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.

Preparing Peacock Pate'

We live on Cooper Mountain. It's lovely up here. We have a wonderful view and a large yard lined with towering firs and cedars. You might call it A Little Slice Of Serenity.

And it used to be. But then late Spring happened, and the screaming started.

The very first time I heard it, Husband and I were sitting outside on our deck, enjoying a crisp but sunny late April afternoon. In the midst of our enjoyment, waaaay off in the distance, we heard a muted half-honk, followed by five successive birthday party horn-blows. (You know those party favors, right? You blow into the end that looks like an overgrown cigarette filter and then the rolled-up tail unfurls, fills with air and makes that horn-fart sound. Too fun.) Husband and I turned toward each other, both of us wearing the "what the f*** was that?" look, and waited for the next honk. It never came. Until night time. Then it went on for hours. And hours. And, yes, some more hours. Right outside our window.

"Husband," I said, "I do believe that pesky perturbance is a prowling peacock." Ok, I didn't use all of that alliteration, but I DID call it right. Somehow, someway, some dumbshit left their pet peacock out here on top of this mountain when they moved far, far away. I'm sure Petey was a wonderful member of their family for a good eight months or so, and then the Season of Love came along and he had no girlfriend. He probably saw the squirrels doing it, the bunnies doing it, everyone doing it. And he wanted to do it, too, so he cleared his throat and let out his best let's-get-it-on holla. That's when his former owners packed up their crap and took off for Omaha.

Petey is STILL waiting for some she-cock to answer his horny-horn. He screams for her constantly, but it ain't happenin' and he ain't getting that through his tiny skull peanut. I will say this... he IS a persistent bugger. And he is gorgeous. During the day. It IS kinda cool to have a zoo-bird prancing around your yard. During the day. It seems like a lucky omen to have him in our presence, in the wild. During the day. During the day. During the damn day.

So, the dilemma...Husband, Sons and I like to do our sleeping at night. Peacock does not. Peacock likes to let out his pent-up frustration at night. Who would have guessed that those feathered packs of poultry could fly sky-high to roost mid-tree in one of those towering firs I told you about earlier. You know, the ones that line our property. Right outside our window.

I have declined the many offers of pellet-gun service from friends and relatives. Drunk men have tried to scare it out of its evening perch by tossing dirt-clods at it, but they've only managed to hit the neighbor's house. Husband has even promised Sons cash on the barrel if they could sling-shot a pine cone in its vicinity, but no luck. No one wants to hurt the dang bird, we just want it to fly away at night. Actually, we just want it to shut up. I'm totally okay with him taking up residence in my tree, he just needs to do it quietly.

So if you have any suggestions on how we can all just get along, please write!! For the sake of all sleep-deprived humans and sex-starved fowl.

Games People Play

"Mom, I'm bored. Wanna play Monopoly?" This is the one question I dread most out of Son #2's piehole. Don't get me wrong - I love playing with my boys, be it kicking around a soccer ball, dodging their too aggressive serves in ping-pong, or shuffling out a quick slap-down of crazy eights. Did you see that word QUICK in the last sentence? Son#2 wants to play Monopoly.

Quick + Monopoly = DOESN'T EXIST!!!!

The same goes for The Game Of Life. Sweet creampuffs, THAT is why they call it a BORED game. It takes for freakin ever!! By the time I finally get the grandkids and go to the retirement home, I really WILL be a resident of Shady Acres Assisted Living, shoveling lime jello into my toothless maw and screaming for someone to change my damn diaper!! And the picture of the mom and dad and sis and brother on the cover, all smiles. Please. You just know mom is eating prescription Valium and dad is flat out skunk-drunk, that's why they're smiling. And their bratty kids are smiling because they plan on getting the folks to play a quick round of Monopoly after this game is done. Fun times had by all, people!

Who creates these "family games" that last several dang days anyway? Don't they realize I have stuff to do?

If you have any favorite games which last for less than seven minutes, please let me know. I really do shower my children with attention, but I do it best in small doses.

Red, Red Wine

Mama loves the juice, it's true. There's something about the fermented grape that surpasses all other drunk-sauces. This luscious liquid feels sexy on my tongue, velvety in my throat, and sultry in my tummy. The curious thing about me and red wine, however, be it a cab, pinot, merlot, sirah, or zin (or a mixture thereof) is that I feel just as buzzed from one glass as I do from four. Wassup wit dat? It's as if all of the get-me-plowed molecules are stored in the first pour. Which is actually a GOOD thing because it really saves me on the calories. If I'm going to consume a hefty 600+ cals, I want there to be cheese involved. Mmmmm, cheeeeeese. That's going to go right nicely with this here glass of Malbec... CHEERS!

Zumba Zumba Zoom

Zumba. It sounds like something exotic and mysterious, doesn't it? Say it with me now. Zuuuumbaaa. The word conjures up deep, dark forests. Hidden ancient cities. Big, black porn stars. Oops. Anyway, what is Zumba, you ask? (You're curious now that I mentioned porn. Admit it.)

Zumba is my newest addiction. However, sports fans, it's a GOOD for you addiction, so feel free to clap amongst yourselves while I shimmy into my way-too-tight leotard and head off to Zumba class!

With its fusion of hip-hop and Latin dance styles, you grind, groan, and groove your way into a sweaty skin-sack of stink, burning 700 calories along the way. The beats are pumpin', the hearts are thumpin', and the hips are humpin', all thanks to the gorgeous instructor's choreography that we are supposedly mimicking. Ya, right. No one in class can even come close to her "phunkiness", especially since the majority of our group is in their pudgy-butt forties, myself included. I mean come on....we think we still look cool doing the electric slide! The skipper at the helm of this dance-party, however, is an ultra-limber twentyish MTV video superfrau. Sometimes she shakes her tush so fast and so violently, I mentally move to the side so that I won't be struck in the face by the flying ass I know is coming my way. We all realize that we'll never be able to move like her, no matter how many hours of Zumba we stuff into our onesie, but it's fun to try anyway. And she doesn't laugh out loud anymore, so that helps.

The stuffy room is always packed, corner to corner and all hot spots in between - at least 65 women at a time. We do have our one token gay guy in class, whom we all adore. He goes completely ballroom at several points in the hour long get-it-on, and no one else does a sashay with such panache. Plus, we know he isn't trying to sneak a peak when we're bent over, grabbing our ankles and booty bouncing, since he has a vagina of his own and all. It's nice that way.

I cannot recommend this Zumba situation highly enough. Do a nice thing for yourself and try it. You might like it! Then you might love it. Then you might hop from gym to gym just so you can get your Zumba fix, like me. :)

The Turds And The Fleas

You all know that you'll have to have "The Talk" with your children at some point. Better sooner than later, because if you leave it up to their friends to educate them, you never know what kind of information they'll receive and believe. So take a deep breath, maybe slam a glass of wine or two, then dive in head-first. Your children MUST know the truth about...becoming a pet owner.

Yes kiddies, there's poo, there's pee, there's puddles of yellow juice full of undigested grass. There's howling, there's nipping, there's hair all over your favorite coat. Welcome to ownerdom.

When I finally talked Husband into adding a four-legged something-or-other to our family, Son #1 and Son #2 were all in. There were promises-promises-pinky-swears till the cows came home. "We'll feed it, we'll water it, we'll train it, we'll walk it. We'll even pick up the doodie." I didn't believe any of it, and rightly so.

Flash forward five years and you'll find the dog's water bowl is bone-ass dry, his food bowl is as bare as a centerfold, and if he could cross his legs to hold in his pee, he would, since they never let him out to go potty. Seriously, that dog has a bladder on him that could contain a public pool. Which is surprising since he apparently never gets any water accept from me. This is all my fault.

Let me HIGHLY recommend that your children attend the "pick out the pet" event. It will foster in them a better sense of responsibility towards this hairy addition to your family. Learn from my mistake, or you too will always be a water-filling, kibble-supplying, ball-chucking, poo snagger-upperer.

You see, our first pup had died just a few weeks after we brought him home. Seems that silly shelter forgot to mention that this puppy had parvo, a fatal disease, when they handed him off and accepted our check. After much heartbreak any many tears, I went back alone to the shelter, searching for a "replacement" which I could never find. Then along came Max. He is more than we could've hoped for. But the real bond is between him and I, his lone rescuer. Sure, the other three malefolk in this house love him, but I took him to obedience training (he was a nightmare), I took him in to get neutered (sorry 'bout that, doggie), and I take him in for his shots (he loves the biscuit after, which is the canine equivalent to a dum-dum sucker). Max is my dog. If only I would have shared the fun (not-fun).

A pet can be a huge part of growing up. It can teach a child so many lessons, but most of all, it can teach them love. So if you're going to give that wonderful gift to your offspring, please allow them the experience of really caring for the animal from the very start. Turds, fleas and all.

In The Cut

What's with men and their love of ladies with long locks? I get the boob thing, and the butt thing, but what's the hair thing? Maybe the attraction to yards of scalp-yarn is actually embedded in their cavemen genes as a safety factor during the "me drag you back to my cave, ug-ug" ritual... the longer the hair, the farther the distance between her angry, swinging limbs and his balls. That's one theory anywho.

In most men's eyes, as long as you're sporting Godiva-length tresses, you're automatically kept out of the woofer pile. I've seen many ugly exotic dancers (well, OK, I don't go to the clubs enough to say 'many', but I've been there and have seen some real howlers) who must be using their hair to cover their dog-chow faces because, drum roll please... the guys don't seem to care what's between said strippers' forehead and chin as long as their voluminous curls cascade down past their tramp-stamp. It's the boob-butt-hair tri-fecta that earns the big tips. Doesn't matter if their face looks like a Denver omelet.

It's a darn shame, too, because a crop-top can be hot hot hot. In case you've forgotten, Pink has a total dyke-do, and she's straight-up smokin'. Rhianna, punky half-shave, sexy business. Even Jamie Lee Curtis, butchy butchy hair, rockin' the silvers, still workin' it.

I'll never understand this long-hair man-rule, although I do choose to abide by its code. You see, Husband is one of those cavemen. Yes, I wear it long. I do it for him. That's the way I roll. For now.