Sweet Victory

Sheesh.

Yes, I’ve just returned from holiday shopping at Target three days prior to Christmas. And yes, it would have been less of a hassle to stab myself in the aorta and then have gone for open heart surgery to repair the extensive damage but I was determined to make it through despite the obvious drawbacks of shopping this close to the holiday. The store looked a lot like what I would imagine most retailers would suffer after being looted post Armageddon and I did nearly open a can of New York whoop ass on a few surly shoppers but I got what I went for and no one lost a limb or a life so I called it a victory.

After grabbing an expensive bribery item for my youngest to hold for the duration we glided like silk through the maze of crooked carts and venom spitting bargain hunters. This is what I promise myself I won’t do EVERY SINGLE YEAR. Nothing last-minute. I want to be done by the end of August. Sure.

I just re-read this post and it gave me a headache.

Have a happy holiday.

Check out my Slide Show!

Okay, so I attempted one of these “year in the life” type things and went down in flames when I died out right in the middle of making it. Then I got distracted no less than fourteen times when all three kids erupted into angry fist fights and name calling. This is what resulted and frankly I’m a little sad about it. I wanted something epic.  Now there are two kids hanging over my shoulder screaming that they want their Club Penguin memberships renewed THIS INSTANT. Sigh.

What The Hell Is THAT!

Wow. I’ve just come across something in the corner of my room that defies explanation. An unidentifiable mound of questionable origin that can’t be categorized due to what appears to be fossilization. Old chicken nugget, dried spot of dog vomit, poop? I’m at a loss here. I’ve set up a crime scene type boundary around the area so that I can take some time to investigate and run a few tests before removing it.
My car used to have a similar problem. Various discarded food containers and half-finished soft drink bottles rolled wildly around while I zoomed through DC on my way to one event or another. Every time someone tried to exit or enter things flew out behind them and on to the street, or worse attached themselves to their clothing. That would usually require the cars owner (me) to offer the service of removing these things from the frightened passengers followed by a disgusted “your car is fucking vile” from the victim.
During the summer things would go from bad to worse. Whenever the car was left out in the blazing DC heat, the bacteria would multiply and produce a stench that would punch you in the face as soon as you opened the door. Nothing beats the combo of four-week old McDonald’s hamburger, sour milk clinging to the bottom of a year old sippy cup and urine. That’s right. Il Duce thought it would be a laugh riot if he stripped down naked inside (while I tried to conduct a conversation outside the car) whipped it out and peed all over my seats. No amount of cleaning or perfuming can defeat the pungent odor of kid pee.

My husband laughed at me a few weeks ago when I was going around sniffing various areas trying to determine where the stench of garlic was coming from. Now, I’m Italian so I’m used to having this particular smell oozing from my pores for weeks at a time. Especially after a trip home to NY to eat the raw cloves on top of my favorite dish at Romolo’s (BEST RESTAURANT EVER)- angel hair pasta with garlic and oil.

Here I do need to stop and tell you that Romolo’s appears to shave the garlic (yes, just like they do in prison in the movie Goodfellas) and place it delicately on top of this mind-blowing entree.

But I digress.

This garlic was just wrong. Too overpowering, overcooked and nauseating. I spent the better part of that day making piss faces and dropping unnecessary comments so I’m sure he was about ready to silence me with the aluminum bat we keep behind the radiator.

We continue to find golden surprise nuggets around our house daily so we are never without something to worry about or categorize. Occasionally we just sigh and leave it there, other times we break out the hazmat suits and pull a Silkwood but it seems as though with offspring and pets this type of occurence is the norm. Or at least the norm for pathetic, throw in the towel types like myself. My mother would be aghast.

Wheeeeee!

You get the basic idea.

White Christmas

The Capital Weather Gang has informed me that there is a major winter storm on its way to wallop Washington DC starting late this evening and continuing through Sunday. Gee I love snow. For the first five or six hours it’s like a magical winter playground with vast pristine white landscapes and a city quieted by a blanket of heavy fluffy stuff. Then, after the four hundredth toboggan ride, the last snow fort and the tenth cup of hot cocoa things start to take a turn for the worst.
Though my house is not as vast or nearly as creepy as the Overlook, I start looking like Jack Torrence about mid way through the first day. 

You know what they say. All work and no play....

The novelty wears off even more when the local dogs relieve themselves on the snowmen we spent hours building and the plows come through adding chemicals, dirt and a substance I have yet to identify. 

D.C.  is notorious for shutting down completely when more than four flakes fall consecutively and forget about driving. Panic consumes nearly every resident as we all scramble to buy the last gallon of milk and swipe a shovel from the woefully understocked Home Depot. 

Having grown up in New York, I have  had more than my fair share of snow but now that I’m old and in danger of breaking a hip in an unfortunate fall, I’m all about the tropics.

The Stroke

 

Happy Holidays!

Tonight we will be attending the 7th annual presentation of the kids Christmas spectacular. Over the years this loose interpretation of the birth of Jesus has seen some weird adaptions. Modern newspaper reporting from the manger(a la Gore Vidal’s “Live From Golgotha”), Scrooge meeting up with the three wise men, modern-day carolers fending off people who try to take religion out of Christmas. We’ve seen it all. Not even the historic inaccuracies, all sorts of continuity problems or straight up heresy can prevent us from enjoying ourselves.  However, when I heard the plan of action for my daughters fifth grade class, I did stop and look up with concern. Apparently, they are going to be making an appearance as rapping sheep.  That’s right. They have been instructed to wear (and I’m quoting now people) “bling” “a grill” “giant clock necklace” (this could only have come from the brain of someone who is a regular watcher of “Flava of Love” because you KNOW none of her teachers is a Public Enemy fan) and of course a fluffy sheep costume.

This is doomed to fail almost as fantastically as the routine my 6th grade class did in the holiday talent show where we performed a naive rockettes style kick dance, complete with santa hats to “The Stroke” by Billy Squier while horrified parents and onlookers sat there helpless and unable to stop it. I don’t know what was more endearing, the fact that we didn’t have any idea what the lyrics meant or that our parents stayed completely silent about it for years afterward. Merry Christmas.

You’ve Got Another Thing Coming

Il Duce at the farm. See the weapon?

Yesterday I needed a momentary break from my service to the emperor. Doing his bidding all day every day can really wear on a person so after re-fixing his chocolate milk three times to get it just right and head off that epic screaming fit that we all could have suffered through, I sat down to catch up on some blog reading. I’ve got a list of fantastic mommy bloggers who I follow regularly because, well, I guess we have at least our reproductive abilities in common. God, it’s depressing though. After scrolling through all these upbeat, inventive tales of their funny and sweet children with the love they have for them coming across in every word they type I just got cranky. Especially one gal who posted an angelic pic of her smiling tot with goodness that just emanated from every pore in the child’s body.

Then I look at Il Duce. Every photo I have of him he’s either sneering, giving me the finger or brandishing a weapon. This filthy little animal has ruined nearly every family photo I’ve tried to take in the last two years. Not even his make-believe games come close to normal. Last night I heard him using his Diego plastic marsupials in a jungle adventure, except he kept calling them “sex monkeys” and putting them in jail for kissing. What the fuck does that mean? Don’t even start pointing the finger at me, because the phrase “sex monkeys” has never passed my lips. Even my ten-year old was scandalized.
We got his weirdly inconclusive test results back from the world-renowned three thousand dollars a pop Neuro/Psycho/Edu testing dude and he’s all like “what a funny kid! He’s super smart but not so good at being told what to do huh?” Yes, super expensive rip off artist, I could have pooled the collective resources of every  idiot who’s ever come in contact with him and come up with a more comprehensive plan of action than scratching my head and suggesting meds if he doesn’t calm down in a few years. Better yet, I’m gonna steal those meds and help myself to a big heap of mother’s little helper during the afternoons when it’s too crazy to deal with here. Okay?
Uggg. So anyway, I’m off to chauffeur Palpatine to his next engagement that takes place right after his school day ends. Let’s hope he’s not suffering from his usual fit of distemper and all goes smoothly. But realistically, probably not.

He got along REALLY well with the goats. Must be the horns.

For Those Who Helped Us Rock, We Salute You

We're with the band. Or at least we like to pretend we are.

It’s been over twenty years since I last ran screaming down an alley after a hastily retreating tour bus hollering for its occupants to validate my existence with a wave or a smile. So tonight in order to honor the girl I was and the bands that played on the soundtrack of my youth, I plan to eat a generous helping of humble pie. I’ve spent so much time demanding my pound of flesh from defunct 80’s supergroups that I forgot to take a moment to say thank you. That’s right, I stand before Stewart, Sting, & Andy and give thanks for all the albums, the rigorous touring schedule and  the peroxide. You were the cherry on the cake of an almost perfect decade. While I wish I hadn’t been outfitted in wool jumpers, knee socks and pig tails so that I could have whored around backstage with the rest of the  groupie skanks that  hung barnacle like in the  concrete hallways leading to the dressing rooms, I still had a great time stalking them under the watchful eye of my befuddled parents. This also gives me the added advantage of NOT being riddled with numerous STD’s , so for that I’m also grateful. The Cure, R.E.M., the Go Go’s, The Smith’s, Squeeze, the B-52’s etc. thank you for all the fun. 

After careful consideration I also realized I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to the brothers Copeland, hell the ENTIRE Copeland family for having a hand in crafting the careers of over half of the bands I listened to as a kid. 

Warning: Uncalled for off topic rant coming….. 

Here I would like to go off on a massive tangent related to the above mentioned family. The Copeland family connection is clearly the vital missing link in the history books between overwhelming  band success or failure. Clearly, being a Copeland carries with it the implication that it is genetically impossible to fail. I think they even tried it once or twice, but it didn’t work. Failure = sticky eggs. Copeland’s= teflon pan. It just falls off of them and onto the floor. Sunday brunch with this clan must be hell. Can you imagine how fraught with boasting and one-upmanship this meal is? Hey, I single-handedly changed the entire middle east! I just wrote two well received books-WHILE I WAS SITTING HERE! Oh yeah, I composed two operas, founded a band that took over the world, wrote a book , produced seven kids, and wrote and directed a movie! I just quietly prevented Armageddon using only the power of my mind (that last one was   Miles, he scares me). 

I hate to think what would have become of me had I not had all this great music to distract me from my school work and what could have been a higher calling. I suspect that I could have amounted to something fairly important (doctor, lawyer, missionary?) or I could have just flailed around blindly and become a classic rock fan with bad hair and too much Covergirl charcoal black eyeliner.  But, it is as it was meant to be. New Wave and I found each other and the rest is history.

True Evil

No one likes puppets. Don’t even pretend like there was a carefree whimsical time in your life when you didn’t realize these heinous soul stealing devils were out to get you because everyone knows how untrustworthy and creepy they are. Even infants and the limited resources they are working with know to break into screams when Lady Elaine pops up like a serial killer from behind the castle in the land of make-believe. It takes at LEAST five minutes for Mr. Rogers and his soothing voice to quiet the shrieks.

AHHHHH Shit!!!!!!

Never liked her or the confusing merry-go-round thing she rode in that was attached to the castle.

This wasn’t the only show I watched that made me uncomfortable and sad as a kid. Who decided that H.R. Puff n’ Stuff was a good idea? I actually had a horrifying nightmare as a small child that I remember with amazing clarity to THIS day because of this show and too many trips to McDonald’s. In it, the characters from HRPNS along with Mayor McCheese and the Hamburgler stepped out of the woods on the edge of our property and began the slow zombie like lurch/walk toward our house to kill us. At least I assumed this was their intent as they all had furrowed brows and angry eyes. I tried repeatedly to get my mothers help to ward them off and save our family, but she kept shooing me away and telling me I was crazy until they starting banging on the door and smashing in the windows. Vivid and terrifying.

Don't kill me!

Everywhere they go, puppets make people unhappy. The exception to this rule is any variety of muppet (think Sesame Street, the Muppet Show and occasionally Fraggle Rock) that works hard to deliver one liners and teach drooling kids the alphabet.

They Call Me the Seeker

Thank you Pete T. My mission today was to knock out as much holiday shopping as I could manage while keeping the gifts interesting, thoughtful and proper for their intended recipients. This is why I found my self at no less than five stores in a span of two hours. I wanted to shake it up a little this year and I managed to keep the assorment of purchases eclectic and inexpensive but there were a few ends I needed to wrap up so I headed to Barnes and Noble. There I found great books on sale for the kids and for a few grownups as well. My final act before checking out was to find a helpful sales associate at the information kiosk to hold my hand and direct me to the shelf containing The Dangerous Book for Boys and the Dangerous Book for Girls. It took him a microsecond to navigate me through the stacks and locate both. He waxed poetic for a few minutes about what a great gift these books were and wanted to know if there was anything else he could help me find . “Well” I thought for a minute, “unless you have the dangerous book for babies, I think I’m all set.”
Uncomfortable silence.
“That’s not even funny.” was his reply.

I hate it when my jokes fail in this spectacular fashion. It also makes me think that someone needs to quickly get to work on that wildly inappropriate volume of dangerous activities for tots. Babies + heavy machinery = hilarity. Or not.