What You Will Do to Get Your Keys out of a Public Toilet

I heard once that Murphy's Law states that "anything dropped in the bathroom will land in the toilet."

I suppose that this statement is even more true if you are locked in a Pepto-Bismol colored vestibule with barely enough room to turn around and shut the door without squatting over the crapper.

I had no pockets in my gym shorts and was juggling my car key, an Ipod, water bottle and a towel. As I set these contents on the back toilet, I watched helplessly as my one and only SUV key slid off the back of the tank and into the toilet.

The toilet appeared to be fairly clean, thankfully. Quite honestly, it looked a hell of a lot cleaner than any of my toilets at home, some of which look like diarrhea fest 2010 occurred in them. Hey, I have TOLD you guys I am not Suzy home maker.

I stuck my hand in and grabbed them, feeling a hopeless resignation. At least it wasn't the Ipod.

I had barely made it to the bathroom in the first place. I was on about 2.50 miles on the treadmill before the painful rumbling in my belly forced me to hit "Stop" and go search for the nearest bathroom.

I guess I am happy I didn't run outside today, or I would be squatting in bushes. I have heard "real runners" sometimes do this during races. I don't know if I could do it. I would rather implode.

I was so annoyed, because I had completed a successful, albeit messy, four mile run on Tuesday. I was working toward it again today. I was half way through my This American Life podcast when I realized that the four miles weren't going to happen.

Which is how I found myself in the stall designed for an Oompah Loompah, not a 5'9" big boned girl who had just dropped her keys in the toilet, reached her hand in and fished them out. I didn't want to wipe my dripping hand on my shorts so I shook it off a bit and gingerly peeled (as fast as I could...the stomach pain was relentless) my soaked workout clothes off and sat down.

I noticed then that there was no toilet paper. NO TOILET PAPER. Seriously...I pulled up my soaking wet underpants and shorts and waddled over to another Ooompah Loompah stall and sat there for a minimum of ten minutes, listening to a vapid discussion about cheer leading. Oh, God. It was so fascinating, I just about pooped myself. Wait a minute....

I usually would care if someone noticed that I was in a stall for about ten minutes, but I didn't even care today. I was too disappointed that I missed my four mile run today, by a mere mile and a half. I got on the miserable elliptical machine and did fifteen minutes and listened to the screaming children being dropped off and picked up at the nursery.

My child had screamed and was a snotty, wild mess when I dropped her off today, too.

I suppose this is what one would call an "unsatisfactory gym experience" day. Tomorrow WILL be better. I am now training for this. I will write more about it the future. I now mean business.

Chris is Awesome

Yes, he is!!!!!

He is the most awesome husband ever!

Dingleberries and Sucker Punches

I'm sitting here in my bedroom, the refuge.

Sounds of canned farts and "umphs" are wafting in from the family room. Someone's nose is inevitably being broken from being nailed point blank by the Sucker Punch on "Wipeout."

Along with school starting, I am reminded of another welcome effect of Fall: a new television season starting and no more Wipeout. It's currently on a hundred times per week. I am SURE of it.

I am feeling like a bit of a failure today, for a great number of reasons. I won't go in to all of them here...just a few.

I was on fire last week with my running. I really was. I bought those Under Armour clothes and everything. I was tooting along with my 3.25 miles and inserting this fact into everyday conversations with people, like the check out clerks at Publix.

"Hi, how are you today," the clerk would ask.

"I am great! Fantastic," I would say, enthusiastically. "I'm training for a 5k, then a marathon, and today...TODAY, I ran 3.25 miles."

Okay, so I didn't say it exactly like that, but I did work it into conversations and Facebook updates. I know, totally annoying.

But I completely recognize that I am one of those annoying people who do that, and in a way, I think it makes it all right. Don't you agree? It's the people who DON'T know that they are annoying, who are the MOST annoying. I recognize it and own it. I think my husband would disagree....but I think he is one of those annoying people who doesn't KNOW he is annoying yet. He thinks he is cool. So...he sort of doesn't count.

I digress.

But my running THIS week? Oy.

PSYCH, to the chubby jiggly wannabe posing in the overpriced Under Armour gear.

The two times I have actually MADE it to the gym this week, I have limped along to two miles. I then came home and ate a bottle of blue cheese (mixed with some honest to goodness real crumbled blue cheese chunks for good measure) with garlic and cheese Texas Toast croutons mixed in.

OR, tomato soup (which isn't too bad, except I have high blood pressure).

OR, three pieces of fried chicken and three helpings of mashed potatoes with gravy last night when my mamma came and helped out with the kids.

I stepped on the scale this morning and I shouldn't have done that. You know that voice that is in your head that tells you not to do something in which you are in the process of fixin' to do?

It goes something like, "No! No! Stop it! Don't do it! Don't! Don't! Don't! Don't do it! Nothing good will come of it! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Then you do it anyway? And you are all like "Ah, damnnnnnnnnnn, that voice was so right. She is always right, nothing good came of it. I feel like a piece of shit now."

I think that voice? Her name is Willpower. It is something which I have zero of . I mean...this chick tries, but I blow her off, like 99% of the time. I don't even know why she says anything to me. Dumb beeeyotch.

I heard her all during pregnancy. She was like, "NO! Don't eat that pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia! Don't do it! Don't! Don't!" And I did. And it was all bad and I gained sixty pounds.

So, the other failure I have had today is that I saw a palmetto bug ~ a freaking COCKROACH ~ if you will, in my house this morning.

At first I though it was a dingleberry that fell off of the dog's butt because I had just taken him out and he had taken a crap.

The dog was super interested in it, and I was like, "Oh, damn. I have to pick that piece of shit up off of the carpet. Gross."

Then the piece of shit MOVED.

Then I put my glasses on.

It was a cockroach!!!!!

And I was really not happy for several reasons, the first being that we have a pest control service that is SUPPOSED to be taking care of these things for us. I know that they can't control everything, but since they have come, we have had an influx of some wicked little urchins called "earwigs," which are apparently harmless, but they are crazy ugly.

We have also had some ants. And some spiders. And Maggie has woke up with bites on her legs, which I am not 100% convinced were not there before she went to bed, but still.

So, the pest control service is not doing the job to the best of the ability that I believe that they should. We should see NO pests. ESPECIALLY not a cockroach.

Another reason I am not happy about this is that I am actually striving to be a little bit better about cleaning up. I am cleaning up dishes, taking trash out, cleaning up floors. I have about five different vacuums in my possession and I use them fairly regularly, inside and outside of my house, AND I change the bags in them and/or dump the contents (in the case of the shop vac) quite often. So, cockroaches are unacceptable.

I told Chris about it when he called to see how the children were behaving (another source of feeling like a failure). He echoed my thoughts on how happy he was that the pest control service was coming out tomorrow, as he had called them yesterday about the earwigs and the ants.

"And I am really upset about the cockroach," I continued, "because you know I have been trying to keep things cleaner since we got the dog."

There was silence. SILENCE.

Which leads me to believe that he doesn't share my thoughts on this and doesn't make me feel good.

My bed is feeling really super comfortable and I think a nap may be in order. There are no more farting noises. Wipeout is over; Shaq Vs. is now on. Another summer winner.

Dear God, I will weep with joy when school starts next week. I don't know how homeschool moms do it. I am hiding in my bedroom right now, emotionally broken and bleeding, and it has been not even three months since school let out in June.

But I won't complain about this topic anymore because my husband tells me that everyone has "gotten it" by now that they drive me nuts. I just will re-iterate my gratitude for the public school system.

Nap time out.

Jenny McCarthy and Inappropriate Pictures

Tonight, my 15 year old son suddenly blurted out, "Mom! Jenny McCarthy is HOT."

I immediately thought of the book cover in which she cradled a watermelon sized belly. The book that discussed mucous plugs, epidurals and childbirth classes. I thought about all of the autism campaigns over the years with her cute little blond bob, cheesin' it with Jim Carrey. She's cute. She's a mom.

Most importantly, to a 15-year-old, she should be considered OLD. She is, like, MY age.

"Jenny McCarthy," I asked.

"Yeah," he flipped his Justin Bieber-ish hair. "She's hot."

What the heck.

I dismissed it. I dismiss a lot of what my kids say. I'll admit it. I shouldn't, but I do. Unless they say something really unique and precocious, it's often met with an "Uh, huh," and it's in one ear; out the other.

I forgot about the Jenny McCarthy comment until I found these tonight when I was bored on WWTDD.COM.

He was supposed to be syncing his Ipod.

What? More Pictures??!

Whoa! More pictures! "What's up with the pictures," you ask.

Well, about a year ago, Chris let Maggie play with our digital camera. I KNOW, right? Predictably, she threw it and it shattered into a million pieces.

He further made the problem worse by trying to fix it himself and unscrewing those itsy bitsy little screws to see if he could "see what the deal was." I KNOW, right?

So, we have been without a camera for about a year. That is, until I took the initiative to order one online.

Knowing nothing about cameras, I chose one very scientifically.

I knew that Ashton Kutcher was the spokesperson for this particular model. I am not a huge fan of Ashton Kutcher, nor do I think he is "all that," but I am easily manipulated and swayed; a marketing/advertising company's wet dream.

If it is good enough for Ashton Kutcher, it is good enough for me.

When Chris got the order confirmation email, he asked, "What kind of camera did you get?"

"I don't know. It's a digital one, a Nikon."

"What's the pixel, blah blah blah," he asked. It was a bunch of technical crap. I had no idea what he was talking about. I just wanted a camera.

"It is the one on t.v. that Ashton Kutcher is selling."

I don't think he was too happy with me. But, you know. We needed a new camera. We were missing important events in our childrens' lives that you just can't capture with the Iphone camera. I took a leap. It was a blind leap.

So, here we are with our new camera. I'm taking pictures of everything. Including, apparently, raccoon turds in my back yard.

My neighbors already think I am little off...taking pictures of turds probably isn't helping.

In our cul de sac, we have New Jersey people, New Yorkers and people from Connecticut. And Colombia. I suppose they have seen it all.

So....here is me. On our way up to Jacksonville.

Maggie pulled this book off of Chris' shelf at work.
Ragnar! He is 30 pounds now...same as the 2 year old! He's a sweet boy...great temperment. Awesome addition to our family.

Sid the Science Kid and Chicken Nuggets

I am currently parked in my comfortable arm chair watching one of more annoying television shows in the universe: Sid the Science Kid.

I could say a lot about this show. Maggie likes it. I don't.

I don't like how all of the kids' hair looks like worms. Or how the kids' "voices" are adult voices or act like they need to be on medication. Or how teacher Susie pronounces "incline planes" or "pulleys."

I'm sitting here because I am too lazy to get up. I need a refill on my coffee. Yep, too lazy to even get up for that.

I had a moment of weakness and made chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes and corn for everyone last night. I licked the mashed potatoes saucepan clean, and shoveled in the leftover nuggets.

This morning, I very well may be suffering from a chicken nugget and mashed potato hang over.

It might not be so bad, except this is a gym day and I'm supposed to jog my 3.25 miles. If I can't even make it to my kitchen, how am I going to make it to the gym? Not promising.

As I look around, I am just a wee overwhelmed at all that I have to do. I started painting the powder room and didn't finish. Everything needs to be cleaned up. The bathrooms upstairs haven't been cleaned for over a month.

My oldest son comes home tomorrow.

He spends the summers up north and his room seemed surprisingly vacant this summer. I'm looking forward to having him home. His room, although clean, needs to be prepared today. The sheets and comforter need to be washed, as I'm sure they have collected the dust of disuse over the summer.

My mind is swimming with all that "needs" to be done today, and in the midst of my nugget hangover, it all seems overwhelming. It's just one of those days in which there is no direction. Ever have one of those?

I just need to start somewhere...

Like with another cup of coffee.

An Update on My Overpriced Under Armour Running Shorts

Just an update on those $29.99 Under Armour shorts I purchased on Saturday.

They don't really "wick away" crotch sweat, nor do they eliminate odor. Those are two things that I come to expect with jogging, so I can live with them. They are part of the "sport" of running (in my case, trudging), if you will.

What I couldn't live with was that after about two minutes, the inner thigh area of the shorts began to creep up.

I did a sneaky little wiggle to get them out, but after about twenty minutes, even the wiggle didn't work and the insides of the shorts were permanently wedged in my crotch area for the remainder of my jog. All 3.25 miles of it.

After about 2 miles, I was too miserable to care what the beefy dudes behind me thought. I was hating life.

I couldn't gather my momentum because my mind was obsessed with the Under Armour shorts and where they were stuck.

My inner thighs began rubbing together and started to chaff. (My body is just made like that...the inner thighs are a problem.) I began to fret, which brought on some bowel issues. I felt impending diarrhea. I felt like crying.

All brought on because of a pair of over priced shorts that, because they are now consider used, I can't take back. Sucks monkey butt.

I'll stick to my non-breathable Nike Basketball shorts, I suppose. I don't look like a "real" runner...I look like a wayward, out of shape WNBA player.

My old shorts are comfortable, and they cost me an entire dollar at Goodwill. Pretty ironic.

The Under Armour shorts ARE remarkably comfortable though. And I can wear them to the grocery store. I can APPEAR to be an athlete, even though I know I'm more of a poser.

Mac Books and Distractions

First of all, I am typing from my kick ass new get up: my new Mac Book.

My old computer had a good run.

It had been a gift from some friends of ours before Chris left for Iraq. He took it to the desert, used it over there, schlepped it back and forth several times and eventually gave it to me.

Chris' gizmos that he no longer has any need for (i.e. he buys the "newer" and "better" versions) always are passed on to me. I am the sloppy-second-picker-upper in our fam.

The PC predictably began to have issues shortly after it became mine.

It regularly overheated and shut off and was maddening to me, as you can well imagine. I went through about a half a dozen cooling pads I bought off of Ebay, all which broke after an average of one week.

Then, Maggie got a hold of it and flicked off every single key off the keyboard. If it wasn't completely jacked up before then, it was after that point.

The panic began to set in about my Itunes account and my pictures, as it usually does. No one wants to lose precious mementos of their children's births, nor does one want to lose such catchy ditties such as "Ms. New Booty" and "Sexy Bitch."

I sat down originally to look up "Caprese Salad" on my computer. However, the thrill of being able to open up a computer and not have it take twenty minutes to "wake up" was so damn exciting, I had to sit down to blogger to write about it.

There was no delay in typing, I didn't have to wait for the cursor to show up. I'm just so excited I could pee my pants. Thank you for sharing this little bit of joy with me.

I have to go prepare my Caprese salad now.

Bumper Stickers and DB's

The other day as we were driving down the street, we passed a group of children. One child stood out.

He was holding a basketball and had a vapid "I've-played-too-many-video-games" look on his face. He was slack jawed and I do believe I saw a drop of drool hit the pavement. He stared at us as we drove by.

It drives me BANANAS when kids do this.

"Wait, stop the car," I wanted to say to Chris.

I thought about hopping out of the SUV, yanking the basketball out of his hands and bouncing it off his forehead, just to see if anyone was home.

Instead, I turned around to Wesley.

"Wesley. Don't ever do that," I ordered.

"Do what?"

"Stare at cars like an idiot," I said, pointing to the kid.

He nodded, knowingly.

He has heard me rant about kids looking stupid like this before...so he knows the drill. He probably does it all the time anyway.

I think a lot about appearances.

No matter how much my husband preaches on Sundays that "it is what is inside that counts," I can't help it. I still worry about the outside.

For example, I don't do bumper stickers with messages. It causes me to judge and make assumptions.

I drove home from the gym this morning behind a Honda CRX with a bumper sticker that said "Illest."

Really? Are you the "illest?" As in cool? Usually, if someone has to tell you that they are the "illest," they aren't.

The other day on the way home from the beach we pulled up at a red light next to a black Bentley. Wes "ooooh'd" and "awwww'd" because in our area one does not see that many Bentleys.

At that moment, we heard hip hop music begin to boom from the car, and the righteous dude driving the "Bentley" rolled down the tinted windows. He was approximately 22, was wearing a pink shirt, a plaid fedora and had "douche-bag" written all over him.

In our busted up "Mercedes-Benz" with no AC and various service lights flickering, the discussion ensued that by the time one is at the place in life to own a Bentley, one should act like one has "been there." One should not act like a douche.

We came to the conclusion it MUST have been a kit car.

My very favorite bumper sticker, however, is "Animals Don't Leave."

Really?

I find it fascinating because a.) it is a naked statement baring your bleeding wounds to everyone you come into contact with as you tootle around town. There is no need to open your mouth or speak a word. Those who see you and "read your car" already know you are an emotional wreck and are, at least at this very moment in your life, are broken enough to plaster this statement on your car.

And, b.) I honestly believe that the majority of animals dream of escaping in their wildest of wild dreams. I don't care if you are the Mother Teresa of pet owners; your animal still wants to escape you. That's why you have to keep them in the house, on a leash and train them not to run away.

All of our animals have felt this way, I'm sure: the cats, the bird, the dogs...even the goldfish, if we would have remembered to feed them and they lived long enough.

The only reason that Ragnar the Viking dog hasn't tried to run away yet is that he is a puppy, and hasn't gotten over his phobias of the world. He's afraid of the sound of crickets at the moment. It doesn't bode well for an adventureous tromp into the nearest freshwater canal for him.

We had a Cairn Terrier who tried to get away every chance he could, and out of obligation and "good pet owner responsibility" we took him back in after every angst filled escapade. We fed him, bathed him and gave him treats and rawhides bones. Yet every time he saw an open door, he would be gone...and I imagine that if he had fingers, there would be a little middle one sticking up on his way out the door. A little doggy f-you, if you will.

It is interesting about our feelings about bumper stickers at this stage in our lives because on our first date, Chris picked me up in his Ford Escort with personalized license plates that said "Viking7."

He had a "Sigma Pi Epsilon" sticker in one corner of his rear window, a "Bucky Badger" sticker in another corner, a Denver Bronco sticker in yet another corner.

His car only has several magnets/stickers on it at the moment but nothing that can be overtly mocked or can be considered overkill.

As in, nothing that looks douchey or needy.

We are, indeed, from the Midwest and are extremely uncomfortable with drawing undue attention to ourselves or our children. Although we have moved to a new area, our children must be guided and directed in the ways of the Scandinavians: always be slightly aloof, quiet, reserved.

"Act like you have been there" if you ever become successful enough to own a Bentley. For God's sake, never ever buy a bumper sticker that says "Animals Never Leave."

And certainly never stare at a car as it drives by and for goodness sake, shut your mouth and don't look like a slob by drooling all over the street.

Secret Crazy S&*$ and Lilly Pulitzer

I have a secret to share with you.

It will most likely be that nail in the coffin of your perception that I am one hundred percent, certifiably insane.

But that's okay.

I'm telling you because I am pretty certain there are others of you out there who, like me, have some weird, quirky book in which you you keep track of weird shit.

My book contains measurements.

As in, of my body.

I keep track of my waist size, hip size, under my arms, under my bust, etc. I've been doing it for eleven years. I don't know why I started...probably some sort of mail order catalog sizing OCD thing gone hideously awry.

I can tell you that in October of 1999, my waist was exactly ten inches smaller than it is today.

I can tell you that in 2003, I had one entry. I don't know why...perhaps it was a really abysmal year and I just gave up.

In 2006, it went from "Measurements" to "Measurements, Weight and Notes"...telling what I was doing, like "I ran 4 miles today and felt good." "I drank too much wine." "Chris is in Iraq and here are my goals before he comes back."

I fear my kids are going to find this book after I die and will pass it around in horror, shake their heads and say, "Our mother was one sick bitch."

So, obviously, I have issues.

In my twenties, I was neurotic about my issues.

Now, I embrace them.

I discuss them, make fun of them and write about them on the Internet. Surely, there are others like me.

It's like going to the doctor with a nasty, oozing pustule and fretting about showing him because you think he will judge you. Inevitably, last week he saw something far oozier and dealt with something much more horrendous than your puny little pustule. There are others with nastier shit than you. Always, always, always.

Same thing with bathing suits. There is always someone who looks worse in a bathing suit at the beach or pool then you do...so who the frack cares? Take the damn t-shirt or cover up off and just let it hang out.

This is precisely why I like to watch Hoarders. And Intervention. Wow...people mess up their lives something awful.

So, there. I have issues. It's out, in case you didn't know it anyway.

Yesterday morning I was kicked out of my house.

My husband said he did it nicely, but I thought the tone was sort of a "get the hell out of here."

HE thought it was more like, "Hey sweetie! I love you so much, that I will take care of the kids on my day off so you can go off and do whatever you would like," followed by lots of blowing kisses, hugs and "I love you's."

However the tone was, he didn't have to say it twice.

I dashed out the door before he could change his mind and headed to the first thrift store.

Thrift stores always have made me happy. I got away from them for awhile (read: when we were moving and I wasn't allowed to bring more crap home) but now that we are not moving anywhere for a long, long time I can thrift store, garage sale and dumpster dive until my heart is content.

(My husband, if he read that, probably just fainted dead away. He does not approve of any of it. Particularly dumpster diving.)

I arrived at the thrift store at the perfect time. I stood as a chatty elderly woman unloaded a fresh bin of fat girl clothes. "Here's another extra large for you, honey," she said as she handed me another pair of Columbia capris (SCORE).

I almost pissed my pants when I rifled through the bathing suits and found a Lacoste cover up and a Lilly Pulitzer tankini set. The bathing suit was a size eight, but I plan to be a size eight one day and I am in love with Lilly Pulitzer.

I carry a Lilly Pulitzer bag, and when I can fit into her clothes, I plan to wear them, even to bed. I vow to give up thrift storing immediately and only wear Lilly Pulitzer clothes, even if it puts my husband in the poor house.

As I checked out the clerk (another elderly woman) folded the clothes and put them into a bag. "Oh, these are nice," she said, in a New York accent.

"Yes, they are," I said, excitedly.

"Oh...you can't fit into this," she said, holding the bathing suit up.

From this point, I entered into a conversation that would never, ever, ever occur in the Midwest.

"Not right now...but I will someday," I said.

"Are you doing the lap band surgery," she asked.

Huh?

"No, I'm exercising and watching what I eat. I just had a baby," I said. Like two years ago. But what the heck bees wax is it of hers?

"Are you getting the lap band surgery," another one came up behind me. Apparently lap bands were a source of great interest.

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, my friend just did it and she had to follow a book of instructions this thick," she held her hands apart at about the space of a Stephen King novel. "She lost a lot of weight, though."

"Interesting," I said.

What universe was I in?

"She was about your size when she got it done," she said, looking me up and down. "She brought all of her 2x's over here because they didn't fit any more. She had to buy a whole new wardrobe!"

"Wow," I sort of wanted to slap her.

"Okay...well...have a good day," I said as I slunked out of the store.

I drove over to my friend Beki's house and told her what happened.

"Make me pretty," I said.

Some highlights, hot rollers and nice smelling gel later I had my head between my knees and she was tousling.

"Am I going to look like a prostitute?"

She laughed. "No."

"A stripper?"

There was a pause. "No."

Maybe a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader," she added.

Same difference.

I headed to Ulta and sprayed perfumes. If I didn't look like a hooker, I smelled like one. I bought some Urban Decay bonus buys.

I headed home after my day to myself.

"Mom," said Wesley. "Why is your hair blond?"

"I had it highlighted. Do you like it?"

He nodded.

"Will it stay that way?"

"It grows out. Do you want me to keep it like this?"

He smiled a little and nodded.

"Do you think it's pretty," I asked.

He nodded again.

After dinner, out of nowhere he looked at me. "I like blond better that dirty blond."

"I'll remember that, Wes."

At least my kids think I'm pretty, even when I don't.

I need to remember that's what is important.