scott and Big Dude, my husband of exactly ten months. I had been given several large doses of something or other that would insure that before the day ended, I would have a baby boy. He was induced because my sister had just given birth to a toddler a few months prior, and I had whined to my doctor to not let me gestate another minute lest the creature inside outgrow me.

He was born exactly on his due date. Little did I know, he would continue to be that predictable and reliable for the next twelve years.

As most mothers, I could write for hours about this child, and I have elsewhere. Today though, I will just say that for all the dumb mistakes I've made in life, and all the silly things I have done...you, Calvin, are the best thing I have ever created or influenced. I give Daddy most of the credit, but you deserve the highest praise for consistently being an outstanding individual. You are a poet, an artist, an athlete, a friend. You are kind, thoughtful, genuine, creative, honest and funny as hell. Your big round head contains only the purest of thought, your heart is that of a lion. Today, at twelve years old, you are one inch shorter than me, and two pounds lighter. Your huge shoes dwarf mine - which really bugs me, because I was hoping to buy you a bunch of really cool boots while we wore the same size and I didn't because we were only the same size for about fifteen minutes.

I love that you're still scared of the dark. I love that you have the vocabulary of a college English professor, but you can't spell "when." I love that the day before the first day of middle school you spent the day playing in a big box like my little boy. I love that you'll learn Rick Springfield songs on your guitar just for me. I love that you are shaped like my Daddy so I get to be reminded of him everyday. I love that you cream kids on the football field, and then reach over and pick them up and make sure they're okay. I love that you are loved by so many people and that your best friend is 67 years old. I love that you don't need braces.

You are the best person I've ever met, and I hope someday to be just like you.

Love, Mom.

Breaking and Entering, only no Entering.

2009-05-29T11:28:00.003-06:00

Late Wednesday night, or rather, very early Thursday morning, I was awakened from much needed slumber by the crashing of glass downstairs. I ignored it and rolled over, always happy to reintroduce a cheek to a cool spot on the pillow. Seconds later, I was whacked in the arm by a 6’1” person who hissed sleepily, “What whazzat?”

However. I knew full-well what it was. A burglar had crashed through our patio door and was banging around in the kitchen looking for money, keys, laptops, crack. So I said, “I dunno” and went back to sleep. More rummaging around downstairs. More hissing from the Dude. “It sounded like breaking glass!” I replied calmly so as not to alert him, “Sounded more like plastic to me.” Because that’s better.

The large person I share a bed with harrumphed and went to the bathroom. I considered all possible scenarios, and then decided that it was probably the pony-sized hunting dog scavenging countertops for a bite of something – anything – to eat. When you are 110 pounds of sniffing machine, you must constantly be on the prowl for crumbs. Apparently. I heard lots of labradork clickity clicking steps on the hardwood below which only confirmed my suspicions.

While generally I am not above grabbing a 9-iron and investigating strange noises, this particular night I reasoned that it was the boy’s turn for the following reasons.
1. He was already up.
2. I had to get up at very early the next morning.
3. It was probably the dumb dog anyway.
4. I was extremely comfortable.
So when he exited the restroom I asked him in my very sleepiest voice ever if he’d please go see what it was his dog was up to. There was more harrumphing, but he hiked up his boxers and made the trek downstairs.

Four seconds after he left, I realized that was perhaps not a good idea for the following reasons.
1. What if it wasn’t the dog?
2. He’s not holding a bat or a phone or a golf club or anything
3. How can he fight off a bad guy without his glasses?
4. Geez, woman, have you ever SEEN a horror movie? NEVER split up! NEVER send one member of the party off to the jaws of the monster.

Obviously, then, there was someone evil in our house. I heard the dog walking because the dog was following him around begging, because really? Labradors are not exactly guard dogs. This is when I heard MORE breaking glass. More doggy toenail clicking. And then, a sound that honestly sent ice water through my warm, sleepy veins.

Shoe steps.

Followed by the back door opening and closing.

And more shoe steps.

And the husband didn’t come back. And then he didn’t come back some more.

So. This is how it all ends, huh? Me, trapped on the second story with the kids while our protector and provider lays dying on the kitchen floor. I bet he struggled. I bet he tried to kick their asses. But a chloroform soaked dishtowel and a broken beer bottle splitting your jugular will take down any man, no matter how strong or determined. I think he said he wanted to be cremated, not buried…I guess I should sprinkle his ashes in his favorite hunting places? Or maybe take them to Alaska. He always wanted to go there and we hadn’t done it. Oh the boys, how will they turn out without a father? I’m going to be a shitty single mom – I have no patience and I really enjoy the quiet created by video games. They'll probably grow their hair too long and date cheap women all because their father was violently murdered in their kitchen. And how will I ever sell this house? It'll be on the news, you know. And everyone will drive by slowly saying, "that's the house where..."

But I didn’t have time to grieve, I had to think of the children. There would be plenty of time for sorrow while I (stood in line at the bank with the life insurance check) saved their lives. I began formulating a plan to quietly get the children out of their bedroom windows and onto the garage roof. Then, I would shimmer down a gutter, break into a basement window, pry open the gunsafe, load a .12 gauge and come back up the kitchen steps and show these mo-fo’s who’s boss. Or I could call the police. Either one. Yeah, actually, I could call the police from the phone by the bed, that’d be good, too.

But you know what? No. Dammit, I wasn’t going to let some hoodlum all jacked up on herion or Ritalin or Miller Lite mess up MY kitchen. Broken glass AND blood? That’s bullshit, man. The cleaning lady won’t be here for two days. I decided to defend my man and my turf. This bastard was going down before he got a chance to find my secret stash of Mexican vanilla.

I donned my glasses and grabbed a miniature World Series commemorative bat from the kid's room. I was going to show that clown what “Rocktober” really meant. I tippy-toed downstairs only to find all the lights on and the Big Dude wearing boxers and Birkenstock clogs and wielding a broom. The kitchen floor shimmered with bits of broken glass. From a drinking glass. That had been on the counter until the pony-sized dog decided there was something behind it that he wanted. Namely, a bowl of bulldog nuggets that we have to keep on the counter overnight for the sole reason that if we don't, labradorks gobble it up.

I put down the bat, put on flip flops and spent the next hour with wet paper towels covering every inch of the kitchen floor.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Which, of course, meant that I had Crystal Gayle stuck in my head, because it is impossible to be awake at three o’clock in the morning and not think to yourself, “…and it looks like it’s gonna be another sleepless night…” and then I was wondering if Crystal Gayle was on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor cleaning up glass shards, would she pile her five feet of hair on the top of her head and would it be hard to balance up there, or would she just let it drag all over, effectively assisting in picking up the glass? And then I decided I should just STAY up because, now it was FOUR o’clock in the morning, and why not.

Your weekly dose o' bulldog.

2009-05-28T06:03:00.004-06:00

For you unfortunate types who do not have a flat-faced, furry, snorting cinder block of a pet in your homes:
"Glove? What glove? Nope. Haven't seen any gloves around here.
Please turn around now lady and go away. Put down the
camera, lady. No pictures, please. Wait. You're
not going to tell MyBestFriendEver that I ate his glove are ya?
Because I totally didn't. I'm pretty sure it was a Labradork."

Secret Shopper.

2009-05-27T06:00:00.000-06:00

Men seem to have a running joke about being sent to the store for feminine products. I realize that there’s probably lots of women who do send their guys off for products specifically never designed for a man to use, and plenty of men who probably don’t even mind fetching them up in the name of love or fear, but I’ve never sent my husband to the store for ground beef, let alone personal items. I find it somewhat horrifying to purchase certain things for myself, and I just wouldn’t want to put anyone else through that – especially considering that even though we live in a major city, we’re in a somewhat smallish community where you see the same people everyday at the school, or the drugstore or the SuperTarget and I can’t imagine sending the Big Dude off for say, let’s call it “MASCARA” and him running into my boss or the neighbor who would either think, “Wow, he’s whipped,” or “no wonder she was such a bitch today” or “think he cross-dresses?”

Since I’ve done personal type shopping for myself all these years, I’m very good at buying items larger than the “MASCARA” first, then dropping the “MASCARA” down in between them, then quickly finding something larger to put on top and then waiting in the only line that doesn’t have a pimply faced twenty-three year old checker guy and hopefully no one I know behind me. All that said, my husband could care less about sending me off for 18-pack of cheap grocery store beer or his newest beverage of choice: SlimFast. I’ve gotten used to the looks of pity and “oh, poor thing” that I get when I purchase a big ol’ box of the grocery-store strength Silver Bullets, but I really cannot take the baggage that goes along with the SlimFast.

The Big Dude is IN SHAPE. He has like 3.5% body fat. He belongs to a gym and goes to it. Every day. And then, after he gets home from the gym, he goes running. He does not need diet shakes. The only reason he’s buying these things is because he likes them for breakfast. They’ve got protein and calcium and vitamins and all those other things healthy people like. Sure, there’s a bunch of sugar, but dude, when you work out twice a day, who really cares? You could melt a King-size Snickers in your coffee and not feel it. Which is why, if HE bought 8 SlimFast shakes no one would give a second glance. In fact, it would probably be an excellent testimony to SlimFast. He could load up his cart, walk around the store and within minutes, they’d be sold out. Everyone in there would be all, “Dude. Those things WORK. Which aisle, man? What’s yummier, French Vanilla or Strawberry Dream?”

BUT. When a normal sized person who does not work out twice a day and in fact maybe works out twice a week in a good week and could probably stand to firm up a little bit around the mid-section walks around with a cart full of diet shakes…it’s embarrassing. People look into my cart, see 20 cans of beer, 8 cans of SlimFast and shake their head at me. They’re instantly sizing up everything on the top level of the cart. “Oh, cinnamon rolls and ham, huh Fatass? Bet you parked as close as you could to save energy to get to your precious cookie dough, right? It’s about choices, Tubby, and you’re making the wrong ones.”

I’ve been doubling up on my fruit and vegetable purchases just to hide the kids’ pudding and avoid the scorn of my fellow shoppers. Last night as I raced through the aisles I had to avoid not one but TWO male neighbors who were also shopping. Because if they saw I had them, my only choices would have been to sheepishly push a box of super size “MASCARA” over the SlimFast or sell out the Dude. What I don’t do for that man.