Mouse in the house

Over the weekend, we went to my parents’ place for a family dinner and got a little more than we bargained for: Some turkey, a bit of leftover stuffing, and a live mouse.

Here’s what happened:

Dinner is winding down and we’re all laughing and having a good time.  Well, everyone except me I suppose, since I have been cornered again by Captive Talker and can’t seem to think of a single thing to say that will allow me to escape her talky grasp. 

For a half an hour or so, Captive Talker has been droning on about how positive thinking led her to her destiny as a reiki practitioner.  Then suddenly, my negative thinking leads me to my destiny as a mouse owner.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot one, scampering through the dining room, toward the living room.

“Oh my God, a mouse!” I shout.

From here on out, it is utter chaos, as my mom, sister, and cousins, scream the most blood curdling screams you’ve ever heard in your life.  Plates are knocked to the floor, red wine is spilt on the ivory tablecloth, and people are shivering with fear, as they peer down from atop their chairs.

“It’s just a little mouse,” I say calmly as I sip my red wine. I’m just so relieved that I’m free again.  (Captive Talker can’t exactly go on about reiki when she is standing on the table screaming.)

My mom is humiliated. “How the hell did a mouse get in here?" she hollers. "We’ve NEVER had one in here before."  My poor mom has slaved all day, trying to impress her guests with an elaborate dinner and place settings with people’s names on them, and then a mouse scampers through her dining room, ruining everything.

“Someone kill it,” my cousin (Mother Germ) shouts. “It’s probably carrying diseases!”

“You carry diseases but we don’t try to kill you,” I want to say, but bite my tongue.

By now, the Feral Cats have emerged from their hole (upstairs in the den) to see what all the commotion is about and in two minutes flat, one of them has captured the poor thing under a Tupperware container. (Wow, they really are Feral Cats, I think to myself in awe.)

“Step on it!“

“Kill the f****er!”

People are shouting from their chairs.

“NO!” I scream, as I go over and stand between Feral Cat One and the mouse.  “You guys are so mean!  It’s just an innocent little mouse!”

“Well what do you expect me to do with it?  We can’t put it outside - it will freeze,” my mom says, still flustered.

“I don’t know, but we can’t kill it,” I say. “We’ll have to figure something out.”

***

An hour later, my mom is sending me home with two Tupperware containers: one full of turkey and the other full of mouse.

When we get home, I dig out an old aquarium I had from when I was a kid and set the lucky bastard in it with some breadcrumbs. Then I duct tape the lid so that he can’t escape and give us all the black plague.

I really hope the humane society takes mice.

Namaste, 

Guest Post: Stop the insanity (and the stupid questions)

I am thrilled to bits and pieces to be a guest poster for The Meditative Mom.  Part of what I love about her blog is the fact that she writes about her experiences as a new mother to her darling Buddha Baby.  My own cherubs are nine, nine, and six, so I’m a bit removed from the whole baby scene, but I sure do love visiting this site and reminiscing about the days when my children were itty-bitty. 

My most nausea-inducing cherished memories are, without question, the days of raising newborn twins.  Any mother of multiples knows that I speak the truth.  Twin A and Twin B, Lord love them both, put my body and mind through a proverbial wringer the likes of which I had never encountered before.

And it was a good thing they did, too.

Because it served as basic training for the psychological warfare which I was to endure once I recovered from the birthing process and ventured out in public with my two little bundles of joy.  For some individuals, the sight of twins brings on an inexplicable, quasi-Pavlovian response which includes, but is not limited to, a most bizarre line of questioning.

And to illustrate my point, what follows is a montage of actual questions flung at me by complete strangers who would stop my bloated, double-stroller pushing self on the street when they realized that I was a new mother of twins.  You will find the word-for-word questions in boldface.  And in italics, I have recorded the responses that I only wish I had the wherewithal to fire back at the time.   Hindsight is 20-20, after all.

Ooooohhhh…twins!  To the babies:  Coochie-coochie-coochie!  To me:  Are they identical?

No.  I have a boy and a girl.

Well.  *sniff.*  Boys and girls can be identical, you know.  Even if they don’t look alike.

Well. That’s interesting.  I had always thought that the wee willy on my son made him NOT identical to his sister…but hey.  I’m just their mom.  You’re probably right.

Which one is the girl?

The one in the pink dress with a matching bow on her bald head.  Einstein.

*Jaw drop* Really?  That’s the girl?

Oh, hang on.  Let me check.  *Makes a show of peeking down the front of each twin’s diaper.*  Well, darn.  I went and mixed them up again.  Thanks for your help…and color me embarrassed!  *Hastily plucks the bow off of Twin A’s head and affixes it to Twin B’s head.*

Which one is smarter?

Oh, Twin A…no contest.  We’re shipping her off to Princeton just as soon as I wean her.

Which one is more trouble…you know…which one is the evil twin?

The one spewing green vomit while his head whirls around, you silly-billy!  *Fumbles around in diaper bag.*  Well, drat… where is that bottle of holy water?

But my all-time favorite question was the one innocently shouted at me from across the street as I ventured out on a solo walk around the block with my three week old twins at home with their father:

Well, hey, neighbor!  Tell me, when are you going to have those babies?

Just as soon as I hitch up my ill-fitting maternity pants, waddle my ravaged body across the street, and remove your vocal chords with my bare hands.  Neighbor.

Truth is stranger than fiction, I tell you.

By Sue from The Desperate Housemommy

Padalily giveaway

If you’ve ever lugged around a heavy car seat, you’ll really appreciate today’s giveaway (especially if your baby is the size of a sumo wrestler like mine is).

The Padalily is an innovative product that acts as a cushion for your arm when you carry your baby in a car seat. (Check out the picture above.  Baby’s not too happy, but mom is thrilled.  She’s just so thankful that her arm isn’t going to fall off.)

The Padalily is mom invented by a woman named Lily, after the birth of her third child.  She was at the post office one day running errands, while managing her three children (two girls and a newborn baby).  As she was holding the baby in the car seat carrier, her arm became sore.  That’s when she got the idea to create a product that would pad her arm and make lugging around that car seat a little more comfortable.

This product is great if your little one is still in a car seat carrier, but if not, save if for the next baby or attach it to your older child's seat belt and use it as a seat belt cushion.  The Padalily also makes a great gift.

Entering the contest is easy.  All you have to do are these three things:

1.              Follow The Meditative Mom on Google Friends Connect.
2.      ‘Like’ The Meditative Mom on Facebook.
3.      Leave a comment with your email address.

The contest closes Wednesday, December 1^st and the winner will be chosen at random.

Good luck and Namaste,

The Porcelain Vacation

I am officially the meanest wife in the world.  Why?  I got mad at my husband for going to the bathroom.  Of course, there’s a little more to the story than just that.

During the limited time Practical Joe is home to help out with Buddha, he likes to spend what seems like hours in the bathroom, like a teenage girl.  I cannot possibly understand why he needs this exorbitant amount of time to do something that’s really very simple. (You sit down - you poop - you clean up - you're done.  It's a five minute process.)

So yesterday, like every day, he gets home from work and heads for the washroom, book in hand.

“Do you really need the book?” I ask him. To me, taking literature to the washroom indicates the intent to be long and leisurely.

“What is your problem?” PJ asks impatiently.

“What is my problem?  My problem is that when you get home from work, I could really use your help with Buddha.  I’m exhausted and it would be nice if you could look after him for a few minutes, instead of spending hours on the can.”

“But I have to go!” he complains. 

“So go, but don’t take 8 hours!  You don’t need reading material if you’re going to be quick. ”  I’m sure he thinks that I spend all day in the bathroom, flipping through Cosmo while Buddha roams free, tipping over vases and eating the dirt from our potted plants.

“Or even better yet,” I continue. “Why don’t you do it at work, before you come home?  I’m sure your boss would love that.”

“Do you hear yourself right now?  I have to go to the bathroom. You're being cruel.”

“You don't have to go to the bathroom.  You’re just using it as an excuse to take a mini vacation!" (A smelly, disgusting vacation - but a vacation none-the-less.)

“You’re being ridiculous,” says PJ as he continues up the stairs.

“Poop on your own time!” I shout after him as he flips me the bird.

I know I’m being irrational, but this time, like most times, I don’t really care.

Namaste.

I've been awarded!

I'm very excited to say that in the past week or so, I’ve received The Stylish Blogger award 3 times and The Versatile Blogger award twice.  This post is to say thank you to those kind bloggers who awarded me and to pass along the good fortune. 

First, a BIG thank you to the owners of the following blogs for thinking of me:

Transplanted Thoughts

1 Funky Woman

In order to accept this award you must....

1. Thank and link back to the person who awarded this to you.

2. Share 7 things about yourself.

3. Pay it forward to 15 recently discovered great blogs.

4. Contact those bloggers and let them know about their award.

7 Things About ME....

1.  I am incredibly impatient.  Especially when it comes to food. (I always stop the microwave before it’s finished.)

2. I love animals almost as much as I love children.

3.  I am a major hypochondriac.  (I hated every minute of being pregnant because I couldn’t see what was going on in there.)

4. I used to be a singer and had a video/single that was released in 17 countries.

5. I love red wine.

6. I am an introvert and will do just about anything to avoid an awkward situation (but usually fail.)

7. I’m afraid of ghosts.

Now I pass my awards along to:

Rock the Mini               The Balance Beam
Inspired Girl                  The Skinny on Mini
The Hotlegs Runner

One Eyed Trouser Snake

Yesterday I get a phone call from my mother, who is in a panic.  She has just come from a popular office supply store (*cough* Office Depot) where she tells me she has just met head on with a One Eyed Trouser Snake.

And it belonged to the salesperson.

She tells me that she went to the store in search of a comfortable office chair for her sore back.  She asked for help and was led to the furniture section by a nice man who seemed quite keen on helping her.  He suggested she sit down on a chair to test it out and so she did.  That’s when he squatted down beside her, and there it was, snaking its way out into the light of day, through a hole in his trousers.

“Wasn’t he wearing any underwear?” I ask through tears of laughter.

“Apparently not,” she tells me. “It was all just hanging out, like a wrinkled up old man.”

"Was he old?"

"No, he was young!  Just his... thing looked old."

“Well what part was hanging out? The balls?”  (I must get all the details.)

“No the, uh, trunk!” she whisper-shouts shamefully.

“Ewwwwwww!!!!” I groan as another fit of laughter overtakes me.

“Eww is right. I feel so violated.” 

“So what happened next?” I ask when I am done convulsing.

She tells me that Elephant Man crouched there for what seemed like forever, telling her all about how ergonomically correct the chair was.  Of course, all she could think about though, was his slimy snake, slithering out of it’s hole to say hello.

She leaves the store the new owner of one ergonomically correct chair and a traumatizing mental picture of Elephant Man and the trunk of his One Eyed Trouser Snake forever burned in her memory.   

(Ahhh… the blogging gods are good to me.)

Namaste,

Guest Post: Is there a return policy on ears?

Today's guest poster is Kelley from Kelley's Break Room:


Hi everyone in Meditative Mom's blogging world!  Have we met?  No?  What a shame!  Well, I'm glad we are in the same room now.  It's good to see you.  You are so stinkin' cute!  I like that shirt you have on!  Did you get that at Target?   I just love Target...  (Kelley, focus, DAGNABBIT!) 

Okay, seriously, I'm excited to be inside the Meditative Mom's blogging room because, well, first, I just love her floral wallpaper and the whole vibe inside this place.  (Hey, you in the ponytail, could you keep an eye on her baby up there in the right-hand corner?  Those dogs are just STARING at the little precious...)  Second, I obviously love reading her fun blog.  So, of course, guest posting for her today makes me just want to ring a ton of cowbells while doing flip-flops!  Dingalingalingalingalingalingaling!!   Whew.  Okay, I'm good.  I've settled down now.  I'm ready...to talk about...my most embarrassing moment...

When the Meditative Mom and I tossed around post ideas, she mentioned that I could talk about my most embarrassing moment.  This is a good topic for me as there have been tons of them and many of them are directly related to my hearing loss.  I wrote a post back in May called Could You Use A Megaphone Next Time? about an embarrassing moment at work related to my inability to hear what a sweet little girl said...four different times.  I do not wear hearing aids yet, but I know the day is drawing near when I will have no choice.  *Sigh*  You think I would just go head and fork over the$1,235,235,647,435.34 and buy the blasted things after all the embarrassment I have endured, but...there are other things I want first!  Do you know what I could buy with $1,235,235,647,435.34??

It was in college that I first began to realize my ears were on a downward spiral.  With the exception of giving the skateguard a Payday candy bar when he asked for a band-aid at my skating rink job in high school, I had never fully realized my ears were truly selling me out...until, the ferris wheel incident.  I had been dating my boyfriend for about 6-8 months at that time.  We both went to The University of Texas at Austin and were at the big State Fair in Dallas where UT plays the University of Oklahoma.  In my little record book, 6-8 months was plenty of time for the dude to confess to his undying, unconditional, unwavering love for me.  I had been anticipating it at every turn.

"Oh, this weekend we are going to take a carriage ride through the streets of Austin just for the fun of it!  Surely, THIS will be the moment he will choose to 'fess up."

AAAAAAAA!!

(big, obnoxious, you-got-the-wrong-answer buzzer sound)

"Okay, okay...we're going to his hometown and having dinner with his parents.  After our dinner out, we'll sit on the backporch and he'll tell me that he loves me with all of his heart TONIGHT."

AAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

"No, no, no...I was wrong before.  TONIGHT, after we have finished with exams, he'll take me out to Mount Bonnell in Austin, we'll watch the sunset and THIS will be the time he tells me he loves me."

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

"Today? Can't it be TODAY, for cryin' out loud??  Maybe TODAY after we eat at Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches at Texadelphia, he grabs a gargantuan Cherry Limeade from Sonic and then he clips his toenails...then, THEN he'll tell me?"

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, I MUST BE A STANKIN' LOSER!!!!!!!!

So, NATURALLY, when he asked me if  I wanted to ride the GIGANTIC ferris wheel at the State Fair, well...I just knew this would be the day.   What better time COULD there be than when suspended at the top of the world...just the two of us... in the quiet sky...surrounded by clouds, lovebirds and a rainbow...to tell me those three words I had been waiting so long to hear?  As I looked over my shoulder at the people ants below, I heard him say.

"I love you"

My heart stopped, my stomach dropped, tears made their way out, my eyes softened, my head tilted and my mouth began to say it back when I definitely heard him say,

"What did you think I just said?"

It was all a blur after that, but it involved me fumbling to play off my look of longing at lightning speed and providing an answer to his question.

"Nothing."

I obviously couldn't tell him what I thought he had said,

"Oh, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  Silly me!!  I thought you said you LOVED me!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  But, you DIDN'T say that, did you?  No, siree, you didn't.  No love there!  No, you just like me a whole lot.  I know that.  You paid for this ferris wheel ride after all.  So, really, forget it.  I just thought you said you LOVED me, but since you didn't, let's just go about our day like normal.  Want a deep fried Oreo or some deep fried butter?  Yeeeeeeeehaw!!!"

I also couldn't make up what I thought he might have said because then he quickly would have figured out what rhymed with the phrase "look above you" or "I love blue" and would have known what I thought he said.

He knew.

That, of course, is why it was my most embarrassing moment.  This situation had come along after my college roommate (and best friend since fourth grade) found some notebook paper that I had doodled my first and middle name along with HIS last name and yelled out, "What's this?  KELLEY _____ _______?!?!"  He was studying with us.  We had just started dating.  Humiliating, I tell you.  Humiliating.

It's all good now.  That boyfriend is now my husband.  We celebrate 11 years of marriage TOMORROW. 

I guess he loves me after all.

At least I think that's what he said...

By: Kelley from Kelley's Break Room

Sleepless in Suburbia

I have so many juicy stories to tell you, but my brain is officially out of commission and I can’t convince it to return.  In fact, I am having trouble stringing together this very sentence.  I am exhausted, drained, and depleted.  I think climbing Mount Everest would have probably been less tiring than what I’ve been up to over the past couple of days.

We are sleep training.

Up until about a month ago I was very much against the concept of sleep training.  In fact, the book that I read before having Buddha Baby (The Baby Book, by Dr. William Sears) told me to beware of sleep trainers... or I suppose now, people like me.

It all comes about when I tell my pediatrician that Buddha is sleeping in our bed.   He gives me this scornful grin that only doctors know how to give and I immediately feel like the biggest pushover on the face of this planet; as if soon I'll be buying him alcohol and teaching him how to guzzle it back with an oversized funnel. 

I quickly explain to him that I’ve tried countless times to move him into his own bed, but it’s always resulted in Buddha waking up and realizing he’s been stealthily transfered.  Then comes the anger.  He does not like being duped.

Dr. Scornful tells me to let him “cry it out,” and I am appalled.

 “But what about the fact that making a baby cry endlessly without responding can cause them to become emotionally detached and otherwise scarred for life?” I ask him.

He tells me that this isn’t true and recommends a book called Solve Your Child’s Sleep Solution, by Dr. Richard Ferber, which happens to be one of the most famous (or notorious)  “cry it out” books around.

“It works.  You’ll write me into your will,” he tells me. 

“Thanks ,” I tell him…  “for nothing,” I’d like to add. 

I leave the office thoroughly confused.  What he is telling me goes against everything I read in the other book, and after all, it was written by a doctor too. 

But, as I’ve learned, desperate people resort to desperate measures and after six months of waking up to nightmares of an evil gremlin nibbling on my boob, only to realize it is Buddha sleep-eating, I decide to give it a try.  I am just too tired of sharing my bed with yet another human being, and having to position myself as if I’m sleeping on a tight rope.  After all, doesn't my right arm deserve to have a spot on the bed too?

So yesterday was our second night of sleep training and I think it's starting to work.  Buddha slept the whole night in his own bed with only 10 minutes total of tears. This was far better than the hours upon hours the doctor warned me I might have to endure - so I am glad. I’ve probably only scarred him a little bit.

Wish me luck. (Ooh – sorry I think I just nodded off there for a second.) Juicer stories to come… just as soon as I can squeeze in a nap.

Namaste,

Sunday Blog Hop!

Will Draggy Feet pop the question?

Apparently Heels’ heels are made for walkin’… down the aisle!!  She’s not exactly engaged yet, but we think Draggy Feet is about to pop the question really soon.

If you read my last post about Heels (Heels Are Made For Walkin’), this will likely come as a big surprise to you.  This is because the last thing we heard from Heels was that she was convinced that Draggy Feet was cheating on her.  

So here’s what has happened since: 

Heals’ sister follows Draggy Feet one day and sees him having lunch with some girl.  According to her sister, she is not as pretty as Heels (nice obliging sister), but she is definitely attractive.

When Heels finds out, she is livid.  In fact, when she calls me, she has already started packing up her “precious children” (her Louboutins).

“I’m seriously going to kill the f***er,” she tells me through tears. 

We have a long conversation that mostly consists of me trying to convince her that she will be better off without him, if he is indeed cheating.  I tell her that before she packs up any more of her children though, she needs to confront him with what she knows.

(One thing you should know about Heels is that she will do just about anything to avoid a confrontation, even if it means loading up a U-Haul when Draggy Feet is at work and driving it in the direction of Mexico for a week or so.)

So when Heels hangs up from talking to me, she doesn’t confront him (surprise, surprise).  Instead, she waits until he is fast asleep and steals his Blackberry.  She looks at his most recent calls and dials the number that is showing up the most frequently. 

She gets a voice message and realizes that the Jessica she thought was her boyfriend’s secret girlfriend is actually a gemologist and private jeweler.  In shock, she drops the phone and almost wakes him up.

She calls me early the next morning to tell me the news.

“I feel so bad,” she says. “I’m not supposed to know this! I’ve ruined my whole engagement!”

I tell her not to worry and to just be happy that she didn’t have to hijack her own engagement like I did.  I explain to her that when I got engaged I knew EVERYTHING that was going to happen, so much so, that by the end of the night I just told him to “give me the freakin’ ring already!” (I know – unfortunate.  But I had to or Practical Joe would have popped the question somewhere completely unromantic like the video store, next to the seven day rentals.)

“What are you going to do if he gives you a necklace or a bracelet,” I ask her.

“Kill him,” she says.

I am amazed at how fasts she goes from marriage to “kill him.”

It must be love.

Namaste,

Nightmare before Christmas shopping

So I am pushing a cranky Buddha Baby through the mall one day and suddenly it dawns on me: I still have to do my Christmas shopping!

Now I love Christmas as much as the next person.  The happy music, the pretty decorations, the warm family gatherings.  There really is nothing like it.  What I can’t stand though, is the shopping.  Doing it feels like a chore and I never feel like I am buying quite the right thing for anybody. 

As I am walking along thinking about it, I actually start to get really stressed up, realizing that not only must I do everything I did last year (come up with gift ideas for everyone, and then spend a month tracking those items down) I must do so while taking care of my unpredictably moody child!

At this point I wonder why having a baby doesn't exempt a person from having to do any Christmas shopping at all.  After all, why should I have to endure the same lineups and dawdling mall walkers as the next childless single guy?  I don’t have time for that.  I have a baby! It hardly seems fair.

In my former life, I hated women like me.  I would have called the future me self-centered and smug.  (You know the type.  She’s the pregnant lady who doesn’t go out anymore, simply because she’s pregnant.) For years I complained about this lady until one day I realized: I am her! And now that I have a baby, this new type of attitude doesn’t seem smug at all.  It just seems reasonable.

For the rest of the day, I stress myself out trying to think of amazing gift ideas for people.  There’s nothing more awkward than giving someone a gift and then seeing the hidden disappointment in their forced smile as they receive yet another pair of slippers. ("I only have eight pairs, but it's okay!" They'll say through gritted teeth.)

By the time Practical Joe comes home from work, I have exhausted myself trying to come up with clever gift ideas for everyone.  (“Would my brother-in-law enjoy a banjo?”)

“What do you want for Christmas?” I ask PJ as soon as he walks through the door.

“I want my life back,” he responds.

(I know exactly what he means.)

“What do you mean,” I say?  (I’m not about to let on.)

He tells me he wants to play video games in the basement like the old days.

“Done," I say, as I cross him off the list.  "As long as you do it while the baby is sleeping," I add.

He rolls his eyes. 

“Now don't you want to know what I want?” I say.

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

Indeed I do.

I tell him that I want him to do the Christmas shopping this year.  I’m sure everyone will end up with a gift card to Tony Roma's or some other God awful place, but I don’t even care.

I want my life back.

Namaste, 

Giveaway by EdenFantasys

I am happy to tell you that the kind folks at EdenFantasys would like to give one of my lovely readers a credit for $25 to their online store.

EdenFantasys is a website that sells sex toys, lingerie, and other naughty things that you wouldn’t want your water guy to see. 

Check out their website. If you’re as immature as me, you’ll enjoy the wide array of vibrator product descriptions. (Almost every product “will take you to orgasmic heaven in no time.”)

To enter, all you have to do are these three things:

1. Become a follower on Google Friends Connect.
2.  Like my Facebook page.
3. Leave a comment here with your email address.

The contest closes November 17th and the winner will be chosen by random.org.

Good luck and remember ladies, whether you win or you already own a vibrator, make sure to hide that shit.  No one should ever have a vibrator mishap like I did.

Namaste,

Vibrator Mishap

Many of the stories I post here are awkward, embarrassing, or downright humiliating, so it doesn’t come as a huge surprise to me that my first giveaway is more of the same.  Humiliating.

Not the product itself of course, but the fact that I manage to leave it lying around for someone to see. (Don’t worry – I’m not giving away this particular vibrator.  See my next post for the actual giveaway.)

So I am in the shower and suddenly I realize that my water has turned brown! I quickly turn off the shower and go try the other faucets.  They too are pouring out brown water.

I call the city water department and the lady there tells me that it’s probably just due to some routine maintenance, but since I have a baby she’ll be sending someone out straight away to make sure it’s nothing more.

In the meantime, a parcel arrives.   It is my new vibrator sent to me by EdenFantasys to, um, review?

It’s called the Flutter and it’s quite pretty as far as vibrators are concerned.  I take it out of the packaging and examine it.  It’s purple with a cute little butterfly on the end.  This is the first real life sex toy I’ve ever seen so I am a bit enthralled – turning it on and off and wiggling it around.

Suddenly the phone rings.  I set the vibrator down on the kitchen table and forget all about it.

Two hours later the water guy is here.  He asks me to show him to the kitchen so he can check the water.  This is right about the time when I remember the vibrator. 

I want to die.

Water Guy checks my water and tells me all the things I should do to make sure I don’t drink bad water, but I don’t hear a word that he is saying because I am too concerned with the huge dildo sitting on the kitchen table.  I’m sure he thinks I’m some crazy sex lady with a million vibrators  - so many that I manage to leave them lying around when strangers come over.

Water Guy remains very professional throughout the whole ordeal and after about a half an hour standing next to my vibrator, he finally leaves.

I quickly package up the vibrator and shove it in the closet before anyone else can stop by.

Namaste,

Getting Buzzed

We’ve reached a turning point in our household.  Practical Joe has started paying for haircuts.

Don’t think this sounds like a big deal?  I assure you, for us, it’s huge.

Up until recently, I was my husband’s hairdresser.  Every couple of months Practical Joe would ask me if I could cut his hair. Well, it was more of a shave really, with a number one on the sides and two on the top. (That’s just cheap haircut lingo.  I don’t expect you to know it.)

Whenever he’d ask me, I’d drag my feet for a few days, complaining that he should loosen his purse strings and go have a professional do it.  In return, he’d threaten to shave his own head and so finally I would give in. The last thing I wanted was a husband with a bowl cut – or worse.

We carried on this way until one day I called his bluff.

“Go ahead - shave it yourself.  Why should I care?”  I told him.  This was a BIG mistake.

I left the house to run an errand and when I returned, I found out the hard way that he hadn’t been bluffing at all.

He slowly crept down the stairs with his eyes cast down toward the floor - and oh my God - he was bald!

“What the f*** did you do!” I shouted.

“I know! I’m sorry!”  Said PJ. 

No, I was sorry.  Sorry that my company Christmas party was in three days and I was going to have to sit next to a hobbit.  Not to mention the fact that I’d have to explain this to my boss and fellow employees. “Are you really that hard up for cash,” they’d want to ask. (Not a bad way to get a raise, I suppose.)

He explained to me that he had forgotten to put on the attachment and when he realized, it was too late.  He had already carved a huge bald patch onto his head. 

“I kind of like it. It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

I didn’t answer.

So when Buddha Baby was born, I was afraid.  I knew I wouldn’t have time to be PJ’s personal hairdresser all the time and worried that his practicality would get the better of him.  Surely he'd opt to be bald.

But as I mentioned before, we have actually reached a turning point.  The other day, he asks for a haircut and I tell him that I don’t have time. I suggest, yet again, that he should spend a buck and go to a hairdresser that uses actual scissors.

“You’ll get a better haircut that way too,” I add, trying to up the ante.

“I don’t care what my hair looks like,” he grumbles.

I should have known.

But to my surprise, he goes for the haircut!  He comes home after work one day looking fabulous with a little pinch of gel in his hair.

“Do you like it?” he asks me.

“I love it.  It looks great!”

“Good. Glad someone does,” he says grumpily. “I wasted thirty dollars on it.”

His moodiness doesn’t faze me. After all, it’s one small step for Practical Joe - but it’s a giant leap for me.

Namaste,

Heels are made for walkin’

My poor friend Heels is going through a rough time.  She thinks her boyfriend is cheating on her.

They have been happily living together for five years now. (Well, mostly happily, except Heels really wants to get married and have babies but he seems to be dragging his feet.  He's one of those guys who claims to not see the importance of marriage.  "It's just a sheet of paper," he often argues.)

Practical Joe and I hang out with them from time to time and they’ve always seemed like the perfect pair, despite the draggy feet.  They are the kind of couple that talks through their problems like civilized adults, rather than breaking alarm clocks and telling each other to eat shit and die.  (Not that I’d ever do such things.)

So the other day I was quite taken aback when she informed me of her suspicions.

“I think her name is Jessica,” she explains sounding eerily calm .  “I heard him talking to her the other day when he thought I wasn’t home.”

She tells me that Draggy Feet’s been acting strange for about a month now, staying out till four in the morning, wearing dress shirts to the driving range, and even bringing his cell phone into the bathroom with him.

I’ve never been cheated on (that I know of), but this doesn’t sound good to me.

“Maybe he just wants to look nice.  And not miss his phone calls,” I tell her.  I know it’s a stretch but there is nothing worse than a friend who makes you feel even worse about your life than you already do.   Like the friend who tells you to “dump him” when you so much as complain about him not emptying the trash.  (“Do you want to live your life up to your neck in smelly garbage bags?” they would tell you.)

Anyway, Heels isn’t having any of it.  She is convinced that he is cheating on her, so much so that she is having her sister spy on him.

“What are you going to do if she finds him with someone?” I ask.

“Kill him,” she says in an icy tone that gives me chills.

I tell her that she is scaring me and that she should go break his alarm clock. 

Might not be the greatest advice, but it always makes me feel better.

(To be continued…)

Namaste,

15 (walk related) pet peeves

1. Cars that recklessly speed past Buddha Baby and I without attempting to move into the other lane.
2. People who walk too close behind us, especially if they have dogs. (It makes both me and the Dogs From Hell feel uneasy.)
3. Trying to make the Dogs From Hell heel.  (I’m convinced that The Dog Whisperer himself would find it impossible.)
4. People who walk quickly past us and then slow down when they are ahead of us. (These must be the same people who do this while driving.)
5. Feeling obliged to smile at every stranger who passes.
6. Strangers who don't smile back once I've put in the effort to smile at them.
7. Picking up Dog From Hell One’s poo.
8. Picking up Dog From Hell Two’s poo.
9. Shamefully carrying the poo around with me until I find a trash bin.
10. Not being able to find a trash bin.
11. Bumping into Baby Gate’s Sister (poo in hand).
12. Having to take a different route so I don’t bump into Baby Gate’s Sister.
13. Bumping into Neighbor Guy and having to stand around and talk for fifteen minutes.
14. Having to race home early because of a crying Buddha Baby.
15. Going for stressful walks.

      Namaste,

Sushi and Rolls

For our second weekly cocktail hour, MV and I decide to have a lunch date.  We are trying to spend as much time as possible together before she goes back to work, and I become one very lonely lady with a blog. 

We decide on sushi.

We arrive at the restaurant and we are led to our table by our waitress who seems quite lovely, but really should consider eating something now and again as she is almost literally paper thin.

“I can almost see through her,” MV whispers to me as she leaves us with our menus.

We try to decide on what to order and I quickly give up, telling MV that I’ll have whatever she’s having. (If it were up to me, all restaurants would be required to place a photo next to the items on their menus.  I’m just too lazy to sit there and figure out what "gyutataki" is.)

“I don’t want to share though,” I warn MV.  On top of being lazy, I’m also very territorial with my food.

She gives me an “are you kidding me” look that only best friends know to give each other and I quickly submit. 

“Fine, I’ll make an exception for you,” I say.

The meal is fabulous, despite the sharing. MV and I order a giant platter of sushi roles and by the time we are down to our last few pieces we are stuffed.  We sit there staring at the almost empty platter bleary eyed with satisfaction.

“I couldn’t possibly have another bite,” MV tells me.

“Me neither.”

Just then, Paper Girl floats in towards us.

“You finished?” she asks sweetly in her Japanese accent.

“NO!” MV and I nearly shout in unison.

Paper Girl leaves looking frightened.  MV glares at her as she walks away. “Maybe skinny people like you waste food," she mutters under her breath. 

We politely argue over the last few rolls (“You eat it.”  “No YOU eat it! I’m stuffed.” This is the reason I don't like sharing...) before finally deciding to each take half.

When we are finished, we pack the kids up and go to the till, each trying hard to conceal our rice filled guts along the way.

As we are squaring up with Paper Girl she looks at our bill. "Wow, you girls eat lots!" she says with a snicker.

MV and I look at each other.  What the hell's that supposed to mean?

"Yes.  Yes we do," I say with a smile, just as I think MV is about to jump her.

I decide not to leave a tip. 

Namaste,