Honest And Open

I have 10 random confessions I need to get off my chest. You know, in case these dirty little secrets of mine change whether or not we can still be friends. In the interest of full-disclosure, I feel you should have all the facts about me:

1. Bacon. I believe I find it repulsive. In fact, just thinking about it right now makes me wanna yak a little in my mouth.

2. I like naughty children. Not too naughty, mind you. Just naughty enough to make me giggle.

3. I routinely stare at people, and then pretend I was just gazing off into space if they catch me. I specifically like to look at hair, shoes and butts. Diagnose that.

4. Coffee tastes like burnt water. I judge the palate of coffee-drinkers and find it wanting. C'mon, don't deny it-- you had to learn how to like that stuff.

5. While it's probably more accurate to say I'm neurotic, obsessive, and borderline reclusive, I prefer to say I have an "artistic temperament". Join me in that little fantasy, will you?

6. I can't stand it when my hands are sticky. If my hands are sticky and we're having a conversation, I'm not listening to a word you're saying. There is only one thing running through my mind, "Let me gooooooo! I need to get to a sink STAT!"

7. I find poop, fart, burp, and other junior-high humor hilarious. If you don't, I will probably offend you at some point.

8. I think it's hilarious when people fall. Realizing this is not socially acceptable, I've trained myself to laugh in my head instead. It's genetic.

9. I am one half granola/green/hippy, and one half...whatever the opposite of that is. I am not disturbed by the hypocrisy in this.

10. I still run up the basement stairs so the monsters can't catch me.

Soooooo, do you still like me?

No, That's Not An Easy Button

That angry red spot in the middle of my face? Yeah, that's a humongous high school throw-back zit. And, yes, it hurts. Hurts like a mother.

So go ahead and stare next time you see me; you have my permission. 'Cause there's no point in trying to avert your gaze. The monster practically begs you to admire its awesomeness. (And has an amazing resistance to concealer might I add.)

Stupid dummie-head juvenile hormones...I'm supposed to be a grown-up now....

The Plague Of Plaque

I hate going to the dentist.  Hate.  It.  It's a place where you voluntarily go to be demeaned and tortured, and sometimes even pay for the privilege.

"So, Nona, tell me about your flossing habits-- are you a regular flosser?"

I've attempted to stretch the truth on this subject before, but I have come to see the absolute futility of it.  So I answer truthfully-- perhaps too truthfully.

"Nope. I only floss once or twice a week.  Or if I've eaten chicken or popcorn in the last 24-hours."  I feel like I'm on the losing side of a confessional.

"Well, you should really floss every night."

"I know."  I shrug my shoulders as if to say, "So, what are you gonna do about it?"  But my smile is so sweet I catch her off guard.

I mean, I realize that ideally I should floss every night, but there's only one person I know who is that anally dedicated; my father.  That man is superhuman (and frankly, weird).

But my hygienist pays me back for my wayward oral health with a little torture device known as the "water flosser".  In short, this tool turns a benign stream of water into a sharp needle that emits a piercing supersonic shriek as it stabs the gums between your teeth over and over and over again.  I want to raise the white flag in surrender.

But I also realized something interesting during my brief stint in the dental chair this time.  Hygienists speak "Wide Open Mouth" fluently.  It is not an easy language to learn, I assure you.  I wonder if it's a required class in dental school?  Why else would they purposely try to create conversation with you while your mouth is stretched to maximum capacity with various implements shoved inside it?  It's amazing to me.

"Did you have a nice Christmas, Nona?"

"Uhh-huh, eh ah ary i."

"Oh, good! Do you have family in town?"

"Uhh-huh, ari an I ha our alies ere."

"That's so nice you both have family here.  Oops!  Looks like we have a bleeder there!  You might want to concentrate more on this area when brushing and flossing."

"O-keh."

"Good.  Tell me again how old your kids are."

"Uy i ele-en, L-eh i eigh."

"Oh my!  Eleven and eight?  They are growing up so fast!"

"Uhh-huh."

At this point I am silently willing her to stop talking to me.  I just know I'm going to gleek on her.  And that would be mortifying.

But the worst part of the whole ordeal (yes, even worse than the water flosser) is the fluoride rinse.  I'm practically gagging just thinking about it right now.  I would like to know how valuable it truly is to rinse with fluoride for 60 seconds twice a year.  Is it making such a significant difference in my oral health that I should feel obligated to subject myself to this sort of nauseating torture?  Someone, please tell me why I do this.

But the highlight of going to the dentist?  When it's all over and I realize I don't have to come back for another six months.  And guess what?  I haven't had a filling in ten years.  Take that, you sadist flossing-nazi hygienist!

Dreamocide

Maybe it was the effects of being up until 4:00am.

Maybe it was because I was with three of my favorite girls in the world-- two sisters and a cousin-- and spirits were high.

Whatever it was, when I look back at how hard I laughed (until I cried) after admitting that I sometimes dream about murdering people.... I'm wondering if it's actually not funny?

Dang-- I can't be the only one! C'mon, show of hands, how many of you peeps occasionally beat, stab or strangle folks while in REM? (What if they really deserved it?) Anyone wanna get all Freudian on me? 'Cause I'm pretty sure it might mean something.

In any case, I want to put everyone's mind at ease that I've never, ever murdered anyone while conscious. Like, not even once. And that's a pretty good track record if I do say so myself. So no worries, you're relatively safe while in my presence. (You're less safe if you enter my subconscious at night, however. Just sayin'.)

Help, Sis!

You know you need a pedicure when...you're walking barefoot on carpet and your feet act as Velcro. In desperate need of a foot file here!

I'll Have A Double-Shot, Please

I'm getting gray hair. Aack! It wasn't supposed to start this soon. But regardless, something has to be done about it, and so I thought I'd try to make my own hair dye. (Say what?!) Yes, you heard me right.

I'm sort of a study of contradictions. I'm the lady in the supermarket studying all the food labels to make sure there's no high-fructose corn syrup, partially-hydrogenated oils, artificial colors or flavors, and preservatives in the items I am purchasing. But, that very same day I might buy Jelly Belly beans and microwave popcorn for a special movie night with the fam. Hmmmm.... And how shall I reconcile my love of fair trade items with my occasional compulsion to zip into a Walmart for something cheap? Or what about the fact that I will wash my hair with eggs and Castille soap and condition it with pure Jojoba oil, but the next day I'll walk into the salon to have a chemical straightening procedure? How about this one-- I love homeopathic medicine (or simply taking no meds at all), but if you search my medicine cabinet you will discover one of my favorite nasal congestion remedies (right next to my neti pot); Afrin spray. I exercise regularly, but then I make sure I replace all those lost calories with extra portions of food, thus ensuring I never actually lose any weight. Ugh! How do I live with myself?!

But I digress. We were talking about hair dye. So anyway, I read that applying coffee to your hair will cover gray, and give your mane an energizing boost! (Really? Do they really think my hair will get a caffeine buzz? Come on.) So, naturally I had to try it! 'Cause I like dabbling in granola life, even if I'm a hypocrite of the worst kind. So I brewed some strong coffee, adding cocoa powder and cloves to the mixture, and then combined that with an egg yolk (to thicken it) and apple cider vinegar (as a "fixative"). Next, I proceeded to make a humongous brown mess in the bathroom as I applied this concoction to my hair. I snapped on a shower cap and set the timer for an hour.

Hubby: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Dyeing my hair!"

Hubby: (scowling slightly with suspicion) "With...what?"

Me: (trying to sound as nonchalant as possible) "With coffee and chocolate!"

Hubby: (rolling his eyes) "Why?!"

Me: (acting as though he is the idiot, not me) "To cover my gray hair! Duh!"

But you know what? Not only do I still have gray hair, but now it smells like coffee breath as well. I almost can't stand myself.

So I'll be returning to my old Redken color standby, traitor to the green cause that I am. Hey, I've never pretended to be perfect....

Proactive, Anyone?

Will somebody kindly tell my face that I'm a 33-year old woman-- not a teenager? If I break out in one more zit-fest I think I'm gonna have to re-enroll in high school.

Vocab Lessons

I just love providing examples of the excellent parenting skills hubby and I possess. I mean, sheesh, our expertise needs to be shared so that it can benefit and bless others who happen to come across this sage blog.

Take, for example, the new word that hubby taught the children. Turd. "Turdman", actually. Isn't that so quaint? And when it comes out of the sweet mouth of a 7-year old child it just warms your heart right up! Hubby came up with this lovely term after our dog did her, um, business out in the snow the other day. You see, her business closely resembled the shape of that dear winter character we all know and love, Frosty. Insert "turd" in place of "snow" and, voila, you have "turdman".

Charming! So, naturally, when LM began singing about "Frosty the turdman" you can imagine how pleased I was with his newfound lexicon. Way to utilize those new vocab words, buddy!

So there you have it, folks. A creative idea for you to incorporate new words into your children's vocabulary. (Not to mention reinforcing their already growing fascination with the natural phenomena called doggie poo.) Lovely!

Timber!

So, yesterday I plucked a (I kid you not) 1 1/2 inch long hair from the middle of my cheek. I have to wonder...how long has that been growing there? And I didn't even notice?! How have I been putting make-up on the last few weeks and not seeing the man-hair sprouting from my face? Amazing.

Please, if I happen to grow a beard without noticing-- just tell me. The truth may hurt, but it's better than walking around looking like a lumberjack.

Hey, It's Not January Yet

The fact that I've managed to polish off about half a bag of dried mangos in the last 2 days may not bode well for my soon-to-be New Year's diet. Hey, they're addictive-- and I gotta get rid of 'em before January 1st! Can't have stuff like that lying around the house, after all.... So excuse me please, there's about half a bag left and only 1 day to go-- I gotta bit of work to do here.

Mmmmmmmmmmm!

B.M. Or T.M.I?

For some reason my little family has decided they no longer see the value in regular toilet flushing. More often than not these days, I can't visit the facilities without finding a hidden surprise when I get there. But I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they've simply begun a new green movement in our home (that they just forgot to tell me about). Except that's a little misleading, seeing as most of the movements I'm finding are of a distinctly different color.... Yeah, as much as I love Mother Earth, I think I'm gonna have to reinstate flushing.

Nit-Twit

I am a twit. Er...a tweeter? A twitterer! Yes, that must be it. Anyway, I'm on Twitter now. Have been for a few weeks. This will come as a surprise to most of you who know how much I dislike Facebook. But it was actually my dad who (unwittingly) convinced me to join. It's like this; everything that makes me nervous about Facebook (farms, mafias, awkward "friendships" with people I haven't thought about for 20 years, etc.) is nonexistent on Twitter. And you only have 140 characters (not words, mind you) in which to express your thoughts. (Actually, that can be a bit of a bummer sometimes-- I'm not usually at a loss for words.)

But as wonderful as that all sounds, my twittering days are about over. I find that it's far too much like talking to myself. (And I can talk to myself without the help of a social networking site-- for Pete's sake, I blog!) You see, you gotta have a little something called followers. It's like the difference between speaking with a group of people, or talking to yourself while the group of people quietly ignores you. And perhaps the group ignores me because I have a very hard time being remotely serious. Every time I attempt to tweet something profound and spiritual, my mind automatically wanders to things like underwear and tripping-- or tripping on underwear. I suppose people are looking for more quality content to be stuffed into that tiny 140 character capacity than I have to offer.

Whatever the reason, I will finish out my 1-month Twitter experiment and then quietly recede back into real life-- where my "followers" find me charming, winsome and have to obey my every command. (That's the benefit of having children, you know.)

Sister, Sister

Ummmm.... So, if you see a suspicious looking photograph of my little sister and me on Facebook in the near future-- allow me to do some pre-damage control. (I have a feeling my brother-in-law is going to doctor it up with a bit of photoshopping. He's hilarious, that one.)

Anyway....

First: it's chocolate.

Second: she couldn't reach it, so I had to.

Third: we're sisters, so I'm allowed.

Fourth: yes-- afterward we laughed until we cried.

Besides, I've had a bit of practice wiping her butt over the years (albeit without jeans on usually)-- she's almost 10 years younger than I am, after all. So I was a natural choice to get the job done!

There, hope that's all clear now. Er, and if the photo never surfaces, then just forget I said anything at all.... Nothing happened.

Anyone Else?

Sometimes I like to just throw a thought or two out there to make sure I'm not alone in this adventure called "parenthood". So, I'm just wondering....

Do any of you parents of boys find that when their pants come off, er...how do I put this delicately? The, um, "apparatus" instantly becomes a weapon of mass destruction? And I'm not talking about when the little guys were babies and tried to hose you down every time you changed their diaper. I mean when, say, they're getting dressed in the morning and they're in that "in between" stage (aka "naked") and suddenly you find yourself getting shot at by their...uh...gun. And it's a very versatile weapon, I've found-- able to shoot anything from lasers to bullets. But what I want to know is; at what point in a boy's life does this unique part cease being a toy? Never? I thought so....

Okay, one more. Am I the only parent (I already know the answer to this, being just one in a large family of "inappropriate laughers"-- but I still want to throw this out to the general population) who, hypothetically speaking of course, finds the thought of her daughter fainting in a nursing home due to the unpleasant smell absolutely hilarious? Alright, obviously this is not a hypothetical situation (but it was a run-on sentence). Ruby actually did faint in just such a manner. Her teacher called to try and ease the news to me in calming tones.

Teacher: "Nona, I don't want you to worry because she's fine, but Ruby had a little accident today. She fainted at the nursing home-- but I caught her! She's okay!"

Me: "Really?! Hahhahahhhahahhahhahhahhahhaaaaaaahhhhaaaaahahaaaaahahhaa!"

Fainting is funny. And I can't be the only one who thinks so or they wouldn't dedicate entire segments to it on America's Funniest Home Videos. (Dang, I may have missed a money-making moment there! But I did not miss the chance at alliteration.)

So...anyone else?

Seriously?

I don't know what's worse: that my daughter's new favorite way to express exasperation is to say "seriously?" or the fact she learned that little gem from me..... All I have to say is, whatever!

Valentine's Day Leftovers....

Maybe the furnace repair guy didn't notice the red satin bra flung provocatively over the stair rail as he descended to the basement. His mind was probably too focused on furnacey things. And he probably didn't see it as he came back up, then back down, then back up, then back down, then back up again either. I mean, it would take more passes than that to catch a glimpse of the shiny red fabric. And, anyway, those repair guys are very business-minded. Yeah. That's right.

Wait For It, Wait For It....

FYI: I'm going to start a new experiment on February 15th. We're going to go gluten-free in our house for 4 weeks, and I ain't gonna tell the fam! Oh, they've heard me talk about the prospect of a wheatless diet lately, and you can believe the whining has already started. (They remember the raw food experiment all-too-well....) But I've already started substituting certain foodstuffs and guess what? Nobody's noticed! I figure, sheesh, maybe I can get away with implementing this newfangled diet without the hubs or kiddos suspecting a thing. Game ON!

Wahahahahaaaahahahahahaaahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Why gluten-free? It's supposed to make a significant difference in autistic kids. And, heck, I'm always up for a fun food challenge!

I'll keep you posted.

Presto Chango!

I don't know about you guys, but sometimes I get songs stuck in my head that I'd rather not be singing. You know, songs that are either idiotic, too difficult for my novice abilities, monotonous, or...naughty. Don't judge me! I don't like listening to naughty songs! But some of them are terribly hard to avoid unless you live in a bubble. I've heard them at wedding receptions, on teenagers' stereos, restaurants, and basically anywhere there's a radio playing. Some of them are quite catchy, too. But I have a solution to the problem of getting a naughty song stuck in my head. I'd like to share it with you, in the off-chance that any of you are as much a dirty sinner as I am.

It's simple: change the words to the song, and then sing your little heart out! (You may want to do this only while you're alone, as engaging in this activity will make you look like a fool-- guaranteed.)

Allow me to give you an example. Take Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" for instance. Kissing girls is not something I'm interested in nor do I particularly enjoy singing about it. But dang it if that's not one of the catchiest tunes out there! Ah, but apply my solution and, voila, you have an innocent little ditty you can sing for hours on end-- guilt free!

I Kicked a Squirrel

I kicked a squirrel and I liked it!

The sound of his peanut cracking.

I kicked a squirrel just to try it,

I hope his squirrel friends don't mind it.

It felt so wrong, it felt so right,

Don't fear-- the squirrel is alright!

I kicked a squirrel and I liked it!

I liked it!

See, that's really all you need. You don't actually have to continue with the whole song (unless you're enjoying yourself that immensely). Usually a few rounds of the substituted lyrics gets the job done before you start feeling like an idiot and decide to move on to a different, more wholesome song. Works every time! The key, however, is to keep most of the lyrics the same or at least very similar, or else you'll never remember them.

Oh, the lengths I go to to help those I love! And, hey, if you ever find yourself stuck on a song with lyrics you're having difficulty changing, give me a call. I'm always here to help. And my mind is just twisted enough to come up with just about anything. (Try, "Tux on Fire" by Kings of Leon, or "Thanks for the Hemorrhoids" by Fall Out Boy. See? This is gonna be easier than you think!)

Happy singing!

I'll Remember Next Time, I Swear!

Am I the only one who has a whole slew of those reusable grocery bags at home, but still manages to forget to use them almost every time I go to the store? And then, of course, I feel compelled to explain this to the checker-- who couldn't care less.

It's not easy being green....

Great, Just Great!

There's this little side-effect I've discovered from being sick and house-bound-- it's called Pacman addiction. Is anyone really surprised to hear that I've become addicted to yet another worthless, mind-dumbing internet activity? Well, at least I've moved beyond Webkinz World....