The Plea I Meant To Send to You All on Friday.

I'm in trouble.

I have to tell a friend of mine that I can’t go with her to see an 80’s cover band play Saturday night because I made prior plans that I forgot about. (Finally, music I would know all the words to, and I can’t go! Where my old, ripped jean jacket and Bruce Springsteen t-shirt will be in style! Where my white-girl overbite will look chic! Oh, who am I kidding? The overbite will never look chic; it was cool for three hours in mid-1987, and I think I was having my braces tightened at the time.)

The thing is, I hate to disappoint the friend. Sure, I can tell myself that it was only a tentative agreement to see the band because I DID say I needed to check my calendar, which was not with me, but there is one thing wrong with that: I don’t technically have a calendar, and I was joking when I said it. See, I usually tell myself I need to write things down on a calendar…and then I forget and leave it up to my friends and family to call and remind me.

Yeah…I know. I suck.

But you are being judgmental! So there. I suck, and you are condemnatory-- now, can you please let go of your righteousness and climb off your soapbox in order to help me with my crisis?

So, how do I tell the friend?

Maybe she won’t be mad when I tell her that the previous commitment is for a charity event? (Of course, the charity is technically going to my other friend, Lauren, who needs fifteen people to show up at a purse party in order to get a free purse of her choice…. Still, charity is charity, and we shouldn’t judge Lauren-- or her obsession with handbags.)

Plus, I am an integral part of the charity event. (I told Lauren I would not come unless the purse rep brought a wide selection of animal print Dooney and Bourke [inspired] bags, and Lauren went to great lengths to ensure that a significant number of said bags were available and destined for her party.)

Further, I would have called sooner to cancel our tentative plans, but I became caught up in a sticky situation at work that had to be resolved. (I spent a great deal of time eating chocolate at my desk worrying about how to tell the friend I have to cancel.)

Last, I became terribly ill. (With cramps.)

So, you see it simply is not my fault that I can’t go!

(God, at this rate I won’t have any friends left.)

What do I do??

I Guess It's All About Me...Again.

Know who might be petty and judgmental? Me.

I began to question this when I grew introspective after noticing that my Jon and Kate Plus 8 television viewing time was waning. (Know who is obsessively introspective? Me.) (Know who makes global assumptions about her personality based solely on her reaction to reality television? Again, me.)

I used to enjoy the show. The episode when Kate revealed her post-sextuplet belly, reminiscent of layer upon layer of loosely packed, pale pink ground beef? I was there. The episode when they tried to camp out in the backyard with all eight children—and it poured? I was there. The episode when Kate screamed across Toys R Us for Jon to quit playing with the toys, grow up, and help her parent their brood? I was there.

But lately I’ve lost interest.

The new episode teasers don’t even tempt me.

I’ve seen their show available in a time slot in which I am available, and I’ve scrolled right past.

Once, I was mistaken about the day that Burn Notice was on and rejected Jon and Kate to reread a book I’d finished earlier in the week.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Jon and Kate, what happened to us?

That’s when I knew. They lost me when they started bleaching their teeth, getting hair plugs, hiring nannies, taking all expense paid trips to Maui, and considered buying a home on an island inhabited by wild horses.

Would I ever consider doing those things? Sure. (Minus the hair plugs.) But when my reality television stars started living the American Dream, I lost interest. I guess I prefer Jon and Kate to be frazzled and harried, not calm and independently wealthy.

Does this make me petty and judgmental? Maybe.

But it may also be that the American Dream is sort of …well…boring.

I think I’ll tune in again when all of those kids hit their teen years. Five hormonal, adolescent girls living in a house with a menopausal, obsessive-compulsive mother? Now THAT? Is good television.

Economic Stimulus Package #378

Remember how I am a financial expert? I am—along with everyone else who waxes eloquent about the current state of the U.S.’s economy. In order to assist in righting America’s economic woes, I offer a partial solution: creative taxation.

Here’s the idea: We could begin placing taxes on items or scenarios we would like to see improved in our society. In this way, we can decrease the amount of things we DON’T want while IMPROVING our current financial climate. Before you poke holes in my idea and pee on my parade, consider that there is precedent for my argument: the taxes placed on tobacco products. We can simply take this concept and expand upon it. (Note: This brilliant idea came to me when a green Chevy truck cut me off and then threw trash out of his window, so I can’t take all of the credit.)


Items I Would Like To See Up For Creative Taxation:

People Who Cut Me Off and Then Throw Trash Out Their Window.

People Who Use the Phrase “Back in the Day.” Unless it is evening and one is referring to something that happened during the recent hours of sunlight, there is no use for this phrase.

People who “kidnap” others on Facebook.—Seriously, what is the point??

People Who Use Texting Lingo in Conversations—I understand shortening words when texting, but when we’re speaking? Why?

Acronyms Of Any Kind—I’ve noticed that most meetings I attend are rife with acronyms. I’ve also noticed that most people in these meetings look confused when these acronyms are mentioned, and lean over to ask others around them what these acronyms mean. Then, I’ve noticed many people shrugging their shoulders as if to say “I don’t know what these stupid acronyms mean—just smile and nod.” Pretty soon everyone is smiling and nodding. When the meeting is over, no one knows what happened. Acronyms went the way of the word “paradigm.” They are unnecessarily overused to make things sound important. Please, dispense with acronyms, people…unless you are my boss, in which case I am a BIG fan of the creative acronym! (Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.)

Monotone speaking- If minutes of my life are squandered upon monotone speakers, those speakers should have to pay. Literally. The up side to this is that people will work on their delivery prior to public speaking in order to cut down on their taxes and –viola- we all win! Think how much better morning meetings will become when the presenter uses inflection!

Commercials and Advertisements of Any Sort (particularly the unoriginal variety)—There is a commercial where a bunch of people stand on their rooftops shouting to each other about how much they love some product. (It might be a coffee product, but I can’t be sure. I am too busy gagging at the stupidity of the commercial’s concept.) Dude. We get it. The product will make us want to shout from the rooftops. However, the creators of that commercial should have to pay a tax for such lack of originality.

Addictions —For me, this means that M&M’s would carry an increased tax. I am okay with this. I need some sort of deterrent.

Whining—My sons would be heavily in debt.

People Who Don’t Use Their Turn Signals—Think how smooth morning traffic would be if people weren’t screeching their brakes around you when you make your unexpected turns.

People Who Use Too Much Axe Deodorant Spray—I can’t pass by the men’s locker room without gagging on the smell of body odor and, ironically, Axe. Do we not understand the concept of ANTI-PERSPIRANT?? People, use deodorant PRIOR to working out AND after.

People Who Come to Work Sick and Pass Their Virus to Innocent Coworkers--This one really requires no explanation.

People Who Hold Up Their Finger In Order To Answer Their Cells While in the Middle of Conversations.

People Who Don’t Get Out of Merging Lanes Until the Last Second and Expect Us All to Accommodate Them—You know who you are.

Restaurants who keep people waiting when there are open tables.

Any to add?

WOMAN FOUND DROWNED ON KITCHEN FLOOR

That’s the headline I’m expecting will appear in the newspapers this weekend documenting my loss.

See, I’m trying to work up my courage to use a netti pot. My coworkers swear by this miniature teapot used to pour saltwater in one nostril, through the sinus cavity, and out the other nostril. “Trish, it clears out your sinuses!” “Trish, it’s the best thing for allergies!” “Trish, it makes me breathe so much better!” They claim that the netti pot has amazing powers. There is only so much netti pot talk one can hear before one starts to wonder.

Still, I can’t help but feel as though I am opening myself up to voluntary drowning.

Is this my coworkers’ twisted way of getting me to water board myself?

Probably.

Sappy? No Question: Yes.

But I am compelled by something outside of myself to write this.

What is it about spring that triggers the memory center of my cerebral cortex? It’s probably the physical representation of rebirth occurring in nature. The splash of new rain on my cheeks and the tip of my nose brings me back to my first kiss. (A sloppy one, apparently.) The sun warming my shoulders after a long winter reminds me of the arms of the child-men whose touch felt similarly tender. The green scent of damp earth on the breeze becomes the heady, bitter-sweet scent of first intimacy.

The rain whispers these memories back to me, and they aren’t entirely unwelcome. Like visiting with old friends, it is nice to reminisce and part ways smiling. As I head home with my window part way down and the heat still part way up, enjoying the long-awaited change in season, these memories tickle the backs of my eyelids and slip along my brows.

And as I pack them away to be unearthed in later years, I think how lucky I am to have these sweet reminders to warm my future springs. I hope we all have such beautiful memories.

Who's a Bad Mommy Now?

Why do I need a new dryer?

So I don’t get arrested for child neglect, that’s why.

Allow me to explain:

My dryer has been doing strange things lately. It rattles. It rumbles. It sucks my clothes into the space between the rotating drum and the back of the dryer and leaves big black smudges or, worse, holes. Dryers aren’t particularly difficult pieces of machinery to understand-- or so my husband tells me-- so he keeps fiddling with the dryer parts until the drum is back in place, and the clunking sound emanating from its innards is only mildly irritating. Plus, the dryer is in the basement, so the sound doesn’t grate on me too terribly. More importantly, I can appreciate a man who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, and I like the way Scott looks when he’s sweaty and carrying tools-- so I’ve lived with the deafening thunder of my dryer for months. Until last Sunday….

I had a big pile of clothes and sheets that weren’t ironing themselves. (Yes, I iron some sheets. Don’t judge me.) It was one of those Sundays where one spends the whole day sweating in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, cleaning. Scott was playing with the boys, so I thought I’d get busy wrestling wrinkles with my Osterman 3000 and a can of spray starch. I was just getting in a groove when Scott came downstairs to tell me Noah was asleep in his crib and Josh was working on some algebra problems at the kitchen table. (Okay, okay, he watching cartoons and eating popcorn.) Scott felt that this was a good time for him to run out and get a hair cut while I finished up the ironing. I waved him off and threw some wet clothes in the dryer while I continued my de-wrinkling labors.

I must have been really into my mindless chore because I suddenly had a whole pile of ironed sheets and clothing. Sweaty, pajama-clad, make-up-less, huge pimple in the middle of my forehead (Say hello to my little friend….) me walks out of the basement to find my neighbors sitting in my living room. I arrive just in time to hear, “Well, Josh, mommy might just be in the basement. Did you look in the basement?”

Apparently, Scott told me what Josh was doing, but didn’t tell Josh what I was doing before he left to have his tresses trimmed. Josh, upon hitting the bottom of the popcorn bowl, decided to look for mommy. He called for her. No one came. He got the bright idea to ring the doorbell, but the thunderous dryer sounds drowned out the doorbell. Finally, in desperation, my poor little guy saw our neighbor shoveling snow, opened the door, and called to him to come over because “I’m not allowed to cross the street, and my mommy is missing.”

Gulp. Not only was I the worst mommy in the world, but I dressed for the part, too. All I needed were a few wire hangers and the Mommy Dearest look would have been complete.

I think Home Depot will be happy to see me grace their home appliances section.

Of Mice and Men...and Metaphors

I heard something encouraging while working out in our school’s weight room. I was sharing the weights with the wrestling team, and was fairly unnoticed due to the superfluity of weight lifting apparatus in the crowded facility. (I tend to hide my novice weight-lifting self behind the leg extension machine. For obvious reasons.)

Wrestler Number One glances at Wrestler Number Two, poses in the mirror, and scoffs, “Dude, check out my big, hard piece of steel!”

“What are you talking about?” queries Wrestler Number Two.

“Dude. I was making a metaphor. Forget it,” sighs Wrestler Number One before going back to bicep curls.

While there are many, many jokes we could make about Wrestler Number One’s “big, hard piece of steel,” I think it is notable that he used the correct literary terminology when opening himself up to mockery.

Score one for the English Department!

(As Kuj wrote in a previous post, I am patting myself on the back and fist-punching the air ala’ Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. Take THAT No Child Left Behind!)

Catholic+Withdrawl= LENT

I am doing something that only the insane and the Lenten Catholics do: giving up soft drinks.

Here’s how the genesis of this idea came about. One of my coworkers (a stunningly gorgeous miniature version of a Greek goddess) has been “getting healthy.” I believe I have mentioned this bitty-Barbie in the past. This is the same uber-healthy blond who has me eating lots of vegetables—but I digress. This gorgeous bombshell has been making all of these healthy changes in her life and, yes, she is glowing.

(I doubled checked, no pregnancy is involved. This is a shame because if pregnancy was responsible for her dynamic change I would want no part of that animal and simply continue doing what I am doing, which is lolling about in general unhealthiness, a place in which I am familiar. Instead, I am left with a decision to either lumber along in her glowing direction or hang back here in dull skin-ville. I can’t allow my skin to grow more lackluster, so you know which choice I have to make.)

Thus, I have given up soft drinks in lieu of water and begun my own healthy regime.

Again.

True, I tried this back in the fall and fell back into my strict Dove Chocolate and McDonald’s diet fairly quickly. This time, however, I have made my intentions public. Now I have lots of people asking me about my progress, which should help keep me motivated.

Of course, “should” was the operative word in the last sentence. I’ll likely need something more concrete to keep me motivated. Shoes, maybe? Clothing? A massage? Hmmm…my wonderful, kind, gorgeous, generous husband gave me a gift card for a hot stone massage for Christmas. While my first thought was that hot stones ostensibly indicate some sort of medieval branding ritual Queen Mary used on her non-Catholic countrymen in the late 1500’s, my friends assure me that a hot stone massage is a very pleasant experience. This may be just the time to try this out....

Having a Bad Day?

There's a list of stunningly bad similes floating around our English Department. One of them descibes a man falling from a building and "hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup." Now there's a bit of imagery for you.

This simile is the first thing I thought of when a friend of mine emailed me an amazing story about a repairman who fell sixty feet from a cell tower. The doctors and nurses thought they'd never be able to "put the peas back in the pea soup," if I may. Yet, after many surgeries, steel rods in his back, and months and months of intensive therapy, he pulled through. When asked about his amazing recovery, he responded, "I knew I could choose to live or choose to die. I chose to live. I approach every day that way: I can choose to have a good day or choose to have a bad day. I find it's always best to opt for the positive."

You have to admit, though, no one would fault the guy if he was a little less than cheerful after a fall like that. (I get weepy just thinking about chipping my pedicure or passing gas in public. If I did both at the same time, I'd likely be hospitalized and on oxygen.)

Yet, cheerful he was! When he was rushed into the ER, doctors and nurses were huddled around him. One asked whether he was allergic to anything. His raspy response?? "Gravity."

Okay, if Hefty Humpty can crack jokes in the midst of crisis, you'd think it would be a no-brainer for us ALL to see the positive in our lives and choose to have a good day, right? After all, when we choose to have a bad day or to look at things in a negative light, it is really only ourselves who suffer. Right? Right?

All of this brings me to the subject of seasonal blues. About this time every year, I get all fidgetty and grumpy and tend to see more negative and less positive. There's something of a let down immediately following January 1st and the months of Chicago's cold darkness that follows. The snow and cold --which were magical during the holidays-- now just seem like dirty slush through which we must wade. Warm sunshine? It's a distant memory. And don't even get me started on the January and February credit card bills. Oy.

You know these feelings?

Then, you know how you tell yourself how you should count your blessings, things could be worse, you're lucky you aren't a nose-diving Hefty bag full of minestrone, blah, blah, blah?

Still, seeing the positive is easier said than done. It may help to hear about an ACTUAL BAD DAY. It's always better to have some sort of specific contrast, right? Thus, I offer for you a DAY YOU ARE GLAD IS NOT YOURS. This may help you to see how lucky you are...even when the temperature is hovering in the teens and you haven't seen sunlight in weeks.

Actual Bad Day: (You might want to grab a tissue...and your favorite hair product.) A foreign exchange student visiting our school from Spain (picture Fez from That 70's Show) was in America for exactly one day. He took a morning shower in his host family's bathroom, probably excited to meet students from a new country. He grabs the shampoo and lathers up. Virtually everything in America is written in English and Spanish. Everything except Nair. The poor kid depilatoried his head. He said he thought the "shampoo" smelled unusual, but he just chalked it up to a new American scent. His hair melted to his scalp. Want to know how to fix a head of long, thick, black hair Naired into a frizzled pouf? You can't. You have to shave it all off. The poor kid wanted to fly back home to Spain but, after thinking about parading his sudden baldness in front of strangers in a foreign land or in front of his friends back home, he opted to spend the next six weeks wearing a ski hat amongst strangers and completing his foreign exchange.

I know, I know...I am petting my hair and crying, too.... But doesn't your day seem better??

Even Sigourney Got Bit...

...by the alien. You know how alligators lock their jaws on their prey, rolling their struggling victims along the water's bottom until dinner gives up and ceases to fight? Well, if the flu was an alligator, I was the prey caught in its death roll.

Luckily, I smoked it with my increased fluids, hours of bed rest, and antibacterial cleansers.

Suck it, flu.

The Flu-Fighters

Like Sigourney Weaver wielding her make-shift flamethrower against a malevolent extraterrestrial creature in the 1979 sci-fi film Alien, I have armed myself with bleach water and sponges against the evil stomach flu that has attacked my family. I’ve also smeared black eye liner under my eyes and tied a ripped bandana around my forehead Rambo- style, so the virus knows I mean business. Every time bodily fluids are expelled (at force) over sheets, the bathroom floor, or the toilet, I grimace and mutter, “Eat this, you bastard,” while destroying the microscopic alien flu virus with my lethal bleach concoction. I am only minutes away from going completely McGyver and turning the Lysol canister into a flame thrower. (Actually, I saw on Mythbusters that using aerosol cans as flame throwing devices usually results in explosions, so children? Do not try that at home.)

The Super Bowl party we had planned for Sunday has been officially cancelled. Our guests need to save themselves. Meanwhile, I? Am going in. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me, then maybe I can help you…I am A-Mom.

(Bonus points for anyone else who can combine 80’s trivia with fighting the flu.)

Actually, I've also glued on a fake mustache, started sporting hawaiian print shirts, and driving a red Ferrari 308 GTS so I can go incognito in my quest to save the world from flu. Below is a home video. The fake chest hair? Itchier than one would have thought. (And you thought I would be Higgins, didn't you?)

Clearly, People Were Not Listening...

...to a post I wrote last week.

Russian Obama Stacking Dolls?

Try to keep your eyes from rolling straight back into your brain.

However, these dolls in no way compare to these "extraordinary gifts for your home." Kuj found these and, I'm fairly certain, is STILL howling with laughter.

Insert the Jimmy Choo's

You know that feeling you get when you start an anecdote you THINK a group of people will appreciate, but part way through your tale you realize that they are looking at you quizzically, clearly unimpressed with your story, and maybe a little put off? But you are already part way through the story and it feels awkward to simply stop, so you continue speaking, even though you desperately don’t want to? So, faced with indecision, you continue telling your crappy anecdote, only you speed up the pace because you want the torture to end? And you become even more animated because—well, damn!—they’ve just got to see the humor in the story at some point? And then, against all rational thought, you begin adding exaggerated facial gestures and hand gesticulations in a final desperate attempt to win your audience over to your side?

You know that feeling?

That’s the feeling I had when I tried to explain to my Creative Writing class why I had a deep fear of poetry for a number of years after high school.

And now? I have a deep fear of public speaking.

From now on, I will only communicate with people through grunts and clicks.

(Oh well. It could be worse. I could have done this while wearing my thong inside out with the leg hole around my waist…Cheryl.)

Spring Cleaning

There is an OBAMA LAVA LAMP??

People, I am just as excited to see a change in administration as the next person, but this flood of kitsch Obama-related knickknacks has. got. to. stop. The multitude of Obama memorabilia has reminded me yet again why baseball cards are single-handedly responsible for the clutter in people homes.

(Side note: Why isn’t anyone/anything ever double-handedly responsible? The phrase “single-handedly responsible” seems to place a great deal of unnecessary blame on people missing a limb. You know what that is? Prejudice. And I will have no part in that. From here on out, responsibility knows no number of limbs in my vocabulary! Hazzah!)

I have seen enough Clean House episodes to know that people often hang on to things they don’t need because they believe that these items will be of value some day. You know why this is, right? Because someone once decided that he would pay an astronomical amount of money for an original Babe Ruth baseball card, even though a brand new exact replica of that Babe Ruth baseball card could be created for a handful of pennies. (Which is in no way similar to paying top dollar for a pair of Jimmy Choo’s, so don’t even go there…Sue…Denise….) And so a culture of clutter was born.

The truth is that 99.9% of the junk we keep in our closets, basements, and attics is just that: junk. It is the detritus of our lives and the lives of our family members who think they are doing us a favor by donating to us the things they are afraid to throw away themselves. My guess is that people purchasing the Obama Lava Lamp must think that these floating wax blobs hovering mere inches over a light bulb with a plastic presidential seal of our new president plastered to the base will eventually be worth something some day.

It won’t.

(And if it is, then my vintage Jimmy Choo’s better wipe the floor with your presidential lava lamp.)

This means twenty years from now two people will stand over a box of soon-to-be refuse in their basement trying to decide whether they should keep or toss the dusty Obama-fire-hazard-in-waiting-lamp. And you know what they will probably decide to do? They will probably decide to give it to their kids because they won’t want to throw away a perfectly good lava lamp. And these people will probably be my in-laws.

Crap.

Things You Shouldn't Discuss....

There are two things you aren’t supposed to discuss in mixed company: politics and religion.

(Ironically, that leaves hyper-realistic descriptions of personal illnesses wide open, which explains some of those Christmas letters I get from relatives with long narratives documenting their various surgeries. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone sends me holiday themed x-rays next year.)

However, after yesterday’s inauguration, politics is a steak served well done. This leaves religion wide open. So, here I go….

Sometimes-- when there’s too much to do and not enough time, when the paperwork on my desk threatens to topple me, when my students are a little too pushy, when the laundry pile approaches knee height, when my husband is a little too grumpy, and when my children are a little too talkative—I wonder if I mightn’t become a nun.

(I should pause while my sister-in-law, Michelle, chokes on her cabernet as she reads this.)

One of my harried coworkers and I came up with a list of reasons yesterday why being a nun is appealing.

Here’s the draw:

*We look good in black.

*We like to wear hats.

*Nuns have a lot of “quiet time.”

*No need to worry about financial issues.

*Nuns get to meditate.

*According to films involving nuns, we would be able to fight crime. (I don’t know why nuns fight crime when people in the law enforcement profession seem to have that covered, but you can only watch so many films involving nuns solving mysteries before one starts to wonder if there isn’t something to that.)

*Lots of reading time.

*International travel to Rome every once in a while.

*We are pretty sure that there would be a lot of freebies. There’s a good chance the baristas at Starbucks might just comp us our tall mochas.


The thing is, I couldn’t be part of those convents that take a vow of silence. I mean, I could maybe pull that off for a day or two, but I know I’d start whispering things about organizing a writing club, or arranging for facials and make-overs. The real kicker, however, is that I can’t sing. Every film I have ever seen involving one of those crime-stopping, mystery-solving women of the cloth has the nuns singing. The fact that I can’t sing, not to mention my inability to keep silent for longer than four minutes and my happily married state, are probably deal breakers for joining a convent.

But I might just rent the costume for my next trip to Starbucks.

On Dating....

My husband and I have started doing something new lately: dating other people.

Come back in off the ledge, folks; we don’t have one of those kinds of marriages. What I mean is that we’re dating other couples. Hang on, that doesn’t sound quite right, either. Let me be blunt: we are looking for other couples to hang out with.

Within the past two years or so, one of our favorite couples moved over ninety minutes away and another divorced. (You know who you are.) While the argument might be made that the only commonality among these situations is us (Scott and me), I don’t think we are the ones who drove these people away. I mean, that would have necessitated a lot of energy and reallocation of finances if that were true, just to be rid of us. Besides, we all still hang out together, albeit less often.

Initially, our loss of couple contact wasn’t so bad because we were dealing with some ill family members, a difficult pregnancy, and the ensuing year of solitude parents endure during a child’s infancy. Now, however, we have pulled through our “underground years,” as I like to call them, and have emerged to find ourselves alone on the beach of couple friendship.

Sure, we each have friends of our own--there are people I hang out with and people Scott hangs out with—but we miss that couple camaraderie we used to have: the impromptu barbeques in the backyard, the last-minute Saturday dinners while watching a newly released rental movie, the uproarious board games where we mixed competition with wine and chocolate. So, we’ve been looking for a couple that meets both of our friendship needs at the same time. And it has been harder than I thought.

Couple dating is much, much harder than regular dating, I have found. The more people involved, the more complex the relationship, and the more potential for trouble.

Example 1: There was one couple introduced to us through our recently divorced friends. Let’s call this couple John and Sally. John and Sally seemed very nice…until they dropped the bomb on us part way through dessert: they were obsessed with Cabbage Patch Kids. Both of them. Obsessed. Once they started talking about the dolls, they couldn’t stop. It was like a dam broke, and Xavier Roberts’ brain spilled out. Their last vacation had been to a place that makes the dolls. Apparently, this place looks like a hospital, and an employee in a white lab coat brings you your doll wrapped in a blanket, like a newborn. John built special shelves in their bedroom to house some of their collection, which was way in excess of 200. Sally spent a great deal of time shopping for baby clothes to fit their dolls and lamented that the six-month-sized outfits that usually fit often look too childish on the Cabbage Kids, which she felt had the personality of three year olds.

Dude, they are dolls. They don’t have personalities. Strike one.


Example 2: There was another couple with actual real children, which we took to be an improvement. This friendship seemed promising, so we went on a mini-vacation with them. Our kids liked each other. We liked each other’s kids. The husband was really, really nice. The wife? Issues. Lots of issues. She would go on and on about her issues. And she was right about them. She told me how she has a tendency to be very controlling. She was. She told me how she has a tendency to be judgmental. She was. She told me she was OCD. She was. She told me she was easily offended. She was. She told me she had a phobia about driving to new places. She did. She told me she was clingy. She was. She told me that her parents were very messed up. They were. It was like she wanted me to take her on as a project and fix her, and there was no way that was going to happen. Even if I had the wherewithal to help her, her identity was completely consumed with her emotional problems. She didn’t want help; she wanted attention. And there wasn’t enough attention in the world to make her happy.

Strike two.


Luckily, we’ve had some good experiences, too. We’ve hung out with a few couples who were absolute pleasures to be around. And we hope those relationships continue and grow. (God, I hope they haven’t put Scott and me into their own “weird, doll-loving, emotionally-fragile” categories! I would probably be “shoe/interior design girl,” and Scott would be “technology-freak boy.”) But being put in this position has made us realize that dating, and friendship, can be hard. When you are looking for it, it is no where to be found.

Couple-match.com, anyone? Perhaps e-couple-harmony.com?

"What. Are. You. Doing. Trish?"

Got a Wii Fit?

We do. This device, something like a cross between a talking bathroom scale and a balance board hooks up to the television and provides routines meant to improve balance, conditioning, and muscle strength. It's a clever idea.

If it weren't POSSESSED BY THE DEVIL.

It begins by giving you a fitness test. After putting you through a few simple exercises and taking your height and weight, the perky little program announces your "Real Age."

And it LIES.


I mean, there is no way that my fitness level, scant though it may be, puts me at the same level as someone 30 years my senior. Unless that person is Clint Eastwood or something.

Worse, that little bucket of bolts talks about you behind your back! It started asking me questions about Scott:

"Hello, Trish. Have you noticed any changes in Scott's appearance lately?"

"Trish, Scott hasn't done any fitness work in the past four days. Where is he?"

"Trish, would you consider your marriage to Scott as being strong?"

"You know, Trish, Scott may not be good enough for you. You know what they say, once you go digital, you never go back."


The creepy little bugger reminds me of the Hal 9000. (shiver.)

Ever read Epicac, by Kurt Vonnegut? I think we have something similar going on here. Where are my wire cutters??

Suburban Safari

You know how I said that Jon and Kate Plus 8 has inspired me to brave the wilds of the grass off our patio once the weather warms up?

Well...

It turns out I had been watching one of their older episodes, from back when they were slumming it.

More recent airings of Jon and Kate Plus 8 show that they have progressed far beyond camping out in the backyard and roasting marshmallows over a fire pit. In their last episode, they were taking their brood to Disney World and then jetting off to Hawaii. Not that I am envious. (I am.)

While I am all for scrapping the sleeping bags and heading off to a pacific atoll, Maui is a little beyond our reach at the moment. Instead, we are looking at a stay-cation this summer while we implement the next phase of our home improvement goals. However, that doesn't mean our backyard camping foray has to be entirely without luxuries. I took into consideration all of your cautionary advice and matched that to my clinically low pain tolerance. The result? The tent pictured above.

I'll probably get a hot stone massage the afternoon of the camp out to prep for the event. And a pedicure will probably be in order, since it is quite likely I will have to wear my Kate Spade flip flops as I traverse from the pavers to the tent. Also, I know my limits; I will only take baby camping steps. My plan will ensure that I won't be more than ten steps away from my back door the entire time-- in case I need to use the bathroom or check what reality shows are airing that night on cable. (My remote works from the patio, so technically I could watch television from my air mattress.) I will also have my cell phone and iPod charged in case I need to call for emergency help or drown out the sound of crickets. The best part of the plan involves deterring the vengeance of the raccoons. While googling "how to slaughter raccoons," I stumbled across a website that sells 100% pure coyote urine. (http://www.predatorpee.com/) In fact, according to the website, not only will I be free of raccoons, but any stray iguana in the area will avoid our yard, as well!

I can't help wondering, however, how this company collects the coyote urine?

Post-Merry Monday

Wait.

It's the end of Winter Break.

Those cries must be from students and teachers groaning the night before school resumes.

(And that sound of rejoicing? That's from the parents.)

L.L.Bean Me Over The Head Before I Do Something Stupid

This addiction I have to reality television is getting out of hand. People who care about me should perform an intervention. (And if they don’t know how to do it, there is a reality show called Intervention that would provide a good model. You see how addicted I am??)

The sooner this intervention takes place, the better because my favorite “big family” show, Jon and Kate Plus 8, has me actually considering purchasing a tent and camping out in the backyard with the boys when the weather becomes warm. Someone help me. Please.

The rational part of my brain screams that this urge is absolutely ridiculous. I am not a camper. My Michael Kors heels get stuck in the grass and my lip gloss attracts bees. But something inside me is whispering that if a family with eight young children can do it, I could do it, right? They made it look so cozy when they roasted marshmallows in their little backyard fire pit, played with glow sticks, and cuddled up in their sleeping bags. The whole episode smacked of “making family memories.”

Here’s what I see our family memories looking like: The minute a mosquito stings Scott, he will scream like a girl and run around blindly swatting at the air with his fists; I will end up getting a rash from the grass; Joshua will stay awake all night, clinging to my side and asking what each noise is; Noah will eat a great deal of sand out of the sandbox; and the raccoons that tore apart a bag of garbage last fall will eat our faces off while we sleep in revenge for depriving them of sustenance by firmly locking our garbage bins.

Still, why am I contemplating purchasing the grass-friendly Kors wedges instead of heeled sandals this summer??

Seriously, an intervention is needed. I’ll bring the wine.

Happy New Year!

The year in review...in no particular order. Because I am hungry and the leftover lasagna is calling to me....


A scooter!! It's just what I wanted!


A baby! It's just what I wanted!


A nana! It's just what I wanted! ZZZzzzzzzzz....

A brother! It's just what we wanted!

T-Ball medal. Go Team Thunder!


Inside on a rainy day.


Finally! Lunch alone with Scott! We're DATING! (As we were walking out of the restaurant, I pointed out one of those rubberized dessert displays to Scott. "This one looks so real!" I exclaimed before sticking my finger through an actual slice of cake--on a non-rubberized, non-dessert tray that had actually been on its way to someone's table. Oops. Think he will ask me out for a second date?)

Uncle Bob is in from New York!


Glad to be home for the holidays.

Yoda Noah.

Bundled up to get a Christmas tree. (Scott doesn't shave in the winter. Neither do I! Mu-wah-ha-ha! I kid. I kid.)

A Flyer's game is just the right speed for baby Noah....


Team Thunder!

Christmas Tree Farm

Going to see dinosauers at the museum!

Mommy's elf, Noah!

Josh's gingerbread creation! (Daddy was helping.)

This snowball thing is COLD!

Great. Clothes for Christmas. Anyone have a pink bunny suit for me to put on, too??

From our family to you and yours, may 2009 bring you health and happiness! 2008, despite its challenges, had many good times. Here's to even more wonderful experiences in 2009!

(There would be even more photos from the past year inserted here, but I can't get the darn thing to work....)