it's my party

Surely it would be a dull world if everyone was always happy. That's what I'm telling myself anyway, as the guest of honor at my very own Pity Party. I've spent most of the day fighting it, and have finally decided to go with it, to wallow in the mood until it passes. It's a workable plan as long as the party is over by tomorrow. The only thing I'm worse at than being ill or a patient is being blue. I just don't have the knack. I'm a very happy person at heart, and these dark moods really throw me for a loop.


I'm not sure what it is that's causing this. I know what I think it isn't. It isn't my foot, although it sure could be. It isn't the holidays, because I'm going low-key like nobody's business this year. It isn't money, because I see way too many people in genuine financial crisis to stress out about my situation too much. It isn't my kids, isn't my job, isn't my health. It isn't even my house. The tub is draining, thanks to some miracle stuff that my step-father recommended, and my kitchen sink is being looked at tomorrow. All my ducks are in a row. Everything is good.


Good and blue.

aargh

I'm too cranky to be allowed to live. So don't expect much here tonight.


Since I've woken up today I've:


Had a mouse trapped under my fridge. A loud, squealing mouse. When I climbed up on a kitchen chair to peer behind the fridge, the chair suddenly gave way and the whole inside part of the seat fell out, sending me falling through the middle and taking all the skin off the outside of both calves. I grabbed a ceramic bowl of potatoes in a feeble attempt to break my fall, which proves you don't have to be a rocket scientist to write a blog.


Had a mouse casually walk across the kitchen right in front of me and climb in the dog food bowl for a snack. It might have needed glasses, because it failed to notice the broom in my hand. I whacked it hard and presto! it disappeared. Then I noticed it crawling up my brand new thermal drapes in a futile attempt to get away from my buddy the broom, and I wound up in my best hit the ball out of the park stance. Home run! And a nasty red spot on my new drapes, that thank god none of the kids have noticed yet. I know it's there - that's bad enough. Now I have mouse blood on my conscience.


Gone to push a turkey carcass into the stock pot to make soup, and had the wooden spoon slip off of the turkey and plunge my hand into boiling water. Oh, yeah. That felt good. Karmic payback?


Broken up endless computer arguments, had to rip out a scarf I've been knitting (and that I really liked) because I realized I'd screwed it up a while ago and by the time I caught it it was too late to salvage, gotten excited because the tub finally drained, but then put the younger boys in for showers and realized that I got excited too soon, had the power go out for several hours due to some stupid circuit malfunction, blah blah blah. When I finally plopped down to do some computer stuff the wireless is out. Jeez louise. I'm a frickin' mess.


I'm going to bed. I don't care that it isn't even nine o'clock. At least if I'm asleep I'll stay out of trouble.

revenge of the money pit

I'm not bothered by the "usual" problems of divorce. I'm not lonely, have a perfectly adequate social life, don't have any more money worries than I did when I was married, and manage the kids single about as well as I did before.


What's going to kill me is the house.


Thanksgiving Day I developed a leak under my kitchen sink. As my mother always says, if you're going to have plumbing problems, it'll be the day you have a bunch of people about to troop in to eat. It's tricky to put a holiday meal on the table when every time you run water in your kitchen sink it drips underneath.



Then yesterday I crawled out of bed at zero dark thirty to go to work, and climbed into the shower half asleep. Yowzah. I wasn't asleep for long. There was about four inches of ice cold water from my shower the day before, just standing there, refusing to drain. I was in such a state of denial that I convinced myself that the drain doo-dad was down, and not allowing any water out. I raised it up carefully after my shower and crossed my fingers. When I got home last night the water hadn't budged. Strike One.


So today I took everything out from underneath the kitchen sink (duct tape in hand), only to find that where the water is coming from is from a corroded out part of the either the faucet or the sink itself - way beyond my puny little fix-it skills. And falling in such a way that I can't even put anything underneath it to catch the drips. Strike Two.


Then I went upstairs with the plumbing snake I got from the FX to see about the tub. I even put on my Superwoman shirt that I got as a nursing school graduation present - just to get my mojo going. While I struggled and cursed and snaked, my phone rang five times and Sasquatch came bolting out of his room to tell me that he thought he saw something scurry across his floor. Since his room looks like the New York City Dump, I wasn't surprised. I'd been telling him that all the mice had suspiciously disappeared from the rest of the house and that if I were a mouse, I'd be moving into his room with my beach umbrella and some elastic waist pants. Then, keeping an eye out for fat rodents, I got back to my snaking. Unsuccessfully. Strike Three.


I refuse to call a plumber on a holiday weekend, so we can't use the kitchen sink or the upstairs tub. The upstairs toilet is fine, but the downstairs toilet is a prima donna. The upstairs sink doesn't work - the handles are jacked up. The downstairs shower is, how do I put this nicely, a piece of shit handheld with the water pressure of a squirt gun...but it'll have to do. I showered in it today after the gym, and except for having to wash just one part of my body at a time, it was workable. Barely, but beggars can't be choosers. I have two toilets, two tubs and two sinks - and between them they equal one working bathroom.


When I think of all the times in my life I made myself crazy wanting to own a house, I have to laugh. What I wouldn't give to be able to call a landlord and have them fork over the cash to get things moving again. And now I get to worry all day tomorrow about exactly how much cash we're talking that's going to come out of my tight little fist.


I have to do laundry tomorrow. I can hardly wait to see what the washer has in store for me.

coincidentally enough

Hot on the heels of yesterday's post comes this update.


I came home from work tonight to the following:


Half of the planned dinner already cooked and eaten. The other half still in the freezer.


The empty oven still on.


One kid on the computer and two kids glued to the television.


One kid drinking out of a measuring cup and another out of a coffee creamer because no one had bothered to check the dishwasher for clean dishes.


The overflowing remains of a baking soda and vinegar volcano.


Three dogs with crossed legs and bursting bladders.


Tomorrow's trash pick up still by the garage, and not at the curb where it belongs.


And the thermostat set at 90 degrees. Which no one will admit to doing.


I've stood in the shower for thirty minutes and I'm still hyperventilating.


I'm going to bed now.

thanks for clearing that up for me

My plan was to post something tonight, but I've been informed by my sixteen year old son that no one can understand anything I say - in any way, at any point or anyhow.


Well. I guess that takes care of that idea.

the triage rant

WARNING: Disjointed, choppy vent session ahead. Someone needs a good nights sleep.


The system doesn't work. I don't care who you want to blame - the politicians, their policies, the tax cuts, the downsizing of social services, the lack of affordable health care - whatever. Blame it on whatever. Pick your target. I'm just making a blanket statement. The. System. Doesn't. Work.


"Normal" people will do anything in the world to avoid being in the ER. But there are "others" who consider it their destination of choice. And I'm at the point tonight where it is really getting to me. Because here are some of the things we see on a daily basis...


The Family Date Night. If one member of a family comes in to the ER to be seen, someone else decides to come in with them and have their (back pain, stomach ache, trick knee, ingrown toenail) looked at. Hey, if you're going to be sitting around a hospital while your loved one gets checked out, might as well get your money's worth out of it. Most prevalent on weekends, holidays, or any time we're getting slammed with ambulances.


The Enforcer. The people who haul their kids in because they're misbehaving. There's nothing wrong with the kids medically - they're just driving their parents nuts. So the parents will say something about anger issues or depression and the next thing you know we have to get a screener in to do a full-blown mental health workup. If either parent or child has played the system before, all they have to do is drop a couple of magic words (suicidal, violent) and the next thing you know we're down a nurse because now we have a 1:1 observation patient. Bonus points for the parents who check themselves in at the same time trying to get some Ativan for their "fried nerves". (I'm not talking about legitimate mental health needs. I'm talking about parents who want us to discipline their kids).


The Lonely Hearts Club Band. Not to sound unsympathetic, but these are the people who have no life. In their world, three hours in the ER for "weakness" is far better than sitting at home alone and watching the news. Never mind that this social visit probably includes needles and expensive tests, they keep coming back for more. We really are better than ER on television.


The Frequent Fliers. My personal favorite. These are the people you see so often that you know their home med list by heart. And all their family members (who, oddly enough, are usually frequent fliers as well). This is the group who has figured out how to avoid those pesky waits in the waiting room or triage. They simply call an ambulance and utter those two (other) magic words. Chest pain. And in they sail, triumphantly cruising by all those legitimately sick schmucks in the waiting room who, because they're too busy leading productive lives to learn how to abuse the system, actually have the idea that you only come to the ER when you think you're dying. Silly rabbits.


The Penny Pinchers. This is the group that says things like "Oh, yeah, I know that my doctor could have taken this splinter out of my finger, but he wants a $20 copay every time I go in. It's just easier to come here. Besides, I can get a hot meal while I wait."


The Quick Trigger Syndrome. The patient who wakes up from a nap with some nausea and immediately heads to the ER. A stomach ache for an hour? A dime sized bruise from last week that isn't going away? A zit that won't pop? A paper cut? That's what we're here for, right?


The Legitimately Clueless. The mother who calls an ambulance for her teenaged daughter with a toothache. The people who tell you that all of their symptoms started last week when they started a new med - yet they're still taking it. The twenty year old who is all freaked out because every twenty eight days or so she bleeds "down there". The chainsmoking mother who never opens a window and can't understand why her toddler's asthma is so bad this year.


I could go on and on. Don't get the feeling that people can only fit in one category, either. I can think of enough patients to fill the fingers of one hand who fit at least five of the above seven slots simultaneously. The number of those who match at least three are enormous. And we have one lucky family that proudly represents every single one of the previous groups. Every single one.


To a nurse (or anyone working in emergency medicine), the only thing more frustrating than HIPAA (our lovely privacy act) is EMTALA. (Who the hell comes up with these acronyms?) I don't even remember what EMTALA stands for, and I don't give a crap, either. It's an even bigger pain in the ass than HIPAA, because it states that we cannot turn anyone away for any reason. Period. Our hands are tied. We have to treat them no matter what.


So much is made of the fact that so many people don't have health insurance. There is no hiding your insurance status in the ER, but honest to god, none of us care. We're there because we want to help people - we really are. And we all totally understand that there are people out there who are doing all they can to survive, but still can't afford health care. This is not directed at those people. It's directed at those who have no intention of paying any of their bills - not for the meal they ate, or the ambulance they called or the EKGs or the blood work for nonexistant issues - nothing. This is why we're more attractive than a private doctor, because they can (and do) refuse to see patients who don't pay. We can't. And we don't.


We have one guy who has been in nine times in eleven days, seven of those by ambulance. There's nothing wrong with him that twenty years of psychotherapy wouldn't cure. He's an impossible IV stick, so we need IV therapy every time. Thousands of dollars of labs and scans and, to add insult to injury, once he managed to talk his way into an overnight admit because you can't prove that someone isn't having pain. A normal EKG, normal vital signs, rating your pain at a 10/10 even though you were sound asleep when we came in the room...all pale against someone pleading chest pain in the litigous world we live in. And he's not homeless, either. It's not like he's looking for a place to sleep.


People have forgotten what the word Emergency means. Or they don't care.


Or both.

martha stewart doesn't work here

Any day you see more cops than docs in the ER...it probably isn't a good thing.


Any day where you see more than one naked ass running down the hall with gown flapping wildly behind them as they dodge security...it probably isn't a good thing.


Any day where a psychotic eight year old uses your nurses aide's head as target practice from the top of an IV pole...it probably isn't a good thing.


Any day where you have so many people screaming at the top of their lungs in so many rooms that you can't even tell which is which...it probably isn't a good thing.


Any day you have to have a six person take-down of a violent patient, in the waiting room, for the love of god...it probably isn't a good thing.


Two down.


Three to go.


This probably isn't a good thing.

why am I not laughing?

Gumby found this on a strange photo website and called me over to show it to me.


I chuckled briefly and then reconsidered.


Oh, my god. That's exactly how I feel right now.


I've never worked more than three twelve hour shifts in a row. Never. I've worked shorter shifts for more days. I've worked three, gone out of town for a week and gone straight back into another three - but never more. The fact that I brought this on myself almost makes it worse, except that I had no choice. My mom will be back from the lake next week for a couple of days before she leaves. The kids have days off school. There's some other conflict, but I'm too stressed out to remember it. I keep telling myself that I had no choice, but it doesn't help.


I've tried to do nice things for myself. There's a big bag of homemade trail mix with all of my favorite things in it - heavy on the dark chocolate. A bottle of chocolate caramel coffee creamer to throw in the fridge at work. A brand new skein of gorgeous yarn and new circular needles to make myself a winter hat, since sleep is always the issue in these long work runs and I know that I need something zen and repetitive to knock me out. I might even possibly have a big container of mint chip ice cream in the freezer. (It's right next to the big container of Cookies 'n' Cream).


Psychologically, I know that the first day is always the worst. At the end of the third you're pretty much flying on endorphins anyway. I have no idea how five is going to feel, but I'm about to find out.


And man, oh man, am I scared.

bail now...

If you are reading this blog on a regular basis (or even if this is the first time you're slogging through it), you should know that I love you dearly for it. I love you for your loyalty, your good will, your fabulous hearts and minds. Most of all, I love you for putting up with me and my BS. So few people are willing to take that load on.


In light of this, in fairness, I have something I have to say.


Get out.


Get out while you can.


Because the cloud over my head is growing and I can't guarantee that it won't reach its little tentacly fingers out to those I associate with. Or those who associate with me. Or anyone in my zip code, tax bracket, gene pool, blog carrier or time zone. I'm well aware that it really isn't all about me...but I'm going for caution anyway.


On top of the mice invasion, we now have a wasp influx in Gumby's room. You're not seeing things. I said wasps. When my mom and I went in to deal with them last night, I ended up with one crawling up the leg of my pants and stinging me on my leg. I never even saw it. Oh, alright. I saw it. I tried like hell to kill it dead and then it slunk away unseen and crawled up my pant leg. And frickin' stung me. There I stood, ripping my pants off and yelling...kind of makes you wish you were me, doesn't it?


Get out while you can.


I'm pretty sure the locusts are next.

my mother looks NOTHING like this

Dear Mom,

Man, I bet you wish you'd never picked up the phone today, don't you? Such an innocent sounding ring, and on the other side of it your sometimes reasonable daughter in head spinning, bile spewing mode. I'm sorry. I truly am. I know I was supposed to phone you today - so I did. You're usually on to my dodging and hiding out routine, so I knew I was toast if I didn't call like planned. I had all the best intentions of keeping it together and not dragging you into my soap opera. Obviously, my plans fell through.


I totally blame it on the mouse.


It wasn't just the fact that my household is imploding in around me.


Or that my two days "off" have been a bill paying, chore doing, kid driving, teenaged feuding joke with me bleeding money from every pore.


Or even that in the two days "off" I've been to work three times - once for a committee meeting, and twice for doctor's appointments (once for Surfer Dude's cast and once for my -whoopee - annual exam).


It wasn't the almost seventy pounds of apples going south on my kitchen table because I don't have the time to do anything with them.


Or the pile of clean laundry completely covering my dining room table just begging to be folded and put away.


Or the fact that the guy I bought a bunch of firewood from vanished into thin air.


Or the bill from our "marriage counselor" demanding back payment from frickin' March. No note of explanation, no nothing. When I called him - incensed - he blamed the insurance company for being so slow with their co-pays and then asked me how the FX and I were doing. I'll spare you the rest of that conversation, but suffice it to say I'll get a big laugh out of it eventually. 2016 sounds good.


No. It was definitely the mouse.


A few nights ago, Gumby came into my room to tell me that he had mice crawling up his television cord. Being half asleep at the time, I hoped I had misunderstood. I hadn't. I've had two boys in my bed ever since. I went into his room to take a look around and didn't see any mice. I did, however, see the rodent equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet on his floor. Dirty plates and cups (strictly forbidden) on his bedside table. A pizza box from the night of my Bunco - almost a month ago. Rat food - from his pet rat - spilled all over his dresser. It was the mouse version of Disneyland.


This was problematic enough on its own, but since you're coming Saturday for a visit, it created difficulties. You usually sleep with me. This would be difficult with the two boys and three dogs already edging me out. The mice had to go. (They had been forced out months ago, but clearly have found their way back).


I was standing in my laundry room looking for traps when a mouse ran across my foot in a panic. It wasn't the only one. I was hopping and screaming and flinging things through the air. I'd like to say I accidentally squashed the mouse with all my jumping around, but the only thing I did was smash my toes into the dryer.


Since I've "talked" to you, I've cleaned out Gumby's room and found enough mouse poop to launch a shuttle. I've laid traps all through my laundry room. And as I'm writing this, I've just watched a mouse creep out from under my stove and head toward the island before darting back to safety. None of the dogs even woke up. If I didn't know what my dogs might do to a cat, I'd have one in the house by the weekend. I can't do this all winter.


I know you were really frustrated that you couldn't do anything concrete to help until you get here. But do you remember when you volunteered to sit in my living room with a BB gun and shoot mice? You don't happen to have one, do you? Or a cat I could borrow?


xoxo,

your frazzled daughter


p.s. Can't wait to see you Saturday. Hopefully after today, you feel the same.

please, mister, please

A whole lot of years ago, on the same night that most of America was tuned in to finally find out who killed Laura Palmer on Twin Peaks, I heard my husband tell me for the first time that he didn't think he loved me anymore, that he wasn't sure, as a matter of fact, that he'd ever loved me. A whole lot of work later, a whole bunch of counseling under the bridge, a whole new perspective on his part, we put our marriage back together and began moving forward.


I don't think I would have had three children with him if I hadn't thought I was completely over that period of time, don't think I would have donated twenty years of my life to the cause, didn't think that the scars would run this deep.


But I'm finding out that they do. There are a lot of episodes in our marriage that will always cause me angst, always make me wonder what the hell we were thinking, but in hindsight this will forever be the one that sticks out the most. Because I think on some level I've always been angry at myself for not seeing it coming, angry at him for doing it, and, in the past year, even angrier to be going through it again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...


No woman should have to listen to the same man telling her twice in one lifetime that he doesn't love her anymore. Twice in one blow-out argument would be bad enough, but those are hard words to hear. And hearing them more than once doesn't make it any easier. Quite the opposite.


This all spun through my head a week or two ago, and was triggered by something I saw on Yahoo! of all places. It was an article about how people going through a divorce are very often at different stages in the grieving process, because the one who wants out has been thinking about it for so long. Since this was pretty much our story, it caught my eye. The line that skewered my heart went something like this: "You know all those nights when I was laying wide awake and told you that I just couldn't sleep? I was really thinking about how much I hate you."


I'm as ready as I can be for this divorce to be final, but I'm fully expecting to feel a kick in the head when I actually see it in writing, or, as I've recently thought about it "on my permanent record". Much like herpes (and thanks for that visual, laurie), it will always be there. You can run through a long string of boyfriends and no one can prove it, but a legal ex is a whole other story. It will never go away entirely. We will always have kids. We will have graduations and weddings and grandchildren. We will always, on some level, be intertwined. I'm okay - more than okay actually - about us not being together. There is no hope of a reconciliation. We're both way beyond that. And it's better this way. I think we get along a lot better in small doses.


And we're getting along quite well. Really almost too smoothly. He's certainly stepped up to the plate as far as kids and money and just general kindness. I guess we'll see what happens when it's final. I'm cynical enough to think that a lot may come to light once he thinks I can't get back at him or make his life miserable. It would be nice to be wrong. But I'm not putting any money on it.


All of this has kind of been crashing in on me in the last few weeks, as I've hoped every day that I would come home to something legal and definitive in the mail. I'll be a lot better when it's done, but for now I'm jumping out of my skin. How I can be so stressed about something that I think is ultimately- and already - the right thing is beyond me. But until it's done...I'll keep stressing.


Just sign the paperwork, Mr. Nice Sweet Judge. I'd like to take back that whoop-ass comment.


Please?

The Thursday Three

I've had one kid sent home from school sick and another walk in the door with a bloody nose today. The school messed up and called the Film Geek first, so he had to leave a meeting to pick up Gumby when I could very easily have done it myself. And I have no idea why Surfer Dude's nose sprang a leak. So, in light of that, the subject this week is


Things that stress you out



#1. Sick kids. Number one on the list in every possible sense of the word. You would think that I'd be pretty calm about it considering what I do for a living, but I swing the opposite, thanks. I have hypochondriac tendencies to start with. Throw a sick kid in the mix and I'm ready for Valium.


For all of us. But more for me.





#2. Lack of alone time. I become a raving biatch if I don't get enough time by myself. I can honestly say that I never get bored alone, but if I'm constantly surrounded by people I get quite short tempered and twitchy.

My family realizes that a happy mom is in their best interest and lets me have my space.

Sometimes.







#3. Schedule changes. I do not do well when something that has been planned out changes at the last minute. I like to think I'm flexible, but scheduling issues drive me nuts. This is particularly true when I arrange my work schedule around the FG's and then his schedule changes, usually with very little notice. Guess who almost always has to figure out how to make it work?

I usually manage it, but it makes me crazy in the process.




Sorry for the short post, but I'm off to snuggle up with sick and leaky kids and have a quiet night in front of the television. It's time to shift into mom gear. (Like I ever really shift out).

Now it's your turn to tell the world what stresses you out. We'll be watching Top Chef.

The Thursday Three

I have some talents. Really, I do. I can make a mean homemade pizza crust, start an IV almost with my eyes closed and am able, with no hints whatsoever, to tell which drawer in my kid's room is the one hiding the remains of last night's before bed snack. I can monitor homework from three rooms away, beat almost anyone at Scrabble and know intuitively when the dog's water dishes are empty. I'm not a total loser. But...

I also have some talents that I'm not so proud of. Talents that don't really advance me in the game of life, if you get my drift. I call them my useless talents. If it makes you feel any better you can call them skills. Useless skills. And I believe we all have them. Maybe you can curl your tongue. Perhaps you can do world-class armpit farts. Maybe belch the alphabet. None of these are really imperative to survival. What are your useless talents? Are you tough enough to admit it?


Totally Useless Talents


#1. Birthday Recall. If I hear your birthday once, just once, I will
remember it for the rest of my life. Truly. I have absolute birthday recall. You might think this would be a useful talent. It certainly should be. Unfortunately, even though I remember someone's birthday, I never remember to do anything about it. I may say, "Oh wow, it's Cleopatra's birthday today", but do I remember a card? Do I call? Let's not even get into the present aspect. So, I remember it but forget to do anything about it which makes me feel terrible so I'd be better off not remembering it in the first place because if I forgot it entirely it might just be better.
Ya know what I'm sayin'?



#2. Impeccable Internal Clock. I can tell you within ten minutes what time it is at any given time. Without looking at a timepiece of any kind. If I wake up in the middle of the night I know what time it is before I look at the clock. I don't need the clock in my car, because I already know what time it is. I'm always on time, usually early, because not only is this internal clock embedded in me, but it's loud and obnoxious about the need to be timely. I am a human alarm clock.

Back in the days before wristwatches and cell phones that tell time in twelve different time zones, this could have been a kick-butt talent. But who needs it now? I always wear a watch, so I have basically made my own talent obsolete.

The funny thing is that I have absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever. Absolutely none. What. So. Ever. I cannot stress this enough. I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag in my own bedroom under a voice activated halogen light giving me GPS instructions. I would be so happy to trade some of this time talent for something I could use, like the ability to find the grocery store. You can't buy a watch for directions.




#3. Tidy Toes. I can pick up anything with my toes. Anything. Pencils, dirty dish towels, errant dog kibble, skanky underwear on the floor, you name it. I can pick it up. My nickname growing up was monkey toes, because my toes are disgustingly long compared to what they should be. This is another thing that could be a blessing in disguise, but isn't. Because first, I have two perfectly good hands to pick things up and second, now I have a complex about my toes.

And a strange desire for bananas.


You see these toes? Not even close. I could possibly palm a basketball with my toes. Reach a full octave on the piano with my toes. Swing from a tree in the jungle with my toes. Without. A. Problem.

Sigh.

Your turn.

The Thursday Three

How about...

Three of my worst Pet Peeves

We all have them - the things that drive us totally up the wall. They can be innocent or petty or even unrecognizable to others, but they're still there. The term Pet Peeves is obviously open to interpretation, but I generally think of them as things that really aren't earth-shattering or a matter of life or death. They're just annoying as hell. And, like nails on a chalkboard, they can send your blood pressure sky high. And with some things it seems there's a lower threshold than others. It's all about the thresholds.

Let's go then.

#1. Bad Grammar. I admit it. I am the grammar police. I can't stand it when people say "ain't" when they should be saying "am not" or "isn't". My skin crawls when people say "don't" when they really mean "doesn't". Double negatives drive me batty and a lot of the popular culture speak leaves me scratching my head wondering what in the world they just said. And while I'm pretty sure I don't really want to know, it still bugs me.

My poor children have had this drilled into their heads since they were in utero. I don't care if they haven't showered today, I can live if their friends eat all my food, I am even okay with less than fabulous grades - but don't say ain't to your mother. The grief is not worth it.

And just to keep me from being fanatical on this issue - I present my Alabama grandmother, at whose feet I worshipped. She could make double negatives cry and had her own grammatical shorthand that sounded fine coming from her, but could have run into trouble in the general population. One cold day she said to me "Doll, you ain't not got no slippers?" and I was stone cold flummoxed. I got the gist. Something about cold feet and warm slippers. But twenty years later I'm still not completely sure what she said.

And I couldn't care less.

#2. Spitters. Of all the disgusting, vile, revolting habits in the world, this one tops my list. It's not just that spit is the one thing guaranteed to make me gag either. It's the absolute disregard for the poor schmo who has to watch it or step in it or listen to that noise when you hawk it all up. Ugh. The back of my throat is twitching just thinking about it.

And I don't have body function issues either. I have three boys, remember? I haven't sat on a dry toilet seat in fourteen years. In my house people say "Pull my finger" like we're asking what we're having for dessert. I've lost more perennials to boys having peeing contests in the yard than I'd like to admit. My poor hostas never had a chance. And, thanks to a fifteen year old boy who shall remain nameless, (jack) Surfer Dude can now belch the entire alphabet at surround sound volume. I can objectively say that I'm a pretty tough gross out.

But spitting does it. It's just unnecessary.Use a tissue for the love of god. And did I mention it's disgusting, vile and revolting? Just making sure.

#3. One Upsmanship. This is a tough call because I also don't care for overall rudeness, but in its own little passive aggressive way this is plenty rude too. I can't stand it when people feel a constant need to one up you. I don't care how much more money you make or how many people you beat out for that job or why the boss likes you the best. If my kid has the flu theirs has pneumonia. If I lose two pounds they lose four. If my husband gets a promotion their husband buys the company. Come on. Could you just relax a little? Doesn't it get a little tiring to always attempt to come out on top of every situation? Can't you just be the bug today instead of the windshield?

I have given myself a gift as I've gotten older and I've weeded this type out of my life as much as possible. They can just suck the joy right out of you. I had a dear "friend" who never let me forget it when I took almost ten years off of work to stay at home with my kids. In that period of time I lost count of how many of her sentences started with, "Well, of course I'd like to (fill in the blank) but I can't because I work". And it wasn't said in a "boy, do I envy you" tone either. It was flat out bitchy. To some degree these are the people you have to deal with in work, family and social situations, so it doesn't hurt to be able to blandly turn the other cheek and not rise to the bait. But the blander I look the more I internally boil. One day I'm going to blow like Mt. St. Helen's and let them have it. I may even spit.

See if they can top that.

Allright, now it's your turn. I want pet peeves, no matter how small or petty. Surely I'm not the only person who feels this way? Say it ain't so.

The Thursday Three

Today let's talk about...

"Sexy" Men I Just Don't Get

I know we all have different tastes in the opposite sex. Or the same sex - to each his or her own. And surely this is a good thing, because otherwise we'd all be duking it out over the same few people. This would inevitably lead to a lot of us being stuck with nothing but cheap paperback romance novels and bad country songs to keep us warm at night. But there are some famous "sexy" men I just don't, for the life of me, get. To be perfectly fair, there a quite a few "sexy" women I'm a little puzzled about too. I almost hate admitting a couple of these, because I think something may be just a little wrong with me. Or maybe even a lot. And I apologize for jumping on the whole celebrity bandwagon, but at least these are people we can all recognize. If I said I didn't find the guy at the Post Office sexy we wouldn't have much to debate, would we?

#1. Tom Cruise. Pre-Open mouth insert foot stage. Pre-Katie Holmes. Pre-radical Scientologist. (Not sure when that was). I just do not understand what it is that makes so many people ga-ga over Tom Cruise. I was fresh out of college and working at Paramount during the Top Gun days when it seemed like he could do no wrong. The day that his production company was moving into their new offices on the lot every female (and quite a few males) felt it necessary to camp out for a glimpse of the man himself. And these were jaded Hollywood types. I passed on that circus, but did see him at other times on the lot. He's short.

Really, the fact that he does nothing for me is particularly odd because he sort of has the Black Irish coloring I've always found irresistable. Dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes. And even that doesn't work for him. (Are his eyes even blue? Maybe hazel, now that I check). But still.

#2. Justin Timberlake. Not even sure where to start here. Just. Don't. Get. It. Maybe it's the age thing, because I know a lot of younger girls who think he's the It Man of the moment. But I don't think so. I can think of plenty of other guys his age who do a lot more for me. Mrs. Robinson just can't think of them right now.

I do like the way he, uh, dances. But I'm opposed to anyone who has ever seen Britney Spears naked on general principle.

Okay, I'm saving this one for last, because even I know there's something wrong with me.

#3. Brad Pitt. Oh Jesus save me, for I have sinned. I do not find Brad Pitt sexy in the least. I think he's cute enough, I mean he doesn't gross me out or anything. I just don't have that weak-kneed thing going. This little glitch makes me feel seriously out of step with the rest of human kind.

I think part of my problem with Brad Pitt is that the "pretty boy" isn't a type I normally gravitate toward. And also that virtually any film he's in has at least one person who out-sexies him in my book. George Clooney. Vince Vaughn. Angelina Jolie.

I wonder if there's anything I can take for this?

All right people, lets have your lists. Someone please make me not be the freak here.

The Thursday Three

I'm going to step away from food for a while and take on something "useful". The list today is...




Three Skills I (Really) Wish I Had.


This is one of those lists where I could come up with thirty things instead of the three that I've stupidly limited myself to, so I'm going to try to limit it to skills I've envied for a long time, not just this week. That should cut it down to twenty-eight. I may seriously have to rethink this three thing. I'm just too long-winded.


#1. Home Handywork. Sure this is prompted by the fact that I live in a 120 year old money pit, but it is still a skill I've always wanted. I want to learn all the non-heavy construction aspects of it - that is to say I'd like to know how to refinish a floor but don't necessarily need to know how to pour a foundation. For that I'd just need a checkbook, a box of tissues and my second born child. He's much more barterable than my first. Some of my specifics within this broad scope would be laying tile, simple plumbing and easy woodworking skills. Usually, if I'm shown how to do something I can manage it from there. Witness my newly acquired PhD. in plaster patching and advanced sanding. (All right, all right, I can hear the Film Geek now. I didn't actually do any of the sanding - because he didn't trust me with it - but I watched. And I bet I could. In a pinch).


#2. Linguistics. I would love to be fluent in more than one language, and sadly for me sarcasm doesn't count. Nine years of French in school and several years of working in restaurants in LA have given me very basic skills, but not nearly enough. I can tell when an irate line cook is calling me a fat slow moving air-headed whore in Spanish, but I'm not sure how that would really help me in the real world. It never helped me then, either. I just moved slower and stupider out of pure spite. (Like I've said earlier, I was the worst waitress ever to pick up a tray). The language thing is such a lure, though. My room-mate in college was German and could speak seven languages fluently. She usually translated the restaurant Spanish for me, chuckling all the while. My father spoke two languages and learned English as an adult. It's odd about that. My dad liked to talk to me in his language and when we moved to California the state even certified me as bilingual, but I lost it growing up. I could pick up words and some context, but not much else. But several years ago my dad died and I went back to Michigan for his funeral.While I was there one of my aunts pointed out that people would speak to me in their language and I would answer them properly - in English. I didn't even realize I was doing it, so I guess it's still there. Buried. Somewhere.



#3. Surfing. I would give anything to learn how to surf. All my mis-spent youth at beaches in Santa Monica, Zuma and Laguna and I still can't surf. With a board, anyway. I think it's a pre-requisite to graduate High School that you can body surf, but I've never hung ten (or any factor of) off of a real surf board. I used to be a pretty good body surfer (and have the screaming vertabre to prove it), so I have had that feeling of being in a wave hurtling forward toward the sand at a million miles an hour. And it's fabulous. I like boogie boards, where you also get that rush, although it's been years since I've really been on one. But I want to really surf. I noticed a while ago that there's a camp for women in Mexico that has "chick lessons" in surfing. It's a three or four day camp that includes surfing, bonding and cervesa. (See, I'm already working on #2). Wouldn't that be a blast?



All right, there you have it. As usual I'm encouraging all of you to send in your lists too. I think it's so much fun to see what other people think...

The Thursday Three

The list today is - My Three Most Hated Household Chores. If ever a list needed to be seventy two items long, this would be it. If I wanted a managable size list I should do The Three Household Chores I Enjoy. I could narrow that down real quick. 1) cooking, 2) uh... Does bringing in the newspaper count as a household chore? Never mind. Martha Stewart is in no danger here, trust me on this. The Health Department yes, Martha, no.



The irony is that I really love a clean house. I just don't want to do anything to make it that way. And since paying someone to do it obviously isn't in the cards, I only have two options. Do it myself or suck it up. Guess which one I choose most of the time? To be fair, my husband is awfully good about doing stuff around the house without even being asked, but he's gone a lot. The only time I enjoy cleaning the house is when I'm really ticked off at someone or something. Then it actually feels good. But...in lieu of working up a snit at someone, here we go...

#1. Cleaning the bathroom. Note that I don't say cleaning the toilet, which is the logical thing to hate to do. But I have three boys, you see, and the toilet really has nothing to do with it. They couldn't hit the Great Wall of China if they were standing on it, much less a small porcelain oval. Add the fact that they are easily distracted and you can imagine what I have to contend with. They are all perfectly capable of turning around mid-stream because of something they hear on the television three rooms away. I haven't sat on a dry toilet seat in fourteen years, and I see no signs of improvement in the near future. This picture cracks me up but it also makes me envious. I wish my kids would pee in the yard.





#2. Ironing. Seriously, what is the point to ironing? You spend ten minutes pressing a piece of fabric between a smelly ironing board and a steaming hot hunk of metal and five minutes after you put it on it looks exactly the same way it did to start with. I just don't get it. For years (pre-children) I would take everything to the dollar cleaners since they pressed everything for you. Then (post-children) I graduated to clothes that didn't need to be ironed, and that was my strategy for years.



My plan now is fully in effect. I spent three years in school at my advanced age to get a degree that would allow me to wear what is basically pajamas to work. The more rumpled you look the harder you are assumed to be working. Rumpled happens to be a look I can pull off. It's all those years of practice.



Some people will do anything to avoid ironing.








#3. Laundry. I've saved the worst for last. If I could, I'd put laundry in all three spots on this list. It isn't that it's difficult, it's just that it's never ending. You sort, you wash, you move it to the dryer, you take it out, you fold it and then you put it away. As soon as you get to the bottom of that horrendous pile there's something else to take it's place. When you come in my back door you are in my laundry room, so in theory I should have an incentive to stay caught up. Funny thing about those theories and how unrealistic they can be.

Now I will admit that the Film Geek does a great job staying ahead of the laundry. For that matter he is the household designated ironer, and always does lovely work. It's just that he does laundry the way I do, which is to take it out of the dryer and throw it in a pile on the couch until the mood to fold it and put it away strikes. A week later, when we can't locate the couch, we have a pile of wrinkled clothes that have most likely had dogs sleeping on them and have fallen on the floor at least once. I'm sure this all feeds into my ironing aversion. Sometimes I get on kicks where I deal with the laundry as soon as it comes out of the dryer, and those are the times I feel in control of my household. It's a feeling I adore, but it's oh so fleeting.

That's part of the reason I love doing this blog. It keeps me from the chores!