Friday, May 29, 2009

White Jeans are The Thing

I went to a party tonight. I'm just starting to get out again since The Big Sick, and I have to say that sitting on your ass watching reruns is habit forming enough to make going out and drinking margaritas with a bunch of cool chicks seem not that appealing. But I went, and, my friends, this is what I saw:
Let me start by saying that I didn't meet one unkind or stupid person. They were all okay by me, and they were out for a good time, and every one of them donated money to the school in order to be at this party. I wouldn't want anyone to feel disparaged.
So, now, if you don't own a pair of white jeans, you aint no thing. I don't know if fat girls can wear white jeans, so I'll abstain, but half of the hoochie mamas were in white jeans, half in regular jeans, and the third half in black pants. I personally was wearing regular jeans, and all but ripped the cool poncho of my neighbor's back to wear as my own. I've decided I need a poncho. On top, they were wearing a variety of things, but there were a lot of tunic things, peasant blouse things, etc. but the feet were something else entirely.
I'm not sure I've seen that many high heeled shoes outside of a strip club. Considering it was a standing-room-only party, I'm surprised that people were courageous enough to venture forth on their four-inchers. Even I, with arthritic knee and all, wore my higher wedges, but they're Clarks, and can hardly be considered hoochie mama shoes.
It was a mexican themed party, so the margarita's were flowing, and the food was rich and delicious. There were some very tiny MILFs with very large burritos, and I almost followed some of them to see how they were planning on eating them while standing and holding a cocktail. In the kitchen, there was a table of mini eclairs and Mexican wedding cakes for dessert. I'm not entirely sure what eclairs have to do with Mexico, but they were creamy and delicious and I had two. I'm just glad there was no flan. Flan gives me the heebie jeebies.
Next to the eclair table were the incoming and outgoing PTA presidents. Don't let the PTA label fool you: it should stand for Party Till Armageddon. E thought there was too much Britney Spears on the stereo, and plugged in her iPod full of her 80's favorites. She played the part of the party goer who commandeers the tunes, but since the 80's were my era, this did not pose a problem for me. E and C proceeded to lipsync (or maybe they were actually singing, it was hard to tell because each song was louder than the next) to Def Leppard and Journey and Bon Jovi, holding first flowers, then cooking utensils as microphones. The finally settled on an ice cream scoop and one of those olive oil misters as their mics of choice. They were fun to watch, in their white jeans, and even more fun when they climbed up on the kitchen island and danced around on it in their high heels. The hostess, brave girl, told them to get down, which was a really good idea since there was a four month old baby sleeping in a car seat right under the island.
It is amazing how easy it is to entertain women who spend all their time with their children. Blast some Van Halen (with David Lee Roth, not the later stuff) give them a tequila shot and you're all set. Just wind 'em up and watch 'em go. It is also embarrassing that hearing Rick Springfield in a room with a bunch of middle aged mothers who are half in the bag, can turn you into a twelve year-old. You know every single word, and you're not afraid to sing it into a serving spoon in front of all your friends.
Normally, I would have been right there with them, singing, dancing, drinking a teeny bit too much, but my party self seems to he hibernating. I just can't seem to wake up the part of me that would order one to many cosmos and be cracking everyone up. Throw in my arthritic knee, and the fact that I've been eschewing the sensible, supportive shoes I'm supposed to wear for my old flip flops, and I had to sit out all but two songs (if you must know, I danced to Scandal's Goodbye to You, and Split Enz I Got You.)
I then watched a group of women in the other room squeezing their own boobs and poking at each other's boobs, and I had to go over and find out what was going on. Apparently, they were comparing breast size, and my double Ds had them all beat.
I was sober, my dogs were barking, my ears were ringing, there was a line for the can, and I decided to duck out. It was a respectable hour, the porniata had been busted open and sprinkled mini vibrators all over the patio, and if it was going to get any wilder, I didn't want to be there since I couldn't seem to get wilder with it. As I walked out the door, I ran into a very cute police officer coming up the steps to investigate a noise complaint. I wonder if he was surprised to find a bunch of mothers in their mid 40's rocking out to 38 Special.
Thank you, Jamie, brave girl, for sacrificing your house like that!

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Freezing, I mean, Camping in Big Basin State Park


Okay, the camping trip, since you asked:
We could not have asked for better camping companions. The kids got along great, and the grown ups were evenly paced and relaxed, with a similar activity level. Perfect. I would go camping with the Tuppelos any time. It did not hurt that they brought a dozen bottles of red wine. These are totally my people.
It was f**cking freezing. Didn't get above, say, 55 degrees until we were packing up to go home. With
all my spreadsheets and lists and organizational orgasms, I did not prepare for this. I brought a jacket, and I brought a hat, but I did not bring my ski parka, or my gloves, or my fleece pants. I had my close-fitting fleece pullover (which is now soot stained, BTW) and when I had all my layers on I felt all sausaged in, like when you wear three pair of socks, so I was not only still freezing, but I was uncomfortable. I hung in there as long as I could. When the situation isn't ideal, but there's nothing to be done, I can rally for a while. But on the second
day of shivering, I couldn't take it anymore and I took to my sleeping bag, with the shivering dog, and laid there in desperation thinking, I'm never going to be warm again. The Tuppelos are going to think I'm a whiny gasbag and aren't going to want to go camping with me again. I'm a loser. A freezing, icicle of a loser.
On Sunday, in an act of desperation, Rob and I headed in to Santa Cruz while the little girls went to the junior ranger program, and the Tuppelos agreed to take charge. I just needed to be in a car with a heater for a while, y'know? By the time we got to Santa Cruz, it was 80 degrees and sunny, I was peeling off layer after layer, and we turned on the AC. It was such a relief.
We went to Pet Club to see about getting a sweater for the dog. I am not kidding about this. He was freezing, especially since I just got all his hair chopped off. The only thing they had left was a black fleece Harley Davidson doggy sweatshirt, so that 's what we got. Then we found an outdoor store to look for thermal underwear, or a jacket on sale, or anything, really, to keep me warmer, and found nothing. I did find a camping kettle, though, and that made me happy.
By the time we got back to the camp site, I had been normal body temperature for two hours or so and that was all I needed to have a new lease on life. I did not want to ruin my camping trip by being a sniveling bag of ice. Kelly lent me a blanket which I wore around my waist like a bath towel, and it made all the difference. The dog was in his bad-ass Harley sweatshirt, on my lap, sitting by the campfire with the little girls. We played a game where I start a story with a few sentences, and then we all take turns continuing the story. I started with a family of small people who lived deep in the forest in a hollow log, and Abby ran with it and took the small people to Disney Land to eat popcorn because they ran out of nuts and berries. Then I said they were eaten by a bear, and she said they made themselves flat and got pooped out of the bear, and went to a wine bar at the other end of the hollow log. I can never play this game without it degenerating into poop talk.
We also taught the kids the Fish Heads song, and they sang it all weekend. (See video below; totally worth a minute of your time.)
My organizing pretty much paid off, except for the underestimation of the cold, and I felt good about myself. I do have a few concerns, however: The first is camping hygiene. Kelly is very fastidious about her camping hygiene habits and makes sure to take showers and wash her hair and face, and get her kids cleaned up and all that. I, on the other hand, managed to brush my teeth every night, and clean my hands with handi wipes but that was about it. I didn't brush my hair, or take a shower, I didn't pay any attention to Leila's state of cleanliness, except to get her to brush her teeth, and we were all sloppy, smoke-scented messes by the time we left. I started to wonder if Kelly had the camping cleanliness thing totally under control, and I was just a pig. To check up on this, I called my friend who is a serial camper, who knows everything there is to know about this activity, and who I rely on to give me the last word on all things camping. She assured me that all she does when she is out in the wilderness is brush her teeth, and lets everything else go. This made me feel better, but then I remembered that she doesn't flush her toilet or wear underwear, so I had to consider the source, and I'm still flummoxed. I just don't mind being dirty, I guess, and if its wrong, I don't want to be right. Not in weather like that where the water out of the tap is frigid. I'd rather have a dirty face and alternating coats of bug spray and sun screen.
My other concern is the camping crap, otherwise known as gear. I swore when I was staging all the stuff, that I would not buy any more camping stuff. I had it all, I didn't need anything else. Today, dear reader, I went to REI and bought three camping pillows, a stuff sack, another duffle bag, and a pair of wool socks for the kid. When is it too much? I'm totally jealous of the Tuppelo's tent, too. They can stand up in theirs.
So that was camping. We have another trip in two weeks, and I still have an unopened can of baked beans and a full bag of marshmallows, so I'm all set. I should be careful, I may start to be considered outdoorsy which would totally mess with my rep'.


video

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Funny Little Diddy

Check this out.  I copied it from Next to Heaven I don't know how she posted the picture though,) and I can't stop watching it:

And Away We Go!

Less than 24 hours until we leave for the camping trip. I worked my fat ass off today. I started the day by going to Ikea, which I totally didn't have time for. But, I got some stuff for camping, then stopped in at REI, and went to Chipotle where, incredible though it may seem, I did not get my favorite carnitas burrito with sour cream, cheese and guacamole. I was just too full from the plate full of melted cheese that I had the night before at Celia's.
I seriously need to stop buying camping crap. I have more non-essential stuff than any camper could possibly want, including: a netted food cover to keep bugs away from my food, matching bandanas for Leila and me, a large citronella candle with an American flag on it (not the decor I was seeking) and loads of other shit that I have staged in the garage, ready to be loaded into the station wagon tomorrow.
Last year, I made a handwritten list of all the stuff I didn't want to forget. I looked for it the other day, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, our camping companions, who shall henceforth be known as The-people-who-live-in-Edith's-old-house (or TPWLIEOH or maybe just the Tuppelo's) sent me their extensive excel spreadsheet. I have revised it with color coding, and extended the list of categories to include Toiletries, and Dog, and every time I need to make a change (add can opener, delete the second mention of marshmallows,) I run to the computer. Honing the list has been the best part of the trip so far, and if it is not surpassed by wine and s'mores in front of the campfire tomorrow night, I have serious problems.
I have been on it today, my friends. Aside from my little superfluous trip to Ikea (which did yield cheap camping dish towels and a set of plastic kitchen utensils at a price so low I'd have been a fool not to buy them) I have kept very busy and not taken any naps. I baked 78 dozen chocolate chip cookies, I have make Pesto Pasta and Peas, I have collected most of the things on the massive list and put them in piles. I am good, people, very good. Thank goodness we can strap stuff onto the roof of the car, otherwise we would never - NEVER - get all this stuff in the back of the car. The thing that really throws it over the edge is the dog crate, but I can't bring the doggy without it.
Now, my feet hurt, and what's left on the list are naggy little things and things I can't reach. That's where Rob comes in. He has asked me to delegate some of these things to him, so I will. So far though, all I've asked him to do is take out the trash and the recycling which he hasn't done yet, and distribute the block party flyers through the neighborhood, which he kind of bitched about, but is doing now.
He has put forward a proposition that he will not try to boil my blood by being a smart-ass and messing with the perfectly organized system I have going unless absolutely necessary, in exchange for which I will try - TRY - to not fly off the handle when he does make a change or a comment. Suddenly, he wants to get the stuff to make bloody maries, even though I asked him, repeatedly, to review the Master Camping List, and the Menu (separate spreadsheet) and the shopping list to see if there was anything he wanted to add, and now, with... 16 hours to go, he wants bloody maries. I will try - TRY - to breathe. In... and out... In... and out...
Monday I will post pictures of the trip, and you can watch my family and me get progressively dirtier. Wish me luck.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Three days out, and we're all still alive.

We are going on a camping trip on Friday. Here's what happens any time we take any sort of trip, and what I always forget happens until its too late. Three days before we leave, and it doesn't seem to matter if it is by plane, car, boat or magic carpet, I go totally agro. I'm snappy and snarly, and in a complete state of irritation with Rob. I used to get physically ill and hyper-ventilate on vacation, so this is really an improvement. I can't tell you how many trips have begun with me not speaking to Rob, except to bark at him, until at least an hour and a half into a car trip, or until we're on the plane. He is a real sport about it, as he is with most of my charming idiosyncrasies.
Since my darling, goatee-less man is off at work all day, it falls to me to do all the legwork in preparation for camping. The planning, the shopping, the cooking and food prep, the inventory of camping gear, etc. etc. This is fine with me, as it keeps me off the streets. He will pick up the slack on the back end, unpacking the car, washing the dog, etc. So, last night, I was working on the master camping list, the menu, and the shopping list, for two hours (yes, two hours. Its all in excel and its a thing of beauty) and I just snarled and barked and did everything but throw shoes at the man. He was making jokes at my expense, and laughing at me, and I starting yelling, "Don't F with me now!"
It dawned on me at that moment that we were exactly three days before our trip. I mentioned this and he said he had just realized that, too, so I told him that, given our mutual understanding that I am completely controlling and irrational before a trip, he should not wind me up just to watch me go. He should step lightly, he should be loving, he should do everything I say, and quickly.
This is where being married for 150 years comes in handy: it takes a while, but eventually you know each other well enough to know that when husband says the basketball game has two minutes left on the clock, it will last at least another twenty minutes. Or that some of the dishes done by the husband will just have to be done over. Or that his one-hour softball game takes two hours, or that he will find odd errands to do at inappropriate times and its all okay. Its not even irritating. I just hope that he feels the same about all the things he knows about me, like that I turn into a lunatic before we travel. Maybe these things endear me to him. Sometimes, I'm just sorry that this poor guy has to be married to me. I'm looking around at my messy house and unfolded laundry, hatching a plan to go to Celia's tonight for chili rillenos, and I think, "what the hell is in it for him?"
I should really have sex with him more...

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

With or Without

I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the second of the six end-of-the-school-year luncheon/cocktail/pool parties and I have a question, prefaced by some set-up.
While I was in the hospital, Rob did some random things, like deciding it was the right time to bring all our spare change to the Coinstar and, though he blames it on becoming distracted by someone, he got a $130 gift card for iTunes. Huh? The other thing he did was grow a goatee. He's just turned 40, so maybe it has something to do with that, but he grew this goatee and did not pick up my subtle hints that I didn't like it and he should shave it off. So, I got more aggressive and made constant, merciless fun of his little tri-color chin hairs. He finally noticed, and got all pissy that I was being "mean" and didn't shave it off. I finally resorted to offering up my wifely talents in exchange for a clean shave, and that didn't really work either. (He got into bed, and I took one look at him and said, "you may as well put on your nose strip, you didn't keep your end of the deal.")
Finally, he shaved it off, after making sure I knew it was not my constant badgering that was making him do it. Fine, fine, have it your way. Now, we are soliciting opinions on With or Without. I vote Without. Et vous?

With...

Without

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Sweaty Piggy

It is 85 degrees outside, and its 9:15. Its about 95 degrees inside, but also 9:15. Its so warm, that we (meaning Rob) just planted our impatiens in our newly painted flower boxes, in the dark. He planted, the dog dug in the dirt, I drank wine. All as it should be. I spent most of the day helping a friend paint her kitchen. It was fun, and kitchen looks great, and I came home a sweaty piggy.
Here are a few things that have struck me as funny lately:

A few weeks ago, I asked Rob to make Leila and me some cinnamon toast. She had never had it, and I thought she should try it. So he did, and we both ate it, but, to my surprise, Leila said it was okay, but she didn't need to eat it again. I thought she'd go nuts for it and want it all the time. Butter? Sugar? Cinnamon? Riding on some toast? What's not to love? I was still eating mine, and realized that I kind of agreed with her. It just wasn't as good as I remembered. A little while later, Rob decided he would also like some cinnamon toast, so he made himself some. Fast forward a few days, and he admits to me that, while he was making his own cinnamon toast, he realized that he had previously grabbled another spice from the spice drawer that starts with a C and ends with and N, and had accidentally made us cumin toast. Like Leila, I wouldn't eat it again, but it was not as disgusting as you might imagine.

The other day, I was on the phone with my best friend who is a nurse. I call her whenever I have a hangnail, or Leila bumps her head, or I'm, you know, admitted to the ICU, because, for some reason, I think that her medical training means that she is interested in any malaise that may befall my family or myself. I'm sure she rolls her eyes when I call every time Leila has a fever and I ask, "What should I do?" It shows her love for me that she does not give in to the temptation to respond, "the same thing I told you to do the last one hundred times she had a fever, you forgetful whore!" So, I was reading off all my lab results to her, trying to pronounce the ridiculous names they have for these blood tests, names that ensure no lay person can ever read their own lab results, and I was concerned that, although none of my many doctors have found any reason for my repeated hospitalizations, most of my results seemed at the lower end of normal. Forgetting for a moment that it is entirely possible that a result on the higher end of normal would be much more dangerous than the lower end, I was sure that there was something to this pattern. She patiently waited for me to read off all the results, and listened to me get more anxious, and at the end of my blithering she said, "You interpret lab results like a French major." That shut me up, since it was completely true.

This same friend sent me a manilla envelope containing one Redvine of undetermined age that she found in her pantry, after I posted on Twitter than I love stale Redvines. I totally ate it, and it hit the spot.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Perry, Before and After



This morning...

He can see!

Matching hairdos no more!
(Does Perry look annoyed, or what?)





Why, thank you Mrs. C at Next to Heaven for this lovely award! Its my first and only, and I'm very excited!! Here are the rules:


1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link. (Done.)
2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.


There's only one problem: I don't think I follow 15 blogs yet, and some of the ones I do follow already got this award. So here's what I'll do: I'll list the blogs that I follow compulsively, and when a new one pops up that I can't tear myself away from, I'll add them later. I know this isn't part of the rules, but its all I got for now. You'd think that someone as bored as I would spend all day reading blogs, but I'm behind on my Oprah lately, and there's just a lot of pressure!!


Here are the blogs I read, in no particular order, who haven't, to the best of my knowledge, received this award: Check 'em out:

Bridget Jones Has Nothing on me I root for her and her peen counter

Little Miss Hadley Updates on the life and times of a two-year-old I've never met

Middle Age Biker Her kids are grown, and I get great perspective from the other end of the child rearing continuum.

Someday I'll Get There who may have already gotten this award, but I haven't seen it.

Dooce This is the lady who was on Oprah and supports her whole family by blogging (and, y'know, writing books) and I love the daily pictures of her ever-patient dog, Chuck.

The Merc Shop This is a friend who has started a business, and I like to shout out to the housewives that are trying to make a buck and still have dinner on the table (or call in the pizza order, in my case)

CakeStarr Because I just joined her book club and I love cake.


That's it for now. I know, its a short list. I'll get on it, I swear! Stay tuned for before and after pictures of Perry's summer hairdo!

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Of Course!

I'm never sure what I should write about my parents. Every now and again they hand me a zinger, but they're pretty private people, and God help me if they ever find this blog. But, in this case, the following topic was discussed over pork loin bar-b-q on mother's day at my brother's house, where I mentioned that I had already told one of my friends, so I think its fair game.
This morning, while on the phone with my mom, I mentioned that I had ordered a new sleeping bag for my upcoming camping trip, and she asked if it zips together with Rob's. I said it didn't, and I really didn't need it to. Then she said, "But then you can't make whoopee!"
Now, use of the word whoopee is, frankly, disturbing enough. Who says that? But the disturbance did not end there. I say to her, "The kid is sleeping right next to me!" and she says, "So?"
So. So! I started to rub my forehead with my fingers and said, "Please don't tell me that you and Dad did it in the tent while I was sleeping right next to you." In my head, I'm begging, pleading, in fact, not to hear what I'm about to hear, but she says, "Of course!"
Of Course. Of Course! I was verbally aghast, and all she had to say was, "Its natural! The kids are asleep, and if they wake up, you just tell them you're doing your exercises."
I'm not sure if I could have felt more dirty if I were actually camping at the time.
Am I a prude? Does everyone have sex in their tent with their kids sleeping right next to them? Am I missing out on something? Rob pointed out that if she was so comfortable under these circumstances, why did she need sleeping bags that zipped together? Why didn't they just unzip two singles and do it that way? It is dark in there, after all. My mom later pointed out that all the other campers can hear you, so you have to keep it down. WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?
In other news, there was a black Cadillac Escalade inching out of a parking space we wanted this weekend, and Leila was heard to say, "Move your black ass." Who raised this child?

Thursday, May 7, 2009

And the Band Played On

I'm sitting here, sipping a coke, needing to take a shower (after my work-out this morning) and instead deciding to procrastinate just a little bit longer. Its a beautiful day outside, and I don't like to blow dry my hair when its warm. I sweat too much. I never used to sweat at all, and now I sweat. Aging: such design flaws.
So, this morning I had my stress echo cardiogram. Remember I told you about this? I put on my work-out clothes, which included work-out pants that still had the tags on them and my sports bra, and went to the cardiac place to get it over with. The first thing they told me to do was undress from the waist up, and put a little gown on with the worn out velcro "fasteners" in the front. So much for the sports bra. I got it wrong the first time, so I had to try again, and put them in the front, as previously stated. Then they attached little electrodes all over me, put cables on the electrodes, and then did a resting echo. You lay on your left side with your left arm behind your head, and your right arm at your side. Pretty comfortable, actually, unless you don't like your left boob hanging out of your "fastened"-on-the-front gown. Its so cute: the bed has a little section cut out that they can lower, like a little trap door, so your boob can hang down. And by cute, I mean embarrassing.
Anyway, after the resting echo and all the other measurements, they put me on the tread mill and I start walking. The incline and speed increase, and in about five minutes or so I'm breathing really hard and wondering when it will end. I'm still in my lab gown, and I'm walking up a steep hill, and the boobs are all over the place. When the treadmill stops, you're supposed to jump off and dash over to the bed and drop your boob in the trap door, and they do another echo. They make you hold your breath which is really hard when you're breathing heavy. They took my blood pressure 100 times, and then it was over. I went behind the curtain and used that infernal gown to swab my pits, and threw it in the hamper.
I waited outside for the cardiologist, played a few games of solitaire on my iPod, and when she came out she asked, "Why were you sent here exactly?" I told her, and she said I didn't have pulmonary hypertension, which I had predicted, and then I went home. I know all these tests are a good idea, we have to look under every rock, but I've grown tired. I have one more next week, another blood draw in a few weeks, a pulmonary follow up, and I'm supposed to have a follow up with the ear nose and throat guy, but I think I'll blow that off. I'll be at the end of this particular diagnostic road then, and, unless I get sick again, I'll have a break.
In other news, I was talking to Rob on the phone, and he, very gently and politely asked that I not be watching TV when he got home, so we could eat dinner earlier and have a harmonious family experience. What a demanding shit head. Next thing you know, he'll want me to, I don't know, make dinner, or clean something, or fold some laundry! Just who in the hell does he think he is? Doesn't he know that Gilmore Girls is on at 5? Its probably a good thing to not watch Gilmore Girls before dinner. Whenever I see Luke's Diner, it makes me want hamburgers for dinner. A little dangerous.
My twelve year-old neighbor has started a band. They're practicing right now. Its soooo cute!!

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Phew!

Well, we're over the hives. That poor girl had them head to toe. She was miserable and cranky, and tired enough from the benadryl to be bitchy, but not tired enough to sleep. I felt for her, though. The worst part was, she had no sense of humor. The doctor at the after-hours clinic said he was going to listen to her heart and then put his stethoscope on her forehead - and, honestly, that's funny stuff - and she just stared at him like, "seriously?" I kept calling her Hivey McRasherstein, and she kept yelling, "Mommy! Its not funny!!!!" I was in the hospital with tubes up my nose and gross, grainy potassium tablets and I still had a sense of humor. Sheesh, some people.
I had a couple of mornings in there where I wanted to kill myself. The dog got into my room and ate the cat food and hid under the bed. Actually, that time, I guess I wanted to kill him. Then I knocked a wine glass to the floor with my elbow and it shattered. A wine glass! The chalice that holds the sacred mommy-juice! Its almost criminal. And there was other stuff, but I've blocked it out by now.
But, we're through it now. We on the other side. We made it. Now we have to get into the weening her off the TV and special treats that she gets when she is sick.
I have to go. My food photographer neighbor just dropped off a very pretty chocolate cake, and I have to eat it. She's trying to kill me.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Viva Las Vegas

We went to the annual school auction and shindig last night. Our school foundation raises a ton of money every year for the district, and last night was the big kahoona. It was a Las Vegas theme, which, frankly, is the perfect theme. One year, it was Kentucky Derby themed, and, though all I know about the Derby is big hats and mint juleps, it doesn't seem like a theme you can do much with. But Vegas has absolutely every stripe, so you can get really creative. I didn't get creative, though, I let other people do that, but they sure are fun to watch!
I don't care much for actual Las Vegas. I've only been there once, for work, spending the days in the convention center, which was preferable to being outside in the 109 degree heat. I'm far to stingy to gamble, or to spend real money on shows, and at the time I was still a very anxious and edgy person (unlike the mellow, laissez faire, carefree girl I am now.) It was hard for me to have fun in unfamiliar surroundings, and it was all a little much for me.
But the fake Las Vegas last night was super fun. All those perky blondies that I write about? They seem to take this opportunity to get wasted and dance around the dance floor like middle aged Britneys, and their husbands, clearly looking forward to the after party in the bedroom, dance up behind them and wiggle their hips and just look so silly. One of them flopped into the chair next to me and asked me if I knew where her purse was and then rubbed my thigh. Last year, one of my mom-friends said, "You know how when you go to a wedding with your parents, and you get totally embarrassed when they dance? We are now our parents. Its really sad." She said all of this while grooving to Brick House.
Don't get me wrong. I was one of those boozey housewives last year, whooping it up to She Shook Me All Night Long (and, really, who wouldn't?) and Rob was drunk enough to dip one of our friends, drop her and then fall on her. He also kept lifting his shirt, and pinching other dads' butts, at which I would have lifted one eyebrow if I had that particular talent. I'm fairly certain he got lucky that night, too, but who can remember? This year, though, is the year of my Near Death Experience, so everything is dialed back a bit. My knee, or actually the fear of aggravating my knee, and the so-uncute shoes I had to wear, prevented me from embarrassing myself with everyone else on the dance floor, and I got tired so we left before it was over. But next year, I'll be out there, baby, you can count on it. Rob says I'm a bad dancer, but, at this age, we all are. Sometimes I space out on the dance floor, and when I come-to, I'm just standing there, staring off into space, like a freak. Luckily, everyone else is too wasted to notice.
Here's another funny thing. There is a live auction where they raise big chunks of money. We're talking a couple grand for a parking space on the school campus, or another couple grand for some artwork made by third graders, and as I watched this without the benefit of a buzz, I noticed that its just a big pissing contest for the dads. I'm all for this if it means my kid's school has a computer lab and a music teacher, but its interesting to watch. The professional auctioneer clearly knows about the dad thing, so he eggs them on, tells them their children wont feel loved if they don't big higher on this trip to Mexico, and pits the balding guys against each other. You see the pride on the winning bidder's face, you can see that he gets a little charge by spending $2K on a football game in front two hundred other parents. So, the moms compete by dressing up and looking fabulous, and the dads compete by spending money. Luckily, Rob and I have no money, and I can only look so hot with my supportive shoes and extra 50 lbs. which means the pressure's off. Phew.

Friday, May 1, 2009

The Itchy and Scratchy Show


Leila and her hives, giving the thumbs down. Way down.

And speaking of parenting, my poor little Leila is a pitiful little mess. She broke out in hives last night, and they had spread this morning, and she looks and feels awful. She's like a little pile of red blotches on the couch, pinker than the blanket she's under, and she's miserable. Went to the doctor this morning, and it could take weeks for them to go away. I feel so bad for her! Its hard when there's absolutely nothing you can do once you administer the benadryl.
So, since I can't do anything to make her feel better, I can at least distract her from how horrible she feels by letting her have her dream day. She started her day with two hours of Playhouse Disney (bless that channel,) then Kung Fu Panda, then Stranger Safety, twice, then Sesame Street Singalong, and now she's watching Madagascar. I'm letting her shower me with crankiness, and getting her cool water, and crackers, and getting the dog to stop laying on her.
Once she started watching Stranger Safety (a really good little show about stranger danger, but with a more appealing name) I realized that I could finally watch Coal Miners Daughter, which I've been meaning to watch all week, on my computer with my headphones. I was totally saved from Safety Super Chick (I'm not making that up) by Sissy Spacek and Tommy Lee Jones. God, I love that movie. I'm telling you, I need a southern accent. Did you know Loretta Lynn had four kids by the time she was 18? I bet they got hives sometimes, too.