God treated us to a bottle of wine tonight! He really did. Super Hubs and I, on the tails of a gaggle of women heading to see “Sex And The City,” entered the adorable Wine Styles. The gaggle gone, we were the only patrons. The charming owners treated us to some wine tasting and a tour of their delightful shop.
I just love “wine people!” They are cultured and sophisticated, yet warm and hospitable, describing the varietals with terms such as “silky” or “bold.” They educated, we tasted. They showed hospitality, we benefited. And after all their endearing attention, it was only polite to purchase a bottle of our own, was it not? So, finding a random $10 bill on the ground that someone had apparently dropped, Super Hubs declared it the “Almighty Dollar,” and we bought a bottle of white New Age.
Wine on God. To celebrate our Date Night after a week well lived. How cool is that??
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Infirming
Nothing much to whine I mean blog about today except my back pain. And it’s all the fault of the Evil Target Cashier.
My original back issues began over 20 years ago from a sports injury while playing basketball. (Anyone that knows me in real life and reads this is doubled over with laughter right now. “Kelly? A sports injury??”) The actual-factual story is that I was playing basketball during P.E. Class, and when I bent down to tie my shoe, someone tripped over me. Hence the back injury. Which sounds much cooler when I call it a “sports injury,” painting me as the Athletic Sort. Which I am clearly not. (Okay, friends, you can stop with the laughter!) But I digress.
I try to avoid this Evil Target Cashier whom I affectionately refer to as “Crankenstein” whenever I go to Target because of her rude and snarly attitude toward the patrons, and especially toward me. But she had the shortest line today, and I was in a hurry, so My Bad. I had 25# of cat litter on the bottom rack of my cart, and I politely asked her if she could scan it from there so I wouldn’t have to lift it. She flat out refused! Out of pure obstinacy, laziness, and a desire to see me break a French nail, I’m certain. She watched in amusement as I struggled with the hefty litter bag, turning it this way and that on the rack, trying to find the bar code. Which turned out to be on the very bottom, of course. And even after I found it, pointed it out and moved the cart right up next to her, she refused to scan the bag until I heaved it onto the counter, wheezy and winded. And then she smirked.
She hates me. And so I am going to call Target and report Crankenstein’s rudeness to the management, on the week that I am PMSing. That’ll be an entertaining outlet for my hormonal rage.
So now my back is spasming and complaining, and sending little shooting pains up my spine, just to remind me to never again lift 25# of cat toiletry from the bottom of the cart onto a counter at Target. I keep telling it to blame Crankenstein. But timely, the season finale of “Lost” is on shortly. So I will pamper my posterior with a lounge on a heating pad and a 2-hour dose of my favorite t.v. show. Peace out.
My original back issues began over 20 years ago from a sports injury while playing basketball. (Anyone that knows me in real life and reads this is doubled over with laughter right now. “Kelly? A sports injury??”) The actual-factual story is that I was playing basketball during P.E. Class, and when I bent down to tie my shoe, someone tripped over me. Hence the back injury. Which sounds much cooler when I call it a “sports injury,” painting me as the Athletic Sort. Which I am clearly not. (Okay, friends, you can stop with the laughter!) But I digress.
I try to avoid this Evil Target Cashier whom I affectionately refer to as “Crankenstein” whenever I go to Target because of her rude and snarly attitude toward the patrons, and especially toward me. But she had the shortest line today, and I was in a hurry, so My Bad. I had 25# of cat litter on the bottom rack of my cart, and I politely asked her if she could scan it from there so I wouldn’t have to lift it. She flat out refused! Out of pure obstinacy, laziness, and a desire to see me break a French nail, I’m certain. She watched in amusement as I struggled with the hefty litter bag, turning it this way and that on the rack, trying to find the bar code. Which turned out to be on the very bottom, of course. And even after I found it, pointed it out and moved the cart right up next to her, she refused to scan the bag until I heaved it onto the counter, wheezy and winded. And then she smirked.
She hates me. And so I am going to call Target and report Crankenstein’s rudeness to the management, on the week that I am PMSing. That’ll be an entertaining outlet for my hormonal rage.
So now my back is spasming and complaining, and sending little shooting pains up my spine, just to remind me to never again lift 25# of cat toiletry from the bottom of the cart onto a counter at Target. I keep telling it to blame Crankenstein. But timely, the season finale of “Lost” is on shortly. So I will pamper my posterior with a lounge on a heating pad and a 2-hour dose of my favorite t.v. show. Peace out.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Polyester Policing
Super Hubs has so many wonderful qualities, God love him. He has a strong work ethic and off-the-map intelligence. He is kind and endlessly patient, as you can well imagine he would have to be, living with me. He cooks a mean shrimp scampi, and can give a back massage that turns my muscles into jelly. But he cannot be fabulous at everything, correct? That would hardly be fair to the less gifted among us!
So if I could pick just one teensy-weensy area in which Super Hubs is a bit talent-less, it would be his “Fashion Sense.” He has none. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Completely deficient in that department. Absolutely devoid of any kind of Wardrobe Wearing Intelligence. Did I state that strongly enough?? Super Hubs should never, ever, under any circumstances buy his own clothes or choose his own outfit. NOT EVER, bless his heart (say with Southern accent).
The few times in our marriage that he has left the house without me dressing him have been a Glamour Disaster of Unmitigated Proportions. There was the “Tube Sock Incident,” in which he wore one with a green stripe and one with a red stripe in honor of Christmas, although it was to a BBQ in July. Then there was the “Plum T-shirt with Orange Baseball Cap in Church Occurrence.” Or the time when he wore a horizontally striped shirt with vertical pinstriped pants. He’s never understood the Match Belt and Shoes Thing. Or match socks to pants. Or match anything to anything in general. It’s all just a big puzzle in his mind.
He has no comprehension that he shouldn’t wear a navy polo with his navy shorts, lest he be mistaken for a postal worker. He doesn’t notice frayed or torn or stained. Or too tight. Or old. Or WAY OLD. Or out of style. Or embarrassing to his wife. Or mortifying to his teenagers. He.Just.Does.Not.Care. He has no relationship with clothes whatsoever. Apparel is simply functional to him; just pieces of fabric that are solely designed to cover his nakedness.
But it’s okay, because he has ME. And I love fashion! And clothes! And shopping! And spending! And so does Butterfly. We’re the Consummate Clothing Quest Collaboration! So today I picked her up from school, and, fortified with McDonald’s sweet tea, we went shopping for Super Hubs in absentee. And we were a roaring success! So the next time you see him, please tell him how “hot” he looks. For me.
So if I could pick just one teensy-weensy area in which Super Hubs is a bit talent-less, it would be his “Fashion Sense.” He has none. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Completely deficient in that department. Absolutely devoid of any kind of Wardrobe Wearing Intelligence. Did I state that strongly enough?? Super Hubs should never, ever, under any circumstances buy his own clothes or choose his own outfit. NOT EVER, bless his heart (say with Southern accent).
The few times in our marriage that he has left the house without me dressing him have been a Glamour Disaster of Unmitigated Proportions. There was the “Tube Sock Incident,” in which he wore one with a green stripe and one with a red stripe in honor of Christmas, although it was to a BBQ in July. Then there was the “Plum T-shirt with Orange Baseball Cap in Church Occurrence.” Or the time when he wore a horizontally striped shirt with vertical pinstriped pants. He’s never understood the Match Belt and Shoes Thing. Or match socks to pants. Or match anything to anything in general. It’s all just a big puzzle in his mind.
He has no comprehension that he shouldn’t wear a navy polo with his navy shorts, lest he be mistaken for a postal worker. He doesn’t notice frayed or torn or stained. Or too tight. Or old. Or WAY OLD. Or out of style. Or embarrassing to his wife. Or mortifying to his teenagers. He.Just.Does.Not.Care. He has no relationship with clothes whatsoever. Apparel is simply functional to him; just pieces of fabric that are solely designed to cover his nakedness.
But it’s okay, because he has ME. And I love fashion! And clothes! And shopping! And spending! And so does Butterfly. We’re the Consummate Clothing Quest Collaboration! So today I picked her up from school, and, fortified with McDonald’s sweet tea, we went shopping for Super Hubs in absentee. And we were a roaring success! So the next time you see him, please tell him how “hot” he looks. For me.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
An Alien Inhabitation
The weather was unseasonable here in Chicago over the holiday weekend. Unlike the Memorial Day Monsoon we usually entertain, it was sunny, with the temperature hovering around the 80’s. So we took advantage of the climate gorgeousity and hosted friends for a cookout. These friends have a daughter the same age as Rock Star. She was adopted from Russia at age four, and she and Rock Star were inseparable buddies during their early childhood years. But now that they are both 14 and have hormones raging throughout their veins, it is pretty clear to me that they have developed crushes on one another. And to watch Rock Star’s behavior around someone with whom he is smitten is to watch…….well, another teenager completely! Might I even call him a New and Improved Rock Star?? A Rock Star who is infinitely more polite and better dressed.
“Anna’s coming, right??” He queried us early in the day, and as soon as he heard the affirmative, he went about cleaning his room, an undertaking he has not volunteered for since…………well, never. Moments before the guests arrival, he executed, with his sister’s suggestions, a complete physical transformation. He changed into a Hollister polo shirt (that I’d forgotten he owned) instead of wearing his usual old t-shirt, and doused himself with Axe Body Spray. Gone was the ever-present beanie, and his hair (which I haven’t actually viewed in 8 or 9 months) was neatly combed.
During the entertaining, Rock Star offered to help his father with the grilling, pulled out chairs for the guests, and even invited his younger brother to jump on the trampoline with him and Anna. He insisted that everyone cut ahead of him in line at the Ice Cream Sundae Bar, and then declined extra whip cream, to “Save it for somebody else.” He was courteous, civil and well-mannered, gracious and helpful. And he smelled fabulous! Super Hubs and I threw each other frequent puzzled glances that said, “My God, who is this boy, and what did he do with our Real Son??”
I think Anna was impressed. I know I was. The problem is, the New and Improved Rock Star walked out the door when Anna went home, and our Regular Rock Star remained. Which is okay, I guess. We do love him to death. But I’m left wondering…….is there a way I can move Anna in with us for the remainder of Rock Star’s teenage years? Just a thought.
“Anna’s coming, right??” He queried us early in the day, and as soon as he heard the affirmative, he went about cleaning his room, an undertaking he has not volunteered for since…………well, never. Moments before the guests arrival, he executed, with his sister’s suggestions, a complete physical transformation. He changed into a Hollister polo shirt (that I’d forgotten he owned) instead of wearing his usual old t-shirt, and doused himself with Axe Body Spray. Gone was the ever-present beanie, and his hair (which I haven’t actually viewed in 8 or 9 months) was neatly combed.
During the entertaining, Rock Star offered to help his father with the grilling, pulled out chairs for the guests, and even invited his younger brother to jump on the trampoline with him and Anna. He insisted that everyone cut ahead of him in line at the Ice Cream Sundae Bar, and then declined extra whip cream, to “Save it for somebody else.” He was courteous, civil and well-mannered, gracious and helpful. And he smelled fabulous! Super Hubs and I threw each other frequent puzzled glances that said, “My God, who is this boy, and what did he do with our Real Son??”
I think Anna was impressed. I know I was. The problem is, the New and Improved Rock Star walked out the door when Anna went home, and our Regular Rock Star remained. Which is okay, I guess. We do love him to death. But I’m left wondering…….is there a way I can move Anna in with us for the remainder of Rock Star’s teenage years? Just a thought.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Hang on!
Got insecurity? Plenty of it!! I’ve never been so unsure of myself as I am during this season of raising teenagers. It’s unchartered waters I am navigating, and I was never given a map. The ups, the downs, the bend in the river that I didn’t see coming. I’m doing this all by instinct, and sometimes my instincts stink. What works with one kid may not work with another. Or it may work on Tuesday, but not on Friday. Who knows? Flexibility has never been one of my strong points. Good Lord, It’s hard! Why can’t they all just stay five forever??
That’s why it’s important to have friends. And margaritas. And friends who will drink margaritas with you, and admit that they don’t know what they are doing either. But they will put on their life vests and jump into their boats, and navigate the White Water Rapids of Parental Angst right alongside you. And there is great comfort in that. Cheers!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Touched A Nerve
Here's an amusing response from Tony, my dear friend who had the misfortune of not being carded the night I was.
Hi Kelly,
Did a little more math on the subject during this period of time I call The Glory Days (from 4/13 your birthday - 8/30 my birthday)...
As I'm sure you are painfully aware, our age is separated by a staggering 12,096,000 seconds. I'm exhausted just from typing that number.
As you also may know, light travels at a speed of 186,000 miles per second, meaning
if you were to start shining a beam of light, it would go that distance in 1 second.
Doing the math of combining the two facts above, that beam of light you starting shining that traveled a mere 186,000 miles in 1 second would travel 2,249,856,000,000 miles between the date of your birth and that of mine. That's 2 TRILLION + miles. Wow. That's one tired beam of light. For perspective on THAT number, if you were to spend $1 per SECOND every second of every day, it would take you 26,040,000 days to spend that much money. That's over 71,342 YEARS. That's even older than you! But I digress. Back to that beam of light traveling that loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong distance....
To put that distance in perspective, the average distance from earth to Pluto (the mass formerly known as the 9th planet back when you were a kid) is 3,700,000,000 miles. If you were able to board that beam of light for travel to Pluto, you would be able to go to Pluto from earth AND BACK more than 608 times. Nearly unfathomable.
So let's redirect that beam of light from your warm, hospitable home to our church, a short 4.88 miles distance. That little beam of light could go back and forth between your home and our church an incredible 461,036,065,573 times.
But hey, at least you got carded :-)
Have a great weekend, Kelly! See ya soon. And remember, while our age difference may seem significant now, when you're 167, I'll STILL be younger than you :-)
Tony "Spring Chicken"
Ouch! I think Tony's just being a bit sensitive because:
A.)I was cast in a drama as his younger sister.
B.)Again- I GOT CARDED!!
But he clearly is more math-brilliant than I.
Bygones, Buddy!
Hi Kelly,
Did a little more math on the subject during this period of time I call The Glory Days (from 4/13 your birthday - 8/30 my birthday)...
As I'm sure you are painfully aware, our age is separated by a staggering 12,096,000 seconds. I'm exhausted just from typing that number.
As you also may know, light travels at a speed of 186,000 miles per second, meaning
if you were to start shining a beam of light, it would go that distance in 1 second.
Doing the math of combining the two facts above, that beam of light you starting shining that traveled a mere 186,000 miles in 1 second would travel 2,249,856,000,000 miles between the date of your birth and that of mine. That's 2 TRILLION + miles. Wow. That's one tired beam of light. For perspective on THAT number, if you were to spend $1 per SECOND every second of every day, it would take you 26,040,000 days to spend that much money. That's over 71,342 YEARS. That's even older than you! But I digress. Back to that beam of light traveling that loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong distance....
To put that distance in perspective, the average distance from earth to Pluto (the mass formerly known as the 9th planet back when you were a kid) is 3,700,000,000 miles. If you were able to board that beam of light for travel to Pluto, you would be able to go to Pluto from earth AND BACK more than 608 times. Nearly unfathomable.
So let's redirect that beam of light from your warm, hospitable home to our church, a short 4.88 miles distance. That little beam of light could go back and forth between your home and our church an incredible 461,036,065,573 times.
But hey, at least you got carded :-)
Have a great weekend, Kelly! See ya soon. And remember, while our age difference may seem significant now, when you're 167, I'll STILL be younger than you :-)
Tony "Spring Chicken"
Ouch! I think Tony's just being a bit sensitive because:
A.)I was cast in a drama as his younger sister.
B.)Again- I GOT CARDED!!
But he clearly is more math-brilliant than I.
Bygones, Buddy!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Victuals And Violins
Everything tastes better in the city. Especially when it’s prepared by a Professional Culinary Expert. I was reminded of that last evening, as I ventured to Chicago to meet Super Hubs for an evening out. What should have been a 1 hour drive into the city took 2 hours because of sucky Chicago traffic. But I was actually okay with that. It was just Me in the car. Just Me, Me and…….Me. (All my favorite people.) And my CDs. No whiney-hineys in the backseat begging for French fries and throwing crayons around. So the long drive was peaceful and pleasant.
I picked Super Hubs up from his place of employment, and we found parking in a garage that charges more per hour than my chiropractor. Then we went to we went to Rhapsody, a contemporary restaurant that serves elegant cuisine; and that is attached to the center where we would attend The Symphony. It was a bit too cool to eat out on the patio, so S.H. and I headed into the main dining room. Just as the maitre d’ seated me at the table, I completely mortified myself by knocking over a wine glass with my elbow. It fell to the floor and shattered, thus making my presence known to the entire establishment the first 30 seconds of my arrival. (Good Lord, how old am I, three??) You can dress me up but you shouldn’t take me out……
Despite my embarrassment, I enjoyed King Salmon with shitake mushrooms, and a basil and white bean cassoulet. It was fantabulous, especially with a dry Pinot Grigio. Of course….I then dribbled cassoulet on myself, thus staining my white t-shirt just in time for The Symphony. Thankfully S.H. and I have been married long enough that my warranty has run out, and he can no longer trade me in for a wife who can sit at a table without breaking crystal and dine without cassoulet spillage.
We enjoyed The Symphony with its classical music of Debussy, and Stravinksy’s masterpiece, “The Rite of Spring.” I love classical music played beautifully. It was soul-soothing and utterly relaxing. And after my long day, longer drive and two glasses of wine……I got the sleepies and nodded off on the shoulder of my date. (But it was okay with him. Isn’t love grand??)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Beaming Matron
Despite the pink-tinged fog of Aging Denial I’ve floated in since getting carded recently, I do realize that I am getting old…ish. It has been glaringly apparent to me this past week, as The Teens each participated in some Performing Arts.
Butterfly danced Hip Hop and jazz in an Orchesis show at her High School. And she did really well……hopping. And bouncing. Which is characteristic of Hip Hop. She and her two dance partners performed with well-coordinated precision. Super Hubs and I were impressed. But the music! It was a mix of Hip Hop and Rap. And I just don’t get why it’s called “music.” The loudness….the lyrics (are they in fact lyrics?)! They were spoken so fast I spaced out for a moment and thought I was at an auction, and feared when I scratched my nose that I had just bought an antique horse plow or something.
Butterfly did great and I was proud. But I felt old. Proud and old. I don’t understand the music, or the dance. If I tried to perform Hip Hop, I’m certain my lower back would spasm from all the bendy moves. OMG aging sucks!
Then Rock Star played electric guitar in his church youth rock band. His performance included a lot of squinting, and I wasn’t certain if it was from the spotlights or the fact that he’d forgotten to put in his contacts that morning. But even with his impaired vision, Rock Star was terrific. And again, I felt proud and old. Proud because my son played in a rock band. And old…… because my son played in a rock band.
I think I need to go back to that particular restaurant and get carded again. Just for Old Time Sake. (Pun intended. Wasn’t it clever??)
Sunday, May 18, 2008
May I See Some ID?
I got carded! Oh praise The Good Lord In Heaven; I actually was carded!! WOHOO!!!
I was ordering dinner with some friends at a restaurant and asked for a glass of wine. And the waitress carded me! It was not one of those places where they mandatorily card everyone who has a pulse for liability reasons. I know this because my friend also ordered a glass of wine……..and he was not carded. (Do not worry Tony, I won't say your name in blogosphere and publicly humiliate you. Please note that I just referred to you as “my friend.” Your identity is safe with me, buddy.)
I’ll re-emphasize the point of my post: My friend (Tony) did not get carded, yet I did. And he is actually 4 months younger than me (which he quite rudely reminds me about every time I see him). So apparently, I look younger than 21, and he looks older.
My friend (Tony): Appears older than 21. Probably much older.
Me: Appears to be 20. Or 19. Or 18.
At least to this particular waitress. And maybe she’s got thick cataracts, or possibly it was the dim lighting in the place and the fact that my head was slightly tilted. Or perhaps my Age-Defying makeup was fabulous that evening. I don’t know. Please allow me my little teeny victory moment, when I was carded and my friend (Tony) was not. IT MADE MY WEEK!! (Currently doin' a Victory Dance.)
For one evening, I believed I looked a youthful 20 again. At least to a certain waitress, God bless her forever.
Mmmmmm. It's those little triumphs in life that are so sweetly gratifying.
I was ordering dinner with some friends at a restaurant and asked for a glass of wine. And the waitress carded me! It was not one of those places where they mandatorily card everyone who has a pulse for liability reasons. I know this because my friend also ordered a glass of wine……..and he was not carded. (Do not worry Tony, I won't say your name in blogosphere and publicly humiliate you. Please note that I just referred to you as “my friend.” Your identity is safe with me, buddy.)
I’ll re-emphasize the point of my post: My friend (Tony) did not get carded, yet I did. And he is actually 4 months younger than me (which he quite rudely reminds me about every time I see him). So apparently, I look younger than 21, and he looks older.
My friend (Tony): Appears older than 21. Probably much older.
Me: Appears to be 20. Or 19. Or 18.
At least to this particular waitress. And maybe she’s got thick cataracts, or possibly it was the dim lighting in the place and the fact that my head was slightly tilted. Or perhaps my Age-Defying makeup was fabulous that evening. I don’t know. Please allow me my little teeny victory moment, when I was carded and my friend (Tony) was not. IT MADE MY WEEK!! (Currently doin' a Victory Dance.)
For one evening, I believed I looked a youthful 20 again. At least to a certain waitress, God bless her forever.
Mmmmmm. It's those little triumphs in life that are so sweetly gratifying.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Just Charge It, Please.
Taking The Teens clothes shopping is an interesting study in sociology.
Rock Star will ask for an article of clothing only when he is one shred away from looking like a Flintstone. Last year, he informed me on the first day of our beach vacation as we were driving to the ocean, that he didn’t have a swim suit. “Why didn’t you pack a suit??” I asked in frustration. “Because none of them fit anymore.” “Then why didn’t you tell me before we left Chicago??” “Because you didn’t ask.” So, instead of working on my tan, I spent the better part of that particular morning running him around to the resort boutiques to find appropriate water-wear.
He did the same thing with winter boots when I asked him to shovel the snow one morning this past February. He had neglected to inform me at winter’s beginning that he didn’t own boots; he’d thrown them out last year because one had a big hole in the heel; and so he’d been borrowing his father’s. And trying to find winter boots in February in Chicago is like prospecting for Peeps in July.
Butterfly manages her wardrobe with the careful precision of a micro physicist, knowing on a daily basis the exact inventory and condition of all her apparel from lingerie through Formal Wear. And she is always aware of her needs. She “needs” always! Her philosophy is, “You can never have too many_____.”(Fill in the blank with any type of clothing article. I mean it. Any type.)
Today I bounced The Teens out of bed at the unholy Saturday hour of 9am to get a jump-start at the mall. Rock Star, who worships his older sister’s fashion sense and refuses to buy any clothes without her stamp of approval, purchased some new shorts after carefully weighing all the pros and cons. He felt he only needed two pairs, and refused to buy more. When he was finished, he wanted to wait in the car. Butterfly's very countenance began to radiate as soon as she entered Abercrombie & Fitch. She pranced around like a calf let out to pasture, maniacally grabbed random handfuls of clothes, and became quite distressed when I informed her of the budget. And as for me; I admit to purchasing a coupl’a cute and stylish things from the clearance rack.
It was loads of fun shopping with them. Any day I get to spend watching The Teens do something cooperatively together is a good day.
Rock Star will ask for an article of clothing only when he is one shred away from looking like a Flintstone. Last year, he informed me on the first day of our beach vacation as we were driving to the ocean, that he didn’t have a swim suit. “Why didn’t you pack a suit??” I asked in frustration. “Because none of them fit anymore.” “Then why didn’t you tell me before we left Chicago??” “Because you didn’t ask.” So, instead of working on my tan, I spent the better part of that particular morning running him around to the resort boutiques to find appropriate water-wear.
He did the same thing with winter boots when I asked him to shovel the snow one morning this past February. He had neglected to inform me at winter’s beginning that he didn’t own boots; he’d thrown them out last year because one had a big hole in the heel; and so he’d been borrowing his father’s. And trying to find winter boots in February in Chicago is like prospecting for Peeps in July.
Butterfly manages her wardrobe with the careful precision of a micro physicist, knowing on a daily basis the exact inventory and condition of all her apparel from lingerie through Formal Wear. And she is always aware of her needs. She “needs” always! Her philosophy is, “You can never have too many_____.”(Fill in the blank with any type of clothing article. I mean it. Any type.)
Today I bounced The Teens out of bed at the unholy Saturday hour of 9am to get a jump-start at the mall. Rock Star, who worships his older sister’s fashion sense and refuses to buy any clothes without her stamp of approval, purchased some new shorts after carefully weighing all the pros and cons. He felt he only needed two pairs, and refused to buy more. When he was finished, he wanted to wait in the car. Butterfly's very countenance began to radiate as soon as she entered Abercrombie & Fitch. She pranced around like a calf let out to pasture, maniacally grabbed random handfuls of clothes, and became quite distressed when I informed her of the budget. And as for me; I admit to purchasing a coupl’a cute and stylish things from the clearance rack.
It was loads of fun shopping with them. Any day I get to spend watching The Teens do something cooperatively together is a good day.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Happy Birthday, Super Hubs!
Forty-five years ago today, a baby boy was born in Brooklyn, New York. He was a quiet, intelligent child; the oldest of four. He excelled in school and earned a degree from Notre Dame University without effort. He relocated to Chicago, where he married a goddess of a woman;-) and fathered three children.
He is highly respected in his field of secondary education and is well-beloved by his family and many friends. He is passionate about his God, his toy trains and has a deep deference for history. He writes articles for publication in trade magazines.
He is without a doubt the kindest man on the planet, and I love him muchly!! May you be blessed with many more years, Super Hubs!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I Love Your Products, But........
I am, under most circumstances, a very nice and moral person. I’ve never appeared on “Girls Behaving Badly,” and I don’t kick dogs. (Unless you count the time that I booted our cockapoo in the rear when he ate up a batch of cupcakes I had just made and then puked on the couch. But it wasn’t even a hard kick.) There are occasional times, however, when I am driven to murderous fantasies in soap stores……
I intended to run in and out of Bath & Body Works, lickety-split. A friend had given me a gift card for my birthday last month, and I wanted to quickly buy a candle, and then hurry back to pick up Little Squirt from his Art Class. The Art Teacher frowns on parents that are tardy to collect their youngsters, especially a particular 5-year-old (mine) who occasionally needs to be disciplined for rambunctious behavior at said Art Class.
As I entered Bath & Body Works, I was greeted by a very blond employee who flashed a 1,000 watt smile and greeted me in a saccharine voice, “Good morning, Ma’am! And how are we today??” I considered telling her about my queasy bowel, but instead I grunted “Fine” and hurried to quickly complete my mission. “Can I help you find anything??” Ms. Employee asked in an all-too cheery voice. “No, I’m good,” I said curtly, and continued looking at candles.
Ms. Employee would not take “NO” for an answer. She was persistent in her quest to make a big sale. She followed me around the store, grilling me on the candle type I was looking for, making suggestions, and then giving me a sermonette on “wick” safety. She proceeded to show me many other products in the store, discussed the upcoming early summer sale, and the holiday sales, and the newest and latest body products, and her personal favorite gift ideas. Inwardly I was seething from her suffocating presence which was greatly distracting to my candle-sniffing. She would not leave me alone! Finally, when she intrusively “spritzed” me with Cherry Blossom without my permission (which would interfere badly with the Lauren Style I was already wearing), I glared at her, and said through clenched teeth, “Please. Give. Me. Space. To. Buy. This. Honeysuckle. Candle. I. Need. To. Go.” She reeled back with a look of dismay, then scurried off toward another unsuspecting customer. Feeling slightly guilty for being so abrupt, I paid for my candle and left.
But here's the point of my Rag Fest: Please, Store Employees, I realize it’s a slow economy and you are trying to make a sale, but JUST BACK OFF! HONOR APPROPRIATE AND CONSIDERATE BOUNDARIES!! Especially if the customer says she wants no help, gives you no eye contact and has a touch of a virus that makes her insides feel like an impending Mt. Helens eruption! Be aware that customers do not always have time to meander slowly and hear about your latest “Poison Hemlock” fragrance. Your products may be lovely, but Jeez!!
(Just needed to vent. Ahhhh. I'm feeling better already! And now I will drink peppermint tea and lie on the couch with a Sue Grafton read.)
I intended to run in and out of Bath & Body Works, lickety-split. A friend had given me a gift card for my birthday last month, and I wanted to quickly buy a candle, and then hurry back to pick up Little Squirt from his Art Class. The Art Teacher frowns on parents that are tardy to collect their youngsters, especially a particular 5-year-old (mine) who occasionally needs to be disciplined for rambunctious behavior at said Art Class.
As I entered Bath & Body Works, I was greeted by a very blond employee who flashed a 1,000 watt smile and greeted me in a saccharine voice, “Good morning, Ma’am! And how are we today??” I considered telling her about my queasy bowel, but instead I grunted “Fine” and hurried to quickly complete my mission. “Can I help you find anything??” Ms. Employee asked in an all-too cheery voice. “No, I’m good,” I said curtly, and continued looking at candles.
Ms. Employee would not take “NO” for an answer. She was persistent in her quest to make a big sale. She followed me around the store, grilling me on the candle type I was looking for, making suggestions, and then giving me a sermonette on “wick” safety. She proceeded to show me many other products in the store, discussed the upcoming early summer sale, and the holiday sales, and the newest and latest body products, and her personal favorite gift ideas. Inwardly I was seething from her suffocating presence which was greatly distracting to my candle-sniffing. She would not leave me alone! Finally, when she intrusively “spritzed” me with Cherry Blossom without my permission (which would interfere badly with the Lauren Style I was already wearing), I glared at her, and said through clenched teeth, “Please. Give. Me. Space. To. Buy. This. Honeysuckle. Candle. I. Need. To. Go.” She reeled back with a look of dismay, then scurried off toward another unsuspecting customer. Feeling slightly guilty for being so abrupt, I paid for my candle and left.
But here's the point of my Rag Fest: Please, Store Employees, I realize it’s a slow economy and you are trying to make a sale, but JUST BACK OFF! HONOR APPROPRIATE AND CONSIDERATE BOUNDARIES!! Especially if the customer says she wants no help, gives you no eye contact and has a touch of a virus that makes her insides feel like an impending Mt. Helens eruption! Be aware that customers do not always have time to meander slowly and hear about your latest “Poison Hemlock” fragrance. Your products may be lovely, but Jeez!!
(Just needed to vent. Ahhhh. I'm feeling better already! And now I will drink peppermint tea and lie on the couch with a Sue Grafton read.)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Yummy Mummy
Yummy= Jelly Bellies.
Mummy= Me.
"Her children stand and bless her." (Proverbs 31:28)
Happy Mother's Day to all the women that "mother!"
May God bless you!
Friday, May 9, 2008
Wanted: Preferably Dead
I have Good News! The Cutlery Drawer Spider has been apprehended! Yahoo for justice! I’ll do the honor of giving my loyal readers The Scoop before they read it in tomorrow’s Police Blotter.
While Super Hubs was busy sipping margaritas and tanning his backside by the Arizona pool this week, I manned the forts here at home. I was occupying myself with something domestic in the kitchen the other day, when suddenly I caught sight of the Hairy-Legged Thug scuttling across my ceiling, attempting a covert getaway. I’m certain it was the same spider; I’d recognize his evil countenance anywhere.
Normally, I leave Spider Slaying to the men in the family, as Butterfly is just as arachnophobic as I am. But the only “man” home at that time was Little Squirt, my 5-year-old. So I had no choice. In the interest of protecting my little child, I had to take action. I swallowed my repulsion; mustered up all the courage I could, and launched my attack. In an aggressive assault equal to a wartime “Shock and Awe,” I fought the spider with weapons which included a broom, a soup ladle and my shoe. The pugnacious evil insect seemed ready for my every move, darting this way and that, and then running across the kitchen table. Which is when Little Squirt came up behind me and calmly smashed it to pieces with his balloon. “It’s dead, Mommy,” he said, wiping the balloon off with his elbow, and heading back to his video game. My Hero!
So we celebrated by sterilizing all the silverware, and then headed out to our favorite Italian restaurant for dinner. Justice is served.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
It's Not Fair!
Super Hubs flew to Arizona today, and so I am insanely jealous. He went for a work conference, and he did offer to take me. But, considering the fact that we have three children that need tending to (and one of them in high school with an Algebra II grade that indicates she has no business missing school for a southwestern trip), I needed to stay here.
Super Hubs told me it was just a mandatory "Work Thingie," and that he'll be stuck in a conference room all day, and that he'd actually rather stay home with us. Like I'd fall for THAT! Nice try, Baby! Here's the real story: He will get to stay at a luxury resort tucked in the foothills of the scenic Sonoran Desert, surrounded by towering Saguaro and beautiful wildflowers. He’ll have a quiet villa all to himself, decorated with authentic Southwest décor and architecture, and blah blah blah. (I read the hotel website.) He’ll get to relax by one of the luxury pools with a tropical drink and perhaps enjoy a massage at the spa. He’ll relish fabulous peaceful dining, with no Little Squirt or teenagers to dominate all the conversation. He won’t have to deal with homework. Or housework. Or carpooling. Or dog vomit.
So I sit and resent the fact that I am stuck here, where it is chilly and gray today, and I have no luxury pool to relax by. And no professional masseuse on site to exfoliate my skin with a desert honey sugar scrub. And nary a professional to teach me about Native American culture. Or tour guide to take me on a moonlight nature hike and desert jeep tour. And no chef to prepare me a fine dinner of grilled halibut and crème brulee.
I’m just sayin’.
Super Hubs told me it was just a mandatory "Work Thingie," and that he'll be stuck in a conference room all day, and that he'd actually rather stay home with us. Like I'd fall for THAT! Nice try, Baby! Here's the real story: He will get to stay at a luxury resort tucked in the foothills of the scenic Sonoran Desert, surrounded by towering Saguaro and beautiful wildflowers. He’ll have a quiet villa all to himself, decorated with authentic Southwest décor and architecture, and blah blah blah. (I read the hotel website.) He’ll get to relax by one of the luxury pools with a tropical drink and perhaps enjoy a massage at the spa. He’ll relish fabulous peaceful dining, with no Little Squirt or teenagers to dominate all the conversation. He won’t have to deal with homework. Or housework. Or carpooling. Or dog vomit.
So I sit and resent the fact that I am stuck here, where it is chilly and gray today, and I have no luxury pool to relax by. And no professional masseuse on site to exfoliate my skin with a desert honey sugar scrub. And nary a professional to teach me about Native American culture. Or tour guide to take me on a moonlight nature hike and desert jeep tour. And no chef to prepare me a fine dinner of grilled halibut and crème brulee.
I’m just sayin’.
Monday, May 5, 2008
In The Blink Of An Eye
If I ever, in the midst of a mid-life crisis or something, decide to pursue a career as a Wedding Consultant, you have permission to shoot me. I really mean it. Please shoot me first and put me out of my misery pre-emptively. I already know I would deplore a job like that because I barely survived being Personal Prom Assistant to my daughter. I am completely, thoroughly, 100% bushed after this weekend. Thankfully it was just a temporary job, and I have turned in my name badge and tiara and retired until next year.
This being my one and only daughter and her very first Prom, I had no idea the short-term career would be so taxing! The appointment-making, the consulting on hair styles and nail colors, the buying of boutonnière and garter, the offering of affirming words at Key Stress Moments, “Yes, sweetie, you will look gorgeous. No, darling, I don’t believe anyone will be wearing the same dress;” all I can muster is a big “Whew!” But mostly, I was not prepared for all the whining and fussing and gnashing of teeth (which were actually from Super Hubs as he viewed the various Prom bills.)
**Future-Parents of America: Heed my advice and only have boys. They are definitely cheaper to raise.**
But it was almost worth it as Super Hubs and I went on Friday evening to the “Red Carpet” event at Butterfly’s school. All of the Prom couples walked through a gauntlet of clapping parents and entered one of 14 decorated school buses which, like Cinderella’s pumpkin, carried them off to the ball. I would suggest that the paparazzi come to the local high schools and learn something about aggression before next year’s Oscars. The hundreds of parents pushing and shoving their way to the front to try to get a picture of their glammed-up teen is something I will never forget. Next year, I’m wearing my Chain Mail!
I cried. I admit it. Seeing Butterfly looking beautiful and happy on the arm of her Prom Date put a lump in my throat. She was a roly-poly 8 pound bundle of joy just a minute ago. Now she’s 16. However did it happen so fast?
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Anatomy 101
Caution: Consider yourself warned. This post is not for the “Squeamish” or the “Easily-Offendable.” I will be using blatant anatomy verbiage. But it's okay; I am a trained professional. I am a Registered Nurse and own a 20th edition of "Gray's Anatomy." (The medical book, not the TV show. Although the show is pretty accurate in itself. And entertaining. But I digress.)
To those who appreciate the innocence of young children, or even to the “Simply Curious,” here’s a peek into a private father/son conversation that occurred last night:
Little Squirt: “Dad, do girls have penises?”
Super Hubs: “Uh, no, Son. They do not.”
Little Squirt: “Why?”
Super Hubs: “Because they have vaginas.”
Little Squirt: (With alarm) “GIANT WHATS??”
To those who appreciate the innocence of young children, or even to the “Simply Curious,” here’s a peek into a private father/son conversation that occurred last night:
Little Squirt: “Dad, do girls have penises?”
Super Hubs: “Uh, no, Son. They do not.”
Little Squirt: “Why?”
Super Hubs: “Because they have vaginas.”
Little Squirt: (With alarm) “GIANT WHATS??”
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Jewelry And Junk Food
My new “Eating Healthy” Diet is going rather poorly. Abysmally, even. But it has not been entirely my fault. One reason is that I went out to dinner with my Fabulously Funny Drama Team the other night, and we celebrated the spring birthdays of the team members, which included Bill’s and mine. (Bill did not care for the sparkly pink bracelet that I bought for him, so I kept it and gave him English Toffee instead. Darn. I hate it when I have to keep jewelry.) I received lots of yummy treats, which I needed to eat, for it was the polite thing to do. And I am nothing if not polite. But we laughed like crazy, so I’m hoping all the endorphins canceled out any bad chemicals from the junk food. You think?
And then there’s been stress this week, what with the Cutlery Drawer Spider and Fighting Crime and some personal stuff that I will not share on my blog lest I feel completely naked. I’m not certain yet how to get through the strain without my good friends and neighbors, The Reeses and The Cheetos. They’ve always been there for me through thick and thin, and I hate to just drop them from my life without notice. Their feelings might be hurt. And I have not yet found Mr. Kiwi or Ms. Rice Cake quite as comforting.
And last night I had Heartburn in the middle of the night. I haven’t had Heartburn in years. So I attributed that to drinking orange juice right before bed. Hmmmmm.
Orange juice before bed= Heartburn.
A glass of wine before bed= Good night sleep.
Now I’m wondering if this “Eating Healthy” Diet is really going to work for me after all.
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