Skidmarks and Stupidity

Originally posted 9/8/2009

I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.

Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.

First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.

Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?

Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.

Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?

He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.

Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle),  I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.

On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".

Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?

I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.

After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"

This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.

I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.

I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.

In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.

After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."

I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.

Is it just me?

The fart that shook the earth

Image via Wikipedia

Originally  posted 10/16/2009

Every morning my husband Dennis emerges from the bathroom at 5:30 am and blasts me with a shock of light.

I roll over and take my Levothyroid (I do this as soon as humanly possible since I am then required to wait for an hour before having food and *gasp* coffee) and then, as was the way of the past, fall back to sleep until 7:00 am.

The good old days came to a hasty halt last week when our two year old son Joseph realized that he can open the door of his room at his temporal discretion, scamper into the hallway and proclaim, "Mommy! Mommy! I want light on! I want my vitamin! It will make me strong!"

This usually happens at seven minutes of 6:00 am.

But not this morning. This morning at the callow hour of 5:31 am I tooted a squall so high in pitch and extensive in duration that folks buried at the local cemetery were prompted to tear at the earth above them and re-birth, zombified, on a beeline for the Tastee Freeze and long overdue coffee and jelly donuts.

Since I sleep in earplugs as defense against my husband's garbage truckian snores, it was not until I rolled over to check Joseph's baby monitor (yes I realize he's no longer a baby, if it were up to me I'd have that monitor on him well into high school) that I detected the fuss and caught Dennis gaping at me in wide-eyed sanctimonious husband-fury.

"You woke him up! That fart woke him up!" He pointed towards the monitor. "When I came out of the bathroom he was lying right there."

"I woke him up?"

Dennis corrected, "Your fart woke him up!"

Time to pay the piper. I slithered out of bed in search of Joseph's gummy Flintstones.

The Magical Mystery Banana

I just discovered this banana carcass on the carpeted floor of our family room upon inspecting the work of my husband Dennis, whom I'd successfully cajoled into vacuuming up a sludge pile of spilled Joe's O's aka Cheerios®.

We used to refer to our family room as "the white room" due to the proliferation of white shelving units therein. But seeing as how the room hasn't actually been white in a very long time, in the manner of my soul, my teeth, and the parts of my eyes circling the green rings, we now simply call it the family room.

Firstly, wasn't it clever of me to tell my husband that the big vacuum "doesn't work for me"?

***********

Me: It just doesn't work for me. I don't know why.

Dennis: What do you mean? It works perfectly. I just used it yesterday.

Me: There's something wrong with it. I can't get it to work. I don't know what the problem is. Every time I try to vacuum I end up going over the same spot again and again and again and why don't we just get rid of this thing and get one of those units with the wand and the....

Dennis: Taking off down the hallway, hands over ears, one hand stretched pleadingly towards the closet that houses our perfectly functional vacuum cleaner.

**********

Secondly, and I love men, I really do, and I respect them as a species of person, and hate those awful "little husband brain" ads that put them in the same category as intellectually-challenged gerbils, but leave it to a man to vacuum a room to a state of fuzzy perfection, yet allow a violated banana to remain on the floor.

**********

Dennis: You said to get the Cheerios, you didn't say anything about a banana. It's fine. Just leave it there.

***********

Thirdly, does anybody have any clue why there are dots and a small cross pressed into the banana? I'm at a loss.

Fourthly, I think I read somewhere that ants are repelled by bananas and all manner of sugary things. Going forward into summer/satanic ant season, I think it would be prudent to place a quarter of a banana in each corner of each room in our house. Under our bed. On Dennis' pillow.

I think I'll do it today.

The Muse has a Sick Sense of Humor

Image via Wikipedia

I was so inspired by yesterday's guest post by Justin Germino that I plunked my ample behind in a comfy chair and had another go at poetry writing.

Like most, I have a teen journal filled with earnest but wanting attempts and it breaks my heart to read them. A bad poem is like a sloppy kiss. I want my poetry to be like uvula-rattling historical fiction sex—the kind where the hero has you backwards on a horse and you both climax as you leap from a cliff to the top of his castle, or I don't want it to exist at all.

Granted, this demand for perfection of expression is most likely going to keep my feet glued to the springboard unless I beat it into submission with insolent, mediocre little practice poems.

So I gave it a go, and it wasn't long before I started to remember that if you're me it sucks to write poetry. It's fun—an absolute blast in fact, but it sucks. I can usually cough up a good line or two, but, as with ball sports, the difference between a zero and a hero rests in the follow-through—and I ain't got none o' that.

I attempted a poem about rain and somehow ended up with the start of a Country Western song:

The last time Georgia danced slow
was at a honky tonk in Barstow
The rain was hard
and the wind whipped cruel
but his body was safe and warm

Maybe someday I'll finish it. Or maybe not. 8O

Then out of nowhere this popped into my head:

His gentle white ivories nourished
the keys and the
song sprang up
to greet
him

Then nothing. It was like a door slammed shut in my brain. I chased after the next door and the next until the scenario played out in my brain in the manner of the opening sequence of Get Smart. As always, the sophomore stanza is devastated by some ludicrous, infantile rhyme that my consciousness rightfully (and thankfully!) dives ten neural feet to head-butt into oblivion.

I blame you, Dr. Seuss. It’s become apparent that I’ve fatally internalized you and Theo LeSeig, and am doomed to emulate and derate your legacy. Case in point:

The man went to the country bar
Far, far to the country bar
And his boots
Went root toot
And his spurs and belt buckle
went whir and tootschmukel
In the most particularly schmuckulous way
you might say...

I am ruined!

Never again!

Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.

---

All ridiculousness © Heather Kephart

This morning at the Tommyknocker compound...

I just made a $959.00 payment to Avon. How? I have no clue. I thought I entered $27.41. But when the order went through I looked at the screen and saw a message thanking me for my $959.00 payment. I spent fifteen minutes on the phone with a bright, cheery fellow from India who eventually provided me with an 800 number to call. The 800 number asked for my number and said it would call me back in 5-7 minutes. A recording called me back to say, "What's the matter with you, idiot? Nobody's open until 7 am. Go back to sleep you freak, and call us back then."

I have to sit here for two hours wallowing in the stink of my mistake, hoping and praying I don't accidentally set off "the bomb" or make any more similar bumbles, until the correction can be made.

What if I blow this deal? What if I become so distracted by NaNoWriMo and the Lolcats that I forget?



My poor husband is likely to need gas on his way to work. I'm picturing him standing at the counter of the 7-AM/PM-11 with muffin and Diet Coke in hand, being turned away by a cranky clerk who's been up all night due to our card being locked up. What will happen at that point? Will I get another "Luuuuuuuuucy" phone call?

In my defense, I was roused at 4:11 this morning. One word: Joe. He had turned on the hall light, and was lying dramatically across the threshold of our door sighing and tapping his foot on the wall.

Me: Go back to sleep, sweetheart. It's the middle of the freaking stinking blasted night.

Joe: *pitiful sigh*

Me: Joe, go back to your bed, sweetie, it's too early, sweetheart, go back to bed, it's night, sweetie.

Joe: *hugs his Blue Dog closer*

Me: *gets up and picks up Joe, brings him into bed*

Joe never sleeps in our bed. And this time was no exception. I tried to fall back to sleep, but somehow I knew that wouldn't be happening. I lifted my head to see if Joe had his eyes closed. He didn't. They were as wide as dual moons and were starting straight at me.

I stroked his cheek. He smiled. I tweaked his nose. He giggled and touched mine.

No hope for sleep here. The best I could hope for was a successful relocation of the two of us to the living room, qualified by not awakening my husband Dennis. Unfortunately, my bladder was screaming.

Me: Wait right here, schnicklefritz, I'll be right back.

Joe: *smiles*

I entered the powder room and eased my butt into "go" position. I snatched the recent issue of Country Living off of the cabinet and opened it to a random page and began to concentrate. Then I heard Joe breathing under the bathroom door. *exhale...inhale, exhaleinhale, exhale....inhale*

I squeaked out my #1, put the Country Living back on the cabinet, and opened the door and patted my son on the head. He'd turned on both of the bathroom overhead lights. It was then that I heard a startled yelp and witnessed my husband rocketing into a sitting position whilst yanking the covers to him asthough Joe and I were The Tommyknockers coming to get him.

I turned out the lights and grabbed for Joe's hand. The thought occurred to me that I should have grabbed Joe's hand and then turned out the lights. We made our way to the living room.

A Flintstone vitamin was tossed into a bowl, grapes were dumped on said vitamin in said bowl, milk was poured into a sippy cup, Blues Clues was flicked on, a blanket was pulled over a sweet, chilly little body, a head was patted, and a butt plunked itself in front of a computer. A well-intentioned Avon payment was made.

Y'all know how that went.

Then the urge to go #2, prompted by a quick blast of iced coffee, hit me with the force of 1,000 bad hot dogs. I sprinted to the bathroom, rounding the corner just in the nick of time without a second to waste, and gasped at the vision of my husband sitting on the john in the dark, screeching to a halt at his, "What the He...?!?"

Turning on my heels I sprinted towards the hall bathroom. It was locked! I somehow buried a scream so as not to wake the baby, and ran into the kitchen for a screwdriver. As luck would have it, all I could find was a phillips head, so I grabbed a butter knife out of the silverware drawer and ran back into the hallway towards the bathroom.

Blessedly, I made it in time. Good morning. :)

Jannie Funster did a girl a solid!

I received a notice from the post office the other day advising me that my six month PO Box subscription was due to expire 10/31 and to get my butt down there and fork over some cash or surrender my key under penalty of postal workers going postal.

Since I hadn't visited my PO Box for well over two months, you can imagine my surprise when, upon tossing a massive mound of supermarket flyers into the trash, and just in the nick of time, the telltale glint of postcard gloss hit my eye.

I reached out and grabbed my treasure a nanosecond before it came in contact with trash and thank goodness because, and I'm not sure about this, it may or may not be a Federal Offense to dig mail out of an official Post Office trash can.

Thank the sweet Lord above, I am glad I did because it was nothing less than a post card from the "honey of funny" otherwise known as Jannie Funster! Thank you, girl! It was a rare treat. I appreciate you taking the time. For those of you poor souls unacquainted with Jannie Funster, you are in for a rare treat if you check out her blog. She's a singer/songwriter, mom, lover (not mine), poet and humorist of the finest calibre.

Here's the card. Thanks again, Jannie! xo


[caption id="attachment_991" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="Jannie Funster rocks!"][/caption]

(Word has it she hides in the bushes and waits for snowbirds to show up, then dashes naked across the beach shouting, "I have no Jannie Bannanies today!")

Change

What is the formula for perceiving change?

My children grow a little bit every day, but I don't notice it. Then one day I  stumble backwards upon realizing that I can no longer yank Lily's size twelve month bloomers over her diapered butt.

When I diet I am losing a bit of weight each day, but nobody sees it. Then one glorious day people look at me and really see me and say things like, "Wow, are you working out?", "Is that a mirror in your pocket? Because I can really see myself in your pants?", and "Have you lost weight?"

It's more likely that people are noticing my increasing fatness, but I chose (dangit!) to go the positive route and focus on ancient history and my memories of weight loss.

One day I looked in the mirror and realized I was middle-aged. When did that happen?

What is the secret formula?

X amount of change = Y where Y= it becoming apparent to the naked eye?

I want to take the mystery out of it so I can pad myself properly in anticipation of the big moment.

Does Motherhood Make Us Bossy?

I've never been bossy.

I can distinctly remember several times when, as a girl, my Mom took one playmate or another aside and lectured her about bossing me around. Nobody's Mom ever took me aside and gave me the bossy girl lecture. In retrospect my Mom has mentioned quite a few times that she wishes she'd let me handle my own problems more often as a child, but that's another issue. (There are many, many issues.)

I've always been a sidekick, an appendage.

Until I became a Mother.

I don't know what did it. It could have been the complete exhaustion. Or the full arms. Or the ever-present current of panic and drama tinged with love and responsibility. All the forces of nature came at me in just the right quantities and suddenly I was *gasp* asking for help. (Can you believe that? I know, it's so unlike me.)

I was pointing, pleading, prodding. Phrases like "Honey, can you grab me a towel?" were reverberating off of my lips in such an inexcusably smooth manner that I began to wonder what sort of monster I'd have turned out to be had I birthed my first child at a sensibly young age.

The other day when my stepson Brian was over I asked my husband if he wouldn't be more comfortable in a pair of shorts and held them up for his consideration. He retaliated with, "You're not the boss of me, Devil Woman!" and a sideways conspiratorial grin at Brian.

Have I taken things too far?

I don't want to become like Kate Gosselin who publicly berated her imbecilic husband Jon (Why not John? But that's another issue.) on a routine basis. I refuse to give in to the temptation to martyr myself, and then lash out at my husband for not anticipating and undertaking what I needed him to be doing at the exact second and in the manner I thought best.

I say "Please?" a lot. And "Would you mind...", "Since you're over there, do you think you can...". I wince. I overcompensate.

Men have no clue what help we want and need. Yes, to us it seems flagrantly obvious, but to our guys it would be insulting for them to insinuate us to that we don't have things perfectly in hand. Or they've attempted to anticipate our needs and crashed and burned so many times that they're afraid to even try anymore. Or perhaps they're just as exhausted as we are. Or feeling lazy that day.

Should any Dads be reading this, please know that we won't be insulted, and we think it's refreshingly cute when you try to help but miss the mark. We catalog. We remember. We appreciate. We understand . We love.

And we know that you do too. ♥

A Hair Affaire

Well folks, it seems we've turned another page of the tome that is my quest for a decent dye job.

At the salon on Monday:

What I Said: Hi! Please correct the unsightly off-center blob of white bird poop highlights on top of my head. I'd like to go brown. Maybe all brown. What do you think of that?

What Stylist Said: Hmm... I think you need some highlights to add dimension. *rakes fingernails through my hair*

What I Said: Okay then, but I want my hair to be mostly brown with a few subtle, natural looking highlights - and just on the top.

What Stylist Heard: I want you to make me look like Cruella De Vil.

I should have payed attention in the Earth to Hair Stylist communications course the college semester I turned 21, instead of pounding Keystone and dancing until even my toes were sweaty at Popeye's in Old Sacramento.

Regardless of who I turn to for coiffure 411, I always get the same assistance: ridiculousness. One hair genius even managed to deposit white spots all about my crown, effectively leoprifying me. That was the one and only time I called back, hemmed, hawed, coughed, gurgled and eventually managed to choke out a correction request.

I've been to the Aveda Salon in Palm Springs, a fancy place in the back room of a florist shop in Downtown Sacramento, SuperCuts, StupidCuts, the office of a Chinese deli in San Francisco, and a place I saw advertised on tv that promised to make me look like a rock star. Not just my hair, me.

Do I look like a rock star yet?