It's Not Easy Being Green

If the blog still played music (curse you, virus-infected playlist.com!) it would be playing Loverboy's "Everybody's Workin' For the Weekend".  (Remember the cover of that album, with the red leather pants ass shot and the crossed fingers??  So risque in the '80s.  Like David Lee Roth's ass-less pants, which teens looked upon with glee as their parents were shocked, but now look so silly.  And then the Red Hot Chili Peppers went to tube socks on their peckers and made DLR look like a grandpa.)

Where were we?  Who am I?  I can't tell if this is ADHD or early onset Alzheimers, so stick with me.  I blame the Nyquil.  Weekends.  Yes.

SO my job is fine but I'm going through what appears to be a long-term case of wanting to be home full-time again, so I find myself doing the whole Counting Down the Week thing.  I actually say "It's Hump-Day" in my head, dread Mondays, and love Fridays.  I've become a cliche.  Or a Dilbert cartoon. 

On Thursday night, I started getting sick.  I wouldn't take Friday off because I don't want to lose the vacation time.  By Saturday morning, it was a full-blown sniffling sneezing coughing aching stuffy head fever and I couldn't rest day.  This has been my best friend all weekend:

...and it's cousin, the cherry-flavored Nyquil.  And Cold-Eeze lozenges with zinc.  And lotion-coated Kleenex.  For once, Diet Coke doesn't taste right, and THAT is what tells you I'm sick, my friends.

I don't get sick often, because I can't.  When I get sick, everything falls apart.  No one eats, everyone's plans are thrown out of whack, the house goes to shit, the dog isn't let out, etc.  It's chaotic.  This time, Current Husband ran everything - kids all over town, meals, dog, cleaning, and he even created a utility closet for extra storage.  On one hand I was relieved.  On the other hand, I was a little disappointed.  Don't they need me?  Aren't I the glue that holds this family together?  This is just a waste of a well-cultivated Martyr Complex.  Damn them and their self-sufficiency.  I took to my bed in disgust.

In order to give me some quiet time while sick, CH took Youngest Daughter and a friend to see The Muppets today.  Upon arrival at the theater, he bought them all popcorn, and promptly got nauseous.  Youngest Daughter ran from the theater with her hand clapped over her mouth to the bathroom.  CH saw a kid in the lobby with his back against the wall, dry-heaving and then finally throwing up, proving that it's truly not easy being green.

So my precious, precious weekend was wasted on a nasty cold, but at least I'm not bitter.  The Nyquil is kicking in, so I'm off to bed.  Hope you all had a great weekend, and a lovely Monday.  My tip to start your week is to stay away from the popcorn. 

You're Old. That'll be 400 Dollars.

I think I've mentioned that my family made me believe I was going deaf last year.  They walk around muttering and low talking around me, and I'm forever saying, "What? Huh?" and then they talk very slowly and loudly, over-enunciating and then mocking me.  Which was super funny until I served them the trichonosis ham at Christmas.  It was an accident, of course.  OR WAS IT?

So, on the whole hearing thing (HUH!?), I ended up so freaked out by it that I made an appointment at an ENT office and had a hearing test.  I had to go to a room with little tiny preschool chairs, and put on little pink Minnie Mouse headphones, and stare at a Disney mural while they administered the hearing test.  When I walked out, the tech said, "Um, yeah, so not only is your hearing good, it's actually above normal.  So....you're fine."  I paid the $300, which was not covered by insurance, and went home to my low-talkers who were all making  me think I was crazy. (I SAID MADE ME THINK I WAS CRAZY!)

So in the past year, I've had to start using reading glasses.  I seem to really have trouble seeing, so I picked out a 2.0 strength pair.  Lately, those seem to be blurring my words as well.  It was time to upgrade from my Walgreens readers to some real glasses.  Hopefully bifocals, because they'll go with my Depends. (Do those Kegels, girls.  Ready...and HOLD...and...release.)  I asked friends for an eye doctor recommendation, and went with the one who has the same name as CH and my masseuse, because I'm intent on building a stable of men with the same name who are here to serve me.

Today, I go to the eye doctor's office.  While waiting for my name to be called, I checked out some eyeglasses...ooh, there are some cool Lacoste ones.  Will I look like Tina Fey in THESE:

Being old might not be so bad if I can look bookishly hip.  Maybe rock a Naughty Librarian look.  Okay, I can do this.  "Julie?"  I take my first step toward my revamped image as I walk into the exam room.

My oompah-loompishly tanned tech was very nice, but kept looking at my chart with furrowed brow.  "What is it you are being seen for?  How blurry are the words?"   I started getting worried - was this some kind of ocular malfeseance, the likes of which had never been seen before by this office?  The doctor walked in with the same name as my husband and gave me a speech not unlike one I would hear from CH:

"Your vision is 20/20.  You're just getting old."

Um, do I pick up those Lacoste lenses on the way out as a parting gift, Doc?  Because you just harshed my buzz.  I went from Tina Fey to Estelle Getty in 60 seconds.  It turns out that when you are OLD, your lens in your eye quits being bendy - "Much like your knees, Julie" is what he said, just before I accidentally punched my bad knee into his scrotal sac - and won't move as quickly, hence your blurry words.  Also?  My readers are too strong - I need closer to a 1.0, the 2.0 strength is making me hold my book closer to my face.  I can't even get my readers right!  What is my name?  Where am I?  Jesus, is that you?

I don't need glasses.  I need burial insurance.

So in the past six months, I've had my hearing checked and it is above average, and I've had my vision checked and it's 20/20, and yet, I CAN'T SEE OR HEAR A DAMN THING.

Conclusion?  You're old.  That'll be $400.  Come back in two years so we can ridicule you some more.

And The Banjo Played On

What's your song?"

I can't tell you how many times Current Husband and I have been asked that question when we're with other couples.  Usually these are outings where the men are wearing khakis and button-downs and the women are in some civilized garb, and glasses of wine or Maker's are being sipped discreetly.  Some people chime in with "At Last" by Etta James, or "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder, or "You've Got a Friend" by JT.  Current Husband and I have a soundtrack to our slightly odd and Funyun flavored life together - it's the banjo song from Deliverance.  We're usually met with an awkward silence before someone changes the subject.  And then one of us farts.  And then we aren't asked back.

This weekend, the banjo tunes again wafted through our home sweet home.

First, I'd like to say that the damn basement is finally about 93% done, which means an A-, so I'm sure it will stay that way for the next 3 years.  Here is where we started:

This picture was taken waaaay back last summer, when we started tearing down walls and tearing out the ceiling and before the basement waterproofing system was put in, etc, etc etc.  Gross, no??

And here is what it looked like in the middle of construction - walls going up, lighting going in....

And here is what it looks like tonight:

Behind the white door with the glass is an office for CH, complete with an egress window so this is all actual square footage on the house.  There is also a new full bath, and a new and improved laundry area with my custom cubbies.  Yay for cubbies!  Then, facing from this lovely IKEA sofa bed is this music area for the kids:

Please note:  Steps getting painted is in the 7%

of things that need to get done. 

So. Sick. Of. Painting.

So, after about seven months and countless thousands of dollars, one would think, "Hey, that place is really shaping up!"  Until the pipes under the kitchen sink break.

So CH decides to "fix" them. 

See the pipes laying on the floor?  Here's a closeup:

Yeah.  It turns out those were rusted through. 

And broke off in CH's hands.  Oops.

So we found out that for the weekend, we couldn't use the kitchen sink.  We told the kids, and as we're telling them, The Son walks up to the sink, dumps the milk from his cereal bowl in it, and then we watch as a bowl of milk pours through the hole and all over underneath the bottom of the sink.  Yay for listening skills!

So the sink is out of commission.  Okay, we'll just use our entire month's carryout budget in three days.  The kids have various friends coming over for the weekend.  Oldest Daughter decides to split and stays at someone else's house.  When she gets home on Sunday, she comes upstairs and says, "Hey, I was going to use the bathroom downstairs but the toilet is plugged.  Can I use yours?"  What!?!  Why has no one told us this?

(I should take a moment to point out that when The Son was 3, he plugged a toilet, and it overflowed all over the second floor.  No one told us, and soon I noticed water dripping from the kitchen ceiling.  We ran upstairs, and sure enough, flood.  We sort of came unhinged with the yelling, and The Son would not flush a toilet for a FULL YEAR.  Seriously.  So we kind of tread carefully in this department.)

CH and I got the plunger, and spent the next two effing hours trying to unplug this toilet.  Seriously, WTF are kids eating these days?  Oh yeah, fast food!  If you haven't done it for a while, plunging is hard work:

About midway through plunging, I looked at CH, and said, "We just put all kinds of money into improvements in this house, and here we are with a broken sink upstairs and a plugged toilet downstairs.  Will the banjo music never end?"

"Nope," CH said.  "But you got a purdy mouth."

And the banjo played on.

p.s. The toilet is now flushing properly, and a plumber came this morning and fixed the sink.  But where's the fun in that?

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 76

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends.


Today's topic: Home Invasion

I'm going to tell you a little story that is pertinent to today's post.  Back in about 2005, I was having dinner with Oldest Daughter, 8, and The Son, 6.  At the time, I was still a bit of an over-acheiver in the parenting department, and was trying to teach the kids to count in German.  Things fell apart when we got to the number 6.
ME:  "Sechs"
THEM:  Tee hee hee hee hee
ME:  What?
THEM:  You know...hee hee...
ME:  (This is not happening) No, I don't.
THEM:  It...hee hee...sounds like...hee hee...sex!
ME:  (It is happening) Um...What do you think sex IS?
OD:  When men and women kiss a lot and rub up against each other.
ME:  (whew) And who has sex?
THEM:  College students and bad teenagers.
ME:  (solemnly nod) Yes.  That's absolutely correct.

Two out of two grade school students surveyed believe  adults do not have sex.  Thank you, third grade peers.

DATELINE:  Last Sunday.  Garbage day is Monday, so in our uber-classy white trash way, we leave a big black garbage bag in the middle of the kitchen where the other smaller garbage cans are deposited.  You know, the garbage cans from bathrooms and bedrooms.  So I'm in the basement, and I walk upstairs into the kitchen, and see that George the Superpet has been rifling through the garbage again, and that damn dog, what is that on the floor, it had better not be ....

Oh Dear God.  It isn't.  It is.

A condom.  Um...unwrapped.

I get all panicky and sweaty.  Who has been in here?  Who saw this?  The room is empty, and this is the sole item on the floor, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen.  I quickly get it back in the garbage and tie the top. 

And then I call the police to report a home invasion.

ME:  SOME REALLY BAD TEENAGERS OR COLLEGE STUDENTS HAVE BROKEN INTO MY HOME AND HAD SEX. 
POLICE:  Where?
ME:  Possibly in my kitchen.
POLICE:  Can you describe them?
ME:  I'm sure they look just like the people from Jersey Shore. 
POLICE:  Why do you think that?
ME:  Because they are clearly stupid, stupid people.
POLICE:  When did the crime occur?
ME:  Two nights ago.  About 11:30 p.m. after the kids were asleep.
POLICE:  Is this a repeat occurrence?
ME:  No, one time incident in 2012.  TRUST ME.

And if anyone asks, I can now produce a police report to back me up.

(Did I just say "Back me up?"  Will I never learn?)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

We're All Winners. And Losers.

So a couple of weeks ago I found out from Current Husband that The Son had won a Big Award at middle school, and it pissed me off because who does the school e-mail or call with bad news?  Me.  The Mom. But the Good Stuff?  Oh, call the DAD!

TANGENT ALERT:  Our school system implemented an "ALERT NOW" system a couple of years ago, which was originally supposed to inform parents if there was a weather delay or gas leak or rabid beavers had invaded the school.  It was an Emergency System.  Now the ALERT NOW system calls us about every two nights with news from the three schools my children attend.  We sit down for dinner, and the phone rings, and it's one of the schools, saying "Don't forget the school sleepover!" or "Don't forget the fundraising drive where your child was promised an XBox but they won't really win one!" or "Don't forget they are having Ballpark Hot Dogs on Wednesday!"  When my child's school is invaded by rabid beavers, AND IT WILL BE, instead of listening to the message with the school secretary yelling, "For the love of God, get your children, these paddle-tailed bastards are chewing everything with those huge white teeth and foaming mouths!" I will just hang up, saying "I already signed up for two nail painting shifts."  If you are going to telemarket me, school, know I will miss the important information.  Like the beaver alert.

ANYWAY, the school e-mailed CH and told him that The Son had won an award that three boys and three girls in a class of 300 win each semester.  The award is for citizenship and kindness and such, and we were invited to attend but asked not to tell him.  CH and I showed up for the awards ceremony, because COME. ON.  If he is winning an award, isn't that some kind of "You're An Awesome Parent" award?  This reflects on me, right?  So those times I pumped gas and locked the car and ran in to pay while he slept in the back seat, or the times I gave him juice instead of milk, or when I let him watch Food Network until midnight during summer break, maybe it made him BETTER.  Take that, Haters!

UNABASHED BRAGGING MOMENT:  So then he surprises US and gets the two semester 4.0 grade point award, and then he wins the Student Choice award, where his classmates pick the kid most likely to make a difference.  And this is when I start worrying that the school just put a big "PLEASE KICK MY ASS" sign on on his back.  Is he okay?  He's in basketball too!  I took him to a Coldplay concert!  He can be a cool kid!  Don't touch my baby, you big bullies!  I share my concerns with CH.  He tells me I'm insane.  I say, "Whose genes got the Student Choice Award?  Not yours, buddy!"  CH rolls his eyes and we depart to return to our jobs.

We're so proud.

I'm feeling good about all of this for about an hour.  It's a Sally Field moment - "They like me, they really like me!"  I'm thinking, "Okay, maybe I get this whole parenting thing."  Then 3:00 p.m. hits and my phone blows up.  Texts are pouring in.
OLDEST DAUGHTER:  "I told him congrats on his award and he got all mad and said "I hate how mom tells you everything"
SON:  "She is being SO MEAN"
OD:  "I'm serious, he's being a total jerk to me."
SON:  "She's up in her room and won't talk to us."
OD:  "My feelings are seriously hurt, I mean what did I do?  I said congrats.  BTW I was nominated for that award too.  And Youngest Daughter is being a total brat."
SON:  "She was totally sarcastic when she talked to me.  And Youngest Daughter is being a total brat."
CH:  (In his basement office) "What the hell is going on?  The kids are yelling at each other!"
ME:  TO OD: Just be nice.  He's disappointed he didn't get to tell you himself. Be happy.
         TO SON:  Just be nice.  She might be a little jealous you won it.  Be humble.  
       TO CH:  I don't know but it had better be done by the time I get home. 
                   I'm buying a handgun and a six pack of Hard Mike's.
OD:  I'm not going to be nice to him if he isn't nice to me.  I'm seriously crying!
ME:  TO SON:  Be nice to OD, she is crying.
SON:  No she's NOT!  She's playing piano and smiling.
ME:  TO OD:  You're fine.
OD:  No, and now he's out here yelling at me for texting you!
ME:  TO BOTH:  That's it.  You've both taken something happy and turned it into crap.  I give up.  Go at each other and get it over with.  Use clubs.  (ACTUAL TEXT I SENT)
OD:  What?  Are you serious?
SON:  What?
ME:  Yes.  I'm done.  Get it over with and be done when I get home.  I've had it.
ME TO CH:  I'm so over this crap I can't believe these kids and how ungrateful and mean they are to each other, we just try to do the right thing and they just bicker and pick at each other and I'm DONE.  I'm going to make it all about me now, forget trying to make things nice for them, they don't even appreciate it and I don't even want to come home!
CH:  WHAT DID I DO?  WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?
ME:  Why are you yelling at me?  I didn't use all caps, YOU did!
CH:  AAAARGH!

And I get home and OD is crying and The Son is upset and CH is mad because I'm yelling at him and the kids are yelling at each other and YD is watching Wizards of Waverly Place and is oblivious to everyone's pain, because that's how she rolls.

And this is how my family took a moment of awesomeness and turned our "Winning!" time into our own personal theater of dysfunction.  The "You're An Awesome Parent" committee called, and they are taking their award back.  Leaving him in the car when I pumped gas made him bitter.  Sally Field spit on me at the grocery store, and then I found out she taped a "PLEASE KICK MY ASS" sign on my back.

I do NOT get this whole parenting thing.  But tomorrow is another day.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 75

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or my OB-GYN.



Today's topic: Priorities

Actual article published in a local newspaper on Thursday, January 12:

Sex Doll Worth $250 Stolen in Iowa City Knifepoint Robbery
Police said the clerk at an Iowa City adult entertainment store was robbed at knifepoint early Thursday morning and chased out of the store.



According to Iowa City Police, officers responded to Romantix Pleasure Palace, 315 Kirkwood Ave., at 3:01 a.m. Thursday for a report of a hold up alarm. As officers were responding, a store employee called 911 and reported a man had entered the store, displayed a large knife and attempted to enter the employee area behind the cash register.


Police said the employee jumped over the counter and ran from the store. The suspect pursued for a short distance before turning back and stealing merchandise from the store.

A store employee said that the suspect got away with a “high-quality sex doll.” The doll is valued at $250 and media reports that the doll was worth $1,800 are erroneous, the employee said.


Iowa City Police Sgt. Denise Brotherton said the employee was able to run toward a nearby convenience store.

The suspect is described as a white man, 5’8”-5’10” and 165 pounds. He was wearing a black coat and scarf over his face and carrying a backpack. Police said the knife was described as a large hunting knife with a 6-8 inch blade.

Iowa City CrimeStoppers is offering a reward of up to $1,000 for information leading to the arrest of this suspect. Anyone with information is asked to call CrimeStoppers at 358-8477.

I think it's a real shame that there are no federal programs available to provide people with porn.  Here's a guy, obviously suffering from a severe case of blue balls, who has been forced into a life of crime to support his porn habit.  He obviously has feelings; the store IS called "Romantix".  Why should he have to live his life using pillows or sofa cushions, when the rich people can have access to a "high quality sex doll".  We're not talking Donald Trump - this wasn't the $1800 doll it was originally rumored to be. 

Iowa City Police:  I'd be looking for a guy

who looks suspiciously like Ryan Gosling.

If you're going to turn to a life of crime, don't steal obvious things like food, clothing, or Twilight movies.  You need to be the guy who robbed the porn shop for a rubber girlfriend.  When you go to prison, you are going to be the COOLEST DUDE THERE.  And in demand for parties, I would guess.  And speaking of cool guys at parties, it makes me wonder...

Where was Current Husband going yesterday,

and why did he borrow my scarf and hunting knife?

Hello, $1000!

(BTW, do you see how this man suffers for my lack of impulse control? 

FINE.  I'LL TAKE A STUPID PICTURE FOR YOUR BLOG!)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Pass the Percocet, Please

I try really hard not to blog about work.  Really, I do, because I like my job and would prefer to keep it, and I usually don't blog about people who don't know about it and therefore don't have the option of yelling at me.  But when you work in a place where your job is focused on hooking (rug), and the other part of the plant is full of red-blooded American men who manufacture trucking alignment equipment and still have pinup calendars and say things like "Fuckin' RIGHT, I'm going to the drag races this weekend!" and can't help but look at your chest if you wear a v-neck shirt, there is just SO. MUCH. MATERIAL.  I'm going to indulge a little bit here.

First, I have a pair of Keen shoes that I love, and occasionally wear to work:

I love these shoes.  They are comfortable and sort of fun.  But I noticed that every time I wear these shoes, one guy out in the shop looks at them.  A lot.  I'm thinking, "Oh, he thinks these are ugly and weird and why do I wear such stupid shoes."   I wore them this week, and I caught him looking at the shoes again.  I busted him. 

ME:  "Are you hating on my shoes?"
HIM:  (caught, slightly blushing) "What?  Um, no."
ME:  "Admit it, you always look at these shoes.  What's up, you think they're ugly?"
HIM:  (smiles) "No, I've been thinking about it and I think they look Japanese or something, and they look like you should be wearing them with a kimono or something, and every time I see them I just think 'she's a Tiger Lady'" and then he made this "ROWR!" sound while batting a paw in the air.
**awkward silence**
ME:  "Oh.  Yes.  Tiger Lady. Terrific."
And so now I can no longer wear the Tiger Lady/Geisha shoes to work because I will not go ROWR and I don't want anyone imagining me going ROWR at work or powdering my face white with red tiny lips or serving them sushi while naked in the lotus position.

Part of my job is talking to the hookers on the phone.  They are mostly pretty nice people, and very interesting.  You wouldn't BELIEVE the things people tell a stranger on the phone.  Last week a woman called and wanted to order some of our product.  Her voice sounded like she was maybe an Asian war bride, because she had that Americanized Asian accent, but her name was very Nordic sounding.  She was hilarious.  She placed her order, and then started talking to her friend in the room, so I get the one-sided conversation:

 "You want tote table?  Yes, you do.  You DO.  You HAVE money.  You love it!  You NEED it.  It only $149, that cheap!  You can AFFORD it.  Yes.  You want?  I put it on my order, then you save shipping.  Now you CAN'T say no.  Okay?  Yes?  Okay, Julie you still there?  My friend want tote table, shipping the same, yes?"

Then I had to get her credit card number, and she said, "Oh, damn, I don't have right credit card.  I call you back." and hung up on me.  So I set the order aside, and figured she'd call back.  She does, one week later, and says, "Julie, you send my order yet?"  Well, no, I haven't.  She gives me her credit card number, and says, "You ship today, alright?"  I say yes, we will ship her order today.

When I run her credit card, it declines because it has an invalid number, which means we probably just got a number mixed up.  I call her today and say I need to confirm her credit card number. 

"What, you think I'm a thief?  Like a criminal, I take your stuff?"  No, ma'am, I'm sure the card number is just off by a number.  She reads her number, and sure enough, a 5 should have been a 3.  I tell her it is fixed, and she says, "Well, Julie, do you know what Percocet is?  I take LOTS of Percocet, sometimes too much, I get confused.  When anything go wrong, I know it's the Percocet."

And that is how I came up for my new excuse for everything.  If anything go wrong, I will now know it's the Percocet.  Or my Tiger Lady screw me in a kimono rowr shoes.

Sometimes work can be fun and informative.  Thank you, Tiger Lady.

Orange You Glad Your Walls Are White?

See all of the junk piled up on the left?  That's my next project.  There is a reason for the butt-ass ugly chair to the left as well - that is George the Superpet's chair.  You do NOT mess with George's chair.  I reliquished that to him years ago.  He likes to lay in it and look out the patio door next to it and stare at the feral cats and dream about killing them.  I won't take that away from him.

So very orange.  Just as orange as some of the paint on my Dad's tin ferris wheel.  Yay!  We live in the Fun House!  Now I just need a creepy clown painting on velvet.  Tempting.

You can see the trim I need to paint white now.  I can't take it that there are two different tones.   I think I'm also going to have to build a white mantel/fireplace surround for this room.  CH doesn't really agree, but I know what's coming. It will be something I do when I have other, more important things to get done, and then I will panic and cry because "There just isn't enough time!"  But no.  Not this year.  This is the Shake It Out/Paint it Orange year.  I shall make a margarita and say "C'est La Vie!"

Right?

Just Shake It Out

Holy moly, I just had the most productive weekend ever!  About a year and a half ago now, my people downsized.  Our house is cozy.  Intimate.  Small.  At times stifling, even.  Since we moved in, our plan has been to finish the basement and to make the back room into less of a storage room and more of a library. 

Believe me when I say downsizing is not for sissies.  You have to make some hard choices about what stays and what goes, and when you're going smaller, the what goes column has to be bigger.  Needless to say, I'm still all full of clutter, but I've moved out of pre-Hoarder stage and back into somewhat normal levels.  This weekend, I finally made some headway on the back room, and now it is ORANGE.  I still can't find my Blackberry cord, but I'll take a real picture and post tomorrow.

Hopefully it's a little more on the Butternut Squash side than Creamsicle side, but still.  Now that it's done, I've come to the realization that I'm going to have to paint all the trim white.  Because who doesn't love detail painting?  WHO?

But now I love this room.  Current Husband and I have sat in this room with a drink for a bit the last two nights, and it is lovely and peaceful and warm and inviting.  It's a great feeling to use 48 hours to take something that was unused and drab and turn it into something special - it's that whole cliched New Year's/get organized malarkey.  So, I couldn't just let it be a nice freshly painted room, I had to go and turn it into a metaphor for my life.  Let's DO this.

The past year and a half has been pretty damn strange.  There has been some sadness in moving, having to go back to work full time, someone close to me was diagnosed with a chronic illness, divorces, friends you don't see anymore. But some really wonderful things have happened as well, like finding I love my new little house, that I enjoy being a hooker, that things change but not necessarily for the worse, and meeting new people.  My kids are growing up and doing really fun, wonderful things in their lives right now (I'm going to have a braggy moment here and say The Son is getting a big award at school today that he doesn't know about yet), and I'm loving the people they are turning into.  And CH?  As I've said before, even though there are times I want to hold the pillow over his face until he stops kicking, he's a good egg, and he *gets* me.  That's right...

You complete me.

Now please start taking out the

garbage before I have to tell you.

But what have I focused on in the past 18 months?  The negative.  Because I'm a frigging whiner from hell.  And it's so EASY to let self-doubt creep in.  It brings liquor and comfort food, so I always make room on my couch for it.  But I finally listened to the new Florence + The Machine CD, and there is a song on it that is my anthem for 2012.  It is hard to dance with the devil on your back, so self-doubt and stress?  Take a hike.  If the Mayans are right and this is the end of time, I'm going to live this year with joy.  And if it isn't, then this is the beginning of Seizing the Day.  Self-doubt, you can just F right off.  This is MY year. And I'm going to paint my whole life orange.

Here it is, Flo singing "Shake It Out" for your listening pleasure:

That'll Do, Donkey.

Okay, I'm sufficiently recovered from the holiday break to finally talk about it.  I LOVE the holidays.  Love Christmas, love New Years, love that I don't have to drive anyone to piano, cello, bass, dance, ensemble, basketball, etc., love that there is no homework or other school commitments, love that I have long weekends and sleeping in times and hang out with the kids doing nothing times.  Left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1 a.m. every night and wake up at 8:30-9 a.m. to my pre-set brewed pot of coffee.  *bliss*

But, I am back at work now.  I like my job, but I sure miss my at-home mom days.  Just sayin'.
So over break Current Husband and I got together with a couple for a drink.  If you can imagine, I'm a talker.  My talking gets proportionately more annoying with my drinking.  After a couple of glasses of wine, I can really think I am HI-freaking-larious.  More so than when I'm sober.  I think we can all see what I'm saying here.  So the husband of the friend, who is a funny guy, says, "Does she ever stop talking?" and my husband says, "Yeah, she's kind of like Donkey from Shrek.  The trick is getting her to stop."  SCREECH!

Did you just compare me to....DONKEY?

So we all laughed and I'm laughing and thinking "Just wait until I have you alone, MFer", and the couple left shortly thereafter.  I waited.  We picked a few things up and talked about how nice it was, and how funny the husband is, and I said,

"I thought it was super funny when he made fun of his wife and compared her to Donkey.  Like an ass.  OH WAIT. THAT WAS YOU."

CH's face went blank.  The little hamsters on the wheel in his head picked up steam as he contemplated what had happened.  "Oh shit.  I really did call her Donkey.  I said it out loud. I'm in So. Much. Trouble."  He then launched into one of his full appreciation modes of, "Oh honey, you know I don't think that.  It was just a joke!  I LOVE you!  You're awesome!  The cake was great, by the way!" and I said, "I know it was a joke.  And it's funny because it's true.  I am like Donkey.  I talk all the time.  I'm irritating.  That's why it's SO FUCKING FUNNY!  I can take a joke!  And I bought the cake at Deweys." and he said, "Everyone knew I was kidding!  No one thinks that! And you were so smart to get the cake at Deweys! " and I said, "I know, because when we are with other couples, the husbands always make a point of saying things to their wives like 'you are as fat as Kung Fu Panda!' or 'I'm going to get you on What Not To Wear' or 'you talk like Donkey from Shrek!" and he said, contritely, "You're right, I'm calling them and apologizing and telling them how great you are" and I said, "No, you're not, because I really AM like Donkey.  You nailed it." and we went to bed and didn't have sex.

Over the course of the next few days, I made sure to occasionally walk past him and say "EEE-awww".  He cringed. He suffered.  Which is too bad, because I really AM like Donkey.  Really.  He did nail it.  That's why it sucked.  Because who WANTS to be Donkey?  I'm even like Donkey in Shrek 2 when he says, "I'm a STALLION!" but really, he's still an ass.  Because sometimes I do think I'm a stallion.  Sometimes I AM a stallion.  But really, there's just a well-meaning Donkey in here.

On New Year's Eve, we stayed home with the kids and had a nice time.  We played some games, I hooked a little, it was nice.  A nice, old person, washed-up New Year's Eve.  I don't like going out on NYE because I think it's one of those overrated holidays where the expectations are high and the results are usually a little disappointing.  And then you have to deal with drunk drivers, no thanks.  So we got through the night, and at 12:30 the kids were going to bed and our neighbors texted to see if we wanted to have a quick New Year's drink with them.  Sure!  It's right next door! 

FAST FORWARD TO 3:30 A.M.  Oh Dear God.  Where did that bottle of Gruet go?  In me?  Really?  Why am I holding a gift certificate to a local spa and am wearing a diamond anniversary band that is not mine, and am telling my neighbor-lady that we just had our "Commitment Ceremony"?  Where did she go?  Why is my tongue SO EFFING BIG?  Why do cigarettes sound good?  Thank God there are no cigarettes.  What am I talking about?  Why can't I form the words properly?  Why is CH pulling me by the arm out of their house?  I'm young and fun!  Don't let it end!  More champagne!!

FAST FORWARD TO 9 A.M.  No one move.  NO ONE.

FAST FORWARD TO 10 A.M.  Ugh.  Glad bought donuts for kids.  Glad CH in charge.

FAST FORWARD TO 11 A.M.  Aleve.  Water.  Repeat. 

FAST FORWARD TO NOON.  What did I say last night?  I can finally sit up.  Current Husband walks into our room and sits next to me, smiling.  I raise my throbbing head to look at him.  He puts his arm around me and says, "That'll do, Donkey. That'll do."


Oy.  Happy New Year's Wifers!  And neighbors, I'll make it up to you.  I swear.  New Year's Resolution?  More Stallion, Less Donkey.

Cat Scratch Fever

With all of the feral cats running around my neighborhood, it's important to occasionally think about things from a cat's perspective.  I use this as a defensive measure, so if I'm getting into my car and cats are dropping out of the trees and walking menacingly toward me (this actually happens sometimes), I can think, "If I was a cat right now, what would my intentions be?"  But then I realize that regardless of what animal form I take, I'm probably going to think "If I sneak into that van, will she drive me to a wine bar or a coffee shop?"  You know cats will be thinking the same thing, because cats are assholes.

At work, the gent in charge of the company website appears to have a thing for cats.  He updates our home page daily, and seems to have an ENDLESS treasure trove of cutesy cat photos to post.  When I think "industrial plant primarily producing trucking alignment equipment", I think "CATS!"  Here is today's cat porn:

I'm sure the guy in our plant who was fired and then a week later killed his girlfriend was really touched by this photo (true story).  It is posted directly under our company policy banning weapons and drugs on the premesis.

Today, I saw this online, and sent it to CatMan in charge of the website:

I love it.  Particularly that Kenau Reeves is the poster boy for humanity.  Party On, Dudes!

I'm back at work after four days off, and I'm not going to lie, I'm being fueled by coffee, Diet Coke and Danish Butter Cookies.  Hope your week is starting equally as well!