Wednesday, September 30, 2009

I'll Get You My Pretty! And Your Little Dog Too!

It’s that time of year again. Fall is here. Tomorrow is October 1st, and I just can’t believe that we’re here already. I mean, it feels just like yesterday when I was bubbling forth with the joys of August. Now, it’s two month later!

October means that the weather is going to get cooler, and Daughter is on the hunt for a really cool Halloween costume. I’ve been trying to talk her into being Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz (only my very favoritest movie EVER…but more about that in another post). Last year I was thisclose to getting her to be Dorothy…almost had the costume in hand, but the fucking brilliant store manager of the Halloween USA store decided to put Dorothy next to Batgirl. In case you were not aware (and really, why would you be?), Daughter is a HUGE superhero fan. Needless to say, Batgirl won out over Dorothy, and Daughter had to break the news to me by saying “maybe I will be Dorothy next year.” *sigh* I had even bought the fucking red glitter shoes…oh well. Maybe she could use them at Christmas.

This year, we are beginning our hunt for The Perfect Halloween Costume. Over the years, I have tried to steer her choices into things I think are cute, but still allowing her to pretty much get a costume she wants to get, because I remember when my mother wouldn’t let me be things for Halloween she didn’t approve of. And in trying to erase the mistakes of mothers past, I try to be relatively accommodating in the Halloween costume department. Her very first Halloween, she was Minnie Mouse. It was fucking adorable, and it helped that she was 11 month old and couldn’t protest. Next Halloween, I dressed her as a girl from the 1950s. Neckscarf and Poodle Skirt. PRECIOUS. When she was nearly 3, she was a fairy. Which really only consisted of some wings and a pink tutu – I was trying to convince her to be an angel, but I don’t think she wanted to wear the halo (which should have been my first clue). At almost-4-years old, she was Ariel from The Little Mermaid (she was OBSESSED with the movie – still is). Definitely a mom-approved choice, especially considering she wanted to be Darth Vader. Next came Wonder Woman, and finally last year, she was Batgirl. (And as much as I want her to wear “girly” costumes, I am 100% OK with her wearing “boy” costumes, despite my crack regarding Darth Vader. My mother, however, has a problem with it, as she is convinced that Daughter is going to “become” lesbian because of these costume choices, along with all of the superhero toys she has. I have tried explaining you don’t just “become” gay one day…but she’s a Republican. What do you expect her to think? Anyway, I’m off on a tangent…)

Yesterday, Daughter told me she wanted to be Master Chief from the video game, Halo. Yes, she plays Halo. Don’t judge me. I still want her to be Dorothy. Even the promise of getting the basket with Toto in it is not enough to bribe her into being Dorothy. So I start looking through the costume catalog, my panties all in a wad because Daughter would look so cute as Dorothy. I could braid her hair, and get those fucking shoes again. It would make an awesome photo op goddammit, doesn’t she know that??? I live for that shit.
(And be rest assured this would be my dog if I had one.)  C'mon.  That shit is cute as fuck and you know it.  :)  You know what would be really cute?  If this dog had a Dorothy doll in her basket.  Right?

Last night before bedtime, Daughter gave me the good news…she is going to be Dorothy for Halloween! I asked her if she was serious, and she said YES! Mommies of the world shall unite as one of their sisters has won a small victory. It may have taken me a year to do so, but HELLYES! I only hope that the dumbfuck store manager (or whoever is responsible for these things) doesn’t put the Dorothy costume next to Master Chief otherwise I’m going to throw a tantrum right in the middle of the store. I mean it.

P.S.  Check back in the next day or two, as I may be posting a few pics of daughter in Halloweens past.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Know Thine Toolishness

I admit it. I am a Reality TV fan. It all started way back when – when the very first Survivor landed on my television radar. I fell in love. My feelings were so strong because I find real life very compelling (and you must feel the same way too, because here you are, reading my blog and we might not even know each other!)

I’ve been there for the highs (the first Survivor) and I’ve been there for the lows (Temptation Island, Joe Millionaire, The Swan). During all of my bouts with reality TV, I found that VH1 and all of its pathetically low-brow programming is right up my alley. My first taste of it came with Flavor of Love and its first season. Who can forget the girl who shit her pants during the very first elimination ("elimination".  GET IT?)?  I mean, COME ON PEOPLE. This shit (literally) is some compelling television! I imagine the humiliation of fighting over Flavor Flav pales in comparison to actually letting loose a trail of runny poops through a mansion DURING the elimination ceremony WHILE you’re fighting over Flavor Flav.

VH1 has also brought us such gems as Rock of Love, starring Bret Michaels of the rock band, Poison (which is a rocker-big-boobed-drunken-blonde version of Flavor of Love); I Love New York (New York was a broken-hearted reject from Flavor of Love who says she is the H.B.I.C. (Head Bitch in Charge) and she’s 100% ghetto-fabulous); I Love Money; Charm School; and Hogan Knows Best. All excellent escapism television, loved because I don’t have to think about anything while watching.

My newest favorite is Tool Academy 2. LOOK AT THESE GUYS.  DOUCHEBAGS, RIGHT?  The premise of this fine program is girlfriends bring their boyfriends to Tool Academy because these guys are classic douchebags. Initially, they think they’re all competing to be in some Mr. Wonderful contest or something, so the first show is excellent in showcasing their douche-iest behavior. Once they find out the real reason they are there, Tool Academy is a combination of couples therapy and couples challenges, where the douches all work on certain qualities each week, such as “Fidelity”, “Appreciation”, and “Romance”. The douche/tool who gets eliminated each week then has to go face his girlfriend, and she decides whether to break up with him or not.
Last Sunday’s episode made me fall head over heels for this train wreck of a television show. The men on this show are the douchiest, most obnoxious bunch of boys I’ve ever had the pleasure to watch. My favorite (read: the guy I hate the most) got eliminated this week, which made me happy (read: sad) a little inside because I know he would have provided hours more entertainment. His name on the show was “Manscape Tool” (did I mention the brilliant producers of this show give all of the guys nicknames? Anyother favorite name is “Hillbilly Tool”. Good stuff here people.)

The challenge on Sunday’s show centered around “Appreciation”. Manscape Tool got the boot because he couldn’t muster enough any emotion at the fake funeral they staged for his girlfriend (who “died” of a broken heart, y’all, because her meanie of a boyfriend didn’t appreciate her enough) AND then when the girls got set up to go off on “dates” with "real gentlemen" dressed in suits while the boyfriends got to watch their dates on TV, Manscape Tool basically started running through the house like a wild boar and ended up out on the grounds of this mansion they are all staying at, telling the producers he wanted his girlfriend kicked off the show because she’s a whore. Even though all she did was have dinner with the "gentleman".  Tell me you’re not riveted now. Please. Tell. Me.

<----- Manscape Tool (Ladies, how can we resist him??)  Right before he got eliminated, they show a clip of his girlfriend saying that if he gets kicked off this week, she’s breaking up with him. Riiiiiiiigt, honey. (I was secretly hoping she would though, but one thing I've learned from these shows is the producers take you in one direction, when really the ending goes in another direction, therefore, SURPRISING you.) Manscape Tool gets the boot, and comes outside to see his girlfriend. At this point, he starts telling her how much he loves her, how much “everything” is going to change when they get home, and he even tries to squirt a few for effect. Of course, his even-bigger-tool of a girlfriend takes him back and they ride off in the limo together.
Roll credits.

Monday, September 28, 2009

My Mother, My Guilt Trip

Today is my mother’s birthday.

If you know me have read this blog for a while, you know my mother (God Bless Her) is someone who gets on my nerves like no one else can. She has the talent to turn me, a 38-year-old grown woman and mother of one, into a 13-year-old teenage brat. She always makes me feel fat – example: included in my birthday present this year was an aromatherapy roll-on thing that had grapefruit extract in it and was specifically meant to “control hunger”. She told me I could roll it on my wrist and sniff it whenever I was feeling hungry. Gee…thanks mom! Thank you for reminding me once again that I need to lose weight. After all, isn’t that what mothers are for? To remind you of your inadequacies? Anyfat…I digress.

This weekend, my mom helped me organize and staff a moms-to-moms sale I did at Daughter’s school. If you don’t know what a moms-to-moms sale is – it’s like a flea market or garage sale of child-related things. You could get everything from cribs to bicycles to clothing to toys at this sale. I still have lots of Daughter’s baby clothes and since I’m not having any more children (now you know that since I’ve written that statement, I’ll probably end up pregnant before the year is over, right?), I might as well try to make a little cash off of what I have left. And since I’m not patient enough or organized enough to put together garage sale (nor do I really want to commit my entire weekend to sitting outside watching people rummage through my things), I thought the moms-to-moms sale was perfect. It was from 8:30-1pm, and there would be lots of people there.

Since my mom helped me, we decided after the moms-to-moms, I would go home, pick up Daughter and we would go out to lunch to celebrate her birthday. When I got home to pick up Daughter, she was asleep. I decided to let her sleep and went to lunch without her and my mother was not happy about it. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but apparently, this was the first of many mistakes I would make over the weekend. That evening, my mother called me to invite me over to have dinner at her house on Sunday, once again, to celebrate her birthday. This was a huge problem, because for the last year, if not more, Husband, Daughter and I go to Husband’s parents on Sunday evenings for dinner. My mother knows this and is insanely jealous of the time we spend over there. Correction: she is insanely jealous that my inlaws get to see Daughter a guaranteed once a week. As a side note, ever since Daughter was born, my mother turns every visit, every holiday, every everything, into a competition. Who do we visit more? Who do we spend more time with? Frankly, I’m tired of it. It’s not a competition to see who we love more, or whatever she thinks. It’s just that my inlaws are normal and my family is dysfunctional. Every moment my parents spend together is like watching War of the Roses. It’s embarrassing for me, it’s uncomfortable for Husband, and it’s not a good example to set for Daughter. My mother has nothing nice to say to my dad, and my dad has nothing nice to say to my mom. It’s PAINFUL.

But after guilting me into having dinner with her on Sunday (of course I showed up, she’s my mother), she didn’t let the fact die that she had to basically coerce me to visit, and the jealousy shined through like a bright lighthouse beacon.

“Why do you always have to have dinner over there?”
“Why don’t you come have dinner here sometimes?”

Basically, "why are you such a bad daughter and prefer to spend time over your in-laws instead of here, at your childhood home with dad and me?" Here are the answers I would have loved to have given:

1. Because all you do is pick at dad until he’s a broken man.
2. Because dad has no respect for you or any other women, and therefore, I feel compelled to open up a can of Feminist Whoop-Ass on him and cause arguments myself.
3. Because you decide to argue in front of not only me, but Daughter and Husband (even though you know this makes him extremely uncomfortable).
4. Because I hate Gizmo (their evil Pekinese dog) because he growls at me.
5. Because Annie makes me sad (their Beagle who in probably going to be put to sleep this week because she’s old and sick and is probably the sweetest dog ever).
6. Because you guilt me into shit and make me feel like a bad daughter.
7. Because you make me feel fat all the time especially when you point out how "healthy" the dinner you've made is.  Oh and let's include how you think Daughter is fat (she's NOT fat, y'all).  Just because neither of us are anorexic-stick-figures doesn't mean we're fat.  (Well, I'm a little fat, but my child is definitely NOT.)
8. Because you make me feel like a bad mother because I don’t force Daughter to eat vegetables all the time. (Sorry, mom, I’m just trying not to give her food issues like you gave me.)
9. Because you remind me that you almost died, and therefore, I should want to spend every waking moment with you.
10. Because the both of you are Republicans and drive me crazy with your ultra-conservative bullshit.  And I can't stand all of your hatin' on Obama (which I'm convinced has roots in racism which I can't stand.)
11. Bonus: Because you both like Glenn Beck. Who in my opinion, is just as big of a douchebag as Rush Limbaugh. And that’s saying something.

If I had any balls, I would tell my mother to get off the cross, because someone else needs the wood. She is the classic martyr. *sigh*


Thursday, September 24, 2009

My Soulmate Is Out There Somewhere

A friend sent me this ad from Craigslist today and we both agreed it sounded like something I would write.  I said that I wanted to track this guy down because he was obviously my soulmate. 

P.S. Click on the image at the left to open a window that will contain a much larger version of this ad.

Enjoy!  :)

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

10 Reason Why I Married Husband

Because I was feeling slightly guilty for complaining about Husband lately, here are 10 great things about him. Just when you thought he was a complete asshole...

1. He’s hot. Besides the cankles thing, I’ve always thought Husband was a hot piece of ass. He’s got a great smile, with these perfectly straight teeth, and dimples to boot. He’s got great hazel eyes that when I look into my Daughter’s eyes, I see. He the typical tall, dark and handsome that I had always dreamed about. He’s got broad shoulders, nice arms and a nice chest. He’s not too hairy, but just hairy enough so he doesn’t look like a 11-year-old boy.

2. He’s funny. One of the things I require in a mate is a sense of humor. He’s not slapstick funny, but more of a dry, sarcastic funny. He always finds a way to make me laugh and we find the same things funny. Being funny is a big turn on for me, so you could say his sense of humor also makes him sexy to me. When he tells me stories, he always find a way to make them funny. Like the one yesterday, about the guy at work who doesn’t wash his hands. Husband had me laughing so hard over his disgust and outrage when he confronted this man.

3. He makes a mean spaghetti sauce. He should. He’s Italian (technically, he’s Sicilian). That would be like me not being able to boil a hot dog (get it…? American food?) He’s American too, don’t get me wrong. But his grandparents came to the USA when they were young and only breeded with other Sicilians, so for some reason, I’m the “americanu” (pronounced a-min-na-ga-nu) and therefore, can be made fun of incessantly in his family because I like green bean casserole and corn on Thanksgiving*. No, Goddammit, we’re all Americans, I just have a genetic melting pot, whereas you’ve managed to stay genetically pure because your family is full of racists and bigots who look down on americanus. (just kidding. Maybe). And as a reminder, my Daughter is now ½ melting pot, and ½ Sicilian. The gene pool is diversifying, y’all.

4. He is the hardest worker out of anyone I know (except for his father). If you think you are a hard worker, he puts you to shame. You can bet the farm on that statement. He is never late to work, never takes a day off, and is very serious about his job. He puts his heart and soul into it and is consumed with doing it well. He’s received the “perfect attendance” award nearly every year he has worked. He has only called in sick two times since we’ve been married. He goes into work at least an hour early every day and stays late. He never takes a lunch. He goes into work on the weekends sometimes without getting paid. Compared to me, he’s a workaholic. I’m very lackadaisical concerning my work ethic, probably because I’m not happy with what I’m doing. For him, that’s not even an option. He doesn’t love his job, he just loves doing it well, and I wish I had some of that attitude to get me through the day.

5. He’s a “saver”. Husband saves money like people who survived the Great Depression save money. He always finds a way. I am thankful for his saving ways because there have been several times in our marriage where we would have been living in a cardboard box along Shit’s Creek if it wasn’t for him. He been buying savings bonds since we were married, for the children we had not yet had. He has opened retirement accounts for the both of us. He opened an education fund for Daughter when she was born to pay for college. He not only saves for today, he saves for tomorrow and I really appreciate that about him.

6. Family is important to him. I don’t know if it’s the Sicilian thing, or if it’s just because. But his family is very close-knit, they look out for each other and they enjoy spending time with one another. Which is the direct opposite of my family (God Bless ‘em). I appreciate the fact that I can give Daughter a opportunity to be in a close family who seems relatively “normal”. Granted, they’re not as normal as they look – I’ve realized that. But at least they seem that way and it takes years to peel the layers of that onion; but their “abnormal” isn’t "dysfunctional" like my family.

7. He taught me how to shoot a gun. Now, neither of us is a gun fanatic or anything but Husband does own two handguns. I’m terrified of guns (always have been). Husband knows this and to try and help me chisel away at my fear of guns, he has taken me to a gun range and shown me how to properly use one of the guns he owns. It’s a small .22, so it’s not a large caliber, but shooting it has made me slightly less terrified of it. I don’t even know why we have these guns anymore because ever since Daughter was born, we keep them locked up, unloaded, with the ammunition locked away somewhere separately (too many children have been accidentally killed because they found their parents guns). And it’s not like I’d be all guns-blazin’ if someone broke into my house. NO, I’d be trying to find the fucking key to unlock the cabinet they’re stored in, and probably get killed in the process.

8. He lets me buy his clothes and shoes. He has absolutely NO fashion sense, and thank god, whenever we have some family function or a wedding or something to go to, he lets me pick out his clothes and shoes. You can be assured he looks like a million bucks, too. I know how to properly match a shirt and tie to a suit.

9. He encourages me to improve myself and plays the role of protector. He has always provided encouragement to me when I’ve wanted to go back to school. And although I’m relatively confident he’s jealous that I completed law school (maybe “jealous” is too strong a word…he’s definitely “envious”), he still beamed with pride on Graduation Day. He also can be my knight in shining armor when he thinks someone has fucked with me or when I need a strong shoulder to cry on.

10. He acts a fool so much that I can make lists like this and this.

*Husband made fun of me one Thanksgiving because my family was serving corn. I told him that a traditional Thanksgiving dinner is supposed to emulate what the Pilgrims and the Indians ate…and HELLO? I’m pretty sure corn/maize was on the menu, considering it was the FALL HARVEST. I’m also pretty sure they did not eat Italian wedding soup, or ravioli, or sfinges, or breaded pork, or have biscotti or cannoli or cassada cake for dessert.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

10 More Reasons Why I Want to Kill You In Your Sleep


In case you missed it the first time around, here's the list that preceeded this one. And because Husband pissed me off this morning with a passive-aggressive text message that greeted me first thing which set the tone for my are 10 more reasons he gets on my every last nerve.

1. He takes everything so personally. Saturday night we stayed up watching TV until nearly 3am. While neither of us was really tired, when we went to bed, we started talking. And when I say “we” were talking, I mean mostly him. Husband usually does most of the talking and I do most of the listening. It’s just how we are. Which is probably one of the reasons I need this blog. Anyway, after about 45 minutes, he gets up at a moment in our conversation where I think it’s an abrupt interruption. As he’s walking to the bathroom (we have one in our bedroom) I tell him I’m going to put my earplugs in my ears and go to sleep. Apparently, this was offensive because he proceeded to get all bitchy with me and then didn’t talk to me for most of Sunday. IT’S NOTHING PERSONAL, HUSBAND. It’s four-fucking-o’clock in the morning and I want to get to sleep and all you’re doing is rehashing shit I’ve already heard 5 times. Fuckin’ A.

2. He doesn’t let shit go – you know the saying, “Like water down a duck’s back”? Yeah, he’s the direct opposite of that. Along with taking everything personally, he also remembers every little thing I’ve done wrong or hurtful in our relationship and picks the most inopportune times to bring them up. It’s like I can’t ever live anything down. And trust, me he’s not perfect.

3. He hogs the TV. I can’t tell you the last time I watched network television. Not that there’s loads of brilliant programming on network TV, but for goodness sake. I would like to watch “Dancing with the Stars” or “America’s Got Talent” once in a while so I’m up on all of the shit TV everyone else is watching. We can share the TV…but don’t come home and turn my shit off in the middle of it when I’ve become emotionally vested in a show. Like for example, I love the show “I Survived…” which is on the Biography channel. It is about people who have survived near-death experiences and they tell about them. It’s riveting and I love it and Husband turns it off. Motherfuck. YET, he lets Daughter watch “Spongebob Squarepants” ad nauseam. (For the record, I still love Spongebob, but I'd like to watch something else once in a while.)

4. He thinks I read too much. I love to read. I love books. He does too, don’t get me wrong. He is just jealous because I have something interesting to read and it cuts into his talking to me time. I want to tell him to take his little ass to the bookstore and go nuts, but then again, he’d take it personally and wouldn’t talk to me for a day because I was a bitch.

5. He doesn’t eat fruit. Every summer, I want to buy out the produce stores with all of the wonderful seasonal fruit. One particular summer favorite is watermelons. But because he’s a freak and doesn’t eat fruit, whenever I buy a watermelon I have to eat the whole goddam thing because he’s passed his freak-fruit-hating gene to Daughter. Ever eat a whole watermelon in the matter of days? I must have spent 50% of my time pissing.

6. He doesn’t answer my phone calls to texts in a timely manner. And by “timely” I mean immediately. He acts like his job is so important he can’t be bothered with my piddley shit. In my defense, sometimes my shit is not so piddley and sometimes it is. But he’ll never know unless he answers. Heaven forbid I let one of his calls or texts go unanswered though. You’d think I just boiled puppies or something.

7. He gets irritated whenever I want to take a nap. I love naps. I live to nap on the weekends. But whenever I want to take a nap, I get a hassle about it. The funny thing about this – Husband takes naps ALL THE FUCKING TIME. He naps on the weekends. He naps after work on the weekdays. HE NAPS MORE THAN ME. And the really funny thing is that I am a MASSIVE bitch when I’m tired. So you’d think naps would be enocouraged, but…nope. In case you’re wondering, I still take naps. Fuck him and his “no nap” rule. He can blow me if he thinks he bitches enough about it for me to give them up.

8. He has cankles. OK, I’m sorry about this one because he can’t help it. I think it’s genetic or something. But I HATE THEM and I desperately hope he doesn’t pass them on to daughter. In case you do not know what cankles are, it’s where you do not have the indentation from your calf to your ankles…hence, cankles. His ankles look like tree stumps. They creep me out.

9. He waits until that moment in the evening when dinner is done, things are put away, and I’ve just landed on the sofa to start reading or relaxing to ask me for something. Like, “Could you get me a glass of iced tea?” “Could you run out and get me a pack of cigarettes?” GODDAMMIT ALL TO HELL AND BACK. While I rarely ask him to run any of my errands, he’s always asking me to do something for him. You know what? Last I checked, I only gave birth to ONE person, not two. But you know what else? This is really a problem I have with myself because I always end up getting him what he wants. Even when it’s the most inconvenient thing on the face of the Earth. You know why? Because I care. That’s why. Even though last month I went up north and called in a refill for one of my meds and asked him to pick it up for me while I was gone and he didn’t so I had to do it when I got home….Grrrrrr.

10. He’s not an animal/household pet type of person. I blame his family for this one. His mom hates pets. I just don’t get it – how can you not like housepets? They’re cute, they’re fun and they provide companionship and comfort. My family always had pets. Always. And I’ve had dogs, cats, birds, fish, rabbits…it’s a long and versatile list. I’m still trying to somehow convince him a dog would be a great addition to our family. And if you think enticing him with sex is going to work, it’s not. We’ve been having sex with each other for 20+ years. It’s not like I can threaten to withhold blowjob privileges. I did that years ago!

In all fairness, for tomorrow's post, I'm working on my "10 Things I Love About Husband" for your enjoyment. I don't COMPLETELY hate him. :)

Monday, September 14, 2009

Know Who I Love?

Sandra Bernhard, that’s who.

What I like about Ms. Bernhard is her in-your-face attitude. I don’t know if she has this attitude because she’s Jewish, because she’s a lesbian, or because her father was a proctologist and her mother was an artist. Or maybe it’s just because, for no reason at all. Either way, I must admit, whenever I see her on TV or hear her on the radio (I was reminded I was a fan last Thursday morning when she was in studio on the Howard Stern Show), I’m riveted. I can’t get enough of her and her brash behavior. I wish I could be more like her, and just say to people what I really think and never hesitate before stating an opinion. I wish I could call people “Honey” in that nasally, Jewish/New York/whatever accent she uses and just go with the flow.

Every appearance she has on Howard’s show, Ms. Bernhard divulges some hilarious and juicy secret. On a past appearance, she told Howard (and his audience) how she dated Jay Leno in the 70s, when they both were comics and how she slept with him several times. According to Ms. Bernhard, Mr. Leno has a huge penis (Howard was extremely dismayed to hear this), and enjoys bondage. You can’t picture it, can you? Ms. Bernhard says she let Jay tie her up a few times. Now we know why she was banned from The Tonight Show!

This most recent appearance, she told how she had a threesome with her girlfriend and another man. Howard, being the gifted interviewer that he is, got Ms. Bernhard to admit who the man was, and it was Howard’s friend, Ralph. Don’t know if you listen to his show or not, but this revelation caused quite the stir among the show staff. She described the evening, and it was filled with naughty stories and hilarious bits of sexy madness. I’m still laughing about it because Ms. Bernhard went right with the flow and answered everything Howard could think to ask. Her honesty about her sexual romp was so funny and interesting and shocking…I wish I could be that honest.

Even though I write this blog anonymously, there are still many parts of my life no one really knows about. I probably do not write about them because several of my friends read this, and even they don’t know everything. There are still secrets I am sure all of us keep inside, deep in the dark recesses of our hearts and minds. I guess my love for Ms. Bernhard can be summed up with this: I admire her honesty, her open attitude and her willingness to just let it all hang out. I’m sure she still has secrets, and I bet they are quite the doozies. But damn, girl. I wish I could just dip my toes into the pool of complete honesty like you do. Bravo!

Friday, September 11, 2009


I've made a conscious decision today not to turn on the television and watch all of the 9/11 documentaries that are run every year. Last year, I just found the whole experience very depressing. Instead, I'm going to focus on this date for another reason.

As I mentioned in my post from last year, besides the thoughts all of us have when we think of the date "September 11th" -- I also think about the friend I lost on September 11. Except, as I mentioned, she did not die in THE September 11th -- she passed away one year later in 2002.

My friend Sandy was a beautiful woman. She was married and the mother of two children. Her daughter, Megan was almost 2 years old at the time Sandy died. Her son, Andrew (or "Drew") was only 9 months old. At her funeral, I was 7 months pregnant, and about 2 weeks away from my baby shower. Sandy's husband came up to me at the funeral and told me that the shower gift Sandy had bought for me was still at their house and he wanted me to have it. I saved that gift for last at my shower, and while I opened it, tears were streaming down my face. The gift Sandy had bought for me was my diaper pail. I found it very funny after Daughter was born, that ever time I disposed of her dirty diapers, I would think of Sandy. Life is funny that way.

Sandy was two years older than me, and had a younger brother, Robert, who was my same age. I recently saw Robert at my 20th high school reunion. We spent about and 1/2 an hour chatting and catching up. I asked him how Sandy's children were doing, and he showed me pictures. I found it fitting that her daughter, who is now 8 years old, is the spitting image of Sandy. She's going to be a great beauty. Sandy's son, who is 7, looks exactly like Sandy's husband, Tony. I couldn't bring myself to ask Robert about Tony. I've often wondered about him over the years. He was absolutely devastated at her funeral. He did not hide his grief and my heart broke for him. Sandy and Tony were only married a short time. They married when she was pregnant with Megan. Despite the babies, I'm sure they were still in the honeymoon phase of their marriage. I believe this because the last time I saw Sandy, she was wondering if she was pregnant again. I laughed because I was like, "GEEZ! Is that ALL you and Tony do???" It makes me smile to think of how we laughed about that.

Even though Robert and I knew each other in high school, Sandy and I were not friends at that time. Our friendship blossomed when we were in college. We both had joined the same sorority, and we became sisters. (ALPHA DELTA PI...represent, bitches!) Sandy lived in my neighborhood, so we started going to sorority meetings and events together. I would always make her laugh because of my bitchiness (I prefer to call it my joie de vivre) and she would infuriate me because she was never on time (a pet peeve of mine).

When I say that Sandy was a beautiful person, I mean she was beautiful inside and out. Husband used to joke that out of all my friends, Sandy was the one he'd most want to have sex with (maybe an inappropriate comment to make here, but I'm just trying to provide a measuring stick!). Besides the outer beauty, she was also beautiful on the inside. Her joyfulness radiated out of her. Her smile could melt ice cubes. Her laugh was one of the cutest things ever. But most of all, her friendship was priceless.

I miss her very much and I hope that she knew how much I valued her friendship and loved her.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

FML (Fuck My Life)

I recently met Kim from Perfectly Cursed Life for dinner. Among the many topics we discussed, one was my lack of a satisfying career. More importantly, my severe lack of even knowing what direction I want my career to take. As I mentioned to Kim, I don’t have any special talents. I don’t have any particular gifts as far as intelligence (I mean, I think I’m relatively intelligent, I’m just not a genius at anything), nor do I have any outstanding athletic or artistic talents. The worst part of it all – I also do not have any driving ambition to do one particular thing. In my educational career, I coasted through high school and college, earning As and Bs in most everything, and not really having to try hard to get those grades. My undergraduate studies were in English and Film History and I got mostly high B’s (some As), and graduated Cum Laude from college. I never really had to study hard, because English and Film History courses are all about writing papers and researching. It’s not like I needed to memorize equations or know the periodic table. Law school was an entirely different animal, and coming into it with no real study skills was difficult for me. I struggled for the first two years, and tried to study and tried to understand. My last year in law school was pretty breezy, and I actually earned a few decent grades. However, my poor study skills (or lack thereof) are apparent, considering I’ve had to take the Bar exam FOUR times. Hopefully, this last time stuck, but what if it didn’t?

Which brings me back to my original issue – what am I supposed to be doing with my life? Even if I do pass the bar exam, do I really want to practice law? In all honesty, I don’t think I do. At least not in the traditional sense. I know Husband will be disappointed, because he seems to have this idea that once I pass the Bar I am going to have this glorious legal career. I have not wanted to burst his bubble too soon by telling him that is not my intention, but I know the conversation is going to come eventually.

So here I am – back at square one, trying to figure things out. I feel like I am too old to be having these issues. I remember when I turned 30, one of my earth-shattering, personal crisis moments was when I realized I was not in a satisfying career. Yet. And don’t we all think that by the time we are 30, we will be in a career we love? Am I really going to face turning 40 (shrivel inside) in the same place as I was at 30? The sad part for me is that I don’t even know where to begin to figure out what I really, really, REALLY want to do. I feel like Lloyd Dobbler (played by John Cusack) in Say Anything (one of my all-time favorite movies):

“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.”

If money was no object, I would try and live out the lottery-winning fantasy I recently came up with: there are two things I’d do. I would open a giant no-kill shelter for animals with no homes, and I would also open a metaphysical store with all the goodies that come with that. Very different interests, and currently, no hopes of either coming true.


Some of my other interests lie in advocating for equal rights, particularly for the gay community, abortion rights, and fighting to end child sexual abuse. But I don’t do anything with any of these issues—I’m not volunteering my time, I’m not writing about it, I’m not doing much of anything, except having an opinion. I don’t even know where to begin.

I do know one thing though – after a Bachelor’s degree, a nearly finished Master’s degree, and a Juris Doctor…AND over $100,000 in student loan debt, I KNOW I’m not going back to school. Oh HELLLLLLS NO. Which would be my usual modus operandi to solve this issue – and at least I would feel like I was moving toward a goal, instead of treading the muddy waters I’m stuck in right now.

Christ, I feel like a massive failure, and a completely unfulfilled human being.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

I Need Dream Analysis Therapy

Two nights ago, I dreamed my husband died.

Only, it wasn’t Husband, whom I’m currently married to – it was my cousin’s husband, John. Only he didn’t look like John, he looked like someone else. Someone I’ve never met or recognized.

At the funeral, I ran into someone from high school. Back in July, I had my 20th high school reunion. I ran into friends I hadn’t seen in 20 years, and one of these friends was Marcy. Marcy was at my dream funeral-for-my-husband-who-was-not-my-husband-and-who-was-John-only-he-wasn’t-John. At the dream funeral, Marcy was looking through the prayer cards that had pictures of the deceased. Only these prayer cards were like wallet-sized professional pictures of John-who-wasn’t-John, and John’s family-who-wasn’t-my family. Several different versions of prayer cards, in full color and a glossy finish. I sat next to Marcy with a box of these prayer cards (apparently, I had the task to refill the prayer cards in these little business card holder things). I told her that the dead man was my husband; she was concerned. I knew her concern was because the real-life Marcy knows my husband is Husband, not John and she was worried Husband was dead, even though she was looking at the glossy family pictures of John at his funeral. I told her, don’t worry, Husband wasn’t dead and then I went about refilling the prayer cards in the business card holders.

I remember having the feelings that I was so happy it wasn’t Husband in the casket and now that John was dead, Husband and I could be together. In this dream, the last 20 years of my life didn’t happen. The feelings I had were unusual – I was not sad to be a widow, or to say goodbye to the man I called my husband. I was only sad that John was dead because his children would miss him – and the children were his current, real-life children, and not Daughter.

When I woke up and remembered this dream, all I could think was: What the hell was I doing being married to him? (And let the record reflect that I am in no way attracted to John, nor am I envious of my cousin’s life with John.) I certainly can’t figure this one out on my own.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Time Won't Give Me Time...

Today was the first day of school for Daughter. She has started the second grade. I got her on the school bus this morning without shedding a tear, but inside, I wanted to cry a little for the baby she used to be, the big elementary schooler she is, and for the teenager she will soon become. I know, I know, she’s only 6 years old (soon to be 7). But in many ways, my daughter is so grown up.

Last night, I asked her if she was excited to go back to school today. She said she was, so I asked her why. She said she was excited because there will be a new teacher and new friends to make. A new backpack and new school supplies. The new-ness of new experiences has tickled her fancy. This morning, as she brushed her teeth and as I did her hair, we chatted a bit more about what the day will hold for her. I told her that when she gets off the school bus this afternoon, I expect a full report of her day. I want to hear all about what goes on, so pay attention, dear! I want to hear about her teacher and the friends that she has in her class. I want to hear about lunchtime and if she had Art or Spanish or Gym class today.

From what I can remember, my parents never made a big deal over the first day of school. I don’t have too many “first day” pictures, nor do I remember any of my first days. Because of this, I have become one of those obsessive moms who takes pictures of her child dressed in her “first day of school” clothes, new backpack stuffed with school supplies. I make a big deal about it as we walk to the bus stop (two houses down from our house). I make a big deal (and take pictures) of her getting on and off the bus. I hope to continue to take these pictures until Daughter graduates from high school (embarrassment be damned!)

My mother recently made me a scrapbook which chronicled my educational career (she gave it to me this past Christmas). From law school backwards, there are a few pictures to mark the passage of time. There are graduation day pictures from law school, from college, from high school. There are senior pictures (to which I have to thank the 80s for the wonderful hair and eyeliner), and there are prom pictures (again, awful hair, but damn! I was skinny!) However, the most special pictures to me are the ones that are from my first day of preschool (it is me holding my very first school project…and then on the opposite page is the project itself), and the one of my Kindergarten teacher and me on my first day of Kindergarten. I had never seen these pictures before, and I was surprised my mom had them still. I do not have very many photo albums filled with childhood memories gone by. Maybe this is one of the reasons I have 40 billion pictures of Daughter (ok, not 40 billion, but I am sure I have taken thousands of pictures of her in her 6 years on this planet).

Where my childhood lacked, I’m hoping to make up for the deficiency through my own child. I hope I am providing her with many cherished childhood memories. I hope she remembers me as a mom who, despite being a pain in her ass (which I am sure I will be, because after all, aren’t all mothers pains in our asses?), is a mom who she knows cares and loves her as deeply as a mother could love a child. I hope she realizes that as we march along the calendar of life, that by documenting her milestones and making a big deal of the little things, I am creating memories for her that she will enjoy for a lifetime.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Personalized License Plates: We Live in an Egocentric World

I drive 100 miles round trip to work everyday. I’d say 99.9% of those miles are driven on highways (thank goodness). My long commute on the highways means I come across quite a few personalized license plates. Yesterday, I decided to keep track of the ones I saw that day, and report back here on them. I’m fascinated by personalized plates. I wonder about the person driving the car, I wonder about what their little 7-letter-maximum messages mean, and I wonder why the message is so important to them. Despite my fascination, I also despise personalized plates (note douchebag above and his plate...'nuff said). Mostly because there is a small percentage of plates that just leave me dumfounded. I have no idea what they mean, what the message is trying to say – and then that makes me angry. Why put something out there for all the world to see, and not have it make sense? It makes me think that the driver thinks their message is more important to them – which is like throwing a giant middle finger out to the world. To those people, I give that finger right back PLUS one more finger. So there.

Here are the plates I encountered yesterday on my drive:

M MAGOO: ??? I remember as a very young child there was a cartoon about a character named “Mr. Magoo” and he wore these really thick glasses, and the constant joke was how he was blind as a bat. But I’m wondering about this plate. Is the driver legally blind? An old guy? Whatever the meaning, I’m not comfortable with it – maybe the driver shouldn’t be on the road?

NOAZRK: My first thought was WHAT THE HELL? I hate plates that make me think about what they mean. Then maybe it means “Noah’s Ark”? Thoughts?

AMYLYNN: Obviously, AmyLynn is either the driver or the kid or grandkid of the driver. I don’t like plates with names because the Paranoid inside of me who thinks about child molesters, rapists, kidnappers and identity thieves worries about AmyLynn getting kidnapped, molested and/or raped. Law enforcement officers tell parents never personalize backpacks, jackets, etc. because the Creeps in the world will use it against your child. Ah, AMYLYNN, I hope you stay safe!

MY MULE: This one was kind of cute. The “M” in “MY” was actually the “M” logo for the University of Michigan. Here in Michigan, you can get college logos and some other random shit on your license plate. In case you’re wondering, the vehicle itself was a Ford F-150 pickup truck, 4x4. HELLSYES. This is one plate that makes sense.

MAGICAL: What’s magical? The driver? Life? The car (I didn’t notice the model)? This person should take his “magical” ass and go drive off a cliff. Seriously? Go spread your “magical” shit elsewhere.

UNIXGUY: Nice to see he advertises what an IT nerd he is. Like some woman is going to go…”Ooooo look at the UNIX GUY OVER THERE!” Actually, I did just that. I did think the plate was cute and original though, despite what I said.

RUNDAYS: I’m guessing this plate belongs to someone who seems to be running around all day, every day. A little play on words…”Rundays”!

HOZANNA: I wonder if this person was religious? Specifically, maybe a Catholic? I just kept thinking of the part in Mass where you sing “Hosanna in the highest”. Maybe?

RPSGIRL: ??? This one left me dumbfounded…I keep wondering what “RPS” means. This is a primary reason why I HATE personalized license plates. I’m going to spend the next several days wondering what the fuck this one means. Dammit, RPSGIRL, couldn’t you put some shit on your plate we all understand? Better yet, just take the state-issued plate and call it a day. Dare to be ordinary like the rest of us.

LUCIFER: Real nice, right? Well, actually, this plate belonged to a woman I used to work with. Her name was Lucy, and she was this little white-behived-haired lady who was as adorable as a puppy. She drove a red Cadillac with this plate. I laugh to myself whenever I think of her personalized plate, because she must have caused quite a stir when people saw it on the road. It reminds me of that “Seinfeld” episode where Putty went to a New Jersey Devils hockey game and painted his face red (when Elaine finds out he’s a “face painter”…”gotta support The Team”). He runs up to a cab with a priest in it and goes “Devils! Devils!” in this demonic voice and scares the shit out of the priest. I’m sure some really religious people were offended by Lucy’s plate. And I’m also sure she didn’t give a shit about it. P.S. “Lucifer” obviously was a play on her name, in case you didn’t get it.