OK, so the past few days at work have been brutal. I had to go home sick on Monday for my well-documented tummy funk, and all week I've been embroiled in a software upgrade gone completely sideways. To put it in a nutshell, our paperless office has been forced to revert back to our hard-copy, tree-killing days of yore, and it is seriously bumming me out. I don't even feel up to Facebook, which means I am wicked mopey. Wait, I may feel a status update coming on...
The only thing I looked forward to this evening was my first love--the one that has never failed me like that stupid Mike Middleton did when he broke up with me in 11th grade by putting a wadded-up note in my locker--yes, my old stand-by boyfriend, television. For tonight was a night of wonder. First, Marquette played UConn, then there was American Idol, and wrapping up the entire mind-numbing sloth-fest was the season finale of Top Chef. How terribly wrong I was.
First, and foremost, Marquette lost (boooooo!). But worst of all, the game was called by my second-most-hated person alive, Dick Vitale. I hate him with the white-hot heat of 1000 suns, which is still less than the amount that I hate Bob Huggins, but still an awful lot, especially for a Wednesday night. Second, American Idol absolutely sucks this year. I seriously need to petition Fox to have the age-limit bumped up a coupla-coupla because I can so sing better than half of the doofi on tonight's broadcast (for those non-English majors in the crowd, doofi would be the plural form of doofus). I am now anxiously awaiting Top Chef, in the hopes that its excitement and entertainment value redeems my night--nay, my entire week.
I know I shouldn't pin so much hope on a single, pre-recorded event, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I am confident that I will find the distraction that I crave tonight, and if anyone has a problem with me spending 3 hours in front of the television in order to find said distraction, they can suck it, and suck it hard. For the time-being, I am at peace, my mind is at rest, and I have a rockin' recipe for gumbo to boot.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
And the Award Goes To TY
So I've not posted in a couple of days, but I have such a good reason--I've been sick (really, deathly ill with a highly-mutated version of the Chica-Virus) and my mom is in town. Now I know that they are not mutually exclusive, but when my resistance is unusually low, and I'm feeling kind of punk, the last thing I need is my mom standing over my shoulder (literally) saying "Whatcha doin'???" or better yet "You're sure on that computer an awful lot...." Which is always followed by the pointed pause which I'm sure indicates on some level that each moment I spend on said computer is a moment stolen from her motherly tally sheet of love and support. I just had to bag it to preserve my health and my sanity. Plus it gives me ample opportunity to make notes for my therapist and, more importantly, this here blog.
In the interest of time, and more importantly, in an effort to fulfill my self-imposed 48-hour post criteria, I offer this little tidbit, which I shall dub my "Random Dude Commuting Award." I would also like to reserve the right to use this category as my fall-back position in the event that I get hit over the head rendering me incapable of processing thoughts and/or typing clearly, a natural freak-event such as a cyclone or a local George Clooney sighting, or the Detroit City Council actually making a decision that makes a bit of sense to humankind (which so would not be today--that whole Cobo Hall thing--really?? seriously??) Basically, any of them will render me utterly speechless, and thus needing a little sumpin' sumpin'.
But I digress. Today's Random Dude Commuting Award belongs to the enormously large man who shoved himself, literally wedged himself into a dark red Mercury Sable whose license plate read "TYSGRRL". Now, seeing the exponential hugeness of the man careening westbound on 696 in the red tin can, I was left wondering, was this TY himself? Was, perhaps, TYSGRRL stepping out on TY with this monstrosity? Or, was it a gigantic alpha-male version of a GRRL on GRRL relationship that poor, unsuspecting Terri Lynn Land never could have envisioned would occur for a measly $30 per vanity plate fee?
Don't care. Just the thought of any of those possibilities made me laugh. Perhaps I should be less jaded and believe that TY and his GRRL just have a simple love best expressed in a personalized plate. But maybe, just maybe it reveals a deep-seated, dare I say Un-Michigan, aversion to license plates that start with the letter B? Hmmm...
In the interest of time, and more importantly, in an effort to fulfill my self-imposed 48-hour post criteria, I offer this little tidbit, which I shall dub my "Random Dude Commuting Award." I would also like to reserve the right to use this category as my fall-back position in the event that I get hit over the head rendering me incapable of processing thoughts and/or typing clearly, a natural freak-event such as a cyclone or a local George Clooney sighting, or the Detroit City Council actually making a decision that makes a bit of sense to humankind (which so would not be today--that whole Cobo Hall thing--really?? seriously??) Basically, any of them will render me utterly speechless, and thus needing a little sumpin' sumpin'.
But I digress. Today's Random Dude Commuting Award belongs to the enormously large man who shoved himself, literally wedged himself into a dark red Mercury Sable whose license plate read "TYSGRRL". Now, seeing the exponential hugeness of the man careening westbound on 696 in the red tin can, I was left wondering, was this TY himself? Was, perhaps, TYSGRRL stepping out on TY with this monstrosity? Or, was it a gigantic alpha-male version of a GRRL on GRRL relationship that poor, unsuspecting Terri Lynn Land never could have envisioned would occur for a measly $30 per vanity plate fee?
Don't care. Just the thought of any of those possibilities made me laugh. Perhaps I should be less jaded and believe that TY and his GRRL just have a simple love best expressed in a personalized plate. But maybe, just maybe it reveals a deep-seated, dare I say Un-Michigan, aversion to license plates that start with the letter B? Hmmm...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Bug
I don't give a rat's ass what T.S. Eliot says, February is, without a shadow of a doubt, the cruelest month of all. I am so over the snow and the cold, but now to add insult to my personal injury, the Stomach Bug has invaded Casa Chica. Yes, I call it the Bug and not the Flu, because I've had the real Flu where you have a fever of 112, are sick for 2.5 weeks and come out of it with a full 4 years shaved off your life. This Bug is inconvenient, but it is so not the Flu.
The youngest chica was sick last week, the middle chica got sick last night and all night, and the oldest one this morning. I find it telling that they all respond differently to the virus, yet each time in the exact same manner, in the same order. Youngest is always the first to succumb--the last shall be first, the saying goes. The middle one always gets hit the hardest and no matter how many times she gets a cold or sniffle during the course of the year, she always throws in a tango with the Bug for good measure. The oldest doesn't seem to be as affected--I used to chalk that up to her being in daycare as a baby, where her immune system learned to withstand a daily onslaught of germs, viruses, and other generalized funk, but now I firmly believe it is because of the simple fact that she is the Carrier.
And always, the Bug strikes in February. Most often it makes it's unwanted arrival during the god-forsken week that is despised by parents and unique to the Great Lakes State, Mid-Winter Break. It's the week where I exist in scramble-mode, trying to piece together full-time child care for an entire week, only to end up staying home anyway because the Chicas are dreadfully sick, all so that the schoolteachers can enjoy a little R & R before Spring Break.
It's fine, really. I've got my bleach spray, my hospital-grade emesis basin courtesy of the University of Michigan Health system, and a Spongebob marathon on the telly. It'll all be over by tomorrow, when they'll still be juuuuust sick enough to lay around most of the day, but then they'll rally in the late afternoon to bicker mercilessly--if I'm lucky they'll feel good enough for a slap fight. But for now, they're snuggled on the couch, pale faces peeking out from beneath the throw blankets, cups of Gatorade close at hand. Quiet has settled. For now.
I would take a moment more to reflect on this, but I'm afraid that grumbly in my own tumbly is not going away, and might just be trying to tell me something after all.
The youngest chica was sick last week, the middle chica got sick last night and all night, and the oldest one this morning. I find it telling that they all respond differently to the virus, yet each time in the exact same manner, in the same order. Youngest is always the first to succumb--the last shall be first, the saying goes. The middle one always gets hit the hardest and no matter how many times she gets a cold or sniffle during the course of the year, she always throws in a tango with the Bug for good measure. The oldest doesn't seem to be as affected--I used to chalk that up to her being in daycare as a baby, where her immune system learned to withstand a daily onslaught of germs, viruses, and other generalized funk, but now I firmly believe it is because of the simple fact that she is the Carrier.
And always, the Bug strikes in February. Most often it makes it's unwanted arrival during the god-forsken week that is despised by parents and unique to the Great Lakes State, Mid-Winter Break. It's the week where I exist in scramble-mode, trying to piece together full-time child care for an entire week, only to end up staying home anyway because the Chicas are dreadfully sick, all so that the schoolteachers can enjoy a little R & R before Spring Break.
It's fine, really. I've got my bleach spray, my hospital-grade emesis basin courtesy of the University of Michigan Health system, and a Spongebob marathon on the telly. It'll all be over by tomorrow, when they'll still be juuuuust sick enough to lay around most of the day, but then they'll rally in the late afternoon to bicker mercilessly--if I'm lucky they'll feel good enough for a slap fight. But for now, they're snuggled on the couch, pale faces peeking out from beneath the throw blankets, cups of Gatorade close at hand. Quiet has settled. For now.
I would take a moment more to reflect on this, but I'm afraid that grumbly in my own tumbly is not going away, and might just be trying to tell me something after all.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
That House
So the snow finally melted yesterday, which was so great, because we're getting dumped on again today, and this gives the new snowflakes a chance to get a piece of that grass that they've heard their buddies braggin' about all winter. We're all about sharing here in the D. As I gazed out my kitchen window, taking in the splendor before me, I could no longer deny it, without a shadow of a doubt, I so live in "that house."
You all know "that house." That house where the people lived forever, then the kids moved out, and then the husband died and nothing's been the same for the old widow ever since. That house where, I don't know what the story is, but we never see the dad, I heard he got laid off, and maybe drinks, but the kids run wild and it really needs to be painted. In my case it's the house where the family moved in, then they got divorced kind of right after, the mom yells kind of a lot, and nothing, absolutely nothing is ever done to that yard. Yes, I live in the house that's discussed over fences, across kitchen tables, perhaps even on blogs just like this one--that house where the divorcee lives (you need to say it with me--dee-vor-saaaay).
You all know "that house." That house where the people lived forever, then the kids moved out, and then the husband died and nothing's been the same for the old widow ever since. That house where, I don't know what the story is, but we never see the dad, I heard he got laid off, and maybe drinks, but the kids run wild and it really needs to be painted. In my case it's the house where the family moved in, then they got divorced kind of right after, the mom yells kind of a lot, and nothing, absolutely nothing is ever done to that yard. Yes, I live in the house that's discussed over fences, across kitchen tables, perhaps even on blogs just like this one--that house where the divorcee lives (you need to say it with me--dee-vor-saaaay).
In my defense, ever since my divorce, it never ceases to amaze me how much everyday stuff is completely overwhelming. I'm not talking about all that emotional baggage and crap that hits me every 28 days, I'm talking about the day-to-day, nitty-gritty, pain-in-the-ass stuff that used to be the domain of the Former Mister (who henceforth I will refer to as the FM, which is ironic because if you reverse the letters, it really works just as well). Stuff like shoveling, recycling, mowing, and the like. I am a visually stunning physical specimen but I have little to no upper body strength, a slightly diminished respiratory system, and a crippling fear of heights. There's really only so much I can do.
So, yeah, I live in that house with grubs in the front yard, seriously overgrown landscaping, and a sketchy lighting system that is usually 2/3 burned out. My gutters are always full, my driveway is cockeyed, and my roof leaks. I bust my ass making sure that the Chicas are fed and clothed, the inside of the house is basically clean, and I do it all by myself. That old Hobbit next door can spend all of his time picking helicopters out of his rock garden because old Mrs. Hobbit is busting her ample ass making sure the larder is stocked with fresh kill for him to feed on and that his Bilbo Baggins uniform is neatly pressed.
Who I really feel sorry for is the people who live behind me, for the backyard is where the freak show lives and breathes. Now, it should be noted that my backyard is so big that 2 houses get to share the glorious view of Casa Chica. I really only feel sorry for the family on the left whose name is really weird, the dad is a wicked hot police officer and the mom can't stand me but our kids tolerate each other, so it's all good. I do not feel sorry for The Banana (whose moniker I promise to explain in the summertime when I can photograph and post it in all it's glory), who lives to the right, because he gives me the heebs and clearly has too much time on his hands. I heard tell that two owners ago, my backyard was a glorious award-winning perennial garden full of light, color, and butterflies flitting about hither and yon. In my hands, however, the garden is a tangled mess of no-longer-identifiable plant species, and the grass is a rutted disaster still covered in last-fall's leaves and sticks and whatever else. If I could get my hands on a bulldozer or better yet, some Napalm, I'd be a happy chick and hold improved standing in the neighborhood association.
So yeah, since the FM has moved on, my backyard has become a cross between KinderCare and Sanford and Son. I have all sorts of toys and broken crap, flower pots in various stages of decay, and I'm pretty sure that lump in the far corner could very well be Lamont. To better illustrate, my brief, pre-spring thaw revealed a cup from Applebee's, the rake I was looking for in October and couldn't find, one child's gardening glove, and a once white, now grayish monkey sock. I also have the patio set with no tabletop because the umbrella blew over and shattered it, a wiffle-ball bat, and an overturned plastic resin Adirondack chair sitting atop a once-favored Jiggle Sprinkler that was set aside once we got the kick-ass Slip N Slide with the extra deep splash pad.
Occasionally, I feel slightly bad about the appearance of my yard. I know it doesn't paint me in the best light, but at the end of the day I just don't believe that a measure of a person should be based on whether I edged my grass, or left my shed door open for 8 months. I think, however, it speaks volumes that after living here for nearly 3 years, I still do not know my neighbors' real names, and that no one, not one of them has ever offered to help me in any way, shape, or form, except for Slouchy Kyle next door who did snow-blow for me once this year because his mom made him--but only once. Now, I am an independent chick who doesn't ask for or accept help easily, so perhaps that's why they are unwilling to go out on a limb to help a sister out. I'd like to think that, were the situation reversed, I would extend a hand, but who knows, maybe I'd just turtle and take the easy way out like the rest of them.
Whatever. I know that at some point, I will let go of my childish delight in letting my hostas grow to 4 feet tall, and not weed whacking simply because I know it pisses them off. Maybe, just maybe this here divorcee will hire herself a hot little shirtless lawn boy, and really give them something to talk about. But for the time being, it's snowing again, and my yard is well on it's way to looking just like everybody else's. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but right now I'm thinking I probably should have looked harder for that shovel.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Random Things
So I have a bit of an issue with Facebook. I will admit it. I spend entirely too much time on that website chatting and posting and looking up every single person I ever encountered, all in the name of fostering "re-connections." In short, I love it. My reasons for loving it and my exceptionally great finds from my childhood will be explained in exhaustive detail in a later post. Tonight, however, I am phoning it in, in a desperate quest to be horizontal on the couch with my boys from The Office. (Did that sound right?)
There are a number of questionnaires floating around Facebook these days, and to get tagged on one of them is the cyber-equivalent of a chain-letter. I'm terrified of not responding, yet I can't imagine there are that many people who care if I do not untie my shoes before taking them off. The one I did enjoy completing was the 25 Random Things About Me because it afforded me an always welcome opportunity to talk about myself where no one could possibly interrupt.
So in an effort to introduce myself to you all, and before the powers-that-be at Facebook do another 180 on their Terms of Use and claim this little gem as their own, here is my list of 25 Random Things About Me.
1. I am desperately proud of my 3 little girls and I love them fiercely, madly and truly. I'm amazed that they are at once so similar, yet so completely different than me. I am not one of those moms who talks about their kids a lot, because everyone is proud of their children, and because, secretly, I know mine are better... ;-)
2. I have a really great sense of humor, and I don't think it's bragging to say that I am one of the funniest people you will ever meet. I have a keen eye for the ridiculous, I'm sarcastic and irreverent, and I'm a really good storyteller. My entire family is funny, so it's always been a major coup to make them laugh, especially as a kid. They taught me everything I know, so if you think I'm obnoxious, blame them.
3. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I have no idea how the next few weeks, months, years will play out, but I can rest easy knowing that every difficult decision I made led me to this place where I can say that I am honestly, truly happy--occasionally even content.
4. My goal in life is to become a writer. I consider writing to be my main gift, and I'm still noodling on how to make my passion my profession. If I could get paid to write something like my annual Christmas letter, making people laugh in the process, I'd be a wickedly fulfilled chick.
5. I love sports—all sports—yes, even boxing. I was a fair-to-middling athlete, but am ultra-competitive, so I just love to watch them and read about them. My dream weekend would be to spend the entire first weekend of the NCAA tournament in Vegas holed up in some really great sports book with my bracket and oodles of beer... someday, someday...
6. I find it incredibly difficult to trust people. During the course of my life, I have been terribly hurt by people whom I considered friends, so it is now very hard for me to open up and share any really personal details about myself. Ouch—that was a little deep...
7. I am a fabulous, blow-your-mind cook, but I hate baking and I suck at it.
8. My worst job ever was as the Hot Dog Girl in the Half-Way House at Brynwood Country Club outside Milwaukee. Not only it is the only club in the universe that has a “no-tipping” policy, but it also rained almost every day--the only plus was that I got to bring home the unpurchased hot dogs which rocked so hard. Best job? The summer I was a nanny for my goddaughter Meaghan (who I also love madly & am desperately proud of). Oh, and my current position with the McKesson Corporation :-)
9. My most favorite person who ever lived was my grandfather, John D. Connolly. I loved him to the ends of the earth, and miss him equally so to this day. He was a larger than life Irishman who taught me about laughter and nicknames among dozens of other things. I am very sad that he never got to meet my girls—especially Bailey.
10. I believe in dreams. I believe that the “deja-vu” feeling you get is because you've already dreamed whatever it is that you are experiencing. Call me a munchy-crunchy-new-age-weirdo, but just ask me about how I knew when I'd go into labor--unless you're feeling I already did???
11. I love my laugh. I have been told by some that it is too loud, too frequent, too much, but those people suck.
12. I have always found it very difficult to relate to and make friends with women (see #6), so I find it incredibly ironic that God has entrusted me with 3 daughters & also blessed me with some of the best girlfriends I could hope for, without whom I wouldn't have survived the last 3 years.
13. I love golf. I love the challenge and the stories and the quiet that just begs to be broken. I am pretty damn good at it, but someday I will have the money and time to properly devote to it, and I will be a sensation.
14. I find dating at my age to be an awful lot like shopping at the Watchung Flea Market.
15. I can keep score in baseball. It is a lost art, and virtually unheard of in chick-dom, but I am very proud of this skill. When I was a sophomore in HS, Kathleen Hanks and I were the "stat-girls" for the Varsity baseball team. We got to hang with the boys, and leave school early--the absolute greatest. My dream-like spring came to a screeching halt, however, when I took a line drive to the face off of Brad Sweet's bat, thus learning the vitally important lesson to just duck and not look about when someone yells "Heads Up!"
16. I have made a whole lot of bad decisions in my life in a vain attempt to please other people—mostly men. If I can teach my girls to never, ever do this, I will consider myself a success as a mom.
17. I don't like chocolate, cookies or cake very much, but strap a bag of chips to my face and I am a happy, happy, chick.
18. I have always wanted to be in a band, but my marginal singing voice and inability to play an instrument seem to be hampering my efforts.
19. I love words and I love finding the perfect word for the occasion--I was an English major and I'm still a nerd. I love words that sound funny like “Squash,” “Goopy” and “Clobber”. I also love made-up sounding words like “Webelo” and “Chalupa.”
20. I walk very fast. When I was a kid, my dad walked a football field away from us, and we were always trotting to keep up—now I do the same to my girls. I'd like to blame it on my long legs, but in reality, I don't see the point in getting there if you don't get there first.
21. I learned how to read when I was 2 years old. My mom gave me a coloring book and I read the directions to her. Then she gave me a cookbook, and I read that to her. Yeah, I'm kinda spooky.
22. My greatest dream of all time is to appear on Jeopardy and win a boatload of cash, so I take that freakin' online test every year. I am wicked good at it because my mind is a steel trap for useless information, and I am unbelievably adept at stating my answer in the form of a question, thanks to Mr. Bolka.
23. I have asthma. I was diagnosed when I was 25 and always thought that I was just perpetually out of shape, but it turns out I just needed a little albuterol.
24. I am deathly afraid of heights and rodents, I get claustrophobic in car washes, and marching bands make me cry.
25. I spent most of my life thinking I was unremarkable. I now believe that to be false.
There are a number of questionnaires floating around Facebook these days, and to get tagged on one of them is the cyber-equivalent of a chain-letter. I'm terrified of not responding, yet I can't imagine there are that many people who care if I do not untie my shoes before taking them off. The one I did enjoy completing was the 25 Random Things About Me because it afforded me an always welcome opportunity to talk about myself where no one could possibly interrupt.
So in an effort to introduce myself to you all, and before the powers-that-be at Facebook do another 180 on their Terms of Use and claim this little gem as their own, here is my list of 25 Random Things About Me.
1. I am desperately proud of my 3 little girls and I love them fiercely, madly and truly. I'm amazed that they are at once so similar, yet so completely different than me. I am not one of those moms who talks about their kids a lot, because everyone is proud of their children, and because, secretly, I know mine are better... ;-)
2. I have a really great sense of humor, and I don't think it's bragging to say that I am one of the funniest people you will ever meet. I have a keen eye for the ridiculous, I'm sarcastic and irreverent, and I'm a really good storyteller. My entire family is funny, so it's always been a major coup to make them laugh, especially as a kid. They taught me everything I know, so if you think I'm obnoxious, blame them.
3. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I have no idea how the next few weeks, months, years will play out, but I can rest easy knowing that every difficult decision I made led me to this place where I can say that I am honestly, truly happy--occasionally even content.
4. My goal in life is to become a writer. I consider writing to be my main gift, and I'm still noodling on how to make my passion my profession. If I could get paid to write something like my annual Christmas letter, making people laugh in the process, I'd be a wickedly fulfilled chick.
5. I love sports—all sports—yes, even boxing. I was a fair-to-middling athlete, but am ultra-competitive, so I just love to watch them and read about them. My dream weekend would be to spend the entire first weekend of the NCAA tournament in Vegas holed up in some really great sports book with my bracket and oodles of beer... someday, someday...
6. I find it incredibly difficult to trust people. During the course of my life, I have been terribly hurt by people whom I considered friends, so it is now very hard for me to open up and share any really personal details about myself. Ouch—that was a little deep...
7. I am a fabulous, blow-your-mind cook, but I hate baking and I suck at it.
8. My worst job ever was as the Hot Dog Girl in the Half-Way House at Brynwood Country Club outside Milwaukee. Not only it is the only club in the universe that has a “no-tipping” policy, but it also rained almost every day--the only plus was that I got to bring home the unpurchased hot dogs which rocked so hard. Best job? The summer I was a nanny for my goddaughter Meaghan (who I also love madly & am desperately proud of). Oh, and my current position with the McKesson Corporation :-)
9. My most favorite person who ever lived was my grandfather, John D. Connolly. I loved him to the ends of the earth, and miss him equally so to this day. He was a larger than life Irishman who taught me about laughter and nicknames among dozens of other things. I am very sad that he never got to meet my girls—especially Bailey.
10. I believe in dreams. I believe that the “deja-vu” feeling you get is because you've already dreamed whatever it is that you are experiencing. Call me a munchy-crunchy-new-age-weirdo, but just ask me about how I knew when I'd go into labor--unless you're feeling I already did???
11. I love my laugh. I have been told by some that it is too loud, too frequent, too much, but those people suck.
12. I have always found it very difficult to relate to and make friends with women (see #6), so I find it incredibly ironic that God has entrusted me with 3 daughters & also blessed me with some of the best girlfriends I could hope for, without whom I wouldn't have survived the last 3 years.
13. I love golf. I love the challenge and the stories and the quiet that just begs to be broken. I am pretty damn good at it, but someday I will have the money and time to properly devote to it, and I will be a sensation.
14. I find dating at my age to be an awful lot like shopping at the Watchung Flea Market.
15. I can keep score in baseball. It is a lost art, and virtually unheard of in chick-dom, but I am very proud of this skill. When I was a sophomore in HS, Kathleen Hanks and I were the "stat-girls" for the Varsity baseball team. We got to hang with the boys, and leave school early--the absolute greatest. My dream-like spring came to a screeching halt, however, when I took a line drive to the face off of Brad Sweet's bat, thus learning the vitally important lesson to just duck and not look about when someone yells "Heads Up!"
16. I have made a whole lot of bad decisions in my life in a vain attempt to please other people—mostly men. If I can teach my girls to never, ever do this, I will consider myself a success as a mom.
17. I don't like chocolate, cookies or cake very much, but strap a bag of chips to my face and I am a happy, happy, chick.
18. I have always wanted to be in a band, but my marginal singing voice and inability to play an instrument seem to be hampering my efforts.
19. I love words and I love finding the perfect word for the occasion--I was an English major and I'm still a nerd. I love words that sound funny like “Squash,” “Goopy” and “Clobber”. I also love made-up sounding words like “Webelo” and “Chalupa.”
20. I walk very fast. When I was a kid, my dad walked a football field away from us, and we were always trotting to keep up—now I do the same to my girls. I'd like to blame it on my long legs, but in reality, I don't see the point in getting there if you don't get there first.
21. I learned how to read when I was 2 years old. My mom gave me a coloring book and I read the directions to her. Then she gave me a cookbook, and I read that to her. Yeah, I'm kinda spooky.
22. My greatest dream of all time is to appear on Jeopardy and win a boatload of cash, so I take that freakin' online test every year. I am wicked good at it because my mind is a steel trap for useless information, and I am unbelievably adept at stating my answer in the form of a question, thanks to Mr. Bolka.
23. I have asthma. I was diagnosed when I was 25 and always thought that I was just perpetually out of shape, but it turns out I just needed a little albuterol.
24. I am deathly afraid of heights and rodents, I get claustrophobic in car washes, and marching bands make me cry.
25. I spent most of my life thinking I was unremarkable. I now believe that to be false.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Christmas Letter 2007
Holiday Greetings from the family that puts the Funk in Dysfunction!! After a year-long hiatus, I have returned to share with you the blissful joy that is my perfect family and prove that in 2007 we were once again so much better than you.
First, let’s get the obvious news out of the way. As you all know, my marriage ended this year after I lost my mind and became a big fat self-absorbed man-hating slut. It was a long, painful process for both of us, but all in all I am glad that we were able to give the girls a concrete reason for therapy. Yes, I have given them the gift of angst, and coupled with the Morrisey box set under the tree, it is one that they will enjoy for years to come.
On the bright side, after a steady diet of Cheezits, spite and gin, I have emerged from my emotional purgatory a newly slim and trim version of myself. I even got winked at by the old guy ringing the bell at Kroger yesterday, but he too, smelled of Cheezits, so I’m not quite where that rates on the compliment scale. The mere thought of dating frightens me to the icy depths of my dead black soul. Making things especially difficult is the fact that my point of reference is now Hannah Montana, Webkinz and an unhealthy knowledge of pop culture all of which I’m not sure will transfer well to the dating pool. I don’t even have a MySpace page, nor do I have the faintest idea how to get one. I am confident, however, that all of my newly revisited teenage insecurities will play much better to an older, more experienced audience.
My professional life is moving along swimmingly. I have been at my current position for a little over 6 months, and while the hour-long commute is not very enjoyable, I am doing quite well for myself. I work in a building with over 300 women and 6 twitchy guys who only stop playing Halo to come in to work and sort the mail. I am finding the work more challenging than I thought, perhaps mostly because for the first time I actually have to do the work—sleeping my way to the top would require a lifestyle leap that I am not ready to make at this time.
The Oldest Chica is now 9 and her soccer skills are such that she was offered a contingent contract with the Detroit Ignition. It was fairly lucrative, and would have improved my financial situation greatly, but in the end I thought it was more important for her to focus on the fun of the game, so she’s spending the winter teaching “futbol” to the Nepalese. The Middle Chica is now 7 and is still dancing up a storm. We switched ballet companies this year after she was snubbed for the Sugar Plum Fairy again—they have some arbitrary and anachronistic rule about actually having ballet skills that we find simply unworkable. We’re hoping to have more luck with the folks at Joffrey. Little Miss Chica is now 2 and has landed numerous voice-over gigs—her wicked huge vocabulary and deep baritone has enabled her to become the new voice of CNN among other things.
My own acting career is taking flight as well. You can look for me in “The Real Housewives of Wayne County.” I optioned the idea to Bravo and they simply loved it. I carefully screened the applicants myself to ensure that none are cuter than I am, so watch for me and my new housemates to be ripping things up in February. The show features me, Darlene from Westland, LaTrell from Inkster, and Bad-Perm Connie from Romulus all sharing a double-wide out near the women’s prison on 5 Mile. The pilot features me refereeing a slap fight between Darlene and Bad-Perm Connie as they argue over who should win the complimentary “female rejuvenation” procedure provided by the Celestial Institute for Plastic Surgery on Ford Road in Canton.
I am also continuing my crusade against magnetic car ribbons; the issue seems to be stalled in Congress, but the Obama campaign is very interested, so the fight continues. In the meantime, my daily travels have alerted me to a new menace on the road—the Rear-Window Family Sticker. These are adorable little decals of stick figure mommies and daddies and their cute little stick figure children complete with ballcaps and bows in their hair. Some even have little stick figure dogs sitting happily alongside the happy little families. These things are so very dangerous, because when you are stopped behind them at a red light you are suddenly gripped by an inexorable need to repeatedly ram their car at full speed risking severe injury to yourself and your passengers. They need to be eliminated and I will not rest until they are all buh-bye.
So there you have our year in review. I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and the Happiest of New Years.
Peace-Out and Word to your Mother--Kelly
First, let’s get the obvious news out of the way. As you all know, my marriage ended this year after I lost my mind and became a big fat self-absorbed man-hating slut. It was a long, painful process for both of us, but all in all I am glad that we were able to give the girls a concrete reason for therapy. Yes, I have given them the gift of angst, and coupled with the Morrisey box set under the tree, it is one that they will enjoy for years to come.
On the bright side, after a steady diet of Cheezits, spite and gin, I have emerged from my emotional purgatory a newly slim and trim version of myself. I even got winked at by the old guy ringing the bell at Kroger yesterday, but he too, smelled of Cheezits, so I’m not quite where that rates on the compliment scale. The mere thought of dating frightens me to the icy depths of my dead black soul. Making things especially difficult is the fact that my point of reference is now Hannah Montana, Webkinz and an unhealthy knowledge of pop culture all of which I’m not sure will transfer well to the dating pool. I don’t even have a MySpace page, nor do I have the faintest idea how to get one. I am confident, however, that all of my newly revisited teenage insecurities will play much better to an older, more experienced audience.
My professional life is moving along swimmingly. I have been at my current position for a little over 6 months, and while the hour-long commute is not very enjoyable, I am doing quite well for myself. I work in a building with over 300 women and 6 twitchy guys who only stop playing Halo to come in to work and sort the mail. I am finding the work more challenging than I thought, perhaps mostly because for the first time I actually have to do the work—sleeping my way to the top would require a lifestyle leap that I am not ready to make at this time.
The Oldest Chica is now 9 and her soccer skills are such that she was offered a contingent contract with the Detroit Ignition. It was fairly lucrative, and would have improved my financial situation greatly, but in the end I thought it was more important for her to focus on the fun of the game, so she’s spending the winter teaching “futbol” to the Nepalese. The Middle Chica is now 7 and is still dancing up a storm. We switched ballet companies this year after she was snubbed for the Sugar Plum Fairy again—they have some arbitrary and anachronistic rule about actually having ballet skills that we find simply unworkable. We’re hoping to have more luck with the folks at Joffrey. Little Miss Chica is now 2 and has landed numerous voice-over gigs—her wicked huge vocabulary and deep baritone has enabled her to become the new voice of CNN among other things.
My own acting career is taking flight as well. You can look for me in “The Real Housewives of Wayne County.” I optioned the idea to Bravo and they simply loved it. I carefully screened the applicants myself to ensure that none are cuter than I am, so watch for me and my new housemates to be ripping things up in February. The show features me, Darlene from Westland, LaTrell from Inkster, and Bad-Perm Connie from Romulus all sharing a double-wide out near the women’s prison on 5 Mile. The pilot features me refereeing a slap fight between Darlene and Bad-Perm Connie as they argue over who should win the complimentary “female rejuvenation” procedure provided by the Celestial Institute for Plastic Surgery on Ford Road in Canton.
I am also continuing my crusade against magnetic car ribbons; the issue seems to be stalled in Congress, but the Obama campaign is very interested, so the fight continues. In the meantime, my daily travels have alerted me to a new menace on the road—the Rear-Window Family Sticker. These are adorable little decals of stick figure mommies and daddies and their cute little stick figure children complete with ballcaps and bows in their hair. Some even have little stick figure dogs sitting happily alongside the happy little families. These things are so very dangerous, because when you are stopped behind them at a red light you are suddenly gripped by an inexorable need to repeatedly ram their car at full speed risking severe injury to yourself and your passengers. They need to be eliminated and I will not rest until they are all buh-bye.
So there you have our year in review. I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and the Happiest of New Years.
Peace-Out and Word to your Mother--Kelly
Incident in a Box
So I had to return something at Target today (yes, I said "at" and not "to"--it's an idiomatic thing). It was a humiliating endeavor because it involved random impulse purchases that I had originally made separately, but put together on the counter made it look like I was completely deranged--a hair straightener, a Cat-of the-Day calendar and 2 packages of Hannah Montana underpants. Really. I cannot imagine why I can't get a date.
I made my Michigan left onto Hall Road on my way to the Big Red BullsEye. Now for those not from the East-Side, Hall Road is a booming, gigantic, retail-a-palooza that has anything and everything imaginable to purchase and/or eat within about 4 miles. It is an 8-lane-boulevard with a speed limit of 50 (which in the D means a solid 63) where red-lights are optional and the accidents are infinite. As I pulled into the rutted, destroyed parking lot (it's been a long winter of plowing and salting) I wondered to myself why it is that I shop at Target?
I like Target. No real compelling reason--I just do. In Metro Detroit, as in most places, we have a plethora of big box stores to choose from. There's Target, Meijer, Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Steve's Mart (I'm kidding--seeing if you were paying attention), plus Sam's Club, Costco and the like. Now, I'm excluding the last two from this commentary because--well, because I just am--and don't even get me started on the Big-K. That chain really just needs to be put out of its misery.
Meijer is a Midwest phenomenon that terrifies me because of it's sheer mammoth enormity. I Googled it, and the average store size is about 200,000 square feet. Because I have no concept of size, distance or spatial relationships, I have no idea what that means, but I can tell you that all Meijers have a full-on grocery store, plus all the stuff you'd find at Target or Wal-Mart. And, invariably they have a gas station in the forward part of the parking lot, which is absolutely, positively always completely full of cars no matter what time of the day or night you go there. I can never find what I want because I don't need to choose from 14 different types of frozen green beans, the cheap stuff is always sold out, and I inevitably just wander the aisles dazed, either bumping in to people or getting smoked by the grannies as they whiz past me in their Amigos with their mini-baskets full of Franzia and Lean Cuisine.
Now Wal-Mart, I do not enjoy. I have been to a few, and have yet to encounter those happy, smiling southern folk out to save a buck by making Barilla baked-pasta dinners that inhabit their television commercials. Never, not once. For the most part, the Wal-Marts I've been to are funky, dingy edifices filled with bedraggled citizens whose tops so don't match their bottoms, and whose children run amok terrorizing those of us who are only there to get some HBAs to burn the gift card they won at work. Now, I'm not saying that all Wal-Marts are like this, but this observation coupled with the "Incident" has forever colored my impression of the place.
The "Incident" occurred about 5 years ago (35 years for you, Fido, if you are reading this). One bright sunny May morning, my girlfriend Christa called me up to see if I wanted to go shopping with her. Always subconsciously wanting to escape my loveless home, I said yes, and away we went. We went to the mall--looked at stuff at Nordstrom that we couldn't afford, went into Abercrombie & Fitch and looked at stuff that didn't fit, and had coffee at the little place in the food court that afforded the best view of the poor, emasculated fathers forced to supervise their monstrous children on the playscape.
We were almost home when Christa said, "Ooh, I forgot I have to return something at Wal-Mart." (See I told you it was an idiom). The items she had to return were 3 Easter/Springtime hand towels--retail value about $9.87. We walk in, and the first thing she says is "I didn't buy them here, I bought them at the nice one by my parents' house" which is apparently one of the happy, smiling ones I have not frequented. I didn't even get to ask my silent question, "JesusMaryandJoseph what in the hell is that Godforsaken smell and why is the floor that color?"
Anyway, we approach the customer-service desk where we are acknowledged with a most sincere head-tip by a besmocked lass named "Tamrah" which I now believe was so made up. Now Ms. Tamrah had a head of hair on her so architecturally stunning that can only truly be appreciated by a chick who grew up in Jersey in the 80's. I took notice of her spiral-permed tresses, teased to a fluffy peak at the crown of her head, admired the much shorter sides expertly lacquered in place by some sort of pomade, dare I say Dippity-Do, and coveted the bangs curled completely under into a solid, perfect pig-in-a-blanket at the front of her heavily powdered pinkish forehead. The whole shebang was held in place by a nearly-visible cloud of AquaNet or some other heavy-duty aerosol product--White Rain never would have stood a chance against that lid.
So Ms. Tamrah, with the little tiny loopy earrings all the way up both ears, grabs the receipt and the towels and starts pecking away at the keyboard with her violet-blue airbrushed nails, and a periodic, involuntary "Mmm hmm." She then tells Christa to swipe her card for the credit, and Christa complies. Or I think she did, because I literally could not take my eyes from the creature standing in front of me. Anyway, apparently, Christa couldn't get the card to swipe and before she could say a word, Tamrah snatched that credit card right out of Christa's hot little hand and proceeded to rub it all over her ample bosom. Repeatedly. We stood there absolutely agog, dumbfounded, not quite believing what we had just witnessed, and Tamrah smiled and said, very matter-of-factly, "Mmm hmm, sometimes, ya just gotta demagnerate it."
And there you have it. The "Incident," and the singularly most awesome phrase ever uttered. It is my firm unwavering belief that this is why Target has pioneered the automatic receipt look-up system--no demagneration required.
I made my Michigan left onto Hall Road on my way to the Big Red BullsEye. Now for those not from the East-Side, Hall Road is a booming, gigantic, retail-a-palooza that has anything and everything imaginable to purchase and/or eat within about 4 miles. It is an 8-lane-boulevard with a speed limit of 50 (which in the D means a solid 63) where red-lights are optional and the accidents are infinite. As I pulled into the rutted, destroyed parking lot (it's been a long winter of plowing and salting) I wondered to myself why it is that I shop at Target?
I like Target. No real compelling reason--I just do. In Metro Detroit, as in most places, we have a plethora of big box stores to choose from. There's Target, Meijer, Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Steve's Mart (I'm kidding--seeing if you were paying attention), plus Sam's Club, Costco and the like. Now, I'm excluding the last two from this commentary because--well, because I just am--and don't even get me started on the Big-K. That chain really just needs to be put out of its misery.
Meijer is a Midwest phenomenon that terrifies me because of it's sheer mammoth enormity. I Googled it, and the average store size is about 200,000 square feet. Because I have no concept of size, distance or spatial relationships, I have no idea what that means, but I can tell you that all Meijers have a full-on grocery store, plus all the stuff you'd find at Target or Wal-Mart. And, invariably they have a gas station in the forward part of the parking lot, which is absolutely, positively always completely full of cars no matter what time of the day or night you go there. I can never find what I want because I don't need to choose from 14 different types of frozen green beans, the cheap stuff is always sold out, and I inevitably just wander the aisles dazed, either bumping in to people or getting smoked by the grannies as they whiz past me in their Amigos with their mini-baskets full of Franzia and Lean Cuisine.
Now Wal-Mart, I do not enjoy. I have been to a few, and have yet to encounter those happy, smiling southern folk out to save a buck by making Barilla baked-pasta dinners that inhabit their television commercials. Never, not once. For the most part, the Wal-Marts I've been to are funky, dingy edifices filled with bedraggled citizens whose tops so don't match their bottoms, and whose children run amok terrorizing those of us who are only there to get some HBAs to burn the gift card they won at work. Now, I'm not saying that all Wal-Marts are like this, but this observation coupled with the "Incident" has forever colored my impression of the place.
The "Incident" occurred about 5 years ago (35 years for you, Fido, if you are reading this). One bright sunny May morning, my girlfriend Christa called me up to see if I wanted to go shopping with her. Always subconsciously wanting to escape my loveless home, I said yes, and away we went. We went to the mall--looked at stuff at Nordstrom that we couldn't afford, went into Abercrombie & Fitch and looked at stuff that didn't fit, and had coffee at the little place in the food court that afforded the best view of the poor, emasculated fathers forced to supervise their monstrous children on the playscape.
We were almost home when Christa said, "Ooh, I forgot I have to return something at Wal-Mart." (See I told you it was an idiom). The items she had to return were 3 Easter/Springtime hand towels--retail value about $9.87. We walk in, and the first thing she says is "I didn't buy them here, I bought them at the nice one by my parents' house" which is apparently one of the happy, smiling ones I have not frequented. I didn't even get to ask my silent question, "JesusMaryandJoseph what in the hell is that Godforsaken smell and why is the floor that color?"
Anyway, we approach the customer-service desk where we are acknowledged with a most sincere head-tip by a besmocked lass named "Tamrah" which I now believe was so made up. Now Ms. Tamrah had a head of hair on her so architecturally stunning that can only truly be appreciated by a chick who grew up in Jersey in the 80's. I took notice of her spiral-permed tresses, teased to a fluffy peak at the crown of her head, admired the much shorter sides expertly lacquered in place by some sort of pomade, dare I say Dippity-Do, and coveted the bangs curled completely under into a solid, perfect pig-in-a-blanket at the front of her heavily powdered pinkish forehead. The whole shebang was held in place by a nearly-visible cloud of AquaNet or some other heavy-duty aerosol product--White Rain never would have stood a chance against that lid.
So Ms. Tamrah, with the little tiny loopy earrings all the way up both ears, grabs the receipt and the towels and starts pecking away at the keyboard with her violet-blue airbrushed nails, and a periodic, involuntary "Mmm hmm." She then tells Christa to swipe her card for the credit, and Christa complies. Or I think she did, because I literally could not take my eyes from the creature standing in front of me. Anyway, apparently, Christa couldn't get the card to swipe and before she could say a word, Tamrah snatched that credit card right out of Christa's hot little hand and proceeded to rub it all over her ample bosom. Repeatedly. We stood there absolutely agog, dumbfounded, not quite believing what we had just witnessed, and Tamrah smiled and said, very matter-of-factly, "Mmm hmm, sometimes, ya just gotta demagnerate it."
And there you have it. The "Incident," and the singularly most awesome phrase ever uttered. It is my firm unwavering belief that this is why Target has pioneered the automatic receipt look-up system--no demagneration required.
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