I don't normally do reviews of anything, but when Adrienne asked me to review the movie The Hangover on her new movie review blog, I couldn't say no because a) she scares me and, b) The Hangover was so incredibly hilarious it has replaced Old School as my favorite movie EVER. So go check it out here. (No spoilers.)
Of the many things I'm not good at, letting go is one the foremost difficult for me. Whether it's something as trivial as getting rid of baby clothes I no longer have a use for or experiencing the passing of a child I was lucky to have barely known, I cannot let go. These things haunt me and follow me and torment me to the point of teetering between sadness, sympathy and grief and obsession, total mind consumption and devastation.
As I see my first born suddenly mature and become not a little boy but a little man, it's an unwelcome reminder that slowly, there are pieces of his childhood that I am already having to let go of. Pieces of his babyhood that I don't want to let go of.
In January, E-man turned six. Six! He was absolutely ecstatic about this to the point you would think it would earn him a provisional license and rights to sips of beer. I reasoned with him that sure, he could turn six but that was it. He is absolutely not allowed to turn seven. Because seven? Oh my god! I cannot own a seven year old! He laughed at me, like gee mom, you're so dumb, and said to me in a very matter-of-fact tone usually reserved for adults warning children of grown-up things: "Of course I'm going to turn seven, mom. That's what comes after six. Duh."
"But I don't want you to grow up." I told him whined. Sure, laying a guilt trip on a six year old is probably not the best or most practical anti-aging technique, but it was worth a shot. "I want you to stay my little boy forever."
He looked at me, rolled his eyes and walked away. This is when I knew for certain, he was most definitely growing up.
Two weeks later we were driving in the car and he called to me from the back seat, his voice upset. He had been quiet for most of the car ride, clearly lost in thought like he usually is and I was curious what was bothering him.
"What's up, dude? What's wrong?"
"Mom, I've been trying reeeeally hard to not grow up, but I think I am anyway. I don't think I can help it." He was upset.
Sigh. Had he really, for the past two weeks, been stressing over my request to stay a little boy? My heart melted.
This past weekend, my now six-and-a-half year old told my husband and I we needed to take the training wheels off his bike. Usually, he's the kid who is a little more anxious about trying new things, not so certain about taking new risks and doesn't like to get hurt. But here he was, telling us it was time to take off the training wheels.
Before I knew it, he and his dad were taking off the training wheels and discussing how to ride his big boy bike. Then suddenly they were steadying him on his bike. I watched nervously as my first born wobbled and fell, stood back up, swerved and steadied himself, mostly with the help of his dad.
And as I watched I realized that this was the single greatest metaphor for parenting - at some point we are going to have to let go. Like it or not.
Since I'm all cheerful and rainbows and sunshine lately, I thought I'd continue with this whole chipper death topic by posting my bucket list. It's pretty damn short. Not because I have little motivation to do more than sip cappuccino and write and well, sip more cappuccino... but because I think I there's a lot of stuff I want to do and accomplish that I just don't even know about yet. So here are some of the things I'd like to do before I die... that I know of now:
1. Write a book
2. Become fluent in Russian
3. Police ride along (done)
4. Re-create The Hangover without losing any teeth
5. Visit Pike's Place - the original Starbucks store
6. Swim in the Married with Children Fountain in Chicago
7. Get lost in Times Square with a camera
8. See a UFC pay-per-view live
What's on your bucket list?
Let's face it. No one wants to discuss their imminent death. Me included. But with all these undeniably big-named people dying lately, death has been a much talked about topic in the media and amongst social gatherings.
Like him or loathe him, the death of Michael Jackson was a bit shocking and I, like many, watched a bit of the news coverage in disbelief. I was not necessarily mourning the loss of what some may think of as an icon and others a pedophile, but more so mesmerized by the affect one person's death could have on so many people.
And this got me thinking. And twittering:
I mean sure, I did not change the world with my music (at least not for the good) but I've done stuff. What? Oh hell, now that you've put me on the spot I can't really think of anything in particular, but I'm sure I've done something noteworthy.
And this is where my love of the internet - specifically Twitter - comes into play. At the mention of me dying, a few of you offered to throw yourselves sobbing at my casket, others said they'd fly great distances to be at my funeral, most of you promised to at least drink in my honor and there were even a couple offers to bury me with Patron. One of you was even smart enough to work out a deal to inherit my photography equipment in exchange for bringing Dreamland BBQ for the reception. (Somehow me dying and you ending up with my photography equipment and everyone eating awesome BBQ leaves me with the short end of the stick, I think, but whatever.)
While I realize you all are just a bunch of bullshitting bastards, saying these things just to make me feel important and potentially missed, I am totally calling you out on your promises and just warning you, in the sweetest most angelic, I-love-you-to-pieces sort of way that if your asses don't stick to your Twittered promises, I will come back from the dead and haunt you via poor internet connections and constant Fail Whales until you make good on them, mkay?
I wanna hold em like they do in Texas Plays
Fold em let em hit me raise it baby stay with me
~ Poker Face, Lady GaGa
*
A few years back, with the rest of the world, Candy Ass and I got sucked into the world of watching Texas Hold 'Em Poker on television. I blame him, of course. I remember going to leave the house, passing by our TV and asking what in the hell he was watching.
"Poker."
"On TV?"
"Yeah."
"Um. BORING."
"Actually, it's kind of addicting."
"Alrighty then..." and I left. When I returned FOUR HOURS LATER, there he was, in the same spot on the couch, unmoved and watching a 5th hour of a Texas Hold 'Em Championship on TV. I remember sitting next to him to see what could possibly have captivated his attention for so many hours and then not getting up again until we had watch another five hour championship marathon together. It was inexplicable.
The depth of our addiction was a tad bit embarrassing, since we could both ramble off names of various players and had favorites along with ones we thought were heels and could name past winners but never actually played the game ourselves. Sort of like our previous love of pro-wrestling which included watching Monday Night Raw! and Thursday Night Nitro! and even attending an event or two, yet neither of us ever stepped into the ring ourselves. Damn it.
(Mick Foley - Are you reading this? I still love you! The Micker, FTW!)
But when my sister RV visited me last January, we were invited to ante up for a night of Texas Hold 'Em Poker. This was my chance to prove my endless hours of watching people 'call' and 'go all in' while playing Texas Hold 'Em on TV was somehow worthwhile and meaningful. While I never did master twirling the poker chips in my fingers the way the pros do (my only regret), I did grasp the importance of wearing the proper attire to put on your best poker face.
I swear to god, that Tide Racing hat from the early 80s (dust and all), that (one) hot pink mitten and a glass or two of wine damn near made me the winner that night. Where damn near = not even fucking close.
I learned two valuable lessons that night: Watching poker on TV doesn't mean shit when it comes to actually playing it. And also, when they ask for bets and chips and whatnot, you really do have to pay at the end of the night. It's not like Monopoly money. Who knew?
Despite my shocking lost, I had fun. I always have fun when RV comes to visit. And now it's my turn to plan a trip to Hotlanta. If you're reading this RV, you best get a poker game set up.
(You're welcome, bitch. Love ya.)
I've always wondered what was so farking appealing about Field and Stream that so many men feel the desire to subscribe to and read it. Let's all read about fishing! Woo-hoo!
Of course, Candy Ass is one of the men that fall into this category, finding some sort of mysterious enjoyment out of tall fish tales gone print. As he blathered on about some Alaskan fishing expedition that only cost $200 a day, I twittered, ignoring him because a) I don't care and b) see A. But when he reached the end of the magazine, he continued to pester me by reading aloud the advertisements. For male enhancements.
Now if there were ever an appropriate place to publish BULLSHIT and LIES and TERRIFIC TALES of how BIG it is (the fish, your penis, whatever) I'd say a fishing magazine would be it. But holy hell, this full page ad had us both in tears laughing:
Let me point out some of the highlights, if I may:
Wow! With the Pro+Plus Pills, not only do you experience UP TO 5 MORE INCHES and 50% MORE GIRTH! but your penis also hangs larger ALL DAY! And you can have these results PERMANENTLY if you follow the maintenance program.
WTF? Maintenance program? Do I want to know what kind of maintenance program is required to keep those results? How does one 'maintain' a penis. [Don't answer that.]
If the Pro+Plus Pills don't do it for you, then maybe the Attract-A-Mate Spray will:
Guys! It "makes you irresistible!" According to this, "you don't have to say a word!" Don't you want to have other men envy your power based on your scent alone?
Jesus H. Christ. This makes me think of hunters who spray themselves with deer urine to attract bucks. "Hey there hot stuff! Yes, that's me that smells like sweaty testicles. DON'T YOU LOVE IT?" I, myself, feel like I could use a cold shower just talking about it. *fans herself* *then rolls eyes so hard it hurts for those who didn't quite catch the sarcasm*
If you can't see yourself buying the Pro+Plus Pills or smelling like Attract-A-Mate (which really, let's face it, is probably Axe) then I have one other suggestion for you - SEXCITER!
Even the name is exciting! Sexciter! Now guys, before you get all optimistic about that a girl will "become wild, untamed and desire to have sex with you" after using this, the manufacturers do suggest that you should get her permission although it can be taken by mouth OR PUT IN ANY LIQUID WITHOUT DETECTION.
Are they fucking kidding? Isn't that, like, roofies? And who the fuck needs to buy *130 doses* of it? You buy this shit and I'll bet they put you on the sex offender's website, the no-fly list and Santa's naughty list before you even commit the crime.
On the next page of Field and Stream, yet another full page ad sits for another male enhancement product - Extenze - which boasts that "they claim to have sold almost a quarter of a billion capsules to men." Gee. Is this because they also promise "a pill, that if taken daily, would increase the length of a man by 3 to 4 inches?"
Now I'm not surprised or shocked or appalled by such ads. What scares, shocks and appalls me is that men fall for this shit. Seriously. Guys! SERIOUSLY!!
[neck snap]
Meanwhile, who knew Field and Stream was so goddamn funny?
This weekend I...
...Took my three boys to Starbucks for a coffee date only to have a full-blown fight break-out two feet from us inside the store. This wasn't just a fight amongst adults behaving badly, this was a fight between a group (of about four) developmentally disabled adults WHOSE CARETAKERS THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY to egg them on until, whoops, it got out of hand and a huge scene erupted. My kids were scared shitless and when Ms. Whoops Sorry Oh Shit Caretaker Lady stopped laughing and looked around at the customers stunned faces, she said "I'm sorry!" like that made it all better and I yelled at her, "NO SHIT YOU ARE!!" making a scene myself. Whatever. That's just ridiculous. Those people deserve better than her.
...Saw The Hangover for the second time. It's the first time I've ever seen a movie twice at a theater, that's how freaking AWESOME it is. As I watched I took mental notes for my upcoming blogger trip in August of what not to do (um, roofies) and what to do (not tell anyone what does happen in Vegas - heh) so I should be well prepared. Oh, and bringing a camera is a must! (Anyone seen the credits yet? Anyone?)
...Glued my 6 year old's head back together again. Ol' Humpty fell backwards off a chair onto our cement patio and cracked that sucker open. Thanks to Twitter (who needs doctors when you have 1300 slightly less qualified people - but with way better bedside manner - willing to dispense advice?) I liquid bandaged the gash a few times until it stopped bleeding. Poor guy.
...Did a magic trick and made an impressive amount of wine disappear.
...Spent an entire day contemplating whether to go to my high school reunion and finally decided an hour before that nah, paying $150 to see people I spent a good portion of my time trying to avoid for four years is not really worth it. Besides, I had nothing to wear. I think this has something to do with making the wine disappear. Can't remember, really.
What did you do?
One of my biggest plausible fears is getting trapped inside a tanning bed. By plausible, I mean it is entirely possible, especially given my recent streak [<---- HAR HAR HAR] of bad luck with fake tanning. In the last three weeks, I've managed two severely botched mystic spray tans, four unsuccesful regular ol' make your dermatologist-cringe lightbulb style tans (and some unsightly peeling/flaking/shedding of those spray tans I first mentioned) as well as a mysterious neck injury which is pretty hard to explain when all you do is lie there on the bed and have your flesh burned by florescent lighting. Yet here I am, three weeks into June, looking like a faded version of my husband's Mossy Oak Break-Up camoflauge, still unable to attempt a pair of capris, nevermind a tanktop.
But I am not a quitter.
So I switched tanning salons today. Clearly this is one of those it's not me, it's you situations and I'll be damned if I don't remedy the uneven pigment and transform my streaky orangishness into a real-but-fake looking glamourous but believable glow before my Victoria's Secret bathing suit arrives in the mail.
[This Victoria's Secret bathing suit, by the way, contains the word 'miracle' in its name and if it does not perform as promised, so help me and every other back-fat sportin', saggy-boobed baby havin' woman in the 48 continuous United States who ordered one of these muthafuckas, there will be hell to pay and it will not be pretty. Which Victoria's Secret should know given that we were shopping for 'miracles' to begin with.]
I walked into the new tanning salon this morning with high hopes and cash, thinking high hopes rarely get me anything more than disappointment but cash always gets me what I want, so I forked over NOTHING for the special offer of trying the Super! Fabulous! Orbit! (?) (!) (*) (?) Bed! that is so fantabulous that while those other beds require 15 minutes and leave me... like I came, THIS BED! only requires 6 minutes of my precious time and I will immediately! notice a difference.
Sold! says the girl who, based on her history of failed spray tans clearly falls prey to the idea of instant gratification. BUT. But. How about I go in for 8 minutes? Because I'm pretty sure my last three weeks of tanning qualifies me as having some sort of invisible-but-there-somewhere base tan so I'm pretty certain I can go for a whole 8 minutes and do just fine.
Well, I certainly saw immediate results. The guy was right about that. Unfortunately, he was also right about me only needing 6 minutes in the Super! Fabulous! Orbit! Bed! because the results were: magenta. It's like that bright, raw fleshy pink color that instantly appears when you have your eyebrows waxed. TENDER. It hurts to wear a bra, people. I think I even burned my palms. HOW DO YOU BURN YOUR PALMS?
Worse, why did I buy a package of 8 more tans after? After all, '8' does not appear to be a good number for me. And clearly, this fake tanning business is not good for my health since it is obviously not one of the *many* things I'm good at. Like... Like... (I'll have to list those things later when I think of them. I'm sure there are waaaay too many things to list here anyway. Yeah.) But for now, I'm just going to try really hard to not get stuck in one of those tanning beds. They're pretty tricky.
The scene: Candy Ass and I are parked on the living room couch. He is still sweaty from his work-out on the finger-removing Bowflex, sipping ice cold water from a new eco-friendly style bottle and I am at the other end of the couch, laptop fan a-blaring with my tall dry decaf cappuccino cooling beside me, having already chalked my tongue on it once.
Me = Bold Type
Candy Ass = Italics
Honey, before we get started, let me just remind you that anything you say or do can and almost certainly will be used against you on my blog. Ready?
Yep.
True or False: Last night I walked in on you caressing your own in nipples?
[chokes] False!
That's a blatant lie and you know it!
It's your birthday today (Thurs)! How do you feel about turning "old?"
I feel like I'm getting younger.
Really? You're seriously still pushing that?
I was thinking. I should really get a Harley.
What is this? Some sort of mid-life crisis?
No, I've just always wanted a Harley.
Um, OK...
What's the most perfect gift a wife can get her husband for his birthday?
Peace and quiet.
Is that a hint?
No. (laughs)
Is it true your mom still cuts your hair?
Oh jesus. (hesitates) Yes.
What is it that you do for a living?
I solve problems.
What are you? The Terminator?
Exactly.
What do you wish you did for a living?
Outfitter.
Like dress the celebrities?
No - like a hunting and fishing guide. Own my own lodge.
Care to tell everyone about your genius, get-rich idea of a slogan to put on men's boxer shorts to sell?
(laughs) No. I don't want anyone to steal my idea.
Why do you wish to remain anonymous on this here blog?
I'm shy.
Do I embarrass you?
Yes. You embarrass me.
How so?
You just... I don't know. You say embarrassing things sometimes.
Like what?
I can't think of anything off the top of my head. Really, I'm proud of you.
You're proud of me... as long as no one knows who I am in relation to you?
Yes.
Your girlfriend's name is...?
Don't have a girlfriend. Yet.
Ouch.
(laughs) Well, maybe when you hit 30.
Niiiiice.
What's your most favorite thing in the whole world?
My family.
Will you please tell my readers that I am *not* holding a gun to your testicles right now?
I swear.
Have you started building my kitchen cabinets yet?
It's in the planning stages.
How much goddamn planning does it take?
I did put up a new patio cover!
You did. It looks nice. But what about the cabinets?
I need a few more tools.
(Sigh.)
When it comes to cooking and cleaning - which do I do better?
(frowns)
That frown is going on the record.
You're equally good at both.
Is that the same as saying I'm equally bad at both?
No comment.
What am I really good at?
(sighs) Nagging. Bickering.
That's all?
You're an excellent mother.
Oh well, thank god for that, huh?
What is your philosophy about men and women and how they age again?
What do you mean?
Oh come on! You know the one: That as men get older their stock continues to go up but as women get older their stock goes down? Isn't that what you always say?
Ah, yes.
So as I get older I am becoming less valuable?
(silence) Your worth just... changes.
How so? I become worth more? Less? According to your little philosophy...?
I guess in the eyes of the California court system you become worth more...
Oh well that's just fuckin' romantic right there. Thank you.
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Teaching E-man how to drive, watching L-Dub's football games and going fishing with Big T.
Um... what about me? Am I in the picture?
Yeah. You'll be right there along side me the whole way.
Have you enjoyed our little interrogation interview?
Nothing else I would have rather done. Like watch TV.
Well thank you for your valuable time. And happy birthday, jackass.
After SIX YEARS (!!) of buying diapers or Pull-ups or both for one, two and at times THREE kids, I hereby announcement my retirement from changing diapers. Halle-fucking-lujah. Rejoice. Tune in Tokyo and Amen, this mama is DONE.
*does a little happy dance*
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