Are You KIDDING Me With This???

In Which I Go Completely Off The Deep End And Use The Word "Cooter" Far Too Many Times

2011-05-03T13:08:00.002-07:00

So, I know it's been a while, but we're still good enough friends that I can get personal, right? I mean, if there are any guys out there reading this, you should probably be advised that what I'm about to say is going to touch on some finer details of what we will call the "female experience" that may make you uncomfortable. But I'm otherwise going to trust that we're all adults here and can handle the subject matter with the irreverence and lack of dignity to which it is entitled, okay? Okay.

All that said, let's talk about my cooter, shall we?

Actually, let's take a step back for a second so I can provide some background. I am not, for the most part, your typical hypochondriac. Which is to say that I am generally a pretty healthy person, and as such, I don't find it necessary, most days, to go looking for things that might be wrong with me. However, when things do come up, I am inclined to find the most painful, difficult-to-treat, possibly terminal illness with symptoms in roughly the same area code as the ones I am experiencing and diagnose myself with said illness. And I will insist that I have this illness (BECAUSE I SAW IT ON GOOGLE!!!) until such time as the symptoms disappear or I go see a legitimate medical professional. The latter of which rarely happens, by the way. In our home, you don't go see a doctor unless the only other alternative is to see a mortician.

So anyway, point being, I get a little ridiculous when anything out of the ordinary starts happening with my body. Which of course happened yesterday when I got my period. Not that my period is something out of the ordinary. Actually, I wouldn't mind if it happened more rarely than it does. But as I was messing around in that area in an effort to maintain good hygiene, I found a large bump in a really personal area. Very large bump. Extremely personal area. And that was CERTAINLY NOT ordinary.

I tried not to freak out, but it didn't help that the gigantic boulder on my va-jay-jay didn't at all hurt, which, to me, just meant that it was one of those sleeper tumors that grows quickly and kills you dead before you know it's there. I mean, if it hurt, I could maybe, possibly try to convince myself that it was just some rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border. But no, instead, it was mocking me with its giant bigness and its lack of painful redness. So clearly, that meant cooter cancer. What else could it be, right?

But I resolved to at least consider some other alternatives before I commenced with disposing of my worldly goods and making touching, heartfelt videos for Turtle to watch so he never forgot his mommy. So I grabbed that humongous tumor and give it a big squeeze. And wouldn't you know it...that disgustingly large mass of diseased cells was so intimidated by my positive visualizations and undaunted joie de vivre that it proceeded to exit my body with extreme velocity. Emboldened by my success, I continued to squeeze that thing until I had beaten it into submission and could no longer find any traces of it lingering on my hoo-hah.

Now, most people would probably take a look at the information provided and come to the conclusion that yes, I did, in fact, have a rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border, and in effect, all I did was pop a pimple, which is something you can do in a much less messy way with an app for your iPad. (True story, actually. My mom has one!) But to me, something more significant happened, and I shared it with Facebook thusly: "I am so amazing that in the course of 5 minutes, I both diagnosed myself with and cured myself of cancer. Doesn't get much more awesome than that, folks."

Of course, I'm not fully convinced that I got all of it, because as I was hanging out with Snark's Mistress last night, I was forgetting words while we were talking. And since that never happens unless I'm under the influence of alcohol or it's a day ending in "y", I quickly determined that my cooter cancer had metastasized to my brain. So, clearly, I'm not completely out of the woods yet. But the immediate crisis has been averted, and as a bonus, I now have a convenient scapegoat for....well, whatever might happen that necessitates the use of a scapegoat. Running late? It's the cooter cancer. Don't want to attend some stuffy book club meeting? Oooh, sorry...my cooter cancer is acting up. Haven't posted to the blog in over a year? Well, you know how it is when you have cooter cancer.....

Pretty Soon, He'll Be Paying Rent

2010-02-27T18:39:00.003-07:00

So, Oscar got in a little car accident a few weeks back. This, of course, came after he lost his job back in October and after he blew the engine in our other car back in early January. In other words, the timing of this particular accident was not ideal. But then, much of the circumstances of our lives lately have been less than ideal, and when is a car accident ever convenient, anyway? In any event, it was past Turtle's bed time when I was finally able to retrieve him from his babysitter in our poor, overworked, badly injured car.

He noticed the damage as I hustled him to the door and into his car seat and asked why the car was broken. "Daddy got into a little car accident, Buddy" was pretty much all I said before reminding him that he needed to start getting ready for bed as soon as we got home.

The next morning, Oscar and I drove Turtle to school. Turtle again noted the damage to the front of the car, but beyond that didn't have much to say. Until Oscar turned on the turn signal.

Turtle: Mommy! Do you know why the car is making that funny sound?
Me: No, Buddy. Why is the car making that funny sound?
Turtle: Because Daddy got into a little accident yesterday, and now the car is cracked and the light doesn't work, and that's the side with the turn signal, so it makes that noise because it's broken.
Me: (impressed) Yes, Buddy, that's exactly right. Good job!

*pause*

Turtle: I've been working on cars a lot lately. That's how I know that.

I have to say, I'm pretty impressed that his babysitter has been teaching him such marketable skills. And if he manages to get Turtle a job at the local Jiffy Lube by the end of the school year, I might have to give him a raise.

Searching In All The Wrong Places

2009-09-17T22:11:00.003-07:00

Oscar and I have a busy weekend ahead of us. Not only is it busy, it requires us to find someone to watch Turtle for a great deal of it. It would have been nice if we'd realized that a little bit more in advance than we did, as it only makes it more difficult to secure a babysitter when you are doing so at the last minute. But we clearly missed the boat on that one as our attempts to make sure our parenting responsibilities were covered only began today.

I sent out e-mails to friends and family, while Oscar.... Well, now that I think of it, I'm not sure what Oscar did to work on our babysitting conundrum until the point that I asked him to call his best friend and see if HE was available. (Side note: I had a dream last night that Oscar's best friend was a serial killer, which might have made asking him to babysit a mite troubling. Luckily for me, he was only killing women, not children, so it wasn't that much of an issue.)

As the end of my work day approached, my leads were drying up. So I asked my cube mate (uhhhh....let's call her D)if, since she had watched another coworker's (uhhhh....let's call her F) dogs for the entire Labor Day weekend, she wouldn't mind watching my kid for 24 hours. The excuses started almost immediately.

"Uh....you don't want me to watch him. I'd probably overfeed him like I overfed F's dogs when I watched them."

"I'd be really bad at it...I'd probably just let him play the Wii the whole time." (This one would probably make D Turtle's favorite babysitter, actually.)

"Uh....I'd probably forget he was there and leave him home alone for half the day." (This one would actually make me laugh because I can only imagine the damage Turtle could do, given enough time and enough freedom.)

In the middle of this conversation, F joined in, so I asked her if she would watch Turtle for 24 hours. She was about as enthusiastic as D. Maybe even more so, because she was so excited, she jumped up out of her chair when we were distracted by something else, and skipped back to her desk without answering.

Finally, I was ready to leave for the day and as I was making the rounds to say goodnight, I mentioned to D that I was thinking of asking our boss if he could babysit, as I was starting to get desperate. (I was, of course, kidding.) D seemed to think that would be a great idea and I should walk into his office right away to ask him. Then, almost as an afterthought, she mentioned that if all else failed, I could always post an ad on Craigslist.

I'll give you a minute while that sinks in.

I know. Awesome, right? I love her.

So I continue making the rounds, and stop by the desks of F and M. There, I convey the story of what had just happened at D's desk and, no shit, F looks up at me and says "Young attractive male seeks babysitter for an evening of fun." *Pause* "Uncircumcised."

I have never been more in danger of peeing my pants in my life, save when I was wearing diapers and peeing my pants wasn't as much of a social taboo as it is now. But still.

I did have to correct F's ad, because really, on Craigslist, is anyone going to say "uncircumcised?" I don't think so. I doubt they even know how to spell it. So as far as I was concerned "uncut" was the better way to go, and I wasn't afraid to let her know it.

By this point, I not only had to leave the office because I was running late for picking up Turtle from daycare, I had to leave the office so I could call everyone I know and let them know how hilarious my coworkers are. Of course, no one answered the phone, except Oscar, whose reaction was somewhat subdued by the fact that he was still at work.

But I left Hotass a message on her phone telling her the story, because 1) I knew she'd appreciate it and 2) I knew that reaching her today was going to be difficult with her schedule.

Of course, then I stepped away from my phone, so I missed it when she called back and in her best porn star voice left me the following message:

"Yes, hi, um, I'm calling about the...uh...the ad on Craigslist for...uh... the young, uncut man looking for a caretaker. Um, if you could please call me back, my name is Candi. Thanks."

Too bad she didn't leave a phone number. Turtle might have been interested.

Party Time! Excellent!

2009-08-27T21:17:00.004-07:00

One of Oscar's longest-running complaints about our lives is that we don't host enough parties. We have a modest-sized home, but one that boasts a very large backyard and a lovely pool that we have spent entirely too much money renovating. Oscar seems to think those are reasons enough to have an endless stream of people over to our house for food, fun, and some good, old-fashioned drunken debauchery. I, personally, feel that unless that endless stream of people is willing to clean my toilets prior to their arrival (which could only be accomplished with the aid of time travel, I suspect), the parties have to wait until I can muster up the enthusiasm to bleach-bomb my house.

Sadly, it looks as though I'm about to be outnumbered in the "to party or not to party" debate. While swimming with Turtle this evening, he casually asked if we could have some people over this weekend. I asked him what he had in mind, thinking that maybe he wanted to invite some of his new friends from school to come over and go swimming. Apparently, I think too small.

His recited a guest list of ten people he wanted to invite, most of whom are related to him in some way. Then he requested that we serve broccoli and guacamole and hamburgers and hot dogs. And he said that everyone should come over on Saturday evening, so we could swim and have food and play together. Finally, he decided that ten people was not sufficient and that ideally, he'd like to have sixteen people come over and he requested that Oscar and I please invite six of our friends, because he really wants to meet new people.

For the past couple of years, I've been worried that Turtle was going to turn out to be a serial killer, at worst, or a sniper in the military, at best, given his endless fascination with guns (and more recently, rocket launchers.) Apparently, my worrying has been in vain, as it appears he is leaning more towards a career in event planning. I'm not sure that I'm feeling as relieved as I should be.

I Think I Might Be Indecisive, But I Can't Decide For Sure

2009-08-25T16:20:00.003-07:00

So, here's the conundrum:

I never really intended this blog to be solely about my kid. However. Turtle has started school, and OMGWHOA! I all of a sudden have THE most HILARIOUS stories. And yet, most of them involve some sort of visual or auditory component. (The tone in his voice when he starts whipping attitude at me is something to be heard to be believed. It's like he's 5 going on 30.)

So...do I update regularly with all sorts of "you had to be there" stories about Turtle's adventures in school? Or do I update sporadically with some random thoughts about various subjects interspersed with only the most easily translatable stories about my kid?

Hmmmmmm......

Sights Set On New Adventures

2009-08-11T16:02:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, I walked onto the campus of our local elementary school and met the woman who is going to be responsible for Turtle for 6.5 hours every week day for the next 9 months. Tomorrow, I will make sure Turtle gets up, puts his clothes on, eats his breakfast and gets ready to walk onto that same campus as a brand new kindergartener.

His teacher is a lovely young woman, newly married, who looks like she might be about 12 years old. She also looks like the woman who has styled my hair for the last, oh, decade or so, and whose breasts my son used to reach for when I would bring him to one of my appointments. I really hope Turtle never goes into a fugue state and starts reliving moments from his past while he’s in Mrs. C’s class. That could get awkward.

The classroom is nice. Little labels mark every surface with words like “painting” and “table”. His teacher’s desk sits in the back with a calendar resting upon it, marking off blocks of time for PE and art class. Turtle didn’t waste too much time on those kinds of details. He was busy exploring the room for the kind of trouble he could get into, his eyes lighting up when they found the dry erase boards in the back.

We asked his teacher the kinds of questions you want to ask when you’re sending your baby off to be with people you don’t know. The playground is monitored so he’s safe, right? Where does he need to be when the bell rings so we can teach him what to do? Will there be someone to help him open up his applesauce container at lunchtime? He sometimes has trouble with that.

I didn’t ask the questions that his teacher wouldn’t be able to answer. Will he find friends on the playground or will the other kids see that he can be a sensitive kid sometimes and bully him? Will he remember to use his inside voice and keep his hands to himself or will I need to make a few trips to the principal’s office to gently remind him that he can’t roughhouse with everyone the way he does with Daddy? Will you see what an amazing, loving, intelligent, precious kid he is and realize what a precious gift it is that we’re sharing him with you?

I thought that when I took a job and said goodbye to being a stay-at-home mom I had already done the bulk of the “letting go” that needs to happen when you send your baby off to school for the first time. After all, as it is, Turtle is with a babysitter for even longer now than he will be in school every day. What’s the difference if he’s going to school or going to the babysitter’s house?

There is a big difference, apparently.

I got a little teary when I got the letter from his teacher with the school supplies she was requesting portioned off into lists denoting “wants” vs. “needs.” I got a little more teary when I went shopping with Mama Jo for those same school supplies. Last night, I was proud that I made it through the Open House without crying. Tomorrow, I will be bringing a box of tissues for Turtle’s classroom and another one, maybe two, for myself.

Tomorrow is a big day.

My Latest Obsession

2009-08-09T21:10:00.004-07:00

It was recently brought to my attention that I have neglected my blog for a period of time that is getting perilously close to a year. Who knew?

It's hard to sum up 10 months of life in a few paragraphs, so I'm not even going to try. Instead, I just have one thing to say:

Are you watching Man vs. Food on the Travel Channel????

I only discovered this show in the last couple of weeks, but it has quickly become my favorite way to spend a half hour for several reasons. First, the host reminds me of Oscar. Not because of any kind of physical resemblance, but because Oscar has the same a-dork-able way about him and his capacity for fitting food into his belly is somewhat legendary. Secondly, I love to travel, and the idea of discovering a new locale through its regional cuisine is, I feel, one of the BEST ideas ever conceived EVER. But most importantly, watching Adam Richman chow down in some of the most amazing restaurants across this nation makes me feel as though a trip through the Taco Bell drive-thru is just cheating myself, and both my pocketbook and my waistline appreciate THAT.

As a bonus, while watching Man vs. Food is an entertaining experience in its own right, watching Oscar watch Man vs. Food is.....well....it kind of defies description. Kind of like walking through a house to find a priest in one room in solemn prayer and your brother in another room watching porn. Because Oscar's relationship to food is so passionate, he mostly looks upon Adam's culinary journeys as the ultimate religious experience. But every once in a while, it seems like he's about 5 seconds away from stripping down and rubbing a sandwich all over his body in an orgy of culinary lust. I almost feel like he should watch the episodes alone, late at night, with the lights off and a sock and some lotion close at hand.

So while it's not an excuse for neglecting my little corner of the blogosphere, can you see why maybe I have been spending more time enjoying my real life lately? I mean, you guys are great, but I don't get to see your "O" face when you see a plate of homemade pickles flit across your screens, you know?

Status: Annoyed

2008-10-06T17:52:00.004-07:00

(Insert usual lame excuses here as to why I haven't been around lately. Bonus points if you come up with a more creative and, yet, still plausible excuse as to why I haven't been around lately. No points if you just scowl and make some kind of sarcastic remark about how I haven't been around lately. Negative points if you manage to make it sound, in the process of not making ANY excuses as to why I haven't been around lately, like I have no life and therefore no excuse for not being around lately.) (And now, on to actual content...)

Baseball:
You know, when we were doing well, I thought "Yay! I knew we were going to have a great shot at contending this year!" Then, after April and after it all started going to hell, I thought, "It's okay. We're still in first in the division and nothing matters until after the All Star Break, anyway." Then after the All Star Break, when we were still in first place in the division but we were still tanking, I thought "Well, at least we're still in first in the division.... I guess.... I mean, they'll start recovering soon, right? Look at the April we had! We'll pull it out when it counts!" Then, when the Dodgers acquired Manny Ramirez (or MAN-RAM!, as Mark Grace likes to call him) and we were still tanking, I thought "Oh CRAP!" And then when the Dodgers took over first place, and I realized we weren't going to recover, I thought, "Well, I guess there's next year."

Seriously, though. What happened to my team? Why did they have to make my cry and scream and rend my garments like that? More than that, why did they have to crash in such a spectacular fashion? Seriously, whoever it was that said that Manny Ramirez deserved to be the Dodgers MVP only because they couldn't exactly give it to the Diamondbacks wasn't joking. Unfortunately. *sigh* Here's to next year. May we not suck nearly as badly, or, alternately, may we suck a lot up front so my expectations won't be as high and it won't be such a shock when we end up embarrassing ourselves.

September:
September was kind of the Month of Suck for us, in more ways than just a baseball fan capacity. I was in Urgent Care three times in two and a half weeks. The first time, they gave me antibiotics for a sinus infection, ear infection, and eye drops for conjunctivitis (pink eye, for those of you without children in the house). The second time, they gave me even stronger antibiotics for the tonsillitis. And the third time, they took x-rays for a possible fracture that ended up being either tendonitis or a sprained wrist. Honestly? I could have done without all of that. Having my body fail me in such spectacular fashion was not good for my confidence level. And we won't even discuss what it did for my PTO time at work. I'm crossing my fingers that nobody else in my house gets sick or otherwise requires my work-time attention so I can still take some time off at Christmas. I'm sure there will be many cookies to consume and I take my cookie consumption seriously.

Politics:
Quite frankly, I'm not even sure how to express my utter and complete weariness with regard to the current election coverage and political campaigning. Not only because it's EVERYWHERE but it's so ANGRY. I haven't seen a single conversation about people's political ideals without someone at some point frothing at the mouth and screaming about how the country will go to hell if "that guy" is elected. And the thing is, sometimes that person is me. I need this election to be over soon so my blood pressure can stabilize because honestly? It alarms me a little that the staff at the urgent care know me by name.

A Confession And A Poll

2008-08-12T21:01:00.002-07:00

So, I realize I haven't been around much lately. It's a seasonal thing, I think. (Or, alternatively, a laziness thing.) It gets hot here and I don't want to do much of anything. I haven't been in the gym in forever, either, and my ass is tacking on pounds as we speak, if it makes you feel better.

Regardless, I'm here now and I have a confession to make: I'm more concerned with how my Diamondbacks are doing in the division than anything that's going on in the Olympics. It's not that I'm not invested in the Olympics. I mean, who could really avoid getting swept up in the Michael Phelps story? Well, I guess if your soul is black and your heart is a dry, shriveled husk, you have a good shot, but the last I checked, my soul is colorful and gay and my heart is pounding a merry jig, so I'm caught up in the mystique with the rest of the U.S. But still, the channel doesn't get changed to NBC until I know the final score of the D-backs game. This is my value system, people. Isn't it a marvel?

So on to the poll:

I place more importance on Diamondbacks baseball than the Olympic games. This means:

A) I am Un-American, Un-Patriotic, and quite possibly a Terrorist. I also have problems with random capitalization.
B) Baseball is as American as apple pie! Of COURSE I want to follow my team! Besides, the highlights of the Olympics will be all over the internet tomorrow, anyway.
C) When you get all judgey-judgey, God kills a puppy. Live and let live, bitchez!

Leave your vote in the comments.

Apparently, I Have Been Using The Wrong Alphabet

2008-07-20T14:50:00.002-07:00

Oscar, Turtle and I were sitting around the dinner table the other night, enjoying a lovely meal together. Well, Oscar and I were enjoying a meal. Turtle was bouncing off the walls. But then, all of a sudden, Turtle stopped bouncing off the walls and looked at me very seriously. "Mommy?" he said. "Do you know what starts with the letter i?" I looked back at Turtle and very curiously said, "No, buddy, what starts with the letter i?" There was a brief pause and then, even more seriously, Turtle looked back at me and said, "Chicken." While relaying this story to his daycare provider the next day, she asked me if I corrected him. My response? "Hell no. I was too busy laughing my ass off."

Under The Heading "Kids Say The Darndest Things..."

2008-04-21T21:44:00.002-07:00

Turtle: Mommy, we don't have any more Christmas trees.
Me: No, buddy, we don't. That's because it's not Christmas anymore. We'll get another one next Christmas.
Turtle, exasperated: NO, Mommy. We don't have any more CHRISTMAS TREES.
Me: Right, Christmas trees. We don't have ours anymore. I heard you.
Turtle: No, Mommy. You said Christmas trees. I said we don't have any more CHRISTMAS TREES.
Me: *shooting Oscar a confused look*
Oscar: Rice Krispie Treats, honey.
Me: Ohhhhh. Riiiiiiiiiiight. You're right, buddy. We are out of Rice Krispie treats. You and daddy ate them all.
Turtle: We need to go to the store so we can get more mushrooms so we can make more Christmas trees.
Me: Sure thing, little man. More mushrooms are just what we need.

Go Rockies!

2008-04-19T08:19:00.002-07:00

I kind of feel like I need to tip my hat to the Rockies today. I was thinking about doing it yesterday, when I read about their 22-inning marathon against the Padres. 22 innings is a hell of a lot of work, and the fact that they were able to pull off a win makes me feel validated in my assessment of them as the D-backs's toughest competition in the division this year. But today? Today, I especially need to tip my hat to the Rockies, because their opponent in that 22-inning marathon was the Padres. And the Padres were in Phoenix last night, getting their asses spanked all over Chase Field by my D-backs. So I have to feel that the Rockies had a little something to do with our win. Not that we couldn't have finished the Padres off on our own. But when you're playing a team that was on the field until the early hours of the morning for a game they lost, and didn't even get into your town until 4:00 in the morning for your 6:40pm game later that day, you really have to believe that you weren't playing a team at their best. So thanks for the assist, boys. Just don't think that's going to mean we're going easy on you this season.

Dork Check

2008-04-17T20:33:00.003-07:00

Well, it's 8:30 on a Thursday night (a Thursday, I might add, that has apparently been mislabeled because just about everyone I talked to today could have sworn it was Friday, myself included,) Turtle is in bed, Oscar is programming code like a madman and I? I am bored as hell. There are a zillion things I could be doing (like cleaning my damn house) but that would require actual motivation, and I'm not currently in possession of any. So, being as I am not yet ready to go to bed myself (but only because I just recently finished dinner and not because of any lack of desire to curl up under the covers), I figured I'd update you on my vacation and thus avoid staring at the wall and attempting to count the little mounds of texture thereupon. My sanity thanks you for being here.

So. Many, many months ago, Snark's Mistress floated a thought past me to get my feedback. See, she had this idea that we should go to Vancouver together. Now, you should understand that our history of wanting to go to Vancouver together dates back at least 14 years. At that time, we were rabid X-Files fans and thought it would be super-cool to take a road trip to Vancouver after high school graduation to see if we could track down any of the filming sites of the show (yes, we were dorks, even then). It never came to pass, but in doing all of our research, we decided that Vancouver looked like a pretty cool place and it would be nice to go there at some point and check it out, even if X-Files had since ceased filming. Fast forward 14 years and guess what? Vancouver ALSO happens to be the city in which Stargate SG-1 is filmed. It's a big sci-fi city. Who knew?

In any case, Snark's Mistress had seen information on a Stargate convention that was being held the first week of April and wanted to know if I was interested in going. Now, I am not the kind of person who thought to herself, "A CONVENTION? Why SURE! I'll start packing my costume NOW!" but neither was I opposed to the idea, particularly since it meant almost a week away from home with my best friend. But then she sweetened the deal by informing me that this PARTICULAR convention featured tours of the ACTUAL Stargate sets and at that point, how could I say no? Especially since she further sweetened the deal by offering to pay for it herself. Free vacation, a chance to hang with the best friend, AND a week away from home in which I could sleep as long as I wanted each morning? Sign me the hell up, bitches!

So on April 2, we woke up ungodly early and rushed to the airport to show off our shiny new passports and stand in a multitude of lines, including the one for customs which took a little bit of the excitement out of finally getting to Vancouver after 14 years. That line was damn long. And the customs official on the other end of it seemed cranky and a little judgmental that we would enter her fine city to go to a [sneer] sci-fi convention [/sneer] but we were bringing our nice shiny tourist dollars to her fine city so she can bite my fine ass.

I won't bore you with too many details about the convention itself (as I hear the collective sighs of relief and the subtle movement of your fingers away from the "page down" keys.) However, I will briefly recap the highlights (in no particular order):

1) My loud (and often unfiltered) mouth may get me in trouble sometimes, but it also has its advantages. For example, during one of the actors' Q&As another woman from the audience told this (rather attractive) actor that he had very pretty eyes, so he thanked her and gave her a hug. But when MY loud (and often unfiltered) mouth blurted out “If I tell you you have a great butt, what does that get me?” I was rewarded by being invited on stage, whereupon this lovely actor presented me his ass for a nice two-handed grab. Now tell me, could I BE more of a class act? I thought not.

By the way, I would like to mention that McMama further cemented my love for her when I called her later that afternoon to share the happy news that my loud (and often unfiltered) mouth got me two hands full of prime actor ass that day and her instant response was "I'm so PROUD of you!!!" That woman is made of win, people.

2) After joking with another actor that his awesomeness might end up signaling the demise of my friendship with Snark's Mistress if we couldn't resolve the argument over who got to be his pretend-girlfriend, Snark's Mistress and I got into a real fight of epic proportions. In our fashion, we recovered somewhat quickly. But the next time I see that actor, I'm going to have to tell him to tone down the awesomeness so we don't have problems like that again.

3) Two OTHER actors were tagged to be in our complimentary pictures, taken in front of the Stargate. Upon being called up to get my picture done, I introduced myself to one, then the other, and then said in my perkiest voice that if one of them wouldn't mind grabbing MY ass, it would really help me achieve a more genuine smile. (I don't know why I was so big on the ass-grabbing on this trip, but apparently, I had ass on the brain. Perchance it had something to do with being on my first non-Oscar vacation in a couple years....) One of them actually obliged and when I received the printed version of my complimentary picture, I was delighted to see that he had a deliciously lecherous look on his face while the other actor had a bemused "Yep, he's grabbing her ass" look on his face. The only downside was that the Stargate itself was out of focus in the shot. Guess it was irritated that IT didn't get to partake in any of the ass grabbing.

4) I was thrilled to learn that as much of a nerdy, over-excited, often inappropriate fangirl as I am, I am not nearly as batshit as some of the attendees of this particular convention. Two women, in particular, had me curling my lip up with distaste every time I saw them because the crazy was so pervasive. They had to be the center of attention at every moment, even if the attention they were getting was negative. It was disturbing and alarming, and at the same time, I'm not ashamed to admit that they made me feel a lot better about the amount of time I spend talking and/or thinking about Stargate. Because as bad as I can be, I will never be THAT bad. So thanks, Obnoxious 1 and Obnoxious 2 (which is, sadly, what Snark's Mistress dubbed them after the umpteenth time they presented themselves at the microphone to share their "special moments" with the actors on stage.) I needed the self-esteem boost.

5) Snark's Mistress and I had a lovely conversation with another attendee about how we seemed to be the most normal people in the room and yet, how difficult it was to talk to the event guests because they were automatically alert for any hint of the crazy. This led to a lively debate about how best to express our appreciation for their work without seeming too overly invested. The result? Well, as much as it sounds like the title of some sort of required reading in a convicted stalker's group therapy meeting, we settled on "We love you, but not in a crazy way." Said with enough self-deprecation, this actually seemed to work.

6) So, remember how I said I'm not the kind of person who would be rushing to pack a costume at the first whiff of a convention? Yeah. Apparently there ARE people who DO. We met a few. And let me assure you, there is nothing like a sci-fi convention costume party to make those people believe it is completely appropriate to pour their 75+ pound overweight bodies into 2-sizes-too-small bikini-like outfits and parade around a room from which you can see no escape. (I'm looking at YOU, Obnoxious 2!!)

All in all, it was a fascinating experience, although not one I'm in a rush to repeat. Especially if I end up having to pay for the next one. (DAMN, those things are expensive!) But I am glad I went and I am particularly glad I had my convention cherry popped. I now know what to expect and how to prepare and what to avoid. And most importantly, I now know how to say to people, actors, producers and directors alike, "I love you, but not in a crazy way." The way I figure it, if I've learned nothing more than that in life, I have a tool that should serve me well for the rest of my days.

Batter Up

2008-04-10T16:50:00.002-07:00

Okay, so, I totally wasn't going to do a baseball post this early in the season, even though I'm totally following my boys and totally loving it because they're TOTALLY kicking all kinds of ass right now and I'm totally excited about it even though it's ridiculously early in the season but I don't care because it's totally awesome and it totally makes me do stupid stuff like say "totally" over and over again and ramble in run-on sentences and that gets a little embarrassing, BUT I'm bored and it's something to talk about so here we go.

I was out of town last weekend (which I'll talk about at some point, but not right this second) and got back home late Monday night. After waiting for Oscar to finish up some consulting work (because THIS girl has NEEDS, y'all) it was probably close to 1:00 before I fell asleep, and I have to be up at 5:00 to get ready for work. Needless to say, I was a little tired on Tuesday. So Oscar made an executive decision that we would grab dinner "out." We ended up at a generic bar/grill type establishment (one I'm sure you have in your home town, wherever that is) and sat down, completely prepared to share a meal, talk and catch up on what had been going on in the week of my absence. Well, Oscar was prepared, anyway.

As I sat down, I scanned the room and lo and behold, there was a television over Oscar's shoulder. It caught my eye immediately because it was playing a baseball game. Upon further inspection, I realized it was playing the D-backs baseball game. I focused in like a cat stalking its prey. And then I felt the disgusted glare of my husband settle on me as he realized I wasn't listening to a word he was saying. I couldn't help it. Double-D was pitching his last game before undergoing surgery for his thyroid cancer. We were smacking the Dodgers around. It was a beautiful thing. Or it was, until Oscar smacked me upside the head to get my attention again so I could look at the menu and figure out what I wanted to eat. He was mumbling something about starving before his wife could tear herself away from the tv long enough to somethingsomethingsomething....I'll admit I stopped paying attention once the commercial break was over and the game was underway again.

I had a brief moment of concern that now that baseball season has officially begun again, it would derail the chances of our recovering our relationship after our separation*, but I have since decided that if Oscar is going to learn to love and live with me again, he is going to have to accept that there are certain things that are essential to my happiness. And if one of those things is a rabid fanaticism for D-backs baseball, I don't think that's such a bad thing. After all, it's not like he's a peach to live with 100% of the time. I make sacrifices for him. He can overlook this one thing for me, right? I mean, it's not like I'm asking him to wear batting gloves and a baseball cap every time he puts the moves on me. Although...

...

...

Ahem. Sorry. I needed to take a moment. What was I saying? Oh, right. I'm not THAT bad.

*So, yeah. Oscar and I split up for a few months there. Yet another reason I haven't been posting regularly. I did say I was going to drop those update-y little bombs into otherwise inane conversation, right? Right.

Welcome Back

2008-04-02T00:20:00.000-07:00

Um, hi. I have no idea if anyone is still checking in here, though I presume some people still stop by occasionally, as an anonymous commenter left a note a month or so back wondering if I was still alive. And since I asked around and none of the people I know intimately even remembered I had a blog, I figure it must be someone I DON’T know who is gently encouraging me to update you on things. So buckle up, because it’s been an interesting few months.

….

….Um, yeah. I’m not quite sure where to start. So let’s start with now, shall we?

So, I have a job. Actually, it’s my second job Post-Toddler. My first job was doing overnight stocking at Target, which was a much better job than I originally thought it would be, but did not pay adequately to support a family of three with a mortgage payment. And since Oscar had lost his job* in October and was having a hard time finding work again, I clearly needed something that paid better.

Thankfully, the universe threw an opportunity in my lap and instead of staring at it and saying “ooh, shiny!” I actually picked it up and ran with it. So I now have a job at a larger corporation that has some relationship to the healthcare industry and am currently embroiled in a very long training process, the bright side of which is that I am actually enjoying myself.

But I digress. In the course of getting everything set up at my shiny new job, I have had to call tech support a number of times to deal with various and assorted computer issues. And when I call tech support, they invariably ask me for my computer’s full name. I didn’t realize at first that my computer HAD a name. I’d just been calling it “the computer,” which must have seemed extraordinarily rude. I mean, imagine if someone you didn’t know just came up to you and said, “Hello, Other Humanoid Life Form.” You wouldn’t feel too good about that, would you? I know I wouldn’t.

Anyway, these people at tech support have been very nice about walking me through the process of figuring out what my computer’s name is each time I call, which is really unnecessary, frankly, because I had the process down after the first time, but whatever makes them feel better and gets me the help I need is fine by me, I suppose. But I digress again. My computer’s name is actually this really long technical description that includes my company’s name as well as a number, which I’m sure is the key identifier of my little technological friend. It’s just that it seems so impersonal. I mean, I’m on my computer all day long, now. I caress the keys and point out things on the monitor. I even rest my legs on the CPU. In short, my computer is more than a computer. It’s practically part of the family.

So when my boss’s boss e-mailed our team and asked for the names of all of our computers today, my response was as follows:

Hi Boss’s Boss,

My computer's name is 123456789.whereIwork.com, though it prefers to be called Bob. Thanks.

-Cymber

If I’m not fired before I complete my training, I will consider it a personal victory.

*Oh, did I not mention that? Yeah, that’s reason #1 that I haven’t been around much lately. Don’t be surprised if my idea of an update means casually dropping bombs like that randomly into conversation. It helps me know you’re paying attention.

How I Spent The Last Two Months Of My Summer Vacation, By Cymber (A Diamondbacks-aholic)

2007-10-16T19:35:00.000-07:00

I do not believe when Oscar recited his vows and said the words "for better or worse" that he actually said them with baseball season in mind. I imagine that he assumed that since he was the big baseball fan and he never paid particular attention to any one team, or that team's stats, or any one player, or any one player's stats, that his wife, who to the best of his knowledge didn't know the difference between a curve ball and a slider, would not pay much mind to the drama that makes up the playoff season. How very short-sighted of him.

I may not have been a baseball fan when Oscar and I were dating, but I have always had the seeds of a die-hard sports fanatic within me. They were just waiting for the right opportunity to bloom, and after a decade of watching Oscar play baseball, and after getting a big-league team in my own backyard, and after holding my breath while Luis Gonzalez popped a blooper into shallow center field to score the winning run in Game 7 of the World Series, you could say that Spring had sprung.

Still, my interest in baseball has, until this point, been tempered by the reality of a ball club that has struggled some since that storybook season in 2001. I still followed my team's progress throughout the seasons, and maintained a favorite player. But because we were losing more than we were winning, I wasn't overly invested. In other words, I maintained some perspective.

And then this season happened.

Starting toward the end of August, I noticed that our play had substantially improved from the point of the All Star Break and we were sitting on the top of our division. I started following the games a little more closely and keeping track of how the other teams in our division were playing. By mid-September, I was watching every game they broadcast and was calling the players by the nicknames Mark Grace and Daron Sutton were giving them during their broadcasts. By the end of September, I was completely hooked and was talking like full-on sports analyst for ESPN. And then my team won the division. We were in the post season. And poor Oscar started mourning the loss of his once-sane wife.

I had completed my transformation into "THAT person." The one whose mood hinges on the outcome of a game. The one whose schedule is dictated by whether or not her team is playing that day. The one whose sanity is often called into question because she persists in believing that what she is wearing that day can affect the outcome of the game that night. The one whose dreams start featuring baseball players in starring roles. That one.

When things were going well, as they did in the National League Division Series against the Cubs, my mood was euphoric. When things were not going well, as they did not in the National League Championship Series against the Rockies, my mood was sullen and dejected. The only thing I could tell Oscar last Friday night, after watching my boys lose by walking in a run and then being unable to produce ANYTHING REMOTELY RESEMBLING AN OFFENSE at the bottom of the 11th inning was, "Well, it's probably good for you that they lost, because now I have no expectations other than 'we will be swept' so losing a game will not cause me near the same amount of depression from here on out." He seemed unconvinced.

And yet, that's pretty much how it went. We lost two more, including the series-ending game last night, and while I can't say I was thrilled, I was able to put it behind me much more quickly. At least now, I know the outcome. And I can start looking forward to next season.

If I had any sort of money right now, I'd be putting it down on a season ticket deposit. Instead, I am beginning the slow process of reclaiming my life. When I looked around today, I realized that my house had somehow fallen to ruin in the last couple of months. Summer decorations had yet to be replaced by fall decorations. I can't remember the last time the vacuuming had been done. Dishes were languishing in the sink. Garbage bins were overflowing. It wasn't pretty. I vowed that today would be a new beginning. I could finally put that pesky baseball business behind me and get a fresh start. I have several months before Spring Training. I was going to start today in making good use of them.

It was a good plan. Too bad I ditched it in favor of reading all the post-game analysis and cyber-stalking starting pitcher Doug Davis. Maybe Oscar should rethink those vows, after all.

VH1 Is A Time Sucking Black Hole

2007-09-13T20:20:00.001-07:00

Contrary to what Sheryl Crow would have you believe, my mood lately has been less "all I wanna do is have some fun" and more "all I wanna do is sit on my ass and have ice cream, which causes instant weight loss, spoon-fed to me by a hot cabana boy." But that seems to have a few too many syllables, which, now that I think about it, is probably why she just went with "have some fun." Clever girl, that Sheryl.

Sadly, instead of sitting on my ass, eating weight-loss-inducing ice cream fed to me by a hot twenty-something with loose morals, I have instead been keeping rather busy. My brother and sister-in-law borrowed Turtle last week, from Monday to Saturday, which left me an unholy amount of free time on my hands, which, in turn, meant that I had to scramble to figure out what I used to do with myself before I had a rambunctious preschooler to chase around all day. Of course, the answer to that question was, "Hello, moron, you had a JOB!" so I didn't find much inspiration for how to fill my days by looking in that direction.

Instead, I decided I would tackle a project which has been plaguing me for, I don't know, maybe 5 years now. I decided to clean out the garage. Now, I have, in fact, cleaned my garage in the past, but that mostly entailed moving boxes from one section of the garage to another, and what I REALLY wanted to do was go through those boxes and figure out what could be tossed and what needed to be kept. But every time I suggested that to Oscar, he moaned pitifully and then rent his garments and it only went downhill from there because the whole reason we have all of those boxes full of crap we haven't looked at in several years is that every time Oscar needs to uncover his desk from the piles of paper and miscellaneous detritus, he fills boxes and then puts them in the garage because, as he says, "I'll be forced to deal with them if they're out there because they'll be in the way." ................ Uh-huh.

So with several days of freedom in front of me, I thought to myself what a perfect project that would be for the week. It ended up being only sort of perfect. I started out strong, going through 5 boxes in the space of a few hours. I took several boxes of paper out to the recycling bin. I only kept a small pile of (what looked like) important papers for Oscar to file and an even smaller pile for myself to file appropriately. But day two was not so productive. Mostly because I made the mistake of not jumping up and changing the channel the SECOND VH-1 stopped playing music videos and I was done with my breakfast. Instead, I ended up getting sucked into Rock of Love with Bret Michaels.

I had thought that working in the living room with the TV on would be oh-so-wonderful because I would be able to keep one eye on the TV and one eye on the crap I was going through and by the end of day three, I would be able to sit back and marvel at my feat of multi-tasking. (Stop laughing.) Instead, I found myself slack-jawed, watching some lame "reality" show on VH-1, wondering what those crazy bitches were going to do next, and hungering for a new episode.

I was shamed by my complete lack of anything resembling willpower. I could NOT pull away from that show. And not only could I NOT pull away from that show, I found myself getting unreasonably attached to one particular contestant. So now, I find myself talking to Bret Michaels, as though he can hear me yelling at my television, passionately arguing that if he has any sort of heart, if he is in this for anything other than a quick publicity boost and a cheap lay, if he has any reasonable bone in his body, he will ditch these other women as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible (especially Lacey because OMG with the crazy) and ask Jes to "rock his world."

I quake at the thought of what I have become.

I am grateful, at least, that VH-1 only played two episodes that day, and I was able to get back out to the garage and get things cleaned up. It's not perfect in there, but progress was indeed made. And now, of course, Turtle is back home with his endless pleas to play with him. So I am keeping busy with him and my other friends and various and assorted chores. And I'm trying very hard to avoid VH-1 like the plague.

Except on Sundays at 11:00am. Some people root for their favorite football teams. I root for my favorite fame-whoring wannabe-rocker girlfriend nut job!

I Think I Need To Socialize Him More

2007-08-23T12:05:00.001-07:00

Turtle walked up to me this morning and said "Mommy? My peenie weenie needs to pee." At the time, I simply snickered and told him to go take his peenie weenie to the potty if it needed to pee. But now I'm starting to be concerned about the fact that he's anthropomorphizing his boy parts. I mean, on the one hand, this could be WAY more entertaining than him developing an imaginary friend. Seriously. Think about it.

"So then he pushed me down and tried to take my lunch money, and I was scared, but then the teacher came and he got in trouble. But all the other kids saw and they were laughing at me and now I don't know what to do. Huh? What? What did you say? I can't hear you. *unzips pants and pulls down underwear* Now what were you saying?"

On the other hand, do I really want my kid to get his butt kicked on the playground? Or worse, do I want him sent to the principal's office on suspicion of being a giant pervert (which, knowing what I know about his daddy, may well be possible anyway)? These are the things that keep me up at night.

How YOU Doin'?

2007-08-22T17:23:00.001-07:00

It was recently brought to my attention that I haven't posted anything in a long time. I know. You'd think I would have been aware of that without someone pointing it out to me. But no. My brain has been on an extended vacation and it wasn't until I was in line at Starbucks with Hotass and Snark's Mistress and Hotass turned to me and said "BY the WAY. What is UP with your BLOG? Why the HELL haven't you been POSTING?" that I remembered, "Hey! I have a blog!"

Of course, it still took me, let's see, four days (?) to get back here and start writing something. And THAT'S only because I was IMing with Snark's Mistress and was about to start bitching about the fact that practically NOBODY (except you, dykewife, since you've been posting regularly despite some less than favorable circumstances, and do you think maybe you could lower the bar, just a little bit, for the slackers among us?) has been updating his/her blog with anything APPROACHING regularity, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was walking into a pot-meets-kettle scenario and I should think about shutting my trap. (For those of you keeping track, I didn't shut my trap, naturally, but instead just acknowledged that I was a flaming hypocrite prior to my bitching.)

So. Here I am.

Um...where were we?

Oh, I see. When I last left you, my kid hated me because I took him to the doctor for his shots. How timely. Because yesterday was his second appointment to get him caught up on his shots. I am sorry to say that I ignored everyone's advice and did NOT force Oscar to take Turtle to the doctor. I am also sorry to say that I took pity on Snark's Mistress, who seemed to be having a rough morning, and did not force her to come along with me. No, I dealt with this appointment all by myself. The good news is, there were only two shots this time around, and one skin test, and they all went into his arms, so I didn't have to look into my little boy's puppy dog eyes while he pleaded with me to carry him everywhere because his poor little legs just couldn't take the pain. The bad news is, he remembered too well what those pesky needles were for and started screaming and struggling the minute he caught sight of them. It made for quite the traumatic event, made tolerable only because he got two stickers out of the deal.

Naturally, I text messaged Oscar on the way home, informing him in no uncertain terms that he was taking Turtle to his next doctor appointment, which will be in October, by the way, because that is how long it will take the manufacturers to send more Hep A vaccine and hey, since you have to come in anyway, why don't we give your kid a flu shot? Two more needles? Two more holes in my kid? Oh yeah. Oscar can take him. I may be a slow learner, but I do catch up eventually.

Speaking of which, I need to speed up my learning curve as to how I respond to that first trip back to the personal trainer after an extended vacation. I say that because after my visit with the trainer on Monday (no, not the cute one about whom I have been fantasizing) I fully expected to go back to the gym yesterday and do my hour of cardio. Until, of course, I woke up yesterday morning and Could. Not. Walk. It was at that point that it occurred to me that a) my last few visits with the trainers resulted in workouts that have been somewhat less comprehensive than I probably should have requested, b) even if those last few workouts had taken 2 hours to complete and worked every one of the more than 630 muscles in my body, I haven't been as diligent about completing my workout lately and c) perhaps, then, I should ease back into my diet and exercise plan. Instead, I ended up pushing myself to do the workout the trainer gave me on Monday, and while she was suitably impressed with my drive, my body is now suffering for it. And now it's my turn to give the puppy dog eyes to Turtle and request that HE carry ME everywhere because my poor little legs just can't take the pain. (Of course, the ungrateful little brat just laughs at me whenever I try, but whatever.)

Also? Because I revert back to my childhood in times of discomfort (which is my nice word for BURNING, SEARING, EXCRUCIATING PAIN), I am self-medicating with Double Stuf Oreos and Cool Ranch Doritos. So anyone who wants to know how my diet and exercise plan has been working out for me over the last month, you can just shut up now.

So that's what's new with me. What's new with you?

Even My Kid Hates Me

2007-07-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

The following is an ACTUAL conversation that took place in my home today:

Turtle: I don't like you.
Me: That's not very nice, Buddy. Why don't you like me?
Turtle: I just need Daddy.

I'm thinking this perhaps has something to do with the shots. Turtle, having gotten his wish and having been to the doctor on Tuesday, was dismayed to find out that the doctor was not just going to look at his owies and give him a prescription for intensive Mommy-love, but was also going to try to catch him up on his immunizations at the same time. Four little syringes. Four little needles. Two little legs. You do the math.

Of course, he was over the insult and the agony of it all not even ten minutes later and was happily bouncing through rain puddles, but deep in his subconscious, I'm sure he's planning exactly what he's going to say to his therapist in another 20 years. Still, I feel the need to remind him that when he woke up from his nap, complaining that he just couldn't walk ever again, ever, and could I please carry him? because O, dear God, the PAIN!!!, I did, in fact, pick his heavy butt up and tote him around wherever he wanted to go. (Granted, "wherever he wanted to go" mostly translated to "the couch," where he leaned back into the cushions with the back of his hand upon his forehead, moaning pitifully about his fate. But still. I made an effort. I think that should count for something.)

What really concerns me is that we have another appointment in August, during which the doctor will be giving him one more round of shots to get him completely caught up. If he already doesn't like me, I can't imagine the degree of loathing he will have for me after that appointment. I'm finding myself kind of grateful that he's still a little too young for Harry Potter right now, because I'm not sure I could handle being known as "She Who Shall Not Be Named" for the next 15 years.

Turtle: The New Face Of Starbucks

2007-07-25T14:45:00.000-07:00

Like most little boys, Turtle has a whole army of toy cars with which he plays (and often leaves lying around on the floor, in the hopes that Mommy will step on one in bare feet and treat him to a lesson of "very special words" that he can use the next time he's hanging with his grandparents.) Most days, he asks me to put on Cars (a movie we watch at least 3 times a day) while he uses the coffee table as a race track, walking around it over and over again while pushing a few of his cars in a simulated race. Sometimes, he even asks me to help race with him, which gets really exciting, particularly when he wants me to go "faster!!!" and I end up getting dizzy and nauseated and quitting early while he's crowing about winning the race. (Note to self: discuss the concept of "good sportsmanship" with Turtle.) Today, however, was a little different.

Today, he walked over to his shelf on our entertainment center and grabbed one of his larger books, plopping it in the middle of the coffee table. He lined up all of his cars on one edge of the book. Then, he pulled one of the cars to the corner of the book, drove around that corner, and pulled it up to the middle of the other side. And then:

"I want a venni decaf nah-fat carmuhl nacchiato." *pause* "Yep, that's it!"

Having placed his order, he pulled his car forward, and grabbed the next car in line to pull it around the corner, pull up to the middle of the book and order. Remarkably, all of the cars ordered the same thing.

Two things are now abundantly clear to me. First, I need to be very, very careful what I say around my child, because he is obviously listening to every word (which also means I need to pay attention where I'm stepping so his car-shaped land mines don't cause a verbal explosion.) And second, I'm in a Starbucks rut and really need to try something new.

Just Call Me A Terrible Mother And Get It Over With

2007-07-18T13:48:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I haven't taken Turtle to see the doctor in over 2 years. He's behind on his vaccinations and I have NO idea where he falls in the height/weight percentiles. And while part of that is because we did not have insurance for a long stretch between his birth and now, I can't really use that excuse now that we've had health insurance for going on a year. No, the reason he hasn't been to the doctor lately has more to do with me than it has to do with insurance.

I haven't wanted to take him in to see the doctor in the last year because I didn't want to have to deal with the "Why has it been so long since your last appointment?" questions. We did not have a great relationship with Turtle's first pediatrician and had JUST found a new pediatrician when we started having insurance issues. So I don't have that trusting relationship with my child's doctor, yet, that gives me the confidence to walk in with my kid, who is majorly overdue for his vaccines, and NOT feel like the Worst. Mother. EVER! I have a hard enough time admitting to a bunch of virtual strangers that my child has not been to the doctor because I'm selfish enough to not want to deal with potential (not certain, but potential) judgment and I don't even have to look you guys in the eyes.

(Gawd, I suck.)

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I decided that I needed to stop hiding from this, because despite the fact that my kid has been (thankfully!) very healthy, at some point I AM going to want to ship him off to school and his little immunization record will need to be filled out appropriately. So Oscar and I had the "we, at some point, or maybe I should say 'you' because I'm not sure I want to be the one to make this call, should probably consider making Turtle a doctor's appointment for some future date when I can maybe handle this a little better" conversation. And because I'm an idiot, of course Turtle heard this whole conversation, which led to another whole conversation with Turtle.

"Who's going to the doctor, Mommy? Who's going?"
"You are, buddy. Mommy needs to take you to see the doctor."
"Is he going to look at my owies?"
(Thinking that if that's the way he best understands it, this might just be the easiest conversation ever:) "Yes."
"Oh BOY!"

Since then, Turtle has periodically reminded me that he was going to the doctor so the doctor could look at his owies. Of course, this naturally resulted in my feeling pressured by my THREE YEAR OLD to do the right thing, suck it up, and make the damn call to get him an appointment. But I still resisted. I am apparently not so great a mom that my child's needs supercede my own yet.

(Gawd, I really really suck.)

Then, today, I was sitting at the dining room table, babysitting a print job for Oscar when Turtle walked into the kitchen, picked up his phone and had the following conversation:

"Doctor? I have owies. You come over tonight and look at them? Oh yeah? Okay. Thanks. You're the best, best ever."

He has an appointment for next Tuesday morning.

Current Conditions: 89 Degrees and 42% Humidity

2007-07-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

I was commenting recently to Snark's Mistress that I seem to be living my life in ALL CAPS lately, because some kind of exciting things have been happening. Not exciting enough to report on, clearly, but exciting enough that while IMing Snark's Mistress during the day, I would put the caps lock on to convey my news. However, because I am Karma's bitch, I am today living my life in ALL CAPS for another reason. That reason being:

MY AIR CONDITIONING IS OUT AGAIN!!!!! IT'S 109 DEGREES OUTSIDE!!!! ARE YOU FRICKIN' KIDDING ME WITH THIS?????

So yeah, apparently the guy who came out on Saturday to fix my air conditioner was overly optimistic in his appraisal of how long the charge would last in my unit. Either that, or he was seriously deluded as to the size of the leak in my unit. Either way, I'm singing the "It's 90 degrees in my house" blues. (Oh, and while we're on that subject, and please forgive me for sidetracking but I have to get this out, I was on the phone with Mama Jo earlier, discussing the situation and she asked how warm it was. At that point, the thermostat was reading 86 degrees. So she says "Oh, that's not bad at all." To which I responded, "Not unless you're sitting in it." Because while, yes, 86 degrees outside, with the birds chirping and the water babbling in the brook and the breeze blowing, is a perfectly acceptable temperature, 86 degrees INSIDE, with the stuffy and the yucky and the "nowhere to go because it's only worse OUTSIDE" is NOT not bad. In fact, it sucks. A lot. So I love you Mama Jo, but I am sticking out my tongue in your general direction because WHO SAYS that 86 degrees isn't bad to a person whose a/c is out in 110 degree weather? GAH!) (Okay, thank you. I'm better now.)

On the bright side, when I realized this morning that our air was having problems again, I called Snark's Mistress and pleaded the pleas of the desperate for her to babysit my kid until the a/c tech could get there at some point between 9:00am and 1:00pm to fix my air and make my house liveable again, and she said "But of course!" And then, when the a/c tech called and said he was finishing up another job and would probably be here closer to 2:00pm, Snark's Mistress felt my pain and reassured me that Turtle was doing just fine there with her. And then, when the a/c tech called and said he had to go get a part to finish up the other job and would probably be leaving that location at 3:15pm, Snark's Mistress joined me in a bitchfest of epic proportions, but was still happy to keep Turtle with her instead of subjecting him to the torture I am currently enduring.

So at least there's that.

Anyway, it looks like the leak was easily identified this time around and the a/c tech will soon be able to fix it. Of course, that means that we completely wasted a few hundred dollars on Saturday by charging it again in the first place, but on the other hand, we don't need a new compressor, so we'll be thanking our deity of choice for that. And now I think Oscar and I are about due for a serious discussion as to why it is, exactly, that we live here and what kind of brain damage we might be suffering from that is preventing us from making the perfectly logical decision to get the hell out of here. I'm thinking at least one of us must have a tumor.

Apparently, Karma Has Caught Up To Me

2007-07-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

I am going to say this as calmly as I can, because I know that if I am not deliberate about it, I will completely lose my mind: My. Air. Conditioner. Is. Broken. Oh dear. I think I'm going to hyperventilate now.

Depending on which weather authority you believe, the temperature outside ranges between 101 degrees and 104 degrees. But in my house, there is no doubt: it is 89 degrees and climbing. I would like to think that the fine gentleman who is currently on his way to my home to poke around at the inner workings of my air conditioner will be able to quickly ascertain the problem with it and fix it post haste. However, I am considerably more practical (not to mention realistic) and therefore I am sure that after poking around the inner workings of my air conditioner, the fine gentleman sent by the repair company will instead tell me that I need a brand spanking new air conditioner and/or some part that is obscure and will need to be back-ordered. In other words, I completely expect to be told that optimal living conditions will not be restored for at least a week. GAH!

If anyone needs me, I will be in the corner, alternately whimpering and mumbling crazed prayers to the ice cream gods.

My Life Is Apparently A Seinfeld Episode

2007-07-10T18:13:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of done feeling crappy about the fact that I haven't been posting here with anything even vaguely approaching regularity lately. Which is to say that I'd LIKE to be done feeling crappy about it, but my hyperactive guilt complex won't let me be completely done with it, so I just keep trying to tell myself I'm done with it in the hopes one day that will actually be the case. And since that's not working out so well, I'm also trying to remind myself of my daily successes, thinking that maybe if I focus on the things I'm doing well, not only will I be able to distract myself from the crushing failure of my complete inability to write anything of substance lately, I will also find some nugget of inspiration therein.

Of course, reminding myself of my daily successes would be a lot more productive if I could think of anything at which I was succeeding that is more significant than "showered before 6:00pm." Unfortunately, I think the problem at the root of my writer's block is the same problem at the root of my lack of significant accomplishments: I am boring.

I floated this theory past my Blogger Brother a month or so ago, and he tried to persuade me that it's not that I'm boring; it's that, as a stay at home mom, the intellectual stimulation and attendant social outlets of the workplace are not as available to me. So, it's not ME. It's the fact that I see the same four walls, day in and day out, and I have very little in the way of adult conversation to remind me how my brain works. It's a comforting thought, I suppose, but while I do agree with him to an extent, the fact remains that I'm pretty boring too.

Or maybe I should say that I'm boring in the sense that the things I find interesting are not things that lend themselves easily to clever discussion. At least, not in this forum. Because while I could chat about Stargate SG-1, my views on Stargate SG-1, and my relationship with Stargate SG-1 for hours on end (and have in the recent past), these are subjects I prefer to reserve for my future LJ project with Snark's Mistress. And while I would have no problem riffing on the problems of my favorite trainwreck blogger, there are other people who have started their own pages specifically devoted to his complete and total ineptitude, and who are therefore doing a better job than I could ever do.

As for my usual fall-back topics of conversation? Well, Turtle has been in a mood lately, so I find myself more likely to put him in time-out until he turns 35 than I am to find something he does amusing enough to write about it. And as for my diet - well - I tend to think I have exhausted that discussion, particularly since I seem to be at a plateau at the moment. A plateau I like to call "too much ice cream in a one-week period because McMama is a very very very very very very very very very bad influence and I am weak. WEAK, I SAY!" Maybe when I have sufficiently recovered from my crappy food binge, I will have more to say on that subject, but for now, let's just agree to let that one go, shall we?

So where does that leave us? Well, apparently, it leaves us with yet another post about absolutely nothing. Aren't you glad you checked in for that? Yeah. Me too. I guess that means it's just about time I declare a summer hiatus, which seems to be what a lot of my other favorite blog people have done already, but with 150% less guilt on their parts. I will, of course, check in periodically, if I have something of actual interest to say. But otherwise, I think I will surrender to the fact that my tendency to stay indoors when the temperature climbs over 100 degrees, while a smart move on my part in terms of survival, nonetheless makes it much more difficult for interesting things to happen to me. And therefore, gives me virtually nothing to talk about. (And I still manage to use more than 700 words to get around to that point. Ahh, the irony.)

I can only hope that come fall, when I start venturing out of doors with slightly more regularity, I will again find clever and witty things to say. Or at least fake it better. A girl can dream, anyway.

It Made Me Gain Four Pounds, Too

2007-07-06T15:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, do you know what I hate? I hate that feeling of wanting nothing more than to write something cute and funny and entertaining but at the same time feeling like I have absolutely nothing to say. You would think that I would have a lot to talk about right now, having just come back from the LEAST vacation-y vacation I have ever taken, and then throwing a party less than 48 hours later, but instead, all I can do is stare at the blank computer screen and curse the little hilbilly in my mind who has one hand down his pants, scratching himself, while the other hand feeds beer into his face on a schedule that includes adequate time for belching and staring blankly at the walls. WHY IS THAT GUY STUCK IN MY HEAD? Why can't it be the sophisticated urban-dweller who gets invited to all the best cocktail parties and always has something to say? My brain is betraying me.

I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that I think I ate ice cream EVERY DAY of the last week of my vacation. And not just little scoops of ice cream, either. The ones that you eat just to make the people you are with feel better about the fact that they are pigs? No. I WAS the pig. Two really big scoops of ice cream on a sugar cone, and when I was feeling REALLY disgusting, I piled on the hot fudge. This is why I try to only visit McMama once a year. I swear that woman sprays "Diet B Gone" in her home before she leaves for the airport to pick me up. (Then again, she kind of has to, because if I was able to retain any of my culinary standards while visiting, I would never eat on the nights she cooked.) (To be fair, though, she did, in fact, make chicken one night and it was, believe it or not, edible. She used a lot of soup, so it was not as dry as the Sahara. Viva Campbells!) (Why, yes, she did make me promise that I would post about that one time that she actually made food that I could eat without suppressing my gag reflex. How did you know?) (She also wanted me to post about her potatoes au gratin, which were excellent if you are a fan of potatoes au gratin. I am not, normally. But hers were quite good. If you like potatoes au gratin. Which I normally do not.)

What was I saying? Oh yes, I think the ice cream rotted my brain out and made me incapable of writing anything worthwhile. Then again, it was worth it. Dark chocolate ice cream with chunks of mint bark running through it on top of a scoop of French roast coffee ice cream, all on top of a sugar cone? For someone who had spent the previous four months on a diet, that was an orgasm on a stick right there. And if masturbation is supposed to make you go blind, I would think ice cream induced orgasms would be enough to short circuit your brain a little bit, don't you?

I just hope things start to balance back out soon. Because while I have appreciated my time away from Teh Internets, I would very much like to get back into the swing of things so I can start posting witty and clever things that inspire people to send me appreciative comments. I am all about anonymous adoration, after all.

But She Does Make A Hell Of A Cake

2007-06-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

I really thought McMama's tendency to create meals as desiccated as the Sahara was limited to the meat course. But McMama is determined to keep surprising me, as she proved tonight. This evening's menu included (what was once) a baked potato that (when she was through with it) could have easily passed for a shriveled hockey puck. But I think I'm on to her. Instead of marveling that someone so adept at baking could be so useless at cooking, I am now starting to suspect that she does this on purpose. Because when she brought out the poor, wrinkly, dried out potato, she looked at me and asked if I was planning on blogging about it. I'm kind of starting to wonder if she's just a little fame-whore, just looking for a new opportunity to be mentioned in my little corner of the blogosphere. But then, I also kind of wonder what she'll do when she finds out there's only six people who actually read this thing with any kind of regularity. Maybe start cooking food I can actually eat? A girl can dream....

Out Fishing

2007-06-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. I neglected you for over a week. I will submit to my twenty lashes with a wet noodle willingly and with appropriate regret for my lapse. In my defense, it takes quite a bit of time to make my lists and check them twice to be sure I am vacation-ready. And in the end, I still managed to forget the Turtle's toothpaste, my workout plan, and a scruffy sponge. Thankfully, I have heard that they do in fact have stores here in New York, so I believe we will survive. Either that, or Turtle will come home with a few more cavities, I'll gain a couple pounds, and I will have to track down an actual wash cloth for my showers. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

So, in case you haven't been keeping track, this is really just my way of letting you all know I am officially on vacation. I will attempt to update you on our goings-on, particularly since I know some of you are going to be concerned about our health and well-being on the nights that McMama is cooking. But no promises. I've been told that I'm internet-addicted, so I may take this opportunity to detox a little so that Oscar doesn't have to spring for a rehab facility. Then again, I hear from very reliable gossip rags that Promises is a wonderful place and I may even get time off for yoga class. If I can get Lindsay Lohan to show me the Lotus position (or, in lieu of that, perhaps the Coked-Out Whore pose) it might be worth it.

Mommy = Chopped Liver

2007-06-09T23:46:00.000-07:00

This morning, I snuck into the master bathroom to get ready to go to the gym. Oscar was still sleeping, so I figured I might as well let him get some rest, and Turtle enjoys his time in the kids' care. But by the time I was done changing clothes, applying copious amounts of deodorant (because lord knows if I have to sweat at the gym, I should at least smell pretty doing so) and washing my face (because lord knows if there's a chance I am going to run into the cute trainer, I need at least one thing working for me) Oscar was blinking his eyes open.

We got to talking, which meant that I quickly exceeded my allowed time away from Turtle. He came wandering into the bedroom to make sure I wasn't doing something that had potential for fun without him and discovered that Daddy was awake. Now, you have to understand, Saturday mornings are quite possibly Turtle's favorite time period EVER. After a week of missing Daddy while he's at work, Turtle looks forward to having his favorite playmate home so they can wrestle and play keep-away with Oscar's phone. So when he walked in and found that his Daddy was awake and ready to play, it was like Turtle had won the lottery.

They started messing around, but of course, Oscar had JUST woken up and had a few biological imperatives that needed to be taken care of before he could fully engage in Saturday Morning Warfare. So while he got up and emptied his bladder, I hung out near the bed watching Turtle bounce around. It wasn't long before he noticed me and wandered over.

Turtle: "I need to play. You need to go be busy."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Turtle: "I need to PLAY. You need to go be BUSY."
Me: "You need to play? I need to go be busy?"
Turtle: "Yeah."
Me: "What do I need to be busy doing?"
Turtle: "You need to go be on the computer."
Me: "Do you need some alone time with Daddy? Is that why you want me to go away?"
Turtle: "Uh, YEAH."
Me: "Well, then."

It became suddenly clear to me why moms often feel the need to bust out the stories of excruciating labor for their offspring. When your place in your kid's life is second to the guy who had the easiest, most pleasurable job in the whole procreation process, it's hard not to want to assert yourself as the more deserving of that adoration. "BUT I DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU!" I wanted to scream. "I PLAY WITH YOU AND I FEED YOU AND I TAKE YOU TO THE GYM! ALL DADDY DOES IS SCRATCH HIMSELF, BELCH AND WATCH TV WITH YOU!" But I kind of thought that throwing a full-scale temper tantrum wouldn't be the best example to set for my three year old. I mean, it's one thing for ME to know that there are times that Turtle is the more mature one in our relationship. If he ever figures it out, though, I suspect the balance of power will shift in a very undesirable way.

Would You Care For Some Lexapro Or No?

2007-06-06T21:21:00.000-07:00

As a stay-at-home mom, I tend to value my "alone" time. It's particularly precious considering I get so little of it. But tonight, with Oscar off doing whatever it is that Oscar does when he's not here, and with Turtle in bed doing his level best not to go to sleep, I find that I'm actually - well - bored.

It's one thing when I get alone time that does not require me to be at the house. When Oscar is at home and taking care of Turtle so I can venture into the world and figure out what grown up type people do with their time when they're not consumed with shooting monsters and making macaroni and cheese, I find that I am never lacking for things to do. Sometimes I use the time to do responsible parent type things, like grocery shopping. Sometimes I go over to Chez Snark's Mistress and watch SG-1 marathons and talk about what it was like when I used to eat sugar. (God, those were the days!) Sometimes I just take time for me, and go to a coffee shop where I can sneak a coffee shake and read or do some journaling. But when I'm the one tied to the house? When my free time involves looking at the same four walls I've been looking at all day long? It's not quite so easy to figure out what to do with myself.

I thought about doing some cleaning. But really, I've been cleaning all day. My dishes are done, my laundry is done, and I just can't work up the energy to work on anything else. I tried going online, but there was nothing on "teh internets" that was suitably distracting (aside from the news that my favorite trainwreck blogger, who took his blog down last week, has put his blog back up! Wheee! More rubbernecking for me!) I thought about reading a book, because lord knows I'm constantly complaining that I never have time to read any more. But not even that holds any appeal at the moment.

Honestly? I think I'm just feeling restless. I'm somewhat cranky and dissatisfied with certain things in my life and while I can normally distract myself with enough skill to forget that I'm cranky and dissatisfied, now that it's late and Turtle isn't asking me a zillion questions that all end with "or no?" such as "do you want to play with me or no?" or "are you sure I can have this cookie or no?" I find that it's much too quiet. It's much too quiet and I find myself spending entirely too much time dwelling on the fact that I seem to be in a perpetual state of disappointment lately and how maybe that's not such a good thing.

On the bright side, my two week vacation to Chez McMama is coming up in a week and a half. Did I mention how much I'm looking forward to sitting on her porch and getting "right" with the world? Because I am. A lot. I'm kind of hoping that if I sit there long enough, the grumpy, ornery bitch in me will just seep right out because I'm really not liking the me I am right now. Although, if McMama's porch doesn't do the trick, the Dunkin Donuts that's within walking distance of her house probably will. Because I don't care how much sugar I'm not eating; nothing says happiness like a cup of coffee and a donut. Unless it's "antidepressants and therapy," but that has to wait until I get home.

It's A Shame, Too, Because Gabriel Macht Is Hot And He Was THISCLOSE To Selling It

2007-06-05T23:02:00.001-07:00

On today's list of things that are annoying me is a little gripe I have with the writers of romantic comedies. Now, I love me some romantic comedies. I'm the biggest sap in the known universe, will cry at the drop of a hat, and am a huge sucker for the happy ending where the guy and the girl ride off into the sunset together. However, I'm also not stupid. And while I'm perfectly willing to suspend my disbelief on any number of implausible situations, there is one thing common to most romantic comedies that's really getting under my skin.

You know that scene towards the end of the movie in which the couple, who for whatever contrived reason has broken up or is otherwise questioning their relationship starts working on their reconciliation because one half of the couple has come to find the other half of the couple and gives a huge speech about how they are "meant to be!" and the other half of the couple realizes that their fight was really stupid and he/she swoons and they kiss and all is right with the world because they have again affirmed that they are "meant to be!"? You know that scene? WHY does that scene always feature the one half of the couple interrupting the other half of the couple in the middle of doing something important in public?

IT MAKES NO SENSE! Do people just automatically delete all contact information they have for their significant others at the first sign of trouble in a relationship? Is there NOWHERE else they can think of to reach their partners than the VERY public venues they are known to frequent? Can she not just call the guy and ask him to dinner and a nice chat? Can he not send her an e-mail and request that they meet for caramel macchiato martinis at the Macaroni Grill and talk about where they stand? I mean, COME ON! Why does he always have to interrupt her teaching a cooking class when he realizes they should give up this silly fight and be together forever? Why does she always have to interrupt him giving guitar lessons when she goes to apologize for being a doink and ask if they can have a second chance?

And why are the people who end up being witness to these great proclamations of undying love never pissed that they paid good money for this class or these lessons and they're not getting their money's worth? You can't tell me there isn't a single cynical bastard who's going to make a snarky comment about how he isn't paying to watch people make out. Instead, they're all going to be overcome with the romantic rightness of it all and either applaud or start making out themselves? I don't think so.

I mean, don't get me wrong. Nine times out of ten, I watch that scene and it gets to me. I swoon, as I'm supposed to, and I gaze adoringly at the guy and wish Oscar could channel that guy once in a while because I'm only human and I like to believe in fairy tales, too. But that other time out of ten, I'm sitting there wondering why the movie didn't come with a barf bag because really. There's sweet and romantic and then there's contrived and stupid and when you cross the line, the cloying saccharine sweetness of it all is too much for any one person to take.

And I really wish "Because I Said So" had understood the difference.

Would You Like Fries With That?

2007-06-04T21:21:00.000-07:00

Turtle is testing out a new career path this week. Not that he's given up on being a sniper or a serial killer, but he is considering alternate vocations of the variety that won't get him arrested. This week it's food service. Yesterday, he picked up his doodle pad, walked over to me and asked what I would like to eat. He made notations on his pad, then walked into the kitchen and came back to hand me imaginary platters full of food. And a glass of ice water. Because if nothing else, he is expert at keeping my water glass full.

This probably would have entertained him for hours, this taking of our dinner orders, but Oscar and I started to run out of things we wanted to eat, even in an imaginary sense. We ordered steak, sushi, grilled salmon, tortilla-crusted tilapia, roasted vegetables, squid salad, glasses of wine, and pretty much everything else we could think of to order because no matter how many times Turtle made his notations on his doodle pad, it was never enough.

Still, I'm thinking that he is ill-suited to the food service industry. As much as he seemed to enjoy taking our orders and as efficient as he was at serving our food in a timely manner, there remained one significant problem: no matter what we ordered, Turtle brought us hot dogs and water. So unless he's aiming no higher than a job at Wienerschnitzel, I'm thinking he's better off sniping. If I start saving my money now, I might even be able to afford his bail.

Double Points If It's Chocolate

2007-05-31T20:58:00.001-07:00

There is one thing I didn't take into account when I decided that it was time to level our yard and start from scratch: the overgrown shrubs and trees did provide quite a bit of shade to the front of the house. Why is this important? Well, aside from the fact that the shade did help a bit to keep the electric bill a little lower while we attempted to cool the house down from "broiling," the overgrown tree in front of Turtle's room, in particular, was of assistance when it came to regulating the amount of light that entered his room in the morning. Why is THAT important? Well, apparently my child is a little sensitive to light. So with that tree gone and the summer upon us, his morning wake up call has been coming earlier and earlier each passing morning.

This morning, Turtle woke me up at 5:55. In the morning. Did I mention it was early? In the morning? He walked into our bedroom with a big grin and a "Good morning, Mommy" and an "It's not early! It's bright out!" To which Mommy responded by rolling over, looking at the time, wincing and saying "Oh, you have GOT to be KIDDING." I mean, the kid had a point: It was indeed bright out. But the logic that got him from Point A) it is light out, to Point B) therefore, it is not early, was lacking in a certain je ne sais quoi. So, swallowing a sigh, I sent him back to bed, and to his credit, he actually went. But it did cause some discussion between Oscar and me about how to rectify this little problem we're having with the sun. And the son.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, after dragging Turtle around the mall in an effort to drain any last bits of energy he had before shipping him off for a nap, I decided that there was really only one option at this point: taping aluminum foil to the windows.

I can hear McMama laughing already. See, the last time we went to New York for a visit, we had to tape aluminum foil to the windows for the same reason. And it was particularly necessary there because of the three hour time difference. So the big joke during our visit was that Turtle and I were turning McMama and Company into drug dealers, cooking up meth in their upstairs bedroom, and whatever would the neighbors think?

Of course, here, it's a different story. Our neighbors already assume we're drug dealers. After letting the yard get all overgrown and nasty, and never introducing ourselves, and having a couple different people (like Hotass and Snark's Mistress) come and go, letting themselves in with their own keys, we figure our neighbors have already ratted us out to local law enforcement. So I'm not expecting too much trouble now that we've put tin foil on one of the bedroom windows. They probably figure it's par for the course.

In fact, I'm hoping that maybe with this latest development, our neighbors will start bringing over baked goods, in an effort to win us over and score some deals on some really good shit. I think I'm going to hold out for a cheesecake. Cookies and brownies are all well and good, but I can make those. No, to get the really good shit, you need to bust out the big guns. And nothing says "Be my supplier of illegal narcotics" quite like a homemade cheesecake. Wouldn't you agree?

Would You Like Pepper With That?

2007-05-30T13:38:00.000-07:00

I would like to start by saying that it makes it really difficult to get back into a regular posting groove when you have the sneaking suspicion you have broken a finger. Now, granted, it's only my little pinky finger on my right hand, but still. You have no idea how often you use that finger until you suspect you have broken it. And before you ask me what I did to it, I have NO IDEA. Oscar is baffled by my ability to forget important things like "OMG, where did that MASSIVE BRUISE come from???" but when you have a three year old kicking, poking, elbowing and otherwise attacking you all day long, you learn to shake off the various hurts you accumulate in a day fairly quickly. So I don't know. I just know it hurts.

And now, on to the fun stuff. I was watching Turtle play with a pepper shaker today and was reminded of a moment from my own childhood. Back in the second grade, I was given a test to determine if I qualified for the "gifted" program at my school. Now, for the purposes of today's story, I'm not going to get into how that test led to quite a few of us having some of the most miserable academic careers EVER, but suffice it to say we will get back to it at some point. In any event, I scored high enough on the test to get into the Extended Learning Program the following year. That meant that once a week for the rest of my time in elementary school, I was pulled out of my normal class and placed in a class with the other "gifted" students, where we worked on logic problems and did experiments and learned critical thinking skills.

Looking back on it now, I'm a little resentful of the way I was pigeonholed as a "brain" and was saddled with all of the attendant expectations, but at the time, I LOVED my ELP classes. In fact, at the time, I loved being considered one of the "smart ones." It was like being a member of an elite group. Not to mention the fact that those logic problems and experiments were damn fun.

In fact, one of those really fun experiments had something to do with pepper. I don't remember the specifics, but I do remember looking at the pepper shaker and thinking about how pepper is supposed to make you sneeze. And being a "gifted" student, and a somewhat analytical type, I started wondering what about the pepper caused the sneezing. And then I started wondering if it was really true that pepper makes everyone sneeze, or if some people just have an allergic reaction to the pepper and THAT'S what causes the sneezing. So I decided to perform an experiment of my own.

I snorted the pepper.

Yeah. You heard me. I snorted the pepper. A lot of pepper.

And I was a "gifted" student.

I'd be surprised that they didn't bump me back down to my regular class except for the fact that I tried very hard to conceal the fact that I, a "gifted" student, had just snorted a pinch of pepper into my nasal passages. On purpose. I may have been stupid enough to do the deed, but at least I was smart enough to cover it up.

Needless to say, I learned a little bit about the properties of pepper that day. Such as, it is never, NEVER a good idea to willfully shove pepper up your nose, unless you want to claw at your nose for the rest of the day and beg for a quick death. Just in case you were curious.

YAY! Vacation!

2007-05-22T23:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I may be a bundle of neuroses, but at least I have something to look forward to: my upcoming trip to New York to visit with McMama. In less than a month, Turtle and I will be boarding a plane to enjoy almost two weeks getting spoiled by Oscar's family. Not to say that visiting with Oscar's family doesn't come with its own bundle of neuroses. After all, McMama has a new playmate in Oscar's step-brother's wife, and I'm feeling an intense need to pee on her so she remembers that SHE WAS MINE FIRST! But I've been practicing my growling and spitting, so I think I'm completely prepared to meet the challenge.

I always look forward to my visits with Oscar's family, and this trip is no exception. We don't really have many plans at this point, although McMama has, out of deference to me, made some noise about finding a gym so we can work out together. Of course, I'm not feeling too confident about the odds of that actually happening, particularly since she whimpers and starts calling out for her mommy every time I talk to her about my workout routine. But I suppose those two weeks away would be a nice first step towards dealing with the fact that my obsession with my weight/working out/diet is bordering on the unhealthy. In fact, I'm thinking that perhaps I need to suggest that McMama and I go to a movie while I'm there, since the last time we went to a movie together, we polished off a huge bag of popcorn and a few packages of candy, not to mention the two vats of soda. We could consider it a nod to my mental health. (I'm all about the creative justifications.)

I just wish we could figure out a way to split our time between our home here and their home there a little more effectively throughout the year, because this "only getting to see Oscar's family a couple weeks a year" thing is SO not working out for us. And yet, moving to New York completely would just cause the same problem in reverse, in that we wouldn't be able to see MY family more than once a year. It's a crappy situation, frankly. Can't someone invent a transporter device, already, so Turtle and I could pop in and out at McMama's house for the day and be back in time for dinner? Please get on that.

Anyway, I'm hoping that by the time we leave for the airport, I will be in a slightly more stable mental state, but if not, I will look forward to the time on McMama's porch to cure my ills. And hell, even if it doesn't cure my ills, the week I spend out in New York ahead of Oscar will certainly cure HIS ills. After all, sending the crazy lady away for a week does make the heart grow fonder. Or something like that.

I Bet They'll Name A New Diagnosis After Me

2007-05-21T17:23:00.000-07:00

Well, fresh from the weekend, I think it's safe to say that I am mostly recovered from HateFest 2007. My mood is much improved, although I still can't say what it was that had me so cranky and bitchy to begin with. Still, I am not complaining. Neither are Oscar or Turtle, who, by late last week, were making great strides in their quest to build a bomb shelter, the better to avoid Mommy and her Mood of Doom. No, at this point, we're all just happy that Mommy's not going nuclear every five minutes.

Of course, spending all of that time trying to figure out what exactly was causing my psychotic breaks, while not resulting in any kind of epiphany about that particular subject, did result in a somewhat surprising self-realization: I am completely and totally neurotic. Not that I use the word "neurotic" when discussing my condition with others. No, instead I go for the generic word "goofy." I'm "goofy" about things. It somehow sounds better and less alarming when I put it that way. But we all know that's just code for the fact that I? Am a total fruitcake.

Then again, anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time would already know this. The evidence is ALL over these pages. Like the series of posts about my diet, for example. Those only scratch the surface of how obsessive and neurotic I am about my weight, how much exercise I get, and what I put into my mouth. Because if you were a fly on the wall at my house, you would know that if I have a cookie one day, and the next day I step on the scale and the numbers read even half a pound higher than they read the day before, I will not only berate myself at length about my "weakness," I will also put myself through an extra half hour at the gym to balance out that cookie and work off that half pound. Never mind the fact that the damn cookie by itself couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces and thus had next to nothing to do with the weight fluctuation. My twisted little mind has a warped perception of cause and effect.

Not neurotic enough for you? Okay, how about this: Oscar and I were less vigilant than we should have been about birth control this month, and despite the fact that my period is not due for another couple of weeks, I already have myself convinced that I'm pregnant. This, of course, means that every weird hiccup is a pregnancy "symptom." Hell, at this point, I'm making stuff up to prove my hypothesis. ("Was that mole there before? SEE? SEE? I MUST be pregnant!" "Honey, that's a speck of dust." "NO! It only LOOKS like a speck of dust. But look! I'll blow on it and you'll see! It's a pregnancy mole!" *blow* "-----" "Yeah, okay, it was a speck of dust. But that still doesn't mean I'm not pregnant!") Even when I try to convince myself that every little "symptom" I'm experiencing is undoubtedly psychosomatic in nature (because seriously, my uterus, though crotchety and sensitive, still has to work within the laws of physics and could not possibly be sending pregnancy messages to my body prior to actual ovulation) I still find myself rocking back and forth, mumbling "how could I let this happen?" ad nauseum. I know. It's disturbing how disturbed I am.

So I guess between my week-long freak-out-a-go-go and my recent realization that I am a smidge (if by "smidge" you mean "whole helluva lot") goofy, it's time to suck up what little remains of my pride and look into some professional assistance. I mean, it really shouldn't be this hard to keep things like this in proportion, right? Aren't most people able to cope with life's little setback and uncertainties with a little more aplomb? Yeah, that's what I thought. So I apparently need to talk to someone and see about getting my head screwed on straight. Because, seriously, it's not that I mind the big hole in the backyard that's serving as Oscar's and Turtle's current base of operations. It's just that we spent an awful lot of money on the landscaping and I'd like to enjoy it a little bit longer before the boys start putting the barbed wire fencing and the "XY Chromosomes ONLY! Double X's KEEP OUT!" signs.

Grrr....Argh

2007-05-16T13:37:00.000-07:00

Sorry things have been so quiet around here lately. (Wow, look at those cobwebs!) First, I hated everything and everyone, and then it was Snark's Mistress's birthday, and then it was Mother's Day and McMama's birthday, and then it was my birthday, and then I hated everything and everyone again. All that hating and celebrating and hating again left little time for posting amusing anecdotes about my oh-so-fascinating life.

That's not to say that my posting today means that I am cured of hating everything and everyone. Just that I was feeling guilty for not checking in and entertaining you and the guilty feelings were distracting me from my very busy schedule of hating things. And quite frankly I don't need the guilt on top of the hate, so here I am.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure that I have much to say that isn't "Grrrrrrrrr....you suck." Quite honestly, I'm not even 100% sure I know why I'm in such a bad mood. Nothing really pops out at me as a reason for my discontent. Except that despite my best efforts, I appear to be gaining weight again and I don't know if that is because I'm gaining more muscle than I am losing fat right now or if it's because my metabolism hates me as much as I hate everything and everyone right now. Either way, it is a cause for grumpiness, but not the end-all, be-all, I don't think.

No, I think I'm mostly just in a pissy mood for no reason whatsoever, which in and of itself is a reason to be pissy, because if I HAD a reason, I could fix whatever was causing the pissiness, but NOT having a reason means there's nothing I can do except wait out the pissiness and hope that someday soon, I'll be in a better mood. It's not looking good.

Anyway, I hope all of you are having a much better couple of weeks than I am, and have all sorts of fun plans for the weekend. As for myself, if things don't improve shortly, I'm abandoning my diet in favor of getting healthier emotionally and I will be shoveling Ben and Jerry's into my mouth until my crappy mood says "uncle." Feel free to contact me if you would like to donate a pint and/or a spoon.

Tidbit

2007-05-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

Last night, I held hands with Patrick Dempsey, walked arm-in-arm with George Clooney, and shopped for power tools with Matt Damon. I am LOVING my subconscious right now.

Edited to add: it just occurred to me that perhaps all of those dreams were my brain's way of wishing me a "happy birthday." Either way, I'm not complaining. Instead, I'm going to try to go back to sleep and see if I can dream of making a porn movie with Eric Dane. I'm not sure if that's quite what they mean when they say "find a happy place" but if it works for me, I don't see the problem.

No, Really, The Hangover Lasted Four Days

2007-05-07T21:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, first of all, what is the point of going to the nice little local coffee shop with the free wireless connection if the free wireless connection isn't working? For THIS, I ordered a fatty, sugary, coffee-y concoction that is so very clearly NOT on the diet plan? I think not.

So. Where were we? Oh. OH! My night out with Hotass. Well, let's see. We ate some sushi. We saw Dirty Dancing in the theaters and clapped with the rest of the audience when Patrick Swayze managed to say "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" with a straight face. We talked about what it would have been like if Samuel L. Jackson had been cast as Johnny Castle. "Nobody puts motherf***in' Baby in a motherf***in' corner, motherf***ers!" We laughed uproariously at that, because we are losers who find ourselves entirely too amusing for our own good. And then we went drinking. And oh my, did we drink.

Now, I'm not usually a drinker. One glass of wine is usually enough to get me to start taking clothes off, and much more than that, and you'll find me passed out in a corner, drooling on your nice carpet. But considering my life lately, a night of drunken debauchery seemed in order, so drunkenly debauch we did.

So let me start by saying that the disadvantage to going to bars where Hotass is well known was that all the regulars came over to talk to and flirt with Hotass, leaving her loser friend (that would be me) twiddling her thumbs and wondering what it was going to take to get a cute boy to flirt with her. After all, I was already showing my cleavage off to its best advantage and I was wearing the do-me heels. Has the bar scene really degenerated to the point that I have to flash my perfectly shaved private bits before I can get someone to talk to me? Methinks I'm too old for this crap....

On the other hand, going to bars where Hotass is well known did mean that we had our drinks poured strong and some of those boys who came over to talk to and flirt with Hotass were also buying. Which I guess was an advantage, considering the whole "drunken debauchery" goal. So. We drank a lot. A LOT. And for someone who is not used to drinking (that would be me), it meant a lot of wobbly trips to the bathroom and a lot of the world swaying while I tried desperately to stand still. And copious giggling. And then more wobbly trips to the bathroom because they aren't kidding about alcohol being a diuretic.

So of course, the next day, I paid for my night of excess in that it felt like my whole body was made of cotton. I managed to avoid a massively debilitating hangover by alternating my Reeses Peanut Butter shots with glasses of ice water, but I'm not going to lie and tell you that I remained unaffected. Instead I will just say that wow, they aren't kidding about alcohol being a depressant, either. I was extraordinarily unmotivated the day after. Which just made me wonder how people do this on a regular basis. Not that I'm looking to make a habit of it, myself, but it would be nice if anyone had tips they could give me about how to drink like a fish without feeling a half a step behind the rest of the universe the next day. Unless the tip is "don't drink so much, dumbass," in which case, I figured that part out, thanks.

But all in all, it was a really fun night and I'm glad Hotass and I had a chance to connect and do something like that, because breaking into her social calendar often takes an act of God. In whom I don't really believe, so you can imagine how well that turns out. Looks like that sacrificial goat was worth it, after all.

Blah Blah Blah Get Over It Already

2007-05-02T09:54:00.000-07:00

Well, I started a post this afternoon, but got about halfway through before I realized it read something like this:

Blah blah blah Flagstaff. Blah blah blah shopping. Blah blah blah trying on swim suits. Blah blah blah eating bad foods. Blah blah blah poor self image. Blah blah blah guy asking Hotass about her "hot friend" (and not meaning me.) Blah blah blah PMS. Blah blah blah WHYYYYYYYYYYY, GOD, WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Blah blah blah want to face plant into a pile of greasy food with a sugar chaser. Blah blah blah I suck.

But I decided that wouldn't really be fair to you. So I erased it all and am now going to take a shower so I can accompany Hotass to the 20th anniversary screening of Dirty Dancing at our local movie theater. I will be wearing The Shoes. If all goes well, I will come back with an improved attitude (and maybe some phone numbers, as I intend to strut to the Bee Gees soundtrack in my mind.) And maybe tomorrow I will have some fun stories to tell instead of more whining. We can only hope.

Mini-Vacation, Here I Come

2007-04-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

I'm heading up to Flagstaff this evening to spend yet another weekend with the incomparable Snark's Mistress. Normally, this type of visit would entail us holing up in her room, spending hours and hours watching Stargate SG-1 and only emerging to forage for food. But this weekend, we actually have plans to go out. To the outdoors. Outside. Where other people are. I know, I'm kind of scared, too. Hold me?

This is our last great Flagstaff hurrah before SM comes back to Phoenix for the summer, so we intend to do it right. That means that we will be doing a not-insignificant amount of shopping, quite a bit of restaurant-hopping, and some late-night gossiping. Oh, all right, I'm sure there will be some SG-1 watching in there somewhere too. We're only human, after all.

We are also planning to spend an evening with Hotass, who will coincidentally also be in Flagstaff this weekend because her boyfriend?...boy friend?....lov-ah?...significant other?...whatever you want to call him?...has a gig up there this weekend. So we will go watch his band play and hopefully get to know him well enough to decide if he's good enough for our Hotass. If we feel really inspired, we'll make little scorecards and flash them as appropriate. "Oooh, that joke fell flat! Judges' score? It looks like a 7.0 from Cymber and a disappointing 5.5 from Snark's Mistress. He's really going to have to nail this next joke if he expects to pass through to the next round." I hope he's the sturdy sort, or this could get ugly.

Of course, the thing that really concerns me about this trip is that Snark's Mistress and I both have PMS. Which means that our defenses are down and our cravings for unhealthy food are in full-swing. And while we normally are good at talking each other down from our self-destructive tendencies, when we're both hormonal, all bets are off. There has already been much talk of deep-fat fried Mexican food and insanely greasy burgers and fries. Still, if we are able to stay away from the Ben and Jerry's, I will consider it a victory. Hell, if I can come back home without gaining back the almost 10 pounds I have lost in the last two months, I will consider it a victory.

But I'm not getting out the ticker tape for the parade quite yet.

PMS: Pretty Much Sociopathic

2007-04-25T22:35:00.000-07:00

Well, apparently my menstrual cycle is regular as clockwork because it has been 4 weeks since my last hormonal freak-out, and today I was riding the Mood Swing Express straight to Crazyville. Snark's Mistress made the mistake earlier of asking how I was doing. Five or six hysterical rants later, she was wondering if PMS provided enough grounds to have me involuntarily committed.

It's almost like having an out-of-body experience. I can see myself acting like a crazed lunatic, but I can't do anything about it. And yet, when I return to my body, it's almost as though I forget how completely off the beam I was, because the thought of actually going out and procuring some sort of medical relief for this psychosis seems like an overreaction. "It's not that bad," I think. And yet, it so is.

At this point, I wonder if I could find a daycare that could take care of Turtle for one day a month, so when the hormones send me around the bend, I can just go underground and eschew human contact for the day. Of course, given that the most common byproduct of these hormonal freakouts is disproportionate rage, I'd probably just get pissed at the amount of money I'd have to spend for that one day a month and end up not taking him anyway. (Of course, if I were any kind of rational, I'd realize that the money spent now for day care is going to be significantly less than the money we'll spend later on intensive therapy, but rational is not what we're about at this time of the month.)

In any event, if the pattern holds, tomorrow I'll be back to my normal self. Whether that's good or bad is for others to decide, but at least I won't be biting their heads off before they make their judgments. In the meantime, if any of you are forced to deal with me, I apologize in advance. I promise you the other 29 days of the month, I'm perfectly pleasant. I AM! I puke up bunnies and puppies and little pink hearts, REMEMBER? GAH! Would you keep UP already? Do I have to do EVERYTHING for you? You suck!

Hmmm...something tells me I went off the beam again. I think it's time I headed back down into my hermit hole, don't you? I'll reemerge when I can be trusted to have a reasonable conversation without sobbing uncontrollably or ripping your vocal cords out your nose. Thanks for your understanding.

If We Bottled It, We Could Call It Love Potion #9

2007-04-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

Uh-oh. It looks like Turtle's romance with his little gym girlfriend is taking a dramatic turn. When I came to pick him up after doing an hour of cardio (and thinking about the cute trainer....*sigh*) the very lovely women who run the kids' care practically ran me down in their eagerness to tell me all about the latest chapter of the Young and the Potty-Trained. It seems that today, Turtle's girlfriend, who I think we'll call "Kitty" in light of the fact that when Turtle says her actual name, it sounds much like the name of another, less flattering, animal, threw down with another little girl over the attention she was paying Turtle.

Apparently, Kitty started a tug of war with this other girl, using Turtle as the rope. And when that wasn't enough to deter the competition, Kitty very snottily told the other little girl, "Why don't you go play with someone else? Your mommy is going to pick you up soon, anyway!" I wasn't clear about whether or not that was enough to show the other girl whose man Turtle actually is, because we were all laughing too hard to make much sense of anything that was said after that. Although the pictures they showed me on their camera phones pretty much said it all.

In any event, at least one thing is now abundantly clear to me:

There is something in the water at my gym. First, I start having fantasies about hot monkey sex with the cute trainer. Then Turtle starts living most guys' ultimate fantasy: being fought over by two attractive women. And while I certainly don't object to the former, I have a few qualms about the latter. Specifically, I am not quite sure I'm ready to have a sex education seminar for Turtle, complete with handy diagrams and visual aids, when he's still young enough to need assistance using the potty.

Maybe I'll just pass this one off on Oscar. He deserves the opportunity to meaningfully contribute to his son's development, don't you think? Besides, Oscar was never much of a player, so the likelihood that I'll have to worry about his sex ed seminar including such gems as "How to Juggle Multiple Honeys" and "Plausible Deniability: An Introduction" seem slim. Then again, he is a man, and men are notoriously stupid about women. Looks like I'll be seeing to Turtle's education, after all.

I Bet I Would Have To Pay Extra For That Training Session

2007-04-23T17:15:00.001-07:00

So, I was on the leg extension machine at the gym today when the cute trainer I spoke of waaaaaaaaaaaay back when walked by me. In the space of about 5 seconds, I went from wondering if I was going to be able to finish my set without taking a break to having a very brief but VERY graphic sex fantasy, starring said trainer. In my fantasy, the cute trainer asked me if he could help me with anything and in response, I cocked my eyebrow (I really wish I could do that in real life. The properly cocked eyebrow is often more eloquent than the most cleverly worded phrase.) looked him dead in the eye and said, "Yes. You can fuck me." Rather than being taken aback, the cute trainer responded with a cocky smile and then my fantasy fast-forwarded to the part where he had me splayed out on a counter in a back room and was giving me a MOST energetic "personal training session."

I'm not sure that I started blushing after that, but I do know that my rhythm on the machine was SERIOUSLY disrupted. First of all, while I am a flirt, I'm not the kind of girl who is very confident in her own sex appeal. Chalk it up to poor self esteem or a bad body image or whatever, but I've always seen myself as the kind of girl the guys make their best friend or counselor, not the one they run to when they are after a booty call. And, of course, at that time, with the sweat pouring off of me and my breath ragged from exertion, I wasn't exactly feeling like Salma Hayek reborn. So it caught me my surprise.

Then there's the fact that I am just not given to fantasizing in that way. And even when I do, my fantasies rarely feature people I have gotten close enough to actually touch. This is one area in which Oscar and I are completely opposite. Oscar has a rich fantasy life and will often whisper naughty things in my ear about things he'd thought about doing or would like to do and I'll start to squirm thinking about what he's saying. Then he'll ask me what I've been thinking about and I'll come up with something particularly arousing like "balancing the checkbook," or "doing the taxes," or cleaning the house." Gets him really hot, let me tell you.

Which is why, instead of getting all freaked out about what this fantasy might mean about the stability of my marriage or my feelings for my husband or whatever, I am instead relishing the fact that for a brief moment today, I actually thought about doing dirty, naughty, sexy things with a really HAWT guy with a smokin' body. I consider this a milestone in my growth as a sexual being. (At least, that is how I am rationalizing it to myself. And Oscar, in case he asks.) After all, I am 30 years old and doesn't that mean I should be hitting my sexual peak soon? (No, you don't need to leave comments telling me that the whole "women reach their sexual peaks in their 30's" thing is a myth. We're rationalizing here. Get on board, would you please?) Right, so I figure this is just another stop on the path to complete sexual fulfillment. Or at least it would be if I could get the cute trainer to call me.

Err...did I say that last part out loud?

Highlights

2007-04-20T22:55:00.001-07:00

Things have been crazy the past couple of days, so no time for a c0hesive post. Instead, let's take a look inside my brain and see what I've been pondering lately, shall we?

* For me, about the only upside to going through "personal issues" and not having a tube of brownie mix to fall back on is that I am extraordinarily productive. In the past couple of days, I have cleaned both of my bathrooms (for the second time in six months! I get a prize for that, right?), vacuumed all but two rooms in my house, done laundry, cleaned dishes, gone to the gym every day, and bought three pairs of shoes. Not that I wouldn't mind catching a break from the gods of karma, but my house has never looked better, I'm losing weight, and I've got kicky feet. Things could be worse, I suppose. (Not that I need any more help, UNIVERSE. Doing fine on messing up my own life, thanks.)

* To compound my "personal issues" and make my life that much worse, Turtle is going through a particularly nasty whining phase. I don't think he's managed to complete a sentence without whining all week. Coinciding with this phase, he is also going through an extra sensitive phase. I can't so much as level a hairy eyeball in his direction without him prostrating himself at my feet, whining "Sorry Mommy!" over and over again. It would be funny if it wasn't so annoying. I swear, people are going to start thinking I beat this kid, and really, I'm not THAT bad. I only use the belt when he's REALLY disobeying me. (Just kidding.) (No, really, I don't need a visit from CPS. I have enough going on.)

* Speaking of Turtle, did I mention he has a girlfriend at the gym? Oscar is jealous, having never been half the ladies man that Turtle is, and also a little perplexed at how he managed to spawn such a Casanova. Clearly, Oscar and I haven't gotten out and about much lately or he would remember that his wife is a flirting dervish and all of Turtle's best moves come from me. Which I guess makes up for the fact that Turtle was cursed with Oscar's feet. He's going to need all of those moves if he's going to keep his girlfriend after she sees him barefoot.

* It's almost swimsuit season again. I would like to say that living this healthier lifestyle and starting to lose some weight has given me a better body image and has made me more tolerant of those little scraps of spandex/lycra blend, but the fact of the matter is that I really think swimsuits were invented by a psycho misogynist with a torture fetish. They're like little localized weapons of mass destruction, targeting your ego and destroying it in one fell swoop. I think I'll be staying indoors this summer.

I think that's it for now. I sense we're getting ready for a brain shut-down sequence, which will be partly fueled by Tylenol PM (if you are unfamiliar with Tylenol PM, I have but one thing to say: It is Teh Awesome.) So have a good weekend and I'll see you all back here on Monday, barring the next unforseen monumental crisis the universe decides to throw at me.

I Am So Lame, Part 3

2007-04-18T17:11:00.000-07:00

You know, we are long past-due for another peek into how seriously lame I am. I mean, really. Some of you seem to be under the impression that I am cool, when in fact, I am a complete and total dork. And I hate to think that I am in some way deceiving you. So let's talk for a minute about my nerdy habit of coming up with new lyrics to popular songs which somehow fit my current circumstances, shall we?

I believe it started with the song "I Believe I Can Fly" by R. Kelly. If I recall this correctly (and Oscar will set me straight if I'm making this up, I'm sure) we were trying to figure out what to have for dinner one night when one of us suggested Chinese food. At the time, we frequented an establishment just down the street from our house which has a pretty kick-ass combination fried rice. So, before you know it, I'm singing:

I believe in fried rice
I believe it is very nice
Think about it every night and day
Prep my wok and fry away

Now, that was bad enough, but after regaling Hotass with my feat of absolute ~~insanity~~ brilliance, she had to go and contribute the next few lines:

I believe I'd like more
It gets me going like a dirty whore
I believe in fried rice
I believe in fried rice

Of course, the crazy thing about this is that the song as it originally written is difficult enough to get out of your head. But when you start putting your own stamp on it, it's that much worse. I would sing this over and over again, both out loud and in my head for days on end. And I have to say, while I love fried rice, I don't necessarily love it so much that I need 90% of my brain power focused on it for any length of time. Nor, really, do I have that much passion for the song, either my version or R. Kelly's. So I'm glad that one has pretty much been left in the late 90's, where it belongs.

On the other hand, John Denver's song "Sunshine On My Shoulders" is a bit more timeless, which goes a long way to explaining why I will frequently bust out with my version over the breakfast table:

Syrup on my pancakes makes me happy
Syrup on my hash browns makes me cry
Syrup in my sausage is so lovely
Syrup almost always makes me high

Hmm...now that I'm looking at this on paper, I am noticing a trend. I make up a lot of songs about food and eating. You would think that would be Oscar's milieu, given his reputation as our friendly neighborhood foodie. But I guess since I'm the musically inclined member of the family (not to mention the member of the family most likely to embarrass herself in public), it's up to me.

Speaking of embarrassing, I'm almost hesitant to share this last example of my complete dorkiness, because it's almost too lame, even for me. But really, I can't, in good conscience, let any of you go on thinking that I am in any way, shape, or form a normal member of society. So here we go. For Easter, Oscar dyed a beautiful green egg for me that said "Cymber-licious." He wanted me to take a picture of it for my blog, which I really tried to do, but the pictures did not want to come out well AT ALL. It must have been a really shy egg or something. It was not ready for its close up, Mr. DeMille. In any event, he was very proud of this egg. But of course, MY first thought was not "Oh how sweet" or "Oh how cute" or some other variation on how cool it was that Oscar made me an egg to post on my blog. No. Instead, MY first thought was:

I don't think you're ready for this jelly bean
I don't think you're ready for this jelly bean
I don't think you're ready for this
My egg is too Cymber-licious for you, baby

And this is why Destiny's Child never put out a special Easter album.

I would like to say that this is the last song I will ever butcher with my own, less commercially marketable, lyrics. But you and I would both know that I was lying through my teeth. So suffice it to say that this is the last one I will be sharing with you. (Unless, of course, I come up with another one of such overwhelming brilliance, or dorkiness, that it would be a crime not to share it. Then, all bets are off.) Still, I hope this was a large enough sample to prove that I'm not joking when I say I am completely and totally lame. And if not, I'm sure I'll think of more evidence to share with you later. There does seem to be an overwhelming abundance of it, after all.

Update

2007-04-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

Hello? Is anyone still he- Oh, HI! Remember me? Your occasionally witty but always neurotic host? Yeah. Sorry it's been quiet on the Cymber front lately. As I mentioned....what? a week ago?...the Cymber household was felled by a particularly nasty cold/flu type illness. Turtle was feverish off and on for several days and as he started getting better, I started getting worse. It was a long week of "Mommy, come play with me!" and "Mommy doesn't feel very good, buddy" and resultant "bad mommy guilt" and disappointed Turtles and misery and anguish and torture. Good times.

Yesterday was the first day I think I felt 100%, and even that was tempered by a host of personal problems that brought me down. One of those was the stunning realization that the universe has it in for me. See, the thing is....well....it has to do with.....um....you know, let's just start at the beginning.

I have a long history of comfort eating. In fact, my history of comfort eating is probably responsible for at least half of my current weight problem. Bad things would happen and I would down a pint of Ben and Jerry's or a couple of candy bars in order to feel better. Then I got in the habit of eating that ice cream or those candy bars and even though I wouldn't eat them every day, I would feel like I needed something sugary after every meal. Before I knew it, my daily intake of crappy food greatly exceeded my intake of fruits and vegetables, and well, you know the rest.

Now, though, I'm making a conscious effort to change those habits. But it's very difficult to overcome 30 years of programming in a few months. Which brings us back to the present. I've got personal problems. And I'm doing my very best to deal with them in positive ways (and probably failing miserably, but that's beside the point.) I went back to the gym yesterday for the first time since I fell ill. I've been abusing Snark's Mistress's status as an almost-psychologist. And I've otherwise kind of withdrawn from all of the other things in my life so I can take the time to work on me and getting things fixed. And through this process, I have avoided the stash of Easter candy still in the cupboard. All of this represents some significant progress, in my opinion.

But even I have my limits. And yesterday at the grocery store, I came dangerously close to those limits. As I was wandering through the produce section, picking up the fruits and veggies I would need for the week, an ad on someone else's grocery cart caught my eye. You know those tubes of Pillsbury cookies? The ones that look suspiciously like this:

Yeah. Those were bad enough. Snark's Mistress and I have been known to purchase those little tubes from time to time, grab two spoons and go to town. We wouldn't even bother with the baking part. But, you know, that wasn't so bad, because I generally felt that homemade cookie dough tasted SO. MUCH. BETTER. And if I wanted cookies (or cookie dough) that badly, I was better off just making it myself. So it's not like we ever went overboard with the cookie dough tubes.

But now? NOW, Pillsbury is packaging brownie mix in a tube. BROWNIE MIX! B.R.O.W.N.I.E. M.I.X. The cookie dough was bad, but the brownie mix is EVIL. All of that fudgey chocolatey goodness? At a time when my resistance is low because I am having issues and my instinct is to face plant into a vat of sugar as it is? CURSE YOU, Pillsbury! Which brings me back to my original point which is that the universe kind of hates me.

I did walk away from the tubey brownie goodness last night, which means the score is still Cymber 1, Universe 0. But I'm not spiking the ball, yet. It doesn't look like things will be improving in my personal life anytime soon, and if things get much worse, I place no expectations on my ability to stay away from the Very. Evil. Brownie. Tubes. So, if you're in the Phoenix Metro area, and you see a woman on the floor of the grocery store in a pile of empty brownie tubes, with chocolate all over her face and a crazed look in her eye? Feel free to say hi. I'd love to hear from you.

Illness Central, Population: 2

2007-04-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my little germ factory, I am once again sick with a flu or cold-like illness. The timing of this particular celebration of bacteria is particularly unfortunate because I was supposed to go to the Diamondbacks game tonight and meet Hotass's new...boyfriend?...guy friend with whom she frequently swaps spit?...lov-ah? They have yet to grace their new status with any kind of label, so suffice it to say I was supposed to meet the new man in her life this evening.

Instead, I was stuck at home, watching Good Eats (he made crepes tonight! And I don't think I have time to make crepes this weekend! GAH!) and wishing for death to come quickly. Unfortunately, Turtle is rebounding from his Viruspalooza experience much faster than I am, which means that it will probably linger in me ten times longer, as I will not have the advantage of being able to sleep my way to good health. Instead, I will be chasing a three year old with unlimited energy around the house until I collapse and Oscar comes home to find the cats eating my remains and Turtle eating all the candy that I don't let him eat when I'm not lying dead on the floor. (Oh, don't mind me. I just get morbid when I don't feel well.)

All this by way of saying that I will return when I don't feel like death warmed over. Thanks.

How Was Your Easter?

2007-04-09T07:41:00.001-07:00

Turtle: Hey Daddy! Look! (handing Oscar his candy container)
Oscar: Oh, you've got M&M's in there, don't you?
Turtle: (nodding) You have one?
Oscar: Oh, you want me to have one?
Turtle: Yeah. Just one. (holding a finger up to clearly indicate the amount of candy Oscar was approved to ingest)
Oscar: Okay, just one. (holding out one M&M, to indicate that he was clear on his rationed amount)

Oscar eats the candy.

Turtle: Okay. You done. (taking back his candy container)
Cymber: *snort*

Somehow I think between the big fake bunny and the big basket of candy, Turtle has missed the true significance of Easter.

Hey Look! Another Post About My Stupid Diet! Sort Of.

2007-04-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

So, being on a restricted diet and eating mostly fruits and vegetables, some low-fat yogurt and lots of egg-white omelets, you would think I would do myself a favor and stay away from things that might trigger my cravings, wouldn't you? Well, you would, but you would not be me, which is why I am instead watching hour upon hour of the Food Network. In some respects, this is a good thing, because most of the things they make on the Food Network, I am very unlikely to attempt and/or have the ingredients for in my refrigerator. However, they have been known to create delicacies that tempt me into testing the recipes in my very own kitchen and that's where it gets dangerous.

Last night, I was watching a DVR recording of an episode of Good Eats. If you are not familiar with Alton Brown, I am afraid you are missing out on one of the great geek wonders of the universe, as Mr. Brown manages to be both informative in his scientific knowledge of food and goofy in his willingness to embarass himself in whatever way possible to make cooking more accessible to the lay person. In short, he is brilliant. And last night, as I watched my pre-recorded episode of Good Eats, I was struck dumb, as he made what is quite possibly my favorite pastry in the world: the eclair.

Now, here's what normally happens when I watch an episode of Good Eats:
Me: Wow. That looks really good.
Oscar: Yeah, no kidding.
Me: Holy crap, that looks really damn good.
Oscar: I know.
Me: There's not a chance in hell I'm trying that recipe.
Oscar: Oh, hell no.
Because, see, while I love Alton Brown AND Good Eats, they take such a purist's approach to food that I sometimes have a hard time picturing myself going to the trouble. I have enough trouble raising two kids. Er. Um. I mean, one kid and a husband. I don't have time to spend umpteen hours smoking my own bacon. It's just not going to happen. If I can get a pound of bacon for a few bucks at the grocery store, I really don't care that it has preservatives in it because it means I can spend that much more time getting an elbow to the (VERY TENDER!) breast from Turtle, who, I believe, is practicing for his pro-wrestling debut. The Wicked Witch of the East would be so proud.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, the eclairs. So normally, I would never even conceive of trying out one of the Good Eats recipes. But the eclairs! Oh, sweet baby Jeebus, the eclairs! I love them so. And when I buy them in the store, they so rarely end up being as perfect and fluffy and creamy and chocolatey as I want them to be. And the recipe looked relatively easy. And so I turned to Oscar and said, "I think I have a project for this weekend."

And some of you are, I'm sure, thinking "But your diet!" I know. I KNOW! But ECLAIRS, people! ECLAIRS! Besides, I have found that I have more willpower than I ever thought possible. Do you know that we have had 6 bags of Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs in our home over the course of the last 2 months? And did you also know that I have had exactly three (3) singular eggs? Oscar and Snark's Mistress have eaten the rest. (Don't tell them this, but I'm kind of hoping that the eggs will come to rest on their waistbands so that even if I don't end up losing weight, I will still start looking thinner by comparison.) (Okay, I kid. But wouldn't that be funny?) (Okay, not funny-ha-ha, but funny-interesting?) (I'm going to stop now before they get irate and start posting hate mail.) (Just kidding, guys! Really!)

Besides, I do allow myself one free day during the week, in which I don't stray completely away from my diet, but I do allow myself a few treats here or there, so I don't completely lose it over the idea of never eating another piece of cake again EVER, which is, quite frankly, a tragedy of such magnitude I can hardly contemplate it. I mean, seriously. Life has to be worth living, you know? Anyway, my free day falls on the weekend, so I will have the opportunity to not only bake eclairs to my heart's content, but also eat one or two. Brilliant!

And then, of course, on Monday, when I am sick of the whole "you can look but don't touch" phenomenon, I will pack up a container full of those little pastries and send them to work with Oscar. I figure if he can share them with his office, I can kill two birds with one stone. It will get them out of the house so I am no longer tempted. And it will quite possibly get Oscar a raise so I can afford liposuction. Hey, a girl's got to have a back-up plan.

In Which I Blather On About Dieting. Again.

2007-04-03T22:12:00.000-07:00

I'm a little obsessed. It's starting to get worrisome. Everything in my life is about what I am eating, or what I'm not eating, or whether I appear to be gaining weight or losing weight, or how my weight gain or loss makes me feel. I feel like I've become a very boring conversationalist. Although, as much as I'm worried about it, I must not be worried about it enough, because I'm about to talk about it some more. Please endeavor to contain your excitement.

So here's my thing: it's bad enough that men lose weight so much faster than women do and with half as much effort, but the fact that they also don't have to contend with PMS makes it that much more irritating. Is it too much to ask that they have to put up with a week-long festival of bloat and water-retention so that when they step on the scale, despite the fact that they've been so very good about their diet and exercise programs, they face a 5 pound weight gain? Or what about the part where, seeing the scale's number increasing over the course of a week, they have to make a decision about whether to surrender to their cravings for chocolate and pastries or to have faith that it IS just the PMS causing the weight gain and not that their efforts have been in vain?

I mean, come ON! We have to deal with the raging hormone swings that make our spouses wonder how much it might cost to hire a hit-man and whether they could cover their tracks well enough to avoid jail and still pick up the insurance payout. (Not that Oscar has said anything about that directly but I know him pretty well.) We have to deal with the discomfort and inconvenience of the cramps and the bleeding. We have to deal with pushing a wriggling, screaming watermelon out a tiny little garden hose. Do you think we could catch a break somewhere and maybe LOSE weight during our cycles instead of having to pull our fat-jeans out of the closet and trying to avoid looking directly in the mirror? Of course not.

For me? It just makes the whole healthy lifestyle/weight loss plan seem rather hopeless. And that's a dangerous thing to feel, because after "hopeless" comes "depressed" and after "depressed" comes "comfort eating" and after "comfort eating" comes "orgy of chocolate, ice cream, cake, and donuts." And as much as I love smearing pastries all over my body in spasms of ecstasy, it is kind of hard to get the chocolate frosting out of my sheets.

So far, I've managed to stay strong, but I am not placing bets on how much longer that will last. Particularly since it seems that every holiday comes with its own special candy section in my local Target store. I mean, I get the Easter thing, but if/when we get Memorial Day candy, I think I will throw in the towel. At that point, I will just have to assume that the universe wants me to gorge myself on chocolate and I will stop fighting the universe.

Why Am I Still Awake?

2007-04-01T23:04:00.000-07:00

I had a long, busy, hectic, crazy, exhausting day today. I should, by all rights, be in bed right now. Instead, I'm wasting time on the internet. Like a junkie, I need my fix. But it's not all about me, because I have something to share with you that I am SURE will improve your life. How do I know? Because I'm the Mommy and I said so.

It's an error message generator. Isn't that cool? Don't you think that's cool? No? Well, maybe that's because you haven't played around with it yet. Why don't you go here and mess around for a while. I bet you get hooked. After all, any site that allows you to create THIS kind of genius is worth a little bit of time:

Simple Math

2007-04-01T22:43:00.001-07:00

Cymber + PMS = Overwhelming Cravings for Craptastic Food

Overwhelming Cravings for Craptastic Food + Restricted Diet = Seriously Cranky Cymber

Seriously Cranky Cymber + Frustration over Progress (or lack thereof) on Restricted Diet = Cymber Caving and Ordering a Western Bacon Cheeseburger and Mint Chip Milkshake

Western Bacon Cheeseburger + Mint Chip Milkshake + Cymber's Tummy (which has grown rather accustomed to fruits, veggies and other healthier alternatives) = BLOAT CITY Population: 1,000,000 gas bubbles and counting

Final score? Crappy Food 1, Cymber 0

I just needed this recorded for posterity, so the next time I think it might be a good idea to give in to my craving for something fattening, I remember this moment.

Epilogue

2007-03-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

Me: I'm sorry I've been such a bitch today.
Oscar: It's okay.
Me: God, I really hope this really IS PMS and not pregnancy hormones or something.
Oscar: It is NOT pregnancy hormones.
Me: How do you know?
Oscar: Because if it IS pregnancy hormones, ONE of us is going to DIE.

The scary thing is, he's right.

Irrational Ranting

2007-03-29T18:22:00.001-07:00

Things that are pissing me off today:

1) Everything.

More specifically:

1) I am a light sleeper. Oscar sleeps the sleep of the dead. So when his alarm goes off in the morning, I am instantly awake and not always particularly pleased about it. Especially since Oscar has the unique ability to turn off his alarm mid-snore, leaving me staring at the ceiling and wondering if there's a chance I'll be able to get five more minutes of sleep before his alarm goes off again. (Answer: no.) Seriously. I could drop a nuclear bomb in our bedroom and Oscar and his two new heads, three new legs and extra nipple would just roll over and start snoring some more. The fact that I have no idea how to rectify this injustice without demanding separate bedrooms is pissing me off just a smidge.

2) Turtle is apparently in the midst of a growth spurt. This wouldn't normally be a reason for me to be pissed, except that Turtle's growth spurts mean that all of a sudden, he doesn't sleep much and he eats constantly. Which means that he's waking me up at least an hour earlier every morning (and considering that I've already been dealing with Oscar the Chain-Saw Snorer, my patience is short), not taking a long enough nap, bugging me for food the minute my tired (and lazy) ass settles into the couch (each and every time, like do you HAVE to wait until I'm sitting down to ask for something???), and being generally cranky. Oh. And the whining. DEAR GOD, with the WHINING. (I have this theory that we can achieve world peace if all nations' leaders were just locked in a room with an assload of three year olds. After a few days of the whining, they'll agree to anything.) This phase of the growth spurt can last up to two weeks. We're barely a half a week into this particular growth spurt and I already want to throw in the towel.

3) I am experiencing some wild and wicked mood swings as pertains to my body image. I spend a brief period of time thinking about how awesome I am and how well I've been doing on my diet and how cool it is that I'm finally losing weight. Then that moment passes and I spend another period of time feeling like a fat blob, wanting to sell advertising space on my ample ass (because if I have to put up with a billboard sized ass, I should at least make money off of it) and desiring nothing more than a vat of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream and a spoon. I feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Or I would if Dr. Jekyll had run Weight Watchers instead of busying himself with the science of good and evil and Mr. Hyde had gorged himself on Reese's Peanut Butter Cups instead of, say, killing people.

4) The IRS. I won't even go into this one. Because those of you who know should know and those of you who don't, don't want to know. Really.

5) Turtle decided yesterday to put half a roll of toilet paper into the potty. I have no idea why he did this. I didn't even realize he was going potty in the first place. Naturally, the toilet clogged. So I unclogged it. But dealing with toilet issues is by no means my favorite thing. I do it because I'll be damned if I'm going to be some sissy-ass girly-girl who can't unplug a toilet without a big strapping man around. I'd rather use Oscar for the far more important cockroach-killing tasks. But yeesh! And to top it off, today Turtle wet the bed. It happens very rarely, and even more rarely when he's not sleeping more than 2 hours at a time. But of course it happened today. OF COURSE IT DID!

6) That the world can not just read my mind and figure out what I need and GIVE IT TO ME IN A TIMELY MANNER. This should not be difficult people. You just try different things until my bitch-face goes away. When it does? Jackpot! Just keep doing what you're doing until the bitch-face reappears. Then start the process over again. GAH! Do I have to explain EVERYTHING to you?

7) That sometimes, just sometimes, guys have a point when they blame our foul moods on PMS. Particularly when the guy is Oscar and the foul mood he's talking about is mine. I'm going to crawl into a hole now and hope the dark cloud passes. Or my hormones balance. Whichever comes first, really.

Brief Update

2007-03-27T22:33:00.000-07:00

The Good: I appear to be losing weight and am quickly closing in on 5 pounds lost. Please be advised that this is one of the first signs of the Apocalypse and plan accordingly.

The Bad: I was just thinking about how I've been sadly neglecting my poor little blog lately and was going to recommit to a regular posting schedule when my nose decided that it was a good time to throw a head cold in my general direction. If not for Tylenol Cold, I would not be here today, even.

The Ugly: We met with the landscaper this morning to go over the design for the stuff we wanted to put IN to our yard, which is not to be confused with the stuff we wanted taken OUT of our yard, which was completed a week or so ago. Remember that figure I threw out earlier this year? Yeah. That figure had some issues with anorexia and has since gone to counseling and is now eating a healthy diet again. In short, the real number is much bigger than the prior imaginary number. So much for that trip to Tahiti Oscar and I wanted to take. Hell, so much for the plant life we had planned to adopt for our backyard. We're not getting much more than a patch of grass, some rocks and some pavers back there. At least the pool is clean now.

Anyway, I realize that doesn't really excuse my horribly long absence from my sadly neglected blog. But that's just a brief glimpse into the things that have kept me away. If my nose decides to stop swelling and sending foreign mucus-y substances down my throat, I will be back with a more detailed update. Until then, feel free to peruse the archives or, if you are so inclined, viciously delete me from your blogroll. I promise not to hold it against you.

God, I Miss Doughnuts

2007-03-20T23:37:00.000-07:00

So, I have this goal to lose some weight. Not some, actually. Quite a bit. I met Oscar 11 years ago when I was the thinnest I have ever been in my life. I had some crappy eating habits, but I was going to the gym every day. And I was in my early 20s at that point so my metabolism was cranking at maximum efficiency. Which meant that it didn't much matter what I ate. It burned off, regardless. So I could fit my very cute little ass into some very small little jeans.

It didn't take long for my very healthy gym habits to be replaced by less-healthy hanging-out-with-Oscar-24/7 habits, however. Which was fine for a while, because we had a very strong mutual attraction going on and the calories I HAD been burning in the gym, I instead started burning while doing mattress aerobics. But then we got married, and we both got comfortable, and before I knew it, I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life.

Which brings us to the present and back to my original point, which is I have this goal to lose weight. I've had this goal off and on, but I've only been really serious about it for a month. To that end, I have completely changed my diet (Alas, poor Ben and Jerry. I knew you well...) I am in the gym at least 5 days a week for an hour each day. I am focused. I am driven. I am questioning my sanity.

See, my gym membership comes complete with free personal training sessions once a month. And yesterday I took advantage of that. I let this geeky-cute trainer take me through an entirely new workout routine so that my body would not get too accustomed to the routine I had been doing and plateau. Snark's Mistress came along to keep me company, cheer me on, and occasionally mock me.

It went pretty well, I think. At the end of this new routine, I turned to her and said, "Was it just me, or did he really not work our legs very much?" Snark's Mistress reflected on everything we had just done and reminded me of a few exercises that I had already put out of my mind and then mentioned that she was already feeling a touch sore in some spots. I was surprised.
I didn't think the workout was that bad. Maybe it was just that I've been going to the gym regularly. Whatever. I was excited about doing this new program and seeing how it helped me achieve my goals in the next month.

Which brings me back to why I'm questioning my sanity. Today? I could barely walk. That workout that wasn't so bad? So totally was. I am sore in places I didn't know could be sore. And at the moment? I'm thinking that face planting in a vat of Ben and Jerry's seems infinitely preferable to experiencing the agony that my legs are radiating in pulsing waves. Why am I doing this again? Do I really need to lose the weight? Surely I can consider myself "in shape" since "round" is a shape, right? Am I just crazy to think that this pain is better than the pain of being overweight?

But the part that really makes me wonder about my mental stability? I'm going back to the gym tomorrow.

Pray for me.

Who's Got Command Of This Op?

2007-03-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

We were in the middle of a spirited game of go-gos. I was packing this little number, per Turtle's request:

He was packing a random piece of wood we used to put in his window to prevent someone from opening it from the outside. We both huddled in the shadow of an interior doorway we never use.

"Shoot the balls, Mommy! Now! Now! Now! NOW!" he screamed at me.

I turned to look at him and levelled a furry eyeball in his direction.

He rolled his eyes back at me and said "Please" in a very "If I have to stop and say 'please' every time I give you an order, you're going to get us both killed!" way.

I think he'll make an excellent general some day.

Thar Be Landscapers Here!

2007-03-12T23:18:00.000-07:00

So, I think I failed to mention that we actually did refinance our house and have hired a landscaper. I believe I failed to mention it because I was worried that something would fall through at the last minute (like, the landscaper would realize exactly how LARGE a job he had on his hands and would run screaming) and we would be stuck with a lot of money and a still-ugly yard. But the landscapers started working today and I think the experience can best be summed up with this one, simple, declarative sentence:

We broke their wood chipper.

Okay, okay, maybe we can't claim full responsibility, but it did happen on our watch and it does mean that all of the trees and other foliage they removed from our yard today are now occupying 75% of the square footage of the cul-de-sac on which we live. If our neighbors didn't love us before, they're really feeling the love now. Thankfully, the landscapers will be back tomorrow with a NEW! IMPROVED! wood chipper and the dead branches will go towards whatever dead branches go towards once they have been torn into little bitty pieces. It's sad, though, because if we had a better relationship with our neighbors, I wouldn't mind just tossing a match in and having a huge bonfire in the middle of the street. It would be like a block party. With s'mores. Lots and lots of s'mores. And hot dogs cooked on sticks. But given the relationship we DO have with our neighbors, I would be worried that once I tossed the match in, they would toss us in. And I'd hate to leave my Turtle motherless.

Hopefully, though, once the landscaping is completely finished, our neighbors will no longer have reason to assume we are running some sort of meth lab out of our home and we can resume diplomatic relations. Of course, looking at our house now that the overgrown, half-dead trees are out of the way, it has become glaringly obvious that it is in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Or four. So even when the landscaping is done, we will have some work to do before our house is not the "most likely to be home to a serial killer." And one wonders why it took us so long to hire a landscaper in the first place. You do one thing to improve the place and 15 more projects pop up, demanding attention.

Still, we are very excited that we might actually be able to use our yard in the manner in which it was intended. Turtle can't wait to run around and explore the "outside." Oscar can't wait to throw a party (you're all invited, by the way.) And I can't wait to look out over the perfectly manicured bushes from the comfort of my air-conditioned living room. What? It's almost summer here. You didn't think I would actually spend it outside, did you?

If You Can Sort Of Muscle Your Way Past The Gag Reflex, All Kinds Of Food Possibilities Open Up

2007-03-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

Those Girl Scout bitches are out to get me! (Oh, hey, please don't crucify me for calling young ladies of the Girl Scout persuasion "bitches." Please? I implore you. I merely used the word as a device to hook you and now I will go on with my story and try not to use profanity to discuss little girls in green outfits. Okay? Okay.) Of course, to understand why, you need to know that a few weeks ago, I was discussing hair with Hotass. She was thinking of putting some streaks in her very brunette hair, a la Joss Stone, who has lately been looking like her wig is trying to eat her head. Not that Hotass was going for the "wig trying to eat her head" look. Just that her bright pink streaks looked appealing to Hotass, who was interested in trying out a more dramatic look.

Of course, talking to Hotass about going with a more dramatic style made me think of my own old, tired, had this haircut for most of the last 10 years, shouldn't I look more like a cha-cha chick than a middle-aged soccer mom? hair. I had been pondering a color change for a while and just hadn't done anything about it. But with Hotass considering pinkish streaks, I thought perhaps I should go looking for something more fun for myself. So I found this:

We're looking at color here, not cut. What are we thinking? Cute, right? Well, put that color on this hair and then tell me what you think:

Would that not be oh-so-very-sassy? Right.

So I'm looking at these two pictures and thinking a couple of things. First, this is going to cost me some money. Because my hair is not naturally curly, so I'm going to need some sort of perm in order to achieve that effortlessly tousled curl thing. And of course, getting it colored with the different streaks in it is going to be pricey. And damn, that's a lot of money to spend on my hair. Even if I would look freakin' fantastic when all was said and done. Second, if I'm going to spend that kind of money on my hair, I want to walk out of the salon strutting to Stayin' Alive soundtrack in my head. Which means, I need to feel that inner confidence that I am so smokin' hot, not only am I hearing the Stayin' Alive soundtrack in my head, everyone around me can hear it too. Which means I probably need to lose some weight. Because I am a little shaky on the inner confidence lately.

So I set myself a goal. It's an either/or goal. Either I lose a certain amount of weight, or a start fitting into a certain pant size, and then I can go splurge and get the hair. Not that I need an excuse to splurge on myself. I very rarely splurge on myself as it is. If I splurge, I splurge for Oscar or Turtle, because I have a habit of putting everyone else's needs before my own. But that's another post. No, it's not that I need an excuse to splurge. It's that I needed a goal if I was going to make some positive lifestyle changes, of the type that would be long-lasting and life-changing.

So for the last couple of weeks, I've been eating right (fruits, veggies, smaller portions more often, etc.) and exercising and practicing a "just say no" approach to all things sugary and fattening, because I want that cute, sassy hair, dammit. No ice cream, no candy, no pastries, no frou-frou coffee drinks, no fast food, no "all the good stuff that makes life worth living." It's been tough, but I find that regardless of the weight I may or may not be losing, I feel 100% better. I feel healthier and I have more energy. And that inner confidence is coming back, slowly but surely. Because when I'm doing all the right things right, regardless of what the scale says, I see myself as a size 4. (Of course, then I look in the mirror and stare aghast because that second chin? Is still there. Why is it still there? WHY????????????)

But, of course, my nemesis is always around the corner, waiting to catch me in a weak moment. The temptation of those sweet and fattening foods is always hovering just on the edge of my consciousness. Which brings me back to the subject of this post: those little Girl Scout......girls. They are freakin' EVERYWHERE right now! I can't walk into a grocery store without passing their little table filled with those little boxes of caloric sin. I generally practice my "no eye contact, no eye contact, no eye contact" approach to getting in and out and that has been helping. But the other day, as I walked out of the store with my grocery basket filled with fruits and vegetables and low-calorie snacks, they realized I was alone and without even Oscar as a buffer, and they attacked.

"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" they asked, simpering smiles fixed on their ~~vampiric~~ angelic little faces.

I gritted my teeth. I swear these girls are stalking me. Just when I think I've gotten over my craving for sugary foods and can be content with my new lifestyle, they pounce. But I managed a smile at them, anyway.

"I would love to buy some Girl Scout cookies," I replied, "but I'm on a diet. Thanks for asking though."

I made it through the gauntlet. I would live to fight another day. Those Girl Scout....girls may be after me. But I will prevail. Oh yes. I will prevail.

Current Events

2007-03-02T18:08:00.001-07:00

Snark's Mistress and I don't always sit around and talk about Stargate SG-1 or the hotness of our favorite celebrities or other shallow things. From time to time, we do actually get into conversations about current events. Such as this one:

Me: Okay, no shit, one of the headlines on MSN right now is "Swiss troops accidentally invade Liechtenstein"
Snark's Mistress: OMG!!! I saw that! I was going to talk to you about it, but I forgot.
Me: What IS that? That's craziness right there
SM: That totally made me laugh.
SM: I know. I know it's a small country, but still...
Me: My question is, what happened when they figured that out? Okay, men, I need you and you, on the flank, and you and you to take our six, and we're moving in on my mark. We're going to take those German bastards! "Um, sir, permission to speak freely, sir." This is not the time, lieutenant! We're about to invade Germany. "Well, yes, sir, but the thing is, this is Liechtenstein." Oh, bother.
SM: LOL
SM: Fabulous.
Me: Although, you know what else I find funny about this story?
SM: ?
Me: It was the damn SWISS! Aren't they supposed to be busy staying neutral?
SM: Heh. Totally.

Of course, now, I can't wait to see what Jon Stewart has to say about this.

Girly Things

2007-02-28T23:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a bad girl. No, not in THAT way. Well, okay, YES, in that way, but that's not what I'm talking about right now. I mean I'm not particularly girly. I don't wear makeup unless it's a special occasion. I don't keep up on the fashion world. I am more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt than a dress and pumps. I like action movies as much as (and sometimes more than) I like romantic comedies. I never ask for directions, preferring instead to wander around enjoying the scenery until I stumble upon my destination. I'm just not really good at a lot of the things that you would traditionally associate with my gender.

However.

I saw a pair of shoes today that made my girly little heart sing with joy. So, I'm going to show them to you, but if you are so overwhelmed by the cuteness of these shoes (which is pretty much a given) that you want to get them yourself, you have to check with me first, or I will assume you are Single White Female-ing me. Ready?

From Zappos, with love.

God, aren't they precious? I can hardly stand it. Now, I normally wouldn't even consider spending that kind of money on such an impractical shoe, but would you just look at them? They need a good home. And I have a good home. It wouldn't be right if I didn't open up my heart and my closet to a pair of shoes so clearly in need of some adoration and a complementary outfit.

Not only that, but I found this at Target:

Look! My shoes could totally make friends with this purse, don't you think? They would totally have sleepovers and eat too much Ben and Jerry's and talk about the boys they like and whether or not they're ready for a red and white polka-dotted bra yet! Don't you think? And I would look so cute and cha-cha and sassy and young and free while wearing my cute shoes and purse, wouldn't I? Instead of tired and worn-out and fried and haggard and soccer mom-ish. Not that my kid plays soccer yet. He's too busy shooting dinosaurs and sneaking his binky out of his room so he can steal a quick suckle or two before I bust him, like a smoker stealing a puff or two from his cigarette. But that's neither here nor there.

So I'm totally going to buy these shoes and quite possibly this purse. And you will know when I am wearing them because I will totally be strutting around town with my shoes and quite possibly the purse with "Stayin' Alive" on a constant loop in my brain. Because for some reason, when I strut, I always strut to that song. What? You mean you don't? I can only imagine that's because you have never tried it before. Go ahead. Stand up. Now start singing "Well you can tell by the way I use my walk/I'm a woman's man; no time to talk." Are you strutting yet? You should be. Maybe you need some new shoes.

I Hope I At Least Get A Cool Rental

2007-02-26T18:03:00.001-07:00

An open letter to the moron who rear-ended me this weekend:

Hi Idiot!
I'm sorry I didn't stick around with my husband to take down your information, but I was pretty sure that being in your immediate vicinity would have resulted in a bit of bloodshed. See, ramming into my truck while traveling down the freeway at 75 miles per hour was bad enough. But when you tried to explain yourself by sheepishly claiming that I was in your "blind spot" you took things one step too far. I was IN FRONT OF YOU. IMMEDIATELY IN FRONT OF YOU. The only way I could have been in your blind spot is if you are, in fact, legally blind. In which case, I don't suspect you should be driving at all, now, should you?

And while we're on the subject, continuing to drive off like nothing was wrong until I chased your ass down? Was poor form. It's not my fault you have a depth perception issue. I didn't request an ass-ramming (not from you, anyway.) So don't make me hunt you down, yelling at Oscar to take down your license plate number so I could call the cops and let them nail you for a hit-and-run. Just because I'm good at being a stark raving bitch doesn't mean I like being a stark raving bitch.

So, please, the next time you decide to be an impatient ass and speed into the next lane before you're completely clear of the one you (and I) are in, remember to 1) plan ahead and come up with a better excuse for being a moron and 2) pull over immediately, lest your next victim go all ballistic on your ass.

Whew. I'm so glad we had this little chat. I feel so much better having gotten that off my chest. Now, you take care. You're going to need all of your energy to deal with the shitstorm the insurance companies are going to rain down upon you.

Warm Regards,
Cymber

Being A Grown-Up: A Primer

2007-02-24T17:11:00.000-07:00

So. Snark's Mistress is having some trouble with her family. It's a drama that has played out over the course of the entire week, and it's not only painful for her, it's painful for me. Why? Because I have always loved her family as my own and seeing this rift in their usually harmonious interactions is jarring and uncomfortable. It also pains me because it has left Snark's Mistress in tears more often than not, and I don't like the idea of her being 2 hours away from everyone who loves her when she's distressed.

Anyway, the story isn't really mine to tell, particularly since Snark's Mistress has her own blog and she'll tell it when she's ready. But there are a few things that I've learned over the course of the last week that I do want to talk about. They have to do with what it means to be an adult. See, I really think that part of the problem has been that the family member in the center of this whole drama has been mistakenly identified as a grown-up, when he is, in fact, a preschooler. And I'd like to clear up some confusion as to what the terms "grown-up" and "adult" really mean.

You know you are an adult when:

1) You are able to articulate your needs in a clear and concise manner and no longer expect those around you to read your mind. Remember when you were a toddler and your mom or dad asked you to "use your words" instead of throwing a temper tantrum? This still applies. Throwing a big hissy fit because someone didn't do exactly what you wanted them to do in the exact moment you wanted them to do it is not the same as clearly communicating that you need xyz and you would appreciate it if someone could provide you with xyz. Additionally, if you are disappointed when you feel you have done the above and you still did not get your needs met, it is a good idea to take some time to reflect on why that might be before flying off the handle and accusing everyone you know of being insensitive assholes. Which brings me to:

2) You understand the difference between healthy debate and accusations/slander. It is a fact of life that you are, at times, going to be disappointed by the people you love. But if you love these people, you will understand that the slight was more than likely unintentional and if you choose to address it with them, you will take some time to calm down and approach the topic with an open mind, sensitivity and understanding. What you will not do is call them names, refuse to entertain their point of view, or accuse them of not being worthy of your love. That makes you an asshole, not a grown-up.

3) You accept apologies when they are offered. You would think this would be an easy enough concept, but for some reason, it escapes a lot of people. What they do instead is complain that the apology offered wasn't "good enough" and then continue to argue that the severity of the wrong done them was worth nothing less than a full, unconditional admission of guilt and wrong doing. The truth is, most people have reasons for doing what they do, and if they feel sorry that what they did hurt you in some way, they will both apologize and offer an explanation. This explanation is not meant to negate the apology, but merely to explain their motivations in the hope that you will understand their reasoning and see that they really did not mean to hurt you. So be a grown-up and accept the apology, even if you still don't understand their reasoning. Which brings me to:

4) You keep an open mind. Not everyone thinks of things the same way you do. That doesn't mean they are wrong and you are right. It means they approach situations in different ways. Again, that doesn't mean they are wrong and you are right. If someone has not acted the way you wanted her to, take the time to hear her out and really try to understand her point of view. You don't have to agree with it. But if you understand it, or at least try to understand it, perhaps you will be able to recognize the true intent behind her actions and forgiveness will come a lot more easily.

5) You understand that when you're the only person arguing one point of view, and 8 or more people are arguing the other, your logic might be flawed and it might be time to consider the possibility that you were the person in the wrong. Do some navel-gazing. Is it possible they have a point? Could it be that if 8 people came to the same conclusion with the same set of facts that perhaps you are the one misinterpreting things? Think about it. Consider it. And if you still disagree with their conclusions, that's fine. But allow them the freedom to continue to believe what they believe without making judgments about them. Agree to disagree. It's not so hard. Trust me.

6) You recognize that you can't have it both ways. You can't tell people not to worry and then complain that they didn't worry. You can't tell people that all you want is an apology and then complain because the apology you got wasn't good enough. You can't alienate everyone you know and then complain that they don't come through for you. Say what you mean, and then stand by it. If you have a change of heart, that's okay. But you forfeit the right to get angry, then, if everyone else is still operating under the assumption that you meant what you said the first time around.

7) You pick your battles carefully. Some things are just not worth the hit your relationship will take if you continue to argue your point of view to the death. Decide how important this issue this is to you and how it fits into the context of your entire relationship history. Do you want to risk your entire relationship over this? If not, let it go gracefully. Which brings me to:

8) You don't shut down a discussion for the sole purpose of having the last word. Shutting down a discussion because it's not going anywhere is one thing. Shutting down a discussion by telling the other person he's a despicable jerk and you don't ever want to talk to him about this again because it will just remind you of what a despicable jerk he is and that would be too painful for you so let's never discuss this again? That's just trying to have the last word. Sure, it would be great if every argument could end with common ground, but that doesn't always happen. Sometimes you just need to look at the situation calmly and rationally and recognize that you will never agree on this subject, but that you can still love each other and that it is best if the discussion is closed because it's doing nothing more at this point than hurting you both.

Of course, this only scratches the surface of what constitutes adult behavior, but I think it's a decent enough start. Hell, if the family member in question could learn even ONE of these lessons, I would consider it a victory. However, he seems intent on living his life as a preschooler, which is unfortunate. But I suppose it's not all bad. At least when his first child is born later this year, he'll have a playmate.

If I'd Just Let Sesame Street Babysit My Kid This Morning, I'd Have An Actual Post For You

2007-02-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I try to put off posting until the evenings on Thursdays. I know Grey's Anatomy is on. I know it's unlikely that I'll even be around a computer until after 10:00. And after tonight's episode? I am so emotionally drained, I have nothing of use to say. It has broken me. I am broken. Posting will resume once I find my bruised and battered heart, pick it up off the ground, wash it off and shove it back into my chest. Thank you.

Teh Hawt-ness

2007-02-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know some people are going to think I'm crazy, but when did Rob Lowe become so smokin' HOT? I mean, I watched The West Wing. I enjoyed The West Wing. But I did not have the warm, fuzzy feelings that everyone else I knew had towards him. I was way more interested in Bradley Whitford's character, Josh. The Rob Lowe-ness did not do it for me. But now? On Brothers & Sisters? Holy Hannah, that man makes me want to lick him in naughty, naughty places.

I bring this up because I was watching Brothers & Sisters with Oscar last night (seriously, I'm marrying my DVR if anything ever happens to break up Oscar and me) and he was making out with Calista Flockhart's character and I swear to GAWD, people, I was moaning so loud you would have thought I had a spontaneous orgasm right there. Oscar paused the show to look at me and ask "Are you going to be okay?" Well, HELL YEAH, I'm going to be okay. I'm watching The Hotness! The only thing better than watching The Hotness is watching The Hotness with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream and a spoon. That's a climax on a stick right there.

So, seriously, what happened? I mean, he's always been good looking. But I was never into him before. Ever. Not in his Brat Pack days. Certainly not in his sex tape days. Not even in his Austin Powers days. And we've already discussed his West Wing days. It's like overnight he developed a Cymber-focused pheromone that is able to be transmitted through my DVR. (I wonder if I pay my cable company extra for that...?) And now? All I can think is how yummy a Rob Lowe sandwich would be.

Did he sell his soul to some guy in Detroit to make himself extra-scrumptious to me? And if so, I wonder why he would pick me, of all people? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm oh-so-very fabulous. But we've never even met. Is my fabulousness so legendary now that even hot married actors in Hollywood are trying to impress me? (I prefer dark chocolate and calla lilies, thanks!) I somehow doubt it. So I don't know what it is, but I can't say that I'm complaining. Between Brothers & Sisters on Sunday nights and Grey's Anatomy on Thursday nights, not to mention my DVDs of Stargate SG-1, I've got a bosom-heaving, loin-throbbing bouquet of hotness happening. It's probably a good thing I haven't gotten addicted to Ugly Betty, too, because with Salma Hayek doing occasional guest appearances, my vajayjay just might explode and I'm kind of not done with it yet.

I'm Fond Of Slimey, Myself

2007-02-20T11:08:00.000-07:00

I love Sesame Street. I do. I could do without Elmo, particularly when Elmo's World comes on and he gets all twee and decides to "ask a baby" how the baby feels about the topic du jour. (The baby can't talk, you nit. But if he could, the baby would tell you to go fuck yourself. Be grateful for his current lack of vocabulary.) But overall, it's a great show. We're currently teaching Turtle the alphabet, and how to count to ten, and he gets those lessons reinforced every time we sit down to watch Sesame Street. And they have GREAT guest stars. This morning, it was Seth Green. And a week or so ago, it was T.R. Knight. And Kristin Chenoweth plays Ms. Noodle on the (much reviled) Elmo's World segments. Seriously, my love is flowing for this show that allows me to watch these people make asses of themselves with a bunch of funny looking puppets.

However, there is one thing that Sesame Street has taught Turtle which does not fill me with glee. This morning, I sat Turtle's scrambled eggs and banana down on his place mat on the coffee table. (We eat breakfast in the living room in front of the television for some reason. Don't judge me.) Turtle started out eating with his fork like a good boy, but after a few bites, he apparently decided that was not nearly efficient enough. He grabbed a big handful of eggs in his hand and hoisted them up in front of him. Then, as though he was giving a toast, he raised his hand even more and yelled "COOKIE!" and smashed the whole handful into his mouth while making all sorts of growly noises. Yeah. Thanks, Cookie Monster. I appreciate you teaching my kid that it's perfectly acceptable table manners to force the food into his mouth with all the finesse of a bulldozer. Can you also teach him to vacuum up the crumbs? Thanks.

Thanks For, You Know, Reading And Stuff

2007-02-17T00:49:00.000-07:00

God, how much do I suck? (Oscar would tell you that last night, I sucked quite a bit, and was damn good at it, too, but that's why we don't let Oscar guest-blog for me. He's a dirty, dirty man and who knows what he might say if I gave him an open forum.) I keep talking about that elusive bathroom post, which I'm sure by now is built up FAR too much in your minds, and when I actually get around to posting it, you're all going to feel extremely let down. Which is perhaps why I haven't posted it yet, because I'm hoping that you'll forget about it, so that when I finally finish writing it, you're wowed by my clever and witty prose instead of disappointed by the way it failed to live up to your expectations. Except that would actually require me to shut the hell up about the bathroom post, already, which I have yet to do, because in some respects, I'm all about the self-sabotage.

Anyway, this is not really about me and my neuroses, this is about you. I was going to let it pass by without comment, but then McMama had to call me out in her comment to my last post. So I suppose I need to say a little something about my blog-iversary. I think I've said many times before that I never really planned to have a blog, and that it caused me a lot of anxiety when I finally started one. Because even though I only had, like, 2 readers in the beginning, those readers were important to me and I never wanted to disappoint them. (Heh. God, was I naive, or what?) Well, a year later and I'm disappointing people left and right (I'm sorry dykewife! I wish I could post twice a day for you but I just can't. [insert self-flagellation here]) and yet, I somehow manage to continue living with myself. I've always said being a sociopath comes in handy sometimes.

Still, despite the fact that I find it incredibly difficult to live up to not only your expectations of me, but my exceedingly high expectations of myself, I have been incredibly touched by the response I have gotten from those of you who stop by to visit me in my little corner of the blogosphere. And to those of you who have actually posted a comment or written me an e-mail, I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear from you. The internet is a weird place and you never know what kind of people you're going to meet when you start talking about yourself online (except that they're all voyeurs to some extent) but everyone who has reached out to me has been very kind and, well, so normal. Well, except you. You know who you are.

You are the best audience a girl could hope for. I appreciate your kind words and support. Here's to another year of blathering on about random minutiae in a, hopefully, clever and witty way! Cheers!

Will U B Mine?

2007-02-14T23:20:00.000-07:00

So. It's Valentine's Day. At some point last week, Oscar had asked me how I felt about this particular holiday. I told him that I feel that it's a day that engenders unrealistic expectations. Which is true. I also told him that I feel it's a holiday completely manufactured by Hallmark and related industries. Also true. What I failed to mention, however, is that regardless of all of that, I had still gotten him a Valentine's Day present. Two of them, in fact.

This morning, I placed his gifts on the dining room table, with a card propped up against them. As I scurried around the house, doing chores and getting my morning started, Oscar walked into the kitchen. I paused when I noticed he was opening his card and watched silently to see his response. After flashing me a crooked smile and telling me he loved me, Oscar mumbled, "You're such a conniving bitch."

I grinned (which is, frankly, the only appropriate response I can think of when my beloved calls me a conniving bitch) and asked him what that was supposed to mean. He said he asked me if we were doing anything for Valentine's Day and I said no, but went ahead and got him something anyway. I took exception to that. I was nothing but honest with him. He only asked me how I felt about the holiday, not whether I had gotten him anything to celebrate. After all, just because I think Valentine's Day is all about Hallmark and unrealistic expectations, doesn't mean I can't also recognize that it's just as fine a day as any to do something nice for my sweetheart and let him know that I love him.

I don't think Oscar was completely appeased. He seems to think our marriage is based on some invisible score card and that if he falls far enough behind, I'm eventually going to get wise and leave him for a man who sends me flowers every week and buys me expensive jewelry. Which is ridiculous, really, because I would never leave him for "that guy." I would have an affair with "that guy" and milk "that guy" for all he was worth but I would never leave Oscar for "that guy." I mean, come on, let's be realistic. If I left Oscar for "that guy," "that guy" would realize that he didn't have to try so hard anymore and there would go my flowers and expensive jewelry. Where's the win-win for me in that?

No, luckily for Oscar, I'm in this thing for the long haul. Which means even if he never braves Hallmark to buy me another Valentine's Day card again, I'll still be there on March 20th, helping him celebrate Steak and Blowjob Day. Because I? Am the BEST. WIFE. EVER! Just check the score card.

Because The Story Is Not Going Away And If You Can't Beat Them, Join Them

2007-02-13T22:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know I promised I was going to talk about my bathroom habits. And I know I silently promised myself that I was NOT going to get sucked into talking about Anna Nicole Smith, because the media coverage THAT has generated has been rather psychotic all by itself and without any input from me. But when I saw today that yet another man is now coming forward, claiming to be the father of Anna's baby daughter? I couldn't help myself. You know why?

BECAUSE I HAVEN'T HAD SEX WITH THAT MANY MEN IN MY WHOLE THIRTY PLUS YEARS OF LIFE, MUCH LESS IN A SMALL ENOUGH TIMEFRAME TO GIVE THEM CAUSE TO THINK MORE THAN ONE OF THEM COULD HAVE BEEN THE FATHER OF MY CHILD!

Sweet baby Jeebus, that's a lot of sex with a lot of different people. In fact, if TrimSpa is worried about how to carry on after the death of their spokesperson, perhaps they should consider a new campaign with the tagline "It'll get you laid. A lot." Not that I doubt the appeal of Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to believe that at least one of these guys is lying through his teeth. I mean, I suppose it is technically possible that they each had sex with her during the window of fertile opportunity that would have resulted in Dannielyn's appearance 9 months later. But doesn't it sound a bit like a scheduling nightmare? Unless she double-booked, if you know what I mean, and I think you do?

I don't know. All I know is I wouldn't have given this story a second thought before DaddyGate happened. I mean, it's not like her death was any big surprise. The woman looked like she was coked to the gills every time she made a public appearance over the last few months. If anything, I was surprised that it didn't happen sooner. But now, every time you turn around a new Daddy is popping up. They're like daisies. Great big fertile daisies. Great big fertile money-grubbing, attention-whoring daisies. Everywhere. It's seriously the most amazing train wreck I've ever seen. It's virtually impossible to turn away. It's almost enough to distract me from my other train wreck of choice, Britney Spears. Almost.

But honestly? That girl is freaking me out. I had hope for her for all of 2.2 seconds when she dumped her husband. But then with the going out without underwear? And the (alleged) trips to the bathroom for her coke fix? And the whole "is she or isn't she a lesbian" thing? I certainly wasn't her biggest fan before, but now? It's like I want to pull for her, but she's making it impossible. And as a mom? I am particularly appalled by her behavior because her kids are being raised by everyone BUT her. For someone who wanted these kids so badly, she's certainly not terribly invested in their upbringing. And where the hell is her family? Shouldn't SOMEBODY be staging an intervention by now? I don't get it.

Actually, what I REALLY don't get is why the mainstream news outlets are talking about these "stories" as though they are actually newsworthy. When my local news anchor reported last night, with a straight face, that Britney Spears went a little overboard on the partying this weekend and threw up in the back of her SUV, I knew the apocalypse was nigh. I expect to see that on Perez Hilton's site. I expect to see it in Star Magazine. I do not expect to see that on my local news, before the weather but after the sports reports. It is not news. And I'm not sure if the fact that the news outlets are actually reporting these goings-on as news are why these celebrities are now more famous for being famous than they are for any particular talent or if it's us and our incredible need to know everything about the every day lives of these people.

I mean, I'm all for over-investment in the lives of my favorite celebrities. I'm shameless. I admit it. But even I know there is a limit to what is newsworthy and what is not. And when the energy expended in reporting on the death of Anna Nicole Smith exceeds that which was expended in reporting on the hanging of Saddam Hussein, I think you have reached that limit. And then some.

Not to say that I won't be on Perez's site tomorrow, constantly refreshing to see what new entertainment gossip is out there. But see, that's the thing: I go there specifically knowing that I'm there to be a shameless gossip. I'm not going there, hoping to find out what's new with North Korea's nukes and instead find that there's someone new angling for the Anna Nicole Baby Daddy position. (SERIOUSLY! Did she have one of those "Take a Number" dispensers installed at the door to her bedroom, do you think?) I just think it's time that we exercise a little restraint, as it pertains to reporting on the lives of people who, for the most part, are not significantly more talented than the rest of us. Unless you count "the ability to exit a vehicle in a way that highlights to the best effect the fact that you're not wearing underwear" as an important talent. In which case, I stand corrected.

Blaaaaaaaaaaah

2007-02-12T22:52:00.000-07:00

I would love to jump in here with something particularly clever and witty, bowling you over with how effortlessly I make the mundane seem entertaining. Regrettably, there is nothing entertaining about this headache I've had for the past five days (it started out as a caffeine withdrawal headache and is now a "here's what you get for tripping over the paperwork in your office! Maybe now you'll clean up around here and thus avoid the neck wrenching" headache,) nor is there anything particularly entertaining about a Turtle who is not getting nearly enough sleep lately and is therefore talking back to us and turning his back on us more often than I can throw him in time out. At this rate, he'll be 43 before he leaves his bedroom again.

It's sad, really, because I still have two posts that I'm working on, one of which is the aforementioned post about my bathroom habits, which I'm sure you can't WAIT to read, because really, what is more interesting than learning about someone's bathroom neuroses? And I have a few other things running around in my head which are just waiting to be turned into either coherent posts or really whacked out dreams. But my brain is not cooperating, so it will have to wait until another day.

I know. You're sad. I'm sad too. But as I've often told Turtle, wipe your tushie. No, wait. That wasn't it. Oh, I've got it. Sometimes life just doesn't work out like you want it to, so put away your go-gos and we'll play later. Right. That.

This Started Out As A Quick Post, But An Hour Later...

2007-02-07T23:15:00.000-07:00

I'm working on a few posts that are a bit longer, but I don't have the time or inclination to try to bang them out tonight. (Especially since I'd really like to be banging other things. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. Oh, wait. Did I say that out loud? Damn. I really need to get that internal filter fixed.) So instead, I wanted to share two quick anecdotes, because if I don't post something, dykewife will be sad. And we don't like to make people sad around here.

#1
I needed the truck today so I was riding shotgun as Oscar drove into work. Turtle was in the back seat making all kinds of weird noises, as Turtle is wont to do. When he started wigging out and doing a damn fine impersonation of a resident of a mental hospital, Oscar turned to me and said something along the lines of "He is SO your kid." I casually turned back to Oscar and said, "Hey, I'm not the one on the meds, now, am I?" D'oh! The look on his face was priceless. It was a blend of impotent fury and grudging admiration. Score? Cymber 1, Oscar 0.

(Disclaimer: I have no issues with meds or people who take them. Frankly, those who know me intimately will actually tell you that I'm the biggest pusher they know. I merely saw and opportunity to take my husband down a peg, and I used it. Do not send me hateful e-mails about what an insensitive bitch I am. I'm well aware I'm an insensitive bitch. It really doesn't bother me all that much. If it did, I'd take meds for it.)

#2
Turtle was going to the bathroom and I was doing a fine job of supervising. After giving everything a wipe-down, Turtle started pulling back the foreskin of his penis. Then he pointed at it repeatedly and asked, "Mommy? What's this?" I said, "That's your peenie weenie, little man." "Ohhhhhhhhhhh," he replied. "Woooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!" You'd have thought I'd just imparted the secrets of the universe. Then again, he's a boy, so I guess I kind of did.

Between those two events, I spent my time reworking my budget three different times in an effort to figure out if I can reasonably consider spending an assload of money (yes, that's a technical term) on landscaping my yard. Preliminary crunching of the numbers and the Magic 8 Ball say "All signs point to yes" so I'll start talking seriously with the bank tomorrow. Meanwhile, Oscar will be working from home and has scheduled a meeting with a different landscaper to pick his brain and get his numbers. Oscar has just been a bundle of efficiency this week. Between that and our deplorable lack of a decent sex life lately, I'm beginning to think the real Oscar has been replaced with Pod Person Oscar. And I'm not quite sure if I have a problem with that. Hell, if Pod Person Oscar can get our taxes done, I may even cover for him while he systematically begins taking over the world.

So. Yeah. Oscar was teased, Turtle discovered his penis, I put on my Accounting Hat and let Jurassic Park raise my child today. Sounds like a pretty typical day in the Cymber household to me.

Dropping Napalm Might Be An Easier Way To Go

2007-02-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

Does anyone have $35,000 they want to ~~lend~~ give me? Anyone? Come on, now, show of hands. No one? Damn. I was afraid of that.

I'm pretty sure I have previously mentioned that Oscar and I bought our house from my parents. It's a nice house, but the selling point is that it has a huge yard. It's perfect for parties or bleeding the energy out of a rambunctious preschooler. Or, at least, it would be, if the yard was in any sort of shape for those kinds of activities. My parents were very busy people, and didn't have much time to give the landscaping, so there was never anything special done with it. And for the first few years that Oscar and I lived her by our lonesomes, we didn't have much time to give the landscaping either. So what landscaping there was, and there wasn't much, died quickly and, well, I'm ashamed to say that we didn't do much to stop it.

Now, though, I am home more often than not, and even though I spend my days chasing a rambunctious preschooler around, I have more time for things like putting around the gardens. The problem is, things have degraded to the point that I can't bring it back all on my own. I'm only one person. And a small one at that. (Well, height-wise, anyway. In terms of the vertical, I am wee. But in terms of the horizontal - well - let's just say that I will never be mistaken for Nicole Richie.) I only have so much room in the green waste bins every week. And I don't own a Bobcat, so I can't rip down trees in a single bound. I can try to stop the bleeding, but I can't make any progress on bringing things back to their green, lovely place.

So we called a landscaper. We actually have plans to call three. But so far, we've only called one, and that one came out today and looked at our yard. And when he stopped bawling like a little baby, and stopped praying to God that he got this job so he could buy his new boat, he told us that he figured it would cost about $10,000 to clean things up and between $30,000-$35,000 from start to finish, depending on the design of the new landscape. I can't say I was surprised, but I can't say I was thrilled, either.

I'm not making any decisions on what to do next until we get the other two quotes and I am completely convinced that I'm not going to have a heart attack at the thought of spending tens of thousands of dollars to make my house look like it should. But I did like the guy, and I am swayed by the promise of having a yard I can actually use. It would be nice to be able to take Turtle out in the back yard and let him run around like a little boy should. It would be nice to feel comfortable inviting people over and hosting pool parties, instead of being ashamed to tell people where I live because of how bad the house looks. It would be nice to be able to walk in the door without being attacked by a rogue bougainvillea, who has decided that he is so over the outdoors and his dream has always been to be an indoor bougainvillea, and if he could just get one branch in the door, we would see what a great indoor bougainvillea he would be! (Seriously. That little bugger is persistent.)

So although my stomach clenches at the thought of taking that much equity out of the house, I know it would be worth it. And even though I'm not committed to this particular landscaper (especially since he didn't even offer to take us out on the new boat he was going to buy after he did our yard! Bastard!) I will call my lenders tomorrow and see what they can do about getting my house refinanced. But in the meantime? If anyone wins the lottery and you decide to donate to the "Help Cymber Not Be Ashamed Of Her Crappy Yard" fund, you know where to find me. I'll be in the fetal position in the corner, whimpering about points and loan-to-value ratios.

Ramblings From An Insomniac

2007-02-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

Turtle has developed a cough. I'm not sure if it's related to our air quality or if he's coming down with something or a combination of both. But suffice it to say, he's coughing a lot and drugs don't seem to make a dent. So last night, around 2:30 in the morning, Turtle had a coughing jag that was long enough and loud enough to wake me up. I went in with some (USELESS! USELESS, I SAY!) cough medicine and calmed him down and then crawled back into bed next to a softly snoring Oscar.

And I tossed.

And I turned.

And I tried to relax.

And I got increasingly frustrated.

And I tried to relax some more.

Until finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I got up. Now, I'm a morning person, but not even I am HARDCORE enough to think that 2:30 in the morning is an acceptable wakey-wakey time. And yet, there I was. I got on the computer for a while, and when not even the lack of updates on my favorite blogs was enough to lull me back into a sleep state, I decided, "Hey, 4:00 in the morning is a PERFECT time to do dishes. And laundry. And filing." So dishes and laundry and filing I did.

Oscar walked into my office at 5:30am and asked what the hell I was doing. When my heartbeat had returned to normal and I had climbed down from the ceiling (where I had jumped when his innocent question sent me into flight-or-fight mode) I explained my insomnia. He went back to bed to hit the snooze 10 more times and I returned to sorting papers. I suppose a more considerate husband would have offered to bang me like a $5 whore in an effort to wear me out enough to fall back asleep, but this is the model I have. I guess I just have to make do.

I finally crawled back into bed around 6:30. Oscar was supposed to be getting ready for work, but he was hoping to lull me back to sleep with the dulcet tones of even more snoring. I welcomed the warmth of his arms wrapped around me, but it still wasn't happening for me. I dozed in a semi-conscious state off and on, but no REM for me. And with a Turtle due to wake up in an hour, that probably wasn't such a bad thing A deeper sleep would probably have put me in touch with how tired I really was, and that wouldn't do.

So I went through the majority of the day on a mere four hours of sleep. I did manage a small nap while Turtle was down for his own nap, but one of my cats, who is a bit needy when it comes to his self-esteem managed to catch and trap his little stuffed mouse, again, and OH MY GOD IT'S THE SAME FRICKING MOUSE YOU CATCH EVERY SINGLE TIME AND DO I REALLY HAVE TO TELL YOU WHAT A FEROCIOUS HUNTER KITTEN YOU ARE AGAIN?!?!?!?! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SELF-VALIDATE THIS ONE TIME SO I CAN GET SOME DAMN SLEEP????? *ahem* Yeah, he, um, meowed a lot until I petted him and praised him and then I dozed back off.

Now, it's 9:20pm and due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, I just finished dinner. Oscar was kind enough to take Turtle to the grocery store this evening and pick me up some Tylenol PM, which, had I been thinking, I would have downed with a freakishly cold glass of really cheap white wine. But I forgot to chill the wine, and I will instead down some Tylenol PM with a glass of ice water (provided, of course, I don't spill this glass over like I spilled the last glass. I'm a big enough klutz under the best of circumstances. You don't want to be anywhere near me when my reflexes are dulled by a lack of sleep. It's like watching a bad slapstick movie.)

The point of all of this being, of course, that if you came here today looking for a clever bon mot or amusing anecdote from my life, it so isn't happening. I'm lucky I have enough brain function to remember to breathe in and breathe out (in that order) on a continual basis. Hopefully tomorrow I will return fully rested and able to talk about something interesting. (Like, for example, Amalah's post today about whether or not you close the door to use the bathroom and how my upbringing caused me to be very free with the pee. Don't worry. I'll fill you in later. It will be funny. I promise.) In the event I am not fully rested tomorrow and do not return, and instead crawl into a very large hole with my binky and my blankie, please feel free to peruse the archives. There's something there for everyone, I'm sure.

Next Up: World Domination

2007-02-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

Upon my springing him from his bedroom prison this morning, Turtle ran out to the living room to set up camp. He stopped at the coffee table and looked at the mess of dvd cases littering the surface. He pointed at one in the middle.

"I wan' to watch dis movie, Mommy" he said, hopefully.

"Are you sure, Buddy?"

"Pweese?"

"You don't want to watch Elmo, instead Buddy? Because Elmo is coming on in a second." Elmo is Turtle's latest obsession.

"No, Mommy."

"Are you sure? You want to watch Stargate? Not Elmo?"

"Yeah. Stargate."

"THAT'S MY BOY!"

Take My Husband. Please.

2007-02-01T23:36:00.000-07:00

So, I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but Oscar and I are in therapy together. Well, technically, Oscar is in therapy, and I'm occasionally asked to join them, kind of like the "special guest star" on Will and Grace - there for nothing more than to boost ratings and look pretty. Okay, technically technically, my job is more important than that. Technically technically? My job is to call Oscar on his crap and help him see how I am completely and totally perfect in every way and he is so very lucky to have me and if he would just realize this, our lives would be fabulous. What? You don't believe me? Yeah, okay, that's not true either.

In truth, as I believe I've discussed before, Oscar and I are going through some things, and much as we're crazy about each other, there are times when being crazy about each other is just not enough. So we go to therapy and figure out how to fine-tune our relationship so I'm not going ballistic when he leaves his socks on the floor and he's not going crazy because I always squeeze the toothpaste tube from the very bottom in a very anal-retentive way. For the most part, it's been a really great experience, but last week was - well - not so great.

It wasn't that the session was bad. We actually learned quite a bit about our methods of communicating and how we are fulfilling each other's needs (or not) and that sort of thing. The difficult part was what happened after the session. See, I kind of got called on the carpet for enabling some of Oscar's less desirable traits, and since I consider myself pretty self-aware, I was extremely annoyed at myself for not recognizing that I was doing it. And when Oscar did something the next night that had been bothering me for quite a while, even though it was a petty thing to be upset about, honestly, my annoyance at myself fueled my anger at him and, well, can you say "downward spiral to I-hate-you-ville?"

So we fought. For two days. And it got ugly. And really, the only thing that prevented me from packing a bag and going up to Flagstaff for a few days, aside from the fact that Oscar had our only vehicle, was Michael Shanks. Because as silly as it may be, sometimes when Oscar and I are fighting, I think about trading him in for Michael Shanks and the pretty, pretty Hotness and it sends me directly to my happy place.

Actually, to be fair, any Hotness will do. I would have considered trading him in for Eric Dane, for example. Or even Salma Hayek, if we lived in a world that would recognize my marriage to Salma. Which it totally should, because if there's one thing this world could use a little more of, it's recognition that love in any form is really not a bad thing. But I digress. What was I saying? Oh yeah. This week, it was Michael Shanks, because Snark's Mistress, being a loving and loyal friend and recognizing that my blood pressure was going to hit the roof if I didn't find some way to get my mind off the stupid, petty fight I was having with my husband, sent me a link to a YouTube video of Michael Shanks talking about his penis.

No, I'm sorry. That's inaccurate. He was really talking about his nuts. The video was taped at some convention (I assume) and featured some audience members asking him questions, one of which was what he thought when reading the script for the season 7 premiere of Stargate SG-1. For those of you who have not seen it, and I'm pointing my shame finger at you because if you still haven't recognized the fabulousness that is Stargate SG-1, I'm not sure there's hope for you, the first you see of Michael Shanks's character, he is lying on the ground in the fetal position, very much naked. Well, apparently, that scene was shot on a very cold day and though his first thoughts of the script were favorable, his thoughts of the actual filming were not.

(Side note: I didn't realize a man's nuts can retract into his body! That's a cool feature. Can I get that feature except in reverse? Like, do you think I could get extra fluid or muscle tissue or something to fill my breasts on command? That would be a great benefit when trying on certain styles of dresses. "I wish I had the chest for this dress. It looks great, but it needs more cleavage." *focus on popping the chest out* "Hey look! Instant D cup!" It would be like a wonderbra, but all on the inside! No? Too creepy? Yeah, okay. You're probably right.)

So I'm watching this video, and Michael is totally babbling and he's being cute and adorable and funny, and I went to my little happy place where I frolicked in the fragrant green meadow with my white unicorn and my new husband Michael and little birds were singing and there were rainbows and I picked flowers and played "he loves me, he loves me not" and it always came up "he loves me." And all of a sudden, I couldn't remember why I was mad at Oscar. All of a sudden, all was right with the world. (Except for the part where I clearly needed a psych eval.) All of a sudden, I was in touch with that little place in my heart where I keep my love reserves and I tapped into those reserves and practically puked up bunnies and puppies and little pink hearts.

And when I was through making myself sick with the cuteness of my happy place, I realized that as adorable as Michael Shanks is (Seriously, Michael. Call me!) he's no Oscar. Because at the end of the day, Oscar is the one who comes home, even when we're fighting, and tells me that he loves me. And Oscar is the one who buys me flowers for no reason at all. And Oscar is the one to whom Turtle runs over, tackles, and says "I missed you Daddy." Oscar's the one I love. (And of course, the fact that he's actually available for make-up sex when we're done with our fight doesn't hurt either. I'm nothing if not practical.)

So if it came down to it, there would be no trade. Although, I would probably think it over for a few minutes, and probably ask if I could take Potential Husband 2.0 out for a "test drive," because no opportunity to "kick the tires" should be wasted. And I think it would be only fair to ask to see if the "retractable nuts" feature is still in working order, because if there is no warranty offered and I'm getting an as-is model, I want to know if it's fully functional. But I'd stick with Husband 1.0, no question. At least, that's how I feel now. Ask me again after our next therapy session.

Um, I Think Disney Has Lost It

2007-01-31T22:24:00.000-07:00

I traded e-mails with Hotass today. The Cliff's Notes version is that Disney has apparently jumped the shark.

To: Cymber
From: Hotass
Subject: Really?

Cinderella III? Seriously?

That is all.

To:Hotass
From: Cymber
Subject: Re: Really?

Okay, not only is it Cinderella III, to the best of my knowledge, it's a TIME TRAVELING Cinderella. It's "what would happen if something got all fucked up in the space-time continuum and Cinderella's foot doesn't fit the shoe and she never gets with the Prince? THEN WHAT WOULD HAPPEN, BITCHES???? " Cinderella's gone sci-fi, yo.

Turtle. The Other Other White Meat

2007-01-30T23:45:00.000-07:00

Turtle is three now, which means there have been a lot of changes since we first brought him home from the hospital. Most of them have been good. After all, I don't have to change diapers any more, which is a big improvement from the early days. Some of them are questionable. After all, he's talking now. In a manner of speaking. (And when I say he's talking now, I mean his mouth NEVER. STOPS. MOVING.) And some of them are not so great. After all, he's stalking around the house, committing murder-suicides on a daily basis with his plastic go-gos. This does not bode well for his future. Or mine, for that matter.

But what is most interesting to me have been the unexpected changes I have seen in Turtle. For example, I had assumed the worst about the first several months of Turtle's life. I had envisioned severe sleep deprivation, potential colic, late-night screaming jags and those moments that make you wonder why humans don't eat their young and whether you should consider trying it, just for kicks. Instead, Turtle was pretty much the best model of newborn on the market. He started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks. He didn't have any kind of colic or stomach problems that a good nap on Mommy's or Daddy's chest wouldn't solve. He had an extremely loud scream, but was easily appeased. And I never wanted to eat him, except in that "you're so cute, Mommy could just eat you up" way.

Now, though, my easy-to-manage baby has given way to a rambunctious, fiercely independent, strong-willed preschooler. He doesn't want anything to do with Mommy's chest, unless he's pumping it full of imaginary rounds of ammunition. He throws temper tantrums complete with deafening screams and he's not finished until he decides he's finished. And that whole sleeping through the night thing that I thought we had down cold? Yeah, we're not fond of that anymore, either. Instead, Oscar and I find ourselves waking up with him a couple of times a night. At least now, he can articulate his problems, which, by the way, run the gamut from "I need to go potty" (two thumbs up for recognizing it, thanks!), to "I lost my binky" (shhh, don't tell your doctor we still let you HAVE a binky!), to "need blankie" (seriously, kid, we live in Arizona and it's not that cold; you will live!) to "I scared" (don't worry, buddy, Mommy will make the monsters go away.)

It all makes me intensely curious as to what the next three years have in store. I worry for my little boy, who in another three years will be in school and on the playground with other kids who may not realize what a beautiful soul he has. Who may tease him because he's very sensitive and hates to see people hurting. Who may take advantage of his giving nature. And who may shun him because sometimes that's just what little kids do. On the other hand, I can't wait to see what happens when his language skills are even more fully developed and he can really communicate how his mind works. I can't wait to see how he takes care of a little brother or sister, if Oscar and I get to that point. I can't wait to see his eyes light up when he learns something new or stuffs a frog in his pocket to bring to Show and Tell. I can't wait to see what new surprises he has in store.

Because honestly, this kid is a mystery to me. Every time I think I have him figured out, he changes the rules on me and he's just smart enough that I'm not sure whether or not he's doing it on purpose. But mystery or not, one thing is certain: I can't imagine my life without him. I can imagine a life without the 2:00am call to find his favorite stuffed animal. I can imagine a life without making pancakes EVERY. SINGLE. DAY because it's the only thing he eats with any kind of consistency. I can imagine life without the Legos on the floor that I find with my bare feet while walking down the dark hallway. But I can't imagine life without that boy.

Which is probably a good thing, because given how his muscles have developed since we first brought him home from the hospital, I would think he would taste pretty gamey by now.

My Inner Porn Star Says Hi

2007-01-25T23:27:00.000-07:00

Oooooooooooooooooookay. So apparently I need to go out and live a little. I have wondered about this for quite a while, but seeing how much you guys would be paying if there was actually someone to collect on these fines, I am now firmly convinced that I have been a goody-goody for far too long. Yeesh. Doesn't anyone else have a paralyzing fear of authority and/or the morality police? No? Just me? Okay, then.

Seriously? I've actually done quite a bit of soul searching about my compulsive need to follow the rules. I have found that it often doesn't matter who made the rules, whether I even believe in the moral authority of whoever made the "rules," or whether they are written or unwritten. I simply follow them, lest I be labeled a "bad" girl. (I'm sure Oscar would be thrilled if I was a bad girl now and then, but, as I've mentioned, he's a dirty, dirty man, and I'm not sure his judgment should be trusted.)

The weird thing is, personally, I don't know that I would even have a problem having a reputation as a bad girl. But I learned in therapy this evening that I apparently have yet to overcome my tendency to put everyone else's wants and needs ahead of my own. Which means I'm probably still subconsciously trying to make my parents proud by adhering to their moral code instead of making decisions based on my own values. (See, Nate? Not even I am completely balanced.)

Not that I'm rushing out to have a threesome, or anything. (Although if Eric Dane was interested, I certainly wouldn't turn him down.) (Call me, Eric!) But I am definitely reconsidering whether my objections have to do with me or with the values of my parents, or Oscar's parents, or the religious right, or George W. Bush, or my OB/GYN, or anyone else who might know me. I mean, I don't mind weighing their opinions along with my own. But I do realize that they should not have more weight than mine. Besides, I would hate to miss out on an opportunity to be the meat in a boy sandwich (nice phrasing, Hotass!) because someone might "tut-tut" about it.

So I really appreciate everyone who took the time to post their fines in the comments. Even if some of you didn't pay attention to the instructions and tallied per occurrence. *ahem*McMama*ahem* You have certainly given me something to think about. And you have given Oscar a new hobby, if the amount of time he has been spending in an effort to find a candidate to fill the third position in a Cymber sandwich is any indication.

My Fine Is $215 $240

2007-01-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

I found this over on the 'Til The Cows Come Home blog and it amused me so much I thought I should reproduce it. I'm a little tentative about posting my fine, because I have a feeling people will either look at it and think "Holy Shit, this woman is sheltered" or "Holy Shit, what a whore." Neither of which is particularly accurate. But I'm throwing it out there anyway because I have no shame.

I'm not 100% positive I have correctly tallied my fine, either. Mostly because only Alzheimers' patients have worse memories than I do. But I did my best. Those of you who know me can feel free to check my math.

Edited to add: Oscar finally got around to reading this post and reminded me of a little something he and I did that upped my fine another $25. Not that it matters, because compared to you guys, I'm a frickin' vestal virgin. But lest I be accused of down-playing my dark underbelly, I thought a revision was in order.

Here’s how it works: You don’t have to confess your answers, just the amount of your fine. (Not per incident!) Tally up your score and post it on your blog with the title… "My Fine Is…”

Smoked pot — $10
Did acid — $5
Ever had sex at church — $25
Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you — $40
Had sex with someone on MySpace — $25
Had sex for money — $100
Vandalized something — $20
Had sex on your parents’ bed — $10
Beat up someone — $20
Been jumped — $10
Crossed dressed — $10
Given money to stripper — $25
Been in love with a stripper — $20
Kissed some one who’s name you didn’t know — $0.10
Hit on some one of the same sex while at work — $15
Ever drive drunk — $20
Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk — $50
Used toys while having sex — $30
Got drunk, passed out and don’t remember the night before — $20
Went skinny dipping — $5
Had sex in a pool — $20
Kissed someone of the same sex — $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex — $20
Cheated on your significant other — $10
Masturbated — $10
Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend — $20
Done oral — $5
Got oral — $5
Done/got oral in a car while it was moving — $25
Stole something — $10
Had sex with someone in jail — $25
Made a nasty home video — $15
Had a threesome — $50
Had sex in the wild — $20
Been in the same room while someone was having sex — $25
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars — $20
Had sex with someone 10 years older — $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27 — $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time — $50
Said you love someone but didn’t mean it — $25
Went streaking — $5
Went streaking in broad daylight — $15
Been arrested — $5
Spent time in jail — $15
Peed in the pool — $0.50
Played spin the bottle — $5
Done something you regret — $20
Had sex with your best friend — $20
Had sex with someone you work with at work — $25
Had anal sex — $80
Lied to your mate — $5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good — $25

How much have you been set back?

You Say Heretic Like It's A Bad Thing

2007-01-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

I love that Snark's Mistress is in college. She doesn't, because she's sick of school and is not looking forward to another few years of class presentations and group projects and 15-page essays. But I do, because I always end up learning things from her hysterical rantings after one of her classes gets her worked into a lather. Usually, it's something from her women's studies classes and has to do with what I need to teach Turtle so I don't inadvertently end up raising a boy whose subconscious behavior supports and upholds an unfairly patriarchal society. Occasionally, though, I learn something about myself and my own personal values and belief systems.

Last semester, for example, I learned that I am an extremely selfish person who is fundamentally incapable of caring for my fellow man. I know. I was surprised, too. I hadn't really thought of myself as selfish before, but Snark's Mistress was kind enough to fill me in after a heated discussion in her psych class. How did she find out? Well, her classmates politely informed her that anyone who grows up without formal religion is doomed to be completely self-centered. Therefore, I, who grew up without any kind of religious background, am doomed to be selfish, immoral, and probably a slut. (They didn't actually come out and say I was a slut. I just kind of assumed that's where they were going with things.)

I am so glad she let me know, because I had been feeling this pressure to do things for other people. Now that I know that no matter what I do, I'm never going to rise above my non-religious status, I don't have to worry about that. Boy, that took a load off.

Honestly, though, I'm kind of getting sick of people assuming that being a godless heathen automatically makes me a terrible person. I think I manage to be a pretty decent human being, despite being crippled by my lack of godliness. I give to charity. I practice the Golden Rule. I love my fellow man. And I really don't think I've broken any more Commandments than your average Fundamentalist Christian. (Not that that is any big claim to fame.) In short, I believe that whether or not you are a good person is hardly determined by your religious background alone. In fact, given that there have been quite a few atrocities committed in the name of one God or another, I think it's fair to say that for some people, religion can have quite a negative effect.

Not that I'm going to go too far in the other direction and say that all religion is bad, of course. We practice more of the "live and let live" philosophy around here. If religion works for you, then you should embrace it, I say. My grandmother, bless her, still prays for me every day. I think she's hoping I'll get to heaven on a loophole. (It had better be a really big loophole.)

I guess I'm just saying that last semester, Snark's Mistress seemed to stumble on a very prevalent attitude that the deterioration of our society's strict adherence to religion is to blame for all of the world's ills. I kind of have a problem with that.

After all, clearly it's all Oscar's fault. Everything else is.

Blogger Breakfast

2007-01-22T22:41:00.000-07:00

So, I didn't mention this before because I wasn't sure it was going to work out, but this past Saturday, Oscar and I had plans to meet Flip in real life, off blog and in person. Warts and all. It was iffy right up to the end, but Saturday morning, Oscar, Turtle and I piled in the car and set out in the rain to pick Flip up at his hotel and drive him two blocks to our breakfast location of choice. He could have walked, I suppose, but I really wanted him to have a chance to smell the remnants of the Turtle vomit so that he could report back to you that it REALLY is NOT going away. (Of course, even when he was in our car, he claimed that he couldn't smell it, but I think he was just being nice.)

Flip is the second blogger I have met in person. My Boyfriend, of course, was first. (Hi, Honey!) And since I really didn't have too many preconceived notions of what Flip would look like/sound like/smell like/burp like, I was very pleased by the live and in-person version we met. We had a fantastic time chatting and laughing and talking shit about other bloggers. (No, not you. No, I swear. Okay, maybe just a little.) And it was wonderful to finally put a face to this person I've been reading about and corresponding with for so long. We are looking forward to the next time we are in each others' proximity so we can get together again.

I have to admit, though, it is kind of weird meeting someone in person when your only relationship has taken place online. In fact, I was telling Oscar on my way to breakfast that I was sure I was going to have problems remembering to call Flip by his given name instead of just "Flip." In the end, it didn't end up being as big a deal as I expected, because I just resorted to calling him "Hey you!" much like I do with everyone else I know. But still, it's hard to explain the feeling when you realize you know intimate details of this person's life, and yet, you have no clue what his favorite color is or whether he trims his nose hair with a pair of scissors or a special nose trimming tool. It's really like getting to know someone in reverse.

Thankfully, I'm a complete goofball, who doesn't much adhere to societal norms, which makes it rather easy for us to get by in social situations. Watching me jump up on the table and start dancing to "Islands in the Stream" gave Oscar something to talk about with Flip, and created many avenues of conversation that held up throughout the meal. "Does she always do that?" "How have you never been arrested before?" "Has she considered medication?" And of course, Flip helped things along by being utterly charming and telling us hilarious stories about his family. Odd though the circumstances of our meeting might have been, we had a lovely visit and I am so glad it worked out that we were able to meet.

So if you have a chance to meet Flip, I can wholeheartedly recommend that you do so. You will have a fantastic time. He's an excellent conversationalist and an all-around great guy. Oh, and in case you're wondering, no, he's not a serial killer. I made sure to ask, so you wouldn't have to. You can thank me later.

I'm Going To Be In Real Trouble When He's A Teenager

2007-01-19T15:48:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my living room, having an IM conversation with Oscar when I realized that PBS was no longer playing any of the shows that I don't mind watching with Turtle, but was instead starting the opening credits for Barney. I don't do Barney. I don't let Turtle do Barney. Barney, I prefer to think, does not exist in my space-time continuum. And yet, there he was on my screen, in all of his obnoxious purple perkiness. I ran to get the remote.

"Nooo purple dinosaur. No, no, no, no, no," I said to Turtle as he looked at me, perplexed. "Let's watch the Wiggles instead."

"Noooooooooooooooo!" Turtle wailed. "Di-o-saur! Watch di-o-saur, Mommy!"

I reiterated that we don't do the big purple dinosaur in this house and encouraged him to embrace the Wiggly goodness. Turtle was having none of it. I turned off the television.

"Okay, buddy, if you don't want to watch tv, it's time to take a bath."

"Nooooooo! Don' wan' bath, Mommy!"

"Buddy, you've gotten out of taking a bath all week long. You are getting a bath today."

"No! Mommy! Don' wan' bath!"

"Turtle. You're getting a bath. Let's go."

"But Mommy! It's my birf-day!"

"...."

I....couldn't really figure out what to say to that, not to mention the fact that I was so busy laughing hysterically that it didn't allow much room for rational thought. I mean, how does one argue with that? Even if the birthday in question doesn't technically happen until November? If someone has an answer for me, please let me know, because this kid really is starting to smell bad and his hair can now be formed into any shape you desire without the benefit of product. It's unnatural and it kind of creeps me out.

Really, Clint?

2007-01-18T23:13:00.000-07:00

I realized today that our society's obsession with plastic surgery had gone too far when I saw this side-by-side of Clint Eastwood. I don't generally have an issue with plastic surgery. I mostly understand why celebrities feel the need to get it. They live in a world where appearance is often the single deciding factor on whether or not they have careers. It sucks, but it is what it is, and if they feel like it gives them an edge, then whatever. I won't judge.

I also understand why Average Joe or Jane feels the need to get it. Sometimes you feel like everything about you perfectly expresses who you are inside with the exception of this one thing. And if changing that one thing is all you need to feel at one with yourself, then I applaud you for going after it. I won't judge you, either.

But the unfortunate side effect of all of this happy acceptance of plastic surgery and those who get it is that we seem to have made it undesirable to age in any kind of visual way. Never mind that wrinkles can give you character or grey hair can give you gravitas. We're all about Youth! Fertility! Vitality! And we turn our heads away from anything resembling Advanced Age! Maturity! Experience!

That Clint Eastwood is buying into this mentality particularly disturbs me for some reason. He has (had?) one of those faces that tells a story, even when it's perfectly composed. The squinty eyes? The rough, craggy complexion? I knew what to expect from that Clint. I liked that Clint. I didn't love him, but then, I've NEVER loved him. I just liked him. And I thought the more he aged, the more character he had, and the more he grew on me. I don't even know what to think about new, wide-eyed, smooth-faced Clint. He scares the shit out of me and not in an "Are you feeling lucky, punk?" way but in an "I'm going to suck out your soul to smooth out my crows' feet" way.

And if Clint felt so pressured to "stay young" by smoothing out his features and getting an eye lift? Clint? The essence of masculinity to a generation of Dirty Harry worshippers? What does that say about our values? Is it really so bad to grow older?

I just think it's a shame that we seem to be losing touch with what makes people so beautiful. We think it's artificial youth. But what is so spectacular about youth? You don't know anything when you're young. You think you do, but let's be realistic: who here wasn't full of shit when they were young? Raise of hands? That's what I thought. It's when you grow and you mature and you age you get some experience behind you that you start blossoming. So when you smooth out the expressions on your face with a needle full of Botox (Nicole Kidman, I'm looking at you) and carefully cover the gray in your hair and go under a surgeon's knife to nip or tuck every line, you're erasing everything that you gained along with all of that hard-won maturity. You're erasing the very things that make you the most beautiful.

So I may be in the minority, but I'm going to let time march across my face unimpeded. And I'm going to embrace my gray hair. (I only have one at the moment, but Oscar does make sure to check that it's still there and to see if it's breeding every time we go to the salon.) And if Turtle gets teased someday for having a mom whose forehead actually moves, I'm going to dry his tears and consider it a victory. Because when I get to the end of my days, I want people to be able to look at my face and know one thing: That bitch lived a colorful life.

I Still Suck

2007-01-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't been here in a week? In a WEEK? Really? Damn. I suck.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely my choice to be absent from these parts for the last week. I really would have preferred to update my blog than, say, clean up Turtle-vomit from my car Friday night. (The car STILL smells like Turtle-vomit, by the way, so if anyone has any suggestions for getting Turtle-vomit-smell out of a car, I would greatly appreciate hearing them. Febreeze doesn't cut it, in case you were going to suggest it. It just makes the car smell like floral-Turtle-vomit.) I also would have preferred updating my blog to dumping out Oscar's vomit-bucket two nights later. He had pizza for dinner. You could tell. I ALSO would have preferred updating my blog to getting sick, myself, on Monday night, and after vomiting up all of the contents of my stomach, continuing to dry heave until not even stomach lining was left. (Don't you just love the word "vomit?" I wonder how many times I can use it in a paragraph. Vomit, vomit, vomit, vomit. Okay, I'm done. Really.)

On the other hand, I learned quite a lot from this stomach bug. For example, if you know you are a marked woman, and it is just a matter of time before you start puking your guts out, may I recommend chocolate chip cookies? The sweetness of the cookies cuts the acidity of the rest of the crap expeditiously exiting your stomach. And not to say that they are AS good on their way out as they were on the way in, but they're not bad. Also? Not that I'm a big fan of bulimia, but it was nice knowing that after overdosing on the chocolate chip cookies, thus negating my entire workout that day, in the end, my net caloric intake was not as bad as it could have been.

And now that I have spent two more paragraphs talking about vomit than I really should have, I want to discuss something completely unrelated. I had a dream about Ron Rifkin last night. It was weird and involved Antarctica and dog sleds and me almost getting trapped without sufficient warm clothes. But what was really odd about the dream was that once I was rescued, Ron Rifkin came up to check on me, and I kind of wrapped myself around him and we kissed. I did not realize I had such strong feelings about Mr. Rifkin. I mean, I've always been a fan. He's one of my favorite character actors, and he's so adorable, I just want to pinch his cheeks. But I never thought about getting romantic with him.

Snark's Mistress, who is a psych major, once told me that when you have a sex dream about someone, it doesn't necessarily mean you want to have sex with him. It often means that you miss him, or are craving emotional intimacy with him. That came as a big relief to me the night I had a searing sex dream about Snark's Mistress. I didn't have to go into any kind of soul-searching exploration of my sexuality. But it still doesn't explain my sudden interest in getting jiggy with Ron Rifkin. We have never been emotionally intimate, and in the harsh light of day, my interest in getting horizontal with the man has significantly waned. So what was that all about?

I mean, I'm sure if I were to find a book about dream analysis, I would find out that Antarctica represented this and the dog sleds represented that. But I doubt Ron Rifkin has his own chapter. So if anyone can shed some light on why I might be dreaming about getting all romantic with Ron Rifkin, please leave your thoughts in the comments. Thank you.

(Oh, and vomit-less posting will resume tomorrow. Thank you for your patience.)

You Mean This Thing Doesn't Update Itself?

2007-01-10T23:34:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one who seems to be having a hard time getting back in the blogging groove now that the holidays are over? No, I know I'm not, because there are quite a few people on my blog list who haven't updated yet since the first of the year. Is there something in the water, do you figure? I mean, it's not that there is a dearth of things to write about. After all, Christmas and the New Year makes the last two weeks of December a veritable whirlwind of activity. And that's just holiday-related stuff. Other stuff happens in our lives, seemingly oblivious to the increased stress we are experiencing as a result of last-minute present buying and having to fit into a little black dress for the popping of the cork after having tossed quite a few too many high calorie snacks in our mouths since Thanksgiving a month ago.

Well, I'm not sure what it is but I'm struggling to find things to say. So tomorrow my job is to a) finish laundry, b) finish washing the dishes, c) catch up on my correspondence, d) play endless rounds of go-gos with Turtle and e) find something funny to say about something relating to anything so I don't have to look at my blog and think "God, I suck" anymore. There really needs to be more hours in the day.

And Now I Will Mime What I Want You To Do With Your New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-08T23:06:00.000-07:00

Walking back into the locker room of my gym, the first thing I see is a big sign prohibiting the use of cell phones in that space. It never occurred to me to inquire why, specifically, the locker room was off limits. I suppose I had just assumed that with the proliferation of camera phones, people were wary of having someone make a call and accidentally (or on purpose) snap a shot of someone else's bare ass. But what has occurred to me and what I think I might be asking about during my next visit, is why those signs aren't posted everywhere else in the gym.

I was finishing up my workout today, bobbing my head like an idiot to the music piped into my ears by my new MP3 player, when I heard someone talking animatedly not too far away. I peeked around, hoping that the person in question wasn't speaking to me. No, instead, a blonde in tight workout attire was hogging the leg press while carrying on a very loud conversation with someone on her cell phone. I returned to my own workout, but not before giving her my patented "Really? That's an interesting choice" look.

I honestly do not understand the use of cell phones on the gym floor. Can someone please explain it to me? Because first of all, as I see it, cell phones are for our convenience, so we can nag our spouses about taking the laundry out of the washer and putting it in the dryer before it mildews while we pick up dinner from the Chinese place down the street. Taking a call in the middle of a set on the leg press is just not convenient, in my opinion. In fact, it seems like an unnecessary distraction. I know I would lose count, anyway, and probably end up either pulling a muscle or barely breaking a sweat. Neither seems much the point of going to the gym.

Secondly, it's discourteous to the rest of us who are just trying to get our workouts done. We don't care to listen to your sob story about how you got drunk and made out with this guy only he's dating your sort of close friend Gina and now Gina is pissed at you and she has your favorite lip gloss and won't accept your apology and now how are you going to get your lip gloss back? And yet, you generally have to talk really loudly to be heard over the piped-in music on the floor, so whether we want to or not, we are privy to the sad state of your lip gloss affairs.

Third, there is the part about you hogging equipment. I mean, if you can talk and work out at the same time, I still think you're annoying but I will forgive you, because at least you are not sitting on a machine I need. But if, for example, you are the blonde in the tight workout attire, you are using the leg press as a chair while you whine about your favorite lip gloss, and putting me in the uncomfortable position of having to mime to you that I need the machine and could you maybe take your conversation somewhere else. That is poor gym floor etiquette. I should not have to mime under any circumstances, but it seems particularly egregious to have to do so when I'm already humiliated about the fact that my body is stuffed into spandex like I'm some reject from the sausage factory.

And okay, thankfully, it's not always me doing the miming. But I do see scenes like this play out quite a bit during my time at the gym, which means that there are a lot more people suffering through the indignity of the Spandex Mime, and it's only gotten worse since the first of the year. Everyone with a variation of "I will get more regular exercise" or "I will lose weight" on his list of New Year's Resolutions is crowding the gyms right now and sadly, not all of them are familiar with a little thing I like to call "common courtesy". So, I guess what I'm saying is I just wish that more people would put "I will not be that asshole on the phone" resolution right under the "I will go to the gym regularly" resolution. That way I can get through a little more time before my "I will not bitch-slap strangers, even if they are self-absorbed and have a hefty sense of entitlement" resolution goes down the tubes. I'm just asking to make it to mid-January, people. Is that really so unrealistic?

The Power Of The Internet

2007-01-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

So. Oscar was out most of last evening. He worked and then he had a meeting to attend downtown, so I figured I would call up Snark's Mistress and see if she wanted to come over and do a Stargate SG-1 mini marathon. And because she is my best friend, she came over to save me from having to manage a Turtle by myself, although we watched the America's Next Top Model marathon instead of Stargate. I know. I'm kind of ashamed. But I don't know what to say. That show sucks me right in. It's like pop culture crack.

In any event, when I got up to take Snark's Mistress home after our marathon, Oscar called me over to give me a kiss. Except that it wasn't just your usual "drive safe, love you" kiss. It was a toe-curling, temperature raising, "Holy Hannah, you really know how to use that tongue" kind of kiss. I was perplexed. I wasn't going far. I wasn't going to be gone long. It was late enough that I didn't figure that any kind of serious action was in the cards. Why make my knees all wobbly just to send me off to deposit my best friend back at her house? I didn't get it. But I didn't question him either. I just chalked it up to one of those weird things.

When I came home, Oscar was playing a video game. I did a few things around the house and then let him know I was heading to bed. He said he would be along soon. Not too long after I had curled up in bed, Oscar walked in. "Are you asleep already?" he asked. I wasn't, clearly. So he got ready for bed and then curled in next to me. And then he proceeded to seduce me with a single-minded intensity.

My mind sufficiently blown and many exultations made to "God," "Jesus," and "Oh, Yes, Baby" later, I snuggled up to Oscar and asked what that was all about. I mean, after all, it was pretty late, and our track record hasn't been all that great in the bedroom lately. Well, it appears that a couple of people, having read my blog post yesterday in all of its whiny "I. Can't. Get. No......Sa-tis-fac-tion" glory, tracked down Oscar and challenged him to put his best moves on me (and man, has he got some moves.) That crazy hot kiss he gave me before I left the house? Their idea. The focused seduction? Their idea.

But rather than be offended, I was thrilled. You mean all I have to do is whine about something on my blog and my readers start mobilizing to get me what I need? Freakin' FANTASTIC!!! Now what I really want to know is who is responsible for this little number, and could you hurry it up a little? Thanks.

Post Holiday Blatherings

2007-01-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

Happy New Year! (Can I still say that, even though it's January 2 and I've been conspicuously absent from these parts since the 28th, which I will say instead of "last year" because I don't want to sound like a total asshole? I can? Okay, good. Thanks.) I hope everyone had a very enjoyable holiday. As previously mentioned, our household spent the time between Christmas and New Year's trying to recover from our various ailments. Turtle has been making up for a week and a half of not eating much by eating anything and everything he can get his hands on, provided, of course, the food he can get his hands on is stuff he enjoys eating. Hide your pancakes. It's just not safe.

Oscar has been playing his Lego Star Wars video game until all hours of the night and early morning. Two nights this week, he has stayed up until past 3:30am, attempting to clear various and assorted game levels. middleageddad will tell you that he is merely trying to avoid coming to bed until his oversexed wife is fast asleep, thereby circumventing the need to haul out the old "not tonight, dear, I have a headache" excuse. But that's not it. Really. He's just really excited about his new game. I know this because there is not nearly enough sex happening in the Cymber household lately. Not even close.

As for myself, having realized my dream of getting a $200 gift certificate to Target, (a better gift than the Holy Grail, in my opinion) I have been spending a great deal of time buying and filling containers. Yes, containers. I've been in quite the organizational mood lately. I bought containers for my Christmas decorations and containers for the Turtle's toys. I bought a bigger container to put Turtle's little containers into. I have containers all over the place. It's so perfectly uniform and does wonders for the whole Stepford Wives look I'm going for in our interior design. Oscar is, naturally, baffled that he could buy me a gift certificate to Target and see it spent in two days on something other than books, music, small appliances or other fun things. But he is happy to indulge me.

Besides, I did buy an MP3 player, finally, too. I wanted one to make it easier for me to listen to music at the gym. My cd player wasn't cutting it (no way to hang on to it) and the music they pipe in over the speakers at my gym is hit or miss. Sometimes you get a great dance mix happening that gets the blood pumping and your body moving, and other times you get a weird rap/alternative/WTF?? mix that I can't imagine anyone finds motivating. Of course, now that I have an MP3 player, I need to figure out how it works. I say that, but what I really mean is "now that I have an MP3 player, I need to hand it over to Oscar so he can figure it out for me and then show me the bare minimum of what I need to know." That is why I married a techno-geek, right? Right.

It's not that I can't figure it out for myself. It's more a "why bother?" thing. I am fine knowing the basics, but Oscar will start asking me in-depth questions like "Can it do THIS?" or "How do you make it do THAT?" That would be fine if he took "I don't know" for an answer, but this is Oscar we're talking about. My not knowing the answers to those questions will start a whole philosophical debate about how I never read the instruction manual and why don't I read the instruction manual and maybe IF I read the instruction manual, I would know the answers to his questions. It ends up being a long, drawn out thing and by the time we're through, we're each exasperated with the other and there ends up being no sex that night. And I'm sure this goes without saying but Oscar + Cymber + Exasperation - Sex = A Very Very Bad Thing. It's a complex marital equation, I know, but I'm very good at math. You can trust me on this one.

Thanks For Nothing, Santa

2006-12-28T11:11:00.000-07:00

So, here's my thing: I have no issues with Santa. He's cute and fat and jolly and if he calls me a "ho" a lot and eats all my cookies and milk and steals carrots for his reindeeer, at least he leaves presents in return. I'm fine with him. He's fine with me. It's all good.

However.

When, in the course of his travels on Christmas Eve, Santa picks up hitchhikers and allows them access to our home, my goodwill towards men starts to be tested. Because while the give and take we have established with Santa is a positive one and leaves us both feeling as though we have benefited, the opposite is true of my experiences with his fellow travelers, the Stomach Flu Fairy and the Common Cold Angel.

Everyone in the house received an extra special gift from one of those two guys. I was gifted with a visit from both of them. And let me just say that it's bad enough trying to keep your stomach from turning inside out without any outside influence, but when your Turtle wakes up in the middle of the night, having puked all over his bed and you have to clean it up? It's that much worse.

So next year? When Turtle writes his letter to Santa? I will be sure to put in a post-script reminding him that while he is certainly welcome and we don't mind if he brings his reindeer in for a breather, we'd rather he didn't let anyone else in the house without running it by us first.

Just Say No

2006-12-24T09:58:00.000-07:00

You know you've hit the motherlode of Office Holiday Parties when a spirited debate breaks out at the dinner table between Person A and Person B about how your spouse might respond to his first ever bong hit. Person A claimed he would just mellow out. Person B claimed he would feel completely weird and out of control but that he would think it was the most awesome thing ever. Advantage? Person B, who pointed out mid-debate that SOME forms of pot would make him mellow out, but this particular one they were talking about would, in a person who had never done pot before at all, make him freak out a bit.

Seriously. Best. Office. Party. Ever.

Edited to add: It should be noted that Oscar has never smoked pot before and did not smoke pot that night. It was suggested that he should try it and Person B did, in fact, offer to bring him some the next day. However, Person B is not accomplished at rolling joints, and knew Oscar would need detailed, illustrated instructions if he were to construct a bong, so the idea has been abandoned until after the holiday, at least. Apparently that wasn't clear from my original post. Thank you.

The Fine Art Of Marital Negotiations

2006-12-20T11:29:00.000-07:00

"So I found a problem with the new dishwasher...."

"Oh?"

"Yeah...the previous dishwasher had a feature that this one doesn't have."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The old dishwasher would occasionally prompt the male member of the household to empty it from time to time. This one doesn't seem to have that feature...."

*glare in my general direction* *feeble excuse making* "Yeah, okay. I'll empty it next time."

"Thanks, honey."

I may not be subtle in my campaigning, but I am effective.

The List

2006-12-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

While we're on the subject of fantasies and being completely turned on by superficial traits, I thought I might get back to what started this whole brouhaha about my obsession with McSteamy in the first place. It all started when I be-bopped over to the Boyfriend's blog and found a recent post in which he set his "List" down in writing. This would, of course, be the list of people that would exempt him from his wife's wrath, should he meet one of them and have wild monkey sex. Or, you know, whatever else he might do upon being introduced. Seeing his list in writing made me consider my own. I haven't had a formal list in quite some time. In fact, I think the last time I had a formal list, I was in high school and Snark's Mistress and I were creating our New World Order, in which we decided the celebrities we would take into the bomb shelter with us when we realized that our world was hopeless and we had to nuke everything to start over. We were a cheerful sort in our youth.

That's not to say that we haven't discussed the list at all. I've discussed the list many times, both with Oscar and with Snark's Mistress. It's just been mostly abstract discussion. For example, SM has her own personal code of ethics as it pertains to the list: she will not choose anyone who is married. I was with her on that for a while, until it occurred to me that this is my fantasy, and if I'm cheating on my husband, I'm obviously not overly concerned about the sanctity of marriage in this whole scenario. They're on their own to explain it to their spouses. I've got mine covered. He's even offered to man the camera.

In any event, seeing the Boyfriend's post and subsequent comments made me think about those celebrities with whom I might want to do completely dirty, naughty, unspeakable things. The kind that might even force me to go to confession (despite the fact that I'm not Catholic). Not that being a stay at home mom in suburban Arizona puts me in prime position to meet anyone on my list and start paving my path to Hell, but whatever. It was something to do. So without further ado, here is my current "I would SO do them and Oscar can't say ANYTHING about it" list:

1. Taye Diggs. Hearing that he did tequila shots with Ashlee Simpson almost made me reconsider his placement on the list, particularly since it started a spate of nasty rumors that he was cheating on his wife, Idina Menzel. I love me some Idina and I don't generally condone cheating (unless it's with me, in which case, Viva La Infidelity!) On the other hand, the idea that he might actually hook up with Ashlee Simpson almost made it seem like I had a chance with him.

2. Gina Gershon. Although my brother once compared me to k.d. lang and made the erroneous assumption that I was having a torrid affair with Snark's Mistress, I am not at all inclined toward the Sapphic. However. There is a very small, very select group of women who make me reconsider my love for the penis, and Gina Gershon is one. I'm not sure what it is about her, but she makes me want to be naughty, just so she'll turn me over her knee.

3. Patrick Dempsey. I don't think it's really possible to be a fan of Grey's Anatomy and not put Patrick Dempsey on your list. The hair alone is reason enough. But when you add in the eyes and the smile? Game over. In my fantasies, I generally go for the type who look like they could throw me up against a wall, manhandle me a bit and make me like it. That's not Patrick. Instead, he looks like the type who could charm me out of my underwear before I even realized the belt on my pants was undone, and how can you really resist that?

4. Nick Lachey. The power of Nick Lachey's charm is such that he even made Jessica Simpson look appealing. Even when he had his shirt on. Enough said.

5. Christopher Meloni. I love him in Law & Order: SVU, in which he plays the Angry!Detective! with a soft spot for kids and I love him in Runaway Bride in which he plays the affable, jilted fiance. But I particularly love him in OZ, of which I've never actually seen an episode, but for which I scoured the internet looking for screen captures, just so I could see him in all of his naked glory. His ass could have carved rock in that show. H.O.T.

6. Angelina Jolie. The Boyfriend and I were talking about what kind of woman I would go for if I was at all inclined to go for women. I said, "Women who won't put up with my whining about how I've never done it before and I don't know what I'm doing and instead would grab ahold of my head and direct the action, reaching over me to smack my ass with a riding crop and bark 'Get to work, bitch!'" Angelina Jolie is the epitome of that kind of woman.

7. Michael Shanks. For those of you who don't know who Michael is, he is the actor who plays Dr. Daniel Jackson on Stargate SG-1. Of course, he only made my list after the first season of the show when he cut his hair because man, that haircut he had in the beginning was enough to kill anyone's fantasy. In the earlier seasons of the show, he would have made my list for being the geeky, somewhat nerdy, unconventionally attractive type. But the older he gets, the hotter he gets, and there have been episodes where he's been wearing a sleeveless shirt that have made me praise God for arm porn.

8. Salma Hayek. Forget Scarlett Johansson. Salma Hayek has the most perfect breasts ever. And she runs the gamut from completely adorable to smokin' hot, depending on how she wants to play it. She's got a confidence and a smoldering sexuality that makes me want to do her in the vain hope some of that rubs off on me.

9. Hugh Jackman. Bonus points if he wears Wolverine's sideburns and leather. Woof.

10. Eric Dane. Ahhh....McSteamy. What can I say about McSteamy that I haven't already said? The man makes me seriously consider taking up stalking as a profession. And he's one of the few people on my list that wouldn't even need to say anything to get me on my back with my legs in the air. All he'd have to do is look at me and grin. In fact, just thinking about his grin right now is making me....................*ahem* I think you get the picture.

Anyway, G-d knows, I will more than likely never meet any of these people. And even if I did, I would imagine that I'd make such a complete ass of myself, they wouldn't even give me a second thought. But in the very unlikely scenario I do meet one of them and he/she is interested in getting me horizontal, Oscar is on notice. He can't say a word. Unless he's asking to either join in or man the camera. In which case, I'm open to negotiations.

Way To Kill My Buzz, There, Stewart

2006-12-17T15:42:00.000-07:00

So there I was, staring slack-jawed and drooling over my picture of McSteamy, when I received a comment from Stewart that, I must confess, kind of shamed me. For those of you who missed the comment, go ahead and take a moment to go read it, then come back. I'll wait.

...

...

Ready? Okay.

So here's the thing: Stewart is totally right. I was getting completely obsessed over the Hotness that is McSteamy for totally superficial reasons. I have no idea how intelligent McSteamy is, nor do I know if he kicks kittens for no particular reason at all, nor do I know whether or not he and I could have a 3 hour long conversation about Stargate SG-1 without him making fun of me for being such a fan-girl nerd. Hell, for all I know, he's a serial killer in his spare time. But it didn't really matter to me, did it? The only thing I could see was the Hotness.

I'm kind of ashamed of that, because in my real life, I'm really not the kind of person who values style over substance. In real life, I'm completely drawn to those quiet, kind of geeky, nerdy types, who are fanatical about sci-fi, probably don't date much, are attractive in an unconventional way, probably work with computers and are smarter than I am. In real life, I probably wouldn't give McSteamy a second look. Well, okay, that's not true. I'd look. I'd look a lot. But then I'd go home with Oscar, who is a quiet, kind of geeky, nerdy type, who is totally into SG-1 with me, never dated much, is completely hot in an unconventional way, works with computers and, it can be argued, is smarter than I am. And I would bless the good fortune that brought him into my life.

So I kind of feel like I owe you an apology, Stewart. I would hate for you to slink back to your comic books thinking all of us women are vapid, shallow, status-conscious nitwits, concerned only with how physically attractive and financially solid you men are. There are those of us out there who are actually more concerned with whether or not you think Daniel is to blame for the deterioration of his close friendship with Sam over the last few seasons of SG-1 than we are with whether or not you would be cast as the arrogant but sexy plastic surgeon on ABC's hit television series about surgical interns. Besides, I checked out your profile and you're too cute to be sitting at home alone.

Update

2006-12-13T22:52:00.000-07:00

Sorry to disappear. I have no real excuse. Honestly, I was looking up images to go along with my latest post, but I got stuck on this one:

Upon viewing said picture, my toes curled up, and my mouth dropped open, and I don't really think I've had a coherent thought since. Sorry. Back to regular posting when my hormone levels drop back down to normal. Which, considering that I keep looking at this picture, may take a while....

(Holy Mother of God, that man is HOT!)

(Can Santa bring HIM for Christmas? I promise I'll be very, very ~~naughty~~ good!)

(I've never wanted to be a towel so much in my life...)

(Okay, I'm done now. All of this talking is interfering with my viewing enjoyment. Really, check back tomorrow. I'll try to stop staring at the picture long enough to come up with something clever to say. With any luck, that something clever will be something other than "Eric Dane is smokin' HOT!" But no promises...)

Thar She Blows....!

2006-12-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

Nothing makes you think longingly of the diaper-changing days quite like a pottying experience that goes like this:

So much for my clean bathroom...

Santa Baby

2006-12-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

I got this in my e-mail this morning from Mama Jo:

I'm wondering if she's starting a subtle campaign to get me interested in giving her another grandchild, because immediately thereafter, I had the following IM exchange with Oscar:

Me: Danger, Will Robinson, danger. My mom sent me an adorable photo of Santa passed out on a couch with a little itty bitty munchkin in a red elf outfit passed out on his chest. I'm jonesing for a baby. Good thing I'm a) not ovulating right now, and b) heading up to Snark's Mistress's tonight or I might rape you and make you fill me with your little babies!!!

Him: LOL

Do you think I should warn him that I'm serious, or let him be surprised when I tie him to the bed and start doing unspeakable things to his body?

Overheard At The Hospital

2006-12-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

"You know, if you wanted some attention, you could have just called me up. I would have taken you to lunch or something. Getting yourself admitted to the hospital is a little extreme, don't you think? You big drama queen."

Those Horsemen Look Familiar...

2006-12-05T21:38:00.000-07:00

I went to the gym today. And this time I remembered to notify the Four Horsemen. What I failed to mention, however, was that Oscar planned to come with me. Luckily, they called me on my cell before setting off on a ride, so we were all good.

Now, while I had been quite consistent about going to the gym prior to my summer vacation, and had even made periodic efforts to get back in the habit of working out regularly over the last few months, Oscar has not been to the gym in over 8 months. So what inspired him to commit to straining his muscles and feeling like a girly-man for the 45 minutes it took to work through his routine? Well, he and McMama are having a Weight-Off. They each took their starting weights last Monday, and whoever can lose the most weight in a four week period wins. I've been helping him out so far by fixing him meals that he can take to work, ensuring that he is getting a balance of fruits, veggies, protein and carbs. But the exercise portion of the program was sadly lacking until today.

Of course, the Weight-Off was reason enough to get back to the gym, but there was a secondary reason, for me anyway. Mama Jo called today to let me know that her mom, my Nana, was in the hospital. She had symptoms of a heart attack, though, thankfully, the doctors have determined that she did not have an actual heart attack. She's on the mend now, and will be going home tomorrow. But considering that this is the second family member in less than two years to have heart issues, and my cholesterol level is a bit high, as is Oscar's, I'm certainly getting more serious about changing my lifestyle. Not that I'm giving up all of my vices completely. Come on, now. Quantity of life is nothing without quality of life and nothing says quality of life like a big serving of creme brulee, with all of its artery hardening goodness.

Still, losing my uncle a year ago and this scare with my Nana has made me a lot more conscious of the choices I've been making with regards to food. Although, honestly, could this whole new awareness of health have come at a better time? Christmas is around the corner. I'm afraid to make cookies, lest they mock me with their white flour and sugar and butter. I don't know what to put in the stockings, now that candy is off the list. And who wants to get an apple or a head of celery in their stocking? That's like opening the biggest gift under the Christmas tree and finding out it has socks and underwear in it! So I will be making an effort over the next month, but I don't expect that a complete overhaul of my lifestyle will really be realistic until at least after the holidays. Avoiding sugar and starch is nice and all, but did you ever wonder what made the Grinch so bitter? He was on a diet through Christmas....trust me on this.

Happy Anniversary To Us....Continued

2006-12-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

The installer called on Tuesday, our anniversary, to schedule a time to come out and deal with our dishwasher situation. I was very excited to tell them that Wednesday between 10:00 and 2:00 sounded perfect to me and please, oh please, oh please come rescue me from handwashing my dishes and God bless them and their families and their mechanical know-how, while we are on the subject. And when the installer called at 11:30 on Wednesday to ask if it was still a good time to deliver and install my new "Symbol of Love and Commitment," I am not ashamed to confess that I squeed a little bit. Needless to say, I was anxiously anticipating taking ownership of the latest reason my credit card is maxed.

So I imagine it should come as no surprise that when Mr. Fix-It got under my sink to start preparing to remove the old dishwasher and install the new one, he found that it was not going to be that easy. No, it wasn't going to be easy at all. Because one of the valves under the sink was corroded and was likely to spring one very large leak or several smaller leaks if he attempted to install our dishwasher without first replacing the valve. He said he could replace it for me, but it would cost me an extra $75 for labor and an extra $30 for parts, and since it was such a quick fix, he would just as soon see us save the money than pay him for it.

Now, you remember what I said about how "no matter how simple the project seems, or how easy a professional makes it look to do, any home improvement project you undertake yourself will end up taking three times as long as you think it will and will eventually result in you having to learn new languages to curse in, having completely exhausted your vocabulary of epithets in your native language?" Well, that's great that you remember, because I managed to completely forget that I said those words when Mr. Fix-It offered to save us some money by letting Oscar repair the valve.

The valve was not, in fact, a quick fix. Instead, the valve took several hours to fix and involved quite a bit of Oscar grumbling. And it also resulted in another water line under the sink springing a leak, which meant that Oscar had to make another trip to Lowes first thing the next morning. Meanwhile, my pretty, pretty new Symbol sat forlornly in the garage, having been delivered, but not lovingly placed in the comfort of my kitchen.

But hey, the valve was repaired, another water line was repaired and we were ready to go. I called Mr. Fix-It to reschedule my installation. He didn't call back. I waited patiently. He still didn't call back. I called again. I waited not quite as patiently. And when I still hadn't heard from Mr. Fix-It by the close of business and I found myself with a counter completely covered with a new set of dirty dishes, I resigned myself to another hour of handwashing. I was not amused.

I had too much going on this morning to bother calling Mr. Fix-It again, so it was a good thing he called me. He wanted to know if he could come by this afternoon to install my washer. Of COURSE he wanted to come by this afternoon. I had already committed to Snark's Mistress that I would help her with some errands. Luckily for me, he didn't anticipate being available until between 3:00 and 4:00 and I was pretty sure our errands would be done by then. So we agreed to keep in touch during the day and if it was at all possible to install today, he would install today.

Well, we kept in touch all right, but I quickly got the impression that the installation was not going to happen tonight. I called him a little after 3:30 to let him know I was home and he could come by at any time. He called at 4:00 to say that he had another installation before he could get to me and he would call me back. He called again at 4:45 and said he was finishing up the installation as we spoke, but he was worried because he stayed home yesterday because he was sick and he was starting to feel lousy again, and he knew we have a little guy and he didn't want to get him sick and it was getting cold outside, but maybe he could come home, since he doesn't live far from us, and grab a sweatshirt and then come over and do our install, but maybe he should wait until he feels better because he wanted to do the best job possible so he wanted to be feeling best when he did finally install it.

By that point, I just wanted to kill myself. Maybe I should have. Of course, if I had, I would have missed the gloriousness of having Mr. Fix-It calling a half hour later to say that he was just going to run home to grab a sweatshirt and then he'd be at my house, installing my dishwasher. So, you know, long story short (heh...like THAT happens around here), my dishwasher got installed today, a week after the old one broke. May I never have to hand wash a table full of dishes again. Happy Anniversary to me, once again.