Monday, March 31, 2008

There are No Small Positions Only Short Players

The Los Angeles Dodgers celebrated their 50th anniversary of their move west by holding an exhibition game in the LA Coliseum, with over 100,000 in attendance. Luckily, I did not attend this game because the sheer volume of the crowd would make me want to provoke the nearest gang member, probably by saying something derogatory about his mother, in hopes that he would shoot me dead on the spot, just to escape the madness. Instead, the Farklepants family cheered on Boy-Child#2 and his Dodgers in their pre-season opener against their hometown rivals, the Angels. The Angels kicked our ass. We were spanked. Boy-Child#2 did well, despite striking out. Twice. And flubbing a play at third base. He handled all three scenarios with grace and dignity by embracing his inner poor sport. He inherits his borderline unhealthy competitive streak from Yours Truly. Post-game we pulled him aside and took the opportunity to discuss sportsmanship and learning from our mistakes. And sucking it up. And/or shaking it off. And not to beat the ground into submission with your $70 bat. And that there's no pouting in baseball softball.

The coach was moderately successful in keeping the boys in line and delivered inspirational pep talks. Until this guy showed up:


The umpire [who will be played by Bernie Mac with a smattering of James Earl Jones] whipped the rascals into submission because that was about all the lip he was gonna have. And? Because, DARTH VADAR. But way funnier. The boys are still working on their ability to grasp subtle humor that is delivered particularly dry served with a dash of Sahara. They weren't able to determine if BernieMacJamesEarlJones was serious or not, so they erred on the side of extreme caution. But dudes? Totally hilarious. YOU? Should have been there.

We return now to the world of Major League Baseball: The word of the evening was "Knuckleballer", which Vin Scully said approximately just shy of a million times. At first we were titillated at the prospect of a new drinking game. One shot for every knuckleballer. But quickly realized that one of us would probably end up in an alcohol induced coma and neither of us wants to be in the rather difficult position of pulling each other's life support plug. Vin Scully pontificated that DeWitt might be in over his head when it comes to batting major league pitches, and that he was batting a 208; which in my estimation means - well I'm not exactly sure what it means- but his tone suggested that it wasn't good.

The MLB Dodgers, not to be outdone by the local parks and rec's Dodgers, also took a sound beating. Because in the end, just like the local parks and rec's Angles, the MLB Red Sox just wanted it more.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

A Well Seasoned Handbag but is it Worth the Salt?

The contents of women's purses are being displayed across the blogosphere. OHmommy over at Classy Chaos has tagged me with a meme and specifically wants to know what is inside a mother of three's bag. Since I just recently published a similar post about this very thing, I submit a repeat picture:


My children are eleven, eight, and four. At this stage of mommyhood, I no longer require a diaper bag or relatively large tote with handy pockets and dividers to hold all of the necessary items for diaper changing, feedings, or optional clothing needs. When you're a mother to older children, your purse becomes a receptacle for whatever they have tired of holding onto themselves. You know that item that you told them before you left the house that if they wished to bring it with them, they were responsible for its means of getting around? Fortunately, also at this stage, I often carry a moderately smallish purse which often cannot accommodate their larger items. This prevents any possible way to shove said item in my purse and forcing them the inhumanity of hanging onto their own crap and bitching about the injustice of it all. And gives me the opportunity to say "I told you so". Which? I say a lot.

**************************

Unrelated Episode:

During dinner last evening, Girl-Child's wheat roll had mysteriously disappeared from her plate. You should also know that her Sky Wishes My Little Pony (she has named Melissa) had joined her for dinner. When pressed on the whereabouts of her bread, the following happened:

Me: Where's your bread?
Girl-Child: (hem and haw) ...well... Melissa ...she climbed over the table ...and
Me: (considers this remote possibility) She did?
Girl-Child: Uhuh. And she got on my plate. And. And. And she spilled it on the floor.
Me: (totally unconvinced) Uhuuuuuh.
Girl-Child: And the doggy ate it.
Me: (my hands are now on my hips in traditional mommy form plus stern face) Is that what really happened?
Girl-Child: (BURSTS into inconsolable crying) Nu..Nu...Nooooooooooooooooooo... I.. I....I'm sorry I fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibbbed.

There's just sooo many tears!

And, oh, the wailing!

I hug her and simultaneously stifle laughter turn my head to see rest of family hiding their faces to stifle own laughter at her grossly disproportionate reaction to getting caught in a fiiiiiiibbb.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

You Can Gauge the Way the Day Will Go When it Starts Like This

There can only be one explanation for this type of trash ransacking:

A certain, and fortunately very cute, dog with an affinity for the cardboard center of a toilet paper roll. One humans trash is a canines coveted treasure. I'm not even angry with her because all I can say is "Thanks be to Jesus that it's not my underwear"...again.



Oh shut up. You're so busted.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


The doctor is being seduced with bribes gifts from the pharmaceutical representative while you are forced to wait for your scheduled appointment. Please enjoy the fifteen year old subscriptions of National Geographic or, preferably, the following advice:

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom has a toddler footwear related question: "where can I find toddler shoes that aren't more hussy than the ones I wear? I refuse to be out-hussied by a two-year old."

A: My first impulse is to tell you to throw some Crocs on her because there isn't any possible way for that affront to fashion to be in any way construed as "hussy". But I cannot, in good faith, advise anyone to ever wear that offensive footwear. How those things ever attained their popularity makes me want to weep for feet nationwide. Diligent researcher that I am, I found these, that appear to be designed specifically to make your head explode for your Burgh Baby. Don't say I never did anything for you. You're welcome.

Q: Holly from Anglophile Football Fanatic is giving my advice a second chance and writes in via email to know: "How frumpy is it to give up highlighting my hair? It's expensive. It grows out too quickly. I always feel like I look trashy at the end of month 3....any advice?"

A: Before I start doling out the sarcasm advice I'd like to note that Holly is being very big in asking me what I think about anything. Considering the Jon-Jon episode where I unwittingly insulted her, wholesale, and in doing so; nearly put the kibosh on a faux commitment ceremony between her and Burgh Baby's Mom. Even though between the two of you there were probably a few distant relatives that were relieved by the news of the break up, and reassured once again in the power of prayer; I did not want to see that [break up] happen. Now on to your hair. Blonde highlights are expensive. I spend in one month on my hair the equivilent to a car payment for a moderately sized economy vehicle. That is very cringeworthy. Blonde is high maintenance. Here are some options:

  1. Alternate your highlights between a partial and a full weave every other salon visit. A partial is usually significantly less expensive.
  2. I notice that you wear your hair very straight. Once it gets to the obvious, "there's a trailer in tornado alley with my name on it" roots faze, abandon your flat iron and wear it fuller. Straight hair and a straight part emphasize the roots. You want to lift the roots so that they're hidden (i.e. some curls with a big barrel 1 1/2" iron and a little teasing at the crown but don't get too 1985). And don't wear it pulled back off of your face at this point because it will look like you have a ring around your head.
  3. If you insist on ditching highlights altogether, I suggest going with an all over shade that closely matches your natural hue and the grow out will be considerably less noticeable. Just don't do it yourself like me someone we all know and love.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Hello Old Friend, May I Have a Word With You?

Dear Old Navy,

We go way back, you and I. I've been very good to you what with all of the buckets of cash I dump in your lap on a consistent basis. In return, you've provided my family and myself with affordable, attractive clothing; plus, yeah, COMFY. You've also been there for me when I find myself in a pinch looking for last minute gifts or when I'm in immediate need of an outfit for a sudden engagement. You've got that covered. I've even snagged some Christmas ornaments; what will you think of next? You usually have a wide selection of various styles that appeal to people of all ages. You are the poor man's GAP. However, I'm bothered by your current inventory and I think you know what I'm talking about. Two words: tube tops. Ninety percent of the clothing options that fall in the "shirts" category for women, are tube tops, right now. If this were twelve years ago you and I would not be having this conversation. Because twelve years ago my breasts weren't located so far south. Perhaps you aren't aware of what this type of garment does to the breasts of a woman my age. I won't go into graphic details but let's just say things get pushed farther (further?) down. This garment also forces me to wear a strapless bra which, because of the severe discomfort, makes me all kinds of bitch. If I have to go through the day distracted by my undergarments, people suffer. It's just the way it is.

If I may, I'd now like to discuss your stocking procedure. It is severely lacking and quite the suck. You are located in an area where everyone loves you. All of these women have families. We are a very family based valley. I believe it is a requirement to have at least two kids to even buy a house here because there are that many of us. I'm sure you're also aware that every public school in this district is at capacity? And that there are one thousand students attending my children's elementary school, alone? That's just the one school. There are several. I also know that everyone shops with you because we're all wearing the same outfits. At first we were all embarrassed but we've learned to accept it. Although we still have trouble distinguishing our own children from others at the park. So, when you run out of popular items, would you be so kind as to replenish them? Think white tank tops in a size small and white flip flops, size 10. Thanks. You're a peach. Because when you force me to have to order things online that should be in your store, you cause the vein in my husbands head to bulge and then we have a fight. Lord knows that he has no place talking to me about wasting money because of that whole ugly ticket thing. But, the statute of limitations will only last so long on my leverage with that; and there will come a time in the near future where I won't be able to hold that over his head any longer. So, don't cause fights between us. I could thank you for the make up sex but I'm not about to go into the intimate details of our marriage.

One more thing before I go; your sundresses? Are over priced. Thirty to forty dollars for a dress that you and I both know will be on sale by the months end, is in poor taste. And the joke will be on me because by the time that sale rolls around, you'll no longer carry my size. I've so been through this with you before.

Cordially yours,

Tootsie Farklepants

P.S. I'll probably be there tomorrow to replace some of the kids wardrobe from last summer, so I hope there's no hard feelings between us. That would be awkward.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

You'll Take Advantage of the Nearest Mode of Transportation to Either High Five Me or Leave a Flaming Bag of Dog Pooh on my Front Porch

A proposal, AB 1940, that would allow handicapped parking spaces for all pregnant women was shot down in CA state assembly. I agree with their decision because of the classification that "all women in their third trimester - and up to two months after delivering their baby - [are] as "temporarily disabled.". I take issue with that and fall on the side of offended. I may not have been able to sleep during that time frame, and I may have had to abruptly halt trying to maneuver into an average bathroom stall and surrender to the larger stall designated for wheelchair use and extreme girth, but I could certainly walk. Well, waddle would be more accurate. In case the author of this bill isn't aware, the female body is designed to accommodate pregnancy. Albeit, uncomfortably, but designed nonetheless. Not like, lets say, an amputee. Limbs are not designed for removal. That's a disability that warrants convenient parking. I also understand that there are pregnant women who have medical issues that might necessitate such a need. I'm not talking about them. [Like, if you're pregnant with sextuplets. The female body was not engineered to carry a litter of fetuses. That was not nature, that happened in a doctors office and they all took. And now your body is saying "The hell?"] Although, I imagine those with serious medical conditions that are a result of their pregnancy are most likely on some kind of doctor ordered bed rest; and unless their mattress is located in their car, they shouldn't be driving themselves anywhere, anyway.

Also, in this modern era, you can have just about anything you need delivered to your house: prescriptions, dry cleaning, movies, dinner, and groceries just to name a few. It's what makes the Internets so sexy. That and easy access to porn. [I used the home delivery grocery service in the past. Not because I was restricted to my bed. I just thought it was kinda cool in a 1950's Lucille Ball housewife kind of way. Until they substituted my thin-sliced boneless chicken breasts with regular (higher priced) boneless chicken breasts one too many times. The kind that my children describe as "too chickeny". Once you tamper with my poultry selection because your employees are search impaired, then you relinquish your delivery fee and force me to step foot in your retail establishment]. If your pregnancy limits your ability to walk from the parking lot to the mall, then you have more serious issues than needing to pick up a few things. It is also rumored that walking may help move labor along. So strap on those Reeboks ladies. If your girth prevents you from entering or exiting your vehicle in an average sized parking spot; lay off the Taco Bell Nacho Bell Grande's. And if you park your SUV pregnant self in a compact spot, then you're just creating your own chaos. Really. Did you think that was going to be successful?

I'm so baffled by the "two month post-delivery disability" that I'm almost at a loss for words. Almost. What is the "disability" here? That it's a pain in the ass to wrestle a stroller out of your trunk and drop an infant into it? I realize that it takes a couple of outings to establish a routine. I understand. I've been that. But disabled? What about those of us whose kids are past the need for a stroller but still too young to understand that they need to keep a close eye on cars that might be backing out in a crowded parking lot? At least with a stroller the adult is in full control. The infant isn't going to suddenly dart from his five-point harness. And if he does? Start the enrollment process for MIT, right now.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #9

Don't let my new coffee table distract you from the real purpose of this post.

And that is, that my hairdresser is currently on materinity leave. Yes, we're all very excited**... new baby... ooohhh, ahhhh... it's a girl!! But enough about the miracle of birth; let's talk about me. More specifically, my hair. I have been cursed? blessed with quick growing hair. I'm ready every four weeks for some maintenance [which includes foils containing highlights, two separate colors for lowlights, and an all over semi-permanent color; i.e. a hell of a lot of work]. Six weeks is stretching it. After that? I deserve a recurring role on My Name is Earl. I'm very loyal to my hairdressers. I've only had three my entire adult life, and the first two relationships ended for reasons beyond my control. I made a vow to my current one that I wouldn't allow anyone else to touch my head until she got her sea legs back. But I didn't say that I wouldn't totally fuck up my hair all by myself! Which brings me to this frightening turn of events:




You'll be happy to learn that the roots took really well. The highlights did not. Apparently chemistry 101 and I have not been formally introduced. However, the part of my brain where my rudimentary knowledge is stored, was vaguely aware and flat out ignored this information. Why dark blonde, you wonder, when I wear it so obviously very blonde? Because, there was that one time? About ten years ago, when hairdresser #1 and I were cruelly separated? And in my desperation I consulted a box of very light blonde? And the final results produced very yellow hair. Fool me once, shame on Miss Clairol; fool me twice, that's my bad. That's the first reason. The second reason is that for the last year I've been showing a picture of Gisele Bundchen to my hairdresser and asking her to please make me look like that. And she thinks to herself, "that would require some very pricey plastic surgery and a strict diet, oh, and other genes". Or, she thinks Gisele Bundchen is Heather Locklear. Because I usually come out resembling the latter. On my own, I've achieved nothing more than spotty coloring. In six weeks my hairdresser will be actively slitting my throat.

**I really am excited for her!! Don't let my snarkiness fool you.

Updated to add requested pictures. You know what's hard? Taking your own picture. They are very MySpace-like. Wanna know what else, else? Taking your own picture produces unattractive extreme close ups. This was the best I could do and unfortunately, it isn't capturing the true color and actually look kinda good. Think: drab.

Monday, March 24, 2008

We'll Set Aside Some Special Time Next Tuesday. We Require 24 Hours Notice For Canellation or Your Credit Card Will be Charged

As I was passing yet another note scribbled with my contact information on it to another mother so that a play date could be scheduled between our respective kids; it triggered a thought: How did my generation get to be so damned structured? What happened to the days of just going outside to play? And if your friend didn't live close enough to walk then you picked up the phone and said "hey, can I come over and play and oh by the way I need a ride can your mom get me?". And nine times out of ten they did. Or they just came to your house. Just so we're clear, I'm kind of anti-play date. Scheduling play time days or weeks in advance just seems a tad ridiculous. And what of the "exclusive" play date? What do I mean? As a for instance: Let's just say that your next door neighbor has kids that are your kids age and they play together a lot. And your child knocks on their door to see if little Johnny can play, only to be told that little Johnny can't play right now because he's having a play date. Apparently little Johnny is not a multi-play-tasker. Adding one more child to the equation is just too much and would somehow unleash something very damned scary; like an Earth sucking black hole abyss.

After school, when we were kids, we'd drag our friend over to our parent's waiting car and pointedly ask "Can so-n-so come over RIGHT NOW!?" and totally put our parents on the spot. And then run over and check with their mom at their waiting car and let them know, which they were usually fine with and only had one follow up question that was "Will you be eating dinner there, or what?" taking a long drag on her Virginia Slim. That was that. It's how we rolled.

Today, it seems like you have to pass muster in order for someone else's child to be allowed in your home. How many of you have invited one of your child's friends over and were instantly met with the "look" from the other parent. The parent who doesn't know you very well except in passing. The "look" that finally evolves into the uttered phrase "weeeelllll...howz about he/she comes to OUR house?!" and at first you're like "great!" because you're thinking of all the things you can do with your free time while your kids are with someone else until it smacks you in the head that you've just been judged and summarily dismissed. So then you might say something like "Weeellll...that's probably best because now I can tackle cleaning up the meth lab it's getting a little funky".

What was it that brought us to this? Is it the media? Were too many of us latch-key kids? Was it all of those Saturday morning cartoons? Too many Looney Tunes with the smoking, alcohol, ether, and cross dressing that frightened us into over protectiveness and this obsession with schedules? That somehow everything and all things must be planned to the inth degree or else we just can't function? We Gen-Xers are lacking in spontaneity. I'm so bored with me.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Nothing Says Resurrection Like Eggs

May all of your stains be removed:


And may all of your eggs be found.


Happy Easter!


*********************************

Unexpected words I heard today:

"Mom, Andy* down the street just spray painted my elbow black"

My immediate thought:

"He didn't get my car did he?!"

*Real name [that belongs to the four year old little boy down the street who apparently got a hold of a can of spray paint from his garage, considered armed and dangerous] withheld.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


This weeks column is brought to you by Folgers and Excedrin. Not really.

Q: Karen at The Rocking Pony has a follow up to last weeks question: "You can't imagine how much I appreciate such words of wisdom (and the nod to go ahead and wring the neck) but I fear she won't live to change the attitude. So my question now would be, how do I stop myself before actually killing her?"

A: Karen, I'm going to tell you what my own mother told me, and presumably what my grandmother told her. Which, as you will quickly realize when you read the following pearls of wisdom, was probably handed down in every home in the world that ever had a child in it. And that is: Tell her to her face and often that someday SHE WILL HAVE A SON AND/OR DAUGHTER JUST LIKE HER. Call it a curse, hex, voodoo, whatever; it WORKS. And no live chickens need to be sacrificed in order for it to stick. You will take comfort in knowing her fate. And that alone will prevent you from killing her because this is something you will want to witness in the future.

Q: Allie at As You Wish would like to know: "How do you get rid of bags under your eyes? I have had them now for years and they won't go away (not that I've tried anything, but still). Besides covering them in makeup do you have any tips?"

A: I'm going to go out on a limb here but I would say that you should probably try something. And what you try depends on the source of the puffiness. If it is insufficient sleep and/or dehydration I'd advise some nap time and additional water. In light of recent news I recommend TAP. I hear it has traces of pharmaceuticals in it and who knows? It may contain a remedy for what ails you! Steer clear of the Viagra water, however. You're looking for a decrease in swelling.

The following is unsolicited advice to any retail establishment Target that sells, or shoe manufacturer Exhilaration that creates HIGH HEELS for CHILDREN. Stop it! Cease and desist! In my quest to purchase some spring sandals for my daughter, I was met with an impressive inventory of heels. Three of which are pictured below. I thought long and hard and I will tell you what; I cannot come up with any conceivable reason that a four year old would need such an item. I admit she has some large feet since she's a freakishly tall girl who can rock a size 12, but that doesn't explain the size 6, 7, 8, and so on. Don't you think that toddlers have a hard enough time in flats? My daughter is not a Bratz Doll and I don't intend to start dressing her like one. Not until she's at least twelve.



Thursday, March 20, 2008

Those is My Toes, Ho's...



Hello Spring! Sandals are now an option. There is something so humiliating relaxing about going to the nail spa after a long winter and doing something about those feet that have been hiding in socks and closed toed shoes for so many months. I appreciate a tech who can throw a little muscle into a decent calf and foot massage; allowing me to melt into my chair and not pester me with polite chit-chat. You rock Kim-Ly! I do apologize for not letting you scrape my feet, because why would anyone want something like that to happen? It skeeves me out to think of who and what that barbaric instrument has skinned before me. I. Almost. Can't. Think. About. It. without feeling the need to slather myself in antibiotic creams. So I'm sure you understood when I said that I was sure I didn't want any part of that particular service. Even though you asked twice. I'm also not a "painted flowers on my toes" kinda gal. Yes. I understand they're very "popular" right now, but so are tattoos and tongue piercings and I'm not interested in jumping on any bandwagons. Not that there is anything wrong with any of those things; it's just not me.

When spring arrives, a distinct hormone is released into the atmosphere that causes women worldwide to clean shit out. I'm starting with my purse:


The above are the contents of said purse. Not bad for a smallish bag; although it doesn't explain why I had difficulty locating my keys inside of it. Items which can be discarded:

  1. Yoyo (source: kids' dentist)
  2. Heart shaped slinky (source: kids' dentist)
  3. Lollipop (source: doctor's office)
  4. Three pounds of the four pounds worth of spare change
  5. Three acorns (??)
  6. Umbrella (Los Angeles, CA. March. i.e. useless object 'nuff said)

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life at Last I've Found Thee...

Our new couch was supposed to arrive Wednesday or Thursday of last week. I knew by the vague language our salesman used, that it probably wouldn't. But, even with a sketchy arrival date; I prepared. I disposed of the old couch and lamp, coffee table, and end table, had the carpets cleaned, and waited. We moved the sofa from the living room into the family room to have somewhere to watch tv sit. I ordered new lamps [and am currently scouring the earth for THE coffee table because suddenly Mr. Farklepants has an opinion about style and home decorating, WTF? Him: "Don't you think the legs are a little too slanted?" Me: "YOU'RE a little too slanted". Him: "What does that even mean?" Me: "What do YOU even mean?" Him: "I can't talk to you." Me: "Go suck an egg." and so on...]. By Thursday afternoon I still had not received a call to schedule my delivery time, so I KNEW that my couch wasn't being delivered that day; and thus began that ever popular game of phone tag. The store was totally "it". When one drops large amounts of cash on some furniture, one expects a certain level of, you know, service. This is not a beginner couch. This is a grown up couch. We've done the "this will do for now" furniture shopping that parents do when the very real possibility of vomit and other bodily functions may make an appearance on their furniture. In other words, in the past we've shopped knowing that whatever we bought would eventually have to be replaced. Sooner rather than later. But we're older now and our kids are pretty much trained to get any disgusting projectile, from whatever end of their body, into a toilet. Thank god. So? We splurged.

I finally get the salesman on the phone and ask, "WTF dude?" and he is a salesman assures me that I will receive my call for my appointment on Friday or Saturday. Did you get that? Not my couch but a phone call is what I would receive. They called on Friday. While I was in the shower. Thus began another round of phone tag and by now I'm kinda over this game. Only to be told that they only deliver Tuesday through Friday. "I guess Tuesday then" is what I said in my extremely displeased tone. "Between 1pm and 5pm?". "Is that my only option?". "Yes". "Then, obviously, I'll take that time slot". Now. Boy-Child#2's school dismissal time is 2:15pm. What do you think the chances of the delivery truck showing up at exactly that time, are? 100% is the correct answer. And do you think you might find it funny that they only have 2 pieces of your 3 piece sectional loaded onto the truck? Maybe not funny-"haha", but somewhere in the realm of comical. And now I'm not only late in picking up my son but they're going to have to come back later with more couch! Lucky for them they stuck some hurry up on it and were back toot sweet. Dudes. That is my life. I'm not even kidding. So, I'll shut up now and show you THE couch! *cue angels singing*



And the sconces! Tootsie is so pleased. Stand by for update on coffee table. Or not.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #8 (Plus an Appetizer of Money and Sex)

Here's Where I Discuss the Economy for a Second and Then Shut Up

JP Morgan buying Bears Stern for $2 a share had Mr. Farklepants in the proverbial dither. He's Mr. Peak Oil. Mr. Doom & Gloom. Senior Hell in a Handbasket. While I'm Mrs. Rainbows and Sunshine in comparison [I know! And me with all my bitching up in in here]. I am the optimistic ying to his half empty yang. It's that magic that is our marriage. I often tune him out hang endlessly onto his every word when he gets started. He's been discussing the rising cost of gas before it even became an actual issue. He bought a natural gas car, like, years ago. He's replaced all of our energy sucking light bulbs with the energy efficient persuasion and now I have no good light in which to apply my makeup. He's invested wisely. We decided long ago to not upgrade our house and have kept the same low interest rate fixed mortgage with a payment that is more than likely less than many people pay to rent an apartment in California; while many acquaintances, neighbors, and friends are now struggling in their McMansions. He's wise when it comes to all things money, except when he forgets to pay for a traffic ticket. When the news informs us that gas may reach $4 a gallon nationwide, it is nearly that already in Los Angeles. So after he finished his most recent financial forecast, in which the JP Morgan/Bears Stern scenario mirrored that of just before the Great Depression; I informed him that when I last put gas in my car I refused to put in more than $50 and that would just have to do because of the outrageousness of it all. And he looked at me as if I had just whispered something deliciously naughty and stuck my tongue in his ear and my hand down his pants. It's okay. We're married.

The current state of the economy plus a .05 cent wine sale at BevMo? Coincidence? I think not.

**********************************

Tuesday's Confession

Alternate title: I Guess I Sort of Asked for This

So, here's what I did: I bought some bird food, ya know, for Drib

Yeah. So, that attracted an assload of birds. And then this happened:

And look at him. The smug bastard. He just watched me take his picture. Fecker. [and this is not Drib. nuh-uh. Drib is pretty and blue. This guy is a thug. Look at him! All disheveled.]


For once a product that lives up to its claim: "A highly appealing formula designed to attract a great variety of songbirds" - that will pilfer my patio furniture to line their nests.
File under: My bad.
Sub-Category: Poorly exercised judgment.
Section: Extreme use of stupidity.

Monday, March 17, 2008

She'll let a Stranger French Braid her Hair but Cry if I Brush it, W-H-A-T-E-V-E-R

Once upon a time, there was a toddler named Girl-Child Farklepants. For much of the first year of her life, she was bald. Finally sometime after her first birthday, her hair started to grow! Except it only grew on the top, in the front, and in the back. Not on the sides.


Girl-Child was a victim of the accidental mullet. Her mother wept openly at the diagnosis, but vowed to be strong and let nature take its course. It was hard. So HARD to be patient. Girl-Child Farklepants had very bad hair. It was awful. A disaster. Which is a damn shame because her mom has bitchen hair [except for that one unfortunate Dorothy Hamill fiasco when she was 9 and everyone thought she was a boy...oh, and that time she cut it all off after her first was born; the horror]. It's kinda her mom's best feature, if she were asked. Anyway, her mom tried to keep it out of her eyes and make the best of a bad situation. But Girl-Child was not one for things in her hair. She often pulled them out within four minutes of their placement there. This drove her mother insane because Girl-Child always had hair hanging in her eyes. Plus it distracted from whatever cute outfit she was wearing because she always looked unfinished.


For her second birthday she got some more hair. She was not at all excited about it; but her mother was thrilled! She finally had enough to even things out a little and joined the Posh Spice Bob Brigade:


But it was still kind of awful.


So for the next one and a half if not longer years her mother let it grow. She never cut the length and only trimmed Girl-Child's bangs when needed. And it grew very long and very well.


And on Saturday, March 15, 2008 her mother took her to the salon for kids; to cut an inch or so off the ends. Her mother forgot to bring her camera with her to document it [specifically for this post] as she had planned to do. Because her mother is an idiot. Also, the stylist at the salon French braided Girl-Child's hair. Something which Girl-Child's mother does not know how to do. Because she skipped the chapter entitled "Things Every Mother of a Daughter Must Know if you Plan to Have a Daughter" in the book about girls. And also since she doesn't know how to braid hair the way those Fray-unch do; it makes her feel less of a woman.

The End

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Then Lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch Towards thy Foe, who, Being Naughty in my Sight, Shall Snuff it

Something light and fun and totally not easy in the least, for the weeks end. I've been tagged by laughingatchaos with a six word memoir meme. I'm a bit fuzzy on the details but from what I can ascertain, I'm supposed to sum up my life in six words. No more. No less. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three six. Five is right out. [and the title plus that last part is for the Monty Python Holy Grail fans, for thou shalt be thy only ones to get-eth it-eth]. So, without further ado but with plenty of thought; the memoirs of my life in six words (six versions):

Consumes wine with feet in mouth.

Sweating the small stuff since 1971.

Exists on copious amounts of coffee.

Puts out for jewelry and vodka.

Mother. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Hoo-er.

Blazed a path straight to hell.

Convincingly has her shit together, sorta.

Now to go and give others something to do. I'm tagging June Cleaver Nirvana, Bad Mom, and because she was just lamenting that she's all dried up for blog fodder; The Mom Bomb. But personally, I think she's full of crap.

Friday, March 14, 2008

I'm Not Married To It

Guess what happened? I got bored. I was sick and bloody tired of looking at the same page day after day. So I went and changed the layout of my blog. If you're new then you just don't know any different, BUT, oh it's different. I haven't decided if I like it or if it's kinda jarring. Please feel free to weigh in! I will probably change it like another 25 times before the weekend is over. If my new couch would ever get here I would just rearrange living room furniture. But, well, that's not coming until Tuesday between 1-5pm and that is a whole 'nother story all by itself.

The picture at the top? I LOVE. It was posted in a coffee house in Richmond VA that we visited while on vacation. I thought it was the most awesome thing I've ever seen in a coffee house [because #7 on my list of pet peeves is unattended children in coffee establishments that want to spend time at my table when I'm enjoying my time without my own children, thankyouverymuch] and asked my sister to take a photo specifically for my blog. I did post an entry about it but never got around to finding it a permanent spot. I think it seems right at home here what with all the sarcasm-y snarkiness that I dole out on a consistent basis.

**edited to add: that Boy-Child#1 wanted to know how I got the words "Vintage Thirty" on the picture so I started to tell him about Picnik and then his eyes started to glaze over and I think he fell asleep. And he still doesn't know how I did the wordy thing.**

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


This post may be monitored for quality and training purposes. Please enjoy the muzak version of Aerosmith's Dude Looks Like a Lady. The following questions are being answered in the order they were received:

Q: Angie at KEEP BELIEVING would like to know: "Ate what age is it unacceptable to dress your two children alike/similarly?"

A: I will say that I'm not a fan of the dressing children alike. Similarly is acceptable mainly because I've done it myself because it is not the same as "the same". And I'm not even joking; stop when they ask you to stop. If they've reached adulthood without managing to ask then the onus is on them.

Q: The Mom Bomb would like to know: "Tell me how to get rid of the crow's feet, sister. Short of botoxing my face into immobility."

A: Since we do not currently have the ability to go back in time to prevent you from squinting; I recommend a daily slathering regime of Garnier Nutritioniste Ultra Lift anti-wrinkle firming eye cream coupled with L'Oreal wrinkle decrease (night). If it is immediate gratification you seek; invest in a sassy pair of sunglasses to hide said multiple sins.

Q: The Madame Queen seeks advice for two separte issues. First: "Okay, you addressed sailor suits, but you didn't address smocked outfits for boys. Are they ever acceptable?" And also: "I have a pink and brown purse that I love that I carry in the spring. Can I wear black shoes and carry this bag without fear of shame?"

A: A smocked outfit should not be on any boy anywhere unless that boy is featured in a photo circa 1932. Any boys currently sporting any smocking are allowed to be mistaken for a girl. The end. To answer your second question, unless you're the queen of England or a high profile socialite of some kind where you might be ridiculed on the cover of a tabloid for your wardrobe choices; I say go for it. The colors matching doesn't matter so much as the style (i.e. Spring w/ Spring= good, Spring w/ Winter= bad). Which is why the whole Uggs with shorts thing is a disaster and should be stopped immediately and perhaps by smiting.

Q: Tammy at Knitting in My Sleep would like answers to this controversial topic: "What is the youngest acceptable age for a child to have a cell phone? Call me old fashioned (or mean mom, take your pick), but unless you have a job or live in a town that has more than 2000 people in it, a 12 year old does not need his own cell phone. Your thoughts?"

A: As a rule, I agree with you. And as with most rules come exceptions. Which is why when our eleven year old son began walking home this school year coupled with his episodes being on the shit end of bullying, we made sure he had a means to get in touch if he needed a ride home or was in trouble. Because the Bat Signal doesn't work during daylight hours.

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom is playing liaison and asks: "I would like to ask another question on behalf of a dear friend of mine. She has a habit of dressing her poor little boy in jon-jons for special occassions. I say this will scar him for life. What say you?"

A: First off I'd like to thank you and your "friend" for the opportunity to Google jon-jons. Because I had no idea what the feck these were. Now that I know, I would recommend that your "friend" drop this habit. And drop it like it's hot. And when I say "hot" I mean "awful".

Q: HRH from June Cleaver Nirvana has a follow up to her original question and asks: "In response to my question that was expertly answered, I now have another question, "If someone HAPPENED to take 2 year old pictures of each of her three boys in a sailor suit, should that someone destroy the pictures, photoshop them or keep them as is to torture them at their wedding?" I don't know who would do such a thing, but just in case."

A: Follow these simple instructions:

  1. Locate a heavy blunt object. I recommend a sledge hammer.
  2. Knock a hole in your living room wall when no one is looking
  3. Place evidence inside the wall and patch it. If you aren't handy that way then proceed to number 4.
  4. Obtain an easy to assemble bookcase from IKEA to hide said hole. I hear the BILLY system is very popular.
  5. Forget they are there.

Q: Karen at The Rocking Pony is frustrated and asks: "how do I get my teenager to have a better attitude without the urge to wring her skinny little neck every time I'm near her?"

A: If you want an attitude change, my advice to you is: STOP RESISTING the urge.

Q: Standing Still is representing the makeup portion of the question answer period and asks: "Long lasting lipstick. Yes or no? If yes, which one will not make my lips feel like driveway? {{{hug}}} and two kisses just like Tim Gunn does"

A: I never understood the theory behind long lasting lipstick. Just how hard is it to reapply once every couple of hours? And I don't think it's just me, but Tim Gunn's voice reminds me of the "Buffalo Bill" character from Silence of the Lambs..."It places the lotion in the basket".

Q: Dee Dee from Eat Play Love wrote in via email to ask: "Do I need to immediately throw away my 8 year old diesel jeans, if the waist seems borderline mom-jeanish? Oh, and the color is sort of royal blue denim?"

A: If you have to stop and ponder that they may be in anyway whatsoever somewhere in the mom jean camp? Throw them out. Royal blue denim is the lesser evil of the two part dilemma.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Like Yale With Less Ivy and Hardly any League

I've closed one of many chapters in this journey I call motherhood. I registered Girl-Child for kindergarten for this coming fall. I was met with mixed emotions. First, elation that this is the last time I ever have to do this; unless someone throws a small child in our general direction some time in the future, and we somehow manage to catch it. This was quickly followed by sorrow that this is the last time I will ever have to do this. Our brood has aged. Rapidly. It seems like yesterday that I was going through these same motions for Boy-Child#1. Although, at that time, because of the severe overcrowding, school was on a year round schedule and admission was first come first served. Which meant getting in line at 3:00am. In the rain. With hundreds of other parents. And at that time, I was a young parent. A first timer. My first kindergartener. This time I took notice of all the young mothers. Now I'm the veteran to their rookie status. The mother of a 6th grader who will be moving on to junior high school in the fall. The mother of a second grader rapidly approaching third grade. I could answer their questions. I knew the drill. "How strict are they about needing two current utility bills for proof of residency?" one young mother inquired. "Very firm. Run home and get it. I'll save your spot." The only thing about this that was new to me is that I did it without a toddler in tow; trying to keep them occupied and entertained while standing in line to retain a spot in one of the kindergarten classes, since there is a 120 pupil cap. Even with siblings already enrolled, which ensures priority status, one does not want to dilly-dally nor take any chances. So one gets in line. Then one has to sit through the inquisition while a staff member reviews page after page of the enrollment package complete with firing off copies of birth certificates and immunization records. This time I'm alone. Girl-Child is busy at preschool. And a sense of sadness starts to squeeze the bejesus out of my heart. Even for a veteran I'm entering an unfamiliar frontier: The infant stages of empty nest syndrome. Quick! Prescribe the Prozac.

*******************

Mild Rant


1) Why is it necessary for the students to dress up like the author/character/subject of their oral report? I know it only cost me about $5.38 to throw together enough of a makeshift costume; but why create an expense for the parents? It's not like I've got a beard and a top hat lying around to turn my son into Abraham Lincoln. I imagine most people do not.

2) Why is it that a popular craft store like Michaels never has more than one checkout lane open at a time? And WTF is up with people who continue to shop while they're IN LINE? I stood behind 3 (yes THREE) over flowing carts of crap, and honestly thinking that they were items that the employees needed to put back because it was just SO MUCH RANDOM CRAP; and also thinking this because there wasn't a customer in sight associated with said carts...UNTIL? The cashier said "next please", and as I made my way around the load, armed with my ONE package of black pipe cleaners and ONE SINGLE sheet of black felt; a woman comes sprinting from the back of the store metaphorically carrying the kitchen sink, mind you, and says "oh, that's me!". Note to Michaels: Spring for an additional cashier.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Don't Bake Chicken in a Tank Top is Some of the Best Advice You'll Ever Receive

Alternate Title: WTF is Wrong With My Chicken?

I often do battle with chicken in the kitchen. Sometimes bacon. I'm a magnet for splattering grease. Mr. Farklepants takes pity on me likes to watch and mock when he sees me dance and dart away from the stove top while I make those little sounds like "AAAh!" "YIKES!" "OH NO!" and "SHHHIT!". I thought I would be safe enough from baked chicken but I'm often wrong about these things. I have severely underestimated the chicken. She's wicked crafty, that hen. I opened the oven and pulled out the rack [the metal one in the oven as opposed to the one between and just below my shoulders also known as THE rack]. I should probably mention that it is March in Southern California so I'm sporting a tank top plus oven mitts. And just as I've got a decent grip on the sides of the pan; the chicken makes a sound like it has just shot the cap gun to start the race. That race would determine the speed of my reflexes and my ability to get my face away from the oven before it is met with projectile chicken fat. Hot, flaming projectile chicken fat. That was released like buckshot. Aimed at my face. My arms, however, were your basic cannon fodder. And my shoulders. I didn't say a word. Or make a sound. I set it back down and started to cry a little bit. It didn't hurt as much as it scared the fecking FECK out of me. I asked Mr. Farklepants to please help me and remove the chicken from the oven because? I'm afraid of it. Yes. I'm afraid of our dinner.

***************************

Totally Unrelated Exchange

Girl-Child: Do you like dragons, Mommy?
Me: Yes. I think they're awesome imaginary creatures.
Girl-Child: I don't like 'em.
Me: Why not?
Girl-Child: Because they blow me.

I sincerely hope that "fire breathing" is pronounced "blow me".

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #7


I can't sing. I know you're thinking, "well everyone can sing, you just don't sing well". You're wrong. I'm the exception to that rule. Some of the Farklepants family members are blessed with the gift of song. But I married into it and my maiden name is "Voicethatcausesdeath-hyphen-Spears". Karaoke is something that I will never do. My friends enjoy it. I'll watch. But there is not enough alcohol in Ireland coupled with Russia that would cause me to unleash my voice onto mankind. I could drink till I puke, I won't sing. I could be so drunk that I knock over the table when I stand up, spilling my own drink into my own purse [not that I would know anything about that] and I won't sing. Because you know what would happen if I did? There would be lots of screaming and running about as if I had just said, "In sixty seconds the Earth will smash into the sun. Where are your children?". Imagine that kind of chaos. Then there would be that one brave soul who'd take one for the team; and just as he tells the gentleman next to him to let his wife know that he loves her, and takes that flying leap...just then everyone in the place would die. So I don't sing. And the world breathes a collective sigh of relief. If I ever do, for whatever inconceivable reason; just look in the general direction of the mushroom cloud. And you will know.

*photo courtesy of the pilfered panty drawer of Yahoo movies

Monday, March 10, 2008

Even He Couldn't Believe Just How Bad That Smelled

Recommended by George Clooney. I'll just add this to my copious list of things we have in common. Number 87: The sense of humor of a twelve year old.

Project "Replace Everything Because of the New Couch" is Underway

I need new lamps. With the new couch coming, well, let me just say that this new couch is the biggest couch I've ever seen. It's enormous. It will take up more than most of our family room judging by our measurements. We measured once, twice, and also that third time very close to the kitchen. If you got a running start from our front door and swan dove into any part of our family room, you would land on a good portion of some couch. When you stick that landing, it will be done on cloud 9 seating. As in down filled. The three judges will give you a respectable 8, 5, and 9. The 5 is from the Romanian judge and she's just bitter because the other two, France and Italy, are speaking languages of love to each other and 5 feels like a third wheel. A very big prehistoric wheel made of igneous rock. That digression takes me back to lamps in no way whatsoever; except that here I am back at lamps. My obese couch (she prefers "curvy") leaves no room on either side for an end table. We could probably squeeze in one floor lamp but I'm not really a "make do" kinda gal. I want these:

...and after some searching on various sites and laughing sarcastically at their outrageous price tags [YES POTTERY BARN I DO MEAN YOU!] I finally ended up on the Bed, Bath, and Beyond site. They have them! The exact one pictured above! And for only $29.99! This prompts me to shower and drive the one mile to the store; because why order online and pay for shipping if I can practically walk there and pick them up? Imagine my disappointment when there were none on display. So I inquire. I ask the very helpful clerk - the one who offered to help me if I needed any help and just find him he'll help me - I say to him "Lamp. Wall. Swing arm. Make this happen." He says, "Lamp. Wait. Swing. What?". I explain the website and that they have them and I want them and I was hoping they were in the store. He pulls up the site on his computer. He is search challenged. He looks under lamps. A page comes up. He scrolls and declares that these are all the lamps they have and he doesn't know what I'm talking about. Clearly I'm wrong. So I point out to him that this page is only showing 40 out of 347 items found. Look harder. Which I don't even need or want him to do because if all he's doing is looking on the website I can do that from the comfort of my own home. With liquor. Clothing optional. But now it's a challenge. And I loves me one of those. Especially when someone doesn't believe me and metaphorically pats me on my little lady head. So he starts scrolling and clicking and scrolling some more. "Are you sure it was this site?". "Yes." "Can you describe it again?". "It's a sconce." "A sc...what?". "A s-c-o-n-c-e". "A sconce?". "Yes." "Hmmm...I don't see...". "It's right there." "Where?". "The word s-c-o-n-c-e. Right there." [insert exaggerated pointing here] "Where?". "RIGHT THERE! HIGHLIGHTED! YOU'RE RESTING ON IT! CLICK! CLICK RIGHT NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY CLICK BASTARD! CLICK!" click "Oooohhhhh yeah, we don't have these in stock in the store." No. duh. "I can order them for you from here though". Really? Because I don't think you can. I just don't think you're capable of it. In 4-7 business days I'll end up with a very nice set of steak knives and a shower caddy delivered by UPS. "Yeah, ummmm, I'm just gonna go ahead and order those from home...mmmmkay? Mmmmmkay."

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Now I'm Really Sorry That I Forced Her to Finish Her Taco

The kids are in bed and I'm finishing up the dishes from dinner with the water running and the garbage disposal being obnoxious. I'm just making all kinds of racket and can't hear some drama unfolding upstairs. Mr. Farklepants enters the family room behind me and sits on the couch.

"Your daughter just threw up." (Why is he getting comfortable?)

"And you just left her there?"

"Well, it's gross."

"And YOU LEFT HER THERE?"

"Go!"

"God dammit"

His Therapist Will Send Me a Bill Plus a Thank You Note

This post brought to you by your feminine hygiene product of choice

Sometimes, you just can't make this stuff up. I've had the "where babies come from" informational convo with Boy-Child#1 but there are some specifics I apparently didn't delve into.

Me: (to Mr. Farklepants) It seems like I'm getting my period like all the time now.
Mr. Farklepants: Really?
Me: Seems like every two weeks. But I'm not really keeping track.
Boy-Child#1: What's a period?
Me: Well, when a woman ovulates. Well. When the egg is ready to be fertilized, it's released from her ovaries and...
Boy-Child#1: Okay. Nevermind.
Me: ...it waits to be fertilized by the man's sperm.
Boy-Child#1: OKAY!
Me: ...and when it isn't the woman's body gets rid of it.
Boy-Child#1: How?
Me: She bleeds for seven days out of her vagina.
Boy-Child#1: RUNS SCREAMING FROM THE ROOM COVERING HIS EARS


Mr. Farklepants and I high-fived. [not really but I looked at him and he looked at me and we were both just right there]

Saturday, March 8, 2008

Hey Blog! We Got an Award!


The Stay at Home Mom Going Quickly Insane gave me this lovely Kind Hearted award. I got a little verklempt over the simply stated sweet words she had for me. Seriously, that's all I need plus jewelry and vodka and I'm putty in your hands. Thank you!

And I'm passing this along to Jennifer H at Thursday Drive because after reading her beautifully written yet heart-wrenching stories that she shares with us...well, she deserves this award.

Yeah. Did You Get That Memo?

Is your house full of these?


Has your husband gone and replaced every conceivable bulb in the house when you weren't listening to him talk about how much money it will save looking? Are you a prefer-er of ambiance and accent lighting? Do these energy efficient bulbs make you feel like you're trapped in a cubicle muttering about your Swingline stapler and threatening to set the building on fire? Yeah. I thought so.

Friday, March 7, 2008

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


Today I will first address the questions of those whose Google searches directed them to my blog.

Q: Indonesia, Jakarta, Jawa Barat is curious about "son suck daughter".

A: First of all, I'm terribly disturbed by a) that word combination, and b) that it brought you here. I don't know what it is that you want to know about that and furthermore I don't want to know WHY you want to know (4 knows in one sentence for the record). There is something seriously wrong with you. You are sick. Please seek professional help immediately.

Q: San Diego, CA would like to know, "how to correct a very mild turkey waddle"?

A: You correct it by preventing it in the first place. Once it's there, you have a very mild turkey waddle. Anti-aging creams and firming agents can help prevent it from becoming more pronounced, but I'm afraid anything short of cosmetic surgery (or visiting someone with the word "Doctor" preceding their surname and perhaps on your lunch hour) won't rid you of it. I'm sorry.

Q: South Africa would like to know about "important people in space".

A: The NASA website would probably be more helpful to you than a mom blog. Considering I don't recall blogging about astronauts.

Now for the reader's questions:

Q: Angie from KEEP BELIEVING would like to know: "are sick children an excuse for oversized sweats, unshowered bodies (all of us), unbrushed teeth (all of us), uncombed hair (all of us), and eating binges (some of us - not saying who). Where do we draw the line for acceptable?"

A: Well, Angie, let's just say it shouldn't last too long. At the very least throw on a cute hoodie and indulge in a stick of sugarless and I must emphasize minty fresh gum.

Q: Jennifer H from Thursday Drive would like to know: "Will you show up at my house every day and be my personal trainer, so that I can wear jeans that size?"

A: I would if I lived closer. Not that I have any training in that sort of thing but I won't let that stop me and I'll do most anything for cash. I'm not exactly a hard core exerciser, per say. I do just enough to maintain.

Q: HRH from June Cleaver Nirvana would like to know: "I was wondering if you could address a question in the future: Are sailor suits OK to dress boy babies if so, what age must the mother cease dressing her boy child as a sailor?"

A: You must never do this after the age of 18 months. If you slip and do it after this just make sure there are no photos otherwise he has the right to refuse to ever bring future girlfriends home to witness said spectacle.

Q: Colleen from Wine Please (and who I also see is getting interesting visitors via Google) would like to know: "what would be a good OTC self-tanner that won't make me look an oompa-loompa and won't make me stink for days?" and she also laments [based on last weeks advice for shadow colors for blue eyes]: "yeah, I can't quite pull off the gold and/or yellow-based browns since I have freakishly pink skin."

A: Self tanners are the hardest thing to get just right. After seven hundred sixty twelvey different products, I'm moderately satisfied with Dove Energy Glow Daily Moisturizer with Subtle Self-Tanners (yes, that is quite a mouthful I agree). It's large in quantity and a little goes a long way. I didn't turn orange and the scent is pleasing enough. I emphasize enough because it smells the least like perfume scented burning flesh out of all the brands I've tried over the years. And the scent isn't heavy and overwhelming. I also have pinkish skin (although I wouldn't say it is freakishly so) and use makeup with blue undertones (pinks, taupes, mauves, plumbs; stay away from peach and reds).

And Allie doesn't have a question but she does state that I make her happy but not in any sort of gay way. Thank you, Allie. That makes me happy in a slightly gay way. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

I Can Haz Pretty Pictures

Thanks to that Oh-So-Classy OHmommy, I can now get results that my average but not fantastic Pentax Optio 550 camera cannot. OHmommy provided a link to Picnik which is a godsend for us photoshop impaired. Now I've been spending all of my free time doing things like this (plus the photos from my previous entry):

BEFORE:


AFTER:



and this...
BEFORE:


AFTER:



And (my very patient model):
BEFORE:


And after:



Also, if your dog isn't terribly friendly towards children, please do not stand directly in front of the entry way of a CHILD CENTER /DANCE /PRESCHOOL chatting it up with your girlfriends and simultaneously barking orders at children (who approach the center and your dog) to PLEASE DON'T TOUCH YOUR DOG SHE'S NOT TRAINED!! Using all caps while speaking to my daughter. My "okay whatever lady" was said in exactly the tone I meant it so roll your eyes straight up your ass.

To the Victor Go the Spoils

I turned around to find them this way; all standing at attention in a strategic military pose. I know that the moment I let my guard down, they'll attack. I'm particularly suspicious of those that aren't making eye contact with me. Right now they're all smiling just to throw me off (except for the capibara - or is it a tapir?- front and center. He seems a little nervous and will probably blow it for everyone. The rookie.). Abort! Abort!


The General. Taking cover in her bunker after giving the command (bomb shelter courtesy of IKEA):


I made four several phone calls in preparation for our new couch that is supposed to arrive Wednesday or Thursday of next week. Nothing like confirmation of an actual date and time to help a lady out. That was the first phone call. The Salvation Army will not take possession of a couch if there is a tear in the fabric even a small one on only one cushion. But they're perfectly willing to accept the coffee and end tables, plus one lamp Monday morning. Second phone call. Waste Management will oblige and collect our old couch in what is referred to as a "bulky item pick up" also known as "very big trash", also on Monday morning. Poor couch. I don't think you're trash. That would have been the third phone call. The only available appointment the carpet cleaning people have in order to accommodate my need to have my carpet cleaned before Wednesday (because I have to plan on Wednesday even though it might be Thursday...or June, whatevs) when the couch arrives, is...wait for it....Monday morning. Between 8:30-9am. That was the fourth and final call. I don't think that there is much more I can squeeze into that Monday morning window. My luck? The new couch will arrive with an oops on it's lips. Monday morning.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

What Time is it When an Elephant Sits on Your Clock?

On Friday we had a series of power outages. There was BIG WIND, and aside from it doing stupid things to my patio furniture and knocking big rigs over on the freeway; it was also giving electricity what for. So around 3:30pm, right in the middle of Judge Judy the news - CRACK!- out goes the power. Then not 20 seconds later -WHOOMP- back on. It did this several half-dozen sixteen times. I finally got wise and stopped resetting clocks, grabbed hold with my fingertips and just rode it out. Fast forward to Monday morning. Boy-Child#2 says to me in my REM sleep mode, "are we going to school today, or what?". I startle, because those words will bitch slap the sleep right out of you, and look at the clock. 7:45am. The next word out of my mouth is "fuck". Which is quickly followed by, "I mean thank you for waking me up". And all the while I'm mentally retracing my steps from bedtime the night before, trying to figure out how I screwed up setting the alarm. I check it, it's set, at the right time. WTH? We got out the door in record speed and I kinda forgot all about it. Monday night, I set the alarm with comical slowness, making sure that everything is just right. I exercised precision and accuracy and if there were a gold medal for alarm clock setting, I was a lock. Yesterday morning it was Boy-Child#1 who wakes me by stating, "I'm supposed to be in math tutoring right now." [he has before school tutoring T-Th] I look at the clock. 7:30am. He's absolutely right. He is supposed to be there right now. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH THIS PIECE OF SHIT!" and on its heels, "I mean, yep you missed it". It was right around this time that I realized that the power outages from Friday killed something very important inside my clock. Quite possibly the little man who lives in there, whose job it is to make sure I wake up when I need waking up. It still lets you know what time it is but if you want it to do something extra useful and necessary like make noise, you're going to be waiting an awfully long time for that to happen because that part was murdered.

****
In other unrelated events: The perplexing contents of my mailbox, in one day; all addressed to me.
  • Victoria's Secret catalog
  • Victoria's Secret Free Panty offer plus $10 off any bra
  • SCAN information packet (you know, for senior citizens)
  • Neptune Society information packet with a chance to win a pre-paid cremation!
  • Fredricks of Hollywood catalog
  • Time magazine subscription offer with a discount for seniors.
What does it all mean? That I'm getting old but haven't quite reached granny panty status? I can only imagine how confused my poor mailman is. I hope this doesn't send him into therapy.

****
And now for something not even remotely having anything whatsoever to do with any of the combination of vowels and consonants above: In the movie Good Luck Chuck, Dane Cook's character states that a person isn't capable of licking their own elbow. Now you're all trying it. You're welcome.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #6

I'm a dog person. Which is good because Mr. Farklepants is also a dog person. Obviously our marriage is kismet. This, my friends, is the glue. But there was a once upon a time when I had cats. Two cats. And because of these cats I will never have cats again. EVER. I will admire them from afar. I will feed them for you when you go out of town. I will hold them and pet them and call them George, but they will belong to someone else...


The year was 1993. I lived in a kick-ass apartment (Dude, it was next door to the mall) in a trendy city. I had the best roommate ever. EVER! Don't tell me yours was the best because it's not true. My roommate and I had both grown up in apartments and we'd both only been allowed to have animals that lived in a cage, aquarium, or a bowl. We both wanted a cat. Long story short-ish on how we acquired them (yes, them, as in two) someone in our building had two kittens (they were kitten-ish as in more like teenagers) and they needed to get rid of them. We were suckers took them in. The smell of their apartment should have tipped us off, but ya know. Hindsight and all. After much discussion we flipped a coin decided on Bailey and Gus for their names. Bailey was a Short-haired Himalayan. Gus was your average grey, stripedy, house cat. It wasn't long before we discovered that Bailey was fucking nuts. I'm not even kidding a little bit. He was schizophrenic. He'd be all lovey and your BFF one minute and then have you trapped, naked in your closet after your shower attacking you with his razor sharp claws and an arsenal of teeth! And there you are screaming. Afraid of a little cat. And naked. If I had a dollar for every time I was stuck in that damn closet... Then there was that time I was eating cereal at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Bailey launched himself onto my back. Like a backpack. All four of his paws buried into my flesh. And I can't get him off because he's literally unreachable. Luckily my roommate was home and came to my rescue. The same could not be said for her when she found herself with the cat attached to her face, while I was off on vacation with my parents. I came home to find her locked in her room with Bailey guarding the outside of her door and speaking in tongues [the cat, not the roommate]. But then he'd be all sorry and fine for a few weeks. If you were lucky, you could tell when he was going to just freakin' lose it. He would sort of sway and watch your every move. You had to be quick! Either shut the door of the room he was in or get yourself somewhere with a door between you. When I consulted the vet to find out what the hell was wrong with our cat, he suggested a pet psychologist. And I made a mental note to find another vet. [Note to self: find new vet]

At some point Gus had decided that soft, cozy piles of anything soft and cozy were the perfect spot to take a piss. Comforters, sheets, piles of laundry, the couch. None were spared. Bank accounts were drained for cleaning and replacing. Then the day came when Roommate and I went our separate ways. I got custody of the cats because I was moving into an actual house. Later, with my first baby on the way, I completely acknowledged considered that Bailey would have to go. He was just too unpredictable and definitely a safety risk. When one baby proofs a house one gets rid of roaming psychotic beasts sporting weapons of mass destruction and a bad attitude. Longer story not-short: Bailey was mauled by loose dogs in the neighborhood [he was nuts and all but that's a hell of a way to go...RIP Bailey] and Gus peed in my mother in law's suitcase. She didn't think that was FUNNY. AT. ALL. We took him to the pound. The end.