Showing posts from December, 2011

If someone could possibly make a nativity out of buttons this would all make sense.

Last night was Dotter's school Christmas Program. (It's okay; she goes to a parochial school so we actually get to say the word "Christmas.") Anyway, Big V spent a good portion of the program pointing the giraffes out to the toddler. And I spent a good amount of time giving him the sideways eyeball. Dude. They're not giraffes.  What? Quit saying they're giraffes.  Why? Because they're camels. Well, they look like giraffes. No they don't. Those are plain; giraffes have spots.  Giraffes don't have spots... they have blobs and blotches. Whatever. Just stop saying they're giraffes. They're camels. I don't know what that bothers you. Because giraffes weren't present at the birth of the Lord our Savior. Do you have proof? And then I just glared at him until the toddler drove us both nuts and he had to take him out for the rest of the program at which time I was able to update my Facebook status to something snark

When A Child Goes Missing

A girl went missing Sunday afternoon. Missing. Gone. Vanished. Disappeared. She was 13 years old. Thirteen . The day that I was Christmas shopping and chiding myself for almost forgetting the Santa wrapping paper and performing in my last holiday show of the season and gathering with friends for their annual White Elephant Exchange Christmas party - a mother across town was frantic. She was panic stricken and not knowing what to do. She was worried and afraid and scared and confused and overwhelmed. And I was at a party, sitting in a circle, unwrapping my gag gift: a trashy supermarket check-out novel; you know the kind, with the shirtless man posed on the front cover, long hair blowing in the wind, called The Lady and the Falconer . And I swore to everyone I would read it. As I was laughing, the mother of a beautiful 13-year old child, was living her worst nightmare. Her child was missing. Her daughter wasn't at a friend's house. She wasn't where

The One In Which I Bestow Upon You Awesome Gifting Ideas. (You are welcome.)

Christmas preparations are in full swing in my neck of the woods! And by that I mean just about everyone I know is finished shopping and wrapping their gifts and they're all sitting around cozy fires drinking eggnog and reveling in holiday cheer. Except for me. Because I pretty much need to get my butt in gear ASAP or Santa will be issuing a statement to my children stating Christmas has been postponed until March. (Don't think I won't.) Since the spirit of the season is all about helping others (and not complaining about my own situation) I figured I'd help you brainstorm some last minute gift ideas for those Hard to Buy For people you've got sitting on your list. Sure you could always fall back on your standard gift card to the local big box store but everyone knows that's basically another way of saying I didn't care to expend actual effort figuring out what to get you so instead I met my friends for a glass or three of wine and stopped half sloshed

Girls Night Out: Thirty(ish) Style!

Sometimes I do something and I think why the heck am I not doing this more often? Because it's awesome. And awesome needs to happen way more often. Case in point: The Ladies Who Lunch. Or in this case:  The Ladies Who Eat Double Their Body Mass And Then Go To The Theater And Then Eat Some More. Which is totally what we did! As you may or may not have realized by now, one of my most favorite places on the planet is the  Young Auditorium  at the University of Wisconsin - Whitewater because: 1) I love theatre. 2) It's close by. 3) The eclectic array of performance choices each year never fails to impress me. 3) Their prices are very reasonable. 4) This is the closest I'll ever get to Broadway. Again. (Because I've actually been to Broadway but I don't see the probability of revisiting in the near future.) So my friends and I planned a night to go out to the thee-ah-taahhh. And every cultured woman in America knows that to begin a Girls Night Out yo

Necessities: an imperative requirement.

Dear Teenager: Please take up a hobby. Because right now you have way too much time on your hands attempting to badger me into purchasing a brand new phone for you. Again. Here's a few thoughts - things I would tell you if you quit whining long enough to listen: (1.) No where in the Parenting Manual does it say I owe you a phone. (2.) Your current phone seems to be working just fine since you've called me no less than three times in the last two days to complain about it. Not to mention the various text messages you've sent to remind me of what a piece of crap it it. (3.) I don't care that so-and-so's mom just got her the brand new iphone 4s super-soaker deluxe model with real 3-karat diamonds for buttons. (4.) Actually, "just a hundred dollars" is a lot of money. If it wasn't, you'd have it. (5.) It's  one hundred dollars. Not a hundred. (6.) Get a job. That way you could buy a new phone every week if you so desired. (7.) I

Nothing honors the birth of Jesus Christ more than a perverted Santa.

The phone rang that cold, wintery evening several years ago as snow began to fall. There had been talk of a blizzard, worsening road conditions, lots of drifting. It was a night where you just wanted to pull on your sweatpants and cuddle on the couch. Which was exactly what I was doing. "Uh, Bridget?" [ That's me, for all of you who thought my real name was Phoenix .] Yes? "That was my friend, Sean - you remember him... the teacher over at the Catholic school?" Yeah. "He needs me to do a favor.... tonight.... uh, right now?" Okaayyy.... what kind of favor? "Well, it turns out they have some sort of Christmas Party thing at the school and Santa comes and delivers gifts to the kids and stuff except the guy that was supposed to be Santa just called and said he can't make it because of the roads and so since Sean knew I lived just a few blocks away he asked if I'd be willing to play the part of Santa. Do you think I should do it?

This Moldy Spaghetti Sauce is a symbol of my love for you. Or perhaps not.

When I see a ladybug I think of my cousin. She loves ladybugs. Even sports a tattoo of one on her foot. To me, the ladybug is a symbol that reminds me of my fun loving, not afraid to laugh out loud cousin. When I see an apple I think of my aunt. Her kitchen was decorated with apples. Cheery red walls and apple topped canisters on the counter. I can't help but smile when I see a kitchen towel designed with a screen printed apple for sale. There's my aunt. Right there. My relationship with Big V has symbols, too.  I remember when Big V finally got around to putting up the shutters. The house had just been painted and those shutters were the first step in our process of beautifying the outside of our home. Don't you just love the shutters? I'd swoon. Big V put them up just for me! Those shutters were a symbol of my knight in shining armor. The man I would happily be marooned on a desert island with. Those shutters showed the world that he was my one, my all, my e

What's for Dinner?

Tonight's dinner will be held at a local restaurant. With a friend I haven't seen in forever. There will be no children. Big V will be at home listening to the kids whine about how sucky their Ramen noodles dinner is. (Pretty much the only thing he makes.) (Unless it's a Nutella sandwich.) Big V will be at home stepping on matchbox cars that have been dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor. I might stretch dinner to last until Big V has to wrestle the children to bed. I might stretch dinner until Big V has to get the kids up in the morning. I might stretch dinner until Big V has to force the kids into the car for church, and argue over homework, and schedule the orthodontist appointments, and fold all the laundry, and scrub the food stains off the couch cushions... .... but then I'd miss them all and I'd come home. Maybe.

Slather on the Old Spice - it's Opening Night!

Tonight is Opening Night! And my armpits are already drenched. With sweat. Because I have to sing. About bowling. By myself. Twelve seconds into the show. By myself . And for those of you that don't know what by myself entails, it's like this: the act of making a fool of yourself while a room full of people stare at you; many of whom are in the cast with you and actually have fantabulous singing voices, so they pretty much feel like you're the one crappy cast member who drags the talent level way down but because they know you could totally mess with their props and jump their lines on stage they will never actually tell you to your face. Which reminds me of when I did Oliver with the amazing shit-starter Scott Stratton who tried to make me laugh out loud on stage every. single. night . The talented bastard.... oh, yes, Mr. Stratton, I have not yet forgotten. Mostly because the jerk succeeded just about every single night. And there I was, on stage, in front of a roo

Because God loves the Kardashian's I might have to kill my sleeping partner.

Night Two of the Loud Sleep Breathing. One of us is not going to make it out alive. I'm surprised more men aren't murdered in their sleep. Although, to be fair, I suppose women could be Loud Sleep Breathers, too, and then they also could be murdered in their sleep. Because I'm all about equality. In this case, however, it's Big V with the Loud Sleep Breathing complex. It's like listening to Eddie Haskell try to mimic Darth Vader. For hours. But never getting it right. For hours . And then I gently shake Big V's shoulder. And he moves over to his side. And I get two seconds of golden silence. And then he starts in with the loud breathing again. And then I poke him in the shoulder. One of those pokey pokes. That hurt. And he moves over to his other side. And I get two seconds of golden silence. And then he starts in with the loud breathing again. And then I'm going all shaken baby syndrome on his sleeping a$$ screaming things like if you don't fi