God, grant me the serenity to:
1. Not murder my family (individually or as a group) at any point during our seven hour car ride this weekend.
2. Resist the urge to throw them over Niagara Falls when we get there on Sunday. Note to self: leave barrel at home.
3. Remember that not every hotel has to be The Ritz, especially in the furthest reaches of Upstate New York, or wherever the heck in Canada we are going.
4. Go a little easy on the border guards, even though I really want to yell, "Watch it, my six-year-olds have box cutters and they're not afraid to use them"! Recognize that is just sour grapes over having to pay $800 to get passports. FOR KINDERGARTENERS.
5. Really, God, you're going to want to pay attention to point #1. Seriously.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Dusty. Foggy.
I'll be back. No, seriously. I don't know what my problem is with maintaining a blog. Fear of commitment? Maybe. Lazy? Probably. A brain that doesn't really fire anymore? Snap! If there is anyone out there, I'll give you ten dollars to give me some way to motivate myself. Actually, I won't give you ten dollars at all. If you come to my house I'll give you a cocktail, but ten dollars is unlikely. Ten dollars worth of cocktails you'll get, but not actual cash money. And you won't get that much in cocktails if you're dull. Or shabbily dressed. Or if you just bug me overall. See why I don't have many friends?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Roots Rock
So, I'm thinking of breaking up with my highlights. You know, the streaky artificial color that a woman at a salon pours onto my head every now and again so that I will look youthful and vivacious. I have come to accept that I am no longer youthful, and never in my life have I ever been vivacious. Inside, I am vivacious, but outwardly, kind of a dullard, and my hair's not gonna change that. If only people could meet my insides. Oooo, that sounded kind of gross.
Anyway, I am just tired of the expense, the extra time spent in the salon (again, I ask you: why do people have to talk so damn much? Jabber, jabber, jabber at the salon. Have you ever noticed?) and plus, I just forget to go, and end up with massive dark roots before I even know it. I guess that last bit could be solved if I took a moment to look in the mirror before leaving the house each day, but frankly sometimes I just don't get to it. I like being attractive, but not if it's going to complicate my life.
It has been some time since I have had the highlights done, and my darker roots are getting aggressive. Snarky, you might say. I have come up with an idea to tame them, though. I bring my hair straight back from the front and put it in a barrett at the back of my head. The dark roots are less noticeable. Unfortunately, the grey hairs at my forehead are however completely exposed. Also, I now look like Laurie Partridge. If you do not know who that is, you probably do not yet need highlights. You might want them, but you probably do not need them. You do, however, need to find another blog to read. Ba Bye.
My other concern is this: eventually I will give up the highlights anyway, so why not make it a bit less obvious by doing it now? I mean, if I give it up now, I'll go grey naturally and gradually. Eventually I will go completely grey, but it will happen over time, and I will look elegant. If I highlight until I'm 70, then stop, it will happen all at once, and people will think I am dying. Where is the upside to that? Of course, by 70, I may well be dying, so it could up the sympathy factor significantly, which could add to the drama, thus proving worthwhile.... But what if I'm not dying at 70 and only end up looking crappy even though I am healthy as a horse? Do you understand my struggle now? My husband laughs when I try to explain this to him, but he hasn't had a hair on his head in years, so he doesn't have the highlight dilemma, lucky bastard.
I've done this before. I've tried to break-up. It's gone ok for awhile, but then we'll get an invitation to a big party, or my high school reunion comes up (word to the wise: don't go. More later.) and I lose my resolve. I go crawling right back to my girl, feeling like Rocky in the corner, saying "Cut me, Mick". It's like my highlights are some guy from college that I knew was bad for me but I just couldn't resist. I'd swear him off, Sunday through Thursday, thinking never again would I give in. Then Thursday night would roll around, and twelve cigarettes and three pitchers of beer later I'd be tiptoeing past his roomates to do the Walk of Shame.
God, that sounds like fun.
Anyway, I am just tired of the expense, the extra time spent in the salon (again, I ask you: why do people have to talk so damn much? Jabber, jabber, jabber at the salon. Have you ever noticed?) and plus, I just forget to go, and end up with massive dark roots before I even know it. I guess that last bit could be solved if I took a moment to look in the mirror before leaving the house each day, but frankly sometimes I just don't get to it. I like being attractive, but not if it's going to complicate my life.
It has been some time since I have had the highlights done, and my darker roots are getting aggressive. Snarky, you might say. I have come up with an idea to tame them, though. I bring my hair straight back from the front and put it in a barrett at the back of my head. The dark roots are less noticeable. Unfortunately, the grey hairs at my forehead are however completely exposed. Also, I now look like Laurie Partridge. If you do not know who that is, you probably do not yet need highlights. You might want them, but you probably do not need them. You do, however, need to find another blog to read. Ba Bye.
My other concern is this: eventually I will give up the highlights anyway, so why not make it a bit less obvious by doing it now? I mean, if I give it up now, I'll go grey naturally and gradually. Eventually I will go completely grey, but it will happen over time, and I will look elegant. If I highlight until I'm 70, then stop, it will happen all at once, and people will think I am dying. Where is the upside to that? Of course, by 70, I may well be dying, so it could up the sympathy factor significantly, which could add to the drama, thus proving worthwhile.... But what if I'm not dying at 70 and only end up looking crappy even though I am healthy as a horse? Do you understand my struggle now? My husband laughs when I try to explain this to him, but he hasn't had a hair on his head in years, so he doesn't have the highlight dilemma, lucky bastard.
I've done this before. I've tried to break-up. It's gone ok for awhile, but then we'll get an invitation to a big party, or my high school reunion comes up (word to the wise: don't go. More later.) and I lose my resolve. I go crawling right back to my girl, feeling like Rocky in the corner, saying "Cut me, Mick". It's like my highlights are some guy from college that I knew was bad for me but I just couldn't resist. I'd swear him off, Sunday through Thursday, thinking never again would I give in. Then Thursday night would roll around, and twelve cigarettes and three pitchers of beer later I'd be tiptoeing past his roomates to do the Walk of Shame.
God, that sounds like fun.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Zzzz...
Remember when I said I started a new blog because I wanted to write about things other than my children? And remember the last time I posted, which was about two weeks ago but really more like three? What does this all add up to?
It all adds up to me having nothing interesting to say. Now, while I fervently hope for Rush Limbaugh to come to the same level of self-discovery that I have, it really bums me out to find it true for myself. Seriously, I am an empty shell. Zero going on upstairs. Nothing to add to public discourse (really, Rush, take my cue).
Here are a few things I considered posting about. I dare you to stay awake til the end.
1. I fought like a champ, but finally succumbed and am now hooked on American Idol. Again. BORING. Can you write about anything other than reality TV, Denise? Really.
2. My son has been talking about monster trucks since the moment his little eyes snapped opened this morning. All day, non-stop. He is six years old and seems to be some sort of monster truck savant. There's just not much more to say on that. It's cute in a disturbing sort of way, but not enough to fill a page. I see those eyelids drooping, by the way.
3. Sometimes I wish I was gay just so I could go out with Rachel Maddow. How cool is she? Seriously, I think about this alot. Not enough to switch sides, but enough that you probably think I'm weird now. But really, think about it: she's cute, she's funny, seems nice, plus she's like whip-smart. She's my dream girl. Guy. Girl.
4. Conversely, I am really considering leaving my husband for Clive Owen. Are you kidding me, with him? There just aren't words for that kinda smoke.
5. Everyone needs to read "The Shack". Run, don't walk. Run. I mean it.
See? Dull, right? I know. I think it's some kind of SUPER EARLY mid-life crisis (except that Clive Owen bit. I am totally serious about him). Also, I am desperate for a new hairstyle. Can't you see? I am crying out for help! Oh, that reminds me -- "Sober House" reruns are on tonight!
It all adds up to me having nothing interesting to say. Now, while I fervently hope for Rush Limbaugh to come to the same level of self-discovery that I have, it really bums me out to find it true for myself. Seriously, I am an empty shell. Zero going on upstairs. Nothing to add to public discourse (really, Rush, take my cue).
Here are a few things I considered posting about. I dare you to stay awake til the end.
1. I fought like a champ, but finally succumbed and am now hooked on American Idol. Again. BORING. Can you write about anything other than reality TV, Denise? Really.
2. My son has been talking about monster trucks since the moment his little eyes snapped opened this morning. All day, non-stop. He is six years old and seems to be some sort of monster truck savant. There's just not much more to say on that. It's cute in a disturbing sort of way, but not enough to fill a page. I see those eyelids drooping, by the way.
3. Sometimes I wish I was gay just so I could go out with Rachel Maddow. How cool is she? Seriously, I think about this alot. Not enough to switch sides, but enough that you probably think I'm weird now. But really, think about it: she's cute, she's funny, seems nice, plus she's like whip-smart. She's my dream girl. Guy. Girl.
4. Conversely, I am really considering leaving my husband for Clive Owen. Are you kidding me, with him? There just aren't words for that kinda smoke.
5. Everyone needs to read "The Shack". Run, don't walk. Run. I mean it.
See? Dull, right? I know. I think it's some kind of SUPER EARLY mid-life crisis (except that Clive Owen bit. I am totally serious about him). Also, I am desperate for a new hairstyle. Can't you see? I am crying out for help! Oh, that reminds me -- "Sober House" reruns are on tonight!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Hang On While I Sputter...
1. Why do those Girl Scouts only come around once a year? YUM!
2. Am planning a road trip to Niagra Falls!! How corny/kitschy/funny is that? I'm serious -- we're going!
3. Enough with the Suze Orman chick, am I right?
4. LOVE Sweet Honey in the Rock. One more reason why Michelle Obama is cool.
5. Would love to write more but am on my way to Petco; their chimps are on sale.
2. Am planning a road trip to Niagra Falls!! How corny/kitschy/funny is that? I'm serious -- we're going!
3. Enough with the Suze Orman chick, am I right?
4. LOVE Sweet Honey in the Rock. One more reason why Michelle Obama is cool.
5. Would love to write more but am on my way to Petco; their chimps are on sale.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
New and Less-Than-Exciting
Ok, just a few things:
1. I'm thinking that my ideal part-time job might be working in a funeral home. Sounds creepy at first, I know. I'm not talking about being an embalmer or anything, though. I want to be one of those people who just opens the door, says "Good evening, Mrs. Bates or Dr. Fecalmatter? Viewing room two, just to your left." You get to wear a nice outfit, you don't have to be very friendly, and all you really have to do is point out the restrooms and give directions to the church for tomorrow's service. I am loaded with experience, having just wrapped up -- I hope-- my decade of death (two parents and a brother in ten years means I know my way around a funeral. Call me if, god forbid, you need tips on throwing a good one). Plus I have lots of suits and nice shoes.
2. I really can't decide if I like A&E's "Intervention" or VH1's "Sober House" better. Either way, I come off smelling like a rose, because I may be a little nutty and somewhat less than pulled together, but those freaks are messed up. I LOVE THEM! They make me feel so good about me. AND, just when you thought life couldn't get any better, "Real Housewives of New York City" is coming back. What did I do to deserve this?
3. I need to pimp this ride and don't know a thing about it. I can't even remember how to add a blogroll or put my email in a sidebar. Does anyone know a good blog design site that won't cost me a fortune, or some simple way to liven up my blog, OR, better yet, some hot young thing that could come to my house and fix my blog maybe with his shirt off? What? It's possible....
4. The following things are of urgent concern to me this week: Pakistan kickin' it with the Taliban; Nancy Pelosi messing with my man Barack, who p.s. is left-handed, which I just think is adorable on a guy; the lack of truly cute pajamas in the world; my desperation for facial, given the state of my pores.
5. I need a makeover. I need Stacy and Clinton to show me how to dress, because now I don't dress as much as cover myself. I need that little Irish guy to give me some kind of a hairstyle, because I have none. The makeup girl I am not so sure about because she goes by only one name. Get over yourself, sister. It barely worked for Dido. It does seem to work for Adele, though, doesn't it? Forgot about her....
6. I wonder if I'll ever move past posting in lists, and get on to having something substantive and coherent to say? Probably not.
1. I'm thinking that my ideal part-time job might be working in a funeral home. Sounds creepy at first, I know. I'm not talking about being an embalmer or anything, though. I want to be one of those people who just opens the door, says "Good evening, Mrs. Bates or Dr. Fecalmatter? Viewing room two, just to your left." You get to wear a nice outfit, you don't have to be very friendly, and all you really have to do is point out the restrooms and give directions to the church for tomorrow's service. I am loaded with experience, having just wrapped up -- I hope-- my decade of death (two parents and a brother in ten years means I know my way around a funeral. Call me if, god forbid, you need tips on throwing a good one). Plus I have lots of suits and nice shoes.
2. I really can't decide if I like A&E's "Intervention" or VH1's "Sober House" better. Either way, I come off smelling like a rose, because I may be a little nutty and somewhat less than pulled together, but those freaks are messed up. I LOVE THEM! They make me feel so good about me. AND, just when you thought life couldn't get any better, "Real Housewives of New York City" is coming back. What did I do to deserve this?
3. I need to pimp this ride and don't know a thing about it. I can't even remember how to add a blogroll or put my email in a sidebar. Does anyone know a good blog design site that won't cost me a fortune, or some simple way to liven up my blog, OR, better yet, some hot young thing that could come to my house and fix my blog maybe with his shirt off? What? It's possible....
4. The following things are of urgent concern to me this week: Pakistan kickin' it with the Taliban; Nancy Pelosi messing with my man Barack, who p.s. is left-handed, which I just think is adorable on a guy; the lack of truly cute pajamas in the world; my desperation for facial, given the state of my pores.
5. I need a makeover. I need Stacy and Clinton to show me how to dress, because now I don't dress as much as cover myself. I need that little Irish guy to give me some kind of a hairstyle, because I have none. The makeup girl I am not so sure about because she goes by only one name. Get over yourself, sister. It barely worked for Dido. It does seem to work for Adele, though, doesn't it? Forgot about her....
6. I wonder if I'll ever move past posting in lists, and get on to having something substantive and coherent to say? Probably not.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Try and Stay Awake
My husband and I are done.
No, no, no, we're not divorcing or anything remotely as dramatic as that. Really, he's a peach. I couldn't ask for anyone sweeter or, God knows, more understanding of my particular particularities. Or peculiarities. And they ARE peculiar, believe you me.
We are just done. We're finished with one another.
There is simply no longer anything that we need to discuss. We know what the other has done at the end of every day, so there seems to be no need to re-hash. It's really a drag, because when he comes home from work we have a cocktail together before dinner, and now that we have nothing left to talk about, basically we just drink and look at each other. Frankly, it's dull. At least there's the booze.
I mean, how many times does he want to hear about time-outs? Seriously. Teaching how to tie shoes? A sale on freezer waffles? Drama in the Daisy troop? I think not.
For a while things were good. We got alot of mileage out of the election, then we went straight into the holidays, so lots to discuss there, then the innaguration and holy cow what will she wear? But that's all over now, and we're back to staring at each other over the rim of a nicely chilled martini glass. Dullsville.
A few weeks ago I thought I would just make stuff up. You know, embellish my day. I considered sharing sordid details of a neighbor caught in an adulterous affair, or maybe a relative (his) fired for embezzlement. At the end of the day, though, I was just too tired (plus thirsty) to keep up the charade.
I'm thinking that I really need a little job.
No, no, no, we're not divorcing or anything remotely as dramatic as that. Really, he's a peach. I couldn't ask for anyone sweeter or, God knows, more understanding of my particular particularities. Or peculiarities. And they ARE peculiar, believe you me.
We are just done. We're finished with one another.
There is simply no longer anything that we need to discuss. We know what the other has done at the end of every day, so there seems to be no need to re-hash. It's really a drag, because when he comes home from work we have a cocktail together before dinner, and now that we have nothing left to talk about, basically we just drink and look at each other. Frankly, it's dull. At least there's the booze.
I mean, how many times does he want to hear about time-outs? Seriously. Teaching how to tie shoes? A sale on freezer waffles? Drama in the Daisy troop? I think not.
For a while things were good. We got alot of mileage out of the election, then we went straight into the holidays, so lots to discuss there, then the innaguration and holy cow what will she wear? But that's all over now, and we're back to staring at each other over the rim of a nicely chilled martini glass. Dullsville.
A few weeks ago I thought I would just make stuff up. You know, embellish my day. I considered sharing sordid details of a neighbor caught in an adulterous affair, or maybe a relative (his) fired for embezzlement. At the end of the day, though, I was just too tired (plus thirsty) to keep up the charade.
I'm thinking that I really need a little job.
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