Confessions of a Serial Swooper

So, I haven’t blogged in more than a week and, during that time, I’ve been a little uncomfortable with the fact that anyone stumbling upon Serial Swooper since then has landed on a post with references to bedroom activities and (gasp!) lingerie.   I’m usually “not that kind of girl” in blog land (or in real life, for that matter).  Well, at least not anymore, much to Husband’s dismay.

Anyhoo.

Our town’s online newspaper has kindly offered to feature local bloggers with links to our pages.  I signed up — and there was no way I was going to welcome residents to Serial Swooper with a blog about (ahem) “costumery”.  Onward.

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Speaking of the Old Town, we were recently the victim of a very clever serial (no relation) bank robber.  This guy’s been hitting towns across the state but (as we are surrounded on three sides by water) it certainly seemed unlikely the guy would ever be “foolish” enough to come after our banks.  Well, he did.  But, first, the clever fellow hit a bank in a neighboring town which drew much of our police force OFF the peninsula to assist.  Then, he proceeded into our town (probably pulling aside for blue lights heading the other direction) and robbed us.  Not a bad plan, eh?  So, then, for the rest of the afternoon we heard reports that he was “fleeing on foot near the swamp” or “tried to buy a moped from a local store” or “they found his car behind the Italian restaurant” (none of which was accurate).  It was all big action for the small town.   I followed it all on (where else) Facebook as it all went down.    I sat at my computer mid-afternoon, diligently refreshing my screen awaiting more news.  As I did so the kids are playing in the backyard.  It was a lovely spring day and my front door was wide open.

Me to self:  La dee dah, dee dah.  I wonder what the mean old bank robber’s doing now.  Refresh.  La dee dah.   Oooh!  He’s up the street!  Refresh.  I hear helicopters!  Wow.  Look at those helicopters.  La dee dah dee dah.  Refresh.

Then someone posted “Lock your doors, locals.  Bank robber on the loose!”

Hmmm.  Oh.  Hm.  Oh!  Oh, yeah.  Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.  

“Kids!  Time to come in!”

Mother of the year.

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I love Facebook.  It’s a total sickness.  I guarantee you I’ve been “defriended” by a number of people who like me in real life but can not deal with me at all on Facebook because I won’t shut up.  I’m aware of this problem.

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I hate doing things I’m no good at.  Like, I’ve mentioned before (click here for post) about how I know I’m a terrible dancer.  So, I simply don’t dance.  I’m also a terrible grocery shopper but I can’t seem to get off the hook on that one.  For instance, I went grocery shopping today.  I went for dog food because I swear the poor dog eats Honey Nut Cheerios most of the time because I can not get my act together to go out and buy that stinkin’ heavy ole bag of Beneful.  Today, I forgot to get milk.  Milk.  Come on, Swooper.  I have two children one of whom drinks milk like it’s his job.  Nope.  No milk in my cart.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going to run out of taco sauce.

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I have the world’s cutest iPhone cover.  I do.  A friend of mine saw they were for sale on Etsy (here’s the link) and told me about them and I ordered mine immediately.  I love it.  But, because I’m losing a bit of my mind with every passing day, I completely forgot where I got it ten seconds after I placed the order.  So, when admiring friends ask for one, I look at them like this.

So, I sent a text to my friend who originally told me about the phone cover and told her that people kept asking about it and I was too dumb to remember and can she help a sister out, please.   She promptly sent me the information with a header that teasingly addressed me as “Style Icon”.   I had a good laugh over that one and if  you know me or see me about town anytime prior to 10 am you know I am not, in any way, a “style icon”.  That is, unless fleece vests, dirty hair and dirtier jeans are the next “look”.   If so, you heard it here first.  You’re welcome.

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Sick of the Royal Wedding coverage yet?  Well, I’m not.  I’m eating it up with a silver spoon with tea and crumpets on the side.  Yes, sir.  I proposed a little 9 am wedding day gathering of lady friends with mimosas and breakfast snacks and am happy to report the ladies were all over it.  Yippee!

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I’m proud to say that my kids are not afraid to express themselves.  Little Brother is about the most demonstrative child I’ve ever encountered.  He calls hugs “squeezers” and they’re damn good.  He gets all up close and snuggly and really holds tight.  I hope I remember the feeling of those squeezers for the rest of my life even when he’s too cool to give them anymore.  He’s also quick to tell anyone he cares about “I love you, so and so”.   If someone winks at him, he winks right back.  He’s constantly giving me a smiling thumbs up from across the room and his very favorite word is “awesome“.

If someone were to meet Little Brother for the first time, I think they’d probably decide that I was one terrific Mom raising my kids to be kind, upstanding citizens.

And then, Big Brother would saunter over singing a song he titled “Dirty Butt Poopy Farthead” and it would all go right out the window.

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Happy  Royal Wedding to you!

Cheerio!

(Don’t get all excited, dog.  I wasn’t calling you for dinner.)

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Be warned.  This post will contain some reference to bedroom activities.  Which means that anyone horrified by such discussion (Mom) should probably skip this one.

So, stop reading now.  Ok?

Really, stop reading.  Did you stop?   (Mom.  Stop.)

Anyhoo.

A couple entries ago I mentioned how my husband was encouraging me to get some Victoria’s Secret lingerie for his birthday.

Well, I didn’t.

But, I did have a little too much wine the other night and decided I was feeling a little frisky so maybe I’d throw the old dog a bone.

(I told you Mom.  It’s not too late to turn back now.)

So, I snuck off into the bedroom a few minutes before him and donned a little black number.  A matching pair of lacey mini-shorts and a slinky corset top.  I brushed my teeth, fluffed the hair a little, sprayed a dash of perfume and hopped into bed.

(Now, I know that any men reading this probably already see a few things wrong with this picture.  Like, so maybe shorts and a top aren’t really the sexiest of possible attire.  Like, the fact that I put it on and then essentially hid under the covers might not be the most seductive move.  Whatever.  Beggars can’t be…you know.)

Sure enough, along comes my unsuspecting husband wandering into the bedroom.  Bathroom routine complete, he climbs into bed.  Our king sized bed.  I’m about a million miles away and as far as he knows I’m wearing my usual pajamas — you know, the ones I bought at the Big Y grocery store in 2006.   Sexy.

So, I crawled over a little.

Surprise!

(And now, like on The Bachelor, we will stop the voice over, draw the curtains to the Fantasy Suite and cut to commercial break.  You can speculate.)

Many hours later.  (well, ok, maybe not hours but at least a good few minutes or so)

Husband (sleepy voice):  Well, that was a nice surprise.

Me:  Glad you liked it.

Lingerie back on, I head towards the bathroom, grabbing my old faithful cotton pajamas on the way.

Husband:  What are you doing?

Me:  Just going to the bathroom.  And, changing.

Husband:  Changing?  Why?  Why don’t you just sleep in that?  It’s cute.

Me (laughing):   No way!  It’s like sleeping in a costume.  I can’t sleep in a costume.

Husband laughs.

Me:  What?

Husband:  It just makes sense that you’d call lingerie a costume.   You know, considering you put it on once a year.

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I went out for a little Girls Night dinner last night with two awesome women I met at my very first job out of college.  Which means we’ve been friends for (gulp) 17 years.  So, now, these two ladies and I meet every three months or so at a fancy restaurant that none of us would likely go to on our own.  One of us is a bit of a foodie — single, hip, with a job that has her traveling frequently and an address within the city limits.  She’s still cool.  Another of us lives very close to the city, works for a university and has a husband who’s involved in city politics.  She has two kids the same ages as mine but the girl gets around (no, not like that). She just does stuff.   She’s someone I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to just see on tv when I’m watching some local event.  And then there’s me.  Total suburbanite.  I rarely leave  the four square miles of my town and if I do it’s probably because there’s no gas station in town and I’m finally approaching empty.

Anyway.  We arrive at last nights restaurant of choice.  We realize we didn’t have each other’s cell numbers so we all (dorks) pull out our smart phones to exchange information.  I notice something on each of their phones.

Unread email.

In one case, 17 unread emails.

I swear, she may as well have been from another planet.

I never have unread email.  Really.  Almost never.

I mean, maybe if I leave my phone in the car while I pick up the kids I might come back and it looks like this.

(I have a case of the shakes just seeing it like that.)

But it’s not like that for long.

Because I’m an iPhone addict.

If I hear that sucker chirp, I look.  I am to that little red circle with a number in it what Pavlov’s dogs were to the smell of fresh meat.

Must.         Read.          Message.          Now.

So, I was thinking that it’s a shame I don’t treat the rest of my life that way.   That something that requires my attention at home doesn’t get nearly the high priority given to that stupid chirping iPhone and its little red circles.

I think it might work for me.

For example:

And, then I’d go to the dry cleaner stat.

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Ah, yes.  Feed the dog.  Done.

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Dishes clean and put away.  Check.

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Little Brother’s laundry?  Roger that.

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Weeds?   I’m on it.

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Yup, I’d do that, too.

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Oh, yeah.  Easter.  Lots to do on that one.  Big job.

But…

Must.  Clear.  Red.  Numbers.

Ok.  Done.

See?

It could totally work.  With little red circles with numbers on all my daily “to do” items there is no doubt in my mind that in no time flat I would be the most accomplished stay-at-home Mom ever.

My laundry would be done, my garden weeded and my a** half its original size.

My dry cleaning would be picked up, my dishes put away and my boys’ bathroom would be…..

Nah.

Never mind.

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It was Husband’s birthday last week.  He turned 35.   Which is crazy because when we got married he was five years younger than me and I’m only turning 29 this year.

(Incidentally, I’m pretty sure the proper grammar there is “younger than I” but that just sounds plain weird so I’m not typing that.)

Anyway.

My husband is to jackets what Imelda is to shoes.  I swear, we have closets upon closets of men’s jacket.  I’d take a picture but that’s just handing over evidence for when you decide to get all judgey on me  and call Hoarders.

But, here’s the thing.  He doesn’t actually like any of them.  They’re all either too short, or too tight, too hot or too bulky.  They have a logo he hates or a (nearly invisible) stain on the chest.  They collect too much dog hair or they aren’t the right color to wear with his suit pants.   I could go on.

Sometime early this winter, he decided a North Face fleece was going to be the answer to our jacket woes.  A black one.   Zip front.   Gotcha.

We talked about it.

And talked about it.

Christmas came.

I forgot all about the damn jacket which is absurd because seriously we bemoan the lack of a jacket frequently.

Sh*t.

His birthday last week.  Almost spring.  Not a single black fleece North Face to be found in the greater Boston area.

‘Course.

So, I went to a local uppity retailer and looked around and found what I thought would be a really good alternative.   A grey (black wasn’t in stock but could be ordered), little bit puffy Patagonia.   Light-weight but warm.

$179.

I know, I know.  That’s a lot for a jacket.  I think I was trying to compensate for the fact that I forgot all about it in December.   But, I truly believed this was finally going to be the jacket.

Do you think it was the jacket?

‘Course not.

He didn’t like it.

And he really didn’t like the price.

I went on an on about how he deserved that price.  That he clearly needed a jacket he would love.  That he was so good about my gifts that he should have a nice thing, too.   That he earned that gift with all his hard work and support of his loving family.

(Plus, I’m really pushing for a 40th 29th birthday party this summer.)

He looked at me and with a straight face said…

“Ok.  If you want to spend $179 on me, return the jacket, go to Victoria’s Secret and spend $179 on some nice stuff for you.”

Hahahahahaha!  I laughed.  Funny guy, that husband of mine.

“I’m serious.”

“No way.  You are so not serious.”

“Yes, I am.  Go spend it on yourself.   But spend it there.”

A few days passed.

“Did you go shopping yet?”

“You’ve lost your mind.  You do not want me to go do that.”

But, I think he’s completely serious.

Men are weird, man.

Does Vicky sell a Snuggie?

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