Down the rabbit hole

The internet is freakin’ insidious, isn’t it? A few hours ago I started to do a search on ‘BlogHer’ (an online community for women who blog) because I was thinking of becoming a member, but I didn’t know the specific URL. Well, Google likes to give me helpful suggestions when I start typing into the Search box, and one of them was ‘blogher dooce drunk’. Well, who the hell could resist that? I read Dooce (for the uninitiated, a blog written by a woman named Heather Armstrong) sometimes; I’m familiar with Heather’s appreciation of adult beverages. This sounded like fun.

So, I gamely click ‘blogher dooce drunk’, and one of the results leads off with “Dooce vs. the Drunk Volcano”. This immediately conjures up an image of a very sauced Ms. Armstrong straddling a model volcano (a la high school science project) and riding it like a mechanical bull in a honky-tonk bar during an alcohol infused BlogHer event. Yes, I realize that it’s supposed to be the volcano that’s drunk, but the ‘random and disturbing images’ part of my mind doesn’t always line up all the pieces in a logical order.

Turns out that Dooce was not the slightest bit drunk, and the volcano was actually another blogger making a comment to Heather at the last BlogHer conference, held in San Francisco. There was an awkward exchange between the two of them, and a number of people construed this as some sort of blog-eat-blog smackdown. From the video I watched, the whole thing seemed fairly benign to me, and, in my opinion, other bloggers are just being petty about it, but I couldn’t help thinking, “Damn! I should’ve gone to BlogHer! Oh, the drama!” San Francisco is basically on my doorstep after all. I practically could’ve hosted my own drunk volcano-riding party. But when I first heard of BlogHer, I was pretty new to the blogosphere and not part of the social scene. The only other bloggers with whom I’ve had any personal exchanges at all are Kristen at Mommy Needs A Cocktail (LOVE her t-shirts) and Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored (she’s wonderfully ballsy and I think she’s Da Bomb). No, I don’t have a thing for people named Kristen….. Or at least I don’t think I do. Hmmm….

Anyway, ‘blogher dooce drunk’ and the drunk volcano led me to lots of other interesting posts about the weirdness of the BlogHer conference, how much people love/hate Heather Armstrong, Jon Armstrong’s defense of his wife, people who seem drunk when they’re really not, magical hobbits…….

Hours later, joining BlogHer has been all but forgotten. Never mind that it’s been on my ‘To Do’ list for over a month now. In fact, I’m about to do my celebrity morph. What could be more productive than that? That’s what I love about the internet –you suddenly find all these things you need to do that are so much more important than what you initially set out to do. After all, everybody needs a celebrity morph.

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.

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.

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?

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…..

Acceptable or Unacceptable?, Vol. I

A fork gets a piece of rice stuck in between its tines, and, inevitably, the rice doesn’t wash out in the dishwasher, but, rather, gets cemented firmly in place. Instead of rewashing the fork, you just pop the rice out and put the fork away.

Acceptable or unacceptable?

Nyaa nyaa nya nyaa nyaaaa!

So, today when I dropped Babyzilla off at school, one of his charming classmates took it upon himself to yell at gently inform me, “[Babyzilla] was pushing Bobby today!!”

That’s great, kid. Now go play in traffic or something.

But seriously, I get it. Babyzilla, who’s one step away from juvy, pushed Bobby. I already knew about it. Obviously it didn’t happen “today” because today hadn’t even started yet. That’s one aspect I really hate about all of this –-the ‘tattle-tale’ kids and a lack of concept of time at this age. One incident turns into something that happened yesterday, today, tomorrow…. and is reported with great enthusiasm as often as a need for dramatic announcements dictates.

I’ve even been tripped up by Babyzilla himself, saying he hit someone as if it just happened, when he’s actually referring to something that occurred days, if not weeks, ago. A little more prying reveals that, for whatever reason, he’s just regurgitating a previous incident already known to me. (He’s undoubtedly trying to give me a heart attack so he can claim his inheritance before kindergarten.) This is probably why I’m convinced he’s nailing someone every five minutes, while his teachers seem relatively unconcerned.

Lord knows what the other kids are saying to their parents, though. The mom of this particular child seemed decidedly uninterested in his proclamation, but who knows? She could have whispered to him covertly, “Just avoid Devil Child for now and we’ll have you transferred to another class as soon as possible,” or, “We’ll commence with the witch hunt when the new school year starts in the Fall.”

Yes, I’m feeling defensive toward a preschooler. Perspective has never been one of my strong suits.

Rot In Hell, Hans

So, Hans Reiser, who, during a six-month trial, vehemently denied having anything to do with the disappearance of his estranged wife Nina, has now led police to her dead body in a purported bid to be convicted of second-degree murder rather than first-degree murder. He has finally admitted that he strangled her to death.

That’s just great. He ostentatiously denied and denied and denied. Was reportedly rude, combative, and manipulative in court. He even suggested that his wife had returned to and was hiding out in her native Russia. But as soon as the shit hit the fan and he was trapped, it was, “Oops! I guess I did do it. Here’s the body. Reduced sentence, please.”

Ok, yes, he’s a murderer, and therefore we can hardly expect him to be honest (although some people do fess up when they know their back is against the wall). But to be such an asshole about it, to get up on the stand and not just lie, but lie in such an egotistical manner, to go on and on for a reported eleven days proclaiming complete innocence…. Does the man have any conscience, any scrap of decency at all?

Again, yes, he’s a murderer. How can I expect him to have a conscience or be decent? But murders can happen when people get whipped up in a frenzy of rage –particularly in a situation as contentious as a nasty divorce –and they do things they don’t mean to do. I’m not saying in any way that this makes it excusable, just saying that you can do things in the heat of the moment that you sincerely regret later. Haven’t we all in some shape or form?

So, maybe I’m expecting too much from old Hans –that he might actually feel some remorse for killing the mother of his children, instead of being an egotistical blowhard. Sure, he didn’t want to go to jail, so he denied the charge, but if you’re going to deny it, enter your plea and then keep your damn mouth shut. Don’t insult everyone with your bullshit grandiose claims of innocence while your murdered wife lies in a shallow grave on a hillside and her family searches for her desperately.

Bite me, Hans.

Bastard.

Everything I know about love, I learned from watching The Bachelor/Bachelorette

1. The hot, rich guy will always go for the ditzy blond, if one is available.

2. It doesn’t matter if you’re a gal who’s so oblivious you’re not capable of recognizing a major national landmark either by sight or name. As long as you are beautiful, twenty-five guys will instantly fall in love with you.

3. The bitchier a woman is, the more guys will be falling all over themselves trying to win her heart.

4. A woman who wastes time watching crap like this probably doesn’t deserve to have a nice husband, even one who does alarming things with power tools.

Shout-Out #1

To the older gentleman at the picnic tables by the Civic Center lagoon on Wednesday: Gassho to you for giving my son and me a ticket to the county fair, which was in full, corndog-scented swing just yards away from us. Muddle-headed Mommy completely spaced on the fact that it was fair time when she decided that Babyzilla would enjoy a picnic lunch by the lagoon after a grueling morning at New School. (“Why can’t I go back to my old school, Mommy?” UGH.) This after making very pointed plans with Hubby to take Babyzilla to the fair not once, but twice over the long weekend, because one day of horse-meat hamburgers, stale candy corn, vertigo-inducing rides, random fried stuff, and a three-year-old so high on sugar that the phrase “chicken roaster” sends him into hysterics, just ain’t enough.  How could I have forgotten?

Luckily, I was able to find parking I didn’t have to pay for. Unluckily, Babyzilla thought this meant we were going to the fair NOW. No matter how much I gleefully tried to explain that today we were only going to look at the fair, and HOW COOL IS THAT??, he didn’t seem to be buying it. As we sat and ate our hummus and cheese and crackers and grapes, I wondered how I was going to drag 40-plus pounds of screaming pre-schooler away without drawing the attention of a few thousand fairgoers.

Then you came along, asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a table since bees decided to have their own picnic at yours. We had only exchanged a few pleasantries when you handed me the ticket –one adult admission, and Babyzilla, being under the age of four, could get in free.

You made a little boy –a little boy who was having a rough week –very happy. This made his mom very happy. When I was a young thing in my twenties, any possible inappropriateness of me throwing my arms around you would’ve been forgiven as youthful exuberance, but now that I’m an old hag-mom with offspring in tow, the suitable thing seemed to be offering a sincere thank you, though it didn’t feel like quite enough. So I’m hoping the universe proffers a cosmic kiss on your head and gives you a little something that makes you very happy. Karmic points to you.