Dancing for Jackson

Last night I went to the Mr. Thunder Pageant with D at her high school. This is not like the Thunder Down Under, which would be very wrong since there were teenage boys involved. It wasn't dirty or sexy, but it was silly, goofy and, at times, touching.

There were 12 senior boys participating in the pageant with the purpose of raising money for Jackson, this year's Sparrow Club beneficiary (more on Jackson later). The evening's entertainment consisted of typical "beauty contest" events - sportswear, talent and formal attire with interview. Only with a twist, because these are teenage boys we are talking about. Sportswear meant putting on the uniform for whatever sport they compete in. For one boy this meant a fluffy, pink polka-dotted robe that revealed a neon pink leopard-print speedo underneath. My retinas pretty much have that image burned into them. It's not pretty.

The talent portion meant anything from a fake display of Guitar Hero skill (played to a YouTube video) to a Justin Bieber impersonation to a father/son duet to a stand-up comedian (who was really funny - just deadpanned it perfectly) to a self-choreographed dance. My favorite was the one-man band. This kid rocked. He played piano, bass guitar, acoustic guitar, drums, trumpet and French horn to a piece he composed himself. It was beautiful.

The teenage girls who emceed the event put together a wake-up video of each of the boys. They woke the contestants up at 5 a.m. and asked them questions like "What kind of mythical creature would you like to be?" and "If you were on a deserted island, which contestant would you eat first?" These were grumpy faces only a mother could love, grunting and hiding under their sheets. My favorite answer to the mythical creature question came from the single gay contestant. "I'd be a fairy because I'm already halfway there."

The funniest answer during the interviews was in response to the question, "What is beauty to you?" This was a boy after my own heart - "It would be really beautiful if everyone in the world stopped wearing crocs." The most touching answer came from the gay student. He claimed that his twin sister is his hero because she has been through it "all" with him. For a teen, this seems flippant. What hardships have these mostly-privileged teens faced in their young lives? But he was very open and candid talking about coming out and how his sister has always accepted and supported him. It was a moment of bravery.

However, the tears came for me in the beginning of the show. Each boy was introduced with a video of pictures from infancy through today and these were accompanied by blurbs about them that their parents wrote. I saw them as silly, goofy, show-off kids. Which they are. But their parents saw them as loving, kind, compassionate, generous people, young men that they are proud of and that they love. Which they also are. So I sat there and tried my best to wipe my eyes discreetly, because I was surrounded by a bunch of other teenagers who might not have been so nice. They can smell fear, you know.

And now the real reason that we were all there. For Jackson. Jackson is a little boy who just turned one. In his tiny little life he has had to endure six surgeries and over 80 days in the hospital. He has a condition I can't pronounce or remember but it prohibits his body from absorbing nutrients. He is on IV nutrition for 16 hours a day, which puts him at constant risk of infection. Jackson was present last night with his parents, his mom carrying his backpack of fluids, tubes connected to his belly. He's adorable. He's a perfect baby who doesn't deserve the restrictions his body has placed on him. His mom said it's easy to forget how sick he is because he is always so happy. But he is sick. He's very sick.

At the end of the evening, shortly before the Mr. Thunder winner was revealed, it was announced that as of last night, $41,000 has been raised to help Jackson and his family with their ongoing medical costs and care. Times are still tough for a lot of people, which makes this amount so significant.

I was talking to a friend about the pageant and fundraising efforts. She's a teacher and this wasn't her first time at the rodeo. She, rightfully, has a certain cynicism towards the whole thing. I get that. Kids do act dumb, some might not have really taken it seriously. But there's no denying that they did a Good Thing. I'm okay with teenagers making fools of themselves if this is the result. I know why their parents are proud of them. I would be too.

I'm sure Jackson's family would be more than willing to accept ongoing donations, but I couldn't find any contact information to give you. I suggest calling Summit High School as someone there is bound to be able to help you if you want to help Jackson.

Wedding Bliss

Thirty years ago I was fascinated by a wedding and a princess. Charles and Diana's nuptials were the most romantic event in my young life. I ate up everything I could about their courtship. I went camping at the beach with my best friend and her family and we convinced her parents to let us watch the TV movie that reenacted their romance while eating s'mores. Miraculously there was a TV in the tent and we swooned and giggled with mouthfuls of marshmallows.

Mostly, though, I was in love with Diana. Charles was the prince, but he was comparatively old, and to be honest, a doofus. She was beautiful; she glowed. I wanted my hair cut like hers. I desperately wanted a copy of that red sweater she wore with the single black sheep. I even loved her nickname, Shy Di, because I was painfully shy at that age. She made shyness exquisitely charming.

My parents couldn't have been less interested in the royal wedding, but thankfully tolerated my infatuation. The only time I was ever allowed to watch television in their bedroom was to view the wedding as it was broadcast live. I was alone, but it was my own Cinderella moment. It was like a dream, a real-life fairy tale. I had never witnessed anything so enchanting - the yards and yards of her gown as she floated down the aisle, the grandeur of the ceremony, the couple waving at the cheering crowds of onlookers from the carriage that whisked them away from the church, that awkward kiss on the palace balcony.

We didn't yet know how devastatingly unhappily this marriage would end. The truths that were revealed were ugly and sad, but they never tarnished my love for Diana. When she died, I cried for a week. I watched her funeral and my heart broke seeing her two young sons following the casket, topped with white flowers and a card simply labeled, "Mummy".

And now her oldest son is getting married. "Wills" is the future king of England with his mother's smile. Will I be watching this wedding? Oh, will I!!!

I have scoured the internet for details of this wedding to Kate ever since their engagement was announced. I watched the engagement interview, carefully noting how they look at each other, how he talks about her respectfully and with love. I want this marriage to last. I don't know why it matters to me, it just does. It's as if Diana's love for her son should live on in his happiness, that her early influence will have taught him how to love someone in a way that she wasn't.

What will really matter in less than two weeks now is the glamorous celebration that will take place at 4 a.m. my time and yes, I will be awake. JW invited me to watch it with her. We contemplated a party and I wanted to send out invitations if only to get the "Hell NO! Are you crazy?" responses. But she thought people might decide to start showing up around 8 a.m. and that just isn't right. Only those awake from the beginning get to enjoy the champagne. I may be drunk by 6, but I will have earned it.

Here's the best part. We will be wearing pajamas after deciding to forgo the fancy hats and dresses. However, I will be wearing my veil and JW has created the most delicious pink taffeta-tiara confection. The menu has been planned to honor the bride and groom - tea sandwiches with cucumbers and smoked salmon, scones, eggs, pastry-wrapped sausages, tea and champagne. It will be the second-best thing to being at the actual wedding.

I'm pretty sure that even though Diana won't be there, she will be watching.
Cheers!

Daddy's Little Girl

My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship. Or maybe I only have a complicated relationship with him. Different animals.

My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember them ever being happy. As soon as we walked in the door at the end of the day, they were at each other's throats. I would sit quietly on the steps outside the kitchen and wait for my dinner.

The custody battle was long and ugly. I knew how much each parent hated the other. I felt responsible for their feelings and learned how to protect them, answering questions based on who was asking at the time. Secretly, I always wanted to live with my mom but he was given custody first. Most of my return visits were tense to say the least.

After my mom remarried and moved from our home in Texas to California, she continued to fight for me and was finally granted custody. I was six, halfway through first grade.

I saw my dad for the last time when I turned seven. He made the drive to California to pick me up for a summer vacation. I don't even remember where we went. Camping. Somewhere. I didn't know when he took me back home that it was the last time. I was just happy to be sleeping in my own bed again.

Then the phone calls stopped. No more birthday cards, no Christmas gifts. There was never any child support. I'm sure Mom was relieved. Since I don't remember having my own feelings, I can only assume I replicated her relief. Dad became my "sperm-donor" at some point because I had a new dad. Life went on in California.

When I was 24, living in Oregon and married, we found out he was looking for me. He had hired a private detective, some stupid woman who called Mom's house on a regular basis claiming to be a college friend of mine. The last straw was my dad showing up at my grandparent's house unannounced and wanting to show them every picture of me he had, oblivious to the fact that his presence was desperately unwanted.

I finally called him. I wasn't so nervous as angry. Angry that he had taken so long. That he had done it this way. I was also fiercely protective of my family. My grandparents were being dragged into the drama and my mom was beside herself with anger. Livid with hatred.

That was the first call, it ended up not being the last. He asked to see me; I hesitated for months and then acquiesced. Out of curiosity? I'm not sure. That first visit was horribly uncomfortable. He was like a stranger, but a stranger that I knew. Mostly I felt like he didn't know me, he could only think of me as the seven-year-old he saw last.

It's been like that ever since. I've been angry with him for being gone. Or coming back. They're sort of mixed up together. I sent a few hostile letters at first. I didn't know if I even wanted to keep him in my life, let alone how to fit him in. He clearly wanted to be a daddy and I was past that point and had been for a long time. I needed a daddy when it was Christmas, when I got braces, learned to drive, went to prom, graduated from high school and then college. I needed my daddy to give me away at my wedding. My dad was there, but not my daddy.

When my daughter was born I felt obligated to allow him into my life. I wasn't just making decisions for myself anymore. I felt she had a right to know who her grandfather is and form her own decisions about her feelings. Of course I forgot that she takes her cue from me and won't love him on her own. She is the second generation now that won't love someone without the permission to do so.

People have said, "At least he tries." "At least he is here now." Parent/child relationships don't work that way. Seventeen years is a length of time that "at least" doesn't cover. It's not superficial, not a surface feeling. I was a child. As a parent, I would never turn my back on my daughter. Ever. It isn't even physically possible for me. He has his reasons, his excuses, whatever he tells himself so he can sleep at night. But how does the eight-year-old child understand why her father is gone? Did he stop loving her? Was he tired of her? Does he love other kids now? Is he even still alive?

He has now been back for almost as long as he was gone. He won't let me push him away. He's the first person to offer help when I need it. Even I can't ignore that anymore. He's remarried and I adore my stepmom, even though I rejected her at first too. She helps to bridge a lot of the weirdness between us. She's a buffer and I think she knows it and doesn't mind in the least. I finally call them "my parents" and it doesn't feel strained. A year ago I absolutely refused to go visit him; this year I happily accepted his invitation.

What changed? I've lost a lot of my family. There is too much distance between most of us, both physical and emotional. I've lost important relationships that I never wanted to give up. I suppose I'm just taking family where I can get it these days. He genuinely wants to be a part of my life and it just gets harder to try to turn that down. It doesn't show up every day.

At my last book club, I was asked what connects me to my dad. My first answer was "guilt". Because for a long time it was. I didn't want to have regrets later. I didn't want to be the reason I didn't have a dad. Also, selfishly, it let me off the hook so that I could continue blaming him, I could have a scapegoat. I could be self-righteous and absolved when he left again because I did my part.

It might be more than that now. And maybe it's just time. Finally.

Nine Weeks

That is nine weeks as in nine weeks of unemployed boredom. Not 9 1/2 weeks of tantalizing, honey-covered sex. Guess which one I'd rather have?

I realize it's been a while since I've given an update on my thrilling life of No Job, but really, there's no point. Aside from my little jaunt to Vegas, every week is the same. I sleep in, I complain about the weather, think a lot about eating, play online, drive the kid around and wait by the phone. Or email, as it seems to be in the technical world.

This week was only slightly different because this will be my first month being solely dependent on my unemployment "benefits". The severance was used last month to get caught up on bills so now I will feel the full weight of not having a regular paycheck. I woke up in a panic attack the other morning when I realized this. I have trouble breathing if I think about it for very long, so I try not to think about it.

I switched to a more affordable form of my antidepressant. Generic Celexa is not my beloved Lexapro. I feel like I'm on nothing at all. Hence the panic attacks, the crying myself to sleep at night and lacking the energy to clean my house. Forget about working out. Excuses come easily in a depressed state.

Here's the real news. It's time for a change. A big one. I'm in a rut, I'm tired of complaining and waiting for things to happen to me. Time to make things happen for me. I've started applying for jobs out of state, in warmer states. It seems like an impossible task; there is a lot to coordinate with D and her activities and goals and well-being. But I think it's time. My family isn't here, my relationship ended, the job is gone. If the universe is trying to send me a message, I also expect it to cooperate with my efforts.

Austin is at the top of my list. Is it crazy to move somewhere I've never been before? Does it count that I lived in Dallas until I was six? I've been doing my research. It's a top 10 city in the country for dogs and dating. Hopefully the two aren't related. There are numerous ballet schools plus one really great academy. Music, food, art, warmth, Life. There are even celebrity bats, what's not to like? The only negative attribute I ever hear is that it can be hot and humid. Are you kidding me? I'd willingly trade a couple of months of scorching mugginess over nine months of cold, gray, rainy, snowy oppressive skies.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, find me a job and pay for my move. I'll invite you to my housewarming party. Come on, it's a fair trade.

Okay. You're caught up. I did something productive today. Go back to your breakfasts and coffee. I'm going to go back to teaching the dog to play hide and seek.

Church, Naked Midgets and Oysters

For my seventh week of unemployment, I decided to go to Las Vegas. D had spring break, the weather here was shit as usual for Central Oregon spring and my dad sprung for the plane tickets. Yep, Dad lives in Vegas so we also had a free place to stay and a chauffeur.

My dad and step mom don't drink or gamble so I knew this wasn't going to be my regular idea of Vegas fun, but I wasn't prepared for our first evening's activity. When they told us we were going to church, I balked. Church? In Vegas? I hadn't been to church with my dad since I was probably six and I don't remember the last time I've been since I've lived here. Huh. Well, when in Rome, right?

The church wasn't much to look at on the outside and wasn't located in the fancy part of town. The inside, though, had its own tiny charm. Best of all? Real pews! I haven't seen real, wooden pews in years.

The people were the real surprise. They had all heard of me; it was like I was a celebrity. I shook more hands than I could count and everyone was so warm and welcoming and friendly. My dad would start to introduce me and they'd say "yes, of course!" I was taken aback when one very sweet old man named Claude said he's been praying for me and it was nice to put a face with the prayer. Apparently they were all aware of my unemployment situation and I was unknowingly a part of their regular prayer requests. It was oddly comforting.

The sermon was simple, and appropriately fitting for me at the time. The pastor talked about anticipation and expectations and being open to more positivity and joy. It was just what I needed to hear.

As we left, my dad introduced me to more people, including a man named Napoleon and a Mr. Berry, both black men, one of which he goes fishing with. This was what touched me the most, how close he was to each person, no matter what color they were. This is a man who called my step dad the "n-word" when I was a small child just because his hair was curly. But I wasn't seeing the same person now. He was so accepting and open with everyone and told me that these people are his family. And he meant it.

I went to bed that night feeling like I had been exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment. I fell asleep feeling Gratitude.

The next two days were spent on the strip. I hadn't told D much about what it was like so that she'd be surprised. She's so my child. She loved the casinos - the lights, the sounds, the smells (minus the cigarette smoke). We shopped, we ate, we walked miles and miles until I thought my feet would fall off. We took picture after picture of everything, even the lion that peed. As it peed.

I think the part that amused her the most was anything to do with sex. And there is plenty of that in Vegas. She giggled at Hooters, snickered at Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, took a photograph of a sign that said "Even our condiments are sexy". She even began to imitate the countless peddlers on the street handing out their "porn". The real highlight was when one of them asked my dad and step mom, "Hey, you guys into naked midgets?" It was probably cruel to laugh, but I couldn't help it. I finally accepted some of the "porn cards" so that we can add them to a scrapbook.

Our last day we went to Hoover Dam. D was not pleased. She was bored out of her skull and didn't even hide it well. "I don't want to see stupid sights, I want to see a mall." Grampa made up for it by taking her to a mall and buying her shoes. Spoiled much?

At dinner that night I met my stepsister. It's so weird to say that. I didn't even have a step mom for most of my life and now I find out I have a stepsister! And she's cool! And she lives in Hawaii!! I think we are going to be bff's.

Leaving was hard. I knew that I was going to come back to cold and snow. In the car on the way home there was a commercial for laser bowling. D scoffed, saying, "That's what Bend has to offer? Bowling?" Yeah, coming back to reality was a hard landing.

Except that night there was a send-off party for those of us that were laid off with former co-workers. I expected a handful of the usual regulars but there were at least 20 people there. My friends. And my friends had missed me.

The next night some girlfriends and I went out for oysters and champagne. This was certainly not in my budget but it was worth every delicious, decadent bite and every moment of laughter and conversation. For the second time in a week, I was just where I needed to be.

I gained a lot this week. New family, deeper friendships and priceless time with my bugabooga. Hey, if this is what unemployment is like, I'll take it.

Open Letter to the Jerk in the White Car

Dear Fuckpuppet,

Remember me? We met shortly after 6:00 last Friday night? You know, the roundabout by Ray's and Safeway. I was in the car in front of you that you rear-ended. Oh, that's right. We didn't actually meet. Why not? Because you. drove. off. Like an asshole. Seriously. Who rear-ends someone and then just drives away? Dude, I hit a Porsche and stopped to make sure I didn't do any damage. Then again, I don't have shitty karma now. Not like you do.

I would like to thank you. But it's only a tiny little thank you. Because of you, I had the best massage of my life this week. It almost makes up for the headaches and stiff neck and back that I've had all week. Or the calls I've had to make to my insurance company because this really should be coming out of your insurance. If you have any.

Yeah, good luck with that karma thing.

Insincerely,
Good Karma Seeker

Concrete is Really Hard. Who Knew?

My friend ML invited me to her gym this morning. Despite the early time (9:00 is early for the unemployed), I accepted her invitation. I wasn't so gung-ho when the alarm went off, but I told myself I'd be glad I went. Yeah, right. I should know better than to listen to myself.

When I showed up with my bottle of water, ML remarked how smart I am. Umm... okay. She suggested I warm up on the treadmill because once the class starts, they "hit it hard."

Except at first it wasn't. Jog up and down the gym, woo hoo. Then run sideways. Oh, look at me! Look how fast and energetic I am! Oh no, don't look at me falling! Yes, I tripped over my own feet and fell on my knee. On the concrete floor. Audibly. Because I'm clumsy. I get asked how I can walk in four-inch heels. It's easy people, I'm walking. Walking is the key word here, not running in odd foot patterns.

It hurt. I've got a nice bruised scrape. It hurt for the rest of the workout. The rest of the workout hurt. I thought I would either pass out or throw up. Or puke while passed out, that would be super pretty.

I don't think I'll be mobile at all tomorrow. If it's not my knee, it will be my butt. Or my abs. Or maybe my back. I'm not sure what got the most abuse, as it was more of an all-over hurt while it was happening.

ML is crazy. She does this four times a week and is about 20 years older than me. She was my role model before, now she is my freaking hero.

Even if I'm cursing her tomorrow. Her and the concrete. And the inventor of concrete.

Jobless Loser Week 4

Alright, so the week isn't over quite yet, but I'm going to go ahead and call it. I was productive enough to start my weekend now.

I had an interview Monday morning. It was a phone interview so I wore my pajamas. The downside to wearing your pajamas? It feels like you're wearing your pajamas. They lulled me into a false sense of security and when I actually started answering questions, I felt too fuzzy-headed to speak intelligently. I've spent the rest of the week second-guessing every sentence. Damn it.

Wednesday was another interview with a different company. I promised not to blog about them, but I will say that it was my second coffee interview. At first I thought it was kinda weird, having an interview in public with beverages, but I think I've decided I like it. You know some research person came up with the idea and then recommended it to the human resources world. Neutral turf, casual atmosphere, puts people at ease. Come to think of it, it was probably a Starbucks employee and they got paid a gazillion dollars for being so brilliant. I need to come up with an idea like that. If I was a gazillionaire (Really, spell check? Gazillion is a word but gazillionaire isn't?), I wouldn't have to go on any more interviews. At coffee or in my pajamas.

Oh, how about the martini interview? Of course most people would blow that one. Not everyone gets more charming after a martini or two. Most people just turn into idiots. But then that would eliminate the candidates pretty quickly too. Separate the idiots from the talent! I totally need to copyright this idea...

The rest of the week was fairly uneventful. Most of it. I did have this odd little nighttime quirk that freaked me out. You know how in the horror movies the protagonist gets woken up at the same time every night? Or there's a door that opens at the same time every night? Because that's the time that somebody died and the ghost comes back to do all the creepy stuff that happens forever after that? Yeah, my week was like that. Four nights in a row I woke up at 4 a.m. 4:00 on the dot. Seriously, last night I was going through my e-mail and Facebook to see if a relative had died and I missed it. And then I tried to stay up later to see if I could make myself super tired so I'd sleep through it. When I woke up at 3:38 I was ecstatic! Ha! I beat you, creepy-unknown-thing-that-keeps-waking-me-up-for-no-reason-at-all!! Of course now I'm thinking that I still woke up, within half an hour of 4 a.m., so the creepy, unknown thing is probably just fucking with me now. Great.

Yeah. 40, single, unemployed and haunted. I am living the dream.

Week 3

First, I must report there were no meltdowns this week. There were, however, a couple of days of debilitating, mind-numbing depression. The rejections have started flowing in and my ego has taken a beating. I ended the week emotionally exhausted and vowing my forever-friendship with Lexapro. If it could take me to dinner, I would date it.

There were more layoffs at my recent job and my pal JW was laid off yesterday. At least my misery has good company. I'm thinking of starting an Unemployment Club with pajamas as uniforms. We can start drinking before noon and watch movies all day, pooling our limited funds for pizza delivery.

Stupid, wanting-to-take-over-my-life depression aside, the week wasn't all bad.

I planned a trip for my friends' business. They let me plan one with dogs - bonus! It won't be until June, but I am totally looking forward to it since I'll be hosting. Hanging with dogs all day? Always a good idea.

I saw a movie with some girlfriends (plus a token male), read books, ate ice cream, went to happy hour with former co-workers and watched my dog try to have sex. It's like dog porn, but two dogs who are both fixed have no idea what they are doing. They just know they want to do something, right-freaking-now, damn it! Leave it to my dog to provide the comic relief and gross-out moment of the week. All in one. That takes talent.

Tomorrow I've got a date with a little bald man called Oscar. Yep, the Academy Awards are on, my favorite television Event of the year. (Running a close second is the season finale of Dexter.) I don't even care who wins, I'm just going to enjoy the mini-break from Dreary Town and enjoy the glamour.

I did manage to score an interview Monday morning, so cross those fingers, people. I even agreed to do it at 9 a.m., which is unheard of as a wake-up time these days, but since it's a phone interview I can wear my pajamas.

Tuesday is book club, which is truly my fondest activity of the month. I get to eat good food, visit with wonderful people and feel Smart for a while. It will be like a little oasis of acceptance in the desert of rejection I've been stranded in.

I can do without more dog porn though. Seriously, once is enough to last a lifetime.

Unemployment Week 2

The second week has been harder than the first.

First, the Negatives.

The week started with Valentine's Day. Unemployed and unattached. There was no way this could be a good day. I tried to get the day canceled, but it apparently makes too much money as a fake holiday for anyone to listen to me. Poo.

I went to the dentist, which sucked enough. But halfway through, I realized a song was playing that reminded me of my ex-boyfriend. In fact, it was "our" breakup song. The hygienist mistook my tears of sadness for tears of pain. I got a free chapstick.

The only man who touched me that day was my chiropractor. Is it dirty that I tried to enjoy it? Of course it was over too fast.

It snowed. A fuckload. Which started my meltdown mid-week. Crying was involved. So was vodka.

The next day some jackhole hit my car. Backed right into me at a stop sign. Yes, "stop" would be the key word here. Backed right up into me, crunched my license plate and drove off.

Oh yeah, I got rejection emails for three of the jobs that I applied for. Not that I'm counting.

Now for the Positives. Because there were a few.

I learned how much my friends watch out for me. MG, thanks for saving me from a night that sounds like something that would have pushed me over the edge into killing myself. JW brought vodka and listened to me cry. The wife made me watch "On a Boat" to cheer me up.

I had an interview and I think it went well. Also got a follow-up email from another prospective job. Fingers crossed that the one I really want will call next week.

After three weeks, three chiropractic adjustments and a massage, I finally woke up pain-free. Had I known my insurance was going to cover it all, I would have done this a long time ago. I've got nine days left and you can bet I am taking full advantage of it. Scheduling three more massages before it's over...

Yesterday I got a tattoo. It's small and only took about 15 minutes, but I love it. While we were waiting for the appointment, we went to another studio. This guy does fucking rad, beautiful work and he wants to do my peacock tattoo!! I am now accepting donations since the price of this one will be equal to a small car.

Sixteen Candles is on. It's movies and pajamas for the rest of the day.

And here's to hoping that next week brings far more positives than negatives.

Week 1 of Unemployment

Sucks.

Yep, one week ago I was laid off. There was something about financials and making "tough decisions", blah, blah blah. Since I was the only one in my department that was let go, it's hard not to take it personally. And yes, it sucks.

I've been trying to stay positive though. I have found 7 or 8 jobs to apply to, filed for unemployment, spiffed up my resume, everything I'm supposed to do. I've also slept until 11:00, watched a dozen movies on Netflix and eaten banana pudding for breakfast.

It's been a weird week. When I'm lazy I feel guilty about it, but most of the time I can't figure out what to do first and remain immobilized. I went to Ignite Bend Wednesday night and, in the course of telling a friend about the jobs I'd applied for, discovered I was smack dab in the middle of a group of one of the companies I'd applied to. Impromptu networking. Good thing I washed my hair.

What's made the difference and kept me from shutting down in utter panic is the support I've received from my friends. Work friends, new friends, old friends, family. Kind words, hugs, a Super Bowl party, girls' night out, emails with offers of help. My friends are invaluable and the best and I love them to pieces.

We'll see what the next week brings. Hopefully calls for interviews, which brings its own set of nervous problems. More working out is on the agenda, a dentist appointment, lunch with a friend, maybe a trip to the dog park and hours more of Netflix movies.

Most importantly? Trying to breathe.

Another One Bites the Dust Storm of Raid

It happened again. If you don't already know the saga, you can read about it here and here and here.

Yesterday I killed another black widow. In my house. Number 13, 14? I don't know. I've lost count. And I have nothing clever left to say about it.

Except that since they keep reproducing in my house, I think the bitches are getting better dates than I am.

The Small Moments Count the Most

I once had the thought that I really know very little about my mom. I didn’t know her as a child or a young adult. For the first couple of years I wasn’t really conscious of her as a separate being and have very little memory of that time anyway. For many years I only thought of her as Mom and not as a person. If I know so little about my mom as an individual, who I’ve known my whole life, how well do I really know anyone?

As my daughter grows up, I think I know everything about her. Since I’ve known her for her whole life, not just mine. Since I’ve been there since the very beginning. Day one. I know she had not a single birthmark. I know when she broke her collarbone, who her first best friend was. I know her favorite foods, her favorite color, her favorite TV show. I know what she wants to be when she grows up and how sweet she looks when she sleeps. On top of it all, she tells me everything. More than I want to know sometimes.

Once in a while, though, she surprises me. Like last night.

She wants to get a job. She wants to go to ballet camp next year. Yesterday she told me her bright idea of how she is going to earn money. She is going to get gigs around town playing her guitar and singing. Um. She just started playing at the beginning of the school year. She also said this is how she is going to start her career. She’s 14 and starting her “career”. I sort of brushed it off. I didn’t take it seriously, but I’m also not going to tell her she can’t. That it won’t happen. Because who knows? Maybe it will. Maybe she will be the one out of thousands who makes it. I don’t tell her that she can’t or won’t.

She asked to play a couple of songs for me that she’s been working on. That’s when it happened. Her voice was beautiful. The songs she chose were ones I had never heard but very lovely. Fitting. When did this happen? How did I not know? This is my child? My heart swelled. I thought it would burst.

Halfway through the third song, a tear rolled down my cheek. By the time she was done, I needed a box of Kleenex. And in her teenaged-attitude voice she asked, “Are you crying??” I asked her to sing it again and she rolled her eyes a bit and told me not to cry again. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t. She really hated me clapping and cheering.

She was so beautiful and I could actually envision her playing somewhere. I told her this and then I planned her outfit. Before I could even say it, she said the exact outfit I was thinking of, down to the boots! Ha. I guess I know her pretty well after all.

Surprises are nice sometimes too.

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad."

In order to tell you what I am about to, I had to make a double Cosmo. Also it's Monday. And I'm PMSing. And, after all, this blog has "martini" in the title. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't need an excuse, I drink every day anyway. But it really does help if I'm going to have to relive Friday night.

I said that I had a bad date. My guy friends all agreed that he was a tool, but seemed a bit incredulous at how much of a tool he really was. When I relayed more of the details to a girlfriend, she said it sounded like something made up, but she knew I wouldn't do that. People, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

There were several points at which I should have ended the date, but I think I was in shock; I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Besides, I wouldn't have this great story to tell you if I had. What follows are some of the lowlights.

1. Within 30 seconds he insulted me by telling me I'm short. Kind of douchey, but I was nice and chalked it up to nerves.

2. 45 minutes later, he asked if my boobs are real. Seriously. "How about those? Are they real?" I looked at him and said, "Did you really just ask me that? Really?" Total dick move. I still don't know what to say about that.

3. If I talked about a girlfriend, it turned into some kind of sexual innuendo. He actually said "I'm a lesbian." Barf. Gross.

4. He called his kids assholes. I know that dealing with teenagers is difficult. And it's personal. But I don't call my kid a bitch. Even if she's acting like one. Or an asshole. So what kind of parent does that? A bad one.

5. Next, he invited himself to see Empty Space Orchestra with me. I had planned on going with The Wife after drinks, but he decided he also wanted to go. Fine, whatever. Stalker.

6. We went to dinner. He asked what I wanted for an appetizer. I looked at the menu and declared "Tempura!" He looked at me flatly and said, "You know that's fried." "Um, yeah. And?" He did not order the tempura. Apparently there was a fat quota for the evening that I wasn't aware of. And I was too fat, but nobody told me. Asshole.

7. He went on and on about Charlie Sheen. He apparently worships a drug addict. He actually said "Charlie Sheen is living every guy's wet dream." And "I'd snort a briefcase full of coke but I get drug-tested so I can't." He also wishes he could sleep with porn stars. Unbelievable.

8. At this point, The Wife texted to see where I was. I was just about done with The Jerk and told her to meet us at dinner on the way to see ESO. I practically begged her to come meet me. Being a Good Wife, she did. I thought The Jerk was going to jizz in his pants seeing the two of us together. Barf. Gross. Pretty sure he thought he was going to get the two of us. No. No way.

9. Later, like the next day, Wifey told me that he talked about "choking bitches out." I had stopped listening at that point. I also didn't want to encourage him to talk anymore, because he was getting really loud and drawing a lot of attention to himself.

10. We went to Silver Moon. He decided that my hair was really soft and he needed to touch it every five minutes. Ew. Uninvited. He touched my ass, I slapped him. I told him not to be inappropriate. Did I ask you to touch me? No. No I didn't.

11. There was a drunk guy at ESO. What?? Someone got drunk at a concert? In a bar? The Jerk looks at him (I assume, I didn't want to look at either one of them) and says, "Classing up the place, aren't you?" Wtf? Who engages the drunk guy?

12. My favorite local band starts. Wifey and I move to the front. We start dancing. For some reason, The Jerk assumes that my dancing is an invitation to make out with me publicly. Ew. No. I move away. Several times. The very worst part? There is a very cute, very young boy eyeing me. I was cockblocked. Damn it!!!

13. Since he had taken a taxi to meet me, I had to drive him back to his hotel. He tried to entice me with a pull-out bed. Uh, no thanks. Oh, he had a king-size bed? No thank you. His parting words getting out of my car? "You women are all the same. You talk about how much you want dick, but when it comes time to put out you're too scared." What? What the fuck? Did I really hear that? At what point did I express I wanted to have sex with a misogynistic asshole? I must have missed that part of the evening.

The only thing I am thankful for regarding this date is that he took the hint and didn't contact me again. Whew.

The next night The Wife and I went back to The Scene of the Crime and I ordered the tempura and the tempura roll and anything else fried we could find on the menu. It was awesome. And fun. And the exact opposite of the night before.

Yep. Girls rule. Boys drool. I know who has my back.

Bitter, Party of One

Conversation today with a co-worker friend. For real. I make nothing up.

E: well how about this for some suck -- i went out to get in my jeep this morning
and somebody had opened one of those starkist bags of tuna and scattered it all around the inside


Me: bag of tuna?


E: a pouch of tuna, instead of the kind in a can


Me: was the pouch open? like mushy tuna was in your car?


E: yes! the pouch was empty on the floorboard and tuna was splattered everywhere inside my jeep


Me: how did that happen?


E: no idea. some shithead teens in my neighborhood, i guess


Me: yeah, that sucks.
but you're getting married.
so my bad date trumps your tuna car.

Why Girls' Night Rocks

I had a date Friday night, my first real date in ages. It doesn't matter who he was, because I won't be seeing him again. It was a reminder of why I don't date, the definition of a Bad Date. This should sum it all up: his role model is Charlie Sheen and he mentioned him at least four times throughout the evening.

While we were having drinks, a group of six or seven girls came and sat at the table next to us. I soon wished I was at their table instead and truly appreciating the time I spend with my girlfriends.

This is why girls' night is better than 98% of the dates we all go on.

1. Makeup isn't required and a ponytail is considered a hairstyle.
2. Pajamas are perfectly appropriate when having girls' night in.
3. We can skip shaving our legs. And elsewhere.
4. Nobody asks if our boobs are real (and a guy who's good will find out on his own, without asking).
5. Women know the difference between a cock and a dick. We only want one of them.
6. There are no lesbian references.
7. There is no inappropriate, unwanted touching.
8. We can talk about sex all night in dirty detail and it's not considered a come-on.
9. Nobody is appalled if we order fried food. We can eat as much as we want. We can have fried dessert and nobody gives a fuck.
10. If we're a bit too loud it's because we're having a good time, and not showing the world how obnoxious we are.
11. We know that we dance for us, not because we want to make out in public.
12. We laugh our asses off more with each other than any guy could ever get us to do.
13. We can get as drunk as we want and not be taken advantage of.
14. Impressions aren't necessary. Our friends already love us.
15. Girls' night is always the perfect way to spend a weekend and makes us so glad that we are women.

Cheers, ladies!!

How to Create a Crime Scene. Or Avoid One. Whatever.

Fiona and I have made many delicious, tasty noms since she came to live with me. There was the bourbon cake, a dozen loaves of bread, “ocean rolls”, key lime pie, whipped cream, bread bowls, pizza crust and crème brulee. Like all relationships, we were in the honeymoon phase. I even introduced her to my friends. And then, like all relationships, we had our first little tiff. I admit, it was my fault. I got a little overeager, but she let me know quickly, and near-disastrously, to back off.

We were making a red velvet cheesecake. I was smart enough to turn Fiona off when I was adding my liquid ingredients since she wasn’t wearing her pouring shield. I thought I was saving a step by not having one more thing to wash afterward. Shows what I know.

I put in the cream cheese, eggs, sugar, vanilla, buttermilk. The recipe called for two bottles of red food coloring, but several of the reviews said that one was plenty. I poured in one bottle, mixed it up, and decided I really needed the second bottle because I wanted a deep, rich red color. I poured in the second bottle. And then I flicked the mixing speed switch too quickly, thinking I’m such a pro now. But I skipped the first two speeds and it went too fast! Fiona spat out most of that second bottle of red food coloring. All over my kitchen counter. My beige kitchen counter. I reached over and turned her off and took half a second to survey the damage. My kitchen looked like a crime scene. “Blood” all over the counter, “blood” spatters all over Fiona and her mixing bowl. (Oh, if only Dexter were there!) It looked like someone had killed a small animal on my kitchen counter. Violently.

After scrubbing up the mess and wiping Fiona down, we resumed our task. I took it slower the second time. The cheesecake? Obviously not as red as I wanted, but still every bit as delicious.

Last night we made up. We got out one of the new attachments and shredded cheese for a quiche in 30 seconds.

Tonight we have a date to make ocean rolls. I think we’re back on track.

A Special Kind of Hell

I didn't want to do it. I wouldn't have, especially with the hangover causing waves of nausea in my alcohol-lined stomach. But I needed toilet paper. There was no way around it.

I had to go to Walmart.

I felt like shit, so I wanted to blend in. I did take a shower though. I may shop at Walmart, but I'm not a Person of Walmart. I'm not that gross. Dried my hair. Squeezed into a pair of jeans, not an easy task with booze bloat, threw on a t-shirt, sans bra. Remember the "fitting in" part? Slipped on some tennis shoes and was on my way.

The parking lot alone made me want to turn back and hide in the safety of my house. It's like a really sad carnival. Nobody really knows how to drive, most bodies are shuffling or stumbling around. Walmart zombies.

I walked in the door and was hit with the foulest stench. Seriously. Why the fuck would I smell stale beer? Did someone break a six pack or just throw up? I held my breath until I made it through that vomit-inducing odor.

I needed a shopping cart. Too hungover to actually carry anything. But there was a large Mexican family loitering around the carts. Like twelve of them. Fucking people, just move the fuck out of my way! It's Walmart, have they never been there before? Take a cart and move the fuck along.

I got toilet paper first, without another clusterfuck of loiterers. I needed laundry detergent too, just the next aisle over. Turned the corner and there was a really fat woman in some gold, shiny thing taking up half the aisle. I don't know where you even buy "clothes" like that. It hurt my eyes and offended me as a human being.

Decided that some Gatorade might be nice to have. It was on the way to the check-out stand. And this brought up a question. Does Walmart not know who their customers are? The fattest people in America shop there and yet they have the tiniest aisles. It's almost impossible to pass another cart. These aren't the kind of people I want to be that close to. I have boundaries, assholes.

Normally I go to the self-checkout to avoid any interaction with another person. Not this time. A sad little stringy, gray-haired lady asked if I was ready as I tried to pass by. Oh, what the hell. I was really too tired to all the work. She looked like she needed a purpose in life.

Lesson learned? Don't be close to running out of toilet paper and hungover at the same time.

Moments of Gratitude

Yesterday wasn’t a great day. It started out pretty great, I had coffee and an Ocean Roll with a friend I hadn’t seen for a while and it was just really nice to catch up; she’s one of those people that just makes you feel better being around her. I trotted back to the office in a little happy bubble.

A few hours later, that bubble burst when Reality poked its ugly head into my day. And for such a stupid little thing. But it’s the stupid little things that pile up and overwhelm me. They shouldn’t mean anything, in the grand scheme of Life. Really, what meaning does a cable bill have? Or putting gas in the car? But they’re nagging and immediate and demand to be taken care of. With resources I don’t always have readily available. And some days, like yesterday, it just feels like too much for one person to handle. At least one of me. I found myself wiping away tears at my desk, wanting to go home and crawl under the covers and hide, but knowing that wouldn’t happen because there was more Reality waiting at home for me. Dinner to be made, ballet taxi duties, homework checking and laundry.

I stared blearily at my computer screen until I saw an email pop up. It was from one of my favorite people. It wasn’t a long email; it contained no earth-shattering news of joy or offer of rescue. It just made me smile. It gave me a friendly little connection with something good, at just the right time, and helped me get through the rest of the day. It took just a little feather off of my heavy load, but I felt it and it made a difference.

It’s these little moments of gratitude that my friends give me that make such a difference. They don’t seem like anything that should change my life. Except they really do. And in smaller, bigger, ways, they change me.

My book club has no idea what they’ve meant to me. And, had I met them each individually, in another setting, I don’t know that we would have been friends. At first glance, they’re so different from me. Most days I feel like such a dork. I’m goofy and potty-mouthed. They all seemed so much smarter and I was a bit intimidated in the beginning, watching what I said and choosing my words carefully. Attempting to mirror their sentence structure and Smartness.

Then one night, one book unraveled it all. I found myself emotionally vomiting all over the table after our beautiful dinner. All of these feelings I didn’t want to share with people I hardly knew came spilling out, revealing parts of me I thought would make me as ugly in their eyes as I was in mine. Their simple questions about my thoughts provoked answers that burned like shame.

The next day I received a single email from M that healed it all. My comments, my sharing had meant something significant to someone else. Shame melted into acceptance.

The remaining year of books brought more challenges, frustrations, reflection. And through our dinners, - ham, mushroom sauce, caramel cake, jelly and bread bowls – I’ve learned to trust, accept, and know that I can be myself with people that I really respect. They let me because they are my friends. There are times that I even think I become my Best Self with them, because of our shared love of books. And food.

I love that I have such a variety of friends. Each one gives me something different, teaches me something about myself and about the world.

When I first met C, I thought her goody-two-shoes act was just that. Nobody could be that naïve or that good. Someone once said that rainbows and unicorns follow her around. Maybe they do. Because she really, truly is Good. I didn’t think that kind of person existed anymore, but she does. And because she does, I’m a little less jaded.

From A, I learned to really look below the surface, that people have hidden talents and loves that add more dimensions than you see when you first look. MH has shown me what vibrance looks like.

I know who I can depend on for advice at work. I know who to call when the tears just won’t stop for the hundredth time and she’ll listen with patience and not judgment. I know that with this smorgasbord of friends, I’ll never be hungry.

It might be a simple email or a lazy evening of watching movies. These are my quiet moments of gratitude that keep me going from one day to the next, sometimes even from one step to the next. If I start to tear, there is someone there to fix me. Only they’re not just fixing me. Each time they patch me up, they’re weaving something stronger. Someone stronger.

I’m learning to accept myself because they accept me. For that, I will be eternally grateful. There is no greater gift.

Holiday Highlights

I’ve been meaning to write about my Christmas, but I’m lazy and I wasn’t sure anyone really cared, so I thought I’d just give the highlights. You win a doughnut if you can guess the theme.

Nutcracker weekend -

This went surprisingly smoothly, given the chances of someone being sick, hurt or complaining endlessly. D actually was sick and her toes did hurt, but she kept her complaints to a minimum. I was sober the entire weekend, my dad and his wife visited and I think I only complained about the lack of help we got from D’s dad. That hardly even counts, and when I consider how well I got along with my dad, I just get extra brownie-acting-like-a-grown-up points.

I took Stepmom (it is still really weird to say that after living over 35 years without one) to my cookbook club’s cookie exchange. I had at least one of everything and attempted to get everyone else drunk off of my bourbon balls. The parents helped me get my tree up and we watched the Snowflake/Flower Soloist flit across the stage.

The big news of the weekend was that my dad bought me the coveted Pink Artisan KitchenAid Stand Mixer, which I promptly named Fiona. I. Love. Her. She is going to change my life! She’s already changed my waistline.

Christmas –

Christmas Eve was very low-key, with a feast of breads and cheeses. Fiona and I made basil-beer bread. The leftovers are going to make really good croutons.

Christmas Day was also mellow. D came home and had to open her presents right away. No brownie-acting-like-a-grown-up points for her! She acted like she was four, but whatever. I wanted to make cinnamon rolls with Fiona and even had the perfect-looking, fluffy dough all rolled out when I realized I was out of cinnamon. Because I’m awesome, I used cardamom instead and turned them into “ocean rolls” and they were delicious!!

Wifey came over, we opened more presents, and found out who the best gift-giver is. Since the gifts were given to me, it’s not me. But I’m really good at getting gifts! Go me! We had a fondue feast with Monterey Jack cheese, red pepper and artichoke fondue, shrimp, mushrooms, apples, lemon parsley sauce, lime cilantro sauce and two bottles of wine.

My gifts? leopard-print slippers, Fiona, scarf, Boston Terrier ornament, French Bulldog ornament, the most darling apron, the softest-ever blanket and money that I partially used to buy accessories for Fiona. A stylish girl needs the right accessories.

New Year’s –

Another low-key evening (not the theme, by the way). A few friends and lots of food. I made tortilla soup, queso dip, guacamole, the Best Dressing Ever and “key lime” pie. JM brought flautas and we had margaritas and champagne. We played poker and Loaded Questions, which isn’t as dirty as it sounds but it can be. Mostly we just laughed our faces off and thanked JW for letting us know that the most dangerous animal in the world is a boar. We made it to midnight and wondered why on earth they still put Dick Clark on television.

New Year’s day I was super happy to wake up without a hangover! It was my little present to myself. I enjoyed one last day of laziness reading a book and napping, followed by a movie marathon while eating Chinese food. The Watchmen completely surprised me and I am thinking of nominating the “book” for a book club choice. Dinner for Schmucks was sad, funny and made me want my own little mouse diorama. Of course if it was about me, my mouse would have to have the best pair of shoes and her own tiny, miniature version of Fiona. And a tiny martini glass. I was “forced” to watch Saving Private Ryan when I made the mistake of revealing that I had never seen it. It is a great movie, but shouldn’t have been the last one we watched. It actually gave me nightmares.

All in all, it was exactly what I wanted and more. Fiona and I have also made crème brulee, French baguettes, whipped cream and bread bowls. Some things have been more successful than others, but, you know, we’re still getting to know each other. There is pie crust in our future.

In the Spirit of Christmas, I am Declaring War

I am declaring war on spiders. And I am serious as a heart attack.

I once tried to make an agreement with a spider. I laid out the terms of him staying in my house, all of which I thought were reasonable. The fucker broke every single agreement. Lesson learned? Spiders cannot be trusted.

Second lesson learned? I am way too easy and forgiving. Well, I can tell you right here, right now, that is changing. There will be no mercy from Here. On. Out.

Last Saturday, D and I left the house on a small errand. As we're pulling out of the driveway, and the garage door is going down, I see, what? A spider dangling off of the garage door? I stop the door, pull up under it and see, what-the-fuck-is-that? Another motherfucking, goddamn black widow. Number what? Nine? In the last two years? I get out of the car, grab the can of Raid and spray her ass. She shrivels, then starts crawling up her little webby string. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Seriously? Die already, you fucking bitch!!!!! I got the shovel out and broke at least one of her legs. She still wasn't dead, but I was satisfied that eventually she would suffocate and, in the meantime, wouldn't get far with her two broken legs.

Nine days later, I'm home for lunch. After devouring the most delicious sandwich with the tastiest bread (thanks to Fiona), I'm on my way out the door when I see a spider. In my laundry room. On the fucking door. And, what? What is this? Oh, dear God, it's another fucking black widow. Must be a daughter of the one from the week before, because she was smaller. But just as resistant to Raid. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Finally she crawled into a little ball and I was on my merry way.

Today I was noticing the "cobwebs" in the corners of my bedroom. I investigated all corners of the house. I found a spider in the corner of my bedroom. Yes, my sanctuary. The room in which I sleep. The last place I want to be unconscious knowing that there are eight-legged creatures about. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. WTF??? Are you fucking kidding me???? It can't be. Spray. Spray. Spray. It finally curled up into a tiny little ball and I was able to move it to the sink. And, yes. There it was. Faint, but it was there. A small, reddish-brown spot on the abdomen. Mother-fucking black widows are taking over my house.

So, here it is. I am officially and resoundingly declaring war. Anything with eight legs is not allowed in my house and will die. No mercy. No questions asked.

Merry Fucking Christmas, arachnids.

A Week's Recap, or Things That Seem Really Weird But Are Just My Life

The week started normal. I guess. I don’t really remember all the way back to Monday, but I’m going to call it normal.

Tuesday is when the weirdness started happening. My manager scheduled a “brief discussion” for our team. A “brief discussion” is usually a bad thing. I don’t look forward to them. I dreaded this one. Even more so when he started the “discussion” with a red face and clearing his throat like he was trying not to cry and then saying, “It is with great sorrow….” Okay, stop right here. This is my thought process. “What? Why is he going to cry? What? Wtf? Great sorrow? Oh shit, our whole department is being eliminated. They’re moving everything out to Dehli. Oh, shit!! I don’t have a job? Wtf am I supposed to do? How can they do this right before Christmas? What ASSHOLES!!” And then he finished his sentence. “…. that I announce my resignation.” And then this went through my head, “What? Oh, it’s just you? Well then, that’s okay. As long as I still have a job. Hmmm, is this voluntary or involuntary? What’s going on that I don’t know about? Who cares, as long as I have a job. Oh shit, he really is going to cry. I can’t look at him. But I can’t look away, because he’ll think I’m being really rude and that I don’t care and he’ll be all offended, but if I look, oh crap, I’m going to start crying. Fuck, this is the weirdest ‘brief discussion’ in the history of Ever.”

The next day in my one-on-one with my manager, I tried to get the real scoop, but he wouldn’t bite. He hinted though, so I think I will be able to weasel it out of him. And I organized a roast of him in our Toastmasters meeting and enjoyed watching him turn about 25 shades of red.

Wednesday was my favorite holiday activity of the season. My office “adopts” a family that we buy presents for and I delivered them with a couple of other “elves” that afternoon. The kids in the family were so sweet and polite and obviously very thankful. But not so mushy that they made me cry and I liked them even better for that. Although the mom said she would send me pictures of their Christmas day and that might make me cry, but at least I’ll be at my desk and not making a fool of myself in public.

Friday was the most boring night in a while. Nothing to do. Nothing. For dinner I had a piece of pie and a Manhattan. Or two. I watched something on tv, it’s not even memorable. And then I got really grossed out by a worm on my sliding glass door. I know, right? How bizarre is that? How do worms live in 20 degree weather? The really gross part was that it was in the corner of the door frame so I couldn’t just brush it off. And since it was really creeping me out and I didn’t want it finding its way in my house, (because fuck knows there are enough damn spiders in there) I did something totally gross. I got out the long lighter and burned it. I know PETA will be all up my ass for this, but I don’t care. Except I did feel really gross when it curled its little body around trying to get away from it. Only it didn’t really try because it still clung to the door frame. Seriously, if someone was trying to set me on fire, I wouldn’t just lie down and twist around, I would fucking run. So really, it just shows how dumb this worm was and that it deserved to die. I’m not sure it did die though, it eventually just fell down and I was so ooged out that I had actually tried to burn a living thing that I closed the door and went to bed.

Saturday was a delightful adventure. M and I went to see the gingerbread houses in Sunriver. She insisted on trying my $85 tea and I insisted on making cookies for the drive. The houses were really cute (some of them) and I took pictures of them until my retarded, defective camera decided to stop working. Afterwards, we went to the Owl’s Nest for a couple of drinks and some soup. It was perfect – garland with twinkly lights next to us, a warm fireplace, and a view of snow-covered trees. The only thing that would have made it more perfect, and that I kept imagining, would have been a horse and sleigh jingling merrily by.

After my picture-perfect afternoon, I attended a party that promised beer pong. Yeah, the dichotomy of the two activities wasn’t lost on my either. There were a couple of drunk girls who looked to be about 20 attempting to sing Journey. One of them called it “baby-making music”. Um, sure. Whatever. Probably the best conversation of the evening involved E and his disappointment that Mike Tyson might be gay, which follows.

Me: Yeah, I could buy him being gay.
E: But he was my hero!
Me: Really? How do you define heroism? Biting someone’s ear off?
E: Well, no. I meant back in the 80’s.
Me: Oh, when he was beating his wife and raping women?
E: ………….

He walked off to tell the same exact story to a guy. I guess girls just don’t understand real heros.

Yep, always end on a high note. Or at least the last word.

Crack - It Does a Mom Good

I want a new drug. Not like Huey Lewis, but like Crack for Moms. It can’t be addictive, it’s just something that moms get (for free) to help them get through the holidays without losing sleep, something that makes us moms look super happy and cheerful and helps us get everything done and done really well so that everyone thinks we are miracle workers and they will wonder at our amazing skills and charming dispositions. Even if I can’t have it for the whole season, can I just have it for this weekend?

Nutcracker weekend is D’s favorite and my most hated. Between rehearsals, sore toes, gift-buying , tree decorating, little sleep, super adrenaline rushes and winter weather, it’s a minor miracle that we both make it through in one piece. D had her first meltdown last night; she broke down in tears when I called to tell her that missing school today was not an option. That’s when she told me she broke her retainer and, since there aren’t enough hours in the day for school, orthodontist appointments, eating and rehearsal, I gave in and let her skip school. However, I canceled her sleepover for Saturday night which is “so unfair” and means that I “really don’t understand” her. Really? Because I never have to make compromises or give up things I want to do? Oh wait, this is supposed to be my free weekend but I gave it up so that I can cover hair-braiding duty, rehearsal/performance taxiing, assemble gifts for her fellow ballerinas and make sure she eats properly. I am SO mean. Is my evil witch wart showing?

I’m not really complaining, really just venting. And my lack of energy actually is a problem. I want to enjoy the holidays. I want D to enjoy her ballet. I want everyone around me to enjoy themselves and not have to stare at dark circles under my eyes or get their heads snapped off because, right now, most questions that have anything to do with my time feels like my blood is being drawn and is draining the life out of me.

I do take comfort in knowing I’m not the only one. It’s the challenge for all moms. And a few dads, but I think for the most part, dads are allowed to be grumpy. Dads are forgiven for doing things not-the-right way. Moms aren’t. Moms are expected to be superhuman. Honestly, I’m okay with that. I just need some help.

Mom Crack – something to get us through the holidays, birthdays, graduations and any other times in our lives that our families are depending on us to get an extraordinary job done with style, grace and a smile on our face. If it removes wrinkles and gray hair – BONUS!!

Someone get on that. Now. Please. Thank you in advance.

Redefining Beauty

There’s a blog I like to read because the author is super funny and smart and I think we’d be BFF’s if we ever met. Only not better BFF’s than me and the Wife. Which, if we ever meet, I’ll have to tell her up front so she can decide if she’s okay with being second-best BFF but she totally would, because she’d still get to be a BFF with me and I’m just awesome. Anyway, she’s super funny and irreverent but sometimes also really poignant and her post today really made me stop and think.

It’s all about beauty and she asked her readers to reply saying why they are beautiful. And that’s what stopped me. Because most days, as in 364 out of 365, I don’t think of myself as beautiful. On good days I’m cute, on spectacular days when my hair cooperates and my jeans hug my ass just the right way, I’ll go so far as to say I’m hot, except that hot is really more of an attitude. Beauty, to me, has always been a physical description.

When I was growing up, I thought I’d never be beautiful. I was unfortunate enough to inherit the nose that just about everyone on my dad’s side has been cursed with. I say cursed because I hated it. It was big, wide at the tip and with a giant bump on the bridge. I started to notice it when I was around 11. That was when I realized that it wasn’t cute and the more I looked in the mirror, the more I decided it was ugly. By the time I was 12 I was going to bed at night with my finger pressed firmly on the bump, hoping that it would straighten out overnight. I started hating pictures of myself because all I saw was that Nose. I didn’t want to be seen from the side and even fretted about other drivers seeing my profile in my car. All my life, I wanted a nose job.

When my daughter was born, I questioned my desire to “fix” myself. What kind of message would it send her about self-acceptance? Did I want to emphasize the importance of appearance and image and beauty over intelligence and inner strength? I chose a non-girly name for her because I wanted her to be strong. In her toddler years I avoided telling her how cute she looked and instead focused on the smart things she did or said. She broke her collarbone when she was nearly two, which shattered her confidence in her physical abilities, so much so that she refused to go down the slide at the park, she was so terrified. I put her in a preschool with a focus on gymnastics, giving her back her confidence and her joy in playing and tumbling.

However, nothing I did in those early years prevented her from turning into a girly-girl. She likes pink, loves her hair long, she’s been boy-crazy since the age of four, loves ballet and has asked to change her name to Sophie. She’s a girl and she loves being a girl. She loves to look and feel pretty.

So, four years ago, I decided that I wanted to feel pretty too, that if there was something I could do about it, that I would. I researched plastic surgery and surgeons in my area. I scoured message boards on nose jobs, compared dozens and dozens of before-and-after pictures. Six months later, I made an appointment with a surgeon.

I liked him right away. Every place that offers advice will tell you to interview several doctors before making a decision, but I didn’t think it was necessary. Dr. Petroff was completely honest in his assessment, telling me I would be pleased with my results, without making any promises about how incredibly beautiful I would be or how it would drastically change my life. He was matter-of-fact and I trusted him. I scheduled the surgery appointment a week later.

I knew, from all of my research, that I’d feel a range of emotions after surgery, including depression. But I felt great. I felt great the week after, even with the bandage and the black eyes and the thumbprint-shaped bruise on my cheek from someone holding me down because I kept waking up during the surgery. (Here’s a tip – if you drink like a fish, tell your anesthesiologist that you drink like a fish. Don’t minimize that shit, they ask for a reason.) I couldn’t wait to see the “new” me.

I felt great until the day the bandages came off. My nose was still swollen, still red, I wasn’t magically transformed. I still looked like me. I cried all the way home. It was a three-hour drive.

It took a couple of days to calm down and decide that I really hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life and to know that looking like myself was okay. When I went back to work, nobody said anything. Nobody noticed. It’s still a little disconcerting when I tell people, even now, that I had my nose done. They say I look the same, that I didn’t need it.

But I did. I needed it for me. And people did notice. I went out for drinks with a friend a couple of months after my surgery and realized that people were looking at me. Guys were checking me out. I could smile back and flirt and it was fun. I realized that they weren’t reacting to my physical appearance, but to my attitude. I felt different - better, even sassy. I had a confidence that I never had before. And for that reason, I’d do it all again.

I still don’t love pictures of myself. I sometimes catch glimpses of the wideness of my nose, or I think I look too fat or that my hair looks goofy. I think that’s just called Being a Woman. The difference is that I don’t hide like I did. I want to be in photographs because I want the memories. And sometimes, I really do like the way I look, and that feels really, really good.

Today I decided to answer the challenge of explaining why I’m beautiful. And you know what? It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. It wasn’t that hard. And you know what else? It has nothing to do with how I look.

These are the reasons I’m beautiful:

I am beautiful because I love fiercely.
I am beautiful because I am constantly learning and evolving.
I am beautiful because I have a daughter that I am proud of.
I am beautiful because I can laugh and cry and know that I can't live without doing both.
I am beautiful because I learn to love myself a little more each day.
I am beautiful because I'm a woman.

Don't Eat the Yellow Snow

There is plenty of it at my house. My dogs hate snow and demonstrate their dislike through sheer laziness. They take about two steps outside before squatting to pee. They’re effectively peeing on the patio. Technically, they’re not even in the yard. Rembrandt will even stare me down while he pees, like it’s my fault that it’s cold, like I made it snow and he’s going to punish me for freezing his balls off. He forgets that he has no balls.

Luckily, they do venture out into the actual yard to do their number two business. Sometimes I’m even nice enough to shovel a pathway for them to the side of the house so they’re not sinking down to their bellies with each step they take.

Lately, they’ve been using a snowless patch in the corner of the yard. I watched Remy this morning because I was in a hurry to feed him before getting ready for work (also because when he’s ready to come in, he’s really ready and he’ll practically knock the door down trying to get back into the house.) As soon as he was done, I opened the door to let him in and he made a beeline for it. Except it was the most comical thing I’ve seen in a while. He’s running full force, with his ears pressed back against his head and his eyes bulging out in this wild, frantic expression. The snow was mostly ice on top, so his back feet slid out from under him with each step, sending him more and more sideways, which only made him more frantic. He looked retarded. And hilarious. I laughed until I thought I would throw up.

Fine, so I’ll put up with a little yellow snow for some quality entertainment.

Squished Boobs Part 2

Since I don’t have to report that I have boob cancer, I’m ready to report on my mammogram. Or, as D called it, my mammaries exam.

Yes, you heard right. Mammogram. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Raise your hand if you love getting them done. Yeah, I didn’t think so. I wasn’t too pleased when my doctor’s “Happy Birthday!” was followed with “now get a mammogram. You’re 40 and old and probably already cancer-ridden. I hope you’ve written your will.” Okay, so I added that last part, but she still didn’t score any points with me and we are not now BFF’s.

When I told my friends that I had made the dreaded appointment, I got lots of sympathy. Except for a couple of people, I’m the first in my group of friends to experience this monumental Rite of Passage. Those that actually had already done it said it wasn’t so bad. But I didn’t believe them. There’s a reason that women dread getting their boobs squished and I now have firsthand experience of why exactly that is. Remember, you heard it here first.

Before my appointment I turned to my good friend Google, who came up with some interesting facts that it was important to know beforehand. Things like don’t wear lotion or deodorant. Be sure to wear either a skirt or pants because you’ll be topless and you don’t want to also be bottomless. They don’t supply gowns, they supply crop tops. Think of a table cloth versus a napkin, you don’t want your nether regions exposed. And before any of you have some smart-ass comment about what else would you wear, some of us actually do wear dresses on occasion. However, if you do wear overalls or jumpsuits, don’t wear them to your appointment. Actually, just don’t wear them at all. In general. Don’t.

On the morning of my appointment, I stared at my closet for probably 20 minutes, trying to decide which pair of jeans or skirt would give me the smallest mushroom top. What could I stand to be seen in topless? My closet stared back at me and said, “Not much. You’re a giant fat cow and you should be embarrassed to take your top off in front of anyone.” I hate my closet.

After deciding on the most forgiving pair of jeans that I own, along with cute boots to detract from the gut spillage, I tossed my deodorant in my purse and off I went to the radiology office. I hadn’t been there since the ultrasounds I had when I was pregnant. At least they didn’t make me hold my pee until I thought my eyeballs would burst, but I also knew I wouldn’t be taking home an image of tiny, cute little feet pressing against my belly.

When they called me in, I was relieved to find that the technician was not only older than me, but also fatter. How humiliating would it be to get topless in front of some skinny, super-model bitch? The second pleasant surprise was that Google Images lies. You don’t have to get totally topless, they let you poke out just a boob or maybe an arm, but for the most part, you can hide your waistband flaws. Google did not lie about how much you will be handled. If you don’t like strange women touching your breasts and moving them around, just get over it now. I was positioned more than once for each image, sometimes both boobs were manipulated into just the right pose or pushed up onto the shelf-thingy. Luckily the tech stood to the side of me so there wasn’t a chance for awkward eye contact. Really, there’s no need to make a situation more awkward than it already is.

So, once all of your boob is where she wants it to be, down comes the hard, plastic paddle that flattens your poor boob as near pancake-flat as possible. You have to hold your breath and stay absolutely still, so there’s no chance to look down and survey the damage, which is probably just as well. I know what you’re all asking, “Does it hurt?” What do you think? Why don’t you just take your hands and squeeze a boob down to the thickness of a piece of toast? Yes, it hurts. But it’s over really quickly. As soon as she took her little picture, the paddle thing released and I could breathe. Actually, I think the not breathing or moving was the hardest. There was something about having my breast in a vise that made me want to panic and staying still for 5 seconds was almost impossible.

To make myself feel better, I tried to start a conversation with the tech. And what did I come up with? The most juvenile-sounding question ever. Seriously. I sounded like a 12-year-old boy. “Is it weird that it’s your job to look at boobs all day?” Yep. THAT came out of my mouth. For a minute she looked at me like I’d just grown blue and orange-striped boobs with tongues of flame out of the sides of my head, which I thought was a teensy bit of an overreaction. Come on, don’t people say weird things when they’re nervous? And I have never, ever met anyone whose job it is to touch other women’s boobs all day. It’s not like I have any frame of reference.
Finally, she thought of an appropriate answer to my obviously inappropriate question.

She said that when she worked in Salem, students would come through for training and she said that all of the male students exclaimed how lucky she was and how she must have the best job in the world. First of all, unless she was a lesbian, I don’t know why she’d get such a kick out of it. The male species is so retarded sometimes. But her answer to the retards was “Well, sure. Except that most of the boobs I see are the age of your mothers and grandmothers.” Which grossed out the retards but made me feel so much better. In that light, I probably had the best boobs she’d seen all day! Actually, I’m rather fond of my boobs which is why I was so concerned about them being damaged and permanently flattened. They’re actually kinda great, but compared to 60 year old boobs, they’re practically rock stars! And here I was, foolishly comparing them to 21-year-olds.

Anyway, I was in and out of there in a shorter time than it has taken me to write this blog. Or for you to read it, for that matter. I know, I’m a little wordy, but you know you want every detail. I was sent on my merry little way and told that my doctor would get my results and I would get a letter.

Only I didn’t get a letter. I got a call. From my doctor’s office. Telling me I had to go back. They told me it was routine, that they get five or six of these a week. The technician had even told me at the time of my appointment and Google confirmed the “normalness”. Still, there’s that little “what if?” What if it turns out not normal? What if I do have cancer? What makes me so special that I deserve to dodge this bullet? I only had to wait a few days, with Thanksgiving falling in between, so I had plenty of food and friends to keep me occupied.

At the second appointment, the tech showed me the image of the breast and the spot they were “concerned” with. My boob, in black and white, with funny, squiggly lines and a teeny, tiny white spot I never would have seen had it not been pointed out to me. She took two more pictures, one at a different angle than the last time, assured me that I would know something before I left, and had me wait while she ran over to the radiologist’s office. She returned in less than 5 minutes, time I used to Facebook and Twitter, saying that it was probably a lymph node, but he really wanted an ultrasound to be sure.

The ultrasound technician looked like she was about 14 and had a round, perky little butt even in scrubs. This is where it gets to be less fair. Except she had the insecurity of youth that kept her from making any kind of small talk lest she reveal how stupid she thinks everyone else thinks she is. I was starting to wonder though, when it took her approximately 5 minutes to find the spot she was looking for. I wanted to yell out at least three times, “Stop! There it is! Eureka!” But I kept my mouth shut and gloated quietly when she finally found it, knowing that I was right all along. She took several measurements of it and trotted off to show the radiologist.

Again I waited less than 5 minutes, but it was 5 minutes of anxiety, picturing how I would tell my daughter that her mother was sick, wondering how extensive treatment would be, if I could keep working if only from home. The spot looked really tiny, how damaged would I look if they just cut it out? What decisions would I have to face and would I make the right ones?

Perky –Butt Blondie popped back in and informed me that the doctor was “convinced” it’s just a lymph node and I don’t have to do anything else until my next appointment in a year. My anxiety seemed a bit silly after that, but hey, it happens to people. It happens every day. I’m really not special enough for it not to be me. My only saving grace is that I’m not that nice of a person and only really nice people die tragic deaths so that they’re missed desperately and held up as shining examples of how one should live their life. Nobody’s going to hold me up as an example of grace or kindness or overwhelming generosity. So maybe I am safe. At least for now.

All you bitches who have been ordered to get your mammograms are now ordered by me to go get one. I did it first, without tears or an unnecessary amount of whining, which is unusual for me. So now you know.

It’s really not that bad.

To be continued....

I was going to write about my lovely boob-squishing experience I had last week because I know everyone is dying to know what that is like. Also, I'm the first in my close group of friends to have experienced this dubitable rite of passage so I get to set the bar for complaints. ha ha.

Then my doctor called and said my results were inconclusive so I have to go back for more. Oh joy. Am I thankful for this? Oh yeah, I'm thankful it's only one boob and not both. Although it's the smaller of the two so I kind of feel like it's getting picked on.

Don't worry, I will tell all when the story is done. Also, it's totally routine. The tech even told me not to be surprised if I got called back. My doctor's office said they get five or six of these a week. Routine. Famous last word, right?

It's Not the Monster Under the Bed

There are some things in life that one doesn't expect or imagine will happen. Freaky things, mortifying things. Wardrobe malfunctions. Faceplants. Total oops-moments. Last night was one such occasion. And seriously, I didn't make it up. I wouldn't want to.

There has been an ongoing saga with washing machines since I moved into this house. The outgoing hose was plugged into the wrong hole. (using the wrong hole is always a bad thing.) Then I had a washing machine death. A washing machine replacement, which required a hose replacement. It's a long and boring story, the point being that for the first time in a month, I was able to wash my sheets at home yesterday.

However, sheet removal led to the discovery that my mattress was severely sagging in the middle. Really, really sagging. And here I thought Pretty Piggy Princess Puppy had lost weight. I decided that the mattress just needed to be flipped. A feat that I attempted on my own. With a king-sized mattress. I tugged, I lifted, I pulled. Said mattress was halfway off when I made a worrisome discovery. The box springs were also sagging. Which meant that the actual bed frame was broken. At this point I have seriously started to consider that there is a poltergeist in my house with a really twisted sense of humor. I had neither the energy nor the time to get to the bottom of this little debacle so I shoved the mattress back in place and left for the evening.

Later, much later in the evening, I relayed my sad little tale to some friends. Some pretty awesome friends because they offered to come home with me and put my bed back together. At midnight. How great is that? What wonderful friends I have!!

We all traipse into my room, pull of the mattress, the box springs and there are all of my boots that I shove under there, a couple of random pieces of paper, a lone sock and a book. Which everyone saw and noticed and joked about. Ha ha ha. And then I froze. I panicked. Quietly. Because also, under my bed, next to my nightstand, is Tom. Yes, Tom is my vibrator. I didn't name him, he came that way. For once I was grateful for having dogs to hide things from because he was safely put away in his nondescript white box. But I knew he was there. In plain sight. Next to him was a bag of other fun, assorted goodies in a not-so-nondescript bag. Oh shit.

Upon inspection, it was discovered that the "foot" of the bed frame had broken off and wasn't reattaching in a very safe, secure way. "Do you have any two-by-fours?" Um, no. Because I've never thought of any situation in which a two-by-four would improve my life. I just don't keep them on hand. Because there were two English teachers in my room, one of them asked if I have any books I don't really care about anymore. Yes! I had a bag in the garage that I was planning on taking to the used bookstore. They were promptly used to fortify the bottom of the frame until someone else who actually has two-by-fours can bring them in for stronger fortification.

MG was concerned about another part of the frame and asked if I had any high heels that could be used. Excuse me??? "No!! Shoes are NOT construction materials." As if. And THEN, I watched in horror as I saw him reach for Tom's nondescript box cover. Noooooooo!!!!! As casually as I could, I reached over MG and removed the box from his grasp, hoping I really looked casual and that I wasn't actually using my inside-my-head voice in an inappropriate manner and that I wouldn't really knock him across the room trying to get to Tom before he did.

All turned out to be well, everything was put back in its proper place, some jokes were made about how I can now only have "subdued" sex in my bed. Missionary-style only, little movement, ha ha ha.

This morning MC remarked how funny it all was. "Isn't it funny how you had two married men and me in your bedroom at midnight?" Oh, but she didn't know the half of it. But now she does. And so do you.

The G-Rated Version of How I Scored

I write lots and tons and loads about how hard it is being a mom. Me: Whine, whine, whine. You: I think you are totally hot and props for being a single mom and all, but stop with the whining already!

Well, you will be very happy to know that this post isn’t going down like that. This one is all about how great I am, although I am knocking on wood at the same time because I realize it can all be taken away if I am too smug. But I’m hardly ever smug (at least about my parenting), so I’m going to brag just a little bit. And then we can go back to my regularly scheduled whining. Or we can talk about Baby Jeebus. Because he is starting to grow!

So, a couple of weeks ago Bugabooga sat down on the couch with a towel on her head and asked, “You know what?” to which my typical response is “Chicken butt.” Then she said, “You know how I used to hate you?” Yes, there was a point in time where my child hated me. And she told me about it. And why. I’d rather not dwell on it. Anyhoo, I said “What? Back to the hate again? Why must you torment me? I’m just sitting here watching Desperate Housewives!!” And then I was given the absolute best gift any child can give their parent. (Unless of course she became super rich and famous and bought me a 7,000 square-foot mansion. Yes, I can be bought. I’m not proud of it. Actually, I might be.)

This is what she said (it deserves its own paragraph): “Well, I used to hate you. But now I realize you are just a single mom doing your best and you’re hard on me because you want me to do well. I know you’re doing your best and I love you. I’m glad you’re my mom.”

And then I got all teary and she asked if I was going to cry and I said yes and she asked why and I said “Mommies don’t like to hear that their babies hate them!” Because I was still stuck on that part. But also because I didn’t know what else to say. It was like one of those movie moments and she had just said the most perfect, most wonderful thing that I never in my life expected and I didn’t have anything equally poignant and meaningful to reply with. And I didn’t want to blow the moment, but I kind of did, but then I thanked her. It was the best I could do.

Exhibit B: Yesterday she got out of school early so I took her to lunch and she BROUGHT HER HOMEWORK IN so we could discuss her English project. I convinced her to switch to honors, promising I would help her, so she wanted to ask if she was on the right track for her book report. In my usual way, I told her to make sure she sounded smart and put more thought into it and to make it sound like she really knew what she was talking about. Especially since I thought the book she read was kind of shallow and simplistic. And then she showed me.

She has to put 5 items related to the book in some type of container, also related to the book. I suggested a purse or a backpack, but she came up with the makeup bag on her own. “Because it’s like they’re really pretty and they wear makeup but it also hides who they really are and all of the secrets they keep. It’s like a mask they’re hiding behind because they’re not really so pretty. And the bag represents the shell they hide in.” Oh. My. God. I was so proud of her I could have peed my pants. But that would have ruined our lunch.

Of course 30 minutes later she was telling me I was ruining her life because I wanted to take her to my friends’ house for dinner. Well, win some, lose some. And lately my wins are bigger than my losses. Go me!

Lessons Learned

Bugabooga and I went to San Francisco this past weekend to do her school-clothes shopping. Because I’m cool like that. And also because I had spent every night of the year so far in Bend and needed to get out of the state. Portland wasn’t far enough away. It’s also still in Oregon.

Anyway, I learned a few things on this trip; it turned out to be quite educational. Also exhausting.

Here’s the top 20:

1. Driving to San Francisco is NOT an 8-hour trip. More like 10.
2. Car accidents can create interesting cross-sections on Volvo trunks.
3. Napa’s beautiful scenery can be marred. Mostly by political campaign signs. Boo.
4. Napa is really beautiful when it’s foggy.
5. Little boys like to head-butt each other.
6. My child notices and delights in men flirting with me.
7. Gay men really do lisp.
8. Homeless people are amusing.
9. The entire population of San Francisco really loves the Giants. Obnoxiously so.
10. Freeways do not go through the city, they all go around it. This makes finding one very difficult.
11. Accidentally driving into the strip-joint part of town with your teenage daughter is a little jarring.
12. The best sushi restaurants are patronized by real Japanese people.
13. Five-year-old boys can be a little perverted. But in a make-you-pee-your-pants-laughing kind of way.
14. Redding is the Bible belt of the west coast. Every talk station was preaching it up. Except the one talking about what to do after having an abortion. Both were too extreme for me.
15. It’s best not to order a Manhattan in a Mexican restaurant. Even if they have it on the menu.
16. The Costco liquor department rocks.
17. Umbrellas don’t keep you dry.
18. College roommates are friends forever.
19. I look a thousand times better at 40 than I did at 20. At least a hundred times better. Or ten. The point is, I don’t want my 20-year-old body back. Or my 20-year-old hair. Also – hairdressers are totally worth it.
20. Friends who make you dinner when you get home after a long drive are gold.

Random Nothingness

I don't know what my problem was last week, but I was totally hyper and ADD and couldn't shut up, as evidenced by the plethora of my posts. Because three in a month is a plethora for me.

This week? I got nothin'.

These are my current random thoughts that aren't even worth reading, but at least I'm doing you a favor by just listing them instead of trying to write a whole post about any one of them.

Cramps are stupid. Also? My boobs are kinda huge right now which only pisses me off because it's totally wasted right now.

Last week I was obsessed with Mexican food. This week it's risotto.

I will be ever so glad when this conference is over. As long as I don't completely embarrass myself in my presentation it will be a win. At this point, I will settle for not falling down in front of people.

It's been a year since I talked to my mom on the phone. Anyone else think that's a problem?

Anal co-workers are annoying.

Dexter this season is making me want to bake him chocolate chip cookies and watch Disney movies with him with lots of pillows and blankets.

I miss nap time.

I kinda feel like I need a really good cry but my Lexapro won't let me.

......

The Miracles of Baby Jeebus. My Baby Jeebus.

Monday my boobs hurt all day. Boob pain in the absence of my least favorite monthly event. Curious.

Yesterday I was nauseous unless I was eating. Just like when I was pregnant. Curiouser.

Today I have been starving all day, even with my parmesan-bagel-with-cream-cheese-breakfast-of-champions. Curiouser and curiouser.

The only logical conclusion is that I have conceived immaculately. Because I highly doubt that the last sperm to invade my body was able to survive for the last three months. Nope. It’s Immaculate Conception. I’m special. I’m Chosen.

And how cool is that? I will have my very own Baby Jeebus!! A Baby Jeebus to turn my water into wine. Or vodka. Or whatever else I, as the Modern Madonna, choose to imbibe on any given evening.

I will have my very own little miracle-worker in my house! Maybe he can make the dogs stop farting. Forever. I could quit my job because we’d be traveling around the world performing all kinds of miracles. I would be the most awesome stage-mom in all the world. I don’t think there are many lepers left in the world, so maybe he can take on AIDS. And fix the economy. And multiply my shoes. Rescuing all of the homeless puppies in the world would be good. Homeless people, too, if he has time after fixing global warming and saving all the polar bears. No raising of the dead though. We all know how that really turns out, thanks to Pet Semetary.

Family dinners would be a whole other thing altogether. Can you imagine Christmas at my house? Brings a whole new meaning to sibling rivalry, doesn’t it?

Oh well, at least Baby Jeebus can heal my stretch marks after he’s born.

How I Want My Funeral and Anyone Who Breaks a Rule Will Get Their Ass Haunted

I ended up in the most boring meeting ever. Ever. I thought I would die of boredom. Seriously die.

Which led me to start thinking what would happen if I really did die and what I would want my funeral to be like and I know not enough people really think about that, they just keel over without leaving instructions for their loved ones. Then people just stand around crying because they don’t know what else to do and that sounds really sad but also super boring.

So I got the great idea to tell you all exactly how I want my funeral to be. See how nice I am? Now, all you have to do is follow my instructions or I’ll haunt your asses for the rest of your lives.

1. No crying. I mean, I want to know that you’ll miss me and your lives will never be the same without me, but do it on your own time. My funeral will be like my birthday, it’s all about Me and what I want and I want only tears of laughter on my deathday.

2. You all must wear the most fabulous pairs of shoes that you own. If you don’t own any that would meet my standards, go buy a pair now. I don’t care what else you wear, you can wear pajamas if you want, but wear some totally kick-ass Shez.

3. The viewing. I’d rather not have one. I think it’s kinda creepy to look at a dead person. It’s like watching someone sleep, which is only sweet if it’s someone you’re in love with but even that has a limit. I wouldn’t want most of you to watch me sleep, it would totally creep me out. However, if someone, say, my mom, insists on a creepy viewing, I want to be wearing my red shoes. If my red shoes are not on my feet, someone’s ass is being haunted. I don’t care what else I wear, I could be naked for all I care. Except that dead naked is bad naked, so you should probably cover me up with something. Maybe my other favorite shoes. Just surround me with them.

4. The party. Remember the no crying rule? That’s because I want my funeral to be the Biggest Party Ever. I want a DJ to play all of my favorite songs. I want you bitches to dance. Dance your asses off. Whiskey-drinking is a must. I want you all to get drunk and laugh your gorgeous faces off. Bonus points will be given for getting laid. But only if it’s totally worth it. And by worth it, I mean your lips go numb and everything inside you melts after vibrating and bouncing all over the place.

5. The food. Obviously this will have to be an all-day affair because I want all of my favorite food represented. This is not a day for diets either, people. The rule is to totally gorge yourselves. If you have to throw up to make room for more, so be it. That will probably help you keep drinking anyway. I want biscuits and gravy, eggs benny, quiche, blueberry muffins, bacon and syrup and doughnuts. There should be plenty of bread and cheeses and fondue, pastas, enchiladas, nachos, sushi, stuffed mushrooms, fried mushrooms, pizza, lobster, crab legs, tea sandwiches, watermelon, anything that comes with a sauce or that can be dipped into a sauce. I need Easy Cheese and Pringles, hush puppies, French fries and onion rings and anything else that can be fried. Dessert should include crème brulee, cheesecakes, cobblers, pinwheel cookies, chocolate anything, chocolate-covered everything, 31 flavors of ice cream and caramel cake made by MG.

6. My dogs. They have to be there. Everyone is just going to have to put up with their snorting and their farting because they’re my dogs and I won’t be around to snuggle them and spoil them anymore. They can have anything and everything to eat except for chocolate and bones that would choke them. Someone needs to give them a bath and put cute clothes on them. Remy should definitely wear a bowtie.

7. My Bugabooga. She can invite 10 of her BFF’s. Any more than that and they’ll create more drama than she can handle and that’s the only reason I’m limiting the number. She can do whatever she wants except cry. Or wear my red shoes. But she can wear my other shoes if any of them fit her. And she can wear anything out of my closet, even a Halloween costume. Make sure she dances and feels all the joy at once that she has given me over the years. Fireworks would be nice, she’s too old for a pony ride. And make sure she has her own chocolate doughnut. And tell her she’s beautiful. Because she is.

8. Ashes. I want to be cremated because there isn’t one place in the world where I want to spend all of eternity. And I certainly don’t want to be eaten by worms or weird underground spiders and I think I’d be claustrophobic. I want at least half of my ashes spread in the Pacific Ocean, preferably from a cruise ship. If anybody wants the rest of me, I want to be kept in a leopard-print urn. Please travel with me and take me places, I can’t stand the thought of sitting on someone’s fireplace or some table in the corner collecting dust. Please do not leave me stuck in Mississippi. Sorry, Mom.

9. My mom. Someone needs to tell her all of these things. Also tell her that if she puts my urn next to that damn dog’s urn, I will haunt her. I want my own fucking shrine, damn it.

10. Oh yeah, you can cuss all you want. And tell dirty jokes and be wildly inappropriate. This is not the time to be proper and those of you that really know me will know better.