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.