Apparently, I have always been weird.
Exhibit “A”
This is the front of a postcard that I sent to Sister C when I was in college and she was in middle school and she was stuck at home with mono.
And to further prove my point, here is what I wrote on the back…
I am trying to remember if the whole microwave-as-a-clothes-dryer thing actually worked. College was awesome.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
Sheepdog has always said, “If you see Stacy running, you had better call the police. Because someone has got to be chasing her.”
You see, my husband knows me well and he definitely knows that I do not like to run. I never have. I’m just not so inclined. I am more of a cheerleader.
But Sheepdog is a runner. He is mostly a bike rider, but he is also a runner. Run, Sheepdog, run.
He has been running throughout most of our marriage. No, not away from our marriage, silly. Throughout. Although, in truth, maybe sometimes he is dreaming of running away. I know I sometimes do. Just not while running. But I digress.
Sheepdog has completed a couple of triathlons, but the swimming part always gets him. He swims like I would imagine a T-rex swimming… like he weighs in the tons and has disproportionately short arms. The triathlon I remember best he did in Brigantine, New Jersey, when Kid B was just an itty-bitty thing. They started off swimming in waves. Each wave (divided by age and gender) had a different color rubber swim cap, so it made it easier to identify your swimmer when they finished the swim portion through the rough waves of the bay. I don’t recall exactly, but I do recall that his wave (young, fast men in robin’s egg blue caps) came bobbing to shore first, but not Sheepdog. Then the young, fast women started to swim in. Still no sign of Sheepdog. The older, not-so-fast men, then some kids and even the older women started running out of the cold water. I think a couple of handicapped people swam to shore, as did a woman who was well over 100-years-old (I might be remembering that part incorrectly, but you get my point). Finally, Sheepdog wearily dragged himself up the boat ramp and onto his bike. Satisfied that he did not have to be brought in on a rescue boat, he then took off angrily on his bike as if it were an extension of his own body. He rode like the wind.
And he ran like the wind, too, all the way to the finish line back on par with many of the fast, young men. And I stood there with Kid A and Kid B and the diaper bags and the snacks and the double stroller, and I think my parents were there too, and we cheered as loud as our voices would cheer as Sheepdog ran under the marker and clocked his time. It was a grand celebration at that finish line.
Sheepdog has also competed in marathons. That same year, he ran in the 39th Atlantic City marathon. Once again, I stood at the windy finish line with Kid A and Kid B and the diaper bags and the snacks and the double stroller, and we cheered and hollered as he completed twenty-six point two miles of running along the boardwalk and the streets of Atlantic County using only the power of his own mind and body. And he did it in just under four hours. And it was again a grand celebration at the finish line, especially because this time he didn’t almost die in some back bay because of his dinosaur flaw.
Sheepdog says, “I was running!”
He went on to run another marathon in Philadelphia after Kid C was born. He trained so as to not die on the swim portion and he “Tri-ed” again a few more times after we moved to Georgia. He has ridden in countless bike races, all over these United States. They are each different but sometimes the races all blur together in my mind. The end is always a grand celebration at the finish line. A celebration of athleticism, of willpower of the human mind, of setting and attaining seemingly impossible goals. And of not drowning. But mostly the finish line is a celebration of people.
Yes, I have stood and celebrated at many finish lines. My heart aches for those who were there at the Boston Marathon when the bombs went off. I watched the news in horror, found hope in the helpers and cheered with America when they captured the suspect. Boston may be strong, but I fear they are a little bit harder inside after the events that unfolded last week. I know I wondered if I would ever want to be at any finish line ever again.
But then I decided something… I decided that I do still wish to be there. I want to celebrate athleticism and willpower and goals. Mostly, I want to cheer for the people, because mostly, people are good. I will continue to send my kids off to school. I will keep going to the movies. I will continue to live this life that I have been blessed with to the fullest. I will try to be one of the helpers. And I will ALWAYS be cheering as loudly as I can at the finish line. And I hope to see you all there.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
Have you missed me?
Well, I’ve been super busy working out and learning how to make bread from the wheat grain and adding carbonation to water and giving all of my attention and mommy love to kids who have been sick since last November. Oh, and then Sheepdog and I went back to Mexico. (To read about last year’s trip CLICK HERE )
Earmuffs, kids. Consider yourselves warned.
Ahhhhh, Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Say it with me with the accent… “MAY-He-Co.”
That magical land where all I do is sleep and sunbathe and drink and read books. And that He ‘n and She ‘n thing with my sexy husband. Maybe that’s how I lost five pounds on vacation. It’s definitely how I got a nice suntan and lost the bags under my eyes and wiped the scowl off my face.
When we left Atlanta last week, Sheepdog had a full beard. He hadn’t grown a beard since Kid A was a little bitty, so the mountain man thing was kind of a first for the kids… and most of them HATED it. And I mean started every sentence with, “So you’re going to shave that nasty beard and…” But I loved it, so it stayed (Sheepdog’s no dummy, folks). But then it got itchy and too warm for a Baja vacation, so I told him he could lose it, but only if he would take it off in stages. And… It… Was… Awesome.
“Me gusta tu barba” – Kesha (when she’s in Cabo)
I found it surprisingly/ disturbingly sexy even though I burst out laughing every time I looked at him (as did my sister and my mom). My brother-in-law and most of the staff at the resort thought it was spectacular beyond words (the male staff was envious because a new corporate policy prohibited them from having any kind of facial hair… “Nos sentimos como señoras,” they lamented). Then my dad said something on the golf course about not really liking it because he didn’t want his daughter having sex with a Mexican porn star. So Sheepdog shaved the very next day (again, Sheepdog is no dummy, folks).
Adiós, bigote.
Now, you may be presuming that I am well versed in the Spanish language, but you would be wrong. I am, in fact, a bit heavy-handed with the Google Translate today. Having resolved to learn conversational Spanish after last year’s trip, Sheepdog set us up with a program called Pimsleur, which stresses active participation instead of rote memorization. All I needed to do was take thirty minutes each day to listen and repeat, without interruption.
It didn’t happen.
I tried, but thirty minutes is an excruciatingly long time to be still and focused when you have a gazillion other distractions and things to do before the kids get home from school. My lessons would go something like this…
Voices from my iPod: “This is Unit One of Pimsleur’s Spanish I. Listen to this Spanish conversation: Perdóne, señorita. ¿Entiende Inglés? No, señor. No entiendo. Hablo español un poco. ¿Es usted un norteamericano? Sí, señorita. In the next few minutes, you will learn not only to understand this conversation, but to take part in it yourself.” Me: (to no one in particular, especially since I am alone in my car) “Eh. But I do want a margarita and some guacamole. I wonder what shows recorded last night. ’Norteamericano’ is a funny word. ’Norteamericano. Norteamericano. Norteamericano.’ I wish I could take a nap right now.” (turns off iPod)Oh, how I wish I took Spanish when I was still in school. Instead I learned Latin and French, which (fortunately?) stuck with me. Now, every time I go to places where they speak a foreign language, even though I have toiled (see above) over my adult Spanish lessons so that I may converse on the most basic of levels, it is the language d’amour that sneaks out of my mouth when I’m not paying attention.
The maids in Cabo would come to the house every day. I wanted to say hello and genuinely thank them for doing the menial tasks that I, too, am familiar with most days at home (also to relatively little applause), but I’m not touching said chores with a ten-foot pole during my glorious week of vacation. I also wanted to grab my swimsuit and get poolside.
Me: “Hola, señorita. Gracias (internal dialogue: for washing my towels and changing the sheets on my sex bed). Pardonnez-moi (more internal dialogue: while I lay out in the sunshine and drink a Pacifico with a lime. Oops, did I just speak French?). Adiós.”I meant to say “excuse me” in Spanish (“perdón”). Ironically, my French slip was a bit Freudian, as “pardonnez-moi” actually means “forgive me.”
Yes, please forgive me for being an idiot but also for having an awesome time in MAY-He-Co. Especially whilst you have to do all of the crappy jobs. Gracias, merci, and gracias again.
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Along with the facial hair props that heavily influenced our husband and wife activities in Mexico, I brought some awesome shoes to the party. Sheepdog liked them very much.
Zapatos de las vacaciones, Perro pastor aprobado. Note the rainy Atlanta backdrop. Trust me… they looked even better in the Mexican sunshine.
Good thing too because, all too quickly, our week was up and our vacation over and we were on a plane back to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport and the rain, rain, rain that has turned Atlanta into Seattle-East. We thanked Grandma and Grandpa with genuine passion for playing Headbandz and minding the store for a whole week and we hugged the kids with genuine passion too because we truly missed them.
Then Kid D threw up in the dugout during baseball practice, less than twenty-four hours after our return. And Kid C was sick with chest/ sinus congestion and we were dealing with snot and kid puke and diarrhea.
Welcome home. Welcome back to life with five kids. Bienvenido a casa and bienvenue à la vie avec cinq enfants.
Sheepdog, we’ll always have Cabo.
As my friend, Fat Bastard, says… only fifty-and-one-half weeks and 1,695 miles to go…
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
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I decided to be nice and add a translation for today’s bilingual (trilingual?) post. You’re welcome…
Dos/ Deux = Two in Spanish/ French Me gusta tu barba = I like your beard Nos sentimos como señoras = We feel like women Adiós, bigote = Goodbye, mustache Zapatos de las vacaciones, Perro pastor aprobado = Vacation shoes, Sheepdog approvedI have said this before, but it bears repeating…
Sometimes I just can’t control my own ornery.
I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good. Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle. That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago. She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered. Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell. And I sure do miss her.
“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”
Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse). I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout. Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.
I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment. He was definitely new. But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy. As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.
“Ooooh! You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.
“Oh yeah? Anything I can use right now?” I asked, unimpressed unless there was.
He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity. ”Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables. And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”
Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back. ”I know what?”
I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands. It is a coupon for tampons. Harmless, little cotton tampons. And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out. My ornery is just begging to come out and play.
“Tampons,” I say boldly. ”Can’t you even say the word? Tampons, tampons, tampons.” My voice is getting louder. Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane. ”It is 2012. You are a grown-ass man. You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.
“Shhhhhhhhhhh! You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt. ”Stop saying that word!”
I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing. ”So you’re single, right? (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct) Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud. So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home. I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip. Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon. It will be good for you.”
I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies. During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure. I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.
When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner. Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit. And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?
I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period. More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
You know how especially this time of year everybody has to have something weird and specific for school or sports or work or a hobby or whatever and they need it right now? Just within the past week or two I have had to provide six individual flowers, a funny hat, Swedish fish, a baby picture, a bag of pretzels, a foam roller, a metal dog bowl, a plain white t-shirt, a South African recipe, a bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano Double Fudge cookies, a food that starts with the letter “U,” an unopened sleeve of plastic cups, 2 inflatable pool swim rings, seven metal stakes, and a cut-up lemon. And there’s never much notice because everybody is trying to cram everything into the last few weeks before school lets out and summer begins.
Plus, we are still attending all of the regular season practices and classes and now their accompanying End of the Year/ Season parties and celebrations as well. So our family calendar and all of the driving and carpooling and shuttling has been kicked up a notch. And not even my regular stockpile of supplies can be counted upon for all of these strange and urgent requests. (My father-in-law thinks that between my garage, basement and pantry I have my own Kroger going on and he’s not too far off the mark). Still, I find myself running to the store almost every afternoon lately to fill the demands that I do not have already on hand, and that means “running in” with some, if not all, of my kids. Ugh, the herding turtles suckfest. My patience is at an all-time low.
I have tried bargaining with what I have available, but my kids never agree to bring in freezer-burned edamame when they are supposed to be showing up with Sour Patch Kids. Picky, picky, picky.
Since I am rarely up for carting these kids around with me to the stores last minute, I like to ask Sheepdog to stop instead. I can justify this pass off of parental responsibility because (a) he is either alone or only has the older kids with him and they can get in and out of the car by themselves and they can usually be trusted in a parking lot, (b) it is way past dinnertime and when he goes out and the odds are reduced that he’ll get caught in the middle of a bitch-slap fight for the last rotisserie chicken from the heated display, and (c) he will use any excuse to go out and pick up a few extra Hershey bars or sleeves of Smarties for his late night snack… “they just fell into the cart!”
Sheepdog is a great team player and he always goes without complaint. But even patient Sheepdog gets frustrated with the traffic and the scavenger hunt and by the time he has gone to a second or even third store to get some rare item, he has little or no patience left with the people at the register. This is how it went when he was once checking out with a disposable camera, a very specific (and not easy to locate) type of long-hair conditioner, and some candy. He was already tired and overworked and ready to be home eating his treats. Calgon, take me away.
“Will that be all, sir?” asked the clerk.
“Yes. Oh, and I have a CVS card,” replied Sheepdog.
“What?”
“I have a CVS card,” he said again with his irritation showing itself in tone and volume.
“Huh?”
“I… Have… A… CVS… Card.” I believe his patience evaporated completely with the last syllable.
“Sir, this… is… Walgreens.”
Oops.
Wish Sheepdog some more patience for tomorrow…
Oh, hello. I’ll bet you thought that I forgot about you. Well, I promise that I didn’t. I have been appropriately guilt-ridden for not properly tending to this blog over the past few weeks (months), but frankly there are six other people who live in this house who have become increasingly demanding lately and they tend to yell and cry right in my face when I ignore them. This blog just silently nags at me. What with the squeaky wheel and all, appeasing the natives comes first. Then I tend to collapse into my bed, exhausted.
I honestly can not believe the speed at which time is passing. I feel like I’m living in some kind of crazy warp. Every day I wake up and I blink and it is night. I am trying to enjoy the little things and live in the moment and all of the stuff that they tell you to do in the country music songs, but it seems an impossible task when complete months are whizzing by me without fully registering. For example, just last week I went to the bathroom and saw some blood and presumed I was dying rather than believe that four weeks had passed since my last period. It in fact had, but it felt like there was just no way that was possible.
So I find myself re-adjusting my daily schedule. I am playing virtually no video games and I hardly even recognize the Atlanta Housewives anymore (Kim’s son is probably in high school now, for all I know). Santa brought me P90X2 for Christmas (by the way, he and the pleasantly plump Mrs. are on the Biggest Loser this season, which is totally freaking my younger kids out) and I have been working out almost every day as well. The kids’ sports and activities are back in full swing, as is school (picture me Tebowing for the short Winter Break). But I love, love, love writing this blog, so I just have to make a few more adjustments so I can fit it back into my daily life. Or I have to invent some kind of machine that can create more hours in the day. I should get Sheepdog working on that.
Did you see the game last night? This kid is something special.
I think it was Kid C that noticed me mumbling something one day as I was walking from the kitchen out to the garage. She was waiting for me in the car because I had to drive her somewhere. As I climbed in to my seat she asked me, “Did you just whisper ‘BRB,’ and who were you talking to because the door is closed?”
For those of you who don’t text, or live in this century, or maybe still use a Palm device, I’ll explain that “BRB” is short for “be right back.” And apparently I have been saying it to nobody in particular every time I go out for a while now. I didn’t consciously realize I was saying it at all.
So I thought about it while I was driving around. Maybe I was saying “BRB” to the house. Maybe I was saying it to the people who were inside (although sometimes there were none). But I’d really like to think that I was saying “BRB” to my blog. Because I really do miss it. And in my weird time warped existence, maybe I am just now getting right back. So here’s to many more blog posts in 2012, and me finding the time to write them!
Also, effective immediately you can find This Is How I Do It at http://www.tihidi.com (the “wordpress” part is now unnecessary). And some of you mentioned that you stopped getting notifications whenever I publish new posts. Wordpress still can not figure that one out, but you can re-subscribe by entering your email at the top right of any page. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you are enjoying the peek behind my curtain.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
Yesterday morning I went into the shop for my annual lady parts check-up. I can’t imagine that anyone would ever think of this as a fun thing to do, but I will let you in on a little secret. I figured out a way to make the yearly pull back of the drapes not so awful. First, you need to laugh out loud about the ridiculousness of it all. Then you need to get a totally hot doctor. Trust me, it makes a world of difference.
I have been going to the vaginacologist since my late teens. My first one was a woman doctor in Philadelphia, and the only things I remember about that experience are that I went by myself, I wore jean overalls to the appointment (it was 1989, cut me some fashion slack), and I got my very first flat tire on the Atlantic City Expressway on the drive home. I vaguely recall believing for a second that a police helicopter had landed upon my Honda CRX just after I passed through the Egg Harbor toll plaza (a la Goodfellas) and I figured they were coming to get me because I lied to the doctor about not having sex and needing birth control (that, apparently, is one of the things that Catholic high school guilt will do to you).
Now, after years of modesty-obliterating experiences… a vaginal delivery, four cesarean sections, a D&C procedure, three mammograms, trans-vaginal ultrasounds for every pregnancy and what seems like doctors putting everything short of a partridge in my pear tree, a simple annual exam should not faze me in the least. Plus, it seems like every doctor I see is one of those teaching types who always has an entire boy scout troop following them around (presumably earning their pap smear badges). So, at this point I am totally used to being naked on a table in front of a crowd.
Yet every year I get all sweaty and nervous as I sit in the chair and fill out my paperwork. Then I get even more uneasy as I put on the paper vest and blanket (apparently it has more fashion staying power than the jean overalls) and stare at a poster of all of the possible types of uterine tumors while I wait for the nurse to come in. Is this really the best time to take a blood pressure reading?
So I do my relaxation exercises and take deep, cleansing breaths and count backwards from ten and think of my happy place. Then the hot doctor comes in and I feel better immediately. Could it be that he is getting cuter? Seriously, the man is really attractive. I shake off the distraction and we catch up on our families and go over the standard medical stuff and he asks if there is anything I am concerned about.
I tell him about my recent weight gain and crazy mood swings and waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep. He then asks me how old my mother was when she started menopause, and I tell him that he is not really that cute when he says mean things. He rolls his eyes at me. Then he says we should check my thyroid just in case and then he has me lie down on the table to begin the examination.
Hot Doc is totally feeling me up for a breast exam. I am trying to be mature and maintain a professional tone, but there is this ornery part of me that always feels the uncontrollable need to say something.
“So, the one good thing about this stupid weight gain is that my boobs are totally huge now. My husband sure isn’t complaining about that!” I say to no one in particular. The regular nurse suppresses her laughter but the nurse-in-training at the foot of the table lets at least one giggle out before she composes herself. Hot Doc just shakes his head. The boy scouts titter and confirm to one another that I just said, “boobs.”
I hang on because I know we are almost at the grand finale… the internal exam. Hot Doc is now situated between my legs with a miner’s hat and a tool that resembles a small post-hole digger. Awesome. I hate this part, especially because the lawyers make the docs say, “I am going to touch you now” before they start, which makes it super creepy. It gets even more weird if the doctor makes small talk as he is nosing around down there. Then, after the pap smear (oooh, I’m totally getting a bagel afterwards), just as Hot Doc is elbow-deep in my hoo-hah and palpating my abdomen, somebody’s phone starts to ring.
In my next life I want to come back as a lion. Nap in the sun. Eat a big steak. Repeat.
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
Awkward silence.
Once again the ornery in me takes control and I blurt out, “Well, it’s a good thing that I shaved this morning. Otherwise I would be totally offended by that ringtone.”
Hot Doc actually had to put down his tools and step out of the room for a minute. He was still wiping away laughing tears when he returned and said to me, “I’m sorry, but that was by far the funniest thing I have ever heard while sitting in this position.”
Hot Doc definitely loves me back.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
There are a few television shows that Sheepdog and I watch together after a majority of the kids are (fingers crossed) in bed for the night. After the stories are read and the monsters have been sprayed and everybody gets in one last pee, we sneak down to the basement and go on a pretend date. And they’re the best kind of dates, too, because we get to stretch out on a couch and we can go in our pajamas or eat cookies or sugar-free fudgsicles if we want. And the kids know that they are not invited because it is our time. And my fudgsicles… back off!
Sometimes we don’t even watch that much television. There are many nights that we may start watching something and it leads to an idea which causes one of us to say, “Pause!” because we remembered something that happened earlier in the day that we want to share. Or maybe there was something we have been meaning to discuss that we keep forgetting about, or we didn’t want to discuss it with kid ears listening in. Whether we are talking or laughing or just watching TV, it is really nice that we get to hang out and spend some quality time together.
The other night we were watching a new show on CBS called “2 Broke Girls,” which has been fairly funny in a hit-or-miss kind of way. It is still on our queue because one of the lead girls has an enormous rack and Sheepdog is always a little hesitant to stop watching big boobs. We also watch another show on ABC called “Happy Endings,” which was a mid-season replacement last year and is fairly funny too. Even when that show lost it a little bit we kept watching because all of the women on the show have qualities that Sheepdog finds redeeming (yes, boobs). Plus, there is a shot of a really great butt in the opening, so I think this show may rank even higher for him. I digress, because my point has nothing to do with the girls’ body parts. The funny thing was that both shows had episodes about vision boards that aired in the exact same week.
Vision boards are those things that people associate with The Secret and Oprah or “Field of Dreams.” You cut out pictures of things you want to have, be or do in your life (eight-pack abs, an Audi TT quattro, MLS#4219301, a successful writer, Ben Affleck) and you glue them onto a foam board. Then you put the board in a place where you will see it every day and be inspired and passionate so that you can begin to manifest those things into your life. Supposedly, by looking at these things every day you will put yourself in a better state of mind to achieve/ attain/ earn the things you desire most by activating the universal law of attraction. Whether we believe in them or not (me: maybe, Sheepdog: you have got to be kidding), we both found it interesting that they were a major plot line in at least two shows that we had just watched.
Sheepdog had never really heard of vision boards before this so he pressed pause on the remote. Then he posed the question, “How can it be that both shows are about the same random thing?”
I wiped the fudgsicle crumbs from my shirt. ”When you follow pop culture you are exposed to a myriad of information… on television, in movies, on websites, blogs, and in magazines, newspapers and books. There is really only so much information you can be exposed to and when people see or read the same things it will inevitably lead them to draw similar conclusions and basically have a shared consciousness. It is only logical that television writers are exposed to similar media input and are therefore influenced into a similar thought pattern. I can not tell you how many times I have had what I thought to be a completely unique idea come to me, only to have it portrayed on television just a few weeks or months later. I just figure I read the same “Glamour” article as the show’s writers and we then took our ideas to the same place. I’m surprised that similarly themed episodes do not happen more often.”
Sheepdog’s jaw dropped to the floor and he sat up straight. ”Do you realize that was the most coherent, well-articulated and logical argument that you have put together in a really long time?”
I feigned offense, but I have been known to refer to my own “self-depriciating” humor on occasion. Plus, I had those fudgsicle crumbs on my shirt. I may have scored higher on the S.A.T.’s than Sheepdog, but pregnancies, motherhood and being married to him for eighteen years has definitely dumbed me down. Maybe I should try making my own vision board with a picture of somebody really smart on it.
How exactly do I clarify to the vision board that I want to think like Einstein, but I don't want to have hair like his or date him?
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
I am the all-time Champion in my house of the most useless game in the world. Hey, at least I am winning at something. I have seen so many movies and so much television that I can identify actors and actresses on a movie or show and then link them to a part that they played in a much older movie or show. The farther back you go and the less they resemble the former, the more street cred you get for the call. And thanks to the site http://www.imdb.com (the International Movie Database) there is a go-to fact checker that can confirm just how awesome I am almost immediately.
Sheepdog tries to claim superiority sometimes (his IDs always come from completely irrelevant movies or shows that nobody except him ever saw, so I don’t count those… I know that George Clooney was on “Facts of Life,” but I wasn’t watching it live; I was out having fun in high school), but even he can not deny how incredible my latest call was. Last night we were catching up on a couple of Raising Hope (FOX, Tuesdays @9:30/ 8:30c) episodes. When we got to the one called “Kidnapped” they had an actor playing a police officer in a gas station convenience store.
After less than ten seconds of his screen time I screamed, “Press pause!” Then I threw down the gauntlet by claiming that I knew who the actor was and a universally identifiable role that I can link him to. Could Sheepdog say the same?
“Give me a minute!” he barked back as he squinted his eyes and waited for something to connect in his memory. Nothing did and I got impatient because I thought I might just explode from my own awesomeness.
“Jurassic Park! Somewhere near the Badlands, Montana! Dinosaur dig! The kid that says to Dr. Grant, “That’s not very scary. More like a six-foot turkey,” I yelled excitedly as I made slashing motions across my chest and belly. ”Kids smell! Babies smell!”
Sheepdog looked skeptically at the screen and shook his head in denial.
“No way. I don’t see it,” he claims.
“Challenge accepted,” I said. ”Go check the database.” I had so much adrenaline pumping that I was vibrating.
I’m sure you can already guess by now that I won. Same kid. There was something in his eyes. I didn’t even need to hear his voice or watch the nuances in his mannerisms. It really was a most excellent get, if I do say so myself. It was almost as good as the time I was watching High School Musical (don’t get me started… it was under complete duress, I swear!) and I identified Ms. Darbus, the director of the school play, as the character Cassie from A Chorus Line (1985), starring Michael Douglas. BAM! That was amazing! But it was completely wasted on my kids and Sheepdog, who had never seen A Chorus Line. I surely made them watch it after that.
Whatever… I am still the all-time Champion in my house.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
It is that time of year again. The air is cooler and the sky is darker but somehow more colorful at the same time. Things are shutting down in preparation for the cold weeks of winter… swimming pools, outdoor activities, trees. Orange and red and brown and yellow gold are the colors that line our streets and yards and front porches. Sometimes autumn sneaks in gradually, but other times it comes crashing upon us with very little warning. I can’t believe it is October already!
And along with the first signs of autumn come Halloween things. Pumpkins and costumes and candy corn. Apple cannons and corn mazes and hayrides. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and gourds and black plastic spider rings. These things are everywhere I go… the grocery store, a neighbor’s yard, Yahoo’s home page. (No, I don’t get out much).
So it is not much wonder that I have been thinking again lately that our house might be haunted.
Boo!
Okay, how does a (relatively) normal person come to the conclusion that she is living with Casper? Seriously, go and poll your friends. Asking “Do you believe in ghosts? Because I do.” makes people question your sanity, and they might even stop letting their kids play over at your house. Unless your friends are all kooks or they already know you’re a little different and they have come to expect these kinds of things from you at random intervals.
So I’ve got that going for me.
Maybe I don’t actually believe that I have a ghost in my house. But I am serious when I say that I think there is still some residual negative energy floating around in here. We bought this house from a man who had just gone through an icky, nasty, angry divorce (his own words) and there was definitely a bad feeling inside this house that Sheepdog and I both commented upon when we walked through. I can’t really describe it any other way. But we loved the house and the neighborhood so we bought it anyway. Oh, and sometimes when I fold laundry on my bed upstairs I often see something in my peripheral vision moving around near the stairs. Did I forget to mention that? Now I sound like the kook.
So say I choose to believe that there is some paranormal activity going on here or even just an excess of yin. Being a girl who likes to take care of business instead of ruminating, I decided to do some research. I googled “getting rid of negative energy in my home” and came upon an article that advised the following steps:
1. Clear stale energies. Open everything that is closed (doors, closets, windows, etc.). Then, walking from the front door in a clockwise pattern, circle each room and go into the next while ringing a bell. 2. Use salt to cleanse. Sprinkle it everywhere. Be sure to sweep up the salt and throw it into the trash outside of your house. 3. Feed your ghosts rice. Sprinkle it around the perimeter of your home, beginning at the front door and walking in a clockwise fashion until you come to the door again. 4. Scent the air. Use smoke from incense or from herbs, such as lavender for transcending problems, eucalyptus for healing, or mint for prosperity. 5. Use light and sound. Tinkling wind chimes and bright crystal rainbows or lit chandeliers are both excellent ways to introduce beneficial and cleansing energy to your space. 6. Take a salt bath yourself. Salt will purify you and remove negative energies from your body. Figuring I’ve got nothing but the previous homeowner’s lingering divorce energy and maybe even a ghost to lose, I tried to follow the directions with at least a modicum of seriousness and (temporary) conviction. Because otherwise what would be the point, right? But I couldn’t bring myself to actually go and buy herbs to burn or special sea salts for sprinkling or bathing. And after opening every cabinet, window and door and ringing the only bell I could find (an old bike bell… whatever, it dinged just fine) and then sprinkling freshly ground table salt then brown rice (it was what I had in the pantry) in each and every corner and cleaning it with the dustbuster , I sprayed lavender Febreze and waved around some Vicks VapoRub (eucalyptus) and splashed a little soft mint-flavored Listerine. Then I lightly blew a whistle and clicked a flashlight on and off on all of the rooms. Afterwards I took a shower and rubbed some epsom salts on my elbows and feet while I sang the new LMFAO song, “Sexy and I Know It.”Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah.
Following my makeshift space cleansing I have to say that I felt a little silly but also a little lighter and happier. Plus, my heels and elbows were super-smooth! I think my the kooks might be onto something here and I just may have restored the yang in our home. I actually recommend the process if you too have some unidentifiable icky floating around in your space. I also recommend skipping the rice part, as it is almost impossible to clean it all up afterwards. Damn you, Uncle Ben.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
