Who Guess Who

So, today is my day off from work. It's always nice to have an extra weekend day to get the housework done, do the laundry, and play a rousing game of "Guess Who" (or, as my boys like to call it, "Who Guess Who") with my 3-year-old.

Typically, the object of the game is to guess your opponent's mystery person before your opponent guesses yours. So, you're supposed to pick a mystery person from the pile of 24 mystery cards before the game even starts. And then ask your opponent questions like, "Is your person a boy or a girl?" or "Is your person wearing a hat?" in order to guess their mystery person. The winner is the first to accurately guess his opponent's mystery person.

Yes, under normal circumstances, that is how the game is played. But that is not how my 3-year-old plays. When we first begin playing, he gets the red board and I get the blue. We set up our players, pick our mystery person and he begins the questions.

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Is your person a boy or a girl?
3-year-old (while not even looking at his mystery person): Ahhh... a goiyal.
I knock down all the men.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving one person standing.
Me: Did you pick my person?
3-year old nods.
I check.
He didn't.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

After about 4 rounds of this, we switch boards. I get red, he gets blue. By this point, we have given up picking our mystery people and the game goes like this:

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Does your person have a mustache?
3-year-old: Yes (or no, depending on his mood).
I knock down half my board.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving two people standing.
Me: Does your person wear glasses?
3-year-old: No (or yes, depending on his mood).
I knock down the rest of my board, leaving two people standing.
3-year-old: Does your pewson have a mustache? (Yes, he asks again.)
Me: Yes. (Why not?)
3-year-old knocks down one of the remaining pieces.
Me: Did you pick my guy?
3-year-old nods.
I check.

You bet he did.

And that's how I spent an hour this morning.

Me! Pick me! Me me me mememememeeeeeeeeee!

Spring cleaning. I love it and I hate it. Over the weekend, the husband and I, like the big bad wolf, tore our house apart and, unlike all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, we were able to put it back together again. Cleaner and more organized. Yay us!

When you do something like that, you tend to a) like your house a little more while, at the same time, b) notice what improvements are needed to make it better. So, I made a list of about 10 improvements I want to make to our house. I figure it’ll take us about 2 5 10 years and $2,000 $5,000 $10,000 $100,000 to complete. No problem! Where do I sign?!

It’s no secret I’m not a home improvement expert. Y’all know about my mad painting skillz. So, I’d love for HGTV to come to my house and complete at least one of my 10 items. For them, it’s probably a walk in the park and will take about 20 minutes. I’m not asking for too much. C’mon HGTV, humor me.

I went to their website to see what it would take to be one of those lucky people who get their houses redesigned. Lo and behold, there’s actually a section on their website called Be On TV! Hooray!

To be honest, I don’t really want to be on TV. I just want Candace Olson (and Chico) to come over, redo my kitchen and family room, and then leave. Without me embarrassing myself on national TV. The nice thing about Candace’s show, she doesn’t expect the homeowners to participate. We say hello in the beginning and wait until the big reveal to start crying about how beautiful it is. I can totally do that.

Unfortunately, most of the available TV options don’t apply to us. Apparently, HGTV never goes to the Midwest to decorate homes. It’s either because they think you can’t change perfection or you can’t change crazy. Either way, they’re not coming out here anytime soon.

But I did find one. Apparently, HGTV is going across country in an RV with random design stars to transform people’s homes. Will they ever reach the Midwest? Who knows. But, if my application is funny enough, they might.

I read they’re looking for amazing spaces to get HGTVd and incredible, enthusiastic homeowners with a love of HGTV. Well, our space isn’t so amazing, but I love HGTV and I can be incredible and enthusiastic if I’m picked. Woo! See?

They ask that you create a video, which, I think, is dumb. Unless it’s a video of my children. Now that’s funny. I have a video of my then 18-month-old terrorizing our cat and laaaaauughing hysterically. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Oh, I wonder if I can do that? Not terrorize the poor cat, but have the boys pretend to own the home and want the makeover? I found my gimmick! They’ll totally pick us!

I can see it now…

6-year-old: Please come to our house and fix it. My mom said if I made this video, she’d let me play the Wii.

3-year-old: Pwease come or I weel punch you!

Yes, the 3-year-old is a brute. Where's that video camera?

A tale of two teeth

So, for the last few months, my 6-year-old’s two top front teeth have been loose. Last fall, his two front bottom teeth fell out. No pomp and circumstance. No drama. They came out when they were ready and, already, his adult teeth have taken their place.

These two top teeth have been a pain (literally). My son has not brushed those two teeth in what seems like ages and hasn’t bitten down on anything since Christmas for fear they will come out. It’s amusing to watch him bite out of the side of his mouth, but at the same time, I just want to pull the damthings out already.

This week, our 3-year-old had had enough. For weeks, he’s been listening to my husband and I tell the 6-year-old what to do in order to get the teeth to fall out. “Wiggle your tooth” “Eat this apple” and “Let me see your tooth” have been passed around the dinner table more than hot buttered rolls.

And we like our rolls.

On Monday morning, the 6-year-old came downstairs, crying. Naturally, when a mother sees her child crying, the first questions are, “What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital?  Or beat someone up for hurting you?”

Me: What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital? (see?)
6-year-old: My tooth came out.

(I can hear the distinct sounds of “the Hallelujah Chorus” in the background)

Me: Yay! Are you okay? How did it happen?
6-year-old: I’m bleeding! (3-year-old) kicked me in the face and my tooth came out!
Me: Oh. Well, um. That wasn’t nice of (3-year-old). Let me see.

Okay, I probably should’ve been madder at the 3-year-old, but… well, he helped us. Until that morning, that loose tooth had been hidden behind the second loose tooth. My 6-year-old looked like an 80-year-old homeless man. If the 3-year-old hadn’t kicked him, I might’ve had to do it myself and it looks worse coming from a parent.

Anyway, on Monday, we celebrated. I put the tooth away for safekeeping and then, of course, lost said tooth by the end of the day. Somehow, the amazing Tooth Fairy knew he had lost the tooth and he received whatever dollar bills she had stuffed in her sock drawer.

Way to go, Tooth Fairy!

Over the week, I have been begging the 6-year-old to wiggle his second tooth and take a bite of something and play kickball with his brother. Finally, the 3-year-old took matters into his own hands (again).

I was at work today when I got a text from our babysitter that the tooth finally fell out.

(Again, I hear trumpets.)

Me: How did it happen?
Her (me paraphrasing): (3-year-old) pushed on the tooth and it fell out.
Me: He what?!
Her: (3-year-old) wanted to feel (6-year-old’s) loose tooth, so when (6-year-old) let him, he pushed it out.

My 3-year-old, God bless him. I can picture him concocting this grand scheme to get the teeth out. He was tired of listening to us go on and on about the teeth and decided if his big brother was going to be such a wimp about it, he’d take care of it himself. He had been hoping the first kick to the teeth would’ve knocked them both out. Since they didn’t, he had to devise another plan. But not kick him again, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. So, what did he do?

3-year-old: “C’mere, kid. Let me see your tooth.”

Baaah! How did that work for him? I tried that weeks ago and my 6-year-old wouldn’t budge. I guess you have to look cute and innocent for it to work.

I can see it now. When my 3-year-old is a father, he’s going to be one of those dads who ties his kid’s tooth to a doorknob. “C’mere, kid. Lemme see that tooth.” Yank.

Thanks, (3-year-old). Problem solved.

Bring it, bitches.

Man, do I hate exercise.

I don't care that it's good for me and will give me more energy and blahblahblah stupid healthy trainer talk. I hate it. It's hard and it sucks rocks and I'm usually in pain afterward. Hate.

But, fine. I realize that exercise is a natural part of life. Just like death. And, since we have that gym membership and all, I figured I should use it. And be healthy and all that.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm doing it for a shirt. An adorable top I bought last year that I just can't wear given the shape I'm in. Judge if you will, but I can assure you there are dumber reasons than that to exercise.

The gym had been working out fine. Until I lost my motivation. So, I decided to go the P90X route. I wanted a plan that was going to force me to do something different every day and I knew a few people who had had major success with it.

The husband and I started out together. We outlined our goals, we weighed ourselves, we took our "before" pictures. We were pumped, we were psyched, we were going to Bring. It.

That lasted a whole 2 days.

In all fairness, my husband doesn't need the workout like I do. The man is fairly active, he plays volleyball at least once a week, where there's a lot of running and jumping involved, and he golfs for as long as the courses are open. Plus, when we joined the gym and they gave us our stupid fat index tests, he had less body fat than I did.

Jerk.

However, I, unlike him, have kept up with the P90X. Every day, there's a new exercise. From the annoying strength training to martial arts to cardio to yoga. I am obsessed. It's not that I like exercising any better than I did before, but I will admit I feel better when the exercise is over.

Mostly because the exercise is over.

But the obsession I have is mostly centered around food. "When can I eat" is the most popular thought I have. Because I'm a freak, I don't like to work out until it's been at least 2 hours since my last meal. But I only have so many hours in the day. And most of my waking hours are spent, um, eating. I do most of my exercising at night, after the boys go to bed. I have been DVRing all my TV shows, thinking I'll have time to watch the shows eventually. I am about a month behind on... pretty much everything.

I'm in week 5 of the 90 day challenge. Day... 7 x 4 +... Day 34. Crap. I thought it'd be more than that. I took my second set of pictures the other day. I hadn't realized I had been working towards this goal until the day came. I was really looking forward to seeing an improvement.

There was none. None! Sonofa...

My husband, God love him, swears he can see a difference, but let me tell you, there is none. I wasn't expecting to look like Day 90 or anything, but some change would've been nice. So, I've been struggling with the decision to just give up (because it's haaarrdd [that's my whiny voice]) or maybe possibly... try... harder.

I can't believe I just said that.

The thing is that Tony grows on you. In the beginning, you hate him with a passion something fierce. He talks a lot and you want to reach through the TV and punch him in the throat (with a Kenpo knuckles-front kick-back kick combo). Plus his Ab Ripper X? Hate. And it's frustrating to not be able to do everything he asks you to do. So, you're yelling, "Fuck you, Tony!" at the TV. A lot. But, after a while, you find him less irritating. And you actually picture yourself getting rid of all the "grease" and "gristle" he talks about while you're sweating your ass off. And today? I was able to do it all. And well. Well, for me anyway.

I'm not stupid enough to believe I'll complete the challenge. I am a firm believer in low expectations. If I expect to finish all 90 days, I'll never do it. So, I take it day by day. If I finish, great, awesome. If not, I'll just give away that shirt.

I tell ya, I should be the spokesperson for P90X.

Tony, call me.

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.