A Lesson in Peel n' Eat Shrimp

My sons are at an age that I can recount stories from my formative years. Only the G-rated ones, of course. Um, not that there are any stories that venture out of NC-17 territory. While we were waiting to be served at a restaurant recently, I told Bird and Deal about how I was a waitress for many years. Seven, to be exact. I was about to lecture them on how hard the waitstaff works but I knew they would be like the dog in the Far Side cartoon so I stopped myself. Instead I shared a personal story about one of my waitressing experiences.

I waited tables in an English pub in town. It was part local watering hole, part tourist trap, part college cheap eats, part businessman's brouhaha. I donned the requisite khaki shorts and hunter green polo shirt and set out for the night. I sipped Diet Coke in the back while noshing on ungodly amounts of bread slathered in butter. I was in college then and had no idea that one day my thighs would touch. I remember being in a particularly chipper mood. Again, this is because I didn't have a crystal ball telling me about my mushy future.

A tweed jacketed gentleman of about 50ish came in alone. He was the kind of guy whose jacket actually needed suede patches on the sleeves and weren't there merely for professorial effect. He had a mop of brown hair that was tousled and sloppy, and I recall that his pants were so ill fitting his belt looked as if it could wind around him twice. He ordered a Boddington's and the Peel n' Eat shrimp.

Not only was the entree entitled "Peel n' Eat Shrimp," the menu blurb clearly described it as such. I did not feel the need to be even more explicit when he ordered the PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP. I served 'em right up, and he smiled and nodded, as anyone with a dollop of manners would do. When I checked back, he had cleared his plate and piled up the shrimp shells on the side of the table. I asked him how his meal was in my most friendly waitress voice (This is akin to phone voice but much trickier because people can actually see you.). In one sweeping gesture that caught me totally off guard, the gent (who turned out not to be one) picked up a handful of shrimp shells and threw them at me. In the middle of the dining room. In front of everyone. He exclaimed, "I didn't realize I'd be working for my dinner!"

"Well sir, the dish is called PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP, " said I, suddenly feeling my chipper attitude being chopped away.

The bastard wanted his meal comped.

We said no way. After all, he hadn't flagged me down to complain. I'd like to interject here that I was a very attentive waitress so it's not like I deserted him and hung out in the back smoking with the cooks or anything. Besides, he ate the whole damn thing. He paid but didn't tip me. The good news is that all the other patrons who witnessed his tantrum generously tipped me as a kind show of sympathy.

So I recounted this tale to my sons at lunch as we were waiting for a waitress to serve our chicken and dumplings and crayfish soup. I was hoping they'd get the gist of my parable, as I going all Aesop on them. I asked the boys what they thought of the man's behavior and how it made me feel. I was probing for a lesson in empathy here. Bird and Deal gave the expected head nodding and shoulder shrugging and said that the man was mean. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it.

Then Bird, who couldn't hide his killer grin that's gonna make him the male version of Helen of Troy one day, snickered and said, "He was rude, but it's still pretty funny." He cracked up while saying this and could barely get the words out.

And with that, we all laughed.

My Glass is Half Full. Of Ice.

I haven't seen the teens in about 10 years. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago then. That was my teensy skooch back to the East after eight year stints in Minneapolis and Madison. By teens I mean temps, natch. My own teen years were over two decades ago, and that's the tail end of the rotten pubescent, lemming, un self-aware, unconfident, dorky stuff that make one's teen years so memorable, despite how hard we try to forget.

The temperatures here in Raleigh are taking after stock market line graphs of late and taking a steep dive southward. I didn't move here for this. I remember many a winter not even needing a coat in these parts. It was a welcome change from the mummyesque layering I endured waiting for the bus on 44th Street in Minneapolis or the whip of lake wind chilling me inside out in Chicago. I never did acclimate, despite 10 years out there. Things weren't so bad in Madison because we lived in our own little version of Melrose Place so we rarely had to leave home. That, and we often indulged in Wisconsin's most notable export.

In light of all this frigid weather, folks in North Carolina remind me a lot of the good people of Minnesota. All they talk about is the weather. Instead of the usual "Happy New Year" store clerks remark this time of year (I'll give a week more before I start calling people on the importance of message timeliness.), they call out, "Stay warm!" as they bid you farewell. The neighborhood is quiet, eerily peaceful. No kids. No dogs. Um, why does it seem I'm the only one out walking my dog in these tundra temps?

I'm trying to see some silver lining here. Ice is silvery, right? I'm generally a glass-half-full kind of girl. If you find yourself whooping it up and need to be knocked down a few notches, gimme a call. My alter ego is Debbie Downer. I can make you cringe, cry, or croak in a matter of minutes. Mac Daddy is my optimistic counterpart. He sees the good in everything, which is highly annoying and makes me irritable as hell. I sure hope our sons don't inherit this trait and make their future wives ornery. Sometimes a girl just wants to look into her soap spotted empty wine glass and bitch.

It being 2010, a new year and a new decade and all, I've decided to try on Mac Daddy's disposition. I'm afraid it won't suit me at all but I'm going to give the old college try (Wherever does that term come from?! I surely don't want my boys to try half the stuff I tried in college!). Here's my first, if not feeble, attempt to see the glass half full.

Reasons to not hate the cold weather:

1. No snakes in my yard.
2. Ignored dog poop freezes and is easier to clean up. Granted, Mac Daddy is the often the one faced with this since I jet back inside as soon as Lark has done his business.
3. Children chat less when they are cold because the are busy experiencing chattering teeth.
4. It's perfectly acceptable to have dead leaves, grass, plants and such in one's yard.
5. Snuggling.
6. The Snuggie (never mind that I wear Deal's kid sized one that he got for Christmas).
7. No mosquitoes.
8. I don't have to shave.
9. Jeans and sweaters hide more dietary sins than tank tops and shorts.
10. Boots. Way better than flip flops.
11. Oysters are in season.
12. Beer gets cold quickly if you put it in a cooler on the patio.
13. It's cold and flu season, giving me a fine excuse not to shake hands with people.
14. Conversation common denominator makes it easy to talk to anyone.
15. Scarves hide hickeys (I mean, for those trashy girls who get those kissy bruises. Blech.)
16. Knee socks. (I know Denise at Eat Play Love has my back on this one.)
17. Hot Buttered Rum, Hot Toddies, , Hot Sake, Hot Cider, Hot Chocolate
18. Comfort food.
19. I get wear to that cute chenille hat and scarf set I bought ages ago. Be sure to compliment me profusely if you see me sporting it.
20. An excuse to chill out (pardon the expression) with a good read or a must-see flick.

So tell me, what makes the snot freezing temps more palatable for you?

Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time

Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.

No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.

Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.

What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.

Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?

The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."

And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.

I Just Don't Get It

Based on some recent and some not-so-recent observations, I've been chronicling things that I just don't get. Some of this stuff simply makes my scratch my head (but not in that "That little itch could be telling you something." kind of way). Some of it simply irks me. All of it leaves me thinking "I just don't get it."


The Dirt & Noise I Just Don't Get It List

People who keep their dining room tables set at all times. Even though they never sit down for a meal there. Ever. Don't those dishes and swan folded napkins just get all dusty? Seems to me that after a while, your dining would start feeling like a restaurant that no one patronizes. It becomes a sad place rather than the hub of family time, festivity, and fabulous fare.

People who have formal living rooms with hand carved chess pieces left just-so on an ottoman by the fireplace. Keep in mind, these are people who are not clever enough to play chess.

People who have formal rooms that children are banned from. I figure my house is my kids' house too so why would I ban them from playing where they want to? Sure, we have rules. Like no sumo wrestling in the living room. No playing frisbee inside the house. I've been jolted by the sound of a pottery lamp shattering and multiple spills of a kelanchoe plant (three times in just one evening of late). Such is the price we pay to having children dwell among us. What are the alternatives? A kennel? The garage? The neighbor's tree house? Look, having children is what makes this house a home. I'll be damned if I ban them from being playful children in their own home.

Raisins. Why ruin a perfectly good grape that could be eaten in its juicy succulence or smashed into wine? Hmmmm...wine or trail mix filler? You tell me the better use for a grape.

Ferrets. And their owners.

Scrapbooking. Oh, I'm sensing some hate mail here. What I mean is that I don't get the actual crafty act of scrapbooking. I totally appreciate the end result but I don't want to paste a bunch of forget-me-nots and argyle socks and candy canes all over a book laden with cutesy captions. Call me old fashioned but I sorta prefer the ol' photo album (acid free paper, natch). And did I just use "scrapbook" as a verb?

Vanity plates that boast the make of a car. Like "BMW" on a BMW. Um, doesn't the logo already tell me that, dude? Redundancy (and idiocy) at its finest. Waste of money there. Clearly someone who has money to burn yet not a brain cell lit up.

I'd like to add Bible verse license plates too. This is not something I saw until moving to North Carolina. Tell me, Midwestern friends and readers, do you see this anywhere in the frozen tundra? I don't recall any of that from my 10 years freezing my bloomers off up there.

People who eschew cake frosting. Worse are those who prefer whipped cream topping to frosting. Blasphemous cake eaters!

Wall-to-wall carpeting. I've had it in all the apartments I ever lived in. I never liked it. It smells like carcinogens. What's the point exactly?

People who hang a big ass television over the fireplace mantel. In my world, that's an interior design no-no deserving of a Glamour magazine black bar. This one's for you, Sam. wink. wink.

Couples who take separate vacations. I mean separate his and hers getaways all the time yet no rendez vousing together. Nothing better than Mac Daddy by my side and a lazy stroll following our taste buds' every whim through the streets of a new city. I reckon that might happen again in oh, about 14 years. Til then, it's Family Vacation. Chevy Chase style, baby.

People who don't read. Books are my drug. My escape. My fantasy. My brain stretch. My dreams. My love. Nothing in my life has made me prouder than watching my son, my Bird, learn to read.


So tell me, what's on your "I just don't get it" list?

Halloween, Dirt & Noise Style

I happen to be a big fan of Halloween. I love eating candy, dressing up in costume, being spooked, eating candy, dancing to the Monster Mash, snacking on candy corn mixed with dry roasted peanuts (a deliriously divine treat that my friend @turnaroundart turned me onto!), carving pumpkins, eating candy.

I also happen to look good in orange so I embrace any chance I get to sport it. If I keep on eating candy I just might look like a pumpkin myself one of these days. That'll save me money on my costume I suppose.

The boys of course love Halloween for all the same reasons I do. Mac Daddy hates Halloween for all the same reasons. He detests dressing up, could care less about spooky movies (He flat out laughed at Blair Witch Project whilst I peed in my pants.), hates candy corn, thinks dancing to Monster Mash is dorky, and is painfully uncreative when it comes to carving a jack-o-lantern. Meanwhile I buy pumpkins at every turn and even planted a kitschy scarecrow in our yard. Our table is bedecked with sparkly black and orange place mats, candy corn shaped candles, and plastic spiders. I listen to the Monster Mash station on Pandora and read Halloween stories in creepy voices with much ballyhoo.

I sounded every single one of my 41 years when I proclaimed to the boys that we'd be making our own costumes this year. Their mouths hung agape. And Mac Daddy laughed. Then these preachy words came out of my matronly mouth: "When I was a kid no one bought costumes. We used our imaginations and creativity to make stuff up. We were green without even realizing it. No one wasted money on costumes, even if that meant dressing up as a hobo or the unknown comic every single year of grade school." I must have spoken with authority because no one questioned me...though they clearly questioned my sanity. And for the record, I am the least crafty person I know. Luckily the boys are too young to know how ridiculous they might look, and by the time they figure it out, they will hate me for many more reasons (like the bowl haircut Bird seems to sport in every school picture).

I do hate all the high fructose corn syrup that cannot be avoided without paying an arm and a leg for carob bars or other such crap that the children would toss out with the razor bladed apples and arsenic laced popcorn balls. I wish there were some viable alternatives (stupid tombstone shaped erasers and skull emblazoned super bouncy balls aside). I suppose next year I could serve the fair trade natural stuff and rig up a fake gory arm and leg with a sign stating "I paid an arm and a leg for this candy."

Or I might just put up a sign that says "I paid an arm and a leg for healthcare. Can't afford candy."

In the mean time, I'll be dressed up as Rizzo and trawling the hood for candy. Bird will be a ninja warrior, and Deal will be his own super hero known as Super Deal. Mac Daddy will be dressed up as a corporate cube dweller who works for Da Man.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

Talking About God

What I love about having two children who are the same gender is seeing their differences unfold. Despite the fact that they are both boys and raised in the same house, they are distinctly different creatures. I've kept a little chart since Deal was born of how they have differed throughout their various growth spurts and stages. I'm nuts about charts and tables and pie charts (even though Professor Malthouse steered us away from pie charts, claiming they do not depict graphical excellence).

Both Bird and Deal attended the same Methodist preschool. They both went to chapel and had the same teachers. Bird still thinks "Jesus" is pronounced "Cheesus" and remarks how they must have a lot in common since he likes cheese too. I guess he figures since Mac Daddy is from Wisconsin this all clearly makes sense.

Deal wants to end every declarative statement with "Amen." He also wants a Jesus themed birthday party.

So take this recent exchange as an example:

Deal: Where does nature come from, Mommy?

Bird: It's Mother Nature, Deal. Mother Nature gives us the rain and stars and plants and snow.

Deal: NOOOOOO She doesn't!!! Mother Nature isn't real! Mommy is our only mother!

Bird: I SAID MOTHER NATURE MADE NATURE! That's why we call her that. MOTHER NATURE!!!

Exasperation beads in little sweat droplets on their upper lips at this point. Neck hairs are saluting, voices are quivering, fists are shaking.

Deal: God made nature. God did it. God did it. God did it. God did it...

This starts to sound like goddamn it after while, and I crack up.

Bird: Deal, I told you, there is no God!


I can't win. I don't necessarily agree with either one of them. I had no idea what to do. So I did what every mommy blogger would do. I fired up my laptop and let them fight while I captured a blog-worthy moment.

Amen.

Don't cha wish your momma were hot like me?

These were the best of times. These were the worst of times. I'd like to share two tales of hotness lost.

First, picture this. Six moms dressed like single lady hotties. Dresses cut high enough to show off some pilates gams. Halter tops cut down just so to show off some flirty, sun drenched cleavage. I'm talkin' dry clean only attire here. Dangly earrings with no risk of toddler hands ripping them out. Heels stacked, stilettoed, wedged, and highly hot. Nothing more than a clutch to tote the requisite lipstick, cell phone, and Amex card. Not a diaper bag in sight. Not a bag of Goldfish to be seen. Even I stashed away Chapstick in favor of Smashbox lipstick in the perfect shade, Lavish. Makes me wanna lick my lips just thinking about that pouty pucker.

That night we were high flying women ordering up every colorful martini on the menu. After a couple cocktails we were even getting cheeky with the waiter, who was literally young enough to be my son. And I'm not talking teen pregnancy. Geez, how young are kids these days?! The girls were back and ready to roll. For one short night were were giggly girlfriends, watermelon martini warriors, sexy chicas with a barrel of confidence and a surprise stash of sex appeal. We were frolicking and fancy free, enjoying every bit of attention our hoopla was garnering.

Damn, we felt HOT. In fact, we WERE hot. Boob sweat in August heat in North Carolina hot. Vindaloo hot. Penn Badgely's abs hot. Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle.

And so we trapsed from one bar to another, ready to settle into the supple leather bar stools and order an insanely tasty (and might I add potent?) mojito. The six of us were a picture of moxie indeed. Sassy, smart, sexy women, not moms, for a night. Purrrr.....

Enter buzz kill stage left.

Two semi-grease balls who looked like they hock cameras from a seedy storefront in Jersey stopped to get a taste of the eye candy that was us. We flippantly ignored them, used to the attention, natch. Every one of us, however, stood a tish straighter and laughed a bit more joyously just to cement to those dudes what they'd be dreaming about that night. We were totally basking, drowning even, in our hotness.

"So, moms' night out, huh?" exclaimed grease ball #1.

"Hardy har har har!" gulumphed grease ball #2.

G-U-L-P.

And so our bubble of hotness popped. It not only lost its air; it sadly deflated in slow motion, left hanging like our baby suckled breasts. Our swagger turned to slumped shoulder stutter step. Luster lost. Here we thought were hot WOMEN, and those grease balls pegged us for moms immediately. I still can't put my finger on the dead giveaway. We should have cuffed them and made a citizen's arrest. The charge? Buzz killers.

So you tell me, is being a mom mutually exclusive from being a hottie?

This second tale of hotness lost comes from my friend Allie. I don't think she'll mind my sharing it.

Allie got to head to the sunny state of California for 5-day business conference. Almost a full week of kid-free responsibility. So what if the days were peppered with dull conferences and dweeby sales guys? At night the wine and steak juices flowed. Evening conversation centered on drug therapies, and the days were filled with retail therapy. No one cared that Greg would not be touring with the Wiggles this year or that the neighbor kid's birthday party was Sunday at 6:00. No one needed her grapes cut in half or mouth wiped.

This was a week to learn, of course; it was a company-paid conference (aka boondoggle) after all. But it was also a weekend to fall asleep to Entourage blaring on the TV, a night without the stirring of a baby monitor to jostle her from her slumber, the pleasure of a long, slow cabernet buzz, frou frou dinner on someone else's tab, shoes too insensible to wear to the playground, skirts too short to squat down to tie a shoe, and lipstick instead of Aquaphor, perhaps even a flirty spritz of Jo Malone Verbenas of Provence. Oh, if only blog technology had a smell feature! You would be titillated, I assure you.

So one evening Allie is hanging out at one of those typical conference wine and smile get-to-know-you events. She's dazzling in a hot little number that had no risk of mac n' cheese hands wrecking it. A dress that would make her husband order champagne instead of beer. A dress that her husband would think looks better on the floor...wink, wink. She so had it going on. Allie is a hottie to start with, mind you. That dress was nothing more than frosting. She was enjoying a glass of vino, chatting with her boss, relishing the freedom of an evening without responsibility. It was then she noticed him noticing her. Yes, he was definitely looking, and it was obvious. Allie's boss tuned in too.

I imagine a slight blush crept over Allie's face, adorned with a simple swipe of liquid black eye liner and a touch of creamy lipstick. That man. That man was checking her out! Yeah, he was digging her. He was so hoping to get his groove on. And so her confidence soared. She and her boss giggled in hushed tones and wondered what the guy's story was. Allie is a married woman, after all. She repositioned so he could clearly see her wedding ring. Allie is not a cheating kind of girl, mind you, but a bit of attention when you know you look hot is simply an innocent self esteem boost.

No matter where Allie flitted throughout the ballroom, his eyes followed. Soon others were taking note as well. And then more eyes followed her. Imagine her exploding confidence and hotness, absorbing the attention. Loving it. Feeling like a most excellent blend of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda.

That's when her boss noticed something BIG. Mouth agape, speechless, BIG. All she could do was point in horror.

Allie is a lovely woman and a looker by any definition, alas it was not her charm nor good looks that garnered all that ogling.

Her dress, that hot, kicky little number, was tucked up into her panties. Her butt cheek was hanging out, advertising the goods beneath the dress! And no, she was not sporting lacy La Perlas. Nothing racy in any way. Paul Frank's chipmunk days of the week underwear (that she swears are the most comfortable underwear ever!) were peeking out for the whole conference to see. A cartoon chipmunk adorning her ass. All the geeky sales reps were taking it in, and not a one of 'em could muster up the courage (or decency!) to alert her!

Hysterical, yes. Hot, no.

Tagged.

High Heeled Mama tagged me to share 7 random facts about myself. Oh, it will be hard to keep it to 7!

Rules are as follows:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share seven facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. For many, many years (I actually lost count.) during my grade school and middle school days, I slept on my bed in a sleeping bag. Being the neat freak that I am, I found it easier to roll up my sleeping bag, tuck it away in the closet, and straighten the bed before going to school. Not making the bed was (and still isn't) an option so it took less time in my hectic mornings before school to just use a sleeping bag.

2. Audrey Hepburn has been my idol since I was 16 years old and saw "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for the first time with my friend Nancy. I own every book ever written about her. The "Breakfast at Tiffany's" movie poster hangs in my office over my desk. The Italian version is propped up on a table across from me, and a pencil sketch of Audrey is on my bookshelf. Two guesses what our girl name would have been had Mac Daddy and I had a daughter.

3. There are only five foods in the world that I will not eat: liver, lima beans, cherries, raisins, and black licorice. Otherwise, I am likely the least picky eater you will ever meet.

4. I have mingled with and broken bread with several famous baseball players during my charity event days in Minneapolis. I never recognized a single one of them and had to be told who they were. This includes the likes of Bobby Bonilla, David Justice, Cal Ripken Jr., and Kirby Puckett.

5. I can put my whole fist in my mouth.

6. When I lived in Minneapolis I broke out in an inexplicable rash. Doctors later revealed that it was urticaria, caused by exposure to the cold. See, I told you I was allergic to those frozen tundra temps.

7. I played the trombone in middle school marching band. I was the only girl in the whole brass section. This was after I informed my band director that I wanted to play the drums. He said, "Girls don't play drums. Pick something else." I figured he wasn't going to say no twice. You can probably tell that the flute was too wussy for the likes of me.

I said I'd share 7 random facts about myself; I never promised that any of them would be interesting!

Now here I go tagging 7 more lucky bloggers out there.

1. Crouton Boy
2. One Chic Mama
3. Ginny
4. Mom 101
5. Crabmommy
6. Friday Playdate
7. Misfit Hausfrau