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Bikes!

 This is Pink Princess. Pink for short. Yes, I am one of those. I name my cars and I feel guilty when stuffed animals sit in my daughter’s closet all unloved and stuff. I know they’re not really alive, okay? But I’ve kept up the pretense with my daughter for so long that I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness when I look into their old plastic eyes.

Lottery Husband (LH for short) and I have discovered we are too fat for regular bikes. Maybe we’re just too old. Plus let’s face it, my last bike was plain white. It didn’t even have a basket or bell or anything. So there she is: Pink. My Electra Cruiser. Riding this bike is like being seven years old again. It is joyous.

This morning we loaded up the bikes and drove out to Notre Dame, a short fifteen minute drive. There’s a picture of the Golden Dome. And yes I did take that picture with my iPhone while riding my bike. And yes, it was a bitch. I’m not the most coordinated individual to start with. So we will all just have to deal with the blur. But I didn’t fall, I’m still alive, and I didn’t have to go to Med Point. (This has happened to me before. Sadly I was barely moving at all when I wiped out. Of course Wapatui* was involved).

Notre Dame has a gorgeous campus and at 8:00 am it was peaceful – except for this annoying bike bell that rang every three minutes.  There’s a lake right on campus and a path all the way around the lake. Apparently all college campuses must have some water source and ducks. Lots of ducks. But don’t fret. I remembered to bring old bread. And yes, I carried it in my basket. (Love that bike).

I wish I had taken a picture of the utter mayhem that ensued when we revealed the Bread Mana from God. LH, my daughter, and I were SWARMED. We had ducks quacking, ducks fighting, and a few ducks employing the big eyed oh please me vibes. They were literally standing on our feet, the beggars. And then…we ran out of bread…and had to run for it! At some point THE FEAR subsided and I got my wits about me. Out came my trusty iPhone (love that phone).

 You can’t see it in the picture, but those little buggars are chasing us!

After our ride, we went out to breakfast. Of course we did. We are midwesterners after all. It’s practically a law to go out for breakfast at least once per weekend (Ron Swanson would approve). We went to our new favorite place. In case you’re wondering the answer is no: no I couldn’t eat all that and no I didn’t put the left over bacon in my purse like LH encouraged me to do. In his defense, he thought the dogs would like the bacon (so he says), but I wasn’t a big fan of greasing out the inside of my purse. Also, that is his Groundhog Day t-shirt. We worship at the altar of Bill Murray.

*What is Wapatui you ask? Wapatui is many things. It is an alcoholic drink. It is a collaborative effort. It is heaven. It is also evil. In a nutshell, all of your friends show up to your house with a clear alcoholic liquid of some type. The alcohol is ALL dumped in a large container of some sort. A whole butt load of fresh fruit and Spite are also dumped into the container and then the whole mix is allowed to sit. As new people show up, more alcohol and fruit is poured in. It is lethal, and unbelievably yummy. Eating the fruit will knock you on your butt.

But I am a lightweight. Once upon a time I had the alcohol tolerance of a rhino but now I ‘m a wuss. Half a glass of wine = zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. At my best friend’s daughter’s high school graduation they made Wapatui. Because it’s the law. And it tasted so good. I didn’t notice how snockered I was getting. I just kept drinking it. And eating the fruit. That damn fruit *shakes fist at Wapatui gods* Along about the middle of the night after I was drunk enough to not notice the mosquitoes feasting on my legs, but before I was at the vomiting stage, we decided to go home. We lived in the same neighborhood and like the good samaritans we were, we rode our bikes down to the party so we wouldn’t add to the parking congestion.

You see where this is going already, don’t you?

LH decided we weren’t in any shape to ride bikes. And as luck would have it, he was absolutely right. Someone decided we should park our bikes in the neighbor’s driveway. I don’t know why. We were a bunch of adults who shouldn’t be making any decisions, all of us tricked into imbibing a lot more than we ever would. So out I went, BAREFOOT, to get my bike. In case I haven’t already told you, LH is smarter than I am. He walked his bike to the other driveway. Me? Nope. I wanted to ride my bike over there. (It was the alcoholic fruit. Never eat alcoholic fruit). This bike wasn’t like Pink. Pink’s pedals are nice and smooth. No spikey things. So I got on my bike – my old bike, my arch nemesis with the SPIKEY pedals.

YOUCH!

When the doctor at Med Point the next morning asked me how fast I was going LH hysterically answered that I was going 0 miles per hour. Yes. I wiped out on my bike and I wasn’t even moving. That, my friends, is the lethal combination of talent and Wapatui.

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Cards = FUN

Last night we decided to play cards. We live in the Midwest so the card game of choice is Euchre. But because we only had three people, and because three handed Euchre is no fun, we played another game. Tonk. Or as my sister likes to say: Tonketty Tonk. This is a real game. Yet it has been warped by my Dad and his compadres. There are all sorts of strange rules that we follow religiously. If the first card turned up is a spade you have to yell “It’s a SPAAAAAADE!” and if someone is really kicking butt you have to draw fun ways to kill that person on the scoring pad. It’s all very legitimate. But of course unless there’s money on the table, the only reason to play cards is as a vehicle for goofing off. This we do quite well. We do it so well that I don’t think we’ve ever finished a game of Tonk (unless my Dad is present, because then you WILL keep playing until you are done, even if it is six o’clock in the morning).

We fed the kids dinner first. Because we’re not heathens. And then it was on. This is what the beginning of the card game looked like:

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. So festive. And refreshing.

This is what my kitchen looked like this morning:

So it turns out we are heathens.

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Don’t Go In The Water

A woman.

Left in a pool.

For days.

DEAD.

Let’s review. A woman went to the pool on Sunday. She couldn’t swim. She either bumped into a child and fell in, or bumped the child after she fell in. Either way, she didn’t resurface. The nine year-old she bumped went to two different lifeguards. Neither lifeguard looked for her.The pool remained open and people continued to swim.

Tuesday night (yes, that’s right, over two days later) a group of kids climbed the fence for a late night swim. They discovered the woman’s body floating in the water.

Uh. Okay.

Let’s take this one “fact” at a time.

  1. A woman went into the water, TWO lifeguards were notified, but no one looked for her. That right there is some pretty awesome lifeguarding. Question: how hard is it to look for a drowning woman? Wait. We’ll get to that.
  2. This woman has (had) five kids. And neighbors. And friends. Supposedly. No one missed her? No one went to the authorities and said, “Hey. Uh. Stacey was at the pool on Sunday but never came home.” (Stacey is not her real name. I’m using it for purposes of not knowing her real name). And besides, how is it no one other than a nine-year old kid noticed a woman go into the pool and not come back up?
  3. TWO DAYS. People swam in the pool with a DEAD BODY for two days. Again, how hard is it to spot a dead body in a pool? Since the discovery authorities have done “visibility tests.” They’ve determined a diver can’t be seen in the pool after three or so feet. Okay people. That is gross. You can’t see the bottom of any pool, much less a public pool where there is a high probability of little kid turds, then don’t go in. So apparently it was hard for the lifeguards to look for a drowning woman. They’d have to get in that water. And they knew better.
    1. Also: I know in the course of two days some kid must’ve tried to see if he could touch the bottom of the very cloudy 12’ pool. Maybe he bumped something. Something sorta squishy. And bloated. And dead. That right there = worse than finding the shark eaten bodies in Jaws.
    2. The child who tried in vain to alert the lifeguards, and the kids who broke the rules by climbing the fence are the only heroes of the story. All the adults failed. Miserably. The kids could’ve jumped back over the fence and forgotten it. Like the lifeguards forgot to look for a drowning woman and then forgot that they forgot and decided to pretend it didn’t happen.
    3. The city where this happened has issued a statement declaring there were no health risks to those who swam in the pool during the time the decomposing body floated unseen in the murky waters.  I beg to differ. Even if there wasn’t a dead body in that pool, it was so dirty you probably have cholera. Everyone who swam in it should go get a Silkwood-esque scrub down. Pronto.

This is the kind of thing you can’t write. You can’t put it in a story because your reader will think you’re an idiot. They’ll discount it because this kind of thing can’t possibly happen.

But it did. It did.

P.S. Out of respect, I had to look up the woman’s name. Her name was Marie Joseph. She had five kids and was only 36 years old. It is an appalling tragedy for her family and for the little boy who tried to alert authorities. I ask, what is wrong with us as human beings if we can’t even come to the aid of a drowning woman?

Here’s the link, in case you’re curious.

http://www2.turnto10.com/news/2011/jun/29/20/unconscious-woman-found-fall-river-pool-ar-572606/

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I decided to take a stand. A coffee stand.  

Here’s the deal: we have a crappy coffee pot at work and communal coffee. Once a month I pick up a tub of Folgers to add to the communal pot and every now and then I pick up creamer. I work 3 days a week. Actually I should say I go to my office three days a week because I WORK every day. But still. My life is awesome. My point here is that I am only at the communal coffee trough three days per week. And then I only drink one cup of coffee.

Last week a nasty note appeared by the coffee pot. It specified a need for all of us to pitch in money for coffee. It also specified two people who supposedly purchase all of the coffee and went on to say it was unfair to place the burden on these two people.

Now while I acknowledge these two people do often bring in coffee, I would not agree they are the only ones. I mean. Come on. Does the Big Tub of Folgers not count? Plus I’m not a big fan of nasty notes.Whether the note was aimed at me, or whether I was not considered in the equation doesn’t matter.

Nasty notes aren’t cool.

I took a stand.

I took Folgers off the grocery list. Permanently.

This was the first week of “The Stand.” Every morning my husband makes himself a thermos of coffee to take to work, so he started making me one too. (I know I’ve mentioned this, but it bears repeating: I have won the Hubby Lottery).

Day 1: Thermos of good coffee (not crappy Folgers). Ahhh.

Day 2: Sings happy coffee song.

Day 3: Uh oh. Someone forgot her thermos at home.

Yes. That’s right. Within the first week, my stand has bitten me in the ass. I don’t have coffee and because of my arrogant, “I don’t need this crap” attitude, I can’t go get one from the communal pot.

I am screwed.

Life lesson learned: never cut off a coffee source.

 

Update: Remember when I had to weigh my backpack to see how many backpacks of fat I carry around? Well apparently it doesn’t stop with backpacks. I did some calculating.

COFFEE MATH:

  • You can get 90  – 6 oz cups of coffee from an 11.5 oz package of Folgers (if made according to directions).
  • I buy the 33.9 ounce tub of Folgers.
  • :furious scribbling:
  • That means you can get 265  – 6 ounce cups of coffee from the Big Tub.
  • Now say I doubled that for my consumption each day. Say I drink 12 ounces instead of 6 ounces (which seems realistic).
  • That means I am drinking 6 cups of coffee a week, or 24 cups every four weeks.
  • 265 cups – 24 cups = 241  cups left.
  • I still say I am buying my fair share of coffee.
  • I think The Stand continues. I’m not buying coffee and I’m not putting money in the Nasty Note Envelope.
  • Yeah. Okay. It turns out I am willing to cut off a coffee source to make a point. This is probably not wise.

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Backpacks of Fat

Do you ever have something that occurs to you and you absolutely can’t let it go until you know the answer, even though the answer is going to gnaw at your brain like a flea infested rat of the mind?

This happened to me last night.

For one reason or the other, I pointed out to my son that I was tired because I was overweight. Okay. I said fat. Like the good son he is, and like an intelligent man in training for an eventual relationship, my kid responds with an automatic “no you’re not.”

Now I know he’s lying. I am not a moron and I am able to discern what I see in the mirror. Plus I’ve long ago given up Victoria’s Secret for Cacique (for those of you who don’t know, Cacique is the panty store for Big Girls). But it’s nice of him to say. Still. I want to make my point. (Who knows why. He’s 15 and doesn’t really want me to make my point, but whatever).

I indicate my backpack and inform him I’m tired because I am carrying around backpacks of fat. He thinks I am weird and the conversation is dropped.

But later, when I’m lying in bed unable to sleep, I can’t let the concept go. Exactly how many backpacks of fat am I carrying around? Because sometimes that thing weighs at least fifty pounds. There are days when I’m even forced to reevaluate what I take back and forth to work.

Of course like any sane woman I get up and weigh my backpack.

The first shocker here is that it weighs no where near fifty pounds. There are days when it feels like I’m carrying around bars of gold (I wish), but it’s really more like I’m hauling fluffy, overweight kittens in there.

The second shocker is the number. Holy Lord. I am carrying around FOUR backpacks of fat. FOUR!!! 

(Actually I’m carrying 4.376 but I’ve rounded down for my sanity).

Imagine how good I would feel, how much energy I would have, if I shed those four backpacks.

 

P.S. As I wrote this I ate M&M’s. While this is sad to contemplate my fatness while eating chocolate, now the dreaded question has lodged in my brain. How many M&M packages of fat am I carrying around?

Oh man. I see a really bad thing starting to unfold. How many boxes of rubberbands…how many notebooks…how many pounds of coffee…wait I think I know that one…

 

 

 

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My Parrot is a Horndog

This is George. One day I will tell the story of why I have George (Shawna this means I’m going to be shaking my fist at you) but not today. Today I must discuss his Horndogeddness. No. That’s not a word. I don’t care. There is no other label for this. And I have yet to find a support group or intervention team for him, but he clearly needs it.

George is in his teen years. If you don’t believe that teens are horny and can think of nothing else, then I dare you to spend a day with my parrot. He humps everything. Did I know parrots hump stuff? No. I did not. This came as a complete shock to me. A grotesque, giggle inducing shock.

Here’s what happens: George hears a sound he likes, or maybe he sees something which excites him, or maybe the wind from the ceiling fan blows the right way. He really doesn’t need an excuse or much to set him off. Heck, just waking up in the morning can start him. So something or other makes George “pop his leg.” This is a funny little hop he does. Maybe it moves his junk around and gives him a special feeling. I don’t know. Luckily his junk is under feathers so at least I don’t have to see his little birdy erection. He then starts his mating song. Believe it or not this sounds EXACTLY like porn music. I keep expecting a buff pizza delivery guy with a bushy mustache to show up at my door. But no. We are not actually in a porn. It’s just my parrot.

During the mating song, George um…positions himself just so. And by positions himself I mean he gets ready to hump his calcium stick. That poor calcium stick. It sees a lot of action. After he’s positioned in his favorite way, the motion  begins. George’s anatomy might be small, but there’s a lot of motion to his ocean. He’s got it going on. And then comes the special moment. And I’m not kidding here. If a parrot’s eyes could roll up, George would be able to see everyone behind him. There is no singing during the special moment, only furious humping and sometimes the full expansion of his wings.

After he’s done, do you know what he does? He acts like nothing happened at all. Does he smoke a cigarette? No. Does he look around with shame on his face that he just did something very private in a very public place? No. He doesn’t even thank his calcium stick or at least promise to call it tomorrow. He’s an inconsiderate, horny little lout.

I must have the happiest bird in town.

P.S. Don’t forget to scroll down and vote in my “What Should I Blog About” poll! Thanks!

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A Party Because I’m Awesome

No. I haven’t decided what my blog is going to be about yet. Besides being a champion procrastinator, a very good friend of mine pointed out that I should focus on something I am passionate about. But I can’t decide which I am more passionate about – counting spoons or becoming a husband-nagging polygamist. Plus I’m waiting for more votes. Waiting while other people decide your fate is in the Procrastinator Code of Proper Conduct.

So until we return to regularly scheduled programming, I’m going to give you the recipe for turning penguin pants into a party for awesomeness. Confused? Just follow these simple directions:

Step One: Get four hours of sleep or less.

Step Two: Discover you have no clean pants to wear five minutes before you leave for work. Whoops.

Step Three: Wear a pair of pants one size too small. Wear said pants low on your hips (because you are clearly too fat for them) so that the crotch hangs down. Congratulations! You’ve made it to Penguin Pants and can now proceed.

Step Four: You know that lunch your thoughtful husband packed for you because he knew you didn’t sleep well and were running late? Make sure you do NOT grab that on the way out the door. This is very important.

Step Five: Run your butt off at work leaving yourself only 30 minutes for lunch. This guarantees you will not have time to go home for your lunch. But make sure to visualize your lunch. Can you see it there? It’s crying, wondering what it did wrong. Poor lunch. All lonely in the dark fridge surrounded by floppy celery and forgotten juice boxes.

Step Six: Even though you continue to walk in a waddling gate because your pants are too small, decide (once again) that eating Taco Bell just this once won’t hurt you.

Step Seven: Discover you have also forgotten your wallet.

Step Eight: Complain endlessly to Thoughtful Husband via text.

Step Nine: Come home to find said Thoughtful Husband stopped and bought the dinkiest, cutest cake in the world. And when your son asks why we have cake Thoughtful Husband replies, “Because your Mom is awesome.”

Yeah. You know what? I think I won the Husband Lotto.

P.S. If you haven’t voted yet, scroll down and participate in my “What Should I Blog About” poll. Thanks!

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