I’ve been lamenting for several days over the sad, sad condition of my kitchen floor. I’m pretty sure that if it were any more sticky, I’d loose either a flip-flop or a 6 year old in there. But of course, mopping said floor is never very high on my list of things to do. (Obviously.) But this morning, as I schlepped across the kitchen to the coffee maker, my slippers making a sound much like when I give my dog peanut butter, I figured I’d better actually mop the dang thing. And therein lies the story. Continue reading
Holy smokes, the things that folks do to themselves in the name of a good time. I ran across this article tonight and was struck by two immediate needs: clench my thighs together and start writing. What in the name of anything worth shouting were these two thinking!!! Apparently things need some “shaking up” down in Lexington Park, MD because the late twentysomethings are implementing power tools in ways not endorsed by Norm Abram.
Two suggestions: If your sex life is in that dire need of spicing up and you are only 27, you might need to invest in some couples counseling instead of a saber saw and an adult toy. And, if you seriously thought this was a good idea, you worry me. Greatly.
The older I get, the more I think I can safely self-diagnose myself as at least a bit ADHD. Now, while I think this peccadillo adds to my charm and inherent fun-ness, it also makes me a bit of a challenge to live with. Just ask my family. But, it sure does mean that I get bored easily. Not with my family, but with stuff like paint and breakfast options. And, apparently, web sites. So, I got that techno-daddy of mine to gussy my little on-line self up a bit. Hope you like it.
There are many things I have tried to suppress about myself, but one little peccadillo remains regardless of how hard I try to pretend it is not there. I wish I could play football. Like real football. I watch Rudy and I get choked up, wishing it were me flying down that field. I loved going to the football games in high school and not just to “walk the track” and try to flirt with all the non-football players. I just loved that energy. And I’m not even from Texas. In P.E. when we’d play flag football, I could almost always get to the quarterback’s flags before he threw the ball, and if I got the pass, I’d be off to the end zone. Like all the little guys, I dreamt of being “x” enough that I’d get to have my moment under the bright lights, and not just to pass out the water bottles. Too bad I was born a girl. But that didn’t stop me from dreaming.
So when I married a football-loving non-football playing guy, it was like two folks coming out of some athletic closet…a match made in heaven. As you might expect, we watch the Super Bowls – and not even just in hopes of catching a wardrobe malfunction. We watch it for all the same reasons that so many people sit on the edge of the couch and shout instructions at the television. Because we wish we were on that field as well.
And, it helps that Super Bowl parties always have such great food.
Some days, I get why all those 1950s moms were hopped up on Valium much of the time. It’s days like that when I really wish I could “Calgon, Take Me Away” right to some deserted desert island complete with a cute cabana boy and lots of those drinks that come in coconuts and sport a wee paper umbrella swizzle stick. Of course, knowing my kids, they would figure out a way to find me. I swear, the umbilical cord may be cut, but you birth a baby and they get a GPS unit more effective than anything Garmin could ever whip off an assembly line. So, thank all that is good that I have a husband who can take over while I lock myself in the bathroom or do some mindless aisle therapy at the nearest shopping realm. (And I’m not even much of a shopper! Of course, my local Target understands motherhood. Have an in-store Starbucks and a magazine rack and the frustrated mamas will come by the van load. Ka-ching.)
Today is going to be one of those days. You know the kind I’m referring to – the kind where nothing goes exactly as planned and you can’t decide if the best course of action is just to call a mulligan, or start drinking, regardless of what time it is. If I could think of a breakfast food that red wine actually tastes good with, well I might pour a glass. But I’ve never read that little notion on any bottle of Merlot I’ve ever purchased…hints of apricot and oak, goes well with egg dishes and Cheerios.
There are times when being married to a “techno-daddy” has its real perks. Like when my computer gets the blue screen of death and nothing I’ve tried fixes it. And he’s bang-up with a power drill, he really is. But there are times when it certainly has its drawbacks, and I’m not just talking about when he actually answers my query: “So, how was work today, honey?” You know how they usually just say, “Fine” and then leave the room? But every once in a while – you must have a particularly fetching outfit on or something – and then they actually start doing precisely what you want them to do: sharing about their day. Which is fantastic until all the techno-jargon starts tumbling out of his mouth and you suddenly feel like your decoder-ring has gone on the fritz. I jokingly told my sister-in-law that when her techno-daddy does this, she should just offer up a quick marital moment to get him to stop talking. I believe it may be up for consideration.
But my sweet techno-daddy is good for lots of obscure cultural bits that I would never find on my own due to my aversion to reading magazines and ezines that focus solely on the technological world. (Although I have to give Gizmag props for being a great compendium of interesting things for normal folk too!) He is responsible for my recent, “You have got to be kidding me!” moment: the amazing USB Boob Warmer.