Put this under "Kids Say the Darndest Things!"

I love being the kind of auntie who spoils her nieces and nephews.  In fact a story that has gone down in family history is the one where I was driving my three year old niece to the mall.  We were going to have a girl’s day of shopping and lunch.  As we were driving and singing to Baby Beluga, I approached a triple set of railroad tracks.  Traffic was light and I was going the posted speed limit of 35, so as I drove over the tracks the car made the requisite “bbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrr……” sound.  I looked over at my niece who was now smiling.  I asked her, “Did you like that?”  She just smiled and said, “Oh…those things tickled my privates!”  I nearly crashed the car!

Well, I recounted this story to her mother  when we got home from our day of shopping and lunching and she just gasped!  My sister asked me, “What did you SAYYYY????”  I just looked at her and said, “Well, I asked her if she wanted me to drive around and we could do it again!”  My sister fainted.   Total over-reaction if you ask me, I'm just sayin'...

Oh! Christmas Tree...

One thing my ex-husband was good for was chopping down the annual Christmas tree, mounting it and hauling the massive thing inside.  When we got divorced the boys were 2 and 5 and I was determined to carry on this tradition, ex-husband be damned.  So, as Christmas approached, I dressed the boys in their finest snow gear and drove them out to Clarks Grove to pick out the family tree.  

The only instruction given at the gate to the tree farm was to make sure “under no circumstance” to cut down trees with yellow X’s on the trunk.  We drove to a spot that looked promising and as we piled out of the truck, I was feeling pretty empowered.  I had an axe and I was gonna get me a tree!  The boys were scattering about looking for what they thought was the perfect tree.  I heard Chris scream, “Mom…this tree is the best!”  I looked over to where he was standing and by golly that tree did look pretty darn good.  In my zeal to prove that I didn’t need a man to bring down a mighty pine, I started to chop away at the trunk.  I was only 1/3 through the trunk when I moved to the opposite side only to see a dreaded yellow X !  Now what? I thought.  I’m going to have to pay a huge amount for taking down a yellow X tree and I’m a single mom!  I can’t afford two trees!  How will I explain to the boys that we will be putting up a plastic Charlie Brown tree from Kmart instead of our mighty pine?  But what else could I do?  I told myself that I would have to chop down the tree, load it into the back of the truck and go to the office and pay for my transgression.  I was NOT looking forward to this. 

As I picked up the axe to finish the job, Mitchell announced that he couldn’t wait any longer…nature was calling.  What was I to do?  I’m in the middle of the tree farm, with a half-cut yellow X tree and a kid whose bladder is busting.  I dropped the axe, walked Mitchell over to the truck and told him to drop his snow pants and take a whiz.  As he was christening the new fallen snow, a HUGE SUV came barreling down the road and pulled over right next to our truck.  As they made their sudden stop, they threw up enough snow to cover Mitchell, and half our truck.  Four people exited the SUV and no apology for what they had just done was forthcoming.  As I stood there in disbelief, I heard the father yell, “Hurry up and find a tree…I need to be on a conference call in five minutes!”  He was waiving his cell phone and pacing the length of the SUV.  As his wife and kids scattered out, I saw his wife approach the yellow X tree.  “Honey…this one is perfect!  It looks like someone wanted it…it’s almost cut through!”  The man took one look at the tree, and yelled, “Cut it down, it’s ours now! !” 

Well, what was I to say?  The guy had a conference call to get to, and his wife was pretty dang handy with that axe!  Besides, I had a two year old to supervise as he tried to write his name in the snow!  Three swings and she had that yellow X tree down on the ground.  Like a finely tuned team of precision soldiers, they had the tree and the kids loaded in the SUV and headed back to the office.  I couldn’t help but smile and wave as they headed off, yelling, “Looks like you got yourself a beauty! ”  

The boys and I found and cut down an appropriate tree and turned to leave.  We had to wait in line for a bit as it appeared there was an intense discussion between the tree farm owners and the guy in the SUV.  I was willing to talk to the owner to let them know I had initiated the first cut on the Yellow X tree, but they waved me through... "Sorry for the wait lady...we have a SITUATION here.  $20 for the tree and you can be on your way."  I took it as a sign from God to pay up and shut up.  Sometimes you just have to let things happen, you know?  I'm just sayin'...

Hey girls...we're goin' to Anguilla...anyone know how to MapQuest?

Wanna know where the Bachelor is?  He's in Anguilla...located in the Caribbean Sea, the northern most island in the Leeward Island chain. I'll bet you never thought you would learn so much about geography while watching this insipid show did you?  I have to say, having never been to the island of Anguilla, it is a visual treat.  Just the place to fall in love, or at least heavy lust, which apparently is what Brad did as Michelle was draped over him in nearly nothing during the photo shoot, but more on that later.

Brad once again is taking all the credit for planning this island getaway and finding the most luscious accommodations anyone could wish for.  That Brad.  He's the whole package isn't he?  The Bachelor and a Travel Planner to boot.  Someone should snag that putz. But I have a bone to pick with Retread... WHEN oh when is he going to realize that we are all in on the fact that this is a reality show and that we all know ABC foots the bill and plans the dates and hires the helicopter and leases the yacht?  We sort of all know that he just shows up and hits his mark and reads from the cue cards.  Just ONCE I want to hear the girls say "Hey...Producer and Director...thanks for the awesome location shoot! Get the Grips and Sound Guys and we will see you at the Lusty Conch Shell tonight for pretzels and fuzzy navels!"  Now THAT would be some reality TV.  Brad could sit back at the hotel and play with his roses and the girls could really have an island getaway!  Just a thought.

So...it begins.  Who will get the one-on-one date today???  Well, it's lucky, plucky Emily the Hometown Girl.  I like Emily.  She looks like an Emily.  She acts like an Emily, which is to say, I know alot of Emily's that I really like, so she's got it goin' on.  So I'm happy for her, but I'll tell ya...if there was a thought bubble above Michelle's head when she heard it was the fair Emily that got the one-on-one it would say, "She swims with the fishes tonight by God."  That chick scares me.

Now I'm wondering at this point, just where is Retread and the Fair One going to go today?  Let me think, could it involve water and a helicopter?  No...that's not very original, Brad's been there, done that.  How about a speed boat to whisk them away to a deserted island?  Well, OK, so Brad got it half right.  Here comes the dang helicopter again which can only mean, get the subtitles and earphones ready.  Well, Brad DID say that he wanted to take their relationship to new heights!  Oh ain't that punny!  Dang Brad, if you really WERE planning these dates I'd have to give you an "A" for originality...NOT.  I've seen so many dang helicopters this season that I think ABC got a season pass from Helicopters 'R Us or something, I mean really...enough with the whirly birds already!

But now the happy couple are dropped off onto their very own private island, which by all standards looks like a sandbar with a hut, but the cue cards say, "Oh my GOSH Brad, a private island??? Really?" so that's what Emily says.  She actually added, "SHUT UP!" after that, which I thought was the most original thought I had heard all season.  Brad is lugging a picnic basket with the requisite champagne in tow and decides to sit on the ONLY seaweed on the sandbar. Yeah, real romantic Brad...get a sand crab up your butt while you sip bubbly...aren't you Rico Suave??  At least Emily was smarter and sat off to the side.  I mean, seriously, it was the only seaweed on the sandbar!  Good lord, he's a putz.  And WHY is Emily's hair going from wet to dry to wet and dry again?  Where is The Donald when you need him?  Editing department? Your fired!

But the date turns serious later that night when Brad asks Emily if he can meet her daughter, Ricky.  But she's torn.  She's not sure he's important enough to meet little Ricky.  Emily is a smart woman.  She's playing Brad like a violin.  Give him just a little...tease him, then tell him no.  That's right Emily, make him sit in the corner and want it!  You go girl!  She does such a great job as master puppeteer that Brad *GASP!!* breaks...the...rules!!  He tells Emily that rules be damned, he's givin' her a rose at the end of the week and they are goin' to Charlotte!  Make some calls Emily, the Putz is comin' to town and he's after your daughter!  OK, that didn't come out right, but we knew what he meant.

But even though he's sworn a rose to Emily, don't think that means the Retread doesn't still have some life in him.  He still has enough lust to make it through another one-on-one with Shawntal N.  They are going to stroll the streets of Anguilla.  I thought this part was really hysterical.  Brad was trying to double dutch and kept stepping on the jump rope and saying, "My bad!"  The locals were scratching there heads and wondering what kind of English classes were taught on the mainland.  My bad.  Good God.  That phrase should be banned from polite conversation.

Shawtal N. however, was enjoying every second of the date, and later at dinner she used the moment to declare that she was sort of, in a way, possibly, pretty sure, last time she checked, amazing as it seemed, might be, in a way, falling in love with him.  Brad squirms in the way that a guy squirms when a girl declares her love for him but he still has a little sand crab  in his swim trunks for the fair Emily.  The date bored me at that point...talk, talk, kiss, kiss...blah, blah, rain storm...amazing!...oh look, impromptu concert with the most famous reggae star on Anguilla.  Is that really saying much for an island that has a population of 20?  
They got back to the hotel somehow...I don't know...I was warming up my pork egg rolls.

OK, what did I miss?  Alas, nothing.  Now we see Brad on a one-to-one with Britt which involves cliff jumping, which you know, is going to end badly.  This date was about as boring to watch as looking at grass grow and the poor Britt was kicked to the shore before she even got to finish her dessert after dinner.  Man, there is nothing worse than that demeaning dinghy ride back to the hotel to pack your bags and go home.  But it just wasn't in the cards for Brad and Britt.  Buh-byeee Britt.

Just when you think you've seen enough, Brad wakes up the girls in the wee hours of the morning and takes them down to the shore for, you guessed it...a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit shoot.  What?  You didn't guess that?  Well, neither did I actually.  But this is going to get interesting because you just know Michelle is going to go after someone with that dagger she keeps under her pillow. 

The girls have found out that they are going to pose in bikinis for a few pages in SI and already Chantal O. is irritated for eating too many of the chocolate covered strawberries at the last cocktail party.  But Ashley is feeling her inner island girl and throws abandon and her bikini top to the wind as she poses with oyster shells over her Twins.  Not to be outdone, Chantal O. frolics in the sand and surf and her Twins go for dip.  Michelle of course, take the high road and insists that she doesn't de-frock for just anyone.  Besides, it would give away the silicone secret she has been so zealously guarding all season.  No, instead, she is going to rub all over Brad in a cheesy remake of "From Here to Eternity" and Brad once again finds out what it's like to have a sand crab in your swim trunks.

The girls are not happy.  The photo shoot did not go as planned with Michelle trying to mate in the breakers, and Brad being the wimp that he was, not doing anything to stop it.  No, our putz Brad did a naughty and he's going to have to get this train wreck back on the tracks.  But how to do that?  Clueless as he is, Retread has no idea, but he thinks he can get at least one girl on his side with a rose.  Ashley is the lucky recipient and Michelle and Chantal O. are left to plot Putz's demise.

Back at the hotel, it's cocktail and rose ceremony time.  In an uncharacteristic show of spine, Brad decides to break the rules once again and forgo the cocktail hour and cut right to the chase.  He knows who he wants to go on hometown dates with and the rules be damned!!!  So, the girls are told to head to the beach for the beheading.  I mean, rose ceremony.  Shawtal N. thinks she's in trouble and heading home.  Chantal O. is sure she's in trouble.  Michelle knows she's not going anywhere because she has Brad's chingadingas in a jar by her bed, so she's good to go.  That leaves Emily, but she knows she's getting a rose, so...oh my gosh...the intrigue...who will get the axe???  As the tension builds, and Brad hands out the roses one by one, we are down to Michelle and Chantal O.  OM Gosh, I'm actually a bit...interested.  Could it be?  Could Brad actually consider cutting the psycho Michelle??  No...can't be!  But wait...!!!  Here it comes...and...and...AND...YES!!!!  Yes!!  YES!!  He gives the rose to Chantal O. !!!!  Michelle is GONE!  Drop kicked, punted, fogetabout it...GONE!  And I couldn't be happier.  As Brad walks Michelle to the car she refuses to speak to him.  She gets into the limo and promptly slumps over into a lump of defeated humanity and for the next blessed 30 seconds, cat's got Michelle's tongue.  For the record...she blinked 27 times.  I counted.  And life just got a little better on the Bachelor.  Brad's putz-o-meter is settling down.  I could be warming up to this guy.  Or not.  I'm just sayin'...

See ya next week!



















 

On The Bachelor, what happens in Vegas, really SHOULD stay in Vegas!

So...now Brad the Recycled Bachelor is heading off to Sin City!  How exciting for him!  The girls are pretty stoked too!  They get to see Brad kiss and climb over girl after girl AND get free drinks while they gamble with ABC's money.  That is so...no let me say it...AMAZING!

So they arrive at the hotel and Brad meets them in the Rugburn Suite.  And they are SO impressed!  Why shouldn't they be?  It's the Penthouse Suite.  Note to girls...the farther up you go in the elevator the cooler the rooms get!  Really! And here is our Hospitality Director Brad telling them that this is ALL THEIRS!  Well, at least until filming is over girls.  Don't get too excited.  But seeing the girls happy makes Brad happy and when Brad is happy the world is happy. And if that isn't enough, Brad's cup really runneth over because he tells every girl in the room that they will be getting a date with him.  I'm lost...isn't that what this show is all about?  Where is the newsflash there?  Ok, I'll keep watching.  This is bound to make sense sooner or later.

So looks like Shawntel N. is getting a "One on One" with Brad, which I have surmised by now means a date and not a basketball game.  Brad mysteriously indicates that this date is going to end with "a bang."  Hope Shawntel is luckier than Jimmy Hoffa..his date ended with a bang too I believe, but you know...what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

So off we go to explore the gluttenous riches of Sin City with Brad and lucky "One on One" winner, Shawntal.  First stop, the most...wait for it...AMAZING...shopping mall in the world and it has ICEBERGS!  Boy Shawntal, you ain't in Chico anymore!  These here are real live fake icebergs...be impressed.  As she looks around and tries to begin pronouncing the names of the shops, Brad tells Shawntal that she gets to go into any shop and buy to her hearts content.  She is so darn excited, I'm waiting for her to pull out an inhaler, but the real humorous part of this is how Brad is reacting.  I mean, I realize that nothing says love like retail therapy, but dude, this is on someone elses dime, remember?  So what makes you the tall cowboy in the saddle?  You aren't even signing the Visa bills.  I don't think he's bright enough to realize that this is a reality show and he turns back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight.  Poor, poor Brad, I'm beginning to really feel bad for this guy.  Ok, no I'm not, he's still a putz.

As they go from store to store, I'm getting antsier and antsier...at one point, I am screaming at the TV!!!  Grab that Visa honey, ditch the dude, shop till you drop and put four tickets for you and your BFF's to Paris on that card before the ABC execs shut you down!!!  Go!!!  NOW!!!! 

But alas, it is not to be.  Instead, I get to listen to Shawntal drone on about how "natural" she feels holding Brad's hand, strolling through the mall, while a camera crew follows closely behind.  I get it!  That would be totally natural for me too.  Wow...see?  I'm starting to get it.  No I'm not.  I'm lying, Brad is still a putz.

So now Shawtal gets to head back to the herd to display her kill to the waiting lionesses.  They quickly disembowel her and take her loot to the cave.  Wait, that's National Geographic.  I get confused sometimes, because the mating game on this show is so similar to the mating that goes on in the wild.  Now, where was I?

Oh yeah...Shawntal is now walking through the door to the Rugburn Suite where all the jealous girls have assembled.  She is thoroughly pissing Michelle off because she has the shoes and dress that Michelle wanted.  Well, I would tell Michelle to build a bridge and get the heck over it, but she would probably put a hit out on me, so I better shut my mouth.  Did I mention that Brad is a putz?

Fast forward to the end of this "One-on-One" date which entails dinner on the top of the hotel.  We have to drag ourselves through fifty more uses for the word AMAZING!  The dinner is AMAZING, the city lights are AMAZING, the fireworks are AMAZING, look at my new bra Brad, isn't it ...ok, you get the idea.  All I know is that this part of  The Bachelor is over, I only have to blog one more hour and THAT my friends, is AMAZING!

So now after a few minutes of fast forwarding on my DVR, were apparently Brad and his two loves were flying high in some kind of a Cirque de Soleil meets Elvis performance, and where Brad kisses one lady goodbye forever, we are now heading over to the NASCAR racetrack.  And why a racetrack you ask?  Oh please...one word...ratings.  Let me explain...

Emily (who everyone loves from what I hear and I have to admit, has a certain "girl next door" charm about her) is the odds on favorite to steal Brad's heart during the second hour of this show.  I pop a bowl of popcorn, sip some sugar-free Crystal Light, and balance my checkbook while I watch the drama unfold.  Apparently, there is a reason we are at the racetrack.  See, Emily had this fiance named Ricky.  And, well, Ricky was a...wait for it...a NASCAR driver..who dies in a plane crash, on the way to a...wait for it...NASCAR race!!!  Oh, come on now!!  I KNOW you didn't see that one coming did you?  I mean, what are the chances that the producers would decide to strap a bunch of clueless drama queens into some speeding race cars and send them careening around the oval without some sort of huge payoff?  Call me cynical, but I feel a setup comin' on.  And wouldn't you know it...Brad just KNOWS that something is bothering Emily.  Of course, he pretty tapped into his feminine side, so being the prince that he is, he goes to get the 411 on the situation.

"Emily,  I saw your face and I knew something was wrong..."  That's reality show speak for cue the music...cue the sweet Emily...and let's get the audience boo-hooing.  Well, I'll tell ya...I feel for her.  Her story really is tragic and that is the FIRST real emotion I've had (well, if you don't count revulsion) since watching this show.  But how dense do the producers think we are when Brad reacts to her story and says he had NO idea, and he feels TERRIBLE, but apparently, not too terrible because he still let the producers put her behind the wheel of a race car.  Shame on you Brad.  But darn it all, that plucky Emily...you gotta hand it to this girl...she took two laps for Ricky, one lap for her and now she's ready to find love!  You GO girl!  No...I mean, you should really GO girl...to another show, another network, anywhere but The Bachelor, cuz honey, you are too normal.  Which leads me to the strangest scenes of the night which involved the least normal of the dames...you guessed it...Michelle. 

This chick is great at whipping all the other girls into a frenzy and after whining non-stop about how the day ended up being the "Emily day" Michelle decides she's had enough.  She doesn't want Brad to talk to the other girls so she takes him into...no let me rephrase that...she drags Brad into an adjoining room, slams him into a chair and jumps on his lap.  Oh, this is just going to end badly I think.  "From here on out...no talking." she says.  Her eyebrows are looking really scary.  How do chicks do that?  I can't make my eyebrows do that.  I tried.  I just look constepated.  Oh well, I digress.  Anyway, I'm waiting for Brad to knee her in the crotch and throw her off his lap and declare his love for the sweet Emily, but NO...he stares at her like a love-sick puppy and wipes the drool off his chin with his tie.  Pa-thet-ic. 

"You have some really big decisions to make," she continues as she lovingly (?) strokes the side of his face "...and I think you need someone who appreciates you.  So while you think tonight about your big decisions...kiss, kiss,stroke...who you are going to...kiss, kiss, stroke...terminate...kiss, kiss...I want you to remember...kiss, kiss...I sleep with a dager under my pillow. Now, let's go send some girls home." 

Now I KNOW this chick will be around at the end, you know why?  Because by the season finale, we will all hate Michelle so much that we will tune in to see her get her comeupance, and ABC will score a ratings bonanza.  But in the end, I predict Brad will send the evil Michelle to the limo and propose to the fair Miss Emily.  But don't feel too bad for Michelle.  Chicks like her take advantage of their 15 seconds of fame.  She will pop up on an episode of "Wipeout" wherein the tables will be turned and the big balls will kick HER butt for a change.  Probably a good thing.  That girl needs a good butt whoopin.  Too bad Brad couldn't do it, but he's a putz. I'm just sayin'...!

See ya next week!

Mondays are bad enough, but now...it's another season of The Bachelor!

Ok, I'll admit it...I watch The Bachelor very seldom and when I do I usually only watch the finale because quite honestly, isn't that the only thing worth watching?  I mean, how many times can you watch a couple load into a helicopter and wax poetic about how gorgeous the surroundings are?  Seen one helicopter scene, seen them all.  Say that three times fast.  But this season promises to have surprises galore as we watch the adventures of Brad the Recycled Bachelor.  How exciting.  Kind of like waxing my upper lip.  Only that would actually be more fun.  But anyway...I've decided this is blogger gold, so I'm going to follow the adventures of our clueless, lovelorn bachelor.  Heck, Brad's already gotten slapped in the kisser, so let's get this party started!

In this episode, Chantal gets a "one-on-one" date with Brad.  What the heck did she do in her previous life to deserve that?  Oh wait...that's a good thing, right?  A one-on-one with Brad is a good thing?  Ok, I'm still learning here people, cut me some slack.

So, shock of all shocks...how do they get to their fairy-tale first date but by...wait for it... yeah, you guessed it...a helicopter.  Good Lord.  Kill me now.  We are only 15 minutes in.  But this is suppose to be romantic, people, so I'll just play their silly game and listen in.  Chantal is excited that they are going "on an amazing date, with an amazing guy" (obviously, Chantal attended One Adjective High) and she's scared to death because this date could "change her life forever."  Note to Chantal...talk about a life changer...wait until you use Scrubbing Bubbles for the first time.  It's true...they DO work harder, so you don't have to.

As the happy couple land at Catalina Island, Brad surprises Chantal with the notion that on this island...which is surrounded by...water...because that is what makes it an...island... that they will be going into....the water!!  Big surprise for Chantal!!  Imagine her horror as she looks down at her fake floatation devices and realizes that she will be bobbing and weaving more than a drunken prize fighter.   At this point, Brad faces the camera and exclaims, "I have been waiting to take Chantal O. on a date..."  WAIT!  Are the producers trying to pull a fast one on me?  How many Chantal's are there in this wacko episode?  I better go check my Bachelor Cliff Notes.

So back to Bobber... Now these two love-birds are skipping along the ocean floor and doesn't Brad look so darn handsome with the kelp wrapped around his heavenly ripped thighs?  I have to admit, that little unitard he is wearing is doing nothing for me, but Chantal is fogging up her 50 lb. helmet.  Now she's crying and wishing her long-wearing mascara was waterproof 'cuz this whole thing is freaking her out man!  As she says,"My biggest fear is that I'm going to go down there, and I'm never going to come up."  Well, Chantal honey, we can only hope, yes, we can only hope.  Hey, come on now, don't call me insensitive, think of the rose that would be saved.

So, after the date, we are back at Psycho Central and now some chick named Michelle with a black eye is looking cynically into the camera and exclaiming, "There is a good chance that if I don't get a date this week, that Brad will be getting his own black eye."  Oh now ya went and did it Michelle.  You've stirred up all those loving' feelings in every penitentiary in the country and prisoners everywhere are ripping down their Farah Fawcett posters in the hopes you will be shooting a swimsuit calendar soon.  Didn't your momma ever teach you that you NEVER make a threat on national television to beat up a potential boyfriend unless you want prison penpals for the rest of your life?  Geez...who's pre-screening these girls?

Now, after enduring Chantal and now Michelle, I feel like I need to take a shower to get this sticky gooey off of me.  But no...shows not over.  What?  This can't be!  We are only 24 minutes in?  I'm never gonna make it.  No seriously, I have a bladder the size of a pea, so I'm never gonna make it.  I'm not going to put it on pause because I really don't think I'll miss that much.

I was right.  This episode is longer than War and Peace.  In the interest of time, let me recap with the shorthand version from here on in...

Girls in the hot tub hate Ashley H. 
Ashley H. secretly plots to drown all girls wearing neon green bikinis in the hot tub.
Brad is sucking off the nose and chin of some girl who sadly, is named Britt.
Ashley H. interrupts sucking session and secretly plots to kill girl who sadly, is named Britt.
Michelle has sudden elbow spasm that looks oddly like a threat of bodily harm to Ashley H.
Brad joins girls in hot tub.  Girls whine, snivel and moan to Brad and I believe Ashley H. peed in the bubbles.
Brad leaves the hot tub and gets clingy with Alli on the couch.  Love fest is interrupted by Minnie Mouse AKA Ashley (apparently with no last initial, so as not to confuse the viewers)
...who is then interrupted by heck, I don't know...I can't keep up.  These girls are coming at Brad faster than a wedding dress hits the ground in the Honeymoon suite.
All I know is there are four girls left bitching in the hot tub and Snooky isn't one of them.

So, I'm worn out and I'm only 40 minutes into the show.  I need a break.  Let's continue this party in few days, ok?  I have a helicopter to catch.
Ta-ta for now!

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’…!”