Hot off the request lines....

I copied this idea...off of Facebook(Yeah like you've never done THAT before....) and started writing a status update everyday that, instead of notifying the world that my dog pooped on the couch or that my kid learned how to zip his pants or that I'm feeling emo and posted a sad "cut yourself" music video, I would break from the daily routine and say something I'm thankful for everyday.  I try to not make them selfish, or stupid, like "I'm thankful for toilet paper" or "I'm so thankful I got five seconds to myself for poo's sake!" And so far Im doing pretty decent to find cool things to be thankful for, minus melted cheese and Diet Coke, and my newfound addiction to Solitaire on my new tablet...that HusbandMan bought me...for...woooorrrk.....yyyeeaaah.... anywho..

I got my parents to play nice on one.  1 point for me:

They've been divorced for 25 years, so the fact that they're still saying things like "thank you" instead of "go eat your own head" is proof positive divorced people CAN still manage to get along...even on Facebook.

Then there was the praying one.  One friend told me it got her to pray, so that's awesome. 2 points:

Cause as cool as I am, and modest too, I love Mr. Jesus.  It makes my cool points go up like ten points or something, and it's not everyday people can say it on FB.

So today, I was thankful for being obnoxious.  I know it, don't try to make me feel better, it's all good.  I've come to terms with it....

And so I blog tonight by request.

So I asked Bestie what adventures, and she said, "just think back to all the crazy crap we talk about and go from there"....Look we talk about a lot of crazy crap, mostly because we were born within 11 days of each other, making us WAY too close of personalities, and mostly because since we've been friends over 15 years, the "hey, how's the fam" conversation is retarded by now.  So we talk about other, random things.

Most of these conversations come up on Facebook, because we chat all day long on it.
Such as the Chex Mix conversation.

Up until this glorious day that I learned how to screenshot, I have been forced to copy and paste the conversations and then email them to myself, without Bestie's knowledge....oops.

The Chex Mix conversation, like many other conversations of note, popped up in the middle of actually talking about adult, normal conversations, but then random tidbits expose themselves between the lines...
This particular evening, we were talking about automobile maintenance and weight watchers points.  She was eating a bag of chex mix while we were chatting...

DISCLAIMER: I am sure Cambodian children eat a healthy, well balanced meal.  I have nothing against Cambodians.  I'm a dumb American, I don't even know where Cambodia is, other than Angelina Jolie buys her children there.  Moving on.

This is how we roll.

This is just one of many adventures of my obnoxiousness.  Anyway, it's me.  It's the reason I am imperfect.  And on average, 6-10 friends like it for me each day.  So there.  ;)

If it makes you laugh too, then I'm thankful for that too.  Because I'd rather make you laugh than call you a name and make you cry.  Really.  Except when I'm PMSing.  But that's why I have Husband Man.

Besties and the Blogs

A few weeks ago, I had the absolute pleasure of seeing one of my very good friends who came into town from out of state and I hadn't seen in a couple of years.  And when I found out another very good friend I hadn't seen in awhile was also coming out to catch up, I was tickled.  Life gets in the way so often for all of us, and the chance to see them was one I would jump over hoops for.  So I called up another friend, who is my official "bestie" and we made our way to the restaurant to see how life's been treating us all and reconnect.

We all met in high school in the chorus room, minus Bestie.  Bestie I met my first day of high school as a newly transferred student in Algebra class.  But we will get to that another time :)  In the chorus room, you had to be grouped up by how your voice was pitched in the middle of pubescence.  Apparently my hersticles hadn't dropped yet, because Bestie and I were first sopranos.  Highest you could go without starting to sing arias.  Our two friends were also in choir, as were a few other friends I still talk to today, and while at a competition the guest director asked what poco ritard meant.  Before getting an answer, he replied, "lower classmen" and to this day I have no idea what the hell it means.  In that moment, all of us being freshmen and sophomores, our little group of friends were dubbed The Pocos.  Very clique-y, no?  It was glorious.  The Pocos have been friends through and through for going on 15 years.  We've been through the weddings and babies and now, as a few of the Pocos met for dinner one night, we acted like children and giggled-no, cackled, and did things people usually roll their eyes over...such as screaming at the claw game while smashing our faces up against it and such-all while the husbands looked at each other like, "she was normal in the car on the way here....."

Our newest ventures all included blogs.  One has a blog about her kids and the triumphs and tribulations of raising three girls, two of them twins.  Bestie has a blog about coming out of the baby closet and, because she is dubbed a "Domestic Ninja" by Husband Man, all her little Martha Stewart-y projects that she rocks at.  Which makes me jealous with all their awesomeness.  My blog is all sarcastic and exposes what a dork I am, and that's about it.  So I started reading their blogs, and it was kinda cool because you can talk to a friend all day long but when someone writes directly from their brain, it's a cool inside look and a side of them you didn't realize you knew.  Then you realize how cool your friends really are, even more cool than you thought.

As I'm reading, I realize theirs are way more interesting because they post pictures, which helps the reader get a better look into the blogger's perspective.  So I was sitting here one day and said to myself: I should post pictures, that would make my blog super more awesome too!

Like the one with twins: she's amazing with a camera, so she posts pictures of her family and the cool things she sees, and talks about the trips she takes to Disney with her family, and it's just awesome to watch the girls growing up.  So I started looking for pictures of Little One, ones I could post about his cuteness and then thought, maybe that wasn't a good idea...

Because I re-warn you:  I am not normal.

See, here's me ON the claw game.  You thought I was lying.

It was a very strenuous fight to get that knock-off Angry Bird.  A real cliffhanger.  We never got it.

Alright now...let's see.  To make my blog more awesome I need cute pictures of my kid.

Uhh...yeah.  I taught him how to do that.  Because to go out in the world with the proper life skills is vital.

Ok.  Maybe I shouldn't try to be like her blog.  Oooohh....what about Bestie?  Hers is always cool with her projects, she bakes and does cool stuff, like the time she made cowboy cookies and showed everyone how to do it.  That turned out pretty cool...

So I made some cookies too, but they didn't turn out as awesome...

The skull has some serious tartar control issues, the candy corn has been eaten and put back, and the bottom two, were supposed to be pumpkins....I think the one on the right has a dysmorphic syndrome of some sort.  They ate all the good ones, I swear.  Way to be prejudiced against Halloween grotesqueness, people.  The pumpkin on the left was smiling before all the "cute" cookies were eaten.  He's all depressed now because he's been left alone with Slurboy on his left.  Or maybe it's paranoia...because he may be next.

Now my blog is super more awesome too, because pictures are worth a million words....except for that cookie in the bottom right...all he says is, "deerrrrrrrrrrrrr"....

Hersticles!!!

I'm starting to notice this is turning into a coming of age blog, but that's ok.  Because we all have our growing up moments, moments where you stop yourself, step outside the box, look in on yourself and say, "Oh Good Lord, I just sounded like my mother!"

That said, let's talk about hersticles.  Hersticles are the girl beans.  Every girl's got 'em.  They're all yours.  That's the organ responsible for the childhood ability to let caterpillars, worms and frogs crawl all over your arms and show the boys that you're totally not grossed out.  In adolescence, they enlarge and allow you to dissect sharks and same arm-crawling frogs and not throw up into your prospective prom date's lap.  In adulthood, they are responsible for waxing and waning to allow you to kiss butcher knife accidents from your fiance trying desperately to make you dinner, and then later on hold your vomit once again for the opportunity to remove mud from the baby's mouth, hose off the bare feet after they stepped in rancid dog poop in the yard, and hold the roly-poly your child has brought you because, "it's just so cute!!!".

Now, after childbirth, we all know our hormones change.  We get a little more sensitive.  That's because the hersticles have released the last bit of estrogen that causes you to gush over babies before you had kids, and forces you to instead reply, "awwww he's so cute!!!!  Hope you didn't like sleep!!!!"  See?  Don't worry: it's not your fault.

The estrogen moves from the hersticles and stops producing there, leaving only your ovaries to produce estrogen, causing it to rummage all around your body and flare up with no real notice or warning.  The hersticles leave a minuscule amount of strength and courage inside themselves for you to now only slightly gag and wave your arms shrieking, "THAT'S NICE! NOW GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!!!" when presented with a smelly, dirty, slimy earthworm your kid wants to keep and call Rex.

Now you have massive amounts of estrogen flowing in your body, no longer able to be safe and warm in the hersticles, guarding your ever so delicate femininity and allowing you to brave the world a strong, confident woman.  

I'm starting to think of them like little tiny New Year's balls, dropping down, counting down to thirty.  I noticed in the last six years my hersticles were weakened after childbirth, but still going strong.  Maybe I should make hersticle dysfunction medicine....every year they drop father and farther, and shrink and shrink until you find yourself in dark theater, watching the re-release of The Lion King with 3D glass that do not fit, holding a 3 gallon tub of popcorn that you are sharing with a child 1/3 your size, sure that he will eat it instead of you, watching the opening number of "The Circle of Life", and biting your lip because it is JUST so powerful, feeling the tears well up and the bottom lip tremble.  Then, in emergency mode, your hersticles flare up, and you brain gets a message saying, "What the hell is your problem???  You have this on DVD and watch it on a monthly basis!  BY FORCE!!"  The only cure being to tell yourself to shut the hell up and stuff your face with a $4 box of M&Ms(normally $0.79 at Walgreens), wiping the "extra butter" off your face with your salt-ridden napkin, while your kid looks at you like you're the only mother in the dark not able to deal with a newborn lion cub.

Halfway through the movie, you've managed to calm yourself down enough to eat the next third of the value size popcorn, because you paid a dollar extra and it's really a shame to waste all that popcorn while there are children on Channel 43 starving in tin huts in Guatemala.  You wonder, how much would it cost to ship a half bucket of popcorn to Honduras?  How far is Honduras from Guatemala?  Would you have to repackage the tub or can you stick it in a ziplock bag and use packing popcorn to send it?  How close to the rainforest are these places?  Would the humidity ruin the popcorn?  Maybe double bag it?

Oh No.  The hersticles are wilting again.

Uncle Scar just told little, defenseless Simba that Mufasa was killed thanks to him, it's all his fault and he needs to run away.  Suddenly, you are not sad, you are not teary, YOU ARE ENRAGED.  Just then the only thought going through your head is how his mother should have communicated more, maybe she could tell Simba that Uncle Scar is one of those uncles we "just don't talk to", maybe her lion nanny could have been for better guidance, who didn't see the warning sides that the black sheep of the family lives UNDER A ROCK? You promise yourself you'll always be a better parent and not let anyone hurt your little one, and you lean over to tell him, "I will always protect you.  I love you, I would never let anyone talk to you like that, that's a mean Uncle.  Your Uncle loves you and would never make you run away.  And if he does, you come check with me first before running away, because it's probably a lie".

"Mom, SHH, I'm trying to watch!".....Pout.  I hope he heeds my warning.

As you recover from from the rejection, and dip your hand into the now almost empty tub that has yet to leave your lap, you wonder why your butter popcorn at home doesn't taste this amazing.  It doesn't look like butter when they pump it all over your popcorn, is it really butter?  Why do they call it butter if it looks like oil, I mean, who are they trying to kid?  Has anyone ever asked if its made from real butter?  How can I make my oil into popcorn butter?  Should I re-butter if I sent this last handful to Honduras?

You are interrupted from our calculation of exactly how many situps would be needed to erase 14,000 calories worth of move theater popcorn, by the revelation of Simba to come home...at the exact same time you realize you have never noticed Simba is Mathew Broderick.  Simba never sounded like Ferris before-no matter, he is running towards the heavens because his father is talking to him...

Suddenly the hersticles, in one last ditch effort- croak.  The tears come rolling down.  You don't call your father enough.  You should probably call your mother too for good measure at this point.  To explain the anatomy of a hersticle and beg for forgiveness for milking hers to extinction.  It must have been your fault.  You have never wanted to hug a cartoon lion so much in your entire life.  Your child looks at you and asks, "What's wrong Mama??"  and all you can muster through your blubberings is, "Se---e---e---whh---whh--whhaaaat---haaa--ppens---when----yyou---don't----lli--llisten----to---your---faa-faa-faa-faatherrrr??????"

The movie is over and frankly you can't take much more white water emotional rafting.  Wiping off your greasy face and trying to align the makeup back onto your eyes as your child tries to leave without you, at this point you agree you can't blame him, you straighten yourself up and leave the theater.  As you're leaving, the child says, "Can we go to the arcade?"
"No, Son, I've just racked up my credit card for $87 worth of emotional therapy."

"Ugh, you NEVER let me do anything."

"Really?  After I take you to a movie, buy you popcorn, eat your popcorn, eat your M&Ms, cry all over you and tell you how much I love you and will be happy to hoist you up on a rock for all of Brookfield Zoo to see, it's not good enough for you???  Whatever.  Get in the car."

THERE we go!  Found that hersticle dysfunction medicine.  The salt, fat, and chocolate has kicked in! You are woman, hear you ROAR!  I make the rules, Mr. Sassypants!  I put you on this Earth, I'll take you off!  I love you, that's WHY I won't let you drop $5 of tooth fairy money in a claw machine!!!!  Don't cross this woman, she's a force to be reckoned with!!!  

Can we get that in a pill???

Ring Ring.....Uh, HELLO!!??!!??

Today I read a shopping guide on what hot, new cellphone to buy your child in the event you can't decide which one will make you the best parent of the year by granting your child bragging rights and thus making him/her THE most popular kid in school.

Some are easy-function phones; with only three buttons: call Mom, Dad or 911.  Or you can flip through 20 contacts that are parent-entered and there is no number pad.  Not so bad...until I started reading the "super-fun, wildly entertaining" option for preschoolers.

These phones hold up to 500 mp3s, games galore, and if that's not enough kids, you can make your parents go out and buy a microSD card to put even MORE useless crap into your phone so you have something to do while you're away from your XBox instead of things like reading, math and general common sense!

But wait, there's more!!!
How about a phone that comes in neon colors, does everything but your homework for you, has a wicked cool slide out QWERTY pad and unlimited text, calls all for an "amazingly low price" of $65 a month???  The price of this phone?  Only $249!

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???
Ahem...I mean....I have a thought or two on this subject.  This is that part I warned you about in my first blog that I have opinions, and if you don't like it, well, that'd be your opinion.

First off, I realize we're living in different times than when we were kids.  I never fully understood that concept until I started coming of age, having my own child and watching  my three teenage sisters growing up and becoming socially interactive.  I thought it was archaic to hear my mother drone on and on about how they used to ride bikes until dark, be gone all hours of the day, and lemonade stands made the summer money to buy baseball cards and Barbie dolls.  Fast forward twenty years, and while the children of today post half naked pictures of themselves on Facebook, call each other at all hours of the night for the teenage drama that just "cannot, like, totally wait", I'm finding myself scrunching up my face, grumbling things under my breath such as "this world's going to hell in a hand basket" and "these damn kids don't know how good they got it", and a personal favorite of mine, "this is our future presidents, senators and doctors?  Pass."


Don't get me wrong, we called our friends at midnight a time or two.  It was in a closet or kitchen pantry, with the phone muffled and the fear of God in our hearts praying our parents wouldn't hear us, because they'd kick our asses.  Another reason it didn't happen so often, because everyone had that one dumbass friend who had their own phone line in their room and we thought they were hella cool and our parents were gestapo, until they were stupid enough to call at 11:03pm and you, without your own in-room phone, cringed and waited for the sleep-torn blur and the rage of words that were about to be bellowed from the master bedroom.

"He...hell- helloo?  What the- who the hell IS this?  Do you have any idea what time it is?  Where the hell are your parents?  Do they know you relish in calling perfectly peaceful, sleeping households awake in the middle of the night?  No, (your name) CAN'T come to the phone, you moron!  If you ever call back here this late again I'm going to find where you sleep and make sure your parents can't recognize you!" -SLAM-....then the hushed, still aggravated complaint to the respective spouse who managed to halfway sleep through that, "who the hell are these people?  Don't they have parents?"  That's when they were kind (i.e. too tired) and waited until morning to yell at you for someone else calling.  Most of the time it didn't wait, and we were snatched from our beds with the interrogation, "Who is so & so?  Do they own a CLOCK?  Where do you meet these people?  That idiot better never call here that late again!  If they do, you're grounded!  No, you cannot call them to tell them that!!"

Here's the deal: we didn't have cellphones as kids.  Well, we did, but they were freaking ridiculous expensive and they were all grey brick or flip phones that weighed a 1/4lb at least.  Big red digital readout numbers and not even caller id.  And you paid per minute.  You got it after high school when you could pay for it.  Your car had to be running in order to charge it.  Overnight.  Before that, there was the pager.  A little box you paid $6 a month for only to pay to call the person back who was paging you.  And if it was your mom, it always had a "911" behind it, and running to a payphone to call collect to tell her you were fine was perfectly acceptable, socially.

We didn't have iPods.  We had walkmans.  Then, if you were REALLY good, Santa brought you a Discman.  Even better if it had ESP.  You got to hold it up in the air for every bump like you're Garson at Chez Mariebleh so it wouldn't scratch the hell out of your Mariah Carey Christmas CD, because that was the only one you had.

We didn't have Facebook.  We had yearbooks and notes.  We had the luxury of ripping that crap up when someone tried to tell your crush how hot you were for them.  And we had to wait four periods to tell them anyway.  Half of teenage drama these days is instant gratification and 400 "likes".  Hell, I'm going to be 30 next month.  Half my drama these days is commenting on some stupid thing someone said on facebook and having to worry about everyone's feelings.  I mean honestly..."de-friending" someone was so much easier back in the day.  You sent your closest friend to tell their closest friend that you were mad at them...then you switched lunch tables for a week.  Then finally the rumor mill caught on.  Then there were about twenty different versions of what went down and who heard what.  I mean, it took time, but eventually the point got across.  Now they instantly get all up in your face and ask what they did wrong...and then they message again if you don't answer....ehhhhhh.

Kids don't need cellphones until they can work and afford to buy one.  I have yet to meet a CHILD who NEEDS a smartphone.  Half the stuff on my smartphone I  barely need.  The day I spend $249 on a phone for a child is the day he/she is moving out- because they graduated freaking college with an MBA and are about to pay off my mortgage.  Little One won't be getting a cellphone until his burger flipping teenage job pays for it.  I as the oldest have lived through three teenage sisters.  If they haven't completely trashed their phones within a month of owning them, they've made my parents broke over the texting and phone bills.  Not one of them has a real job yet.  Insane.  If you need a GPS device to track what your child is doing, you aren't being a parent.  Don't worry about your kid hating you for it.  If you're worried about if your kid still "likes" you, you're not being a parent.  A ten year old can live through the day without playing Angry Birds for once.

As my rant about a major factor in the decline of society as we know it dwindles down, I start realizing that I have officially crossed over to adulthood.  "In my day" starts most of my thoughts when trying to explain the differences between me and my sisters.  Our time was different too, it was a treat to walk down the block to the hot dog stand while my mother sat in the front yard watching us.  Sometimes, we couldn't come to the phone because it was dinnertime.  And that was okay.  Sometimes, a call to a friend's parents struck fear in our hearts if we were doing something bad; or, it made us roll our eyes because they were making sure where we were spending the night wasn't a meth lab or an underground child labor ring.  Sometimes, Mom would drive down the street because we were dawdling so badly, just to make sure we hadn't been stolen.  It wasn't an invasion of privacy.  It wasn't "ruining my life".  It wasn't overbearing.  It was being a responsible parent.

I still call my mom when I get home late and the husband is working.  I still call my step-mom when I'm driving around to clients in her area so she knows I'm safe.  Thankfully, neither one tells my friends I can't come to the phone because I'm going to the bathroom anymore.  Because I'm a big girl...or I'm already on the phone with them in the bathroom.  Don't judge.  You do it too.

What's mine is yours...

When two people love each other, they get married.

In this day and age, they move in together.  Let's not pretend, and come on girls, I think you have my back when I say, at least on our end, it's a test to see if we can live with the deep, dark, slovenly secrets you menfolk have behind closed doors beyond Axe-ing yourself from head to toe, smelling your laundry that is cataloged in a complex caste system of varying levels of "clean", throwing on the crumply Level-4 shirt (that's the "I can scam one more day out of this shirt before it's heinous, but it looks clean" level) and jumping in the car to take us for another nice night out at Applebee's.  But that's the beauty of this crazy world.  You guys think you're so damn suave, and all along we know you do that just to impress us - and that is why we love you guys in the first place.

Move-in day: your boxes, his boxes, it's all so new and wonderful.  Books are mingled on a shelf.  Mismatched kitchen items, his sheets and yours folded together in the linen closet, the first trip to the grocery store to pick up the essentials, including his favorite flavor of juice and the only brand of chips you buy; it's so enlightening to see this little peek into each other that you've never noticed before.  It's a great symphony composed of you and him, and it meshes together so perfectly, because it's you.  Only now, you = "us".


Cohabitation is achieved.  It's been a few weeks, and you have subliminally established the little preferences that you both require.  Your loofah belongs hanging from the tub faucet, not plopped on the toilet lid when he jumps in the shower because it gets in the way.  He folds his pants and underwear inwards, then in half, not rolled up and perfectly lined in a drawer.  The glasses get put away mouth down and dry, and are not simply rinsed out so they can be used anew.  His xbox games do not need dusting, alphabetizing or feng shui.  He has made peace with the fact that you insist the bed is made nicely every night, and you have resolved that he will perpetually stick his feet out from under the covers all night.   He has to handle the tampons, birth control pills and the occasional hanging wet bra fresh out of the wash.  You have to deal with fast food cups all over the computer desk, his socks just missing the hamper, and the fact that he will always plop his keys on the dining room table for fear of losing them.  Welcome to compromise.  You are officially sharing space.

By now, a year has passed.  A renewed lease.  Things are comfortable.  At this point you may even be married.  It doesn't seem different, but there's a piece of paper in the filing cabinet and it is "official".  The mismatched plates have been replaced by the registered stoneware, with matching tumblers and silverware.  The sheets that were folded together in a color scheme chaos are saved for late night crashers and the couch. Now a lovely matching bedding set is on the bed, along with matching curtains and even a nice little art piece above the bed.  The comic books are in storage, as is your high school box, you guys are grown ups.  The xbox is now a nice date night at home with a bottle of wine and a bowl of popcorn because you're saving up to buy a house and going out to the bars happens less and less.

Then you buy that first house.  And it's ALL YOURS!  You paint it, hang the drapes, decorate, place scented candles and start getting that second bedroom to look less like an office and more like a nursery.  By now you two have found your harmonious sense of collaborative style, when people come to visit they see your house as a definition of the two of you.  The meshing of two lives is complete.  Life is good, you are into your routines, you're used to him clipping his nails in bed, and he is used to you farting in your sleep and not remembering.  It all stops grossing you both out.  And long, long ago, you both stopped running every water source in the bathroom to poop.  Now, you're having normal conversations about bills and the Bears game while one is shouting from the bathroom.  Every once in a while, you step back and look, and ask yourself, how did it all come together so easily?

Fast forward a few years.  Now when you try to take a step back, you can barely visualize those two strangers who first moved in together, let alone life without the magnificent child(ren) you have made; little replications of the two of you, that no one can ever separate.  You're a little tired, you have no idea what "me-time" is, but you wouldn't trade anything for the world.

Then it happens.

I'm not sure where in the story it happens, but somewhere....something just...happens.

You walk into the bathroom.  Another Monday morning and you're weaving slowly towards the shower in a haze.  The little one already asks if he can go to McDonald's that day, you want nothing but coffee, and the husband is already out of the shower, shaving.  Then you see it.

He has your toothbrush in his mouth.

"What the hell is that about?"

"What?"

"That's my toothbrush.  In. Your. Mouth."

He looks in the mirror, puzzled.  He looks back at you.

"So?"

"That's disgusting."

"Honey, if that's the worst bodily fluid we've exchanged-"

That's when you snap.  And not in the bad way.  You realize that this "me-time" thing isn't such a bad idea after all.

"It's MY goddamned toothbrush.  Can't I have ANYTHING TO MYSELF????"

He is bewildered.

This is when you start thinking of all the things you have shared in this blissful sanctuary of commitment.  Your white socks...blotted black in the heels because he stuffed them into his combat boots the day he realized all his socks were in the laundry.  Even the pink striped ones you bought specifically to hinder this behavior.  The one box of granola bars-the chewy chocolate covered ones you bought just for yourself - that disappeared  and you thought you forgot them at the store- until the box showed up in the cabinet - empty.  You feel the rage coming on.  After all the dishes, laundry, checkbook balancing, diaper changing, vacuuming.  This is what I wake up to?  I can't even have my own toothbrush???  How does someone LOSE a toothbrush???

Tossing it into the garbage and unwrapping a new one, a montage of all the things that you do that go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unappreciated plays out.  You brush your teeth and get on with your day, a little surlier than planned.

While at work he surprises you with flowers and takes you out to lunch for upsetting you.  Upon noticing his arrival, you pause your iPod and remove your earbuds-HIS earbuds that he let you borrow because you dropped yours in tomato soup and ruined them.  You smile, feel like a jerk, then put on your hoodie- HIS hoodie, because he gave it to you this morning due to the unusual chill in the air while you were ranting about not finding yours.  And the fact that it smells like him makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.  And yet this man is still smiling at you.  Still wakes up next to you after 8 years of marriage, all the loops and drops and turns it has taken, and looks into your crusty eyes...right in range of your nasty morning breath; and smiles.  He still tells you every morning how beautiful you look when you sleep.


It makes you realize all the ruined clothes from baby spit up, all the socks tarnished, the treats being eaten, the little inconveniences you can't stand when in your little rage are worth it.

It makes you realize: he's the only guy on Earth you'd ever share your toothbrush with.

Cheer or Brace Yourself?

I have been experiencing a serious writer's block for more then a month.  Then I flipped on the news tonight.

Now, along with all the things I am not, I also heavily proclaim I'm not a fan of debating religion or politics.  I am often a fan of learning to appreciate other cultures, nay studying to grow an appreciation.  I do not always admire other cultures, but I do try to understand them.  So with that disclaimer, I'm going to tell you exactly MY OPINION of the news coming upon us of the death of Osama Bin Laden.

I am a practicing, of course imperfect, Catholic.  I pray.  I believe in Jesus Christ.  I am a patriotic, yet recently heavily disappointed American.  Yet with the news upon us, I find myself unable to rejoice.  When Saddam Hussein was executed, things were simpler than they are today, while not necessarily more innocent; however people felt more safe, more "flex in their muscles" when confident in their country and the job the administration was doing.  Albeit not overwhelming supportive, but compared to the presidency we have today, more Americans could admit they felt at least something was being done at the desk of the Oval Office.  Today I find myself nervous.

Now, get offended if ye must, but most people would agree the majority of the American population are uneducated, ignorant cattle milling about only believing what they are told via outlets spoon feeding us information that is carefully selected for us to not panic.  Now, I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but really, ask the person next to you: they know more about Snooki and the damn America Idol standings than they know about politics and what's really going on.  They hear a headline, and they run with it, with their opinions, and the knee-jerk reaction it causes, thanks to Facebook, Twitter and the random mumblings of random people who are more concerned of how they sound than what they actually say.  Again, I am not a political expert.  But I have paid attention enough to see that this is not the same.  This is far more surreal than any other times in our lives.

With that said, I want you to think of something, and while you sing the National Anthem(ps good for you for at least knowing the words), consider this:

Bin Laden was allegedly found in a mansion outside the capital of Pakistan.  Our relations with Pakistan have always been stressed to say the least.  Why?  Because even in the Clinton days (remember, I'm still a whipper snapper, but I paid attention as a child as well...before Regan I was a glimmer in a 21 year old's eye) we strained to keep peace between Pakistan and Israel, usually to no avail.  If you lived in a mansion outside of Washington DC and you were accused of killing 3,000 people, do you think you'd be safe going to the local supermarket?  Do you think you'd be safe taking a drive?  Going out to get your mail?  Do you think you'd go unnoticed?

(Now the president is speaking...we'll see how this blog drives in a few moments)

Pakistan was working with us in this operation, according to the president.  My thoughts go towads what will happen with those relations.  I've always been told growing up that in revelation-like tones, the day Israel and the middle east are at peace, after one last battle, will spark the end of the world.  Ok stop right now- I'm not screaming "the end is near".  I'm simply asking you to take a step back, clean off your glasses, and take one more look, a little farther away as to get a larger look at the picture as a whole.

I know this much- why, after speaking with a very large number of people tonight, every single one of them have agreed that upon hearing the news, they didn't know whether to jump for joy or brace ourselves for a wave of seriousness we as a nation, as a people, are just not prepared for.

Maybe our innocence is completely lost.  Maybe thanks to the internet, global instant communication, it hasn't changed all that much since the fifties, we just simply know more faster.  Maybe we really are living in a whole new world where we aren't safe, we shouldn't trust the big rusty machine; then again, maybe the world's going to hell in a handbasket after all.  I'm just not sure why this event tonight changed the air, changed the light...but I fear, my friends, that we will be waking up to a much different world tomorrow morning.

The People of Walmart are hiring...

I've had a love-hate relationship with retail cashiers for years.  In my opinion, there are three main archetypes for them.

First, there is the sweet lady who chats with you while you put your stuff on the belt, everything is cordial, the weather is discussed, your kids are mentioned, and she even celebrates with you when all of your coupons work, and even when that last little one doesn't want to scan, and she gives you this all-knowing smirk, and types it in whether it wants to submit or not.  These people I have great respect for.  They're bringing home the bacon, they work hard, and they still manage to give you a smile at midnight, while you stand there in pajama pants buying $70 worth of SlimFast shakes and a family-sized bag of Cheetos.  I seek these people out when I go shopping.

Second, there's the people who HATE their jobs.  And I mean loathe their jobs.  The ones who look at you from 50 paces with that stare that screams, "I swear to God, if you come near this blinking number above my head, I will eat your face and throw your perfectly chosen eggs to the ground!"  I've even met one, who worked at the "self-serve" lanes, and when my coupons didn't work(yes, I coupon shop....I'm just not in the leagues of the elite I spoke of earlier.  One day.), she went OFF.  But not at me, which is good.  She went on a five minute rant about how she hated her job, and she didn't care if my damn coupons were the right ones, she was just going to let them through and if she gets fired, then so be it.  I couldn't understand what sets someone off like that, until I saw the guy behind me literally yelling about how his cans of cat food were supposed to be $0.35 and they're ringing up as $0.45, and he bought ten to make it the $0.35, so what the hell was going on...and I watched her shoulders jump to her ears.  She inhaled slowly, but deeply, and as I scurried out the door I heard a very loud, "You know, what, SIR?......."  Ugh.  I guess timing is everything.  Either way, I still respect that lady too.  I mean, it takes a LOT of patience to put up with the public.  Especially when they're dressed in black dress socks, orthopedic sandals and screaming about being an American who can't even buy decent cat food in a self serve lane.  I never saw her again.

Lastly, we come to our topic of the day:  I don't even have a name for these people.  Ok, I didn't but it has come to me.  The Commentator.  It's 5pm, you've just gotten off of a long day at work, and all you want to do is buy a pair of socks and a jug of orange juice in peace and go home.  But oh no.  Not tonight, because every single thing on the belt is a story, my friends.  And if you plan to pay for it, you're gong to hear them.  Whether you like it or not.

I've run into a lot of Commentators in my day.  One named every cereal going into the bag, under her breath, and meowed at me when I was leaving.  Meowed.  One tried to get me to invite them to a halloween party based on the ingredients I was purchasing to make a kitty litter cake, to the point of grabbing my arm, giving me her phone number, and looking me straight in the eyes and saying, "I really hope I hear from you..."  AHH!!  But the most recent experience would be in two days and two trips to Walmart this week.  Yesterday I went with my mom and Little One.  We both lined our separate orders on the belt, and already this poor guy was having some sort of issue with the man in front of us.

Man: "Wow, what is this, your first day?"
Commentator: "No, actually, my first three months.  I have been here since January, it takes a lot of remembering to do my job.  The training-(man walks away)   -Uh, have a good day.....sir...."

Then we walk up.
My mom and I don't get to go shopping together very often.  When we do, things get thrown into our cart that we frankly don't remember going in there.  And when Little One comes with, well, Nana just can't seem to say no.  So we have a cart of random things, half drunk Vitamin Water, open bag of peanut butter cups, yarn,  said orange juice and socks, Krispy Kremes for an ailing Papa at home, Uno card-spitty outty thing, Hungry Hungry Hippos (see?), dishsoap, you know, the essentials.  He's eyeing them.  Every single item.  Thus the conversation begins.

I'm trying to remember the exact dialog that ensued, but I can tell you that this gentleman, lest we not mention his name, loves Vitamin water, his favorite flavor is orange.  He prefers the store-brand applesauce because it's cheaper.  He thinks we're having Family Game Night, and the Dawn coupon my mother is handing him is amazing, because everyone is shopping with coupons these days and the fact that I am trying to read the stacks of inserts from my purse while drowning out his incessant voice is just "so awesome" and it's just so easy to save money.  He even threw out the Krispy Kreme/cop story that Gabriel Iglesias does in his comedy bit(as his own, mind you), but it's not worth my energy to try to point that out to him.  He also states that Krispy Kremes are the #1 preferred donut brand by law enforcement throughout the country, which must be why my stepfather, who is a cop, is enamored with them.  One day, the Krispy Kremes were delivered the same day the Girl Scouts were selling cookies, and as he put it, "Poof!  There went my entire paycheck!"

 I am just staring at my purse trying not to make eye contact.  Mom's order is finished, here comes mine.  I crochet when I'm bored, making half-projects and buying more yarn to make more half-projects.  It is then when I learn that he feels people don't appreciate handmade gifts.  I make the mistake of adding no one has ever complained, at least out in the open, when they get one of my half-gifts.  Well, guess what, he's a crafter too!  He made a leather vest all by himself with a chainmail neck......oh, and I'm the smartest person in the world for paying with a gift card.

My mother has abandoned me at this point, with Rambling Ron the Commentator still chewing my ear off, while I nod politely.  I barely get away as she is pulling Little One, my only exit strategy, away from me and towards the door, striking up an enthralling debate over why we can't stay to play the "coin game", that is, the little charity bin that you stick quarters in to watch them careen through loops and twirls, into the destiny of a child in dire need.  I can't even get the words, "is this my only bag?" out while he's describing how to cure a hide, all while I'm inching towards the door.

I mustered up the strength to run in again today only to buy cigarettes.  Ok, I smoke.  Don't judge.  Anyway, Rambling Ron's partner in crime is waiting for me in the 10 items or less lane, looking puzzled as I have less than one item in my hands.  I ask for my cigarettes.  He proceeds to the big wall and puts his finger on a pack.  "This one?"
"No.  The one right there."  I point.
Schooch, schooch, schooch down the wall.  Finger applied.
"This one?"
"No.  The Gold ones right there."  I point.  Harder.
He looks bewildered.  I realize the vast selection of smoking supplies is overwhelming, dear boy, and this must be your third month too.  But seriously, there are two people behind me also pointing in the general direction that I am so they can get their socks and orange juice and go home.
Victory.  He finally found them.
"Are you under 40?"
Thinking he's joking, as I pull my purse up, I chuckle, "well, I hope people can still ask that when I am 40," (psst...I turn 30 this year.)
No response. He is staring blankly at me.
"I have to have your birth date if you're not 40." Boooy-you better watch who you say that to, before you never get to hit puberty.
I give him my birth date.  He puts the cigarettes in a bag and wraps them up tight before handing them to me.  I walk out feeling like I just bought my first box of condoms.

I've worked retail before.  I've been a cashier plenty of times in my life.  I have some sympathy to the fact that 60% of the people you deal with have no respect for you, and they're big jerks.  But if this keeps happening, I may resort to that big list of "101 things to do at Walmart".  First on my list-I'm going to make a fort out of diapers and tampons.

In the future...there's always Peapod.

And so it begins...

I was born without a filter.  You know, those filters that stop you in the middle of an energized thought, and your brain recognizes it as completely inappropriate; and your face looks like you've just been kicked in the stomach with a soccer cleat until you recoil, shaking your head and letting the thought die.  It took me years to stop apologizing for it; after years of saying ridiculous things, regretting them, and backtracking.  So I may say off-beat things, and it may offend, or make you laugh.  The second party is far more welcome here.  Fair warning: I'm not funny if I try.  But since I have no one reading this, we're safe so far.  We being me and the mouse....beside my computer.  See?  Not funny.

I wanted to do a blog for a while, but never could figure out exactly what to blog about without going back and forth on subjects, confusing any poor soul who crept up on this thing.  So then, I thought about making a separate blog for each thing I like.  And that's just stupid, or evidence of some underlying personality disorder I may have.  So I'm going to ramble, and not make sense, and hope that eventually it all comes together.  Thus, the importance of being imperfect.  Because, let's face it, normal is boring.

I'm compelled to start telling you all about myself.  But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.  Instead, I'll pop out on this one a little early, being as it is so late in the evening.  (10pm is too late for a lame-o like me.)  I can tell you this much, to help you decide if this is worth you reading....which, if you have gotten this far, we're gonna get along just fine: 

I am not a mother of twins, multiples or some special prodigy who makes art with their toes.  I am a mother of a five year old boy, who is about as cool as they come.  Example: this morning, instead of letting me wake him up, I was blessed to walk in right when he was rolling his little burrito of a comforter past the end of his bed, catapulting himself onto the floor, and causing a close encounter with a bookshelf.  Does Little One get up and cry?  No.  He looks around, a little bewildered, and says, "Whoa, dude, did you see that?  I think I just fell out of my bed!  That was hilarious!"  He's very self-secure.  Watch out, girls....and yes, he really called me "dude".  It IS usually "Mama".

I'm not an Army wife with a husband away at war- anymore.  Instead, Husband Man (that's his superhero name) is now a firefighter and has been a veteran for four years.  I have a very high opinion of our troops, not necessarily of the people telling them where to go or what to do, but that's my opinion.  And you won't change that.  So go protest somewhere else.  However I hate Country music.  So it's not that extreme.  He's in a metal band.  I get to manage them, also without pay.  Translation: when they start gigging this summer, I get to set it all up for them, on top of washing his underwear and making sure he doesn't lose his keys.  But he taught me how to play XBox back when Halo was a big thing, and I kicked his ass.  And his friends' asses.  I don't think they pretend to suck anymore.  And he's my best friend.  

I am not couponing my way to a vacation destination or saving so much money by clicking away my day for surveys.  So you won't find that here.  However, I appreciate not paying full price on, like, anything.  I'm the kind of person who needs step-by-step instructions on how to do those insane sales, and afterwards, I act like a big know-it-all and brag about how I spent $0.19 on $26 worth of tampons and toothbrushes.  Don't judge me.  I am trying to learn how to save money, and I'm actually off to take a coupon class in May.  I just hate the people who make it look so damn easy.  And desperately wish to be in their secret society.  In the meantime, the money I save-PAYS BILLS.  I've actually sold my SNES (Super Nintendo) for an electric bill once, long, long ago.  That pissed me off.  I hope to buy it back on EBay one day.

Notice the video game references: I am not a gamer.  I don't have time to play video games.  Long are the days of harassing little ten year olds while being called gay for having an avatar dressed in purple, only to inform them afterwards they got their asses kicked by a girl.  Oh to have an hour to myself to do that sort of stuff.  But, I do enjoy a game here or there, and frankly, you can't be a member of our generation without citing at least one life experience to the drama and intensity that is Super Mario.  I don't know how many times that freaking dinosaur has been abandoned by a simple jump, never to be returned again....until the next level......sigh.  

I'm not trying to lose weight.  Ok, who the hell am I kidding, I'm always half-jogging, half-surviving down the whole quarter mile I can drag myself down, hoping God will take me there and save me from the whole 12 calories I've burned in the last half hour.  But, honestly, it's not me.  I actually like being me.  I am annoyed by nature, gravity and childbearing.  And the Nanas, Ciochas(yeah you know what I'm talking about, Polish people), and anyone else who've entered the path of parenthood, who don't tell you until you've experienced it that while you may lose your baby weight, and be right back down to pre-pregnancy size, your body parts do not get the memo.  They're in places you've never imagined they'd go, and they HIDE THERE FOREVER.

I'm not Polish.  My mother was adopted and my father had step parents as biological parents died and remarried.  Thus, I'm a Celtic, White Anglo-Saxon, German and English girl with a distinct Polish "off the boat" family on one side(think Big Fat Polish Wedding...no joke), and White/Mexican (don't ask, I'm sure we'll get there) with a little Greek and Polish sprinkled on the other side.  My family portraits are like the side of a UNICEF box.  But I love them all....or at least try to.  Like I said, normal is boring...

I am, however, me.  And that can be different on any given day.  And it's not perfect.  And that's what I love about it best.  So here's to the cherry being popped, the yacht being christened, the ribbon being cut...the...whatever else you do to start stuff...(I'm also not an accomplished writer).  Thanks for reading this far, I hope it'll be a trip for both of us.