single with vodka

one liners- hey it's easy — 2 comments
14
May 10

the circle of bullshit

i asked verizon if they have an “unlimited bitching plan.” they do, but it gets routed through india, and i only bitch domestically because, even though it’s cheaper, i can’t stand the offshore delay.

is it wrong to nap during a playdate – at your house?

i immediately dislike men who give women the fish handshake. don’t be an asshole & break my hand, but give me a real handshake & show me some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, dammit.

i have found a cure for the common cold: take 2 vodkas & sleep late in the morning.

what is it about the sound of children snoring that is so delightful? oh yah, it means they are finally sleeping.

how many times is it acceptable to wear a bra before washing it? do they really get dirty?

90% of the time i don’t wear undies to work because when i bend down they stick out of these damn low waist-ed jeans. now, i show so much crack, i am in danger of being transferred to the plumbing department.

i’m not bitter – just sweet n’ sour.

i haven’t gained weight - i’m bloated.

a quick perusal of my dvr menu will reveal that i watch far more cartoons than shows with real people.

there is a saying: your toad, is a prince to another. so, maybe if you leave him in a pond in the middle of a forest, some stupid princess will take him home with her and then you can ride off into the sunset…alone.

ladies, please wax. don’t bleach. it’s still a mustache even if it’s blond.

i am instituting a tampon exchange program called Code Red. here is how it works: any woman can walk up to any other woman anywhere and just say “Code Red” which is universal for “i need a tampon, stat!” it’s like the take a penny, leave a penny dish but it’s need a tampon, give a tampon. imagine the implications for facilitating peace and clean pants globally.

i am tired of hearing people from other countries & states proclaim that everything where they are from is better. really? is it? because here’s a newsflash: we didn’t invite you. see if they will take you & the rest of the assholes back.

my children make unreasonable demands and threats and throw fits when they don’t get what they want, but i told them i don’t negotiate with terrorists.

i know a man who wears a bad toupee with a baseball cap over it every day. i just can not wrap my head around it. is the toupee receding? doesn’t his head sweat doubly? that is a vanity rivaled only by anal bleaching, imo.

cats: the chosen pet of co-dependents – you love them because they hate you.

i am considering having only one eyebrow tattooed raised because i just can’t master the muscle control to do that on my own.

i think a manic episode here and there can be very productive.

a friend remarked that when people say they have to quit drinking for awhile, she finds it worrisome. i told her that’s i why i have never said i would quit.

people frequently tell me i look like patricia heaton. i am never sure if it’s a compliment or an insult.

an oft overlooked bennie of divorce is the fact that you no longer have to pretend to like your in-laws.

jesus turned water into wine but i can turn a bad husband or a crying child into a vodka tonic.

once i stayed over my mother’s house and came down with a severe case of the runs and had no choice but to violate federal law and use chlorox cleanups in a manner inconsistent with their labeling…

parenting is not a democracy, it’s a monarchy; and i am the queen.

when people of color come into the store, i give them extremely exceptional customer service – it’s a weird reverse racism, but i want them to walk away thinking, “white people aren’t so bad, after all.”

so far the divorce is the the biggest fight we have ever had during the marriage..

all of the experiences in my life have led me to be the person i am today: a huge bitch.

if wine is the nectar of the gods, then vodka is the juice of the mortals.

quitting the gym has actually unexpectedly relieved me of a lot of guilt: the guilt of not going was far worse than the guilt of not working out at all.

the average marriage lasts 7 yrs. the average jail term is 5; but, you can get out of jail early for good behavior.

when people say i am a bitch, i am flattered. it means i am doing a great job of pissing off the right people.

youth may be wasted on the young , but middle age ain’t no prize. and since i just saw a man wearing a “senior olympics” t-shirt, i am now even more terrified of old age, although it does involve some sweet discounts.

i hate hitting bottom – the bottom of the bottle.

so, i considered having my teeth professionally bleached until the hygienist told me i would have to avoid coffee & red wine afterward. well, that was a very short consultation.

having kids means never you will never have to be alone again- in the bathroom.

hey! the 1980′s called and kit wants his car alarm back. the rest of us couldn’t give a rat’s ass if its beeping.

i did that no carb diet – until lunch. now, i just follow this food pyramid:

so my daughter wanted to know what the “c-word” is. i considered telling her that it’s her father’s pet name for me since the divorce.

dr. gggb says: one nostril continually running is far more annoying than both being stuffed up.

having a litter box in your home is like having a toilet you never flush.

it has been said that if we all sat around in a circle and put our bullshit in the middle, everyone would keep their own crap. this may be true, but i would still like the opportunity for a bullshit swap meet.

grape juice is really just wine with training wheels.

substitutes i have used for milk in my morning coffee when the milk in my fridge has curdled: vanilla yogurt, powdered milk, yo baby yogurt drink, hot chocolate mix, powdered milk from 1974, whip cream, mini marshmallows, cool whip, vanilla ice cream, sour cream with sugar, powdered sugar, carnation instant breakfast, and anything powdery or white that when mixed with water resembles milk. it would behoove me to learn to drink it black – i hear you never go back after that anyway…

i never realized the true depths of my need for validation & approval until i started a fb fan page. 100th fan gets a pony…

make mine extra dirty, please.

file it under gggb

from the i am getting too old for this files:

i have been out with my pre-tween girls on more than one occasion when i clucked disapprovingly at what “teenage girls are wearing these days. it’s just disgraceful that their mothers allow that.” pictures from my high school years would reveal that i dressed like one of those tramps myself.

no matter how routine she knows it is, and despite her seemingly huge annoyance with it, any woman over 30 will always be secretly thrilled to be carded.

at 2 am there is nothing sadder than a drunk, over-botoxed, orange spray tanned, too skinny, bleached blond cougar in spandex with new tits on an old body alone at the bar for last call waiting for someone (anyone) to take her home for a mercy fuck. i am going to retire early from the singles’ scene before i can be described as doing even just one of those things (well, except for drunk).

from the that will ruin your day files:

upon sitting in the pedi chair for a relaxing treat after a long hard week, the tiny asian bitch looked at my gut and most likely trying to make conversation said, “you have baby?” i said, “no, apparently i gained some weight since i was here last, but thanks for noticing.” consequently, she was quiet for the rest of the time which was nice because i always hate when they talk to me anyway.

while purchasing tickets for a movie, my mother asked for the senior discount. the vacuous 18 year old behind the counter then turned to me & asked if i would like the senior price too. at first i wanted to cry, but then i thought, “what the hell?” a discount is a discount.

from the hangover files:

i decided i must make a clean break from dirty martinis.

my liver can’t recover like it used to. in college i could party as late as i wanted for as many nights as i wanted, pop 2 tylenols before bed & resume all of my daily activities. now if i want to binge drink for even one night, i need to plan for a week of recovery.

a friend remarked, “when people say they have to quit drinking, it makes me nervous.” i told her that’s why i never quit.

from the beauty files:

i decided i won’t torture myself anymore to lose that last 5 (10) pounds because i realized there is no way you’re gonna get these perky 32DD’s (which are real AND spectacular) on a 5’0 frame without a little extra padding elsewhere.

my mom was never high maintenance (none of us have any idea how she raised me) but she did impart some valuable knowledge that has allowed me to preserve my glowing youth so successfully: 1. it is never too early to start using eye cream. 2. stay the fuck out of the sun especially when you are fair & have skin the thickness of filo dough.

it is not advisable to wear new fuck me heels in which you are unaccustomed to walking after a fresh pedi, because when you fall off them & twist your ankle, you will indubitably scratch up the fresh polish.

after a full day of personal maintenance, it occurred to me that i was all groomed up with no one to fuck.

i quit the gym, but it’s okay because i have some new behaviors in place: 1. i am going to jog to the fridge. 2. i will hide my remote & manually change the channels on the tv. and 3. i will put diet soda in my vodka.

from the lost poetry files:

roses are red.
violets are blue.
it’s been so long since i got laid,
that my legs i no longer shave.

from the irritable bowel syndrome files:

at dinner my pal thought her phone was vibrating, but she realized it was just her intestines.

after a long day or full evening of holding in my gas, i love when i am finally in my car alone and can let loose, but i am concerned my intense flatulence is obliterating the new car smell.

i often wonder what would happen if farts had a color and differed in color according to intensity of stank. kind of like the national state of emergency chart of color level for terrorist activity but for methane intensity. i think we would have no choice but to deem farting socially acceptable. except you might cross the street if you saw someone blow a dark green cloud knowing it was going to be especially foul.

the smaller the girl, the bigger the farts.

you ever think its safe to freely fart in an empty room at work and then someone walks in after you did? they have to know it’s you. no one else is in there.

you know your gas is intense, when you have to roll down the window.

you know you are in a solid relationship when you can lean to one side & lift a cheek and let it all out.

from the random musings files:

why is that i can instantly get most anything delivered to my house except for what i really need? vodka.

so, since i started writing, i can’t simply have conversations anymore or participate in any aspect of my life without wondering if its blogworthy and surreptitiously taking notes on my phone. to be fair, i tell people, “i am so using that in my blog.”

i tried to quit coffee but the withdrawal was so intense i didn’t want to live. plus i was tired and confused all the time. if i owned a drug company, i would develop a caffeine patch or a gum for those trying to quit or who just need a steady delivery system of caffeine to make it through the day. (hey merck, this is a freebie.)

being in bumper to bumper traffic has a domino effect: the guy in front of you moves up 2 millimeters, then you do, and down the line it goes. sometimes when sitting at a traffic light i will notice a space between me & another car that i can either ignore or move up few inches. i usually choose to move up because there is a delicious sense of power in knowing i just set off a major chain of cause & effect for all those poor slobs behind me. i am the traffic queen!

some commercials are so intentionally cheesy i can not imagine that the advertiser even thinks they are good. i figure that the production budget was so low, they advertiser just didn’t give a shit as long as the product was on tv.

i think we need to buy products on infommercials that will “save us so much time” because we wasted all that time watching said infommercials. they are just sooooo fucking long.

why was it when we were in high school (last century) the kids in the band & drama club were usually considered to be giant dorks, but as adults, musicians & actors are some of the most revered people in our society? same is true for the computer nerds whom we now worship when they fix our technology.

there is one good week for women in a month and that is the week immediately after the last day of her period when all of her jeans fit. the rest of the month she is either getting it or has it.

there are now studies extolling the virtues of eating chocolate, taking naps, drinking wine, having orgasms every day, laughing, and limiting hard core exercise. it can’t be long until we find out being a bitch is good for you too.

i think the reason bad weather is so infuriating is that there is no one specific on which to lay blame. you can bitch all you want, but you can’t do shit to change it. weather is the one thing we as humans will never be able to control & that simultaneously freaks us out & pisses us off.

i spent mother’s day with my mom & sister at my friend’s house with her boyfriend’s family for an hour before she came home. when she finally walked in, i told her i was about to text her: “10 more minutes and this becomes a blog post.”

i am all about having a sense of humor and i really don’t understand how someone can lack one. when i run into a humorless person, it immediately becomes my personal challenge to make them laugh and walk away with a smile. i have a warped need for approval.

from the parenting files:

your child’s entire sex education & knowledge of profanity occurs not from your well thought out talks, but from riding that damn bus back & forth to school every day. that is what happens when you put fifth graders & first graders on the bus together. sound travels up from “the back.”

a woman is always most fertile right after losing that last bit of baby weight.

i don’t know why that no matter what my kids ask me to do, my first response is always to want to say no.

i hate hosting playdates, going to birthday parties, and basically anything that requires dealing with other peoples’ children but does not involve booze at the same time.

happy hour used to mean going drinking after work with friends. now it’s that one hour after the kids finally go to bed when i think about drinking but fall asleep before i find the vodka bottle.

god, my kids are perfect, brilliant, well -behaved angels…i have never loved them so much as when they’re sleeping.

my friend had to get off the phone with me the other day because, as she put it “she had to bathe the bitches.” see, we all agree that we adore our children, but we are kinda over the mommy thing.

sometimes i overhear my 9 year old & her friends complaining about me or saying i am mean after i get annoyed with them for asking me for something every 10 minutes and i think “why, you little ungrateful bitches.” then i think, good, i don’t want these fucking princesses to come back here anyway. what happened to the good old days when you were afraid of your friend’s parents and avoided them as much as possible?

from the files of i wish i said this:

i heard a comedian remark that marriage was like the stockholme syndrome. having been there & done that, i must say this is brilliantly true.

from the fashion police files:

i have noticed that generally, most heavy, slovenly dressed, unattractive women, carry the most expensive designer purses. it must be because you don’t have to be thin to wear a purse or even look in the mirror to try it on.

why is it that thin women have more modesty than the big girls? it seems the fatter the woman, the tighter the pants & shorter the top.

men revere summer as a time when women run around half naked to beat the heat. i dread it as the time of year when my retinas are burned by being forced against my will to see far more exposed bodily hair & flab than i could ever have imagined existed. some people need not to dress seasonally appropriately.

from the break-up files:

i realized it’s not the boyfriend i miss so much, it’s the 24/7 texting i have a hard time living without.

i won’t exactly be out on the street after my divorce, but my lifestyle will change significantly. it’s kind of a “riches to rags to story.”

in the process of leasing a new car a few months ago, i discovered going to car dealerships is far better than going to singles’ bars.

when i think about dating again, i refer to that old addage about many fish in the sea, but then a friend said, “same ones keep getting thrown back in the pond.” so i decided to buy the club pack of AAA’s.

from the working girl files:

if he is cute, it’s flirting. if he’s not, it’s sexual harassment.

now that i’m working again (for pay), i am one lazy bitch on my day off – no more guilt about napping immediately after the school bus leaves.

from the sex files:

a woman scorned will undoubtedly make at least 1 of these 3 revelations immediately after the break-up: 1. he had a tiny penis. 2. she faked ALL the orgasms. 3. he was terrible in bed.

how we know when it’s really over as summed up by a fellow gggb: “my vagina is dry for him.”

i have a vibrator that is so good, that i don’t scream, “oh god.” i scream, “i don’t need a
man.”

women try to rationalize sleeping with a married man by saying, “if it’s not me, it will be someone else.” while that may indeed be true, i say, let it be someone else, girl.

men have turned online dating sights into a free prostitution ring. keep that in mind, ladies.

once in awhile i get lonely & think i need a man in my life, but then i get some fresh batteries and in 60 seconds, i am over it.

masturbation, by it’s very definition, is a solo act. so let’s agree that i won’t bother to pretend to jerk you off and you don’t have to hold the vibrator.

in case you were wondering: it is possible to burn out the motor on a vibrator.

faking orgasms is like eating potato chips: you can’t stop at just one.

ponderings of a mad woman — 3 comments
06
May 10

all around mommy’s big tush…

in honor of mother’s day, i have written some very special nursery rhymes for all the mommies out there. happy day, you wonderful, incredible, strong, superwomen.

old mother hubbard went to her cupboard to see that it was quite dry
she opened the door to see vodka no more and loudly did she cry.

there was a new mommy who was very blue.
she was so fucking tired, she didn’t know what to do.
so she poured herself a double
and took something for her head,
whipped her husband soundly
and then went to bed.

all around mommy’s big tush
the children fought each other.
the children thought t’was all in good fun ‘til,
FREAK! went the mommy.

a vodka a day
keeps the mommy okay.
kahlua in the morning
mommy’s pouring.
gin at night,
mommy’s all right.
bottle of wine before bed,
mommy really prefers red.
ten a day, hundreds each month, empty bottles, liquid lunch.

hey, hey bar keep,
have you any gin?
yes ma’am, yes ma’am
just came in.
one for the mother,
one for the wife,
and one for the kid
who took over your life.

diddle diddle dumpling
one shoe is gone.
went to bed
with my clothes on.
diddle diddle dumpling
i’m a mom.

eeny meeny miney moe.
catch a toddler on the go.
if he bites you,
you best let go.
eeny meeny miney moe.

the itsy bitsy rugrat
got hold of a black marker.
off came the cap
and all the walls were darker.
out came the mom
from in the crapper all alone.
swearing never again will freely that kid roam.

mommy, mommy chocolate eater.
had a diet that couldn’t keep her.
stuffed her mouth full of jelly beans.
fuck! now she needs all new jeans.

pussy cat, pussy cat
where have you hid?
in the bushes, away from that kid.
pussy cat, pussy cat, why did you go?
i crapped in his bed since i hate him so.

wives of a feather flock together.
especially if there’s wine.
gin or vodka, it’s their choice.
as long as i get mine.

the mommy in the hell.
the mommy in the hell.
hi-ho she’s always drunk.
the mommy in the hell.

ring around the soccer mom.
the PTA mom is faster.
fuck you, fuck you.
you’re all over-achievers!

super stressed mama sat in a corner
drinking her vodka & rye.
she chugged the first one and felt quite numb.
and then quietly did she cry.

little miss muff
sat on her duff
eating her kid’s table scraps.
along came a husband who said all day she did nothin’.
now she is doing 25 to life.

little bo peep hid from her sheep
and then she didn’t mind them.
she left them alone and had shots of petrone
animal control would find them.

jack and jill went up the hill
to fetch their lazy father.
they both fell down & broke their crowns
because their father is a moron.

jack sprat ate no fat.
his wife ate no lean.
because he never fucking came home for dinner.

mom be nimble.
mom be quick.
mom catch the kid
about to be sick.
mom run fast.
don’t be slow.
otherwise on the carpet it will go.

fe fi fo fum!
i smell the lies of a bad husband.
i know he’s been in a another’s bed.
i am going to beat him upon his head.

young mother cole was a very lonely soul.
and a lonely pretty wife was she.
she called for her handy man.
she called for her plumber.
and then she called for her painters three.

hey diddle diddle
the kid in the middle
is usually kind of off.
the little one laughed
when the oldest took note
that mommy ran away with a cop.

hickory dickory dock.
somewhere it’s 5 o’clock.
so mommy poured one
and down it went.
hickory dickory dock.

hush little baby,
don’t say a word.
mama’s gonna change your turd.
if that turd really stinks,
then mama’s gonna need a drink.
if that drink don’t do the trick,
then mama’s gonna get really sick.
if mama gets sick and makes a fuss,
the neighbors just may call dyfus.
if dyfus comes to take the kids,
daddy is gonna flip his lid.

humpty dumpty sat on a bar stool.
humpty dumpty drank ‘til he drooled.
all the queen’s horses & all the queen’s men,
wouldn’t let humpty come home ever again.

hush a buy mommy,
in the strip mall.
when the stores open,
visa will call.
before school ends
mommy must leave.
then much will cry mommy, shoesies, & all.

mommy’s pants are falling down.
falling down.
falling down.
mommy’s pants are falling down.
her muffin top is showing.

i’ve been doing all the housework
all the live long day.

i’ve been doing all the housework
just to scrub this dirt away.

cant you hear the bathroom calling?
it’s the next place i must clean.

don’t you hear the husband shouting?
“i need some underwear!”

bitch, won’t you do
bitch, won’t you do
bitch, won’t you do the laundry?

no one’s in the kitchen with mommy.
no one’s in the kitchen, i know.
no one’s in the kitchen with mommy
not helping so she can’t go.
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ponderings of a mad woman / true but unecessary confessions — 5 comments
15
Apr 10

the cleaner

i don’t know what it is about organizing/cleaning that i so deeply adore, but i just can’t stop doing it. i know i come from a long line of anal people: my great grandfather was called The Tyrant, my grandfather insisted my grandmother iron his hankies into perfect squares, and my father kept his shirts in the bag with the cardboard from the cleaners precisely stacked on his closet shelves (my sister & i used to try to pirate that cardboard without disturbing the perfect order of his shirts but he knew every time). or maybe it is just my manifestation of OCD combined with the false sense of control i feel i have over my life when a drawer is perfectly outfitted with labeled bins. as a kid i loved to clean and purge. my sister was always rescuing my priceless childhood memories from the kitchen sized garbage bags i would smuggle up to my room and fill with stuff that i eventually tried to buy back on ebay (and it turns out you really can’t buy your childhood back). i even had a circa 1979 dymo label maker which my sister & i used to label everything in the gd house. there was nothing like new pristine school supplies and brandy new boxes of crayons to send me into a tizzy. and i was quite neat for the most part, save for the messy anomaly of my teenage years. so, you can not imagine what a horrible, awful surprise it was to learn i had married a slob of epic proportions. we are talking a filthy, messy, stacker. nothing tortures a neat person more than having a slovenly roommate (just ask felix unger). i was miserable and had to do something about it, so i turned to a trusted friend for help, Mr. Clean, and became completely obsessive with instilling order in my life.

the organizing impulse really kicked into high gear when i learned i was pregnant with my second child (a sweet surprise that occurred immediately after i lost the last bit of first baby weight & had bought an entirely new wardrobe of very expensive size 1 jeans which never got worn): i had the idea that if i could somehow systematize my entire home and catalog every single item located in it, i would be running a well oiled machine before rugrat number 2 joined the family to turn things upside down with her own special brand of chaos. it would be different this time after the baby came – it just had to be. it had been 3 years since number 1 invaded, and i was just beginning to feel like i was finally in control of my life again (which is really a well practiced illusion for anyone with children anyway). i watched all the organizing shows, bought instructional books (which i could now write myself), took notes, and then attacked my home from every angle. i purged all the useless items and had every single closet professionally organized. i was buying giant plastic storage tubs before it was fashionable. and i worked it like a job before there was an actual industry completely dedicated to the Organizing Arts. anyway, by the time i was 8 months pregnant and balancing with one toe on a bar stool i had fashioned into a ladder so i could clean off the last high shelf in the kitchen, i had achieved my goal of 100% complete domestic organization and OCD niravna was mine (but the post baby organizational bliss was short-lived since once that second runt became mobile, she quickly desecrated my sacred Temple of Neatness).

my closets became a thesis in anal retention. all garments were placed on wood hangers (NO WIRE HANGERS!) which all must be made of the same wood and finish and FACE THE SAME WAY. as a kid when i had those colorful plastic hangers, they too were arranged by color. clothes were lined up according to season, function, color order (ROY G. BIV), and arranged from shortest to longest by sleeve and overall length. do i even have to tell you about the shoes with polaroid pix on the front of the boxes displaying the contents and stacked according to the same stringent standards as the clothing placement? (but the move to the dorm room with what can barely be called a closet when the divorce started destroyed that fashion utopia. it’s okay. we will rebuild.) i also run a tight ship in all of my domestic departments: in the kitchen, all cans & food goods face the same way and are alphabetized according to type with tallest items in the back. there is no drawer lacking excessive amounts of perfectly fitting modular containers filled with color coordinated utensils. no spice is without a rack. in the bathroom, there is no hair care product apart from its brethren or out of a basket. no toiletry roams free allowed to float aimlessly in a drawer or a cabinet. all things must be properly contained & corralled. paper goods lined up by type. i have my own hot line to call for emergency label maker tape refills. hell, my entire basement & kitchen remodels were thinly veiled excuses to build glamorous storage spaces designed to hold beautiful high end containment systems. i built a fucking cedar closet outfitted with cedar hangers. i searched tirelessly for hours to find just the right bin and there was no organizing device i wouldn’t buy. i have my socks in grids. by color. and type. my bras & panties (which, i am sure you have figured out, must match) are stored as a set separated by color by drawer dividers. why i am not next in line for ceo of The Container Store (my heaven on earth) is a mystery to me. and there is no doubt that i successfully passed the organizing gene onto to my kids.

my kids have learned my insane habits too. miss 9 year old is painfully neat & won’t allow a single stray item in her room (which is really just a glorified container for her things since she pretty much lives with me in here in the cell). she also likes to throw everything out and has to be watched like a hawk just like me as a child. “you are going to want that in 25 years.” “no, i won’t.” “trust me. you will and you won’t be able to buy back your judy blume diary on ebay.unfortunately, i know.” (i certainly don’t want her to make the same purging mistakes i did as a young novice. i never had an organizing mentor.) miss 6 year old is truly a slob at heart, but does clean when asked, BUT she calls it “organizing,” and she can’t seem to tidy up without embarking upon huge re-organization projects that involve emptying every single thing she owns onto the floor and assigning new placements to each – which is the same exact way i clean. and by the way, i couldn’t wait for her to read so she could read the labels on all the bins and be organizationally self-sufficient. at one point after i had sold all of my own & the girls’ purged items on ebay, i dubbed my self The Tidy Terror and and i actually had an entire schtick going in which i helped people organize by going through their stuff and selling it for them on ebay. that was a decent gig for awhile but i had to store too much crap in my house and it conflicted with my personal domestic organizational scheme and just really began to stress me out, man.

you can immediately read my mental status by how neat & clean my house is. when i feel perfectly at ease in my life, the order in my home rivals that of a military barrack’s. when i start to lose it, you can see that by the deterioration of my home – stuff will be all over because i just stop caring. but then the mess stresses me out, so i go into a tornado of cleaning in order to feel more in control. a kind of chicken & egg conundrum really. so you can only imagine the manic depressive organizational cycles my home has suffered over the past 21 months of The Less Than Amiable Divorce Proceedings. and the reality of living immigrant style in one small room with my 2 girls, has taken it’s toll on my neatness as evidenced by the buffet of food stains that was formerly known as, The Carpet. so, naturally, it also follows that as the divorce winds down & i feel a renewed, but cautious, sense of hope & control over my own life, i was inspired to spring clean. the other evening i was feeling so elated about A New Development in The Divorce, that i sorted my enormous bag of free samples into a plastic expanding file AND labeled them appropriately with the professional grade DYMO 3000: cleansers, moisturizers, skin care, hair care, and makeup. OMG. that is soooo insane, even for me, but i was so full of self-satisfaction i that slept without a care in the world that night. but i don’t stop at my own domicile – i have to keep feeding the beast.

i dont fuck around with my organizing.

i have been known to invade other peoples’ homes with my cleaning tendencies if they will let me or are just too weak to resist. like when my mom was sick in december, i seized that as my opportunity to “help” her by organizing her life. first i pounced on her kitchen and cleared all the counters. i can’t stand so much stuff being displayed. then i emptied her pantry, fridge & freezer and scrubbed until it all shined like the top of the empire state building as miss hannigan had demanded of annie. i was completely disgusted with the state of her fridge – there is no excuse for mystery sticky messes & crumbs. i firmly believe that where you keep your food should be pristine. after eliminating the extremely past due food items, i returned it all to the shelves but it was merchandised perfectly: all labels facing out, products in alignment, condiments with condiments, juices all together, cheeses stacked by type in the drawer. next, i hit that mass of papers she likes to call The Office. i labeled all of her hanging files, filed all the piles of papers, and made her look through every loose scrap of paper, coupon, and article she pulled out that will never be read unless god forbid she was saving them for me (but she knows where i file all of that helpful advice – the circular file). then we made lists and lists of lists (oh god how i LOVE lists) and she pledged her devotion to a new life of organization and told me she would reform her wayward ways as soon as she was well again. it was 48 hours of restored health before things returned to their natural state & the sanctity of The Organizational Oath was violated. sigh, you can only do so much for some people. but i have new arenas for expansion.

now that i am gainfully employed, there is a whole new level of organizing i have undertaken that i never even imagined existed: The Paint Department. i like to keep busy all day at work – i am not one for standing around which drives the slackers who were hired before me nuts since i probably make them look bad. it’s not on purpose or to be a suck ass (what kind of ladder can i climb, other than orange, there anyway?) but as you can see, inventory control just comes naturally to me. obviously part of my job is to stock the shelves. now, most employees fill in “The Holes,” as well call them in The Business, only as a blatant need arises. i am busy pulling out merch from the back of the 6 foot deep shelves that hasn’t seen daylight since the store opened 13 years ago. it’s like an inventory Land Of The Lost back there. but i don’t sop there. oh no. i climb that 65 foot orange ladder to the roof-line so i can pull the boxes down from the top & properly label them with my corporately approved black sharpie. i put like items together into the proper bay’s overhead area directly above the same items on the shelves (we pros call it “striping”). why are those spray cans from here stored with the paint brushes over there? harummpf, i say. of course i get so involved in this fun, i forget that i actually have to mix paint for customers sometimes. but i have to tell you that the spray paint aisle has never looked so beautiful. it brings a tear to my eye. i found some colors that weren’t even out for sale! the other day, one of my associates commented, “girl, i walked by you today, and you were so far back into those shelves, all i could see were your feet.” plus the frequent squatting down to fix all of the items on the floor, gives me a great opportunity to show off my butt crack thanks to the popular low waisted jean styles of today (about which one of my pals commented, “maybe that is why the working class wears such unfashionable clothing.” she may have a point). but paint sales have risen in the past month…

today the paint department, tomorrow the entire store. next week, the world. muah-hah-hah.

rants — 1 comment
08
Apr 10

spring cleaning

i don’t know what it is about being on the verge of a season change that inspires me to clean. just as winter is begrudgingly winding down and giving way to the coming of warmer climes, i have the strongest urge to bust out the pink rubber gloves. so, of course, it follows that i have a Spring Cleaning Procedure that includes, but is not limited to, major household restoration, closet purging, clothes swapping, cobweb scouring, family haircutting, colon cleansing, officially changing the sheets from flannel to cotton, and intense personal grooming. i do all this by employing a completely anal retentive organizational strategy that verges on pathological which covers every nook and cranny of my life – hell i even cleared out the voice mail box on my cell and y’all know how much i hate to do that.

after scrubbing my house all sparkly clean from top to bottom with earth un-friendly cleaning products, and purging the house of enough stuff to fill 17 contractor size trash bags which will sit in landfills for the next millennium, it is time for the official Changing Of The Closets (if you are lucky enough to have several closets all to yourself. in my case it is the Changing Of The Giant Tupperware Containers. or for those of you that watch late night infomercials, The Changing Of The Space Bags. none of this to be confused with The Changing Of The Guard). and it absolutely never fails that every year i suffer from premature closetation. this is a yearly condition in which i become convinced that the unseasonably warm weather (98 degrees for 3 days in march) is here to stay and i eject the winter clothes from my closet, put all the coats into long term storage and take out the flip flops in time for the last record breaking noreaster of the season (i guess i am just a hopelessly thermometer half full person). after i dump every single last item out of my closet and clean the shelves, i force myself to survey the damage i have done to my summer body by hibernating and drinking vodka (just to keep warm) for 4 months. yes, it’s time to face The Winter Blubber for The Trying On Of The Summer Clothes. i look at all those cute little dresses and capris tucked neatly away in the dusty containers and can’t imagine those tiny things fit a mere 12 months ago. there is also the category of clothes called “I Can’t Believe I Wore That Last Year” in which i gasp in horror at some seriously hideous pieces of clothing that i thought were So Cool At The Time. soon, disgust ensues, and i just start getting rid of everything without prejudice. this, of course, has the hidden benefit of making more room in my closet for new stuff which means it’s time to go spring shopping (because lord knows i am completely seasonally unprepared since i really can’t deal with the summer clothes when they show up in nordstrom in the dead of winter). but worst of all is the knowledge that my Sworn Nemesis, Bikini Season, is not far behind, and, i, nor any other self respecting woman who has not honored her personal commitment to start working out in january to avoid the terror of this very situation, is not even looking at those swim suits until forced. we will just order new ones and shove the other ones under the bed til next year (yeah, i said order -i am not facing that fear of actually trying them on at the store. puh-leeze). The Official Wardrobe Change also encompasses two of my all time favorite wardrobing activities- the Switching of the Shoes and Cute Little Jackets Round Up.

like a squirrel hoarding nuts, i store up fabulous warm weather shoes all winter – and there is nothing like a fresh pedi to show ‘em all off. now, i personally get pedified all year round, but you know spring has truly arrived here when you show up to your favorite foot palace one day where there is nary a wait all winter and every pedi chair in the joint has a fat ass in it already in the process of obtaining perfectly manicured hooves. i can barely wait my turn because i am salivating to get back home and shed the protective footwear boxes to unsheath those new killer sandals, wedges, flip flops, & “going out shoes.” nothing makes a girl feel sexier than perfectly painted piggies and a pair of brand new open toed f-me pumps (are we not all suckers for a guy who tells us how gotdang fabulous our shoes are?). next are my Cute Little Jackets – they come out to play for a very small window of time: that nanosecond when it’s cool enough to need a light jacket but too warm for a real coat. i buy these darlings obsessively all fall & winter imagining all the adorable get-ups i will be seen in come spring and then only actually wear 10 per cent of them if i am lucky before the weather gets too warm (i am also lucky if i can even button them after the winter. because i bought them months earlier while saying, “it will def fit by spring since i will have lost this last 5 lbs by then.” okay, fine…10). and those of us with children get to do all of this closetation for our kids too, but it is not nearly as fun as we learn that all those clothes we saved for Next Summer now fit nobody because the tots, unlike the grass, grew like crazy all winter. then we have to go out and spend a ton of money on new clothes for them anyway. totally not as cool as spending money on new spring shoes and purses – but hey, it’s still shopping. and shopping is always good.

and i clean up not only my home this time of year, but the loose ends in my life too – case in point: emancipating the bf. what seemed like a great comfort during the lazy hibernation of winter, suddenly seemed suffocating on the cusp of spring. it was time to shed that heavy winter coat and trade it in for the feeling of freedom that only the warm weather can bring (and truth finally be told, i just couldn’t be bothered to fake one more orgasm. it was becoming entirely too exhausting). it sure ain’t easy to clean out the cobwebs of your life, but it has to be done every so often. i once had a friend who called it “weeding her garden” (which i thought was a great analogy until i became one of those so called weeds). i too used to cull my address book (back when we had such things during the flinstonian era of my youth before pen & paper gave way to email & blackberries) and remove the entries of people to whom i no longer spoke. now i go through my cell phone, email, and facebook page to update (nice way of saying delete) my contacts- those people formerly known as friends (used to be you just stopped speaking to someone when you broke up and then screened their calls; now you “defriend” them on facebook). and i do it not to make a statement to the person. it’s just part of my spring cleaning. because along with the peace i find by cleaning off the months of dirt and grime from my floors and purging unused physical possessions from the junk drawers, i also find well being by permitting myself to let go of relationships that i no longer need to hold on to.

so, yes, i feel deliciously accomplished: my house & my psyche (and my colon) are totally clean and ready for spring and it’s myriad of possibilities.

got my shoes already picked out…

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rugrats are hi-lar-i-ous — No comments
04
Apr 10

The Frozen Kid

hey folks! it’s time for the first (of most likely many) gratuitous “my kids say the derndest thangs” post. i share not only because are my kids are totally hysterical without even trying, but writing this kind of post is just too cheap and easy to resist. so without further justification, i bring you some bits from the stand up act i enjoy in my domestic comedy club on a daily basis. the two drink minimum is optional but i comply (strictly as a courtesy to the house).

we were watching a full house episode in which michelle had been given a “time out:”

9 yr old: “who makes a kid sit in a chair facing the wall?”

me: “well, it’s an old show, you know from the 80′s.”

9 yr old: “oh. the 80′s. well, they didn’t have accurate ways of disciplining kids back then.”

6 yr old: “mommy what color do you dye your hair?”

me: ” i don’t dye my hair yet. i don’t get grays. i guess i’m not that old, huh?”

6 yr old: “that doesn’t mean you’re not old. ”

6 yr old giggling: “my teacher told us today we had to use a number two pencil for the tests. a NUMBER TWO!”

me: “umm. well, there really is such a thing.”

6 yr old: “come on, mommy. a number two pencil? that’s just silly”

9 yr old helping 6 yr old with homework: “i am a teacher in training. a T. I. T.”

me: “yah, that’s great, but let’s call it something else.”

9 yr old: “why? did i say a bad word?”

me: “yes. but it’s ok, you didn’t know.”

9 yr old: “well, that is why i need to know all the bad words, mom: so i don’t use them by accident. ”

6yr old: ” well, i know the H.A. word.”

me: “the H. A. word? i am not sure what you mean by that.”

6 yr old: “daddy says it all the time when he’s driving.”

me: “really? what is it?”

6 yr whispering in my ear, “Head Ass.”

me: “what???”

6 yr old still whispering, “daddy always says to the other drivers, ‘get your Head out of your Ass.’ Head Ass.”

me: “ohhh. the H. A. word.”

we eat out a lot and i find it so frustrating to constantly waste money on ordering food the kids insist they want & promise to eat but end up not doing so time after time. this particular night my oldest daughter demanded an order of eda mame which usually go uneaten. we argued back & forth resulting in my agreement to place the order with this caveat: “if you don’t eat them, then you will have to pay me back for them.” a completely ridiculous comment made out of frustration that caused my sister to snicker behind her menu. so the eda mames arrive & my daughter starts shoveling them in like it’s her last meal, and i say “why are you eating like that?” to which she replied,” if i don’t finish these you are going to charge me for them!”

9 yr old: “i have an on/off relationship with crusts.”

me to 9 yr old during power outtage: “stop freaking out your sister.” 9 year old, “i’m not. i just froked myself out.”

my kids came home from their respective valentine’s day parties at school this year, with all kinds of crap about which dentists have nightmares. they sat down to a candy buffet while i was in the other room. when i returned, i came back to see they were cutting fun dip with pixie stix sugar. i guess fun dip has a higher street value? this has to be how addiction starts…

little sister to big sister: “i am going to kick your butt at this game” and then proceeds to literally kick her in the butt. big sister to little sister: “that’s a saying, it doesn’t mean you actually do it!”

9 year old: “mom do, i have to go to [6yr old sister's] gymnastics with you? i hate sitting there for an hour smelling feet.”

my mother was telling me about a class she took at a local community college about carmen, the opera. suddenly, my 6 yr old pipes up and says authoritatively, “grandma , it is not opera, it’s Oprah!”

my 9 year old likes to order a turkey sandwich at our local deli. she also likes to order for herself. so, she asked the waitress for german dressing on the side. the waitress looked at me quizzically, i looked back at her just as confused, and then at the same moment we both realized: she wanted russian dressing.

9 yr old: “why does she [6 yr old sister] get so excited when my friends come over?”

me: “dunno. it’s like how dogs get excited when they see you”

9 yr old: “well, at least, she doesn’t pee on the floor.”

6 yr old upon losing her second bottom tooth: “but i can’t whistle.” me: “could you whistle before your tooth fell out?” 6 yr old: “no.”

at my mom’s house for dinner one night: she fed the girls and then made one of my childhood staples, “franks and beans,” for me. upon learning such, both girls replied in horror: “no mommy! major gas tonight. it’s gonna smell in our room.” a few hours later, my stomach was rumbling & an earthquake was about to roar through my intestines. so, i told to my oldest that she was right about the dinner entree- it probably wasn’t such a good idea, and she said, ” mommy, it’s franks or beans. not both.”

9 yr old: “can i take my ice cream to the tv room?”

me: “no. sit with us and eat so we can all be together.”

grandmother: “tell us your thoughts. are you thinking about anything?”

9 yr old: “yes. i’m thinking that i really want to watch tv.”

grandmother: “do you want me to defrost something for breakfast or make some fresh pancakes?”

9 yr old: “why would i have frozen when i can have fresh? mommy defrosts everything. i am The Frozen Kid.”

9 yr old: “i really want a kitten. so i can raise it until it gets big.”

6 yr old: “don’t you think that will be a lot of work?”

9 yr old: “yes, but it will be worth it for that bundle of joy.”

5 minutes into a rousing game of “who can be quiet the longest” while in the car late-ish one night, 9 year old asks, “can we talk now? not talking makes me nauseous.”

for some reason known only to my dvr, it taped all of one week’s simpsons episodes in spanish. upon hearing me remark how odd that was, 9 year old says, “maybe it’s hispanic week.”

one night i was having a hard time getting the 6yr old to bed. helpful 9 yr old starts making bribes to her sister that i don’t want to have to make good on at a later time. i say to well-meaning older daughter, “just stop.” “stop what?” “stop having ideas.” my sister just looked at me with a smirk and instantly realizing how ridiculous my statement was, i said to her, “you know people are always writing funny things kids say, but really they should be writing about stupid things parents say to their kids.”

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rants — 4 comments
17
Mar 10

eggshell or satin?

so, after about an 11 year hiatus to raise the babies, i have re-entered the work force. of course, my impending lifestyle change will require it, but even before that whole mess started, i had planned to return to paying endeavors this year -now that both kids were in school for full day, i was terribly b o r e d. an empty house for most of the day does not require as much housework and such anymore; and i was longing for a life of more than coming up with excuses to not go to the gym & having lunch with my bitches every day (no offense beyatches – you know i love nothing more than carb bashing among friends while eating a good salad, but sometimes a girl just needs more).

after marriage, but pre-preggers, i had gone back to school and received a AA in interior design from FIT and i dabbled in the field before the rug rats invaded. now, i really wanted to make of a go of it – problem was, my previous experience (and i use the term loosely) was not all that impressive or much. so, i went to staples, laid out a benjamin for some proper resume paper, stamps, envelopes, & ink. i then went home with my supplies and spent countless hours “updating” my resume. i tried to fill in the 11 year employment gap by making my personal home improvement projects & consulting (read: helped friends decorate their homes) seem like design experience (even i had a hard time buying it). i mailed off at least 189 resumes to every designer in the tri-state area. i didn’t stop there when the calls didn’t start pouring in. oh no. i mailed a resume to anybody even remotely connected to interior design – the guy who did my window treatments, the chick i bought overpriced “accessories” from, every furniture store i ever shopped in, the tile store, the granite place, the designer working with my friend on her new house, and called in every other name-dropping favor i could pull out of my ass. i would have fucked handy manny for a job if he was hiring – but that little bitch kelly with the hardware store has her hooks into him pretty deep…

i followed up on my leads diligently, but after 3 months, all i got was ONE call for an interview. it was from a Major Home Improvement Retailer that had a Decor Department. i was thrilled! i plead my case to get back onto the field to the store manager, wowed him with my supreme bullshitting abilities to sell anything including the fact that he should give me a job despite my total lack of experience, and was awarded with a position in the paint department (because,”we have martha stewart paint now and that’s designer.“). since i was clear about my desired career path, i was promised that i could eventually make 17 lateral moves over to hardware, then to window & wall treatments, flooring, and finally to the Coveted Kitchen Department to be a Real Deal Kitchen Designer. i am not sure how many years of grovelling, ass kissing, & reminding him of this promise it will take, but i have time (hopefully my projected advancement occurs before the current store manager gets promoted himself & leaves). the pay is less than my babysitter’s hourly weekend rate (my first paycheck after taxes was $8.80 – my lunch cost more) and there is NO employee discount (which really sticks in my craw), but the deal sealer is that part timers are eligible for health benefits after 90 days. this was all i needed to hear, because of all the things i worried about regarding post divorce life (should an actual end be realized before The Rapture), the most anxiety causing thing was how i was going to maintain health insurance for myself. and since my pee was as fresh as an irish spring, i was hired. suddenly, i felt a supreme feeling of empowerment as i was on my way to a new life (albeit a messy paint splattered life, but a new life nonetheless).

before i could start, i had to attend an orientation where i learned all kinds of neat stuff like: the air here is flammable. umm, come again? flammable as in ignitable by flame? yes, it’s full of fine flammable dust particles. so, never light a cigarette inside the store and whatever you do, do not consider for one minute that the air you are breathing every day for 8 hours is most likely detrimental to your lungs, the very organs you need for minor bodily functions such as breathing. also, there are cameras all over the store to prevent shoplifting. definitely not to watch you. so don’t feel like it’s big brother or anything though we do know everything you are doing at any given time. but really don’t feel the least bit paranoid. we are a family here (doesn’t the mob say that too?). and the dress code is fabulous! what other job doesn’t suggest, but insists you wear your old beat up jeans, dirty sneakers and gives you a pocket knife, a tape measure and your very own apron? and the Code Of The Apron is taken very seriously – while you can wear it to the lav, you can not under any circumstances leave the store in it. you just absolutely can not wear it to your second job as, say, a pole dancer. it is strictly verboten, no matter how handy those pockets are for stashing singles. i was assured that in addition to all the handy stuff i learned that day, i would have my very own “coach” and receive tons of wonderful training before being thrown to the werewolves of Home Improvement.

i was really excited to be back in the high powered world of retail. i had my $200 paige jeans on and my $110 sneakers. but, by god, i was rocking that dress code and i looked hot in an apron. i gladly traded in my old appellation of “suburban princess” for my new title of “paint babe.” i was roaring and ready to shake those gallons of paint but, my special pal called out my first day, which meant the dude who was there for a mere 3 weeks before me had to fill in as my O-fficial trainer. apparently no one trained him in not being a jackass because it took him 4 hours to tell me that i had red paint all over my face. doosh-tacular. anyway, it’s not rocket science. paint is mixed by them fancy computers these days (the Vortex 8800), so i quickly mastered that task. the rest of the time i worked on learning the “merch” as well call it in the biz. i have been acquainting myself with the 87 varieties of caulk, 35 types of glue, 64 different kinds of brushes, and 397 flavors of paint, among hundreds of other paint related items. very often, the customers know more than me, but i am not ashamed. i just point to my spanky new, “i’m in training” pin and they don’t mind. plus being somewhat cute helps…

now most of my gfs immediately imagined what a dating wonderland this job would be – “oh, you will be one of the few women working there with all those guys,” (translation: fresh prime cut of beef) and “oh, the hot contractors you will meet.” “strong, burly men to fix stuff for you in your new place.” umm, yah it’s fucking raining men if you’re into guys from the cast of jersey shore with 8th grade educations at best who make $9.00 an hour at the high end; and who’s idea of an impressive night out involves a bloomin’ onion. then, yes it’s a veritable buffet of eligible bachelors in the form of stoned dudes, guys sweating out their 6 pack lunch, and cheating husbands. but i admit, my ego thoroughly basks in all that glory that is the stereotypical mating behavior of these cretins from land of the apes:

cretin:”where is the glue?”

me: “this way, sir. after you.”

cretin: “no after you, the view is better.”

me: “you do realize you said that out loud right?”

cretin: “yup”

me: “okay. just checking. so, do you want crazy or super?”

i would be lying if i told you (despite the feminist i claim to be), that i didn’t enjoy it a tiny bit. okay a lot bit…

unlike when i was a snot nosed 16 year old cracking my gum while folding clothes at the gap who worked because my daddy said i had to, i now work because i want to. so, i am happy to be there, and as a result my attitude is great. the messy shelves appeal to my anal side and i can’t wait to get there to organize to my heart’s content . i don’t even mind working on the weekends .and although there are many potential annoying situations & customers, nothing really bothers me. the only thing i don’t like is when it gets slow and there isn’t much to do. looking busy takes far more effort than actually being so. i dig the socializing and chatting with peeps while i am learning tons of valuable info in my “field.” to me the sky is the limit and i am all about climbing up the corporate retail ladder (literally). everything i do there is a goldmine of resume fodder. the weirdest thing is how a place goes from being strange & new to being a second home.

but, what i get the biggest kick out of is thinking how much it would amuse my dad that i have this job. we called him butt-crack bob, because he was our personal handyman. my dad took great pride in maintaining his home and teaching his daughters to do the same & be independent -we don’t need no stinking contractors. during his employ as mr. fix-it he frequented the home improvement retail establishments. he regularly referred to the sales associates as schmendricks and proclaimed they were useless and “dead from the neck up.” well pops, i am now one of those schmucks. oh, how i wish you could come into my department for some door & window silcone II…

you need a stirrer?

rants — No comments
14
Mar 10

monsoon watch 2010

so i knew the weather was crappy when i left at 8:30 am for my very first day of work yesterday (which i promise to tell you about in my next post), but since i don’t smoke, i used my breaks to pee; and i had no idea just how bad the storm got during the day and that cows were flying through the parking lot by 3:45. always happens when i pay no attention to the local “accu-weather forecast.” but never mind that, i needed to eat. my search for food only yielded uprooted trees and downed power lines which meant most of the roads were closed. when i got home by 4:30, i was starving & the garage door opener was not working which meant one thing: the power was out.

the girls were already home and pounced on me like cats on a drowning rat. it was clear they needed entertainment and there is nothing like a power outtage to show you how pathetically dependent you are on electricity for such:

let’s watch tv: can’t

let’s listen to music: can’t

let’s watch our shows on dvr: can’t

let’s surf the net: can’t

let’s watch a movie: can’t

let’s make some microwave popcorn: can’t

let’s play light brite: can’t

let’s do perler beads: can’t (no iron. “but, i can melt them together with the lighter for you.” “umm, no thanks mom. that’s alright.”)

you know nothing electric works but the habits are so ingrained, that we can’t stop trying: i must have flipped the switch in the bathroom 10 times before i realized i was just going to have to suck it up & pee in the dark. we complained incessantly about the lack of power until we got sick of listening to ourselves and imagined how much it would suck to be amish. then nightfall was upon us and we had to get provisions. we gathered all the candles we could find, the torch lighter, the emergency flashlight, all the batteries from the toys, and every single overpriced flashlight collected from all those kid’s shows i suffered through. who ever would have thought those would actually be useful one day: go forth elmo, dora, & wiggles car: light yonder way to the board games…

we gathered all the board games we could find: don’t tip the waiter, candyland, perfection, superfection, chutes & ladders, boggle, mastermind, spill & spell, & blokus. there is a reason these games are called, “bored.” because they fucking are. you try showing children who have lived with technology their entire lives how much fun it is to figure out if a mastermind peg is yellow or white using a dim flashlight or if the square on the candyland card is blue or green by the light of a shabbat candle. and it turns out a 6 yr old is just as sore a loser when you kick her ass at memory in the dark as she is in the light. after 30 minutes, we blew through all the games and were once again whining how bored we were. “mom, will you play with me?” “you want me to play more? ummm, is your DS battery charged?” i started to consider an early bed time. “you’re sure you’re not tired yet?” “no, mom. it’s 6:45.” i began to wonder if tylenol pm came in children’s doses.

there really is just nothing to do when the power is out. my oldest said, “we can’t even cook.” to which i wholeheartedly agreed, not reminding her a.) that the range is gas and b.) like i ever cook anyway. “here’s a box of black out cereal, kids. enjoy.” i couldn’t use my cell because i had 1 bar left and no way to charge it. i was getting desperate – i wasn’t far from sitting in my car in the middle of a monsoon to charge it off the battery. i couldn’t text. i had no one to have sex with (that would kill 20 minutes at least). nor sext. there was only one thing left to do: pour a tall one.

finally we all settled into my bed (i with drink in hand, girls with crumbly snacks) and decided to read by flashlight and candle light. i was down to six votives and the large shivah candle i got when my dad passed away. i carried it around the house like jack who jumped over the candlestick which is probably not what the rabbi had in mind when he gave it to me, but i know my dad would find that hysterical. i was praying the remaining votives would last long enough for me to finish my book – like the oil during that first chanukah. it’s a power outtage miracle. i had only enough candles for 1 hour, but they lasted 8! finally, i decided to power off the computer to save whatever juice was left and make my blog notes with an actual pen and paper, rather than on my new LG (which has already been totally marred despite my very recent promises to treasure it). last to shut down was said cell phone which was a very traumatic separation. one electronic device at a time i was admitting defeat and decided to go to bed when the last votive flame flickered out. it was actually quite romantic with all the candlelight in my room, but i had 2 roomates and no batteries left…

and all that time you are essentially stranded in your own house, you are thinking to yourself, “they will have it fixed soon.” we put all of our faith in this faceless “they,” but really, we have no idea. it’s just like religion. we fervently believe in something we have no proof will come to pass. and 14 hours into zero power, i imagined “they” said “fuck it. we’re soaked. we can fix it in the morning.”

in summation, i learned a few things about myself from the loss of power:

1. i would not handle solitary confinement very well.

2. i can not raise children without the aid of television.

3. i am electricity’s little bitch and i like it that way.

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24
Feb 10

the trophy wife

so, i got a new cell last week because a certain asshat that lives in this house with me, who shall remain nameless, spilled water on my old one. but, swv, you say, “surely it was an accident. why would someone do such a nasty thing?” to which swv replies, “oh no, dear friends, i assure you, it was no accident. i spied the alleged crime being committed out of the corner of my little eye.” i got cocky and was silly enough to try to live like a free person in my own home and left the phone unattended during the kitchen webcast for nary a moment, when i heard water being poured and turned my head in time to witness the murder of my beloved phone. we had a lot of good times together, that phone and i. oh the stories it could tell about the b part of gggb. sigh. anyway, you know, its not like i haven’t fantasized about the destruction of the hat’s personal property myself. a nasty divorce makes petty bedfellows when you are forced to live together for oh, approximately 21 looonnng months now (not that i am counting). i would just love to accidentally pour orange juice on the webcam, accidentally run over his cell phone with my car, accidentally destroy his laptop with lemonade, but the difference is, I DON’T. why don’t i? because i am what is known as an adult. not a bratty 39 year old child in a grown up body. because i am not a vapid, petulant, spoiled frat boy pulling pranks on my buds at the house. besides, can you imagine the barrage of whiny letters i would get from plaintiff’s of counsel, Mr. Spitty, to cease and desist? and the kicker is, that puppy was up for a 100 clam upgrade next month anyway. hmm, i wonder if i should just submit my receipts directly on the blog. okay, digression complete: i tell you about the phone because it struck me that getting a new phone or any new piece of technology is much like starting a new relationship.

one day it’s close to the date of your 2 year anniversary upgrade and you wake up and see the phone you have through different eyes. less starstruck eyes. it has lost it’s shine. it was great at first when you were both so in synch. but little by little you started to grow apart. she doesn’t look as good as she used to. the thrill is gone and you start to wonder what else is out there while you two have been cocooning at home for 2 years in a haze of texts and vodka. one day you secretly look at online phone sites. phone porn. you forget to erase the browser history and the breakup is inevitable. before you realize it, you find yourself in the market for a new phone. at first you are just discretely looking at your friends’ phones. what do they have that you don’t that makes them so happy? then you go out & start shopping around a bit. you find yourself at the verizon store alone or with a friend for support. you are at the singles’ bar of phones, and when you first walk in it’s so full of promise. it’s a meat market with so many possibilities that you can’t believe what you have been missing all of this time. you had an idea what was out there, but not like this. which phone will you will leave with tonight? they are all so beautiful. so many new & exciting features in so many different models. but you better find a phone before that scene gets old. still, you imagine all the things you will do together with your new phone. you will text without limits, finally use the email feature, use the internet, go on dates with your fav 5 & their phones. you will always be together & take her everywhere. finally after what seems like so much looking, you find the one. your search is finally over you are ready to commit. you can’t wait to bring her home to show her off to your friends and family. brag on her and all the amazing features she has that your last phone didn’t. you smugly ask your pals, “do your phones do that?” it’s a new relationship just bursting with infinite futures, and you are happy and in love all over again. it’s perfect & exactly what you dreamed of. all the qualities in a phone you always wanted that your others didn’t have. she gets you, man.

the relationship progresses slowly at first. and as you unwrap her gingerly from the box, you promise her & yourself: it will be different this time, baby. i won’t ever drop you. i will never leave you unprotected. i won’t let anyone touch you. i will get you insurance. you want a cover, a 50 dollar bundle, extra battery? you got it. anything for you. i will never turn my back on you. i will always keep you close to me in your special compartment in my purse. you will never get wet (not like my last 4 phones). i swear. i will treat you right baby. with respect. i definitely won’t lose you at least once every day, uh uh. i will never overcharge your battery. what? what’s that i am shoving in the back of my drawer? pay no attention – its just a cell phone graveyard with various crumpled manuals and outdated chargers. i don’t care about them anymore. i promise to get rid of all of them. i will only read your manual, baby. it’s just you & me now. you will never end up there baby, you’re different, you’re special. and so it goes. you are pretty sure you are made for each other but you still have 30 days to be positive. you can still back out and return to your old phone if no one has snatched her up yet after you dumped her in that recycle bin. if she will have you again. she loved you once. maybe she can again. she wasn’t that bad really…

as you get more comfortable with each other over the next week, your new phone slowly reveals herself. one by one the protective plastic coverings come off. slowly at first, but then you just rip the rest off until she is totally naked. vulnerable and completely trusting you not to hurt her. sending that first text is like deflowering a virgin. “you’ll be gentle, right? you promise not to scratch my display baby? you won’t get greasy fingerprints all over my shiney parts? i am not wearing any case today. you said you wouldn’t drop me. no, no don’t leave me here in the kitchen by the kids. i don’t like your kids very much and i hate your dog. you promised.” and it’s all so exciting, the discovery phase of the relationship. the falling in love. the software & layout are different than what you’re used to. the keys are bigger & softer to the touch. they are real. touching her even made you a bit nervous at first. she felt so different in your hands. it was a challenge to get her to open up, and teach you all her ways, but it was intoxicating. and as she reveals all of her functions, you learned exactly how to press her buttons to get the right result every time. and it is the heaven you imagined – she cuddles next to you every night and greets you with her gentle buzz every morning. you are a perfect match and for almost 2 years, it’s bliss until the contract nears it’s end and the new models come out…

when i had to pick my new phone i was overwhelmed – i clearly wasn’t ready to be out there yet. i looked over all the models at the store but didn’t take any home. i wasn’t ready to commit. it was so much pressure being out there. feeling so exposed. so i tried online dating, and after exploring a few possible matches, i ordered my new phone off the verizon website. ironically, i chose the newest model of the phone i already had. it was just a younger, shiner, & better dressed version. the buttons were tight and unused. the were no scars on its body or display. it was just beautiful & perfect. so, in effect, i traded up for a trophy wife. i am sure we will be very happy together.

for 24 months.

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16
Feb 10

skip to my loo, my darlin’

so i just spent 2 days curled up in bed with a nasty stomach bug. and i wonder not from where i contracted the pest, but more so why it always strikes after i have eaten an unusually large 12 course meal mere hours before. it was sunday pig out day and i take that very seriously. my only saving grace was that the wee ones and i happened to be sleeping at my mom’s the night the virus attacked, which meant i had my mommy to take care of me. it was almost worth being sick, because during the marriage (a term which i use loosely), the hat normally left me for dead when i got sick. he was most likely too busy allegedly jacking off or allegedly toking up and lost track of time in a drug haze like those parents of the infant in trainspotters. but, i digress…

i find the suspense of the crippling nausea to be worse than the actual up-chucking, for awhile i beg my stomach to hold steady and then i do a 180 and beg to just get it over with because you really do feel better after the ol’ heave ho. it’s all about facing the fear for me. but then the suspense starts all over again for round 2. i always find an hour to be the magic amount of time. if i can just get past an hour i will be fine. if i can just sleep. and why is it always in the middle of the night when these things happen? i always think, if i can make it through the night i will be fine. it will all be over when the sun shines. and it just blows my mind if i barf during the day.

so, while my partially digested meal proceeded to exit six times using all possible means of egress, and i was laying in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, i was thinking, “at least i’m losing weight.” never mind, the broken blood vessels all around my eyes, the dehydration, sallow skin, and relentless physical torture. naturally, i couldn’t wait to get on that scale when i was finally able to rise above a crawl position. and then the cruelest of all jokes: not one ounce lost. how is that possible? isn’t there an entire eating disorder based on this premise? what was i doing wrong?

but it was so nice to have mommy there to take care of me. she brought me water, flat coke, hot tea, held my hair back, & cleaned up after me like she used to when i was a kid. which means bad news for us mothers: it turns out no matter how old our kids get, we are never ever done cleaning up vomit & poo. well, you’re the best mom. and uh, thanks for the loaner undies, the reason which necessitated such, we have agreed never to speak of again…

on the second eve of the aftermath, i am still wiped out and i am finally just able to keep down water. my stomach is still gurgling incessantly and i am in fear of a full relapse. then there is also the worry about the rest of the household being struck down with the same merciless ailment. how many days is it until you can be sure it’s icy grip has passed like the angel of death on pessach? is there some pagan offering to be left for it to skip your children? can i smear lamb’s blood on my door?

i have a friend who lives in fear of stomach viruses and will quarantine you at the mere mention of “throw-up.” her children are interrogated every day after they get home, with, “did anyone throw up at school today? did anyone say they were nauseous? did anyone mention being around anybody who was sick? did anyone go to the nurse? was any sawdust spread on the floor of any room by yours? no? fine. go wash your hands before you touch anything!” her mother once sent back 52 bags of groceries because the cashier mentioned she felt nauseous at the end of the transaction. so, it would seem my pal does come by it honestly, and in following parental suit, she has a complicated formula by which she figures out the square root of the hypotenuse of how many days from initial exposure until infectious danger has passed and she will agree to meet you out in public. the time frame for when you are allowed back into her home or vice verse is an entirely other much longer formula which is proprietary and usually works out to be a minimum of 6 weeks. mind you she is no math whiz, but she has a ph.d in barf. she claims it’s because she can’t stand to see her children suffer. i say it’s more to do with cleaning the carpet. oh, wait, that’s me.

please, don’t get me wrong, i hate to ever see my girls in any discomfort, but i was quite thrilled when they learned how to make it to the bathroom on time or at least aim successfully into the bedside bucket. i have a weak stomach & overactive gag reflex which makes cleaning up vomit more difficult for me than your average bear. i once came very close to barfing on my own baby at the sight of a diarrhea explosion up to her armpits. i had to strap her to the changing table & run to the toilet. so, it’s no surprise i have to talk myself down when i have to deal with puke. i repeat a mantra of, “grow up. deal. you are NOT going to throw up. keep it together, dammit.” only thing hat was ever minimally useful for was that particular clean-up detail. and when kids get sick, they always manage to sprinkle every piece of linen on the bed and projectile within a 5 mile radius. baby spit-up was bad enough & was generally controllable with my babies. but when they got bigger and it turned into real vomit, i was done for. and don’t get me started on barfing in a moving vehicle. that strikes terror into my heart like nothing else. that is one scenario for which i am rarely prepared. the clean-up is monumental. you might as well total the car at that point. is there a vomit clause in auto insurance? there should be if not. i must ask that progressive chick.

then there is nothing quite like the test of a relationship when barf is introduced. does he run screaming or does he hold your hair back? does he barf along side you at the sight of vomit or does he want to rub your back and sleep next to you on the floor of the bathroom even though you protest pitifully? does he bring blankets into the bathroom for you while breaking & entering even though you tried to lock him out because it’s just too soon for him to see you this way & you are really embarrassed? cute bf saw me at my worst fairly early on and i knew if he didn’t bail then, there may be no getting rid of this guy!

anyway, that concludes my dissertation on vomtiology. now, here i sit, sipping flat bourbonless coke, patiently waiting for a complete recovery. hoping i will be ready to face the world in 24 hours knowing the world has no idea what i just faced a mere 24 hours earlier. if i am lucky i will be able to have a cup of coffee with my friend in 8 weeks or so when she agrees to see me to celebrate the spring thaw…

single with vodkagood girl gone bad