Monday, November 26, 2012


Things we know about my feet:

1.  They are hobbit feet. Short, and chubby, and somewhat square.

2.  Also know as Flintstone feet.

3.  Also known as Maple Bar feet.

4.  They used to be able to do things like this:

But then they got old and extra Maple-y, and now they look like this:

not me. Einstein. But we share a love of fuzzy footwear.

Anyway, the girls were complaining all last week that the Mommobile smelled. Specifically, they whined, it smelled like rotten yogurt.

Seeing as how they're the ones who eat in the Mommobile, not the Mom for which it was named, I gave them the task of cleaning it out. There's probably something nasty that you gremlins forgot you left back there somewhere, said I.

Let it be known, I could not smell the odoriferous culprit myself.

Turns out it was coming from the front seat, not the back, and they traced it to my dance bag - specifically, my ballet shoes. Which I don't think smell at all. I mean, they're no petunias, but come on. Rotten yogurt? I'm insulted. Frodo. I really am.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

the post I can't seem to title appropriately so we'll just call it business socks

So, I realized, while not shampoo-ing my hair this morning, that it's been a while since I've faithfully blogged about anything. This is due to watching the ticker on my Amazon page like a hawk. It may not take long to write a book, by George, but breathlessly and desperately watching for sales, stars, reviews, and comments is a FREAKIN' TIME COMMITMENT, PEOPLE. Don't underestimate it. I just have to check, says I, 23498.4 times per day, as I struggle, weak limbed, over to the smoking, quivering, much abused, laptop. It'll only take a second, says I, as I stuff pie in my mouth and re-tie the robe I put on three days ago (after shampoo-ing, I gave up on society approved clothing. At least until my patent on disposable onesies for adults comes through).

So, anyway, things have been a little busy for me, what with all that...busyness.

I almost wrote business. Which makes me think of business socks, which would go really well with disposable onesies.

Anyhoo. Not a lot going on here. Made Thanksgiving. Ate Thanksgiving. Will continue to eat Thanksgiving until the last piece of congealed stuffing is gone and I can finally wash all those plates and bowls (holy smokes, my cupboards are empty).

All I can think to say is, I'm pretty sure I have a brain tumor or something. My ears always hurt when I get up, which can only mean one of several things: they get folded over and smooshed during the night (a likely possibility), I'm grinding my teeth again (a likely possibility), or I have a brain tumor (the most likely possibility). I don't know why the tumor would hurt my ears, but I figure it probably rolls around in there like a tumbleweed and occasionally gets caught in my ear canal. I keep forgetting to google my symptoms, like any self respecting play at home doctor would do; probably because I'm busy blogging for you. Oh yeah, and watching my Amazon stats. Be right back.

K. What was I talking about?

Right. Medical symptoms. So, anyway, if you don't hear from me, I'm either 1. tending to my patent duties, 2. tending to my pie, 3. tending to my brain tumor, 4. not washing my hair or putting on acceptable clothing. KnowwhatImean? You know you do.

So, until then, my dears, enjoy your stuffing and your tumor free ears.

Friday, November 9, 2012

It's Not Easy Being Green

First published on Home Educating Family. Republished with permission by the team, and the author (that's me).

Women have something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for me it’s Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for several days.
“I’m fine,” I croak, crankily.
I gargle garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair up so it doesn’t stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and realize I’m dying of a flesh eating disease. Eventually, the sore throat begins to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full on forest fire the likes of which California has never seen, is breaking out now. My voice begins to go, which small totally children take advantage of.
“What’d you say, Mommy?” I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free world, “We didn’t hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress up the neighbor’s cat? OKAY!”
My insides turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? What’s with the sudden bouts of narcolepsy?
Then the coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem. I hack up my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all. Like my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Which all seem to be dripping out my nasal cavity.
Still, I do not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I can beat this. For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach phonics! Pshaw!
Speaking of air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?
Still, I do not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like it’s a juice box, but that’s a total coincidence.
As if to punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a thorough worshipping at their alter. Knees knocking together, I answer their call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking around for oh, about three days.
I haven’t combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers. I’ve gone through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that I’ve had to ration the remainder in the kid’s bathroom: three squares for #1, five for #2. We can’t have company over because they might have to use the bathroom. Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldn’t want to come in anyway.
Now comes the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little Codeine? Don’t mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.
Of course, deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in, they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home. What really happens:
I call.
They don’t answer.
I have some lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years.
Christmas comes and goes. My baby graduates from college.
Eventually, they come back on the line and what do you know? I’m still sick.
They can squeeze me in in three days.
Three days?
I’ll be dead in three days, I say.
Okay, come in now, they agree.
I go in.
They are busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me.
I read Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. I’ve heard every song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.
They call me back.
I explain my symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my symptoms.
Flailing wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.
You don’t feel well? The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge.
I nod, in relief.
Would you like something for that? The doctor asks.
I embrace him fondly and get snot on his coat.
He writes me prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines.
The thought of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am Wonder Woman! I am invincible!
Before I brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a sandwich.
Afterwards, I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss what’s left of the Nyquil, undress the neighbor’s cat, and comb my hair.
I hear my husband sniffle gently.
Horror crosses his face. “I’m so totally sick! No one’s ever been so sick! I’m calling in sick! Honey, I’m sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to the doctor? I’m sick!”
Ah, my hero. My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.
“Don’t get too close,” he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. “I wouldn’t want you to catch this…don’t want you getting sick…I can take it though…is my soup ready? My soup, cuz I’m sick? Man, I’m so sick,” snarf. Blurp. Snoffle. “I’m so glad you didn’t catch this, honey. Aren’t you glad you didn’t get sick?”
“Don’t worry,” says I. “I never get sick.”

Thursday, November 1, 2012

The Post Where I Talk About My Augmentation

Yep. You read it right. I've been thinking about it for a long while, and it has finally come to this. I never thought I'd be one of those gals who couldn't get confident about the way the good Lord made her. I've heard things like, I just want to enhance what I have, or Just a smidge bigger: nothing too noticeable or ridiculous, and I thought to myself, sure, sure, we all know you're just making excuses for your poor self body image.

But, honestly, now I get it. I really do. If this is what it takes to:

1. Make my shirts fit better

2. Make me feel more like a woman


3. Get rid of the excess fabric in my dresses

Then, yes! Why not?

My husband is behind me. My sister and mother are behind me, because they too, suffer bad DNA and genes in this department. We may go in as a trio actually. Get a punch card or something.

I'm not sure about the whole silicone thing, but oh well. It'll be worth it when my purse fits snugly, the way it's meant to.

Now all I have to do is find a doctor to do the procedure.
Turns out there's not a lot of call for shoulder implants. Who knew?

What? What'd you think I was talking about?

Oh, if only I had been an adult in the '80s. Perhaps shoulder pads will come back.