25 Things You Don't Know About Me

25 Things You Don't Know About Me . . . .

1.  I never wear blush.

2.  I sleep on the left side of the bed, unless we’re in a hotel room, in which case I sleep furthest from the door.  This way, if a monster breaks in through the door, he’ll get YOU first.

3.  I could easily work at IKEA as the person who puts together the furniture.  I'd have to work alone though; IKEA furniture assembly nearly ruined my marriage.

4.  I can keep the book at a baseball game or on the GameChangerApp.

5.  I hated Twilight, 50 Shades, and Harry Potter, (though I have enjoyed reading Harry Potter with my boys.)

6.  My toes are ALWAYS painted.  I'm vain.

7.  I found my first gray hair on my 26^th birthday.

8.  I get anxious about impending pain, but I seem to have a high tolerance for it.

9.  I had plastic surgery before I was 5 years old.

10.  I’ve known two of my oldest friends since we were 3 years old, and they are the closest to sisters I’ve ever had.

 

11.  I believe my Mother-in-Law likes me WAY better now than she did when she first met me.  Apparently I'm an aquired taste.

12.  I need a lot of sleep.  Naps make me a better person.

13.  I remember having my first experience with depression at age 13, and I worry that it’s a trait that will be passed on to my children.

14.  I use Oil of Olay products simply because my grandmother did, and smelling it makes me think of her.

15.  Friends is still my favorite tv show.

16.  I do laundry every day.  Every.  Friggin’.  Day.

17.  I believe in Karma . . . the energy you put out into the world surrounds you at all times.

18.  I have a tattoo - because no one ever believes a girl like me has one.

19.  I believe my husband and I are like Yin & Yang.  We are two pieces of a puzzle that complete each other; not in the sappy “you complete me” way, but in the way that we complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

20.  I loved being pregnant because I felt like I finally fit into my body.

21.  I feel guilty every day about my parenting – that I’m not good enough, I’m not paying enough attention, and that I need to be more engaged.

22.  I am addicted to my computer. 

23.  I wish I had rushed a sorority in college.  I'm really good at making those alphabet letters with the little dots on the ends.

24.  I don’t know how to whistle. 

25.  Misplaced apostrophes make me crazy.

Failure to Adhere to the BoyMommy Flip Flop Policy

As faithful readers of the BoyMommy blog, you are well aware that I have a Strict Flip-Flop Policy.  In summary, if your feet are gnarled, malformed, disfigured, or otherwise unkempt, one should not be wearing flip flops.  Ever. 

I realize feet, in general, are a means to an end and are usually not a person’s best or most attractive feature.  However, I believe it is an individual’s responsibility . . . to the universe . . . to use one’s best judgment when choosing appropriate footwear. 

During my recent trip to Best Buy I noticed a woman who apparently DID NOT GET THE MEMO regarding my Strict Flip Flop Policy, which I feel should, in fact, be made into law.  I’ma gonna write me a letter to Obama and tell him to quit lounging around and fortheloveo’pete DO something about the important, time-sensitive issue of gnarly feet.

This woman was wearing flip flops and clearly should not have been.  Naturally I took a photo of her feet as an example of Failure to Adhere to the BoyMommy Flip Flop Policy.  The problem is, I keep looking at the photo.  It’s like a train-wreck of Kardashian proportions – I can’t look away.  So I’m going to post it here on the World Wide Internets in hopes that releasing the photo into the wild will somehow delete its image from my brain. 

I’m sure this woman is very nice/funny/a good dancer (and all those other things people say about someone who has a noticeable flaw in personality or appearance.)  These traits do not trump nasty-*ss feel, however.

WARNING!!!  It ain’t pretty.

I mean, she went through the effort to paint her toe nails, so she is vain enough to make SOME effort, but there comes a time when you have to accept that no amount of nail polish in the entire world will improve the above image.  

Please, I beg of you. . .  when I get older and/or lose my faculties (whichever comes first) do NOT let me leave the house in open-toed shoes if my feet are nasty.  Send me out into the world with black knee-high socks and Birkenstocks before you make me subject innocent people to HammerToe.

More Gym Misadventures, for Your Reading Pleasure

The misadventures continue . . .

My observations at the gym this morning.:

Dude, work on your triceps!

1. The wall of mirrors in the class studio is like a giant funhouse mirror.  Surely my batwings are not that floppy.  (Didn't know there was a name for that underarm floppiness, did ya?)  Why does my reflection look so much larger than everyone else’s?  When I stand directly in front of the instructor, I’m quite sure the patron immediately behind me cannot see her at all. 

2. The easiest part of yoga this morning was when the instructor asked us to bend into a seated position so that our chests were touching our thighs.   Hehe.  NO problemo.  Take that skinny b*tches with your perky B cups. 

3. Every mother holds her breath when the attendant from the nursery quietly sneaks into the back of the room and scans for her target.  Today it was my turn.   Small apparently does not realize how much will power it takes for me to get to the gym in the first place. 

4. My weight loss strategy apparently entails purchasing double-dipped chocolate covered peanuts at the grocery store immediately following my workout.  And also opening them in the car on the way home.  (I needed sustenance for the 3 mile drive.)  I got chocolate on my workout shirt . . . the irony of this is not lost on me.

5.  College girls home for the summer annoy me to no end.

·      Me:  

a)  sweating like a whore in church, 

b)  trying to prevent my pants from catching fire lest my thighs rubbing together cause a spark, 

c)  learning all I ever need to know about Pink on E! because heaven forbid the gym make NBC available, 

d)  feeling constricted by my too-small sports bra, which I purchased because if I wear my actual size then I’m liable to get a black eye or bruised knees from all the boob-floppin’, 

e)  and working the elliptical next to a mouth-breather.  Lucky me.

·      College girls: 

a)  carrying cell phone at all times, 

b)  sporting brightly colored sports bra vaguely covered by off-the-shoulder Flashdance sweatshirt, 

c)  wearing Nike running shorts that show off tanned, athletic legs, 

d)  and somehow not sweating.  Perhaps because there's no actual working out taking place.

This bothers me because when I was a college girl home for the summer I hated working out.  Riding the bike to nowhere for 10 minutes made me feel like I was going . . . um, nowhere and I was morbidly afraid of falling off the back of the treadmill.

6.  I went to the gym in the evening recently; usually I go in the morning.  The gym has a foul odor at night.  It smells like an aromatic cocktail of adolescent sweat, frito breath, and feet.

7.  My girlfriend told me the other day that she couldn’t believe how strong I am.  She’s on crack.  Also, she wasn’t paying close enough attention and she missed the part where I switched to the 2.5 lb. weight.

8.  I am thankful that I know the difference between a swimsuit and a workout tank, unlike one of my fellow yogis this morning.  I had to refrain from touching her lightly on the arm while shaking my head and saying, “oh, honey, no.”

9.  You know I have a thing about toes.  (Read about my strict flip-flop policy.)  If you don’t take care of your toes, please don’t be flashing those puppies around.  I’m not saying they have to be perfectly painted at all times, but if you’ve picked at your big toe so much that your toenail looks like it’s about to be swallowed up by the toe around it, please, for the love o’ pete, wear socks. 

10.  If one more person reminds me that it’s almost bathing suit season I am going to lose my sh*t.  According to my calendar  I now have approximately 1 day in which to lose 50 lbs.  I don’t think it’s gonna happen.

Well, peeps, I hope this blog entry has made you feel a little better about yourself.  It has certainly made me feel worse about my chocolate-covered peanuts, which I will be thinking about as I sit pool-side tomorrow.  

Stuff That Could Only Happen to Me.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you can’t make this sh*t up.

All I wanted to do was sell my light fixtures on Craigslist so I could fund the purchase of fabulous new, more BoyMommy-appropriate lighting.  I figured I’d post an ad which would lead to a drama-free transaction between two consenting adults with differing tastes in lighting, and we’d be on our merry way.

Lo and behold, I found a buyer.  Using my master sleuth skills on the World Wide Internets, I discovered, inadvertently, that they are worth more than I first thought, so I placed the ad on CraigsList.  After a few days with no bites, finally a gentleman said he was, to use his words, "VERY interest" in all three pieces.  I told him I was firm on the price, he agreed, and he prepared to send me a check.  And then it got weird. 

Turns out “Frank” is not local.  He’s REALLY not local.  He’s from a state that I shall not name in order to protect his privacy, but let’s just say it rhymes with Schmichigan.   Therefore he has hired a mover to come pick up the light fixtures for him.  Frank told me he had mailed the check and that I would be required to use the excess funds he had sent to pay the mover he has hired to pick up the light fixtures.  It seemed like a lot of effort to go through, but I am willing to comply, and I expected that the amount would be for $200 or so more than the price of the light fixtures.  When I finally received the cashier’s check in the mail, however, the total was TWICE the price we had settled on.  So he's paying his mover just as much as he's paying me.

Dallas - deep in the heart of Schtexas!

But instead of paying the mover with that money,  I have now been “instructed” to send the remaining funds to a woman whose address indicates she lives in a state we’ll call Schtexas.  Wha?  Now I'm supposed to write a big, fat check to some woman who lives in the heart o' Dixie?

Then I get an email that “instructs” me to please continue correspondence using a different email address because he’s having “problems” with his other account.  And then I am told, and I quote, “You are required to send excess via money gram from any walmart shop or money gram outlet near you, the cost of sending should also be deducted from the excess.”  For the sake of brevity, I will ignore the obvious errors in grammar, mechanics, spelling, and syntax, though it pains me to do so.  I’m also going to ignore Frank’s tone, which I do not appreciate. 

At this point, I’m kicking myself for thinking this transaction was going to be simple, and I’m getting worried that I have gotten myself involved in something shall we say skeevy.

And then came the phone call.

It seems that, in Frank’s humble and unsolicited opinion, I am not conducting “good business.”  Apparently, I can trust Frank.  He told me so.  And if I am trustworthy, why then clearly I don’t have any reason to worry.  Frank wants to know, “why can’t you just complete the task?” 

Really, Frank?  IF that is indeed your name? 

I am done.  I am prepared to tell Hubby, “you were right.”  (You saw it here first, folks.)  Hubby was right.  I should have been content with those f*cking chandeliers and just let them continue existing like enormous, brass, formal eyesores in my otherwise casual home.   I mean, what goes better with Walmart slipcovers and too-small area rugs than fancy Framburg Napoleonic Lighting? 

So I tell Frank that I am not writing a check to Miss Ellie at Southfork, but that I will be happy to return the excess funds to him if he will provide me with an address.  This makes him nervous.  He mumbles something about “family,” reminds me that this is not “good business,” questions me again about “completing the task,” and says that he will get back to me and that I should wait for further instruction.

Here are my thoughts:

1.   One possible scenario: Frank is going to smuggle pounds of cocaine (Liters?  Kilos?  Bricks?  How does one measure cocaine?) in one of those chandeliers.

2.  Frank, who now has my home address, (which he needed for the check,) and my home phone number, (which I provided for purposes of correspondence,) is going to send someone to my home to breaka my kneecaps.

3.  I am going to stand trial for money laundering, tax evasion, drug smuggling, racketeering, etc. in front of Judge Judy, who will not appreciate my biting humor and witty sarcasm. 

4.  I will not do well in prison for several reasons:

• ALL the beds are close to the door.  [Please refer to BoyMommy's Hotel Room Theory.]
• I tend to cry when people are mean to me.  I think people in prison are not very nice.
• I’m quite sure their wine list will be too limited for my liking.
• I’ve already tried to knit one of those Martha Stewart Jailhouse Ponchos, but it did not go well.
• I will suffer from performance anxiety when I have an audience to pee, I’ll hold it, and, consequently, I will develop a bladder infection, to which I am already susceptible. 
• Orange is not my color, and I’d have to wear my flip flops with socks, because I sure-as-hell ain’t wearing open-toed shoes without a fresh pedicure. 

I leave you with this: should I go missing, tell my family I love them, and check for my body in Schmichigan or Schtexas.  Wink, wink.  Otherwise, I'll be hanging out in the slammer with my new,  above-pictured BFFs.

It's Soup! Made of PEOPLE!!!

We survived Thanksgiving, and we’re still married, in case you were wondering after my last post. 

As you know, My Beloved called from work last Monday to “suggest” that we leave later that same evening so we could get a head start on our Thanksgiving Festivities.  Unfortunately, Hubby has very little patience for travel, especially with the offspring.  Never mind that I flew from New York City to Seattle with a 2-year-old and a 16-month-old BY MYSELF.  But that’s neither here nor there.  (Except that I am awesome for doing so.)

On Tuesday and Wednesday we took the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge.  This proved to be a good idea because they were able to burn lots of boy energy before being cooped up in the house at Granny and Papa’s.  Unfortunately, I allowed my husband to check in while I stayed in the Swagger Wagon with two (and a half) boys who were unbuckled and poised at the doors in anticipation of water park enjoyment.  He came out after having purchased an extra package o’ fun for the boys.  There was so much fun involved, we almost didn’t get to complete the fun-having in our allotted two days.  The fun was SO fun, at one point Large asked if we could save some fun for next time, and also “can’t we just get in bed and watch tv?” 

Water parks, in general, do not bring out the best in me.  I only look cute when I’m dry and lounging, save for the fact that I am a 37-year-old woman who wears two ponytails to the pool.  I am not destined for bathing suit greatness, and water parks force me to acknowledge and embrace this fact.  I have a variety of sassy little cover-ups for the pool.  You will never see me struttin’ my stuff in a standard-issue towel because, in general, they don’t fit all the way around my voluptuousness.  Water parks preclude the use of cover-ups, however, because you’re going to get wet, which means I have to stand in line in nothing but my swimsuit.  This does not make me happy. 

"Man, that lady sure LOVES her kids!"

Ever wonder why I LOVE my children so much at a water park?  It’s because if I’m hugging them and holding their little bodies close to me, I can cover up this-area-right-here.  (The areas to which I am referring are my gut, which makes me look like I’m wearing a fanny pack underneath my clothing, and my flat a$$, which is pretty much an extension of my back straight down into my legs.) 

Furthermore, there is NO graceful way to mount a giant inner tube.  Do I spread my legs wider than God intended and then sit?  Do I position the tube and then flop backwards while praying that the tube has not shifted thereby causing me to fall a$$ forward into the water in front of all those nice people waiting their turns?  Do I sit with my a$$ suctioned into the opening and my boobs literally resting on my knees?  Do I step into the tube and then try to maneuver one leg out at a time, causing potential swimsuit slippage and inadvertent flashing of lady parts? 

And then there’s this - I know I’m being a snob, but here goes:  I have a strict flip-flop policy.  People with ugly feet and/or unkempt toes should not be flashing those puppies around in sandals.  There are a lot of ugly feet at a water park.  In fact, water parks are rife with yellow toenails, ill-placed tattoos, and unsightly skin conditions.  Please, for the love o’ pete, take care of that.  The thought of lounging in the hot tub with some of the worst offenders makes me cringe . . . ALMOST as much as the fact that I actually had to explain to one of my children why we don’t drink the water from the hot tub:  “Think of ALL the people whose bodies have been in this water.  It’s like People Soup.”

a steaming bowl o' People Soup