The obsession began almost 4 years ago. Being five-months pregnant Brad dragged me to a dirty tattoo parlor on the East side of Fort Worth.
Okay, so actually Brad said he was going to get a tattoo while I was getting my hair cut and I BEGGED him to let me go so he couldn't do anything crazy. But that is close to being dragged, right? And might I add, while tattoo studios aren't known for their upscale clients and sparkling facilities, Randy Adam's studio has cleaner bathrooms than the Babies R Us.
Brad had a small ying-yang tattoo with fluidity arrows in yellow and gold on his shoulder when we met. Now, facing the end of his life being "cool" after having a baby he wanted to have his tattoo added on to. I was TERRIFIED! He didn't know what he wanted and I didn't want him all scarred up with a picture of Carmen Miranda on his bicep. However, the very skilled artist added some nice flames and re-did the bland monochromatic of the original work and I was mesmerized. I've wanted a tattoo ever since.
It came up at work this summer. One of the teens at Academy was saying she wanted ivy up her side from her hip to armpit. Very pretty, but I interjected, "If you ever plan on having babies, you might wait. Otherwise it will look like a plant that hasn't been watered in a month." She scoffs, rolling her eyes at the old woman I have become and counters that "you don't stretch on your side when you get pregnant." No. No, you don't. I was wrong. I'll help you pay for it even. Let's go after work.
So any place on my body that will stretch or sag is off limits. I also don't like other body parts because they don't work for me. I have a square build, so no shoulders. That is too manly. I'm not big of foot tats either. Unless I want a moon man jumpping into a crater, the thighs are strictly off-limits. And if I want anything on my bikini line it will need to meld with the Van Gogh-esque squiggle lines of stretchmarks. Maybe a nice Edvard Munch "The Scream". That might work nicely.
I wear my hair in a pony most of the time, so the neck isn't going to work. Not to mention I get cysts there, so I get sliced open by my doctor alot. I can't imagine having a Tweety bird on my neck only to have him decapitated by my dermatologist. I'd have to go in and getting another tattoo of Sylvester with a bloody knife added next to him.
In addition to where, I need a what. It has to have meaning -- either deep or ironic -- to fit me. I don't like cartoons or verses or even other language symbols. Do you think Asians have English tattoos on their chest? It makes me wonder if they just like the way the letters MEAT look and have them stamped on their bodies.
A friend asked what my favorite book was to find inspiration, but somehow "Team Edward" seems a little dated and fickle. I mean, what if I decide later I'm more of a werewolf girl?
So help a girl out. You know me better than I know myself. Give me a what and a where. I promise to consider it....even if I know good and well I will never follow through on any of it.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
There She Is....Miss America
Like most little girls, I grew up watching the Miss America Pageant on TV and wondering what life would be like when I was their age. Now, at 31, I still watch and wonder what life will be like when I am their age --- because they look like they are pushing 40.
When Miss Tennessee's age pops up at the bottom of the screen as 19 years old, I am dead shocked. Her bleach blond, over-teased hair with an orange tan, sinewy muscles, decorated with enough eye liner to make an 8th grade girl jealous and a shade of red lipstick only my grandmother could love make her look like a tramped up trophy wife of a car wash magnate. I didn't see one in the competition last night that looked under the age of 25 --- and I was being generous. Most of them looked like they were in their late 30's and weren't dealing with their aging. Add to that the fact that their teeth are so over whitened they look inhuman, and they just look odd.
Don't get me wrong. Their bodies are pretty smoking. I don't have the guts to get up there in a swimsuit. (No, literally, I don't have the guts. My gut is all squishy and white. They have very nice guts you could probably bounce a quarter off.) But the Miss America organization has, for several years, put limitations on the swimsuits that make them look even more off. They have a "no side-boob" policy so the swimwear looks quite "industrial." If they are going to make these girls prance around in heals and a bikini, at least let them pick one that looks good!
But maybe letting them chose wouldn't be the best idea. The winner, Miss Wisconsin, chose a fabulous black evening gown with lace top and cap sleeves. The back was to die for. However, Miss Alabama showed a little less style. The kind of style that Clinton and Stacy normally intervene in.
I screamed, "Oh no! That is a Christmas tree topper, not a shoulder adornment!" Brad said, "She can scrub all that make-up off with that loofah when she's done." This picture doesn't quite do it justice.
After the first hour I start to lose interest, but the talent segment was surprisingly good. If I were in the pageant, I would have to enter my talent as snarky blogging. I was pleased there wasn't so much bad singing (yes, there was some). Most of the talents, I have derived, are things the girls did until 6th grade. Then a few years later, when they enter the pageant circuit, they have to have a talent, so they pick it back up. Hence, all the horrible interpretive dance and bad pointe ballet. Unfortunately, Miss Texas, picked a lovely talent that she looked horrible doing.
You really should think twice before picking a talent that has you looking like Montgomery Burns. She was all hunched over and her man-hands were all pointy. Although, I have to give her mad props for working the pedals in spikes and chiffon.
Later in the evening, Claire started throwing a cross between a screaming tantrum fit and a mosh pit dance. Daddy threw down the, "What in the world are you screaming about!" She replied she was doing a dance and singing. It was the "Tomato Pup." We laughed as she threw her arms around and moaned and screamed. Brad and i looked at each other like she might have completely lost it. After about 10 minutes, Brad put it together..."Are you singing Opera like that girl?" (Tomato Pup? Opera? You only notice the similarity when you have a preschooler) Yes! She was.
All the contestants talk about how they are role models. Well, congratulations. You have modeled to my daughter to wear way too much makeup and how to sing the Tomato Pup. Thanks for the fun of the 2012 pageant.
When Miss Tennessee's age pops up at the bottom of the screen as 19 years old, I am dead shocked. Her bleach blond, over-teased hair with an orange tan, sinewy muscles, decorated with enough eye liner to make an 8th grade girl jealous and a shade of red lipstick only my grandmother could love make her look like a tramped up trophy wife of a car wash magnate. I didn't see one in the competition last night that looked under the age of 25 --- and I was being generous. Most of them looked like they were in their late 30's and weren't dealing with their aging. Add to that the fact that their teeth are so over whitened they look inhuman, and they just look odd.
Don't get me wrong. Their bodies are pretty smoking. I don't have the guts to get up there in a swimsuit. (No, literally, I don't have the guts. My gut is all squishy and white. They have very nice guts you could probably bounce a quarter off.) But the Miss America organization has, for several years, put limitations on the swimsuits that make them look even more off. They have a "no side-boob" policy so the swimwear looks quite "industrial." If they are going to make these girls prance around in heals and a bikini, at least let them pick one that looks good!
But maybe letting them chose wouldn't be the best idea. The winner, Miss Wisconsin, chose a fabulous black evening gown with lace top and cap sleeves. The back was to die for. However, Miss Alabama showed a little less style. The kind of style that Clinton and Stacy normally intervene in.
I screamed, "Oh no! That is a Christmas tree topper, not a shoulder adornment!" Brad said, "She can scrub all that make-up off with that loofah when she's done." This picture doesn't quite do it justice.After the first hour I start to lose interest, but the talent segment was surprisingly good. If I were in the pageant, I would have to enter my talent as snarky blogging. I was pleased there wasn't so much bad singing (yes, there was some). Most of the talents, I have derived, are things the girls did until 6th grade. Then a few years later, when they enter the pageant circuit, they have to have a talent, so they pick it back up. Hence, all the horrible interpretive dance and bad pointe ballet. Unfortunately, Miss Texas, picked a lovely talent that she looked horrible doing.
You really should think twice before picking a talent that has you looking like Montgomery Burns. She was all hunched over and her man-hands were all pointy. Although, I have to give her mad props for working the pedals in spikes and chiffon.Later in the evening, Claire started throwing a cross between a screaming tantrum fit and a mosh pit dance. Daddy threw down the, "What in the world are you screaming about!" She replied she was doing a dance and singing. It was the "Tomato Pup." We laughed as she threw her arms around and moaned and screamed. Brad and i looked at each other like she might have completely lost it. After about 10 minutes, Brad put it together..."Are you singing Opera like that girl?" (Tomato Pup? Opera? You only notice the similarity when you have a preschooler) Yes! She was.
All the contestants talk about how they are role models. Well, congratulations. You have modeled to my daughter to wear way too much makeup and how to sing the Tomato Pup. Thanks for the fun of the 2012 pageant.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Saving Money....or How I Cheat My Family
I am a horrible cheapskate. My mom always said I could pinch a penny so tight you could see through it. I coupon and bargain shop, and I really enjoy it. Sometimes it goes a little too far.
You know it is bad when you take money advice from Roseanne Barr. I remember this episode from the show in the 90's where Roseanne gets caught by John pouring store brand "CoCo Charms" into the empty CoCo Puff's box. She tells him she's been using the same box for years and the kids don't know the difference.
Here is my interpretation:
The premium stuff in the carafe is $3 when you can find it on sale! The frozen concentrate is $1.87, plus, I don't have to wag home that heavy bottle. Sure, I could save another $.50 if I got store brand, but orange juice companies use personalized flavor-ants to ensure consistency. That is why Minute Made always takes like Minute Made. Name brand ensures my family doesn't catch on to my scam. (And I'm pretty sure they don't bother to read my blog, so we are good.)
After making my fake-out juice, I went to Dollar Tree to get flash cards and stuff for alphabet games. Here is the pack I got. Notice anything strange?
Thirty-six cards? How does THAT work? I thought maybe there were some activity cards so I tore into the pack like a wild wolverine (notice the taped up box as an afterthought?). There are all twenty-six upper case letters. Then ten random lower case letters. I figure his is why low-income kids often have trouble with early literacy. Their parents can only afford Dollar Tree learning products. Let me just say Dollar Tree, I couldn't spell the name of your store with the letters you provided, so let's work on that.
But Dollar Tree is how we came to know about Claire. I half-ass realized my period was late and wanted to take a pee test just to rule out the possibility of an embryo causing it. I had a Dollar Tree test and it was positive. Shocked the shit out of me. I ran up to Brad and rambled one long word that should have been divided into words to form a sentence or sentences. "Brad-I-just-took-a-pregnancy-test-and-it-came-back-positive-It-was-a-dollar-tree-test-so-maybe-it-is-wrong-but-if-not-we-are-having-a-baby."
Love my husband. He was so calm. He smiled, calmed me down, and said we would go out and get another test that cost more than a grab bag of Doritos and try again. But the Dollar Tree test was right.
Life can be fun on the cheap. But I'm pretty sure that pack was missing the h and f, so we'll be having "un on the ceap."
You know it is bad when you take money advice from Roseanne Barr. I remember this episode from the show in the 90's where Roseanne gets caught by John pouring store brand "CoCo Charms" into the empty CoCo Puff's box. She tells him she's been using the same box for years and the kids don't know the difference.
Here is my interpretation:
The premium stuff in the carafe is $3 when you can find it on sale! The frozen concentrate is $1.87, plus, I don't have to wag home that heavy bottle. Sure, I could save another $.50 if I got store brand, but orange juice companies use personalized flavor-ants to ensure consistency. That is why Minute Made always takes like Minute Made. Name brand ensures my family doesn't catch on to my scam. (And I'm pretty sure they don't bother to read my blog, so we are good.)
After making my fake-out juice, I went to Dollar Tree to get flash cards and stuff for alphabet games. Here is the pack I got. Notice anything strange?
Thirty-six cards? How does THAT work? I thought maybe there were some activity cards so I tore into the pack like a wild wolverine (notice the taped up box as an afterthought?). There are all twenty-six upper case letters. Then ten random lower case letters. I figure his is why low-income kids often have trouble with early literacy. Their parents can only afford Dollar Tree learning products. Let me just say Dollar Tree, I couldn't spell the name of your store with the letters you provided, so let's work on that.But Dollar Tree is how we came to know about Claire. I half-ass realized my period was late and wanted to take a pee test just to rule out the possibility of an embryo causing it. I had a Dollar Tree test and it was positive. Shocked the shit out of me. I ran up to Brad and rambled one long word that should have been divided into words to form a sentence or sentences. "Brad-I-just-took-a-pregnancy-test-and-it-came-back-positive-It-was-a-dollar-tree-test-so-maybe-it-is-wrong-but-if-not-we-are-having-a-baby."
Love my husband. He was so calm. He smiled, calmed me down, and said we would go out and get another test that cost more than a grab bag of Doritos and try again. But the Dollar Tree test was right.
Life can be fun on the cheap. But I'm pretty sure that pack was missing the h and f, so we'll be having "un on the ceap."
Saturday, January 7, 2012
God Told Me to Eat a Cookie
Minus a recurring affair with homemade egg rolls, I'm being good. Healthy. Weight-conscious. Yesterday, I had a lovely mixed green salad with fruit for lunch. Then my brother invited me over for turkey tacos. Being a guest, I can't show up without dessert. So while at Albertson I pick up a bag of their bakery cookies which are, by far, the most awesome cookies ever.
I load the groceries into the back hatch, start the car, and organize my purse and phone for easy access. Then I'm over-run with my brain having a fight. It was like I could literally HEAR the angel and the devil on each shoulder duke-ing it out.
devil: I want a cookie!
angel: No, it is 4:45. You can have one after dinner.
devil: No, I neeeeeed a cookie.
angel: I've been good all day.
devil: Exactly, good all day. Won't hurt now.
angel: No, this is ridiculous I'm not getting out of my running car to get a cookie.
The devil won. I was compelled (I don't use this word lightly) to get out of my car and go get a cookie. When I get back there I see a man, cowboy mid-60's, whose spur strap has come undone. He is crouched behind my car trying to fix his boot.
Guys, I totally would have backed right over him. It wasn't the devil on my shoulder, but God. God told me to eat that cookie so I wouldn't run over the cowboy!
Eat a cookie. Save a life. Share the news.
I load the groceries into the back hatch, start the car, and organize my purse and phone for easy access. Then I'm over-run with my brain having a fight. It was like I could literally HEAR the angel and the devil on each shoulder duke-ing it out.
devil: I want a cookie!
angel: No, it is 4:45. You can have one after dinner.
devil: No, I neeeeeed a cookie.
angel: I've been good all day.
devil: Exactly, good all day. Won't hurt now.
angel: No, this is ridiculous I'm not getting out of my running car to get a cookie.
The devil won. I was compelled (I don't use this word lightly) to get out of my car and go get a cookie. When I get back there I see a man, cowboy mid-60's, whose spur strap has come undone. He is crouched behind my car trying to fix his boot.
Guys, I totally would have backed right over him. It wasn't the devil on my shoulder, but God. God told me to eat that cookie so I wouldn't run over the cowboy!
Eat a cookie. Save a life. Share the news.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
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.
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.
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