Schooled!

I just found out that Canadian one dollar coin is called a Looney. I also just learned at this moment, that in canada, a "bunny hug", is a hooded sweatshirt, or what we Yanks like to call a "hoodie".

Guess where I learned all this? VH1 of course.

Ok, two more things:

1.The highest grossing movie of all time in Canada is Porky's2.In Quebec, they have "language police", who patrol the streets making sure that all public signage is primarily French.

Now, where, you ask, would I get such information at such a time of night?
Why, VH1 of course. "So Awesomely Canadian" has broken new ground on the music television format. I am in "awe".

Money Well Spent

A friend who recently had her second child( month & 1/2 ago) just told me she's been invited to attend a "Passion" Party. Apparently it's like a Tupperware party, but with, hmm, how shall I say it, uh, "toys" for women, instead of Tupperware.

When I asked her, "Are you in the mood for that now?", she said, "Well, something's gotta get me going, cause it ain't gonna happen on it's own. I figure maybe if I have a new toy, it'll make me want to do something!" I laughed, and the following thought occurred to me which I said out loud:

It's just like when you buy a new pair of shoes. It makes you want to go out to dinner.

Nice metaphor.

Sing Blue Silver

Ok, the Quaker Oats Company has LOST it.

Today when we went food shopping, I picked up a box of Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries (blue & red "berries" mixed with sugar corn crunchy) cereal. It's kid's cereal and it's full of sugar, and if you eat too much it hurts the inside of your mouth.

So we get home, unpack, we're doing our thing around the house, and I pull out the box, determined to snack on a few crunchberries, maybe even have a bowl. I notice there's a promotion going on featuring a popular cartoon character relating to the color in the berries. I start eating.

Within SECONDS, my fingers are turning blue and so is my tongue. Guy and I start discussing where the blue is coming from and whether or not the whole cereal is "laced" with the stuff, or if it's just the big blue pieces coloring everything else. We pour some in a bowl and hit it with milk. The milk instantly turns blue. And I mean BRIGHT BLUE. We run more tests on the "crunch" away from the "berries". Blue is present only not nearly as intense, and more like what I think you'd expect from a kid's cereal.

What kind of IDIOT thought this one up? Can you IMAGINE giving this to your 5-11 year old before school? You'd have to get a change of clothes ready and maybe some turpentine as well. I couldn't wash it off my hands.

The nice people who make this need a head check. I can feel cancer growing in me as I write this. Holy crap what alot of chemicals.

____________________

On a lighter note: I was transferring some old concert tapes to CD today. Two Duran Duran concerts: one from 81 or 82 in London, and one from their Seven & The Ragged Tiger World Tour when they appeared at Madison Square Garden in NYC in March of 1984. It was a big show for them, I read recently.

Anyhoo, that World Tour was the first time I ever saw them live (I saw them in Philadelphia at the Spectrum -now the Wachovia Spectrum). I was 14 and I was beside myself. So much so that when I taped the concert a week or two later, I cried when it started on the radio.

Cut to, oh, say, 20+ years later...
I'm sitting on the floor snug between a big reading chair and the stereo. I'm set up to tape the second show and I get it rolling. The first notes of an instrumental ("Tiger Tiger") come up with a swarming buzz of screaming girls who were mostly all my age at the time, along with tuning noises on a bass and lead guitar...I smile...

Oh my gosh. It's them. It's the men I have posters of all over my room. I think about marrying their lead singer at least 10 times a day. I can't believe I'm finally getting to see them...

I have suddenly become that awkward, starry-eyed 14 year-old girl. I get goosebumps and my heart races, and when I try to laugh, I start to cry. I am 35 years old, married with a 13 month old and I am sitting there nearly bawling over my ultimate teen crush. Whoa. Was it the crunchberries? Probably not.

I seriously recommend finding some keepsakes, music, pictures or whatever, that bring you back to a time when you felt that pure euphoria. It's suprising how fast it all comes back.

"...the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart..."*

Thanks for the memories, fellas.



________________________________________________________
* from "The Chauffeur", by Duran Duran, from the album Rio

Don't Call Me Shirley

We went to the Outer Banks (North Carolina) for a week's vacation. We missed it last year because a certain little someone was just getting to know planet Earth.

The Outer Banks consists of basically two ends of an island: the original southern part consisting of Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills and NagsHead and then the state park. Then there's where we stay, where everyone in Pennsylvania stays: the northern shores: Southern Shores, Duck, Corolla. We usually get a giant house on the beach in a section called Pine Island. These houses are magnificent. A million bedrooms, a million bathrooms, some with hot tubs, private pool, kitchen and kitchenette, outer decks on every floor, etc. It's truly great. The beaches are beautiful and for as crowded as the towns get, the beaches don't seem to show it.

We go with Guy's partner and family and two other couples. Everyone shares in cooking dinner, we do activities (jetski, golf, etc.) and we play games (this year it was: see who can match the most of the AFI'S List of 100 Greatest Movie Quotes of All Time ). We're a competitive lot; it's pretty funny.

I detail all this, because typically I complain like a crow about the traffic problems we face while there:
The road to where we stay is only a two-lane, and it's gotten the volume of I-76. Not to mention there is only one supermarket near where we stay and it serves who knows how many people. For three days after we got there, the place was so packed you couldn't even go in to buy milk without waiting 20 minutes in line.

Waah. Poor me. I have to deal with people while I'm on vacation at one of the nicest beaches on the East Coast. Waah.

So now I'm home and it feels too fast here. I want to go back. Waah.

BABYWATCH: Spencer loves swimming pools and the beach. He ate sand. I mean ATE it. ON PURPOSE. He bonded like crazy with his daddy to the point that he now yells "Daaaaaa!" to get him to come.Yes, I am a little jealous ;)

Kid Stars and Manwhores

VH1 has a series going right now: The 100 Greatest Child Stars.
I watched #40-21 and was fascinated.

They found Corey Haim.
I'm sorry, but he's a pudge. It looks like he either cleaned up from drugs and got fat, or is bloated from drinking. In his profile, he stated that he didn't have any regrets and was exactly where he wanted to be in his career. That's curious, since I don't recall having seen his name on ANY marquee anywhere since like, 1989.

The kid who played "Robbie", the kooky little cousin on The Brady Bunch looks like a hairy, scary beast. Joey Lawrence doesn't want you to call him Joey, and he is really hot. Infact, I think he and Ricky Martin may have been separated at birth.

Now I'm watching Kept: Former model and ex-Mrs Jagger, Jerry Hall, is trying to find a nice boy toy to hang off her arm. The show is about selecting one; by way of contests, dates and elimination. They model in a fashion show, pose naked for an artist, hang out in a castle and write poems. I think two are plants. They're just too vapid, self-absorbed and immature to be worth her time or anyone else's.

Amazing how MTV programming shuts me down. I have been sitting here for 20 minutes with nothing to say even though the behavior of some of these men deserves lengthy comment. Ads are over now and the show is on and I apparently can't write and watch at the same time.

The next time I write, it should be from North Carolina. Overdue vacation starts now.
Excellent.

Elixir of the Gods

gren·a·dine
n.
A brilliant scarlet non-alcoholic syrup made from the juice of pomegranates. Used to color and flavor drinks and desserts. Called grenadine because was originally available only from the island of Grenada in the Caribbean.

(I did not know it was originally made from pomegranates. Now I truly must have more.)
When I was a small child, one of my favorite drinks was the Shirley Temple. It's gingerale with grenadine. They normally chuck in a cherry and orange slice too, which I NEVER eat. I always thought it was cherry juice. Years later I would learn the truth, and it was good - one bottle of grenadine means many Shirley Temples are possible.

Tonight, I am drinking a homemade Tequila Sunrise. I used Dole Pineapple Orange (or Orange Pineapple) juice, Cuervo and grenadine. I put in more grenadine than the recipe called for. It's my drink, it's my grenadine and it's my house so I will have as much as I like. I have also had Grenadine liqueur in the house. That makes a REALLY good drink with gingerale. I call that one the Shirley Temple Black....get it? No? Ask me and I'll tell you.

Last night I had a "Sweet Tart" (pineapple juice, cranberry juice, vodka and lime), and earlier with dinner we had daquiris. It's too hot for beer. Don't ask me to explain.

I think I'm over Cosmos. The only places I've had them done really well are Shampoo and The 8th Floor. Otherwise they're kind of boring.

Back to grenadine... it's just delish. I wouldn't put it on ice cream though. My husband would.
I just like it in drinks. Imagine that; it originates from the Pomegranate. I can't imagine they bother anymore, what with companies being able to manufacture specific tastes from god knows what.

I refuse to comment on a certain news story from today. Grenadine is much more important.

Real World Land of The Dead (Brains)

Zombies are not coming to get me.

That statement may require a little exposition for clarification, but once again, time has lapsed since my last post and I have catching up to do.

Re: Gas Panics
1: The weekend my mom came down to visit for Spencer's birthday, we smelled gas in the house but then didn't, and thought nothing of it, considering two major forms of public transportation pass by on both sides of our house. We had a huge birthday party for Spencer, family crashing overnight, and so forth.

Tuesday of the following week, the new owner of our home came to visit with potential tenants and their moms. Spencer and I were home, doing our normal afterschool routine, and as they entered the house, they immediately became alarmed by the smell of gas...the OVERWHELMING smell of gas, which I did not smell at all in any way.

Thirty minutes later as I sat outside on the porch with my purse, keys and Spencer in my lap, PGW arrived with sensors a-beeping. The service guy walked through my dining room with a contraption that looked like something from Ghostbusters. It beeped loudly and steadily and increased in beep strength as he entered our kitchen. The stove was an immediate culprit. Then he headed to the basement where things went crazy. Gas=off. No heat, no hot water. He replaced our meter, which was leaking, but could not determine the rest of the problem and left me to cold showers and take out.

The plumber came the next day, sprayed our pipes with bubble liquid, and sent air through the pipes and looked for bubbles. Ten minutes in, he called me downstairs to show me a major union joint under the middle of my house looking like the set of the Lawrence Welk Show. Bubbles everywhere. It turned out the problem with the stove came from the problem under the house, so it wasn't really a problem. He fixed the union joint thingy and another small leak in under two hours. PGW was not so efficient, refusing to send anyone out until the following day. They're busy, you know. More cold water and take out. Actually, we have a large water heater and were able to get almost two days worth of showers out of it without using hot water for anything else.

Gas Panic Part Deux: On the way up to Maine, my mom and I stopped our cars at a rest stop near Sturbridge, Massachusetts. I pumped gas and waited for my mom to do the same.

On the other side of the island from me, a simpleton attempted to pump gas from a pump marked OUT OF ORDER. Promptly, the hose fell off and gas literally poured out on top of his car and all over the place. So, thinking like a crazy panicking mom, I ripped Spencer from his car seat and ran away. My mom followed suit until we, and other patrons, realized a not so smart patron had gotten back in his car and was starting it up. So we all yelled at him until he pulled over and turned off his car.

A very nice fellow driving a vintage car helped us move my car away from the immediate area and the frightened gal inside the quickmart adjacent to the station called the fire department. We made a hasty exit before we could be rounded up as witnesses, victims or annoyed and inconvenienced bystanders.

Now about that zombie thing: They keep showing ads for Land of The Dead. On my way out of the tv room to go brush my teeth, I imagined a zombie coming up the stairs out of the darkness at me with glowing eyes. I almost had to say "There are no zombies" as I headed down the hall.
This is the worst side effect of having a wild imagination: I can literally imagine something terrifying in a completely normal, safe environment.

Ok ewww. There is a man and a dog asleep in the room with me, and one of them farted.
Now THAT is a whole different kind of gas panic.

Some young lady is being cut apart and sewn back together again on an MTV plastic surgery show. It's about time for me to go bed. Especially since now I have seen every ad for Real World: Austin that's been created. I am an MTV zombie. GRRRRRRR brrrrrains...

Future Tales of Whoa!

Due to vacation in Maine with my boy, I've been off for a bit.

Coming soon to this blog:

Gas Panic Part 1: The Leak
- How we had a party, all our relatives and friends at our house and noone blew up

Gas Panic Part 2: Don't Pahk Ya Cah!
- If you see an "Out of Order" sign on a gas pump, PLEASE do not try to use it anyway

Cracklin' Muncher

Monday May 16 - Exit Guy back to work, to a hearing with a crazy person.

Mom and I made a detailed plan for the day which had to end by 2 so she could get to a planned visit in Bucks County.

We visited the new house, returned a gift, visited Pet Smart so she could spoil her three (yes three everybody) Golden Retrievers, and then took Spencer to Cracker Barrel for lunch.

I don't know when it began, but that boy has learned to stuff his face. I mean LITERALLY. Stuff his face.

He was incredibly entertaining to the wait staff, but I think also extremely annoying, considering about half of what he ate and drank ended up on the floor.

Note: Do not eat at Cracker Barrel unless you're really planning to binge eat. Everything is breaded, fried or dipped in something with fat.

Otitis Day & The Nights

Guy's family was in town for our niece's graduation: His dad, brother and fiance and nephew, AND my mother all stayed overnight.

Sunday morning chaos ensued on two fronts:
1. Spencer's crankiness returned from the day before- the beginning of yet another ear infection. He may have been a little "hungover" from his party as well, but he was not a happy camper.
2. Noone seemed to know who was meeting who where to go to the graduation and then a nephew called from a lost night somewhere in Center City, trying to find his way back to the area to make it to the ceremony.

So, we split up: My mother and I took Spencer to the doctor while Guy and family attended our niece's graduation.

Spencer, my mother and I lucked out. The cermony was so slow that Guy called me while they were announcing graduates in the B's. I can only imagine Spencer losing what little toddler patience he has developed and screaming and crying to get down and then get up again to be held over and over. He only cried a little at the docs. We picked up a prescription for him and home we went.

Late Sunday afternoon, my mother took over grandma duty as Guy and I attended the post-graduation party for my niece on the Moshulu - an old ship cum restaurant docked at Penns Landing.

We sat on the deck of the bow sipping drinks (I had my first Malibu Bay Breeze, thanks Lori!) with the family and Guy told pirate stories to our non-college level nephews.

This deck, while offering a wonderful near 360 degree view of the area, had no protective railing. It bugs me. What kind of fools operate a restaurant/bar on a boat that sits like 20-40 feet up from the water and doesn't have protective netting or railing? I'll tell you who: The kind of fools that also serve asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. Their retaurant and wine list are rated highly, so apparently their priorities are a little rearranged. I suppose a lost customer here and there just adds to the mystique?

Dinner was excellent though. Guy and I hightailed it out shortly thereafter to get home and give my mom a break.

Play Catch Up

So much has gone on since my last post, that I'll have to do it in pieces. I apologize for TMI where it occurs.

BBQ Where Are You, The Epilogue
The grill, missing screws, bolts and all the warranty and user guides, arrived on Friday, May 12 at 8 am. Upon this discovery, and then the realization that the grill was actually a floor model, I spent the rest of the day on the phone with Lowe's headquarters, and finally the local store manager, who until this point, was non-existent.

The grill FINALLY arrived at 5pm EST on Friday the 12th, delivered by two hardworking fellows from the Flooring department. How they got this assignment, I dare not wonder.

This grill had a big paint chip on the side grill plate, but luckily for me (WHOOPEEE!), the grill alread residing in my backyard had its plate intact, so the gents kindly switched them and took the offending model back to the store. Alas, I shall never see them again. I HOPE.

The Entertainers
The next 24 hours are a virtual blur: I picked up the giant Elmo head and costume, my mother arrived Friday night, we party-planned, toted the boy around, Guy cooked ribs overnight to soften the meat (I didn't even know we were having ribs, and we also had shrimp!), and a giant blow up toy sat in the yard, accompanied by bounce ball things and a bubble machine.

Saturday we ran around like chickens with...., until it became evident that Spencer, the birthday boy, was not feeling so well. Cranky was he, until he had an excellent nap, during which time, the moonbounce arrived and proceeded to take up the ENTIRE backyard. It was a sight to see. Up went the decorations, out went the plastic utensils, tub of ice, and heating trays.

Guests arrived, music played, glasses clinked and the sun came out, Elmo entertained despite some little ones knowing about the zipper in the back and that he sounded a little too much like me. Spencer smiled and giggled and bounced and crawled, and ultimately did a double-fisted lunge into his cake, right on cue.

Guy and I even took a little time to jump around in the moonbounce until we were totally winded(about 5 minutes). A success by all accounts.

Lowest of the LOWES

Do you see this?

I don't see it in my backyard where it's supposed to be.

Let's just say I spent more time on the phone today with complete strangers trying to track down someone with some responsibility than anything else. Oh except wiping Spencer's faucet nose.This grill was supposed to be delivered from between 2-4pm and then assembled.

I've taken to calling him "Booger". How do these little beings manage to produce so much mucus?

Thank you Kleenex with Lotion.

Product Description Writer. That's me. Just a forethought. I may explain in more detail at another time. I HOPE I will explain in more detail...ha ha.

Non sequiturs flow fast and free when you're as sleepy as me.

Hey, Supermarkets, when you decide to rearrange, how about the following:

1. When you temporarily store certain items in holding areas, make sure to put signs in the old shelves telling us silly customers where to find them. You can handwrite them, we understand. We'd just rather not engage you in conversation about where to find the item we just walked by 6 times because it's not where it usually is.

2. Better yet, pay some employees overtime and get your salaried manager heineys scheduled to work late nights to get the job done. Don't you see that in trying to do it all while we're shopping just makes us more tense than we already are? Us customers are in perpetual hurry, even though we don't necessarily have to be anywhere in a dire emergency. We don't want to crash our carts and bump into eachother and have forced contact.

3. Get out of the tiny temp aisles when customers try to roll their oversized carts through. We're the ones paying for the groceries and in turn paying your salaries. Please respect that the customer is always right, regardless of the smug, vain, spoiled looks on our faces.

My laptop battery is near dead. It's good discipline -keeps me from writing too much. It's bad enough I make very little sense. No point inflicting the full brunt on you. At least not tonight.

:)

Owns a home and a sugar jones

We sold our house. We bought another one. I am an asset holder now. Cool.

Do you have any idea how much paperwork is involved in buying and selling a home? I figured today that mortgage companies are singlehandedly keeping 81/2 x 14 size paper in production. I have signed so many copies and documents, I don't even know how to sign my name anymore.

T-minus 48 hours to Spencer's birthday and counting. I will be Elmo this weekend. Tomorrow a brand new gas grill is being delivered because we have to cook upwards of 50 hamburgers. I pick up the costume Friday. Saturday I get the cake, and then our backyard becomes the inflatable circus. We got a moonbounce. And, Guy also ordered a blowup jungle gym, a bubble machine and some other bubble-making contraption. We bought a box of 200 Flav-or-Ice popsicles. Guy has eaten about 25 so far.

Oh wait, and I forgot, Guy's dad, brother and fiance and my mother are all staying with us Saturday night because Guy's niece is graduating from Philadelphia University (my alma mater) on Sunday.

I forgot something else entirely. Mother's Day!
Now there's one perk of having kids - you get your own little holiday. sort-of.

I'm not over Tastycakes. Damn that little deli down the street. Curse them!
If you can get a Tangy Taffy - cherry flavor - eat it immediately. They are scrumptious.

My final thought: Sugar doughnuts have a unique consistency: They are light yet squishy. They should be appreciated whenever possible. I would like one right now.

The Tao of Bertram

How DARE the DJ play some fake sped up version of "Like A Prayer" ! I mean , really, he'd already fouled (like my TBS/FOX version of the "F" word?) up massively by playing "Love Shack" into "Come on Eileen". Now he was going to insult my every fiber of sensibility by hijacking the one female artist of the 80's I truly respected?
WHATEVER.

I was at Spiny Mcruds or Macrud's - not sure how you spell it. Didn't get a chance to look at the sign because my fashionable "nude" Steve Madden "Violet" pump got caught in a grate outside (first time, thanks). It was already late and my old acting buddy was hauling me over to this joint at 12th and Sansom to see his old roommate and pal, who apparently was this super hot model/actor who bartended there.

I recall him telling me about him - they lived together while he was trying to work on his career acting in NYC. His then roomate, the model, was getting gig after gig (audition after audition - it does take talent to actually SCORE a gig), and he was in some way envious of his roommate's luck. Now, apparently, this super successful person, is living in some NY-nearby-NJ province during the week, and bartending 2 nights a week in my City of Brotherly Love at some local "Irish" bar. I saw the owner and his son, and unless they're "black" Irish, the place should be called either "Fanook Minelli's" or "Faroud Mohammed's", so let's get past the whole "Have another beer, mate!" cultural reference.

For the record: I am in no way disparaging any race or creed or anything; I'm just noting ethnicity for atmosphere and semantic purposes. I also had about 3.5 drinks in the 2 hour span of my time there. This is highly against type for me these days. I apologize if I appear to be insensitive or ignorant in any way. I do not intend to offend.

I digressed. Anyhoo, my point was, this model/actor fella was spending two nights a week down in this joint? Why not work in NYC and make 5-10 times that kind of money for two night's work? According to my drunken friend, it was a convenience on many levels. Since I have no tolerance for that kind of complexity these days, I shook my head. After all, the guy was BLONDE. My acting friend said it was the guy's natural hair color. I had my doubts.

Second Major Digression: I wish I could go to an all-night supermarket and buy some yummy snacks.
Also, it's hard to write while this tired.

So here's this idiot DJ spinning a late night playlist from 2002 or earlier. All I want to do is dance to something really cool. I've gotten out tonight, Guy has given me his blessing to get in touch with my former girly, female fun self and go out on the town. We've checked in at some point to establish my whereabouts and now I'm in this goofy bar that doesn't know if it's Bob & Barbara's or Finnigan's Wake.

The last two songs are unrecognizable but "bumpin," so I decide I want to dance. My acting friend is not really the dancing type, but he concedes and joins me on the steadily emptying floor. I do my thing, dancing and moving like my pre-Spencer self: Trying to be not so self-conscious and let myself just have fun.

We finish struttin', go back to the bar and about 2 minutes later a portly, middle-aged man of color approaches us and begins complimenting us (mostly me) on our dancing abilities. He elaborates, telling us he's from Barbados and that he's been in the States a long time now and most of the time when he goes out, people are cold and don't seem receptive to fun or to talking with him. He says we made him feel there was hope - he felt the energy and fun we were having and felt we were genuine. He repeatedly makes the point that people are in a hurry and don't appreciate what they have; that they just keep going on, in their own worlds, unreceptive and unable to imagine other worlds and other cultures. I try to explain that this is America where noone has to accept anything, and where more often than not, you'll find people wanting you to change your way of life to suit them. It's all about the ME thing. He said that despite that commonality in American culture, there were anomalies and that he wanted to meet as many people as he could - get to know the human race from every perspective and learn to appreciate. He appreciated our vibrance and toasted us with his glass. He said the rest doesn't matter, that it's how we get to relate to eachother.

He felt that appreciation could inspire people to do great things.
When I re-read that, I have no idea what it means, and it's at the heart of what's always perplexed me to no end about the bar scene:

Why do people find the ability to pontificate with such complexity when a bar is near closing, when the alcohol is in full effect and when the secondhand smoke has utterly saturated your skin? I mean there's rambling on drunkenly and incoherently, which everyone has witnessed and can usually escape easily, and then there's this strange phenomenon where people become erudite philosophers with beer breath. You can't really get away, because people in this state are passionate and just coherent enough to stop you and engage you further. All you can do is agree and smile. I did alot of that, and somehow I actually remembered some of what he said. If for no other reason that I hoped in repeating it back, I'd make some sense of it. No such luck.
So, out of courtesy to you, I have taken up YOUR time repeating back to you the very drivel I myself could not interpret.

Perhaps THAT is the truth of it... or...perhaps I should keep a better watch on my alcohol intake.

Goodnight.

Control

Well, it has begun. We're officially house hunting.
We saw 7 houses between Saturday and today, which includes a house Guy saw in Pottstown on the way to a client's on Friday.

We went there today to see it, because he's in love with it.
My husband is in love with a house in Pottstown.
I can't believe I'm saying that.

It has a whole bunch of things about it that I like: Privacy, a driveway, quiet, school for Spencer that won't cost as much as college.

But it's in Pottstown. I'd never been there before today. I'm going to pick up and move to a place I'd only just been to today.

Oh, did I mention Guy loves it? At every turn he's mentioning something else that's great about it.

Are all men this hyperfocused? Do they get SO fixated on something that they forget that others have opinions and thoughts or even exist for that matter? Is it like dogs when they get on the scent of an animal they're stalking? Like you can't stop them unless you practically choke them with a leash?

I'm about ready to buy a choke chain and get to work on some obedience around here.

...eeesh!

Did the Amityville Horror house have mold?

I am scared even writing the words Amityville Horror.
On the way into work this morning I was scared listening to the promo on the radio.
Don't even get me started on the tv trailers. I can't look! I'm serious, I can't!
This is like the first time I can remember ever being scared before I saw a movie.

What is it with that house?

They said slime oozed through the walls (umm, along with blood. eew).

I was wondering, could it have been toxic black mold instead?
I read a report the other day about a guy who had stuff in his lungs, went to about a million docs; half of which said he had cancer and the other half couldn't figure it out. Finally after a special biopsy some specialist was able to determine that it was some kind of bacteria growing in him caused by exposure to black mold.

They tested that house for paranormal activity, satanic spirits, native american burial ground evidence, the function of a well-like structure in the basement originally thought to be a portal to Hell, and anything else you can imagine related to a mass murder followed by a 28-day haunting a year later.

But did they test for mold? Maybe mold spores took over in that house and made everyone crazy.

Did you know there's a service where a DOG comes and looks for mold? There are specially trained pooches called Mold Dogs. They come to your house and sniff around. I wonder what would happen if you put baloney behind a wall or two...

Of Tribbles and Tasty Cakes

Cheerios=Tribbles

Ok before I explain that, I must obsess for a moment about Duran Duran again.
Well, more specifically, Simon LeBon.
I am sorry, but the man's smart-alecky smiling face was just on Conan O'Brien and he needs to meet me. Hear me Charlie? You need to meet me. Work it out, ok? Enough with the kissing of cutsie brain-absent post-teens.

He was just so smart lookin with his hair and jacket and scruff.
To quote Paris Hilton's sidekick Nicole, "That's hot."

Yeah, I have an 11 month-old son. Yeah, I'm a grown married woman.
YOU grow up.
I'm giddy. No substances involved.

I will tell you one thing: Having a teen fantasy keeps a person young. Right now I feel like an awkward kid. It's 145am and I'm awake. How old do I think I am, 16? I hope I feel like a teenager all the rest of my life...at least energy wise.

Ok, tribbles = cheerios:

This is what it looks like in my house these days.

I find them in my son's diapers, in his shoes, in closets, in the bathroom, in my bed...

Do you know that a baby can have a cheerio stuck in his hand for like, hours?
When they haven't learned to relax their hands when not in use, they remain clenched, and lo and behold, hours after lunch, a small, hardened cheerio remnant will fall from his grasp. If I'm lucky, I'll see it happen. If not, I'm likely to find it later in my purse.

Even our dog, Scavenger of Kitchen Floors, has had it with oaty goodness.
He won't even eat one and spit it out.

I am having a slightly similar problem with Tastykakes. I had chocolate cupcakes after dinner. Don't tell my husband.

Yumm. Just look.

I DARE you to go to the supermarket and walk past the display without at least getting Krimpets.If you don't have Tastykakes in your town, I am very sorry to tempt you with something you can't have. Oh WAIT, you can have them too!

I know they're wrong and bad for me. I know it's a lifetime on the hips. I also know that a package of six little chocolate doughnuts and a glass of milk is near perfection.

Of course, if I ate some right now, I'd really be hurting.

Speaking of hurting, EEEW, there's a special on VH1 about the worst sexy songs ever, and there is an R. Kelly video where he is pouring milk on a willing lass. Ok, appetite gone.

It's now 245 am. Goodnight Cheerios, Goodnight Tribbles, Goodnight Tastykakes.

baglady

It's, oh, wait. I thought it was almost 1245am. Oops it's 145am.
Somebody's mommy (this is how i refer to myself most days) is way overtired and should not be up so late. However, somebody's mommy started looking for Corelle dishes, found them on Amazon.com, and then, naturally, began looking at bags again.

THIS, after finding today(yesterday) what I believe to be an awesome bag. It's an oversize pink terrycloth bowling-type bag with purple piping and accents. It's like a knock-off Juicy Couture bag. It's very girly, and very roomy for all my shmutz.

Will it never cease? Must I always be driven by bag "lust"? Am I doomed and addicted to the thrill of finding the "perfect bag?" This requires further investigation.

***DREAM INTERRUPTION***

Ok sorry, false alarm. Also, my body thinks it's time to go to sleep, as I am typing with one eye open. Now shaking my head like Bugs or Sylvester when an anvil's just landed on a forehead.

Ok, I am too tired to write. Just started thinking about eating fast food.

Ok not making any sense at all now. Every time I type a sentence and stop, I don't have any idea where I started or what I was going to say.

Oh my god this is all nastyness. Good Night little man asleep :)

Grow Up

I saw the re-formed Duran Duran at the Wachovia Spectrum on Saturday, April 2.
It was to be the moment I'd been anticipating for 20 years: I finally had seats close enough to possibly smell Simon LeBon's sweat. 5th Row, center.

Things couldn't have gone more my way leading in - I lost the rest of my baby weight (thanks to the Norwalk Virus-ha ha) and could now fit into all my "skinny jeans".

I wore a bold, black low-cut tunic with spaghetti straps and a sexy bra underneath to emphasize the remainder of my decolletage. I wore high-heeled boots under my well fitting dark washed boot-cut jeans, my hair was all curly and wild and I'd made sure to try green eyeshadow to really bring out the brown in my eyes.

On this night, Simon LeBon would finally feast his eyes on me. Imagine all the years gone by; I'd become a woman, started a family, grown up and looked great. What a perfect time to attract the gaze of the man I idolized for the better part of my teen years.

Confident and cocky, I waited with my friend to go to our seats when the opening band took the stage. She decided to have a hot dog, I checked out the merchandise. Finally, we sauntered over to the ticket-checker-guy and he pointed us the way to the floor. My heart raced a little as we began the descent. At the bottom of the stairs, the entry to Manna, stood another ticket-fellow with a flashlight. I showed him my ticket. He gazed at it, and began to indicate in the direction I'd just come from.

WHAAAAAAA?

"Go back up up around the stairs. That's section 202. Row 5 is on othe other other side."

Denied.

These were not floor seats. I'd told my friend and friends of hers that they were floor seats. Red-faced, I found our seats and then told my friends I was going to call my husband. By all accounts, they were still pretty darn good seats, but they were NOT near the stage. I had to wear my glasses if I really wanted to see anything. As if it wasn't bad enough not to have good seats: Now I was being reminded of my mortality.

As I went back up the stairs I confronted first ticketman. "Aren't these supposed to be floor seats?" I asked him, confusion and utter disbelief sinking in. He looked at me like I was looney.
Well, I was.

I immediately called my husband and complained. As if he could do something.

Strangely enough, as soon as the shock, humiliation, denial and depression wore off and my near tantrum subsided, it struck me that maybe this was never to happen. I was never meant to be close enough for Simon LeBon to encounter me. On a grand scale I hypothesized that this was a sign of some sort: A message from beyond, telling me it was time to let go of my girlish thoughts and embrace my adult self. It had to mean something, right?

During the encore, Simon introduced the band, then went out into the audience to have someone (a lady, DUH) introduce him. Of course he picked a pretty brunette and got real close and told her what to say because she was basically brain dead standing next to him. Upon completing the task, she was rewarded with a lovely kiss that actually lasted about 15 seconds.

I turned to my friend immediately: "I HATE THAT GIRL. I HATE HER! OH I HATE HER SO MUCH RIGHT NOW."

Great show though.

Gnawing At Me

Spencer bit me on the cheek yesterday.

I suppose he thought he was the Easter Bunny and that I was a carrot.
I do feel fairly orange as it were.
I have the Norwalk virus.
Spencer had it last week and gave it to me.
He's just got an arsenal of germs and fangs
I think the last time I was this tired was when I had mono in high school.
I cannot tell you the extreme symptoms I have suffered. It's so gross.

Guy and I were in NYC over the weekend - our first overnight away from Spencer.
We saw Spamalot on Saturday (after going the wrong night and getting to see Jackie Mason for free). I highly recommend it.

I'm too tired to be clever. Today I have eaten Spencers rice cereal, crackers and Gatorade. I feel like I'm really hungry but I can't eat. I've been reading The Dirt - about Motley Crüe - those guys were insane. Something tells me I've mentioned this, but heck, I'll mention it again.

I have a job interview tomorrow. I hope I can keep it together and appear lively.

Ok there's an ad on tv for Downy Wrinkle Releaser. You don't iron. You spray the wrinkled item and pull on it to pull out the wrinkles. Something is wrong with that. What the hell kind of chemicals are in that? The ad says it's not available in stores. Why is this? Creepy.
Anyway, email me if you've tried it and it works. I iron about as often as I sail.