It all started with this gigantic pickle I saw in a new gas station last week. Right there, smack dab in between the bucket of hot boiled peanuts and dancing solar powered flowers was this pickle display offering huge individually wrapped pickles called The Big Dill. It was the biggest pickle I've ever seen. That's what she said. Oh my grief! See!! I'm out of control. I cannot stop my crude thinking, it has been on hyper-mode ever since then. Actually that is not entirely true.
To be honest I have always had an odd sense of humor especially among friends, which most people do not understand or would appreciate. Let me back up. It's not like I go around talking about "things that go on behind closed doors" to the general public, but when you get a bunch of silly friends together, the subject is bound to be discussed at some point. Now I admit that there are many areas and layers of one's personal "preferences of intimacy" that I will not talk about and honestly do not really understand, but in general I think over all it is a pretty funny conversation topic. How can it not be? I am 37 (aack) years young and I think it is safe to say that most people my age have been intimate with someone and have a funny story or two mixed in there somewhere. Who doesn't want to talk and laugh about those times over lots of margaritas with your buddies, and that one poor friend someone brought along that you will never see again? Nipple. Bwaa-haha-hahaa See?
I really should behave and watch what I say more but I'm having a hard time doing so. People and some things they say crack me up. Yes, there have been a half dozen million times that something inappropriate was said by me while I was trying to be little Miss Comedian; afterwards I will do my very best to avoid that person for months in the hopes they will forget. Alas, they never do. For the most part I keep my comments and sophomoric thoughts to myself unless it's possible they will be appreciated and hopefully garnish a chuckle or snort. Unfortunately I'm not that smooth at reading people and more often that not I look like a dirty-minded floozy. Here is a good example of my lack of tact. Two weeks ago at the ball field I was sitting with a group of other team Moms that I've known for a few years and shared a few chuckles with, only half listening to a story. Earlier we had been joking about husbands, so when one lady said "I told Randy to come home quickly, that I really wanted him", it triggered some juvenile reply button in my head. I piped in from the edge with a "Umm Hmm I BET you did"! The looks I got could have froze rain. Well, it was hilarious in my mind.
This brings me back to the pickle. The Big Dill. There I was, standing at the cashier buying my can of coke when out jumps this wall of big dill pickles. No, they were bigger than big, they were enormous! (I'm not even going to say anything here) I was stunned into silence. Who knew a vegetable could be so, so, so big! It was all I could do to just pay for my coke and get the dodge out of there. Have you ever? Of course I called a friend of mine right away and told her all about the 7 inch long wonder I found. Out in public! It's that hysterical! I didn't dare take a picture or buy the darn thing for fear of causing unnecessary attention to myself and my snack. Don't give me that look ... of course I know that many people enjoy a nice dill pickle now and then, but I'm sorry The Big Dill is borderline obscene and I love it! X rated pickles in the Minuteman. Pure Americana. And you know the best part? When I called later in the morning to save one so I could take a picture, they were sold out. Now I am obsessed with finding inappropriate pickles and have luckily found Big Papa & Hot Mama, but the famous The Big Dill is still M.I.A.
After years of partially completed scrapbooks, ridiculous looking centerpieces and millions of dollars spent on nick-knacks and miles of ribbon that will never become frames or barrettes or tablecloths or whatever the heck was in that month's magazine, I give up. It's time to admit to myself that I am the anti-Martha Stewart. No matter how hard I try and all the time I spend reading and going over every little detail in the hopes to create this year's Easter basket masterpiece, it's safe to say that it ain't gonna happen. Nope, it's not.
It must have been the huge box of unused scrapbook ditties and swatches of mismatch fabric I unearthed in the back of my daughter's closet, along with the old stacks of Martha Stewart Living that has forced me to finally admit that I am just not crafty. Uncrafty Sally. Yep, that's my name. Life can be so unfair sometimes, and you want to know the worst of it? I was totally content making ordinary birthday cakes and purchasing Christmas ornaments until that dream killer Martha came along. Oh Yes! A simple chocolate cake with 16 candles and those edible Spiderman thingys will just not do. Only good Mommies will make a 3 foot tall 3D talking Spiderman cake that will swing itself outside and onto the picnic table from the kitchen. Only terrible blah people would hang store bought chintzy ornaments on their Christmas trees while the rest of the "Marthies" hand roll and bake their 8 point intricate snowflake ornaments, finishing them off with crushed sea glass that you should've been collecting this entire year. Who needs the stress? I do.
Deep down in my simple cake soul, I want to be a Marthie. I live on the beach. I collect shells regularly and I have possessed a glue gun at some time point in my life, so you'd think that with all of my extra time (ha) I should be able to assemble a lovely shell wreath for the next door neighbor with little or no effort. You would think. Gathering all of the ingredients is not the problem, it is the execution that I have trouble with. What "should" take a hour of your time is still sitting on my dinning room table months later along with the June 2002 partially monogrammed with cut potatos, tablecloth that was supposed to be someone's wedding present. I can only hope that their marriage has lasted longer than my willingness to complete their gift. To be honest it was hideous and quite possibly saved our friendship since the 'D' looked like a 'P' which was the last name initial of an ex-someone. Who wants to explain that? Check please!
I should start my own revolution where un-craftyness is celebrated and a lopsided, barely cooked strawberry surprise is the go-to desert of the month. Having a dinner party with the chipped plates you've had since college and using the soup spoon from your daughter's play kitchen to serve your bag of salad, would bring cheers from your friends and make your dinner table the place to be! Chicken nuggets and all.
Hello my name is Sally and I am a hopeless band nerd. I love love loved being in the wind ensemble and marching band in high school. Truly it was some of the most wonderful times in my life. Laugh all you want but I can't help it. It was incredible and just right up my alley since I am a freak for music. Stop and think and I'm sure you will agree with me when I say that once you hear a certain song on the radio, it just transports you back to a moment. For me all it takes are a few bars from a familiar song and I am right back in that place in time. I totally have a love affair with Van Morrison, and it can get a little tricky sometimes so I really have to be careful. It's no joke and thank goodness I am married because 1 song and I might find myself 1/2 to Dillon S.C. on marriage mission. I'll set the scene for you. Me on the waterfront nursing a cocktail, warm air blowing in my hair, shimmers from the lighthouse dancing on the water. I am relaxed and deep in thought when Into the Mystic (my favorite song ever) begins to play softly in the background, when suddenly a mysterious man walks onto the deck and glances my way. The moon shines thru the clouds and they cast a shadow over his face and clothing. Slowly he moves towards me in the darkness and grabs my hand, "smell the sea and feel the sky" is ringing in my ears while he leads me out and into his car. As we drive away the last words of the song hover in the air "and together we will float into the mystic. Come on girl" and I'm all swept up into the song. The guitar and the saxophone are playing until the last piano cord is complete; and as I look to my prince I see that we are in a 1978 Gremlin with his mother sitting in the backseat hunkering down on some chew. What I thought were moonbeams on his shoulders is actually his pale gray skin since he is wearing coveralls without a shirt. Beer cans and last months takeout boxes litter the floorboards and by the smell in the car, a wet dog or six. See what I can get myself into with the right song? I don't even want to think about would've happened if he had his 8 track of Morrison set to repeat. Frightening.
I still remember the day when it was my turn to choose a Recorder in my 3rd grade music class. Who knew mastering "Mary Had a Little Lamb" could be so rewarding! After several years of piano (I'm decent, not great but I love it) trumpet and french horn I must admit I've had a crush on the drums my whole life. It all began with that opening of Wipe Out I heard on my parents stereo. (Laughing) Wipe Out .. the drum solo, bring in the guitar, more drums, guitars and then the cymbals! Good Grief I love it. A marching band in formation playing a drum cadence ... Good Lord I go weak at the knees. Truly I cannot help myself. Who doesn't like a fabulous drum beat? And football season ... I am toast with the opening cadence to walk down to the field. Boom-boom-blat-boom-boom-tun-do-to-do, repeat 3 times, snap the drumsticks on the rim, whap-whap, then starting with the bass drum going all the way down, doon-doon-doon-doon boom-pa-dat-to-don. It looks crazy but if you were there you would totally remember. With the rap of the drumsticks from the drum captain, snap-snap-snap-snap and the drums would begin; gosh I still get goosebumps.
Something must be arranged. Why should Phil Collins, Ringo Star and Tommy Lee have all the fun? I want a rotating drum set suspended in the air too. Just give me a drum kit, a wall of cymbals and a soundproof room and I'll be in heaven. Can you imagine how fantastic it would be to just sit down and start a beat on the kick drum while your drumsticks tap a beat on the rim of your snare before you go headfirst into a total assault of kickass drum awesomeness?! Holy Cowbell. Hopefully Santa will read my post and will get on the stick. For years I have been faithfully sending my Christmas Wish List for drums; to be sure he will reward my outstanding mothering skills with a bright crimson drum set with flecks of silver this Christmas. I'm ready to take my show on the road!
Hurry fella before someone pops in Van Morrison while I'm not looking.
http://youtu.be/XmGqbOxzAwg
There is nothing fun about dinnertime at my house. Oh it may start off smoothly but halfway into dishing out the side items someone has a meltdown; mainly my son. Tonight was an exceptionally over-the-top episode of what I'd like to call, "You want me to eat slop?!". My husband made a great dinner with everything the kids like, but also made a spicy beans and rice mixture. Beans and rice with a little sausage and spice. Simple and easy, something the kids have eaten before. Annie jumps right in but not ol' Carl. He had a full on meltdown at the table with the works. Good Lord you would've thought he was Oliver Twist and we were trying to make the kid eat gruel. An amazing 20 minutes of crying, pouting, gagging, why-ing and complaining was followed by a very moving retching session after he placed one micro-sized dab of the sauce to his lips. Seriously, I was so impressed I almost started filming him so I could Fed-Ex the tape to Mr. Spielberg in the morning. First stop "My parents are trying to kill me with dinner" and the next is Hamlet on the big screen. He better thank me during that Oscar acceptance speech.
A good friend of mine calls me every morning on the way to work and we get to talk about how crazy our kids make us. It's one of my favorite times of the day. Personally I think every parent needs another parent whose kids make them mental to help you laugh but also learn some great tips! She was telling me about how her daughter threw out some saucy back-talk during dinner and then when her daughter didn't check herself (this is the best part), my friend put a little hot sauce on her tongue to go with her hot sauce mouth. It's genius! Needless to say her dinnertime has been pretty low-key lately, while my kids keep cranking it up a notch. All I want is to talk about our day and eat our meal while some great tunes are playing in the background. But oh Hell no. While Trey is telling Carl or Annie or both they will sleep at the table unless they just try something, the whole time I'm sitting there wondering how much cooking wine is left and if we have any straws.
You see, I somehow must figure out a way to teach (force) my children to eat more of a variety of foods so as they get older, hopefully their friends will invite them over for meals. Don't even try to say you haven't thought of that before. Heck yeah. Who wants to wait another 12 years when my youngest goes off to college before I can eat my peanut butter sandwich in peace? None of their friends mother's will invite them over for dinner if she has to pop in some chicken nuggets and tater tots for a 17 year old! While everyone else is working on SAT's, we will be grooming their palates to impress even the uber foodie. Parents from all over the county will be begging for my children to grace their dinner tables and will relish in Carl and Annie's eagerness to devour any and everything offered, while their kids gag and retch. Gosh I can't wait!
My struggles could very easily be remedied if all the food tasted like candy. How hard could it possibly be to make beets taste like chocolate when you can buy orange flavored cigars? Please help food companies! Stop pretending that you really care about being all "healthy" and just zap those brussel sprouts with a cherry flavoring and call it a day. Organic Shamaic. By the time I actually get to sit down after doing the "eat your damn dinner" dance, everything is cold and yucky and I just wasted $30 bucks on another healthy dinner I didn't get to eat. Something drastic has to happen before I lose my mind.
Maybe I should just invest in some hot sauce.
I love my kid, but he gets on my darn nerves. Yeah, I said it. He always has a comeback like a rapid-fire gun. When asking Carl to help with something around the house, I barely have the sentence completed before I am asked 100 questions. "Will I get paid, how come I have to do it, why doesn't Annie help, why are you always picking on me, do I have to do it now"? On and on and on. In the past I would get frustrated and just go ahead and do the simple task by myself, but after looking thru old pictures and seeing my BK (before kids) body .... Hell To The No. Those days are over brother. I've been a fatty boom-ba-latty since the day I got preggers and the least those rascals can do is help their tired fat mother fold a darn towel.
As an example I asked Carl to please (yes I used please) fold 2 blankets in the TV room so we could head off to school. I'd barely gotten the "p" out of my mouth before Carl gives me the brat face and asks if he is going to get paid. Now, I held my composure and reminded him that I - me - Sally had made his bed, prepared his breakfast, took out his clothes and packed his lunch without getting paid, so no, there would be zero compensation for helping a girl out. You would've thought I asked the boy to clean out the gutters by his teeth. Feet stomping, huffing and lips curling he hits me with a 1-2 punch of questions. It's always the "why" questions of course, and before I can even answer the first one Carl is blabbing out the 4th, 5th and 6th why this and why that. Seriously if I didn't like my kids just a little I would drop those babies off at the Goodwill on my way to work. I don't know what the going rate for sassy 9 and 5 year olds are these days but I'm sure they would fit nicely in the 50 cent bargain bin.
Now I will say this, the boy's got some spunk. That spunk would be put to better use by taking 2 minutes out of his hectic 9 yr old schedule to do a little chore instead of why-ing me to death, but we can always hope his spunkiness will come in handy in some aspect of his life. Personally I think Carl could quite possibly bring the world's troubles to an end. Wars and conflict between countries will no longer exist, people will not steal, poachers will no longer hunt endangered species, homes will not get egged ... the list is endless. I can picture Carl now fighting one issue at a time with a bright red W on his shirt. No one would have the strength to be at odds with one another or break laws after they had to explain "why" they are fighting or being delinquents in 65 hundred different ways.
Maybe I could rent Carl out to the President to help get some things moving up there on the Hill. There is not a soul in Congress that could hold his or her own against my Carl that would "why" them until they forgot their names. I see a national holiday in his future.
I am a big fan of bedtimes. Big. I love my children, they are my life and reason for breathing, but when 8 pm rolls around it's time to start prepping for bed. Pronto. There is no doubt in my mind that my husband thinks I am a bedtime lunatic Nazi and was a drill sergeant in my past life. Once that clock strikes 8:00 my eyes glaze over, everything comes to a halt and I start barking out bedtime preparation orders to the kids faster than you can say NyQuil. "Let's go, let's go. Move it, move it" is heard throughout the house as I stand in the hallway frantically turning on bathwater while fresh towels and washcloths are flying thru the air. We could be in the middle of a full-on nuclear attack but once that second hand rolls around from 7:59 it is time to hit the sack Jack.
With the speed of a cheetah the kids are bathed, teeth brushed, dressed, hair combed and dried, beds turned down, band aids applied, animals arranged, pillows fluffed, chapstick on, books read and in the bed they go with a quick kiss and hug. Now comes the terrible part. Prayers. Now calm down ... of course we say our prayers but somebody always has to say the long version. "Now I lay me, blah, blah, blah, thank you for keeping me safe, blah, blah, blah, God bless the animals, blah, blah, thank you for the stars, blah, blah, let me have good dreams, blah, blah,blah God bless Mary and Joey and .....". You get the picture. I am standing at the end of the bed giving the wrap it up signal while someone is naming all the creatures in the sea, and the whole time I am thinking ... damn I wish I had a vodka gimlet.
Bedtime prayer cocktails should be allowed in my opinion. If I could safely have a glass of wine while reading books to Annie or listening to Carl read I would stay up all night if they wanted to, but I don't dare. My children have this wonderful gift of telling anyone they come in contact with everything that I do. With a twist. An accidental nudge with a grocery cart into a neighboring car's bumper turns into a vicious shove from their annoyed mother. Or a brief moment of zoning out in Walmart becomes a death stare towards a helpless old lady. No, that cocktail will have to wait until every child on the face of the earth is blessed one by one. I can hear Annie now in her next Sunday School class. "Annie, do you remember to say your prayers each night"? "Yes Sir I do, just as soon as Mommy gets her Jesus drink". Wouldn't that be rich.
In my memories, my mother and I would spend hours saying our prayers and reading Richard Scarry Busytown until I would fall into a peaceful sleep. Poor lady. I bet she pinched herself real good for not hiding those fine print books that require a ridiculous amount of patience and time to read with a small child. Both of those things I am in short supply of at night. One of the best moments in my life was when Carl asked if he could please read to Annie each night; of course I made a big fuss over how great that would be and for him to start right away. Wow, I thought to myself, this is fantastic! And just as I get them all snuggled down in the bed, surrounded by books and fuzzy animals, propped up and ready for Carl to start reading until his little heart is content .... I slowly make my way to the kitchen ..... "Mooommmm. What is this word?" sassafrass
This is it, my last day of being 36 years old and I am totally bummed. It's not so much that I am getting a year older but that I will be 37 which is an odd number. I have a problem with odd numbers and things that don't match in general. Crazy I know, but I like for everything to match, add up equally, be simple and normal and calm and even and match and boring and match ... Oh my God I'm such a loser.
I blame my "even issues" on my mother. Don't get me wrong, I love Martha. She is my sun and my moon, north and my south, green pepper jelly and my cream cheese ... you get the picture. From a very young age my mother taught me the importance of choosing your wardrobe carefully and taking the time to, well match. A simple yet classy belt accompanied by a carefully chosen blouse, pressed slacks and attractive heel can go a long way, but only if they match. Oh I see those ladies out there in cool land wearing a turquoise shirt with a print belt, and interesting shade of gray skirt with maybe a funky multi-colored wedge and let's say a pair of glittery hoop earrings but I can't do it. I would do anything to find my inner Blondie but she is hidden under all those sweater and pants sets that I cannot stop myself from hanging back in my closet every season.
All my friends comment on my never ending supply of white shirts; the most unoriginal, uncool, unsexy article of clothing in the world but I am addicted. It's an affliction I have, to constantly wear white so I can be sure that my outfit matches and I don't have to worry if my pink shirt is the same hue as my pink sweater. I actually took pride in coordinating my scrunchies with my dresses back in the day. Oh my goodness and black clothing! The amount of stress and time I put into making sure the black fabric for my shirts and pants are the same and my black shirts and black slacks have the same amount of fading is bananas. Don't even get me started on wearing white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. It's just not done. White shirts not included.
Just the other morning my sweet angel Annie who is a 5 year old mini Pat Benatar picked out her clothes for school. This of course is always wonderful, however they consisted of a pastel explosion of hearts tank top, neon striped leggings, Hello Kitty socks, 4th of July headband and her purple crocs. Annie would be adorable in a potato sack and I appreciate her zest for color but I almost had a stroke. All of those colors together was mind numbing and I made several (million) attempts to explain why although there is blue on each article of clothing, they don't necessarily coordinate well together. This prompted a "Mom you're so square" stare and off to school she went. Martha would've whipped out an adorable coordinating ensemble in a nanosecond, complete with matching hair bow and frilly socks.
But for the next 365 days I will have to embrace my inner oddness; 37 could actually be a good look for me. Seven is a lucky number for me after all. I was 27 when I had my first child Carl who was born on December 7th weighing 7 lbs. and 7 ounces. My first trip to Myrtle Beach with my friends was the summer I was 17 and it was so totally awesome. There are 7 days in a week, Annie has 7 freckles, my first car was a 1987 VW Golf and I can tread water for 7 minutes without wanting to die. Seven sounds pretty good.
Here's to the end of even. For now.
Did you know the "rapture" is coming on May 21st at 6 pm? Me neither. Somehow I missed that very important message during the past week although I am constantly online looking at the news websites and such. Hmmm, it must not have been mentioned on People.com. Here nor there, this rapture stuff is pretty important and since I am not a big reader of the Bible, I have no idea what to expect and if I should really be concerned.
On the whole the way I have lived my life is pretty respectable and I am a good person, although I do have my moments; but surely I cannot be held entirely responsible for my "freak outs". Anyone who has passed the 4th grade knows there is a cause and effect to everything that happens. A good "cause and effect" example may be the little old ladies who cause traffic jams while putting along at 15 mph that make me go nuts on a daily basis because they should not be driving period let alone during the day when the rest of us are trying to get to work before the end of next year. Oh, don't you dare gasp at my admission. They can't hear my glass shattering shrieks much less see me shaking my fists in the air; because if they could then they would see that the speed limit is 55 Miles Per Hour! If the man upstairs gives me a thumbs down because of those blue-haired turtles I'm going to be pissed.
But on a more serious note ... if the rapture is coming on the 21st does that mean I still need to pay my May bills? Should I just postpone all of my payments until the 22nd to see if I'm still around; and if I am will the customer service representatives that process the payments still be around to collect my money? Why bother with the water bill when I can take that cash and eat pizza and drink margaritas on the beach for the next two weeks? Car payments are the least of my worries now that I've got to find the perfect snazzy ensemble for the "big day" since I definitely can't meet God wearing last year's wrap dress and my favorite pair of flats from the 1990's. And since it's supposed to be around 6 pm does that require evening wear? Talk about stressful.
Hopefully it's all a miscalculation from some whack-a-do who is hoping that the rapture will come on the 21st so he will not have to pay his taxes, or visit his mother-in-law who is serving liver and beets for dinner that Saturday. In the meantime for the next two weeks I am going to start serving birthday cake for breakfast, let Annie wear her fancy dresses to play in the sand and Carl and I are going to have a dance party in our yard every night.
See you on Sunday the 22nd or on the other side. I'll be the one wearing the bright red lipstick and tiara looking damn good in the best dress my water bill can buy.
