Someone Buys That Crap After All

Whenever I'm in line at the grocery store, I often pass the time and make myself feel better by checking out what the person in front of me is buying. I know it could be considered an invasion of privacy, but it's not like I'm taking pictures of their stuff and the temptation to judge is impossible to resist. They stand there clutching a stack of coupons, their purchases evenly spread out on the conveyor belt and besides, what else am I supposed to do? Strike up a conversation about the weather?

Me: "Gee, it's really cold outside. Completely sucks ass."

Weird person buying Hostess Fruit Pies: "Yeah."

There are almost always a few items that get my attention and answer the question, "Who the hell buys this crap?" Sometimes it's an obscene amount of white bread, corned beef hash, those weird little fruit drinks that they sell in the produce department, Hungry Man dinners, olive loaf, pork rinds, or ten cans of Spam. Rarely, though, is it ever a complete freak show from one plastic divider to the next, which is what made yesterday so special.

I ran in for romaine and bananas, stepped into the line for 15 items or less, and instead of glaring at the woman in the process of buying 28 cans of chicken noodle soup, I couldn't take my eyes off of the four packages of beef marrow bones. And the three cans of generic cream of mushroom soup. And the 12-pack of grocery store 3.2 beer. When she told the cashier that she also needed to buy two packs of Marlboro Lights and I got a whiff of her quilted coat, I started to wonder what her house smells like, or, after she cooks the marrow bones, will smell like. And did you know that cigarettes are now almost $6.00 a pack?

If someone told me that they saw a crazy, chain-smoking, check-writing old lady wearing a hot pink stocking hat buying eight pounds of beef marrow bones, I wouldn't believe them, because although we've all seen the bones in the meat department, no on actually buys them, right?

That's why I took a picture:

Ten New Rights For Twenty-Ten

Winter break is officially over! Now that Doug is back at the office and the kids are out of the house and enjoying school's nurturing atmosphere, I can finally get back to my hobbies, which alternate between running around and running around maniacally. Since this is Minnesota and, for the next two months, the temperature will rarely crawl above 25 degrees, the running is pretty much limited to errands and kid-related crap. Once it gets nice out, though, I'll get busier and the crazy people will start to surface, pasty-white legs and all. In order to keep these outings as pleasant and stress-free as possible, I have decided that since I'm not making any New Year's resolutions, I needed some new rights.

1. If I am behind someone that is driving more than ten miles under the speed limit, weaving between lanes, failing to accelerate at a green light, sitting at a stop sign with no intention of proceeding, or basically being a shitty driver, and this person is obviously texting or talking while simultaneously trying to fetch French fries off of the car floor and shove a double cheeseburger into their mouth, I have the right to honk at them no fewer than five times. Gestures are also acceptable as long as there aren't any kids in the car with me.
2. When another shopper at Target or the grocery store repeatedly gets in my way, and they're talking on the phone, I have the right to say "Excuse me" in a voice louder than necessary, while simultaneously giving them a look that says: "You're an inconsiderate moron. Get off the fucking phone."
3. I have the right to not have to love all of my neighbors, especially the one that specializes in using loud yard equipment after 9pm.
4. If, while at the park, someone starts talking to me about potty training, ECFE, moms clubs, sleeping habits, or is bitching about their spouse, I have the right to say: "Those topics bore me. Go away." If, however, the person compliments me on my cute flip-flops, shares details about a little-known happy hour, or wants to rip on the mom who is talking about potty training, I have the right to ask her to move in with me.
5. If a teenager that doesn't belong to me shows up in my backyard at noon for the 16th day in a row this summer, I have the right to ask him where he's having lunch and say, "Sorry, but we're all out of food."
6. If someone gives me a backhanded compliment, I have the right to not always accept it gracefully and with a smile.
7. If a little kid with a giant booger hanging out of his nose asks me for help on the monkey bars while his mom sits her bib-overalled butt on the park bench talking about potty training, I have the right to say: "NO! I'm busy. Go ask your mom."
8. When some skinny bitch fishes for compliments by saying that she "looks fat" and is "getting lines around her eyes," or asks me, "Does this Brazilian-cut bikini make me look fat?" I have the right to agree with her and answer "Yes, it does."
9. If unattended kids are throwing fistfuls of rocks at the park, and my daughter is in the direct line of fire, I have the right to yell at someone else's unattended kids and/or throw rocks back.
10. I have the right to grill more steak, less chicken, and drink more vodka.

Feel free to add to this list of rights, or use some of them for yourself as needed. After all, sharing is fun, even though I always reserve the right to say "No, it's mine!"

The Butt Perspective

None of our kids is what you would categorize as "husky." Zach, at 13-years-old, has finally broken through the five-foot/90-pound barrier. Charlie is lean and short, and Zoe, at 33-pounds, is the shortest person in kindergarten. But even though she is vertically challenged, her dominant, outspoken, confident personality more than makes up for her lack of size. I happen to love the fact that she's small because I've always been able to pick her up mid-meltdown without breaking my back.

Yesterday, while standing on her tiptoes and reaching for a glass of water on the counter, I gave the glass a little nudge so that she could grab it. She gave me a "Gee, thanks for treating me like I'm an incapable idiot" look, reluctantly grabbed it, and as she walked away said, "I can't wait until I'm taller."

I started thinking about how weird it must be, going through life with guts and asses in your direct line of vision. Her obsession with fart and poop jokes is really not very shocking, considering the fact that she spends the entire day looking at butts, trying to avoid walking into a cloud of fart fog.

It surprises me that her and Charlie don't get along better, since they have a similar sense of humor and he's closest to her in age and height. While going through the pictures on her (SIM card-less) cell phone, though, I realized that they aren't as close in height as I thought, since this picture was taken from her point of view:

Apparently, when you're five-years-old, everyone is a giant. Charlie just happens to be a giant that has small feet and wears checkered tennis shorts.

So Far, So Good

I loved my New Year's Eve. We stayed home and had friends over, the food was great, there was plenty of vodka in my cocktails, and thanks to Byerly's delivery service, I didn't have to murder anyone at the grocery store in my quest for limes and a bag of ice. When I woke up on Friday morning without a headache or little socks on my teeth, that's when my optimism for 2010 really kicked into gear. I was almost afraid to get out of bed, figuring the day had nowhere to go but downhill. Instead of discovering a puddle of dog hurl or a leaky dishwasher, though, I started a pot of coffee and managed to make some raspberry/cream cheese-stuffed French toast for breakfast. That's when I: A) seriously started to wonder who was possessing my body, and B) Realized that we were all still in our pajamas, and were supposed to be out the door in an hour.

I am spending the rest of this holiday break slowly getting back to reality. I'll be (quietly) cheering on the boys, keeping track of tennis matches, eating out of a cooler, and saying things like, "Hey, nice passing shot." I signed the boys up for a holiday weekend tennis tournament because I'm hoping it will yank our brains (and their bodies) out of the Christmas coma; it's sort of like hitting a reset button before they go back to school on Monday.

On our way to Charlie's match yesterday, I tried to find some music that would get him motivated. Fortunately, 93X was in the middle of a three-song Metallica set, so I cranked "Enter Sandman," which was followed by "Ain't My Bitch." During the second song, I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Zoe in her booster seat. There she sat, arms flailing over her head, pig tails whipping around, rocking out to James Hetfield. I continued to drive with a smile on my face, thinking there could be no better way to start out the New Year, and that's when she said: "Hey mom. Turn it up. I love this song."

2009 - By The Numbers

During the past week, it seems like everybody has been saying "Where did 2009 go?" or "Man, the last year really flew by." I think that 2009 felt like it was 365 days, or approximately 12 months, long.

If it were possible for me to access the year on a DVR, there are definitely some horrific days that I would go back and delete (my hangover after the Metallica concert being the first to go). But there are also moments that I would go back and replay over and over again, because no matter how many times I think about them, I smile. Like that day at Zoe's skating lesson, when I watched a dad step on the rink and, while showing off his "Look at me I'm the coolest dad in the world look at how awesome I am I can't believe the NHL isn't calling me wow I'm the best" skating moves he caught an edge, wiped out hard and took down four kids as he slid across the rink on his ass. That is a moment I wish I had recorded somewhere.

In order to keep the year in perspective, and to reassure myself that I did more with the last 52-weeks than dust furniture and heat up hot dogs, I decided to simplify things in a way that only an anal-retentive, Type A, not-quite-a-control freak can make sense of: putting it into numbers and categories.

45...Monday night one-hour piano lessons

40...Wednesday night half-hour violin lessons

7...Sunday afternoon piano recitals

2...Times I didn't have to say: "We're leaving in two minutes. Get your shoes on, and where is your music/instrument/phone?"

150...Trips to the club for tennis related activities.

150...Times my card was scanned at the club, but that I didn't work out because I was there for kids' tennis.

143...Times that, before leaving the club, someone had to go back to the court for a coat, water bottle, sweatshirt, or racquet.

4...Times we managed to leave the club without me saying: "Let's go. Do you now have everything? Yes? Then let's go. LET'S GO!"

104...Trips to Target with a list similar to "handsoap, toilet paper, sandwich bags, Band-Aids."

104...Times I walked out of Target with things like a white t-shirt, hummus, a picture frame, dog treats, lip gloss, and a few Sharpie's. But no toilet paper.

63...Trips to the gas station to fill 'er up.

4...Times that the needle was below a quarter tank. I'm anal, remember?

20...Approximate number of visits to the liquor store.

0...Times I managed to leave the store with only the items I originally went in for.

205...Trips to the grocery store, with a list and coupons.

115...Trips to the grocery store that involved three items or less, usually taking place within four hours of the most recent visit.

0...Times I remembered to bring in the reusable shopping bags that were sitting in my car.

14...Times I vowed to order fruit instead of fries with my burger.

0...Bowls of cantaloupe/grapes/honeydew/pineapple consumed.

14...Times I ended up ordering fries instead of fruit with my burger, that also ended up being topped with bacon and pepperjack cheese.

312...Salads eaten for lunch.

312...Times I wished that salad was a burger topped with bacon and pepperjack cheese, and give me the damn fries!

18...Times that I scolded the teenager for laughing at someone's hairdo/outfit/lack of athletic ability.

18...Times that I secretly laughed with him.

315...Loads of laundry washed, folded and put away

0...White items destroyed by a red shirt

3...Yes, I actually ironed

8...Piles of not-my-dog's shit left in my yard.

13...Piles of shit strategically flung with the pooper-scooper into my neighbor's yard.

6...Average number of nights per week I managed to make dinner.

0...Dinners that didn't include a carb.

13...Times that a kid took out the garbage.

0...Times that a kid took out the garbage without being asked first.

50...Limes that saw the inside of my refrigerator.

400...Lime wedges used, which sounds really bad, but sometimes I used two in one drink, and I was nice enough to share a few.

365...Days that at some point I either yelled, gave the angry eyes, spiked a throw pillow onto the carpet, threatened to "never cook a meal again," proclaimed myself the Queen Of Waiting In The Car, alerted the kids to my "I'm not the stupidest person on Earth" status, made an empty threat, eyed the bottle of vodka before noon, used the phrase "because I said so," or got annoyed, just because.

0...% guilt.