On probation

As I mentioned to my friends on facebook this week "if I worked for me I would fire me."  I have had a job since I was 14.  My first job was at a family fish & chips restaurant.  I had to wear what I called "the English Wench" uniform that bound and lifted my ta tas up into a ridiculous mound of cleavage (I wonder if I could still get one of those...).  Every woman that worked there just happened to be fairly well endowed.  It used to completely gross me out when the horny old guys would come in on Sundays and stare down my top while they ordered their clam strips.

I went from that job to the best high school job EVER - working at a music store.  I always had a job in college working for various professors and offices.  After college and graduate school I went right to work and worked hard.  My point in all of this is that I have a work ethic, a very strong work ethic.  I just haven't quite figured out how to transfer this work ethic to my house.  Therefore, I live in a shithole.

When I was managing people I learned something very valuable that I have referred to time and time again.  When you ask someone that works for you to do something and it doesn't happen there are only two possible reasons:  1.  They don't know how.  2.  They don't want to.  I know how to clean a toilet, do the laundry, sort through old things, file bills, clean the basement, etc. etc.  I guess the bottom line is that I truly, sincerely don't want to.  But this isn't working.  I have signed up for our current division of labor.  My husband works hard.  He makes plenty of money.  I am not holding up my end of this deal.  He of course doesn't say this.  There is the occasional unspoken look around the crap or question of when was the last time the sheets were washed, but he really doesn't give me a hard time about it.

I know how to manage people.  I know how to prioritize.  I know how to meet deadlines.  So I am officially putting myself on probation.  Each week I am going to set some specific goals of accomplishment around my house and post them here for all to see.  I will let you know if I meet my terms.  

I need a good consequence if I don't meet my terms.  I think it will be letting my husband in on this if I can't do it myself and asking him to help hold my toes to the fire.  That would be humiliating enough to do the trick.

You know you're the mom of boys when...

You walk into the bathroom to get them out of the tub and one of them has sheathed "it" in an empty M & M minis tube and it's pointing straight at you.

Double your pleasure

The other week (a.k.a. the week of the plummah) I had my own plumbing issues.  It seems that as I age, Aunt Flo is coming with more of a vengeance.  It's like my body is in payback mode for the 5+ years I was either pregnant or nursing and didn't have a period.  So between the plumbing debacles and the monthly visitor I had a big Ghostbusters sign up "down there" (thanks Jodi).  Which caused my husband, who for the record is 10,000 times more funny than me, to make the statement "women need two vaginas."  This in turn has caused me to giggle and fantasize about that possibility ever since.

My husband of course made this into a football analogy.  He says it would be akin to having two running backs in  your backfield.  One is your no-glory, workhorse.  Gets only the short carries but does the job and does it well.  The other is your end-zone loving showboat.  When you need a big, bring-down-the-house return, he (she)'s your man.

This analogy didn't quite work for me, so of course I had to give them personalities.  I fully admit these personalities are complete ethnic stereotypes and are purely for illustrative purposes.  

Think about if you really did have two?  One you could keep nice and pretty, like your favorite party dress.  The other would be like your most comfy pair of jeans and Cosco fleece top.  This is one thing that men just cannot relate to.  Our parts do a hell of a lot of heavy lifting.  Theirs?  Peeing and screwing.  Puh-leaze.  Think of it in terms of nature; what has more going on, a stick or a burrow?

Meet Olga and Kiko

Olga

Olga used to be a russian gymnast, now she just coaches.  She is strong like bull.   She handles all things that come her way stoically and without complaint, for Olga is built to last.  Olga is not unattractive (still has good bone structure) but is more about function than form.

Kiko

Kiko is all milk and honey.  She is the delicate lotus flower.  She is meticulous and always perfect.  But behind closed doors, Kiko is a little bobcat.

I would divide their job responsibilities as follows:

Kiko:

Wedding Night

Vacation sex (every other day, Olga can sub in)

Daytime sex

Doctor appointments

Date Night

Olga:

Childbirth

Aunt Flo

Quickies

Spin Class

Drunken sex (either partner)

Horseback riding

Tight jeans

Going to the beach

Any of the "i's" (irritation, itchiness, infection)

But sadly of course we all only have one.  And mine is not named Olga or Kiko, her name is Jaime Sommers.  But that's a story for another day.

Baby boy

Five years ago to the hour my 9 1/2 lb.  son was remodeling my vagina from the inside out.  I savored every minute (after that part).  I inhaled him.  I broke all my sleeping, nursing, and scheduling rules with him.  I studied every detail of his perfect face and body to remember each stage.  And it still went too fast.

Happy Birthday baby boy.  Mama will be in her closest sobbing for the next few hours.

Song lyrics - Part deux

I got some great mistaken song lyrics from some friends on facebook that I thought I'd pass on for a good chuckle.

Remember AC/DC "Dirty Deeds done dirt cheap?"  Oh no, that was "Thunder Chief and the dirty feet."

Or a little trip to 1977 with the Bee Gees, "More than a woman."  She was actually "Bald headed woman."

Rock out with some White Zombie to "More Human then Human" and you're actually bangin' to "More Human Vacuum Man."

CCR fan?  When "There's a bad moon risin" keep in mind "There's a bathroom on the right."

And who can forget the favorites that need no explanation:

"Hold me closer Tony Danza" and "Secret Asian Man."

My kids have added a new one this week.  From Madonna and Justin Timberlake's (pant pant) "We've only got 4 minutes to save the world" the chorus where Justin says "Madonna, Madonna" is of course "McDonald's, McDonald's."  My 8 year old completely cracked me up when he said, "if you only have 4 minutes to save the world, WHY ARE YOU STILL SINGING?"  Logical boy.

Weekend Update

Whew!  What a week right?  It's been really hard for me to sit down and write this week for so many reasons.   Part of me felt that with the monumental changes going on in our country it was almost disrespectful to write about the silly, unimportant crap I normally write about.  And, I've been "giving of myself" this week at my son's school which has taken an enormous amount of time and energy.  I'm in a place of trying to figure out how to make the most of my time & talents that contributes to my family and the world at the same time.  Anyone out there have suggestions?  I'm all ears.

I have figured out a few things.  Fitness is a passion of mine, specifically yoga, spinning and training.  I need to do something with this.  I have been talking forever about getting certified to teach spin and finally did it.  I'm doing the training on February 7th!  Very excited and terrified about teaching.  I have no problem speaking in front of thousands of people, but the thought of leading a spin class of 30 peeps freaks me out!  What if I hyperventilate and fall off the bike?  What if I fart?

I've also been teaching yoga at my son's school during indoor lunch periods.  This has been amazing.  Last week I had 40+ third graders in a hallway doing yoga and they were SILENT.  I am not shitting you.  I have some girls in my classes that are my absolute inspiration to keep coming back.  These are mostly african american girls who have never done yoga but are completely into it.  I watch them getting into the poses, the relaxation, the connection of mind/body/breathing and it touches me.  They say things like "I can feel myself getting stronger already" and "I love the third eye, it's so relaxing" and thank me so sincerely for coming and want to know EXACTLY when I'm coming back.  I hadn't ever considered being a yoga teacher, but after this experience I just might.  

The other thing I've figured out is that I do love to write and I love to make people laugh.  When someone makes a comment on my blog that I made them laugh out loud, it absolutely carries me through the day.  That's the other reason that I haven't blogged much this week, I just haven't felt funny.  I've felt reflective.  I'm sure this won't last.

I would like to say thanks to everyone that comes and visits this blog.  It has been a gift to me to have this place to air my silliness, stories, fears and bitches.  Politically, I am an Independent and don't align myself with either extreme of the spectrum.  But I do sincerely believe one thing that our new President talks about frequently and that is that we are all in this together.

I'm ready.

Thank you Mr. President.

My son just got home from preschool.  I still have the inauguration on television.  He just yelled from the living room "Ian wants to be President."  Ian is the only African American kid in my son's class.

I hadn't cried today, until now.

Hijacked by Hummus

One of the bloggers I follow, mamasweat, recently posted about workout "hijackers" or the things that get in your way of getting it done.  This morning I was hijacked by hummus.

I had every intention of going to my favorite 7:30 a.m. spin class.  The problem is I bought the garlic hummus at Whole Foods last night.  I love garlic, but this stuff is a little out of control.  The ratio of clove:chickpea must be 1:1.  When I woke up this morning I swear it tasted like I still had a dollop on my tongue.

I was not going to be THAT person in spin today.  The one everyone goes home and blogs about in the post entitled "Vampires beware of my spin class."

I'll be with you shortly...

In the meantime, smoke 'em if you got 'em.

p.s. both my kids can TOTALLY do this accent.

Catfoolery

I slept about 2 minutes 23 seconds last night, so I don't have it in me to write much.  But I can't let a day go by without making someone out there smile.  We're toying with the idea of getting a cat.  If someone could guarantee me some of these antics I'd be first in line at the shelter.  BTW - at about the 50 second mark the cat begins to demonstrate how I look and feel in my pants today.

This old (motherfucking) house

I had so much good stuff to tell you all.  And then my boiler broke on the coldest day of the year.  Let me also add that our air conditioning broke on the hottest day of the year this past summer (I swear I do not make this stuff up).  The "emergency" plumber is overbooked for the night.  Oxymoron anyone?

So now the husband is at Target buying another space heater that will cause me to lay awake all night sniffing the air for signs of smoke.

These types of things have happened so many times in the past 4 years since we moved here we have a name for it.  We call it being "Jerseyied."  Good times.

Girlyfriends

I have some updates for you a bit later, but in the meantime a little treat.  If you have PMS like me, grab at least a half a roll of TP. Then watch this.  Then find your closest, bestest girlyfriend and give her a lick or at least rub her tummy.

Cow butt basement

It's been an awesome night.  I don't even know where to start.  A little back story first.  Our basement smells like farts.  It has smelled like farts for quite some time now.  I remember posting on a town chat board asking the question "why does my basement smell like farts" over a year ago.  There were many possible explanations that seemed logical enough for me to continue to procrastinate around getting to the bottom of it (hee hee).  If you're a "responsible" home owner I'm sure you're asking yourself "how could they let that go on for so long?"  Because that's how we roll.

Fast forward to tonight after dinner.  Out of nowhere the kitchen sink stops draining.  Illogical step 1:  Get the plunger.  I plunge.  Husband plunges.  Bubbles, gunk no drainage.  Step 2: I take everything out from under the sink, get a bucket and start to dismantle the plumbing.  No clog found there.  Step 3: Call neighbors and borrow "snake".  No luck with "snake".  Step 4:  Call father and ask for advice.  Father informs about thing called "clean outs".  Here's where our story REALLY begins.

So my dad tells me about these clean out valves.  I follow the pipe from the kitchen sink to the basement and figure out where it goes.  I start to unscrew this valve and it immediately starts spraying the foulest, cow ass smelling water ever.  A normal human would just walk away at this point and leave it to the professionals.  I am not a normal human.  I have an illness.  It must be related to the face picking but it's about not leaving well enough alone.

So I get a recycling bin and a bucket and go to town.  I swear the methane coming out of this pipe could have powered a smallish South American nation for at least a week.  There is a FOUNTAIN of butt water spraying all over me, all over the basement.  I finally get enough pressure released that I can get my snake in the pipe (hee hee) and start cranking.  All this does is slosh more foulness everywhere and give me a giant blister on my thumb.  

So you may also be asking yourself, "don't you have a husband?"  "Where was he this whole time?"  I do have a husband.  And he possesses something that I don't have.  Common sense.  He stuck his head down in the basement just in time to stop me from shopvacking the water out of the pipe.  It was at this point I knew I needed to step away and let the professionals handle this.

I have now showered and scrubbed the top layer of my skin off with some Tone Sugar Glow.  We'll wait and see what food borne illness has seeped into the hundreds of small scrapes and cuts in my hands.  

The sick part is I'm actually happy to know why my basement has smelled like a cow's butt for so long.  I always did like Nancy Drew.

I've never wanted to be a motorcycle, until now

I'm not a one to have a lot of crushes on celebrities, but something about JT turns my crank.  He's funny, can act, dance, can kinda sing and is self deprecating.  I have to thank my friend (you know who you are) for bringing the following thing of beauty to my attention.  

I can't embed this video into my blog (they must know the power it has on almost 40 year old women and the damage that could be done to the internet) but I swear ladies, it's worth the extra click.

My own personal title for this video is Porn Schmorn.

Enjoy!

...and gettin' caught in the rain

A facebook exchange reminded me of one of my favorite sources of a good laugh - mistaken song lyrics.  Here are a few from my life, PLEASE share some from yours!

The year: 1977

The perp: Me

The mistaken lyric:  From Gloria Gaynor's hit "I will survive".

Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with his thighs

Commentary:  The correct lyric was "goodbyes" so syllabically not a terrible match, but question to self - how does one hurt another using just their thighs?  Squeezing?  Certainly there would be a more effective method.

The year: 1979

The perp: My college roommate

The mistaken lyric: From Rupert Holmes "Escape" (The pina colada song)

If you like bean enchiladas, and gettin' caught in the rain

Commentary:  Of course the title of the song might not have been enough of a hint.  Personally, I'd rather not be caught in a small space with someone who just ate a bean enchilada.

The year: 2008

The perp: My four year old son

The mistaken lyric: From the B52's "The Deadbeat Club"

Where the dead feet come

Commentary:  Where the dead feet come makes about as much sense as We're the deadbeat club.  Plus he's as cute as a bees knees.

If you're not laughing.  Sing the lyrics out loud.  If you're still not laughing (at least at one of them), you must not have a pulse.

Deep thoughts.

I wish I could wear red lipstick without looking like Ronald McDonald.  Red lipstick is pretty.

And the snuggie plot thickens...

Eight year old son #1 asks me if I want to hear a "really freaky ghoststory."  With a lead-in like that, who wouldn't?  So he lays it out:

Son #1:  "Chris and I were in his driveway and you know that house behind him?  We thought no one lived there and that it was haunted so we were looking through the windows.  Then you know what happened?"

Me:  "No, what?"

Son #1: "A real guy walked by the window and totally freaked us out!"

Me:  "It would have been funny if he saw you looking at him and got freaked out too." (I'm imagining some awesome Scooby Doo antics).

Son #1:  "He did see us I think."  (And now the TRULY scary part) "I think he was wearing a snuggie.  A red one."

Me:  Audible gasp.  Now I'm the one effing freaked out.

postscript:

Son #2 (4 yrs) in the background:  Can we PLEASE get a snuggie! 

If I don't stop picking my face

I'm going to the nearest vet and asking to be fitted.  I need one big enough that I can't reach my paws inside to avoid (more) permanent scarring.

p.s. I laughed at the caption of this photo "Amish dog".

p.p.s. Lemonade out of lemons realization:  I do have new concealer.

Financial crisis

I got some insight into it today from my younger son (4).  I'm in the kitchen cooking, he's in the living room with his babysitter (whose name is ironically "spongebob").  

He hollers to me:  "Hey mom, a snuggie is only $95 dollars!"

Me:  "$95 dollars is a lot of money!"

Him:  "No, if it was $96 THEN it would be bad."

I'm sending this information to the Treasury first thing in the a.m.

P.S. A snuggie is actually $19.95 but c'mon he's only 4.

Take your time do it right.

I am hereby inducting myself into the dorko hall of fame.  Word to the wise, do not shop for cosmetics while with a hungry four year old and trying to get home in time for the arrival of anxiety prone eight year old.

Here's how it went down.  I ran to Target, an approximately 8 minute drive from my house each way with traffic, with roughly 20 minutes total to get there & back and run in and look for the one thing I needed: A kids yoga dvd for a thing at my son's school tomorrow.  So this left with me four minutes to get the dvd and decide that I needed lip gloss.  I needed this lip gloss because I am addicted to lip gloss.  I can't stand the feeling of dry lips and chapstick just doesn't cut it.  I usually only use one browny color (mac viva glam) but I hate going to the mall.  So I thought, hey with all this time on my hands, why not look for a similar shade?  

Even the four year old knew better.  He kept saying "why do you need that?  Can't we just go home?"  I just grabbed something that looked remotely close and we were on our way.

Cut to a few hours later and my lips are feeling parched.  I think "ooh, I'll try that new lip gloss."  It was hideous.  And not moisturizing at all.  I thought to myself, "how can they ACTUALLY sell this it's so bad."  I considered taking it back to Target for refund.

Thankfully I didn't.  Because 2 hours later I realized it was concealer.

I went to yoga.

So I'm not so pissed off.  Here's a gift to make up for my ugliness yesterday.  His name is Elmer Fudd.  Don't you want to just eat him?  Or at least pick him up and rub him all over you?

Not my rabbit BTW, but I want it.

The broccoli pretty much sums it up.

I will warn you now, if you are offended by swearing this is not the post for you.  I am so, so, so angry at myself that this could get ugly and fast.  This is going to sound stupid and petty and every other synonym for the word petty but it's because of the six pounds I gained over the last four weeks.  I KNOW that six pounds is not the end of the world.  But here's why I'm so mother fucking pissed off.

Since turning 35 or so losing weight (for me) has been akin to climbing Mt. Everest or cracking the human genome.  All possible, but really goddamn hard.  After I had both kids I lost the weight but had started about 8 lbs. heavier than I'd been most of my adult life.  So last Spring I set a goal to finally, once and for all, lose those 8 lbs.  It was kind of like a personal challenge.  And I did it.  And it wasn't easy.  But the way my body works is that once I get to a plateau it's relatively easy for me to stay there unless I completely lose my fucking mind, which apparently is what I did.

It was almost like I was testing myself.  With every giant holiday bag of M & M's I bought, with every 2nd and 3rd (and shut up) glass of wine, with the pecan pie...the list is endless...  I kept weighing myself everyday throughout the holidays and wasn't gaining any weight and I got cocky.  Then, and I kid you not, January 1st I step on the scale and it's SIX PIECE OF SHIT POUNDS.  I am not a tall or big boned person, six pounds shows up.  For you mathematicians out there this is more than a 5% increase.  I have this vision of all the fat cells holding their breath until they get the signal (I think Dick Clark gives it) and then they puff up like that dinosaur in Jurassic Park that ironically kills the fat guy.

So because this is my form of a diary and my place to air things, I am going to use some feeling words now.  I feel pissed.  I feel stupid.  I feel like I let myself down.  I feel like I should have known better.  I feel lazy.  I feel the button on my pants boring into my gut.

I feel like angry broccoli.

Drum roll please!

I'm so excited to have my first guest blogger!  My friend from high school a.k.a. the "pirate" turned 40 yesterday.  So without further ado...

"A Pirate Looks at 40"

Listening to Jimmy Buffet's "A Pirate Looks At 40" back in the 1970's conjured imagery of 40 as being an "old man."  The reality of turning 40 has not been so bad.

I originally envisioned my "Mama Likes" porn star name to be something like 'Long Dong Silver' (wishful thinking), but somehow 'Pirate' seems more fitting.

"40 is the new 30", as they say.  But with Viagra commercials claiming "60 is the new 50" and Gen Y Facebook pages stating "30 is the new 20", the software designer/deconstructionist in me is led to conclude that "X ξ (X-10)", where X is a decadial birthday (I'm not sure what the symbol "ξ" actually means, but it looks pretty cool and seems like a fitting substitute for "Is the New").

Turning 40 is fortunately absent of the symptom known as "erectile disfunction"...knock on wood (pun intended).  It doesn't take much more than regular exercise and some expresso to get me exited over Britney Spears' "Womanizer" video on YouTube.

Having a birthday on New Year's Eve has its obvious benefits when it comes to celebrating.  Except for the birthday I spent at parade rest for pissing off an Army sergeant, most every New Year's Eve has been filled with "champagne wishes and caviar dreams."

(Excerpt from Jimmy Buffet's 'A Pirate Looks At 40')

Yes I am a pirate

Two hundred years too late

The cannons don't thunder, there's nothin' to plunder

I'm an over-forty victim of fate

Arriving too late, arriving too late

"A Pirate Looks at 40"