Thursday, June 30, 2011

Nerds and Robots and Hef, Oh My!

Computer nerds are taking over the world. And they know it. The rest of us just do what they tell us because we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. I click on a data tab in Excel and click some other bullshit and then some more and some more and then I cut and I paste and I sort and paste special and then Ta Da! All of the sudden my information is so neatly presented in a spreadsheet. But I have no idea how it really got there. Just some dude (which is a gender neutral term for the purposes of this blog) told me to click where I clicked and everything magically appeared where I wanted it to. And I only wanted it to because someone else told me that’s where I should want all of the data to be. Whoa. See? I am a little puppet. And because I am such a clueless little marionette, I could actually be creating little mechanical monsters that will slay us all in another 10 years while I really think I am creating reports about numbers, numbers, numbers!

I joke but then again I am serious. I have no idea how any person’s brain has the capacity to come up with this shit. I’m glad they do or I wouldn’t be able to blog like this. Having access to major celebrities via Twitter? Unheard of just 10 years ago. So imagine what another 10 years will bring? (Other than robots that will destroy us). Although I could use a Jetson’s style Rosie. She was a doll. Nothing is more awesome than a middle aged apron wearing robot.  But I’d be nervous having a robot maid really. I mean she may seem all nice and “Rosie” (hee hee) because she is sweet and loving and folds your underwear, BUT, she IS a robot. And those fuckers will turn on you just as quickly as that cute little Tiger cub you foolishly thought you could domesticate and raise into a grown up Tiger pet (or Vegas Act, right Roy?) We’ve all seen the Alien movies. The androids all turned out to be dicks in the end. You just can’t trust them.

But daily we trust the people who are sure to create these killer robots of the future. We’re lost without them. The busiest people in every business are the IT people because no one will ever leave them alone. They don’t get 5 minutes of peace. No wonder they want to destroy us. I can’t say I blame them. If someone was in my office every 2 minutes because another system has gone wonky, or their email is locked up, or the system used to create their reports left some information out, I might plot their future demise as well. But you don’t have to worry about me because I wouldn’t begin to know what to do. The extent of my world domination would be me getting on Microsoft paint in Word. Drawing some very lame stick figures, printing them out, and then hanging them throughout the building one night while everyone was home asleep. It would look like the Blair Witch came for a visit after I was through with the place. And much like the audience for that movie, no one would be scared. At all.

I really feel a little bad for the computer dudes out there. I bet they are similar to the pickup truck driving dudes. (Remember gender neutral). People only call them when their computer takes a crap or for the pickup truck guys, when they are moving. My husband drives a pickup. He’s number one on a lot of folk's, “when we move, who to call” list.  He never complains though. He does his civic duty. Just like all of the computer geeks out there. One of which is a friend of mine who drives a truck (or used to) AND fixes computers. So he gets used more than a famous octogenarian we all know. Give you a hint: TAKE THAT FUCKING ROBE OFF HEF, YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS! WHY AREN’T YOU WEARING ELASTIC BANDED JEANS LIKE ALL OF THE RESPECTABLE 80 YEAR OLDS OUT THERE! But Hef clearly likes being used for his money and good looks. (Cough cough). Hell maybe he was good looking once upon a time. He’s been an old gramps for as long as I can remember. And I’m pushing forty. He’s like the actor Max Von Sydow who recently turned 82. I remember Max as an actor when I was a kid. You could have told me he was 82 then and I would have believed you. I don’t believe IMDB. He must certainly be 125 by now.

Anyway, I have gone off on a large tangent. Hugh Hefner and killer robots in the same blog. Oooh Perhaps a future Roger Corman film? He’s older than Hef and Max. Perfect. Well only 4 days older than Hef. (Thank you again IMDB.)

Okay back to the IT guys. I joke about them but the truth is I am so grateful for them and their ability to keep the modern world running. Keep it up guys, I like watching movies with the click of a button (and a small monthly fee). I like being able to stalk old boyfriends on Facebook. Well at least the ones who have the courtesy to make their page and photos public. I like being able to diagnose my many ailments via a mouse click or two. I like being able to find out Roger Corman’s age without having to move very far to do it. I like that an Oscar winning actor told me I was funny and cute because he read my ode about him. I like that the airplanes stay in the sky at a super high percentage of the time. I like that I can pay a bill without begging a coworker for a stamp. I like you, very much, just as you are. You complete me. You had me at “Hello, did you try restarting your computer?” (Yeah right, like an IT guy ever says hello first.) And if I am secretly creating a race of psycho cyborgs, it is so worth it to me because my kids are leaving me alone right now to watch Mega Python vs. Gatoroid. A movie I would never exclusively pay for. I will however, click an instant play key and say, “All right boys, nothing to see here…move along. Go watch the creature feature.” Thanks.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

The Classic Rock Blues

I have a serious case of the classic rock blues right now. The classic rock radio stations in my town play the same crap over and over. It’s ridiculous how much great old music they ignore just so we can hear a little ditty ‘bout Jack and Diane again. I get it Mr. Disc Jockey. You have to play Jack and Diane at least 5 times a day or you won’t meet your John Cougar Mellencamp quota. Well I’m here to tell you, there are plenty of wonderful John Mellencamp songs out there that do not ever mention a dude named Jack or a chic named Diane. But how would you know? You never give them a try. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Pink Houses makes its way into the play list fairly often. So does that early one of his about needing a lover that won’t drive him crazy. Hey John! I need a Mellencamp song that won’t drive me crazy. How about some of his later songs people? They exist. I want to hear them!

It’s not just Mellencamp. They will not let Journey go away quietly. Don’t Stop Believin' is on the radio every day during at least one of my commutes. Dudes, I stopped believing a long time ago. Probably when you let Randy Jackson into your band. (Just kidding, I didn’t even know Randy Jackson was in your band until American Idol told me.) As soon as I hear that piano at the beginning, my fingers can’t click the station changer buttons fast enough. One bad click onto the wrong station though, and I’m in 38 Special land, yet again. My younger readers, you may be scratching your head going, “38 Special. Who the fuck are those guys?” Exactly. Oh it seems in classic rock radio world, they are one step away from the Beatles. At least you’d think so with as much airplay as they get. You know the band Asia was big in the eighties too, but nobody goes around playing them all the time anymore. I would trade a 38 Special song for an Asia song any day. “It was the heat of the moment, da da da da da da da!” I liked that song. Haven’t heard it since probably 1985. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing that if radio stations took 38 Special out of play rotation for, oh let’s say a month, not much hate mail will be generated because of it. Why don’t we try it, just for fuck’s sake.

Let’s move on to Led Zeppelin. How could I possibly have anything but a kind word for Robert Plant and company? No worries. My unkind words are not for the Zeppelins. They are for the DJs who mistakenly think that Black Dog and Stairway to Heaven are the only worthy Led Zeppelin songs. Have they never heard of a little album called Houses of the Holy? You can’t play a little No Quarter every once in a while? And don’t get me started on Pink Floyd. Ugghh. I don’t need to hear Money ever again. Ever. Again. Cool bass riff, no doubt. But enough already. I think listeners would love a little Shine on You Crazy Diamond if you’d just give them a chance. So what, it’s a long song. I know our attention spans are lacking, but for a great enchanting song, we will hold it. I promise. How do you think Phish got so many damn fans? It ain’t because they chop their songs into little bits so they fit nicely into a radio station’s play list. Nope. They make the music they want and their fans are the most loyal of any.

Speaking of chopping songs, nothing peeves me more than a radio station editing a song for length (or cuss word, right Charlie Daniels?) Sweet Child O’ Mine isn’t even long to begin with. You really have to cut out half of the guitar solo? Listen people, if you don’t have the attention span to listen to the greatest Guns N Roses song ever in its 6 minute entirety, then you need to place your little finger on the button that will take you to Radio Disney. I hear Miley Cyrus is a great singer. Well that’s if you like the same sound that came out of all those Little Orphan Annie wannabes who attended Elementary school with you. You know who they are. They always sang with big wide arms and annoying smiley faces while their stage mommies gestured their movements for them in the front row of the auditorium.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida is a notoriously long classic rock song. But you will never hear the full length version on the radio. However, there is a terrific scene in the movie Manhunter where the song is the backdrop. The whole seventeen minutes plays during the climatic ending of the film and it’s just awesome and brilliant! One of Michael Mann’s best films, and it’s one his earliest. But I’m not here to talk movies. This is classic rock talk and I am burnt out on the same old stuff. C’mon radio, spice it up for me. Please?

I do have to give classic rock stations credit where credit is due. They know not to play the post-Disney versions of Elton John and Phil Collins. What happened to those guys? Anyone know? Why does doing a Disney soundtrack make you suck instantly afterward? Sorry dudes. You guys used to rock. And in fairness to Disney soundtracks, they were much better off before you two put your grubby little marks on them. You both need to go back to where you belong, real classic rock land. Elton, you need to shine up those Pinball Wizard boots you wore in the movie Tommy and rock that piano like you used to. Yes, I know it’s tedious how much they play Bennie and the Jets on the radio, but it beats that Circle of Life crap any day. As for you Phil, would it kill you to pull out your rusty old drum kit and rock our worlds like you did decades ago? I don’t care that you won an Oscar for that Tarzan song, (how did Blame Canada lose that one?) it’s lame and the best thing that came out of that movie was the discontinued Tarzan doll that beat his loincloth snake while doing the Tarzan yell.  

Now you might say to me about all of this, “Uh easy solution Meredith. Play CD’s or your iPod on your way to work. Duh.” I do play CD’s sometimes, but there is something about stumbling onto an old goodie by chance. Instant good mood when I click a station and one of my favorites that I don’t own and am too embarrassed to admit that I like turns up. (Can you say MacArthur Park?) Go ahead. Poke fun of me. It’s probably on the most hated songs of all time list, but it brings back wonderful childhood memories for me. So I love it. And it’s a real treat if it turns up on the radio. But you MacArthur Park haters do not need to worry. Classic rock stations will surely (and rightly so) never play Richard Harris music. But they will play lot’s of Eddie Money. So you go on and have fun with that.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

So You Know You Can't Dance

I have never had rhythm. Not once. Well maybe one time. But I was drunk – too drunk. And in a couple’s dance contest at a Fraternity sponsored dance my Freshman year of college. Hence the getting drunk. You’re gonna put me in a dress, set me up with a guy I don’t know and then make me dance in front of everyone? Thank goodness we were last because I parked my taffeta’d ass right there next to the keg until it was our turn. I don’t know what happened to me, but damn I was on fire. Something got a hold of me and I went all Jennifer Beals on the place. (Can you say alcohol?) And my date and I won the competition. Then I passed out and don’t even remember his name. Awww. What a lovely little story. The moral of which is: If you can’t dance but you are being pressured to in front of a large group of people, drink fast!

I can’t really give the alcohol all the credit for my badass moves. It just gets the credit for unleashing the dance demon inside of me. (Well that one night anyway.) I know you’ve all seen the drunkies out on the dance floor thinking they’ve got it goin on when they actually look as though they’ve just walked through a spider web and are furiously trying to remove the sticky off of them while swatting about to make sure there is no spider in their hair. I’m quite sure I’ve been the spider swatting dancer a time or two. So I mostly belly up to the bar and watch everyone else dance. Believe me, it’s for the best. I know, I know, there is that popular saying that has been attributed to many an author, “You gotta dance like there’s nobody watching, love like you’ll never be hurt, sing like there’s nobody listening and live like it’s heaven on earth.” Okay, that’s a lovely little quote, but I’ve seen Seinfeld. Somebody is always watching and next thing you know, you’re a Christmas Party legend. (And not in a good way.)

Oh I can silly dance at home. I love to be the fool to make my kids laugh. That’s what I just did last night. They wanted to have a dance contest, so I showed them how to do the worm. I used to be a worm master. It’s not really a dance move, but I told myself it was since I was supreme awesomeness at it. But I hurt myself. And I knew going in that I’d be sore today. I was right. All because I got on my belly, rocked back and forth and slithered my body up and down and forward. I probably moved a total of 3 inches. My feet got rug burned too. Ouch. I’m such a baby. (Note to self, get off your ass and Zumba or do pilates or yoga or park in a far away parking spot or bend over and pick up the dropped remote control instead of curling your toes around it to bring it to you so that you can use the least amount of body work.)

Speaking of dancing, Saturday night I went out with some friends and family, and we ended up at a bar with a band and lots of dancing. Except I didn’t dance once. I was actually too busy dodging a large mouthed bass named, oh let’s just call him Patron Jones. He probably answers to Fish Lips too. So Patron Jones wanted to dance badly. He finally talked my best friend into getting out on the dance floor with him. My BFF can really shake her groove thing, and she doesn’t need alcohol to do it. She was born with rhythm and Patron Jones could hardly contain himself watching her move. He had his paws (I mean fins) all over her. BFF did not like that one bit. So she stopped dancing. The one person in the entire joint who actually could dance, had to stop because a horny nuisance nicknamed Fish Lips thought all that hip shaking was an invitation for him to touch her hips. Tsk tsk Mr. Jones/Lips. Keep your filthy paws off my BFF’s silky drawers. Would you pull that crap with Annette? (Sorry, the song Sandra Dee from Grease popped into my head for some reason.) So BFF came back to the table where most everyone else was dancing to the music. (Not me.) They didn’t need no stinkin dance floor. Of course the men in our party were doing more of the Grateful Dead/Phish kind of dancing. And you really don’t need a dance floor for that.

Okay – so I got sidetracked with a little story about Saturday night. Back to my kids. I love how much they enjoy dancing. We watched Billy Elliot the other night and they were enthralled. They actually look like they could have some real natural moves. They must get it from their more distant relatives because dad is a stocky rugby player whose body just does not get very bendy, and mom is a slouchy, artless, two left footer who does a much better Elaine Benes than Janet Jackson. Oh well. I’ll always have the worm.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Adventures in Lunching

I’ve mentioned before that I recently started a full time job. One of my favorite parts of this full time job is lunchtime. Being able to eat without sticky little hands grabbing my food and slobbering all over my straw is such a joyous occasion for me. I sometimes even eat in my car and it too is bliss. I live for lunch. If I can’t have lunch, or I get too busy and it gets put off until later in the afternoon, I turn into a crabby bitch. My belly must be fed on time. Every day. Or my head will start doing a 360 degree turn. With the pea soup not far behind. I do not joke.

So today I decided to go out to lunch with 3 of my co-workers (one of them is my older sister).  We were all set on Bob Evans. The only stipulation one of us had was that Bob Evans have salads. Yep, they sure do. It was settled. On the way to Bob Evans we saw a Mediterranean Café/Marketplace. One of us inquired about the place, and my sister who had eaten there before said, “Oh their food is wonderful. The place is never busy, but the food is great, I loved it the last time I was there.”
Intrigued, my driving coworker made a last second turn, and we entered the empty parking lot to try this “wonderful” little hole in the wall. I mean let’s face it, there are some real gems out there that many of us miss out on because we may think empty parking lot = bad food.

We walked in and you could hear an echo it was so desolate. I’m not gonna lie, I was nervous. I’ve seen bad horror movies start out like this and the last thing I needed today was to end up the middle rung of the human centipede. No thanks. But I wanted to give a small business a chance. I think it’s important to support your local restaurants. And it came with a nice recommendation.

So the first thing we did was ask about the buffet. This place advertises a $7.99 lunch buffet. There was a little potato salad on the buffet. That’s all. Well for $7.99 that potato salad better do a Shakespearean soliloquy, a 2 minute comedy routine and a magic trick. Maybe it did do a magic trick, it made the rest of the buffet food disappear. No problem though, it made the decision to not order the lunch buffet that much easier. In fairness to this establishment, they said the buffet would be ready at noon. We just got there too early. It was quarter til noon.

Okay, moving on. A gentleman came to take our order. I ordered the beef something. (some beef and veggies in a pita pocket). Sorry no beef. Not until 1:00. Uh okay. No buffet until 12:00, no beef until 1:00. Whatever. I will take the chicken. But first I wanted to start off with some hummus as an appetizer. Our waiter said, “you want just hummus?” “I want the hummus appetizer, doesn’t it come with pita bread?” How many people do you know who want just the hummus? I’ve never seen a person eat hummus with a spoon but maybe I am a clueless individual. I do know though that hummus is nothing without an edible little triangle of some sort to dip into it.

We finished placing our orders. We all ended up ordering the same thing, the chicken sandwich meal that comes with fries (rice for my sis). My co-worker sitting across from me even pointed to the photo of the chicken sandwich that had fries surrounding it. (I bet you can’t guess where I’m going with that little tidbit of information.) I’ll get to that later.

We waited patiently for our drinks. They never came. I saw a soda machine next to the empty buffet, so I went over to make my own drink. Bonus. They had to-go cups so I could take my diet Coke back to work with me. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all. Crap they have Pepsi products. No big deal. I can substitute. Crap. No ice. No big deal, I really just need the soda. Thankfully, a man did go get a bag of ice after he saw me struggling with the ice dispenser. I was hoping that if I just held it down a little bit longer, ice would magically appear. So he filled the ice tank, and I put my cup under the diet Pepsi dispenser. Only it was clear. Yay. Carbonated water. Yummy! At this point I couldn’t be bothered and took the lemonade. However, we were going to have to stop at a gas station on the way back to work so I could get a proper drink dammit! (My driving co-worker wanted a Coke slushy more than anything anyway, so I knew there would be no trouble in asking her to stop.)

My sister walked around looking for the Iced Tea container but never found it, so she settled for Pepsi. After about 10 minutes of laughing to ourselves, wondering what the heck would transpire over the next half hour, our food came. Well some of it came. 3 sandwiches came. And a nice little kid came over to inform us that they had no tea. Thanks little dude. We sort of figured it out. You don’t have any diet Pepsi either but I’ll just keep that to myself. The kid serving our food said he had to go get more and would be right back. Good. We assumed he’d come back with my sandwich, all of our fries, my sister’s rice, and my hummus. He came back with hummus that had something on top of it. What the hell is that? Turns out it was chicken. The waiter clearly had trouble with my order. I did get some pita bread and a little bit of lettuce with tomatoes, cucumbers and pickles though. But, no fries, no sandwich, no rice. My sister let him know we ordered the meals with fries, we were still missing a sandwich and she was missing her rice. So he said, “Oh. Do you want it?” “Yeah I want it.” Poor naïve older sister, she was convinced our young waiter was going to bring us all back the food we ordered. No way sis. You are getting your rice and I am having some pita and hummus for lunch. Pita bread that had hummus already spread all over it on the inside (which was kind of weird).

The young man brought back only the rice, just as the rest of us knew he would and we never heard from him again. AND we were STILL the only people in this joint. A couple of us just picked at our food because it was so unsatisfactory. Then we had to practically beg to pay our bills. The thing was, we weren’t angry about any of this. We felt really bad that this little place was being run like this. No wonder it was empty. It was the worst service we’ve ever had. Our young waiter rang us up, and when he tried to charge me for the sandwich I never had, I reminded him that I only received the appetizer. He actually didn’t charge us for any of our drinks, which was fair because well 1) 2 of us didn’t get the drinks we ordered, and 2) drinks were included in the meal deal that we ordered but didn’t get. Oh my gosh! This is all just so confusing!

We left hungry. (One half picked at sandwich just isn’t going to cut it. Nor is a little hummus with rubber chicken sprinkled on top.) We laughed at our experience, then stopped at not one, but two gas station food marts to finish the job this restaurant couldn’t. Ahhh. It turned out to be a great lunch after all: Coke slushy, diet Coke, pretzels, bbq chips, more chips, yogurt covered pretzels and a Mrs. Fields M&M cookie. Who needs a Mediterranean lunch when you can lunch at the Marathon and Speedway for half the headache?

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Look Who's Stalking

There is only one thing in the world that my darling 2 year old will pick over me (unless she’s in a real needy mommy moment), and that is the outdoors. Thank you sunshine because I would be writing this blog with her attached to me (like most of the others I’ve written) if it weren’t for you. As soon as it is time for her to come inside, I will be typing one handed again. I better get a move on it.

My youngest babe, I’ll call her CG, (that’s not what I really call her but it will work for the purposes of this post) is a stalker baby. She won’t leave me alone. Stalks me day and night. My niece calls her a “Stage 5 clinger.” I’d say she’s moved up to a 9 by now. It’s bad. I’m sure I am mostly to blame because I am a softy. She is still nursing (hey I’d be considered normal in other parts of the world so no judgy please my Yankee friends) and she co-sleeps. My older children nursed and somewhat co-slept, but I was able to break them of both at younger ages than CG.

I believe it has gotten worse over the last month because I started a new full time job. I’ve only worked part time since her birth, so she is not used to the long hours away from me. I walk in the door and am greeted by, “Mo-mmy!” With big toddler arms ready to wrap around my neck. Precious isn’t it? Just wait, she hasn’t hit stalker mode quite yet. I greet the rest of my family, while little footsteps follow me (and they’re getting closer). I set my things down but if I haven’t picked her up by this time, (I’ve been home probably 75 seconds, which is a long time when you’re a stalker baby) CG loses it. She’ll start the long armed baby stomp. (Picture a toddler-sized orangutan doing the River Dance). And she’ll whine, cry, blubber and wail until I pick her up. Which takes me another 75 seconds because I must change out of my work clothes. If I am going to have a barnacle attached to me then there is no need to be wearing business casual.

So she gets her lovies and cuddles and all is well with the world. AS LONG AS I AM SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO HER UNTIL IT’S TIME FOR ME TO LEAVE FOR WORK THE NEXT MORNING. That’s right. I get up to get a drink and guess who’s on my trail faster than a damn bloodhound? If I sneak into the bathroom to have some peace and a little reading time? Well it’s not long before little CG has discovered my hiding place and starts poking things under the bathroom door. (It’s an old house and the door does not touch the floor). Have you ever seen the old TV horror classic Trilogy of Terror starring Karen Black? There is a scene where Karen Black’s character Amelia shuts herself in her bathroom to get away from the Zuni Fetish doll (known as the Yi-Yi Monster in my family.) So the Yi-Yi Monster takes his little knife and starts waving it under the bathroom door to get at Amelia’s feet while she screams her annoying head off. The scene in my bathroom when my little stalker is waving one of her little toys under the door always makes me think of the Yi-Yi Monster. Only I don’t scream, but I do whine my annoying head off. I whine things like, “Go away CG. Can’t mommy have some peace? Go find daddy. Hey look Caillou’s on! Wanna watch Toy Story? Have daddy take you outside (that one works sometimes. It doesn’t always make daddy happy, but he’s pretty outdoorsy too, so he mostly doesn’t mind.) What happens most of the time though is one of CG’s older brothers decides to open the bathroom door for her because, “Mommy, she wants you.” Gee thanks little dude. I didn’t notice.

Bedtime is a terrible time. If I’m not around, she’ll go to sleep for daddy no problem. But when I’m at home, (which is pretty much 365 nights a year, but who’s counting?) it’s all about nursing herself to sleep. Still. 2 Years Later. There must be high fructose corn syrup in these puppies because I have to use a lot of force to dislodge her Pitbull grip on them. How the heck am I ever gonna wean this girl? Anyway, once she finally falls asleep, usually in my lap while I am online, social networking, I have to get her out of my arms and into bed all while keeping her in a slumber. It is not an easy task. I tiptoe (well as much as one can tiptoe while holding a 25 pound baby) to the bedroom, which is really pointless since we live in an old house with hardwood floors. I look like I am dodging laser beams as I try to avoid the creakiest parts of the floor. Then every single door squeaks when it opens. It’s like an old Vincent Price film in this house.

If I make it to the bedroom and she hasn’t wiggled, then I know I am in the home stretch. Just have to lay her down and press my arms deep into the bed to remove them from around her without her noticing. Oh it’s so nerve-wracking. So I place her down but hover over her for a minute so she won’t detect a sudden cold snap from mommy removing her warm arms. Now, if I can get to a standing position without any CG movement, then I am usually good to go. There has been the occasion when I accidentally knocked the remote onto the floor as I turned to leave. Man does it ever suck when that happens. I have to start the whole process over.

When morning hits and my alarm goes off, I have to battle the hardwoods again. I roll to the edge of my bed, (I want to make the least amount of mattress movement and rolling seems to be the best method) and slowly put my feet on the floor. If I’m smart, (which is never) I will have laid my undies out the night before so that I only have to grab them and head to the shower. Nope. Not smart. I have to open my dresser drawer which has the potential to wake the sleeping Yi-Yi Monster if I don’t do it just the right way. Can’t be too fast or too slow. Once I make it to the shower, one of two things happens. I either get to enjoy the nice warmth of the water and peace of being alone. OR I hear the creaky floors and the squeaky door and see a teeny little head full of matted hair and crazy eyes peering at me from behind the shower curtain while fighting off the water sprinkles that are lightly pounding her face. Yep! Some mornings she finds me. And until she gets her cuddles and Memmies, (her name for mama’s milkies) she will shadow my every movement and beg for me to "Hold you. Mommy hold you.". 

So I give in. Again and again and again. I hope I don’t come home to my pet rabbit boiling in a pot on the stove one day. That would be terrible. No, just kidding. We don’t have a pet rabbit. But we do have several dust bunnies that may be in danger thanks to stalker baby on the loose. Boiling a dust bunny might be interesting though. Hmmm. I joke about CG. I mean, she does cling to me, but she is also a loving, funny and darling baby girl. She will pet my hair and tell me, “Good try mommy, good try.” As though I’ve just lost on Jeopardy. She also has a great sense of humor and laughs quite a lot. I probably shouldn’t complain and enjoy these little moments with my lastborn because one day she will be embarrassed to be seen in the same city as me and I will be crushed. Damn I can’t get sentimental or I'll never get this baby weaned. NEVER.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Motherhood in the Age of Twitter

I swear the internet exists just to remind me what a shitty parent I am. The opinions about what makes a good mom/parent abound. If you don’t have those little fuckers quoting Shakespeare by the time they are 3, your kid is going to be Shift Lead on the fry line apparently. Now a really good mom would let the shit roll right off her back. She’d say, “Fuck you, I love my children, what’s it to you how I raise them?” And sometimes I do. But since I am a flawed human, sometimes I let the passionate opinions get to me. Damn being human has its sucky moments. I wonder if Spock could turn that shit on and off when he needed.  I shoulda been a Vulcan.

Oh man though, the mommy competition is brutal. Some women are really unkind to their gender. They don’t give you any leeway for a bad day. If you don’t have a fucking twinkle in your eye and a grin on your face while little Bartholomew and his bulbous head make their way into the world via your coochie corridor, “Well, maybe you just shouldn’t have had kids.”

Looking for a rogue turd that has disappeared under furniture while potty training? “Smile, you are blessed to be a mom!”

Turning your nipples into crunch berries because you’ve been breastfeeding half your adult life? “Well that’s what they are there for. Good for you mom. Yay! Clap clap clap.” (Pistol, please.)

Wanting so badly to poop alone so that you can read People magazine in peace? “Well, if you didn’t want kids and everything that comes with them, then maybe you should give them up to a family who would love them and everything about them, even the exhausting things and all the time. Every second of every moment in time FOREVER.”

See, what these pretend people with the pretend quotes don’t understand is, I do love every exhausting thing about them. But a day or two later. When I can tell it as a story. Not at that exhausting moment tantrum #3 is occurring. During the moments they are taking me there, you know to that, “mommy’s head is seriously about to pop right off her neck” place, I want to put a “flux capacitor” into my car and drive 88 miles an hour back into the year 1999. Oh yeah. Sleeping in on the weekends like humans are supposed to. Sprawling out onto my bed (instead of teetering on the edge while I’m curled like an armadillo into a teeny tiny ball). Going out to dinner. Watching rated R movies at 6:00 pm. NEVER buying chicken nuggets for any reason whatsoever! Making love loudly and in any room at any time. And so on. That dreamlike moment doesn’t last long. I come back to reality and perform my mommy duties to the best of my abilities with a smile. Sometimes it’s a forced one, but dammit, it’s there. It counts!

Okay, so what brought this shit up? This mommy uncertainty? Well, it’s been clearly established on this blog that my favorite famous male human is Russell Crowe. However, his little tirade about circumcision on Twitter recently (last night to be exact) brought to surface old guilt I had tucked nicely away into a teeny tiny corner of a synapse inside my cerebral cortex about circumcising my own boys. Why should I care what this person who I don’t know and will most likely never meet face to face thinks about a parenting decision I made once upon a time? It goes back to that flawed human thing I was talking about in the first paragraph. A part of me does care. Especially about the opinion of someone I respect and admire. I don’t want someone I like to think I’m a shitty parent. And I hate the fact that I care. It pisses me off actually. What’s it to this privileged man who doesn’t have to deal with half the shit I do on a daily basis? (now he could say the same about me. I could go on a Twitter diatribe and unless I’m threatening Barack Obama, or flashing my Weiner, it isn’t going to make the news.) So that’s neither here nor there. I actually agree with his stance, but his delivery was as stinky as an intact penis. (That was a joke. Ha. Ha. Ha. I love my intact friends. They are right with nature.) Oh and I promise that will be the only time I ever criticize Russell’s delivery. Speaking of which, he better DELIVER in his next film!

HOWEVER, you don’t change hearts and minds by insulting everyone who thinks in a different way about a certain subject. You lose people when you do that. When one’s defenses immediately sprout up, it’s hard to get them back down, and dialogue is dead and soon both sides have created an arsenal of weapons to shoot at their enemy because he insulted your stupid penis. I think that pretty much sums up how wars start. Men and their FUCKING penises. UGHH!

How bout you start a dialogue and leave the insults out. It’s a valid topic. I changed my mind about circumcision around 3 years ago. And not one nasty thing that an “intactivist” said to me moved me. NOT ONE. It might dredge up that little bastard guilt, but it won’t call me to action.  A picture of my second born immediately after birth in his “full” natural state really moved me. I could not think of a really good justified reason for cutting his foreskin off. That’s all. I should’ve left him alone. It’s not that I have regret so much as guilt. If that makes sense. Because my boys are fantastic, Kiwi cut and all. I adore them. They are unique and they are not damaged by a decision that me and my husband agreed on years ago. I would make a different decision today if I were to have another son. (Never gonna happen. Baby making has been put away on a nice little shelf next to the frozen peas.) But when someone I admire goes on a diatribe about us barbaric parents, I can’t help but feel a little shitty. Boo on me. He’s lucky he’s a good actor, because I’d hate to put him in the “inactive” file next to Mel Gibson. No, in defense of my (#1 freebie), he is passionate, and that is a great thing. But shut the fuck up too!

So enough of that. I'll have to make up for cutting short their penis capacity by being a kick ass mom in other ways. What else have I done wrong according to total strangers on the internet? We’ll have to save it for another time. My family just arrived home and I want to be a good wife and mother. So off I go. Cheers.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Jaws and Friends

My 9 year old son just spent his allowance money on a 30th Anniversary Edition DVD of the movie Jaws. “The greatest of the shark eating people movies!” According to his 8 word review of the film. Why yes, I’d have to agree little man. Jaws is nautical miles above Shark Attack 3 – Megalodon (you want a good laugh, watch a scene or two of this gem on YouTube) and Giant Shark vs. (oh pick your ferocious animal and either put a “Mega” in front of it or a “Saurus” behind it. That’s how they do it on the SyFy channel.)

Until I became a mother, I had no idea how much little boys are into menacing creatures with sharp teeth and deadly bites. I have two older brothers. I do not remember this part of childhood. They are only 1 and 2 years older than me. We hung out. But one was into Olivia Newton John (Gimme me whatcha got, ready or not my love’s totally, Totally TOTALLY HOT!) – You gotta really hit that high note at the end to do Olivia justice. The other brother was into The Six Millon Dollar Man. Dn-Dn-Dn-Dn-Dn (that’s my imitation of Steve Austin during bionic slow-mo battle.) Six Miilion?! Today he’d be worth at least 500 million and he’d have his own reality show with Jaime Sommers probably on the SyFy network.

Okay, back to scary toothed beasts. I wonder if you google those 3 words together, “scary toothed beasts”, then click images, if a picture of Amy Winehouse will pop up. Somebody should try that and see. Anyway, my boys are picky about which creatures are allowed in their exclusive club of scary beasts worthy enough for them to want a stuffed animal version or watch a movie about. Take for instance the mandrill. I think it is the most terrifying looking animal in existence. It’s basically an evil baboon (aren’t they all really?) with gigantic fangs, a long blue and red snout and a mouth that can open wider than Steven Tyler’s. Come to think of it, mandrills actually resemble Steven Tyler. He used to be a drunk, he’s probably got a blue and red snout by now. I joke, Steven. You are very loved in my family.

But the mandrills are not scary enough for my boys. And they haven’t yet been the subject of a SyFy movie creature feature starring a who’s who of has been stars from the 1980’s. Although I think calling Lorenzo Lamas a star in any decade is a stretch not even my lower intestine in a zombie tug-of-war could handle. The mandrills may not make the list, but I bet they and other kinds of baboons would if I let my boys watch The Omen (like my parents let me and my siblings). Those baboons sucked. But they were nothing compared to that thing they were terrorizing in the car. Yikes. Me no likey evil kids in movies. That movie ruined a lot of things for me. Baboons, no thank you. Rottweilers, no thank you. Nannies in black dresses, no thank you. And kids named Damien. NO THANK YOU! If you are reading this and you happen to have a child under the age of 5 named Damien, do not…I repeat, DO NOT give him a tricycle for his birthday. Not a good idea, I promise.

Moving on. So baboons don’t make the list. Hippos, (which kill a shit load more people annually than a lot of the other creatures on their list, according to one of the Netflix instant play nature docs I watched once) don’t make the list. Komodo dragons on the other hand, are second in line behind the Great White Shark. King Cobras, crocodiles, anacondas, polar bears, wolverines (although I’m convinced that one has more to do with the X-Men.), bats (but only vampire ones), spiders, Sharktopusses, Crocosauruses and Piranacondas etc. You get the idea. They all make the cut. Those animals are cool because they might eat you. Nice. I must be raising either future "Crocodile Hunters" or B-movie directors. Which is fine with me as long as they don't bring any of those damn creatures into my house. Well not the real ones, the animatronic or plastic mold ones (you know, for the cheesy special effects) are okay with me. Love those boys, they are awesome. And Jaws just finished so I must conclude until another time. The end. 

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Torches I've Carried

No worries, I’m not talking about “real” torches. What a boring post that’d be. I’ve never touched one of those things in my life. But I do think it would be cool to light one up at the same time others are gunning for the candles and flashlights during a thunderstorm and subsequent power outage. I’d just like to see the expressions on everyone’s faces when I enter the room looking like I’m about to hunt Frankenstein’s monster. I’m just going to do that sometime.

Oh and to any of my old boyfriends who are on Facebook and might see this blog entry, you’re safe too. What happened in ex-boyfriend land stays in ex-boyfriend land. So you can sigh a big relief.

Okay, enough of that. This is all about the pretend boyfriends I never had but dreamed about because they were larger than life on the big and small screens. The celebrity torches I've carried over my thirty-bluhbluhbluh years of life. There are too many to fit into one blog post, (I’m boy crazy like that) and since I don’t have time to compete with the Dead Sea Scrolls, I will keep it as brief as possible and post about the ones that stand out in my memory. Wow, for someone who makes Kiwis, I don’t talk about the Kiwis I’ve made very much. I sort of thought this would be a “mom” blog. Oh screw it. I can talk about whatever I want. There are a million mini-Kiwi stories to tell, so be patient….they’re coming just not before my man blog.

It all began in ’77 with Grizzly Adams. Ooooh yeah. I luvs a grizzly man. I went through a big beard and mustache stage when I was a little girl. It has to be because my dad had the whole Wolfman Jack thing going on in the 70’s. (He also had the whole rust colored pleather jacket thing going on, but THAT my friends, is for another time.) Anyway, Grizzly was the man. He could live off the land, help lost hikers and raise a wittle bear cub all while eluding bounty hunters. Awesome. While my friends had posters of Shaun Cassidy plastered all over their walls, I was smitten with the Bear Whisperer.

That same year, George Lucas released Star Wars. Oh no doubt I was crushing on Luke Skywalker, but what stood out to me more was the fact that I got really upset any time someone with a mustache bit the bullet  (or space ship missile whatever they may be called. I’m a little nerdy, but not THAT nerdy.) Toward the end, when the good guys were trying to destroy the Death Star, a roly poly mustached good guy got blown to bits by a TIE Fighter. I was devastated. So devastated that I could have cared less about the skinny, clean shaven guy who bit it next. Nope. Didn’t care.

A year later, my infatuation with Barry Gibb began. Yep, my first Aussie crush. Damn he had the best feathered hair I had ever seen. Walking around in that gem of a movie (and by gem I mean giant turd) Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band with those silky tight pants and that little forest of hair popping out of his unbuttoned shirt. Oh my. He was so pretty and dreamy. But to this day, I still don’t know which Bee Gee has the falsetto? I always thought it was Barry, but that was just a guess. Is it him?

I have to take a step back, a couple of years anyway, and admit I had a little crush on King Kong. Not in any kind of pervy animal love thing kind of way, but in a, I wish King Kong was my pet kind of way. His eyes looked like my dog Muffin’s eyes. And I wanted to take him home and hug him and pet him and love him and name him George. Oh and YES, it was THAT King Kong. The one everyone trashes. Not me man. I likey and Jeff Bridges was all hairy faced. So lot’s of cool bonus points.

I eventually graduated from my mustache and beard phase and went right into my “muscle shirts with British flags on them while bandanas circle the necks of long haired rockers named Def Leppard” phase. All of em. I loved em all. Well, actually that’s a lie. It’s no secret that Phil Collen was the homely one of the bunch. I’ve seen pictures. I know…that wasn’t very nice, Phil is probably a lovely guy with a great personality. Anyway, my Def Leppard phase went something like this: I thought for sure one day while I was walking around outside, their giant tour bus would stop to pick me up and let me live with them for a while. And my first “real” boyfriend would be Rick Savage. Oh yeah. I mean c’mon, a 12 year old with the start of a fantastic mullet vs. 18 year old horny groupies who have no curfew. It could happen. It happened to Rachel Ward and Richard Chamberlin. He waited for her, Rick would wait for me. But the tour bus never came. I had to endure 6th grade without an older British boyfriend. Sigh.

By the time I was a Freshman in high school, I was over the Def Leppards and moved on to the Bon Jovis. Oh ho ho yeah. That frost tipped hair coupled with the snake patterned spandex pants threw me into a teen girl tizzy. That man, Jon, was the best part about MTV in those days. Even though I never got picked up by the British rockers, it didn’t convince me that the Americans would neglect me. No way, they for sure were going to move me in and be all charmed by my 15 year old self. It didn’t happen but at least I had my Hit Parader Bon Jovi posters all over my bedroom walls to console me on my lonely nights.

Just as video killed the radio star, grunge killed my love for the hairspray rockers. It was all over for them. I jumped the train to Seattle where my love of flannel flourished. (I wasn’t being trendy, I LOVED flannel. I just chose not to wear it until 1992. That’s all.) Eddie Vedder, Chris Cornell, that one dude on bass, that other dude on rhythm guitar. Purr purr purr. I finally gave up the tour bus dream though. Thank goodness. I was tired of getting my hopes dashed.

But life goes on and as I gave up the musician crushes in real life, I gave them up in pretend life. NO MORE ROCKERS! Time for a nice boy from the land down under to show me a good time. Right on readers, you guessed it. We just entered Russell Crowe territory. You may think, damn we are still in the 90’s, how on earth can we already be at Russell Crowe? I’ll tell you how: Romper Stomper. It was made in ’92 but I saw it on video in ’93. Never heard of Russell Crowe. Plays a menace to society in that film and man does he play it well. I felt a little body tremor (not telling you where) watching that movie although I despised the character. Which was weird to me. Damn. Who WAS that dude? He can act. So I rented a teeny little film called Proof next and was like, “Holy shit. WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY?!? I'd watch him on C-Span. Wow. I like him. He’s got it. He needs to hop on a boat, (well I suppose a plane would be faster, boat just came off my tongue first), and get his ass to America. We will love him!” And he did. And we loved him. And Sharon Stone gets all the credit for some strange reason. Oh no Ms. Stone. You DID NOT discover Russell Crowe thank you very much. (At least not for me.) I had him pegged to be the colossal talent he is with no help from you hobag! (I’m immature…I know. Poor Sharon.) If Sharon got him cast in America first or if his mad acting skills did it on their own (ding ding ding) it doesn’t matter. He made it here and he went straight to the top (in America and on my list!) Damn I use a lot of parentheses.

I challenge any reader to tell me one actor in the history of movies who was manlier than Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I’m telling you, it’s impossible. And I won’t believe you anyway. So there is no winning this argument. The movie was great on its own merits, but damn, I looked like Robert Hays at the end of Airplane by the time the movie finished I was sweating so badly. And the air conditioner worked just fine. It was all Russell’s fault. Sorry Spartacus, you were cool and masculine and all, but there’s a new Gladiator in town and he just made you look like Liberace in an armored tunic.

People Magazine has never had the guts to put Russell on the Sexiest Man Alive cover. The pages could never hold that much soul and spark and badassmotherfuckerness so they don’t even try. Good! The last thing I need is those eyes staring at me from the magazine rack at the grocery checkout. I need to concentrate on my purchases and my unruly children.

I married my husband in 1999. (On my birthday no less…best birthday ever, well except husband had bronchitis and we didn’t honeymoon. What the hell is wrong with us?) Russell has been the one celebrity freebie throughout my 12 years of marriage. I’m loyal like that. Oh many others have come and gone, like Daniel Craig and Clive Owen. But I would feel like I was cheating if somebody were to bump Russell to number 2. I think my husband at this point would be pissed as well. He’s used to having Russell in his life and he's gotta stay loyal to the Kiwis or Kiwi/Aussie combos. Awww. What a nice husband. I think I will hug him and pet him and love him and name him George.  

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Brown Thumbs Unite!

When I back out of or pull into my driveway every day, sometimes several times a day, I have to block out the heinous eyesore to my left. What you ask is so worthy of being blocked out daily? Myyyyy,  lawn. I’m not sure it’s really fair to use the word lawn actually. How offensive to real lawns. Regardless, I just pretend I don’t see that hot mess. Apparently I am a member of one of the mosted hated groups in America, the Brown Thumbs. The Brown Thumbs, where our motto is: We’ve never met a plant we couldn’t kill!

Oh I see the looks in the eyes of my lawn mower obsessed neighbors as they walk by our stickerbush stalks that populate all of our front slope. Hey, I say better to keep the robbers away. Who wants their hurried ass to fall into a patch of sticker bushes the size of Jack’s beanstalk? Not any robber I know! In all fairness to me though, I do try to pull those fuckers up out of the ground often. But they hurt dammit. They’re not called sticker bushes for their soft furry coating. I know what you’re thinking, “Duh, wear some gardening gloves doofus.” I do and they do nothing to protect my precious fingers from the stick of these nasty beasts. It’s like Day of the Triffids out there in my front lawn when I go to battle these pricks. So it’s not that I don’t try…a little…a teeny tiny bit. In all truth, it takes a lot of hard work to be this lawn lazy.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got what it takes to kill a cactus. Just send yours over to my house to babysit while you’re vacationing in the Caribbean, and I can almost guarantee you’ll be taking a dead cactus home to Arizona with you. I’ve got one decent looking plant that I take care of at my house. I was all proud of my work in keeping the thing alive when my plant snob brother-in-law reminded me that the plant I have (see I’m bad, I don’t even remember what he called it) is one of the hardiest plants out there. An Antarctic blizzard wouldn’t be able to take this plant down. Gee. THANKS A LOT, B-I-L, be sure to not let me enjoy even a moment of greenthumbedness.

You know what I say? Fuck the Green Thumbs! That’s right, fuck em all! Oh they’re sooooo superior with their fancy pruning shears and their stupid Chinese grass. They walk around with their wide brimmed hats and their tacky floral gloves like they own the damn planet. Here, why don’t you kneel down on your comfy little garden foam pad so I can show you where you can stick your trowel! And they’re  always smiling. What are they so happy about? Because the rest of us are jealous that we don’t spend 80 hours a week pulling weeds?

Well, at least in my yard (well for lack of a better word) you won’t find animal poop. Nope, even the feral cats and raccoons won’t step foot in it. Why should they? They have their choice between our yard where everything is either dead or preparing for death by weeds, OR they could go hang out in our neighbor’s yard where it looks like the Candy Land board vomited on it. I’m not gonna lie, I wouldn’t be mad if Gum Drop Mountain were in my yard. That would be the life.

I tease the Green Thumbs. I’m actually rather fond of them. I rely on them to keep these property values up. They certainly can’t rely on me. And let’s face it, there is nothing like a pretty patch of tulips in spring. Perhaps if I hang out more with my green thumb friends, they will rub off on me and I will get to join their illustrious group. *snicker snicker*. I know. I don’t see it happening either. But it was good for a laugh.

Friday, June 3, 2011


This one is all about words. Words I love and words I hate. Words that I can’t decide whether it’s love or hate I feel. Words I wish never existed. Some words just sound cool rolling off the tongue, others sound as terrible as their meaning. Many of the words I love and hate have nothing to do with their definitions. It’s all about how they sound. But let’s face it, the definitions have a very strong influence on a lot of them. Read on.

Words I love:

Sasparilla (aka sarsaparilla)  – I want so badly to put on some chaps, some spurs, some teeny tiny boots, throw a cowboy hat on my head, walk into a bar and say, “Give me a tall glass of Sasparilla!” Just to see the bartender flip me off. Sasparilla is a fantastic word.

Haberdashery – Just try using that one in a sentence without defaulting to an English accent. Go on, try it. It is IMpossible to hillbilly up that word.

Intergalactic – Sounds even better when you over-pronounce the c that comes before the t and the c on the end. You might sound like a dick if you do that, but that's part of the fun.

Ambrosia – Hate hate hate ambrosia salad. Love love love ambrosia the word.

Xing – There is not a person alive who could win the road trip alphabet game without this beautiful word. Everyone should thank Xing, or we would never have gotten to Y and Z.

Rubbish – Trash to the Yanks = Rubbish to the Kiwis. One Christmas Eve after my big family opened all of their gifts, my husband grabbed a trash bag and said, (his accent is strong at times) “Chuck the rubbish in heeya.” We scratched our heads for a few minutes but since he had the trash bag as a visual aid, we eventually figured out what the hell he was talking about. Ever since, rubbish has been one of my favorites!

Winklevoss – Not a huge fan of the Harvard twin rowers or anything, just love that damn last name. It actually works much better paired with the word “twins”. Winklevoss twins. There you go, much better.

Kronosaurus – Coolest sounding and coolest underwater dinosaur EVER.

Cocksucker – Possibly the best cuss word.

Dane – as in Great Dane, Alexander Dane, and Hamlet is a Dane.

Words I don’t very much love:

Dane – as in Dane Cook. See, I 75% like the word Dane.

Bulbous – I can’t like it. It makes me think of William Shatner’s head.

Corpuscle – Don’t know what it is, don’t know what it does, don’t care, don’t like. The only thing it has going for it is that it sorta rhymes with Russell. But it will get no other grace from me.

Carbuncle – This is one of those awful words that has a definition just as terrible as the word itself. Don’t believe me? Google it, then click images. I double dog dare you! No, I triple dog dare you!!

Frothy – Now I might like this word if the image of a mug of Guinness popped into my head. Nope, no Guinness. Just people, knocking on death’s door, while horizontal on hospital beds with white foam coming out of their mouths. Frothy sucks as a word.

C.H.U.D. – Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers. Need I say more?

Curdle – Terrible in every way.

Words I can’t decide how I feel about:

Glockenspiel – It’s either a really cool word, or the worst name for an instrument in the English language. I can’t decide.

Ferengi – Yeah, so the Ferengi have elephantitus of the head. Big deal. Their name still sounds kind of cool. The negative though is I can’t stop thinking about Ross Perot when I think of the Ferengi. And who the hell wants to think of Ross Perot?

Parched – My husband hates this word, but I use it a lot. So I have to put it on the questionable list just for his benefit. He always says, “Potched, what a load of rubbish! Why can’t ya just say yur thuuhsty?” I don’t know dude. I guess I just like to mix it up on occasion. Sorry. Geesh.

Schadenfraude – I bet I’d like it more if I could just fucking pronounce it. I’ve only ever seen it in writing. I think people are afraid to use it in speech because secretly, no one knows how to say the damn word!

Hippocratic – I don’t know about you but I think of hippos (the dancing ones in Fantasia to be exact) and ancient doctors with long white beards, togas and sandals. Two creatures that I am ambivalent about.

Words I wish never existed:

Octomom – No explanation needed I’m sure.

Balloon – But only when coupled with the word boy.

Linda Blair – Nothing against her. Just don’t like her name. She should change it or go back in time to turn down her Oscar nominated movie role in 1973. Then I might like her name.

Bruce Jenner – Nothing against his name. I just don’t like him. He should go back in time right after he won the Gold Medal and put the pieces of his nose back together then glue it back on his face. Dude don’t look right.

That’s it. I’m out of words for the night. Come back another time and maybe we can do math.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Thanks For the Mammaries!

So I get up this morning, like I do, every day. I hop into the shower like I do not do, every day. (I lie when I say hop. As I already established in my Urethra Franklin story, hopping makes me pee my pants. Hopping naked makes me pee down my leg, which wouldn’t be too bad since I am getting into the shower, but I’m not a dog dammit. I refuse to shake my leg when I am done to clear off the excess pee!) Sorry, I get sidetracked easily. Where was I? Oh right, moseying into the shower. Naked body must pass a mirror before entering shower. There is no way around it. Well I suppose I could crawl to the shower and enter it from below the shower curtain, but how stupid would that look? Soooo, as I pass by the mirror to enter my inviting shower, I glance over and what do I see? Two asymmetrical sock puppets with crunch berry eyes looking at me. Well probably looking more at the floor if I’m being honest.

That’s right. I’ve lost my boobies. They went down in May of 2003. That’s when I weaned my first baby. They’ve never looked up since. Oh sure they have their perky moments, like when raising my arms high into the air or wearing a push up bra one size too small or walking on the moon. (Not to be confused with moonwalking, which I still have mad skills at by the way, especially when I’m wearing socks on my hardwoods.) Moonwalking does not make boobs perky, walking on a zero gravity lunar surface however, does. Oh I digress again. Anyway, I’m sad to report they aren’t coming back.

Oh we had some good times. Like the time I was on a co-ed soccer team at the age of 13, and I could snatch the ball away from any boy on the rival team because they were pre-pubescent and I was charging toward them with my giant freshly sprouted bazoombas. Yeah, that was too easy.

Or the time I had front row center seats at a Metallica concert when I was 17 and the guitarist (Kirk Hammett was his name) played a solo just for me while looking into my eyes. Okay, in truth he was looking about 10 inches below my eyes, but why wouldn’t he? These things were perky, happy and popping out of a tight fitting low cut top like all the good little headbanger babes wore.

Then there was the time a month after the birth of my second child when I went to a gymnastics event at our local arena. It was dark, my baby was thirsty, and so I nursed him right there. Thankfully no one but me and my 21 year old niece could see the geyser of breastmilk that sprayed onto the back jacket of the spectator in front of me when my finicky little nibbler let go suddenly. That poor guy probably wondered what the hell was all over his jacket when he got home. Please don’t tell on me. I felt bad. But I laugh about it now.

Too many memories to count…sigh. See, I should just embrace all the magic we’ve made together over the years and accept that they need a little rest and down time. Just let them hang low and love them in all their droopy weariness.
So back to the mirror, I say, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, why did these boobs have to fall?” The magic mirror responded, “Mother Nature is her name, keeping it real is her game.” Thanks magic mirror. I can live with that. I guess I’ll keep em real. Swingin “real” low. And hope we’ll live happily ever after.