Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Traveling With Women

I don’t really travel on my own per se. I went to a friend’s wedding when my daughter was one. I was gone for two days and the homestead went down in flames. Since then I’ve traveled with at least one child and/or a husband tethered to my side at all times. That is until a week ago when my book club took its first annual weekend retreat.

Females only. All adult. (Let’s try to ignore the fact that it sounds like I’m talking about a porn genre, okay? Thanks.)

Anyway, just so you know, traveling with grown women is very different from traveling with a husband and children. Shocked? Me too! Who would have imagined? Let me share my insights with you so that you can experience my wonderment.

  • The first thing I noticed was that no one needed me to suggest going to the potty before we left the condo. That didn’t stop me from doing it anyway. Every. Single. Time. The girls got me a shock collar to help me break the habit. Such a thoughtful gift. Also, no one suddenly leaped up, sprinted to the bathroom and then emerged, declaring, “I peed on the tub and a little in the potty” even after three glasses of wine.

Literate and potty trained

  • Everyone voluntarily bathed themselves and I didn’t have to wash anyone’s hair while listening to them whine, “Not in the eyes, not in the eeeeyes!” Nor did I have to comb the house for their special mermaid. I’m also pretty sure that no one yelled “I have to poop!” while in the shower, though it was hard to hear with my mouth full of wine.
  • The bathroom smelled unnaturally good the whole time we were there, leading me to believe that women defecate lavender and sunshine, which evaporates into a rainbow before ever touching the toilet bowl. Or perhaps they just knew the location of the air freshener. Whatever the case, it only served to reinforce my concerns for Hubs’s digestive system, because our commode at home consistently looks and smells like it lost an alien war.

What I imagine is happening behind our closed bathroom door. (image via prism.gatech.edu)

  • No one solved a crime, rescued anyone or helpfully pointed out potential criminals. There wasn’t any road rage or general irritability. One of the girls nearly threw down over some missing guacamole, but that’s totally understandable. Guacamole will do that to you.

Feeling despondent and about to jump? Not our problem.

  • There were extensive discussions about dietary restrictions, health obsessions and food in general. All of our dietary concerns made ordering meals a long process and in fact we were generally disliked by waitresses everywhere. On the upside, I didn’t have to take anyone for a walk during dinner, dig through my purse for something to entertain them or try to cajole them into eating more fiber.

On a quest for vegan, gluten-free, no-refined-sugar foods at the Farmer’s Market. Isn’t everybody?

  • The thing that made the single biggest impression on me, however, was the unearthly quiet at night. I slept in a room containing four other women and I woke up periodically thinking that everyone had left the room. Or died. And then I’d fall back asleep working on their eulogies. Also, the room didn’t smell like farts in the morning and nobody kicked me in the head or woke me up because they had a bad dream. This got me to thinking that there might be a whole subsection of women who are gay simply because they really want a good night’s sleep in a quiet room. Seriously, think about how fantastic a good night’s sleep is. Now look at any female on the street. She looks more attractive, doesn’t she?

Me and three delightfully quiet sleepers.

In conclusion I contend that traveling with women is all kinds of awesome. And since nothing imploded at home, I’m primed and ready for the next book club retreat. Only 51 weeks to go.

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Confessions Of A Chronic Smart@ss

Sometimes I get inspiration from reading other blogs. For instance, I was reading this post over at Don’t Forget To Feed The Baby about her aversion to confessional blog posts. She wrote that humor was more cathartic for her than deep, dark, emotional confessions and I thought, “AMEN, SISTER!”

I find it extremely difficult to talk about my problems seriously. In fact, I’d rather run through a burning building than be the subject of a Barbara Walters interview. No joke.

Barbara loves to watch people cry. What is wrong with her? I bet she tortures puppies for fun. I’m sending the ASPCA over to her house.

Watch out, Oprah! She’ll make your mascara run and kick your dogs! (image via fanpix.net)

There are plenty of painful things in my past and I’ll talk about any of them. Seriously, ask me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just know that there will be some cheeky humor involved. Nothing is sacred.

I don’t think Barbara would like that. She’s not alone.

I think I was ten the first time someone accused me of being inappropriately irreverent. My sister found me to be “flippant” at our mother’s memorial service. Perhaps she took issue when I grew weary of all the canned condolences and began talking to a potted plant.

I can see where she might think my botanical conversation was a sign of disrespect, but in my defense, Mom had told me that I could find her spirit in anything she loved and sitting in that front row folding chair of the pastel-colored hospital conference room/make-shift chapel, directly in front of a large fern and surrounded by awkwardly grieving adults, I decided to address her spirit. She loved plants. Who was to say that she wasn’t sitting in that fern? So I struck up a conversation. I figured I’d earned the right. She was my mother. I could talk to a potted plant if I wanted to.

Hello, Mom? I like what you’ve done with your hair.(image via dreamstime)

My sister found that inappropriate, which is a little ironic considering that she showed up wearing a transparent black dress that didn’t button properly and more makeup than a tranny.  She was also high. And not on life. But I didn’t think twice about that at the time because I took my sister at face value: a confused and grieving not-quite-adult with an interesting wardrobe. I was baffled that she didn’t take me at face value: a confused and grieving child with a fondness for decorative plants.

Not my sister, but I’m hiring “her” to be my personal stylist. (image via dreamstime)

She assumed, like many, that my irreverence indicated a lack of feeling, which isn’t the case. I simply have a hard time facing pain without poking fun at it. It’s a coping mechanism and so deeply ingrained that I doubt it’s going anywhere. Nor would I want it to. I treasure it. It helps keep me sane.

Relatively.

I know what you’re thinking: I bet that girl kicks @ss in yoga.

No?

Then it must be: That girl is a prime candidate for therapy.

Yeah, I see your point.

But I am horrible at therapy. I absolutely lose my mind in a therapist’s office (and not in a great cathartic way) and then I just start telling the therapist what I think they want to hear, which, as anyone who has successfully utilized therapy could tell you, defeats the purpose.

After Hubs’s best friend was shot on duty I saw a departmental therapist to discuss the trauma. I made a deal with myself that I would be absolutely honest. I went twice. We talked about my fragile side. I spoke earnestly. It was torturous and after the second session I backed my car into a pole then drove off into the sunset in a fit of irritation, never to return. I may have been on the verge of a break through or break down, but we’ll never know.

Humor works better for me.

So I will continue to break my pain into bite-sized morsels and laugh at it until it isn’t so scary. Some of those morsels are likely to end up here, like emotional crumbs. Hopefully we can all laugh at them because that’s the best catharsis of all. Even better than saving Barbara Walters’s tortured puppies.

“Don’t believe her. Save us first.” (image via dreamstime)

Disclaimer: There is no evidence to support the claim that Ms. Walters tortures puppies. However, there is bountiful proof that she regularly makes celebrities cry.

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Who Da Loop? OODA Loop!

A couple of weeks ago, on the way to a parole search, Hubs was traveling in the lead car of a law enforcement convoy when he saw a fire on the median between the freeway and the main adjacent boulevard. A pile of tires had been set ablaze, the kind of fire that often signals the designation of a body dump (homicidal maniacs rarely care about their carbon foot print). At least that’s what Hubs was thinking in the split second between seeing the fire and yanking his car over.

Hubs leaped from the car, grabbed a fire extinguisher, sprinted to the fire and went to work. He ultimately emptied two fire extinguishers to douse the flames. After seeing no body in the charred remains, Hubs turned to take the empty fire extinguishers back to the car.  At this point some of the other team members were just getting out of their cars.

In the eloquent words of the Probation Officer, “Dude!” Thirteen years later and I still find myself stunned and impressed (or occasionally appalled) by various things Hubs does.

Hubs shared this story with me, as he often tells me about his day at the office (later on he had a parolee at gunpoint in a bathtub, but that’s another story) and he said that the team members who were slow to respond were probably just out of the OODA Loop.

Who da loop, you ask?

He had to explain that one to me too. Apparently it’s a concept developed by military strategist and USAF colonel, John Boyd. It stands for Observe, Orient, Decide, Act. It was used in the military to gain the upper hand over an opponent. The quicker one can process this cycle, the more likely one is to gain the advantage over a situation or opponent.

John Boyd aka The Ghetto Colonel, Forty Second Boyd, Genghis John, The Mad Major. He was not into smiling. (image via Wikipedia)

Anyone who has spent any amount of time with Hubs wouldn’t be surprised to hear him describe this philosophy. It’s how he lives his life. For better or worse, Hubs will act quickly. It makes him extremely good in a crisis and sometimes destructive in the home. You don’t want someone using the OODA Loop in your home if you own a lot of breakables, which is why you’ll hardly ever see a curio cabinet full of Precious Moments figurines on a military carrier.

This window was an OODA Loop victim during a yellow jacket incident.

A glass doorknob OODA Loop victim from a “Daddy I’m stuck in my room” incident. Notice the judicious use of duct tape in both cases.

Some shiznit could get broken, there may be some colorful language involved, somebody might even get their feelings hurt, but Hubs will leap into action in a swift and dramatic fashion, while the rest of us say, “Dude!” And then he’ll duct tape the carnage together later. That’s just how he rolls. With a siren.

It is impressive, but if you think about it, mothers use the OODA Loop all the time. Sure it usually doesn’t involve a freeway fire or a gun fight and we try our best not to break household items, but we regularly face our own sort of combat. For instance…

You walk into your two-year old daughter’s room, after her “nap” (otherwise known as the hour she plays in her crib to give Mommy a much needed break) to get her out of bed before the nice man from Craig’s List comes to buy your sofa and discover that your sweet cherub has gone Picasso with the contents of her diaper.

Except your daughter’s painting will commemorate a bombing in her bedroom instead of Spain. (image via Wikipedia)

You Observe the carnage: you might say something colorful that you hope your child won’t repeat later.

You Orient yourself: poo on the walls, crib, stuffed animals, ceiling fan (now that is impressive) and daughter, husband entering room and exclaiming more colorful language, bathroom directly behind you, front door through which you Craig’s List purchaser will arrive in ten minutes, behind you and to the right.

You Decide: husband will take poo-coated daughter to the tub. You will grab a trash bag, Clorox wipes, paper towels, rubber gloves, a vacation in Bermuda (No! Now is not the time for vacation plans! Focus!). You will stay locked in the offending room for as long as it takes and husband will handle the sale of sofa and disoriented daughter.

You Act: scrubbing poo and salvaging toys for the next hour.

Oorah! OODA Loop!

You are one bad@ss mama. John Boyd and Hubs salute you with an emphatic “Dude!” Now go out and get yourself that camouflage diaper bag. But shower first because you smell like poo and Clorox.

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A Few Good Birds

Another budding bird family moved in to the corner above our front door. We didn’t even have time to take the old nest down and scrape off all of the bird crap. Those birds came in and just built another nest right on top of the last crap-filled one. I’m not one to judge, but just between you and me, that’s pretty ghetto.

And then they promptly started flying at my head every time I walked in or out of my door just like our last bird neighbors. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I was raised to be more neighborly than that. If you move into a new neighborhood, you wave at your neighbor, smile, say hello, introduce yourself. You don’t dive bomb them and then crap on their doorstep. I try not to crap on anyone’s doorstep, neighbor or not. That’s just common courtesy. Am I right? I mean who is raising these birds?

Naturally I complained to Hubs about the situation. I was just venting, you understand. But of course Hubs was upset about it. He found it unacceptable. Nobody treats his wife like that. He’s very protective. It’s sweet, really. I felt vindicated and forgot about the whole matter.

Then not long after our conversation I came home to find the bird’s nest above our door gone. In its place was a large rock. Only the bird crap remained as evidence of our former neighbors.

While I was pleased to approach my door without a Hitchcockian scene, I was also concerned for the birds’ welfare. I asked Hubs about it, but he gave me the Jack Nicholson “You can’t handle the truth” look and I dropped the subject.

“We live in a world that has birds. And those birds need to be dealt with by men with guns.” (image via jack-nicholson.info)

Did I inadvertently request a Code Red on some harmless, albeit obnoxious feathered friends? That was certainly not my intention. I was just venting. I wasn’t calling for street justice.

I’m a bleeding heart liberal and pacifist. Mostly. I was a vegetarian for six years. Sure I eat beef now, but I’m pretty sure the cows I eat are horribly depressed and longing to be thrown on a grill. I would never eat cows who had plans for the future. Nor would I call for violence against unborn birds who were simply a bi-product of irresponsible parenting. I would rather see those birds go into some sort of youth mentoring program, so that they could become productive members of our society. Or the food chain.

Then again, I don’t know for sure that Hubs harmed those eggs. There’s no concrete evidence to support that conclusion. I haven’t been contacted by PETA or an animal advocate. If there were any wrong doing surely Pamela Anderson would be on it. She handled the whole Kentucky Fried Chicken protest against chickens being inhumanely fried. In Kentucky. Or something. I’m fuzzy on the details but I think she’s looking out for chickens and birds everywhere, so chances are she’d be knocking on our door if those birds were unjustly treated.

Having a buxom blond with a camel toe show up in your establishment isn’t really punishment and in fact might encourage animal cruelty. (image via gossipbay.net)

Besides, Hubs is an animal lover. I’ve seen him affectionately care for dogs, cats and small, feral children. And he is extremely tender with the eggs he uses to make his omelets.

I think I overreacted. I bet those bird eggs are on a farm somewhere. Or in a bird sanctuary. He just didn’t want to tell me because then I would want to go see them and he probably didn’t have enough gas in the car. Gas prices are outrageous right now. And the economy is sluggish. His silence was probably born out of economic reasons. Not moral ones.

The birds are fine, which is a relief…

because I complained about the raccoons too.

“Ruh Roh.” (image via dreamstime.com)

 

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Mama’s On Strike

My mom cooked a lot of tv dinners and things that required a can opener or an addition of water. I don’t remember her cooking much else. She made bread from scratch that doubled as a paper weight, a barley/green chili casserole that we all inexplicably loved and the best toast ever (the secret was pre-buttering, which inevitably caused a toaster fire in our ancient, second-hand toaster and so our toaster spent a lot of time on the back steps, smoking in the rain, much like my father but minus his cocktail.) Mom never sat down to eat with us. When I was about five years old she declared that she’d never make another Thanksgiving dinner. She kept her word.

After her death, my father carried the torch of prepared food dedication, keeping me on a steady diet of Hamburger Helper, Soup Starter, Van de Camp’s frozen enchiladas and Jello salads (he added all four food groups and any condiments available in our fridge to make it a complete meal.)

Looks and tastes like an alien (image via chloeofthemountain)

Maybe because of this, I developed a strong desire in my twenties to learn to cook from scratch for the express purpose of one day becoming one of those mothers, about whose cooking her children brag. I loved to cook and I pursued it with a singular purpose. I enjoyed pleasing friends with my meals, but always, in the back of my mind, was the goal of one day pleasing my children. Food is love.

Of course this was before I actually gave birth and discovered the futility of my plan. My two lovely progeny only approve of two spices, salt and sugar, will not eat any of the same foods with the exception of chocolate, generally distrust most vegetables and want all of their ingredients to have at least an inch of distance from any other food source. If every meal came in a fast food bag they would live their short, unhealthy lives in pure ecstasy.

Hostess products and chocolate milk are also acceptable.

A couple of nights ago I was feeling uninspired but felt obligated to put something on the table. I grilled some chicken, made some Spanish rice, tossed it together with some beans and fresh salsa and called it a Mexican rice bowl. At Hubs’s prompting everyone offered up a feeble “Thanks Mom. It looks delicious.” and started picking over their plates.

Then Hubs innocently asked, “Is there paper in this?”

Before I could answer, Conor asked to be excused and Riley spit out her mouthful, exclaiming, “This is disgusting. I don’t even care if I get dessert.”

Realizing that he had unintentionally started the avalanche of dinner protests, Hubs tried to back pedal.  “I mean the paper doesn’t taste bad or anything. I think I’m just tired and a little full right now.”

In my defense, let me just say that I don’t cook with processed tree pulp. I once made a sandwich with the paper that separates the cheese slices but I was pregnant and disoriented so you can’t count that. The paper-like substance they detected was brown rice. I love whole grains but the rest of my crew prefer their grains fully bleached and processed, which is coincidentally also how they prefer their paper.

That was the nail in the culinary coffin for me. I’m on a cooking boycott until further notice. If my mom were here I would salute her with a loaf of her 15 pound bread in solidarity.

I will continue to make sure that the kids get a fairly balanced diet throughout the day and we’ll still gather at the dinner table in the evenings to talk about our days over some sort of food–perhaps some pear and cheese or carrots and pretzels. But for now I’m not cooking any evening meals.

My children are already flying the victory flag.

Brown boxes are cool. Brown rice is not.

Has anybody else thrown in the dinner time towel? Or figured out a way to avoid it? Did it involve hiring a personal cook or a child hypnotist?

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Insane Emotional Parent Meeting

I had Riley’s IEP meeting today at school. IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan or sometimes Insane Emotional Parent. I think the meaning changes on a case by case basis. I fall into the latter group.

I tend to end up solo at school conferences and meetings because they are scheduled when Hubs is working or, in this case, exactly when the kids need to be delivered to school. I don’t like going alone. Sometimes you need to be a hard@ss and I’m not good at that. Hubs can do it without breaking a sweat, but I’m too busy trying to convince everyone in the room that I’m smart and well-behaved. It’s like I’ve never left the third grade.

“Yes Mrs. Ladich, I can use the word ‘educational’ in a sentence.”

I dressed business appropriate in a feeble attempt to compensate for my severe apprehension. Slacks say, “I’ve got it all together and am not actually crumbling on the inside like cheap stucco in an earthquake.”

Then Hubs gave me a pep talk and suggested that I bring a recorder to tape the meeting. I balked, as I do every time he makes this suggestion. After all, this isn’t an interrogation. I’m perfectly capable of taking notes and mentally processing all pertinent information. I’m a good listener. I have an advanced degree. I took psychology in college. I can remember exactly how much Infant Tylenol my children require. I’m a grown up. Neener, neener, neener.

I should listen to Hubs more.

If I had listened to Hubs, it wouldn’t have mattered that as soon as the psychologist said, “During my talk with Riley, she mentioned that she didn’t feel as smart as the other kids…” my mind immediately went to:

an image of Riley cutting class and smoking outside of the school. She takes out a switch blade and cuts the initials of a known felon into her arm, draining the blood into a tiny vial that he will wear around his neck. The felon drives up in a gas-guzzling muscle car and she jumps inside, does not fasten her seat belt and flicks her cigarette out the window, which starts a forest fire, killing two fire fighters and Bambi. Fast forward to Riley standing on a street corner in platforms and a short skirt, waiting for a customer. The Donna Summers song Bad Girls plays somewhere in the background.

If she were a French whore that would be different and somehow more classy. (image via dreamstime)

Stop it! That’s not going to happen. Pay attention. You are missing important information.

“…I’m also concerned about a body image issue…”

What??? At 8 years old??? But I do such a good job of conveying a positive body image to avoid just this situation. Did all of those times I strutted around naked, singing “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” and occasionally shouting “vagina power!” accomplish nothing? Okay maybe I didn’t actually do any of that, but I think I conveyed the same message with my general attitude. And then I imagined Riley as Karen Carpenter, dying slowing in a bed while I sang We’ve Only Just Begun over her. I started to tear up.

(I’m not kidding here. The thought of body image issues and my little girl made my @ss pucker. I had to bite a hole in my tongue to keep from losing it in front of professional educators. And as soon as school was out I had a conversation with Riley about her body, fat penguins and Disney starlets. Yes, I did touch on all of those talking points. I think it went well.)

Do not cry in this meeting! Do not cry! Stop overreacting. You are missing all of the important…”

“…but I think if we take those steps, we’ll avoid certain disaster.”

…information. AAAAAAAAAGH!

Okay, so maybe I’m a better listener when I’m not this emotionally invested in the topic. When it comes to the welfare of my kids I take a day trip off the reservation. Luckily the psychologist gave me a packet of everything we covered, which I will read while Hubs pokes me gently with an electric cattle prod to keep me focused.

“Hey man, cattle prods ain’t funny.” (image via dreamstime)

And next time I’ll let Hubs put a wire on me. Like an unstable undercover agent.

 

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Slumber Party Remedial School

I was queen of the slumber party in my youth. I don’t often toot my own horn but this was something I did well. All I needed was a Ouija Board, an inappropriate movie, some junk food and my dad’s trademark lax supervision to rock an event.

1984 was an exceptionally good year in the slumber party circuit.

Shout out to Dad’s super-relaxed parenting style. It’s a shame my children will never know what that’s like.

However, it’s been a (ahem) few years and some skills are perishable. I should probably have enrolled in slumber party remedial school, because despite my impressive resume, I spent a good portion of my daughter’s slumber party dropping the ball. By the end of the day I felt like I’d just returned from a 5 hour booze cruise on rough seas. I practically crawled to bed after telling the girls that there would be no more requests fulfilled due to my impending collapse.

The whole week my focus had been elsewhere on other obligations. When I woke up Saturday morning, I realized that precious little had been done to prepare for Riley’s birthday slumber party and Hubs would be gone all day having a big boy play date.

Big boys playing dress up with toys

I panicked, tapped into some mother-guilt, forgot my slacker mom sensibilities and over compensated for my lack of preparation with some ill-fated last minute plans.

Now a logical slacker mom might have paused, thought back to what she enjoyed at her own childhood slumber parties and realized that 8-year-old girls don’t want parent-imposed schedules in their sleep overs anyway. They have their own ideas about what they want to do. So here’s a novel idea: ask them. However, I’d used up all of my logic for the week and I was too busy nursing my silly idea that this, being a birthday sleep over, should be different and therefore more special.

Amateur.

So my plan went like this:

  • 1:00 guest arrival
  • 1:15ish head to our neighbors’ pool.
  • 4:00 manicures
  • 5:30 pizza and birthday donuts.
  • 7:00 movie
  • 9:00 giggling while pretending to sleep

It sounded like a great plan to me. I prematurely congratulated myself on being such a rock star.

Ever notice that any phrase beginning with the word “premature” is automatically a bad thing? Premature baby, premature ejaculation, premature menopause, premature gray, premature congratulations…all bad.

First of all, I neglected to make sure that Riley’s best friend could actually arrive at 1:00. As it turned out, she couldn’t. Then the girls hadn’t seen each other all week and wanted some time to bond over their Beanie Boos collection, which went right through pool time and into manicure time. Beanie Boos require a lot of bonding–must be the giant eyes. They’re haunting. The Bette Davises of plush toys.

They are so sweet, like tiny stuffed animal zombies.

My friend, who I’d enlisted to help with the manicures showed up and we forced strongly compelled completely disinterested girls to get their nails done.  I had conveniently forgotten that I possess the manual dexterity of a raccoon–just enough to dig through the garbage, but not enough to execute delicate spa services on tiny, thoroughly chewed nails. So I completed 1/2 of one manicure while my “client” complained about the horrible salon service, until my friend was merciful enough to fire me and take over.

This took us to 5:00, when of course the girls decided that they were ready for the pool. Because a pool is more enjoyable when you’re cold, hungry and sporting freshly painted nails. You could drive a tractor-trailer through the holes in this logic. Not to mention that the timing would interfere with the allotted time for nail drying and cut into the joyous partaking of pizza and donuts around the dining room table.

I started to illustrate the obvious problems with their plan when I was struck by either an epiphany or an aneurysm. Because of the pounding in my head it was hard to tell the difference. Whichever it was, I finally realized the error of my ways.

This was Riley’s birthday. If she wanted to spend it becoming hypothermic, waterlogged and ruining the manicure she hadn’t wanted in the first place, then by God, I should let her. I shut my trap, took the kids up to our neighbors’ house and plopped them in the hot tub. There they stayed until 8:30, enjoying pizza and donuts and partying like polar bears.

“Smile for the camera or my mom will make us get another manicure.”

Honestly, I think my headache and fatigue may have been my 8-year-old self trying to kick my @ss from the inside, out of frustration over my slumber party ineptitude.

What about you? Any birthday or slumber party horror stories? Better yet, any fabulous tips for my next one? Obviously I can use any help and pain reliever you have to offer.

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The Versatile Blogger Award

I would like to thank Lolo over at Lolosofocused for nominating me for the Versatile Blogger award.  It seems to me that most blogging awards are part spam and part pyramid scheme (both of which I have a deep aversion to) but it is still extremely nice to get a shout out, so thank you, Lolo.

Check her out. She’s young and edgy. At least that’s the way her blog reads. She could very well be a 90-year-old man, masquerading as a young, edgy female blogger for all I know, and if that’s the case I say, Nicely done, Mr. Lolo, sir! Be Careful getting up from your computer. I don’t want you to break a hip.

Alrighty then, here are the rules for accepting this nomination:

 

  • Add the award to your blog.
  • Thank the blogger who gave it to you and include a link to their blog.
  • Mention 7 random things about yourself.
  • List the rules.
  • Give the award to 15 or more bloggers

Here are 7 random things about me for your reading enjoyment.

  1. I was born in a doctor’s office and taken home naked in a medical supply box. This is part of why I’m extremely low maintenance. It’s hard to be a Prima Donna when you started out naked in a box.
  2. I’m a beer snob. I was raised in the Northwest, the micro brew capital of the Universe. It left me with exceedingly high standards. Coors makes me throw up a little in my mouth. See? Complete snob.
  3. I was once dramatically thrown out of a youth group function by a priest. To this day I have no idea why. One minute we were sitting on the floor watching a movie and the next minute the priest went all “The power of Christ repels you!” and booted me out the door. The incident left me with an aversion to priests and a general distrust of the Catholic church, which is interesting because I have a history of dating Catholic men (Hubs included).
  4. I’ll probably never get a tattoo because I have a deep fear of commitment. The fact that I committed to one man for the rest of my life is a minor miracle and one that I think deeply shocked my father. That’s as much commitment as I can manage, so body ink is out.
  5. One of my sisters was a call girl so I have a deeper knowledge of that industry than your average law-abiding citizen. In high school I babysat the children of call girls and once waited in the car while my sister was working. None of my sister’s friends looked like Julia Roberts.
  6. Until just a few years ago I had a phobia of libraries. I couldn’t go past the front desk without having a complete anxiety attack, which sent me running home to my bathroom. Snakes and spiders didn’t faze me, but libraries were terrifying. On the other hand, book stores have always been some of my favorite places. Apparently I’m an elitist bibliophile. Or I was terrorized by a librarian in another life.
  7. My mom took me to a commune when I was 6 years old. All of the kids were naked and dirty and everyone was eating bean sprouts and carob. I was a little repelled by the whole thing. I still find the combination of carob and naked butts distasteful.

Okay now here’s where I get a little rebellious.

I can’t in good conscience forward spam. Not to save little Timmy’s life or because I love Jesus or even because I got a really bitchin blog award. And I’m pretty sure that everyone I would nominate has already been nominated to win this award because they rock. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t be nominating them.

So I will list some people whose blogs I like to read. They are certainly deserving of this award, but I’m not going to penalize them for being awesome by making them jump through hoops. Feel free to check them out.  I do on a regular basis.

Gemini Girl In A Random World–funny, thoughtful and good-looking, you know, just in case you’re into reading attractive bloggers.

Paltry Meanderings of a Taller Than Average Woman–like David Sedaris with a law degree.

Finding Gravity–I appreciate anyone with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a love of 90s hip hop.

The Book of Alice–bite sized morsels of her kid’s cuteness.

My Toddler Peed In The Fridge–you come for the pee, you stay for the stories.

The Ugly Moose–micro fiction, you know, teeny tiny stories for the ADD in all of us.

Don’t Forget To Feed The Baby–don’t you just hate parenting blogs that have it all together and make you feel bad about yourself? Yeah, this ain’t one of those.

I’ve probably forgotten a couple because I’m operating on half speed today. Some days are like that. Even for a Versatile Blogger.

 

 

 

 

 

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Hollywood Armchair Detective Part II

Welcome back to the second half of your Armchair Detective course from Hollywood University. I hope you enjoyed your break, looking cool in the quad, drinking in the campus pub and running up Mom and Dad’s “this is strictly for emergencies” credit card. If you’re a transfer student and missed the first part of the course, please feel free to take notes from Hollywood Armchair Detective Part I.

Otherwise it’s time to get back down to business. Crime waits for no one.

  • Long, salon-styled hair should be worn down and will absolutely not contaminate a crime scene. I might leave giant tumble weeds of hair everywhere I go, but crime scene investigators have super follicles that never release their grip on their over-processed charges.  And when you think about it, who would want to put their hair up in a bun or unattractive shower cap thingy when they took the time to blow dry and style their hair? The fact that they do their hair at all is especially impressive when you think about their exhausting work schedules and the amount of personal time they spend solving crime, as well as being shot at, kidnapped and buried alive. Sometimes I don’t even take a shower and I can’t remember the last time I was buried alive.

Crime scenes are a dime a dozen but hair like this takes work. (image via dreamstime)

  • The obvious suspect is never the guilty party. If there’s a guy covered in blood, standing over the body of a person he hated, with a knife in his hand, you can rest assured that he didn’t do it. More likely, he was returning home from his job as a sous chef, when he slipped, fell, rolled in the blood and then stood over the corpse of his enemy, trying to remember if he filed his taxes. However, if one of your suspects has a really good agent and has been seen on television or in commercials, they are most certainly your killer.

Not your guy. However, the nice neighbor was on Southland and in a Doritos commercial, so she's definitely guilty. (image via dreamstime)

  • When in a stand-off, an experienced police officer will let a volatile criminal wave a gun around without shooting them. In fact, said officer will even give up his/her own weapon in the interest of a peaceful resolution.  And if for some reason the criminal has to be killed because they were about to shoot the detective or Little Orphan Annie, the detective will cry and lament over the lost life. You see, police officers love all gangsters, pedophiles and sociopathic killers and are optimistic about our justice system and its ability to rehabilitate criminals. They trust that criminals won’t get off because of clever attorneys or be paroled early due to a lax parole board. This unbridled optimism is impressive but perhaps not practical when you think of all the poor lab technicians who will be shot at, kidnapped and buried alive by the sociopaths at a later date.

"I really appreciate you not shooting me. Of course now I'm going to shank a guard, escape and bury a lab technician." (image via dreamstime)

Higher ranked officers do all of the grunt work. It’s quite common for an entire task force to be made of Sergeants, Lieutenants, Captains and Commanders. They interview suspects, canvas the neighborhood, kick down doors, get the coffee, wax the police car. They even train new recruits. And then apparently the new recruits are shoved into a closet until they earn a rank prestigious enough to be seen on the city streets or they are promoted right to Sergeant or they spend their time cleaning the toilets. I’m not entirely sure what happens to them but the important thing to remember here is that the upper echelon are not slackers. So the next time you want to file a loud music complaint or fight a traffic ticket, ask for the Chief. He’ll love taking your report.

Maybe higher ranked officers do all the work because they take such nice pictures (image via screenrant)

Officers can run around with their finger on the trigger of their gun without accidentally shooting off their toe. Probably because they don’t have a round in the chamber. Why be prepared to shoot your weapon when it would rob everyone of hearing that really cool racking sound and seeing you look like LL Cool J in SWAT? And you don’t really need to be ready to shoot your weapon at all, since you’re just going to give it up when the first criminal asks you to anyway.

If you look at this picture and listen carefully you can hear a firearms instructor cry. (image via dreamstime)

Congratulations! You’ve officially earned your MAD (Masters in Armchair Detectivery). Feel free to begin solving mysteries with the feeling of self-importance that comes from earning a degree about which nobody cares and that will never earn you any money.

I know that feeling well.

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Delicate Balance

I live my life in a delicate balance. Most days I can almost manage to handle all of my responsibilities without forgetting a kid on the side of the road or driving off with my purse on the roof of my car, but it’s touch and go. One little extra thing thrown unexpectedly into the mix could cause the whole construction to collapse.

So I’m heavily scheduled this week.  It’s the week before Riley’s birthday. It’s also the week before Conor’s big preschool fundraiser. Today I needed to help set up for the fundraiser and take care of all the things that need to be handled before Riley’s birthday and pending slumber party. Like moving her out of the room she shares with her brother and into the playroom. And then figuring out what to do with the playroom. And giggling 8-year-old girls. And a 4-year-old boy who is tired of being ignored by giggling 8-year-old girls.

My To Do List read:

  1. Tie Tulle To 144 Folding Chairs
  2. Play Musical Bedrooms
  3. Handle Slumber Party Bidness
  4. Everything Else (drop offs, pick ups, homework, meals, baths, creating world peace, etc.)

Then I started my period. With a vengeance. Crap! But I’m 42 years old, I can function while hemorrhaging.

So I altered my To Do List slightly:

  1. Menstruate
  2. Tie Tulle To 144 Folding Chairs
  3. Play Musical Bedrooms
  4. Handle Slumber Party Bidness
  5. Everything Else (drop offs, pick ups, homework, meals, baths, creating world peace, etc.)

Only I forgot to put Conor in a Pull Up last night before bed.

This shouldn’t have been a big deal since he’s been such a rock star about waking up in the middle of the night to go potty on his own. However, when Riley stumbled into the kitchen this morning, complaining that their bedroom smelled so foul that she had to hold her breath, I knew that Conor had gone from rock star to Keith Richards and just urinated right where he’d passed out. He was very thorough. Their bedroom smelled like the stairwell of a parking garage in downtown Detroit.

My bad.

I revised my To Do List.

  1. Clean Everything in a 10 Mile Radius.
  2. Menstruate
  3. Tie Tulle To 144 Folding Chairs
  4. Play Musical Bedrooms
  5. Handle Slumber Party Bidness
  6. Everything Else (blah, blah, blah)

Then Hubs called with a directive, which went a little something like this.

Get your iPhone and activate the Find My Phone application. It’s free. Or not, but you should pay whatever it costs. It’s probably right there under your nose. Or not, but do not rest until you’ve found it. Do this immediately. It’s imperative. Because, (and this is important, so pay attention) if you are robbed of your phone or worse, kidnapped by Mexican drug lords, who remove your battery so that it can’t be traced, the Find My Phone application will enable you and your phone to be traced and found before you both suffocate in the trunk of a car buried in a landfill. Laundry, furniture and even menstruation can wait, but oxygen is crucial. Your brain will die without oxygen! Do it now! Only you can save your and/or your phone’s lives!

I've got to admit that I look cuter suffocating in the trunk of a car than I expected.

I couldn’t argue with him because he was right. My brain would die without oxygen. And so I had to change my To Do List again.

  1. SAVE MY LIFE!!!! SCREW EVERYTHING ELSE!!!!!!!!!!!

By the way, I think I left one of the kids on the side of the road and my purse on top of my car, so if anyone sees them, please return them to me, okay? Thanks.

**Addendum: I stopped for gas, but they couldn’t process my debit card because they were unable to reach their satellite. If they had activated the Find My Satellite application, they wouldn’t have had that problem. For all they knew, their satellite was suffocating in the trunk of a buried car. People need to listen to Hubs.