T-aaaahhhhh-hoe

Ah, camping. Not my favorite thing, I confess, but I was desperate to get out of town for a night and we are poor, so a tent in the woods seemed like an answer to prayer. And it was. For the most part. Plus, ever since the preschool camp-out, camping is all Missy Hoohaw can talk about.


There were some challenges. I really wanted to take the bus, but it requires some repair to have brake lights. Brake lights are good. We like brake lights. We wound up taking my mother's truck. This proved problematic as well, not only because gas is approximately $56 a gallon, but also the fact that the back seat is miniature. Missy is too long-legged to comfortably sit back there, so I got the back. Now sure, my legs are longer than Missy's (not by much) but here's the thing. I don't cry and scream when I'm uncomfortable. Much, anyway. It was fine until Mr. Clairol realized he had taken the wrong way to the campground and added about an hour to our travel time. I tried not to make him feel worse about it, but an "I don't know why you ask me to print a map if you're not going to look at it," slipped out. I know, rub salt in a wound. I'm bitchy like that.


We got there, eventually. The kids were so grateful to be out of the car, they ran around like hooligans and rolled in the pine needles. How is this different than normal? The pine needles of course! Mr. C and I got right to work, setting up the luxurious accommodations. Swank, eh?


This tent was actually a birthday gift form an ex-boyfriend. I never camped then, but had marveled at it in the warehouse store. I think I might have said something about that being able to house a hell of an orgy or something similar. I was totally joking, but I think this guy might have been indulging in some wishful thinking.

The view from our accommodations. So, so beautiful. And no smoke! Yay!

Next on the agenda was whipping up a gourmet meal of hot dogs, baked beans and watermelon.


Then building the campfire. This is Mr. Clairol's (aka the Wood Whisperer) favorite part.

Big Red loves him some fire. He saw Daddy throw in some pine needles to get the blaze going, and all night long, did the same. He'd suddenly bolt out of his chair, returning with a fistful of needles and throw them in the fire pit. When they ignited, he'd yell, "YAY!" and clap his hands. He's his father's son.

Here's where the story gets interesting agonizing. We had packed an air mattress, but apparently the cordless pump required 12 hours charging. Insert head banging against a tree here. We made the best of it, sleeping on a double layer of sleeping bags, but dear Lord, the ground, she was hard. It was cold and both kids slept poorly, due to the novelty of the tent. We wound up consolidating everything into a family bed at 2 in the morning and managed to get a little sleep, but let me tell you, I am still sore. I totally made out with my bed when we got home.

A little pre-breakfast balancing.

Breakfast of Champions and really tired little boys

After breakfast, it was time for a hike to the lake. If you've never been to Tahoe, you should go. It is amazingly beautiful. Tall trees, gorgeous clear water, clean, fresh air...truly a paradise. The ground is a little hard, but you know, no place is perfect.

We were at William Kent beach, which is a rock beach. My children were in heaven. They spent the entire time tossing pebbles into the water. This wouldn't seem like a fun-filled activity, but my children are simple that way.
Mama duck and babies

After a half-hour of tossing rocks, Missy and Red decided to get up close and personal with the water. That's when Mom, the biggest party-pooper in the entire world, decided it was time to go back to the camp-ground.

Blowing bubbles and having fun while Mom and Dad break down camp.

Hand to God, I was so glad to be home, I didn't even mind the smoky air. The house is a mess and I am still sore from my night on the ground, but I'm glad we went. Eventually, I'll stop screaming when Missy asks if we can go camping again tomorrow.

I'm With Jenny

Post today? I think not, y'all. I'll be back tomorrow with camping pictures. I know, you're all atwitter.

Blog Love

No, not like that, you pervs.

Well Behaved Krissy, over at Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History has tagged me. I'm not normally a big meme participator. I love reading others, but I get distracted when trying to do my own. I think it's because they highlight that other people are far smarter, funnier, prettier than I.

But this one is different. The rules are to tag bloggers who make your day, make you laugh and smile, and/or leave uplifting comments on your blog. You then include a link to this post, and ask each person you tag to do the same! (I totally just copied and pasted this from Krissy's blog. I am such a plagiarizer.)

I like this, because I get to send bloggy air kisses to all you lovelies who read and comment, plus tell you a little about who I visit on a regular type basis.

Krissy:Duh! Funny, forthright and the Disney guru. She is awesome and I bless the day she left a smart-ass comment on my site.


Jenny on the Spot:Jenny has been my friend since we were 5 and she turned me on to the magic that is blogging. I am forever grateful. Plus, she's funny, insightful and real. I like that. She also runs marathons. That just sort of confuses me.

David Dust: He calls me "fag" and I blush and titter. Such a charmer. He's also funny as hell and does a mean Bravo recap.


Woulda Coulda Shoulda: Mir is wry, witty and can find humor in even the darkest of moments. I love that about her. She also has a tremendous shopping site, Want Not. If you're looking for an Internet deal, she's got it.


Noble Pig: A softer, gentler Martha, for the blog community. She is the wine expert and posts a mean recipe, so if you want to feel inadequate about yourself, go see her. I kid, she's totally nice about her mad skillz.


Jennie and Shannon: My spiritual oasis in cyberland. They are amazing Christian warriors and will inspire you. I promise. If nothing else, you can marvel at Jennie's family of 14! and the fact that she just gave birth to a son and married her eldest off.


Sarah: I'll be honest, I'd probably trade my husband and kids (only for a week or two) to live Sarah's life. She's a single New Yorker, just published a book and is hilarious.

Kristen: Kristen's blog title is We Are That Family. That says it all. She confesses things that we ALL do (I'm looking at you) and try to forget. At least I do. She makes it funny and poignant. She is awesome that way.

Aimme: Like me, Aimme is tackling her weight. Unlike me, she is succeeding. I do not hate her for it. No. I am supportive. I am nice that way.

Andrea: My friend and frequent partner in crime. She's renovating her house and I love to live vicariously through her. All the delight and none of the mess.

Mah-Mee: Very cute stories about her daughters. The one about A wanting to buy big boobies made me pee a little.

You! Yes, I see you lurking there. It's okay. You don't have to comment. Just know I love you guys for reading. Though if you did want to say something, that would be okay too.

Okay. I'm off to camp. Wish me luck. Lot's of it.

A Camping We WIll Go...

We're doing it. At the last minute, Mr. Clairol and decided to go camping this weekend. I wanted the beach. He wanted the mountains. We compromised and are headed to Lake Tahoe. Yay! No smoke! Now I have to hurriedly get Drama Queen packed for her trip to SoCal and the rest of us packed for the camping trip. Good thing I'm Super Woman, huh?

Anger

Last night, at 7:00, I collapsed into bed last night, exhaustion a palpable weight on my shoulders.
In a sleepy daze, I listened to my husband put our youngest children to bed. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to the ringing phone.

It was a dear, estranged friend. I have not spoken to her in months, though I left messages and tried to arrange outings. She never returned any of my calls and I truly thought I had done something to offend. Frustrated and sad, I had given up, assuming my marriage and children had created a gulf between us that she was unwilling to bridge.

Not so much. Turns out, she had gotten back together with an ex-boyfriend who shattered her heart. She had been avoiding me because she was afraid I'd be mad.

I was. Not because she's chosen to let this man back into her heart. She's a grown up and I don't have the right to judge her choices. Even the terminally stupid ones. She knows this about me, but I think that after I nursed her through that difficult and painful time in her life, she just couldn't imagine I would say, "Okay. If it makes you happy, then I'm happy for you."

No, I am upset because she stayed silent and allowed me to torture myself for months, wondering what I had done. Feeling guilty for being happily married and giving birth to more children. Feeling sorrow, for a friendship that was withering and not responding to my attempts at revival. That is what angers me. I'm having a hard time getting past this anger. I want to shout at her and berate her and give her hell.

I won't. I just don't operate that way. I dwell on it for a while, then let it go, knowing that to give word to the feelings would assuredly create the rift I agonized over. Maybe not the healthiest avenue, but the one I'm choosing none the less.

And now I will wait and marvel at my friend's capacity for poor judgement. This man is toxic. They dated for a year, during which time he constantly broke dates with bizarre and elaborate excuses (his water heater broke and flooded his house, his carburetor was not working, etc.) then broke up with her via email. I knew he was a liar, in that vague, intuitive way you do, and warned her once, after she asked me what I thought. During the year they've been apart, he began "accidentally" dating someone else, got her pregnant, then married her. After three months of marriage, they started divorce proceedings. He began calling my friend again and she has taken him back.

I won't say anything to her, because, a) it's none of my business, b) it wouldn't do any good and c) that's why I have a blog. But Dear GOD! How lonely does a woman have to be to invite that heartbreak back into her life??? She was detailing his explanations to me and it struck me that nothing was his fault. He was a victim of circumstance, not of his own selfishness. She was even blaming herself for pushing him too hard, during their first relationship. She wanted to spend time with him and have him follow through with promises. That demanding bitch!

I'm going to be biting my tongue a lot in the next months. Maybe I'll pull a Jenny and get it pierced.

Tick Tock

Do you ever wake up in the wee hours and cannot fall asleep again?

Last night, I got involved in loading an audio book from my mom onto my ipod. I love that she loans me romance novels on CD, to listen to in the car. I can just see Missy telling Teacher Janet her bosoms are heaving. But inspiration common sense prevailed and I put the book on my itunes. It was a little complex and took a great deal of fumbling, because let's face it. Jennie isn't the sharpest crayon in the box, you know? Especially at 10:00 at night, after a flaming shit-pile of a day.

But I figured it out. I even got three of the disks on my ipod. At 11:00, Mr. Clairol made me go to bed. At 12:00, we rolled over to go to sleep. (HA! TMI bomb!) At 1:30, I heard a large thump and Big Red's wail. He was fine, but I have no clue how he rolled out of bed with a safety rail installed. I'm thinking of installing night vision security cams in his room. I staggered back to bed and heard Missy call that she needed to potty. I think I cursed, but I'm not sure it was intelligible. Does that count? Back to bed, and then...wide awake. For two hours, I stared at the ceiling and listened to my husband snore softly.

I made a mental grocery list. I thought of bullet-proof excuses to get me out of Art Camp. I fantasized about Vin Diesel. No! Not really. (Yes, I did. He was fixing my van door. Hubba hubba.) I did almost everything but go to sleep. Finally, I drifted off. The last time I looked at the clock, it was 3:57. My alarm went off at 5:45.

I fucking HATE Art Camp.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Hello. Go over to Mommasaid and read my Confessay. It's the one about doing my kid's science project and getting a C. Because I'm way brilliant. Then vote for me. Tell them I'm your favorite. Please. Do it. Now. I will totally be your best friend and probably wash you car.

Relax, I Married Him

I pay my mechanic in sexual favors. Now either I am not as good at that as I have been led to believe or the economy is taking a toll on payment in trade. I have about 3/4 of a bumper. My passenger side mirror is shattered. I am missing the ash tray/ coin holder insert. I'm missing an interior rear panel. My air conditioning has been out of commission since December. My CD player doesn't work. My window controller is held on (sometimes) by a large, ugly screw.

Yesterday morning, I asked Mr. Clairol to look at my van door. It wasn't opening. This tends to be a problem when you are loading four kids at 7:30 in the morning. Last night he fixed it and this morning, I got the kids loaded, started down the road and guess what? The door slid open. While I was driving. Awesome, huh?

Drama Queen shut it and we took off. And the door opened again. So Drama Queen shut it again and we took off and guess what happened? Go on, guess. Yes! It slid open again. Seven times, we played this little drama out. Keep in mind, I have DQ's gay best friend "boyfriend" in the car, since he is volunteering at Art Camp. So I called Mr. Clairol and left a tense little message on his voicemail which said (paraphrase) "My car doesn't work, it's all your fault and if you ever want to have sex again, you will DO SOMETHING!"

He called back and told me he had rented a car. I crawled home, bungee corded my door shut and drove 30 miles to Mr. Clairol's place of work to pick up the car. Correction: the behemoth truck. But it seated five and it ran and it had air conditioning, so we had a winner. He took my van and has ordered a new latch. This is good. Because I find, while driving, it is nice when the doors stay shut. I will never take that for granted again. Ahhh-men.

And if anyone says, "You get what you pay for," I will hunt you down and make you ride in my van, listening to me sing along with John Prine on cassette. In August.

Someone Commit Me

No, don't. I'm already over-committed.

Actually, I'm not. Here's where I bite the bullet and admit that I am plain lazy. I like sitting at home. I like not having anything scheduled. I like not having to get dressed, because I am going nowhere during the days. I know this makes me sort of pathetic. I don't care.

But when an even is far in the future, I can ignore those preferences and say, "Sure! I'll provide a meal/watch your kids/host a play date/come to this meeting. " The farther in the future, the more likely I am to do it. This is probably good, because it pulls me out of my anti-social little shell. But today, I am cursing myself for being seven different kinds of fool.

Months ago, Drama Queen volunteered to help with our church's Art Camp. Instead of Vacation Bible School, our church puts on a week long art extravaganza. There are all sorts of subjects, dance, painting (oil, watercolor and acrylic), woodworking, culinary arts, drama, creative writing...the list goes on and on. It's a great time and seems like fun. But the prospect of driving her there and picking her up was bumming me out. So when one of the women in our not-so-small group needed people to help watch the children of volunteers, I said I would.

The logic is clear. I'll be driving out anyway, so it saves me gas and time. The little ones come with me and have a fun day of playing with others. I meet some different people in our enormous church and make some new friends. Winning, all the way around.

I had no idea how tired I would be. It's like an extra-long preschool workday, five days in a row. I am exhausted. Why do I do this to my poor, lazy self? It's just one thing, and I'm not scheduling anything else the rest of the weeks, except haircuts for the kids tomorrow. I wouldn't even do that, except Red is bearing a startling resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite and Missy can't see for her bangs.

Here's to survival.

My Sunday

I am SO tired. We had our entire not-so-small group from church over tonight. About 30 people, lots of kids, BBQ chicken and good conversation. It was a blast, but I'm bushed. More tomorrow...

BlogHer

BlogHer approaches. I'm pretty excited about it on a lot of levels.

First off, I get some time away from home. I'm not much affected by wanderlust. I like being home, in my space, with my things. Sleeping in a strange bed gives me the shudders. I know, I know, country mouse and all that. But the idea of three days away is lovely right now. Sleeping past 6 am, not having to feed or clean up after anyone but myself, it just sounds like Nirvana.

Then, there's the added bonus of going to a city I love, San Francisco. I don't get there very often. I've only been two or three times in the last four years. It's only two hours away and yet I know virtually nothing about it. This would be so different if Mr. Clairol and I were childless. Someday, I'll know 'Frisco as well as I know my own home.

I'm also excited about the conference. It's going to be wonderful meeting other bloggers and hearing Heather Anderson speak. I think Jenny and I will have to figure out a way to sneak in some booze, so we can take a shot every time she curses. That would be awesome.

Finally, there the thrill of seeing Jenny again. We haven't seen each other for years. In our entire, long friendship, this is the longest we've ever gone without seeing each other and while I'd love it if our families could be together, I'm so excited to see my friend. It will be a blast to explore the conference with her. She introduced me to blogging years ago, infecting me with this mad computer disease that has taken over my life.

So I'm counting down the days to BlogHer '08. Who else is going?

Hooray!

Last night, we watched We Own The Night with Mark Wahlberg and Joaquin Phoenix. It was pretty good. Of course, my husband fiddling with the remote and trying to figure out his latest toy drove me so crazy that the movie could have been a steaming pile of crap and I wouldn't have known.

To be fair, he did most of his fiddling before the movie actually started. And I know the picture has been driving him bonkers. It's a 52 inch movie screen TV and when we bought it, we also bought a blu-ray player. I'm not exactly sure why. I think Fry's must pump endorphins into the air.

We got the TV home and set it up, but the picture was not what we expected. The main complaint was the size of the actual picture. We could choose between a small box in the screen (ironically, about the size of the filler TV we had been using) or a picture boxed in by about a foot of vertical black on either side. Mr Clairol was not happy. He doesn't even like the wide screen edition of movies. The black bars bug him. A lot. I was prepared to live with that, but not his constant pondering of it. That was driving me crazy. Plus, I was a little afraid of going back to Fry's. Who knows what we would have walked out with!

I tried reading the manuals and fiddling with the remote, but couldn't get the picture to fill the screen. Actually, I did during the first movie we watched, but it was one of those accidental things, where I was trying to fix something else and couldn't re-create what I had done to save my life or sanity. That made it worse for my poor husband, because now he knew it could be done.

After last night's movie was finished, he went back to playing with the remotes. And lightening struck. He discovered a menu that allowed him to not only change the size of the picture, but also the pixels. Oh Lord. Turns out we had been watching with 480 pixel thingies, when we could be seeing it in 1080! 1080, for Pete's sake! Yes, I stifled some laughter. In truth, the picture was far better. If I can tell the difference, it' s pretty huge. And it is silly to buy that kind of TV and not use it to it's capacity. But Mr. Clairol was orgasmic. He immediately grabbed our Cars DVD and popped it in, astounded at the difference. He was skipping to various scenes, admiring his handiwork, re-telling the epic battle of man vs. remote. Victory, she was sweet. I not only had to forbid him from going to blockbuster to rent a blu-ray movie, I had to force him to stop making out with the TV and go to bed.

This morning, Mr. Clairol got out of bed with Big Red and when I came into the living room, the boys were watching Cars. I confess, the laughter wasn't so stifled at that point.

There Oughta Be A Warning Label

When you are laying on that table, with the goo on your belly and the ultrasound tech is pointing out your son's tiny penis, they really should hand you a pamphlet on raising boys. It would say things like:



*Do NOT underestimate your son's desire to put his hands on his junk. It will not matter if it's covered in poop. It will not matter that he's currently peeing. It will not matter that he is dressed, diapered and in CHURCH! He will get his hands to his junk. You cannot stop it.



*Do not be surprised when a freshly bathed boy goes to bed and wakes up dirty. Dirt is chemically attracted to male children and no matter how many baths he takes, he will always seem dirty.



*If you make it to the second year without your son requiring major medical attention, something may be wrong with him. Please discuss this with you pediatrician.



I wanted a son. I love my daughters, but I wanted the experience of raising a man. And it is great. Exhausting, anxiety-causing, heart stopping, but great. I'm not exactly sure I have a son though. Some days, it seems more that a tiny, albino chimp came home with me. What with the climbing, screeching and flinging food(and poop, if I'm not strategic), I feel more zookeeper than mother. And being greeted by teeny, tiny morning wood? It's awesome. I'm thinking we'll be pushing potty training early.



He's nearly two, this son of mine. His favorite activity is climbing on the ottoman and jumping to the chair, right next to the brick hearth. Yikes. If he had a baby book, it would probably read more like a medical chart. Unfortunately, he's the third child, so a baby book is a fond joke. Still, I have a feeling most of my earliest memories are going to be injuries. Those seem to be what stand out. That and the penis fondling. Oh, the stories I could tell.

Do I regret having a boy? No. Even on the worst day, my son gives me a special kind of fear-tinged joy that can't be had from my daughters. But there should be a class or something. Just sayin'.

Trade Your Children For Spa Products

I'm kidding. They won't actually take your kids. I checked.

Got a funny mommy confession? Of course you do. Don' t we all? Go by MommaSays and enter their Confessay contest. I entered, even though the name of the contest bugs me and it cost me an excellent blog post that I had been saving for a rainy day.

You could win a $250 spa basket for humiliating yourself and possibly becoming involved with CPS. Seems like a win-win. Look at it this way. While your kids are in protective custody, you would have the time and quiet to use the products!

My Project Runway Void Has Been Filled

I think I might actually be a gay man. I'm not entirely sure, but my addiction to Bravo seems to point that way.

Since the end of Project Runway, I've been languishing. I couldn't get into Top Chef, because David's recaps were always far more entertaining than the actual show. Not into the dance shows, they make me feel old. The Office ended for the season and quite frankly, except for American Gladiators, TV sort of sucked. Yes, I watch AG. I L-O-V-E American Gladiators and Hellga, she is my most favoritest!

So I can't be a gay man, because if I was, I'd be so preoccupied by Toa (yummmm) and Militia (double scoop of yummmmm) that I'd be all, "Hellga who?"

Sorry, I got distracted. Tv is less sucky now because the new season of Kathy Griffin's show, My Life on the D List has started. Hoo-RAY! I was in heaven last night, watching her and Steve Wozniak, awkwardly flirt and fumble. She was great. Funny, irreverent, profane, all the things I value in a human being. And her mom is so cute! I've missed watching this show.

So don't even be calling me on a Thursday night. I've got a date with Kathy.

Laid Up

Yesterday was rough. My actvity was limited and the kids were pretty bored. As a result, they got into a lot of stuff they shouldn't and fought with each other. Good times. I was exhausted and in some pain, so I yelled a lot. I hate it when I do this. They get upset and scared and I feel terrible, as I should.


The TV was on for a good portion of the day. I hate that too. But the laundry is at the point of no return and quite frankly, I couldn't get in the pool with them. I couldn't chase them and tickle. I could break out the Curious George coloring book I stashed and color for a bit. That helped for a whopping five minutes. Curse their short attention spans. So I broke out the the tent and flashlights.


Desperate times call for desperate measures. I think a few of the new toys I have stashed away will need to make an appearance today.

Congratulations

I would like to take a moment to congratulate Phylis Lyon and Del Martin on their marriage. May it last as long as their love.

Pain, Laughter and Wet Concrete

We've officially replaced everything that was stolen, except the video camera. We aren't replacing that right away, but yesterday, I was sad that we didn't have one set up. Footage of what happened yesterday would have been an excellent birthday present for Jenny.


We were hanging the new TV on the wall. DQ and her friend were watching the little ones and swimming. I decided to take off the chain that The Beast wears around his neck to prevent him leaping over the fence. (In addition to Lab and Great Dane, he's also apparently part deer.)


Here's the thing. Our back patio is concrete and gets extremely slick when wet. We know this. We've not taken precautions. That is stupid.


I stepped out onto the back step and literally went flying backwards. Ass to the sky, folks. I caught air. I landed on my right ankle and knee. Dear God, the pain. I thought I might throw up. At the same time, I was laughing, because I knew how stupid I must have looked. The good news is nothing is broken. The bad news is I strained the tendons in my ankle and knee. The swelling is impressive. A golf ball sized knot on the side of my ankle, which is pretty. Adds a little interest to my foot. It hurts like a mo-fo and if I don't have it tightly wrapped, putting weight on it is a dicey proposition.


Every time I walk, I can hear Jenny laughing. She would be weak with it by now. Especially watching me flail around as I try to keep my balance. It's okay. After 30 years, I love her for it and know it isn't malice. She just finds pain extremely funny. It's her little quirk, if you will.


So maybe we will replace the video camera. With my propensity for klutziness, I could save a bundle on presents for her.

Decisions, Decisions

I could write a long and meaningful post about Fathers and the day and everything that entails in my life right now, or I could float in my pool with my sexy husband, sipping a glass of merlot.
Guess which one I'm choosing.

Happy Father's Day

She's SO Grounded

Halloween has been giving me fits this year. Mr. Clairol and I were going to do Dog the Bounty Hunter and Beth, but then he had to be all racist and crap, so that just ruined it. Stupid, racist jerk-off. Then, I had this fan-FREAKING-tastic idea for Halloween and Drama Queen refuses to go for it. See what you think.

We go as....The Redneck Family!

Picture it: Red, filthy, just a diaper. I'd have let him grow the back of his hair out so he'd have a mullet (or at least a duck tail) for October, but I could totally do that.

Missy, also filthy, in boys clothes. Why, I don't know, but I'm having a hard time picturing a redneck preschooler. A tattoo seems over the top, as does a cigarette.

Me: In a house coat, rollers and slippers, cigarette in my mouth, TV Guide in my pocket. (Maybe an Enquirer, I'm not sure.) I will be yelling things like, "Get your asses over here RIGHT now, a'fore I sock you one!"

Mr. Clairol: In a dirty wife beater and jeans, dirty ball cap, tobacco tin in the back pocket, plug in cheek (Ewww, remind me not to kiss him). Requisite bottle o' Bud in hand.

And the kicker: Drama Queen, tricked out in a ton of make-up, big hair, tight jeans and T shirt, with a big ole pillow stuffed up her front, so she looks pregnant. I do not understand why she is being so unreasonable about this!

So, I think I'll have to go for my back up plan and hope it's cold. We'll go as the kids from South Park, with me as Cartman (naturally) and Big Red as Kenny. Drama Queen can be Shelly and beat up on Mr. Clairol all night. Now I just have to teach Missy how to say "You Bastards!" when Mr. Clairol says, "They killed Kenny!" Perfection, right? Right?!?

Love Evolves

My concept of love has changed quite a bit over the years. I think that's probably a good thing. I mean, if I still thought that kissing boys was gross and chasing a boy around the playground made him my boyfriend, I'd be pretty screwed, romantically speaking. Or not screwed, as the case may be.



When I was in high school, love was liking a guy enough to let him get to second base. I loved a lot of boys in high school...well, to be honest, I loved getting to second base. My intimidating father is entirely responsible for me graduating high school with my virginity intact. I dated a few guys that were so afraid of my dad, they never attempted first base, and they never lasted long. But eventually, I did fall in love. Real, actual love, and got my heart broken. Shattered, irreparably, I though at the time.



And love became entangled with expectation of romance. I was pretty sure that if a guy loved you, really loved you, he would send flowers, write poetry, stand outside your window in the pouring rain, holding a boom box over his head,...you know what I mean. And when love didn't look like that, instead of realizing that love and romance were not exchangeable, I went searching for romance. Or at least a little male attention.



My ex-husband won me with poetry, flowers, long talks and promises. He was everything I thought I wanted. I ignored the sage advice and married him. And found out that he and I had different definitions of marriage. I thought that dating other people should end when the marriage (hell, the engagement even) began. He did not agree. But he was still romantic, and I realized that was all he could ever be. He could give me flowers, but not stability. He could write poetry, but not a check that would clear the bank. He could remember the night we met, but not to get to work on time.



And I realized that love and romance were not interchangeable, not even in the same ballpark. I hated all romantic gestures. I would inform men, in that "getting to know you" time, that I hated getting flowers, save the gush, just be honest and we'd be fine. More men were bothered by that than you'd expect. What do you mean, no flowers? Ever? My cynicism ended a lot of dates that had potential.



Eventually, Mr. Clairol taught me that love and romance wear many disguises. I was blown away, the evening he bought me stepladder, knowing I didn't have one and feeling it was unsafe to stand on a chair. He wanted to keep me safe, to take care of me in little ways, and allow me to do the same for him. And it shattered my cynicism, in smaller pieces than Brian Miller shattered my heart in high school. He proposed to me on a bridge, not because it was significant to our history, but because I drove by that bridge almost every day and he wanted me to think of him when I saw it. The same way he thought of me, every time he passed the gas station by his work, where he came to my rescue one late night, the night our relationship was conceived.



My parents have changed my view of love almost as much as Mr. Clairol. Things were pretty rocky before my dad's diagnosis. Rocky, as in divorce. But they put that away and my amazing, gracious, strong mother looked at a love that had carried her through her entire adult life and said, "it's worth forgiving, if I can see this through." Love, for me, became forgiveness, in it's truest and purest form and showed me that even the worst offense can be pardoned, by love and for love.



But the other night, I was reading all about SHANIA'S BETRAYAL! in People magazine and looked over at Mr. Clairol. "If you're ever going to cheat on me, it had better be with another man or a woman significantly better looking than I am. Because I will have to kill you dead, if you have an ugly mistress." See? I'm totally a romantic fool.

Orange Dip

Because I love you all, I am going to share a recipe given to me by a mom at our preschool. It is literally the very best sweet dip I have ever had. It's like a thick orange julius and is particularly good with strawberries and bananas, though any fruit will work. I even put it on toast and crackers. Who am I kidding? I eat it with a spoon. This stuff is crack for me. Crack!
Here's what you need:

That's it. That's all you need. Dear God, how have I lived without this deliciousness? Let's get to it. Zest the entire orange.

I like using one of these babies, but you could use a cheese grater in a pinch. Don't skip the zest. It won't be the same.
Cut the orange in half and juice it. I love my electric juicer.

I really wanted to turn these over and put a half a cherry over each one, like boobies, but DQ and friends came in and I thought it might embarrass her. I'm such a great mom.

(for a junior high boy!)

Oh you sexy thing! David has his papis. I have my appliances.

That's about how much juice you'll need.
Put the cream cheese in a large bowl.
This is the bowl of my stand mixer, which I love. Almost as much as I love my bread machine. Which I love a little more than my juicer. What can I say? I'm an appliance whore!
Add the zest, vanilla, juice and honey.

Beat it, beat it, Beat it, beat it, no one wants to be defeated!

Sorry, random 80's flashback. Beat at low, gradually increasing the speed as the ingredients come together. Keep beating until smooth and fluffy.

Serve cold with sliced apples, berries, bananas, plums, peaches, whatever. I think this would be a great filling for thumbprint cookies as well. I'll have to make a batch and try it.

Orange Dip

1 orange

1 8 oz package of cream cheese

1/4 c honey

1 tsp. vanilla

1. Zest the orange, cut in half and juice the orange.

2. Put cream cheese, orange zest and juice, vanilla and honey in a mixing bowl.

3. Beat on low speed until juice is incorporated, then gradually increase speed until you're at top speed. Beat until mixture is fluffy.

4. Chill until time to serve. Serve with fruit, cookies, crackers...whatever.

With This Ring

The insurance check came this weekend. Here's the man I married. He lost a big ass TV and his beloved rechargeable flashlight (trust me, this was a blow.) and the only thing he's anxious to shop for is a ring for me.


Remember? My wedding ring was stolen on my birthday? Yep. He's been asking me for two days now about shopping for a ring. I'm for a plain band, maybe a little engraving. He's looking at diamonds. Not that I mind a little bling. I don't. But my ten year anniversary is only four years away and I'm thinking long-term. I could get a little sparkle now or wait and get a blazing, blinding rock that will make it difficult for me to gesture with my left hand. C'mon! No contest.


I kid. I actually would be happy with a plain band because I'm not really a blingy sorta girl. (My inner Tranny hangs her head with shame.) I prefer simple, clean jewelry with sentimental meaning. My original wedding ring? I picked that out, loving that it was clean and streamlined, almost masculine. But that's gone, and I have to find a new one. Is it terrible that I'm thinking Costco?

I don't know. My mom wants to shop eBay for me, find something vintage and I like that idea, because I love vintage jewelry and my mom has great taste. But, I also like the idea of Mr. Clairol and I choosing the ring together. Something about that seems right. I want his input and for him to be a part of the process. And I know he wants that as well. So maybe we'll shop eBay. Or maybe we'll just go to Costco. Here I go, dithering again.

On a completely unrelated note, 5 am is FAR too early to jump around with Richard Simmons, especially when one has had NO coffee.

Sex and the City as Panacea

I'm better today. No rants. Pinky swear. But I will say, I appreciate the love and support. Thank-you all.

Hold on. Gotta change a stinky diaper.

I know, you all are just crazy about my glamorous life. Try not to be too jealous. Yes, I washed my hands.

As you might have noticed, I was a little, um, off, yesterday. I woke up sad and it went downhill from there. I think that a jam-packed weekend like I had leads to a little mood dip after it's over. Fortunately, my darling eldest daughter is out of school, so it's all hot and cold running babysitting around here! Around noon, I left the kids with Drama Queen and snuck off to see Sex and the City. Carrie and Co. used their Manolos and kicked the blues away. It was great. A frothy, sexy chick flick, a little popcorn and a coke, and two hours of dark quiet. I left the theater restored. Better than Calgon.

Despite the critics, I actually enjoyed the movie. Like my beloved Indy movie (hi, Shia *wink*), it was a fun movie that did not require much thought. I like that. It's why I read housewife porn. It's not intellectual of me, but I like sympathetic characters that get happy endings. This isn't to say I don't enjoy smarter fare. I do. But a little fluff is good for my soul.

Sorry, I digress. I liked the movie. But I did have a few WTF moments. Is Charlotte's daughter surgically attached to her hip? What is up? She takes her to a girl's lunch and a bachelorette sleepover????? No. Just no. Get a babysitter. And while I L-O-V-E Jennifer Hudson, she and SJP had little chemistry. It was weird.

But Chris Noth? Oh my fucking golly. Wow, that man is sexy. I know, first I'm thinking about teaching filthy, naughty things to Shia, but who the hell do you think is going to teach me those things? And he could, too. You just know it. Oooooo, I just gave myself chills. And no, it's not the character. I have always thought Mr. Big was a prick. I've never had time for that sort of shit from a man. No matter how good looking, if he's got that many issues, I haven't got the time. Good thing I found a stable, sexy, prince of a guy that's willing to put up with my issues, eh?

So there you have it. Better than a fistful of Prozac, I'm telling you. With more calories, but no hangover. Next time, I'm back to sneaking in wine and fish tacos. Now that's movie fare.

Losing My Shit

It's happening. More and more frequently, with seemingly less provocation.


One of the managers at Niello bears a passing resemblance to my dad. I saw him at the Ranch Run, from a distance and wondered for a minute what Mom and Dad were doing there. Then I realized the man was walking, so that couldn't be my dad. It killed me. I saw him again at the dinner, and while I didn't cry, I had to excuse myself for a moment. So stupid.


I had to leave church yesterday, during a slide show about the annual river baptism. Watching the pictures brought back memories of Dad, baptizing me in the Larkin's pool, in February. I know, it sounds like child abuse, but it was Corcoran, where the average temperature was three degrees hotter than hell, even in the winter.


I've become an expert at the fast walk, head down, all the way to the bathroom, so people don't wonder if I am mentally unbalanced. It seems to happen at church quite a bit, and I think it's because my Christianity is very tied to my parents. So church and all it's trappings are always going to bring those memories to the surface.


And this morning, Mama Lang posted this. These are the kinds of memories that Drama Queen has of her grandpa. The kind of memories that Missy and Big Red never will, because he can't even talk to them with his own voice. He loves them so much. His grandchildren mean so much to him. But he can't read them a story, he can't romp and wrestle with them, he can't even embrace them. I hate it. I hate this stupid, fucking disease that is stealing my dad by inches. He's here and I am not ready to lose even that. Because I am selfish and I cannot handle the idea of my dad not being in the world. He was an amazing father and a wonderful grandfather. I don't know if I can adjust to world where I can't at least email him.


Okay. I'm done. Enough of this maudlin shit. I'd much rather be laughing and snarky, but this morning, it isn't happening. Thank you, if you're still reading this. I appreciate it. Come back tomorrow. I promise it will be much more fun.

Dinner In The Convention Center Of Good And Evil

A lot of things conspired against me yesterday. Things like...

A husband, who, at 1:00 the afternoon of the event, decided he wanted to wear a red shirt. He didn't own a red shirt. We spent two hours at the mall choosing a red shirt and a tie to match. I jokingly said, "Did you want the red shirt so you can wear your flame Converse?" Hahahahaha.
Or not. He thought that was a splendid idea, so in a fashion move that brought a smile to every straight man out there, he wore suit pants, a red shirt and black/red tie and back sneakers with flames on the side. Awesome. I put my foot down and nixed the jacket and pocket square.

A lovely new dress that I was looking forward to wearing, that sported something all over the front of it. I actually invented new cuss words at that. Thank goodness, I had options. A woman (or a Tranny) should always have two or three go-to cocktail dresses and a fresh pair of hose.

Drip marks down the back of my calf from the Mystic tan. More invented cuss words, because the standards just weren't cutting it. I said "fuck" so many times, the air was navy. A woman (and a tranny) should also have a few pair of dressy shoes, including a pair of pumps. Choices are good. Especially when you absolutely must wear hose. Because drip marks that resemble nasty old woman veins? Not Cute.

But in spite of circumstances, I had a great night. Or maybe it was because of circumstances. Because the minute we got the the convention center, I made a beeline for a bar and got a whiskey neat (which came on the rocks, but oh well). The Company knows how to throw a party. The lobby boasted 6 bars, free drinks and hot appetizers. I had a blast watching the parade. Most of the women were wearing cute cocktail dresses, but there are always a handful that are ridiculously under dressed and two handfuls of ridiculously overdressed. Think prom dresses. My favorite dress was the strapless, black, floor length gown with a train and a rhinestone triangle positioned right above her butt crack. I would have snapped a pic, but Mr. Clairol had the camera. Bummer.

Cocktail hour. I'm on the far right, drink in hand.

That's my second. Woo Hoo!

The dinner. The Company owns about 16 dealerships

and they all come to this party. Thankfully, they kept

speeches and awards to a minimum.

Me, my husband and the twins. My cleavage is matched

only by my tragically shiny forehead. Blotting paper?

Anyone?

The entertainment was horrible. One of the employees did a stand-up act which might have been funny, but we were in the back of the room and couldn't hear a thing. There was a magician, from the Doug Henning school, and if he had rainbow suspenders, my evening would have been complete.

There's a drill that has been followed since my first dinner, years ago, as Mr. Clairol's new girlfriend. We always sit in the back of the room. It's always the same group and they are a bunch of noisy, obnoxious drunks, so it's better that we are far from the stage. There is always an open bar cocktail hour from 6-7 and they always get drinks double- fisted. They stock pile them at the table, so there is a steady supply of booze all night. The wine at the table doesn't cut it. These are serious lushes. And yet, my consumption of a single whiskey causes comments of the "wow, you're hardcore" variety. Whatever.

One year, the entire tabletop was covered in beer bottles. It was an amazing sight and that was the year I resolved to always bring a camera. One of my greatest regret in life is not having a picture of that.

The table is always boisterous and we always get dirty looks from our neighbors. If it was school, we'd be the JDs in the middle of the honor roll kids, flippin' the bird at the teacher. It used to embarrass me, but I find if I have a couple of cocktails in me and a glass of wine, I'm impervious. After dinner, we stick around for the awards, then wander out to the lobby during the "entertainment." Except the year it was a singing trio that sang Broadway selections. Oh MY LORD! They had costumes, y'all and did a couple of Phantom numbers, complete with the mask. They sang to each other from across the room. The guys were pretty much speechless. Hilarious.

This year was even better. Because we were in the Convention Center, after the dinner broke up, we walked over to a neighboring hotel and had drinks at the bar. On the way over, a young woman asked Jeremy if they could trade flowers (both had made off with centerpieces).

The following exchange is paraphrased, but not exaggerated.

J:"No, if I gave her flowers away, my wife would kick your ass, and since she's ex-military, I couldn't stop her.

YW:"Yeah, I'm an ex-marine, so I would be kicking her ass."

J's wife: "What? Who's my husband picking a fight with?"

YW: "You're the ex-military wife? What branch?"

J's wife:"Air Force."

YW: "Oh yeah. I'd definitely kick your ass."

J's wife: "Um no, I'd kick your ass."

YW:"Would not."

J's wife:"Would too."

YW:"Would not!"

J's wife:"Would too!"

At this point, the Young Woman was setting her flowers aside and getting ready to fight, so Jeremy asked if they could please strip down and The Worm mentioned we were missing oil, so they needed to hold off. Tension dissolved and the Young Woman's friends ushered her out a side door. Fight averted. I was equally relieved and disappointed. We made it to the hotel and visited for a while longer, then it was time to call it a night, at least for the hubs and I.

Another Company Dinner done. I can hardly wait for next year.

Par-TAY! Now With 50% More Fire!

I survived. Just barely, but I survived. These pictures don't really do the 1500 twinkle lights we hung any justice, but you can imagine what a great dance floor that made.

Yes, that's the fire pit you see, beyond the silver tinsel curtains. More on that later.

We are ready to boogie! Add a little GreenDay and Paramour and these kids are going to have a bad case of dance fever! Call the doctor, the dance doctor! No I was not this corny and cheesy all night. I bit my tongue 'til it bled and did not embarrass my child.

And here's where the bulk of the fun happened. Right there in the pool. It was a little cool, around 83 degrees that evening, but the kids weren't deterred.


Party favors to use at the party. Splash balls and water pistols from the Dollar Store. I


Everyone had a great time. About 15 kids showed up and hit the pool straight off. For an hour and a half, they swam and devoured most of the food. At 8:00, I brought out the sundae bar and chocolate cupcakes. I know, my cake decorating skills be mad, yo.

After everyone had their ice cream, the highlight of the evening took place. All of the kids brought old schoolwork and piled it into our fire pit.

After several speeches (gotta love drama kids), I lit it up and the cheer that rose up sounded like the Second Coming, y'all. You'd think gifted kids would be sad that school was over, but these were ready to get it on and poppin'. (Yeah, been listening to the Peas on my elliptical. White suburban moms who talk hip hop are funny.)

One event down, one to go. Of course, I'll be sharing with all of you about the Company Dinner and taking pictures of the drunks, including me! Later, players.

Tell All...Later

I'm currently drinking pinot grigio from a highball glass (as to be less obvious about the fact that I am drinking alcohol. shhhhh!) and wishing with all my heart it was whiskey or maybe even bourbon. That smell is harder to disguise on the breath though, and while answering the door to parents and children I've never before met, I find it is nice to not smell of Maker's Mark.

More later about the party. Pictures, even. But now, I must open doors and keep an eye on what is happening in the backyard.

Music

I'm sure I've, perhaps, over shared about my struggles of raising a teenager. Especially a Christian teen in an increasingly secular world. Music is one of my greatest struggles. Remember Low? Yeah, me too.

But Kate has discovered a new passion. Praise music. I'm pretty okay with this, since it is dang near impossible to grind on a boy during "Shout To The Lord." I know, I've tried. Let's just say the pastor was not pleased. Oh, stop it! I'm joking.

So Shannon, over at Rocks in My Dryer, is giving away 20 WOW Cd's. Wow makes these wonderful compilation Cd's of popular Christian music. Go and see her, read the rules and sign up.

http://www.wowonline.com/.

Stuffing A Wild Bikini

For a long time, Drama Queen has worn two piece bathing suits. It was adorable to see a wee little toddler running around in ruffle butt bikini bottoms. In elementary school, it was funny to see her in the sparkly pink bikinis and jelly sandals. During last year's bathing suit shopping, I realized something. Drama Queen is on her way to becoming stacked.

So how do we deal with this? My first instinct is to say no two pieces, but that seems a little strict. My mom thought so as well and after we talked about it, I figured I might relent. I actually bought her a very cute bikini yesterday. It looked like her and while it was on the hanger, I thought it was fairly modest. When she tried it on? Not so much.

Don't get me wrong. Cheeks were not hanging out and the twins were fully covered. But there was something about her long, tan legs and flat tummy that made me realize perhaps my first instinct had been absolutely right. But I can't change my mind after the suit is bought and given. That truly is unfair. So we went and bought a second, one piece suit. For water parks and pool parties. Because there is no way I am letting that bikini loose in public.

Though it was totally worth it, when Mr. Clairol developed an eye twitch while she was modeling it. He does not approve. Of course, he has not been happy with boy/girl parties, boyfriends (even gay ones), calls and IMs from boys and DQ becoming a teen in general. He'd really like it if we could enroll her in an all-girls school or perhaps a convent. And I'm being totally unreasonable not letting him even research chastity belts. That ended when I heard him mumbling, "I bet Robert could weld that, easy."

It's going to be a wild ride, folks.

S-E-X

This week is health week at Drama Queen's middle school. Her science class is discussing sex, STDs, reproduction and the like. DQ finds the whole business beyond embarrassing and is ready to die! She was telling us a bit about it during dinner last night and I had to laugh when she declared she was never having sex. Ever. (Maybe A is the perfect boy for her...)

I, of course, mentioned my favorite object lesson: I knew a girl, a bright and lovely young woman of impeccable behavior and morals. She had sex with her high school boyfriend one time and not only became pregnant, but got chlamydia as well. Two for one! How lucky is that?

I don't want to scare her, but I also want her to know that condoms don't always work, especially in the hands of a teen. I promised that, if she would tell me when she was considering having sex, I would not lecture at all, but would take her to get birth control, buy condoms and teach her how to use them. I also told her that she had to insist on a condom, that some men didn't like them and would protest, but that if they loved her enough to have sex with her, they loved her enough to suit up. Oddly enough, she did not melt into a puddle of embarrassment. She looked at me, considering, and said, "You promise, no lectures?"
"Yes."
"And you won't tell Daddy? Other Daddy, not Art. I know you'll tell him."
"I promise."
"Okay. Do you regret doing it with my father?"

GULP!

I told her this. I don't regret having her. Never for a minute. She is one of the best things that has ever happened to me and I am incredibly blessed to be her mother. However, if I had to do it again, knowing what I know now? I probably would not. Because I would know that I was giving her a father that disappointed, disillusioned and continually let her down. I would be giving her a home that was divided and that was a less than ideal situation for any child. I love her so much, but I would know she deserves so much better than what would be her lot. It would be the worst selfishness in the world to choose that for her, just so that I would have the blessing of raising her.

It seemed to satisfy her. She hugged me and said thank you. And it was honest and from my heart. So I guess it was okay. Hopefully the years of therapy will be enough to heal the scars.

Who wants to come have dinner at my place?

Boy Crazy

Well, Clean-up Day wasn't so bad. Two other mommies showed up (ones that I like, yay!) and we got a fraction of the huge to-do list finished. We all chatted and cleaned and I realized that I like this program and the teacher more than I thought. This is good, since I'm in it for the next two years, at least.

In other news, I may have to kill Drama Queen and bury her beside the Beast in my Herb Garden. She is in love (requited this time, how sweet) and Pre-menstrual and it's Finals week. The in love part is great and cool and rad and all, but if I have to hear one more time about how she has the perfect boyfriend, I'm gonna hurl. And I have to listen. Because, she is talking to me about this crap and frankly, as annoying as it gets, I want that to continue. Even though it is peppered with, "and I was all like...then he was all like...and they were all like." Seriously, if it doesn't stop, I'm gonna be all like, SHUT UP YOU STUPID TEENAGER!!!!!

Reasons Why A Is Perfect For Her

1. He knows the words to songs from musicals. Like My Favorite Things, from Sound of Music.
2. He is a drama geek.
3. He is the best listener ever and gives wonderful, insightful advice.
4. He is generous with the hugs.
5. He doesn't want to kiss, he wants to take things slow.
6. He gives her fashion advice.

Ummmm, honey? That isn't a boyfriend, it is a gay best friend. No, I didn't tell her that. I could be wrong. Besides, time will reveal all, I am sure. And knowing Drama Queen, she'll be cool with it.

She did tell me another boy was hitting her up for hugs on a daily basis. He'd ask the girls for hugs and Drama Queen, being the affectionate sort, usually obliged him. Knowing the minds of middle school boys the way I do (and having a dirty mind, as we have previously established) I asked some questions.

Are they full frontal or side hugs? Full frontal and he squeezes. Hmmm
Does he pat or rub? He's a rubber. Oh boy.
Does he ask boys for hugs or just girls? Just girls. Like he'd ask a boy for a hug! Geez, Mom!
Are the girls he asks farther along on the development scale? Like you? She hadn't noticed.

"Don't give him any more hugs, sweetie. He's copping a feel."
"WHAT?!?"
"I could be wrong, but I think he might be wanting a hug for more than pure friendship."
"Oh. Oh. Okay. No more hugs for Chris!" A long pause. "God, that's so GROSS!"

Welcome to boys, honey bunny.

Just F*%$in' Shoot Me

This is a collection of teeny tiny items that were not enough to make a post from, but needed to be out there in Da Internets.

Item 1: What sort of deranged, desperate, sleep-deprived idiot gives her kids pots and wooden spoons, showing them how to use them as drums??? I am officially too stupid to live.

Item 2: I am a potato whore. I will do unspeakable things for a stuffed baked potato. And now, Arby's (Otherwise known as the Temple of Lard-Ass) has these things called Loaded Potato Bites. It's basically stuffed baked potato filling, fried into triangular cakes and served with a sour cream ranch sauce. I could literally eat these until I throw up. They are that good.

Item 3: I am guilt motivated. Today is the day when Tuesday moms are supposed to come in and help pack up the preschool. I wasn't going to go, because I didn't want to and my folks couldn't watch the kids. Then I found out that no one else was going. No one. Andrea had a good point when she said, "I helped unpack, so I've done my deal." She's right. I didn't help unpack, so Mr. Clairol is taking the day off and I will go help. Even though I suspect that Teacher Janet would rather do it herself than answer a million questions. I know I would.

Item 4: The Beast had a dig party in my herb bed. I am serving Great Dane Au Gratin for dinner tonight. Damned Dog.

That's it for now. Have a bitchin' Tuesday.

Random Thought

Is there an accepted code spelling for fuck? You know, when they want to imply it, but they don't want to spell it out, so they use F and three of the symbols? Is there an official set of symbols to designate fuck? Like, F@#%? Or, F@*#? Just wondering.

Blessings

My husband loves his in-laws. He loves them so much that he drove up to spend a morning with my dad and brother, just shooting the breeze. When he returned, he hugged and kissed me, saying, "Thank-you. It was so nice to just sit and do nothing with them. I need more of those times, when I can just talk about nothing, watch sports and enjoy your dad and brother.

I cannot tell you how blessed I feel, that my husband considers my family his own. My ex did not get along with my family, though they tried for some time to bring him in. The fact that Mr. Clairol genuinely enjoys his time with them is a delight to me. I love my family and the time I get to spend with them, so knowing he feels the same allows for more of it.

So, thank-you, Mr. Clairol.