Mean Mommy Strikes Again (Or...Why You Should Always Put Your Name On The Invitation)

My daughter came home from school very excited the other day.

"Look, Mom!  I've been invited to Jessica's sister's birthday party!"

So, naturally, I asked, "Did she see Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night?"

(not really)
(she wouldn't have understood that and then what's the point?)

But, it's nice.  It's nice that she's been invited somewhere.  That people want to include her in things.  Although, of course, that means I'd have to buy yet another Barbie Fairy doll, or Squinkie castle, or fancy dancy bubble blower.

And then I looked at the invitation.  It was one of those photo cards like you do at Christmas, with a really bad cell phone picture of a girl, looking up at the camera, twirling around on what could be hot pink bricks.  Or a quilt.  I don't know.  There was a scribbly butterfly drawn up in one corner of the card and some graphic art balloons and streamers going down the other side.  I feel I should mention that nowhere on the card did it actually say BIRTHDAY.

 "Ummmm....I don't know this girl," I said.  I volunteer at school on a pretty regular basis, so I know who my daughter's friends are. 

"I told you.  It's Jessica's sister."

Right.

"She's not in your class."

"No.  She's in Mrs. Weatherly's class across the hall."

"How do you know her?"

"Oh, we play together at recess."

If my brother the attorney taught me nothing else, he taught me this:

During an interrogation with your daughter who wants to go to a birthday party of a random girl at school that you've never seen before, never ask a question you don't already know the answer to.

"What's her name?"

(because it wasn't printed on the invitation)
(I know)
(Seriously)

My daughter stopped for a second, put one finger to her lip and looked up at the ceiling.

 "Ummmmmmmm......"

Thank you.

"Sarona!"

What?

"Zahara.  No!  Her name is Zahona!"

The Prosecution rests.

Did I also mention that no where on the card was a parent's name, location name, contact information, or party plans.  Nothing but the date, the time

(5 1/2 hours long....excuse me?  Who are these people?  Go to Chuck E Cheese for two hours and be done with it.)
(You're just showin' off.)

and an address.

I hated to do it, but I didn't feel like I had a choice.

"I'm sorry, honey, but I just don't think so."

"Ugh...MOM!"

So now I'm the bad guy?  I can roll with that.  I have drawers full of black.

(yoga pants)

"Look, there's nothing on here that tells me anything about this.  I don't know this girl.  I don't know her parents.  You don't even seem to know her.  Are you sure you got this invitation right?"

Maybe there was another part to the card that got dropped in translation.

You know, maybe, it was, like, left over scratch paper at Jessica's house and she thought it was pretty and wanted to bring it to school and show someone, and my girlie, ever captivated by pretty pink paper, was the perfect target....someone.  I meant someone.

Girlie crossed her arms and scrutinized me over the tops of her glasses.  Which is super cute, by the way, because she looks like a seven year old grandmother.

(Sorry, Mom)

"I want. To. Go.  She's having a ball."

A what?

"A ball!  You know, like a dance."

You mean like Cinderella?

"And I want my brother to go with me so he can be my prince, and then you and Dad can go out and have a date."

Not bad.  Girlie knows how to negotiate.  Uncle Brother the Attorney taught her well.

Punk.

I can't say yes to this, right?  I can't.  No.  I know that.  Even if I did, we'd probably show up at a ballroom, somewhere in our neighborhood, full of Chinese people who would be wondering how the Milk Toast set got in to this super secret family party.

Why else would you not put your child's name on the invitation!?

Or your name!?

Or any other information that would indicate anything!?

And why you use such a phenomenally bad cell phone picture!?

(I'm sorry.  I like taking pictures.  I notice these things.)
(I also judge way more than I should.)

I told my daughter that if she could get me any more information about this party ball, I would consider it.

The next day she came home with a yellow, sticky note.

In Jessica's handwriting.

It said  

She's invited to the ball.

My daughter is no longer speaking to me.

I'm over it.

Is This Real?....No. It's Just Monday Night.

I heard a woman on TV last night ask a question that was, quite possibly, the dumbest thing I've ever heard asked in real life....except that it was on The Bachelor, which totally doesn't count as real life, but it's what was on after we finished our episode of Homeland on demand.

(which totally rocks the shiz, by the way....)

Bachelor Sean, after six weeks, had just gotten down on one knee and proposed to the lovely, albeit, slightly twitchy Catherine, while at the same time admitting that he still lights up when he thinks about another woman,

and she said,

"Is this real?"

and I started laughing because did she seriously just ask that?  But, then I realized that he wasn't answering her, which is the first sign that the roller coaster ride is over, the fireworks have stopped, and the host has walked away....

(when you stop answering each others questions)
(because you don't really care)
(because you're exhausted and just want 47 seconds of uninterrupted think time to yourself)
(if that wasn't clear....)

So, to help the poor girl out, I thought I'd give her a crash course in what I have learned are the realities of life so she can avoid such publicly televised embarrassments in the future.  Helping out is what I do:

A Woman's Guide To REAL and NOT REAL

by 

Me

Having a bathtub full of baby chicks and shooing the neighbor's pit bull off the top of your fence because the full grown chickens free ranging in your backyard look like a delightful mid-morning snack all to satisfy your beloved's latent, repressed desire to be a suburban farmer ~ REAL

Watching an elephant come walking through the trees to be your mode of transportation for the day and shrieking, "Oh my God, I'm so happy right now!" ~ NOT REAL
 
Allowing your son, who only .062 seconds earlier told you that his neck hurt, to throw up everything in his stomach onto your purple, velveteen couch because it's the better option than walking him down the hall to the bathroom while he yaks up lunch from three days ago ~ REAL

Accepting a diamond ring purchased for you by a TV show and thinking that it comes with any type of actual commitment ~ NOT REAL

Taking a shower, doing your hair, putting on some make-up and having your 6 year old say, "Good for you, Mom!  You haven't gotten pretty in a long time!" ~ REAL

Classifying, in any way, shape or form, the social interaction of 8 women and one guy as a date ~ NOT REAL

Having a slight crush on the mom who lives one block over from you and manages to walk her kids to school every morning in the full hair and make-up of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model mixed with a granola bar, while you barely manage to stagger to the car wearing electric blue yoga pants and a faded, bleach stained, over-sized night shirt that says "Very Sexy" on the back that your husband bought you from Victoria's Secret when you were pregnant because he wanted you at least think you were sexy ~ REAL

Having center eyelashes that curl up to your eyebrow ~ NOT REAL

Wetting your pants every time you sneeze because your business end is totally stretched out from pushing two, watermelon sized human beings through it ~ REAL

Meeting a guy at any place called Proposal Point ~ NOT REAL

Living every day in fear that your husband will have a heart attack and die from the stress he incurs trying to run a business in an economy that has been for crap the last several years and knowing that if that actually ever happened, you'd be alone for the rest of your life except for your children whom you would never allow to leave you ever ~ REAL

Living every day in fear that the man you've known and lusted after for 6 days will ultimately choose the vampire chick over you ~ NOT REAL

Putting the kids in the car then running back into the house and closing the door so you and your beloved can have 10 quiet seconds alone together ~ REAL

Pulling a guy to the other side of the pool deck so you and he can have quality time alone while 25 other women watch you and curse you and send up silent prayers that your 47 layers of make-up will crack off your face and you'll be revealed as a two-headed turtle freak with nothing significant to offer to any man ever ~ NOT REAL

Drinking three glasses of wine in 52 minutes so you'll be just buzzed enough to pass out and maybe get some actual sleep before the freight train next to you starts rumbling and you just want to shove corks up his nose to stop the flow of air and shut him up ~ REAL

Riding barefoot, on an elephant, off into the Thailand sunset, while pinching every part of your new fiance's body, exclaiming "Is this knee really mine?  Is this shoulder really mine?" ~ NOT REAL 

Believing, after investing 18 monogamous years, that you have, with absolute certainty, found the love of your life, your best friend, and the person you'll spend forever with ~ REAL

Believing, after investing 42 days with a guy who has been simultaneously dating 25 other women, that you have found the love of your life, your best friend, and the person you'll spend forever with ~ So phenomenally NOT REAL I can't even begin to tell you how NOT REAL that is. 

I could go on and on, but, as my mother says,

Then I'd have to charge you,

and I've got enchiladas to make and freeze for the weekend, and dinner to get ready for tonight and kids to pick up from school, and DVDs to get in the mailbox so we'll have something good to watch on Saturday...

You know...real stuff.

Dream Sequence

The house is still, bathing in wilted sunshine that's filtering though the gauzy windows.  We stand together.  Fingers intertwined.

I know what is coming and I wait.  I've felt it before.  Seen it snake through the floorboards and infect the cracks in the walls.

I know it is coming and I wait.

Branches scratch the windows as the perfume breeze begins to blow.  The sickly sweet scent picks up the leaves outside and I see them swirling outside the panes. 

The door creaks with the dragon wind pushing through it.  I hold tight to the hand in mine.  It won't get me this time.

But I know it will.

The flurry outside begins to howl.  It breaches the unguarded doorway with force and begins its familiar dance through our house.  I watch as the outside comes twirling in across the floor, encircling our feet.  My hair coils around my face and my eyes stay close on the path this vile wind is taking, once again trying to upend what's mine.

It picks up strength and speed.  I stand strong, but I can't hold on without his help.  He's not letting go, yet I am slipping farther and farther away until I am swept across the room, crashing into a lamp, then a table, then the floor.  I see him still standing there, quietly, the dark gusts engulfing him from around the corner far away.  I need to get back to him.  I need to feel his hand in mine again.  I won't let him go.

I stand, feeling shards of broken glass and wood pierce my hands as I balance myself up from the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks me.

I try to answer.  I'm not! I'm not!, but my exclamation is a mere whisper against the noise I've created in my mind.

"It doesn't need to be here.   Why are you bringing this in?"

I don't know. 

"Have I broken it?" I ask.

"No," he says.  "Just get rid of it."

I know what to do.  My steps are sure against the whirlpool of ill temper being waged in our home.

He holds his hand to me and I feel it once again in mine.  I reach out and slam the door.  It pushes quickly from my hand, crashing against the jam.  I bolt it shut.

The wind is quiet.  I hear it slowing down and moving away, back from where it came.

It will return again.  That is certain.

Next time will be different.  Next time I will have power.  I will resist the demons in my mind and we will not break.

When the sun drips through the windows, our fingers are once again intertwined and we are, as we should be, at peace.

This Is Why I'm Not On A Cooking Show

On occasion Prince Charming's work takes him to the city.  My work used to take me to the city every day.

But that was before I decided that traffic and crowds and noise and stoplights and taxicabs and my really bad sense of direction were totally gross and I just wanted to stay at home in my yoga pants and flip flops all day, drinking coffee and not paying attention to the rest of the world.

And taking care of kids.

And cleaning.

And cooking.

Which is what brings me to this story.

Prince Charming's work took him to the city the other day.  He called me.

"Hey, I'm about a block away from the market and I was thinking about picking up some fresh fish for dinner. "

Fantastic!  I'm not much for the city, but I love love love the market.

 
Anything you get there is wonderful and fresh and beautiful and local and delicious and...

 "Okay.  I got these really big shrimp.  They're really big.  $22.50 a pound.  I got two pounds."

....holy, freakin' expensive!

"They're called Scampi."

Yeah, I know what that is.  I've made it before.

When was that?

I thought I should probably do a little epicurean research just to make sure I didn't flummox the 22-dollar-and-50-cents-a-pound magic.  I had to call him back.

"How big are these things?  Can I saute them or do they have to go on the grill?"

"No, you can saute 'em."

"Okay.  I've got something from the Contessa I think you'll like."

Anything from the Contessa is wonderful and I'm pretty sure I heard him smack his lips as he hung up the phone.  I always love it when I can give him a little dining teaser that he can look forward to all day.  It satisfies my secret Donna Reed fantasies.

But, then I had a second thought.  The whole point of our new year was to eat healthier, and a stick of butter sauce is not really on my radar.

I reworked the plan.  A healthier version.  With tomatoes and garlic and shallots and white wine to keep it light.  Some fresh parm.  A little Italian seasoning.  A hit of red pepper flakes.

Bam!  Scampi a la Mama Lisa.

I ran to the store to grab a good loaf of bread, fresh herbs, some really good cheese and a great bottle of wine I'd been wanting to try.  I felt very metropolitan in my yoga pants with a bottle of wine, fresh herbs and a loaf of bread in my cart. 

Look at me!  I'm breezy and I could be on a cooking show.... La la la...

He came home.  Through the door, eyes glazed, looking, scanning, sniffing, arms outstretched, half mumbling,

"Butter sauce.....Butter sauce.....Oh.  What's that?"

"This is the scampi stuff that I'm using."

"Have you done that before?"

"Yes.  Don't you remember that Valentine's dinner I made you when were first dating?"

"You mean back when you kept mail and outdated magazines in the oven?"

Okay....maybe he didn't really say that.

He kept watching me, though.  Eying me as I patted the 10 gi-normous shrimp dry and put them in a saute pan with olive oil.

I poured myself a glass of the fabulous wine that I've been dying to try and took a sip, savoring the wonderful fruity flavor and inhaling the shrimpy aroma filling up my kitchen.

Yeowch.  That didn't taste like I thought it would.  Try it again.  Try it again.

Whoa!  Weird.

"Let me try," he said.  I passed him my glass and he took a sip.

"Ugh...Blech!" and he passed it back.

Okay....save face.  Never let 'em see ya' sweat. 

"I think I just have to chill it.  It's great.  It'll be great," and I popped the wretched swill in the fridge, totally bummed, and went back to my shrimp in the pan.

His arms were taut against the counter as I put the shrimp on a plate and added in the ingredients to simmer for the sauce.

He may have even sucked in his breath and held it there for a second as he watched the tomatoes go in.  I'm pretty sure he did. 

I grated in some parm, stirred it around, and put the shrimp back in to finish.

Set the table, drain the linguini, pour the wine, a dash of fresh parsley over the top, and we were in a little business I like to call

Dinner....a la Mama Lisa!

It looked really wonderful.  I have to say.  Beautiful.  Really pretty.

He wound his fork though the pasta, stabbed at a shrimp, and put it in his mouth.

"How is it?" I asked.

As he chewed, his eyes lowered, his head tilted to one side, his eyebrows lifted.  The only sound that came out was,

"Ehhhh...mmhmm...."

Swilly wine and crappy scampi.  I was two for two.

Wonderful.

It couldn't be that bad, right?  I cut into mine and immediately noticed the color.  White on the bottom of the piece, but a little gray on the top.

No.  Not possible.

I took a bite.

Yep.  Totally possible.

I'd been so afraid of over cooking this holy-freakin' expensive shrimp that I actually undercooked it to the point of being raw.

"No.  It's fine," he said.  "I mean, you can eat it raw.  You can eat Sashimi."

I hate Sashimi....but save face.  Fake it 'till ya' make it.

"I think I'll just pop mine back in the pan for a minute.  Do you want me to do yours, too?"

"No," he sighed. ".....It's....It's fine."

Screw that.

Slamming my chair back, I stood, stormed over to the stove, put these stupid, overly priced, totally undercooked, bland little pieces of octopus bait back in the pan and cooked the ever-loving sh....well....You get it, right?

I didn't speak for about an hour.  Not out loud anyway.

I fumed.

I seethed.

I raged a silent rage.

I sneered and pouted and finally said, "I'm sorry dinner totally sucked."

"It just wasn't what I was expecting.  I thought there would be butter."

Yeah, I thought it would be butter, too.....

Three Stories, One Photo, And A Ridiculous Writing Utensil

Score One For The Nice Girls

The other night I stayed with my daughter at cheer practice.  I don't usually do that because she finds it slightly distracting if I'm there.

She waves at me.

She squinty smiles at me.

She blows the hair out of her face while glaring and giving me that tight lipped, totally pissed off look because I didn't put enough spray in her hair like she asked me to and now its falling and she can't see.

Then, because she's blowing the hair out of her face and being, like, soooooo annoyed, she forgets what she supposed to be doing and everything falls flat.  Being her mother, I felt the uncontrollable need to point that out to her, the same way that my mother did when she motioned, from the audience, during my 5th grade band concert, that I needed to sit with my knees together.

We're mothers.  It's genetically predetermined that we lick our fingers to wipe smoodge off your faces, correct your vulgar posture and criticize your obscene cheer arms whenever possible.  Which is what I was explaining to her when she came over for water.

"You need to be excited and sharp and pop it."

"I'm trying, but that girl is heavy and I'm afraid I won't be able to lift her."

"I don't care.  You need to be excited and sharp and pop it."

 And the very nice girl sitting next to me, sipping quietly on her water because her mother was not there to criticize her during the water break said,

"It's really hard to be the base, isn't it?  I know.  I had to do that last year.  You're doing great!"

Then she high-fived my daughter and walked away, flouncing her ponytail in that subtle, cheer-y way that said

Sorry you have such a bitchy mom.  

I decided not to go to practice the next night.

The Great Playroom Clean Out of 2K12

I've been cleaning out our playroom because it's a horrible, vile, disgusting mess and it stresses me out.  Plus, the holidays are coming and we'll be getting more toys, so we'll need to have a place to put them.

I had gathered a few things to donate to the Grandma stash for when my niece comes to visit at Christmas.  She's two and speaks three languages.  Whatever.

One of the things I decided to give her were there little magnet dolls.  They're kind of like paper dolls, but they're magnets.  And they have 4,795 different outfits.  Shirts, shorts, skirts, pajamas, shoes, purses, dresses.  10,573 pieces that have yet to ever be played with.  So, I put them all in a Ziploc bag and gave them to Grandma.

After she drove away, I returned to the playroom, now void of these wretched magnet dolls, and found one, teeny, little magnet skirt on the floor.

ME:  Did you open that bag?  
GIRLIE:  Oh!  Yes.  I can put that back in.
ME:  I just gave all that to Grandma.
GIRLIE:  What!?  I got that for my birthday!
ME:  Well, I'm sorry, but you never played with it.
GIRLIE:  That's because I didn't know where all the pieces were.
ME:  They were all right there in that yellow box on the shelf.
GIRLIE:  Well, how am I supposed to see that?!

Followed by...

ME:  Okay, pick out what you want to keep from this box.  The rest is going away.
THE KID:  Ummmm...This....This.....This.....Here.  This goes in the dinosaur box.
ME:  Actually, the dinosaurs are in the donate box, so it can go there.
THE KID:  Oh, okay.....Wait.  What!?

Tell me I'm not alone in this.....

The Greatest Question I've Heard All Week

Dad, can I have $8 for a Smencil?

The Greatest Explanation I've Heard All Week

What's a Smencil?

It's a pencil that smells.  And it's like a pencil, but you can smell it.  And they sell them at school...

They have Smens, too.  Those are like...

STOP!  I'm telling him.  Smens are like pencils...

No, they're pens and they smell and you can write with them....

UGH!  I hate when you do that!  Smens are pens but they smell like stuff and you write with them and they sell them at school.  With the Smencils.  Can I have money to buy them?



I decided not to tell my beloved and his wallet that I just threw out three Smencils during the Great Playroom Clean Out that they bought last year and got sick of using because they were so strong and made everything in their backpack, their room and their closet smell like cinnamon sticks and pine trees and mint chocolate chips and some sugar plum thing that was just wretched.

And because he's a big marshmallow whose all melty when his curly girls crawl up in his lap and ask for stuff first thing in the morning before they've even said hello, he gave them the money.

P.S.  It was only $1 for a Smencil and $2 for a Smen.

Because an $8 Smencil would just be stupid.

Woo Woo On The Dark Side

I never shop in department stores anymore.  I used to.  When I was young and beautiful I lived in department stores.  But that was also when I had the time and inclination to shower on a regular basis and didn't wear yoga pants and sports bras everyday.

My point is that I needed new dishes, so I found myself in the housewares department with my mother trying to price out which would be the better buy:

The set of four

OR

The open stock.

The answer to that question, however, was pretty much irrelevant because there wasn't enough of the open stock dishware to complete the set.  So, naturally, the question became of the three housewares associates that had descended upon us

Do you have any more of these lemongrass bowls or tangerine mugs in the back?

That apparently threw one of the ladies into a perfume-induced stupor and she disappeared.

The second lady donned a pith helmet and flashlight and went to search the storeroom.

The third lady just kept picking up the bowls and mugs that we did have, flipping them over, and then setting them back down again, which, if you've ever been in retail, you know, is nothing but a big, fat stall tactic because you really have no idea what to do or what to say and you don't want the customer to ask you any more questions or make you do something resembling anything so you stand there fiddling with the merchandise until someone else comes up with a better answer.

Don't ask me how I know that.

An hour and a half later, Pith Helmet returned with the devastating news that there were no more dishes to be had from the back.

Stall Tactic finally had her better answer and it was, "Well, shoot."

My mother, in her infinite retail-experienced wisdom, suggested that perhaps Stall Tactic could check another store, and we could pick them up there.

This launched a massive computer frenzy during which both Pith Helmet and Stall Tactic were clicking and typing, fingers flying, brows furrowed, in a semi-hard effort to find our missing lemongrass bowls and tangerine mugs.

"I just can't see it.  It won't let me see it."

"I'm not finding anything other option than the new color."

"I'm checking another site....No.  It won't let me do it."

"Hmmmmmm....."

Now....I don't know.  Maybe I'm old skool.  Maybe I'm turquoise eyeliner and shoulder pads.  Maybe all these kids today laugh when I try to keep it 100, but I was pretty sure that there was another way.

"Could you, maybe, call another store and ask?" 

"Oh!  Yes!  We could do that, couldn't we!?"

Kill me.  Kill me now.  Just stick this red hot poker right through my eye and end it.

So, Stall Tactic gets on the phone with the Lovely Drew from Store 4 and starts asking about lemongrass bowls and tangerine mugs.  She even offered the stock number from an alternative set of bowls and mugs, just so the Lovely Drew would know exactly which ones to look for.

We waited while she went to look.

While we waited, we made peanut brittle, had our legs waxed, knitted a reindeer sweater and started french braiding each other's hair.

When the Lovely Drew returned to the phone the next day she was rather annoyed that Stall Tactic had asked about tangerine mugs, and then sent her in search of peacock mugs.

"No.  Not peacock.  That's the number I read you so you would know the style.  We want tangerine.......Okay.  We'll wait."

Then we changed the oil in our car.

Right about this time a perky, young couple came staggering up to the other side of the counter carrying two large cardboard boxes.  My mother nudged me.

"Mmm...Wedding return," she whispered.

Stall Tactic turned to Perky 1 & 2 and told them to leave their boxes there and head over to the Bridal Consultants across the way, since they're the ones who handle returns.

Once we took the turkey out of the oven, my mother spoke again.

"It can't be this hard.  I know where those dishes are in that store.  She should just have to look up from where she's answered the phone to see if they have them.  This is ridiculous."

While Stall Tactic apologized for the wait and considered the option of hanging up and redialing, Pith Helmet came back with Perky 1 & 2 to begin the wedding return.  Boxes were being opened.  Paper was flying out everywhere.

And suddenly, under my nose, were the lemongrass bowls we'd been looking for.

My head shot up in surprise as I looked at Pith Helmet holding them out to me.  Perky 1 was on the other side of the counter unloading an entire box of lemongrass and peacock dishware. 

"Yeah, I had a Fiestaware Bridal Shower, and these just are not my color."

I cartwheeled around the cashier and hugged my new BFF and her reject lemongrass bowls.

Yeah!

Everyone was amazed.

"What are the chances?!"

But I knew exactly.  And so did my mother.

There was a reason we couldn't find them on display.

There was a reason they weren't in the back.

There was a reason the Lovely Drew got the color wrong.

There was a reason the Lovely Drew took three days to look again.

That reason was Perky 1 and her awesome idea for a bridal shower.

Some might call that a coincidence.

We don't.  We call that Woo Woo.

And when it happens at Macy's, we call it Woo Woo on the Dark Side.

My Weekend In Status Updates

Time at the beach means days on end without technology.  We have TV's, and MP3 players and stuff, but no computers and no internet access, which is always a challenge for my mind because I've got a real problem thinking in status updates.  I always come up with them and then they just get wasted because I've got nowhere to put them.

Sometimes I say them to Prince Charming.

Sometimes he laughs.

Sometimes he just looks at me.

Sometimes he makes a sandwich. 

Anyway, this past weekend, I decided not to let all of this magnificent 1-3 sentence thinking go to waste and I wrote down all of my status updates so I could share them with you:

Yay, Beach!  Let's go have some fun!  Have a great weekend!!

 

I thought the whole point of leaving a day early was so that we could miss the traffic.

Okay, 3 hours in the car without DVD players.  We seriously need to get new DVD players.....and some wine.

Beautiful.  Gorgeous.  Wish you were here.

 

Hangin' 10 in the waves with my girlie.  No, 10 toes.  What were you thinking?

GIRLIE:  My feet are getting pricked by the grass

ME:  Yeah, that happens.  I get pricked all the time.

GIRLIE:  Does it hurt?

ME:  No.  Not really.

PC:  {Laughing hysterically}

ME:  What?  Why are you.....Oh.  Real mature.

 Okay...seriously?  I cannot be the only one who sees Winnie The Pooh in this lemon, right?

My children are chasing a snake and I'm not stopping them for three reasons:

1.  I love that they're playing outside.

2.  I love that they're playing cooperatively together.

3.  I have no plans in the near or far future to take them to a reptile house or allow them have any kind of pet without legs that slithers, so go for it, man.

ME:  Hey!  Let's make margaritas!

PC:  We don't have any tequila.  We have wine.

ME:  Oh....Hey!  Let's make sangria!

I never said I wasn't easy.......to please, sicko.

A quiet house, a cup of coffee, a lovely sunrise, and my new magazine.  Mornings were made to be spent like this....

Since when does having 1/8" of TP left on the roll mean that a new roll gets put on the counter?  TP does not get stored on/put on/used from the counter.  It's this kind of stuff that leads to the break down of a civilized society, people....

This is how seagulls get high enough to see over tall buildings.  No...that's what they're doing.  No.....Yes, it absolutely is.  Yes...and I'm pretty sure I don't want to talk about this anymore....

GRANDMA:  Oh!  I am so stiff.
ME:  {looks at PC}
PC:  {looks at me}
GRANDMA:  That walk made me so stiff.  
ME:  {starting to snort}
GRANDMA:  I'm just so stiff.  Aren't you stiff?
PC:  Uhh, no, not really.
ME:  {can't hold it in any longer.....} Bahahahahahahahahaha!
GRANDMA:  What?....Oh, you guys! 

Ahhhhh....sitting on the sofa sipping sangria in the sunshine.  S...ssssssssss....

Too sangria buzzed to read, but not buzzed enough to be able to watch golf.  I hate it when that happens.

Mmmmm....S'mores.


Me in a hubcap.  I don't know.
Must be time to head home.

Great beach.  Great weekend.

You Gotta' Read A Lot Of Dr. Seuss....

It's Dr. Seuss Day at school,
The kids are all wearing hats.
Except for my son,
Who cannot stand that.

It started when he was just a wee lad,
And a hat fitting incident that went really bad.

But my daughter just loves it,
Dressing up and looking cool.
She put on her cat suit, a striped hat,
And went to school.

It's Green Eggs & Ham
On the menu today
Along with some songs
and other games that they'll play.

I do not know how
My son will get through the day.
He didn't think it was funny when I said,
"Try it and you may.  Try it and you may, I say."

And I suddenly haven't any a doubt
That this is why "The Lorax" is coming out.

"The Lorax?  What's that?"

Prince Charming said with a sneer.
"The Lorax!?!" I shouted.

"You're kidding, my dear.

How do you not know the tale

About the making of Thneeds

And the small little man

Who spoke for the trees?"

"What are you talking about?"

He thought I was weird.
Like wearing a Bandikus
With a purple Fluneerd.

But who cares what he says!
I grew up that way
And I triple puffy heart
That it's Dr. Seuss Day!

...Tomorrow, really....but, there's no school then,
so it's today...
Yay!

200

This is my 200th post.

And for my 200th post, I wanted to do something significant.  Something to really mark the occasion. 

I've written a lot of things.  I've shared a lot of images.  I've seen how the entire thing has morphed and changed into something I never thought it would be, going in a direction that I never thought it would go.

As I prepared for this 200th post, I kept thinking about all of the stories that constantly run through my head.  

Stories about Prince Charming. 

Stories about my kids.

My latest Project 52 shot.

None of them really felt "200 worthy".  But, there were a lot of things that I wanted to say and I kept pushing them aside in search of something much more meaningful.  

It got to be kind of a thing and I started to get kind of frustrated with it.

So, in the end, I've decided to just say this:

I love writing on this blog.

I love the outlet that it provides for me.  The chance to create magic and poetry and art and, yes, I know, sometimes garbage.  But, it's all me.  And I love the opportunity to get it out there.

I have no idea if it makes any sense, although I hope it does.

I have no idea if it's reaching anyone, although I hope it is.

And I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, how very much I appreciate you for continuing to come back and go through all of this with me.  

Thank you.  

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Image inspired by Christine Dibble Photography...

and when I say 'inspired by', I mean a total and complete

replica because her image was so cool that I just had to try it for myself....

just so that's clear....

Sending you all of my love and devotion,

Lisa  

(Now that seems 200-worthy)

Dream Sequence

I'm walking down a sidewalk.  Even though I've never consciously been on this street, I know where I am and where I am going.  There are no people.  There are no cars.  There is nothing.  It is quiet.

I am alone, yet not at all fearful.  I keep walking.  I turn a corner.  All of the three-story buildings that line the roads around me are closed.  The storefronts abandoned, though whether only for the night or forever is unclear.  Their grayish brown exteriors make the light close in around me.  It is getting dark.

I need to get moving.  I have things to do.

I am aware that a woman has taken up steps behind me.  She is not following me and I am not afraid of her.  Without turning to look, I know who she is.  She makes no noise as her movements mirror mine.  Her hand is  tightly closed on the bag she carries over her shoulder.  I tilt my chin towards my left to glance back at her.  I see her long dark hair.  I know who she is.

I turn forward again and step down off the curb.  The place that I am going is across the street.  I move that direction and she follows me.  I step up on the other side and move straight for the door to the shop in front of me.   I pull it open and walk through.   There is hardly a place to stand among the crowd inside.  I find an open spot and stop, folding my hands in front of me.

A man to the side of me greets a server coming to him from the back of the store.  She is carrying a tray and I turn to look.  It is lined with overlapping, small, brown paper sacks, each painted with the same purple and pink character design.  I am pleased at seeing them.  I know mine will look equally as good.

"Thank you," he says as he accepts the tray.

As I shift forward again, I see the dark haired woman who was following me.  She is seated on a couch next to where I am standing.  She is looking at me.  I hold her gaze, unmoving.  The noise around us falls away until I hear nothing but her.

"This isn't what I wanted for you," I say.

I bring my right arm across my chest and place my hand over where my heart lies beneath.  I pat it gently as I slowly shake my head.  The corners of my mouth turn down and tears fill my eyes. 

"This isn't what I wanted for you," I say again.

"I know," she says.

I drop my hand back down to my side.  She looks around the room.  She looks back at me.

"It's just so hard," she says.

I turn up the corner of my mouth and cock my chin a bit.  I slowly shake my head again.

"This isn't going to make it easier," I say.

I don't feel like she hears me.  I don't feel like she knows what I am trying to tell her.  I know so much more than she does, yet I can't make her understand.  She just keeps looking at me blankly.  Her face betraying nothing.

"This isn't going to make it easier," I say again.

We stay connected through our eyes as the others in the store move around us.  The silence of their presence wraps around my mind and I know there is nothing more I can do.

I wake up.

I wake up knowing exactly who I was talking to and exactly what we were talking about.  It all makes perfect sense and for the first time in my life,

I wonder if someone else just had the same dream.

The ABC's of Party Planning

For my daughter's 6th birthday, Prince Charming wanted to throw her a party at Chuck E. Cheese.  There were three things standing in the way of this plan:

A.  My daughter HATES Chuck E. Cheese!  The character, not the restaurant.  She could live at the restaurant, so long as she NEVER has to see Chuck E.  He freaks her out.

B.  It's not an inexpensive undertaking.

C.  We'd probably have to invite the whole class because every party we've every gone to there has included the whole class, which, just, well....it's a lot...of people.  And I have terrible anxiety about being around large groups of people and then having to talk to them.   It's the anti-social in me.

Then I found this really cool blog from a photographer that I follow.  She threw her daughter, who, coincidentally is the same age as mine, a Rock Star party.  It was soooooo way cool. Soooooo way inspiring.

I showed it to my Girlie.  I made three mistakes in doing so:

A.  She totally loved it and wanted to do it right away.

B.  We'd have to have it at our house.

C.  We'd probably have to invite the whole class because every party we've ever been to has included the whole class, which, just, well....it's a lot...of people.  And I have terrible anxiety about being around large groups of people and then having to talk to them.  It's the uber anti-social in me.

I decided to just go through the motions of planning this thing, figuring that she'd forget about it and we'd wind up blindfolding her and heading to Chuck E. Cheese.

"Are you getting stuff for my Rock Star party today?"
"What about my Rock Star party?"
"Can I invite Nathan to my Rock Star party?"
"I want to play this song at my Rock Star party!"
"What should I wear to my Rock Star party?"

Clearly, she was not going to forget about this.  I had not choice but to motor forward.  I went to the ultimate party planning machine for help ~ My mother.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do:

A.  We're going to move all the furniture out of the house."

What?

"B.  Then we're going to rent small tables for people to sit at."

Wait.  Why are we moving everything out then bringing in rented tables?

"C.  Because we are."

Okay.  I understand.

I started telling Prince Charming the plan.

"We're going to move all the furniture out of the house and bring..."

"What?  Why are we doing that?"

"Because we are."

"This is a 6-year-old's birthday party.  How many people are you thinking are going to be here?"

I have since learned that the proper answer to this question is not "Between 30 and 40, including your skating party friend, Frank.".  No.  The only thing that answer is good for is inciting a riot with the confines of your relationship that can only be pacified by a three-martini minimum.  The proper answer to this question comes in three forms:

A.  Zero

B.  Just us and my parents.

C.  No one

And sometimes I throw in a D. which is 147, just to watch him freak out.  It's kinda' fun. 

"Well, we have that broken tile on the kitchen floor.  I don't want a bunch of people in here walking all over it.  It'll just get worse."

Okay.  I can problem solve that one.  We can:

A.  Ignore it.

B.  Well, then fuck this fucking game!

or, and I know this is going to sound radical, but just go with me for a second...

C.  We could FIX IT!

I'm no longer sharing any of the party plans with Prince Charming.  My mother and I are just doing it.  Just....that's just it.

We've:

A.  Designed and sent out invitations via my daughters awesome Rock Star Party website, and collected the resulting RSVPs.

B.  Laid awake all night worrying about how all of this was going to come together in such a short time and what if no one wants to come or RSVPs and then doesn't show up and how are we going to lay this all out and what if it doesn't all get done in time?  

That part was probably just me, though. I don't think my mom did that.

C.  Built a floor plan for all the activities

D.  Come up with, what I think is, a very parent and kid friendly menu that you wouldn't see at every party.

E.  Built a rockin' play list, which now has to include the Throw Down version of "I Wanna' Dance With Somebody".

F.  Begun shopping for and organizing all of the supplies, treats, goodies and party doings, which he then saw laid out on the table.  

"What's all this?"

"It's the stuff my mom got for the party."

"Oh.  It's cute.  The kids will really like that."

And then he says,

"You know, we really have to figure out how many people are going to be here so we know how much pizza to get."

Hi.  Have we met?  I'm in charge here.  Yeah.  This party?  Mine.

"We're not having pizza."

"Oh. We're not?  I thought it was a pizza party."

"It was never a pizza party."

"It wasn't?  What are we having then?"

My three possible responses to this were:

A.  I've decided not to serve food.

B.  A pasta salad, a spinach salad, a tray of hi-rollers from Cos...("Oh, is that why you were looking at those the other day?"), a variety of chips and dips, veggie cups, a bunch of popcorn/goldfish/pretzel snack bowls, mini-cupcakes, Cake Pops, and I need to get one those machines, by the way, a small candy bar, party punch and some soda.

C.  Stop asking questions.  Put the party planner down and back away.

Judging from his response of "You think kids are gonna' like that?" ,I think you can probably guess which answer I gave him.

It was the spinach salad and hi-rollers that did it.

Never, ever, EVER give him the details of a party until the last minute when it's all put together and everything looks great and they're wondering how you did all yourself and aren't they lucky to have someone as fabulous as you to plan their 6-year-old's Rock Star birthday parties.

It's going to be great.  I've got three days to finish it all up.  My daughter is totally excited.  Her cousins are totally excited.  Her friends are totally excited.  Her grandparents are totally excited.  And when party time comes, I'm sure that Prince Charming will be totally excited, too.

Especially since everyone is dressing up as Rock Stars, and I'm making him come as Jon Bon Jovi.

Hello, Hot Rock Star?  It's me, Madonna Wannabe.

It's gonna' be either:

A.  AWESOME!

B.  ROCKIN'!

C.  The Best Party She's Ever Had

Any, and all of which, will be fine with me.

The Biggest Argument We've Had This Week

As a general rule, Prince Charming and I get along really well.  We're not one of those couples who fight all the time and you wonder how they ever stay together.  I sometimes wonder how we stay together because he's so cool and yummy looking, and I'm me.  But, I try to not to question it...gift horse and all that.

We just don't fight all that often.  We truly are best friends.  And I don't mean that in the cheesy, "Oh, he's just my best friend!" and it makes you want to stab your eyes out with a fork kind of way.  I mean it in the best possible, giggling-slumber party-popcorn fight-braid each other's hair- kind of way.  I'm probably the one person in the world who knows that PC does a mean French Braid.  That thing stays in for days.

The only time that we really ever get annoyed with each other is when he wants to watch golf and I'm not ready to fall asleep yet.  Last night, however, was a slightly different story.  It started when he sat down in his chair and began flipping through the channel guide on TV.

"What's on tonight?"

"I don't know."

Flip.  Flip.  Flip.

"Oh!  Glee!  I forgot about that."

"Greeeeaaat."

"No.  It's Ricky Martin night.  Awesome."

"What else is on?"

"Nothing.  Just Glee."

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Of course."

"Oh my God...."

And then he covered up the side of his face with his hand so I couldn't see that he was rolling his eyes and mouthing, "Dork"...but I totally saw him. Whatever.  He was just jealous because he's not a homosexual Latin man with perfect teeth and 1 Grammy, 8 World Music Awards and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame...hello!  He was in Menudo and sang She Bangs.  Okay?  Thank you.

After spending the next 93 minutes ping-ponging between the kids, helping with homework and valentines and showers and dinner clean-up and dessert and dessert clean-up, I plopped down on the couch and put my feet up.  It was 7:51 p.m.

Prince Charming acted like he didn't even know I was there.

Then it was 7:54 p.m.

He wasn't even looking at me.  Like I didn't exist!

Now it's 7:56 p.m. and I'm starting to get a little antsy.

"Are you going to watch this game or are we watching 'Glee'?"  Who cares about college basketball before March anyway?  Right.  This is what I'm saying....

Big sigh.  "Ugghhh...why don't you DVR 'Glee' and watch it tomorrow and we can watch 'Fringe' tonight?"

"No.  I don't want to DVR it.  I won't sit down tomorrow and watch it.  I have other stuff to do during the day besides watch TV."

"Like what?  Play on the computer?"

"No!"

"Yes.  Just record it and we'll watch 'Fringe'."

"Look.  I've had a busy day just like you and I want to sit down and relax with the show that I want to watch, just like you.  So if you don't want to watch it, fine.  I'll go in the other room."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Sure."

"Because sometimes you say that then you get all upset because it's like I'm forcing you out of the room."

"It's fine.  I'll be fine.  Just because we haven't seen each other all day, and I've been busy with the kids all night.  It's fine.  We don't have to be joined at the hip, you know.  We can catch up later.  It's fine."

"And then we'll watch 'Fringe'?"

"It's fine," and I covered up the side of my face with my hand so he couldn't see me rolling my eyes and mouthing "Science-Fiction Freak".

So I grab my Girlie, we snuggle under the covers of my bed and start watching.  Ricky Martin singing "Sexy and I Know It."  It was awesome.

Then there was a big long break and he wasn't on there, and I got kind of disappointed.  I wanted more bon bon shakin'.  My Vida was Loca and I needed to drink from his Cup of Life, but then Emma said that I shouldn't hog her fiance's nog and it all went to hell in hysterics.  

And then...Ricky Martin sang "La Isla Bonita" with the slutty chick and she was so bad.  But it was FREAKIN' AWESOME!  During the commercial break I came walking out to the living room with a huge, post-Big O. smile on my face.

"What?"

"Ricky Martin just sang Madonna!"

"So?"

"It was so AWESOME!"

"Whyyy?"

"Because Ricky Martin just sang Madonna!"

"Great.  Are we watching 'Fringe' now?"

"No.  It's not over yet.  How is Ricky Martin singing Madonna not the coolest thing ever?" and I salsa danced back down the hallway.

"You're a DORK!"

I walked back over and said, "Gleek."

"Oh my God...."

Of course, after the episode was over I told my son that I was kind of surprised that they did a whole Latin episode and they didn't do one Selena song.

"Selena Gomez is from Latin?"

Probably, yes....but soooooooooooooo No!

And P.S....Thank you and big Latin Lover love to the Sun Sentinel in Florida for posting Ricky Martin in Glee pics on their website so I could rip them off and put them on here.  I'll be searching for People Magazine next.  They archive their stuff right?  It's not too late to Google Search 'Sexiest Man Alive' for our next argument.

Bradley Cooper....Duende!!!!  That's how you say "uber-delish!!!" in Ricky Martin. 

Un!  Dos!  Tres!