My Secret

No, I'm not about to share something from the deep, dark recesses of my mind. I'm referring to the deep, dark recesses of my armpit. I was reaching up to get something off of a shelf at work today, and I caught a faint whiff. I buried my nose into the bottom of my sleeve for closer inspection, and sure enough there was a musky aroma normally kept at bay by a daily application of my powder fresh deodorant. Apparently, I forgot to put in on. It always baffles me when things like this happen, shouldn't it be such a habit that I put it on without having to think about it? How do I go through the motions and miss something? Luckily, I'm not one of those people who super stink ( does deodorant really help them anyway?), you'd really have to be trying to smell my pits to find the stench, so it wasn't too big of a tragedy. My co-workers murmured their sympathy after I spread the word, I got one deodorant offer and politely declined. (actually I was like "I don't want to use something you already rubbed around on your armpit, nasty!") Why don't I just borrow your toothbrush and your monistat applicator while I'm at it! BLLEEECHHH....

U-TOE-PIA

I wasn't with him when it happened. He could've tossed it and kept his feet hidden from me in socks and under blankets, and I never would've realized it until it was too late.
I arrived home from work a few nights ago, and he says (looking a little smug), "Go look on the corner of the entertainment center." I squint at him suspiciously and slowly proceed in that direction- I've been on the receiving end of enough of his little pranks to use caution. I lean forward from a few feet away. "EEEWWW! Cool! Let me see your toe! Nasty!" I KNEW that deep down he wanted his toe's metamorphosis to be captured and immortalized on my blog! He still tried to deny it, but the pictures don't lie.

The cocoon cracks open...

......and the butterfly emerges.

Snakes And Snails And Puppy Dog tails

So my oldest seems to have discovered the opposite sex a little too early for my tastes. Actually any time within the next 20 years would probably be too early. She's been telling me how the boys chase her on the playground everyday. Today when she got home I brushed her hair back and said "It must be pretty hot on that bus, you're all sweaty." To which she replies "It's hot on the playground too, with the boys chasing me everywhere. They call me "Tater tot! Tater tot!" She's rolling her eyes and acting all exasperated. I hate this subject. "Why don't you stop running and start talking to someone else? Just ignore them and they'll leave you alone." "No, they won't." Big sigh. There's one kid that I've heard mentioned occasionally since Pre-K. His name is Guy. What kind of name is GUY? Why didn't they just name him "Boy" or "Dude"? Today she informs me "Guy doesn't like me." "Okay." "He l-o-v-es me, he told me. I told Shanley and she said she was going to tell the teacher and I said if you do I'll be mad, yadda yadda, etc." I'm listening and trying to muster a weak smile, although I'm sure my lips look more like they're trying to suppress VOMIT because I feel nauseated. She is so YOUNG and IMPRESSIONABLE. If she wasn't I would say, "You know Tatum, you should just give boys the evil eye and treat them like garbage because most of them are rotten scumbags that aren't worth the time it takes to crap. Some of them make good friends and once in a blue moon you'll meet one that's worthy of being more, and hopefully you'll know when that is. " I KNOW she's six!!! And I'm sure these boys who are still occasionally peeing their pants and picking their nose and eating it pose no immediate threat to her, but I don't care! (wait- do they ever stop doing those things?)The day is coming and I dread it with every ounce of my being! I just hope hope hope I'm raising her with the self confidence and self esteem she'll need to get the respect she DESERVES! And being skilled in the arts of sarcasm and disdain doesn't hurt either. I'm not actually knocking boys, if I had boys you'd be reading a similar rant about the wickedness of little girls. I guess we just love them and guide them, and hope for the best. Having a large hairy hubbie with a sawed off shotgun might come in handy too.

My Annual Eye Violation

I went to the eye doctor today, about 2 months later than I was supposed to. I always feel this nervy pressure when I go, and not just from the blast of air they shoot in my eyes. But really, I can't even keep my eyes open for pictures half the time, let alone when their machine is turbo farting in my orbs. It's like a game show or quiz show where the clock is ticking down in the speed round and I will LOSE if I don't respond quickly and correctly. "Okay, look at the black dot, and when you see something to the side so faint and fast even superman's x-ray vision wouldn't spot it, push the button." I see the little shimmery disco squares most of the time I think, but I'm so stressed out about it I screw up. I hold my breath, I tense my shoulders, my itchy trigger finger occasionally hits the clicker without my consent.
They make me take out of my contacts. The only time I'm not wearing contacts or glasses is when I'm sleeping, because I am BLIND and I hate that feeling. Others in my predicament also know when you can't see as well you can't hear as well either. So he mutters some mumbo jumbo from across the room and I can see some blurry movement, for all I know he's insulting my momma and making obscene gestures with his hands. "YOU CAN WAIT OVER HERE." he enunciates loudly after I stare blankly in his general direction from my position on the "rest your chin here" chair. And I'm pretty sure he's using both his arms in a full range of motion to indicate the chairs by him.
So then the doctor calls me in, and asks the dreaded questions. "How long do you wear your contacts?" "Longer than I should, heh heh." "HOW LONG?" "3-4 weeks. Um, except this last pair, I've been wearing them longer." "And how long are you supposed to wear them?" "Two weeks." "Mmmm."
And then the pressure's on again. "What's clearer- one or two? Two or three? Three or four? Four or five?" Sometimes there's an obvious difference, but sometimes I'm just guessing. "I don't know, five? Is that right? What do you think? Can I call a friend? CAN I BUY A VOWEL?" Oh, I'm sorry time's up. The answer is four. You don't win the trip to Vegas, but we do have a nice oven mitt made from authentic polyester that's yours just for playing.
I just know the day is coming when they're like "Okay, we can't give you a prescription anymore because judging by your tests your eyes are completely unreliable, making their use a danger to you and everyone around you. Here are some dark glasses and a seeing eye dog. Have a nice day."

One Dog's Toenail Is Another Man's Treasure

Isn't it a beauty? I know, I know, you're rendered speechless by it's magnificence. I was too when I found it. We were all at work on a SUNDAY a couple of years ago cleaning and doing inventory. I was bored and feeling sorry for myself when I happened upon this diamond in the ruff on a high windowsill I was dusting. I squealed with glee and summoned all of my co-workers over to view my prize. One of the docs recognized it immediately, she had trimmed it off some poor pooch months before, and placed it on the sill with the intent of returning for it later, but got busy and forgot about it. Understanding my fascination and joy (she shared my love of the grotesque and disturbing), and being the generous gal she was, she entrusted me with this encrusted jewel. She has since found other employment, but her memory lives on forever in this splendid spiral. I've cut my fair share of overgrown canine claws, but they NEVER get this long. They always break off first or grow into the crippled critter's pads. I've considered making it a necklace or a charm on a bracelet. Or maybe I'll start saving more and paste them into a picture, like arts and crafts with elbow macaroni. I'll have to think on it.

Funny side story. My husband and I were chatting the other night and I mentioned how I still had to take a picture of the toenail. "Screw you!" he says, all full of angst. I start laughing because I realize he thinks I'm talking about HIS toenail. "The DOG toenail, ding dong!" He's still perturbed that he was part of the plant piece. You see, he has a toenail that he hurt at some point (one of his BIG toes), and now it seems as though it's going to fall off. Only it's not black/blue/purple like you'd think it would be, it actually looks like it would glow in the dark. I would love to snap a pic of it and put it on here, but the fact that it's attached to six feet of angry mountain man makes that unlikely. Although he's a pretty deep sleeper.....

Beverly Overthehill 90210

I had to watch it and see if it was as cheesy and tardo as the first one, and it's even more so! I didn't think it possible. There's nothing like watching an hour's worth of stuck up skanks and skeezers grappling with issues that plague so many of today's teens. For example, one girl went on a date with a boy in his private jet without telling her mom, and she got in BIG trouble. I remember when I used to do that! My mom would punish me by taking away the porsche for a week. It was such a bummer having to drive the BMW! Kelly & Brenda are back. I guess they didn't make the cut for any celebreality shows, I think they had to audition alongside Screech and Flavor Flav, and their acting skills suffered in comparison. Kelly is teaching at Beverly Hills high, she is a single mom of a 4 year old boy (the bastard child of Brandon or Dylan I'm sure we'll soon find out). Brenda is staying in town for the next month, apparently she's in a play. I'm pretty sure the person who opens and closes the curtains isn't really considered IN the play, Brenda. We all KNOW why you're in town! To steal the boyfriend Kelly's about to have! And I for one, will be watching.

Disaster diverted! Hannah has passed us by to wreak havoc on some other podunk town. The only hurricane that's gonna be swirlin' in my house is the mini one in my bathroom! It's like a category 5 though, you should see the logs it drags down with it.

Hurricane Smurricane

So evidently, there are three hurtling towards us at the speed of light. It seems like the worst of them will probably miss us, I'm going by what I hear around me as it's a constant topic of conversation. Current events come to me 5th hand, since I never watch the news. My boss passed out these handouts to everyone about what to put in your "Evacuation pack" and how to purify water. I threw them away. He asked me where I was going to go if we had to leave, and I said "I dunno, probably Pennsylvania where I have family." He said "That's pretty far." And I was thinking, shouldn't that be the goal? To be as far from the Shite Storm as possible? But anyway, the bad thing is I cannot MAKE myself worry about it. When I was little kid I went through a long period where I worried about EVERYTHING. Nuclear war, whether I was going to hell, if I was adopted, getting my homework done, my evil 5th grade teacher- really, she was a nun with big, floppy boobs to match her big floppy nose, and she would yell at us calling us horrible and selfish. She would make dollar signs all over the board while telling us we were greedy, chalk dust and spit flying. She'd throw our books on the floor, and make you stand with your face smashed up against the blackboard if you had our face too close to it while you were writing on it. She taught us the "I love me" song, let me know if you're unfamiliar with that one. My worries would keep me up nights and make me actually physically ill sometimes. I'm not sure when it happened, but I quit worrying, I probably went too extreme in the other direction as a matter of fact. If there's something that should be concerning me and it's something I can control, I deal with it or make a plan to deal with it. If I can't control it, I shove it aside and focus on other things. I've developed a very effective mental block. I won't fret about Hurricane Hannah until my white knuckles are gripping the skids of a rescue chopper while my toes are skimming the flood waters that are covering the roof of my house. But that's just me.

The Black Thumb Strikes Again

Our knack for nurturing plant-life isn't limited to our lush lawn and beautiful bushes. We've had a parade of seemingly healthy plants enter our home, only to leave (no pun intended) crisp and shriveled by way of the trash can. You wouldn't think it would be so difficult to take care of a twig in a chunk o' dirt, but somehow it alludes us. I thought we'd given up on the botany thing until my husband came in several weeks ago with a perky green thing, full and happy, waving its little vines in celebration. Me: "Is that fake?" Him:"No." Me: "You know it's going to die." Him: No it won't! I'll take care of it. And they said it hardly needs any light or water." Me: "Just so you know, I'm not doing anything with it." Him: "You don't have to, mumble, grumble, arrr, grrr, ack." So he hangs it in the corner of the kitchen, by the big window, the one with the blinds we rarely open. Many days pass, and I don't give a second thought to the wig of weeds by my ceiling. As a matter of fact I forgot about it completely, until I caught sight of it out of the corner of my eye cleaning the kitchen one day. Feeling generous, I decided to take it down and bring it outside for a gulp from the hose and a little old fashioned sunshine. After I had it below eye level, I realized there were dried up parts in it, so I picked those out after I got it into the back yard. When I got done it looked like I had just jumped into a pile of raked up fall leaves, and the plant had like five scraggly things drooping off of it. It reminded me of a mostly bald guy sporting the comb-over. When I told my husband the good news later, he got really upset, blaming any and all outside forces for Wispy's downward spiral. When he found out I planned to take a picture of it for my blog he threatened to throw it out before I could, which I warned him would make me VERY mad. Then he realized it was still clinging to life, so he hung it back up. This was like a week ago, so who knows what condition it's in now. I just wish I would've thought to take a picture of it when he first brought it home.