Today I have a guest poster filling in for me during this incredibly busy time of year. I hope you’ll make him welcome since he is a very special friend whose face magically appears on homemade bread only during the holidays. Thank you, St. Pimento Cheesus!
His Holeyness, St. Pimento Cheesus
Hello, hello, I am His Holeyness, St. Pimento Cheesus, patron saint of all people who do not lower themselves by eating disgusting store-bought pimento cheese but make their own from scratch. Heather is one of my favorite people. Bless her heart, she makes her homemade pimento cheese in a MINI food processor because she doesn’t have a regular size one. Such a fantastic homemaking martyr!
And her martyrdom grows by leaps and bounds, despite others trying to intervene on her behalf.
Remember she told you of her hatred of ironing? And how her husband offered to do the ironing? Well, guess what happened?! When her husband attempted to do the ironing, he “accidentally” burned his hand on the iron and then her youngest son knocked the iron off the board and melted the carpet.
Spiritual lesson to be learned here: Buy Heather a new fucking dryer, husband.
Now that Heather is distracted with making yet another batch of fudge and is no longer standing over my shoulder telling me what spiritual “lessons” to teach people, let’s put aside the quasi-martyrdom and get positively holey.
St. Pimento Cheesus, Now Speaking Without Duress
Though this season is dubbed the most wonderful time of the year, I, St. Pimento Cheesus, can understand how it doesn’t always feel so. Too many obligations, too many things to do, children on school vacation driving you crazy, so much commercialism. (Though if you’ve done your part this season to help stimulate our economy, I offer special cheesy blessings just for you.)
What I have found that helps me when I’m feeling anti-Christmas is a little perspective.
So I’d mentioned last week that I was under self-imposed sobriety. Well, self-imposed sobriety lasts only as long as a spontaneous trip to the beach with another family.
On Wednesday last week, a girlfriend and I suddenly decided to load the family up and go stay in Gulf Shores where we spent many hours worshiping at the Church of Surf, genuflecting to the holy spirits of Corona and José Cuervo.
(insert here gorgeously staged pictures of corona bottles with ocean background and a tall margarita glass, sweating in the hot sun that, if I were a proper blogger, I would have thought about taking. But, being an improper blogger, I was too busy being in the moment to think of blog-staged pictures.)
Two cases of beer and entire fifth of Tequila later, here I am, feeling quite well for my age and the number of strawberry margaritas consumed. Except for my finger.
My god. My fucking bird finger.
Let me do you, dear reader, and the entire internet a huge favor right now and issue a warning against approaching the wood pilings on a beach house while you’re in a “I’m not drunk but damn I feeeeeeel gooooood!” state. You may wonder what could possibly happen when you’re actually in control of yourself but just happy and in love with the world?
You could get a splinter shoved up under your bird fingernail like me. UNDER your nail. As in hmmm, let me cut off almost half of my entire nail so I can possibly get it out with a needle and tweezers up under your fingernail.
How did I get through it without a trip to the ER and nice numbing shot? I have a special mantra I chant anytime I’m faced with pain, or even potential pain, like at the dentist…
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
Really, you’ll be amazed what you can physically stand when you have that frame of reference. And if that doesn’t work, I go with a second mantra…
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
Again, amazing what perspective does for you.
But still. It hurt. A lot.
Wally hovered over me in the bathroom while I attempted to dig out this splinter, and I could tell he was getting huffy and impatient with how long it was taking me, which in turn distracted me from my Painful Vagina Mantras. So I sent him on an alcohol mercy mission with instructions to make me an extra-strength margarita. I don’t know about you, but the first thing to go when I drink is feeling in my lips, the second, fingertips.
So he comes back and I swig, dig, swig, dig, swig, and dig some more.
Wally is still impatient with me.
“Would you just push the needle in and get it out?!” he finally said.
“I have an idea,” I replied. “Give me your hand and let me shove a needle up underneath your nail.” I held my hand out expectantly, waiting for his.
He walked out of the room without a word.
No wonder women are the ones who have to give birth.
Wally and I actually did adult stuff and shit this past weekend. Like, without children. I’m not even kidding.
We were standing there together, surrounded by 100,000 other adults and it struck me, oh my god, we’re doing adult shit instead of pretending to be fascinated by a white tiger at the zoo! I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.
We went to a big 3-day country music concert in our hometown called BamaJam.
I can’t believe I just typed that. I don’t even like country music and I like my hometown even less. But this event seems to be turning into a pretty big deal, something close to Woodstock, I suppose, only change 100,000 hippies with 100,000 rednecks.
So basically it was my version of hell.
I said I don’t like country music, but between you and me, I’ll admit I have one weakness for it. I do love Alan Jackson and he’s the only reason we went. Sure, there were other people there like Taylor Swift and Kid Rock, but Alan Jackson has held a special place in my heart from the time 3-year-old Payton sang his song, It’s Five 0′clock Somewhere at his Baptist preschool where they couldn’t even dress up as a witch or devil for Halloween, they were that uptight..
I always heard Alan Jackson was really tall, but to tell the truth, I have action figures taller than he is. That picture, dear reader, is at 10x zoom, so we weren’t even that close.
This is why I don’t care for concerts either. In order to get close enough to see the performers, you have to get there hours ahead of time, like my life revolves around a music star who doesn’t know I exist or something. They don’t know how unimportant I am in the internet!
Also, did you know concerts are loud? Even outdoor concerts. My ears! Now we know where Payton gets his hypersensitive hearing from. In fact, I take credit for all of his positive attributes and blame Wally for all the negative ones.
Wally and I had three-day passes but ended up only going for one. Yes, we turned down FREE time away from our children. What in the hell would cause us to do such a mentally unbalanced thing?
It would be those 100,000 rednecks.
Meet Robert…
…who is in his 50′s, doing an ASS DANCE to COUNTRY MUSIC not 6 feet from me.
If that isn’t bad enough, how about my 50something year old mother who was drunk dancing right behind me? I text’d my 16 yr old niece to come save me and when she wouldn’t help me, I had to bum a cigarette from my aunt just to get through it.
Then there were all the double negatives flying everywhere; left, right, up, down. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been able to write in over a week. Do I even remember anything close to proper grammar? I’m amazed I’ve learnted, the; kind of proper, grammartical things, given mys upbringing. I, hope your, proud two.
I simply can’t relate to people who not only revel in ignorance but take pride in it too. Or the brand of their pickup trucks. One singer told a story of which brand truck each of his relatives drove, and boy howdy, did that get the rednecks riled up. After the name of a brand, thunderous cheers went up with Chevy being the clear winner.
Now I don’t know about you but I think BlogHer should do something like that at the opening ceremonies, or whatever it is they do to open the event. Can’t you see them calling out the names of minivans and the cheers going up?
Grand Caravan!
Sienna!
Odyssey!
So after the double negatives, pickup truck lunacy, and not only images of the Rebel Flag flying repeatedly on the big screens but some hick teenagers draping themselves in it (I’m not making that shit up), I did the only thing I could do.
I ran around the old peanut field, looking for a black man to love on just so I could piss rednecks off.
I was so overjoyed to see him that I ran to find Wally so I could share the diversity.
I actually purchased two exorbitantly priced shots of bourbon to share with him. Only Cowboy Troy wouldn’t drink it. Something about my balls were bigger than his and when I asked him if we could compare chest hairs, he suddenly had to go behind stage to get ready for his performance.
But whatever, I wasn’t letting him get away from me that easy. I positioned myself right on the front row for his concert, which turned out to be the best thing for me since after his concert I couldn’t hear a goddamn thing so all of the double negatives flew right over my head.
In fact, after several more expensive shots of bourbon (but still better than the $20 six packs of bud light), I started talking to Wally about him buying me a girl cowboy hat and that I should come back tomorrow wearing cowboy boots and jean shorts, possibly with a red checkered shirt tied at my waist, just like 20,000 other women.
It was then Wally said I had to go. So you would think end of redneck experiences, right? And I would be saved from reverting completely back to country roots, right? Oh no.
No, no, no, no.
In order to get out, we had to trample through more than ankle deep mud that smelled like cow ass. The concert was in a 600 acre peanut field and it rained almost the entire night before.
My husband? At the age of 37 hasn’t forgotten how to go mud-riding, even after 20 years. While big, fancy four-wheel drive trucks were getting stuck because the mud was THAT FUCKING BAD, Wally was THE MAN and got us through all of the slipping, sliding and the OH SHIT, WE ARE GOING TO FISHTAIL AND HIT THAT FUCKING CAR without getting stuck.
Of course, there were a couple of times we thought we were doomed to wait our turn for the tow truck to pull us out, but that’s when I would roll down my window and yell my old “Yeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaw!” and TADA! We came through. All because of me.
You can’t even comprehend how authentic that “yeehaw” was.
It sort of scares me, how I opened my mouth and it just came out perfectly. Three different times.
Someone please send me tickets to an opera before it’s too late.
I put on my best cleavage-inducing bra this morning for no damn reason. It’s Fat Tuesday and now my children don’t want to go to the parades this morning.
I don’t understand? Why the hell don’t my kids want to have more fun?
No, truth be told, I’m just about paraded out myself. After 40 lbs of beads, five dozen moon pies and enough stuffed animals to give FAO Schwartz a run for their money, I think it’s ok if we call it quits until next year.
But then again, there’s a part of me (called awesome underwire) that wants to go and get even more beads, moon pies, and stuffed animals. I would be un-American if I didn’t have this internal compulsion to over-consume. And as a newly pronounced fake Catholic, Fat Tuesday is my last day to over-consume.
Starting tomorrow, after the ceremonial markings of kitty litter on my forehead, I have to be pious. I’m not even sure what it means to be pious (it sounds like a skin disorder), so I have my work cut out for me.
I’ve often thought this Lent thing was one of the top craziest religious ideas. But, of course, it comes in after the no pork thing (What the hell? Have you ever had bbq baby back ribs?) and those subservient ideas (clearly written by insecure men with little penises).
Ok, so there are tons and tons of other screwed up religious ideas (stoning!) that come way before Lent in terms of craziness, but I’m not going to pick the Bible apart. There are other ways to have fun in life.
(And that would be reason #15 that I’m in contention for the name of Southern Anti-Christ. Something more fun than over-analyzing the Bible? I have got to be out of my fucking mind and sleeping with the devil!)
Growing up, I had a Catholic friend. There was only one Catholic church in my small hometown, so those friends were few and far between (but Baptist friends were a dime a dozen). When my friend had to give up something for Lent, my teenage mind thought she was crazy.
Give up something like chocolate? For forty days? You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it enough of a sacrifice that I’ve never been to a wedding where dancing and booze were allowed?! All this Baptist town does is repent year round! Dear God, why is it wrong I just want to live a little through chocolate? What else do I have in this fart of a town?!
Then I found out that Catholics are allowed to drink and dance (even at weddings!), and it blew my mind such things were allowed. I also learned Catholics can pretty much do whatever as long as they go to confessional and repeat some prayer X number of times and TADA! They’re all straight with Jesus.
In comparison, the whole Lent sacrifice thing didn’t seem quite so crazy after all, and was actually quite understandable when you think of all the fun Catholics can have year round when compared to a Baptist.
For a while (like 30 seconds), I considered becoming Catholic as a teenager.
I can have pre-marital sex without going to hell if I just confess to it and say some prayer over and over!
But still. I couldn’t get over my intuitive feeling that there’s something not quite right about this organized religion stuff.
Until now. Mardi Gras kicked my ass this year.
I’m absolutely sure this had nothing to do with me getting older, but is all about Wally’s office being on the parade route this year. This new venue means I could actually relax instead of being VIGILANT PARADE MOMMY, always on her toes, watching her kids every move lest they get sucked up and lost in the huge Mardi Gras crowds.
And so it’s been four days of things like corn dogs, martinis, homemade chicken salad sandwiches, martinis, cookies, chicken fingers, martinis, brownies, martinis, chips, spinach dip, martinis, and, um, another martini. And within those four days, three involved a visit from my family.
My god, I need to detox in more ways than one.
Right now I don’t give a damn if I don’t see another piece of junk food for the rest of this year, much less the next forty days. At the risk of causing my blog to implode, I’ll even say I’m sick of Mango Martinis.
Wait! Better repent before God strikes down your martini-themed blog, Heather! Hail Mary, full of….umm. I better learn that prayer. Or make up my own.
After all the Mardi Gras revelry, I’m beginning to realize the Catholics have pulled the virgin wool over our eyes.
Lent isn’t really about sacrifice. It’s more of a recovery period.
For me, it’s going to be all broccoli and water for the next forty days and I’M GOING TO LIKE IT!
By the time you read this, I’m probably on my way to BlissDom. Or possibly I’m already there, depending on what time you read this, though if you don’t read me as soon as you jump out of bed in the morning, I’m not sure I can understand how your mind works.
While there, I plan to have something called “fun”. Since I only get out once or twice a year, I sometimes forget what “fun” is, but I’m sure it will come back to me quickly. How could it not when I’m rooming with Jennifer, who i’ve only seen ONCE in the past year. (god, the withdrawals!)
Also, I’ve been officially dubbed as one of “Megan’s people,” which I think includes VIP passes to her dressing room. Or maybe I’m supposed to iron her clothes. I need to clarify what being “Megan’s people” means before I get stuck doing something like Pedi-Egging her feet.
Even though good times are ahead, it never fails. Each time a pending trip gets closer, I find myself wishing I wasn’t going.
Why do I do that?
It doesn’t matter the destination. I could be headed to my own private tropical island with Daniel Craig as my love slave. As the clock ticked down, I guarantee I would start coming up with reasons (none of which would have to do with me being a married woman) I wish I were staying home.
Some of my reasons for staying home this trip are as follows:
Mardi Gras starts this weekend. I’ll miss parades!
It’s my birthday Sunday. I’m going to spend 7 hrs of my birthday on I-65?
My poor boys. Their dad will have to get them dressed, which means they won’t see the proper side of color coordination until I get home.
The money I’ll spend on this trip could go towards finishing my kitchen redecoration. (Here’s a picture of the blue.)
I could buy my new window treatments, an accent table, add the shelving and decor that I want!
Because that’s a potential story I could tell my grandchildren one day.
Oh lord, honey-chil’, let me tell about this one wild time when I could have gone to Nashville and hung out with one of my BFFs and had a rip roaring good time, but instead, I stayed home and redecorated the kitchen! Your Granny? Could not be tamed in her day!
Um, yeah.
Surely I’m not the only person who does this, the cold travel feet thing? Even though I do get the cold feet, I usually end up doing it, just like on my wedding day. I’m going. Or I’m gone. On my way! And this time, I pack only my best underwear.
But that isn’t saying much.
Frankly, my “good” panties aren’t looking that good anymore. I guess I could do something really exciting on my trip and shop for new underwear. Except underwear shopping stresses me out. The shopping stress is right up there with swimsuits (#1) and jeans (#2). There’s an entire host of potential panty catastrophes involved when shopping for new skivvies.
Will they be ass-crawlers?
(I hate throwing away good money on underwear, especially in this economy, and it crawl up my ass. It’s not like you can return it.)
Will they fall below the fold? Like BlogHer ads, this is a no-no. And by “fold,” I mean that forever post-pregnancy loose belly skin.
(Does anyone NOT have loose, flabby skin on their tummy after pregnancy? Speak up in comments if you do because I have some openings on my list of people I hate that need to be filled.)
String bikinis are made for 14-year-old boy bodies that don’t keep reproductive fat on their hips. I won’t even look at granny panties because such abominations are against my religion, and I won’t approach the aisle of pre-packaged underwear either.
(Only men should buy their underwear in packages of three)
So if I tell the truth, I’m off to BlissDom and I packed my as-good-as-it-gets underwear. My spanxs are not included in the luggage. It’s hard to drink with everything squeezed in like that, and I do intend to drink until I can nod my head and say, “well fuck yeah, I’m domestically blissdicated, I mean blussfully dimedicated, err, blissfull…where the hell am I again?”
Besides, Wally said no one will care what underwear I pack, and he doesn’t either as long as a garter belt doesn’t make its way into my suitcase. And that settles that.
So anyway, I just wrote a blog about my underwear.
Could my blog topics get anymore awesome?
And I talked about my underwear in conjunction with BlissDom. I’m sure Ali really appreciates it and is drooling like a rabid coyote to get me to sign as the official spokesperson for BlissDom ’10. I’m looking for the contract in my email any day now. In fact, I’m checking my email for it as we speak.
Hmm, that’s odd. I don’t see it yet. Well, while I wait, let’s sum up my various Blissdom promotions:
And so, as written in the Blogiverse Tablets of Stone, here is my post regaling you with stories of my Christmas. (And not my period. You’re welcome.)
Two years ago, I insisted my family rotate who hosts Christmas. Even though I’m the second child and am frequently shafted, I was going to assert my adult power because I was damn tired of being the one to always travel.
My sister tried to pull her big sister card and boss me around about this change, but I’d had enough being the one who arrives at Christmas looking haggard and frazzled after 3-4 hours in a car with fighting children and then not a drop of liquor in sight when I get there. (my sister is Baptist, good gawd)
In my mind, I thought by hosting Christmas at my house, I would have a relaxing Christmas at least every other year and we were doing this!
Go ahead, I give you permission to laugh at me in my ignorance.
All of the cleaning, menu planning, food shopping (with my kids in tow, gack!) and hours and hours of pre-baking, hosting Christmas at my home is as relaxing as a bikini wax that involves removing the hair one curly pub at a time. Days of torture!
In 2010, I’ll be serving a big sit-down meal. At my mother’s house. As far as 2012, well, I hear Nostradamus predicted the world will end (again?), so who gives a shit where Christmas is hosted that year.
When it came to gifts, I received some awesome ones and some not-so-awesome ones. Let’s talk about the awesome ones first!
Along with several books and other things,Wally gave me a digital voice recorder. Yay! Typing my thoughts out here in this blog just isn’t enough for an egomaniac like myself. Oh no. Now, wherever I go, I’ll be able to record fodder. First though, I have to work up the nerve to hear my own voice. Ugh.
(I plan to also use this voice recorder at BlissDom ’09 for blackmailing purposes.)
I also received a yogurt machine, so now I’m making homemade yogurt. Join me at noon for my daily tree hugging and armpit hair combing, followed by a light snack of granola. And then at dinner, it’s 1982 all over again with my new fondu pot.
My favorite gift though? It came from Payton. He is officially the most awesome kid in the whole damn world, as if there were any doubt before. Three weeks before Christmas, we received a gift certificate from the Sea Lab for our volunteer work over the past year. Payton and his dad took it down to the gift shop and he spent every single bit of it on gifts for his MAMA. I’m sporting a silver sand dollar bracelet everywhere I go and I love it.
He also gave me a pretty pair of coral-colored earrings, only I never wear coral. My black hair and fair skin don’t do earth tones, but I will find something to wear with them. When the most awesome kid in the whole damn world spends his entire gift certificate on jewelry for you instead of toys from the gift shop, you. wear. it.
Now let’s talk about the not so awesome gifts. Can you guess who sent them?
Don’t think too hard. Just think hangers and birthday parties = family shit and you’ll be so hot your pants may catch fire.
The first thing I unwrapped from my in-laws was a bottle of Keri lotion. The second gift was a bottle of Aveeno lotion. The third, Eucerin lotion. The fourth? Oil of Olay.
Honest, I didn’t know what to think other than it rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again!
I suppose the fact these bottles were in a large Longaberger basket made up for it being, um, lotion. Except the whole Silence of the Lambs thing with the lotion and the basket pretty much freaked me the fuck out. Add in that my mother-in-law sews and I think she plans to kill me by leaving me in a dirt pit and starving me until I lose these ten damn pounds that have almost turned into fifteen.
(If I disappear from my blog, you, dear reader, now know where to tell Jodi Foster to look.)
This is where I reveal that I’m nothing but a HUGE ass, which is why the lotion gets rubbed on its ass. I want to be all oooooh, a Longaberger basket! How wonderful! because they are nice baskets. I want to be a good, dutiful person and be impressed with expensive baskets.
But I’m not.
(Can I actually admit that without looking like a huge ass? I didn’t think so.)
I can’t help myself, the following nursery rhyme comes to mind…
A tisket A tasket I bought an expensive ass basket. I wrote a check for $500 and on the way, oooh, lotion! Lotion! Lotion! I paid $500 for a basket and, oh my god, more lotion!
No, really, it’s not as bad as that, even with the lotions. The yogurt machine was from my in-laws, but Wally purchased it (because he knew I wanted it) for them to give to me, so I’m not sure that counts.
They also gave me a Vera Bradley purse. You know, those things that are actually quilts sewn in the shape of a rectangle, slapped with a name, an undeserving high price tag and then called a purse? One of those.
Oops, there I go, being a huge ass again. It’s a disability, I can’t help myself. It’s just that I’m a practical person and not one who gets excited over expensive fad items. I know this probably violates some international code of womanhood, but I don’t even care about expensive shoes either.
But expensive vodka? That’s another story.
Maybe all those times my mom denied me Guess jeans and Esprit shirts as a teenager taught me something after all.
And you know what else? *I* should remember those hangers. I’ll probably come to the realization that Vera Bradley purses are the best purses this side of the lower middle-class universe and demand that Longaberger basket be cremated with me when I die. Which if my mother-in-law’s plan works out, won’t be too long from now.
Bah, Humbug: I let the boys miss the last two days of school before Christmas vacation. (they finished their exams and they never do anything the last two days of each quarter other than busy work). By the second day, I wondered why I thought it would be a good idea to extend their vacation by two days.
Christmas Joy: Discovering that a just turned six-year old can dry dishes.
Bah, humbug: Having kids who STILL wake up at 6 am, if not before, even when school is out.
Christmas joy: More time to make them do chores!
********************************************************************************* Bah, humbug: Opening the boxes of gifts from the in-laws and finding my MIL sent me a set of vacuum cleaner attachments. (oh yes she did)
Christmas joy: Discovering that my eight-year old gets a fanatical enjoyment vacuuming the furniture with those attachments.
(Really, Wally and I had kids for the slave labor and no other reason.)
Bah, humbug: Having this stupid Fifth disease virus I caught last week flair up again, the very weekend I scheduled an assload of housecleaning in anticipation of my family coming for Christmas.
Christmas joy: Watching Wally do housework while I rest on the freshly vacuumed couch.
Bah, humbug: Last night, Wally told me he was so looking forward to going back to work on Monday because I worked him like a slave too. Poor Wally, he had to wash dishes THREE times on Sunday and dust and clean bathrooms.
Christmas joy: Parker telling me he wants to give daddy toilet paper for Christmas.
****************************************************************************** Bah, humbug: Purchasing pomegranate martini mix at the liquor store (score!) only to find it tastes like fucking cough syrup when I mix the drink up.
I will burn it in a sacrificial bonfire with the hundreds of tiny scraps of red, green, and white paper littering my kitchen floor. Then I will roast marshmallows over it while singing Kumbaya and Santa Bring My Sanity Back To Me.
God help me, the Foam Crafts haven’t been let loose from the ranks yet, but my spy tells me the tyrants formerly known as my children insist the foam join in the takeover tomorrow.
And let’s not even talk about the Gingerbread house kit. It’s like the tyrants’ secret weapon they are holding until my weakest moment, and they know they will bring about my final downfall by tying me down with royal icing and inedible gumdrops.
Save me.
What the tyrants don’t know is that the Queen has her own secret weapon and it’s called homemade fruit cake laced with laxative.
(insert maniacal laughter here)
But you should still send help in the way of vodka martinis. A matriarch in my current position can never have too many reinforcements.
Mother Nature thinks it’s funny to have Aunt Flo wake me up at 3 am.
Haha. ha. ha. ha.
And how do I know Aunt Flo shows up at 3 am when all people should be dead to the world? Because she knocks on my door with the WORST CRAMPS IN THE WORLD!
And gas.
I stumble through the dark to the bathroom and then into the linen closet to find the heating pad. I stumble back to the bed, then fumble in the dark trying to plug the heating pad in the light socket by feel alone because I don’t want to turn on the light and wake up Wally. Plus, the rush of adrenaline from the risk of sticking my finger in a light socket instead of turning on the light distracts me from the cramps.
However, I knock over Wally’s guitar and that wakes him up anyway. I start to feel bad for waking him up, then I realize if the guitar didn’t disturb him, then the gigantic reverberations coming from my ass would, so I’m damned either way.
The good news is that by tomorrow morning, I’ll be back to loving everyone and no one will leave our family Thanksgiving feast wondering what the fuck my problem is. Exactly 24 hours after my period arrives, I’m the epitome of a happy person and I love the whole damn world.
But don’t think the lack of raging PMS hormones is going to make me want to visit my in-laws. Before Monday afternoon, I thought perhaps with a third bottle of wine, I might be able to do it. I’d go visit in that semi-intoxicated, I-love-the-world happy, but fully in control of myself state. I even had the brand of wine for the third bottle picked out in my head. But then? I found out they called my almost 6-year-old son’s birthday “family shit” they just don’t participate in.
(and yes, “family shit” is a direct quote. Is that carte blanche to start referring to them as the ass-laws again?)
I dunno, that pretty much seals it for me. There aren’t enough bottles of wine in the world to put up with that. So we’re going to spend all of our holiday time with the people who don’t consider celebrating the birth of our son “family shit” and I’m damn grateful for the people who are there.
It appears writing a cathartic shit list really is cathartic. And there I was, really just using the word ‘cathartic’ to impress myself because it sounds big and educated, and I didn’t think it would help me. But it did.
Usually I find myself feeling resentful of all of the cooking I do every year. Come on, I cook for days (literally) only for the family to sit down and gobble up a meal in less than 20 minutes that took days to prepare. There’s no savoring food the French way with my family. Around a holiday table, you better watch your fingers.
Yet as I stood at the stove yesterday for the third straight hour, starting the banana nut bread after the homemade nutter butter cookies, which followed the buttercream icing and a gazillion dishes washed, I found myself actually smiling.
What? What is this? A happy feeling out of place? I’m at the peak of PMS and I don’t even like banana nut bread!
It’s true, I don’t. I don’t care for the nutter butter cookies either.
But when I told Payton I’m making both the cookies and banana bread, he clapped and jumped up and down as high as he could, like a cheerleader whose team just scored the winning point.
For a little boy who celebrates the joy of my cooking, I am grateful.
And for a little boy who has blessed my life for almost six years with his beautiful blue eyes and joyful soul, I am grateful too.
Have a happy Thanksgiving, dear reader. I am grateful for you too.
But after this weekend, I think Volkswagen has been outsmarted.
Yes, Brooke is pretty and has great eyebrows, but clearly Epson knows more about female consumers than German engineers.
Where VW says yes, you have babies as an excuse to drive our van, now give us $25,000, Epson says something so completely different it makes me weak in the knees and I’m sure retail therapy in the way of lots of Epson products is the only cure. Epson, dear sweet Epson, said these words to us…
You ladies want to get together? Here, let us pay for it!
And because I can’t stop myself from dropping more names, there was a FABulous woman named Barbara Jones, founder of One2One, who also played a big role in BlissDom, and treated us attendees like royalty.
Of course, I am royalty, but that’s neither here nor there because that was some damn fine red carpet. Epson should be proud of the job Barbara did for them. I think the carpet she rolled out was probably finer than the carpet I walked on on my wedding day, and here’s why:
First, they fed us breakfast. In a bar. And no one smeared syrup in their hair or threw Cheerios on the floor and then laughed as we cleaned it up. Come on, breakfast in a bar? How cool and hip is that!
I know you feel the hipness of the event just by reading this, don’t you?
Second, after a couple hours of great communication and un-conferencing, they fed us lunch. No one smeared Spaghetti O’s on their shirt, and while we were busy not spot-treating Chef Boyardee out of shirts, Alli gave away some of her gorgeous jewelry.
Third. Oh, third! They provided us with a private concert with singer/songwriter Jessie Baylin. Did you get that private part? Routan boom that shit, VW, because Jessie was great and I had my picture taken with a future mega-hit star. On top of the private concert, there was much emotional bonding in the way of more talking and sharing, and even more prizes, like a kick ass Epson wi-fi printer.
(I didn’t win it, which kinda sucked because my Preciousneeds a wi-fi printer. What is a yuppy computer without a yuppy printer to go with it? It’s a yuppy computer with an identity crisis, that’s what. But I quickly forgot my disappointment when I heard the words “drink tickets” and “special martini.” Printer? What printer?)
Fourth, a free cocktail party with our very own martini….a Blisstini, which was totally yummy. We drank, we mingled, we bonded even more and after the cocktail party, we were given a HUGE swag bag full of wonderful goodies.
So let’s stop and tally what we have so far:
Epson: breakfast, awesome conversation, prizes, lunch, more awesome conversation, more prizes, emotional bonding, private concert, cocktail party, and then lots of swag.
VW: get stretch marks and give our company $25,000, bitches.
Tsk tsk, VW. Obviously Epson understands the female consumer much better. Food, communication, emotional bonding, alcohol, and presents.
Pure genius in it’s simplicity.
But Epson, that fine sugar daddy, didn’t stop there. Not even.
At the end of the day, Epson said the hottest, sexiest words you can say to a grown woman.
“I’m taking care of dinner tonight.”
Swoon! Take me now, I’m yours!
Epson and Barbara loaded us into a shuttle (because we’re fun but responsible women with families who love us, and who wants to drink and drive? Not us! And not Epson.) and took us to a delightful restaurant in Nashville called The Sunset Grill.
Not only do they kick German ass, but Epson kicks Dutch ass too because they were all what the hell is this “going Dutch” shit? Have more alcohol, have gourmet food, have chocolate dessert! It’s all on us!
Then they drove our tipsy asses back to the hotel and had their way with us.
Ok, so there was no having their way with us, but they did drive us back to the hotel and if I were in the baby-making business, forget that Routan Boom stuff, I would totally make one with my husband and name him/her Epson.*
And Barbara? She would be the baby’s fairy godmother. Or at least my doula. If you saw how great she is at her job, you would definitely want her there rubbing your back, making sure everything ran smoothly, and you would never run out of ice chips.
You are probably more than a bit jealous now and wishing you had been at BlissDom ’08, right? Yes, I’m like Yoda and feel it I can through the screen. I know the feeling.I’ve walked your shoes.
Don’t worry. Rumor has it there will be a bigger and better BlissDom in February. Though it may be bigger, I’m not sure it’s possible that it could be better. Well, they do say anything is possible, and if it’s better than this past weekend, I will so say BlogHuh? and be back next year.
*Official rules and guidelines: name guarantee based soley on sponsor meeting the following requirements, and maybe others I make up next week. Must pay for husband’s vasectomy reversal in full, a two year supply of cloth diapers for baby, sexy nursing bras and tummy tuck for Queen of Shake-Shake, a larger vehicle so husband can haul third kid places, and a paid-in-full college fund for little “Epson.”
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
I always heard Alan Jackson was really tall, but to tell the truth, I have action figures taller than he is. That picture, dear reader, is at 10x zoom, so we weren’t even that close.
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