Friday, December 30, 2011

New Year, New Me. . . not really

Photo Credit: I snatched this bitch from jenbutneverjenn.com. I have no idea where she snatched it from


Hello.  Have you met me? I'm DG at Diary and I am not a "mommy blogger".  I have spent the last three years tippity typing on this keypad, seeking to illustrate how I hate the PTA, would rather be drawn and quartered than carry a Vera Bradley Bag and shoot neighborhood parents with a BB gun when they walk their dogs (OK, the third part is a lie, but some of those bitches make it into my darker day dreams). So why in the name of evil Mother Nature would ANYONE solicit me to hawk their scrapbooking product?

After a long vacation away from my blog, I returned to find an e-mail from some chick that "absolutely loves" my blog and wants to advertise her product on it.  All I can think is, does she love it for my desire to put truck nutz on my Uncle's pick up or for spewing rabid hate about the PTA?  I have never expressed an interest in scrapbooking, wearing sweatpants with words on the ass or any other mommy cliche (apologies if you are sitting on the word PINK as you read this). Not  to say that that those things are bad, they just are not me.

Now, while I may not be a Mommy Blogger, I am most definitely a woman, and what does a woman do when someone professes their love for her?  She tests that love, of course.  So being that this woman has put her love for my blog in writing, I am going to make sure that she really knows what she loves.

This post today is a warning shot of sorts, because in the coming weeks, I am going to go ahead and run her promotion (if she writes back and hasn't figured out her marketing error as of yet).   I don't want you all to think that I have gone soft or commercial or "mommy" once you see me hawking her patchwork rainbow on my blog.  It is more to see if they really pay attention to who they solicit.

Part of this process will be to give away some scrapbooking software, so I will be running a contest.  PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE do not let my bitter words stop you from entering to win the software, wearing sweats or joining the PTA.  These things are not for me, but I do not judge if they are for you. . .unless you live within my school district, then I'm Judge effing Judy.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Legend of the Invisible Blogger

For those of you that may have stopped by over the past month or so, you might have noticed that I'm not here.   You also may have noticed that I have not been around to your blogs either.   I just want you to know that there is no cause for alarm, I am indeed still breathing air and complaining bitterly about the PTA. . .I'm just not doing it on my blog.  

There are a host of reasons for my recent absence and many of them are quite positive.  For one thing, I took another trip to Italy.   For those of you that were reading here last year, you know that I took my first trip in August of '10 and like a jonesin junkie, I had to get back for another fix.   Another thing that has been taking up my time and brain cells was the planning of a pretty big Halloween Party.  Not just any Halloween Party, but an 80's Prom themed Halloween Party.  Needless to say, that was a hell of a good time and if I were not an anonymous blogger, I'd post pictures of myself dressed as Boy George, dancing my face off. Sorry. No can do.  I have a PTA to dis and my mug (although coated with a Tammy Faye Bakeresque coating of war paint) must remain hidden.

There is plenty more at hand, but that's all I'm sharing for now, so I'm checking in and checking out. Not for good, mind you, but for a little while.  I will miss you while I hiatus, but like that other 80's robot, the Terminator, I'll be back (and that's a promise, not a threat). 

Friday, September 30, 2011

Is Fake Singing the Only Thing More Critical Than Global Thermonuclear War? Duh, Obvi.

I might have said once or thirty times that I am not a big fan of our school's PTA.  This is not because I don't appreciate the wonderful things that they do to raise money for our school, I most certainly do recognize and appreciate that.   The problem with our PTA is that it seems to attract a very specific type of woman and this type of woman is not my favorite.  In fact, I think it's fair to say that if this type of woman were a man, I'd punch her in the junk.

You know the type of woman that I'm talking about; the type with too much time on her hands, lots of gossip to spread and just enough of a mean streak to spread it freely. She will  sidle up to Mother A at Spaghetti Wingo Night to mine a nugget of deeply personal information out of her and by the time Family Fun Night comes around, Mothers B-Z have heard the entire story in rich detail. In a word they are cliquey, klatschy, crappy.

Generally speaking, I avoid these women like herpes.  In the beginning of the year, I make a financial contribution and then I lift my giant rock like Patrick Star and I get under it for the duration.   Unfortunately, over the last school year,  I had to interface with these sea hags of the educational system and as usual the experience has left me full of piss and vinegar.  My least favorite PTA moment of the prior school year - Lip Sync Night.

Yeah, you heard me, Lip Sync Night.  Don't look at me with that puzzled look on your face.  If you don't know what that is, you spend more time under your rock than I do.  This is a matter of critical national importance!  It's code red!  It's under media scrutiny! IT'S LIP-EFFING-SYNC!!!!!!!! You clearly don't get the gravity of the situation.  Allow me to illuminate. . .

My daughter has participated in Lip Sync night for past three years and this year, she really didn't want to do it. Unfortunately, one of her good friends insisted that she join and being the 12 year old girl that she is, she caved to the pressure of the queen bee.

When rehearsals began, we received a very detailed, typed schedule of practices, shortly after that, the costume requirements came home.  They consisted of shorts, tank top, black tee shirt, leg warmers,nude pantyhose, gauntlets (fingerless gloves) and black converse sneakers.  This little outfit ran us in the neighborhood of $150.00, but listen up people, IT'S LIP SYNC NIGHT!

As practice wore on, we started to get performance notes home about our daughter's efforts at Lip Sync practice. Apparently, there were some issues with the way she was fake singing. She was behind a step here, she didn't seem to have memorized the words to the second verse, she was moving to the back row a half a beat too soon, etc.  It was about this time that I wanted to call the mother up and say,  "Listen up Fosse, lay off the Dexedrine and lay off my kid!".   But instead, we took the notes and promptly filed them in the shitter where they belonged and never mentioned it to the kid.

Fast forward to Lip Sync night.  As we pulled up to the school, we had to fight our way through throngs of paparazzi and a deep layer of security to get in.  We found our way to our glamorous, gum covered seats in the auditorium and quickly scanned the program to see where our daughter's group was - fifth in a field of 53.  Thanks to the collective deities of the universe for that small favor.  I had sat through all three hours of the past two years for our daughter's two minute performance.  Being the mother of an outgoing 6th grader gave me the gravitas to bolt out under cover of darkness after her performance. I was through being polite.  We left and went food shopping.  We had a neighbor text us when the finale started and we went back and got her.

As we were walking out, my daughter turned to me and said "Do you remember my friend Jamie from Kindergarten?"  "The one whose mother was PTA president?" I replied, trying not to have my voice drip with too much venom.  "Yea, that's her.  Well her mother hired a professional choreographer for her group." Dumbstruck, I failed to respond, I simply stopped in my tracks with my mouth hung open like a trout.  My daughter looked back at me with a devilish grin and a gleam in her eye, knowing that she had stunned the unstunnable.

Early this month I sent my daughter off to Jr High School.  I have my concerns about the next couple of years as Jr High is a time of discovery and experimentation for many teenagers.  It has more freedom , more stress and more homework than elementary school, but you know what it doesn't have? Lip Sync night. I think it's going to be OK after all.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

My Bladder is no Longer Strong Enough for My Daugther's You Tube Recommendations

This is undeniably stupid.  Goofy.  Even a little weird.  But as soon as I saw it, I burst into uncontrollable, spasmodic, hacking (just getting over bronchitis) laughter.  I dunno.  See for yourself.


Friday, September 9, 2011

10 Things That Scare Me

Spam - the slimy, gelatinous meat in a can, not the e-mail kind.

PTA Moms - This frightening breed of uber-moms seems to live to gossip and judge and to make absolutely sure that you only get one playbill on LipSync Night. 

Raw Chicken - No, really, I have bad dreams about cross-contamination.

Televangelists - They are a generically frightening bunch, but Benny Hinn's hair is truly terrifying.

Anything that Andrew Zimmern eats.

Radical Vegans - Peace out girl scout.  I am cool with you eating twigs and dirt, you need to be cool with me having a big hairy steak.  Mmmmmm, Flay Steak.

George Michael's Shorts in Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.  - I mean, really?  Wasn't he concerned with VPL (either visible panty lines or visible penis lines - it's your call).

Planking - Seriously,  this is all there is for you to do?  Come to my house and help me paint if you're bored.

Pea Puree - Everyone on Top Chef has parked a protein on top of pea puree.  There was even controversy one season about someone stealing someone else's pea puree.  What is with this trend?  Is this really anything more than runny baby food?  Besides, if you leave the peas whole, they are much easier for me to push aside with blatant disregard.

Absinthe - One time is all you need to know that this is the single most terrifying and volatile substance ever distilled.  Keep your dignity . . .if someone offers you Absinthe, just say no (unless you like wearing a strangers underwear on your head, then, by all means, be my guest).


Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Odoriferous Chillin

I need to start this blog post with a dedication to hurricane Irene.  Avast ye drunken wench!  You rolled into port, blew everything in site, left our little island broken and powerless and moved on up the coast.  Thanks for the syphilis ya scurvy skank!

OK, now that I got that out of my system. . . I'm really not here to complain about hurricane Irene.  We did lose power for five days and while she may have dosed us with a case of electrical clap, it was our incompetent doctor LIPA that ensured that we kept that case of the drips until we bordered on the brink of madness.  However, we were very lucky as all of our family and pets are safe and there was no real damage to our property, outside of our refrigerator, which suffered mightily.

When the storm was on its way, we filled a big cooler with many bags of ice and then proceeded to fill the cooler with key perishables from the fridge - eggs, butter, milk, vodka. You know, the important stuff.  I also jammed the freezer full of bags of ice to use as a sort of secondary cooler, figuring the power would be back on long before the metric ton of ice that I had supplied would ever melt.  Wrong again Diary. Very wrong.  There was no way to predict the level of chaos associated with trying to work, take cold showers, keep track of children with dying cell phones and check in and out of hotels amidst a widespread blackout.  I totally forgot about the remainder of what was in the fridge.  I forgot for five days.

When the power came back and we finally opened her up, the aroma was what I'd imagine the devil's taint smells like after a tough workout. Or maybe that's not a heinous enough comparison. I dunno. It was BAD.
Not only had I not removed all perishables from the fridge, I left the things that are most likely to stink to high heaven when they go bad; containers of  yogurt, chicken wings, juices and hummus and a variety of cold cuts and cheeses. Did I mention the block of smoked provolone? Yeah, I left that too. It was like the stinky cherry on a gabage pile sundae.

The next 24 hours were dedicated to decontaminating the fridge.  Every scrap of food save for two sealed jars of  pepperoncini and Lemon Curd were pitched into the trash.   We then removed all drawers, shelves and cubbies and scrubbed them twice with soap and hot water.  Anything small enough to fit in the dishwasher, took a ride through the Sterilization cycle and the box itself was scrubbed with Mr Clean until it sparkled like diamond dust.  I then reassembled the shelving and equipped her with two fresh boxes of baking soda.  I felt a tremendous relief to have a clean fresh smelling refrigerator, for about thirty seconds.

As I turned to walk away from my sparkling clean masterwork, I got a whiff of the rotting hell that we had smelled before.  Could it be that I didn't scrub sufficiently?  I inserted my head deep into the freezer and inhaled.  Nothing. Repeated the procedure with the fridge.  Fresh as a daisy.  But again as I turned away, there it was.  Just a whiff, with no obvious location.  From that point, I began sterilizing everything.  The sink got scrubbed with bleach and force fed an entire box of baking soda. The dishwasher got one of those dishwasher spa treatments.  Still, the smell persisted.  Finally, I noticed warm exhaust coming from under the fridge .  It was clear that the smell was riding up on that burst of warm air. It must be the drip pan!

My husband grabbed a flashlight and looked under the fridge and sure enough, there was a drip pan filled with festering water.  The ice in the fridge had been melting down into the drip pan and carrying the aroma of everything that was gradually rotting in the fridge for five days.  We had to clean that drip pan, which meant that we were going to have to move the fridge. The thought of moving the fridge made me very nervous. It had been a while since we had moved the fridge, I fully expected to find a Hobbit community under there, complete with homes, pets and infrastructure. It wasn't quite that bad, but it was a little gnarly.

Between gags, we cleaned and sanitized the drip pan within an inch of its festering life, and voila! the smell was gone.  We then cleaned up Hobbit Town and pushed the fridge back into place all clean and fresh.

Later that evening, I went to target to stock up on cleaning supplies.  As I was checking out, the cashier looked at me sideways when she saw the sheer volume of home fragrance that I had purchased - two cupcake scented pillar candles, a jar candle that smelled like mango and pineapple, three reed diffusers, a cinnamon apple plug in and a bottle of Febreeze.  I looked back at her, giggled nervously, shrugged my shoulders and said "teenagers".  I know, I know, it wasn't true, but I dare you to poke your head into my son's room and continue to judge that response.  It might be a close second to the drip pan.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

It's the Razor's Edge

;How do you know that you've had too much to drink?  Many have wrestled with this question and have struggled to find the correct balance.  However, as the hostess of several recent summer parties, I have determined that the one word answer to that question is - Karaoke.

A few months back, my husband put two and two together and realized, we have a PA system, microphones and a laptop, let's have karaoke at our parties.  I must admit, I thought it was a terrible idea.  No one that I knew had ever expressed any interest in karaoke and the whole thing just seemed a little cheesy to me.  Oh how wrong I was.  It seems that all it takes is the correct quantity of alcohol and even the most reserved party goer will line up to warble like a croaking cat.

I can't count myself among the warblers, but I am one hell of an audience.  As a matter of fact, we have taped many of these karaoke performances and the sound of my cackling laughter drowns out the "singing".

This past weekend, a very conservative friend spent the afternoon with us, in the pool, having cocktails.  By the time that dinner was over, he had the microphone welded to his hand and had proceeded to sing his way through the entire Eminem catalog. You really haven't lived until you've heard a drunken, 58 year old computer programmer try to navigate "Without Me". It's truly a "life is good" moment.

Life is not so good for my neighbors though.  Between the hardcore band and the karaoke, they are exposed to a lot noise-wise. Luckily our back yard faces a greenbelt, so we can direct the PA toward the flora and the fauna instead of toward the neighbors.  This might explain all the deer and rabbit poop I keep finding in the yard.  Sheesh, everyone's a critic.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

From China with Love

So I get this e-mail the other day from Edward at Hotwind Sauna.   I was surprised and delighted to get his communication and felt that it was of only a matter of ettiquette that I write back as he indicated that he was waiting for my reply.  If we know one thing about me, it's that I am nothing if not polite and who am I to deny Edward the follow up that he so richly deserves?   What follows below is Edward's E-mail to me and the response that I sent him this morning.

2011/7/27 Hotwind Sauna--Edward hot012@hotwindsauna.com

Dear Sir,

How are you?

This is Edward from Hotwind sauna equipment co.,ltd, our website www.hotwindsauna.com

We get your company info from internet

Please kindly let me make a brief introduction of our company

Our company is specialized in manufacturing all kinds of sauna room and has had 17 years history so far. Our factory area reach 120,000 square meters. Our output is about 3000 to 5000 units per month. We have got CE,ROHS,ETL and ISO9001 certificate. please see some new line models

We are sure we would offer higher quality sauna cabins with very competive price

Looking for your follow up

With my best regards

Sincerely
Edward




Dear Edward,


Thank you for contacting me about your sauna cabinet product. What flavors do these cabinets come in? Do you offer a high fiber/low fat option? If so, how many stone does it weigh and will it still respect me in the morning? I sure hope so because I have a friend that took a hotwind sauna to the rodeo and it got trampled by a bull. How would you propose that we address this and future injustices?

Please remember to put the wash in the dryer.

Best,
Diary

Sunday, July 24, 2011

I do Awkward Bathroom Dances

Not to put too fine a point on it, but lately, work has been biting hairy monkey wiener. I have a new boss (my third one inside of a year) and while I absolutely LOVE going through the process of proving myself to a third person, I think I am on the verge of mental collapse.

When I got into work on Thursday, my bosses office was dark.  A few minutes later I found out that he would be working from home.  I immediately ran to the bathroom, went into the first stall and proceeded to do a happy dance.  I think that once you start dancing in the bathroom, it s a clear sign that your best days in a job are behind you.

As miserable as I may be in my work life, I am lucky to have some great friends and a delightfully strange family.  After spending a blissful afternoon at a beach party yesterday, I woke up to find the following note next to the phone. 


I don't know if it is an accusation or a shopping list, but it tickles me to the core.  Mature? No, but a fitting note for someone who bathroom dances and proof that work may be crap but crap can be funny.  It's all a matter of perspective.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

I Went to NYC and all I Got Was This Lousy B and D photo

If you go to the city with the intention of taking photos and capturing a slice of city life, then you have too many of these -




You end up only taking one picture. . . Of this -

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Please Visit 400 Wake Ups Today

Those of you that have been here before know that I am all about nonsense and keeping it light, but I read a post today that really spoke to me and I wanted to pass it on.   Allyson over at 400 Wake Ups is the wife of a US Soldier stationed in Iraq.  By reading Allyson's blog over the past few months, I have learned a great deal about army life and about the seemingly constant sacrifices that soldiers and their families make every single day.

Today's post was about the war wounds that are not visible to the naked eye and how mental health issues, such as PTSD are not dealt with in the same way as physical wounds.  While I do not relate to this from the perspective of someone that has friends or family in the armed forces, I do relate to it on a broader level, as my family has been impacted by mental illness and I have similar feelings about the importance of seeking help and eliminating the shame associated with these issues.

So for this post, I will be serious and encourage you to go pay a visit to Allyson and learn a little bit about the impact of PTSD on folks in the armed services.  Don't worry, the seriousness won't last long.  My next post could be an audio clip of me burping the National Anthem.  Not classy, but certainly in character.  Now git!

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Offering the Druids Some of the Best Bad Acting Ever Burned to Celluloid

Once again, my son has dropped the You Tube knowledge on me.  His latest obsession is a low budget movie written by, starring and directed by a bizarre French man named Tommy Wiseau.  The movie is becoming an Internet sensation and has spawned a cult following and ritualistic viewing process akin to the old days of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  People gather in theaters to scream the lines and throw things at the screen at key moments in the film.

You tube is full of clips and compilations that highlight the many lowlights of this film.  The best thing that this movie offers is some of the most unapologetically bad acting that I have ever seen, along with an obscene over use of the word "hi" and random football tossing that has no reconciliation to the plot whatsoever.  

So as my offering to Stonehenge (and you) on this day of the summer solstice, I offer you two clips from Tommy Wiseau's opus "The Room".  I dare you not to be quoting "Oh, hi Mark." in a generic European accent before the day is over.  Happy Summer!

OH HI COMPILATION:



FOOTBALL COMPILATION:


Thursday, June 9, 2011

Engraving Mother Nature's Name on a Bullet

Picture from here - freshcharacters.com




If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that Mother Nature and I have had more than our fair share of scuffles over the years. We have had run-ins over hormones, chin hair, blizzards and all sorts of nasty little natural events, each laid out to test my good humor and naturally calm and angelic *demeanor . But today she has gone over the line and I am about to lose that good sportsmanship medal that I earned in summer camp in sixth grade.
*Note to husband and children – you can stop laughing now. Really. Stop it. OK, fine. You’re all on punishment.

So what’s at the root of my bitterness toward old twig head today? Today I was greeted with the second and more severe day of an early June heatwave. Mother Nature has cranked up the heat and humidity to hellish levels leaving me awash in a delightful candy coating of my own sweat. For the record, there are three kinds of liquids that I absolutely hate, Jaegermeister, Malta and my own sweat. I can only assume that prune boobs has cranked up the sauna in hopes of a good shvitz re hydrating her withering, goddess nether regions. Sucks for her but, can’t she just go on hormone therapy like everybody else? It is simply too early in the season for weather like this.

Tomorrow is shaping up to be a few degrees cooler, but still hot and humid enough to make me want to trip the first person unlucky enough to walk past my cubicle at work. Humidity always makes me surly and when my least favorite weather is dropped on my most favorite day (my birthday), my bitterness goes off the charts and I just wanna slap the birds out of a bitch’s hair. For the sake of those that I love as well as those that I merely tolerate, I think me and this hag need to get in the ring and box.

I didn’t always want to settle my differences with Mother Nature through a violent flurry of fisticuffs. No, there was a time when I thought that if I could just get Father Time to throw her the big salsiccia, she might back up off my shit. Time and I are homies, so I got her the date, but it seems that no amount of intergalactic wiener can un-bitch a bitch like this. He ended up broken hearted, with sparrows in his beard and a serious case of the crabs.

I suppose it's for my own good if I pause and compose myself before I administer any beatings to beloved mythological creatures. I could piss off some half wit water god who'll go and flood my town with the crash of a single wave or worse yet, I could get sued. I know my lawyer is good, but does he have what it takes to battle Zeus’ legal team? Probably not. Looks like I have to take my hot, humid lumps on this one. But MN better watch her back and keep her distance because I’m still tight with Medusa. My girl Dusa will lay her out!

Saturday, May 28, 2011

A Mother's Pride

There are times when being a parent is the biggest pain in the ass since post-partum hemorrhoids and then there are days when your chest swells so from parental pride, that you feel your heart might burst out of your chest.  Welcome to my rollercoaster.

I was driving my son to a doctor's appointment yesterday morning and I took the opportunity of his captivity in the car to clarify the meaning behind a very stupid comment that I had made about a week ago.  One day when I was driving him and a group of his friends somewhere, I made an offhand comment about not liking parents.   Somewhere later in the day I realized that the kids in the car probably thought I meant that I don't like THEIR parents.  This was not the case, but just because my son probably knew what I meant, didn't mean they did.

"Your friends know that I don't hate their parents, right?"  I began.   "Yeah, I know you don't hate them, but you're not exactly social.  You don"t really hang around and talk much."  He replied.   "I know, but that's because I'm always running and in a hurry.  It doesn't mean that I dislike them.   You know the parents that I hate are just your friend's dad who threw you out of the house for your political views and the PTA."  Then he looked over at me and uttered the most beautiful, pride inducing words that I think I have ever heard. His response was - "I know mom.  The PTA are a council of plagues."

I'm not sure what I was more proud about, his well honed harpy detector or his brilliant use of language.  Maybe both.  With that one phrase, he crystallized what the PTA is in our school district and supplied himself with a great band name, should he ever decide to form a speed metal band.

My maternal pride balloon was burst this morning however, when I found that he did not close the refrigerator door properly, leaving the light on to heat an entire Memorial Day weekend worth of food to an unsafe temperature.  I had to throw out the entire contents of the fridge.  I have to go now as I have to re-shop for all of the food that I lost.  Guess who's getting rousted out of bed at an ungodly (for a teenager) hour to put the groceries away?  Yup, momma's pride and joy.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Bed Haiku

We bought a king bed.
We love its big, soft, fluffy hug.
Someone else loves it.




I really don't know how to break the news to her that this was not her birthday present.  In her little brain this bed was delivered gift wrapped, with a tag that read - "To Brownie, please stretch out and enjoy this new bed.  All the humans need is six inches of space to fight over, the rest is all you."

Sunday, May 22, 2011

You're Welcome

My faith in cinema has been restored. . .


Friday, May 13, 2011

The Cereal Bar Heard 'Round the World

All of my most poignant feelings seem to bubble up to the surface at the Stop and Shop.  Maybe it's because food shopping is so rote and robotic for me that my mind is clear to wander.  Or maybe, as was the case tonight,  the super market serves as a walk down a never ending memory lane, each aisle jam packed with food and products that remind you of another time in your life. Tonight I was usurped by a cereal bar.


My shopping trip had begun uneventfully, with me successfully completing a perusal through both the vegetable aisle and the fruit juice aisle.  I procured all of the family's favorite juice drinks without so much as a whimper, then I turned the corner into the cereal aisle and all hormonal hell broke loose.


As I reached for a box of Apple Cinnamon Nutra Grain bars, I heard the voice of my son when he was three years old and pictured him standing in front of an open pantry cabinet in his footie pajamas pointing at the box and saying "Dat Bar.".  That was it, I immediately began to cry real tears.  Confused by my own reaction, I continued down the aisle and tried to pull it together, but as I wheeled my cart, pretending to shop while audibly sobbing, I was hardly inconspicuous. Every person that I passed looked at me as if I had missed my stop on the short bus to crazytown.


To be quite honest, I have never been one to romanticize the baby years.  They were wonderful while they lasted, but they were also exhausting, demanding and maddening in some ways.  Every stage of independence was welcomed by me. 


So why the sudden nostalgic waterworks?  I think it's because the teenage years are kicking me squarely in the ass and while I know that my son is a really good kid, he is still argumentative (Mr. Cochran, your witness), willful and occasionally fresh mouthed(aka normal). Maybe it's not about my kids at all.  Maybe I'm finally struck by the looming inevitability of mid-life. I still feel like a teenager, but what self respecting 16 year old would ever fall asleep 20 minutes into a movie, drink flavored seltzer water or stop to consider the relative comfort of their shoes?


So have I hit the other side of middle age?  Am I officially no longer a badass?  I don't really know for sure, but I do know that as sure as Jewel sings like a deranged escapee from a Swiss Miss box,next week, I'm switching to Special K bars.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Happy Mother's Day, Kitties

Happy Mother's Day all.   I hope you all enjoy the day and do something special for your moms.  Being that I am a caring sharer, I am going to start your special day off with the gift of stupid video, and while this is no Bobby Conn, I have to pause to ask myself "What is?".

Today's stupid video is Nyan Cat.  It's a cartoon cat whose body looks like a kitchen sponge or maybe a strawberry pop tart and he seems to be farting a rainbow, yet somehow he is endearingly cute (he's also annoying and if given the opportunity, would probably ask you for money).



Have a Happy Mother's Day and enjoy your own little flatulent rainbow kitties.  My kids had Mexican last night, so I am hooked up from that perspective.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Genetics

I have a very good friend who often tells me that I am the laughter in her life.  This could be becuase I randomly mailed her a monkey in a turban or because I teased her hair and did her makeup like a drag queen and took a series of pictures of her smoking and drinking that we like to call the "Bar Fly Photo Shoot".  Whatever the reason, it feels good to know that I can make her feel good and she does the same for me.  But for all the joy they bring me, I only get to see my friends about once a month.   I don't know about you, but monthly laughs are not enough for me.

Fortunately for me, my family are also a source of laughs, but the one who cracks me up most consistently is my son. If there was ever a doubt in my mind about whether sense of humor is genetic,  it was gone once he was old enough to display a personality.  He knows what makes me laugh because it's what makes him laugh.  More often than not, my husband will sit at the dinner table with a bewildered look, while my son and I trade nonsense talk, zings and references to whatever You Tube freak show he has made me watch.

So here's a little sample of one of the oddball things that we find funny.  I will give you no background on this beyond this video.  I'd like to hear someone else's take on it . . .


Friday, April 29, 2011

No Longer a Bridesmaid

Not wearing another one of these, bitches!


After many, many years of toil and unpaid labor, I am finally being offered a guest posting gig!  I know, I know, it's still unpaid, but all these years of being a bridesmaid, leaving a permanent hoopskirt mark on my ass, today I get to wear the princess dress.  Weeeeeeeeee!

I am over at Wendie's place - Thoughts From This Mom.  Wendie is a fellow Long Islander and working mom blogger, who actually thought I needed a break from the polyester badness of bridesmaid land.  Of course, I am both eternally grateful and suffering the worst spell of writer's block that I have encountered in a long time.  The one true thing about Murphy's Law is that it's dependable.  Thanks Wendie.  If you ever ask me to guest post again, I promise to sparkle in a more bride-like fashion than I did today! 

I think I hear the DJ.  Let's Party!!!!


Friday, April 15, 2011

Happy Birthday Spike!

As I sit here on the couch, about to begin writing my Friday morning blog posting, I am distracted by a strange wheezing noise.  Looking to my right, I see that it is merely Spike, the Hotness Monster asleep on the ottoman and snoring, I guess.   My husband has always said that Spike has a strange wheeze, but until now, I had never heard it.   As a matter of fact, I hardly ever see him sleeping as he prefers to sleep behind either the armoire or the overstuffed chair in the living room.  But today he is as loud and proud as a twelve year old cat can be.

Spike joined our family around the same time as my daughter did.  As a matter of fact, while I was in the hospital,  laboring and threatening the lives of the medical staff that did not yank the bastard anesthesiologist off the golf course, stat, my son was hanging out at his grandma's house, coaxing this little grey stripped kitty out from under the shed.

From the beginning, this little cat was drawn to people and carried his tail high and proud.  Nobody was going to get in the way of what he wanted and it was clear, that he wanted to be part of our family.  So twelve years ago, I got my epidural and said yes to the cat.  After getting the epidural, I would have said yes to adopting six chickens and a llama.  Thank god they were only asking for a cat.

Spike turned out to be an ideal cat in every way and as you can tell from my Avatar, there were no cat/dog issues when we brought Brownie the Wonderdog into the house.  The nuzzling and chaste, neutered love between them is both sweet and freaky and an endless source of entertainment for us.

So, around this time every year, we celebrate Spike and his approximate birthday/adoption day.  He is one of a kind and I am so glad that he chose us.

Here's a little photo tribute:







Sunday, April 10, 2011

Being a Mature and Responsible Parent Bites Monkey Weiner

There are certain things that I try not to do with this blog that are against the spirit of its existence.  Things such as taking down a post.  As a writer of an anonymous blog, there are certain freedoms of expression that I enjoy.  But I recently broke down and pulled a post, which has left me feeling like a complete tool.

My husband almost never mentions my blog to me.  I think this is probably because he almost never reads it.  However, my last post, about a ridiculous school function run by the skanktastic sea hags of the PTA must have caught his eye.

According to him, I had provided quite a lot of specifically identifying detail.  So much so, that anyone casually googling about the event, would clearly recognize those that I railed against and possibly my daughter, which is something that I would never want to do.  The last thing in the world that I would want is for my smart mouth to be my kid's downfall.   I have spent the last  14 years with my barbed tongue rolled back in my head in the presence of doctors, teachers and other children's parents, as a means of keeping the peace for my kids.   This blog has served as a preventative measure to get the comments that I would like to make exorcised before they get vomited out the front door like a pea green sea of jagged insult. Of course, being able to spew my thoughts directly to the offending parties  might make me feel better, but ultimately my kids would bear the burden of my words. 

When I told the hubs that I took the post down he said "You didn't have to do that, you could have just changed it."  I suppose I could have, but then I would break another rule that I have, which is to expose the funny of the situation  by exposing the truth of it.  When I write that my daughter changed my husband's Aim status message (for work, no less) to "I can't chat now, I'm busy shaving my toes.", it's funny because it's true.  I might change or omit names to protect the guilty, but that's as far as I will go in manipulating a story.

So here I sit, conflicted that I took down a story with a great deal of humorous truth to it. It seems a waste to have to pull back comments like  "The problem with our PTA is that it seems to attract a very specific type of woman and this type of woman is not my favorite. In fact, I think it's fair to say that if this type of woman were a man, I'd punch her in the junk.".  Truth.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

It's the Blogcation that Keeps you off the Short Bus to Crazytown

If I have seemed a little absent from my pages and yours this past week, it's because I am in the midst of something of a deluge at work and personally.  It's nothing that I can't handle, but it puts the blog on the back burner.  So rather than be silently missing, I will be overtly so.

I am going to take a little blogcation.  Looks like a week, but it could be two.  It will be the break that I need to tidy things up around the home and office and to prevent me from taking a dump on my abusive and mentally unhinged co worker's desk or from being so distracted that I sear my hand on the paninni press (which, for the record, I don't look good in stripes).

We'll call it a preemptive mental health break from which I will return bright eyed and bitchy-taled, because I am sure that there will be plenty of people jumping on my last nerve while I'm gone.  As you know, it's sharing these little tales with you that keeps me off the Crazytown Express.  I can't think of a better way to keep sane.


Sunday, March 20, 2011

I EAT Your Cereal!



Ever want to know what it's like to be PWNED by a cat?


That's right bitch, I EAT your cereal.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Spring Ahead Can Bite Me

How about this for a dorktastic graphic?  Thanks Climateprogress.org.


As I dragged my sorry ass out of bed this morning I was hit with a crushing sense of doom.  It wasn't, was it?   It couldn't possibly be THAT DAY?  Could it?  The day where an evil little troll king steals an hour of precious time from me and makes the Monday workday arrive one hour sooner?  But it was - Daylight Savings Time.

As I floated arount the blogosphere, anxious to find another person who dreads this day like I do, all I could find were people who were nattering on about how there would be more sunshine and it would stay light longer.  Geez, what a bunch of happy horseshit! We're one hour closer to work here people! Don't you feel it?  One hour closer to getting the hairy eyeball from my batshit crazy coworker.  One hour closer to having to attend a meeting that I would prefer dental surgery over.   One hour closer to some halfwit in the cafeteria making me a chicken sandwich and trying to grab a bun for the sandwich without changing his raw chicken juice covered gloves.   

Why am I the only person that feels utterly robbed and on this day?   I can tell you this much, along with the ever nearing work day, "Spring Ahead" day is like firing the starting pistol for another opressively humid Long Island summer. We will have maybe 20 days of gorgeous spring weather and then Mother Nature will abruptly rip the rug out from under our feet and go into full-on menopause, svitzing like a crackhead on COPS. She will pour on the heat and humidity in short order. The kind of heat and humidity where you break a sweat walking from the shower to the sink and feel like you have to shower again.  It makes me bitter.  It makes me cranky.  It makes me somewhat difficult to live with (impossible to believe, I know) .

So now it begins - the longest countdown of the year - the countdown to my favorite day of the year - Fall back.  Anybody have a time machine they can lend me?  My family would so SOOOO grateful if you did.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

An Open Letter of Apology to Bobby Flay

I have spent most of this morning in a state of conflict.  Conflict over a recipe. Normally, I am not the type to hesitate before embarking on a new recipe, preferring to jump in with both feet and knives blazing, without an ounce of fear for the outcome.  As a mater of fact, I would have to say that decisiveness is one of my defining characteristics, but not this time. Nope.  This recipe finds me unable to pull the trigger.  My hesitance is not due to the complexity of the recipe or due to exotic ingredients that fall outside of my culinary comfort zone, it is simply authored by Bobby Flay.


You might ask the obvious question, "But Diary,  shouldn't that be a good thing?", and you would be right, if I were normal.  However, even more painfully obvious to any regular reader of this little blog concern, is that I am clearly not normal.   So why is my apron in a twist about this recipe?  Well, let's just call it a tasty case of the guiltburgers.


You see, as a long time watcher of Food Network (and I mean long time, like Nina Griscom and David Rosengarten long time), I was an early hater of Bobby Flay as a TV personality.   I would watch Hot Off the Grill and cringe at what seemed to be a smarmy, arrogant presentation style.  Similarly, Grillin and Chillin seemed like a lot of territorial pissing between him and his cohost, Jack McDavid and there was something condescending in the way that he treated him.  This was probably all part of the intended shtick, but it was lost on me.

Because of these early offerings, I had a bad taste in my mouth for him and his cooking.  Intellectually, I understand that his TV presentation style has nothing to do with the man's ability to cook.  I mean this guy is obviously a baller when it comes to rockin' a skillet.  There's no doubt about that.  However, as unfair as it may seem, my perception of him as arrogant and self-important, tainted my willingness to give his food a try.   However, all of that has changed for me, thanks to two things - The Borgata and Throwdown.


The Food Network has thrown shows at Bobby Flay like a conventioneer throws dollars at a Vegas stripper, and as I mentioned, not all of those offerings have been what I would call "favorites".  But with Throwdown, there is a kinder, gentler Bobby Flay, one who seems humble and not afraid to lose to what is often a less trained, less experienced cook, who does one thing REALLY WELL.  There is a sense of reverence for his opponents and what they do and a genuine good-naturedness about the process, including the losses.  This exposes Flay as something that he has probably been all along, but I missed the cues - a fan of good food.


The second thing that has me on the Bobby Flay love train is Flay Steak at the Borgata.  I would choose his
PHILADELPHIA STYLE STRIP STEAK with provolone cheese sauce, caramelized onions, along with his delectably decadent sweet potato gratin as my last meal.  Now, I'm not gonna say that being housed in my favorite casino is working against him in my gustatory gaganess, but I am pretty sure that I'd endure a sh1thole casino like the Claridge, if it housed Flay Steak.


So here I am, on the precipice of putting sugar to pan for the caramel sauce that laces Mr. Flay's Peanut Butter Caramel Brownies and despite my improved attitude toward and patronage of Mr. Flay, I hesitate.   I even bought some of his bowls from Kohls.  What gives?


I think it's just the fear looking like a hypocrite.  When I was a hater, I was a vocal hater. Now that I'm a lover,  I think it only fair that I be a vocal lover as well.  So Mr. Flay, this is my mea culpa.  My opportunity to level the playing field and show you the outward respect that you so rightly deserve.  To admit to being a judgemental bitch in your beginning days on TV and to praise your evolution as a legitimate and skillful television presenter.  Now that I have exercised my "woman's right" to change my mind and offered up my sincere aplologies, it's time to rock the sh1t outta your Caramel Peanut Butter Brownies, cause . . .DAMN!

Sunday, February 27, 2011

The One Where I Almost Start a Street Fight in Las Vegas

Not counting fights with my brother, I have had exactly one fist fight in my life and that one was a set up.  I was led to a school yard and jumped because I had betrayed a confidence.  What the jumper did not expect was that I would swing wide and tag her in the ear (Fight Club anyone?) providing me with an opportunity to run like an olympian and escape. That little episode taught me two things - 1. Never, ever betray a confidence.  2. Fist fights are no fun and I don't want to ever be in one again.

From that point forward, I have lived my life by a very pacifist "Can't we all just get along?" principle.  Not to mention the fact that I keep a secret locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I take all confidences to the grave.

However, my peace loving and reasonable self gets froggy as a mutha when someone aproaches one of my kids in the wrong way.  This is something that a couple of over anxious street vendors learned the hard way in Italy.  Let's just say I taught them some new words in English.  This week in Las Vegas, another similar lesson had to be taught.

We had just seen the Beatles Love Show at the Mirage and we were walking down Las Vegas Blvd in front of the Bellagio, in the hopes of catching the fountain show.  It was about 9:00 PM.  At this time of the night, the area is buzzing with activity as tourists bustle from casino to show to restaurant. All that tourist activity is  like a magnet to the hookers, hawkers and beggars. This makes my spidey senses tingle and I go on high alert like a mama bear guarding her cubs. 

One of the most prevalent type of sidewalk slime on the strip is the Strip Club hawker.  These people pass out business cards with pictures of naked women on them and the address of whatever strip club the hawker works for.  The back of the card has a name written on it, so that the person handing out the card can get "credit" for whoever they bring in.  For the most part, these hawkers always tried to push a card on to my husband,  but reeled the card back in when my son passed.  He is 14 years old and while he's a big kid, he is clearly not an adult, passing for MAYBE 16 at the most.  There would be no reason to assume that he was even close to being of age.

As we rolled down the crowded sidewalk, I spotted her.  She was short, had frizzy black hair and bulging eyes.  She looked like the unholy spawn of an Ewok and a Bush Baby and she had her hairy little fist loaded with naked lady cards and propriety be damned, she was going to make quota.  The following unfolded in slow motion (please note that the naughty words have been substituted with a word that sounds similar.  This is to prevent any additonal freaky keyword results) -

  1. The ewok places a card in her grubby right hand, a nude, buxom vixen on clear display. 
  2. I see her look up at my son's face to catch his attention.
  3. She begins to extend the card toward his hand.
  4. I sweep in from behind and block her play,  eyballing her hard and uttering the following:   "Are you out of your mother plucking mind?  He is fourteen years old! I will slap you in your plucking mouth."
  5. The bush baby has a look of stunned disbelief on her face.  Once I am a few paces beyond her, she pulls her jaw off the ground and responds.  "You plucking b1tch!"
  6. I responded "You're exactly right.  I'm a b1tch and I will slap the taste out of your mouth."
By the time we got past the Bellagio, I snapped out of it and realized that I had just provoked a fight with a Las Vegas street person.  What the heck was I thinking?  Meanwhile, my son and husband had finally stopped laughing and were lamenting the fact that they weren't rolling the video camera. 

It was truly like an out of body experience and once I came back into my body, I had a deep regret for the terrible example that I had just set for my kids.  But I'll be damned if any leering, disgusting, porn hawking street person is going to approach my kids.  You mess with the cubs and you get mauled by the mama bear. I just hope that the kinder, gentler person that I am 99.999% of the time, is the person that has the true influence over my children and that the person that I am the other .001% of the time only has impact on bush babies and street sleeze that need to understand that mama bear don't play and it's best to mind your P's and Q's around her cubs.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Midnight Skies of Deepest Sapphire

Star of Bombay.  That is the name of my new favorite color of nail polish.  If you are not familiar with it, I'll describe it to you.  It is a rich, blue-black, so dark and velvety smooth, it evokes memories of the most magnificent winter's night sky that you have ever seen.  It envelops you in its black cloak and warms you with a sparkling undertone of deepest cobalt. . . until you spill it on the rug.

Then it becomes the most hatefully heinous shade of dog$hitty denim that you have ever seen.  Clearly a shade   that only tranny hookers and diseased, monkey-loving crack whores would ever deign to paint their infected hooves with.

I'm a clumsy dork

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Link Love Roman Style

For those of you that have been around the Mad Bathroom for a while, you know that I took a trip to Italy in the summer of 2010. To say that I was transformed by the experience would be an epic understatement.  I fell so in love with Italy, with Rome in particular, that I now eat, drink, read and cook everything that is even remotely Roman.

In my ongoing daydreaming of a return to the narrow cobblestone streets of central Rome, I have been researching the areas that I have not visited and have been thrilled to learn that there is more undiscovered territory than another three or four return trips could address. 

In the process of this research, I found the most amazing blogger.  Her name is Elizabeth Minchilli and she is a food writer and reporter in Rome. Her blog is full of beautiful images, stories and videos about all things Rome.  I highly recommend a stroll through her place, if you want to experience a little La Dolce Vita.

Ciao!

http://www.elizabethminchilliinrome.com/

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Not Sure How I Survived the 70's

All of these toys have complete lack of judgement and potential law suit written all over them.  I actually had a couple of them, the others, I coveted heavily.  Did I mention that the first time I shot a (real) pistol, I was 9?  I was also the same age when I first took the controls of a single engine plane.  Driving  a car while sitting on someones lap? Six.  Yes, six years old.

 Is it any wonder I'm a helicopter parent?


I don't think the milk was drinkable. But you KNOW that kids did.



Pretty sure this was just a straight razor in a plastic bird.



Yeah, with that rack, Barbie really needed that float.


There was a pin in the hat.  How do I know? I impaled my finger on it.



The name of this one sounds like something a Vietnamese prostitute would have offered an American soldier in DaNang.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Naked Grills are a Good Thing

Nothing prepares you for the day that you put your son to bed a boy and he stomps down the stairs the next morning as a full grown man. But that’s pretty much how it happens. One day he’s cataloging his Neopet collection and the next day he’s playing guitar in a hardcore band. If you’re slow, if you blink, you will miss the transformation


This is the thought that occurred to me as I was sitting at the kitchen table this morning, talking to my son about the fact that he was scheduled to get his braces off after school.  Like any “good” mother I promised him an effed up bucktoothed, beaver grill if he didn’t wear his retainer at night, and like any good son, he humored me and promised to wear it. There, at the kitchen counter, he seemed like a walking contradiction. Here was this ginormous, deep voiced man-boy, drinking a juice box and talking about looking forward to chewing gum and eating skittles again. I actually caught myself looking at him with my head tilted like the RCA dog trying to figure out how I missed the fact that he had sprouted the shoulder span of a linebacker.

It definitely wasn’t always that way. When he was little, there were a lot of "well meaning" comments and questions from my parents and in-laws about his slight build and motor-driven antics For example, every time my father saw him in the pool or the bathtub, he would invariably ask me “Does he eat?”.  It took every ounce of restraint and good humor that I had to\keep my razor-sharp tongue in its holster during these little exchanges. (Which by the way, I am still waiting for the Nobel Peace Prize for accomplishing. 'Cause, the questions from my in-laws? They could have made Gandhi go postal,)  I mean, I certainly understood why they might have had concerns, he was ghostly white and you could count every rib. He used to bounce off the walls and furniture like a pinball. He was so hyper that his doctor nicknamed him “perpetual motion baby”, because his arms and legs never stopped moving when you picked him up.

But like many of the concerns that you have with your children, particulaly as a first time parent, this just faded away. By the time he was 13, the question of my son’s frailness gave way to concern for our ability to continue shoveling food in his ever-chewing yap. It was around this time that my father stopped asking me whether he ate and switched over to “What’s your grocery bill like these days?”.

When I came home from work that night was all excited to see how he looked without his braces. I hadn't seen his teeth since early sixth grade and at that time, they were, ummm, bucky, for lack of a better word. He came bopping into the kitchen in his usual fashion and I was knocked back by his appearance. He had a straight, white, movie star smile. He actually looked like he aged another couple of years since breakfast. I was very happy for him, but kind of sad for myself. My little boy was clearly a man.

As I collapsed into bed that night I tried to find the silver lining in my son's silver lining-less smile. He had grown up in a blink and his 11 year old sister was running hard to catch up with him. Restless, I got up and went to the bathroom. I turned the light on and took a long look in the mirror.  I had bags under my eyes and the beginning of crow's feet, but at 47 that was to be expected. Then, I had the most horrifying thought  . . what if we parents aged at the same lightning speed as our children?  At this stage of the game, that would have tipped me straight into shuffling with a walker-land. I sighed heavily, relieved that nature was not quite that cruel.  And then it dawned on me,  there was the silver lining that I had been hoping for.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

This One is For Fellow Top Chef Fans Only

Someone autotuned Marcel. Genius.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Fir Real

Way back in the day, when my husband and I were young and foolish and had nothing better to do with our money, we were into Christmas.  Not just into it, but WAY into it.  And the centerpiece of our yuletide obsession was the tree.  Each year we would go on a hunt for the ideal tree.  One that was tall, with lush, full green branches and a generous yet proportioned shape.  We would travel near and far, experimenting with the self cut variety and, when not felling our own tree, we would scour the local lots, thumbing our noses at lots that sold cut trees from anywhere but Vermont.

Fast forward eight years and there is a three year old and and eight month old in the picture and we were faced with the difficult decision of going "fake".   This was a nearly criminal consideration for two demented elves like the hubs and I, so we set about the process of searching for the perfect artificial tree.

After an exhaustive search, we plunked down an obscene amount of money on what promised to be a remarkably lifelike fake tree.   When it arrived in its giant box we looked upon it with a mix of skepticism and sadness as it marked the official end of the days of the glorious, pine scented, real tree. 

When we opened the box, the contents looked less than promising.  Threre were three dark green tree sections , each with its branches squished down against the trunk.   It looked more like something that had been run over than a woodland masterpiece.  My husband reassured me that once we fluffed out the branches, this would be a great looking tree.  I wasn't sure if he was trying to convince me or himself, but I breathed a heavy sigh, and we went about the business of unfurling the branches.

The tree had what seemed like 50 or so limbs, each of which had close to the same amount of iindividual, finger like branches.  Each of those branches had to be bent open.  We had started on the process of opening up the branches at about 11:00 am.  When dinner time rolled around and we were still unfolding, sustaining bleeding cuts and scratches up and down our arms, we wondered whether we had made a tremendous and costly mistake. 

Walking away from the tree to eat dinner gave us time to step back and think about our approach to the tree and when we returned to it, our zoomed out view provided us with a glimpse of what this tree could be.  The side of the tree that we had been focusing on was beautiful, lush and looked surprisingly real.   Over the next day and a half, we finished opening the branches, until what stood before us was an impressively full and natural looking tree.  We on the other hand, were less than impressive looking.   Our fingers, arms and legs were scratched, bleeding and bandaged. 

In the days that followed,we decorated the tree with countless strings of lights, wrapping them from deep witthin the core of the tree, out to the surface branches.  Then came bin after bin after bin of ornaments and every time we thought we were done, we would see bare areas that needed to be filled in.   By the time we had finally completed the decoration of the tree, a solid week had passed.  From that point forward, the long, arduous but ultimately rewarding procedure of assembling and decorating our fabulous fake became part of our Christmas traditions. 

All Christmases except this one, that is.   This year was absolutely crazy for my husband and I, work-wise.   He was travelling all over the place and I was embroiled in the largest and most complicated project of my career.  We did not have the time to dedicate to the complicated assembly and decoration of our fake tree.
 So what did we do instead?  We got a real tree.  The very thing that we had lamented giving up eleven years before.

Guess what?  I hated it.  Hated every last needle, every last branch.  We had purchased it in mid-December, and by the time Christmas rolled around, it was crispy, crunchy, dry and sad.  Which, in a way, represented the overall vibe of Christmas 2010.   This was a holiday season where we were too busy to slow down and enjoy all the things that come along with it and it was a year that in many ways, we broke with tradition.  It wasn't necessarily all bad, but it was different.

Another thing that is very different about this year is my New Years Resolution or just the fact that I have one.  I truly despise New Years resolutions. I think that they are just ways to set your self up for failure and self loathing by the time March rolls around.  Because of this and the fact that I believe that you should work on yourself throughout the year, not just at the end of it, I have never made one. . .until this year.   In 2011, I vow to go back to my artificial tree and to do my level best to avoid assignment to projects coming due in December. The sights and smells and tastes of  Christmas are meant to be savored.  I'll be damned if I choke down another fast-food style Christmas next year. . . or have another real tree.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Twelve Rounds With Mother Nature

Hey, Mutha Nature?  Wat up beyotch?  I keep hearing all over the television that you women of a certain age have tight and unyielding bowels (just ask Jamie Lee Poo Poo Yogurt). So why then, do you continue to "dump" the snowy contents of your intestines all over the greater NYC area  on a weekly basis?  Spike the Hotness Monster has had to to dip the former home of his manly nuggets in a snow bank to do his business for the past three weeks.  Every day I find him hanging from the side lights of our front door like a striped cat-sicle (see figure 1 below).


Your latest offering, bestowed upon us this morning, has gifted us with a delay in school opening and the delightful prospect of trying to drive to work in this mess.   At this point, I am thinking that you are going out of your way to harsh my gig.  One only needs to look back at your first snowstorm of the season, in which you inconveniently shat two feet of snow on our little town, the night before we were scheduled to leave for Atlantic City.   You underestimated me though, as while it took a little longer than planned to get there, my rump still managed to be parked at (alternatively) a bar stool and slot machine the following night.   Don't test me, bitch. 

Bitter and resentful of your inability to stop my own personal fun train, you gave us another two feet two weeks later.  This was obviously the result of some kind of menopausal midweek bender.  Tsk. Tsk.  A woman of your "maturity" should know that we don't process the booze as elegantly as we did in our twenties.  The result of this petulant act?  A snow day for the kids and a sanctioned work from home for me.  Ha! In your facial, harpy!

Today however, you might have me over a barrel.  School has a delayed opening and there's not enough snow not to go into the office, but there is enough to make getting to the office dangerous and slow going.  Well I'm here to tell you that it isn't over between you and me.  You may knock me down with this round, but you can't knock me out.  And remember, I took the first two rounds and there are many more left in the season.

My prediction?  One of us will face the spring on crutches, missing a couple of teeth.  My recommendation? Better put your dentist and your orthopedist on speed dial.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

A Hairy Dilemma

Middle age bites. There, I said it and I feel better.  No?

OK, OK you got me. That statement was false.  I mean, to some people, middle age might bite, but I  honestly don't mind getting older for the most part. There are some things - chin hair, being called 'mam, dealing with PTA mothers - that kind of suck but I still feel and think like a sixteen year old.   A sixteen year old with the advantage of having much better judgement and a full time job.  So on balance, it's really not a bad gig.

But there is a bit of push/pull between chronological age and mental age in certain circumstances.  For example, how long is it OK to wear teal nail polish without looking like a complete tool? Or, do you buy the giant hoop earrings at Hot Topic when you are shopping for your 12 year old, or do you keep on walking? And most importantly, how long is it appropriate to have long hair?

This question surfaced the other night while I was watching "It's Complicated" for the umpteenthousandth time. I don't know what it is about that movie, but I find it charming. I think I might just enjoy seeing Meryl Streep get stoned and bake croissants.  Anyway, I'm looking at Meryl, who has a good 13 years on me, but looks pretty good, and I'm wondering, would she look better/worse/older/younger with shorter hair? And, if I'm wondering this about her, is someone wondering this about me?

My friends and I have an inside joke about our mothers asking us when we are going to grow up and cut our hair. Why is it that short hair is viewed as "mature"? Quite honestly, I would prefer not to hear my name and the word mature in the same sentence. And when I look around at what my mother's generation might consider mature hair styles, the chunks come up at the back of my throat in what my daughter likes to call a "baby barf".

Let's explore what the "age appropriate" hair options are, shall we? For some reason, all middle aged women are portrayed as having a disobedient bowels, so let's check out the hair on some of the women in ads targeted at my demographic:

The lady from the Dulcolax commercial. Apparently, us middle-agers prefer mom jeans and a conservative bob for our ride on the poo poo blanket:


Jamie Lee Curtis sports a silver pixie and a big green couch to hawk her bowel stirring yogurt to constipated middle aged women:



And best of all, I found this blog offering tips for hairstyles that women over forty could consider because "beauty never stops". Here are some of the examples  They are lovely women, to be sure.  But, do they look like any forty year old women that you know or did this get cast from the local assisted living facility:

According to http://www.beauty-and-the-bath.com/Forty-Something.html, these are the styles that forty-something" ladies should be sporting.  Any one else want to join me on the ledge?  If these hairstyles are a sign of growing up, then I plan to be 16 forever.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

This is How We Do It

This is EXACTLY what my office is like. I loved this video for its pure silliness.  Warning about the language in the video. But then again, if you're worried about foul language, what  are you doing here?

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

You've Got Questions - We've Got Answers

Thanks to everyone who submit a question  against my last post.  People pleaser that I am, here are my answers:



Hokgardner,

My favorite place that I have visited would undoubtedly be Italy,  My father and his wife have gone to Italy  six times.  As we sat around on Christmas reminiscing about the trip that we took together in August, I expressed my interest in going back and my dad's wife said,  "Now you understand why we've gone six times and are looking to go back again.  Italy is magic."  And she was exactly right.


StephanieC,
You asked many, many questions, for which I have many, many answers. Here goes:


1) Spike, while still muy, muy, caliente, is indeed a nutless wonder. I am a firm believer in responsible pet ownership, so as much as I would have loved to have dozens of little hotness monsters prowling my neighborhood, I neutered him when he was six months old.

2) My favorite smell would have to be the smell of a homemade apple pie cooking in the oven. The delicious combination of cinnamon and baking apples reminds me of every family get together or holiday from my childhood.


3) The worst thing ever said to me at work was said by a coworker when I let out a somewhat forceful sneeze.  He stood up at his desk, turned around toward me and screamed at the top of his lungs "Make us all deaf, why don't you?"  I know that my sneezes would not fall under the description of "delicate", but his reaction was obviously the result of his narcotic drug use and general low IQ.


Rachel,

I currently have shades of brown, green and blue flowing harmoniously from my living room through to my kitchen.  The key to managing that flow of colors from room to room is to pick and use secondary colors.  For example, if your living room is open to your entrance hall, use the secondary (accent) color in your LR  fabrics and accessories in the LR to paint the entrance way.  This ensures a harmonious flow from one living space to the next.

What? You were expecting a smart-ass answer maybe? Sorry. This shiz is serious. 


LPR -
I hate to be repetitive, but my most memorable event from last year was my trip to Italy.  As a woman of (ahem) advancing years who had never traveled any further out of the USA than Aruba, I was completely unprepared for the beauty of the architecture, the landscape, the people and the food. 

When we first pulled in to Florence, we came in on the opposite side of the river from the city.  We were having difficulty finding our hotel, so we pulled into what looked like a huge parking lot.  What it really was was the Piazza Michelangelo, which is a monument to the artist and a scenic overlook to the city of Florence.  One look at that breathtakingly beautiful city and I felt my breath catch in my chest as I literally went weak in the knees.  It was an unforgettable moment.

My most memorable non-event would have to be the break up of my son's band.  Big whoop, right?  But I had grown very used to having a den full of teenagers every weekend and even more used to knowing that my so was doing something productive, creative and (most importantly) that I knew where he was.  I didn't realize how sad it would make me not to have that activity until it was gone.  The good news is that he has two new bands and, while he is taking both of them far less seriously than the prior band, my house is once again filled with music and jokes about genitals (they're 14 year old boys, I expect nothing less).
       
(Sigh)

Kat, 

Does Spike always come back?  Although he gets by on his good looks much of the time, Spike is smart enough to know when he's got a good thing.   He knows that for every time that he goes out to do his business, that he gets to come back in.  Each re-entry makes him eligible to have his food dish refilled.  It takes nothing more than a quick brush against our legs for us to merrily fill his food bowl again.  I guess that's what it's like when Megan Fox goes to a bar.  One brush past an empty headed dude and her glass is refilled.


Bossy Betty,

Here's the 411 on Spike -  My mother is a crazy cat lady.  When I got married, she went bonkers with some kind of empty nest syndrome and started feeding all the cats in the neighborhood.  Those that she could get close enough to pet and pick up, ended up in the house as spayed/neutered house cats.  Those who were skittish, remained feral and had litter upon litter of kittens under her shed.  

One day my son was playing in her backyard. He was just shy of three years old. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, this little gray and black stripped kitten ambles up to him, all friendly-like and got right in the middle of what he was playing with.   My son knew that the cats in grandma's yard were afraid of people, so he was surprised and delighted by his new found friend. 

My mother watched the entire thing in complete disbelief.  As soon as they came in for lunch, she immediately called me at work to tell me that my little guy had made friends with a feral kitten. How could we not keep him?  In a way, Spike chose my son.  My son bestowed the name Spike upon the little fella, after the dog from Rugrats. 

To this day, Spike comes running at the sound of my son's voice, sleeps on his bed and generally looks hot for him.  He's a great cat.  I hope he lives forever.

Kimberly,

Wow, that's quite a story.  I think that if you network and start reading and commenting on blogs that you used to visit (just like you did on this one) you can rebuild.  I'll be back.  And those that read my blog that remember you will likely come back too.  I linked your name back to your site.  Everyone! Go visit Kimberly!


Linda Medrano,

Here's the story behind the name of my blog  -  I initially created this blog so that I could chronicle and share the trials and tribulations of a bathroom remodel that we were doing with family and friends.  It was never intended to be something that I would make regular contributions to, but that's how it ended up.  Once I started writing, I couldn't stop. It was just too much fun and I was meeting too many cool people (like you) to stop.


Empress,

Oh, you want another music video?  OK, being that the last music video came from my trip to Italy, I thought this one was apropos:





Insanitykim,

1) Do you think I should start a blog that chronicles my response e-mails to all the spam I get, namely the ones that offer me $5,000,000,000.00 from an uncle/friend/dying person I never met? - YES! I think that's brilliant and you will never run out of material.


2) Do you say Long Island or LonGiland?  Multi-part answer:

Zero Cosmos - Long Island
1 - 5 Cosmos - Lawnguyliind
6+ Cosmos - hmammnmnerglefft (drool)
3) No, I am not afraid that my family tree has ties to the Sicilian Mob because, hello? Awesome! Imagine the designer shoes and bags I could score for nuthin.

Lin,

Stories about the kids?  Strangely, I never seem to run out.  What is that about anyway?
Well, what would Christmas be if we did not terrorize our families? Right? This year’s Christmas break saw my two little darlings locked in a battle of Facebook hackery, where they each tried to outdo each other by posting the most embarrassing/unflattering picture of the other. Needless to say, much fighting, yelling and general hilarity ensued. I’ll tell you this, I was so thrilled for the first day back to school that I found religions, yes, I said "religions".  As in ALL OF THEM.   And I offered praise and thanks to the collective deities of the world, for sending my children back to school.

Here's a random picture of Brownie, lookin all cute:


Mom of the Perpetually Grounded,
 
Am I ready for another bathroom?  Hell to the mothereffin NO.  Do I "need" to redo another one?  Sadly, yes.  And a powder room.  Collective deities of the universe, give me strength.

SurferWife,

1) Hey, I hate to go all "traditional" on you, but the standard answer to this is the best -

A woodchuck would chuck as much wood a a woodchuck could if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

Maybe a better version of that question is "How much tree would Woody Harrelson smoke if Woody Harrelson could  smoke tree? Now that's much more quantifiable.

2) My choice between unwashed bedsheets or bath towel?  I would tie the two together and escape out the window of the filthy house that has no washing machine.

3) If I were in a band, I would call it the Dee Grundy and the Electric Toilet.  That's not really my name, but it fits with the toilet, in some unexplainable way.