Tuesday, June 20, 2006

No, I haven't had the baby yet

And why the heck do people keep asking me this? I'm busy, trying to close out my school year and pack up my classroom, which is being moved for the 3rd time in 3 years.

Sailor Boy has dropped and I'm walking like I'm holding a ten pound watermelon between my thighs, but people, if I hear, "Haven't you had that baby yet???" one more time, I'm gonna kill someone. Oooo, listen to the crabby pregnant lady.

Just a quick brag. I have married the world's most wonderful man. While I lay on the couch, he made dinner, bathed Missy HooHaw, did 3 loads of laundry and the grocery shopping, then sent me to bed while he paid the bills. What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man, in the words of Salt n' Pepa.

No wonder he doesn't want to have another.

Monday, June 19, 2006

SOOOO glad it's Monday...

I never thought I'd say this, but I was really happy to come back to work. This weekend is making me rethink the SAHM gig.

Friday was Drama Queen's slumber party. It was actually a big hit and fairly easy. The girls arrived, got into the pool and stayed there until 9:00 pm. They devoured strawberries and pizza, frosted and ate cupcakes and sang horrendously off key karoke, all outside. Aside from having to keep Missy Hoohaw inside and safe from the mania, it was a breeze. (Jenny, do you remember the bus to school and the soundtrack to Annie? These girls sounded even worse!!!! heh heh heh)

The girls came inside and opened presents, then went back to DQ's room for more karoke. I swear, that karoke machine was a bigger hit than our pool. And, by the way, have you ever noticed how dirty the lyrics are to the songs from Grease? Hearing my daughter warble "Summer Nights," I realized the song is a little filthy and, oh my gosh, does she understand what she's singing???? She was very put out that I would not allow her to purchase the cd with her birthday money.

The girls were up watching movies until 3:30. I only had to come out and ask for quiet twice. They were groggy, but up for more karoke at approximately 8:00 am, after fueling up with sugared cereal, which is a HUGE treat in my home, but apparently, not so much in others. Oh well. We said goodbye to the last girl at around 11:30. This was a pleasant surprise, being as I really didn't expect them gone before 1:00, since the invitation said the party was over at 10:00 am. Anyone who has hosted a birthday party knows this. I actually overheard one girl calling her mom and telling her not to come until 2:00. I quickly intervened and pointed out that we were ending at 10:00 and we had an appointment at 11:00, so mom needed to get her ASS over here. No, I didn't swear, but oh, I wanted to.

After the party, we headed out to my parents house for an early Father's day celebration. The older my parents get, the hotter they keep their house. It was 87 degrees in there, I swear. We had a great time, but DQ was asleep for most of it. I wonder why...

That night, DQ woke me up and said she was sick. This was followed by vomit. All night. Urgh. Sunday, I packed Mr. Clairol off to a baseball game with my brother and dad, then tended to a still nauseous DQ and tried to keep Missy HooHaw entertained while doing laundry and dishes. Oh golly...I can hear your jealousy a-brewin. Don't hate me for my glamorous life. Mr. Clairol did offer, several times, to stay home with me. I bravely said no and wished he would insist on it. He didn't. When he came home, I was so tired, I was in tears watching some guy on Miami Ink get a tattoo of his daughter, who was dying of Tay Sachs. Dear Lord.

One more little tid bit, then I quit my whining and get on with life. Sailor Boy dropped sometime in the night. I got up 7 times to pee and hoooooweeee! The pressure, she is intense! I'm just trying to get through Friday. It's close to impossible to get a sub and I'd like try to see my class through. I was wanting to make it to Saturday, since Friday is date night, but I don't care anymore. We'll have a date in L&D. See how fun I am?

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

The Noxema Incident

I am a terrible wife. I am a horrible and mean person. I shame myself with my lack of compassion. But Oh. My. God. I must relate to you what will forever be known as, THE NOXEMA INCIDENT.

If you have no clue what I am talking about, you really need to read yesterday's post.

I brought home a large tub of Noxema yesterday, certain that this would succeed, where aloe, benzocaine and lotion had failed. For decades, I have heard how Noxema is the perfect antidote to sunburn, soothing and cooling the burn, while moisturizing the skin. I was flush with anticipated victory.

Never flush with victory anticipated. It tempts the gods.

We did our evening routines. Mr. Clairol had Missy Hoo Haw and Drama Queen in stitches, laying on the carpet and wriggling around, trying to relieve the itching. Yes, I was laughing too. We are horrible, horrible people. We bathed and put the kids to bed. We settled in to bed and turned on Fear Factor. All was in readiness.

I opened the tub and sniffed deeply. I looooove the smell of Noxema. I wish they still made Bonnie Bell Ten-o-Six. The scents of my adolescence. Aaaahhhhhhh. Mr. Clairol was skeptical, remembering my claims of relief with the aloe and benzocaine. I swore this would do the trick and cajoled him. Okay, I called him a big pansy and told him to man up. Same difference, right?

He was already shirtless, so after I got him turned around and facing the TV, I did the countdown that is now a ritual every time I plan on touching my husband's back. 3 - 2 - 1. The Noxema went on and he shuddered violently, saying, "WOW! That is COLD!" The shuddering continued for a moment, then calmed and I thought to myself, damn, I'm good.

Not so much. After a moment or two, he started twitching. Another moment, and he was writhing. "Get it off." he said quietly, "GET IT OFF." He was trying not to yell and wake up Missy Hoo Haw, but the desperation was there. I wiped the cream off as well as I could, while he convulsed and had what I'm thinking was a grand mal siezure. He whimpered...seriously, whimpered. "This shit burns like a MOFO!" he told me.

I was apologizing profusely and warming up the shower for him. I even got in and washed his back for him. Usually this leads to marital fun, but not last night.

Now, for those of you who don't know, Noxema leaves a film behind. It's not unpleasant, like soap scum, just a tingly, soft skin coating type of thing. I can't really describe it. If you've used Noxema, you'll know. If you haven't, don't listen to my husband. You should get some. Really.

Shut Up.

So, this film remained on my husbands back and all the soap and water in the world could not erase the phantom tingling on his back. This drove him (and me) crazy last night. Not just irritated. Bats in the bellfry, lonny tunes, apeshit. A-P-E-S-H-I-T. He tossed and turned and muttered and moaned all night long. Every so often, he'd shoot me a death look. It was dark, so I couldn't see it, but I felt it. Oh yes, I felt it. I would murmur an apology that he'd ignore. It was a looooooooooooooong night.

This morning, he was still twitchy, but he hugged me and made my lunch. A lunch I am NOT planning on eating, just in case my usually mild mannered husband has developed a mean streak. One that smells faintly of Noxema.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

What was that?????

Sorry about yesterday, kiddies. I meant to give you a fabulous play-by-play of my scintillating life, but damnit, nothing happened.

Oh sure, I yelled at a few kids. I graded papers and snickered a bit when my aide couldn't find anything on her desk, then blamed me for moving stuff. I arranged last minute childcare for Drama Queen and made a fabulous dinner that my entire family devoured. I even grocery shopped. But really, a typical day for the educational/ domestic goddess that I am.

Last night, however, the unthinkable happened. Mr. Clairol gave me permission to put sunblock on him, at my discretion.

Last summer, my husband got it into his head that he wanted a fire pit in our back yard. SO he and my brother gathered brick and mortar and built a pit. With their shirts off. In June. In some serious sunshine. I went out and asked Mr. Clairol if he had applied sunblock, to which he stared at me and replied, "Huh?"

"Did. you. apply. sunblock?"
"No. Why?"
As I beat him over the head with a brick, I screamed, "So you don't get burned, you braindead idiot."
The last part happened only in my head. I simply shook the can and sprayed his back with the stuff. He promptly freaked out. On a major scale. See, Mr. Clairol has a abnormally sensitive back. It's really bizarre. He frequently goes shirtless because the fabric irritates him and I either buy tagless or cut out the tags on all his shirts. I don't scratch his back, I rub it with the pads of my fingers. I am so not joking.

I learned that day to never put something on my husband's back again, without warning. Unless I want to witness the bizarre, jumping, whirling dervish dance. Which, come to think of it, was pretty dang funny.Anyway, I'm digressing.

So last weekend he was working in the yard, and tinking of all the times I offered to apply sunscreen and was rebuffed, I didn't bother. Hooooo, BABY, was his back red! All Sunday, he was sore and grouchy. Yesterday, the itching started. Now the pain he can handle. "Pain is weakness leaving the body," and all that crap. But the itching? He is going mad. Serious tweakage. We tried aloe...no. We tried the benzocaine spray...no. We tried lotion...no. We even tried Benadryl. Everything I applied only seemed to aggravate the itch. He took 4 showers last night.

I finally made him take a Tylenol PM, so he would sleep. I'm buying a tub of Noxema today. We'll see what kind of dancing that provokes.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Want not

So the ever-talented and mind boggling Mir of Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda fame has created a new site devoted to household hints and bargain shopping. Interested? Go to http://wantnot.net/

I guess training for a marathon, bailing out her basement, licking FEMA agents and blogging EVERY FRICKIN' DAY wasn't enough. Man, she makes me tired.

So anyhoo.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Two more weeks...

I haven't been blogging about teaching, because, while I appreciate the well placed curse word, the entire entry would be a blue rant. Recently though, I've developed some perspective and I think I can give it a try. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. He is my censor.

We have two weeks left. This week, I have been innundated with requests for grade checks. Most of these lead to the question, "Is there any extra credit?" Oddly enough, they don't seem as amused by this as I am. My laughter is always ill-received.

My policy is this. If you have turned in all your work, throughout the trimester, and taken advantage of the numerous opportunities to correct your work, you're getting at least a B in my class. If you haven't, then asking me to create and grade a project that will lift you 20-30 percentage points on the scale is unfair. I explain this at the beginning of each trimester. I send letters home 3 times a year explaining this. And yet...

Last Friday, I sent out updates, so parents could see what their child was earning and why that was the case. Needless to say, on Monday, I had 5 billion messages from parents wondering about extra credit and little Johnny turned this in, I know because I helped him with it...blah, blah, blah.

It should be noted here that teachers DO lose work. I've done it. And I am happy to give benefit of the doubt. But when it's a major project that I had to call home about? I'm thinking I probably didn't lose that one. You never returned my call from a month ago, regarding that project. Why is it that you're calling me on this now?

The long and short of it is that I have to turn in grades by next Wednesday. Huh, you inquire? Why Wednesday if you have a week and a half of school left after that day? I don't know why. I do as I am told. Have I mentioned my principal hates special ed and does not understand the need for having on a mainstream campus? Uh-huh.

I'm sure I'll be spending the next three work days trying to surface from the pile of papers on my desk, grading like a mad woman. Thank God for my stalwart aide. Guess I better enjoy this weekend.

Coming Soon: Drama Queen's Birthday Spa Slumber Party!!!!

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Conversations with a Toddler

I've gone and done it. I've turned Missy HooHaw into a Starbucks fiend.

Seriously, this kid is frickin' smart. Every so often, I'll take an alternate route to work, one that has a drive thru Satrbucks on it. The minute I diverge from our normal path, she says "More?"

In MH-speak, this means, "I want a bite of whatever it is your eating and you'd better fork it over or face my enormous wrath." She packs a lot into her verbage.

So, this morning, we left the house early and I decided a tall caramel macchiato was in the cards. I pulled into the parking lot and MH says "Why?"
"Because Mommy needs some coffee and you need a scone." I reply
MH starts bouncing in her seat, waving and clapping her hands. She's chanting, "More, more, more, more, yay!" I'm laughing so hard I almost ram the Dodge SUV in front of me.

I feel the need to clarify that I am not putting coffee beverages into MH's sippy cup. Mr. Clairol and I have agreed that the little fireball should be caffeine free for as long as we can manage. We barely keep up with her now. No, it's not the latte she's jonesing for. It's the tiny little (crack filled, I think) vanilla scones.

A few months ago, I ordered some, thinking they would settle the queasy stomach and go well with the tea I was ordering. They filled the bill on both counts, but three was too many, so I gave MH one to nibble on during our ride. Plus, she was screaming, "MORE!!!!" and had morphed into a green-skinned, fire breathing, red-eyed monster. She spent the entire 20 minute ride to day care humming to herself in the backseat, singing, "yum, yum, yum, yum, more?" We had a hit.

Now, I'm pretty careful about what my kids eat and I know that these glazed scones are basically a rich man's donut. But every once in a while, Mama needs a hit and since MH has to travel 45 minutes to daycare, she needs one too. It's a co-dependent thing, dig?

So, I ordered a three pack of the scones and my caramel machiato and laughed my butt off as I waited for them, MH shaking the car with her bouncing, saying "Jumpy! More? Jumpy! More?" I'm sure the guy at the window thought I was nuts, but seriously, that was some funny stuff. I handed back the first bit of scone and she laughed a big, deep belly laugh. The bite quickly disappeared and she asked for, "Moh, peez." This through a big mouthful of scone. Twenty minutes later, we've arrived at daycare and she's worked through one scone, because we had to take a break and say good morning to the cows, don't you know. I'm saving the other two for less leisurely mornings. Or maybe on the way home. Who knows.

Monday, June 05, 2006

La La La...I can't HEAR you!

Maybe it's just me. Perhaps, just perhaps, I should post a top ten list instead of this. But folks, I gotta get it off my chest...

Can we not hear another FUCKING pseudo news report about Angelina Jolie's baby? Please? I don't care about damn Brangelina or damn Jennifer Aniston or the damn babies and children or frickin' Africa or whatever already!!!!!!

Stop talking about it! No one cares anymore! I didn't want to know in the first place! SHUT UP!!!!!


Much better. Thank you.

Now, is it just me or is Mark McGrath way less sexy since he started anchoring for an entertainment news show?

Thursday, June 01, 2006


I love the blogosphere. I especially love reading the blogs of other women. I have my favorites, and usually, the old favorites introduce me to new favorites. Today, Izzy introduced me to Crouching Mommy, Hidden Laundry. Aside from her ferociously funny title, today's post was funny, touching and fuzzy, wavy flashback- inducing. I read about her encounter with a childhood sweetheart and all I could think of was Jeremy.

So in the tradition of good blogging everywhere, I'm going to steal...ahem, use the inspiration and take a little trip back in time myself. We all have "the one who got away." Jeremy wasn't my longest relationship by any means, but one of my most significant. Though there were many men after him, he was the precursor to the love of my life, Mr. Clairol. I would see shades of Jeremy in him and remember what I might have had with him. For that reason alone, I would pursue Mr. Clairol, though I had never pursued a man before in my life. I was brought up better than that, don't you know.

I met Jeremy when I was 19. I had a friend who was socially awkward and shy around boys. One night, she called me and sobbed on the phone for thirty solid minutes about this horrible boy she worked with, who wouldn't stop teasing her. She was at wits end and in true teen fashion, I told her, "You need to tell him if he wants to pick on someone, he should choose someone his own size."

Well, she did. And then, she gave him my number!

And He Called!

After the initial conversation about why it wasn't nice to pick on my friend and his justification that he was toughening her up (bullshit), we meandered on to other things. I know...I know. But he was smart, charming, funny and articulate. Rare things in a teenage boy. I don't recall the conversation, only that I had agreed to go out with him at the end of it. Or perhaps I only hoped he would ask me out. I can't remember. Eventually, we went on a date.

When we first met, I was in awe. I was a sheltered, little Christian girl, who had never dated a boy without the explicit approval of my father. Jeremy was tall and lanky, with long red hair and a beat up Camaro. He wasn't handsome, by any means. But, oh my, the boy oozed sex. Seriously. Even my mom remembers him and will tell you he was HOT.

Perhaps this was why, when Jeremy came to pick me up one night, my father ignored him. Jeremy attempted conversation and my dad watched sports on T.V. He said nothing to him. He did not reply to anything Jeremy said and seemed hell-bent on pretending he wasn't there. But Jeremy hung in there and kept coming back.

Daddy may have hated him, but I didn't. He awakened my inner rebel. Had he wanted it, he probably could have had my virginity. God knows, I wish it had been him and not the shmuck I married. (1st hubby, not Mr. Clairol) We went out, made out and he opened my world a bit to things I hadn't really thought much about. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was halfway in love with him when I went back to college.

We spoke on the phone that semester and saw each other when I came home for breaks. But 19 is a fickle age and I was hearing rumors that his ex was back in the picture. We had never agreed, explicitly, to an exclusive relationship. I was succumbing to a strange fever that gripped my Southern Baptist campus. I wanted a "real" relationship, one that was destined for the altar. And I knew, in my heart of hearts, that Jeremy wasn't that relationship. So one night, when I was introduced to and swept off my stupid feet by some poetry spouting knucklehead with wire-rimmed glasses and a slick line, I sloughed Jeremy off.

I went home and made a date with Jeremy. I sat there and told him that I didn't think he was "marriage material" and that I needed to move on. I was a shit. I look back and cringe at the words I used. It might comfort Jeremy to know that my idea of marriage material couldn't hold a job, cheated on me repeatedly and to this day, does not pay child support. Not only is 19 fickle, it is moronic.

Perhaps if I hadn't been in such a hurry to get married and so sure I wanted roses and moonlight, Jeremy and I might have developed something more permanent. Perhaps we could have grown up together. Who knows what might have been. I can't say I regret my decisions, only that I regret the way I treated a fine young man. My first marriage shaped me. It caused me to grow up and become the butt-kicking babe I am today. I don't think I would be who I am today without that and that would be a shame, because I like me. Plus, I wouldn't have Drama Queen. And I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have Mr. Clairol. Even if I could, I wouldn't go back and risk that.

But every once in a while, I get a little nostalgic and wonder where he is now. I hope he is successful and happy and completely satisfied with his life. I hope he pursued his kick boxing and his fascination with the Japanese language. I hope to God he kept that Camaro. Because, however brief our time was, he left his fingerprints on me. In a very good way. (Get your mind out of the gutter...I meant in a metaphorical sense. Yeesh.) Every time a brown Camaro passes by, I think about that red-haired boy and sigh. And, to this day, hockey games get me "in the mood."

No, I didn't share that part of the story. Some things are too much information. Trust me.