Can’t Help With That!

You know how your kids expect you to be able to solve their unsolvable problems? Like….when their foot falls asleep? I mean really, what am I supposed to do with that?

We are in the van, Mark’s driving, I’m at the dance club in my brain getting down, breaking out AMAZING moves to the Bee Gees when I hear my son:
Mom! Mom! My foot is asleep!

The colorful lights of my in-brain disco fade to the dreary gray rainy day outside my passenger window. I pause the iPod. I turn around to see him rapidly bouncing his little legs in agony. I can’t help with this! But for his sake, I will try.

Wiping the ‘interupted my dance fantasy’ cranky look from my face, I smile at him and say, “Baby, which one hurts?” He points to the still bouncing left foot. I tell him, “Ok, raise that foot into the air, that’s it, just like that, ok?” Then, look at him, then his foot, and with tone and volume to wake a corpse I yell:

“WAKE UP!!!!!

Really, what else could I do?

Mark and Ruby errupt into laughter, and then I do, because the desperate action required of this situation was quite funny.

But my boy is crying and does not think it funny that his mother tried to wake his sleeping foot by yelling at it.

Darn it! I guess that didn’t work so well.

Mittelschmerz and what not.

Today I am just bleh.  Something’s happening with my body.  I’m pretty sensitive to my innerds.  And what with a biology background.. I can kind of nerd out with body functions sometimes.

If you are one of those, “Ewww.. too much information” folks, read no further.

If you are a man.. yeah, pretty much this will not interest you either, go back to your man bidness.

Those women that are not squeamish, shall we carry on?  Wait a minute….there is still one man reading.  You.. yes, you.  Stop.  This is not for you.  Buh bye.  Thanks.

Mittelschmerz

This word cracks me up.  It’s like something Dr.Horrible would make up.  Or.. it is some kind of Jewish social offense that causes Jewish folks to wave their hands at you and say, “Meh!” It is actually a German word, made up prolly by some insensitive German gynecologist back the in the 1700’s.  Mittelschmerz translated means “middle pain.”  It is the term for pain and cramps in between periods.  Ovulation.  See what I mean by insensitive? Like he thought that was a clever thing to call it?

Circa 1735….. and scene!

Gertrude walks into Dr.Volksenburgs office, she is doubled over in pain.

She explains to the doctor that she has lower abdominal pain, with some bleeding, and would believe she was having a miscarriage, but that is not possible as she has not had sexual relations since her last menstrual cycle.  Is she dying?  Is there a tumor?  Fibroids? Doctor!  What could be wrong?!

He feels her forehead and asks if she has a headache.

Gertrude:  No.

He examines her feet and asks if there is any pain there.

Gertrude, perturbed:  No.

Dr:  Aha!  You have Mittelschmerz!

Gertrude:  Mittelschmerz!  Is it serious?  What is it?

Dr:  Mittelschmerz!  Your middle hurts woman!

Gerturde:  Thank you doctor, you are a brilliant asshole, you need to go see your proctologist because your head is stuck somewhere!

Girls.. I think I am laying a freakin’ goose egg today!  My right ovary is all jacked up.  Has this ever happened to you?  You would think, with dropping an egg and all, that I would be feeling… differently… like procreating and such.  NO.  I feel like someone kicked me in the stomach.  If ‘he’ even approaches the idea.. ‘he’ is going to get kicked in the stomach.

I guess it comes with aging. *Sigh*  First time it happened to me I was all freaked out thinking I was dying or something, my doctor says.. “So.. you are what, about 35?”  Me:  “Just turned 35, yes.”  Ahh… you have Mittelschmerz.

Good times ladies, good times….

Bliss Fail

It’s after 9:00 pm.  Kids are in bed.  I have just crawled into a piping hot bathtub with bubbles a foot and a half high.  Twilight book number 2, New Moon, is within reach to the right, and to my left, a bottle of talking rain, yes, even with a straw. Bliss, no?

No.

Nature calls child #1 to take a #2 in the one bathroom in our house.  She is so apologetic as she turns on the fan.  I scowl, and sink below the bubble line. She’s sweet and while she is doing her business, she draws Mommy in the tub:

Its cute huh?  Except for my HUGE knees, and cankles.  Yikes.  Look at all the bubbles in my hair!  She loves to draw, little sweetie.  And she was in there a long time.  Of course with it being a small house, when Nature calls, other folks are usually with in ear shot, so after she finished, child #2 came in to do, yes, #2.

Can you BELIEVE it?!  My gosh!  He was in there a while too.  He read the paper.  Just kidding.  I love my children, truly do.  But no luck on  catching a moment of bubbly bliss tonight. *Sigh*

My protective shield of bubbles......

Spending a lovely afternoon at Wit’s End.

You know that place called “Wit’s End?”  Ever been there?  Some priviledged folks have a fast track pass to “Wit’s End.”  Raise your hand if you do…wow…..that’s a lot of raised hands.  Well I have a fast track pass too.

People tell me all the time that I’m ‘great with kids, would be a great teacher, blah, blah’…you know.  Really?  No, really?  My own children make me want to ….force my head through drywall.  Sure they fight sometimes, and whine, and are messy.  The times I find myself checking into ‘Wit’s End’ are generally when they are deleriously amusing themselves. In. Public.  See below:

People had to step around them.  Some people laughed.  Some scanned the room for their parents.  Some hunkered down to play on her iphone and pretend that they were not actually her children at all.  Their father saw it as a photo op.  Plus, they look like him and not me anyway, so let people glare at him if they must, after all, he WAS taking pictures.

Gosh that was a delicious double tall hazelnut la-la-la-la-la-latte.  See you at ‘Wit’s End!’

You think YOU had a productive day?!?!?

so.. the next time you think you are the shit…. that you got so much accomplished that really “matters.”  Well.. check your self, and check this out:

That my friends, is what awesome is made of.

And a quick shout out to my Jenny for her made of awesome giveaway.  If I link twice to I get two entries?  How about thrice, yo?

Peace

Mid-Life Crisis Anyone?

I’m only 38.  But I think I might be there… somewhere’s around mid-life, and in an identity crisis, AGAIN.

I don’t want a convertible.  Or a boob job, or an ass lift.  I don’t want a 20 year old pool boy.  Maybe, I would.  If he was from Brazil.  But not really.

Lately I just want to drive around with my music loud and pretend I’m not a mom, or a wife, or an office manager.  I want to be someone completely different.  What if I had picked a different path?

What would she be like?

Hmmmm…..she would live in a condo, in downtown……Seattle? No… Portland?  I don’t know.

She would drive a VW TDI Golf, Red. There would not be broken crayons on the floor, and the seats would not have spots of unknown sticky stuff.

She would work in a fun, swanky clothing store and dress really nice.

She would not own a pair of cotton briefs. Not. One.  All her undies would be cute.. and her bras.  Cute.  Not basic white bought in 3-pack from Costco.

Laundry would not overwhelm her.

She would eat out a lot, and not at fast food places.

She would like to cook.

Men would want her, but they are merely a hobby for her.

Bleh.  I’m done.  Honestly, I don’t know that I would even like “her.”  She is probably lonely wishing she had a husband and kids to crack her up.  She would not have developed the sense of humor that I have….had to have.

I will still need to go for a drive by myself now and then.  With my music loud and my mind in la la land (eyes on the road).  I need to.  I always come back home.

Crisis averted?

Again… the nose knows!

I TOLD you I had an extra large scent organ.  Remember? Well it is one strong sniffer, and today it detected the ….ugh…. one of the most…undesirable scents of all. DEATH.

I’m sitting at my desk, minding my bidness like always. Daydreaming working on spreadsheets and what not.  I smell something.  It is definitely faint, but unpleasant.  I check my garbage can.  Nothing.. was just emptied last night. What could it be?  No… it couldn’t be…….me?  Pit check: no.  Shoe check: clean.  Shirt check: fresh.  Breath: like roses (some people are just lucky that way).  No idea…but the rankness is still there.

I’m a busy girl, don’t have time to investigate because I have daydreaming spreadsheets to work on.  I carry on with my work.

But that nose of mine.  I mean, that  NOSE!  It won’t let go of the smell.  So then I try to distract nose.  Someone who knows of my weakness for men’s cologne left smelly magazine ad on my desk To. Taunt. Me.  I press it to my face trying to distract nose from the stench.  Well, it worked for a while, but my brain went off into la la land as  is the affect of  men’s cologne.  It’s like trying to distract a hyper kid by giving them a chocolate cup cake.  Bad idea.

The cursor on my screen was in the same cell for like, 15 minutes.

This just won’t do.. so I decide to investigate a bit more.  I’m under my desk, moving the garbage can.. nothing.. and empty tub, nothing.. a rolling filing thingy…no, but then, I see…small.. black pellets on the floor.

That *%$#@ mouse is back!  We have a mouse problem in my building.  It has been trying to get into my chocolate stash without success.  It has pooped on my desk.  It has friends.  They have pooped in our kitchen both upstairs and downstairs.  Each morning I check the traps, dispose of what I find and disinfect everything and more before anyone else arrives. I am not squemish. I hate these little MFers.

Then I see it.  It is dangling from the frame of my rolling filing thingy, obviously got its legs caught and crapped itself a big pile on the floor below while it died.  I let out a pathetic girlish scream that is so unlike me.

Ewwwwwwwwwwaaaagggghhhhhhhhhhhewwwwwwwwwwww!

And I ran away shaking my hands wailing “Dead Mouse! Dead Mouse!” like a complete idiot.

It was the smell, I’m sure that put me over the edge and turned me into a freak.  I mean, I was right there in close range smelling its poo and dead mouse.  A wonderful friend at work disposed of dead mouse while I walked outside for fresh air coupled with cologne sample shoved to my nose.

I go back in, grab the Clorox spray, paper towels and the Febreeze from the bathroom.  I clean up the poo and the rest of the floor around my desk.. and roller filer thingy.  Febreeze under my desk, and then.. for kicks…the whole lobby.

Ahhh, much better.  Now about that spreadsheet… ugh.

The many uses of Spanxs….

If you are a woman over 30, which I am just barely (sha!), you probably own a pair of Spanx or some other kind of “Body Shaper.”  Smooths out your curves, or your fawhumpawhumps, as I lovingly call them.  Sometimes my curves misplace themselves and if I wrangle myself into throw on a pair of Spanxs my ghetto booty is lookin just right.

Yes, I said ghetto booty. There is even a group on Facebook I recently joined thanks Jennyonthespot, that is dedicated to the white girls with ghetto booties.  Fa Reals.  If you’ve seen me, you know I have one.  It is a blessing and a curse, depending on my mood (cha cha cha!).

BUTT….back to the Spanxs.  Besides being the curvy gal that I am, I am also wife and mother.  One day my son decides to dress up as a ninja, cuz like, he’s a little boy, and he’s part Asian..so I figure its gotta be genetic somehow.  He’s put a pair of his sister’s tights on his head and has mummified his face with the legs.  But the tights were TIGHT, right?  His already Asian eyes were stretched to slits…. he looked uncomfortable.  So, using his creative idea, I grabbed my Spanx and but them on his head and tucked them around his cute little face.  Much better, and wicked cute.  See:

I know.. he is adorable and you can only see his eyes.

Last night we had Gourmet Dinner Club, and the theme was Rockband Party.  We made our delicious dishes, and all arrived in costume, from glam rocker to gangsta rapper.  Mark, my hubby, is not one for dressing up in costumes, unlike his wife who plots a different persona each day, party or no party!  I insisted he play along.  His options were Twisted Sister (I borrowed a wig) or gangsta rapper.  He refused to wear make-up, so, I looked up some pictures of Snoop Dog, and Ludacris, and quickly pieced together his outfit.  The topper… my Spanx in a doo-rag.  Total success, don’t you agree?

Fo Shizzle, right? Yep… he even had a fake tattoo.  I told him he pretty much needs to get one, for me at least.  I think they are hawt.  He’s not into it, much like the not wearing cologne, but a girl’s gotta keep trying right?

What other fine uses have you used for your Spanx, ladies?

Space Age President….

Just a brief blog today.

I was having a super sucky day.  Got some info this morning that had me bumming big time, and praying hard.  But that is not the story for today, cuz I don’t want to “go there” again.

I’m at work, it’s around lunch time.  I head into the faculty lounge to throw the morning’s 6th grade sprained ankle ice-pack back into the freezer.  My peeps are all gathered around, eating their lunches and I overhear one of them say that Presidents age faster than the average American because of the stress.  Two years aging for each year.

I say, in my absolute brilliance, “They should govern from space.”

My peeps all laughed hard and my heart momentarily let go of the ache it had all morning.

Seriously.. what IF they governed from space?!?!

We wouldn’t have to worry about an assassination attempt, except from maybe aliens, and I would not put money on them.

They would have that “awe struck about the gorgeous Earth” thing and so would be dang inspired to keep our little globe happy and healthy.

They would not age so much faster. I personally don’t want to see Obama get all gray and wrinkly.  He’d prolly still be handsome, but for his girl’s sake, we could hold of the geeserness for a while.

He wouldn’t have to spend money flying everywhere because.. you know.. he’d be in space.

How about some help?  Any other reasons you think would be good to send our President into space?

Husband Fail…..

So.. there we were, Jennyonthespot, myself, and my girl Wendy, sitting snug around a table with our husbands all sitting on the other side.  We were killing time, tossing back some beverages, waiting for the band to come on so we could boogie.  The place was getting packed.

My girls are on either side of me when the waitress says, “excuse me” trying to squeeze through the quickly decreasing space behind our table.  People were really filling the place up.  I lean forward to give her more room and bump into my beer which spills a bit on the table, my bosoms and in my lap.  The boys are all holding their iphones.. oblivious to what has just happened.

Ugh.  Cold.  Wet.  Waitress wipes the table, my girls get the napkins and start to pat the dampness on my shirt.  We got kind of silly.  You know, they were all, “ohhhhh… ” patting my breasts and giggling while I  enjoyed experienced the feel up.

Aren’t these the kind of moments husbands wish would happen right  in front of them?  Not one looked up from their phone.

However, two gentleman BEHIND our husbands took in the whole event with much pleasure, laughed at our clueless husbands and then fist bumped each other.

Technology wins again.. and this time the hubbies are the losers.