Showing posts from May, 2010

Book Club

Tonight is Book Club. That's what we call it. Even though it's not mandatory that you actually read the book. Or any book for that matter. Heck, you don't even have to know where to get a book. Don't get me wrong, most of us read books - and sometimes they're even the book that was suggested for the actual book club monthly meeting, but mostly we're there for the wine. Which is necessary when trying to run away from the hecticness which is called  Being A Mom .  It's pretty much the only place I can go that doesn't require a diaper bag and for that reason alone I refuse to miss it. I used to fix dinner and make sure the girls' homework was done before I left, but now I just leave them to their own devices. I'd be a hypocrite if I forced them to eat a healthy dinner while I feasted on cucumber dill sandwiches and a chilled Riesling. Being a memeber of a Book Club is mandatory for survival, especially if you're a working mother. Not just fo

The First Blowout

There we were, Big V and I, sitting peacefully side by side, grinning like maniacs because (1) The Bean was not at home, (2) Dotter was exhausted and taking a nap in her bedroom, and (3) Cletus was playing on the rug in front of us, blissfully unaware of our presence. Life was good. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. "HE POOPED!" V screamed. And yes, I mean screamed . Not spoke loudly. Not yelled. Not bellowed or shouted. He screamed. Perhaps even shrieked. "HE POOPED!" he screamed again, jumping up and at least three feet away from the baby. I stared at V as he stood pointing a shaking finger at the innocent little bundle of joy who was our son. "OH MY GOD! LOOK AT IT!" Sure enough... up the back of his diaper, down the side of the leg. Oh. My. God. Suffice it to say, V and I do not handle emergency situations well. " Do something!" "Me? What about you ?" "Why me?" "You've b

Does Size Really Matter?

I sympathize with the writer who struggles with a small chest . Boys can be cruel. Especially those idiot ones in high school. I was a barely budding high school senior, so you can imagine the horror I went through. I was so self-conscious of my chest. My sister was the complete opposite of me: tan, full of curves, radiant. I very much resembled a stick. With a potato for a head. My sister was worldly and knowing where I was awkward and clueless. My sister had bras from Victoria's Secret where the only things that fit me were those cotton training bras from ShopKo. (I took off the little pink bows to make them appear more womanly.) One summer day, my sister and I lounged lazily around the family room flipping through magazines and television stations. I picked up a Victoria's Secret magazine, studying the plethora of choices. (Yes, plethora, noun: overabundance; excess.) And the multitude of sizes... sizes I had never seen before. HUGE sizes and -  ...small ones. What's

Yes, These Dots Certainly Can Be Connected

To start off with, I was totally congratulated on my pregnancy. A big, excited, "I see congratulations is in order!" complete with extended arm finger pointing at my paunch. Except I'm not pregnant. And it's unlikely I ever will be if Cletus keeps up the Every Hour Through The Night I'll Scream Out In Obvious Pain And Then Keep Screaming While You Comfort Me For The Next Twenty Minutes shit he's been pulling lately. Not that I blame him. The kid's stuck in a cage. With teddy bears doing somersaults all the way around him like some sort of Grateful Dead Infant Tribal Dance. I'd take the bear crib bumper out of there but I can't. The sitter gave it to him. She insisted that he needed something "for a baby" in his crib, that the eco-friendly breathable crib bumper (that matched perfectly with our decor) was not encouraging happy slumber. Now he can't sleep because he thinks he pissed off Jerry Garcia and he's about to be attacked by

Mini Me

This just in... The Bean has a personality just like me ! (As if I didn't know that was the reason we're constantly butting heads.) Any-whoo... So I'm sitting at work when my cell alerts me I have a new text message. It's from the Bean - and it's a video... Obviously, it's important.

Julia Child-less

No, your lasagna is not that good. In fact, it's anything but good. Actually, after thinking about it, it cannot even be considered lasagna at all. Layers of noodles, jarred spaghetti sauce and prewrapped slices of Velveeta cheese is not lasagna. It's just meatless spaghetti with really wide noodles. And prewrapped slices of Velveeta cheese. No matter how many layers you add, it's still not lasagna. So stop trying. And while we're on the issue of stopping, please stop baking steak. Cuts of steak are beautiful. But not when thrown on a cookie sheet into a 350-degree oven. Just stop.


Today I was requested to attend a private meeting. An attorney requested our department's time and advice in a private meeting. So, my co-worker and I attended this private meeting. Did I mention it was a  PRIVATE meeting? Private meetings are held at the request of a potential buyer who wishes to research options before purchasing a property. Sometimes they have wild ideas and you kind of have to reign them in and explain zoning restrictions. I'm sorry, sir, but a twenty story water park with an adjacent nuclear power plant next to the daycare center you're proposing just isn't going to work. More often than not, they're usually a normal person who just doesn't want to deal with the rumor mill quite yet. Sometimes they just don't want people to know their business. And so, the private meeting was scheduled. Now, I ask, would you take it upon yourself to join in a private meeting that you weren't invited to? Would you invite two additional fri

Wrong Holiday, Dude.

Don't ask... Don't ask... Darn it. You just had to ask. Mother's Day: Also known as "Didn't You Read The Memo?" Day. It started really early in the morning. Like really early. When it was still dark out. And I woke up to this horrendous stench. Something that was so awful and foul... and I went walking down the hall towards the kitchen until I found it. And it wasn't hard to find. Because Satan the Dog had diarrhea. Lots of it. All over. So I woke V up and made him clean it. Satan did NOT read the memo. Dotter did not read the memo, busting through the bedroom door at 7 o'clock on the dot with her tray of breakfast goodies. A bowl of Cheerios which had been soaking peacefully in the milk for what must have been at least thirty minutes based on their soggy factor, and a piece of chocolate cake. Because who doesn't love chocolate cake when you're shocked awake by an eight year old and the smell of dog poop is still in the air? Start eating

Mother's Day and All That Jazz

Mother's Day is Sunday. I'm a mother. I guess I should be looking forward to this, but the truth is, I'm not. I don't want to be home this weekend. I don't want to have to fight with the Bean about how yes, she does actually need to clean her room, whether it "works" for her or not. I don't want to listen to her ranting and going on and on about how bored she is, or how ridiculous I am, or how dumb her sister is. I don't want to have to sit through her insulting every member of the family until one of her friends calls her and asks her to hang out and then suddenly she switches personalities mid-thought into happy, cheerful, and I have to pretend to not be confused and stressed about her mood swings. I don't want to be home and stand in front of mountains of dirty laundry, and unswept floors, and dirty dishes and the fact that no matter how many times I ask people to take off their shoes on the rug, they still feel the need to leave them in

Purlpe Pain

At work, as in life, one should find joy in the simple things. Like writing with purple pens. It started innocently enough. We have this insufficient database that we totally overpaid for and it basically is as effective as vacuuming your living room carpet without the hose-sucker-upper-thing connected. Anyway, last year I jotted my important info the inefficient database spits out at me in red ink on all my reports. This year I thought I'd jazz things up a bit by using purple ink. The purple makes me happy. Distracts me. " I hate this stupid program, it doesn't even work right - hey, Purple Pen! I missed you! You're so pretty..."  I even purchased three identical pens, thinking what would happen if I ran out of ink in June and they discontinued my pen of choice? See, I was thinking ahead. What I didn't think ahead about is what would happen if my purple ink plan caught on. Like, what if someone I didn't necessarily care to be associated with liked my

Mow & Blow, Baby. Mow & Blow.

Tall Overbearing Bald Guy: [ obviously angry and annoyed ] When is it illegal to mow and blow? ME: [ umm... when it's videotaped with a minor? ] Excuse me? TOBG: Don't you have some rule that says people can't mow and blow their lawns at ridiculous, ungodly hours of the day? ME: [ Ah, we're talking about lawn maintenance! ] Unfortunately we do not. However, many private associations have rules governing such activity so you should check with the association. TOBG: [ increasingly loud & angry ] I don't care about other associations! I only care about where I live! ME: That's fair. Except I don't know where you live. TOBG: [ ignoring me, getting louder ] People shouldn't just be allowed to mow and blow whenever they want. ME: [ distracted by the knowledge the term "mow and blow" has been used three times in less than a minute, and all I can think of now is low budget porn ] .... Uh, well, you can contact the police department wi

Mum's the Word!

Were you just about to call the police to try to locate me? I haven't gone missing... I've just been stuck with writing material. Ever since I promised Big V I wouldn't print hate-blogs about his stupid dog I'm at a loss. I can't tell you about how V had to reinforce the dog cage again. And again. And again. (Including his creative use of chairs, mops and vacuums - don't ask, because I can't tell you.) I can't tell you about the dog getting out of not only his pen but the actual house, or how Big V woke to the dog barking in the back yard, patio door wide open, and Satan hosting his own doggie party. I can't tell you about coming home and finding the dog sleeping peacefully on our bed, with the bedroom door shut, and his dog pen in the exact same order it was when we left. How he's getting over a 6 foot wall I have no idea. (That's how tall we reinforced it. There's cement board, plywood, duct tape, deck screws - you name it, it's in