Thursday, October 25, 2012

Wine Night

You know what is pretty scary?


Women can be very scary.

A whole room full of women can be very, very scary.

Even if these women are your friends.  There is still a small chance that they could turn on you.

Probably the only beast God created that can judge you before it rips out your throat.

Michael, typically, did not understand what I was SO stressed out about on Tuesday night, as I prepared for ten women to come over to my house for book club.

TEN women.

That is more people than have ever been in my house.

By like...ten.

In the past my idea of entertaining has been setting out a bag of Tostitos and a jar of queso.

And quite honestly, most of the time it's the Walmart brand of corn chips that are really cheap.  So I technically don't even serve people whole chips.  I serve them chip pieces.

What's that?  Jarred queso is supposed to be warmed before serving. 

Well.  Just chalk that up to something I'll know for next time.

And no, the chips aren't even in a cute basket.

So, understandably, I was at DEFCON 5 at 6 pm on Tuesday night.  Simultaneously on the phone with my mother, delegating to Michael, who was trying to explain to me what an egg white was, and googling 'italian bread crumbs'.  I had regular bread crumbs.  Possibly if I just threw in some parmesan they would be 'italian bread crumbs'?

I'm told no.

In my opinion, if you put parmesan on something it's a least a little bit Italian. 

Especially if you pronounce it like Giada does.   Parmigiano reggiano...

Then it's at least 75% Italian. (This is true.  Just trust me)


Michael:  You have FIVE bottles of wine.  On what planet is that not enough?

Me:  On my planet.

Michael:  Everything is going to be okay.  There will be plenty.  Plus, people have to drive home, they can't drink that much.

Me:  Listen.  A large majority of these women are mothers.  They are good for at least a bottle a piece.  A few of them are attorneys and mothers.  So basically when they go to work they get to mediate more toddler arguments...but with adults.  I'm going to safely say they can probably put it away.  Except the pregnant one.  We'll have to watch her.  And one is responsible for keeping people asleep while their insides are being sliced open.  Sliced open.  I can't even imagine the day she's had?   Now that I stop and think about it, how are these women my friends?  They are all very professional and impassioned about things.  I PICK MY FEET AND EAT QUESO!  And our carpet is really dirty!  Why didn't we recarpet when we moved in!? 

Michael:  You are getting a little hysterical.

And then, like Henry at the fair, my head exploded.

Two appetizers were served.  That I had never made before.

When my mom heard that.  Her head exploded. 

My mom:  (on the phone at 6:30, guests to arrive at 7 pm) You've never made any of this before!?

Me:  Holy shit. I can't handle this. It's like you don't even know me!.

My mom:  It's going to be fine.  Don't worry.  If the food is bad, you'll have plenty.  If it's good, and you run out, it's still fine.  It's not an all-you-can-eat buffet.  And if all else fails, there's wine.  I love you.

Thank God for moms.

And husbands.  Who make your egg wash and season your bread crumbs, while you hyperventilate. 

It actually went well...I think...

There was a point where conversation was centered around the nominees for District Court Judge and all I could think was:

What are they saying?  I don't understand any of these words.

I hope no one looks at me.  The most significant thought I've had today is realizing that my feet are really ugly and I need to do something about that. 

I hate winter feet!  You forget about them because they are socked.  And then one day you look down and scream.

Like I said, I have no idea how I fell in with this group of people.  It was probably an accident.

Actually, I think it was my husband.  People assume because he acts professional and normal...

That his wife must be too.

Mmmm.  Notsomuch.

I would like to thank all the lovely ladies that attended.  I think we all had fun.  Or at least you pretended well, which I appreciate. 

No one even batted an eyelash when I got into a rant about dying infants.

I'm not sure how it happened.  I think I had four glasses of wine in me at that point. (I blame the stress.)

But let's all just agree to not talk about my job at book club. 

That'll kill your buzz.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

I'll be your goat.

I believe J. Biebs said it perfectly:

As long as you love me
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke
As long as you love me
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gold.
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)

Except when I was listening to this song yesterday, he kind of fades out when he sings the word gold.

"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gooo....."

To the average person it probably would have been obvious that this word was gold, but for some reason it never occurred to me.

So as I was jogging on the treadmill yesterday I was probably the only person at the Y singing;

"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat."

(To my credit, I knew this was probably the wrong word, but could not for the life of me figure out what he was trying to say.  And it kind of sounded like goat.  So I went with it.)

And then it occurred to me, this song was quite appropriate, as today is our anniversary.

So instead of writing (what I've come to fear) is a version of the same thing in your anniversary card every year.

I thought I'd let The Biebs preach it for me...

As long as you love me
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke
As long as you love me
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat.

'Goat' is actually a much more appropriate word than 'gold' in this song (for my purposes).  Because only you (Michael) understand how truly uncool I am, and that the word 'goat' is actually kind of perfect.  More perfect than any cool word would be. Because well...I'm not cool.   And you know that.  And you still love me.  And that's why we are perfect for each other. 

Google tells me:

Goats are good for milk. 

(I have been known to be good for milk in past.  But I think we both realize that time has come and quickly gone.)

It is for this reason that I am not good for cheese. 

(Although I doubt we ever would have made cheese out of my milk.  But if the world ends in December, as I have come to fear it will, I will hold no hard feelings if you are the littlest bit regretful that you didn't trade me in for a slightly upgraded model, that is at the very least, capable of supplying you with cheese during the Apocalypse.)

Goats are good for meat.

(I try and keep a nice layer of meat on myself.  Just for you.  All those bowls of cookie dough ice cream, just remember.  It's all for you.)

Goats keep the brush down.

(I'm not sure that I keep the brush down, but I am a grazer.  Once again.  It's all for you.)

Lastly,  (It's amazing what you can find out when you google, 'what are goats good for?')

Goats make good pets, but can also be extremely annoying to care for. 

I think this one speaks for itself.

I love you babe.  I'll always be your goat.

Good to have around, but extremely annoying to care for.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

"Date Night"

Michael and I have this inside joke (half joke/half serious, if I'm being honest) that I need to text message or email him about conversations that I plan to initiate in the future... 

So I can inform him of what the proper response should be.

I have conversations in my head all the time, and when the real conversation doesn't go like the version in my head, I get a little perturbed.

When I come downstairs in a new outfit that includes either:

1. Boots


2.  Any manner of superfluous belt (a belt added merely for style purposes.)

I warn him in advance.  It's kind of like I Cc: him on the conversation in my brain.

Text Message to Michael:  From Your Loving Wife:

"I will be coming downstairs in five minutes and the proper response is:  Wow you look ravishing.  Those boots make your calves look so slender and shapely.  And that completely unneccesary belt looks amazing.  It's like you walked off the pages of a magazine."

This makes for a very harmonious marriage. 

It is in this very harmonious state that I sometimes forget that he can't read my mind.

Which can, on occasion, lead me to behave in ways that are...unflattering.

Me: "Hey babe, I have to work next Wednesday night."

(Secret test.  Will he realize this is our anniversary?)

Michael:  [cocked eyebrow] "I know, I guess we'll have to celebrate our anniversary a different night."

(The look on his face says, "Ha, crazy bitch be tryin' to test me.")

Me:  (In my brain) "Ahh, very good, Grasshoppa."

Me: (out loud) "We don't have to do anything.  It'll really just be too expensive."

Me: (In my brain)  "We could get a babysitter and go out to a nice dinner and exchange nice, thoughtful gifts."

Michael:  "We could just do cards if you want.  You don't have to get me anything. Or we can make each other something!"

Me: (In my brain) "Son of a bee-sting, Abort mission! Abort mission!  Nope. I want a real present.  From a real store.  With a real receipt.  And dinner that I didn't cook.  Where no one poops their pants at the table."

Me: (Out loud) "Yeah, cards are good.  We don't need to do presents."

Me: (In my brain)  "Oh my God.  It's only been three years.  And we're already stopping presents.  We might as well just start separating our DVDs."

Michael: [genuinely happy]  "It'll be great!"

Me: "Yeah, Wooo Hooo.  Great!"

Now, I have two choices:

1.  I can be a nice person and be grateful.  Grateful that I have a wonderful husband that I get to celebrate any anniversary with. 


2.  I can go crazy. 

But not obviously crazy. 

That would be too easy for Michael to decipher. 

I must go secretly crazy and reveal my frustrations through snarky comments about strangers on Facebook. 

I enjoy really making him dig to find the root of the crazy.

I really should not be allowed to go on Facebook when I'm not in a good mood; the mere existence of other people in the world, doing fun things, instantly pisses me off.

"Oh, look at you stranger, on your date night.  Please tell me, what is this date night that you speak of?"

"Oh you have free babysitting!  Tell me about how great that is.  And then kill yourself."

"I sure hope you don't choke on that chicken parm at your 'nice dinner out with friends'!"

"A long weekend away with your husband.  Please do enjoy!  It would be terrible if your plane crashed."

Me: "Oh look babe, look at these people on a date night, isn't that adorable!"

"When was the last time we had a date night?  Oh I remember!  After I had Adeline and they wheeled me down to the tiny, "mole-people" post-partum room we ordered Jimmy Johns and had it delivered!  That thirty minutes she was in the nursery was really wonderful.  Just the two of us.  Does that count?  I suppose for fifteen minutes of it you had to help me to the bathroom.  It was so chivalrous of you to stand there while I changed my peri-pad so that if I fainted from blood loss I wouldn't fall off the toilet.  So romantic, wasn't it?!"

Michael:  "I get it. We'll do presents."

Me: "Okay, only if you really want to..."

Happy Anniversary to the most patient, wonderful man in the whole world.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

The Seed of ADHD

As we were sitting down at the dinner table last night:

Michael:  So, I looked it up online and it turns out there are quite a few people vehemently opposed to toddler backpack leashes.

Me:  Yes, it is hard to believe that leading your child around like the family pet would be such a polarizing issue.

Michael:  We're still getting one...

I imagine every parent (let me rephrase that, 'new parent') looks forward to the day that they see their child gaining more independence. 

I prayed day and night to see Henry walk.

And God listened.  And Henry walked.

Now I pray night and day that Henry will just sit in his stroller.

Let me set the stage for you:

Last weekend at the Dixie Classic Fair.  (You already know this is bound to get good.)

We had two strollers.

Man-on-man defense.

Adeline slept in her stroller and just enjoyed the general splendor.

Henry, on the other hand;

Lost. His. Damn. Mind.

To his credit, I imagine the whole thing was very overwhelming.

(You know how science teachers put a camera on a little bean sprout and record it growing and then you watch it grow in fast forward.  When you take a two year old to the fair you can look in their eyes and watch the seed of ADHD sprout and quickly take over their brain.)

Two words: crazy eyes.

Alas, the county fair is not exactly the time and place you want your child to exercise their growing love of independence. 

i.e.  refusing to sit in the stroller.

I am all for Henry walking by himself.  BUT.  He looks at his feet when he walks.  He walks into walls. He walks head-long into groups of people.  (Further evidence that 99% of his genes came from me.)

He is easily distracted:

"Oh a stuffed banana, Is that something shiny?  Oh a rock, I'm going to pick it up and put in my pants, OH MY GOD a basketball!, Is that an inflatable Dora!?, I see a man with pizza, I want pizza, Oh, there's another rock, I'll put this one in my pants too. Is that a slide. That woman has blue pants, I'm going to touch the blue pants. Stuffed monkey, stuffed giraffe, stuffed pencil, STUFFED PICKLE.  Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.)

And then we saw fluid start to leak out of his ears.

We said, "You have to hold our hand, Henry."

We said, "You have to hold on to the stroller, Henry."

Henry heard, "Run like Hell."

It was a good thing the midway was so loud, because Henry's screams as we tried to force him back into the stroller might have really gotten on people's nerves.

Picture a giant squid with rigor mortis.

Nearly impossible to jam in a stroller with out some faintly disturbing cracks and pops.

Don't worry.  Only slight bruising was sustained by the handlers.

We left feeling defeated. 

Saying to ourselves, "Well, this will be five years."

No, we don't want to leash Henry.  But what is one to do?

I hear that "leashing parents" are bad parents.  We don't try hard enough. We don't teach our kids the correct way to behave. 

We don't "reason" with them.

Doy, Why didn't I think of that?

Reasoning with a two year old is highly effective.

I figure leash opponents are either,

A:  Not Parents.


B:  Much better parents than me.

So, please.  Sing me the song of your people.  I'm listening.

In the meantime, please ignore that little boy at the fair who wants to feel your pants, steal your pizza, beat you about the head with an inflatable whale and show you a rock he just extracted from his diaper. 

My sincerest apologies.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Mean Eyebrow Children

I came to the realization this morning that I may be a slightly mean person.

I don't mean to be mean.

I just think mean thoughts.  In my head.

This past Spring, when I was big and pregnant, I would drop Henry off at preschool and I would see this other big and pregnant lady.  It was obvious that we both had toddlers.  It was obvious we were both big and pregnant, seemingly due about the same time.

But the bitch wouldn't ever talk to me.

Um. wtf?

I talk to everyone.  I think my husband considers it a sickness or bizarre condition, but I find it to be one of the traits I like most about myself.  I will talk to anyone who makes eye contact for more than 2 seconds, which I think is a standard conversation invitation.

And if I don't have anyone to talk to I'll start a blog and pretend like I'm talking to people.

The act of simultaneously raising toddlers would have been enough of a conversation starter, let alone the fact that we were both smuggling fetuses (feti?).

But no.

Nary a word was passed between us.  We could have been best friends. 

But apparently I wasn't good enough for her.

Sure, she swept in with her linen pants and monogrammed backpack.

And I drop Henry off looking like a gremlin in my stained sweatpants.

But still.

This continual lack of acknowledgement festered in my brain until there was no other choice than for her to be my arch-enemy.

Linen pants bitch.

(I don't even know her name and I couldn't tell you anything about her other than the fact that we've never spoken, but I don't like her.  I can tell ya that much.)

Michael tried to tell me, "Maybe she just never saw you,"  "Maybe she's a shy person,"  "Maybe she has social boundaries like regular people."




Well guess what happened today?

I was dropping the kids off at the childcare room at the Y, when guess who strolls in...

None other than.  Linen pants bitch.

We stood this close.  Our arm hairs touched.

She picked her toddler up and her baby. 

I dropped off my toddler and baby.

The car seats bumped. 


Not even a "How do ya do,"  "Nice baby stranger,"  "I see you shit out that baby, good work."

She's Satan.

But I was skinnier than her...

I felt good for a nanosecond. 

Until I realized that is just the thought that a mean person would think.

A mean thought.

I don't want to be a mean person.  And I don't want my kids to be mean people.  When they aren't toddlers anymore and aren't supposed to be mean, that is.

It hasn't even been two days since the bizarre "Children as Eyebrows" conversation with Michael:

(Oh don't worry. I'll give you a brief recap.)

As I was getting ready to go to the Dixie Classic Fair with Michael and the kids, I was plucking my eyebrows and putting on make-up. 

FYI:  Both of these things would have been unnecessary to attend the DCF.

When a horrible thought struck me.  And I immediately ran downstairs;

Me: (Panicked shriek)  "What if the kids grow up like my eyebrows!?" 

Michael: "What, excuse me.  What now."

Me:  "I try my hardest to train them, I groom them, I buy them special products.  I say nice things to them, but yet they are still unruly and I can't trust them."

Michael:  "The kids?"

Me: "No.  My eyebrows."


Me:  "At the end of the day they're just mean and do their own thing."

Michael:  "The kids?"

Me:  "NO, my eyebrows."

Michael:  "You think the kids are going to be mean and do their own thing?"

Me:  "What if despite our best efforts...they are and they do?"

Michael:  "I guess we'll just have to get rid of them."

Me:  "The kids?"

Michael:  "No.  Your eyebrows."

Me:  "You are completely underestimating the severity of this absurd, made-up scenario and all of its implications."

Michael: "Indeed."

Now it is obvious that I am unbalanced,

but I have good intentions...

(Like many of you, I assume.)

So I'm going to try and be a nicer person.  And think nice thoughts.  And be a good example.

Hopefully this will prevent my children from descending into madness and rebellion. 

Like my eyebrows.

If they do, I guess we'll just get rid of them.