Mandajuice

Seattle bound

I'm off to Seattle to pitch my book at a writing conference this weekend!

All along, I've been looking forward to this part. I thought that piece of me that used to thrive in the conference room when I was a financial planner had been wasting away for too many years in Capri pants and flip-flops, but of course now that judgment day is upon me, I'm scared shitless enough to be chugging Maalox and wondering how it would taste to mix it with vodka and drink it from a sugar-rimmed glass.

Anyway, wish me luck.

And if you're in Seattle, drop me an e-mail and we can meet up for Maalox Martinis.

Fart fiasco at Fred Meyer

Last night I went to Fred Meyer alone. Without my children. I'm pretty sure this particular activity, for mothers at least, is better than pornography. In fact, they should come up with grocery store porn - you're alone, no kids nagging at you to buy Cocoa Puffs, you're sipping your favorite ice-blended beverage while you push around a cart -- and not one of those double-wide kid carts, either, but a regular cart, your list is perfectly legible and everything on it just happens to be on sale for half price. When you get to the checkout stand, a beefy young piece of eye candy bags your groceries with a smile while you stop to thumb leisurely through trashy magazines. I've heard of kinkier fetishes, for sure.

But I digress...

I was just turning the corner into the produce section last night when someone ripped a fart.

Which was not just ANY fart.

It was a beastly thunderclap of a fart. A three-pound still moo-ing T-bone of a fart. The kind of fart a man lets roar with a grunt and a laugh while he's sitting around a campfire drinking beer with his hunting buddies.

It was a fat man fart.

And it was not mine.

My intestines just aren't long enough to produce such a sound.

It turned out the fart belonged to an old guy in a pair of golf shorts who was picking out bell peppers with his son. His tan, 30-something, probably-a-doctor-with-a-haircut-that-expensive, muscle-y, gorgeous son who just happened not to catch the look on his father's face when it happened. He looked at me instead.

Horrified, but with that extra ounce of dignity I possessed only because I was in the heated throws of shopping without small children, I decided to ignore it. I pretended not to hear it, even, because fart humor is below women who shop alone at Fred Meyer at 5:30 on a Saturday night.

It wasn't until a moment later, when I stopped to pick out potatoes that I looked over and caught both father and son staring at me in horror. The father, a particularly impressive actor, wore an ironclad accusatory glare. I took a sip of my frappuchino and silently cursed him and wished for the millionth time that I actually believed in karma.

My kids would have pointed at him and laughed.

Private thoughts

I've been ignoring my alarm clock for most of the summer. It used to be that I'd pop out of bed the very moment my iPhone chimed at 5:50AM to pound coffee and dig into whatever scene I'd been writing in my head in the middle of the night. I loved that hour or two of quiet writing I could squeeze in before the kids woke up. But now that it's summer, it's already light at 5:50 AM and our stairs creak and the gremlins hear me and wake up. Every time. So instead of getting up, I reach for my Kindle (oh lover!) and read in bed until 7:30 or 8:00. If the kids don't hear me get up, they stay in their beds! Like magic!

Eventually, though, they appear in my doorway with crusty eyes and crazy hair and smelly breath and I pull back the covers and let them sneak into bed with me, one on each side, until I muster the will to get up. Usually I can find a comfy way to keep reading while we snooze. It's every bit as nauseatingly delightful as it sounds.

One morning this week, Alex woke up early and came in alone while his sister slept in. He was tired and we were snuggling back to back while I continued reading. He was furiously twirling his hair and very quiet, which is unusual for him, so I turned over and tickled his back and asked, "What are you thinking about, Buddy?"

He shrugged and got even more quiet.

"No really, I'm curious. Are you worried about something?" Because I was getting worried.

"No."

"So tell me what you're thinking about. You're thinking awfully hard about whatever it is, I can tell."

Another oddly-shaped bubble of silence passed.

"I don't wanna tell you."

My heart sank. What he could possibly not want to talk about with me? His mother? He's only five years old! Is he hurt that I'm reading instead of paying attention to him? Did something happen at summer camp that he's worried about? Have I been ignoring him too much lately? What have I done? Am I a terrible mother? Am I?

"Really? It must be really bad if you don't want to tell me. Can't you just tell me? I won't be mad no matter what it is."

"I just don't wanna tell you."

Feeling baffled and hurt and a little desperate, I pulled out my final stop. "It hurts my feelings a little that you won't tell me. Are you sure you can't tell me?"

He shook his head and rolled over. I tried to go back to my book, but now I felt even worse. I couldn't believe he already had thoughts he couldn't tell me about. Five years old! I wasn't ready for him to need that kind of privacy yet. For him to block me out already. And worse, instead of just letting myself feel bad about it, I'd made him feel bad too. I wasn't getting any better at being a mom, I was getting worse. No wonder he didn't want to talk to me.

A few minutes went by and finally, mercifully, he rolled back over to face me, still twisting that precious curl of hair above his forehead.

"Fine, Mom. I'll tell you."

"You will?!" I grinned at him. "So what were you thinking about?"

"I was thinkin' how cool it would be to put an F-15 jet engine on my bike!"

Sexy FAIL

A week ago I bought myself some new deodorant. The baby fresh Secret Solid I'd been purchasing for the past twenty years seemed to have lost its usual effectiveness and instead of NOT sweating, I was just sweating baby powder. So I thought I'd try a different brand and planted myself in the stinkiest aisle at Target and sniffed a half dozen different sticks before picking out a new one.

I chose Degree's new line of Fine Fragrances, a scent called "Sexy Intrigue." I thought it smelled delicious. Sexy! Intrigue! Two things that seem to go well together, no? It's supposedly "heat activated" and I would say that unlike most product claims, this one might very well be true because the next time Dave and I were making out, my heat being quite thoroughly activated, he stopped what he was doing, looked up at me and growled, "You smell like a man. Did you borrow my deodorant or something?"

Exactly what a girl wants to hear.

Exercise, By numbers

So in the end, I managed to exercise just about every day for almost two months. Then we had company and I got busy and quit the endeavor just as abruptly as I began it. I still don't know what possessed me to start, but I have a good idea why I stopped: I just can't bring myself to care enough. No matter how much I exercise, I'm still going to look exactly like... ME. No amount of exercise can ever change that and ten pounds in either direction makes no visible difference to anyone except me.

Ten pounds will never make or break me.

And after all that work, SO MUCH BOOB SWEAT, I lost exactly zero pounds anyway and because I was riding that stupid exercise bike for AN HOUR every day, it cost me dearly in time. Time I'd just as soon spend writing or reading or drinking cocktails under the Birch trees while they whisper sweet nothings in my ears. (Birch trees talk - the bark flaps against the tree trunks in the wind. It always reminds me of the jungle whispers in LOST.)

And don't even get me started on the MEDICAL problems that started and stopped with my exercise regime. The mini-stroke symptoms? The $300 trip to the E.R.? Good riddance.

I seem to have stopped GAINING weight and that's really all I can ask for. My clothes still fit. I still feel healthy. I just have a bit more cushion for the pushin' and a lot more time on my hands now. My kids will certainly be grateful I've stopped barking orders at them while I peddle. That was getting old, fast. The moment I began to sweat, one or the other of them would poop or scream or threaten to die of hunger and in turn I would have to scream back at them, threatening to starve them or start flinging feces myself.

The only thing I'll miss is that it did seem to help a TINY bit with my insomnia. But the ratio, in hours, of exercise to additional sleep was only ever 1:1, so what's the point of that?

Can you see what I'm doing here? Publicly RATIONALIZING my laziness in the best way I know how -- with numbers.

Whatever. I'm just glad I didn't join a gym.

Five years later, we have our first slumber party

The day Dave's family left, my family descended and as soon as I recovered from that, it hit me that I was due to begin pitching my book to agents and editors in less than three weeks. And there's nothing like a deadline to get my ass in the chair! Editing, for me at least, is more like: TOTALLY REWRITING, so that's been a longer process than I expected and I'm only about a third of the way through my manuscript. Fortunately, the more I wrote, the better I got at it, so editing the second half of the book won't be nearly as tedious as the first.  Anyway, that's where I've been: working.

The highlight of my parents' visit was when they took my kids to the beach for the night. That morning, they came with us to Alex's t-ball game and while the boys on the field pulled chunks of dried grass to throw down each others' shirts, we had the following conversation:

My mom: "Doesn't it sound fun to take the kids to the coast overnight?"

Me: "Uh... Honestly? No. That sounds like my regular job only sandier and with a less comfortable mattress."

My mom: "Oh, but they would LOVE to go to the beach."

Me: "You wanna take them? I can pick them up on Sunday."

My mom: "Great!"

Dave and I: Score!

After t-ball, we rushed the kids through a hot dog lunch and out the door with my parents and before their car even disappeared down the street, Dave and I were already enjoying our freedom. We filled the day with all kinds of debauchery, namely seeing the movie Bruno, eating until we had to be rolled home from our favorite restaurant and drinking enough liquor to last us both a week. But we're Grown-Ups, so it was all perfectly legal and appropriate. Most of it anyway.

In the lull between the movie and dinner, we took apart the refrigerator in a futile effort to locate the source of The Smell. And though we're both certain a mouse climbed up into the back of the coils to take its final breath, we couldn't find the corpse and The Smell lives on, disappearing on cool mornings and returning with a vengeance in the afternoon heat.

On Sunday, I escaped the smell and drove out to Tillamook to meet my parents and the kids at the cheese factory, after which they both fell asleep in a lactose coma on the drive home. Fortunately, for the love of humanity, there are no photos of what Dave and I did while the kids were gone, but my mom took a few of the munchkins on the beach.

Casa de chaos

This is Dave's brother, John. He got here Wednesday night.

I don't have any pictures of them, but I absolutely love seeing John and Dave together. John is THE most mellow guy you'd ever want to meet and Dave is... well... NOT.  I caught them walking out the front door together on Thursday afternoon and John was wearing his uniform: shorts and a t-shirt, chew in one back pocket, wallet in the other and Dave was wearing his uniform: pale purple oxford with a silk tie, black dress pants, glasses hanging off the end of his nose (he'd met with clients that day and hadn't changed his clothes yet) and it struck me as strangely as it always does that those two men came from the same vagina. Even more bizarre is how well they get along.

You know. Like brothers.

The next day, this guy got here.

That's their cousin John. He's CWAZY.

Then Butch got here too and things got even cwazier.

Butch and John both look a lot more menacing than they actually are. In reality, they're the kind of guys who would cut off an arm to help you out. Both arms if you're family. When you get the four of them together, it's like a Last Comic Standing competition between 14-year-old boys, only these boys have access to booze and have been honing their fart jokes for decades.

We girls had plenty of our own fun. This is John's wife. Genoa LOVES Lynne, as you can see.

Genoa does not, however, love me while Lynne is around. I get to play second fiddle (which is actually fine).

My favorite story from the weekend: Alex and Genoa are snuggling in bed with John and Lynne, who stayed in Genoa's room. Genoa tells a secret - she's not wearing any underpants! Which isn't so much a secret as it is her standard operating procedure. So John empties all the change out of his pockets and offers it to her so she'll find some underpants.

Her uncle paid her to get dressed. I love that.

On Sunday, we went over to Brandy and Wayne's house, which is this magnificent castle up in the hills of Vancouver. Every time we go there, I want to move in and no small part of that is how much I love Brandy's cooking. She not only fed ALL of us, but borrowed this awesome bounce house/water slide from her sister.
The kids LOVED it.

And they were so entertained that I got to sit back and chill out with the hubs for a change while my sister stole my camera and took pictures.

That princess band-aid on my finger was courtesy of the cut I got cleaning up the GALLON bottle of Svedka I shattered on the kitchen floor on our way out the door. I wasn't even drunk yet!

Audrey got this cool picture of a yellow ladybug on Alex's neck, as well as the following shot, in which I tell you all to KISS OFF.
Now that everyone is gone, we're nearly as sad as we are exhausted. Dave and I both feel like we'd be happy to not eat or drink ANYTHING for the next several days until all that steak and booze can make its way back out of our systems. Overindulge much? Man. Neither of will ever win an award for moderation.

So anyway, how was your 4th of July?

Happy Husband

Our company arrived earlier than we expected yesterday; Dave and I were upstairs talking and didn't hear them come in over the sound of the oscillating fan and that was embarrassing - coming downstairs red faced and sweaty (from a heated discussion) only to find your family waiting for you and snickering. I think I'm officially the hostess with the mostest. The mostest CLASS.

Once the merciless ribbing was over, Dave barbecued and all twelve of us hung out, plus my sister who walked over from my cousin's house where she's been staying three blocks away. All night we sat around chatting and eating and drinking and when we finally went to bed, Dave snuggled up to me to tell me he couldn't remember ever having more fun than he had last night with his family - his brother, his brother's father-in-law and his cousin. They all sat out in the dark swapping war stories and fart jokes and drinking 12 year old scotch and every once in a while Dave would wander into the kitchen with his eyelids at half mast and a huge grin on his face. These big family weekends are a lot of work for me, but man I love seeing him so happy.

Good Reads

I've added a little Good Reads widget on my sidebar. Until Kindle comes up with an automated review system, I have to upload everything manually, but it's kinda fun, so I don't mind. If you click over to my profile there, you can read my reviews as well. Lately I'm reading a lot of romance and I'm doing that very intentionally to see what's out there before I try to sell my book.

I do read other genres (mostly commercial fiction and book club stuff), but I'm proud to admit that I've given up any and all pretense of being too smart/intellectual/feminist to read romance novels and I'm unabashedly enjoying everything from Harlequin to Historicals and all the juicy loves scenes in between. One of my most recent epiphanies, the same one that led me to start writing my own book in the first place, was that reading doesn't have to make you smarter. I don't have to prove anything by reading high literature and I'm not sure if you've noticed, but that shit is BOOOORING. It always cracks me up that the people who won't read genre fiction are the same people who watch Real Housewives of New Jersey.

If you haven't read The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance, GET ON THAT. It explains what I'm trying to say here but more thoroughly and with a lot more snark. 

House vanity strikes again!

Today is the day I'm cleaning my house, which means I'm doing everything in my power to avoid cleaning my house, like blogging! Tonight Dave's brother arrives, and then the cousins and then Johnny's wife and her parents and I can't wait. We LOVE the fourth of July and the only part I can think of to complain about is the fact that I'll have to wear a bra for the next five days and I am not a huge fan of bras.

I still need to plan out what I'm cooking and I might as well just do it right this very second!

Tonight - NOTHING. The space in my refrigerator is way too valuable. I'll be cooking for TWELVE all weekend.

Thursday - I'll probably make my pistachio pesto for lunch and we're planning to go out for dinner.

Friday Breakfast - Man-pleasing breakfast casserole, fruit salad
Friday Lunch - Cashew chicken
Friday Dinner - Dave's gonna BBQ burgers and dogs and I'll bake some potatoes and make a salad.

Saturday Breakfast - Another casserole
Saturday Lunch - There's a neighborhood BBQ after the 4th of July parade.
Saturday Dinner - BBQ'd chicken, potato salad, asparagus, probably some pasta too

Sunday Breakfast - Pancakes or waffles
Sunday Lunch - leftovers
Sunday Dinner - we're going to Brandy and Wayne's (and my mouth is already watering)

Monday - I'll probably be too exhausted to cook!

What are you guys doing for the fourth? We plan to get drunk and blow shit up the good old 'merican way. Don't worry, the people lighting the matches aren't the ones drinking.