Boo!

Written in 2010

Halloween is a strange holiday.  Some have said it comes from the Romans...Others from the Irish, Welsh and Scots.  A LONG time ago.  Back then, it had nothing to do with getting candy, bobbing for apples or trying to scare the crap out of your neighbor.  Probably.  It also had nothing to do with dressing up.  Probably!

Nowadays, people dress up to be the complete opposite of what they are...or dress up to be what they wish they could be.  And then they get drunk.  And act stupid.  Flirt like they wouldn't.  Maybe hook up.  And blame it on the holiday.
 
My radio station holds a party every year and this was the first time I could go.  I begged for suggestions as to what I should go as...I REALLY was looking for something unique and unexpected.  Realized quickly that I was going to have to fend for myself.


After a semi-laid back Friday in this little lace lingerie thingy, I decided to go as something that I kind of was....a black widow spider.  I've had three major relationships that I 'ruined'....and I had the perfect excuse to wear lingerie in public and make fun of myself.


All but one of my radio station coworkers and friends had NO IDEA who I was.  I guess that's what happens when you let the girls out to play!   I got looks ( and second and third looks) all night long.  While it was fun being incognito for a bit...I wish I'd get hit on 1/16th of the times I was hit on while I was in costume.

I wrote this last year around this time.  I never posted it but was reminded of it today when Bubs asked me what I was going to go as for Halloween.  He didn't see the humor when I said:  "What, you don't think a middle-aged Mommy wearing track pants and NO makeup is scary enough?!"

Smells Like Pre-Pre-Pre Teen Spirit

It's 7:14 (CST) and I am exhausted.  It could have been the 10 miles I walked, or the five lawns that I raked...Oh wait - that wasn't me.  I've been pretty much sitting on my ass all day.

I think I'm still having a lack-of-energy-hangover from watching Ev and the Bubs run around like maniacs at the NU game last night.  They. Did. Not. Stop.  Not once.

They aren't misbehaved...well not in the 'push the kids over to get the toys they want' kind of way (at least not anymore.  There was that wrestling incident over a lego car when the Bubs was 18 months.  Hard labor and the withholding of Gerber Graduates Fruit Puffs took care of that.)  Admittedly, they ARE a little hard of hearing.  Unless a key word or phrase is spoken.  Like "Power Rangers,"  "Ninjas," "Dragonball Z," "Toys," "Candy," "Cookies," oh, and "Pokemon."  But if it's something off-the-wall like "BOYS!  Please stop running!"  "BOYS!  Please stay by Mommy!"  "BOYS!  Please hold the railing" - nope, not hearing it.

And to make matters worse, they are cute as hell, as showcased below:

Evan has this trick that he does with his eyes that will guarantee the girls following him around like he's the Pied Piper and they're the town rats.  Ethan holds his own...just when you think he broke the last straw..he will come close and say, "huggy??"  Awwww.

Anyway.  Strangers, acquaintances, friends and family alike will spend a slice of time with my love bugs and stagger away, uttering... "wow, your boys sure do have a lot of energy."  or "They are certainly rambunctious, aren't they?"  And to make matters worse (AGAIN), when they find an NEW adult, they put on the most fabulous act of two little boys who NEVER have anyone listen to them.  (cue Oliver Twist voice here) "Please Ma'am, may I have a'nother slice of attention??"  I feel compelled to assure my peers that the boys DO NOT spend 24 hours a day chained in a dark cell.    (Ooooh...Oscar night!  I wonder what I should wear on the red carpet!)

I don't know where they get it from.  Granted, my sister was younger than I was...I didn't have the built in playmate that my kids have to feed off of...and I DID run around when I got together with the neighbor kids or my cousins...but that kind of energy 24/7?

We need to find a way to capture it.  Spritz it on.  And bite the bullet when the someone sniffs the air around us and inquires, "why do you smell like little boys' armpits?"

Team Sookie

In looking back over the past few months, I have come to the conclusion that I've been entirely way too whiny.  (I don't have a job; I don't have sex; My car is broken; I hate public aid WHAAA WHAAA WHAAA)  Of course, it helped that some of you told me so - via text, email, voice mail, phone call, carrier pigeon, skywriting plane, electric sign on the blimp....okay, okay, OKAY!  I get it!  I'm not special and need to GET OVER myself!

"Marr, Pity Party Table of One, your padded room is now available!"

My aunt told me I have guts yesterday.  I'm still working on trying to believe her.  Guts?  Me?  "Jeni Marr has guts" was never a sentence I heard floating around me.  Maybe it's time.

In all honesty, my boot-straps epiphany comes due to a series of books that I am reading.

Don't laugh.  Well, okay.  You can laugh.

Spoiler alert!!!!

Sookie Stackhouse can wind up almost dead in every single "Dead" book and that girl just keeps plugging along.  Sure, she was depressed when she finds out Bill only wooed her because the queen of Louisiana told him too.  But, then she met the tiger and Bill was forgotten.  Or was it the werewolf first?  For a virgin, that Sookie sure picked up the dating thing pretty quick. (jealous)  And sure, the last attack by the psycho faes nearly broke her...but she was suiting up in her bikini to worship the sun in no time.

So no, I'm not a telepath.  (Thank the Lord).  And no, we really don't live in a world where vampires and two-natureds walk among us (um, maybe),   But Charlaine Harris has a knack of showing how having a little pluck can go a long way.  Of course it doesn't hurt to have a little fairy blood in you too...and be under the protection the a hot vampire...but I digress.

Being on Team Sookie has provided me an entertaining way to gauge my 'disappointments' against a woman, albeit fictional, that literally gets her ass kicked.  Over and Over and Over and Over.

No guts, no glory, my dad always said.  I'll take the guts and run with it!

Are you shaking your head at me?  Whew!  I'm back in the game! :)

Self Judgment

What a blow to the ego.  While I never did fit in with my peers at my esteemed alma mater, I'm very glad right now that I don't have an alumnus cling on the back window of my van.  It wouldn't be their best marketing move.

I guess I'm one of those 'welfare people' that no one wants to be.

But I'll tell you this:  I HATE the fact that I had to apply for unemployment.  Or food assistance.  Or medical assistance.  And I'm sure as shit not going to go try to snare a 'SD'.

However, my little guys don't understand.  They just love the fact that Mommy can pick them up at the bus stop.  And spend time with them.  And redo their room.  And fix them lunch.  They don't understand that Mommy can only do that because she can't get an outside job that will provide MUCH more money than unemployment and MUCH more security (theirs).

You'll never judge me as hard as I judge myself...

A Beet is just a Beet

SHE (or in this case, The Sprouted Kitchen) claimed that not all beets were that disgusting neon purple color that you see in little cylindrical containers on salad bars.  What can I say, I trusted her. And decided to try the "Deconstructed Beet Stack" recipe that was emailed to me courtesy of WebMD.

In hindsight, it must have been the word 'deconstructed' that lured me in.  I ignored the main ingredient (beets), read her entire article and looked at the rest of the stuff needed to put this puppy together...Ooooh, pretty picture.  Since I had most of the ingredients already in my pantry and/or fridge (cider vinegar, horseradish, agave nectar, yogurt, red onions and naval orange - so I was cheating a bit there), Ethan and I decided to go hunt up some beets and watercress.

A little aside about our fav produce place:  they have TONS of stuff, it's just never identified.  There was watercress, at 1.29 a bunch...but I had NO clue which of the many bunches it was.  So,  I googled  it and came up with some really pretty images.  Ethan and I, after 15 minutes of deliberation and me trying a leaf or two trying to pick up a peppery taste, narrowed it down to two different bunches that looked close to the glossy pics and went on our way.  (FYI, my choice was right; his was something called verdura or something.)

Popped the beets right in the oven when I got home...fully covered in foil, poked with a few fork tines...and went on to make the exotic sounding layering sauce - I was seriously juiced about this because you simply can't go wrong with prepared horseradish (oh no, not the creamy stuff!).  I prepped my one (naval) orange and was ready to build my deconstructed stacks.  (oxymoron?)

Perhaps the first indicator that something was off was the color of my fingers as I was peeling the beets.  Maybe not a neon purple, but it was quickly headed in that direction.  I had to scrub them with turpentine between beets.  Regardless, I began stacking.  Two cute little stacks to have with dinner...I popped them in the fridge.

Oh glory be - the color explosion that was in that container when I opened it.  (I can't believe I didn't take a picture.)  There was the former white of the sauce, now stained a horrible fuschia by the beets, the bright orange of the orange and the dim green of the watercress.  A psychedelic nightmare.  Or Great Aunt Alice's Mumu.  Or jello mold.  But I was SURE that the Sprouted Kitchen would not lead me astray.

One small taste (the boys intelligently decided to pass on the delicacy) had my mouth turning in such knots that Ethan said smugly:  "I told you so."  No second chances for my deconstructed beets.



If you don't believe me and are tempted by the gorgeous picture above (not the one to the right!!), here is the recipe:
http://www.webmd.com/food-recipes/deconstructed-beet-stack?page=2&print=true#.  The author notes that this will be on the menu for her next dinner party.  Trust me:  if you join me here for a PL show, there will be no neon fuschia beets on the menu!

(now that I'm thinking about it, something like that with fresh ginger instead of the beet may not be so bad...hmmmm.)

Bloopers Reel One

8/31/11 - came upon this blog I started.  Have no idea why I didn't finish!  Figured it could substitute for good entertainment!!


I'm almost 40.

I've raised one child successfully (he has an Evans' Scholarship to U of I), have two others on a path to success (both starting at the town magnet school)

Have flirted with the idea that I'd like another child...and then of course slapped myself until I came to my senses.

Have an IQ that puts me in the 'gifted' range.  Know that I could do anything that I wanted.  Well, maybe except be a Craps dealer or a runner at the Stock Exchange or a car mechanic.

Or have a successful mutually satisfying relationship.

I was talking to my dad the other day.  He was asking me about dates.  I was giving him the skinny.  which was really a skinny.

And he gave me his thoughts.  Even though he was almost 60 and I was almost 40, my dad was laying down the dating law.

Validation

I got it today.

Validation.  We all need it and we all seek it.  From wherever.  From whomever.  Even if we don’t think we do.  Even if we are adamant that we don’t.

Today was my last day on the NU gig.  A handful (well, actually, all but two and the boss) of them and I went to Chili's (a 13 second walk from our front door) for some food and drinks (chicken nachos to die for - well, not THAT extreme! and good onion rings too!).  The same co-workers, save two, that maybe I’ve had a few paragraphs of conversation with in the nine months I’d been working there.  Hugs all around at the end (even the Asian ones…is that just not done in China and Singapore?  Second round of awkward hugs for the day.  Sorry, but I’m a hugger).  And then my JY walked me to the train and we both started crying. 

I had pretty much just thought she had been putting up with me and listening to me chatter along because I was the best of all the evils that were there.  Come to find out, the love I had for her was actually reciprocated.  I felt good.  Validated, I guess, that I can be a good friend. Validated because the taste I have in picking friends is WAY better that my taste in men!

Men.  When will I learn.  Just now, hubby #1 pulled the ‘same old same old’ via text.  He’s a button pusher, that one.  But I was on a roll and I shot him one right back.  Blessed silence.  Validation there?  That I made the right decision removing myself from his equation (which remains a very weird equation with many many tangents!)  Can’t regret the first hub though…gave me my oldest and gave me access to an amazing group of friends!!   

Self-validation.  Patting yourself on the back.  Being able to wear lycra tights in public. 

It’s all a boost in confidence J

Free Pass

I'm in a very strange phase of my life.  Nowhere close to the 'golden years' and far from my Salad Days.

CLEOPATRA: My salad days,
When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,
To say as I said then! But, come, away;
Get me ink and paper:
He shall have every day a several greeting,
Or I'll unpeople Egypt.


Maybe It's the curse of the 'muddle years,' from the Urban Dictionary:the state of being middle aged, with the confusion and forgetfulness that accompanies it

age
	Something which is just a number I'm 15 and you're 18 but we make the perfect pair.. Who cares about our age?
	age
	Something that does not matter when selcting a mate.

I have a to-do list a mile long.  And I just don't know where to get started.  Maybe you can help me focus, so I'll share the list with you:

Grady Sizemore
Alex O'Loughlin
Ryan Reynolds
Trace Adkins
Vince Vaughn
Shemar Moore
LL Cool J
Channing Tatum
Kevin McKidd
Taye Diggs
Mark Wahlberg
James Marsden
Craig Ferguson
Paul Rudd
Adam Levine
Josh Duhamel
James Franco
Jason Lewis....

http://acidcow.com/pics/7706-top-100-most-beautiful-men-100-pics.html

http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/50467484.html

:)

Follow this

http://bissingfamily.wordpress.com

Propaganda

I'm not famous.  Or a celebrity.  Or well known.  Not a reality star.  Or a politician.  Not even an entertainer.  (well, I try for a few hours on the weekend.)  But even so, I was shocked to learn that my life is as scrutinized as if I were.

When I write, whether it's here or on Facebook or whatever, I write WHAT I WANT YOU TO KNOW.  Does that mean that everything I write is autobiographical?  If I read it all verbatim, would I pass a lie detector test?  HAHA!  My imagination is my biggest organ.

There will always be those that don't understand that I enjoy using a literary license..maybe I should preface everything I write with "BASED (but not exactly like) a true story."

I exaggerate, people.  I pile on the drama.  Don't base your opinions of me on what you read.

That is your public service announcement for the day.

In about 2 months, my job will end.

Except I'm not freaking out like I was when SMdP told me they were cutting me back to part time.  Reason?  I've grown up and learned  a lot from this latest "I hope it's a career' venture.

For the past 5 days, I have been subcontracting in our assembly department.  While it means I get to wear my cool Nike tennis shoes, jeans and a fleece, it leaves me with an aching back and neck that the chiropractor-that-I-soon-wont-be-able-to-afford can't even fix because I can't scoot out of the office to take the 4:33 train.

I am now held accountable.

No more email, Facebook, texting, blogging, or even simple calls during the day.  The area in which I've been working has rendered my smart phone absolutely idiotic.  No more morning cereal or oatmeal, or office cup of coffee.  I eat my breakfast on the train and that is all I get.

But the days speed by.  I feel accomplished.  Today, I counted out ball bearings, foam squares, and took the needles out of syringes.  I know how to work a heat sealer thingy and will have to learn how much chemicals to put in vials.

It's funny.  When i was younger I couldn't imagine working a service job to make my money.  How unbelievably naive I was. (I guess that's what becoming a model at the age of 12 does to you) As this job is coming to an end, what matters more to me is what i can save.  If my boys aren't in daycare, I save an enormous amount...just about the same amount as what I pay in rent.  AND, I get to do the things that I've always wanted to do with them.  Be a class mom.  Be a chaperone.  Go on trips.  Take them to extracurricular classes.

Being single was a decision. And my boys don't need to feed the brunt of my decision.  Third shift.....won't you become my willful lover??

C-O-O-L

I hate watching people get embarrassed.  Almost as much as I hate being embarrassed myself.  When Tom's making an idiot out of someone on the air, I generally have to turn down the volume.  During TV shows and movies, the same thing.  I remember having to close my eyes and shut my ears during one scene in Drew Barrymore's "Never Been Kissed".

It's awkward.  And I DETEST awkward moments.

Like the scene in Grease 2.  Where Stephanie Zanoni finally lays down the law with cutie Michael Carrington when he continually asks her out after the talent show rehearsals.

 WHAT??!!!  You've NEVER seen it?  It's a classic, a Must Have!  I give it two thumbs up!  

Anyway.

It's a musical, right?  So old Steph launches into a song and dance (kick ass leather pants and boots, btw!) basically making Mikey look like a complete fool.  Here's the scene.  Sing along with me at home:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYB317pljts&feature=related


At least they taught the seniors at Rydell High to spell.  She'd look pretty dumb....K-U-L.....R-Y-D-E-R


So here I'm all embarrassed for Mike and he gets this hair brained idea to be, well, a COOL RIDER.  SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT:  And all of this leads to Steph looking at him when he is unmasked and saying, "Silly, I got two for the price of one." Geesh, lady - make up your mind.  It could have saved us the really awful performance of Love Will Turn Back the Hands of Time (as well as whatever that outfit is they  Criscoed Michael into).

ANYHOW.

This got me thinking today.  Am I really just waiting on my OWN Cool Rider? What does that even look like in my world?  Maybe it's a super funny guy with an extreme talent for riding a unicycle while filing his taxes.  Maybe it's an Isaiah whats-his-name look alike with the asymmetric pectorals.  Maybe he's wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and smoking a pipe.

Maybe.  

Maybe it's the person that helps my find the Cool Rider in myself.  

In 2ish hours, it will be Tuesday

It's Monday.

• I don't regret that I only had sons.  

1. Reason 1:  Over the weekend, both boys painted their nails (MUCH to the chagrin of their father.)  I didn't KNOW that the lip gloss/chap stick basket came with 4 nail polishes.  However, I thought their creative use of patterns with the colors was sweet!!  
2. Reason 2:  This evening, the two little ones are both pissed at me.  One because I wouldn't buy him another Care Bear at the thrift store and the other because he couldn't watch iCarly.  
3. Explanation:  So no, I don't regret that I gave BIRTH to sons...because right now I am raising pubescent girls.

• Did you know that one Reese's Peanut Egg has 170 calories in it?  It's ONLY 2.25 inches long.  That equates to a little over 75 calories per inch!

• In other inch news, a normal male ejaculation is only 5 calories...so the excuse of "Sorry honey, but I'm just getting too chubby" doesn't fly.

• In the world of Supply and Demand, the supply of chocolate in my house isn't the issue...it's squelching the demand that is.

And the main feature:

• Lady Gaga is a godmother.  Yes.  I KNOW.  Can you IMAGINE what she gets the kid for his birthday?  And who's the lucky rugrat?  None other than the offspring of Sir Elton John and his husband David Furnish (um hello....where the HECK have you been all my life??  Oh.  Probably not liking girls.)  I love this quote from KidGlue.com regarding the odd 'knighting':  When picking godparents out for your children, you probably didn’t have to consider whether you’d make, “has a tendency to wear clothing made of food” or, “showed up at the Grammy’s in a giant egg” were deal breakers.  But you’re not Sir Elton John.     The article goes on to talk about a Barbara Walters interview with Sir John and David that will air on a special 20/20.  Feast on this:  “When you get to the real person underneath, there’s a simple girl who loves her parents,” Sir Elton told Walters.  David Furnish also pointed out that someday, Gaga will be able to help their son navigate the world of music and celebrity he’s been born into.  “Zachary’s going to inherit an incredible musical legacy from his father one day, and she will be a good person to guide him through the ins and outs of the music business, ’cause she sure knows everything about the business now,” he told Walters.

Three important points arise from this:  1 - what did she wear to the baptism?  2 - Sir Elton REALLY thinks that Gaga's got longevity chops?  3.  David, I don't have John's money, but CALL ME!!!

It's Like Dodging Rain Drops

There was a moment on the train today when I stopped.  Stopped reading.  Stopped jamming (come on, it was My Darkest Days).  And looked around.  What 25 minutes prior had been a packed and dare I say 'boisterous' car, was now empty except for me and another Patterson fan.

How it all can change so fast.  What had happened to the girl with the freckles and big teeth in the seat in front of me?  What about the guy in the orange polo, orange sweater and black argyle socks?  Or the one with the ginormous feet (nice shoes) reading the restaurant tabloid?

The amount of people that we have contact with every day is staggering.

Do you ever stop....and look?  Or do you just keep trying to stay dry by dodging the drops?

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

Well hush my mouth!  (no, really - you should).  My daddy just called me a Cougar.  All because I stated a lustful whimsy for Cleveland Indians center fielder and resident heart throb Grady Sizemore.

Do you blame me?











Look at his stats:
Oops!  I said STATS, not ABS!!

Cleveland Indians — No. 24
Center fielder
Born: August 2, 1982 (age 28) Seattle, Washington
Bats: Left	Throws: Left
MLB debut
July 21, 2004 for the Cleveland Indians[1]
Career statistics (through 2010 season)
Batting average	.272
Home runs	129
Runs batted in	426
Stolen bases	134
Teams
Cleveland Indians (2004–present)
Career highlights and awards
3x All-Star selection (2006, 2007, 2008) 2x Gold Glove Award winner (2007, 2008) Silver Slugger Award winner (2008) Heart & Hustle Award winner (2008) Led AL in runs in 2006 Led AL in doubles in 2006

In addition,  to being 6'2" and 200 pounds, he became one of only two players in MLB history to have at least 50 doubles, 10 triples, 25 home runs, and 20 stolen bases in a single season (2006)  AND his first game out after a complicated knee rehab (today)...he hit a HOMER (See here:  Grady's Homer) and went 2 for 4 from the lead-off position!   Baseball is such a sexy sport.  ....."I don't care if I ever get back..."



So sure, Dad...call the Kettle Black and say that you've raised a Cougar (although I don't think you're called a Cougar, so that isn't necessarily calling the Kettle Black...but you know what I mean!). I'll cop to it.  Do you blame me?


I'm gonna work on sliding into home.

That Damn Pulp

I've gotten three tattoos.  My navel pierced.  5 holes punched in my ears.

For God Sakes!  I HAVE HAD THREE CHILDREN!  Two without drugs.

Yet.  This itty bitty infection that I have under the root of my number 30 tooth has brought me to my knees.

Here's the pic of the tooth.  It looks so damn normal.  And sexy.  Yet when Doc Kraft explained it to me, it was anything but normal.  That poor poor tooth.

I'm thinking about reaching out to Nickelback and Justin Beiber and Lady Gaga and asking if they can do a tribute album for my tooth.  Raise the awareness.  Raise the funds.  Get it the crown (what the hell is a crown anyway??) that it needs.

Won't you be the first to support?

Train. Chapter 1

The most logical thing in the world would be to write about my daily Metra experience.  I mean, I'm on the damn thing around two hours a day....five days a week....riding from the bleak, impoverished North, to the priveliged southish-North.  (I'm so melodramatic)

Sure, I've posted snippets, teasers, faithfully as my Facebook statuses.  But as much as I would love to regale you with train-tales over crumpets and tea, there is just one problem when I sit down and start to write about this topic:  I get a brain freeze.

Not writer's block but that kind of brain freeze that you get after taking the first looooooong slurp of a REALLY yummy ICEE.  Or, the feeling that you get after you put a huge mound of sugary cotton candy in your mouth.  That feeling of "holy crap, that was almost too much of a good thing!"  (I get this feeling often...around men's cologne, when I eat Drew's Shitake Ginger Dressing, after eating cheesecake and Dove's milk chocolate, after slurping down a McD's chocolate shake....I obviously need to hold myself in check!)

That's my problem with my train stories.  I want to dive right in and tell you everything.  But where do I begin?  What do I leave out?  Do you care about the woman applying her deodorant across the aisle?  About the middle-aged bald guys talking about Jude Law and his affair with Sienna and the nanny?  About the difference in my sanity between taking the 7:37 train and the one that leaves at 7:52?  About the woman screaming on the phone to her soon-to-be-ex, letting all of us know her pet name for him?  (BTW, it was Mo#$er F@$#!r.)

I don't know where to begin.  Visions of bad style-choices, too much cleavage, grown men swinging lunch boxes fill my brain, so today I'll start simple.

NO.  There has been no Risky Business-type of action.

Let's get on that, train-riders of Lake County!

Writing

I love to write.  No really.  I do.  (wasn't sure if you had picked that up or not).  LOVED writing research papers in English class and I spent many hours writing poetry.  Like this one from 9th grade (that would be 25 years ago):

Alone

You went away,

You left me there  -

All alone, 

Just me, my tears.

The bitterness,

We saw it come;

The angry words
From which we run.


The words that hurt
More than beatings will.
The reckless words,
The final kill.

But what we found -
It's hard to hide
From the coldness
At your side.


It's time to go on
For you and for me.
Complete destruction
Is what we achieved.

Don't look back -
You won't see me cry.
The coldness that shows
Hides my pain inside.


Is this what we wanted?
But now it's too late.
To go on alone -
That is our fate.

I know - I should have ended it after the second stanza.  What can I say?  I was a girl scorned.  (although, you could threaten to take away all of my chocolate and I still wouldn't be able to produce the name of the scorner!)  Ha!  Some of you out there may have been on the receiving end of some of my 'masterpieces!'  A few out there may have gotten an A for something that I wrote!

Well, I loved to write, until I had to do it for real.  And get paid for it.  And get criticized.  I can remember the specific moment that I decided that I wasn't a writer:  my boss said to me, "And why don't you try to write this piece...it will give you more experience and make you feel more comfortable with writing."  Um.  Why don't you just shoot my kneecaps.

I'm trying
I'm holding back
I'm hiding
I'm emerging
Conflicting
So me
So often


This is why I subject you all this this narcissistic blog.  I LOVE TO WRITE!  The hard part isn't writing it...it's holding back.

Sta Zitta

Please hit the "Shut Up" button on your remote. (bonus points if you can name the tv reference....)


I can't seem to stop talking.  I just blah blah blah blah blah blah all day long.  Especially when there is silence to fill.  Then I'm all blah blah blah my cat blah blah blah funny story about my dog blah blah blah Oh! Do you ever watch iCarly??


(Close it, and Zip it!)


I'm actually an intelligent woman...but when I keep blithering along, just filling up the holes of prolonged silence with my useless dither (well then, there aren't any holes now, are there?!), I come across as the biggest social misfit.  Maybe there is an island for me...


(I see your mouth moving and I hear words coming out but I just don't care what you have to say.)


I take no umbrage with the dazed glaze, the bored stare, the hostile glare.  I just keep babbling along.  The drool doesn't affect me nor does the occasional snore.  I just keep going.  Yadda yadda yadda.  Just nervous chatter. 


(Do you see the look on my face??? That's the look of "OMG shut up already")


I talk during hugging, during kissing, during sex.  There's really no way to shut me up.  Well.  Um...there's that.


(Pardon me, ma'am, but you have an unattractive excess of verbiage dribbling out of your face.)


I SAID VERBIAGE for goodness sake.


I'm shutting up now. 

TMI

In my world, if you and I become friends, I make you sign a contract that clearly states that nothing that comes out of my mouth is EVER TMI.  It covers MY ass and it saves you the embarrassment of thinking that I am CLEARLY off my rocker at times.  Because let's face it...sometimes I walk a VERY fine line!

I understand that not all of you reading this have taken the time to read the fine print.   So, I will allow you to jump ship at anytime our delicate blogger/bloggee relationship gets too...um...buddy-buddy...and...intimate for your less than prurient sensibilities. (so, I'm a few months late issuing this escape hatch...oops!)

The phrase "Let me slip into something more comfortable" came up in conversation the other day, believe it or not.  I was talking to a male friend of mine and he created (NOT for us, for pete's sake) this Fabio-on-the-cover-romance-novel-worthy-scenerio complete with bearskin rug, rose petals, strawberries and champagne (with the leading lady whispering the aforementioned phrase...) and while I was impressed at his attempt to describe his version of a seduction scene (that didn't involve beer, a TV remote and a Hawks game), I had to chuckle.  Something more comfortable?  Like other then my "I ♥ My Boys" t-shirt and yoga pants??  Oh, you mean I need to shed my comfy clothes and put on that latex corset with the thong panties and 5 inch hooker boots?  I'm right on that.  And last I heard, the Cubs were gonna win the World Series.

Let me tell you how it goes at my house.   Text:  Be over in 10.  Me:  K.  {for those of you playing along at home, that was foreplay}  10 minutes later: front door opens, followed by complete silence punctuated briefly by the groans of attempting to get out of my skinny jeans and a shriek as my foot steps on a Power Ranger Apezord (DO NOT call it a Monkeyzord).  13.385 minutes later:  complete silence after the front door is shut and re-locked.  15 minutes later:  groan of satisfaction as I plop on the couch in my holey AC/DC shirt and NU sweats.  15.8965 minutes later:  lost in the fascination that is prime time television.

What?  You think I can make this stuff up???

Yes, yes I can.  The rooms of my house have seen less action then Bernie Madoff's wife. I'd be in a world of hurt if it weren't for my imagination. (And the Energizer bunny.)

But let's pretend there is a moral, a lesson to be learned from my imaginative tale.  Should you ever get that "K" text from me (hypothetically, of course) you better come prepared with pliers.  I don't wear these jeans just because they make my legs look good; they're my something more comfortable.

Frenemies

Helllllooooooo Scale.  It's been a long time.  Not that I've missed you in the slightest.  However, I made a promise that I would visit you today, so being the upstanding citizen that I am....here I am.

How's about we make a deal.  You go easy on me and I'll refrain from throwing you out the window to be mowed over by the tow truck that lives three houses down. Or, take you back to the thrift store so that you can be bought by a family that has toddler quadruplrets that think you are a mini trampoline.

Don't tell anyone that I stripped for this...HEY!  You haven't installed a scale-cam, right?

Okay, deep breath...and I'm on.  Eyes closed...but it really can't be that bad.  After counting slowing to ten...in five different languages....I peek at the digital display.

AYE CARUMBA!

How in the world did 2.285714285714287 stones creep onto my body in the past three years?

Although, those gyros were sooo good.  And the Taco Bell Chalupas (I can't believe I waited so long to try one!)  Oh, and the pizza...the wine....hmmmmm.  I found out how fantastic food tastes...REAL food (aside from the Taco Bell!)  In the past three years, I've had THE BEST meals of my life...from kick ass edamame with this magical elixer made with off-the-hook pork sauce, to fried crawfish and an amazingly marbled steak. I've had the best home-made soups, fresh pasta salad with artichokes and fresh, sweet homemade bread.  I've tasted a cucumber Mojito and lots and lots of sushi.  Real ingredients and real food.  And really good times.  And really real pounds. 2.2857 blah blah blah stones.

You do the math.

boundaries

I blur the lines with my chiropractor.


Oh for Pete's sakes...from the get-go YOUR mind is in the gutter!  


I completely forget that he is my chiropractor and not my shrink.  Today, for example, was my last day of physical therapy (so THAT'S what I've been doing?!?!?)  and we had to do this debriefing/deprogramming thing.  He asked, "will you do your back exercises faithfully?"  'um, sure,' I said. He put down, "Patient will ignore her responsibility of doing her back exercises and will return to the hunched statue that she was 6 weeks ago."  SEE?!  He knows me so well!

I also had  to fill out this exit exam thing, without cheating.  It asked how much my lower back pain hampered my social life...I was looking for the answer that said, "social life?  what social life?"  I expected the Doc to say in his calming voice, "so, how does it really make you feel to be such a loser?' But really he said:  "Pain.  Where?  Mild, moderate or severe?"  I want him to fix my social skills and he is WAY too focused on fixing my posture and flexibility.

Right, My flexibility.  If you see above, there is no social life, so there is NO NEED for the increase in flexibility that I have dutifully attained.   Unless, of course, I want to join the circus as a contortionist...but I'm not so sure they are looking for the frumpy soccer mom for that role.  Or, say, I decide that I want to, I don't know, start to do yoga.  (REALLY? Shoot me now!)  But does it make me feel great that I KNOW that my legs will bend to a 135 degree angle when I am on my back??  You freaking betcha!!  It is stimulating to realize that I could probably do a back bend into a walkover thingy at the age of 39 (when I could never do it before??)  Absolutely!!! :)  But really, will that happen?  Not a chance!

Getting old sucks.  It happens stealthily...like a woman dressed all in black Armani about to key the car of the rotten bastard that is cheating on her.

There are signs, though, that you are getting a bit older.  Such as:

1.  Your 5-minute face now takes 30 minutes to do
2.  When filling the year of your birth in an online form, you need to scroll WAY down the dropdown menu
3.  Songs that you listened to in high school are now marketed as "Golden Oldies."
4.  Kids that you used to babysit are having kids
5.  You go to the chiropractor because, face it, as least it's a pair of male hands on you
6.  When you find yourself thinking that, I don't know, say, one of the guys in Big Time Rush is cute, you immediately go to their IMDb page to make sure they are legal
7.  You've said to your teenager, "When I was your age..."
8.  A wild weekend is trying to stay up for the monologue on SNL.
9.  Sleeping in is turning off the alarm and waking up at 6:15.
10.  Your kindergartner knows more than you do.  Or so it seems.
11.  If you're single, the only 'guys' that you're comfortable being naked with need alkaline to rev them up.

The Weight of the World

Since I've been going to a chiropractor, I think I've probably learned a WHOLE bunch about myself.  (Not really, but I want to make the Doc feel better.  Actually, I think the one that learned more was HIM!). 

 For starters, I'm really 6'4" and depending on which direction I turn, my chest either crosses the border of WI, the lake, IN or IA.  HA.  I thought my shoulder muscles were for carrying my babies...and groceries...and my purse.  WHO KNEW that they actually helped make me stand taller!  

I found all of the missing balls and marbles from my childhood:  they are lodged in the back of my head...in the muscle that is the opposite of the frontalis one..and in my trapezius and my Latissmus Dorsi.  I'd show you a picture of what I'm talking about, but then you'd get excited.

There are places where there should not be mirrors.  The Chiropractor's office is one of them.  If it's after work.  ESPECIALLY if it's after work, you've had a bad day, are PMSing, need to slather on more makeup, hate your hair, look like a bag lady and REALLY need to...sleep.  (Not really on the last one, but I am trying to make this a PG rated blog!!)


ALSO:  Make sure you know what activities are in store for your session.  If it will require MORE than a killer massage, make sure you leave the skirt and stiletto heels/boots at home.

I quit smoking in 2006.  Can't STAND the smell of after-smoke.  However, after a session at the Doc's, I feel like I should have a celebratory smoke.  Now mind you, this is no pansy fansy massage I'm talking about.  This is pain (coming from a woman that's birthed three children) that could register on a scale of 1 to 10 at around a 7.987.  And it's goooood pain.  (Until the next f(*&^ing day.  When you can't move or turn your head.)

You should check your doctor's credentials before booking an appointment.  I did.  Oh wait.  Um. You should at least check to see if he or she lists 'sadistic' as an adjective describing them.  (Personally, I think 'sadistic' is a given.)  I actually JUST checked out my doctor.  He was given 5 out of 5 stars.  I'm glad his wife got to that so quick!

I've found that the Doc thinks that my body should be able to do things that I really don't think my body should.  (has anyone's personal guy read Penthouse Forum?  Yeah, it's kinda like that without the sex.)  He said today, "Hey, your leg's not even at 90 degrees yet."  HELLO!  Almost 40.  What the HELL does my leg need to be at a 90 degree angle for?!?!

Oh, the conversations to be had...all because I have a whacked body that needs attention.  MEDICAL attention.

"Jen's Men"

This morning I came up with the most amazing business idea ever.  (and if it's already been done, don't burst my bubble).  I'm going to need a stable of stallions, first off.  Men, not the Equus ferus caballus variety.  I am going to start an escort service called "Jen's Men," marketing motto: Yes, You CAN Do It Yourself, but WHY Should You?  My mission statement:  Give every woman like myself the opportunity to get what she really needs from a man.

So, if you're one of my male friends reading this, how about joining the business.  Trust me.  Women don't care about looks, your career, the type of car you drive, your intelligence - or lack thereof, whether you're married or single. She just cares about your skills.

Your garbage-taking-out skills, your snow shoveling and snow-from-the-car-removal skills, your spider killing skills, your scooping poop skills, washing the dog skills, moving furniture skills, washing the car skills, your removing-the-gunk-from-the kitchen-pipes skills.

I foresee success!

Have a wonderful snowy Tuesday!

Pissed off

I've come to a point, belatedly, I may add, where I believe the first question that you should ask yourself EVERY morning is:  Who am I waking up for today?  Who needs me the most?

If you are at the top-ish of that list, then kudos to you.  That's where we NEED to be.

I'm not saying that men don't do this, but I'm not a man so I personally can't relate.  Women tend to put themselves at the bottom of their TO DO list.  And it takes its toll.

Ladies, let's resolve to take a moment or two to realize that we DESERVE to have time spent on just US every day.  Whether it's at 5am with a cup of coffee, noon doing some lunch aerobics or after the kids and significant other are asleep.

We NEED this and it is not selfish.

I promise.

The Restroom Test

In my bathroom at work....a public one for the whole floor...there are only three stalls, one of which is a handicapped stall.  I ALWAYS go to the same stall.  Well, except for two times.  That's still a pretty high percentage for the month-plus that I've been there.  Like, pretty much 99%.  (I'm sorry, I was wrong.  It's 98.412698% with an error margin of plus or minus...oh whatever!!)

Theory would say that the handicapped stall would be the cleanest stall because there are no handicapped women on the floor...BUT, my coworkers and floor-mates have been out-foxed! Besides the other women in my office (5 of them), I've seen about 5 other women in the bathroom and I've noticed that almost everyone else goes into the handicapped stall.  (The only time they didn't was when they were in MY stall and I had to go into the middle one)  Sure, the handicapped one is roomier.  You can stretch out more if need be.  Bring a change of clothes.  Stay for lunch.  Seriously, what are they DOING in there?  Yoga?  Pilates?  Taking a nap?

Well, today, my curious mind took over and I decided to try to find out what it MEANS about our personality when we choose one stall over the other.

TA DA!!  Don't you love research?!  Thanks to personalityquiz.net for this one!

Which toilet would you choose?

You go into a toilet and there are 9 urinals/cubicles all available. Which one would you choose from left to right? Analysis Gentlemen: The behavior of men in choosing urinals is different from that of women choosing restroom stalls, according to some reports. Whereas more women prefer stalls in the middle section, men prefer urinals to either end of the line, obviously hoping to draw as little attention as possible. Those men who actually choose urinals in the middle (4, 5, or 6) seem to be less self-conscious and less likely to succumb to external influence or pressure.   Ladies Women who choose stalls 1-3 are more flexible and can adjust to a new situation quickly. These women tend to be direct and straightforward, and they would not hesitate as much as others when confronted with decision-making. Women who choose stalls 4-6 are cautious, moderate, balanced. They refrain from going to extremes and generally want to feel safe. Women who choose stalls 7-9 have a stronger sense of ones' own space; they would not mind going a little deeper into the corners, where it's less likely that they'll be disturbed, even though other women would consider such positions more "dangerous" ones.

And just because I had nothing else to do, I searched some more and found this answer to the question, "which stall do you use?"

"MEE TOO! I'm always doing a mind-check of which stall would be the least used.
These are all weird little things that I think through when presented with a new public bathroom. Sorry, no statistical data.

If there are only two, I usually use the small one, thinking that most people would choose the big one.

If there are three stalls, I never go into the middle one. 

I always use the bathroom that is the hardest to get to.

Layout of the bathroom and door placement is a HUGE factor.
If the door opens at one end of the bathroom and I'm presented with one row of stalls. 
a. I never go to the one facing the door, because I figure that THAT one would get used because it matches egress patterns.
b. I don't use the first or closest stall. 

If the door opens and there are two rows of stalls, and there is a row that I have to make more than two turns to get to...
a. I figure those are the cleanest and use those.
b. Otherwise, I follow the rules above.

Then, a totally OTHER quandary that I struggle with, is if I'm faced with a row of stalls, no egress patterns really drawing people to any certain stalls, always wonder whether the stalls to the left or more toward the right would get used more.

Do people "read" the line of stall doors left to right to pick a stall?
Or, since most people are right handed/right footed, do they tend to veer more right to pick a stall? 

I'm curious to see what other people think."


Yes, and now WE are all curious how one person could use 'quandry' and 'egress' (not ONCE, oh no!  TWICE!) in a response about bathroom habits.  Thank you, raar, you've helped me prove that there are crazier people out there than little old me!