QUOTE OF THE DAY (OR MORE): "No, no. You don't understand. This is an '89 Calico. I'm pretty sure that exceeds the Kelly Blue Book value. The cat's totaled." --A comedian whose name I forget talking about a vet who presents a $3,000 bill for a 12-year-old cat

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree...

My 91-year-old grandmother is peeved.
Apparently her grocery store, Giant, moved a mile or so from its previous location. Now, to her chagrin, she can't "get her hair done, buy groceries, and pick up her liquor" all in the same shopping center.
Life is full of challenges....

Monday, June 29, 2009

2 boys for sale...

This morning I had to take Sophie to the vet.

This may sound like a piece-of-cake-kind-of-procedure. Put the dog in the car, drive the car to the vet, take the dog out of the car, and enter the veterinary clinic's waiting room.

The problem is... Sophie does not care for the vet, to put it euphemistically. She knows what happens behind those daunting walls. Further, she is fully capable of recognizing said veterinary building and going into full terror avoidance mode.

We had to go, however; her eyes have been emitting yellow-green goop for a few days, and they're all red and irritated looking.

I tried to fake her out this morning. "Hey Soph!" I crooned encouragingly. "Wanna go visit some friends?"

She poked both ears up, looked at me with her head cocked and stood up.

"Wanna get into the car, Soph? Fun! Fun!" I tried to psych her up for a positive experience.

She went and sat by the door.

"Comeon, Soph!" I coaxed in my most happy voice. "Let's go get in the car and see some friends!!"

She hopped into the car without further enticement. Off we went; as usual she lay down within 30 seconds for the car ride.

Then we arrived. Upon noticing that the car had stopped, she sat up, ears high into the air, taking in the scene. A look of dread fell upon her canine face.

Typically when I open the liftgate she tries to jump out as quickly as possible, usually excited by the forthcoming activity. I've been trying to train her to sit and wait for me to put on her leash. No problem today, though. I opened the liftgate, and she went and lay down as far from the opening to the car as possible and avoided my gaze. I did my best to mitigate her anxiety with my happy talk. "Hey, Soph! Look where we are! You have buddies inside! There are other doggies! Come on, Soph. fun! fun!"

No response.

"Come on, Soph. We hafta go inside." I snapped the leash onto her choker collar and tugged. She tucked her head into her hind region.

I put on my mean, alpha pack leader voice.

"Sophie, COME."

She reluctantly stood up, jumped out and tried to make a break for it toward the road. Her legs were shaking. She was panic-stricken. My readers all know that Sophie is a big German Shepherd, yes?

I managed to half drag her to the door, Sophie being torn between her instincts to obey and her utter loathing of the veterinary office.

Once inside, the staff greeted her enthusiastically (she's one of their favorites; it's understandable, if I do say so myself) and I continued my happy coaxing. She tried jumping up against the door to push her way out but I had her on the leash, alas. I did what I could to get her to settle down and sit, but she was full of terror at what these horrid people would do to her.

Finally an energetic young vet assistant opened the door to lead us to the treatment room. Sophie noticed the exit door, with which she is familiar as the WAY OUTTA HERE and began in earnest to convince me to go THAT direction.

After we arrived in the treatment room it took some ingenuity to get her onto the scale (61.5 pounds) and remain steady enough for an accurate reading. We waited longer than usual, during which time she paced back and forth and tried her best to explore every possibility for an exit. She finally settled in the corner beneath my chair, perhaps convinced that no one could see her under it.

The vet entered, chuckled at the oxymoronic state of my German Shepherd, and coddled her (we have awesome vets). She got Soph to relax enough for her to check out her eyes and put drops in them.

Honestly I had only noticed the problem in one of her eyes, but our shrewd veterinarian noticed similarities in the other eye.

The vet surmised that allergies are the likely culprit.

"Has anything changed in her surroundings?" the vet asked me.

"uh, no... Could she be allergic to the cat?" I joked. Turns out dogs can be allergic to cats. How funny is that?

"hmmm," I thought. "The kids are home from school... maybe she's allergic to the kids!?"

"Could be," the vet played along and laughed.

"Guess I'll have to get rid of the kids" I decided.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Loathing laundry

Dearest members of my immediate family (all of whom read this blog, I know...):
See the maid in the picture in a uniform with the nice, clean, folded towels?
Not your life. It's from a dream you had.
From hence forth, any dirty clothes placed into the hamper inside out will be returned clean, yet in the identical inside-out position. Capiche?
My preference would be to do less laundry altogether, so if you would all go around naked I would greatly appreciate it.
Sincerely and with utmost love,
Your wife and mom

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it people like me

An award? For me? Thanks so much to mama-face over at Blog Ignoramous for the "I love your blog" award. Since she reads about 700 blogs daily and is quite witty, articulate and entertaining, I am truly honored to be among her chosen few.

I am tasked, then, with passing along the award to 4 of my favorite blogs....(as mama-face says, it's like trying to choose your favorite child... you love them all...).

drumroll, please.....

Housewife Savant


The Soccer Mom Files

When Pigs Fly

Check out those blogs for a laugh or an insightful thought...

Forced labor

So I'm at work, the kind for which I get paid, on the computer recently... and I need to download a file.

A little message pops up that says:

“downloading 'yada yada yada.' This may take a few minutes. You can use your computer to do other tasks while you’re waiting.”

Like I need my computer to make suggestions as to what I can do with my time while I'm waiting? Not only that, but I must use IT to multi-task? What if I want to fold the laundry? Or unload the dishwasher? Or make a phone call? Or enjoy a margarita? What a narcisstic computer I have!

It can byte me. :)

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Fetch! ...or not

This morning I arose early once again, decidedly odd behavior on my part, to do a 14-mile bike ride through the beautiful countryside with an old college roommate of mine. Well, she's not old, it's just that.. oh, never mind. You know what I mean.

Though it's rather difficult to have a conversation during a 14-mile bike ride on roads one bike following the other, and the whir of cars passing here and there, we did manage to chat about a few things. Would any discussion of mine not involve my cute little (well, maybe not little....) Soph-a-loph? (Geez, mom, I'm a GERMAN SHEPHERD... could you PLEASE not refer to me like that? It's humiliating...).

I think not. Sooner or later, the talk turned predictably to dogs. Apparently my friend's aunt has a "Kuvasz" (pictured). I'd never heard of it, but perhaps I didn't hear her correctly, among the cars whirring, the wind blowing, the bike gears clanking (okay.. it needs a tune-up) and my own heavy breathing...

At any rate, turns out her aunt (or it could have been friend? or sister? I couldn't hear...) was looking for a protective, but not ferocious dog (ahem, German Shepherd?), and she ended up with this "Kuvasz." So... on a visit to the aunt/friend/sister... whatever... not important to the story..., she picked up a ball and threw it for the Kuvasz.


My friend said the dog just lay there and thought shruggishly: "oh... I guess you wanted the ball over THERE, then..."

It's hard to chuckle and bike uphill....

Sunday, June 21, 2009

An exciting day at the U.S. Open Golf Tournament

Yesterday I watched grass grow
a bit (yawn) of the (yawn) U.S. Open Golf Tournament. Always a good choice when you’re in need of a nap. Even my Dad, who is a golf addict, loves golf, produced plenty of my childhood memories of Dad snoozing in the easy chair, golf in the background on the tv, on a Sunday afternoon.

I didn’t want to sleep, though; I tried to stay awake, notwithstanding the gentle, lulling sounds of the air’s whisking across the broadcasters’ television microphones, punctuated intermittently by the sound of a club whipping through the grass, the ooh/aahh of the “raucous” New York crowd, and the subtle, calm comments of the rocket scientists announcers. I didn’t want to sleep because I was only trying to catch Phil; I love Phil Mickelson. He’s adorable, seems sweet, exhibits good sportsmanship, and he’s loaded. What’s not to like? He has always reminded me of Hugh Grant wearing golfers’ gloves. My crush on Phil only increased after I read that he signed autographs for his adoring fans after the practice round, whereas Tiger “went out of his way to avoid eye contact with the crowd.” Um… can you say: “does not work and play well with others?” To each his own.

Anyway, I couldn’t sleep because they refused to show footage of Phil, and also the tournament was just riveting, as evidenced by the announcers’ comments.

Wow…. WOW. Did ya see that drive, Gary?”

Whew. Holy cow, Bob. That was quite a drive.”

“He was WAY off!” [The kid, who looked like he was about 15, had hit the ball way into the “rough.”]

“Yeah – ya know… he took two practice swings, both with an open-faced club… and when he hit it he hit it the SAME way.. and so he hooked it.”


“Yeah- that’s some pretty tall grass, Bob. You’re not supposed to be over there.”

“I don’t know what he’s gonna do, Gary. Geez. He may..... hurt his wrist…”

[is he serious?….]

“Yeah wow. He MIGHT hurt his wrist, Bob.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he whiffed.”

“Yeah, he could whiff.”

“Shew. He sure is in a spot.”

[At this point the golfer effortlessly chips the ball onto the green from the tall rough, disappointing the announcers immensely.]

“Let’s go over to Terry and see what’s happening on the 9th green.”

“Well, Gary and Bob, these New Yorkers are riled up. This is a boisterous crowd.”

“Did ya hear that guy in the crowd whoop after Tiger hit the drive, Karl?”

“Wow. These crazy New Yorkers…..it’s been a long day for the crowd AND the golfers.”

“Ya know… these competitors are tired. They’ve been out here all day.”

"Yeah, Terry. This crowd's really behind the players, and that helps pick up their energy. Really gives 'em a much-needed boost."

How are we to take these guys seriously? These are golfers…. How tired can they be? Strolling at a snail’s pace a mile in total along beautifully manicured course, stopping here and there to swing a club or perhaps sign an autograph, while they pay someone else to schlep all of their crap along with them…. Whew! Tiring!

Alas, I was spared further chuckling as the rain at the Open began again. I can’t wait to tune in for the final day. Lord only knows what spectacular announcers’ comments will enhance the Open…

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Stinky feet!

The husband and the 13-year-old were lounging on the couch together.
husband: "Buddy, your feet are really stinky!"
13-year-old: "Is that my problem or yours?"

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Please explain? Thanks...

This was in the subject line of a spam I received today. Can anyone explain, please? I don't get it.

"Get beautiful women easily presbyopia potager outright symphonizing"

Thanks for your explanations; I'm a little slow today.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

There's nothing to DO, Mom....

13-year-old boy: "Mooooommmmm. When is it gonna stop raining?"

Mom: "Hmmm. Let me consult my crystal ball..."

13-year-old boy: "This weather stinks."

10-year-old boy: "I'm booorrreeeed."

Mom: "You're bored? Well... you could vacuum the car? clean out the Tupperware cabinet? Clean the toilets? Vacuum the dog hair? Read? Empty the dishwasher? Go through the recipe files and figure out what's for dinner? Fill out these school forms for next year? Pay the bills? Buy birthday cards for the months of June and July? Write a thank you note for the crab feast we attended? Read? Do a puzzle? Do a load of laundry? Clean up your room? Figure out which clothes don't fit anymore? Clean the cat's litter box?"

boys: "awww, moooommmm. There's nothing to do."

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Prozac, please?

So... summer has begun. i.e.- the boys are out of school. And I work at home.

"How's it going so far with the boys home?" well meaning friends will ask me...

Simultaneously, the door opens, a boy runs inside, quickly followed by a water balloon that shatters all over my hallway.

"Great," I answer. "It's going just great."

Monday, June 15, 2009

Crabs, hon?

I live in Maryland. People eat crabs here. Well, let me rephrase that. People love crabs here. People crave crabs here. People go bananas over crabs here.

Yeah, well…” you’re thinking. “So? Lots of people love crab.”

There is a subtle, yet prodigious, difference, however, between “crab” and “crabs.”

“Crab” is crabmeat that has been dutifully, tediously picked from the crustacean already and added to a sophisticated recipe, such as a crabcake, crab dip, or crab imperial. Don’t EVER try to convince a Marylander that it’s okay to eat “crab” anyplace but within the confines of the state of Maryland; he or she will laugh sardonically, turn slightly away from your line of sight, and roll his or her eyes, thinking to him or herself: “what a white trash heathen to sugget that crab is properly prepared anywhere but in Maryland.” Even within the Old Line State, mere non foodies are choosy about their crab; restaurants inside the state’s borders quickly acquire reputations for having a good crabcake… or… well, not. Marylanders raise snobbery to a novel level, to put it euphemistically, about how their crab is prepared.

A different connotation altogether, however, is evoked by “crabs.” By gargantuan contrast, “crabs” are an event: a long afternoon or evening of sitting down with friends or family, mallet in one hand and beer in the other, in front of a huge pile of hot, steamed crabs, deliciously seasoned with Old Bay and ready to be dissected, cave-man-like style.

Whereas “crab” is consumed year-round in a civilized manner with a fork and tablecloth, perhaps accompanied by a nice Pinot Grigio, “crabs” are best enjoyed with a large, rowdy group on a summer day with a versatile brown paper covering (protecting) the table to soak up the Natty Boh (a local Maryland beer), crab guts and intestinal mustards. It is conceivable that a belch or two could be heard.

Notwithstanding the barbaric nature of the tradition (the first people to crack open a crab for food must have been exceedingly hungry), there exists a proper way to pick steamed crabs, and only Marylanders, and the friends and relatives to whom Marylanders have carefully chosen to convey the secret, have the knowledge.

Recently we were invited to our first crab feast of the summer: the picnic tables were covered with heavy brown paper, the steamed crabs dumped into piles strategically in the middle, each person armed with a mallet and knife, the beer bottles distributed accordingly. A toast was made, the beer bottles clinked, and the diners prepared to dismantle the crabs in search of the delectable backfin meat inside.

One among us, an outsider, raised his mallet high into the air, preparing to crash it down, MOST improperly, upon the large back shell of his crab…

The Marylanders, in stunned unison, stared at the New Yorker, transfixed with horror. For a brief moment, no one could speak. Then:

“WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH WHOOOOOAAAAH,…what are you doing?!” The silent observers agreed introvertedly.

After the initial shock and a deep breath, the outsider’s friend gasped: “Have you NEVER picked crabs before?” The table listened, anxious for a reply.

“Well, uh… no,” acknowledged the polite, intrepid guest.

“My goodness!” exclaimed the outsider’s friend. “Let me show you how…”

A collective sigh of relief was palpable as the guest learned the proper way to retrieve the meat from inside the crustacean, more beer was consumed, and shells and guts accumulated in piles.

It is officially “crabs” season, so enjoy your seafood responsibly.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Translation Guide for an Adolescent Boy:

“Okay” = I’m really not going to do what you’ve asked me, but I’m answering just to get you off my back.

“Mom, where do we keep the ammonia?” = I’m hatching plans for a chemistry experiment.

“I’ll do it later…” = I’m really not going to do what you’ve asked me, but I’m answering just to get you off my back.

“I’m bored” = I’d like you to entertain me, woman.

“There’s nothing to do” = You won’t let me watch TV or play video games.

“I DID put my laundry away” = I stuffed it all in my closet so you’d stop nagging me.

“I don’t know” = If I told you I’d get in trouble.

“huh?” = I heard you but I don’t want to do what you just told me to do.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Huh? What?

I came downstairs this morning to find Sophie (the German Shepherd) fast asleep in the foyer with a pile of drool just below her mouth. Talk about embarrassing...

I went to snap a photo but she picked up her head when I retrieved the camera. "Uh-oh, mom. This is going on the blog, isn't it?"

see the pile of drool just below her paw above? ewwwwwwww....

"I am so embarrassed... you won't tell anyone, will you, ma?"

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

You really wanna know?

Okay… so I got “tagged” by two different blogger buddies, Shawn over at Seriously, and Vivienne at The V Spot – both very funny if you’d like blog recommendations - on the same day last week, a tag in which one is supposed to blog about 6 different things about one’s self. Yeah, so I’m a bit late responding, but I have a good excuse, or rather two of them: 1) I don’t usually respond to chain-letter-type-stuff (I have a wonderful friend who includes me on her chain letter emails; I shudder to ponder how many people have befallen upon bad luck or never made $2 because I never forwarded their chain emails…) and 2) I can’t imagine anyone would want to know 6 things about me (and you really don’t, do you?) [insert sardonic cackle]. This is ostensibly a funny blog…So I’ve ruminated on the subject between my early morning thoughts and my runs and here is my titillating list:

1. I wish I had remote controls for my boys. The most valuable button would be on/off, which would come in quite handily when they argue with each other or, more notably, when they argue with me. Just imagine! … “I don’t WANT to set the table. I did it yesterday! Why can’t” ZAP. Ahhhh. Or: “ALL the other kids have cell phones; just tell me ONE good reason…” ZAP. That’s better. How about: “Moooommmm! Michael is in my room!!! Tell him to get OUT! He comes in here and…” ZAP. Ooh that would be good. Alas, at the moment the only defense with which we combat the cell phone argument is: “Sorry, buddy. I guess his parents love him more than we love you.”

2. I’m not a high-speed windshield wiper kind of a girl. I like those babies on low intermittent. You people who sit at red lights with your wipers going full blast when the rain has slowed to a trickle? Take your right hand, make an L with it, and place it upon your forehead. Do it now. I’ll wait…. You are such nerds…

3. I believe there are too many choices at the grocery store. It’s a ploy to keep us in there longer than we should be. Take the yogurt aisle… you’ve got your lowfat in every flavor, your nonfat in every flavor, your fruit on the bottoms, your fruit on the tops, your nuts on the top, your m&ms on the top, your organic, your soy, your smooth and light, your rich and creamy, and all of the combinations thereof…it’s completely overwhelming and causes undue distress. I want to enter the grocery store, grab my food with no artificial colors or flavors and no hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated oils, find a small line, and get the heck outta there…

4. I used to dream of having the “before” boobs from the “before and after” photos in breast augmentation brochures, but I’ve decided that being flat-chested is very beneficial for running, especially when I forget to pack a sports bra on trips.

5. My favorite thing in races is to pass twenty-something boys! Ha! Look at me, you athletic-looking studly young dude…. I’m a 38-year-old woman and I’m kicking your butt…sucks for you… (They inevitably get their revenge when I spit sometimes with not enough of an arc and not enough oomph and it lands on my arm…).

6. Here are my favorite things on the fridge:

7. I enjoyed these silly songs on my newest playlist while running this morning:

Candy Girl (New Edition)
9 to 5 (Dolly Parton)
Bang on the Drum All Day
Mama (Genesis)
Legs (ZZ Top)
Sexy and 17 (Stray Cats)
Break my Stride (Graham BLVD)
Get Ready (Rare Earth)
American Boy (Estelle)
Rich Girl ( Hall & Oates)
December, 1963 (Oh What a Night – Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons)
Theme from “Greatest American Hero” – Believe it or Not (Joey Scarborough)

Oops. that was 7. sorry. I guess I ruminated too long.

Now it is my distinct pleasure to pass the baton and tag Shawn at The Shark Tank , Wendy at On the Front Porch, Natasha at Exile on Mom Street, Christine at She's Just Another Manic Mommy, Heather at Heather Cherry, and Shopgirl101 at Mall Rats...this is my Retail Rant... all mighty fine blogs.

Monday, June 8, 2009


Tweet - (noun) What Sophie received when she ate the 3 tiny baby birds in the newly discovered birds' nest in the barberry bush.


Thursday, June 4, 2009

the ugly and the cute

I recently had a few spots on my face lasered. It makes the spots get much darker before it makes them fade. The thirteen-year-old stopped me in the upstairs hallway, stared at me bewilderedly, and said: “Mom! Look at those dark spots! You look really ugly… You’d better use some makeup...” This morning on the way to school I told him I’d see him later at the awards assembly. “You’re gonna wear makeup, right?” he questioned. “Your face looks gross.” I love you, too, buddy.

Yesterday after school I schlepped said 13-yr-old, still in the dog house, to the department store, for he was in need of new dress shirts and ties. After we argued over which ties to purchase (we apparently have much different taste, my preference not being shiny plain black guido ties (no offense to anyone out there, my bad..), I spotted a sharp pair of madras plaid shorts on the way out of the boys’ department. I stopped. “Ooh, look at these, buddy… these are cute.”

Eeewww. I don’t wanna look CUTE, Mom…”

Oops. Forgot to always use a different adjective with boys… Cute is a dirty word to boys. It's all in the adjective...

Some alternatives to describe boys:

“ good looking”
“handsome”... and let's be realistic, shall we?


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Chocolate poll here...

Today we're here to talk about my friend... and likely yours... chocolate.

Normal people like chocolate; the best kind of people love chocolate. As my grandmother wisely says, it's hard to trust people who don't like chocolate. My wonderful new sister-in-law is an exception; she doesn't like chocolate (and yes, that's really weird), but she's still the best kind of person. It's her one flaw. I think it's because she does, after all, like chocolate combined with other things (strawberries, for example...certainly nothing wrong with that), so maybe the rule (that only abnormal people don't like chocolate) doesn't apply...

Now... I've recently come to understand that I'm acquainted with someone (no names here... wouldn't want to embarrass him) who doesn't like chocolate combined with peanut butter.

excuse me? Hello? Reese's peanut butter cups? Chocolate covered peanut butter eggs? are you serious? This acquaintance of mine goes so far as to feign nausea at the mere thought of this delectable combination.

So... rather than my jumping to the [correct] foregone conclusion that this is SO WRONG, I thought I'd throw a poll out there and see who's right. Please indicate in the poll whether you think chocolate and peanut butter are a delicious pair ... or NOT. I figure that my readers are a large (ha) and fair portion of the population, so this should give us a decisive answer.

okay? Thanks!

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Two myselves

An alien abducted my body and mind this morning and got me up and out of bed for my run at 5:30 am. It's the only explanation for my strange behavior. Often I say to myself: "okay. I'm going to get up early and run. Get it over with. Be a morning person. Really start out the day productively." I truly believe myself the night before when I say this to me. I am gung-ho. Then the morning comes; it comes really really quickly. The alarm clock rings awfully early. The real me admonishes the morning-person-wanna-be-me. "What are you doing? You are SO comfortable. You can run later. You're tired. You need sleep." So generally I listen to this wise morning self and keep sleeping. Later in the day, I've not yet showered, because I'm still waiting for that opportunity to get the run in. It's summer now, though, and later= H O T. So I really need to reinvent myself, or rather get myself to listen to myself. It's the same two myselves that spar with each other over the snacking after dinner (i.e. ice cream). Me just doesn't listen to me.

The alien abuction this morning helped! I hit the snooze button one time, got dressed, trying not to think about the silly thing I was doing, and headed downstairs for a small cup of joe. 10 minutes later I was outside at the beginning of my 7 1/2 mile run. Ahhh. Beautiful temperature at 6 am for running. Much better than the humid afternoon heat. Go figure. See what you've been missing, me? Very few cars on the road, deer here and there....no sun in my face. Mornings are niiiiiiice.

Yay, me!

I had a fantastic run... The first 2 miles are mostly uphill, and I found myself at the top of the hill thinking: "huh. Usually I'm really exhausted by now from the hill, but hmmm. I feel pretty energetic." So I picked it up. All the training books say when you feel good, go for it. So I did. I ran the next few miles at 7.5-minute miles, seemingly effortlessly. huh. There's something to this morning running thing, me.

I finished my run with unusual gusto, did my silly drills (today's was running with high knees, two sets of 20 seconds each, and "bounding" - like the first few strides of a long jump? - two sets of 20 seconds.) There were, unfortunately, a few vehicles passing me by 7 am, but I plastered the big L on my forehead and did the silly looking drills anyway.

I went back into the quiet house, bumping my top-notch, sleeping German Shepherd "guard dog" out of the way as she slept up against the front door so I could walk inside. (ooh... scary German Shepherd... NOT). Yeah, excuse me, Soph? Do ya think you could move so I could get in? And did you happen to hear a NOISE at which you might have barked? What if it weren't me, Soph? She looked at me, yawned, and moved over to a different corner to resume her nap.

All proud of myself, I yelled: "Good morning, family!" to my sleeping family members. The boys were still out like a light, though they needed to be at school in an hour. The husband isn't usually out the door until 7:45. I walked into the kitchen with another hearty: "helloooo, family! Good morning! Everyone up!" and my husband, in the kitchen already, scared me to death with a "well aren't you the hero?" Bubble burst. Sails without wind. Unbeknownst to me he had arisen unusually early to take the car in for a servicing. Yeah. Um. Husband? Next time I'd like to order a "good for you! I'm proud of you!"

And there WILL be a next time!

Monday, June 1, 2009

When you care enough to send the very best...

I got my daily chuckle while card shopping at Target (tar-JAY') this morning. As always, I went into Target for a couple of things and emerged with 10 times the number of things for which I had been hunting.
One detour was the cards section. As I passed, I thought: "ooh. I should get a card for my nephew's graduation, and my friend's graduation from design school... and oh look at all these Father's Day cards - better get those done, too..." etc., etc. There is almost nothing more pleasurable, indeed, than having time to card shop without little kids (or big kids... or even husbands) in tow. Card shopping all alone, with plenty of time to pick up and enjoy (or frown at) each card is so delightful, particularly when one has a cup of coffee in hand. Oy. I can remember days shopping with the boys as toddlers, when they felt the urge to pick up EVERY SINGLE card, hand it to me while I was trying to decide if the card I was already reading said the perfect thing: "How about THIS ONE, Mom?!"
As I began to peruse the Father's Day cards (and there are SO MANY variations one needs: kids to Dad, kids to grandfathers, husbands to Dad - don't we all get our husbands cards for their families? - wife to husband... all for a hallmark holiday), a nice lady next to me said: "you know, I really shouldn't be card shopping for Father's Day when I'm mad with my husband."
"I just picked up a card," she explained, "that went on about how helpful he is... and I was like. whatever."
I recommended that she delay the card shopping until he was out of the dog house, hoping that that could soon be the case.
"Yeah," she agreed. "I think I'll go to the section of the store with cleaning supplies to buy something for what I DO and he DOESN'T..."
yikes. Hope he gets out soon. It's a good thing that all cards are friendly. Suppose they sold cards like: "Most of the time you really get on my nerves, but Happy Father's Day." Or "I might be wishing you a Happy Father's Day if you contributed to parenting around the house at all..." Or "Happy Freakin' Father's Day." This might be material for another blog, actually...
Let that be a lesson to all of us; don't go card shopping ill-humoredly. It just can't yield good results...