Time Goes On

A few weeks ago when I flew back home to visit, I left my three kids with my sister, Elle.

I have yet to trust her ever, ever again.

Apparently, being relatively new to parenting, she does not get the fact that mothers SO do not like it when they go out of town and return to find their last baby riding a bike sans training wheels.

I suspected that it would happen because the Friday before I left I had both of the 5s outside on their bikes without trainers. I was holding their seats and helping them along, but I must admit I was kid of half-arsing it because I didn't want my 5 to learn while I was gone. I knew she wasn't quite ready to master the art in one day, so before I left I instructed Elle not to let them ride their bikes (I'm all about couch potatoes? Heh. Don't judge me).

Upon landing in California, I checked my phone to make sure Elle hadn't burned the house down and I got this:

Elle: It's sunny!
Me: NO.

Later that day:

Elle: Your eldest child sunburns easily.
Me: Melanoma kills. NO bikes.

And the last text of the day:


Elle: Your 5 wants to tell you a secret.
Me: NO!


When I arrived home Monday night, all three kids flung themselves at me in a burst of chatter and activity.

5: Momma, I have something to tell you!
Me: No you don't.
5: Momma, I can-
Me: NO!

I hold true to the fact that childish behavior wins every time.

The next day, my 5 jumped on her bike while I took a video of her very-first, never-before seen maiden bike ride. I will admit that I had tears in my eyes. I missed so many of my kids' firsts when I was slaving away at the restaurant, but I had managed to catch the older two riding their bikes for their first time (not too many opportunities for solo-cycling in daycare, I suppose). And now, all remnants of my 5's toddler-hood are fading before my very eyes.

The next thing I know, she'll be in college dating some freak with lip piercings and black jeans riddled with safety pins (uh, yeah. My kids will not date until they have graduated from high school. You might be thinking "Yeah. Good luck with that." Why, thank you.)

I may have also inadvertently taught Rawr's 4 how to ride her bike the other day while Rawr's husband was at work. BUT. I tell you what, that kid had never even sat on a two-wheeled bike. How was I supposed to know that she would just lift up her feet and take off down the street?

On the other hand, the 62nd Street Biker Gang is coming along nicely.

Sneak Attack

Sometimes I like to risk good friendships for the sake of laughter.

The League had planned a tentative get-together last night, but Shenanigan had class until ten, Elle got home late from work and Rawr maxed herself out on sunshine and was suffering from a slight sunburn. Me, I was crashed out on the couch cruising the interweb for BBQ recipes. Well, I was between recipes and Facebook. Mostly Facebook. Okay, entirely Facebook. The recipe site was just a rouse.

Rawr was also on Facebook.

Rawr: Did your sister forget the fire log?

13 hours ago · 

Me: She has retired. Let's plan on a night later this week. Or midday.

13 hours ago · 

Rawr:  I figured. I'm beat as well

13 hours ago · 

Me: Wait, that Biyatch is on the porch! Sneak out and scare the crap out of her!! DO IT.

13 hours ago ·  ·  1

Rawr: lol that is so mean

13 hours ago · 

Me:  And she'll never know it's premeditated until tomorrow when she logs on FB. Unless she's out there on her phone. Then we're screwed. I'm sneaking around to your porch. Meet me out front. We'll get her.

Rawr: Ok do it

12 hours ago · 

What actually happened was this:

There is a video. Rawr has threatened to take my life if I post it on the internet. I am trying really, REALLY hard not to.

But I really want to.

I knew that I'd never make it out the back gate without Elle hearing me, so instead I decided to enlist my sister's help in scaring the crap out of Rawr.

Elle hid behind the fence next to Rawr's yard, I met Rawr on her porch and when we walked past on out way to "scare Elle," Elle jumped out and grabbed Rawr.

We made it up to her. We fed her wine and cheesecake.

Heh.

It was an AMBUSH

I DON'T KNOW WHY I HAVE FRIENDS WHO DO FAVORS FOR ME.

Earlier today, Shenanigan swung by and invited me and the herd of children that I control out to the mall for a little "Get me out of this freaking house" therapy.

I don't get to see Shenanigan all that often, so I was all like, "Woo, bring it. Let's roll! All you little nerds get in the car and let's blow this popsicle stand!"

We took the kids to the play area to let them run wild and get the ants out of their pants.

After some little snot hit Shenanigan's kid with a truck, we decided to check out the pet store and get the kids a snack.

In a moment of stupidity, I expressed the desire to get my eyebrows waxed. Something I do every, oh, I don't know, three months.

I do thank my stars that I am a redhead and you cannot see my eyebrows anyway because can you imagine what would be going on if I had hair the color of Elle's? Yheti-brow. That's what.

Shenanigan graciously offered to man the kiddos while I took off downstairs to the salon, praising Shenanigan for being so helpful.

As I slid into the chair, I made sure that I told the gal not to stray too far from the brow line.

Waxer: Oh, it ok-ay. I do it foh you-u.

Me: Okay, because last time I looked like half my eyebrows went missing in some horrid wax-accident.

Waxer: Heh Heh Heh foh YOU!

Me: [to self] Crap. This is going to end poorly.

Here is a before. See the slight arch? Doesn't look too bad, right?

Oh. Please ignore the weirdo child on my lap.

THIS IS WHAT SHE DID TO MY FACE.

I look mad. All the time now! Not just when I am yelling.

Seriously. LOOK AT MY RIGHT EYEBROW. MY right. Which is your left.

It is straight.

The look on my face is nothing like it was when I first saw what that lady did to my eyebrow. I just refuse to post photos of me on the internet where I look like a braying donkey. 

(Fish lips are acceptable)

Can you see above my eyebrow? The part where there is SUPPOSED TO BE HAIR? It's skin. And when I wrinkle my eyebrows (which I do every other second of the day) it looks like someone plastered a naked caterpillar on my forehead.

See? Shiny and white. Dead bug face. THAT IS WHAT THEY'LL CALL ME.

After freaking out about this and making the 9 take 100 photos of my face, I decided to fix my eyebrow myself. Luckily, Elle came home and helped me take pictures.

Exhibit A:

Okay, a slight arch, perfect shade, amiright? 

Exhibit B:

Kind of a sharpie look, perfect shade of eyeliner. Sharp arch. I think it looks nice.

And here they are together:

 Yeah? It looks great, doesn't it.

I'm not entirely sure what this look is for.

Pretty much, Elle just kept snapping photos and I kept changing my expression.

I think the climax of this idiocy came when I tried to scrub the eyeliner off. Freshly waxed skin is tender. No matter how funny you think something is going to be, feeling like you're scrubbing your eye with a porcupine is not worth it.

I cannot WAIT until Shenanigan needs a favor.

The Dry League

Last night there was a meeting of The League.

Well, there was supposed to be a meeting but no one had arrived. At 9:45pm I hopped on Facebook and shot Rawr a message.

16 hours ago

HEY! We might need more booze. I can't find my Sips. Did you freaking drink it all while I was out of town, woman?! 

Rawr replied almost immediately.

 um no we only had 2 drinks each

16 hours ago · 

Crap, then. I messaged back.

Well, in all fairness... I didn't even look. 

16 hours ago · 

I hoped she wouldn't be upset that I accused her of stealing my Pirate Bay.

LAZY ASS

16 hours ago · 

Nope. She's not mad.

Next, I attempted to track down Shenanigan.

I can... alllllmost see in your windows. What are you doing?

 ·  · See friendship · 16 hours ago ·

Hm. No response. Doesn't she keep her Facebook account open at all times like I do? Weird.

Text. We are coming for you.

 ·  · See friendship · 15 hours ago · 

And then my phone rang.

It was Shenanigan and she was very close to whining as she explained that she was trying to wrap up her homework for a poetry class that she felt the need to torture herself with. I offered to help but she knowingly turned me down with the promise of calling us when she was done (because I am terribly with poems).

She didn't miss much. Rawr showed up soon after I started posting things on my Facebook page like "Rawr picks her nose." Here are the Top Secret Minutes from our meeting:

• Google instructions for making alcohol-filled water balloons
• Possibility of using Tequila instead of vodka when making Jell-o shots
• Booze cupcakes: a how-to
• Rawr has a dark secret that involves her mom bribing her with 4 shots of alcohol. Rawr wouldn't do it, but she stole the shots anyway. Note: Get that secret out of her if we have to make her drink a Bathtub of Gin
• Cat crap and fleas
• Rawr's desire for a Japanese baby
• Elle used my Minutes Sheet as a shopping list: Beer, butter and creamer
• Dry League meetings suck

Shenanigan never made the meeting because after she finished her homework she got called in to work.

I'd like to think that is she was there, none of us would have fallen asleep on the couch.

Elle's Cheesecake

The other night, Elle baked a cheesecake.

I hate it when she does that because I am forced to consume copious amounts of it in order to get it out of the house so that I don't eat it. Can you see the stupidity in that? Yeah. But it's how I roll. Thank goodness Elle doesn't bake all that often. 

Elle was kind of having a bad night whilst trying to create the cake of cheese. She had to run to the store for last minute ingredients, she forgot to let the cream cheese reach room temperature before she added it to the mix, etc. Elle is a bit high-strung at times (and that is putting it nicely) so she was pretty irritated by the time the cheesecake was in the oven. I would like to mention that she undertook this culinary task at ten o'clock that night.

I was researching world peace watching television and not paying any attention to her, which I've become pretty adept at doing.

Petey was running around the house attacking the air and invisible ninja-bugs. 

Elle slammed the oven door and said something about-- well, I don't even know because as I said before, I had tuned everything else out besides Psych.

I do remember hearing Petey drink an awful lot of water for a while, but I didn't care enough to get up from the couch and investigate. I figured since he lives in a house with five kids and is constantly being chased and made to wear doll clothes, he is entitled to re-hydrate to his little kitty-heart's content.

You know those horror movies where the girl is sitting on the couch trying to recoup after a hard day of wrangling multiple kids and she just wants to veg and watch James Roday emanate gorgeousness? And there's some creepy-butt person standing in the doorway and you just know it's a small matter of time before the girl on the couch looks up and manages a huge scream of terror right before she gets jacked up? Yeah.

So I look up and Elle is standing in the doorway to the living room with her demon-brown eyes boring holes into my person.

Elle: Your effing cat is eating the cheesecake.

I offer a timid smile while I panic and try to think of a way to fix this. Elle's eyes darken further. Crap. I manage a look of disdain toward the cat. Elle seethes. I rise hesitantly from the couch and peer over at the counter where Petey is happily lapping up cheesecake.

And I stand there. What. Sometimes when I make the wrong move she hits me.

Granted, I usually deserve it.

Okay, I always deserve it.

Elle: That's your piece.

Me: [meekly] Okay.

I don't know what you're so mad about.

I just saved you 200 calories.

iPhoto

I've been entertaining the idea of upgrading my current laptop. It is nearly four years old, but I do think it has a lot of life left in it.

Completely unrelated information, but if my 9 ever shows up at your house and insists that she is perfectly old enough and possesses the responsibility involved in using a laptop without supervision, she would be telling a falsehood.

Mumsie recently purchased an iPad that has been intimidating her since Day 1. We are PC users. We know nothing of the Macs.

I asked Mumsie to bring her iPad down this weekend when she came to visit. She bravely let me play around on it, but I wasn't allowed to leave the room with it.

Basically, the iPad is like a gargantuan smart phone (minus the ability to make and receive calls). And it takes photos, which I love.

 Uh, it's kind of grainy for a multi-hundred dollar purchase. 

Plus, It's doing weird things to our faces. 

There really aren't any words for this, are there?

Trust me, it's creepier without her eyes blackened.

Obviously it is important, when taking photos with an iPad, to not do weird things with your mouth and to hold the pad at the correct level and distance from your face. It helps to know where to look, also.

I'm not entirely sold on using an enormous fake cell phone that doesn't have an actual keyboard.

But Mumsie sure is going to get to know her iPad while trying to figure out how to remove the wallpaper.

Cure-all for Boredom

It is the weekend, y'all!

And judging by the inaccurate weather report, we will NOT have sun today. Instead we will remain indoors and stare blankly out the windows at the rain while the tears slide down our sad, sad faces.

Or the kids will. I will be writing a strongly worded letter of irritation to the cosmos (I would say God, but um, no. I'm already in enough trouble with him and I do not need to make it worse).

Earlier this morning, I was subpoenaed by a friend to cure his boredom.

Normally, I charge for this (wait. No. NO. I mean...nevermind).

Erm, so normally I tell people to cure their own dang boredom, but since the promise of great weather by the local idiot was not a pinkie promise, but instead an incredibly off-base guess, I figure I would need some kind of cure-all for my own fine household today.

I Google'd "Things to do when you are bored that do not include housecleaning or paying bills" and came up with a few sites.

The first was a total dud, apparently written by someone who has an unnatural love of marbles. Seriously. A few of their suggestions:

• Boil Marbles
• Have a marble competition
• Polish your marbles
• Look at your marbles

I had my own idea about this person's marbles.

The next website I hit on was a total goldmine. You guys have to check this out.

474 Things To Do When You're Bored.

I've decided on a few that I think will cure boredom:

• Knight yourself (I really am an amazing person. This would just ensure that everyone knows)
• Intimidate a piece of chalk (WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?)
• Run for Pope (I like being in high ranking positions)
• Count to a million (fast) (That one is for my kids)
• Stop speaking to yourself (actually, my therapist recommended this)
• Be a side effect (this could go in SO many directions)
• Ask stupid questions (wellll... I already do that)

You get the point.

Hey, look. The sun is out!

The Return of Terror Flight 101

You may remember that I am not entirely comfortable with flying.

I was at the airport Monday evening, ready for my return flight, having just made it through security (MAN ALIVE, I managed to skip that machine where they do the whole-body x-ray. God probably knew I couldn't handle anything other than getting on the plane and buckling my seat belt).

I decided to use the ladies room in case we really did crash. I didn't want to wet my pants in addition to blowing up all over my seatmate.

I waited patiently in line, as the airport was pretty busy that evening. Eventually my patience wore thin as the minutes ticked by.

What in the CRAP are these people doing in there?! Oh. Wait.

One stall opened up right next to me and I shifted from foot to foot while a girl, probably about eleven or twelve years old, exited the stall. I had to haul my bag in with me, so I was trying to hold the door and wheel my suitcase in at the same time when I noticed that there was urine ALL OVER THE FLOOR. Fresh urine. I wrinkled my nose and looked up just as the door was swinging shut and made eye contact with the kid who had just vacated the stall.

Peeps, I wish I had a camera, because I'm not sure that I can properly convey with plain old words the look that girl was giving me.

She was standing at the sink with her arms at her side. Just staring at me. Her expression was neutral enough, but I got the feeling that she was speaking to me with her mind.

Step in it. I want you to. That's why I put it there.

Holy mother. I ran out of the stall and around the corner before the girl could light my hair on fire with her eyes.

You can bet that later, while exiting the stall, I poked my head around the corner to make sure the kid was gone before I came all the way out.

After I found my gate, I dumped my bags and sat down.

I love people watching. But you have to make sure your eyes don't linger for long because if you're not careful, everyone will think you are a freak. I noticed that about 99% of passengers had their faces shoved in their cell phones. Something that I absolutely despise.

I listened to a man in his mid-forties try to chat up a cute twenty-something blonde. He was asking her if she ever played Scrabble on her phone. In fact, that girl and I were the only ones without cell phones glued to our hands so I found his question a bit odd. The man was trying to get her to join The Resistance Against Social Atmosphere, but she wasn't buying. She and I shared a funny look. Her eyes said said "Way too old, dude" and I was trying to convey my hatred of technology with my eyes but I'm pretty sure it accidentally came across as I want to follow you home.


Thank goodness I ended up sitting next to her on the plane which was not at all awkward. She spent the entire flight flinching every time I moved. At one point, I tossed my hair over my shoulder and I thought she was going to throw herself from the plane.

Something I noticed while we were waiting for take-off on that ancient plane (oh yes. Same plane out, same plane back), the door to the flight deck was super flimsy and there was a two-inch gap between the roof and the door. How is THAT going to deter a would-be terrorist? A screen door would have been more effective.

Another thing that really helped my anxiety was the fact that my seat was level with the propeller. The same propeller that wasn't spinning as the pilot geared up for take-off.

Me: [nervous, high pitched, leaning over to look at window] Umm...

Blonde Chick who is scared of me: [flinch] GA! Oh. I thought--

Me: [eyeing her warily because it is now apparent that SHE is the creepy one] It's not moving.

Chick: We're backing up in a circle. Look.

[propeller begins to spin]

Me: [sulks] Maybe they should tell you that during the safety speech.

After about 3 minutes of moving around the tarmac, I figured the pilot had thrown caution to the wind and was driving us north. Around that same time he flipped the switch and I was slammed back into my seat as we shot off into the night sky.

I really hate flying.

Things are not as they seem

Last night Elle, Blogz and I were sprawled out on the couch watching 9 to 5, this terrible movie starring Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton and Lily Tomlin. I think it was filmed in the early 1980s.

I began to nod off, as I'm prone to do when I'm parked in front of a weird movie at 10:30pm when I should be sleeping or writing a blog post.

Instead of getting up and heading to bed, I chose to lay there half asleep and pretend like I was finishing the movie. I think it was about the time the girls stole their boss' body from the hospital that I felt something fiddling with my hair.

Hang on.

Do you guys have brothers? Sisters? Doesn't matter if they are older or younger; if they were there, you screwed with them. Or they screwed with you. Someone was always the butt of a joke and the other was crying. There were six of us kids in the house growing up and Mumsie can attest to the fact that we were constantly either trying to set one another on fire or simply scare the bejeezus out of someone.

I figured Elle had noticed I was in limbo and had decided to pull my hair in order to roust me.

But oh, I would prove to her that I wasn't conked out on the couch (which I totally was).

I took my palm and in one sprightly movement, slapped Elle's hand away.

Her furry, whiskery... face?

Petey?

Oh, SHYTE.

I totally punched my cat.

On accident, of course.

He sat there staring at me for minutes until he lay down next to Elle, all the while keeping a close watch on me.

I am certain that he is going to come after me when I least expect it.

Probably when I actually am asleep.

Oh well. If he bites me, he'll just get The Herp.

(I'm really hoping that if you haven't already read that post, you will now)

BTW, Abreva claims to reduce the appearance of cold sores in 2 days or so (or maybe I just made that up. Or Elle said it. Who really knows). I will have you know that it has been SEVEN days and I can still see it. Though it just looks like someone punched me in the lip and split it, as Elle described.

Ironic, if you think about it.

Puddle Jumper vs. Life

I am not exactly what you would call a comfortable flyer.

I have just recently become tolerant of the fact that things are different heights, meaning that not everything on planet earth is on the same level. Sometimes I have to cross bridges in order to get from one city to the next, climb stairs to my room or even simply stand up (Remind me to tell you later about the time Gary tried to kill Elle and I on The Ferris Wheel of Doom when I was 5).

The stewardess had just finished her speech about emergency exits and we were set for take-off (BTW, are you KIDDING ME? No way am I sitting near one of those! Because if we crash, my heart attack will kill me immediately, resulting in my dead body crashing to the floor, thus blocking the exit and causing everyone else to die).

Of course, I was the picture of calm as we taxied down the runway.

Me: We're wobbling. Is the tire flat?

Flight Attendant: It's fine. Just sit back and enjoy the flight.

Me:  Haven't you ever seen Miracle Landing?  [pause] What's that noise? I hear a noise.

FA: Yeah. It's you freaking out.

Me: No, no. There's a really loud buzzing noise.

FA: That would be the propellers.

Yes. My plane was so small and ancient that it had propellers. Indiana Jones was probably flying the plane.

Me: We're going to die.

FA: We're going to be fine.

Me: We'll see.

I managed to control myself for the rest of the flight by reading a book. And sweating. And shifting in my seat. Constantly.

I was relieved when we finally started our descent. Until there was a huge thumpbumbPRANG.

Me: [silent screaming] Did we just hit a cat?


FA: MA'AM.


Me: [nose in air] I am a Miss, thank you.

That was the longest hour OF MY LIFE.

And there was still the return flight.

My Fox Paws

So. Hey. Um.

Do you ever post a rant on the internet about your little sister being incapable of selecting the correct potato at the grocery store? And do you ever accidentally call her a bunch of names because you think it adds character to the storytelling even if you don't really think she's any of those things?

Does your sister ever seem a bit pissy the next day and you cannot, for the life of you, figure out why because you have already forgotten what you did?

Do you ever take the kids to the grocery store to pick up the makings for fruit smoothies and at the last minute saunter past the vegetable aisle thinking, If you want something done right, do it yourself?


Do you ever stare at the sign that says Yams and look down, confused when you see sweet potatoes, then look to the left where the Sweet Potato sign hangs over the yams?

Do you ever turn bright red from embarrassment right there in the food aisle with people swarming around you?

Yeah. Me neither.

Oops.

See y'all back here Monday after my Trip.

Your Garden Variety Mistake

So. Today I was totally going to wow Shenanigan and Rawr with my amazing recipe for Sweet Potato Fries.

(And by "mine" I mean "I stole this.")

Fortunately I had everything on hand because Elle is my domestic servant  personal shopper  b*tch  compatriot   sister  chum I MADE HER GO TO THE STORE.

She returned from the grocers with a can of chipotle peppers instead of chipotle powder. Elle hates dehydrated-anything, but I figured it wouldn't be too far off and if the fries sucked, I would make her drink the pepper liquid from the jar.

.This afternoon I set about scrubbing the potatoes, mixing the spices and telling my 5 that no, you cannot stay home alone while I go visit Shenanigan because you are FIVE and if you don't get off the coffee table I will BRAIN YOU.

Now. Remember back when I said I used to manage a fast food establishment (rhymes with Murder Fling)? Yeah. So even though I love to cook, I lived in that restaurant and had limited experiecne cooking anything other than ground beef and tempers.

Plus, I really never used to experiment with recipes. I kept my favorite (only) recipes and just rotated them around in hopes that no one would notice.

Recently, in the last year since I quit my job and moved to the freaking Water Capital of the Universe, I expanded my knowledge and started trying all different kinds of recipes with different ingredients, some of which I'd never even eaten before.

I was pretty stoked to try this Sweet Potato recipe because they are a healthy junk food. Yay! Also, I'd never eaten sweet potato anything and was excited about my decision to branch out.

I was in the middle of chopping the last potato and nervously checking the first batch that was already in the oven when my friend Lucy dropped by (no. It's not her real name).

Lucy: What're you making? [sniffs] It smells really good.

Me: [smugly] Oh, just Sweet Potato Fries. Something I just decided to whip up. [BEAMS]

Lucy: [examining the potato on the counter] Oh. What are you using the yams for?

Me: [falters] Uh. What?

Lucy: [starts laughing hysterically] These are yams!

Me: Yams?

Lucy: [gasping for breath] You.. ho.. hee... ah... haaa--

Me: DAMNIT!

So, yes. I delivered to Shenanigan one bowl of spicy Yam Fries. But shut your mouths because I totally made up an awesome chipotle sauce to go with them. On my own. I did NOT have help and Shenanigan's two year-old totally scarfed them down.

So. Elle is fired and I am now accepting applications for a new personal shopper.

Any takers?

Sea Monster

I have The Herpes.


(I'm trying out new and improved ways to kill my mother via the internet. How am I doing?)


I do have herpes, but thank God it's just a cold sore, aka HSV-1, or Herpes Labialis (which sounds like you-know-what). And I got it from Elle, anyway, so it's not like I was out there sucking face with strangers. If you've ever had one of these pieces of crap, you know that they look like a giant leech on your lip. Which is sooo gross.


I am SUPER screwed blessed to have this thing parked on my face because this weekend, as you may recall, I am supposed to go back home and visit a bunch of friends and play dress-up in fancy dresses and I cannot do that with vermin on my lip. 


Um, hi. I'm here to try on this gorgeous $400 dress. Wait, why are you running away? Are you calling the Police? Haz Mat Suits? Really? That just seems unnecessary.


Because that is what I would do if the Creature from the Black and Blue Creep Lagoon came into my shop.


Since I refuse to play host to this parasite longer than necessary, I turned to my old friend Google to help me out.


I would have tried WebMD but last time my search for "numbness in toes" came back positive for HIV, Cancer or Diabetes. I've heard tales of WebMD and its reputation for outlandish diagnosis-es (?) but I did it anyway.


Today, I found a few suggestions via Google:

• Alcohol- I tried Pirate Bay and cranberry, but after two glasses the thing remained unchanged.
• Cat's Claw- I'm sure Petey would relish clawing my lip, but how is that going to do anything other than scar my face?
• Mint- Um... is mint gum the same thing?

I hit on this website offering numerous remedies to knock this thing out.


The first suggestion was hydrogen peroxide.


"...That oxygen molecule goes directly to your cold sore where the herpes virus is reproducing and blasts the virus with oxygen. The virus is killed right on the spot. Nothing miraculous here, just science at work."


Cool. I happen to have some of that under the bathroom sink. I grabbed a cotton ball, soaked it in peroxide, shrugged at my reflection in the mirror and dabbed it on my lip. Hm. Not to shabby. The blister was beginning to turn white. I dabbed on a bit more.


OHMYMOTHERFREAKINGLORD it is BURNING my FACE!  Get it off, get it OFF NOW!


I tried to wipe it off with a tissue, but by that point the peroxide had burned through the thin layer of skin on my lip and trying to wipe it off only produced blood. I turned the faucet on and shoved my face under the blasting water, which sprayed everywhere and soaked my shirt.


The burning was reduced to a mild sting eventually. I swore under my breath, reminding myself to punch this internet moron later.


And went back to the website for the next item.


What. I'm desperate.


Next up on the tour was L-lysine. What the heck is that? Hm. It says L-lysine is a nutritional 
supplement. Is Vitamin D the same thing? Fish oil? 


"The herpes virus hates lysine! Lysine to the herpes virus cold sore is like kryptonite to Superman! But you have to take it orally to get the results."


Take orally? AS OPPOSED TO WHAT? Skip.


Last effort.


Repeat each of these steps daily. What? You just said that the peroxide would kill that crap on the spot. LIAR.


Also, that's it? Two suggestions? Please review what the word "numerous" means.


Screw this crap.


Wait. There's something there at the bottom.

"For even more information on cold sores I found these pages to be really informative:

WebMD on Cold Sores
MayoClinic on Cold Sores..."

I will punch someone in the neck.

***Also, if someone could tell me why in the heck my font and spacing and coloring is all screwy today, I would really reconsider my attack on Blogger. Verbal Attack. It's not like I was going to... punch. Anyone in... the neck. Um.

Okay.

Gang Borders

This afternoon, my ten year old and I were in the car, stopped at a red light. He was in the back seat most likely wishing he was anywhere but trapped in a car with his mother who happened to be rocking out to Adele (who, incidentally, is Elle's FAVORITE singer ever so send her like, 50 CDs or something). That could have possibly had something to do with his sullen mood, but who's to say?

Eventually, the fear of being recognized got to me and I glanced over my shoulder at the car slightly behind and to the left of mine.

Funny. That guy in the front passenger seat was shooting terrible looks toward my car, and the guy in the backseat was laughing. The driver had one hand over his eyes and was shaking his head. All of them sported shaved heads, earrings and tattoo's on their necks.

Omigawd, they are so totally making fun of me. I knew it. This is why we don't get comfortable in public, dummy! 


Nervously, I looked in my rear view mirror to see if my son was taking any of this in and caught him throwing his arms out in that brazen "WHAT. WHAT?!" manner that young folk seem to do when they think they are being tough. And it was directed at the car with the three men.

Me: [punching to off button] WHAT are you doing? PUT YOUR ARMS DOWN! [nervous look at adjacent car]

10: [scowling] They're LOOKING at me.


Me: OH GOOD LORD. You are ten years old! It's a free country, kid. Besides, we could DIE in a gang fight and we aren't even in our territory!  [glancing at car again and trying to decipher whether or not we are in any imminent danger.Locking doors]

The three fellows in the car began trying to get my attention, but since I've got this sweet kink in my shoulder the last few days, I just know I looked like Quasimodo ferrying around the city newest delinquent 5th grader as I frantically tried to come up with some kind of arm motion that let these guys know we were so not a threat.

10: Mom.

Me: KID. Apologize.

10: HOW?!


Me: Maybe you should have thought of that before challenging those men to a duel!

The 10 ended up crouching down in the back seat while I continued my attempt to wave at the thugs and brush the incident off like "Pshaw, you know kids! HAHAHA!" with sporradic hand movements while sending up a silent plea for us not to get initiated.

I mean, I already belong to the 62nd Street Gang. Wouldn't that be a conflict of interest?

Thankfully, the light turned green and I shot off like an idiot, taking the next right and rushing home the long way as fast as I could.

The memory of those three guys laughing at the look on my face while they drove along will shame me for days to come.

** I totally lectured my son when we got home about proper car etiquette and threatened to show up dressed like a thug for his first day of Junior High if he ever did anything like that again.

WHAT.

Terror on the Facebook

This morning I was feeling all inspired to go out in my yard, weed the flower beds, maybe chalk the driveway with the kids, possibly find my missing earring that has to be in this god-forsaken house somewhere. 

Then, I logged into Facebook.

Before I even tell you what punched me in the face, let me just give you a teeney bit of insight to this hot mess that lives in my head.

I tend to react with a pretty deranged attitude toward certain situations. Like, I'm talking HOLY FREAKOUT, sirens, panic sweats, etc. Then, after I spend some time traveling the house and wringing my hands in despair, I calm down (right around the same time Elle hits me in the face with a frying pan) and start to reassess the situation.

I'm not kidding. Well... I may be stretching it a bit with the whole frying pan-issue, but the rest is alarmingly accurate.

Because, peeps, my friend is getting married.

Which in itself is not news.

Nope. Neither is the fact that she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, which is really an honor. This gal is one of my very good friends, someone who has been through a lot with me, and someone who I know I could not speak with for years and be able to pick right back up where we left off. Aww. But yes, it really is like that.

This coming weekend I will be flying back to my hometown in order to attend a baby shower for an entirely different friend. The gal who is getting married (confused yet?) (we'll call her Tammy, a nickname that will probably earn me the task of keeping a huge pack of tissues in my bust during her wedding in case she starts to cry, except that's sort of gross and I don't think she'd want the tissues that I was hiding in my brassiere).... anyway, Tammy sent me a message trying to coordinate a meeting of all the girls on Sunday so that we could try to tackle this dress debacle in a single trip to the city. She suggested making a day of it by meeting for breakfast and traveling out of town together in the same car. I felt the excitement building inside when I thought about hanging out with Tammy and her sister, who also happens to be a dear friend. I thought it would be nice to  hang out with them while we shopped for fancy dresses. And then I realized that what I was feeling wasn't excitement. It was absolute terror.

I will have to wear that dress. In front of people. 99% of whom I don't know. In the summer heat. At a wedding. A dress.

A fancy one.

Fancy dresses aren't jeans. Not even close. Wait. Can they make denim bridesmaid dresses? Doesn't Tammy come from a long line of country people?

Then I realized that this was the other sister who was getting married. The cowboy boots and denim sister was already married to her wonderful husband.

Shoot.

Well, this is a humor blog.

Things are going to get hilarious.

All the way to the Nut House.

Which is where I'll be after trying on 900 dresses and realizing that I should have stopped growing at age 6. I will find a fault with every single one of those dresses because I am me and this is what I do.

By tomorrow, I should be okay with things. Acceptance is the second step.

The third and final step is alcohol. At least, I think it is. I usually don't remember anything else after that.

The League

Golly, I kinda feel like with all the hype I've inadvertently (twice) given The League that it should be this super-awesome club, like Lady Fight Club.

Which I will totally start after this blog post.

That said, I think I'm ready to explain The League.

It's me. And Elle. Shenanigan and Rawr are members, too.

We have coffee mugs. And we drink out of them. While gossiping.

Ahhh, you say. Therin lies the dragon.


No, dummy. We dislike reptiles. We're more of the fuzzy kitten, or cute puppy variety.

Gossiping, Em. That is the fundamental reason for you ladies getting together.


Oh. Well. I wouldn't exactly call it gossiping, per se. We share information. About all kinds of things. People. Stuff we see. Things other people say about people we love that make us want to punch them in the face.

We were going with the 62nd Street Gang for a while, but I think it petered off around the time we realized it was just ridiculous for a bunch of grown women to walk around throwing pot holder gang signs and tagging recipes on the walls of our neighbors houses.

Rawr was the one designing shirts for it. We had to shut it down before it got out of hand.

Elle was actually the one that came up with The League. Three out of the four of us happen to have some pretty strong viking heritage and Elle just figured that it would be less intimidating for others if we went with the whole pillaging background instead of the murderous rage one.

Which, while I'm talking about it, is pretty hard to differentiate regardless.

No matter.

We're vikings. But tonight, we are effing Valkyrie.

Rawr, Baby!

Things in the neighborhood are heating up, if you know what I mean. There's a lot less clothing, which means a lot more skin, and a ton of whistling.

You know, like the weather has turned and stuff? Kids are in swimsuits, workin' on their tans and they're happy so they whistle. What were YOU thinking?

Then again, this is the PNW, so I'm sure that I will wake up tomorrow only to be greeted by snow and a hurricane.

But, today Rawr and I spent the day sunning ourselves (personally, I would not recommend being clad in jeans and a cardigan during a PNW heatwave of 65 degrees, but I did try to tan my ankles. Didn't turn out like I thought it would), catching each other up on the neighborhood events this past weekend (um, I came home to "way to bust a drill bit" scrawled across the sidewalk in my yard. I'll let you guess who did that), and threatening the 500 kids out there that we could too catch them, so don't yell neener neener when we tell you to knock something off.


Rawr brought up the fact that she hates the hideous shrubs in her yard. We both stared at them for a bit, contemplating the situation at hand. Well, I imagine that Rawr did. Personally, I was trying to decide if it was worth the effort to go inside and see if I had the ingredients for margaritas, but then I remembered that I don't keep alcohol in the house and that even if I did, I have no idea how to make a margarita. From there, I decided I could very well maim something for a Pink Sparklie. But, seeing as how I didn't know how to make one in the first place and Adam and I are still not on speaking terms--- see? This is how I get off topic. This is also how I got off topic with Rawr and only came back to reality when I heard a motor).

My head turned toward the source of the revving. Rawr's house. Hm. Curious, I got up from my spot on the porch and meandered over to Rawr's.

If I could tell you one thing about Rawr, it's that she is one of the most real people I know. She doesn't mess around, and I love her for that.

Here you go:

 Nothing says "Classy Yard Care" like heels!

 She did get the shrubs in order. I helped by getting that rake stuck in the bush so many times that I eventually just started hitting the branches with it.

And then I left to go clean up my driveway. I won the neighborhood White Trash/Abandoned Lot award today. Yay me! I would like to thank the makers of sidewalk chalk. I would also like to ask them how to get all of that dust out off my hardwood floors.