Random Shizzle

Fly’s In The Buttermilk, Do Not Shoo! Fly On The Wall!

WELCOME to a Fly on the Wall group post! Today 14 bloggers are inviting you to catch a glimpse of what you’d see if you were a fly on the wall in our homes.

Fly on the Wall

Come on in and buzz around my house (SCROLL DOWN), see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:

Baking In A Tornado
Just a Little Nutty
Follow me home . . .
Stacy Sews and Schools
The Sadder But Wiser Girl
Menopausal Mother
Moore Organized Mayhem
The Insomniac’s Dream
The Momisodes
Spatulas on Parade
Searching for Sanity
The Rowdy Baker
Writer B is Me
Sorry kid, Your Mom Doesn’t Play Well With Others

*A FLY ON THE WALL – TELIHO STYLE*

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The actual conversation (if it indeed qualifies as such) that occurred this morning on the way to school. Myself and my two boys. To makes things easier (and protect the obnoxious), I’ll use their nicknames, D-man (9yo) and Cheesy (6yo):

D-Man: I HATE school. I can’t believe I have to go back to that awful place. I HATE third grade.

ME: I know it’s tough, buddy, but you can do it. Just hang in there. Things will seem bet–

D-Man: –I talked to this older kid and he said he hated third grade the most. He said it sucked out of all the grades.

ME: What older kid?

Cheesy: Do rabbits have penises?

ME: What? Wait, D, what older kid did you talk to? How old?

D-Man: Thirteen.

ME: Where on Earth are you talking to thirteen year olds?

Cheesy: MOM! Do rabbits have penises?

D-man:  On Xbox. Hey, did I tell you my dream about the robot?

ME: Yes!

D-man: I already told you about my dream?

ME: No. Rabbits have penises.

Cheesy: And balls? *lots of giggles from the back seat*

ME: *sigh* Yes, if they are boys.

D-Man: So this giant robot made of Minecraft brick comes crashing out of the ocean….

Cheesy: Does Milo have balls? (our dog)

ME: Well, uh, he did. I mean, yeah. But he’s neutered. *immediate regret* rewind rewind rewind

D-Man: ….and then he twirls this snowman monster thing over his head….

Cheesy: He’s noonered! What does THAT mean?!

ME: It’s an operation dogs have so they can’t make puppies. please Lord get me out of this

D-Man: …..smashes this grey pile of ash that sprays up and blows the robot’s head off……

Cheesy: I thought only girls made babies?

ME: Cheesy, I can’t do the birds and the bees right now. Let’s tal—

Cheesy: BEES HAVE PENISES TOO?!?!

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I’m home alone about 10AM. Kids are in school. Hubs calls.

ME: Yes? How may I help you?

HIM: Whatareyoudoing?

ME: On the computer. Whatareyoudoing?

HIM: I called to give you a couple reminders.

ME: Great. You know how much I like that.

HIM: I thought you might. I need you to be sure and take the ipad mini back today and see if they can replace it. The boys can’t be playing on it with that crack in the screen.

ME: Uh-huh.

HIM: And it would be great if you returned that hat to the party store before someone ruins it.

ME: Yep. That would be great.

HIM: And while you’re out, you should take your car to that place I told you about and get the oil changed because they’ll also wash it for you and your car is disgusting.

ME: My car is fine.

HIM: Your car is awful, Beth. Are you going to do any of those things?

ME: I will only commit to putting them on my list.

HIM: Your list.

ME: Yup.

HIM: And you’re going to put oil change on your list?

ME: Probably not.

HIM: Why? I don’t understand what the problem is…

ME: You know I hate going to the oil change place. I designated that a man job long ago.

HIM:

ME: I find it very sexy when you do man jobs.

HIM: Reeeealllly. Well, now we’re talkin’. (I can actually hear him smiling)

ME: *eye roll* it’s so damn easy

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It’s past bedtime. The 6yo comes downstairs with what appears to be glitter and a piece of paper and approaches me at the couch. I’m limp with fatigue,  and no longer care if anyone is in jammies or has brushed their teeth. I have deferred to daddy and am attempting to escape reality by engrossing myself in Twitter and Facebook a book on orbital mechanics. Yet here is a child in my face with craft supplies.

6yo: Mommy. Mommy. You know that thing where you put glitter on the paper and shake it off and it makes dots?

ME: Uh-huh.

6yo: Can we do that?

ME: Absolutely not.

6yo: Whhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?????

ME: What do you mean why? You’re supposed to be in bed, young man. It’s late. And we don’t even have glue.

6yo: Yes we do. *disappears around corner*

He’s out of sight, therefore, officially out of my mind. This is a bad thing, because approximately 11 minutes later, Dad calls from upstairs wondering where the 6yo is. It’s about this time that I realize glitter boy is sweeping the kitchen.

You’re smart people. You know my child spilled glitter everywhere. But what I need to explain to you is this was not ordinary glitter. This was *special* fine-as-powder-fairy-dust glitter that I bought for a specific teacher craft last year, WHICH IS WHY IT WAS HIDDEN UPSTAIRS IN MY OFFICE WHERE HE GOT IT, THE LITTLE BURGLAR. You can’t even tell any is missing from the vial, yet it is every-fricken-where. No, really. You don’t understand. I can’t envision a scenario where this glitter will not be a part of our house for the rest of our lives.

But, let me tell you something. His glitter picture? AWESOME.

Sticks and Stones aren’t Shit Compared to Words.

A lovely, insightful comment on my last post got the ole noodle crankin’, and you know what happens next: I have to write it or it won’t leave my head.

Growing up, my room was right across from my mom’s and I could hear everything she said. Under the same societal pressures to be “perfect” we all are, she was always frustrated with her weight, a perpetual dieter. She never met an exercise craze she didn’t try, but I do remember the emphasis being more on weight than fitness. When she was getting ready I would hear her mumble (or sometimes yell) things like:

“I’m too fat and ugly to wear this in public.”

“I’m such a fat cow.”

“My ass looks like a bull-dozer in these pants.”

We’ve all done it. It’s just crap you say when you’re frustrated, tossing that third pair of *shrunken* jeans across the room.

Of course, when a young girl hears her mother say things like that, her mother who she thinks is beautiful and perfect, she does one thing:

She adopts that same self-criticism.

Her words became my inner dialogue, and my weight became my measurement of self-worth. It’s vicious and ugly to hear those things in your head. It stops you in your tracks. I had zero awareness of body issues and – in an instant – became so hyper sensitive to them I remember skipping school because I thought my body was unacceptable. I was a size 8. But I was curvy. I hated my curves and saw them as fat. I wanted to look like those no-booby-stick girls that walk the runway, because yeah, on top of everything else, this was the 80’s and I had media pressure to be a waif.

I remember once my mom joking and saying it looked like I had gained 10 pounds over the summer.

BLAM!

That stung. I was twelve, so my zoom lens on a comment like that was about 1,000X. That began the era of giant shirts to hide my body. The takeaway: never make an inference IN ANY WAY to a young girl’s weight.

Between girls being nasty to me in school, and the pressure to find a place, any-freakin-place, to fit in, I didn’t have a chance in hell. Not when I started out-of-the-gate with such negative inner dialogue and a horrible self-image.

*I just wish someone had warned her*

That’s why I wrote this. Because my mom had no idea her words were doing damage. She would never want that.

All of us make mistakes. Hell, I’ll probably make four today. But if this post reaches even one person who might be saying these types of things within earshot of a youngin’, whether it be about their nose, their value on this earth, or their weight….well, that would be everything.

**Happy ending. It took  thirty twenty a handful of years and the Frankenstein of patch jobs, but my self-image is intact and healthy. Oh, I still hear the negative voices. The difference is now, I don’t believe them. I have perspective on what true beauty is. And my diet and exercise goals are based on fitness and feeling comfortable more than a size on a tag. My therapist probably drives a Range Rover to her lake house, but who cares, right? Thank God for therapy.

What about you? Do you remember hearing anyone talk like that when you were little? How did it make you feel? Was weight, beauty, or perfection over-emphasized in your house? Please share. I value and look forward to your comments!

Night Of The Menage Attack

So I went to a party over the weekend at a neighbor’s house down the street. I sat in the backyard for the first half of the evening with a friend, sipping drinks and enjoying the cool breeze. The hubs was with me for the first hour or so, but for the part of the story in question he was at home getting beauty sleep since he’s ambitious and does things on weekends like triathlons. Weirdo.

Anyway, at some point I wandered inside to the host’s dining room – I honestly can’t recall why – and walked up on two women sitting there. One was a little slumped over, clearly had had too much to drink. The other woman seemed totally fine.

The first thing I noticed about the sober one was she was pretty. Not the giant, silicone cans – too much makeup – Beverly Hills type, but the tall – thin – naturally beautiful type. The kind of woman I expect to a) be uppity and b) ignore my presence. But, she surprised me by immediately reaching out a hand to introduce herself. She had a firm handshake, in case you’re wondering, which is a huge deal to me. I hate limp willie handshakes. Anyway, she was chatty and warm, asked about my kids, how I knew the host, etc. etc.  As I was leaving the room, I heard her murmur, “She’s so sweet,” referring to me. Hmm. I like this gal.

Later in the evening I ran into her again in the kitchen. She was excited to see me and greeted me with an enthusiastic, “Hiii!” We yammered about this-and-that, about how her dress was from Target, (she’s frugal and down-to-earth. love her!) when she began interjecting things like, “you’re so beautiful,” and “you’re so pretty.” I’m not one to take compliments well, so I blushed and stammered, but at the same time I’m thinking, this chic is my new BFF! I’m already envisioning how great it would be to take her shopping:

ME: How does this outfit look?

BFF: It’s perfect. You’re beautiful. You look like Kate-Frickin-Moss in everything.

ME: Should I get bangs?

BFF: No, you’re perfect the way your are. But if you do you would rock them cuz you’re stunning no matter what.

ME: You’re the bestest bestie evah!

BFF: No YOU are!

ME: No YOU are!

(ahem) That wasn’t pretty. Look away.

She then introduced me to her husband who was planted on a barstool. He was very nice and also had a firm handshake. He reached over saying I had something on my face only to gently swipe the side of my nose. We laughed. I got the joke. He was poking fun at the stud in my nose. It was a little chummy that he TOUCHED MY FACE and I’d known him all of 7 seconds, but his wife was showering me with flattery so I let it slide. I’m shallow cool like that.

She complimented my top, she oozed over my children, saying how handsome they were and they must get their looks from mommy…..

and then IT happened.

New BFF to her husband: “Honey, isn’t she beautiful?”  “Isn’t she cute?”  “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Whoa. *takes new BFF off speed dial* Why is she saying this stuff to her husband? Why is she asking HIM?

This. Just. Got. Awkward.

I mean, what’s he supposed to say? You don’t ask your husband if another woman is pretty in front of said woman……unless….unless….

No. It couldn’t be. That’s preposterous. But what if it’s not? Holy Shit Balls. Are they into Menages? My mind instantly went to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend calls his bluff and wants to have a 3-way with him and her friend, but he can’t bring him self to do it. It’s hilarious, but now I’m starting to relate to it on a whole new level. One I do not appreciate. I glanced at the husband. He was smiling at me all, cat-that-ate-the-girl-from-the-party.

So this morning when we woke up in bed, they were all, that was HOT.

KIDDING. But if you’re into that sort of thing and you just got a visual, you’re welcome.

I understand I could be way off base. She could be totally secure with herself, and obviously her marriage, and was being genuinely sweet. Maybe I’m just not used to that behavior so I read it wrong. Perhaps she had had more to drink that I thought. Maybe she just found me irresistibly adorable. I mean, who doesn’t? Probably.

Or….what if my gut was right? What if they sought me out like some sort of prey, and I was on the menu? Sweat beaded my forehead as I began to panic. What if they corner me in the bathroom? What do I do? I mean, I can’t go through with it, but I did really want to go shopping with her….holy orgy, Batman….

….what do I do?…..

….how do I get out of this?…..

SALVATION

in the form of a tired 9yo who was ready to go home. YES, SWEET BABY JESUS, MOMMY WILL TAKE YOU HOME RIGHT NOW. And thank you, precious child, for ending my night and thus a very uncomfortable situation to explain to your father.

I waved bye to my EX-BFF, thanked the hosts for their lovely party-con-love-triangle, and went home.

So now I ask YOU: Was that strange behavior or am I being a total nut-case? I’m soooo looking forward to your comments!

Editors note: I was going to title this post, I Think She Wants My Boobies, because the last few days a lot of attention has gone to balls via my last post, and I’m nothing if not fair. But then I was like, what if that looks like I’m trying too hard to put stuff like boobs and balls in my titles? And if I were, is that so bad? Anyway, I obviously ended up going with another title, but I want the record to show that I was even steven in my representation of all things round and hangy. Thank you.

We Interrupt This Broadcast — Leroy, WTF?

If you’re a follower to my blog, you might be asking yourself right now, WTF? Am I on the right site? Rest easy. I just changed themes. I got blog envy and decided to spruce things up a bit. I know, risky move, but I’m a young blog so I figured better now than later, right? This is THE ONE though. I won’t switch things up on ya again. Welcome to my new home. Settle in. Take your shoes off. Of course you can put your feet on the coffee table. Here’s a cheese plate. Wine? Certainly. Red okay?

Now back to our regularly scheduled program…

I was thinking the other day how cars fit our personalities. Not everyone’s I guess, but most people’s. Some choices are purely practical and based on needs. Others pick cars based on how they picture themselves, e.g. rugged and outdoorsy, or efficient, or sporty. Some are chosen based on how you want to be perceived. You pick your color, interior, engine size, 2wd/4wd, SUV, Sedan, hybrid, foreign, domestic, new, used…we all have our fit. And more importantly, they almost all have names.

The first car I ever drove was a purple VW Bug. It had sparkles in the paint and a moon roof. It was FREAKIN’ AWESOME. It was technically my dad’s car – on loan to him through the dealership he worked at or something like that, so I only drove it for about four months during my senior year of HS, but DANG it was cool. I named it Beethoven because I was a nerd and loved classical music it deserved a bad-ass name.

After HS, I borrowed $1,000 from my Grandma and bought a used, yellow VW rabbit named Wolfgang. I drove that car into the ground – until it had to be towed away about three years later. There were a handful of junkers in my twenties that got me from class to class, and waitress job to waitress job, but they’re hardly worth mentioning. A mirror of the state of my life at the time. Then I met this cute guy who liked to take me to hockey games and tolerated my eight three cats. Not long into our relationship I acquired a red Jeep Cherokee named, aptly, Redman – this name chosen for the Redman tobacco my Grandpa used to chew.

Then I graduated college and married that cute guy. The first car I got to buy NEW and pick out all on my own was a silver 4-runner. I liked it because it reminded me of an elephant. Even the side view mirrors were huge like ears. I named it Modoc after, well, Modoc: The true story of the greatest elephant that ever lived, by Ralph Helfer. Over the years (and two kids) Modoc got handed down to my hubs and now I’m driving a black Sequoya that he picked out. Even though I didn’t choose it, I knew the Universe assigned it to me when I saw the license plate. Hand to God, the last three letters are WTF. What are the odds? How perfect is that? This SUV is big, mean, and named Leroy Brown, after the Jim Croce song of the same name. Why? Because he’s the baddest man in the whole damn town; badder than old King Kong, meaner than a junkyard dog.

What is your car? What was your thought process buying it? How is it like you, or not like you? Most important: what is its name?? I LOVE hearing from you!

A Stitch in Time…or however the hell that goes…

So I’m supposed to be having this stellar writing day. The kids are back in school (happy dance!) and now I can be one of those mythological creatures: a *productive writer*. I have so many things on my writing to-do list it resembles a page from a phone book: everything from posting (this counts), to working on smaller writing projects, to editing my novel (haven’t even cracked it open and it’s nearing 2:00), and a slew of non-writing to-do’s.

I thought – no brainer. Kids are gone by 8:00. I’ll dabble online, finish a few little things, work on a short story, then lunch, then edit for 3 solid hours.

That
did
not
happen.

Where did the time go? Did I really just lose an entire day? I answered emails and tweets, made a few tweaks to my blog, and all the sudden it’s well past lunchtime! And I think I ate – but I’m not really sure – it’s all sort of hazy. There’s a blop of dried salsa on my sock and chip remnants near the couch. What kind of lunch is that? OH GOD, What else did I eat?

My sink is full, my laundry’s overflowing, I haven’t showered, the dog isn’t walked, and I’ve accomplished no errands. I’VE HAD ALL DAY. Oh, crap, I just realized I forgot (again) to take something out for dinner. Meat can thaw in an afternoon, right? I’m good, I’m good.

The takeaway here is NOT that mass amounts of salsa results in chin acne (but it does), it’s that I need a schedule. (you thought I was gonna say a shower, didn’t you?) Yes. A new, bright, shiny writing schedule. I can’t fall into the abyss of emails and tweets for 3 hours anymore. And editing is my priority – it HAS to come FIRST.

Okay, ready gang? Tomorrow – PRODUCTIVE WRITER: Take 2!

Do you have a writing schedule that helps you stay on task? If so, PLEASE SHARE!

**Why didn’t you remind me to take the meat out! I still haven’t done it. Honestly, you are no help sometimes…

No wig needed – I’ve got mascara

If you’ve been to this blog before you’ve probably seen one or two photos of me floating around somewhere. THEY’RE ME. I swear. That’s something I’ve actually had to say to my family.

I think they look exactly like me. I’m mean, it’s frickin’ ME. I turned the cell phone around and snapped the photos myself – that’s how I know it’s not an imposter. That’s also why it shocked me when my husband AND CHILDREN repeatedly swore the photos didn’t look like me.

uh…how am I supposed to take that?

After hearing my husband say it again, I had to ask him: in what way do they not look like me? Like, they are pretty photos and I’m a barker in real life? Or, they are awful and I’m prettier than that? Or, they are weird and not a representation of me at all? WTF?

He said, “You look sexy. You have on lipstick and stuff.”

ME: “Oh” *puzzle pieces click* “You mean I usually don’t look that made up?”

HIM: “Not really. If you have a bra on in that photo…that would pretty much be our wedding day.”

Well shit. I realize I’m a low-maintenance, crunchy granola type gal, but it’s more than a little disconcerting to know I could disappear into the witness protection program with a little mascara. I mean, I put no effort into those photos.

No really. I took my hair out of a ponytail and put on tinted chapstick. And my children think it looks like someone else. Some other lady.

ahem. Perhaps I should put more effort into my everyday appearance.

*braids hair* *climbs into tree house* Nah.
tree-house-5264768

Happy Birthday, Sweetie…

TODAY is my husband’s birthday. That poses more problems that you would think. It’s very hard to buy for him. Why? Because he shops for himself so damn much he has freaking everything. He is a deal-hound with shopping tenacity that beats me down to NO end.

I. Don’t. Shop.

THAT IS WHY when he told me last week specifically what he wanted: the brand, the size, color, and where to buy it, I said, “done and done!”

FRIDAY, I took the Chaos Elves into a store (this is ill advised) and we picked out several of these *special* workout shirts for him per his very specific instructions. We were in/out in ten minutes. Frickin’ brilliant.

PLEASE recall this was Friday, after a week of being home with the elves for five days – 11 hours a day – and it was now evening and I’m wondering where my husband is at 7:00, starving-because-he’s-supposed-to-be-picking-up-our-food, when I get this text:
(mine are in green)

photo

A) Yes. Those shirts he’s asking me about are precisely the ones he told me to buy for him. AND he’s out shopping when he should be home. With food.
B) Note that my needs have heavily prioritized to food at this point.
C) I am very cranky when I get hungry.
D) We have been together 17 years. How has this man not learned when it is time to feed me?
E) You’re right, that was a harsh word to say to my husband on his birthday weekend. He’s such a great man, really. Okay, I take back “Duh”.
EFF!) It took me 17 times to get this text photo to upload right. I said bad words. I hope I get more tech-savvy soon.

What are YOU reading?

It amazes me how I can spend half an hour pouring over book jackets, paying special attention to editorial reviews and five-star ratings….blah, blah, blah….only to finally narrow down what I think is THE book, read it, and end up disappointed. Not horribly disappointed; just not WOWED.

I WANT TO BE WOWED.

Don’t we all? I want to have what I heard my friend refer to as a book hangover when I’m done reading it. I want to miss the characters…bad. I want to be bummed as hell it’s over.

It occurred to me that almost every single book I’ve ever LOVED was a referral. I don’t think I ever just picked up a book at random that ended up being on my “I freaking love this book” list. I guess I just SUCK IT at picking out awesomeness. (friends and husbands excluded)

-SO-

What are YOU reading right now? Please comment and share with me…