Stumbling Towards Perfect

I was just being my usual snarky self and updated my Facebook Status the other day after another incredulous meeting of the minds... one of our staff meetings where we discuss upcoming projects and then sit in stoic silence while getting belittled and abused by higher ups. I usually don't cry, because crying does not seem to present a  I'm A Very Capable Professional image, but the meanness and curtness of some of the commentary can cut to the core. And so, I vented to my trustworthy friend, Facebook: This day could be infinitely better if it was wrapped in bacon. Or if certain people were suddenly attacked by a pack of rabid chamois. And by chamois, I mean the goatlike antelope of mountainous regions of Europe, not the porous leather that is favored for its gentle, non-abrasive composition and absorption properties.   And then the heavens opened up and glory shone all around! An illustrated facebook status?!  Huzzah! How freaking awesome is that? My artistically

I've been suffering from self-induced lack of sleep lately because I've been rehearsing for a show... it's called Squirrels in the Attic (written by Pat Lawrence, author of  Jarred Into Being ) and is described as follows: Lindsay Spencer, a free spirited, single woman in her late twenties, returns to her parents' apartment after she's in an auto accident which her father, Charles, feels guilty of causing. Charles dotes on his only daughter, but her mother, Florence, is a more realistic critic of her daughter's shortcomings. Florence, who is loving, but ordered, lofty, and patronizing, is dismayed to learn that her husband has invited Lindsay to live with them while she recuperates from the auto accident. When Florence learns that Lindsay's boyfriend, Claude (an aspiring comedian), is also moving in with them, she is furious. Florence gives Charles an ultimatum: either he un-invites them or Florence is leaving him - for good! The sidesplitting conflicts of

Big V made sure I knew that he had cleaned up the living room without having been told. Personally, I thought that was a given, since I had left the house in spotless condition. Well, in a mostly spotless condition anyway. The point is that of course he should have cleaned it up. The puzzle pieces weren't all over the floor when I left. However, when I returned, there they were. I walked into the living room that used to be clean and saw that it no longer was. And then I sighed. One of those long, drawn out, overly dramatic passive sighs that obviously means look, you asshole, I spent all freaking day cleaning this beast of a house with not one ounce of help from you, and then I went out and braved the freaking public in a gosh darn grocery store - and you know how much I detest grocery stores - what with their menopausal temperature zones and their wobbly cart issues, not to mention the idiots that park their cart smack dab in the center of the aisle so no one can get by

My sister, Shannon, is turning 40 years old today, which is a pretty big deal, mostly because it's a reminder that she's still older than me. Anyway, I was wondering if you could help me with a little Birthday Surprise I'd like to organize for her.... read on. If I were to describe Shannon it would be like this: she loves post-it notes, Sharpies, and all things positive. Including chocolate, but mostly she loves positive sayings and quotes and inspirational ways to encourage one another. Shannon truly believes in the power of the positive word. She believes that while we're naturally our worst critics we also have this amazing unlimited ability to raise others up to heights they never imagined - just by giving positive support with very simple words. Shannon learned to clog because she thought it was an interesting dance form. If I were to be completely honest, at the time I thought she was insane. I mean, c'mon - clogging ? What the heck are you going to do w

Four loads of laundry sat waiting for me on the living room couch. Already washed, already dried, yet someone needed to fold them. And that person would be me. At this point in the evening I was exhausted and completely overwhelmed. We'd been going nonstop for the last couple weeks -- work, more work, school projects, doctor appointments, surgery, a puking cat, a car that leaks oil, the orthodontist, taxes, rehearsals, performances --- not to mention trying to keep up on the everyday things, like eating, showering, laundry, dishes, and making sure teeth got brushed before bedtime. I wanted to cry. My back hurt. My head hurt. I just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for days..... but these clothes weren't going to fold themselves and if I waited too long I'd be forced to iron. (Who am I kidding? Everyone knows I'd just toss them back in the wash for a do-over.) I picked up the first of three million trillion stupid articles of clothing. "Oh. You're home!

Once, when I was young and cute and slim enough to wear cute, frilly frocks, I went out on a date with a really cute guy. I felt really mature and adult-like because we were going to lunch. And only really mature people went to lunch. Therefore, I was mature. And also smoking hot in my cute little outfit with my toes nicely painted and the right amount of sun-kissed glow to my skin. And lunch was fabulous. We went to Big Apple Bagels (which, looking back on things wasn't as grown-up and mature as I originally thought). The point is, he was funny and charming and I was cute and witty and we sat talking and laughing, me flirting in ridiculous proportions, long after we finished our food. Then I excused myself to go to the bathroom (because I've always had a small bladder). And when I checked myself in the mirror I realized I had a ginormous-sized black seed stuck in between my teeth in probably the most obvious and unattractive location ever. And I was horrified. Not becaus

Sometimes I see an event advertised and I think to myself Self, I'm not exactly sure what this is all about, but for some reason I think it'd be a great idea if we went and checked it out! Which I take as some sort of a Diving Intervention thing. Which can easily be confused with a The Devil Made Me Do It thing, as in heyyy! I've got this bottle of Tequila Rose and I think it'd be a great idea if we played Up and Down the River with it! One leaves you refreshed and invigorated; the other leaves you heaving in a bucket until 3:30 the following afternoon, not caring at all about the crusted mess at the end of you hair. So when I saw The Rose Ensemble  was going to be at Young Auditorium  in Whitewater, Wisconsin, I totally didn't know what they were, what they did, or what it was all about.... but something told me I had to check it out. I think it was this statement that sold me: " The Rose Ensemble reawakens the ancient with vocal music that stirs the em

Because Cletus has a hard time hearing, the doc suggested throwing some tubes in his ears in the hopes it might improve things. So, I did what any Mama Bear Loving Her Cub would do and cursed while setting the freaking alarm for five o'clock in the morning. They claim they schedule surgeries by age which is a load of crap because everyone knows moms of youngins get no sleep whatsoever and it's hard enough to get out the door before the minister starts church service. If they scheduled things correctly they'd be scheduling the little kids for just after nap time which totally increases the odds Mommy takes a shower. I was bound and determined to be a Good Mom when it came to this surgery. Considering I'm the one who has never owned an actual diaper bag, never has water on hand during a hot day at the park - oh, who am I kidding. I steer clear of public parks. Have you met some of the nut job mothers that hang out there? Anyway, my point is, I'm never organized or p

She walked in briskly, elegantly swiping her sunglasses off her face... I would have surely caught myself in the nostril.... "I'm not sure if I'm in the right place. My husband sent me here to get a copy of our home inspection." I felt instantly frumpy. Me in my oversized cardigan because the office temperature is impossible to regulate and well worn loafers; her in skinny jeans and expensive Coach Marlena boots. I sucked in my gut. Well, we don't really do home inspections, but we do have files for any building projects you may have done. Are you maybe looking for inspection reports from a remodel job? "Those look delicious." Excuse me? *points to desk at oversized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that I've been mowing down occasionally munching on*  "I'm dieting. Everything looks delicious when I'm dieting." Oh. *awkward laugh while I suck in gut further* So, let's pull the file and see what's there. "I don'

I remember Big V laughing - one of those real, deep, rowdy laughs - when he told me about how his mother did his homework for him. I remember tilting my head to the side (which happens to be the international sign for do you seriously think this will impress me?) and squinting my eyes (mostly because I have this awful habit of squinting my eyes so it looks like I'm pissed off all. the. time., but also because my contacts were about 3 months past their daily wash & wear expiration date). "I'm sorry, did you just say your mom did your homework?" "Yeah, well it's not like I had a lot...." Thus the introduction to the amazing childhood of the Big V began. He played sports! He was great at sports! He could catch a football! He could dribble a basketball! And he could probably do many more sports-like activity with amazing skill and accuracy but since I could care less about anything that involves people hurling objects at another human being I real

The shirt is a dance uniform shirt. Needed for an upcoming performance. A dance performance. That my 10-year old daughter has with an entire dance team. Thus the necessity for a matching shirt. You know, to look like a team. And so they all wear the same shirt. A special ordered shirt. That we can't find. It started with a text: we can't find it . Find what? the shirt . What shirt? the shirt i need for our performance on April 14th. Oh shit. And so I texted back to the 10-year old daughter whose shirt was missing: look in your room. everywhere. under everything, through everything, in everything. Half hour later, a response: we still can't find it. Not finding it is not acceptable. Not finding it means not performing. Not finding it means you think you feel like crap now? Wait until you have to fess up to your instructor, who you're pretty sure hates you and will certainly hate you when she finds out you lost your shirt. Not finding it means you'