tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-173992902024-03-13T12:25:03.261-05:00BEHOLD MY BRILLIANCE *<br>* <i>or lack thereof</i> <br> <br> <br> <b>When <i>Penny Karma</i>, <br>a Suburban SAHM pops a Xanax and puts on her Power Panties, wackiness inevitably ensues. Come for the knitting, stay for the snark.</b>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.comBlogger651125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-68339798347638257312011-12-31T23:03:00.001-06:002012-04-17T17:22:11.959-05:00A Post That Spent Four Months In DRAFT Form.<strong>NOTE: Yes, the date of this post says December 31, 2011. That's when I started writing it. I set it aside for a long time, not sure I wanted to put it out there, because it's pretty angry. I revisited the draft periodically, adding and subtracting and debating whether or not to post it. </strong><br />
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<strong>It's now mid-April, and I'm still not sure I've made the right decision, but something happened that will surely interest my longtime readers.</strong><br />
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I don't mean to sound douchey, but Uncle Prickly's sudden passing was incredibly inconvenient, as it coincided not only with my parents' visit, but also with the <a href="http://blip.tv/BlackBookBerry">BlackBookBerry</a> Writers' Retreat - a commitment I'd made months earlier, and that I was not going to miss. I only found out a week or two before my parents' arrival that they were planning to be here for Tito's birthday. <em>Sidebar: Tito just turned NINE, btw, can ya believe? That means Pie is ten, and Beeb is almost fifteen.</em><br />
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I was at the writers' thing the entire day while R took the kids to Uncle Prickly's visitation. MIL and FIL were there (Uncle Prickly, as you might recall, was married to MIL's sister, Aunt Huggy), and FIL was, according to Beebie, his usual self. Beeb gave me the details to the best of her recollection, and based on what she told me, I'm now going to give you the conversation that took place in the funeral home, as I've envisioned it. I make no claims to its accuracy, but the one line that I'm pretty sure is a direct quote (according to all three Apes), well, shit, I don't want to spoil it for you. Trust me. You'll know it when you see it.<br />
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Room full of mourners. Uncle Prickly's ashes in a lovely urn, next to a picture of him looking youthfully dashing in his Navy uniform.<br />
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I don't know how they got onto the subject, but somehow it came out that my parents were in town.<br />
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FIL: Are they staying with you, then, I assume?<br />
R: Actually, no. They don't stay with us when they're in town.<br />
FIL: Well, good. Because if they did, I'd be extremely offended... since MIL and I haven't been invited over to your house since we helped you move in.<br />
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(Note: This was nearly five years ago. And also,<strong> that's exactly how I want it</strong>.)<br />
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R: Well, Sarah and I don't really have people over much.<br />
FIL: Whatever. So, are you going to go and socialize here at this visitation thing?<br />
R: I'm not really comfortable doing that. I'm not much of a social person. <br />
FIL: You never have people over and you don't know how to socialize? You're going to raise antisocial children, y'know.<br />
MIL: Oh, Sarah's so social and outgoing, she kinda makes up for R's introvertedness. The kids aren't antisocial.<br />
R: The thing is, Dad, we're not great housekeepers, and Sarah's afraid that you'd judge her.<br />
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(I'm gonna ask you to brace yourselves for what FIL said next.)<br />
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FIL: (scoffs) <em>When have I EVER judged Sarah?</em><br />
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(G'head. Read that shit again.)<br />
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R: Well, I think Sarah sometimes feels judged by you. <br />
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(We'll come back to that line, too.)<br />
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So, I got all of this information from Beebie (who, bless her heart, was right there with R for all of it - that's right, this entire conversation took place in front of my children) when I called to check in while driving home from the writing thing. And I came absolutely unglued. <br />
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WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK?!!? <em>When have I EVER judged Sarah?</em> I was shattered. Levelled to the ground. When has he ever NOT judged me? I drove home, let the dog out, and cried myself into a seething migraine because I suddenly felt the reality that the last fifteen years of making myself sick and crazy trying to appease this man has been for nothing, and he will never change... because he clearly doesn't see any need to.<br />
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I have done everything I can think to do - for fifteen years - just to get along with FIL. This has been well-documented in this blog since I started writing it. I've attempted to change my mentality from bitter to compassionate. I have tried to not let him get to me. I have tried to forgive and to understand. I have tried to focus on positive things. Tried to find blogworthy moments.<br />
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Even as recently as the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I focused my energy into initiating and maintaining pleasant conversation with him, attempting to anticipate all of the things he could possibly criticize. And, as I wrote in my most recent post, FIL still found a way to needle me. And now, I am 100% convinced that FIL will never, ever change. I am convinced that nothing I do - no matter how hard I try - will awaken him to the fact that he is a completely insensitive asshole. <br />
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That's pretty much what I've been doing for the last 15 years, folks. Taking his shit so that he doesn't take it out on R or on MIL or, God forbid, on my kids. Why do I go out there? Certainly not because I can't wait to see his happy smiling face and get my fill of love and encouragement. <br />
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No. I go because I don't want to put R in the position where he has to explain why I can't stand going out there. I go because if I didn't, FIL would be a dick to R and to my kids, and he'd snark on me when I'm not there to defend myself. He'd take it out on MIL, too. I have to say, though, I'm losing my sympathy for her. <br />
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Why do I sacrifice my own sanity and self-worth for the good of everyone else when it's clearly to my own detriment? Do I really want to teach my children that it's perfectly acceptable to allow myself to be treated this way? Do I want them to learn that bullies get to do whatever they want? <br />
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I refuse to believe that the right, noble and virtuous thing to do is, without exception, the one thing that will make you the most miserable. I refuse to believe that that's what God wants for us. I refuse to accept that wanting to be happy is inherently selfish and wrong. I reject the notion that we are called into a life of avoiding our own happiness. <br />
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Perhaps I'm not praying hard enough for God to soften FIL's heart of stone. Hell, share some responsibility in this, friends... maybe Y'ALL aren't praying hard enough for ME. <br />
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I'm kidding, of course, but let me ask you something. How do you pray<em> harder</em>? Do you scrunch up your eyes supertight until you give yourself a headache? Do you crank your inside-your-head voice up to 11? Do you yell your prayers out loud as though maybe God didn't hear you? <br />
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Or do you say, "Ok, God, I'm not really feeling that this is what you want for me. Please give me some clear direction, and patience while I'm waiting to see it." <br />
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And you know what else? Don't get me started on the God thing. I gave up my own beliefs about who God is and what He's about when I converted to Catholicism (for R, but really, for FIL) when we got married. At the time, I didn't realize that that meant I would be expected to teach my children to believe things that I personally do not believe. It's a battle I lost a long time ago, and the one I most regret not fighting harder from the beginning. I feel like I gave up - and continue to give up - a part of myself. <br />
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I grew up as the daughter of an Episcopalian minister and went to church regularly most of my life. Now we're pretty much on the Catholic Minimal Obligation Easter/Christmas plan. It's not that I don't want to go more often, I actually would like to go more often, to a Protestant church. But it's not worth a fight, so I shut up and take the boys to and from PSR (which, I'll remind you, costs over $300 a year) every Monday night and tell them to direct their religious questions to R.<br />
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I've realized that the motivation behind my actions isn't love. It's fear of what will happen if I don't. I've lived my live in Prevention Mode for far too long, my friends. <br />
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Y'all know FIL wouldn't have said shit about not being invited to my house to ME. He saves his bitching for R. FIL doesn't let me see him tearing R apart and putting R in the unfortunate position of having to choose where his loyalty will go. By saying "I think Sarah <em>feels</em> that you judge her sometimes", R made me feel as though the fact that FIL judges me is <u>entirely</u> in my head. Tell me there's not a world of difference between saying: <br />
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<em>"Dad, Sarah feels as though you judge her, and quite honestly, I feel it, too. You really kinda do say negative things about her - and me - that would make any normal human being feel inadequate. Which is pretty much the definition of Judging Someone..."</em> <br />
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and <em>"It's Sarah's perception - and I don't necessarily agree - that you judge her sometimes. Isn't that just silly?"</em> <br />
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To be clear (and in fairness to R), I should point out that I wasn't there and so I obviously don't know for absolute certain what R's exact words were, but that's how the story was told to me, and that's how the story I heard made me feel.<br />
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Now, I'm in no way suggesting that I'm the only one who experiences FIL this way. Everyone does. And to me, that means that everyone should be free to deal with him in whatever way they want to. I don't care how other people deal with him. No one's ever told FIL to go fuck himself, to my knowledge. But I get closer and closer to it all the time. <br />
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And again, because I'm truly trying to be fair, I can't say that there's been zero improvement over the years. Some visits (the majority, even) have gone tolerably well, some have gone unexpectedly well, and some, <a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/07/karma-is-beautiful-thing.html">like the time the Aldi's idiot dog dropped a steaming pile of shit on FIL's immaculate white carpet</a> will go down in Karma history as the shit of legend. If you haven't read that one, you simply must. And even if you have, read it again and be reminded of why you ever started reading this blog in the first place. It's one of my all-time favorites. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And if you happen to be new to my blog, welcome! Leave a comment and say hi!</span><br />
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But the point is, you never know. And that's not cool. Just because the last four or five visits have gone well, that's never a guarantee that the next one won't be epic fucking drama. I think it's fair to say that there has not been an improvement that even remotely reflects A) the effort that I've put in, or B) the fifteen years that have passed since the first time he judged me, which was right after the first time he met me. He told R, "Looks like she's already got her hooks into you." <br />
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Nice, right? Little did I know I would spend the next fifteen years trying to better his opinion of me, eventually learning that accomplishing that goal would be nigh to impossible. Yes, I think it improved somewhat after a decade or so, mainly because his other daughter-in-law Mrs. Aldi is a way bigger idiot than I am, but he has <em>never</em> stopped criticizing me. Because NO ONE is good enough for him.<br />
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The further point is that not once have I driven out to their house in joyful anticipation of what fun awaited us. No. My self-talk (and, as the kids grew older, my out-loud talk) is always, "Maybe it won't be too bad this time." I have never, ever ridden out there without experiencing the diarrhea gurgle in the tummy - you know, the one you might feel after having washed a sack of White Castles down with cheap beer - and you spend the next few uncomfortable hours wondering whether or not you'll make it to the crapper before your colon unloads... and the odds are, at best, 50/50?<br />
<em>Talk about a crapshoot</em>. <br />
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Seriously, folks, I'm open to suggestions. What more could I <em>possibly</em> be doing to improve my relationship with FIL? I'm paying a therapist to help me deal with how I react to him. Is he paying someone to help him become more patient and understanding? If he's not going to put anything into his own improvement - and why would he? He's not doing anything wrong! - then why am I making myself crazy trying to meet his impossible standards?<br />
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So I get home and tell R that I heard Nat's vivid description of the visitation, and he says, "It's my issue to deal with." No, it's really not. I'm dealing with it too, and so are the kids who have witnessed him berating me (and R, and MIL, and Aldigirl, and everyone) countless times, and me turning the other cheek until we identify the appropriate opportunity to make a polite exit. And then on the drive to our house, my children get to see their mother's dam break - flooding the vehicle and its passengers with all that she'd been holding in - until she collapses into a snivelling mass of ineptitude. <br />
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I still can not believe that FIL denied ever having judged me, in front of three kids who have seen their mother hurt by him for as long as they can remember. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-79376700381478726402011-12-27T23:00:00.000-06:002011-12-28T08:35:49.483-06:00Paula Deen and the Pointless Pursuit of Perfection (subtitle: Christmas with the Inlaws)If you've ever worked retail, or even if you've shopped at any retail location between Halloween and December 26th, you know that Holiday Season lasts for about two full months. And I should just start by admitting that I'm one of those people that says Happy Holidays to everyone, unless I know for absolute certain that you celebrate Christmas. I remember disctinctly one Christmas when I worked at The Gap and the managers sat us all down and told us that we weren't allowed to say Merry Christmas anymore. "Have a nice holiday" was the preferred valediction during December. Seemed reasonable, all-encompassing and sensitive to all faiths and non-faiths, so whatever. That's I started saying Holiday instead of Christmas. Nearly twenty years ago.
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This year, I've felt an alarming backlash of people who are insisting on the Merry Christmas over the Happy Holidays. And some people are really kinda ugly about it. Did you hear about <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2071469/Parents-fury-teacher-strips-word-gay-Christmas-carol-Deck-The-Halls.html">the teacher that got in trouble for changing the words to Deck The Halls</a> because kids were giggling at the word "gay"? Presumably trying to maintain order, she changed it to "bright", and parents were all up in arms about it. Jeez. <em>Well, ummm... maybe you should teach your idiot children that the word "gay" isn't funny, assholes. </em><br />
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At FoodHole we got a nastygram scrawled in scraggly old lady penmanship that said "Shame on you, FoodHole! It's MERRY CHRISTMAS, not HAPPY HOLIDAYS!" What a crabass. In fairness, it was kinda stupid that FoodHole put up a gigantic sign that said Fresh-Cut Holiday Trees when the only tree-centered holiday I know of is Christmas. Eventually FoodHole fixed the signage to say Christmas Trees. Still, I kinda think that Christmas brings out the worst in some people. Why ya gotta git yer grannypannies all up in a knot? Ya got nuthin better to do? Seems kinda Grinchy to hate on the way people wish each other a pleasant Late December.<br />
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For me, December 26th does not offer me the chance to uncoil and exhale. For me, the Holiday stress usually continues for a few more days. My parents arrive tomorrow, and then Tito's birthday is on the 29th. This little monkey - who my longtime readers might remember took forever to potty train - is turning NINE.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SfhqU4IZg5I/AAAAAAAAB-Y/sneUH--4Sys/s320/mower3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SfhqU4IZg5I/AAAAAAAAB-Y/sneUH--4Sys/s320/mower3.jpg" /></a>
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My little teeny Tito. I can't believe it. The annual reminders of the constant passing of time make me feel so sad and old. But I'm also glad I had this blog going then, to document my good days and my bad days and the sweet things they did and the crazy things that I still can't believe. Remember the picture of Tito's jelly handprints on Pie's back? <br />
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<a href="http://i82.photobucket.com/albums/j262/Kelleyblog/P1030191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i82.photobucket.com/albums/j262/Kelleyblog/P1030191.jpg" width="320" /></a>
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I still can't figure out how. Or why.<br />
Good times.<br />
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Anyway, so while most people are in post-Christmas relaxation mode after two months of Christmas pressure, my stress is kicked up a notch. I have to figure out what I'm going to do for Tito's birthday because he just got a whole bunch of cool stuff for Christmas. I have to figure out what we're going to do with my parents while they're here. And I kinda have all of that end-of-the-year stuff to work out, like paying the property tax and getting all the money we have left in our Flex Spending Account. I need new contacts, but my prescription is more than a year old and I probably won't have time to get in for a new exam. I need to get the kids in for eye appointments too, come to think of it. Crap. I've got quite a bit on my mind.<br />
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Wanna hear about Karma Christmas? I know you do.<br />
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I'd worked all day on both the 23rd and the 24th and was physically and mentally exhausted on Christmas morning. I kinda auto-piloted myself through the week before Christmas. I got gifts for the boys' regular teachers, TAG teachers (Tito got into the Gifted program this year, which was a really big deal), and PSR teachers, plus I also got a gift card for the nice lady who gave Beeb rides to and from marching band events (Beeb did marching band this year - and yes, she went to Band Camp and yes, she plays the flute). I even knitted gifts for my Secret Santa from work and for Beeb's band directors. I don't know how I did everything. All I can think about is what I didn't get finished. That's just kinda how my brain works.<br />
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The Apes were up at 7am, eager to unwrap their gifts. The boys got video games and Nerf guns. Tito got Alien Conquest Legos and Pie got a Nook so he can read <u>The Hunger Games</u>. I got Beeb a silver necklace with a snowflake on it that says "You're one of a kind." I thought it suited her. Her favorite gift was a unicorn Pillow Pet. I got R a <a href="http://www.anheuser-busch.com/s/index.php/anheuser-busch-brings-premium-draft-beer-experience-home-with-draftmark/">Draftmark</a> system. It's pretty cool. Beer is always a tasteful gift, n'est-ce pas?<br />
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My favorite part of the entire day was seeing how proud my kids were to give each other gifts that they'd picked out for them and purchased with their own money. I think this is really the first year that they got into giving almost as much as getting. Tito got so excited when everyone opened the gifts that he'd bought. He got Ryan a pocket Nerf gun and Beeb a Glee CD. He got me a rhinestone letter S on a keychain. All of the kids kicked in some money to buy R Batman: Arkham City for the 360.<br />
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After the gifts were opened, I got started cooking. MIL had specifically requested that I bring out the<a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/paula-deen/green-bean-casserole-recipe/index.html"> Paula Deen Green Bean Casserole</a> that I took out last year. I got most of the ingredients at FoodHole the night before and was ready to put it together Christmas Morning. I had also got R some superfancy expensive bacon to try, so after I cooked it up for breakfast, I sauteed the onions and mushrooms in the bacon grease instead of butter. I thought that was kinda brilliant of me. Paula would applaud my ingenuity. <br />
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I don't know if I've ever mentioned it on here, but years ago, when I was brand new to R's family, Aunt Huggy asked me to bring green beans to some massive extended-family event, and it was not adequately explained to me that I would be the only one bringing green beans to feed about thirty people. Honestly, it probably wouldn't have mattered if they'd explained it to me because I can't do that kind of Kitchen Math, but this is why I'm super-sensitive about making sure there's enough for everyone so that I'm not hideously mortified again. So when I poured the Paula Deen bacon fat soaked green beans into my one stoneware casserole dish that is nice enough to take outside the house, and saw that it was just a little more than halfway full, it unleashed a tsunami of emotion. I stood at the stove, sobbing in the green bean casserole and wiping my nose on my pajama sleeve.<br />
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I had more beans, but I was out of the chicken broth I needed to boil the fresh green beans in, and I was just sure that FIL would be able to tell which green beans were boiled in the organic chicken broth and which were boiled in water and Aldi chicken boullion cubes. My options were to take a chance and hope that the beans tasted okay when I mixed them in with the ones made with the good ingredients, or to not take enough green beans. It really sucks when every possible choice exposes me to potential criticism.<br />
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I know I'm not perfect. I know I don't get it right all the time, and I know that it's unreasonable to expect perfection from myself. More importantly, I know that it's unreasonable for anyone else to expect perfection from me. But don't try to tell me everything will be okay when you and I both know that there's a really strong probability that it won't be. It'll be okay as in no one will suffer as a result of or be negatively affected by my faux pas... except for me. That's not okay. It's about my not wanting there to be any reason for FIL to give me a hard time, even in jest, because I can't promise that I'll take it well. I'm getting bolder and, with the encouragement of friends and the professional help of TheraPenny, making my own happiness a priority in my life. Finally.<br />
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After the Green Bean Breakdown, we got all of the gifts and stuff in R's new car and headed out to Chez Inlaw. We hadn't even gotten our coats off when the phone rang. It was R's cousin calling to let MIL know that Uncle Prickly (Aunt Huggy's Husband of 50 years) had had a series of strokes and was not expected to survive. It was weird to watch the family deal with such devastating news. There was a mild freak-out moment, which was really more like "Oh. Huh. Wow. That's too bad." and then it was back to the business at hand. Not that there was anything to be done - I certainly didn't expect to pile everyone back in the car and head to the hospital or anything, but still, it was just weird, and it set an odd tone to the day before anything had even started.<br />
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We had ham for dinner (which was excellent) and I'm happy to say that the Paula Deen Green Beans were a hit. I was glad that I made more, using the Aldi boullion. Nobody said anything. I've considered that maybe the possibility of being publicly critiqued exists only in my head, but even if that's the case, it's a 100% learned behavior, taught and selectively reinforced by FIL over fifteen years. MIL asked me about how work was going, and I love talking about my job, so I gladly told her about my Outstanding Customer Service Award and how awesome my store is. We've won a bunch of regional awards and and I'm so proud to be a part of such a strong, inspiring team. But FIL quickly steered the conversation back to something else. Typical.<br />
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Now for the good stuff, y'all. The Aldis continued their long-standing tradition of giving oddly inappropriate gifts. They got Pie and Tito a set of Hot Wheels cars, which they're just about too old for, but... meh, whatever. Then it was Beeb's turn to open her gift from the Aldis. She tore off the paper to reveal a pink and magenta striped box from... <br />
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wait for it...<br />
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Victoria's Secret.<br />
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<em>Oh,</em> I thought,<em> there's no way they got her something from Victoria's Secret. She's fourteen. It must just be something they put in a Victoria's Secret box to make it easier to wrap.</em><br />
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No, no. It <strong>was</strong> something from Victoria's Secret. It was one of those Love Pink t-shirts that high school girls wear. Y'know, the ones that Mrs Aldi won't let Aldigirl wear even though she's less than a year younger than Beeb. Mrs Aldi would probably wear one herself, though. With a leather miniskirt. To a wedding. Think I'm kidding? She wore a black leather miniskirt to MY wedding. When she was pregnant.<br />
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Ok, so it wasn't like they bought her lingerie, but it was still creepy to think that one of three equally icky things probably happened:<br />
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A) The Aldis intentionally went to Victoria's Secret specifically with Beeb in mind, thinking was the perfect place to find something for their fourteen-year-old niece<br />
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B) The Aldis were at the mall already and thought, <em>shit, we need a gift for Beeb</em> while they happened to be standing in front of Victoria's Secret<em> </em><br />
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or C) Mrs Aldi had a coupon and got it free when she bought something for herself. <br />
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I kinda want to know whether the idea to get Beeb a gift from Victoria's Secret entered their minds before or after they got to the mall. But honestly, it really doesn't make a difference, does it? It's just pretty fucking gross to think that Reverend Aldi wrapped that gift. Please agree with me that this is completely inappropriate and utterly unacceptable. PLEASE. The fact that one of them thought of it and the other didn't talk them out of it freaks. my. shit. out.<br />
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After the cousin gifts, MIL and FIL handed out little cardboard boxes that looked like gingerbread houses along with envelopes with money inside. The kiddos opened the envelopes and counted five perfect, crisp $5 bills. Now, normally they give the kids each $100, usually in some clever way. One year, they gave them each $100 in dollar coins inside a wooden treasure chest. That was kinda awesome. <br />
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When the kids opened the boxes and found a cupcake inside instead of $75 more, Pie didn't miss a beat, didn't act disappointed, simply said "Meema's cupcakes are better than money!" Then FIL handed the kids each a plate and a fork so they could eat them. Pie tore into his like he hadn't eaten in days, and a minute or two later FIL stopped him and told him to see if there was anything strange in his mouth. He put his fingers in and pulled out what looked like a little piece of Trident wrapped in foil. Inside the foil was a $100 bill. <br />
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Bravo, MIL and FIL. Well done.<br />
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After the cupcake reveal, Tito was wiggling one of his front teeth and it was squicking me out, so I told him to come to me so I could yank it out. I wasn't really going to yank it out; I just wanted to flick it with my finger to see what would happen. But I flicked it and it fell out in his mouth! He gasped in horror and I laughed like a jackass because I must have looked like the worst mother in the world, flicking my child in the face. It was hilarious.<br />
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Oh, and ya know what? That reminds me that I forgot to tell you a story. A couple of weeks ago, when R was done with his weekly phone call to his folks, he told me that MIL and FIL had been at a dinner party where FIL slipped on, of all things, a toasted ravioli. And not only did he fall on his face in front of who knows how many people, he also broke off a part of his tooth. <br />
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I know I'm a horrible person, but I gotta tell ya, I laughed my motherfucking ass off when I heard that they would have to pull the tooth. I was hoping to see a giant hillbilly-lookin' gap at Christmas, but I didn't, probably because the man never smiles. I did, however, find it rather interesting that we didn't take the family portrait that we pose for every year and that somehow never gets printed. I've never seen one.<br />
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It's not that FIL's opposed to pictures, clearly, because the next part of the day was the old school slide show of MIL and FIL taking Mrs Lexus, Reverend Aldi, and R to Disneyworld when R was two years old. There were some awfully cute pictures or baby R in there, and it was fun to look at them and figure out which Ape looked most like him in that picture. There were pics of Mrs Lexus' birthday parties and the spectacular cakes that MIL made for them. Weird part, though? There's a bizarre lack of smiles in the four rolls of slides. Really, truly bizarre.<br />
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So that was Christmas with the inlaws. Remarkably bearable, but profoundly surreal. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-67648169866671905642011-12-02T18:16:00.000-06:002011-12-25T21:09:18.821-06:00NaNoWriFlections.Ah, I've missed you, my global fan base! It's been quite some time, hasn't it? Let me briefly update you on the goings-on in my life.<br />
<br />I'm still working at Foodhole and very happy there. It's a fantastic fit for me and my kooky personality! Twice as many hours than I got at Squish, $1.50 more per hour, better management, don't have to find a parking spot at the mall, much closer to home - it's a total win. They appreciate the work that I do, and the things that I am naturally good at (such as witty banter and talking about yummy food) are the things that are important there. The only thing that's been tough for me is that the days are longer. At Squish my longest shift was only 5 hours. At Foodhole, it's an 8-hour day. That's been hard to get used to. Working all summer and leaving the kids at home made me feel like a jerk of a mom. The kids didn't complain, though. They walked up to the neighborhood pool most days, and on the days that I was off, we hung out and did goofy stuff when they felt like it, but a lot of the time they just wanted to play video games in their pajamas, which was just fine with me.<br />
<br />In other news, I made an appearance (sorta) in a recent episode of the web comedy series <a href="http://blip.tv/BlackBookBerry">BlackBookBerry</a>. I'm ridiculously proud of a ten-second bit. Check out the show! I've also been collaborating with one of the series' creators on another project that is still in the early scribbling-out-characters-and-a-story stage, but I've had an unprecedented amount of fun working on it and I can't wait to unleash it on the world when the time comes. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy writing for an audience.<br />
<br />Speaking of writing, if you follow me on Facebook, you probably know that I spent the month of November attempting <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a>. If you're not familiar, it's a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I thought I'd give it a try, y'know, since I've got all this time on my hands.
I enjoy writing. And I'm actually pretty good at writing witty dialogue. I like to think I have a snappy Kevin Smith style of writing. <i>So</i>, I thought, <i>what the hell, I'll write a 50,000 word novel in a month.</i> I'd never had a deadline or a goal before, other than the ones I imposed on myself (Wookin Pa Nub Wednesdays, for example), but I write my blog just like I'm talking to someone sitting across from me and it would probably take me, what, maybe an hour to say 50,000 words? How hard could it possibly be?<br />
<br />I started out National Novel Writing Month enthusiastic and confident, and after the first week I got so far behind I couldn't get back on pace and I ended up missing the goal by an abysmal 30,000 words. Ugh. Why did I think I could do this? I should have known that writing a novel is not at all like updating my blog (which I only did four times all of last year). In my blog, I just tell you what happened in my life today. It doesn't have to make sense, and, usually, it doesn't. Most of you know enough of my personal backstory that I don't have to go back and fill in many (if any) blanks. I don't have to create characters on my blog. The Aldis are totally, unbeliveably, real, and I couldn't create a villain like FIL if I tried. I don't have to build a plot on a blog. The <a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/search/label/Swamp%20Thing">Swamp Thing Chronicles</a> wrote itself. <br />
<br />P.S., I STILL can't believe that ill-mannered bitch showed up at my front door.<br />
<br />Anyway, I was extremely disappointed that I didn't make the 50K word goal. I know it's not a big deal, I know it doesn't matter to anyone but me, I know nobody thinks I suck at writing because I didn't make it, I know I should be using semicolons now instead of commas, and I know I should be proud of the 20,000 words I wrote. I just hate it when I don't achieve what I so desperately wanted - and fully expected - to achieve, you know? I wrote, without fail, every single day - even when I was bitter and pissed off and couldn't think of a single word to write. And I wasn't even close. I cut the goal in half, thinking it was more realistic for me, and I was still 5000 words away from the halfway point. And at the end of the month, I looked over what I had done, and there were huge chunks of it that I didn't remember writing. That was kinda surreal.
Sometimes it was cool because there were funny bits of dialogue that I kinda felt I was reading for the first time. But mostly I felt like I have some sort of personality disorder or that I took too much Lunesta and was doing crazy shit in my sleep.<br />
<br />Why can't I put this whole stupid thing behind me? Why have I internalized it - a full month later - as a complete fail? Why have I been so deeply affected?
I think a lot of it was timing. The month of November included two trips to Chez Inlaw in less that one week. And what makes me feel more totally ineffective and worthless as a human being than an afternoon with FIL?
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<br />The first trip out to Chez Inlaw that went reasonably well up until the last two minutes. You may recall that every single time I go out there, I draw some sort of criticism which never comes to me directly - it always goes through R. I personally think FIL is afraid of me because he doesn't know what I'll do. He knows what everyone else will do. Everyone else has endured a lifetime under his oppressive rule; I've only had fifteen years. Having grown up in a loving, encouraging, supportive home, I know that there are other, more effective ways for a patriarch to lead (not govern, not rule) his family - the people he's supposed to love. FIL has taught everyone, through relentless emotional bullying and manipulation, that he's the boss of the world and that the best way to get along with him is to do everything in your power to keep him happy. What has he done to make me (or anyone else) happy recently? I loathe celebrating every single holiday now, solely because of my fear of upsetting him. I make myself sick and crazy trying to anticipate which shortcoming of mine he'll decide to exploit. He has singlehandedly managed to suck the joy out of every otherwise supposed-to-be joyous occasion he is a part of, and I deeply, deeply resent it. I did not sign up for this. <br />
<br />It's more than just the regular stress of family events that a lot of people feel. What I feel is a nauseating, full-on dread that has very real physical manifestations. It's an all-day panic attack.
Oh, but if I turn to Xanax for relief, I might get supertired and not have the energy to concentrate while he's delivering a lecture from the vast variety of topics ranging from Obamabashing to Power Tools to Diabetes. Not once in fifteen years has he ever asked me about me. Oh, wait, I take that back. He did ask me how I voted in the last presidential election (even though I am absolutely positive that he already knew the answer to the question and was only seeking to make me defend my choice by picking it apart and making me feel stupid), and I responded by telling him that I do not discuss politics. Ever. Because it's true. I don't. Political debates piss me off. Because really, what good comes of it? If we agree, we agree. If we don't, it's extremely unlikely that you'll convince me to change my mind and if you try to make me feel like I'm an ignorant jackass for having the opinion that I have, I'm probably going to punch you in the face. Why go there?
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<br />The name of the game is to figure out which previous criticism you are going to make a ridiculously overt, visible attempt to reconcile. Usually I do this by mentally scrolling through the last several trips out and trying to remember what I did wrong the last time. And whatever you try to fix, he will not acknowledge. Instead, he will zero in on something else that you allowed to slip past you while you were fully focused on making the concerted effort to not repeat the last regretful transgression he bitched about. This time, I was trying to avoid the criticism that I never offer to help clean up, because that was the most recent one I could remember.
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<br />It was in every way a typical visit. My kids know how they're expected to behave when we're out there. They're too big to be entertained by crayons and coloring books. They literally just sit silently at the table while FIL talks. For HOURS. Bless their little ape hearts. They were perfect angels. I was so proud and grateful.<br />
<br />So when it finally got to be time to leave, I was straightening up and gathering the kids' things. R said "I think we're going to go ahead and go now..." to which FIL said "And Sarah..." but I didn't quite hear what he said after my name because I was on the other side of the kitchen. Part of me wanted to say "And Sarah WHAT?" But for whatever reason, I didn't. I waited until we got in the car to ask R what FIL had said about me. <br />
<br />He'd said "...and Sarah is getting restless." <br />
<br />RESTLESS? I'd been spot-on perfect the entire day. The kids had been perfect. I'd cleaned, I'd attempted to engage in conversation (as much as anyone can, with him). I was on my absolute best behavior. But this man is somehow able to keep a watchful eye on everyone in the room even while delivering a lecture. I suppose it would be a quite remarkable gift, were he to use it for good and not to single me out as being disrespectful or rude. Excuse the FUCK outta <em>me</em> for cleaning instead of sitting and staring at you blankly while you rattled on and on about something I don't know or care about. We all know that if I'd chosen to sit and feign interest, he'd have found some other failing of mine to point out.<br />
<br />After sobbing the entire hour-long ride home, I got into bed, fired up the laptop, and saw that I had somehow lost about 1200 words of my story. I shouldn't even say "somehow", like it was a mystery, it was really that I wrote several paragraphs and pasted the same set of 1200 words in two different places because I couldn't decide where it fit better into the story. I just about threw up when I made that discovery.<br />
<br />Plus, the knitters will relate to this - you know when you've been working on a project, followed the pattern to the letter (perhaps after a few mistakes and re-starts) and put a considerable number of hours into it, motivated solely by the thought of triumphantly removing it from the needles and debuting it to the world, imagining the countless compliments you'll receive and practicing how to humbly accept them - only to finish the project and have it turn out considerably shittier than you'd envisioned? Are ya feelin' me, knitterz? Yeah. <br />
<br />The project I'd started as my distraction for the times when I wanted to keep my mental agility but didn't feel like writing - the thing that the stupid dog got a hold of, ripped apart and I nursed back to health only to realize I had fixed it wrong and added several unnecessary and preventable hours to the project - turned out really, profoundly not even remotely close to what I thought it would look like. Everything I've knit in the last month has come out hideous. I feel so inept.
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<br />Now, the thing I'm struggling with is this - I can't decide if it NANOWRIMO was a good experience. I suppose any experience that you learn from is a good experience, but I can't silence the part of me that wishes I hadn't tried. Because if I hadn't tried, I'd still have the confidence that I could do it, instead of being consumed by the feeling that I've just proven to the world that I can't.
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<br />So let's review what I learned.
I suck at writing FICTION. I can't make shit up. The reality of my life is far more entertaining than anything my imagination can conjecture. Pretty sure the word Conjecture can be used as a verb. <br />
<br />But, more importantly, I learned that I can find time to write every day if I commit myself to it. I'm not going to promise that I'll write every day, but I feel reasonably certain that I can keep a promise to blog more in 2012 than I did in 2011. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-50162461142485400402011-04-08T14:21:00.003-05:002011-04-08T14:42:08.757-05:00Squish THIS, Megan.Tomorrow, it will be two months since I was inexplicably Squished. I've kinda had to do a complete life reboot. It sucks SO HARD to try to figure out what to put on your resume, especially when what you've done for the last year or so was sell soap, and what you did for eight years before that was the thankless but immeasurably educational stay-at-home-mom gig. <br />
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I've been reading back over the archives of this blog recently, and I gotta say, y'all, I'm so glad I wrote this shit down. There were things I didn't remember, and re-reading some of my entries was very uplifting to me. I have come a long way. I like reading the stuff I wrote, especially after it's been so long that I don't remember the story and it's as though someone else is telling it. <br />
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Revisiting some of my older posts also reminded me how much I truly love writing. This girl's got shit to say! And I loved blogging because I didn't spend hours thinking of something to write about or questioning the global relevance of any particular topic. I just told shit like it was. Most days, I didn't start out with a topic in mind or a moral to illustrate. I just sat down, started typing, and let the Brilliance happen. <br />
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During my hiatus, R and I took the kids to see Doreen Cronin, the author of <u>Click Clack Moo, Cows That Type</u> , and she gave a really inspiring talk (aimed at kids) about the various steps involved in coming up with a story. So I got this idea that maybe I could be good at this writing thing. Maybe. And I used my unemployment money to buy some books for folks wanting to break into the biz. My favorites are <u>Writing Mama</u> by Christina Katz and <u>How To Become A Famous Author Before You're Dead</u> by Ariel Gore, both of which stress the positive creative impact of writing something every day. I should try that. It's bizarre how I used to write more when I had three kids at home to neglect. Now that I'm home alone all day, I don't always hold myself to my responsibilities, as is evidenced by the Hoarders film crew camping out on my front lawn. I watch a lot of Wendy Williams. <em>How you doooo-uhn?</em><br />
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And, after I'd committed myself to this write-something-every-day venture, I got offered a new job! I shall refer to it as The Foodhole. I'll be a cashier, part time, and I'll make a dollar more per hour than I did at Squish. Additionally, The Foodhole is closer to home, I can wear jeans and t-shirts, and I'll get more hours than at Squish. Plus, my bosses are grownups! So, in a way, I'm absolutely delighted to have been Squished. I'm a bit pissed about how it went down and that they still haven't given me a reason why they fired me. None of them have spoken to me since I left. I still wonder what Megan told everyone about me, because no matter what it was, it wasn't true.<br />
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But what's the difference? Foodhole is a total upgrade, and I'm free of the spiral of negativity and self-loathing. I feel physically lighter, now that I've found something new - and better - and I've got a goal to focus on for the immediate future. I want to blog at least three times a week. I don't know if I can blog every day, and I'm not sure everything I write will actually make it onto the blog. Some days my writing is just a phrase or a group of words that I jot down in one of my countless notebooks because I like the way they sound. You wouldn't believe how many rants I've drafted and never posted. Some days will be more coherent than others. Sometimes I don't have anything interesting to say. But I hope that those of you who've stuck with me over the years will continue to stick around as this blog takes on what I hope will be a <em>slightly</em> more mature voice. <br />
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I'm still gonna say FUCK a lot, though.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-65835002770014842162011-03-16T11:27:00.000-05:002011-03-16T11:27:43.923-05:00SQUISHED.Well kids, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, now I have more time to blog! The not-so-good news is that I got fired from my dream job at Squish. <br />
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I was completely devastated. I never saw it coming. And even a month later, they still have not given me any legitimate reason why. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I can be quite vocal when I'm pissed off (LUBABA!!). This blog has been a cathartic outlet for me over the years, so I thought I would blow the dust off my keyboard and spew some venom about the bullshit that went down between me and my boss Megan.<br />
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After my shift on Wednesday, February 9th, I was told that Katie, the store's assistant manager, wanted to talk to me. I couldn't imagine why Katie would come in on her day off just to talk to me, but I didn't think anything of it. She and I sat on a bench, and she said "We're... um... <em>letting you go</em>." I asked why, and she said, "Well, you aren't really here very much..." I asked her what exactly she meant by that, and she said it meant that I didn't work a lot of shifts. Katie's the one who made the schedules, by the way. <br />
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Katie and Megan had both apologized many times to the entire staff for not being able to give us more hours. In fact, I was sent home on January 27th when we were 8% over in labor (which Megan hadn't checked until I was literally standing in front of her, waiting to clock in). I can't believe that my working one shift a week would be a fireable offense, when I know that there are people on the payroll who work even less than I do. <br />
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Katie went on to say that when I was at work, it "always seemed that I wanted to be somewhere else." I objected immediately to the vague, unquantifiable nature of the allegation and to the complete lack of documented evidence suporting it. I asked why no one had said anything to me about it, since something like a sudden change in attitude might warrant a conversation, it certainly is not in itself grounds for dismissal. I asked Katie if there was any possibility that I could talk to Megan directly and maybe work something out, and Katie said no, this was a done deal, adding that Megan had specifically orchestrated things so that Katie would be the one to fire me while Megan was out of town at a Managers' Meeting. <br />
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Katie then said, "plus you ask for a lot of time off..." I asked for my 40th birthday weekend off in January, another night for a concert, and for February 10-14th because my parents were coming in town to surprise my kids. I didn't ask for time off during the holidays because we weren't allowed to. Since my hours were minimal anyway, I didn't see any problem with asking not to be scheduled on specific days. It had never been a problem before. If it was a problem, they could have just not approved my request, no big deal, and maybe spoken to me about it. So, again, I want to restate that every single reason I was given as to why I was let go, (which, if you're following along at home, are that I don't work enough shifts; I don't seem to want to be there; and I ask for too much time off) was completely fabricated and bogus. <br />
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But the final blow was yet to come. Katie put the termination paper in front of me which listed "Performance" as the reason for my termination. I was flabbergasted. <br />
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I have an excellent work record. I believe the one time I was actually formally written in the Coaching Binder was for cutting soap incorrectly, and after the coaching, it never happened again. I was consistently a top seller. I had never once been written up for my performance. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but to my knowledge I was never secret-shopped or the subject of a customer complaint. I am rarely, if ever, late to work. In fact, I have a reputation for showing up early. I've come in when other people were sick, and have never bailed on a shift I was scheduled to work. When it was announced that Katie was leaving to follow a guy to Cleveland, I even offered to take on more responsibility. If it seemed like I don't want to be there, all I can say is that it's difficult for any of us to stay motivated on the countless days when we work five and six-hour shifts without the 15-minute break required by SQUISH (and by Federal Law) when it feels like no one by our shop. <br />
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I know I was great at that job, y'all. I brought a fun, unique spirit to the store. I contributed creative party ideas and I always promoted and participated in store events. I turned customers into fans because they could see my sincerity when I educated them about the products and what makes them so amazing. Megan herself said that I was the only person on our staff who could sell things without making it seem to the customer like I was selling. She told me a few times that I was everyone's favorite to work with and that she didn't know what they would do without me. <br />
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It pissed me off sooo bad that Performance was on my record as the reason for my termination. I didn't deserve that. If they had just told me that they had to cut back employees because the store wasn't making enough to support the full staff anymore, I could have accepted that. I would even have stepped aside voluntarily, for the good of the company. But for some reason, Megan felt that she needed to make this about something else.<br />
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I wrote a letter to HR stating that I wanted Performance to be removed as the reason for my termination, due to the lack of supporting documentation and because it is in no way an accurate assessment of the quality of my work. I have been told that my request had been honored, but I don't know what is now on my record instead. My letter to HR also stated that Megan fired me without cause and did not follow company policy. I wish I could have added my own theory as to why Megan decided I was no longer SQUISH material, because I certainly have one. Pay attention. <br />
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On Monday, February 1st, Megan called me at home to see if I wanted to pick up a shift on Wednesday the 3rd. Megan started out, as she had many times before, by saying "Sarah, you're the <strong>only</strong> one who can do this." I said that it made me very uncomfortable whenever she begins a conversation that way because I always feel like she's backing me into a corner and I can't say no. She hounded me for a reason as to why I declined to take the shift. My reason was simply that it was supposed to snow all day Tuesday and Wednesday and it seemed pretty likely that my kids would be home from school. Megan snapped, "Oh, it's MONDAY, you already know they're going to be off on WEDNESDAY?!!?"<br />
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I said I was feeling pressured to do something I didn't really want to do, and Megan's response was "It sounds like you just don't want to be here. Do we need to have a conversation about you not wanting to be here?" I answered no, because I <em>didn't</em> not want to be there. It wasn't as though I was calling in and saying I wasn't coming in to work my scheduled shift because I just didn't feel like it. Everyone else had been given the opportunity to say no, but because I was the last person she called - and she began the conversation by telling me that everyone else had already said no - what choice did I have? Had I known then that this would be the only time anyone would offer to have a conversation with me to discuss my future at the company, I would have taken them up on it. <br />
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I even asked Megan if I could say no, and she said that I could, so I said "Then, no." I can not think of a single time over the last 15 months when I have said no to her. If she'd said "Sure you can say no, but your employment status might be affected", which would have been extremely unprofessional (and probably illegal), I might have thought about it a little longer, but ultimately my choice would have been the same. My kids come first. Period. She knew I had kids before she even interviewed me. <br />
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Not only did she put me in a spot where I felt like I was being forced to choose between my job and my kids, but she was downright nasty about it. She didn't even say Please. I said no because I wasn't willing to take on the responsibility of leaving my kids at home alone and driving to work on a day that the National Guard was urging people to stay off the roads. I should have the right to do that without being penalized, let alone fired. If I was the last person she called, that essentially means that everybody else got the opportunity to say no. I should have the same right, shouldn't I? <br />
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Here's some important backstory: In October, Megan called me sobbing after she realized that Dexter, the $800 puppy she planned to co-parent with a guy who lived 45 minutes away, might have been a bad idea. I was out with my family watching Beebie's band perform at a football game when I spent nearly an hour talking her down from the ledge. I offered to do whatever I could to be helpful, as anyone would do when their boss calls them out of the blue, crying and hysterical. A few members of the staff stayed longer than our scheduled shifts several times so that she could take care of Dexter. I didn't complain when she took a two-hour lunch to let him outside. I ended up driving over to her apartment on my days off and letting him out, at her request, no fewer than four times. The last time she called on me to let Dexter out on Novermber 3rd, I was at an event at Tito and Pie's school. I actually left Parents Day to let her dog out because she told me she had already asked everyone she knew. In fairness, she didn't ask me to leave immediately, but I had to in order to be able to have it work with the amount of time I had available to help her through a personal crisis. <br />
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The one time I can recall asking Megan for a little bit of accommodation at the last minute was the week before Thanksgiving, the day after I had to take Pie to the ER with blood in his urine. I explained to Megan that blood in the urine is a major situation, given his birth defect. I asked if I could come in either earlier or later than I was scheduled since I needed to take Pie to see his urologist, and Megan mentioned that it would make things difficult for her because there was a major shipment due in that day. I got Speed Racer to rearrange his schedule and to take Pie the doctor for me so that I could work my scheduled shift and so Megan would not be scrambling. You're welcome. <br />
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Imagine how horrified I was to learn that my commitment to the company was being called into question. <br />
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It might have been a week or two after Pie's ER incident when Katie pulled me aside to ask how I was doing, since working four and five days a week during Holiday (including back-to-back midnight shifts) when I'm used to working two or three days a week was clearly taking a toll on me physically and mentally. I don't deny that I was going through a difficult time in my personal life and as hard as I tried to keep it from affecting my work, it did. But I felt like Megan cared about me as a person enough to ask what was going on with me, or at least to have someone else ask me what was going on with me. Katie offered me the opportunity to take fewer shifts, and specifically told me that I take on too much and I need to say no more often. I agreed to take fewer shifts, and once the holidays were over, I honestly thought I was doing much better. No one told me otherwise until I was handed my termination paper.<br />
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When I questioned the legitimacy of the claim that my performance was unacceptable, Katie offered me no specific examples, saying only that it was what Megan had told her to write. I kept asking Katie why Megan pulled a punk move and did not confront me herself, using proper corrective action, instead of instructing someone else to fire me immediately when I had had no previous record of inadequate performance. All Katie would say is "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Yeah, right.<br />
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Here's the bullshit factor - every employee should know that it is SQUISH's policy to use coaching first and termination as a last resort in extreme cases when all other options have been exhausted. According to the employee handbook, SQUISH believes in "a progressive, corrective-action-warning system consisting of one verbal/written and two written warnings, after which termination will take place - for any employee, at any time." <br />
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I can see no professional reason why I was fired. None. I didn't violate any store or company policies, and if my performance was truly substandard, no one bothered to document it. The fact that I was fired (after fifteen months of service) so soon after the first time I told Megan no suggests to me that there could be some personal subtext. I gave you guys the facts, and you can draw your own conclusion.<br />
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Seriously, there is absolutely no corrective performance-related documentation on my record. I think it's so ridiculous that she allowed me to work my last five-hour shift as scheduled, but had already made the decision that my performance had suddenly become so poor that you had to bypass proper channels and fire me immediately...and yet I'm considered rehireable. What's the logic behind that? Personally, I think Megan kept me rehireable so she could call on me, yet again, if she needs a favor. Fuck that. You burned this bridge, honey. I'm nobody's bitch. <br />
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I don't want it to sound like I'm talking shit about SQUISH. I'm not. I love SQUISH. I wish I still worked there, and it's complete bullshit that I don't get to, when I'm not the one who didn't follow the rules. <br />
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So, my lovelies, I've missed you all and I'm incredibly sorry for neglecting you. I know I've staged triumphant comebacks before, but I'm hoping that I'll be spending more time updating you on what's happening in my always-fascinating life. Won't that be fun? <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-37632459255094100642010-11-05T11:44:00.000-05:002010-11-05T11:44:06.102-05:00Annual Halloween PostThe Ghosts of Halloweens Past<br />
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Despite the fact that the Pevely Flea Market has done away with the Halloween Costume Contest after we won it three years in a row, The Apes continued to KICK ASS in Halloween Costume Contests! The Karmas had a FANTASTIC Halloween weekend this year. Beeb was dressed as...<br />
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Justin BEEBer! And the boys were...<br />
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A washing machine and a penguin. Pie has boxers on his head.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs833.snc4/69305_1463586472764_1326548610_31097277_2023061_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs833.snc4/69305_1463586472764_1326548610_31097277_2023061_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The boys both won in the costume contest at their school's Trunk or Treat. Tito got Best Homemade Costume and Pie got Most Creative Costume. They also took 1st and 2nd place at the costume contest at Three Dog Bakery, taking home $30 worth of gift cards to a frozen custard place. Luigi was dressed as a Jedi, but he didn't place. I told him if he's gonna be a part of this family, he's going to have to start winning.<br />
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On Halloween, The Racers joined us at Grant's Farm for our final visit for the year. Sadly, we didn't get as much out of the parking pass as we have in years past. I've been working a lot more than I expected to (it's been a whole year since I started - can you believe??), and I really love the job, but it does take up a lot of my time, as does keeping an eye on Luigi, who still likes to eat things he's not supposed to. Like sofas. Grrrrr.<br />
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After feeding Speed Racer to the goats and getting my early morning drink on, we took the kids to America's Incredible Pizza Company for their costume contest, and Pie won 3rd place - a $50 gift card! All of the apes won a prize, so they got to ride the bumper cars and go karts and play a shitload of video games. So based on about $12 spent on each of the kids' costumes, we more than came out ahead! <br />
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I should add that the Pevely Flea Market offered Free Mammograms this year, which is pretty freakin' scary, if you ask me. There was no mention of the professional qualifications of whoever was performing said mammograms. I thought about going, for the sheer entertainment value (if not for the medical value) of it, but I kept visualizing a rusty trailer with some Randy Quaid-lookin dude patting the bed and saying, "Why dontcha whip dem puppies out and let Uncle Eddie take a look-see..." <br />
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No, thanks. <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-46346460668650795072010-09-05T11:45:00.001-05:002010-11-05T11:49:06.709-05:00The best First Day Of School pic ever.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/THaEQOweCCI/AAAAAAAACYs/97ZZtQEVkxc/s1600/Photo0919-720564.jpg" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509736608508545058" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/THaEQOweCCI/AAAAAAAACYs/97ZZtQEVkxc/s320/Photo0919-720564.jpg" /></a><br />
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Y'all know I'm a bit more lax with my, erm, colorful language around my children than most parents are. Along with the regular back-to-school preparations like buying clothes and school supplies, I subjected my Apes to a little quiz about which words are appropriate for school, and which words are not to leave our house.<br />
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Ok, kids - do we say Douchebag at school?<br />
<em>Noooo.</em><br />
Do we say You Suck?<br />
<em>Noooo. Oh, wait - can we say This Sucks?</em><br />
Please don't.<br />
<em>Can we say Suck It?</em><br />
Definitely not. Don't say the word Suck at all.<br />
<em>What if the teacher asks us what we do to lollipops?</em><br />
Don't answer.<br />
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And then this week Pie told me he was supposed to write about a happy memory. I asked him what he wrote about.<br />
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<em>Well, actually, I couldn't think of any, so I made up a story about us getting a hamster named Satan.</em> <br />
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Fantastic. <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-74650347841472875552010-08-12T14:42:00.001-05:002010-08-12T14:42:49.705-05:00WTF????<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm sure he's healthier and happier and whatever, but doesn't Drew just look WEIRD?<br />
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<a href="http://extratv.warnerbros.com/images/news/0729/drew-carey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="234" src="http://extratv.warnerbros.com/images/news/0729/drew-carey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This is a little something I wrote back when that David-Letterman-and-the-Intern story was the big news. There's a specific reference to Drew that I thought was worth sharing, in light of Drew's new look.<br />
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<em>The recent David Letterman drama sparked a conversation between me and a friend of mine. I told her I'd TOTALLY do Dave. Without hesitation. I'd have done him twenty years ago, and I'd do him today.</em> <br />
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</em><br />
<em>She was horrified. He has that goofy tooth-gap, she said. And he's balding and he wears white socks with his suits! Not to mention he's a pervy old man who sexually harrasses his staff.</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>Um, so? Hell, I kinda like being sexually harrassed, personally.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>So we started talking about Who's Hot and Who's Not. Predicatably, she went for the Clooney/ Pitt genre of beauty. And yes, I agree that those men are beautiful in a traditional sense. But it came out in the conversation that many of my favorite celebrity crushes do not fit the typical "Hollywood Beauty" mold. </em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>They're in a category I call Unconventionally Beautiful. Tommy Lee Jones with his tenderhearted-badass, rugged leathery sexiness is an example. So is John Krasinsky with his sexy moppy hair and big nose. And Ricky Gervais with his wonky teeth. And Jeff Goldblum's lanky awkwardness. And Queen Latifah's lovely curves. And Ben Folds... sigh... Ben Folds is a genius.</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>And Drew Carey. If Drew lost a bunch of weight and suddenly had 6-pack abs, he wouldn't be the same to me. I know he'd still have his unique sense of humor and he'd be the same person on the inside, but his physical presence would be different, and I don't think I would like it. </em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>It's not that I prefer bigger dudes exclusively. Vince Vaughn's kinda the opposite. He was lanky and sexy in Swingers, but now that he's a lot more famous, he's pasty and bloated. Jon Favreau's kinda hot in his own way, too. I bet he's got a wicked kinky side. And wouldn't Penn Jillette be a crazy dream date? I'm just sayin.</em><br />
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<em>Listen, I've heard the "you're beautiful INSIDE" speech many times myself. I realize that my beauty lies beneath the surface, under a layer of stretchmarks and cellulite and a C-section scar, which I tell people is the scar I got when someone tried to steal my kidney in Mexico. I've endured many thick-chick compliments (e.g. "you have such a pretty face") from people who love me and presumably mean well. And I'm not even that fat - I'm 5'6", 180ish. I'm overweight, sure, but they make clothes in my size. What's the problem?</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>I've never been The Pretty One among my group of friends. I'm The Fun One. I'm the one that my friends set up on blind dates marketing me as the girl with the (gasp) Great Personality. And by the way, when did "She has a great personality" become the kiss of death? Most guys hear that and think Oh, great, she's probably a troll. I'm not a troll, I just happen to be an average-looking girl with an absolutely sparkling personality. I kinda like being known as The Fun One. Would you rather I had a face like (fill in the name of the most beautiful woman you can think of) and the personality of a noodle?</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>I'm not insinuating that beautiful people are stupid and shallow. I wouldn't know. We're really not running in the same circles. It's not like I'm on the treadmill next to them at the gym. This is exactly my point. I don't feel like I have a whole lot in common with the fitness-obsessed hardbodies. They're working out while I'm watching Survivor in my pajamas. They're doing crunches while I'm eating Pumpkin Pie Concretes with my friends at Ted Drewes. They're training for a Triathalon; my idea of a Triathalon is eating a greasy cheeseburger, drinking a beer, and throwing a few rounds of darts. Suffice it to say we have different priorites. What would we talk about? </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>To clarify, I'm not talking about those who go to the gym to work out because they want to be healthy. I could be on board with that. I might work out if I had a free gym membership, a cool friend to go with, and cute outfits. I'm talking about the people who go above and beyond what is healthy and cross the line into obsession: people who spend so much time in the gym they don't have time for anything else. Those people are motivated by something other than their own health. Clearly, they have a beauty standard in their head that they want to achieve and maintain, and if they have set that standard for themselves, then why wouldn't we expect them to apply it to everyone else?</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>I realize I'm not necessarily what everyone considers beautiful. I'm not a Barbie doll. Don't even get me started on my Barbie rant about our society's impossible standard of beauty and how it's marketed to children and the subsequent pressure it places on girls to be perfect. Ugh, that pisses me off sooo muthahfuggin bad.</em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>Anyway, I started writing this not because I wanted to "warn" people that I'm not skinny or to send some Yeah, I know I'm fat and if you don't like it, then fuck you, you shallow douchebag message of false confidence. I am who I am, you are who you are, we like what we like. </em><em>I wanted to talk about what attracts me to another person. </em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>Most of my crushes are people who make me laugh. </em><em>None of them are illiterate jackasses. They come across as reasonably intelligent when interviewed and don't use non-words like Supposably, Irregardless or Unequivicably. They know the difference between you're/your and to/too (not "To bad your not topless!"). What makes them interesting to me is how well they do what they're passionate about, whether it's acting, or comedy, or music, or whatever. I love what they contribute to the world, and, by extention, to my life. </em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>Don't get me wrong, I love the outwardly beautiful men and women too. I love Johnny Depp's dark sexiness and Drew Barrymore's innocent-yet-sultry charm. I even kinda love those ripped-abs Calvin Klein underwear model guys. Or, I guess it's more accurate to say that I appreciate them aesthetically. They'd make a pretty poster on my wall. <br />
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But I'll take Unconventional Beauty over Hollywood Beauty any day of the week. </em><br />
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Pass me a donut, will ya, Dave?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-78050063704478058162010-07-16T08:40:00.001-05:002010-07-16T08:41:20.067-05:00Summer Days and Summer's EveIn non-Luigi news, work's going great. I really love my job at SQUISH. I've found my groove and the other girls on the team are fun and cool. Yeah, my boss is ten years younger than me, but whatever. In my 6-month review, she told me I was everyone's favorite to work with. That's the kind of thing I love to hear! I'd rather have that be my claim to fame than being #1 in sales. Frankly, I'd be stunned if I <i>wasn't</i> everyone's favorite. I have no authority to boss anybody around, I get shit done, and fuck, I'm hilarious.<br />
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I'm working fewer hours over the summer so I can hang more with the Apes. Toward the end of the school year my other mom friends were asking me if I'd signed my kids up for any activities or camps. I hadn't. Totally forgot, didn't research, couldn't afford it anyway. How big a loser mom did I feel like? <br />
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But then I remembered how much time I spent in summers past (documented for all eternity, thanks to Blogger) driving kids from one thing to the next. I about killed myself, as you may recall. So this year, quite by accident, the Apes and I have been enjoying summer's leisure. <br />
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Remember this little girl, all dressed up in her fancy flower girl dress? This is the first pic I ever posted of her on this blog, back in 2005.<br />
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<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3417/1676/320/dress%20full%20front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3417/1676/320/dress%20full%20front.jpg" /></a><br />
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In less than two weeks, I will be the mother of a teenager.<br />
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<a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs057.ash2/36215_1470007197411_1450544503_1196863_6444735_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs057.ash2/36215_1470007197411_1450544503_1196863_6444735_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Is this bothering me? Am I consumed by thoughts of my own mortality? Nah, not really. But kind of.<br />
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I'm so proud of Beebie, and I'm even just a little bit proud of myself for being a pretty good mom. She's such a cool kid. We talk about everything. Seriously, everything. Well, R was the one who explained to her what Boners are (penises and anything penis-related are his domain; menstruation and cooter issues are mine), but I explained what a Douchebag actually <i>is</i>, and how my grandmother used to have boxes of Massengill in her hall closet, and tried to find that goofy commercial about the mom and the daughter and the "not-so-fresh feeling" on YouTube. Here it is. <br />
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<object height="344" style="background-image: url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/N91XsdrBqUY/hqdefault.jpg);" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/N91XsdrBqUY&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/N91XsdrBqUY&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
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Then I found some other funny ones. You're welcome.<br />
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<object height="344" style="background-image: url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/O8OPxZvCAuw/hqdefault.jpg);" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/O8OPxZvCAuw&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/O8OPxZvCAuw&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
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<object height="344" style="background-image: url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/SG55k6HisCs/hqdefault.jpg);" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SG55k6HisCs&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SG55k6HisCs&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
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<object height="344" style="background-image: url(http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/P7v7uBA6LW8/hqdefault.jpg);" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/P7v7uBA6LW8&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/P7v7uBA6LW8&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
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Sorry, I digress. R and I have a great, ongoing open dialogue with Beeb, and I think it's the one thing I'm proudest of. But when I remember that her turning 13 means I'm going to be 40 in about 6 months, I keep hearing this song in my head -<br />
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<em>The competition's getting younger </em><br />
<em>Tougher broncs, you know I can't recall </em><br />
<em>The worn out tape of Chris LeDoux, lonely women and bad booze </em><br />
<em>Seem to be the only friends I've left at all </em><br />
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<em>And the white line's getting longer and the saddle's getting cold </em><br />
<em>I'm much too young to feel this damn old </em><br />
<em>All my cards are on the table with no ace left in the hole </em><br />
<em>I'm much too young to feel this damn old</em> <br />
<em>Lord, I'm much too young to feel this damn old</em><br />
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And can I just say, when you've got nothing but Garth Brooks lyrics rattling around in your noggin, it might be time for an intervention.<br />
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Beeb's 13th birthday is as much a milestone for me as it is for her. I'd been dreading her becoming a teenager since before she was born. And now, as the dreaded day looms ever closer, I'm not only at peace with it, I'm overjoyed. I'm excited, even. And so incredibly proud. <br />
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In a strange way, Beeb's upcoming birthday has given me a sense of parental competence that I've never had before. For all the stressing and freaking out I've done over the last thirteen years (the last five immortalized in this blog), I've actually managed to get a lot right. I'm getting better about picking my battles and not sweating the small stuff. I'm starting to get the hang of this Mom thing. <br />
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For the first time in my illustrious parental career, I actually feel like I kinda know what I'm doing. Well, that's not exactly right. It might be more accurate to say that I've accepted that no matter how much I stress myself out trying to get everything perfect, there will always be things I'm going to screw up as a parent. There will be numerous Epic Fails. And they'll probably be fuckin' funny. And guess what? The kids are <em>probably</em> going to be okay anyway. <br />
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The fact that Beeb has managed to live this long without ending up in Juvie is not just a credit to me, but to every person involved in helping me be the parent I want to be. Yeah, I know I have no idea what lies ahead. Of course I don't. But I feel pretty good about my (and My Village's) ability to handle it. <br />
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Beeb is an awesome, awesome person. <br />
Y'all can pat yourselves on the back. <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-72877667155477815512010-07-13T12:28:00.002-05:002010-07-13T13:09:16.251-05:00Cousin OliverRemember that classic episode of The Brady Bunch when Cindy overhears a conversation in which it is stated that the Bradys are going to have "an addition to the family" and she assumes that means Carol is pregnant, but it's really just that annoying little dipshit Cousin Oliver? <br />
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I hope this doesn't mean my blog has jumped the shark. <br />
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No, I'm not pregnant. Meet our new addition - LUIGI!<br />
Doesn't he look sweet?<br />
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<a href="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs021.snc4/33435_1524681122729_1405671979_31422900_4058405_s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" rw="true" src="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs021.snc4/33435_1524681122729_1405671979_31422900_4058405_s.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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See that striped chair on the left side of the picture? <br />
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<a href="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs063.snc4/34518_1359432628983_1326548610_30867268_1432251_s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs063.snc4/34518_1359432628983_1326548610_30867268_1432251_s.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<em>Sigh...</em><br />
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Has it really been since May 14th? Seriously? Ugh, I'm sorry I haven't written anything for so long. It's that lethal combination of having too much to write and no time to write it, and then when I do have time I'm too tired to make my fingers move.<br />
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I'm going to have to start with the story of how Luigi came to our house from Stray Rescue. You can read about him if you click <a href="http://strayrescue.org/adopt/luigi">HERE</a>. <br />
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There's also his Rescue Story which might warm your heart, so click <a href="http://strayrescue.org/content/rescue-luigi">HERE</a> for that.<br />
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A few weeks ago the Karmas went to a Stray Rescue Benefit Event at Speed Racer's church. I'd told my mom that we were going, and her advice was "Don't get sucked in!" I was on my guard, knowing I'd probably meet some adorable dog that I'd love and want to take home on the spot, and the kids would beg and beg, but I would stand firm.<br />
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And then we met this puppy. <br />
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<a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs133.snc4/36971_442171051412_146190851412_6455548_7795710_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rw="true" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs133.snc4/36971_442171051412_146190851412_6455548_7795710_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs041.ash2/35407_442171961412_146190851412_6455574_4745206_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rw="true" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs041.ash2/35407_442171961412_146190851412_6455574_4745206_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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His name was Aang. He had an adorable little cleft palate. The kids spent hours playing with him, holding him, and walking him. But they knew how I felt about having a dog. I was the one who would be home with it all day every day, and I kinda value the freedom I've only recently started to enjoy after 8 long years as a stay-home mom. And there is no WAY I'm potty training a dog. I'm just not in the mood. So when it was time to go, the kids bid goodbye to Aang, and we went home. No tears, no "Why can't WE have a dog??" They knew why. <br />
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But then, for the next day or two, I couldn't stop thinking about little Aang. I knew he'd have no problem being adopted because he was so freakin cute. And I knew I didn't want a puppy. But it was so nice to hold him and cuddle him and pet him, I thought, just maybe, I might be persuaded to change my stance. So I sneaked little peeks at the Stray Rescue website to see if there were any older (read: already housetrained) dogs that looked interesting.<br />
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My favorite was a really cute one named Oliver, but he was on a home visit when I called Stray Rescue. So was Kerby, the Great Pyrenees. The Stray Rescue volunteer suggested I look through the website and come up with a list of 3 or 4 that we might like to meet. Luigi was on that list, and the volunteer told me that of the ones we were interested in, she thought he'd be the best fit for us. He would do well with a family with kids, and a fenced yard. I'm smart enough to know that this translates into HIGH ENERGY.<br />
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I really didn't want a high energy dog. And I didn't want a big dog. I wanted one that I could cuddle. I'm thinking Pug, Boston Terrier, something like that. Luigi's ad said he was 60 pounds. It's hard to visualize what 60 pounds looks like in a dog you've never seen. Tito weighs about 60 pounds, and he's quite cuddly, so maybe 60 pounds would be all right.<br />
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July 3rd, we were supposed to go out to Chez Inlaw for the 4th of July Weekend party with the fireworks and whatnot. (Remember last year when Aldidog pooped on FIL's white carpet?) Stray Rescue called to see if we wanted to meet Luigi that morning, and since all of our top choices had been snatched up so quickly, we thought we'd better jump at the chance to meet a dog that was on our list. <br />
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We waited in the Stray Rescue courtyard for Luigi to come out and meet us. My first reaction, when he bolted out the door was <em>Holy CRAP, He's</em> <em>Too Big</em>. And then one volunteer told the other that on their way outside, Luigi had stopped at the bin where they keep all the dogs' toys, pulled the bin off the shelf, rummaged through the toys to find the one he wanted, and gotten it out all by himself. <br />
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The most significant moment in my entire life that found me in a similar spot - in which I had to make an instantaneous choice as to whether a particular thing I had just learned about someone should be considered A) <em>adorable and endearing</em> or B) a <em>huuuuuuge red flag</em> - was on my first date with R. We were going to dinner at pub I'd never been to, and literally as soon as we walked through the door, the bartender yelled "Hey, R! Pour you a Guinness?" It's such a fine line between hella cool and fuckin creepy. Obviously, I went with Cool, but I mentally filed it away thinking it would be a funny story to tell our kids someday, and the rest is history. <br />
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And, standing there in the courtyard, hearing that this dog had helped himself to something spoke more to his above-average intelligence and playful impishness than to a sense of entitlement or the kind of independence that might present a problem. He already sounded like one of my brilliantly impish children. An evil genius, like Pie. Evil geniuses are kinda fun to be around. He'd fit right in.<br />
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The volunteer suggested the five of us take him for a walk. R took the leash. Tito was cranky and pouting because <em>he</em> wanted to walk Luigi. We tried to tell Tito that it wasn't a good idea. Luigi was pulling hard. Luigi was strong. Tito said he was stronger than a dog. And he kept looking at the ground and shuffling his feet and telling me how unfair it was that he couldn't walk Luigi. I turned to R, and said, fine, show him. You may or may not agree with this style of parenting, but the only way that kid will quit bitching is if you show him exactly why things need to be the way the grownups say they need to be. <br />
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Tito had to run to keep up, and Luigi thought he was being chased, so he ran faster and faster. Luigi flew Tito like a kite.<br />
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Tito, to his credit, never let go of the leash, despite falling on the sidewalk and being dragged until R could get a hold of Luigi. I was slightly concerned that the Stray Rescue people would see Tito's scraped leg and think I was a shitty mom for allowing my child to learn something the hard, painful way, but they didn't appear to be questioning my parenting skills. We made arrangements to try Luigi out, as part of their Rent-A-Pet program which allows you to bring a dog home and see how things go.<br />
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As soon as we got him in the van the next day, I started to freak out. It began with a quickening heartbeat and the faintly cold sweaty sense of panic. And the sense of panic grew and grew to the level of that full-on fetal position anxiety that totally immobilizes me. I wanted to puke and cry and scream, but I felt like I was paralyzed. At this point, I knew it was only a trial basis, but I really wanted it to work out. I didn't want to be the asshole who returns a dog. And I especially didn't want to tell my mom that I should have listened to her and not gotten sucked in.<br />
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But as Luigi tore through my house, jumping on everyone and everything, I thought, <em>Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into? The kids are going out of town and I have to work all day Thursday. I can't leave this dog home alone. What am I going to do?? This is insane. I can't take him back; that's so tacky. Fuck. Fuck. Mother. Fucking. FUCK. </em>I was beside myself, sick with anxiety.<em> </em><br />
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The next day, I made R call the Stray Rescue lady and tell her it wasn't going to work out. I felt like such a douche, I couldn't tell her myself. The lady asked if we'd be willing to have the behaviorist come over and give us some ideas. Sure, I'd be willing. I really didn't want to give up. I'm not a giver upper (so says my Inspirational Tampon, anyway). I wanted to give Luigi a fair chance. But inside, I was deeply conflicted. <em> </em><br />
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He'd shown us many moments of sweetness. Many. He let everyone pet him, he played in the yard with squeaky toys. He laid on the floor at our feet and let us rub his belly. He really was, and is, an extremely sweet dog. 95% of the time, he's mellow - just chilin on the floor, gnawing on his nylabone. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDyc-npEqxI/AAAAAAAACYE/9Wb2UuU91ls/s1600/IMG00114-20100710-1342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDyc-npEqxI/AAAAAAAACYE/9Wb2UuU91ls/s320/IMG00114-20100710-1342.jpg" /></a><br />
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And we all decided we liked him. Even Tito, after a little encouragement, was on board. <br />
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Within the hour, the volunteer we'd been working with and the behaviorist were at my house with a large dog crate and a harness. He hated the crate (the behaviorist speculated a past traumatic experience could be a factor), but the harness made a huge difference in helping me and the kids feel as though we could handle him, and I felt a great deal less anxious. I actually felt really good. Over the next couple of days, he did very well when he gave him pretty much free reign of the downstairs. I let him stay out of the crate while I was at work all day Thursday, and I came home to no messes. I was thrilled. R was over the moon. <br />
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R and I even took him to get sno cones. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydJSEL78I/AAAAAAAACYM/kgXgv7qhHy0/s1600/Photo0464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydJSEL78I/AAAAAAAACYM/kgXgv7qhHy0/s320/Photo0464.jpg" /></a><br />
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He sat in Tito's car seat, <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydQufaZ5I/AAAAAAAACYU/ckWsGYJbsJA/s1600/Photo0462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydQufaZ5I/AAAAAAAACYU/ckWsGYJbsJA/s320/Photo0462.jpg" /></a><br />
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and he let everyone at Tropical Sno pet him. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydZjGpVZI/AAAAAAAACYc/B1sBdplDkrA/s1600/Photo0463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDydZjGpVZI/AAAAAAAACYc/B1sBdplDkrA/s320/Photo0463.jpg" /></a><br />
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He's brought R out of his shell, too. R's just giddy when he talks about Luigi. Everybody asks what kind of dog he is, and R proudly says that he's an Akita mix, and that we got him from Stray Rescue. He's more excited than he was when any of the Apes were born. In R's defense, each Ape was born into a swirling vortex of unique drama.<br />
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Luigi's a great addition to our family. Most of the time. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDybYdjQvWI/AAAAAAAACXs/U0yPGYsiGIY/s1600/Photo0486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDybYdjQvWI/AAAAAAAACXs/U0yPGYsiGIY/s320/Photo0486.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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But then there's this.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDycftwv6II/AAAAAAAACX0/SIuDERwldn4/s1600/Photo0497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDycftwv6II/AAAAAAAACX0/SIuDERwldn4/s320/Photo0497.jpg" /></a><br />
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Yeeeeeah. <em>Wasn't Cousin Oliver a jinx?</em> <br />
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On the plus side, I am discovering that there is an endless amount of entertainment value at pet stores.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDyct17z0mI/AAAAAAAACX8/jodfr-6Dlf0/s1600/Photo0490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/TDyct17z0mI/AAAAAAAACX8/jodfr-6Dlf0/s320/Photo0490.jpg" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-48207834639569480452010-05-14T13:22:00.032-05:002010-05-14T13:47:55.335-05:00Cellularus Mortus Est.<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It's been a while, hasn't it? I've got no blogging mojo. I don't know if I can bring BMB back to its former glory. I want to, I just... I don't know. Sure, there's stuff to talk about. And most of it's funny. Even the stuff that's kinda sad becomes at least a little bit funny on here. And the stuff that's already funny becomes fucking hysterical.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I haven't forgotten that my last post gave the teaser of Dumpster Diving With The Inlaws. There was a bit of concern about whether or not I'd be able to do the post justice. Which brings me to a sad tangent.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My red LG Shine - my constant companion for the last two and a half years, the always-dependable little snark buddy I carried in my pocket who snagged such classic PK photos as these:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SIpC0ilcIyI/AAAAAAAAAy8/CJzanCUg0E0/s1600/ATT00334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SIpC0ilcIyI/AAAAAAAAAy8/CJzanCUg0E0/s320/ATT00334.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SxbLOQW9YWI/AAAAAAAACRw/dR52ZoDfrOk/s1600/bm-image-717181.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SxbLOQW9YWI/AAAAAAAACRw/dR52ZoDfrOk/s320/bm-image-717181.jpe" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SdTrMAm-dEI/AAAAAAAAB1k/ysjfA0bQv38/s1600/P1100029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SdTrMAm-dEI/AAAAAAAAB1k/ysjfA0bQv38/s320/P1100029.JPG" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SfIJvCc2mxI/AAAAAAAAB9I/T4fvtp44kbo/s1600/swarm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SfIJvCc2mxI/AAAAAAAAB9I/T4fvtp44kbo/s320/swarm.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/R-lk_SHnq8I/AAAAAAAAAm8/wiV-hv18T5w/s1600/panties" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/R-lk_SHnq8I/AAAAAAAAAm8/wiV-hv18T5w/s320/panties" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SdI3zmiJPHI/AAAAAAAABz8/UqWuF5pzmcg/s1600/tshirts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SdI3zmiJPHI/AAAAAAAABz8/UqWuF5pzmcg/s320/tshirts.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SQom_-fGI6I/AAAAAAAAA9c/_xDmTKEk-Ew/s1600/machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SQom_-fGI6I/AAAAAAAAA9c/_xDmTKEk-Ew/s320/machine.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SJMY8b_4RJI/AAAAAAAAA08/nqSemIwbbkE/s1600/ATT00320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SJMY8b_4RJI/AAAAAAAAA08/nqSemIwbbkE/s320/ATT00320.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
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Has gone to Cell Phone Heaven. Just up and died. I can't tell if it makes me feel better or worse to know I didn't do anything wrong, like put it in the washer (which I did with my Nokia, twice). Just one day, right after I hung up with R, the display screen went all wonky, and then blank. <br />
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And she took a whole lot of my pics with her, because, like a dummy, I didn't think to put them all on the memory card. I was devastated. R tried to fix her, and it was a valiant effort, but ultimately unsuccessful. I literally wept as she was unceremoniously tossed into the trash. Even now, it's sitting in a trash bag in my bedroom because I didn't have the heart to put it out by the curb today. <br />
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I'm not ready to let go. I haven't bonded with my new phone, the Samsung Mythic, yet. It's technologically superior in every way (including a WAY better camera), and I'll get used to it, but my Shine, well, it was like my favorite pair of jeans. Scuffed, stained, beat up, not the most fashion-forward, but a perfect fit. <br />
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I feel the same sense of loss as I did <a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2007/09/in-which-we-bid-farewell-to-old-friend.html">when I wrecked the Mazda a few years ago</a>. You really should click the link to that story. It was mangled, the driver's side window didn't roll down and the kids were getting way too big to cram in the back seat, but we'd been through so much together. I hated leaving it in the parking lot to die. Part of me wanted to say a few words, perhaps sing a hymn or two, and then bury it in the backyard.<br />
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But that's just silly. <br />
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The action, I mean; not the feeling. The feeling's not at all silly to me, because when pictures are gone and you can't get them back, it's sad, isn't it? Pictures of Tito's first day of kindergarten, my dream date with Cam Janssen, vacations, random moments of deliciously evil humor, gone forever. I know the best pictures are here on the blog and on Facebook, and it wasn't like I scrolled through the pictures on my phone very often, but I knew they were there, and now they're not. <br />
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I'm in mourning.<br />
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And there's an added dimension to why I was so upset by this. We're coming up on Pie's last day of Second Grade. I don't remember if I wrote about it at the beginning of the school year or not, but I know I felt it then as I do now. <a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2006/03/we-miss-you-jackaroo.html">Pie is now the age that our beloved and dearly missed friend Jack was when he died.</a> From this point on, every milestone in Pie's life will be something that Jack never got to experience. And the last day Beeb and I saw Jack? The last day of Second Grade. <br />
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What if I was Jack's mom and all of those pictures on my phone were suddenly gone? What if something happened to one of my kids, or my friends, or my parents, or R tomorrow? I would be absolutely destroyed. Like a picture of a house ripped off of its foundation and torn to matchsticks by a tornado. That'd be me. <br />
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I've spent this whole school year with a constant awareness of the last year of Jack's life - the year that we were lucky enough to know him. Beeb's turning thirteen in July. It breaks my heart that Jack never got to be thirteen. Or even ten. It kills me to think of all the things that he never got to do. God, I miss that kid. So yeah, that's a big part of why the loss of a bunch of pictures was so devastating to me. <br />
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But, my friends, like the little boy who survived the crash that killed every other passenger on the plane, there is a small bit of good news amidst the devastation. Somehow, I had the uncharacteristic presence of mind to forward the pictures of Dumpster Diving With The Inlaws to myself so I could upload them for this post. So the pictures you are about to see are among the last ever taken with my LG Shine.<br />
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Easter Sunday we went out to the Inlaws, as we usually do. But this time it was Large Trash Disposal week in their little town, which means people could take their old furniture and appliances and stuff to the end of a gravel road and drop it off, leaving a giant parking lot full of crap, free for the taking. The Aldis were in <em>Hog</em> muthahfuggin <em>Heaven</em>. <br />
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So after a yummy lunch and a bit of quality entertainment when Aldigirl (age 11) intentionally bit her younger brother (age 5), and the Reverend scolded her by saying she was going to be "labeled" as a biter, and did she <i>reeeally</i> want that (shit, she's probably already labeled as a buck-toothed, slack-jawed, skinny-as-a-rail, whiney-ass brat - why not throw Biter in the mix?), we went Dumpster Diving. With my Inlaws.<br />
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The guy in the purple shirt is The Reverend. They ended up with a headboard for Aldiboy's room and I think a bed frame and some other random crap.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79NtgUictI/AAAAAAAACW8/_JclQTOXSnw/s1600/0404101259-00-770023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458166717561860818" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79NtgUictI/AAAAAAAACW8/_JclQTOXSnw/s320/0404101259-00-770023.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79NyQilm9I/AAAAAAAACXE/MyKbCPuBJQo/s1600/0404101313-00-789741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79NyQilm9I/AAAAAAAACXE/MyKbCPuBJQo/s320/0404101313-00-789741.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
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We got some director's chairs, a carpet steamer, and...<br />
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A KEGERATOR.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79N2Cn6mHI/AAAAAAAACXM/dQ14dU6Xilc/s1600/0404101310-00-704557.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458166864208894066" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S79N2Cn6mHI/AAAAAAAACXM/dQ14dU6Xilc/s320/0404101310-00-704557.jpg" /></a><br />
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That's it from the bottom. I thought I had a pic of it from the front, but I guess I don't. <br />
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Anyway, we took it home to see if it worked, and it turned on, but didn't cool properly. R looked up the model number on it to see if he could find a manual on it and he discovered that at the time it was new, this thing was state of the art. Even now, a few years old, it retails for over a thousand dollars.<br />
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We figured that we'd get it checked out, see what it would cost to fix, and weigh out whether or not we wanted to make the investment. R has a friend whose dad is a retired refrigerator repairman, and he offered to take a look at it. <br />
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He got it to work! Total out of pocket? FIFTY BUCKS. <br />
Now we have to figure out where to put it in our basement.<br />
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And just think, if I hadn't wrecked the Mazda, we wouldn't have been able to take it home because it wouldn't fit in the trunk. <br />
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Isn't Serendipity beautiful?</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-12135666507121175962010-04-15T09:17:00.007-05:002010-04-15T17:25:54.566-05:00As Promised - Spring Break!So I told you guys I'd write about our Spring Break next. We've been back for a few weeks, but I haven't been able to sit down and dedicate ample time to write about it. I suppose that in some ways that's good, because the stuff I'll remember enough to write about is the highlights; the most important and interesting stuff. The wheat, if you will. <br />
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But sometimes the chaff packs some high entertainment value, ya know? If you've been around this blog a while, some of my best stories come from NOTHING. Like if Seinfeld had begun as a blog.<br />
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Ok, so we left Thursday evening after dinner, and drove as far into Oklahoma as we could before we felt like stopping. We got to Oklahoma City and stayed at THE GROSSEST motel room I've ever been in - even the hourly ones. <br />
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I actually took this pic of the uberscuzzy Motel 6 on the way home, from across the highway. It was as close as I wanted to get.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znmEIwpgI/AAAAAAAACWs/tSqIOQoQZBs/s1600/0320100859-00-756903.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457491489597728258" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znmEIwpgI/AAAAAAAACWs/tSqIOQoQZBs/s320/0320100859-00-756903.jpg" /></a><br />
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We asked for a non-smoking room. Well, apparently Motel 6's definition of Non-Smoking is "not currently on fire". It wasn't just a little bit non-smoking. It was hideous. But I was too tired to complain and change rooms, plus I doubted there was a single room in the entire place that didn't reek of smoke. <br />
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We asked for two double beds, and we got two double beds - both with mattresses that sunk in the middle, and one of the beds was against the wall. I HATE it when the side of a bed touches the wall. I just can't have it. <br />
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And don't even get me started on the bathroom.<br />
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We finally got everyone to lay down and sleep, and Tito started wailing pitifully that his ear hurt. <i>Honey, I love you and it breaks my heart to see you in pain, but we're in the middle of Oklafuckinghoma and it's 2:00 in the morning... it's been a long day; could ya please, please, please cut your mom a break? </i><br />
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It was a nightmare. We should have just kept driving.<br />
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We got up the next day and continued through Oklahoma, thinking we'd have a super-early breakfast at the Taco Cabana in Norman. I really thought I'd done my research, but apparently not all Taco Cabanas are open 24 hours. Dammit!!! We'd have to wait until Texas. <br />
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<a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs437.ash1/24158_1256056244638_1326548610_30625554_5220890_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs437.ash1/24158_1256056244638_1326548610_30625554_5220890_n.jpg" width="320" wt="true" /></a><br />
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<i>Fuckin Oklahoma... </i><br />
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We had steak fajitas for brunch-ish, and carried on toward San Antonio. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zkwdBLZzI/AAAAAAAACT8/SxJp9azkb8k/s1600/0315100930-00-728983.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457488369540622130" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zkwdBLZzI/AAAAAAAACT8/SxJp9azkb8k/s320/0315100930-00-728983.jpg" /></a><br />
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We also made the traditional stop at the Dr Pepper Museum in Waco. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S8XNpp2IEYI/AAAAAAAACXU/nUrRcNSqIII/s1600/0312101210-00-737977.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459996238747799938" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S8XNpp2IEYI/AAAAAAAACXU/nUrRcNSqIII/s320/0312101210-00-737977.jpg" /></a><br />
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We got the Oreo Shake made with the Dr Pepper syrup, which I'd been craving for a whole year. The vastness of the English language does not contain words that can sufficiently describe how awesome it is.<br />
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Om. Nom. NOMMANOMMANOM.<br />
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<a href="http://hphotos-snc3.fbcdn.net/hs503.snc3/26436_1266120656242_1326548610_30644678_6306773_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://hphotos-snc3.fbcdn.net/hs503.snc3/26436_1266120656242_1326548610_30644678_6306773_n.jpg" width="276" wt="true" /></a><br />
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So a few hours later, we got to my parents' house. That night Tito barfed all over the world. He even threw up in his sleep. It was hideous cuz he rolled over in it and ugghhhh. And then Pie started barfing too. Pie had eaten two whole pounds of red licorice that day, so it had a lovely pink tint and a fragrant sweet aroma.<br />
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The next day, R and I spent hours at the laundromat washing barfy bedding. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlAFjYDrI/AAAAAAAACUE/93fidwD5kgE/s1600/0315101120-00-792590.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457488638119513778" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlAFjYDrI/AAAAAAAACUE/93fidwD5kgE/s320/0315101120-00-792590.jpg" /></a><br />
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I worked on the hat I made for Wes. That's Malabrigo Twist in Stone Chat, for the yarnies. Came out <i>gorgeous</i>.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlFW4fpFI/AAAAAAAACUM/upQJYTAOCg4/s1600/0315101123-00-713783.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457488728670839890" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlFW4fpFI/AAAAAAAACUM/upQJYTAOCg4/s320/0315101123-00-713783.jpg" /></a><br />
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Then Beeb got sick the next day. That's not makeup.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zl0mzJJ9I/AAAAAAAACVE/zHQEp0Xt-V8/s1600/0317101838-00-701953.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489540397213650" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zl0mzJJ9I/AAAAAAAACVE/zHQEp0Xt-V8/s320/0317101838-00-701953.jpg" /></a><br />
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Despite each Ape getting sick, we managed to have a good trip. The boys did pretty much what they do at home. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zldQVCaZI/AAAAAAAACUs/DbkFIhzrPcs/s1600/0317100937-00-709366.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489139228371346" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zldQVCaZI/AAAAAAAACUs/DbkFIhzrPcs/s320/0317100937-00-709366.jpg" /></a><br />
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My mom and I spent hours putting together Playmobil sets that she'd gotten for the boys at a garage sale. I thought the boys would be super excited to play with the castle, the cars, the Native American settlement, the jail, and all the other sets, but they weren't into it, so if you're interested in some really cool Playmobil stuff, Mom's looking to sell it. I can give you more details about them if you're a hard core collector.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlRHfCvfI/AAAAAAAACUc/OXKPMZuW-Yo/s1600/0315101652-00-760918.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457488930695986674" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlRHfCvfI/AAAAAAAACUc/OXKPMZuW-Yo/s320/0315101652-00-760918.jpg" /></a><br />
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I added to my Horrible Christmas Music collection. Have we talked about this collection? Oh, it's quite something.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlIwV-wBI/AAAAAAAACUU/01bFpgFYiKw/s1600/0315101511-00-727213.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457488787045007378" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlIwV-wBI/AAAAAAAACUU/01bFpgFYiKw/s320/0315101511-00-727213.jpg" /></a><br />
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I checked out the local Squish shop. Only they call it something else.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlVSOCZgI/AAAAAAAACUk/3uuMme00SWY/s1600/0316101244-00-777003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489002296927746" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlVSOCZgI/AAAAAAAACUk/3uuMme00SWY/s320/0316101244-00-777003.jpg" /></a><br />
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The boys found a book at Half Price Books that they wanted to buy. I said no, but I giggled a little first.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlo9AwnwI/AAAAAAAACU8/uTQyYlw79zk/s1600/0317101305-01-755047.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489340201475842" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zlo9AwnwI/AAAAAAAACU8/uTQyYlw79zk/s320/0317101305-01-755047.jpg" /></a><br />
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We walked along the newest branch of the Riverwalk, down by the Pearl Brewery. It's beautiful - kinda artsy and waaaay less touristy. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zloDp3D5I/AAAAAAAACU0/B8Mek-ss_v8/s1600/0317101227-00-752463.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489324804607890" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zloDp3D5I/AAAAAAAACU0/B8Mek-ss_v8/s320/0317101227-00-752463.jpg" /></a><br />
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Since we had all of these sickies, we didn't do a few of the things we usually do, like Fredricksburg and Enchanted Rock and Luckenbach and Gruene. But we did do one thing we hadn't done before - Aquarena Springs in San Marcos. It's a nature preserve or something now, but it used to be a kooky tourist attraction with a diving pig. You can ride around in glass bottom boats, and the water is clear and serene. Everybody loved that, so we'll probably do that again. Highly recommended. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmBnR3y_I/AAAAAAAACVU/jmyj4ylmRz8/s1600/0318101204-00-754916.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489763864398834" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmBnR3y_I/AAAAAAAACVU/jmyj4ylmRz8/s320/0318101204-00-754916.jpg" /></a><br />
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We also went back to another of our favorite places - Landa Park in New Braunfels. I think of my friend Bobby, the Gentle Evil Baritone, my very first actual FAN, whenever we go there. I love riding the train, and inhaling the smell of Mountain Laurel and barbecue. I so wish I could bottle that scent. There's something beautiful and calming about it. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmf4YdC1I/AAAAAAAACVs/nzI6On73cNE/s1600/0318101526-02-775246.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490283851483986" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmf4YdC1I/AAAAAAAACVs/nzI6On73cNE/s320/0318101526-02-775246.jpg" /></a> <br />
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Completely unrelated and inexplicable, but for some reason I got really into wearing pigtails on this trip.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmzifNBdI/AAAAAAAACV8/jxIn5E-89qY/s1600/0318101612-00-754202.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490621571597778" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmzifNBdI/AAAAAAAACV8/jxIn5E-89qY/s320/0318101612-00-754202.jpg" /></a><br />
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Maybe I like them because they make my shadow look cute. Ya gotta have a cute shadow.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmu2gITVI/AAAAAAAACV0/umg61d8jnfs/s1600/0318101552-00-735359.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490541044845906" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zmu2gITVI/AAAAAAAACV0/umg61d8jnfs/s320/0318101552-00-735359.jpg" /></a><br />
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Maybe it's midlife crisis. Perhaps I'll explore that later. I still have my big sexy hat, and it's all ready for Grant's Farm this weekend!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zl9tjkBnI/AAAAAAAACVM/3tJ5wAfi-ts/s1600/0318101042-00-738070.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457489696829736562" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zl9tjkBnI/AAAAAAAACVM/3tJ5wAfi-ts/s320/0318101042-00-738070.jpg" /></a><br />
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So, the next day we headed home, and I usually post a picture of the kids crying, but this time there were very few tears because the kids are going back later this summer, so they know they'll see Nana and PopPop soon. <br />
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I was really determined to stay in a less-scuzzy hotel this time, so we went to Norman and found the Econolodge, which was actually right across the street from the Taco Cabana that had screwed me on the way down there. I knew we were going to want to be up and on the road before it opened at 9 (remember??), but I wasn't upset because I figured we should be in Tulsa (the closest TC location to St. Louis) around 9, and then we'd savor our last taste of TC until next year.<br />
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As we were putting our pajamas on, in our non-smoking room inside an entirely non-smoking motel (yay!!!!)<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znHIjvsgI/AAAAAAAACWU/LTbLPApMB-s/s1600/0320100611-00-732845.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490958208709122" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znHIjvsgI/AAAAAAAACWU/LTbLPApMB-s/s320/0320100611-00-732845.jpg" /></a><br />
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with two queen beds, a hair dryer, clean soft towels, glasses, an ice bucket, two bars of soap and shampoo bottles, we saw the forecast for the next day.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zm-gSKV4I/AAAAAAAACWE/7lOSKy--yhk/s1600/0320100518-00-798831.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490809958586242" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zm-gSKV4I/AAAAAAAACWE/7lOSKy--yhk/s320/0320100518-00-798831.jpg" /></a><br />
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We got up and enjoyed a free Continental Breakfast<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znDEEWF_I/AAAAAAAACWM/aWjmGPBKfA8/s1600/0320100603-00-716957.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457490888283789298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znDEEWF_I/AAAAAAAACWM/aWjmGPBKfA8/s320/0320100603-00-716957.jpg" /></a><br />
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<i>Hey look, they even throw an extra W in the Sweet N Low!</i><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znNo-rChI/AAAAAAAACWc/x0EL-MQEf1I/s1600/0320100611-01-758188.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457491069990799890" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znNo-rChI/AAAAAAAACWc/x0EL-MQEf1I/s320/0320100611-01-758188.jpg" /></a><br />
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and scraped the ice off the van. We didn't bring coats. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znZZ73N5I/AAAAAAAACWk/EQrckrgaYL0/s1600/0320100805-00-705824.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457491272110913426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7znZZ73N5I/AAAAAAAACWk/EQrckrgaYL0/s320/0320100805-00-705824.jpg" /></a><br />
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But it was cool, because our bellies would soon be warm with Steak Fajita Tacos and Breakfast Burritos. <br />
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We searched for the address in the GPS and found the last TC we'd come to on the trip. I was bouncing so excitedly in the seat! As we pulled into the parking lot we could smell the Carne Guisada. We could TASTE it. Our mouths were watering. <br />
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The parking lot was surprisingly empty, but hey, if that's the only one in Tulsa, maybe the good people of Tulsa just haven't yet caught on to its awesomeness, right?<br />
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No. They wouldn't open for another HOUR. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S751kFEgCoI/AAAAAAAACW0/pgrqKdpqQyY/s1600/0320100917-00-736330.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457929061116414594" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S751kFEgCoI/AAAAAAAACW0/pgrqKdpqQyY/s320/0320100917-00-736330.jpg" /></a><br />
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DAMN YOU, OKLAHOMA!!! YOU'VE FUCKED ME YET AGAIN!!!!!! <br />
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Seriously, can you even believe that???? I was so pissed. Those who follow me on Facebook saw my angst in real time. <br />
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We took a wrong turn which wasn't a big deal, and ended up coming home a different way than we'd planned - through Arkansas. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zi8BBZpKI/AAAAAAAACTs/83-SBGYgRA8/s1600/0320101059-00-764375.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457486369160537250" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S7zi8BBZpKI/AAAAAAAACTs/83-SBGYgRA8/s320/0320101059-00-764375.jpg" /></a><br />
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It was really quite lovely. It was the prettiest part of the drive. Well, not THAT part in the picture, but trust me, we were very pleasantly surprised by the Arkansas leg of the trip. It was a nice, leisurely ride home, and we got home with time to decompress before having to go back to reality on Monday morning. <br />
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Ok, I know this post is not my best work, and I'm sorry to make you wait so long for it, but I wanted to crank it out so I could move on to the next post...<br />
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DUMPSTER DIVING WITH THE INLAWS.<br />
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You heard me.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-84640325054807235712010-03-30T14:36:00.006-05:002010-03-31T07:52:26.695-05:00DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK!She's back, y'all!<br />
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Have I really only posted twice since Christmas? How big an asshole am I? I'm sorry. I haven't had time to read anybody's blogs, either, so if you dropped some huge bombshell on your followers in the last couple of months and you're wondering why I haven't chimed in, I haven't seen it. It's not that I don't care; I only work a couple of days a week, but those days mean less time I have to run errands and whatever, and I rarely if ever blog in the evenings, so it cuts into my blogging time more than I expected. <br />
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Speaking of work, I've had a job for five months now! SQUISH is such an ideal fit for me. It's the job of my dreams - a great combination of routine elements and endless potential for spontaneous creativity. My unique range of talents is appreciated. I've never had a job I liked so much. <br />
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So here's what you've missed, in no particular order.<br />
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1. Check out what R made for me for Valentine's Day:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S37LZZkCWHI/AAAAAAAACSw/xLQEG8nwYHE/s1600-h/bm-image-705610.jpe"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S37LZZkCWHI/AAAAAAAACSw/xLQEG8nwYHE/s320/bm-image-705610.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440009037129341042" /></a><br />
<br />
It's my very own Penny necklace! <br />
So creative! I love it.<br />
<br />
<br />
2. My birthday was January 13th. I'm 39 now. I'm going to go ahead and call myself 40, and then when I actually turn 40, I'll have mentally prepared myself for a whole year and it'll be no big deal. I don't really fear turning 40. I don't really have any concept of how old I am, until I turn on the Kids' Choice Awards and don't recognize any of the presenters (except Los Hermanos Jonas, por supuesto!). I don't feel any age. I definitely don't feel like I look 39. <br />
<br />
I'm really more freaked out about Beeb turning 13 this summer than I am about turning 40. More on that in a future post. <br />
<br />
<br />
3. During a bit of downtime, I finally watched <b>Grey Gardens</b>. I'd been wanting to see it for a while. It had been recommended to me by several friends, and who doesn't love spying on crazy rich people? Last week R and I bought a Netflix-enabled BluRay player for our bedroom, so I would be able watch it instantly. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I grabbed a Diet Coke and some pretzel sticks, got under Beeb's Snuggie and pressed Play. See, you can do that with a Snuggie, cuz it has sleeves. I hate myself for loving that stupid thing. But I digress. <br />
<br />
I enjoyed Grey Gardens. Really, I did. I love the Direct Cinema genre. It's so real and raw and the people speak freely and unfiltered, from the overflow of their hearts. I love wondering what's going on in the characters' heads; or, at least, I love hearing the subtext of their words and trying to imagine the layers of emotions and the complex personal history behind them.<br />
<br />
But it messed me up. Here's why.<br />
<br />
I manage it (with varying degress of success) day-to-day, but I live in, quite literally, a CONSTANT state of anxiety when it comes to my children. Their health, safety and well-being are always at the front of my mind. I question almost every single thing I do in the role of my children's mother. I question what I'm going to do in a certain situation before it even happens, I question it in the moment, and I question it long afterwards, imagining my child tearfully recounting the story of whatever stupid thing I did on some psychiatrist's couch.<br />
<br />
As I saw Little Edie's wistful reminiscence of the life she believes she could have had, had her overbearing mother not insisted she leave New York City, followed by her sorrowful acceptance of the way things are and the unlikelihood that it will ever change, I thought about how awful I would feel if one of my children missed out on their life's dream because of me. I would never forgive myself if my child didn't become whatever it is s/he wanted to become because of me and my own selfishness. NEVER. <br />
<br />
It made me replay in my mind all the hurtful things I've ever said to my kids (Beebie, in particular) in a moment of stress, frustration or anger. It also made me replay all the hurtful things - many of which probably weren't meant to be hurtful things - said to me that I've internalized; filed away and absorbed, but never forgotten. It made me wonder which of those things said to me had a hand in changing my life's trajectory. Would I be a different person if I hadn't been picked on mercilessly in junior high? Even if someone didn't meant to be hurtful (and even if they apologized afterwards), many times the hurt leaves scars that never quite fade all the way. <br />
<br />
It made me hyperconscious of the potential to change my children's lives with the things I do and say, and it totally freaked me out. It made me question my parental aptitude.<br />
<br />
I've apologized for things that I've said, and I try really hard to be careful in selecting the words and actions I use in response to the childish things they do, but I have this constant sense that everything I do, every syllable I utter, every day, is going to factor into their future and determine whether they become productive members of society or the sort of people who walk into an office and just start firing away, and then, when interviewed by the media, answer, "I just got sick of my mom constantly asking me if I was born in a barn. NO, MOM. I WASN'T."<br />
<br />
(You know that phrase, were ya born in a barn? It means, Will ya quit leaving the front door open, for cryin out loud? Do other people say that, or just me?) <br />
<br />
I'm trying to remind myself, in moments of doubt, that there are a lot of things I should pat myself on the back about, too, but that's a topic for another post. I will sing my own praises soon. I'm actually doing pretty well, now. Expanding my social circle to include a happy lot of positive influences is helping.<br />
<br />
<br />
4. Speaking of influences, I have recently purchased and begun reading my very first Fantasy Genre novel. Go ahead and give me shit. I can't believe it either. <u>It's A Game Of Thrones</u>, written by George R. R. Martin and recommended to me by a lovely new friend we're going to call Wes. We'll be talking more about Wes. <br />
<br />
My tiptoe-ing into full-on Geekdom has been well-documented on this blog, from my first Pirate Fest, to my first Ren Faire, and of course, the now-legendary Star Wars Trivia Night. My resistance to this conversion from "muggle who mocks the geeks" to "geek who mocks the bigger geeks" has also been well-documented. <br />
<br />
The fact that I just used the word Muggle to mean "outsider" is further evidence of my descent into worlds I never dreamed I'd enter. <i>Sigh... the things I do for the people I like</i>. <br />
<br />
To wit, I've never read a book with a fake map of some non-existent place on the first two pages. Fantasy's not really my thing. I like reality. I love reality shows, as you know (Ooooh, have you seen my new favorite show, <b>Undercover Boss</b>??). I read a lot of autobiographies, when I have time to read. <br />
<br />
I read Kathy Griffin's book <u>Official Book Club Selection</u>, which was mighty entertaining, and if you should ever doubt your parenting skills, I highly recommend Mackenzie Phillips' <u>High On Arrival</u>. You'll feel like Parent of the Year, I <i>promise</i> you. It brought me out of my <b>Grey Gardens</b> funk, that's for damn sure. <br />
<br />
<br />
That's plenty for you all to gnaw on while I construct my annual Spring Break post! Again, we drove the Odyssexy to San Antonio and stayed with my parents for a week. And, as most Karma Family Events are, the highlights are blogworthy. Stay tuned.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-317762649463528342010-03-03T16:52:00.008-06:002010-03-03T22:23:29.196-06:00Talk To The Bunny!It was Speed Racer's birthday last week. In order to explain what I got for him I have to give a bit of backstory. <i>Heh, don't most of my posts start out like this?</i> As you may know, I lived in San Antonio with my family for a few years after I graduated from college. My mom was transferred there in 1993-ish, I think. While I lived there, I dated a guy named Fred. <br />
<br />
Look, I know I'm kinda kooky and quirky and whatnot, but I have to say that Fred had more neuroses than any human being I have ever encountered in my life. <br />
<br />
Sometimes a wee bit o' neurotic is kinda charming (case in point - me, the goddess Neurotica), which might explain why I stayed with him for about two years, and sometimes it's just plain FUCKED UP.<br />
<br />
If I were to introduce you to Fred back then (and it may or may not still be true, I have no idea), the first thing you would notice is his sweaty armpits. Fred never used anti-perspirant/deodorant because he believed a) it causes cancer, and b) sweat is our body's natural means of maintaining homeostasis. I'm sorry, but when you see a guy with pit stains, do you think to yourself <i>There's a guy whose body is at homeostasis</i>, or <i>Dude, that's fuckin naaaaaasty</i>?<br />
<br />
The story that really captures the essence of Fred is the first time he and I went to see a movie together. He bought the tickets and I bought the snacks, and I even sprang for the big ass 50-gallon drum of popcorn so we could share it, cuz that's the just kind of classy chick I am. <br />
<br />
We went and found our seats, I set the giant vat of popcorn on the floor for maybe two seconds while I took off my jacket, sat down, picked the popcorn bucket up off the floor, placed said popcorn bucket in my lap and offered some to Fred.<br />
<br />
I don't want any, he says.<br />
<br />
<i>What???</i><br />
<br />
I'm not going to eat that. <br />
<br />
<i>NONE of it? Are you kidding me? You wanted it a minute and a half ago when I bought it! What's the problem?</i><br />
<br />
You put it on the <b>floor</b>.<br />
<br />
<i>So?</i><br />
<br />
SO???? Don't you know what people DO in movie theaters??<br />
<br />
<i>Um, watch movies while eating massive amounts of popcorn?</i><br />
<br />
Oh my GOD, Sarah! You seriously don't know??? <br />
<br />
<i>Enlighten me.</i> <br />
<br />
People piss on the floors.<br />
<br />
<i>WHAAAAT??? Who does?</i><br />
<br />
People do it all the time. Think about it. They don't want to miss the movie.<br />
<br />
<i>People piss on the floors in movie theaters. You're serious.</i><br />
<br />
THINK ABOUT IT.<br />
<br />
<i>No, YOU think about it! Have you ever been sitting in a movie theater and heard the sound of pee hitting the floor? Or seen someone stand up and whip it out? OR SMELL URINE, like EVER???</i><br />
<br />
Well, the smell of popcorn would mask the smell of urine, and that's how they get away with it...<br />
<br />
<i>Bullshit it would! The smell of fresh urine would totally override the smell of... Ican'tfuckingbelieveI'mactuallyhavingthisconversation.</i><br />
<br />
They sit in the back where no one will see them, and with the slope of the theather, it all rolls down toward the front. It's disgusting. <br />
<br />
<i>Hang on, let me make sure I understand. So these people - and there are clearly enough of them in the world that there is, according to you, urine on the floor of every single movie theater everywhere on the planet - have the foresight to habitually sit in the back of the theater because they see nothing wrong with peeing on the floor of a movie theater full of people and they want to have that option to pee on the floor surreptitiously, but these same people lack the presence of mind to relieve themselves PRIOR to the start of the movie? What's to keep them from taking a dump? Or do they do that, too? Do they smuggle in a bag of M&Ms AND a roll of toilet paper??</i><br />
<br />
Jesus, Sarah, calm down. You're making a scene. People are staring.<br />
<br />
<i>YOU fuckin started it! And second of all, it's not like I threw the individual popcorn kernels on the ground, picked them up and handed them to you; there's about two inches between the lower lip of the bucket and the place where the popcorn actually touches the bottom of it. I'm not disputing that these floors are filthy, but COME ON! What, the germs can just climb up the side and dive in and swim around?</i><br />
<br />
And people jerk off, too. <br />
<br />
<i>Jesus Christ, what kinds of movies are you watching???</i><br />
<br />
Well, I'm sorry I don't live in your little fantasy world full of rainbows and unicorns where nothing bad ever happens!<br />
<br />
<i>Rainbows and unicorns??</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
There are more stories than just that one, but that should give you a sense of what I was dealing with. How could I have stayed with such a freak, you ask? Well, there were things that I really loved about him, too.<br />
<br />
He valued the silly little things I do. That's a big deal to me. Don't make me feel like a jackass when I write you a silly love poem or something like that. He was really cool about those things; appreicated the time and effort and creativity that went into them. He understood my love language (and if you haven't read <u>The Five Love Languages</u>, you really need to) before I even understood how important that is. <br />
<br />
I should interject that Loving My Silliness is one of the countless qualities that I love about my husband R, and the Most Excellent friends with whom I surround myself. <br />
<br />
I used to make Fred goofy little animals out of felt all the time. One of the animals I made was a little blue bunny. I made up an annoying voice and obnoxious personality for the bunny, and I'd get Fred to engage in ridiculous conversations with it. The bunny would ask Fred how his day was and give details about his own day, which was pretty much always the same - the bunny had been sitting in the drawer full of stuff I'd made for Fred, which he referred to as The Sarah Drawer.<br />
<br />
If you have ever had the catastrophic misfortune of being subjected to The Big Purple Dinosaur Who Must Not Be Named, you may be familiar with the ungodly sound of Baby Bop's voice. The little blue bunny's voice was kinda like that, but mixed with Gir from Invader Zim. Imagine me putting this goofy little blue felt bunny in poor Fred's face and read the italicized lines in that voice, in your mind.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, hey Fred!</i><br />
<br />
(groan) Yeah, Bunny.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Fred! Hey Fred! Hey Fred, howya doin?</i><br />
<br />
Fine.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Fred, guess what! Guess what guess what guess what?</i><br />
<br />
(sigh) What.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm a lil bunny, but when I grow up, I'm gonna be a BIG bunny!</i><br />
<br />
Yeah, that's really great.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, can we hang out tomorrow? </i><br />
<br />
Hmmm, I don't know, Bunny. I have to go to work.<br />
<br />
<i>Will you talk to me when you get home, then?</i><br />
<br />
Sure, Bunny.<br />
<br />
<i>Ok, bye!!! </i><br />
<br />
Look, I'm not saying the shit's normal and I'm not defending my actions, I'm just telling the story. <br />
<br />
The best thing about Fred was that I could get him to watch anything I wanted to watch - figure skating, gymnastics, diving competitions, dog shows, the Miss USA pageant, ANYTHING - and he went along with it because I'd watch Cowboys football with him back in the Troy Aikman/Michael Irvin/Deion Sanders/Emmit Smith days. I hate the Cowboys, but I LOVE Michael Irvin. And, for the record, I loved the cerebral sports humor Dennis Miller brought to Monday Night Football, too. But I digress.<br />
<br />
One day Fred was in an extrordinarily shitty mood and when I asked him why, he didn't want to tell me. I was genuinely concerned. <br />
<br />
<i>Fred, seriously, what's wrong?</i><br />
<br />
(Long pause)<br />
<br />
<strong>YOU GOT ME TALKIN TO THAT DAMN BUNNY.</strong> <br />
<br />
I nearly wet myself laughing. But I figured I should hold it for the next time Fred took me to a movie. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the Speed Racer era. My buddy Speed has been subjected to some atrocities himself, such as The Jonas Brothers Concert Experience in 3-D.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://hphotos-snc1.fbcdn.net/hs185.snc1/6169_1110497445759_1326548610_30312449_5724346_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" kt="true" src="http://hphotos-snc1.fbcdn.net/hs185.snc1/6169_1110497445759_1326548610_30312449_5724346_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
And during the Winter Olympics two weeks ago, I got Speed to watch Men's - that's MEN'S, mind you, I'm talking Johnny Fuckin Weir - Figure Skating with me. He wasn't happy about it, but he did it.<br />
<br />
So I told him the story about Fred and that Damn Bunny. <br />
And here's what I got Speed Racer for his birthday.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs431.snc3/24844_1371999745790_1405671979_31046407_287009_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" kt="true" src="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs431.snc3/24844_1371999745790_1405671979_31046407_287009_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Her name is D. B. for Damn Bunny.<br />
You can't see it, but she's wearing ice skates.<br />
And, AND... (Regis Philbin voice) are ya ready for this???<br />
If you press her hand, you can hear a recording of my <b>actual</b> voice saying "Hey, hey Speed... Hey Speeeed.... come taaalk to meeeeee!"<br />
<br />
It's horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrible.<br />
<br />
Kind of a miracle that I have any friends at all, isn't it?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-32639402819996951362010-01-20T16:32:00.008-06:002010-01-20T17:42:07.426-06:00More Post-Holiday StuffSo, to recap, Christmas Eve we ate the traditional Baby Jesus Dogs -<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dlThplB-I/AAAAAAAACSI/tlhOpDNeXAQ/s1600-h/bm-image-766901.jpe"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dlThplB-I/AAAAAAAACSI/tlhOpDNeXAQ/s320/bm-image-766901.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428919261943105506" /></a><br />
<br />
And then Tito spent Christmas Morning throwing up Baby Jesus.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dlO-7S7BI/AAAAAAAACSA/qp_u8jGXwvw/s1600-h/bm-image-747634.jpe"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dlO-7S7BI/AAAAAAAACSA/qp_u8jGXwvw/s320/bm-image-747634.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428919183902698514" /></a><br />
<i>Yeah, my bathroom's gross. Shut up.</i><br />
<br />
Tito's birthday was the 29th, thus signaling the beginning of the six-week period out of every year when both of my sons are the same age, since Pie was born in February of 2002 and Tito was December 2002. We took the kids to Evil Mouse Pizza<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dx2L8MCTI/AAAAAAAACSY/_l667qK1p-o/s1600-h/bm-image-776360.jpe"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dx2L8MCTI/AAAAAAAACSY/_l667qK1p-o/s320/bm-image-776360.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428933051550533938" /></a><br />
<br />
where we saw games like this one:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dyJnCHtNI/AAAAAAAACSo/lqwDLYxmG2s/s1600-h/bm-image-754108.jpe"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dyJnCHtNI/AAAAAAAACSo/lqwDLYxmG2s/s320/bm-image-754108.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428933385240687826" /></a><br />
<br />
And Pie threw down with some funky dance moves <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dxw6YV0hI/AAAAAAAACSQ/ZzKjrxIJVR8/s1600-h/bm-image-754878.jpe"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dxw6YV0hI/AAAAAAAACSQ/ZzKjrxIJVR8/s320/bm-image-754878.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428932960937431570" /></a><br />
<br />
and I nearly wet myself laughing. <br />
<br />
Pie, just as an aside, has apparently reached the age when he's way too cool to be seen with me. I took the Apes to my kickass dentist last week, and when it was Pie's turn to go in, I tried to be all hip and I put my hand out for a high five as he walked past me.<br />
<br />
He paused, shook his head ever so slightly and said, "Nnnnoooo." <br />
<br />
Anyway, next, my parents came to stay with us for New Years', and it was fun. It was the stress that I couldn't write about because it was going to be a surprise for the Apes, and I know Beeb occasionally reads my blog, so I didn't want to chance it. <br />
<br />
Really, my parents are wonderful, fun and laid-back, and the complete antithesis of my Inlaws. My kids adore them the way kids should adore their grandparents, and I don't have to worry about demands of perfection being placed upon me or about my parenting skills being publicly scrutinized. <br />
<br />
However.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's harder to make plans when everyone is flexible, you know? When I make a few suggestions and "anything's fine" with everyone, then I feel like I have to make the ultimate decision for the group and it makes me really nervous. Why, I don't know. I get that, in all likelihood, it's totally in my head. Nobody's going to be mad at me, I don't think, but trying to make plans for the Apes and my parents - and keeping track of everyone - is extremely stressful for me. <br />
<br />
Anyway, one of the mornings we all (minus R and Tito) went to the mall to see <b>The Blind Side</b>. We stopped at Panera (which around here is called St. Louis Bread Company) to buy a baker's dozen bagels. Our order went something like this:<br />
<br />
<i>Ok, can we get ... um ... four, five? Five. Five Cinnamon Crunch bagels, three of those cut in the bread slicer and put into individual bags. Then we need threeeeeee, three Asiago sliced the regular way, no wait, one of them in the bread slicer. How many is that? Seven? Eight? Ok, then, just five more of the Cinnamon Crunch sliced regular. Is that right? Yeah. Yeah, that's good. <br />
</i><br />
The cashier didn't roll her eyes or sigh audibly. Why? Because they deal with people ordering shit like that ALL THE TIME. <br />
<br />
She did, however, ring up each bagel individually, which would have come out to a price slightly higher than the Baker's Dozen price listed on the menu. Then she walked over to the bread slicer (still well within earshot, mind you) to slice three Cinnamon Crunch and one Asiago bagel and place them into separate bags.<br />
<br />
Mom began to freak out a bit. If you've hung around me for any period of time, you may have seen me in one of these little mini anxiety attacks. Apple doesn't fall far, folks.<br />
<br />
<i>Sarah. Sarah, she's overcharging me. She charged me for each bagel.</i><br />
<br />
Mom, chill, she knows what he's doing. There's probably a discount key she hasn't pressed yet, or something.<br />
<br />
<i>No, Sarah, she's charging me for </i>each bagel.<i> Should I tell her she's overcharging me? I'm going to tell her she's overcharging me.</i><br />
<br />
Mom, you can't possibly be the first person in the history of Bread Company who's ever ordered a total of thirteen bagels. I'm sure there's a system in place for these situations.<br />
<br />
<i>She's going to overcharge me. She's not doing it right. I know she's not doing it right.</i><br />
<br />
Mom, her nametag says ASSISTANT MANAGER. She's been trained. Calm down. Seriously.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, she adjusted the price before giving Mom the total, so it was cool, but still, I'm tempted to rent the DVD of <b>Rain Man</b> and check the Deleted Scenes to see if there's one called "The Bagel Incident" that was juuuust barely not <b>Rain Man</b> enough to make the Director's Cut. Wouldn't surprise me one bit. <br />
<br />
Another thing my parents do that drives me mental is combine small amounts of different kinds of cereal into one box. I poured myself a bowl of Fruit Loops and got this - <br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1ddVl2z_pI/AAAAAAAACR4/oRpsP6SnFUs/s1600-h/bm-image-726705.jpe"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1ddVl2z_pI/AAAAAAAACR4/oRpsP6SnFUs/s320/bm-image-726705.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428910501339070098" /></a><br />
<br />
Honey Loop Flakes. <i>GAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!</i><br />
<br />
Back me up, readers. If all cereal was the same, they wouldn't make 200 different kinds, right? Come on. Some days you're feeling Honeycomb, other days you're feeling Frosted Flakes. It takes a lot out of me to determine what Cereal Mood I'm in at 6:45 in the a.m., so when I commit to a cereal, I want it to commit to ME. In other words, when I pour a bowl of Raisin Bran, I better not find no damn Cheerios in it. These things should NOT be tampered with. Can I get an Amen?? <br />
<br />
Ok, so other than The Bagel Incident and Honey Loop Flakes, my parents' visit was great. The next major event in my life was my 39th birthday, last Wednesday. It really didn't hit me until a few days later, on Dr. King's birthday. He's always looked older to me in pictures, but he was 39 when he died. Of course, not everyone is born to change the world as he did, but it made me think Shit, what have I contributed to the world in the same amount of time on this planet? <br />
<br />
Well, I'm working on it. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I am LOVING my job at Squish. My bathroom looks like a Squish shop. Hey, I need to be able to talk about our products from my personal experience, right? <br />
<br />
I even hennaed my hair with Squish hair color.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dx9arBRuI/AAAAAAAACSg/S_MuWf3xZlI/s1600-h/bm-image-705370.jpe"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/S1dx9arBRuI/AAAAAAAACSg/S_MuWf3xZlI/s320/bm-image-705370.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428933175764141794" /></a> <br />
<br />
PLUS, as part of my job, I got to come up with some awesome party ideas for February (finally, I'm getting paid to plan parties!!!) and I'm going to need the local branch of my fan club to help me out because there's a contest involved, and you all know how competitive I get. <br />
<br />
(ADD moment - What the fuck is this Karen Walker <i>I Can't Believe It's Not Butter</i> Turn The Tub Around bullshit???)<br />
<br />
I was nervous for a while because I was hired as Seasonal and there was some question about which Seasonal folks would get to stay on after Holiday, but I must have charmed them with my wit and the <i>Je Ne Sais Quoi</i> you know and love.<br />
<br />
That said, I haven't fully unleashed Penny Karma on them yet. In fact, I am hesitant to let the coworkers in on <b>Behold My Brilliance</b> because it would mean that I couldn't rant freely about work-related drama, should I perhaps want to, someday. I'm still enough of a noob to not have any idea what goes on between the full-timers, and I don't care, but if any fun shit comes up that I think you all might appreciate, I'd like to be able to share it, so I'm kinda torn. <br />
<br />
Remember how I struggled with joining my high school alumni on Facebook? It's like that. Somehow I've managed to keep it clean on FB and so far nobody's outed me as a liberal-minded pottymouth blogger, but Jesus Christ, there are days when I'd love to drop an F-bomb and watch the Sh** storm that would undoubtedly ensue. You bitches know how much I hate censoring myself. <br />
<br />
I've let the coolest of my co-workers read my previous post because for some reason Inlaws came up as a conversational topic, and Lord knows I've got plenty to contribute to THAT conversation. She dug it. <br />
<br />
I've let a different co-worker know that my friends call me Penny, because I realized out loud that it feels weird to me to see Sarah on my name tag. I forget my own name, sometimes, because I'm always addressed Mom or Mrs. Karma or Parent of (insert name of Ape). And I think of myself more as Penny than as Sarah. At least I <i>want</i> to be more Penny than Sarah, especially in social situations. Penny's the one you want to hang out with, trust me. Sarah has interpersonal awkwardness and occasional gut-wrenching social anxiety.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-80917768640992013962010-01-07T09:47:00.007-06:002010-01-07T16:13:55.670-06:00My First Post-Holiday PostChristmas is over. But the stress isn't. <br />
<br />
Christmas morning Tito barfed in my bed. Sure, it was gross and a minor inconvenience, but since it meant I could stay home with a sick kid instead of spending the day you-know-where, I'd say I got the better end of the deal.<br />
<br />
Well, scratch that. I missed the fantastic meal MIL made. And I kinda did want to see the reaction to the gifts I put together for the Aldikids. <br />
<br />
Remember the not-so-subtle gifting feud I've continued for years? Basically, the Aldis have a history of shitty gift-giving. When I say shitty, I mean their gifts are clearly bought on Super Duper going-out-of-business clearance and are either ridiculously age-inappropriate, discontinued and therefore impossible to find the accessories necessary to make them fun, defective and almost always unreturnable. They've done this to us for years. I've only been paying attention to it since 2001. It's so obnoxious.<br />
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When Beeb turned 4, they gave her a train engine that blew bubbles that, according to the box, was for 18 months and up. She's not a two year old boy, geniuses. So we tried to return/exchange it - at every store in the greater metropolitan area. NOBODY had this stupid thing. <br />
<br />
Then we remembered that Mrs. Aldi's creepy dumpster-diver brother and his creepy toothless midget wife used to work at a store called Grandpa Pidgeon's that went out of business years ago. They bought up a buttload of 99% off crappy toys on Clearance and stuffed them in a closet, pulling them out as needed to give as gifts. Mystery solved, Scooby.<br />
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This comes from a 2005 post, in which I reference the following email I sent to my friend Renee back in 2002: <br />
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<i>Well, I'm sure you remember Mr and Mrs Aldi who are notorious for giving us re-gifted, crappy, age-inappropriate and incorrectly sized gifts (remember my Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt from the Juniors department and the Bubble Train for ages 18 months+ for Beeb's 4th birthday?) that were purchased on clearance and put away for a gift-giving occasion that could be months away, rendering the shitty gift unreturnable and worth about 33 cents in store credit if you can even determine which store it was purchased from? And forget a gift receipt since you'd only get what they paid for it back, which probably isn't much more anyway. We end up giving the gifts they give us to Toys for Tots, which means I have to figure out a place to store it for 6 months. <br />
<br />
And I'm sure you remember how we attempted to rise above this gift-giving inequity and continued to buy cool gifts for their daughter (Aldigirl), such as a really cute wooden dollhouse and a Rainbow Princess Barbie, both of which were met with Mrs Aldi muttering "oh greeeeeeeeeeeeaaat, more little pieces for me to pick up..." <br />
<br />
Well, we decided we're going to beat them at their own game. We look for toys with lots of parts that are completely annoying on clearance and put them away to give to Aldigirl. It's like a sport, and hubby and I are great at it. In fact, it's brought us closer together as a couple. At one point we found the Baskin Robbins mini ice cream maker on clearance at Target, but then we found it at WalMart for 20 bucks, so we returned it to WalMart (hee hee) and made money on the deal. <br />
<br />
Then we found Cootie Jitterbug - a battery-operated, noisy and annoying version of the original, and put it away for nearly a year until Aldigirl's birthday. Thank GOD they didn't have a party for her again this year. Every year they try to cram like 12 grownups and 7 kids in their house. No, Reverend Aldi had a conference in LA, so they actually purchased a plane ticket and took Aldigirl to Disneyland for her 4th birthday. Whatever. <br />
<br />
Anyway, we presented Aldigirl with her gift at Easter (in a non-reusable slightly torn gift bag, as I had covered every detail) and to my delight, she shrieked "I ALREADY HAVE THIS GAME!!!" Gleefully I imagined the scenario that we had endured so many times before - standing in line at the return counter "um, yeah, I got this as a gift and I need to return it..." "yeah, RIGHT! we haven't had those on the shelves for 6 months! You can have a dollar in store credit, if ya want it..." "no, thanks..." <br />
<br />
Well, apparently Mrs. Aldi knew exactly what it was worth since she probably bought it at the same time we did, and her reaction was "oh...you love that game...now you can have one <b>upstairs</b> and one <b>downstairs</b>..." Hilarious! And the best part was that I was in the bathroom at the time, where I could hear everything and yet freely snicker without fear of an embarrassing social faux pas. I was so tickled by my triumphant victory, I don't even care if she's onto us. I suspect she is. <br />
</i><br />
<br />
Over the years they've presented the Apes with some pretty kooky shit. One year they gave Beeb an uncharacteristically cool gift - an MP3 Player called the Juice Box which played little cartridges with videos and music on them. When we went to look for more cartridges for it, we found it at KMart in a clearance bin, discontinued, and we soon came to the realization that it would be a major pain in the ass to find the cartridges and accessories necessary to do anything with it. Thanks, douchebags.<br />
<br />
And then last year, they hit a new low. From my 1-6-09 entry: <br />
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<i>I didn't think there was anything lower than giving a kid a shitty gift, but there is. It's giving a kid a really awesome gift that doesn't work. They got the boys cool AirHog helicopters and threw in, as a bonus, these cool-looking guns that shoot nerfball-like things. <br />
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At least, that's what they're supposed to do. They don't do shit but collect dust. They don't WORK. The boys were so bummed, it was sad. Who wants to see a sad kid on Christmas?<br />
<br />
The Aldis included batteries, which was surprisingly generous. So when we got home (of course I couldn't let the boys open them at Chez Inlaw because they'd shoot them all over and I'd be the worst parent in the world) we put them in, and couldn't get either gun to work. R thought perhaps we should get some NEW batteries, as we wouldn't put it past the Aldis to include some mostly-dead batteries that they'd taken out of one of their kids' toys. New batteries didn't work either. <br />
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R did a quick internet search, and found these items on Super Duper Clearance at Target.com. We kicked ourselves for not opening them at Chez Inlaw so the Aldis could be exposed as the crappy giftgivers they are. </i><br />
<br />
Anyway, finding out what discontinued tchotkes the Aldis gave the kids for Christmas is one of my favorite things to look forward to during the Holidays. And, because I like to make the magic last all through the year, I am <u>constantly</u> on the lookout for shitty clearance rack gifts to give to the Aldibrats. I don't care if I have to hide it in my closet for eleven months, fuck it, I'll smile every time I see it in there.<br />
<br />
This year I totally outdid myself. <br />
<br />
About four or five years ago I found a huge Thomas the Tank Engine set with miles and miles of blue track. I really don't know why I bought it, other than that it was a really great deal I found at a toy store called Zany Brainy that was going out of business, and Tito already had a million train sets, so I put it away in the garage at the old house (the one we moved out of three years ago), and then when we moved to our new house I once again hid it in the basement inside a garbage bag. <br />
<br />
Maybe a year or so later, I found a Whistle and Go Thomas toy on Uberclearance at WalMart, thinking it would make a deliciously annoying gift for Aldiboy, should we be invited to Aldiboy's birthday party. We weren't. Boo fucking hoo.<br />
<br />
This year was considerably leaner than last year when R was making phat commission and Santa brought my Dyson, a bigass TV and an Xbox 360, so this year I raided the gift stash (and the yarn stash too, come to think of it - I knitted crappy garter-stitch scarves for the kids' teachers). <br />
<br />
Bottom line: Aldiboy got a gift with a whistle in it AND another with a million little parts. Oh, and if the fact that the train set was in a visibly discolored box doesn't clue them in to its age, just wait till they try to find additional parts for it. <br />
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Noisy, check. Little pieces, check. Impossible to return, check. <br />
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It gave me the same physical sensation of the shamelessly indulgent bliss that you get when you eat too much on Thanksgiving. So totally satisfying you almost feel guilty, but you don't. It was almost like a food coma, except it was more of a <i>Screw You, Asshole </i>coma. I rode that high for days. <br />
<br />
And the best part? Out-of-pocket cost? ZERO. It was a muthahfuckin Hat Trick (for those who don't understand sports terminology, it's when a hockey player scores three goals in a game), muthahfuckers!!!<br />
<br />
But there's more - I got a $10 gift card in the mail from Kohl's so I thought I'd see if I could find something for Aldigirl. I found a Ralph Lauren purse for $3.74, a wallet for $6.00, and a set of three little rings with pink stones in them for $2.00. I had to spend at least $10 to get the $10 off, so I ended up spending less than $2.00 out of pocket.<br />
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But then the purse looked a little bare, so I got a SnowFairy perfume solid from Squish and, the <i>piece de resistance</i> (yeah, I know it's supposed to have accents cuz it's French) - a cute little case from Claire's with four hideous colors of eyeshadow, three lipglosses, and MASCARA. Hee hee!!! I'll bet you anything she puts it on her eyebrows. <br />
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I was so bummed that I didn't get to witness Mrs. Aldi's reaction to the makeup, but R said she rolled her eyes or something. <br />
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I don't know if it's irony or coincidence, but the Aldis gave Beeb a purse for Christmas too. It's huge. It's zebra print vinyl with a giant pink bedazzled peace symbol on it. It's CRAZY. Beeb loves it. <br />
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But because I was home with sick Tito I missed our semi-annual church pilgrimage and the trip to Chez Inlaw, Christmas didn't really feel like Christmas to me. It was just like any other Saturday. I sat in bed next to Tito all day, which, in a way, was a gift to me. <br />
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More Post-holiday posts to follow...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-90396710077269902872009-12-21T14:33:00.002-06:002009-12-21T15:00:09.061-06:00Time to Reflect.<i>Shit, it's been a while, hasn't it? </i> <br />
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<br />
As usual, my life undulates between too boring to blog about or too busy to blog about the craziness. Anyway, I'm kinda glum today and I need to remind myself of all the good things that happened in 2009. <br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/01/legends-live-on.html">Pie won a trophy in the Pinewood Derby.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/02/oh-i-got-my-huge-slab-o-meat-and-then.html">Spent Valentine's Day at Urgent Care.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-want-my-tonsils-back.html">Got my tonsils out, and haven't had Strep since!<br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/03/dad-mom-apes-and-jobros.html">Saw the Jonas Brothers 3D movie.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/07/mock-me-all-you-want-but-jonas-brothers.html">Saw them even CLOSER - 3rd row, baby - AND saw the tour bus! </a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/03/typical-pk-day-part-ii.html">Went on a Dream Date with Cam Janssen.</a> <br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/04/comedy-of-errors.html">Helped out Project Linus.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/04/welcome-to-my-nightmare.html">Killed a colony of Termites.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/05/yall-didnt-believe-me-didja.html">Had my knitting appear in a national magazine.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/10/follow-up-and-heartbreak.html">Created KICKASS Halloween costumes, yet again.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-inner-7th-grader-takes-beating.html">Attended my 20-year reunion in a smashing green dress.</a><br />
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<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/11/workin-it.html">Perhaps most notably, got a job at Squish.</a><br />
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<br />
Well, that didn't help my mood as much as I hoped it would. It seems as though some of the good things that happened this year had a flip side, ya know?<br />
<br />
I am feeling BigmotherfuckingTime holiday stress. BIG. For reasons I can't talk about. <br />
<br />
Ah, the holidays. What lovely memories. Like the time I bounced a $7 check to a charity just so my kids wouldn't be left out of the class project to send Christmas gifts to an orphanage in Africa. And the two consecutive years that WE were the Adopt A Family family at church. Good times. I hate how Christmas has become synonymous with Financial Stress at my house.<br />
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We couldn't afford to do Boy Scouts again this year, which made me feel like a crappy parent, but in the end I got over it. It stressed the shit out of me, and Pie didn't really care if he did it or not. <br />
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Killing the colony of termites cost an insane amount of money. Maintaining a termite-free house costs an insane amount of money, but the alternative is that we have more money and more termites.<br />
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I have a job, and I like it, but it causes me a great deal of stress at home - getting housework done and juggling appointments and finding rides for my kids to get places has made me wonder if I can emotionally afford to have a job, even though I'm positive I can not financially afford not to have one.<br />
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I got my tonsils out, had to remove my badass nipple rings and haven't put them back in so I feel like part of my badassness is missing. And I've gained weight since my surgery. GAINED. You're supposed to LOSE weight after a tonsilectomy.<br />
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I was the only person (other than The Grapevine) to have gained weight at our Reunion. I did, however, manage to conveniently forget to pay for our tickets. Suck it, Alumni committee. <br />
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Knitting accomplishments were few. The entire year, I purchased a total of 4 skeins of yarn. The rest of my knitting time was spent cranking out crappy garter stitch scarves. I made some money selling them, and the rest became teacher gifts. I've thinned my crappy yarn stash, which felt pretty good.<br />
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Oh yeah, and Kevin Jonas got married yesterday.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-88746465002161567522009-12-02T14:37:00.001-06:002009-12-02T14:43:09.112-06:00It's a cyst, we think.Even before my Urgent Care visit, I'd spent the last several days calling various medical professionals, trying to max out our Flex Spending by making appointments for myself and my kids before the end of the year, when our health care plan changes. I'm trying to cram as many appointments set up for the same day as I can, so as to minimize the number of days I have to ask off at work. <br />
<br />
I am driving myself nuts. <br />
<br />
Weeks ago, I scheduled Pie's urologist appointment for this Friday morning, and had emailed my Squish boss last Sunday informing her of my availability for this week, but when I went to get my schedule, I saw that I was still scheduled to work Friday morning. <br />
<br />
I figured it would be easier to reschedule the urologist than it would be to find someone else to work for me, and I didn't want to be a bitch and point out the fact that I DID inform the scheduler that I wasn't available to work Friday morning. I'm too new to make a big stink, even if I am in the right.<br />
<br />
You should see my calendar. It's covered with scribbles and arrows. I can barely even read it myself. I hope this doesn't present a problem.<br />
<br />
It's a darn good thing my ovary conveniently decided to burst on Monday, since that's the only day this week that isn't completely booked. Yesterday I was supposed to have an appointment with my eye doctor regarding my cornea. Remember a couple of summers ago when I had that corneal ulcer? Yeah, I've got more corneal drama. I don't think I'll be able to wear contacts anymore. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I was supposed to see my eye doctor at 1:45 Tuesday afternoon, but Tuesday morning Beeb reminded me that she had signed up to go bowling after school, and she said I'd need to drive her from school to West County Lanes. I was afraid I wouldn't be home in time to take her, so I called to see if I could get in any earlier that day, but, alas, the best I could do was Thursday morning at 11:15. I have to work 3-8:30 on Thursday.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, she was supposed to ride a bus from school to the bowling alley, so I COULD have kept my appointment, but somehow that wasn't made clear to Beeb or to me. Tuesday evening Beeb had a band concert, which MIL and FIL were planning to attend. The same evening, Pie had an event at his school, so we would have to split the squad. I volunteered to take Pie and Tito to Pie's thing while R and Beeb met MIL and FIL at the concert. Pie's thing was kinda lame, but I was NOT in the mood to hang with the Inlaws. <br />
<br />
I knew the evening would be crazy, but I had no idea that the afternoon would be even crazier. No, I did not anticipate that I would be receiving a call from my mortgage company saying that I was thirty days past due. Like hell I'm past due; I made our December payment on November 20th. We're always early, and we always overpay by a little bit. I round up because I can never remember how much we're supposed to pay.<br />
<br />
Further investigation uncovered the fact that my mortgage payment had increased two months ago (thanks for letting me know!) and because I had been paying approximately $85 dollars less than the amount due for October and November, they were considered partial payments, and so according to them we haven't paid November or December at all, whereas in reality we were a mere $85 short on each of the last three payments. I'm so pissed. <br />
<br />
I mean, it's not like we're deadbeats or anything, I just made an honest mistake, but our credit will be negatively affected. Our October payment was $85 short, then $85 from the November payment went to cover October, so we were $170 short on the next payment, and now we're $255 short, technically, but they're saying I owe for December. So stupid. <br />
<br />
I spent the entire afternoon getting to the bottom of this quagmire (giggity giggity!), and it has since been resolved, but mother FUCKER, hearing that I hadn't made the December payment when I know goddammed well I had, and knowing that we can barely afford our monthly payment as it is, just about broke me. Here I am trying to juggle a little part-time job in addition to the other demands on my time and energy, making my best effort to keep my shit together, and clearly, I'm failing. I'm so disappointed in myself. How did I ever think I could handle all of this?<br />
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I'm so unbelievably stressed out, I was starting to wonder if my abdominal pain wasn't a stress ulcer. But today I went to my gyno. Here's my annual gyno pic that you all love -<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SxbLOQW9YWI/AAAAAAAACRw/dR52ZoDfrOk/s1600-h/bm-image-717181.jpe"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SxbLOQW9YWI/AAAAAAAACRw/dR52ZoDfrOk/s320/bm-image-717181.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410735448102101346" /></a><br />
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I told her that I'd been to Urgent Care on Monday and that I was reasonably sure I had a cyst or something. She did some poking and decided that I need to get myself in for an Ultrasound next week. I've got it scheduled for next Tuesday, since I was planning to ask off for that day anyway. The kids have a half-day at school on Tuesday, and Pie and Tito and I have been invited to see a movie that afternoon with Pie's buddy John and his mom. I'm not about to go to work after all that.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to work in about two hours, working until close, and it's supposed to snow tonight. While I'm out, R and Rip and The Rev are going to be moving the refrigerator that the Aldis are giving us (they bought themselves a new one) to my basement next to the bar, which we also got for free! Soon we'll be able to entertain down there! That'll be good. <br />
<br />
But I digress. As I mentioned, I'm working tonight, tomorrow (after the eye doctor), and Friday morning. I'm off Saturday, and then I have to go in for a meeting on Sunday morning at 8. Next week I have the Crazy Tuesday, and on Thursday I'm going back to the ENT who took out my tonsils because I still feel like there's something stuck in my throat. <br />
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The following week I'm taking Beeb to get a mole on her neck removed.<br />
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The week after that I'm taking the kids to the dentist.<br />
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The week after THAT, I'm taking Pie to the urologist. <br />
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And I haven't even <i>started</i> stressing about the Holidays.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-67197402667746725102009-12-01T14:30:00.007-06:002009-12-01T17:50:21.784-06:00A blog in three parts, accidentally.I know I should blog. I know. I feel like I'm neglecting the global fan base who has made me the international superstar I am today. But really, you haven't missed anything. <br />
<br />
I dig working at Squish (although so far I've spent more than I've earned), but I'm still feeling kinda like an outsider. I haven't dropped the full-on Pennytude on them, though, so maybe they don't know I'm cool yet. It's a kinda lonely gig, too. It's a small space inside a Macy's store, and when it's not busy we're supposed to stand outside the Squish counter's walls and stop passing foot traffic. That'd be fine with me, except I'm not allowed to whip out my boobs. What fun is that? <br />
<br />
Last week was MIL's birthday, R's birthday, and Thanksgiving. Even though we were already planning to go out to Chez Inlaw on Thursday, R said we'd also go out Sunday for MIL's birthday. I would have been pissed about having to go there twice in one week, let alone in one month, but it was all worth it when my BIL, Reverend Aldi, let it slip that they'd have to bring their dog to Thanksgiving. Since the Aldis have to celebrate every holiday with my Inlaws, PLUS Mrs. Aldi's own totally creepy family, Chantal would otherwise be stuck at home all day.<br />
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Please tell me you remember what happened the last time the Aldis took their dog out to the Inlaws. It may have been the best day of my life.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I was totally giddy all week, imagining a repeat of this past Fourth of July, when Chantal dropped a huge steaming pile of poo right on the immaculate white carpet in FIL's living room. I even thought about sneaking over to the Aldis' house and feeding Chantal some chili when everybody else was asleep.<br />
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<i>Y'all know I'm not above it.</i><br />
<br />
Imagine my disappointment when I arrived on Thursday afternoon and both Chantal and The Reverend were absent. The Reverend was sick, supposedly. MIL said he sounded terrible on the phone. <br />
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Shit, if WE were supposed to be there and we had a car wreck on our way there, we'd have the ambulance take us to FIL's house even before we went to the ER because otherwise FIL would give us endless grief. It's happened before. He was a real dick to R when I was home sick with the Strep on Mother's Day one year. He didn't believe for a second that I was really sick. I WAS. And it was <i>still</i> more pleasant than going out there for the afternoon.<br />
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Wanna hear my theory? I think The Rev faked being sick so they wouldn't have to take a chance on having the dog poop on FIL's floor again. R agrees with me. There's a good chance the dog will come out for Christmas, I think. Fingers crossed!<br />
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So, since The Rev and Chantal weren't there, it was an extreeeeemely boring afternoon. Mrs. Aldi and the Aldikids were there, but they only stayed for a little bit before they had to leave for Mrs. Aldi's sister's house, so then it was the five of us Karmas and MIL and FIL. <br />
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I've figured out that if we take a kid-friendly movie with us, we can all watch it together. We get credit for staying a couple of hours, we don't have to engage in any conversation with anyone, and it has a definite end, which allows us a graceful exit. Total WIN.<br />
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-----------------<br />
<br />
Ok, now we move on to Part Two of this post. Literally as soon as I finished typing "total WIN", I stood up and felt a horrible pain in the lower left part of my abdomen. I sat back down, got on WebMD, and tried to figure out what the problem might be. I didn't have a fever or vomiting or any other weird symptoms, just a hideous stabbing pain that got worse when I went from sitting to standing. I couldn't stand all the way up straight. <br />
<br />
WebMD's suggestion was to seek medical attention immediately, so, in gut-wrenching agony, I drove myself to Urgent Care. Actually, I had to wait for Beeb to get home so I could explain to her that Pie's obnoxious friend John was coming over after school because his mom needed to take her other son to a late doctor's appointment and she wouldn't be able to be there when John got home. <br />
<br />
Beeb was relatively cool with that, and I called R on the way there to tell him what was going on. He would probably be home before Pie and John got home anyway, so it was going to work out fine. I went to Urgent Care, waited for about 30 minutes, got into a room, had to do the old pee-in-a-cup trick, and yay, I'm not pregnant. If I was, they'd have had to peel me off the fuckin ceiling. Seriously. <br />
<br />
Next step, a blood draw. I haaaaaate blood draws. I get all freaked out. I've cried before; recently, even. It's totally embarrassing. <br />
<br />
Bloodwork came back fine. Next they wanted a pelvic exam. Ugh. <br />
<br />
So, just to recap, I'd already peed in a cup, bled into a tube, and now I was supposed to expose my crotch to someone other those who have been granted prior authorization. It made me think of that classic line from Clerks, "I'm not even supposed to BE here today!!"<br />
<br />
Look, I've already got my annual Cooter Rootin' scheduled for Wednesday morning. I'm not aesthetically prepared to spread 'em for a stranger right now. I haven't shaved in a couple of days. I'm wearing panties that say "You Wish" on the butt. Now it's kinda unintentionally comical, obviously, but I wouldn't have worn those on purpose to see my gyno. <br />
<br />
Especially if I had known that it would be performed by the same little guy who's done my throat cultures the last five or six times I've been in there with the Strep. Now he gets to swab a much more sensitive part of me. <br />
<br />
I decided many years ago that I prefer to see a woman gynocologist. I know different people have different opinions on this very personal choice, but here I was about to flash my crotch for this dude who, up to now, had only seen my diseased tonsils. He only had above-the-neck familiarity, and now I'm granting him access to the Holy of Holies (pun intended). I just felt a little strange about it.<br />
<br />
For those of you familiar with the show Seinfeld, Dr. Dennis looks a lot like NBC president Russell Dalrymple, whom George and Jerry stalk in the episode entitled <a href="http://www.seinfeldscripts.com/TheShoes.html">"The Shoes,"</a> until they find him in a restaurant. Whereupon Elaine, in a very low-cut dress, walks over to his table to ask if he could help her open her bottle of ketchup. She flirtatiously leans forward and asks, <br />
<br />
"Do you have a... Ketchup Secret? Because, if you do have a Ketchup Secret, I'd really, <i>really</i> like to know what it is." <br />
<br />
He totally looks like the Ketchup Secret guy.<br />
<br />
I hope this helps at least some of you visualize what I was dealing with at this point. He left the room so I could get undressed from the waist down, and a minute or so later I heard him knock on the door to ask if I was ready. I told him sure, I'm all set, come on in.<br />
<br />
He re-entered, clad in what looked like a green plastic hazmat lab coat. I didn't know whether to be totally insulted or to burst out laughing. I mean, dude, what is this, a fucking alien autopsy? Am I going to spew florescent toxic oozing zombie fluids all over you? Pretty sure I'm not, but it's best to be prepared, I guess.<br />
<br />
I scootched my cootch down to the edge of the table and stuck my heels in the stirrups. And if that information is too graphic for your taste, then you're reading the wrong blog, my friend. <br />
<br />
While inserting the speculum, he said, "Ok, now, the key is to just relax." Like I've never had a pelvic before.<br />
<br />
<i>No, the key is to keep myself from laughing so I don't accidentally fart at Dr. Ketchup Secret.</i><br />
<br />
Staring into the abyss (while I tried to relax), he stated that he was seeing, and I quote, "a little more discharge than he'd like to see". Well, hell, if I'd known somebody'd be scraping me out today, I probably wouldn't have gotten me some luvin' this morning either. Oops. I don't know what kept me from asking, <i>Well, gee, how much discharge would you LIKE to see?</i><br />
<br />
Thank God my filter was still engaged. This guy would NOT have found it funny in the slightest. Therefore, I'd like to put a simple request out there to any current or potential medical student: <br />
<br />
<b>If you're considering a career in the field of Gynecology, please, please, PLEASE get a muthahfuggin sense of humor. I can't possibly stress this enough.</b><br />
<br />
He started poking me from the inside and the outside, and DAMN, it hurt. His diagnosis? Ovarian cyst. He suggested I call my gyno and get in for an ultrasound.<br />
<br />
------------------<br />
<br />
Which brings us to part three of this post. I'll have to post that part tomorrow. It's still too raw to write. <br />
<br />
(The <i>experience</i>, NOT my vagina.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-31167689252855443862009-11-20T10:15:00.001-06:002009-11-20T10:16:19.433-06:00Workin' it!Get this.<br />
<br />
I submitted my pitiful, anemic, half-assed resume via email, along with not a cover letter but a very informal "Hey, here's a little bit about me - I've been a stay at home mom for eight years" paragraph, got an email back the next day about setting up an interview, went in, nailed it, and...<br />
<br />
<b>I GOT A JOB! </b> <br />
<br />
I'm working part time for a well-known 100% vegetarian, Fresh Handmade Cosmetics company that I'm going to call Squish. I've worked for a couple of similar companies over the course of my stellar retail career, so it was a natural transition. They'd have been fuckin crazy not to hire me, honestly. I know my shit.<br />
<br />
I get a fabulous discount (jealous??) and I don't have to buy a whole lot of new clothes because I already have a lot of black in my wardrobe. And the girls who work there are pretty cool. So I think I'll like it. It'll be tough to make the transition to working again, though, after all this time. It was reeeeally hard for me not to be at the bus stop at 4:10 this past Wednesday. But Beeb was there for them, R got home about 40 minutes later, and they all did fine. <br />
<br />
When we only had Beeb, R and I both worked full time. The boys have never dealt with me not being there when they got home from school. Beeb gets home before they do, and now that R has a job with more regular hours, now was the ideal time for me to get out of the house. And I figured Holiday would be when a lot of retail shops would be hiring. I plan to stay beyond Holiday, if they want me to, and again, they'd be crazy not to want me to. I'm good at selling stuff I like. And I lurrrrve Squish stuff.<br />
<br />
So because of this new gig my blogging time might be limited, but please be assured that no matter where I am or what I'm doing, <br />
<br />
I SMELL FANTASTIC.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-69186378584131169362009-11-11T10:35:00.005-06:002009-11-11T15:49:44.986-06:00Trick or Treat, a little late.Sorry it's taken me so long to post this, my poor neglected readers. I know my annual Halloween post is one of my favorites to write, and it's usually pretty popular, so, with my apologies, here y'all go.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://beholdmybrilliance.blogspot.com/2009/10/follow-up-and-heartbreak.html">You may recall the bitter anguish I felt upon discovering that the Costume Contest had been inexplicably nixed from this year's Pevely Flea Market Halloween Event. </a><br />
<br />
Such total bullshit. I guess the other people were getting sick of losing out to Team Karma. <br />
<br />
I suppose I can understand that. I mean, if my kids' costumes sucked and I was the sort of mother who couldn't stand to see their 6-year-old get her heart broken when her French Maid costume failed to wow the judges, I'd probably be disappointed too. But my kids are good sports, and they have awesome costumes. Why should my kids have to miss out on our annual tradition of kicking your ass just because your store-bought Spongebob costume didn't place? <br />
<br />
So this year, we went ballz out for the Trunk or Treat event at Pokey Oaks Elementary. We invited The Racers, and allowed them to see me in my full-on, maxed-out, fiercely competitive thirst for glory. They'd seen glimpses of it before, sure, but NOTHING compares to me on Costume Contest Day, and you need to either get on board or get the fuck out of the way. I'm happy to say that they handled it extremely well. <br />
<br />
Kev even snagged a pic of R and me snarking on the competition.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs037.snc3/12432_1258733194197_1405671979_30758939_4654609_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" sr="true" src="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs037.snc3/12432_1258733194197_1405671979_30758939_4654609_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
And with that, may I present this year's Team Karma costumes:<br />
<br />
Tito was the dog from the movie UP (now available on DVD and BlueRay), complete with Cone Of Shame.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/9663416@N08/4059473221/" title="IMG_5326 by purplesc1, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_5326" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2670/4059473221_2b5e336e08.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/9663416@N08/4060214196/" title="IMG_5332 by purplesc1, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_5332" height="500" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2630/4060214196_88425bd8eb.jpg" width="333" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs091.snc3/15831_1157169694904_1397590080_30450366_4314304_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sr="true" src="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs091.snc3/15831_1157169694904_1397590080_30450366_4314304_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
Seriously, how FREAKIN cute is that?!!?<br />
<br />
<br />
Pie was a classic nerd. He called himself Ervin Ritzensnurf. He was particularly excited about the pocket protector. We took these pics before I slicked his hair. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/9663416@N08/4060215956/" title="IMG_5330 by purplesc1, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_5330" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2775/4060215956_44443391b7.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/9663416@N08/4059474177/" title="IMG_5317 by purplesc1, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_5317" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2574/4059474177_bcc28565c7.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
And, finally, just for the sake of comparison, here's <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/photogallery/no-sew-costumes?xsc=eml_msl_2009_10_29#slide_2">Martha Stewart's MEDUSA, from her website.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://images.marthastewart.com/images/content/pub/special_issues/2004/ft_halloween04medusa_xl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://images.marthastewart.com/images/content/pub/special_issues/2004/ft_halloween04medusa_xl.jpg" vr="true" width="256" /></a><br />
<br />
And here's MY Medusa.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs017.snc3/12432_1258732274174_1405671979_30758917_4167127_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" sr="true" src="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs017.snc3/12432_1258732274174_1405671979_30758917_4167127_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs091.snc3/15831_1157152134465_1397590080_30450346_5906064_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sr="true" src="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs091.snc3/15831_1157152134465_1397590080_30450346_5906064_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
Martha Stewart can decoupage my ASS.<br />
<br />
Tito's costume required some creative hand-sewing (his ears and tail are made from a pair of brown socks), but Beeb's was HELLA labor-intensive. I don't remember how many snakes we ended up with, but they're individually knitted with two strands together, in stockinette so they would have a flat side like a snake, and then twisted and tangled together and attached to the hat. <br />
<br />
The hat is basically the <a href="http://knitty.com/ISSUEfall04/PATThallowig.html">Hallowig pattern </a>from Knitty, or at least that's what it would have been if I'd done it right, except I fucked it up (of course) on the decreases and so I had to kinda fudge it a bit. It's not completely closed at the top, so I coiled up a snake and sewed it on so you can't tell. But it turned out awesome and Beeb was so proud. A few people wanted me to make them a Medusa hat too. Not sure I could fuck up exactly the same way again, but for the right price, I might whip one up for ya.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the costume contest at the Trunk or Treat was only for kids in Pre-K thru 5th grades, so Beeb, being a 7th grader, didn't get to participate. The boys, however, each won a prize for their grade level. Tito was Best Homemade Costume (which, to me, is a totally stupid category), and Pie won for Funniest/Silliest Costume. <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">TEAM KARMA DOMINATION CONTINUES, BITCHES!!!</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-31256489128162605972009-10-28T09:24:00.003-05:002009-11-11T08:26:20.185-06:00Why I Blog.I love blogs. I love writing this blog. I love reading blogs. <br />
<br />
I read blogs for many reasons. I read the funny ones, the inspiring ones, the ones that show the amazing things someone with mad skillz can make with yarn. I love displays of creativity and craftiness. I love people articulately expressing opinions, whether I agree with them or not. <br />
<br />
I read blogs that make me feel normal. The ones where moms want to pop other people's kids upside the head. The ones where people want to tell their bosses to fuck off. I feel less bad about hating certain types of people when I see that other people hate them too. It's comforting to know that I'll have someone to sit next to in Hell. <br />
<br />
I suppose that's why I write, too. I put it all out there because I'm an external affirmation whore and I need other people to tell me that I'm normal, or, at least, that I'm the kind of abnormal that's fun and entertaining and not totally creepy. <br />
<br />
I also write because I'm cheap. And when I unload a ton of heavy emotional shit on you like I did last time, I almost feel guilty. I'm saving a ton of money in therapy bills. Just so you know, I'm saving it for my kids' therapy fund.<br />
<br />
Speaking of The Apes, I blog because I want to remember the wacky shit that my kids do (which reminds me, I need to share a poem that Pie wrote), and I like to look back over my posts from the year before and see how I've grown as a parent.<br />
<br />
I blog because I loooove feeling like I this blog is a really big secret and only the coolest people can know about it. I like knowing that people who have never met me know what panties I'm wearing to my Inlaws', and want to know how much butter I'm putting in my desserts. I've even gotten butter-intensive recipes from readers. That's so cool. <br />
<br />
I write to entertain, to inform, and to purge myself of all the profane rants that percolate inside of me. I blog to avoid some of the realities of my life (like housework) by confronting and sharing other realities of my life (like depression). <br />
<br />
Which brings me, tangentially, to why I'm blogging today: <br />
<br />
<b>The honeymoon is over. I need to find a job.</b><br />
<br />
Remember the last time I looked for a job? Here's an excerpt from my post from March 26, 2007.<br />
<br />
"Friday I had my second interview at Vandelay Industries downtown, so I figured R and my parents could take the kids to the City Museum just down the street and I could meet them afterwards. I felt great about the interview. Here's one of the highlights. I'm paraphrasing, of course - <br />
<br />
So, tell us a little about yourself, Penny!<br />
<br />
<i>Well, for the last six years I've been a stay-at-home mom, but I'd always planned to go back to work when my youngest started Kindergarten. So this opportunity has come up a year earlier than I'd expected to go back to work, but I decided that I'd rather pursue it now rather than wait until it was the ideal time and hope that there was a good job available, cuz I'd really prefer not to go back to retail... I mean, there's nothing wrong with retail, but I'm 36 years old and I'm kinda too old to be folding jeans for a living... I did my time at The Gap ten years ago... I mean, if there's a Jean-Folding Emergency, I'm your man. Just a little sumthin' extra I'm bringin' to the table...</i><br />
<em></em><br />
I assure you, if I hadn't gotten the inside information that what was keeping me in the running for this job was not so much my work experience but rather my youthful exuberance, I probably wouldn't have said all that, but I opted to just go ballz out and be my lil ol' effervescent self. And I think it went well. The interviewers laughed at my jokes this time. When I arrived, the girl I'd be working with actually told me that this interview would be informal and that they just wanted some more people in the office to meet me. I took it as a good sign. <br />
<br />
Anyway, after the interview I was to walk to The City Museum to meet R, my parents, and the Apes. On the map, it doesn't look it was that far from where my interview was. In reality, it's about fifteen city blocks. Not a big deal, I've walked farther than that, I wasn't worried about it. But then it started to rain. No problem, I had an umbrella. <br />
<br />
Cut to a shot of me walking down the street in the rain with a broken umbrella. In heels. For fifteen blocks. The good news? I was wearing my Power Panties."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I didn't get the job. I didn't care. <br />
<br />
I don't want a job. I <i>have</i> a job. My job is being here in case anybody needs me. I have gotten used to setting my own schedule, for the most part, and answering to no one but me. Since going on bed rest when I was pregnant with Pie, I have been a stay at home mom. This is the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself during the day in eight years. I rather like it. <br />
<br />
And, in a way, I feel I've earned a sabbatical. The way I see it, I've banked all of the fifteen minute breaks people who have regular 40-hour a week jobs get in an eight-hour workday and I'm opting to take them as a lump sum. <br />
<br />
Then there's the fact that I really, REALLY hate writing resumes and cover letters. It's depressing. I hate reducing three years of work experience into a single sentence. I hate trying to summarize myself. I never know what to say. I don't feel like I come across accurately in summary form. I'm way too complex. <br />
<br />
I hate seriousness and formality. It's not Me. I don't interview well. I get really flustered and I feel like they can tell how uncomfortable I am. If they had an open bar at a job interview, they'd hire me in half a second. But then I'd probably slip and say, "Oh, I should tell you about my blog!"<br />
<br />
I wish I could put <b>Pevely Flea Market Costume Contest Winner 2006, 2007, and 2008 </b>on my resume. If they're not impressed by that, then I don't want to work for them. <br />
<br />
Yeah, we skipped Pevely this year. BUT, we're going to Trunk or Treat on Friday, and this year's costumes are some of the best I've ever done. There will be pictures. <br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, here's a good pic of The Green Dress, before we left for the Reunion.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SuhS5rayTkI/AAAAAAAACRo/p9J9prwr0tU/s1600-h/glam1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/SuhS5rayTkI/AAAAAAAACRo/p9J9prwr0tU/s320/glam1.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
<br />
Should I wear it to my interview? <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-46029807138671010162009-10-19T21:00:00.010-05:002009-10-20T18:02:44.494-05:00My Inner 7th Grader Takes a Beating.I loved my awesome green party dress. Loved, loved, LOVED it. I loved the color, the fit, the fact that I found it in a thrift shop for $15, and the way Kev's mom fixed it to look absolutely perfect on me. My glorious shoulder freckles looked magnificent. <br />
<br />
I really was looking forward to knockin 'em dead at my reunion. I wasn't a bit nervous in the car on the drive to fancypants downtown Clayton, because I knew at least one person slated to attend had gained more weight since high school than I have. There was a deliciously morbid comfort in that.<br />
<br />
My only fear - more of a concern than a fear, really - was that given the guest list, it might be a little bit boring. And when I get bored, I get creative. And when I'm drunk <em>and</em> bored, my kind of creativity might frighten some people. It might delight those who know the post-high-school Penny Karma I have since become, but I didn't drink at all until college, so my high school pals have witnessed plenty of Creative Sarah, but not Drunk Sarah. <br />
<br />
And I was reasonably sure that the uberconservative George Dubya High School alumni weren't ready for Creative Drunk Penny.<br />
<br />
Out of the 85 people in my graduating class, only about 30 were signed up to attend. Of the 30, I only cared about 5 or 6. I couldn't care less what Kimmey Fiero, Stereotypical New Money Stinkin Rich Gorgeous Barbie Doll Cheerleader Snotrag is faring in her illustrious career as a Trophy Wife. In fairness, she was never really outright viscious to me exactly, but that's only because she didn't want to squander her precious Cheerleader Spirit energy on a peasant like myself.<br />
<br />
We ran into Kimmey Fiero in the elevator. <br />
<br />
She is one of only a handful of people with whom I can't even bluff my way through a fake conversation full of nothing more than small talk and pleasantries. I don't care what she's done over the last twenty years, and I know she doesn't give two shits about me either. <br />
<br />
She did that sappy obligatory "Oh, <i>hiiiiiiiiii! </i> How great to <i>seeeeeeeee</i> you! You look <em>fan-taaaaaa-stic!</em>" bullshit. I was smirking through clenched teeth, choking on the words I wanted to say, which were "fuck off, you emaciated twat," or something like that. <br />
<br />
We joked uncomfortably about how long the elevator was taking to get to the roof. The ding of the elevator brought an audible collective sigh of relief, and she pranced off to look for her uppercrust kinfolk, who apparently had better things to do that night. Kimmey left after less than an hour because nobody cool was there. <br />
<br />
The very instant R and I stepped out of the elevator, Julie Wigglesworth yelled from across the room, "HEY, THERE'S MY LITTLE CEASAR'S BUDDY!!!" in a pathetically overt attempt to humiliate me in front of my husband. See my last post if you don't know what I'm talking about. <br />
<br />
She was hoping to out me, I'm sure. It didn't work. I laughed, said, "Oh, Julie, this is my husband R. You met my friend Kev a couple of weeks ago (turning to R) - Kev and I ran into her at Little Ceasar's when we were picking up dinner for the kids (turning back to Julie) - Kev and his wife are so great, in fact, they're watching our kids for us right now!" <br />
<br />
<em>Derailed that shit, didn't I?</em><br />
<br />
As the night went on, I learned some interesting things. One of my former classmates ran into another fellow former classmate at, of all unlikely places, a strip club several years ago. The mother of a friend of mine died, which made me extremely sad to hear. FOUR of my friends had each popped out two more kids since I'd last seen them. I've popped out two more since the ten-year too, come to think of it.<br />
<br />
I drank. A lot. <br />
<br />
I offered (read: threatened) to whip my boobs out as part of a fundraiser for the Alumni Association.<br />
<br />
People told me how hilarious my Facebook updates are, and I snickered to myself, because those people have no idea that I'm <em>waaaay</em> funnier without the Facebook Filter in place.<br />
<br />
I got defriended on Facebook 24 hours after the reunion.<br />
<br />
It was a nice night, really. My effervescent personality sparkled brilliantly. I was really delighted to be able to introduce my husband to people who have known me longer than he has. R, I would like to add, looked dapper and amazing, and he got to know several of my friends, which was really cool. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs259.snc1/10616_1151905680939_1326548610_30410808_7867735_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs259.snc1/10616_1151905680939_1326548610_30410808_7867735_n.jpg" vr="true" width="320" /></a><br />
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And the next day (yesterday), the pics appeared.<br />
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I look hideous in the pics everyone is posting. I looked horrible in the pics at the ten-year too. I look gigantically pregnant in the pic that wound up in the Alumni Newsletter. I was mortified by how underdressed I was for the ten-year, so I was going to overcompensate this time. I'd been stewing about it for a decade. <br />
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Major, MAJOR FAIL. <br />
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The invite called for "Smart Casual" attire. What the fuck does that even mean??? People wore jeans. That pissed me off, a little. I glammed it up and wound up with pictures of my backfat posted for the world to see. Look. <br />
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<a href="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs252.snc1/9930_169562779144_561489144_2692204_1265219_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs252.snc1/9930_169562779144_561489144_2692204_1265219_n.jpg" vr="true" width="320" /></a><br />
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Oh, and notice my buddy Newman (who made sexually suggestive remarks to me every single day for six years, back in the days before I would have been as tickled by it as I would be today) making out with his adorable wife on the right side of the pic.<br />
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I wish I didn't look so hideous in the pics, because that's what the people who weren't there are going to see and use to draw their own conclusion about how well I've aged. Of course I know that there are some folks who would be ripping on me no matter what I wore, which is why I chose to wear a dress that made me happy. And I was happy... until yesterday's rude awakening.<br />
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I really thought I looked awesome. People told me I looked spectacular, and I believed them. And now here I was faced with the reality - and relative permanence - of these wretched, unflattering photographs floating about the internet. I really wanted to blow my classmates away, and instead, I made a complete ass of myself. <br />
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Here I was having a great time, thinking I looked bloody freakin amazing, and the whole time I had no idea I looked so Huttish in my shiny green dress. I am totally embarrassed, and there's nothing I can do about it now. <br />
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To their credit, R and Kev and Rip and my beloved loves have all reminded me of my beauty. R told me he thought I looked stunning and he was proud to be with me, but it's almost like hearing it from your dad. You know he means it, but you also know he would never tell you that you were anything less than beautiful. I was too deep in a self-loathing funk to listen.<br />
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I feel disgusting, enormous, amorphous, gross, and above all, incredibly foolish. I want to throw up. I want to take a scalding hot shower and scrub my skin with steel wool. I want to crawl into bed with a box of Oreos and a bottle of Schnapps.<br />
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I know I'm taking it far too seriously. I know I'm totally overreacting. I know I'm making a big deal out of something that's really not a big deal. I know I'll get over it. But right now, I feel like everybody else was in on a big hilarious joke... <br />
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and that joke was <em>me</em>.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-20039218969743711022009-10-15T13:43:00.004-05:002009-10-15T14:21:30.082-05:00Heard It Through The Grapevine.You might not have known this about me, but I'm not big on the Forgive And Forget thing. I know it's unhealthy to go through life bitter, but I bear grudges against people who have pissed me off FOREVER.<br />
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FOR. FUCKING. EVER. <br />
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Why do I bring this up? Because I'm still pissed off at Julie Wigglesworth (aka "The Grapevine") for telling the entire world when I was literally - LITERALLY - the only person cut from the girls' basketball team tryouts because I kept forgetting to inbound the ball. And she'll be at my 20-year reunion this weekend. <br />
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Kev and I ran into Julie at Little Ceasar's last week when we were picking up dinner for The Apes. I can't wait to see what rumors get started via "The Prayer Chain", which is basically where everyone spills whatever juicy piece of gossip they have uncovered. <br />
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"Ladies, we need to pray for Penny Karma's marriage... I saw her last week WITH ANOTHER MAN!!! (insert collective gasp of horror amidst clinking of teacups)" And by the way, whenever you add food to one of these dirt-dishing sessions, it's doesn't count as gossip. <br />
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Snark + Snacks = FELLOWSHIP. Just tellin ya. <br />
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I was briefly tempted to bring Kev to my reunion, but I think it'll be way funnier if I bring my trophy husband R and try to send Julie silent but comically overt signals to keep mum about the fact that she totally busted me with my boyfriend. Whatever. R and I have no secrets from each other, but I'll take the high road and let her think she got the scoop of the century, because I'm the better person. <br />
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And P.S., she's gained at least eighty pounds since the 10-year reunion. I, on the other hand, have lost about forty. And I have a kickass dress to wear that looks absolutely stunning on me, thanks to Kev's mom who altered it for me in exchange for pumpkin muffins that don't taste like pumpkin. Plus I got a Swiss Army bra to go under it. The bra cost more than the dress, hose, and shoes combined. <br />
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And my husband's a million times cuter and awesomer. Oh, and get this - she started dating her husband back in high school (married the first guy she ever kissed - how very Barbara Bush) and she was sooooo excited to tell us that instead of going to a four-year college, he was going to go to a tech school to learn both "Heating AND Cooling... <i>so he can work year-round!!</i>" Like it was a double major or something. Mensa material, for sure. <br />
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She's one of those people who spin the most mundane shit to try to puff themselves up. When her hubby's grandfather died, they moved into his house, which just happens to be in a very nice suburb of St. Louis (where I just happened to grow up), but the way it appeared in the Alumni Newsletter was that they had "inherited an ESTATE in Kirkwood". Ok, the word Estate doesn't necessarily refer to a giant fancy house, it could also - and, in this case, DOES - refer to an acrid-smelling house full of acrylic yarn and other old people crap. I mean, Hello, ever been to an Estate SALE? <br />
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But I'm not one to talk snarky shit behind someone else's back.<br />
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Ok, I suppose my sharing all of this with you while eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box technically counts as Fellowship, if you're snarfing a snack too.<br />
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Remember back when I was trying to decide whether or not to join my high school's alumni group on Facebook? I've been way more active on FB than on my blog, and I feel kinda guilty about that. But rest assured that this blog will ALWAYS be the place where I unload my profane rants about the things that many of my FB friends won't be able to handle. <br />
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My blog is my internal monologue. Facebook and Twitter are my internal one-liners. A lot of them are little situational funnies and snide remarks that come to me in a particular moment, and I don't feel that those moments contain enough substance to warrant a full blog post. <br />
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I'm sorry if I've disappointed any lurkers, but I find Facebook more engaging. Feedback is more immediate and conversational. I like when people comment on my silly status updates and pictures and I can know exactly who's reading what I'm writing. Yeah, my Facebook is kind of a watered-down version of my life (which requires some major filtering since my parents and uberconservative high school friends read it), but I love that people still think I'm funny when I'm not dropping a ton of muthahfuckin expletives n' shit. <br />
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In totally unrelated news, I've been trying to figure out how I can bring up the subject of knitting to my sons' teachers. Because if they are, in fact, knitters, I'm going to have to rethink my Teacher Holiday Gift plan. Non-knitters are mesmerized by FunFur because they don't know shitty yarn when they see it. I would never knit a gift for someone I knew was also a knitter. If they don't know the difference between a knit and a purl, they're getting a cheesy garter stitch scarf for Christmas. And if they're designing their own lace charts and selling their patterns online, then I'm fucked. <br />
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I've been cranking out cheesy scarves for the last couple of weeks. I'm trying to use up all of the crap yarn in my stash. I can't believe how much Lion Brand Homespun I had. And the colorway I had, when knitted up, kinda looks like it was made out of dog hair. What was I thinking??? But I'll knit it up into something that would impress a Muggle, and give it away and then it will be out of my house.<br />
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So my brilliant idea is to wear one of the sucktastic scarves to Parent-Teacher conferences next week and see if they comment on it. If they say, "Oh, you knit too?" then I'll say "Well, I just started recently..." instead of "Yeah, I started three or four years ago but I suck, not because I lack skills, but because I lack the ability to focus and commit to a long-term project, so I mostly make hats and scarves and stuff that doesn't require seaming." <br />
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It's sad how often I'm forced to find creative ways to hide what a dumbass I am. It's alarming how adept at it I've become. <br />
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I'm sure this skill will come in handy at my reunion. Stay tuned.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17399290.post-15927323971611494922009-10-07T08:04:00.002-05:002009-10-09T08:12:51.709-05:00I forgot to share this with you.Look what happens if you type "getting tonsils out" into Google Health. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/Sr0B8FQeE6I/AAAAAAAACP4/-92d4TD-Tsg/s1600-h/bm-image-784308.jpe"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/Sr0B8FQeE6I/AAAAAAAACP4/-92d4TD-Tsg/s320/bm-image-784308.jpe" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385462861120017314" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/Sr0CAgcIvhI/AAAAAAAACQA/i163TEOKGDM/s1600-h/bm-image-702839.jpe"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385462937136184850" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EB1Q5RC3lhk/Sr0CAgcIvhI/AAAAAAAACQA/i163TEOKGDM/s320/bm-image-702839.jpe" /></a><br />
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I'm thankful that the pottymouth disclaimer appeared prominently. I'd hate for anyone to be unpleasantly surprised.<br />
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<i>Heh. No, no. I'd secretly kinda love that. </i><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://www.knitty.com" target=new><img src="http://www.knitty.com/images/knittyban.gif"></div>Penny Karma, aka the F-Bomb Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920792594406507263noreply@blogger.com5