Hoooo-ters

So, about Colonial Williamsburg:  Its awesome, you should go there.  I had no real interest in going there, but went because Leila is in the thick of her revolutionary war/colonial times section at school, culminating in Colonial Day, where we parents have to cobble together a colonial costume and watch the kids square dance.  So we went to Colonial Williamsburg because we take our child's education seriously, and we are the world's best parents. 

We started our visit with the Tavern Ghost Walk which describes all the paranormal happenings in the haunted houses of Colonial Williamsburg.  The place does seem kind of haunted.  I did not see any ghosts, but I really wanted to.  Leila was riveted. 

Then we went to Outback Steakhouse, where Leila has been dying to go ever since she started liking steak.  It was on a strip of Regular Williamsburg (as opposed to the Colonial part) with every chain restaurant and hotel currently in existence.  After that, we went to Dairy Queen, (or, The Haunted Dairy Queen) which was right across the street from a Hooters.

I've never actually been to a Hooters, but I know about the scantily clad waitresses and the weird panty-hose.  Leila saw the cartoonish logo and asked, "What's that place?" 

"Hooters." I told her.

"What do they serve there?" asked she, probably looking for a back-up steak place.

"Wings," I said, "Owl Wings."

At first, she didn't believe me, but I made a pretty convincing argument given their owl logo and the name Hoooo-ters.  I told her they were grilled and deep fried, and kept hitting Rob in the leg so he wouldn't ruin the good feminist* thing I had going. (*I realize this feminism was based on lies and aversion therapy, but I'm okay with that.)

Rob gets nervous when she starts to become enraged with the inhumanity of the world, so he tried to soften my story by saying, "They also serve burgers."

Me: "Yeah, owl burgers."

Leila: "Mom!  That's so disgusting!"

Me: "Well, what are they supposed to do with the owl carcass once they cut the wings off? It would be more disgusting if they just wasted it all."

And this is how I have (hopefully) forever associated Hooters with something repugnant and vile in the tender mind of my daughter.  See?  World's best parent. 

Pukey McBarfsalot

Yes, I've been on vacation.  A mad cap tour of the Washington D.C. metro area.  I like to write about these trips backwards, so I'll start with the flight home.

We flew Virgin America, which I loved, but not enough to embrace turbulence.  I hate turbulence and have been known to grip the knees of strangers during bouncy flights.  To prepare for this. I took a leftover xanax from my crown.  Bless my dentist.  Then I had a glass of wine.  The plane bumped, and I took another half xanax.  I was still wide awake, and freaking out.  Rob asked the flight attendant to ask the pilot how long the turbulence would last, which she kindly did, and then she brought me more wine on the house and said she'd keep it coming.  So, if you're counting, that's .75 mgs of xanax, and two good sized glasses of chardonnay. 

The turbulence ends, and I'm feeling better, thought not at all sleepy.  I arrange my head and arms on my tray table and try to sleep, but no dice.  Then Leila starts getting jittery.  She's bored, she can't sleep, she's starting to come out of her skin, she's hungry, etc. etc.  I tell her to eat the peanut butter sandwich I made for her.  She says its gross because the honey has saturated the bread and the whole thing is a sticky mess.  So I tell her to suck it up and try to sleep, and she keeps jittering and whining.  I look over to Rob who is, of course, asleep.  The man can sleep anywhere, any time, and I can hardly sleep in a bed, in the dark, after some ambien. 

Suddenly Leila says. "I'm gonna throw up!  I have to go to the bathroom! I'm gonna throw up!!!" I manage to find the air sickness bag and the poor thing barfs her little guts out into the bag.  I will note, now, that she did not end up eating the gross peanut butter sandwich, so don't start blaming me for her stomach upset.  I woke Rob, and made him get up to let us into the aisle (he didn't want to, he wanted us to climb over him) and I took my poor little baby to the bathroom to wash her face and hands, get some apple juice and fizzy water, and then we sat back down.

She ended up throwing up 4 more times, once in the car on the way home.  I got a pile of air sickness bags from the flight attendant, and Rob said he probably would need one, too.  He felt like crap, and was in no shape to help me deal with a puking 11 year old. One of the bags ripped as I handed it to Leila, and she puked in her lap.  I made use of the airplanes clean-up kit, which includes rubber gloves, bags for puked on clothes, regular wipes, aromatherapy wipes, and a haz mat bag for all your clean up items.  Worked pretty well.

So, its a good thing that all my drugs and the third glass of wine didn't kick in.  I had to get all the luggage and carry everything, and take Leila to the bathroom in the airport to wash her face again, while Rob laid on a bench looking green.  He did not end up throwing up, thank goodness.

We got home at midnight, slept well, and everyone felt fine in the morning, except me, because all those drugs and all that alcohol finally kicked in so I slept all day.  Then I couldn't sleep again during the night. 

I can totally see how people become addicted to prescription drugs.  Its so tempting!

Next, in stark contrast, I'll be telling you all about Colonial Williamsburg.

Golden Girl

I was watching Golden Girls this weekend.  Its part of the new line up on TV Land, and I'm sometimes so desperate to watch TV that I watch bad TV from the 80s. 

Golden Girls is pretty racy.  I started watching it with Leila, and I was all, "Nope, not appropriate for you.  Back to cooking shows.  Or Sex in the City."  That Blanch: What a slut.

But here's the thing about Golden Girls.  I remember this show as one about three older women whose husbands are either dead or divorced out of the picture, living together in Florida, possibly in a retirement community, with an ancient Italian woman.  The episode I watched the other day had Blanch thinking she was pregnant and then finding out she was going through menopause.  MENOPAUSE. 

Think about this for a minute:  This means that the Golden Girls, who were, like, 70 when I was first watching it in prime time in the 80s, were really around 50.  This means that I am almost old enough to be a Golden Girl!  I have friends who would totally qualify to live in that house in Florida!  My mother would be the ancient Italian grandma (only my mom would be German and wouldn't be caught dead in a house coat.) 

These Girls are not Golden!  They are far from it!  Bea Arthur totally could have dyed her hair and not looked 70.  In fact, the woman who played Sofia, Bea Arthur's mother, was younger than Bea Arthur.  What were we thinking in the 80s?  That women in their 50s were dried up old ladies? (Except for Blanch who was anything but dried up.)

I'm not sure why, but I feel insulted by this.  Almost as insulted as I feel when I notice that the Huxtables have 5 children, two full time jobs, and you never see a babysitter or a cleaning lady on any episode. 

I really have to stop watching so much TV...

The Scale Hates Me, I just know It

It is that time of the morning when I desperately want to go back to bed.  To grab the dog and forcibly snuggle him and wake up at 10:30 even more tired than I am right now.  Lately, I've been indulging in this pass time a little too often.  In fact, its become a real option, like when I get up I say to myself, "well, this is a morning I'm going back to bed." or even the night before I'm all, "Stayed up to watch the Daily Show, should probably go back to bed tomorrow."

I have a lot to do today, though.  I'm going to struggle through.  My eyes want to close, and I could probably still find a warm spot on my bed somewhere, and the house is quiet and all the stars are in alignment, but NO!  I will stay upright!  I will get dressed!  I will do dishes and put away laundry and make the magnetic bed! I will drop the bags off at Goodwill and the expired animal medications off at the vet, and I will pay the Visa bill!

Here's the other reason I want to go back to bed.  I'm supposed to weigh myself this morning, and I reallyreallyreally don't want to.  I had Kentucky Fried Chicken last night.  This is only the third time in my life that I have had KFC, and it really should be the last.  I had one of their bowls.  And a churro.  The churro was sinfully delicious and I wont be able to stop thinking about it all day, but the bowl was regrettable.  I'm afraid to see what the scale says.  If it could talk it would say, "Tsk tsk tsk.  STAY AWAY FROM THE EASTER CANDY, YOU WHORE!"

Have a good weekend everybody!  I hope your weigh in is motivating, and your Visa bill is paid, and you have bounded out of bed today full of vigor and hope and energy! If this is the case, I will try not to hate on you.

ADDENDUM:

The scale does indeed hate me.  I am slogging through this day, and its not getting any better.  I still want to go back to bed, but I've made the bed now, so I'd have to make it twice today if I get back in there.  Why is this house such a mess all the time?

Help!

I just busted into the Easter candy.  Its like Halloween, but in spring.  The blitz is not going well lately.  I've lost momentum.  I haven't walked in weeks, much to my dog's dismay, and I feel stalled.

Candy is so damn good, too.  When Rob and I went away for his birthday, we went to one of those bulk candy stores where you walk out having spent $20 on candy before you can even think about it.  I got my favorites: Banana salt water taffy (I don't actually like bananas, but I like banana flavored things) and peppermint salt water taffy, salted caramel and fun dip.  The next day I got my crown, and now I can't eat any of those taffies or caramels and I feel like I've been robbed.  It'll be a good two weeks before I can eat them.  I was hoping to be able to just eat them all so they would be gone, but they're just staring at me.

And now there's Easter candy.  I always forget that I only have one kid and I buy so much Easter candy and don't realize it until I'm filling all those plastic eggs.  And I'm the only one who fills them, and now that Leila goes to bed later, I'll probably be sitting up at 11 on Saturday night filling plastic eggs with all this shit, and then getting up at 5 and hiding them all in the back yard, and then stealing them out of Leila's Easter basket because she doesn't get overly excited about candy since there seems to be candy around this place all the time.

Candy.  My nemesis.  Also cake.  And hamburgers.  Help!

Dream a Little Dream

Its after midnight as I write this and I'm not in the mood to sleep.  Which is not to say that I'm not sleepy, I'm yawning and everything, but its quiet and dark and I'm a little keyed up.

Its Oprah's fault.  After all televisions being tuned to basketball all weekend, I settled in to watch some OWN.  She interviewed the Facebook COO lady, Justice Sotomayor, Beyonce, and Stevie Nicks.  Not all together, although that would be very entertaining.  Then I went to bed and read some more stuff in my Oprah magazine, and now I'm all pumped up on Oprah.

Problem is, all these interviews and articles are meant to be empowering, and motivating, and, honestly, all they make me feel is, "I am such a little chicken shit."

They leave me confused about what I'm supposed to do.  Two of the women interviewed threw themselves into work, and wrote books, and the other two also threw themselves into work, but all the while pursuing their artistic imperatives.  I spend an awful lot of time watching TV and talking to my dog.  I would go out and start being my best self tomorrow, but I have to go to the post office, and we're out of bread and cat litter.

I like my life.  I like it a lot, TV and all, but I wonder if one day I'll look back and gawk at all the time I've wasted.  Or maybe all this wasted time will culminate in something amazing.  Maybe I'm just biding my time waiting around for my a-ha moment and after that, things will really get rolling.  We're not all going to be supreme court justices, or run internet companies, or be rock stars (although I think I still have a shot at that last one, what with the bangs) but what kind of dreams do you dream when you're 42 and you haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up?  I dream that there will be a block of really good decorating shows on my DVR tomorrow when I get home.  I dream that I will have an inspiration about what to make for dinner, and I will bliss out cooking it while listening to music.  I dream that my cat will go a day without puking on my rug.  I dream that I make it through the day without consuming more than my allotment of 1533 calories.  That I will have remembered to put a coke in the fridge before I'm ready to drink a cold one.  That the prices on round trips from Seattle come down this week.  I dream that, some day, I will get a new garage door, and find the right rug for my bedroom.  I dream that my foot will get better and that I'll be able to wear high heels again.  Is that enough?  The women in these interviews said to "aim high" and that they were proof that you could make your dreams come true.  What if your dreams are little instead of big? 

My mom dreamed of seeing the world and she did.  Right now, I am dreaming of seeing the inside of my eyelids, and of getting my permanent crown so I can stop clenching my teeth.  That's enough, right?

I Got Banged

I may have mentioned a few weeks ago, in my post about the baby chicks, that I got bangs.  Not banged, you Ukrainian perv, bangs.  I had been thinking I needed to do something new with my hair having worn it the same way, more or less, for fifteen years, and then I saw this movie called Side Effects with Roony Mara, and at the end my friend asked me, "So, what'd you think?" and I said, "I think I should get bangs."  See, Roony Mara, who is so watchable its a little unsettling, had bangs in this movie and they were all I could think about.  Her hair-do wasn't particularly stylish or anything, but there was just something about it.

I made the mistake of asking my husband, my daughter, and my mom if they thought I should get bangs.  They all said no way.  The only person that seemed in favor of it was the woman who cuts my hair, and she is very stylish and relevant, and she said she thought it was a great idea.  This also happens to be the same woman with the baby chickens.  After we took care of the baby chicks and set them off on their journey to become food, we talked about the possibility of me getting bangs, and I showed her movie stills of Roony Mara, and she was all, "How about now?"

I washed my hair in her kitchen sink, and then she lopped off the hair in front of my face.  She asked if I could feel it yet, that I had bangs, and I couldn't.  So she kept shaping, and cutting, and layering, snipping around my head like she always does when she cuts my hair, and suddenly I looked in the mirror and - whoa - I had bangs, man.

I know this seems like I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill here, but these bangs have been a freakin' revelation.

I went to a school fundraiser the other night, mostly attended by women and some uncomfortable men, and my bangs were the talk of the night.  (Well, except for by the 98% of attendees who don't know me, or give two shits about my hair.)  Every person I talked to went nuts over my bangs.  I finally found my friend, White Pants, and tales of my bangs had made their way to her and she commented on them before she even got a good look at them; like, "Everyone is talking about your bangs!"

What an ego boost!  Seems I can't leave the house without talking about my bangs! 

If you look around, I would say that roughly 40% of all the women you look at have bangs.  Its not, like, a big deal, and if you're reading this and you have bangs, you probably think I'm nuts.  But I now believe I was meant to have bangs, and it just took me this long to get here.

Of course, my bangs have a mind of their own.  One part really wants to go sideways instead of down, and if I don't blowdry them right away they look very Flock-of-Seaguls.  When my hair is wet from the shower I look like The Fonze, and sometimes, even after the most aggressive of blowdries, they feather backwards like the 80s.  I call them my Carly Rae Jepsen bangs, and Rob hates this.  Michelle Obama bangs isn't the correct title either, so we'll just call them my mid-life, rock'n roll bangs.

Stay tuned a year from now when I start writing about what a pain in the ass it is to grow out bangs...