Side Boobs and Cooter Farts!

* Despite what people may think there are things I will NOT write about. However, this is not one of them. Therefore I must warn my mother, Aunt Becky, and Aunt Barbie that this entry is about sex and it could potentially embarrass you. Aunt Jackie, I know you will just be proud!

During a recent intimate moment with my hubby, I realized that I was holding my arm in a retarded person’s position. My right elbow was bent, my forearm was flat against my chest, and my hand was bent foreword and flailing and grasping at my right shoulder (Kudos to Mr. Fisher for inspiring temporary cerebral palsy). Once the seizures stopped and I noticed my awkward pose I quickly resolved the situation and found a more flattering posture but quite frankly, retarded arm broke my concentration and it took almost half an hour for me to get back in the mental groove (that’s right I said I had another half an hour to find my groove… again, kudos to Mr. Fisher). Anyway it spurred me to thinking about all of the non-flattering positions and noises of sexual encounters past, and just let me tell they are vast!

There are my instinctual deep guttural moans that seem to manifest whenever that certain spot is hit. I know moaning should be sexy but believe me at my worst I can sound like a hybrid moose/donkey being anally probed. So I really have to concentrate on keeping the vocalizations a little more “sexy” and a little less "tipped cow". I mean, seriously, porn has set the bar really high for us normal, non-professional, girls. Never once have I never heard Jenna Jameson groan like she has one foot in the gas chambers while she is pulling a train with a bevy of overly endowed bikers. And for that matter, I have never noticed an unfortunate queef (that’s the technical term for when your cooter farts) slip in a porno either, even the super-dirty ones but if I am flipped into the wrong position during the old in-and-out and it sounds like I have a whoopee cushion stashed in my hoo-haw.

And don’t even get me started on my boobs (I call them Betty and Veronica). Having large, REAL breasts can be a gift and a curse past the age of 35. If I am not careful with my positioning, things can go completely askew. If am on my back, I have to try my best to look as natural as possible while holding my upper arms close to my body to hold my breasts in place (and not allowing them to slide to the side where my nipples end up parallel to my armpits).

There is the also ongoing humiliation of poor sex lighting. I try my hardest to "enjoy myself" only in the darkest of rooms but that damn moon keeps illuminating my window blinds. An adding to that because of my skin color, I tend to glow in the dark. I know that you think I am kidding but my skin does genuinely glow for a good ten to fifteen minutes after the light goes off. Which would be great if I had at any time planned on taking up night jogging but I don't think that will ever happen, so for now I just try to keep my day-glo ass covered until the initial brightness dims.

Even with all of that, though, sex can be a wonderful thing. Something for two people (or more if you are slutty) who love each other (or at least find each other mildly attractive) to do in the darkest room, in the sexiest position, and the quietest way possible. To all of you I say, good luck an just keep practicing... I know I will!

Stephen King never got to see me topless!

Someone recently asked me what I wanted to be when I was a little girl and I had to stop and think about it. But I was finally able to piece together the mental journey I went on to end up working in a library (my dream job) at age 40 and I thought I'd re-walk this journey with all of you.

Very early on (about at 5), I wanted to be a nun. I used to put a towel on my head and bless people, my sister, my dogs, Barbie, etc... I honestly thought that was the entire job of a nun. (Probably because my family was NOT Catholic and I was basing my entire knowledge of "the nunnery" on Mary Tyler Moore's riveting performance in the movie A Change of Habit, starring Elvis Presley.) Once I was privy to the added responsibilities, I nixed the whole nun idea. After that I wanted to be a reporter, an actress, and then, of course, a model. Now, I am not sure why I wanted to be a reporter but most likely it was because reporting combines two of my favorite things, 1.) being REALLY, REALLY important and 2.) telling on people. However, at the time there was not a huge market for 10 year old reporters (Damn the Nickelodeon and Disney channels for not taking off sooner!) Unfortunately, my acting career peaked when after trying out for the roles of Dorothy and Glinda the Good Witch in the Webster Elementary 6th grade version of The Wizard of Oz, I was awarded the coveted version of Maid #4 (I realize that some of you are probably saying to yourselves, "I don't remember maids in the Wizard of Oz", well that's because there weren't any. They were token roles given to those of us who had no actual singing ability or were mild-to-moderately handicapped!) My modeling career was brought to a frightening halt when at age 13 my mother signed my sister and I up to be "living mannequins" at the mall. We were modeling shoes and had to stand completely still in "modeling poses". Which probably would have been easier had we not had on a drag queen hooker's amount of make-up and been wearing bright white leotards - to keep the focus on the shoes (It was a Saturday afternoon and the mall was full of kids our age. Our friends kept walking by... and mocking us. But could you really blame them I was 13 years old, 5 foot tall with 130 pounds and a C cup bra stuffed into a medium Spandex leotard?)

Once I got into high school, my career plan was to graduate High School, move to New York, take part-time classes at NYU while working as a stripper and trying to make it in the Big City as a writer. All of the people at the strip club would respect me because I wasn't promiscuous and I was incredibly intelligent. (I know this plan sounds like the plot to a lot of recent movies but I had this plan in the early 80s before any of those flicks were made! *And in my plan, I meet either Stephen King or John Steinbeck while working the pole and they asked to read one of my stories, love it, and help to get me published!)

After high school, I actually did work as a waitress (I liked it!), a bank teller (wasn't crazy about it!), and a nanny (was mentally molested doing it!) before I began my career in social work. Which I loved for the first 10 or 12 years and then I got tired. Finally, I got a chance to work at the library and I have never been happier. And that is the story of what I wanted to be when I grew up and how I ended up at the library.

*Disclaimer: I have no actual knowledge that either John Steinbeck or Stephen King frequent New York City strip clubs and have no proof of my own ability to successfully work a pole.

Here Shitty Kitty!

As I told you, when our family moved from Quincy to Springfield my father promised me a kitten if I promised to go quietly. My plan, up until that point, was to barricade myself in my room with my little sister, Ken, Barbie, Baby Alive and my dog Mandy and then call a neighborhood press conference to convey to the media that my parents were attempting to forcibly remove me from my property. I would then explain to the reporters from the Quincy Herald Whig Newspaper and WGEM television that the unnecessary and compulsory transfer of a minor to a new town, new school, and new home was not only abusive but the start of a slow and painful, social and emotional death. However, I was 8 and I think the way I actually voiced this threat to my parents was, “If you try and make me go, I’m going to tell. But my father stepped in and offered me a kitten, a cute furry little kitten. (I was never allowed to have a kitten because our family raised and showed dogs and my mother had always claimed that my father was afraid of cats.) After we arrived, my father stalled and stalled and stalled, until he finally announced we could go and look at kittens. He claimed that he had found a lady that raised cats and we could get one from her for a reasonable price. I was over-the-moon excited, finally my own kitten (I had my own, dog, but she was not exactly a snuggler. She had a thyroid condition that made her look and act like an anorexic crack addicted puppy with ADHD, so she refused to be held or petted or even looked in the eye for more than 10 to 15 seconds). But a kitten… I could just imagine her lying on my pillow and purring while I slept. It was going to be outstanding!

When the day arrived, we climbed in the car and headed to the “cat lady’s house”. Now, I know that by calling it “the cat lady’s house” I have painted a funky picture of a fat old crazy lady in one room ramshackle bungalow with 3 lawn gnomes standing in the yard, 6 wind chimes hanging on the porch, and 12 Siamese cats resting in the living room. But nothing could be farther from the truth. The lady WAS crazy but thin, the house was small but not a “ramshackle bungalow” but more of a filthy, broken-down lean-to, and as for the 12 Siamese cats resting in the living room… well, it was more like 50 to 60 inbred cats carpeting every inch of a 200 square foot area. There were cats everywhere! On the television! In the sinks! On top of the refrigerator! On the bookcase! It was insane! There was actually a litter box just sitting on the kitchen counter – with a cat shitting in it! (I swear it looked like one of those houses that the Animal Cops raid garbed in hazmat suits on the Animal Planet channel.) I turned to ask my dad how the hell he had found this Hello Kitty Hell Hole and I could tell he had NOT been here before (I later learned he had gotten the address from one of his new co-workers)! He was plastered to the wall! He wasn’t moving at all! Not one single inch! I wanted to just get my kitten and get the hell out of there! The lady told me, “The kittens are in the bathtub”. Her voice was deep and scratchy (I think she had a hairball). I walked into the bathroom, where a splinter group of thug-lifed tabbies seemed to be planning a coo from behind the toilet, and found the most adorable flea-riddled kittens romping in the dirtiest tub that I have ever seen. I cooed with delight and called to my dad to come see. He still did not move. “That’s o.k., sweetie. Just hurry and pick one,” he answered, his voice cracking. I turned around to see sweat pouring from his forehead and tears welling in his eyes. He really was afraid of cats. Here was my big strong father turned to quivering mess by these furry little lovable creatures. I didn’t understand it. But then I heard one of the thug cats talk about shanking the scared black man by the door and I decided to go home kitty-free!

My dad was grateful! So grateful that I ended up with rabbits, gerbil, hamsters, and lots and lots of dogs! I asked my husband for a kitten for Christmas a few years back. We went to the local animal shelter to get one… We came home with two puppies, a Labrador Retriever and a Rottweiler Mix. Most of my furniture has been gnawed on by puppy teeth but at least I don't have a little box hosting a shitting near-feral cat sitting next to my microwave!

Something Old, Something New, I want the Fairy Tale and an Asian Elvis, too!

When I was about four years old I decided that I was going to grow up and marry my Dad. Which at the time made complete sense to me. He was handsome and smart and strong. He was a good tucker-iner. He already lived at my house and whenever I was sick he brought me a new coloring book and crayons. Seriously, what else could a girl ask for from a husband? So, I used to practice being a bride by putting a towel on my head like a veil and walking up and down the hallway (incidentally that is also how I used to pretend to be a nun). I did this until my mother informed me that I could NOT marry my dad because a.) he was already married to her and b.) because, outside of the state of Arkansas, marrying your father is just icky. (I was secretly mad at my mother for this for the next 4 years. I was convinced that she was plotting to keep me from getting any good wedding presents. I was hoping for a Snoopy Sno-Cone Maker.)

In the 7th & 8th grade, my friend Roslyn and I began to plan our weddings. We had folders and notebooks and planned out every detail. Roslyn's wedding was pretty enough, but mine was SUPER-FANTASTICALLY CLASSY! I would wear an off-white Victorian high-neck dress with tons of lace and have my hair knotted in a loose chignon bun with lots of loose tendrils Sidenote: At this point in my life, I was completely obsessed with Jane Seymour and the movie Somewhere in Time; Therefore most of my imaginary "future" was set in the past, around the 1900s. (Don't Judge! It made sense at the time!) The ceremony would be held in a gazebo filled with white roses. And a famous band would play as I walked toward my groom, who at the time was optional but for the Wedding Folder's sake, I used pictures of either Michael Jackson or Matt Dillon (Who would've guessed that I probably had a better shot at Matt Dillon?)

When I finally did get married (the first time) it was not the extravagant affair I had dreamed of - my (ex)husband told me he wouldn't marry me if I wanted a big wedding (perhaps if I were sane that would have been a GREAT BIG RED FLAG!). Alas, we went to the courthouse and then to my son's baseball game. We did have a "reception" that weekend, though (and by reception I mean Kentucky Fried Chicken with potluck sides in my mother's yard). The dee-jay (the teenager from across the street) hooked an extra speaker up to the stereo and put it in the window so that everyone could hear the music. The night ended with my brand new husband and I fighting because he wanted to leave our reception to go and "celebrate" our marriage with his cousin and some of the guys (who while we we arguing was pissing in my mother's front yard). Jeez! I can't imagine why we didn't last.

However, when I married Mr. Fisher, things were different. I truly expected that we would fly to Vegas, get married by an Asian Elvis (a newly acquired fantasy of mine), and try to catch Tom Jones in concert! BING! BANG! BOOM! But Mr. Fisher wanted a wedding and more than that, wanted me to have a wedding. (Because I had kids and because I had been married, I didn't think I deserved a dream wedding but Mr. Fisher saw things differently and made sure that almost every wish I had for that day came true.) In the end, I got a fairy-tale beautiful dress, a Prince Charming of a husband, and wonderful reception free from Colonel Sanders and his 11 secret herbs and spices. Our day was perfect! There were only three wishes left unfulfilled...

1. My father was not alive to walk me down the isle.


2. I could not convince Father Shaun to dress up like an Asian Elvis before performing our ceremony.


3. And Air Supply did not perform Here I Am as I walked down the isle (Don't Judge! I started planning my wedding in 1980!).

Blender fun, anyone?

Every time I smell blueberry muffins baking I think about my dad. (He would get up on Sunday mornings and bake blueberry muffins while playing Ashford & Simpson, Teddy Pendegrass, and Barry White albums.) Whenever I hear the theme song for Land of the Lost I think about my cousin Billy. (He once kicked me in the shin so hard that it caused a blood clot just for turning the television while he was watching it. I wonder if he watched the Land of the Lost marathon on the Sci-Fi channel this weekend.) And whenever I I see the opening credits for Days of Our Lives I think about my grandma (she used to watch it at her kitchen table on a small t.v. that sat on a small rolling cart). However I think the thing that triggers my most Pavlovian response is the soft whirring of a blender. That sound makes me think of one thing. (No, not Steak 'n' Shakes Caramel Turtle Nut Sundae Shake.) It sends me back to my childhood and watching my parents and friends leveled to drunken hilarity.

My parents were very "social" creatures but they were also incredibly good parents; therefore, they didn't make "partying" a habit. However, they would invite people over from time to time. On these nights we would clean up after dinner. My sister and I would watch television while my parents would shower and get dressed and then it was off to bed with us. (Occasionally though we were allowed to greet a few guests and be adorable and charming, which was fine with us because adults tend to give kids money just before plying themselves stupid with liquor.) But inevitably we were sent to bed but we never went to sleep right away. We would stall (42 trips to the bathroom and 63 glasses of water), we would eavesdrop (you can only imagine the things tipsy adults say when they are unaware of little ears listening), and we would wait... wait for that beautiful hum of our marigold colored Sears brand blender. Because that sound meant that they were making Sip-and-Go Nakeds.

What is a Sip-and-Go-Naked you ask? Well it is a drink made of Beer, Vodka, Lemonade (or maybe Lime Juice, I can't remember) and ice mixed in a blender. So when we heard the sound of ice being crunched by the semi-sharp metal blades by our mixer, we knew the party had officially started! My parents definitely knew how to throw a good party but once Mr. Sip-and-Go-Naked made his appearance my sister and I knew that the event had evolved from shindig to bash. The music would slide from Level 5 - Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes through Level 8 - Kool & the Gang all the way to Level 10 - Marvin Gaye. My sister and I would take our stations, one peeking out of the bedroom door and the other watching out of the window into the back yard. We were convinced that once they made the Sip-and-Go-Nakeds they would ACTUALLY sip and go naked! (It never happened but we waited patiently and bore witness to lots of other ignorance... Grown people throwing other fully dressed and fully intoxicated grown people in the pool! Drunken incoherent arguments about politics, race, music and sports. My father dancing - enough said there! Or when they would "wake" my sister from her fake sleep and try to convince her to flip - she was a gymnast- for cash!) My favorite though was when my Uncle Kenny was at the house - He was a riot after a pitcher or two! (I mean, we thought so but Aunt Jackie wasn't quite as convinced of his hilarity!) Sometimes I would sneak out of my room and talk to him. He can be amazingly "deep" while plastered and then he would always hand me another 5 bucks! (Good times, good times!)

This weekend my sister and her husband invited us over for dinner, so we loaded up my grandkids and headed to Casa de Dani. The food was great! The company outstanding! My grandkids enjoyed their cousin! And she pulled out the blender!!!!! Because I had the grandkids and a long drive home, I did not drink but my husband had his first introduction to the Sip-and-Go-Naked! He started out slowly (he is not a BIG drinker and it seems that the combination of beer, vodka and lemonade does not sound alluring) but he was HOOKED fast! He did however have the good sense to quit before he was drunk and for that I was glad! Nevertheless, in the long run I will find him sitting, Sip-and-Go-Naked drunk, on the stairs discussing the vast fiscal ramifications of Global Warming with my 5 year old pajama-clad niece as she clutches a $20 bill in her cute little hand (Yes I said $20, the cost of living is higher than it was in the 70s... drunk adults need to make the necessary adjustments).

Happy Memorial Day!

I want to wish all of you a Happy Memorial Day. I hope you like the new look of the blog and invite any and all feedback. Enjoy your day (and with any luck plates and plates of delicious bar-b-que) and I will have a fresh (and hopefully amusing) story for you tomorrow!

Broken Hearted Boy seeks Ugly Friend to use as a Consolation Prize!

You know how some girls choose friends that are uglier or fatter than they are so that they always look good? Yeah, I think I'm the uglier, fatter friend. Maybe not, but all throughout Junior High and High School I had the most gorgeous friends. It started with, Tracie, my best friend at Franklin Middle School. Tracie, was (and still is) one of the most beautiful girls I have ever known. (Her skin was always perfect, she has always been thin, and unfortunately for all the other women around her, she is as nice as she is pretty). Tracie and I always had a blast together. We listened to music. We rode our bikes everywhere. We swam in the summer. We watched t.v. in the winter. We slept over at each other's houses all year round (I also used to make out with her brother sometimes after everyone at her house would go to sleep but that is really beside the point). Anyway she was a great friend but a boy I liked once told me, "She will be WAY prettier than you once she gets boobs." And honestly she is. And then there was Rachel, my super beautiful Korean friend. She was exotic, athletic, funny, and had an unnatural way of transforming all the boys around us into babbling morons. (Again though, she was uber sweet and her dad taught me a few Korean cuss words).

I don't know why but I think I was drawn to friends that seemed to "shine" brighter than others (regrettably though, they all shined so incredibly it showed EVERY SINGLE ONE of my physical imperfections). However, that was alright because they were my friends and I loved them. In high school, there was Keyla, Carmen, Joy, Avis, and my sister, Dani... all gorgeous and ALL cheerleaders. Honestly, a slumber party at my house was like a teenage boys porn fantasy (no, we weren't pillow fighting topless but there was a significant amount of pajama wearing hotness!!) So here was the problem: boys circled and swarmed us all of the time but never to be close to me. I wasn't jealous exactly but it was hard to be "the ugly friend", especially when you are not really all that ugly... in normal circles I would have been fairly decent looking (in high school I wasn't fat - unless I was pregnant - and my lazy eye rarely acted up back then). But with my friends I was well below average; therefore, I put all my time and energy into becoming the "nice one" and the "funny one", and for the most part it worked. Boys began to spend their time talking to me while they were waiting for their turn to dance with Carmen or Keyla or hanging around until Dani got home. And they found me charming. I wasn't quite as uptight as other girls and due to my inability to control what comes out of my mouth when I am nervous, they found me hilariously laid back! I became all of the guys' best buddy. They came to me for advice when they were trying to "woo" my friends and came to me to "talk" when my friends broke their hearts. And inevitably I would hear, "I should've dated you but she is just sooo beautiful and I didn't notice you." (Believe me that is only romantic in '80s movies, i.e; Some Kind of Wonderful or Secret Admirer, in real life it is just insulting!) I just wanted to scream, "Aahhhh, you sweet talker! Tell me more! Tell me more! Maybe how her glorious breasts had always blocked your view of my one good eye! Or how at first you couldn't hear me talking because you were listening to the melodious sound of her every fart!" But I didn't, once I even dated the dumb ass (I guess that actually made ME the dumb ass!).

I know it doesn't sound like it but my wounds have all healed and I still have lovely friends who all shine very brightly (a few of them, the cheerleaders from high school) but the game has changed. Because I shine now too! I am more confident, more seasoned, and even with the added weight I have grown into my looks... but most importantly I am married! Married to a man who knew us all in high school and he chose me. I was his FIRST pick! Not his fall back plan or consolation prize. That feels great! (I am actually thinking of having a tee shirt made!)

Wow, it is great to know that the underdog can win outside of those cheesy '80s movies!

No one ever asked Prince Charming to carry an oily walrus!

One of my sister and I's, favorite things to do with our parents when we were kids was to go to the drive-in. A better evening could not be had (except when we had a babysitter and we got to eat T.V. dinners or when our parents had parties and we would sneak out of bed and try to catch our parents and their friends drunk). But going to the drive-in was a spectacularly good time. Before we left the house, my Dad would lay down the back seat of the station wagon and my mother would fill the back with blankets, Dani and I would change into our pajamas and we would all pile into the car for a night out on the town. The drive-in was full of treats and adventures! We could play on the swing sets in our pajamas before the movie started. We could eats bowls of popcorn in the car. And on a "good" night we could turn around and sneak-a-peek at whatever movie was playing on the 2nd screen behind us (The other movie was usually Rated R, which meant we could either see people doing "sexiness' or murderous rampages. Either way, it was win/win!). But the best part was at the end, when we fell asleep in the car and daddy carried us into the house and lovingly tucked us into bed. That was my very, very favorite thing.

When dad tucked me into bed, I felt completely loved and safe. Sometimes I would purposely avoid bedtime just so I could dose off on the couch and my dad would pick me up and trudge up the stairs to my room. From time to time, I would even fake sleep to get the lift to bed, which usually worked (if my sneaky little sister didn't try the same dang thing that night because she would always win based on youth and cuteness... technically she still does). Getting carried to bed shouldn't have meant so much to me, but no matter what happened or how much things changed, that one thing, that one single act of love would return me to a place of safety and emotional sanctuary. I know it sounds silly but it's true. I blame those damn Disney Princesses! (Well, at least the white ones... no offense but Mulan, Jasmine, or Sacajawea, I mean Pocahontas, wouldn't have waited to be carried to bed... Belle probably wouldn't have either but Snow White and Cinderella would have. Ariel definitely would have, but in her defense, the bitch had fins for legs!) Anyway they pre-disposed me to the need for a White Knight in my life (or a Black Knight, or a Chicano Knight, or even a really hot Asian one.. Seriously, think about it...Jet Li sweeping you off to bed. No bad, eh?). But eventually I got too big (literally too big) to be carried up to my room (I was probably about 10 years old and 140 lbs) and when I finally got thin enough again, I was too old and in my first trimester of a scandalous teen pregnancy! But my dad still did little things to reassure me (hanging up the phone when I had fallen asleep talking to my friends, turning off my turntable when I had drifted off listening to Prince, or just making sure I had enough covers and whispering good night.)

I miss my Dad a lot and wish I would've stayed small longer. On my wedding night, my husband DID actually carry me over the threshold (I made him promise he would only attempt three steps... I didn't want to kill him when I had just taken legal possession of him) but carrying me to bed is out of the question. He is a STRONG man, my personal Prince Charming, but I am not a small girl and since I drool like a St. Bernard when I sleep, carrying me from the couch to the bedroom would probably be the equivalent of trying to tote an oily walrus from the bathtub to the kitchen sink. But just like my dad, he does little things to reassure me that I am loved and safe. I think my favorite thing, though, is when I fall asleep reading, he closes my book, takes off my glasses, kisses my forehead and then whispers good night. (Sometimes I pretend to be asleep, just so he will do it!)

I think even the Disney Princesses love that...

except for Ariel, that fishy-bitch lives under water, so I doubt she reads any books in bed.

Only SMART librarians have good Mondays...

When I woke up this morning, I had full intentions of having a good day. Why wouldn't I have a good day? I had a great weekend - time with my kids, time with my grandkids, time with my husband, and a couple of really nice long naps. The perfect weekend! Therefore, I was all set to follow it up with a great work week. You see, I am one of those CRAZY individuals who is not only grateful to have a job but who LIKES their job!

So, I got up, threw on my clothes brushed my hair, combed my teeth (wait... reverse that) and started to put on my shoes but I couldn't find my one of my red flip flops (well, poop!). That's O.K. though, I just threw on my red tennis shoes instead. Before I left the house, my daughter (a college student who is currently at home) told me she was going out of town for a few days to visit friends. I told her that was fine but I would feel a little better if she posed it as a question rather than a statement (you know, out of respect). She then treated me to a 10 minute diatribe on the fact that she is 19 years old and a grown woman and should be treated as such. (I almost began the "then perhaps you should pay rent or get your own place" rebuttal but I stopped myself.) "This is going to be a good day," I thought. I just said, "Well, I understand how you feel and hope you understand how I feel. Have a great time... Text me before you leave." And I left for the Library.

On the way to work, I enjoyed the weather. (Those of you who know me, know that I am a rainy day girl but the sun wasn't too hot and the breeze was just perfect! It was a great Spring Day!) The ticket machine was out of tickets when I pulled into the parking garage, which kind of backed up traffic but that's alright. I still stayed positive and made it into work right on time. I greeted everyone cheerfully but apparently a few people had called in sick and being short of staff had brought the mood down to "Yuck!" But I just kept smiling... Yes, it was going to be a busy day but HEY! it would make the day go faster (At least that is what I kept telling myself!) I did, however, try to tone down the "chipper-ness" because it was VERY OBVIOUSLY pissing people off.

By lunch, in addition to my usually duties, I had been called a moron by a patron who called the library in search of an answer for her crossword puzzle (I transferred her to a SMART librarian), my computer needed to be rebooted three times, I had tried to explain the microfilm machine to a really elderly couple who were incredibly hard of hearing and wanted to see the local paper for the entire year of 1932, and tried to convince another couple who were looking to attend a meeting in Room 403 that we did not have a Room 403 (we don't even have a fourth floor). I have to admit that at this point my good mood was wavering a bit but I just thought lunch would replenish me and I would comeback strong! I was wrong, so very, very wrong!

I went home at lunch, nuked a frozen burrito, folded a load of laundry and headed to the bank. That is when Satan (the ATM machine) ate my card. Just ate it, before I could even get any money. I called the bank on the way back to work and the teller I spoke to seemed a little perturbed that I wanted my card back. She said told me that the repair people would be in the next day and then they would just shred the card. I asked her NOT to shred the card and she said... seriously said this... "What did you want us to do with it?". I offered to come pick it up, she finally (hesitantly) said that was alright.

WhenI got back to work the mood was worse but I fought through it. At 4:30 I started to get excited! "Only half an hour more to go", I thought, "and then I am going home and crawling into bed!" I would just start over tomorrow! Right? Wrong! At 4:35, my son called to tell me my daughter had left (she did NOT text me, like I asked) and that he had a band concert... TONIGHT! (He claims he didn't know.) Oh yeah, and he needed a new pair of pants! So I left work at 5, picked up my son, borrowed some money from my mom (no ATM card, remember?), and went to 3 different place before he found the right pants in his size. We then came back home, I kissed my husband good-bye (he was leaving to Umpire a baseball game), I did the dishes while my son took a shower (he then yelled at me to stop because it was stealing his hot water), and then he got dressed quickly and we left for the concert.

I sat through the concert and applauded at all the right moments (my son did spectacularly). After the concert we had to stop at the store before we could go home. And here I am, venting to all of you. What started as a good day, slipped downhill so quickly! But maybe it will be better tomorrow.

Anyway, I am sorry that this is all I have to offer you today but it has been... "a day". But tomorrow is another day. Hopefully no one will call in sick, I will get my ATM card back (in one piece), and I will know any crossword puzzle answers that patrons ask me. Well, I guess "Hope Springs Eternal".

Jimmy Carter was a Gym Class sadist!

This past Friday we had a Staff Day at work. You know... awards, trainings, boxed lunches, and 48 co-workers sitting in a circle singing Kumbaya while the last 2 sit off to the side and complain LOUDLY! But as a fun activity to end the day, we had a library "Treasure Hunt". I was psyched! The clues were book based! And I love mysteries and I love to win! This was perfect, except that the library is three floors and the elevators are slow, so my teammates wanted to do the stairs. Are you kidding me? After the first clue, on the 2nd floor, I thought I would die. From then on, they took the stairs and I took the elevator (We came in 2nd - in no way due to my lack of physical fitness! I promise!)

Anyway, after 40 years I have finally accepted something about myself. I am the least physically fit person in the world. Now when I say this, I am not referring to weight. There are people FAR bigger than me who are FAR more fit that I am and I am positive that Calista Flockart's boney ass could walk up a flight of steps without getting winded. To be honest, I WISH I could blame the weight but even at my thinner moments, physical fitness just "wasn't my thing"! As far back as I can remember I have just always been a lot happier in a stationary position. (Although I did enjoy dance class when I was 7 and riding my bike around to look at boys with friend Tracie, in Junior High.)

In elementary school I dreaded the days when we had to take the Presidential Fitness Test in gym class. I mean, seriously what the hell did Jimmy Carter care if I changed into my "gym class tennis shoes" and successfully climbed a rope, after running a quarter of a mile and doing 50 push-ups? In my opinion, that is time I could have been studying math (my very worst subject!). I'll bet Chinese children weren't doing obstacle courses for the Emperor's Fitness Test. No, they weren't! They were slowly but surely taking over the world while chubby little 5th graders like me were crying on the sidelines with rope-burned thighs because I wasn't gonna earn the coveted Presidential Fitness Patch. What was Jimmy Carter thinking? (Actually Lyndon B. Johnson started that dumb shit but Jimmy Carter was my personal torturer, so I blame him!) I understand the desire to have a physically fit nation, but asking me to do sit-ups while an angry lesbian gym teacher and a room full of my peers watched, taunted and judged did not do much for my self-esteem. Nobody ever makes the stupid kid stand in front of the class and take a verbal IQ test while the teacher holds a stop watch and screams his last name impatiently, do they? NO! I probably could have handled that, but I just don't see how my life would've been any better if I hadn't caught the "fat-kid cramp" during my deep knee bends and could've completed the "task at hand".

I know that I should get into better shape. I honestly would like to be able to bend over without feeling woozy. (Yesterday when I was putting away the dishes, I dropped a fork and had to pick it up with my toes and rewash it. In my defense though, I was still a little sore from walking up that flight of stairs the day before.) Anyway, I am going to try harder to exert myself a bit more physically and maybe get into better shape but I plan to do so on my terms. Maybe I'll start slowly by walking my dog around the block and build from there. But however I do it, it won't be in hopes of earning any stupid Presidential Fitness Patch and in the off chance I get REALLY fit and I eventually do climb a damn rope to the ceiling of Laketown Elementary School... Former Presidents Carter and Clinton better accompany me and President Obama to Maverick Steakhouse where I want both the Bushes to buy us dinner and Cheney to serve it, in uniform! (Now doesn't that sound better than getting some damn patch)!

Do you believe in spanking?

I, despite my general distaste for small children that I am not related to by blood, marriage, or friendship, worked briefly as a Nanny. (This pithy, little resume-fart of a job was wedged between my time as a bank teller / waitress and my stint as an employment specialist for the disabled. And yes my "nanny time" did end badly but this time, I promise you, I it was not my fault.) This is what happened:

When I was working at the bank, I had a few customers that really liked me (they used to ask if I could wait on them, they would tell me jokes or show me family pictures, one guy even brought me flowers on my birthday). Well, when I told one of these guys that I was leaving the bank (I quit because being still and quiet is really difficult for me - How weird that ended up in a Library!), he told me that he and his wife were looking for a nanny and they would like to interview me for the position. Great I thought! The hours were 9 to 3 (the hours my kids were in school and days when school was out I could bring them). The guy was a good-looking lawyer type, the wife was over-weight but pretty and very sweet, and the kid, well, she was normal little kid (non-verbal, leaked a lot but basically harmless).Perfect, right? Wrong!

Everything started out alright (except that "the freak"- as he will be called from now on is this story - and his wife didn't allow the television on during the day or ever in their daughters presence... she was 5 months old. Which I didn't understand because outside of my mother, most of my good parenting tips came from Dan and Roseanne Conner). Anyway like I said, everything started out fine but a couple of weeks in they started trying to get me interested in Amway. Strange, but workable. After about six weeks I was fairly comfortable in the job and occasionally "the freak" would come home for lunch and we would discuss the events of his morning. On one said occasion, he revealed that he had know a girl in college who "looked just like me" and he was always too scared to ask her out. But browned-skinned women really turned him on. About a week after that he mentioned that while he was stuck at a traffic light he had overheard a black prostitute offer a white man oral sex. "I thought black women didn't do that?" he said, "but it's good to know they do!" Once he called and asked me to get a file off his dresser and read him a phone number and when I when into his room, one of the dresser drawers was open, exposing a dildo and some sort of sparkly gold lubricant. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not!

But the final straw was the afternoon that he was working from home and he called from upstairs to tell me the baby was up from her nap. As I reached the landing to the second floor he walked from his office to the bathroom... stark naked. I gave notice the next day. He said, "Why? I thought things were coming together quite nicely."

How come nothing like that ever happens on Super Nanny?

Dog House vs. Super Pad

One of the things I hold most dear about my childhood is the fact that my sister and I were always surrounded by animals. (No, we weren't raised in a zoo. Sometimes it seemed like it though.) Our parents just allowed us almost every pet we desired. Gerbils, Hamsters, Rabbits, we had a duck that lived in our pool one summer (granted he was there strictly by choice but we fed him), and dogs, lots and lots of dogs. We didn't, however, get the pig my sister wanted or the kitten I wanted (my dad was afraid of cats, we went to look at them once and he almost cried). But like I said, we had dogs, a kennel in fact. Our family used to raise and show dogs in competitions like the ones you see on Animal Planet. It was really, really fun! We had Afghan Hounds, Australian Terriers, Dobermans, German Shepards and a Great Dane. And we had puppies. We always had PUPPIES! For most part, everybody loved the fact that we had dogs. That is except for "Tammy". "Tammy" was a big fat thorn in my side!

She was light skinned with a big bushy afro, and FAT, super fat, fatter than I have ever been. She stomped around school looking like a big yellow sun! And she was mean really, REALLY mean, especially to me! The thinner I got, the meaner she got. The thing was we didn't start out as enemies, we started out pretty friendly. We had some mutual friends, so she had come to some of my infamously, fabulous sleepovers. But then one day she started telling everyone that our house smelled like dog. (It probably did but that was beside the point.) One minute we were friends and the next minute she had dubbed my house the "Dog House". When she realized that people were believing her she just started making things up. By the end of the school year, she had nearly convinced people that our house was hording packs of feral dogs and our carpet was made of canine feces and hair. I don't even know what I did to her. I really don't. She was just an evil girl. But eventually, the teasing stopped, the rumors faded and everything got back to normal. However, "Tammy" and I stayed enemies. Which was just fine with me. (As she got larger, so did my popularity. Ha - Ha) When I had parties I didn't invite her and I felt NO sympathy when people started calling her "Big Tam". Why should I have compassion when she had none? But then something happened in gym class that changed everything.

"Big Tam" and I had the same gym class, which resulted in a lot of dirty looks on my part and name calling on hers (It's not that I didn't want to call her names but I was scared! That heifer was nearly twice my size!) But the worst part was the locker room, she seemed to be at her most wicked in those 5 to 10 minutes (In restrospect, I understand that it was because she was incredibly self conscious but back then I was just trying to dodge the verbal bullets). But on that one day, after one of her tirades she had told her friends (amazingly, she had a few) that she would meet them on the court and then slipped into one of the bathroom stalls. I was late changing, so I ended up following her to the door.

Now I tell you in the spirit of full disclosure that when I saw what I saw I contemplated not telling her but I found my moral compass and tried to do the right thing. I said, "Tammy, I need to talk to you."

She said, "Shut up!"

"Please, I need to talk to you. Right now! Before you go out there," I pleaded.

She snapped, "I ain't no lesbo! Stop begging me!" I then remember her cackling a hideous laugh (but honestly that could have been from the Wizard of Oz).

She was almost out the door and I tried one last time, "I REALLY NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING! YOU ARE REALLY GOING TO WANT TO HEAR THIS!"

And then she was out the door. She turn around to face me, her back to her friends and the rest of the class. "Bitch," she yelled. "I don't want to hear shit from your dumbass!" And once again everyone laughed... but this time not at me.

You see "Big Tam" had come out of the bathroom stall with her bloody super maxi-pad stuck to the back of her leg. People teased her for a long time after that and despite our enemy status, I didn't enjoy it (Yet it is good to know that I am not the only person who has Olives and Underpants moments). I did try to tell her but her evilness got in the way.

So, in the battle of

Dog House vs. Super Pad,

I declare Dog House the winner!

Popularity, Colostomy Bags, and the Big Shoe

When I was eight years old, my family picked up and moved from Quincy, IL to Springfield, IL. Now Springfield is by no means “the big city” but it is, in fact, much larger than Quincy. In Quincy, my parents were the Co-Presidents of the PTA. In Quincy, my mother was a Brownie Troop leader. In Quincy, my father was like the most popular guy in town. (I might be little biased, but not much!) In Quincy, everybody knew me, loved me and just assumed that I was beginning an awkward stage. In our new town, who would know that I had been an adorable baby and a super-smart kindergartner of nearly normal proportion? Who would know that my hair used to be long and beautiful before the a bad “perm incident”? Who would know that in Quincy's third grade hierarchy, I had earned my way to first dibs on the swings? Nobody, that’s who! But we moved anyway and my parents did their best to make it an adventure for us. We got to pick out new bedroom furniture and choose the paint color for our room (Yes, they did make us share a room even though there was a perfectly good EMPTY room across the hall! Don’t even get me started on that…). My father even promised me a kitten if I “came along quietly”.

So there we were, Dani and me, strangers in a new town, in a new neighborhood (actually it was a subdivision and you know how cliquey they can be), in the middle of the school year, thinking WTF? But we tried to fit in, we enrolled in gymnastics (Naturally my sister excelled and I, well… I sweated a lot. Not actually from the gymnastics, though, from trying to squeeze my fat ass into the leotard). We rode our bikes around the neighborhood. And our parents became active at our school. Should’ve worked magic, right? Well in a way it did.

I remember my first few days at Laketown Elementary School. My teacher didn’t favor me the way I had grown accustomed (I had gotten 100% on every Spelling test for the whole year, so of course I was a favorite!). The building was weird (None of the classrooms had doors and they all had ½ walls. You could see into every room from the hallway). And there were hardly any other brown faces (and none in my class)! But I tried, I really did. Nobody really talked to me but a boy named “Seth”. He wore “the big shoe” because one of his legs was shorter than the other and a very noticeable colostomy bag, but he was nice to me. He helped me catch up in Math and I helped him study for Spelling Tests. My old school hadn’t been handicap accessible; therefore Seth was my first physically disabled friend, (Calm down, it was the ‘70s. Some people were still running around screaming, “Look at the Cripple!”) but my parents had raised me to be accepting of everyone. And I was. I mean, I DID notice the smell that misted around “Seth” and I could plainly see that he would often let his colostomy bag fill until you thought it would burst (he DID know how to empty it). But who was I to judge, I was just the chubby, frizzy haired, new 3rd grade girl in a B-cup bra.

And then it happened, Lanie Honeyman, the coolest, prettiest girl in the third grade spoke to me. And a few days later, we were having conversations. She lived in my neighborhood. She lived with her mom and two sisters. And she seemed to know everything. (Seriously, she was almost as smart as Judy Blume). I was so excited that I had finally begun to make more friends, it wasn’t as if I didn’t like the TWO friends I had (“Seth" and Mr. Hale the janitor) but now that the popular kids were speaking to me maybe I could add to my less than hectic social schedule. Lanie and her friends said that I could sit at her lunch table and I began to salivate like a Pavlovian dog (1. this was my ticket to the in-crowd and 2. because it was Grilled Cheese and French Fry day). I couldn’t wait!!! However, when lunch came “Seth” refused to go to their table. I begged and I pleaded but he claimed that they didn’t like him. He said that, until I came along, he had no friends. I was touched that my friendship had meant so much to him. I had never been that important to anybody. I thought about it though, it had to have been hard for a boy with his “problems” to make friends. Yet, he had so bravely reached out to me and helped ME fit in. He was something truly special… Which is why I felt so bad about looking at him and saying, “Well, bye then” and going to sit with Lanie.

I have regretted that moment since it happened (maybe not at first but as I matured I realized how wrong I had been). “Seth” and I really didn’t speak after that. Until I ran into him one day after school, we were in High School by that time and for some odd reason he was coming out of the boys’ bathroom with a mop. I was nervous but I gathered my strength and approached him and hesitantly said, “Hi Seth. I don’t know if you remember but in the third grade, I ditched you in the lunchroom to sit with some other people. I have always felt real bad about that and I am truly sooooo sorry.” He looked at me in disbelief. He probably had forgotten all about it. I had spent so many hours worrying for nothing! I hadn’t scarred him! I had done NO permanent damage at all! I could finally forgive myself for that horrid choice I made.

"Seth" looked at me intently and said, “FUCK YOU BITCH!”

and then he just limped away.

After that I didn’t really regret my choosing Lanie anymore.

Fat Cougars in Tube Tops!

I would like to use today's blog as a platform against yet another growing problem in today's society... What problem is that? Well, I would like to talk about the hordes of women over 30 (sometimes, well over 30) who refuse to dress or act "age or weight appropriately"!

Let me tell you what I saw today when I stopped at the little grocery store in my neighborhood before work. The over 40 year old cashier, who totaled my purchases, was wearing white leggings with lace around the ankles under hot pink short - shorts, a white tank top (no bra), and a hot pink and yellow jacket. (THIS WAS HER WORK ATTIRE). Her hair extensions were piled on top of her head in an "I Dream of Genie" ponytail and the whole time that she was waiting on me she was telling a co-worker how she couldn't find a "good man". (I wanted to scream "Perhaps it is due to your Chuck E. Cheese inspired outfit!) It was because of this (and thousands of other fashion tragedies) that I have put together a small help list for those who may be confused.

1. If the word "baby" is in the item (i.e; Baby Doll tees, Baby Doll dresses, etc...), it is not made for the middle-aged or the chunky!
   
   
2. If you wear (or need to wear) Spanx, you should not shop at Forever 21, Charlotte Russe, PacSun, or Wet Seal!
   
   
3. Skinny Jeans are for the SKINNY!!!!
   
   
4. Just because they make size 3X Tweety Bird shirts, does not mean that 275 lb. women should wear those shirts around town. (Rule of thumb: Once you weigh more than 250 pounds you should not wear bright yellow... you will just look like the sun!)
   
   
5. Women over 30 should NEVER wear tee shirts emblazoned with hard-core rap artists or scenes from the movie Twilight!
   
   
6. After the age of 35, do not pierce anything new but your ears. If you have made it that long, you can do without it!
   
   
7. If your toes are curled over the front of your shoes, gripping on like a monkey's toes, the shoes do NOT fit.
   
   
8. No matter how sexy or youthful you are, the pleated mini-skirt schoolgirl look should not be worn outside of the bedroom after the age of 25. (Seriously don't, not even on Halloween. It just looks skanky!)
   
   
9. SpongeBob Squarepants drawstring pants are not made for 40 year old women.
   
   
10. If your nipples hang even with your elbows, tube tops are no longer an option.
    
    
11. If you have a Dunlap, hide it with well fitting pants and shirts. (Definition of Dunlap: the part of fat girl's stomach that "dunlaps" over the front of her cooter box)
    
    

Now these are just a few helpful hints.

Please review and make the appropriate wardrobe adjustments if necessary.

Thank you for your support!

P.S. If any of you would like to add to this list, I invite any and all contributions.

Mothers' Day Off

Dear Readers,

Because today is Mothers' Day and I have not only four children, but four grandchildren and a mother, I have decided to take today off. However, I have to tell you that my husband and children did well this year... I got breakfast (and they cleaned up afterwards), the bench I wanted for my garden, and the whole day to just curl up in my chair to read and watch bad movies. Life is Good!!!

Love you all!

- D

One Coupon for a Free Day of Exhaustion

With Mothers' Day so quickly approaching, I feel that I should speak for just a moment , on behalf of Mothers everywhere, on the impending barrage of Mothers' Day celebrations and gifts. Although being a mother is indeed the greatest gift of all, attention should be paid to the presents that are bought, made, and given on Sunday. Here are a few helpful hints:

• When making the Mother in your life breakfast, it is the thought that counts. We do not care if you make omelettes, sausage and bagels, Eggs Benedict, or just cereal and fruit. However, we would REALLY appreciate it if you would clean up afterwards! Far too often we walk through the kitchen after our relaxing breakfast in bed to find the entire room covered in pancake batter, strawberry tops, and bacon grease. One burnt (but lovingly made) breakfast is not worth the hours, upon hours, of clean-up.
  
  
• When buying us gifts, most of us do not care if you spend $20, $200, or $2,000. However, we would appreciate it if you would NOT purchase us the gifts that you want. For example - I want a bench or a fountain for my garden. However, I will probably end up with an Xbox under the guise that it is FUN for everyone! Additionally, we really don't want gifts that result in more work for us! For example - A good gift would be a dishwasher, A bad gift is a Lawn Mower. Get the point?
  
  
• If you would like to take us to lunch or dinner, that is fantastic! But PLEASE do not expect us to get everyone ready. A $9.95 surf and turf plate at the Red Lobster is a poor trade off for the hour long process of digging through the filth of the boys' rooms looking for clean shirts and trying to wrangle your sweet little princess's hair into pigtails when she is screaming bloody murder, while your husband sits contently flipping the television between ESPN and ESPN2.
  
  
• Home-made gifts are one of the many joys of parenting. I cherish the many paper weights, Christmas ornaments, and paintings that my children have produced through my 24 years of being a mom. Though I am sure that I am not the only mother who has received the booklet of hand written gift certificates full of things that our children have NO intention of doing. Right now I am probably sitting on 4 certificates "Good for 1 Car Wash", 12 - "I will not complain at bed time" pledges, 20 coupons for "A Free Hug", and about 56 vouchers for "Breakfast in Bed"... I have so many because once my little angels gave them to me, it was over. They had no plans to ever complete a single task in those hand-crafted glitter covered coupon book of lies. (When I gave my husband the "sexy coupon" book, you better believe he made me follow through... sometimes twice... he claimed it was Double Coupon Tuesday!) Anyway my kids might as well given me vouchers for plutonium, I probably could get that filled just as quickly as my voucher for one day free of "Mom, could you...".

Anyway, the best present that anybody (including myself) can give their mother is just the love and respect that is deserved. Being a mom is hard work. Physically. Emotionally. Financially. Spiritually. No one ever warns you that labor and delivery would be the easy part, but it is.

One the other hand, is it so worth it. It is the best job that I have ever had.

Happy Mothers' Day!

Love - D

One man's trash is another mother's escape artist...

I had to leave work early on Monday because our dog, Rufus, escaped again. I say again because Rufus, much like Houdini, sees any locked crate, closed door, or fenced yard as some sort of challenge. It is this one little issue (along with his growing senility, random yapping, and insane fear of brooms and mops) that make me want to kill him most of the time. Don't get me wrong, I love Rufus but he came to me with "issues"!

To preface Rufus's story I must first explain that when they were growing up my two oldest boys, Robbie and Kyle, used to "find" things. All kinds of things - flat basketballs, broken lawn chairs, screen doors, etc... I think they used to just walk up and down alleys looking for treasures (You know, that whole "One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Treasure" mindset). In addition to the boys' habit of collecting what they felt were unwanted items, Kyle had the unique ability to stumble upon and then rescue animals in need. He was constantly running into the house with frogs, baby birds, rabbits, and the occasional cat. Now for the most part, neither of these habits bothered me. But because we live in the 'hood, I had to constantly shake their finds free of hypodermic needles, pieces of broken glass, used condoms, or the occasional stowaway ghetto rat (Ghetto rats are meaner, sneakier, and faster than regular rats but oddly they won't bother you if you don't bother them, they dance REALLY well, and they're hung like horses). Anyway, it was because of all of this that I was not surprised when the boys showed up with Rufus.

When the boys came home with Rufus, an adorable little Manchester Terrier (he looks like a Doberman puppy), they told me they had found him wandering around the neighborhood, looking hungry and cold. And for a brief moment my heart started to melt (A situation I quickly corrected. I did not want another Dog! I could barely get them to take care of Chuckie, the turtle.). I told them in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that we would keep the dog for a few days while we looked for his owners but after that he would have to go to the Animal Protective League. There, I handled that! Nice! Neat! And to the point! The boys just looked at me and smiled.

Day One - Rufus tried to snuggle up with me when I slept but I quickly refuted his advances. I called the Pound first thing in the morning to see if anyone had reported a dog missing... they had not. I left word (and our phone number) at our neighborhood grocery store about the dog. That evening the boys dutifully walked him, fed him and gave him water. And in Rufus's defense he didn't have a single accidents in the house and when I brought this to the boys attention, they just looked at me and smiled.

Day Two - Rufus again tried to snuggle and I refused. I did, however, let him sleep at the foot of my bed. In the afternoon I checked back with the pound and the grocery store. I thought about placing an ad in the newspaper but never quite got around to it. The boys took care of him all day and he slowly started making himself at home. He also started attacking our broom whenever it was visible. I reminded my children that his tenancy was only temporary. They just looked at me and smiled.

Day Three - Rufus and I woke up to a thunder storm. Rufus does not like thunder storms. We spent the day trying to calm him. (We also hid the broom and the mop... he doesn't like mops either.) He was a maniac all day and even had a couple of accidents in the house (but who could blame him... he was scared). At about 8pm, Rufus was pacing back and forth (I had just vacuumed and... well... you guessed it he hates vacuums, too) and when I opened the front door to see if it was still raining (it was) he ran out the front door and down the street. The kids were hysterical. I was worried (not because I liked the dog but because the weather was so bad). We tried to find him but we couldn't. Maybe he found his real owner... My boys were not smiling.

Day Four - I called the Pound to see if anyone had found Rufus and, low and behold, they had! I contacted the gentleman and went to pick up Rufus. (Not because I planned on keeping the dog but I wanted to be able to reassure the kids that he was alright.) The weird thing was the guy who found Rufus lived clear on the other side of town. When I voiced confusion about how Rufus could have made it clear across town in the storm. He told me that he had found Rufus in a bar on our side of town. The guy was sitting drinking beer in a booth and looked down and there Rufus was under his table. (Crazy, right?) Then the guy told me that if I didn't want Rufus, that he would be more than glad to keep him. I was shocked and appalled! He just asked me could he keep MY dog. Who does that? I went home and told the kids we were keeping Rufus. They just looked at me and smiled.

Over the next four years - We learned that Rufus is not only afraid of brooms, mops, vacuums, but also dust pans, canes and walking sticks, wind, and people who make eye contact. We learned that most foods give him gas. We learned that he likes to pee in the house when he is angry, scared or really happy. But mostly we learned that he LOVES to escape from the house, the yard, his leash, his pen, the car, and pretty much any other place he is suppose to stay.

Year Seven - I learned that the boys had actually found Rufus a MONTH before they brought him into the house. My boys, as well as a few other neighborhood kids, had been hiding him in the broken down van my ex-husband had abandoned in my driveway a year earlier. The boys waited to give me this last little bit of "Rufus Info" until they had both turned 18 and had moved into their own apartments. (Neither one of them took Rufus with them when they moved out. I begged them to... over and over again).

So now my husband and I are stuck with what may or may not be a dog they "just found", who we have to crate before we can do any sort of house cleaning (we found out that he also hates the carpet shampooer that we got for Christmas). Rufus is slowly going senile and can barely make it up and down the steps some days but when we finally found him this afternoon. He was more than five blocks away, strutting down the street in the middle of the 'hood. I figure he was trying to find the same bar he found years ago but my husband thinks he was just trying to score some weed in case he develops cataracts. But your guess is as good as mine?

Why I can't go to church with Marlee Matlin

Part of my disability (Yeah, that’s right! I am claiming my socially inappropriate behavior as a disability now) includes awkwardness in certain conversations. I am blessed with the fact that I can generally talk to anyone about anything, however, it is the way those conversations unravel that can, at times, be suspect. You see, whenever I am talking with someone I tend to pick up their mannerisms. If they speak with a southern drawl, I begin to speak with a southern drawl. If they speak with a British accent, I begin to speak with a British accent. If they speak using a lot of ghetto slang, well then I… actually when that happens I just continue to speak proper English (When I attempt any sort of slang I sound pathetic, kind of like a female Carlton Banks). But I’m sure you get the picture. Anyway, this annoying little habit of mine can sometimes be cute and quirky but more often than not, just ends up being embarrassing for everyone involved. The person I am talking to usually thinks I am making fun of them and then I generally go into a 10 minute diatribe about being retarded at which point, I am in trouble for using the word retarded. Therefore, I have to stay incredibly alert when I am in the company of anyone other than friends, family or mental health professionals (I gave up trying to impress them years ago). Which is easier said than done when you work with the public.

Just today at work, a woman approached me in the stacks needing help finding a specific book and even though she had some pretty noteworthy eye-twitching going on, I was able to maintain professional demeanor. Well, until she started asking me what I liked to read. At that point, I became too relaxed (because I l-o-v-e to talk about books) and then it all went downhill. Before I knew it, I was in full blown mimic-mode. I kept blinking way too hard and way too fast. My nose kept wriggling around. I looked like I was having some sort of facial seizure. She just stared at me in disbelief and asked me if I was alright. I nodded and told her that my doctor was in the midst of switching my meds and I was having a few side effects. After I found her book , she told me she hoped I felt better. I smiled and replied, "Just keep me in your prayers". (I know. I'm ridiculous and I wish that was the worst story I had, but it isn't. I am going to tell you the worst story but be warned, it happened in a church and does not make me look good!)

Here we go: The social service agency that I was working for set up a donation and volunteer recruiting booth at an area church's fall festival. Everything was going well. We got a great spot (right between Big Brother, Big Sister and the agency that sends cows, rice, and ostriches to Third World Countries to be used for food and feather boas or something). I had passed out tons of inviting and colorful brochures and people seemed truly interested in donating food and time to homeless families. And then it happened... Two very nice ladies approached me and asked for information. One of the ladies was deaf (you know, Marlee Matlin - deaf, where she can read your lips and still speaks but she signs while she does it). I was sooooo proud of myself. I answered all of her questions clearly, intelligently, and at a normal decibel (Some people yell at the deaf, which is silly because deaf is deaf. But I don't do that. I am not completely socially inept). She and I actually had a great conversation (Her friend wasn't very friendly, though, she kind of looked angry with me. Maybe she was jealous of how well I adapt to people with "different abilities". It's a gift I have.) I was able to sign both of them up to be volunteers and even talked them into donating a meal to the shelter once a month! My boss, who was sitting next to me, was watching in astonishment. I was on fire! Oddly though,she kept trying to hold my hand (everybody wants to latch on to a winner.) But I just shook her off and kept going. Finally, the deaf lady (I know that is not politically correct but I don't remember he name) smiled and said sweetly "I can read your lips. You do not have to try and sign." I looked down at my hands in horror. Through the entire conversation, I had been signing, not gesturing with my hands, signing. AND I DO NOT KNOW SIGN LANGUAGE! I had been making up signs, lots and lots of signs, through the entire conversation. My boss wasn't trying to hold my hand she was trying to suppress my insanity.

I am telling you people, there is something incredibly wrong with me. God forbid I ever run into a guy with Tourettes' at the library. It could be really ugly!.

First "First Kiss", Last "First Kiss"

My first kiss, my first REAL non-spin-the bottle kiss, was magical. It was snowing, one of those magical snows that blankets everything. No slush. Not too cold. Just perfect. And a group of us were having a snowball fight. Woosh! Pow! Whap! The snowballs were flying and then Jimmy, the coolest boy I had ever met, got an impish look in his eye and... Bam! He hit me right in the center of my chest and I went flying into the snowbank behind me. He trudged over and extended his hand (as if to help me up) but instead he fell beside me and kissed me. It was the softest, sweetest, first kiss any girl could ask for. I felt it on my lips for days after it happened and even now, a beautiful, peaceful snow reminds me of the innocence and splendor of that one moment. It is a memory I will carry in my heart forever.

Now my last first kiss was much different. I was much older (almost 20 years older than I was that snowy day). I had experienced dozens of first kisses. Some of them good, some of them bad. Some of them preludes to warm and caring relationships, some of them overtures to liaisons created in hell. But first kisses they were and with exception of my first, first kiss, none of them were memorable... until the first time I kissed my husband. We were in a storage room, organizing items to be given to the homeless. And he just tapped me on the shoulder and kissed me. We were not dating. I didn't even realize he was interested in me. He just kissed me, hands cupping each side of my face, and said quietly, "I have been wanting to do that since high school," and then he just walked away. I stood there for a very long time (probably only like 30 seconds) trying to make sense of what had just happened. (In hindsight, I think I was trying to get some feeling back in my legs. My husband is truly an excellent kisser.)

When I think about it now, I realize that was my last "first kiss" and I couldn't have asked for anything better. Just like my first "first kiss", it left me speechless. Also, like my first "first kiss", it lingered on my lips but not just for days this time... it has lingered for years. I am telling this story because today is my wedding anniversary and although I spend a lot of time poking fun at my life, I am fully aware at the many blessing that I have. While dancing with my "first kiss" Jimmy at my wedding, he asked me if I was happy and I could honestly tell him, "I am". And that felt good. But what feels better is that after all these years (and innumerable humiliating moments), I still am.

So today without jokes or any funny stories, I tell you all that I have felt loved every moment of my marriage. My husband has made me feel secure enough to be me from that very first kiss and I am so grateful. So to him I would like to say, "I truly love you, Mr. Fisher. Thank you for best last "first kiss" any woman could hope for."

Even Cleopatra's mother had to multi-task!

Sometimes balancing being a wife, mother, daughter, sister, employee, and everything else can be tedious. In order to maintain any semblance of balance, one must learn the fine art of multi-tasking. You see, men believe that a woman's ability to navigate a Starbuck's drive-thru while applying mascara and signing a month's worth of school permission slips is one of our greatest talents but in fact, it is more likely the capacity to create three handmade Halloween costumes, while making dinner, frosting 5 dozen pumpkin shaped sugar cookies, paying bills and mentally powering down enough to make the nightly transformation from housewife to whore long enough to keep her husband off of the sexy 22 year old intern at his job. This is the true sign of a successful multi-tasker.

Now when you are blessed with four children (as I have been), Halloween can be a bit of work. Couple that with the fact that my ONLY daughter's birthday is only days away from this "Spooktacular" holiday and my work load increases exponentially. Not only did I yearly have to make 4 costumes but I had to plan and implement a birthday party that does not conflict. Usually, all on the low, low budget of... well... little to no money.

To add to the usual chaos, the year my daughter was to turn 7, I was elected PTA President. That meant that I was in charge of the School's Fall Festival, which fell five days before Halloween and ON my daughter's birthday! Perfect! Just Perfect! But I handled things like a champ! I took lemons and made lemonade!

First things first, I pieced out portions of costumes from years past to make "new" costumes for the boys. (You know, the flannel shirt from last years hobo costume paired with a hockey mask become Jason from Friday the 13th) This way I could focus all of my efforts on my daughter, Devin's, costume. We decided on Cleopatra! (She looked beautiful and I didn't have to do nearly as much work as I had the 6 previous years!) Then, I explained to Devin that since her birthday fell on Fall Festival day, instead of a party we would go to the festival and then the whole family would meet at Grandma's and have cake and ice cream! (This would save me the price of a party) Oddly, this went over O.K. with her. I was so surprised! She did not seem the least bit put out. I was soooo relieved.

I spent the two weeks before the event planning and creating, after the children went to bed at night or before they woke up in the morning (not my best time). But everything worked itself out because the night of the festival went very smoothly. The silent auction raised money. Kids were appropriately afraid in the haunted house (it was behind the curtain on the stage). I had enough cake, pie, and strangely donut, donations for the Cake Walk. And the teacher reading the crystal ball in our cardboard fortune teller's booth did so well that her line was nearly as long as the haunted house's.

About every 1/2 an hour or so, I would have to take the microphone and proclaim costume or raffle winners, announce that there was a Blue Chevy El Derado with license plates BGPIMPN with it's lights on, or request that little Shevrolette Jackson meet her mother at the Popcorn Machine because it was time to go. And when I would do this my lovely little Cleopatra would tag dutifully behind, smiling proudly. (I could tell how she proud she was at that moment that I was her mother. Even at 7 years old she wasn't thinking about the fact that I hadn't been able to throw her a party, she was just happy that I was involved in her life and the activities at her school.) It was at this exact moment that I knew that my daughter would someday be a successful "multi-tasker". She would be able to "bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan"! Lost in my pride (and my announcement "Raffle Ticket #3567082 you have won 2 free scoops at Bressler's Ice Cream), I didn't immediately feel her tugging at my skirt. "Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom", she pleaded.

"Yes, baby," I answered covering the microphone.

"I need to talk on the microphone," she stated sweetly.

I handed it to her, thinking this will be cute. I was sure she was going to proclaim, "I love my mommy!" or "I am 7 years old today!" but no. She took the microphone and said, "I would like to thank all of you for coming to my wonderful party. Thank you!"

No wonder she hadn't seemed upset. She had just been thrown the biggest party of anyone in the 1st grade. Luckily for me no one corrected her and for years she thought I had invited the entire school to her birthday party. I guess it was one of those times I really lucked out. I am just hoping that when she eventually gets married I can convince her to do so on the 4th of July, that way my husband and I might get credit for the fireworks. It's worth a shot, right?