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.