I'm pretty sure I married Clark Griswald.
Every year, on Black Friday, when I am out shopping all the fabulous door-busters, my dear hubby is busy hanging Christmas lights from every orifice of our house.
This year, he started early. By mid-November, he had strung over 10,000 lights from every tree, branch, gutter, shingle, and deck post.
This isn't something he takes lightly. There are charts, maps, blueprints, and electrical grids involved. He actually starts plotting his course of action in the summer so that come winter he is fully prepared.
We have Polar Bear Ski Lodge, Snow-man Alley, Penguin Playland, Grazing Deer Acres, Santa's Workshop, The Polar Express Train, and enough sparkly tress to rival the Redwood Forest.
This year, he has outdone himself. He has set the lights to music. Yes folks, if you drive by our house and tune your am radio to 95.5, you will get an explosion of lights and music that rivals the Christmas Show at Rockefeller Center.
My favorite has to be Carol of the Bells. It is a fast-paced song that makes the lights go all strobe-ey, and the kids sing along with "Give-A-Give-A-Give-A-Garmin."
And Proud Paco watches with awe.
The truly funny part is that we live in the country. Our only neighbors are relatives. I think there are a total of 12 houses on our road and we are all about a 1/4 mile apart. And the neighbors that we aren't related to are mostly free-range hippies that complain about our carbon footprint. (If they could only see the smoke and sparks coming from our electric meter! oy.)
But that doesn't stop Paco. He plots, plans, and shops the after-Christmas sales to add to his ever-growing project. He is like a kid again. And his excitement and enthusiasm are truly contagious.
I invite you all to drive out and take a look. Feel free to stop in for Hot Cocoa and Hot-Toddies. We would love to have you. And if you can't make it, never fear... we are now visible from outer space.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Dicks and Wicks
I recently attending a home-shopping party entitled "Dicks and Wicks." It was a joint party consisting of Party-lite Candles and Pure Romance products. (Um, I was only there for the candles.)
It was my first time ever attending a Pure Romance party and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But, I was going with a fun crew of ladies so I knew it would be a good time.
We tried the lotions and perfumes, we put nipple cream on our lips with man-part shaped applicators, and we played games.
The first game we played was the Alphabet Game. It is a game where the letters of the alphabet are randomly mixed up on cards that the hostess will read out loud. The first person to yell out a romantic or sexy word starting with the letter will get the card. The person with the most cards at the end wins a prize.
The first letter was L and naturally someone yells "love." The next letter was T and someone yelled "touch." Then R. "Romance." And so on. We were 3/4's through the alphabet and I hadn't called out a single word. It wasn't until the letter Q that I was able to contribute.
There is only one word that starts with Q that is of a sexual nature, and it is not sexy. So, naturally, that is the word that comes LOUDLY flying out of my mouth. Of course the room was completely quiet. Everyone looked at me. The older ladies in the crowd look confused. The younger ladies gasped and a few giggled. One woman asked "what does that mean?" and thankfully the hostess called out another letter before I had to answer.
I slunk down in my chair and stayed quiet for the rest of the game. However, I did manage to leave with a large bag filled with, er, candles.
Somehow this story managed to become a topic of conversation during our Thanksgiving dinner. What is more traditional that sitting around the table as a family discussing Sex Toy parties and naughty Q words? (Thankfully the children were at the "kids table" in the next room.)
My mother sat at the head of the table with a quizzical look on her face. You could just tell she was racking her brain thinking of naughty Q words. Finally after several minutes, she couldn't take it anymore and insisted that I tell her the Q word.
I tried to quietly whisper the word to her. After all, it was Thanksgiving and I really didn't need to holler "Q#*%@" across the holiday table.
She still looked at me like a deer in headlights. "Is that even a word?" she says.
My brother practically choked and I thought my cousin was going to blow turkey out her nose.
"You don't know what Q#*%@ means?????"
Great. Naturally we had to explain this to my mother. So between second helpings of mashed potatoes and green beans we all managed to enlighten my mother to the meaning of the naughty Q word. I also managed to tease her that I bought her Christmas present at the party and it is called "Mr. Dependable." (I think she fainted for a few seconds after she called me a "huss-bag.")
I can only hope that Christmas dinner brings as much excitement.
It was my first time ever attending a Pure Romance party and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But, I was going with a fun crew of ladies so I knew it would be a good time.
We tried the lotions and perfumes, we put nipple cream on our lips with man-part shaped applicators, and we played games.
The first game we played was the Alphabet Game. It is a game where the letters of the alphabet are randomly mixed up on cards that the hostess will read out loud. The first person to yell out a romantic or sexy word starting with the letter will get the card. The person with the most cards at the end wins a prize.
The first letter was L and naturally someone yells "love." The next letter was T and someone yelled "touch." Then R. "Romance." And so on. We were 3/4's through the alphabet and I hadn't called out a single word. It wasn't until the letter Q that I was able to contribute.
There is only one word that starts with Q that is of a sexual nature, and it is not sexy. So, naturally, that is the word that comes LOUDLY flying out of my mouth. Of course the room was completely quiet. Everyone looked at me. The older ladies in the crowd look confused. The younger ladies gasped and a few giggled. One woman asked "what does that mean?" and thankfully the hostess called out another letter before I had to answer.
I slunk down in my chair and stayed quiet for the rest of the game. However, I did manage to leave with a large bag filled with, er, candles.
Somehow this story managed to become a topic of conversation during our Thanksgiving dinner. What is more traditional that sitting around the table as a family discussing Sex Toy parties and naughty Q words? (Thankfully the children were at the "kids table" in the next room.)
My mother sat at the head of the table with a quizzical look on her face. You could just tell she was racking her brain thinking of naughty Q words. Finally after several minutes, she couldn't take it anymore and insisted that I tell her the Q word.
I tried to quietly whisper the word to her. After all, it was Thanksgiving and I really didn't need to holler "Q#*%@" across the holiday table.
She still looked at me like a deer in headlights. "Is that even a word?" she says.
My brother practically choked and I thought my cousin was going to blow turkey out her nose.
"You don't know what Q#*%@ means?????"
Great. Naturally we had to explain this to my mother. So between second helpings of mashed potatoes and green beans we all managed to enlighten my mother to the meaning of the naughty Q word. I also managed to tease her that I bought her Christmas present at the party and it is called "Mr. Dependable." (I think she fainted for a few seconds after she called me a "huss-bag.")
I can only hope that Christmas dinner brings as much excitement.
Why Housework Is Bad For You
Oh, irony. It's a bitch, isn't it?
If you have read my previous blogs, you may remember that there has been a bit of banter between myself and Paco regarding mopping. It is something that I just don't do. Our kitchen floor is 400 miles long and it is bright white. So by the time you get from one end to the other, it is already dirty again. So, I made the decision to boycott mopping altogether. (My next floor will be a lovely dirt shade.) Paco is a bit OCD, and at least twice a week he is on his hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. (I LOVE that man!!!)
What's even worse is that our entire downstairs is Pergo flooring that is a complete nightmare to mop. It shows every mop mark, so you have to dry it as you clean it. It is really quite a process. And, it covers over 1000 square feet. So, you are panting and sweating by the time you are done cleaning it. It is a workout and a half. I literally wait until the dirt is about a 1/4 inch thick before tackling it. (Or until we have company coming over. That usually motivates me. Can't let our friends think we live like heathens. *cough*cough)
So, needless to say, when I decided to surprise Paco and mop the downstairs floor, it was not without drama. I was 95% finished mopping when I slipped on a wet spot and landed with all my weight square on my bad knee cap.
Boy did I see stars. And rainbows. And unicorns. And naughty gnomes. Immediately my eyes filled with tears and all the wind was sucked from my lungs. The impact of my fall rattled the windows and shook the foundation. The kids thought a bomb went off and came running to see what happened.
They found me on the floor unable to speak. The pain was so bad it knocked the breath out of me. I didn't dare speak for fear of the expletives that would come flying out. I was in PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ace panicked and called my mother. "Gram. Mom's hurt. It's an emergency. I'm not joking. She fell. Get help and get up here."
My dear mother was there within minutes. She too was panting and sweating. God bless her, her blood pressure must've been through the roof. But, she stayed with me, iced my knee, and got the kids calmed down.
I was finally able to catch my breath. It was at this point that I realized we had a downed NFL linebacker on the floor with only a 65 year old and some toddlers to help her up. This wasn't going to be pretty. It took 20 minutes, 2 chairs, 2 percocet, my mother and my sister-in-law, but we eventually got me up off the floor and on my feet.
And lo and behold, I was fine. Yep, my brilliant surgeon did such amazing work that it was able to withstand a major earthquake. Yes, I was sore and a bit bruised, but I was able to walk and move my knee perfectly. PHEW!!
When Paco came home an hour later, I was propped up on the couch with an icepack. I was still sweating and panting and I looked like I had just finished a triathalon.
The first words out of his mouth were "So, who did you hire to clean the house?"
Um, whatthefrickdidyousay????
I was speechless.
"The house looks great babe. Who did you get to come and clean it?"
I am not proud of how I reacted. But, I was still in severe pain and I was on painkillers. So, when my head started spinning, my eyes glowed red, and the words "I will stab you ASSFACE" came flying out of my mouth, I wasn't completely in control.
Ace started crying. Deuce ran to his room. And Paco asked yet again who cleaned the house.
"I did you ungrateful turd and I managed to practically kill myself in the process!"
OK. So, clearly I have tarnished my Mother-of-the-Year tiara. And my Wife-of-the-Year trophy might be up for grabs. But, seriously, can't a girl get a little credit?
I apologized to my kids for my crazy outburst and I gently explained to them that the chemicals in the mopping cleaner makes Mommy act all crazy, and that is why Daddy should always do the mopping because it doesn't bother him. (Their future wives will thank me some day.) Then I bombarded them with chocolate and soda and my Mother-of-the-Year tiara was placed firmly back on my head.
And let it be said that housework CAN in fact be bad for your health. (And your spouses if they do not choose their words wisely.)
If you have read my previous blogs, you may remember that there has been a bit of banter between myself and Paco regarding mopping. It is something that I just don't do. Our kitchen floor is 400 miles long and it is bright white. So by the time you get from one end to the other, it is already dirty again. So, I made the decision to boycott mopping altogether. (My next floor will be a lovely dirt shade.) Paco is a bit OCD, and at least twice a week he is on his hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. (I LOVE that man!!!)
What's even worse is that our entire downstairs is Pergo flooring that is a complete nightmare to mop. It shows every mop mark, so you have to dry it as you clean it. It is really quite a process. And, it covers over 1000 square feet. So, you are panting and sweating by the time you are done cleaning it. It is a workout and a half. I literally wait until the dirt is about a 1/4 inch thick before tackling it. (Or until we have company coming over. That usually motivates me. Can't let our friends think we live like heathens. *cough*cough)
So, needless to say, when I decided to surprise Paco and mop the downstairs floor, it was not without drama. I was 95% finished mopping when I slipped on a wet spot and landed with all my weight square on my bad knee cap.
Boy did I see stars. And rainbows. And unicorns. And naughty gnomes. Immediately my eyes filled with tears and all the wind was sucked from my lungs. The impact of my fall rattled the windows and shook the foundation. The kids thought a bomb went off and came running to see what happened.
They found me on the floor unable to speak. The pain was so bad it knocked the breath out of me. I didn't dare speak for fear of the expletives that would come flying out. I was in PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ace panicked and called my mother. "Gram. Mom's hurt. It's an emergency. I'm not joking. She fell. Get help and get up here."
My dear mother was there within minutes. She too was panting and sweating. God bless her, her blood pressure must've been through the roof. But, she stayed with me, iced my knee, and got the kids calmed down.
I was finally able to catch my breath. It was at this point that I realized we had a downed NFL linebacker on the floor with only a 65 year old and some toddlers to help her up. This wasn't going to be pretty. It took 20 minutes, 2 chairs, 2 percocet, my mother and my sister-in-law, but we eventually got me up off the floor and on my feet.
And lo and behold, I was fine. Yep, my brilliant surgeon did such amazing work that it was able to withstand a major earthquake. Yes, I was sore and a bit bruised, but I was able to walk and move my knee perfectly. PHEW!!
When Paco came home an hour later, I was propped up on the couch with an icepack. I was still sweating and panting and I looked like I had just finished a triathalon.
The first words out of his mouth were "So, who did you hire to clean the house?"
Um, whatthefrickdidyousay????
I was speechless.
"The house looks great babe. Who did you get to come and clean it?"
I am not proud of how I reacted. But, I was still in severe pain and I was on painkillers. So, when my head started spinning, my eyes glowed red, and the words "I will stab you ASSFACE" came flying out of my mouth, I wasn't completely in control.
Ace started crying. Deuce ran to his room. And Paco asked yet again who cleaned the house.
"I did you ungrateful turd and I managed to practically kill myself in the process!"
OK. So, clearly I have tarnished my Mother-of-the-Year tiara. And my Wife-of-the-Year trophy might be up for grabs. But, seriously, can't a girl get a little credit?
I apologized to my kids for my crazy outburst and I gently explained to them that the chemicals in the mopping cleaner makes Mommy act all crazy, and that is why Daddy should always do the mopping because it doesn't bother him. (Their future wives will thank me some day.) Then I bombarded them with chocolate and soda and my Mother-of-the-Year tiara was placed firmly back on my head.
And let it be said that housework CAN in fact be bad for your health. (And your spouses if they do not choose their words wisely.)
Friday, December 4, 2009
Urban Legends
I was much better prepared for day two with hunky Kevin. I was motivated enough to take a bath and put on some clean clothes. (Since I needed a crane - aka Paco -, some 2-in-1 oil and a spatula to get in and out if the tub, it took some serious motivation.) I even ran a brush through my hair and put on some make-up. I'm pretty sure that it looked like my 4 year old painted my face, but at least I felt (and smelled) a bit better.
By my third appointment I was on a roll. I was sporting both prom-hair and jewelry. By my fourth appointment I was calling him "Kev." I figured since he spent so much time fondling my leg that I could at least give him a pet name.
On my 5th appointment, Kev decided to unwrap my bandages and see how my scar was healing. After he finished unraveling the bandages, it was quite obvious that I hadn't shaved my knee since the surgery. There was a mohawk of white blonde hair sticking up around my scar. Kev gently brushed my scar and then looked up at me with his sparkly eyes and his dreamy smile and said "Well look at that! I thought blonde hair was a myth!"
I wasn't quite sure how to react because I knew that at that point he was envisioning whether or not the um, carpet matched the drapes. (If you know what I'm saying.) And the thought of him thinking of me that way made me turn 47 shades of red. I almost blurted out that due to a waxing incident I was actually sporting shiny hardwoods, but even with a healthy dose of percocet I managed to hold my tongue. Phew.
Needless to say, I am the star PT patient. I have made such incredible progress that my surgeon can't believe it. My Dr. informed me that I have made the best recovery of any patient he has EVER had. The fact that I am an overweight, twenty nine year old (cough*cough) mother of 3 totally blows his mind. I should've fessed up that I was working super hard to impress my hunky intern Kev, but instead I just basked in his glorious praise. (And, um, my husband was at my appointment with me.)
Sadly, Kev is on break now, so he hasn't been at my appointments. Needless to say, I am back to wearing shabby sweats and bed head. I'm saving myself . . .
By my third appointment I was on a roll. I was sporting both prom-hair and jewelry. By my fourth appointment I was calling him "Kev." I figured since he spent so much time fondling my leg that I could at least give him a pet name.
On my 5th appointment, Kev decided to unwrap my bandages and see how my scar was healing. After he finished unraveling the bandages, it was quite obvious that I hadn't shaved my knee since the surgery. There was a mohawk of white blonde hair sticking up around my scar. Kev gently brushed my scar and then looked up at me with his sparkly eyes and his dreamy smile and said "Well look at that! I thought blonde hair was a myth!"
I wasn't quite sure how to react because I knew that at that point he was envisioning whether or not the um, carpet matched the drapes. (If you know what I'm saying.) And the thought of him thinking of me that way made me turn 47 shades of red. I almost blurted out that due to a waxing incident I was actually sporting shiny hardwoods, but even with a healthy dose of percocet I managed to hold my tongue. Phew.
Needless to say, I am the star PT patient. I have made such incredible progress that my surgeon can't believe it. My Dr. informed me that I have made the best recovery of any patient he has EVER had. The fact that I am an overweight, twenty nine year old (cough*cough) mother of 3 totally blows his mind. I should've fessed up that I was working super hard to impress my hunky intern Kev, but instead I just basked in his glorious praise. (And, um, my husband was at my appointment with me.)
Sadly, Kev is on break now, so he hasn't been at my appointments. Needless to say, I am back to wearing shabby sweats and bed head. I'm saving myself . . .
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