My Street Cred Is Plummeting … And It's All Because Of Instagram

While at Target last week I was looking for ways to boost my street cred, so I bought a pen. I made the purchase because in the dimly lit Dollar Spot at Target, the pen looked like a rock fist. When I got the pen home, I snapped a photo of it. Why? Because I'm a geek who loves Instagram and that's what I do for entertainment.

And frankly, it was either mess around with Instagram or clean the bathrooms.

I think I made the correct choice.

Only upon admiring my Instagram photo did I notice that my rockin' new pen wasn't a rock fist after all, but the I love you sign.

The I love you sign doesn't boost my street cred quite as much as a rock fist would have.

Of course, snapping photos of sunrises does nothing for my street cred, either.

Sigh. I am who I am. Apparently that's a nerd who Instagrams her pen and a sunrise.

And her lunch.

I can't remember all the goodness that was on that sammie, but trust me. It was delish. However, my lunch paled in comparison to my youngest daughter's lunch.

That's an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie roughly the size of her ten year old head. She ate the whole dad-gummed thing while I was busy Instagramming it.

Being outsmarted by a ten year old makes my street cred slip a little more.

This monkey photo gives me more street cred points. You know, 'cause it's creepy. And it's for sale ($10.95). 

Recently, I posted another pic of a monkey. This one isn't creepy, he's totally adorable. I will disclose the fact that I completely and utterly humiliated my thirteen year old in order to obtain this monkey. I won't go into all the particulars, but you should know it involves being thirty-nine years old, ordering a Happy Meal and then squealing with delight when the toy inside is exactly the one I wanted.

Street cred through the roof, yo. Holla!

I will end this post with one of my new favorite Instagrammed photos.

It's quirky, it's retro, and it's nerdy. Kinda like me.

The only difference is that it had street cred twenty-five years ago and I didn't.

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Wordless Wednesday … And This Time I'm Actually Wordless

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Dinner With Tata And Banana? I Will Be Lucky To Get Home Alive

Tonight I am having dinner with Tata and Banana. We're going to a place that I've never been, but both of my friends have eaten there. At first, I wasn't too alarmed at trying a new restaurant because it comes Banana recommended and she's not know for being culinary adventurous.

Translated: The restaurant either A: serves a decent piece of salmon with a side of steamed broccoli or B: the children's menu is deemed 'amazing' by her. Which means it has chicken fingers.

For the most part, I am really looking forward to dinner with my friends. We always have a lot of laughs and usually there is a side trip to Old Navy. However, there are two things that are bothering me.

First, weather-wise it should be a lovely evening. Sunny and eighty-one degrees. T and I will demand that Banana drive us in her convertible. Banana's okay with this because the breeze will help blow the copious amounts of dog hair out of her shiny red convertible.

Seriously. There is enough dog hair in her car to make a whole other dog.

Riding in the convertible with Banana driving is always a dicey move. Banana doesn't always obey the traffic laws and has put us in harm's way many, many times. She insists that things such as speed limits, traffic signals and one way streets are merely concepts. They exist for everyone else, but don't really apply to her. We indulge her fantasy because she has a convertible and we like buzzing around town in it.

My strategy for coping with Banana driving is to ride shotgun, tighten my seat belt until my eyes bug out, and bicker like a five year old with Tata about how it was my turn to ride in the backseat.

Why the desire to ride in the backseat? Because T has scientifically determined that, if in an accident, the backseat to be the safest spot in Banana's convertible. It has something to do with the car flipping over and the front seat people's heads getting smushed while all the backseat person has to do is merely lean over and lay on the seat, thus avoiding getting her head smushed.

As usual, her logic is flawless and so I agree that, in an accident, the backseat is the safest place to be.

But she always beats me to the back and I really hate that.

It's true that I don't like losing out on the safe spot, but it's the taunting that comes from the backseat that really makes a person nuts.

Picture it: I'm in the front seat, covered in dog hair with my eyes bugged out because my seat belt is too tight. Oh, and I'm pouting because I have to ride shotgun and not in the scientifically proven safe spot. T is taunting me from the safety of the backseat, asking me things like 'Did you bring a helmet? 'Cause if this car flips over … well. I wouldn't want to be you in the front seat'. Banana is oblivious to T's taunting and my pouting because she is driving at warp speed through every intersection between our meeting spot and the restaurant.

I will be lucky to get home alive.

Which bring me to the other thing bothering me about dinner tonight. The name of the restaurant. When it was first suggested that we eat at the Spicy Pickle, I thought it was either a male strip club or slang for an STD.

Apparently, I was incorrect. According to the internet (where I get all the news not covered on E!), the Spicy Pickle is an actual restaurant and not home to either a male review show or an STD.

Who knew?

Still, fingers crossed there will be no reason to get a shot of penicillin after spending an evening at the Spicy Pickle.

I repeat: I will be lucky to get home alive.

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Flashed An Old Man Friday. Well, Cross That Off The Bucket List.

Generally speaking, I'm pretty on top of the day-to-day operations that make my family run smoothly. I have running my household down to a science. I rarely make an error.

And by this I mean we've never run out of either ice cream or toilet paper.

Both essentials in my household.

With the exception of the oft mentioned (and mocked) fugly hooker shoes, I'm a fairly conservative dresser. I don't enjoy wearing high heels or super tight britches. Low cut shirts just don't do it for me, either. Nothing against those who partake in a little tight pants or revealing shirt, but I prefer to have my bits and pieces covered.

And by this I mean my canned goods stay in the pantry.

(All of humanity thanks me.)

My point is this: my household equilibrium was off and that caused me to accidentally flash a little old man on Friday afternoon. I have no idea how it all happened.

Okay. I have a vague idea.

Remember last week when I blogged about forgetting to buy a couch for the basement? Long story short, we had no couch, came this close to getting a totally bitchin' stiletto chair, but instead settled for a recliner. Well, I kinda sorta omitted the fact that I forgot to do something with the old couch, love seat, and recliner that were currently taking up space in the basement.

That is, I forgot until last night.

A mere twelve hours before the new stuff was to be delivered.

Crap. Crap. Crappity-crap-crap.

I was instantly stressed. I usually don't let stuff like this slide. I'm a planner. I plan for this kind of stuff. I live for planning this kind of stuff. So, what am I going to do with all of this furniture? My husband calmly suggested listing it on Craig's List under 'Free Stuff' in hopes that whoever wanted the furniture would help carry it up from the basement.

My eyes bugged out and I almost threw up at his suggestion. Craig's List. Seriously.

He was stunned and had no idea what my problem was.

Foolish, foolish man. Let me educate him. And (possibly) you.

Craig's List is full of regular people with some pervs and killers sprinkled into the mix to keep it interesting. How do I know this nugget of info to be true? Lifetime, Television for Women. I've learned a lot of stuff over the years from Lifetime. With the notable exception of 'My Stepson, My Lover', Lifetime movies have never steered me wrong.

The only thing I know about Craig's List is that a Lifetime movie was made about the Craig's List Killer. 

Take a moment and ponder that title, will you? The Craig's List Killer. Emphasis on the word killer. Let me just say this: I didn't want to invite a potential killer into my home just to unload some outdated furniture.

As per the norm, I was overruled and my husband listed the furniture on Craig's List. About three seconds later, he had a taker. After about five minutes, he had a waiting list seven people long.

Evidently, free furniture is quite popular on Craig's List. I just hoped it wasn't popular with potential killers.

The woman who was first in line (Rose) wanted the furniture for her daughter. She had no problem providing some muscle to help get the goods out of the basement. The muscle's name was Jerry and he also provided the van to haul the furniture.

I immediately referred to the van as the getaway car and/or the means to transport our dead bodies to the shallow graves Rose and Jerry had already dug for us in a forest somewhere.

My husband chose to ignore my comments.

(This is common in our house.)

Color me surprised when Rose and Jerry showed up at my house Friday afternoon. Rose with her walker, but sadly without her bottom teeth in and Jerry sporting the ever fashionable one-two punch of shorts with black socks and sandals.

Rose told me she was eighty-seven and Jerry was seventy-two. I gave Rose a little ribbing about being a cradle robber. She thought that was hilarious and then she quite seriously informed me that her and Jerry weren't an item. They were just friends.

She stomped the ground with her walker to emphasize this fact.

It's a good thing that Rose and Jerry were just friends because I inadvertently flashed ol' Jerry my boobs. Can you call it a 'flash' if the girls were on display for a solid fifteen minutes? Probably not. That's more of a show than a flash.

In any case, I'm glad Rose and Jerry aren't an item because Rose struck me as the jealous type and she looked like she could probably inflict serious bodily damage with that walker of hers. It didn't even have tennis balls on the feet or anything.

The sad part is that I had no idea my canned goods escaped the pantry until my husband informed me.

After Rose and her muscle had left.

To say I was stunned is a severe understatement. Aghast, shocked, speechless. Horrified, humiliated, mortified. Those about cover it.

But then? Then I was mystified.

How did the pups leave the pen? Who released the Kraken? Who brought forth a new nation?

Target, that's who. I was betrayed by my v-neck Target t-shirt.

Be. Trayed.

Apparently, when I leaned over to steady the couch so my husband and Rose's muscle could take a breather, my shirt slipped down enough to, shall we say, spill the beans.

Good grief. I flashed an old man. Cross that one off the bucket list.

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Wordless Wednesday … But … Uh … Dude. It's Thursday

Here's a bombshell for you: Yesterday was Wednesday.

You heard it here first, folks.

I missed trying a 'Wordless Wednesday' post by one day. Naturally, it wasn't my fault that I missed Wordless Wednesday. It was my computer's fault. Evidently when you snap fourteen hundred photographs a day of such entertaining subjects as dandelions, sunflowers, and your own feet shoved into a new pair of disco ball flip flops, you use up all of your computer's free space. And annoy your husband in the process.

P.S. Those disco ball flip flops are pretty fly.

Long story short, yesterday was spent doing computer maintenance type stuff and I couldn't post anything, thereby missing Wordless Wednesday.

Phooey.

You are probably wondering two things right now. One: You are wondering why you are still reading this rambling and boring post.

(So am I)

Two: What is Wordless Wednesday?

Glad you asked. Wordless Wednesday is something a lot of my blogging friends do in which you simply post a photo that needs no words to accompany it. Kinda like a picture is worth a thousand words type of activity. The photo doesn't have to be fabulous. It simply has to be one that you feel needs to be shared.

Here's my first Wordless Wednesday photo, even though it's Thursday and I was anything but wordless.

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Husband Vs Wife, Style Vs Comfort, Recliner Vs Totally Bitchin' Stiletto Chair

It's a tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, Beauty and the Beast.

It all comes down to Beauty vs the Beast, doesn't it?

Or Husband vs Wife.

Style vs Comfort.

More specifically, a battle between two chairs.

Let me back up a bit. It occurred to me last week when the carpet was installed in the basement, that this project is almost complete. From the 1974 avocado green walls to the full functioning bathroom, the basement is almost complete.

Yep. Almost complete.

Almost.

Guess what I discovered was missing when I plopped down to watch a movie?

A couch.

Or a chair.

Or anything to rest my weary bones upon besides the newly shag carpeted floor.

Phooey.

Sitting on the newly shag carpeted floor when you are rapidly approaching the age of forty isn't all that awesome. In fact, it seriously harshed my mellow so I spent quite a bit of time Friday and Saturday shopping for just the right couch and chair. After narrowing my selection down to a few, I invited (or coerced, depending on your point of view) my husband to help with the final selection.

He was very helpful.

(That might be my most favorite photo of him. Ever.)

And that recliner? That's the one we purchased. According to store policy, once you've … uh … loitered on a piece of furniture for more than twenty minutes (all the while snoring softly), you must purchase it.

To be truthful, it was a good thing my husband went along with me to purchase furniture. I totally would have forsaken a boring ol' recliner for this beauty:

Is this not the snazziest chair your eyes have ever seen? I mean seriously. Wouldn't this look amazing in my basement? The chair lacked a little something in the comfortable department, but I know from watching years of TLC's 'What Not To Wear' that fashion is above comfort.

Stacy and Clinton told me so and they're never wrong.

If only I could have gotten comfortable enough to have loitered for more than twenty minutes, we would have been obligated (according to store policy) to purchase this totally bitchin' chair.

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You Can Lead A Horse To Watermelon But You Can't Make Him Eat It … Or Something Like That

Husband: Hey Treasure … want some watermelon?

Treasure: Watermelon? What is this watermelon you speak of? I've never heard of such a thing. Can't say I've ever eaten it. I have a very sensitive palate, you know. I won't eat just any old thing. Come closer. Let me have a sniff.

Treasure: Hmm … it doesn't smell too bad. Nope. Doesn't smell heinous at all. Why yes. I do believe I will try a bite.

 Treasure: Munch, munch. Snort. Munch.

Treasure (spitting out the watermelon):  Ew! Gross! Blech. Cough. Gag. Wretch. That's a horrid taste! Quick! Somebody wipe off my tongue! Hurry!

Husband: So … what did you think? Are you a big fan of watermelon now?

Treasure: No. Never speak to me again.

Treasure: However, you may still bring me the occasional peppermint treat. I would like that.

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Tale Of A 2nd Grade Delinquent

Yesterday's post was about my brain, which I still believe to be Ralph Lauren plaid instead of the usual pinky gray color. Specifically, the post was about my former existence in the Gifted and Talented program in elementary school coupled with my inability to remember to unbuckle my seat belt before trying to exit my car.

The important item to take away from that post is clearly, I'm gifted. But not in the whole 'remembering important stuff' kind of way.

Which brings me to today's post about a nugget of information about the G/T program that I forgot to tell you about yesterday.

Most of the time, I liked the G/T program. The tangrams and visual word puzzles completely knocked my socks off. But the rest of the curriculum (the mathy stuff) … I hated.

Math and I have never been friends. We've never been close enough to be considered frienemies. Math and I have always had what I describe as a classic Western relationship: when necessary, we square off in the middle of town with our hands hovering over our pistols ready to see who has the fastest draw while the theme from 'The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly' plays softly in the background. And only one of us makes it out alive.

Usually it's Math because I'm too busy trying to keep my imaginary new white ten gallon hat from getting dusty.

But I digress.

Most of the time, I liked being pulled out of class to be enriched. But sometimes … we did mathy stuff. After a couple of weeks of mathy stuff, I had reached my tolerance limit. I formulated a plan. A truly spectacular plan.

When it was time, I'd leave my class with the other Smarty McSmart-Smarts and head down to the G/T room. Once in the G/T room, I'd inquire as to what the plan for the day was. If I liked what we were going to be doing that day, I would stay. If I didn't like the lesson plan, I 'had to go to the bathroom'.

That's code for hiding out in the library until I saw the other smarties returning to the regular classroom.

Upon seeing them stroll down the hall, I'd return whatever book or magazine I was reading to it's proper place on the bookshelf. Then I'd casually file back in with the other kids walking into the regular classroom, acting all nonchalant and like I'd been with them the whole time instead of reading a book or (more truthfully) the latest issue of 'Dynamite' magazine in the library.

It was a slightly devious but ingenious plan that worked for a pretty long time. Then I was busted by the two teachers and my mom. Who knew they talked to each other for crying out loud? That came as a complete and utter shock to me.

The adult-type people were not amused by my antics. They called a meeting. Criminy! Has anything good ever come out of a meeting between your teachers and your mom? Sure I occasionally ditched 2nd Grade, but seriously. Why the brouhaha?

I was branded a quasi-delinquent and forced to make a decision to either be enriched all the time or not at all.

Not going to lie. It was a hard decision. That Math crap was freaking hard.

In the end the allure of tangrams and pop culture related visual word puzzles won out over my great distaste for the mathy junk and I chose to be in the G/T program all the time.

What can I say? Those visual word puzzles had some kind of sick hold over me. I'd even do Math today in order to have a crack at a new worksheet of them.

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The Circle Of Life

Who has two thumbs and forgot to unbuckle her seat belt before attempting to exit her car in the grocery store parking lot yesterday?

Me.

Clearly, I'm gifted.

No. Really. I was in the Gifted and Talented program in elementary school. I have a certificate and everything.

Surprised?

Well, obviously the criteria for getting into the program wasn't all that rigorous, but there I was, for Grades 2 through 5, in the G/T program.

The program consisted of leaving my regular classroom for an hour or two once a week, meeting in an empty classroom and receiving 'enrichment' activities with all the other smarties in my grade. I was a proud member of the Mayflower Mill Elementary Nerd Herd.

I just made up that name. We weren't officially called the Nerd Herd, but we should have been. The group was comprised mostly of future Mathletes, Dungeons and Dragons Masters, Academic Decathlon members and … me.

Yeah, we were a pretty attractive bunch.

For the most part, I liked being a member of the G/T program and the enrichment activities were rife with pretty sweet stuff to do. Some stuff was lame (the math junk), but most of the activities were fun and I instantly felt smarter for having done them.

We played a lot with tangrams, which are differently shaped plastic pieces that you had to fit together to make other, more interesting shapes like a rabbit or the Eiffel Tower. I totally dug tangrams, mainly because our tangrams smelled amazing. Like a mixture of baby powder and play-doh with a dash of Elmer's glue for zestiness.

A couple of years ago I downloaded a tangram app for my phone. The basics are the same as when I was a kid, but the smell? Well, virtual tangrams smell nothing like the ones stored in Mr. Harrell's big cabinet under the sink.

As much as I adored tangrams, my absolute favorite enriching activities were the visual word puzzles. These word puzzles had different words arranged to represent popular phrases like this:

                           closeclose
                    comfort
                    comfort
                    comfort
                    comfort

Did you figure it out? Think Jm J. Bullock as Monroe.

Yay! You got it! It's too close for comfort.

Genius. Pure, unadulterated genius.

Try this one:

                            strokes
                    strokes
                    strokes

Here. I'll help you. Think Gary Coleman.

Still don't get it?

What you talkin' 'bout, Willis?

It's different strokes. Get it? 'Cause all the 'strokes' are in different fonts. Love it!

You know, I just realized that perhaps my love of visual word puzzles isn't because I enjoy figuring out the answers. I'm thinking it's because I adored watching 'Too Close For Comfort' and 'Different Strokes' on TV and I get a warm fuzzy feeling whenever either show is mentioned.

See, this is why I love having a blog. I learn so much about myself, which makes me feel better as a person. Then I share it with you and you feel better as a person because you feel smarter than the 'gifted' kid who forgot to unbuckle her seat belt before attempting to exit the Honda.

It's the Circle of Life, people. Pin It Now!

First (And Second) Day Of School Traditions

Tuesday was the first day of school. You read that statement correctly. Tuesday, August 14, was the first day of school.

Here in the Midwest, we like to start the school year well before the real threat of snowy weather sets in.

Which is usually around the last week in September.

But that's not my point. My point is that I always cry on the first day of school. Not tears of joy, but tears of sadness. I get so used to having the girls around me all summer that I actually miss them on the first day of school.

Or maybe I'm just weak with fatigue from having gotten out of bed at 5:30 to make muffins for breakfast before my seventh grader had to get on the bus at 6:55. The school year can't possibly get off to a good start without freshly baked muffins for breakfast.

It's in the Constitution. Or the Geneva Convention. Perhaps both.

After getting the girls on the bus and in an effort to stave off my inevitable annual first day of school weepfest, this year I decided to try something new. This year I wasn't going to spend most of the day in fetal position sucking my thumb. Oh no. This year, I decided to keep busy. Very, very busy. Doing, you know, important stuff. The kind of stuff mothers have done on the first day of school for generations.

Basically, cry a little, make chocolate chip cookies and defrost the big freezer.

My day may or may not have included some Kardashian watching as there may or may not have been a Kardashian marathon on E! that I felt compelled to watch since I haven't kept up with the Kardashians all summer.

Mostly, my time was devoted to uncovering what goodies have come to call my big freezer home. I'm proud to say that I recognized most of what was in there. Not right away, but eventually. After a couple of head scratches and some 'What the devil is that?' comments.

Only two quart sized Ziploc freezer bags of garden sweet corn from July '09 surprised me. They had been in the freezer for so long (apparently since July '09) that they had become one with the shelf. The corn bags froze to the shelf so severely that the bags were covered in a thick layer of ice. I didn't notice the corn and had stacked a few (eleven) cartons of Breyer's ice cream on top of them.

Don't judge me. See above snowy weather/end of September comment. I'm just being practical here, people. Really.

By the time the freezer was rid of frost and I had crammed neatly organized the contents inside of it, my kids were home.

The bickering started. I totally forgot what it was like to have them home all summer long.

Which brings me to my second day of school tradition: a four hour, three margarita lunch with my friends.

Here's to a great school year! Pin It Now!

Hail, Yes? Oh, Hail No!

After one of the driest summers on record, we received a little rain one night last week. And by a little rain, I mean about 3/4 inch about a ten minute time span.

Accompanied by hail. Ping pong ball sized hail.

Ping. Pong. Ball. Sized. Hail.

Or maybe I should say table tennis ball sized hail.

Glad I wasn't outside when the hail hit. I could have severely concussed myself.

To be honest, we had no idea that a storm was raging at our house because we weren't home.

My cousin, Hannah, visited my family for a few days last week. I absolutely loved having her here. She's young, she's fun, she's beautiful, and she didn't destroy my house. In short, Hannah is the perfect house guest.

As per her request, we ate dinner one night at the local pizza phenomenon. I didn't eat pizza.

Instead, I got a salad because I'm like, such a health nut. I'm all up in healthy eating's business. Yep. That's me. Miss Healthy.

Okay, okay. I'm jiggly. And I don't like it one bit. That's why I got the salad. But the salads are wonderful. Really. I didn't miss eating the pizza like, at all. That may be because (hypothetically speaking) I may have had a slice.

Or two.

Hypothetically.

Ahem, moving on.

Upon our arrival home, we saw this on the front porch:

Looks like bits of melting snow, but it's actually hail. This is what was left of the ping pong ball sized hail.

Here's a fun nugget for you: Ping pong ball sized hail will shred a window screen. Ta da!

Sadly, the hail severely damaged the already struggling garden. In early August, the sweet corn isn't supposed to be brown with shredded leaves. That would be the hail's fault.

The hail actually bruised the corn kernels inside the layers of the husk. That was bad enough, but it did terrible things to the melons.

Terrible, brutal, unmentionable things to the melons, which I will now mention to you.

First off, the hail killed the baby watermelons. Killed them right in their sleep.

The hailstorm injured the cantaloupes so much that they won't survive.

But the worst offense of all was to the ripe watermelon. The hailstones popped the ripened watermelon open like a pinprick to an overinflated balloon.

In short, the melons burst right open in a gory mess.

WARNING: The next images are graphic in nature and they depict murdered watermelons. Proceed with caution.

Avert your eyes if you must. It's a pretty barbaric scene that is played out over and over again in the garden.

The only item to survive the storm (besides a few brave green tomatoes) were the sunflowers. They came out alive and are doing well.

They are so pretty. Pin It Now!

Drama At The Journey Concert

Wednesday night I regressed back to 1981 with Tata and Banana. It's okay to regress back to 1981 with them because 1. We were all friends in 1981 and 2. We went to see Journey in concert.

That's right. I paid to see Journey in concert. And Loverboy. And Pat Benatar. They were all touring together and seeing them live was something I simply had to do before I died. Or they died. My point is: I am forever changed as a human being.

Not because of the music, but because of the drama-esque moments that surrounded the show.

Drama #1: This past weekend, T and I were formulating a plan for the evening's festivities. Since we are both ruled by our stomachs, our plan boiled down to a time to meet and a place to eat before the show. I texted our tentative plan to Banana, who responded with a message of 'I'll do my best to be at your house by 4. Who are we seeing again?'

Wait … what?! Did she just ask me who we were seeing? I think she did. How could she possibly forget Loverboy, Pat Benatar, and Journey? It's an early 80s trifecta of music for crying out loud!

Immediately I texted Tata. She had to know about this situation. Her response?

'If any of our seats have an obstructed view, Banana's sitting in that spot!!'

Amen, sista.

Drama #2: I was sick. Very sick. As in praying that I didn't hurl all over the car, the restaurant, or Journey. I missed Loverboy's opening number (I was hanging around the bathroom in case of the aforementioned hurling), but I made it in time to kinda sing along with 'Turn Me Loose' and 'Workin' For the Weekend'. I totally hit my stride in time for 'Loving' Every Minute of It'.

What can I say? I'm a trooper.

Then I took a turn for the worse, but recovered in time to see Pat Benatar. Let me just say this: Pat. Is. Amazing. At fifty-nine years old, she sounds and looks just as good as she did thirty plus years ago. Personally, I totally dug the little shoulder action she did on stage during 'Love Is A Battlefield' a la her video for that song.

A video which taught an entire generation of white people to dance, I might add.

Her mash up of 'Heartbreaker' and Johnny's Cash's 'Ring of Fire' was totally inspired and I wish she would record it. I'd download that bad boy from iTunes faster than poop through a goose.

And she rocked full length black leather dragon coat like nobody's business. I think I need a full length black leather dragon coat. I'd look like so amazing strolling the clearance aisle at Target wearing something that visually perfect.

Drama #3: It pains me to say this but … Journey. The band itself was great, but I held out against hope that Steve Perry would come to his senses and rejoin the band as lead singer on stage during the Indianapolis concert.

It didn't happen.

The new lead singer (I don't know his name and am too lazy to google it) is a great singer. He's of an Asian descent and sounds exactly like Steve Perry, so we just called him Asian Steve Perry all night. Asian Steve Perry had amazing amounts of energy and did a great job, but it wasn't Regular Steve Perry. I missed Regular Steve Perry. T summed up the experience perfectly when she said she felt like we were in the middle of an episode of American Idol.

I admit I did look around for Randy Jackson. (He wasn't there.)

Overall, the evening was fun and I learned that the restrooms at The Fieldhouse are quite lovely, Pat Benatar is my new fashion hero, and if you close your eyes you can tolerate Asian Steve Perry on stage.

And I learned that I am shorter than my friends. Sigh. Such drama at the Journey concert. Pin It Now!

An Evening With My Grandmother

Monday evening we went to visit my Grandmother. She was in rare form.

At dinner (Dairy Queen, Grandmother loves Dairy Queen because 'you can get fries, a piece of Texas toast, and four chicken fingers for $3.99), I caught up on all the family gossip including the distant cousin that did a couple of small landscaping jobs for Grandmother. She bought a few bags of mulch and paid him to spread the mulch on her flower beds. When he was finished, she discovered two bags left over.

The mulch bags were in her driveway when she left for church, but they were missing when she returned home. Grandmother is convinced that the cousin sold them for drugs.

I'm so out of the loop that I had no idea reselling mulch for illegal narcotics was a 'thing' now.

The best part of the evening was looking out the back porch window and seeing my Grandmother's own zucchini plant growing in the backyard.

Remember last year when she picked her neighbor's zucchini because it was growing on her side of the fence? After eating it, she threw the rind and the seeds out her back door.

Apparently zucchini seeds are made of hardy stock because … voila! I give you the rampant, volunteer, never been watered this year zucchini plant out her back door:

I asked her if she was going to share any zucchinis off of her plant with the neighbor that … um … 'gave' her the one last year. She said no. If he wants one he'll have to wait until one grows over his side of the fence.

I love this woman. Pin It Now!

Seeing Train Was A Must

I didn't feel like making dinner Saturday night.

There. I said it. This isn't a common occurrence, but it is something that happens periodically.

Know what I did instead of making dinner Saturday?

Grabbed the fam and went to see Train (the band, not a locomotive) perform at the Fieldhouse in Indianapolis.

It was awesome.

On drive to Indy, I posed two questions to my husband knowing that he had to respond because he was trapped in the car with me for an hour. Not even my husband can ignore me by pretending to not hear me for that long.

Me: Two questions for you. One, what's the last concert we went to in which we had actual seats instead of a blanket spread out on the ground?
Husband: … I … um … I don't know.
Me: I can't remember either. Was it … Blue's Clues? Does that count as a concert?
Husband: Really, Jen? Blue's Clues?
Me: What? There was singing. You know, maybe it was John Mellancamp at Elliot Hall of Music. Wow. That was thirteen years ago.
Husband: Probably. That was the last concert we went to inside of a building. What was your second question?
Me: What was the last concert we went to in which the band didn't have a hit in the 80s?
Husband: … once again, I don't know. Tom Petty?
Me: Dude. Seriously. Focus. Hmm … we decided Blue's Clues didn't count, right?
Husband gives me the ol' stink eye.
Me: Well, I can't think of anybody.
Husband: We are so sad.

Thirty minutes later

Me (snapping my fingers): Hootie and the Blowfish. We saw Hootie and the Blowfish.
Husband: True, but that was almost twenty years ago.
Me: Yeah … but they didn't have a hit in the 80s now did they?
Husband: We are so sad.

Yes, we are so sad. You can see why seeing Train was a must. An entire generation of pop music has gone by and I haven't seen any of it live.

Plus, what a cool band to take the girls to see their first concert.

My first concert was the Oak Ridge Boys.

At the height of 'Elvira' mania.

I know you're jealous. Don't try to hide it.

Giddy up, oom poppa, omm poppa, mow mow
Giddy up, oom poppa, omm poppa, mow mow, heigh-ho Silver, away

What can I say? I was around eight or nine years old and I loved that song. 'Elvira' spoke to me. Sadly, the rest of The Boys' music wasn't really my thing and the concert didn't hold my attention.

Long story short, I fell asleep in my chair.

At the concert.

With 6,000 screaming fans surrounding me.

Giddy up, oom poppa, omm poppa, mow mow.

I woke up when 'Elvira' was played and I sang along, feeling confident that the Oak Ridge Boys sang it just for me. Then, I went right back to sleep.

You see, I've always been a party animal.

No. Not really.

I did manage to stay awake for the entire Train concert (never yawned once). And not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty sure that 'Hey Soul Sister' was being sung just to me. Pin It Now!

We Have A TV

After dinner one night last week, my husband and I each took a child to have a little one on one time with her and to run some errands. It was a divide and conquer strategy that I thought would work rather well.

One of the places on my list was the big bulk warehouse store. I left the store feeling a little guilty because my youngest talked me into buying a dozen buttery croissants, forty-eight neon colored gel pens, and a box containing twenty-four packages of Sour Punch Straws. We needed exactly none of these items, but they ended up in the cart anyway.

The more I thought about the forty-eight neon colored gel pens and the box of twenty-four packages of Sour Punch Straws (but not the dozen buttery croissants because let's face it, they are awesome), the more badly I felt because I just bought more stuff that we didn't need.

Then I received the following text from my husband. It appears as though he and my oldest daughter had deviated ever so slightly from our plan and stopped by an electronics store. 

Upon hearing the news, my youngest was beyond thrilled. I believe that her heart actually skipped a beat.

I'm still not quite sure how asking my husband to stop by the grocery store for a loaf of bread and a bundle of spinach ended up with us now owning a sixty inch plasma TV. It's a head scratcher all right. I've stopped by the grocery store for a loaf of bread several times over the last decade and never once have I purchased a TV.

According to my youngest, I'm 'just not doing it right'. Furthermore, my youngest wants her dad to take over all grocery shopping responsibilities from this point forward because 'Mom never buys anything this cool!'. 

When we got home, my youngest proceeded to hug the TV like it was her long lost best friend. She may have even teared up a bit.

Does this seem somehow wrong to anyone else? To me it seems a bit wrong to be this verklempt over a TV. As per my norm, I texted a few people to ask them if I should be concerned.

We have no carpet, no couch, and no functional toilet, but according to my husband and youngest child, the basement is finished because we have a TV.

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Why I'll Never Be A Caped Crusader

Here in my part of the country, school starts in less than two weeks. The start of a new school year is an extremely bittersweet time for me. I'm excited for my kids as they embark on a fresh, new year, but I weep for the babies that they no longer are.

Seriously. I cry every year on the first day of school. Usually at the bus stop. That fact nugget doesn't really surprise you because (I'm sure) at this point it's well established that I have little control over myself.

I am slowly improving on the self control front. Just yesterday I exerted a tremendous amount of self control. Not going to lie to you, it hurt. A lot.

My girls and I were at the mall, hunting for back to school bargains. We were buzzing past a store when my youngest spotted the most primo tshirt ever.

Are you ready for this?

Are you sitting down?

The shirt looked like the front of Wonder Woman's costume. Awesome, I know. And just when you think a tshirt can't get any better, it does.

Attached to the back of the shirt was a cape.

A cape, people! A. Cape.

Holla.

I swear the roof of the mall opened up, a single beam of sunshine appeared, and the angels sang a heavenly tune. All was right with my world.

Immediately, I grabbed the rack of shirts and started frantically searching for one in my size. Score! I found one. On my way to the checkout (never even glancing at the price tag because wearable art has no price limit) I had a revelation.

What if wearing a cape is like wearing a hoodie and I choke myself every time I sit down?

That thought gave me pause.

Showing a tremendous amount of self control, I put the magical Wonder Woman shirt back on the rack and walked out of the store. Throughout the rest of our shopping trip through Macy's, Aeropostle, and Claire's, my thoughts were on the Wondie shirt and the massive dilemma the cape presented.

The cape is cool. Very cool. I love the cape, but I hate the cape. I could choke myself on the cape and die. Death by cape would be a total buzzkill. Hmm … how can I make the cape less dangerous?

What if I never sit down while wearing the shirt? That should work, right?


What if I wear the cape casually flipped over one shoulder like some type of decorative scarf? Who am I kidding. No one would accent that awesome of a tshirt with a scarf. Pfft. A pair of 'Bracelets of Victory' like Wonder Woman's, maybe. But a scarf? No way.

Then, somewhere by Auntie Anne's pretzels it hit me.

What if I only wear the shirt while running? Yes, yes. That could work. I usually don't ever sit down while running, therefore the risk choking myself is dramatically diminished, yet I could still enjoy the cape.  I like it. I like it a lot.

I decided that this shirt would become my new favorite running shirt. Can't you just picture the cape flapping in the breeze behind me as I power down the road? I can picture it and hons, I look good.

When my husband arrived home from work, I excitedly told him about my idea of wearing the caped tshirt as a running shirt.

He looked horrified for a brief moment and then said, 'But it will get all tattered in the wind you create by running so fast. You don't want to ruin a fine tshirt like that by letting the cape get all tattered. It's probably best to just admire it in it's wholeness in the store.'

Homeboy knows me so well. I do run fast. Super fast. I run so fast that I'd probably shred the cape on the first mile. Then I'd be heartbroken because I ruined the World's Most Awesomest Shirt.

Phooey. Guess I was never meant to be a caped crusader. Pin It Now!

I Am An Olympics Junkie

The setting: A dimly lit church basement where a circle of metal folding chairs is found. The smell of cigarettes and slightly burnt coffee permeates the air.

The Chairperson clears her throat to begin the meeting.

Chair: Welcome to Olympic Watching Anonymous. I'm Olympia, and I'm an Olympaholic.

Room: Hi, Olympia!

Chair: Is there anyone new here tonight?

Me (simultaneously raising hand and standing): Me. I'm Jen and I'm an Olympaholic.

Room: Hi, Jen!

Chair: Why don't you tell us your story …

Me: … well, for me it all began in '76, the year Nadia scored a perfect ten …

Room: Ah … yes … Nadia.

Hons, I am an Olympics junkie. I love the Olympics. Always have. I love to learn about the host city and hear some of the athlete's back stories. So far, I have logged in over fifty hours watching the Games this year. Sure that's a lot, but I feel that I could've done more.

Plus, the Olympics is the only time that ping pong is on TV.

Yep, I watched quite a bit of ping pong this weekend. Know what? The ping pong players are in amazing shape. They are all muscly and stuff. It's incredible.

Generally speaking, I associate ping pong mostly with dank basements and bad panelling, but at the Olympics ping pong is held in high regard. Those kids don't have to play in basements, they get an arena, with bright lights and no panelling. That's big time, baby.

I've never really played ping pong, probably because I've always been afraid of getting injured from it.

Don't laugh. Ping pong is a risky, injury laden sport.

My husband has played. He even has a scar from it. In his eyebrow.

Who knows? I could have oodles of untapped ping pong talent. I could have a reservoir of unknown ping pong potential. Of course, I'd probably have to stop referring to it as ping pong and call it by it's given name: table tennis.

That's what separates the basement dwelling amateurs from the high caliber Olympic athletes, you know. The simple act of referring to the sport as table tennis instead of ping pong. I can do that and I haven't even picked up a paddle yet.

Cue the Star Spangled Banner because, clearly, I'm on my way to the top of the podium.

Wait. Is picturing yourself on the podium accepting a gold medal while the American flag is being raised considered a delusion of grandeur? Especially if you are a slightly doughy thirty-nine year old Midwestern woman whose athletic abilities are limited to roller skating, hula hooping, and Skee Ball?

Probably.

I think I need help. Serious, Dr. Phil type help because I am an Olympics junkie.

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