The Mad Mama Horror Show

I do not sleep well. I blame this partially on my propensity toward insomnia, but I think the real problem is that there are things that go on in my house at night. Disturbing things. No, the walls don’t bleed Amityville Horror-style or anything like that. It’s much worse: Hubby snores like a damn chainsaw in a slasher flick. And the dog barks in his sleep like his life depended on it. He’s probably hearing hubby and dreaming that Leatherface is after him. (RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!) Additionally, Babyzilla has a tendency to wake in the middle of night and start chatting to himself loudly, occasionally even bursting into song. Once it was ‘Happy Birthday’. Another time it was Journey’s ‘Any Way You Want It’. This kid is going to be the life of the party in college.

The Olympics aren’t helping either. The other evening I stayed up well past midnight to watch the U.S. women’s gymnastics team have their perky little asses handed to them on a Chinese platter. My heart went out to the girl who fell during her balance beam and floor routines. How devastating for a 16-year-old, or anyone at any age for that matter. Whether it’s true or not, I’m sure she feels like she single-handedly lost the gold for the entire team. She certainly helped drive the final nail into the coffin and will probably be losing sleep over that for some time to come.

My own sleep problems have also been exacerbated by TMTD (Too Much To Do) Syndrome. My newly frugal self decided to join in on a neighborhood-wide garage sale planned for this Saturday, so pulling out all my old crap and trying to make it look like something someone else simply CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT is keeping me up late as well, crashing gymnasts aside. We’re also taking a trip out of town next week, and, as anyone with children knows, the preparation for going on a vacation with a young’un takes five times as much effort as it would with another adult. I’m looking forward to the airplane ride with as much enthusiasm as a Death Row inmate looks forward to the electric chair. Since Babyzilla completely lacks the ability to sit and color quietly like apparently EVERY OTHER THREE-YEAR-OLD IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, this will be our own horror movie in the making. I can hear the blood-curdling screams already. Babyzilla will probably get upset too.

So, my weary and macabre (‘cause lack of sleep makes my brain do weird things) apologies to anyone who might be checking in here on a regular basis, hoping for a fresh shot of Mama Madness and not getting your fix. I can’t guarantee a daily post right now, but I’m trying to keep up, much like an ax-wielding psychopath with a buxom teenager. That is, an ax-wielding psychopath who could really use a nap.

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I wonder if he would taste good breaded and pan-fried.

Look at this dog!

He’s flat.

Flat as a flounder.

He’s the flattest dog ever! In fact, he’s not a dog at all; he’s a dog-shaped flounder. A lazy, furry, cheese-loving, snuffling, dog-shaped flounder.

Now, that’s a scientific anomaly, if I ever saw one.

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Acceptable or Unacceptable?, Vol. II

This is a two-parter:

1) You drop part of your popsicle on the sidewalk, and then pick it up and eat it.

2) You let your kid do the same.

Acceptable or unacceptable?

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Professional Wino

At my suggestion, our little clan (Laziest Dog On the Planet included) took a nice camping trip last weekend. I felt it would do us all good to get away, breathe some fresh air, eat chili dogs, and lie in the dirt. Plus camping is one of Hubby’s favorite activities, so being the thoughtful, selfless wife that I am, I insisted we go, willing to endure being eaten alive by mosquitoes for his happiness.

Actually, that’s a bunch of crap. It was just an excuse to get us up there so I could participate in a wine tasting competition at Greenwood Ridge Vineyards, a mere six miles from the campground! How convenient!

I figured I had as good a chance as anybody at winning a wine tasting contest. After all, I’ve been a Professional Wino for years. The winery had the competition divided into three levels: Novice, Amateur, and Professional. ‘Professional’ in this case meant those who actually work in the wine industry, not those that support it single-handedly, so I entered myself at the ‘Amateur’ level. I even called the winery just to clarify the difference between ‘Novice’ and ‘Amateur’, and the nice lady I spoke to explained that ‘Novice’ was supposed to be for those who generally weren’t very familiar with wine at all. I’m so familiar with wine, I don’t even mind walking around naked in front of it. Amateur all the way, baybee!

I arrived at the competition, scoped out the crowd, and felt a little nervous but sure I could at least give these people a run for their money. I even allowed my thoughts to stray momentarily to the “winner” fantasy, the Oscar moment where I stand at the podium, clutching my golden wine bottle trophy: “I’d like to thank Beverages & More and The Bottle Barn……”

Then the other competitors started talking about the hint of cedar you get in this wine that you don’t get in that, the purple color of one varietal in comparison to the really purple color of another varietal, the subtle differences between wine barrels made with 100-year-old oak cut down by French unicorns during a full moon as opposed to 101-year-old oak cut down by the Keebler elves at precisely 06:57 GMT on the third Saturday of any month starting with the letter ‘J’. I’ve always gone by the more pedestrian, “Yep, that tastes like a Cab,” and “Yeah, that tastes like a Chardonnay.”

Needless to say, I got my friggin’ ass kicked on the first round. Out of eight varietals (Cabernet, Syrah, Sauvignon Blanc, etc.), I got one right. ONE. On the last two, there was the opportunity to guess the year, region, and winery as well. I didn’t bother to check, but I’m sure I wasn’t even close. The other tasters assured me that this was a particularly difficult round. As it turns out, they had all done this a gazillion times before. Regardless, I hung my head in slightly-buzzed shame. My Big Adventure In Winoland was over.

Then, a miracle happened. The wine gods smiled down upon the gustatorially impaired (i.e., the guy running the competition decided to go easy on losers like me), and I was advanced to the next round! I still had a chance at delivering my carefully prepared winner’s speech! The golden wine bottle would be mine, all mine!!

Actually, I went into the second round thinking, ok, I know I ain’t gonna win, but I’ll just have fun with it. I had gotten to know some of my competitors, and those people knew how to have a good time. (What Professional Wino doesn’t?) Well, I don’t know if it was those couple of glasses of wine I had during the break that, in my professional opinion, were essential for keeping myself primed for tasting, or if I just got lucky, but somehow I managed to guess six out of eight varietals! This round also had the option of guessing the year, region, and winery for every wine, and I got two of the years and one region. I had been redeemed! I was back, in all my alcohol-infused glory! Of course I didn’t win, but I was able to claim a rightful place among my fellow tasters. Once again, I could proudly hold my head high and declare, “Step back, everyone. I am a Professional Wino.”

Step back, everyone…..

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