Monthly Archives: March 2013

I Love You, I Love You Not.

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Remember when we were kids and we had to do a “research” paper on George Washington?  You ran to the living room shelf in hopes that your mom bought enough groceries that week to score the W-Z of the Funk & Wagnall Encyclopedia set so you could read up on the old goat.  It took her a year to acquire the entire set.  Only for it to be obsolete by the end of 7th grade.  We had to eat a lot of spaghetti and sloppy joe’s to stay updated.

Basically everyone in your class turned in the same paper.  Plagiarism wasn’t allowed back then either, so we took the most important facts from the 5 paragraphs we had available to us, flipped the words around and wrote something down.  If we were lucky, either mom drove us or we rode our bikes over to the library for a little more in-depth research.  Those lucky kids received an automatic “A.”

Technology today definitely has its pros and cons.  One pro is that our kids have the world at their fingertips when it comes to research.  We get to save on gas by not having to drive them across town to the library.  If I didn’t have our weekly jaunt to the library when the kid was little, I’m not sure she would even know how the place works.  Remember the Dewey Decimal System?  I believe that is as defunct as the free grocery store encyclopedia.

Unknown-3Another pro about technology is when we are able to settle a bet.   I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a disagreement with DH about who that special guest star is on a rerun of “Charlie’s Angels.”  And putting an end to the argument in a matter of seconds with the flick of some fingers.  It’s awesome.

What I absolutely do not like about today’s technology is our lack of privacy.  News about one person can travel faster than Road Runner on speed.  It’s also not so good if you are trying to self-diagnose yourself.  Once I was sure I had Barrett’s Esophagus when really I just had too many jalapenos in my tacos.  Just stick to a real doctor.  Chances are you are going to live.

That’s basically how I feel about it all in a nutshell.  Okay, I gotta go.  I have to go Tweet about what I’m doing right now.  Oh, and Facebook some photos of myself.

Grocery Stores and Headlines

Sometimes I forget my mind and go to Stop & Shop.  I live halfway between there and Shop Rite so it just usually depends on my mood.  Shop Rite always has a mob of people.  It was Saturday morning, so I figured Stop & Shop was the better idea.

I forget that the freaking store has 10 thousand registers with only 2 cashiers.  I can’t seem to grasp why they are so understaffed.  So, the best option for my 12 items was the “do it yourself” aisle.  Always a bad mistake.  My options were slight.  It was either that or one of the 2 open registers with lines running half way down the store aisles.

There was one person in front of me.  She thought it would be a good idea to separate her groceries into 3 piles and ring them up all separately.  And with coupons for each pile.  I’m sure she could have thought of a better way to do this.  So my wait was a bit longer than I anticipated.  While I was waiting, I read up on the front pages of everything from The National Enquirer to People.  Here is what I found out:

  • That Khloe Kardashian’s real dad doesn’t want anything to do with her.  That’s okay, she still has Bruce.  Or did he and Kris split up?
  • Tori Spelling and her husband are headed for divorce and it’s going to be ugly.  I know, I’m surprised too.
  • The Virgin Bachelor and his fiancé are waiting for their wedding night.  Gee, that ought to be a quick one.
  • My favorite was this.  No, really:

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Ok, so half her ta-ta’s are showing, but a huge thank you to Sports Illustrated for not featuring a scrawny model who doesn’t weigh more than 2 strands of my hair soaking wet.  I’m sorry, but they are the worst role models possible for our teenage daughters.

Now back to grocery stores.  I apologize to you, Shop Rite for always doubting you.  Yes, you may always be mobbed, but by golly, you’ve got that place staffed and running like a well oiled machine.  I will be shredding my S&S card today….after this next sale.

Scary Mean Friend

I completely missed Throwback Thursday this week.  I guess my birthday celebration in the city threw me off.  Well, better late than never.

I was perusing the internet for some blog posting ideas when I came across this one:  What is the funniest or meanest prank you ever played on someone.  And it made me think of one incident when I was about 13.

My BFF at the time was Stacey.  We were pretty much inseparable. She lived about a mile from my house and we would meet “halfway” almost every day.  We even had babysitting gigs right next door to each other.  The parents of the kids we sat for were friends and often went out together.  As was the case this one particular evening.

While babysitting, we would call each other on the phone and chat all night long.  Hey, we only got a buck an hour. What did you expect?  Mary Poppins?  I don’t remember it word for word, but here is about how the conversation went:

Me: Hi Stacey, don’t be too freaked out but there is a man in a black cape and mask walking around your yard.
Stacey:  WHAT?  Oh my God!  What?
Me:  Yeah, he’s really creepy looking.  I saw him looking in the back door.
Stacey:  Holy shit.  Holy crap.  Holy Mother of God.  Help me.  Oh my God, what am I going to do?
Me:  I don’t know!  Oh my God, now he’s going around to the front!!
Stacey:  {sob, sob, sob,  sniff, sniff}  I’m.really.scared. (at this point the girl is completely freaked out bad.  Real bad.)
Me:  Where are you right now?
Stacey:  Behind the refrigerator.

It is at this point I figured I better let her in on the joke or she will die of a heart attack.  I told her I was messing with her between my bouts of laughter.  I was a terrific friend.  I think all teenage girls should have a friend like me.  God Bless Stacey for putting up with me for so long.  She was really relieved and really forgiving.

So, if you want to be my friend, I promise not to play jokes on you.  I’ve kind of outgrown that.  Kind of.

Things I Learned/Saw On Mommy’s Day Out

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Happy Birthday To Us!

I love the city.  I think I was a city girl in a previous life.  I could live there.  I could work there.  It’s as if I have been displaced.  There is nothing about the city I dislike.  Well, except maybe Times Square.

Every time I go, I learn something new.  It’s kinda like your spouse.  You could be together for 26 years and think you know it all, then discover something new about them.  It’s kind of cool.

Yesterday I went into the Big Apple with my best girlfriend.  It was a combo birthday celebration. Her birthday is March, mine is April.  It was a perfect day.  Here are some things we saw and/or learned:

  • That men like to drink beer on the train at 9am.  We did not get the memo.  But we are not men.  So, well, never mind.

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  • You excitedly and spur of the moment purchase tickets to see an off-broadway play called “Happy Birthday” because you think it just has to be, and then realize you made a mistake when no one there is under the age of 70.  4 words:  Read The Reviews First.
  • The cops on Canal Street are on to the vendors.  And the vendors have no problem snatching a bag out of your hand and pushing you out the door if one shows up.
  • That you will feel like a druggy if you spend too much time on Canal Street.  If you’ve ever been, you know what I mean.
  • That the lady ticket taker on the train hates her job and she lets you know it by slamming her big booty into you every time she walks past your seat.
  • New Yorkers don’t like it when you text during a play.  Even if it was just once.  Inside your purse.  And aren’t afraid to let you know it in their very nice New York’ish way.
  • Gay men like to be open about their sexuality.  Like really open.
  • Complete strangers of the female persuasion have no problem asking if you will give them a back massage.  I think they were with the gay men.
  • When you buy knock-off Tory Burch flats, make sure you look at them before you travel 2 hours to go back home.
  • Chinatown has practically taken over Little Italy.  What’s a girl gotta do to get some fresh pasta around here? (Yes, I blew the diet. But it was for a good cause.)
  • Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. plays “Forrest Gump” continuously on their TVs.  The bartenders hate it. What the bartenders don’t hate is making one kick-ass Hurricane.  (Warning: the food sucks so just go for the Hurricanes which is what we did.)
  • Drug addicts coming down from heroin like to sleep on the subway standing up and they use each other for support.  Aww, how cute. (Not that I know what coming down from heroin looks like, but if they were coming down from heroin, that’s what I believe it would look like.)
  • “Smith’s Bar” makes the best nachos and margaritas (I TOTALLY blew the diet).  Who knew?  $5 drinks during happy hour. Well, except the margaritas. Of course.

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  • You will blow through $200 in 30 seconds.  But I already knew that.  Just sayin’.

So, in a nutshell, I love me my NYC and hope to continue to learn new things about her.  Who wants to go for some Bubba Gump Hurricanes?  I’m buying.

Oh Poop

WARNING:  People who suffer from weak stomachs, should proceed with caution

My friend Jo suggested I write about this topic.  I honestly don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. This has been a bone of contention with DH for about 10 years.  Well, I don’t like it either. But he REALLY doesn’t like it.  In fact, I had my finger on the buttons of the phone to call 911 a few years ago because I was afraid he was going to get into a fight with a man who did exactly this….

Let his dog poop in our yard and didn’t pick it up.

It’s not so fun when you rake, mow or step in it.  I know because I have stepped in shit.  And I don’t mean in the proverbial way either.

About 2 years ago, I was on a nice walk with a couple of friends.  We were walking and talking. Not paying much attention to what was around us, when I stepped right into a large pile of dog poo.  On MY street, ON the pavement, not even on the grass.  I didn’t find it amusing.  My friends, they laughed their asses off for a good 15 minutes.

I decided to count the piles yesterday on my regular 3 mile walk.  I stopped counting at 15.  Now, I’m no mathematician, but I do believe that comes out to about one and a half piles per 1/2 mile. And I stopped counting.  So I’m sure I missed some.  I never noticed how different each dog poo is. They come in all colors, shapes and sizes.  Just a little fact in case you didn’t know.

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Look, I know dogs have to go.  It’s a natural function for most living things, but really?  I know they make dog poop bags because I’ve seen people with them.  And if you don’t want to purchase them, I’m sure a baggie will work just fine. Or a garbage bag.  Or a shopping bag.  I’m sure you people have some sort of bag in your home.  Use it.  You wouldn’t relieve yourself in the middle of the road and leave it, would you?  What makes you think a dog’s poop is any better?

So, DH has been forced to nail these lovelies to the line of trees in our front yard:

photoNot so attractive, I know.  But it is effective.  We have had not one dog poop in our yard since. Here’s the thing, I really see no reason why we have to remind grown adults not to allow their dog to use our grass as their toilet.  I’m pretty sure if a dog owner allows their dog to use THEIR yard as a toilet, they would clean it up.  We had a dog for about 20 seconds when we were first married, and ne’er a poop left behind.

If I could shame just one non-poop picker upper reading this to start using doggie bags, I have done my job.  Thank you and you’re welcome.

Droopy Drawers (not to be confused with Droopy the Dog)

I have been wanting to vent about this subject for a while now, waiting for the opportunity to present itself.  Well, the opportunity has come in the form of one Justin Bieber and his skivvies.  He honored us with the presence of his Fruit Of The Loom in this week’s “People” magazine:

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Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit B

If you look at “Exhibit A” you will notice he is practically naked.  I can’t comprehend why he even bothered.  In “Exhibit B” it just looks like his pants are loaded up.  Although I’m sure his mother will say he has been potty trained for at least 16 years.

You cannot possibly tell me that this doesn’t annoy him just a tad.  I’ll tell you when I wear my low-rise jeans (I know, low-rise+muffin top+middle age=NO — I’m sorry, I have no excuse), I am driven to drink because I am continuously yanking those dang things up.  Almost to the point where my fingers bleed.

And it’s just not celebrities.  I see it all the time, everywhere.  Please do us all a favor.  Keep your ass inside your pants or inside the privacy of your own home.  I really don’t need to look at it.  Once I saw a boy whose pants were so low, it was indecent.  I almost called the police.  Seriously.

Now, all you young girls out there, you cannot possibly tell me that this look is hot.  I know I’m mid-fortysomething and you probably could really care less about my opinion but I was a teenage girl once.  And I can promise you that look would have completely sent me running to the nearest convent if that was my only choice.

The first time I saw it, I was stunned.  I sat staring trying to figure it out.  It’s as if they are defying gravity or something.  But then I see that they tighten their belt right below their boot-ay.  Ouch.  Aren’t there other unmentionables right around that frontal area?  Geez, I sure hope they don’t want any babies one day because they’ll probably kill all their swimmers by means of strangulation or asphyxiation.

I can see the future headline now:  “The human race is in danger of becoming extinct because of over zealous boys and their belts.”  Joy.

Do Your Eyes Hang Low? Do They Wobble To and Fro?

Yesterday the sun came out for the first time in what seemed like ages.  It was really, really nice. The sun was shining brightly into my bathroom window.  There was lots of sunshiny awesomeness.

Once upon a time, lots of sunshiny awesomeness may have been good for putting on makeup.  But now, it just reminds us of how old we are getting.  Remember those vanity mirrors we all got for Christmas when we were adolescents?  There was a setting on it for “daylight.”  I loved that daylight setting.  When I was 14.

I proceeded to apply my makeup in the usual way.  In a very bright room.  Not the dark room I have been accustomed to all winter.  I always thought I did my makeup in a natural way.  This is basically what I looked like, minus the red nose:

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I looked closely at my eyelids. Or what’s left of them. It’s hard to tell where my lid ends and my cheeks start.  And with eye shadow applied it was even more pronounced.  They have more folds than a baby’s thigh.  But not as cute.  Or as sweet.  Or as darling.  When did that happen?  I see quite the resemblance between Droopy the Dog and me.

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Droopy the Dog

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Me

I felt obligated to title those photos, in case you weren’t sure.

My eyeshadow doesn’t even look like eyeshadow.  It just looks like a bad paint job on a couple of sandbags.

Oh, well.  It is what it is.  I’m really not into cosmetic surgery but for survival, I may need a lid lift.  Any day now those babies will be hanging down so low, I may be blinded.  Then I will embrace my maturity and perhaps age gracefully.  Maybe.

Holy Heel

In my previous life, I was a heel wearer.  A pretty high high-heel wearer.  I could wear those suckers all day at work.  I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train.  I probably could have even worked out in them.  With no problems.  These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.

Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours.  You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump.  So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size.  And that I thought I could manage.

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My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work.  So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing.  To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.

We drove into the city.  I wore them starting from home and all through dinner.  At this point, I want to cry.  I am already a wobbling, limping idiot.  But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again.  When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs.  When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear.  As if I were going to be walking to my execution.  And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth.  Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children.  And I looked like a complete ass.

After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club.  Why I agreed is beyond me.  I should have hailed a cab.  I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.

Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again.  But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax.  So I settle on my orthopedics.  What can I say?  I rock those orthos.  And my feet have thanked me time and time again.

The Devil Mother

I love creepy, scary movies.  The scarier, the creepier, the better.  When I was 13, I begged my mom to let me to watch The Exorcist.  It was on HBO.  On a school night.  She was quite hesitant at first, but after much begging and prodding, I wore her down.  There was something in her voice that didn’t quite sound right.  I should have known.  I also should have just settled for an episode of  H.R. Pufnstuf and gotten my ass in bed.  But I didn’t.

My mom isn’t a conventional mother.  She is very loving and nurturing but just um, for lack of a better word….kooky.  For example: my childhood bedroom was always cold.  She had no problem telling me that was because someone died in there.  THAT is my mom.  She’s not trying to be mean.  She just always thought it was funny to torture her children.

I thought I was so cool.  I couldn’t wait to brag to my friends the next day.  Unfortunately, I barely made it half way through the movie.  I’m not sure if it was the head turning vomit throwing freak or the unmentionable things being done with a cross.  It was enough to send me to my room running and screaming for my life.  My mother’s reaction, of course, was “I told you so.”

After a few minutes, I got up the courage to leave the safety of my bedroom to go brush my teeth. All the while looking around me to make sure the devil wasn’t going to jump out from somewhere.  Little did I know, it wasn’t the devil I should have been afraid of.

Once I finished and returned to my bed — hiding under the covers because Satan cannot get you in there — my dear mother popped her loud, screaming self out of my closet.  Holy Crap!  I even think I may have pooped myself.  If I had some holy water on my bedside table, I would have thrown it in her face.  It took me a few seconds to realize it was her and not actually Linda Blair.

After I calmed down and closed my eyes, this is what I would see:

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I was expecting the devil to make his appearance any minute.  I swear I felt my bed shake during the night.  The next day I couldn’t go to school.  Because I was totally possessed.

Believe it or not The Exorcist has turned out to be one of my favorite fright movies.  But for some reason, I cannot get the kid to watch it.  I promise not to jump out of your closet, honey.  Ok, well, I half promise.

The Hungry Lion

African Lion Roaring Animal ModelI have been pretty good the last 2.5 weeks.  Actually, I have been really good.  Exercising pretty much every day, not drinking wine, making healthy choices (mostly).  But this week I am having some troubles because I am experiencing a bit of PMS.  I know you understand.  I tried to explain it to DH and although he tries to be sympathetic, he just doesn’t get it.  The urge to eat is so strong.  It doesn’t come from hunger.  It comes from this evil, dark place deep within.

I don’t like to call my journey a “diet.”  I like to refer to it as getting healthy.  Changing my habits.  Exchanging the bad for good.  I’m hoping to trick my brain into enjoying and preferring a salad for lunch over a ham sandwich with a side of chips.  When I lose this extra weight, I do not intend to fall back into my bad habits again.  Of course, I will allow myself a burger and fries.  But only sometimes.  I know if I completely deprive myself, I’m just setting myself up for failure.  It’s like telling a lion he can’t have meat anymore.  I am a carnivore.  I need my fix.  That’s just the way it is.

Yesterday evening my brother paid us a surprise visit.  He lives in North Carolina and I usually only see him once a year.  So it was a really great surprise.  The plan for dinner was a healthy meal with whole wheat pasta, peas and kale. My brother is also a carnivore.  And I knew that just wasn’t going to cut it.  So, I went to the store and bought some steaks, baking potatoes and beer.  While I was there, I picked up a bag of freshly made sour cream and onion potato chips.  I had the kid with me and her 14 year old self wanted them.  Two things to never do when going food shopping:  bring a teenager and go hungry.  I broke the two cardinal rules of grocery shopping in one day.  Shame on me.

While I was making the salad, I partook in the activity of having a chip.  Or 2.  Or 3. What could it hurt?  At dinner, I made myself a sweet potato instead of a baked potato which would have otherwise been slathered in butter and sour cream, had a small piece of steak and a big salad. That part went well.  But bro was having a beer.  Who am I to make him drink alone?  He was a guest in my home after all.  So I asked DH to make me a cocktail.  Then another.  And another.

I even said to him that I would regret this in the morning.  And I did.  I’m afraid to step on the scale.  Well, I’m not going to step on the scale because it will make me angry.  It just tears my ass knowing that those 3 chips (ok maybe 7, not to mention the cocktails) most likely added a pound or possibly more.

I guess I will just have to double up on the workouts and eat really, really sensibly for the rest of the week.  The worst week of the month in a woman’s life.  No cocktail, no chips, no piece of chocolate, no steak.  None of it for me.  But that lion in me is not happy.  Roar.  Why couldn’t I be a goat?