Feeds:
Posts
Comments

I know it’s been a little quiet in Swooperville.

Truth is, I’m in a bit of a funk. Feeling a lot hot and a little sad. A lot fat and little unmotivated. A lot “only” and a little lonely. And all that together just doesn’t make for a whole lot of funny.

Oh, and my five-year old just called me a “Wine-osaur” – which I’m choosing to spell that way instead of the alternative “Whine-osaur” so I can laugh instead of cry about it.

Coming up, I have a nice weekend at home planned including a date night with my sweet husband and lots of therapeutic beach time with my little men.

This, too, shall pass.

Later, gators.

“They” say opposites attract and in some ways Husband and I meet that criteria.  I tend to be an over-the-top optimist.  Initially, I meet someone and expect that I’ll love them forever.  I’m surprised if they ultimately disappoint me.  Husband expects people to be idiots and is pleasantly surprised if they prove to be someone he actually enjoys spending time with.   I am a bit of perfectionist (understatement of the year) where Husband has much better perspective on what’s actually worthy of my compulsive attention and care.

But, in a lot of ways, we’re also very much alike.  We were both raised in small towns by parents who stayed together (a bit of a feat in the 80s).  We were both taught at a young age that respecting (and actually talking to not grunting at) adults can open doors for you.  And, we were both athletic kids.   On the fields we each formed friendships with people who stood by us at our wedding, our teammates for life.  We learned to be trusty worthy, to always have your teammate’s back, to be fair, to follow the rules but also…we learned that we like to WIN.

Husband and I like to win.  A lot.

So, we’re a wee bit competitive (new understatement of the year).

For instance.

1) We watch Jeopardy! together every night.  Really.  Well, every week night.  We sit next to each other at the kitchen counter and shout out the answers questions.  We used to pay more attention to who got what right than we do today.  We’d even announce a winner at each show’s conclusion.   (I know…kind of geeky but whatever).   I actually love this about our marriage.  I love how he surprises me when he announces “Ferdinand” as the King of Spain when Spaniards lost their American territories.   Huh? I love that he’s so smart.  But, I still want to be just a little bit smarter than he.

2) One Thanksgiving weekend in his hometown we were watching football with his family and a few of our friends.   Some knucklehead kicker missed an extra point to lose the game.  I off-handedly mentioned that it was amazing to me that some guy could spend his whole life practicing that one thing (kicking that same distance every time) and miss.   Husband agreed and boldly stated:

I bet even I could hit ten in a row.

Me:  No way.

Husband’s buddy, Mike:  No way.

Husband’s brother:   Sure, he could.

Me:  No way.

Fifteen minutes later we were at Olympia Sports picking up a professional sized football and a tee.  Thirty minutes later we were at the high school football field.   Solo cups of warm rum and cider in hand.

We allow Husband a few warm-up attempts.

He made one.  two.   three.   four.

Me (thinking):   I am so losing this bet.

Husband (smug):  Ok!  These count.

Made another one.   two.   three.

Me: Noonan!

four.   five.  six.    seven.

Grrrrr.

eight.   nine.     MISS!

I won!  I won!

Husband:   So lame.  Stop celebrating.  I really made thirteen in a row, and you know it.

Me (leaping around):  Oh, no.  Those first ones didn’t count!   You made nine.   I win!  I win!

Husband:   Shut it.

3)  There are a lot of little things in a marriage that couples just adopt as habit.  Who does what chores, who pays the bills, who grills, who takes out the trash, who does dishes.  Things that are accepted as “my job”  or “his job” that we just do without discussion.  Then there are those little jobs that you try to avoid.  Like, when you’re the one that almost finishes the bottle of wine and you know as you put it away that the next person to pour is going to have to open a new one.  Ha.  Gotcha.

Well, we do that sort of competitive nonsense all the time.  Most of the time, without discussion.  Because we know when we win.  And, we know when we’ve been had..and we’ve lost.

So, when the toothpaste started running low recently, neither of us wanted to replace it.   So, as we’ve done many times before, we would each eek out every last little bit of paste for as long as we could and then put the now flat tube back for the other person to attack.  And hopefully, their attempt would prove futile.   And, in that moment, they’d be forced to admit defeat.  Because they’d have to be the one to reach over and open the new tube.    (I know, I know.  Ridiculous.  But, like I said…we’re just a little competitive.)

But, this time was different.  Let me tell you, I’m good at toothpaste eeking.  I can fold that baby six ways from Sunday.  I rarely lose the toothpaste battle.  But, damn, I swear I thought I’d had him days ago and every time I returned to the sink the paste was still there.  Wow.  Impressive, Husband.  But, I will not be defeated. And, I’d fold and bend and squeeze and press and Yes!  Enough to at least make a little foam. Now, I had him.  No doubt about it.

But, the next morning, long after Husband had gotten up and gone to work, I head into the bathroom to get ready.

WHAT?! The toothpaste was still there.   How in the world…?!

So, begrudgingly, I surrendered.

With a defeated sigh, I reached over to my left and pulled out the box of toothpaste.

Opened the box.  Pulled out the tube and…

Heyyyy….

From: Swooper

Subject: You dog

Date: May 26, 2010 7:39:54 AM EDT

To: Husband <husband@workemail.com>

You dog!

You’ve been using the toothpaste out of the box!!

__________

From: Husband <husband@workemail.com>

Subject: Re: You dog

Date: May 26, 2010 7:50:54 AM EDT

To: Swooper 

Haha.

Yep.   But, you were doing such a good job working with the old one.

__________

Grounds for divorce?  Perhaps.

But, I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one that gives up on marriage first.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

Take Two

It’s about 120 degrees and 100% humidity.  It’s also the first day of Big Brother’s camp, the fridge is almost bare except for a lone jar of peanut butter and I’m not allowed to send him in with any tree nut products.   I am, however, required to send a full lunch, a drink, a snack, a bathing suit, a bathing cap, a towel, sunblock and six permission slips.  These are, of course, in addition to the things Big Brother actually wants to bring into camp such as glow-in-the-dark silly bands, a bouncy ball, a Bakugan (effing bakugans) and his too-cool-for-school, talk-to-the-hand-Mommy attitude.

So, here’s an old post that got some attention way back when.  ‘Cause I’m just too hot and too lazy to come up with anything new today.

_________

A Little “Peabody Ink”

Let me begin with the fact that I’ve always wanted a tattoo. But, I didn’t want to be foolish about it and go get something like a butterfly or a ladybug or a Patriots logo or something that I’d be bound to not care at all about twenty years down the road. And then I’d be stuck with it.


So, now that I’m a proud Mommy of two (and there will never be three) beautiful children, I know that there is something in my life I’ll love forever and ever. Unequivocally. No matter what.

I’ve been mulling the idea of two small blue hearts, one with a W and one with a J (my boys first initials), for a while now. On my hip / bikini line so that no one I don’t care to show it to would ever know it was there. I’ve mentioned it to my husband and to friends but I’m pretty sure no one actually really thought I’d do it.

Well…I did it.

Made an appointment yesterday at a place called (gulp) Drastic Tattoo out near the Northshore Mall (on a friends recommendation).

Ring. Ring.
“Drastic Tattoo, this is Diamond.”
Diamond? (Deep breath)
Me: Ummm, hi. I think I want a tattoo tomorrow morning, do I need an appt?
Diamond: Sure, we open at 11 am.
Me: Oh. Hmm. Well, how long will it take?
Diamond: Tell me about the kind of tattoo you want.

So I explain it. Verbose-ly.

“Well, I’ve always thought I wanted a tattoo and never knew what to get and now I have two boys and I think I just want two little hearts colored in and each with the letter of their first name. I’m really nervous about it. I haven’t even told my husband I’m doing it. Anyway, I have to pick them up at school at 12:30 so if it’s going to take a long time, maybe I’ll just try to do it another day and…”

Diamond: I can open at 10 for you if that helps.
Me: Oh. You can? Well, that’s so nice of you.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that they open at 11, anyway. I mean tattoo places probably aren’t big stops for women coming in right after pre-school drop-off. And, hell, they’re probably staying open until, like 4 am or some hour I haven’t seen in…well, maybe forever.

Diamond: I’ll draw something up for you. See you at 10.
Me: ok

So, last night my dear husband asks me what I’ve got going on today and why I didn’t call my cousin back who I adore and who is in the area for the week and I was probably going to see on Thursday (today). I said I didn’t have anything going on and was actually probably not going to see her after all. Not sure why I didn’t come out and tell him about the appointment then. I guess I didn’t want to be talked out of it or offered opinions or whatever. Not to discredit his input which I value. This just sort of had to be something I was doing because I wanted to do it. For me.

Got up this morning and dropped the guys at school. Walked into their wonderful little school un-showered, in jeans and a fleece pullover. Ran into plenty of parents I should probably care about making a good impression on. But, nope. Went dirty. Came home after drop off, before my 10 am tattoo appointment and for some absurd reason I showered, put on nice black pants, a nice sweater, heeled black boots and…no joke….mascara. What in the world??? What message was I trying to send to the tattoo place? “Oh, in case you didn’t know already by my psycho-babble on the phone, or my black Jeep Grand Cherokee with car seats in the back or the fact that I’m walking in with my Starbucks pumpkin spice latte in hand….just to make it extra clear to you…I’m gonna dress up for my tattoo appointment. Just so you know for sure that I’m not the kind of person who usually gets tattoos. ” I swear, I’m half insane most of the time. They probably opened early for me so I wouldn’t scare off the rest of their clientele.

Anyway, Diamond is there when I arrive at 9:47. The place smells so badly of patchouli I can hardly breathe. But, it’s clean and bright and I think it’ll all be ok. Diamond’s done a sketch for me and sure enough it’s two hearts with a W and a J. But they’re all swirley fancy cursive Miami-Ink letters with curly-q tails and my two hearts have little twinkly star-burst things coming off them and they’re all askew and really BIG. And, I’m such a goddamn mouse who is afraid to hurt people’s feelings that it took all I had in me not to say “looks GREAT” and just go ahead and let the man put his insane artwork right on my body. Forever.

But, I muster up the courage and I edit. And he fixes. And it all looks good to go.

And now I’m on the table and definitely freaking out but determined. All set. I can do it.

Then right before the first outline begins, his freakin’ boss arrives and strolls right into the room, takes one look at me and says with a grin “This your first tattoo?” Genius. Oh, and he has tattoos ev-er-y-where. Even on his entire bald head. And the top of his hands. And he’s completely making me panic.

“Yes, my first tattoo.”

“Ah. Don’t be nervous. Just think about how this felt!” (pointing at his head)

I think I might throw up.

He continues. Pulls up a chair nearby. “Here, I’ll just tell you about my crazy teenage daughter this morning. Sh*t man, it was f*ckin’ ridiculous. Just listen to this and it’ll take your mind off the needles.”

Oh, please go away. Please.

But, I hear all about it and I am such an insane pollyanna, niceness nerd that I even manage to contribute a “no way” and a “oh no” and a “really?” now and then. The story takes roughly 15 minutes. The tattoo takes 19 minutes 37 seconds. Roughly.

And it’s over.

I tried calling my husband on the way home and I’m pretty sure he was busy and sent my call to voicemail so I haven’t even told him yet (although he’ll know before I post this of course.)

So, what do you think?




I’ve mentioned before that our house backs up to one of the town’s best parks.  This helps make up for the fact that our backyard is a very small fenced-in strip of grass that basically, at this point, belongs to the dog.    So, if my kids can navigate their way past a few land mines, paradise awaits beyond.  The boys love the little door from the “yard” that leads to a brick-lined, tree canopied path out to a big open field.  In the mind of a five-year old, it’s fantasy-land magical.  They emerge from that path and run full-speed-ahead across the long field and down a small hill to the playground, often meeting young friends at the other end.

So, when we bought the house, we knew we’d hear the sounds of children playing on the fields.   In the winter, the field is littered with snowmen and snow angels.  In the warmer months, we hear softball practice, t-ball, peewee soccer and little league.   Usually, I like the sounds.  Happy children?  Course.

But, you know what I didn’t plan on hearing?  The 40 and over Men’s Soccer League.   At 7:00 pm.  Nightly.

These idiots are out there hooting and hollering and kicking errant balls hard against our fence.  Then, they retrieve them from the bushes that line the fence, cracking branches and swearing like sailors.   It seriously sounds like they’re in my kitchen, sharing a bowl of Spaghettios with my two-year old.

“This isn’t the World Cup, you knuckleheads!”

So, next time we’re cleaning up Bernie excrement from our yard?

We’re planning to give it just a gentle toss over the top of the fence.

And the next time they’re back there fishing for a ball, killing our trees and corrupting our children one f-bomb at a time?

“spllllushhhh”

GOOOOOAAAAL!

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

I had a dentist appointment yesterday.   Woot!  Woot!

No really, I did have a dentist appointment at 8:45 (boooo) so I got a sitter and booked her from 8:30 – 11:30.   My plan was to get my teeth cleaned, get a pedicure, get my eyebrows done, pick up Little Brother’s Mickey Mouse phone left behind at a friend’s house, go to the bank, get the car washed and (if I still had time) pick up a going away gift for a friend who is returning to her home in Ireland.

All smooth at the dentist.  My perfect no-cavity record (of which I am disproportionately proud) remains intact.

9:30.  I arrive at the nail place.

It’s empty.  Smiling nail lady greets me.

You want pedicure?

Yes, please.

Pick color.  Then, you sit. (points to chair)

Well, I was thinking since it’s the 4th of July soon, I might want a little star on each of my big toes.  Can you do that?

Nail lady tilts her head.  Smiles.

I had just used 27 words in that sentence.  Roughly 26 words too many.

Me (pointing at big toe):  Star?  Here?

Oh!  Star!  Ok.  You sit.

A friend had actually suggested that if I’m going for a little nail art, I should really go for it and do a full on flag on the toes.  But, I thought that was a bit much and certainly didn’t think I had the time for that.  I never doubted, however, that it could be done had I actually wanted American flags on my toes.   I mean, it’s a nail place.  Full of nail ladies who can just do that kind of stuff.  Right?  That’s not stereo-typing, is it?  I don’t think so.  I mean, if you walk into an auto body shop, you assume that, even though you only ever go in for an oil change, they could rebuild your transmission if you asked for that.

So, a star.  On each big toe.  Easy peasey.

Not so much.

Forty-five minutes of regular pedicure, regular polish.  Very nice. Then she pulls out the box marked “nail art”.

I’m thinking “Ooooh, look.  A special box!  They must have some really cute star pattern.  Maybe I should have gone with a flag. This’ll be great.”

Well, there was no pattern.  And, the first free-hand attempt was a total disaster.  The so-called “star” looked like a bug splat on my toe.

You like?

Um.   Do you mind doing it again?  Maybe a little smaller?

The next attempt was worse.  Really.  Big Brother makes better stars.

You like?

I’m sorry, no.

And, every time the star didn’t work, it meant redoing the entire polish on the toe.

Over and over.

And over.

Seriously, I wasn’t being fussy.  They looked nothing like stars and exactly like a smudgy mess that, no doubt, I would have had to remove the instant I got home.

And, now there’s a three person line at the nail shop.  And they’re flipping through their 2005 Reader’s Digests and 2006 Women’s Health with noisy aggression.

I’ve been in the chair for ninety minutes.  The massaging back rest has run out of batteries.

The nail lady is stressed.  Like Exorcist stressed.

Me:  You know what?  These other ladies have all been waiting a while.  Is it ok if I do it?

Head tilt.  She smiles (through gritted teeth).  Not understanding.

Me:  Me?  Can I do it?

I extend my hand for the polish.

She exchanges a glance at the other nail lady.   I may have caught an eye-roll.

I am Elaine.

So, I did it.  And, I was out of there fewer than two minutes later.

And, then I had to rush home because it was 11:20 and I had to pay the babysitter.

Too bad I never went to the bank.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

We Always Knew.

Happy Father’s Day, Husband.  We love you.

I mean, really.  Does US Magazine actually think I’m not going to notice that Ryan and Julianne are being trailed by a random, stumbling, flip-flopped, wine glass carrying, bald man?!

Weird.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

Got a little heavy on you today with the “60 Days of Oil” post.
So, it’s the weekend.  And Dad’s big day.  Let’s lighten it up a bit.
Your favorite 1980s pairing…
  • Dan and Roseanne Conner?
  • Wayfarers & Jams?
  • Atari and Pac-Man?
  • Chuck Taylors & Air Jordans?
  • Press Your Luck and Whammies?
  • Marge and Homer Simpson?
  • Charles & Diana?

Nah.  My favorite 1980s pairing?

Kenny Loggins and this Kickass Little Groundhog.

Enjoy.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

60 Days

It’s been 60 days.

Sixty days.

Sixty days.

Sixty days.

Sixty Days.

Enough.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine

A few updates on past blog stories.

1) Remember my post about our upcoming summer vacation (aka death march) RV trip?  I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about the idea.  Thankfully, there’s been a little change in plans.  We’re renting a house boat in Boston Harbor, instead.  So, it’s kind of a nice compromise because it’s got some adventurous redneck element to it (it ain’t a fancy boat, y’all) but I can stock the fridge with chardonnay and sip from a roof deck gazing out over the water at the Boston skyline while Husband and the boys fish for contaminated bluefish.   Which sure as heck beats the view from an upstate New York trailer park.

I’m sure you’ll hear more on this.

2) Remember my post about the gigantic bear that was attacking my father’s bees?  Well, my Dad got off two rounds of shots over two nights, hit nothing, but apparently scared the bear at least 1/2 as much as he scared a collection of 80-year old neighbors.   No sign of the bear since then and the bees are finally getting a good night’s rest.  The motion sensitive camera is still set up, though.  Which is sort of fun because they catch the occasional cool wildlife shot.  Like, turkeys settling in for a nap in the garden or a curious family of wandering skunks.  So now, ever the hobbier, my Dad’s started staging things out there to encourage new wildlife visitors.  Here’s an opossum enjoying a hearty meal of lobster shells.

3) Remember my post about holding a political sign because Big Brother puked in a friend’s car?  Well, Murphy’s Law…I wound up with a picture of my sign-holding self in a local online publication.   Which is funny.  But, sadly, neither my issue nor the other nine issues passed.  The town not only voted against funds for a turf field but also against funds to renovate an embarrassingly dilapidated school, against relief for a family who recently learned the land under their home is TOXIC, and against improving the safety of an intersection where a young high school girl was recently hit and killed while crossing the street.  In the crosswalk.

Signs of the times, of course.  Sad, nonetheless.

4) Remember how I was offering up the “Under-Retriever” to BP for help in cleaning up the Gulf?  You probably thought I was exaggerating.  That my dog couldn’t really be that bad a shedder.  Well, here’s a little proof. I try to vacuum the living room rug every couple of days.  Two days.  Three max.

BEFORE

AFTER

Gross.

So, I shared these photos with BP executive Tony Hayward.   Unfortunately, he told me the shedding wasn’t really “all that bad” and that the amount of hair spilling out from the dog onto my rug is relatively small when we consider the actual size of my living room rug.

Thanks for that, Tony.  Among other things.  Thanks.

Like This!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine