Lisa Say What?

So, you know how it is. It's Friday night and you've been invited to Friends for dinner. Along with flowers, you tote in a bottle or three of vino, as every good guest should. The evening starts and you enjoy the carafe of white with the apps and light conversation, then move on to the juicy red which partners the main course with slightly more personal chit-chat, and finally, the Portuguese port finishes things off along side mocha pie and a few fart jokes. (Things are getting good.) I can handle ALL of that, no prob.

But when the generous Friends break out a couple of their own vintages, steadily increasing the bottle count in tomorrow's recycle bin, things go a bit south.
Oh- oh.

We make it halfway through bottle number five when it hits me that water would be a good substitute for the yummy petite sirah floating in my goblet. But we all know I could have water ANYWHERE, and Friends have serious grape-juice that you can't just scoop up at Safeway. I'm talking dusty-ass bottle with a 1976 on the label. Yep, straight up. I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid, so I gladly accept the refill. Then another one. And another.

Then something funny happens. It seems my mouth will no longer form the words that I'm intending. Weird. I hear talk, unusual talk. I look around the table to see who the hell is speaking in that slushy foreign language and realize it's mwah. HUH?? When did I learn Russian? Before I can complete this quandary, my left eyelid decides it's tired and done for the night. Then a pool of drool threatens to escape my now slouchy pie-hole. WHAT THE?? Holy Shiraz! I must be having a wine-stroke! The shock dries up my mouth (just in time) and awakens my sleepy eye. I must regain composure immediately! I take another swig to moisten my lips. But I shouldn't have done that. I'm now waaaay over the edge and my stroke has embarrassingly turned into full-blown Tourette's. F-bombs are exploding everywhere and once again I am surprised by my own noise, surprised to see that I am the culprit in this spurt of sailor-talk. I can't stop it. I. Can't. Stop. It. This lasts a good five minutes before I run out of breath and get thirsty. But do you think I asked for some water? Nope. You know what I did. Fill 'er up, MotherFu****! Oh Dear.

All Stressed Out and Nowhere To Go

Every year for the past 14 years, I had taken on BLACK FRIDAY as if it were an Iron-Chef Challenge. I was serious about that shit. After perusing the most enticing ads the previous night, I would shag my ass out of bed at 3 am, mainline a pot or three of coffee, gather my list in my caffeine-shaky hands and head out the darkened door, credit cards a'blazin. I'd hook up with my she-fellow shopaholics in the mall parking lot and start the no-holds-barred-shove-fest until every last request was crossed off my manifest. Then we'd all crash late-day at TGIFriday's, enjoying too many rounds of dirty blue-cheese martinis while double-checking our receipts and rubbing each other's feet. I know, it sounds gross, but it was necessary. You menfolk will never understand, and we don't care.

This year however, this divine 2009, I chose to sleep in. Drooled right through that too early morning siren and patted myself on the back. I knew I didn't need to be in line at Toys-R-ridiculoUS before the rooster farts since son #1 and son #2 no longer desire anything that you could actually "play" with. All of their wants are electronic in nature, so HUSBAND is in charge of those purchases on-line. (Oh boo-hoo, you have to face those frantic crowds on "shopme.com" whenever you feel like it as you are festering in your underwear, drinking a Vietnamese coffee. Cry me a frickin' river, husband- you don't deserve a dirty martini, no matter how much I love you.)

Nope...this year, I will nonchalantly gallivant to obscure stores in search of unique stocking-stuffers since that is really all I have to worry about.

It's a Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas and I have FINALLY figured it out...

Preparation "H" - (H is for Holiday)

In ten days, we will be off to Europe for a thirty-two day stay. I need to get my Holiday Prepare on!! Time is sneaking up on me, and the very organized list that I made three months ago only has one item checked off. Ooooops. And that item was "make a list".

I need a mani, a pedi, a dye-job on my roots, a tan, and an eyebrow wax, amongst other things. Why are we women always altering our bodies? I just realized how much work it is to be a chick after I made this simple, five item list. Without these appointments, I would be a stubby-nailed, callous-healed, gray-haired, albino-skinned, uni-browed bush woman. Yikes. Who in their right mind would want THAT as their vacation buddy? Yeesh... I better get crackin...

Summertime, And The Living Is ...... Easy?

(SING WITH ME HERE..."SCHOOOOOL'S OUT. FOR. SUMMER!!")

Remember when that song was the best sound ever? You'd sing it at the top of your lungs as you boarded the mid-June yellow bus for the last ride home until you were a big NEXT-grader. God, I loved that. (Especially putting the school bus behind me....I lived in the freakin boonies where even the straight-aways were curvy, making me chunky-burp through motion-sickness way too many times to count.) The FREEDOM that I felt at that moment was uncontainable.

Now, however, that song is the opening ceremony's anthem to THE END OF MY FREEDOM -

Today was Day One of Summer Break, also known as I'm Gonna Break, I Need A Break, etc. in Mommy World.

I enjoy the ease of summer, not having to rush Sons anywhere, but it can be a difficult time in this household since both Husband and I do our work from here. Case in point: Husband's office is next to the family room. The TV is in the family room. Sons want to watch TV. Having SpongeBob's insane gigglefest as background music is not conducive to brokering large deals. Needless to say, Husband commandeered my nice, quiet, secluded office, located on the other side of the house, while I birthed a backache on our bed with my hunching-over-my-laptop skillage. And it took me nine hours to write two queries that still sound like crap. Is this gonna work? Not so much.

On the bright side, Sons #1 and #2 got along great all day. I didn't have to referee one argument, didn't have to bandage any scrapes, didn't have to bribe/coerce/threaten either/both of them. What an awesome start! They even made their own snack-tray, a staple in our house. Yes, I would have added grapes, carrots and hummus to it, but if granola bars and squirty cheese keep them happily shushed, I'm all in.

Note to self: add g-bars and cheddar-in-a-can to grocery list.

What He Really Means

Today is Husband's birthday. Now, he told me earlier in the week that he didn't want any gifts. He said he has everything he could possibly want all wrapped up in this fantastic woman that he calls Wife. HAHAHAHA. He didn't say that. But he should have. No, what he really said was that he didn't want any gifts since there isn't anything he needs and we're leaving for a month-long European vacation in two weeks so let's save the moolah.


I, myself, have been guilty of a few "don't bother with me, that's fine, I don't need anything" statements, but holy schmoly, I didn't MEAN IT!! And the couple times that he FORGOT that I didn't MEAN IT, well, let's just say that he won't be making that mistake again. Ever ever ever. Ever.


But guys are funny that way. They usually say exactly what they mean instead of using some man-speak that we have to try unsuccessfully to decode. What simpletons they are, being so transparent and all. Where are there skills of elusivity? Why don't they challenge us to read their minds and then do what they expect without words even being exchanged? You know, like WE do.... A Vulcan Mind-meld of sorts. Live Long and Buy Me Shoes.


So of course I ignored Husband and bought him some gifts. It's what I'd want him to do for me, and I try to treat others (especially my favorite man) the way I want to be treated.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz, Where Are You?

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn Turn. Dammit!! It's 2:57 a.m.....would someone PLEASE tell the crap-ramble in my head to shut the hell up and go to sleep!!!

Ever say those words, or a version thereof? Ya, I know you have. And it sucks.

Let me digress: Two nights ago, I had an allergy attack. A BAD ONE. I was at my writer's critique meeting and all of a sudden my eyes started itching, my nose stopped working, and my throat began tickling (not in a hahaha way). I got the heck outta there and by the time I pulled up to my driveway 20 minutes later, my eyes were but itty bitty slits. I had the total Asian face happening. Looks weird on me. Anywho, I immediately ate a few Benadryl. Lovely, lovely, Benadryl, both an allergy cure AND, unbeknownst to me, the best sleeping pill in the universe. Yes folks, that night, I slept like the dead.

But that was two nights ago. Last night, I paid for it. Since I got a double dose of comatose two nights prior, the sleep zombies took away my usual ration of snooze. You just can't get one over on those zombies. Follow along:

12:28 a.m. Crap. It's almost 12:30. If I don't fall asleep within the next two minutes, I'm officially on my way to Insomniaville. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Did I put that load of laundry in the dryer? Man, it's gonna smell like the inside of a warm milk carton if I don't. Milk...do we have milk for breakfast in the morning? I want to try that new French toast recipe. Why do they call it French toast? Too bad we can't stop by France on our way to.....DAMN!!! It's 12:33. Stop the mind-chatter now, Lisa, and breathe. There. In, out, in, out.

Just when I think I've got it, my Zumba class music starts playing in my head. Who turned that on? I didn't ask for that. I wasn't even thinking about anything, just my in-out-in-out breathing. It's the breathing. It started a rhythm in my head and now my body is doing minuscule movements to the Zumba songs. I'm trying to trance out to "Boom Boom Pow", not exactly a lullaby. Shoot. Ok, everyone stop moving now. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

That's when Husband starts in with his log sawing. Jeez, is he swallowing his tongue? I need to save him!! I'll just shove my knee into his lower back really hard. There, see what a lovely wife I am? No no no, don't just turn over onto your other side and start snoring again. Now, I'm pissed at you. Not only for your snoring (directly in my face thanks to your roll-over), I'm pissed at you for sleeping so soundly. I want to snore like that. I want to drool like that. I want to piss you off like that. Grrrrr. Slumber, where are you??? I repeat over and over... Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

Ok, wait... Ya. Yes. Here it comes. I feel that drifty-floatiness, oh ya, baby.... HONK!!! HONK!! There's the peacock in the background, making every hound within a four mile radius howl with predatory angst. You have GOT to be kidding me. I am now going to hide under my pillow and consider self-suffocation so I can sleep.

This goes off and on for at least an hour. I try not to look at the clock. I must have dozed at one point because the cable box is now flashing 2:22 and I have some semblance of a dream flying through my head. Creepy dream. I was in an old castle, pregnant (as a surrogate) with this monster-couple's child. I was looking at my stomach, reflected in a cracked, floor-length mirror covered in webs, and I could see the kid's face poking through my skin. He/She/It was blinking its huge eyes and opening its sharp-fanged mouth and all I could think of was that I hope it won't bite my ladybits on the way out. So good luck to me trying to go back to sleep after THAT image. I cross my legs tight and roll over. I can do this. I have a strong mind.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I'm too hot. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Gotta pee. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. HONK!! HONK!! Oh, forget it. You win, zombies. Where the hell's my Benadryl?

It's Like Pullin' Teeth Around Here!

Son #1 hates his chompers. He's 13 years old and has only lost eight of his baby teeth...four on the top and four on the bottom, directly in the center of his mouth. The permanent ones came in no problem, but now his smile looks like a mix of huge hominy kernels in the front, backed up by rows of tiny chicklets. As I said, he hates his teeth. Understandable.

Much to his delight, his recent six-month dental lookie-loo brought great news. The dentist said, "Son, you're sporting the mouth of a nine year old (waaay not cool to tell a teenager that) and since the toddler-teeth aren't letting go on their own, it's time to get a-pullin. Six of 'em while we're at it." Son #1's face lit up like a Manhattan power surge and he couldn't stop smiling. Chicklets and all.

When we came back for the oral yank-fest(bad choice of words here?), I could tell there was a bit of anticipation, but not hesitation. "Do you think they'll knock me out? Dad, did they knock you out when you had a tooth pulled? How many numbers did you get to when you counted backwards? Was it like 10-9-8-7-6-5 or was it like 10-9-888888 and then you were asleep?" All of those questions really kind of ran into one loooong question, sans any pause in between, thanks to the fight or flight response that was now giving my oldest an adrenaline-rickey. Breathe, honey, breathe.

They prepare to take Son #1 back to the tourture chamber - I mean dentist chair - and I'm surprised to see that it's in a small, separate room, right off of the waiting area, with a sliding pocket-door that they don't feel compelled to close. The novocaine needles come out, shots in the mouth ensue (hate hate hate those) and we all get a front-row seat to the scream-a-palooza that is now taking place. It continues. And continues. Do they not hear him??? I realize that it may SOUND like giggles coming out of his cakewad, but it is actually staccato shock and awe at the pain of it all. My mama bear claws come out, and tears sting my eyes as if I'm wearing an onion eye-patch. I can't take it any more.

"Excuse me, but could you PLEASE give him the Nitrous, you Mother F-ers!!!" Ok, I was a bit more composed when I actually said it, but I was cussing all over their dead bodies with my inside-myself voice.

"We're almost done. Last one! Okay, good, all done, sport!" Sadistic bastards... "Now we're ready to start the extractions."

WHAT??? You mean you haven't even pulled on his tusks yet?? There's still more screaming to come? Oh jeez, mama needs a martini, make it a triple. I'm either gonna go postal or pass-out if I have to listen to my cub make those noises again.

Minutes drag by. Husband pats my knee and gives me the "Calm down, pain is good for him" look. I'm going to rip his face off. Right after I finish with the dentist and his little assistant Toto, too.

Lucky for us all, I hear laughter. Glorious, juicy, drooly laughter, and it's coming from Son #1.

Out walks my brave boy, biting on gooey, pink gauze, tilting his head back so he doesn't slob on the waiting room floor. Such a kind, polite soul my son is. He even mumbles a "thank you" to the dentist as we walk out the door.

I also choke out my appreciation, then as soon as everyone has their backs turned, I flip them all the bird with double power. That'll learn 'em.