Small Talk is Not in the Job Description

   So I'm minding my own business in the grocery checkout line for the Big Memorial Day Weekend Stock-Up shop. Doing the magazine cover once-over (Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer still together, good; whoa- Lisa Marie Presley is the size of a house, also good; and - go figure - some women's magazines are claiming you can actually "Walk Off the Weight!" huh. crazy. )

My husband's family is coming, so I'm preparing for lotsa food, lotsa drinking. What I'm NOT prepared for is Friendly Chatty Checkout Boy. Commenting on everything I'm buying.

ITEM: plastic tumblers and wine glasses.

FCCB: Hey! Havin' a party, huh????????

Me: yeah.

ITEM: marshmallows and chocolate bars

FCCB: S'mores!!! awesome!!!!!

Me: yup.

ITEM: 2 bottles margarita mix

FCCB: ...and margaritas!!! Nice!!!!!

Me: yeah.

ITEM: Stayfree Maxi Pads "overnites" with wings

FCCB: (silence)

and there you have it. Now I have to find a new grocery store.

Here, Prince Caspian - Have My $80

Tell me again why we don't wait for the video???

2 adults, 4 kids admission = $40

Popcorn & soda for said moviegoers: $40

$80????????  For $80 I should get Prince Caspian himself, in my living room, giving me a lap dance, which would be awesome totally inappropriate since he's only 25. I checked. (Now is one of the times I really wish I had Photoshop. Please visualize here: Chippendales-type dancer with Prince Caspian's head.)

Not to mention the cost of gas to get to the theater. The pumps now won't even fill my SUV completely. They stop automatically at $75. Really - this is true.

Me (to Pump): Why'd you stop?

Pump: I gave you $75!!!!!

Me: But it's not full yet!

Pump: Why'd you buy such a ginormous car?

Me: "ginormous" is not a word.

Pump: Actually, Webster's added it in 2007, along with 'Bollywood' and 'sudoku'.

Me: Bite me.  I'm going to see "Prince Caspian" now.

Pump: Good luck affording the popcorn.

Suckiest Chaperone Award

          An apology to the fifth graders who had the unfortunate luck to get assigned to my group for the "Historic Philadelphia" field trip Friday. I suck as a field trip leader. But in my own defense, I did not sign up for this. There was a last minute shortage of 1 parent volunteer, and a panicky email was sent around begging for someone to save the day. Of course, by "chaperone", I thought they meant one more adult to wander around, talking on their cell phone and making sure no one runs into traffic. No. They meant I LEAD a group. I find this out in the classroom, where we're given our Optional Scavenger Hunt lists. OK, "Optional"=not happening. So my group is already down one activity and we haven't even boarded the busses. 

First stop, Betsy Ross House. As we're waiting outside the guide says they're not 100% sure this is the house. I'm beyond excited to get inside. Which is so freakin' claustrophobic I abandon my group and escape outside to get air. 

Next stop, some Alley of old houses and Site of the Great Scavenger Hunt. My poor friend Sharon, who had the poor judgement to hook her group up with mine, is left doing the scavenger hunt alone because I have convinced both groups this is just not cool, and we should go to Starbucks.

Next stop, Starbucks.  I buy everyone a round of caramel mocha frappaccinos. Succeeded in hooking 11-year-olds on caffeine. Sweet.

Ben Franklin's Grave: Nope. $1 per person  is not worth it.

Independence Hall: heard a rumor you can't get in. (really!!!! I did!!!)

Franklin Mint: Lotsa coins. Very, very not interesting.

Liberty Bell: The line outside is so long that we bag it and peek through a window to see it instead. OK. Liberty Bell. Check.

Last stop: Korean gift shop where parents are probably expecting the kids to pick up mini Liberty Bells and flag pencils. We get Swedish fish, soda and jawbreakers the size of baseballs. And there you have it, kids, Historic Philadelphia. Wasn't that fun?

There's a Gangsta in My Bathtub

So I walk into my bathroom this morning, and I'm greeted by THIS:

Like a scene from "Prom Hell 2: The Lakehouse". So I start fishing Bratz and Barbies out of the tub and I come up with THIS dude:

WTF? Male Hispanic, black hair, brown eyes, 21 yrs old...and is that a Soul Patch????

Homeboy's wearin' his jeans a little high for a gangsta, but anyway - WHERE DID HE COME FROM??!!!!! I swear, this is not one of ours. So obviously one of those hos from the pool party texted someone and word got around.

1 dude and 15 chicks, which explains THIS photo from his cell phone:

Don't hate the Playa, Hate the Game.

Too Lazy to Pop the Tart

Actual exchange between me and my adorable 10-year old daughter on a school morning:

Me: What would you like for breakfast, Sweetie?

10 year old: A Pop Tart, please.

Me: Do you want it toasted or plain?

10 year old: (playfully) Surprise me!!

Me: (tossing it on her plate cold) Surprise.

Followed by me laughing and proclaiming that I crack myself up.

10 year old: (eating her cold Pop Tart) You're really immature for a mom.

What is wrong with me: It's a POP-Tart. It's meant to "pop" cheerily out of the toaster. Otherwise, it would be called an Inert-Tart.

Anyway, here's my point: don't offer me the easier option because I will take it. At my house you will find: frozen pancakes, bagged salad, microwave potatoes, slice/n/bake cookies,  heat/n/eat bacon and lots of other things with "/n". If your child comes to our house for a playdate, we will not be doing a "craft". I didn't make my curtains. I don't have an herb garden. I know my credit card number by heart for internet shopping. (and the fact that you have to use a pull-down menu for the state abbreviations is REALLY aggravating). 

What do I do with all the time I save? Good question. I'll think that over with a Bacardi Mojito ("alcohol already in the mix").

Alien Math

+

=

We are not alone.

On Newstands Now: the Cellulite Issue!!!!

The Cellulite Issue is here! The Cellulite Issue is here! This is the women's equivalent of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. When you're in line at the grocery store, this is not a "flip-through-and-put-back" issue. This is a "slap-it-on-the-conveyor-belt-and-don't-even-open-it-til-you-get-home-cuz-it's-gonna-be-that-good" issue. Make a cup of tea or coffee, ignore the phone, and settle in for a good, fat, dimple-fest. Look: I'm not a mean person: I don't wish these stars ill. But I do wish them imperfections. As one of my favorite plaques says, "Dear Lord, if you can't make me skinny, at least make my friends fat." That's how women think. If I can see a good, blurry close-up of dimples on Pam Anderson and Misha Bartons' butts, it's a good day. Do I feel bad that each one of them is probably hugely depressed today and popping Vicodins and TrimSpa? Yes. Who am I kidding. No. Screw you, Pam..Fatty mcFat-Fat. Big fake-boob, sex tape-makin', dimple-butt. Hah! Ha-ha-ha ha-ha. Ok, I'm done now. $3.49. I probably could have spent that on the "Angels and Real Life Miracles" in the next rack over. But this is much more uplifting. :)

Facebook Hotties Want to Befriend Me

A few weeks ago, one of my husband's hip nieces emailed me a request to be a "friend" on Facebook. Yeah, I thought, I could up my cool quotient a bit - in fact, Hell-to-the-Yeah.  Sweet. Bring it. Um.... I've run out of cool lingo.  Anyway, I became a Facebook member. Well, word must travel fast, because THIS was waiting for me the next day:

 You have a friend request

Ryan Dorian (Cedar Rapids, IA)

You have no friends in common.

   Send Message

"Ryan Dorian" wants to be my friend. Confirm? Ignore? Send Message? I've decided to send a message:

     Dear Ryan,

           It will never work out between us. First of all, as you pointed out, we have no friends in common. I know nothing about Iowa and I suspect you work out a lot more than I do. I assume from your photo that you have some sort of facial disfigurement and really fat legs - don't worry - I bet a lot of girls will accept your invitation. Don't stay stuck on me, Ryan. Move on with your life and I'll do the same. I'll always remember you. 

       Love, Sue

Lesson learned here: If I'm going to be a facebook member I've got to get my abs in better shape.

Interview with Paula Abdul

We recently sat down with Paula Abdul, star and judge of American Idol to catch up with the busy star and get some insights into the "final four".

HMHH: So! Thanks for talking with us today Paula - how are you doing?

PA: Wooo!!!!!! It's all smooshy in here.

HMHH: Uh, "smooshy"? What do you mean?

PA: The lights -it's like woooooo-it's fabulous. Hi!

HMHH: Hi. I wonder if you'd like to clear up some rumors that have been circulating about -

PA: Ok Ok Ok Yes. No. I am NOT sleeping with Jason Castro....Jasey, Jasey, Jasey Pasey.

HMHH: Uh, I actually hadn't heard anything about you and Jason..

PA: Right. Not. No no no......can I get a Coke?

HMHH: Sure, I have some in the fridge.

PA: No my Special Coke - where's my assistant - COKE!!!!!!!With extra......ice. Yummm.

HMHH: So Paula, what can you tell us about this season that's different from last season?

PA: Lemmee tell you. It's nuts! It's like woo-hoo! Crazy. 

HMHH: Any predictions on who will win?

PA: YOU guys know how to party!!!!!!! Come on! Why not?

HMHH: Why not what?

PA: What.

HMHH: You said "why not".

PA: My brain is getting all floomy.

HMHH: Maybe we should reschedule.

PA: Skedgy wedgy....can I have this pen?

HMHH: Sure. thanks for talking with us.

PA: Sure. Thanks for talking with us.

Editor's note: this was a fictitious interview. Don't sue me.

Crushing on Steve

Yeah, that's right: Steve. From Blues Clues. 

See, when your kids are really young and you're not so much a "Stay-at-Home" mom as a "Stuck-at-Home" mom, there is a danger of developing what the psychological community calls Acute Repetitive Exposure Romantic Transference, or ARERT. OK, I made that up. But it is a very real syndrome, in which a mom develops crushes on the only male figures she's exposed to on a daily basis, which usually means preschool programming stars. Now, I know some of you moms are saying "What about Joe?"

 I don't know: Technically, I suppose he's the handsomer Blues Clues host, but there's something about him that I don't buy. I think Joe doesn't really care about the clues. I picture him grabbing his ipod and driving off to a kegger when the show's over. Steve, I think, is more intelligent and more sensitive: I picture us sharing some Earl Grey tea and discussing his latest investigative techniques.  

Then there's Sportacus.

For any of you who don't Tivo "LazyTown" on a regular basis, Sportacus is the relationship that's purely physical. The guy is a back-flippin' bundle of spandex blue hotness. There would be no Earl Grey drinking with Sportacus, if you know what I'm saying.

My one sister wants to know If Jack Sparrow counts: No. Not Preschool enough. My other sister fessed up to Prince Julian from "Barbie's Princess and the Pauper". Definately, with extra points for being a computer animation.

     Now that my youngest is in school all day, I've put that phase behind me, although I will jump in on any "Who's the hottest Jonas Brother" conversation. Answer: Joe, duh.

Federal Buzz Kill

May 2, 2008: Oak Lawn, IL

I Love this. I love, love, love whoever thought of this. 

And this:   And this:

Mayor Dave Heilmann is a rock star in my book. But Fox News reported today that the feds have ruled it's in violation of the "Federal Manual on Uniform Traffic Control Devices" and Oak Lawn could lose all their federal funding for town projects. So Mayor Dave: Thanks for trying. You are the Man. You can party with me anytime. If I could add you to my blogroll I would.

The über-Grill

Why. Why is there a spaceship parked on my deck. Captain Kirk called: He wants his bridge back. Ladies, I know you're as flummoxed as I am, so men: I put it to you: WTF. Let me point something out in case anyone out there is coveting the jauntily angled "East Wing" and "West Wing" (no they won't go straight.) See those drawers? Know what's in them? A bag of fish food for the pond. The second drawer has the spare key to the house. Third drawer: empty. And the east wing houses the propane tank, which could easily fit in the center. Those holes at the top are supposed to hold "condiments" but currently they're a high-tech condo for bees. 

But I can say this: 

Average amount cooked per use with old grill:

      4 burgers, 4 hotdogs.

Average amount cooked per use with über-grill: 

      4 burgers, 4 hotdogs.

Maybe if I position my lounge chair facing it, I'll  get a tan in half the time.

I Miss U, Britney

Britney, where are you?? We Beta moms are getting a little uncomfortable without our Fearless Leader in the spotlight: people are starting to focus on our Mommy-lameness. Are they changing you there in rehab? Don't let them, Britney! You don't need carseats - or shoes - just be You. Doesn't Jayden miss his sippy of orange Fanta? Come back to us - we won't comment on the British accent anymore - swear. So you like to get your drink on - who doesn't? Your "Purple Drank" has become all the rage in the clubs now. Know why? Classy, that's why. And be sure you tell Jamie Lynn what's up. You are a woman who has it all - make sure she follows your lead. C'mon - Taco Bell is open til 4am now...get out there and represent.

Diary of a Polygamist Wife

Dear Diary,

Today we had to go to the Heathens' courthouse. I wore my sky-blue dress, Elizabeth Ann wore her robins-egg blue, and Meredith Jean wore lavender because she is a slut. It took me 2 hours to  get my bangs to roll right because she hid my orange juice cans.

Inside the entrance they had us pass through a "metal detector" but I know it's a machine that sees through our clothes. Meredith Jean said she wanted to go through twice.

In the name of Joseph Smith and all that is pastel, this visit to The Outside is exposing us all to the Devil's work. When court recessed, I saw Luanne and Jo-Beth sipping Red Bulls and reading The National Enquirer. Maybelle wants a Blackberry and Wanda Pearl has signed up for kickboxing. Even Aunt Raylene is claiming she's a Mona Vie distributor.

I'll write again tomorrow, Diary....

                   Sarah Beth

                      

Party On, Party Balloon Priest

Just want to give a shout-out to Father Adelir Antonio de Carli, the Brazilian priest who got carried away by party balloons and is still missing. In case you missed it, this is a true story. Father deCarli was trying to break a world record for being held aloft by helium balloons. He may have inadvertantly broken the record for stupidity. Or "Most Festive Suicide". Yes, I will feel like a really bad Catholic if they find his body in the next few days. But for now, I'd like to imagine that he's enjoying the ride through the stratosphere, just a fun-lovin' guy without a backup plan. Party on, Dude.

Waiting Room Time Suck

Yesterday I had my annual Ob/Gyn checkup, or, more accurately, my annual visit to the Ob/Gyn Waiting Room. Because truly, from an alien's point of view, it's an annual appointment to sit and read magazines quietly with strangers. Ending in a check-out room involving paper clothes and small talk.

You would think after 4 decades of doctor visits, I would learn to bring my own reading material. But I don't, and am left choosing between Working Mother and Field and Stream. What the hell. Where are all these fishing physicians coming from. And the whole "Working Mother" thing just seems to be mocking me wherever I go. 

After 45 minutes, the Fake-out Nurse comes through the door and calls my name. The Fake-out Nurse's sole purpose is to trick you into thinking you're next. You are so not next. She simply leads to you another smaller, more naked waiting room. 

On the way there is the inevitable stop at the The SCALE. You know - the one invented in the 1800's with the sliding chunks of doom. Dude -  you expect me to just step up on a scale MID-DAY with all my clothes and shoes on????? That is just uncalled for. Everyone knows your true weight is first thing in the morning, before breakfast, after peeing, no clothes. Fake-out Nurse proclaims my weight out loud, which is my cue to act nonchalant, as if this pronouncement has not totally plunged me into a fat-panic so far-reaching that I will not hear a word the doctor has to say.

On to Waiting Room #2, where she instructs me on disrobing and pledges that the doctor will be "right in". The doctor will not be right in. In fact, feel free to call your college roommate, start your taxes or take a nap. They could at least provide a cup of crayons to draw on the paper table-liner like they do at Chili's. 

Grand Total:

Wait time: 1 hour, 15 minutes

Examination time: 4 minutes

Wall clock time checks: 18

Mental beauty makeovers of receptionists: 3

Presumptuous assessments of couples' relationships: 4

Envious feelings towards pregnant women: 0

Fantasies of indignant protest over wait time: 5

Actual indignant protests: 0

And so, in the end, Receptionist-who'd-look-better-with-a-stylish-bob writes me an appointment card for a year from now, which I will dutifully show up for with every expectation that we'll all be on time. Between now and then, though, I'm sending them a gift-subscription to Star.

The "Baby Weight"

So I'm still trying to lose the Baby Weight. Which is not going so well, as the baby is in first grade. 

I maintain, however, that this 20 pounds is, in fact, "baby weight" because I have photos of myself after my first child, happily back at my pre-pregnancy weight, sportin' a bikini and sippin' a Zima without a clue as to what was to come with baby #2. And I do blame the baby. Babies = fat. Show me one NutriSystem "before" photo woman without  a baby on her lap. They're like little "fat fairies". Then they're the first ones to call you out on your mommy fatness. As soon as they can talk they're all, "Mommy! Those underpants are too small for your butt!" Great. Mommy used to rock a thong before you came to town, junior.

And so begins the endless progression of diets over the years: Atkins/South Beach/Zone/Cabbage Soup/Master Cleanse/Skinny Bitch/Slim Fast....I'm thinking of starting all over again and kickin' it Old School with Scarsdale. And Tab. Maybe buy Jim Fixx's running book.

Which brings me to working out. Yes, I am willing to work out. No, I will not go with you to any class that evolved after 1990. I will not go to Spinning. Or Power Yoga, Hatha Yoga, or 100 degree heat yoga. I will not go to Pilates, Yoga-Lates or Balletone.

No, I will not "love it". I don't care about my "core". I am an 80's high-impact girl. Bring on the electronic dance mix and the shin splints. I do a wicked turn-step and 3-knee repeater. That is, unless it's one of those days when I'm "too fat to go to the gym".

I still have all my old bikinis. They're all packed away in the back of my closet, replaced by "Miraclesuits" and swim skirts. No doubt they'll still be there when I'm 70 and the baby is 37. Maybe then I'll concede that the baby weight is here to stay. This is how you'll know: ask me what I'd like for a cocktail. If I say "Captain Morgan and Diet Coke", shoot me.

Detailing the SUV

As any Beta Mom knows, there is no walk of shame like the one up to the office of the car detailing place when your vehicle is ready. I'm prepared for it now, because inevitably I get the phone call halfway through the morning from the owner: "Yeah, this is Bernard from Auto Shine....uh.... I know I quoted you $90, but.....we've really got a lot of work to do here...I need to have another man come in for this one." I immediately blame my children (usually claiming I have 4 instead of 3) in the hopes that Bernard will view me as his partner in disgust. Bernard has no need for such comraderie and settles on an extra $40 instead. Apparently there is gum involved.

This whole car thing makes my husband mental. You could eat off the floor in his car. The only extra objects in his car besides his person are a Chapstick, an EZ Pass, and a pack of gum. Maybe a travel pack of Kleenex in cold and flu season. All neatly tucked into the center console, where they should be.   The floor of my car may not be clean enough to eat off, but you'll have plenty of snacks to choose from.  Alpha Moms behind me at the school drop off circle roll their eyes because you cannot open one of my doors without something falling out: usually an empty water bottle or a shoe. My kids, God bless 'em, chase the rolling water bottle and chuck it back in with a "love you!" because it's all they know.

"So", you want to know, "is MY minivan or SUV a Beta Vehicle?" Well let me ask you this: Do you apologize when anyone but family gets in? Do your cupholders contain something resembling congealed popsicles? Are there more coats and shoes in your vehicle than in your hall closet? Does the dog consider a ride in the car "mealtime"? Have you, at any given time, had 10 or more of the following items strewn about the car?:  Sweatshirts, soccer shoes, Goldfish crackers, water bottles, fast food wrappers, granola bar wrappers, grocery receipts, grocery lists, doctor appointment cards, dentist goodie bags, mittens, hats, hair ties, headbands, half-eaten bagels, school projects, school papers, school memos, fire safety booklets, CD's, DVD's, Nintendos, Webkinz, ipods, karate belts, ballet shoes, old fruit, juice boxes, action figures, lollipop sticks, Cheetos, Barbie shoes, Bratz feet, Bionicle pieces, Blockbuster cases, drycleaner slips or those freakishly large Bed Bath & Beyond coupons? 

(sigh). I would like to say that I intend to turn over a new leaf. I would like to say that I never used to keep my car this way before children. But if I'm honest I do recall ejecting the latest Laura Branigan tape in my '85 Mustang cassette player and flinging it behind me into the back seat, where it probably got lost among the aerobics gear and beer bottles. Chances are, if you're a Beta mom, you were a Beta girl, too.

An Open Letter to the Weeds

April 12

Dudes. What the hell. Do we have to go through this every year? It's the first warm day of the year, I go out to my front walk and you're all, "Hey, we're here and we're ready to party". Didn't I make my intentions clear last year? Don't you remember the RoundUp, the WeedBGone, the weeding pail, the sweating? All puns aside, this is a toxic relationship. Don't you see how we keep repeating old patterns?  You show up, I kill you. You show up again, I kill you again. What part of "I will kill you" do you not understand? Don't you have any dignity? Quite frankly, I'm embarrassed for you. By the way, The Mulch totally agrees with me. So, I'd appreciate it if we could just get on with our lives. As we used to say in sorority rush, I think you'd be happier at another house.

- Sue

p.s. do not call me.

On Blogging

So I'm now a blogger. I blog. This is like the outcast kid in high school finding their group, or the mothership coming to pick up the lost alien. At last a forum to put down my random thoughts and ramblings without bothering my friends at work. Previously, my mass emails would get responses along the lines of "you really need a hobby" or "have you considered working full time?" to which I would respond "You're lucky I don't know Photoshop." My friend Jackie once suggested that we moms email each other with the subject line "Today I Learned.." as a way to share interesting tips or insights that others might learn from. I jumped right in with "Today I Learned...that a single fruit fly can give you away if you've had wine before the school concert." Probably she was thinking more along the lines of SAT tutoring or a good pesto recipe. But take my word about the fruit fly. I'm serious.