Hair Disaster 2009 Rapidly Approaching

Hair Disaster 2009 Rapidly Approaching

I think that most people go through a mini-mid-life crisis approximately every 5-7 years. The What Does It All Mean? crisis, where you evaluate everything in your life through a microscope and try to determine if you are where you want to be in your life and if you should be doing things differently and, for 45 year old men, if you should own a Porche.

I think it’s safe to say, and pretty obvious, that’s exactly where I am right now. Minus the Porche. Although a Porche would kind of be nice – but only if you’re offering.

And so here I am, evaluating my life choices and deciding where I want to go from here. The last time I went through one of these phases, I was single and childless. Being married with kids sure does put restrictions on the ‘where do I want to go’ part. Not that I’m complaining, as they seem to be the only things I’ve done right thus far. But, you know, it’s kind of hard to just pick up and backpack through Tibet when you’ve got a 6 month old at home that needs your boobs. So, outlining things that I would like to do and/or improve about myself is proving to be somewhat of a challenge. I kind of know where I want to be, sort of. But it’s getting there where I become completely clueless.

First on my list: my hair. I decided to start with the things that really matter. When Ty gets home from work tonight I am going to my stylist.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that getting my hair cut while I’m in this mini-mid-life crisis could possibly turn out to be the biggest mistake I make this year. Everyone has warned me and tried to prevent me from doing it. But seriously, I just can’t stop myself.

And so, tomorrow, be prepared is all I’m saying.

I can’t stop calling my husband an idiot

I can’t stop calling my husband an idiot

Renovations on my house started this weekend. We’re three days into it and already I want to blow my head off.

We’re building an addition off of our kitchen which will (someday, please, someday soon!) be an enclosed porch. And after that project is done, we’re expanding our deck to wrap around that porch and then installing an above ground pool off of that deck. But all of that means rearranging pretty much everything in our yard (pond, play set, dog’s area, patio) and finding new places for them. And after all that is done, we’re upgrading our kitchen.

I don’t know if we’ll get as far as the kitchen, though. It all depends on the pending suicide thing.

Word of advice: if you don’t like a messy house, a chaotic house, or thoughts about killing yourself, DO NOT RENOVATE!

Word of advice (squared): If you decide to renovate anyway, don’t ALSO ponder the idea of getting a mini-van. It really will push you right over the edge.

The following conversations went on this house this weekend:

Me: When will I be able to walk naked through my kitchen again without creepy contractors around?

Ty: What?! Since when are you walking around the kitchen naked? And why is this only happening when I’m not home?

Me: I’m just saying, I want to be able to walk around my kitchen naked if I want to and I can’t.

Ty: Well, once these guys are out of here, I think it should be a mandatory rule that all time spent in the kitchen should be spent naked.

Me: You’re an idiot.


Ty: After the kitchen remodel is done, what do you say we extend the garage?



Me: We really need a new vehicle.

Ty: A 1959 red convertible Cadillac, perhaps?

Me: Ummmm, no. I was thinking more along the lines of a [gulp] mini-van.

Ty: Wow, you really are losing your mind.

Me: Yes, but that’s beside the point. The fact is, we have 4 kids and only enough room for 3 of them in the back. We need more seating.

Ty: Ehhhh, so we’ll strap one to the roof.

Me: It’ll be like Darwin’s theory of Inadequate Passenger Seating: Only the strongest get to breed.

Ty: Excuse me, but my children will not be breeding even if they can hang onto the ski racks while I’m doing 80. No breeding at all. Except for the boy, he can breed up and down the east coast for all I care.

Me: Apparently you’re an exception to the theory of the BRIGHTEST ones get to breed.

Ty: [Breathe]

Me: Idiot!


Ty: [Blink}

Me: IDIOT!!!!

I hereby declare Wednesdays Drunk Blogging night

I hereby declare Wednesdays Drunk Blogging night

I spent two and a half hours in the the bathtub last night. I would have been in there longer, but after three glasses of wine, I decided it was better to go back to my family rather than drown to death. (Obviously, I really WAS drunk!)

I found everyone sleeping in the family room in their clothes in front of the TV with cheetos ground into the carpet. But, gotta love the wine, I didn’t care and instead of cleaning and getting everyone to bed, I watched American Idol and Lost on TiVo and talked to two of my friends on the phone without anyone crying in the background or shitting themselves AND had another glass of wine!

It was utopia. Very, very drunk utopia.

I woke up with a chocolate covered pretzel stick dangling from my mouth.

When everyone woke up, I was -get this- CHEERFUL! And HAPPY to see all of them! I greeted everyone with good mornings and kisses and offered to make my husband a hot breakfast before he left for work.

As my husband stood bewildered, wondering who could have body-snatched his wife, Lil Miss ran through each room of the house searching for the Real Mama.

I took some videos of the kids goofing around and pieced them together and since everyone’s coming down with YouTube fever (even though the bastards deleted Lil Miss singing The OC theme song – something about my kid being too unbelievably cute for the average human being to handle…), here ya go: (Welcome to my morning)

Will you still respect me in the morning?

Will you still respect me in the morning?

Ya’ll, I am breaking internet boundaries!

I am blogging while in the bathroom!

And drunk!

One thing you should never do: blog while in the bathroom. It’s just wrong on all kinds of different levels. Also, you run the risk of dumping your laptop into the tub at any given moment.

Another thing you should never do: blog while drunk. Not only does it make you one of Paula Abdul’s peers, but you also doubly run the risk of dumping your laptop into the tub.

But I’ve got kids. Demanding, bratty little life-sucking kids with allergies and big attitudes and lots of snot. So, when my husband came home from work and saw me on the verge of tears because the THREE YEAR OLD told me that I’m ‘IRRITATING’ her! Can you IMAGINE? The nerve! The irony! And also, the baby hasn’t stopped ripping the little hairs out of the nape of my neck all friggin day and I’m going to be bald before the day is over. And also also, I couldn’t stop stuttering all day when I spoke and I think that there’s something seriously wrong with me. And even more alsos, I had to deal with Dell customer service today for three hours -THREE HOURS!- and they speak nothing but broken-Indian-English and I had to keep saying “Excuse me?” and the guy was clearly getting annoyed with me and it made me feel like I was being racist or something because I was getting annoyed that he couldn’t speak English and then I got pissed off because FUCK THIS FLACK, I SAID I’D NEVER GO DELL AGAIN AND HERE I AM DEALING WITH DELL ANYWAY AND YOU STILL SUCK AS USUAL AND YA’LL CAN SUCK IT! And yes, I really said FLACK to a Dell associate and THANK GOD he speaks such broken English because he would have split his pancreas in half laughing at me otherwise – That’s when he grabbed the baby from my manic arms in sheer terror and begged me to have a glass of whine and take a bubble bath (quickly followed by removing all available razors. So you’ll just have to deal with my stubbly legs.) At first he acted as though he was actually going to have to CONVINCE me to come take a bubble bath, but once he realized that he was holding a 14 lb baby and eating my dust, I think he realized how foolish that was.

So here I am, breaking internet boundaries, blogging while drunk in my bathtub.

Who wants to make a bet with me that my 3 year old is banging on the bathroom door as I type this whining for me to let her in because she wants to take a bath with me? Actually, I withdraw the bet because I WOULDN’T KNOW! Because I have the volume of my MP3 player turned up so loud, I might rupture an eardrum.

But ha! What a small price to pay for solitude and naked, drunken blogging.

Random Randomness

Random Randomness

I had no idea eczema is so common in kids. All ya’ll have little scaly kids just like me! I LOVE IT! And you’re all so helpful with your wise wisdom of Eucerin, Aquaphor, Crisco, and molten lava. Look! Even Google is trying to help me out over there! Maybe ads really DO have a purpose. Maybe that makes up for the ad you may or may not have had to click on just to get through to this page! Gah, I know! I didn’t MEAN for that to happen; it just happened, because I let things just happen all the time because, if I shall be so honest, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing around here. And if it could happen to Amalah, Queen of Everything, then I don’t feel so bad about it happening to me. Except, I do feel bad because I feel bad for you. After all, you only wanted to get an update on Snake Boy – because it’s THAT exciting!- and then you get pummelled with a whole page ad. . I promise not to let it happen again. (More like I promise to pretend I’ll get smart and not let it happen again.)

I KNEW the Internet was being too nice to me, though. I KNEW it was just a matter of time before I got an email telling me to try actually BATHING my ugly kids once in a while and maybe Snake Boy wouldn’t be so snake like. To this, I say, bathing? What is this word you say, bathing? We don’t need no stinking bathing. We find comfort in the stenches of one another. So go away and take this strange word bathing with you; we have no use for it.

How was your Friday night? I bet it wasn’t NEARLY as exciting as MY Friday night! The Friday night I spent curled up on my couch with my laptop, watching the Olympic opening ceremonies. I know, I know, a responsible mother would never be so adventurous, so foolhardy! But they didn’t call me Devil-May-Care in school for nothing! Okay, you got me. They never called me Devil-May-Care (because who would make up such a stupid nickname?) in school , they called me DJ Tanner. Which is? NOT. FUNNY.

So, yeah, I watched the Italians light a bunch of shit on fire. Then Yoko Ono came out of nowhere to talk about peace which was totally appropriate, I thought, because when I think Olympics, I think Yoko Ono. But she didn’t even really talk because she still can’t speak English. I heard: “My husband, John Lennon” and “Peace”. WOW! She’s really updated her vocabulary in the past 30some years! Am I the only one a little perplexed at why she’s still got the broken english skills of Jackie Chan? In fact, Jackie Chan sounds like Winston Churchill in comparison. Maybe more like Pauly Shore.

Then they announced that Peter Gabriel was going to perform and I got all excited and hemmed up because squeeeeee! Peter Gabriel! So not worthy and all that. But then he comes out with his piano and a dew rag (ala Nelly) and sings Imagine in a way that could only be outshone by Ben Stein in concert. (Bueller?) And Imagine? Really? I mean, I get it and all: war going on, imagine all the people, oh bla di, oh bla dah… but how cheesey. And I couldn’t help but imagine a time when Peter Gabriel would have rather been set on fire than to sing a John Lennon song at the fucking Olympics. Now, YOU may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

Sorry about that. Talk about cheesey.

Mmmmmmm, cheese. Cheese sounds good. I’ve been on the Elimination Diet for… oh, 24 hours, and already and I think I might cower in the corner in the fetal position and cry. Do you KNOW how many Burger King commercials there were during the Olympics? (And is it just me, or is the Buger King himself truly frightening?) Do you KNOW how badly I want a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats? (Tesco, you bastard!) Food, you are my bitch-whore-lover!

And seriously, I would tackle my Grandmother to the floor and give her the Atomic Elbow right now for a chocolate martini. I mean, if that was the deal that someone would be prepared to strike, not just because.

Yes, I’m aware that it’s not even noon yet.

I’m Back! Now With More Cranberry & Vodka!

I’m Back! Now With More Cranberry & Vodka!

The internet is so weird. Seriously. If I so much as leave the first r out of February, I get 15 emails in the matter of hours letting me know what a fucking moron am I and how I should go back to first grade and take some spelling lessons or just letting me know that Hey! there’s this handy little gizmo on your toolbar called spellcheck. Use it, motherfucker. But I exceed my bandwidth and have no website at all for 24+ hours and I get all of three emails. THREE.* Total. That’s it. You’re all off my Christmas card list. Which reminds me, I never sent out my Christmas cards last year. But that’s because I never got a chance to write any out. Because, well, I never bought any. But THIS year I am so making a Christmas card list and I’m going to put your names on it and then cross them all off. TAKE THAT!

But really, I didn’t even notice that my website was down until this morning because I’ve been busy. I won’t bore you with the mundane and exhausting details. All I’ll say is that there were CONTRACTORS in the house that we’ve lived in for less than a year and I heard the words ADDITION and FOUNDATION and NEW ROOF and LOTS AND LOTS OF DOLLA’ DOLLA’ BILLS being thrown around. I didn’t hear the rest, though, because I had to excuse myself so that I could barf in private. So, I didn’t have any time to check up on the site. Figures it goes down when I’m not around.

WHY would you be putting yourself through a major house renovation, you ask? Because, I answer, we are sadistic, materialistic, unsatisfied fools. That is the best answer I can give you.

Really, though, we’ve had these plans in mind since we bid on this house. We only had X amount of cash to spend on a house and we decided that instead of getting a really kickass house in an okay neighborhood, we would get an okay house in a really kickass neighborhood and improve it as we go along.

(By kickass I mean snobby, stereotypical, and yuppified. But the school system can’t be beat, crime is almost non-existent, and we live on the river. So, that’s also what I mean by awesome.)

(But I had no idea that living on a river would be SO FUCKING COLD in the winter time. Also, since it’s the Delaware River, I can’t look at the amazing view without thinking about all the dead bodies that must be floating around in there. So, scratch the whole river thing off the awesome list.)

I just tried to proof-read this and it’s not making any sense at all, which only means one thing: happy hour is well into gear. Happy weekend, everyone.

It’s hopeless….

It’s hopeless….

Back in my wannabe rock star days, I used to go to concerts and shows pretty much every night of the week. Good ones, bad ones, it didn’t really matter. And it got to the point where it was near impossible at the time to name a present day band that I hadn’t seen, probably multiple times.

I’ve saved almost every single ticket stub which I’ve actually considered renting out a public storage unit in which to keep. And I have so many memories, I should write a book. But don’t worry, I won’t cause I know the stories are only amusing to me. But I will pain you with a few because without them, I wouldn’t have an entry, and I already skipped yesterday… So, memories:

Like the time I went to see the Beastie Boys** and the guy standing next to me who kept asking me for my phone number by saying “Gimme the digits” got stabbed in the shoulder (it wasn’t me, I swear) by a complete stranger, for no reason at all, and the digits guy didn’t even realize it. I had to tap him on the non-bloody shoulder and tell him “Dude, you’ve got a knife in your back.”

Or like the time I thought I was buying tickets to see The Cranberries, even though I wasn’t a fan, but I guess I hadn’t learned how to read just yet because I actually bought tickets to see The Cardigans and spent the night listening to some perky broad singing about kissing her by the broken tree house or some shit.

How about the time I went to a Beck show and decided I would give the mosh pit a visit since I didn’t picture Beck fans, in their polyester lesiure suits, to be all that rough. But, the second that Beck came out and started singing a song called “Satan Gave Me A Taco”, the geeks turned into Slayer fans from hell and started throwing me all over the place. Within the first 5 seconds of the show, my most favoritest red sneaker came off and I spent the rest of the show hopping around on one foot looking for it. I never did find it, but by the end of the show, when everyone had cleared out, there was a graveyard of shoes up front. I dug through the pile, but to no avail, so I actually had to take a stranger’s scuzzy ass shoe and wear it home. I know, eww, but Athlete’s Foot seemed a lot more appealing than having to take Philadelphia Public Transportation home in a bare foot.

And the time that I had my purse draped over my neck at a Metallica show, and I was right up front against the gate. A bunch of big guys decided they wanted my spot, so they all started pushing their way through the crowd. My pocketbook somehow got flipped over the other side of the gate with me still attached to it on the other side and started to strangle me. The guys didn’t notice, they just kept pushing. Finally, one of the guards saw me turning purple and unleashed me.

OH! And (last one, I swear) 2 years ago when I went to see Billy Idol. I had only had Lil Miss about 3 months prior and I was all hormonal and down in the dumps and feeling completely gross and all that post-birth junk. But then? Billy Idol called me gorgeous from up on stage and kissed my hand (Obviously he hasn’t given up the drugs just yet). Then he went and did the same thing to about 15 other girls – but I bet I was the only one that had just given birth, damnit!

Anyway, I really do have better stories than this. These are just the first that are coming to mind. And I’m a bad story teller. But, the stories could go on. And on. And on. But I won’t bore you with any more. Still, they were all fun in their own ways, even though I never did find my beloved red sneaker.

I used to swear that I would NEVER get old and stop going to shows. But now? It’s been months since I’ve gone to see anyone. And it’s killing me! So, I decided this morning that I would change all that and went to Ticketmaster and searched through a list of upcoming events, trying to find something that would make me cool again. And got tickets to see 2 different shows. Wanna know who?

Sesame Street Live


Dora The Explorer: Pirate Adventure
** And just for the record, I HATE the Beastie Boys.

Kids today will never know of a life without the internet, cell phones, digital cameras, or the chinese female version of Michael Jackson

Kids today will never know of a life without the internet, cell phones, digital cameras, or the chinese female version of Michael Jackson

I’ve tried posting an entry which makes fun of my husband and all of his machoism 2 times now and both times my internet connection has taken a crap on me, causing me to lose the entire thing. And it’s long. And I’m not doing it again. Not now anyway. I’ll post it when my internet isn’t being a complete dickhead, which might be tomorrow – I don’t know, we’re still not talking…

But all of this has caused me to try to remember life before the internet – because, you know, there really WAS life before the internet. I know most of us have repressed all of those horrible memories, but it’s true. And I can’t for the life of me remember what the hell I ever did. What did YOU do before the internet?

Last Post of the Year …

Last Post of the Year …

This year has gone so fast. In fact, every year goes by faster and faster with no signs of slowing down. Life is hectic. But life is good too.

New Years has a tendency to make me (and everyone) reflect on all that I DIDN’T do over the course of the year. Then I get depressed and swear that I’m going to do it all differently this coming year. But then I’m depressed so I don’t do anything differently.

But not this year. Life is too short, goes by too fast to worry about yesterday. So I’m going to do something that I never do and congratulate myself on all the things that I did do this year.

I finished my book. And finished it ON TIME. Something that I didn’t think was going to happen. I might not be the world’s best writer – hell, the book probably won’t even sell. But I told myself that I was going to finish it and I didn’t quit and I didn’t make excuses for why I couldn’t do it… I just did it. And I’m proud of every word and every night I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning to finish.

I didn’t get pregnant, but I have become something that resembles a good mother to the daughter that I do have. I’m the first to admit that I’m more than slightly nuerotic and still leave much to be desired, but I’m getting there. Slowly.

I’ve learned how to walk away from fights with my husband – something that I couldn’t do before. In the past, if something was said or done to light my fuse, I would jump head first into an argument. But now I’m calmer and more rational. I can walk away and cool off for a half hour or so and come back and talk about the problem at hand without dreaming of putting a steak knife through his thorax.

I learned how to cook the most amazing Jumbayala on earth.

I made the first steps towards starting my own at home business.

I’ve kept the house clean, the laundry washed, and the dishes done all by myself. Not that my husband doesn’t want or offer to do these things, but being the OCD perfectionist freak that I am, I prefer to do them myself. And I’ve done a mighty fine job.

And although I still do obsess about the size of my ass, I have learned that I no longer have the luxury to harm myself in the name of beauty. I have a daughter now that I have to set examples for. That means eating right and staying healthy even if I have to wear jeans a size or two bigger than I used to. (Size 2, oh how I miss you!)

And that’s all that I can think of now.

No, I didn’t climb Everest… or do anything interesting for that matter. But I made it through the year without jumping off a bridge. And sometimes – hell, most of the time – that’s good enough.

Happy New Year everyone.

Turning into my Mother, it’s like turning into The Fly.

Turning into my Mother, it’s like turning into The Fly.

Last night we were sitting around the dining room table, stuffing our faces full of spinach lasagna, when I made a confession to my husband.

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Can’t take what?”
“What?! Can’t take what? How can you stand it?”
“Was I just sleeping or something? What did I miss?”
“The napkin. In your lap. WHY do you put a napkin in your lap when you eat?”
“This?” [holds up napkin, my skin shrivels me into a raisin]
“Yes, that! You always eat with the napkin in your lap. Like you’re dressed in a tux or something. Why?”
“Well, I dunno… My mom made us do it when we were kids. I’ve done it ever since….”

Then he laughed and pointed out to me that I have more pet peeves than anyone he has ever met, and he even had a friend in high school whose nickname was PEEVES. Guess why.

So, we opened up the couch, started the timer and began extensive RockStar psycho therapy. We tried figuring out exactly why I want to bite my fingers off when I see my husband put a napkin in his lap.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

It took a while, but finally I really did realize why. “Because my MOTHER does the same. exact. fucking. thing. She eats with the napkin in her lap, even if she’s only eating a cracker. It makes me want to choke the life out of her.”

Then the flood gates opened. No, I didn’t start crying. It’s only a fucking napkin, people! But, I started realizing that every pet peeve that I have? Originates solely from my Mother. Every. Last. One.

Refrigerated peanut butter.
The expression “TMI”.
Saying “Itch it” instead of “Scratch it”. That’s just so not right.
Pronouncing “pillow” like “pilla”.
Buns – not the food, the hair style.
Fingernails painted the same color as your skin
Hand towels that are solely for decoration, not for anyone to use {WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?}
Living rooms that you can’t live in.
Cloth napkins. No way am I sopping up that big glob of ketchup on your pretty white cloth napkin. Just give me paper, thanks.
Correcting the way I pronounce something, especially if you’re trying to pronounce it like we live in Great Britain.
Driving under the speed limit. Especially in the left lane.
People that are afraid to get dirty, laugh loud, or have fun. I want to dip you in chocolate and make you jump on the moon bounce while stuffing your face full of candy. You’re going to have fun, damn it. And you’re going to LOVE it.

Okay, I could go on. And on. And on. And on some more. Until you really hate me and think I’m the snobbiest, most high maintenance person you have ever seen. But it’s not like that. Or maybe it is. Either way, I don’t care. All I know is that these things bug the living hell out of me and now I know why! And it’s not because these things are exactly annoying. It’s because I made a promise to myself a very long time ago that I would NEVER become my Mother. And I have been fighting off the genetic plague of Martha Stewart meets Mommie Dearest ever since.

I’m using all of my energy making sure that I never turn out to be like my Mother. Meanwhile, I’m such a controlling freak about it, that I’m exactly like her! Gah! Growing up sucks.

And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put my head in the oven…