Boring the World with My Boring Boredomness

A few months ago I finally got with the program and purchased several reusable grocery bags to take to the market and use in lieu of the plastic variety that are clogging up landfills and clinging for dear life along the highways. Half the time I remember to bring them INTO the store with me. The other half of the time I remember mid-checkout. At least they're in the car! Except for those times I clear out the rear of the vehicle to make room for beach going items or putting the back seats down to accommodate extra bodies. Then they sit on a shelf in my garage [the bags, not the bodies].

Mr. Farklepants commended me on my new found environmentally friendly habits until one day, while helping unload the groceries, he noticed that most of the items were in the reusable bags, however, there were also a few plastic bags in use.

Mr. F: You finally buy reusable bags but you didn't get enough.

Tootsie: Yes I did.

Mr. F: Then why are these plastic ones here?

Tootsie: Because I didn't remember to give them to the box-boy until he'd already started bagging the groceries.

Mr F: ......

Tootsie: See, I didn't want to have him transfer the stuff since it was already bagged.

Mr F: .............

Tootsie: Because I didn't want to hold up the line by being THAT PERSON.

Mr. F: .................

Tootsie: Are you even listening to me?

Mr. F: Oh. Wait....what?

Tootsie: I know it's not very interesting but I'm a full time housewife and mother and these are the stories I have to tell. ...This is THE MOST EXCITING THING that's happened to me today.... AND STOP SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Vintage Thirty would like to ask you...do you know how many times Tootsie has told this story? Oh gah someone stop her. And also, is "box-boy" still politically correct, Vintage Thirty forgets.

Doesn't it Seem Like Just a Year Ago We Celebrated Our Anniversary? ...Oh, Right.

Tomorrow Mr. Farklepants and I will celebrate thirteen years of marriage!

Vintage Thirty will pause for condolences kudos.

I know it's been, um, weeks since I updated my blog. And for that, I am truly sorry. I blame it on Twitter and Facebook status updates sucking up my writing mojo. Since I've neglected it this long it seems only fitting that I regurgitate a past post. An oldie but a goodie. Please to enjoy my writingzzz:

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"The only time I would ever tell a woman that I love her is when I plan to marry her"~ Mr. Farklepants circa 1994


On June 29th, 1996 a young Mr. Farklepants and his very pregnant girlfriend, Tootsie, had already been in Hawaii one week where they shared a rented estate paid for by very generous employers with their best friends two other couples. And on June 29th, just after brunch where Tootsie ate the entire buffet because she couldn't drink or smoke, enjoy the jacuzzi or do anything fun or reckless because of her delicate condition -and by the way gained twelve of her seventy pregnancy pounds on this trip alone and right now you're like, ONLY twelve?- ahem, after brunch young Mr. Farklepants declared to their friends that he would like to spend the day with just Tootsie taking a scenic drive around the big island of Hawaii.

So off they went in the little rental car that was straining heavily on the passenger side under Tootsie's considerable girth. Young Mr. Farklepants wasn't even kidding when he said drive AROUND the big island of Hawaii. Because they did exactly that. The entire perimeter. They stopped numerous times to get out and see the beauty to behold, but young Mr. Farklepants would quickly shove Tootsie back to the car and drive to the next place. When they finally made it to the deserted Kilauea visitors center, it started to rain. They parked and young Mr. Farklepants asked Tootsie to remain seated and dry while he determined if the view was worth getting wet for. He took the video camera that they had borrowed from their friends with him in the rain and all Tootsie could think was, "That is going to get all wet and then we'll have to buy them a new camera", because she is what we like to refer too as a worrywart. When young Mr. Farklepants returned he was very animated and excited and told Tootsie to go with him right now! And all Tootsie noticed was that he wasn't holding the borrowed video camera and was mentally chastising young Mr. Farklepants for leaving it unattended on a trail. See? Worrywart.

Young Mr. Farklepants guides his pregnant girlfriend to the rail that lines [what? Sorry. Was rail mentioned? Because there was no rail. Just certain death if you lost your balance] the rim of part of Kilauea. They both ooh and ahh. There is rain. There are NO OTHER tourists or anyone for that matter on the trail. They are completely alone. Tootsie turns to tell young Mr. Farklepants how she's concerned about the lack of a rail awe inspiring the view is and he impulsively takes her hands. "There is something I should have told you a long time ago" he says. Instantly Tootsie thinks oh my god he has children that he's never told me about and he's going to tell me right here. Worrywart.

But he didn't. Young Mr. Farklepants then dropped to one knee and said, "I love you" and then he proposed marriage to Tootsie who then cried like a big baby replied with an enthusiastic YES! As it turned out, young Mr. Farklepants had hidden the video camera so that he could record this event on tape (yes tape, 1996) but it didn't work. They finished their day driving the remainder of the perimeter of the island until they made it back to their rented estate. Tootsie had wanted to stop and call their friends to let them know they were going to be terribly late but young Mr. Farklepants insisted that it wasn't necessary. It turned out that everyone, their mother, and the kitchen sink were in on the days events. One of the friends had gone with him to buy the engagement and wedding rings. Rings which young Mr. Farklepants brought with him (in the body of a flashlight, no less) on their vacation.

At sunset on July 3rd, 1996, young Mr. Farklepants and his fiancee, Tootsie, eloped and were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Farklepants by a very old local reverend who spoke with a thick local accent and who Tootsie wanted to put in her pocket and take home with her.

It wasn't until yesterday while composing this entry years later, when Tootsie was a little older and [she thinks] a little wiser that she realized the symbolism of Mr. Farklepants proposing marriage to her at the edge of a cliff. A cliff that overlooked a volcanic crater that was at that very moment creating new pieces of the Earth. There they were at the edge, a proposal and a promise, to start a new life together. Although, it is possible that Mr. Farklepants may have already mentioned the symbolism in some way to her and she just forgot. Because she does that.

I love you Schmoopy! Here's to the days I want to wring your neck, the days I can't keep my hands off of you, and all those in between...Happy 12th Anniversary!

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Replace the 12th anniversary with 13th and the story remains the same. Happy 4th of July!!

In This Hand I Hold a Grenade

Remember when I told you that our local McDonalds was being remodeled? And what they mean by remodel is - tear that sucker down to the ground with a bulldozer.



I'm happy to report that they lived up to their claim that they would re-open in spring of 2009.


Ever since my children caught wind of the grand opening; they've wanted to check out the indoor play area possibilities eat there. While you may be surprised to learn that I'm not a fan of A) most fast food, and B) eating inside said establishments, you should be happy to know that I sometimes oblige my children. So I promised that after Boy-Child#2's softball game we would go to the new McDonalds for dinner - because we're fancy like that.

The new McDonalds also boasts a new staff. I mean, like brand new. Like, are still learning the register, new. Which equals - slow service. Which puts a fast food establishment at a disadvantage. And where fast food becomes - how hard is it to put together a Big Mac meal and two happy meals? Apparently, pretty damn hard. Inside I was all, wth people? On the outside I was all, hey no problem take your time. I didn't bother ordering anything for myself because about the only thing I like from McDonalds is their fries. And years of experience has taught me something: when there is playground equipment within view children will not finish their fries and leaves plenty for mom to help herself. This theory, once again, proved true.

While the new play area was somewhat disappointing, with lackluster slides, and resembled a mesh three story building that had been stripped bare and lacked much of anything to do; this didn't stop the kids from enjoying it. Another thing that experience has taught me is that it does not matter how boring a play area is or how long you stay; when it is time to go, it is too soon. Girl-Child burst into tears upon my request to get her shoes. An event that was met with my immediate anger. Which led me to inform her that if she was going to cry then it would be a very long time before she was allowed to come back. Which? Didn't seem to faze her. Which? Pissed me off. Which? Led me to tell her that she'd just sealed the deal.

I'm not a fan of spoiled children and I wasn't about to have my own child act a fool. I don't know what her deal was but she clearly had done lost her mind. This behavior was not beneficial to my mood. Especially since I still had to order a meal to go for Mr. Farklepants - And don't make me revisit the new employee issue.

Once back home, and with my dander up about all of the above, I share the events of the evening with Mr. Farklepants. To which he replied, so have you started your period yet or what?

Then I pulled the pin.

ACME Kite Kit Not Included

Sunday evening Mr. Farklepants pipes up out of nowhere and asks, "So, do you wanna go for a walk"? And I was all, who are you and what have you done with my husband and p.s. do you do dishes? My shock is in reference to the fact that Mr. Farklepants rarely parts with his laptop. It's how he spends his downtime and I'm not complaining now - he could prefer to spend it elsewhere like golf, sporting events, poker, bars, or anything else that get's him away from the house. At least he's home. For those who prefer visual aides - Mr. Farklepants seen here with three laptops and a Starbucks Grande full of temporary energy... with whip:



So I was all, shhhhhuuuurrre, yeah! I suggest bringing Phoebe along [because, although she knows where her leash is located and knows that in order for that leash to be attached to her collar she needs to sit; walking on her leash is a whole other matter. There's much dragging of and giving in and carrying of the puppy. It's a work in progress - you understand]. And then I add: since we're just going around the neighborhood? Indeed, stated as a questionable fact.

Mr. Farklepants says, no I was thinking of going to Towsley Canyon. This would make it necessary for me to change out of my skirt and flip flops.

Mr. Farklepants and I differ in our definition of walk. If I have to strap on some shoes with traction then walk equals hike. Tomato/Toe-mah-toe? More like, Tomato/Willdabeast.

"Then we should leave Phoebe at home", I say. I didn't want to get a mile into treacherous terrain and have her lay down like, that's all the walking I'm about to do - carry me?


(Forgive me while I use the term "treacherous terrain" loosely. Exaggerate, who?)

The other reason for insisting that Phoebe stay home is that the vet specifically instructed that, since she isn't finished with her vaccinations, she should avoid any areas where other dogs congregate and, more importantly, coyotes roam. Parasite infested coyotes.

At the tail end of our hike, Mr. Farklepants goes into stealth mode and signals to me, "There's something in the grass". He takes aim with his camera and shoots:


Later seen failing at firing a bow and arrow with ACME dynamite strapped to it then painting a realistic tunnel onto the rock face only to be hit by the train that emerged. He was remarkably unscathed.

**photos of trail and coyote by Mr. Farklepants and his super badass camera

If I'd Stayed an Extra Week I Might Have Come Home to Hardwood Floors Too

The kids and I spent the week leading up to and including Easter, in Virginia visiting the most awesomest brother ever to have lived in the history of siblings. This left Mr. Farklepants to his own devices - where own devices equals spoiling Tootsie like the pretty pampered princess that she is. When many women describe romance they use words like: flowers, candlelit dinners, strolls on the beach at sunset, jewelry, and spooning. Meh, say I. One word that sums up the true meaning of romance for me is: consideration. So when Mr. Farklepants, in my absence, took it upon himself to replace the tires, windshield (that met the business end of a sandstorm on the drive home from out of town one sunny afternoon and was left with a severe pocking), floor mats, complete detailing inside and out, and any scuffs, dings, and scratches magically removed from my car; well, is it any wonder why I had the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind and want to strip nekkid and roll around on him right there in the Bob Hope airport parking lot? You understand what I'm saying. My car was all: sheeeeen sparkle sparkle!

But wait. There's more. David Copperfield Mr. Farklepants had another trick to pull out of his magic hat. He reached in elbow deep and pulled out one of these:



As many of you may remember, our dog and loving family member for thirteen years, Baby passed away on January 19th. It was many weeks before we were even able to discuss the possibility of adopting another and we finally decided that we would resume the conversation after our vacation, because there was no sense in bringing home a new puppy only to leave her for a week. Did you catch that? Resume conversation. Converse. Talk. Discuss. So imagine our surprise upon returning home to find that little ball of fluff, tumble, and cute sitting in the middle of the living room floor!

It turns out that Mr. Farklepants' coworker knows a guy, who knows this guy, who has an ex-wife, who has this daughter, whose daughter has this grandmother who has this dog that had a litter of black lab puppies. And this daughter of this grandmother happened to be passing through our neighborhood while we were out of town and brought the two remaining puppies with her. And Mr. Farklepants swooped up that bundle of perfection to surprise his family.

Vintage Thirty will pause for this moment of awwwwwwwwwwwe...

Now, put five people together in a room to name one puppy and oh. mah. gah. I'll spare the tales of bloodshed and woe.

You've been introduced to Phoebe Farklepants. AKA, blogfodder for years to come.

Can You Press the Rewind Me Some of That Button? On Your Remote?

If you're a parent to a small child you're most likely subjected to the occasional Noggin viewing. One show that Girl-Child is partial to is the Upside Down Show. I'm rather fond of it as well. Not for the educational value. Or the songs. Or the interactive quality which permeates today's preschool television programming. No. It is because of David and Shane...oh Shane:


Which? Truth be told? I find...oh let's see... how do you say? Sexy. They make suffering through Yo Gabba Gabba and Wow Wow Wubbzy tolerable.

And here they are again - in an instant replay.



I know. There's something wrong with me You agree.

*photo Google Images / video YouTube

Somewhere Out There The Ramones Sense a Disturbance in the Force

Remember waaaaaaaay back in November when Mr. Farklepants snapped that lovely photo of me sleeping on the couch? And how I accepted his obvious challenge of: bring it?

I present to you: the bringing of it...

Well, hello there Midlife Crisis. I see you've met my husband.

This is Mr. Farklepants stuffed into an antique his US Festival t-shirt. Which he brought home after spending three days at our generation's version of Woodstock. In 1982. I was nowhere near the event considering I was, oh, ya know...just finishing fifth grade and perfecting my cursive handwriting skills. [An aside: I always thought the cursive capital letter "Q" was dumb. End aside.] This shirt winds up in the I'll never part with this pile when we're purging our closets. With good reason; it's authentic vintage shit, yo.

The pose really just sets the whole thing. Hey Honey! You got your chocolate in my peanut butter Your pose says 70's and your clothes say 80's. See kids? This is why you should never drink and combine decades. You could end up with a PWI - Posing While Intoxicated. And you're unaware that a PWI checkpoint is up ahead disguised as a: Canon 20D.

Back off ladies. This one's aaaallll mine.

P.s. Can I have the shirt?

P.p.s. No, really. I mean it. Can I?

A Two-Fer Cuz I Didn't Have Enough for a Onesie

Getting ready for guests that will arrive on Thanksgiving will have you cleaning things around the house that had become those things you just don't notice anymore. Until you're planning your menu and look up from the kitchen table to discover a fur coat fine layer of dust covering your decorative plates hanging on the wall above your head. And also on the window covering over the sink. And the tops of the cabinets. And if you decide to stand on a chair; the top of the microwave and refrigerator [and those last two things are a must clean because two of your guests are extremely tall].

Before you know it you're waist deep inside your oven breaking your back and passing out on fumes gently wiping away the burnt on residue and cleaning solution because you don't want to set off your fire alarm while the family waits for turkey.

[Editor's Note: Jesus God I hate my oven]

Then you demand from your husband:

Me: My next oven is going to be self cleaning because this sucks [also, I might have dropped the F bomb]
Husband: C'mon. How often do you clean that thing anyway?
Me: PMSing and already reaching for the steak knives How often DO YOU?
Husband: You're a big fat cry baby. [okay, he didn't say that he just called me mean I don't know whyyy perhaps it was my tone]

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We finally hallelujah! had our last soccer game ever ever ever of the season which means - all together now - team party. WoooOOOooo. There was pizza. Goody bags. And the worlds ugliest trophies. I'm not even kidding. Two words: Bobble head. [although, it may be one word, Google was torn]. Great. It's not enough to get a trophy for showing up; now they've gone and made them interactive. [should we start placing bets now as to when this will become a headless trophy?] I'm also willing to overlook that it is a boy.


Seriously, doesn't it look like a small child fell into a vat of hot bronze? And doesn't that just creep you the hell out? I don't trust it. Think I'll sleep on the lighter side.

Also at team parties? Small talk. Oh GAWD just kill me. I happened to choose a chair in the shade which also happened to be directly located next to a woman that, between you and me, is a bit of a sourpuss. She's one of those people that kind of barks when she talks and she's always disappointed in something. And. Never. Ever. Smiles. She's also the mother of twins and a younger third child.

Meanwhile, back at the small talk.

Me: What is the age difference between your children?
Her: TWO minutes!

And she was dead serious. She thought I meant the twins. She also thought I must be the dumbest person on the planet to ask the length of time between births of the two people that shared her womb simultaneously. Or? She forgot she had a third.

then she caught a ground squirrel with her bare hands and ate it

The small talk ended in one of those not often seen moments when it comes to Tootsie - speechless and mouth agape.

Marriage Rule #48: Verify Wife is Aware Her Photo is Being Taken. And Rule #49: That She Looks Good

Never let it be said that I only post attractive pictures of myself on this blog.


The most troubling thing about this photo is not my ass fat squooshing out and trying to attack my sleeping daughter, nor that my neck appears to be feasting on my chin, or that it was only somewhere between 7:30 and 8:15pm [or something, I don't know I was asleep] on a Friday night. Or that my mouth was open. Bonus points for lack of drool.

No.

The disturbing issue is that Mr. Farklepants someone was able to come home from work and enter the house. And then locate their camera. And then take their wife's picture. And then make themselves at home on the couch long before my very confused self awoke and was able to register that he had not been there before the reading of half a dozen -riveting, obviously- Clifford the Dog books put a couple of people to sleep.

Then he uploaded it to the family Flickr account.

Note to Mr. Farklepants: Oh, it's on.

How Could I Forget The Transvestites?

So we're all sitting around the other night after dinner discussing movies and various whatnot [and boy can we talk a whatnot blue streak in this family]; and someone, my father I think, mentioned he'd just seen True Lies for the first time. My father, being somewhat of a connoisseur of action movies, I was excited to relay to him that True Lies happened to be the first movie Mr. Farklepants and I had seen together on our first date lo those many years ago. Yes, the Arnold Schwarzenegger flick. Yes, and Jamie Lee Curtis too. And when I say date I mean I took my roommate along for security because as much as I wanted it to be a date I didn't want Mr. Farklepants to think me anxious to date him. Play games, who? Rules much? Aaaaand we all had a good laugh about my young, angsty man-trapping methods.

Mr. Farklepants: What?
Me: Oh, I was telling them about our first date when I took Roommate with us to see True Lies.
Mr. Farklepants: That's not right.
Me: What?
Mr. Farklepants: You're wrong.
Me: I did take her!
Mr. Farklepants: No, It was The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
Me: ........(!) Oh yeah! (then to my father) Nevermind, it was the movie about the transvestites in Australia.
Dad: ........?



I guess Mr. Farklepants was anxious to date me.

Some of you requested the Alfredo sauce recipe from Monday's entry in the comments and via email. The great thing about this recipe is that it is easy-peasy. And I am all about low maintenance cooking because if there are too many steps to follow or prep work that has to be done in advance I'm all, which pizza place do I have a coupon for? [Quick factoid: When the pizza place and your parent's share the same first three digits in their phone numbers, how many times do you call your mom when you just want Dominos? Answer: Hi Mom, no I really meant to call you I swear I know it's 7pm, so what's up?]

The Alfredo sauce recipe is below, and know this: it makes an obscene amount of sauce - you'll be eating it for days. It's probably best to make this for a large group.

Ingredients:

* 1 pound fettuccine pasta (trust me, you'll need a lot more than that)
* 2 sticks of butter, divided (the thing about cooking - math)
* 1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breasts ( I use the skinless tenders and just dice them up into 1" chunks - cuz I'm all about the bite size)
* 2 (15 oz) containers whole ricotta cheese
* 1 pint heavy cream (I always use heavy whipping cream which is what I assume they mean. If there's another kind of heavy cream out there know that the heavy whipping cream is divine)
* about 1 teaspoon pepper - keep adding while stirring until you can see pepper flecks (the recipe does not call for pepper but I think it kicks ass. The recipe calls for salt but it doesn't need it, I promise)
* 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese (purchase a cheese grater - I'm looking at you AFF)
* 1 heaping teaspoon of chopped garlic

1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add fettuccine and cook for 8-10 minutes. Drain and set aside in large bowl.
2. While the pasta is boiling melt 2-ish tablespoons of butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Saute chicken and garlic until no longer pink.
3. In a large saucepan (emphasis on large) combine ricotta cheese, cream, pepper, Parmesan cheese, and remaining butter. Cook over medium heat until well combined (about 10 minutes). Stir constantly. Add sauteed chicken and all its garlicy drizzliness into the sauce. Stir until it reaches creamy goodness.
4. I add the sauce by the ladle-ful to the drained pasta and toss until it meets my satisfaction. Some people are all about heavy on the sauce while others are like, stop when I say when-WHEN! I fall somewhere in between.

Buona fortuna!

Subliminal, Who?

(Tootsie on the right and her friend who we'll call Dorkanna because that's what we call her to her face and in her Christmas cards. It's okay, don't worry, she likes it)

Mr. Farklepants and I started dating in 1994. Happy Birthday to me That year was going to be our first Thanksgiving together, the first year we'd celebrate Christmas together, and our birthdays...we would be celebrating a lot of firsts that year and I'll just leave you with that image. You're welcome.

Any-old-who...the company we worked for was kind of known for their holiday parties. Happy Birthday to meeee They were the stuff of legend. They were something you planned for months in advance. They were black tie. They were the kind of parties that had our clients throwing down clamoring for a coveted super secret invitation; so much so, that come October it was the clients that were kissing our ass and not visa versa. They were the cause of large groups of us being banned from several hotels in the greater Los Angeles area. And probably the cause of the company eventually going out of business. Too much money spent on elaborate parties. But I digress much. Happy Birthday dear, Tootsie Party on Wayne. Party on Garth.

Back to the picture. More specifically the dress. And if you're still laughing at the ivory colored pantyhose we're both wearing I just want to remind you that it was 1994 and still considered a fashion staple at black tie functions. But I understand and I will give you a minute to gather yourself. I'll wait. Ahem. The dress. In October of that year I was reading Vogue and came across an ad for I don't remember jewelry or something and the model was wearing that exact dress. I told my girlfriends and probably Mr. Farklepants that THAT was the dress I wanted for that year's holiday function. Of course, it wasn't an ad for the dress and I had no idea who the designer was or where it could be found; nor did I think that I'd have the salary to afford it even if I did make some magic happen. Eventually the dress was forgotten. Well, not really forgotten but put in its special place. A place called: unattainability.

When my birthday rolled around, Mr. Farklepants gave me a box. And in that box was that dress. Apparently he had torn the ad clean out of my magazine, squirreled it away to some secret hidey-hole and was all, "I will find this dress...oh yes...I will find it". And find it he did. He was on a mission from the fashion god - the make my new girlfriend happy god [totally one of my favorite gods which is quickly replaced by the less popular but more familiar: when is your birthday again? god, reserved for wives].

It still hangs in my closet today. It is one of my most memorable presents. Sometimes it really is the thought that counts. And when I say thought I mean: think about it and actually follow through with it. Happy Birthday tooooo meeeeeee

What's the most memorable gift that you received? You'll note that I didn't say today is my birthday it had to be a good one.

Okay. Who's still laughing at my pantyhose? Or is it my Rachel hair?

He Could Find the Whole Meaning of Life in Her Sad Eyes

I finally got around to watching Waitress this past weekend. I don't know if it was the storyline or the PMS but I can attest to its tissue-worthiness. It's a good flick to curl up with on those "I just wanna be a chick" days when you want to get in touch with your whole gamut of emotions but don't want to go all Terms of Endearment or Steel Magnolias where you're left in a sobbing pile of feminine fetal position. You know, when you want your guts tweaked not wrenched.

Plus there's this:


Helllooooo Jason Bateman Nathan Fillion who plays Doctor Feel Good Pomatter. A gynecologist who makes me want to say, doctor it hurts when I do this do you have some kind of salve you could rub on me. I may just have to force myself to start watching Desperate Housewives or reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had no idea just what I was missing! His large head and face will make a nice addition to my list.

You know THE LIST. And you have one.

P.S. Today is the last chance to enter the giveaway!

*Totally hot picture from Google Images

Oh Look! It's Another Poll!...and Possibly a Divorce (not really)

So, who takes care of automobile maintenance in your house? For the most part, I take care of my own car. I don't like to but I do. And the reason I don't like it isn't because I'm afraid to talk to mechanics like a certain someone in this house believes [oh, and remind me to tell you about the time that the certain someone told my DAD exactly that. My dad who is a bit of a...how do I put this delicately...chauvinist and how I've spent my life cultivating the idea that I'm an independent woman with a good head on her shoulders and how that certain someone now validated that women are the inferior sex with that one sentence, from her husband. A man. Bygones], no. It's because I know I'll do it wrong.

EXHIBIT A: (from the way back machine) Take my car to Jiffy Lube for an average oil change. A new serpantine belt is recommended presenting its frayed self as proof. I approve the additional work. I get in trouble when I get home.

EXHIBIT B: (from the way back machine) Take my car to Jiffy Lube for an average oil change. They recommend a new air filter and present its nasty self as proof. I decline because of all the smarting from the last time I foolishly approved. Once home, am told that I should have had them replace it.

W. T. F. ?

Imagine my apprehension when I recently took the car in for it's 40,000 mile service. Really it was the 30,000 mile service since I delayed it that long. The fretting and subsequent ulcer and erectile dysfunction cannot be accurately described. Imagine a burny, acidy refluxy sensation coupled with stabbing headache and irritable bowel syndrome. Not. Even. Close. In addition to the service, the dealership was also instructed to inspect my brake pads and rotors because FOR THE PAST YEAR they have been doing this kind of stuttering wonky wah-wah-wah thing upon stopping. Something I haven't exactly been keeping to myself, either. But that's neither here nor is it even right over there.

You know where this is going, right? Things were not good in the land of brake pads and rotors. I approved the additional work....without...wait for it...checking with a certain someone.

[On the plus side they did manage to fix the lock on the glove box (free of charge! how generous) that's been jammed shut for two years which means I can finally get that dammitifIhearthisonemoretime Black Eyed Peas CD out of the deck]

I'm officially absolving myself of any responsibility for car maintenance. I've taken my name off the roster. [Car Maintenance Roster: Tootsie Farklepants, see?] Choose your battles in marriage, people. This one can go suck an egg.

Which leads me to the poll, why? Because they're fun!



If you don't hear from me, I've been thrown out of the house for bringing this up in public. Wi-fi might be sketchy at my new digs... the freeway off ramp.

Swag Did Not Include Beer Cozy

Mr. Farklepants went out and got himself the Canon D40 which can only mean one thing:


I've inherited the D20. The pictures around here might not improve but they'll be captured with a camera that is superior to my current Pentax Optio 550. My "new" camera has so many features on it I'm pretty sure it will make me breakfast in the morning [I'm thinking: Belgian waffles]. Also, I'm gonna need a bigger purse. There's only one thing that would have made this better: If Mr. Farklepants needed a new laptop.

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At the last minute on Saturday, Mr. Farklepants scored three tickets for Sunday's NASCAR race and took the boys. They were no ordinary tickets. They were kind of like backstage all access passes which included a luxury box and groupies, headsets to listen to the cockpit in your car of choice and playing Rock Band while you watched the race. Also there was NASCAR swag:



Most interesting fashion related question ever:

Mr. Farklepants: Am I dressed alright for NASCAR?

Well, Honey, you're a little pressed for time to grow out a mullet and get a tattoo but I could cut your Levis off just above the knee. Also, are you opposed to painting your face? Shirts are optional.

My Son Wanted Me to get the One With the Clock. Should Have Listened.

How did I manage to buy the only coffee maker without an automatic shut-off? Now I have to be diligent. The one who leaves her house wondering if she remembered to unplug her curling iron or shut off her flat iron.

Me: Does this thing not shut off by itself?
Mr.F: Let me see the manual..... Nope. You screwed up.
Me: You think I'll forget, don't you.
Mr.F: It's only a matter of time.
Me: Now you're just waiting for me to do it.
Mr.F: Oh, you will. And you'll have a burnt coffee pot.
Me: Oh, now it's on.

Everything is a competition.

Game. Set. Match.

Twelve Years Ago a Man, a Pregnant Woman, and Some Friends Flew to a Tropical Island

"The only time I would ever tell a woman that I love her is when I plan to marry her"~ Mr. Farklepants circa 1994


On June 29th, 1996 a young Mr. Farklepants and his very pregnant girlfriend, Tootsie, had already been in Hawaii one week where they shared a rented estate paid for by very generous employers with their best friends two other couples. And on June 29th, just after brunch where Tootsie ate the entire buffet because she couldn't drink or smoke, enjoy the jacuzzi or do anything fun or reckless because of her delicate condition -and by the way gained twelve of her seventy pregnancy pounds on this trip alone and right now you're like, ONLY twelve?- ahem, after brunch young Mr. Farklepants declared to their friends that he would like to spend the day with just Tootsie taking a scenic drive around the big island of Hawaii.

So off they went in the little rental car that was straining heavily on the passenger side under Tootsie's considerable girth. Young Mr. Farklepants wasn't even kidding when he said drive AROUND the big island of Hawaii. Because they did exactly that. The entire perimeter. They stopped numerous times to get out and see the beauty to behold, but young Mr. Farklepants would quickly shove Tootsie back to the car and drive to the next place. When they finally made it to the deserted Kilauea visitors center, it started to rain. They parked and young Mr. Farklepants asked Tootsie to remain seated and dry while he determined if the view was worth getting wet for. He took the video camera that they had borrowed from their friends with him in the rain and all Tootsie could think was, "That is going to get all wet and then we'll have to buy them a new camera", because she is what we like to refer too as a worrywart. When young Mr. Farklepants returned he was very animated and excited and told Tootsie to go with him right now! And all Tootsie noticed was that he wasn't holding the borrowed video camera and was mentally chastising young Mr. Farklepants for leaving it unattended on a trail. See? Worrywart.

Young Mr. Farklepants guides his pregnant girlfriend to the rail that lines [what? Sorry. Was rail mentioned? Because there was no rail. Just certain death if you lost your balance] the rim of part of Kilauea. They both ooh and ahh. There is rain. There are NO OTHER tourists or anyone for that matter on the trail. They are completely alone. Tootsie turns to tell young Mr. Farklepants how she's concerned about the lack of a rail awe inspiring the view is and he impulsively takes her hands. "There is something I should have told you a long time ago" he says. Instantly Tootsie thinks oh my god he has children that he's never told me about and he's going to tell me right here. Worrywart.

But he didn't. Young Mr. Farklepants then dropped to one knee and said, "I love you" and then he proposed marriage to Tootsie who then cried like a big baby replied with an enthusiastic YES! As it turned out, young Mr. Farklepants had hidden the video camera so that he could record this event on tape (yes tape, 1996) but it didn't work. They finished their day driving the remainder of the perimeter of the island until they made it back to their rented estate. Tootsie had wanted to stop and call their friends to let them know they were going to be terribly late but young Mr. Farklepants insisted that it wasn't necessary. It turned out that everyone, their mother, and the kitchen sink were in on the days events. One of the friends had gone with him to buy the engagement and wedding rings. Rings which young Mr. Farklepants brought with him (in the body of a flashlight, no less) on their vacation.

At sunset on July 3rd, 1996, young Mr. Farklepants and his fiancee, Tootsie, eloped and were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Farklepants by a very old local reverend who spoke with a thick local accent and who Tootsie wanted to put in her pocket and take home with her.

It wasn't until yesterday while composing this entry years later, when Tootsie was a little older and [she thinks] a little wiser that she realized the symbolism of Mr. Farklepants proposing marriage to her at the edge of a cliff. A cliff that overlooked a volcanic crater that was at that very moment creating new pieces of the Earth. There they were at the edge, a proposal and a promise, to start a new life together. Although, it is possible that Mr. Farklepants may have already mentioned the symbolism in some way to her and she just forgot. Because she does that.

I love you Schmoopy! Here's to the days I want to wring your neck, the days I can't keep my hands off of you, and all those in between...Happy 12th Anniversary!

**Out of town until Sunday, Y'all!! Have a great fourth of July weekend and be safe**

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen Saturday Edition

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's question is brought to you by Jessie from Jason Loves Jessie and it's GULP relationship advice Tootsie runs screaming from her computer screen.

Tootsie,

Your blog has become my daily dose of humor as well as smart advice. Really, I think you are fantastic. Mostly I admire the great relationship you seem to have with your husband, which leads me to my question. How do I get my husband to pay attention to me and stop neglecting me for video games? Also, how do I get him to value my opinion and feel like my needs matter?

Thank you kindly,

Jessie

First of all, thank you for the wonderful compliments! I'm not even kidding when I say that you have no idea how an email like this absolutely makes my day! Now, on to the advice:

I generally avoid giving relationship advice, even to my closest friends, because no one is in a position to judge save for the two people in said relationship. Instead I will offer some general points of interest that I have learned along the way, navigating my way through the minefield we call marriage (12 years next month!):

• Communicate!!! But do it when you're both engaged in the conversation (i.e. not while video games are being played) otherwise one or both of you will end up unnecessarily frustrated. (For instance, I don't talk to Mr. Farklepants during "How It's Made").
  
• People don't change unless they want to. In other words: "Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It just frustrates you and annoys the pig"
• Make sure you each know what the other's needs are. (Falls under the "Communicate" category. I'm often amazed at how people just assume their mate can read their minds I'm looking at you women of the world)
• Have sex often.
  
• It's not you it's me. Seriously? Sometimes we they just need some "me" time and it has nothing to do whatsoever with the relationship. (File under the "Needs" category)
• Find a common interest/hobby that you can enjoy together. It will allow you to spend time together having fun -which is way better than fighting about not having fun- and will also give you something to talk about (i.e. there's that communication thing again) (another i.e.? Learn to play video games. Just don't kick his ass at it all the time they like to win)
• If you fart in the car roll the window down. That's just good sense.
  
• Don't sweat the small stuff (seriously, whomever coined that is a genius)
  
• Randomly blow him when he's not expecting it. And do it well.
  
• Let them handle the problems with YOUR inlaws.
  
• Just because the honeymoon phase ends doesn't mean the marriage is over. It's just evolved. And if you end it too soon you miss the part where the honeymoon phase reemerges and oh lawdy-hallelujah! (i.e. appreciate and patience)
• Have more sex.
• A hand job every now and then doesn't hurt either.
  
• Sometimes he's just in a bad mood and kind of an ass. Sometimes I am too. Don't take it personally.
  
• Every once in a while pull the car over on the side of the road and inappropriately grope one another.
• Learn to recognize their behavior. (If he comes home quiet and sullen from work now is not a good time to discuss those things that need to be repaired around the house not that I learned this the hard way or anything).
• Be friends. Enjoy each other's company. This comes in handy when you're doing stuff like spending the rest of your lives together.
• Opposites can attract but make sure you have the same goals. It makes for disappointment otherwise.
  

I hope this helps you! Now that I've crossed "saving marriages" off my list of things to do, next up? World peace.

It's a Wonder I Have Any Hair Left What With All of the Pulling

Before I go further, I feel it is my duty that you know this: Neutrogena Grapefruit-Nectarine scented self tanner smells like grapefruit-nectarine scented self tanner. It is not the "delicious fresh scent" that they are claiming. Why am I even telling you this seemingly unrelated fact of the day? Because as I sit here writing this entry I'm dying from the odor wafting up from m'legs. Now you know a little more about me. And Neutrogena.

Back to our regularly scheduled observation.

Ripped from the pages of the marital handbook under the section titled: Stuff that Drives Your Wife Crazy but What the Hell is Her Problem She Should Know Better After Eleven Years and Eleven Months, Anyway.

Conversation from yesterday evening...

Me: Did you call your dad and wish him a happy birthday today?
Mr. Farklepants: Today's his birthday? I don't recall getting any reminders.
Me: I told you last night.
Mr. Farklepants: And you expect me to remember TODAY?
Me: So call him now.
Mr. Farklepants: Aren't we going to see him tomorrow anyway at Boy-Child#1's graduation?
Me: Yes.
Mr. Farklepants: So I'll just tell him then.
Me: Okay. But he'll say "thanks but it was yesterday"
Mr. Farklepants: So? I think that sort of thing bothers you more than it does me.

Well he's got me there.

Several minutes later...

Me: Boy-Child#2 had his school play tonight!
Mr. Farklepants: Oh! So that's where you were when I got home. I wondered what happened to you guys.
Me: I told you this morning.
Mr. Farklepants: And you expect me to remember all the way to tonight?
Me: I told you THIS MORNING! Should I call and remind you all day because that wouldn't bother you at all.
Mr. Farklepants: I don't know why you seem surprised that I don't remember no matter how many times I'm reminded.

So why does he bother stating that he doesn't remember getting any reminders if he isn't going to remember the reminders anyway? Someone hand me the white flag. Or some sturdy piano wire. And someone remind me to choke him with it.

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.


Titus Livius wrote "Potius sero quam numquam". Translation "Better late than never". So I bring you Friday's advice column five days past its due date. Titus Livius also wrote "Sic deinde, quicumque alius transiliet moenia mea!" Translation: "And so be damned, whomever shall jump over my walls!". So consider your visit today one of those "at your own risk" deal-e-ohs.

Q: The Madame Queen has lack of tanning needs: "I have a problem when I'm out in the sun. For some reason, my legs (particularly my shins and calves) never seem to tan at the same rate as the rest of my body. I've tried all kinds of positions (get your mind out of the gutter!) to maximize sun exposure and nothing seems to work. Self tanners are out b/c once I start to get real sun the fake stuff just looks, well, fake. Help me, Tootsie. Any advice?"

A: Well, since I can't willingly suggest sunbathing or tanning beds because melanoma is the anti-sexy and rumored to be...what's the word I'm looking for?....oh yeah deadly; I suggest getting a spray tan from your local spa. I have never tried this myself but I do have a friend who has a similar issue as you with the whole "my legs won't tan" thing. And the spray tan looks great on her. Not orangey like you'd picture it. It can be pricey though, so perhaps save this technique for special occasions. And my mind was not in the gutter. It was trapped in the pages of the Kamasutra, thankyouverymuch.

Q: Anglophilefootballfanatic is a very patient woman: "You never answered my ?s from two weeks ago. Just sayin'."

A: I cannot find them in my inbox. They are not in my box of rocks. I'd love to answer them for you, Ma'am. Please resubmit, AnglophilefootballFAN.

Q: Standing Still seeks toe shade advice: "Favorite nail color for toes for this summer? And, please, nothing green, or blue, or black. I am older than that trend can handle. Merci!"

A: Okay, I'll answer but only because you said "please" in French. Green, blue, or black should not be on anyone's nails and I don't care what the runways are sporting this season. Hey, if I was a high fashion model and regularly skipped meals resulting in impaired judgment then I'd probably be willing to give it a try. But I'm not. I am a tried and true go with what looks good on you kinda gal. And my favorite colors on me are pinks in neutral tones. I don't really do bright colors. And, in my book, the same rule applies to makeup. Fads can be dangerous. Look how many people suffered with the thong leotard and leg warmers.

Q: Cheri is curious about the men on my street in my life: "Is the neighbor hawt (because he's helpful)? Is Mr. Farklepants hawt (because his comment makes me think he's funny and plays nicely with others)? I already know Tootsie is hawt and she has good taste in clothes."

A: No. The neighbor is not hawt. Nor is he hot, or hott. Nice, yes, but he's not any kind of hot. Yes, Mr. Farklepants is hawt. My opinion may be biased, however. It's not really his appearance that gets me all to wanting to make the sexy time with him, though. It's his sense of humor and his brain. The man is ridiculously smart. He and I have an agreement that his picture is not to be posted on my blog. But he pretty much is a dead ringer for Hugh Grant, but only when Hugh Grant is smiling.

(This is Hugh Grant and not Mr. Farklepants just to be clear)

Q: The Stay at Home Mom Going Quickly Insane seeks blog traffic advice: "I remember when I first started reading your blog, I would go through and read several entries & comment and I would be the only commenter. However you have a meteoric rise to Internet Power and now approximately a fulfillion commenters on each & every entry. Any advice for someone who would like to experience same? And please do not say read more blogs and comment on more blogs. If I read any more blogs my husband is going to feature me on the back of a milk carton. Please tell me there is a magic pill or cream that can give me the same results and that if I call now to order I can get twice as much for the same price only paying for the extra shipping and handling."

A: I wish I knew! I'm consistently amazed and flattered that people take the time out of their busy day to traipse over here and read my silly words. And I DO keep it silly because real life can totally NOT be. It also helps that I have a husband who spends just as much time on his computer as I do mine so he doesn't even realize I'm absent he's not allowed to whine. And I will not say what you asked me not to say. I will let Mrs. G do it because she DID it and very well at that.

*Hugh Grant photo lifted from Google Images

Amidst the Cacaphony an Aging Wannabe Jock Expects Very Important Call. Probably From His Mommy

We attended Boy-Child#2's softball game Saturday morning where our Dodgers played another team. A team with an obnoxious crew of coaches and assistant coaches. I don't want to say the name of this team out loud but let's just say it rhymes with Wan Biego Fadres (fee-fi-mo-Madres). This is boys softball through the local parks and recreation. Meaning: for fun. We intentionally didn't put our son in the hard core league and one major reason for that was to avoid exactly these kinds of adults. The adults who take it all a little too seriously. The adults who are reliving their glory days as a mediocre baseball player from high school PE class who didn't quite measure up for the actual Varsity team. Those guys. Their mouths? Never stopped moving. A constant barrage from 3rd base, 1st base, and the dugout of: Wait for it. Make it your ball. Not up here. At your chest. Take a couple steps toward the plate. Take a step back toward the catcher. Put your weight on that back foot. Loosen up. Take a couple practice swings. [as the pitch is in motion] Hit it! Don't hit that! (come on people we're talking about kids softball don't let your mind go there like mine just did) And my personal favorite: Don't worry about hitting the catcher (my son, thanks for asking) he'll get out of the way. Editor's note: You better hope he does.


(PSA: take practice swings away from catcher's head or risk facing the business end of my can of whoop-ass. It is epic. That is all.)

I'm not even kidding when I say that they. did. not. stop. EVER. This constant coaching is what practice is for. Now is game day. Let them show you what they can do.

As Mr. Farklepants has noted on more than one occasion (usually because I tend to give too much instruction to our son before he's up to bat), if the parents would just shut up and let the kids play it would take most of the pressure off of them. Because they're under enough of a burden just being out there in front of all of us in attendance. So says our very scientific study. A study we like to call: Parenthood.

P.S. The head coach of the Wan Biego Fadres (fee-fi-mo-Madres) wore a BlueTooth throughout the entire game. Which, according to Mr. Farklepants' keen eye, elevates him to a new level of douchebaggery.