Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Have You Left Me Speechless?
Me getting gas:
BEEP (spoken so articulately).
"Oh yes," I respond. "Let me just get my card out right . . " ---BEEP.
"What? Oh. Oh, no thank you, you know - I might get a car wash next time - It's just that --" BEEP.
"Excuse me? Ahhh, sometimes I get to blabbing away . . you know! --But no, that's going to be all. I mean, I was thinking one of these days I might want to---" BEEP.
"Ooop, right again! Time to put the gas in. I know you're only trying to ---" BEEP.
"My card? Oh yes, my card (fumble, fumble) . . don't get mad now. I know it's here somewhere . . . No? You can't use that one? But it's always been--" BEEP, BEEP!
"Yep, my bad -- but if you'd just slow down for one second. My husband really wants me to use the account that--" BEEP.
"Okay. It's more than you want to know. I understand. I must be just burning your time up, right? And you're so important? You know I try to be nice,. You never give anything back. Never! . . . I'm only wondering, --has anyone ever just hauled off and gave you a--" GOOD-BYE!
Oh really? Like you're the only inanimate object in my life? I'm not so desperate you know.
"Come on," I say to my car. "We're leaving!"
At home I ask my mixer, "Please, just one more time. I know this is a big batch for you."
My toilet, "Stop running night and day! --There are people in China who have no water at all, you know."
Lawn mower, "You're not getting another nickel out of us."
Ice cream, "Yeah you're calling my name - but no ones listening, are they?!"
Chair, "You're my sweet little friend, you know that?"
Telephone, "You could try ringing when my hands aren't full of groceries. Ever think of that?!"
Dishwasher, "Oh what? We're not paying you enough? You don't even have a brain!"
"Who are you talking to?" My fourteen year old asks, when he walks in from school.
"Stop-it!" I say, to the washing machine behind me. "What do you mean?" I answer.
"Nevermind," he says, and walks away.
Stumped again. Am I supposed to read my kids minds, I wonder? Why can't he and I talk? Visit for a little while? We might learn something new about each other. And besides, frankly, I don't think these guys have a clue what it is I do all day.
I turn and whisper to the washing machine, "Well, maybe that's for the better. . . Don't you think?"
Monday, September 29, 2008
Moon River (sort of)
Joy of all joys I got to go the doctor's this morning. And even better, it was the kind of appointment where only girls need to go . . if you get my drift. (That's right, where the sun don't shine.)
(Well, at least not since my honeymoon.)
It's always hard for me to pick out my favorite part at these appointments. Is it the outfits (sheets), nakedness? The temperature? The bill? The wait?
Let's start with the temperature. I've never wanted to be a carp (unicorn--a different story), --but cold-blooded would not be such a bad state of alive to be in when buck naked across wrapping paper tissued vinyl gurneys in arctic rooms.
And docs are best at making their appearance after giving you a healthy twenty-five minutes of feeling good and vulnerable. I guess they figure by than your lips are too blue to form the words "Yicks!" or "Jiminy Crickets!" when cold metal devices are used. I can hardly understand a word the doctor says either, --but maybe it's because I am too distracted by the fact that I can see his breath when he speaks.
As I stiffly--from the hypothermia setting in--turn my head to plea to the fellow female in the room---you know, the one who always wanted to be a nurse since she was a little girl, so she could help others---I see there will be no eye contact for us. I decide that could be either from the fact that she was the one who just had to weigh me, and is still feeling the shock of her life, --or she is bothered from the sight of the pirates hat I fashioned from extra paper sheets in an effort to keep the body heat from escaping through my head. Either way I can tell we are no more buddies.
What is it about women that make us turn on each other? I feel like Mister Fancy-Pants McTouches-A-Lot might never leave, but my gal-pal? It seems like she can't wait to leave. She and the other nurses must be late for a leeching.
I guess I know where all my stress could be coming from. I still can't figure out why they would need my first born to cover the bill. If we had the money we'd give it to them for pete's sake. We're still trying to catch up from the sports physical my youngest had last month so he can play school badminton.
It's sure not our parents world anymore, I'll tell ya. Was a time I know a doctor would come by just because of a phone call put in!
I'm feeling more than a little guilty though. I told my six year old niece I had been horseback riding all day when she asked what was wrong with my gait. Let the little bugger find out for herself. Heck, these kids get ipods growing up. All we had were Pick-Up-Sticks and blades of grass to play with.
(Well, at least not since my honeymoon.)
It's always hard for me to pick out my favorite part at these appointments. Is it the outfits (sheets), nakedness? The temperature? The bill? The wait?
Let's start with the temperature. I've never wanted to be a carp (unicorn--a different story), --but cold-blooded would not be such a bad state of alive to be in when buck naked across wrapping paper tissued vinyl gurneys in arctic rooms.
And docs are best at making their appearance after giving you a healthy twenty-five minutes of feeling good and vulnerable. I guess they figure by than your lips are too blue to form the words "Yicks!" or "Jiminy Crickets!" when cold metal devices are used. I can hardly understand a word the doctor says either, --but maybe it's because I am too distracted by the fact that I can see his breath when he speaks.
As I stiffly--from the hypothermia setting in--turn my head to plea to the fellow female in the room---you know, the one who always wanted to be a nurse since she was a little girl, so she could help others---I see there will be no eye contact for us. I decide that could be either from the fact that she was the one who just had to weigh me, and is still feeling the shock of her life, --or she is bothered from the sight of the pirates hat I fashioned from extra paper sheets in an effort to keep the body heat from escaping through my head. Either way I can tell we are no more buddies.
What is it about women that make us turn on each other? I feel like Mister Fancy-Pants McTouches-A-Lot might never leave, but my gal-pal? It seems like she can't wait to leave. She and the other nurses must be late for a leeching.
I guess I know where all my stress could be coming from. I still can't figure out why they would need my first born to cover the bill. If we had the money we'd give it to them for pete's sake. We're still trying to catch up from the sports physical my youngest had last month so he can play school badminton.
It's sure not our parents world anymore, I'll tell ya. Was a time I know a doctor would come by just because of a phone call put in!
I'm feeling more than a little guilty though. I told my six year old niece I had been horseback riding all day when she asked what was wrong with my gait. Let the little bugger find out for herself. Heck, these kids get ipods growing up. All we had were Pick-Up-Sticks and blades of grass to play with.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sicko
So, I wasn't feeling good yesterday. Actually I was really sick with the stomach flu. I'm better today, thanks, but that doesn't mean I look better.
It's four o'clock in the afternoon and I have only to now notice the shirt I've worn all day is inside out and stained with Big Mac special sauce. Something it figures, I would not discover until after the public has gotten a good look at me.
I managed to brush my teeth this morning (for the sake of me as much as anyone else) --but it would seem that was all the beautifying I could muster.
Looking in the mirror (for the first time) I see my hair--which I thought was wrapped in a hair clip--actually is pulled back with the help of a plastic bread bag tie. I can't see my reflection too well though because all the light in the room is being sucked into the hole of my dark circles. I did try to put on lip gloss today but only succeeded in highlighting a genetically unfortunate mustache across my upper lip. The pushing bulge against my elastic waist sweatpants with the words 'Good Girl' across the bum, proves the 2 lbs. I lost to the toilet bowl have doubled back with a vengeance. (I don't know about yours, but my body is very thoughtful that way. . never one to starve itself.) I hang my head finally, only to see I have mismatched flip-flops on, --which wouldn't be so awful except one is mine and the other belongs to my size 14-feet son.
Certainly the toilet paper sticking out the back of my pants won me no fans.
If only sick days meant TV and honey toast all day like they did when I was a kid. I could have used a sick-note as well, pinned to my shirt as I went about my business in the community. "Please excuse Sharon" would have been all it needed to say, being rather self-explanatory.
Imagine! Here I was wondering why my dog barked 'Intruder!' every time I entered the room. And even when I'd get her to believe it was me, 'Mommy' -- she'd still growl with disgust and commence at licking clean everything she owns. I guess some sort of passive-aggressive doggy-talk, in response to my poor grooming.
My husband I am sure will be kind enough though to not blurt out in horror when he see's me - but believe me that only comes from lots of practice. He's had to suffer through the baby years, the muffin addiction years, the primary president years, and the Paula Abdul look-a-like years (those were accidentally by the way).
Oh my yes, I'd say. It takes years and years of practice for a good man to learn such reassuring phrases as "you don't look that bad, hon."
Listen, --I count my blessings anyway I can get'em.
It's four o'clock in the afternoon and I have only to now notice the shirt I've worn all day is inside out and stained with Big Mac special sauce. Something it figures, I would not discover until after the public has gotten a good look at me.
I managed to brush my teeth this morning (for the sake of me as much as anyone else) --but it would seem that was all the beautifying I could muster.
Looking in the mirror (for the first time) I see my hair--which I thought was wrapped in a hair clip--actually is pulled back with the help of a plastic bread bag tie. I can't see my reflection too well though because all the light in the room is being sucked into the hole of my dark circles. I did try to put on lip gloss today but only succeeded in highlighting a genetically unfortunate mustache across my upper lip. The pushing bulge against my elastic waist sweatpants with the words 'Good Girl' across the bum, proves the 2 lbs. I lost to the toilet bowl have doubled back with a vengeance. (I don't know about yours, but my body is very thoughtful that way. . never one to starve itself.) I hang my head finally, only to see I have mismatched flip-flops on, --which wouldn't be so awful except one is mine and the other belongs to my size 14-feet son.
Certainly the toilet paper sticking out the back of my pants won me no fans.
If only sick days meant TV and honey toast all day like they did when I was a kid. I could have used a sick-note as well, pinned to my shirt as I went about my business in the community. "Please excuse Sharon" would have been all it needed to say, being rather self-explanatory.
Imagine! Here I was wondering why my dog barked 'Intruder!' every time I entered the room. And even when I'd get her to believe it was me, 'Mommy' -- she'd still growl with disgust and commence at licking clean everything she owns. I guess some sort of passive-aggressive doggy-talk, in response to my poor grooming.
My husband I am sure will be kind enough though to not blurt out in horror when he see's me - but believe me that only comes from lots of practice. He's had to suffer through the baby years, the muffin addiction years, the primary president years, and the Paula Abdul look-a-like years (those were accidentally by the way).
Oh my yes, I'd say. It takes years and years of practice for a good man to learn such reassuring phrases as "you don't look that bad, hon."
Listen, --I count my blessings anyway I can get'em.
Glamour Puss
I've been married years and years, and have one professional family portrait to show for it. Professional that is, --if you call professional having a picture taken in the garage of my husband's high school buddy who does some wedding photography . . but I don't care. At least he had the computer contraptions and programs that allowed him to paint over my face until I was barely recognizable, and under a fog of goddess skin.
(Yet somehow, I'm sure you can see my poorly tweezed eyebrow from space.)
So anyways, I'm getting a lot of grief over my glam shot. And in case you aren't sure that is my husband's gray clad shoulder still in the frame -- not my football pads. (I didn't wear them for this pic.) (Only to ward potluck dinners, and when my kid is driving.)
I will tell you it was my husband who made me use the photo. I had this wonderful picture of me, reflected off the bathroom mirror, back arched like a gymnast, with a slammin' good-hair day that would make Shania Twain jealous. Unfortunately in that position my chest looked the size of hot air balloons -- and as I had my tech (husband) crop and crop them out - I was slowly turning into a neck with pimpled chin.
Hubby forced the glam shot on us all. (Maybe he likes it because there is a piece of him in it. I gotta tell you, his opinions seem to be getting way too involved in my girl time. I actually overheard him say to my friend the other night before handing over the phone "isn't this something you could take care of on the blogspot comments?")
You know it's not unusual that I give him an inch and he takes the whole ship by the helm. Last week at back-to-school for the kids, he kept insisting I clench a rose in my teeth for a picture by the hall drinking fountain. "A little something for the Site," he tells me. He's fancy'ing himself way too much the blog stylist now, and confidant.
This from a man who's own back-to-school attire consisted of an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt and cub scout pants.
I guess when all is said and done, I'm just going to stick with my current photo. It helps with my 'allure'. The only photo I have that's more 'alluring' has something to do with a bathing suit, and me bending over. Oh yeah. It's fascinating all right.
But you'll never know.
(Yet somehow, I'm sure you can see my poorly tweezed eyebrow from space.)
So anyways, I'm getting a lot of grief over my glam shot. And in case you aren't sure that is my husband's gray clad shoulder still in the frame -- not my football pads. (I didn't wear them for this pic.) (Only to ward potluck dinners, and when my kid is driving.)
I will tell you it was my husband who made me use the photo. I had this wonderful picture of me, reflected off the bathroom mirror, back arched like a gymnast, with a slammin' good-hair day that would make Shania Twain jealous. Unfortunately in that position my chest looked the size of hot air balloons -- and as I had my tech (husband) crop and crop them out - I was slowly turning into a neck with pimpled chin.
Hubby forced the glam shot on us all. (Maybe he likes it because there is a piece of him in it. I gotta tell you, his opinions seem to be getting way too involved in my girl time. I actually overheard him say to my friend the other night before handing over the phone "isn't this something you could take care of on the blogspot comments?")
You know it's not unusual that I give him an inch and he takes the whole ship by the helm. Last week at back-to-school for the kids, he kept insisting I clench a rose in my teeth for a picture by the hall drinking fountain. "A little something for the Site," he tells me. He's fancy'ing himself way too much the blog stylist now, and confidant.
This from a man who's own back-to-school attire consisted of an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt and cub scout pants.
I guess when all is said and done, I'm just going to stick with my current photo. It helps with my 'allure'. The only photo I have that's more 'alluring' has something to do with a bathing suit, and me bending over. Oh yeah. It's fascinating all right.
But you'll never know.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way to Bliss
Smack in the middle of my wedded days and over the first humps of blessed child-rearing, one might ask, how's the road to bliss going?
Oh you know. There's been the usual stuff like we all experience.
Broken bones, broken furniture, broken eardrums, broken windows with two-story drops, and broken other-peoples-four-tier-wedding cakes (boys? really? ya-think?); spilled milk, punch, car oil, secrets, and kitty vomit (as it was, I'm not sure why that one needed to be carried around for 3 days in a football helmet); tears for fears, TV, candy, PlayStation, show, sports, homework, and toilet bowl cleaning because I-said-so-and-that's-what-you-are-going-to-do-and-I-don't-care-if-we-never-have-company-this-time-we-are-and-no-they-can't-just-use-the-yard-because-Dad-says-that-saves-money.
Maternal hormonal mood swing-eating binges-carpet ripping'up'ing-crank phone call making-purse shopping-wall painting-hair dying-and contortionist face making;
Taco Bell date nights, 'affordable' vacations (dirt, cliff-side camping), weight gain, "lets-not-exchange-gifts-this-year-because-who-needs-presents-when-you-have-a-love-like-ours" holidays, bald patches, and fashions from the 70's wearing, when he isn't going to a 70's theme party but says it's fine because like everyone knows fashion is a 'state-of-mind'; lovers-spats . . scuffles, scraps, skirmishes . . kick-boxing, fencing, jousts, --and ninja star-throwing. (Well, that last one there, -done just for kicks.)
So, clearly we know how to have a good time, right? But bliss? Them there is strong aspirations, sister. I mean sure, we've had our moments -- but a funny thing about bliss, --it's as hard to keep down as a 2 liter of cherry 7up and dozen chocolate cake donuts. Yet just like that (hypothetical) example- I'm still more than willing to keep trying.
And no, that doesn't make me a genius.
Oh you know. There's been the usual stuff like we all experience.
Broken bones, broken furniture, broken eardrums, broken windows with two-story drops, and broken other-peoples-four-tier-wedding cakes (boys? really? ya-think?); spilled milk, punch, car oil, secrets, and kitty vomit (as it was, I'm not sure why that one needed to be carried around for 3 days in a football helmet); tears for fears, TV, candy, PlayStation, show, sports, homework, and toilet bowl cleaning because I-said-so-and-that's-what-you-are-going-to-do-and-I-don't-care-if-we-never-have-company-this-time-we-are-and-no-they-can't-just-use-the-yard-because-Dad-says-that-saves-money.
Maternal hormonal mood swing-eating binges-carpet ripping'up'ing-crank phone call making-purse shopping-wall painting-hair dying-and contortionist face making;
Taco Bell date nights, 'affordable' vacations (dirt, cliff-side camping), weight gain, "lets-not-exchange-gifts-this-year-because-who-needs-presents-when-you-have-a-love-like-ours" holidays, bald patches, and fashions from the 70's wearing, when he isn't going to a 70's theme party but says it's fine because like everyone knows fashion is a 'state-of-mind'; lovers-spats . . scuffles, scraps, skirmishes . . kick-boxing, fencing, jousts, --and ninja star-throwing. (Well, that last one there, -done just for kicks.)
So, clearly we know how to have a good time, right? But bliss? Them there is strong aspirations, sister. I mean sure, we've had our moments -- but a funny thing about bliss, --it's as hard to keep down as a 2 liter of cherry 7up and dozen chocolate cake donuts. Yet just like that (hypothetical) example- I'm still more than willing to keep trying.
And no, that doesn't make me a genius.
It's Official
It's official. I'm a blogger. Though I didn't actually figure that out until recently.
I used to think I was just a pale skinned, fairly opinionated housewife. Now I see that what I've really been doing is blogging all along, ---just without all this fancy 'technical' part. But other than that, well, basically, --for a long time I've been blogging the ears off people.
I've blogged in the store, I've blogged at Enrichment, I've blogged at my doctor's office, at bar mitzvahs, family get-togethers, and pedicures. To say nothing of the blogging that goes on in my head. I've even blogged in the tub. (Don't ask, --but it had something to do with waxing and having had four kids.)
The point is, all this blog work and what has it gotten me? A bored husband? Embarrassed children??
Friends--so to speak--who can't even send a Christmas card anymore for heaven's sake???
I'm just saying I think it's time I put thought to paper instead . . or cyberspace as the case may be. Not everything I have to say is worthless, anyhow. Really, I'm a very nice lady (ask my therapist) who just has a few thoughts to share (read: decree).
Now, what can go wrong?
--You'll be the judge of that.
I used to think I was just a pale skinned, fairly opinionated housewife. Now I see that what I've really been doing is blogging all along, ---just without all this fancy 'technical' part. But other than that, well, basically, --for a long time I've been blogging the ears off people.
I've blogged in the store, I've blogged at Enrichment, I've blogged at my doctor's office, at bar mitzvahs, family get-togethers, and pedicures. To say nothing of the blogging that goes on in my head. I've even blogged in the tub. (Don't ask, --but it had something to do with waxing and having had four kids.)
The point is, all this blog work and what has it gotten me? A bored husband? Embarrassed children??
Friends--so to speak--who can't even send a Christmas card anymore for heaven's sake???
I'm just saying I think it's time I put thought to paper instead . . or cyberspace as the case may be. Not everything I have to say is worthless, anyhow. Really, I'm a very nice lady (ask my therapist) who just has a few thoughts to share (read: decree).
Now, what can go wrong?
--You'll be the judge of that.
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