Did I step in something?

OK, my husband is watching a show on the History channel about poop. 120 minutes on the topic. ("All About Dung"... the historical significance of excrement*) (I know!) They've been to India to talk about sacred cow poop, to prehistoric times to discuss fossilized mammoth poop and currently the narrator (from the narrator capital of the world - Australia) is repelling into a cavern that has the world's largest mountain of bat poo, (or guano, to those in the know).

Granted, it is educational. Granted, there are aspects that sound interesting (not to me of course! Let's make that perfectly clear!) Granted, it is scientific. But It's About Poop!!!

Had I known he was so interested in this stuff, I probably would have insisted he change all of the poopy diapers instead of doing rock-paper-scissors to make it fair.

*check with your cable provider!

What's wrong with this picture?

I was organizing digital pix and found this one from November 2005.

Turkey!

Can't smell the forest for the trees

I was talking to my friend Jen in Philadelphia and it came up that she didn't know what Jacaranda trees are. (None in Philly it seems) I told her they are beautiful, but I wouldn't want them on my street.

Why not? asked Jen.

Because they're incredibly messy and they stink. At first, those ba-zillions of little purple flowers drift down from the trees like a gently falling purple snow. (oooo pretty). Then the purple snow turns into a purple blizzard, with that crap dumping on lawns, on parked cars, choking drains in the streets and gutters and getting stuck on the bottom of your shoes.

And then they begin to decay. The sicky-sweet smell of rotting Jacaranda flowers is everywhere. In fact, I associate the smell of them with what a gutter smells like. And those flowers are sticky. So they can't be raked up or swept up because they turn in to chewed pieces of gum once they hit the street. And wind up in your car and in your house. So the stink gets in your car and your house. ew.

I scream, you scream...

This did not end well.

Covering his bases.

I sent the boys and a friend to the movies today (keepin' em busy) and I told them if they followed my directions (basically: be good) I'd take them for ice cream afterwards. When I picked them up I learned that in addition to the snack bags they smuggled into the theater, Conner and Erik also bought Dibs (those little ice cream thingys.)

Me: "Why did you buy Dibs? I told you I'd take you for ice cream afterwards. "
Conner: "Yeah, but you said we'd have to be good to get it. "

A smart boy knows that he should be a good boy, but also knows he sometimes can't help himself.

Prayer would be good.

My ex, Devin & Conner's dad, is about to undergo surgery at Loma Linda for an intestinal blockage. The blockage is a tumor. Please keep him (and Devin & Conner) in your prayers. Thanks,
Viv

serenity: (noun) the quality or state of being serene

I got my hair done this afternoon. I'm happy with the finished product, but I was there for 3 hours (kind of speedy for my hair, actually) and I had lots of time to come up with this list of reasons why Serenity Salon should consider a name change:

• A Mexican guy with a cowboy hat and a belt buckle the size of a hub cap, going from chair to chair, selling flats of strawberries does not make me serene. Especially when I am wearing a tin-foil headdress.


• If told that my purse is "fine where it is" - then while stuck under a dryer across the room I see someone getting a hair cut in very close proximity to my unattended purse, am I thinking about a) theft; b) someone else's hair trimmings getting in my purse; c) tranquility? (Hint: the answer is not c)


• The shampoo sinks were designed by (and for!) giraffes. Keeping me there too long leaves me needing Aspercreme and an ice pack. It does not leave me relaxed.


• Bright track lighting aimed directly at my retinas while I get a shampoo (and a bruise on my neck) does not leave me peaceful.

I'm thinking they should go with something like: the Amphetamine Salon or the Bristle Brush.

BTW? I think this may be the only person on the planet who would be comfortable in that shampoo chair.

.

Pessimistic, Optimistic or just plain Foolish?

I'm getting ready to get ready for bed (Ladies, you know what I mean... Guys, just make sure you turn off the TV when you come to bed, OK?) and I realize I have a ridiculous night-time ritual.

I have a collection of single socks. There are about 15 of them. Socks who lost their mate. In the dryer? Under a bed? Thrown in the trash by a boy who was too lazy to take it to the hamper? (It's happened.)

They are on my bed right now (where I fold the laundry). They stay there all day. I put them there, hoping they will be reunited with their lost mate with the next batch of laundry. They aren't. At the end of the day they will go on the floor overnight and I will put them back on the bed in the morning, or back into the washer, in hopes that St. Downey, (the Patron Saint of Lost Socks) will reunite them with their mate in the rinse cycle. Bed, floor, bed, floor, bed, laundry, bed, floor.... I have done this for the better part of a year. Why!?! Why can't I just scoop them up and throw them away?

I have a few theories:

• The minute I throw the single sock away, the other sock will turn up....after being gone for a year. When it does, I will be irritated that I didn't have more faith, because the sock was there all along.
• If I give up, that makes me a quitter. Certainly I have quit (many) other things before, but I just can't seem to let this one go.
• All of our socks are matched and together. These are orphan socks that sneak into the house when I'm not looking.
• I'd like to re-purpose them. I just can't think of anything besides dusting with them. (What's the fun in that?)

I'm not sure what the answer is, but it's getting late. I need to brush my teeth and put my sock collection to bed.

Because I'm too busy yelling at you.

I had Devin look at the hot dog picture below. He laughed. Then I noticed that he was scrolling down and reading the other posts.
A little later I asked him:
"So, Devin, did you read my blog?"
"Yeah. It was funny................ Mom?"
"Yeah Dev?"
"How come you're not funny like that at home?"

Never assume.

I always thought that if a hot dog were personified, it would be male. I stand corrected.

In case of emergency... head towards the bar.

Today is my dad's 74th birthday. He's very easy to shop for. All he wants for his birthday is Tanqueray gin. Father's Day? Tanqueray. Merry Christmas! Here's your bottle of Tanqueray!

Dad is a Martini Man. And when I say martini, I don't mean the yummy Pomegranate or Lemon Drop vodka martinis that I like to drink. I mean the taste-like-nail-polish-remover-smells gin martinis: fill glass with ice. Pour gin (Tanquerey, of course) over the ice and fill the glass. Pour a cap-full of dry vermouth over the top of that. Add a jalapeno stuffed olive. eeew.

When I was about 13 he asked me to make him one (which I thought was quite an honor). Well, I reversed the ingredients: glass of vermouth, cap-full of gin. You know how in the movies people take a swig of something and spew it out in a fine spray across the table? Yeah. That's what happened. Almost 30 years later he still teases me about that. Um, parents? If your 13 year old can make a great martini, there is something wrong with you.

Each time he makes a run to CostCo, he grabs the Overstreet's version of earthquake supplies: a case of toilet paper and a gallon sized bottle of Tanqueray. I repeat: each time. (Oddly, I have never seen where these stockpiles are kept.) My parents' priorities are firmly set. I'm sure they have bottled water, batteries and flashlights (especially after the Great Blackout of 1997 - a story for another time) and with mom being a retired RN, there are medical supplies (including Flexaril!). However, they recognize that comfort and familiarity go a long way when things go south.

I am going to stash a bottle of good vodka at their house. Because if the "Big One" does hit? I'm going to spend cocktail hour with Big Dave.

Long Beach 24 Hour Fitness: adding anger to my work-outs since 2002

Yay me! I made it to my spin class this morning! I was only there for an hour, but an hour was enough to get a good workout and be reminded of every single thing that bugs the crap out of me!

This location is the red-headed step child of the 24 Hour Fitness (ahem) family. It was formerly the Sports Connection (or Sports Erection, depending on which team you batted for). When 24 Hour bought it and dubbed it a "Sport" club (that's supposed to be the best kind with the best stuff) one would think that upgrades were on the way. No? Oh, OK, well routine maintenance on the equipment that's already there, right? No? Oh, OK well, then this is a silly question... um, what are you doing with my dues...?

An open letter to the Powers That Be. (in no particular order)
My Bitch List:

Spin bikes: If they were hand-me-down bikes from another club when we got them more than 4 years ago, shouldn't we spring for some new ones? If you can no longer repair these rusted, squeaky, rickety bikes because "they don't make parts for them any more" I think we should get new bikes... because the Scotch tape and bubble gum you're using to hold them together isn't working anymore. (BTW - I no longer believe you that our new bikes are in a storage facility, waiting to be shipped to us. There is no Area 51.)

Hey! By the way! I do want to thank you for spending the money to put a Starbucks Coffee Station in the weight room. I think that's what everyone craves after a strenuous work out: a hot cup of joe. Idiots.

Treadmills & Ellipticals: Have you noticed that these are incredibly popular machines? Yes? Then why are so many broken down? Also, why are all of your employees waiting by the door, hoping for a new member, instead of helping out the members you already have?

Rules: Please enforce your own rules. You guys posted the "20 Minute Limit on Cardio when there is a line"signs everywhere. Don't tell anyone, but when someone on a treadmill has covered the time read-out info with their towel? They've gone over the 20 minutes and are ignoring the people waiting in line. They're cheating. If your employees aren't aware of this tactic, they are headless. If they do, why don't they help? Really, is it fair that I have to be the Gym Policeman? I have no problem doing so, but I guarantee you it won't be nice and diplomatic if I have to do it.

the Cleaning Guy. I've heard that there is a crew that does nothing but paint the Golden Gate Bridge. They start at one end and paint their way over to the other side. Once they get there it's time to start over again. Um, is that what Cleaning Guy does, but with the mirrors? Why did you only arm him with Windex? Why not a vacuum, a mop, some anti-bacterial cleaner and some rags? I once counted 38 days that a dusty bobby pin was on the floor in the spin room. Why are there dust bunnies in the Group Exercise room that are the size of tennis balls?

Those are just a few of the things that 24 Hour Corporate should fix.

I have some other issues that could have only been fixed by proper parenting and/or birth control.

• Did you sweat all over the equipment? See people carrying around those white terrycloth rectangles? It's called a towel. You use it to wipe down the equipment after you've rubbed your sweaty body all over it. If I wanted to boost my immunity, I'll do it by getting an extra shot of Vitamin C in my smoothie, not by rubbing your bodily fluids all over myself and hoping for the best.
• When you're on a treadmill (and whether there is a wait or not) it is not OK to leave it going at 6 mph, with your stuff on it while you go to the restroom.
• Do not buy your work-out clothes at the Spearmint Rhino Dancer's Outlet. Do not wear GIANT chandelier earrings with said work-out clothes. Do not wear a bikini top to weight-lifting class (especially if you look good in it, Shakira Twins, because the other women in the class want to hurt you.)
• Neon bike shorts? Should never have left the 80s.
• Do not get on a machine and in-between reps have a nice long chat with a friend. Notice the people hovering around you, tapping their feet? They're waiting for the machine you've been hogging for 20 minutes while you catch up on your gossip.
• If there is a sign on the equipment that says it is broken, it is not there simply to screw with you, but because the equipment really is broken. (I'm talking to you Crazy Lily from 9:00 spin) When you try to put it together and use it, you look like an idiot and disrupt other peoples' work outs. (And some people in 9:00 spin have trouble with anger management and may be tempted to get off of their bike and rabbit punch you in the neck.)
• Also Lily? You look really stupid when you are on the elliptical wearing Ugg boots.

Oh there is so much more that bugs me. I'll have to have a gym bitch list 2. In the meantime, I am trying to view my irritation as an adrenaline boost when I want to quit in the middle of a work out. Anger may not be good for my stress level, but maybe, just maybe it will be good for my ass.

My Target has a pharmacy but needs a bigger booze section.

The boys had a video game mission. Knowing what could happen, I still took all four boys shopping. Cocktail hour will be arriving earlier than usual today.

Devin: Gave up on his dream of saving for his own personal XBox 360 and wanted to spend $40 of his allowance (NOW!!!) on a game for his brothers' Wii.

Conner: Is at -$23 allowance (stupid costs you money at our house**) but has convinced Mitch that they should split the cost of a $50 Mario Bros game. "I'll pay the tax" he generously offers up as his share of the jointly owned game. The tax money consisting of approximately $7 in pennies, nickels and dimes. (but mostly pennies.) The entire fortune is housed in a battered cardboard Tootsie Roll bank.

Mitch: Having been given Mom's full explanation of just how Conner was getting the better end of the deal, he wants to proceed with the partnership anyway... but only after carefully considering Every. Other. Game. In. The. UNIVERSE!!!! (or at least behind the locked glass case at Seal Beach Target.) (Props for patience to Anthony the sales clerk).

Grant: Doesn't care who is buying what, or how. He just knows that a) he will get in trouble for touching it; b) he can't play it without a big brother; and, c) he will have to figure out new (and increasingly dangerous) ways to gain access to the top shelves in the boys' room. Besides, it's fun to hide in the middle of the clothing racks, lay on the cool tiles in the middle of an aisle, and help mom push the cart. (Or hang off of the thing while mom drags him and the cart behind her. Same difference.)

Mom: Just wants to leave. She can't leisurely troll the ends of the aisles, looking for those beautiful red clearance stickers, once the sound of $7 in loose change hitting the floor reaches her ears.

The next time I go to Target I am going alone, and I am hitting the pharmacy first!

**swiped from the WoJo's family motto "Stupid hurts at our house."
(sit-ups and push-ups... what did you think they meant?)

I never thought "Leave your penis alone!" would make my Top Ten most used phrases....

Last night I tucked my sweet Grant in at bedtime. We read The Very Quiet Cricket, we chose which toy he would sleep with, we said prayers and I kissed him goodnight.

I checked on him a little later, only to discover that Al Bundy was sleeping there instead.

To briefly return to that "vintage" topic...

Last week Rich and I were watching the Today show. Mitch was at the breakfast table. One of the news headlines was that Cyd Charisse had just passed away.

Mitch: Who's Cyd Charisse?
Me: She was an old time actress who did a bit of everything - acting, singing, dancing... but a long time ago.
Mitch: (after a few moments to think) Well then, is Madonna still alive?

After reading through Devin's yearbook, this is insult to injury.

Grant Stories

These are the little things that made me think "Hey! I should update that blog-thingy with this!"
These are the little things that were like a tiny pebble in my shoe, or a cricket somewhere in the room... you know it's there, and that you should really do something about it....but sometimes it just seems like too much effort.

It's cheating, but I'm going to back-date a few of these posts.

When did I become vintage?

No, really? When did that happen?

I thumbed through Devin's freshman yearbook today which, by the way, is twice as thick as any of mine were and all in color. (Mine had Sr. Pix in color, a few pages in the beginning and the rest was black & white, baby!)

I digress. While looking at the pages for "Spirit Week" I saw the usual: Pajama Day, School Colors Day, etc. And then I saw it.... 80's Day. A picture of a toothpick of a girl, wearing her Neon-Maddona-New Ro amalgam of an outfit, complete with side ponytail on top of her head.

And it hit me: Is this how our parents felt when we went skipping off to our own Spirit Weeks dressed as 60's love-child-hippies? As poodle-skirted, leather-jacketed, Happy Days wannabes?

Did my mom's heart hit her stomach when she realized that her childhood memories were now someone else's costume party? ugh. Sorry about that, mom.

Oh well.

Right now I believe I'll put on a little Flock of Seagulls and go rustle me up a Bartles & James. Cheers!

Can you begin a New Year's resolution mid-June?

I didn't make one for 2008, but if I don't commit to writing on this damn thing... this site will just be wasted cyberspace. And I hate to waste anything.

I haven't blogged anything since September of 2006! (I said I was busy.) In the meantime, hundreds of things have happened that I should have written about... and now they're gone. (And by gone, I mean gone from my poor, muddled brain.)

There are some things I remember, and they will be logged (and backdated!) accordingly. :-)

So... it's post to this semi-regularly... or complete 4 baby scrapbooks.

I'll post, thank you.