Her Mom Probably Embarrassed HER, Too

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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Yesterday on the way into work, the radio station was asking for embarrassing mom stories and I immediately thought of…oh…one hundred million of them. Seriously. There are so many I couldn’t even narrow it down. I’m sure we all have them and I’m sure our kids will have them, too. Of course, in my case, I sort of get double, since my mom has an identical twin that I am really close to. And since they are together so much: Embarrassing times two.

If I had called in to try and win a prize, I would have been tongue tied trying to decide which one is best – like maybe the time my mom & aunt decided to dance (or actually “dance”) at one of my birthday parties, thought it would be a good idea to finish the big “dance” with a dip, so they yelled out “Dip!” and then both dipped. And fell into the TV. Yeah, that was fun. At least they didn’t fall into my Shaun Cassidy cake (I had him on my cake several years in a row. Shut up). Good times. (You know, now that I am thinking about it, that one wasn’t actually Aunt Twin, but my Aunt Cee, and since she reads this, I probably shouldn’t be telling you about it, but – and I hope you are reading this Cee – TOUGH SHIT! Because even though I love you very much, I still feel the pain and trauma of you de-pantsing me in front of Old Joe and sitting on me and doing that gross spit thing, and let’s not forget the time you locked me out of the house IN THE SNOW! WITHOUT SHOES! And I had to walk a whole block in the snow to get my mom and Gram to come home and fix your ass SO THERE! And also – after you left me pantsless behind the couch while Old Joe was visiting and you took off? He used to give me money! I WIN!!!!)
Ahem

Where was I? Oh yeah – the embarrassing mom stories. There are many, many more. The fact that my mom and Aunt Twin seem to think that if they don’t move their lips when they talk that no one can hear them makes for many, MANY ways to embarrass me. Like when the immigrant cab driver was driving us around Toronto and they were “whispering” about how they thought he was cheating us because “they say” that the cab drivers will do that and even worse, some will abandon you in a bad part of town and make you pay them to get you out, blahblahblah UglyAmericanCakes. Or the loud search for a non-Portuguese cab driver because one person they knew met a Portuguese man and he used her to get into the country (thus all Portuguese men are guilty of this). Not that Portuguese cab drivers are easy to spot or anything.

Or the numerous times she drove me to school in her pajamas (which in the grand scheme of things is not so bad, but when you are 15? Kill me!)

Or the time my we went to the pool and my mom mentioned that she hated walking past the front row of women in lounge chairs because she always felt like they were looking at her and judging her, and Aunt Twin said, “Leave it to me” and proceeded to make a GIANT ASS of herself as we walked by – presumably to make the focus off my mom, but OH! MY! GOD! I wanted to DIE!!

Or the time when my mom got mad at me for something stupid and then my Aunt Cee got mad at her for getting mad at me and then my Nana got upset because everyone was mad. And then my mom was chasing me, so I ran out of the house and up the street to the car (I don’t know – did I think I was going to drive away? I was 12 or 13.), and Cee was chasing her, and Nana was chasing us all. I jumped in the car and my mom jumped in after me and grabbed me by the hair (don’t get all crazy with the abuse claims here – anyone with a teen can relate to at least wanting to pull their hair). So Cee opened the door and grabbed my mom by the hair. And then my mom let go of me and grabbed Cee’s hair and they fell out of the floor onto the street between the car and the curb and rolled around, both refusing to let go of each other’s hair and my Nana was doing a Fred Sanford to get them to stop and I was sinking down in my seat praying no one would see this. And then the next day in school, not one, but TWO people told me they saw me and my aunt and my mom and my great grandma running down the street and when I tried to say they were crazy, they proceeded to describe the entire scene in front of the entire lunch table and then I died of embarrassment. The End.

(I feel the need to say that Cee is appearing in these stories a great deal. Cee – consider yourself ON NOTICE!)

But one of my favorites (??) was the time my Gram was watching me and my cousin Cheryl. I was eight and she was two. We ordered pizza with mushrooms, since it was our favorite topping. We got it from a brand new pizza place called Pizza Shack. In those days, all the pizza shops used canned mushrooms, but Pizza Shack used fresh ones. And if you’ve ever had fresh mushrooms on a pizza, you know they aren’t the prettiest things. Anyway, the pizza was good and we ate most of it. And then my mom and Aunt Twin came home. They took one look at those unpretty mushrooms and decided then and there that Pizza Shack was trying to kill us with spoiled, poisoned mushrooms. My mom called Pizza Shack and ranted at them about the spoiled, poison mushrooms. And though they tried to assure her that their mushrooms were perfectly normal, she was having NONE OF IT.

They were freaking out, crying and saying incoherent things about poison and hospitals and stomach pumping. I heard those words and decided that I would rather die of poisoning than experience that. So I told them I didn’t eat any mushrooms that night – I picked them all off. Somehow they believed me, despite the fact that I LOVE mushrooms, and the fact that there was no evidence of picked-off mushrooms on the plates. They looked at Gram next, but she’s a tough bird and told them to shove it (actually, I think her words were something like “you two are crazy and the mushrooms were fine and I’m watching my show and not going to any damned hospital so shove it up your ass, I need a drink and a cigarette!”). All that was left was poor Cheryl, who - at two - was too young to know what was coming and escape the crazy. The poor thing got packed up into the car and dragged to the hospital, where they had no choice but to believe that she had eaten spoiled, poisoned mushrooms and treated her with a nice big dose of ipecac.

Although I felt bad for her, I was glad I missed that torture. What I didn’t know was that I was in for an even more delightful treat. As we left Gram’s house to head home, my mom grabbed what was left of the pizza. I didn’t understand why, since she was so sure it was poison, but I was hoping maybe I could sneak another piece when we got home. Unfortunately, my mom had other plans. She drove to Pizza Shack. And while I sat in the car under the lights (where I thought everyone in the entire world could see me), my mom proceeded to stand on the front steps of Pizza Shack and announce to the gathered patrons that Pizza Shack served SPOILED POISON MUSHROOMS!! Then she dumped the remaining pizza on the steps and – Good Lord – jumped up and down all over them. Then she realized she couldn’t see me (since I was ducking down in my seat so no one would see me) and started yelling “Gina? GINA!?!” thus killing any chance I had of remaining anonymous.

Looking back I can laugh, of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m not doing my best to make up for it by embarrassing my own kids. It’s the circle of life, people.

Pay It Forward

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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I’ve always been the "sucker". I mean, I don't think I'm a sucker at all - but other people often do. You know – the one who gives the panhandlers money and puts change in the half-assed can on the minimart counter labeled “For Chairity.” I know that many times, I am probably being taken for…well…a sucker. But I don’t care. I’ve always been a firm believer that even if 9 out of 10 of those panhandlers take my money directly to the liquor store, that it still leaves one that I might actually be helping. And helping that one person is more important than not helping the other nine.

I’ve been known to do things that other people think are crazy – buying breakfast and a bus fare for a woman and her mother who were stuck at a hospital all night with no means to get home. They cried and felt bad that they couldn’t pay me back. I told them don’t worry – just pass it in. I once stopped – in the Hill no less – to help a man and his two young grandkids whose car had broken down. I gave him some money to get a cab and he wanted my address so he could send it back to me. I told him to pass it on. I try to help people whenever I can, and my response is always pass it on – pay it forward. I believe that even simple acts of kindness – like taking back someone’s shopping cart, or helping someone carry their groceries, or giving up a seat to someone on a bus – really can change the world. And I believe that it will eventually come back to you.

Many years ago, I was on a business trip in Chicago. Around the time I was there, the city was having a rash of pick-pocketings. Everywhere you went, businesses had signs about holding on to your bags and purses. Restaurants warned women not to hang your purse on the back of your chair. I took the warnings to heart and carried a tiny purse that I wore across my body. It had a button flap and a zipper. It rested right against my hip. It was pick-pocket-proof. Or so I thought.

My last night in the city, I walked a few blocks to a restaurant. I had an amazing, relaxing dinner and asked for my check. When the waiter was getting it for me, I reached into my purse for my card and discovered that my wallet was gone. I had it when I had left the hotel and didn’t take it out along the way. But apparently, somewhere in the crowds on the way to the restaurant, someone did.

I was in a panic. I had visions of washing dishes (like they always do in the sitcoms when they can’t pay the check). I had visions of being arrested. I was terrified. When the waiter came back, I was in tears as I explained what had happened. He told me to come with him and led me to the front desk to speak with the manager. I was literally shaking, worrying not only about the dinner check, but about the fact that my money, my debit card, my company credit card, and my ID were all gone and I had a flight home the next morning.

The manager was a sweet woman who immediately told me not to worry – that she would help me (which of course brought on more tears). She told me not to think twice about my meal – it was on them and they were glad to show me that their city was better than the pickpocket who had ruined my trip. She told me that the waiter would be taken care of when I worried about his tip. She wanted to give me money for a cab back to the hotel but I refused, since it was only a few blocks. She insisted on calling the hotel to let them know what happened, so they wouldn’t think I was trying to get out of paying. I sat at the bar with a (free) glass of wine, watching this amazing and kind woman take care of things for me – talking with the hotel and finding out that they were going to provide me with cab fare back to the airport the next day (because otherwise she intended to do so).

While this was going on, the couple sitting next to me spoke up. They told me they had heard what happened and they were sorry that something like that happened in their city. They told me that they wanted to help me and handed me $40. I refused, saying that I would be fine. But they insisted. They said that I couldn’t go to the airport with no money. They said you never know what might happen and that I might need it. They said I needed to eat something. They said that they wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if they didn’t help me out. So I gave in and took it and asked for their address to pay it pack. They told me they didn’t want me to pay it back, they wanted me to pay it forward. And I’ve been trying to do that ever since.

This post was inspired by Secret Agent L. If you don’t read her blog already, you should check her out, along with It Starts With Us.

And pay it forward whenever you can.

My Fairy Godfather Drank Black Velvet

I posted this Last April and - just like I described in the story - when I called, he came. Shortly after I hit "publish," Walt and I found each other again. We caught up and had a lot of laughs. We've talked on the phone and emailed and chatted on facebook. I was looking forward to getting together with him in the fall for our college homecoming celebration. I laughed as I pictured myself walking around the old campus, yelling, "WALT!" knowing that - as always - he would answer.

But today, I got an email from another old friend telling me the sad news. Walt - my friend - my fairy godfather - passed away on Sunday. He lived in Texas, so I can't be there. I won't see him again. All I can do is tell his story one last time. I'll miss you, Fairy Godfather.


I was having a conversation recently about “the good old days” and we were bringing up people in our past who were “characters” and the one person that always comes to mind for me in that situation is my friend Walt.

Walt was a legend on the campus of my teeny-tiny (first) college. Legend had him anywhere between 21 and 27, depending on who was retelling it. He was an icon. A permanent fixture. Don’t get me wrong, he was a smart guy and loved college. Or “college”, if you will. He was a stocky guy with the white blond hair. He almost always had a smile on his face (probably because he was at least a sheet and a half at any given time).

The first time I met Walt, I was a little intimidated. Here I was, a freshman, a baby, and there HE was - a. . .well. . .I have no idea what he was, since legend had it he was in his 6th or 7th year. But he was older. He was a grownup. As a sophomore, my friend Dave would drag me to Walt’s place to party, and I’d feel uncomfortable the entire time. The crowd there was always (to me, at least) a little older, a little smarter, a lot cooler. I have to admit, the discomfort was totally on my part - everyone there treated me just fine, but I felt inferior and stupid. But in time, Walt became my Fairy Godfather.

I never really thought he noticed me. I figured he saw me as the kid Dave dragged around with him. I didn’t even think he knew my name. But one day, I was walking to Victorian Literature (otherwise known as Stick Hot Pokers into My Ears and Eyes Lest I Explode from Boredom class) and I heard a voice from across the quad yell, “Hey! MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet!” And given the choice of going to the world’s most boring class ever and downing a bottle of Canadian whiskey with a somewhat intimidating near-stranger - no contest!

I sort of thought he was kidding - that he just had some beer or a partial bottle left over from his last party or some good bud and was just looking for some company, but when we got back to his place, he pulled out two shot glasses and a brand new bottle of Black Velvet and we got to drinking. We spent the next couple of hours drinking and talking and having a great time. By the time his roommate (another older, even more intimidating silent-type) got back, along with some of the other of the usual party crowd (including Dave, who was until now, my only ticket into the place), Walt and I were pretty much trashed and laughing like fools. The roomie gave us a raised-eyebrow and everyone else looked a bit surprised. So perhaps I right and they were just tolerating me, or maybe they were just surprised that Walt was drunk on whiskey with a sophomore they all barely knew. Or maybe they were just surprised that I wasn’t with Dave - we were pretty much inseparable and I found out years later that everyone thought we were a couple.

Regardless, from that point forward, Walt became my Fairy Godfather. No matter where I was or what I was doing, if I thought about Walt, he would suddenly be there. We’d be partying in my friend’s dorm room and we’d say, “Walt should be here”, and a minute later the door would open and he’d walk in. Or we’d be at a hotel for homecoming, and wonder where Walt’s room was. So, we’d walk up the halls and just say, “Walt!” In 30 seconds, a door would fly open, and there he’d be. I’d be walking to class and think, “I really don’t feel like going today - I wish Walt would come rescue me” and before I knew it, I’d hear the by-then-infamous, “Hey MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet/tequila/case of beer/” and off we’d go.

My favorite magically-appearing Walt occasion was after he graduated and I had left our small-town college for the last time (as did Dave). It was 1980-something, at a Dead show. It was the first of two shows and I had a ticket for both nights, but my friend Trish only had one for the second night. She came along anyway and we met up with Dave and some of his friends to party. A few hours before the show, we were making our rounds of the parking lot and a few people cut through our group, and in that sea of people, that was all it took to be separated from all my friends. I spent the next couple hours walking around looking for them and occasionally hanging out with some fun strangers. I finally gave up when it was time for the show to start. My ticket was a single, so I couldn’t even find them in their seats, since I had no idea where they were (not to mention, that at a Show? Seats, Schmeats!). I ended up running into a guy I knew who was also on his own, so I hung with him during the show. Afterward, we parted ways and I was once again alone in the lot.

I went to where they had been parked, but they were gone. I spent about an hour walking around, wondering how the hell I was going to get home (it was after city buses quit running, I had no money for a cab and it was way too far to walk, especially since I’d have to make my way through the Hill District to get home). I was feeling pretty freaked out and was about to find a group of folks who would let me hang for the night, when I started thinking about Walt. So I took a chance and said, “Walt!” And I swear - a van door popped open and there he was! That’s when I knew it was official - Walt was my Fairy Godfather.

Since last night, I can’t get him off my mind. We got in touch a few years ago and emailed a few times. He lived several states away and was married with a child. We lost touch again and I regret that. He was a good guy and a lot of fun. He was an unexpected friend. I find myself thinking about him quite often. So I have one thing to say:

“Walt!”

Once in a While You Get Shown the Light in the Strangest of Places if You Look at it Right

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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Man, I have had a few shitty days lately. Lately I feel like I am always a hairsbreadth away from a meltdown. Since mr b lost his job, he’s been working for himself, which mean I never know when and if we’re going to have money coming and how much. This stresses me out. God bless you folks who freelance because I would need to be either institutionalized or incarcerated after a while. Anyway, that bit of stress seems to drain my reserves of sanity, leaving me precious little for the unexpected. And lately, between our crazy schedules, work being insanely busy, the girl and her cheerleading tryouts (she made it), feeling disconnected from a couple people I used to be close to, my mother turning up her Evil-Ray-O-Tron to the Extra Super High setting, and a bunch of other random crap, I have been pretty close to losing it. Monday was the start – work getting out of hand, people being assholes. Then yesterday rolled around, and more of the same and I lost it. I spent a good portion of the day in tears. Not for any reason, and yet for every reason. I closed my office door and kept to myself as best I could.

But then last night, we went to Heinz hall to see the boy perform with his jazz ensemble. First there was a symphony performance and though I have never been much of a symphony-lover, as I sat there listening to the music, with no one throwing work and deadlines at me, no one bossing me into getting them ice cream, no barking assholes, or ringing phones, or critical mothers, or anything other than the music and I suddenly felt better. Not a lot better, but enough to sit back and enjoy and not feel like I was falling apart. By the time the jazz performance started, I decided that today, despite having the same problem I had yesterday and the day before and the day before that, I was going to focus on things that make me happy. And I am doing just that. Here are some of them:

Jerry Garcia & John Kahn: When I Paint my Masterpiece (my actual favorite performance of this would be at The Ritz on 01/27/86, but I can’t find it so this is close enough)




Cousins:



Golden Chocolate Oreos (the cookies formerly known as Uh-Oh Oreos). You can keep your regular Oreos. But these I can NOT resist:



How ridiculously much he loves these sunglasses:




One of my new favorite blogs: Hyperbole and a Half. I dare you not to laugh like a mental patient over this. I DARE YOU!


My baby playing at Heinz Hall:





Our new favorite family hobby: geocaching. We’ve gone several times now and it’s a LOT of fun. Despite the time we parked in the wrong place and had to climb a big, giant, dangerous, man-eating mountain (OK, not quite, but still – it was HARD), and the time the girl fell in a creek, and the horrible jagger (you burgh people know what I’m talking about, right?) scars on my legs, and the giant thorns that embedded themselves in my face, and that thing that was most likely a jagger, but may have been a creature that I think made a burrow in my arm and raised a family there and is eating me alive as I speak, and the fact that people leave sucky bullshit trades in the caches which pisses off the six year old looking for treasure, we actually love really love it!





This jackass:



One of my favorite Grateful Dead shows ever (and definitely my favorite versions of my favorite song – can you guess which one it is?): Beacon Theater, 01/27/1986

/
1 Cold Rain And Snow
2 Mama Tried
3 Banter
4 Row Jimmy
5 Cassidy
6 Brown Eyed Women
7 Big River
8 Might As Well
9 Lazy Lightnin'
10 Supplication
11 Tennessee Jed
12 Playin' In The Band
13 The Wheel
14 Samson and Delilah
15 High Time
16 The Music Never Stopped
17 Crazy Fingers
18 Drums > Dancin' in the Streets
19 Cosmic Charlie
20 Help On the Way
21 Slipknot!
22 Franklin's Tower
23 Around and Around
24 U.S. Blues

March for Maddie Giveaway 2010

For the second year in a row, I (along with the most excellent Burgh Team) will be participating in the March of Dimes Pittsburgh March for Babies on May 23rd in memory of Madeline Spohr, who passed away on April 7th, 2009.

For those who don’t know about Maddie – she was born on November 11th, 2007 – more than 11 weeks too early. She spent 68 days in the NICU while her parents feared for her life. Luckily, Maddie made it through that tough time and was a beautiful vibrant, happy little girl, until that terrible day last April when she came down with the respiratory infection that took her life.

Sadly, the Spohr’s aren’t the only family to go through something like this. Every year, too many babies are born too early. Too many babies are born with birth defects. Some survive and some don’t.

My own grandmother went through something very similar to what the Spohrs went through. Her first child, a son named Donny was born back in the 1940’s. Like Maddie, he was a happy, vibrant, smiling little boy whom everyone loved. But he was born with Spina Bifida. My grandma struggled to keep him healthy. She took him to every doctor she could find, every specialist that would see her. She spent days on a dirty train taking him to the mayo clinic to be seen. But sadly, all those experts said the same thing – he would not survive very long.



As he got older, and sicker, a doctor told my grandma that he would most likely not survive his next illness, like a cold. Imagine the terror my grandma felt, trying to keep her son healthy – trying to keep him alive. And as hard as she tried, she couldn’t. No one could. And when he was only a toddler – somewhere around the age of two – Donny died.



But the March of Dimes is trying to change things for the better, and it’s working. And with our help, things can only get even better.

Like last year, I am holding a giveaway to help raise money for this wonderful, worthy cause.
For any donation of $5 to my walk page (click the button at the bottom), I will enter you into a drawing to win a Box ‘O Goodies. That means you get an entry for each $5 you donate – So $10 gets you two entries, $15 gets you three, and so on.

And like last year, the Box O’ Goodies will include a variety of goodies that will include:

* A $50 Target gift card

* A $15 Starbucks gift card

* Assorted goodies to be determined after I pick the winner (so I can gear it towards the winner a little based on gender, location, etc) but will include at least one book, something yummy, something weird (because…duh), something kid-related if you have any, and who knows what else, but I’m good at gift baskets so fear not.

(One of my favorite bloggers won last year and after receiving the package, proclaimed it a “treasure chest,” so it’s definitely a good prize)

Once you donate, please leave a comment here so I can figure out who is who (if you want to remain somewhat anonymous on the amount of your donation, you can comment here that you donated, and then email me to let me know who you are and the amount so I can give you the appropriate number of entries (sugarmag_at_live_dot_com).

You don’t have to know me to enter. I don’t care if you’ve never commented before. I don’t care if you’ve never been here before. What I care about is doing the best we can to help a great cause. Because no one should ever go through what my grandma, and the Spohrs, and so many other families have endured.

Although I love to give people stuff and usually die of anticipation before every birthday or holiday, I am going to drag this one out a little to give more folks a chance. The walk is on May 23rd, and I will keep the contest open until the week before to make sure we can raise as much money as we can for the March of Dimes.

Help out if you can and feel free to pass this along.

THANKS!!

The Hoarder Room

When we moved into our house, it was a tiny little matchbox with no closets. Yeah, you heard me right – No Closets! I have no idea where the former owners pout their stuff, but it certainly wasn’t in a closet. We have since added on to the house – including two bedrooms for the kids (with big closets) and a nice long hallway (with a big closet) and another bathroom (big closet), but the original part of the house remains closetless. The two original bedroom were actually connected (one was built at a later time), and mr b and I had plans to turn them into one larger bedroom (and add a closet). But of course, that kind of thing takes time and money and we never seem to have enough of either. So for the time being, one of those rooms has been serving as the bedroom (as in, a room with an actual bed in it) and the other – which started out as a “dressing room” of sorts, where all of our clothes and stuff were kept – has become…dunh dunh duuuuuunnnnhhh…The Hoarder Room.

I’d like to blame the whole no-closet thing on the fact that I have a Hoarder Room, but anyone who has ever seen my school locker, dorm room, or college apartment knows that would be a lie – I have to admit, I’m a bit of a slob, so it’s a combination of the two. Needless to say, The Hoarder Room was in serious need of a cleaning, and I decided that this weekend was the time to take it on.

Holy Shitballs there was a lot of stuff in there. I would have taken before and after photos, but my shamelessness does, in fact, have limits. But I’m not too proud to share with you a (sadly, only partial) list of the strange discoveries I made on my Hoarder Room Adventure. I found:

One powerball ticket, which I am going to have to check because it may be my big break

Five unscratched West Virginia (???) scratch-off lottery tickets. Luckily there were no winners, because if they had been winners, I would have almost certainly ended up in tears since they are most likely null and void, being approximately four years old.

One jar of baby food (macaroni with beef and noodles). I have NO idea what this is about, since a) it was a brand I never bought for either of my kids and b) the room became a hoarder room long after either child was eating baby food.

A bunch of unused birthday and thank-you cards (yay – I can use those).

A bunch of clothes that are too small since I have gained weight and refuse to get rid of them, since they are some of my favorites.

Several pairs of pants & some shirts that still have tags on them and are too small because my mother is still doing that previously mentioned and super endearing Buy Things Too Small and Then Say “I thought you were going to lose weight” thing.

A dress with tags still on it (also courtesy of mom) because even if I lost enough weight to be a size 2, these boobs were not made for that dress, no matter how much she refuses to face the fact.

This sticker:

and matching pin. Bought entirely in jest, as anyone who has ever heard my (motherfucking) mouth knows.

A pile of too-big hand-me-downs for the girl.

A pile of too-small clothes for the girl that need to go to goodwill.

Four lipsticks- never used.

Eight gift bags.

A Christmas shape muffin tin. I was totally going to make those at Christmas.

Approximately 30 pounds of craft supplies.

The part I have been missing from my sewing machine for more than a year.

Novelty photos from Myrtle Beach (2007) that I had printed to give to everyone for Christmas. Fail.

An uncashed check from April 2007 for $5.00.

An uncashed check from March 2008 for $0.88.

An unopened can of Pringles.

An open bag of salt and vinegar chips.

Dove chocolate.

17 labeled cds.

9 unlabeled mystery cds.

3 dvds – one coated in something sticky.

4 tubes of glow bracelets (I obviously have a thing about glow bracelets)

Approximately 2,346 hangers – some of which are not even broken.

Laundry!

Hello Kitty arm floaties, which I am totally saving and wearing to next years Polar Bear Plunge.

Several dead stinkbugs.

Several dead ladybugs.

A feather which appears to have come from a pigeon. I know!

Fruit Stripe Gum wrapper tattoos, lovingly sent to me by Hedge.

An empty spice rack (I don’t even know…)

A bottle of Advil.

A tube of Neosporin.

Enough Immodium to clearly illustrate my fear of shitting myself.

A pack of water balloons (minus the water, of course).



What I did not find:

Money (not counting the $3.47 in change and the potential powerball millions) BOO!

Dead bodies – human or otherwise. YAY!

Cat poop. YAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!!!

Friday 5: Multimedia

I have been blogging a little more regularly lately and I want to keep it up. But I'm extra work busy (damn work interfering with my fun) and don't have a lot of time. Thus, a Friday 5.

1. What Rolling Stones song best summarizes the week you just had?

Back to Zero. Because there is someone in my life that I love who continues to disappoint me. And every time we get together, I start to feel like things are picking up – that maybe this person is OK after all. And then they show that hurtful side of themselves to me and it’s right back to zero.


2. What movie reminds you most of your childhood?

Hmmm. I can’t come up with one, really. I’m sure after I hit publish I will think of a ton. As for my teen years, it would be Spanglish. Remember that scene when the mother goes shopping and buys her daughter a bunch of new clothes? And the daughter is really excited? And then in the next instant is devastated because the mother bought them a size too small because she hoped the daughter would lose weight? Yeah.


3. What part of the newspaper do you never (or almost never) read?

Sports. I will watch sports, but I never read about them afterwards. Unless there is a “human interest” aspect to the story, I don’t care about scores or stats, or any of that.


4. What television show is a lot better than you thought it would be?

Dude – I love TV. If it distracts and even slightly entertains me, I’m in.


5. What station is the radio nearest you set on at this moment?

There isn’t a radio anywhere near me, actually. I don’t think we have a working radio anywhere in the house.

Potty Training was Easy Compared to This

I took The Girl somewhere super scary last night. No, not a cemetery. Nope, not a haunted house. Not a Scientology Center, either. It’s way scarier than that. Last night, I took my baby to…

Dun dun duuuuuuunnnnnhhhhhh…

Cheerleading sign-ups.

My baby wants to be a cheerleader. And since I am not one to stop my kids from doing what they want (within reason), if they want to join karate, they can. If they want to put eye shadow on the dog, they can. If they want to ride the pitfall 1,000 times in a row, they can (OK, that’s just me). And by god, if they want to be a cheerleader, they can.

I’m just not cut out for this shit. I live in a small town and sports and activities in small towns are so full of strife and drama. I hate strife and drama. But for many years now, I have been sucking t up for the sake of my kids.

But this cheerleading thing has me feeling a little uncomfortable, because it’s not just a sign-up that we went to last night. It was a sign-up to try out. And that makes me a little queasy. Don’t get me wrong – I think that at a certain age, kids benefit from having to try out – they need to learn that everything can’t be handed to you. That you have to work for things. That not everyone can win. But I have a hard time believing that 5 or 6 years old is that age.

I don’t know how many girls will try out – I’ll find out next week. But I imagine it will be more than just the fifteen that will be chosen for the squad. And the thought of one (or ten or twenty) tiny little girls being devastated because they aren’t good enough breaks my heart into a million little pom-pom shaped pieces.

And one thing that is really bugging me about this is that this is the cheer squad for the midget football team, and the boy’s sign-up was at the same time. And those boys? Are signing up, versus trying out. Every one of those boys will be on the team. They might not all get to play, but they will be on the team, uniforms and banquets and parades and the whole nine yards. But the girls? Exclusive City. I don’t get it - why the double-standard?

Here’s a confession: I tried out for cheerleading back in my first year of junior high. I tried hard and worked hard and thought I had a chance because I was a good gymnast. But I didn’t make it. And I can still remember being in that gym, standing in a line as they called numbers to step forward. I can remember the feeling when my number wasn’t called. I can remember getting into my mom’s car afterward and my heart breaking, crying all the way home. I don’t want my baby’s heart to break like that.

And looking back, what I didn’t realize at the time was that my mom’s heart was probably breaking, too. And I know that if she doesn’t make it and she feels the heartbreak that I felt, mine will too. But even though I want to shield her from that, I can’t. I explained to her that not everyone will make it, including her, and yet she still wants to try. This makes me proud of her – her willingness to try. But I still hope we can avoid the broken heart. And even if we do, I know there will be other brokenhearted girls out there, and that bothers me too.

I hate that at this young, innocent age, there is something that - no matter what - will result in a sad ending and hurt feelings for some of them. I know I’m idealistic in thinking that I can protect them from that, but you can’t blame me for wanting to.

Operation Sweet Sixteen update (again)

OK - I have sent out emails & Twitter DMs with the address. if I missed you, it means I don't have your email to send it to (or I just missed it - sorry!). If that is the case, please email me at sugarmag at live dot com and I will send the info along. Thanks again for helping!! You guys are awesome!

Operation Sweet Sixteen Update

Some things:

1. You guys are SO awesome to want to participate.

2. I have decided it can't be totally anonymous, since it might freak this very nice family out that a bunch of strangers have their daughter's name and address, so I will have them sent in care of me and I will deliver them. We still won't mention the party, but I plan to say something along the lines of that I told my internet friends it was her sweet sixteen and people wanted to help make it special. I just want to make sure it doesn't sound like pity in any way.

3. I will get the info out to you all on Monday. I am sick and I have about seventy million things to do today and tomorrow.

4. Several of you left comments, but I don't have your email addresses. If you didn't enter an email address in your comment, please either comment again or email me at sugarmag at live dot com and I will send the info.

5. Seriously? You guys are the best.

Operation Sweet Sixteen

Tonight I went to a Sweet Sixteen party. I wasn't feeling well and wasn't in the mood, but I went because the girl is special and deserves to have everyone she loves help her celebrate. Her parents rented a small hall and hired a DJ. And ONLY ONE OF HER FRIENDS SHOWED UP!

The poor girl was devastated - hurt by her so-called friends and embarrassed in front of her family. It took me back to the heartbreak of being a teen. I am sure we all have some not-so-nice memories of that day. For me, it was around that age that the group of friends I had for years decided I wasn't one of them any more. I found new (and most decidedly better) friends, but that didn't take the pain away.

We're all grown up and we can look back on those days and know that we didn't deserve it - that those kind of people aren't friends anyway. We know that people like that aren't worth feeling bad over. But that's now - five and ten and fifteen and twenty and OMG I'M OLD years later. But when you're sixteen and it's happening to you, it feels like the end of the world.

I'm asking if you will help me.

I think it would be a really amazing gesture if I could get a bunch of people from all over the place to send this girl a birthday card and let her know how special and awesome she is.

Here is the thing: I DON'T want the cards to mention the party or her friends - I DON'T WANT IT TO COME ACROSS AS PITY! Also - I DON'T want the cards to mention me at all - again - I don't want it to seem like pity, and also I think that if they all come without any mention of how they got there, it will be more magical - like she has guardian angels all around the country who are looking out for her.

If you would be willing to help out with this project, please leave a comment, or email me at sugarmag at live dot com. If I can get at least ten people to do this (the more the better - I want to send her as much magic and kindness as we can) and I will send you the info.

All you need to do is send a birthday card (or even just a note)that wishes her a happy sixteenth birthday and tells her she is special or awesome, or any other good thought (while not mentioning me or the party or her friends). You can sign your 1st name and city (Jane from Pittsburgh) Or just leave it anonymous if you want.

Think of how fun it is to get unexpected mail. Now put yourself in her shoes and imagine how fun it would be to get a SHITLOAD of unexpected mail.

Let's make someone's day!

Jackhammersasses

You know what can ruin a perfectly delightful evening at the theater? A shitload of jackhammers that’s what!

I took The Girl to see The Wizard of Oz at Heinz Hall last night. She had no idea what we were doing, but she was thrilled to just go to Lulu’s for dinner. Then to follow it up with her favorite movie live on stage? Wooo, was she a happy girl. We had a great “girl’s night” as she calls them.

After the show was over, we made our way down to the lobby and as soon as we got near the front door, we heard it. TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!! (I don’t know how to represent the sound of a jackhammer in text – that’s the best I can do. But you know what I mean). And it was LOUD. Louder than any jackhammer I had ever heard. Not only could you hear it, you could feel it. It was so loud that you couldn’t hear each other talking. So loud that people were looking around for the mysterious invisible jackhammers and covering their ears. We couldn’t wait to get to the car and get our of there.

We got into the parking garage and headed fore the stairs, since we didn’t want to wait for the elevator. It became immediately clear that the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad noise was coming from inside the garage. And it got worse as we neared our floor. And wouldn’t you know it, we opened the door to discover the loudest, most horrifying construction site ever. Right there on the floor where we were parked, right near our car where six (SIX!) guys running jackhammers.

It was, by far, the loudest, most annoying sound I have ever heard. The girl immediately started crying because it was hurting her ears (even though she had them covered). And the other charming effect of jackhammering? The dust. The nasty, thick, not-exactly-healthy cement dust was so thick, you could hardly see. Even though a parking garage is technically open-air, without any type of exhaust system, that dust just hung there in the air.

I wrapped my sweater around The Girl’s face to keep her from breathing it in, but I didn’t have any way to protect myself. It not only burned my eyes and my throat – I could actually taste it and feel it in my mouth and nose as I breathed. It was gritty and nasty. We were both coughing, trying to hold out ears, and she was crying, and the douchebags just kept on with their TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!!

We finally got to the car (it took longer than it should have because carrying a bunch of stuff, including a six year old while coughing, blinking, and trying to hold your ears will slow you down), only to find that it was completely covered in a thick layer of the devil dust. By the time we pulled out of our spot, The Girl was complaining of a headache and a stomachache. I had a headache. And since I have been suffering from asthma-like issues ever since I had the flu, I woke up this morning feeling like there was a cinderblock on my chest. My throat and chest hurt and I have a terrible cough/irritation in my lungs. Isn’t that nice?

I can’t being to tell you how pissed off I am about this. I understand that they need to get this type of work done and it can’t be done during working hours. But considering that this is the closest garage to Heinz hall, perhaps they should rethink the idea of doing it just as a show is letting out. Especially a show that will attract a lot of children. If they have to do it, they should have at least stopped for 30 minutes or an hour after the show was over to give people a chance to get out of there without putting their health at risk.

At the very least, there should have been signs before you entered the garage letting you know that this was going to be happening. And why in the HOLY BLUE FUCK wouldn’t they shut down parking on the floor it was happening on? FUCKING IDIOTS!
Thanks a lot, Alco Parking, for being the Douchebag of the Day!

PSA

If you think I am an ass because you comment on my blog, but I don't comment on yours, I want you to know that there is some fuckery going on. I don't know why, but for certain blogs (Saint Dolores is one) I will write a comment, select google account, hit publish and then...nothing. No error message, just a refreshed page WITHOUT my comment. And on a bunch of other blogs, I have to enter my username/password info TWICE before the comment registers. It's pissing me off.

Ten Things Tuesday

Ten Eleven Twelve Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off.

1. The media reports about Ben Roethlessberger’s accuser. OK, look – I don’t know who is telling the truth. This girl may have been assaulted or she may big a big lying liar who lies. But the media repeatedly talking about her blood alcohol level just smacks of blaming the victim and it is unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE! I had been drinking way back in 1985 when it almost happened to me. And you know what? Having a blood alcohol level below the legal limit would not have changed his intentions. It would not have made me capable of fighting off a larger, stronger person. It would not have given me eyes in the back of my head to see him silently stalking me, grabbing me, and trying to force himself on me. So, FUCK YOU, MEDIA!

2. Santonio Holmes and his stupid behavior and his even more stupid twittering.

3. The health care debate. I support health care reform, but I know there are many who don’t. And that is their right. But if you are going to oppose it, oppose it for intelligent reasons. In the past couple of days, I have heard so much nonsense. One person in particular is vocally opposed to HCR not because it affects him in any way shape or form – he won’t lose coverage or pay more money. No – he opposes it basically because it will be helping people NOT LIKE HIM. He doesn’t like the idea of health care being provided for poor people. Or sick people. Or immigrants. Nice, asshole.

4. And while we’re on the topic of health care reform – can’t we all play nice? How on earth people can call themselves “pro-life” and then call for the killing of children of those who voted for the bill, or throwing out racial slurs, or any other number of horrible, vile things? I read this recently and my head exploded.

5. A soda tax. That’s what the city is considering. A two cents per ounce tax on beverages sweetened with sugar. That would add 40 cents to a typical 20 ounce bottle and almost DOUBLE the cost of a 2-liter. This is the stupidest idea since the bajillion dollar trash cans.

6. My six year old daughter asked me if she was fat the other day. I can be self-deprecating, but I don’t do it in front of her. I don’t talk about being fat, I don’t call people fat, I don’t ask if I am fat. I blame our fucked up society.

7. People who don’t stop at stop signs. What? The? Fuck? Every single day, I see someone cruise right through, or slow down, but not stop. Seriously – how much of an effect are those four seconds really going to have on your day? And what makes you feel you are entitled to just ignore the laws that are there to protect me and my children? I swear, if any of these assholes cause me or my family any harm (or even near-harm), I will be dragging them from their car and beating the living shot out of them. I hope I can count on one of you to bail me out.

8. And while we’re on the subject of entitled assholes, what on earth makes people feel they have the right to litter? I can’t even grasp the train of thought that tells someone it is OK to just throw their trash wherever they want. When I see someone do it, I will pick up their litter and stop them, pretending to be helpful: “Excuse me – you dropped something.” I generally keep the “asshole” part in my head, so I don’t get MY ass kicked.

9. Re: Number 8 – this goes for cigarette butts, too! Why do people who wouldn’t consider throwing their (potentially highly taxed) Coke bottle out the car window not hesitate to throw their cigarette butts out? Ignoring the huge risk of fires, if every single one of the approximately 45 million smokers in the US threw out even one single butt (probably a low estimate) every day for a year, there would be a pile of them the size of over 11,000 (potentially highly taxed) 2 liter pop bottles. And since they don’t easily degrade, that pile would grow and grow. Stop it, people!

10. Facebook. I like facebook for a number of reasons. I want to punch it in the nads for even more reasons. I am sick to death of fan pages. I mean – there are a few that I find humorous, interesting and/or useful. But most fall into the categories of either a teenage fan girl (OMG, I LOVE whatever thing/person/band/etc sooooo much) or mean girl (so and so is a douche). I’m sick of looking at them.

11. And while we’re on the topic of facebook and mean girls, those fucking QUESTIONS! You now the ones – you get a notification that someone has answered a question about you and then you need to earn “coins” to see who. I hate those. For the record, friends: I have never, EVER skipped on a check, I am not tone deaf, I am aware that I need to lose weight, ditto on the shitty clothes I wear, I don’t think boxed wine is classy but that doesn’t mean I won’t drink it, I’d never pull a fire alarm as a prank, and I don’t want to hook up with YOU, either! If you are wondering about something, formspring me.

12. I was going to bitch about education (yet again) but I think that warrants its own post. I know, you’re all a-tremble with anticipation.

So - what's pissing YOU off?

DangerBoobs

A while back, I took a photo of my boobs. No – I’m not an aspiring porn star – I was riled up over the idea that breastfeeding is obscene when it’s perfectly acceptable that they are shoved in our faces to sell everything from beer to cologne and decided to blog about it. Anyway, I long since stopped thinking about the photo.

Until about a month ago when my husband was using my computer and told me he needed to ask me something. He said it in that tone. You know the one - the “we need to talk” tone. My heart was in my throat until he asked, “Why do you have a photo of your breasts on your computer?”

Oops.

See, he knows I blog. He didn’t for a long time, but eventually (when I started meeting up with other bloggers in real life) I had to come clean. But while he knows I blog, he doesn’t know any more than that. He doesn’t know where I blog, or what I blog about. He has never read my blog (as far as I know – if I’m wrong..Um…Hi Honey! Love you!) or even asked to. He’s not a computer-type guy. He doesn’t know anything about blogging or facebook or twitter. It’s just not his thing. I think he believes that computers are run by tiny elves or fairies or something. Either that or it’s learned helplessness since I am always here to do computer-y things. Probably both. It’s sad, really.

Anyway, I explained why I took the photo (actually I told him that I took the photo for a breast cancer thing – which is true – but then I used it on my blog. I left that part out since – as I said –he just doesn’t get blogging). Anyway, he knows me and after I explained it, he was fine.

Since mr b was screwed over laid off in August, he has been working for himself as a carpenter/woodworker. I’ve been taking photos of different projects he has been doing. Since I take a lot of photos in general, I tend to load them onto the computer and delete the memory card pretty frequently. And for some strange reason, the boob photo never deletes. Three-hundred other photos will go away just fine, but not the boob photo. Apparently my boobs are magical.

I noticed this phenomenon one day when I took my memory card to a photo printing machine in Giant Eagle and treated several other shoppers to a virtual peep show. But since I am old and forgetful, I immediately forgot about it. Or maybe it was because I went home and drank. One of those.

Fast forward to yesterday.

Mr b wanted to get prints of some of the photos to show to a client. But since printer ink is made of unicorn blood and costs seventeen trillion dollars and ounce, we only have black right now. So he needed to go somewhere to have them printed (he didn’t know I had already cleared the card). And being a non-computer person (or more likely – “helpless” person who didn’t want to put any thought in to how to use the self service machines), he headed to K1nkos.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

When he got to K1nkos, he got an employee to help him. Some young K1nkos employee got him to a machine and inserted the card. And the only photo that popped up on the screen? You got it. MY BOOBS! I’m sure the kid was scarred for life. Not only are my boobs magical, they’re dangerous!

Census Schmensus

It’s Census time! Are you excited? Yeah, me neither. Not that we have received our census form or anything. I think we’re on the census shit list since the last time around. I refused to answer a question, and they sent the Census Police to my house. If that conjures up images of a big, scary, official in a suit, let me pain a clearer picture for you – it was an old lady. An old, frail, persistent little bugger.

The question in…um…question was ethnicity. And I refused to answer it. Because there is no need for it. I’ll answer sex and race and income and education, but not ethnicity. We’re a long way off from Ellis Island and I can’t see why anyone needs this information. Or even how most anyone can answer it correctly. Mainly because they only give you one option – you have to pick ONE. And while there are some people out there whose entire family tree may have come from only one country. But most of us? Heinz 57.

And while I respect my heritage, I don’t identify with it strongly enough to pick any one over another. Do I say Italian because my maiden name ends in “-ini?” I loved my pap and his Italian swear words. But then I am turning my back on my Welsh grandfather. And my English relatives and a bunch of other ethnicities I don’t even know about. And my Argentinean grandma. OK, she wasn’t really from Argentina, but my Pap told me she was when I was little and I believed everything he ever said. So I spent years of my life telling everyone my Gram was from Argentina – using it in school assignments and everything. And I got really mad when someone didn’t believe it – being from a small town where everyone knows everything – and I complained to Gram that no one believed that she was from Argentina. And she said, “That’s terrible. But I’m from Louisiana.”

But aside from the fact that I could never in a million years narrow it down, I consider myself to be American. Not Italian-American or Welsh-American or Belgian-American or fucking Venution-American. AMERICAN. So the little old lady census police came to my house because they wanted an answer. I refused. I am an American, I said. American Indian?, she asked me. No, American. Honey, we just want to know what your background is, what your parents are, she whined. They’re American. Well, where did your grandparents come from? Same place all babies come from. And then they lived their lives in America. And my grandfathers went to war. For America. They were American. I don’t care if somewhere along the line a Scottish sperm met and Irish egg or a Spanish X met an Inuit Y. I am American. So SUCK IT, Census Police!

Playing Favorites

Do you play favorites with your kids? I try not to, and I don’t think I do, but sometimes I wonder if the boy perceives it that way. I don’t have a favorite child. I love my kids both the same and yet differently. I think the question arises mainly because of their age difference. I can overlook things more with a six-year old than a thirteen-year old, explain it away because of age or immaturity.

Like when they are fighting about something stupid. The other day, there was some delightful screaming coming from the girl’s bedroom. It turns out that the kids were fighting over an eraser. A stupid eraser that looked like a $100 bill. I’m not sure whose eraser it was in the first place, but I think we had several of them and I recall putting at least one of them away in the girl’s craft drawers.

But apparently, there was one on the boy’s bedroom floor one minute and the next, and the next, it was gone. So, he went into her room, knowing that she had taken it. When she saw him grab it, the arguing ensued. They were both in full-on, “It’s MINE” mode and I was not in the mood. He ended up keeping the eraser, but I ended up defending her, and I am a little ashamed to admit that when these types of skirmishes arise, I tend to fall on her side of the issue.

It’s not because I love her more, or because she is my favorite. It’s mainly because OMG THE SCREAMING MAKE IT STOP! And I know that’s not necessarily the right attitude to have, because I don’t want to train her to scream and get what she wants. However, I can tell you with complete certainty that if I found that eraser and asked him if it was his or if he wanted it, he would not. Unless he could text his friends or play games or go online using that eraser, he would not give one teeny, tiny RAT’S ASS about that eraser. But because he knew his sister took it? That eraser suddenly became the essence of his very being. He Can’t! Live! Without! THAT ERASER!!!!

And that is what pisses me off. We go through this constantly. Stupid sibling fights over stupid things that neither of them cares about. They only want to win. To get one over on the other. People, I am an only child – I came into this parenting gig knowing nothing about these sibling fights. I was naïve enough to think that because they were so different in age that this wouldn’t happen. I even actually said those words when she was a baby.

I was MONUMENTALLY STUPID back then.

But the point is that now, I feel like I take her side over his too much. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I always take her side – I take his, too. But sometimes I look at the stupid fight they are having and I think, OK, it’s normal for a six-year old to act like a six-year old. But for a thirteen-year old to act like a six-year old? No. And when he has a legitimate beef with her (like yesterday when he came home from a sleepover to find that she had left a bunch of her toys in his room), I support him. I just can’t take when he fights with her for the sake of fighting with her. Because he doesn’t care about the stupid eraser. He only cares about winning. Same with her. She’d never look at that damned eraser again, but because he has it, she wants it. But she’s six. That’s what six-year olds do.

I also think some of this stems from the fact that she is my last child – my baby. I can remember when he would never sleep in his own bed and it made me insane. I read twitter and facebook updates and blog posts from my friends with a young child and they all sound just like me back then: “OMG this child needs to sleep in his/her own room before I lose my mind!” But knowing that she is my last, and that pretty soon, she won’t want to be caught dead sleeping with me? Some nights I find myself lying in bed actually wishing that she would come crawl in and snuggle with me. I know these days are numbered and I want to revel in every last one of them.

And, I mean, he’s thirteen. In case you don’t know a thirteen year old – they are kind of a pain in the ass. I was a pain in the ass when I was thirteen. Everyone I know was a pain in the ass when they were thirteen. That’s what thirteen is all about – you’re trying to figure out who you are and what you want and you’re growing and you’re tired and you’re hungry and all that plus Jesus GOD the hormones are making you into some sort of alien monster idiot moody pain in the ass clinically insane cyborg. And he’s no exception.

But he’s a good kid. Sure – he has stupid fights with his sister, but according to every single non-only child I have ever talked to – that’s normal. And sometimes he’ll sit patiently with her and help her play a game or watch a movie with her or help her trap a cat in a cardboard box. He can’t walk past a homeless person or a bell ringer or a donation box without digging into his own pocket. He enjoys life – he smiles and laughs easily. He loves to spend time with his family. He is kind. He plays with his little cousins. He’ll sit and talk to his 90 year old Baba even though she can’t hear a word he says. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

But like every other thirteen year old, he’s at this weird place in his life. He’s not a kid, but he’s not an adult and sometimes he’s a moody pain in the ass who doesn’t care what I think or do, and other times, he’s still my little boy who wants a hug and is easily hurt. He’s an almost-man who is still willing to hang out with his mom, who isn’t embarrassed to put his arm around me in public. Until, of course, he is in range of sight of another cyborg in a Hurley shirt and then he tries to discreetly remove himself. And I let him because I understand. I want to hang on to those moments for dear life because he’s still my baby boy, just like his sister is my baby girl.

So I’ll hug him and hold his hand when I can, and let go when he wants me to. And even though I’ll take his sister’s side is a stupid fight about a stupid eraser, I’ll let him stay up later, and talk to him like an adult, and give him the freedom he craves (within reason), and I won’t come down on him too hard when he forgets something for the seventy-hundredth time even though I sometimes want to take him in for a head X-ray because I am sure that along with all his pencils, his phone, and his science homework, he lost his brain, too. I won’t freak out when I hear him utter a swear word, and I won’t butt into his friendships or phone calls (much). And even though the sound of sixty straight minutes of hacky-sacking is driving me crazy, I’ll let him do it in the family room. And while the forty-minute long conversation about Runescape is killing my brain cells and making my ears bleed, I’ll nod and smile and listen just a little while longer.

And I hope he knows that is me taking his side.

This Week in Sports

Football:

By now, everyone with even half a brain has heard about Ben Roethlisberger and his being accused (AGAIN) of sexual assault. It’s been talked about at length and it’s already been said way better than I could ever say it. But I’m gonna say it anyway:

Dear Ben: Are you fucking STUPID???

And I’m not even going to wait for his reply, because YES. Yes, he is stupid. In fact, I am starting to wonder if he was some sort of mental handicap. I was on his side the first time around – I know that the rich and famous are often the target of the greedy. And truthfully, I didn’t want it to be true. But when it happens a second time? It’s hard to not be at least a little concerned. I have no idea who is telling the truth, but I do know one thing. If he - a successful, rich, 28 year old man who can go anywhere he wants – wouldn’t have been hanging around in a college bar, with college kids, this particular incident would never have happened. He needs to grow up, get some class, and stop making idiot decisions.

And now we’re suddenly hearing his side of the story, which makes it worse – he claims that he did have “sexual contact” with this girl and afterward, she fell and hit her head.

WHAT? THE? FUCK?

If he truly is being falsely accused, then perhaps the last time he was falsely accused, he should have learned to never get himself in a situation where someone could accuse him of such a thing. Don’t pick up strange women in bars. Don’t follow them into dark and/or deserted hallways or bathrooms looking for a blow job. Get a damned posse to follow you around and never let you out of their sight. And if you need to get laid that bad: Hookers, Ben, HOOKERS! Look into it. God knows you have the money (or you do until that lawyer of yours starts sending the bills).

DUMBASS!


Hockey:

Have you heard? Sidney Crosby turned down an offer to appear on David Letterman, therefore blowing “a golden opportunity to give the NHL some much-needed exposure.” Really? Are we really going there? Dramatic much?Now I realize that hockey doesn’t always have the best ratings when compared to other sports, but let’s be honest here – there are 42,763 games per team per season (true story) – not everyone can watch them all. But given the 900 million merchandising dollars the NHL is pulling in each year, I’m going to go ahead and guess that hockey is going to be just fine.


Baseball:

Now I love The Blogger Formerly Known as PittGirl as much as anyone, and I appreciate her love for the Biggest, Fattest, Saddest, Most Depressing, Loseriest Losers Ever Pirates. But I don’t think this is the year. In fact, I’ll be surprised if this is even the decade. Therefore, I’ll be jumping on BurghBaby’s bandwagon (and supporting a great cause).

If you’re so inclined, pick a side and jump on board. Either way, you’ll be helping out some kids in need and you might win something in the meantime.

Go here if you think this is the year.

Go here if you read that and said HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaheeheeheeheh.

Do it for the kids!

Random Crap

Patience may be a virtue, but it is a virtue that I have never quite managed to master. Case in point: This morning, I got in the car and my windshield was frosted over. The wipers didn’t help and being decidedly impatient, waiting five minutes for the defroster to do its job just wasn’t an option (in my head). Also not my strong suit? Resisting the allure of blaming mr b for things. I was using mr b’s car today. And a couple of months ago, I had bought some de-icer wiper fluid about for both cars. I took care of mine, but he failed to fill his. And somehow the entire bottle has turned up missing. I know! So anyway, clearly, this was ALL HIS FAULT.

So I’m all irritated, blaming him, looking for something to scrape the windshield, which I can’t find because we don’t have an actual scraper (see: de-icer), and we no longer have cd cases in the car (which work great) since it’s mp3 capable. And even though a couple of minutes had passed and it wouldn’t be long before the defroster did its thing, I COULD! NOT! WAIT! So I did what any calm, patient, totally not-crazy person would do – I opened the door and stood next to the windshield, grabbed an old chik-fil-a cup filled with melted ice and coke from the cup holder and THREW IT on the windshield.

Did I mention that I had the wipers on? Yes – in my irrational fury over the stupid frosty windshield, I failed to see what a terrible idea this was. I figured it out just as 20 ounces of stale, watery Coke Zero hit me in the face, hair, shirt, coat, and went down inside my sleeves. The little that stayed on the windshield immediately froze and made things worse than when I started. So five minutes turned into ten. This was also clearly mr b’s fault.

Man, I am SUCH a catch.

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I read recently about some study that showed that when people find an old love, they don’t really care how they look – that when the feelings are strong, you remember the person that they used to be and it overshadows the person they are now. That would explain why I still feel nostalgic for a few old flames, despite the fact that they all seem to look like K-Fed now.
It doesn’t, however, explain why the holy hell all my old boyfriends look like K-Fed now. I imagine that it says something about me, but I’m not sure I want to know what exactly.

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Here’s a little known tip to help you be a good friend: Always have an embarrassing story on hand.

No, really. When something particularly humiliating happens to your friend in your presence, help them out by sharing something even more humiliating that you have experienced.

I save my Pooped in a Bag story for just this purpose.

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How is it that no one has killed that hatemongering cocksucker Fred Phelps yet? I mean, really. It’s not that I’m wishing for his death (though it wouldn’t upset me), I am just amazed that someone as vile as he is still walking around spreading his crazy and NO ONE HAS KILLED HIM! If the Supreme Court rules that he has a right to do what he does, I swear, when someone finally does kill him, I am totally getting a group of people together, renting a bus, and showing up at his funeral with the biggest, billboard-sized picket signs all depicting HARD CORE GAY PORN. Who’s with me?

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The girl sat in the bathtub last night, singing her head off. She is always singing – pop songs, country songs, Grateful Dead songs, kid songs, songs of her own creation – so it took me a few minutes to hear what song it was. It was a song about how she is “A ten year old woman.”

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Oh, and in addition to being a Ten Year Old Woman, she is also apparently Cinderella. She works and works and has to do everything and no one even likes her and why can’t people get her what she wants RIGHT NOW and Oh My God, she just cleaned her room like, two weeks ago – why does she have to do it AGAIN and why am I forcing the HORROR of (her previously favorite) jammies on her when I know that anything other than her Jonas Brothers nightgown will surely KILL HER!

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I saw a headline today that said, “Wine may be good for women’s waistlines.” I clearly don’t drink enough. I’m going to get started on that right away.

Teach Your Children Well

Yesterday, a friend of mine checked her 13 year old daughter’s text messages and was shocked to find some sexually explicit texts from a boy. Apparently, he had broken up with her and it started with him basically saying that he just “didn’t want a relationship”, etc, and her not really understanding why. But then he told her he would still be “friends with benefits,” but it had to be a secret – she couldn’t tell anyone. Now here is where the rest of us (not being a teenage girl in this horrible-to-girls society) start hearing the DING DING DING of warning bells going off. Because if a guy wants you to keep your relationship a secret for ANY REASON – he is not the guy for you. But she is a teenage girl, and sadly didn’t tell him to fuck off.

He went on to say that if she didn’t keep it a secret, he would “spread some dirty secret around school that will make everyone hate [her] guts.”

Next, the conversation turned to pretty sexually graphic (especially for 13-14 year olds), and included him trying to pressure her into doing things she clearly is not ready for and that her mom was shocked to read.

Delightful kid, huh?

But the big issue her (for me, at least) is not how much of an asshole this kid is (for the record – big, HUGE asshole), but why on earth would a smart, cute, nice girl like her not see how much of an asshole this kid is? And I think the answer says a lot about teenage girls (and boys).

Teen boys are desperate for sex. Teen girls are desperate for love. This is a dangerous combination. All peppered throughout this conversation was “I love you.” He said it in nearly every text. I love you babe. You can’t tell anyone about us. I love you. I’ll make everyone hate your guts. Baby, I love you. I want you to [insert city sexual act here]. I love you. And sadly, a teenage girl will rarely ever see the threats and pressure and cruelty because they are so blinded by the “I love you.”

And when she put herself down, calling herself fat and ugly, he didn’t tell her she was thin or pretty. He said “I love you.” Which translates to teenage girl speak as “You ARE fat and ugly, but I love you.” Which translates into teenage girl thoughts as “I can’t do better than this guy, so I’ll put up with anything (or DO anything) to keep him. And this makes me so sad.

This kid isn’t bright enough to even realize what he’s doing. Sure – he must know that he is being cruel to her, but I don’t think he could even begin to hatch a plan that involved answering her self-deprecating comments with I love you instead of reassurances, and yet he somehow knows to do it.

Where do boys learn it?? I might be in the dark here, but I am pretty sure there’s no Academy of Manipulation and Cruelty for Teen Boys. And actually, that idea is less offensive to me than the reality – that it comes naturally.

My own Asshole Teenage Boy Story ended OK – but only because I had luck (mine), drunkenness (his), and anger (mine) on my side. But I know that there are many, many girls who have similar stories that didn’t end so well.

Everyone’s first reaction on hearing this kind of stuff is “I’m locking up my daughter!” and understandably so. But what about our sons? Maybe because I have a son this age it hit me, but my first thought was, “I need to talk to my son about this.” We have talked to him about sex, but we need to do more. We need to teach him to be respectful and kind. No matter how uncomfortable it may be to do, we need to teach him whatever it takes so that he is never EVER that kid.

In Your Head Syndrome

I have a problem. A delusion, if you will. I call it In My Head Syndrome. You see, in my head, I can do things. Things I can’t do in reality. It’s kind of like when you decide to paint a room (or finish a craft project or organize a closet), and as you are planning it (in your head), you think, “This will be a breeze. I’ll be done by lunchtime and then I’ll have the whole day to lay on the couch watching old 90210 reruns and eating bon-bons get other things done.” And then you start painting and you think, “Hmmm…this is taking a little longer than I expected.” And then hours and hours go by and you are not even close to being done and you’re getting pissed off because your couch and Kelly’s drug problem and a box of bon-bons your other chores are waiting and you can’t believe you ever thought you could get it done by lunchtime.

If this (or something similar) has ever happened to you, you are afflicted with In My Head Syndrome.

In My Head Syndrome tends to affect us older folks more than the younger set. It’s not that younger folks are more in touch with reality, it’s just that they may have fewer responsibilities getting in the way of getting things done. Or they have more free time to work with. Or – and this is the big one – their bodies haven’t betrayed them like ours have.

Now, I mentioned bodies betraying us and you might be wondering what that has to do with painting or crafting or organizing. But you see – the biggest and most dangerous symptoms of In My Head Syndrome are physical. In the most severe cases, the results can be physically painful. Both severe and mild cases are emotionally painful.

In case I have any young people reading who don’t think In My Head Syndrome affects them, let me offer you some proof that it does. Remember when you went to your second cousin’s wedding and your parents started dancing. The way parents dance? In My Head Syndrome. And remember when your uncle went sled-riding with you and crashed into a creek and just laid there for a while? In My Head Syndrome. And I KNOW you remember your ninth birthday party when your mom and aunt decided to show off their ballroom moves and fell into the TV in front of all your friends? You guessed it - In My Head Syndrome. See – these examples were emotionally painful, although not so much for the afflicted person, but those around them – so like it or not, YOU are affected by In My Head Syndrome.

The severe cases can be very painful. I know this from experience. I was much more athletic growing up (which admittedly isn’t saying much. A cactus is more athletic than I am now). I took gymnastics from the time I was four through high school. I was a diver all through high school and two years of college. And even though it’s been years and many pounds, I am apparently still under the impression that I can do a back handspring or a full-twisting 1 ½ back dive. Now I’m sure this won’t be as much of a surprise to you as it was to me, but: I cannot.

Certain things can cause In My Head Syndrome to flare up – taking the kids to gymnastics/baton/etc, looking at old photos & videos , class reunions, alcohol, and many more. Right now, there is a serious In My Head Syndrome epidemic due to the Winter Olympics. If you are anything like, you will watch the ski-jumping and luge and half-pipe and think to yourself, “That looks easy. I could so do that!”

And like me, you would most likely be wrong. Because In My Head Syndrome means that you are way faster, stronger, smarter, more graceful, more motivated, cooler and more awesome IN YOUR HEAD than you are in reality.

Sadly, there is no cure.

Good Afternoon. Not Greyhound Speaking.

This is a conversation that I have every single day that I am in the office. In fact, most days I have it many times:

“Rrrrrriiiinnnnggg”

“Good Morning, Awesome Company, can I help you?”

“Yeah, what time is the bus to Cleveland?”

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number”

“Oh. I need the bus schedules number. Give that to me”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. You have called the wrong number.”

“This isn’t Greyhound?”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s not.”

“Well, then, who is it?”

“Awesome Company.”

“Who?”

“Awesome Company”

“And you can’t tell me when to get the bus to Cleveland?”

“No, I’m sorry. We don’t have anything to do with Greyhound.”

“Well, are you involved in travel at all?”

“No.”

“Is this 1-800-XXX-XXXX?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, can you transfer me to the right person?”

“No. Like I said, we aren’t affiliated with Greyhound at all. You’ll have to recheck the number and try again.”

“Hmmm. . .”

“OK. Sorry I can’t help you. You have a nice day anyway.”

“So you can’t help me with the bus?”

“No.”

“Do you know who could?”

“Well, Greyhound, I assume. Which we are not. You’ll have to call the correct number for that”

“Do you have that number?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t”

“OK, then. . .bye”

“Bye”


40 seconds later. . .

“Rrrrriiiinnnggg”

“Good Morning, Awesome Company. Can I help you?”

“WHO is it, now?”

“Awesome Company.”

“Huh?”

“Awesome Company.”

“You’re not Greyhound?”

“No.”

**click**

This happens approximately eleventy-seventeen times a day. Now, I don’t mind wrong numbers. It happens to the best of us. But when you call, and I say the company’s name when I answer and said name is not Greyhound? You can pretty much assume that YOU HAVE NOT REACHED GREYHOUND!!!!!!

Asking “Is this Greyhound” fifteen times will not change anything. I will be much less friendly after the first time and we will still be NOT GREYHOUND. Please try to understand this. It would mean so much to me if you would learn that unless I answer the phone with, “Good Morning. Greyhound”, that I don’t know when the bus to Cleveland leaves. And I don’t know what to do about lost luggage. And I don’t know the price of a roundtrip ticket to Detroit. And we are NOT GREYHOUND!

If you don’t cut it out, I’m going to have to start answering your questions, even though I don’t have a clue. I’ll give you the wrong times, the wrong prices and maybe start taking credit card numbers. Then I’ll jump on my one-way bus ride to Hell. But I’ll enjoy the ride.

16 Days

Hello? Tap tap. Is this thing on?

Yeah – I’ve pretty much been MIA for way too long around here. Work has been so insane lately that after spending 15 or 26 hours attached to this computer, the last thing I want to do is be attached to it for even a minute more. And then the snowmageddon came and I was trapped in this house with my entire delightful and not at all annoying family and even if I wanted to update, I am surrounded by several not at all nosy people who are not at all looking over my shoulder.

OK, that is a total lie – first off – I don’t care how delightful these people actually are - being cooped up with them for 24 hours a day for an entire week can turn even the most delightful family into a bunch of rabid wolverines. Wolverines who won’t let you do a damned thing without asking you 11,000 questions, or climbing on you, or fighting with each other (I know – I said “each other” implying that I am not involved with the fighting, but I have two words for that: Friendly Fire), or – my personal favorite – looking over my shoulder to see what I am doing. In fact, there is one particular member of my delightful family who will go as far as to pretend to want tohug his mother in order to stick his nosy nose into her computer screen and see what she is reading and/or writing. But that particular member shall remain unnamed.

And now, as if I haven’t been sucking at blogging anyway, I am faced with the biggest obstacle of all to getting anydamnthing done – The Olympics. The Olympics make it impossible for me to do anything, except scour the television, internet, & newspapers for any Olympic-related thing I can find.

There is something about the Olympics that is absolutely irresistible to me – despite the fact that you would never see me watching any of this stuff any other time of year (or years, in this case). I’ve always been fascinated by the Olympics. As a kid, I imagined being there as an athlete. Now, I have the very different experience of seeing it though a parent’s eyes – I get choked up for every single athlete – I see their parent there and cry as if they were my own. I get excited and cheer for sports I have never even seen before – it doesn’t matter, I’m rooting for someone – anyone - everyone.

There’s something so basic about the Olympics – even in the very commercialized version we’re seeing these days. Once you look past the labels on the helmets and the seemingly ten-thousand Olympic-themed commercials, at the heart of the Olympics lies spirit and youth and hopes and dreams and despite being a competition between countries, you see friendship and camaraderie. Athletes supporting each other. Fans from all nations cheering for athletes from other – because they’re the “home” team; because they’re the underdog; because they’re just so damned amazing that they deserve nothing less.

So that’s what I’ll be doing for the next couple of weeks, watching sports I’d otherwise never watch. Not only watching, but cheering. And not only cheering, but giving a shit. And then it will be over and I’ll go back to hating ice skating and not knowing short track from long track and not really caring. Until the next Olympics rolls around and I’m hypnotized all over again.

Though I’ll admit, the magic hasn’t quite spread to ice dancing. You can keep that shit.

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It's All Downhill From Here

It started earlier this year – I noticed that when faced with teeny tiny print, it seemed like my eyes took a couple seconds to focus. It wasn’t a big deal, though – after a split second, I could see just fine. Then in October, I took Hedge out to dinner for her birthday. The restaurant was dim and when they brought the menus, Hedge and I looked at them, then looked at each other and laughed – we’re old, haha, we can’t see, heehee. It was funny at the time – a joke (this may have something to do with the mojitos).

Then just after the first of the year, I got the plague flu and found myself camped out on the couch with tea and blankets and approximately 15 different over-the-counter medications. All of which have teeny, tiny print. I laid there on my deathbed sickbed and tried to figure out if I needed one pill or two, if I could take it again in four hours or six. And I couldn’t. I seriously could not read the backs of those pill bottles. But I wrote it off as the lighting – it was dim in the room. Yeah – that’s it.

Earlier this month, I got a new cell phone. I love it especially because I can check my email and catch up on twitter, etc when I don’t feel like pulling the laptop out. I would sit here for hours in the evening, reading emails and blogs while I watched TV. And then suddenly I couldn’t see the teeny tiny words anymore. And I DO mean suddenly – as in one day I could see it just fine and the next, I couldn’t.

As I sat here in shock that my eyes could fail me so quickly, I noticed that my aunt had left a pair of reading glasses on my coffee table.

Hmmm…

I thought about it, then rejected it. I do NOT need reading glasses. Then about an hour later, I tried again. And still, I couldn’t see it. And I thought, well, maybe. Maybe I’ll just try them, so I can prove that they are too much, that I won’t be able to see with them ON. I don’t need reading glasses.

I think we all know where this is going, don’t we?

I put those glasses on and I swear, I heard angels singing. It was like the heavens opened up and bestowed on me PERFECT VISION.

Sigh. It's all downhill from here.