Tag Archives: thoughts

I have misplaced my ability to read…

…it must be around somewhere….I used to be able to read all the time…let’s see….let me get my glasses…oops, don’t know where they are either…probably on my head….nope…darn it all to heck…that’s really a shame because I FINALLY got a copy of the middlemarch book , but upon opening it, I realize it’s typeset is sized for readers the size of…

THUMBELINA

The cover is super pretty, ya’ll….looky….

I finally grabbed a spot on the couch…it was really quiet a beautiful breeze blowing in..kid were upstairs and I had about 20 minutes to spare before getting ready for a fun Friday night out…and I stared at the cover for about 5 minutes.  I kind of got lost in it, really.   I ceremoniously adjusted my head on the couch pillow and started to read the first page.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.”   Kick-ass first line.  This is going to be good.

Then a wet naked Barbie flew over me on the couch.  Oral bomb noises quickly followed,  and ended with a biff-to-the-forehead noise and an “OUCH-UH!!!”  (That’s a new thing that the girls are doing…adding “uh” to the ends of words.  That’s DUMB-UH, WHAT-UH,  COME ON-UH.   WTF is that?  Look, there is even a FB page for it HERE)

 Then Bambi yelled at Cracker for whipping it at her and they had an apology fight.  “You apologize, no YOU apologize.” Someone please fucking apologize because I have read the first line 5 times.  Then the phone rang.  Then I really tried hard to concentrate and while I was reading the first paragraph, I tried really, super hard to concentrate but then I thought about if I have time to take a shower before we go over to a friends and did Cracker leave her Sonic shake in the car because I will forget about it for a couple of days until it smells and OW!!! I  suddenly got one of those shooting boob pains, what the hell IS that when that happens cause I don’t die from it when it happens but it’s in my boob and I think I need to Google that…READ READ READ, concentrate….I came across words like “frippery” and I really wish I could be reading this on my Kindle so I could hit the word and the definition pops up.  I suddenly realized I am going to need a pocket dictionary.  Hey, look.  I am no chump.  I am no idiot.  I was an English Lit. minor in one of my many colleges I attended.  I done read good.   But it’s been awhile and I have spent the last 12 years reading Highlights Magazines, Mattel Toy Assembly instructions and “Everybody Poops”.  (Great read BTW, highly recommend.)

I got down to about a third of the page and I started to schvitz a little bit.  I flipped back to the end of the book .  746 pages.  That’s a lot less than Volly, my reading project partner.  That’s maybe because my font size is -1pt.  

“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…”  What is that smell?  What IS that?  Is that a rotten orange?  Shit, I forgot to drop off dress at the dry cleaner and I can do it tomorrow….no I can’t do it tomorrow, what is tomorrow, what do I have tomorrow, OMG why can’t I remember what tomorrow i-FOOTBALL scrimmage, right, then drive Papa and Nana to airport and

Shit…ok….“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…The Brooke connections, although not slightl-“

I was staring at the words.  I was starting at each individual word, trying to process it.  It actually made me feel like I was going a little bit insane.    I heard a fly and thought of the bad meal we had a a local place this weekend because we ate outside and there were flies everyone and I thought about how they poop on everything and how everyone always freaks out and really, how bad could fly poop be, I mean it’s so small that it’s almost as small as the font size in my book.

Then I really start to ride the procrastination train and I start reading the quotes on the back.  Who does that but people who are procrastinating?  Or bored people pooping on the potty?  Then I read the biggest quote on the back.  I quite literally made me jump up, shove a Bath and Body Works 20% coupon in the book as a marker and run into the office to quit reading forever.

“One of the few English books for grown-ups.”  – Virginia Wolff

I am too busy to read now.  I have to go get that shake out of the car, find the source of the kitchen smell and starting drinking heavily.  Then, when I stumble wasted into bed later tonight and read the first page of my book 12 times, I will at least have a very good excuse.

(I have NEVER even blogged the word “poop” before and I think I used it today about 10 times.  See what a bad influence reading can be to a person?)

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Book #1. Purchase Fail.

For those of you DROOLING and KEENING and WAILING in anticipation for the start of my “1oo Most influential Books Evah” reading/blog project:

Houston, we can’t obtain the first book.  Nice start, idiot.

I ordered “MiddleMarch.”  I really did.  Last Monday from Amazon.com…I promise you, I am not bullshitting.  I waited and I waited and I waited…

-meanwhile-

Volly got her copy from the library sometime around Tuesday or Wednesday, which I should have done, but I owe them money.  (TOTAL EMBARRASSMENT.)

Volly informed me that the book has 801 pages.  SSSHHHWWWWHHHAAAAAAAAAA??????

Innocent enough from the front.

Side View…DOH.

Yesterday, while I was drunk at the Cubbie game, I received this email on my phone from Amazon:

Due to a lack of availability, we will not be able to obtain the following item(s) from your order:

  George Eliot “Middlemarch (Collins Classics)”

We’ve canceled the item(s) and apologize for the inconvenience. If you see a charge for the canceled item, we will refund you within 1-2 business days.”

Suckage.

Then I get a text from Volly and she says, “I finished the book!  Loved it!  (801 freaking pages and she started like 2 days ago.)  Can’t wait for you to read it!  No pressure!  LOL

NO pressure? Shit, man, I still need to GET the friggin’ book.   She’s a rockstar.  That is all.

Oh Man…now I am going to have to push through my hangover and head over to the library with my head down and my checkbook open.

Library Fine Shame.

Next time you hear from me, sometime in Spring or summer of 2013, I will have my first damn book report.  Peace out, bitches.

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BAN THE CLAW

THE CLAW

THE CLAW

Do you see this thing? This evil tool from the game room of the pits of hell?

It’s the claw game.  Most of you have seen one.  It’s the gargantuan crack-like monster lurking in the corner of dusty and dirty game rooms in mid-rate family restaurants across the land.

And Bambi is addicted.

I mean it, I am not sugar-coating it.  Where did I go wrong?  Why can’t she be drawn to the mint bowl like Alpha or the lollypop stash like Cracker?  But Bambi aims higher.  Oh, and let me say also that Bambi is a doll.  A gorgeous, sweet, funny, lovable sweetheart and I love her more than anything.  But she turns…Every time we encounter the crappy animal stuffed beast, she spots  it, right at the moment when we walk in.  If she doesn’t find one right away, her eyes bulge with her mission, eyeballs ever searching, jutting, tearing apart the layout with tiger-like prowess.  She makes her mark and she starts to jiggle, jostle around and sweat.  And she spots her Shangri-La.  She is instantly transformed, she is Gollum.  THE CLAW THE CLAW, THE MIGHTY CLAW.  From the second we sit down, she starts the “claw whine” and I know how badly it will end.  It will end with her crying all the way home.  But let me fill in the middle.

She starting the please game.  “PPLLLEEEASSSEEEEEEEE. “

“Honey, you can’t play that game, we go through this every time.”

“But Mommy, just ONE TIME.”

“No, sweetie, no one ever wins.”

(This is when, conveniently, the little brat from the next door table returned with her gloating father, carrying a cheap ass, Korean-stuffed, lower-quality-than-carnival-crap teddy bear.)

DAYUM

“MOMMMMMMMMM-“

“Just- Honey, can we order first?”

Movie in my head:  I walk over the table, grab the satanic prize  from the little brat and then I smack the dad in the face repeatedly while yelling at him for not being a team player.

If parents across the world would just say NO, then the owners of these establishments would remove them for non-use.  But we get suckered in.  Because we are hungry and we want the cheeseburger and draft beer and we can’t have them until they stop begging and we give them a fucking quarter.

We try to avoid this.  Mike and I do a “claw check”  when looking for a place to eat, much like the old “kid friendly-non smoking” peek in from days of yore.  He double parks and I run in.  If there is a claw, we move onto the next Applebees-barnabys-Hackneys-TGIF’s-crap place that we are looking to dine at…

Santa even had the elves construct a real claw game for HOME.  She plays with it non-stop, while I crouch in the corner and whack my head repeatedly with a wooden spoon to the beat of the circus song that plays over and over and over and over and over an

This should sate her, we gave her the crack pipe.  We let her use it in the comfort of our home.  Surely, she need not go out to get a buzz.  But crack kills, kids, crack kills.

We had an incident the day after Christmas.  Damn, I let my guard down ONE MINUTE.  We were heading to meet family at Buffalo Wild Wings.  It was my cousin Coconut’s birthday and we were all coming together to celebrate.

THERE WAS THE CLAW.  Stop staring at me, you big red greedy whore. You thief, you stealer of little tykes’ hopes and dreams.  Starter of addictive personalities.  DON’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.

What could we do?  We couldn’t leave, this was not our gig.  I could have said, “a table please, very far away from the claw”,  and an older motherly hostess would, with a twinkle in her eye, lightly chuckle while winking and lean in to whisper, “I completely understand, let’s see what we can do”.  And she would put us in the farthest corner from the devil box.  Alas, we didn’t have Aunt Bea, but this young waitress at the prime of her life with her tight sports jersey and her perky, non-breastfed boobs and she would not get it.  She will know soon enough when she starts to breed, but this time,  the slutbag she seats us right smack dab in front of it.  Not directly near it, but riiiiggghhhttt where Bambi can stare at it.

Who am I kidding?  She would have found it.  All the kids were walking around, scoping out the video situation.  Planning and strategically toying with our money in their quick little minds.

I was at the women’s table with the mommies and the offspring.  “A round of chicken tenders, chocolate milk back, for everyone!  And three beers for us, please.”  Cracker was getting a cold and was not recovered from her 5 minute nap in the car.  She whipped off her shoes and hunkered down into doublefisting both her and Bambi’s chocolate milk.  Seven minutes after that, the caffeine kicked in, her legs started to pump and spin like the Road runner, and for the next hour, I chased her while she did laps and half tripped every nubile, perky breasted waitress in the joint.  My beer was neglected.  I needed one of those hats with the beer holders and the straws – Spongebob recently owned one of those.  So J.

And everytime she came back, she went to me first.  Ol Battleaxe Betty who tells it like it is.  “No one ever wins, sweetie.  They make them that way.  Yo-”  (And piping in from the party of 8 in the corner) “I got one Daddy!  I got one!”

Bambi claws at me, “SHHHEEEE GOOOOTTTT ONNNNEEEEEE, MOMMMMYYY PLLEEASSEEEEEE”

“Go talk to your father.”

And Mike who is sitting at the guy table, shoving habanera teriaki wings in his mouth with one hand, and alternating drinking his beer and playing computer poker with the other.  He licks his fingers clean and gives her money.  And the  nightmare continues.

Mike gave the lil nugget almost THIRTY dollars in the span of an hour and half.  Are you fucking kidding me?  AND, it was in 4 quarter increments.  Do you know how many times that means she went back to him to ask for more?  And he gave them to her?

Oh, but by no means was she alone in all this.  She had a partner in crime.  My cousin, Felt and his wife, Teeth, have two adorable little boys, Heisman and Wrestler Fan.  Heisman and my very sweet Alpha were happily content at the end of the table, wolfing down smily face fries and taking turns with the Nintendo DS.  Apricot’s little guy, Star Wars kid, who is like a 4th child to me, brought a little buddy along with him so all the boys were content in their mini-man-dom.  Cracker continued to run laps while gnawing on a chicken tender, which leaves us with the dynamic duo, Bambi and Wrestler Fan.

Those kids were nothing, if not diligent.  At one point, Wrestler Fan, I think was amazed at her determination and put all his efforts into grabbing one for Bambi.  And we all rejoiced!  Our champion!  Our knight!  Victorious!  Slaying the dragon and bringing Guenevere the riches of the world!  Now she can shut it, sit down and eat her mac and cheese.  But it wasn’t the one she wanted.  She wanted the MONKEY. And there were tears.  She flung the unwanted stuffed alligator at Cracker, who screeched with glee and whipped it at the couple behind us.  Bambi was finally cut off.  “You are CUT OFF.”  She remained pouting at her seat, in claw rehab.  There she moped, moaned, keened and wailed until I finally chugged my Blue Moon and declared to Mike, “Wipe your wing-stained mouth, help me grab Cracker and let’s hit it.  I can’t stand it anymore.”  And we dragged Bambi to the car, and she cried the whole way home.

The next morning, my cousin and Coconut’s wife Apricot called me, trying to entice me with bloody mary’s and HBO mockumentary marathons.  As tempting as it was, I was in my own different little rehab, so I had to decline.  But before we ended our chat, she added, “So, wow, Bambi really is addicted to the Claw.  You weren’t kidding.”

Thus,we move on..we start anew, we remain vigilant in our quest for non-claw dining and we strive to encourage home use.

And the bright side is that, although she is tiny enough to do it, she has not been one of the Chuck E Cheese idiots that have tried to climb inside.  Dumb, Bambi ain’t.  😉

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And Now For Something Completely Serious…Part 2

The mom of Voxx came on the second day.

She came in like a bat out of hell.  A large woman with the poodle perm and a cane like her daughter’s,  the old gal had a mission: to tell Voxx and anyone else who would listen the exact dollar amount of all their delinquent bills and how much money they do not have in their bank account.  Voxx and Ethan Frome owe over $600 to Nicor.  That’s a lot of gas.  And they are really really late.  But they only have $64 dollars and some change in their bank account.  And not one iota of this is something that I should know.

Our very sweet and patient Phillipino nurse, Bandaid, came in announced Movie Tuesday!  She let us pick a DVD and she ordered us some popcorn from food services.  The mom of Voxx pulled up a chair and the two us enjoyed a little Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline French Kiss, while Voxx shaked with the DT’s.  I actually really enjoyed her company.  She was my second favorite visitor.

The only problem was she just couldn’t stop talking about Voxx and Frome’s financial situation.  I was actually starting to sweat and get he DT’s myself.  I was withering and writhing to hear about someone else’s uncomfortable and unfortunate financial troubles.  And when mother of Voxx insisted on calling Comcast right from the room, I decided to go try to take a shower .  All my trials, Lord, will soon be over.

The shower?  Not successful.  I washed my hair with what felt like nail polish remover and was I really clean?  I mean REALLY?  Was I? I felt like as I was standing in there, little amoebas of germ nasty sprung from the walls of the institutionalized shower and stuck onto my flesh.

But it was fun in there compared to pity payment party in bed area two.

Mother of Voxx left and the damn woman took with her Voxx’s hand lotion.  Shit.  I heard about that for the next 7 hours.  She told me about 9-10 times.  She told Bandaid.  She told One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room.  She told the food service lady.  She called a lot of people on the cell phone, too.  In the end, I gave her my lotion.  I think she threw it at her closet later on but that’s okay, she can go ahead and keep it.  I’ll get more.

On Day three, I woke with a migrane.  I have no idea why.  Hm.

I have never have one like that before.  I even rated it a sad face number 10 and I have NEVER picked that one in my life.  Every flicker of light was a BBQ skewer in my cornea.  Every sound was a swinging bat over my head.  It even hurt to move.  So, it was so frickin awesome when Voxx’s Kenyan Physical therapist came in the room for her workout session.   BECAUSE HE TALKED LIKE THIS AT ALMOST SCREAM LEVEL AT ALL TIMES IN A VERY THICK KENYAN ACCENT AND APPARENTLY HE ALSO THOUGHT MAYBE VOXX WAS NOT JUST A DRUG ADDICT BUT COMPLETLY 100% FUCKING DEAF.  FOR ONE HOUR. Who was the one whimpering now?  Me. I did.  I whimpered for 60 minutes.

Again, *sigh*

This was about the point that I realized that this is not really happening.  Like scenes like thisare made for movies or books, just so fucking ridongulous that they are a cliche.

A cliché is a phrase that is so overused that it has lost its meaning.

My existance in that room was a true dead metaphor.  I was worse off than when I got there, but I needed to leave now more than ever.

Here came the groan. I heard her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She ripped it back and then I had to look at her sagging tits again hanging out the sides of her hospital gown and she thrusted a pencil at me with a menu that had a piece of macaroni and cheese on it.  “Write your address on the back.”

THINK MAN, THINK.

WhatnameshouldigiveherwhatnumbercanImakeupcanIgiveherafalseemailaddressbut shewillknowshewillknowandsheknowswhoiambecausethedrsmadeabigdealoutofmebeingaperformer

andwhensheheardthatshefreakedoutandtalkedandtalkedandralkedaboutcomingtoseemeeperformand

whatnumbershouldigiveherifilieshewillstalkmeandcometoashowandkillmeafterwards

I gave her my name.  I gave her my address and my phone number.  I even gave her my email address.  The good one.  Because I had nothing left.

I am home now.  Every time the phone rings, I do a Voxx check.  She hasn’t called. Which…is sad.

And I really hope she is okay.

But I really, really, really need to start taking vitamins so I NEVER end up in the hospital again.

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And Now For Something Completely Serious…

xray

It has been a long time since I have been inspired to blog.

My hospital stay with pneumonia last week was a catalyst for me jumping back on the wagon here.  Actually, it was my prescription drug-addicted roommate that put me over the edge.

It was bad enough that I struggled to breathe with a viral cement in my chest and my out of control asthma, horrible that I was on (and still am)  8 different medications that prevent me from sleeping.  But I was forced to endure three straight days of her moaning and screaming for her next round of meds. It was something out of a bad dream, to be completely cliche.

With every Shirley McClaine/Terms of Endearment rant she went on, I felt the box of hell that I was trapped in enclosing around me in the little corner of Good Shepard hospital room 342, bed one.  At one very low point, I was was in fact begging the nurses myself to not skip her dose and wake her up because when she would waken, she would already be withdrawing and I could not handle one minute more of the mania.

She was actually in there for a week already before I got there, with a torn rotator cuff.  She fell and her daughter found her.  I don’t know why she fell.  She has a cane propped up near her bed.  I don’t know what it’s for.  She pees in a bed chair an arms length away from my head.  Behind the curtain, of course.  In my mind, I secretly discouraged her from drinking any liquids so I didn’t have to lie there and listen to her spray in a plastic container next to my head.  Just to let you know, she hadn’t had a bowel movement in a week.  She told everyone this.  I was actually quite relieved about that.  And let’s call her Vexx.  I will save you the Google: Vexx means Goddess of Pain.

When they initially wheeled me into the room on my gurney, Vexx looked at me and said, “What kinda shit is this?  They told me my new roommate was gunna be a guy.”

Charming.

Fantastic.

Vexx sadly also suffers from internal lupus, fibromyalgia and side effects of diabetes.  Although, one of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room insisted that she was borderline diabetes and does not need to be on a special diet.  And then she would cry.  Because I think she wanted as many ailments as possible that might qualify her for an extra narco or V.

It is no wonder she is on a lot of medication.  It is NOT her fault that she has a drug addiction.  She is in pain and she needs relief and sadly, the body develops an intolerance, therefore the need for an bigger dosage.  I think pain pill addiction is the saddest because it comes out of a place where you are in physical pain and you need help managing it.  He children probably do not understand this.  They just see that their mother has gone away and probably have stopped wondering if she is ever going to come back.

In some of her more severe withdrawal moments, I could see her sitting up and rocking, hugging herself and screaming, throwing Kleenex boxes and lotion bottles and she would cry that she hates this stupid fucking hospital because gets more meds at home.  She should be home…she should be home…she should be home…she locks her pills in her bedroom so her kids can’t get them.

One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room verified that she was born in 1959 and I had to pump up my oxygen when I overheard that.

Surely Vexx was in her late 60’s.  I pegged her for almost 70.  I thought it strange that she rambled about her 14 year old daughter and that she should be at home helping her with her homework.  I knew that something was off: I thought national Enquirer, old ladies having babies, images of elderly women breastfeeding infants swirled in my mind.  She is NOT ONLY 10 years older than I am.  But alas, Vexx very much the definition of rode hard and hung up wet.

He kids did not want to visit her.  In a rant, she told me that they miss their old mom…they don’t like to see her like this…do ya think?

On my medication, my heart rate stays at a constant 108 to 135.  But when she would pass out after a dose, she would drift off and I would see my monitor bump down every once in awhile to 103,102,101…ahhh…sweet relief.

I didn’t have any visitors until I broke down on the second day and called Mike crying to pop in and see me.   I was losing my edge with her, unable to endure much more of her unsolicited conversations through the curtain.  The nurses gave me headphones so I could plug into my remote control and watch 12 uninterrupted sleepless hours of a House marathon on USA network.  I am sure the headset cost me about $100 but worth every penny.  They are still in my purse in case I have to go back.

But let’s discuss the visitors of Vex…

The first night I was there, her husband came in, an Ethan Frome, a sad insurance salesman who is apparently about to get downsized, as I hear from one of Vexx’s many erratic cell phone calls.  He is a little man, beaten down and there isn’t enough Wild Turkey in the world to help him forget that that this woman is going to eventually come back home.  She cried and she whined and said to him, “Why didn’t you call me back, I have been calling and calling you (and believe me, she did) and he said to her, “There is something wrong with my phone, it keeps on going dead” and Ethan Frome and I both knew that it’s dead because he can’t bare to turn the god damn thing back on.

Vexx tries to throw the curtain open for the tenth time to show me the mickey mouse boxers that he brought her from his underwear drawer.  And she has been showing them to me all day.  She repeats herself a lot.  I start to clutch my keegel when I hear her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She would pull it back and then I have to look at her sagging tits hanging out the sides of her hospital gown, shaking sad Ethan Frome’s ridiculous Disney boxers that you know he got for Christmas 5 years ago.  She yells at him for bringing her some of his old t shirts for her to wear: he “fucked up” because they have “baloney pits.”

*Sigh*

all I could do at that point is sit back and wait for the nurse to come in and check my vitals so I can signal her to pull the curtain shut again. I could fffffeeeelllll him trying to leave.  I can hear him saying, “Ok, well..” half a dozen times, he cannot take one more minute with her.  I think about what it was like when they met and fell in love?  She was the outgoing one.  Did he court her?  Were they affectionate?  How long did it take in their marriage before he became shrunken by her constant badgering, nagging, complaining, whining, crying, never ending beat down.  Or did she become that way because he never paid any attention to her?  Wasn’t interested in hearing the sound of her voice?  If I have to hear the sound of her voice one more time, I think that I might stab her with a fork and then we will see how much medication she will need.

Frome leaves and Vexx howls.  I buzz my nurse for an Ambian.  It’s going to be a long night.

But now here I am back home.  I am tired now, really feckin weak and still trying to recover.  I get really short of breath and need to lie down after every little mundane task.  It’s all very Camille.  But I am not cleansed of this experience quite yet.  I still have yet to talk about the mother of Vexx and the gas bill visit.

The world seems to me a lot darker after the time change.

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I Once was lost, but now I’m found.

Why?

Glen and Mar with The Swell Season at the Chicago Theatre June 15th, 2008

*Note: there is virtually nothing funny here. This is a seriously serious account of one of the most fabulous nights of my life.*

So, if you know me and regularly read this blog, you know two things:

(1) I have a slightly unnatural obsession and mad crush on Marketa and Glen. The concert the other night put Mike and I over the edge. We would star in the new TV show, “Swingtown” with them. Of course, we wouldn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That, and, they would look at us and go “ew”.

(2) The last concert I went to, I was abused by a drunk young feck and cried in the bathroom because I am old and fat. (Please visit the Aunt Barbara thread.) I have since realized that I could be older and I could be fatter. All better.

(3) I have been in a little funk and have not really been inspired to blog as of late.

I am now re-inspired.

The show was the most incredible and emotional concert I have ever seen. I have seen a lot. Sorry, Stones, my #1 all-favorite band. You have just had your Start Me Up asses kicked by The Swell Season.

We brought my mom as a thank you for turning us onto the movie. After Once opened in theaters here, she begrudging gave up her copy to me, shoving it my hand and said you will fall in love with this BUT GIVE IT BACK. She almost broke her foot last week while sitting for my middle kid “Bambi”. She jumped into the pool to save her from drowning. She insisted on going to the concert ON CRUTCHES. She yelped when I suggested that she stay home. “WHAT? Are you KIDDING me?” If she were dead, she would demand that we drag her body to the seat and duct tape a glass of wine in her hand. Nice visual.

And let’s face it: we all were a little bit of a mess, me and my mental state was of course, the sloppiest. I was hit with a neurotic stick repeatedly for a couple of hours. From the very first song I was clutching Mike’s knee and smacking my Mother’s arm: “Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song!” Glen is hilarious. I would be laughing once minute and blubbering like a baby dropped on her head. I am a true idiot. Could it have been the Margaritas that the cocktail waitress kept bringing us? Perhaps. But I was Spongebob Drunk Ass absorbing the love in the room. Chicago Theatre is one of the most beautiful theatres on the planet. I have seen some pretty big names perform there for the last 25 years and they officially own that space.

And let’s talk about

Definition of Chemistry: ” Miraculous power of transmuting something common into something precious.”

They are both insanely charming in their own right.

They are both gifted and blessed with the upmost talent and that special something that makes people stop everything, shut their mouth and listen with all the power one can muster. And they are a couple. When Mike and I saw the movie at my cousin “Apricot” and …I don’t have a name for him yet..how about “Celinelover”? No, he would be pissed. Let’s call him “Coconut”. I digress. While watching the movie, I was shocked at how I reacted. I burst into tears watching the “Falling slowly” scene and was like “what the fuck?” I looked at Mike to laugh at myself, rolled my eyes to laugh at how stupid it was that I was blubbering like a baboon (Do baboons blubber? Or is it whales?) Then I realized that Mike was SO man-crying. I guess I was moved at the sheer beauty of the scene but maybe because, being a musician, it was so honest and in the moment and beautiful. These are the moments that I cherish when I perform, whether it’s in front of hundreds of people or when I am simply singing a lullaby to my kids.

The point I guess I am trying to make is that I don’t know if they are really a couple. That is the magic of the movie. [SPOILER ALERT – JUMP THE THE NEXT PARAGRAPH OR YOU MAY WANT TO SLAP ME IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE} It’s doesn’t have the neat, tie-it-up-in-a-bow Hollywood ending that we are used to…but you leave wanting them to be together. And, holy shit, they are really in love in non-movie life. You can’t make that shit up. You see it in every look they give each other. Every time they approach each other between songs and whisper something (like we can hear anyway, haha). It’s a beautiful dance and if they are indeed, not a couple, they have figured out that, shit, it sells CDs and sold out concerts because whether it’s real or a ruse, it’s romantic as hell. If it’s not true, please don’t ever tell me. It’s the ultimate documentary of love with a hell of a soundtrack.

Let me just wrap this nonsense up with two more things

(1). I loved their other tunes, not just the ones from the movie. The band featured some of the Frames members, including a guitarist from Chicago and Liam, the violinist was breathtaking. The gorgeous song Moon was insane, Marketa was mesmerizing and the acoustic closing of the show was knock-your-socks off brilliant. It’s true, I couldn’t find my socks after the concert.

Here is a really bad cell phone pic of the last number.

I didn’t even mind that we got home at 1:30am (I am sure that the band was still partying at their room at the “W”) and I woke up with a HELLA hangover with the baby at 6am.

(2) Marketa and Glen, if you ever read this, which you never will, don’t be scared. My fascination is harmless. Ever heard of John Hinkley? No. Nothing like that.

It feels good to be back.

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The Shopping List.

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My fucking Easter Grocery list.
DAYUM, I had a day. I am not going to bore you all with the insanality of Mike and I trying to prepare for our family Easter Birthday party at our house tomorrow. Let’s just say, today involved a lot of snot, fevers, hangovers, cleaning, shopping and me army crawling under a car on the wet slushy ground to try to get my fucking Easter grocery list.
To protect the innocent i.e. my children, I will refer to them as (Kid A: male. 8 in two weeks) ohhhhh, let’s call him….Apple. No, that’s gay. But if he is we will love him anyway. Let’s call him…Alpha. That’s masculine.
The middle one (Kid B: Girl. 6 years old. Insane like her mother) will be Bambi. The little one, kid C, the runt of the litter shall be herein entitled Cracker. (Cause she’s crazy like her mother)
Alpha and Cracker (this is already a disaster) are having birthdays in two weeks. Cracker was born on the date of the month the day before Alpha, insuring him a life time filled with resentment, misunderstanding and jealousy. And speaking of Jealously, Bambi, literally the Most Jealous Person In The World, is very lucky that the other birthdays fall near Easter, so for a lifetime, she will be showered with Cadbury bunnies, useless stuffed animals and all the peeps Bambi can shove into her little mouth, all under the guise that “she is special and deserves presents, too.”
But back to the fucking Easter shopping list.
I leave the kids with…Mike. Oh well, I already outted him and he is not so innocent anyway. Oh, and one thing, I always forget my lists. I will spend hours on a grocery list, categorizing them by aisle sometimes, for ultimate efficiency. I have been known to actually type them up in an endearing little word document, complete with bullet points. I start these lists sometimes moments after I return from a previous grocery run, when I need to add all the things that I forgot to get on that trip. Needless to say, I work hard on these lists and I quite literally always forget them. I leave them on the counter or shove them in my coat pocket and leave my coat in kitchen. Often, it makes it to the car but it gets lost in the Mcdonalds bags, outdated Mapquest directions and ye ol’ forgotten grocery lists of times gone by…
The point is, I rarely have a list when I get into a store. Then I get in the store and I roam the aisles aimlessly and in a very unorganized fashion, as I drool and mope and give dirty looks to the people who are crossing off things on their little fucking lists with their little fucking pens and I hate them and I always forget at least three things.
Well, I threw this list together today. I think I even wrote it on the back of a Chase deposit envelope on the way to our 5 million dollar Costco run this morning. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t alphabetized or categorized by aisle or expiration date, but God DAMN it, I was gonna remember to bring that fucker IN with me. Super T (Target with food, The Ultimate Tarjjjayyy) was ridiculous. I got the last possible spot in the last possible corner of the very impossible end of the mall. But I grabbed my fucking Easter grocery list and I went a-walkin. I was chatting with my cousin….Apricot….and I was bitching about how much money we have spent already and WHHHHHHOOOOOOOSHHHHHH
a gust goes by and I’ll be damned if that fucking list didn’t blow right out of my hand. And now watch me as I chase after it because It.Will.Not.Defeat.Me.It.Will.Not.Define.Me.It.Will.Not.Bring.Me.Down.
And it lands literally in the exact middle of the undercarriage of a car parked in a handicapped spot. If I got out a ruler or measuring tape or some sort of Numb3rs Charlie Eppes math graph and figured out the exact middle point of the exact piece of inch that is directly in the middle of under the car, I could not have gotten closer. I CANNOT REACH IT. My cashmere sweater and my jeans are all wet and I am starting to laugh a little like a loon.
I KICK THE CAR! I SPIT ON THE LIST! I TRIP THE OWNER OF THE VEHICLE!
I do not of these things but I want to because I am PISSED.
I didn’t even see the owner of the car, but come ON, it snowed yesterday but now it was sunny and all the snow was slushy and melting and awww man, do I have to get DOWN there on my hand and knees? I am still talking to Apricot who I hang up on by mistake when I have to fucking LAY DOWN on the ground to try to reach the fucking Easter grocery list.
There is a lady staring at me. I feel compelled to explain my situation and I am happy to have an audience.
“I am having a day. (Crazy person laugh) I dropped my shopping list and it went under this car and I can’t reach it and blah blah blah blah blah (interspersed with crazy lady laughing)”
She stares at me for what is a really kind of an uncomfortable amount of time. She says nothing but goes into her trunk and pulls out this thing. This glorious, beautiful, long, pointy thing. I think its an extendo-broom.
She’s says, “I use to clean house, yes?”
God love her.
She squats down and grabs that little fucker and I am jumping up and down in the parking lot like I need to be parking in my own handicapped space for mental reasons. I actually think I may have hugged her, I am too embarrassed in front of myself to try to remember exactly what I did but I think I said things like,” you are an Easter gift” and something about Jesus. I don’t know. Don’t make me look back, but the point is…
I got the fucking Easter shopping list.
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It made it into Super T and for the first time like…ever…I FORGOT NOTHING.
Happy Easter.
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Her Skin Grew Over the Seat…

There is a very sad woman, who was just recently removed from a bathroom she has not left for over 2 years.

“A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said. ‘She is an adult; she made her own decision,’ said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren. ‘I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. (DO YA THINK???) But after a while, you kind of get used to it.'” Full article here

DUDE.

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I can’t even find the words to type how insane that is that he let her stay in there, sitting on the toilet. Bringing her clothes and food to her everyday. “They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship”…

People are FUCKED up.

On a lighter note, I love Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. He would never let her ass mold to the toilet seat. They are the Once couple and they are dating in real life.

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I am slightly obsessed with them. I google them a little bit too much. My husband and I are in love with that movie and “Falling Slowly” has become our song. I promised Mike that I wasn’t going to blogtrash him if I started this blogging thing, but I can’t help it. He totally man-cries when we listen to that tune. And I don’t blame him – it’s totally emotional for us. For whatever reason, does an emotional thing to our souls.  Jesus, that is a stupid description. But seriously, I almost want to stop listening to it, to avoid ever getting sick of it. My 6 year old daughter is learning the song and I am accompanying her really badly on her $34 pink rock and roll ToysRUs guitar. It’s a kick ass version soon to be sweeping the charts over at youtube.com – look out for it.

There is a video of Glen and Marketa performing on Michigan Avenue and there is like, NO ONE THERE. There are maybe 2-3 people looking at them at the end, like who are those fucking people? Don’t bother me on my lunch hour.

Here is the link to the video…

What the FECK. If Mike and I knew about that, we would have not only been there, but we would have been FREAKING OUT. In a totally embarrassing and inappropriate way. We may have even tried to make out with them, I don’t know, but it would have been strange, weird and cool as hell.

I sang last night with a friend at Maxime’s downtown and I got home tooooo late. I woke up with my eyes fastened shut by my fake eyelashes. I was in my bra and underwear and I passed out still wearing my fake bling jewelry. It left little indented marks all over different areas of my skin. I am a hot mess and I need to go take care of myself before the girls think Courtney Love has now become their mother.

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Pineapples, Cottage Cheese and 4 Million worth of plastic.

(Insert 50’s housewife music here)
OhNoTheyDidn’t.com, my source for this delightful day in the life piece, states, “Don’t know who Jocelyn Wildenstein is? She’s a New York socialite who’s reportedly spent over $4,000,000 on plastic surgery over the years to keep her husband” To read about who in the hell she actually is, Click here
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I just…I…
Hm.
Dear Peter Bogdanovich, if if you ever decide to do a remake of your sensational 1985 Oscar winning Mask and would like to replace Eric Stolz because he’s to busy filming Howl, please look no further.
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Feck.

FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck

I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.

I am going to write a book.

I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.

Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?

I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.

And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?

Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.

I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.

Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.

Feck.

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