I feel like I’m 15 again. I’m at my mother’s house and since no one in my family knows about my blog, I’m attempting to sneak a post before anyone wakes up and catches me on the computer. It’s like I’m watering down the bottle of Southern Comfort all over again.

I’m down at my mom’s where we are putting on our own little HGTV show called Remodeling a Home ALL On Your Own Without A Crew of 20 Grunts To Do The Dirty Work or Anyone To Watch The Kids.

This is fun with a lowercase ‘F’. Whee.

My mother purchased my grandmother’s house when she died so there are many, many memories in this house for me. The house is way out in the country…way out…and I believe the country air is affecting my brain.

Last night I had a dream that I met Robin Williams and he wanted to get in my pants in a bad way. He really wanted to get in them. The man was begging me to have sex with him and, in my dream, this was a real dilemma for me. While I love a funny guy, Robin is getting on up there in age and my husband is much better looking. I don’t know why I was tempted, but I showed Robin my titties.

He was impressed.

While out here in the country I’m remembering little things about living in the country that have slipped from my mind during my 13 years of city living.

Like the sound of crickets and June bugs, along with fireflies lighting up at night.

Speaking of bugs, I’d forgotten how many bugs committ suicide on your windshield as you drive as night. pic pack pic pic pack pic peck pat pic pic pack pat. The difference between pic, pat, and pack all depends on the size of the bug.

And the bird songs. I’ve been waking up to the sound of birds singing instead of the increase of traffic noises on the busy road next to my neighborhood.

Trees! Woods! Yards big enough to run in and extended family dropping by to say hello and visit. Mobile seems very lonely from here.

Birds and bugs and wide opens spaces aren’t all I’ve forgotten either.

My little jaunt back to the country of my childhood has also caused me to totally and completely forget grammar*. Sentences such as these have passed my lips…

“Cain’t we just order a mess of crab claws?”

Can’t has become cain’t and I actually know what the measurement of mess is.

“He don’t know what he’s talking about.”

I know the proper usage of doesn’t and don’t. I don’t know why I do it down here, but it happens every time.

However, I haven’t lost all of my standards.

“That’s a pretty moo-moo,” said my aunt to my mother.

I drew the line right there. The words ‘pretty’ and ‘moo-moo’ can never be in the same sentence.

*Just to prove my bad grammar, I have to post this without re-reading and editing. My mom is up and I have to go water down the Southern Comfort!

Yesterday Wally and I were discussing a blog-related topic that I wanted kept between the two of us. I don’t remember if I specifically told him not to tell anyone, but so few people we know in real life read my blog, I didn’t think he’d say anything anyway. Who’s he going to tell?

He went and told two people.

When I expressed my dismay over this, Wally said, “I rarely have a reason to brag about you and I wanted to brag.”

What did he just say?

Did those words actually come out of his mouth?

Oh yes, they did.

Lucky for Wally, I had a business dinner last night and hurried to get out the door. I didn’t have time to pick a fight over this verbal shit-bomb he dropped.

But perhaps I should make time to pick up that second-class citizen sleeve emblem so I can start sewing it on my shirt? That way everyone who sees me will know where I rank. Would I pick that up at the Social Security office or Immigration? Probably Immigration because our social services don’t recognize mothers as deserving of recognition in the way of, say, retirement or paid maternity leave.

And now, today, he’s off at his annual company-sponsored drunkfest. This is the event where Wally and his co-workers are chauffeured to a beach house to laze the day away with other adults while partaking in free booze, food and boating. All. Day. Long. And then there are the twentysomething year old girls in the office who will also be there. All. In. Bikinis.

My stomach will never see a bikini again without cosmetic surgery.

I can’t help but smile at the timing of all of this. Since Wally is gone today, (and he informed me he will be working this entire weekend too) that means he is not here to defend himself.

And we can talk about his asshole statement why every day should be Brag About Heather Day.

So let’s see, what could Wally possibly brag about on a daily basis?

• My wife makes the best cookies in the world! And her cakes….Mmmm Mmm!

• Her hair! She has the prettiest hair. She keeps it long just because I like it that way.
• She’s so smart! She graduated magna cum laude from Auburn and was on the Dean’s list every single quarter, whereas I barely passed. And she gets smarter every day too! I think 6×3=21 but Heather knows better. She can do complicated math in her head in a nanosecond.
• Man, my wife is so great. I don’t know how she does it, but I come home every day and she hasn’t put our kids up for adoption. I can’t even keep my cool with them over the weekend, much less seven days a week.
• Skanky construction workers always whistle at my wife.
• She doesn’t give me any grief when I have to work all weekend. She understands.
• Her farts never stink.
• Heather is one awesome mom to Payton. She has such a positive perspective on his challenges and understands him in a way few people do, even myself. I don’t know how she finds it in her.
• My wife manages to make ends meet on my salary! And she stays with me in spite of it! The girl gave up her shoe fetish for crying out loud. What a woman.
• I’m in awe of Heather’s ability to do her job at home while the kids are there. I don’t know how she tunes out the kids and gets into the creative flow with SpongeBob and Wii blaring in the background. And the interruptions every 42 seconds? Wow. I’m amazed she can be creative in that environment! Thank god for her because that little job of hers paid for three years of preschool for our sons and all of our birthdays.
• My wife has C cup boobs. And they aren’t saggy, even after two pregnancies and breastfeeding.
• Heather is heading up a brand new volunteer program at the elementary school. She’s building it from the ground up all on her own. I know it’s going to make the school a better place. And her volunteer work at the Sea Lab…I’m very proud of her.

I want to keep on listing brag-worthy things about myself because I’m feeling about this tall right now. I’m still reeling from the what-the-hell-ness of his words.

My ego is curled up in the fetal position and is over in the corner sucking its thumb.

Is this how my husband sees me now? As someone who doesn’t do much to brag about? If I were a career mom with more degrees and professional acronyms behind my name, would he have dropped the same verbal shit-bomb?

What the hell?

Every since Casey’s post last week and the resulting blogpression, I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking over what language I speak. Finally it came to me.

Eureka!

I’m a vibreader.

(This is not to be confused with a vibrator.)

I’m very good at reading people. I can generally tell whether someone is genuine or fake, serious or light-hearted, full of themselves or authentic, funny or boring, bitchy or nice, a downer or an upper. And I can usually do this with very limited interaction.

I did it quite a bit in my old playgroup. I could smell a playgroup rat a mommy board away.

A newbie would come in and I could usually tell right away if they were a nut case. Usually there were more nut cases than not. Even when the nut case hid it from others, lulling them into thinking they were legit and sincere for quite a while, I knew better.

But the playgroup is defunct and so is Swearyn Shakeabitch. My interaction with people has fallen off sharply. I began to wonder if I was losing my vibreading touch.

Thankfully, I was reminded of my mad vibreader skillz just this week. To keep from boring you with petty details you don’t care about, I’ll just say I’m putting together something at the boys’ school and this involves surveys from teachers.

Since I have to walk Payton all the way down to his classroom door every single day and have done so for two years now, I’m very familiar with the faces of the kindergarten and first grade teachers.

As I reviewed the surveys this week, I would look at the results, see the name and think that’s no surprise. The ones I’ve always gotten good feelings off of, the survey lined up with it. The ones I’ve gotten either bad or bland vibes from, well, you get the idea.

Now, I’m not always perfect at this. There were one or two teacher surveys that surprised me. Some people are harder to read than others. And sometimes, though rare, I do read it all wrong. Other times I’ll get a feel for the vibe, but it’s kinda weak, so I ignore it. Then it usually comes back to bite me in the ass and I want to kick myself for not listening to it just because it was a weak vibe.

And let’s not forget the vibreading that has a class of its own….gaydar. I totally suck at this one. I’m not good at reading people’s sexual orientation. I suspect it’s because I’m practically asexual myself.

Come on, I’ve been with the same man for 15 years now! I’m so asexual that I sometimes think if it weren’t for the sex, I could be a lesbian. (It seems no matter which way you turn, people are wanting you to put out.) It takes a lot for me to muster up the energy to care about my own sex life. Why would I want to be bothered by someone else’s?

In place of gaydar though, I’m discovering I can read blog vibes. (What would you call that? Blogdar? Dorkdar? NeedtoGetaLifedar?) I can even read my own blog’s vibes and this particular post has a very apologetic vibe. The blog is very sorry for this stupid post topic. It also has an embarrassed vibe that, in the infinite realm of possibilities, this is the topic I pick to be good at. Vibreader. I’ll go sooo far with that one.

What is it with Mexican food that will make anyone eat like a fucking asshole?

Wha? That doesn’t happen to everyone? It’s just me? Oh well, it’s a good thing this blog is all about me.

The delicious warm chips and divine salsa! The white cheese dip! The refried beans topped with the cheese sauce! The El Burro Loco not just covered but smothered in cheese sauce!

Oh. My. God. That cheese sauce is my crack and I will take you down with my big red sombrero you if you try to take it away from me.

I can not stop. I eat way past the point I know I am full because…? Who knows! It’s Mexican food and falls under some strange international food phenomenon.

And if that little (har har) eating experience isn’t enough to erase all skinny things I’ve attained from three weeks of hoofing up a sweat through power walking, I had to go and make cookies on Sunday.

It’s a holiday weekend and I’m compelled to cook up yummy stuff on holiday weekends. I don’t understand this particular food phenomenon either, but I can’t not do it.

Oh. My. God. My cookies! To eat one is to have a little taste of heaven now that I have perfected the recipe. Unlike this blog, my chocolate chip cookies could make me famous.

Let me put it to you like this. At a recent work function, I ingratiated myself with King Wally and baked up 4 dozen of my cookies for him to share. (I got a foot rub in exchange.) Another co-worker happened to bring the exact same cookie. Every! single! one! of my cookies were gone and no one ate hers because they couldn’t lower themselves to eat anything other than my cookies that have been touched by the gods.

Did you know Julia Child didn’t discover she could cook until she was 34? I’m 34. She also helped to develop a shark repellent before her cooking days. I could help my son develop some shark related something at anytime. Do the similarities astound you too?

Is there anyone else whose mouth gets sore if they eat too much sweet stuff? For me it’s the roof of my mouth. It gets all ridge-y and the soft palate way in the back gets real bumpy. Fruit Loops is usually the only thing that does this to me because I can’t stop eating those either. (I bet they are made in Mexico.)

I’ve eaten so many of these cookies that the roof of my mouth is now sore. Even the taste buds on my tongue are swollen due to overindulging in so much sensual pleasure.

And there’s leftover crack, I mean cheese dip in my fridge.

I’m going to look so good in my first ever double-digit sized tankini when we go to the beach today.

Look mommy! What is that big bloated thing lying on the beach over there?

Shhh lil’ Johnny. I *think* that’s a pregnant woman.

Bugger. I’m going to have to hoof it twice a day to make up for these two days of eating.