Family vacation without the Internet - YIKES!

I am on vacation with my family and for the record -- it's different than being on vacation with the butt sisters. When I'm with the butt sisters I check out of the other roles I play in life...IE. mom, wife, chauffeur, meal planner, ATM, and problem solver. While on vacation with my family I retain ALL my daily roles with the addition of one more -- person who sits around while everyone else is off having fun.

Not that I'm complaining, exactly. I do enjoy time where I can do my own thing, read, write, snooze...the usual vacation stuff. The difference is my "free" time is structured around the needs of everyone else.

I can't sleep in because Techno Spouse has to get to the course in time to "practice" BEFORE his 7:30 a.m. tee time. I can't go back to bed because teen and friend have to be dropped at the bus stop by 9:20. It's necessary they get to Japan asap to consume sickeningly sweet beverages sealed with a glass marble. I still can't go back to bed because maintenance will be showing up any minute to fix the toilet.

The good news is - once I get everyone situated (and the toilet is fixed) I have a couple of hours before it's time to repeat the morning in reverse. I choose to spend my time in the company of complete strangers. Here I sit with a collection of other Internet-deprived folks.

We are in Orlando, and much to my dismay, my travel agent - Techno Spouse - booked us a timeshare WITHOUT wifi in the rooms!!! What was he thinking????

If you had asked me WHO misses the Internet most while on vacation -- my flipant reply would have been teens, of course. My teen can't get through a meal without checking her Facebook - but here I sit with an eclectic mix of adults - not a kid in sight.

Accross the room sits a guy close to 80 with his laptop open. His little-old-lady wife has her own laptop with flower stickers on the cover. Next to them a couple of middle-aged women are furiously typing and laughing. Nearby a guy in business attire is speaking German into his cell while banging his keyboard. He doesn't seem happy. A young mom sits next to me downloading her Disney pics - sleeping baby with Mickey, sleeping baby with Snow White, sleeping baby on It's A Small World ride, sleeping baby on Safari ride in Animal Kindgom ... gotta love sleeping babies... Hot guy just replaced young mom sitting next to me. I immediately sit up straighter (never underestimate the value of good posture). Oh darn - hot girlfriend joins him. I resume my slouch.

Suddenly I realize I am the sole English-only speaker in the room. Hmmm -- I should have paid more attention in French class, or better yet learned Chinese, Japanese or Spanish. Hot guy is busily negotiating some type of business deal on his Blackberry -- seemlessly going between Spanish and English. There are several other languages I don't recognize in the room. I feel like the clueless American.

Clueless or not - I am an American and since I'm on vacation I have plenty of time to watch the Olympics and currently Michael Phelps is making me proud!

Time to go - Techno Spouse needs to be picked up...

When is it okay to be a jerk?

Sometimes I wonder if being nice is worth it. I’ve recently had a couple of opportunities to be a full-scale jerk – justifiably. Remember the concrete guy? I opted for the high road, or maybe the coward’s road – whatever way you look at it.

I could have been a jerk. He deserved it.

But I didn’t.

A couple of days ago I had another opportunity to pull out my inner jerk. Here’s the story…

I was minding my own business cruising along the Ohio Turnpike on my way to Cleveland. My companion, a pregnant co-worker, has to pee a lot. We pulled into a rest area, parked and headed for the facilities.

As we approached the building a herd of teens came barreling out. And I mean barreling. Apparently, we were invisible as they commandeered the sidewalk, pushing through without so much as an “excuse me.”

We shook it off and headed into the bathroom only to find ourselves surrounded by a busload of little old ladies. For the record, otherwise friendly little old ladies get MEAN when they have to pee.

We eventually get a turn and finish our business. We then head back out to the parking lot. I look toward my car and can’t believe what I see – a guy, an adult, placing his two Coke cans ON THE HOOD OF MY CAR!

Are you kidding me???

My inner jerk was right there, ready to blast this guy. But the nice girl in me clicked my remote causing my lights to flash, which gave the moron the heads up. He was busted. He grabbed his Cokes off my car as I approached. I said nothing. Got in my car – slammed my door -- and pulled away.

When I told Techno Spouse the story his inner jerk came raging out with a list of things I could of or should of said or done. What do you think? When is it okay, and even desirable, to bring forth your inner jerk? Am I a wimp or just a nice girl? What would you have done?

Let Them Eat Cake ... Just NOT My Piece

I am not generally motivated by cake. I admit to a veracious sweet tooth when it comes to chocolate chip cookies – but not cake. That is unless the cake is a Bill Knapp’s chocolate-to-die-for birthday cake.

If you’ve never heard of Bill Knapp’s, or never experienced their one and only birthday cake – you have my sympathies. I worked at Bill Knapp’s through college – and yes in case you’re wondering – that was during the first gas crisis.

Bill Knapp’s was known for two things, the first was ham croquets. Ham croquets were a disgusting blob of deep-fried ham spread. The blue hairs couldn’t get enough. The second was the birthday cake.

The birthday cake was FREE if you knew enough to show up on your actual birthday. About 30 people a day showed up with driver’s license in hand claiming their cake. Sadly, Bill Knapp’s tanked and along with it – the famous birthday cake.

Or so I thought.

Last Sunday my sister showed up with an authentic, real deal Bill Knapp’s chocolate cake to celebrate Grandma’s 84th birthday. The cake was the highlight of dinner. Miraculously we managed to have ONE piece left.

One lonely piece.

I casually mentioned the piece to Techno Spouse the next day. He ignored me as usual. Next I observed my daughter pass it up on several occasions. I also observed Grandma (who lives with us) completely ignore the foil wrapped delicacy in the fridge. That tells me – it’s fair game – which of course means – IT’S MINE.

Seems reasonable, right?

On the fourth day of witnessing the complete dismissal of this lonely piece of cake – I took matters into my own hands. Midway through my indulgence, Grandma caught me red-handed eating HER cake. I no sooner licked the plate and Techno Spouse came in from golf looking for HIS cake. While I’m mumbling my explanation to two indignant family members, a third, my daughter, surfaced claiming HER cake.

Busted.

So I ask you, what amount of time is reasonable before an unclaimed, lonely piece of chocolate cake becomes fair game? Do me a favor andd click this link Humor Blogs - I'm sure they've missed me.

Day Starts with Cops at Front Door

For the record, we are a law-abiding family. In fact, the last household member to stand before a judge was my 83-year old mother-in-law. She got busted for speeding.

Here’s the story. A few weeks back Techno Spouse and I decided to invest a big chunk of our daughter’s college fund to spruce up the backyard. We had a concrete patio poured (a stamped concrete patio), and extensive flora and fauna strategically scattered about.

While all this beautification was certainly an event for us – we assumed it was a non-event for the neighbors, especially the neighbors-to-be. We were wrong.

About a week after the patio was poured a stranger knocked on our front door. Techno Spouse and I were at work and my mother-in-law was busy speeding about town. That left sleep-till-noon teenager to answer the door. When she did so, an agitated man mumbling something about concrete greeted her. She gave him her dad’s cell number and went back to bed.

Techno Spouse then got a voice mail accusing him of authorizing dumping on this guy’s lot. Huh?

Being an all round responsible citizen, Techno Spouse called the concrete contractor and relayed the offense. The concrete guy fessed up – he had dumped a wheelbarrow full of concrete in the empty lot. Concrete guy agreed to clean it up. Techno Spouse left irate neighbor-to-be a message and thought it was a mildly amusing, slightly annoying done deal.

That brings us to yesterday. Two squad cars arrived at our home bright and early to investigate a complaint. This time Grandma answered the door. She proceeded to charm the “young men” with her sweet little grandma routine and told them to call her son.

Techno Spouse got another call at work - this time from the police. Apparently, our neighbor-to-be had ACTUALLY CALLED THE POLICE to report a wheelbarrow full of concrete had been dumped on his empty lot. Are you kidding???

Rest assured – the case is solved. The offending concrete has been removed. What can I say -- we are left shaking our heads. Welcome to the neighborhood buddy.

For the record, if my Dad were alive and something this ridiculous happened – he’d be plotting his revenge. If my Mom were alive – her plan would’ve been – kill him with kindness. What do you think?

Poop Stinks - That Means ALL Poop

My daughter accused me of being keester-obsessed. She cited the numerous keester references in my previous posts. Okay, I concede. I seem to have a bit of a preoccupation with keesters. Therefore, I pinky swear not to mention keester once in the following post. Instead I will discuss poop.

I am an animal lover. As an animal lover, I am a dog owner. As a dog owner, I am a pooper-scooper. And as a pooper-scooper I have a question – Why is it that dog owners are expected to be pooper-scoopers, and cat owners are not?

I have nothing against cats, or cat owners, some of my best friends are feline fanatics. This is not about cats. This is about cat poop. The way I see it, poop is poop. And poop is not fun to encounter unexpectedly, whether it comes from a dog or a cat. Granted, cat poop is generally buried in the sandbox or flowerbed while dog poop is left unceremoniously in the middle of the front lawn. But, I say again, poop is poop.

Why is it okay for a cat to spray my bushes and bury surprises in my perennial bed, but, it’s not okay for my dog to leave a pile on an unsuspecting lawn? Dog owners can even be fined for allowing their mutt to crap on public property without cleaning it up pronto. And, there’s no getting out of it with a lame excuse like, “I was only trying to fertilize the grass.” No. Public officials and neighbors alike take dog poop very seriously. But not cat poop. Why is that?

I have a theory. Bodily functions in the four-legged world take on a whole different meaning than our two-legged interpretation. They mean things like, “This is my turf, bozo,” and “Hey sweetie, want to tango?” Cats, by virtue of their genetic link to the king of the jungle, the lion, are operating on the premise that they are somehow superior to other domestic four-leggers (and certainly to neighboring two-leggers) and therefore entitled to whatever turf they feel like marking. Kind of a feline version of “my poop doesn’t stink – but your does.” Dogs, by virtue of their genetic link to wolves, cower accordingly. I can understand where the cats are coming from; they do have an impressive pedigree. But, can it be that society is so intimidated by this jungle link that it can’t dare expect a feline to be poop patrolled?

That’s all I’m suggesting – that cat owners go on poop patrol and become pooper-scoopers just as dog owners are expected to do. I don’t mean to imply that all cat owners let their felines turn neighbor kid’s sand boxes into giant litter boxes, pee-to-death expensive shrubbery, or leave surprises in flowerbeds. And, in all fairness, not all dog owners are responsible pooper-scoopers either. The difference lies in the expectations of ownership. Dog owners are in deep doo-doo if they get caught slacking off on poop patrol, while cat owners can let kitty out without any concern for where kitty takes a crap.

In this age of political correctness it just seems politically correct to make all pet owners doo-doo responsible. And just how can society enforce doo-doo responsibility? I haven’t got a clue. It’s best we leave that up to our ever capable elected officials. Just think, instead of splitting along party lines, they’ll split along pet poop lines. That could lead to an interesting debate.

What do you think? Should all poop be treated equally?

For more funny crap, visit Humor Blogs.

Stupidity Nearly Fries My Keester

Ever have one of those days where you find yourself standing barefoot on a metal stepstool about to unscrew a lit light bulb from a fixture that’s dripping water?

I hope not.

In the vein of Stupidity Reigns Supreme I found myself doing exactly that.

It started innocently enough. I was home alone rounding up dirty towels. (Exciting life, I know.) I went upstairs to retrieve said towels from my daughter’s bathroom. While I was in there I noticed her tub was growing pink fungus. I decided to help her out by spraying it down. I removed the showerhead spray thingie and sprayed down the shower.

So far so good. Then instead of placing the shower spray thingie back IN the tub, I dangled it outside of the tub. At that moment my adult ADD kicked in and I decided if I was washing her towels I might as well wash her sheets too. I left the bathroom and went into her room and stripped the bed.

All of this took about three minutes, but as it turns out three minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to flood the bathroom. Important point here – the water was OFF! Apparently because the showerhead thingie was lower than something (I’m not sure what) it siphoned the water out of Lake Erie.

What the hell?

I cleaned up the bathroom flood and headed downstairs to the laundry room. Here’s where it got scary. I rounded the corner into the kitchen only to be dripped on by water coming from the ceiling, the kitchen light to be exact.

What the hell?

My first thought was how am I going to explain this to Techno Spouse??? In a split second, I decided to do what I always do - hide the evidence. I grabbed the metal stepstool, climbed to the top step, stood on my tiptoes and reached for the lit fixture.

Wait a minute.

Suddenly in the back of my head I remembered something about electricity and water and metal and bare feet not being such a great combo. Oops. I nearly fried my keester.

I jumped off the stepstool, turned off the light and proceeded to clean up the kitchen floor. For the next hour I watched helplessly as the kitchen light continued to drip. By the time Techno Spouse got home there were three additional water spots on the kitchen ceiling – all dripping.

What the hell?

Techno Spouse does not believe the water was off. It was. I swear.

Ever find yourself forced to fess up to something of exceptional stupidity? Please share. It'll make me feel so much better.

Keesters Bring Butt Sisters Together

It seems I have an annoying habit – butt watching. I don’t mean sizing up a tight tush of the opposite sex, although I’ll admit to an occasional glance. I mean literally sizing up the butts I encounter in the course of my day.

The point of this exercise is to determine whose butt is bigger – theirs or mine? The obvious goal is to discover as many butts as possible that are bigger than mine. It’s a good day if the butt ratio is 3 to 1 in my favor, excluding pregnant women and anyone walking around with a wedgie. I figure if a person walks around with a wedgie, how their keester looks to the rest of the world is obviously not a big concern.

I haven’t always been so interested in butts. My interest in keesters has grown in direct proportion to my own keester. It seems the broader my beam has gotten, the more interested I am in the width of neighboring beams. It’s a misery loves company kind of thing.

In the misery loves company category I lucked out. I have 3 sisters, each of which are obsessed with the size of their keester. Believe it or not, we’ve not discussed butt watching – but I’m guessing they enjoy spotting a derriere larger than their own as much as I do. What woman doesn’t?

Recently the Butt Sisters, er rather, my sisters and I went on a sisters-only trip. One sister (the one with the smallest butt) is obsessed with getting our keesters trimmed down to size. She knows none of us are willing to commit time to keester reduction. Her solution, Greer Childers’ Shapely Secrets. Greer is an old broad with the face any plastic surgeon would gloat over. But more importantly, her keester looks good. Greer has a 7-minute program – that’s right, a mere 7 minutes -- guaranteed to produce the tight tush of your dreams.

The catch is --it only works if you actually DO it. There’s always a catch.

My sisters balked at a keester shot, so the trolls will have to do. Do you have any keester-shrinking tips you'd like to share? I won't be happy until my butt (and cleavage) look like the Girl's Gone Wild mistress of Govenor Spitzer. Check her out at Prefers Her Fantasy Life.

Flashback Friday: Should mom teach crap?

I’m a mom, and generally speaking that means I abide by the shoulds of motherhood. But I have to wonder, are all shoulds created equal, or are the shoulds of social graces the biggies? This is the story of how my daughter pushed the shoulds of polite little girls. She was about 7 when this happened.

“Mom, I need a bad word,” she announced with hands on her hips.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“For the same reason you need bad words.”

Oops, she got me there.

“And what bad word did you have in mind?”

“Crap,” she said. “I want to say crap without getting into trouble.”

“And when do you plan on saying crap?” I asked, maintaining my mandatory motherly resistance.

“Duh – when I need a bad word, of course,” she answered.

Reluctantly, I agreed. “You can say crap – occasionally – providing you never use it to describe another person, no crapheads or full of crap allowed.”

“Deal,” she said and skipped off feeling a little more grown-up. I felt a little less grown-up. What kind of a mom tells her little girl she can say crap? This kind, I guess.

For the next few weeks I endured the disapproving glances of moms with a better grip on the shoulds of parenting. One afternoon I counted the number of “craps” coming from the backyard. Well into double-digits, I realized it was time to renegotiate this crap. I put out a cease-and-desist order and once more tried to explain the how-and-when of bad words, with heavy emphasis on the when.

We arrived at a “crap” agreement: no crap from either of us, unless it’s absolutely the only word that captures the moment. With crap agreement in tow we tried again. To this day, the majority of crap violations are mine. I should know better.

Parents out there, are you helping your kids use bad words properly? If not, should you be? Got a minute, visit my blogging buddy Meg. I have faith she's instilling all the proper shoulds in her kids.

Fact or Fiction: Vegetable Day Shrinks Keester

I’m hungry -- so is Techno Spouse. I don’t feel bad for him though, since it’s his fault I’m in desperate need of a Vito’s chicken ranch pizza, pan crust with garlic butter. In our household there is a long-standing tradition. Saturday is Vito’s day -- but not this Saturday. This Saturday we are dining on vegetables. That’s it. Not vegetables and (fill in the blank), just vegetables.

The reason for this drastic change in our culinary routine is because Techno Spouse visited the Doc, the very same Doc that diagnosed my injured dumbass, er rather dermas. (see Naked Keester Causes Treadmill Incident below).

Techno Spouse has a tendency to clog up his arteries. He swears this happens because of heredity. The Doc thinks it happens because he eats too much of the wrong kind of junk food. Doc strongly advised he drop a few pounds and recommended Marie Osmond’s miracle diet.

One thing you should know about Techno Spouse, he is all about spending the big bucks on technology, gadgets and golf crap. But when it comes to spending several hundred dollars on shriveled up entrees, he’s not buying.

Which brings us to vegetable day. Techno Spouse, being Techno Spouse found the ultimate diet plan on the Internet. He assures me if I eat my vegetables, with minimal whining, I will lose 30 pounds by Monday. Just kidding – but if I’m not a petite size 2 by morning, I’m calling Vito’s.

Help! My willpower is fading. Any tips on shrinking my keester? I really want to be a petite size 2 at least once in my life and soon.

Naked keester causes treadmill incident

Dear Faithful Readers (both of you),

I feel as though I’ve been neglecting you recently. I’m sorry. I do have a good excuse. It appears I may have damaged my dumbass, er rather my dermas layer of my skin, the skin on my shin to be specific. You may be wondering how a boo-boo on my shin affects my typing skills. Good question. The answer -- I find it difficult to focus on typing when I am preoccupied with whining.

Here’s my story. One fateful day about a month ago, I took a good long look at my naked keester in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Remembering our long forgotten treadmill, I decided to immediately do something about my sagging birthday suit. I put on my tennis shoes, cleared the crap off the treadmill and hopped on. For about three minutes it was all good.

And then it happened. In an overzealous moment I decided to increase the aerobic workout by swinging my arms. To allow room for my gorilla arms, I stepped back … and stepped right off the treadmill. The good news is I landed on my keester. The bad news is I skinned the begeezies out of my shin.

After unsuccessfully dealing with my boo-boo for several weeks, I decided it was time for medical intervention. The nurse became quite flustered when I removed my Dora-the Explorer band-aid. She immediately went pale and started talking tetnus.

By the time Doc came in, it was obvious he had been briefed. Without actually examining my boo-boo (unless you count a glance while standing in the doorway) he said, “It appears you have damaged your dumbass, er rather your dermas layer.” He went on to tell me to “butter” the wound with this goopy white stuff and comeback in two weeks.

So you see, with all this shin drama going on, there’s no way I could be expected to type. I’ll do better from here on. Any of you have treadmill wisdom you’d be willing to share?

Stuck in my pants

For the record, I agree it’s a good idea to keep your pants on at work. I work in a fairly conservative place, and, although I’ve never read the dress code for dummies section of our employee handbook, I’m betting keep-your-pants-on is rule number two. Rule number one is you must wear undies, appropriate undies. Not sure what appropriate means, but I’m thankful not to be the undies enforcer. I think rule number three has to do with hairy toes and cleavage.

On a day-to-day basis, I happily keep my pants on at the office. But there’s a difference between happily keeping your pants on and being stuck. Did I mention I drink two 1 liter over-priced Figi waters a day?

Since drinking all that water has not shrunk my keester a single inch, I am devoted to my black pants. All women know there’s no color like black to make your jumbo butt look like a petite size 2. To my dismay, the only thing actually petite about me is my cleavage, and I'm not allowed to show that. See rule number three.

I tend to wear the same non-petite pair of black pants day-after-day, week-after-week, month-after-month, year-after-year, and decade-after-decade. You get the idea. You can only imagine how many wash cycles they have endured.

Apparently, one too many…

How do you win an argument with a zipper that’s NOT budging when you desperately have to pee?

Please don't make me wear a headgear!

I admit it. I'm a two-timer. This is my second round as a metal-mouth. My first was back-in-the-day when braces were strictly in the realm of angsty teens. Now they're more like an adult status symbol. But status does have it's price.

I'm never sure whether I should grin broadly and display my extensive metalwork, or should I opt for the closed mouth grin and look like a constipated mime. I generally go for a quickie grin followed by a fake cough requiring me to cover my mouth . . . smooth.

And then there's food. Food and I go way back, but suddenly food comes with challenges beyond calories. The good news is I lost a quick 15 pounds my first month as a zipper-mouth. The bad news is, by the third month, I gained back thirty. And all that healthy green stuff I tried so hard to choke down several times a day-- no more. The way I see it, it's less gross if I have rice stuck in my braces than broccoli. I think my co-workers appreciate my thoughtfulness.

And then there's the Miss Manners question. When I find myself in conversation with someone who knows me -- but doesn't know about my braces -- should I make it easy and make a "braces reference" or should I let them squirm and pretend not to notice?

Adult braces should come with a primer. Any braces-wearing tips will be greatly appreciated. I can't be the only one who thinks Life Needs A Primer.