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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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.

I Have No Idea Where We're Going but it's Somewhere

Real phone conversation in preparation to celebrate best friend's birthday this evening. In like 2 hours.

Friend: Birthday Girl just got to my house.
Me: Yay! So where does she want to go?
Friend: She doesn't know.
Me: omg
Friend: Where do YOU want to go, Tootsie ('cept she didn't really call me Tootsie as I'm sure you can imagine)
Me: I don't know. It's not my birthday. How about sushi?
Friend: She just had sushi.
Me: How about Mexican?
Friend: Eh.
Me: BBQ?
Friend: I had that yesterday. How about Mulligans?
Me: I had that Friday night BUT I LOVE IT SO I WILL GO AGAIN!
Friend: I dunno. It's kinda familyish
Me: sigh.
Friend: So where do you want to go?
Me: A martini bar. Forget the food.

*real names not used to protect the indecisive.

I'm Almost Square Shaped

The only show worth watching is The Office. I just can't bring myself to watch any of the other crap that's out there. So to say that I'm unfamiliar with much of today's pop culture is a grand understatement. When several friends were horrified to learn that I had never watched one single episode of Desperate Housewives, I pinkie swore that I would give it a chance. "You loved Melrose Place! You'll LOVE this!", and because they're my friends, I trusted them. I watched one episode and then my life called and wanted its hour back. The only thing these two shows have in common is Marcia "Have You Seen My Forehead" Cross. I was disappointed in my friends for misleading me. I was a fan of Law and Order for many years until it started procreating and producing red-headed step children. What it didn't produce was any originality. The stories were the same, the characters all eerily similar, and the same craptastic snappy, predictable dialog. One thing is for certain in this world, when studios find a formula that works, they bathe in it. Hence: Numbers, Bones, Crossing Jordan, Missing, Cold Case, Medium...just to name a few. And not to be forgotten, C.S.I. and all its sundry locations. Although I may tune in to C.S.I.: Papua New Guinna and the episode featuring a yam root hunter under suspicion for his common law wife's murder. Much of it would have to be subtitled, of course, but that's okay because reading subtitles makes me feel fancy. Although, really? I have forensic science fatigue.

I also can't stand reality tv. Really? The Bachelor? Are you kidding me with this? A bunch of women competing over one guy? Five words ladies: other fish in the sea. And then there are like 87 shows where the contestants have to live in a secret house and people get voted off; and the requisite 3 judge panel. I enjoyed the first couple of seasons of Survivor but even that became...tropical...blah..blah..blah..built a fire...blah..blah..form alliance...blah...blah.. split a banana between 8 people...blah..blah.. rapid weight loss...blah..blah...immunity...blah..blah... Jeff Probst. Then when I was inundated with previews for Dance Wars: Carrie Ann vs Bruno, I was like, "who the hell are these people and why am I supposed to be on a first name basis with them?". So I'm quite happy with my reruns of I Love Lucy, Home Improvement, The Golden Girls, Seinfeld, Frasier, Will and Grace, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and Sex and the City. Because really? When they ended SATC, a piece of my pop culture affection died. It was only sustained by The Sopranos and Deadwood. Oh, that's right. Those are done too. Well, fuck.

Off the Top of My Head

1. Bought a new couch yesterday. Leads to thoughts of new coffee table, lamps, floors, ripping out the useless island in the kitchen, and a new kitchen table. While we're at it, replace the coffee table in the living room. It's ridiculously huge.

2. Need to make appointment to get eyes checked. Keep finding myself an inch away from whatever it is I'm reading.

3. Give dog a bath. She smells like ass. Take into consideration just how much this will piss her off.

4. Take a firm stance against the Girl Scouts of America and their quest to enlarge my thighs.

5. Go through stacks of papers that I'm holding on to "just in case". Transcribe addresses and phone numbers for the love of God then file, shred, repeat.

The Way Back Machine (aka It's a Meme)

I've been tagged with this meme by Calicobebop. It involves extensive linking and I'm now fatigued and need a nap. But she did give me something to post today so she's officially all that.

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Rules: Go back through your archives and post the links to your five favorite blog posts that you’ve written.

Link one must be about family
Link two must be about friends
Link three must be about yourself
Link four must be about something you love
Link five can be about anything you choose

Post your five links and then tag five other people. At least two of the people you tag must be newer acquaintances so that you get to know each other better.
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1. Here I had my dander up about bullies and my son.
2. Since I don't really blog about my friends, this pretend friend will have to do.
3. This is where I saved Christmas.
4. This is about my husband and how he did something that made me want to make the sexy time with him.
5. Here is where I explain the origin of "Tootsie Farklepants".

Now for the tagging: A Mom Two Boys, Thursday Drive, Keep Believing. I know that's only 3 but that's all the time I got. Enjoy!

Strappy and Feminine: The Gladiator

Something I've been seeing a lot of in my fashion magazines. I predict a lot of women walking around looking like Spartans this summer. Seriously. These are awful. The only time they're not awful is if you're Julias Caesar, Russell Crowe, or Jesus.

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.


At the mere mention urging from several commenter's, I'm starting a weekly advice column. Without further ado...

~Fashion and Beauty~

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom would like to know if "Matching mom and daughter pajamas. Supa-cute or supa-dork?"

A: I say, it depends. Same patterns and fabric are okay but I would go with different styles (i.e. cami and bottoms for Mom, footsies and long sleeves for baby). This only works if the child is under the age of 10. And if you're both adults just stop it. I would really hate to see you end up on a talk show where your children accuse you of not dressing your age. And this just has to be said; grown ups never wear princess themed anything. Unless you are an offical princess of a legitimate country and that themed thing is a crown.

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom would also like to know "What color eye shadow is best for blue eyes?"

A: Browns, taupes, and golds. Sometimes pinks but that's kinda risky. You could be mistaken for a 12 year old. And always black mascara. That goes for any eye color.

~Health and Fitness (file under: nutrition)~

This advice applies no matter who you are: Don't let this happen to you:


And Diet Pepsi is never a justification for what just happened there. I'm not saying it happened to me but I'm not saying it didn't either. Also? Someone needs to introduce her desperate grout to some needy, clingy bleach.

Bird Spelled Backwards is Drib

The bird. His name is Drib.

The nest. Wouldn't be my first choice but very "green", which is so in right now.

That bird that was trying to get in my bathroom window because, I believed, he wanted to eat me, slap flap me, do extreme bodily harm? Well, he lives here. Yeah. Rude huh? Didn't even ask. Doesn't even pay rent. And, between you and me, I don't think he went to college or has a decent paying job. Of course, I would be guessing. He's gone and fashioned himself herself? [for the sake of this post Drib will be referred to as a "he" because I have not done a genital check on the bird - oh, and get this: I totally caught some pigeon on pigeon action in my backyard. They were totally doing it. In the daylight.] a mud nest under the eaves of my roof just outside the bathroom window. Or as they say in the real estate world: Location, Location, LOCATION! Drib is an early riser and is quite noisy about it. Fortunately for him he hasn't thrown any wild late night parties yet, so he can stay. For now. I'm still trying to figure out what kind of bird he is. The possibilities are Nuthatch, Swallow, Finch, or Robin. I'm leaning heavily towards Robin. [Drib is blue as in "color" not as in "melancholy"] Eliminated possibilities: Crow, Buzzard, Duck, nor the Blue tailed or Longtailed Tit. It's not a Blue-Footed Boobie or any other kind of Boobie, for that matter. And definitely not a Penguin. I'm not so scared of him anymore and as a matter of fact he's quite friendly. He goes all "voyeur" during our morning rituals, and we're all like, "Hi Birdie!" and he answers with some quick head twists :left eye! right eye! left eye! right eye!: then he'll fly away to his other favorite spot; the wall at the edge of my yard to get those heart palpitations under control because the humans spoke to him. But quicker than you can say ROAST SQUAB! He's back. And we're all, "there's that crazy bird". And he darts left and right - I'm over here. Now I'm here. Now I'm there. I'm over here. Here. There. Here. There.- He's there all day. Bumping, knocking, and pecking. He's destroying my window. It's like Shitfest '08. So, I took a picture of him and totally crossed the line. He's not a picture taking kind of bird. He was not amused.

Open Letter to Very Important People

Dear Fellow Parents of the Morning Drop-off,

Good morning. How are you today? I know how you are. You are rushed. I understand how inconvenient it is to pull all the way forward through the car line to keep things moving in an orderly fashion. This organized procedure interferes with your need to make an illegal u-turn in the middle of the road. You are obviously kind of a big deal because following procedure would mean that you might have to wait for the crossing guard to get the children safely across the street, making the army of cars...gasp!...wait. And very important people like you do not have time to wait for things like children. I know that once your own children are safely inside the school the rest of us can go to hell. I also understand how embarrassing it is when the execution of your u-turn fails, resulting in a shameful 3 point turn. It's so frustrating using up those additional 6 seconds. So the tire screeching was completely warranted. That lady who honked at you doesn't know what she's talking about.

And then there is you, Mr. Zip Through the U-Shaped Drive Way and Cut in the Line at the First Sign of a Break. Please don't slow down even a little bit. It's obvious you have someplace to be right now. And don't let my SUV get in the way of your SUV. Your's is bigger; which is a phrase that I imagine you don't hear often, hence the need for such a ridiculously over sized vehicle.

And I'm not even kidding when I say to you, Mrs. Jaywalker, that walking to the corner to cross the street at a cross walk complete with a crossing guard is such a waste of time, when it is so obviously more time efficient to just cut between the cars in the middle of the street with all three of your children. And don't let your very urgent phone call distract you from the fact that the little girl in your charge has dropped her water bottle and is now in the middle of the road alone. I completely agree with your decision to take this opportunity to scold her. She should know that when jaywalking one does it quickly and swiftly. Clearly there is something wrong with her. How will you ever get her to learn?

Miss Lead Foot in the Mustang, remember the time you got tired of waiting and zipped around everyone into oncoming traffic? And you had to dart back in to avoid a head on collision? And that lady you cut in front of hit your right rear bumper with her Suburban? Remember how awesome it was when you got out and yelled at her and she had the nerve to smile? You were so angry. I never told you this because I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but we took her out for pancakes and tequila shots after. We might have given her a trophy; the memory is a little fuzzy. Details.

No, I haven't forgotten about you, Mr. and Mrs. Park Directly Under the No Parking Sign. I didn't realize that these traffic violations do not apply to you. I admit that I haven't parked there and taken the time to read the fine print at the bottom of the sign that excludes you from its ominous warning. That would be my bad. Don't even sweat it even a tiny bit that your parked cars now make a two way street an absolute impossibility. Please don't be bothered that we have to take turns pulling as far to the side as possible to let others pass. This is not your problem and we don't want to be a burden. I have to admit that I would only be guessing that there is an emergency somewhere with your name on it that makes your morning far more important and pressing than the rest of us. I sincerely hope that the sense of urgency that surrounds your day subsides.

Yours Truly,

Tootsie Farklepants

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #5

Alternate title: All Of This So I Can Show You My Laundry

It's true. I do take my own pictures from time to time. I don't rely solely on my sister. Although, she is WAY more talented. There is a reason that I haven't been using any of my own. At least those that aren't already on my computer [I'll explain in a bit]. Saturday I was cleaning house and doing this little thing called laundry. I noticed that the upstairs of my house had become one giant laundry room. Anywhere a hanger could be hung to let clothes air-dry was occupied. This is what happens when 99% of your family's wardrobe comes from Old Navy. Their stuff shrinks. But only the girl stuff not the boy stuff. Yeah. I don't know why either. In Tootsie's next house, she wants an actual laundry ROOM and not a closet that houses her washer and dryer, amen. [Yes, these are the 'whites' and the 'pinks' and they're hung by color as well which makes zero sense once they've been through the wash. I have a bit of an OCD thing going on with laundry sorting and ohmygoodness don't get me started on delicates, temperatures, and Tide with bleach. I have issues] Does this happen to you? If you answered "yes" then we should totally go to rehab together for a two-fer.




Oh, right. About those pictures. A few months ago, before my laptop died (may she rest in peace), I was quite savvy when it came to uploading pictures after my little sister taught me. On the upstairs PC? Not so much. So I finally sucked it up and asked Mr. Farklepants to give me a brief tutorial. Just so you understand, this is the man who built this computer from scratch; not ordered it in its entirety and hooked it all together. I repeat, from scratch. This is like asking Tiger Woods to teach you how to tie your golf shoe (cleat? whatever.). Yeah, he's kind of a computer genius I will give him that much. Good student that I am; I took notes. "It would be a lot better if you just understood what it is that you're doing instead of referring to notes" he says. Let me explain: Mr. Farklepants and I are different kinds of "learners". I have to actually write it, and then when I put it into practice I can "see" my notes in my head. [Right now some of you are like, OHMAHGAWD! Me TOO! I totally would have failed biology if it weren't for that highly effective method! ] Mr. F just knows how to do stuff. [If you identify with the latter, then bully for you and MENSA.] I hate love that about him. "While we're at it, can you show me how to use the scanner?" I say while looking sideways at him. "You want to use the scanner?". "Yes". "That's going to...well...what do you want to scan?". "My notes". He's very puzzled. "Why?". "Because I'm totally blogging this".


Please excuse the very sloppy writing because he was talking really fast with surprisingly very little eye rolling and sucking of the breath through teeth at my incredible lameness.