Tag Archives: barf

We’re doin’ taxes

The hubby just came in from an afternoon spent sorting out our taxes and showed me (to the tune of hundreds of dollars) how I dropped the ball by incurring late fees and interest rates.  I HATE THAT!  I hate throwing perfectly good money out the window.  Why couldn’t he have simply left me in my ignorant bliss?

I blame the children.  They distracted me.

I also blame menopause.  I can’t remember when the actual due date of each (and there are plenty) bill.

I also blame Andy Williams (may he rest in peace).  Not sure why I am blaming poor Andy, since I love him.  At any rate, one of his Christmas ditties inspired me to write the following.  You may wish to sing it at your house.

Ahhhh, hemmm.  Here we go:

It’s the most horrible time of the year 
When the husband is yelling
And the IRS is telling you something to fear 
It’s the most horrible time of the year 

It’s the crap-crappiest season of all
With those 1040 tax forms and  and letters to inform you owe Uncle Sam your soul 

It’s the crap- crappiest season of all 
There’ll be dwindling tax shelters leading to homeless shelters  and having to sleep in the snow 

There’ll be scary audit stories  and now we are sorry about purchases from long, long ago 

There’ll be much Pepto-Bismol  and things sure look dismal  when April fifteenth comes near 

There’ll be much pencil throwing and hearts will be glowing  with horrible heartburn severe 

It’s the most horrible time

It’s the most horrible time

It’s the most horrible tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime!

Of the year!

Happy Taxes, everyone! 

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Dads, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Tax season

Attachment Parenting

I’d just like to point out that the great thing about being an OLDER MOM, is that the kid wouldn’t need a chair.  So.  Have you heard of attachment parenting?  I managed to get 5 kids into their teen years without it, but now that I think about it, I was a fool.  I only nursed my kids for a year.  All that money wasted on those little boxes of fruit drinks for the soccer team?  With some jumping jacks, I could have served milkshakes.  This attachment parenting thing makes so much sense, especially for the menopausal mom.  I can think of a ton of ways we could share.  “When I’m done wiping you, you do me, honey.”  And, we could gum our peas together, spit up together and share diapers when the child is older.  I mean, if we’re not going to wean, why potty train?

I have always dreaded the empty nest.  This way, I don’t have to.  Independence is totally over-rated.   In fact, I’m thinking about starting a movement: Never-ending breastfeeding.  This way, I can feed the grandchildren.   I love our society today.  We just never seem to know when enough is…enough.

Carolyn

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The Nancy Drew Turder Mysteries


Nancy Drew Super POOch

Number One Son (age 13)  was thrilled to be offered a money-making opportunity to dog-sit, over spring break.  He is saving up for an iPod Touch, and this piece-of-cake gig was going to put him close to his goal.  Talk about easy money.  As you can see by the picture on the left, Nancy Drew is a tiny thing, coming in at a mere dozen pounds or less.  Her owners instructed Number One Son to feed her a small cup of kibble, twice a day and to be sure to let her out because she was nearly potty trained, but still had the occasional ‘oopsie’ when she was nervous (or in the throes of solving an important case, I maintain).

Nancy left her first “clue” in my closet.  On my freshly laundered sweat pants.  “Number One Son!” I called on the intercom.  “Get the pooper scooper and the Lysol and report to my closet!”

I heard him laugh as he gathered his ‘Mystery Solving Kit’.   Moments later, the clue was disposed of as Nancy watched.

“That was about a cup of kibble right there,” Number One chortled.  “No need to let her out now.”

Famous last words.

“Number One Son!” Number Two Sister called. “Get the kit and meet me at the piano!”  Nancy had left a Major ‘clue’ on Brahm’s Concerto in D Minor.  To be perfectly honest?  I think Number Two sis was delighted as she had never really liked that piece.

Number One groaned and scratched his head.  “Already?  Huh.  Must not have been done. ”

Famous last words.

“Number One!” Number Three Sister shrieked.  “Nancy has left a clue on my pillow and I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Number One issued some guttural groans and headed for the kit.  Nancy was hot on his trail.  “How much poop can come out of such a tiny dog?”

Nancy gave him one of her famous toothy grins. The next clue was found in my office, behind the door.  Number One Son was growling now.  Before the end of the day, Nancy had given Number One Son and his kit at least a dozen clues and the Mystery was in full swing.

“I can’t figure out how one tiny little dog can make SO MUCH CRAP!”

Nancy simply gave him a mysterious, knowing, Mona Lisa style smile.  She knew. This was only day one.

Carolyn

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Wendy says good-bye to her 40’s…

Wish you were here!

This morning, I got a message from Chase on my cell phone:  Credit Fraud Alert!   Did you attempt to steal $160 on your credit card?  If yes, reply “yes”.  If no, please reply “no”.

Are they serious?  Why on earth would I admit to trying to steal money if I had stolen it?  Why on earth would I admit to trying to steal the money, if I hadn’t stolen it?

That’s what I call a lose/lose kind of question.

Because I am in Maui to celebrate the birth of my dear sister/friend, Wendy (yes, it’s that time of year again) I went to the store and bought a weeks worth of groceries and supplies, but neglected to tell my credit card company I was on the move.

Anyway, today is Wendy’s last day of being in her 40’s.  Tomorrow, she moves into her 50’s with the rest of us.  I’m just so sorry she isn’t here for the big party I throw for her every year.

Tomorrow, I’m going to announce my amazing gift to her so you’ll want to stay turned!

Aloha

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Birthdays, Marriage, Maui, Menopause, Motherhood, Travel

The Pros and Cons of Being Queen.

Strange hats? I can do that!

Yesterday, I was standing in the grocery line at Wal-Mart, striving to appear as if I was not reading the tabloid covers, but come on, I was at Wal-Mart?  Just call me oxy-moron.  Anyway, I see that poor Kate Middleton has hit a bit of a rough patch and that got me to thinking:  Do I really have the chops to represent the USA as her Queen?  Let’s weigh the pros and cons, shall we?

There have been kidnapping threats.

Etiquette lessons.

Demands to give Wills a baby.

Extreme weight loss.

Now, lets examine the cons…

That does it.  I’m in.

My greatest fear—or—given our current culture of crude ‘reality”—asset, would be hoof-in-mouth disease or even worse…being thought too common.  For example, I recall the horrifying moment when Lady Di was presented with something made of china as a gift and she had the audacity, gasp!! to turn it over and look for the label.  Tres gauche!  I just wanted to curl up and Di.

Yeah.

I don’t know my Waterford from a hole in the ground, so Di was light years more savvy than me and she still had people fainting over her horrendous faux pas.  I can only imagine what the good people will say when I serve baloney boats and Coke at my coronation.  And my youngest daughter can belch like a long-shoreman, so…guess I’m gonna have to speak to her about that before my big day.

Joyce, I agree about the Facebook thing, so that’s my number 2 item for change.  Keep ‘em coming, people.  What good is having a queen, if she can’t make life a little easier for us all?

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Cinderella, Facebook, Fifteen Minutes of Fame, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Queen of the USA, Weight Loss

I HATE ZUCCHINI

 Did you know that zucchini seeds are magic?   Did you know one plant will produce enough food to feed a third world country?  Did you know your kids probably hate zucchini? Mine do.

 

We made the mistake of planting an entire package of zucchini seeds this summer.  They burst out of the ground like Jack’s beanstalk and each plant produced a zoogillion zucchinis.

 

Now, I have zucchini coming out of my ears.  And other places.  I’m holding a contest at my house called, “most creative use of zucchini”.  Aside from the mundane zucchini casserole and zucchini bread and cake we have; zuk-kabobs, deviled zuk, zukironi and cheese, zuk au gratin, zuk cordon bleu, and zuk under glass.

 

We have grilled it, fried it, mashed it, baked, boiled, broiled, frickken fricasseed it.  We have tried it with a fox, we have tried it in a box, we have tried it here and there, we have tried it everywhere.  We do not like it Sam, I am.

 

We’re sick of it.  I am writing this blog at a table built of zucchini and seated on a zucchini bench.  I sent my youngest son to school in a pair of shoes fashioned from zucchini.  I sent it to my daughter’s class to celebrate her birthday.  What? The kids didn’t enjoy the piñata stuffed with zucchini?  What did they want?  Crook-neck?  Lousy kids.

 

I’m thinking next year, we’re gonna win the Pillsbury Bakeoff with something made from zucchini, Wendy.   Nothin’ says lovin’ like a zucchini in the oven.

 

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Cooking, gardening, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood

12 steps for menopausal motherhood

Wendy and I are starting a support group for menopausal mothers.  This was overheard at our first meeting:
“Hey, Wendy! How are you doing today?”

“Yes!  It is windy today!”

“No.  It’s Thursday!”

“Me, too.  When are those cheap hotmamas gonna serve the coffee?”

I think we’re making great headway.

Car0lyn

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My writing partner/my husband

I've got it! How about...a lightbulb?

It is so fun to brainstorm story ideas with my husband.  Especially when he’s awake.  Took me a few years to figure out that the best time to catch him is early in the day, when he is sitting upright. Because once he’s horizontal, I can pretty much guarantee that if I’m pitching the Wizard of Oz to him, he’ll be snoring long before I get to the tornado.

The car is good.  If he’s driving, he’s upright.  Usually not snoring.

Today, we had a three-hour commute home from our place at the beach.  I needed to come up with some names for my characters and so I told him he could name some of them.  He likes to do that.  He named a character for me one time that landed an eighteen book deal.  Seriously.  So now, he fancies he’s got some kind of “knack”.

“Who am I naming?” he asks.  I can tell he’s feeling helpful.

“I’m thinking about a young guy who is a body builder/personal trainer.  Kind of arrogant.”

“Sort of a jarhead?”

“Yeah.”

He mulls.  “Got it.  Timmy…Tenderloin.”

“Timmy?  Tender…loin?  I’m not writing for the porno channel.  Do you ever want me to work again?”

He’s screaming with laughter at the windshield.

I’m beginning to worry as he is swerving.  “Forget Timmy Tenderloin.  Let’s move on.  I need a middle-aged woman.  Owns a Jamba Juice shop.  I’ve got to kill her off.”

“Nice gal?”

“Salt of the earth.”

“Got it.  I’m thinking…Mae.  Yeah.  Mae.  Born in May.  Dies in May, right?  Last name…Bury.  A little foreshadowing there, huh?”

“You want me to name the Jamba Juice lady Mayberry?”

More riotous laughter.  “Next?”

“I need a Chinese guy to run the restaurant.”

After we’d established that the Chinese dude was second generation American, the hubby has it.  “Okay.  His name is Miyagi Waxoff.  And his kids are Ashley and Tyler and…they’re ice-dancers.”

More howling.  I’m staring at him. And thinkin’ he’s lost the knack.  Then again…I might be able to do something with the ice-dancers.

Carolyn

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Scenes you’ll never read in a romance novel

 Call me slow, but I am only just now realizing that the romance novels I’ve read (okay, and written) aren’t exactly realistic.  I know, I can hear you gasping from here.  Why, Carolyn, whatever could you mean?  Well, I guess I mean that people claim they want a real hero, but how real is too real?  As writers, could we be doing a disservice to the reader by painting a less than accurate portrait of a real relationship?  For example, I have never seen:

Stone sat in his sports car at the corner of 12th and Main, his mind idling along with his powerful engine.  His finger was buried up to its second knuckle in his nostril as he reflected on the short skirt his secretary had worn to work that morning.  She was one hot tamale he mused, as he flicked a booger on his car mat.  Yeah, she had some serious cellulite and a muffin top, but hey, nobody was perfect…

Flooded with relief, Hunter made it to the men’s room just before the diarrhea reared its ugly head.  Oh man, I hope I don’t break the porcelain
he thought as he perched on the toilet, his trousers down around his ankles.  Hopefully, being that this was their first date and all, Lucy wouldn’t leave before the cramps did…

Stag ambled to his motorcycle and straddled the seat.  It was a great day for a ride in the country.  There was nothing like the thunder that roared from between his legs as he fastened his helmet.  Then, he kick-started his bike and revved the engine.  Man, he loved eating at Taco Bell, but he was going to have to ride like the wind to get away from that smell…

As Suzy lay basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Rafe’s horrendous morning breath assailed her nostrils.  She smiled down at him.  He really needed a shave.  And about a gallon of mouthwash.  And then, there was the matter of that nasty gunk in the corners of his eyes…

Ah well.  Maybe I’m just ahead of my time.

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Bathroom Humor, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, romance novels, Writing

Fish tragedy, a three hanky tale

Don’t they look like angels when they sleep?…wait…they ARE angels!

Luckily, my mother does not read this blog so I can add my fish tale to Wendy’s aquarium misery.  Plus, it’s been two years and we’ve managed to recover nicely.

Number One Son really, really, really, really wanted a pet fish.

I said, “But honey, you know you are only ten-years-old and won’t take care of it and the poor little fishy will die of starvation.”

“No way, Mom!!  I’ll feed it and change its water and play with it and everything.”

“If I let you have a fish, you must realize that I don’t want it, and its life will be in your hands, got that?”

After he pledged allegiance to the fish, we went to Wal-mart.  Price of fish?  10 cents.  Price of bowl, rocks, food, fish net, special chemistry set to keep the bowl from rotting, exotic housing units and plastic trees and kelp in unnatural neon colors?  $89.50.

Day one was glorious:  Son diligently set up bowl, named fish Alice, fed Alice 3 squares, checked chemical balance, dragged family and friends in to admire how clever Alice was whenever she swam through neon cave and, before bed that night, told Alice bedtime story.

Day two:  Son invited to sleepover at neighbor’s house.  Forgot Alice existed.

Day five: Alice failing.

Day eight:  Alice, near death, discovered by eldest teenage daughter.  “Mom, I’m going to take over Alice’s health care.  Brother is going to be my
co-owner.”

A shame-faced brother agreed to the arrangement and within days, Alice was her spunky old self.  Daughter taught brother that the best way to clean Alice’s bowl was to transfer Alice to a salad bowl and run her regular stuff through the dishwasher to sterilize it from time to time.

Unfortunately, daughter and son neglected to tell Grandma their bowl cleaning method.  And—because my mother is one of those people who cannot stop cleaning for 5 minutes—when she came over for dinner, Alice was inadvertently tossed into the garbage disposal and whirled into the great beyond as my mother hummed Swing Low Sweet Chariot.

We all stared at each other in horror, as Alice had become a rather cherished member of the family.  However, we also knew that Grandma would never forgive herself and would inundate us with replacement fish for the rest of our lives and so, choked back the tears.  Needless to say, dinner was a tad subdued that night.  Now and then, a family member would pause at the disposal and murmur their respects down the drain.

Wendy, hurry.  Invite my mother over for dinner next time you clean Bluestar’s bowl.  Grandma, without fail, will leap up from the dinner table and begin tackling the dishes.  Rest in peace, Bluestar.

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Anxiety, Children, cleaning, Cooking, Cussing, Death, Health, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Pet fish

Monsoon!

My niece, on monsoon night...

Ever gone camping in the middle of a major storm?  Trust me, you’d remember.  This last week, my family went camping—as we do every year—in paradise.  Think stunning Oregon forest, horseback riding, swimming in the crystal clear river, jumping off the rocks into said river, something called ‘barn-hockey’ for the kids, tons of food and a fantastic friend (Jill, you rock!) with a supercallafragelistic family willing to share interesting (and hilarious) stories of ranch life with this writer.  It was all of that this year, too, but the weather—as it has been around the world—was…different.

One day in particular was soggy, but as night approached, so did a seriously ominous bank of black clouds.

“Oooo,” we giggled, “Looks like we’re gonna get a little wet.”  So naive.

Our family fits into three tents:  the two-man tent for the boys, the six man tent for the girls—sans the 6 men, of course—and the eight man tent for the hubby and me and the dogs.  As usual, the boys passed out the minute their heads hit the pillow.  The girls on the other hand (all teenagers, and my wild woman niece—age 24 going on 13) were all enjoying being nutballs and laughing themselves half silly in midst of this wilderness slumber party.  I decided to let their shenanigans carry on, cuz I’m super cool and, okay, too lazy to get up and tell them to pipe down.

When the first crack of thunder sounded, the girls all shrieked and giggled.  The hubby and I grinned at each other.  Fun, huh?  The flashes of lightning brought some concerned squeaks from the girls, but it was tempered by more laughter.  Then the downpour hit.  And I’m not talking the drips and drabs of Wendy’s shower.  Oh, no.  This was as if a giant cosmic ladle, perhaps the big dipper? yeah, dumped a lake on us.  The thunder got louder, and the lightening brighter and the squeals higher.

Still, I wasn’t concerned.  After all, the girls had been noisy all evening.  I figured the trees all around us would catch any stray lightning bolts and so deluded, drifted off to sleep.  Around 2ish, the boys appeared at our door (flap) soaked to the skin, shivering and mad as wet roosters.

“Our tent is gone!  Our beds are flooded!”

Odd.  Then again, we had cots and a stronger tent.  “Well, come on in.”  I took one ice-cube boy in my bag, the hubby took the other in his.  The girls were still laughing—I thought—as their shrieks started to rival the howls of the hurricane.  After all, if there was a problem, they’d tell us, right?

Wasn’t till the next morning I woke up to find the girls all huddled in the minivan, their tent now an above ground swimming pool, their beds sagging floatation devices, their mascara running, their joi de vivre a thing of the past.  Not laffin’.  No, my niece was snoozing in at shotgun, scrunched and drenched.  Daughter number three was packed into  the middle row and the older daughters slept sardine style in the back.

Took the entire day—and—half a pile of firewood to dry ‘em out.

Thankfully, the remainder of the week was sunny.  And now (after resting for 24 whole hours at home) we are headed to the beach for more life in the old tent, this time with the kid’s high school crowd.  The weather is looking a little sketchy, so I’ll probably be piling into the minivan with a
dozen (or more) teenagers if we aren’t washed out to sea first.

Wendy?  If you don’t hear from me by…say…Thursday?  Call the Coast Guard.

TTFN,

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Anxiety, Bizarre weather, Cussing, Death, Girl Scouts, kids messy rooms, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Outdoor school, Travel, Weight gain

Sliding Doors

Steady...steady now...

On the 4th of July, we had the kind of company you want to impress.  (My agent and her family).  Yet, my hard-working hubby saw the day off as an opportunity to strip the house of every interior door to patch, prime and paint.  I’m sure the bizarre impact of no bathroom or closet doors  didn’t occur to him when he hatched this amazing scheme.  Isn’t the closet where you cram everything when company comes?  The bathroom problem is self-evident.  Anyway, as you can imagine, what with 7 people and 3 dogs at our house, our doors can get pretty shabby looking.

He has a clever way of spreading a giant tarp over the driveway and arranging the doors (think dominos) vertically with supports holding them at the top.  In the past, on a windless day, this has worked beautifully.

Because of the barbecue, he only had enough time to get the doors in domino stance, then he had to go to work for me.  (I love this man).  After the fireworks, we all had a great night’s sleep, but woke to find that the doors had toppled.  Some broken.

Yet, my intrepid hubby (after some pithy verbiage and a moment to sulk in my arms) strode back outside to face the door dragon.  Thankfully, only 2 of the doors were damaged.  He spent the day patching them and putting them back up with reinforcements. Then, off to work to make a living the next day.

While the kids were splashing in the pool, the first row crashed.  The kids started screaming.  “Mom!  THE DOORS!”  They thrashed out of the pool and raced to the driveway only to arrive in time to watch the second row fall.  My thirteen-year-old daughter burst into tears.  “Poor, Dad!”  The boys, (including one of their classmates) all looked on morosely.  “Man, that bites!”  The older girls were mad and verbal.

“Come on, you guys!  Grab a door, let’s get this cleaned up before Dad gets home.”

In no time, the doors were stacked and sorted (only 2 more broken this time) and it was up to me to make the scary phone call.

Stony silence followed by expletives deleted.  Yet, he came home, figured out a new way to arrange the doors (like tables with short legs) sprayed them, flipped them, sprayed them again and now…taaaa…daa…I have beautiful, shiny, amazing doors in my house.

Thank you, sweetheart.  You are awesome.

Carolyn

PS:  If you haven’t seen Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow, it’s fascinating.

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Anxiety, Children, cleaning, Cussing, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Writing

Hot Flash: Too Hot Mama Crime Spree in New York

Turnstile jumper on track 9! Get her, boys! Which way did she go?

 

Did you know that once you swipe your subway turnstile ticket (the wrong way) it won’t let you on the train?  Did you know that if you are traveling with 4 other women to Manhattan and they swipe their tickets correctly, you get to stand outside the bars looking in at them with horror on your face because you just spent your last cash on the tickets and the ticket machines are all temporarily down?

Did you know that you can push the emergency button at the bottom of the subway stairs and a crackling voice, (the subway authority) will come on and say this (while the trains rumble by), “Kkkkkzzzzzttt, your problkkkzzzztttt?”

“Oh, uh, I am not from around here, ha-ha-ha, and uh I don’t understand what I did wrong, but my friends are ready to get on the uptown train and I’m here, with no cash and the machine thingee’s are down and the turnstile won’t let me get to them and I paid, honest!  I’m an upstanding cit…”

Wendy is rolling her eyes.

“Kkkkkzzzzttt, across the street to the zzzzzztttttkkkkk.  Tell themzzzzkkkk and you can…zzzztt…pppbbbbb….ttttt…kkkk. Okayzzz?”

My friends stare helplessly at me.  Not one to buck the system (unless someone is threatening my kids) I point upstairs and mouth, Be back in a sec!  They nod looking various shades of dazed and confused.

I run upstairs and ask the hotdog guy.  “The subway authority told me to come up here and cross the street to complain.  Where?”

“Soorree.  I doo nut no wut u r talking bout.  Ask her.”

His assistant:  “Subway stairs are over there, honey.”

“I know!  You see, I spent my last cash on… I…forget it.”  Back down stairs.  “This is gonna take all day girls.  I did everything I know how to find someone who works here.  There is no one.  So, stand back.  I’m coming in.”

Wendy glances around.  They all looked horrified.  It was a curious mix of fear and embarrassment because my shoe got stuck on the turnstile on the first go ’round and the bar gave me a pretty healthy spanking.  They train those things well.  The second attempt was successful and I’m proud to say I suffered only minor bruises and humiliation.  Happily, I was not arrested.

Carolyn

 

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Filed under Anxiety, Cussing, Death, friendship, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, New York, politeness, Travel

George Clooney is single!!

If I could only decide between the too hot mamas. Eenie, Meanie, Miney...

I know, I know, I promised that Wendy and I would be updating you
all from the Big Apple. But, we didn’t have time. As we were leaving for the
airport, the news broke that George Clooney was newly single, possibly in Manhattan… and the race was on.

It’s obvious that the boy is barking up the wrong tree with these super-skinny, super-attractive, super-young, super-models.   And, now that he’s 50, we’re guessing he’s
going to realize the error of his ways and start looking for a well-seasoned,
less-than-perfect woman to provide arm candy.
We think a little cellulite and some wrinkles are fine, because hey, we’re
not perfect, either.

So now, the question is, me or Wendy?  We asked our husbands and since neither of them seemed threatened in the least, it’s a horse race.

When we weren’t stalking Georgie Porgie Puddin’ Pie, we took a ton of pictures, visited 5 states, actually DROVE IN MANHATTAN (thank you, Darla, you rock), met with agents and editors, talked book deals, ate waaaaay too much, walked barefoot in Times Square at midnight and laughed ourselves half silly.  We came home speaking with distinct New York accents and are energized and ready to write.

Wishing you all a fab 4th!

Carolyn Clooney

Sounds good, huh, Wendy?

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, aging, Children, Geroge Clooney, Marriage, Menopause, New York, parenthood, Travel, Weight gain, wrinkles, Writing

My Fantasy Life

Muuaahahahahah! Alone at last!

I have a rich fantasy life.  But, it’s not what you’re thinkin’.  Sorry.  This time my fantasy involves planting the “Family Garden”.  Oh, yeah.  I could just see me in my floppy garden hat and a gauzy white sundress.  The kids, frolicking at my feet, digging holes and planting veggies that they would consume with relish, because they grew them with their own two hands.

(Wavily dream sequence music here).

“Oh, Mother!  Look at the beautiful broccoli plant I grew!  I can’t wait to eat of its
bounty!”

“Mommy, dearest, may I please harvest a zucchini from the lush depths of my little patch?”

“Why yes, darling, but remember, though eating from the garden is good for you, you must include other nutrients, such as sugar, in your diet.”

“Oh, Mumsie, but must we?  I prefer Brussel-sprouts!”

Sigh.  It all started so well.  “Kids! This year, I want each of you can plant your own raised bed with whichever vegetables you want!”

“Yay!  Oh, goodie. I get watermelon!”

“No!  I want watermelon!”

“What about me?  Don’t I get a watermelon?”

Heavy sigh.  “I’m sure there will be other things we might want to plant.”

Blank stares.

“Okay, kids let’s go to the nursery to get your plants.”

“Do I have to?”

“You don’t want to go?”

“If I have to…”

AT THE NURSERY

“Mom, look!  Let’s get this!”

“We can’t eat a flower basket.”

Mutter, mutter,cheapskate, economy, flowers, mutter.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“Great.  Let’s load the car.”

“Do we have to?”

AT HOME

“Okay everybody!  Hang tight while I go get my floppy garden hat!  While I am changing into my gauzy white garden dress, you guys take the plants out to the beds and start digging some holes, okay?”

“Do we have to?”

IN THE GARDEN

“Hey, Liv why are you the only kid in the garden with me?”

“The other kids are all asleep.  Mom, why are you dressed like that?”

“Shut up and weed.”

“Do I have to?”

Wavily dream music here.

And so, I spent another afternoon in solitude, planting my garden.  Note to self:  Want much sought after alone time?  Ask for help with the garden!

Carolyn

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My carpet is disgusting

Wendy!  Get Rich Quick Scheme number 197,322!!!

I am thinking of calling it Nature’s Carpet, a revolutionary new flooring manufactured with the family in mind.  Envision this in your
own home.  Orange cat?  Nature’s Carpet will incorporate random tufts of orange hair into the weave!  Have a baby?   Imagine haphazard patches of mustard yellow and baby burp white!  For you dog owners, muddy paw prints in chocolate and caramel brown and some ‘oopsie’ spots for the puppy years.  I’m thinking the ketchup and pizza stain pattern is a must for a rumpus room.  And every guy will clamor for the barf and beer stain look for his man room.

Husbands?  Go ahead and take that motorcycle apart in the living room.  She won’t care.  Not with Nature’s Carpet’s “Garage Floor Stain” pattern.

Get that new carpet smell with the user-friendly feel.  No more need to chase that wet pet through the house.  Screaming at the kids over muddy boots is a thing of the past.  Peace and tranquility abound as you ‘go green’ with our bark dust, rabbit droppings and moss chunks pattern.

Your friend’s will turn puce with envy!

Wendy, my family will easily be able to do all of the design work.  You look into the patent deal.  I’m thinkin’ we’re on to something big this time.

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Children, cleaning, Cooking, Cussing, Death, Dogs, Geroge Clooney, Humor, kids messy rooms, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, parenthood

Furious R-rated Don’t Read, Pt. 2.

"Make my day, doo-doo head!" This bad boy don't need to cuss.

   Why is it, when you make a decision to rumble with someone, to knock heads (I’m talking Bill Murray’s Ghostbuster rant about “disaster of biblical proportions, old testament, real wrath of God type stuff, fire and brimstone coming down from the skies, rivers and seas boiling, 40 years of darkness, earthquakes, volcanoes, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria”–okay maybe not that bad), that you end up having to like, I don’t know, sit next to them on a plane, or be their lab partner or neighbor or something? 

Well, that just happened to me.  Remember the kid I was so hot under the collar over several blogs ago entitled Don’t Read, Rated R?  Yup.  Ended up spending a week with him at outdoor school.  (This year, we took on rocks and planets out in Eastern Oregon).

Yes.  I was scared.  I’m guessin’ he was too.

You know that theme from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly that always plays when outlaws are in the middle of a shootout at the O.K. corral?  The one where they squint at each other just before they draw their guns?  Here.  I’ll try a few bars for you:  Doo-doo-doo-doloo, Bah Wah, Wah. Doo-doo-doo-doloo, Bah Wah, WAH!  A big old ball of sage brush rolls by?  Yeah.  That song. 

It’s playing as I get on the bus, where I had to spend the next four solid hours.  And just who do you suppose is the first person I see?  The cussing eighth-grade rap-artist!  He was already seated.  The last empty seat was within spitting distance.  We eyeballed each other, brows a’see-sawin’.  Who was gonna draw first?  As I strolled down the aisle, we never broke eye-contact.  Didn’t smile.  Didn’t speak.  Slid into my seat.  Pulled down the brim of my hat.

Days passed.  Bumped into him every time I turned around.  I didn’t mention the obscene ballad to his mother he posted on Facebook.  He didn’t mention my vitriolic response.

I carry candy.  Lots of candy.  Especially when I’m forced into confined spaces with hormone-crazed middle-schoolers.  One blazing hot afternoon, he was hungry.  I had candy.  He wanted some.  I gave him some.  He said, “I love you!”  I said, “I love you, too.”

I think I got my point across.

Carolyn

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Don’t read. Rated R. I’m furious.

If you are easily offended, stop reading now.  

Seriously.  Go ahead.  Trot off and have a nice cup of coffee and a chat with your neighbor.

And, whatever you do, don’t read the last paragraph. 

Still here?

Okay…here goes.  Last night, I logged on to Facebook, only to find a post on my wall by a charming eighth-grade friend of my children.  I think it should be titled Ode to My Mother, as he claimed he wrote it himself about his ‘explitive deleted’ of a mother.  He says he composed this thoughtful poem because she wouldn’t allow him to have friends and s**t over any more, although it smacks more of one of Eminnem’s masterpieces.  Dude. Word.

Anyhow, I get the feeling Mummy doesn’t alway check in on her little darling’s Facebook page to view his poetry.  People, people, PEOPLE!  Why are we allowing such blatant disrespect to run rampant on Facebook?  Not only did little darling’s post make me look like a white trash bimbo on my wall, it made his mother a laughing-stock.  6 people “Liked” his poetry.  Not one of them was his mother.

Another thing that children and adults alike simply don’t get it this… Your future employer LOOKS AT YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE when they are trying to figure out who and what to hire. At this rate, this kid’s career prospects are limited to gang member, rapper (and I hear it’s super hard to break in to the industry) and serial killer.

I know, a lot of you are thinking, “Hey, why doesn’t this uptight hag simply unfriend the kid?”    I did.  But not before he sullied my wall and the walls of anyone else on his list, including MY kids.  And as an adult, I don’t feel right about not saying anything.  About not hurting/embarrassing this kid’s precious inner-child.  Letting him throw a public tantrum isn’t responsible or self-actualized, folks.  It is cowardly and uncaring.  Why do we all sit around and put up with this crap, all  in the name of freedom of speech?  Hey, if you are a minor in my household, you are free to speak you mind.  But start up with the f-bombs and we’re gonna wrangle and I’m gonna win.

I have a feeling this kid (underneath his vitriolic spew) is probably a nice kid looking for guidance.  Clearly, he’s not getting enough at home.  He’s lucky he’s not my kid.  Because if he was, his Facebook account would be history.  As would his computer, iPod, iPhone, gameboy and Xbox 360 and all the other baby-sitting devices his parents are no doubt currently employing.  He would be assigned a mountain of chores (my toilets would sparkle!) and he would have to spend endless hours sitting with (and getting to know) ME!  his new best friend!  Oh, the ways we’d bond!  He could teach me to rap and I would teach him Ephesians 4:29.  And perhaps, in the future, we could avoid the four-lane car crash that he posted yesterday.

I don’t pretend to be a saint.  Far from it.  I spent waaaay too many years using language that I have come to realize made me look illiterate and low-class.  And, vulgar.  Trampy.  Disgusting.  And, while these things may still be true, at least I try not to give off the immediate impression anymore.

For those of you who hung in with me to the end of this rant, here is the edited version of this post:

&%$-ing slut you look like a mutt you held me in a rutt im done nomore fun we had a good run you too ton timeing #$%@! your a snitch you snaked my heart i dontmean to sound dark i guess it wasnt very smart to trust you in the first place when i got the first taste i got hooked i shouldve booked it when i got to chance no i dont dance or prance for you i stayed true too you oh boo whoo #$%@ you too.

I ache for his mother.  The spelling is atrocious.

Carolyn

 

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Goodbye cruel world…

It only takes one complete lunatic to make the entire group look bad.  My kids tell me this all the time.  “Mom.  You’re making us look bad.”

But alas, I’m not talking about me.  I’m talking about Harold-This-Is-It-Camping. 

What? Me worry?

 

Being a born again Christian, I’m eagerly waiting for the rapture because the idea of dying has never been all that appealing.  My youngest daughter is the queen of surveys.  “Mom, if you were going to die, would you rather be frozen to death, or burned to death?”  “Uh…hmmm, I…uhhh…is there another choice?”   “Mom, if you took off all your clothes and slept outside naked, would it kill you?”  Depends if the neighbors mistook me for Sasquatch and shot me, I guess.  “Mom, what snake would you rather have kill you, a king cobra or a rattler?” 

Can ya see why having Jesus take me outta here and plant me in a garden for a feast is more attractive?

Annnyway, if today is the day, cool.  I won’t have to defrost the refrigerator because it will be lying under a pile of rubble and will take care of itself.

Unfortunately, Mr. Camping’s theology resembles nothing I ever learned in Sunday school and, since New Zeland was still standing as of 6pm (their time), I’m gonna go don the Playtex gloves and tackle the kitchen.  Pity.  One of my children was hopeful about getting out of geometry finals.  Tough luck, kid.

The one good thing to come out of all this fear-mongering is that it made me stop and think about how short this life is.  How precious every moment.  Right now, my teenagers are in our backyard tossing horseshoes in a patch of rare spring sunshine.  Think I’m going to skip the cleaning and go whup some kids at horseshoes.  Loser cleans the kitchen.

Carolyn

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Cat Fight–The REAL Story

Here’s what really happened.  Four of us meet for breakfast to talk about a writer’s conference trip we are all taking to New York this summer to land agents and fabulous book and movie deals on our fascinating and hilarious lives as romance novelists/mothers/wives/slash/hacks/dog owners and, you know, a couple of other projects we’ve got stashed under the bed that we’re gonna take out and dust off and turn into gold. 

Wendy is late, as usual.  Don’t get me started.  Anyway, she comes skidding in to the restaurant, drops to into her chair, snaps her fingers for the ‘girl’ then goes off on her wrinkle jag, which we all know is a bid for attention.  The woman is adorable.  I don’t get the whole, “Oh, look at my teensy wrinkle and feel sorry for me,” deal.  But we have to humor her.  “Yeah, yeah, Wendy.  What are ya gonna do about the grand canyons on your face today?”  Furtive eye-rolling behind the menu.

In fact, while she was blathering on about the wrinkle thing, I snapped a pic of her with my phone, just to prove my point.

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wait… I got it here somewhere…

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Oh.  Yeah.  Here.  Now.  I ask you.  Is this a face or is this a face?  I just want to gobble her up.

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"Clinique has this AMAZING new product that they claim firms and tightens..."

 

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Over coffee (we’ve migrated to Starbucks by now) the four of us figure out all the details of our trip to the eastern seaboard and decide to ditch the writer’s meeting we’d planned on attending that morning in Portland and hit the mall instead. 

Wendy was still nattering about this miracle stuff she was going to spend waaaaaay too much money on and I wanted to find some pants that would make me look 40 lbs. lighter.

As I was off looking for “skinny jeans” (sheyeah, what a crock) Wendy gave us the slip.  We finally found her seated in the chair behind the Clinique counter getting her upper lip spackled.  Okay.  I get it now.  The whole wrinkle cream gig isn’t about fixing your wrinkles.  No.  Oprah, are you listening, because this is the real SECRET.  Wrinkle cream IS NOT about ‘fixing a problem’.  It’s about ‘confusing the eye’.  It’s about slathering a whole bunch of gummy stuff on your lip and telling you that your wrinkles are gone and then charging you $174 + tax. 

Wendy, I’m only gonna say this once.  “The emperor has no clothes!  B-U-C-K Naked!

Of course your friends are going to tell you that the flaky, chalky, goofy crud on your upper lip looks great because we love you. 

"I can't nove ny lits cuz this stuff is sooter hard!"

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Truth be told, we simply had no where else to look.  We had to avert our eyes.  That’s why no one noticed wrinkles.  A person can’t see when they’re all squinty-eyed and cringing. 

Carolyn

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Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!

Wendy may be menopausal, but she can still swang her thang!        Carolyn

Vodpod videos no longer available.

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Wild Kingdom

Yeah, you're laughin' now, fatso.

  Help!  My daughter is not home today!  She left me to baby-sit her mutt.  She should know better, as I am HER mother…

The new dog–Genevieve–woke me up and since I’m NOT a morning person, I stumbled to the bedroom door, opened it and shooed her out.  Fell back in bed.

TWO HOURS LATER

Opened the door.  Stumbled downstairs for coffee.  Thurston followed me.  He’s not a morning person either.  Genevieve was in the kitchen licking a plastic container that had been sitting on the counter filled with beans and rice.  Man, I hope she’s not allergic to rice.  Anyway, I squint at her. 

She cowers. 

“Did you eat the beans?”

No answer.

She spots Thurston.  As is her habit, she attempts to make love to his head. 

He growls. 

She breaks wind.  On his head.

I’m thinking she ate the beans.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Carolyn

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A Dog’s Blog: As told to my new owner’s mom.

Gimme a break.

‘Mmkay.  So, I’m just doin’ some time in the OHS (Oregon Humane Society) chillin’.  I’m innocent.  Didn’t do nuthin’ wrong, but do I get a lawyer?  No.  No phone call, neither.  Anyhow, I’m layin’ there in my cell and people walk by.  Talk to me through the bars.  Look me over. 

Then, they see the ears.  So what?  I got weird ears.  Big deal.  But they move on.  Lookin’ for a ‘puppy’ or a ‘cute’ dog or somebody with ‘normal’ ears.  Whatever. 

Then this teenage fairy godmother-type stops by and does all this baby talk.  I’ve heard it all before, but I give her a few token wags and a wet one through the door.  She gets all squealy.  Says she thinks the ears are unique.  Says she’ll be back.  Yeah, heard that before, too. 

My new owner. I'm thinkin' I'll keep her.

 

Waddaya know?  She comes back! 

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And she brings this big hairy mook with her (not her dad, her dog, chowder head) and I’m tellin’ ya it’s love at first sight. 

You know you want me, fatso.

 

I gotta have that fat boy.  He plays hard to get.  But I’m persistent, if you get my drift. 

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After the paperwork is signed, they spring me.  I’m FREE, baybee.  Livin’ large.  I’ve buried 6 of those leather chew toys in the laundry, got jiggy with the fat boy’s head and made yellow water on the new carpet 3 times.

 The teenage godmother’s mother made all these squealy noises.

They live next to this heeyouge park and my new boy-toy takes me for a swim. 

Fat boy skinny dipping.

Me, skinny dipping

 

We mark a little territory. 

Good times.

Good times part duex.

 

It’s a good life.

Me, at the park.

 

My new master has named me Genevieve after that mutt in the Madeline books.  You know, the dog the orphan kid rescued in the children’s classic: Madeline to the Rescue.  Must be because my new owner’s name is Madeline. 

 Her mother calls me other names.  But when nobody’s lookin’ she scratches my belly.

Genevieve

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Doggy Daze

The Mutt Whisperer

 I love my daughter.  She is uber cool.  Funny, sweet, helpful and—oddly for a teenager these days—obedient   So, now and then I like to indulge her.  That must explain why I volunteered to be a community coordinator for her on-line high school.  Volunteering means I get to come up with clever ideas to amuse teenagers who have been chained to their computers for weeks on end.  And, since I am the community coordinator, or ‘in charge’, I get to go on these outings when I have strep throat.  Felt like I’d been gargling glass shards and razor blades the morning of our most recent trip.  I’m on antibiotics and not contagious now.  Dang.  No excuse to stay in bed…

Anyway, somebody suggested I organize a trip to the Oregon Humane Society to visit the doggies.  The volunteer hours would count toward National Honor Society.

How dumb am I?

Of course, my daughter gets there and finds “the dog”.  “Mom!  This dog loves me!  Look mom!  It’s like we have a psychic connection or something!  I have to rescue this animal!  Seriously, look at her!”

I’m looking.  I see an ageing, indistinguishable breed, lumpy-ear’d mutt staring dolefully at my daughter.  “Yeah, well you’ll have to get this past your dad.”  I’m golden.  He said no more dogs.

“Mom!  I just got off the phone with Daddy-kins!”

Uh oh.

“He’ll meet us here after work!  We just have to go home and get Thurston (our fat golden retriever) and the kids and make sure she likes all of us.”

Huh? Continue reading

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My pal, Jacko

Wendy, your stick people are like...the Mona Lisa, Oooo, uhh-uhh, cha-mon, ooo, yeah!

I guess I’ve let the suspense build long enough (and, I got distracted) so I’m finally back with the answer to the stupefying question:  “What legendary pop star did Wendy go to grammar school with?”  Answer (imagine a drumroll here…thrrrrrrrrrrrrr) MICHEAL JACKSON!  Yes!  It’s true.  Back before he was an ABC Delicious super star, Wendy used to hang out with his little brother, Randy Jackson…at their house! (And, no, I’m not talkin’ ’bout the American Idol judge, dawg).  Their families–the Warrens and the Jacksons–lived in the same neighborhood.  Apparently, Randy would invite her, and her brother, over to color and draw and Micheal would be there and he’d lean over the table and study her art (he was a few years older) and make these really deep comments about the content and form of her stick people.

But, why am I telling this?  Wendy?  Get on here, woman and do that impression you do, of Micheal Jackson giving you an art lesson.  It’s priceless.  Speaking of priceless, he drew some pictures with her and gave her some and…SHE THREW THEM AWAY! 

Crrrraaaaaap.   Well, there’s always the Pillsbury Bake-off.

Carolyn

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Happy Anniversary, TooHotMamas!

Here's to another FABULOUS year of Hot Flashing!

  Wendy, I simply cannot believe  that we have been blogging for a solid year now!  And, what a year it’s been.  Wendy has sold three books and her husband has starred on LEVERAGE (on TNT). 

I managed to unclog a stubborn drain and my hubby cut off the tip of his finger.  What will the coming year bring?  I shudder to imagine.

At any rate, this explains Wendy’s rather sporadic contribution to the blog.  She’s working.  I, on the other hand, remain firmly attached to her coattails, dreaming of the day when I’m sitting in the front row at the Academy Awards, sobbing ala Chad Lowe, while she accepts the Oscar for best screenplay adaptation of a novel.  I only hope she remembers to thank me.  You know, for handling the blog while she works on a paying gig.

Since we are embarking on a new year here at TooHotMamas, I thought I’d like to try something I’m going to call: The Story Of Us.

Basically, it’s gonna be a soap-opera type serial blog.  Cliff-hangers, love, live, death, barf, marriage, menopause, kids, George Clooney, you know, stuff about our dysfunctional—and oddly identical—lives and how we met and forged a sisteresque friendship.  This is going to be really fun for me, as Wendy is too busy earning a real living to actually check in here, at TooHotMamas, and so, I’ll be able to really dish the dirt.

For example:  Wendy used to go to school with what musical super star??

I’ll have that juicy answer…on the next episode of THM’s!

Carolyn

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I’m afraid of my phone…

Hey! Carolyn! I know you're there!

 I have a very fractious relationship with my phone(s).  I need them.  I have to have them.  I hate them.  To me, the phone is a machine.  A tool.  An instrument to be controlled by me.

To other people, the phone is a companion.  A good friend on a lonely day.  A welcome break.

When the phone rings at my house, I don’t feel compelled to get out of the tub, off the toilet, out of bed to answer it.  My mother, on the other hand, will leap hurdles (and, at 78 that’s saying something) to get there before it stops ringing.

“Hello?!”  Her breathless, cheery greeting is always on the other end no matter what I may be interrupting.  “One moment, Mr. President of the United States.  The PHONE has rung!  Summoned my attention!  I will continue our conversation as soon as I have attended to the needs of the person on the line.  Yes, daughter?”

How did I spring from these loins?  The phone rings at my house, could be the President of the United States, I really don’t give a rat’s hind end.  I’m in the tub.  If it’s important, he’ll call back.  If it’s not important, I really don’t see the need to pursue it.

When the phone rings, nine times out of ten the caller never wonders, “Hey, I bet I just dragged Carolyn off the toilet.  Hope she had adequate time to attend to her personal hygiene.”  I never hear, “Hey, are you busy?  Is this a good time? Have you finished wiping?” 

So, I can be in the middle of a Camp David style negotiation with two Heads of State and I’ll get, “Oh, my gosh, you’re not going to believe this!  My dog just pooped out a chimmichanga wrapper!” 

Back in the ‘pre-answering machine/pre-caller ID’ days, I never knew who was going to call.  “Hello, Carolyn.  This is your boss.  Suzie Slacker just called in sick, so you have to come in and work.”  “But I have a house full of guests in from out of town.  I’ve been planning this meal for 2 years!”  “Listen, Carolyn.  Do you WANT to keep your job?”  “Uh, yeah…”  “Then we’ll see you in ten minutes.”

To me, the jangle of the phone signals Danger, Will Robinson!  It’s knee-jerk.  I run screaming.  The unfortunate side effect of my phone-o-phobe, is that all 798 people who call me regularly take it personally.  Carolyn has not returned my call, therefore, Carolyn hates me. Continue reading

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Lost on LOST part 2

"Wait a second...is it now, or 30 years ago?"

If you were a fan of LOST, this blog is for you.

 THREE WEEKS AGO

The phone rang.  It was my sister’s daughter’s cousin.  Also known as…my daughter.

THIRTY YEARS AGO

My sister’s mother’s sister called.  Also known as my aunt.  (Dun-dun-dun!  Insert scary music here to foreshadow certain bloodshed),

TODAY

My aunt called my daughter.  I fell down the stairs.  There was blood.

THIRTY MINUTES AGO

I fell up the stairs.  More blood.  My aunt’s sister’s daughter, also known as my sister met someone I used to know.  (Dun-dun-dun! More scary music).

THREE YEARS AGO

Dodged a bullet.  Didn’t know it.  There was blood.  Not mine.

YESTERDAY

 Found a hatch.  Bright light.  No, wait, it’s just the toilet.  I’m going in. 

THREE HOURS AGO

I died.

THREE SECONDS AGO

I’m back.  What happened?  I don’t know.  The writers don’t know.  There was blood. Not sure what happened to my sister’s mother’s younger daughter. Dun-dun-dun.

Carolyn

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Lost on LOST

"I'm sick of you guys calling me the Old Dude!"

   For those of you who have seen the TV show, LOST, you know there is this character called John Locke.  I always thought of him as Mr. Clean’s dad.  He’s the elder-statesman of the show, cool, edgy, more than a tad creepy.

He gets referred to a lot as “the old dude”-or-“the elderly guy”-or- “the senior citizen”.  This was fine with me, cuz he’s, you know, bald and he’s kind of got moobs (man-boobs).  More than a few wrinkles.  Before he shaved his head, he sported this really bad-comb over.

So, imagine my surprise, not to mention horror, when Mr. John Locke, elder-statesman of LOST announces his birth year on one episode.  Whu?!  Huh?!  He’s… MY AGE!  NOOOO!  Does this mean I’m not…GASP… young?!  What?!  I was still envisioning myself in the age bracket of say, Jin, or maybe Sawyer.  I wasn’t delusional enough to align myself with Clare, but thought she might be a younger sister?  Uh, no.  The actress who plays Clare could be my daughter.   The guy who plays the hunky Sawyer could be my son.  Suddenly, I’m feeling all Oedipal and slimy.

Not that John Locke isn’t attractive.  He’s got a beautiful smile and he’s very hunky for a…a…uh, senior citizen.  But I was sort of seeing him as a father figure.  My father.

Crrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaap.

Carolyn 

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I Want My MTV

 

My Spiritual Ducks

  One Sunday, several years ago now, the pastor of our church asked us to write down the three things that were most important to us on a slip of paper.  He waited while everyone smiled smugly and scribbled.  Knowing human nature, I can only guess that everyone’s list looked a lot like mine: 

1.  God  2.  Husband  3.  Family.  Yeah.  I’m pious.  Got the old spiritual ducks in the row.

Then the pastor asks us to write down the three things we spend the most time doing everyday.  An audible sigh rippled through the crowd and people began to slump in the pew.  My list? 

1. Watch TV  2. Nag Husband to turn the ESPN down.  3.  Nag children in other room to turn Disney Channel down.

I knew I had a problem when my then nine-year-old daughter came to my bedroom door wanting help with her homework and I made her wait outside while Mommy finished her show.  After all, Mommy’s show was about this rapist who was in the process of gouging out the eyes of his victim and I didn’t want to traumatize my daughter.  Just call me Mother-of-the-Year.   Couldn’t pry my eyes away from that show (sorry, couldn’t resist that pun) and, I have to admit, answering questions about erectile dysfunction commercials from a five-year-old were creeping me out.

So, we cut the cable.  The withdrawal was horrendous.  There should be a 12 step program.  Now, of course, we are that totally uncool, square family that never really knows what’s happening out there in the real world.  I hear about TV shows from friends, read about them on-line, see the articles in Entertainment Weekly, so I’m not completely clueless.  And, whenever a series catches my eye, like 24 or NCIS or LOST, I’ll go out and buy it on DVD.  No erectile dysfunction between stretches of action, and the hubby and I can watch an entire season in one marathon weekend of bloody-thirst and violence and then return to church on Sunday feeling proud that we didn’t make the kids sit outside of the bedroom door all month.  Just…you know…that one weekend.

Okay.  We still have some work to do.

Carolyn

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Thurston and Me

    

Thurston Howl

 Another New Year’s Resolution I scribbled down for this year is:  To be the person my dog thinks I am. 

I am not the original author of this resolution but I like it because my dog thinks I am Isis, goddess of the bacon fat.  Unlike my children, my dog Thurston–Mr. Howl to you–thinks I’m cool when I sing super loud and off-key.  Unlike my husband, he adores me when I’ve just eaten a dinner slathered in garlic and onions.  Unlike my family, he worships they way I prepare each and every meal and cheerfully helps clean the pots.

We live out in the country and the house is set back from the road.  When we drive away without him, his face slowly collapses from his huge, Golden Retriever grin with his dolly dangling like Columbo’s cigar from the corner of his mouth.  In its place, resignation.  A canine sigh.  Not invited this time.  He flops to the front porch, props his head on dolly and waits.  Sometimes hours.  And weirdly, out of all the Toyota Sienna minivans in the universe that travel down our road, the moment ours turns the corner and heads up the street, he and dolly leap to attention and gallop to greet us, the Golden grin erupting like the rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air, yes! YES, MOM IS STILL THERE! Continue reading

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My Sexual New Year’s Resolutions

Happy Neuter Year!

Okay, FYI:  The word  ‘sexual’ in the blog title totally gets like hundreds more hits!  (Sad, huh?) To be honest, though, none of my New Year’s Resolutions were all that sexy unless you count…Blog EVERYDAY!  Yeah.  Clearly, this is why I HATE New Year’s Resolutions. Can’t keep ‘em. That, and the fact that my life is not interesting enough to write about everyday unless you find naps engrossing.

At any rate, we had a cool Yule and a neat New Year. Spent the night at the beach with my dear friend and sister in menopause, Debbie. She and I were waxing poetic about the joys of this special passage when we discovered – gasp!- that we were both still in possession of our uteruses.  Uteri?  Whatever.

“How weird,” we said, staring at each other in amazement. Why, none of our friends had their uterus anymore. Wendy? You still got yours?

Anyway, this led me to ask Deb… “Why haven’t we had our hysterectomy?”  To which Deb (she’s a total history buff) answered, “Did you know that the word hysterectomy comes from the word ‘hysteria?’ Yes, in the olden days, when women went through menopause and started acting up, they pulled the plumbing. If that didn’t work, they sent them to a sanitarium.”

“No freaking way!”

“Oh, yeah. Ever wonder why,” she asked with her snarky-cum-philosophical expression I adore, “when a man gets a little long in the tooth, they don’t castrate him?”

“Never thought of it!” I was gob-smacked.

“Can’t ya just hear the doctor? Say, buddy. Your wife says you’ve been a real jerk lately. How about we remove those testicles? After all, you’ve had all your kids and don’t really need ‘em any more. Waddaya say?”

I just stared at Deb. I mean, her brain just never ceases to amaze me. And make me laugh like I wish I was wearing Depends.

Carolyn

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A New Lover?

I'm told the cast party was super fun...but I wouldn't know 😦

  Wendy and I have been a little harried this holiday season and have neglected our blog.  :-/  But, I’m taking a moment from the frivolity (read: the kids are home and I’m busy refereeing) to update our audience on the continuing saga of our marriages, motherhood and menopause.

Wendy’s hubby, Tim, starred on LEVERAGE, December 19th.  I hear he was awesome.  Don’t know for sure.  Wasn’t invited to the premiere.  No hard feelings Wendy.  I’m kinda wondering if George Clooney was there?  Huh, Wendy?  Is that why you told me about the premiere after the fact, on December 20th?  Still afraid of my extreme Cougarness?

Yeah, I’ll admit, I’ve lost a few pounds (finally) and realize I’m feeling friskier, but I HAD NO IDEA what a total Cougar I’ve become until I got the following letter (TWICE—Yes, that’s how HOT Ssssssssss, I am!) from my darling Henry!  (Did YOU get a letter from Henry, Wendy? Huh?  Didja?) Continue reading

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My Hot Body

You know you’re out of shape when you get winded doing Kegels.

Carolyn

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Haunted Hawaiian Vacation: Part 2

 Did I mention I travel to Maui every year with a former Miss Kansas?  It amazes me how, even though Elizabeth is a forty-something mother of 3 strapping teenage boys and a darling daughter, how men of all ages still nearly break their necks to catch a glimpse of her.  I notice this as I galumph along at her side, marveling over this freak of nature.

Every year, E loves to capture a picture of the four of us (3 Barbies and me, the Cabbage Patch Kid) which she thoughtfully frames and sends to each of us as a Christmas gift.  She’s not shy about grabbing a complete stranger, quickly instructing them in the use of her camera and making them feel privileged to abandon their vacation for a moment and capture our smiles for posterity.

This year, she approached a lovely woman (looked to be somewhere in the toohotmama age bracket) and said, “Would you be kind enough to take a picture of me and my friends?”  The lovely woman graciously agreed and was in the middle of her photography course, when her studly husband strutted up and said, “You don’t want HER to take your picture!  She’s hopeless with anything electronic!”  After this brow-bobbing pronouncement, he grinned rakishly at Elizabeth and then proceeded to wrest the camera from his wife’s—aka: the old gray mare’s—hands.  (It was a bit of a struggle.  It seems the mare had already taken the photography course and was rather invested in the outcome). Continue reading

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Haunted Hawaiian Vacation

    

Gasp!! It's a BRIGHTON!!

 Our last trip to Maui—see two blogs ago—was…well…for lack of a better word, haunted.  Haunted by bad luck.

The first thing to go wrong was that my wallet was stolen.  ON THE PLANE!  I used my credit card to buy a sandwich from the stewardess and I can only guess that my wallet fell to the floor, slid under the seat and was picked up by an unscrupulous Doo-doo Head  (excuse my French) upon landing.

This was horrible for me for several reasons.

Reason number one:  IT WAS A BRIGHTON WALLET!  $95!  Never mind that I found it (Brand-spanking NEW) at St. Vincent DePaul’s.  Yes!  It still had the original Brighton stickers and packing material!!  The good people at St. Vinnie’s didn’t know that it was worth far more than 2.99.  Yes!  What made it even better?  My mother was with me and it was SUPER SAVER SATURDAY FOR SENIORS!!  She scored a $95 Brighton for $1.50!  Wahooie!  Talk about a high!  This was better than that time when Geraldo Rivera nearly found something in Al Capone/Jimmy Hoffa/whoever’s safe!

Reason number two:  IT WAS FILLED WITH CASH

Reason number three:  IT HAD MY I.D.  Now how was I supposed to check in to the resort?  I wasn’t all that worried about not going home.  Sorry, honey.  Sorry kids.  Maui isn’t the worst place in the world to be stranded.  But…I was nobody!

Talk about a bummer.  Anyway, it all worked out—my fabulous husband Fed-Ex’d me a credit card and my passport.  But the other day, I was at Goodwill still mourning the loss of my wallet and sort of griping to God about it.  I do that.  Gripe to God.  “Lord, I know it’s probably not nice of me to ask You to smite the Doo-doo Head that stole my wallet.  But, could You maybe, replace my BRIGHTON wallet?  Did You get that?  I prefer Brighton…It’s not like I have $95 bucks to go out and replace it.  (Have I mentioned that I have yet to hit the NYT List, Lord?  What about that, Lord?)  Grumble, grumble, sigh.  I’m disgruntled and flipping through the wallet section at our brand new neighborhood Goodwill and suddenly the little hairs stand up on the back of my neck…

Just wait til I slather you with leather cleaner and silver polish!

What is this?  Why…IT’S A BRIGHTON WALLET!  For $3.99!! A little worn—but much less than the one I just lost, being that I’d loved on that wallet for several years—and Bigger than my last wallet!  This one (in its heyday) probably retailed for $120-150 smackeroos.  Oh, yeah. Thank you, Jesus!!  My husband is going to detail/clean it for me (although it’s in awesome shape).

I’ll relate the rest of our Maui misfortunes later.  For now, I’m off to do some more treasure hunting at Goodwill.

Aloha,

Carolyn

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More Bathroom Humor

  The other day I was just sitting there (telling you exactly where would be toomuchinfo) reading the can of Summer’s Eve Feminine Deodorant Spray

(Somebody tossed all the old Entertainment Weekly Magazines, so reading material was slim pickins). 

At home or on-the-go, feel fresh and clean every day. 

SAFE AND GENTLE.  Enjoy being a woman.

 Hmm.  Isn’t that nice?  Wait.  What’s this?  Cautions?

 WARNING:  FLAMMABLE.

 Okay, is it just me, or is that word not something you want in a product designed for your ‘nether regions’? 

 DO NOT USE PRODUCT NEAR FIRE, FLAME, OR SPARKS.

 Thank heavens I quit smoking.  ‘Crotch-rocket’ doesn’t just mean motorcycle anymore, eh Wendy?

 AVOID SPRAYING PRODUCT INTO EYES.

 Seriously?  There are people out there who spray this stuff into their face?  Now I’m doubly glad I quit smoking, you know, just in case I wanted my eyes to smell of ISLAND SPLASH instead of Maybelline while going blind.

 FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY.

 Good thing I also quit that fire-eating act.

 DISCONTINUE USE IMMEDIATELY IF RASH, IRRITATION OR DISCOMFORT DEVELOPS.

 Are they talking about the sparks that shoot from your panties upon ignition?  No more sitting on the stove for me.

Kinda takes the enjoyment out of being a woman.

 Carolyn

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The Bi-Racial Family

This pic is 4 years old.

One of the fun things about having a bi-racial family is listening to the kids talk about their heritage.  My youngest son (now age 7) hails from Guatemalan ancestry.  Tonight at the dinner table he announced that he was born able to understand and speak Guatemalan.

 “Show us,” one of his sisters encouraged.

 “Guackalita causalita Kaleakilauqukita wackima chicho meeko.  Aleeche toto, kay toto,” he said.  “But don’t ask me to spell it.  I can’t even spell in English yet.”

 “Cool,” she said.  “I’m from African/Irish heritage so I’ll demonstrate African first.”  She cleared her throat, thrust her hands into the air (holding an imaginary lion cub, I guess) shouted, “Cowabunga!” and proceeded to sing The Circle of Life.  After some research, I think the actual lyric is “Ingonyama!” but hey, whatever.

I really need to take a pic of ALL the kids together in this lifetime

 

“That’s English,” her Irish/Italian sister said.  “If you really want to sound African, do a bunch of clicking sounds with your tongue.”  They all proceed to click with their mouths full and laugh.  It was nauseating.

Because three (?)–I can’t remember–of the five are adopted, ‘adoption’ is another subject they don’t tiptoe around.  “Hey,” youngest son shouted after being provoked half to death by his brother as we drove down the road one day, “why don’t you go back to the people that borned you?”

Before I could jump in and smooth things over, my older son nearly died laughing and said, “After you go back to the ones that borned you.”  That cracked them both up and they wrestled the rest of the way home.

I love that there is no political incorrectness or fear in the things they can discuss.  They know that they are physically different and not born from my womb, but my heart (which makes them super-cool).  They talk about it, point it out, laugh about it, admire it, but mainly don’t notice/care about it.  They see family. 

So beautiful.  So free.

 

Carolyn

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Aloha. Oy.

I have not blogged for a while because I was out-of-town. Maui to be exact.  I planned to do a lot of writing while there, but alas, just couldn’t work up the energy.  Too busy trying to connect my liver spots by the pool.

I go every year with three girlfriends: the lawyer, the engineer and the model (used to be Miss Kansas).  They could all be models, actually, so laying by the pool next to them in my swimdress-that-doubles-as-a-puptent is such a treat.  So relaxing.

These ladies (all in their late 40’s/early 50’s) enjoy getting up at the crack of dawn and guilting me into ‘walking’ with them.  For me, this equals four miles of morning angina, before a peppy trip to the gym for some heat exhaustion, then, back to the suite for a delicious breakfast of air and coffee.

After breakfast it’s off to the pool to do what we call “assume the position”.  For them, this means baking to a delicate golden brown.  For me, it means profuse sweating coupled with heat stroke which I valiantly stave off by rolling into the pool every so often.

At lunchtime, we experiment with new and exotic ways to use Crystal Lite drink mix.  This year, we tried it on fat-free popcorn.  Interesting bouquet.  Fruity.  Light.  Disgusting.

Of course since popcorn has a nearly 90% glycemic index, we had to do four more miles of angina before dinner.  Dinner is time to splurge with a handful of veggies and a movie.

I came back 7 pounds lighter.

Halloween fixed that, though.  Got the old glycemic index back on track in one simple evening.  Until next year, of course.  Aloha.

Carolyn

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Help! I’ve been mugged and I can’t get up! A sick contest…

Donna's mad as hell.

My sister called not long ago, telling me about how she got an email from a friend who’d—gasp—been mugged in Europe and for my sister to PLEASE SEND MONEY! 

My sister (after freaking out) came to her senses and called her friend here at home and… lo and behold!  Her friend was not in Europe!  She was here!  In the good old USA.  Unmugged.  Hadn’t ever been to Europe.

 Luckily, my sister mentioned this to me because–okay this is so weird– the next day, I got a similar email from one of my friends!  Mugged!  In Europe!  What are the odds?!  OMG!!  After I’d made arrangements to wire over a gogillion dollars to my friend, I suddenly remembered my sister’s friend hadn’t been mugged and maybe, just maybe there wasn’t a sudden rash of European muggers targeting our friends! 

The email letter (below) is now the third one I’ve gotten in the last few weeks.  I’m sorry to say, I don’t even know who poor Donna is…probably someone from my Facebook list.  Have you gotten your letter from Donna yet?  Better yet, are YOU Donna?  DONNA, ARE YOU OKAY??!  Talk to me, Donna!

Carolyn:

This had to come in a hurry and it has left me in a horrible situation and I’m really going to need your urgent help. Some days ago, unannounced, Jeffrey and I came to visit a resort here in London England but unfortunately we got mugged by some gunmen and lost all cash and credit cards, we are financially stranded right now and our return flight leaves in few hours .I need some money to clear our hotel bills, I didn’t bring my cell phone along since I didn’t get to roam it before coming over. So all I can do now is pay cash and get out of here quickly. I do not want to make a scene of this which is why we did not call home this is embarrassing enough .I was wondering if you could loan me some cash, I’ll refund it to you as soon as we arrive home just need to pay the  Hotel bills and get the next plane home. I promise to refund you back as soon as we are back home, please write back so I can let you know how to send it
Donna

Okay.  I’m sick, but these kinds of letters bring out the dark humor (and editor)  in me.   “Donna” I get that you are “in a hurry” but does the last sentence really need three ‘backs’?  Anyway, I can think of about a dozen different snarky responses to the goons who are trying to extort money from me.  Hello?  My husband and I have FIVE CHILDREN WHO ALL NEED BRACES AND COLLEGE and have I mentioned, I HAVE YET TO HIT ‘THE LIST?’  Yer barkin’ up the wrong tree, “Donna”, unless you want a handful of Pillsbury coupons and a token to the Bullwinkles Family Fun Center.  Plus, I may be menopausal, but I’m still strapped into the old turnip truck.

So, I’d like to have a little fun and open it up to you, our hilarious readers and comment posters.  Yeah.  A contest.  Respond to poor “Donna”.  Go on.  You know you want to.  Don’t be shy.

Carolyn

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Drinking games

  

I'm so proud

  Wow.  Good old mom.  Has she ever changed.  Yesterday, I was standing in the grocery line, waiting.  The woman in front of me clearly knew the checker.  I couldn’t help but overhear this inspiring tidbit.

 

 Mom:  Yeah, that’s my beer.  Well, my kid’s, actually.  I let my son and his girlfriend have beer at home.  They’re in high school now, so it’s…

Checker:  Better than having them go drink somewhere else.

 

Mom:  Right.  Oh, this is so funny.  The other day, they were playing the f-word drinking game.  You know what that is, right?  The F-Bomb?

 Checker:  Gotcha.  Don’t have to spell it out for me.

 Mom:  Well, the kids were watching this movie, and every time they heard the F-word, they had to take a drink.  (Mom laughs indulgently).  Yeah, they got plastered.  Put ‘em to bed in my son’s room.

 Me:  (thinking as I drove home) Golly, I was watching Ozzie and Harriet just the other day, with my eldest (high school age, sweet, loving, adorable, virginal, drug-free ooo, I love her so much I could eat her with a spoon) daughter, and I realized:  I’m such an old-fashioned dirt-bag of a mom.  Geez, what a loser. Here I thought I was doing her a favor by steering her away from the harrowing foibles of my misspent youth.  My poor kid.  How the bleepity, bleep is she going to learn to drink?  Neither Ozzie nor Harriet dropped the F-Bomb once!  When I got home, I immediately threw that DVD out.  Then, I took inventory of our cupboards and realized, if she’s gonna get high, she’s gonna have to settle for tablespoon of vanilla on the rocks.  Couple the vanilla with Ricky Nelson and her seven-year-old brother (who will occasionally crawl into bed with her when he has his recurring bad snake dream) you ain’t got much of a partay, know-whut-ahm-sayin-ma-man?

 

 So, I’m headed back to the store for a copy of Bruce Willis’s Die Hard with a Vengeance, a case of Bud, a pack of smokes and a bag boy or two.  We’ll giter up to speed.  That way, she’ll be more acceptable in today’s society.  After all, I wouldn’t want her to be…different.

 Carolyn

 

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Another Get Rich Quick Scheme Down the Toilet

Heeeeeellllppp meeeeee!

Ohmigosh, Wendy!  Last night I had a dream that J. Lilly, President of Pillsbury wrote us a letter.  It was so terrifying!  So real!  I woke up in a sweat (could have been a hot flash) and scribbled down what I remembered on a candy wrapper I found lying near my bed: 

To TooHotMamas:

(Whoever you are and whatever your racket is)  

 Stop harassing me about winning my contest, or I’ll be forced to take out a restraining order against you both.  The only reason I haven’t contacted the authorities yet, is because my sister is menopausal and tells me you are both out of your minds. 

In answer to a few of your many and varied accusations:  No, the contest was not rigged, nor am I related to the winners and yes I eat Pillsbury products in my home and have no signs of these ‘pathogens’ you allude to.  

Also, since Jack Bauer is a FICTIONAL television character (24), I cannot take the threat that you would report my contest to the Counter Terrorist Unit seriously.  I can’t believe Jack Bauer would take it seriously.  In a shoot out, everyone knows the doughboy has no vital organs and can withstand intense heat.  Jack Bauer, though impressive, would never survive a pre-heated 350 oven for more than 30 minutes. 

TooHotMamas, I will not be bullied into, and I’m quoting here, “Taking you to the stars with your two-ingredient Pancake Sauce”, and must reiterate: Winning my contest will not solve your myriad problems.  In fact you both may wish to consider counseling.  I’ve heard this stage of life is hard on many women and can lead to delusional behavior.  

Thank you for including the pictures of your children in your missive of terror and yes, aside from needing braces, they are all exceedingly attractive. 

You will be contacted from my lawyers for your issues with our contest protocol, and must sign sworn statements to hold Pillsbury harmless, if you wish to participate in the future. 

Sincerely, 

John Lilly, CEO Pillsbury Corporation

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THE GIRL WITH THE CURSED TATTOO—Part two in a jealous harangue

Okay, another reason I probably have yet to appear on the NYT Best-Seller list–aside from not having a book out in several years because of my protracted maternity leave–is that I was taught that it’s not lady-like to swear.  Shows a certain lack of class.  Even for my heroes.  Not that my heroes don’t drop the F-bomb left and right.  I happen to think “Fooie” is a perfectly acceptable adverb and shows that my heroes are tough enough to sling slang that might sound silly on a lesser man.  My sons wield the “DDH” bomb (doo-doo head) liberally on the playground and they have yet to be bullied.  I think it’s not what you say, but how you say it. 

And, if you disagree, Fooie on you, Booger-ball.  Stings, huh?

 Carolyn

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I want my…I want my…I want my PMS…

Never thought I’d say that.

Menopause been belly, belly bad to me.  In less than a year my legs have morphed into my mother-in-laws legs.  I vowed I would never let that happen. 

And the appetite?  Horrific.  We used to have a loveseat in the family room.  Gone.  It was delicious.

The other day, I was attempting to describe the joy of hot-flashes to my husband (after I’d slapped his loving hands away as he was trying to comfort my distress).  “Honey, it’s like that feeling you get when you are in the sauna about ten minutes past the moment you know you should have left, to avoid heat stroke?”  “Ooo,” hubby tsks in sympathy.  “I swear, this morning, I was holding an iron skillet during a hot flash and… it bent.”

How unfair that this burst of heat does not melt unwanted pounds away.  What good is a personal summer, if you can’t get a good tan out of the deal?

On the up side, should we have a power outage this winter, the family will all be able to gather round me, for warmth. 

Carolyn

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Bathroom Humor, Part Duex-Duex

Planning a trip to Europe? Thank heavens you stumbled upon this blog! Before you go, you really need to consider a couple of handy tips my husband and I discovered that will help make your visit a more pleasant experience.

Take going to the bathroom for example. Did you know that you have to PAY for the privilege? Um hmm .50 Euros. That’s nearly a dollar American, down the toilet.

Unfortunately, we didn’t remember until we were in ‘crisis-mode’ so to speak.  Of course, we were waaay out of town, strolling through a picturesque German neighborhood, admiring the quaint architecture when my hubby felt a sudden need to find a McPoo. (Apparently, this is what European tourists call McDonalds, because its got free restrooms). I was miffed as his bowel functions were messing with my holiday but, since the matter seemed to be fairly pressing, we turned around and headed back toward town.

Whatever he was suffering from must have been contagious because I was also suddenly afflicted and we both picked up speed. Okay. Where is a McDonalds when you need one? There is one on every bleeping corner of the universe, unless you’re desperate. Luckily, there was a sign at the train station. W.C. (No, Wendy, this does not stand for Wendy and Carolyn, although at first I thought they’d heard of us over there. It stands for Water Closet).

Europeans have the audacity to keep these things locked until you have .50 Euro to plug into the door. Of course, we didn’t. I had a dollar. We hot-footed it over to a nearby bakery, waving our Euro and shouting “WC ! WC!” at the poor girl behind the counter. There was an elderly woman (a year or so older than me) at the counter, pointing at baked goods and jabbering in German. I don’t speakie the lingie, but clearly she couldn’t decide. And the girl behind the counter couldn’t open the register to make change, until she decided. My husband and I jogged in place while she deliberated. FOREVER. Sticky buns? Non-sticky buns. (I will refrain from the obvious pun). Finally, the elderly woman made her decision, the girl behind the counter flung our change at us and we were off to the WC.

There was only one open.

“Let’s share!” I screamed at my husband and we crowded into the WC (saved .50 Euro while we were at it, I might add). Luckily for us, the honeymoon was over decades ago. He let me go first (would George Clooney be so magnanimous, Wendy?) bless his heart. During his turn, I decided that I had to go again.

Eventually, there was an impatient knock at the door. “Occupied!” I strove to sound jaunty. There was some disgruntled talk outside the door. “Hurry,” I urged the hubby, during his second go round. “I think they think we’re in here…doing it!” “They wouldn’t if they could smell it,” he grunted.

Once we were both blessedly empty, we flung open the door and bolted. Behind us, more disgruntled (this time semi-nauseated) German talk. I’m nearly positive the words “Ugly American” were bandied about.

The British penny is sometimes referred to as a ‘p’. So, it may help to remember this handy saying: A ‘p’ to pee and two ‘p’ to poo.

Good luck, sojourner.

Carolyn

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Bathroom Humor

Okay, I admit it.  I had to get away from the stress of my love triangle with Wendy and George Clooney.  So, I went to Germany with the hubby.  Figured that was far enough away from the pain.  Imagine my surprise to find that they’d heard of Georgie in Germany.  Damn that man’s allure to the masses.  

Anyhow, this was my first time in a non-English speaking country.  I don’t count France, as they didn’t speak to me anyway.  Nor do I count Los Angeles, as I do habla un poco Espanol.  So, I was eager to learn the German lingo.  Fraternize with the natives.  I’m not exactly fluent in German, unless you count frantic hand signals and loud, impatient shouting in English, but I did manage to expand my vocabulary a tad.  They’ve got some funny stuff in Germany.   

I think my favorite is…   

Where?

 

I kept seeing this sign fly by as we zipped down the Audubon at about a thousand kilowatts (whatever) per hour.  And, when I wasn’t soiling myself at the sheer thrill of achieving warp speed in a Toyota, I was laughing my Aus off at the sign.  I mean, what was the purpose?  Should we pull over to enjoy the specified “area” to break wind?  Seemed inconvenient.  Not to mention crude.  It wasn’t until my last day that I discovered Ausfahrt means “Exit”.  My new favorite word.  I use it liberally now, when directing people to my house.   

BTW, George, I live just off the 2nd Ausfahrt in a town called Butteville.  Come On-a My House, baby.  

Carolyn

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Filed under Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Writing

Ghost

George knows I love dogs!

Our fan, thank you, Joyce, was the first reader to catch onto my experimental “Ghost” blog. Some you received a ‘blank’ blog notification or two. Yeah. That’s not laziness on my part. That’s a SUBLIMINAL message, and NOT A SCREW UP! Oh, yeah. Just because I’m menopausal does NOT mean I can’t handle my technology!
Anyway, did any of you ‘get’ the message? Huh? Huh?
Well, for those of you who might not be all the way plugged in to the subliminal thing, the Emperor does indeed have clothes. The message was this:
Wendy, don’t feel bad about not inviting me to go with you to the TNT LEVERAGE  (starring your actor husband, Tim Blough) PARTY to meet George Clooney. (I happen to know he didn’t make it…at least not…there).  I’m sure you were simply worried that my extremely hot-cougarness would over-power George and even though he has vowed NEVER TO FATHER CHILDREN (a pity worthy of another whole subliminal blog) that he would sweep me off my feet, and adopt all five of my children and perhaps even my hubby, who, when he’s not cutting off digits is a super swell guy and very handy to have around the house!
The ‘blank’ blog was my attempt to load a super-secret video of me and George dancing at ANOTHER party that I didn’t invite YOU to, Wendy. Yeah. Me. And George. Cutting a rug. Trippin’ the old light fantastic. After this blog, I’m gonna give loading the video another whirl. So, if any of you get ‘blank’ blog notices, I guess you’re just gonna have to mind-meld with your computer or use your imagination. 

Until then,
Carolyn and George (and our puppy, George Jr.)

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Friends!

Unless you're on Facebook!

One of the coolest things about being on Facebook is how popular it makes you feel.  “Looky there, Pa!  I got fifty thousand friends!”  Just think how much loot you’d get, if you invited all of your ‘friends’ to like, your wedding.  Or graduation.   Or birthday party.

I especially cherish the friend requests from my ‘friends’ who sport names like Aboijalee Yazdonuthole Xilfred or, Ima Scarymanstalker.  They always send sweet messages like:  “I lik you pix and I think luv you friend.”  Or, “Hey, I like your profile and plan to be in your town soon, maybe you could show me around?  Heh, heh, heh, snort, heh.”

Shucks!  Heck yeah!  Come on over, my friend!  After all, you saw my profile on Facebook and you lik to be my friend.

I find having so many friends a comfort.  For example, should my husband get it in his head to say, cut off another one of his fingers…I could call on one of my ‘friends’ to come hold the fort down while I’m in the E.R.  Take care of the kids.  Bring a casserole.  “Hey, Aboijalee Yazdonuthole Xilfred!  C’mon over and help me clean the gutters this weekend?  I’ll supply the beer and pizza!”

If I have inadvertently ever befriended you and you find me and my life to be something you don’t lik, by all means, un-friend me.  Won’t hurt me a bit.  After all, I’ll just make more.  Hundreds of bosom buddies to show around when they are in my town from whatever planet they happen to hail from.

In the mean time, as Sweet Baby-James says, “You just call…out my name…and ya know, where ever I am…I’ll come runnin’ to see ya again… Winter, spring, summer or fall, all ya gotta do is call (or instant message me) and I’ll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah…

Cuz you gotta friend-on-Facebook.

Carolyn

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Like Totally

 

You like want us to clean? What's up with that?

 

I have teenaged girls. I love it, as I am a connoisseur of sarcasm and they just give me so much…fodder.   

Take today for example:   

15 year old:  Mom, when a man has his prostate removed, is he still, like, a man?   

Me:  No, darling.  The moment the prostate is removed, the poor slob becomes a unicorn.   

13 year old:  I would rather die, than eat a fly.   

Me:  You’re telling me that you’d rather light yourself on fire than eat a house fly?  Be torn apart by a grizzly bear?  Eaten by an alligator?  Sit on a stick of dynamite?    

15 year old: Mom!  Look!  The dog is lactating!  Eeew!  Hey…I wonder what it tastes like?   

Me:  Why don’t you hold her over your cereal bowl in the morning and find out?   

I know, I know, I should aim for a more mature, maternal tone.  But come on.  Like, they both totally wanted to throw their stupid printer away.  Until I plugged it in.   

Carolyn

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Filed under Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, parenthood, The Bi-Racial Family

Yurt Locker

OMG! I'm so totally beautiful!

 I just spent the week in a Yurt at the beach with 6 middle school girls (one of them was my daughter) for a Science Field Study.  Ohmigosh.  The shrieking, the mess, the ADHD, the horrible house-keeping skills and that’s just ME. 

 The girls?  Hopeless.  

OVERHEARD IN MY YURT:

“I’m incredibly beautiful.  Not to brag or anything, it’s just true.  But, when I straighten my hair?  I’m even more beautiful.  Not to sound vain.” 

“That’s okay.  It’s good to be vain.  And you are really beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

 WHAT DATING IN 6TH GRADE REALLY MEANS: 

 Sit at the opposite end of the cafeteria and don’t look at each other.  Ever.  (Looking is for 7th grade).

 Getting to wear the boy’s hoodie?  You’re as good as married.  Pick out the china.  

 OVERHEARD IN THE CAFETERIA: 

“I gave his hoody back!”  Mass hysteria and giggling.  “And I loaded the pocket with candy!”  More mass hysteria. 

“Ooo, tight move!”

“Yeah!  He like said, I love candy!”  MASSIVE HYSTERIA.  “He said love!”

 DURING TRUTH OR DARE:

“Next time?  I dare you to give his hoody back and tell him you never want to wear it again because it totally smells like B.O.” 

 OVERHEARD ON THE BUS:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Smith, but you might want to count noses again…” 

 Alarmed, Mr. Smith asks, “Are we short a student?” 

“No.  But I’m pretty sure I saw that guy–don’t look now–the one sitting in the back of the bus–I said don’t look–The scruffy one with the flies buzzing around his head–don’t look–yeah, that guy, I saw him hitch-hiking about an hour ago…” 

“No, no.  That’s Carolyn.  Gracie’s mom.  She’s in a Yurt with all 6th graders.” 

“Oh, right.  That explains it.” 

 ON ORGANIZATION: 

 Kid: “Has anyone seen my flashlight/pillow/towel/sleeping bag/makeup/backpack/sleeping mat/text book?” 

 Me:  “What did you do with the last six flashlights/pillows/towels/sleeping bags/makeup/backpacks/sleeping bags/text books I gave you?” 

 Kid:   “I dunno.” 

 ON BEING SEXY: 

“I know everyone thinks the boy I like is a total Spaz–”

“Because he IS!”

“But that’s only because you don’t KNOW him!”

“I know he eats his boogers.”

“He’s still sexy.”  

Going on a field study is a great way to get to really know not only your own child, but the kids he/she pals around with all day at school.  It’s comforting to know that when you get home, you can lock your darling up and home school them until they are 35 and have completed basic training for nunnery boot camp. 

Carolyn

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Filed under Adoption, Anxiety, Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood