the final straw

All too often I find myself posting about some debacle or other, so I thought tonight I'd see if my Obsessive-Compulsive jubilation is transferable...

We buy these enormous boxes of fat straws from this wretched Costco-wannabe called Cash & Carry. (My bad luck is such that some reader is the owner, in which case please accept my standard-issue apology for being a hostile careless bitch whose top priority is making people laugh.)

They are the same straws used by Dutch Bros. (Starbucks rules!), and I've come to discover that I cannot drink coffee, tea, smoothies, or anything, without one. Ideally, I like a pink straw, but the color assortment also includes green, orange, and yellow, so it's my own little neurotic lottery each morning. I pretend not to pick a pink one on purpose, and as if that's not bad enough, I am always really surprised and delighted to get pink. (Yes B, I know you're calling Scott.) I've gone the past few days with no straws, and let me just say I have lost all ability to drink without one, and have soiled like eight shirts. It's a retardation.

Believe it or not, we haven't even arrived at the weird part. Today when I went to Cash & Carry to buy more, I saw that they have boxes of all pink ones. Wow! I had no idea. I immediately reached for it, but then I saw my old humble assorted box staring longingly at me as well. Talk about Sophie's Choice right? The all-pink box filled me with joy, but I knew I wouldn't enjoy them as much if I was guaranteed pink. (This just gets weirder and weirder.) I ended up buying both, and when Todd asked why I did that (he's been instructed a thousand times to buy the assortment), I stuttered that I prefer pink, but I also like the chance factor. When he asked which kind I would use first, I explained that I would put a fistful of the assorteds into our cup, and then a fistful of pinks, to, um, increase my odds.

what's in a name?

HowManyOfMe.com

There is 1 person with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

what begins with B?

An excellent speller though I may be, I am a shitty cook. For real. My life is a series of cleverly planned encounters wherein I and my poor children can benefit from someone else's cuisine. That is, when Todd's not home. He is the cook around here. I confess to allowing Quinn and Reilly more mac & cheese than they ought, and I have bent "moderation" beyond recognition where fast food is concerned. I just hate cooking. I can never think of anything, despite having a refrigerator full of wonderful, mostly organic, options.

Enter B. When she's not cooking for my pitiful ass outright, she is helping me see what I have, and how it can all be combined to make delicious meals, albeit simple ones, because I am retarded. (I know I'm not supposed to say retarded, but I mean it in its intended use as opposed to its malicious use.) ANYWAY, she has taught me to make several delightful snacks, and I made one today. I used leftover bell peppers, onions, and zucchini from the other night, and cooked them up in a pan. I then placed them atop a baked potato, and a little cheese. Lemme tell ya, for a mama who's used to eating mac & cheese from a ladle, this is heaven. (And likely the closest I'll ever get.)


Please don't look closely at my plate. Despite its distinct WalMart chic pattern, I do not have geese in my kitchen. As ever, I am sorry if you do, and are offended.

Thanks B. What am I having for dinner?

it'sy bit'sy nightmare

As I mentioned, last night B and I had dinner with (K), a college professor who teaches writing locally. We revered and dissected writing and grammar (convention) every which way, over margaritas, in hopes of gleaning useful ideas for teaching our kids at home.

This meeting has inspired me to say two things.:

A) Brandy is officially debuting as "B," which I have always called her, and which she has readily accepted as an alternative to/antidote for, her long-detested Brandy. So please join me in bidding adieu to the moniker that has brought her so much loathing, and let us celebrate the uber-cool B. (I hope I haven't cheapened the hype by not knowing how to use umlauts on a computer. I should have called Adam...)

B) If I were a super hero, I would be Picky Grammar Bitch. (I know I know, I wouldn't be very popular.) I see rampant and flagrant misuse of everything from spelling, to diction, to punctuation, everywhere I look, and I just have to vent a little, lest I resort to cutting. Now, I am, by no means, an expert, but I inarguably care more about this than virtually anyone else within a hundred, er, million mile radius. I am not out to embarrass or scold anyone, I just want to spruce things up a bit, in a helpful way.

Okay, so the most pervasive problem I see is the use or non-use of an apostrophe in the words its and it's. Here's your out.: The confusion lies in the fact that its is one word that is not made possessive by an apostrophe. If one were talking about Bob, and his books, one would say Bob's books. But if one were referencing the library, and its books, there would be no apostrophe, even though it's (it is) possessive. The apostrophe is used as a contraction, not for possession. Does that make sense? Am I a bitch? Wait don't answer. They are both rhetorical.

It's rude and ego-centric of me to post this.
But that doesn't minimize its validity.
It's something I will likely regret.
And its relevance only matters to me.

Feel free to hack apart my writing and show me what a hypocrite I am.

It's only fair.

no laughing matter

I can't sleep, and it's going to cost you. B and I dined with the fabulous Ms. (K) tonight, and followed it up with late coffees with our bitches. By bitches, I mean, the absolute creme de la creme of friends, whose company we relish, yet seldom get to enjoy.

After our initial plan sputtered and flopped around like a popped tire, we nestled in happily at Starbucks, approximately 85 miles away from where we had intended to meet. No matter, we made ourselves right at home doing what we do best, which, in my case, means scraping the very bottom of the etiquette bucket in order to procure as much laughter as possible. Tonight, I kicked the freaking bucket right out the door. I was so loud I was told my voice could be heard in the restrooms, and I spoke in the most unfiltered, deviant manner imaginable. All night long. It's worth mentioning that the Lancaster Starbucks doubles as a Bible study paradise. It's often hard to find a table because so many of these nice kids are there, praising The Lord and whatnot. But even their presence didn't deter my wickedness tonight. Even as I felt these tender young vessels recoiling, I squawked my obscenities, and cackled at my own depravity.

In fairness, one can hardly distinguish this night from any other, based upon my description. What makes tonight different is that I am having an acute case of morning-afters, the likes of which I've never known. As we were leaving, I asked the staff if we had been offensive, and two of them uttered an irrepressible "yes." My mind is replaying this on continuous loop. Normally I adhere to our covenant, "the joke is sacred," and shake off the scorn, or perceived scorn, of those nearby. I must tell you that it is never my intention to pollute my social environment, nor to make anyone ill-at-ease. On the contrary, my chief objective at all times is to make people laugh, and I will seemingly go to any lengths to secure a favorable reaction. But inflicting misery upon our staff and fellow diners is not my only regret tonight. I came home and read all my friends' blogs, and was swift to realize that I scarcely allow these glorious women to shine when we're together, because I'm always so busy trying to out-blaspheme myself, or reenact someone falling down the stairs, in hopes that they will perhaps, pee themselves, just a little. Karen never gets to talk about her herb expertise, because I will cut her off to honk like a goose, and Sam's voice is an endangered species because I'm too busy exaggerating the shit out of everything to let her speak. B can hold her own, so I have no regrets there, but poor Megan isn't apt to interrupt my rendition of a one-man-band, or whatever else I'm doing. So basically, I'm a solar eclipse, and I owe my friends an apology. Because they are sublime, they will never admit that I am a shameless glory hog, but we all know it's true.

Here is where I ought to vow to be more conscientious of my friends, and of innocent passers-by, but I think we all know what my vows are worth. I'd horrify those baristas again in a heartbeat if I thought one of you would shoot coffee out of your nose.

Some friend I am...

good-bye, ruby tuesday...check

Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:

Wake up early and not resent everything

Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.

Get kids up and ready without yelling.

Post a blog for Gail.

Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.

Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).

Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!

Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.

Pick up my gym clothes.

Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.

Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.

Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.

Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.

Return to B's to wait for (K).

Write this blog.

Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.

Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.

Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.

Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.

Drive B home.

Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.

Come home and kiss them until they push me away.

Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.

By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.

watch out gail, they're sharp!

In honour of our mutual obsession with Sharpie pens (a rapidly growing trend, I'm afraid), I'm posting a picture of all the Sharpies I can find in my house. Mind you, there are more, in the recesses of my purse, and in my car, various pockets, etc., but I hoped this picture would bring a smile to your face.

Surely it will heighten your sense of delight to know that the fine-tips are kept in a Starbucks mug B got for me a couple years ago. A proud monument indeed.

Enjoy, friend!

i'll buy that for a dollar!

The last time I went to the dentist, he saw a "shadow" in the root of a tooth that had previously endured everything short of a land mine. He said we'd check up on it in six months, as it would either reveal itself to be an x-ray glitch, or an abcess. Christ.

What could I do? Naturally, I waited three and a half years, hoping that an abcess, like a taunting older brother, will eventually go away if you pay it no attention. It never hurt, nor bothered anyone, nor made inappropriate gestures in public, so I left it to spread silently throughout my jaw bone, assuming it would finally rupture or something, at which point I'd beg for the dentist. That was my plan.


I should mention that I am a dental war veteran, and that I've seen my share of action. Root canals, extractions, fillings, name it. By no means have I been awarded medals of valor, however, for each and every experience has been preceded by a) rocking in the fetal position, b) crying/begging, and c) valium. I am the epitome (or epi-tome, as some might say) of dental-phobic. Hence my egregious gamble with the ominous shadow. Meanwhile, I could just feel my jaw decaying, a false sensation followed by lots of imagined drilling, shots, and those ungodly stakes they jam down your roots. I wasted at least one year by telling Todd we just couldn't afford it, but then, good dental samaritan that he is, he began insisting that I go. Conveniently, I "forgot" for another year, and hedged subsequent queries with my swift subject-changing mojo. (I'm very good at this, but that's for another blog.)

Deep down, I knew I had to go, and last month I finally made the appointment. By the way, the minute I did so, every tooth in my head began throbbing and causing searing pains down my face. People have assured me that because I have endured childbirth, an appendectomy, and the removal of the Tumor that Ate Texas, I would be fine. But I implore you to see that pain inflicted in the past does nothing to nullify pain in the present. Just because I've had babies doesn't mean that ramming a tent stake into my nerve hurts less. Duh. Whether or not I survive is not the issue. I DON'T WANT IT TO HURT!

Back to the day of reckoning. I managed to drive to my appointment, only having moderate myocardial infarction, and was proud to have arrived without an escort. I had my check for $230 pinned to my shirt, like a good little girl, and walked in. I was exceedingly nice to all the receptionists, in hopes that this would karmically help reduce the chances of a runaway abcess. And then I waited. In hell. Finally it was my turn, and when the assistant asked how I was, I unloaded my entire footlocker of anxiety on her, in a manner that resembled vomiting on someone. But she handled it with aplomb, and spent thirty minutes easing my worries. She helped prepare me for my x-rays, which would seal my fate in seconds. Now, it's too late to make a long story short, but praise the Lord, I have no cavities, and the shadow was just a shadow!

Speaking of karma, I didn't deserve to get an A+ today. I deserve to have my teeth fall out in rows, and to be left with bloody, uneven stumps. I'm not a very good person. Maybe today's good fortune was an example of grace, which is much more plausible to me than karma, but that is DEFINITELY another blog. In any event, I told Dr. O'Leary that he was my lucky charm, and then took it too far with a leprechaun joke and made a hasty exit.

The good news didn't stop there. When I floated out to the reception area, I was informed that I was being given a new patient promotion, because it had been so long, and that the cost of my visit would be one dollar. One dollar! I asked if they had any similar deals on liposuction, which got laughs from the young women and disappointed head shakes from the middle-aged women who have already discovered that we are supposed to love our bodies no matter what. Hey, can't blame a Fitzpatrick for trying to push her luck a little, right?

my purse-nality

When I was a kid, I once saw an episode of Leave it to Beaver wherein The Beave emptied his pockets, and after amassing quite a heap of this and that, he finally pulled out a tennis racket. I knew this was impossible.

Or was it?

Yesterday as I was skulking about Borders, I began to wonder why my purse weighs fifteen pounds, so I decided to go excavating to find out just how many anvils were in there. Mind you, my purse isn't very big, so I was more than a little surprised to discover the following.:

A copy of The Secret Garden--because all the co-op moms are reading it to their kids

A pair of clean underwear. ???

Notes for a blog idea I got while driving

a four-foot ethernet cable, but of course

two wallets--one that I use, and the one I need to move everything into

two pill bottles (I'm crazy, remember?)

an undelivered greeting card, in pristine condition, though it's a moot point

the iPod with the pink arm band

a protein bar with a shopping list stuck to it

Wet Wipes--don't leave home without them

three pens

two kinds of lip balm

two more protein bars

my checkbook

an Always pad factory,

notes from a therapy appointment, stuck to one of the pads

my phone

and the requisite padlock hanging off my purse strap

aerial view:


the whole shebang (note padlock):


Sadly, I put it all right back in.

lose, your blues, everybody cut footloose...

Today was the big reunion. We parted on awkward terms, seeing very little of each other before the big break. I was even paying for the offending party to stay away from me. So this is a big deal. I finally found it in my wicked little heart to reconcile...

...with the gym, duh! You guys thought my life had reached soaring heights of drama, and I was really just talking about the gym. Sheesh.

So I went this morning, with all of the accoutrements that make us feel bad-ass there, but really just slow us down. (ie iPod, water bottle, phone--because God forbid I am inaccessible for one hour)

I had my playlist all set. It's called "no shoe dropping," which is a reference to my crippling depression and my subconscious obsession with the other shoe dropping in any and all circumstances. Of course my loyal readers (hi Mom!) will remember that Footloose is the absolute highlight track, and I rocked out to it while doing calf raises, lifting 90 pounds--a very big deal for me.

My workout began with the gluteal interval course on the treadmill, which really got me pumped--pardon the cliche. Between completing that course, and Survivor blasting Eye of the Tiger in my ears, I practically swaggered into the weight room, thinking I was Arnold Schwarzenegger, except he would never have a pink iPod arm band. After completing my set, I returned to the treadmill and selected the most intense incline track, with which I have had a severe love/hate relationship for four years. I should mention that I hadn't showered yet, which is extremely uncomfortable, and I also kept mouthing the words to my music, which wasn't helping me earn popularity points, but the real fun started when I had to clutch the bar with all my might when the incline reached its summit. I suddenly became keenly aware of my greasy hair, my bra straps showing, my pathetic loserness.

But oh well. I refuse to cheapen my proud achievement with negative self talk. There'll be plenty of that on other days. Today I'm basking in the glory of bettering my life. (Queue music)

Still, I was really disappointed afterward when I looked in the mirror and saw Kirstie Alley.