21st Century Marriage

Me: I don't understand why this is taking so long.

Z: Well, of course you don't, you are a woman.

Me: No really, it is five minutes later, you have the art, all you have to do is cut and paste, what the hell is taking so long?

Z: Well, of course you don't understand, you are a woman, and there are many things I have to do; such as stare at the computer, beat on some keys and say 'hmmmm, and damn! and ahhah!' many times over.

Me: Oh of course. Now, sweetheart, it has been 45 minutes and I am aging and starting to wonder, what is it all for, anyway?

Z: I am figuring out the start of the universe by way of editing your template. Apparently you don't appreciate me.

Me: No, that is not true, I just don't think that the title of my blog is going to be that important. I mean, in the overall scheme of things.

Z: Well, then damn you and your stupid blog. Who ever asked me to help you anyway. I have better things to do.

Me: Screw you.

Z: Screw you too!

Me: Oh, honey! I just refreshed and my title looks so good! Thank you for all your hard work. You are the best.

Z: Awww, it was nothing.

Be True to Your School

I knew it was coming, and now it's finally here! The Class of 1983 20th High School Reunion invitation has found me, despite name and address changes, disguises, and court battles to change my blood type. The evil stepmother is to blame, no doubt.

Oh, I know some of you loved high school, and indeed, had to be dragged kicking and screaming from your graduation ceremonies. Perhaps you proudly attend football games to this day, and give copious amounts of money to build theaters and gymnasiums. You might remember the words to your school song and attend alumni events several times a year. And of course you can be found trading memories of the good old days with all of your old cronies at the local sports bar whenever the duties of adulthood permit such shenanigans.

But not I. I loathed my high school with all the fervor I could muster. Over the years my disdain has mellowed to a not distasteful, mild sort of bitterness.

I will allow that my alma mater is unique, in the way that midwestern Catholic high schools named for Irish saints can be. At my school, sports were the gods worshiped, by boys and girls, priests and nuns, teachers and parents alike. And no one was more revered than the actual players of said sports. The most popular boy at my high school looked like Howdy Doody with muscles and was never heard to utter an intelligent sentence. No matter, prom king he was crowned, and by a landslide.

The young ladies were no different. Your high school career was assured a successful one if you were deft with a basketball or volleyball, but woe to you if you were a cheerleader. "Why, that goes against all that this great country stands for! Who ever heard of an unpopular cheerleader?!" I know, it is hard to believe any one group of people could be led so indecently astray. I am sure you will be even more disturbed to learn that girls like myself, with talents that lay in the arenas of the school newspaper and honors classes, were barely spoken to and rarely acknowledged. Yes, even though we were the prettiest and most intelligent of all our peers.

By now you no doubt are bemoaning the loss of four years of an otherwise happy, fulfilling, and bouncy teenager's life. But don't cry for me. I wouldn't have associated with those morons for money. I sailed through high school surrounded by a group of friends who, while lacking any skill on the court, were endowed with other, less marketable qualities. Good looks! Personality! Wit! Intelligence! Not to mention the realization that shooting hoops wasn't going to further them in the great big world out there.

I occasionally run into some of my old classmates. Many of the men are now coaching or filling the Driver's Ed teacher positions back at the good old green and gold. They always hit on me. The women greet me as a long lost friend, and are eager to tell me of their children who have just graduated from our old school! Isn't that great?!

The invitation to this fun filled reunion smacks of all the good times ahead, when we shall gather to relive all those good times in the past. No swanky hotel ballrooms or four star restaurant breakfasts for us! We shall meet in the clubhouse of, you guessed it, the Royal's Kauffman Stadium! To watch a baseball game played by losers! Yay! Go team!

I, of course, will be busy that night. Living a LIFE. Go get one, esteemed alumni.

Believe it or Not

I have recently been informed that Susan Lucci is the daughter of Phyllis Diller. What? Can this be true? What mutant gene could be responsible for such a result? Certainly Phyllis may not be the most pleasing physical specimen, but what atrocity did she commit that so enraged the gods that she should be cursed with such an offspring?

Really, though, I suspect that La Lucci is just a paper cutout. So this is all beside the point.

On an entirely different note, Jodi is my idol. If you haven't read her, where have you been? Crawl out from under there, wipe the scales from your eyes, and skip on over to her house. You might just learn a little thing or two.

Fast Food Curse

It never fails. High class restaurant to fast food dive, it's always the same. My order is never correct. Z gets his steak/taco/steaktaco cooked to mouth drooling perfection, z's chicken fingers ($8.95 or $1.95--doesn't matter) are pleasing to a 4 year old's palate, and what I order is late, cold, different flavor, slapped together, and generally wrong.

I freely acknowledge that I am somewhat of a food snob, due to my exemplary talents in the kitchen. I know what I like; therefore I take great pains when ordering, whether the plate in question contains a Wendy's chicken filet sandwich (mayo, cheese and onion, no lettuce, pickle or tomato), or a serving of Southwest Shrimp with Fire Roasted Corn and Onion Dressing (greens on the side, extra seasoning). Invariably something happens to the communication from my words, to the speaker at the drive through/waiter, and ultimately, to the teenager at the fryer/chef.

I will approach this situation with the grace and class for which I am widely known and acclaimed no matter the food venue. Although a few jobs have been lost and perhaps some sandwiches defiled in a disgusting manner in my honor, I feel strongly that the public will in future enjoy more pleasing culinary experiences because I have stuck my pretty, yet strong, neck out into the churning waters of the restaurant industry. So feel free to thank me.

Yes, I was a waitress in college, and have also worked in the Food Court at the mall in high school, so I am aware that waiting is a demanding job. (Lest you were thinking I assign all blame to the poor kids trying to work their way through college, into the industry, and into their coworker's pants.) On the contrary, I blame a service industry that, far and wide, thinks that atmosphere, trendy location, or a mile high artery clogging slab o meat is all they need offer to satisfy the unwashed masses. Every time I complain, I take another tiny stride toward inspiring excellence and pride in doing the job.........ummmm, they are paid to do?

If you are feeling cynical today, and even if you are feeling just dandy with the Chinese food you just digested, wipe your sticky fingers with the moist towelette provided and go take a gander at this. It will keep you out of trouble for a while, and you will be hungry again in an hour anyway.

Bon appetit!

Making Friends is Fun

I have been here there and everywhere, travelling the world of weblogs. One of the funniest I've read is here. Tell her I said hello. And say hi to me too, while you're at it. It's lonely up here at the top.

Michael it is Over

Where has our love gone, Michael Moore? You were a cute teddy bear who made a difference at Hormel. I suffered you through Stupid White Men. Now you stoop to the Oscar's to air your misguided and ill timed opinion? I say, shut your fuzzy 70's bearded face and step up to the real cause......dare I put it forth? America? And our barely out of tighty whities young boys and girls? You stupid white man.

I am Good at False Starts and Thankfully Better than Good at Longevity

Good Lord what a week or two. I am aware that most of you, tragically hip and urbane as you are, have no clue what it is like to clean up vomit that is not induced by crazy nights at local hotspots, but rather by viruses that strike out of nowhere and bring up heretofore unimagined amounts of partially digested Cheerios, fruit juice, and hot dogs. Therefore, I will not subject you to a play by play of the last ten days but will emblazon you with an image of myself, as I stand now. Unshaven, black rooted, wild eyed and crazy with the reality that z is now back to his normal demanding self while I can only comfort myself with the memory of my survival of the sleep deprivation I suffered when he was but a shimmering, brand new gift of a baby chile. Happily for you, I will not wax boringly over my Mommy woes. I do have other things that are making me just as wild.

Welcome to my sweet happy crazy life.

I hail from America's best kept secret, Kansas City. About a year ago my husband Z and I bought a house in Johnson County, which has more SUV's and Stay at Home Moms than any other suburb, anywhere. We have a recently turned four year old, little z and we will NOT be having any more kids. (If we can help it.) z is the best little kid in the world, but on the strong willed side. Z works from home and so we are together 24/7. Amazingly, we are all still surviving. We also lay claim to (eldest to youngest) Bonkers the cat, who Z lovingly refers to as fat rat bastard, a spoiled rotten little Yorkie named Beau, and a dwarf hamster named Buster. Our pets get smaller as the years progress.

Sound a little on the tame side? Far, far from it. We like to refer to our little corner of the world as similar to a three ring circus. There is always a work/family/preschool/animal crisis and we are usually walking into a wall of some sort. My goal for this blog is to entertain and, dare I hope? illumine you nice folks who are interested about the realities of daily life in the 'burbs. It sure as heck ain't all baking cookies and soccer games. It helps that we are not the most conventional people. Z is a graphic artist/designer with steel in both ears and I am a former bill collector and legal assistant. I liked to think of my social life as my primary career; however, and my office was any venue featuring long hair wannabe rock stars. Just shows to go ya, don't judge a book by its cover. Or perhaps the lesson should be, everybody gets older. Hmmmm...

Z is great at html and other Mac stuff, so I will hopefully be adding some interesting things soon. I have myriad interests, some a little odd, but I'm sure y'all can handle it. I cook like a fiend so if you are a chowhound in any way, you might find some good eats and the how to's. I have a very big mouth and will be ranting frequently, and as Z is usually amused, you might be too. Since all I'm doing here at first is introducing myself, I'll just go ahead and tell you the things about me I would never tell a stranger.

I like corn. A lot. I would eat it every day, yum yum, love that sweet squirty corn goodness.

I am a fantasy/paranoiac. Z and z can't walk out the door without my imagination summoning the car accident complete with the knock on my door announcing the terrible news. I will frequently pause at the top of a flight of stairs to see myself tumbling to the bottom and cracking my head, mewing fruitlessly for help as no one else is home.

I love reality TV. Specifically, Big Brother and The Osbournes. Not a fan of Survivor, though. Weird. I think it's because it looks like too much work.

If I knew I would never have to leave the house again, I would gain at least 20 pounds.

I am into any Italian singer from the 40's/50's/60's. I love that the Rat Pack used to drink and smoke on stage.

I wanted to be an actress more than anything else in this life when I was young. Z asked me if I think I can act. I don't think that deserves the dignity of a response. What does he believe I've been doing at all those family get togethers?

I cannot, literally cannot, stomach soccer moms or whatever they call themselves these days. They are so fake I want to puke in their jogging stroller/minivan/frappacino. Get real ladies.

I am a snoop. Don't invite me to your house if you have anything in the medicine cabinet you wouldn't show your mother.

I am Italian. Half. But I have been a blonde so long I think I might be Swedish by now.

We built our house and two months later it was hit by lightening and caught the upstairs on fire. More later on the scariest night of my life and how I hate insurance adjusters.

We lived in New Orleans for a year in a 100 year old building on the 13th floor. (See above.) My son was conceived there and we can't wait to go back. Many, many reminiscences on that lovely time (the year in New Orleans, you, not the sex. Or maybe not much of it.) to come.


It's Friday night and time to get my little one out of the shower. Ciao for now!