Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Hey, this is crazy. But he's a KILLER.

This past weekend I was out of town. I needed to take a cab to where I had left my car, only there was a slight hiccup.

I had never called for a cab myself. Or ridden in one alone. Or tipped a driver.

I've watched a few movies in my day and lots of the ones with cabs ended with people getting murdered and left in a back alleyway. I didn't have time to get murdered that day because I needed to be somewhere within the hour, but I really had no other choice.

As I had someone call the cab for me (blessed be missing phone books and incredibly helpful front-desk receptionists) I felt myself get a little apprehensive.

I was wearing sandals with slippery bottoms. If I needed to say, stab the cabbie, I would have preferred to be wearing stilettos. Those suckers can do some damage. So I've heard. However, that type of shoe is not often worn at 8am on a Saturday morning, and even if I WAS wearing that style shoe, running from the wounded, and by that time pretty pissed-off, now-cyclops driver would cause an entirely different issue. Then again, slippery bottoms weren't going to help, either, so I was pretty much screwed.

I began to run through a series of situations and different actions I could take in order to free myself and undoubtedly end up famous on the 6 o'clock evening news and eventually star in a Lifetime Original Movie when I realized the cab had arrived.

I snuck a look at the driver, whom I found to be surprisingly young and innocent looking. Typical. I was going to sit in the front where I could keep an eye on him. You just can't trust that wholesome type.

I opened the door and the driver greeted me.

KILLER: Hey Em. Get on in. [pats seat]

Me: [screaming in head] OH MY GAWD HE KNOWS MY NAME. I AM GOING TO DIE.  [realizing I gave my name to the receptionist and she had passed it on to the company. Feeling foolish]

KILLER: Your legs are long.

Me: [again, to self] TO MAKE LAMPSHADES OUT OF! OMG!

KILLER: There's a thing between your legs. [makes like he's going to assist or shank me or break my kneecap]

Me: [Trying to remember whether or not my Last Will and Testament is current]

KILLER: [pulls his hand back, looks at me weird] Just push on the bar and move the seat back.

Me: [cough] I know what you meant. Erm, thanks.

I had a mildly embarrassing moment where I had to give the guy directions to my destination via an educated guess and hypothesis because I never pay attention to important details like WHERE I LEFT MY CAR. Which he found hilarious and proceeded to tease me.

Okay, Guy-I-Just-Met, go ahead. And we'll see who is laughing when I tell you I'm paying you in quarters from the floor of my car, sans tip, because you're a punk.

I defended myself bravely by pointing out that I didn't live in the city and had just been there for a visit. Sensing a challenge, he began to ask me if I knew where 26th Ave was and had I ever been to this place over on 134th and it was right by his house on 55th (which made ZERO SENSE).

Me: You realize that by asking me that, you are basically speaking to me in hieroglyphic's and I can't understand you, right? The only place I know over here is a Chinese place. And I'm not even sure about that.

KILLER: OH! I know that place. It's the best in the city.

Me: [skeptical] In this huge city with about a thousand Chinese restaurants, you think you know exactly which place I'm talking about?

KILLER: Yeah. It's Ding Dong's.

Okay, I obviously changed the name of the restaurant. But what if I DIDN'T? Wouldn't that be AWESOME?!

Me: That was a lucky guess.

KILLER: Nope. I know my stuff.


About this time, I had spotted my car and pointed it out to the driver.

We pulled into the parking lot and I fished for some cash. Because if I did scrounge for quarters it would have involved me taking my eyes off of him while I crouched down on the floor of the car and that's the opportunity he would have used to strike. I watch CSI. I know what happens.

KILLER: So. Ahem. Can I give you my number?

That's weird. Is that like, his calling card? They'll find it on my body and the first forensic guy will say to the other, "Hm. Radio Cab strikes again." No thanks.

Me: Ahm. [shaking head no] I'm married to a huge 350 pound man with anger issues. Who owns a tiger. He's actually meeting me here. With the cat [fake-craning of neck like this big huge lie will magically come true because things like that TOTALLY HAPPEN ALL THE TIME].

KILLER: Okay. [laughs] How about the next time you need a cab, call and ask for me. And if it doesn't work out with your huge husband, call me then, too. [hands over a card]

At this exact moment in time, something odd happened.

I realized the radio was on.

The song playing was Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen.

Now. Given the fact that this tune is played every third rotation on every single radio station, twety-four hours a day, I have created an equation. See below:

Call Me Maybe length: approx 3:20.
Song played every 9 minutes.
1440 minutes in a day.
Divide crap math no one is reading this anyway because they're all skipping through to read the answer and I know that because I would do the same thing so:

Answer: The odds of hearing that song at the exact moment Killer was handing me his number were not just ironic, but actually pretty good. Like, I wish I had a bookie that followed me everywhere because then I could have bet on it and won like, five bucks.

Killer was unaware. I shoved his card in my purse, paid him and left.

I made sure I went the opposite direction Killer did because after all, he knew too much.

Like my license plate.


Sunday, July 22, 2012

Not-so made over

About a month ago, I won a gift certificate to a local salon. Which was pretty cool because who doesn't love free stuff? With the certificate came some salon-quality shampoo that turned out not to be so cool because after using it for a few days, I thought I had lice due to the fact that I could not stop scratching my itchy scalp. I KNOW. Everyone gets lice sooner or later, and you aren't dirty if you have it, yadda yadda BUT GROSS.

I did not have lice. I had a sensitivity to the shampoo that cleared up after I stopped using it and went back to my regular brand.

BTW, it's still in my shower if anyone wants it. Use at your own risk.

Maybe I should let y'all know that I'm not always punctual when it comes to trims and haircuts and the like. I don't color my hair because I actually like my natural color of Faded-Reddish-Gold. Sometimes people pay money for a color like mine and you know what I said before- I love freebies.

Plus, in high school, I once dyed my hair brown and spent a few months being referred to as Shit Head by my brothers.

Anyway, I finally made an appointment at the salon to get my Hair Did.

I'm one of those people who hem and haw over big decisions like altering their appearance. I've been trying to grown my hair out, so I thought about just getting a trim. OR. I could totally cut it all off and dye it neon yellow. But then none of my clothes would go with my new hair, so I would have to change out my entire wardrobe and that's just too spendy.

Naturally, when I sat in the hair dressers chair, I was able to convey my wishes without any mis-communication.

Sally: [running her hands through my hair] So, what are we doing today?

Me: [dying because I absolutely love it when people play with my hair]

Sally: Yo. [snaps fingers] Are you awake?

Me: [jumps] Oh, Yes. Right. I dunno. Trim? Style? I'm at your mercy. It needs... something. I just don't know what. You tell me what you think and I'll say yes or no.

Sally: [visibly resisting the urge to wrap her fingers around my neck and snap it] Okay. [narrows eyes]

I'm pretty sure at that point Sally wanted to beat me with her blow dryer and bury my body in an unmarked grave, but luckily I recognized the murderous rage in her eyes and saved myself.

Me: Or we could just shape it since I want to grow it out, smooth my bangs a little and call it a day.

Sally: Much better. You know, I almost had to hit you.

Me: [shrug] I know. I could see it in your eyes.

Sally switched gears and did the whole prep-thing that they do until suddenly, I saw a weird gleam in her eyes.

Which made me nervous.

Sally: You know. I saw this one redhead who did this whole color thing which would look GREAT ON YOU!

Me: [nervous] Oh.

Sally: She had blue eyes to and it really made them POP.

Me: [wondering if, due to our previous conversation, Sally was for-shadowing my blue-eye's demise]...

Sally: I just want to add a deeper color to your hair.

Me: I don't want to color my hair.

Sally: NO. Like, HIGHLIGHTS! [gasps] You'll love it!

Me: [considering what Sally would do to me if I told her no] Ah, to hell with it. Sure. Why not?

Why not? WHY NOT? Because I was afraid Sally was going to buzz my head if I disagreed. Also, I tend to get a little nervous with things involving hair dye and my head.

Because after that one time I dyed my hair poop-brown in high school, I tried to dye it back, only my hair came out maroon and I cried for a week.

I just took a deep breath, said a prayer for my soul, and let Sally do what she wanted.

And the result was pretty alright, peeps.

You can't even really tell I did anything to my hair which some may call a waste. I call it safe. Best of all, I ended up loving Sally and from now on I will go to her for all my indecisive hair needs.

For your viewing pleasure, I am posting my Fab Facebook Bathroom Photo. Because everyone needs to post a photo like this at some point or another.

Actually, I was trying to get the top of my head but seriously? you have to like, stand upside down to do that so this is what happened instead.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Voo Doo Goddess

Earlier this week you may have seen my Facebook status update that Mumsie, Rawr and I decided to haul the Collective Child Unit to the ocean for the day. (FYI if you missed that post, you can find me on FB under A Smattering Lack of Eloquence. And yes. That was totally a beg for you to come over and visit. Also, I update FB way more than I do the blog. Why? Laziness)

But back to the story here. Kids and grownups embarking on a coastal adventure. 

Have you guys ever seen The Goonies? A mere multiple-hour drive away in Canon Beach exists Haystack Rock: The famous rock at the end of the movie. What is super LAME is that Rawr and I spent two hours combing every store in Canon Beach looking for a Goonies sweatshirt with Sloth's picture on the front and the words "Hey you guys!" scrawled across the bottom. How can these fools not cash-in on the fact that this untra-famous, totally awesome movie was partially filmed in their town? My next effort to secure that sweatshirt will have to take place in Astoria, where the rest of the movie was filmed.

Dude. I am seriously off topic here. I had some weird sample-energy drink at Costco earlier this afternoon and I think it's kicking in now, which is awesome because it's past my bedtime and I'm not really sure that it's supposed to take six hours for that crap to kick in, but WHATEVER.

My point it, on the way BACK from the beach, I was driving, Rawr was in the passenger seat and everyone was happily singing along with Rhianna in the stop-and-go evening rush hour when I noticed a motorcyclist zooming through traffic behind me.

Me: Whoa. [jabs Rawr in the arm] Check out this buttface on the little crotch rocket.

(I get mean in heavy traffic. SO WHAT)

[both turning to watch him cut around like a lunatic at seriously unsafe speeds]

Me: He's not wearing gloves on his hands, or even a jacket. If he falls, he is going to hurt.

Rawr: I hope he skins his elbow. Look at that idiot cutting people off.

[both shake heads]

Me: [immediately distracted] Check it out. What's that? Transit police? I've never ever heard of that. 

Rawr: He's going to hang out at the bus station.

[both laugh]

Me: Too bad he wasn't merging onto the freeway two minutes ago. Then he could have caught that idiot on the bike.

[both watch as transit police lights flash and car zooms away as traffic immediately slows to a halt]


Both: Hoollllyyyy shiiiiiiiiii----

Because laid out in front of us across the freeway are the remnants of that guy's motorcycle. His HELMET is broken into pieces all over the road, the front of his bike is MISSING and the dude? DUDE IS SITTING ON THE GROUND. His hands are ripped up all the way to his elbows, his shoe is literally worn away from his foot and he looks dazed. People are already there helping him, the Transit Police car has stopped and I can hear sirens. As we pass the scene, Rawr and I notice the car that the cyclist hit: it has an enormous dent in the back of the vehicle where the guy had to have rear-ended it with his entire body. How that guy lived is beyond me. I have no idea how he wasn't crushed by the heavy traffic when he flew off his bike.

I'm totally not making fun of the guy for his misfortune. In fact, I told the girls to send up a quick prayer for the idiot in hopes that he didn't have any massive internal bleeding because he needed to pull through and become an advocate for not driving like a spider monkey in a circus ring full of banana-stealing dolphins.

No. What I'm talking about is Rawr's untapped Voo Doo powers. SHE WISHED HIM A SKINNED ELBOW AND IT WORKED.

Do not eff with that woman.

She's dangerous.

And also kind of awesome.

Because she can use mind powers, not because she tried to kill a man.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Two-fers. Not what you thought.

Scene: Orthodontist's office at 3:52 pm. I am filling out a ream of paperwork asking invasive questions about my two eldest children's dental health, history and... preferences? What the crap does THAT mean?

A smiling lady bursts through the door to the waiting room and basically shouts, "HEY KIDS! LET'S GO!" and waves us in.

We follow her back and she introduces herself as Mildred, the dental assistant, and then points to my son, calls him by his sister's name, then does the same with my daughter. My daughter giggles and corrects Mildred, who is enjoying the joke. I smile and look at my 10, then immediately bug my eyes out and step back, for my 10 looks like he is going to MURDER this woman where she stands.

A moment.

These two kids are seventeen months apart, which means for the first 8 years of their lives they were best buddies. Then, something shifted and now they are constantly at each other's throats. I don't know what changed, really. The tide? A door slammed somewhere and one of them got pissed? I am forever being reassured that they are going through a stage and will eventually work things out and I remember my childhood with six kids in the house and what we put our parents through. I can't believe Mumsie made it out of there alive. But. I am forever lecturing, disciplining and redirecting these two when it comes to respecting each other and the like. I pray every night that they make it through the following day, but sometimes I wonder if they will ever be able to fully tolerate each other again.

Anyway. Back to the Ortho's office.

The 10 is absolutely fuming, so I grab him around the shoulders, tousle his hair and shuffle both of the kids into the room as I whisper threats into my son's ear not to embarrass me.

My daughter plops herself into the chair and goes through her exam. Mildred is taking the appropriate notes and trying to engage my son in some witty Tooth Banter or something and my son's responses are like darts to her face.

Mildred: Are you in sixth grade this year?

10: [barely audible] Mrhphth.

Mildred: What was that, hon?

10: [stares at her, replies matter-of-fact] I said YES. You should have heard what I said because I said it loud enough.

Mildred: Oh, my. Little spitfire, aren't you? [laughs, looks at papers] Do you ever suck you thumb?

10: [genuinely offended as though Mildred had asked if he ate puppies] Do I LOOK like I suck my thumb? I mean, that's the 9 [points to sister] and she does that stuff. Not me. Why are you asking me that? I'm not a baby. You should be asking HER that question. Not me.


10: What.

Me: You are being rude.

10: I am?


Mildred busies herself with adjusting her gaze.

10: I'm not trying to be rude.

Me: Silence. NOW.

10: [pouts]

We go on to complete both exams without further incident and then Mildred shows me some figures.

Milred: Blah cuspid retract yadda dental yoodle novocain braces molar TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.

Me: [chokes on gum, needs to be airlifted to nearest hospital] What did you say?

Mildred: Well, that is for both children.


Mildred: [surprisingly without empathy] It's five thousand per child.

Me: Okay, thanks. BYE.

So it looks like two things are happening. My kids will learn to smile with their mouths closed and I think I just found my new career. 

Camping in Saski Country

Everything hurts.

Not like, Oh, I do believe I will take a single Advil for the mild comfort I seem to be temporarily experiencing.

More like, Holy Mother Humper, I want to end it all just for the sweet relief of nothingness!

My back hurts from sleeping on what I am now absolutely unsure of what was maybe a termite's nest. My wrist is sore from catching my entire body weight as I jumped sideways and rolled down a slight incline after Rawr's husband decided to sneak up behind me (repeatedly) and scare the crap out of me because I may or may not have been suspicious of Bigfoots in the trees (where we camped, it is a Felony to shoot and kill a Bigfoot. I KNOW).

There were a lot of bugs, most of which spent the weekend attempting to crawl down Rawr's tank top. There may have been a brief conversation around the campfire between Rawr's husband, their 13 year old son and my 10 year old son regarding cauterizing things and my son asked who got what cauterized at which point I heard guffawing coming from Rawr's tent as she basically expired from laughing so hard. We spent some time teaching the kids how to properly sound a Saski Call (aka Bigfoot Yells). Also, I'm pretty sure I woke up drunk in my tent Sunday morning, only there wasn't any alcohol.

As you may recall my mentioning in the last post (or not, since I can't properly recall any information given earlier than five minutes ago) I took my kids camping with Rawr and her family this last weekend.

I've never taken my kids camping. We were always going to go, but then when the oldest two were at the age where we felt they would enjoy it, we had our youngest, so that threw a wrench into the mix. And then there was the whole slavery thing where I basically lived in the restaurant, so it just never happened.

Until now.

Peeps, my kids L-O-V-E-D it. My 5 asked if she could move to the woods, even though windy roads make her puke her guts out.. My 9 basically set up her own camp in the creek and my 10 kept expressing his love for the art of tent camping by throwing sticks in the fire, smiling up at the trees and proclaiming it all "awesome."

I think my favorite part was where I left my good camera on my nightstand at home and only had my little backup camera with about twenty minutes of battery life in it.

Nevertheless, we did capture a few photos. None of Bigfoot, though.

 Okay, so there were a few beers. But that was Friday night. I woke up feeling weird on Sunday morning. Plus, yes, thanks, I realize how huge my butt looks. IT'S THE ANGLE.

 Rawr's husband put together my tent. When I mentioned that it looked a little funny, he tried to stab me with the tent pole.
 See? Told you.

 The little girls were panning for gold. Eventually they realized that gravel doesn't hold a lot of promise, so they buried one of the kids instead.

Me. Pre-Malaria. I'm sure my aching back has nothing to do with the way I use a chair.

Rawr had to hold the potato chips hostage from the kids because apparently fresh air makes you devour everything in sight.

Rawr and I have plans to take the kids out camping again this summer. So far, we managed to return with all the kids in tact. We're rather fond of pushing our luck.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Backwoods Adventures

Hey Peeps!

Independence Day was cool, and what's EVEN COOLER is that I'm taking my kids on their very first camping trip EVER.

I am on crack.

I have to be.

Worry not. Rawr is going and if anything, she has Facebook on her cell phone. We can update our status if anyone gets hurt or loses an eye.

I'll see you all back here on Monday. Then, you can hear about our 4th of July celebration and hey, if I do post, at least you all know that I lived through camping in the middle of NO WHERE.

Pray for us?

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Elle's Version of Boom Stick Buying

Boom. Fifty bucks.

Today, Elle has graciously agreed to give her take on the purchasing of Pyrotechnics.

I'm only sort-of proud of the things I did to negotiate that price. But it was a necessary sacrifice of my timidness. (cue dramatic music) I can hold my head high now, having spoken up about the outrageous prices the rickety shanty was trying to charge me and my fellow patriotic American citizens. This is a day of celebration, a day of remembrance of the freedom our forefathers worked so tirelessly, so fearlessly and bravely for! 

(here's where I step onto a wooden crate so be seen and heard by the masses) 

The audacity of these criminals, asking hard-working Americans to spend so much of their hard-earned money for dangerous explosives as a way to express our gratitude and loyalty to this great nation! It wasn't easy, I was terrified, I was sweating, but I could not hold back! I needed to be heard! So I stepped up, I took a deep breath! 

"Um, will you take any less than the asking price?" I whispered. 

"I'll take $5 off," the owner responded after a moment of thought. 

"Ok, thank you very much," I breathed, heart racing from panic.

I prevailed, my friends. Today, I negotiated. 

I feel like a wrung-out washcloth. 


Today is Tuesday, July 3rd. Which means tomorrow is our nation's birthday.

Just thought you could all use the reminder.

How do you plan to celebrate?