Going Karmental

Apparently, there is somebody out in the blogosphere besides my family and paid audience who reads this blog.  Imagine my surprise when I was given an official Bloggy Award by one of my favorite bloggers, Sassy Mama. 

Isn’t it just beautiful?  Just think, it will stay pristine forever in its little jpg existence.   No dusting, no acid dunks, just a little backing up of the hard drive will keep her alive forever. 

I’m misty just thinking about it.

This here award will not be available on ebay.  It is not for those who are unwilling to toil stringing together the written word, risking carpal tunnel on a daily somewhat regular basis, and fighting writers block to create anything to fill some white space the perfect post.  Which is why I am so perplexed that I somehow ended up with this award…

It seems Miss Sassy thinks that she was going to be the second wife of the late JFK, Jr. once he came to his senses and realized that tall, skinny, models were not nearly as fun as “real” women.  I was the bearer of bad news for the Sassy Mama when I had to reveal that I also had plotted to become the wife of John-John.  It’s funny how a week of vacationing with friends and about 5 margaritas during a heated game of chicken-foot dominoes will trigger a tearful confession of the intended plot.   I miss him and the bright future we would have had together.  

We could have been the next “Karmelot”.  

May he rest in peace.

It’s my turn to pass along the coveted bloggy to the bloggers I feel deserve a little carrot to keep them going.  There are a few people who I try to check in on because they entertain me in some fashion.  I’m guessing they have probably already received this award a hundred times but I will contribute to the premature filling of their hard drive for the sake of posterity.  And out of fear of breaking the chain that might keep me from being left kidney-less in an icy bathtub reading a note scrawled in lipstick across the bathroom mirror.

The Meanest Mom - Because she thinks she’s meanest, but WE KNOW THE TRUTH.

Pamajama - Because she has no fear of saying whatever she thinks, and believes her crazy relatives will never find her blog.

Romi - Because she obviously hasn’t heeded the advice to “Be careful what you wish for”.

Matt Logelin - Because he is rising to the occasion in stellar form to become a super-hero of a single father.  Besides that, he has a ton of talent for photography and using the F-word. 

XBox4NappyRash - Because I just found his blog and have literally laughed out loud at everything I’ve read.  Besides, I’ve been through the gauntlet he and his wife are running, and it’s intriguing to hear a man’s side of the war on infertility.

So, there you have it, I need to get my peeps working on sprucing me up for the big award ceremony which will be held at my dining room table with my close friends, Ben & Jerry.

Thanks for the Nod Sassy!

I swear to God Jake is part shark.  Everytime I turn around another tooth is falling out of this kid’s mouth.  Last week he lost one of the teeth next to his front tooth and brought it in to my office to show me.  The tooth sat on my filing cabinet (seems I didn’t have time to add it to my human tooth necklace right away) and ended up getting lost or tossed.  A couple days passed before Jake realized he hadn’t put it under his pillow and that’s when we realized it was gone.

He thought it would be cool to wad up a piece of paper to resemble a tooth and put that under his pillow to see if she’d be able to tell the difference.

She could.

The next night he decided he needed the cash and left her a note with an apology and a few questions.

She was kind enough to stop back and leave him a buck and a response:

This amused Jake greatly, but that was not good enough.  So he decided to push her a bit and leave the paper wad under the pillow for a third night to see if he could get another buck out of her.

Imagine his surprise when he looked in the mirror this morning and found this staring back at him. 

 And discovered this under his pillow:

Moral of the story:

Fairies don’t get mad…

They get even.

I’ve been trying to ignore this whole aging process for a while now.  Yes, it happens to the best of us but come on, when does the vicious cycle end? 

Ever since I became a wife and eventually, a mother, I’ve mastered “The Look”.  You all know what that is.  It’s the non-verbal smack down that, if ignored, can leave you with a bright red hand print on the side of your head or a shoe print on your ass.  Years of perfecting “The Look” have left my forehead in a state of disrepair with a furrow between my eyes that seems to grow deeper by the day. 

Unfurrowing is impossible.  No matter how high I raise my eyebrows, the furrow is there.  People look at me strangely when I meet them and introduce myself with a big, surprised, over-exaggerated smile on my face.   I want to hide the furrow because it makes me look all crabby.  Which, of course, is why I ended up growing the furrow to start with.  

I guess I want to dispose of the evidence that 15 years of giving “The Look” has left behind.

See?  Vicious cycle.

I decided that I need to get this furrow thing put to rest and start over with a kinder, gentler look.   My birthday is in a couple weeks so my gift to myself is a Botox treatment to see if it will rehabilitate my forehead and give me an instant boost of self-confidence (so I won’t have to give a warning look before applying capital punishment).

I got an appointment lined up and Dr. Inappropriate administered the Botox which didn’t hurt THAT bad, but I felt a little woozy afterward (which was probably more due to the the TMI overload discussion he and I had than it was to being intentionally poisoned).  Dr. I promised me that within 3 days I would see results - the furrow would start to soften as the muscles in my forehead became paralyzed.  Indeed, the furrow has softened.  And my right eye muscles have become paralyzed.

Seems that since the botox kicked in, my right eyeball is all amiss.  Yeah, instead of distracting people with the deep furrow between my eyes, I can distract them with my new right GOOGLEY-EYE. 

WTF????

Looks like I’m going to be spending a lot more time blogging and less time out rounding up new friends to play with.  

Just when I started to look less mean..

I have something to be all crabby about.

7/14/08:  Googley-eye Update:  Called Dr. Inappropriate today to find out of this is a possible side effect from injecting poison into my face, or if it is more along the lines of an ophthalmological disaster erupting in my skull.  His thought was that some of the botox may have migrated down into the eyelid muscle causing this problem.  Apparently it’s a known risk although I don’t remember reading about that.  It will eventually wear off in about 3 months.  He said he is ordering some eyedrops for me that will strengthen the eyelid but the eye tends to get red when you use them. 

Just when I thought this wasn’t going to get any more interesting, I find out I may end up looking like Plankton from Spongebob.  Great… 

Some of the Bunco girls and I did our annual pilgrimage to NE Mpls’ hotspot, Psycho Suzi’s last night.   I happen to LOVE kitschy little bars/restaurants and Psycho Suzi’s is the self-proclaimed Poorman’s Paradise. 

It seems that luck has been on our side every year because we always have PERFECT weather and get a table outside under the thatched “roof”.  The tiki torches create a Polynesian ambiance, but the clincher for me is being able to drink some sort of strong exotic cocktail out of a funky tiki cup.  Last night I hooked myself up with a fancy little concoction called One Eyed Willy.

And you better beware of One Eyed Willies because if you aren’t careful, they will sneak up on you, steal your clothes, and then kick you in the head.  They’re sneaky little bastards so don’t let the sweet face fool you.  The Fu Manchu isn’t any more civilized.   But it tastes really really good.

The servers at Suzi’s are interesting people with a great deal of money invested in tattoos and piercings (although I was scared to take pictures of them).  It’s a fun place to hang out and enjoy cocktails and some fabulous pizza - the Barbi-Q pizza totally rocks, but it has some bite to it so it’s not for the wimpy.

In keeping with tradition, we hit Tony Jaros’ for our annual greenie. 

The first time we went to Jaros’, there were 10 of us chicks and only 3 guys in the bar.   The newbies drank way too much green, way too fast.  They’ve since learned to pace themselves a little better.  Every year we go to TJ’s, Jami retells the story of when she had, like, 6 greenies and started driving home until the greenies hit her like a ton of bricks.  She stopped her car in the middle of the freeway and got out to walk home because she was too drunk to drive anymore.  We don’t let Jami drive.   Ever.

 Cheers to Greenies.  And designated drivers!

 We finished up our Greenies and headed downtown.  We had planned to go to Brit’s Pub for lawn bowling but it was already getting late and the bowling would be ending too soon for us to play.  We decided to hang at The Local instead.   This proved to be kind of interesting because the clientele is a whole different sort than Suzi’s.  Some guy that was about 7 feet tall kept lurking around us.  He finally got up the nerve to ask our driver what the deal was.  How did he get hooked up with 5 chicks?  It was funny because the guy and his buddies were really perplexed at how driver guy got to hang with a bunch of women, while he and his cronies sat alone in a corner.

Our response:  Size?  Matters.

Our Harem Master driver dude was about a foot shorter than this guy so King Kong was wont to tell us about how superior tall guys with big hands and feet are.  We were enjoying the banter but time was ticking and some of us (well, only ME, actually) had a meeting at 0700 this morning. 

So we all lined up behind the man with the keys and trotted out to our car. 

Driver Dude left with a little more swagger in his step, while we had more stagger in ours…

I can’t help but wonder what it is about me that makes people tell me the stuff they do.  I seem to have this amazing ability to get people to disclose stuff that I have no desire, or need, to know. 

During a doctor’s appointment last week, the Dr. and I were discussing some skin care products when out of the blue he mentioned that he has a lot of metrosexuals come through his office.  He then proceeded to tell me how he doesn’t use these fancy face lotions or shave his pubic hair.

‘Scuse me?

I had the urge to gauge out my mind’s eye at that point.  I didn’t WANT to know anything about this guy’s nether regions, and now had to try to suppress the image of its massive unwieldy overgrowth! 

Scarier yet is WHY would he feel compelled to tell me this?  Do I exude enough masculinity to be within the female realm of metrosexual, and he wanted to make me feel more comfortable being his patient?  Was he setting the stage for a big laser hair removal pitch?   During normal happy hour or conversational circumstances, I would not be phased by this disclosure but it was really creepy coming from a doctor, and complete stranger who I’d known for all of about 5 minutes. 

I posed the question of why people always tell me weird stuff to BFF Cindy whose response was, “Because you love that sort of shit”. 

She has a point. 

So I guess that whole concept of manifesting your destiny isn’t a bunch of bunk after all. 

I will now start sending the idea of being rich, thin, and able to cure cancer out into the Universe and see how that works for me.  Enough of this nonsense.

Little Jake has a lot of brilliant ideas and is destined to be a marketing genius, or a politician, or an interrogator for the mob. 

“Can we go get some TNT?”  (repeat this sentence about 50 times in a 24 hour period).  Jake was relentless about getting fireworks.  The kid’s simply thrilled with the stuff.  Since it was Joey’s adoption anniversary, Jake decided to add a little spark to his fireworks campaign by making sure we knew that they were for Joey’s big celebration too.  It was really quite sweet how he wanted to make sure that we made an event out of Joey’s anniversary.  

Mark finally caved to the pressure and took the boys to get the goods.  Once they got home with their parcel of explosives, Jake had the box opened up and fireworks strewn across the floor asking all the while when they would be able to shoot them off.  He must have asked no less than 20 times in an hour when we would be able to do them.  We finally let him do a couple things that would be fun during daylight.  The kid has a one track mind and he knows how to pound us into submission until he gets what he wants.  I have to admit though, that his excitement is pretty rewarding.  He gets completely giddy when he finally gets what he’s been hoping for.

Jake then decided he was hungry for cotton candy, so he suggested we go to the Twins game where they will deliver the cottony sweetness directly to your seat.  Since Mark had promised Jake months ago that we would go to a game this summer, we headed downtown to the game.  We were able to get cheap tickets outside but they required us to climb about 10,000 steps to our seats.  

Once settled into our seats, Joey wanted to learn to do the scorecard so Mark and Joey worked on that. 

And Jake worked on me. 

Cotton Candy was his mission.  The burning in my legs from ascending the stadium had barely started to subside when the hounding started.  It came early and often.  I could see the look in Jake’s eyes whenever a vendor came by.  He was jonesing big time.  I was trying to pay attention to the game and intentionally ignored his hints for every food that entered our line of sight.  Unfortunately, cotton candy never entered our visual field.  By the bottom of the third inning, Jake’s version of a bright light shining in my eyes and water dripping on my forehead finally yielded the results he intended.  I handed each of the boys a $5 to get whatever they wanted to keep things fair.  Then Jake and I headed down to the cotton candy kiosk to fulfill his desire and allow me to watch the game. 

The trip down to the kiosk was fine.  The trip back up to the summit was more challenging.  We got back to our seats and I got right back into watching a great game.  By the middle of the 5th Jake had moved on to his next agenda item…

“Mom, I’m thirsty.”

At least I had a can of soda that I could share with him and avoid another session of quad building.

Thank goodness Joey kept the scorecard so I could actually figure out what happened at the game I was supposed to be watching.

On our way to the car after the game, I started doing the countdown in my head…

Three.

                           Two.

                                                     One.

…Hey Dad, where are we going to watch fireworks?

I cleaned out my desk for the first time in ages and found this box of pens I had received as a parting gift from one of my past gigs.

Since I tend to be a little OCD about my writing utensils, when I find a pen I like, I will buy it in bulk. 

Some people are very particular about their jeans and how they make their butts look.  After discovering that there aren’t any jeans that can offer me a glimmer of hope in improving my butt, I can at least strive to improve how my handwriting looks.  Since a person’s handwriting tells a lot about their personality, I LOVE this pen because it makes my writing look better.  Ergo, it makes me appear to be a better person.  (See, I’ve even revived a dead language by using Latin in my sentence.  Recycling at its finest right there people.) 

For a long time I preferred purple Pilot pens, but ever since Lance Armstrong had his little run in with testicular cancer, I feel like I should support him in a show of solidarity by wearing my yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet AND brandishing my own Uni-ball.

I’m still trying to figure out how this pen has prevented me from taking on a life of check forging though.  I always thought it was my healthy fear of going to prison and being served up as Lola’s bitch, but now I’m starting to see the connection:  Better pen + Better handwriting = Better Person.

Something is telling me I better start buying better mascara to spruce up the windows to my soul.

My dear neighbor Amy has called out a little tidbid that I was too embarrassed to mention inadvertently omitted from the “Father’s Day” post…. 

My BFF, Cindy, had invited me to help her husband coach and videotape the birth of their first child.   She was scheduled for induction and was admitted to the hospital early in the morning.   All the cogs were in motion and we were all set for the big event.  Jon had the booklet about signs of progress, the chart for tracking contractions, a focal point consisting of a stuffed mama kangaroo, a signed and dated consent for the epidural, and the video camera ready for action.  

Cindy is as modest as I am and made me promise not to go “South”.  I had no problems making the commitment, as there are some things about your friends that you want to remain a mystery.  And determining if her carpet matched the curtains was not something I had a yearning desire to know. 

Once the labor started and Cindy grew more uncomfortable, the look in her eyes screamed get me the f#&^ out of here, while her sweet voice kindly requested the epidural.  Once the epidural kicked in, Cindy suggested Jon and I get out of her face go grab some lunch while she finally got some rest.  We took her up on her offer and left for about 45 minutes. 

We barely finished lunch when the nurse came in to check on Cindy.  She had dilated from 4 to 10 so the incubator was rolled in and set up directly behind me.  Cindy’s bed was dismantled and we were given our assignments.  I was assigned to Cindy’s right leg, Jon got the left and the nurse stood between us calling the audibles.  When it was time to push, Jon and I pushed toward Cindy while she pushed toward us.  The nurse led the counting with Cindy and I holding our breath and bearing down for the ten count.  Between the 50000 watts of radiant heat blazing across by backside and holding my breath, I began to get woozy.  The nurse must have been paying attention because she quickly directed me to sit down and drink something. 

I quickly regained my composure and got right back to leg duty.  We were buzzing like a well-oiled machine pushing and counting, pushing and counting.  It wasn’t long before I realized that the only one making any progress with a delivery was me. 

It seems that at 2:22 I birthed myself a tampon. 

Quite honestly, I didn’t know if I should be totally mortified or proud of my hoo-haw muscles.  I’d heard stories of girls in Asian countries with special skills “down there” but I had no idea I was a contender for THAT talent show. 

Finally, after 2 and a half hours of pushing, Cindy also delivered her own little bundle of joy. 

On our way back to Minneapolis from Fargo on Sunday, we decided to make a stop at St. John’s University to visit an old friend of ours who we haven’t seen in years.  Father Burton had retired from the Priesthood several years ago and lives at the Abbey of St. John’s.  Although we were a week late to celebrate “Father’s” Day , we felt that we needed to check in sooner than later considering Father is pushing 90 years old and is now in the care center.  When we arrived at his room, we found that he hadn’t aged a day since we saw him a few years ago.  His heavy Swedish accent and hearty laugh were still the same.  Father Burton laughs easily and loves to tease.  I’m willing to wager that he still prefers tequila shots over beer.

After spending 10 minutes with him, we came to the realization that Alzheimer’s has set in.  He must have asked Mark 5 times where he’s working now even though it’s the same as it was when they worked together years ago.  He asked the boys at least 7 times what grades they were in.  I was really proud that they didn’t get smart with him about repeating himself.  Each time they answered his questions politely. 

It was sad to see this vibrant, tenacious, bull-headed man begin to fade.  A man who had been so domineering and strong was now so frail and vulnerable.  He barely remembered the child who is his namesake, although he has several pictures of him in his room to this day.  I’m glad that Father’s legacy will be able to live on through what he did for us. 

The story is long but it is one of my favorites.  It still makes the hair on my neck stand up when I recount it.

……………………………………………………………………………….

It was a hot June evening 10 years ago when Mark came inside from his obsessive compulsive diligent session of lawn maintenance.   His t-shirt was drenched in sweat, his face was flush from the heat, and he reeked  of that familiar gasoline and freshly mowed grass smell.  

I kept wrapping the gift I was working on for my niece and casually acknowledged his arrival. 

“Father Burton got a fax today…”  he mentioned casually. 

“Oh yeah?”  I replied, half interested in such a non-newsworthy tidbit. 

“The nuns have a baby for us if we want him,”  Mark continued.

I looked up quizzingly forgetting that Father Burton, the Chaplain that Mark worked closely with, had taken it upon himself to inquire about adoption some year and a half earlier.  Father’s old friend, Mother Javier, happened to run a bunch of Orphanages and Schools in Central and South America and had helped Father Burton find a child for his niece to adopt several years prior.  Mother Javier’s response to his inquiry was that they don’t “do” adoptions, and especially don’t do adoptions to the US.  Their mission is to take in girls and provide them with a home and education. 

We left it at that. 

Mark had to repeat himself, “The nuns have a baby boy for us if we want to adopt him.” 

It still didn’t register. 

I had so completely put all the infertility tests, treatments, IVFs, miscarriages, surgeries, and desperate thoughts of abduction behind me, that this whole suggestion of parenthood fell on unprepared ears.  I had refocused my purpose toward building my career and becoming involved with kids through different means than motherhood.

Honestly, I wasn’t really interested in having this conversation.  I wasn’t interested in having my heart ripped out one more time.   The thought of having another dream violently crushed was way more than I could bear to even consider.

Then the sales pitch: 

“But Karm, it’s a BOY!  He’s OURS if we want him…  It’s a BOY!”

I wasn’t biting. 

“I don’t know.  I just don’t think I want to do a foreign adoption.  I don’t think I’m up for this.”  After 5 years of infertility battles, we’re finally moving on with our lives.   

What I was really thinking? 

I.  CAN.  NOT.  TAKE.  ANOTHER.  EMOTIONAL.  BLOODBATH.  And you are scaring the shit out of me right now!

Finally, I asked,  ”So.. how old is this baby?

“One week.”

My heart stopped.  Or did it race?  I can’t remember.  It was all too surreal.

“You mean…. he was born, like, a week ago?”  I stammered.  Then I began to do the math.

Suddenly my thoughts shifted to the events of the previous year.   A late summer cycle of IVF had promises of parenthood.  The pregnancy results were positive and we anxiously awaited our first ultrasound to determine if we were having one or two babies.  I was convinced it would be twins as the HCG numbers had more than doubled after 2 days.   I started shopping!

My best friend, Cindy and her husband had also conceived at the same time and our due dates were a week apart.  The dreams were swirling.  Our families would meld and our kids would grow up being best friends.  I was busy planning our future… Our future as a family.  

Seven weeks seemed like a lifetime as we anticipated the ultrasound.  Would I be setting up a nursery for one or two babies?  Putting the cart before the horse was a practice that I had employed forever and this situation certainly wasn’t going to be any exception.   Mark and I got to our appointment early and were seen right on time.  The Dr. did the ultrasound and it seemed to take him forever to find the heartbeats.  Finally, after several years minutes had passed, he muttered the unthinkable,  ”I’m so sorry.  There is no heartbeat.”  I made him check again.  And again.  He showed us the sac that was visible but no heartbeat was present.  

 I was in a state of suspended disbelief.  This.  Could.  Not.  Be.  Happening!  He apologized again and presented me with my options. 

Neither was acceptable. 

Mark and I went out for lunch.  I had nothing to say.  Mark was already talking about doing another round of IVF in a few months.   His desire to be a father was intense and he was willing to do whatever it took and spend whatever it would cost to become a dad.   Besides stuffing my face with chocolate, I comforted myself by thinking of worse things that happen to people, like losing a child you’ve known and loved, or going through the pregnancy only to have the baby be stillborn.  Those were the people who had a right to be sad.  I was just pissed that I didn’t get my way.  There were a million people in a worse predicament than myself.  That’s what I focused on.

My OBGyn is an amazing man who had become my ally in the whole infertility war.  He would do whatever test and arrange appointments for me whenever I needed them.  He was also bold enough to tell me what nobody else dared.  As I sat on the edge of the table in his office waiting for my follow-up exam, he moved in close to me, took my hands, and looked me square in the eyes.  “Karmen, you NEED to grieve this loss or it WILL come back to haunt you,”  he warned. 

Damn!  He was on to me.  He saw right through that ever-chipper exterior and not only punctured a hole in it, but he cracked it wide open exposing an abundance of raw emotion that had been so tightly and successfully stored away. 

For the first time in my life, I had been given permission to be sad, to hurt, and to be angry at what was so  incredibly unfair. 

That day spawned the hardest, saddest, darkest time in my entire life.  I had failed.  I had never failed at anything that I wanted to accomplish.  For once, I was not in control of my destiny and I hated it.  And I saw no way out. 

There was no light at the end of the tunnel. 

Depression took ahold of me, and each day required every ounce of energy I had just to get out of bed.  I spent every night that winter and spring tethered to my online support system.   I had checked out of my life.  Mark and I were managing the same pain in very different ways.  He moved on and I dwelled, which was not my typical M.O.  I was always one to believe someone else had it worse, crack a joke, and move on without letting things get me down.  I was the freak while everyone else on the planet (including every skanky crack hoe in the city) was managing to have children.

Cindy had dragged me out of my self-imposed exile long enough to go Christmas shopping with her one Saturday.  While we were out, she told me that she and Jon had talked and wanted me to be in the delivery room with them if I was up for it.  I was.  No, I wasn’t.  Yes, that would be cool.  But it would be so hard.  She let me think on it and I had 5 months to decide.  My biggest fear was that I would feel like even more of a loser walking out of the hospital empty handed.  Eventually, I decided it was a risk I was willing to take and in late May, Cindy and Jon had a beautiful and healthy little girl.  The oddest part of the whole event was that when I left the hospital that evening, I didn’t feel sad.  In fact, I nearly skipped out of the building knowing that I didn’t have to go through that.  Cindy’s labor and delivery was not traumatizing for me, it was cathartic. 

That day I realized that I didn’t need to give birth to feel complete. 

The next several weeks were spent seeing as much of the baby as possible and enjoying holding this tiny miracle.  She was beautiful…

“Yeah.  He’s a week old,”  Mark repeated. 

“So… He was born on our due date?”  I asked.

“Yes,”

“Well, I guess this really isn’t OUR decision to make, is it?”

 It was then that I knew I had to take a chance.  As much as I wanted to resist, I had to allow myself to be vulnerable.  Again.

Joseph Burton, was indeed born on our due date. 

And he was meant to be ours… 

When at a public facility/restaurant, is it appropriate to use the handicap stall if you are not disabled?

At one of my girlie outings, one of the women got accosted by someone in the women’s bathroom for using the handicapped stall without being handicapped. 

So the question is this:  Are handicapped stalls just intended to be handicap accessible or are they exclusively for handicapped individuals?

Enquiring minds (who don’t want the public humiliation of a women’s restroom brawl on their hands) want to know…

When I decided I was going to Amsterdam and Paris, I also decided that my pet rock, Rocky, would be accompanying me on said adventure.  Rocky hails from the icy shores of Lake Superior in Two Harbors, MN and was rescued last June from his life of obscure rock-ness when I found him just lying on the beach looking all wet, worn down, and, well… phallic.  That’s when I decided I needed Rocky.  And he needed me. 

I packed up all my travel essentials and assigned Rocky his own pocket in my backpack.  Our first stop?   Amsterdam - and specifically Betsy’s place in the land of smoke and dreams and, um, hookers. 

This is Rocky introducing himself to his new shot glass friend, Whiskey Dick.

Amsterdam rocked (no pun intended).  I loved all the tulips, canals, old architecture, and watching all the colorful people.   Everyone seems to ride a bike around town - not the fancy 10 speed bikes like we have, the old fashioned Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz kind of bikes.  Amsterdammers can fit a family of 4 on one bike AND haul groceries.  Amazing.

In Amsterdam, the perpetual camera dangling from my neck certainly told the world that I was a tourist, but nothing screams AMERICAN like a muffin top oozing out the top of a pair of Gap ‘Long and Leans’.  Which, by the way, naming a pair of jeans ‘Long and Lean’ is one smart marketing ploy if you ask me.  Long and lean?  ‘Short and Stout’ obviously wouldn’t trigger women in need of a healthy dose of self-esteem to buy their jeans.  Who’s going to argue about being short and fat and having to buy a pair of jeans called “Long and Lean”?  Not me, I bought two pair just in case they decide to discontinue them. 

  Join in, sing with me - “Oh do you know the muffin man, the muffin man…” 

We spent the afternoon walking through Holland’s famous Keukenhof Gardens and enjoyed the brilliance of what had to be a trillion tulips.  There were varieties that were totally unique to Amsterdam.  I would love to have been able to take some bulbs home with me. 

The gardens were peppered with amazing sculptures that were quite interesting, and mostly whimsical.  Anne picked out a few Dutch gardeners that she’d like to keep in her garden but there wasn’t enough room in the car to bring them home with us.  Anne put them on her Christmas list anyway.

  After only one afternoon in the company of Anne and Betsy, it had become painfully clear that I was already getting on their nerves when Betsy showed me to my room.  I’m not sure if it was a threat or not, but I cleaned up my act pretty quickly after that. 

After we unloaded all the luggage and grabbed some supper, Betsy delivered on her promise to take me to the infamous Red Light District.  It was quite the experience, although I’m sure I would have emerged much more “educated” had we spent more time there.  Quite frankly, it was uncomfortable for me to walk by windows with the girls for sale in them.  Strangely enough, there was not a muffin top in the lot.  Apparently muffin topped girls don’t sell well in Amsterdam.  I’m not sure who felt more awkward - me for going to the red light district with my friend’s daughter, or Betsy for having to walk around with a woman who had a pet rock shaped like a shlong in her bag.  And whipped it out for photo ops.

We stopped at the store to grab a few essentials gifts. <–

And somebody stopped me to ask if I had a light and if I knew the directions to the nearest Taco Bell.  –>

Then we headed back to Betsy’s place to pack up and get ready to head to France in the morning.

 We packed the car for the trip to France.  It was a tight squeeze but we each grabbed a handful of wieners and hit the road with the GPS stuck to the windshield in true tourist fashion.  

Rocky learned that size really doesn’t matter. 
And we all learned that driving is unsafe with a wiener in your hand.

Giverney was our afternoon pitstop where we enjoyed the beautiful home, gardens, and ponds that once inspired Claude Monet.   It wasn’t a very crowded day so it was easy to just tour the grounds and peruse the gift shop.  Other than the woman who didn’t feel like a group of 3 should be allowed to enter in the group entrance, we never met up with anybody in France who was remotely rude to us.  Except, maybe, for the waiter at the bistro who insisted on kissing me everytime he came to our table.  Eeew.

 We left Giverney and before long we were checking into the Paris Hilton (like WHO hasn’t spent a night in Paris Hilton?).   After getting situated, Betsy and I walked 2 blocks to the Eiffel tower.  We were hounded by hawkers peddaling some little mini plastic Eiffel tower key rings.  Good price just for me they negotiated.

The Eiffel Tower was grand and beautiful and so romantic.  Unlike the Mona Lisa, it was much larger than I had anticipated.  There’s something about being sandwiched into tight quarters with 4000 other people that turns me on.  Think about it - 4000 people at the bottom of the Eiffel tower ascending to the tiny point at the top makes for some serious compression.  If Rocky were made of coal, he’d have been a diamond by the time we emerged at the top of the tower. 

Visiting at night was an experience not to be missed.  A still camera simply can’t capture the magnificence of the twinkling lights that come on at the top of each hour.  The view of Paris from the top of the tower is amazing.    And windy.

But well worth getting compressed over.

We went back to the hotel and fell asleep with dreams of our next adventure
and visions of chocolate croissants dancing in our heads.

The next morning the three of us plotted our ASSault on Paris.  
From the looks of things, one might expect we thought we were going to Brazil.

 And then we checked to see if it was cold outside.   

It was.

We grabbed some free breakfast in the Executive Lounge.  Betsy’s influence and power is acknowledged world-wide, and we were spoiled by the privileges afforded to such dignitaries.  Betsy was very kind and generous to let Anne and I enjoy her Hilton Honors Points and the benefits afforded to her during our stay in Paris.   I’m guessing we saved hundreds of Euros on beverages alone.  Not to mention the room.

By this time I was missing the family so I called home to see how things were going
and if Mark had the kids under control. 

He didn’t answer the phone right away.

I finally got ahold of them and spent a good hour consoling Joey about getting beat up in the school yard.  That always happens when Mark picks out his clothes.  

We hit downtown Paris for some museum strolling and some shopping. 
I bought a bunch of Christmas presents for my family and Rocky’s. 

We toured the Louvre, drank an $11.00 Coke,  and enjoyed window shopping on the streets of Paris while observing everyone we could.  The people watching was spectacular.   I loved seeing kids in their little french berets.  Everyone in Paris wore a scarf.  I’m guessing it’s because of all the hickeys they must get from living in the most romantic city in the world.     

After watching a season of Project Runway, I was inspired to buy a new outfit for me. 

And matching outfits for me and Mark.

And I made a New.  Best. Friend.

Was I embarrassed walking down Rue Royale (think Rodeo Drive) with my sandwich in hand, baguette crumbs speckling my black jacket and a slice of tomato dangling from my lower lip?  Not one bit.  Would I go back to Paris just to have that little sandwich which cost me all of 3 Euros again?  In a heartbeat.  That little baguette sandwich from the deli on Rue Madeleine (in the market behind Senderens) was phenomenal - but I ate it too fast to get a picture of it (sorry). 

That night we went to Senderens for dinner.  Ate a duck’s liver and a lamb’s ass thigh. 
Won’t ever be doing that again. 

During the middle of the night Anne yacked up the duck’s liver. 

And her liver.

Poor Anne. 

While Anne recovered from the revenge of the mad duck, or lobster, or scallops, Versaille and the ghost of Louis the XIV beckoned me to visit.  I joined a tour and soaked in all that defines grotesque opulence.  Words simply cannot describe that level of grandeur, artistry, or excessiveness.  However, I did get some decorating ideas and made a note to have Mark hang some mirrors in the hallway and paint the living room.  Just like this. 

 Unless he wants to meet up with this. 

I think this was a guillotine but don’t know french, so it could be an ironing board for all I know.   The word guillotine was mentioned in the description tag so I made that assumption.   Smart American.

Not so smart American.   Europe is good at separating Americans from their money.  Among other things apparently.

The weather turned nasty so I went back to the hotel to slip into something more comfortable, relax and read my very interesting and amusing book, Candy Girl, written by Diablo Cody, the writer of the movie Juno.  I really enjoyed it - as did Rocky.

 Talked to Mark again. 

Although not willing to readily admit it, I think he might have missed me. 

 Being a tourist is tiring work.  And it can leave you feeling spent and not looking so fresh at the end of a long day of exploration.  I felt like I had been taken back 400 years as I explored the art, relics, and architecture in Paris.  It made me realize how young and architecturally dull the US is.

I can’t honestly say what was the highlight of the trip.  The whole thing was the highlight.  It was a phenomenal trip spent with two phenomenal women. 

And I can’t wait to go back again someday. 

We all agreed that what happens in Europe? 

Stays in Europe. 

On Friday night after work, a group of us went to happy hour at a fancy restaurant/bar/pick-up-joint in Eden Prairie.  Seated next to us were a bunch of Minnesota Vikings football players enjoying a few Budweisers and some Buffalo Shrimp.   After the huge Lake Minnetonka boat cruise debacle that brought down Daunte Culpepper and Co., I was expecting to see a bunch of idiots getting obnoxious and leading a train of strippers and hookers to the dancefloor.   

Contrary to our expectations from the illustrious Vikings, this group was very subdued and well-mannered.  It was nice to see that not all Vikings have to act like complete idiots in public.  And hopefully Adrian Peterson will be a whole lot better of a role model than Randy Moss was.

All this model citizenship did leave us wondering…

What’s a girl gotta do to get groped by a professional athlete these days? 

It’s 1:13 a.m. on Saturday night and I can’t sleep.   I am tired, and I really want to sleep but a number of things are impacting my success:

1. Mark is snoring like a freakin lumberjack.  Maybe it’s time I intervene like I did years ago.  When he started snoring really bad,  I would plug his nose and wait until he finally gasped for air and shifted positions, thus providing me with a few minutes of quiet to fall asleep.  Pinching him with my toes usually worked to get him to shift too.  When I’d complain about the snoring, he didn’t believe a word of it (even though his legs had to be full of tiny bruises from my bionic tarsal grip) so I finally got smart.  I proved it.  I grabbed the phone and dialed his office.  Once his voicemail picked up, I held the phone up to his mouth and left him a 10 minute message of himself rattling the windows and whistling on the exhale just like the old guys in the cartoons do when they snore.   Point taken.
2. The new bed.  After hunting off and on for at least 5 years, we finally bit the bullet and bought a new bed.   The last one was so uncomfortable that Mark couldn’t even stand it anymore.  We’ve had the bed for 1 week now and I’m still not used to it.  It’s like a feathery nest with a pillowy cream-puffy layer on top of the support part of the mattress.  Although getting into the thing requires a step stool or doing the high jump with only 2-3 running steps, once you land, it’s heavenly.  There are two words you will never hear me say:  “I’m hot”.   On the first night of sleeping on this cream puff, I awoke at 0330 on top of a wet spot in the shape of my body from head to toes.  I swear to God, I could have made a sweat angel.  I don’t know -maybe I’m heading into “the change” and this is my own personal summer, either way, it’s pissing me off.    

 

3. The pond - In response to #2 above, we have the windows open in our room.  The frogs and crickets are so loud tonight that it is actually annoying me.  Usually I enjoy the sounds of the wild while I drift off to la la land but tonight it’s getting to me.  If I close the windows, it will get so hot I’ll go crazy.  Maybe I should hunt down my earplugs.  That oughta work.  Solves 2 of the 3 issues doesn’t it?  Brilliant!

 

Now that 43 minutes have passed, I’m more tired but have a solution to at least 2 of my issues. 

I will try earplugs although the amplified sound of my own breathing may cause me to plug my nose until I gasp or pinch my calves with my toes all night…

The other day I was visiting my neighbor when her mother stopped in.  When we were re-introduced, she asked if I lived in the house that had the car nearly run into the house last summer.  I confirmed that, yes, that was our house.  I had forgotten about that incident but since she was out mowing when it happened, she remembered it quite vividly. 

Apparently 2 teen boys were racing their cars down our street when one of the drivers lost control coming around a curve and ran off the road and launched his Honda Prelude into our yard.  It stopped about 18 inches from our house.   Luckily, our kids were inside instead of playing baseball in the yard when it happened.  Another neighbor was driving by at the time and parked his car such that the Honda driver could not drive away.  Mark called the cops and the kid was taken into the squad where he was interrogated and given a ticket for wreckless driving.  He had only had his car for about a month before he pulled this stunt. 

According to Mark, the kid was a very upset and was visibly shaken.  He promised Mark that he would be back to fix the damage to the grass and even offered to come and rake leaves a few times this fall to make it up to him.  The boys parents came by later that evening to retrieve the flying Honda from our yard. 

I would be willing to bet good money that our yard was not the only thing sporting skid marks that night.

Even though we haven’t finished killing off the hermit crabs yet, I reluctantly agreed to get a pet gecko since it’s the only thing Joey requested for his birthday.  Why can’t our kids long for a pool boy or goat or something remotely useful?  Knowingly sleeping in the same house with a lizard is way above and beyond the call of duty if you ask me - but making my kid’s birthday special is one of those things that warrants a little sacrifice, so says I. 

Operation Gecko was in full swing with both boys grabbing mini shopping carts and charging through Petco’s reptile section.  We summoned a sales person who helped us pick out everything a gecko requires to live long and torment me every day of his freakin life prosper. 

• Heat lamp - check. 
• Temperature and Humidity gauge - check.
• Plastic plant to hang out it - check. 
• Substrate material - check. 
• Food and water dishes - check, check. 
• Crickets?  Hmmm…

Just then our sales girl informed Joey that he could never take the gecko out of the tank and play with it because they’re so fast.  They may also carry Salmonella.  “Wonderful,” I thought to myself, “First, I’m going to have to learn to sleep comfortably knowing there is a lizard living in my house and then I’m going to have to deal with a raging case of salmonella-induced diarrhea running through our family – literally.”   But this wasn’t about me, right?

As we headed to the check-out lane, we stopped by the mouse cages to watch them run in the wheels.  They were so much cuter than the geckos although they smell a lot worse.  I casually planted the seed that Joey COULD choose to get a mouse instead.  He pondered it awhile before announcing that he did prefer pets he could cuddle with (that explains the endless supply of fish, sea monkeys, and hermit crabs I guess). 

So, back the boys went to restock their gecko gear and pick out mouse supplies instead.  When all the supplies were in order, Joey picked a cute little gold female mouse that he oh-so- cleverly named Mickey.  Jake found one to keep Mickey company and named her Pip - quite a departure from his usual naming convention which would be something really unpredictable like, say, Mousey. 

 Meet Mickey

And Pip

The mice-capade is turning into an audition for puppy parenthood.  We talked about the need to clean the cage weekly.  Since dogs require care daily, if keeping the mice fed and watered and getting the cage cleaned once a week was more than they could handle, I assured them that a dog would be out of the question.  It will be interesting to see how they do with responsibility over the next few weeks.  So far they’ve been doing great and have followed the rules about letting the mice adapt to their new environment for 3-4 days before handling them a whole bunch. 

For some reason I can rest a whole lot easier sharing my house with 2 mice than 1 gecko.  Until they escape.  Then all bets are off and may the biggest beast win…

I so admire people who can do things that I can’t.  On Tuesday I met a friend for lunch and then we went to an art gallery where he’s got a bunch of photos on display.   Jeff and I can literally be at the exact same venue, sharing a camera, and shooting pictures of the same object and Jeff’s pictures will come out spectacular with some interesting twist of light or variation in depth of field.  Mine look so bland compared to his.   He has the ability to find something interesting in the most ordinary objects and has taken the coolest shots while wandering through  roadside tourist attractions, junk yards, or driving down desolate roads.   As much as I try to capture the quirky nuances in things, I just can’t do it like he does. 

I don’t know if he has added all of his new photos, but here’s a link to his photo album.  I’m sure he’d be willing to sell most any of his pictures but be prepared to explain yourself if you’re trying to buy any pictures of his wife and kids.  

Mark and I happened to catch the Mixed Martial Arts fight between Kimbo Slice and James (Collosus)Thompson.   I had a trainer at the gym who used to cage fight so I had to see what the hype was about.  Clearly, I am testosterone deficient because watching the fight did nothing but make we wince and wonder how much money it takes to motivate these people to lock themselves in a pen and pound the hell out of each other.  Looked like human cock fighting to me. 

The whole concept seems crazy.  My first gauge of somebody’s sanity is the state of their hair, but this was a moot point since both fighters were bald - save for some funky braid and tail on Kimbo’s head which could qualify him, but not completely.  My next assessment tool, the eyes, the vapid cold stare, was definitely affirmative for both men. 

I was one of All Star Wrestling’s biggest fans back in the heyday of Bobby “The Brain” Heenan, Vern Gagne, Da Crusher, Baron Von Raschke, The Claw, Nick Bockwinkle and Sugar Ray Stevens.  SuperStar Billy Graham was the pretty boy of the pack but Wahoo McDaniel was my man.  Wahoo was the fortunate recipient of more than one of my fan letters penned adoringly on wide-rule paper in perfumed turquoise ink.  Those guys knew how to fight and inspired me to perfect my own forearm smash, flying drop kick and body slam.  Just ask my sister.  If we had had turnbuckles in our house, I would have certainly known how to use them. 

Watching the villain take a pounding and then flop around like a fish for an extended 3-count while the good guy pinned him was awesome.  It made me so angry when the refs would “miss” the shenanigans of the bad guys in tag team wrestling.  It just wasn’t fair!  I wrote a few letters to Mean Gene Okerlund letting him know what was really going on in the ring and that those refs weren’t doing a very good job.  Oddly, I never heard back from any of these fellows.

Something has definitely changed in me during the past 30 years because watching Kimbo and Thompson take swipes, jabs, and roll around on the mat pounding each others’ faces made me nauseous.  When Thompson repeatedly drilled his forearm into Kimbo’s nose, Kimbo’s nose didn’t break or shed even one drop of blood.  Rigged?  I think so.

During Round 3, I spotted this ginormous bulge on Thompson’s left ear.  OMG - THAT is cauliflower ear?  Thompson’s ear looked like Shrek’s!  It was big and wobbly, it creeped me out in a way that made me want to see more and even examine it up close.  It was mesmerizing.  It wiggled and flopped until Kimbo decided to take aim and began pummeling the daylights out of Thompson and his bulbous ear.  Three solid hits later, the thing burst and blood was everywhere. 

The ref ended the match by calling a TKO. 

I was spared another minute of this barbaric sport, but I was so enGROSSED by the ear that I had to go do some cauliflower ear research. 

And then I had to find out how much oxygen deprivation these two men had experienced at birth to lead them down this career path.  

Last weekend while we were visiting my mom and Mike, I was quizzing Jake about the Cinderella Ball they had at school.  From what I can tell, most of the little first grade boys have a bit of a crush on Rachel D.  I must admit that if I were a little boy, I would throw my hat in that ring.  She is a doll and happens to share my birthday (Go Leos!).  I asked Jake who he danced with.  “Nobody”, he replied.  I asked if he danced with Rachel.  “No”.

Not feeling I was completely annoying him while he was trying to watch his movie, I asked, “Do you think you will marry Rachel D?”

His response?  “I’m not going to get married.  I’m going to be a priest.” 

*insert cricket sounds here*

Mom, Mike and I looked at each other with the same jaw slacking expression.   “I thought you were going to sell cotton candy,” I responded.

“I’m going to do both,” he stated matter of factly as though that has been his plan for years.  I guess I now know who will be manning cotton candy booths at church festivals across the nation in the future… My Father Son.  Maybe he can make a few extra bucks by blessing kids’ teeth while he’s at it.

Spent my work week working from home.  IN MY PAJAMAS!  YESSSSSSSSSS!  Nothing makes me more content than spending the entire day in my PJs (except when I have to answer the door at 2 in the afternoon in them).  I got thrown onto a project and was asked to manage the user acceptance testing piece of it.  In the world of virtual teams, this means that I got to spend 5 hours every day on teleconferences staring at a shared computer screen.  Tethered to my chair.  Focusing on every word eminating from my speaker phone.  Thank God I have a speaker phone.  The headsets at work give me a headache after about 15 minutes.  Hanging out at home, in my jammies, with windows open and light pouring in, enjoying endless cups of chai lattes (FREE), and not having my head squeezed into the shape of Mr. Peanut’s - all made for a pretty good week despite the cluster-fuck unraveling on the other end of the phone/web-ex.

At one point, an Oriole flew up to my window and pecked at the glass.  I looked at him.  He looked at me.  He squawked and flapped.  I stared at him.  He flew to the deck rail and jumped around as if attempting to ensure he had my attention.  Then he returned to the window, pecked at it again and squawked some more.  I felt like I should be understanding what he was telling me,  “What, Timmy’s in the well?  He fell in?  Oh No!”  Show me.  Take me to him little Oriole!” 

I’m not sure, but staring at a computer screen while consuming excess amounts of chai may cause hallucinations.  We’ll see what the hummingbirds have to say next week when we begin round two of testing. 

Some things just make me giggle.