SPORTS... OF ALL SORT

Ok, so here's the deal, my husband is super in to sports. Like, SUUUUPER in to sports. I? Am so not in to sports. Like, SOOOOO not in to sports.

So tonight, apparently there is some gi-normous game going on. Like, so giant and enormous that he has to literally boot-scoot out of dinner with my sister-in-law faster than a virgin during his first time. Seriously. He left so fast I turned my head and I was like, 'wha??" and my sister-in-law was like, 'huh?' And then he was gone.

And then I got a text from him not three minutes later: 'sorry for busting out of there so fast. I just wanted to get home before the 2nd half and was getting uncomfortable in that chair. See you soon. Love you.'

Really?? Was that chair really that uncomfortable? Can any chair, aside from, perhaps the electric chair, be that uncomfortable?
Ok. So I should say that we kind of have a football (it's football, I'm pretty sure) celebrity in our town. Jake Locker.. have you heard of him? He plays for the... um... team... that um... plays... ahhhh... football I think.

And that folks, is how incredibly UN into football I am. My husband? He is as IN to foot ball as I am not. And then like a hundred-teen times more.

Oh, and? Jake Locker's dad? Yeah, my husband 'knows' him. KNOWS HIM people!!! It's almost like we're best friends with Brad Pitt or maybe even the Cruise fam. Seriously effiing amazing* because my husband has talked to Jake Locker's dad.

So here I am, home from dinner with the sis-in-law. I walk in and Dr. Yeah is, of course, watching 'the game' on the teevee. I nod, get a drink and go to the computer. Shortly after, he follows me, then enthusiastically interrupts while I am stalking my new favorite blog, Yo Mama's Blog, and proceeds to read me some lame text messages from his associate re: the 'game' with this Locker character.

Dr. Yeah: 'dude, I just texted Dr. Fast and was all 'yeah, Locker is totally crrraaazzy!'

Me: {blank stare} .................

Dr. Yeah: Continuing, regardless of my blank stare, 'and he was all 'you should post how awesome he is on your sign tomorrow' {crazy excited look on his face, like an 'omg this will end the war' look on his face}

Me: {blank stare} .................

Dr. Yeah: 'soooooo yeah! Ummmm. That's so awesome, right?'

Me: 'Ummm?' {continued blank stare} 'Oh, Wow. Yeah. That. Would. Be. Really. Um. Neat. Yeah.'

Dr. Yeah: 'You don't understand.'

Me: 'Well yes. You are right.'

Dr. Yeah: 'sigh'.

Goes to the bathroom, then returns....

Dr. Yeah: 'what are you typing??'

Me: 'Nothing' {large-ish smile, covering said large-ish smile with my hand}

Dr. Yeah: {trying to back-seat computer read me} 'you're writing about me, aren't you?'

Me: 'Uh, no?'

Dr. Yeah: 'Yeah.' {walks away}

Less than one minute after his apparent irritation I hear him cheering to the teevee like a crazy sports fan who loves to cheer to the teevee. Like, really really a lot.

I just don't get it.

*Not necessarily amazing.

xoxo, Mae

MINI VANS AND MOMS OF ONE

You may remember my post about the psychotic PTA mom at pre-school who just so happens to drive a mini van (and she only has one child). I saw her driving the other day, looking as frenzied as an executive on a deadline and felt inspired to post this.

I, myself, being a mom of one am bossy enough to feel completely authorized, based on my research*, to post this. What the hell is it with moms of one who drive mini vans?

Hey, news flash to moms of one who drive mini vans: YOU ONLY HAVE ONE CHILD. Do you really need to drive a giant mini van? I'll answer that one: No.



It is possible that I am slightly biased because I despise mini vans in general. Even if I had nine children, I still wouldn't drive a mini van. Ever. Seriously. I would drive my children in shifts, like that weird brain teaser about using a raft to get your family across a river but you can only take one at a time. And I am dead serious.

I have a question for all the moms of one who drive mini vans: What is your reasoning for such nonsense? Do you have reasoning or do you just want to be 'cool' like the multi-child moms who drive mini vans? Is your child so hugely overweight that a standard vehicle just won't do? Is your child so wildly popular that you require a twelve passenger vehicle to cart them all to Chuck E. Cheese or some other equally lame kid's place that requires parents to have TGCs in order to endure? Is it like the equivalent of small penis syndrome? What is it?

In my extensive research** of moms of one who drive mini vans, I have found an interesting correlation which may explain the 'need' for a mini van to drive your one child around. I have found that most moms of one who drive mini vans do not have jobs outside the home.

These moms also, interestingly enough, should probably have jobs outside the home. Why? Because these moms are typically so incredibly engrossed in their one child's school, treating their volunteer time like a 'real' job that is way, way more important than anybody else's actually real job.

Now, don't get me wrong, I volunteer at my one child's pre-school. And I love it. But I do not pretend like my volunteer time is more important than a real job and I certainly don't shake my head and say things to working moms like, 'Oh... you have to work? That's too bad.'
Let's get this straight ladies: volunteering is good and important and wonderful, but.... it does not mean that you are 'better' than a mom who works outside the home. It also doesn't mean that the mom working outside the home is better than you who stays at home but come on. It also, and much more importantly, does not mean you need to drive a mini van for goodness sake.

Transporting Scholastic order forms to pre-school is not rocket science, and it definitely does not require a mini van; I'm pretty sure that stack of paper will fit in a car. Also? Stuffing said Scholastic order forms into cubby holes does not make you an executive on a deadline.

This is still the case even if you took the time to print and staple neon yellow reminders on those Scholastic forms, threatening the impending 'next Tuesday' deadline to get book orders in. Deadline? Yes, but last I checked, the stock market is not going to crash if the book orders aren't in by next Tuesday. Just sayin'.

So hmm... I suppose this post wasn't only about moms of one and mini vans, but also about moms of one who drive mini vans who need jobs. That was a bonus. You're welcome.

* The term 'research' is rather subjective in this instance.
** Again, the terms 'extensive' and 'research' may be a hair subjective.

xoxo, Mae

THE PSYCHOTIC PTA MOM

Even though I work outside the home, I do like to volunteer at LM's pre-school. Last year I was there quite a lot. I am lucky enough to have a job that allows me a schedule flexible enough to do so. I do it because I want to help the teachers. I do it because it's fun to see the little freak children running around streaking paint and other things all over the walls. I do it just because.

Now, last year, as I was happily cutting out shapes and making plaster volcanoes, I met another mom. This mom? She is one of 'those' moms. The mom who has one child and doesn't work outside the home. The mom whose life neurotically revolves around her one child. The mom who should reeealllly have a job outside the home. The mom all of us other moms see and really really really hope we aren't like.

So what do I do? Well, being the gloriously lovely person that I am, I sort of befriend her. I mean, she's nice enough. Give her a couple vicodin and a glass of wine and I bet she'd be a riot. Also, since I was seeing her all the time at school, it made sense at the time. At the time it made sense.

Little did I know that my simple befriending would catapult me into her 'high class' playdates and a brief stint in the PTA. Sounds nice enough, yes? No. No no no no no no no no no.

The school year was ending and of course the PTA was gearing up for next year. I was asked to fill her position in the PTA because she was going to be our fearless president. She was going to be president but not without a 'fight' because although she is effing neurotic and has too much free time perfect for the position, she 'claimed' she didn't want to do it. Every time someone would ask her she would spout a protest so transparent it made a window pane look like a piece of coal. Eventually though she accepted. Duh.

Little did anyone know that this presidential position would launch her already neurotic personality into something unimaginable and never before seen here on earth. She became a PTA mom nightmare. Nightmare.

Now, from here on out I can only attest to my own personal experience with this robot mom. Perhaps it was because I took over her old position, perhaps it was because I am younger than she is... whatever it is, nothing I could do was good enough. In fact, she wouldn't even allow me to do anything without supervising me like I was a freaky little pre-schooler myself. Literally.

And on top of that, she always had some bitchy response to anything I said or did. I don't even have to tell you how difficult it was to refrain from telling her where she could stick her bake sale muffins.

This, of course caused me to launch into a mimosa drinking frenzy on a way too regular basis. It got so bad that I actually resigned before the school year even started in order to keep myself from turning a glorious shade of orangey yellow from all the mimosas.

It was a personal decision based on the fact that I prefer to handle only 'necessary' drama and currently I am all stocked up on ex-husband drama , therefore I have no more availability for such things like neurotic PTA moms.

My resignation, unbeknownst to me, launched a giant rumour mill amongst the other moms who need jobs. Because I was so tight lipped about why I left (small town equals great necessity to be diplomatic), these women (who, by the way are a good eight years older than me) felt it incumbent upon themselves to create 'reasons' why I left.

It was quite entertaining actually. Entertaining because 1. It was kind of like I was a celebrity reading about myself on the cover of US Weekly or OK magazine and 2. These women are older than me and spreading rumours! Really? That happens? My whole life I have been operating under the assumption that once you reached a certain age your 'need' to create bullshit drama automatically went away. Kind of like menopause or something. Guess not.

So, fast forward four months to current time. I still have to see her every once in a while and it's really interesting because she is super nice to me. Like, super duper nice to me. Quite the change from the dismissive condescending amazingness that she was during my short stint in the PTA.

She was probably just jealous because I am basically amazing, would have done a better job than she and am clearly not full of myself at all.

xoxo, Mae

WHAT ABOUT MIMOSAS???

It's like, drinking but you're not really drinking because you're drinking orange juice. That's fizzy. FIZZY!!!! I say, I'm usually a purist but I am recently lurving the mimosa. Aka the mOmosa. Aka the thing moms drink 'relatively' early to 'relax' after their children wake up. I say 'relatively' because it's seriously relative. I say children because this could be 'actual' children or husband or co-workers.

The point is, mimosa or 'momosa', should you choose, is totally fantastical and, dare I say? Acceptable. Oh snap!

(Editor's note: this Google picture is totally gay because CLEARLY there is far far FAR too much orange juice in these two mimosas. Like, tragically too much. Serious party foul.) Oh, next time I'll take a picture of my own lame mimosa (which has way more champagne {way more!!!!!} than these)

Perhaps slightly more acceptable to enjoy in the morning? Why am I even question marking that shit? As a mom? Yes. the end and scene. Not before you take your kids to school (or daycare or whatnot), of course... but after? Herpaps Perhaps? Just one? Or nine? (ah hehehe)

Oh! alright...I will save that explanation for the 'playdate' post. Aka the 'mommys get together and have wine group'. Oh. Soon. So so soon.

xoxo, Mae

A THANKSGIVING TALE

I hope everyone has had a lovely Thanksgiving weekend. We woke up to snow which is always exciting; however, as per usual, by eveningtime or so it was replaced with a healthy dose of rain and nasty stormy weather. Awesome. No matter though. The weather did not stop me from enjoying my weekend alone.

A weekend alone. Yes. Without child or husband and screw the fact that it was Thanksgiving. I didn't care... I was just happy to have some quiet time. Just me and the fat stinky cat.
The day started out with an adventure up north to Canada... Dr. Yeah's flight back home departed from Vancouver so yes, we left the states to go to Canada to take a flight to go back to the states. Talk about ass backward. No matter. It's closer and cheaper so there.

Now, I am not afraid of driving in the snow, not at all. I am, however, I do have a tiny issue with driving in the snow on the freeway. I have these terrible images of all the semi trucks simultaneously jack-kniving around me leaving me stuck and helpless and possibly maimed, even just a bit. Curse you overactive imagination.

Luckily I am fairly familiar with the streets of Canada all thanks to a long term boyfriend who, many years ago in one of my past lives, toted me up there almost every weekend for car club meetings and car shows. That's another story completely.
Point being, my street cred in Canada is awesome acceptable and came in handy when I was navigating the roads by myself after dropping off the Dr. Yeah. I will say though that no amount of street cred can prepare you for Canadian drivers.
And speaking of that, dear neighbors of the North, I feel it incumbent upon me to say this: 'what the hell??' followed by, 'so it is true?... you know... the rumour that you don't have to actually take driving lessons to get a license.'

Also? Allow me to let you in on a little secret: The two freeway lanes are indeed different. There is a fast lane and a slow lane. Here's a little tip to go along with that little secret: If you are going to drive slow, drive in the damn right lane. If someone is behind you in the fast lane, (which is the left lane) move over... please, for the love of guard rails and hands free phone devices ... move the eff over!!

Now, I realize that you probably don't know that because you didn't go to school to learn how to drive so you have a smidge of grace. But now that you know that? Please remember and put it to use... gl.
Editor's note: It is totally my responsibility to say this because I have many Canadian friends who wholeheartedly agree with me that Canadians are terible drivers. Oh, and I heart Canada! :)
So anyway, I get home... finally... no thanks to the snow and lack of Canadian driver's ed, and then I finally commence my weekend of champagne drinking, shopping online, chick flicks and all kinds of 'doing nothing when I should be doing something'.

With a glass of champage in hand (and one down already), two amazing online sales under my belt and a little old school Patrick Dempsey playing on the flat screen, all was going according to plan until my phone dings it's telltale text alert.

I didn't want to disturb fatty the catty but I had to dislodge my phone from under his massive fat roll. He wasn't happy but I did it anyway. Patrick Dempsey was also not happy about being put on pause in order for me to concentrate on the message. My champagne was also not happy because I had to set it down to deal with the phone.
Ok, so imagine my surprise when I saw it was none other than Dr. Yeah. Keep in mind, I've been home for about an hour and it took me about an hour and a half to drive home, so he has been at the airport for 2 1/2 hours and, I presumed, long gone on his jet plane and almost to Cali.

Here's what he said:
Him: 'we've been on the plane, waiting to be de-iced for two hours'
Me: 'oh no! I'm sorry honey!'
Him: 'we r next, then taking off. Hope I make my connecting flight'
Me: 'call me when you land in SF'
So it's all good, yes. He's being de-iced, the plane will take off. All is ok aside from this minor hiccup.

30 minutes later my phone dings again...
Him: 'we waited so long to be de-iced that we ran out of fuel. Heading back to the terminal to de-board so the plane can re-fuel'
Me: 'what the h-e- double hockey sticks???' and I'm thinking does that even happen? Run out of gas?? Thank goodness you weren't in the air and if you had taken off on time would you have had enough fuel? Two hours of idle kills the fuel? Who pays for all that fuel? Did he at least get a cocktail or has he been coctail-less this whole time? Now that's a tragedy.
Him: 'I'll keep you posted'
30 minutes later my phone actually rings... It's Honey.

Him: 'hey, yeah... I missed my connecting flight in SF and there isn't another one until tomorrow afternoon. I'm just going to cancel my flight. They can refund me. Aaaaaannnnnd now you have to come get me.'
Me: (thinking) Well shuckeydarn*
'Oh, hmmmm.... well..... I've had a glass of champagne so I'm not driving. Let me see what I can do'
*clearly my verbiage was much more explicit than that. Duh.

So now I'm thinking: 'I sure as hell am not driving right now. Hello, champagne. Oh, and as much as I love Dr. Yeah, my plans are foiled!!! No more alone weekend? Damn.

Because Special Agent Oso is the most mutarded cartoon ever I heart the way Special Agent Oso breaks things down to be so simple, that's what I did!

Step 1: Put down the damn champagne

Step 2: call cabby friend and see if he is available on snowy Thanksgiving to drive to Canada and pick up Honey.
Step 3: Explore other alternatives because cabby friend is indeed not available.
Step 4: Call every cab company from here to Vancouver and, of course, not have any luck.
Step 5: Resort to limousine service then, after three phone calls, accept that they will not be answering.

Four hours later...

Step 6: Sober, as sober as someone who is really really sober. Drive to Canada and pick up darling husband.
And at this point, I had been back and forth to Canada so much I was 93% sure the border men were suspicious that I was smuggling fake Louis Vuitton back and forth in an attempt to make some quick cash to pay for all those fantastic online sales.

And then we were home... plans for my amazing weekend foiled. But we had fun anyway and it makes for a good story, yes?

xoxo, Mae

THE CAT... AND HIS BOX

I love my cat. I do. What's not to love? He's a 22 pound orange guy with the personality of a really annoying friendly dog. You know the type... the ones that stare at you all sweet and puppy dog-ish until you to pet them and then they proceed to neurotically lick your hand because all dogs as if they have OCD and can't stop? Oh. The love.

What I don't love? The damn cat box. I wonder if I can teach him, in his old age to use the toilet? He is pretty smart you know. I might make that my mission... at least until the weekend when there is something better to do.

Because the cat box is disgusting. And I, of course am in charge of it now because Dr. Yeah, aka husband was stripped of his cat shit cleaning duties. Lucky him, unlucky me. (p.s. this reminds me of another story of a nosy bitch who felt it incumbent to talk about me and my marriage to her ugly husband in front of me, as if I weren't standing two feet away from her ugly face... I'll tell that one later).

See, Dr. Yeah thinks it's perfectly normal (and apparently sanitary) to clean the cat box once a week instead of every day. And that is not ok. It would smell so bad that every dog in the neighborhood would be scratching at the garage door in search of the doggy delicatessen known as 'kitty roca'.

But I thought it would be a good life lesson for Dr. Yeah. Life lesson: clean the cat box every day because if you don't no one is going to do it for you and our house will smell like cat shit.

It would smell so bad that on more than one occassion I considered quarrantining the downstairs just to get away from it.

It would smell so bad that my mother would purposely go downstairs and dramatically roll her eyes and wave her hands around as if she were swatting a bee and AS IF I don't know it smells like cat shit down there. Yes, I do realize that it smells like shit. I'm trying to teach Dr. Yeah a life lesson here... Life lesson! So much for that life lesson.

Dr. Yeah's life lesson for wife: if I wait long enough. And then wait longer, and perhaps a smidge longer... wife will eventually clean the box out for me AND subsequently, after a good holler, take over duties completely.

Dr. Yeah - 1, wife - 0. Touche.

xoxo, Mae