Mamas helping mamas

Those of you who know me in real life know that I care deeply about real things happening in the world beyond the bizarre hairs growing out of all the wrong places on my body.  This blog is just my indulgent place to talk about the latter.

I would like to take this opportunity to pitch a request out there for those of you who haven't maxed out on your 2008 donations or are looking for a last minute place to donate before the end of the calendar year (you have less than 10 hours if you live on the east coast).

Medical Teams International is an organization that we donate to every year.  I am amazed at the work they do all over the globe.  If there is a crisis anywhere, they are there.  They started in Oregon and my dentist there is one of their volunteers.  The medical personnel that go on location pay their own way and the administrative costs are very low.  

If you give a "gift of hope" through the link above there is a foundation that will match your gift.

As a mama, I can't fathom the thought of having to worry daily about my children's survival.  Thanks for listening.  

Dreaming

I'm pretty sure the dream I had last night is about as far away from the inspiration behind the Blondie song that you can get.  This is so sad, I can't believe I'm sharing it, but that's never stopped me before right?

The dream was pretty simple.  Someone (presumably my husband) got me a new car.  It was nice.  In my dream it was some sort of sleek touring Euro Sedan (Audi-ish).  I remember the interior, black leather, dark woods.  Nice thick leather steering wheel.  I was driving it around a corner, hugging the road just like in the commercials.

Here's where the tragic part comes in.  My overwhelming emotion in this dream?  SADNESS.  All I was thinking was WHERE'S MY MINIVAN?  This car only has four, maybe five seats!  And I have to physically open the doors, they don't "greet" me with open arms at the touch of a button.  In the dream I was so torn between wanting to be grateful for the gift and hightailing it back to the house to confirm that the minivan was truly gone forever.

Thankfully when I woke up, all was well in the world and my beloved Blue was still waiting for me in the driveway ready for more adventures in Suburbia.  So here's a little dedication to Blue:

I sit by and watch the river flow.

I sit by and watch the traffic go.

Imagine something of your very own; something you can have and hold.

I'd build a road in gold just to have some dreaming.

Dreaming is free.

Now that's a weekend!

Whew!  I just got home from Baltimore and one of the most fun weekends I've had in a long time.  I had the honor of being a guest of my bff whose dad played for the 1958 Baltimore Colts.  This weekend was the 50th anniversary of the greatest game ever played.  The Baltimore Ravens organization put on an entire weekend reunion for these guys and their families that was really remarkable.  

I love professional football.  I grew up in a state without a franchise so I had to adopt them along the way.  I was a complete sucker for the QB.  When it was Terry Bradshaw and the Steelers, I threw a Superbowl party for me and my stuffed animals.  The Joe Montana years were beautiful.  Then it was Brett Fav-rah.  Fickle, yes.  Monogamous, no.  It's probably the most fun and painless way to enjoy football.  Just ask any Saints fan and they'll agree wholeheartedly.

So anyway, getting to be a tag-along on this junket was a complete thrill for me.  I even got hit on by a hall of famer.  The fact that he was three sheets to the wind, 70+ and could take his teeth out on command doesn't erase the fact that if I'd been willing he'd of hooked himself up to a Viagra drip and game on!  It was both horrifying and flattering at the same time.  Plus he was from Texas so the lines were good.  I can now die with the experience of being told "you're a fine lookin' woman" by someone with a true drawl.  

The game itself was awesome.  Great seats, great weather and perfect company.  It was so nice to get to hang out with my girlyfriend, who by the way has a fantastic new cosmetic addition that we will be sharing with all of you soon (hint: it has to do with eyelashes).  The only downside was the chicka in back of us whose mouth made me look like Mother Teresa.  I'm not sure if it was her mother or sister who was the recipient of the line "why do you have to be such a fucking bitch all the time?"  Then there was "I want a fucking interception" at the top of her lungs.  A few more beers and I might have told her that I hoped her effing tongue would break off and block her windpipe for being such a nasty pants.  But I refrained.  

My hat is off to the owner of the Ravens, all the amazing people who work for them, the players and their families.  They are class acts and have a new fan in me, albeit a bandwagon one.

Thank you mama

My mama sent me my favorite gift this year.  These fall into the same category as fuzzy bath math.  Cost way more than I would usually pay for a similar object, but holy moly they are wonderful.  If I could find someone to either a.) shrink me or b.) build me a house-sized version I would live inside them forever.

Sweet Jesus I'm gassy.

What is with holiday food and gas production?  Does it come from eating a metric fuck-ton of food in one sitting?  Is it all of the carbs?  Is it the booze?  Whatever it is I'm miserable.

The husband is home after being gone for a month and I finally have a chance to have sex with something that doesn't take watch batteries.  Thing is I feel about as sexy as the Hindenburg.  I'm actively avoiding open flame.

We did have a very nice Christmas however.  I'm quite proud of myself for actually paying attention this year to what my kids were saying they wanted and putting some real thought into the gift getting.  The four year old kept saying "Santa is a really nice person."

Happy holidays to all you other mamas out there!  I hope yours were wonderful as well.  Here's to 2009!

The perfect little gentleman

Four year old in the bath tonight has a joke for me.  Here's the set-up:

"OK mom, I have a bathroom joke because we're in the bathroom."  He's now mentally prepared me for the genre we're dealing with.  Here's the joke:

Why do kid girls go first in line?

Because they have vaginas too.

Emily Post would be so proud.

Mama Effin Mia!

I love musical theater.  I love the corniness, the romance, the campy characters and the hope of it.  I never saw Mama Mia on Broadway and hadn't seen the movie until last night at 11:45 in my bed.  My husband has been out of town since November 30th.  When he's gone I kind of lose my mind and do stupid shit like stay up until 1:30 doing whatever I want because I can.  So I started this movie at 11:45.  And it was so, so worth it.

Have you seen it?  Meryl Streep is my hero.  She looks and is amazing in this movie.  She was born in 1949.  1949!!!!  She dances, she sings, she glows in this movie.  Her beauty is so organic it's like it seeps out from inside of her.  I aspire to age like this woman.  Her face is hers.  Her body is hers.  She has not been sculpted into someone else.

There are parts of me I'm not too thrilled with after having children and breast feeding for 4 years give or take.  The pastry bags come to mind.  I toy with the idea of doing something about it someday.  It's such a hard decision and one I would never take lightly.  Especially after seeing Meryl rock it. 

One of the great tragedies of my life is that I was not given the gift of a singing voice.  If my husband was reading this he would say "but you were in a play!"  He loves this line.  Yes, I was in a play or two but that doesn't mean they should have let me sing in public.  I am a ham and can muddle through the acting and dancing part, but the singing is pretty painful.  Oh well.  Meryl did inspire me to go to a dance class today and I'm going to shake this 39 year old butt for all it's worth.

Confessions of a third grade bobcat

I've already told you a bit about my older son and his unique view of the world.  Everything in his life is seen through the lens of one animal or another depending on which species he's obsessed with at that time.  It used to be Sugar Gliders until I told him they throw their poop at you when you walk by their cage.  Now it's big cats and bobcats in particular.

There is a particular "female" (his words not mine) that he is enamored with at the moment.  He came home from school the other day and told me he had something to tell me that I wasn't going to like.  I coolly inquired, "oh really, what's that?"  He replies, "well mom, I kind of got aggressive."  I think "oh shit."  

So he goes on to tell me the rest of the story.  Apparently he and "another male" were jockeying to be partners with the female in question at a game at recess.  They started to argue back and forth.  It went something like this:

Boy: "I'm going to be her partner!"

Son #1: "No I'M going to be her partner!"

Boy: "No I AM!"

Son #1:  Hisses  

I say "you hissed at him?  Then what did he do?"  Son #1 tells me "he kinda backed off."  I bet he did.  And made a mental note to stay the hell away from freaky bobcat boy.

Let's hope this wears off by middle school.

If you come to my spinning class, please don't

1.  Gyrate

2.  Sing

3.  Make me look at the crack of your ass

4.  Fart more than once

OK, before I go off on a rant here, let me just say this first.  If you are overweight, out of shape, uncoordinated or just plain goofy and I see you at my gym I will never EVER make fun of you.   But if you have any combo of three of the five following characteristics (or fart more than once), you are fair game:

1. Fake lips

2. Fake tan

3. Fake boobs

4. Fake hair

5. You wear your gym pants at half mast.

Spinning is the closest thing I have right now to a religious experience.  Yes, this is about me.  So - to the two "Dancing Elaine meets Running Phoebe" spinners who are determined to be distracting as all hell QUIT YOUR IDIOTIC JERKING AND CONVULSING ON YOUR BIKE.  You do not look good.  You do not have rhythm.  You are not turning anyone on with that silliness.  Also, as a hopeful future spinning instructor, the last time I was next to you I kept thinking you were falling off the freakin' bike and was ready to assist.  Stop that!  If you need to move and shake your groove thang might I suggest a nice cardio dance class?

To the singer(s).  You don't know the words.  Stop pretending you do and making the people in the first row look back and think it's me making that horrible noise.

And to the woman who has given me the view of her asscrack for the past two classes.  I think I may have a water bottle malfunction in the near future and give you a little somthin' somthin' down there.

Of course last, but by all means not least, the farters.  I am a forgiving person.  We all have slippage every once and awhile.  But here's where you differ from the rest of us.  You smelled it too the first time.  You know the evil that resides inside.  Unless you suffer from some war injury that has cut off all feeling to your lower body you have no excuse in my mind but to remove yourself and visit the restroom or take a walk outside the next time the feeling moves you.  These are small, stuffy rooms with people already gasping for breath.  Not nice.

Quickie

Hi y'all.  Just have a couple minutes for a quickie.  I do have some good stories to share with you as soon as I have a breather.

First off - just got off the phone with the dr.  All tests came back negative (so good).  BIG SIGH.  Thanks again to everyone who was so supportive and thoughtful.  It was a good wake up call for me in many ways.

Second, I wanted to show you girlies these cool things I saw in a catalog (big boys go surf some porn or something).  Who hasn't had the delightful experience of having a nasty frayed old tampon fall out of their purse at the least opportune moment (i.e. new business meeting)? These aren't dirt cheap but I have a metal case for my credit cards that has lasted forever.  Added bonus: Keeps dogs from eating them.

I'd do that for a dollar

 Thanks for representin' Jen.  The rest of us 39 year olds appreciate the effort.

Here's to hot bitches

That hot piece of ass holding her own with the Victoria's Secret models turns 40 today.  That's right bitches!  That's Fiona Raven (her Scottish porn name) a childhood friend of mine.  We haven't seen each other for a very, very long time but have reconnected on facebook (yay facebook!).

She is an amazing woman.  Her passion for life rubs off on me without being face to face.  She is sage, she is funny, she is interesting, she is fun, she is smart, she is effin hot!  Fiona and her husband have the kind of relationship that makes you believe in the concept of soulmates and makes you hate her just a little bit at the same time.

Here's to you Fiona my dear friend.  I raise my glass in your honor and wish you the happiest of birthdays now and forever.

Drink up

I know what you're thinking, but I'm trying to be good here.  If you're looking for an inexpensive gift for someone on your list that works out a lot or simply needs to drink more water consider this bottle.

I just bought one at Whole Foods for $12.99 and LOVE IT.  I have purchased many a reusable bottle over the years (now apparently they're all trying to kill me) but this one is good.  It doesn't have any of the bad chemicals, doesn't have a bad taste and it has a flip straw with a little thumb/finger lever thingy so you don't have to touch the part you drink from.  It will also fit the holster on the spin bikes.

Ho Ho Ho! 

A little Christmas story

I was telling my son this morning about this story I heard on the news last night.  First of all, what kind of genius a. buys a bobcat to keep as a house pet and b. takes said bobcat to get a picture with Santa?  I can only imagine the smell of that house.  He probably attacked Santa just to get away from his moron owner.

So after summarizing the story to #1 son here's the end of the conversation:

Me:  So apparently the bobcat had no interest in having his picture taken with Santa.

#1 son:  I guess he's Jewish.

Me:  (spewing cereal out of my mouth) HA!

Case closed.

Heard around the house today...

(Please imagine a robotic voice)

"Pee-ness"  (followed by hysterical giggling).

"Va-gi-na, Va-gi-na, Va-gi-na" (way more hysterical giggling).

I wonder if this is what grandma had in mind when she sent the digital speaking dictionary as a gift last birthday?  I think not.

The downside.

Death.  Or convincing myself I'm dying.  For those of you who come to this blog for a little levity in your day, move along there's nothing to see here.  Come back tomorrow please, I'll try and be funny again I promise.  In the meantime, if you're still reading, it's been a bad couple of days.

I'm trying to figure out how to talk about this without sounding completely hysterical or insane.  So I'll start from the beginning.  This past summer I noticed my hands would hurt whenever I had to get something out of the deep freeze.  It was kind of like, "hmm...that's weird, I never noticed that before."  On with the day.  So I mentioned it in passing to my gyno goddess in OR this past August and she said, "oh, you may have Raynaud's Syndrome."  It really wasn't bothering me then so I don't think I even looked it up and she didn't seem concerned.

Well this weekend it got really freakin' cold in Jersey.  I took the kids into town to see the Christmas Tree Lighting and we all bundled up.  I had on ski gloves and the whole shebang.  My fingers got so weirdly cold anyway and then throbbed, tingled and turned numb for like 24 hours afterwards.  Then my feet started doing it too.  So of course I get on the Internet.  Bad, bad choice.  

Here's how my brain works:

1.  In my 20's had a positive ANA test.  Rheumatologist at the time never retested, wasn't concerned said it was probably a false positive.

2.  Now have Raynaud's Syndrome.

3.  Had some guy read my palm in my 20's that said I would have a "serious illness" in my 40's.

4.  I am now dying of a horrifying auto immune disease that I have been waiting for the last 20 years.

This makes perfect sense to me and my brain.  I was in tears at the doctors office at the word go.  The nurse had to do the pat on the back, it'll be OK thing.  My doctor was very kind.  Did a battery of tests that should be back in a week or so and referred me to a rheumatologist here.  She doesn't think I have anything horrible (like scleroderma or lupus) but said we would rule it all out.  She said it is very common to have Raynaud's Syndrome and not have something else associated with it.

I hate that I do this.  I hate always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  My friend and I were talking just the other day about feeling guilty about having such abundant lives.  My problem is that I am secretly holding my breath waiting for it all to disappear in an instant.  As my wise husband said today "that's no way to live."

He's right.  I know he is.  But I still haven't figured out how not to go down this path.  How to follow my intellect instead of my fears.  The sheer thought of not being there for my children is enough to make me vomit on my lap.  I know that as I age there will be more and more things like this that come up and I have got to get a handle on it.  I just really, honestly don't know how to.

Those of you who are still here, thanks for listening.  I'll keep you posted.

Baby sister

My baby sister turns 31 today.  I was 8+ when she was born (with no other sibs in between).  I was horribly evil to her when she was little.  To the point where I really hate myself sometimes if I dwell on it.

By her own words she did everything backwards.  She had kids before she got married.  Had two by the time she was 23.  She didn't go to college.  She didn't have a good job.

I did everything by the book.  Went to college, went to graduate school, dated my husband for five years before we got married, succeeded in my career, saved money, bought a house, and then finally when all of these stars were aligned had children.

But here's the thing.  My sister puts me to shame on a daily basis.  She kicks my sad ass around the block and back with her parenting.   My sister was put on this earth to love things.  When she was little she would adopt whatever it was in the neighborhood that needed lovin' at the time whether it had two legs or four.  She is kind down to the atoms that make up her cells.  

She has built a family with her children and her husband that is about all the things that really matter, not just because they don't have everything, but because of who she is.  She makes things.  When my sister sends a gift she is so insightful and always has a level of thoughtfulness that it makes whatever it is absolutely priceless.  She puts a little of herself in everything that she does and it's a magic ingredient.

I love my baby sister.  I miss her.  I wish we were closer.  And I hope someday I can be more like her.

An upside to turning 40

Bitchin' parties.  Axl's wife threw him a great surprise party last night.  She had taken him out to dinner with the kids and a bunch of us (including her sister from Chicago) went over and decorated while they were gone.  Their kids didn't know anything about it either because the cat would have been out of the bag in about a nanosecond.  

So we had all the food out on the table and we're in the kitchen waiting for them to come in.  They come through the door and their 1st grader says "it smells like guacamole."  Axl says "it does smell funny in here, not bad funny but different funny."  Apparently superior olfactory abilities run in this family because there was guacamole TWO ROOMS AWAY.

Anyhoo, he walks into the kitchen, we do the "SURPRISE" thing, which he clearly is, and then proceed to get stinking drunk in his honor.  You know you're at a good party when you walk into a conversation about people shitting themselves and it's as natural as talking about the weather.  That's a sign that plenty o'Petron has been had by all.

There are however two things I highly recommend not doing with a hangover.  Getting a bikini wax and taking a four year old to a party at the "Funplex".  I have now done both of these things.  Nerve endings are just way too sensitive.  I came within an inch of screaming "shut the fuck up" to a table of particularly ear-piercing six year olds behind me.

It's going to be a fun year.

If you need a good laugh

Go out and buy yourself a box of Fiber One bars.  Then eat one or five of them.  Wait two to six hours.  Sit back, relax.  The show will be starting soon.

Dude, Happy 40th!

Axl turned 40 today.  No of course his name isn't Axl, but it should be.  Because dude is a rock star.  I was going to give him a porn name but it just didn't feel right.  Axl is actually going to guest blog this week (we hope) so you can get to know him a little bit better.  p.s. you can use whatever name you want.

I got to know Axl when he moved into my house.  Or at least the house my family and I were temporarily staying at when we got to this crazy place called Jersey.  It was a furnished triplex set up for corporate housing.  We had been there about two weeks when a dark blue minivan pulled into the driveway.  Out came just about the friendliest people I had ever met and their two adorable little boys.  They may have seemed extra friendly since I'd been in tears for two weeks over the Jersey meanies, but I was ecstatic.  They invited us "downstairs" for wine and cheese two nights later and the rest, as they say, is history.

Quick story about Axl (and the namesake).  Our families plus one other went to Lake Placid last winter break.  My husband and I had been introduced to the game Rock Band over Christmas and decided to bring it to the Lake House.  Axl was intrigued.  Kind of like a golden retriever is intrigued about a bouncing tennis ball or a thirteen year old boy is intrigued with his wang.  So we get the game set up on the 20 something inch mono-speaker TV.  It didn't matter; this was the beginning of a beautiful love affair for Axl.  I think it was like a little angel dressed in leather hot pants had crawled into his head and heard his secret dreams and they were saying "I WANNA ROCK."  Three drunken, 2 o'clock in the morning nights later we left Lake Placid and I'm not certain but I think he may have driven his family directly to Circuit City without passing go.

But really dude (I love that you love this word), Happy 40th Birthday.  The husband and I are both honored to know you.  You are our Julie The Cruise Director.  You are our Stinky Cheese Man.  You and your lovely wife are the industrious mouse to our lazy mouse.  You are an amazing dad, a great friend and one hell of a singer.  We look forward to celebrating properly in the not so distant future.  

I love you too fuzzy bath mat

Fuzzy bath mat is clean and happy.  I love this bath mat.  I am notoriously cheap when it comes to "things".  I will spend money freely on experiences, memories, food and the like but when it comes to clothing, dishes, housewares etc. I'm a scrooge.  But one day three years ago I was in Bed, Bath and Beyond and I needed a bath mat.  I've never had a fuzzy one.  I've always gone the towel mat route (cheap).  This particular bath mat was about 8 times more than I'd ever spent on such an item.  It was $80 (minus the 20% off coupon of course).  I've never looked back.

It's the little things isn't it?  FBM is there for me on those cold Jersey mornings, cushioning the blow of the day.  He's a little bit of luxury in my 100 year old house that lets me pretend just for a moment that I'm actually at the Ritz Carlton staying on that one floor you have to have a special key for just to get the elevator to stop on it.

And he cleans up nice.  Throw him in the wash every other week or so and he's good as new.

So the moral of this story is to allow myself a little comfortable luxury now and then.  It may be a nice robe, new jammies, a soft blanket or a really nice sweater.  I'll continue to be a scrooge most of the time and spend money where it matters, but will allow for the possibility of what a fuzzy bath mat can bring to my life and home.

What. The. Hell.

Sixty bucks! Sixty bucks I paid for this stupid haircut.  No matter how much time I spend with the round brush in the morning I get this ridiculousness on both sides of my head.  I am done.  I have given "N" more than enough second chances.  Life is too short for bad haircuts.

The biggest pain in the A is that now I have to do the avoidance game at the salon because I really love the guy who does my highlights and the woman who waxes my eyebrows.  Oy vey.

But this is too much.  My kids could have tag teamed and done better.

I am so turned on right now.

For the first time in our 16 year relationship my husband is willingly hanging Christmas lights on the house.  I am literally panting as I type this.  Not only that, but he SUGGESTED it.  I only have a minute, because he is running to Home Depot (again not coerced) to get more for the roof line.

I am speechless.  I am overjoyed.  I am horny.

Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus.

Surprise! Here's my damn list.

Not to be completely predictable or anything, but it's such a softball pitch you gotta swing right?  Plus, it will help me get the attitude adjustment I'm so badly in need of.  So here's what I'm thankful for (not in the order of importance, just the order they randomly pop into my head):

I am thankful for:

1.  The health of my children.  I love those little people with everything I am.

2.  My husband.  The rock.  The unwavering force for good.  He makes me want to be a better (wo)man.

3.  My parents, parents-in-law & extended family and their health.  I miss them terribly and feel guilty everyday that I'm not around more, but I'm thankful they are healthy and doing the things you should do after a life of hard work.

4.  My girlyfriends.  This includes you "Steve".  Don't know what I'd do without you.  And that camp song was stupid as shit, you are all gold to me.

5.  Starbucks.  Seriously.  You got me through Graduate School, infancy, toddlerhood, work and so much more.   You are my beacon in the storm.

6.  Facebook.  I can't believe there is this thing that makes me feel like I can reach out and touch the people in my life on a daily (or half hourly) basis.  It's incredible.

7.  Showtime.  Thanks for picking up HBO's fumble at the 15 yard line and running it back for a TD.  Specifically, Dexter (just thinking about the first season still makes every hair on my body stand up).  Weeds - was concerned about this last season until you introduced that HOT Mexican boyfriend, el guapo!  Californication - thank you David Duchovny for seemingly being as excited to bone the 40 year old chicks as the 20 year old ones.

8.  Costco.  Thank you for the high quality protein selection.  Thank you for lots of good seasonal produce.  Thank you for the Costco Couture.  If I didn't have your lovely selection of fleece piled high, I would freakin' freeze to death here in Jersey.

9.  My neighbors.  Jersey can be a rough place.  You make it soft and cozy.  You are the nicest neighbors I have ever had.

10.  Chicagoans.  Fate brought us together and a great friendship keeps us that way.  Thanks for the holidays, family vacations and awesome nights of Rock Band.  You are our family here and make this crazy place feel a little more like home.

11.  My own health.  Grandma Moses arthritis aside, I have been a very lucky person.  I will never take my health for granted and do my best by this one and only vessel I've been given.

12.  Being born in and living in this country. 

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!  Gobble Gobble!

Just do it!

Quick entry today, I actually have to do work I get paid for.  I was  a much better me today.  Didn't clonk anyone with anything and actually got some crap done for once.  Thanks for listening to my moaning, it really helped to get it out of my head.

I don't have time to write much today, but I do have time to nag the three people that might actually be reading this.  Go to this website I'm about to link to and register your boobies now.  And if you don't have boobies, go find someone that does and make them register them.  They want women of all shapes, ages, nationalities and sizes to register to create a huge research database to kick breast cancer's ass to the curb once and for all.  So just do it!

http://www.armyofwomen.org

p.s. in re-reading my post I now see why my four year old's favorite word is "actually."  Aha.

I think I need a time out.

I try really hard to be a good person.  I'm not very religious in the get-my-butt-out-of-bed-on-Sunday-and-go-to-church kind of way, but I do try and live my life by many Christian values (i.e. do unto others, love thy neighbor etc.).  Which reminds me of one of my favorite parts of Meet the Parents with Owen Wilson (it's a chuppah) and subsequently prods me to ask myself on a semi-regular basis, "what would J.C. do?"  He would definitely not "gesture" to an elderly woman in a parking lot or barely refrain from clonking another shopper over the head with a gallon of milk like I did today.

I'm not feeling very holiday-y.  In fact, I'm feeling very pissed off-y.  I know why this is, I'm just not sure how to get past it without killing an innocent bystander.  Due to unusual circumstances with my husband's job this year, our holiday plans have been in limbo for months.  My family lives across the country and we usually visit them at Christmas and for an extended time in the summer.  Due to the job thing and the cost of flights we decided to stay in Jersey this year.  I kind of got excited about this prospect until my husband was put on a project that will have him gone for most of December.  Now any decorating, shopping, tree trimming, holiday festivity planning type things are going to fall on my shoulders.  And knowing me I'm not going to exactly go all out.  I'm not mad at him or frankly at his company.  These are tough times and many people are suffering and having to deal with adversities far, far worse than mine.  I'm just feeling sorry for myself.  And I will get over it.  But you know when you have a picture in your head of how something is going to be and then it all goes to shit?  That's how I feel right now.  But I know I have to get it together for my kids and make it fun and memorable no matter what.

In my defense, grandma was COMPLETELY blocking the entrance to the Shoprite for no good reason and the other woman was just plain stupid (she actually said to someone "why is it so busy in here?!).  

But tomorrow is a new day.  I will try and be a better me and make J.C. proud.  Or at least not put me on the permanent detention list. 

May he never, ever change.

My eight year old is a unique individual.  While other kids in his school fawn over Hanna Montana and The Jonas Brothers, he changes his "favorite animal" on a bi-weekly basis.  Then he tells me about it.  Right now we're having in-depth conversations about Pallas cats.  

At the end of each week he brings home his "Friday Folder" that contains the work they did in class that week.  I have to share one of the pages with you all so bear with me.  The assignment was about making an inference involving dialogue.  There are three to four lines of dialogue provided and then the kid provides the last line. 

Here are the three scenarios:

#1

MOM:  Hi, Brian.  How was school today?

BRIAN:  It was great.  Wait until you hear about it.  You are going to smile from ear to ear.

MOM:  I cannot wait to hear.  What happened?

BRIAN (my son's dialogue here): I got 100 percent on my math test!  Isn't that great!?

#2

DAD:  Sean are you awake?

SEAN:  Wow, I am so tired.  I almost fell asleep right here at the baseball game.

DAD:  Well, I am not surprised after last night.

SEAN (son's dialogue):  Yeah, that sleepover kept us up until 11:00.  Urgh! 

#3

SANDRA:  What time did Tina say she will be here?

MISSY:  Right after her soccer game.  It should be any minute.

SANDRA:  I wonder what her big surprise is.  She said it definitely involves us.

MISSY:  She has been very sneaky lately, and I did hear her say something about a famous rock group.

TINA:  (Again, the son's dialogue):  I'm here!  Look at these crystals!  Are they cool or what?

God I love that boy.  And I love his teacher for giving him a big "C" on that part of the assignment even if she did pee a little from laughing.

Roxy turns 40!

One of the regular features of mamalikes will be an homage to my friends that turn 40.  Permission will be given in advance and no real names will be used.  Each friend will be given a porn name.  If you are my friend and you have a penchant for a certain porn name, tell me now or forever hold your peace.

So here are a couple of stories Roxy shared with me that make me laugh:

Who's box doc likes box?  Roxy's box doc likes box!

Roxy went to her annual recently like a good mama should.  This was the first trip to a new gyno, who turned out to be so freakin' cool.  First of all, when checking out her wee wah, the doc remarked that it was "lovely."  I can't think of a nicer thing to hear while up in stirrups.  This is why I will always have a female gyno.  I just don't know how you can appreciate the mystery of the matrix (what my husband calls it) without having the parts.  I personally can't imagine having the hydraulics of the opposite sex although it would be kinda cool to have junk that could do that.  

So then she moves on upward with the exam.  Roxy sells beer for a living and as a responsible businesswoman must sample her wares on a regular basis.  She said the doctor got to her belly and recommended POLE DANCING as a form of exercise!  She said that many women "our age" find it empowering (not to mention laid on a regular basis).  How awesome is that?

Thank god for good design

I love dogs.  Love 'em, love 'em, love 'em.  But they are nasty.  Remember that Far Side cartoon where the boy dog goes to pick up the girl dog for a date and says "Ginger, you look great!  And whatever you rolled in smells FANTASTIC!"  That's dogs in a nutshell.

So I'll cut to the chase.  Roxy's dog ate a tampon.  It's now a couple days later and a string appears to be hanging out of the dog's ass and the dog seems, shall we say, agitated by this.  Being the amazing human and dog mama that she is, Roxy goes above and beyond and pulls the tampon out of the dog's butt.  Bravo Roxy, Bravo.

Roxy and I have been friends a long time, since around 1982.  One of my favorite memories of our friendship is when she and I and the third musketeer in our trio were about 12.  We were at our school yard after classes one day and decided to have our own impromptu sliding clinic on the mud puddle filled softball diamond.  About 25 Pete Rose's later, we were COVERED head to toe with mud.  I still remember the joy and fun of that day.  And when I look at Roxy - I still see that 12 year old girl.  Except now she has bigger boobs.

Happy Birthday Girlyfriend.  I love you big much.

Still giggling...

Props to the mom at my son's preschool this morning who made me laugh out loud.  She had a baby in her arms and was holding the door open for the 3ish year old who was lollygagging in the foyer, walking in circles.  As I was waiting for them to somehow make their way through the door she gave me that knowing look and said, "it's like taking care of a drunk all day."

I love a mother with a sense of humor.

I feel fugly, oh so fugly...

Come on sing it with me now, "I feel fugly, oh so fugly.  I've felt bloated and zitty all day...and I pity the poor bastard who gets in my way..." 

It's been one of those weeks.  Did you hear the joke about how the supreme being of the universe decided to give women zits and wrinkles at the same time? Hahahahahahaha.....LMAOROTFGMEOWHP (that's me laughing my ass off rolling on the floor gouging my eyes out with a hot poker).

I'm a picker.  I can't, not pick.  It's an inherited gene (I remember the countless times my dad had to beat my mom off him in the bathroom when she was hot after a back-zit).  My poor four year old has the gene too so any tiny thing on his face becomes an open wound in about an hour.  You don't have to use too much imagination to visualize the state of my face, but of course I'll tell you anyway.

Here's a quick run-down of what we're dealing with:

Zit #1:  The Eye of Sauron.  This puppy is right where you guessed, smack between the eyebrows conveniently nestled in the first "1" of the "11"  of the furrow that also lives there.

Zit #2:  The Temple of Doom.  Left temple parallel to the Eye of Sauron.

Zit #3, 4 & 5:  Orion's Belt.  Right of the mouth.

Zit #6-10:  Apocalypse now.  Under the chin.  Just a big, bloody mess.

On top of the zits, there's a bad haircut.  Some of you have heard about this already.  The woman who cuts my hair seems to be getting 1 of 3 over the plate.  If I don't bring in the same picture of Eva Longoria EVERY time she does a little improv of her own - not good.  When I look in the mirror I'm alternating between seeing Florence Henderson, Dorothy Hamill, Hillary Clinton and if I have my glasses on, my mother.

So we've got the zits and the bad hair cut.  Let's throw in some bloating.  I feel like I have a full body, Dr. Scholls Gel insert under my epidermis.  And I'm not gellin'.  I'm yellin'.  Like a felon.  Serendipitously (for him) my husband is on a business trip so he will not bear the brunt of these conditions.  

My children may not make it through the week without irreparable emotional damage however.  Especially since my four year old just informed me I smell like eggs.

One bad-ass SAHM

So what's a mama supposed to do when she's hanging out with the littles in the den, watching some Oprah, making carroty snacks, helping with the harework and a big ugly serpent rears its head down the burrow hole?  Kick some snake-ass, that's what.

My mother-in-law sent me this video today and my first thought was "you know damn well that's a mother bunny!"  No disrespect meant to the opposite sex of any species here, but we can all agree that no he-bunny would risk life and tail like that for anything (except maybe tail).  Of course I can't prove it, but I'd be willing to stake this month's allotment of Iced Grande Americanos on what was really happening here, and that's saying somethin'.

I am not a man-basher and this blog will never be about man-bashing.  I love men.  I love their straightforwardness, steadfastness, company and so many, many other things.  But I am in awe of women.  So my first rave is to brave mamas everywhere.  Don't mess with our kids or the people we love or we'll chase YOU up a tree!

Thanks a mil Dougie Howser!

I had the unsettling experience last week of going to a new doctor that turned out to be younger than me.  This is no good.  HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?  I'm 28.  I will always be 28.  That's "my" age.  You know that age in your head that never changes regardless of how far your ass has fallen?

Part of my daily battle with aging includes all the stuff you're supposed to do to stay youngy like yoga.  Of course when you combine an addictive personality with yoga what do you get?  Vinyasa syndrome.  No, that's not really a thing, but I have it.  For those of you who don't do yoga, a "vinyasa" is like a push-up on steroids, because you do it backwards using the weight of your body as resistance.  Apparently I went a bit overboard with the vinyasa-ing and ended up with a really sore shoulder.  After a three weeks of rest, ice and going to the chiropractor I decided I had better consult an orthopedist because there was this squishy, sore spot on top of my shoulder that wouldn't go away.

So I go to the shoulder guy.  He bounces into the room all fresh and dimply.  He's blond, tall, cute (in a Dougie kind of way, not a McSteamy/Dreamy way) and YOUNGER THAN ME.  He does the doctor meet and greet thing, "you from around here, go to school here, etc.".  I say no, I'm actually from Oregon.  He says, "oh, are you a Duck?"  Embarrassing answer #1, "no, I'm a Beaver." Nice.  Of course Doogie McCutie also went to Notre Dame just for a little added humiliation.

So he does the exam, completely ignoring the lovely cami I had on under my granny sweater and sits down to give me his diagnosis.  I'm expecting an athlete's diagnosis.  Something along the lines of "tendinitis due to over-jockishness" or a "torn ligament due to extreme yoga-goddessness."  But that's not what Doogie tells me.  Oh no.  He looks at me with those sparkly, spectacle-free blue eyes and says with a smile "you may have a little arthritis in that shoulder." Ouchy Doogie.  Ouchy.  I humbly put my granny sweater back on and skulk out of the office giving him a thanks but no thanks on the offer of a cortisone shot.

Obviously I'm making light of this but it's actually starting to bother me.  My grandmother had horrible arthritis in her hands that kept her from enjoying many of the things she loved in life like knitting.  My father is an avid cyclist and just had a double hip replacement due to arthritis in those joints.  Is this really starting to happen to me now?  Exercise is one of the few healthy things in my life that brings me joy.  The shoulder wasn't the first, nor I'm sure the last, body part to fail me.  I don't run anymore because of pain in my knees and hips.  I do only low-impact exercise like spinning and eliptical machines for cardio.  It makes me so goddamn angry that I'm willing to do the work and my body isn't willing to come along.

I left Doogie's office and headed straight for the supplement aisle of Whole Foods to buy every gd root or wort I'd ever heard of that is supposed to help inflammation.  I bought turmeric, fish oil, ginger and some JointMD stuff.  I'll let you know how it goes or if I grow a third nipple.  If anyone out there has any other suggestions, bring 'em on!

Oh and that squishy thing?  It's a cyst.  Doogie told me that if it gets bigger, and I quote, "unsightly", that I could come back and he would reassess it.  Yeah, that's gonna happen.

Rants, Raves and Reality

I'm almost 40.  There I said it.  I'm in the twilight of my thirties.  Screw that, MY THIRTIES ARE ALMOST FUCKING GONE.  I will be 40 in 323 days and counting and I'm having some issues with it.  I don't mean to sound negative, but in my mind, 40 isn't the new anything, it's just 40.

I watch these amazing women around me turn forty with grace and acceptance.  They are better women than me.  I simply DON'T WANT TO.  It's not just about the surface stuff (although a shit load of it is).  Things are changing all around me.  My body.  My mind.  My children.  My world.  Some of these changes are annoying to say the least and on bad days downright terrifying.  

I biatch about all of this to any girlfriend willing listen, and if there's wine involved all the better.  Being able to vent and moan and snivel over a good Zinfandel (or a beer and a shot of tequilla) is life-giving for me.  I'm addicted to facebook and change my status so regularly I'm sure my "friends" think I'm a nut job.  That's part of the reason I've been thinking about writing this blog forever.  I blog in my mind constantly.  I also write stand-up comedy in the shower.  I have a new thought/idea/joke about every 1.23 seconds and am egocentric enough to think that someone else just HAS to hear about it.

So how can I bring all these phenomenon together?  The almost forty thing plus the need to overshare like I do with my girlfriends?  I can blog.  And maybe I can invite new friends to the blog n' bitch.  And maybe I can create a community of other mamas (mama = anyone hovering around the 40 mark and having some issues with it, even if you have a penis).  Who knows.

So here's what this blog is going be about:  My daily issues with aging, child-rearing, working, living, managing my anxieties (realities) and the things I've found that work for me (raves) and the shit that doesn't (rants).  Much of this blog will seem shallow, vain, whiny and trite.  It will seem this way because it will be shallow, vain, whiny and trite.  And if you don't like it, bite me and start your own blog (or just don't read mine).  But hopefully some of it will be useful, thought provoking, idea generating or at least make someone's day with a good laugh.  My dream is to have a safe place where friends can come to discuss all the stuff that's happening at this crossroads called forty.

It's going to be a big girl/big boy blog.  I like my four to seven letter expletives.  I'm bound to talk about my wee wah at some point.  In other words, read at your own risk.