Archive by Author

The Little Search Engine That Couldn’t

31 May

You’ve got questions? Looking for solutions to your problems?

Let She’s a Maineiac not help you at all!

Here are some of the recent search engine terms that led people to my blog:

childhood brother and sister ball-busting funny stories?

Why, yes, funny you should ask. Back in 1984, I made the unfortunate decision to jump off a precarious tower of couch cushions while kicking my legs up in the air a la David Lee Roth ‘Jump’ style, only to come crashing down–slamming my feet right smack into my younger brother’s nether regions. By some miracle, he managed to go on to have three kids. This only goes to show that not all ballbusting stories have a bad ending. (Although several people reported hearing prolonged and agonized screaming three counties over.)

kenny vhesney looking awful 

Excuse me, who? Ah…nope, you won’t find that dude here. I refuse to vheapen my blog by plastering that guy’s sorry mug all over it. Can you imagine what you’d encounter if he ever took off that damned cowboy hat? [shudders]

Kenny Vhesney: the George Costanza of the country music world

who said men can t multitask beer and remote?

No one. No one would ever say that. Certainly not me. Wouldn’t you agree those are things most men can do astonishingly well? If they ever design a remote that dispenses beer or a beer with a built-in remote, they would sell billions. Somehow attach a built-in catheter and you’d never see him get up off the couch again.

(image–squidoo)

drunken celebrity chocolate bar? 

Really? Why would you ever think I’d have something as looney-tune as that on this here respectable blog. But God knows I wish such a thing really existed– it would help me finally kick that chocolate habit once and for all.

Hershey’s New Britney Flavor with Extra Nuts

what are the worst words to hear in the world?  (I’ll let my husband take this one.)

The worst words to hear in the world are:

“Honey, we need to talk.”

“The remote’s dead and we’re out of batteries.”

“They stopped making beer.”

“To be honest, it’s been awhile since I’ve performed this procedure. Let’s hope my hand is steadier than the last time! Woo-wee– what a mess! Now then, are you ready for your vasectomy? Let’s get to slicin’ and dicin’!”

“Don’t worry, right after we insert this 10 foot long tubing up your urethra, it will bypass the giant stone lodged in your kidney and you’ll be able to urinate once again, although you may experience some prolonged severe burning. But rest assured, that will all fade away once the blinding pain of passing dozens of sharp shards of calcified stones takes over.”

“my neck is” “my new hairdo”?

If you have enough hair on your neck to even call it a hairdo, this blog is not the place to look for help. You might want to try a razor or some stylish cornrow/beaded braiding. Or perhaps you meant your new hairdo looks like your neck. In that case, I have no good advice at all, except always wear a hat. Works for Kenny Vhesney.

thunder thighs n ass?

Well, well, well! Now we’re talkin’! You’ve come to the right place!  I’ve suffered this affliction most of my life. But Jillian Michaels came to my rescue in this post here. (Warning: I did end up breaking my ass. And my thighs are actually more thunderous now.)

my ass is killing me

Sheesh! Tell me ’bout it! You and everyone else. This is my most common search engine term. Apparently asses that kill are an epidemic.

“mountain of hair” haircut?

Uh….why on earth would you think my blog would help you with that? Nope…nothing to see here! Just look away…

I said LOOK AWAY. Oh, God! No! For the love of all that is Aqua Net! NOOOOOO!!!!

The 7 Deadly Sins Writing Contest–Envy

26 May

Darling’s Cupcakes

When it comes right down to it, I guess I just didn’t want to come out. Who would? My mother never fails to tell my sisters how I howled as the doctor clamped down and yanked me from her uterus, a lifeless ragdoll. “You came out and lawd have mercy, you were bluer ‘n your Daddy’s eyes! We thought you were dead!” But I wasn’t. Not yet. Course, I always knew the real reason I didn’t want to enter this world–my older sisters.

But time marched on and I had to come out eventually. And for us Darling girls, timing was everything–it defined us for all eternity.  First out of my mom’s womb at 12:32 am was Stacy, flushed a rosy pink from her hearty cries. Then along came Tracy at 12:38, Stacy’s identical in every way with her perfectly round head, long feathery lashes and dewy soft skin. Me? I was the odd one from the start. And they always made sure I knew it.

My sisters were shining stars in our little town.  Boys always coming around, pacing on the front porch with flowers for one or the other. I sat in my room, watching from the window. “Tootle-loo, Lexy!” they’d sing.  I can still hear their fake laughs and the door slamming as they ran off to another party without me.

That all changed with my mom’s new cupcake business. If there was one thing she could do in life, it was bake a good cupcake. She started whipping up exotic flavors one afternoon, key lime pie with buttercream, red velvet with a dab of cream cheese in the middle and topped with dark chocolate fondant.

Soon my two sisters were standing by her side in the kitchen, the three of them wearing matching aprons dusted with flour, giggling and singing and making them damn cupcakes. They sold out the first few batches at the local flea market and not long after that Darling’s Cupcakes was born.

I let them have their cupcakes. I never liked to bake anyway. But the day I walked by the Royal River and caught a glimpse of Stacy on her tiptoes reaching up to kiss Jacob’s cheek my feelings about cupcakes changed.

Over dinner one night she told Mama that my sweet Jacob was going to marry her. She needed 200 vanilla buttercream cupcakes for the wedding guests. I offered to help. Mama was shocked and more than a little pleased with me. I spent hours melting that butter in the pot, stirring and stirring to get it just right for the frosting. Mama loved my idea of creating two extra special cupcakes for the bride and groom. I fixed them up real nice, added food coloring to make them pink and topped them with tiny hearts cut from raspberry fondant.

It was supposed to just scare her. Make her a little sick is all. I wanted to see her face as she threw up pink cupcake all over Jacob as they kissed.  I measured just the right amount into her cupcake, or so I thought at the time.  I served the happy couple my creations with the biggest grin I could manage. How was I to know how strong that rat poison would be?

By the time I noticed them feedin’ each other and the wrong cupcake crossing Jacob’s lips it was too late. I did my best to try and stop him. By the time I knocked the cupcake out of his hands he was choking and turning purple.

They say I’ll get a chance for parole in 12 years.

I’ll never have Jacob.

But neither will Stacy.

************************************************************************************************************************

k8edid is hosting another installment of her 7 Deadly Sins Writing Contest.
This one is all about ENVY. I had loads of fun with this one!
So pour some more coffee and go read all of the fine entries on her blog.
There is still time to enter. Just follow these simple rules and you’re good to go.
The deadline is next week, May 31st.
Get to writing!

Things that make you go ‘hmm…’ Thursday

24 May

Food Edition

**Loafs of bread. Why are they shaped like that? Can’t these companies figure out a way to make them come in little perfect triangles with no crusts shaped like a butterfly so my daughter will eat it?

**Chip bags. I opened one up the other day and found two chips on the bottom. The rest was chip-flavored air. So I put the bag over my head, took a few deep breaths and was strangely satisfied yet ticked off that I was out five bucks.

**Pizza. Why round? Why not square like the box? Why so hot? Why do I insist on eating a slice when I know I’ll get that bubble burn on the roof of my mouth? Why am I then forced to drink a gallon of Pepsi to put out the flames? Are the pizza companies in cahoots with the soda companies? Do they make the cheese 10,000 degrees fahrenheit so they can sell more Pepsi?

**Soda. Why does it taste like battery acid? Why do we drink it?

**Pancake batter. Why does it turn into cement if you leave it out for a few minutes? Why didn’t Tom Hanks bring a box of Bisquick on the ill-fated trip to the moon when he could’ve just dumped some pancake batter on the space-oxygen-module thingy and they all would’ve saved themselves a lot of panic and duct tape?

**Milk. Why do my kids drink some milk, then hide the cup underneath the bed, way over in the corner under some toys so I won’t find it for three weeks? Why does the milk turn to cement? Again, why didn’t Tom Hanks think of using curdled milk when he was in space?

Dammit! I knew I should’ve brought the pancakes. And syrup.

**Capri Suns. Why do they give you a tiny little straw that will only drive you stark raving mad as you continue to stab the hell out of the drink because the hole is microscopic until you use so much force you stab right through both sides and then the juice starts spraying out in all directions and you start screaming, “DIE CAPRI SUN! DIE!” and your kids cry, “Mommy! You’re scaring me!”?

**Crumbs. Why is it that you can give your kids a bowl of shredded cheese, instructing them to only eat it at the kitchen table, then a few minutes later you go downstairs and find shredded cheese in every single nook and cranny and they didn’t even go downstairs yet?

**Packaging. Why do I always fall for it when it says on the package of cheese: To Open–Tear here? Why do I end up opening it with a pair of garden shears?

**Sugar. Why is it that when I ask my five year old daughter, “How much sugar have you had today?” and she answers, “Two”, I don’t quite believe her?

**Summer. Everyone knows summer for moms means two things: a kiddie pool and popsicles. Why hasn’t anyone invented a garden hose that dispenses sticky popsicle juice? It would really save a lot of time and money on my part.

That’s right, kids. Swimming in grape popsicle juice! It’s your dream come true.

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Enjoy the long holiday weekend, everyone!  See you all next week, I’m outta here…..

Dear Fellow Bloggers: It’s Not You, It’s Me

22 May

…actually…it’s probably more you than me.

No, I’m kidding. It’s both of us.

Y’know what? I think I’ll just blame the computer.

Right before I smash the hell out of it.

There. I feel a little better now.

I’m just a wee bit frustrated because some of your blogs aren’t showing up in my WordPress feed at all. Days, even an entire week could go by and I get nothing from you.

I think, Oh no! did something horrible happen to _____? Good lord, I haven’t seen a post from ______in so long, are they injured? Ill? In a coma? Trapped under heavy furniture? Kidnapped by aliens? Trapped under heavy aliens?

Or (even worse) did they stop blogging and not inform me about it?

But no. None of those things. As a matter of fact ______ is alive and kicking and blogging up a post-shitstorm.Writing brilliantly funny or touching posts left and right.

I just don’t know about it because my fricking-fracking reader is frucking fried.

Then, suddenly, my reader catches up, your blog starts to reappear and now I have all these past posts to read. Which you’d think would be a good thing–except that for some odd reason, my husband isn’t very happy when I’m in bed late at night, glasses on, iPad on my lap and I put my hand up and say, “Shh..not tonight, honey. I’ve got to read 352 blog posts.”

In an act of sheer desperation, I decided to do the unthinkable: I followed myself. For purely WordPress reader test purposes, of course. Ahem. My test failed. I didn’t show up on my reader.  It’s pretty sad when you can’t even convince yourself to read your own blog posts, but even sadder when you can’t find yourself and notify yourself that you just posted a post about yourself.

So I’m going to extreme measures to keep up with all of you. I have decided to do things the old fashioned way. I click on your link in my blogroll or click on your comments to track you down. Click, click, clickity-click. This means you have to leave me a comment from time to time or I will never find you again. I don’t have ESP and can’t imagine what you’re thinking or when you’re about to post…unless WordPress has already come up with an app for that or a new-blog-post tracking microchip we can implant into our brain. (god, wouldn’t that be great?)

Thankfully, all of us seem to frequent some of the same blogs. We’re all floating around in this weird WordPress matrix where I can simply plummet down the rabbit hole to find someone by either swallowing the red pill instead of the blue pill like Morpheus tells me to do– or by going to someone’s blog and then clicking on their blogroll because we’re all only separated by six degrees of Kevin Bacon except substitute Kevin Bacon for Pegoleg or B-Man or GG. And if I want chocolate covered bacon, I go see Jules.

Choose wisely, my friend. Or you may never find my blog again.

But for someone who has poor eyesight, a short attention span, the beginnings of arthritis and bad hand-eye coordination skills on her iPad–this can be very time-consuming. And it makes my brain hurt even more than usual.

But I will do it. I will do it because I love you all.

(Ok, love is a strong word.)

Well, let’s just say that I can’t deny the fact that I like you!  I really like you!

Yes, you too, Sally Field [rolling eyes] Jeezum crow, get a life, woman!

Just know that if you don’t ‘see’ me around, I am around and probably blogging while trapped under heavy furniture, (or more likely, I picked the wrong pill and accidently took a Nyquil–damn you, Morpheus!) Maybe you’re missing out on all the Maineiacal craziness because your reader is fried too. And for that, I am sorry. I did just change my domain name so that might have something to do with it.

Unless you’re purposefully trying to avoid me because: you have better things to do like work, pay the bills, eat, sleep OR you don’t like my blog and frankly, never really cared for it, but you don’t want to unsubscribe because you’ll be consumed by horrible guilt OR you’re not really a human being but a robot.
(quite possibly, you’re all of the above)

In any case, I miss you. My wordpress reader misses you.

Stay in touch, okay? sniff…sniff….

In the meantime, any of my fellow bloggers wanna join me in a friendly game of ‘pulverize-your-computer’?

The Beauty in the Real You

21 May

People Magazine 2012

In People magazine’s World’s Most Beautiful article, they recently unveiled more photos showing celebrities without a drop of makeup. When someone sees a celebrity with no makeup, the tendency is to be a little shocked.  Apparently, we love to see them show off their true beauty, we think it’s ‘refreshing’ and ‘real’. For a moment, we realize these people are actually human, just like us!

I’m all for going au naturel, if that’s what a woman wants to do.  I normally don’t wear a ton of makeup. Not because I’m not vain at all (ha! good one!) but because I am allergic to almost everything. Also, my hand shakes when anything with a sharp point or resembling a clamp gets too close to my eyeballs.  Put an eyelash curler in the hands of a colossal clutz like me and you’re flirting with disaster. Besides, I live in Maine, where we’re not obligated to look halfway decent out in public. The more worn around the edges you look, the more you fit in around these parts.

When I do slap on some concealor or lipstick, my husband notices right away. “WOW, honey! You look good!” After he recovers from a few rapid-fire jabs to his arm, he desperately tries to backpedal. “I mean, you always look good. Even with no makeup. Ow! Stop hitting me! Ow! Actually, you don’t need makeup at all, it just looks good on you sometimes! Ow! What I am trying to say is, you are gorgeous just being you, I swear!”

This is my love/hate relationship with makeup. We all know it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Still, sometimes I want to look a little better than what the cat dragged in. Is that wrong? The older I get, the less I want to care about my outer looks, but it’s still there.  We have been conditioned to believe this is what matters. I’m not going to start pointing fingers and playing the blame game about media, movies, celebrity because we all eat that stuff up just as much as we condemn it.

I suppose it may be true humans are inclined to prefer things they initially find appealing to the eye–gorgeous sunsets, beautiful flowers…people with long lashes and perfect lips.  But I’ve found that once you get to know a person’s inner personality, their true soul shines through and completely transforms the person’s overall appeal. Once this happens, the superficial looks of a person are not even noticeable anymore. It is a shame that we tend to focus only on the outer attractiveness when we hold someone in high esteem, like celebrities. But it does sell a lot of magazines.

Maybe we’d all feel better about our natural beauty if we could see more of these celebrities in their genuine natural glory. Or better yet, someone like me who wasn’t already blessed with a perfectly symmetrical face and high cheekbones. Would People magazine ever feature everyday women like me? Well they tried with this article showing the “inner and outer beauty” of women. Still, not a asymmetrical face in the bunch; all of them have what we deem as an ’attractive’ face.

Instead, this is what I wish People magazine would do: get someone who had no sleep the previous night, say someone who slept on the edge of her 5 year old’s twin bed for a total of three hours of jagged sleep; someone who had no time for a shower, and had to pull her hair back into a ratty ponytail in her rush to get the kids off to school; someone who can’t afford fancy soaps and moisturizers made out of rose petals and Dead Sea salt scrubs; someone who worked long hours all day standing on her feet, her face puffed up and bloated; someone who inherited her mother’s dark circles, bad skin, crooked nose and saggy chin. In other words: someone with a regular normal face.

Maybe then I’d believe we are free from our insecurities with our own looks and the innate desire to look more attractive.  I know I still struggle with it, like a lot of men and women. The older I get, the more I want to just be myself, gray hair, wrinkles, dark circles and all. But if I go to Target looking like that, I sometimes feel a little embarrassed, especially if I run into say, an ex-boyfriend from college. Suddenly I’m Quasimodo with my hands covering my face. “Look away! Bah! Nothing to see here!” Other days, I really don’t care what people think of me. Yeah, so what! I’ve got zits and I’m 41! I’ve got crow’s feet and dark circles! This is what I really look like–deal with it!  Feels good. Being yourself and loving it. Imagine! It’s a process. I’m slowly getting there. I suppose not being able to halt the aging process helps me get there faster.

Same goes for my weight. It’s just a number. Why do I care so much? I am the weight I am and I should just go with it. The important thing to me should be: Am I healthy? Am I happy? Am I able to be live and breathe and be with my family and friends? And who really thinks I’m beautiful, even in my natural state?  My kids, husband, family and friends. Of course they do, they love me. These are the ultimate things we should be concerning ourselves with, not whether a person still looks ‘good’ with no makeup or if their bodies aren’t a certain weight.

We are all so much more than our bodies, our faces. Obviously, our true essense has nothing to do with our bodies at all. Instead, our bodies should be cherished and accepted as they are because they are the vehicles that get us around while we’re alive. But ultimately, they’re the shells we shed once we die. Yet we preoccupy ourselves so much with how they look and continually put ourselves down when we try to measure up to what society thinks is attractive. I know I do. Takes a bit of joy out of living.

Deep down we all know this to be a fact: what matters in the end is what we do, who we love and how we treat others while we’re here.  Kindness. Compassion. Respect. Love. If you allow these things to shine through–the real you–the outer physical stuff falls away and in your heart you’ll feel radiant and gorgeous because you are.

I can’t think of anything more beautiful.

Mad Men Lite

18 May

One of my guilty pleasures is watching the AMC hit show Mad Men.  I love the sets/costumes, the actors, and especially, the writing. I watched the first four seasons in a span of a month. I didn’t think I’d like it, but I was hooked. Some of you may not have seen it yet (or might not care to) and I realize we live in a bite-sized entertainment culture where we have super short attention spans…

So here is my quick take on things, a zippy little recap of the entire show in 500 words or less:

[warning! Spoiler Alert! If you haven't seen all the seasons yet, you don't want read further...]

Ooh! Jazzy cool theme song and opening credits!

Yes, we all work in an ultra-hip Manhattan advertising agency. And we drink.

A lot.

Don Draper: Ad Man. Creative genius. Shady past. Likes to smoke, drink, and have sex with the nearest woman at any given time or place. His three go-to facial expressions: wince, stunned and stunned wince.

Betty Draper: Housewife. Sometimes mean mother.  Keeps it all together with a steady diet of cigarettes and cold hard stares.

Yeah, she’s got issues.

Don wincing again. Here he is trying to deal with the inner turmoil about his dark past. Or his inner turmoil about the young, brilliant upstart threatening to take over his job. Or his inner turmoil about being married to Betty. Or his inner turmoil about wanting to sleep with every single woman in the known universe.

Heh. I’ll drink to that.

Make mine a double, Don.

Witty banter…witty banter…witty banter…

…and smoking and drinking and witty banter.

[Joan] God. You guys are such freaking idiots.

Wait a sec–did I sleep with every single one of my secretaries? (wince-smoke, wince-smoke)

Not this one.

Yeah, well. I’m a smart woman and a pretty kick-ass copywriter and I’ll be damned if I stoop so low as to sleep around to get what I want and–oh, crap. Too late.

[Roger] Is it getting hot in here? Y’know…being so close together like this, is so very… sexy. Have I slept with all of you yet? No? Well…how ’bout it?

[Don] Ha, ha! Ok, here’s a funny joke, stop me if you’ve heard this one…How many woman that I have currently slept with does it take to make this elevator plunge violently to our deaths?  No? No guesses? ….anyone?

Why is it that nobody ever wants to take a crack at me?

It’s the suspenders, isn’t it?

So because you’re my secretary, I hereby decree that we will have sex. And, ah, what the hell! Let’s get married! Just promise me no freaky-deaky zoo be zoo be zoo French songs or mad-raving-lunatic housekeeping.

[Don screaming] God!..ix nay on the oo be zay…please stop! Do our vows not mean anything to you? For the love of God, my ears are bleeding! You promised!

[Betty] Why, certainly! I would love to have another cup of tea! Perhaps it will help me swallow this gnawing bitter resentment I feel now that Don has moved on with a sexy, young, bright, extremely toothy French girl while I sit here in a loveless marriage with three kids and a bad double chin prosthetic with nothing to comfort me but a can of Reddi-Wip that I inhale late at night over the kitchen sink by the light of the moon. (ahem)

Can you please pass me the sugar?

The End.

It’s the bow tie, isn’t it?

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(Photo credits: blogs.amctv.com, idsnews.com, popwatch.ew.com, thesun.co.uk, rollingstone.com)

On My 28th Birthday…

15 May

Big news this week: Mark Zuckerberg is getting one whopper of a birthday present.  His Facebook IPO could make him worth about 100 billion buckaroos. Not bad for a gift. Psbbt. [shrug] I guess.

But it pales in comparison to all the gifts I got when I turned 28 years old. It was a long long time ago and my memories are a bit foggy, but for your sake, I’ll dig deep and bring them into sharper focus so you can all revel in my good fortune and swim in a cesspool of jealousy.

On my 28th birthday…

I still lived alone and had two tabby cats. They were both indoor cats  (due to a rather misfortunate run-in with a could-be-rabid-but-probably-just-drunk-as-a-skunk skunk).  I woke up that morning and had to clean up their litter box. And boy, howdy! They left me quite the present. I think between the two of them, they joined forces and managed to use up every last speck of litter with what they left behind for me: the world’s largest clump. Took me two shovels and a rake to get that sucker disposed of properly. Happy birthday to me! My special day was starting off with a bang!

Oh, hey there!…woman who brings me my food. I left you a present. Happy birthday. Or whatever. Like I care.

After the kitty cleanup, I had to go to work early. When I was 28, I was working three jobs–each one was exhausting in its own way. One was as a special ed educational technician, one as a developmental therapist for autistic children and the third job to help me barely make ends meet (…hell, sometimes the ends still wouldn’t meet but go in opposite directions) was at a candle store, which shall remain nameless but it rhymes with Hankee Candle Company. I don’t know about Mark Z., but when I turned 28 years old, I had to do actual work on my birthday. Overtime. Loading candles off a truck. Sweating like a pig. A pig that was dipped in french vanilla scented candle wax.  I had worked there for years so I was oblivious to the smell but it was basically oozing out of my pores. At one point you probably could have lit a match under my nose and I would’ve burned for 12 to 18 hours straight.  After a long 12 hour day, I got off my shift, stopped at the local Shop N Save, still wearing my work clothes. People in line started wheezing, coughing, gasping for air. One guy yelled out, “Holy crap! What is that stench? Make it stop, for the love of God, make it stop!” So I grabbed my six pack of Ballantine beer, Extra-Super-Clumpy cat litter, brand new shovel and economy-sized bag of cheese doodles, gave them all a dirty look and cried, “It’s my birthday! Why must you be so cruel?” Then I ran off and left them behind, choking in a pungent cloud of Gardenia mixed with Spiced Pumpkin.

Hey, yeah, boss? Can I take five? I think the candle wax smell has finally seeped into my brain.

After that sad display, I came home and realized a few things. It was my birthday. I was 28. I had two cats. I lived alone. I had exactly 12 dollars and 58 cents in my bank account, my fridge was stocked with nothing but YooHoos and frozen burritos, and I drove a 1992 Ford Festiva that was powered by a lightbulb. I still slept on a futon and my stereo sat on a milk crate. So I began reexamining my life. Finally, I said, what the hell, and went out on a blind double date with a strange guy with a goatee who I met at the candle store. Which leads me to my best 28th birthday present ever.

I bet this is more comfortable than a futon.

My husband (not the guy in the above picture)  who not only moved in with me, but took over the litter box cleaning, threw out my futon, built me a real nightstand, married me and then got me pregnant so I eventually quit all three of my jobs.

So happy birthday, Mark Z. Kudos to you on the IPO thingy dealio.  I hope your 28th birthday was as good as mine.  I hear 100 billion can buy you a lot of cat litter.

I’m So Glad We Had This Talk Again, Mom

14 May

The following is a conversation I had with my 78 year old mom while driving her around on errands last week.
(Her speech is in bold because her voice usually registers a few hundred decibels higher than mine)

My mom: Oh, God! ACK!! OOF! GOOD LORD! AHHH! HOLY CRAP!

Me: What? You okay?

Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s nothing. I was just trying to get into the damn car! GOD! OW!  It’s so freakin high, I can barely get up in here! OOF! Jeezum, Darla!

You want some help?

No! I’m not that old! I can do SOME things on my own, y’know, God!

(silence)

Are ya gonna help me or what? I’m an old lady for criminy’s sake! Oh, forget it, too late, I’m already in.

So, Mom, I was gonna ask you, do you want to go out for breakfast on Mother’s Da–

Didya hear about Paul LePage? [Maine's current governor] Says he wants everyone to “get up off the couch and go get a job!” Oh, yeah! It’s so easy, buddy! We should all just stand up, and boom, we can all get a job at McDonald’s for 7 bucks an hour and all our problems will be solved! Want fries with that? Good lord. I’ll take a little extra bullshit with that, that’s what. Jeezum H. Crow.

Yeah. He’s a real–

Jackass and a half. That’s what. His big idea that will solve all the world’s problems is for people to get a piddly job making just enough money to pay for the damn gas it takes to get to the stupid job in the first place. And then what? Would they even have money left over? Maybe a few dollars so they can go buy a freakin can of beans at Food City for 2 bucks. Jeezum crow! The world is going to hell! Sylvia Browne says we have only 100 years left on this godforsaken planet! You know what’s gonna happen first?  The oceans will rise. Yeah. It’s true. Florida will be underwater in 10 years. Mark my words, TEN YEARS! Kiss Mickey Mouse goodbye! It’s gonna be all over for that jerk!  It’s a small world after all, buddy. Good riddance I say…always hated Disney World…happiest place on earth my ass.

Yeah.

Speaking of which, that crazy doctor of mine wants me to get a colonoscopy again!

Oh god.

Now why the hell do I wanna go and do a thing like that? My doctor is a loon. And I told her so. I said, let me tell you something, missy–I am almost 80 years old…and what are you, 25?  Maybe 30? Let me tell ya a thing or two about people my age. Ain’t nuthin worth goin’ round poking down there…

Ma!

…nothing to see there. What’s the point? Jiminy Cricket! Like bacon is gonna kill me now? HA! Why should I care?  I’ll probably be dead next week anyway. Oh, did you see who died last week? OH! GOD! It’s the power of the THREES, Darla. The curse! Always three celebrities die! Always with the threes! First the guy that wrote that crazy kid’s book. Then the hair guy. And now who? Who’s next?

Mom, the guy that wrote Where the Wild Things Are and Vidal Sassoon were like 80-something years old so I’m not so sure it’s a curse that they died, just a coincid–

Oh, it’s a curse! It’s true! Three always die together!

So, Mom, about Mother’s Day, do you want me to take you out for breakfa–

I bet it’s gonna be Elizabeth Taylor!

Ma, she’s dead.

WHAT! Oh no! Oh god! It’s true! The curse of the three!

No, Ma. She died last year.

Oh.

Yeah.

You sure?

Yep.

That’s too bad. Poor thing.

So do you want us to take you out for breakfast for Mother’s Day? We could go to that new restaur–

I bet it’s one of the Golden Girls!

Well, all but Betty White are already dead so…

Her! It’ll be her! Oh, god how I loved her. Such a shame. The poor thing.

Mom, she’s 90 years old so I don’t think that would be much of a shock if she died. Plus she’s still alive.

(silence)

So I was thinking of taking you to brunch this Sunday, sound good, Mom?

(silence)

Mom? Mom!

I can’t believe Elizabeth Taylor is dead. How did I miss that? I check the obituaries first thing every day, you’d think I’d remember a thing like that. Every day I drink my coffee….I eat my toast…I read the obituaries…how could I miss that? Oh, she was so pretty, so so pretty. Married about a million times but still very pretty.  Married that god-awful man twice. Guess once wasn’t enough, gotta repeat your mistakes… What was his name? Oh, you know! That guy! Who was in that movie! That guy!

MOM! DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT TO BREAKFAST WITH ME ON MOTHER’S DAY?

Huh? Breakfast! Oh god no. You know I can’t have gluten.

Don’t Eat the Dandelions

10 May

This is what greeted me last weekend.

My kids picked me some flowers, and both of them made me the sweetest homemade cards.  They told me they were too excited to wait. And who am I to complain? I’ve always thought Mother’s Day should be more of a week-long event. Besides, every mom out there knows nothing beats a crayon drawing and fresh-picked dandelions for a gift.

“Smell them!” my daughter insisted.  “They’re just like honey!  Yummy, yellow honey! Mmm…mmm!” she said, rubbing her stomach and licking her lips.

“You didn’t try to eat any of them did you?” I asked and her brother shot me a worried look. I gave my kids a quick hug and off they ran, leaving huge clumps of wet grass all over the house.  I spent the next half hour googling poisonous weeds, popped another Benedryl and got out the vacuum. Nothing says ‘motherhood’ more than obsessively worrying about your child’s health or cleaning.

This was my son’s card. I especially loved the “sign here” and “thanks” part. Also, it’s good to know I’m their greatest mom ever and they included my name–like maybe they have someone else to compare me to. Although I appreciated the excessive use of exclamations points, I wondered if he was laying it on a bit too thick. I’ll have to see how many exclamation points they come up with for the Father’s Day card to figure out if he’s really sincere that I’m the greatest.

In honor of Mother’s Day, (and because I’m feeling incredibly lazy) I am linking a past post of mine, Mom for Hire, for all you moms out there: stay-at-home, work-at-home, work-out-of-home, work-while-staying-at-home, never-stay-at-home-because-you’re-constantly-driving-them-around…you get the idea.

We all are amazing and we all work incredibly hard. We should give ourselves kudos for being there for our kids when it counts, no matter the stupid label society tries to categorize us with.  You love your kids and they love you and that’s pretty much all that matters.

And to those dear readers without kids, (warning: sap alert) I want to thank your mom, for bringing you into this world and brightening up my bloggy days just by being your amazing, sweet self (you know who you are!) Now stop cringing, it isn’t polite.  And for heaven’s sake! sit up straight!  Wipe that ketchup off your face, go wash your hands and mind your manners! And would it kill you to call me sometime?

Hey, you know what? Screw it. Call up Papa John’s pizza. And bring me a beer while you’re at it. Mama’s Day Off has officially begun!

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The phrase “working mother” is redundant. -Jane Sellman

Do you know what you call those who use towels and never wash them, eat meals and never do the dishes, sit in rooms they never clean, and are entertained till they drop? If you have just answered, “A house guest,” you’re wrong because I have just described my kids. -Erma Bombeck.

A suburban mother’s role is to deliver children obstretrically once, and by car forever after. -Peter De Vries

Insanity is hereditary; you get if from your children. -Sam Levenson

I’d like to be the ideal mother, but I’m too busy raising my kids.-Anon

Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has instilled within each of us a powerful biological instinct to reproduce: this is her way of assuring that the human race, come what may, will never have any disposable income. -Dave Barry

Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs. -P.J. O’Rourke

My mother’s menu consisted of two choices: Take it or leave it. -Buddy Hackett

I want my children to have all the things I couldn’t afford. Then I want to move in with them. -Phyllis Diller

When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out. -Erma Bombeck

If you kids are giving you a headache, follow the directions on the aspirin bottle, especially the part that says ‘keep away from children’.-Susan Savannah

I love to play hide and seek with my kid, but some days my goal is to find a hiding place where he can’t find me until after high school. -Anon

I love my kids and they love me and I know that this will forever be. -She’s a Maineiac

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

Now make sure you enjoy this weekend. Maybe go sit down and rest for a few minutes, kick back with a good book and a glass of wine. You deserve it!

Kindergarten Daze

8 May

Will you hold my hand? Please? Because I don’t think I can do this without you. I am very scared and kinda nervous. It’s a big change. Huge. And I’m not sure I’m gonna like it very much. Will you still be there waiting for me when it’s over? Will you hold my hand at the bus stop? Will everything be okay? Promise me it will. Promise! Pinky-swear!

Okay.  I’m ready.

I think.

______________________________________________________________________________________

My daughter had her kindergarten screening yesterday. I watched as they snapped her picture, her big hazel eyes watering, her mouth quivering as she was trying to stand up straight and be a big girl. A teacher draped a star-shaped name tag around her neck and guided her off to a room for testing.

Without me.

I sat in my little chair in the hallway with a couple of other parents. All of us thinking the same thing.  I can’t believe it’s time. I’m not ready…I’m not ready…I’m not ready for this!

One of my earliest memories was my own kindergarten screening. It was 1975 and my father brought me. I remember starting to cry and having to take off my glasses the second the teacher asked me to hop across the room. What if I fell down? What if I couldn’t do it?  There were bright lights and big adults with clipboards asking me all kinds of questions, the room was noisy and echoed too much. When I had to walk the balance beam, I think I almost passed out. It was a lot of pressure for a little kid. My dad was great though, he kept smiling at me, giving me little hugs to let me know it would be all right, this big transition into school.

Now I sat at my own daughter’s screening and I wondered if my dad had felt that same terrible tug at his heart as I did now.

As my daughter was led away, I was interviewed by another teacher. She asked me if I was familiar with the school. I told her I had an older son who was in third grade. She put her hand on her heart and smiled at me, “Oh, so this must be your last one?” I could only nod. “Oh! It’s so hard! You will cry, trust me. The moment she gets on that bus, you will cry. I know I bawled when my last one left for school. Now he’s in college, left home and his room is empty.” I sighed, fighting back a tear. This wasn’t helping me any.

After an hour and a half I caught a glimpse of my sweet baby girl, down the hall, sitting stoically next to another boy, twirling her little name tag necklace. I kept willing her to turn around and look at me, so I could wave or smile to let her know I was there.  Look, Julia! Look at mommy! Mommy’s right here! I thought, as I tried to get her attention, waving at her like an idiot, just another sappy parent on the brink of losing it. She turned slightly and saw me, gave me a quick wave then turned back toward the teacher.

And I was left sitting there alone in the hall, trying to sit up straight, not cry and be a big girl.

My first day of kindergarten. My brother is right behind me, trying to look cool and also like he doesn’t know me.

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