Don't Try This At Home

Do You Know Who Said That?

Every person I know who majored in English in college loves quotes. There are other people who love quotes, I'm sure, but those of us who spent many an hour pouring over words and absorbing them into our very being. . .well, I think we are predisposed to seek out quotes and collect them.

Having said that, I also believe the personality of said seeker will come through in the quotes she collects. I love the meaningful quotes that Shannon so often refers to--and many of those speak to me too.

Be honest, though, you'd say I was disingenuous if I didn't share these little gems with you, wouldn't you?

• I love to go shopping at Target. They have so much stuff there, you can buy almost anything, it's really amazing -- Liv Tyler

• Every man loves the smell of his own farts. -- Icelandic proverb

• Cocaine is like really evil coffee. -- Courtney Love

• Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid. -- Hedy Lamarr

• I read in the newspapers they are going to have 30 minutes of intellectual stuff on television every Monday from 7:30 to 8 to educate America. They couldn't educate America if they started at 6:30. -- Groucho Marx

• A day without sunshine is like, you know, night. -- Steve Martin

• Mick Jagger is about as sexy as a pissing toad. -- Truman Capote

• Women's Lib? Poor little things. They always look so unhappy. Have you noticed how bitter their faces are? -- Joan Crawford

• The American people are tired of liars and people who pretend to be something they're not. -- Hillary Clinton (the irony is killing me)

• I don't really think, I just walk. -- Paris Hilton

• The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot. -- Salvador Dali

• When kids hit one year old, it's like hanging out with a miniature drunk. You have to hold onto them. They bump into things. They laugh and cry. They urinate. They vomit. -- Johnny Depp

• Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. -- Chilihead

 

 

It's April and Time to Shave My Legs

It's finally warm on a consistent basis here in my neck of the woods. Rainy, yes, but warm.

Which means I can move from jeans to capri pants and skirts.

Which in turn means it's time for me to shave.

You see, around the end of September--or sooner if I have no PTA or school-related activities I'm required to show up for--I stop shaving my legs. I hate shaving my legs. Once the crisp air of autumn hits, I'm done with that nonsense.

You would think this could be a deal-breaker in the realm of marriage, but I have found that my husband is amazingly tolerant of my quirks, as is evidenced by this little convo that I'm certain has happened:

Husband: Hello, my darling love! I missed you today while I was at work earning money so you can stay home and wait for our children to return from school! How was your day? What did you do?

Me: Well, my dearest, I sat on my ass blogging and reading blogs. Dinner is not ready and I have not done laundry since last month. And I still haven't shaved my legs.

Husband: Wonderful! I love you!

By Thanksgiving my leg hair is nice and furry.

By Christmas, I could braid it.

By Valentine's, it's like crawling into bed with two dachshunds.

But now it's April and the capri pants and skirts are calling to me.

Do you know how many razors it takes to prune the hair on my legs? Just to get the hair to a manageable length that a razor can actually handle? It will most likely take me two or three shaves to find that silky-smooth leg of last summer.

And the hair. Oy! The hair. Those first few shaves produce more hair than Husband and I both lose in the shower in any given week. And I have a thyroid problem and he has always been losing his hair. So that's saying something.

But OH! The capris! The skirts! The spring! They call to me. And I must shave again.

But I'm only going to the knee.

I mean, let's not be silly. Why would I go all the way when it's not even swimsuit season yet?

They Came, They Saw, They Conquered

I decided to invite three of Wild Thing's friends over for her first-ever slumber party.

Yeah. I said it: slumber party. She's had sleepovers, but never a slumber party. And isn't it about time?

It is, after all, Spring Break: The Time of All Things Fun.

And I am, after all, Mom: Hostess of All Things Fun.

As my friend Denise pointed out, I am fresh off a spa weekend in Vegas. I should have been prepared for this. And, as a matter of fact, I thought I was.

Four girls, one mom. (Why bring the men-folk into this?)

I'm all about the fun. And the limits. So I figured I had it down: I'd let them watch a movie and stay up late. The term "late" here meaning 10:30pm.

I stayed upstairs until 11:30 and made sure all was quiet. I congratulated myself on the success of a slumber party well done.

They had played board games, played outside, pretended to be dog catchers, school teachers and students, and put makeup on each other. Then we made popcorn and watched a movie.

Oh yes. Fun indeed. Down and asleep by 11:30.

Except that they weren't. Asleep, that is.

Midnight: pitter-patter, giggle. Go to sleep, girls! Quiet. Smug smile. Midnight isn't so bad.

One o'clock: Knock on my bedroom door. "We can't sleep!" Re-tucking of four little girls. Quiet. OK. We're good now. Right? Because really. I'm tired now.

Two o'clock: Pitter-patter, giggle, giggle, giggle, water running. Really? Are you kidding me? Girls! Sleep! No talk! I fall asleep on the chair upstairs in the playroom so I can make sure the sleep took this time.

Three o'clock: I wake up. Quiet.

Five o'clock: I wake up and stumble downstairs to bed.

Seven o'clock: Girls awake. OMG.

Y'all? They totally kicked my trash. Wild Thing wasn't even cranky the next day. And she didn't nap.

She's already talking about the next one.

Help me, six pound, four ounce Baby Jeebus with your Baby Einstein videos.

Ah, The Smells of Spring!

While some people are enjoying the dawn of spring, I am gagging.

Literally.

I think we have a dead bird in our chimney.

Wanna come over for dinner? The meat's, uh, fresh.

Or at least recently thawed.

Is Our Love So Wrong?

Shannon had some hilarious quiz links up and I played along:

donttryit.com

       

WANTED FOR THE EXCESSIVE LOVE of a DYSFUNCTIONAL HAMSTER

 

$1700

      

             

What's Your Blog Wanted For?              

23

For this one I had to pretend that the kindergarteners were like Children of the Corn or something. I wouldn't just attack five-year-olds. But crazy, possessed kindergarteners? Yeah, I'd do that. Right after I peed my pants. 18

I think the key here is not worrying about loved ones--it has to be every (wo)man for himself! 37%

Ah, The Spa: A Repeat Post for Your Enjoyment

We're still in Vegas having fun. I'll tell you all about it next week!

Meanwhile, Jeana reminded me that one time I had a masseuse fall asleep and some of you were interested in reading it. Here's that story (originally posted July 13, 2006).

Ah, the spa. My little Journey to Nirvana was, are you ready for this? Meh. Seriously. I’m glad I did it, but I don’t think I’d choose it again.

The young lady giving me the treatment was very friendly (she asked a lot of questions and had a lot of comments) and smiled a LOT. Which is great if you’re having coffee and trying to rev up for your day. It’s not that great if you’re trying to relax and forget your day (not that I’d had a bad day, but I WAS trying to be in the moment). For some reason she felt she had to tell me about every little thing she was doing to me:

• I’m slathering you with disgustingly thick mucus-y stuff with bits of bark in it.
• I’m going to wrap you up like a mummy now. But before I do that, here’s a really hot, wet towel so you don’t catch pneumonia.
• I’m going to drip oil on your face and coat your hair in the same oil.

(Um, I may have embellished those statements for lame comedic effect, but the gist is there. Just so you know.)

The Wrap: She really did lather me up in the most disgusting stuff. It smelled good, though. I think it was rose and orange. The wrap-up wasn’t too disconcerting, but I don’t know that I’ll do it again. The face massage was a few sad little strokes across my cheekbones. The scalp massage was less massage and more coating my hair in oil. I’m not sure any of the oil made it to my scalp. It took me three washings to get it all out. I was so sad it’s 2006 and not 1988. I could have capitalized on my "wet" look.

After she wrapped me up, she said, “I’m just going to tuck myself into this corner for 20 minutes. You relax. After 20 minutes I’ll unwrap you and rinse you off.” Then she proceeded to “tuck” herself into the corner by literally covering herself up with a sheet. Every time she moved it rustled. And then? Are you sitting down? She fell. Asleep. She only woke up when her snoring woke her up. (I swear I didn’t embellish that for comedic effect.) I’m totally serious.

The Rinse: OK. For those of you who have never had a wrap (like me) you may be appalled at the MESS IT MAKES. I was kind of grossed out because I hate my linens to be soggy and soggy they were. She did a pretty good job keeping wet and dry linens separate, but you can’t keep them completely separate and I had to go to my happy place.

The water from the shower sprays down on you from above and it soaks the sheets you’re on. Afterward, she started rolling the sheets down the table and then had me “hop” on to the dry sheets underneath. (Let’s just say that when you’re nudie baby that hop is not as elegant as one may imagine.) It wasn’t too bad, but like I said, I was still wet and laying on clean, dry sheets and that is JUST NOT RIGHT. I don’t blame her for this. I just say it as a warning for those out there who need it to make an informed decision about having a wrap.

The Massage: This was not a massage. This was warm oil poured over me and then smeared. It was OK, but I like a massage, I like to feel my muscles relaxing. Warm oil and smearing is not something I want anyone else but Husband to do to me. Frankly, I was a little icked out, and that’s not too easy to do.

Other Stuff: I did like the wet and dry saunas. I did like the orange-infused and cucumber-infused water. I did like the fruit offered to me. I especially liked reading on the balcony of the spa overlooking the golf course. I was relaxed and I was child-free. I was on a little get away with my husband. It was good. I am glad I chose the treatment if only to know that it’s not what I want next time. I can stop wondering and just go with the massage I know I’ll love.

My Gift to You: Weiner Soup

My friend Denise is a funny lady. She makes me smile. She turned me on to a very naughty spoof of the Kimmel/Damon/Affleck videos involving Seth Rogan. (Seriously, don't click on that if you're easily offended.) A few months ago she made me some Wiener Soup (referenced in #5 on my list of weird things). I decided to repay the act of kindness with my own present.

Behold!

Wiener Soup In A Jar!

This glass jar contains everything you’ll need to make a delicious batch of soup for your family’s dinner.

1. Fill pot with water and bring to boil.
2. Place weiners in water for seven to ten minutes or until done.
3. Remove weiners and reserve.
4. Pour Wiener Soup into bowls and serve luke-warm.
5. Garnish with weiners if desired.

I have it on good authority that Denise's family asked for seconds.

Wiener Soup. It’s what’s for dinner.

Super Mommy v. Zeee Artiste

I have a pretty high threshold for pain, but I find that some things gross me out easily. On the other hand, things you might find disgusting may fascinate me (a broken bone protruding from your skin, for instance--wow).

When I became a mom I found that I could hold a colicky baby for hours on end without the need for a break. I was able to find my zen or my chi or whatever. I also found that I could function on minimal sleep, pack a diaper bag like nobody’s business, and schedule a play date with my mom’s group while keeping all napping schedules in mind.

In short, I believed I was the most amazing thing since sliced bread and surely no other mom could compete with my abilities. After all, I was the first woman in the history of all women to give birth to the most perfect of all babies and that required nothing less than my perfect mothering abilities.

In fact, I fancied myself the Superman of Mommies. I boasted of my ability to catch (and clean up) vomit--even if it didn’t come from my own kid. I was invincible. See? This doesn’t even gross me out!

Until one day I went to check on my first-born during his afternoon nap. I could hear that he was awake, but was playing quietly. At 18 months, I figured I could let him play for a bit and then I’d go get him.

When I finally decided to take him out of his crib, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

There, in his sleigh crib with it’s perfect Classic Winnie-the-Pooh sheets and dust ruffle, next to his full-wall Pooh mural sat my baby. Covered from head to toe in baby poopy.

My son was painting with his feces.

It was in the crib, on the crib, on the walls, and on the baby. It was everywhere. Not a single nook or cranny had escaped the artistic expression.

Under normal circumstances I would have tossed the sheets, the diaper, and the baby into the trash, closed the door, and called it a day. Three little letters kept creeping into my brain, though: C P S.

There was nothing for it but to hold my breath and start wiping off the child so he could be placed anywhere but there.

As I gagged and dry-heaved, I cleaned up the mess. I wiped down and disinfected the walls and crib. I washed the sheets. I did not throw the baby away.

Kryptonite, thy name is baby poopy. And you gross me out.

Six-Word Memoir

Could you summarize your life in six words? Have you lived enough that six words would do?

From Boing Boing:

Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure, edited by Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser, is an anthology of several hundred six-word autobiographies. I wish all tombstones came with stories like these:

• Despite disorders, jafroed jewboy gets girl. -- Michael Eisner

• Didn't pull out. Downhill from there. -- Roger Daubach

• Thought I would have more impact. -- Kevin Clark

It's sort of like haiku, but not. Six words isn't many. It requires some thought.

What would your six-word memoir be?

Insecure girl finds her outside voice.

Laugh. Content. Respect. Love. Family. Friends.

Happy Valentine's Day

moar humorous pics

I simply couldn't resist.

BTW, speaking of awesome Valentines, have you been over to Chased by Children this week? She's giving away amazing prizes in honor of her blogging longevity. If you want to be able to enter tomorrow, you need to put her button up at your site and link back to her. See mine over there on the left?