Domestic Impairment

Father Daughter Dance 2010

2010-02-25T09:59:00.008-07:00

Dear God. She looks just like him.

Here are some adorable pics of Victoria and Grant. Too cute!

A great time was had by both Father and Daughter. Lots of little girls screaming and lots of dancing.

**Update: I just noticed that my dog looks demonic in this, otherwise, sweet picture. And a big thanks to Julie for pointing out the wine glass on the table as well. It is, after all, a permanent fixture at our house.

Mardi Gras Wisdom

2010-02-16T08:18:00.002-07:00

Out of the mouths of babes.

Actual conversation on the way the kids (Catholic) school today.

Me: So, kids. Today is Mardi Gras. What are you giving up for Lent?

John: Computer games.

Victoria: Dessert. What about you, Mom?

Me: (birds chirping, crickets.....)

Victoria: Just don't give up alcohol or coffee, please.

Yes, we are.

2010-02-04T11:21:00.004-07:00

Hey Mom! Look at these cute kids from this African school!

Get off my computer, John! I told you not to look at it without my permission. What if I was on an inappropriate website?

But, it says here that they need help. It's just little kids from Africa. There's nothing wrong with that.

African children are so two months ago, John. Haiti is what's what.

Oh my God, Mom. Are we really related?

Hood Ornament

2010-02-04T06:01:00.003-07:00

Right in front of our neighborhood Home Depot.

It started out okay.

2010-01-22T08:34:00.006-07:00

Oy.

What a week. Well, not even a whole week, since it was only a 4 day week.

It started out with John complaining about his big left toe hurting him.

I ignored him.

He complained again the next day.

Ignore again.

He complained again on Wednesday and begged me to look at it. Hmmmmm. Perhaps he really means it?

My IPhone does not take very good photos. This toe is double the size of his other one.

And stinky.

Eeeew.

Off to the E.R. where things started well. We were immediately attended to and placed in a room. Nurse came in right away. Doctor followed after in a timely fashion. Toe cleaned and needles with Lidocane (sp?) inserted into my baby boy's big toe. Victoria doing homework. And then?

WE WAIT.

A REALLY LONG TIME.

SO LONG, THAT HE REGAINS FEELING IN HIS TOE.

Doctor comes back in. Has to put more shots in his big toe.

Small and painful procedure causing me to feel sick is performed.

Okay! All done. The nurse will be in here to bandage you right up.

MY ASS.

30 minutes later with all of us starving and the dogs having been in the house for 8 hours, I grab a sterile gauze out of a drawer and bandage his toe myself and we get the hell out of there. Nurses unhappy. Kids incredulous that I had the balls to walk out. Mom 1; E.R. 0.

Get home to open the door and are greeted by a giant pile of dog shit that is smeared into the rug as I open the door. Mom 1; E.R. 1. We are tied.

Still here? Okay.

Thursday. I make a fantastic spaghetti sauce with organic, grain fed beef, organic spinach hidden in the sauce, fresh bay leaves, organic fire roasted tomatoes and plan on cooking it for a couple of hours and serving it with whole wheat organic spaghetti noodles. Take kids to our club for their tennis lesson. Come out to the parking lot and my car has been broken into. Smashed my passenger side window to steal my tennis racquet and tennis bag. All of which will yield them lots of hair bands, some old balls (there is a joke there somewhere), notebooks with old scores and my tennis elbow band. That is some serious hard-up thieving.

The beauty of this window-smashing incident is that we had to drive back on the highway in 25 degree weather, going 75 miles per hour, freezing our collective asses off. Only to return to this.

My poor spaghetti sauce.

We ate eggs and toast.

The cutest Chinese baby girl dog. Ever.

2010-01-13T20:09:00.006-07:00

I have baby flu. Guess it must be the 40's. I begged and begged Grant for a Chinese baby girl. There is a Chinese Children's Charities and Adoption Center in town and it is right by the Pediatrician's office. No one ever said the Chinese were stupid.

After being informed that adoption of said Chinese baby girl was "out of the question", I received this little bundle of MALE joy. Just what I always wanted! A BOY HUNTING dog. Because I hunt all the time. And Grant is deaf, apparently.

Oh and also? My husband is gone Monday through Friday.

Thanks, Grant.

My friend, Pam named him for us and it fits him perfectly. I added the middle name Cho, because he is, after all, my Chinese baby girl.

Meet Tex. Royal. Pain. In. The. Ass. But cute. Oh, so very cute.

Only he's way bigger now. That was back in August. Can you stand it?

I am in love...

Are Muskrats like Meerkats? And why do they have sex on cruise ships?

2009-07-01T08:00:00.003-06:00

Actual conversation:

Mom: Hi Lisa. I am sitting here with my friend and we are trying to figure out the name of the show with the Muskrats that is on the National Geographic channel.

Me: Muskrats? Like Muskrat Love.

Mom: What do you mean, Muskrat Love?

Me: You know, that song called Muskrat Love. It's from the 50's or 60's.

Mom: Ay, Lisa. I have no idea what you mean. Well, I guess. (aside to her friend--all in Spanish: Cuales son? Son los que tienen mucho pelo y se paran no?--Translation: Which ones are they? The ones that are all hairy and stand up, no? ). WHERE IS THIS CONVERSATION GOING? I AM GETTING NERVOUS.

Me: Why would you two be talking about Muskrats?

Mom: Well..... My friend met someone on the cruise she just got back from and he is from England and she says that he looks like one of those muskrats when he is naked.

WHAAAAAAAAA? Jesus Christ. Who in the hell am I talking to? And? Why did you just ruin one of the best shows ever? Naked. Why did her friend see an Englishman naked? Am confused and kinda worried about the direction this is heading.

Me: Oh my God, Mom! Seriously? Did you really just say that? And besides, the show is called MEERKAT Manor. It's on the Discovery Channel, not the National Geographic Channel. And you just ruined it for me. I have to hang up now because I just threw up in my mouth.

Random thoughts that include Rabii Sexy times. And rehab. And toothlessness....

2009-05-26T13:52:00.004-06:00

Time. I seem to be running out of it. But then, I am also running out of wine. Because this weekend I drank all the wine in Colorado, which is okay, I guess, since it's not California and that has lots and lots of wine. Also? I was thinking of putting myself on the liver transplant list. But now I remember that my super healthy, organicky, hyper and beautiful blonde friend, KK, gave me some Liver Detox stuff from Shaklee and now I am feeling better. Like, a lot. Because just knowing that there is a pill for that too, makes me happy. So, thanks KK. You are the best friend ever. I just took three of them and feel clean and fresh already.

Anyway, today, I walked through the front door after my tennis match and the television was on for Chili, the best dog on the planet earth, so that he would not feel all alone at home. The first thing I see is a very large looking Rabii who is promoting his book, "The Kosher Sutra". My eyes started spontaneously bleeding. Now all I can think about is my experience with my geriatric man bits in the hospital and bendy and uncomfortable sexual positions. Which really sounds horrible and like I was molested or something, but you have to read that post to understand just how this affects me. No, I can't figure out how to link to the post. Just keep scrolling down.

One last thought as I leave you to go clean my closet and make a list of what needs to get done before we head to Texas and North Carolina.

As my husband, who is a semi-permanent fixture during the daytime, pointed out while watching television commercials for "The Strong Arm Lawyer" and "The Dental Implant Center" back to back:

"You can totally tell who commercials are geared to on daytime television these days. People who want to sue their employers and who have no teeth."

I think Betty Ford should advertise, too.

If I hadn't actually SEEN her come out--I would not believe it myself.

2009-05-11T18:58:00.005-06:00

I am pissed. Why is it that I had to carry this for 9 months and 6 days, get the biggest stretch marks in history, lost my belly button, had the epidural from hell that hurt my back forever, and yet. And yet. She does not even look like my child. The kicker was when someone asked me if I was her nanny once. I had my son with me, too. What the hell?

Anyway. I am so busy. So tired. And a little stressed because my Dad is still not doing well and I am not there to help my Mom out, which causes me all kinds of grief and guilt.

So here is my daughter and my husband. Obviously, his little swimmers have really strong DNA action happening. He totally took over.

Jerk.

Radio Silence and why pulling out catheters is a BAD thing....But so is having to see your Dad's privates. A lot.

2009-05-06T07:26:00.000-06:00

I apologize for the silence on my end. Life is getting in the way of my, um, life. My mom called me sobbing last Thursday, looking for my husband, because my dad was complaining of pain in his left side, lethargic, confused and not able to walk. I interrupt this post to comment on a few things:

My mom and dad live in Dallas, Texas.
I live in Colorado.
So I am kinda far away.
Grant was in Dallas that day for an interview. She has his cell phone.
He was complaining of pain.
In his LEFT side.
Can you say, "possible heart attack"
Or "stroke"?
I am a fan of calling 911.
Grant does NOT work as an EMS provider.
Chew, not swallow, an aspirin if you have pain in your chest or left side, people.

Luckily, my husband got to my parent's house and helped them get to the emergency room. He called me the next day and told me to come to Dallas. My mom does not do well in these emergency situations. She is really good with post-emergency care, but during the actual situation? Not so much.

So, off I trotted to Dallas and begged and borrowed time from my wonderful friends (Hi Lynn! Hi Cathy!) to help me with the kids until Grant flew back.

I spent the night with my Dad when I arrived and he tried to escape from his hospital bed about three times. Twice, the bed alarm rang. In between making sure that my Dad remained in bed and stopped pulling on his catheter (did your privates just get all scrunchy when you read that?) and trying to yank it out, I watched lots and lots of informercials.

I am convinced that infomercials are on at ungodly hours to prey on those who are tired, sick, depressed, stressed out and watching their Dad (not to mention the lovely geriatric man bits that I saw about eleventy billion times. Oh. Yuck.) while he is in the hospital. I came this close to ordering all of Cindy Crawford's face creams. I was on the ready, with my credit card, about to buy the whole set, with the FREE face serum, when the nurse came in to take my Dad's vitals. Thank you, Nurse Lady. You totally saved my life! Although, if there is a way that I could look like Cindy Crawford, that would be very nice. I mean, have you SEEN her?

Oh. Also? I want the SHAM WOW. Mainly because it is super absorbent and the guy who sells it doesn't yell at me like the other dude with the Oxi Clean.

And did you know that you can exercise for just 3 minutes a day and look amazing? I had no idea. I am totally doing this workout thing wrong. I just need to come up with 4 easy payments of $99.00 each for my new exercise machine that allows me the luxury of looking like a supermodel in 3 short minutes.

Back to my Dad...

He was released after 10 days in the hospital and is back home. With a catheter. My poor parents. So, for now, I am back and will be working on posting more regularly. Sorry about that.

So apparently, I snore. A lot. And. It's really ladylike, too.

2009-04-17T13:33:00.003-06:00

For years I have had to live with my husband's snoring. It has sent me to the couch, the guest room and the kid's room. I have been known to punch him and yell at him for keeping me up. Seriously, he has really pissed me off in the past.

A few months ago, he mentioned (all snickery like) that I was snoring. I refused to believe him. Seeing as I am all lady-like and kinda cute and I wear cute clothes and am really good at applying makeup. What an asshole. I am so sure.

While I fell asleep two nights ago, my dear, sweet (a-hole) husband decided to film me. Snoring. The video is really dark, so I am not sure I believe him. Still. It does look kinda like me. And the bed linens (see how sophisticated I am??--I say "bed linens") look eerily familiar.

You be the judge.

Snoring Lisa from Lisa Wicklund on Vimeo.

In my defense, I took an Ambien. I was really tired. The cat was in bed with us. I am pretty sure I had a cold. And Grant is a ventriloquist. And an asshole.

Don't wiggle baby teeth. They have really long roots. Really long.

2009-03-30T20:49:00.000-06:00

Phone ringing.

Me: Hello?

Dentist Office: Mrs. W?

Me: Yes?

Dentist Office: We just got Victoria's panoramic x-ray back and it looks like we need to get her in to "wiggle" two baby teeth out. They are getting in the way of the permanent teeth on either side of them and could potentially damage the roots.

Me: Woah! Well, sure. I don't want any trouble down the line. How soon do we need to do this? Is this like, an emergency "wiggle"?

DO: Well, the sooner the better. It should be a fairly easy procedure.

Now, when someone calls you from the Pediatrician or from the Pediatric Dentist and tells you that your child needs to get something removed that IS NOT A BIG DEAL, or mention the word WIGGLE, what would you think? I would think some aggressive wiggling would be going on. Also, in my 11 years of baby teeth experience, when a child loses a tooth, it looks like this:

No big deal. No roots to yank out. Okay. She'll be just fine.

Me: (continuing the call). What do I tell her? Do I just say that they need to pull two baby teeth out?

DO: OH NO! We NEVER tell them we are pulling their teeth out. That just adds too much anxiety. Just let her know that Dr. B (name changed to protect the quasi-innocent), will give her some little "happy gel" and then wiggle her teeth out. It will be an easy procedure.

Me: Okay. See you tomorrow after school!

I tell Victoria when she comes home. Using the exact language I was instructed to use to tell her what was going to happen. She looked very suspiciously at me. Gave me the total fish-eye. She wasn't buying this whole "tooth wiggling" business.

Next Day. At the Dentist Office.

They escort us back to the examination room and Dr. B comes in and shows us the panoramic x-ray and the offending baby teeth. I can see where they are growing into the roots of the others, I am starting to feel better about this. I ask what those long things are that are attached to the baby teeth, and they tell me that they are the roots. Now, how come baby teeth roots look like that? I thought they just came out with no roots. Just like little raggedy-type things at the top. I have never seen, nor delivered anything to the Tooth Fairy that had roots. I am getting just a little sweaty and nervous at this point. Victoria? She was already nervous and was shaking on the exam (electric) chair. I assured her all was fine. Grant did too. Yes, he was there with me. I needed all the moral support I could get.

The Dental assistant, was wonderful. She asked Victoria what her favorite colors were. Told her that they were going to put some "happy gel" on the gums so that the wiggling would not hurt her. She was game for that. Then, Dr. B. tells her that he is going to do some "mosquito bite juice" in her gums and that it would not hurt. It would feel just like a mosquito bite. Only, now I see that they are giving her shots in the mouth. Something that was not explained to me, since "wiggling" baby teeth with no roots, should not require shots. Right? Obviously, I am not going to pursue my career in Dental Health at this point. Enter the needle and Victoria screams. Not just says "ouch!", but screams. Her ass off. Our exam room? Directly behind the welcome desk. That door slammed shut in about a nano second. The Dr. then turns around to Victoria and says, "You need to keep it down, Victoria. You don't get to yell like that. Calm down!". Grant and I look at each other, but are trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

This Dentist lives in our neighborhood. His kids go to the same school as mine. The majority of my friends go to him, and up until now, I always liked him. We really don't want to cause problems, so we just attribute it to the possibility that maybe her scream rattled him. We are all human, right?

Dr. B continues giving her mosquito bites. She keeps crying and saying that it hurts and she is trembling like crazy. I feel so sorry for her, but I figure that eventually, her mouth will not feel any pain, due to the shots. Let's just get through this bad part and then it will all be smooth sailing. Dr. B. finally finishes with his "mosquito bite (my ass) juice" and tells Victoria that he will be back in a few minutes to give it a chance to work and then he will be ready to wiggle the teeth out. I keep looking at the teeth on the x-rays and thinking that maybe this is not going to be as easy as it seems. Nothing ever is with Victoria. I think she has extra nerves in her body. Like double what normal people have. She's a fragile flower, this one.

As we sit and wait, we tell Victoria that all will be fine. That she won't feel any pain, just pulling. To relax. We tell funny jokes and generally try to keep her calm.

Enter Dr. B. Who then tells Victoria that he is going to test the teeth to make sure that she can't feel anything. He takes some sharp-ish instrument and taps around and she confirms that she does not feel any pain when he does it. He tells her that if she needs to say something, that she is supposed to raise her hand. She agrees. In theory, of course.

Next thing I see, he is picking up a huge pair of pliers. Victoria sees them too, and starts to cry. The lovely Dental Assistant tells her that its okay and that they are just using these to make the wiggling easier. I hold her hand and stroke her leg, and the assistant says lots of soothing things to her, getting her to relax. He starts to "wiggle" and Victoria screams again and starts yelling that it hurts. The Dentist gets furious with her and tells her that she "does not get to yell at him like that" and that he had told her that if she had to say something, she is supposed to raise her hand. I tell her that she needs to relax. That this is not supposed to hurt. She insists that it does and starts wanting to get out of the chair. We explain that she has to stay put.

After a lot of discussion, we decide that we should give her some laughing gas. They explain that it will cost an additional $60.00 out of pocket. I don't care what it costs. If it is going to make this more bearable, I would have done it. As she is getting the gas mask on, she asks me if this is going to hurt, to which I tell her that no, you just breathe it in and it will make you more relaxed. Dr. B then looks at me and says, "I think it's best that I do all the talking. Not you.". I look over at Grant, and he can't even look at me. I silently tell him (the Doctor, not Grant) to Fuck Off, but again, say nothing, like the total asshole that I am becoming at this point.

He leaves us with the laughing gas to go attend to his other patients, returning 20 minutes later (which as I come to find out, is about 10 minutes too long for Victoria). He puts more "mosquito bite juice" into her mouth, as she silently sobs and tells us that she is feeling weird now. Her legs and arms are tingly and she wants to sit up. NOW! I hold her down, he plies the teeth out while she is asking (sob-crying) if he is done and that asshole won't answer her. The whole time he is pulling out these teeth and she is crying, he is telling her to be quiet. "Stop yelling! Don't talk to me like that!" WTF? She is 9, you jerk!

Finally, he is finished. I hold her and she is sobbing and I am telling her that it is alright and that it's over. I fought saying anything to him in front of her, because I did not want to further mar her experience at the Dentist with a verbal spanking on my part. We should have stopped it. I should have said that we were leaving, but we had gone so far with all the shots, that I just wanted to get it over with, rather than trying again some other time.

What kind of a doctor, who makes his living treating children, acts like that? She was obviously scared. It hurt and he did not give her enough anesthesia to block her pain. He yelled at her and I will NEVER go back to him again. Both Grant and I were so upset when we left the office, not to mention Victoria. We were mostly mad at ourselves for not having said anything to him and for not taking her out the minute he yelled at her the first time. We both talked to her about how we will never let that happen again and that no doctor will get to talk to her like that again. That none of this was her fault. That we will walk out of any place, should this ever happen again. I have never felt like such a spineless ass as I did that day. I still feel the shame stinging me to the core.

So here is a picture of the "wiggled baby (my ass) teeth". I can't believe how long the roots are! No wonder it hurt.

Next time we have any tooth pulling I have two words. Oral Surgeon.

Am in the Mountains

2009-03-12T12:45:00.004-06:00

But I have a good post coming up. I was in Dallas visiting my friends and family and got back to Colorado for two days, and off to Beaver Creek to get the kids and Grant to the slopes. Here they are, getting ready to go. I am hanging out in our condo with Chili the Wonder Dog and enjoying the peace and quiet. We went for a nearly two hour walk, and had a wonderful time. Of course, I had to pick up his body weight in poop. People are verrrry finicky about dog poop around here.

Here's my baby boy (with Chili in the background).

And my precious baby girl, looking very annoyed with me.

And the whole fam (minus me, of course).

25 Things

2009-02-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

Facebook has this tag thing where you write 25 things about yourself, send it to others and have them write 25 things about themselves and so on and so on.... I have always felt that my life is not nearly that interesting (and neither am I) enough to have 25 things to write about myself. Let's see how I do.

1. I am an only child.

2. I was born in El Paso, Texas, but we lived in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico (yes, where people now get murdered constantly). At that time, it was an ideal place to grow up.

3. My first language is Spanish. I am fluent and can speak both English and Spanish without a trace of an accent.

4. My parents divorced when I was 7.

5. I have seen my biological father once since I was 16. The last time I saw him was at his Mother's funeral and he gave me a huge hug in front of all the people at the church as if it was the most normal thing to do. I did not say a word to him and have not seen him since (7 years ago).

6. There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about my father and how much he missed out on. It has shaped my very being.

7. My Mother and I moved to Dallas when I was 10. She had no College education, spoke spotty English, became an administrative assistant in the Human Resources department of a bank and worked her way throughout the years to Sr. Vice President of Human Resources of a huge healthcare company. She is one of the most driven people I have ever met.

8. She also made me go right into a regular class, instead of an ESL (English as a Second Language) class. I peed in my pants that first day of school, because I asked if I could use the bathroom, and the teacher told me that the "restroom" was down the hall. I thought she meant that there was only a room where you "rest". Yeah. Good times. Made me TOTALLY popular.

9. My Mother remarried when I was 13. I adore my Jewish, crabby stepfather. He took me in at the irritating age of 13 and provided me with amazing opportunities and gave me so much material to make fun of in high school.

10. I was basically educated in Catholic schools all my life. I love Catholic education, but I am not a good Catholic at all.

11. Most of my best friends are from high school and college. I am so blessed to still have all these amazing women in my life.

12. I streaked down Northwest Highway in Dallas with Katey Gilligan. One of many things that we did that should have gotten us in jail or expelled.

13. I have many many friends. I have to. No siblings makes you get "out there" and form a sisterhood with girlfriends.

14. I had to go to my Junior prom with my cousin, Bob, because no one invited me. He even had to fly in from El Paso, Texas, to come to it. Don't say it. I know what you are thinking. (L-O-S-E-R)

15. My first semester at Mary Baldwin College, I made a 1.6 GPA. My second semester, I made a 1.7. My Mom threatened to pull me out and send me to secretarial school. My dad convinced her otherwise. I went on to make the Dean's List and Honor Roll the rest of my college career. I completed my studies one semester early and waited to graduate with my friends.

16. We backpacked through Europe after we graduated college and I stayed behind to bartend at the Pink Palace in Corfu, Greece. I will never regret that experience. My parents were furious. I only came home because I was offered a job at an ad agency (Tracey-Locke/DDB Needham) working on the Pepsi-Cola account. Needless to say, I made the right decision.

17. I smoked cigarettes since I was 15. I quit when my youngest was three. I still think I have lung cancer all the time.

18. I did not learn to do laundry until my Freshman year in College. My roommate, Amy, had to teach me how.

19. I still HATE doing laundry. With a purple passion.

20. I gag when I clean toilets or when I get my head anywhere near a toilet. I would make the best Bulemic. Ever.

21. My husband was my mother's boss. She introduced us, but never intended us to actually ever date, fall in love, let alone, GET MARRIED! Ooops! Sorry, Mom. Best decision I ever made.

22. I miss my friends in Dallas and in Charlotte so much, that sometimes it just hurts my heart.

23. My grandmother died 4 years ago. I think of her every single day. I often ask myself what she would think about something I am contemplating doing, and it affects many of my life decisions, big and small.

24. I love my husband beyond reason. Even though he drives me absolutely bat shit sometimes. He is the best man (other than my stepfather) that I have ever met. He is a way better person than me and has infinite patience with me.

25. I am deathly afraid of death. Like, really really really scared of it. Mostly, I worry that when my Mother dies that I will feel so alone. I just look at my children and hope that they love each other and support each other as they get older.

The wind at my face. The phlegm at my throat....

2009-02-17T16:13:00.009-07:00

I took these pictures on my phone while driving on the Interstate (because I am responsible like that), taking my adorable daughter to the doctor because she has been sick for four days now. She gave me her wonderful illness, and now I am sick, too. She's like the gift that keeps on giving. Such a sweet child.

I digress.

Check out this dog. He was so carefree and happy. He did not have to go to the doctor just to have them tell you that your daughter has a virus and no, she can't take antibiotics because they won't do any good, just keep her comfortable and at home until she gets better.

I didn't even swerve that much when I took the picture. Victoria was a little nervous, but I attribute that to her cough, sore throat and general youth. She really needs to take a chill pill. God, she's uptight.

Note dog outside window. I am distressed that he is hanging out there. Verrrry dangerous. Thinking of reporting this to SPCA, or PETA or some other kind of animal-ish type organization.

Nearing the car to take picture to send to animal-ish association. Victoria screaming in the background. FORGOD'SSAKECALMDOWN we are not going to crash.

Close-up of happy pup. Still looks a little dangerous to let him hang out of the car, no?

I think I scared him (maybe it was when I got really close while taking the picture and a little swerve-y), because he popped back in the truck like a Prairie Dog.

I heart Will Ferrell

2009-02-10T07:46:00.004-07:00

I love Will Ferrell. He could just stand there and say nothing and I would still laugh at him. I know many of you have seen this one before, but I just wanted to post it again because it is one of my all time favorite videos. I am working on a post about 25 things about me and I have been stuck at 14 for days. Guess I am not nearly as exciting as I thought I was.

Enjoy Will and Pearl and hope this puts a smile on your face. I need one right now.

The Landlord from Will Ferrell

Next time I am totally going to wear hose with no pants.

2009-02-02T07:38:00.009-07:00

Sooooooooooo. We are back from our short vacation to Scottsdale. Really it was MY short vacation because Grant was busy "networking (drinking)" with healthcare CEO's and really really important people who might offer him a job. We stayed at the Westin Kierland resort and it was verrrry lovely. On the way to the "meetings", I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was to behave, stay "in range (meaning no making fun of Grant in front of others, no cussing, no getting stinking drunk or saying anything inappropriate)". I think Grant may be Amish. Or is that Baptist? Whatever. He totally needs to loosen up. Because, usually? When I do something wrong--which is approximately every 2.5 seconds--this is the look I get.

See? But I digress. While Grant was off in meetings with the CEO's, I was getting spa treatments, room service and naps. It was delicious.

Part of the whole trip was spent at the Phoenix Open, also known as the FBR (although I have no idea what that stands for, but I think it is something like Fondling Boobies Repeatedly. I think.). In the spirit of "staying in range", I worked very hard on my outfit for this golf tournament. I Googled up the phrase "What to wear to a golf tournament". I had on a borrowed Burberry skort from my friend, Debbie. I bought a really cute light pink Lacoste collared shirt, my brown Puma's and a brown baseball cap with a little pink heart in the center. See how this all ties together? So appropriate. So Amish as it turns out, too.

My first clue that I was a little too conservative came when we pulled up to the tournament and the first person I saw was wearing a sweatshirt that barely covered her ass. Black hose. Hose. Not tights. Hose. WITH THE CONTROL TOP SHOWING. No pants. I repeat. No pants. And? High heels. Of course! Because that? Is what one wears to a golf tournament. Not a collared shirt and skorts! What the hell was I thinking? F- you, Google. You could have at least told me that I was supposed to wear hose with no pants. What the hell? I thought we were friends.

It turns out, that 99.9% of the women (I think they are girls to me, because I am officially old) wore next to nothing with stilettos, and that, in order to get in to this golf tournament, you have to be utterly and completely wasted and have enormous breasticles hanging out of your really low cut top. I am not sure why they let me in. Maybe they thought that I was with a religious group? Or on a Mission to convert others, like in third world countries? I was like Geriatric Nun Barbie.

As it turns out Miss Control Top 2009 was covered up, compared to the rest of the girls. And Grant thought he had to worry about me? Who's out of range now, Grant?

P.S. I will post pictures (although not of the tournament because they won't let you take cameras or cell phones in with you and now I know why) of some of the resort later on.

My eye is deformed and infected and my mom doesn't even care.

2009-01-20T18:35:00.006-07:00

Voicemail left to my Mom this morning:

Hi Mom. Just calling to check in. Call me when you get a chance. I am off to spin class and then to play a tennis match.

Love you!

(ring ring--calling me right back) Hello?

I am holed up in my office on the treadmill watching the Obama's Inaguration. How could you go the gym today, of all days? (Ummmm, because I am working on my last 5 pounds and I COMMITTED to our tennis league and my partner to play every Tuesday from 12:30 to 2? Plus? Tivo!) I moved my treadmill to face the television.

Mom?

What is Michelle Obama wearing?

Mom?

Would you call that gold or yellow? Why is she wearing green shoes?

Mom! I went to the Emergency Room last night.

She looks fat!

(pause)

What? Did you say Emergency Room? For the kids?

No. I went for me.

Oh my God. Really, Michelle looks fat. She should not wear hose. Bare legs are always best. She is not pale. Why is she wearing hose?

Mom! Did you hear me?

Well, yes. You told me that you went to the Emergency room, but now you are going to spin class and tennis, so I assume you are okay.

I went because I scratched my eyelid and got a terrible infection and my eye was swollen like a golf (okay, maybe more of a large marble) ball.

Who is the designer of her dress? She would look so much better if she would just stick to her sheath dresses with the cute belts. She needs to emphasize her arms and her little waist. Her butt is big and this dress looks MATRONLY (this is like the f-word for my mother).

Oooooookay. Well, I am fine. So, um, don't worry.

Are you putting this in your blog thing?

Rainbows and Unicorns

2009-01-19T18:23:00.000-07:00

moar funny pictures

How low can I go?

2009-01-13T11:44:00.008-07:00

Chili ate crayons yesterday.

Chili expelled the crayons.

Sorry. Some things just have to be shared.

Don't say I never gave you anything.

While my friend, Leigh, blogs about really important, life-saving things, I give you.....

Poo.

In technicolor.

Forgive me.

The Craptastic Duo

2009-01-11T09:13:00.005-07:00

We have 5 toilets in our house. This morning I chose to use one of these toilets, only to find it containing a lovely surprise. Oooooookay. Gross. Flush. Continue with my intention.

Decide that I need to go and see what the kids are up to upstairs. Quiet is unsettling. Their rooms are connected by a bathroom, so I walk by. Smell something. Holy crap (no, really)! Another surprise! This time, I say something.

Me: Guys? Who went to the bathroom and did not flush?

John: Victoria!

Victoria: I did not! You always blame me for everything! (insert mandatory crying here)

Sound familiar anyone?

Me: Well, I am pretty sure that I did not do this. I am also certain that the dogs, cats or snake (yes, people. My son has a corn snake and it is pretty much the best pet ever.) didn't do this. Your dad is out of town, so he is out. One of you had to do it.

Both: Well, it wasn't me (in stereo).

Oh, well. I have not had enough coffee to start a full-on investigation, so I leave it for later.

The kids and I head to the basement to clean it up. They take the play and tv area and I take the bathroom/bedroom area. You know where I am going with this, right?

Yes. There was poop in the toilet. Only this poop? It had been left there for a long time. Long enough to disintegrate in the water, leaving it a lovely mud-brown mess. Also long enough that the rim required four (four!) rounds of scrubbing. Really? I don't do toilets. Seriously. Ask anyone who knows me about how I gag (serious gagging with bile at my throat and having to walk away and breathe, just breathe for god's sake it's just a goddamn toilet, Lisa) at the thought of toilets. I would make the best bulimic person on the planet earth, because all I have to do is lean my head close to a toilet and......... but I love my food. In my stomach. Digesting. So that won't ever happen.

I was going to take a picture, but figured that I would not put all (4) of you through the grossosity (is that a word?) that are my toilets and my children.

We pay good money for these children to go to private school. We make them read every night before bed. We cut off television at a reasonable hour. We pay money for tutoring. You would think that their brain synapses would have the sense to send a signal down to their nasty little buggery-poo ridden hands to perform a simple task of FLUSHING. Apparently that is just too much for them. Poor little retarded things.

So, 3 out of 5 toilets makes it 2/3rds, right? Or is it 3/5ths? I am brilliant at the math. I am thinking of home schooling them. They won't learn anything. But, by God, they will learn to flush the damn toilet.

How to say "I am sorry" with army men (or another reason why I am a crappy mother)

2009-01-03T17:26:00.005-07:00

Me: John, I need you to come upstairs and clean up your mess.

John: Yes?

Me: I said, I need you to come upstairs and pick up your mess.

Me: John?

Me: John? (Isn't the definition of crazy doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? I thought so.)

Me: John!

John: blah blah blah, unintelligible blah blah blah. Silence.

Me: (This whole "Love and Logic" crap can bite it because now I have lost my cool and don't give a shit and I have to get my fat ass off my Mom's guest room bed and stop reading about tween vampires and yell at his ass to get upstairs. And also? He stinks, so he needs a shower. Goddammnit.) JOHN!!!!!!

John: What?! (said in a really shittty back-talky sort of way)

Me: (Go downstairs. Drag his little ass upstairs. Yell. Make him clean his mess. Yell. Make him get in the shower. Yell. Berate self for losing cool--again. Make mental note to get antidepressant prescription. Stat.)

John disappears and goes downstairs. He is quiet for a really long time. I read my tween novel. Wonder what he is up to because John+quiet=no good.

So here is what he did to apologize.

This was all done with army men. The picture is taken from the upstairs landing at my Mom's house.

P.S. He is totally forgiven.

This is just wrong. So wrong.

2008-12-19T09:46:00.010-07:00

Last year, Victoria's class had to make a Nativity scene out of whatever they had in their house. We are awash in puff balls and googly eyes, so she used that to make hers.

I had put this away with all of our Christmas decorations, and it is a little worse for the wear and kinda all squishy and sideways, but it still makes me laugh my ass clean off (I totally wish that, by the way).

These are the three kings. They look wasted. Someone

get them some coffee.

Here's Mary and Joseph. Mary is having a serious case of frizzy

hair-action.

Also, she is clearly of Nordic descent and Joseph is totally an

Indian (feather, not dot).

This is Jesus. Kinda Rudolph-y Jesus.

Oh, my God. I am going to hell.

Behold the Nativity scene in all it's glory. The angels in

the corner are totally wasted, too. The rest of the puff balls

are sheep. Or pigs. Or dogs. Can't tell.

I am going to go get my shovel and just dig myself a hole.

Call Child Protective Services!!

2008-12-10T12:56:00.002-07:00

My daughter is not:

Being beaten with a 2 x 4;
Burned with a hot poker;
Scalded by boiling water;
Stabbed;
or waterboarded.

I simply sent her to her room for being, like a total butt-head and talking back to me.

I am totally playing this if she ever wants to join the CIA (she's a sissy) or for her future husband, the poor thing.

Also, she is 9. Please note that the beginning of the video, where the camera is shaking, is me laughing my ass off. She is very well accessorized with bracelets on her right arm. She may be a little shit, but she is fashionable at all times

Waterboarding from Lisa Wicklund on Vimeo.

Oh, yeah, I also totally got a ticket while driving and smelling like pee.

2008-12-07T17:45:00.007-07:00

So, I am usually really good at getting out of tickets. Let me set the stage for all of my "near misses":

In high school, my friend Liz and I had gone to go get a ton of beer. Yep. We were underage, but those were easier times and we were really cute and Liz is super tall and blonde and beautiful and I am just really friendly and also festive. Back to the story, however... We were driving in my red convertible VW (wasn't kidding about being spoiled), beer in the backseat, ciggies in our hands, tunes blasting and shoeless, when the Police stop me because I ran through a stop sign (remember this key point as it is a recurring theme in my life). Somehow, even though we were already tipsy and we had beer in the back, the young policeman let us go. I was too tipsy to even remember what we said to him to get out of it, but I think it had something to do with the lovely and talented Liz.
In high school again. Driving in Highland Park (chi chi neighborhood in Dallas) and I run a stop sign. Most likely too busy because I was busy lighting my cigarette. I start weeping the minute the cop stops me and I tell him that my mom will kill me. Kill me. Chop me into little tiny pieces and put my mangled body in the kitchen disposal if I get a ticket. I got out of it.
In high school. I sneak the car out to go to some party. My car runs out of gas. It is 2 am. Waaaaay past my curfew. Cop sees me. Stops to help me. I only have my driver's permit, but he never asks for it. Gives me money for a gallon of gas and I go home after he helps me.
College. Driving to see my boyfriend at Washington and Lee in Virginia. Get stopped. Tell him I just started my period and am in desperate need of a gas station. Can you guess what happened? Yep. Got off.
Two years ago. Just moved to our neighborhood here in Colorado. Grant is out of town. Kids and I go see a movie and then I take them to Chili's. I partake in a lovely Top Shelf Margarita, go home. Run. A. Stop Sign. Get pulled over and plead that I am new and "totally did not see that stop sign, Sir" and I get a warning.
One year ago. Taking Victoria to the doctor, who had been up all night barfing. In my defense, I am exhausted. I run a stop sign (for God's sake) and get stopped again! He even uses his megaphone to tell me to pull over. One block from my house. I turn around and tell Victoria to look very very sick and to start coughing (don't judge, it worked). Got off.
Last Monday. Smelling like pee. Un-showered. Get stopped. Get ticket for going 11 miles over the speed limit.

I think it was the whole pee thing.

Copee

2008-12-05T14:25:00.002-07:00

We drove back from Dallas last week. The drive is about 13 hours total and we usually break it up into two segments. We drive to Amarillo. Stay at the exotic Ambassador Hotel for the night, and then get up the next day and drive again. It is long, but not nearly as painless as one may think--partly due to the wonders of Dramamine (oh, how I love you, Dramamine) for Victoria's car sickness. I would never (always) ever think of just drugging my children for sport or peace, by the way. The medicine just happens to make people verrrry sleepy and verrry quiet, therefore making the ride home lovelier than one would expect.

The week before was alternately filled with tears, laughter, smiles, hugs and awe at what friends and family will do for each other. It was a very hard week for our family. The loss of my Mother in law, was and still is, a difficult one to swallow. In the course of the week, we had a burial, a birthday party for my friend, Kristin (I think that this was party number 28--she really likes to celebrate her 40th), Thanksgiving, a Memorial service and my 40th birthday party, the night before we left. I am tired just thinking about it.

What I am getting at, is that my immune system was very much wanting to shut down. I developed a little cough and a headache, but mostly a cough.

This brings me to my next point.

I peed in my pants. In the car. Only, I did not really have any panties on because I had one of those sweatpants that have the little cotton crotch thingy, thereby rendering the use of panties somewhat repetitive. See? I had a little bit of a coughing fit, while driving, and I just peed. Just like that. All my years of Keigel (is that even how you spell that?) exercises, down the drain. Would that be called a copee, like a snee is when you sneeze and pee? Or is it a peeco? Either way, the damage was done.

The worst part of all of this is that my other clothes were sort of at the bottom and back of the car. In order to get them, I would have had to move everything around to find a clean pair of sweats. Plus, that meant that I would have to stop, go to a random gas station, unpack the car, find a clean pair of pants (difficult, at best), change in the gas station (I would have to take off my shoes--yuck!) pantiless, and then where would I put the dirty ones? Does anyone see where I am coming from? Regardless, these particular sweats are made of "wicking material" which is supposed to "wick" moisture away from your body. So, all was well. Crotchial area should dry quickly due to the advanced material of my pants. True. It totally works. Dryness was achieved.

There was just one, itty bitty setback.

I like to drive with my left leg up. As in, right leg down for pedals, etc.; one leg up with foot on the seat, leaning against the driver door. Picturing it in your mind?

Now picture it smelling like a wet diaper. For 6 hours.

Poor, poor Grant. But, don't worry about the kids. They were in the backseat. Drugged.

Quit bothering me. I will post soon.

2008-12-03T08:51:00.003-07:00

I promise that I will post something soon. Don't despair, people. Stop calling me and e-mailing me. Give me a day or two to work on uploading some pics and I will be back online. Miss you all and it was so great seeing some of you last week! I will send out an e-mail to those of you who were asking about the posting update as soon as I get it done.

Ode to Marie

2008-11-15T13:43:00.006-07:00

This post is in memory of Marie Wicklund. Mother to my husband. Grandmother to my children. Wife of my Father in law.

At 1:30 Central time today, my husband lost the matriarch of his family to cancer. Damn that disease. It pisses me off.

She had not been feeling well for quite some time. Aching all over. Appetite decreasing. Overall malaise. She went to the hospital and they found cancer in her liver. The doctors suspected that it had spread from somewhere else. After as many non-invasive tests as they could perform confirmed that she had 6 months or less to live, she decided to go home. Not two weeks later, she is gone. There was obviously more cancer in her little body than she could stand.

She was in her late 80's and lived to see her 5 children achieve both personal and professional success. She raised them through many moves around the country. Through financial ups and downs. Taught them all to be upstanding and honorable adults and excellent spouses and parents themselves. My husband says that she could stretch a dollar like no one she had ever seen. She was the quintessential Mother. Cook, maid, seamstress, laundress, doctor and psychiatrist--all rolled into one, tiny little package. Her (very large) boys were scared of her. She could open up a serious case of whup ass. No one messed with Mother. No one.

Because of her, my husband stands up when I get up from a table or come back to one. He opens doors for me. He is the consummate gentleman. I love that about him. He is so respectful and admiring of women. He says "Yes, Ma'am and No, Ma'am" and now, so do my children.

She was not raised by her own Mother, but rather by her Aunt and Grandmother. She had every reason to be cynical and cruel, considering that she was essentially abandoned by her parents, yet. Yet. She devoted herself to her children and was one of the best mothers I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

My own children loved her deeply. They tell me that they will miss her "adorable southern accent" (like, pass the buddah (butter), please) and that time that she decided that she would vote for that "nice lookin' black man, Elbamo", much to the dismay of her predominantly Republican family.

I will miss her, too. The thought of her being gone the next time I go to Dallas just absolutely breaks my heart. I got to talk to her this past Tuesday on the phone. She was asking for me. She sounded tired, yet a little upbeat to have her family surrounding her. I am so grateful to have gotten the opportunity to say goodbye--even if it was over the phone. I have lost a little bit of my heart, and so has her family.

So, at 1:30 Central Standard time, on November 15, 2008. The world changed just a little. The balance was tipped just enough to break a family's heart and yet remind us of the significance of this event and that supporting and loving one another will heal our wounds in time. Did you feel it, too?

Mimi, you will be missed by all of us. May you rest in Peace and watch us from above.

The name is Luke. Luke Skywalker.

2008-11-12T17:22:00.014-07:00

I am at war.

My enemy is fleshy and weak. Occasionally it shows itself and other times is hidden underneath layers. The color varies from sickly white to very slightly tan (but mostly sickly white due to obsession with sunscreen but that is totally for another post).

The enemy? My arms.

All of my life, I have longed for thin and muscular arms. I want a redo on this part of my body. Okay, on several parts of my body, but mainly my arms. I have fairly nice legs. My ass is a little juicier than I would like, but it is still okay in clothes. I could do without the muffin top, but that can be hidden most of the time and is not too severe to warrant an all out hatred. I even have an okay stomach. Kinda whacked from two kids but still sorta flat, too. But my arms? Oh, my arms. They are just kind of--there. I suppose if I ate less crap and drank less alcohol, I would have better arms. I gain one pound and it goes right to my arms. There have been periods where my arms look like Popeye, only with out the muscle or the tattoo. I don't do tattoos. I hate needles and can't commit to anything for too long, with the exception of my husband and my children, because I am stuck with them (and I sort of love them a lot too, but I digress).

My friend, Cathy, who arguably has the best damn arms on the planet earth, works out really hard. Plus, she has four kids and I swear that has something to do with it. She claims it is genetics combined with hard work. Really?

Okay, then I blame my Mother. But that's for another post, too.

Since I refuse to give up alcohol, sugar or white food, I am now mastering the art of looking really thin in the arm department in pictures.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Anorexic Arm Tutorial. My friend Veronica (aka Yoda of the flattering picture), is a total master of the anorexic arm. It does help that she is, well, totally skinny and already has good arms, but she still gave me a tutorial on how to give the appearance that you have skinny arms in pictures.

Behold pre-anorexic arm tutorial:

That's that bitch, Veronica, looking all skinny on the left. Completely starving-for-months-because-I-am-so-stressed-I-can't-possibly-eat-a-tiny-bite-bride in the middle, and my fat-assed, well-nourished and liquored up arm, on the right. I look about 15 pounds heavier than I actually am (no, seriously).

According to Yoda, one must angle the arm out and away from the body while the picture is being taken. You have to be careful not to angle too much, though, because you can look as if you have a dislocated arm. Oh, and also, it still looks fat (and dislocated) if not done properly and that totally defeats the purpose and you have to delete it from your digital camera right away. After 10 tequilas (just for sipping, Ana), we tried a few arm moves.

Here we are, mere students of the Anorexic Arm in mid tutorial.

Yeah. Not so much.

We're just getting started....

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Jedi Masters of the Anorexic Arm!

See? See what I mean? OMG, Lisa! Eat a sandwich! Arm not quite at dislocated angle, you might be able to see what looks like a muscle, but is really an optical illusion.

Smoke and mirrors. The story of my life.

P.S. Ana (6 foot tall goddess on the left) looks good all the time and is a bitch, too.

I will love him and pet him and name him George.

2008-11-03T16:29:00.002-07:00

I ate street corn from this lady twice. Twice. I. Ate. Street food. In Mexico. I thought for sure that I could add a tiny wittle itty bitty parasite to my innards so that I could finally lose the last 6 pounds that are HAUNTING my hips and butt. Well, also my arms, but now I am Jedi Master of the anorexic arm photograph. Thanks, Veronica. You are an excellent teacher. You are like, totally Yoda to my Luke.

Anyway, I am sad to report that not only did I not get the tapeworm. I also gained 1.5 pounds--which totally defeats the purpose of eating food off the street in hopes of getting sick.

P.S. Anorexic Arm photos and how-to post coming soon...

I interrupt Mexico posts to show you cute pics of my kids on Halloween

2008-11-03T08:43:00.005-07:00

So, as you can see, Victoria was a witch (I will refrain from commenting on how absolutely appropriate her choice was) and John was a Police/Swat guy with a really huge gun and a stocking on his head. Mostly, he sat on our front lawn, or that of our friend, Cathy's, and "shot" at people.

I was hoping to get a cute shot of them in their costumes and maybe use it for our Christmas card this year. Well.......

Not so much.

He even went rouge and used a knife to "attack" his sister. The shot I missed, right after these, is of John holding the fake knife to her throat while she was screaming. Cute.

Ahhhhhh, sibling love. There's nothing quite like it.

The road to hell is paved with cobblestones...

2008-10-31T12:19:00.004-06:00

and innapropriate footware for said cobblestones. It is also lined with waiters anxiously anticipating an order of tequila on the rocks with lots and lots of lime (it's just for sipping, Ana).

It all began at the "Wedding March" party where the entire group of 400+ met at the park, got "leied" with a little cup and was served tequila from various and sundry waiters. Some with donkeys that carried the tequila. In my defense, I was a tiny bit freaked out by the giant puppet people who were walking amongst us. I am a Mexican girl, through and through, and I felt that it would be good to have a few shots in order to calm down and get my groove on.

It went downhill from there (literally) to the Instituto de Arte Allende. We walked for about 15 minutes in a slow procession. I discovered the photographers and videographers. We totally became BFF's. No, really. B. F. F's.

Here are some pics of the first evening, where the cells quickly began the process of shriveling due to over consumption of tequila and street food.

Yes. That is a donkey butt decorated with a flower in the first picture. Also known as Mexican deodorant.

Sightseeing in San Miguel.

2008-10-31T10:02:00.002-06:00

These are images of the town of San Miguel. The town is in the interior of Mexico in the state of Guanajuato. It is breathtaking. The bouganvillia, the churches, courtyards and architecture are breathtaking. San Miguel is famous for its doors. I took a couple of pictures of doors around the town. The homes there are deceiving. Mostly, you see large walls in neutral colors with an ornate door. Behind these doors, there are these secret, lush courtyards and beautiful homes. The American population is actually very high there, as many people come to retire or live here part time. I can totally see why.

In the beginning, we were fresh.

2008-10-31T09:57:00.003-06:00

Our cells were plump upon arrival to San Miguel for the wedding festivites. The bags under my eyes were tamed. Skin looked good. Internal organs healthy. Sleep cycles intact.

I'm not dead. But my liver sure is.

2008-10-31T09:48:00.003-06:00

I have gotten some e-mails and phone calls complaining about the lack of posting. No, I am not dead. No, my life is not so boring that I don't have anything to write about. No, I am not lazy. Finally, no, I am not torturing you on purpose. Since my last post, I was busy with a thousand kid activities and getting ready to go to Mexico to Regina and Josh's wedding. The wedding was in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. It was unbelievable. Gorgeous city. Gorgeous parties. Gorgeous bride and gorgeous groom. I am not kidding. It was an amazing affair.

We were gone for 5 days without kids. I clearly need to get out more often.

I will post pictures soon. With captions. No one will be spared. And, let me tell you. There was some serious debauchery going on. Most of it by yours truly. And my new found boyfriend, tequila and lime. Sorry, Grant. You've been dumped.

Holy Dingleberry, Batman!

2008-10-13T09:47:00.007-06:00

So, see this? See this brown, pellet-like stuff on my concrete patio? It's poop. This was not here an hour ago. No. I just let Pearl out. I tried to stop her, but she just kept on walking and pooping and walking and pooping and then she had this dingleberry thing hanging out of her butt and I couldn't let her back in because it would fall on my floor and Oh, God that is gross! Plus, I have always been dying to write the word dingleberry, mainly because it irritates my husband. And anything I can do to irritate him is fun. Dingleberry.

Grant says that I am mean and that I have a cold-black heart that is three sizes too small. That may be true, but I obviously have some kind of feelings, deep, deep, deep, deep, down inside. After all, Pearl is still alive (see post titled Pearls of Poopdom, if you are a new reader--I am too retarded to link it). Not because I don't try to find ways to kill her. It's really that I don't want to get caught by Grant. And Animal Cops. Then I would be on Animal Planet, all drunk with whitening strips on my teeth (what? I have to have white teeth if I am going to be on tv), saying that I found her eating the antifreeze from the garage and I tried to stop her, but she just kept on slurping it up and I accidentally added more to her dog bowl because she looked like she was enjoying it and I really liked the purty blue color. Also, the family would be asked to leave the awesome Catholic School that we attend, because there would be complaints from the parents and Grant would lose his job and I might lose some friends along the way because they would be all judgy and Lisa is a dog killer, blah blah blah. The neighbors would likely shun us, as well. The kids might also be sad and worried about eating their Mother's cooking.

I don't ever think about just accidentally leaving her outside during the hard evening freezes, even though if she was accidentally left out there, it would be a really humane way to die (do you hear me, Grant?). I would not even think of turning on lullabies on the outdoor speakers to soothe her (bonus points for adding entertainment!) into a lovely, permanent sleep. Also, I know the coyotes are hungry this time of year so I would never, ever accidentally rub her down with bacon grease and give her an Ambien wrapped in peanut butter (thanks, Michael) and take her for a walk without a leash. Plus, my husband is a nice and upstanding citizen who worries that I might sully his reputation. Goody-goody.

No. None of these things ever cross my mind when I find poop on my porch or am awakened at 3 am to let her out and can't get back to sleep. Because I love her. Really, really really love her.

My New Hobby (Furminator Part II)

2008-10-09T08:59:00.010-06:00

So the last Furminator post, was pretty exciting--right?? Well..........Let me just let you know that I. AM. THE RULER OF ALL FURMINATORS! See this picture? That is one week. One week!!! After Grant furminated Chili on the back porch. Can you say shitty job, Grant?

I furminated (is that even a verb?) him, lying down (the dog, not me--although that might be pretty interesting and I might have to try it in the future. Better angles, perhaps?) inside the house. I live on the edge. Adrenaline is my friend. So is my vacuum cleaner.

I am waaaaaaay better at this than my man is. I am pretty much better at everything (except for things that require strength, following directions, simple addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, making money, being nice to people, having patience, fixing stuff, skiing, raquetball, scooping dog poop, yardwork, growing and maintaining living plants, writing, playing musical instruments, parking my car, having high intelligence-but that's all).

I think this time, I am going to join last week's hair with this weeks hair (yes, I still have the other batch--don't judge me) and maybe make some kind of new line of clothing. Or artwork!! Kinda like that lady that uses dryer lint to make things. They call her the Lint Lady. I can be called the Dog Hair Lady (you need to google her because I can't figure out how to link to her). Only I would live in Colorado. In my nice house. Dress really cute. Wear deodorant and perfume. And my children would be embarrassed. But that's okay. Because it would be unique. And I would be recycling a virtually renewable resource. Everyone wins!

I just need to figure out how to get the telltale "barnyard scent" out of his hair. It smells a little like a neglected, feral pony.

Somebody call animal control before I actually take off with this idea.

Why do I even bother?

2008-10-06T08:10:00.009-06:00

So when I saw this in my pot, I was all I NEED TO GO GET A MAMMOGRAM SOON. AND MAYBE VISIT A TANNING BED.

I seriously did not plan this at all. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and I now have something to contribute to it.

All I did was boil some eggs.

See what happens when I try to cook?

BIG WHITE BOOB EGGS.

I give up.

P.S. The egg totally peed itself.

Hostage Negotiation

2008-10-05T12:21:00.003-06:00

I have had some phone calls inquiring as to Victoria's whereabouts. My brother in law, Michael, does not believe that she made it alive post ass whoopin'.

Here is the proof.

Satisfied?

Now send me the Ambien or she loses a finger.

Now I am totally going to open a can of whup ass...

2008-10-01T13:16:00.004-06:00

I stayed home today to do massive amounts of laundry. Yes, my life is glamorous and I live like a rock star. I went around to all the beds, took sheets off, picked up the various laundry hampers, because my perfect children and husband ALWAYS put their clothes away and if they are dirty they go directly into the laundry hampers. We are perfect that way. Don't be jealous. It's just the way it is here. My mothering skills are beyond reproach and my skills as a homemaker are A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. I have taught my children well.

As I was cleaning out Victoria's bed and putting fresh and delicious sheets on her bed (washed with love and not an ounce of bitterness that my imaginary housekeeper wasn't the one doing it), I saw something peek out from under her bed. It looked like a dirty sock. Such a tiny oversight on her little part. As I bent down to retrieve it I saw, what to my amazement looked like the entire contents of her closet, dirty and stuffed under her bed.

Here it is. Pulled out from under her bed. Waiting for her to get home from school.

Pray for her.

The Furminator

2008-09-29T16:44:00.007-06:00

So, I love all kinds of grooming tools. Tweezers, eyelash curlers, whitening strips, brushes, hair dryers--you get the gist.

This is what my new favorite grooming tool did to my 110 lb German Shepherd--otherwise known as the best dog in the world...

Can you believe it?

We are thinking of making a pillow out of this.

Or at least a really small smelly mattress for our cat.

*****UPDATE******

I totally don't use this myself. It is strictly for dogs and cats.

*****ANOTHER UPDATE***********

My cat won't let me use it on him.

********LAST UPDATE**********

I totally won't use this on myself, cuz my hair is falling out all on it's own.

Predator vs Prey

2008-09-23T18:26:00.006-06:00

I hate Tweety Bird.

Words cannot describe how much I hate him. Or is it a her? Either way. I can't stand that eunuch. When I was a little girl, I learned how to speak English watching Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner shows. I remember how distressed I would be for poor Sylvester, and for that matter--THE COYOTE! The poor things! They never, ever got their guy. Sylvester tried and tried to get Tweety, but somehow, that stupid bird always found a way to get away from him. That damn old granny used to unwittingly save him from danger over and over again. I would hear "I tawt I taw a puddy tat! I did! I did tee a puddy tat!" and it would make my skin crawl. For that matter, to this day, the injustice that Wile.E. Coyote experienced still upsets me. I mean, how much money did that poor creature spend on useless ACME products? Was he up watching late-night infomercials? Did he get them in four easy payments? I suppose it was just my heightened sense of justice that caused me (still does) such grief while watching these shows. To me, it was like watching a train wreck every Saturday. I would alternately weep with delight and pleasure. Hoping that, just once, the Coyote and Sylvester would eat, digest and defecate out their prey.

Does anyone else remember Sesame Street (another show that helped me with the English language) when everyone accused Big Bird of making up Snuffalufagus? Every time poor Big Bird would be hanging out with "Snuffy", he would tell him to stay put so he could go and introduce him to Oscar, the Count and all the other S.S. gang and when he would return with them, that f*ing Snuffy would be gone. Oscar would be all I'M GOING BACK TO MY TRASHCAN BEYOTCH and the Count would be all TWELVE, TWELVE LIES THAT BIG BIRD HAS TOLD! If I was Big Bird (being huge and with giant poultry death claws), I would have kicked Snuffy's ass and hung him out to dry. That hairy elephant- thing pissed me off. Clearly, I still harbor ill feelings for him. My guess, however, is that Sesame Street wised up and that I was not alone. Now ALL of them hang out with Snuffy. I wonder, did anyone ever apologize to Big Bird for not believing him? I can't decide whether Big Bird is a big pussy for letting Snuffy get away with this or if he is just a bigger person--um pituitary gland-challenged super yellow not found on any barn animal poultry creature--than the rest of us for forgiving all of them.

Shit. I should have payed more attention in church this weekend.

That, and I need a life.

Ventriloquist Priest

2008-09-21T16:59:00.005-06:00

Am I the only Catholic that hates to go to church? I swear, I think of the best excuses for missing Mass every. single. Sunday. If I could just put these powers to good use, I might actually make something of myself.

While my husband was at a funeral this weekend in Houston, I decided it was time to take the kids to Mass. They go once a week, since they go to Catholic school and they HAVE to. (This is one of the excuses that I use on a frequent basis.) The church went through a multi million dollar renovation that was completed last May. I have not yet seen it. I know, I am going to hell. My friend, Sheila always makes a "digging" motion when I start talking trash about people--indicating that I am well on my way.

Curiosity got the best of me and I told the kids that we were going to Mass. I swear they looked at me like I had just offered to share my crack pipe with them (I didn't--I keep that ALL to myself, thankyouverymuch). After their initial bewilderment, they got really excited and off we went!

The church is magnificent. The money was well spent. Very impressive.

The service? Not so much. For a long time, I kept wondering where the priest and the altar servers had gone to. I sat 6 rows from the front of the altar and I could hear them talk, but they were not up there. I was all AM I HALLUCINATING? DOES THAT GIANT WHITE MARBLE JESUS HAVE SPEAKERS INSTALLED? HAVE THEY CHANGED THE MASS THAT MUCH SINCE I HAVE BEEN ABSENT? DID I MISS SOME PAPAL BULL THAT MASS IS NOW SAID FROM SOME SORT OF PRESS BOX? Seriously. They were not there. The altar? Bare. I missed out on a great deal of the mass worrying about the Priest's location.

Apparently, during the multi million dollar renovation, they added a little alcove, stage left, where the Priest hangs out and says the mass. It took me 35 minutes to figure this out. I looked over to the right of the altar and there they were! Everyone else seemed okay with this. Totally unsurprised. Maybe when they unveiled the church, they told everyone the reason for this. I guess I should have gone sooner.

Although I love the idea of the Catholic Mass, there are some things that churches have changed that I just can't stand. For one thing, why must I hold hands with strangers while saying the Lord's Prayer? When did this become standard issue? Oooooooh! I HATE holding hands with strangers! It gives me the willies. Where have those hands been? Eeeeeeew. I don't like introducing myself to my neighbors either. It feels so forced. They also had us "bless" some people in the front and put our hands out all Das Feurer and Heil Hitler-ish and I refused to do it.

In rebellion to all of this, I gave my kids a peace "nuggie" instead of a hug and a kiss. It felt more appropriate since I missed the whole message of the Mass (which was probably something to do with loving your children or going to church every Sunday) while looking for invisible Priests.

Peace Out.

When all else fails...

2008-09-18T14:22:00.003-06:00

This is what good Mothers do when they know their limitations.

Note the skirt hem.

Now note the staples.

I = Genius.

Proof of Residence

2008-09-15T14:55:00.003-06:00

Today I became an official resident of Colorado. I know you're all "but I thought she had already been living there for two years" (I am slow), but the truth is that I have been clutching on to my Texas Drivers License for over 10 years now. I love myself in that picture. I am so young and so blonde and my lipstick! is sooooo red. I took that picture while I was just barely pregnant with Victoria and it holds special memories for me.

I don't even look like that anymore. I wonder how that happened. Sometimes, people at the airport will give me the fish-eye and keep looking from the picture on my license to me and back again. I want to tell them that I understand that the picture bears only a resemblance to me, but I have been through so much since then. I have had a second child, gone through numerous surgeries with John. I have lost my beloved Grandmother and a wonderful dog. I have moved from the awesome state of Texas to North Carolina, where I fell in love with one of my favorite families in the whole world. I have had my heart ripped in two, seeing my children cry inconsolably when we moved to Colorado and were no longer living next door to the best neighbors a person could ever ask for. I made it through living in a temporary apartment with two kids, two dogs, a snake, two cats and two unbelievable blizzards that stranded us there. I have been forced to make new friends, and thank God I have managed to do that.

So, now my hair is longer, I cover the gray and the color is truer than before. My lipstick is more subtle and there are a few more wrinkles around my eyes--and I like it.

I want to tell the people who look at that picture that, despite the change in appearance, I am good. Better than good. We are healthy. We are happy. I am in love with my husband and my children. And, despite the fact that I miss Dallas and all my family and friends there, I love it here, too.

Welcome to Colorado, Lisa.

Walking the Plank

2008-09-15T08:17:00.002-06:00

My poor baby went to school today looking like she was ready for the executioner. Send her good vibes today so that she makes it through the week with no calling and having a good time.

Dr. Amanda

2008-09-14T09:41:00.007-06:00

Some of you may already know, but for those of you who don't, Victoria is having some anxiety issues at school and calls me every day after math (9:30 am) crying incomprehensibly. Telling me to pick her up from school (at least that is what I think she says--hard to understand with all the crybabble--is that even a word?).

On Friday, otherwise referred to as The Day Mom Lost Her Shit, she called me as I was sitting in the hair colorist chair with foil on my hair (looking like a lovely antenna gone haywire). I saw it was the school on the caller i.d. screen but I stupidly answered it anyway. After all, what if it was John this time? Same crying. Same "stomachache". Same "come and get me". I informed her that a) she was NOT sick; b) I was not leaving the hair color place with my hair in foil, not to mention that I would ruin my hair; and c) that she had better think twice, because if I went to pick her up she would face certain grounding.

She chose to go home.

I lost my shit when I picked her up (see above reference to shit). (I waited until we got in the car to do it.)

Of course, she was not sick. Of course, I should have not picked her up. The only reason why I did was because she was so mortified at having to go back to her classroom that she preferred to make me mad, rather than make the "walk of shame" back to class and have to cop the truth. That she was fine.

So, she is grounded from television and from computers until she goes the whole week without calling.

Enter Dr. Amanda.

My friend, Mickie and her kids came over to hang out last night. Amanda, age 9, is Victoria's very good friend. They went to sleep away camp together for the first time this summer, they have frequent sleep-overs and are like two peas in a pod.

Apparently, as Mickie and I were enjoying our wine (too much, I might add), the girls were commiserating on Victoria's plight.

About an two hours into the visit, they came in and Amanda had me sit on one side of her and Victoria on the other. Here's how it went down:

Amanda: Victoria and Ms Lisa, come and sit down and talk to Dr. Amanda.

Me: snicker

Victoria: giggle

Dr. Amanda: Tell me Victoria, were you really sick yesterday?

Victoria: Yes. Really sick.

Dr. Amanda: Ms. Lisa, why don't you believe her?

Me: Because, she has done this every day at the same time and seems to have no trouble eating.

Dr. Amanda: Hmmmmm. Victoria, do you feel that your Mom does not care about you or give you enough attention when you are sick?

**I stop this post to highlight the fact that this "counseling session" is skewed.**

Victoria: Sometimes.

Dr. Amanda: Ms. Lisa, how does this make you feel?

Me: Like another glass of wine.

I see a television show in Dr. Amanda's future.

My daughter? Two words: Reality. Television.

Me? Betty Ford Clinic.

P.S. Dr. Amanda on the right in the picture above.

Brain Fart

2008-09-11T12:27:00.002-06:00

I usually only carpool with my friend, Cathy, in the afternoons. She is the amazing mother of 4 kids and every once in a while, she will ask me to take her two oldest boys to school if her husband, Joe can't do it.

Johnny, her youngest boy, was running a little late this morning. I could see Cathy in her pink bathrobe, rushing to get him dressed and getting his backpack on while we waited in the driveway. He was clearly upset when we got in the car, so I thought of a fun game to play.

What shape is your brain?

Will, Cathy's oldest is OBSESSED with football. Specifically Notre Dame football. So we all decided his brain was in the shape of a football with Notre Dame tattooed onto it. Duh.

Johnny (aka Mister Upset) had a brain the shape of either a chocolate chip cookie or a brownie.

Victoria's brain is in the shape of a soccer ball.

John (my John)'s brain is in the shape of a Pokemon trading card.

When asked what shape my brain was in John said "a shoe!". And then someone piped up from the back and said "a wine bottle!". See a pattern here?

Is that bad, by the way?

Oh Snap

2008-09-10T20:42:00.002-06:00

Mom, you know how you are all inappropriate all the time?

What on earth are you talking about, John? (Oh, shit.)

Well, you say inappropriate things all the time.

Like what? (Oh, shit.)

Like, you taught us to say "doodie bubble" and "dingleberry". Daddy would have NEVER taught us that. And what about when you gave Victoria a titty twister and Dad got really mad at you and said that you were out of range?

(Oh, shit.) What does this all relate to, John?

Well, I have good news! Father Andrew said that "hell" is not a bad word.

Birds, Bees and Bubbles

2008-09-09T21:12:00.004-06:00

What is it about kids these days? How, in the advanced-hell, did they end up knowing so much? This thirst of knowledge that they have is something to behold.

I remember being 9 1/2. I was in 4th grade and all I was interested in was going to the roller skating rink, wearing my "Luv-It" jeans with the hot pink satin piping and the hot pink and green satin roller skates on the back pocket and making sure that my feathers were well hair sprayed so as not to be disturbed as I made my way around and around the rink, giggling at the boys. My comb that stuck out of my pocket said "Dangerous Curves"--giving new meaning to antithesis.

My Mother used to leave me at Josey Skateland in Richardson, Texas, every Saturday afternoon for HOURS. Alone. Gawd. I was truly the shit back then. I always had enough money to get a giant dill pickle and a huge "suicide". Remember those? Pssst. Pssst. Pssst. Pssst. Coke. Dr. Pepper. Sprite. Fanta. OMG. I loved that. I was shallow (some things still remain from those heady days). I had cool clothes and cool skates. What else do you need in life? But, I digress.

Victoria: Mom, you have to tell me how babies get made. Really. You are sending me to sleep away camp for a whole week and John already knows.

Me: God puts them there.

Victoria: glares

Me: Really, Victoria. I thought we were just going to go to the liquor store together (don't judge). I need to get some wine for the party.

Victoria: Mom. You promised you would tell me about the baby stuff. Pleeeeaaassssssssssssse!

Me: Here? In the parking lot of Bubbles (name of said fab liquor store).

Victoria: Here.

Me: You sure? It's kinda advanced, you know.

Victoria: Mom, I am in 4th grade now. (duh)

Me: Okay. Well.........Mom and Dad get married..........love each other...........excited............gets hard.......eggs.........sperm...............Wham! And that's how babies are made. (A little more detail WAS provided, but young people read this.)

Victoria: silence

Me: sweating.

Victoria: Well, I think we just had a special bonding moment there (patting me on the shoulder). Right here in the parking lot of the liquor store. Wait till I tell Dad where you told me.

Me: So what? I told John on I-25 when he was coming home from the doctor with the flu.

Location, location, location.

Farticus

2008-09-09T18:39:00.005-06:00

Dear John,

I find you to be devastatingly beautiful for a little boy. Maybe you are not so little now. You are 11. I am sad that you are growing and that you are becoming less and less a little boy and more and more a young man.

You still hold my hand and I can occasionally get you to sit on my lap (all 100lbs of you). You tell me daily that you love me and you sleep with stuffed animals.

You still have sweet little blonde fuzz on your arms and legs and when I wake you up in the morning you still smell like warm milk mixed with cinnamon. I love the scent of you. Most of the time.

This afternoon, in the car, has caused my nasal passages irreparable harm. How on earth can something so beautiful emit such noxious fumes? The car still smells and it has been hours.

The EPA called. They want their clean air back.

Bow Chicka Wow Wow

2008-09-08T18:17:00.002-06:00

Some early evening cat porn for you.

Cue the cheesy music...

"Bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow".

Baby Flu

2008-09-07T19:41:00.003-06:00

I don't know what it is about turning 40. Are my shriveled eggs screaming at me? Saying, "Use me now!! I am melting! Melting, I tell you!!" (Flying monkeys, notwithstanding.) I am dying for one more itty bitty, teeny weeny, wittle baby. My friend, Kat, had a baby a couple of months ago, and she is so delicious. I got to hold her this weekend, and instead of satisfying my desire, it just made me want another one. Bad. Damn it!

There is just one tiny hitch in my plan. My husband. He was "fixed" around 10 months after my daughter was born. Factory closed. Now only an amusement park. Will absolutely NOT consider reversing anything (which is a good thing, considering his propensity for "complications" from all kinds of surgeries, medications, etc.). Oh, well.

Poor baby would not be able to keep up with my lushes in the making anyway...

WTF

2008-09-03T20:25:00.002-06:00

Sarah Palin?

Huh?

Am confused. Deeply confused.

Why?

*****Update******

I just saw the speech she gave at the RNC (on Perez Hilton's website no less) and am feeling better. Maybe there is something to be said for a strong woman to stand behind the Prez. I am still not 100% convinced, but I am working through this. That being said, I will now bow out of any more political statements as this is supposed to be a TOTALLY SHALLOW blog (see above reference to Perez Hilton).

I am off to Vail for some fun and my big boy's last day as a 10 year old. I will post while I am there!

Ciao!

Lordy, Lordy. Today I am 40!

2008-09-01T07:45:00.006-06:00

Yipes! I am 40 years old today. I talked to Grant last night and told him that I could not believe that I am this age. Middle Age. I always thought that the old dude was Grant. Not me. I am supposed to stay 25 FOREVER while my husband is the one that keeps on aging (Dorian Gray, do you hear me?). At least that is how I feel. Until the damn mirror says otherwise. (Caution to anyone close to my age: DO NOT, under any circumstances, look on the magnifying side of a mirror. 7x magnification is not a good thing. Just go with me on this one.)

I took a shower and checked my bod this morning, like I always do. I did the usual "manual lifting" of the butt (are my hands getting smaller or is my butt getting bigger?), placing it where it used to be and where it should be. I pulled my thighs in to make them look thinner. Same with the triceps area--helloooooooo, batwings! I checked for any odd hairs growing in odd places--none, so far (thank gawd). I fluffed my hair after drying it with my new hairdryer and checked the scalp for new gray hair growth (sadly, yes). I think it may be time to sprint (with mandatory butt jiggling) past the mirror and get dressed in my closet. After all, "da nile" is not just a river.

Ba donka donk.

Pearls of Poopdom

2008-08-31T13:10:00.006-06:00

This is our dog, Pearl. Those of you who know me well, know that Pearl is not exactly my favorite pet in the world. On top of having ZERO personality, Pearl is kind enough to share many wonderful things with us, as a token of her deep and abiding love.

I frequently wake up in the middle of the night, to her feral screams to go outside. No, not to go to the bathroom, but rather, to go check on whatever area of the yard she is currently digging in. You know, just to make sure that the hole is still there, along with whatever dead animal carcass she has buried there to save for later (like 2 am, for instance).

There is also her absolute refusal to poop on anything other than cold, hard surfaces. We have a lovely and large front and backyard with plenty of grass. Does she go there like a normal dog? Noooooooooooo. Her poo is deposited on our front porch, back porch, driveway (resulting in frequent pancake poops with tire tracks going through them--making it REAL easy to scrape up and leaving my car smelling like a traveling toilet) and patio. Fun times.

She poaches my other dog's food constantly, making it so I have to watch them both eat until they are through and play food police.

Her indoor pooping capabilities are legendary. Her stomach is very sensitive. If she eats anything but her specific, super-expensive dog food, she gets sick (see above reference to carcasses). She prefers to spread the wealth when going indoors. Providing hours of fun going room to room (but only on our expensive rugs--she has verrrrry good taste), locating said poo and cleaning it up.

The kicker is that she killed a hummingbird. She. Killed. A Hummingbird. I love hummingbirds. I do not like Pearl.

But Pearl is old. Too old to give away and too old to teach her anything new.

When I find her like this, a little part of me gets excited. Maybe this is it for her? Has she finally gone to the great dog kennel in the sky?

But then she moves, gets up, goes outside and takes a dump by the backdoor.

Dangerous Bling

2008-08-27T08:39:00.005-06:00

My Mom could not come to Colorado to visit me and celebrate my big (40) birthday with me. Work and other matters are keeping her in Dallas.

She sent something else in her stead, and I just have to share it with you. See these bracelets? They are from Hermes. Hermes! Hermes! Something about those orange boxes with the brown logo, just kills me.

They are F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S! I will wear them all the time. I swear.

Upon opening them, Victoria (aka the Bad Seed), asked if she could have them when I die.

If someone finds me unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, look for her.

Wearing these bracelets.

Slow Ride, Take it Easy...

2008-08-26T20:14:00.007-06:00

You, sir. You with the Obama stickers all over your Prius. I am talking to you.

You, who made me late to my tennis match this morning. Remember me riding your bumper the whole way up the road? (Sorry, Grant.) Yes, that was me. In the black Acura MDX, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and spewing obscenities under my breath. Right behind you the whole way. I know that you have gay pride. I am right with you, brother. Happy for all kinds of love. Go rainbows! And unicorns!

I, too, envision "whirlled peas". It would be nice for us all. Let's "coexist". I respect everyones beliefs as well. Your sticker with the "Impeach Bush" was also a lovely one. I share the same sentiments. Can't say that I am totally behind you on your choice of music. I tend to go more 80's and disco and some good ol' rock and roll. Obscure bands are really not my style.

Overall, however, I felt it all. Like almost kindred spirits. Close. Oh, so close.

I only wonder, why, if we shared so many things, could you not have also shared my desire, nay, desperation, at going just a bit faster. Perhaps the speed limit of 45 was just too much for you?

25. Is. Not. Cool.

Welcome to Denver, Democrats.

Now speed the hell up, will ya?

Recycle Hell

2008-08-25T17:56:00.006-06:00

I am working on "green-ness" (are you reading this KK?). See below:

curly cue light bulbs that make your skin color look like puke: check

Shaklee cleaning products that are good for the environment but have no scent whatsoever: check

washing clothes in cold water even if they don't get out all the stains: check

turning all lights off if we are not in the room: check

purchasing all organic products (cha ching!) : check

using canvas bags at the grocery store: check

planning all driving trips to conserve gasoline: check

Recycling seems to be somewhat of an issue.

I think, that if you want to encourage people to recycle and conserve energy, you should pick it up more frequently and not have to have light bulbs that make your skin look like puke and sound like high pitched sirens when you turn them on.

Just a thought, people.

Sneaky Seventeen Year Old

2008-08-23T11:01:00.005-06:00

A few weeks ago, my brother and sister-in-law and niece and nephew, came to stay with us for a couple of weeks. They live in London, and we had a great time seeing them.

Prior to their arrival, I went to Costco (I love you, Costco.) to buy two cases of Diet Dr. Pepper and Fresca along with many other staples. About 4 days into their visit, we noticed that almost all the Dr. Pepper was gone. We launched a formal inquiry amongst the children and, not surprisingly, NO ONE had had more than one a day. Hmmmmmm. This was looking shadier by the minute.

We let said "formal inquiry" go (too much trouble and we we probably were drinking at this point) and purchased even more sodas, but this time we adults were ON TOP of the situation. Monitoring every last drop that entered the children's mouths.

The day after they left, Grant went down to the bedroom which was occupied by my nephew (Ryan, are you reading this?), to straighten up and look what he found in the bed side table drawer when he opened it.

Mystery solved.

An Open Letter to the Olympics

2008-08-23T08:43:00.003-06:00

Dear Olympics,

I have enjoyed you daily (hourly) now for nearly two weeks. I missed your opening ceremonies because I had to go to a black tie event, so maybe I keep watching you obsessively due to guilt. I stood and yelled and did cheers for Michael Phelps. I wondered aloud as to how his suit stayed on, despite his record-breaking swims. I watched gymnastics until I thought my eyes would dry up. I yelled at the Chinese people for having 5 year-olds compete (16,my ass!). I watched almost every sport on every channel (Curling on TNT, anyone?). Now I am tired. I am tired of staying up until midnight watching random sports. I am tired of crying every time the American National Anthem is played (people, I am a Mexican girl and I love this country). I am tired of getting up in the morning with puffy eyes and a new little wrinkle. You have overstayed your welcome and it is time for you to leave.

Go away now. Please.

Love,

Lisa

Too Soon

2008-08-22T12:52:00.002-06:00

It has started!!! My phone rings and I see the kid's school name come up on caller ID. For a brief moment, I toyed with the idea of not answering it, because I KNEW what faced me at the other end of the line. Sho' nuff, it is John calling to tell me he has twisted his ankle on the very. first. week. of school.

I tell him to ice it and call me back in 10 minutes.

Ring, ring...

Hello?

Hi, Mom. You asked me to call you in 10 minutes.

Okay. Did you ice it like I told you to?

Yes.

Can you walk on it?

Yes, but it hurts.

Is it swollen?

I don't know.

Well, can you look?

No.

Why?

Because my shoe is on the other foot and I can't see it.

Can you take your shoe off?

My feet stink.

I'm coming to get you.

Bottels of Wine

2008-08-22T11:33:00.007-06:00

Victoria e-mails me all the time (she is 9 1/2 years old). This was a recent e-mail from when I went to a friend's birthday party on the night that she went to the "before school picnic" to find out what class she was in. Please excuse the grammatical errors, as she is going into 4th grade. Let's hope that the tuition we are forking out, pays off...

dear mom you might not get this message today??? i hope your having a great time! you probably are! i cant wait intill your here! i got mrs. darling! i was kind of dispointed! but then i thought about it it dosent matter what teacher you get! and on the bright side i'm getting a locker! i wish i could know how you get your locker! john told me that you pick a color star and you raise your hand and you pick a locker! but thats in mrs.reiners class! love you! victoria

p.s. how many bottels of wine did you drink???!!!!!!!

grammatical errors: countless

cuteness level: extremely high

content: average

the fact that your daughter knows that you are a lush: priceless

Bearly Capable

2008-08-22T09:45:00.004-06:00

Victoria: Mom, where is Dad?

Me: At work. Why?

Victoria: I need for him to sew up this bear. His insides are falling out.

Me: I can sew it for you.

Victoria: You don't know how.

Me: Victoria, I can TOTALLY sew that up for you!

Victoria: He will look like Frankenbear.

Me: No, he won't. Give me the bear.

Victoria: (Bringing me the workout shirt that I recently sewed up.)

When does Dad come home?

Nunkle

2008-08-21T18:42:00.005-06:00

I have always said that my feet are the best part of my (whole) body. The toes go from bigger to smaller, they are very well shaped and have no corns or any other weirdnesses (is that even a word?). You may think you are looking at two different people's feet (with the same fab Cajun Shrimp pedicure from OPI), but you would be mistaken. The right foot does not belong to Shrek. It is my swollen, ugly foot. Why can't the swelling just stay in the calf, where the injury occured? Why must my right ankle look just like Sister Rose Helene's ankles at St. Monica Catholic School? She scared me. Boo.

Please Stop

2008-08-21T18:26:00.003-06:00

John wants his Dad to stop smoking cigars, so he employed some serious guilt-inducing cuteness to get his point across. This is about as useful as me asking him to stop riding his motorcycle.

Seriously, is that not the sweetest note ever?

I Can't Get No....

2008-08-20T10:40:00.000-06:00

Satisfaction.

My kids went back to school full time today. John is in 5th grade and Victoria is in 4th. For the time being, I am happy with the peace and quiet in my house and the fact that I now have more free time to get things done. Except for the fact that I am LAID UP IN BED, all of this sounds good, in theory.

I foresee (I am clairvoyant) homework struggles, increase in alcohol consumption by the parental units, and early bedtime complaints in my future. I call it atonement for getting 7 full, kid-free hours...

Down and Out

2008-08-20T08:50:00.002-06:00

I think I tore a little of my calf muscle on Monday night. I was losing miserably in tennis and went for a drop shot and literally went down to my knees in pain. I forfeited the game and hobbled up to drink 2 glasses of wine (completely necessary, given my condition), ice my leg, and take my children home. Yes, I drove after two VERY lilliputian-sized glasses of wine, with my children in the back seat. Gasp. I proceeded to drive home with my injured right leg (I am talented that way) and down a VERY large glass of wine and put the kids to bed, all before my husband got home from a business dinner. I stopped short of bringing home the bacon and frying it up in the pan, but only due to my injury.

My husband, who is not a doctor, but has earned an honorary degree off of University of Online Medical Journals, has put me on bed rest and ordered me to keep icing and compressing and elevating my leg. He has hidden all of the pain pills in the house, knowing how fond I am of them. Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a hard time sitting still. As I perused the internet (for the 83rd time this morning), I noticed the large number of people who blog. Some for fun, some for a living. So here goes my attempt at beating boredom and staying away from the kitchen. Enjoy my ramblings...