Life is Complicated… Underwear Shouldn’t Be

I walked into Walmart a woman on a mission.  I was focused. I was ready. I strode confidently past end-cap, after end cap full of impulse purchase inducing swag. I chuckled at “the man’s” lame attempts to dissuade me from my goal.  “No, no way,not today Mr Marketer. I am not buying a bag of BBQ Rib flavored potato chips… or Shrek Oreos… Today it is about: ME and my panties.”

Today, I will buy: underwear without spiderman or a fly front!” I smiled in satisfaction at my Marine like, mission focus. I confidently strode toward the underwear aisle. And upon arrival, fell into a panty- induced stupor.

There was an aisle. Yes, I said aisle. An entire Walmart aisle of underwear. No wonder my confidence wavered. I was overwhelmed with underwear. And this was just the panty aisle.. I hadn’t even made it to the bra aisle.

Overwhelmed by underwear?  Why, Yes. Yes, I was.

 

Christmas Card Conundrum. In which I both love and hate Christmas Cards.

Confession: I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas Cards.  I love getting them. But, sending them? Well….

The angst created by trying to choose a card that is both reflective of my sentiments AND respectful of others views….. and doesn’t come across like a tract…..is epic..  I don’t want to be preachy…. or deny God. I don’t want to send pretentious cards that are more expensive than the average car payment. I also don’t want to send inferior cards that imply: “I don’t care enough to send the very best. ”

I usually just chose: pretty cards. Although last year I went with Charlie Brown. I can’t say WHICH Charlie Brown cards I sent- Because I ran out half way through- and had to go back to the store. THEY WERE OUT OF THE ONES I finally CHOSE. Update: This year I didn’t buy enough cards either. Ran out half way through. AGAIN. I should actually COUNT before I buy them. I suppose.

Anyway- I had to buy different ones. *gasp* my cards are not all the same. I’m afraid some people may feel slighted. Or puffed up by the one I sent to them…. some may be upset they weren’t in the first batch…..like they were called out in the first round of a Christmas Card Reality show— and then “saved'” at the last minute. I chose Charlie Brown- because apparently- only Linus can apparently quote scripture without being offensive. Unless you’re offended by Linus. Or his blanket. Then: I’m sorry. (For you- not to you.. cause really….. LINUS? Sheesh. touchy. Get a grip.) This years cards= not Charlie Brown.

Once I’ve procured the cards, another crisis arises: Creating the list. WHO do I send to? Who do I not? I can’t afford to send cards to everyone I’ve ever met- (that would involve a detective agency and hiring a database manager. Besides,I don’t have the time or fine motor control to sign that many cards. … so there has to be a cut off, somewhere. But where do you draw the line?  Who do I Christmas Card un-friend? I cannot share the complex formula I use for that… it’s proprietary information. But I will say this: If I don’t have your address readily at hand…. don’t wait for a card. Also: I tend to run out near the end of the alphabet. It’s not personal. It’s alphabetical.

Then… I have to remember how to do a mail merge. GAH.

 

Laundry Dysmorphic Disorder- In which I am incapable of appropriately loading a washing machine.

“Boom. Boom. BOOM BOOM BANG. Thump. thump thump thump thump!” No, it’s not the fourth of July. No, That is not the sound of me attempting  to conquer Just Dance on the Xbox 360. (Confession: it has however- been. In the past. PS: I lose. Always.) Contrary to the dusting of snow outside my front door… it’s also not the sound of Frosty the Snowman Sledding in my yard.

It’s the sound of my washing machine. No, it’s not broken. (Yet.) It’s once again- suffering the effects of my Laundry Dysmorphic Disorder. I have made several attempts to solve this personal issue. I’ve consulted Laundry specialists. (Well, several sales guys at Sears…..they’re specialists, right?) I’ve sought the great and wise internets for answers. Yet, I still struggle.

I am daily haunted by the thumping protestation of my over worked washer.

I confess I’ve caused harm in my illness. I’ve allowed my disorder to run rampant and several washing machines have suffered the consequences. I have killed (washing machines and gaskets and pump motors…..) in my illness. I’ve sat through loving but- humiliating interventions. Where my repairman and family gather to tell me the truth about my harmful actions. I have treated their concerned outcries with disregard. I’ve taken out my anger on washing machine brands. “Front loaders just suck. It’s not me, it’s the washer. That one isn’t big enough. Washing machine companies lie. How can this be the heavy duty model? Lies. They all lie.”  I’ve ruined clothing. (They make clothes so poorly – it’s pathetic.. is my response to that…) I’ve wasted time. (Contrary to my sick brains belief- an over loaded washer does not get your laundry done faster. 1) it if runs through it may not actually be clean. 2) the number of times I have to run upstairs to stop the thumping before light fixtures fall from the ceiling, and I then attempt to redistribute the “unbalanced” load thinking if I just move the towels to the other side of the comforter it will finally balance and turn out clean…..is ridiculous. I’ve wasted money due to my disorder.  (If it’s not me, and it’s the washer– then- I need a new washer. Or another visit from the repairman. Or, for my husband to go pick up parts and repair this stupid appliance AKA: bane of my existence.

Truthfully? I might be better off washing the clothes in the creek.

I have no idea why I suffer from this disorder. I searched the DSM IV and could not find a diagnosis, cause or recommendation for treatment. I fear I may be alone in this disorder. Could I be the only sufferer of Laundry Dysmorphic Disorder? Could I really be the only one incapable of judging the appropriate size of a laundry load? Maybe. But, I doubt it.

To the very core of my being I (falsely?) believe that if I can fit (shove) something INTO the washing machine- it should in turn be cleaned without breaking down or thumping about as if each item of clothing is exploding on after another during the spin cycle. Is that really too much to ask? I think not. Actually I’m kind of proud of how much I can shove into a washing machine….it’s a challenge. I WILL WIN. (Except , not so much yet.)

In case you’re wondering- YES. I am sitting here right now- after re-balancing a load 3 times- listening to it, that demonic beast-yet again, attempt to beat it’s way through my ceiling.

The truth is- I’d much rather write about it than do anything about it. We’ll call this confession-the first step in my laundry recovery. Maybe. Probably not.

Please pray for my washing machine. I am an evil overlord. It needs help. Quite possibly- it needs rescuing.

Maybe, I just need a smaller laundry basket.

Smaller kids? (No- somehow laundry is a constant. Big kids= same amount of laundry of dirty little kids…. it’s a wash… HA! So to speak.)

A bigger washer?

So….am I alone? Do you over cram your washer to oblivion? Do you smile embarrassedly when the repairman suggests smaller loads- all the while thinking that washer needs to suck it up buttercup and build its strength by working harder?

Maybe we can start a support group. If I’m really lucky- I can get my insurance to recognize this disorder and my dream treatment of a live in laundress could be covered!!!!!

I’d post a pic of the poor mistreated machine- but I fear retaliation by Appliance Protection Services. In case they’re reading: This is a work of fiction.

(If they’re not: it’s not.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Time I Goosed a Stranger…..In which Insecurity leads to excessive spending, mayhem and humiliation.

Opening the invitation, I’ll admit my response: “Oh no. Not one of “those” events. You know….events where pretentious people gather and pretend to care, all the while making clear how important they are by name dropping, house dropping (not as exciting as when it involves witches with stripey hose and flashy shoes. This type of house dropping is mentioning aspects of your home (s) that make your affluent status apparent.) And Pedigree dropping.(In which you introduce yourself as if you are your professional accomplishments. In my world- Pedigree is a dog food that produces digestive “issues” in my Shorkie. )

My husband is a successful sales exec. Sometimes we attend “those” events. Occasionally, I’m surprised to find someone equally not all about impressing but about connecting….often times- not. These events involve gowns and layered spanx induced and lack of oxygen. I think I have PTED- post traumatic event disorder. Between pretense and my own insecurity- (hello- my house is a blessing- and messy. The most “droppable” part is a giant master bath….. and bathroom talk is one of those things you are supposed to avoid in “polite” society. Or, so I hear. When it comes to that moment in introducing yourself and pedigrees start flying? I duck them like flying monkeys.”I’m a mom. ” Just doesn’t feel like it compares to the doctor princess barbie rocket scientist I’m usually seated next to. Yup. “those” events? The 6th circle of hell.

I thought of a thousand reasons to bow out. (I am a justification ninja. Just sayin. I have skills. I have responsibilities. Not to mention: I have: excuses.)

But…. There was something about the invite that held potential as being different. This was a donor event. For an organization I’ve loved for 23 years. An organization that had helped me learn to parent, to lead and to trust…..(if you haven’t guessed by now- yes- it was a MOPS International donor event- held during convention. Several years ago.)

Part of me wondered if it would be a high pressured sales pitch. The truth is- what we’d already given was a stretch….. I didn’t want to feel like I hadn’t/couldn’t do enough. I didn’t want to feel intimidated or “less than” in what had become a safe place for me to be: enough. Valued. Respected. The other part of me wondered if maybe…. Just maybe- it was a gathering of people who also loved MOPS…. How bad could that be?

I (mostly !decided to go. (Mostly because it made me feel special to be invited. A little like an invitation to sit at the cool kids table in junior high. Yes. I felt guilty and stupid about that, of course.) I rsvp’d. But- honestly? I wasn’t positive I’d go or not. I figured they’d never notice if I didn’t show up. I did pack an outfit I thought would work. Just in case.

The day of the event- I was nervous. I was also: busy. (I hold a MOPS Volunteer Staff position- convention – now called MomCon-During which is  MVS work in hyperdive.) During an hour break in my schedule, I walked into a shop. That’s when I saw it: a satin leopard fit and flare trench coat. I tried it on. Suddenly, I felt like I ruled the world. “Okay… In this jacket- I can attend that event.”

I checked the price. Oy.  I should have known. It was at a swanky hotel shop….. Way over priced, even if it fit perfectly and was fabulous. I bought it anyway. I felt like it was my golden ticket to acceptance. (I’m emotionally a perpetual 15 yr old. I know this.) To this day it’s the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever bought.

I know…… Some people go into these situations wanting to blend in…. Well… I want to shine. The more nervous I am- the more animated. The more plumage I apply…. (This was a leopard print peacock of a jacket- trust me. Total plumage.)

I climbed aboard the bus to the destination feeling a bit overdressed. (It was a bit more conservative than flashy crowd. Oops.) But- my rule of insecurity: when in doubt-better to be over than under- dressed. I put on my chatty if you’re not the most important person be the most charming funny, witty- persona (thats what it was in my head, trust me.) and wore it like armor.

By the time we arrived. I was really wound up. Introductions were made. Without realizing it- I was suddenly THAT chick. The one swinging her arms and talking with her hands as loudly as her voice,
(Which is always the loudest. Thank you Italian genes.)

Which was fine. Except – the event was on a small river boat.

And as we were standing- chatting. Servers were weaving their way through the crowd to serve beverages and hors-devours (which auto correct wont correct. But, you know what I mean.) which is when I swung my arm as I turned in my satin leopard jacket and suddenly felt what could only be a handful of um…… Butt. Out of the corer of my eye- I saw a server. A male server. I jerked my hand away and tried shove it in the pocketless jacket. I wished I’d worn something ummm. Less memorable. I walked to the other side of the boat hoping to blend in or fall overboard. (We were below deck….but there was a slim chance I could be sucked out a porthole if a tornado suddenly blew in…. No such luck.)

I felt heat rise from my feet to my head. Italians don’t really visibly blush…. But I think I did. That, or I was smoldering.

The only thing I could think to do, was pretend it didn’t happen.

And sit down and shut up. Or at least, sit on my hands. Which is what I did. No one knew I was dying of horror inside.

I carried on. (waiting to see if the police were about to swarm the boar and arrest me for groping some server…) But slowly i realized that no one appeared to be either impressed by, or afraid of me. They also weren’t into “dropping” anything. They were just… There. Because they love MOPS.

I heard stories of how they each got involved and why they stay involved. I met people I’d only known as “celebrities” “Board Members” and staff…who turned out to be: people.

There was no guilt laden sales pitch – it was a thank you and here’s what you’ve helped accomplish thing. One of my favorite preachers shared a message that resonated so much that it still affects my daily life. (Thank. you, Pastor Gelinas- your message on call and respond gave me permission to share my walk with god exactly as I live it…. Call and response that’s what I share here…..his message that night was from his book- “Finding the Groove- Composing a Jazz Shaped Faith-if you haven’t- you should read it. Just sayin.)

There was no swat team when we docked. (Ha! Get it? Swat?) Honestly, the “goosing” may not have been noticed by anyone but me. The servers’ face never changed.

I still have the jacket. I think I’ve worn it one other time – for a speaking engagement- you know- when you want to be the center of attention- because its your job…..vs when you want to get away with goosing some college kid at a donor dinner.

Best part? Not long after that awful wonderful night….. was asked to become a member of that board of directors. I thought it was a joke.

It wasn’t.

I love it.

At all MOPS events- i have a personal mission-to make every mom ( person, really) feel accepted and welcomed like I was, at that donor dinner. I know what insecurity feels like. I know it wears both hidden faces trying to blend in and not be noticed or embarrass themselves so they can be accepted….and rambunctious faces who goose servers in their attempt to be noticed and accepted. And then there are people who are comfortable in their skin and want to connect with others who are equally passionate about family and mothers. I want every mom to feel like a rockstar.

Because she is.

MomCon is coming up in October. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to meet: YOU. I can’t wait to hear YOUR MOPS story. Look for me. Say hi. I’ll be watching for you, too.

But I promise to keep my hands to myself. I’m a little more comfortable in my skin than that now…. Mostly. But I usually do have some form of leopard print on…. A scarf. Bag… Shoes….something. It’s my little reminder now…. To chill out. All “events” aren’t circles of hell….. Some? Are little tastes of heaven;)

If I’m going to see you in Kansas City- speak up! I want to know!

So…..what’s the craziest thing you’ve done as an adult to try and “fit in” with a certain crowd? Satin leopard overpriced jacket? Nervous goosing? Please tell me I’m not the only one…..

Dear lord- women (and a few men) from all over, are getting ready for MomCon. I pray that anyone who’s afraid or nervous would hear my experience had know that we’re all in this together- on a common mission,. This (and all MOPS events) are not “that” kind of thing…. They aren’t about dropping things…they’re about picking up things…. Lifting up people… Truths, encouragement. Prepare us now, and help us to reach out and connect then. In Jesus name amen. Ps lord? I still feel bad about goosing that kid….. It was an accident, I swear!

 

I hate pumpkin and it knows it.

Half baked?  Been there.

Burnt crust? Done that.

Patio stone of burnt orange stink?  Done that, too.

It can’t be my fault. I know how to cook. I can make homemade pasta, and my apple pies are epic.

At least I thought I knew how to cook until I started my saga of Pumpkin pie baking. I have found 100 ways to fail at pumpkin pie baking.  (I’m getting closer, right?) From burnt at the edges and raw in the middle… I suggested it become a pumpkin smoothie, which no one was brave enough to try. They said something about raw (ish) eggs….and food poisoning… the gall! I’v produced pies that could be used for a professional curling tournament, They were so solid and burnt that your fork begged not to be subjected to it’s doom. (Maybe thats why the dish ran away with the spoon? It feared my pie!  I’ve tried several recipes, from can backs to cookbooks, with no success.

There are rumors of a canned pumpkin shortage..  I fear I caused it by wasting more than my share in my failed attempts. Even the compost pile rejected my pies… I find them tossed to the side by the proud vegetable peelings.

The thing is, I hate pumpkin. It all smells like punkin guts to me which makes me gag.

“So why are you devoted to making a pie?”

It’s love.

Not of the squash.. (let’s face it, squash + pie is just not right.) it’s love of my people. they love the orange goo.

So I try again, every year.  I purchase the ingredients. I ask for recipe recommendations.  I set out to bake: the perfect pumpkin pie.  (Or an edible pumpkin pie, at this point my hopes are minimal.) Each year I steady my nerves with a good cup of coffee and a moment of prayer. I ask the Lord to be with me in battle, and to bless the work of my hands…

I arrange the ingredients on the counter like I’m building an altar to the pumpkin gods… or maybe the Great Pumpkin?..  I’ve tried organic canned pumpkin and the “gold standard” every-mom -uses -it -so -how- can you -go -wrong- canned pumpkin. (You can if you’re me. Just sayin. ) I’ve even tried some high end pumpkin praline in a jar. That was a pricey fail.

Each year I carefully measure and combine those ingredients.  Each year, I follow the oven time and temperature, whether low and slow or high to begin then medium to finish… and I wait the results with nauseated anticipation. (I’m never sure if it;s my nerves or the smell that does it..) And each year it’s a flop of turkey tamping proportions.

They either cook too fast, or go from raw to radioactively over done in an instant.

Yes, I’ve checked my oven’s calibration. It’s spot on. I can’t  explain what happens.

I think the pumpkin knows I hate it. I think it hates me right back. or maybe my failures have made me paranoid.

One year, I tried to trick the orange tart- I decided to go with an un-baked version that included a creamy layer…..it. was. just. wrong.

It’s that time of year again. Time to face my baking nemesis. The classic pumpkin pie. I’ve procured my offerings of sweetness and light. I’ve beaten eggs and blended spices. I’ve pre-heated,  carefully timed and mindfully watched. I’ve tested and sniffed and I’ve choked back my gag reflex and followed directions….

guess what?

I maked a pie. A pumpkin pie! I cooked it until the knife inserted in the middle came out clean. I used the standard back of the Libbey’s can -recipe. Nothing fancy- nothing creative. Just plain ole’ pie.

It may taste like pumpkin poo. I have no idea. I won’t know until after dinner. Even then, I’ll have to rely on those who are brave enough to try it. (nd if they love me- they will lie if it’s more poo than perfect.)

But- for now… I celebrate. For now- it’s my first “win”. At least, it’s pretty.

Maybe the starts aligned, Maybe God intervened. Maybe it’s the Edison effect and I finally failed enough to succeed. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m now bionic.. that did it…

I don’t know.. but for now— I’m thankful for family, friends, for walking without a limp and for (what appears to be) a well baked pie….

Happy Thanksgiving! 

Questions-

Do you have a cooking nemesis? (Or am I the only paranoid freak?) What is it? What happens?

Favorite holiday recipe?

A no-fail pumpkin pie recipe?

Part of being thankful is sharing… post away in the comments!

Continue to live your lives in him, ⁷rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness. Col 2:6 b & 7

 

The thing about hair dye- it lies….(caution: do not dye your roots on “one of those days”)

I should have known better.

The day did not start well. I stumbled down the steps and landed in not quite fresh cat-puke. The coffee maker malfunctioned and leaked coffee all over the counter. Not once, but three times. (I kept trying to make it work… addicted, much?) After sopping up the coffee and drinking what could only be called a slurry of grounds and hot water.. I landed on the couch.

I thought the dog was being extra friendly…. cuddling up right next to me… wriggling to get comfortable…. I was wrong. She was getting ready to throw up. On the couch. While I ran for the spot cleaner and paper towels.. she tried to help clean it up.. in that wonderful way that dogs clean up barf…. I almost threw up.

After cleaning up the mess (and cleaning myself) I realized the garbage hadn’t made it’s way to the curb. I opened the garage door to find bags blocking the path… I tossed the one nearest the door- attempting to clear a path and it opened like dandelion.. sprinkling garbage seeds all over the garage.*Sigh*. The sound of approaching garbage trucks pushed me on… Must. Beat. Truck.

I did. After waking up a college boy to help. Which is a little like waking a hungry lion. Dangerous. Cranky.

When I noticed that a shower was no longer an option but a necessity (garbage bags leak.Hate that.) I decided that it would be a good idea to multi task and dye my roots while my youngest ate breakfast.

I was wrong. I should have read the signs…. today was not a good day to dye my hair.

I should have rinsed it out when I noticed the goo was exactly the color of cat litter clumps.

“It never turns out the way it looks while its developing” I thought.

I waited the recommended 10 minutes, and then showered. I hoped a long hot shower and fresh hair color would refresh my  day. The “dark chocolate” color I’d chosen sounded like a fat free dessert treat for my roots. I should have known from the smell that the box had lied. It was a little more gassy beagle than dark chocolate… but I remained hopeful. I rinsed. And rinsed. As I watched the murky muddy water rinse down the drain I told myself… “it can’t be that color… that’s not dark chocolate.. ”

I toweled it dry and noticed that the roots and ends were somewhat different. (Think a nice cheap 1972 ombre’ yarn dark parts and light parts… browns and reds with some black.) “It’s just that it’s wet. It’ll be fine once it’s dry.”

It wasn’t.

My  “dark chocolate” is more “accidental goth.” Which is ok.. if that’s what you want.. but it’s not what I had in mind for Thanksgiving… and it’s a little too late for Halloween.

Yup. Today is one of those days… where everything goes wrong and you keep trying to make the best of it… as an accidental goth.

Ever have one of those ?

What do you do?

I think I’ll hit the bookstore…although with all those sharp pages I could end up dying of papercuts…

 

Garbage Jenga— “winner” takes all …the trash out…

Shoe boxes, sushi containers, empty coffee cans, paper towels with nefarious stains.  Empty milk bottles, dirty chopsticks and vaguely-recognizable foodstuffs.

Each object is precariously perched upon another. A leaning tower of garbage. A haz-mat situation in the kitchen.

Really? It’s a rousing family game of Garbage Jenga.

What started as a necessary kitchen garbage can, has become a family past-time. Each day’s game of Garbage Jenga offers a chance to win. The game grows through out the day, every family member adding to the tower, bit by garbage-y bit.  Each one quietly backing away from their last addition, afraid the vibration of their footsteps could lead to jenga-tastrophe.

The rules of the game are simple:  Whom ever placed the last item on the garbage pile prior to it’s toppling, is the tortured soul who must: (cue the ominous music) TAKE OUT THE TRASH.

It’s  amazing to see the engineering skills employed to reinforce the garbage tower.  Please note the turned up edge of the garbage bag that gives just enough support for items to be slipped into the sides without adding to the height. (It’s the height that gets them-every time.) I have explained countless times- that the energy exerted in reinforcements, arguing (about who’s turn it is) and studying garbage tower engineering is considerably more than what would be required to simply TAKE out the TRASH… but alas… they disagree.

And so- each day..the game begins anew.  An empty box- coffee grounds, a candy wrapper, a broken toy or *gasp* a pile of old schoolwork at a time…

Just one question?  Garbage Jenga- does this count towards our one million minutes of family game time?

I will refrain from describing the argument that ensues over who has to replace the garbage bag with a clean one…or who has to pick up the garbage that inevitably drops off the jenga pile and onto the kitchen floor as it’s being bagged.. Suffice to say, it’s not  pretty . Really- I have no clue why my extremely intelligent family seems to be incapable of taking out the trash without waiting for a trash-alanche or my (loud) complaints…. but there you have it- just another adventure in motherhood, you gotta laugh to survive ;)

 

On the Biodegradability of Dog Poo…..

The snow is gone.  The sun is shining in my backyard, I grabbed a cup of coffee and joined the cat in front of the doorwall to soak up the sunshiney goodness through the glass.  Once my eyes adjusted to the brilliant light.. (takes a while after the long winter here in Michigan…) I noticed the dog poo. Perfectly piled little gifts our beagle has been leaving us all winter long—like left over Easter eggs found in July, they are not a welcome surprise.

What I do not understand, is this:  A  winters’ worth of garbage that blew through the yard, is gone.  The papers and bits of plastic that blew out of frozen garbage cans before they could be emptied into the truck…are all gone, blown away by the Spring breezes (read: near gale force winds) or somehow melted away with the snow.   The left over fall leaves have disappeared, becoming one with the grass, as they should.  The yard looks pretty good aside form the mud, until you look closely, thats when you’ll notice the poo.

Perfectly preserved little piles, dotting the yard.  The one thing that is naturally biodegradable (it’s already halfway there- for pete’s sake, it’s been digested!) remains.   The poo piles.  WHY does dog poo- not biodegrade?  Why does it last through snow and ice and rain and sun and  global warming and global cooling and sleet and hail  all seemingly, un-changed?  I don’t get it.

I have no answers.  I have no spiritual analogy… only preserved piles of poo.  And the task of assigning my sons to clean them up…. which they are already arguing about.  They have offered numerous suggestions in regards to the poo:

 

An open letter to rebellious pores and persistent pimples

Dear Rebellious Pores and Persistent Pimples:

Don’t look around confused and innocent, like. You know who you are. Yes, you.

I am talking to  you, Rebellious Pores #1-6 billion and seven who have been pumping enough oil onto the surface of my skin for 30 years to power several third world nations.  And yes, you too, Persistent Pimple # 4,768,321. Location: A Sector, B Quadrant, 2.5.

Also known as: In the shadow of left nostril.

To you, I say: I am impressed with your consistency and perseverance . Or rather, with your evil, malicious, ugly, and (often) pain filled, doggedness.  You have been my (monthly) worthy adversaries for 30 years. I  know I am supposed to be a woman of grace.. and I do believe that God works all things together for good… but really?

I hate you and wish you’d be GONE.

You suck time, money and emotional energy like a hormonal leech. It’s been hard to convince my kids that their college tuition has been invested in my private war against your terrorism.  Terrorism?  Yes. Terrorism. Why? Because you do not attack on all fronts, like a traditional war. No.. you are more diabolical to my follicles.  YOU attack like a terrorist, in just the most vulnerable and tender spots: my right cheek, left nostril and the side of my nose.  Of course, occasionally you try to throw me off and attack my chin or forehead, but I’ve been tracking you like a beagle on bacon. You can’t fool me.

I worry that someday, Al Gore will wage a personal war against me.  Why? Am I paranoid?  No—The acids, lotions, vitamins, drying agents, and snake oils I’ve purchased to slay you, are the most plausible cause of  global warming, I’ve heard. It’s true, I am haunted by guilt and the imagined screams of polar bears, each time I apply them.

Despite their tortured cries-, apply them I do. I am a woman obsessed.   From Retin A to Pro (not so) active.  From Acids to lotions, with labels like potions, apply them, I do.

And I WILL.

Why?

Because, to you I ALSO say: I will prevail. There will be peace (at least) on my face.

I will not give up. I will fight you to menopause, and beyond!

Be warned.  I was recently blessed with luck.. and won one of these beauties in PINK!—and it’s got my name engraved on it..

This momma’s goin’ high-tech… prepare to DIE.

Signed-

hopingmyfacewillclearupbeforeIlooklikeasharpei

in michigan

 

mothering boys-

1. The same boys who put WORMS in my refrigerator, (tucked into the back, and then forgotten) will find bras hanging to dry in the laundry room, disgusting.
2. Boys know what mold tastes like. (I don’t want to know, how.)
3. Boys think underwear is reversible for extended wear.
4. To boys-socks that are “crunchy” but sitting on the table, are not dirty, they are being “aired out” and will be ready to wear by tomorrow morning.
5. Boys that are the size of men, may be thrown into a pool. However, they will hurt their fathers later, for doing it. (The father won’t admit to being injured, but he will be.)
6. Boys eat things after they’ve been on the floor… while mumbling something about a 20 second rule.
7. For boys, punching actually can solve problems.
8. Boys think that food is anything you can put in your mouth.
9. For boys, clean has nothing to do with an absense of dirt. Clean has everything to do with reaching a limit of desired effort. (“It’s clean- cause I’m done cleaning it.”)
10. Boys know they are not supposed to take glasses of “stuff” into their rooms.  However,they are compelled to use their “space” for experimentation.  Home penicillum production, is a favorite. It’s genetic.
11. Boys believe that creating disgusting smells  should be an olympic sport.
12. Boys may be tempted to write “can belch the alphabet” on their first job application, under “skills.”
13. Boys think one pair of shorts a pair of underwear and 2 shirts is enough to pack for a weeks vacation. They don’t need socks, they’ll be barefoot. Need something to sleep in? That’s what the extra underwear are for.
14. Boys use the area under their bed, for composting.
15. Boys throw rocks, so do young men. and old men. They also skip rocks. They also try to BREAK rocks by throwing smaller rocks at big rocks. Don’t bother trying to understand. It’s just a fact. They must do it.
16. Boys can remember every statistic for every player of every sport, but they will forget what you told them to do, as you are saying it.
17. Boys do not know what they want, when going “back to school shopping.” However they do know what they do not want. Which is:  whatever Mom picks out.
18. Boys will always laugh when someone passes gas.
19. Boys will always laugh, when someone passes gas.
20. Unless it’s Mom, then it’s “Disgusting”

Re-print- because 6 more weeks of winter requires giggles to survive….

I love my boys. I don’t understand them, but, I love ’em.