Monthly Archives: February 2012

It’s true.  He knows it.  I’ve made no secret of it.  My heart belongs to another.  I can’t help myself.  Please, dear friends, please don’t judge me.  If you saw him, if you met him, you wouldn’t blame me.  No one can hold a candle to this guy.

He’s fair-haired and sports quite the mullet.

He’s got a smile that would knock you over on a sunny day.

He’s got the cutest little butt you’ve ever seen.

He flirts with me till my heart goes pitter-pat.

He loves to put his hands down his pants when he’s bored, and he drools incessantly.

He’s the 1-year-old son of a friend of mine.  His name is… and I love this….Lane.  Talk about a romance novel hero name.  Lane.  ahhhhhhhhh   ***Sigh***

And in 17 years, we’re getting married.  I’ve got it all worked out.  Sure, I’ll be in my 60’s, but he doesn’t seem to mind when we talk about it.  Well, when I talk about it and then he drools and toddles away.

My Captain has been taking this all pretty well, considering.

But tonight….tonight I was dealt a swift and painful blow.  I learned the hard way that Lane is not true to me.  I found a valentine to him from a 1st grader who is shamelessly trying to steal him away from me.  I told her he was taken, and she just smirked…smirked at me!  Like I was no competition.  And she assured me she wasn’t the only one.

I was crushed.

And in a shocking display of insensitivity, My Captain chuckled and shot at me, “Have you ever heard of a guy trading in a forty-year-old for two twenty-year-olds?  Well, Lane just traded in a fourty-four for seven six-year-olds and a toddler on the side.”

Ouch.

So I go to the grocery store today, the day before Valentine’s Day, and right in front of the door as soon as I walk in, is the Vortex of Valentine’s Guilt Driven Merchandise.

There were overpriced flowers of every shade of pink you could imagine.

There were all kinds of conversation-heart candy, packaged in a variety of annoyingly cute boxes and bags.

There were Stickers and Cards and little red stuffed puppies with obnoxious bows and velvet hearts.

And there were boxes of chocolates. Chocolates for all kinds of people. The Russell Stover for the cheap bastards. The Hersheys for the middle class. And the Dove, Lindt, and Ghiradelli for the elite echelon of gullible patrons.

But the kicker for me, the absolute Hardy Har Har of Valetine’s Kitschy Crap, was the ginormous heart-shaped box of chocolates in the center of the display. This thing had to be 3 feet in diameter, was covered in cheesy brilliant red velvet, had a satin bow the size of a cantaloupe on the front of it…and get this…it was made by Russell Stover! Here it is, the biggest heart, the mother-of-all Valentine’s Day Kiss-Ups, the one that some in-the-doghouse guy would soon bring home to his lady love, and it was Russell Stover! That brand is like 99% paraffin, and maybe…maybe…1% cocoa. Why would anyone go to the trouble of buying a ginormous heart of cheap chocolate? Nothing says “I’m trying to make up for something I did to piss you off” like a ginormous box of cheap chocolate.

When I was growing up, Valentine’s day wasn’t so commercialized…or if it was, my parents didn’t buy into it. I’d get a sweet card, and maybe a box of chocolates in a small heart-shaped box. And the day was about love. Sure, it was parental/child love, but it was simple and sweet and not mercenary.

To carry on this simple and sweet tradition, I have been a stickler about my kids making their Valentine’s cards or crafts for their father. I believe there should be some effort from the giver to the receiver. Am I the only person in the world who still buys paper doilies? Quite possibly. Do I believe whole heartedly in glitter and glue and asymmetrical paper hearts cut out by dull kiddie scissors? For Sure. Am I so cynical about the materialist nature of today’s Valentine’s Day that I would scoff at a pair of diamond earrings and a dozen red roses?

Hell no.

I’m only human.

(and don’t forget the box of Lindt chocolates, please.)

Last Friday night Critter and Varmint’s elementary school had an old fashioned Sock Hop.  It was awesome!

My mom made Varmint an honest to goodness Poodle Skirt.  And she wore the collared white shirt and cardigan sweater to go with it.  The scarf around her pony tail completed the picture.

Critter slicked his hair back, sported black pants and a white t-shirt and looked every bit of John Travolta in Grease as you can imagine.  All he was missing was the cigarettes in the sleeve.

I wore a skirt and cardigan and flats, and My Captain wore jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

We were the 50’s family through and through.  We Rocked It!

There were crafts, a bake sale, balloon decorations, and a DJ with 50’s music and current music.  We had the funky lights on.  We had kids running and laughing everywhere.  It was So Americana, I lapped up every minute of it.

A couple of songs into the dance, the DJ said the parents HAD to get on the dance floor.  So My Captain and I joined Varmint and her friends. (Critter was throwing paper airplanes at the other end of the gym at that point.)   The song was “Twist and Shout.”  And baby, we did!  Oh we were twisting and grooving and bending and swaying.  And the girls were alternating between copying us and mocking us.  I know for certain that Varmint was embarrassed to be related to me.

About 1 minute into the song, I was ready to stop.  I was out of breath, hot, and my knees hurt.  Plus, I was out of new moves.  I had exhausted all of my dance moves in less than a minute.

I wish I was exaggerating.

But I didn’t quit!  I am sure I was sagging, flagging and any other ‘agging that would apply, but I hung in there.  You would have been so proud of me.

When the song wrapped up, the DJ called out the two best student winners.  And then they called out the two best parent winners….and it was My Captain and me!  We each won a Big Hershey’s bar!  I was so glad I stuck it out!  Had I known it was for a Hershey’s bar, I would have REALLY put on a show!

I spent the rest of the evening helping other parents sell cupcakes, pizza and pop, and watching the kids dance. I fixed the paper airplanes of several first graders who didn’t care to dance.

And I learned that all the dance moves these days are learned from Wii’s Just Dance.

Hey, don’t judge…its no worse than the Twist.

My Captain and I won dance prizes, AND I embarrassed my kids all in one night.  Talk about a win-win evening.

Life is good.

Today my daughter’s basketball game did not go well.  And I’m not referring at all to the actual game.  I am talking about the behavior of the parents.  The parents of my kid’s team.

Well, ok, specifically ME.

The good news is that I didn’t get a Technical Foul.

The bad news is it wasn’t from lack of trying.

The other team was fouling our precious little daisies over and over and over again.  And the refs were doing nothing about it.  And the other team’s coach was yelling “Get aggressive!”

Seriously?!

They had more fouls than points.  I am not kidding!

Our girls played a fantastically clean game.  We have good sportsmanship down to a science.  They are kind out on that floor.  Sure, they lose every game, but they are so loveable it almost doesn’t matter.

Today, however, I wanted to teach them something other than good sportsmanship.  I wanted to teach them a good uppercut.  Or maybe a clothesline.  Or maybe a subtle trip.

I was so flipping mad at those refs, at the other coach, and at a couple of the most aggressive ten year old basketball players I have ever seen, I was yelling my throat out.  I was screaming like a NY Giant Superbowl Fan.  Hollering like a Justin Beiber Groupie.  Begging like a drunk at a strip bar….not that I… ***sigh***….just go with it, don’t question me when I’m ranting.

Picture me on the last row of bleachers, standing up, complaining so loud, and so hard it required all the strength my herniated diaphragm could muster, and pushed a fart or two out in the process.

(My Captain said, “Did you just fart?”, and I replied without any compunction, “No, it was mom, next to me.”)

And I’m barking at the refs, and I’m carping at the other coach, and I’m complaining to our assistant coach, and I’m bitching to all the parents around me.

To no avail.

At the end of the game, the refs finally started calling on their fouls.  We had a measly minute left.  To give you an idea of how bad the other team was….within that one minute of the game left, my daughter got to shoot 4 foul shots.    4!   And two of their team members fouled out in the process!

I was so stinkin mad, and SO stinkin loud about it.  My blood pressure rose 40 points, and I don’t even care about sports!

Later, when we were leaving the community center, I asked Varmint if she heard me from the bleachers.

“After a while, mom, I tuned you out. Oh, and it’s a basket, not a goal.”

Ungrateful wench.

Look, I admit I might be a bit of a Girlscout.  I like to be prepared.  I don’t like to get caught with my pants down.

Well, I guess it depends on who catches me that way.

Wow.  Please let that visual go.  Just. Let. It. Go.  Do yourself a favor.

My husband is a Girlscout too, but in a Boyscout kind of way.   And really, Boyscouts are just Girlscouts, minus the awesome cookies.  Do ya follow me?  Try to keep up.

My Captain and I, we prepare for day to day life differently.   I rely on tools.  He relys on his brains, his cell phone, and his good looks.  All he ever needs he can carry in his pocket:  Wallet.  Pen. Chapstick. Wicked Sharp Pocket Knife.  That’s it! Done.  And he survives!  I mean, come on!  Even McGuyver carried dental floss and C4 from day to day.  Not my guy.  He’s a minimalist.

Me, I’m all about the tools.  All the absolutely necessary accoutrements for day to day living.  My purse is the perfect example of this.  It’s not really a purse…its more of a backpack.  A nice blend-in-with-all-kinds-of-disgusting-dirt-including-whatever-sits-on-a-bathroom-stall-floor Khaki with embroidered Moose, of course.  Washable canvas…though I’ve never tested that theory in the four years I’ve used it.  No one has ever attempted to steal it, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why.  It could be it’s the odd smell that comes from it.  Or, it could be that it weighs nearly 50lbs.

It has one little outside pocket.  Really, it’s about 4 X 6″ in size.  In it alone I have:

My Cell Phone, if I haven’t lost it yet in any given moment.

3 pens.

A stack of paper.

1 tube of Chapstick.

1 Blues Clues band-aid.

A pony Tail Band.

1 used tissue.

And then there is the main compartment, or, as I like to call it, “The Black Hole”.   Every few months or so I dump the contents of it onto the kitchen table, and it’s like Christmas.   Today we found:

My wallet.  Disappointingly thin.

My checkbook.  Also Disappointingly thin.

An estimated 5 Kagillion receipts.

A Digital Camera.

A Flip Video Camera.

A Zip-loc bag full of various doctor’s business cards, gift cards to a couple of restaurants, our Hershey Park Passes from 2010 and 2011 (expired, obviously) and some pictures of the kids.

An empty travel pack of Kleenex.

5 or 6 bunched up, used Kleenex.

Fingernail Clippers.

Motrin.

Motrin for Children.

Benadryl for Children.

Eyeliner.

Tinted Lip Gloss.

Mascara.  (Seriously?  Yes.)

2 different kinds of perfume (purse sized sprays, of course.)

Dental Floss.

Nail File.

Moisturizer Cream.

Travel Sewing Kit.

Compact Mirror.

Miniature Flashlight.

First Aid Bag.

Tweezers.

A 5 hour energy Caffeine Shot

A small travel Pill Box.

An asthma inhaler.

A fold up compact brush.

Eye Drops.

Listerine Breath Drops.

A four year old Nutrigrain Bar, thoroughly crushed.

4 Pennies.

2 Rocks (that critter found and insisted we take home, but never get taken out of The Black Hole, and so reside there permanently.

This is the perfect snapshot of my life.  The things I always end up either needing, or being asked to borrow, or store.  There used to be more, though.  Before my Hysterectomy, I carried all kinds of female needs.  I’m happy to not need those anymore.  (Whooo Hooo!) I am here to tell you young-uns that Uteri are seriously over-rated!  I say ditch it as soon as you can!

Here is an ode to my old Uterus:

Uterus, Uterus, oh where did you go?

You caused me such pain, I hated you so.

Uterus, Uterus, You I don’t need,

You gave me the cramps and you caused me to bleed.

Uterus, Uterus, why not choose males?

Let them cramp and gestate and swell like the whales.

Uterus, Uterus, I don’t wish you well,

As far as I’m concerned, you can go straight to **BEEEEP***

(** This Ode has been edited for younger audiences.)

So the other day, someone asked me if I had a stick of gum.  Look up in that list.  Look up in that @#$#%$%^$# List!  LOOK. UP. IN. THAT. LIST.

GHAAAA!  No gum!  DOH!

*(&^&!!!****