Archive Page 2

22
Sep
08

Wordless Wednesday/Monday puzzle award thingy

Disclaimer: Obviously it’s not Wednesday. And if you’re reading this, it’s clear I violated the “wordless” part of the deal. So, where does that leave me? Feeling a little foolish. Mostly I’m panicky about this post, which was scheduled to run LAST Wednesday but um…there was a technical glitch (rhymes with WordPress) and then Wednesday was over. All blame aside, I am thrilled to be the recipient of a blog award. So thrilled I am rendered nearly speechless. (I swear!)

 

 

WrekeHavoc

is

 

 

 

Therefore, I get this cool item, found here

Kick Ass Blogger Award

 

To that I say:

And offer this:

 

Now I must

 

  • ALIAS LIZ JONES: She writes about chickens, odd neighbors, her travel adventures and views life through a very interesting pair of shades. 
  • MARCY’S GLAMOROUS LIFE ASSOCIATION: The name says it all. Her AdTalk feature alone is worth the trip. 
  • SUBURBAN KAMIKAZE: It takes a special certain something to tell the world your child was contemplating two different ways to prepare earthworms for lunch. Plus, SK does NPR. 
  • FOOLERY: Just about everything fun you could imagine, including “piffle” and “horsefeathers,” under one roof.
  • PROSE AND CONVERSE: Isn’t this a clever name for a blog? It’s real. It’s honest. And it’s live from “the Devil’s Buttcrack.”

Should you five nominees choose to accept this award, place it carefully next to the Oscar, Emmy and Grammy on your mantel, and make sure you look here again for the rules, regulations and recall notices.

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18
Sep
08

Deep cuts

Hey! Who is this? Why it’s me, MomZombie, circa 1978. I found this picture in an old, brittle photo album from my childhood. I cut my best pal a break and cropped her right out of this nightmare. She looked better than I did, but in both of our cases that isn’t saying much.
See my cool, David Cassidy inspired puka shell necklace? All the rage back then. I’m sure mine was a plastic knockoff since our family hadn’t recently traveled to Hawaii.
See my skinny bod? Where did that go? I think it’s been in hiding since my mid-20s when I discovered food. And beer. And wine. And chocolate. I didn’t eat much as a child. Don’t remember why.
See the shocking haircut? Freshly shorn for ninth grade, which was due to begin a day or two after this picture was taken. I think I rode my sparkly gold 10-speed up to the local salon and ordered a Dorothy Hamill, straight up. Just a few days earlier, I had hair past my shoulders. I think I wanted to look older.
Seems that the elderly man across the street wasn’t buying any of that nonsense. He thought I was a young man. He always shouted at me as I walked or rode by, “Hey, sonny. How about you cut my grass?”

16
Sep
08

The scent of a stay-at-home woman

EXHIBIT A:

THE BACKSTORY:
A woman fancies an afternoon out with her toddler girl. Rather than weigh herself down with the shabby diaper bag and bulky stroller, she opts for a stylish shoulder bag big enough for her things and a few toddler essentials. She imagines a stroll in the park, a visit to the library, a quick swing through the nearby shopping district before picking up a bottle of wine on the way home.

THE INCIDENT:
 “Mommy, loook!” cries a pigtailed 5-year-old tugging her mother’s shirt and pointing at us. “She’s not wearing pants!”

I force a closed-lip smile at pigtail’s mother, whose gaze follows her daughter’s extended finger directly down to my baby girl’s bare legs, and then slowly shifts up to me. We are waiting for the elevator by the children’s section of the neighborhood library. It can’t come fast enough. Behind us, the wheels of a custodian’s cart screech the arrival of the clean-up crew at the women’s bathroom.

I hoist a clear plastic bag in my right hand up to the mother’s eye level, revealing the missing pants and underwear, both splattered with fresh diarrhea. I hope she got a good whiff. I hope it answers her unasked question about why my child is at the public library in a shirt, pull-up and shoes. Because, you know, I’m not trying to start a new fashion trend.

After a silent elevator ride up to the main floor, pigtails and mother cut a hasty retreat lest any germs latch onto them. I grab Girl from the East’s hand, shift the pile of picture books, above-mentioned bag of defiled clothing and my purse and head for the door.
We both move quickly on our walk of shame down a brick-paved path past gardens and park benches populated with lunchtimers, readers and gawkers.
In the punishing light of high noon all I can think is: I hope I don’t have crap on my clothes.

THE FINDINGS:
There is nothing “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” about realizing that you have only two tissues in your stylish shoulder bag, not nearly enough to combat the very unstylish diarrhea running down your toddler’s leg.
There is nothing glamorous about an unexpected, explosive illness in a bathroom that is a paper-free operation (hand-dryers only).
There is a high level of “Desperate Housewives” in realizing you sacrificed practicality for style by leaving the diaper bag at home, which contained wet wipes, spare clothes, diapers, hand sanitizer and plastic bags. Even more desperate, having to ‘fess up to the library staff and beg for paper towels and a plastic bag.
In the end, you realize there is no sexy way to walk out of a building with a half-naked child and a see-through bag of poopy clothes, both leaving a scent in their wake …
… the scent of a stay-at-home woman.

CONCLUDING REMARKS: Thanks for visiting and reading my 100th post. This has been part of a larger celebration, Girls In Real Life, or G.I.R.L., put together by Marcy at The Glamorous Life. Join the party.

12
Sep
08

Are you a G.I.R.L.?

Are you Glamorous in Real Life?
Forget the Real Housewives of Orange County, ditch the Desperate Housewives, if you want the real scoop on what goes on behind closed doors while the rest of the world is away at work, check back here on Tuesday, Sept. 16, for the first-ever G.I.R.L. Party hosted by Marcy at The Glamorous Life.

Grab a seat, pour a drink, and prepare to weep uncontrollably. See you Tuesday.

11
Sep
08

Finally, an election I can digest

This election year has my knickers in a twist (phrase stolen from pal with a British husband), my stomach churning, and my head in a vice. The issues are vast and complicated, the nominees are of historic significance; so much is at stake.

And then there’s all the muck: lipstick on a bulldog, lipstick on a pig, bridges to nowhere. It’s starting to sound like like a cartoon. I’m waiting for the Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner debates before I make a final decision.

It turns out, I won’t have to wait until November for relief. This morning, I opened the refrigerator, and found the election has taken a new turn, one that should be more *ahem* digestible for all of us. Of course, there’s still the issue of lipstick …

Image from Unilever

Image from Unilever

Apparently, the race is between “Progress is Possible” Spraychel and her greasy opponent, Maxwell Butterman, who promises to maintain the status quo.

Image from Unilever

Image from Unilever

Now, rather than figuring out who will be best to solve our economic woes, figure out what to do in Iraq, how to end foreign oil dependence, and if we should be allowed to read “Harry Potter” books, we can delve into such pressing issues as:

Reducing our saturated fat dependence, solving the “it doesn’t taste like real butter” woes, and what to do with all that dry, crumbly whole-grain toast.

** My pal Alias Liz Jones has her own take on the election. Pat her on the back if you visit, she didn’t resort to shameless product endorsement without compensation. See what this election is doing to my mind?

09
Sep
08

Gender issues

OK. I need some help here. In my quest to find quality programming for my toddler, I stumbled upon “Back at the Barnyard.” (For the record, the search continues.) But something about this Nickelodeon cartoon gives me the creeps:

 

Do you feel it, too?

This is Otis. Hey, Otis, that’s quite a rack you have there. What, wait, Otis? Are you a male? As in a bull? Hey, bulls don’t have big pink udders, they have … well, you know, bull parts.

I know I’m a city girl but hey, I’ve been to the country a few times. I visit the zoo. I paid attention in science class. I know my X from my Y.

Otis the sexually ambiguous cow has a deep voice, bulky shoulders and a thick neck. All qualities of a bull, yes? Or maybe Otis smokes too many Camel unfiltereds and has pulled too many plows around the field? Maybe someone slipped a Mickey into his/her hormone cocktail? 

Maybe we have the first-ever cartoon hermaphrodite? Perhaps the time is ripe. We got over the gay children’s character barricade with Tinky Winky of “Teletubbies” fame, didn’t we?

 

I can’t help but think that the show’s creators decided, based on this experience, that to make an anatomically correct bull character would be far too frightening for small children. (Frightening? How about hilarious. Have they been around any children lately?) Better to just make all the cows have udders. Udders that look like four toilet plungers fused together. Or the closest thing to a bovine Pamela Anderson. Either way, the udder is a far more familiar and comforting site, right?

As it turns out, the whole thing is some kind of inside joke with the creators. Yeah, except, as I said, the show is supposed to be for kids, right? Are they going to get the irony? 

Makes me yearn for simpler times, when beloved cartoon characters didn’t have genitals at all.

 

06
Sep
08

Restraining order needed here

Every year beginning in August, one of these sets up shop between our front porch post and a hanging potted plant. Every year.

 


 

It’s not the same spider because I generally squish the August visitor sometime around mid-September when I cannot stand it any longer. When I get entangled in its ever-expanding web. When I humiliate myself one too many times in front of the neighbors by performing the “spider dance” on the front porch in my sleepwear.
Picture this: arms flailing and slapping my head and arms while my legs do the Michael Flatley “Lord of the Dance” number and I’m uttering Tourettes Syndrome like barks and profanities.

 
I spray. I sweep. I perform daily recon on the area. Yet each morning, a newer, bigger web with an even-fatter spider balanced at its center. Is it a clone? A ghost? Perhaps it is a residual haunting.

I’m an arachnophobe, I admit it. But I’ve come a long way. This house helped cure me of a phobia that was once debilitating.
Within the first few months of living in our new home, we realized the toll of the previous owner’s neglect. Since he didn’t clean, there were many bugs in the house. And bugs mean spiders. There were egg sacs everywhere. I recall seeing a few spiders on the living room ceiling on one of our walk-throughs, but didn’t think much of it at the time. Even our inspector commented on the number of webs in the basement.
I’ve suffered every possible indignity with spiders.
I found one perched on my toothbrush.
I’ve had them in my bed. In my clothes, in my shoes.
We eventually hired an exterminator. Since then I’ve learned to harness my fear and rationalize it this way: Any spider that is employed, in other words, in a web or actively hunting, is left alone. Except when one’s place of employment is in conflict with my daily living space or dangling over my baby girl’s bed. One that is found to be in conflict or wandering the walls or floorboards seeking handouts is hastily evicted.
The other morning, as I opened my front door and began reaching down to grab the newspaper, I felt the telltale snare of a sticky web grab my face and neck. I jumped back in time to avoid a quarter-sized arachnid.
Now I’m thinking maybe I need to take advantage of some legal avenues here, such as the restraining order.