Breaking News

The headlines scream "Ricky Martin announces online he is gay".

Apparently there is truth to the statement that denial isn't just a river in Egypt.

The corollary to the statement? Sometimes people float down that river a LONG, LONG time.

Addictions of the TV Kind

If you aren't addicted to the TV show 24, good for you. I'm not that lucky.

I'm hopelessly hooked on the comings and goings of Jack Bauer. I even identify the guy in the Allstate commercials as "MY President".*

And today, I learned, that 24 is coming to an end in just a few, short hours.

I almost cried. And I am worried sick about the state of terrorism in our country once Kiefer Sutherland stops portraying Jack and kicking the collective arses of goons from every corner of the world who are trying to blow us up, bomb us out, shoot us sky high, etc.

I understand they are making a movie, but it just won't be the same. My Monday nights, for the past eight years, revolved around Jack. My Thursdays around ER.

I've already lost ER and now this??? I'm not sure I can take it. What are the executives at NBC and FOX trying to do? Kill ME?

So, if you've never watched 24 and decide you'd like to catch it on DVD, please call me up and I'll sit with you through all 192 episodes so you, too, can share in the misery of 24 going away.

And if you call me in the next month on a Monday night and I'm crying like a baby? Just blame Jack.


*Truly, one of the saddest days in the history of the show was the day we lost President Palmer. If that dude had run for President in real life, he would have gotten my vote.

Momma Still Got It!

There are a few defining moments in dieting history. Today, I encountered one of them. And I learned that I'VE STILL GOT IT!!!

Well, kinda.

It is 3:15pm on Sunday. I am currently wearing a Dallas Cowboys pink T-Shirt, with a relatively inconspicuous pencil-lead-sized hole above my left boob. To complete the look, I threw on a pair of dark gray sweat pants that my brother accidentally left at my apartment years ago* and that, conveniently, fit me. My feet are in heavy socks clad with slip-on, backless tennis shoes.

I do not look like a genteel Southern woman. I don't even really resemble a carpool, soccer Mom, except that I'm wearing make-up and my hair is done. I look like a dollar store employee without the smock.

On any given day, this would be the extent of my wardrobe--half pathetic and 100% comfortable.**

But, after leaving church to run a couple of errands, I was still dressed up in an outfit that screamed "HEY! I've just been to church!" Black top with a sassy little belt accenting my reemerging waist, flirty little black skirt with green accents and a ruffle, black hose and peek-a-boo shoes. My toe nails, getting a good look at the sun via the end of the shoes, were even polished a pretty pink. My hair and make-up were still looking pretty good. Even I knew I looked somewhere above fair-to-middlin'.

Then it happened. I stopped at the Exxon for a cup of caffeine and he was there, getting his coffee fix as well. We were standing next to each other, dodging the store employee who was refilling the supplies. I had to move my keys and wallet so Mr. Coffee could reach a lid and I excused myself and he smiled. He was late 40's wearing a Longhorns jacket and running pants. Salt and pepper beard is about the only other thing I remember.

I stepped up to pay, after Mr. C had started out the door, and the store employee, in English broken by an accent that wasn't from "here", said "WAIT. You paid for two coffees!"

My gentleman "friend" said "Yes. I paid for hers." Smiled and exited the door as I said "That's very sweet of you."

(PPPPPPPSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. That's the sound my licked finger made on my skirt-covered butt when I got in the car to check and see if I was actually still as HOT as I felt at that moment.)

Now the funny part.*** Because, frankly, my life is anything but normal and almost always includes a twist:

I drove to the exit at the far end of the lot, after yelling "HEY! LONGHORN! God bless ya!" to which, I received a friendly wave. And he moved toward a BMW parked at the gas pumps.

Once again, due to traffic, our paths would cross. As the Beemer pulled in front of me, I saw Mr. Coffee in the passenger seat, sitting next to someone who could be described as (a) his girlfriend (b) his daughter (c) his wife. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, (d) his mother or (e) his grandmother. That was for sure.

I couldn't wait to tell Mike. He thought it was as funny*** as I did. And he reiterated, in his kind, loving, generous way that, to him, I was just as hot as the coffee-loving stranger thought I was.

Mike? I believe him. But, Mr. C? Let's just say that I don't know if Jesse James has a brother. But, if he does, I think I was just accosted by him at the coffee bar at the Plano Exxon.

As for my "hot" butt? It has cooled off considerably since this incident played itself out.


*Since they fit in the waist and were exactly the right length and he said I could keep them until we saw each other again, I just have NO IDEA how I still have them.

**And if any of you Yahoos decide to nominate me for the awful fashion show with that Stacy woman who brings her emasculinated friend into women's closets and comments on their clothing choices while throwing them into the trash can? I'll kick.your.butt. I hate that woman only slightly less than I hate Jillian from Biggest Loser.

**Funny as in odd, sad, pathetic, whacked, unusual, wierd, gosh-awful.

Sayings Passed Between Generations

Mike's Granddad had a charming saying, which he lavished on Mike's Grandmother routinely: "Damn woman".

I was never there to witness the exchange of loveliness, but I think it was multi-purpose...

1. "Damn, woman". Mighty impressed, as in "How the heck did you get Bessie to cough up that much milk in one sitting?"

2. "Damn woman". Mighty pissed, as in "How could you spend that much time getting ready? We're later than a queer steer to a heifer party."

3. "Damn woman". Mighty choked up, as in (tears welling in his eyes) "How did you know that that there John Deere tractor was the one I'd love?"

In any case, I get a "damn woman" every once in a blue moon from my sweet hubby. And it always cracks me up. And makes me wistful for times gone by.

Even though I never heard the phrase issue from his Granddaddy's mouth, somehow it just resounds with me. And it warms my heart that we're passing something on from one generation to the next.

Even if that something involves "PG" cussing.*


*No cuss words were injured in the writing of this post. However, writer has donated $5 to a worthy charity, in return for the plethora of cursing this writing involved.

Granola Revisited

One of the greatest movie lines ever, if you are a total freak like me and love When Harry Met Sally more than breathing, is the following interaction between Sally's answering machine and Harry, who is calling after pissing her off:

"The fact that you're not answering leads me to believe that (a) You're not home, (b) You're home but you don't want to talk to me or (c) You're home, desperately want to talk to me, but you're trapped under something heavy. If it's either (a) or (c), please give me a call."'

I feel the same way about my granola post from a few days ago. You know. The one where I pitched an idea and asked for your feedback?

The fact that you're not commenting, readers, leads me to believe (a) You haven't read the post, (b) You've read the post but you don't like granola (or worse, me) or (c) You read the post, desperately love granola, but you're afraid of commitment*. If it's (a), get reading! If it's (b), I now have a complex. If it's (c), I have a great shrink to recommend.**

But, on a very serious note, I KNOW better than to ask you to give your opinion. Because I learned that it is in our human nature to try to talk people out of doing something they have a passion for. And I love cooking, especially new stuff. And I get all cranked up when I find something new, yummy, and cheaper/better than I can buy in the store.

So, I'm dropping the whole line of questioning about the granola. Strike it from your collective memory. Pretend it didn't happen and you didn't read it. And, by all means, don't go back and comment now***.

But, if you want a sample, give me a little ring-a-ling. Alrighty?



*Look. I wasn't asking you to order the stuff. Just wondering what you thought about the concept. Besides, I'd only ask you to buy a case a month.....

**If both (b) and (c) apply, we can split the cost of the shrink by going together.

**That would be super-duper lame. And you are so much better than that.

A Forest Has Sprung Up

For those of you not privy to the charming weather saying around Texas, let me enlighten you: "Wait a minute and the weather will change."

Having lived here awhile, I can attest to this statement. I can't tell you how many times the weather will be 70 degrees one day and the next closer to 40. It's like living with a bipolar Mother Nature going through menopause. She's just flat mean.

We're Texas, for crying out loud. We are used to cooler weather. But really cold stuff? Not so much.

So the Winter storm that dropped so much snow in our neighborhood that we lost power? It was just a bit over the top, even by Mother N's standards.

Yes, I live in a community that was built about 60 years ago and we still have above-ground electrical wiring. When all this heavy snow was dropped in the metroplex*, those electrical wires were all "WHA?" then "HUH?" then (huge, cylindrical transformers talking) "POW. BAM. KABOOM". With electric sparks, just for show.

Then? Darkness. And silence. And more deceptively beautiful, damage inducing snow.

At first this was FUN. Cooking on the grill outdoors. Learning to make coffee without the maker, using only grounds, water, a heavy-duty pan, and an ingenuous ball of filters. All the neighborhood kids gathered together, bundled up so tight they should have died of heat exhaustion.

The next night? Sleeping in front of the wimpiest fire ever, in a house that was now 50 degrees? To say it was cold is understating it by the distance between Maine and California. Plus some**.

Then, damage inventory. LOTS of tree limbs, some uprooted trees, and tons of debris later, we had ourselves piles upon piles of junk outside every house on the street.

Insanely, every street with trees in the area looked exactly like ours.

So the City of Dallas began to work in earnest and hired extra crews and began hauling tons of junk to our landfill. Something crazy like four tons a day. And they are not done. In case you are calendar illiterate, it's almost April. And this all went down on February 11th. According to the squeaky math wheels in my brain, that was 43 days ago.

Now we're being warned that the "critters" are taking up residence in the piles. Snakes, rats, etc. Thank goodness I know people who are packing because I will show absolutely no mercy to anything that slithers or slinks out of our pile of junk. They'll be blown sky high wondering "Where the heck did THAT come from?"

So, I'm beginning to wonder if it just makes sense to leave all the piles, create a wildlife refuge, bag "critter" snacks, and charge admission to our street. "Briar Cove Forestation Project" has a nice ring, I think.

Something tells me we could probably petition the city for the correct permits and get this party started faster than the City will get our collective forest cleared.


*Look. If you live somewhere North of Oklahoma you're laughing at our paltry cold and snow. But we're DALLAS, for crying out loud. We don't own industrial-strength snow boots or shovels or ice scrapers. Our heavy jackets are only for taking skiing, once or twice a year, at places we can fly in and out of without bringing the snow home with us.

**I distinctly remember waking up sometime well into the night, unable to feel my feet or my nose, sitting bolt upright and shrieking a word I won't type here. Mike was unsympathetic, having just been woken up by a screaming banshee who was freaking out and screaming something "R" rated within earshot of everyone in the room. Thank goodness the kids slept through the rant that concluded with "And my brain is frozen like a lost explorer in the Artic".

Cripe

Well, here at 249 posts, I've finally hit it. The point every writer dreads. And it has hit me like a ton of bricks.

I have writer's block.

It's like a really bad case of temporary Alzheimer's. Except without the age and moments of clarity.

Or like someone turned out the lights and I'm stumbling around in the dark KNOWING the door is there and that, eventually, someone will open it. I just don't know who or when.

So, while I suffer trying to figure out what the heck to say to all of you, please bear with me.

I'm sure, eventually, something will come flying at me, revive the neurons in my brain, and I'll be back in writing form.

Frankly, I'm hoping it will be sooner rather than later. But, until I have something witty, pithy, ironic or important to share, I'm using this as Spring Break for my brain.

I just hope I don't come out the other end pregnant with a super bad hangover.....

Granola, Anyone?

I know. Granola. UGH.

But, I have to be honest. I've stumbled upon the king of granola. And I'm excited to share it with you. Especially if you are avoiding gluten at the moment...or for a lifetime.

It started when I got fed up trying to find a breakfast cereal whose ingredient list didn't include sugar, high fructose corn syrup or brown sugar as the second most frequently occuring additive to the cereal box.

Once I got sugar pushed way down to the bottom of the list of cereal components, I tried to get corn and wheat out of the equation. That drove me straight out of the local grocery store and into a "healthier" food store.

And that is where my budget started to moan. And writhe in pain.

By chance, I happened upon a way to make granola that seemed almost too easy. And, it appeared to me, easily changed to meet my desire to make our cereal free of corn, wheat and processed sugar.

So, I tried it. And it hit a home run with the very people who I care most about: Mike and the boys.

A neighbor confirmed it was good stuff. And an idea was born.

What if I made regular and gluten-free handmade granola, in small batches and shared it with family and friends? What if I took 10% of the profits and gave them back to ovarian cancer research, in honor of my Mom?

So, what if? What do you think?

Here I Go Again

It seems, lately, that Mike and I have either 1) become ridiculously lax in getting to bed at a reasonable hour or 2) we've become insanely addicted to Redbox and being able to see a new movie every night for $1.08*. Or, as the case may be, both.

So I started this run of "Let's go nuts and try to see as many Academy Award nominated performances as humanly possible in the next few days."

We warmed up the DVD player with Up in the Air because, frankly, I would die a thousand deaths of horrendous pain and torture for a mere five minutes with George Clooney. When I saw Vera Farmiga** was in the cast, I was hooked on getting this movie "NOW. Not ten minutes from now. NOW. Dangit."

And, boy, did this movie deliver. The acting was superb, the writing was delicious enough to eat, and the plot twist near the end should have been served with a kleenex. GOOD STUFF.

We took in The Blind Side later in the week. We laughed, we cried, we ate non-concession stand snacks and drank little bottles of contraband water***. And it was good.

Way to go Sandra. You deserved Best Actress. But your husband's behavior? OHHH, girl. NOBODY deserves that.

So, on to the last contender for the week: Inglourious Basterds.

I should have picked up on the strange fact that neither of the words in the title of this movie was spelled correctly and just not hit the "Rent" button at the Redbox. But, alas, I did.

From now on, if I see the names "Weinstein" and "Tarantino" in the same sentence, I'm running, screaming at the top of my lungs, for the nearest safe shelter.

In some, sick, twisted way, I actually enjoyed Tarantino's Pulp Fiction, which was actually bloodier, possibly more violent, and most definitely more ripe with cursing.

But IG tried to hook us in with violence against "Natzis"**** that was so gruesome, in some spots, that it made Pulp look like a lightweight contender in the ring with Mike "I'm all cranked up on hatred" Tyson.

Now, I have to give credit to Best Supporting Actor winner, Christoph Waltz, who took a fabulous turn as an SS officer. He was completely believable, evil, and as creepy as you would have expected any brainwashed Nazi officer to have been. But, even his performance couldn't save this movie.

Skip it. Even at $1.08, you'll be wasting your money. And burning junk into your brain that you'll wish you hadn't.

So, get your credit card warmed up and go rent you and your honey a little movie tonight.

If you love it, let me know. If you hate it, and I warned you, no griping.

If you hate that you loved it, you're probably me. And you are trying to clean mascara off your face with the bed sheets. Good luck.


*Even if we saw one movie a night, every night for the entire month, we'd still be way short of blowing our entertainment budget. Love, love, love me a little Redbox.

**So tell me to shut the heck up already about how good Vera was in "The Boy with the Striped Pajamas". And while you are at it, tell me to stop telling you how much you need to see the movie. Yes, you.

***Between the allergies we possess in this family (which include corn, thank you), Mike's propensity to regretfully eat an entire bucket of popcorn sans help, and a budget that doesn't allow us to purchase combo packs that cost 3x the price of my last meal at Morton's Steakhouse, we have to pass on the concession stand snacks.

****Pronounciation courtesy of a Tennessean accent sported by Brad Pitt. I guess you'd have to grow up there to fully appreciate that this was what those poor folks actually sound like.

Spring Break

As I knock wood, I pen the following: we've made it through Spring Break, save 33 hours, and haven't had a major injury.

Considering we've climbed trees, had "stick" fights*, run on concrete paths, fed wild animals, cycled, ice skated, and played mini golf**, I'd say we've done pretty well.

But, given that there are still 33 hours ripe for the picking, I'm not counting my chickens.

And I'm sure as heck not taking 911 off speed dial.

*When the H''l are the fine sanitation people from the City of Dallas going to pick up the bulk trash from our Winter storm? Every stinkin' one of the stupid sticks used in these fights has come from some pile of tree limbs that is just waiting to be taken away to the dump. Don't these people know this is hazardous material sitting on our curb sides?

**I know, I know. This seems like I am playing "One of these things doesn't belong here" from Sesame Street. That is, until you consider that mini golf is played with a club. And The Babe has a vicious swing. And he isn't afraid to use the club as a weapon if his brothers try to tell him he made a five, not a two, on any given hole.....

Back Off and Nobody Gets Hurt!

Here are some people/canines/calendar events that made my list of "Top Irritations" lately.....

1. Plumbers who make snide remarks about what was actually stopping up the toilet rather than having the common sense to just let it go*. Yes, I know, we use more toilet paper than a house full of OCD women. What can I say? We like to be clean. Kiss my grits.

2. Dogs who decide the last piece of bacon, left after the vicious horde of boy-men ate the rest, is theirs**. Even when it was the only piece of bacon I could savor all week because I AM ON ANOTHER FRIGGIN' DIET. Don't you DARE get near my grits, you worthless hounds.

3. Daylight Savings Time. What a crock. I don't see anybody in this house realizing the sun is out longer than normal and refusing to turn on the lights.

In fact, I predict that, once again this Spring, we'll attempt to make the little wheel on the electric meter turn at warp speed, hoping it will break the speed of sound, based solely off the enormous quantity of lighting left on in this house. DST? Double kiss my grits.

I told you I was going to get cranky on this diet......


*HEY! DUDE! I don't go reminding you that I can see your butt crack. Leave me the heck alone.

**I have, sadly, realized I've lost every bit of leverage with these dogs. Once I removed the family jewels they became all "YEAH? What could you possibly do to me that hasn't already been done? Hit me with your best shot, chickadee."

Awesome! A Stomach Virus

There are very few times in my life that I've opened the door, invited in, and asked a stomach virus to stay.

The one that came home with The Babe and took up residence for a day, moved up the sibling chain to Bigger Brother's room for the next day, then finally settled in our room? I am in love with that dude!

He gave me the perfect excuse not to eat dinner one night last week. He also gave me reason to go to bed at 4pm. The combination of not eating and getting extra sleep gave me the confidence to have ice cream when I felt better.

SSSSCCCCCRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEECHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Yeah. I'm stupid. And I'm admitting it to you.

There are so many times I've exercised and followed it by fries, a Frosty, or a Route 44 Coke. Whatever calories I burned were quickly reintroduced to my body with a hearty slap on the back and a "HEY! Didn't you just sweat to get rid of us?"

This time, though, I'm doing my best not to use stomach bugs, exercise, or obnoxious behavior by my children as an excuse for diving into something my body doesn't need.

Obviously, though, habits don't set in with me after one attempt.

SIGH.

Dancing, Anyone?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k&annotation_id=annotation_72265&f

This truly makes me wish I had kept dancing through the years instead of giving up when I was 13, fat, and looked like a hippo in my ballet tutu.


NOTE: If the link isn't active when this posts, copy and paste it into your browser. Guaranteed to make you smile or my name's not MommaJ!

SCHWEET!

Driving down Royal Lane Thursday afternoon to retrieve Zach from school, I happened upon the sweetest little ride: a Mercedes Benz SL500.

Since I was behind said car, I couldn't see who was driving it.** When I finally hit a stop light and looked to my right, I couldn't believe my eyes.

Someone had let the house dwarf from Harry Potter out. And he was driving this super-awesome Mercedes.

I'm not kidding. This guy was about 150 years old and not much taller than a smurf. Kinda let the air out of my tires, frankly. I pulled away from the light lamenting the fact that there are way too many people in this town who are driving hyper-expensive cars. Getting your hopes up that you might recognize the driver is just a pipe dream.

Being totally myopic and all, I barely realized that I wasn't the only one in the car who noticed the car and driver. Middle son piped up and said "Old gramps back there's got a sweet ride." I swear, he sounds more and more like me all the time.

Since we talk alike, think alike, and have the same sense of humor, I am pretty sure he's mine. And I guess that means I get to keep him, too.

Somehow, I think keeping him is cheaper than the monthly payments on that Mercedes.



*Base price revealed by the MB website? $92,900. Choke, gag.

**Whenever I see a car of this calibar yet I don't know who is driving it, I always get a little giddy. Could it be someone I'll recognize--some sport's figure, Tom Selleck, President Bush? The possibilities are endless. Which just makes me giddier. Until I really see who's behind the wheel.

Housekeeping

A brief summation of my housekeeping skills, abilities, and efforts, written on a cute little piece of glazed tile, my first official act of decorating in the family room, thanks to the great Hallmark Gold Crown Store on Campbell and Coit:

You can touch the dust but please don't write in it.*

My Mom, bless her soul, was never a great duster. Or ironer. Or sewer**. I readily and gladly caught on to the things she didn't like. And, when I got my first place, followed quickly in her footsteps.

Personally, the reason I think my family has never dealt with dust allergies is because they've been hyper-exposed over the years. Going to a dust factory is about the only way they could have had more exposure.

I figure, one day, their wives will all thank me. Because 1) my boys will think it is totally normal for coffee tables to have finger and hand prints all over them 2) since my boy's bodies have been rendered "immune" to dust, that's one fewer chore their wives will have to attend to, and that will leave more time to conceive my grandchildren***.

Wow. This whole non-dusting thing was GENIUS Mom. Thanks for teaching me well!


*If I had been laughing any harder or had not recently used the facilities when I first laid eyes on this plaque, there would have been an embarrasing "clean-up on aisle four!" call made over the PA system.

**Why is the word for the system that flushes our poo the same for the person who sews our clothing? Could explain my Mom's aversion to sewing.....

***I am SUCH a giving person.

Toilet Condiments

A little three-year-old boy is sitting on the toilet. After a while, his Mother realizes he has been on the potty too long, so she goes to investigate.

When she cracks the door, she sees her little boy "reading" a book. "How sweet" she thinks. Not wanting to disturb him, she starts to close the door.

Before she can get the door shut, she sees her son put the book down, grasp the left side of the toilet, and hit himself on the right side of his head.

Too curious not to ask, Mom opens the door and says "What are you doing?"

Without hesitation, son says "Trying to poo. But it's not coming out."

"But why are you hitting yourself on the head?" asks Mom.

"It works for ketchup."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
None of the Nowell boys did or said this, I just thought it was too cute not to share.

My New Friend

I could tell you all were waiting, with baited breath, to hear how this week went with my new friend, the revised, updated, newly started diet.

Let me start by saying that the word "die" is the major part of this word. As in, "I think I'm going to flippin' die if I don't get a piece of chocolate. Pronto."

Well, I got that piece of chocolate* and I lived to tell of the glory of being on the other side of the devil obviously trying to side track me.

I have to admit that the biggest problem I had this week was not getting to the gym. But, on the positive side, I did learn to canoe on the Wii against The Babe, and discovered that a) shoulders have joints b) there are muscles attached to those joints and c) those muscles hadn't been exercised since 1982.

I'm still in pain. From last Thursday.

This week? Gym. Next week? Post on pain.

The numbers: seven days of trying, one piece of divine chocolate, two sick kids, 1.2pounds lost**.

Yeah!

*A white chocolate Lindt truffle filled with some kind of sweet, gooey, white filling that can only be described as tooth-decay gone right.

**I realize this is the water weight going bye-bye, but a win is a win in the battle of my hunger vs. my willpower. Willpower, which has been mostly WONTpower until this week.

Cutting Edge Toys

Mighty Beans.

No, it's not the latest in GMO, gas-producing edible protein. It's a toy.

And my kids would die for it.

And Target has managed to run out of them twice in the last two weeks.

Oh, and conveniently raised the price $1/pack so our little lesson in "saving your money until you have enough" is sucker-punched whilst standing in the biggest echo chamber on the face of the Earth.* Which, of course, means the wailing that is about to commence from my child, who has diligently saved his money and wants his beans NOW**, is going to be heard as far North as Oklahoma and down into Mexico.

This is one of those moments, as a parent, where there is absolutely no win. You're darned if you do and darned if you don't. Nothing will appease the child at this point, even the $100 set of Legos***, because you suck as a parent. Somehow, YOU are responsible for Target's lack of ordering-forethought. YOU are responsible for the truck carrying the beans that got a flat somewhere North of Des Moines that is causing this travesty to happen. YOU are responsible for the fact that the rain didn't stop all day long and Junior couldn't play outside.

All because of a stupid, plastic, magnet-infused, cheap, piece of junk toy. That won't matter next week.

Curse you, Target. Curse you.


*Who the heck designed the Super Target? If a baby farts in the children's section, halfway across the store from the Starbucks counter, easily 1/2 mile away, I can hear it. The acoustics in these places suck!

**Not when they are restocked, Mr. TargetMan. NOW. As in THIS SECOND. Even if you have to drive to China to get them.

***Which we are never desperate enough to pony-up the coin for.

Move Over Tampon Commercials

I distinctly remember wanting to melt into the couch at my friend's house the first time we were in mixed company (read: Freshman date) and a tampon commercial came on.

The resultant snickering and red-faces explained everything a casual observer would need to know about the girls in this situation: we couldn't even talk about Tampax with our boyfriends, much less keep a straight face about S-E-X.*

Tonight, I realized the tampon commercial has evolved. The new Tampax? Anything having to do with Erectile Dysfunction.

Apparently a bunch of dudes who like the National Geographic Channel were SUPPOSED to be the target audience for this one. Yet, tonight, right in the middle of learning how multi-million dollar yachts are moved from Genoa to Florida in the middle of hurricane season, all three of our boys, Mike and I became the demographic.

At first, I held my breath, for what I figured was the inevitable "What is erectile dysfunction?" I guess the scenery was so breathtaking that the boys didn't even notice the diarrhea-mouthed announcer, who was blathering on about all the side effects.**

Then, the inevitable phrase entered the room "THE FOUR HOUR ERECTION".

I swear the following happened exactly the way you read it:

Big announcer voice: "Should you experience an erection lasting more than four hours, contact your doctor." Pause.

Filling the pause was The Babe, who was sitting on my lap, then turned his head, and planted a huge kiss on my cheek. And said, without a hint of sarcasm or wit, in the funniest comeback to the four hour erection ever "Or, you can just kiss your Momma."

I cracked up. And I looked at Mike, who just shrugged his shoulders and said, "The boy's got a point."

Off the checklist of things to worry about regarding The Babe? Oedipus Complex.



*Which, incidentally, we WEREN'T having. Thank goodness.

**Subcontext of the message? "Yeah, you might die from our little cocktail drug of love. But, hey, you'll die a HAPPY man!"

Hatin' on This Movie

I've had one of those days where I needed a good cry. So I rented The Time Traveler's Wife.

Even though the wage for the rental was meager*, I would like to demand a timely and complete refund from Redbox because I was duped into believing this was some cute, romantic movie reminiscent of The Notebook. Less all the forgetfulness and plus some travel through time.

WRONG. What I got was a screwed up story of a sub-teen falling for a grown man** who has this irritating habit of dropping every bit of clothing in the blink of an eye and showing up in another time and place naked as a jay bird***. Oh. And the supposed love story between the two.

NOT.

I couldn't believe the audacity of the girl/woman in this story. First, let me just say that any movie that portrays women in love as completely and utterly stupid and blind is probably right. And this character was S.T.U.P.I.D.

As I'm prone to do, I had to analyze the stupidity, starting with this: she's known this guy since she was little and she's the only one aging. STUPID WOMAN. Can't you do the easy math and figure out, eventually, he's going to look the same and you are going to look like a prune?

Or this: she actually has the nerve to gripe at this guy when he time travels after they get married. STUPID WOMAN. Your first clue should have been that the very first time you met him he appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in front of your eyes. HMM.

In a stunning reversal of fortune, she is the one woman on the face of the Earth that got EXACTLY what she dated. And she is gritching about it??? THINK, WOMAN, THINK.

Or this: She's desperate to have kids with this guy because SHE really wants a child. Can you say "life of a single Mommy?" STUPID WOMAN.

Any of us with children can attest to the importance of having a husband to remind us that murder is in the Top 10. With a hubby who has this annoying habit of dropping drawer and taking off, she was destined to become the single Mom with absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, NO REASON to complain.

Rarely will I ever cheer when I find out a character dies in a movie. But I was so glad when I found out the traveling dude was dead. Now we were cooking with gas. The complaining, stupid woman and her time-traveling-daughter**** could get on with their lives.

But, NO. He comes back. Like Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. Except with fewer clothes and an ending that proved, once again, this woman is utterly daft.

OH.MY.GOSH. There were so many times I almost turned this movie off. It made me mad that Hollywood spent money to convince me I was going to either a) enjoy this piece o' junk in a gushy, romantic way or b) ball my eyes out and, thus, fulfill my purpose for renting in the first dang place.

Wait just one cotton-pickin' minute. Who's the stupid woman here?????


*$1.08 too much.

**My EWomter was OFF the friggin' charts. I don't give a rat's rear if a young girl is attracted to you, time traveling man. She's off limits. Period. Even when she is older. EW.

***Note to producers: after the first full-moon played by Eric Bana's butt, I was so over it. I didn't need to see it over and over and over again. I got it the first time. He's naked. Let's move on.

****Really. Genetically inherited time travel genes. The next designer baby should come standard with this option.

It's Worth It???????!!!!!!

It's Day Three of THE DIET, PART XXI. And I have hunger pains.

I keep reminding myself that everyone gets them. Right?! This is a normal part of the process. Something I have to work through and get past.

But, tonight, I have hunger pains with the munchies. I would take just about anything crunchy, sweet, salty, chewy or covered with a bottle of Tabasco. I'm that desperate.

Instead of eating, I'm writing to you, my dear readers, because you are the biggest reason I won't be grabbing the entire bag of Lay's and munching until I puke.*

I've tried drinking away my problems.** Not working.

I've tried ignoring my stomach. Which sounds like something has crawled into it and is making very sad, low, moaning sounds.

I've even tried to appease my tummy by reminding it that we'll get another meal in less than 12 hours. And that our snack was heavy in protein and was only an hour ago.

But, nothing, and I mean NUTTIN' HONEY***, is helping my situation.

I told you I was going to get hungry. I'm just not cranky.

Yet.****


*See, I know you. If I fail at this little task of losing weight, you won't let me forget. And, when I succeed (don't you like that I'm using encouraging language with myself?), I'll be too ashamed to continue my tradition of buying Little Debbie Nutty Buddy Bars and eating two packages before getting home, for fear I'll have to admit I gained all the weight back.

You are my Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers all rolled up into one big ball. And, bonus! You, unlike other weight-loss programs, provide all the shame for FREE!

**Unsweetened tea.

***OH, cereal. What I wouldn't give for just one bowl.....

****I guarantee that is coming. And my post when that happens? Gonna be a humdinger.

Take Me Out To The Dugout

"I'm not going to sugar coat it, folks. I've seen road kill with faster reflexes than that." Announcer Dog in Chicken Little

One thing I simultaneously love and hate about "G" rated movies these days is that the writers are intent on entertaining people of all ages.* Take the above quote. I played that thing over and over and over, until the under five-foot set started complaining. Something about that quote just a) inexplicably cracked me up and b) reminded me of myself.

I am the queen of the side lines. That, if I HAVE to attend a sporting event, is where I am most comfortable. Especially if the event involves some combination of Frito chili pie, a cold beer, ice cream or popcorn.** This makes baseball simultaneously the most boring, slow game on the planet but most definitely the best buffet of junk food in the universe.

Why, do you wonder, do I have such an aversion to group sports? It all stems from an experience I had when I was stupid enough to believe that playing sports with someone I loved was good for our relationship. And I joined a co-ed, "non-competitive" softball team.

First mistake our coach made was putting me on the field. I'm positive I didn't belong in any position on the infield because I would have become a human ball target. But the outfield was just as bad.

Literally, by mid-game, the other team was yelling to the batter "Hit it to right field!". I WAS right field.

For some insane reason, after countless balls weren't caught or they simply rolled past me or I threw them with all my might, only to make it about 15 feet in front of me, the coach decided to put me in another spot. Third base was my new home.

I guess this seemed relatively harmless. I traded spots with a young, athletic, strong-armed man who had been bored the entire game because no one had made it to third. He'd silence those jerks who thought I was a bad right fielder. Third should be a piece of cake, right?

WRONG.

First batter up? A lefty. Geometry, or some scientific theory that explains why balls and bats do what they do on contact, would dictate that I was totally, completely, irrefutably screwed.

It was a line drive. Straight up the third base chalk. Erring on the right side of my body, ever so slightly out-of-bounds. In fact, it would be called an out. But not because of the trajectory of the ball or it's proximity to the line. It was because of my hand.

Out of pure instinct, sheer idiocy, or embarrassment that I was the worst outfield player in the history of sports, I stuck out my ungloved hand. To catch a line drive hit by a MAN. And catch it I did.

I first realized I had actually caught the ball when I heard the entire group of players in the dugout go "EEEEEWWWWW". As if they had just witnessed a car wreck involving serious blood and guts.

Then I looked at my hand. Pride was the first thing I felt. Then pain.

Everyone was starting to crowd around me, asking about my hand. I still had the ball in it. I was afraid, if I unwrapped it, my hand would fall off my wrist and wriggle around on the ground like a gecko tail after its owner drops it out of self-defense. That or I'd discover that every.bone.in.my.hand.is.shattered.

A few minutes, a couple of Tylenol, and a few beers later, I was happily sitting back in the dugout. Where I belonged in the first place.

There I could relive my two up-to-bats, where the entire other "recreational, non-competitive" team took to taunting me by saying things like "Easy out" and "OUTFIELD! Move IN."

Yes, folks. It's true. There is crying in baseball.



*That includes immature 43 year old women who will cry buckets when her kids refuse to go to said "G" movies, all in an attempt to emotionally coerce them into compliance. Case in point: I got misty-eyed when I saw the first preview for "Toy Story 3". My kids thought there was something seriously wrong with me.

**Basically, sports are about the food experience for me. If the sport is synonymous with no food or bad food, I'm not going. Take for example, polo. I'm all for the champagne and caviar I hear they serve, but patting down horse dukey? NOT appetizing.

More Olympic Wonders

If you spent four plus years training to run a little bobsled down a track going 90mph or more, in the bitter, biting cold, wouldn't you feel obligated to say to the designer of the aerodynamic suits "Hey. I know I'm an "athlete" and all, but my body isn't exactly sporting a six-pack or a rockhard butt that could be used as a ledge for the empties. This second-skin suit? Not flattering. I need the Spanx version, thank you very much."

It's just a crying shame that nobody thought of this BEFORE the games.....

Boy Questions

Men, you've been warned. Today's post is about the female body. You enter at your own risk. If you post a comment that states "TMI", I will ban you from this post.

If you have a sensitive gag reflex, regardless of your sex, just say NO!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

We had guests over tonight. And, per usual, we were running short of time because we cram everything in last minute. That meant showers were communal.

Me, Mike, and The Babe.

The boys started things well ahead of me, but decided to take their sweet time, so I had absolutely no choice but to jump in the middle of the action.

That's when I realized we are way.way.wwwwaaayyyy past the time I can shower with that boy.

He took one look at my breasts and asked "Why do they point down?"*

I just looked at Mike like "Wrong. This is just wrong." He was trying not to laugh.

Then I got another question. "Where do the babies come from?" Instead of tucking tail and running out of the shower, I calmly explained that babies come out from between a Mommy's legs. "OK. What about the pee-pee?" Another between the legs explanation.**

The final assault came just moments later when he piped up and said "They look like maracas." Then he launched into a humming version of "La Cucaracha", to compliment the fact that I have breasts that do a good imitation of an instrument that, when hung upside down, resembles the breasts of women from third-world countries who have never and will never wear a bra. Or a shirt, for that matter. The women who made National Geographic pornography for every teenage boy in America.

I am taking solace in the fact that, after seeing me in my current state of excess weight and lack of muscle, his future young, perfectly coifed/tanned/in-shape wife is going to look like a super-model times 1000.



*When recounting this honest question to the female portion of our dinner guests, she shared a story about a friend with a daughter. Both girls were in the shower and daughter asked "Mommy? When are my boobs going to get long like yours?" I have no idea what the response was, but had "Mommy" been me, the response would have been "When the Gravity Fairy comes to visit. Sometime soon after the Breast Feeding Fairy removes 95% of the volume of your breasts, leaving them looking like helium balloons three days after a birthday party."

**At least he didn't learn the way his brothers did: by accompanying me to my annual appointment and scooting down the side of the table for a look-see. You'd think after my oldest pulled this stunt I'd NEVER make that mistake again. You'd be wrong. Middle brother, though slightly less interested, did the exact same thing about a year later.

I've Given People Reason To Believe I'm Preggers

When you step on the scale and the number is the highest it has EVER been, save those fortunate times when you could blame the baby cooking in your uterus, you know it's time to get working.

Yes, readers. I'm about to go all Jillian Michael's on my body. And I'm positive this is going to make for some interesting, more-sarcastic-than-normal, blogging.

So stayed tuned. Tune in often. And bring your friends and your air-popped popcorn.

Since I figure I need to lose the equivalent of a toddler in weight, this is going to be a LONG process.