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?

Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

High Jinks

The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.

Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.

The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.

There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.

I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.

Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).

I think I just wrote her match.com profile.

Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.

Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.

The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.

Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.

Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.

Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Getting Trashed

I hate litterbugs. Hate them. Hate them. Hate them. I think they should be jailed in a dumpster behind a Slim Jim factory. There is no earthly reason to open up your car window and toss out trash. No matter how small. Cigarette butts included. Do you hear me, smokers? You're polluting our earth enough as it is with your carcinogens that I don't choose to inhale. Oh, don't get me started on how much I abhor smoking. Did you catch that, Mom? But I digress, as I so often do... I cuss like a mother fucker when I see people litter from their car (in my head, of course, my boys will out-cuss me in due time, but I don't need to be the one to teach them this particular habit).

Here are some things that I've spotted on the roadside and in the brush in the last couple weeks. I've been jotting them down in my blog fodder notebook (not while driving, only at red lights and in the car pool line). Note that I usually drive within a five mile radius of my house, and most of it does not involve a freeway. That's means that this crap is littering my neighborhood streets. And my water. And my soil. It is not only unsightly; it is unsafe (and not just because I am gawking at it while trying to write in my little notebook).

Getting Trashed gets a whole new meaning:

• a pair of boxing gloves
• one shoe, looked like a sneaker
• bag of apples
• ballet slippers
• pair of twisted up jeans
• stuffed plastic Hefty bag that I feared contained body parts so I did not stop for closer inspection
• small wooden crate...perhaps some woodland creature ate the clementines it once housed
  
• speakers, really big ones from back in the day that pass for end tables
  
• dog leash...in my head the dog once attached to said leash is perfectly happy and safe
  
• lawn furniture cushion
• various mega size soda cups and burger wrappers
• pillowcase
  
• baseball cap
• backpack (feared explosives were inside so I hightailed it outta there)
• strap of some sort that looked like a yellow karate belt
• malt liquor cans, really big ones
• velveteen Crown Royal bag
• tube socks
• sand pail
• something tangles that looked like pieces of a blow up holiday lawn Santa
• plastic milk jugs, liter bottles, cans
  

So I wonder what the story is behind all this lost/littered stuff. Did some fed up minivan mom toss out her daughter's ballet slippers when the whining reached fever pitch? Did the baseball cap blow off some dude's head when a double rig sped by? Did some party animals toss the malt liquor cans in haste when they spotted an under cover cop trailing them?

What do you think? Tell me a story about how one item ended up littering my path.

On My Mind in Downward Dog

I got my body flowing at the gym this morning. I took some new class called Body Flow that supposedly adds a dash of pilates, a dollop of tai chi, and a whole stinkin' handful of yoga, mixes it all up, and gets your chi centered and your abs shakin'. Only not so much. Like with anything, when you take the best pieces of stuff thinking it's going to make a magnificent new widget, it fails miserably. This was the crazy quilt of gym classes. The indiviual elements are way better than the sum of their parts. I just wasted an hour getting gyped. One hour of time that I'll never get back. You know how much I hate to work out anyway so this was particularly irritating.

So instead of feeling all centered and relaxed and other such stuff that I'm pretty much incapable of achieving anyway, here's a taste of what galloped around my mind while doing sun salutations, warriors 1 - 3, and downward dog:

John, Paul, Ringo,.... Who the heck is the other Beatle? Hmmm, can't even picture him. John, Paul, Ringo, drawing a blank. Must remember to ask Kate.

I have organic beets in the fridge. What shall I do with them? Maybe I'll try making soup. It is soup season. Damn, it's cold.

I need to pay some bills. Must remember to pay bills. Must remember to pay bills.

Whatever happened to my old friend Portia Barnhart? She's not on Facebook. Why the heck aren't people on Facebook?!

It's only been 15 minutes?! Egads.

Where can I find those mitten and boot warmer thingees that you pop and use to stay warm? I need to find some before we march in the Christmas parade on Saturday morning. Too bad it will be too inappropriate and too early to add some bourbon to my coffee to stay warm. Or will it?

I really need a haircut. What am I going to do about this gray hair?

Gary is a funny name. Funny name for a sweet swaddled newborn. Baby Gary. Not working for me. Roxanne too.

Is it going to take us seven hours to drive to DC again this Thanksgiving?

When is this class over?

That's girl's pose looks totally worse than mine. Look at me, rockin' the yoga pose. Ooops, not so much.

I think I don't like yoga because the clothes show every bulge. I would look great in fencing gear.

My friend Nancy fenced in college. She's not on Facebook either.

Grilled cheese for lunch?

I haven't bought new shoes all season.

I went to Target three times this week. I have a feeling we'll go again before the week's over.

Deal's room needs a rug.

How can I be Indian and suck so much at yoga? My people must be ashamed of me, first math and science, now yoga. We invented this stuff, didn't we?

That instructor is so thin she's concave.

I hate that she is saying tushie. What, are we three year olds in here?

Um, what time is it?

Don't let me fall asleep during this vibration meditation thing. This is not my idea of a good time.


So you see, the class was a bust. And I have recipes to find and people to track down on Facebook.

Grease is the Word

The highlight of our summer trip to LA? Seeing the real deal Grease Lightning live, in person at the Peterson Automotive Museum. That's me and Bird in the photo (nevermind that my arm looks fat and mushy). He was pretty pumped to see it too but he melted down when I told he couldn't sit in it. Seriously, I practically hyperventilated and broke into song and dance when I spotted this vehicular treasure, much to my cool LA brother's dismay. I know all the moves. I committed them to memory years ago. Now I'm teaching them to Bird and Deal. Mac Daddy thinks I'm prediposing them to get the snot kicked out of them on the playground with such shenanigans. I say, Dude, Grease is the word.

I have written before about my embarrassingly bad taste in music.Where there is crappy music there are crappy movies. No brainer, right?

I am a sucker for girly movies. I secretly love when Mac Daddy has poker night so I can watch chick flicks without enduring his sneering and snickering (as he is known to do during my Gossip Girl guilty pleasure). Some of my best girlfriend time is with my pal Christy when we hang out in our pajamas and watch girly movies, wine in hand, chocolate within reach.

Here are some of my favorites. And note that the heady stuff like Schindler's List ain't making this list. This is pure cheese.

Grease - What girl who grew up in the 70s doesn't love this movie? Heck, what girl doesn't love this movie, period?! I had the trading cards, album, and even have my own Pink Lady jacket. really. I just wore it for Halloween last year. Grease kicks High School Musical's scrawny overly computer produced ass.

13 Going on 30 - Come on, so cute! I never watched Alias and thought Jennider Garner was a bit manly, but this movie made me love her.

Princess Diaries - We watched this and its sequel on a girls weekend. We were in our pajamas all day with a stack of Us Weekly magazines spread among us, chips and salsa within reach, Diet Coke by our side, and giddy, giddy girliness all around.

The Sweetest Thing - Oh, this movie almost made me long to be single again. Then I remembered I never had abs like Cameron Diaz or lived in a sweet apartment in San Franciso or looked as hot as Christina Applegate in a white shirt and pencil skirt so I quickly shed that envy. The penis song alone is worth watching this movie. Really. Funny. Stuff. Dang, now it's stuck in my head. The song, folks. The song.

27 Dresses - Worth watching just for the hot reporter guy.

Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful - Oh, the 80s. I was about 16 when these movies were out. I still love 'em 25 years later. Great soundtracks. Even people with good taste in music would say so.

Sex and the City - Clearly the year's best girlfriend flick. Seizure enducing handbag and shoe envy.

Mean Girls, Heathers - Wow could I relate to those movies. I was a four foot tall, 80 pound, smart girl runt. One guess where I fell in the popularity spectrum.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants - I love Gossip Girl and Ugly Betty. Of course I dig this movie! And hell yes I'll be watching the sequel.

So tell me, what bad movies are lurking in your DVD collection? It's OK to fess up. You're in the cone of safety here, folks.

I Heart Matt Damon Even More Now

One more reason to love Matt Damon. Sigh.

Can't you totally hear the passion in his voice? It's as close to Matt + Passion that I'm ever gonna get. Hubba. Hubba.

A Blogger Mom's Week in Review

I've taken to carrying around a wee notebook and jotting down things that strike me. I feel like a reporter, minus the press pass and fedora. I do have a degree from a journalism school. Now I know how the editorial half must feel.

I see the world through my own two eyes. Incidentally, it used to be four eyes, but my eyesight improved with each pregnancy. I got a wrinkly stomach and back fat, but at least something actually improved on my body. Once I had kids, I started to see the world through their eyes too. And oh, how delightful that has been! Since I started blogging, I've begun to see the world through Dirt & Noise lenses. What would my readers get a kick out of? What inspires me? What can I teach or change? In essence, I take note of things that are blog-worthy. Does this officially make me a "blogger?" I dunno. I don't get paid (though I wish I could figure out that one!) and I'm not one of those viral blog celebrities. I blog because it's cheaper than DSW therapy. And I really dig it.

I'd like to share the items that made the notebook cut. So here are the noteworthy events of my first week as an official blogger, in no particular order:

I don't have any ribbon magnets on my car. I have a University of Virginia decal and Obama 08 bumper sticker on my car. And the registration and inspection stickers that are chronically overdue. I cannot keep up with those ribbons and have no idea what all the colors mean, except for the red and pink ones. On my way to the gym the other day I noticed a navy blue magnetic ribbon on the back of a Mustang (not a cool old one, mind you). I paused to look and boy am I glad I did! The magnet, with tongue fully implanted in cheek, read "Support lap dancing." Come on, that's funny stuff! Deal asked me why I was laughing, and I hadn't even realized I was laughing aloud.

One morning post workout (man, I sound like an exercise maven...I assure you I am not...see back fat comment above), Deal and I went to Starbucks for a treat. We were sitting outside in a somewhat swanky part of town. Let's put it this way, it's where the middle school girls get weekly mani-pedis and have designer handbags that cost more than three months of our mortgage payments. I was not shocked to see a well coiffed gent in uber preppy attire. Khaki pants with no pleats and a tish droopy, blue oxford cloth shirt, blue, red, and yellow striped prep school tie, Weejun loafers sans penny, Omega watch. And get this, white socks. The kid he probably just worked out in. This is the South. No socks would be perfectly acceptable, but white socks?! No way. It gets better. He also had a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck. I was prepared to see those Croakies lanyard thingees that are ubiquitous among men down here. But no, this prep of the white sock clan chose to hang his reading glasses on a jerryrigged strand of mardi gras beads. New at your neighborhood Brooks Brothers perhaps?

When I dropped Bird off at camp one morning there was a white Suburban parked next to me. That damn vehicle was so big it was practically parked on me. I feel no pity whatsoever for that guy's fuel bill. On his car was a bumper sticker that said "Honk if the twins fall out." What the?! I am amazed at what messages people feel inspired to advertise on their cars.

I am guilty of exposing my children to bad music. For this I feel some shame, but mostly I see humor. I was unexpectedly surprised in the car the other day when Bird was singing along to Scotty's Lament by the Connells. I was a huge Connells groupie back in the day. I have all their CDs (and some on cassette, which tells you something). I can't bear to get rid of my Fun & Games T-shirt. You can imagine my utter delight and downright giddiness when I realized Mike Connell himself lives down the street from me. He's a lawyer now but will always be a rock star to me. And you know what? He's a super nice guy who asks about Bird and Deal and is quick to share a smile. And then my friend Will introduced me to a couple of his friends at political event a while back. The guy looked so familiar, but I couldn't place him. He took the mike and I knew instantly...George Huntley! My friend is friends with George Huntley! How could I continue to act laid back and cool when I was thrust back to a 20-year old groupie?! I told Bird about how I loved the Connells (still do, actually), showed him my CDs, and then whispered that one of the singers lives down the street. Bird was duly impressed. That might compensate just a tad for the other musical damage I have inflicted.

Is there anything grosser or funnier than an obscenely fat kid belching at 53 decibels? And no, he did not pardon himself. That wasn't so funny, but proved to be a good teaching moment for the boys.

I am in love with Eric Stolz of Singles, the Waterdance, and Mask fame. You will be too when you hear him sing this. Bird and Deal dig the song Snuggle Puppy, and we sing it to each other in the car. It was my lullaby of choice when I realized Bad to the Bone was a poor choice.

Deal and I went to the children's museum last week. Being the naysayers of Team Tardiness we are, we were at the front door as the clock struck 9:00 so we could be the first (the first!) people there. Though we have been there, oh, seven million times this summer, Deal was as excited as if he were yelling Wake up, Jeff! to Jeff himself. Those little three-year old legs barreled their way up the ramp, leftover jigglies of baby fat still bouncing. God, I love those mushy thighs (not so much mine though). There is nothing cuter than the canter of a slightly off balance preschooler.

I just bought two new bathing suits. I tried on 95 just to settle on those two. No kidding. 95. It tooks 3 1/2 hours and it wasn't fun. Imagine my horror when a saggy, wrinkled tattooed grandma with about four gold hoops in each ear and an organza ribbon in her hair at the pool was sporting the same suit I just bought. I didn't think a ruched brown tankini was so Golden Girls (no disrespect, Estelle!). Luckily I had worn it to the pool the day before so there was no Us Weekly "Who wore it best?" contest. And then another grandma was wearing the bikini that I had in my hand at the register and decided against at the last minute. What totally bummed me out? She looked better in it than I did.

Also at the pool was a heated game of Marco Polo going on. Marco! Polo! Marco! Polo! Gosh, that brought back memories of childhood at the Sugarloaf Pool. My brother and all his buddies tricked me into thinking they wanted me to join their reindeer games, when in fact they used me as their Marco Polo pawn. Rule number one of Marco Polo: don't play on or near the steps. This is basic pool etiquette, folks. Mac Daddy and I were trying to safely guide one kid who's learning to swim while trying to cajole the other one into the pool to at least get his feet wet. There were noodles flying, dive sticks sinking, floaties floating away, beach balls bouncing, children wailing(well, maybe just Deal was wailing, but it was loud enough to count as multiple children). One of the Marco Polo kids rammed into me while I was minding my own business floating lazily on a noodle. No big deal. I'm sure I did that too back in the day. Imagine my horror when that five-year old little shit looked me in the eye and yelled, "Get out of my way!" WWHHAAATTT?! I know this makes me sound old but I'm going to say it anyway. Kids today! Geesh.

Lastly, I would just like to share what Mac Daddy is doing right now. He's watching his second episode of VH1's I Love Money. That's TWO episodes. Back to back. I don't get the premise of the show and cannot get past the extraordinarily high cheese quotient. The collective IQ of the participants is just slightly higher than George Bush alone in a room with a bag of pretzels. And guess what? Mac Daddy is laughing ALOUD. Over and over again. He's gonna love reading this.

I guess there are things in life that are even more than notebook-worthy.

Of Flowers and Ball Pits

Today I have many a musing rolling around in my summer weary, heat imploded head. Add to that air full of smoke and God knows what other particles thanks to wildfires 200 miles away from here, and you can imagine my lowly brain cell capacity today.

First things first, I owe a big public THANK YOU to my dear mom, a continent away for several months, who wept when she read my recent Obama post. She's in Germany toiling with the ex-pats at Democrats Abroad to ensure Barack Obama is our next President. I got lovely purple (my favorite color) flowers from her yesterday with a card that read "Your article after Obama's speech made me cry. I am so proud of you. I love you. Mom" Now that's way better than a comment any day (not that you should stop the commenting because you know what crack it is for all bloggers). Right back at ya, Mom!

Now I must relay a funny story about a fellow mom and friend. We'll call her Poison Pen. I went to her house last night for book club (We read Rockabye by Rebecca Wolfe of Girl's Gone Child.). So Ms. Poison Pen answers the door in a sling. Now I would expect to greeted by a Singapore Sling, but not the medical variety. Here we were all gushing around her, worried she had tried some crazy daredevil adventure from her youth. Skateboarding. Windsurfing. Ripsticking. Roller blading. Mountain biking. Surfing. Belly dancing. Tantric sex. Pole dancing.

Nope, turns out Poison Pen fell off the balance beam. In a Mommy & Me class with her 2-year old. Now it's generally not nice to laugh at other people's mishaps, though Mac Daddy believes the only reason to watch figure skating is for the falls. And I must admit, it does make it way more fun. But get this, she not only fell off the balance beam, she fell into the ball pit. I'm talkin' a massive ball pit that's like 9 feet deep. Imagine the worried looks she got from other parents who were trying their darndest not to bust a gut laughing and secretly thankful it wasn't they who fell. I bet there was a lot of snickering going on. At least Poison Pen provided great dinner table conversation fodder that night. It turns out she tore some thumb ligaments and needed hand surgery. Geesh. Yeah, I feel bad for her and all, but don't tell me that's not freaking funny stuff. The story wouldn't even of have been blog worthy were it not for the ball pit.

Now if you haven't checked out In the Motherhood, you're missing out. Lots of I-want-to-look-away moments a la Curb Your Enthusiasm. Funny mom moments that I bet you can all relate to...and even top. Chelsea Handler, Jenny McCarthy, and Leah Rimini (The nutty Scientologists apparently tolerate humor.)are stellar in that made-for-the-web way. Chelsea especially. I'm so going to get her new book.

And lastly, I am ACHING for a new pair of shoes. It's been eons since I've treated myself. DSW is sending me love letters, begging me not to break up, enticing me back. So what if Father's Day is coming up? Mama needs some shoes! And a new bag while I'm at it since Deal is fully potty trained, opening up a whole host of new handbag options! I have my eye on these impossibly impractical, playground unfriendly jazzy little sparklers. Maybe daddy needs a date night for Father's Day with a hot MILF on his arm.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's 5:00 Fridays!

Pint-Size Fan

This is the chanting I heard from the back seat this morning:

"David Archuleta! David Archuleta!

Mommy, is he gonna win?

David Archuleta! David Archuleta!"


Deal has only seen a snippet of American Idol, yet he is apparently hooked. I imagine he replays the parts he saw over and over and over again in his head. I'm pretty sure those Idol producers aren't looking to tap the preschool market. Then again, the Wiggles could use some competition.

On My Mind

Love
Today while I was playing tennis I noticed two guys on the court next to mine. They were your typical somewhat mushy 40-somethings. Socks pulled up a tad too high. Shorts a bit too short. Hanging on to every last receding hair. Tummies a bit paunchy. I was admiring the ease with which they hit a slice, one after another barely grazing the net with such grace. Then I about lost it. After warming up and before playing for points, they met at the net, joined hands, and prayed. Prayed! Before a lousy tennis game between friends! Aloud! Overhearing the prayer session made me hit three balls over the fence in succession. I left with an empty can and a head ablaze. Is this normal? Suck as I might, even I don't pray before tennis. Dear God, please let me actually hit a proper topspin tonight. Don't let me play worse than the 10-year old girl in my class. Let me earn at least two points based on my sheer skill rather than opponent error. I hate to think what these guys are praying for before business meetings, meals, and their annual physicals.

Jake
Is it just me or does Henry on Ugly Betty remind you of a geeky version of Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles? Oh, how my heart throbbed for Jake! Whatever became of him?


Woof Woof Howl
Do folks not hear their own pooches barking at all hours of the night? Must they think that no one outside the property lines hear? I assume the same when tantrum time hits, but that's just to save face as much as possible.


Forget Tantra, this is Tantrum.
Bird had the meltdown of the century this afternoon after karate class. We were playing perfectly happily at the playground with some friends. Then the killing began. Bird was squishing fuzzy caterpillar after fuzzy caterpillar. Each mini fur ball an innocent victim because someone told him that those creatures killed trees. When I told him to sit down and chill out for a bit, he lost his shit. I'm talkin' diarrhea proportions. He wailed to the car. He wailed in the car. He threw punches. He became the limp protester. He kicked my seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. All without stopping to breathe amid the wailing. I had to pull over on a side street, stop the car, and yank him out. Don't think for a second that I handled it with the aplomb of Obama at the last debate. I told Bird to calm down and buckle up lest I leave him in the mulch of some neighborhood boulevard somewhere miles from home. Out of sheer fear (hey, whatever works), he acquiesced. Then he promptly fell asleep. Head tilted. Drool puddling in the folds of his neck.

Damn me for reacting, rather overreacting, to the moment instead of stopping to figure out what triggered such a crazed response, especially considering what an otherwise stellar day he had. I lost my shit. Yes, I admit it. When we got home we all recovered nicely and ended up having a grand time at Dance Party USA with some neighbors. We rocked out to Sweet Home Alabama, Suffragette City, and A Little Less Conversation. When Bird shimmied up to me to take my hand and dance, I knew all was OK.

Pooped.
I have abstained from writing about Deal's potty training ordeal because the mere thought has worn me out. He was fully trained for two weeks in January and decided that urinating and defecating in his pants was a better idea. Yup, I guess he missed diaper rash and the overall filth in his pants. Since then he has been vehemently opposed to all things potty, unlike Bird who couldn't wait to rid himself of the nastiness that is excrement. We tried every tactic with Deal - being his Suzy Cheesecake cheerleader, being a hard ass, being Super Nanny. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. We tossed out multiple pairs of Spiderman, Sponge Bob, Scooby Doo, and Thomas adorned underwear. Soiled beyond salvation. Suddenly, last Friday, he decided that peeing and pooping on the potty wasn't so bad afterall. That light clicked on, and Deal has been one potty machine. Accident free for seven days. OSHA should hang up a placard.