Dear Bladder, Why Do You Fail Me?

Anyone who has spent any amount of time with me knows I have a teeny-weeny bladder. I can't so much as drink a can of coke before having to high-tail it to the bathroom within minutes of finishing it. Anytime hubs and I have to go more than 5 miles in the car, he gives me a warning reminder before take-off "Honey, did you need to use the bathroom before we drive to my moms/starbucks/the neighbors two blocks over?" Normally, I do, indeed, need to go and will do so before we leave, however, I have no problem asking him to pull over, should the urge strike me, 2 miles down the interstate.

My body always seems to fail me when we take a trip to the lakehouse, which is about 90 minutes away. Lucky for me, we hit bumper-to-bumper traffic at precicely the same time my body realized the biggie size sprite I drank 30 minutes before reached my bladder. By the time we got to the nearest facilities just outside Frost, TX, ( which happened to be a seedy McDonald's in the middle of no where) I was starting to perspire and re-cross my legs over and over in the passenger seat. While the parking lot was overflowing with cars and mobile homes, the restaurant itself was virtually empty.

"That's strange," I thought.

I didn't have to wonder where all of the cars' occupants were for very long: I found half of the state of Texas in line for the women's restroom.

As I took my place at the end of the seventeen-person line, I tried very hard to block out the faint sound of the soda fountain dispensing liquid. I tried to be discreet in my suffering, but the woman in line in front of me (who was wearing purple knickers and a green t-shirt with lizards on it) noticed that I was uncomfortable. After unabashedly staring at me for several minutes, the woman stepped up to offer her support and encouragement. Turning to me she said, "I'm so glad that I wasn't as desperate as you to use the bathroom when we stopped." At that moment, the lone bathroom stall swung open and the woman pranced into it.

While the woman (by her own admission) wasn't desperate to use the bathroom, she was in no hurry to get out of it once inside. She stayed inside the stall for at least eight minutes, plenty of time for the lady behind me (who had heard what the woman said) to tell the ladies behind her, who, in turn, told the ladies behind them. By the look on the ladies' faces, it was clear that by the time that the story reached the end of the line, the woman holed up in the bathroom stall had not only called me a "drama queen," but vowed to stay glued to the toilet seat until I peed my panties.

I didn't see what happened to the bathroom hogger, as I practically dove into the stall the instant that the woman emerged, but I did hear "reports" from several ladies still in line when I was on my way out.

"I'm so sorry about what that woman said to you," said Number 8. Her eyes were basically welling up with tears.

"We all made ugly faces when she passed by us," said Number 13. I felt strangely touched.

I also felt bad for the bathroom hogger. I hope that she had enough sense to stave off the lizards for a few miles before feeding them some french fries. If I was her, I would have been desperate to get back on the road.

Let Me Sell Your House!

My neighbor has been trying to sell her house for almost a year. We're all a little perplexed why it's not moving: it's less than 10 years old, brick (and not just on the front, but on all four sides - wow!), is fancy (the master bathroom has a garden bathtub!), is in a crappy school district (although Temple Christian and Nolan are a hop, skip and a jump away) it doesn't back up to nightclub or freeway off ramp (always a concern, in my opinion), and is priced right.

To add to our confusion, over the past couple of months, several other homes in our neighborhood have been put on the market, many priced higher and with far fewer features. One house that backed up to the food court at the mall just sold last week.

After pressing her realtor for some insight as to why her house isn't selling, she received the bad news that her house has, as several prospective buyers put it, "bad feng shui."

Immediately after hanging up with her realtor, she came over, distraught and looking for advice from yours truly. Although I am one of the smartest people on earth, I was forced to admit that I was not exactly sure what bad feng shui was, though I suspected that it had something to do with the gigantic picture of Jesus hanging in her foyer.... on the cross, looking miserable, no less.

After consulting the Internet and an old psychology book I still have from college, I suggested that we replace the picture of Christ with a picture of her holding a giant cardboard check from the Texas lotto made out for 23 million dollars.

"But I didn't win the lottery," she said, confused. I told her that according to Lupe Soto, an Antelope Valley, CA realtor who appears to have plagiarized an article by Kathryn Weber, all houses have histories and that the fortunes, good or bad, of the previous owners have the potential to be passed down to the new owners.

"That strikes me as slightly dishonest," she said.

While I did not succeed in getting her to let me hang a photo of a fake check on her wall, I did talk her into moving the picture of Christ to a less conspicuous place in the family room, where He wouldn't disrupt the equilibrium of the elements.

"What if we display some wedding photographs here?" I suggested, pointing to the bare entryway wall. "Marriage is a sign of prosperity," I added.

For example, look at my foyer, I have a pic of hubs and I looking happy in all our wedded-bliss-ness and people are always telling me I have a beautiful house and they love it. Maybe I'm on to something here!

(Or it could be my candles, floral pic and the little sign Jerm's dad made us for a wedding present, that does the trick in the foyer... who knows)

However, it was quickly apparent that she was not too keen on this idea, either.

"I was 20 lbs heavier on my wedding day." She stated with a look of disgust on her face.

"I'm not doing it. Nope. Huh-ugh." And with that, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and shook her head.

I figured drastic times called for drastic measures. So, I took matters into my own hands and downloaded some color pictures of beaming brides and grooms from an online bridal magazine.

"Wa la!" I said, cutting out the pictures and shoving them into gilded frames.

I have no idea who these people are, but they look fabulous and hey, if they bring good luck, I'm all for it!

I was very pleased with my creativity and quick thinking. My neighbor, not so much.

"I don't know how I feel about this," she said. "I'm going to have to think about it for a few days."

In the end, she decided not to pass off a stranger's wedding pictures as her own. Although, just having the pictures in the house (they were shoved into the kitchen knife drawer) must have done something to alter the house's feng shui because the next afternoon, they got an offer. Granted, it was $8,000 lower than her asking price, but still, it was an offer.

I'm thinking about quitting this blog and becoming a feng shui realtor. I'm just that talented.

I've Still Got It

Should hubs ever lose his mind and decide to up and leave me, I take great comfort in knowing that despite being 34 28, I'm still desirable in the eyes of certain members of the opposite sex; namely, men who are in their late forties and aren't playing with a full deck.

My list of current suitors include:

1. Rodney, the supervising manager of Chipotle. Last Week, he gave me an extra scoop of chicken after I complimented him on his handsome Southwestern-themed bollo tie.

2. Jed, the cart collector at Sams. Despite not being absolutely sure which state houses Georgetown University, he is a die-hard Hoya's fan. The last time I saw him, he shouted pleasantries about my alma mater across the parking lot (I didnt correct him by telling him that it was, in fact, my BROTHER who was a Georgetown graduate. I didnt want to crush him when he learned I got a measley psych degree from (grasp) a little ole' Baptist college named Liberty University.)

Anyhoo.... after being plagued with instant remorse for cursing out a faithful customer, Jed then proceeded to abandon his collection of shopping carts and chase me down before I got to the front door. After apologizing that I had overheard his tyrade, he offered to buy me an all-beef hot dog or slice of pizza (my choice!) from the food court.

3. Demond, the butcher at Albertsons. Reaching almost to my shoulder blades, Demond is the smallest of my potential boyfriends and also the one most obsessed with my fertility. Using adjectives typically reserved for the animal products with which he works, I have overheard him describe me (more than once) as having good "baby making hips" to his co-workers. (When I repeated this to hubs that night as we got ready for bed, he promptly asked me to "stand up" so he could check. He then proceeded to tell me my hips were "meh, so-so" and I could use a little more "junk" in the butt department, but all-in-all, Demond was "right on target" in his assesment.)

When I didn't see Demond for six weeks, I thought that he had been fired or took a job with the neighborhood slaughterhouse. I was about ready to look for a new beau when out of nowhere Demond suddenly reappeared.

"You've probably been wondering where I've been," Demond said, as he wiped his bloody hands on his already soiled apron. I really didn't want to know where Demond spends his time outside the deli, but he felt compelled to tell me (and the elderly couple standing behind me) anyway.

"I was in jail," he said, before giving me a wink and licking his lips. "Now I'm on house arrest. I'm allowed to go to work and that's it."

"Where were you at?" asked the guy who just happened to be passing by. "Did you happen to be at the Green Bay facility off 35?"

After comparing notes, the two men figured out that they had an incarcerated friend in common.

Before handing me my bag of sliced brisket, Demond told me that he had been arrested for a DUI. He described his arrest, his court date, and his jail term as if they were rides at an amusement park. He ended his tale with a flattering proposal. "If you want to holla at me sometime," he said with a knowing wink, "You'll have to drive because the punk a** judge done took my license again!"

I turned down the invitation on the grounds that next to mass murderers, drunk drivers are my least favorite group of people to ride with.

When I returned home, I crossed Demonds name off my "Summer Fling" list.

"Down one already?" hubs observed with a wry smile.

I was in no mood for his mockery. After he left the room, I began mourning my loss.

A good man is hard to find.

Skinny Jeans

I could barely sleep on Friday night, due to the excitement and anticipation of Saturday's sale at JC Penney. Although hubs vetoed my proposal that we camp out in the parking lot the night before like all the true savvy shoppers do.

I paid dearly because of this.

By the time I made it to JC Penney (several hours after opening), all of the jeans in the store were piled into a mound the size of King Tut's pyramid in the middle of the store. Completely covering this eighth Wonder of the World was a swarm of treasure hunting soccer moms wearing bicycle shorts, ball caps, and t-shirts with tweety bird on them. The store employees--all of whom will be returning to college this month --were standing around the perimeter of the excavation site, mouths agape in fascination and horror.

"Do you have any jr. girls' flare leg jeans, size 12?" I asked a teenage worker named Misty.

Misty was a lot smarter than she looked. Without taking her eyes off the treasure hunters, she decided that she would rather forgo her summer bonus than risk becoming a human sacrifice.

"Um, I seriously doubt it," she told me as she walked away.

Forced to fend for myself, I walked slowly around the perimeter of the mound and tried to find the safest point of entry. I said a little prayer to myself before I closed my eyes and jumped in. What I found once inside was terribly disappointing. Instead of the five-pocket treasures advertised in the circular that I received in the mail, all I found was a heap of bleached denim and black skinny jeans.

Since any treasure is better than no treasure, I snatched whatever I could get my hands on and followed the other treasure hunters up to the cashier. As I heaved my merchandise onto the counter, a young man named Greg, who weighed approximately 50 pounds less than me, told me that I was only allowed to purchase 3 pairs of jeans at the sale price. This was bad news since I had 9 pairs of jeans.

"But I didn't know that." I told him.

Greg failed to see how this information was relevant.

Realizing that appealing to reason and rationality was going to get me nowhere, I resorted to another strategy to get what I wanted. Specifically, I stared into Greg's eyes until his level of discomfort reached the point where he was able to come up with the idea that he could ring up my jeans in three separate purchases.

"Come look what I got!" I shouted when I returned home.

With that level of enthusiasm, my family expected a puppy or at least a Cherry Slurpee.

"These are jeans?" hubs asked, holding up a pair of the skinnies.

"That's all they had!" I said defensively.

"They're not even the right sizes," he pointed out.

Carried away by the thrill of the hunt, I seemed to have overlooked the small detail of sizing, resulting in the purchase of two pairs of girls' size 10 jeans, one size 8and a 7 slim.

"If I didn't buy them, someone else would have!" I cried.

husb failed to see why this was a problem. Rather than explain to him how a rational mind works, I left him alone in his ignorance. As I marched out of the room, I couldn't help but wonder what my family would do without a fountain of reason such as myself in their midst.

They wouldn't have 9 pairs of skinny jeans in an assortment of sizes, that's for sure.

Hubs & I 3 Years Later

Three years ago today, Hubs and I met.

And I can assure you I don't think my life was complete without a big, tall, blonde, blue eyed man to buy me fattening food and tell me I'm pretty.

(Seriously.)

I've learned so much about marriage and myself in these last three years.

I've learned what it's like to have someone on your side and by your side, no matter what happens. I've learned that not everyone just gives up when things get hard, and that I can lean and lean and lean and he'll never let me fall. And what it feels like to have a man that is only yours. That is manogomous.

I've learned that I am a huge pain in the butt, but he can, apparantly, live with that. That OCCASIONALLY I have to admit that I'm wrong, and that I will often irritate him to no end, but he won't hold a grudge.

(I mean, not for very long, anyway.)

Three years ago today, I met a man and fell head over heels in love. And 6 months later he would ask me to take a leap of faith with him, even though I had a bad track record and more baggage than a Louis Vuitton sample sale. He asked me to take a chance on a life together. And I said "Yes."

Three years ago I met a man who still tells me today that I can talk to him about everything. He tells me that all the time. And he means it. And I talk to him. A lot. And he genuinely appears to enjoy it. And he soaks in what I say. And gives me feedback.

And he says this to me:

"You can always come to me. I'm always going to be here. I'm always going to listen."

I didn't always have that.

I didn't always have that, I didn't always have the closeness, the comfort, the assurance someone is always going to be ON my side and BY my side, through all the crazy and the neuroses and the crackhead insomnia and the mismatched baggage that I seem to accumulate wherever I go like I'm a professional flea market shopper with an unlimited budget.

I had a tumultuous first marriage that ended with an anticlimactic divorce and the overwhelming sense that THIS WASN'T HOW THINGS WERE SUPPOSED TO TURN OUT, DAMNIT, and the sinking sinking always sinking drowning feeling that woke me up in the middle of the night gasping for air and wondering where the hell I'd go from here.

But I couldn't dwell, not then, because it hurt too much and I couldn't make sense of anything. I couldn't catch my breath and I couldn't stop and wonder and second-guess because if I did I might've just stayed in bed and my kids would have been forced to eat dry cereal day in and day out.

I didn't, because I wanted more than that, and I was DETERMINED to make lemonade with this crap pile of lemons I'd been given instead of just rubbing them over my raw skin.

And thank God I did, because it's the best thing I've ever done. It propelled me to where I was on August 2, 2007. And brought us together:

And we do this a lot:

And he makes me really happy:

Time heals all wounds. I'm living proof.


Happy Anniversary, hubs. I love you more than chocolate.

I can't wait for the next three years. And the three after that...and three more after those...

Kiddie Pagents and other Ramblings

I’m starting to freak myself out.

Honestly, the thoughts in my own head are driving me certifiably insane.

Take, for instance, an issue I’ve been pondering for the last two days:

"Who, exactly, are these psycho people who put their 18-month-old toddlers in pageants, and why haven’t I ever met one...besides my mother?

I mean, I live in the South - the unofficial home of childhood pageantry. And, yet, I’ve never met a real pageant mom, except for my mom. And I most definetely would NOT consider her a pagent mom anymore. Far from it. And really, she wasn't much of one before, although I was in a couple of child pagents in my day... And won. Yes, thats a shameless plug (I should be totally ashamed of myself for even bragging about something like that.)

**See, they actually hand out crap like this! I had trophies and ribbons somewhere, but I have no clue where they are...which just goes to show how "un-pagent-like mom" my mom is, or else she would still have this junk prominently displayed so I could relive my glory days 30 years later!

But anyhoo... pagent moms... they must exist. After all, they make entire T.V. series about these crazies.

So where are they hiding? Are they strolling by me in Nordstrom, totally blending in with the rest of us non-pageant folk? Or do they stay out of the public eye, for fear of some kind of JonBenet-like scandal?

And if I did meet one, would I have the nerve to ask them about their poor parenting choices? I mean, they seem a little scary. But, honestly, how the heck do you put your baby in a beauty pageant? Who can pick the prettiest baby of the bunch anyways? That's just cruel! Seriously, those people are freaks! But why have I never met one before out here in real life?

That, my friends, is exactly what I asked myself while I was making lunch yesterday. Over and over and over again.

Seriously. I pondered kiddie pageants for at least 20 minutes.

Granted, I didn't do so out loud - not that I know of, anyway - but I definitely pondered it extensively in my own brain.

Not that The Crazy stops there.

Oooh, boy. Not by a long shot.

You see, because I was thinking all Toddler and Tiara-esque, I then began to ponder other TLC television shows, like Cake Boss.

Which inevitably led me to wonder about how much a custom cake from one of those famous T.V. bakeries would run you.

Not that I'm in the market for a life-size cake replica of myself or my dog or a 2008Nissan.

But I'm just curious how much a to-scale cake of a town's local water tower costs a city council.

Which then led me to wonder if I'd ever have such an event in my life that warranted a to-scale replica cake of, say, my new patio furniture? No, No I have not. The closest I have come to an expensive cake was this:

And that cake was only $425.00 which is a drop in the bucket compared to the gazillion dollars a replica of the New York skyline must cost. But I do love how cute my wedding cake was.

**Seriously, is that not just oh so cute?

But, moving right along. When could I buy a cake from Cake Boss? Perhaps a vow renewal? A baby shower?

A birth?

A child's first birthday party?

And just like that, I was off. My toddler-less state aside, I began to plan - out loud, this time - a first birthday party for a one-year-old daughter that I don't have.

I picked out a color scheme, the perfect 1-year-old party dress, and the theme:

Cupcakes.

I decided I'd do a 1-Year-Old's Cupcake Birthday Bash. Oh, how fun would that be!

I was positively beside myself, giddy with cupcake party plans for the child I don't have.

Which then reminded me that just this past Saturday, my daughter and I had baked cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.

At the time, I proceeded to eat four cupcakes. It was, undoubtedly, the bright spot of my weekend, which then led me to fondly reminisce:

Ooooh, cream cheese frosting, I thought. That was so good. Think I can eat this lunch quickly and then head to the store and pick up another round of cupcakes from the Albertson's bakery today?

Would it make me a total fatty if I ate six this time? Heck, would it make me a total fatty if I ventured down there period?

Oh, what am I saying? Who cares if it makes me a fatty? They're cupcakes!

Which then reminded me that, cupcakes aside, we had no clean cups because no one had ran the dishwasher yet today.

Ahh, yes, the dishwasher. My favorite household appliance.

Dishwasher's are God's gift to the American wife, and I can't have it any other way. Anything less is unacceptable. I will never serve time behind a sink of soapy water. I will always have a dishwasher for my kids to load! Heaven forbid this one breaks! They'd be lost! I thought.

And then I was off all the more, worrying about the dishwasher breaking, which would be almost as bad as the AC breaking, I told myself, which in this 106-degree humidity would be downright inhumane.

So, with fear in my heart, I pondered the state of our air conditioner, wondering when hubs needed to change out the filter and considering if I should remind him to go buy a filter, just in case, or maybe I should get one when I go to the store to buy cupcakes, which reminded me that I had no idea what filter to buy, which made me want to call my husband, which I did, until I heard his phone ring in the other room, which means he'd left his phone at home, which is one of my huge pet peeves, and made me almost unplug the Crock-pot chicken I was cooking for his dinner, out of spite, but then I didn't, because then I realized I'd be punishing not only him but myself, since it was dinner for the kids, too, which means I'd have to think of better ways than starvation to communicate to the hubs how much it annoys me when he doesn't have his phone on him.

Which stumped me. And, being thus stumped, I stopped thinking aloud and realized how tired I was.

Then, I remembered that I had been planning to take a little nap and hadn't done so yet.

Which meant my to-do list was incomplete. Which bugs me more than anything.

Which meant I needed to go to sleep pronto.

So, high-tailing it into our bedroom, I lay down and began to think about how much I love my bed and my pillow, and wondered if someone in the world had actually invented The Pillow, or if it was just natural instinct to prop one's head up on something soft when sleeping, which meant that, most likely, companies like Bed, Bath, & Beyond are simply making money off natural human sleep instinct, which is just so like a big, American corporation, taking advantage of the little guy who just wants a nice nap...

***

At this point, I think I dozed off. I can't be sure. I got so hot about "The Man," formerly known as Bed, Bath & Beyond, that I actually had to turn on my bedside radio to drown out the thoughts in my own head.

So, are you scared yet?

Ready to call the authorities and have me committed?

Worried about the safety of my husband and kids?

I can't say I blame you. The way I prattle on in my own thoughts freaks even me out.

Which is exactly why I'm always afraid to do a stream-of-consciousness post, because, honestly, I'm all over the place with my thoughts, and, if let loose via the World Wide Web, I worry that at some point this obsession I have with thought tangents and erratic, ADD-like thought patterns will come back to bite me in the butt, which reminds me....

***

Dear Evening Rachael,

I know we've never met, seeing as how I run with the early-hours crowd and you hang out alone at night, so allow me to introduce myself.

I am Morning Rachael. We inhabit the same body, but that's about all we have in common.

You see, I rise early and am in charge of getting our body out of bed to face the day. I take care of hubs, four kids and a house that has an over flowing laundry room and lots of junk food that you can't resist eating that keeps you at a sugar-induced high at 4 in the afternoon.

I ingest a healthy breakfast of several glasses of some carbonated beverage, all carefully designed to keep our body going throughout the day, making sure we have enough energy to do what we need to do.

I do this, all of this, even though I live a fairly miserable existence. When I am forced to awaken at 10 a.m., I am groggy and tired and pretty much hate the fact that I have to get up. My only happy thought is: "Don't worry, Morning Rachael. You will be able to get back into this bed in a mere 16-17 hours. Just fight through the day, and you can return to your pillow and blanket."

But see, the thing is, Evening Rachael, you've been robbing me of my sole consolation prize lately. You, frankly, have been functioning so selfishly that, when I arise, I can't even muster up the courage to count down the hours until I get into bed again.

For Lord knows what reason, you get a second wind when you take over at around 8 p.m., Evening Rachael. While I've been dragging us through the day, miserable, tired and wishing/hoping/dreaming of a good night's sleep, you get the ridiculous idea that your time, the night time, is prime time.

You read blogs. You watch movies. You eat snacks. You cuddle with the hubs. You hang with the kids. You start projects that you never finish. You read books. You sift through magazines. You eat, again!

You do everything but take a hot shower and put us to bed!

Why, Evening Rachael, why?

Why do you think it's a good idea to "just read one more chapter," or "scan over my Sony Reader one more time, real quick," or watch "just one more episode of The Office marathon. What's 22 minutes, plus commercials?"

I'll tell you what it is, Evening Rachael. That's 22 minutes out of our sleep time! That's 22 minutes I need if I'm going to continue to get our rumpus out of bed again in what often becomes less than six hours!

Where does your energy come from, Evening Rachael? How can you stay awake till 3am when I so clearly can't function in the morning?

Oh, wait, I know. It's all the crud you insist on ingesting at around 7:30 p.m!

Sure. Popcorn is high in fiber, but must you eat the whole bowl? And don't think I didn't see the huge bowl of chicken salad you ate last night. And yes, I also saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream the chocolate syrup was so "cleverly" hiding. It's like you don't even care about all the careful consideration I gave every morsel I put in our mouth earlier that day. You will blow it all away for a night-time apple-cinnamon muffin!

Evening Rachael, listen to me. Put down the late-night Chex Mix and listen to me.

I've had enough. I can no longer function after you go off on your constant late-night solo parties with your books, blogs, and DVDs.

We have to sleep a little.

Now, wait a minute. I'm not asking for the moon. I'm not even asking for nine hours of sleep. I'll take eight, or heck, I'll take five.

Please, just remember me when you get your second wind and get inspired to do all the things you didn't have time to do during the day because you were to busy facebooking. Think about your pillow and blanket.

Think about your dog. Yes, the dog is on my side. See him staring at you from the hallway, looking back and forth between you and the bedroom? He knows it's time for bed! Why don't you?

I appreciate you taking the time to read this, Evening Rachael. I know your time is short, what with all the blogs and books you want to read. I'm sorry if I was too blunt; I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just ask that you take this into consideration the next time your Sony Reader calls to you.

Until we meet again (you know, when Afternoon Rachael decides to take one of the two naps she takes every year).