Yard Work Begets Tidy Shrubbery and a Good Laugh

Can I tell you how much I effing hate yard work? I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns, with a passion, with cream and sugar, with a cherry on top. I effing HATE it. However, it is a necessary evil. While most folks are paying a landscaper to cut and trim and shape their vegetation, we are spending that money on double guitar lessons, theater camp, karate, black-belt club (yes there is such a thing) and generally having a life. The trade off for all of this awesomeness? We mow our own lawn.

Problem with this approach is that we are so busy with all the other things, that the yard work takes a backity-backity-back seat. Before their (almost) annual trimming this morning, all of our shrubs resembled Albert Einstein's hair. It was soul-cleansing to finally reign them in, but not without some blood, sweat and tears. Blood, in the form of many sticks from the sticker bushes that I trimmed. Sweat from the toil of trimming 23 (yes, 23) shrubs in the morning sun. Tears, because I am a lazy baby and it seemed like it would never end. The tears were actually more of the incessant whining that I did, to no one in particular than myself. The happy part of this story is that between Dave and I, we've got the work about 90% done today. Weed, mow, plant, mulch, dig, move, rake, we did it all. And we are beat! So the million dollar question is, when will the other 10% get done? Tomorrow? Next weekend? Maybe never? Smart money is on maybe never, cause that's how we roll, but I can be thankful for the 90%.

So, what was my reward (and this was a truly great reward) for all of this hard work today? I came in the house and checked my blog statistics (for those of you google bloggers, you'll recognize this as googleanalytics) and looked at the keyword searches that brought new traffic to the site. I was bent over with laughter when I saw that someone found my site through searching for "Andrew Zimmern Naked Pics". If you held a gun to my head, I never would have imagined that anyone would run that search or, even less likely, find my site as a result of that look up. Best Dave and I can figure is that those four words exist somewhere within my blog postings, though I can assure you, not together.

Naked Zimmern seeker, whoever you are, thank you for the laugh and I am terribly sorry that I could not deliver the goods on that keyword search. Furthermore, I am curious to know if you did ever find the grail you seek. I'm not here to judge. Like they say, "there's a lid for every pot". Your pot just happens to be slightly obtuse.

Edamame iamame youamame we all amame

My body has a very sophisticated health food sensor. It can decipher a million different vitamin and mineral combinations and if a food has more than 2% RDA of a healthful nutrient, it immediately rejects it. This system started early in childhood with the first (and last) time my father forced me to eat my spinach. The resulting regurgitation of the spinach on the dinner table fixed his wagon and Popeye's favorite food never crossed my lips again. That is until someone cleverly disguised it with gobs of mayonnaise, sour cream and vegetable soup and cradled it lovingly inside of a hollowed out bowl of sourdough bread. So how is it that I came to love (with a capital LOVE) edamame?

Well, the unlikely story goes something like this -
My department was invited out to lunch with the department head. This, in and of itself was something akin to hell freezing over, so we all donned our hats and woolen mittens headed off to a Japanese restaurant. I am no cooked fish fan, so the sushi that everyone was anxiously awaiting was clearly out of the question for me. As there is a lemming like mentality in business and certain people believe that mirroring the boss' order is the fast track to a promotion, there was sushi all around. I, on the other hand believe that mirroring the boss' order is the fast track to something brown and stinky on the tip our your nose, so I ordered Tempura (yeah, bitches!). Of course, this led to the litany of questions regarding why I don't like sushi and how could I not like it if I never tried it. I wanted to tell them that I never ate pickled monkey balls either, but I could say with a high degree of confidence that I did not like them, but I let it go. In the interim, someone had ordered several dishes of edamame for the table. I had never tried them, but I knew if I didn't tuck into some of those little green pods, the torture would only increase. It seemed like a low risk food and I could easily spit it into my napkin if it turned out to be foul. Luckily, it was super tasty. The little beans sat warm inside heavily salted pods just begging to be popped out of their skins and munched.

By the time the food came, we had all bonded over the delightful edamame we shared and the torture had blissfully subsided. . . until someone shoved an Empress Roll under my nose, then the game was on. Garcon! Where's my pickled monkey balls? We've got some tastin' to do!

57 Channels (and nothin' on)

I am wrestling with a serious problem right now and I am not sure how to remedy it. With the completion of the season of American Idol and Hell's Kitchen and the extended hiatus of Project Runway, I am at a loss for things to watch. I check in on the Housewives now and again and I occasionally check on the whereabouts of Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern, but I am currently a vidiot without a show.

Because I have nothing else to do (that requires as little movement as TV) I am going to conduct a study of my own TV habits. I am going to channel surf for one half hour and I will record my thoughts about what I land on and why I choose to stay or not stay on a channel:

Here goes, in real time:

8:03 Throwdown with Bobby Flay. BF is one smarmy MF. I like some of his restaurants, but he is not my fave tv host and his guest has a weird beard. C ya!

8:05 E - Hollywood Murders. Too depressing. Who is watching this crap and actually enjoying it? If this is you, please check into the psych ward at your locak hospital.

8:06 STYL - Clean house comes clean. They don't include Neicy Nash in the "Comes Clean" series. What's the point?

8:07 Bravo - Real Housewives of NJ -These bitches make the Gottis look classy. I can't hang.

8:08 - HBO - Blades of Glory - I've seen this one too many times already. Time to move on.

8:09 - HBO (west coast) - Weekend at Bernies - Luckily I caught just the closing credits. Can anybody tell me who still wants to watch this flaming turd besides Andrew McCarthy and Johnathon Silverman ( and my friend NDH, who I love dearly, but question him in life over only this point)?

8:11 - CBS - Tribute to George Strait - Holy crap, I didn't think they would let country music past the censors on NY TV. Not my dip of chaw.

8:12 Fox - So You Think You Can Dance - Commercials. . . . .Oh, good, first day of auditions. Nope, bored already.

8:16 CW - America's Next Top Model - The panel is looking scary! Miss Jay's Andy Warhol wig makes him look like a black and white cookie.

8:19 TV Guide -Look A Like - . . . but first, a Progressive commercial. My friend Mare had a dream to hook up Flo the Progressive Chick with Vince the ShamWow guy. But now that Vince has gone all punchy on a Miami hooker, that relationship is never to be. (heavy sigh) OK, on to the Look-a-like. This chick wants to look like Maraih Carey. No amount of Hollywood magic can make a commoner look that skanktastically crazy. Gotta move on . . .

8:25 BBCA - Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares - This has potential . . . Nope. Saw this one. Crazy British ex-pat in France pours her adorable bistro straight into the toilet. Damn it girl, don't waste the great Ramsay's time. I've gotta give props, the Brits know how to do TV. America is wearing out our welcome jocking Brit TV shows.

8:27 Fuse - Singles - This is a movie that I will always stop and watch no matter what. The first time I saw this movie, my boss took me and a couple of coworkers out for a long lunch and a movie during a slow period. I only did that one more time in my 20 + year career, so that's part of what makes it special. Plus any movie that includes a band called Citizen Dick and their song called "Touch me I'm Dick" is automatically funny. Sorry, I go for the penis jokes.


Well, it's 8:30 and it looks like I will probably light on Singles until at least 9:00. The dullness of my life is only made worse by my own expose. Hope someone out there is doing something fun and outrageous. You know what I'm doing (yawn).

Hooker Watch 2009

It's Memorial Day and the city is full of seamen (Sailors, silly. It's Fleet Week.) and that's why I'm on:

HOOKER WATCH 2009!!!!!

That's right guys and dolls, Dave and I took to the big city this holiday weekend to see Jersey Boys on Broadway and to spend a night in the Marriott Marquee, overlooking Times Square. I love the MM and try to come here whenever we see a Broadway play for two main reasons:

1) The Broadway Lounge offers a panoramic view of Times Square, in all her glittering glory. I can't think of a better place to drink and relax after a show.

2) Hookers, Trannies and Hooker-trannies.

I discovered this affinity between the Marriott and this special variety of "ladies" a few years back when I went into NY to see a show with a group of girlfriends and we were looking for a place to go for drinks after the show. We happened upon the Marriott Marquee mostly due to its location. To my surprise and fascination there was some kind of Drag Queen beauty paegent going on. There were fab drag queens in ball gowns and tiaras everywhere we looked. The MM instantly became my new favorite place to go, post show. On subsequent visits I saw a couple of cross dressing working girls in the the ladies bathroom on the 8th floor. As a matter of fact, there have been hookers or hooker trannies in that bathroom at every visit but this one.

Fear not though, I succeeded in Hooker Watch '09 in the Broadway Lounge. A young woman came into the bar wearing a short, tight, polyester whatnot from the Fall 2009 Flashdancers collection and a long, clip-on ponytail. I gave Dave the "ho-in-the-vicinity" nod in her direction. He assured me that she was just a nice girl from Jersey working her way through college (a'la the Chris Rock Stripper Myth).

This morning I when we got up, I grabbed a giant cup of coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby. While in line, I noticed a woman that looked like Dana Carvey's church lady giving me the stinkeye. I wondered to myself, why am I getting the hairy eyeball from haggsville? I suppose the fact that I wore open-toed shoes on a Sunday might have had her granny panties in a twist.
Then I realized that the way she was looking at me was probably how I checked out ole hoe-down last night at the bar. I should probably be more subtle when scoping out the ass for sale. They have feelings too and I would never want to "church lady" anyone. Besides, I'd be really pissed if I lost my ticket to the freak show.

Go on, Give Yourself Props (if you roll like Carrot Top, that is)

I was going through my special "items to keep" folder on e-mail and I came across a poem that I wrote about myself on the eve of my 44th birthday last year. I was waxing poetic about the joys of middle age and the ravages of time (mostly the ravages of time) and, as my birthday month is fast approaching, I would like to dust this little ditty off and issue an assignment to those bold enough to take it. . . . .

Whether shameless self-tribute, scathing life review or full on roast, write a ditty about yourself. Go ahead, feel free to use the comments. We've got plenty.

Good lord have mercy that gal is old
She looks a fright truth be told
Who put the crows feet on her eyes
And cellulite on butt and thighs
She's got the gout and it's been said
she wears a wig upon her head
She's crusty, cranky, toothless too
Her skin's as smooth as an old brown shoe
She's an aged craggy work of art
Forgotten all that made her smart
Used to rock to 80's tunes
Now her skin is wrinkled prunes
But don't feel sorry for her lameness
*She once gawked at Martin Chambers

DG out - (all **43 years of her)


* A little context here . This poem was written to friends immediately after telling them the story of how I almost knocked the Pretender's drummer off his feet while hastily shuffling down a NY street. It was one of my very limited number of brushes with fame. My friend Vin, he's another story. All he has to do is leave the house and someone famous crosses his path.

** This was true at this time last year (sigh)

HAVE A HAPPY, SAFE MEMORIAL DAY

Childhood regression, you are clear for take off

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of this week I am doing time on the campus of a large NY State University for a Project Management "boot camp" type of course. College campuses are a frightening and alien thing to me, as most of my college credits were earned via night school or virtual classroom. Glorious results of a misspent youth, I guess. Having never lived on a college campus, I find every visit to be extremely daunting.

I started my morning unable to decipher the building map sufficiently to locate the engineering building. Luckily a kindhearted froshie took pity on me and walked me over to the building. How humiliating is that?

Being that this university is literally around the block from where I live, I decided to go home for lunch. This turned out to be an ill advised move as I was given 45 minutes and it was a 10 minute walk to the car (each way) and a 5 minute drive (each way), leaving 15 minutes for parking garage ticketing/paying, lunch prep, eating and digestion. Hadn't this Project Management class taught me anything about the importance of planning?

Around 12:00 noon I pulled into the driveway next to the passenger side of Dave's car. As I got out of my car, a scratch on his front passenger door caught my eye. Its shape was a little abstract, but on closer inspection, it was clearly a penis. Now, I guess a normal wife would adopt an air of concern and gingerly alert her spouse to the unfortunate damage to his car. NOT ME! I burst into uncontrollable laughter, laughing and shrieking as I ran up the walk and into the door. My unexpected presence and loud entry scared the crap out of Dave and he yelled down, "What's the matter?". I could barely get the words out. At this point, I was laughing so hard that I was gasping for air. I managed to blurt out "Someone scratched a penis into the side of your car!" As you can imagine, he did not meet my level of glee upon hearing this news.


He was visibly upset by the thought of the damage, but after he inspected the car he seemed somewhat relieved. I guess he was expecting something of more epic proportions and anatomical correctness. That's men for you, always thinking its bigger than it is.


I will return to class tomorrow with the improved confidence that comes with knowing where the hell you're going. Dave will be probably be going to Pep Boys to get something to rub that penis out. Hey, that's not what I meant. You know what I mean. Aw, forget it.

Prom Time - My Way

It's that time of year again, when the stores are filled with candy colored dresses and parents are dragged bodily through the mall into places like Macy's and Nordstrom and Cachet. This annual festival is something that I don't relate to at all. I'm not exactly sure why, but my friends and I thought we were too cool for prom. We never even considered attending. Whenever this time of year rolls around, I wonder what it would have been like if I had gone.

Being that I hated being a teen and love being a middle aged person (truth is life begins at 40 y'all), I am thinking of having a middle aged prom, done my way. Here goes:

1: Location - Instead of a catering hall, which tends to be overly mirrored (middle agers don't need views into all those unflattering angles), I would hold the prom at a floating, tented location to be disclosed at the very last minute, like a rave. There would not be a single mirror present. This would keep Debbie Gluckman away as she always stared at her own reflection in whatever she could find when she talked to you. Mirror, window, snack machine, she would lovingly gaze at herself and pat her hair while you talked. Deb, honey, I've got to ask, wtf were you staring at? You had a face that looked like severe tire damage and a frizzy brillo pad of hair with two parallel sausage curls running down either side. Ew.

2: Prom Queen: I would nominate my most fabulous GBF to be prom queen and he would turn out in the most fierce ensemble, putting those run of the mill cheerleaders to shame. I wouldn't even want to invite the cheerleaders, except they were the ones that made the most fun of the GBF in High School, so they need to understand that the social strata has shifted, bitches!

3: Prom Court: The women with the best stretch marks would be the prom court. If your stomach looks like it's been mauled by a wolf, you're a shoe-in.

4: Prom King: Nerd alert! Clearly, the most successful High School nerd would have to be the Prom King. Preferably anyone from the AV squad, especially if he turned out to be a Bill Gates type.

5: Music: 80's alternative all the way. Depeche Mode, Psychedelic Furs, Smithereens, Elvis Costello, The Cure. Heavy Metal dominated my high school days and while I like it, I resent my HS's reluctance to embrace anything different. All you lemmings can suck my play list!!!!

6: Dancing: Men can't attend unless they are willing to dance. And I'm talking arm swinging 80's dancing a la Simon LeBon or Clare Grogan in Altered Images video of Happy Birthday (click here for video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40K2S0-5Xo0)

7:Drinks: Half the fun of prom is sneaking in liquor. Being that we would all be of age (times 2), I would suggest that everyone bring their most creative sneak of liquor. Whether it is a cleverly concealed flask, airline bottles in your clutch or a bottle of Gatorade pre-spiked, just to have that feeling of "naughty".

8: Attire: The most over the top, hideous 80's prom gown you can find. Preferably all gold lame with puffy sleeves a peplum waist line and a sweetheart neck. And you'd best have big, permed hair and mall bangs. If you can't stamp "Inflate to 40 Lbs" on your head, then your hair isn't big enough and you can't get in. Any guy that shows up with a Flock of Seagulls hairdo gets to bitch slap a cheerleader, so get out your Tenax and line up!

So whaddaya think? Are you in? Could be a great time. Certainly better than it would have been in 1982. Now if only I could get my virginity back.

P.S. There was a new Teen Girl Squad cartoon (finally), which was my inspiration for this post. If you haven't heard of Homestarrunner.com, I suggest you check it out. Here is the link to the latest installment of the TGS series. Enjoy! http://www.homestarrunner.com/tgs15.html

Get a job!

I need some love from my working brothers and sisters on today’s topic. I have been ruminating lately about how difficult it is to work with certain personality types and what my own personality and style brings to the workplace. This is something that I think about all the time, but more so lately as I recently re-took the Meyers Briggs personality test and training course. I took this many years ago, and supposedly the criteria and process has changed a little, so I took it again. I also took the Keirsey Temperament sorter, which has foundations in Meyers Briggs, but talks more about your work style and appropriate jobs for your personality type.

So, here is what Meyers Briggs says that I am –

INFJ - This four letter acronym means that I am more introverted than extroverted, more intuitive than sensing, more feeling than thinking and more judging and structured than perceiving.
OK, whatever you say, Meyers Briggs. It also tells you what people of note share your type.

Get this:
Me and Mother Theresa, we tight!
Me and MLK should go out for beers.
Me and Tom Selleck (?!?), homies.
Me and Shirley McLaine share an astral plane.

OK, so I guess I am a selfless, human rights activist that believes in gun rights and out of body experiences. Uh, yeah, that’s me in a nutshell (NOT).

So what does Keirsey say about my choice of career?

Well, Keirsey also says that I am an INFJ, but to them it means that I am more attentive than expressive, more introspective than observant, more friendly than tough minded and more scheduled than probing. They label me an “Idealist-Counselor”. The list of perfect jobs for the Idealist-Counselor? Here goes:

Occupational Therapist (That would require patience. Uh, not my long suit)
Creative Writer (I can write. Not necessarily creatively or with any regard for grammar, syntax, structure or punctuation)
Film Maker (I’m no Scorcese.)
Art Director (Of those that draw stick people only.)
Librarian (Really. Isn’t literacy a bonafide job requirement?)
Architect (The structural integrity of anything, should never be left in my hands.)
Counselor (I would feel too much of peoples pain. I would end up eating a bullet.)
Registered Nurse (Do apathy and a queasy stomach disqualify me from this one?)
Religious Educator (Hold on, I’m still laughing.. . . . . )
Grant Writer (WTF is this?)
Reporter/Correspondent (Didn’t you just tell me that I am NOT observant?)
Professor of Sociology (Yeah, I’m short a few thousand credits for this one)

So what is missing from this magic recipe of type sorting? My career. I’m a Project Manager in the software application development world. I’ve been one for forever and a day. Have I been a hopelessly inept PM for this long or do I have the untapped potential to be the most stellar Religious Educator that ever espoused dogma, if I only tried? All these tests have served to do is confuse me. That was a lot of effort to find out that I am mismatched to my job and don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. The only thing that is clear to me at this point is that I need to play Lotto, every day.

Happy Mother's Day to All

Happy Mother's Day

A friend of mine sent me an e-mail on Friday which stated that all people should be celebrated on Mother's Day as we all know what it is to mother something. Whether we have nurtured a friend through a rough time or to nursed a sick pet back to health or have fostered a relationship with someone who needed a little TLC, it's all a form of mothering. Just because it does not necessarily happen between a mother and child does not negate the care and support that goes into the deed. So in honor of this day and that lovely sentiment, I wish all of you, whether you are man, woman, child or beast, a Happy Mother's Day and hope that you extend your wishes to someone caring and special, regardless of their relationship to you.

P.S. I rocked out a killer brunch today. My way of telling the moms on my list that I love them was to clog their arteries with as much pork fat as I possibly could. My heart was in the right place, unfortunately, theirs are probably swollen just a few centimeters as a result.

Check out this menu:

Glazed Spiral Ham

Carrot Souffle

Potatoes and Eggs O'Brien w/Bacon

Homemade Cinnamon Rolls

Blueberry Crumb Cake (thanks Mandy)

Brownies

Mimosas

Pound Cake (Thanks Mom)

Everything on the table was disposable (my gift to me), but it was still pretty and festive. I can bearly move. I feel a food coma coming on.

!!!!!!!HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL OF Y'ALL!!!!!!

Crushes are a Mutha . . .

Stand back. This gets a little sentimental . . .

Last night I decided to go food shopping after dinner. It was a very unusual decision for me, as I never shop on a school night. I am usually way too tired and have a full schedule of laundry and boob tube with a 9:15 pass out coming before completion of either. As I was getting ready to go, a sweet voice called and asked "Mom, can I go with you?". I almost didn't recognize the voice as it hadn't addressed me that way in a very long time. It usually was addressing me in a voice just under a yell, dripping with "you don't get it, old person" sarcasm or downright anger. Could this angelic voice be my thirteen year old son? I sat there slack-jawed for a minute and tried to find my words. "Sure honey, get your shoes on." Despite my best effort, the words came out more like a question, clearly revealing my shock and surprise. We walked to the car side by side and drove off to Stop and Shop.

As we walked in the doors, Joey revealed to me that he needed to buy a birthday gift. The disucssion went like this:

JOEY: I need to buy a birthday gift for a friend.

MOM: OK, honey, when is the party?

JOEY: Oh, it's not like that. There's no party. I just want to get a little gift. I brought my own money, you don't even have to buy it for me.

MOM: Oh, OK, who is it for.

JOEY: It's for my friend Chris.

MOM: Which Chris?

JOEY: Uh, Chris Blahblahblah. Remember, she was in my first grade class?

MOM: <trying to stay cool and not giggle because he said "she"> Oh, OK, Chris. Sure (I lied).

I tried to steer him to the card aisle but he pointedly told me that he's "got this" and that cards would not be necessary (too much direct sentiment, I suppose). About two aisles into our shop, he asked me if he could go off and purchase something for his "friend". He assured me that he would only be a text message away. I agreed and off he went. Fifteen minutes later, while perusing the meat aisle, Joey returned to my side with a bag full of items. He pulled out a mint green beanie baby bear, an egg of Silly Putty and two cans of silly string. Then he rummaged around the bottom of the bag and pulled out a package of Orange Tic Tacs. "These are for you." "Really?" I asked, the lump in my throat beginning to form. I handed them back to him and like the first class bitch that I am sometimes said "You bought these for yourself, right?". He replied that they were indeed for me, hammering his point home by asking "They ARE your favorite flavor, aren't they?". He had me dead to rights.

I spent the second half of my shopping trip with a lump in my throat, fighting back the tears. Questions about "Chris" were racing through my head, along with a sense of disbelief that old Joey was back. I had been having a lot of trouble recently with Joey's teenage incarnation. He was a moody and angry and spent most of the time locked in his room. Only the outer shell looked like the boy that had been so sweet, loving and fun that I often wondered what wonderful planet he came from.

I couldn't help but wonder and worry about this "Chris" person.

- What if this was just a crush and the feelings were not reciprocal?

- What if she likes him but he loses his nerve and doesn't act on it?

- What if she is just not good enough for him? (aw F it. Nobody will be)

The thought of a teenage crush gone wrong was almost too much for me to bear. I remember how devastated I was when I was 12 and I had a mad crush on the 16 year old cashier at Brill's Supermarket. I rode past his house every day. I wrote him love letters that I never delivered. And when I tried to flirt with him (obviously and not the least bit smoothly), he pointed out our age difference and left me in pieces.

I know that here is nothing that we can do to stop our kids from experiencing the pain of life. But I am warning you "Chris", whoever you are, if you hurt my baby, I'm coming for you. I'm not afraid to cut a bitch and I have a shovel and a 50 lb bag of lime ear marked for just such an occasion. So mind your P's and Q's missy, because if you hurt old Joey, I'm gunnin for ya. If you hurt new Joey then bitch, you're on your own.

Nice Mommy is Back

Sweet, kind, lovable, caring and good natured Diary is back. Look, she even baked cookies. Nice, reasonably healthy Oatmeal Cookies. Baked 'em right from the recipe on the cereal tube with the roller-set Amish dude on the front. Even put raisins in a few, to up the fiber content and keep the fam nice and regular.

Oh, there she goes, with a bluebird perched upon her finger and a song in her heart. Family has removed their armor and is now blissfully munching cookies. Tra, la, la. <Waving as Diary skips across a daisy filled meadow> Bye Diary!!!!

The Sound Off

I know that in my last few posts I have been a little bitchy. Unfortunately there is a brief time each month when my usual saintly demeanor (insert husband's eyeroll here) skews more toward Genghis Khan (insert husband's nodding in agreement here) than Mother Theresa. It's OK, I own it. I can recognize that it is bigger than me and that I must bow to its superior fire power. During these, umm, "edgier" moments, my blog takes on a slightly antagonistic tone, like this Mall Madness or this Home Sweet, Sticky Home or today's post for instance. I am admittedly not feeling so generous of spirit these days. So like an exorcism, the demon attitude must be purged and the more I write, the more I purge and the more my family can stop hiding the sharp implements. It's gotten so bad that my poor husband can't find any of his Phillips head screwdrivers.

So what's on my last nerve at this very moment? Bitches that talk on the cell phone in the bathroom stalls at work. If I wanted to know that your baby-daddy didn't give you money for formula this month or that your sister is being such a bitch about not wearing the purple shoes that you have dictated for your wedding or that you're so totally going to see the new Star Trek movie when it comes out, then I would knock on the stall, interrupt you mid-stream and ask you. Because that's what you're doing to me and I have no say in the matter.

Bathrooms are meant to be bastions of privacy. Their very design makes sound amplify within its walls, so your vapid chatter reverberates and gets all up in my business (ahem, figuratively speaking). And when you're finished with your toliet-bound chatter, please wash your hands and exit the room. Don't stand in front of the mirror, smoothing and patting your hair a thousand times while staring intently into your own eyes. Your 'do looks exactly the effing same as when you walked in, so by my estimation, you just wasted ten minutes of valuable sink time for those of us that actually want to wash our hands and get the F out. What's next, a sandwich and a laptop?

Personally, I find public toilets so gross that a swift exit is imperative. I don't want to hang out there. What's the draw? The bland decor? The foul odor? The constant influx of new people to overhear the crushing boredom of your life?

There, I feel better now. Please be sure to tune in tomorrow when the kinder and gentler Diary returns from her hormonal exile. She's excited about her comeback and has been considering posting about rainbows, puppies and the exciting world of cookie baking.

With hope for tomorrow,

- Diary

Mall Madness

I am not a regular visitor to the mall. In fact, I find it to be an alien and hostile place rife with dangerous impulse buys and foreign life forms clearly not of my species (ie. teenagers, the elderly and rent-a-cops). It is just one of those creatures that made my necessary but almost wholly unbearable trip to the world of Stepford sameness even more unsettling. I hadn't even gotten through the inner door of the mall vestibule before I saw it - a mall cop on a Segway. Holy Paul Blart Batman! When did this disgusting development occur?

I know that I am not being charitable here, but nerds on wheels make me queasy. To see them rolling about in their ill-fitting polyester pants and bike helmets triggers a scary combination of pity and humor plus just a little sick-up at the back of my throat. What exactly is the addition of wheelage supposed to gain these fellows?

They certainly don't move faster than I could on foot. All I can tell from this recent visit is that it gives them the ability cruise by Abercrombie and Fitch slowly enough to truly appreciate the gay porn that adorns the entrance way. And while I am on the subject of A&F, allow me to say - Really, people? Enough with the pictures of carefully waxed man-boys . This week's A&F mural features a black and white picture of a male from navel to crotch, abs all hairless and rippling, shoving his hand into the waistband of unbuttoned jeans. I have no issue with using sex as a sly and compelling way to entice buyers. But unless your shelves are actually stocked from floor to ceiling with man-nuggets, you might want to consider a more subtle approach to your advertising.

So there I was, a stranger in a strange land. Lost amidst the motor city nerdmen and the tween mecca that was to be my final destination. I must have been oozing my lack of comfort as I walked through the hellish war-zone of retail because the booth hawkers and bathroom remodlers that generally descend upon me like vultures averted their gazes. Had I grown a third eye or was I just looking that unamused. I can tell you that I wasn't smiling and well, now that I think back, I might have been gritting my teeth and mumbling angrily to myself about "losing IQ points" after I passed A&F. Just as well, because my goal was to exchange a pair of jeans for my daughter at Justice and be outie.

The cruel irony here is that once I walked into the shiny and colorful world of Justice I got sucked in, big time. Somehow my simple exchange for size turned into a manic shopping fiesta that lasted longer than I care to recall. And as I walked out of Justice's mom-friendly doors, weighted down with colorful packages of tween goodness, I floated past the Blarts and the waxed nakedness without so much as a glance. Retail therapy 1 - Diary of a mad bathroom 0.

Sock Farmin'

We finally ordered a new bed for my son. I say finally because it's been a long time coming. I think the thing that put us over the edge for ordering it was my mother-in-law's recent overnight visit with us. The day after she slept over, she told everyone that would listen that "Joey doesn't have a bed." I guess what she meant was that he didn't have a decent bed, but it came out as if he were an underprivileged and abused orphan that slept on the floor, swatting flies and waiting for gruel. Only a mother in law could paint so clear a picture with such an economy of words.

Now, beds are not something that we order more often than every seven years or so, so I am not really aware of how the mattress delivery process works these days. At last bed purchase, everyone was offering same or next day delivery and they would " haul your old mattress away". The very thought of which repulsed me. I don't want my clean, new mattress sharing truck space with someone else's old pee stained, DNA-fest. But I digress. . . Being that this is my most recent memory of mattress purchase, you can imagine that I was quite surprised to hear that Joey's new mattress and boxspring would not be here for two weeks. Somehow our son wrangled us into letting him sleep on the living room couch for this two week period as the purchase of a new bed suddenly alerted him to how uncomfortable his old bed was.

Now, to be fair, his old bed looked like a decrepit, swaybacked mule. If this thing was an animal, it would have been glue by now. Not only did it have a massive dip in the upper third of the mattress, it also tilted downward. I tried to sell this as a "roll out of bed with ease" feature, but he was not buying.

So finally, the two weeks of couch-camping is coming to an end. The new bed is coming today. This morning while I was in the shower, Dave took the old mattress and box spring to the curb. When I walked past Joey's room I saw the empty bed frame ringing what looked like a sock farm. There were pairs, singles, balled up and unfurled socks all over the place. Some had formed little colonies of 4 or 5, others were loners, perhaps too dirty or stinky to congregate with others. One thing that I am pretty sure of is that these little minxes multiplied. There is no way that my son could be so irresponsible and ditsy as to allow a googolplex of socks to fall behind and under his bed. Right? Am I right? Anyone? Is this thing on? (crickets. chirp. chirp)