Monday, August 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Happy "Birthday Month" to my Mom and my Grandmother.
These two women are amazing. Seriously, I'm not just saying that so my Grandmother will STILL send her adult grandchild a $100 on my birthday (which she still does) or so my mom will take me out for a pedicure then instruct the poor Chinese man on the proper way to clean out the foot whirl pool (which will occur, no doubt). No, although those are nice bonuses, their fabulosity goes well beyond that.
One thing I love about my mom, besides the fact that she is insanely gorgeous and looks like she has botox without having botox (fingers crossed for that gene) is she will always speak her mind. Grant it, it's not always fun to hear but I cherish the fact that I have such a Godly influence that isn't afraid to tell me the truth. For instance, she has no problem calling me, briefly asking me how my day was, followed by telling me how entirely inappropriate my blog posting was and how I need to remember "your entire hometown church reads that blog". She also tells me when my cleavage is distracting, when my skirt is too short and when I need to shave my armpits. But mainly, she gives great advice. She has been a wonderful wife to my father for over 30 years. Her wisdom in marriage advice is so rare and I am beyond blessed to have a mother who showed her daughter the true example of a Godly wife and mother.
My Grandmother. Wowzer. She makes cooking look sexy--she's hot. Not. Even. Kidding. I am her number one fan. I can truly sit here and tell you that my Grandmother is one of my best friends. She has probably sacrificed for our family more than anyone else. This is something I never really discovered until adulthood. She has shown dignity and grace in difficult situations and is the definition of a true lady. She also makes a mean pot of Chicken and Dumplings, kicks my butt at weight lifting and don't think her butt doesn't look great in her Lucky jeans.
I am so thankful to God to have these women who cover me with love and prayer. I love you both. Happy Birthday!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Julia thought the sign was dorky and kept looking next door to make sure our cute middle school boy neighbors didn't see her posing in front of the house holding a retarded sign. Did you know it's SO NOT COOL to hold up a sign your dad decorated with little hearts and doodles? Go figure!
Thursday, August 19, 2010
JPo and I have had many ups and a few downs in our 2 year relationship. There have been fights (most recently the infamous "Baked Beans" debacle of 2010) and even more moments of glee (like just about anytime I come home from work with a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a tabloid for her). But one date remains the same: "The Incident".
We don't talk a lot about that day -- it's painful and brings up awkward moments of silence and mean glares -- like when you are in a crowded elevator and someone "naturally scents" the ride for 10 floors. The Incident was a torrid moment to be sure, but it had a long a bumpy runway and turbulent flight leading up to the crash landing.
What was "The Incident" you say? The day I kinda broke her dog's leg. Before I tell you about it, let me give you the background.
JPo has a
satanic beastmaster good-for-nothing Weiner dog named Lucifer "Huck Finn" -- or "Huck" for short. When she was single living in van down by the river , Huck was all she had. By their nature, dachshunds are one-person dogs, alpha-males, territorial, and extremely moody. You know - like a Guido from Jersey Shore at a Paul Mitchell hair products convention. Huck prefers women to men, and ruled the castle at JPo's -- eating from the table, sleeping in the bed, sitting on the furniture, running the TiVo, getting food, water, potty breaks at all hours of the night, and generally getting to pick and choose which pieces of furniture / carpet / clothing / plant life was to be spared, and which ones should be shredded, urinated on, pooped on, or used as a chew toy. He was spoiled. Uber-spoiled.
Additionally, Huck has a bladder control problem. Check that -- Huck has a 30 gallon bladder and a spigot that won't shut off completely. He wets so much NOAA tried to categorize him as a tropical depression. Look at him wrong, make eye contact, walk in the room, sneeze, scratch your nose, blink, or think about blinking -- he wets. Yesterday alone I cleaned up pee 5 times, JPo 3 times, and WE BOTH WORK AWAY FROM HOME AND THE DOGS STAY OUTSIDE!! The kids and I affectionately call him, "Pee-Diddy," or "Pee-Willy", or "Pee-Meister", or "@#*!%" (not PG-13 material).
Now, don't tell JPo, but he is kinda cute. And very soft. And L-O-V-E-S JPo and my daughter immensely. He's weird, for sure, but I can see redeeming qualities in him
as a meal for a Phillipino family . But JPo and I have had more scuffles about Huck than any other subject. I grew up that dogs were like movable lawn furniture: great fun for the outdoors. (And now we have 3 dogs!!!!) Huck and I have clashed from the get-go --> because I love to antagonize him (it's so fun because he thinks he's such a little prince and get's so perturbed when I pester him!), and because I AM THE ALPHA MALE of my house. Because of me, Huck can no longer be on the furniture. Because of me, he isn't allowed around us during meal time. Because of me he stays outside during the day. Because of me his momma is distracted and no longer makes him the center of the universe. Because of me, he actually has to go number one (even though he still pees inside at the thought of the drop of a hat) and number two outside; he now has two step-brother dogs to compete with (a Sheltie and a Basset Hound); and he has to fear for his life that I'll put lemon juice in his mouth if he sleeps with his mouth open. He has to mind me -- or there are consequences. In his mind, I am the Taliban, Al Qaida, Adolf Hitler, and "The Situation" all rolled into one.
So now ‘The Incident'. I came home from work, went outside on the back patio to greet
get molested by the dogs. I know, now, to greet Huck outside and let the yellow River Jordan flow before bringing him inside. Except he cowers -- and then he squats in his pee. Given he had pee all over his belly, I got a towel and picked him up shoulder height to clean him off. At some point, a mouse farted or something sooooo scary in Huck's world that he flipped out, flipped over my shoulder, and landed awkwardly on his leg. He shrieked, ran outside, and hid under a bush. "Oh well," I thought. "I tried. Enjoy Bush Gardens." But when JPo got home, Huck screamed like a Justin Bieber fan and revealed a hurt leg that turned out to be broken. Doctor's office, cast on, mad wife, none for me that night. I guess it didn't help that when our vet told us it would be $1800, I countered with "Are you kidding me??!? How much cheaper would it be just to put him down??!?"
Huck recovered and he and I have reached a good working relationship. And that's the thing - in any relationship, you have to compromise. I love JPo dearly, so for me, a HUGE compromise is letting PEE-DIDDY sleep in the bed with us each night and she compromises by not covering my nose and mouth with duct tape during sleep as she remembers "The Incident". Huck still grates on me at times, and he gets back at me by staring at me with a look that would make a train back-up and take a dirt road. But deep down, if something happened to JPo, I would take care of Huck. I promise --
I would make some Phillipino family's day because JPo loves Huck, I love JPo, and I'm trying my best to see a way to love Huck too -- even if I have to look through yellow-stained (pee) glasses.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
....my parents got the bright idea of allowing my brother and me to pick out new carpet for our bedrooms. For those of you who do not know my brother, as a child he was convinced that he was magic, his idol was David Copperfield and he wore multi-colored rayon shirts. Now he is a minister who still probably wears multi-colored rayon shirts and gets his magic from the Holy Ghost.
Much to my parent's surprise, my brother picked out blood red carpet and then proceeded to paint his wall's dark blue and spray paint gold stars on the wall. He then hung a black light form the ceiling, not to be trumped by the strobe light he also installed.
As an "imaginative" child who owned close to 300 Barbies and proceed to have hour long soap opera sessions during which my Barbies would make out with their step-brother and the limo driver, then due to the angst of the love triangle, jump off the balcony of the Barbie dream house to sudden death --I, of course chose pink carpet.
Originally, the pink carpet was wicked cool. Boasting about the new carpet, my friends would lust after my pink Berber as they loathed the beige carpet they were destined. At 7 years old, I had the coolest carpet in the whole school. Mind you, when I hit middle school and I was stuck with pink carpet, I began to question my initial choice in flooring.
Never the less, it has become increasingly evident that my parent's gave my brother and me a huge advantage over many kids today. They gave us choices. They let us get creative and make decisions for ourselves. Will I let my own children pick out their carpet? Probably not. But that's beside the point. I never said I was going to be as good of a parent as mine were.
Thanks for the carpet, Mom!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Today marks the final week of summer before my step-kiddos begin their new school year. Our evenings will alter this week and they will be forced to go to bed on time without the aid of a sugar induced coma. Presently, it has become increasingly evident that the kids have gone into a state of anxiety laced depression. In contemplating this state of mixed emotions the kids are dealing with, I’m reminded of when I was in school and remember that I too, experienced the fear of the unknown—fear the you get the “mean” teacher; fear that you have to sit by the weird Jehovah’s Witness kid that tells everyone he has cooties; fear that your cadre of friends will suddenly not want to associate with you.
Especially, Julia; innocent chocolate covered Julia. She is entering Middle School. Oh, sweet 8 lb 6 oz baby Jesus wrapped in your golden fleece—help us. If you would have seen Julia’s backpack by the end of last school year, you would have thought she should be featured on “The Secret lives of Hoarders”. That being said, now she will have a locker. I can envision that metal square jam packed with ripped up papers, old homework assignments, last weeks ham sandwich, gym shoes and all the other crap messy kids seem to stash in the 12 X 20 inch cubby hole. Are we SURE she isn’t my child??
While walking these future halls she will enter next week, she will probably experience her first boyfriend; have her period; have pimples; become an emotional rollercoaster; tell me I’m not her mother; tell me that she’s sorry; fall into puppy love, have her heartbroken; break her father’s heart; think that Justin Beiber is hot; think that Justin Beiber is gay; have questions and struggle with her faith; love her friends; hate her friends; become the most popular girl; feel like she’s all alone.
Boy, I’m glad I don’t have to relive the days of snarky, pubescent teenage girls. That is the WORST.
Someone the other day asked me how my summer had been. I hate that question more than I hate the chant “Yes We Can”. Why? Because it’s practically rubbing it in the face of the “I work 40 hours a week under fluorescent lighting in an office that smells like tuna fish and bath&body works lotion next to a guys whos coffee cup adorns the logo ‘FBI-Female Body Inspector’” worker that we don’t get summer vacation.
So, how has my summer been? Well besides the fabulous vacation to Mexico, it’s been like any other time in my year. Except I have a heat stroke every time I saunter to my car in the parking lot in 103 degree heat, all my plants are dead, my dogs smell like arse and fertilizer and I have to prance around in a bathing suit sucking in my stomach on the weekends.
Is it a crime to say I’m ready for fall?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Have you ever witnessed those really obnoxious couples that sit on the same side of the booth at a restaurant even when it’s just the two of them? I mean how exasperating is that? There they go, wasting a perfectly good side of the table because they are too googley-eyed to sit across from each other; the distance in space between the two of them would simply be too far. So, there they perch inches apart, thus having to turn their neck at a painful 90 degree angle to make eye contact for the duration of their conversation. Then, if they are the truly abhorrent clingy couple, they will struggle to eat one handed because the other hand is occupied with holding their partner’s hand. Mind you, due to the lack of one-handed eating dexterity, one of the partners will manage to get food on their face, and as if EVERYONE does this, the other will lick it off with a kiss.
Gross right? Except, there’s only one problem; I AM THIS COUPLE. And I love it!
I am in a “same side of the boothe” relationship with my husband and I have never been happier. Is it cheesy? Abso-freakin-lutely. Would it make more sense to sit on the other side? Sure. Do we get stares? I blame that on Buckethead’s fierce good looks. Plus, sometimes WE FEED EACH OTHER. Okay, stop gagging. It’s not that bad.
Before I continue, I must note that this is not nor has ever been typical “Jpo” behavior. Too many times in previous relationships, I have cared too much of what others thought, or simply didn’t want to feel someone else’s hot breath on my arm while eating my frito pie. There are many aspects of my marriage to Buckethead that differ from my first marriage. Basically, I am a completely different type of wife. God knows, I’m far from perfect. I still sit in the bathroom sink to pop zits every night before coming to bed, thus enticing my husband for a late night rendezvous appearing as splotchy as a pepperoni pizza. And there’s a very slight chance that I may be a little overly sensitive—very slight chance. But one of the biggest differences in who I am in my marriage today, is that I love Buckethead without reservation.
Once upon a time, I was hesitant about not only loving someone, but showing someone that kind of love. I figured acting “ga-ga” over someone was showed some sign of weakness. Today, I love Buckethead deeper, stronger and without condition. So when I sit beside him in a restaurant booth or I blog about how hot I think he looks in his swimsuit, don’t hate. Just swallow that throw up in your mouth and know that I am completely and totally crazy in love with my husband.
I hope it never goes away. When we’re 90—well, Buckethead will be 90 and I’ll just be starting menopause—I hope that we are still sitting on the same side of the booth, having fully mastered the art of single hand eating, still hopelessly in love like we are today.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Buenos dias, mi amigos!
I'm back from a much needed and much enjoyed vacation to Playa del Carmen, Mexico! I know, I know, I haven't been much of a blogger lately. Blame it on work; blame it on being too busy. Blame it on the booze and blame it on the Henney.
Ever noticed how much tired you are when you come back from Vacation than when you went? Of course, it's a good tired. You're worn out from all the fun and sun you were having verses exhausted from spending 3 hours conversing with your Swedish co-worker Larry with the fuzzy teeth discussing 401k options and why his wife Helga left him for a guy that cleans out fish tanks . (yes, it's a true story).
And you know the saying you always want what you can't have? Well, what do you think I couldn't have for 5 whole days whilst sharing a hotel room with Buckethead and the two kids? I'll give you a hint, I had a LOT of it on my honeymoon. Yep, that's right. I couldn't freely "love" my husband in a biblical sense for 5- WHOLE- DAYS! And boy, did I want some carnal action. Fine,I'll stop there. I digress, but I mean have YOU seen Buckethead without his shirt on? Okay, okay....you can stop dry heaving now.
But, both Buckethead and I were so exhausted upon our return yesterday, my desire quickly altered into wanting nothing more than a hot bath and reruns of The Real Houswives of New Jersey in my own bed. I know, hard to believe I would pick Teresa and her forehead over "relations" but recovering from Vacation is hard to do!
I'll post lots of pictures tonight of the trip with commentary on some funny moments. Such as the fact that I truly DID cry over spilled milk when my step-daughter spilt a large glass of milk on me in the airport and I had to travel 4 hours with a layover smelling like sour cheese. OH, the irony.
Have a great day!
Monday, August 2, 2010
I wanted to take a few minutes to speak about friends.
According to Facebook, I have over 700 “friends”. Sounds like a lot right? But, have you ever gone through all your friends to see how many of those hundreds of people you really know? Sure, maybe you sat by one of them in Spanish class your junior year of college or one is the friend of a friend you met at a birthday party two years ago. There are some on there that I truly have no stinkin clue who they are. I'll look at them sideways, upside down and picture them as the opposite sex (you never know) but still...blank. Nothing, nada.
Acquaintances are easy to come by. But real friends—now that’s a different story.
You know what one of my favorite things about troubled times are? I know, tough to imagine you would categorize something that comes out of a bad experience as a “favorite thing” but it’s true for me. And no it's not how having aniexty gets you a high dose of xanax or how clean women's restrooms are at gay bars. Although I'm not discrediting the two, my favorite thing is I love how when the road gets bumpy, you find out who your friends are.
There is something sort of magical about true friendship. There are no contracts binding you together, no blood relation keeping you entwined, no requirement to maintain the relationship other than the sole desire of wanting to be friends. I justly consider myself the luckiest girl because I have the best friends in the world.
When I got a divorce, I had friends that cooked for me, welcomed me into their home, prayed for me and supported me. Those were my college girlfriends, my girlfriend from work and my best friend, Mimi. They loved on me when I did not deserve it, and comforted me when I had nothing else. They are my girlfriends for life; my pedicure buddies and my girl trip go’ers. There like my bra; close to my heart and there for support. I am so thankful for them.
After a few months of a whirlwind romance with Buckethead, I was apprehensive that we would not find friends that would be companionable to our circumstances. Most of the couple friends I had pre-Buckethead, were long gone and moved on with my Ex. The same happened for him. Although our relationship was fun and solid, something was missing; friends. Real friends. The kind of friends you “do life together” with. I didn’t even have to jump backwards 50 times and sacrifice a goat to get them, but we were blessed beyond measure with our friends. We “do life” with an amazing couple of families. They love us, knowing our faults, the dreadful jokes we tell over and over again and how we behaved that one night when we drank tequila. These friends have your back, love your children, lend their ear, swap shoes, and cook you barbecue. They pray for you, laugh with you --sometimes at you, cry with you and take on challenges with you such as figuring out what the "K" in K-mart stands for or why Yankee Doodle named his feather Macaroni. I am so grateful to have couples in my life that love me and my husband. It is one of my greatest blessings.
They say you can never have too many friends. I disagree. Don’t invest your time in the hundreds that don’t know your struggles, don’t know your circumstances, don’t do what’s best for you, mean you harm and don’t know your heart. Focus on the few that do and spend your lives together.
“If you live to be one hundred, I hope to be one hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you” –Winnie the Pooh to Christopher Robin.