Like Mother, Like Daughter

Yesterday was a rather rough day for Little Diva. First, she woke up earlier than normal. She is usually a late sleeper, but I got her up early because we had a showing for the house. She was in a great mood, however, so I didn’t worry too much.

Yet, everytime she seemed to really get into what she was doing, I had to hurry and clean it up and swoop us out of there before the vultures potential buyers came in. Later that night, after too long of a day, she was evil rotten not being very charming. Apparently, she got frustrated with her brother, so she kicked him. Hard. And then she started to cry.

Well, she decided that rather than apologize to him , she would just go sit in her room and scream and cry. Very loudly. After about 10 minutes of that, I went in there and asked her if she wanted to try again. She said yes. So she marched meekly up to Kidlet Jr. and very sadly apologized to him.

And then she broke down into tears. I kneeled down and hugged her and tried to soothe her. She finally got control of her tears. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her to make her feel better.

With all of the dramatics of a seasoned professional, she puts her hands in the air in a gesture that was half surrender and half begging. She looked at me with the most pathetic eyes and said….

“I need some chocolate.”

I kid you not.

That’s my girl!
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A letter to my hair

Dear Hair,

Because our relationship has been so disfunctional lately, I thought perhaps we should finally talk about it. I thought that if I didn’t mess with you as much, you would begin to want to cooperate with me. I now see that tactic won’t work with you. Oh sure, in your defense you can point at the fact that I have ignored you far too long for you to be able to forgive me so easily. I admit it. I have neglected you. It wasn’t that I don’t care. Honestly, I do care. But, let’s face it, you really are pretty high maintenance. It isn’t like you would put up with a $7.00 haircut. No, you must have a master cutter in order for you to show any signs of appreciation. I am not made of money, you know. I do the best I can to make you happy. Haven’t you noticed that I have stopped using the cheap shampoo and am back to using the more expensive stuff that you love so much? That should tell you something. I am willing to work on our relationship.

And before you start in on the current condition of your highlights, you have to understand something. You see, I think you look really great highlighted. I really do! You become very sleek and sexy and, yes, I do notice the extra bounce in you when you have a good highlight job. Yet, you think you are too good for the “at home” kits. So, again, we must go to a color specialist to satisfy your snobby nature. Do you know how expensive that can be? So, yes, I do know that you are embarrassed to be seen in public right now. But, does that mean you have to pout? I mean, seriously, we both could do without the dull, flat personality you have displayed latey. (If we can even say you have a personality right now. I wonder some days if you haven’t just given up and died on me.) I swear your highlights and cut are the next big ticket item I will splurge on. I promise!

Therefore, can you please knock off the attitude? You pretend you will cooperate with me and then, when we go out in public, you decide to fall and just lay there limp and sad. Don’t even get me started on the horrible things you have been doing when in the presence of a camera. Those things are inexcusable.

So, if I promise to call today to make you an appointment with your favorite master cutter, will you please work on your pathetic attitude and your brutal attempts to cause me nothing but embarrassment over your behavior? Don’t make me pull out my old banana clip that I have from 1987. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

Sincerely yours,
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scary scales

I recently got more serious about losing weight. Okay, not so serious that I am eating rabbit food and slamming back SlimFast, but serious enough that I am really trying to watch what I eat. (Let’s just forget about that whole Ben & Jerry’s incident, okay?)

When I started getting more serious about all of this, I started out with a friend who weighed the same as I did. She lost 11 pounds the first week. I lost 2. I am no longer speaking to her. (I’m kidding of course. She is down about 30 pounds and she looks great. And we are still friends.) But, in order to celebrate my recent 10 pound loss, I got my nails done. I am now down to a new set of numbers. I have dropped 19 pounds since mid January. I have more to go, but am pleased with what I have done.

I am still working on eating better, exercising more and getting fit. I just need to figure out how to incorporate my love for Ben & Jerry’s into it. Then, I will work on world peace.

So, when I saw this cartoon, I simply had to snag it up.

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They made me need the coffee!

It is SO not my fault that I must have my coffee. It’s Starbucks fault that I have been “habituated to a drug, albeit one legal and relatively harmless.”

So there. I can have my coffee and my addiciton too. So really, that little white powder that makes me happy is caffeine. They said so themselves. (“In doses of 200 milligrams or less, caffeine, a bitter white powder found in many plants, has been shown to elicit feelings of increased alertness, happiness and sociability — in less scientific terms, a caffeine buzz.”) Therefore, later on, down the road when I am in yet another detox center to rid myself of the evil drug of caffeine, I can then emerge a decaffeinated diva and sue Starbucks.

Read the article for yourself.

Anyone up for a class action law-suit? wink

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The one where the pee-pee dance wasn’t going to work

Seriously, I am not a person who should be in a car for more than a few hours at a time. It is just not a good idea to ask me to not only be in a car for 9 hours, but to be the one not only driving, but in charge of keeping the rest of the crew under control. I am just not mature enough for the responsibility.

So, we left Houston at around 4:00pm. I considered it good timing since I had planned on leaving at 3:00pm. (If you know anything about me, you know that schedules are more like suggestions than something that is “set in stone”. I sort of take a schedule as a guideline.) Anyway, we are on the road and it is really raining. Usually, this stresses me out, but I was rather calm about it this time. Okay, maybe I was calm because all 3 kids were entertained with various technological lifesavers.

That’s another thing. I am not one who enjoys the family sing along or “I Spy” while on the road. I don’t want to sing Old MacDonald or The Wheels on the Bus. I want to listen to the radio and chill out. Sure, that probably makes me a less than excellent parent and I am probably not going to be writing any “Using Travel Time To Bond With Your Kids” books. But it works for me. I praise the technological advances that let one child play GameBoy, another watch a video, and the third watch a DVD (all with earphones of course) while we make our way across this huge state of ours. I am not ashamed to admit that I think of it as my quiet time. Blessed be technology!

But I digress.

The drive is going well. Kidlet Sr. says he feels “weird” and “may need to stop”. Kink number one. I pull over at a gas station and get him a drink and have him take some Benadryl. (FYI: Benadryl is great for motion sickness.) Crisis averted. We move on.

DVD player is suddenly not working. Pull over, fiddle with some cords and wires, push some buttons, say a few profanities…DVD player works again. Crisis averted. We are on our way again.

Okay, so yes, I am a bit tired of pulling over, but really, with 3 kids, this isn’t too bad. Everyone is happy. I am listening to a comedy CD and all is well in the land of the happy travels. And then we hit The Big Traffic Jam of 2004. If you have ever traveled from Dallas to Houston (or vice versa), you have encountered the stretch of road on I-45 south of Corsicana that goes down to one lane. I have traveled this road for more than 12 years and it has always done this. It has been under construction for over a decade. And I am sure that in thousands of years, archaeologists will uncover this stretch of road and it will still have construction cones and signs up.

But, this can’t be that backup. That part of the interstate is miles ahead of us. Surely the backup can’t be this far back. Wrong. It was that far back. Cities away from the construction. The not so lovely thing about this, there are no exits. At least none with anything there. (Remember this. It will come into play.) So we sit. And sit. We pull out the DVD player and start to watch some Simpsons DVD’s. After 3 episodes, I realize that my 4 Diet Cokes are coming back to haunt me. Badly. There are no exits around. None.

I begin to contemplate the diaper in Little Diva’s backpack. (Don’t judge me. I mean I really, really had to go!) But then I realized that I had jeans on and that I wasn’t sure if therapy could fix the emotional damage it would cause my children to see me whip out a diaper to pee. But really, I am in pain and this is no longer funny. As we finish the 5th episode of the Simpsons and I am still only about a mile further down the road, panic sets in. I see cars cut across the grassy median and get on the service road. But, it has been raining and I know I will get stuck. Finally, I see a rest stop up ahead. One with bathrooms. Nothing is going to stop me from reaching that goal!

I pull out of my lane and begin to race down the shoulder of the highway towards my salvation. Of course, some cars think I am trying to get ahead of them and attempt to cut me off. They got to see my manicure and hear me yell about bladder issues as I maneuvered around them. Finally, I reach the rest stop. Along with the other 50 cars that are there. I have never in my life seen a rest stop with so many people. It was like a big “We Hate The Traffic/Meet Your Neighbor” party. I was in no mood to party. I was in agony. I race to the bathroom, barely remembering to grab my children in the process. Then I almost cry. The line for the women’s bathroom in about 25 people long. NOOOOOOOO! Trust me, as I stood there, I knew the pee-pee dance was not going to do the trick this time. Then I see it. The men’s room. With 2 men in line and 3 inside. Should I? Hell yes, I should. So, when there was no line I just barge right in declaring, “Relax. You don’t have anything I haven’t see and I have to pee right now. So either stay and take care of business or wait outside. Thanks!” For the record, no man seemed to mind and a couple thought it was funny.

But oh-my-hell was that bathroom disgusting. I mean, there were probably diseases that have not even been identified by the CDC yet. And frankly, it has been years since I had to do the ‘squat and hover” method of peeing. But a gals gotta do what a gals gotta do. I have to admit, I am so very out of practice with the “squat and hover” method and there was probably some missage in the process. But ahhh the relief.

I did expect to get some strange looks as I emerged from the bathroom. I did not, however, expect the cheers and applause from the women still in line to use the ladies room. Yes. I am the champion of women who need to pee everywhere. (No, not “pee everywhere”. Women everywhere who need to pee.)

As we neared Dallas, I nearly cried with relief. Until I saw the brake lights and emergency vehicles up the road. This time I had to laugh. I mean, come on! It only took about 30 minutes to get through that one. Piece of cake after the drive I’d had.

At around 1:00am, I pulled my weary self into my driveway and helped sleepy children into bed. I am pretty sure that I unloaded most of the car and maybe even put some things away, but I was too tired to remember that this morning. We all slept in.

So remember this: If you see a half crazed woman doing the pee-pee dance at a bathroom near you, you can be sure that she will be barging into the men’s room to take care of business. Pay her no mind. She is harmless. She just has bladder issues.
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Home in just a mere 9 hours!

Left Houston at 4:00pm
Arrived home at 1:03am
(You do the math. To me it equals about 47 hours of hell, but I think the actual number is closer to 9 hours. 9 hours for a normally 5 hour drive. Yeah. It sucked.)

Suffice it to say that the drive sucked and I am sleeping in tomorrow.

Gawd it’s good to be home. I’ve missed my blogging! I will be sure to thrill and entertain you tomorrow with tales of bathroom crashing, cars overheating and children who use less than angelic language in rather humorous ways. Later today. When I wake up. Sometime around noon if I can keep the crack house from being shown in the morning.
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Welcome to my crack house for sale

Having your house on the market is kind of like living in a crack house. Wait. Hear me out and tell me if you agree.

At a moments notice you have to be able to grab everything that you have out (whatever you were doing) and race out of the house leaving no trace that you were ever there. It must look like no one was actually using the house.

Picture this: We’re all sitting around our with our crack pipe or whatever and someone yells: COPS! We grab up all of our pipes and needles. You do a quick scan to ensure you have all of your drug paraphernalia. We race for the nearest exits, diving out the windows, doors or any exit we can find. Scattering like cockroaches before the cops come through the door. Usually, peeling out in our cars. Trying our best to leave no trace that we were ever in the house.

Now this: We’re all sitting around watching tv or playing GameBoy when someone yells: REALTOR! We grab up our shoes, purse and keys. We slam off the tv. We race for the nearest back exit, tripping over each other and slamming the door as fast as we can. We scatter like cockroaches before the realtor comes through the door. We peel out in our car before they open the garage door. Hoping that we were successful in our attempt to leave no trace that we were ever in the house. (Or that anyone actually lives there!)

See. Having your house on the market is like living in a crack house. I told you so!
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