I've Been Slushied

I drive like a grandma and I don't care what you think. Actually, it's not that bad, but I don't drive like a raging maniac like most people on the road.

I go to the speed limit (especially construction zones).
I yield at those triangular signs.
I REFUSE to pull into the "turn lane" in the middle of a busy roadway when making a left out of a parking lot --- that is not what they are for.
I don't block intersections, even if my light is green.
I stop at a red light before turning right on red.

Don't honk at me when I follow the rules of the road. You are the ass-hat (I stole that from someone who knows about ass-hats!).

So imagine my surprise last week when I was zipping along going about 63 in a 60 and an ass-hat starts riding my bumper. I am considerate. I will pull to the left, but there was someone to my left. Sorry ass-hat. You'll have to wait 1/4 mile so this guy can get past me. But he gets closer.

Tailgating is irritating and dangerous and I have my toddler in the car with me. I'm scared and mad. He is driving a full-size van and is SO CLOSE that I can only see his windshield. No hood. No bumper.

Then I see we are driving into a construction zone marked 50 miles and hour. He is so close, if I tap my breaks, he will rear-end me. I just take my foot off the gas to slow down. I glance in my rear view mirror to see ass-hat having a seizure of rage. He is shaking his hands, screaming, and then he begins to honk. Geez Louise!

Guy to the right of me is disregarding the posted speed limit and continues at about 65mph. Now the right lane is clear, but ass-hat is honking and I'm wondering if he is having the same terrorist issue that Keaneu was having in Speed. I'm actually scared to change lanes now. You know how idiots will whip around you even though you have your signal on? So I put my hand up and urge him to go around and pass me by using an arch shaped hand motion.

I glance over at ass-hat when he passes because I feel like he is glaring at me. As I look he throws something at my car! It makes a soft thump and I can only assume it was a soft drink or slushy a la Glee.

Heeeeelllll no! That is vandalism of property and throwing things from a moving vehicle is a misdemeanor. I speed up just enough to memorize his license plate and pick up my cell phone:

911: 911 What is your emergency?
Me: CVS-*** that is the license plate --- write it down before I forget.
911: What happened.
Me: This guy threw a slushy at my car because I wouldn't speed in a construction zone.
911: Where are you?
Me: I'm going NW on Southwest Blvd. He just exited on Bryant Irvin.
911: I'll let the officers in the area know.
Me: Can you make him pay to wash the slushy off my car?
911: That will me a matter for the officer.
Me: Can you tell the officer that I only use the quick wash, so if the guy is willing to fork over $4 I won't put him in jail.
911: I'm not sure slushy throwing is an imprisionable offense.
Me: It should be. My car is sticky. And he is an ass-hat.
911: Thank you ma'am. Have a nice day.

Mommy's Drunk

My friend Booyah says she has words. She likes to read words and she likes to write words. Sometimes she is overpowered by the need to write her words. I totally get it. Summer makes me want to write my words. Here are some words about today.

My grandfather died yesterday. He was 85 and lived a long, full life. He went peacefully. I'm not ready to use my words about it yet - I'm not really a sad word user. I'm more of a road rage and coupon shopping word user. But you will need to know that to understand the rest of my day.

It was also my sister-in-law Kristy's birthday this week. We planned to celebrate birthday / father's day today by going to dinner. My dad had $100 in gift chips (apparently this place is too hip to use gift cards) to this Mexican place not far from my house. Mexican. Margaritas for the girls & the guys drive to my house for cake after. Sounds great.

So I hear my mom tell the waitress "...on the rocks with salt." Oh Mom! You know how to do it. Only tourists and 19 year olds with fake IDs get frozen. I tell the waitress, "Ditto."

Waitress then brings out a giant margarita. Mom ordered large (go mom, btw). I take a sip and it has some zip. I space it out with sweet tea and lots of chips, but my eyes start to get buggley. You know the feeling. Buggley - they get kind of shakey and feel like they kind of bug out a little.

***I might should chose an aside that I am a total light-weight. I never drank in college. I've been "drunk" all of twice in my life. The first time was off wine at a family wedding. I was with my mom and dad and my brother caught me as I tried to fall down the escalator of the Worthington Hotel downtown. Dad had to help me in the truck and do my seat belt for me. Not exactly what they show in the teen movies of the late 1990's.***

The hubs tells me my eyes are glazed over and maybe I should drink some tea. So I do. And then go back to the bottle. It's the salt. It makes me crazy. All the sudden I go from Buggley Eyes to The Giggly Feeling. Oh no. Two drink Kortnye is coming out. One drink makes me mellow and want to sleep under the table. Two drinks makes me want to dance on top of the table.

I lean over to Brad, "Oh gosh. I'm schnockered! *giggle*" I start kind of watching the room. I can't imagine most people feel this way when they are drunk. It feels like what they portray an Ecstasy trip on TV like. Lights are flashing. Peoples voices sound all funny. I can't focus. Start sweating. In fact, I'm fanning myself (grinning like an idiot) and my brother looks over and pronounces to my mom and dad that I'm toast. The hubs takes the baby for a walk and everyone finishes their dinner. I vaguely remember talking about Spanish translations and how I can speak better Spanish when I'm drunk on tequila. Gotta remember that one for my resume.

We left and my wobbly steps got me to car -- baby in tow. The sun and air conditioner feel good and my serious buzz starts to wear off to a minor buzz. We get home and I'm comfortable enough to let the rest peter out naturally.

The best part is when I walk in and Bean declares, "Mommy's drunk!" She thinks it is hilarious and she gets a great reaction out of her crowd so she continues. Let's hope this doesn't memory doesn't flare up at Target and she sticks with the less CPS-prone "Chia Pet!" that she thinks is so hilarious.

After everyone leaves, I go to my closet to prepare for visitation and funerals for the next few days. I have one skirt and blouse that will work, but not for both events. I will have to either wear something seasonally inappropriate or dig something out from deeper in the closet.

The closet turns up one dress that makes me look like I'm wearing a black pillow case -- it is that figure flattering. And one dress from about 20 pounds ago, but it is stretchy, so I try. The fabric actually laughed at me. I looked like a cross between Morticia Adams and the before picture on a Spanx box. Then I remember my go-t0 dress. It is black and white, but subdued enough for a funeral. I LOVE this dress. It is conservative enough for winter, but cool enough for summer. It is great for working all day and then hitting an award banquet at night. It is PERFECT. It fits. And it is maternity -- so what. You absolutely can't tell and that is probably why it is so awesome.

And this dress is missing. How does one LOSE a dress. At what point did I take off my clothes in a strange location and leave them somewhere? I don't go to the gym. I don't change clothes at friends houses. It isn't in my car. It isn't in my closet or any laundry hamper. WHERE does a dress just disappear to? So I'm down to begging a friend to raid her closet or going to Target to find something cheap.

We'll see. But I'm betting my dress is somewhere near a bottle of tequila.

I really shouldn't say this...

I really shouldn't. I've been ask, told, and even reasoned with not to share, but I think it is really freggin' funny.

A couple of days ago, Claire got to the babysitter's house and immediately peed so much she peed through the diaper. No, it didn't leak. It was actually the water-resistant fibers bursting at the seems. She has done this on a few occasions, but she usually saves it for the slide so we get to clean urine off her slide too.

DAY 1 of Pee Pants:
The sitter put her in a clean pair of shorts and tied up the pee-pants in a walmart sack and let me know I needed to bring a fresh emergency outfit for the next day. She left the pee-pants on the dryer and I didn't see them, therefore didn't get them.

DAY 2 of Pee Pants:
When I drop Claire off, the pee-pants bag is waiting in the hallway. I don't want to leave the pee-pants in her entry hall all day, so I take them with me. In the parking lot at school, I decide it is not a good idea to leave the pee-pants in the car on an 80+ degree day or else I will likely have pee-car. So I grab the walmart sack in my load of stuff and truck into the school.

As I walk into school, I very habitually stop by the kitchen and put my lunch (in a walmart sack) in the communal fridge. After a couple of hours, I notice my lunch on my table and think, "I thought I put that in the fridge?" Oh, you know where this is going. I walk down and put my lunch in the fridge to find the pee-pants. Good lord. I remove them discretely and take the now chilled pants to my room and place them next to my purse so as not to forget them.

Of course, I forgot them.

DAY 3 of Pee-Pants:
They hang out in my classroom yet another day and I remember to bring them home. However, I have left them in my car for several hours having forgotten about them. I have already done baby laundry for the night ---- sans pee-pants.

I see this day ending with a SECOND load of laundry consisting only of a single pair of baby pants. Either that, or I will forget them.

Kiss Me

I noticed on my way home today there is a new store opening in my neighborhood: Kiss Beauty Supply.

I can't decide what I want to buy first.

A "RastaPride" backcombing tool to get my hair at maximum altitude OR:

a Gene Simmons "Demon" make-up set.

I've been wanting to experiment with eyeliner lately. I'm glad that Kiss Beauty Supply will be here to help me out.

Rock on Tom Jones

Today kind of rocked.

I wouldn't normally say that jury duty is awesome, but it was today. I came prepared. Even the security guard laughed at me because it took two trips to get all my stuff through the x-ray machine. I told her, if nothing else, I was efficient. Staking our a chair next to a credenza so I could splay my crap, I was able to grade, scale, score, norm, and record a whole set of second grade IQ tests (which does seem oxymoronical). Following that I created spreadsheets of all my students for the next 4 weeks for accurate record keeping. Two hours later, I was ready to dig into Jen Lancaster and try not to snort in the jury room.

We we dismissed at lunch without providing any service besides getting a mo'fo' of a backache from a crappy plastic chair.

Noon and no plans to speak of? No baby? No husband? Freakin' party!

My windshield has a crack, so i decided to take care of that. But the guy is a friend of my Dad's and I didn't want to embarrass him, so I headed to the U-Do-It car wash. I run it through, only to remember I need to get my door fixed because it leaks water when it rains or in car washes. Like cars are supposed to be waterproof anyway.

I can't help but think I am the nerdiest girl at the car wash in the ghetto. While I'm going through the drive, I pull out my Windex and paper towels, climb around the car and clean all the interior windows. It is a sight to see, I'm sure. Then I pull around to the vacuums and the other two vehicles in bays have their doors open with music blasting gangsta rap. I'm not sure whether this kind sharing was intended to scare me or make me think, "Wow, he must have huge testicles to listen to that kind of music."

The culture of opening windows to blast your music is an odd one to me. I don't get it. One - I don't like loud music. Two - I don't expect others to like the music I listen to, at least at the exact same time as me. Whether it is your apartment, your car in front of your house, at a stop light, or at a car wash, turn that shit down!

With my sense of irony intact, I decide that I too have the right to play my funky music white girl. I stop vacuuming Cheerios and goldfish out of the back seat long enough to scroll through my iPod and crank my Ford factory stereo. What might my friendly new car wash neighbors like to enjoy with me? I pick the whitest music I can find that isn't country (that is too easy). Hello Tom Jones! He would like to ask you what is new, Pussycat.

Of course, the music alone isn't enough. Please imagine me with my mini-SUV with clearance rack diapers spilling out, my own bottle of Windex, in a pair of mid-thigh length khaki shorts belting along while I clean, "WHOOOOOA, WHOOOOA, WHOOOOA....Pussy cat, pussy cat, I love YOU! Yes, I do! Wooopppeee Doooooo!"

Word to your mother.

Thoughts on Sheep

Bean watches "Shaun the Sheep." A LOT of sheep. She is quite obsessed with sheep (and cows --- moooo! --- for that matter).

The sheep cartoon got me thinking: Do overweight sheep make more wool that their healthy-weighted peers?

Side A says that an overweight sheep would create more surface area and hence, more area for wool in which to grow.

Side B said that overweight sheep are set with a genetically predetermined number of hair (wool) follicles. When said sheep packs on the pounds, the skin stretches and more widely distributes the set amount of wool.

That said, if side B is correct, are fat sheep then less warm that their svelte counterparts? They have more surface area to warm, but less wool per square inch.

Oh, the things I think about. I probably could have cured cancer by now.

Pretty soon I won't say huh

Booyah, you have inspired me to write again. Sorry I couldn't give you the topic, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't apply to you.

Spring Break was two weeks ago and I'm still recovering. Leaking washing machine, exploded swimming pool, sick family, and more. It sucked. The best part was my hearing test.

Brad has been harassing me for years that I'm deaf. I know I don't hear as well as other people. So what. I'm an Eagleton. My maiden name is "huh?" I've always thought that Wierd Al was the King of Greatness because I can understand his lyrics and he hears them like I do. It took me years to realize that Eric Clapton's hit "She is Crying" (she is crying....she is crying on the floor) was actually "Jesus Christ - Jesus Christ - Jesus Christ is on the phone." But it is normal. Brad just has freak super-sonic hearing.

To humor him I made an appointment with an audiologist for a full-scale hearing assessment. I would come home, doctor's note in hand, that stated HE WAS WRONG!!! Muuhahahaha!

It didn't go exactly as I planned. During the appointment I was locked in a soundproof box and asked to perform all kind of monkey experiments including the famous push-the-button-when-you-hear-the-beep test. I've never felt more unsuccessful during a test in all my life. I knew there were supposed to be beeps in the silence. Should I just push the button? Surely there was a beep there.

Emerging from the box, defeated, I was informed I have moderate to severe hearing lose in both ears. Alas, not the result of loud Weird Al concerts or marching band competitions or elementary school field trip buses, but rather a genetic juvenile neuro hearing loss -- late onset. I know I'm always late. it sure is nice to have "juvenile" in your hearing loss diagnosis I must say.

I have developed coping mechanisms during the last years. Turns out I don't hear a lot of consonants when people speak. AEIOU (and sometimes Y) don't leave you with a lot of room for comprehension. I use what I can hear with context clues to figure things out. My brain works overtime constantly. That is why I asked the teacher in the lounge what happened to her grandmother she looked at me with a funny face and said, "These cramps hurt like a mother!" Oops. Got that context wrong.

I also read lips. Seriously! I have an undiscovered super-spy, ninja skill! When the audiologist asked me to repeat after her a list of words I did great. Then she covered her mouth with a folder and she sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. Now I notice myself doing it all the time. It is also the reason I hate cartoons. Their mouths don't match. Screw you Fraggles.

She asked me if I would like to try out some hearing aids. Oh, dear God. Hearing aids at age 29. I can have those nice beige plugs my PaPa has. But luckily the kind I need are totally different. I don't need plugs, because I can hear low frequencies pretty well, I need something amplify the high pitches. So I get a cool little do-dad's that sit behind my hear with the world's tinies ear bud that runs into my ear canal. Ok, so not cool but not to bad at all.

Once I try them on, the world is clear. I feel my whole body relax after about 30 minutes of not having to focus on every sound. Downside? They are $7000 a pair. Ouch. It takes a couple of days to figure out my insurance only covers a $1000 and I'm supposed to be thankful for that. A repeat appointment to find a cheaper pair reveals the fancy pants pair I tried the first time is the same as the cheaper $3000 pair minus blue tooth technology. So what!

At that appointment I had to take Claire with me. I was worried at first, but it was really great because I got to hear different sounds while I was trying them out. I heard the air conditioner in the building kick on. Claire grabbed some cereal from the cup in my purse -- I could hear her crunching her food! Did you know you can hear other people chew in a quiet room? I didn't.

It will take a few weeks for my insurance to cough up the cash so I can get my new ears, but pretty soon I won't say "huh?" for every other word. Hearing aids were not on my list of things to do before 30, but since I've decided against a torrid affair with the lead singer of Muse (for moral convictions only --- there is nothing wrong with Matt), I might as well make a swap out.