No, Mom...single is not the new pathetic!

So I am single, by choice, and totally committed to staying that way.  For some reason it works for me.  I've been in many a relationship, but I always end up weighing the pluses and minuses and it seems like going to bed early on Friday nights, or sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn and a stack of chick flicks just trumps having to put on jeans, heels, doing my makeup and going to a restaurant to eat too much food and pay too much money for the privilege.  Call me crazy, but sucking it in for four hours just makes me cranky. 

And don't get me started about going to a bar.  Just being in a bar gets my bitch-o-meter amped up.  I have little or no tolerance for the mating game that is played out every Friday night.  We all know about the skinny chicks that circle the perimeter of the bar like a lion stalks its prey, picking out the sorry sucker that's going to be duped into buying their drinks all night. These girls are masters at their craft and while they are entertaining to watch, once they've caught their prey it's like watching a documentary.  If I'm going to watch someone get disemboweled, I would rather watch it on Grey's Anatomy and learn something while I'm vegetating.

And God forbid, that bar has a Karaoke.  My cousins like to call it Krokey, like a frog.  Maybe that is because most people sound like frogs when they sing on that thing, I'm not sure.  But please, any of you who consider yourselves Karaoke experts, why does the most tone deaf, drunk, irritating and smelly man in the bar have to sing the longest song ever written by man... "In the Garden of Eden" by Iron Butterfly, or as it is better known by drunks everywhere..."Ina-godda-da-vida babyyyyyyy....*hiccup*"  Please, can I rip off my nail beds now? Maybe you have some battery acid I could gulp down? 

I have so many stories of why couple status doesn't appeal to me.  These stories usually involve really bad personal hygiene (HIM! Not me...what are you thinkin'?)  Lack of intelligent conversation (again, HIM not me...) or trying to escape his dog who wants to hump my leg.  It is all so creepy I throw up in my mouth a little bit when I think about it.  I'm surprised this doesn't come up more in therapy, but then again, my therapist has booked me through 2015, so maybe we will be touching on this at some time.

All I know is that for now, and now can mean anything from a nanosecond to a millennium, I am happy flying solo.  I don't have to ask anybody to approve my budget.  I don't have to fight about how the toilet paper should go on the roll.  Like I would lose that fight!  Jeez...I don't know a man alive that PUTS the dang toilet paper on the roll.  Seriously?  What is the challenge?  I mean it takes about four seconds, involves roughly two muscle groups and almost zero intelligence...still, you would think I asked them to figure out a dang Rubik's cube.  I don't get it...they say we evolved from apes, but even apes can put a toilet paper roll on the holder!  I know...I've seen it on America's Funniest Videos.

Another thing that is great about being single is that I don't have to go to my committee of one to approve color choices for the kitchen walls, and I don't have to explain why I have twenty magazine subscriptions.  OK, some of them admittedly are duplicates, but I'm sure I helped some child win a crappy prize in their schools magazine drive.  So I have four tubes of the same shade of lipstick.  Arrest me.  And I guess the world is going to end because I like sea salt and hand made soap in my bubble bath?  Who invited you anyway?  So you see, single appeals to me because obviously, the only men who are dating right now are all critics.

I think that the best thing about being single is that I win all my arguments with myself, and if I ask myself if my butt looks big in my jeans, I always get the same response...What butt? You don't even have a butt girlfriend! You need to eat more!  Where are those animal crackers and this time, eat the hippos!!!  It's a great way to live, I'm just sayin'...

It is NOT a diet pill, it's the magical weight loss discovery of the century!

So I was up at two in the morning watching infomercials when along came a commercial for the magical weight loss discovery of the century!  It sounded intriguing, because I mean, this is the discovery of the century and not the decade or year, so that’s big stuff.  I thought as long as it was legal, well, why not try it?  I mean, I’m always up for going down on the scale!  I do need to say at this point that I don’t drink coffee, and I drink very little soda.  I am what you would call “hypersensitive” to caffeine.  Just thinking about caffeine gives me jitters.  Just saying the word “caffeine” dilates my pupils.  So you get the idea that caffeine amps me up a tad, right? 

None of the tiny print on the bottles I received mentioned feeling jittery but then again, my command of the Chinese language is limited.  I didn’t see any little characters that looked like the words “caffeine,” “speed” or “crystal meth" so I figured, this guinea pig is ready for duty Master Sergeant! 

8:00 a.m. – I took my magical weight loss discovery with a piece of toast and peanut butter.  I hope that I read it right.  My understanding of Chinese writing is limited to Won Ton, General Chow's Chicken, and Moo Goo something or other.  I could call the girl that does my nails, but I don’t think I could read the directions to her without sounding like I was choking, and besides, I think she’s Vietnamese.    So, I’ll just make it up.

9:00 – So far, so good.  No big amp up.  No big appetite either.  So maybe this pill is doing something!  I'll think about that a bit more, but first, I need to go attend to that whining cookie jar in the kitchen.  I’ll be back. 

9:15 – Wow!  Maybe there is something to this amazing discovery of the century!  I only ate half a dozen animal crackers!  It’s better than downing a dozen of those monsters right?  I mean, really, if you think about it, as long as you eat the smaller animal crackers like the turtle and the horse instead of the hippo, you are probably saving calories, right?  I wonder what I could save in calories if I scrape off the little candy balls that are sprinkled on top?  Does white icing have more calories than the pink?  Am I getting obsessive?  Am I asking myself a lot of questions?  How would I know?

9:45 – I need to clean my desk drawer.  And my office looks like an IED went off in the filing cabinets.  Paper and files and curriculum everywhere!!  And wouldn’t it be really productive if I opened all the reams of paper at one time?  How much time does my staff spend taking wrappers off photocopy paper anyway??  Let’s see…are all the light bulbs working?  Look at the dust on those extension cords!  And look at that impressive collection of Asian beetle carcasses in the corner of the windows!  Have I been living in a cave??  Lord, I never knew this, but I am an obvious hoarder!

10:45 – I’m afraid to go into the staff bathroom, but I think it is going to have to be done.

10:46 – It’s worse than I thought.  I’ll be busy for awhile. 

11:50 – After a cursory inspection, I need to put together a list of things I need from the hardware store.  Let’s see, toilet, sink, mirrors, paper towel dispenser, vinyl floor covering, drywall, paint.  That should cover it.  I don’t know how I have been subjecting myself or my staff to that bathroom, but it just needs to stop before someone files a Worker’s Comp claim.

Noon – Time to eat, but surprisingly, all I really want to eat is this little yellow lemon head that I found under my desk.  That should hold off the really bad cravings until afternoon.

12:30 – The staff are enjoying their sloppy joe’s and cole slaw.  I am chewing on my favorite paper clip.  It’s weird in an existential sort of way that I am happy chewing metal, and it’s even weirder that I’m thinking about words like existential.

1:45 – Time to pick up the Kindergarten kids.  I jump into my car, which this morning looked spic and span, but I just noticed that there is a haze on the windshield that needs to be addressed right now or I might cause an accident.  I get out the Windex and magic fiber cloth that I keep in the trunk and it is then I realize that there are water spots on this entire car!  How much time will it take to give the car a quick wax job?  What will I tell the teacher?  Maybe she would believe I had a mechanical failure if I rub some dirt on my face and mess my hair up just a bit.  Oh wait…what happened to my hair?  I was having a good hair day a few hours ago…where is my hair spray???

2:05 – I got in trouble.  I mean, what is worse than having your head chewed off by a teacher when you are clearly NOT a Kindergartner?  She wasn’t the least bit sympathetic to my dirt stained cheeks, and my flimsy story, but I think she had an attitude anyway because my hair clearly looked nicer than hers.  I realize teachers are underpaid, but they really need to quit taking that out on innocent citizens. 

2:10 – On the way from the Nazi prison they call a Kindergarten Center, I put down the windows and crank the tunes.  Singing at the top of my lungs is aerobic, and I find that I am totally sympathetic to that guy who rides all over town on his Schwinn bike collecting cans, when yesterday I almost ran him over and called him a four letter word.  This miracle pill could be a great help in bringing about world peace.  Leo thinks something has gotten into Miss Lynn and he doesn’t know if he should sit still, or bolt at the next available stop sign.  I tell him that the only reason I’m laughing out loud and talking to myself for no apparent reason is that the little helper Miss Lynn took this morning is obviously time-released!! Oh happy days!!

3:-45 – Time for another paper clip.

5:00 – I’m hungry and I will eat anything that isn’t nailed down.  Once I arrive home, I reach for the box of Oreo’s and pop them into my mouth without the least hesitation as to whether I should eat the cream-filled middles first or not.  Those are closely followed by Cheese-Its.  Interesting, I never knew the combination could sort of taste like a vanilla fudge sundae that has like a cheese topping!

6:00 – The family has eaten dinner and I took perverse delight in sitting at the table and watching them all eat.  They wonder if I’ve lost my mind.  Have I?  How would I know?  Does this stuff make me paranoid?  If I am, would I know I was paranoid, or would I just have a suspicion?  I think I need to go journal or make an appointment with my mental health professional.

9:00 -   I’m not certain, but I think this little magic discovery of the century is my new lover.  I just finished weeding all the gardens, mowing the lawn, re-arranging the garage, making a dump run, fixing the siding, caulking the windows and insulating the hoses on the A/C unit.  I would have done more but the dang Sun is such a slacker.  It had to go hang out on the other side of the world or something like that. 

I can’t wait to see what is on my to-do list for tomorrow!  I got so much done and I hardly ate enough to keep a bug alive.  Let’s recap…toast with peanut butter, animal crackers, paper clips, a Lemon Head, oreo’s, cheese its.  Sounds like a totally balanced diet, doesn’t it?  I’m thinking they should market this stuff…oh, wait, they do…to idiots like me!!!! I’m just sayin’…

So I lost my toddler in a snow bank...sue me.

When I moved to Minnesota at about 30 years old, I can guaran-darn-tee you that this tender California girl was a duck out of water.  I was totally unprepared for the realities of living in a state that prides itself on its -40 degree weather.  It was only by the Lord’s hand that I did not perish in the first two weeks buried butt up in the snow.  That could have happened, but my husband was hungry for dinner and he came looking for me.  Thank God for that hearty Midwestern appetite!

I thought I was prepared for the change in climate and culture, but I’m telling you…I was clueless on both fronts.  We moved to Minnesota in the dead of winter.  That was mistake number one.  Moving into a rental house with no attached garage while we looked for our perfect home was mistake number two.  I hadn’t thought about warming up the truck prior to going out on errands with my year-and-a-half old son, Chris, and my husband in his infinite wisdom felt a .22 rifle was a more important purchase than an automatic car starter.  But, to his credit he did reminded me before he left for work to warm up the truck about 15 minutes prior to leaving to go anywhere.  Did I listen?  Do bears refrain from you-know-what’ing in the forest?  Why would I do that?  So, on my first foray into the frozen tundra, Chris and I both sat in a frozen truck crying as we waited for the engine to warm up enough to move out of the garage.  I couldn’t feel my toes or nose and poor Chris had snot frozen to his upper lip.  I thought he would be warm as I bundled him in his spanking new snow suit and some kind of wool hat that made him look like a demented court jester.  Unfortunately, the snow suit was three sizes too big.  Apparently all snow suits that would actually fit a toddler were sold in July, so by January, all you are left with are snow suits that would fit an adult dwarf.  Excuse me…adult little person.  Hey, listen, I know I lost my “Mother of the Year” award that day, but at least I went to Kmart and made the attempt to outfit the kid, right?  Come on, give me a break here, do YOU know where to find a snow suit in southern California?  It's like Sasquatch...until it is in your hands or hanging in your closet, it don't exist.

I thought about returning to the house and letting the car warm up, but that really wasn’t an option because it nearly killed both of us getting to the car to begin with!  The snow was thigh-high and I was holding Chris in my arms, or over my head pushing through mounds of the newly fallen snow just to get to the garage.  Once I got there, I had to put him down somewhere, and I think I completely lost sight of him in a snow bank for a minute or so while I tried to figure out how to open an ancient garage door that was nearly frozen to the ground.  Once I got it open, I dug Chris out, and we proceeded to the truck.  I'm wondering at this point if anyone in this state knew about automatic garage door openers?  I mean seriously folks, they are sold all over the%*# state!  I was cursing every native son in Minnesota that day!  I was beginning to see how these people become so dang hardy.  It has to do with the fact that you get hardy or die!  I thought it would be just my luck to die behind the wheel and never leave the garage. 


So, as I’m busy acclimating to the frozen tundra, exchanging my pretty high heeled pumps for mukluks and my double breasted wool jacket for a parka, my husband announces that he is going to go ice fishing with the relatives.  Ok, this is a new concept, this ice fishing thing.  Explain ice fishing to me.  Apparently it has something to do with packing up an inordinate amount of supplies, bundling into ten layers of clothing, leaving at a ridiculous hour of the morning to travel out to the middle of a frozen lake, drill a hole in the ice and then stare at it until you see a fish swim by, then you try to catch it.  In between all this staring, copious amounts of beer and football are consumed while you sit in an “ice house” the size of an outhouse.  I think I just described to all females the equivalent of ripping out our uterus without anesthesia.  I mean, really!  Who could find this enjoyable?  I know there are a few hardy women out there who swear they love ice fishing, and to them I say that is all fine and dandy.  Go ahead and fit in your love of ice fishing between your hide-tanning and jerky-making, but as for me, I’ll be at the nail salon. 

So as I tried to absorb this ice fishing information, I asked my husband if it wouldn’t be easier to wait until the lake was unfrozen - which in this state is for at least for three weeks?  Wouldn’t that give him a sufficient amount of time to get that “hunter/gatherer” itch out of his system?  Well, that would be a logical argument of course, but as time went by, I realized that ice fishing is less about providing for the family, and more about husbands and boyfriends escaping wives and girlfriends with “Honey Do” lists.  Whether they come home with fish or not is irrelevant.  The fishing is thrown in for good measure to hide all the beer drinking, football and time away from "The Drones."  Since I have been divorced for well over 15 years, I think you can guess how that ice fishing thing went over in our house.   

I mean, really…if you are going to develop a Midwestern hobby, why not take up something fun like Bingo?  That seems like a much more productive hobby than ice fishing.  Think about it, you could hit a $500 Blackout at Bingo and help your church or favorite Indian Reservation at the same time!  And, realistically, by the time you split your winnings with all your relatives, you would have just enough to buy your own fish dinner at Long John Silvers.   All that, and you wouldn’t have to spend the evening rubbing Icy Hot and Udder Butter on your frozen backside as you wonder who in the heck thought a 5 gallon bucket made a great chair.  I’m just sayin’…

Beware of the bars!!!

When I transplanted to Minnesota, I was pretty much clueless when it came to the regional cuisine.  I didn’t know what the heck Lutefisk was and by the looks of it, I certainly didn’t want to eat any.  Sauerkraut made my eyes burn, and who the heck ever thought it was a good idea to deep fry curds of anything, especially cheese?  Well, having been here awhile now, I do, and I’ve also become a fan of anything fried on a stick during state fair season…but that’s not the point of the story. 

My favorite saint of a cousin, Elaine, called me one day to invite me to a family function.  Now this was especially exciting for me because I was new to town and still getting to know my relatives.  I was really excited to get together and pass the bread basket, so to speak.  She asked if I would like to bring some bars for dessert.  Now…for those of you who know what bars are…well  aren’t you just a bit too smart for your britches…but where I came from, bars are places where people drink, sing bad karaoke, and play pull tabs, or bars are something I buy at the store and horde in my desk for a 2:30 sugar high.  I didn’t know that bars were desserts that people make in these parts and put on cookie sheets!  And there are apparently like 500,000 kinds of bars you can make and most Lutherans know them all.  Catholics are a close second.  In my expertise, I was an atheist.  No bar experience…sorry.  I have since become an expert at consuming bars.   

So, when Elaine asked me if I would bring bars to the family get together, I thought I got off easy.  No potato salad to fix, no veggies to cut up, no casserole to prepare…just go grab a few bags of Snickers at HvVee and it’s all good!  When Elaine asked me what type of bars I would like to bring to the get-together, the following study in miscommunication ensued…

“I thought I would bring some Snickers Elaine, is that good?”

“Good?  That’s great!  Snickers, yum…how do you make those?”

“Well, I assume with nuts, caramel, chocolate…some kind of nougaty stuff, why?”

 At this point, I’m thinking, jeez, this chick has never tasted a Snickers?  She will be easy to buy for at Christmas!

“Well, I don’t have the recipe for those, I would love to have the recipe.”

“I don’t have the recipe either Elaine.  Do I need a recipe for Snickers?”

“Wow!  Are you that good with your bars that you know the ingredients by heart?” 

“It’s not that big of a stretch is it Elaine?”

“Well, for cryin’ out loud Sally Jean, I mean, I know what’s in ‘em but that doesn’t mean I know how they are made.”

“I don’t know how they are made either Elaine, but is that important…I mean, is it important to know how the bars are made?”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, it seems to me it helps the process if you know what you are making when you attempt to make it.”

“True.  I’m sure that is all thought out ahead of time.”

“Um…right…um…” *awkward silence*

At this point, I'm thinking dang, is the manufacturing process in Minnesota really that different than other places in the nation?  Do people just show up at the plant and make it up for the day?  Hey Lars...you dump some of those peanuty things into the nougaty stuff...Leana, you go find some chocolate and mix it with some caramel and give it to Norm to mix it in that really big buckety looking thingy.  Really?

“So, anyway Elaine, I’m bringing Snickers…is that good?”

“Yah sure! How many?”

Now I've heard that we have an uncle who is a real carnivore of sweets, but he was suppose to have developed Type II Diabetes, so it seemed to me I could cut back on a bag.

“Do I need to count them, really?“

“Well, I mean…how many sheets, you know…cookie sheets of them?”

“I need to put them on cookie sheets?”

“Well, isn’t that how you make them?”

“I have to make them?”

At this point, I'm breakin' out in a flop sweat.

“Well, goodness gracious Aunt Molly how else are you going to get Snickers on a cookie sheet?”

“Why do they need to be put on cookie sheets?  Is that a cultural norm around here or something? “

“Well, I suppose you could put them into a baking pan, but do they bake all the way through if they are that thick?”

“Bake?  Who said anything about baking?”

“Well for crimeny sakes Sister Laura how can you make a bar without baking it?”

“Make bars?  What the heck are you talking about?”

“I THOUGHT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT YOUR SNICKER BARS!”

“We are…I was going to buy some at HyVee and just bring them in their bag…”

“Holy jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, they make bars in a bag at HyVee…well,  I never!”

One of us peed our pants at this point, but we will never admit who and it will go with us to our graves.  I will only say this…Elaine had to excuse herself from the phone for just for a teensy weensy moment,  but I don’t want to imply anything.  If Elaine tells her version differently, well, she is older, memory being what it is, she might not remember the events as vividly as I do.  I’m just sayin’…

You do WHAT with that pole???

So…those of you who know me, know that I have lived in Minnesota for going on 16 years now.  I was raised in Southern California, however, so I am no dim bulb.  Not that being born in Minnesota makes you a dim bulb, but it probably makes you better able to tolerate cold things, like Polar Plunges which they never have in California.  And I’ll bet native Minnesotans hardly ever get ice cream headaches.  I should ask someday. 

But anyway…what I’m trying to say is that I am smarter than the average bear.   I keep up with current trends, heck, I even watch reality shows.  I know all about the show they call “The Jersey Shore” and the fact that they have a situation, which apparently is different than someone on the show who is called “The Situation” which makes no sense because why would you name yourself after “…a position with reference to the environment?”  He apparently “hooks up” with a plethora of really tanned girls, but is really only in love with his six-pack.  So I’m thinking HIS situation is a lack of successful therapy?  I’m not sure, but am I describing this show accurately?  I’m just wondering, because I’m only able to watch it for about two minutes and I’m lost.  I don’t speak “bleep” and every other word is *bleep* this you mother*bleep*, kiss my *bleep* you Long Island *bleep*… well, you get my point.  All this to say that I’m in “the know” and I consider myself pretty well informed, so imagine my confusion when my friend leans over and whispers in my ear one night at a Pampered Chef party that she has installed a pole in her bedroom.  I was totally confused.  Why the secrecy?  Is it that embarrassing that you have a sagging roof in your bedroom?  Or did she just join the Volunteer Fire Department and needed lots of practice? 

Well, my confusion was met with huge guffaws of laughter.  Imagine my surprise when she told me that this pole is for aerobic exercise!  I learned that you not only slide down this pole, but you apparently shimmy up it also if you are really good.  Good at what? I asked.  Again…guffaws.  I guess I better start watching more reality television, but in the interest of always learning, I pressed on.  So, what kind of aerobic exercise do you do with this thing?  Well, apparently, there is a DVD for this pole-thingy and the woman on the cover of this DVD found it important to wear very little clothing, lots of lace and gloves.  OK, I understand the little amount of clothing and lace because lace breathes and it appears that with all the heavy breathing and stuff that you will get sweaty, but gloves?  Really?  From the pictures on this box, it appears she had her female stuff *thisclose* to metal and she was worried about protecting her hands?  Seriously?  That just cracks me up.  I just think somewhere on that DVD box they should put a warning that instructs the user to have a container of Lysol wipes near the pole at all times. 

So I press on.  Apparently, if you use the pole and you are dressed, it is aerobic.  If you are naked, it is erotic.  They sound similar don’t they?  But they aren’t even close!  I guess this means that if you accidentally shimmy up and down this pole-thingy naked, you will get absolutely NO caloric burn!  I could be wrong about that, but I'm too embarrassed to ask.  Goodness gracious Sister Mary Teresa, I'm blushing just typing this.

My friend insists that using this pole is a great all around body toner and conditioner.  I could get firm upper arms, tone my thighs and flatten my stomach.  Well, yeah, I thought, as long as you keep your clothes on!  Otherwise, you can forget all about that flat stomach sister!  Don't you know where babies come from?  I do...and apparently they can now come from energetic pole dances!  Just another reason for those Lysol wipes!

It all sounds like too much work to me.  But I promised her I would cozy up on her couch with a good bowl of ice cream and watch that DVD in the interest of furthering my education.  If I decided to get me one of those pole-thingy's and never mastered it, I could always reinforce my bedroom ceiling.  I’m just sayin’…

THAT time again???

So it’s THAT time of the month again.  The time when my children avoid me, small animals take cover and the neighbors don’t come over for a chat.  I don’t really know why that happens, because quite honestly, I feel like I just sail through the month with hardly a blip on the emotional map.  Really, I’m not kidding.  When it comes to emotions, I’m as steady as lighthouse facing a gale storm.  I never have really been able to understand women who complain about “that time” of the month.  I always thought they were referring to the time you had to pay bills, and well, yeah, I can understand that sending a person flat-faced into their mattress for a day or two, but other than that, what am I missing? 

Now, having said that, I will say it is quite interesting that it appears as though all of my girlfriends, my  relatives and some of my neighbors totally disagree with me.  They tell me that they can set their clock by the personality schizophrenia that occurs when Aunt Flo pays me a visit. I find that hard to believe.  I know myself better than anyone, and I just can’t believe that a few hormones can throw me such a curve that I take on the persona of a woman possessed.  Nobody has ever been able to prove that I have levitated my body while spewing green gunk, twisted my head completely around, or taken the Lord’s name in vain, but boy, to hear them talk about it, you would swear I should be running a coven.

So, in the interest of complete accuracy and full disclosure, I decided to put their accusations to the test.  I was going to monitor emotions, cravings, and personality changes during five days in August, and then “crunch the numbers” so to speak to see what results were produced.  I knew it was just a matter of me setting the record straight, but you know, there are just such haters in the world…it’s a real buzz kill.

Day one came and went without a single incident to record.  I started the day with a handful of chocolate Hershey kisses and a Red Bull.  I remember crying while I was styling my hair but that was only because the new hairbrush was being brutal to my roots.  And I’m here to tell you nothing covers a pimple anymore…well, unless you buy it at the Clinique counter and pay $100 for it!  What a scam.  I need to remember to write a letter to the editor about that.  That just ticks me off.

Day two…same thing.  Nothing to report.  Mitch asked me for some money to get a donut and cappuccino before his first class.  I felt it was necessary to explain to him about the national debt in relation to his mother’s debt and how not getting a job as a teenager is a precursor to complete failure as an adult.  He went out the door nearly crying.  Truth hurts, and I remember telling him to buck up and put his big boy panties on.  I’m not a total wet blanket though, and I remember hitting him in the back of the head with a few quarters.  It’s his own fault if he doesn’t pick them up and do something fiscally responsible with them.

Day three.  I don’t remember anything about day three.  Oh, yeah, I slept through day three.  I was in a food coma. 

Day four.  Well, ok, there was a little incident with road rage on day four.  I have to say in my defense however, that I was a bit testy but only because I’m sick and dang tired of these designers who make jeans for women who apparently are not suppose to possess hips and I am going on record today as saying that zippers are a hand tool of the Devil. 

Day five.  I went to dinner with my two sons and we had a great time.  I thought it was a bit rude of the waiter to charge me for the fourth basket of tortilla chips though.  Come on, dude.  What part of complimentary don’t you understand?  What’s next…you gonna charge me for the ambience?  Which by the way, Poncho, wasn’t all that great because even though I know you find this hard to believe, I am not a big fan of soccer…on big screens…in every corner of the restaurant.  If you are going to invest some money on the ambience, you might consider getting a Merry Maid to dust those giant Sombrero’s on the wall every now and then!  Geez.  Talk about missing the obvious. 

Day six.  The last day of this obviously, unnecessary experiment.  I have come to the conclusion in taking a cursory look back at my journal notes (which isn’t too hard to do if you wipe off the salsa, chocolate and Midol stains in the middle of a few pages) that my friends, relatives and neighbors are pretty clueless.  I was Steady Eddy.  I was unshakable in the storm.  My moods were the same on day one as they were on day five.   I was not able to see any discernable evidence that my personality shifted into witch-drive during certain times of the month.  If you don't believe me, come on over..I'll take you on.

So in conclusion, I guess I'm lucky to be of such genial mood and comportment during THAT time of the month.  I've learned through this experiment, that I'm not at all how my peeps portray me.  I did find out however, that my powers of observation are more keen during this time of the month.  For instance, I observed that our town picked the ugliest color for the city water tower, AGAIN, even half-naked Bristol Palin still isn't a dancer, and I'm going to neuter that dog next door with my own hands if he howls at the moon one more time!   But you know what, that's not being an “itch-with-a-b,” that just astute observation...I’m just sayin’…

Big news people!!!!

OMGosh, this is big!  This is absolutely the biggest news to hit my blog since its inception.  Do you remember how I was waxing poetic about Joe Mauer and how he's like the most perfect man on the planet?  Well, dear friends, somehow...this post made its way to Twins Management who in turn placed a printout in his locker.  He read it and was flattered so much he had to call me.  I know huh?  Little 'ol me!!!!  We had a really pleasant conversation and he used complete sentences and everything, and didn't curse and used Ma'am when he addressed me!  I was so flabbergasted I could hardly talk, and I was blushing like a school girl caught behind the bleachers!

I somehow finally found my tongue and we began talking team batting averages and I was impressing him with my baseball knowledge.  Speak their language, you know...RBI's, ERA's, infield fly rule (runners on first and second  or first, second and third, less than two outs and an easily caught infield pop-up will render the batter out and runners cannot advance...that's from memory of course, from my extensive years as a girls fast-pitch left-handed catcher, but I digress).  I didn't bother to scratch myself and spit because he couldn't see it anyway, but if it would have helped the conversation, well...anyway, I'm getting off point. He told me there might be a future for me in being the Twins bat girl!  I know, huh???  He mentioned that the Boys and Girls club didn't have a lock on that position and they always get nasty over liability waivers if their kids get hurt, so maybe someone my age wouldn't care so much if I got hit in the head and could waive that coverage.  THAT my friend is called a WIN-WIN, is it not????  This Joe sweetheart is a genius!  I could TOTALLY see him moving into management when he retires.  He said I should think about it and have my people get in touch with his people.  I was really liking where this conversation was going!

Then about halfway through the conversation, he invited me to Hrbek's for dinner.  I'm thinking, what do I wear? Is this a Twins jersey kind of event and we will be noshing on beer and brats, or is this a steak dinner kind of thing?  If that's the case, then the Spanx is definitely staying in the undies drawer.  I so seldom get a good steak dinner, that I'm going to enjoy every morsel and this will require an elastic waistband.  Sorry Joe...I mean, you are a God amongst men, but we are talking steak dinner here.  Besides, I'll bet you are the kind of guy who hates for his women to suffer for their fashion, am I right?  Just another thing to love about you!

So anyway...let me get back to the story... we are talking about the upcoming dinner and he asks me if I've ever been to Tahiti.  I'm thinking off-season planning, wow...he's organized just like me.  This bodes so well for our budding friendship.  Then, it happened.  It was unexpected, and it broke my heart.  I woke up.  GAWD...I HATE it when that happens...I'm just sayin'...

Ode to Joe...

Some of you are just getting to know me, and so one thing that you will learn is I have a little thing about Joe Mauer.  No...not the guy that works at the HyVee meat counter.  He spells his last name Mauerer and his side burns suck.  No, I'm talking about that hunk of manhood holding down home plate for the Minnesota Twins.  He's as close to perfection as you can get in a human.  Have you ever looked at that man?  Now here is a guy who knows how to get a good haircut.  And he is obviously paying attention to his personal hygiene because I don't see a breakout on that face.  Of course, that limits his income potential because the people from ProActive aren't going to come knockin' but I think he's planned sufficiently for his retirement to overcome that challenge. 

I don't know what it is exactly, but Joe just has the "it" factor.  He has legions of fans who hang on his every word just because he is Joe.  He has the most loyal fans in all of baseball.  We will mortgage our house, give up our morning lattes, and sacrifice our children's trust fund to get choice seats behind home plate.  We just want to please Joe.  For instance, when he told everyone at Target Field that he wanted to see the stands filled with lots of "athletic supporters" I didn't miss a beat.  I grabbed my keys to the car and headed out to clear the aisles of every "athletic supporter" Sports Connection stocked.  Thankfully my sons pulled me back from the brink of insanity in time to me to tell me that Joe was asking for "fans" not jock straps.  See what I mean...? Anything for you Joe...**sigh**...

So why the fixation on Joe you ask?  Why not Cuddyer, or Thome?  In fact, my good friend Heather often looks at me with confusion when I swoon over Mauer because she's busy taking anti-seizure medication just to watch Michael "Heather's Hotty" Cuddyer.  And don't get her started about those stretches he makes at first base!  She has an inhaler for those times.  I totally support and understand her obsession.  We are mature women after all, and a little harmless crush in a totally unattainable situation is just fun, and you know what?  It's actually thrifty.  In these economically challenging times, hoping for a wild pitch just to see the backside of Mauer, while a bit counterproductive for our team, gives me a totally harmless hot flash!  Some women pay up to $500 or more to control their hot flashes, but not  me!  I say bring 'em on!  It's a small price to pay for Joe, my Sugarplum, Pumby-umby umpkin!  I'm just sayin'...

Did you hear the one about the woman who was pregnant for 40 months? Me neither, I made it up.

I want to talk about pregnancy.  Have you ever been pregnant?  If you are a guy, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that your answer would be no.  So if this topic doesn’t interest you, I am giving you leave to head on over to Home Depot…hurry while I’m not lurking in the hardware aisle looking for a cheap thrill.

For those of you in the sisterhood, I want to vent for a little bit here.  Chime right in with a “right on sister!” if this has happened to you.  Let’s say you are at the point in your pregnancy where your belly is finally looking pregnant.  It isn’t at that in-between stage where people look at you funny and don’t dare ask when the baby is due because you might just be fat.  You know…that stage?  So here you are minding your own business in, let’s say, an elevator, and in steps a fatherly-looking, and perfectly sane-looking gentleman.  You exchange pleasantries and then it happens… he leans over and pats your tummy and asks, “Did you swallow a watermelon…argghhh, arghh, arghhh…LOL, LOL…ROFL!!!” 

Now I ask you ladies…seriously…what pregnant or non-pregnant woman for that matter, has not heard that lame joke?  I mean, I have to admit, I look at my swollen belly and it’s a regular laugh riot to me also, but where do perfect strangers get off touching my what is typically a very “off-limits bodily area” and laugh?  I’ll tell ya what… If I pointed to a dude’s very “off-limits bodily area” and laughed, well, that would be the end of the date, I’m sure.  Hey…now I think I know why those Match.com dates never really got off the ground!  But I digress. 

So, while I’m on a roll, another thing that torques me off is how older, wiser, and many times over pregnant women like to torture first-time mothers with gruesome stories about labor and delivery.  I remember as a first time soon-to-be mother, I was around seven months pregnant and I was getting to that stage where I was freaking out about labor.  I was thinking, gee, I wonder if there is a clause in like, a life contract or something, that I could sign that would get me out of experiencing any pain.  I would SO sign that contract right now.  I would even consider negotiating a celibate life for a term not to exceed two years if that was on the table.  No kidding, that is how my mind worked at the time!  So, I was trepidatious as I sat there waiting to see my OB/GYN. 

Now it happens, there were two very large and Amish-looking older ladies talking with one another, rocking their newborns and recounting their recent labors.  I tried not to appear to be eavesdropping, but come on, let’s be real; the waiting room is the size of a postage stamp.  Pretty hard not to hear everyone’s conversations, but you get to pretend that you are uninterested.  That’s what my mama taught me.  Yeah, like I listen to what my mama taught me!  Had I listened to my Mama, I wouldn’t be pregnant sitting in a waiting room, but I digress. 

So, here I am with my magazine, pretending not to hear as one of them recounts, “…well, my 8^th labor lasted 49 hours and they had to use the Jaws of Life to pull the poor sucker out of my uterus.  It took 4 hours to stitch me up.  They finished and stuffed me into a taxi to get back to the farm just in time to plow the north forty and feed the cattle before dinner.”  I dropped my magazine and my jaw to the floor at the same time and blew my cover!  All I could think was, come on lady, the Amish don’t ride in taxis!    Obviously, I wasn't believing a word this woman was saying.  However, it was at that moment that I left that riveting discussion to find a bathroom so that I could sink my head in a toilet and throw up.  What I’m saying here ladies is give these first time mothers a break…gruesome labor stories are best left to entertain us all at card club.

Lastly, but certainly not least, can we all agree that pregnancy is not a disability?  It AMAZES me that some new mothers think that pregnancy is a disability.  Seriously, I mean do they give you blue handicapped cards to put on your rear view mirror when you are pregnant?  No! Why?  Because it is a condition…repeat after me…it is a condition.  Not a disability!  And it has a beginning (we all know when that was, *wink* *wink*) and an ending.  Unless you are an elephant…then it goes on forever.  But I digress. 

Most of us women are made of tough stock and we soldier on, but for those delicate first-timers who may find this hard to believe, I guaran-darn-tee you that you will be able to clean that toilet, wash those dishes and fold those clothes even if you have *gasp!*, God forbid, swollen ankles.   AND (this just keeps getting better doesn’t it?) you will survive a trip to the grocery store when your belly is getting kicked by a growing baby that just found its love for soccer.  It’s true, I wouldn’t lie.  And you know that whole “I’m eating for two” thing you have going on?  Well, embrace that for as long as you can sweetheart because as quick as a rabbit reproduces, you will give birth and all those extra pregnancy pounds will become just run–of-the-mill FAT.  It’s the pre-cursor to the middle-age spread.

So, as you can tell, I’ve done the pregnancy thing and I survived.  I am now in the season of my life (you like that, I say “season of my life” like it is fun, when really it is shorthand for “crap, I’m old!”) when I can dispense wisdom to soon-to-be new mothers.  So with all the kindness I can muster, I will say, “Thank GOD you aren’t an elephant!  I’m just sayin’…!”

Successful online dating is an oxymoron...like "calculated risk!" Seriously?

I’ll admit it…I am a veteran of online dating.  Those who know me best know that I have been marginally successful at meeting great people on various sites and now count them as friends.  That’s the upside.  Notice it only took me two sentences to explain the upside to online dating. 

I’ve tried them all.  Match.com was my first foray into online dating during a period in my life that I now refer to as the “crazy days.”  I’ll admit, when you are suddenly a single mom and going through a divorce, you wonder if you are alright and if you will ever be in a relationship again.  You second-guess yourself…was it my fault, was it his fault? 

I was pretty sure I was a functioning human being, but just to be sure, I thought it would be a good idea to log-on to a site full of dysfunctional, professional psychopaths to reconfirm my suspicions.  I was so clearly out of my depth!  I was a naïve virgin in the sleazy world of online dating, and being of German decent, I thought if they wrote it and it was on the Internet by golly, it must be the truth!  After all, I was being truthful, so all these gorgeous men who wanted to walk with me on sunlit beaches, wine and dine me, communicate endlessly until 2:00 a.m. and buy me expensive jewelry must be telling the truth also, right?  What do the young kids say these days?  LOL???  Yeah, well, LO-friggin’ L to THAT one!  In the infamous words of Judge Judy,  “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining!"  Don’t put up a 15 year old picture and tell me you own your own business, fool!  It is stretching the truth AT BEST to go door to door selling magazine subscriptions and call it your own publishing company! 

And online sites are time suckers!  Let me tell you, if I billed Match and EHarmony alone for the time I took to complete their survey/profiles, even at minimum wage, I’d have a cushy retirement, but EHarmony was by far the worst.  I collected all my mortgage papers, my birth certificate, my car note, my children’s social security numbers, the combination to my home safe, submitted my blood type and health records and completed the EHarmony “compatibility survey” narratives.  I was SURE they were going to send me my soul mate.  After all, I had all 40 dimensions of compatibility…no broken pony here folks!!  I expounded on how a volunteer spirit was important, how I wanted someone in the upper IQ range, and a good communicator would be nice.  I wasn’t particular about income  - HUGE mistake…at least specify that they NEED one!  Then I sat back and waited for the miracle… it came in the form of Henry from Hibbing, MN.  No kidding, I can’t make this up.

Here’s your soul mate Lynn!!  Henry was in an accident on his bicycle and wasn't wearing a helmet, so he can no longer perform high functioning calculations as an estimator for the government.  The upside is that this gives him the time to make birdhouses out of Quaker Oatmeal tubes and he donates his hair to Locks of Love.  His little yapping dog has a slight urinary problem, but the pain-in-the-yap pooch can tolerate Febreeze with only minimal hair loss and scratching, so it shouldn’t be a problem.  Besides, the landlord at the trailer park loves him so he can go over there if we need some "alone" time! Retirement income according to Henry is a myth perpetrated on the man by an out-of-control capitalist government, so if YOU have any, we can just share.  Henry’s children won’t interfere with your plans to travel during your retirement because no one is on speaking terms.  He’s a Christian, so pre-marital sex is a no-no, but given the right incentive, he would be willing to give the little blue pill a try just to make sure there is a future in the romance department.  Lastly, Henry wants you to know that even though people think he speaks with a slight accent, it really is the product of a bad dental bridge, and he will address that as soon as EHarmony tells him there is a gal pal ready and waiting to hook up!  He doesn’t want anything to come between him and possible eternal bliss.

I could go on, but this blog is only so long.  Suffice to say, if you venture out into the world of online dating, that’s your decision.  But remember these wise words:  “financially independent” means he lives with a roommate and they usually get stuck paying the rent, “slightly balding” means you won’t spy a hair on his head, “spiritual but not religious” means he couldn’t give you directions to any of the ten churches in town, or he might have a sick passion for sacrificing cats but always says “Bless you kitty” before he sets them on fire, and “full-figured” means he can’t fit into the booths at Papa Leone’s, but you better be a size 5.

Here's hoping your online experience is better than mine, but you have been warned.  What you do with the information is up to you, I’m just sayin’…

Where do you stock the pink drills???

Being a single mother and homeowner, I often find myself in the precarious situation of facing off with a plugged toilet, a leaky faucet or pot holes in the driveway that will break an ankle.  I don't like to think of myself as a dependent, whiny female, so typically I am not daunted by home improvement projects.  However, and I say this as a huge caveat...I am also not stupid.  I know that my skills in construction are generally limited to buying the tools at Home Depot, not necessarily using them!  And I typically love to go to Home Depot and cruise the aisles looking at the latest cabinets, flooring and plumbing fixtures and it is therapeutic for me.  But that bliss is short-lived if I go with someone of the male persuasion.  Then it becomes a whole different animal.

Me:  "Oh...I love these cabinet pulls...stainless steel is pretty "in" right now."
He:  "Stainless steel is too expensive.  These white knobs would be just fine."
Me: "But the aesthetic is just perfect for the tone I'm looking to set in the kitchen."
He: "What the heck is an aesthetic? And what the heck is a tone?"
Me:  "Um...OK, forget tone and that big 3-syllable word, but you freely admit that you DO know what a kitchen is, right?"
He: "...*silence*..."

So, unless I want to endure something akin to pulling off my nail beds, I avoid going to Home Depot with a dude.  If I need a comedic fix, then I go alone, and I head straight to the hardware aisle.  It's a harmless way to spend a Thursday night and it's free entertainment, so don't be hatin'.  If you want to see a perfect stranger break out in hives, pull up next to him as he's perusing the screws and nails selection and ask him if you think you should buy 1/4" or 1/2" decking screws for your fence project.  I have done this.  It's not pretty...but it is funnier than Bambi on ice! I have had men look at me like I just sprouted a third eye, or at the very least, asked them to remember to put down the toilet seat.  Most of them can't form complete sentences.  Here I am, a woman in testosterone-land, clearly out of my territory and speaking...freely...to someone who isn't clad in a bright orange apron.  Has the world tilted on its axis?  Sometimes I get a coherent response.  Usually they just look at me and say, "Can I find someone in orange for you?" 

Guys are like that...everything is color-coded.  In fact, over the years, I've learned that "real" construction guys snicker under their breath when I pull out the Black and Decker drill I have coveted for so many years, and it took awhile for me to realize that they buy their tools by color.  Yellow, for some reason, is held in high esteem.  Red seems to the be color old-timers gravitate towards, but only wimps go for the teal and black of Black and Decker fame.  It all seems silly to me, because tools in and of themselves seem colorless and lack personality.  Now see, if it were up to me, I would put great looking floral wraps around those framing hammers, and I would color coordinate the battery chargers with the tool boxes you can buy for just a few extra Benjamin's in aisle 4.  I would embroider nicknames on your tool apron and offer animal prints for your tool belts.  Make steel toe boots in shocking pink and purple zebra stripes! Why can't you find hardhats with daisies?

It's probably a good thing I'm not in charge of Home Depot's buying decisions...but I figure why not look fashionable while you are putting on that new toilet wax ring?  Seriously!  Does it need to be so boring?  Plumbers crack isn't THAT entertaining...I'm just sayin'...







 

I want hazard pay!

As a single parent of almost 14 years, I've weathered my share of frustrations, temper tantrums, shouting matches and meltdowns.  And that was just from me.  Let's talk about my two sons!  They can bend metal with their screams and send me directly from 0 to 90 on the migraine scale (is there such a thing?  I think I just made it up.) without breaking a sweat.

I learned long ago that If I was going to survive my son's teen years, I was going to have to employ my vast reserve of parenting skills when they were young and hone them over time.  By the time they hit the dreaded black hole of tolerance and respect, I would be ready.  Yeah, that was the plan.  Plans sometimes go astray...like the Shake Weight I bought that was going to tone down my bat wing underarms.  What happened to that thing anyway.  Well, I digress...

I now have a 16 and 19 year old.  The wrinkles, gray hair and unexplainable facial ticks that come with parenting teens is well developed unfortunately.  But at least it gives their friends something to laugh at.  And it makes me thankful for a good health insurance plan that I'm sure Obamacare will eventually vaporize.  Oh well, I'll expound on that in a future blog!  For now, I'm trying to do the best job of parenting that I can with these rug rats.  Well, I called them that when they were little...now that they are older, I guess they would be more like area rugs.  But I digress...

Single parenting is hard.  It is energy zapping, sleep robbing, headache inducing and stomach churning, but it is also messy, fun, spiritual and highly rewarding.  Yeah, I think at times I should ask for hazard pay, but then I think about the benefits and I guess it all works itself out.  I wouldn't trade my parenting experience for the world...I'm just sayin'...