A scary night at the movies

So, went to the movie theatre last night with my sister and another girlfriend. We figured it was a Tuesday night; we’d have our pick of movies. Right?

Wrong.

Our intention was to see the new Reese Witherspoon movie. Sold out. Okay, fine. We’d see that Johnny Depp movie. Sold out. We refused to see Little Fockers, so what was left? Black Swan. The ticket-seller (who happens to be a student of our friend) said it was a great movie. Okay, Black Swan it was.

We knew nothing about the movie going in. Well, almost nothing. I had read yesterday that Natalie Portman was now engaged to, and expecting a baby with, one of her co-stars from this movie. So, I knew the movie was about ballet and that Natalie had earned a Golden Globe nomination for the movie. That’s as far as my knowledge went. But, I like ballet. Center Stage was a great movie. Plus, we thought that if it was worthy of an award, we should see it. And then we could tell people we were all cultured and shit for watching award-nominated movies.

So, we went into the theatre with high expectations.

And then the movie started.

The fuck was this? Was it a thriller? Perhaps it would’ve helped to read a review of the movie before going in (ETA: I just read the review. It is, in fact, a thriller.). I can only imagine how the writer pitched this movie to executives.

“Picture it. A repressed perfectionist ballerina slowly goes insane, thinking she sees herself everywhere. It’s going to be really cool. We’ll use lots of camera effects (read: we’ll give the movie-goers motion sickness with all the jumping around). We’ll add a lot of vomiting and bloody toes and fingers. And masturbation. And at least one lesbian scene. Because lesbian ballerinas are hot. And then? At the end? When she thinks she killed her rival? She actually kills herself! It’s going to be awesome!”

I read that the script took about 10 years to make it to the screen. How much worse could it have been before this final version that no one would look at it? I’m guessing the writer added the lesbian scene and it was a done deal.

I suppose I could try to see this from the artiste’s point of view. You know, how the writer bludgeons you over the head with the symbolism? Natalie’s character wears white throughout the entire movie until she hangs out with her “evil twin” black swan, Mila Kunis. Then they, you know, do it, and she wears, um, gray after that.

I think the movie could’ve been better had they shown what everyone else was seeing. So, while Natalie’s character thought her friends were stabbing themselves with nail files, was she the one doing the actual stabbing? And what was with her overbearing mother? Couldn’t Natalie take out her own damearrings? I would’ve put a lock on my door about 10 years earlier.

If I had been friends with Natalie’s character, I would’ve just given the girl a sandwich and helped set up her profile on Match.com. All she needed was a burger and some sex and she would still be alive today.

I'll bet that ticket-seller laughed his ass off on his way home last night, thinking he screwed over his teacher.

Well played, kid. Well played.

What is figgy pudding anyway, and no, don't bring us some.

So, I woke up this morning singing, “We Are the World.” I suppose that’s an improvement over the millions of Christmas songs that have been dancing in my head over the last month, but not much of one. I need some heavy duty rap. Stat.

You know, I like the holidays, I really do, but damn, it’s a lot of work. From the decorating to the shopping to the cooking and baking. To hosting Christmas Eve. I’m tired.

But, even though it’s tiring, there are some things I look forward to every year. Breakfast at Mom’s on Christmas morning afternoon, playing whatever new board game we got that year, decorating the house. I have boxes and boxes of decorations stacked up in the basement, it takes an entire weekend to put everything up. The decorating weekend consists of taking stock of what I have, making a list of things I need (that may have broken last year [or have broken while stacked in the basement]), remembering where it all goes, putting it out and, finally, cleaning up the chaos I’d just created. By the end of the weekend, I am covered in enough glitter to moonlight as a stripper. But it’s pretty.

Of course, it’s not all fun and games. And stripper poles. I hate the shopping. While I love giving gifts, I don’t like the actual shopping for them. One, it’s hard to decide what to get the people who a) want nothing because they b) have everything already. My sister-in-law is great at finding gifts for people because she’s? A Shopper. I usually get her opinion before I start.

Working in retail for 8 years, I can appreciate what those mall workers go through every holiday season. And going to the mall around Christmas reminds me of those days and makes me appreciate that I don’t work there anymore. Last weekend, I spent a total of 16 hours shopping. It was just like when I worked in the mall, except I wasn’t getting paid. Only at the very end did I want to cry, which is an improvement for me. And then, on Monday, my sister and I hit the outlet malls. I didn’t get home until 10pm. P.M., people. I didn’t even eat dinner. But I? Was on a mission. And, I’m happy to say, my shopping is done. Normally, I’d still be shopping on Christmas Eve, so this is, in fact, a Christmas miracle. If I’m not wrapping presents at 2am Christmas morning this year, I will indeed believe in Santa Claus again.

And then there are the parties. We host Christmas Eve for my husband’s family. While I like the idea of being home, I’d much rather mess up someone else’s house this year. God bless my husband, though, who likes to cook. Because I think that would send me over the edge this year. Did I mention I’m tired?

But the kids make it all worth it. I have to admit, I got them some pretty awesome gifts this year (read: no clothes). I’ll be happy just to watch their reactions when they see what they got.

And I'll be happy when it's all over and I can take a long winter's nap.

Tired. Yeah.

I am Mrs. Brady

So, as I had written previously, I had broken up with my old hairstylist and had begun the long, painful journey to find a new one. I thought I had found one with that great haircut, but then she got pregnant and screwed up my friend’s hair. So, I decided to continue my search.

You have no idea how hard it is to find a good stylist. You can’t just enter any old salon willy-nilly and ask for a haircut. I mean, you can, but just know that you’re opening yourself up to days of tears and weeks of hats. It ain’t pretty, people.

So, you do the research. You ask your friends where they go. You ask your friends’ friends where they go. You ask strangers on the street (the ones with great hair – not the crazy homeless guy who just peed on the building next to you) where they go. Finally, you throw caution to the wind and make an appointment. And, if you’re lucky, you find a keeper... if you’re not, you find a great hat.

Enter Brad.* I learned about Brad from a co-worker. Her niece is a colorist at this salon and recommended Brad. So, I made an appointment. Our first meeting was uneventful. I thought he did a fairly decent job on my hair. Actually, I thought he did a great job. As I mentioned, I have the crazy cowlicks in the back and, somehow, Brad was able to tame them. Every time I moved my head, my hair fell beautifully, back into place. It was a great cut.

Additionally, Brad was entertaining. He’s awesomely gay. Have I ever mentioned my desire for a gay best friend? No?  Weird.  Alas, I have never been lucky enough to find one. My co-worker has one and he’s exactly the way I pictured my imaginary gay BFF. Someone who would look at me and say, “Oh, honey. That outfit? N-O.” Or, hopefully, “Honey, you look fab-U-lous!” Our first meeting, Brad was quick to compliment my top. And this last time? My boots. I like him. I know it’s his job and all, but it sounded sincere and I like my boots, too, so… he has great taste.

Anyway, Brad is also into theatre and musicals. He performs a lot, in addition to his day job. And he likes to sing along to the music playing in the salon. I love him, really. We spoke of Lady Gaga and how we totally want to be friends with her, even though she’s insane (mostly because she’s insane... and rich - an awesome combo). And he’s modest, to boot. When I walked into the salon yesterday, he said he thought to himself what an awesome cut I had (which he had given me, obviously). Hilarious.

This time, I decided to go to my co-worker’s colorist niece as well. This salon is different than any other I’ve been to because they all have specialties – color or style, whatever. So, if I want a cut and color, I have to see two different people. It’s probably a pain for the people scheduling, but it’s nice to know they all have their areas of expertise and you’re most likely going to come out with a great cut and color.

This time, I came armed with a picture. Most of the time, I never have an idea of what I want. What I want more than anything is for someone to look at me and say, “THIS! This is what you need!” But, whatever. It’s never going to happen. So, fine. Carpe diem. I’m going to do it myself.

And guess what happened? I was talked out of it.

The problem with me is that, while I want good hair, I’m pretty lazy about it. I never keep up with my highlights and my hair is usually so overgrown by the time I go back, it takes 2 hours to whip it back into shape. And, because of that, my new colorist suggested I go for a more natural look.

Which, let’s face it, is probably better for me. Because, while I used to be able to pull off funky hairstyles in my youth, I’d probably look pretty silly driving carpools in my minivan with pink hair. So, I let her do the responsible color.

3-1/2 hours I was at the salon. Have you ever seen the Brady Bunch movie from the 90’s? Mrs. Brady (played by Shelley Long) goes to a new hair salon and gets David Spade as a stylist? 7 hours (and a blowtorch) later, her hair looks exactly the same as when she walked in?

That’s me. That’s my hair.

I really should embrace it. It’s not a bad cut. It’s not a bad color. I just have to stop expecting something different than what I have because I must have already found perfection and didn’t know it.

Right?

* Name change to protect the fabulous.

While we're on the subject...

After my last entry, my siblings and I reminisced about our past Halloween costumes. My brother only remembers being a hobo and our father (not at the same time [although, when we talked about it, he wore a pair of blue workman’s pants and the filthy plaid jacket my dad would wear when working on the car, so I’m thinking my brother used the same materials, just tried to be creative by calling them different costumes]). My sister remembers being an 80’s chick, but it was the 80’s, so that wasn’t very creative. So, we pretty much suck at Halloween.

But, as a family, we are good at drinking (which is mostly why none of us can remember our costumes), and that made me think of Halloween last year, or as we now refer to it in my home, "The Drunken Debacle". And now I will share the story so you can all read my shame.

I like to fix people up. Well, sort of. I like to fix people up when it works well. If it doesn’t… I had nothing to do with it. And don’t bring it up to me. Ever. Again.

Anyway, my girlfriend was going through a divorce and feeling pretty low, so I thought a great date would cheer her up. I had the perfect guy. He’s a friend I’ve had forever, always up for meeting new people, always fun to be around. I figured he’d be perfect for her first time "out there" in 15 years.

So, I put together a happy hour at the local wine bar the day before Halloween. I think I’ve mentioned this wine bar before – they sell a wine that doesn’t give me hangovers? Right. Anyway, my co-workers, my brother, his girlfriend and my girl and guy friend all got together after work for a few drinks.

My brother, God love him, thought that ordering bottles of wine would be cheaper than buying by the glass. That, of course, is true, but you run the risk of the never-ending glass of wine. I normally know the number of glasses of wine I can handle, but since there was never an empty glass (due to my brother [God love him] filling my glass), I couldn’t keep track. I just figured I was a slow drinker that night. Or, most likely, I was drunk and didn't care. The wine was going down fiiiine.

My girlfriend and guy friend were seated (I’d like to think strategically, but I’m just not that good) together, with me across the table from them. I got the ball rolling, telling them each a little about the other. But, the more I drank, the more I liked the idea of them together. Man, they were cute. Did I say the following:

A) “You guys are so cute!”

B) “You have dark hair, he has dark hair! So cute!”

C)“You are tall, he is tall! So! CUTE!”

D) All of the above

If you answered D, you’d be correct.  

Gaah, I’m an idiot.

After a while, for whatever reason, we decided to go somewhere else. I always find this to be a mistake. Example? My sister’s bachelorette party 10+ years ago. We were having a grand ol’ time at our favorite neighborhood bar. My sister was appropriately attired in various penis bride-to-be paraphernalia and dancing on top of our table. But, I decided our favorite jukebox didn’t have enough rap/hip-hop music (a doy), so I wanted to go to another bar close by that offered dancing. What a mistake. We got there and everyone started to sober up. It got so bad, my sister tried walking home. So, yeah. Leaving a bar where you’re already having fun is a bad idea.

Same happened here. In those short minutes it took to drive to the next bar, I got extremely tired. I don’t even remember who picked the place or why. Since it was Halloween weekend, this bar was having a costume party. Not really fun for someone who was a) way drunk and b) didn’t have a costume. I spent my time at this bar drinking loads of water. Or, I wish I had been that smart. This part of the night was pretty hazy. Here’s what I remember of the 10 minutes we were at this bar.

1. I peed for a very long time as soon as we got there (in the bathroom [which, at this point, I considered an accomplishment] [I also picked the right icon on the door for "girls", another major accomplishment]).
2. In the time I was in the bathroom, I lost most of my party.
3. My girlfriend’s estranged husband showed up at the bar and took her home. Don’t know how he got there, don’t know when she had a chance to tell him where we were.
4. If I remember correctly (which I don't), my guy friend got my girlfriend's number before she left.
5. My guy friend was stuck having to drive my drunkass home – a half hour or longer out of his way.

The next day was spent... not in a good place (I'll spare you the details). My sainted husband took the boys away for the day so I could suffer in silence recuperate in peace. I felt like death warmed over twice (like twice baked potatoes) and couldn’t handle caring for myself, much less little people. The most I accomplished that day was watching 8 hours of MTV while sprawled out on the couch. And the only reason I watched that much MTV was because I couldn't muster the strength to find the remote control.

Luckily, I felt like a new person just in time for trick-or-treating.

Happy Halloween!

My favorite Halloween

Halloween is my third favorite holiday (Thanksgiving and Christmas are #1 and 2, respectively, [like you care]). I really looked forward to this Day of Free Candy every year as a child. Not the dressing up so much as the caaaaaaandy. As a lifetime member of Chocoholics Anonymous, you can imagine my pure happiness at the mere idea of getting my grubby little hands on those delicious mini Snickers and 3 Musketeers bars just by walking door to door in my neighborhood (good gravy, that was a long sentence). Why was this only a once a year thing?

Now that I'm an adult (boo), I can buy snack-sized candy bars whenever I want, but somehow, it's just not the same. I never have to look through my bag of candy for razor blades or crack cocaine (seriously, I grew up in a quiet Midwestern neighborhood, was that really necessary?).

Sigh.

Anyway, my 6-year-old is now in Kindergarten. Yesterday, the principal sent a note home with the kids, educating parents about "appropriate costumes" for the school's Halloween parade/party. Apparently, costumes that might scare the crap out of other children are a no-no. Speaking as someone who couldn't sleep for a week after watching "Thriller", I'm on board with that rule. Additionally, masks or anything that would inhibit children from seeing and/or breathing are also not acceptable.

Does she think we are idiots?

But, it made me think of my various costumes over the years. I'll admit, my mother wasn't one of those creative types. Love her, but she wasn't like my friends' moms who spent hours painstakingly sewing together coordinating outfits for their children. I have a terrible memory, so I'm sure I'm wrong about this and I'll get in trouble later, but I only remember being 3 things for Halloween:

• a gypsy (every year until I was 11 - and every year until I was 11, I would wake up the next morning with swollen eyes from the crack whore-amount of makeup [note: I don't know if crack whores wear a lot of make-up. Maybe I should say 80's-rock-band amount])
• a hippie (as a tween - and I put that outfit together myself [tie-dyed shirt and jeans - done!])
• a blue Crayola crayon

This was, by far, my favorite costume. And, I'm sure, my mother's biggest nightmare, as she spent hours painstakingly sewing together this costume to coordinate with my BFF, a red Crayola crayon.

Oh. Hey! My mom was awesome!

While my mother slaved over the sewing machine, my BFF and I made our gigantic crayon box out of yellow poster board, which we stood inside and held up with shoulder straps. Man, my BFF was we were creative! I was sure we were going to win for best costume in our school parade. But then little Timmy Trafficlight (note: not his real name) won for his costume as... a traffic light. Complete with working lights and everything. I mean, come ON! That kid didn't make that costume himself. He should have had points deducted. We used poster board! We made our mothers stay up late sewing! The contest was rigged. I'm pretty sure Timmy's too-involved parent paid off the... principal? Who was the idiot judge anyway?

Nevertheless, that was a pretty fun Halloween. I got to trick-or-treat with my BFF, attached as we were to our homemade crayon box. Our pillowcases were full of tasty treats. And, thankfully, no razor blades.

While we're on the subject of pillowcases full of candy... even now, I am baffled how my brothers were able to still have Halloween candy at Christmas. What was wrong with them anyway?!

Put a little Krazy Glue on it

So, the other day, I was cutting an apple for my 6-year-old. I had gotten the apple cut in half, was working on quartering it, when I decided to slice my thumb along with the apple. Which, of course, resulted in frenzied bleeding. I had never cut myself that badly before. Sure, I've nicked myself plenty while cutting vegetables. I'm particularly dangerous with a peeler. But this was a gusher. I was slightly worried I'd have to get stitches.

I paced around the room, applying pressure to the wound with a paper towel. I consulted my inner MacGyver, trying to figure out how I could fashion a tourniquet with one good hand and some Silly Bandz. I put my SIL on alert. If I had to drive myself to the ER, I needed her to take the boys as the husband was out of town. Eventually, I got the bleeding under control and had to tell my son I was very sorry, but he wasn't getting an apple that day.

The next morning, as I was emptying the dishwasher, my hand grazed the same knife, cutting the middle finger on my other hand.

Son of a...

Is it me or the knife? I mean, I know we're not supposed to put these knives in the dishwasher, but it can't possibly be mad at me for that, could it? I would think the knife would enjoy a little steam bath.

Stupid knife.  I mean, gooooood little knife.  Please don't hurt me.

So, over the past 3 days, my thumb has been bleeding on and off. And Band-Aids suck. They a) don't stay on if you get it the tiniest bit wet and b) don't stay on if you keep it dry (I'm pretty sure Johnson & Johnson won't be calling me to work for them anytime soon). I've gone through an entire box of Band-Aids, trying to keep the wound under control. Yesterday, I bled all over a top I was thinking about buying bought at the store.

And then, today, a miracle happened. My co-worker taught me the wonders of Krazy Glue. As I am not schooled in the history of Krazy Glue, he informed me that it was invented during WWII to bond body tissue. So, he glued my wound shut. His wife, a doctor, is not happy that he performed surgery on me, but I'm hoping she'll give me a shot of antibiotics for my future infection.

I've lost all feeling where the wound is, but at least I'm not going to bleed to death.

Ode to a toothbrush

So, the husband was at a dental convention this past weekend. When he goes away, he almost always brings back gifts for the boys and me. This trip was no exception. In addition to a refrigerator magnet and a sweatshirt, he brought me home a new toothbrush.

I know what you're thinking. A toothbrush? Who gets excited over a toothbrush? But, this isn't just any ordinary toothbrush you get from your dentist's office after a routine teeth cleaning. This is a Philips Sonicare FlexCare Plus with UV Sanitizer. I mean, a toothbrush that has 7 words in its name has to be impressive, right?

So, yes. I was excited. I used the toothbrush for the first time yesterday. It was such an experience, I had to wax poetic about it.

And you all get to enjoy my poem. About my new toothbrush.  You're welcome.

O, Sonicare FlexCare Plus,
You brush my teeth with no fuss.
With your 5 brushing modes,
You work a boatload
To clean every tooth within me us.

And after the 2 minutes are up,
I put you back into your cup.
(Well, it's not actually a cup,
but it's all I could find
To rhyme in a bind
And, by the way, this is why I'm a poetic schlup.)

But the best part of this brush
Is the sanitizing flush.
You put the toothbrush away
Into its holding tray.
Hit the button and see
The 99% germ-killing spree
Which will keep bacteria and viruses far away from me.

I hope.

Think Philips will hire me in their Marketing department?

I still want my MTV

So, I am part of the MTV generation. Sort of. I remember a life without MTV. We actually didn't get cable until I was in the 8th grade, so I went years without it. But, I knew of cable. My friends all had cable. I slept over my friends' houses so I could watch cable.  I saw Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video at my cousins' house and couldn't sleep for a week (those yellow eyes at the end of the video coupled with Vincent Price's laugh? Scared the crap out of me).

Once my family joined the 21st century and got cable (and call waiting at the same time - it was like Christmas!), I balanced my time between watching MTV and watching MTV while on the phone with my friends. I was one of those people who spent hours video taping her favorite music videos. Yeeaaahhh. I know.

Then MTV changed. They stopped with the all music, all the time and started producing reality programming. Nowadays, you're lucky if you see a music video. Not that all the shows are bad. I was an immediate fan of The Real World. Oh, how I loved when people stopped being polite and started getting real. Those first seasons were awesomely entertaining not to mention trying to raise social consciousness, before the roommates became ridiculous caricatures of themselves.

But, my love of The Real World had to end. Either I got too old or the roommates got too dumb, I'm not sure. Probably both. Plus, I couldn't stand those ungrateful bitches living in decked out houses in great cities, getting drunk and basically making fools of themselves. And, by the way, living in their own garbage. Ever heard of washing a dish? Aren't they at all embarrassed that their parents might be watching?

Yeah, that statement right there just proved I have gotten too old for this show.

I will, however, still allow a little Real World/Road Rules Challenge in my life. When I know it's on anyway. Because, sad to say, the people I remember, and loved or hated dearly, are still doing these ridiculous challenges. I mean, Beth from LA? She has to be eligible for Social Security by now. Since I haven't seen her lately, I can only assume she has broken her hip and can't compete. She's actually from a neighboring town and used to hang out at a bar where my sister worked, waiting for people to recognize her. Yeah, whatever. She was easily one of the most annoying characters in Real World history. I mean, that birthmark alone. Yeesh.

Gaah, I just looked her up online and learned a few things:

• The birthmark is gone.
• Someone actually married her.
• She has a child!

Okay, I'm sure she's a lovely person in real life. Don't email me.

Come to think of it, most of the cast members from Ohio were utter disappointments. While my sister and I agree that Texas is #1 for the sheer quantity of reality show contestants, I'm pretty sure Ohio is #1 for the dumbest. Mike from Parma? Sigh.

And so, another season of The Challenge (it's no longer RW/RR as no one cares) is upon us. Holy good gravy, this is the 20th season, too. They're in Prague this time, embarrassing their parents and the United States yet again. Oh, and throwing random Prague citizens down stairs.

Of course.

But, I have to admit The Challenge still a guilty pleasure of mine. I feel like I know some of these contestants and am happy when I get to see them a) win a challenge or b) get drunk and start a fight or c) get drunk and hook up with their teammates. Plus, there's something about watching these idiots in the (way way way) off chance they'll actually win $250,000. I watch, hoping this money will save them from their mounds of credit card bills, which they've no doubt acquired from taking too many head shots for failed acting auditions or fixing botched boob jobs (ever heard of getting a real job?).

And if they don't win? Well, at least they got to go to Prague, hook up with teammates (opposite sex or not), and get into fights with each other while I enjoy every delicious minute of it.

Snarky is as snarky does

So, this past weekend, my husband and I went to the opera with our only favorite opera dates. As always, a wonderful time was had by all. A lovely dinner with sparkling conversation, followed by an evening of beautiful music, what could be better?

I, however, did not enjoy this opera in the same sense as the last. While I still enjoyed dressing up and the culture and shit, my snarky self just couldn't hold it in this time.

We saw The Pearl Fishers, a French opera. I took French from 7th grade through college. I should've been able to translate the entire opera, right? Wrong. Good thing they had subtitles. Anyway, the story is a love triangle. Two friends, or, amis (heh), are in love with the same woman. One, a handsome, fit baritone. The other? A fat, feminine tenor. Guess which one she loved? Idiot. (Me? Snarky.)

Needless to say, 5 minutes into the opera is pretty much when the snark started. I took one look at the fat man, whose outfit didn't quite fit and thought, "Oh, come ON. That's not even realistic." Plus, all the men had really long hair and most of them (except the fat one, which I appreciated) were shirtless. I didn't realize France was full of long-haired shirtless men. Who knew?

Anyway, back to the story... the woman happens to be some sort of mystical creature. With her song, she can ward off evil spirits. The baritone, the leader of the island (with a nice chest), asks her to keep watch over their island. She cannot take off her mask or have any friends, boyfriends, lovers, or husbands, only sing. And, for all her hard work, they're going to give her a pearl.

Well, that would certainly work for me. (Snark.)

Act II began in the woman's bedroom. We watched as the maids made up her "bed." It was, in fact, a rock. With a sheet. I leaned over to my cousin-in-law and whispered, "So, protect our island, don't have any fun, and we'll give you a pearl and a nice ROCK to sleep on." And then I got the giggles.

The giggles is a terrible affliction that runs in my family. My mom, sister and I happen to get the giggles in the most inappropriate situations. Basically, any time we're supposed to be quiet. It happens in church, at weddings. At funerals. It's terrible. There was one wedding we got the giggles so badly, we had to leave the church. And then we were laughing so hard outside the church, someone had to ask us to leave. There was also the time, in church, when my sister had to leave while everyone else was sitting down. People thought she was crying and that something terrible had happened to her husband. She had a dozen people come up to her after church to find out if she was okay.

So, the giggles are bad. And I got them during Act II. I would calm down a little and wouldn't look at my cousin-in-law for fear they would start up again. I could hear her, though, which would start me all over again. Or I would look at the rock and start up again. I was afraid I was going to have to leave the scene of the crime. But, finally, the scene ended, the rock was taken away and I calmed down.

In Act III, the baritone felt bad for sentencing his tenor friend and the tenor's girlfriend to death. The girlfriend came to the baritone to ask for mercy, and he got angry all over again. But then he realized that she was someone who had saved him from something (I don't know, it was in French), so he decided he would save them. How does he save them, you ask? He burns down his village, so the angry villagers will leave the two prisoners alone, and then he sets them free. When the villagers find out what has happened, they kill their leader.

Okay, he's the leader, right? He was the one who originally told the villagers to leave the two alone (because he loved his friend). He's also the one who told the villagers to kill them (when he realized his "friend" stole his "girlfriend"). Couldn't he then tell the villagers (again) to leave the two alone? He's the leader. He had asked, in Act I, if the villagers agreed to do as he says. They all agreed. So, what was the problem here?

If it were me, I would've just told them all, "Hey, that thing about killing those people? Forget I mentioned it. Go about your business." And everyone would've lived happily ever after. Well, except for the baritone, who was womanless. But, with that chest, he would've picked up a new woman in a second.

See? Snarky. Can't even enjoy the opera for the tragedy.

But, the music was beautiful, especially the harmonizing duets. The tenor, while unattractive, had a gorgeous voice. I could look past his vest creeping up, exposing his belly. He kept tugging at it, which now makes me feel bad for making fun of the outfit. He was probably thinking, "I have a great voice, I'm too good for this stupid outfit they put me in."

Gah, there's that snark again.

To be (a Titas) or not to be (a Titas) -- that is the question.

So, there’s nothing like a day with the ladies. It’s even better when those ladies are family members, which is with whom I spent my Saturday.

I come from a big family. My dad is one of seven. Almost all of my aunts and uncles had 3 or more children. There are 23 of us first cousins. Twenty-three people (not including my aunts and uncles) that you have to meet, learn (and remember) their names, learn (and remember) their spouses’ names (there are 16 of them), and learn (and remember) their children’s names (27 of them – if I’m counting right [even I get them confused]).

Presently, if you were to meet my family as a whole, you’d be meeting about 75 people. And that's just on my dad's side. For a holiday meal, it’s a lot of pressure. In my day, you didn’t bring a significant other to a meal unless you were serious. And either your date can hack it, or he can’t. And we've been through many who can't.

And if he can’t? He’ll be missing out. For all of the chaos (and the Peters) my family possesses, the wonderful memories that result from Thanksgivings and Christmases, Titas Golf Outings, and the like wouldn't be traded for anything.

Anyway, my cousin-in-law noticed we don’t really know the new women entering our family. The men in our family have golf outings and manly events in order to bond, but the women never get together to do anything. And, when we get together for holidays and parties, we’re constantly chasing after the (27) children and never have time to drink our wine and gab.

So, she decided to put together an event for the ladies, which included manicures/pedicures, dinner and a Shakespeare play in the park (she made me describe it as that - I was just going to say "outdoor play," but we sound much classier this way). We invited the aunts, the cousins, and the girlfriends we knew the names of (sorry to any we missed).

We had a good turnout. Manicures and pedicures galore. We lost some cousins after that, but gained some others for dinner, including the girlfriend of one of my younger cousins. She? Is awesome. For one, she doesn’t know any of us from Adam Eve. The one person she did know (her boyfriend's brother's wife - follow that okay?) had to cancel at the last minute.

But, she came anyway. And held her own. We have some pretty strong personalities in my family. Yet, she was able to engage herself in the conversations and, when the check came and my aunt (read: strong personality) suggested we divide the check equally, she said, “Um, I only brought cash” and “I only had a salad."

This, my friends, was great. She was right, and, in the end, it was decided that we'd pay for her. Woo! Sticking up for yourself! A great way to get your meal paid for you! (Take notes, dear reader.)

Once dinner was over, a few of us decided to go out for one more drink (and to screw the play, apparently). And the awesome girlfriend came with us. When she had a perfectly reasonable excuse to run for the hills, she didn’t take it. I’m telling you, if my cousin doesn’t marry her, I will... er, I mean, I will make my brother marry her. Or I'll adopt her. Or something.

The group of us out for drinks consisted of 2 cousins-in-law, my sister-in-law, the awesome girlfriend and... me. The only blood relation. We spent time regaling the awesome girlfriend with stories of the family. My one cousin-in-law shared that she wasn't allowed to come to a family function until she and my cousin, Peter (of course), were engaged (and they had been dating since the 8th grade). Her first family function happened to be Christmas. And we sang. A lot.

My sister-in-law admitted that we are intimidating. I agreed. We have our own Yahoo group and Facebook page. When I was young, I was afraid to come into the party because of the sheer number of people to say hello to - and I am related to all of these people!

My husband's family consists of 8 people. Total. When he came to his first family function, he didn't know where to look first. So, I get it. The awesome girlfriend told us that my cousin doesn't even know how we're all related and didn't really give her much of a warning when she was first brought around the extended family. Nice.

She's still awesome, though, and I'll be happy to call her a sister- cousin-in-law when the time comes. And if she gets nervous, there's always alcohol aplenty.

Some favorite lines from the evening:

• My aunt to her daughter-in-law, who ordered a salad AND an entree: “Oh (cousin-in-law), you’re going to be full.” My cousin-in-law is an adult... I'm pretty sure.
• Soon-to-be (come hell or high water) cousin-in-law, upon discovering she might have to shell out $45 for a salad and a taste of sheep cheese: “But I already paid for my wine.”
• Me to another cousin-in-law, while driving past my grandmother’s old house (NOTE: This house holds wonderful memories for us all [as well as 100 bedrooms] and my cousin-in-law would like to buy the house if it ever comes on the market): “Yeah, but it’s not in such a great neighborhood.” Cousin-in-law: “Uh, this is my neighborhood.”

Sidenote: (Cousin-in-law I offended), if you’re reading this, I still contend that your neighborhood is nicer than Mociute’s. You live across the street from a park, for goodness’ sakes. Oh, and I’m sorry.

And, T? Thanks for thinking that was the funniest part of the evening. You kind of suck.

A good night had by all, even if it was, partly, at my (and my family's) expense.

Oh, PA Turnpike, how I missed thee...

So, I went to DC this past weekend to help my younger brother find a place to live. I was very excited for the trip because a) my brother was going to be there and b) my sister was going to be there. Family reunion! If only we could’ve gotten my older brother to ditch his family and come with us! But, I suppose when you’re faced with a weekend with your siblings or no divorce, you pick no divorce… right? I mean, right!

So, my brother’s girlfriend and I made the 6-hour drive to DC. We stayed at my BFF’s house while she was out of town. It was really nice of my BFF to give up her house for us. It’s one of the many reasons she’s my BFF.

She lives in Alexandria, not far from The District (and yes, I called it The District, just like they do on the TV show, The District [not that I’ve ever seen that show, but I’ve seen commercials for it, so therefore, I'm an expert]). My siblings enjoyed making fun of me for it and to that, I say, “Brother? Relo. Just sayin’.”

Anyway, where was I?

It was 800 gazillion degrees in DC this past weekend, which made it (hot and sticky) fun for (but not limited to) the following:

1. Walking outside.
2. Getting in and out of a stifling car.
3. Doing anything anywhere that didn’t come with a built-in air conditioner.

We toured about 9 different places. By the end, we were pros. “What amenities do you have?” “How much is parking?” “Do you give a Preferred Employers discount?” “Do you have an apartment available for out-of-town guests?” We also entertained ourselves (and the people around us) (mostly ourselves) with our zingers.

For example, one guy, Mike, showed us around his apartment building in Ballston, a neighborhood of Arlington. One of the tenants was moving out, so he was throwing himself a big pool party that day. Lots of young professionals, milling about, in their bathing suits. I’m going to assume they were young professionals – they weren’t carrying briefcases and/or Blackberrys (Blackberries?), but they live in the DC area, can afford to pay rent, and, I’m assuming, are older than college kids and younger than, um, old people.

Anyway, Mike had a plan. He was going to take us to the biggest of the one-bedroom apartments first. What kind of idiot shows the best he’s got right out of the gate? We had to school him by telling him, “Make the big look bigger, not the small look smaller.”

Tips are free, Mike. Tips are free.

So, as we were touring this apartment building, the pool party was getting a little rowdy. People brought in contraband beer. As there is no alcohol allowed in the pool area, the police were called in to deal with the riffraff. To which, I said, “Hey, the stripper is here!”

Again, entertaining ourselves here.

It was the best party we ever never went to.

And, of course, this is the apartment building we picked. Not for the debauchery… well, not only for the debauchery. It is also within walking distance to two different metro lines, plenty of shops and restaurants and three (3!) grocery stores. There’s a dry cleaners and a convenience store in his lobby. If he didn’t have to physically go to work, I don’t see why he’d ever leave his apartment.

We then asked my BFF her opinion, since she’s lived in the DC area for 10 years now. She told me Ballston is the place people new to the city move. Well, that’s him, isn’t it? She also mentioned that Alexandria and Arlington have a Crips vs. Bloods kind of relationship, but I’m hoping she’ll make an exception here and still invite him for dinner (and, you know, not do any drive-bys [bies?]). In any event, it’s only a year lease. If he decides he likes another area better, he can move.

We did have a chance to enjoy the city while we were there. Since it was hotter than blazes outside, we didn’t really have the energy to go out every night, but we did visit our fair capital Friday night. We rode the metro (!) to Dupont Circle. My BFF used to live right on The Circle (shutup), so I remembered a few places that were still there, like the Starbucks I used to sit at and read The Post (again, shutup).

I love this city. Memories… light the corners of my mind…

What was I saying? Right. So, we found a nice, reasonably-priced restaurant for dinner. Since it was hotter than a whore house on nickel night (did I mention it was hot there? Hot.) outside, it was the Arctic circle inside. It was so cold, I chipped a tooth on my soup (okay, I didn't have soup in 100-degree weather, but it was still damcold in there).

After dinner, I needed to thaw, so we sat outside to continue drinking. We were minding our own business, people-watching, when we noticed an older lady trying to parallel park in front of our restaurant. It took about 10 attempts and 20 minutes, but she finally got the car the way she wanted it.

And then she sat in her car. And sat. And sat. With her head slumped. I couldn’t tell if she was reading, texting, or dead, but it was hot outside and if she was sitting in her car in this heat, with no open windows, she was going to die.

Being the good Samaritans that we (read: my brother) are (is), we (read: he) went to the car and knocked on her window, scaring the crap out of her. Whew, she was alive. She waved him away, irritated, so he left. Turns out her car was on. I’m guessing she was trying to sleep off happy hour?

Does it count as a good deed when it goes unappreciated?

It was another fun trip to DC. I’m glad I have another person to visit when I go… next month.

See you in a few weeks, PA Turnpike.

Please, make it stop.

Oh, The Bachelorette. How I love loathe you. Seriously, the show could be about 20 minutes long if they would just edit out the characters gazing out into the wild blue yonder, repeating (in a voiceover) (while we watch them gaze "thoughtfully") the same things they've said a million times. I'm already drunk from the "amazing" drinking game and it's only been 10 minutes!

I wonder if the editors of this show have been up for any awards? I mean, it takes a lot to edit the crap material they're given into something of interest. Although, I don't quite understand some of the things they do. For example, they show Roberto packing up a red suitcase. And in the next shot, he's putting a black suitcase into a limo. Was he helping an old lady with her luggage? Wouldn't that just be a Roberto thing to do? I lurve him.

And why have they changed the rules of the show this season? Giving the bachelors free reign to leave their house/hotels to a) get tattoos or b) call their girlfriends and leave 100 messages or c) not go to Tahiti right away because they need to see their ex-girlfriends (in Chicago) and tell them they love them.

But that last one was pretty awesome. Frank goes to tell his (ex-)girlfriend that he loves her and wants to be with her. And then says he has to fly to Tahiti to tell Ali. Um, wouldn't a phone call have sufficed? I know Chris Harrison could give them both a phone to use (I saw him do it earlier in the season). Also, when Frank gets to Tahiti, why is he all sunburned and why does he have a lot of luggage? Doesn't he just need a change of underwear and a toothbrush to break up with someone on TV?

What I'd really like, and I've probably said this before, is a reality show that goes behind the scenes of the reality show. I know this entire thing is fake (Ali is the WORST fake crier ever), I just want to know how it's done. I know it spoils the fun, like when you learned how the magician saws a person in half, but really. This show has been on for, like, 20 seasons. It's time to show the man behind the curtain. I want to know why they let that guy get a tattoo. I want to know why they let Justin call his girlfriend. I want to know why they let Frank go to Chicago to see his girlfriend. For the drama, I get it, but... why weren't they doing this all along? I am sure a lot of the past seasons could have used a little more crazy. That's why we watch. A doy.

And speaking of crazy, Frank's break-up scene was painful. It should have lasted about 6 seconds ("I'm in love with someone else. See ya!"), but there was a lot of crying and staring and more crying. It was uncomfortable. About 4 times, I said to the TV (because the TV and I are friends), "Make it stop!" "Okay, we get it. Bye, Frank!" And poor Chris Harrison. I know he's contractually obligated to be there, but man, he's got one painful job (keeping a straight face is hard work, people). I hope he gets a bonus at the end of each season.

I still don't understand what possesses a person to want to go on reality TV. Don't they know the kind of fame they receive is a) short-lived and b) not the good kind? They have people (like me) talking smack about them for a few weeks and then we (I) forget they exist. If I were Ali, I would be embarrassed horrified by my actions. I totally get her riding Roberto's jock the way she was. I mean, seriously? Homeboy's hot. But she was kissing boys she doesn't even like or know their names. It's kind of pathetic.

At least they got to visit some cool places this season... I really hate these people.

Have a (diet) Coke and a smile.

So, I can't even believe I'm going to admit this outside of the 4 walls of my home, but... I've made the switch to Diet Coke (insert "record needle scratch" sound effect).

I know, I know. After I had spent all these years mocking people for drinking Diet Cokes with their Big Macs and large fries (because no one could possibly prefer Diet Coke for its taste. I mean, really.). Now I'm one of them (except for the Big Macs and large fries part). The truth is, you do kind of get used to it. As a matter of fact, in the few days since I've made the switch, I don't notice the difference at all.

Plus (and I can't believe I'm admitting to this either), drinking Diet Coke is kind of... cooler. You never saw the cool, older girls drinking a can of regular Coke out of straw while sunning themselves. Regular Coke was/is for babies. And, at my old job, my co-worker told me once that she had tried to drink coffee for years, because it was considered cool. But, she just couldn't get used to the taste, so she stuck with Diet Coke for breakfast. And, to me, she was pretty cool. Caffeine is caffeine, right?

My first official turn to diet (though, short-lived) happened when I was pregnant with our second son and diagnosed with gestational diabetes (or, as my mother and her friends call it, "The Sugar"). Obviously, it was irritating to have to test my blood every 4 hours, but my main annoyance was giving up sugar. I mean, deprivation when you're pregnant? Is torture. But, I did allow myself a Diet Coke every now and then and I found the taste wasn't so bad. My friend recently told me how, when she was pregnant, she couldn't wait to go back to diet (because, of course, the artificial sugar was bad for the baby, so she stopped), and here I was, doing the opposite (and possibly giving my unborn child a defect [thankfully, he came out without 3 heads]). All this for something I shouldn't be drinking anyway.

And, because of my newfound health kick, I thought I could save myself at least 150 calories (and 9 [nine!] teaspoons of sugar) a day by drinking diet as opposed to the one Coke I allowed myself. But, then I read an article that said, by switching to diet, the risk for obesity was even greater than drinking regular (by 41%).

Figures.

Actually, that article, of course, was encouraging the reader to drink water, which, I might add, I do. A lot. So, if I allow myself a soft drink, and it's diet, and I don't allow myself to overindulge on other foods because I drink diet, I should be fine. Right? Right!

By the way, I can finally, after 3 days, move my legs without pain. Which, of course, means no gain. But, let's face it, the no gain is what I'm going for, so there you go.

This is "what life should be like" according to the 2008 Diet Coke slogan.

Ow ow ow ow ow (aka My trainer is the devil)

Ow.

I mean, really. Couldn’t the guy go easy on me yesterday, being my first visit with him and all? I’m slightly concerned about what it would be like to see him twice once a week month. It hurts to walk, to climb stairs (and go down them), to sit down, to stand up, to lift my coffee cup. Surprisingly, blinking and typing don’t bother me. So, I guess that’s something.

But, I’m supposed to keep on keepin’ on. I plan to do some cardio today after work. If I can walk, that is. Yesterday, on our way out of the gym, my legs continuously gave out on me as we were going down the (many) stairs. I haven’t had that problem so far today, so maybe I’m improving and won’t want to kill myself (or actually kill myself by falling down said stairs) after I leave the gym today. Sigh. This is all worth it, right?

As long as I avoid my Nazi PT like the plague, I think I’ll get out alive.

No pain, no gain (aka I hate the gym)

So, my husband and I joined a gym this week. It's been on my "To do" list for about... 10 years, but, you know how it is.  I can always find other things to do with my time and money. Buy a purse or go to the gym? Sit on my ass and watch Mad Men or exercise? Hello?

I admit, I've been lucky most of my life, being thin with little effort. Of course, it had to do with a bad stomach, but still. Needless to say, I didn't exercise. In college, I lived right across the street from the newly built gym. The only time I visited that beautiful gym was to buy delicious smoothies at their juice bar. My roommates were all physically fit. And I'd sit on the couch and watch them exercise to videos all while telling them to lift their legs higher. I mean, if you're going to do it, DO it (I'm quite certain it took every ounce of self-restraint on their part not to punch me in the throat - thanks, guys).

After college, my stomach improved and I gained a lot of weight... FAST. I went up 5 dress sizes in a year. It was, um, humbling. I certainly deserved it after telling my roommates to exercise harder when I wasn't exercising at all. On one hand, it was good to be eating again, but on the other, maybe I was eating a little too much. And probably not the good stuff. And... I grudgingly accepted I should exercise.

So, my sister, sister-in-law, and I joined a gym. I didn't like it much. You know, it requires actual whining work on my behalf. Eff that. But, my SIL, the athletic jerk that she is (kidding, SIL! Love you!) was quite the gym pro. She taught me how to use the machines, forced me to do one more sit up, even when I told her I was going to throw up on her. It was good for me (the exercise, not the throwing up).

Eventually, the weight came off and I happily gave up the exercising. After we had our first son, I walked every day. Until it got cold. And then I did nothing. I went right back to sitting on my ass and watching TV (what can I say? It's who I am.). And, when it was nice outside, I would, again, walk.

I'm a fair weather walker.

Now that I'm getting older, and my metabolism doesn't work as well, and I'm eating more... it's time to get back into a routine. Since I had already improved my eating habits, I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to admit I needed the exercise. And my husband has been saying for years he needs to get back in shape, so... here we are.

Today was our first meeting with the personal trainer. I had never been to one before. I had had my Nazi SIL, I certainly didn't need another person yelling at me to do "3 more... 2 more... 5 more" bench presses. The guy had us each get on a scale to weigh ourselves and, later, hold up some weird gadget (looked like a PSP) to measure our body fat. While my weight may be lowish, my body fat was above average. I suppose eating ice cream after every meal will do that to you. So, fine. I need to work out. The husband's weight was higher than mine, but his body fat was lower (WTF? He eats fried foods! I haven't eaten fried foods in years!). Anyway, we were told we both have work to do and were sent off to work with our individual trainers.

My guy was nice. He explained the importance of incorporating weight training with my cardio (I've heard this schpeal before, but fine, I'll play along). After 15 minutes on the treadmill, I met up with him to work on core and legs. We did some sort of squat/lunge exercise, 3 rounds, 10 reps each, each leg (ow ow ow ow ow). Then we did some other exercise in which I got to kick at him (which was fun since he had already hurt me - now I remembered why I stopped going to a gym). We did 2 other leg exercises (why is my left leg stronger than my right?), 2 core exercises and then he abandoned me to meet his 10:00 appointment. Was I done? I felt like I was ripped off. I was already hurting, so I was happy to be done, but really? If I'm going to do this, let's DO this.

But that's where they get you. After my husband finished his fake workout (seriously, I only saw him doing stretches), we went back to the original person to discuss packages. Oh, I see. So, you can't help us during our "complimentary" session, we have to pay an extra $100+ a month to get the real help. This is the reason I hate gyms. Exercise is free. Why are we giving them our hard-earned money to do something we can do around the house? I carry around children! And baskets upon baskets of laundry! Up stairs!  Each week! That has to count for something!

Whatever. I may not pay for the trainer's help, but I've agreed to the exercise, so I'm in.

If I can walk again tomorrow. Seriously. Ow.

Team Jacob

So, I saw Eclipse over the weekend. I was really excited to see it. Even more excited to see it with all the tweens. Call me crazy, but I read what it was like opening night and you can't help but get excited when everyone else is excited. So, instead of waiting for the movie to come out on video, I dragged asked my husband (he liked it, btw) to a Friday night showing.

We got to the theatre about an hour before showtime early. I figured the place would be packed, so I wanted to make sure we got a good seat. There were about 7 people in the theatre when we walked in. Um, were we in the right theatre? Where were the screaming girls? Where were the Team Edward/Team Jacob gang wars?

What a letdown.

The pre-movie trivia hadn't even started up yet, so we were forced to talk to each other. I decided to school him all things Twilight. He'd already been forced to watch Twilight and New Moon, so I think he was secretly interested to see how the story progresses. Of course, if you read the books (which he didn't), you'd know the movies suck (which he didn't). But, if you look at the movies for what they are (which he did), they were fine (which they were). Well, except for New Moon. That was a CGI train wreck.

Anyway, the theatre started to fill up. Tweens and TwiMoms entered, filling up all the available space. There were a few good sport men (like my husband) out there, which he was quick to point out. We had a pretty good time, people watching for the HOUR (seriously, it felt like 2 hours) we waited for the movie to start. Women in their Twilight t-shirts (a few of those t-shirts were pretty cute) sitting in groups of 10. It would've been fun to go with my girlfriends, but very few of them read these books, which I just don't understand. Yes, the books are considered Young Adult, and, yes, they are 1,000 pages long (each) and no, she's not that good a writer, and, yes, some parts of the books were highly irritating to read.  But she is a great story-teller. I think you remember my family didn't see me for the week I read all 4 books?

At one point during the wait, a tween yelled out, "When I say, 'Team', you say, 'Edward'".  That was about as close to crazy as the crowd got. So disappointing.

But, the movie itself was better than the last. I may be "Team Edward" in the books, but I am "Team Jacob" all the way in the movies. That Taylor can take off his shirt for me any time (even if they are fake abs). I am happy to hear that he's legal now. It's a lot less creepy to think he's cute when I won't end up in jail for thinking so.

Now I have to get back to my Sookie Stackhouse series.

A dream is a free trip to the movies

So, I, like everyone, dream every night. I, unlike everyone, remember my dreams every night. And sometimes, like last night, I have pretty hilarious dreams.

Actually, I think they were 2 separate dreams. In one, I was BFFs with the guy from Royal Pains. I did see him on the cover of a magazine yesterday, so that might explain why I'd dream about him.

But the second? I was BFFs with Janet "Ms. Jackson if you're nasty" Jackson. I have no idea where this one came from, but man, it was fun. We were hanging out with our husbands (I guess she was married in my dream) for dinner. Then we heard that El DeBarge (really?) was playing at some local bar, so we wanted to see him perform. (By the way, did you know El was recently released from prison and has a new album coming out? Well, apparently, my subconscious had heard that.)

Aaaaanyway, we went to this bar to see him and he, for whatever reason, picked us to dance with while he sang. hee! I, for whatever reason, left my shoes at the bar. So, after dancing with El, Janet and I walked up and down the streets, trying to find fancy dancin' shoes. We went into every store to find me some sparkly shoes. I was hoping Janet would pay for them, or, at least, use her fame to get the shoes for free. I mean, why else would I be friends with her?? Sheesh.

In the end? We found one sparkly shoe that a) matched my outfit and b) fit (I'm like Cinderella!). So, what did we do? We ran! Janet Jackson is a shoplifter in my dream!

What was I going to do with one shoe anyway?!

Stupid Bachelorette show

So, I have watched reality TV from the very beginning. Think what you will, but I find people fascinating. Why they want to be on TV in the first place when they know people like me are judging them is beyond me. Is the longing for fame that great? And fame, fine, but what reality TV show contestant has become anything more than a joke afterward? If you want fame, do something tremendous for mankind. Cure cancer or something.

So, I was sitting here tonight, watching The Bachelorette. I know the show is a sham. People don't find love on this show. One marriage out of 25 proposals does not a successful love story make. But, I watch because, like I said, people fascinate me. And the people who come on this show are train wrecks and are highly entertaining to see in action.

But tonight, I was annoyed. I don't know if it's just because Ali is the worst actress ever or they have tried too hard this season to create drama that it's beyond tedious. I'm uninterested in any of the guys, I yell at the TV so much that my cat is now afraid of me, and I am pissedoff that these fools get to travel around the world and stay in fancy hotels just because they're on this stupid show.

Oh. Well, maybe that's why they chose to be on this show. Fine whatever.

Here are my observations from tonight.

• Number of times the word "amazing" was used: 126 162

• Why do they pretend these "events" are spontaneous? I assume the cameras are with these guys a lot, but do the guys really have to feign surprise that something big is happening? Dude, 6 cameramen are there to capture all your responses at once. Let's not treat the viewers like they're idiots.

• What is with the focus on "being here for the right reasons?" What are the right reasons? Love? Ha!

• Why don't some of these guys realize how much Ali is not into them? Ty? Craig R? I'm looking in your direction. Craig, if she didn't kiss you, she's just not that into you. She has kissed everyone. Everyone else. If she's looking away each and every time you look at her, she doesn't want you to kiss her. Have a little self-respect and dial it down a notch. I get that you think you're the perfect guy for her and all, and you just might be, but get a clue. If she's not taking her clothes off for you like she is with the others, you don't stand a chance.

• Dude, Frank is going to lose his sheet. He just said that he only wants to propose once, only wants to get married once. Then... why go on an effin' show like this?! The track record for happily ever after on this show isn't so great. Also? You can't freak out every time she's with another guy. It's the nature of the show. You knew that going in. Get a grip.

But, even though I'm annoyed, the scenes from the next couple episodes look pretty interesting (I'm sure, in the end, they won't be). I think they did that on purpose because the last couple episodes have been so insipid, I have wanted to stab myself in the eye with a fork. At least twice.

But, I'll watch. Fine, you ABC bastards. You win.

Love thy neighbor

So, I have not had good luck with neighbors. Well, I shouldn't say that. Growing up, I had pretty good neighbors. Or at least there were kids my own age that I could play with. Although, they weren't good neighbors in that they broke into our house, stole money and ran up our phone bill while we were in California for a month. Yeeaaahh. Bad luck. In college, though, some of my best friends were first my neighbors. And, when my roommates and I rented an apartment, our upstairs and downstairs neighbors were pretty great.

So, let me rephrase. In my adult life, I haven't had luck with neighbors. My first apartment out of college was this awesome 3-story, brick-faced walk-up in a suburb of Cleveland where most young single adults lived. My sister lived within walking distance, we were close to mass transit for work and also in close proximity to the local bars. Good place. Great memories.

But neighbors? Yeah, they sucked. The woman I shared a floor with was so unfriendly. I didn't get it, either, because we both frequented the same bar down the street. Think she ever offered me a ride? No. Hmmph.

Anyway, after my husband and I married, we bought a house in the same city I had been living. My sister had also gotten married and lived, again, fairly close to us. (BTW, my sister? Always had good luck with neighbors. First house? A man who cut her grass. Second house? A nice couple who liked porch parties.) In our new house, our neighbors consisted of a couple to the left of us, who:

• cleaned out their garage (finally), and scared all the mice who had taken up permanent residence
• hung their party plates in their garage with pride
• had a dog who barked nonstop

And to the right of us, a very nice couple with two teen-aged children. He was a postman and she ran a day-care out of their house. I'm not sure what they thought of us, though. The day we moved in, my sister went over to ask for a bottle opener. Her response?

"We don't drink."

Oh. Oh. Well, she was going to love us.

When we bought our current house, I thought we'd have better luck. My brother? Has great neighbors. On one side anyway. And we all live in the same development, so I figured... WRONG.

We live in a cul-de-sac, you'd think we'd all be close. But, our immediate neighbors keep to themselves, save for a wave now and then. The people 3 doors down are great. They tell us stories about how great the cul-de-sac used to be, how they used to have parties in the circle and all that. So... we're about 12 years too late. And there are no kids around us that are our kids' ages. Sigh.

But that all changed recently. We met the neighbors behind us. And they are awesome. They meet all our requirements. They:

a) say hello
b) have younger kids
c) enjoy drinking (at 10am on a weekday now that he's on summer break)

The kids were introduced and, as time has gone by, play together every day. I love it. Their 4-year-old is, well... something else. She stands at the end of her backyard, waiting for us to come outside. When she sees the boys outside playing, she runs over and walks right into my house to ask for a snack. She's awesome.  Sometimes, at night, I can picture her face pressed up against our darkened windows, looking for us. But, that can't be real... right? Right??

Yesterday was no exception. It was my family's annual golf outing. Of course, my husband plays. And my dad, brothers and sister-in-law. (Guess who's the baby-sitter?)

So, I had 4 kids to care for, a mother to check on (she had eye surgery last week) and 3 neighbor kids, who came over to play. I admit I get just as excited to see them as my 5-year-old does. We've been waiting 3 years for neighborhood kids to play with.

There were 7 kids at my house. Their dad is really good about coming over to play with the kids, so I'm never overwhelmed. My girlfriend also came over yesterday to help me out, which was great. I can handle a million kids over the age of 2, but my niece, who's 11-months-old, is a handful. At one point, I was making sandwiches for 3 kids, feeding the baby, putting drops in my mom's eye and fixing her lunch. I find, though, that I work better in high pressure situations, so it was fine. Chaotic, but fine.

However, when we got to the party after the golf, I allowed myself a little too much wine. I figured I had a busy day while they were all off having fun, so I deserved it. That was a mistake. This morning, I wasn't feeling so great.

I wonder if I can hit up the neighbors for some Advil?

For sale: Cat

7-year-old calico in desperate need of a home. Calicos are, by nature, a birth defect, but don't let that sway you. Just because she hisses at everyone (except the 2 that feed her), bites the 2 that feed her (lovingly, of course), continuously misses the litter box, and coughs up hairballs on new carpeting, she really is a devil sweet cat.

When the children go to bed, she comes out of hiding to sleep around your neck like an expensive (and warm) fur stoll.  Not sure if this is meant to suffocate her victim or not, but, if it is, she's not very good at it, so not to worry.

Additionally, she likes to talk. She meows to tell you her food dish is empty. She meows to tell you her litter box needs cleaning. She meows to tell you there's another cat outside. She meows in her sleep (which sounds like barking and makes the children laugh). She meows to tell you it's 6:30 am. And if the meow doesn't wake you up, a friendly nip to your ear sure will.

In cases such as this, she's really telling you she likes to fly. When she bites you out of a sound sleep, she's telling you she wants to be thrown like a football towards the bathroom. When she jumps onto the counter, she's telling you she wants to be tossed into the family room. She almost always lands on her feet.

If interested, please comment below. I can duct tape her to a milk crate and ship her off today.

Opa!

So, this weekend is the Greek Heritage Festival at my church. I look forward to this festival every year. And, by the time it's over, I tell myself, if I never have another gryo, domade(h) or loukoumade(h) the rest of the year, I'll be okay. But then there's another festival the next month at the church across town and I overdose again on loukoumades. They're fried dough in honey, can you blame me?

I've been attending these festivals my entire life. When we were young, we would spend all day and night there. They had arcade games available for kids to play, so during the year (well, not with the sole purpose of the festival), I would hoard keep quarters in a bag to take with me to the festival.

Looking back, I have no idea where my parents were. Or why they weren't more concerned about where we were (which, I might add, I continue to point out to my mother when she yells at us for not watching our children every second. She denies everything.). I don't think we even gathered together for meals. We just knew to be at the car when it was over and that was good enough for everyone.

As I got older, when arcade games weren't much of a draw for me, I found other things of interest. At the flea market, where one person's trash is another's treasure, I found some darling summer plates one year. Or the jewelry counter, where my BFF and I would buy at least one new ring a year. (Interestingly enough, people would mistake my BFF for the Greek [she's Italian] and me for the non-Greek. And I've been attending this church my entire life. How do they not know me?! We've joked about this in my family for years. Everyone knows my 3 siblings, my cousins, my dog [if we ever had one], but no one remembers me. Yeah. Hilarious.)

And now that I'm, you know, old and responsible, I am asked to (read: guilted into) work the festival. I prefer to work the drive-thru. It reminds me of my days working as a gyro flipper. Plus, I work hard... and no one has to see me. Perfect. (This may be the reason no one at church knows who I am, but that's neither here nor there.)

But the dancing was, and still is, the main attraction for me. When I was 15 or so, my cousin's cousin taught me all the Greek dances she knew. She was a great teacher, too. She broke down each dance into sections and I had no trouble learning the steps as we danced around the pool table in our basement. I try each year to teach my brother the hardest dance, but I just can't do it as well as she did. I guess "Do what I do" isn't much help. Or maybe he's not as good a student as I was, yo. Yeah, that's it. Every year, my BFF would refuse to learn the steps, but insisted on dancing with me anyway. She's a good sport.

So, the festival is upon us. I will spend the next 3 days eating, drinking and, overall, being merry. And on Sunday, I will throw the last loukoumade in the garbage and say, "Never again."

Until next month.

Feeding old people is easy

About 3 weeks ago, my father-in-law called. This was the gist of the conversation:

"Hey, it's Dad. Aunt Daphne [his sister] will be in town blahblahblah. You'll have us over for dinner. Great. See ya."

I adore my FIL, so I was okay with him offering up our house for dinner. Truthfully, I enjoy having people over. And my FIL said he'd buy the food, so, really, it was going to be easy-peasy. And I didn't give it another thought.

Until this past Saturday.

Holy sheet, people are coming to our house?! Our house is not ready for company!

We've been in this house just over 3 years now. We did a lot of work on the house in the beginning. Our house was a pastel, um, pit paradise (?) when we first moved in. Every room was either pink or peach. They had carpeting in the BATHROOM. Blech. Who thinks that's sanitary?

First thing we did? Ripped up that teal-colored carpeting in our bedroom and master bath. Put in nice, normal, clean (or at least able to be cleaned easily) tile in the bathroom and a nice neutral (read: not teal) carpet in our bedroom. And, 2 years ago, we redid the basement. We've painted other rooms, including our 2-story pink foyer and peach upstairs hallway and installed new carpeting up the stairs and in our family room this past winter. So, things have been getting done. Slowly.

The problem is that, most days, I have no motivation to decorate my house. Drives my mother crazy. Most of my motivation comes from new people visiting our home. I mean, they can't possibly see our pink hallway. What will they think of us? So, the aunt and uncle visit gave me some motivation.

My mother? Ecstatic. We went shopping as soon as I mentioned decorating. It was almost as if she'd been waiting for this phone call for months. She (and about 15 decorating magazines) picked me up and off we went.

The room that gives me the most trouble is our living room. For one, we don't need one. We didn't have one in our old house, I don't need one now. But, we have this room and, currently, that room is used for... crap. It houses the extra chairs from our dining room table and our buffet. For months, we had a broken TV sitting on the floor in that room. And it's the first room people see when they walk in. I can't stand it. So, my mother and I set out to fix that, among other little things. (I ended up buying nothing and stealing borrowing things my mother isn't currently using in her home. Woohoo!)

I was feeling particularly gung ho this home improvement cycle. I was, with paint and paint brush in hand, ready to cover up scuff marks on all the walls in our family room. I wanted to paint the shelving in our downstairs bathroom. I wanted to remove the stupid extra mattresses just lying on the floor in our guest bedroom (sorry, Tim and Erin, Vidas and Tracie - the kids no longer have a bed to sleep on. I'll buy an air mattress for your next visit). I wanted to pull up carpeting and lay hardwood floors in the dining room.

Eh, 2 out of 3 3 out of 4 ain't bad.

Problem with painting the family room is what I thought was the paint for the family room was actually paint from the foyer (it said foyer on it, but I thought the foyer and family room were the same color). But then I remembered I made the foyer a shade lighter than the family room (why, I have no idea, but whatever). Or, rather, I remembered that after I painted the scuff marks. Our family room looked like a crack house painter lived here. So, my awesome husband set off for Home Depot early this morning, came home with the correct paint and I painted over the mess I made yesterday. With that done, and the stolen borrowed articles from my mother strategically placed throughout the house, we were ready for company.

So, my FIL showed up with his sister and brother-in-law. I thought we hadn't see them since our wedding, but they reminded us they were here 3 years ago, right after we moved in. Oh. They had already been here? So, why the hello was I working so hard when they had already seen our house? Damn.

Well, I suppose motivation is motivation. Strike while the iron's hot and all that. And the house does look better. So, I guess there's that.

And dinner? Consisted of this:

• 5:00: they arrived (and dropped the news they'd already been here)
• 6:15: dinner (excellent steak, potatoes, corn on the cob, salad)
• 7:45: out the door (is it an old age thing? they mentioned not being able to see past a certain time of day. if this were my family, we'd have been opening a 5th bottle of wine with no intention of leaving before 10:00)
• 8:15: dishes washed (nice thing about the grill - not a lot of dishes. this included my crystal wine glasses [which they used, so i guess they're not that old])
• 8:45: procrastinators (those would be my children. 2-year-old: "Hold on a second. Not ready yet.") in bed
• 8:50: The Bachelorette (yay! bad tv! and able to fast forward through ALL commercials!)

By the way, The Bachelorette? When Kasey sang? Had to be the funniest, the most cover-my-face-I'm-so-embarrassed-for-him thing I'd ever seen on this show. I rewound it so I could enjoy it one more time. The second time he sang? I got pissed. Dude, stop singing. And why does he keep saying "protect and guard her heart?" Is he the heart police?

Idiot.

Also? I hate The Weatherman. Oh wait, the "amber alert" comment was kinda funny.

And... did Ali just say, "Supposebly?"

The show is awesomely terrible. How many guys can they get on one show to play the guitar? This show was better when it was called Star Search. I love Chris Harrison, but he's no Ed McMahon.

And now I can go to bed, knowing The Weatherman is gone, all my dishes are cleaned and put away, and my house is a little better decorated today than it was yesterday.

Or at least the wall color matches.

Old people can come to my house for dinner any time they want.

No-No-Notorious!

So, last night, my husband and I watched the much overlooked and underhyped movie, Notorious. It's the story of the rise (and fall) of Christopher Wallace, aka Biggie Smalls, aka The Notorious B.I.G., aka the guy who became famous just for rapping to other people's already made up songs.

I'm not saying I don't like his music. Much of my college career was spent dancing and singing along to him and 2Pac, LL Cool J and Ice Cube, and many others. Can you just picture 4-5 white girls rollin' in a 1989 Mercury Topaz, rapping with the best of them? To this day, I can't help myself. When a song comes on, I have to sing. Just ask my co-worker. He was highly amused to watch a 30-something-year-old (sidenote: I bet if I watched thirtysomething nowadays, it would make sense) mother rapping in her minivan.

My roommate in college was as big a fan of hip hop and R&B as I was. We used to joke she was from the ghetto (P-Ville, holla!), whenever she'd get her ghetto fabulous self in a tizzy. Not to mention she had no money and used to live on a small barrel of pickles she'd get from her dad when she went home to visit. We went dancing every Thursday, Friday and Saturday in our tank tops, baggie jeans and kicks. It was a good great time.

So, anyway, here I was with my husband, watching this movie, and, of course, singing along. I felt like I was in my 20s again. Too bad my girls weren't here to sing along with me. I learned a lot about Biggie, too. That he had an affair with Lil' Kim? That he only knew his wife a week before they got married? This was all interesting stuff.

Or not. Really, I just wanted the music.

And then, I had a dream last night that I was part of the East Coast-West Coast feud. Although, I can't remember which side I was on. And honestly, thinking about it, I still can't decide. 2Pac had the better lyrics, but I danced more to Biggie.

Oh, if only they would've listened to Rodney King and just gotten along. That would've made for one great album.

Birthday Week... um, the rest of the week

So, the rest of Birthday Week can be summed up like this:

Purple glitter toes. Alcohol. Happy hour. Alcohol. Cookouts. Alcohol. Pool. No alcohol. Birthday cake.

Day 3 included getting a pedicure with a good friend. I love pretty much anything that involves pampering. Massages? Awesome. Facials? It's like two services in one, which is awesome x2.

Pedicures, in particular, are great because you get to sit in these massage chairs with an alcoholic beverage in one hand, magazine in the other, while soaking your feet in a whirlpool bath. I hate feet (except my own and my children's), so I don't know how those women work on other people's day in and day out, but whatever. The girl who did my friend's pedicure had these great purple toes. I'm usually a hot pink kind of girl in the summer, but I really liked her color. So, here I am with purple glitter toes.

Additionally, Day 3 reminded me I'm getting older (since, obviously, the birthday itself wasn't). I received a text from our babysitter that my 5-year-old lost his first tooth. WTF? Isn't he still getting his baby teeth? How is he old enough to lose them? I knew he had a loose tooth, but I thought it'd stay in there until he was at least 7.

What?  That's not how it works?  Oh.

A few weeks ago, my mother had brought over a tooth fairy pillow for us to use for the tooth. As soon as I saw it, I remembered putting my own teeth in there. And, um, it still had a tooth in the pocket, which was kind of gross. My mother took the tooth home with her, which is even grosser. What was she going to do with it? (I can just picture my mother furiously grasping at anything to keep us young - a strand of hair, a baby tooth... and, what? Putting it all in a scrapbook? Seriously, what was she going to do with this tooth?)

Anyway, that night, we put the tooth in the pocket of the pillow and, lucky for me... I must interrupt here -- for those who still believe in the Tooth Fairy, because he's real - he really is, but... please skip this paragraph. Thanks. -- lucky for me he didn't want to put the pillow under his pillow. I was concerned about how I was going to get at the tooth without waking him. Instead, he put the pillow on his dresser, which was so much easier for me (er, for the Tooth Fairy) to access. And what did he get for the tooth? FIVE dollars!

In my defense, a friend told me that the first tooth is special, so pay a premium for it, but have the rest at a normal price (I think I got a quarter for each of my teeth). But, then I had another friend tell me the first tooth will set the precedent and the child will expect the same for all his (24) teeth. Of course, I was told that AFTER I had already given the $5... rats. And my son told me his friend was given a wallet for his teeth. I kind of doubt that happened, but he's been asking for a wallet ever since. Maybe for tooth #24... to hold his 5x23... $115(!).

The rest of the week/end was filled with alcohol and happy hours and cookouts and time at the pool. My 2-year-old, who wouldn't go near the water last year, is now afraid of nothing. He jumped in, whether someone was there to catch him or not. He swallowed half the pool's chlorine (which is most likely what made him throw up later - it was either that or the fact he shoved an entire peanut butter and jelly sandwich into his mouth at once and then freaked because he couldn't swallow, or, uh, breathe. Um, hello?).

And birthday cake. Not sure this is known about me, but I love dessert. I'd give you my kidney for a good piece of cake. Well, it'd have to be a pretty damn good piece of cake. And we'd have to be a match and all...

Anyway, birthday week is done and over. And now I'm back to cleaning bathrooms. Good times, good times.

Season finales - say it ain't so

So, I've been fairly blah about my favorite TV shows this year. I still watch regularly and am sometimes treated to a good episode.  Maybe I'm just getting tired of TV (I did not just say that). And now that May sweeps are over and shows are over (nooooo!), I can finally give my opinions on the shows I watch.

Overall, while some shows weren't that great this year, I am pleased with the season finales.

Grey's Anatomy
No finale will ever be like the one where Denny died. Not because of Denny, but because of the little tryst between Mer and Der. H.O.T. But, this season finale was pretty good. Lead characters getting shot? That's good stuff, people. My husband and I were sitting here all, "What the what?!" every few minutes. You'd think I'd get used to people getting abruptly and brutally shot for no reason. Although, I suppose it's a good thing that I didn't.

House
House and Cuddy kiss! Again! And House's speech to his patient about how he wished he had amputated his leg? Awesomely sad. And Thirteen is taking a leave of absence? The Good News Fairy made a visit to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital this year!

The Good Wife
My sister will kill me for saying this, but I just don't like Chris Noth. So, any time a woman picks any other man in the world over him, I'm happy. And Alicia almost almost picks Will in the finale cliffhanger! And really, who wouldn't pick Josh Charles over Chris Noth? He's Knox Overstreet, for crying out loud. Just about the coolest name ever invented.

American Idol
Simon's last episode. Depending who they pick to replace him, I have a feeling this was my last episode, too. My husband doesn't understand my interest in this show, but I don't think it could've been expressed better than in the finale episode.

I like to sing. Probably not a great singer, but I sang in choir in middle school, high school and even took a singing class in college. (We were all required to take some elective class.) I wasn't an artist, I didn't play an instrument. But, I could hold a note. Needless to say, I wasn't one of those glee club kids, although I can appreciate Glee. Singing in the car is still one of my favorite things to do, after all.

Anyway, so for these kids? To sing with some popular performers (granted, from the 70's and 80's)? That is (some version of) a dream. How great would it be to sing with Bret Michaels for the evening (you know, before his successful career in reality TV)? Or Janet (Miss Jackson, if you're nasty) Jackson?? I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to harmonize (I love to harmonize) with Sarah McLachlan? My sister and I used to harmonize to Sarah (I'd take the high, she'd take the low) at our porch parties. There are many pictures of us with beer in one hand, cigarette (What? How did that word get in there?) in the other, singing at the top of our lungs. Fun stuff.

But what I tried to explain to my husband is that, for a singer, the finale episode of AI is the dream. Of course, the dream is to sing with these people while they're in their prime, but... I like to watch anyway and be happy for these kids to get to prance around on stage with... um, Hall and Oates (who, by the way, looks really weird without the big, bushy mustache) or Chicago or any of the rest of them.

The only sad part is to see the careers of so many fall to such a low that they have to go on American Idol. I am sure more than half of those people in the audience don't even know who the people on stage are. I mean, Michael McDonald, really? And, let's face it, those performers can't really perform like they used to. A few months ago, we watched a special about Woodstock, where Joe Cocker performed. The man could screech sing. Now? Not so much.

But anyway. It's still a great thing to be able to perform with someone you sang along to on the (oldies/easy listening) radio.

And, now I have nothing to watch on TV.

I guess there's always The Bachelorette and Wipeout.

I should probably stick to reading.

Birthday Week: Day 2

So, Day 2 of Birthday Week.

Why isn't it mandatory for every company to give their employees vacation the week of their birthdays? My brother just accepted a job where they give you the day off. I think that's great. Don't all companies know I we expect some sort of special treatment on the day we were born?

To make matters worse, I have my annual review on my actual birthday. It's scheduled for only a half hour. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. How long does it take to say, "You're fired," really? But, surely they wouldn't fire me on my birthday, right? Maybe they think I'm so awesome and don't have anything to talk to me about except my (substantial) raise?

It's my party, I can fantasize if I want to.

But, I don't want to think about that. I'm already nervous enough.

I've been battling the good with the bad when it comes to my birthday for years. When I was younger, there were 5 or so years where someone we knew died on or near my birthday. Talk about a reality check.

Life and death. Yin and yang.

Ditching school on my 18th birthday with a friend who shared the same birthday? Good.

My roommates getting me a stripper for my 21st birthday? Bad. Funny? Sure. But, hairy baaaad.

Good thing about your birthday - the police tend to not give you tickets on your birthday
Bad thing about your birthday - spending the afternoon at the DMV
Good thing - yellow cake with chocolate frosting
Bad thing - not getting carded when you buy a 6-pack
Good thing - you typically get out of doing things you don't want to do
Bad thing - using the saying, "In my day..."
Good thing - yellow cake with chocolate frosting

So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...

And now I have that song in my head. Bad.

Birthday Week has begun

So, it's Birthday Week.

I'll admit, I'm one of those people who loves her birthday. And hates it. It's a big deal to me, I want it to be a big deal to others, but then I get embarrassed/slightly angry whenever anyone makes a big deal about it.  And even angrier if they don't.

I'm well aware that it's annoying.

But, I've decided to embrace my birthday. If I want to make a big deal about it, I will. And my friends and family can either play along or not.

So, my sister and I have implemented Birthday Week. Because is a day really enough? Mostly, it gives me a (better) excuse to do fun things for myself (rather than the usual pure selfishness)... oh fine, it doesn't. If the "entire week devoted to me" doesn't scream selfishness, I'm not sure what does.

Today, I started off the day by getting a skin biopsy. Happy birthday to me! It kind of sucked, actually. Now that the day is ending, my arm is starting to hurt.

Sigh. If it's not my head, it's my arm. Where's that Vicodin?

But, the day improved. My mom and I took the boys to the nature center. It's essentially one big room with some fish, snakes and other reptiles. And outside, there are birds. It takes about 10 minutes to get through the whole place, but it really makes the boys happy, so we go. Fairly often.

After that, we had to get ice cream. Of course. We've gone for ice cream every day twice in the last week. I blame it on PMS the nicer weather. It made sense that we went every single day when I was pregnant, because it wasn't for me, it was for the baby. Plus, we walked (once) to get it. But now? I have no excuse. We have to drive and, you know, put on shoes and stuff. And, it's getting bad now that the boys think getting ice cream is part of dinner. We have to stop.

And THEN, the boys and I had a play date with a friend. So, we dropped off my mom and met my friend and her 3 children. I'm not very experienced with play dates. Are you supposed to organize activities for the children to do? Are you supposed to let the children run amok while you and the other mother drink margaritas? I'll tell ya, that second option seems like much more fun.

But, sadly, that's not what we did. And, gratefully, we didn't do the first option, either. The children ran amok while my friend and I gossiped. Gossiping is almost as good as drinking margaritas, so I was just as entertained as the children. It was hard to get the boys to leave, especially when I told them we had to run to the grocery store.

Was I smoking crack? We were running on no naps and the sugar high from the ice cream was wearing off. There was no way we were going to get through the grocery store alive. So, I decided, in the spirit of Birthday Week (and because I want my children to live), we were having chicken nuggets for dinner and came home instead. Look up Mother of the Year, people, and you'll find my picture.

It was a long day. And, aside from the beginning, a nice way to start Birthday Week. Coming up this week: some shopping, a pedicure with a friend and a happy hour with work people.

Yay Birthday Week!