I posted a comment on my private facebook page (the one where all the old scary high school people hang out - the ones I would never tell about my blog, because that would remove way too much content from my writing). This is what I said:
"I am thinking about getting a motorcycle and a tattoo. Nah - just kidding about the motorcycle. I don't do helmet hair well. But the tattoo..."
Of course you write crap like that to get replies, as I did. And I got plenty of replies. My sister wants me to get it while I'm visiting her in Dallas. Lela wants to be with me when I get it so she can live vicariously through me (she already has a couple of tattoos) One person thought I should get it on my "buns", as she so delicately put it. Another thought I should get a Harley tattoo and kill two birds with one stone. My aunt threatened to tell my mother. Funny, that one.
The winner of all comments was not written on my facebook wall, but spoken to my face. By a fifteen year old boy, who may or may not, have been birthed by yours truly. He said, "Only girls who are young and hot look good in tattoos..."
Ouch.
He apparently went on to babble that he didn't really think girls should get tattoos at all, but I was still stuck on the fact that I am old in his eyes. I know I'm not hot in his eyes, he's my son, but I'm not OLD for crying out loud. Yes, I realize that to a fifteen year old, any girl over 19 is OLD. Whatev.
I think I threatened to parade around in a bikini in front of his buddies at the hotel pool at his baseball tournaments this summer. For realz, I wouldn't even think about it, that's just creepy, but I wanted to scare him. He was scared, and rightfully so.
I need some inspiration. Now that I've decided I'm getting it, I have to decide what it will be. I'm thinking just above my hip bone or my ankle. Do you have a tattoo? What is it and where?
***Ally
PS - My son also said only guys should get tattoos. His dream tattoo? He wants a vine of roses tattoo'd around what HE believes are his impossibly big biceps. It will be his "Guns 'n Roses". Huh. This is the child I've raised. Insert eye roll here.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Extraordinary Day
Inspired Dreamer at Out of the Extraordinary invited us over for a guest post.
So you can find us there today. Go check it out and be sure to hang around and read some of her stuff. Love her Fictionary Fridays!!
Read this on a facebook post:
"Words from a friend: The difference between Champions and losers is that Champions get it done. Are you getting it done today?" Clearly, he who said this, never had kids.
Ally & Lela
So you can find us there today. Go check it out and be sure to hang around and read some of her stuff. Love her Fictionary Fridays!!Read this on a facebook post:
"Words from a friend: The difference between Champions and losers is that Champions get it done. Are you getting it done today?" Clearly, he who said this, never had kids.
Ally & Lela
Friday, March 26, 2010
Give Me Peace
There is a new grocery store in my town called Sprouts and I love it. But what I don't love is being accosted by hippy Green Peace guys every time I go there lately. It's not that I don't support their cause, I just want to be left alone and these guys don't take "no" for an answer. They are worse than Girl Scouts selling Thin Mints.
Today I got my hair cut and colored and stopped at Sprouts on the way home. I was tired, hungry and trying to keep a low profile due to the hair dye stain around my face and neck. All I wanted was to grab some crap for dinner and head home. On the way out of the store an employee asked me if I needed any help. Eying the long-haired guy with the clip board blocking the path to my car, I said, "Yeah, tell the manager to get rid of the Green Peace people."
Deep breath. Do NOT make eye contact.
"Hi! What's your name?" Green Peace asked.
"No thanks." I said, walking faster.
"Wait. Don't you care about . . ."
"Look," I said, "I support your cause. I just don't want to talk about it when I am shopping and running errands."
I had made it to my car and popped the trunk when he yelled after me, "I have something important to tell you!"
Ugggg! Leave me alone! I recycle and eat dolphin-safe tuna!
I drove away irritated before I could hear his important news.
Maybe he wanted to tell me to save the whales.
Or that I had hair dye on my face.
-Lela
Today I got my hair cut and colored and stopped at Sprouts on the way home. I was tired, hungry and trying to keep a low profile due to the hair dye stain around my face and neck. All I wanted was to grab some crap for dinner and head home. On the way out of the store an employee asked me if I needed any help. Eying the long-haired guy with the clip board blocking the path to my car, I said, "Yeah, tell the manager to get rid of the Green Peace people."
Deep breath. Do NOT make eye contact.
"Hi! What's your name?" Green Peace asked.
"No thanks." I said, walking faster.
"Wait. Don't you care about . . ."
"Look," I said, "I support your cause. I just don't want to talk about it when I am shopping and running errands."
I had made it to my car and popped the trunk when he yelled after me, "I have something important to tell you!"
Ugggg! Leave me alone! I recycle and eat dolphin-safe tuna!
I drove away irritated before I could hear his important news.
Maybe he wanted to tell me to save the whales.
Or that I had hair dye on my face.
-Lela
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Green With Envy
I never knew what my favorite color was until my son said, "Mom, look around the house."Sure enough, green was everywhere. Crystal dishes filled with green sea glass were on tabletops and shelves; my collection of green depression glass cups and plates sat on the old Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen; and even the curtains were a shade of celery. I guess I like green.
When I go to the beach I keep my eyes peeled for green sea glass and feel like I have won the lottery when I find some. I know it probably comes from someone's discarded bottle of Heineken, but I like to make believe it is from a bottle thrown out to sea carrying a message to a loved one.
When I find a piece of glass I rub it between my thumb and forefinger to gently remove the sand. Then I will continue to rub it like a worry stone until I find my next piece. Usually it is hard to find and I come home with only 1 or 2 pieces after an hour's walk, but the other day I filled up my paper coffee cup with brown, white, and beautiful green sea glass. The picture shows only what I could hold in one hand.
I don't know why it makes me so happy. Maybe it is the thrill of the hunt or the smooth way it feels against my skin. Or maybe I associate the color green with peaceful walks along the beach and the wonderful surprise of finding sea glass. Either way, green brings me joy.
What's your favorite color?
-Lela
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Operation Code Word
Whenever my husband and I are on our way to a potentially boring social situation, I tell him that we need to have a code word for, "This is torture. Let's leave now."
He usually replies, "How about, 'This is torture. Let's leave now'?" Buzz kill.
You can image my surprise when he was actually up for my corny code word game the other day. I had to drop off a prescription and on the way home I was going to buy him a Slurpee, because he had done all his chores and was being awesome. When I got to 7-11, I would call my husband to see if my son had done his chores, hence, being worthy of receiving a Slurpee. (Husband was worthy, son probably not. Get it?) These were my instructions to my husband:
When I call you, I will say, "Is the turkey in the oven?"
If the kid has brought the trashcans in, you will reply, "Gobble, gobble." (Slurpee)
If he is still sitting on the couch eating Doritos, you will say, "The turkey is in the oven." (No Slurpee)
THIS is what really transpired when I called from 7-11:
First of all, my son, not my husband answered the phone.
Me: "Ask your dad if the turkey is in the oven."
Son, yelling: "Dad, Mom wants to know if the turkey is in the oven!" Mind you, it was NOT Thanksgiving and my son just yells to his father like I was asking if we needed more toilet paper.
Son: "Dad says the turkey is dead."
Me: "Okay, thanks. Bye."
Oh crap! What does that mean? Now I have to think like my husband. Does "dead turkey" mean "gobble, gobble" or "in the oven"? I finally rationalize that although my husband was game enough to play along, he wasn't willing to be totally humiliated and say, "gobble-gobble", so he said the turkey was dead?
I ended up buying 2 Slurpees and headed home. Although my son was sitting on the couch, there were no traces of Doritos and the trashcans had been taken in.
You should have seen the surprise on his sweet face when I handed him a Slurpee. He even said, "Thank you, Mom."
As for my husband, maybe he'll get the code words right next time.
-Lela
He usually replies, "How about, 'This is torture. Let's leave now'?" Buzz kill.
You can image my surprise when he was actually up for my corny code word game the other day. I had to drop off a prescription and on the way home I was going to buy him a Slurpee, because he had done all his chores and was being awesome. When I got to 7-11, I would call my husband to see if my son had done his chores, hence, being worthy of receiving a Slurpee. (Husband was worthy, son probably not. Get it?) These were my instructions to my husband:
When I call you, I will say, "Is the turkey in the oven?"
If the kid has brought the trashcans in, you will reply, "Gobble, gobble." (Slurpee)
If he is still sitting on the couch eating Doritos, you will say, "The turkey is in the oven." (No Slurpee)
THIS is what really transpired when I called from 7-11:
First of all, my son, not my husband answered the phone.
Me: "Ask your dad if the turkey is in the oven."
Son, yelling: "Dad, Mom wants to know if the turkey is in the oven!" Mind you, it was NOT Thanksgiving and my son just yells to his father like I was asking if we needed more toilet paper.
Son: "Dad says the turkey is dead."
Me: "Okay, thanks. Bye."
Oh crap! What does that mean? Now I have to think like my husband. Does "dead turkey" mean "gobble, gobble" or "in the oven"? I finally rationalize that although my husband was game enough to play along, he wasn't willing to be totally humiliated and say, "gobble-gobble", so he said the turkey was dead?
I ended up buying 2 Slurpees and headed home. Although my son was sitting on the couch, there were no traces of Doritos and the trashcans had been taken in.
You should have seen the surprise on his sweet face when I handed him a Slurpee. He even said, "Thank you, Mom."
As for my husband, maybe he'll get the code words right next time.
-Lela
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
My Future Cell Phone
I casually mentioned to my husband that I would like to get a new cell phone. After all, my hands free attachment isn’t working (it cuts off my conversations), and those police really frown on my driving with a phone at my ear.
I maybe mentioned that I’d like to upgrade. To the Dash 3G or aCrackberry Blackberry. With internet.
His initial response: “What for?”
Me: “Um, so, you know, I could use the internet.”
Him: “What for?”
Me: (thinking quickly) “So I don’t have to rely on my laptop with it’s connectivity problems - you know a phone is cheaper than replacing the Mac.”
Him: "What for?"
Me: "To stay socially connected?" (This may have been the wrong answer. Just sayin'.)
Him: “Can I write a post for your blog?”
Uh-oh. This was not going as planned. But hey, I can roll with the punches. Here’s his short, but sweet, um, observations:
15 years ago, Ally demanded a cell phone, that I paid out my butt for, to be used only for emergencies. We had a new baby, after all.
15 years, three phone lines (her, me AND the teenager), unlimited texting and $160/month later, now she is demanding a cell phone with a qwerty keyboard and internet access so she stay “socially connected”.
What happened to emergencies only?
Okay, my two cents. I did not DEMAND.At least not outright I suggested. Politely. With lots of eyelash batting.
You should know that #1 Husband does not appreciate spending money on unnecessary things. Unless they are related to home theater or home beer brewing. (had to be fair here - can we compare COSTS?)
Wish me luck. I'm not really feeling the pendulum swinging in my favor currently. But I can wear him down. I've got experience.
***Ally
I maybe mentioned that I’d like to upgrade. To the Dash 3G or a
His initial response: “What for?”
Me: “Um, so, you know, I could use the internet.”
Him: “What for?”
Me: (thinking quickly) “So I don’t have to rely on my laptop with it’s connectivity problems - you know a phone is cheaper than replacing the Mac.”
Him: "What for?"
Me: "To stay socially connected?" (This may have been the wrong answer. Just sayin'.)
Him: “Can I write a post for your blog?”
Uh-oh. This was not going as planned. But hey, I can roll with the punches. Here’s his short, but sweet, um, observations:
15 years ago, Ally demanded a cell phone, that I paid out my butt for, to be used only for emergencies. We had a new baby, after all.
15 years, three phone lines (her, me AND the teenager), unlimited texting and $160/month later, now she is demanding a cell phone with a qwerty keyboard and internet access so she stay “socially connected”.
What happened to emergencies only?
Okay, my two cents. I did not DEMAND.
You should know that #1 Husband does not appreciate spending money on unnecessary things. Unless they are related to home theater or home beer brewing. (had to be fair here - can we compare COSTS?)
Wish me luck. I'm not really feeling the pendulum swinging in my favor currently. But I can wear him down. I've got experience.
***Ally
Friday, March 19, 2010
Switched At Birth?
The following are recent conversations with my 15 year old, freshman in high school son, K.
K: "Today is such a total waste of time. We have over two hours of open gym while the upper classes do testing. We should be in class being productive."
When I was in high school, I LIVED for reasons to get out of class. Any reason.
Me: "You should really consider Running Start when you are a junior and senior. You can get some college credits out of the way." Besides, that makes it totally cheaper for your dad and I. Maybe we can retire a year earlier...
K: "Not every college takes those transfer credits. Stanford doesn't take them."
Stanford? Did he say Stanford? When did we start considering Stanford? Who is going to PAY for Stanford?
K: "I HAVE to turn my B+ into an A. I want to have a 4.0"
Somebody clearly switched my child at birth. He cannot be my flesh and blood. While I was a total overachiever when I went back to school as an adult... not so much as a teenager. I didn't get terrible grades, but I was definitely not straight A material. I sat comfortably in the B's with an occasional C thrown in by my horrendous math teacher. Nothing exceptional to write home about.
History? I memorized what I needed to know to pass the tests. Now? I totally wish I knew more history. K, however, has always had a thing for history. And math.
My husband once pulled out his high school report cards. I made him hide them quickly before my K could see. AWFUL. But as soon as he hit college? Straight A's. Says he cared then, because he was invested financially in his education.
So while I'm certainly proud of K, and very happy he loves learning, I often shake my head in wonderment. And wonder who is real parents are.
***Ally
K: "Today is such a total waste of time. We have over two hours of open gym while the upper classes do testing. We should be in class being productive."
When I was in high school, I LIVED for reasons to get out of class. Any reason.
Me: "You should really consider Running Start when you are a junior and senior. You can get some college credits out of the way." Besides, that makes it totally cheaper for your dad and I. Maybe we can retire a year earlier...
K: "Not every college takes those transfer credits. Stanford doesn't take them."
Stanford? Did he say Stanford? When did we start considering Stanford? Who is going to PAY for Stanford?
K: "I HAVE to turn my B+ into an A. I want to have a 4.0"
Somebody clearly switched my child at birth. He cannot be my flesh and blood. While I was a total overachiever when I went back to school as an adult... not so much as a teenager. I didn't get terrible grades, but I was definitely not straight A material. I sat comfortably in the B's with an occasional C thrown in by my horrendous math teacher. Nothing exceptional to write home about.
History? I memorized what I needed to know to pass the tests. Now? I totally wish I knew more history. K, however, has always had a thing for history. And math.
My husband once pulled out his high school report cards. I made him hide them quickly before my K could see. AWFUL. But as soon as he hit college? Straight A's. Says he cared then, because he was invested financially in his education.
So while I'm certainly proud of K, and very happy he loves learning, I often shake my head in wonderment. And wonder who is real parents are.
***Ally
Thursday, March 18, 2010
High Rent District
I had some business to attend to in the California Newport Coast area, where the kabillionaires live. I had about an hour to kill, so of course I looked for food. It was a beautiful morning on Pacific Coast Highway and I picked a little cafe with an ocean view. Since it was the "high rent district" I figured breakfast would be a little more than my usual $2.99 special in the hood.
Good thing I stole a 20 from my husband's wallet, because my breakfast burrito and small coffee came to $14.00! What a rip! Rich people are so stupid.
And skinny.
The woman sitting next to me ordered, get this, ONE poached egg and a glass of water. Why bother?
In summary, I guess I was paying for the ambiance and view, because my "gourmet" breakfast burrito sucked.
Maybe next time I should try the poached egg.
-Lela
Good thing I stole a 20 from my husband's wallet, because my breakfast burrito and small coffee came to $14.00! What a rip! Rich people are so stupid.
And skinny.
The woman sitting next to me ordered, get this, ONE poached egg and a glass of water. Why bother?
In summary, I guess I was paying for the ambiance and view, because my "gourmet" breakfast burrito sucked.
Maybe next time I should try the poached egg.
-Lela
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Fun In The Air
I know I've said this before. But airplanes are gross.
Nothing like being packed into a too-small tube that hasn't been actually 'cleaned' since it was built, with 95 other people. Every seat full. Some overflowing.
Add a delay which makes everyone cranky.
Add the sheeple (sheep + people = sheeple) who rush to the front of the boarding area when they are in boarding group #6, and they are only boarding group #1. These are the same people that space themselves out in the waiting area with empty seats between each of them so there is no where for a couple or a family to sit down together.
Add a passenger who talks non-stop. For the whole flight. Thank goodness for iPods. And thank goodness he was behind me and not next to me.
Add someone with really bad gas. FOUL. Who the heck was that? Ew!
Add a broken bathroom. Although I try to avoid those anyway.
Add a malfunctioning audio system, which meant half of the plane didn't have working sound to watch the movie and had nothing to do but mentally make fun of the other passengers for four hours. That would be my half.
Add the 'big guy' who used the bathroom three times and nearly ripped my elbow off each time he passed.
Toss in a few foul smelling meals folks brought onto the plane with them.
Add it all up. Whadya get? Fun in the air people, fun in the air.
HOWEVER, I for one am damn glad to be home and putting a sour chapter of my life behind me for a while!
Next time I fly, let it be for fun, sun, surf and/or good times!
***Ally
Nothing like being packed into a too-small tube that hasn't been actually 'cleaned' since it was built, with 95 other people. Every seat full. Some overflowing.
Add a delay which makes everyone cranky.
Add the sheeple (sheep + people = sheeple) who rush to the front of the boarding area when they are in boarding group #6, and they are only boarding group #1. These are the same people that space themselves out in the waiting area with empty seats between each of them so there is no where for a couple or a family to sit down together.
Add a passenger who talks non-stop. For the whole flight. Thank goodness for iPods. And thank goodness he was behind me and not next to me.
Add someone with really bad gas. FOUL. Who the heck was that? Ew!
Add a broken bathroom. Although I try to avoid those anyway.
Add a malfunctioning audio system, which meant half of the plane didn't have working sound to watch the movie and had nothing to do but mentally make fun of the other passengers for four hours. That would be my half.
Add the 'big guy' who used the bathroom three times and nearly ripped my elbow off each time he passed.
Toss in a few foul smelling meals folks brought onto the plane with them.
Add it all up. Whadya get? Fun in the air people, fun in the air.
HOWEVER, I for one am damn glad to be home and putting a sour chapter of my life behind me for a while!
Next time I fly, let it be for fun, sun, surf and/or good times!
***Ally
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Master Plans
My nagging has finally paid off.
Our master bathroom is getting remodeled!
The husband and I picked out and ordered the vanity (with 2 sinks) and 2 fancy mirrors this weekend. We also started demolition on the old floor, vanity, sink and shower. Who knew in the mid 80's that shower tile was attached to 4 inches of concrete on chicken wire?
Things are going really well so far. The dust and debris settled (into my nose and throat) and I suffered an allergy attack that prevented me from further helping my husband the next day. My son was supposed to help out, but "lost track of time" with his friends, only to return after my husband was, let's say, slightly agitated, causing a huge family fight.
Oh, and I have to sleep on the downstairs couch. And my husband and I have to share a bathroom with a teenage boy.
But it is going to be worth it.
Right?
Achoo!
-Lela
Our master bathroom is getting remodeled!
The husband and I picked out and ordered the vanity (with 2 sinks) and 2 fancy mirrors this weekend. We also started demolition on the old floor, vanity, sink and shower. Who knew in the mid 80's that shower tile was attached to 4 inches of concrete on chicken wire?
Things are going really well so far. The dust and debris settled (into my nose and throat) and I suffered an allergy attack that prevented me from further helping my husband the next day. My son was supposed to help out, but "lost track of time" with his friends, only to return after my husband was, let's say, slightly agitated, causing a huge family fight.
Oh, and I have to sleep on the downstairs couch. And my husband and I have to share a bathroom with a teenage boy.
But it is going to be worth it.
Right?
Achoo!
-Lela
Monday, March 15, 2010
Why Do Adult Women Still Have To Put Up With Zits?
***I'm out of town, but Memoir Monday will return next week***
I've always had oily skin. Except when I was pregnant, when my skin was beautiful except for the patches of eczema that moved from my nose to my chin in a slow progression. Sigh.
Acne has followed me well into adulthood. Not like teenage acne that makes you want to cry for the poor souls, but still, zits. And of course hormonally induced. I can tell when I ovulate by the freaking things that appear on my face. And then it's an on-again, off-again march to my period, where I often end up with a large cyst. These are not zits. They will not "erupt" (don't you love that word in connection with acne?). This is confirmed by my dermatologist. They are deep under the skin, and hurt like hell. They will leave a scar. My dermatologist has injected them before to make them go away. He always says to come in within the first couple of days for best results.... and of course his schedule books two weeks out.
I do know, guiltily, that the cysts will most often appear where there has been damage to the skin tissue. Translation: where I've picked at my face.
Draw a line from the corner of your mouth to the corner of your nose. Mark the halfway point. (I know you are all following instructions here, right? Lela did when she read this story) I had an ingrown hair - really it wasn't ingrown, but it was thick and black (women's facial hair is a whole other post, which I'm sure I've already done) and I tried to dig it out with the tweezers before it was long enough. Scabbed. Came off. Plucked hair. End of story...
NOOOOOOO, not so fast. I also happened to ovulate that day. So yes, where little black hair used to be turned into CYST. The swelling from this little thing with it's own zip code, made my upper lip big and flat. I looked like A) I had a fat lip or B) I had palsy or had suffered a small stroke on that side. Bloody hell! And it HURT like crazy.
You want to know my confession of how desperate I was? I put hydrocortisone on it, followed by diluted DMSO. Yeah. Desperate. I'm pretty sure both of these come with strict warnings about putting them on your face. Howeveerrrrrr, this little potion (and I've tried many, many) seems to have halted and reversed the volcano. I think it's going back into dormancy.
Which is all good, because DMSO is a solvent and I was pretty sure TSA wasn't going to let me on an airplane with that potion in my carry-on bag!
So if any of you all have the wonder cure for adult acne or zits, Lela and I will pay youhundreds of dollars a drink for the info. If it works. It's like the reward that you only get if they arrest and charge the bad guy.
***Ally
PS - I'm a drama queen at times. And despite the picture I've painted, I do not walk around with a face covered in teenage-like acne with cyst scars glaring out. It's a little more subtle than that. But STILL.
I've always had oily skin. Except when I was pregnant, when my skin was beautiful except for the patches of eczema that moved from my nose to my chin in a slow progression. Sigh.
Acne has followed me well into adulthood. Not like teenage acne that makes you want to cry for the poor souls, but still, zits. And of course hormonally induced. I can tell when I ovulate by the freaking things that appear on my face. And then it's an on-again, off-again march to my period, where I often end up with a large cyst. These are not zits. They will not "erupt" (don't you love that word in connection with acne?). This is confirmed by my dermatologist. They are deep under the skin, and hurt like hell. They will leave a scar. My dermatologist has injected them before to make them go away. He always says to come in within the first couple of days for best results.... and of course his schedule books two weeks out.
I do know, guiltily, that the cysts will most often appear where there has been damage to the skin tissue. Translation: where I've picked at my face.
Draw a line from the corner of your mouth to the corner of your nose. Mark the halfway point. (I know you are all following instructions here, right? Lela did when she read this story) I had an ingrown hair - really it wasn't ingrown, but it was thick and black (women's facial hair is a whole other post, which I'm sure I've already done) and I tried to dig it out with the tweezers before it was long enough. Scabbed. Came off. Plucked hair. End of story...
NOOOOOOO, not so fast. I also happened to ovulate that day. So yes, where little black hair used to be turned into CYST. The swelling from this little thing with it's own zip code, made my upper lip big and flat. I looked like A) I had a fat lip or B) I had palsy or had suffered a small stroke on that side. Bloody hell! And it HURT like crazy.
You want to know my confession of how desperate I was? I put hydrocortisone on it, followed by diluted DMSO. Yeah. Desperate. I'm pretty sure both of these come with strict warnings about putting them on your face. Howeveerrrrrr, this little potion (and I've tried many, many) seems to have halted and reversed the volcano. I think it's going back into dormancy.
Which is all good, because DMSO is a solvent and I was pretty sure TSA wasn't going to let me on an airplane with that potion in my carry-on bag!
So if any of you all have the wonder cure for adult acne or zits, Lela and I will pay you
***Ally
PS - I'm a drama queen at times. And despite the picture I've painted, I do not walk around with a face covered in teenage-like acne with cyst scars glaring out. It's a little more subtle than that. But STILL.
Friday, March 12, 2010
How To Buy Underwear
I recently watched an undercover expose' on the purchase of ladies underwear.
Apparently, when you return underwear, the salespeople are NOT supposed to re-tag them and put them back on the sales floor. Who wants someone else's crotch cooties? Or as the journalist so eloquently stated, "unwanted bacteria".
This Pulitzer Prize bound investigative reporter even went one step further to prove that the panties you purchase are probably tainted (pun intended). After buying panties from well-known department stores, she took them home and stained the crotches with baby oil! Then she returned them and came back later to find them, you guessed it, back on the racks, stains and all.
Ladies, to protect you private parts, please follow these easy steps for your next panty purchase:
1. Go to Target, NOT Macy's.
2. Pick out a hermetically-sealed plastic package of panties in your size. To be on the safe side, if you think you wear a medium, buy the large. Just do it.
3. Buy them. You can most likely get a pack of 6 for 5 bucks.
4. Take them home and (this is important) WASH THEM. Preferably in hot water.
5. Wear them. If they don't fit, cram them in your underwear drawer anyway. If they are too small, you will lose weight someday and they will fit. If they are too big, you will gain weight some day and they will fit.
6. DO NOT return them if your crotch has made contact with them in any way, shape, or form.
Together, we can stop the spread of unwanted crotch cooties.
-Lela
Apparently, when you return underwear, the salespeople are NOT supposed to re-tag them and put them back on the sales floor. Who wants someone else's crotch cooties? Or as the journalist so eloquently stated, "unwanted bacteria".
This Pulitzer Prize bound investigative reporter even went one step further to prove that the panties you purchase are probably tainted (pun intended). After buying panties from well-known department stores, she took them home and stained the crotches with baby oil! Then she returned them and came back later to find them, you guessed it, back on the racks, stains and all.
Ladies, to protect you private parts, please follow these easy steps for your next panty purchase:
1. Go to Target, NOT Macy's.
2. Pick out a hermetically-sealed plastic package of panties in your size. To be on the safe side, if you think you wear a medium, buy the large. Just do it.
3. Buy them. You can most likely get a pack of 6 for 5 bucks.
4. Take them home and (this is important) WASH THEM. Preferably in hot water.
5. Wear them. If they don't fit, cram them in your underwear drawer anyway. If they are too small, you will lose weight someday and they will fit. If they are too big, you will gain weight some day and they will fit.
6. DO NOT return them if your crotch has made contact with them in any way, shape, or form.
Together, we can stop the spread of unwanted crotch cooties.
-Lela
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Happy Birthday To Me . . .
Sunday was my birthday.My husband is afraid I am going to blog about him being a schmuck and not getting me anything on my birthday. I refuse to blog about the fact that he "ordered something" and it didn't come on time. There is no way I am going to blog that he did not take our son shopping for his own mother and all I got was a card.
Nope, not gonna do it.
But look what I got from Ally! This totally thoughtful coffee mug with "Two Normal Moms" on it! I love it! Thanks, Friend! I can always count on Ally.
-Lela
P.S. I got a cool Cricut cartridge in the mail the day after my birthday from my husband . . . and an apology.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Epitome of Passive Aggressive (and other fun little mind games)
(Warning: Sorry this is a little wordy. I'm having a little stress and could really use some support from my bloggy friends. I'll return to more generalized snarktastic observations about the world next week.)
I tend to think people shouldn't diagnose themselves by internet info. Especially people like my patients/clients. Not so much for me. I will do it to no end. I have no shame.
So I took the liberty and diagnosed a family member (by marriage - I make no blood claim) with Passive Aggressive Personality Disorder. Wasn't that great of me? Don't worry, I didn't inform her of her new disease. And no, for those that have asked, my SIL does not know about my blog.
See, my SIL is meeting us to finish cleaning out my MIL's house. Not a fun chore by any stretch of the imagination and compounded by dealing with the SIL craziness. And her behavior cannot be explained by the stress of the unfortunate situation because this is how she acts ALL. THE. TIME.
We have a very limited amount of time. Therefore, my smart husband and my smart self chose to fly in on Friday night, and have all day Saturday and Sunday to get done what needs to happen. We have to go to other businesses on Saturday while they are open. She chose to fly in Saturday at 1:00 in the afternoon. The airport is a full hour away. And a full hour back. And waiting time. And she will need to stop at the store for food because without a constant supply of food she might perish-and-die-right-on-the-spot. We (my smart husband and my smart self) are renting an SUV because we need to haul stuff away. Renting it with our money. She is taking her mom's old car home from the house, which we do not have keys to. Here's a classic look at how conversations with her go. This is the email we received, over a week ago with no normal human conversation preceding it:
"Hi I booked my flight. I arrive on Saturday at 12:55.
I will ask Jane to pick me up unless you can.
If she can't then you will have to help get me to the house."
The end. That's all she wrote.
Passive: "...unless you can" - is that a question? Wouldn't it have been easier to say, "Will you pick me up from the airport?"
Or how about, "Will you take 2-1/2 - 3 hours out of a day where you need every available hour to get things done and pick me up from the airport with the only available vehicle because I am an inconsiderate moron who could not see the logic of flying in Friday night for the exact same price which would have made it easier for everyone?" That would have have worked just fine. And a fine summary of the situation, if I do say so myself. See, I can meet passive-aggressive head to head.
Aggressive: "...you will have to help me..." Um, I don't HAVE to do anything.
This crap drivesME my husband crazy, because she will never just ask a question. Ever.
In dealing with a PA (Passive-Aggressive), we have learned some techniques to make life easier for ourselves. (This took more internet research - don't ya love the internet?) One is to be very clear on what you are asking. Never beat around the bush with a PA. Another is that you always make the PA take responsibility for their words and actions. PA's are masters of not doing this. So with her, we've learned to use her own words to reply. It forces her to take responsibility for her choice of words. In emails, we will often put them in quotes when responding.
My smart husband's response:
"If you want me to pick you up at the airport, you will have to mail me a set of keys to the other car. Ally will likely need the rental car during that time frame."
And despite her chronic claims of lack of communication on our part, she did not respond. However, during a brief conversation yesterday (yes they actually SPOKE) she told my husband, "I still don't have a ride from the airport. I can't get a hold of Jane."
To which my husband, refusing to give in, replied, "Oh."
And then he added (again), "If you want me to pick you up, you need to send me a car key."
Her reply, "It's too late to do that now."
Him, "You can two-day it and it will be here Thursday. Or you can overnight it to Mom's neighbor, I'll get it when I arrive."
Her, "I don't think I can do that."
Him, "Oh."
Again, the question Will you please pick me up from the airport? was not asked. Isn't this a fun little game? I think I may shoot somebody. Or maybe just pull my fingernails off one by one - that would be more fun.
You, too, can be an internet psychologist/psychiatrist/mental health professional! It's as close as your local computer!
***Ally
I tend to think people shouldn't diagnose themselves by internet info. Especially people like my patients/clients. Not so much for me. I will do it to no end. I have no shame.
So I took the liberty and diagnosed a family member (by marriage - I make no blood claim) with Passive Aggressive Personality Disorder. Wasn't that great of me? Don't worry, I didn't inform her of her new disease. And no, for those that have asked, my SIL does not know about my blog.
See, my SIL is meeting us to finish cleaning out my MIL's house. Not a fun chore by any stretch of the imagination and compounded by dealing with the SIL craziness. And her behavior cannot be explained by the stress of the unfortunate situation because this is how she acts ALL. THE. TIME.
We have a very limited amount of time. Therefore, my smart husband and my smart self chose to fly in on Friday night, and have all day Saturday and Sunday to get done what needs to happen. We have to go to other businesses on Saturday while they are open. She chose to fly in Saturday at 1:00 in the afternoon. The airport is a full hour away. And a full hour back. And waiting time. And she will need to stop at the store for food because without a constant supply of food she might perish-and-die-right-on-the-spot. We (my smart husband and my smart self) are renting an SUV because we need to haul stuff away. Renting it with our money. She is taking her mom's old car home from the house, which we do not have keys to. Here's a classic look at how conversations with her go. This is the email we received, over a week ago with no normal human conversation preceding it:
"Hi I booked my flight. I arrive on Saturday at 12:55.
I will ask Jane to pick me up unless you can.
If she can't then you will have to help get me to the house."
The end. That's all she wrote.
Passive: "...unless you can" - is that a question? Wouldn't it have been easier to say, "Will you pick me up from the airport?"
Or how about, "Will you take 2-1/2 - 3 hours out of a day where you need every available hour to get things done and pick me up from the airport with the only available vehicle because I am an inconsiderate moron who could not see the logic of flying in Friday night for the exact same price which would have made it easier for everyone?" That would have have worked just fine. And a fine summary of the situation, if I do say so myself. See, I can meet passive-aggressive head to head.
Aggressive: "...you will have to help me..." Um, I don't HAVE to do anything.
This crap drives
In dealing with a PA (Passive-Aggressive), we have learned some techniques to make life easier for ourselves. (This took more internet research - don't ya love the internet?) One is to be very clear on what you are asking. Never beat around the bush with a PA. Another is that you always make the PA take responsibility for their words and actions. PA's are masters of not doing this. So with her, we've learned to use her own words to reply. It forces her to take responsibility for her choice of words. In emails, we will often put them in quotes when responding.
My smart husband's response:
"If you want me to pick you up at the airport, you will have to mail me a set of keys to the other car. Ally will likely need the rental car during that time frame."
And despite her chronic claims of lack of communication on our part, she did not respond. However, during a brief conversation yesterday (yes they actually SPOKE) she told my husband, "I still don't have a ride from the airport. I can't get a hold of Jane."
To which my husband, refusing to give in, replied, "Oh."
And then he added (again), "If you want me to pick you up, you need to send me a car key."
Her reply, "It's too late to do that now."
Him, "You can two-day it and it will be here Thursday. Or you can overnight it to Mom's neighbor, I'll get it when I arrive."
Her, "I don't think I can do that."
Him, "Oh."
Again, the question Will you please pick me up from the airport? was not asked. Isn't this a fun little game? I think I may shoot somebody. Or maybe just pull my fingernails off one by one - that would be more fun.
You, too, can be an internet psychologist/psychiatrist/mental health professional! It's as close as your local computer!
***Ally
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Master? Oh I Think So...
We got an award. No, not an Academy Award. Those were the awards where all the rich and famous, put on clothes they can actually afford, but are mostly borrowed to promote some fabric draping genius, gather in one place and pat each other on the back. Okay, yes, I sneaked a few peeks to see what the pretty people were wearing. And for the most part, I'm glad to see glam is back and atrocious is out. But really, I had last week's Survivor to watch. Cause that is oh, such a much better use of the time I don't have. Ahem.
No these are the awards I'm talking about, where we hide behind computers in our sweats and pajamas and ponytails and unwashed faces and pat each other on the back. We're so much better than those other types I mentioned before!!!
Anyhoo, Lady V over at A Little Bit of Vic gave us this awesome award. If you haven't visited her, you should. This is one honest lady, a power mom who would do anything for her awesome girls, and will give you a chuckle to boot!
Sometimes the rules that come with awards can be, well, a pain in the ass. (Sorry if you are behind some of those) But I see these as kind of fun. So here goes:
1. I master the art of procrastination. I blog! Dude, what better way to put off doing something I need to do, than to hang out on blogs! Write them, read them. Doesn't matter. The time I spend blogging is the time I spend putting off taking a shower, cleaning a toilet, going for a run, making dinner, dusting the measurable amount of dust collecting on the surfaces of my house. Master.
2. I master of the art of diffusion. I hate confrontation and can diffuse most conversations. To a fault. I am Mrs. Agreeable. Except on my blog, where I rant and pretend to be tough.
3. I master prediction. I can accurately predict the reaction and behavior of a certain someone I knowwho may or may not be a sibling of my husband. CoughcoughcoughSILcoughcough. My correct prediction rate hovers around 96.5%. Which has led to other mastery. I know how to introduce ideas and choose words, both verbal and written to guide her reactions to something a little more socially acceptable. Which I guess makes me a manipulator.... read on...
4. I am a master of gentle manipulation. (MINDS OUT OF GUTTERS. NOW!) I worked for a doc for 14 years, who liked to come up with ideas on his own. I was a master of planting a seed, letting it stew and then he would come back with a great idea! Which was what I wanted/needed in the first place. Didn't matter to me how it came about, as long as it did! Worked for both of us. And I can apply the skill to many people in my life.
5. I master the organization of my household. Seriously, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, my husband and son would be in a sad state. Where do we keep the checkbook? Do we have a 9X13 pan? Where's the extra paper towels? What bank is our safety deposit box at?
6. I am a master of "Do As I Say, Not As I Do". I am a parent. 'Nuff said.
There you have it. I'm a master. Even if it's only in my own little corner of this significantly twisted world.
Thank you Lady V!
***Ally
No these are the awards I'm talking about, where we hide behind computers in our sweats and pajamas and ponytails and unwashed faces and pat each other on the back. We're so much better than those other types I mentioned before!!!
Anyhoo, Lady V over at A Little Bit of Vic gave us this awesome award. If you haven't visited her, you should. This is one honest lady, a power mom who would do anything for her awesome girls, and will give you a chuckle to boot!
According to The Fab Bitch-who gave the award to Lady V:
"The award, like most, comes with rules: I have to list six things I "master." I don’t master, I bitch. And I bitch fabulously. That is my thing. But rules are rules and I will give it my best damn shot."
Sometimes the rules that come with awards can be, well, a pain in the ass. (Sorry if you are behind some of those) But I see these as kind of fun. So here goes:
1. I master the art of procrastination. I blog! Dude, what better way to put off doing something I need to do, than to hang out on blogs! Write them, read them. Doesn't matter. The time I spend blogging is the time I spend putting off taking a shower, cleaning a toilet, going for a run, making dinner, dusting the measurable amount of dust collecting on the surfaces of my house. Master.
2. I master of the art of diffusion. I hate confrontation and can diffuse most conversations. To a fault. I am Mrs. Agreeable. Except on my blog, where I rant and pretend to be tough.
3. I master prediction. I can accurately predict the reaction and behavior of a certain someone I know
4. I am a master of gentle manipulation. (MINDS OUT OF GUTTERS. NOW!) I worked for a doc for 14 years, who liked to come up with ideas on his own. I was a master of planting a seed, letting it stew and then he would come back with a great idea! Which was what I wanted/needed in the first place. Didn't matter to me how it came about, as long as it did! Worked for both of us. And I can apply the skill to many people in my life.
5. I master the organization of my household. Seriously, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, my husband and son would be in a sad state. Where do we keep the checkbook? Do we have a 9X13 pan? Where's the extra paper towels? What bank is our safety deposit box at?
6. I am a master of "Do As I Say, Not As I Do". I am a parent. 'Nuff said.
There you have it. I'm a master. Even if it's only in my own little corner of this significantly twisted world.
Thank you Lady V!
***Ally
Monday, March 8, 2010
Memoir Monday
Travis at I Like To Fish started Memoir Monday.
I've tried it out, and kinda like it... so here's another moment from the past.
Check out Travis' blog, if you haven't...
I was 16, a new driver. My mom had arranged a river rafting/camping trip. She had gone ahead with some other friends. I was coming with Lela, another high school friend - Kim, and a family friend - Kara (who I love to this day). Kara was probably 24 at the time. She was driving her roommate's car, who was out of town and let her use it. She was bringing us three girls up.
Long back story - shortened to control boredom: I have no idea how I came to be in the driver's seat. I've surely blocked that out. Likely it's because to this day, Kara has a tendency to go to sleep once she gets on a road trip.
We had my mini-boom box (with really cool removable speakers) on the floor of the passenger seat playing 80's tunes on cassettes out of it's tinny speakers. I remember reaching down to change a tape, or change the volume, or something. As I did so, the inexperienced driver that I was, I let the car drift to the right as I reached to my right. The right front tire left pavement and hit gravel shoulder. Inexperienced driver that I was, I over-corrected to keep the car on the road. My over-correction put the car into a spin that stopped when the left rear fender made contact with the cement road divider.
A classic reaction for Lela in an uncomfortable, stress-filled situation - she burst out laughing. And a classic reaction for me in the same situation - I burst out crying. I can't remember what Kim did. Probably screamed.
We looked at the damage, said a lot of swear words, and proceeded to the campground. We pulled in and parked so that the fender was facing away from everyone. Like we thought we were going to hide it. Shaking with nervousness, we couldn't keep it to ourselves and spilled the story.
I'm sure my mom was not happy. After the weekend, Kara and I went home and washed the car hoping it would somehow make the damage look less "damaged". I know Kara's roommate was not happy when we had to go back and tell her. Not happy that I crashed her car, and not happy that I was in the driver's seat of her car. I think Kara and I split the cost of repairs.
Classic, I know. Thank God, there were no other cars on the road at the time. Thank God I didn't roll the car. Thank God no one was injured.
And as with most life experience, time finds humor in many things.
***Ally
I've tried it out, and kinda like it... so here's another moment from the past.
Check out Travis' blog, if you haven't...
I was 16, a new driver. My mom had arranged a river rafting/camping trip. She had gone ahead with some other friends. I was coming with Lela, another high school friend - Kim, and a family friend - Kara (who I love to this day). Kara was probably 24 at the time. She was driving her roommate's car, who was out of town and let her use it. She was bringing us three girls up.
Long back story - shortened to control boredom: I have no idea how I came to be in the driver's seat. I've surely blocked that out. Likely it's because to this day, Kara has a tendency to go to sleep once she gets on a road trip.
We had my mini-boom box (with really cool removable speakers) on the floor of the passenger seat playing 80's tunes on cassettes out of it's tinny speakers. I remember reaching down to change a tape, or change the volume, or something. As I did so, the inexperienced driver that I was, I let the car drift to the right as I reached to my right. The right front tire left pavement and hit gravel shoulder. Inexperienced driver that I was, I over-corrected to keep the car on the road. My over-correction put the car into a spin that stopped when the left rear fender made contact with the cement road divider.
A classic reaction for Lela in an uncomfortable, stress-filled situation - she burst out laughing. And a classic reaction for me in the same situation - I burst out crying. I can't remember what Kim did. Probably screamed.
We looked at the damage, said a lot of swear words, and proceeded to the campground. We pulled in and parked so that the fender was facing away from everyone. Like we thought we were going to hide it. Shaking with nervousness, we couldn't keep it to ourselves and spilled the story.
I'm sure my mom was not happy. After the weekend, Kara and I went home and washed the car hoping it would somehow make the damage look less "damaged". I know Kara's roommate was not happy when we had to go back and tell her. Not happy that I crashed her car, and not happy that I was in the driver's seat of her car. I think Kara and I split the cost of repairs.
Classic, I know. Thank God, there were no other cars on the road at the time. Thank God I didn't roll the car. Thank God no one was injured.
And as with most life experience, time finds humor in many things.
***Ally
Friday, March 5, 2010
Proud Mama
I'm going to write a post bragging about what a great kid I have. Or if you bear with me to the end, maybe I'm not.
But really it's about realizing that you've raised this child and before your eyes, he's turned into a person, with all kinds of good his heart and potential to be this amazing adult.
My son, K, just made his high school's freshmen baseball team. Not the world's biggest accomplishment, but important to him.
I spent yesterday afternoon going through scenarios in my head of how to handle it if he came home from tryouts and said he didn't make it. It was a real possibility. There were 25 kids trying out for the freshmen team and they were only keeping 12 or 13. K's a catcher and there were two other catchers trying out. One of them has spent the last three or four years being a star. Advanced skills, playing with older kids, star of the All-Star team. The mom works at the school. Ahem. And the dad is a baseball know-it-all with a voice in every coach's ear within a 25 mile radius. That said - he's a NICE kid. Really nice kid.
But at this age, those stars from the 10-14 year olds start to become normal. Skills start to even out. Kids that took a little longer to develop are suddenly blooming. K and the Star caught a bullpen session side by side. The Star let some balls go by. K never let one go by. I'm not saying K's better, I'm saying that The Star isn't so much better than everyone else anymore.
What's really important though, is that as parents, we've taught K to work hard. We don't nag, we don't push - we aren't those kinds of sports parents. We've just let him learn the rewards of hard work. His last 5 coaches have all commented on his work ethic. He shows up, puts out 110% effort, works on his own to improve, and does anything the coach asks of him to the best of his ability. His club coach knows that if he has to put K into a fill-in position, K will give it his all, whether it's a position he plays or not.
Outcome? They put The Star up a level onto the JV team (most freshmen don't get to play JV until they are sophomores in this district). K made the freshmen team.
Turns out, his 7th grade school coach (who also mentored him through 8th grade) is an assistant coach for the high school. Something I didn't realize. But he knows K and his work ethic. I'm sure that helped.
What K has learned is that life isn't fair, but giving your all, doing your best, being the best you can be, will pay off in the long run. You may not make the team. There's plenty of teams he hasn't made. But you'll walk away with your head held high. And know you did everything to the best of your ability. What that's landed him, is a place on a club team with one of the greatest coaches I've been around in a long, long time. It may not be the best team around, but there will never be regrets for having played with this team. It also landed him straight A's his first semester of high school. And a place on the freshmen baseball team. Yay, K!!!
Yep, I'm a proud mama. And not just because my kid made the team. But because of the kind of kid he is.
Proud mama, indeed.
***Ally
But really it's about realizing that you've raised this child and before your eyes, he's turned into a person, with all kinds of good his heart and potential to be this amazing adult.
My son, K, just made his high school's freshmen baseball team. Not the world's biggest accomplishment, but important to him.
I spent yesterday afternoon going through scenarios in my head of how to handle it if he came home from tryouts and said he didn't make it. It was a real possibility. There were 25 kids trying out for the freshmen team and they were only keeping 12 or 13. K's a catcher and there were two other catchers trying out. One of them has spent the last three or four years being a star. Advanced skills, playing with older kids, star of the All-Star team. The mom works at the school. Ahem. And the dad is a baseball know-it-all with a voice in every coach's ear within a 25 mile radius. That said - he's a NICE kid. Really nice kid.
But at this age, those stars from the 10-14 year olds start to become normal. Skills start to even out. Kids that took a little longer to develop are suddenly blooming. K and the Star caught a bullpen session side by side. The Star let some balls go by. K never let one go by. I'm not saying K's better, I'm saying that The Star isn't so much better than everyone else anymore.
What's really important though, is that as parents, we've taught K to work hard. We don't nag, we don't push - we aren't those kinds of sports parents. We've just let him learn the rewards of hard work. His last 5 coaches have all commented on his work ethic. He shows up, puts out 110% effort, works on his own to improve, and does anything the coach asks of him to the best of his ability. His club coach knows that if he has to put K into a fill-in position, K will give it his all, whether it's a position he plays or not.
Outcome? They put The Star up a level onto the JV team (most freshmen don't get to play JV until they are sophomores in this district). K made the freshmen team.
Turns out, his 7th grade school coach (who also mentored him through 8th grade) is an assistant coach for the high school. Something I didn't realize. But he knows K and his work ethic. I'm sure that helped.
What K has learned is that life isn't fair, but giving your all, doing your best, being the best you can be, will pay off in the long run. You may not make the team. There's plenty of teams he hasn't made. But you'll walk away with your head held high. And know you did everything to the best of your ability. What that's landed him, is a place on a club team with one of the greatest coaches I've been around in a long, long time. It may not be the best team around, but there will never be regrets for having played with this team. It also landed him straight A's his first semester of high school. And a place on the freshmen baseball team. Yay, K!!!
Yep, I'm a proud mama. And not just because my kid made the team. But because of the kind of kid he is.
Addendum REALITY CHECK:
Picked the little shit up from his first practice. Seems the freshmen were told that they were going to have to paint the dugouts. They were also told they might want to wear old clothes. And that day might be yesterday if the weather held. But apparently my little angel didn't know what else he might wear so he didn't bother (you know, OLD clothes? Have we taught him NOTHING?). He also didn't think he'd want to change on the field (cause running to the bathroom was out of the question?) So he painted in $60 running shoes, an almost new $40 pair of baseball pants and a good workout shirt. And came home covered in green paint. On everything. That won't come out.
Proud mama, indeed.
***Ally
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Need A Lift?
The other day my friend called for a favor. She was stranded at the car dealership where a simple oil change had turned into 2 -hour wait."I'll buy you lunch if you rescue me," she said.
"I just ate but I'll be right there."
We ended up going to the beach for a walk to kill time, and on the way home from dropping her off I saw my neighbor walking down the busy main drag of town. I pulled a u-turn and picked her up.
"Oh, thank you," she said. "I am not supposed to drive with my broken wrist, so I had to walk my son to baseball practice."
"Call my anytime!" I said.
The next morning I got a call from another friend. "Can you do me a huge favor?" she asked.
She needed a ride to the airport, in the next 10 minutes, and she would pay me gas money.
"Don't be ridiculous! Let me brush my teeth and I will be right there!"
It is lovely to be needed and appreciated by sweet friends. I am glad they can count on me and that I can be there for them.
But stop offering me money and food!
A glass of wine will suffice.
-Lela
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Funky Chicken
My husband poisoned me Thursday night.I made a great chicken dinner with mashed potatoes that was on the table at 5 pm. My workout schedule got changed and I had to run off to a 6 pm boot camp class, figuring my husband would clean up the kitchen.
Fast forward to my sweaty, starving return at 7:30ish, bearing gifts of of ice cream for my loved-ones. Since I gave up sweets for Lent, I settled on a leftover piece of chicken from the fridge while I watched them lick and slurp chocolate chip mint from Baskin Robbins.
Fast forward again to stomach pains and rumblings during American Idol. I tried to go to bed and sleep it off, but had to run to the bathroom for, to put it delicately, a violent rear evacuation.
I crawled back into bed and groaned to my husband, "How long did you leave that chicken out?"
No answer. Just breathing noises.
"HOW LONG DID YOU LEAVE THE CHICKEN OUT?!"
"I don't know. After I got off the phone. An hour?"
"Thanks, you effing poisoned me."
"Sorry, Baby," he mumbled, then returned to weird, annoying breathing/snoring.
Fast forward (last time) to the morning where I woke up craving Pepto Bismol and softer toilet paper. I had to miss my morning workout, texting my trainer that I ate some bad chicken, which I am sure he thinks is total B.S. excuse for being lazy.
I am glad my husband "cleaned up" the kitchen, even though he failed the health department inspection. How did he survive his bachelor years?
Oh, yeah, Top Ramen never goes "bad".
-Lela
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Post It Note Tueday
If you want to play along, check out SupahMommy's site. It's great fun!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
***Ally
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
***Ally
Monday, March 1, 2010
Memoir Monday
Travis at I Like To Fish started Memoir Monday.
So I've been reading along with some of the folks, and find their stories hilarious, horrifying and totally entertaining. While mine might not be any of those, I thought I'd take a stab at playing along!
Check out Travis' blog, if you haven't...
This true nightmare takes place several years ago when my In-Laws decided they would like to celebrate their 50th Anniversary with their two children and their families in... Branson, MO!! Woo-hoo! (that was sarcastic, friends) In the middle of August. If you've never been, keep this in mind. During our trip it was 103 degrees EVERY DAY with 90% humidity. This is why I don't live in the midwest. Sorry y'all. I know you probably grew up there and think nothing of it. I grew up in Seattle. If the thermometer hits 90 degrees people will lay down and not get up until the heat wave is over. We are weather wimps. As you read the following account, keep in mind that I am not only traveling to Branson, in 103 degrees, but doing it to spend time with my in-laws, which includes my SIL, who single-handedly can make a room of eight other peoplewant to harm her with their bare hands miserable and sorry they came. The following account is from my journal, which keeps me sane.
It is 1:49am Branson time as I write this. Mind you, I got up at 4:00am Seattle time this morning after finally falling asleep after 1:15am the night before.
First flight (7:45am through Dallas) gets a fuel leak. They make us get off.
They rebook us on a different flight through Chicago. They have us describe our luggage so they can pull it and put it on our new flight. They have over five hours to accomplish this task.
We finally leave Seattle at 1:30.
We have 50 minutes in Chicago to find our new gate and board our flight, which goes smoothly, thankfully.
We arrive in Springfield. No luggage. Did we really expect anything else?
They tell us it most likely went through Dallas as originally planned, so we wait an hour till the next flight from Dallas comes in. No luggage. Likely it is still in Chicago - next flight from Chicago is in at 1:00 tomorrow afternoon. IF it arrives on that flight, we might have it by 4:00. Tomorrow.
We drive an hour to Branson. We pass 5 religious colleges and more churches than I can count. I am reminded that I am in the "Bible Belt". There's a midnight classic car cruise happening. It's 11:50pm and the road the map shows to our hotel, is closed for the cruise, the nice police officer informs me. I call the hotel and am informed there is no alternate way to the hotel until the cruise is over and I will not be able to get to the hotel until 2:00am. Up to this point, I have been very calm - just dealing with it all as it comes. Now I am crying. But I'm also laughing hysterically. It's ridiculous.
We go to the 24 hour Wal-Mart. We call Hubby's sister and tell her to go to bed, we will see her in the morning. She is resisting, they wanted to help us bring our stuff in. What stuff? We have three small carry-on bags with reading material and a laptop! We tell them we are sleeping in - don't call us, we'll call you.
Wal-Mart is scary and full of drunk teenagers out for the car cruise, but we find shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops for Hubby and shorts and t-shirt for me. I thankfully packed my flip-flps in my carry on bag. Toothbrushes all around, hairbrush, deoderant, ponytail holder and razor for me. I have no facial products, no make-up. Nothing. We have also managed to pick up beer and margaritas. We need these.
We FINALLY make it to the hotel. I lay in bed now hoping that this is the worst of it. All will get better from here on out. It simply can't get worse, can it?
Bang. voices. beep. bang. bang. television. beep. bang. flushing toilets. These are the sounds you wake to in a cheap motel. The beeping is the funny little key activating the door lock on neighboring doors. The banging is the rude, unthoughtful, self-absorbed folks who let their self-closing doors slam assuming if they are awake with their kids, you must be, too. The television is those nice hotel tv’s that come on all at one volume - extra loud. And the kids don’t know any better so they continue watching it at that volume without turning it down. My son sleeps peacefully through this racket while my husband and I shoot dagger looks at each other. I lay there and figure out that it was 15 hours from the time we arrived at Sea-Tac airport to the time I left the Springfield airport. It was supposed to be an 8 hour travel day. Ugh.
4:00pm - still no luggage. Made a call to the airlines. Luggage arrived in Springfield at 10:50 this morning. Was picked up by the delivery company at noon. They have a six hour window to deliver. Good deal - should be here soon. Here being the luxury condos that we've moved to for our stay - my in-laws have booked them and are paying. No complaints, just wish I had luggage.
6:00pm - still no luggage. Called again. Same story. I remind her that American Airlines has had possession of our luggage for 36 hours now. That’s 36 hours that I have been without it. She is so sorry. Gee thanks.
7:50pm - still no luggage. Called for the third time and asked them to contact the delivery company to find out where our stuff is. I’m put on hold and when she finally comes back on, the humiliation she is suffering having to tell me where my luggage is almost makes me feel sorry for her. But not quite, because I’m going on 38 hours now. Apparently the driver who picked up the luggage at noon dropped the delivery slip between the seat cushions of the truck. Luggage was never delivered and was returned to the warehouse. It will go back out with the 10:00PM driver and should be there by midnight. I am silent without any words to describe the thoughts fleeting through my brain. She is hugely apologetic and asks if we’ve had to buy anything - I tell her yes, $50 worth. She says, "Is that all?" I'm tempted to run back to Wal-Mart and buy shit for homeless people just to make AA pay. She puts a voucher for $50 in the system and tells us to turn in our receipts to the airline counter for a reimbursement. “It’s the least we can do”. You have no idea, I think, but I do appreciate her humility, if that’s the right word. At this point they should be refunding the full price of my travel!
It did arrive about three minutes before midnight. And the OCD gal that I am, needed to unpack and put everything away. Which is why I wrote this at 1:49am. To make the seething in my brain go away so I could sleep.
Fun Times Traveling With Ally!!
***Ally
So I've been reading along with some of the folks, and find their stories hilarious, horrifying and totally entertaining. While mine might not be any of those, I thought I'd take a stab at playing along!
Check out Travis' blog, if you haven't...
This true nightmare takes place several years ago when my In-Laws decided they would like to celebrate their 50th Anniversary with their two children and their families in... Branson, MO!! Woo-hoo! (that was sarcastic, friends) In the middle of August. If you've never been, keep this in mind. During our trip it was 103 degrees EVERY DAY with 90% humidity. This is why I don't live in the midwest. Sorry y'all. I know you probably grew up there and think nothing of it. I grew up in Seattle. If the thermometer hits 90 degrees people will lay down and not get up until the heat wave is over. We are weather wimps. As you read the following account, keep in mind that I am not only traveling to Branson, in 103 degrees, but doing it to spend time with my in-laws, which includes my SIL, who single-handedly can make a room of eight other people
It is 1:49am Branson time as I write this. Mind you, I got up at 4:00am Seattle time this morning after finally falling asleep after 1:15am the night before.
First flight (7:45am through Dallas) gets a fuel leak. They make us get off.
They rebook us on a different flight through Chicago. They have us describe our luggage so they can pull it and put it on our new flight. They have over five hours to accomplish this task.
We finally leave Seattle at 1:30.
We have 50 minutes in Chicago to find our new gate and board our flight, which goes smoothly, thankfully.
We arrive in Springfield. No luggage. Did we really expect anything else?
They tell us it most likely went through Dallas as originally planned, so we wait an hour till the next flight from Dallas comes in. No luggage. Likely it is still in Chicago - next flight from Chicago is in at 1:00 tomorrow afternoon. IF it arrives on that flight, we might have it by 4:00. Tomorrow.
We drive an hour to Branson. We pass 5 religious colleges and more churches than I can count. I am reminded that I am in the "Bible Belt". There's a midnight classic car cruise happening. It's 11:50pm and the road the map shows to our hotel, is closed for the cruise, the nice police officer informs me. I call the hotel and am informed there is no alternate way to the hotel until the cruise is over and I will not be able to get to the hotel until 2:00am. Up to this point, I have been very calm - just dealing with it all as it comes. Now I am crying. But I'm also laughing hysterically. It's ridiculous.
We go to the 24 hour Wal-Mart. We call Hubby's sister and tell her to go to bed, we will see her in the morning. She is resisting, they wanted to help us bring our stuff in. What stuff? We have three small carry-on bags with reading material and a laptop! We tell them we are sleeping in - don't call us, we'll call you.
Wal-Mart is scary and full of drunk teenagers out for the car cruise, but we find shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops for Hubby and shorts and t-shirt for me. I thankfully packed my flip-flps in my carry on bag. Toothbrushes all around, hairbrush, deoderant, ponytail holder and razor for me. I have no facial products, no make-up. Nothing. We have also managed to pick up beer and margaritas. We need these.
We FINALLY make it to the hotel. I lay in bed now hoping that this is the worst of it. All will get better from here on out. It simply can't get worse, can it?
Bang. voices. beep. bang. bang. television. beep. bang. flushing toilets. These are the sounds you wake to in a cheap motel. The beeping is the funny little key activating the door lock on neighboring doors. The banging is the rude, unthoughtful, self-absorbed folks who let their self-closing doors slam assuming if they are awake with their kids, you must be, too. The television is those nice hotel tv’s that come on all at one volume - extra loud. And the kids don’t know any better so they continue watching it at that volume without turning it down. My son sleeps peacefully through this racket while my husband and I shoot dagger looks at each other. I lay there and figure out that it was 15 hours from the time we arrived at Sea-Tac airport to the time I left the Springfield airport. It was supposed to be an 8 hour travel day. Ugh.
4:00pm - still no luggage. Made a call to the airlines. Luggage arrived in Springfield at 10:50 this morning. Was picked up by the delivery company at noon. They have a six hour window to deliver. Good deal - should be here soon. Here being the luxury condos that we've moved to for our stay - my in-laws have booked them and are paying. No complaints, just wish I had luggage.
6:00pm - still no luggage. Called again. Same story. I remind her that American Airlines has had possession of our luggage for 36 hours now. That’s 36 hours that I have been without it. She is so sorry. Gee thanks.
7:50pm - still no luggage. Called for the third time and asked them to contact the delivery company to find out where our stuff is. I’m put on hold and when she finally comes back on, the humiliation she is suffering having to tell me where my luggage is almost makes me feel sorry for her. But not quite, because I’m going on 38 hours now. Apparently the driver who picked up the luggage at noon dropped the delivery slip between the seat cushions of the truck. Luggage was never delivered and was returned to the warehouse. It will go back out with the 10:00PM driver and should be there by midnight. I am silent without any words to describe the thoughts fleeting through my brain. She is hugely apologetic and asks if we’ve had to buy anything - I tell her yes, $50 worth. She says, "Is that all?" I'm tempted to run back to Wal-Mart and buy shit for homeless people just to make AA pay. She puts a voucher for $50 in the system and tells us to turn in our receipts to the airline counter for a reimbursement. “It’s the least we can do”. You have no idea, I think, but I do appreciate her humility, if that’s the right word. At this point they should be refunding the full price of my travel!
It did arrive about three minutes before midnight. And the OCD gal that I am, needed to unpack and put everything away. Which is why I wrote this at 1:49am. To make the seething in my brain go away so I could sleep.
Fun Times Traveling With Ally!!
***Ally
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