Stephanie Says

Steph's 2011 Holiday Gift Guide

2011-12-13T11:32:00.003-05:00

Since tons of people ~~five~~ have requested a gift guide this year, I thought I'd give it a whirl. I too get tired of the "for him for her" gift guides I find in every paper and magazine that all suggest buying my brother a marshmellow shooter or my husband R2D2 salt and pepper shakers (although they would probably both like those items. Moving on).

I haven’t posted a blog in so long I almost forgot how (for realsies). And honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was up for, or into doing a holiday guide this year…that is, until I saw this little ditty.

The Haband Flare Hair Visor. The product description says, “Wait for the laughs at your next golf outing, family reunion or trip to the beach.” I would have to add, “and keep on waiting, because those laughs ain’t comin’ son.” But why let that stop you? (I'm willing to bet that for the type of person who would wear this hat, it hasn't before.) Expect this baby to make an appearance at office holiday parties across the nation.

A perfect gift for: Your uncle who manages a small banking branch, regularly shops for Christmas gifts at Spencer’s, owns the complete collection of Walker Texas Ranger on DVD, and still wears his “I’m with stupid T-shirt” on casual Fridays for back slapping laughs with his employees.

'Tis the Situation

Jersey Shore Christmas Ornatments

When I think of Christmas, I think of softly falling snow, baking cookies, Santa's elves and also, um, the cast of Jersey Shore? Full disclosure, I haven’t seen more of the show than what’s shown in clips on Talk Soup, but how these people ended up as a cultural phenomenon is beyond my mental grasp. I guess it’s related to our human need to crane our necks for a car wreck or watch disturbing footage of plane crashes over and over again on the news.

Perfect gift for: That someone on your list who not only feels the need to watch the car wreck, but also decorate their Christmas tree with it.

Christmas Bacon!

Bacon: Scent by the Gods

Do you have a special lady in your life? If you would like that special lady to smell like cooked flesh, your quest for the perfect gift has ended. Introducing Bacon by Farginnay, a propietary blend of 11 essential oils (grease and fat being at least two of those and is there anything the ladies love more than grease and fat? No. No there really isn't.) This gives treating women like pieces of meat a whole new meaning.

Perfect gift for: The ladies (the ones who like to smell like meat).

Extermin-ate!

Tardis cookie jar

The best thing about this cookie jar, in case you didn’talready know, is that due to ancient Timelord technology, the cookie jar is BIGGERon the inside. So this guy could hold enough cookies to fill the entire GammaQuadrant (wait, I’m mixing my nerdy sci-fi references). No matter, allons-y and get your wallet!

Perfect gift for: The sci-fi cookie lover on your list.In other words, my husband, who actually could eat a planet worth of cookiesand still be skinny with low cholesterol.

Crapping Christmas Cheer!

Thomas Kincaid Snowman
The Thomas Kincaid lover in your life mostlikely cannot get enough Thomas Kincaid. These people are going to want glowingcozy cottages painted on their windows, mugs, chair cushions, shower heads,underwear and possibly tattooed on their lower back. This figurine quenches(some) thirst for Kincaid’s work. This friendly Frosty reads a tale of snuggly Christmas cheer, while digesting the Yule Town he ate for breakfast and standing in the glowy christmas village he crapped out after lunch. If you look closely into the fireplace lit houses in Frosty's bowels you will find itty bitty Kincaidmugs and prints for sale in the cozy village market.

A perfect gift for: Everyone. Anyone who wouldn’t love this gift hatesChristmas, coziness and Jesus.

The Merry Duke and Duchess

Will and Kate finger puppets

I would be horribly remiss if I didn't include a little Will and Kate memorabilia for the 2011 list. Enter Will and Kate (the finger puppets) available on etsy. With these collectible Mullish Muse puppets you can relive over and over again the morning you got up at 4:30 am to watch a young lady walk into a church a commoner and leave a princess. (or at least the time you checked out the footage on youtube and flipped through the commemorative edition of People in the grocery store line.) Also available, Jay-Z, Hunter S. Thompson and Edgar Allen Poe. Think of the Royal reception scene you could put together!

Perfect gift for: The person who is really popular around the office for their collection of smurf pencil toppers and vintage troll dolls.

Oh-Rangutan! Oh Rangutan!

Realistic Orangutan Toddler Doll

Would I leave you without a fake baby primate? Would I? Of course not. It's Christmas after all! Meet Mollie, the first ever orangutan toddler doll from the Ashton-Drake galleries. According to the website, this collectible toddler doll features a "soft, huggable and poseable body that you won't be able to resist picking up." The gift recipient may also not be able to resist taking her to play dates and library story time but I would strongly discourage that. These babies tend to want to roll around in their own feces.

A perfect gift for: Your friend who's always wanted an orangutan baby.

Thanks for giving me a reason to scour the internet for oddities. Personally, I'll be hoping to see Cowboy Squirrel under my tree this year (fingers crossed.)

Happy shopping to all and to all a good night!

Victory Day

2011-05-06T08:23:00.009-04:00

Last year on Mother's Day I landed in Moscow amidst flower wreaths and fireworks. The Russians were celebrating Victory Day, commemorating their triumph over the Nazis in World War Two. The streets were crowded with celebrations, strung with lights and draped in banners declaring VICTORY!

Last Mother's Day I was in the home stretch of a very long, winding, rocky (and scenic) road to becoming a mom. On this road I walked through tears, joys, lessons, roller coasters, volcanoes, physical pain and the kind of all over hurt that can only be a soul aching.

Last Mother's Day, I checked into a hotel with toys and baby food but no baby.

Last Mother's Day I knew that in less than 48 hours we would visit the baby home one last time, this time, there would be no woman in a white coat to come and take him away. This time, we would, finally, walk out with Andre in our arms. It would be our last "visit" to Andre and our first day as a family.

Now, I wake up every morning and rush to the kitchen where Danny is feeding him breakfast. I kiss his neck and cheeks until he giggles and pushes me away. I point out every truck and bus on the road so much so that I continue to do this even when Andre is not in the car with me. I take a deep breath and count to ten when he tries to hit the dog for the thousandth time after I have told him no. I read him book after book after book, doing funny voices and jiggling where the text calls for it. I hide all permanent markers and lipsticks. I melt when he flings his arms around my neck for a hug.

This Mother's Day it has been nearly a year that we've had a mischevious little monkey in our house. I've learned to be more patient (out of necessity), more giving (out of love), more flexible (out of experience) and more forgiving (of myself).

Here's to not knowing what the next year will bring. Happy Mother's Day!

Steph's Annual Holiday Shopping Guide

2010-11-26T07:06:00.019-05:00

I've been neglecting you. I hope you'll accept my deepest apology (actually I hope you'll accept just a regular apology because I should save the really serious ones in case I do something really dumb.)

Anyway, I wouldn't dream of leaving you on your own to navigate the murky waters of holiday shopping. So I pulled together some stellar products that will delight everyone on your christmas list. You may even want to buy a few for yourself!

Pee and Poo
Products include plush toys, t-shirts, keychains and stationery. I know I've shopped for stationery before and thought, flowers and dots are nice and all, but I wish someone would print stationery featuring feces and urine. And I've been wondering for years why the waste we deposit in the toilet couldn't come in plush toy form. If you ask me, we don't spend nearly enough time thinking about bodily waste.

Feng Shui compass
According to the product description, "it locates and calculates supportive energy fields quickly and easily to align your physical surroundings to help manifest your goals and intentions." For instance, if your goal is to save money, it will be able to figure out a way for you to do that. (On sale for $199.99 plus $49.99 for the carrying case)

The Litter Kwitter
I like this product simply because it might inspire this conversation:
ME: Miso? Are you almost done in there? I really have to pee.
CAT: Meow
ME: Seriously, I've seen you piss in the yard it does NOT take this long.
**(jingle jingle)**
ME: Wait. . . Are you playing with a toy in there?
CAT: Meow
ME: This is ridiculous. I'm using the litter.

Face/Butt Towel
For the friend who doesn't know the difference between the two.

Armadillo Beverage Holder
For the person in your life who needs something to hold their drink besides their hand or a table.

Fart Pads
I spent A LOT of time on airplanes this year. I actually think the airlines should give these out with the headphones.

A Spot in Heaven
Yep, you read right. Is there any possible better gift than a spot on St. Peter's List? Up until now people have had to toil away going to church and treating others as they'd like to be treated. Now there's no need to worry about all the neighbor's wife coveting and taking the Lord's name in vain we do all day. Even if the gift recipient isn't a believer, it can't hurt right? It's like an insurance policy for their soul.

Happy and safe holiday shopping to you all!

Swoosh, Smack, Release

2010-10-07T11:44:00.004-04:00

Since I haven't posted in a while, I thought I'd share this little ditty I wrote in honor of my grandpa. He's visiting next week from Ohio and I'm very excited because I miss him dearly.

My friends are usually shocked when I tell them I was on the golf team in high school. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, or because I grew up on the government cheese side of the tracks, or because I wear wedge heels to walk my dog. Nevertheless, the reaction is always the same. “Really?!. . .No seriously. Really?" People simply can’t imagine me partaking in a sport associated with well-to-do businessmen.

I spent my childhood in my grandparent’s house. Every Saturday, if I woke up early enough, I’d see Grandpa at the bottom of the stairs arranging drivers in his big leather bag. It was always before dawn, quiet and still dark. I’d watch him carefully pack cleated shoes into a side pocket, and count out wooden tees in his hand before dumping them into a little sac.

My brother and I would spend the morning accompanying my grandmother to her weekly hair appointment, then get doughnuts, then watch about three hours of cartoons. When Bugs Bunny came on we knew it was about time for Grandpa to get home. He’d put his clubs away, settle into his easy chair and make us change the channel to—golf.

I could not understand it. What was so appealing about this sport? The commentators whispered. The crowd stood perfectly still watching another person basically stand perfectly still. A man would swing a big stick and then they’d all walk across a giant lawn, no landscaping, no pretty flowers to look at. It all seemed so boring. I did not get why grandpa devoted an entire Saturday to what seemed like walking across grass.

When I was thirteen he bought me a set of clubs. They came in a navy blue nylon bag. I ran my fingers over the fuzzy covers on the drivers. I didn’t want to hurt grandpa’s feelings, so I acted excited. But inside I thought, Golf? Blech. There’s absolutely no way I’ll be interested in golf.

He took me to a public course. Three par he called it. He showed me how to position my hands on the grip. It felt odd to interlock my fingers in such a way. He showed me how to stand, where to hold my head, and how to keep my arms straight as I pulled the club back.

On my first swing I lost my grip and the club went flying behind me. On my second, I ripped up a giant clump of earth and grass roots. On the third swing I heard nothing but a loud swoosh and looked down to see my pink and purple ball still waiting patiently on the tee.

“That’s okay,” Grandpa said, “Just keep your eye on the ball and try again.”

On the fourth swing there was a loud SMACK. I felt a satisfying reverberation in the club as the ball made a perfect arc through the air.

“There you go!” Grandpa clapped, “That’s how you do it Stephanie Marie.”

The ball hadn’t even gone that far, but the feeling was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was like the vibrations from the club had entered my body and created a fizzy little happiness that bubbled all over. I wanted to do it again. For the rest of the afternoon I chased that feeling; that swoosh, smack, release that felt so good. Most of my shots that day (and many days after) were duds, divits and clear misses. But occasionally the ball sailed perfectly straight, up and away, and gracefully skipped down the green. Those shots made it all worth it. That swoosh, smack release was as potent as any drink or drug. There was a calm in it, a swell of happy accomplishment.

I started to think, I could spend an entire Saturday doing this and maybe now understand why my grandfather did. For thirty five years he worked all week in a factory mixing paint. Sometimes I’d visit him and my grandmother there. The building was large and every surface was a variant of the color grey. It was loud and filled with chemical odor. I'm sure he was happy enough there. But on the weekends, I imagine he just wanted to shake off the sounds of whirring machines and noxious fumes and breathe in fresh air. He wanted to walk in the sunshine on freshly clipped grass and sink into the rhythm that can only be found on the green. Swoosh. Smack. Release.

Old MacDonald Had a Drunk Neighbor

2010-08-27T08:41:00.004-04:00

So we've been at this gig for almost four months now, and we continue to learn the ins and outs of the little creature we call Andre. We've learned that he likes to climb, laughs at low brow humor, and likes tofu more than hamburger. But one of the most important things we learned is that Andre likes singing. We've yet to encounter a fit of fussies that a round of "Bingo was his name-O" wouldn't cure.

The problem is, the repertoire of songs is short and Danny and I already find ourselves wishing night would fall after four times through "You are my sunshine." (Ever looked up the full lyrics to that song? Seriously, it's like a creepy dude's suicide note.)

While Andre would never get bored with the cow/duck/pig rotation on Old Macdonald's Farm, Danny and I find that we need something a little more than a Moo Moo here and a Moo Moo there. We decided the farm could use some more interesting goings on, so we spruced things up a little.

Here are some things we think may be found lying around Old MacDonald's farm:

Old MacDonald Had a Farm E-I-E-I-O... And on that farm he had a. . .

Drunk Neighbor
Bitch in heat
Mysterious Radioactive substance
An antique gramophone
Studio for making pornographic films
Dental student performing his first extraction
Scooby Doo Gang
Screaming scull
Expert on Scottish Highland history
Hideous mutant
Smaller farm
Frat party
Crack Dealer

Feel free to make up your own. The possibilities are endless. (Old Macdonald has a really, really big farm since he got taken over by ConAgra). Most of the fun lies in coming up with the corresponding sounds. All in all, it makes song time fun for the whole family. At least until he's old enough to realize that no one else's MacDonald has leather whip collection.

Steph's pre-adoption muscle building workout

2010-07-07T08:42:00.009-04:00

I really wish we had done this. It is tough for even a relatively fit person go straight to the 20 pounder, so, if you are adopting an older baby or toddler (or expecting a particularly large newborn) do yourself a favor and start building up the needed muscles now, lest you, like us, finish each day feeling like you ran a marathon over a mountain range.
Sure, you could do a regular work out at the gym, but this routine is very specifically geared to the types of motions you will soon be performing.

Needed for this excersize routine: A 20-25lb bag of sand (cat litter or dog food would work too)

1. Carry the bag through at least one international airport while pushing a stroller and carrying a purse. (Walk FAST so you don't miss your connection.)

2. Switch the bag back and forth from one hip to another while you listen to various airline personnel try to explain what's wrong with your (flight/ticket/seat request/child's passport).

3. Stand in line with the bag for four hours.

4. Take turns with your partner bouncing the bag up and down the plane aisles for 10-14 hours. Every four or five hours sit down, rest the bag in the crook of your elbow and remain completely still. As soon as you can't stand it any more and move your arm, resume bouncing.

5. At home. Put the bag of sand in the crib. Take it out again. Put it back. Take it out. Rock it around the room a little bit. Repeat for one hour.

6. Load the bag into and out of a car seat/high chair/stroller at least 15 times a day.

7. Pick the bag up off the floor. Put it back down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Walk the bag over to the window to look at the kitty. Dangle keys in front of the bag. Kiss the bag. Position the bag on your hip. Make macaroni and cheese.

8. Attach a string to the bag. Have your partner pull it around on the floor. Crawl around behind it. Do this for about seven hours a day.

Advanced workout:
Once you've mastered the above excersizes, poke a few holes in the bag. Attempt to keep the sand from spilling out and repeat steps 1 through 10. This will simulate the awkward squirmy wormy positions you will soon assume while holding a child who is not used to being held and is more interested in seeing what the dog is doing than being held by you (but not interested enough to want to actually be put down.)

Note about this routine:
Following this excersize routine with a bag of sand will build your muscles. Following it with a child will make you love them so much it makes you a little dizzy sometimes.

Dog Food, Bean, or Beetle?

2010-06-11T21:09:00.024-04:00

Things I'm always doing:

A. Picking stuff up off the floor. Cheerios, hairballs, dead beetles, soiled diapers, duplo blocks, empty yogurt containers... One of our favorite games now is: "Dog food, bean or beetle?" In this game, the baby eats something off the floor and we have to guess, dog food, bean, or beetle? (The winner is usually announced later during diaper changing time.)

B. Running out of stuff. Bread, bananas, cereal, milk, laundry detergent, bubble bath, paper towels. I need one of those things on the Jetsons where you just say what you want and it comes out of a little box. The internet kind of serves that purpose, but it takes work like turning on the computer and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... I want to just say: "diapers" and have them materialize in front of me.

C. Buckling, snapping and popping. Buckling him into the car seat, the high chair, the stroller, the grocery cart. Snapping onesies and overalls. Popping lids on and off tupperware containers, snack catchers and sippy cups. Most of these tasks are also performed one handed while holding a greased piglet.

D. Smiling and laughing. He has a habit of cracking a big gummy grin and those mile deep dimples make me want to just slurp the love right off his chubby cheeks.

Items purchased since child came home:

A. A bigger refrigerator. To contain the massive quantities of food this little tiny being seems to eat.

B. Dirt devil auto charge hand vacuum. Because we can only pick up so many cheerios and hairballs and dead beetles by hand. And I don't feel like lugging out the vacuum and wrestling the outlet cover off every time I see a collection of dirt and/or insect carcass (which show up more than I could ever have imagined. I guess I just wasn't looking before.)

C. Cheerios. Cheerios. Cheerios. (And little containers for cheerios)

D. Toys that bleep and bloop. Before Andre came home I said to Danny, "We don't need all those bleepety bloopety boppity plastic toys. I am going to have all wooden toys. Classic toys like blocks and stacking rings and lincoln logs. That's all kids really want." Andre was home two days when we took him to the Drs office and he went so crazy for the bleepy bloopy activity table that I worried we were understimulating him and bought him a bleep and bloop table plus three other bleep and bloop toys.

Things that are unbearably cute:

A. He throws food over the side of the high chair and then leans over to wait for the dog to show up. It's his favorite show to watch while he eats.

B. Kiddo waits outside the bedroom door like a groupie and squeals at the slightest hint of activity in the crib. It's annoying, but sweet. We're pretty sure the dog psychology here is that Kiddo thinks the new dog is in trouble because he's separated form the pack and she's worried about him.

C. Little boy chases the cat all over the house. When he finally catches up with the cat, the dog shows up and sniffs the cat's ass sending the cat screeching in the other direction. Then the game begins again.

Official Winner of the Bonehead Maneuver Award:

The other day I tried to give him a taste of my ice cream cone. It turns out those cones aren't as structurally sound as one might think.

First week on the job

2010-05-17T20:45:00.022-04:00

It's true there are no words to adequately describe all the things we've been feeling and experiencing this past week, but I'll try. First and foremost is overjoyed. A simple act like watching Danny feed Andre macaroni can move me to tears.

Tiny moments feel huge because it's been a winding, frustrating and exhilarating road to be together. But what moves me even more is that Andre's just been living his little life and today's just another day to play with a paper bag. He's so happy just to explore the way a package of Huggies wipes crinkles in his hands or crawl after a ball. He's already taught us that life only happens right this very moment. There's no two weeks from now or two weeks ago, just what's right in front of us, right this second.

So here's my first week job evaluation. I'm pretty sure Andre will renew my contract as mom, I'll let you know.

Day 1, Tuesday: We pick Andre up from the baby home in the morning. He's happy enough to see us, until we attempt to change his clothes. I learn quickly that putting a shirt on Andre will be a bit like putting a shirt on a disgruntled squid. When we get back to the hotel I feel giddy, like we've just gotten the ridiculously good end of a bargain.

Later we are snuggling in bed. Andre is way too excited to sleep. We sing to him, whatever songs come to mind: Gin and Juice, Papa Don't Preach, Dancing Queen. We put him in the crib at the foot of the bed. He falls asleep almost immediately and we lay on the bed and watch him for another hour.

Day 2. Wednesday: We lay in bed wondering when he's going to wake up so we can snuggle him more. He smiles and laughs at us when he wakes up. We already know that his favorite toys are the wipee package and a 25 cent paper gift bag from Target.

We walk to Pushkin Square. It feels odd and completely natural all at once, to be walking the Moscow streets, just the three of us. Moscow is gorgeous, all blooming tulips and violets. We sit on the grass next to a large fountain and I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. I also realize that we've forgotten to bring Andre anything to drink. So while Danny and I enjoy our cold beverages on a hot day, Andre is sweating and thirsty. If he could talk I think he would have rolled his eyes and said, "Rookies."

Day 3. Thursday: We go to the breakfast buffet so we can all eat. It's very convenient. Andre likes eggs, oatmeal, strawberries and baked beans. Later we walk to the grocery store. Andre hasn't pooped, and Natasha recommended prunes. We pick from among the baby food labeled in Cyrillic what we think is prunes. That afternoon we spend hours at the American embassy. We get to talking to the other families adopting children. "You gave him baked beans AND prunes?" One woman says. "You're asking for it sister."

She was right. Very right.

Day 4, Friday: Andre is evolving before our eyes, like one of those aliens that develops at ten times the human rate. When we first brought him to the hotel he was sort of scooting on his belly. Now he moves like lightning and is enamored with every sharp edged and dangerous item in the hotel room. Danny and I get used to always being on the lookout. We have been operating on an IOU nap system for days already.

Being a beginning parent in a hotel room has it's difficulties, like making lunch in the bathroom sink. It does however have it's rewards. We will miss the daily maid service and free breakfast buffet.

Day 5, Saturday: We leave for the airport at 3am. The following 27 hours are like a bizarre parenting hazing ritual. Andre doesn't take kindly to sitting in the same cramped place for hours on end. He doesn't hold his poops in just because we're on an airplane. He doesn't give a rats ass what the other passengers think of his screaming and surprisingly, neither do we.

The Amsterdam airport is a godsend. We were there six hours and they were the best six hours of our day. There is a posh nap club for babies. A low lit haven with cribs and sheer curtains and little couches for mom and dad to sleep, sinks and microwaves to make bottles and an awesome play room next door. It made all three of us very happy campers.

Day 6 Sunday: It feels strange, in a good way, to finally have him home. The little boy whose pictures we snuck glances at, whose face featured in our dreams, is now drooling on our living room carpet. Like most new parents, we do a lot of staring and smiling. Andre stares back at us and smiles in between bouts of exploring. He discovers his dresser has an alternate use as a rock climbing wall. He hangs from the knobs and his little toes try to find purchase in the grooves between the drawers. I'm certain one day I will turn around and find him teetering on top with a big grin on his face.

Day 7 Monday: We visit the pediatrician. She tells us Andre is perfect, which of course we already knew. She checks every diagnosis given to us by the Russian doctor and dismisses all of them. Two nurses come in to take blood and I hold Andre tight as he writhes and screams and cries. I fight tears myself. After the blood draw I don't bother getting him dressed again. It's warm outside and he hates putting clothes on. Nakedness is his treat for being brave. In the car he smiles up at me and I remember that it's okay, because that other moment is gone now and he's moved on to a new one, so I should too.

He has been a brave boy. It's a tough transition for a baby, for an adult for that matter. Everything and everyone is different. It's as if two benevolent aliens came and took you to another planet. We're all doing our best, going on instinct and love (and the occasional looking something up in a book while he's sleeping.) Mostly we follow his lead, going from joy to joy, just like he does.

Home at Last

2010-05-16T16:37:00.004-04:00

Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words. Their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

I now pronounce you...mom and dad.

2010-04-22T13:48:00.005-04:00

We did It! We stood in Russian court yesterday and explained to a judge why we would be good parents for Andre. Once I was able to breathe, it was not an unpleasant experience. Natasha, our Russian fairy godmother, practiced our speeches with us and stood beside us to translate everything to the judge.

Contrary to what most people seem to think about Russians, they are quite warm people. Natasha told us the more emotion we showed in our speeches the better, and that if we were nervous or cried it would be good, because the judge would see we are having the normal reaction to adopting a child.

Danny was charming and cute as always. Everyone in the courtroom cooed and smiled at the pictures of him and Andre together. Just like at the baby home, much ado is made about how much they look alike. Usually the man does most of the talking in court, but for some reason the majority of the questions were directed to me. Questions like: "What is your attitude about the woman who sent the boy back?" and "You are involved in women's liberation. What are you liberating the women from?"

We then talked a bit about my novel and the judge read through our thick file. She stopped at the picture of our dog. She seemed suspicious, "Is he friendly?" She asked. "Yes!" Danny and I quickly answered in unison.

Our hearts stopped briefly when the prosecutor talked about how it's a difficult decision given the current conditions, but in this case, she said, I can see these people really love this boy and this adoption is in his best interests.

We stood up for the judge to make her decision. My heart was pounding so hard and tears were brimming at my eyes. Natasha, an adoptive mother herself, squeezed my hand as the judge announced, "According to Russian law, you will hereby be considered mother and father to Andre Alexander."

So, in a few short weeks, he will finally, finally be home.

Lost and Found

2010-04-20T14:08:00.006-04:00

The first two days of my trip were spent eating bocadillos and strolling by Spainish art masters at the Prado. Right now you may be saying to yourself, silly Steph, the Prado isn't in Moscow, it's in Madrid. Well, you would be correct. The Prado is in Madrid, just like we were for all of Saturday and Sunday (Monday too if you count the seven hours at the airport.)

Saturday morning we missed our connection due to a long comedy of errors mixed with the Madrid airport staff's "I don't care" shrugs that would put French "I don't care" shrugs to shame. At some point the flight was closed, and I collapsed in tears as I realized my ride to my baby boy was leaving. . .without me on it.

Thanks to volcano Kajagoogoo, there were no available flights until Monday. "Please. We're desperate." Danny said to the ticket agent. "Yes," she said, "So is everyone in Europe right now.Monday is the soonest."

Due to the ash cloud's south eastern travel path, we wondered if even the Monday flight would make it (and almost didn't.) Our bags however were on their way to Moscow, so on top of the creeping fear that we wouldn't make it in time for our court date, there was a "no clean underwear or toothbrush" situation.

Being stuck in Madrid would be a fortuitous event at any other time. I love Madrid. But it was heart clenching when we were desperately wanting to be somewhere else. I couldn't stop thinking that thousands of miles away over mountains and various border crossings, was the little boy we were supposed to be holding.

I did enjoy Spain a little after I stopped sobbing. And the Prado was a very distant second to visiting Andre at the baby home. But we finally made it to Moscow, miraculously got our bags, had a great day with little A, and all the planets are in alignment again.

Breathe Deeply

2010-04-12T10:42:00.013-04:00

So let's review shall we? What's been going on in Moscow in the four short weeks since we left there floating on a cloud of baby bliss?

First there were the bombs. Our hearts were heavy. We wondered what it must be like for a city to grieve something like that. What it must feel like to go to work everyday or send your children to school knowing that a man has promised more like it in the days to come? It's unimaginable really. We weren't terrified to go to Moscow. But flying in and out of its main airport and traipsing all over the city, well, the bombings weighed heavily on our hearts and minds.

Then, last week, a woman in Tennessee decided she could no longer handle the seven year old boy she adopted from Russia, so she sent him back to Moscow ALONE with a NOTE saying she no longer wished to parent him. A NOTE! She paid a man $200 to meet him at the airport and drop him off at the Ministry of Education. Russian officials of course went ballistic and threatened to halt all adoptions to America altogether. I first read the story on Friday morning. I read it, removed my computer from my lap and walked into Andre's room. I looked at the crib and the rocking chair and the pretty clouds on the wall and I fell to my knees. I prayed. PRAYED. The bars of the crib became an alter rail where I cried, begged and pleaded to the almighty universe. Please, please, PLEASE let us bring him home.

The cherry on top was the plane crash in Russia the next day. The one where an "aging Russian aircraft" killed 96 people including the president of Poland. I read one story describing how the daughter of the Polish president met the aircraft that carried home the caskets of both her parents. She walked out to the the tarmac, knelt before the coffins and wept. I wept with her.

The waiting alone was hard enough without two national disasters and the threat of closing the adoption program thrown in. I'm sure the Russians on our flight will be super excited to see a couple Americans on their way to adopt a baby. I can only hope that our little love seedling can push through the brambles and get through to the other side. I have to believe that it will.

Somehow I've found a place inside myself that trusts the timeline of my life. For instance, I first started trying to get pregnant four years ago, and I never did. But I wouldn't change one single thing about the past four years, not one. I wouldn't change one thing about any of the years of my life for that matter. So I will trust that this will work out, like everything else has. We are still on schedule to go, and can only do what we've always done, and will continue to do: wait and see what happens. It's the only way to live really, it makes things interesting.

A Watched Pot WILL Boil

2010-04-07T08:04:00.005-04:00

It's a scientific fact. (I checked it the other day when I was boiling eggs.) I've counted every day since our papers were officially filed in Russian court. Our translator said it would be 4-6 weeks until our court date, our agency said 6-8. I of course favored the translator's math. If you're wondering, this is day three of week four.

I've tried to not watch the pot. I tried to bury my head in my work. I had a party, cleaned the garage, planted herbs and flowers in my yard. But during each activity I'd wonder, when are they going to call?

Last week we woke up to the news that two suicide bombers killed 39 people in two Moscow subway stations. In Gainesville that would be the equivalent of bombing the football stadium or Satchel's, something lots of people use and are very proud of. Our first thought was for the people we know there, their families and friends. My heart ached and worried for them. A silent prayer floated from my mind hoping they were all okay. But then, I couldn't help but wonder how this would affect us. Would it keep us longer from Andre? Make it harder to get in and out of Moscow? Would they stall adoptions altogether?

So Danny and I held our breath and continued to distract ourselves. We washed baby sheets and baby towels. We bought a new camera. We saw a cheesy movie. We impulse bought a magnolia tree. And yesterday, while I was out, Danny got "the call."

I won't say here exactly when we're going in case any of you are inclined to come to my house and steal things (like our $75 fat box TV). I won't make the same mistake I made before our last trip, when a woman came to the house selling meat out of her van and I said, "No thanks, Ms. Stranger-Selling-Meat-Out-of-Your-Van, we're about to leave the country for a week."

We'll have to make one more trip after this to finally bring him home, but we've rounded the corner and I can see the finish line. This time when we leave Moscow, we'll know exactly when we're coming back.

A Few Moments in the Life of a Temporary Muscovite

2010-03-15T13:08:00.016-04:00

Last Tuesday at this time, I was standing in a centuries old church watching old babushkas cross themselves while a priest walked back and forth across the floor. He swung an incense ball to the melodic chanting of robed men in a far corner.

Now, I'm in the new Millhopper library (which is quite nice by the way). I'm trying to get back on my own schedule, for what might be the last time in awhile I have a schedule that’s purely my own.

After our heartache in November, we left for this trip with a cautious hope in our hearts, a hope that's now grown so big I barely have enough room for it in my chest. Here are a few of my favorite moments from the last week...

Sunday--Somewhere over the Atlantic, I discover the woman in the seat next to me was adopted at the age of eight months (the same age as the little boy we're going to see).

Tuesday--We go to the ministry of education to get our referral. We park in front of a cell phone kiosk and make our way down the street. As we walk, Natasha, our translator, turns to me and says, "We have a few minutes before our appointment. Would you like to go across the street and see the church where Peter the Great was Baptized?" The church looks like a big colorful wedding cake with piped white icing and golden domes perched on top. Tsars and tsarinas were married inside. I smile thinking that a centuries old historical landmark is sandwiched between a cell phone kiosk and a Kwik-E-Mart.

Wednesday--Andre is asleep in my arms. He's tightly clutching the little elephant blanket we brought. His little fingers are wrapped into the folds and the elephant's ear is in his mouth. I brought the blanket so we could bring something back for Kiddo to get the baby's scent. But when the caretaker comes to take him back to his room, I can't bear to take the little elephant away. The caretaker smiles at me and keeps repeating, "Zaftra, Zaftra". When she leaves I look it up and learn that it means, tomorrow.

Thursday--Danny and I are watching an episode of Friends in the back of Pasha's car. The traffic is worse than usual today and Pasha has cleverly wedged a portable DVD player in between the two front seats so that we can watch Joey and Chandler banter about their overly large entertainment unit. Though he can't see the screen, Pasha laughs at all the funny parts.

Friday--I'm topless. A strange man is feeling my boobs. It's the third time in an hour I've had to remove my shirt for a doctor. It's starting to feel a bit like Mardi Gras. First there was the pulmonologist, then the dermatologist. I didn't have to take my shirt off for the psychiatrist, just give him travel tips about visiting Florida. Now there is an oncologist looking at my nipples and calling questions over his shoulder so Natasha can translate from behind the screen.

Saturday--Our last day with Andre. His head is tucked in the crook of Danny's arm, he reaches a hand up to Danny's face and babbles a string of syllables. When they come to take him away he smiles at us. I do not cry, because I know we'll be back in the blink of an eye.

I've Got Big Problems

2010-02-24T14:40:00.010-05:00

I was working at Starbucks today. Naturally, after sucking down a large latte in ten minutes, I had to use the bathroom.

I can't believe I'm about to type this but, if you read this blog you may be familiar with the Starbucks bathroom since I've written about it before. (Really, with everything going on in my life you'd think there'd be more to write about than the Starbuck's bathroom, but I guess not.)

Anyway, it's a single bathroom and to get into it you have to go up to the bar and get a key. So I did, as I have on many other days.

Except today when I went in the bathroom it was, well, kind of apocalyptic. The toilet was stuffed with toilet paper, poo and all manner of bloody horror. So I pivoted on my heel and walked right back out. But here's the kicker. I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING TO ANYONE. I put the key back on the bar and walked back to my seat. I have no idea why. Maybe I didn't want them to think it was me. Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe I wanted someone else to bear the bad news to those nice boys who have to clean it up. Who knows.

The worst part is, a few minutes later another woman went in there and, being the upstanding and responsible citizen that she is, she promptly alerted the staff. So I sat in my chair and realized now they DEFINATELY think I was the one responsible for all that horror.

It's a really big problem right? I know, my problems aren't as big as whoever had to clean that horror show. That person deserves an extra day off. But I'm not sure I can ever show my face in there again. Which cements my guilt even further (non-guilty people don't run).

Maybe I'll write a letter:

Dear Baristas of Downtown Starbucks,

A) It wasn't me. (I swear!) I have a strict "no pooping in public" rule. And even if it had been me, I would have taken up residence in that bathroom forever rather than have one of you clean it.

B) I'm heartily sorry I'm a freak and left that nastiness for another innocent pair of eyes to discover.

Sincerely,

Steph (aka "grande non-fat latte with two Splendas")

At any rate, any hope of getting work done was shot, so I started gathering my things up to go.

As I packed up, a homeless man came up to me and said, "People watching is my favorite hobby, and you. . .are a very special person."

Special. Yes. That's the word to describe me.

The Decade According to Steph

2010-02-03T09:09:00.032-05:00

So we're already a month and change into 2010 and I'm still trying to figure out what will culturally standout about the last decade. Some people are saying the last decade isn't over yet. I think those people need to form a math club for purists and just keep to themselves.

Event wise a lot happened: 9/11, devasating hurricanes, the first black president. But culturally? What will be our bellbottoms? Our Beatles? Our neon leg warmers and Madonnas? I still haven't quite figured out what we took out of the nineties. People keep saying grunge, but I think it's just because they don't know either. Kurt Cobain just cannot be the cultural lynchpin of an entire decade.

So in the absence of any insight on what was culturally important to the world in the last decade, I'm going to focus on a more important analysis. The decade according to Steph. Here are some random moments from my last ten years.

2000: 12:02 am, January 1st, Madrid. I am nearly crushed in a crowd of rowdy Spaniards shouting Ole! My feet leave the ground momentarily. My life passses before my eyes, and inexplicably, it's in Spanish, so I don't understand any of it.

2001: My boss calls me in the morning before I go in to work, asks if I've seen the news. I turn on the TV to silent journalists and two crumbling towers in New York. I start to cry uncontrollably.

2002: Danny reminds me to put on my "poker face" before we go look at houses, so we'll be able to negotiate a better price. It turns out I don't exactly have a poker face. The third house we walk into I gush, "Oh my god I love it!" The following month we're living in it.

2003: It is four days before my wedding and my mother-in-law has come up to visit. I've left my to-do list on the kitchen table. She takes one look at it and says, "If I had a to-do list that long I'd shoot myself."

2004: I am in a hospital room. Every surface is covered in paper and plastic. A nurse in gloves and a surgical mask takes a pill out of a lead box. The pill will fill me with a radioactive substance that will eat my cancer away. She watches me swallow it. Three days later she measures me with a Geiger counter and tells me I can go home.

2005: I'm sitting on freezing concrete with eight other women, blocking the entrance to the FDA headquarters. Officers from the Deparment of Homeland Security are standing behind us. Reporters in front of us. I've worn my favorite low-rise jeans. As the officers get ready to drag me to the armored truck, I can't stop wondering if my butt crack is showing.

2006: It is the sixth month in a row I think I am pregnant and the sixth month in a row I am not. I have memorized all the signs and symptoms of early pregancy, and I have all of them, every month. I take the little plastic EPT test and smash it under the heel of my shoe like the irritating vermin that it is.

2007: Danny and I are sitting on a sidewalk in Chelsea, sharing a burrito. We're waiting with a hundred other people to get into a tiny improv theater underneath Gristede's grocery store. When we get inside we see that the surprise special guests are Amy Poehler and Seth Meyers. We decide that having dinner on a surface that was likely peed on recently--was totally worth it.

2008: Alisa and I are in an apartment decorated by old superman sheets and cartoon character lunchboxes. We've responded to an ad that said, "Puppet Band needs members: Will train." We sit on a couch watching two men introduce us to various alien puppets. An IV bag filled with red liquid hangs on the wall behind us.

2009: I'm eating quesadillas in a Moscow restaurant, sitting underneath a large wagon wheel. The only words the server and I have in common are, "hello" and "thank you." My heart is broken into a thousand tiny pieces that sit uncomfortably in my chest. I am numb with loss, but I look up on the wall and see a framed picture of Donald Duck, and it makes me laugh.

All in all, it's been a good decade. Sure, I've had some radiation, some heartache, and been sliced open two or three times, but all that pales in comparison to the amount of living, loving and laughing I did in the past ten years.

Some predictions for the next decade. At some point I will:
-Have poop on my hands and not care
-Paint a room red
-Buy a strobe light
-love someone so much I can't see straight
-meet a C-list celebrity
-eat a kiwi
-star in an infomercial

Laming out

2010-01-21T11:39:00.011-05:00

I've been ignoring you all. Sorry. All my creative energies are sinking into fashioning a new ending to my book, a new facisination with watercolors and trying to think of things to do that will distract me from wondering every second of every day when we'll be going back to Moscow.

So I'm laming out, and posting one of those MEME surveys I do on Facebook when I'm searching for anything to do other than write dialouge. (Thanks Whitney)

Enjoy:

Things come in threes!
Here's what you're supposed to do...and please do not spoil the fun. Copy, paste in your notes, delete my answers and type in your answers. Then tag a few good friends! The theory is that you will learn a lot of little known things about each other.

(Steph's comment: Over use of exclamation points aside, I have to wonder about the author of this survey. Firstly, I get inappropriately annoyed when people instruct me not to 'spoil the fun.' I highly doubt my failure to pass on this survey would greatly disappoint masses of more fun-loving people. Secondly, I'm pretty sure most people understand the "theory" of this excersize, but I suppose it was nice of them to lay it out for the slow folks in the back.)

Three Names I go by
1. Stephanie
2. Oxcart
3. Bob "The Buttcrack" Jones

Three Jobs I have had in my life
1. Hotel Maid
2. Giant Penguin
3. Crazy Bitch

Three Places I have lived
1. Crete, Illinois (1987-1995)
2. Avignon, France (Summer 1999)
3. Sister Lucille's Psychiatric Institute for the Deeply Disturbed (2005-Present)

Three TV Shows that I watch
1. Dexter
2. Mad Men
3. Local Access channel. (This channel has very important information. For instance, a few years ago I saw an ad put out by Alachua County Animal Control looking for the two women who brought in an injured bat they'd nursed back to health. Turned out the bat had rabies. Since then I'm wary of strange women with foam on their face.)

Three Places I have been
1. Louis the XIVth's bedroom
2. The final resting place of President McKinley
3. A Pornographic video store in France (I didn't buy anything. There was a lot of horse porn though if you're into that. In French, but that might not make a difference because they're horses.)

Three People/Sites that e-mail me regularly
1. Adoptive families magazine
2. My mom
3. Discount Witchcraft Supplies

Three of my favorite Foods
1. Anything with cheese and tomato sauce
2. Anything chocolate
3. Soylent Green

Three things I am Looking Forward to
1. Going back to Russia
2. The 3D Piranha movie I saw a trailer for last night. Spring Break. Blood Thirsty Fish. Concernced Scientists. It's got something for the whole family.
3. My plan for World Domination coming to fruition.

Three of my all-time favorite Songs:
1. King of Carrot Flowers, Neutral Milk Hotel
2. Stinging Velvet, Neko Case
3. Mr. Plow, Homer Simpson

Three top Concert experiences:
1. Camping out for tickets to Dave Matthews (back in the days when people actually physically had to go somewhere to buy tickets to things. I also walked uphill in the snow barefoot for those tickets.)
2. Eighth grade concert band, Calumet Mall Christmas show. We rocked the pants off those jingle jangle holiday tunes!! (Sadly the band broke up shortly thereafter to go to highschool.)
3. Esthero, NYC (Where Candi and I got so drunk I danced with a janitor and rode home on the floor of a cab.)

Three Places you want to see or visit in this lifetime (places you haven't seen or visited):
1. The Grand Canyon
2. London, England
3. I'm using this slot to just wonder what the difference is between "seen" and "visited." Do we really need the distinction here? Does anyone ever say, "You know, I saw Paris, but I wish I would have visited it instead."

Three Things that make your SKIN CRAWL:
1. Spiders of all shapes and sizes, but especially the pregnant ones who throw their overflowing fertility in my face by giving birth to thousands on my kitchen floor.
2. Possums. These nasty creatures are the devil's minions, I promise you.
3. My dog getting her anal glands squeezed at the vet. If I had known anal gland care was part of dog ownership, I might have just gotten a goldfish.

Three Things that calm me down when I am stressed:
1. Narcotics
2. Green Tea
3. A nice walk around the block.

Three Most Dangerous things I have ever done:
1. Skydiving (no wait, Ferris Wheels)
2. Hitchhiked rides from strange men as a teenager (seriously, how am I not chopped up in the trunk of a Toyota Camry somewhere?)
3. Called my mom a bitch when she had a hot curling iron in her hand.

Now, Don't spoil the fun!!!! Keep the survey going!!!
Yay!
It's fun!
really!
Come on!
DO IT!
What's wrong with you?
Don't you like fun?

The Ghost of Christmas Past

2009-12-21T15:02:00.017-05:00

Last night I watched A Christmas Carol, the good one, from the eighties when everything was real quality like Munchichis and My Little Ponies.

Anyway, as is the case for most of you I'm sure, Christmas has a special nostalgic quality for me. As a kid, there is no better time than Christmas time. There's like a month-long build-up where you get a piece of chocolate everyday from the advent calendar, school tapers off to making contruction paper chains and practicing songs for the Annual Christmas "show," and you get to scour the Sears catalog picking out everything you could possibly want (and know there's a good chance you're going to get at least some of it.) Throw in Christmas cookies and no school for two weeks and boom, the most wonderful time of the year.

In honor of A Christmas Carol, I took a little tour through my own Christmases of yore.

Baby smirk. At the tender age of two, I am already skeptical of this whole Santa Claus business with a look that says, "Whatever lady, let's wrap this up so I can crap my pants and hit the KayBee toys to let "Santa" know what I will expect under the tree come Christmas morning.

Ahhh, lederhosen and black knee socks, Christmas sure ain't what it used to be, I tell you what.

I have several Santa pictures with me in this pose. I have no idea what that's about, possibly my attempt at being girly. Also, I'm pretty sure my shell-shocked little brother is attempting to flip off the camera. We're very pious, my family.

Christmas: The Teen Years. Decked out in prison stripes and my attempt at a New Wave haircut, I announce to everyone that Christmas is so, like, totally lame. (Please note: Steph and Steve's matching gray stonewash jeans.)

Okay I'm not in this shot, but felt I must include what we lovingly referred to for years as our Charlie Brown Christmas tree. As you can see, my mom (who probably caps off at 5'2'' wearing a top hat) is kneeling, and yet still manages to clear half the tree's height.

This one has nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas, yet still, it begs to be included. This is me paying a visit to McGruff the Crime dog. I have no idea why he was taking visitors or why they chose a large wicker chair (seriously, try being a serious crimefighter in wicker), but I'm forced to wonder what costume designer interpreted McGruff as a shady canine druglord wearing too-short pants and orthopedic shoes. (Special thanks to mom and grandma for the constant vigilance in keeping my knee socks pulled all the way up.)

I can't wait to look back on Christmas pictures years from now and laugh, What the hell? When did I have pink hair? Is that a hoodie? And slouchy boots? My god, what were we thinking?

Happy Holidays everyone!

Team Apocalypse

2009-12-09T09:09:00.016-05:00

The other day my friends Tracy and Pam were showing me their garden. It's a blossoming wonderland of edible fruits, veggies and herbs from which they actually eat things. It's like a little backyard farmer's market. I even went home with a plastic bag full of herbs (not the college kind.)

Pam also had a firewood corral she'd made out of scrap wood. I was impressed. I looked at Tracy and said, "You guys are totally drafted on our apocalypse team."

"Your apocolypse team?"

"Yeah. You know, if there were some sort of global catastrophe, there's a very specific set of skills you'd need in your band of survivors. You'd need your food growers, your carpenters, your weapons people. Everybody adds something."

Tracy was flattered. Then she said, "Wait a minute. What do you add?"

Obviously, I'm the one putting the team together. I don't need to add anything but my charm and natural leadership. (Also the team will occasionally need funny end of the world blogs to keep our spirits up while civilization crumbles around us and we eat our pets for dinner.)

Since, as I've mentioned here before, my husband has quite a fascination, we actually do have a team in mind for when everything hits the fan. Every once in awhile we will actually utter the sentence, "You know, so and so would be really good in an apocalyptic situation."

I thought I'd post this handy guide so that, when the worst happens, you can assemble your own team. (The alternative to the team option is to get a bunch of dogs and guns, find a shack in the middle of the woods, and hope for the best.)

Team Apocalypse

Member #1: The weapons folks. These are the people you know (or suspect) have a cache of light to heavy artillery. You will need weapons when the zombies/infected/bands of rebels show up at the compound.

Member #2: The gardeners. The people who don't need to go to the grocery store to make a salad. Because the team can only survive on cans of navy beans for so long.

Member #3: The person who doesn't throw anything away. This is where the people from the show Hoarders really shine. They can say a big fat I told you so to the rest of the world when their McDonalds Happy Meal Toy collection and old rotary phone comes in handy.

Member #4: McGyver. This is the person who can patch a hole in the roof using spit and an old shirt. It's likely this person also has loads of tools that can also be used as weapons (in case you can't find team member #1).

Member #5: The medic. This person's role is pretty obvious. They'd also be the ones to keep the supply of the suicide pills for when we all decide it's just too much.

Member #6: The philosopher. This person's job is to think deeply about things and assure us there's still a point to it all. If the conclusion is that there is not, in fact, a point to it all, the philosopher alerts the medic to hand out the suicide pills.

Member #7: The psychic lady. Basically to let the team know when things are going to get worse. I say lady because psychic men tend to only deal in communicating with those who have passed on. In a post-apocalyptic world, your team would be inundated with "calls" from beyond the grave and you're not going to have time for that.

Member #8: The drug dealer. There's not a whole lot to do after an apocalypse, so choose a person who deals in a wide variety of recreational substances.

Members #9-13: Children. Not for the continuation of the human race so much as for sneaking into small spaces to forage for food. Also to keep an eye on the compound when all the grown-ups are hanging out with member #8.

Best of luck, and I hope you all are enjoying this festive holiday season!

Steph's Handy One-Stop Christmas Shop

2009-11-23T13:37:00.029-05:00

We’ve been back from Moscow for two weeks now and have tumbled out of an emotional spin cycle to find ourselves almost in December.

Moscow was beautiful. It had all the staples; McDonalds, Cinnabon, Starbucks, Sbarro, and a street cart that in Cyrillic looked like it was called “Crapdogs.” The good news about our trip is that Danny and I both had fabulous boots; comfortable, stylish, warm. The boots worked out really great. And in the wise words of Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.

Now on to business. And that business is helping you get your Christmas shopping done. Right from where you're sitting, because it's my purpose in life to make yours more convenient. So here are some gift ideas for your special someones.

FOR: The on-the-go handy man with a secret wish for a horrible accident.
ITEM: Pocket saw from Haband

Is it just me or does having a saw in your pocket seem like a phenomenally bad idea? Your Haband stretch-waist-khaki trousers aren’t going to keep this thing from slicing into the family jewels. The risk may be worth it though to impress your friends with your ability to saw through straws and carve obscenities into restaurant tables.

FOR: The person who buys their dog Halloween costumes and takes them to see Santa.

ITEM: Dog Flag Collections from the folks at Willabe and Ward.

One flag for every month of the year, gives the recipient the ability to tell the neighborhood that a dog is not just a dog, but a patriotic member of the family who might one day do all the things parents hope for, fall in love, graduate from high school, party in a top hat, sit in an easter basket, and of course, drop acid, dress up like a leprechan and look for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

FOR: The person who wants to end the office Christmas party early so they can go home and watch People’s Court.
ITEM: Battery Operated Christmas Karoake Microphone

Twenty bucks says one out of ten holiday gatherings will include someone who thinks its a good idea to make the rounds with this little gem. Twenty more bucks says that person will later be found duct taped to the llamas ass in the life size nativity scene.

FOR: The person who, against all cultural cues or pleas from family members, still enjoys Billy the Singing Bass.
ITEM: Singing Walking Turtle

Why confine bad taste to the wall? (Caution: this turtle may come alive at night and whisper messages from Satan in your ear while you sleep.)

FOR: Smokers
(BUT REALLY FOR: College freshmen who want to smoke pot in their dorm room.)
ITEM: Smokeless Ashtray

Isn’t this what the dad in Gremlins invented right before he unintentionally bred a swarm of nasty green scaly monsters? Just askin' (And another warning to be careful with ancient creatures from other continents this holiday season.)

FOR: That friend you suspect might be a sociopath
ITEM: Frog Leather Coin Purses

Because nothing says Happy Holidays better than stuffing loose change into a dead frog. This is quite possibly the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life (which is saying a lot because pickled pigs feet were a staple in my fridge growing up).

FOR: The self conscious woman staying in a bed and breakfast with her new lover.
ITEM: Poo-Pourri

According to the instructions, simply spray three to six squirts of Poo Pourri into the toilet water before doing your business and Voila! turn that excreted Chili Cheese Dog into a scent-sational treat! (Available in a variety of scents.)

(See also: Travel Bidet so your friend can have that fresh feeling wherever they "go")

FOR: The person who spends a sunny Saturday watching all three (uncut) Lord of the Rings movies and then caps that off with an evening of Hot Pockets and World of Warcraft.
ITEM: Gollum and Smeagol Bookends

For the bargain price of $195.00 you can give your friend a nice place to display their Dungeon Masters Guides and Star Wars fan fiction.

FOR: The person who likes to put really dangerous things right next to their crotch
ITEM: No!No! Thermal hair Removal System

This product removes pubic hair by burning it off. The promotional material helpfully reminds us this is “characterized by odor.” I am confused by the name. Seems to me I should not put something exclaiming "No!" (twice) anywhere near my pubic hair. On the upside, No!No! comes in a variety of sleek and stylish colors (so you can look at something pretty while you burn your pubic hair off). Version 2.0 will come with the abillity to dial 911 when you accidentally cauterize your reproductive organs.

There's lots of great stuff out there for everyone, so get shopping! We all need things to sell in our garage sales next summer.

Russian Fairy Tales

2009-10-27T08:20:00.008-04:00

Last week Danny and I went to the library and got a book of Russian fairy tales. Being of the literary persuasion, I wanted to share with my son this part of his heritage. When we first started the adoption process it wasn’t Fodors or Lonely Planet I turned to learn about Russia, but Pushkin, Gogol, and Dostoyevsky.

So I curled up with this book, imagining a time when I might curl up with a little boy and read him fantasies from a foreign land. I quickly discovered that Russian fairy tales contain the basic plotline for many modern horror movies. The makers of Saw definitely read these.

Most stories begin or end with someone getting beaten. People get shoved down holes, chopped up and stuffed into baskets, animals defecate on people’s faces, farmers get killed by overgrown root vegetables.

The first story I turned to, naturally, was called The Wife Who Loved Stories Too Much. As you could have guessed, it’s about a woman who loved to hear people tell stories. This greatly annoyed her husband who to get her to stop loving stories so much, basically beat the living blini out of her. The end.

I suppose if someone from another culture read the fairy tales of my childhood they’d be equally disturbed. There's the witch who likes to bake little children in her oven, a cross dressing wolf who gobbles up little girls, princesses in comas, and old women living in footwear.

The thing I loved about Russian fairy tales is that while evil is very straightforward, goodness is hidden in unexpected places. What seems to be an evil witch is really a kind old lady who will buy you dresses if you show kindness to the mice in her house. A simple ring can build entire palaces overnight. The very forest you’re traipsing through will give you directions if you only ask.

Friday, just when we were starting to feel like we’d never go to Russia, Danny and I got a call that we’ll leave on Saturday. And now every minute seems to drag so slow. After nearly four years of waiting to be a mom, it’s very difficult not to rush through these moments, skip to the happily ever after. But I’ve decided to let the minutes drag, savor them. This is a time to be soaked up. It’s a getting ready time and imagining time. A time for day dreaming and arranging my very own fairy tales.

A popular phrase in Russian fairy tales is, Some time passed, a long time or a short time. Years from now I probably won’t even remember how long the days and weeks felt until our son came home, I’ll just remember that we waited, wished and hoped and then there he was, like magic.

Things that only seem to happen to me.

2009-10-19T08:15:00.011-04:00

It was one of those bad experiences I was laughing at before it was even over, like the slo-mo sidewalk dive I took in France in front of a bus full of French people.

To begin with I want to make one thing clear, I NEVER drive with the windows down. Never. I do not enjoy the wind whipping my hair in my eyes as I drive, or smelling other people emission problems, or hearing what crap they’re listening to on their car stereo (or conversely have them hear what I’m listening to on mine, my mp3 rotation may include such artists as the BeeGees, Air Supply, and whoever sings LaBamba and I don’t want to be judged.)

I must have been in some sort of earth goddess, let me feel the breeze on my skin mood driving back from Target on Friday when I turned to Danny and said, “Do you mind if I roll the windows down? The air outside seems nice.” I did roll them down and felt one gust of cool air on my neck. I also felt two fat raindrops so I went to roll the window back up again, except it was stuck. It started raining harder, and all the window would do is make angry little clicking sounds.

I kept pressing the window button. It started raining even harder, so hard I could barely see the front of the car. The world went from grey to typhoon in fifteen seconds flat. And right at the very moment I chose to roll my window down to enjoy the breeze. Water was pounding my face and soaking my entire left side while I tried to navigate down 34th street.

Danny dumped out the contents of the plastic Target bag (anti-aging eye cream and Count Chocula). “Here,” he said, “will this help?”

I held the bag up to the opening in the window with my left hand and steered with my right. The bag did act as a shield to keep water from pouring into my eyeballs so I could better concentrate on driving. The only downside was that it kept filling with water and dumping it onto my leg like a garden waterfall. My leather bucket seat was also collecting water like a rain barrel until I was sitting in a small pool.

Danny laughed from the dry passenger side. "Only me," I said as I readjusted the Target bag, dumping a fresh load of rainwater onto my lap. "The minute I try to enjoy the air. I hope whoever controls the universe is having a nice big laugh right now."

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that we were going to go hang gliding the next day, but didn’t on the off chance we’d have to drive down the turnpike for two hours in the storm of the century. I blame the breeze. If it weren’t for that, I never would have wanted the windows down, it wouldn’t have broken and I could have soared like a bird 3,000 feet above the earth, forgetting about orphanages, malnutrition, and the fact that we haven't been to Russia yet.

Instead of flying like a bird, I organized a closet on Saturday. At home. With the windows closed. The air was pretty nice.

The Way You Make Me Feel

2009-10-13T08:27:00.003-04:00

Nearly everyday I sit in Starbucks and write. When I’m not writing I’m staring out the large windows, and when I’m not doing that I’m observing people. I’ve watched budding romances, flirtations, birthday celebrations, pregnant women who get bigger and bigger until they start coming in toting an infant, and all manner of homeless people who ask for water every five seconds and occasionally sing ABBA songs. There's the old man in the polyester blue suit who reads the Wall Street Journal. The guy who wears Hawaiian shirts and sits in the cushy chairs with his laptop and portable mouse, and of course the slightly creepy guy with really hairy arms.

The bathroom at Starbucks is a single-user setup tucked back into a little alcove. You have to go up and get a key (otherwise I guess the homeless people use it as a spa.) Yesterday I was mid-tinkle when a deep voice said into the door, “Girl, I love you so much. It’s strong. Strong, girl. It’s just the way you make me feel. Don’t you feel it?. . .Hello?. . . Are you there?”

I froze. I held my tinkle stream while I tried to figure out which person had followed me back into the little alcove to make this bathroom door confession. Was it the little old man in the polyesther blue suit? Bermuda sandals man? The slightly creepy guy with really hairy arms? If it was I’d have to camp out and wait there until one of the baristas came to rescue me.

“Answer me.” The man said.

He sounded urgent, so I did answer. I said, “Um.” (What else do you say when you’re sitting on the toilet in Starbucks listening to a stranger profess their love through the door?)

I didn’t have time to think of what to do next because the man started calling me “Carla”
and I realized he was not pouring his heart out to me but to the girl he was talking to on the phone.

The voice went away. I finished my business and came back out into the general coffee drinking population. I looked around but didn’t see anyone in the throes of a passionate phone call anywhere.

I realized I felt a tiny bit let down. That three second episode in the bathroom had made my heart race. Sure, maybe it was because for a fleeting moment I thought there was a creepy weirdo on the other side of the door that might chop me up and stuff me into the Starbucks bathroom trash can. But also for a second I thought someone had a crush on me, and it felt sort of exciting.

In the end I’m glad it’s Carla and not me. Coffee house romances never work out and I value the writing mojo at Starbucks way too much to give it up for a fling.

Apocalypse for Kids

2009-10-07T10:17:00.006-04:00

As soon to be parents, Danny and I spend a considerable amount of time daydreaming about all the fun things we'll do with our kid. Birthday parties are an area we particularly look forward to. We already have lots of ideas for party themes. Feel free to use any of these.

Madmen Party
Instead of cake and ice cream, kids can eat steak dinners while they negotiate big deals like who controls the swing sets at recess. Children can also play at the subtleties of stabbing classmates in the back and how to successfully hide despair.
Favors: Cigarettes and Sterling Cooper whiskey decanters

Survive the Apocalypse Party
Split kids up into bands of survivors. Then shut off your electricity, remove all the food and lock them in. Give each “band” an area of the house as their territory. The game is more fun if you and the other parents play “rebels” and bang loudly on the doors and windows from time to time. Come back the next day to see which band of survivors has the most members and territory. That band gets cake.
Favors: Crowbars and canned goods

Zombie Apocalypse
A variation on the regular apocalypse theme except at this party one of your “bands” should be undead and try to eat the other kids.
Favors: Automatic weapons.

Clean House party
This seems like a win-win situation all around. Kids eat cake first, then clean up their mess along with the rest of your house. And voila, house is clean, kids are worn out from scrubbing the soap scum out of your shower. Everybody’s happy.
Favors: Rags and mini bottles of cleaner so they can go home and clean their own house.

Tattoo party
Acquire the services of a local tattoo artist (if you’re short on cash you can get a newer one who’s trying to get their name out there). Sprinkle the tables with tattoo design ideas, Dora, Backyardigans, Teletubbies if you’re old school. Individual kids may be in the chair awhile, so you’ll probably want to have something for the other kids to do. Hookah pipes might be a festive choice.
Favors: Hep B home testing kits

Ultimate Fighter Party
Set up a make shift ring in your living room using canvas and chicken wire (easily found at your local home improvement store). Then just sit back and let the kids have at it. Let one of the older kids referee while you and the other parents enjoy margaritas in the backyard!
Favors: Icepacks and rags to wipe the blood off their little faces.

Sale Away

2009-09-10T14:50:00.012-04:00

We're having a garage sale to get ready for the kid. You know, out with the old and in with the new. I've spent a good month inspecting every corner of our house for things that can be moved, thrown away or sold to make space for a tiny Muscovite.

It's been interesting, cleansing. I cannot believe the amount of crap I have amassed since the bright-eyed, long-haired, white polo shirt and tan shorts version of myself left home for Gainesville 13 years ago. Now that it's all in one place, I can see that my house has been nothing but a storage closet for random trinkets.

Danny and I are garage sale connoisseurs. And you can tell a lot about people by the sort of things they peddle from their driveways. Now that I'm on the other end of the card table, I find myself inspecting my items closely. What will people think of a household with not one but TWO different Star Wars trivia games? And right next to the Antiques Roadshow home game!

I've broken the more interesting items down into categories. Conclude what you will.

In the "Things that come alive at night" category: Creepy porcelain dolls. These guys have given Danny nightmares for years. I've spent more time than I care to admit planning elaborate Halloween pranks that include this little posse.

In the "Presents from ex-boyfriends that I don’t know why I still have" category: Angel ornament and frame. I find myself wondering what characteristic compelled this particular boy to think of me as a sad, sleepy cherub with a violin.

In the "Where the frak did this come from?" category:
Unopened McDonald’s Happy Meal Polly Pocket from 1993. Forget for a second that this looks like a tiny blond corpse in a plastic bag. The real mystery is that I was 15 in 1993.

In the "Things we bought at other garage sales but never used" category: Eagle clock. It seemed cool at the time (and that time was 8:15 am after a night of hard drinking.)

In the "Things I will claim belonged to my little sister" category: Disney Princess collection CD. I'm actually considering keeping this one. I like listening to a busty mermaid singing about forks and spoons. So shoot me.

In the "90s sit com memorabilia" category: The Kramer. I don't know why exactly I wanted a poster of a kooky, crazy-haired guy who runs into stuff. Although. . . now that I think about it, I did marry a kooky, crazy-haired guy who runs into stuff.

Come on by if you'd like to add any of these desirable items to your own home. Or, you can wait another 13 years for the next garage sale (That one will be fun because you'll get to make judgements about our parenting style based on our book and movie titles!)

A Girl Walks Into a Crib Store....

2009-08-26T09:38:00.019-04:00

I make an ass out of myself everyday. It's what I do best. I'm used to it. Danny is used to it. It's just part of life at this point. I trip, I spill, I drop coffees freshly handed to me by baristas. Most of all though, I say awkward things.

Take for instance a recent trip Danny and I took to a place called The Babies Room. The Babies Room is a half consignment/half new emporium of everything, well, baby. I went to pick something up for my friend Candi who'd just given birth a few days prior and needed something called the "Breast Friend" pillow, (which coincidentally allows her to breastfeed and text at the same time. Wonderful invention.)

Danny and I walked around the store, deciding on our favorite kinds of strollers and high chairs and marvelling at how expensive the cribs were. It's hard for me not to feel awkward already in a place like this. It's hard to claim the status of "expectant" mother when I don't have a due date or a belly for people to coo and smile at. Walking around a baby store filled with very pregnant women makes me feel like an imposter.

When we make our way to the register, in a valiant effort to overcome my misgivings and insert myself into the world of mothers to be, I decide to ask for help in a conversation that goes something like this:

Steph: "So, how do I tell which cribs are new and which are used?

Saleswoman: "All our cribs are new. Too many recalls and safety standards to keep up with. We don't sell used cribs."

Steph: "Oh, so where's a good place to buy a crib?"

Saleswoman: "You mean used?"

Steph: "Or new. We'll probably want a new one I guess. You know, just in general where should we go?"

Saleswoman: (Blinks slowly. Glances at the sea of cribs surrounding us.) "Um, well, I guess Target has some reasonably priced ones?"

In the car later Danny laughs at me. "Only you could walk into a store full of cribs and ask the people where you can buy a crib. Hi, my name is Steph. Where can I get the product you guys are selling but cheaper?"

It's true. If there were a brainfart contest I would win hands down. I'm bumbly, fumbly and sometimes say stupid shit. But isn't that why you love me?

I have to go, I'm working at Starbucks today and I need to go ask if they know where I can get some coffee.

Call Me Crazy, But I Do Not Like Mechanics Magazines

2009-08-05T10:13:00.003-04:00

Danny and I had to do an MMPI (Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory) as part of our adoption process. I suppose to make sure we are no crazier than any of the other people who decide to have kids.

Several people in the field advised me to not try to “trick” the test. “Just answer honestly,” they said, “the test is designed to catch you lying.” The Dr. who administered the test said the same thing. He said the test was designed to pick up any “tomfoolery.” Coincidentally, I am immediately smitten with any person who uses the term “tomfoolery” but that wasn’t a test question.

When Danny and I walked in, the receptionist gave us each two number two pencils and a large cardboard booklet with five hundred and sixty seven true or false questions inside. She told us we were not to talk to each other about the questions and put us on opposite ends of the waiting room. Which was good because every ten questions or so one of us suppressed a giggle and as the room filled with other patients I had the strong urge crane my head over the others and stage whisper to Danny, “Hey, what did you put for the one about unusual sex acts?”

Afterwards Danny and I were so wasted we got ice cream and took a long nap. It was quite an experience. It was a little like those women’s magazine quizzes but longer and more disturbing.

I’ve included some of my favorite questions here, so you can get a small taste of what this test is like, in case you never get the privilege to take one.

1. I like Mechanics magazines T/F
2. I wake up fresh and rested most mornings T/F
3. I think I would like the work of a librarian T/F
4. I get angry sometimes T/F
5. If I were a painter, I would like painting flowers T/F
6. Evil spirits occasionally posses me T/F
7. My mom is a good woman T/F
8. I think I would like the work of a forest ranger T/F
9. I always tell the truth T/F
10. I never do not return incorrect change T/F
11. I’m pretty happy with my life T/F
12. I’m certain I’m being followed T/F…
13. I usually have less fears than most of my friends T/F
14. I have no fear of earthworms T/F
15. I usually do not have nightmares every other night T/F

It starts off easy enough, but after the first couple hundred or so the double negatives are making my eyes swim and I start to sweat, wondering about the test maker’s idea of words like “usually” “often” “certainly” and “most.” And I’m tired of comparing myself to my friends. As in, “I certainly often feel better about myself than most of my friends.” Questions like those were difficult. I think most of my friends feel fine. Do I feel better than them? No. Do I feel worse than them? No. So where’s my number two pencil to go?

I kept thinking, trick the test? This test is trying to trick me. Trying to lull me into happily marking true, true, true until I finally admit that I think someone is controlling my brain. A run of questions might look something like this:

I think puppies are cute T/F
When I was little I played games T/F
Sometimes I like hanging out with friends T/F
I occasionally feel like ripping someone's face off T/F

Honestly toward the end I was getting so tired I probably answered, true, that invisible aliens follow me around and climb in my butt when I fall asleep (which only USED to be true.)

I’m trying not to obsess about the test results, which would be easier if there weren’t so much riding on it. I’m sure it will be fine. I’m a normal person who does not (currently) hear voices or feel like ripping anyone's face off.

After the adoption is final though, I’m thinking about getting a group together to take an MMPI, just for fun. It’ll be crazy good times.

Oh right, there’s an actual KID at the end of this process.

2009-07-22T10:02:00.005-04:00

It does sound overly obvious doesn’t it? But it isn't. After all the paperwork and psychological tests and really big checks and travel, I sometimes forget that at some point someone will hand us a kid and send us on our way. I think about this a lot of course, but it only really profoundly sinks in once in awhile.

For instance on our recent trip, Danny and I left the adoption agency on a cloud of romantic visions of what life with kids would be like that only first time parents to-be could conjure up. Building forts with bedsheets. Pancakes on Saturday mornings. Playful bathtime romping. Giggles and Smiles.

We then went to dinner with my cousin Raechel and her two children, Wesley, 9 months and Joceylene, 2 years. They’re great kids, they just needed the normal toddler tending. Joceylene wanted to sing at the top of her lungs. Wesley wanted to throw things on the floor. Joceylene banged Danny's sunglasses on the table while Wesley ate napkins. Joceylene wriggled out of her booster seat while Wesley experimented with tipping his high chair over.

Meanwhile Danny and I sported the stunned expressions of two people who’ve just woken up from a lovely, lovely garden reverie only to find that they’re in the middle of a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday.

At the agency, we’d gone over a dizzying list of expenses and fees. They even had a list of projected expenses when you travel to Russia, so that people wouldn’t forget to budget for such things as eating during their stay.

It occurred to us later however that in all the planning, financial and otherwise, for GETTING the kid, we sort of forgot that we will also need to get things FOR the kid.

It may sound obvious to some prospective parents, but I think the agency should also tell people, “Now, after you pay your fees and travel and other costs, please don’t forget you still have to buy clothes for the baby, and diapers, and a bed, and maybe a few toys and books would be nice. Oh, and remember they will have to eat sometimes too, and probably need medical care, and a coat, depending on what climate you live in. And a car seat, and a high chair and safety plugs for your wall sockets. And how about a trip to Disney once in awhile? And hooded towels, those are cute, kids like those, buy some of those…”

We are just getting to the point where the paperwork is almost done (unless there’s more hiding around the corner that I don’t know about) and I’ve started to dip my toe into thinking about things I will need when the kid arrives. It turns out adoption paperwork is the easier of the two tasks. Which rattle is best? Which nail clipper and grooming kit? Which crib mattress? Plus, some of the items I’ve seen out there are positively baffling.

I’m pretty sure they’ll need a bed, and food, but beyond that my eyes start to glaze over a bit. But it's okay, like all other parents since the beginning of time, we'll figure it out.

Home again, Home again...

2009-07-14T11:13:00.007-04:00

We just got back yesterday from our little trip. It was 1/4 adoption business, 1/4 family visit and ½ pure vacation, all in four and half days.

Here’s a few days in the mind of Danny and Steph on a trip.

Wednesday—Thoughts on class and entitlement in air travel
What is the psychological profile of a person who reclines their seat all the way back on a 58 minute flight? Two seconds after we reach altitude, Danny’s face is three inches from the grey leather seat of the person in front of him. So we had to wonder, I mean, this isn’t the overseas leg to Paris, it’s not the red eye. It’s an hour hop from Charlotte to Pittsburgh. It did not at all surprise us to find out while exiting the aircraft that the person who puts their seat all the way back is also the person who wears diamond earrings the size of kittens and brought her own cashmere blankie.

Thursday—Off to see the wizards
Giving someone the task of connecting you with your future child takes an enormous amount of trust. After meeting the people at IAG, I believe in them with my whole heart. We have to be ready for disappointments, for challenges, possibly for big, big heartaches, but somehow after spending four hours at the agency going over those possibilities, I felt like a great big balloon of hope.

We left the building wondering what our kid will look like, when to move the furniture out of my office, what time of year we’d get to see Moscow, and what to do with the dog when we have to stay in Russia for six weeks (because our dog is the most spoiled Jack Russell Terrier on the block, that is a fact.)

Friday—A visit to Grandma
It was harder than I thought being in Canton and not seeing my grandma. The hurt of being up that way and not being able to hug her ran very deep. We visited her grave, not far from the house where she raised me, and were reminded of the fleeting nature of life and the importance of enjoying every second and not rushing to the next.

I resolve to enjoy even these waiting times. I will revel in this fuzzy, romantic, sometimes frantic, anticipation period before I’m scrubbing grape jelly off the couch cushions and cleaning up someone else’s puke.

We visit Put-in-Bay, a little village nestled into the Lake Erie islands. We rent a golf cart and drive around the whole island wondering why we don’t drive golf carts more often. We go to the observation deck at the War of 1812 Peace Memorial and after our visit are sure of two things. One, we don’t know a lot about the war of 1812. Two, elevators to observation decks should institute a no farting rule.

Saturday—14 hours in a theme park
(Because Danny and I don’t just go to a theme park, we wring it out.)

We spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out why it is we will jump out of airplanes and ride rollercoasters that travel 120 mph and drop you straight down 420 feet, and yet, on the big ferris wheel we have to actively try not to freak out. We sympathize with the four year old girl crying and begging her parents not to take her on. If there were some sort of emergency button that alerted the operator to an impending panic attack, we’d probably be the ones to push it.

Later in the day, we identified the different species of douchebags that can be found in theme parks. The variety we spotted in line for The Mantis was the hipster who insists on wearing all his hipster paraphernalia to a rollercoaster park, skinny jeans, leather wrist cuff, back pocket hankie, various necklaces and rings, all worn while snickering that he’s really too cool for this world. Also identified were several people who wanted to punch that dude.

For the second time in a year we realize that we are by far the oldest people in line and have been riding roller coasters since before the majority of other line waiters were born.

Every time we pass the kiddie rides, I mentally plan a future trip with our kid(s) and can tell by the little smile on his face that Danny is doing the same thing.

Sunday—Homework
I used the plane rides home to get started on the 400 page binder of information we’re supposed to read about adopting toddlers. I get stuck on the page of Russian names and their corresponding diminutives and start giving myself and my friends Russian nick names in my head. Stepanoschka, Alosha, Canushcka, Davel, Loruski…

I’m glad to be home and gearing up to start phase two, getting our dossier ready for Russia. We have to do ten hours of online training courses, get a psychological evaluation and take some pictures of our house (which means we have to clean it first and fix the holes I made in the bathroom wall.)

It’s exciting to think that maybe, just maybe, if the stars are smiling upon me, by this time next year I’ll be writing about the latest crazy hilarious situation my kid got into…

An Ode to Leaving Well Enough Alone

2009-07-07T11:19:00.008-04:00

We’re going to sell our house. And in order to sell our house we need to fix some things up first. Most of them aren’t major, but merely cosmetic fixes that might make our home more attractive to prospective buyers.

Like many other sellers, we’re starting with the bathrooms. If you haven’t seen it, the wallpaper in the front bathroom is positively offensive. Look closely and you will see pale pink and green country heart flowers perched atop tiny leaves and stems and accented with little grey dots. It’s only one step up from a splatter paint effect. The plan was, get a little joint compound to cover the seams, paint over the horrid wallpaper pattern, replace the light fixture, and boom, passable bathroom.

The problem is, once you get me in a room with tools and a bucket of joint compound, I start to get ideas. Ideas that far outstrip my abilities.

Here's how things usually go when I embark on a project. Confident I can do it myself, I dig in, only to find out that I can’t quite do it right so I then begin a series of cover up“fixes” that add up to many dollars and several hours (or days) trying to adequately cover up my shoddy job trying to get rid of something that probably wasn’t that bad in the first place.

The big idea I got this weekend was that, if the offensive country heart wallpaper was going, then the semi-offensive 1989 grey ceramic bathroom fixtures would also have to go. The problem is, said fixtures were built into the wall. The only way to get those down in case you're wondering, is to take a swing at them with a sledgehammer. Once I ascertained this fact, the project had upgraded from idea to impossible to resist urge. The idea had already soaked into my brain. There was no possible way I could have lived another minute with that towel holder and its clear plastic bar. So I shut the bathroom door and started whacking. I don’t know what I was thinking, or if I was at all.

A half hour later, not only did I have no bathroom fixtures, I had five big holes in the wall. This didn’t necessarily freak me out. I have never patched a drywall hole but, being of blue collar blood and having seen patch kits on the shelf in Home Depot, something in my DNA assured me I could do it.

Turns out my DNA doesn't know shit about patching drywall holes.

In retrospect, were the ceramic fixtures that bad? No. Should I have thought longer about the decision to bring destructive tools into the bathroom? Yes.

Now, upon entering my bathroom, a keen eye (basically anyone blessed with the gift of vision) will notice three large puffy squares protruding from the wall. The squares are however covered with a lovely sea foam green color and, quite possibly, will soon be covered by a shelf.

Steph's Christmas in July Gift Guide.

2009-06-30T09:33:00.033-04:00

From my stash of great products from the Sunday coupon pages, I bring you this handy guide to get started on your Christmas shopping. Because none of us can ever have enough useless crap.

1. For that snarky someone.

You can get Maxine's crabulous humor 365 days a year. It's a bargain at $59.99. The order form says satisfaction guaranteed. I wonder, what could someone possibly be expecting from this product that they wouldn't get? Are there people who write the company two weeks later and say, I'm sorry, but Maxine's humor is not nearly as crabulous as your ad promised...

2. For that special someone.

Show them you have an appreciation for the finer things by treating them to this glittering, Swaroski crystal rendition of everyone's favorite snarky canary.

3. For the LSD user in your life.

I'm sure this product, intended for people who want to add the magestic splendor of the sea to their rumpus room, really just ends up as a novelty gift for friends who do a lot of hallucinogens and lick certain frogs. This could also make for a wonderful conversation piece. Conversations that would most likely start, "Why the f%$k do you have that?"

Another product that unintentionally ends up as gag gift for heavy drug users is the Illuminating Crystal Angel by dream products.

4. If you hate your houseguest/neighbors.
Buy the Elvis cuckoo clock. What better way to remind you that yet another hour of your life has been spent reading useless stuff on the internet than by having the king announce it?

Also consider, The 100 Bell Wind Chime. Musical ringling and jingling of 100 hundred bells and 10 brass pipes at the slightest breeze.

5. For the kids.

Personally, I loved playing with scissors as a kid. As a matter of fact, one of my favotire haircuts, that I lovingly refer to as "the mushroom cloud" was the result of a particulary fun afternoon with grandma's good shears. Imagine the damage I could have done with these bad boys.

Feel free to send your own great gift ideas for the next edition of the gift guide. Until next time, happy shopping.

A brief (but important) list

2009-06-22T10:49:00.014-04:00

Things I kind of wish would go away:

1. Twitter. WTF is twitter? I don’t want to tweet or twit or whatever the fuck. And if I see one more news report or headline or magazine article about what Ashton Kutcher or Anderson Cooper or some basketball player "twittered" I’m going to hurl. I'm not sure why, but the mere mention of this site makes me want to scratch my eyes out.

2. Greeting cards with sound in them. I went to the Hallmark store the other day and was verbally accosted by two thirds of the cards I cracked open. What happened to just a spunky old lady or a dog in a birthday hat? Must everything be interactive? Can’t I have a quiet moment to send someone well wishes? (Coming soon, twitter from your birthday card!)

3. Healthcare bills (and the corresponding bill collectors who incessantly call to make sure I pay them). These people call me every morning at precisely 8:30am. They have not figured out that I have caller I.D. I know it’s you asshole, I’m not picking up.

Things I’d like to see more of:

1. Baby clothes. I was reminded of this last night at the home of my friend and mama-to-be, Candi. Little tiny Chuck Taylors, mini courderoy overalls, little baby onesies on little baby hangers. I am consumed by the cuteness. Even when I was in the throes of infertility despair, nothing could make me go all gooey and warm like an itty-bitty sundress at Old Navy with coordinating lilliputian flip flops.

2. Random acts of wit and whimsy:
As I was driving to the gym one day, I saw a busted out portion of a long brick wall. I thought, “Gee, that’s weird.” But I will be forever grateful to the person who saw it and thought of this…

What I wish I had seen whlie driving, but only read about in the newspaper, was Raleigh artist Joseph Carnevale's creative use of traffic barrels.

Adoption comments hall of fame

2009-06-08T11:20:00.016-04:00

It has become something of a sociological experiment for me to catalog the different responses I get to the "we're adopting" news.

Most people in my life have reacted with a joy, excitement, and curiosity about the process that mirrors my own. But there are other times when a reaction stings a little (or makes me want to reach in and rip the person's heart out, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom style.)

Here are some of my not-so-favorites:

1. Russia? But there are so many American kids who need good homes…?

The implication here is that whenever a person selfishly makes the choice to adopt abroad, a big fat tear rolls down one of said American children’s faces (for dramatic effect the tear should roll down while the child is looking out a rainy window and holding a broken baby doll).

I could list a zillion pros and cons for each way to adopt, but suffice it to say that when it comes time to choose, you just have to go with what feels right to you. It might be adopting from down the street or it might be adopting from the Planet Zorgon. Like many other huge life decisions, you won't know how to cross that bridge until you come to it (on Zorgon though it will most likely be in a hover craft).

Also, I find it interesting that no one uses the, “U.S. kids need homes” comment for pregnant people. As in,"Gee, it's really a shame you're pregnant. Don't you know there are lots of kids who need good homes?' (It's best if this comment is accompanied by a look that says, What the hell is wrong with you, you selfish bastard?)

2. Maybe now that you’re adopting you’ll get pregnant! (Like Charlotte on Sex in the City! Like my best friend’s neighbor’s sister-in-law!)

Taking people at their best, I'm pretty sure this statement comes from a desire to console the prospective adoptive parent who has probably struggled trying to get pregnant and so the adoption announcement might signal a throwing-in-the-towel type moment. But I don't think people realize how insulting this comment is. The implication is that an adopted child is my booby prize but my “real” prize might still be coming and I shouldn’t give up hope just yet.

I used to think that deciding to adopt must feel like the walk of the infertility losers. That starting the process would feel like defeat. The shocking thing is...it doesn't. At least not for me. I am filled with a hope and love that had started to deflate after years of infertility struggle. I feel refreshed, not defeated. For three years we’ve been hoping for a child. We have not given up hope for that.

3. I’ll have a baby for you!

Super! I'll have my doctor contact you so we can start the Invitro process. I hope you're okay with very large needles, copious amounts of hormones and LOTS of different people peering into your love hole...and then of course the blessed pregnancy and childbirth (which I've heard is a breeze), thanks for offering to do it for me!... How's next month for you to get started?

What's that?

Oh, I see....you didn't mean that you'd really do it...

4. Have you tried/considered/looked into/heard about…?

Yes. I have.

BONUS: This is a comment I only got once, but it's a real winner.

Receptionist: How old will the baby be when you get it?

Me: I don’t know. A year? Two years?

Receptionist: Oh...well it’s the best when you can be there from day one. It’s the most amazing thing in the world.

Fantasy response #1: “Well, it’s the most amazing thing to have a million dollars too, but I don’t. I've still managed to lead a happy life though, amazing isn't it?”

Fantasy response #2: “Yeah, I’ve cried many, many nights over that, but thanks for reminding me I’m going to miss out on the first year of my kid’s life. I hope you have a nice day.”

Real response: “….”

Peggy and Me

2009-06-01T21:41:00.003-04:00

Sunday I saw a little movie called Drag Me to Hell. Long story short, I learned this lesson: Do not piss off an old gypsy lady if you are wearing earrings, a button, or some other object she can curse with a demon who will chase you around (in the form of a fly that crawls into your mouth, an eyeball in your slice of Harvest Cake, or even as a possessed billy goat.)

This got me thinking that it couldn’t hurt to have some friends in touch with the spirit world. Normally, I am firmly in the “that’s-hocus-pocus-phooey” camp, but lately, needing all the help I can get, I find myself thinking, if that rabbit’s foot makes you feel lucky, have at it (unless it’s a real rabbit’s foot in which case you’re a terrible human being…seriously dude, it’s a bunny.)

About four months ago I came across a chubby little fertility statue from a tiny psychic shop in a rural town. “Peggy” has lived in my purse ever since (except for this weekend she’s on loan to a friend). And even though I am no longer trying to conceive, Peggy is still a talisman of hope. I feel better somehow when I’m digging through my purse for gum and see her snuggled into the folds of my purse lining right between the stool softener and a rubber ball with a tiny skull inside it (don’t ask me why or how, but those items are seriously in my purse—stranger things have happened).

I know I’m not the only one turning to charms in troubled times because a few weeks ago I saw a news story that sales of such hocus-pocus are on the rise due to the troubled economy. According to Joe’s One-stop Santeria shop in Miami, Florida, the biggest selling item is Good Fortune Floor Wax. This strikes me as odd. I mean, with Peg all I have to do is know she’s there and imagine the good things she’s pushing my way. She doesn’t make me do housework.

A word to the wise Joe of Joe’s One Stop Santeria Shop in Miami, Florida: If you really want to double your sales, consider carrying some less work intensive potions. Maybe a Big Money Bathroom Spray? Or an, “I need a job” incense set? Just a thought.

It seems strange to think of things this way, but now when I look at Peggy and think about my future child, I think somewhere in the world, possibly Russia, possibly somewhere else (I’ve given up assuming that I know such things for certain), a chain of events has been set in motion that will somehow, miraculously bring me together with the child who is meant to be with me. This chain of events has nothing to do with my monthly cycle, but rather the reproductive organs of two people half a world away. But that’s okay, when it’s time, me, Danny and Peg will board a plane, cross a continent or two and claim our good fortune.

On Instant Gratification

2009-05-22T10:08:00.010-04:00

It's been a pretty busy couple of weeks. I've been riding mechanical bulls, tracking down judges in Maryland, getting background checks at the county sheriff's office and waiting hours to get a doctor to fill out a simple form. I'm learning quickly that in this adoption process, delays and snafus will come from the most unexpected places.

We have to get used to waiting (and waiting...and waiting.)

So thank god for Netflix. Netflix instant watch is my newest crackpipe in a long line of crackpipes. I have no self-control, especially when hundreds of movie and TV show titles are instantly available to me from Gimme a Break and Simon and Simon, to Heroes and La Femme Nikita.

I like having things instantly available. That’s what was so compelling to me about the whole mp3 downloading thing, I want a song and poof, I have one. These days I would marry Rhapsody if it were a person and I wasn't already married. I discover a new artist I like (this week it’s Modern Lovers---okay I know they’re no where near “new” but they’re new to me) and in a few clicks I have their entire collection.

It doesn’t help that my husband is also a glutton. In the pre-Netflix days, every so often we’d get our hooks into a TV show on DVD and not come up for air until the entire series was finished. To give you an idea of the extent of our problem, we watched all five seasons of The Wire in about two weeks. (I still miss Bubbles and DuKwon).

This behavior leaves us bug eyed, wasted and hazy, but boy does it feel good at the time. This week we’re watching Heroes and the most common phrase uttered in my house is, “one more?”

I think the universe wanted me to learn patience and that is why I was bestowed with my particular set of challenges. But, it being a kind and loving universe, it gave me Netflix Instant watch as a consolation prize.

Steph the Trekkie(er?)

2009-05-13T10:32:00.003-04:00

I’ll be honest, I have only a vague idea what the difference is, and only sort of care. You could say I dip my toe in the pool of sci-fi nerdom. I know what a Ponfar is and have used that word in a sentence, but don’t ask me to name Spock’s parents or tell you how many planets are in the federation.

Like the good wanna-be nerd that I am, I have seen the new Star Trek movie not once, but twice in the past week. The first time on Thursday and the second at the IMAX theater in Tampa on Sunday. (It was cool after I got over my initial disappointment in what an IMAX theater was.) First I should say that I have not seen any of the original Star Trek episodes in their entirety. If, perchance, Danny happens to be watching one on TV, I usually make it about 5.3 minutes before leaving the room or picking up a book (generally about the time Captain Kirk starts making out with some blue skinned woman in a metallic bikini from the planet Sklargon).

It’s testament to the show’s cultural status that even though I’ve never seen more than five minutes of an episode, the new movie's characters and their catchphrases still felt familiar to me. Such as Bones telling Spock, “Dammit man I’m a doctor not a physicist.” Or Scotty screaming “I’m doin’ the best I can captain!” from the engineering ward (see it’s probably not even called the engineering ward that’s how un-schooled I am.)

I enjoyed the movie a lot, it was funny, endearing and adventurous. From a storyteller’s perspective, many things were very convenient. But that’s okay, I have quite a large capacity to suspend disbelief (so large in fact that I actually found myself wondering if I could adopt a young half-Vulcan boy). My favorite part of the movie though, was imagining a series of spin offs.

Here are a few of the possibilities:

Spock and Uhura make a porno

As a super logical and (almost) always cool under pressure Vulcan, I imagine sex with Spock might be akin to sex with an eye doctor, is it better like this or better like this? A or B? Better position one, position two, or about the same? Have you concluded?

(Coincidentally the photo above is titled, "Spock and Uhura Make Music")

Captain Nero reads bedtime stories to Romulan children

Nero was an almost dad who tragically lost his family when Romulus exploded. I think he needs some anger management in the form of story hour. I’m pretty sure kids will find his sweaty moon head and face tattoos soothing.

Pavel Chekov becomes a regular on Sesame Street.

Chekov is an exceedingly adorable, enthusiastic young Russian who kids will instantly identify with (since he’s barely older than them). Hilarity will ensue when our nation's children begin to think Ws are pronounced as Vs and Wise Wersa.

Look for these and others, on the forthcoming channel for (Semi) Sci-Fi nerds. In the meantime, I'm going to go catch up on some Doctor Who episodes I missed.

Bundles of Joy (sent via US Postal Service)

2009-05-05T10:43:00.009-04:00

We’re really doing it, we’re going to adopt a baby. We’re very excited. I should warn you not to hold your breath at this point (it wouldn’t be advisable at any point actually) but especially now since it may be a year or more until we’re actually wiping a kid’s ass.

But still, after I assured the agency that despite my arrest at the FDA I am not a member of a terrorist organization, the ball is rolling.

So let me tell you a bit about this proverbial ball that is rolling. It is a ball consisting of 45 different kinds of back ground checks, reference letters in which I have to ask my friends to answer eighteen questions about my relationship (and notarize their responses), letters from doctors saying I’m not going to spontaneously combust, a floor plan of my house (coincidentally, I did not miss my calling as an architect) and last but not least, a twelve page “Life Summary,” which answers four pages of questions about every aspect of my existence from ages 0-31.

Here’s a sample excerpt from mine:
“Even though it’s just the two of us, we generally confine nudity to the bedroom.”

I am glad these requirements are in place, to guard against crazy wackos adopting children (of course nothing stops crazy wackos from having children, but no matter). We are glad to do it if it means we’ll finally have someone to accompany us to the Pixar/Disney movies we already go to.

This is only phase one of the paperwork process. Apparently there is a whole other level after this. The dossier (sounds so fancy doesn’t it?) is the packet that goes to the Russian government. I’m just going to cross that bridge when I come to it, otherwise my head will explode. Because I have learned this about myself, when it comes to this adoption, I work at the speed of light, possibly faster. Whatever delays may come (and they will) they will not come from my end. I am like a carefully controlled tornado of adoption paperwork.

It has been less than a week since the home study social worker came to the house and we’ve already mailed our initial paperwork package to her and sent away for our handy dandy background checks. Another package is going out today. I can already tell we're going to get to know our postal service employees very well.

This will all be good practice for being patient. I will keep in mind that somewhere at the top of the paperwork mountain is the child we were ready for three years ago. After all the packages and papers and summaries and checks, we will finally be able to be parents. I know it will be worth every filled in blank and notarized signature.

I'm going to trust that the US Postal Service works as diligently as I do, and that things will happen when they are meant to. Of course, if I can speed that up on my end, I will.

Parachutes and Shattered Glass

2009-04-27T13:00:00.008-04:00

I jumped out of a plane again. About a week ago my friend Alisa and I decided to treat ourselves to a little adrenaline rush. It's been a rough month.

I have discovered this about myself. I love the sight of people falling out of airplanes. Is that wrong? On the way out there Alisa said, "Wouldn't it be unfortunate if we died doing this?"

Yes, yes it would. Though oddly the only times I've been really fearful for my life, my feet were firmly on the ground (like the Millennium New Years celebration in downtown Madrid when I was sure I'd be crushed to death by a rowdy crowd singing Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!)

The scariest part of skydiving is the plane ride up. The plane itself is not much larger than some remote control models I've seen. It fits about ten people straddling two benches. One guy, doing a "hop n' pop" jumped out at the halfway height and the whole plane lurched as a canoe might. It's quite unsettling.

My second skydive was a more aware experience than my first. My first time I think I sort of just flailed around a lot, unable to breathe or control my limbs in the 120 mph winds rushing past me. But this time I picked up my head, posed for the camera (a lot) and enjoyed the vision of the earth one usually only sees from the tiny window of an airplane, a long and winding river, an ocean in the distance and the green patchwork of surrounding farmland. It's like being superman or seeing earth from space.

When the parachute opened the tandem instructor passed me a beer. I toasted Alisa as she sailed past us at 11,000 feet in the air and drank my Bud Lite while hovering far above the treetops.

We had dinner later in the afterglow of the experience. As we enjoyed our fried clam strip appetizer (ordered out of sheer curiosity) we got a call and learned that while I had been hurtling toward earth, my car had been broken into while parked at my friend's house. Three bored kids had thrown a large rock through the window.

The police officer was awesome. She sat with my little red wagon until we returned, to make sure no one messed with the car or stole our empty diet Pepsi bottles or reusable grocery bags. The funny thing is, I wasn't completely incensed until the cop told me the same kids smashed the windows at the nearby library. The LIBRARY! I mean my god, is nothing sacred?

On the way home Chris and Alisa told me about the time their house had been broken into and how terrifying it felt. I still shiver to think about them getting home and realizing someone had been in their house, taken their things, disrespected their space.

So evidently, the danger does not lie in jumping out of an airplane at 13,000 feet, but rather right here on the ground. Next time I will leave a sign on my car, "Gone skydiving, don't ruin my buzz (and leave the library alone for chrissake!)

It's Official

2009-04-20T16:52:00.008-04:00

Saturday I officiated the wedding of my dear friend Natalie. First I have to say that Natalie, fellow radical feminist and social justice lawyer, is exceedingly cute. (After viewing wedding pictures on Flickr I have determined she could possibly be the cutest person on the planet.)

The day was one of those “grown up” moments in my life. One of those moments where I realize, again, that I am indeed an adult member of society. Never mind that I myself have been married for five years, or that I have a mortgage, a literary agent and more health problems than most 70 year-olds, I have performed and officially notarized someone’s nuptials. Put another mark on my official grown up card.

Generally, I cry at weddings. It’s a privilege to witness two people you care about publicly declare their love and commitment to each other. Love is palpable at a wedding. And so I was not sure I’d be able to actually perform the ceremony without my face twisting into that I’m-about-to-cry expression.

I prepared for the day by purchasing an awesome (if I do say so myself) Jackie Brown inspired suit and reading the ceremony aloud about a thousand times. I pronounced Danny and Kiddo husband and wife at least six of those times. (I sure hope that’s not legally binding.)

Marrying two people turned out to be quite an enormous experience. I was beyond honored to have been asked, and tickled pink when Jim, the groom, gave me the good credit line on the movie poster he designed for the occasion. Stephanie Seguin as “The Officiant.”

Joining Jim and Natalie in matrimony was a more intimate gesture than I ever expected. There I was, not crying, guiding my good friends through their vows and promises of lifelong commitment in front of a crowd of more than a hundred people. The bubble of love that radiated from them was close enough to touch. It was pure magic to be part of such a profound moment in someone’s life, especially someone I care so much about, and her new husband who has my official stamp of approval.

I wish Jim and Natalie much love, happiness and many, many magical moments.

Strip me, Cut me, Stitch me, Heal me

2009-04-13T09:51:00.005-04:00

Last Tuesday I had surgery to remove two large cysts from my ovaries.

They’d been causing chronic pain that was at times so excruciating that once I thought my appendix had burst and another time found myself on all fours crying for mercy at a gas station somewhere in South Carolina. So, needless to say, I’m not sorry to see them go.

After the procedure, the surgeon left Danny with a picture of the cysts as a souvenir. I thought about posting it but, that seems excessive even for me. Suffice it to say the cysts looked like two gooey softballs nestled into the innards of a pumpkin.

It went fairly normally as surgeries go. The anesthesiologist's name was Dr. Killman (really, you can’t make this shit up.) It’s already hard for me to keep a straight face in these situations. He might as well have said, hi I’m Grim Reaper and I’ll be putting you under today.

Since I am, at 31, something of a surgery connoisseur I definitely know my preferences. I like to get the happy juice BEFORE I get wheeled into the operating room. I do not want to see the person who has to move a folding chair aside so the gurney fits through the door. I do not want to see people wrangling with strange equipment, or feel people undoing the hospital gown strings that it took Danny and I both ten minutes to figure out.

And I certainly don't want to see a woman trying to attach what looks like metal leg stirrups to the end of the operating table. Honestly, the last thing I thought before I sank into oblivion was: Are my legs going to be in stirrups? Fuck. What's my situation like "down there"?

I came to in a drunken stupor. The nurse nodded politely as I prattled on about how much I love my mother-in-law while she removed my bedpan and helped me get my underwear on. Those of you who have had surgery will know that you simply have to accept the fact that strangers will be witnessing, and assisting, your bodily functions. But it's okay, copious amounts of narcotics ensure you will not care that a nurse is walking down the corridor with a container of your pee.

According to what the surgeon told Danny, (I was too doped for conversation) I have the dubious honor of having the worst case of scarring from endometriosis the surgeon had ever seen. Because you know, I don’t believe in half assing things. When I do something, I do it ALL THE WAY. I imagine my uterus looks something like Freddy Kruger's face (metaphorically speaking).

So this past week was spent popping percocet and watching movies on Netflix Instant (god bless it). I have been spoiled by friends with magazines, cookies, cupcakes, pudding and pastires.

But I think I'm ready to get back to normal now. I am doing well and looking forward to feeling like a regular person. A person who does normal things like drive through South Carolina without having to touch the ground at its trucker gas stations (no offense South Carolina I'm sure your trucker gas station pavement isn't any nastier than anyone else's).

You're Turning Violet, Violet

2009-04-06T15:34:00.009-04:00

I love having purple hair. The way I figure it, I don’t work in a bank or a nine to five desk job, so if I want to have purple hair, I can.

I first did purple on my 30th birthday, because I was feeling a little crazy. The original plan was to go all over blonde but when I balked upon discovering that going from dark brown to blonde includes processes that sound like they should be done to raw lumber and not hair, my hair stylist suggested patches of purple underneath the dark brown, so they would peek out from time to time.

I got immense pleasure from the peekage. Next I did pink, then orange, then pink and orange together.

I am addicted.

At my last trip to the salon my conversation with the cerulean coiffed receptionist could have been coming from the mouths of two heroin addicts. "How long have you been on this color?" "It fades fast but it's sooooo worth it." "You know, you can come in between appointments for a quick color fix."

I’ve heard people say that tattoos are addicting. I imagine this is similar. Now when it comes time to do my color, a couple under streaks are never enough. Every time I go in I ask for a wee bit more. Do a streak on top. Do some in my bangs. If I don’t slow down, pretty soon I will be rainbow all over.

I like the slow surprise of health care professionals who ask, “Is your hair purple?” I like that I otherwise look like a completely normal human being except for a surprise shock of neon hair. I like catching a glimpse of costumish color on a day that is not Halloween.

If it were practical to color my entire head bubble gum pink, I’d probably do it. I’m reaching the point now where the hairs on my head are probably half and half. Half deep brown, half violet. So where do I go from here? A whole rainbow hued head?

I might have to get that tattoo I’ve been wanting. But then, I fear, the problem starts afresh, where do I stop?

Yee Haw Ladies!!!!

2009-03-23T16:46:00.003-04:00

Holy Justice System!

Did I ever tell you guys I'm a plaintiff in, like, a really important law suit? Well, I am. And today we had a HUGE victory!

A U.S. District court ruled that the FDA MUST reconsider their decision to only allow women over 18 to get the Morning-After Pill without a prescription. Long story short, the FDA delayed the move for a looooong time and ultimately made it behind the counter only for 18 and up.

But now they have to reconsider based on scientific fact (as opposed to Dubya's hee haws) so younger women can get too.

A big high five for my sexually active teeny bopper sistahs.....

Read about the court decision here

Read about the fabulous feminst women who waged a no holds barred campaign for MAP over the counter here

Again with the primates...

2009-03-10T10:43:00.018-04:00

Okay, I know I've posted before about fake baby primates, and I'm guessing I will continue to do so as long as such a thing is for sale. I found this ad for "Little Umi" in the Sunday circular. I pulled her out and sat her on my dining room table so she was right next my morning paper today when I read this article "Study: Belligerent chimp proves animals can plan for the future."

Seriously, you can't make this shit up. Once I got past the initial terrifying image of a monkey military general with his finger on the button, I read on. According to the associated press, "Santino, the 31-year old male started building his weapons cache in the morning before the zoo opened...he waited until midday before he unleashed a 'hailstorm' of rocks against visitors."

I have to say, I feel Santino's pain. I too am 31, and if I found myself locked in a Stockholm zoo I'd most likely rip the face off the closest lingonberry vendor. I don't have time for that shit. Santino probably has a funny jungle blog or a monkeybook page to get back to.

What is it with us and the chimps? Can't we just leave them alone already? What if a bunch of orangutans hauled you off to the jungle and put you in a little box so a bunch of monkeys could stick their faces between the bars to look at you? Even if they were nice to me I imagine I'd say, look, thanks for all the ticks and beetles folks, but I really gotta get going. (Steph taps watch, throws feces for emphasis).

I fail to understand the market for fake baby monkeys as a collectible item. Wouldn't you rather have a collection of 139 dollar bills? I doubt even the zoo chimps are dumb enough to shell out cash for that product. They can, after all, plan for the future.

Small Annoyances and Minor Questions of Etiquette

2009-03-03T09:23:00.009-05:00

Small annoyance #1

I get mad at people in front of me at a red light when I'm planning a right turn. Every minute they're sitting there waiting to go straight is a minute I could be closer to my destination. If only the clog in front of me had asked me before we arrived at the light and let me go first. I sort of wish there were a car way to handle situations like in the grocery store when you only have one item and a person with a full cart let’s you go in front of them.

Minor Question of Etiquette

When I’m walking up to wait for the signal to cross a street and there is another person already waiting there, is it offensive to push the button again? Is that like being the person who pushes the elevator button even though you’re standing there and it’s lit up already? Because really what’s happening is I’m pushing the button to cross just in case this person forgot or maybe is not familiar with the button pushing system. (It's also possible they have no fingers and were just going to cross frogger style.) In any case, I want to double check that the button has been pushed without insulting the person’s intelligence.

It seems simple enough to ask them, but even that might be annoying. For example, a similar situation in which I was the victim of such an insult. I was waiting to use the bathroom at the Hippodrome (three stall set up). A girl walks in, sees me waiting there, and proceeds to do the “bend and check” we ladies have to do when we’re looking to see if stalls are occupied. As she’s checking and positioning herself in front of one of the other stalls, three thoughts flit through my mind.

1. Even if I had some gross oversight and you happen to find an empty stall, IT IS MINE.
2. There are THREE stalls here. THREE! Not twenty five. Don’t you think I checked them myself before leaning up against the wall to squeeze my legs together?
3. If I wasn’t waiting to pee. I would have informed you when you entered. What kind of person do you think I am?

As it was, I nearly pushed her out of the way and wiggled into the stall she was waiting for. I’d be damned if that bitch was going to take a leak before me, who had diligently powerwalked my way out of the theater to get there before her.

Small annoyance #2: Greetings and Goodbyes in America
It is my sincere wish that we as a people could get it together on the greeting front. Other countries and cultures have very clear standards. Kiss cheek hello, handshake hello etc…

In Japan they bow to each other. In France there is an intricate system of bisous greetings by region. One kiss in this city, three in the one south of it, two in yet another. Everyone knows the rules and abides by them. I don’t know if they learn it in school, or if the knowledge is simply passed along to residents of France via their French DNA, but there is never any confusion. No one ever glides in for a hug only to be met with a misplaced peck on the cheek. No one goes to leave a social gathering and does the awkward, "Are-you-a-hugger-or-aren’t-you" dance. The pressure to have your own greeting style is off, because your culture has provided one for you. That’s my dream for a better America. Let’s clean up our hellos and goodbyes.

(Here I'll leave you with a small kiss on each cheek. Au Revoir.)

Reason why Steph is a dumbass #4,567

2009-02-24T09:40:00.005-05:00

I broke the garage door.

And not, as one of my friends suggested, because I have superhuman strength (although that's a nice way of looking at it) but rather because I impatiently pulled out of my garage before the door was fully up.

It gets dumber.

Hearing the awful scratch and clank I jumped out of my car. Seeing only a small scratch on the back of my little red wagon, I breathed a sigh of relief and went on my merry way. It never even occured to me that I could have fucked up the garage door until I returned home and the damn thing nearly fell down on top of me.

All I have to say is, thank god my husband is a nice person. Because I GUARANTEE you if it had been him that backed into the gargage door I would not have remained calm. I get mad when he pulls into parking spaces too far and I hear the front fender scrape on the cement parking stopper thingie (of course when I pull in too far I assume it's because the parking stopper thingies at that particular establishment are just too darn high). But Danny handled the situation with his usual cool demeanor.

The thing is garage door maintenence is freaking expensive. Like more expensive than it would be to fix my Mazda. We learned this when our "coil" broke a few years ago. (Which in case you're wondering sounds exactly like someone got shot point blank with a rifle in your garage.)

So now I'm waiting for the repair man to come and tell me how many thousands of dollars he needs in order to fix it.

If I would have waited one tenth of one second more before pulling out I could have avoided this catastrophe. Okay universe, lesson learned. I will get a garage door that opens faster.

Best in Show

2009-02-10T10:29:00.006-05:00

Last night I was watching the American Kennel Club’s dog show. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a dog show, or it’s Christopher Guest docu-parody Best in Show, but let me tell you they are quite entertaining.

As a dog owner, I can’t help but wonder how my dog would fold into the world of fancy pooches. There is no doubt in my mind that in the show ring my dog would break her leash to make friends with all the other dogs. When she was finished jumping all over them like a hyper leprechaun, she would proceed to bury her nose in the judge's crotch before attempting to climb him like a rope ladder on a game show obstacle course. But, after all that, maybe the judge would appreciate her spirit and lovable swag. She’s pretty darn cute if you can get her to sit still.

The dog show is one of the things she will sit still for. Kiddo sits at attention on her leopard pillow and watches the show right along with me. I suppose it’s like the celebrity red carpet of the canine world. (Oooh! There goes Lemon Drop China Winchester III! He is one hot stud!)

It’s kind of fun to watch the exotic breeds of dogs canter by and stand still while a man gooses their undersides. But the real show, is watching the “handlers” (this is dog show speak for a person who ferries the dog around and brushes its hair every so often).

The world’s finest dogs are accompanied by some of the worst dressed people on the planet. It’s like the entire population of folks who could use a “What Not to Wear” episode have gathered in the arena and brought their dogs.

On these “handlers” I’ve seen black panty hose under Kelly green capris, solid gold bedazzled ballet flats worn with a burgundy skirt suit that looked like it was loosely fashioned from a hotel couch cover, paisley ties worn with striped shirts, a navy blue blazer paired with a too tight ball gown, and a bright blue suit with clunky black patent leather shoes.

I should say here that I’ve been guilty of some major fashion don’ts in my day. I’ve been known to wear a yellow terry cloth jumper with red and white Coca-Cola knee socks (knee socks folks!). In seventh grade I came to picture day (picture day!) wearing green and purple peacock pattern pants and a purple silk shirt fastened with gold military style buttons. The thing is though, I can recognize those things as mistakes. But I wonder if some of the people at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show would find them perfectly acceptable get ups for a whirl around the center ring?

Can all of those people really be so sartorially clueless?

My only plausible theory is that some of the handlers at dog shows spend so much time conditioning their dog’s hair they forget to spend at least five minutes in their own closet. Oooooh! I just had a fabulous idea! Stacey and Clinton (or Tim Gunn---pick your network) could do a whole show at the Kennel Club! We’d all be better off I think. Especially the dogs. Will someone please think of the dogs?

P.S. Thanks to alert reader Sharon for pointing out that it's "Patent" leather as opposed to "Patton" leather. Although I can't help but find the image of Patton Leather shoes extremely hilarious...

Michael Phelps goes to Pot

2009-02-03T21:43:00.012-05:00

Yesterday I read that Michael Phelps was caught on camera smoking pot. People made a big deal. He apologized. Blah blah blah. I feel I must throw in my two cents here.

If there ever were to come a day when I won eight gold medals at one Olympics (stop laughing for a second and just go with me on this one okay?). Ahem, as I was saying, If I ever won eight gold medals in one Olympic Games:

a) Please check to make sure my body has not been commandeered by an alien species.

and/or

b) Leave me the fuck alone. I've earned the right to celebrate any way I damn well please.

I have not in fact won eight gold medals, or, it may surprise you to know, any gold medals (unless you count second place in a fourth grade spelling bee and the consolation medal I got for running the half marathon). So I suppose I have not earned the right to freely partake of illegal substances.

But Michael Phelps? If that guy wants to go to a party and eat a crack-cocaine pie with a side of heroin sauce, fine by me. He has proved his discipline. He has proved his physical prowess. He has proved he's worthy of a Wheaties box. Let the man hit the pipe in peace already.

I have to give him credit. At least he didn't pull some shit like, "Oh, that was Marijuana?" or "Yeah, that was me on the bong, but I DID NOT inhale." He owned it. He was like. Yeah, that was me and that was a device for smoking some J. I promise I'll never do it again (or at least I won't do it again when some silly drunk girl has a camera).

Sure he's a role model for kids. But here's an idea, promise your kids they can do whatever drugs they want...as soon as they win eight gold medals. My parents used that line on me all the time. Sure, you can go to the Guns n' Roses concert, right after you paint your room and re-landscape the backyard.

Give the man a break. He probably needs a little relaxation in his life. Doesn't he get up at like 4:30 in the morning and swim the length of the Nile or some shit?

Personally, I think he should put on some star shaped sunglasses and one of those Dr. Suess hats and market some t-shirts.

How to Call Your Health Insurance Company (in ten easy steps).

2009-01-26T14:33:00.014-05:00

Step 1: Press Buttons

Please Press ONE to Speak with a Customer Service Representative
Press TWO if you are a doctor or pharmacist

--If you are calling about mental health benefits, say YES
--If you are calling about the status of a claim, please hang up and try again later.
--If you have just shoved the phone into your eye socket, please hang up and dial 911 (be advised however that frontal lobe damage is not currently covered on your medical plan).

Step 2: Explain the problem

From the beginning, v-e-r-y slowly, and multiple times.

Step 3: Transfer to another department

Explain the problem again. Wait while the representative Googles your particular medical ailment.

Step 4:

Engage in circular argument about whether the problem is

a) your particular medical need
b) the doctor's office
c) the insurance company

(Hint: The correct answer is a combination of a and b)

Step 5: Hold while the representative speaks with a supervisor (aka. plays her online Scrabble turn, writes on her roomate's Facebook wall and goes to the bathroom).

Step 6: The representative will tell you there's really no problem, you are one hundred percent covered for whatever you need. You're smart though, and know this is a BOLD FACED LIE. It's probably the way you're phrasing your question. Try re-wording your original inquiry.

Step 7: Sit patiently while you recieve same bullshit answer, but worded differently.

Step 8: Sigh heavily into your receiver.

Step 9: Bang the phone on the desk multiple times. Make sure to really put your back into it for maximum effect, but be careful not to throw your spine out of alignment, you don't want to have to call these people back for something else.

Step 10: The representitave will ask if there's anything else they can do for you today. Tell them exactly what can they do. For example: Start by taking your codes and claims and forms, stuff them into a burlap sack. Poo in the sack. Drive over to the CEO's office. Dump sack on CEO's desk.

Step 11: Hang up and call again later when your claim is not paid (repeat steps 1-10).

Step 12: Put an end to the slimy, greedy insurance companies. Go to www.whitehouse.gov/contact/ and send our new President a message to support single payer health care and Bill HR 676.

Step 13: Try not to get sick, have any accidents, children, or really leave your house at all until the above is in place.

Queen of Cornhole

2009-01-21T11:51:00.006-05:00

“I think I’m the queen of cornhole.” I said to my dad, “Wait, that sounds nasty doesn’t it?”

My dad shrugged, “You are what you are, Steph. You are what you are.”

It was Christmas day and my family and I had taken a walk down the beach before dinner. And after just having been in Ohio, I was loving every minute of sunshine and blue sky.

I grew up in Ohio and Illinois. I played in the snow, went sledding at the park, stayed inside when the news said your skin would freeze if exposed to air longer than a minute. I remember this, my body however does not.

My husband, Danny "Is this a snowstorm?" Gimenez, was in Ohio with me. He grew up in Miami and has maybe seen snow and freezing temperatures once or twice. This though, did not change the fact that the both of us stood huddled and begging for mercy anytime we were forced to be outside. Upon arriving somewhere we often ran from the car to the building like banshees escaping laser eyed baboons (those aren’t real by the way, I made ‘em up).

Anyway, on the 18 hour drive back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky we were to get to go home to a land where winter means a few brief freezes, a land where "cold" means grab a light coat or sweater, not frostbitten toes and scraping ice from your windshield every morning.

I have taken Florida for granted. My Christmas holidays are annually spent between Miami and a tiny little island on the Gulf of Mexico. Christmas Eve and the days preceding are spent enjoying the tropical flora of Miami and Christmas finds us driving across barrier islands.

On our Chistmas day beach stroll, my family and I stopped at one of the beachside bars. They had adirondack chairs set up in sand and a volleyball game going. People were tossing bean bags back and forth and we decided to play. I asked someone how. “See that bean bag,” he pointed with his cigarette, “throw it into that hole.” He gestured with his beer can hand to a board with a hole in it about 30 feet off.

I played for awhile with Danny and my brothers, and earned the title of cornhole queen (Okay fine, I gave the title to myself, but I’m still counting it.)

After we were done we stayed there for awhile. Enjoying our Christmas day shoreside at a weather worn drinking hole called the Cottage. My mom and dad were perched on barstools behind me, looking out onto the Gulf. The sun was sorbet orange as it started to set. My feet were in the sand. Danny was playing beach volleyball.

Wait…what?

Yeah, Danny “I’ve-only-seen-his-bare-feet-once-since-we’ve-been-married” Gimenez was playing beach volleyball….with strangers. And he was pretty good too. Eventually my brother and my cousin joined in until they were a regular bad news bears success story of the sand court set.

So once again I’ve brought you to the end of a blog and I don’t have a point (oh stop complaining, I know you do far more useless things on the internet.) I suppose my point is this. As my dad said, I am what I am. I’d like to think I’m tough enough to brave the winter weather, but the truth is, I’m not, or at least don’t want to be. We may not have white Christmases down here, and it’s true we have cockroaches the size of schooners, but I’d rather be the Cornhole Queen of Ft. Myers Beach than shivering, shaking, and sloshing through ice and snow.

A Public Service Announcement pertaining to toys that come alive at night.

2009-01-13T16:29:00.018-05:00

This "My Twinn (the just-like-me doll)" catalog was brought to my attention by my friend Lisa (she’s an actual friend, not a doll). And after thumbing through it I felt obliged to reiterate a very important point to my readers: These kinds of dolls are deadly and should never, ever, be allowed into your home. They will roam your darkened hallways the second you close your eyes.

Trust me. Look at this doll and tell me that is not the face of evil.

Are there people on the planet who do not think these dolls are creepy? I bet you any money the nightwatchman at the My Twinn factory pays a therapist beaucoup dollars just so he doesn’t go crazy from the nightmares and the pitter patters he hears in the warehouse.

Ways a My Twinn doll could kill you:

1. Deadly royal scepter. There can’t be two queens in the kingdom kids. Little Polly here might not know it yet, but as soon as she climbs into her canopy bed tonight that scepter is going straight into her eyeball.

2. Suffocation. Little twinn Katie’s wry little smile doesn’t fool me one bit, she’s got plans for when that bitch falls asleep.

3. Strangulation by garland. One of these monsters is bad enough, but get two in the same room and they will conspire together. These poor girls don’t stand a chance.

4. Poison. You’ve all heard the toxic toy warnings, these little demons are MADE out of poison. All little twinn Lauren here has to do is let her hand steep in that tea for a minute, wait for big sister to drink, and bam, service for one please.

5. Neck Breaking and/or spinal cord injury. Don’t be fooled by their supposed lack of dexterity. These dolls come highly trained. Think of them as evil miniature Charlie’s Angels.

6. Mortal combat. Just walk away girls. Your dolls are not posing, they are getting ready to take you down.

This is just a horror movie waiting to happen. If you come home and see anything like this in your living room, GET THE FUCK OUT. These ladies mean business.

I hope you all heed this very important advice. One safety precaution to take if you already own one of these little bastards is to get a puppy. I mean the dolls are deadly, but they can only move so fast with a knawed off foot.

Really Cooking

2009-01-06T14:06:00.003-05:00

November brought a big change for me. Not just a new president, but an addiction to cooking like I’ve never experienced before. It’s mostly Rachel Ray and my friend Alisa’s fault.

Alisa for planting the seed of desire to do it in my head. And Rachel Ray for devoting her November issue to “Ultimate Election night party” which I bought for my own election night party and have since made nearly every recipe in the book.

My cooking spree didn’t stop there after the November issue. I don’t know what’s gotten into me but I look forward to cooking. Every Sunday morning I sit on the couch with cookbooks and coupons thinking about what I’m going to make that week and writing out the grocery list.

No need to adjust your dials. You’re not on the wrong blog. It’s really me, the same person who has almost started her kitchen on fire twice and who often burns herself because she forgets to put potholders on before pulling things out of the oven.

Here’s the thing though. For all the cooking I’ve been doing, there isn’t much funny to report. No small fires or missing digits. No chicken breasts charred black. No blaring smoke alarms or trips to the ER. And the food has been, well, pretty good.

I made sausage and fennel pasta which I swear is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. Last month we had Turkey burgers with homemade guacamole, and spinach salad that was, get this, dressed with a dressing I MADE, not something that came out of a bottle.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not sure anymore, but I’ve made Arroz con Pollo, Chicken Cassoulet, Tuna Noodle casserole (from SCRATCH, not with Campells soup), Salmon with mustard dill sauce (that even Danny, my husband that subsists mostly on items found on children’s menus, adored.) I’ve made homemade fajitas, Chicken and Dumplings and Pork chops with spinach fritters. Fritters I say!

I’ve gotten cookbooks and…wait for it…ACTUALLY USED THEM, not just propped them up as kitchen decor. I watch the Food Network as if there is very important life saving information to be found there (instead of Bobby Flay challenging old ladies that he can beat their apple pie and Guy Fieri scarfing down chili cheese dogs in a diner.) I read food magazines before I go to sleep at night and eat the leftovers of meals I made the day before. I buy Cooking Light at the checkout line now instead of People.

I've found that when you cook, the vegetables you buy actually get used instead of sitting sadly in the dugout, ignored until they're covered with soft brown spots and mold blossoms.

It’s insane. It’s crazy. It’s really, really good.

So come on over sometime, I’ll make you dinner. And, no guarantees, but I’m pretty sure it will be edible.

Steph's 2008 at a Glance

2008-12-31T16:19:00.003-05:00

Oh how the time just flies (faster somehow as I get older). I'm excited for 2009, but here are some hightlights from the lat 365 days...

Things that made me happy
1. Finishing my book and getting an A-G-E-N-T (Steph does happy dance). And in case you’re wondering, getting an agent is not as easy as signing up with a cell phone carrier, it’s rough out there (in a rare move I’m tooting my own horn, in case you didn’t catch it).

2. Wild West vacation: Cirque, Spas, Roller Coasters, Harry Potter Movie props, earthquakes…it was happy heaven.

3. Rhapsody
I…LOVE…RHAPSODY. I could be a walking infomercial for this company. I signed up in January (wanting to make an honest music consumer of myself) and I was instantly addicted. Whatever music I want, I have. Just like that. I don’t have to pay a dollar a song and I don’t have to cross my fingers and hope I find it on the (ahem) other downloadable sources. It’s a (frugal) music lovers heaven. It’s totally the way to go.

Things that inspired me:
1. O-BA-MA—that’s all I have to say about that.

2. Afternoons with Alisa. Okay fine they were mornings (but afternoons sounds better). These were almost weekly sessions of writing, bitching about writing, and writing some more (sometimes eating, laughing, drinking and shopping were also involved). Sometimes we dressed up in crazy outfits just to see what people would say (which turned out to be nothing). No matter what, it was always chocolate for my soul.

3. I am Legend (the book by Robert Matheson). It’s super short and the ending is beautiful and has a dynamic shift unlike anything I’ve read elsewhere.

Things that made me laugh
Curb Your Enthusiasm, Flight of the Conchords, Tropic Thunder, Ghost Town (Ricky Gervais), and Tina Fey as Sarah Palin.

Things that made me cry
1. Losing my grandma. It occurred to me that as we move across our time on this planet, there are only a handful of people (if that) who love us absolutely and completely. She was one of mine. Now there is a big gaping hole in my universe that I don’t quite know what to do with. But I still have the bundles of love she gave me, so I’ll figure something out.

2. Happy tears for all the friends who got married. Brooke and Nate, Alex and Jeff, Alisa and Chris.

Things that vacuumed up my time

Games on Facebook (I’m now in a twelve step recovery program for Word Challenge abusers)

Things that disappointed me.

(SPOILER—lest anyone throw stones my way like last time….) Breaking Dawn. I loved the first Twilight book. I would even say on the whole, the entire series was all right. But when I read Breaking Dawn my heart broke for all the teenage girls who will want to run down the aisle and start having babies when they’re barely grown up yet.

Things that challenged me
1. Running a half marathon. I totally thought I’d be doing the full thing in 2009. That was until I almost broke down crying around mile 11 wondering, What the fuck was I thinking? I do love running though, but I think 8 or 9 miles is my limit.

2. Writing a novel. I’m almost done with my first draft and am addicted to writing fiction. Get this…you can make shit up!

Music that filled my brain
I spent most of the year addicted to Rilo Kiley. I also discovered Camera Obscura and Sons & Daughters. Also, the Rhapsody New Wave channel, can’t go wrong with New Wave.

Sights that moved me
1. The sun setting over the Pacific in Santa Monica
2. Driving down into a midnight lake of fog in the West Virginia Mountains.
3. The full moon over the Atlantic in St. Augustine

I can't wait to see what great things await me in 2009. I wish you all a happy, healthy New Year.

Getting My Holiday Spirit Back

2008-12-17T11:55:00.003-05:00

So I’m back from Ohio and trying to get back in the swing of things.

I’m still heartbroken of course, and dealing with that mental incongruity that’s created when someone you talk to on a regular basis is no longer there. At least five times during the past week I’ve thought, “Oh, just wait until I tell Grandma about that.” A couple times at her wake or funeral someone would say something to me and I’d mentally file it away knowing I was going to tell her the next time we talked. It’s strange, but the impulse to call and tell her about my trip to Ohio is amazingly strong.

Getting back in the holiday spirit is hard. Usually by this time I have put up Christmas lights, made an excel spreadsheet of everyone on my shopping list, consulted last year’s spread sheet, baked dozens of cookies and begun my much anticipated wrapping paper frenzy. This year however, I have done none of that. Nada, zip, zero.

So I’m scrounging for last minute gift ideas. You may be stuck too, so I thought I’d spread some holiday shopping inspiration.

Star Trek plates.

This site was sent to me by my friend Kelly. Don’t tell Danny, but I think there will be a “Christmas in the Nexus” plate under the tree for him this year.
http://www.theplatelady.com/star-trek.htm

Flash drive bracelet

For the person who wants to have their data handy AND show the world they know how to accessorize…
http://www.computergear.com/wr1gbusbdr.html

Star wars flash drive set.

Don’t rely on the force to back up your files.
http://www.computergear.com/computergear-mimobot-star-wars-usb-drive-set.html

Custom Bobbleheads—you know you want one.
http://www.whoopassenterprises.com/

Demotivators

This is one of my favorites. Originally sent to me by Nicole, fellow cynic and friend. These are spoofs of those motivational posters you sometimes see in offices. My favorite: LOSING: If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.
http://www.despair.com/viewall.html

Random stupid shit.

All the things I want and have no idea why. Including meatball bubble gum, a pirate toast stamper, and a yodeling pickle
http://www.mcphee.com/

Here’s a little gift to all of you, my grandma’s recipe for Snowball Cookies (Russian Tea Cakes). She usually made them by the ton.

1 cup butter
½ cup confectioners sugar
1 teaspoon of vanilla
2 ¼ cups of flour
¼ teaspoon of salt
¾ cup of nuts

Chill dough and roll into 1 inch balls. Place on ungreased baking sheets and bake at 400 until set but not brown (10-12 minutes). While still warm, roll in confectioners sugar. Cool and roll in sugar again.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

Goodbye Dolly

2008-12-09T20:47:00.009-05:00

My oh my. What ever prepares us for moments in life such as these? Nothing I suppose. This afternoon, my grandmother, Dolores Rose Seguin passed away.

For the first ten years of my life I lived with her. She sang Andrews Sisters songs to me before bed at night. She got me up and ready for school in the morning. She held my hand when I went to the doctor and let me help her in the kitchen when she baked Christmas cookies. She made sure my "slacks" fit right in the crotch and hemmed them when they were (always) too long.

Every single Saturday of my childhood she took Steve and I with her to the beauty parlor to get her hair "set." Afterwards, we walked to the bakery and she let Steve and I pick out a dozen doughnuts (as long as one was a chocolate eclaire for her). Every night after saying my prayers I told her I loved her more than all the houses and all the cars and all the trees and all the stars...

Last week was her birthday. I'm sure she wanted to hang on long enough to fit just one more in (she was efficient like that). She liked to rib Danny for never picking up the phone, so she was tickled pink when he called her on her birthday (and gave her his work line---even I don't have that number!)

Grandma was a clown if there ever was one. She had an affinity for tabloid magazines, butterflies and Tim Allen movies. She collected nativity scenes and made THE BEST french toast on the planet. She rocked the house at Atari games. She always had a wry joke. She read my blog on a regular basis (and always called to chide me when I used to many swear words.)

When I talked to her last week, on her birthday, she was going in for her birthday "meal" (an IV bag). I told her to make sure they put a candle in it so she could blow it out and make a wish. I will miss her immensely, but I'm so very happy that I got to tell grandma one last time, that I love her more than all the cars, and all the houses, and all the trees and all the stars...

An Open Letter to All Motorists

2008-12-01T13:44:00.005-05:00

Thursday morning I loaded up my Mp3 player with thousands of songs and headed south to Ft. Myers for Thanksgiving. Danny stayed behind because he wanted to catch up on work (and also because he is a borderline Scrooge when it comes to the holidays).

Generally, I am a pretty laid back driver. I don’t weave in and out of traffic, I rarely go more than ten miles an hour over the speed limit, I don’t tailgate and I always use my turn signal, sometimes, out of sheer habit, I flick it on even as I’m turning into my driveway.

I don’t get road rage (road sarcasm maybe.) However, there is one highway driving rule that morphs me into a crazed angry monster faster than a speeding bullet. So today I am making a plea. If you are in the left lane and there is a car approaching fast behind you---MOVE THE FUCK OVER.

As far as I'm concerned, if I have to pass you on the right you should be so ashamed of yourself that you want to crawl into a deep, deep hole and never come out again.

Thursday’s drive was about four and a half hours. I spent about two of those cursing drivers who stubbornly remained in my way as I tried to make it home in time to stuff myself with carbs and poultry.

My tension level was high for the first fifty or so left lane hogs, after that I pretty well relented to cruising with the flow of traffic even if that flow happened to be driving five miles per hour under the speed limit (sacrilege!) I consoled myself. Breathe in. Breathe Out. Choose a calming song. I tried to distract myself from my fury with a book on tape. Which I enjoy while driving but have come to realize the main drawback is my mind wanders rather easily and by the time I’ve finished wondering why I still call them books on tape even though it’s an mp3 file and why do I still say “mix tape” when I haven’t used a cassette in over a decade but “Mix CD” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it—I’ve rejoined the story and have no clue what’s going on.

Listening to a book on Thursday’s journey proved particularly difficult due to the fact that two out of three drivers wouldn’t GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

Okay. It’s okay. Breathe. In. Out. Relax. Concentrate on the amusing British accents of Oliver Twist. Think about turkey and stuffing. Enjoy the beautiful scenery of…fine, concentrate on the amusing British accents of Oliver Twist.

I did manage to make it home without blowing my top. Thankfully there wasn’t any traffic waiting to get on the island where my parents live or I may very well have just pulled into a gas station and had a Thanksgiving meal of Combos and M&Ms. But I didn’t need to resort to that, I pulled in to a fabulous dinner lovingly prepared by my family and all I had to do, was eat.

Woo hoo! Can you feel the stress? (I mean cheer) The holidays are here!

Twilight, Oh, Obsessive Love

2008-11-24T14:55:00.007-05:00

Saturday I saw Twilight with my friend and her twelve year old daughter. Because you know, I read the same books as pre-teen girls. Whatever. In case you live under a rock and have not heard of Twilight, it’s a wildly popular series of teen vampire novels.

Here’s the story in a nutshell. Girl moves to really crappy town in her junior year of high school. Girl falls for ridiculously good looking vampire boy. Vampire boy falls for girl (whose blood smells uncommonly yummy to him) but he’s conflicted because he could like, inadvertently crush her during one of their make out sessions.

The first book was a long, controlled, slow burn of desire. I felt physically relieved when Bella and Edward finally kissed. I took a cold shower and wondered, where were the hot vampire boys when I moved across the country my junior year of high school?

Twilight is a great love story even if I did find myself cringing a lot at how obsessed Bella is with Edward. Maybe I cringed because as an adult looking back, I can see that I was nearly as obsessed with my first boyfriend. I am sure my parents wanted to gag because looking back, I want to gag too. I had a collection of little framed photos of him that I kept by my bedside and when adults asked about my boyfriend, I excitedly ran up to my room, brought down my portable shrine, and arranged it on the kitchen table for show and tell. Ugh. Gag me (with a spoon).

But it was exhilarating. I know now that who broke up with who or who said what to so and so after math class or who has a crush on who even though their best friend had a crush on them first is inconsequential, but back then, these things were THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. Wars, presidential elections, financial crises took a back seat to whether Josh answered the note you left in his locker after fourth period. (Like, OH MY GOD he totally DIDN’T! What an ASS-wipe!... Let’s call him on three-way.)

Twilight (the book) captured the urgency and mystery of the new feeling of falling for someone. As for the movie, well, let’s just say that for two hours I alternated between an eyeroll, a smirk, and a skeptical face. Mostly because the heartfelt (or teenfelt) lines from the book came out empty on the screen without a believeable attraction to back them up. Edward walked around with a constantly furrowed brow (to show us his conflict). And the film was peppered with super corny, seriously cringe-worthy scenes (see slo-mo Vampire baseball).

I don’t know, maybe there is something to be learned from Edward and Bella. Maybe our adult relationships could stand a tiny dose of YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING (just a bit though, I mean really there's laundry, dishes, all sorts of things that need to get done as soon as the couch make out session is over).

For a real dose of reality, it would be interesting to see the movie of Bella and Edward on their fifth wedding anniversary when they went to Ikea and Bella yelled at an old woman who snapped at Edward for moving too slow. Oh wait, that’s part of my love story…which I’ll tell you about later….

The Lunch Lady's Daughter

2008-11-10T14:41:00.008-05:00

Last week was my thirty-first birthday. As always, my mom called around noon and reminded me that I was born, “Just in time for lunch.”

She also told me another story, one I’ve heard many times before, but this year I can’t stop thinking about it. Mom has always joked that the lunch lady wanted me. See when I was cooking in my mom’s belly, she was still a high school senior who pushed a plastic orange tray through a lunch line to get food every day.

As the legend goes, each day this particular lunch lady (whom I’ve just named May in my head) told my mom, “If you don’t want that baby, I’ll take it!”

Growing up, the lunch lady was something of a joke, as in, “If you come home puking vodka one more time, I’m going to call up that lunch lady and see if the offer still stands.”

When my mom told the story this year she said, “No really, the lunch lady really wanted to keep you. It got a little creepy actually. I had to switch lunch lines.”

I couldn’t help but think of my previous blog entry (Excuse me, Are You Going to Raise that Baby?) as it dawned on me that the creepy lunch lady could be me. Because if I worked in a high school I guarantee you I would be stalking the lockers of every pregnant girl around. Possibly even the ones I merely suspected were sexually active (Pssst, hey girls, over here, if you get knocked up, here’s my card! Call me….seriously.)

It’s strange to think that the course of my life was hinged on the whim of a seventeen year old girl. A simple decision could have cast me in an entirely different role in life. Named and raised by the high school lunch lady, I could have been anyone. Maybe I’d be Margie the Seamstress, Paula the Pediatrician, Chrystal the Crack Whore. All my mom had to do was say, “This is too much to handle,” and I would have been whisked off to a land of stainless steel counter tops, hair nets and large bins of macaroni salad. (The super-secret tater tot recipe would be my birth right).

But my mom didn’t give me to May. Honestly, the decision is still a mystery to me. Put in the same situation, there’s NO WAY I would have had me. I would have begged and stolen and hitchhiked my way to the abortion clinic and if that didn’t work I would have auctioned me off to whatever school service employee was interested.

Not my mom though, whatever her reasons, she kept me and despite some rocky times for both of us, things have turned out pretty well. Neither of us have ever been in jail. I am not currently addicted to crack or having sex for money, I bathe on a regular basis and never call people after nine on a school night. All in all I’d say my mom fulfilled her requirements as a parent.

Would May have done the same? I don’t know. I’ve always imagined May the Lunch Lady as kind of a weirdo. But now that I want a baby and can’t have one, I understand her. I have a strange desire to move across time and space to comfort her. I know the heartache of wanting something you can’t have. It must have been devastating to want a child and watch this young girl, a child herself really, passing in front of her eyes every day at noon.

When I think about it, May did contribute to my existence. She provided my mom with essential sustenance in the form of heaping piles of canned green beans and macaroni and cheese. Maybe in some way I was aware of her.

Now when I think of being born just in time for lunch, I think I was giving a nod to May the Lunch Lady. As if to say, “Maybe I wasn’t meant to be with you, but don’t worry, your baby will come down the line eventually. Also, thanks for all the tater tots.”

(P.S. Obviously my mom deserves double helpings of props for squatting me out, hauling my ass around, cleaning up aforementioned vodka puke and generally doling out greasy, buttery lovin' for thirty-one years.)

Me llamo Stephanie

2008-11-03T19:52:00.005-05:00

I finally did it. I signed up for Spanish class. Every year I look at the book and every year the class is on a night of the week I have regular meetings. But this year, miraculously, my Wednesdays were relatively clear.

Before I went I was a little nervous. I haven’t taken a beginning language class since middle school. There were three choices back then. Those of us who imagined we would one day enjoy a baguette and a glass of merlot in the shadow of the Eiffel tower, signed up for French. Those who were more practical and who wanted to, oh I don’t know, talk to actual people who spoke the language they were learning, took Spanish. And those who wanted to buck the entire system took German.

Seeing as how my family roots lie in French Canada, I saw it as my duty to my ancestors to learn French. But years later, all this amounts to is an occasional crossword clue and knowing how to correctly pronounce the titles of the French movies that play at the Hippodrome.

Spanish is a much more useful language. Most members of my husband’s family speak Spanish and my dream is to attend family events and be able to understand toasts and wedding vows. Also, thanks to Danny’s family I have plenty of people to practice (and embarrass myself) with. Because embarrassing yourself is an integral part of the language learning process. Like walking up to a French woman and saying, “I like your socks!” when you really mean glasses.

My class is held in a local middle school. It started out pretty simple, but by the end of our two hour session I wanted TO KILL MYSELF.

Our venezualan teacher was moving her way through vowel sounds. This is what "a" sounds like etc. We moved on to the consonants and were half way through she asked, Hay Preguntas? (Any Questions?)

A woman raised her hand, “Yes, how do you say sky blue? You know like the paint color at Lowes?”

The teacher looked confused, but answered the question. I gave this woman the benefit of the doubt, maybe she couldn’t wait until later for this information because later that night she was flying to Madrid to paint a house. Who knows?

After the alphabet, we learned some simple phrases. Starting with, “Como se llama?” (What is your name?) We practiced it a couple times and were about to move on to the next phrase when the teacher asked, Hay Preguntas?

Now, most people would think that the question “What is your name?” is pretty straightforward. Those people would be wrong. According to my new classmates, the phrase has infinite and sundry interpretations. A lesson that should have taken ten minutes dragged on for forty-five as people asked questions like:

Which name are you asking for? My full name or my nick name? Should I also say my middle name? How do I ask someone for their last name? Do you mean my name as it would appear on a job application? Or what my mother calls me? My name is Ed. But my full name is Edward John Clancey the III, should I give that name to the person asking? Or just say Ed?

The teacher was, understandably, a bit perturbed. She kept trying to explain a concept that any five year old would have gotten immeadiately. “The question is just, what is your name.”

It didn’t stop there. One man asked, “Wait, so you’re asking for the number?”

Again, the teacher looked confused. I could feel her wondering, are these people smoking crack laced with loco juice? “Noooooo,” she said slowly, “this question is asking someone their name. That’s it. If it’s a job you can give your full name if you want. But if it’s like, your neighbor asking your name, just say your name.”

The class was still skeptical, but we moved on. I was happy when we didn’t cover more deeply philosophical questions as “What is the meaning of life?” or “What is love?” Because if we had I might have shot someone.

For next week we’re supposed to bring in two words or a phrase we looked up, something we might use in class. I think mine’s gonna be, “Can it assholes. I’m trying to learn Spanish.”

Sunday morning coupon product parade…Christmas edition

2008-10-27T10:52:00.006-04:00

It’s about that time again, actually it’s not even close to that time again but since apparently we’re supposed to start planning for Christmas as soon as we stop wearing white after labor day, I’m just going to float with the tide. (Because contrary to what you might think I’m not really a boat rocking type of person.)

Up first, Talking Teddy from Dream Products Inc. Talking Teddy makes learning fun and easy! You can teach kids to count and dress! However, one can’t help but wonder, what psycho would teach their kids to dress like a reject circus clown?

Furthermore, when oh when will manufacturers realize that talking stuffed animals come alive at night and slaughter entire families in their sleep! This is an enormous national problem. Frankly, I’m surprised neither presidential candidate has addressed it. Have they learned nothing from Chucky? Don’t they know that voodoo witch doctors stuff these things with the souls of serial killers and sociopaths? Plus, in that outfit even I would want to kill my family. I don’t want to be anywhere in the neighborhood when Talking Teddy comes to and realizes that for all of eternity he’ll be wearing red and blue cargo pants with a neon green pocket, especially after a day of having his extremities squeezed and being forced to recite the alphabet.

Don’t think it’s true? Visit the Dream Products website. You'll be terrified to know that Teddy is featured along side such accessories as, a full set of self threading needles, super long reach scissors, and high powered binoculars. If you really want to scare kids this Halloween, set out these little minions of hell.

Next up, if homicidal bears don’t float your boat, how about a book---starring YOUR CHILD! See your offspring come to life in print as a fairy, a princess, Elmo’s best friend or any number of other adventures. Just send My Adventure Books your child’s name, birthday, address, brothers and sisters names, mother’s maiden name, social security number…hold it right there. Anybody else smell a scam? I’d bet any money after you give up that info they call asking for your bank routing numbers and say all you need to do to get the books is "hold" a few thousand dollars in your bank account.

My suspicions were confirmed when I took a closer look at the picture in the ad. Instead of the jolly Santa we’ve come to know and love, this Santa motions to the reader like a drug dealer in a dark alley. Behind him in Santa’s little sweatshop, surly elves are engaging in all manner of shady goings-on. One is obviously wasted and dragging a passed-out bear across the floor. In the back, an elf spreads his legs while a friend points lasciviously to his merry twig and berries. Meanwhile, Santa tries to reel you in for the con and subtly threatens that he knows everything about you, while four of his cronies sneak away with an over sized baseball bat and two large dice to take a big money game down the street. Other “My Adventure” titles: Disney Princess Adventures in Human Traffiking, Fairies Fun with Prostitution Rings, Cars (Hot and Stripped), and Dora the “Exporter.”

Our next product is not really a product but an ad for the the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. “Bring the Whole Family!” Time Magazine says.

I don’t think so Joe.

Because I see the look on that kid’s face. It’s not awe or Christmas cheer. It’s terror. That kid knows that at any second lasers and flames will shoot out of those Rockettes eyes. Little Timmy has realized it was all a trap. Santa was probably in on it too.

The Rockettes have had enough you see. They kick and twirl and dance for the man all day and all night and for what? A mediocre pay out and a pension plan that just tanked on the stock market? They know that someday, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, their legs won’t kick so high and their cheeks won’t be as smooth. They’ll be replaced with newer, fresher models and turned out into the cruel, cruel world. So they’re organized. Soon the theater will be filled not with yuletide joy but with the stench of seared flesh and puddles of blood. These toy soldiers aren’t toyin’ around. Timmy knows it.

Timmy, knowing he’s not long for this earth, wishes his parents would have realized the truth about Christmas, and that truth is… Little Timmy doesn't give a flying fuck about the Rockettes. He’d rather play Wii at FAO Schrawtz because he’s not seventy, he’s seven.

Have a happy and safe Halloween everyone. And after THAT have a happy and safe Thanksgiving. And then, after THAT, have a happy and safe Hanukkah. And then, finally, after four months of waiting, have a happy, killer stuffed bear and Rockette free Christmas.

A Vampire Story

2008-10-20T12:09:00.003-04:00

In honor of the upcoming Halloween holiday I thought I’d post this little number I dug out of my archives. It’s a vampire story and my debut in fiction.

Judging from the tri-color lined newsprint it’s written on, I’m going to guess this was written circa first grade.

In my opinion, this vampire story surpasses the Twilight series, mostly because (spoiler alert!) there’s no teenage girl who gets pregnant at the end and insists on having the baby even though she’s puking geysers of blood and the baby is cracking her ribs and she will die when it’s born but, oh lucky for her her husband is a vampire so she can live forever and raising an infant is totally a breeze because vampires don’t require sleep...ANYWAY…

I hope you enjoy “Untitled.” (Author’s commentary is in Parentheses.)

Once upon a trick or treat there was a girl her name was Linda and she was trick or treating.

(I’m pretty sure I thought “once upon a trick or treat” was a wildly charming line that would make my teacher swoon. And second, unless this is Halloween 1965, there’s no little kid named “Linda” probably my teacher’s name was Linda and I was attempting to suck up.)

She came to the first door. She knocked and said trick or treat! The door opened there was a vampire he said aha! You can my victom!
Oh no!
He took her in.
No! I-I-I’m only a little girl!
Anyone can be my victom.

(Note my avant-garde lack of quotation marks or tags to clue the reader in as to who’s speaking. Also, the vampire’s equal opportunity outlook on who could be his victim was before its time.)

There was monsters & goblins and wiches. Were they real? Or were they just big kids all dressed up? The vampire put me in the basement. I looked at my watch it was 10:00! I was suppose to be home by 8:30.

(Let’s forget for a second Linda’s hope that, while the vampire is real, the monsters goblins and “wiches” are just the big kids. Let’s instead focus on my masterful show of the passage of time in this story. Remember that the vampire’s door is the first door our little Linda comes to, so let’s say for the sake of argument that her parents, because they’re assholes, only gave her an hour for candy collecting (never mind that they sent her out alone, this was the early eighties, that was still OK). That would mean that Linda knocked on the vampire’s door at approximately 7:30, at which point he grabs her, puts her in the basement, she looks at her watch, 10:00! (which for dramatic effect, is like 3 in the morning to a first grader.) Either the vampire’s basement exists in some sort of time warp worm hole, or the events that transpired between 7:30 and 10:00pm were just too horrible to recount, OR, I only had one sheet of lined newsprint paper and was trying to move the narrative along so it would all fit on one page.)

I looked and saw a door! It was not locked!

(Here the author has become Linda and realized that, while the vampire is non-discriminating, he isn’t all that smart when it comes to locking up his prey.)

It went threw a spooky haunted hall. And there was a slide at the end that led outside.

(That’s me cranking up the action sequence suspense. Also, keeping in mind my target audience, I thought a slide would be an exciting feature, Linda could escape AND have fun at the same time!)

She ran home and did not daer go to the next door!
The end
or is it? ha! ha! ha!

(That’s me leaving the door open for a sequel)

The general moral I was trying to get across here is do not go trick or treating in a neighborhood where vampires live. And if you do get stuck in a vampire’s time warp basement, look around and see if there happens to be slide that leads outside. But whatever you do, do not dare go to the next door!!!! HA HA HA!

The end (or is it? HA! HA! HA!)

P.S. The picture above is my brother Steve's portrayal of a Welcome Back Cotter inspired devil. I'm pretty sure he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and had nightmares for awhile. Also that trident was a popular playtime accessory for years to come, in such games as, "Poke Down the Wasp Nest" and "Fix Grandma's Hair While She's Sleeping." (Steve has only recently stopped having nightmares after seeing himself in the mirror.)

Steph Makes Roomba for Zumba

2008-10-13T10:31:00.002-04:00

My friend Lori has been trying to get me to go to a Zumba class for awhile. Last week I almost went, but when I showed up late and saw the aerobics room of the gym packed with wall to wall bodies, the claustrophobic side of me said no thanks. I decided to get on the elliptical and watch the economy continue to crumble on CNN instead.

For those of you who’ve never heard of Zumba, it’s an exercise method based on Latin dance moves that the official website describes as a “fitness party.”

Yesterday, I made it to the “party” and learned some valuable information about myself. I have really known this my whole life but Zumba confirmed it. I am rhythmically challenged. Actually no, it’s not the rhythm part that’s challenging, it the movement part that’s the problem.

Lori looked like she just stepped out of an Enrique Iglesias video. I on the other hand, moved with the ease and grace of a foldable army cot. If I could have videoed myself for your viewing pleasure I would have. But that won't be necessary. Just take a moment to picture John McCain or Frankenstein dancing at a Shakira concert…I’ll wait while you conjure this mental image…got it? That’s about what I looked like at Zumba class.

I’m a natural at a lot of things, telling a story, drawing a picture, but I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a natural dancer. Some part of me always knew this and this is the reason why I sat on the floor reading on the days when I went with my mom to work and watched her teach other people to Samba and Foxtrot. It’s the reason why I snuck out to go find alcohol fifteen minutes into every school dance.

I was not the kid who went out to run around and play or spontaneously combusted into dance. I was the kid who sat inside reading books beyond my age level, doing cross stitch patterns, and watching movies on HBO with my grandma. I mean don't get me wrong, I love parties. It's just that usually my role at them is to sit somewhere and make fun of things, usually myself.

In the video I've included here, these children, who've just learned to walk a few short years ago, are more coordinated at Zumba than I am. The girl in the pink shorts really wants to get down, sister friend has got some moves. I relate more to the first girl in pink though, who obviously wants to stick her head in her easy bake oven rather than dance on a stage. At various points she stops to check her nails and fix her hair, all the while carefully moving back behind the other kids. The piece de resistance is at the end when she outright refuses to wave her hands above her head. She begrudingly does it, but I have to say I've been in this same position, I've never NOT felt like an idiot at a concert with my hands in the air. It's clear that this girl would rather be home reading Anne of Green Gables.

I’m a pretty laid back person, but I was never really one for letting loose. So maybe Zumba can teach a thirty-something dog some new tricks. I’ll go back, and I’ll let you know when I advance from having the grace of an army cot to a limber zombie.

The Meaning of Life (in a way)

2008-10-06T23:49:00.005-04:00

Thursday my friend Pennie passed away.

At her memorial, I was reminded that during a very dark time in my life, Pennie met me for breakfast every Sunday for about two months. We’d both shared similar childhood experiences and she met me to talk, to tell me about her life, to assure me that I wasn’t alone in my struggle. She helped me a great deal.

There are a lot of people in my life, but only a small number would commit to me in that way (unless they have a Psychology degree and charge $200 an hour). Pennie was a special person and I’ll miss her very much.

After the services, I sat with my friends Chris and Alisa on their porch and talked about life and death. I read somewhere that this is what makes us different from animals, that we know we’re going to die. I’ve been thinking of something Chris asked ever since then. Does knowing your time here is finite change the way you act in day to day life? I’ve been thinking, can I say that I’ve done the same thing for other people as Pennie did for me?

So I’ve been analyzing a bit. In the four days since Pennie died, I have thought ill of people I love. I have held grudges and kept anger inside. I haven’t called my mom. And I have picked two, no three (really stupid) fights with my husband.

One fight was about how he’s always wearing his headphones at his computer, which by the way is a courtesy to me so I don’t have to hear every ding and bang of whatever game he’s currently addicted to. My grievance though, was that he can’t hear and respond to me no matter where I am in the house, being of the opinion that anything springing forth from my mouth is of utmost importance and requires prompt attention even if mumbled under my breath while walking away. Especially since what I was mumbling is that he should look before he puts things in the washing machine like my suit jacket and would he put his suit jacket in the washer? No.

But alas, here I go, so easily stumbling into tiny things that seem so insignificant in the grand scheme of life. So what’s my point? I don’t really have one (come on are you really that surprised?) I guess the point is we just have to keep on living the best we can every day. Loving the people we love, helping others, not holding grudges, and checking that things aren’t dry clean only before putting them in the washer.

(Danny’s addendum: How about not putting things that are dry clean only in the hamper).

(Steph’s addendum to the addendum: Still you should look, and come on it’s a suit jacket, it sticks out like a ketchup bottle on a snowbank.)

For Pennie

You belong among the wildflowers

You belong on a boat out at sea

You belong among the wildflowers

You belong somewhere you feel free

--Tom Petty

The Myth of the Apathetic American

2008-09-29T13:03:00.004-04:00

I love the street where I live.

First, I live next door to some of the nation’s best children, really. Everyone on the block (except for us) has reproduced and done a damn good job of it. To my left, there’s Shelby and Will. Shelby is a little blonde toddler who really and truly could not be any cuter. Her older brother Will is like Dennis the Menace (without the menace). Often when I walk by he’ll make sure I’ve met his dog or tell me he likes my red car.

To my right live the world’s nicest teenagers. They’re polite, quiet, pleasant. One of them saved my cat’s life one time. Seriously, I was NOT that nice when I was in high school. I was the snotty brat who trampled your rose bushes when I stumbled home drunk in the middle of the night.

The kid’s parents are pretty great too, I can always count on my neighbors to keep a watch on my house, throw a good block party and I’m sure if I needed a cup of sugar that would be available too.

Our lawns are mowed, our cars are sparkling in our driveways. You might come to my street and call us banal and suburban. But one thing you could NOT call us, is apathetic.

A week or so ago I came home and counted ten presidential yard signs. That is just the eight or so houses that make up my block, and I had not yet cast my yard vote.

I may not agree with everyone (ahem McCain folks). But I’d rather live on a street where everyone says how they feel than one where no one dares an opinion any day. I might feel differently if I was the only Obama on the block, but as it is that’s not the case.

Election years are always a little touchy. I’m sure everyone has family members and people they love whose opinions vary wildly from their own. If you’re anything like me, you mostly try to steer the conversation to easier topics like Americas’s Next Top Model (I’m going for Marjorie) or movies (Ghost Town was great!).

But it's also very exciting, sometimes stressful, and exhilirating when everyone is wearing their opinions right out front.

One of the things that shocked me when I spent a summer in France was just how politically out there they all are. You’ll be hard pressed to find any cab driver in France who will not engage you in some political discussion or another. Often the cab drivers and grocery store clerks of France knew more about the history and politics of America than I did.

The first time I took a taxi in Avignon it was three o’clock in the morning and the driver said, “Let me ask you something. How come your country won’t buy our mustard?”

Padon Moi?

He proceeded to talk about a Senate bill and something or other about a ban on French mustard. I knew nothing about it.

“No, really,” he said, “No hard feelings. Is it that you don’t like our mustard?”

I didn’t know. It did occur to me that we had our own mustard, and that it was called French’s. But I couldn’t figure out how to say that well in French and it was beside the point. The point was that this man wanted to talk politics with a stranger at 3 o'clock in the morning, in a non-election year.

We’re not quite yet on France’s level when it comes to openly discussing our views year-round(possibly because we don't drink as much as they do), but the myth of the politically apathetic American is a sham. My street (and perhaps yours too) proves it.

And, simply because I feel like it. I'm going to tie back to Thomas Jefferson.

"We in America do not have Government by the Majority. We have government by the majority who participate."

This brings me to a very important point. (Author steps up on soap box) PLEASE register to vote if you’re not already. The deadline is October 6 in Florida. It pisses me off that we have to register at all when in most countries your citizenship is enough and it’s a public holiday.

I learned something disturbing at the Obama rally, (at least in Florida) if you haven’t voted in the last four years YOU ARE NOT REGISTERED TO VOTE! So please, please please, ask your friends and family and neighbors and dentists and circus clowns to make sure they’re registered.
And if they have a second, ask them if they like French mustard, I should probably get back to that cabbie…

Smart-Ass, Suck-up, Seven Year Old...

2008-09-25T17:32:00.009-04:00

I went through my cedar chest today and found these assignments from first grade. I also found a love letter to Jesus and a vampire story I wrote when I was six (look out Stephenie Meyer!) I think it’s funny to see the little seedlings of myself in here. A little bit smart-ass, a little bit suck-up and a dream to play in the major leagues (it could still happen.)

Assignment #1
KNOWING YOURSELF---Taking care of yourself is important and something you will do if you value yourself. Complete the statements below.

1. When I feel well, I… PLAY

2. When I do not feel well I…REST
(Rest? What seven year old says rest? Mother, I’m a bit fatigued, I think I’ll just have a little rest.)

3. When I am encouraged I…DO IT
(Damn straight)

4. When I am discouraged I…THINK ABOUT IT.

5. When I like how I look I…SMILE

6. When I do not like how I look I…FIX IT UP.
(I’m trying to set myself up as a woman of action.)

7. When I am happy I…ACT HAPPY.
(Smart ass. What the hell do you think I do when I’m happy? I act happy goddamn it.)

8. When I am angry I…LET IT OUT
(From this answer we can clearly see that my first grade class has just finished some sort of “feel good about yourself” video where they told us things like when you’re angry “let it out.” I do not remember any video but know that my reality is quite the contrary. I am still holding grudges from around that time. Like how I wasn’t allowed to get cupcakes at the bakery because my grandma said I’d only lick the frosting off even though STEVE was the one who only ate the frosting, I ate the WHOLE cupcake thank you very much. (boy it feels good to let that out.)

9. When I am alone I… FEEL SORT OF SCARED

10. When I’m lonesome I…SORT OF LOOK SAD.
(So basically, were you to happen upon little Stephie sitting alone, you’d find me sort of scared and looking sort of sad. Like a puppy that just got kicked.)

11. When I like myself I…AM PROUD

12. When I do not like myself I…MOOP AROUND
(I’m sure I thought I’d impress the teacher by using the word “mope” but don’t think I got its full effect here.)

The next assignment talked about getting the right balance of nutrition, exercise, work and relaxation.

My favorite foods are: Pizza, Chicken, Oranges
(I am sooooo full of shit. I can’t even recall ever eating an orange as a child, let alone giving it a top three spot in the favorites. Obviously it was the healthiest sounding food, that self-conscious little first grader Steph could think of on the fly.)

I exercise by: doing sit-ups, pushup and stretches
(As of that survey I had never attempted any of those things. Sounds to me like I was recalling what I could from whatever exercise program was on while I waited for the Mickey Mouse club in the morning. Although with pushups apparently I knew it would be unrealistic to make it plural—that’s still true.)

I Always have time for: reading, praying
(What a fucking suck up. Hmmm, let’s see, will Sister Lucille see through my veiled attempt at flattery?)

I have fun when I: play baseball
(I never played baseball)

My hobby is: Reading, Baseball, Coloring
(twenty three years later I still do two out of those three on a regular basis)

Write some goals for yourself you wish would come true
1. I hope I can be a sea diver
2. I hope I can live to a ripe old age (Am I seven or 72?)
3. I hope I can always do good in school.
4. I hope I can have a religious education
5. I hope I can always help others.
6. I hope I can be the first girl to play major league baseball.

We were then instructed to circle the ONE goal we thought could actually become a reality. I would like to meet the person who came up with this piece of early educational genius. Here’s a swell idea, let’s get a bunch of seven year olds to list out all their hopes and dreams and then whittle them down one by one until they’re left with only a single goal in life.

I circled, “do good in school” as my one realistic dream. Aside from the irony of the incorrect grammar of the statement, it’s an interesting choice. I guess even at seven I realized that sea diving in Ohio might be hard to come by. I let go hopes of being in the majors most likely due to my early understanding of sexism and my lack of any athletic ability. I knew that a religious education would not really help me where I was going. And, by the age of seven, I had already given up on the prospect of a long life and forsaken my fellow humans to help their own damn selves.

ARE YOU A STRESS?
The assignment was to think about times when YOUR actions might have caused others stress. However, secure in the knowledge that I couldn’t possibly be causing stress to anyone else, I instead used the page to air my grievances about family and friends.

HOME: Everybody always giggles at me because I’m chubby.

WITH FRIENDS: My best friend keeps bragging about what she has and what she does.

(That was also listed on the SCHOOL line but I crossed it out. Apparently I was sick of hearing what my best friend has and does. In a later section I describe my personality as “Doesn’t like to brag.” Take that, bitch…however when asked to list ways I could improve my personality, I could think of nothing.)

Check out this assignment where you can see a budding little smart ass in the making. (try it at home!)

A. Find a quiet spot out-of-doors. Relax yourself.

B. What you see: car
What you hear: wind rustling in the trees (bet I was particularly proud of that one)
What you Smell: flowers
What you Touch: the grass
What you Taste: an apple

(Again, a huge bushel of crap. I have painted a lovely scene, rustling breeze, grass, flowers, the taste of apple on my tongue. I highly doubt there was even an apple in the house when I did this assignment. Most likely I filled this out while sitting at the dining room table eating chips and dip and inhaling the smoke from grandma’s Virginia Slims.)

Here’s my favorite part though.

C. Did anything hamper your ability to concentrate? Yes, the outdoors

(It’s so perfect. When you go outside, what’s keeping you from being able to concentrate? The Outside asshole! Who can think with all this fucking nature? I never was an outdoorsy kind of girl. I was more of a watch TV and do cross-stitch patterns kind of kid.)

Look for more fun stuff later like report cards with comments like “shows no apparent self control…”

Thomas Jefferson on Dogs

2008-09-23T10:52:00.004-04:00

Last week we received some bad news. Our good friend Pennie went to the emergency room with back pain that she soon found out was caused by a huge mass of ovarian cancer.

Pennie made the cupcakes for my wedding, she’s more southern than grits, and is such a fantastic cook she could make a saltine cracker taste better than anything you’ve tasted in your life.

Sunday her sister called and asked if we could take care of Pinto, Pennie’s dog.

We agreed, not only because we love Pennie, but because if something ever happened to us, I would want to know someone who loves dogs (and me) would look after mine. My dog Kiddo is a big heart full of love. As a matter of fact, the biggest problem in my life right now is that getting out of bed is difficult when there’s a snuggle bundle curled up in a ball against your chest or tucked under your arm.

However, though my dog is unbearably cute, she’s a lot to handle. Before we got her we did some research and all signs pointed to—DO NOT get this breed. Look up Jack Russell Terriers and you will find a truck load of euphemisms. “Lively!” “Independent minded!” “Create their own fun when left alone!”

We once hired a trainer to help with her excitability. The woman made a “treat puzzle” that she said occupies dogs for hours. Kiddo had it decimated and emptied in under five minutes.

If something ever happened to Danny and I, the conversations might go something like this:

FRIEND #1: “So, Steph and Danny are both in a coma. Can someone take the dog?”

Crickets

Crickets

Crickets

FRIEND #2: “Oh Jesus, I don’t know. Did you see what that dog did to their couches?”
FRIEND #3: “The last time I went over there that dog peed on me.”
FRIEND #4: “Ummmm. I’m allergic to dogs. Especially that one.”

Since Pinto arrived, Kiddo’s tail is thumping so hard with excitement I think she might lift off the ground and Pinto has not had a moment’s peace.

I’ve learned that around other dogs, my dog is like the overly affectionate kid on the play ground that really, really wants to play with you and doesn’t seem to understand rejection, and so ignores it. Think Ralph Wiggam on a combination of cocaine/ecstasy.

It's all fun and games until Pinto tries to jump up on Danny or me , then Kiddo rips out a snarl that sounds like something you might hear before a lion mauls your throat. My dog's snarl can be quite scary. More than one delivery person has said, “That little dog is making all that noise? I thought there was a 200 pound pit bull back there!” (Danny and I have concluded that two or three Jacks could take even the burliest man down and in the event of an apocalyptic catastrophe, that is the breed we’ll use to secure our compound.)

Kiddo did let Pinto take a nap on her favorite leopard pillow though. I’d like to think it’s because she senses that Pinto misses Pennie and is having a hard time, so Kiddo, being the good hostess, gave our guest the most comfortable spot in the house.

I’m worried about Pennie. But it makes me happy to think that, maybe in her suffering she'll feel the tiniest bit better to know that her little companion is being well cared for and has the Chihuahua equivalent of six acres of yard to run around and drop pellets in.

Over the weekend, a friend told me that in Kaplan test prep courses, students are instructed for essay questions to always bring it back to Thomas Jefferson. So here it is.

"I believe that every human (and canine) mind feels pleasure in doing good to another." --Thomas Jefferson

(Alright fine, he didn’t actually say canine, but I think it’s implied.)

Life is for Living, Loving and Swimming Naked in the Ocean

2008-09-15T14:58:00.002-04:00

Friday night I fell down on a moonlit beach. I was helped up by my good friend Candi and a woman I’d met about five minutes earlier. Oh yeah, and we were all completely naked.

I was in Saint Augustine for a wedding, and towards the end of the night somehow ended up nude in the ocean laughing in a circle of other women. It was all very…sisters of the moon.

It felt great though. It was one of those moments in life where I was in awe of the universe and all its glory. The full moon shining down on a vast sea. The sand stretching back to dunes of sea oats. The warm rolling waves keeping my boobs afloat.

Danny was sick at home and when I called to tell him about my naked adventure, he was shocked. “What? You? In the ocean? At night?!”

It’s true that the nakedness is not really that shocking. But I don’t really do large bodies of water. Especially bodies of water that move around a lot and house creatures with sharp teeth and tentacles.

Sure, I’ll wade in to cool off if I get too hot on the beach. I’ll even get on a boat as long as it’s bigger than the jaws of a great white shark. But going in deep enough to cover all my goods, especially at night when menacing dorsal fins can’t be seen, is usually out of the question. I’ve seen all the Jaws movies, read Old Man and the Sea, and listened to all my grandma’s terrifying warnings about the “rip tide.” That’s enough to keep me off the coast most of the year.

But at Friday’s party, goaded by spirits and drunk on the vibrant love that permeated every shrimp and corn cake in the low country boil, I was able to jump into the waves of the Atlantic and enjoy the night with my moon sisters.

The next night we set sail down the intercoastal. We listened and cried as our friends exchanged vows of love, resplendent with joy. I toasted their future adventures together and returned home the next day inspired and ready to soak up the beauty of the world around me. Probably with my clothes on, but you never know. Sometimes shit gets crazy.

A Two Hundred and Seventy Pounder (with a dip)…

2008-09-09T12:29:00.003-04:00

“How much do you weigh?” The parasail lady asked.

My sister and I each said a number.

“Do you want to be dipped in the water? It’s an extra ten dollars each.”

“Oh, um ok.” I said.

The woman got on her walkie-talkie. “I got a 270 pounder with a dip ready to go.”

As we waited to be picked up by the boat it occurred to me that “dip” is the word my grandfather substitutes for “dummy.” And I did feel a bit dumb for shelling out an extra twenty bucks for them to essentially wet my ass before reeling me in.

Captain Bill awaited us on the boat and helped us into life jackets and a diaper like contraption. Something scuttled on the floor between his feet. Our eyes met and he smiled, “Oops, saw a crab!” he said. I knew that he meant “crab” as a euphemism, but I didn’t say anything.

We sat in our diapers while Captain Bill went to get the parasail ready (the one that can handle a whole 270 pounds). On the bench a few feet opposite us was the “crab.” It was the cockroach to end all cockroaches. This thing belonged in a zoo. It was so big we could have put a sweater and a leash on it and entered it in a show.

Alex was nervous and so I did what I always do in an uncomfortable situation, I made jokes. This worked fine while the cockroach was tooling around on the other side of the boat, but he when he hopped on the stern and started skittering in our direction we changed our tune. Alex screamed bloody murder. I balled into the fetal position and leaned against my sister, awaiting death, or worse, an enormous cockroach crawling on me.

Captain Bill came and swiped the “crab” off the railing. He whipped it out to sea hard and I felt a tinge of guilt (not too much). “You girls ready to go?” he said.

I had been slightly nervous to parasail before I got on the boat. But after the encounter with the “crab,” nothing could phase me. I had been scared and then experienced the relaxing release after you realize everything will be fine and the roach is not, in fact going to crawl into your diaper thingie and get caught in your swimsuit.

He hooked us to a rod and off we went into the air. How nice. Just a couple of sisters hanging out on a Saturday afternoon. I’d woken up that morning trying to think of something we could do before Alex had to work. “Let’s go parasailing!” I said. “Great!” she said.

Her screaming now didn’t sound so “great.”

“Are you okay Alex?”

“No! I am not okay! I’m afraid of heights!”

Captain Bill, now the size of a cockroach, gave us the thumbs up from the boat. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would be fun.” she said.

“Is it?” I asked.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

I was quiet. I scanned the water below looking for sharks. I looked over the island and tried to see my parent’s house. Then I said, “Well, at least there aren’t any cockroaches up here. That’s nice.” I had a slight fear though that the cockroach was flying up to get revenge, but didn’t say anything. I just enjoyed the view.

A Few Thoughts on the Addictive Nature of Golf

2008-09-02T11:32:00.003-04:00

It often surprises people to learn that, in high school, I was on the golf team. I guess it seems odd to them that a woman who grew up on the government cheese side of the tracks and devoted her adult life to fighting male supremacy would partake of an activity associated with old, rich, white guys.

But I did. My grandfather bought me my first set of clubs when I was fourteen and sophomore year I joined the team.

I was never good at it. In fact it frustrated me quite a bit. For a person who gets irritated when things don’t go exactly the right way, golf is perhaps not the best sport. Twist your arm the slightest bit and your ball ends up two fairways over and you find yourself prancing out in the middle of someone else’s shot apologizing and trying to avoid a traumatic head injury.

Like every other sport I played, I brought up the rear of the team. I was usually good at one specified task. In volleyball I had a spot on serve, perfect every time. But when that serve came back over the net I was clumsy as a drunk monkey. In softball I could catch whatever was thrown to me, making me an excellent first baseman. But get me under a pop up or staring down a pitcher and I failed miserably.

In golf my specialized talent was putting. I could sink a putt in two strokes from almost anywhere on the green, much to the amazement of my teammates. This talent was often wasted however on the eighteen strokes it had taken to get my ball down the fairway, out of the sand trap and onto the green.

Friday my friend Nicole asked if I wanted to hit the links with her. I meandered out to the garage to make sure I still had my clubs (the same ones my grandpa bought me when I was fourteen and that I couldn’t GIVE away at a garage sale). There they were, sandwiched in between an old cooler and the hot water heater, probably home to all sorts of insect life. I took a few practice swings in my driveway since I hadn’t picked up a club in 13 years.

As soon as I swung it all came rushing back. The addiction. For those of you who’ve never played, let me explain the allure of golf. There is no better feeling in the world than swinging a big metal club and whacking that pimpled white ball a few hundred yards. Get a half decent shot once, and you’ll be chasing that feeling for the rest of your life.

My game that Friday morning was, predictably, horrible. On most shots I could have kicked the ball further than I hit it. Other times I missed the ball entirely or scalped the grass out by the roots. But a few times I got it in the air, or had that perfect pitch that pops the ball right onto the green. It was enough.

Even though I was hot, getting eaten by bugs and my shoes were soaked with mud and morning dew, I didn’t want to leave. Just one more, I thought. The next shot is going to be the good one. One more hole, that’s it, and then I’ll stop, I swear.

I quit after 13 holes only because I really did have to get back home. But when I called my mom to let her know we were on our way down for a visit, the first thing I asked her was, “Is there a driving range near you?”

Cone of Uncertainty

2008-08-25T14:59:00.004-04:00

We spent most of last week watching Fay’s “cone of uncertainty.” Most of the time we don’t worry much about hurricanes, they tend to hit further south and even when they hit near us, they weaken once they're over land and so Gainesville, snuggled right in the middle of the state, doesn’t get much more than some rain and wind, nothing we’re not accustomed to.

For those of you who are not blessed to live in a state annually pummeled by hurricanes, the cone of uncertainty means that the hurricane, weather’s most fickle force, could turn on a whim. It could come straight through your town, or miss you entirely. You just don’t really know until it happens. The only thing that’s certain is that it’s coming somewhere.

But every once in awhile, the projected path cuts right through our city, and even though the storm was not as strong as we’ve seen, its tentacles spanned almost half the state and it just sat there like the stubborn person waiting for the close parking spot (even though the people leaving said spot still have to load up four kids and a cart full of groceries.)

The cone of uncertainty usually covers the entire state may very well be the meteorologist’s way of covering his ass. But it did occur to me that the cone of uncertainty is a good metaphor for life. We might be on a basic trajectory, but there’s a wide margin to swing in either direction, or we could turn from a set path entirely and go back the other way.

On Saturday I talked to a certain person whom I love very much. I’ve known her since she squeezed out of her mother’s womb. It is quite a special thing to know and love someone for the entirety of their existence on this planet. This certain someone whom I have known and loved for the entirety of her existence, told me about her upcoming life plans.

I was a bit taken aback, and my heart couldn’t help but break at what I thought was surely a huge mistake. I’m scared that the ocean of life will swallow her up and she will never realize the truly beautiful and talented person that she is.

I want to tell her not to take that path, but ultimately, I am powerless. She is an adult and the trajectory of her life is her own. I can only hope and wish and try to gently guide her in (my idea of) the right direction.

After talking to her, I wondered how my mom must have felt watching me and my brother's "cone of uncertainty" as we found our ways in life. How hard was it for her when my brother said he’d joined a gang (in our Norman Rockwell-esque suburban Chicago town mind you, but still).

It must have been horrible for my mom to see me hanging out with the pot smokers every weekend in high school. Wondering if her bright, smart (if I do say so myself) daughter was doomed to a life working at the beach t-shirt shack, getting high every weekend. At 18 that life seemed semi-interesting, cool even. But even then I could see that by the time I hit twenty-five it would be dismal and decidedly lame. My mom must have breathed a sigh of relief when I instead started dating the captain of the math team, traded in my one-hitter for a TI-85 calculator and started applying to colleges.

What do we do when we feel uncertain and scared about the path someone we love is taking? My mom tried to pull me in one direction or another, but in the end the choice was mine. Barring natural disasters, illnesses and circus clowns (long story), I am responsible for the path my own life takes.

The worst of Fay came on Friday, and then again unexpectedly on Sunday when I looked out the back door to see a swamp marsh where my yard should have been and yelled to Danny, “You know how I said I’d be worried if the water rose above the patio slab?”

“Yeah?”

“Well I’m officially worried.”

The water never quite touched our house though. It stopped raining, Fay moved on, and the water receded. Maybe no damage is irreparable. Even if we did get flooded, we’re related to our insurance agent, so maybe everything will be okay in the end, no matter what path the storm takes.

P.S. In case you were wondering, my brother currently works at a bank, is not in a gang and is an all-around upstanding citizen. And as for myself, well I wouldn't exactly call myself "upstanding"...

Michael Phelps is an Alien (and announcement of events in the real-life Olympics)

2008-08-18T10:33:00.011-04:00

I have two theories about Michael Phelps.

My first theory is that he is not a native of earth, but rather some chlorine water planet in a galaxy far, far away. On this planet (let's call it Chlorgar) he has to swim really, really fast in order to escape being imprisoned by the evil jellyfish creatures that have taken control of his homeworld. Tired of bring on the run (er, swim), he put on an ill-fitting human suit and came to earth in search of Olympic glory.

The second theory is that he is a sophisticated robot created by the masterminds at Universal Studios to make people interested in the Olympics again. Think about it, the biggest story about the 2004 Athens Olympics was that there WAS no story, no ratings, nobody cared. And now, all of a sudden there's this swimmer guy who can't be stopped and everyone's tuning in? Something's fishy.

But regardless of whether Mr. Phelps is alien or animatronic, the Olympics have got me thinking about my own personal path to Olympic glory. I perused the list of events to see if any of them could be my road to gold. It can't be anything where I have to be stronger or faster than anyone else so that eliminates all track and field events. I never learned to swim and am slightly afraid of the water so that leaves out anything pool or boat related. Also I probably shouldn't compete in any event where I could shoot my (or anyone else's) eye out.

My options are pretty limited, so Danny and I sat down to think about some Olympic events that would give me, and other normal, non space alien folks, a shot at gold. Feel free to peruse the list of events and start training now.

Real Life Olympiad 2012

Furniture moving: This would hands down be my best event. I'd team up with my mom to crush the competition. Weighing in at just over a hundred pounds, and measuring up to about 5ft 2in., my mom's stature doesn't stop her from inexplicably being able to move couches and heavy appliances down stairs by herself. I've been known to move an armoire or two myself, we're clearly the team to beat here.

Grocery Store Line Choosing: Danny is the favorite here. This event is tricky, because often a line seems the shortest but then you discover the person in front of you has one of every different kind of fresh fruit, forty-two coupons, and insists on counting out exact change. Other obstacles include price checks, shift changes and old ladies with check books.

Parking: I'd draft my friend Lisa for this one. Lisa drives a car I lovingly refer to as "Big Mama." It's a station wagon that seats about twenty-five and Lisa whips it into spaces I wouldn't attempt with my compact car. The second part of this event would be parking sharking. A crowded parking lot, three spaces, four cars, go. (Pick up difficulty points if you have passengers yelling, "There! Right there! No, over THERE! Someone's leaving. Oh wait, sorry they're not leaving.)

E-mail answering: Probably one of Real Life Olympics most stressful events. Imagine the scenario, you've just gotten back from a two week vacation, you open your inbox to two hundred and fifty messages. You must identify and delete the forwarded jokes and Youtube videos, make dinner plans with your friends, pay your overdue bills online, give feedback on everything your colleagues sent you, and answer every single e-mail without accidentally copying your boss on the one where you said you'd rather stick a frilly drink umbrella in your eye than go back to work.

Other events include:

Suitcase and Car Trunk Packing

Texting

Avoiding the check at dinner with friends

Figuring out how to vote on forty five ballot initiatives and amendments

Clothes shopping with toddlers

Driving on I-75

Shit, Shave and Shower Competition

Insect Killing and Disposal

Qualifying rounds will be held next month at Ikea. Stay tuned for more details.

Why I Possibly Have to Find a New House

2008-08-11T11:50:00.005-04:00

Last night something horrific happened at my house. It's very possible I'll have to move.

Danny witnessed the entire event, which is good, because if it had been me, I'd be perusing the real estate listings right now instead of typing this.

Sunday night, at approximately 10:08 pm, my kitchen was the scene of a gruesome mass murder.

Here's what went down. I was drunk on the couch (since I'd capped off my three-day women's liberation conference with about seven hours of drinking at various Gainesville establishments.) I was flat on my back, watching a Christian rock concert infomercial and contemplating whether or not I had to throw up when I heard Danny in the kitchen.

"OH...MY...GOD..." (Said with the tone of voice you'd use if you found a severed head in the trunk of your car.)

"What?" I said (notice that I didn't bother getting up even though Danny's tone of voice indicated something along the lines of a severed head in the trunk of a car).

When Danny didn't respond, I was compelled to drag my drunk ass into the kitchen to see what the deal was.

Danny stood with his back to me, his hand in a sneaker, staring at the floor.

"What?" I said again (drunker and more insistent this time). And then I saw it, "OH...MY...GOD!"

A spider with a body the size of a freakishly large peanut was dead on the floor. It was huge even upside down with it's legs curled in AND...it was laying in the middle of a thousand hyper baby spiders which were quickly spreading across the tile like a nasty, living spill of nastiness.

Danny's eyes were wide, "I killed it and then these just exploded out."

I froze for a second. And then drunk brain kicked in. "I have a plan!" I ran to the bathroom to retrieve a large can of aerosol hair spray and re-entered the kitchen like the banshee of low end hair styling products. I blasted the babies with gale force winds of Aussie medium hold control spray.

The baby spiders were so small that the spray had one of two effects. It either blew them clear across the floor or left them feebly swimming in sticky little orange-scented pools. Some of them were quite possibly enjoying themselves.

"Ummm....Stephie?" Danny said from the doorway, "Don't we have bug spray or something?"

"This is working fine! I'm immobilizing them so I can squash them all."

When the entire area was covered in three-fourths of an inch of hair product, I grabbed the trusty Clorox wipes and started squashing. Danny watched the massacre. Which was fine. His heroic deed had already been done. Because if I had been the one to see that monster in the kitchen I would have gotten right in the car and never come back to the house ever, ever again.

Some of the tiny little bastards escaped into the floorboards and I laid the mama and 9, 967 of her babies to rest in the garbage can.

But this morning, as I ate my breakfast of toast and aspirin, I looked at the floorboards and wondered how long it will take for the small band of rebels that escaped my wrath to grow up and avenge their family.

Because that's basically how long I have to find a new house.

Columbia House—Ye Olde Mp3 player

2008-08-05T18:12:00.004-04:00

Last week I was on a plane trying to fall asleep. The only way this is possible for me is with my mP3 player. As it cycles through the 700 songs ranging from Donna Summers to Interpol to Dolly Parton, I am distracted from the fact that the plane smells vaguely like a port-o-potty stuffed with dirty socks, and that I have to be elbow to elbow with a surly teenage boy for six hours.

As I drifted into a music induced slumber, I was thinking, could I explain to my thirteen year-old self what an mp3 player is?

When I was thirteen, besides having to walk uphill in the snow to school (which I did by the way but that’s beside the point), cassette tapes were still the main implement for getting your groove on.

Whenever I heard a band or song that I liked, I had two options. I could either, (A) wait until I heard the song on the radio and then jump from my bed to press record on the blank tape that was ready and waiting, or (B) wait for my allowance, ask (no, beg) for a ride to the mall and purchase either the cassette single or the entire album (depending on whether I’d already spent some of my money on several issues of Teen Beat).

It seems barbaric now, when all I have to do is type a band’s name into Rhapsody, click click click and I have every song they’ve ever produced as well as all their solo albums. I then put them in my magic little machine along with their hundreds of little musical friends and we’re off.

Thirteen year old Steph would just, like, die. Could she possibly even comprehend it? Every song she could dream of, new and old, just a few clicks away? Actually, at that point she wouldn’t even know what “clicks” meant. What Black magic do ye speak of?

So how to explain? (And yes, in case you’re wondering, I actually did spend time imagining how I would explain this if I could go eighteen years back in time.)

The closest I could come to imparting what it feels like to have an Mp3 player to someone in 1990 is Columbia House. Columbia House was a music club which to me was like magic and to my mother seemed like it should be illegal for them to solicit business from teenagers.

They would send you this crazy offer--twelve tapes for a penny (a penny!) and all you had to do was buy one (one!). (Plus pay shipping and handling and buy an album a month for a year.) But you can cancel any time! (ANY time!)

Included with the offer were sheets and sheets of tiny stamps with album covers on them. I felt like the world had opened up when I was perusing those pages of stamps. Every album I had ever heard of and hundreds I hadn’t. So many choices! It was better than Christmas. A few weeks later when the long rectangular box came with my twelve cellophane wrapped treasures I would blissfully listen to music for hours.

Of course a month later, when I had forgotten to cancel my membership and Columbia House automatically sent the “selection of the month” (always something lame like Michael Bolton or Boz Scaggs Greatest Hits) at a criminally inflated price, I would beg my mom to pay for it and call them to cancel. Damn kids.

I guess I could tell 13-year-old Steph that an mp3 player is a little like being able to have all the little stamps you want, instantaneously, all in one magic little machine, without the worry that a month later you’d have to pay $26.00 for Marie Osmond’s comeback album.

Or I could just say, "Just wait, you’ll understand when you’re older," and go back to sleep…

Danny and Steph's Wild West Adventure

2008-07-30T19:35:00.014-04:00

We’re back from our west coast wanderings, a little lighter in the wallet, heavier in the gut, and out of spinal alignment (I’ll explain later). It was a super fun trip that had us planning our next one before we even boarded the plane home. Here are some of my favorite moments.

1. A common enemy
She came in the form of a US airways flight attendant who smiled sweetly while she chided us about coming late. “Do not check passenger in! It REALLY says that!” Then, still smiling, made an example of Danny for not removing his baggage tags from a previous trip. “Everyone! Please remove any past tags from your luggage!” She turns to us, “If these were left on here guess what the chances are they wind up in Vegas?” She stopped, honestly waiting for an answer. “Ummm,” Danny mumbled, “50/50?” I was pretty steamed at Danny too, until she called me “difficult” for boarding in Zone 4 when my ticket says zone 5 (I’ll mention here that it’s a twelve row plane). And so we began our trip on a good note, bitching about our common enemy.

2. Cirque du Soleil
I’m not a gambler. I don’t get it. This is possibly because I have never won anything and even if I did I would take it and run before I had the chance to amass a huge pile of it. I’m that family member on Deal or No Deal who BEGS the person to Take the Money!!! No matter what the amount is. So, Cirque du Soleil is what makes Vegas worth it for me. We saw Ka and O, both of which were amazing and left me wishing I could fly.

3. The Bellagio Spa
This was by far my most decadent splurge (remember this trip was replacing Japan folks). After trekking a mile to Slots of Fun in the desert heat, which feels exactly like a hairdryer blowing in your eye, and scarfing down a .99 cent hot dog over a dirty trough, the Bellagio Spa was like a dream. I felt like a C-list celebrity at an A-list resort. I hung out for a bit on posh couches with a glass of champagne, then I was led back into a low lit slate hallway that felt more like an ancient temple than a hotel on the Vegas strip. Wall sconces lit floor to ceiling fountains and Koi swam in pools tucked into corners. I got a soothing facial treatment and a hand and foot massage all to the magical pipings of a pan flute.

4. Six Flags Magic Mountain--this park is clear

We were on a mission. Ride every single roller coaster in the park. It was a pilgrimage really. If you’re a roller coaster junkie, it doesn’t get much better than Magic Mountain. I know every place says their ride is the tallest, fastest blah blah blah on earth. But after riding the ones at Magic Mountain, I really believe them. The newest one, the X2, features seats that rotate 360 degrees for a head-first, face-down drop. The Déjà Vu dangles you from ski-lift style chairs for a 20-story dive then through a vertical loop, a 110-foot butterfly and up the second tower to repeat it all—backwards. We accomplished our mission and then some. We threw in a Log Jam ride for good measure and rode the Tatsu twice. However, soon after our victory we realized we are 30 and not 18 and are still suffering the neck and spinal consequences of excersizing every demon at Six Flags.

5. The Santa Monica Pier

It somehow escaped me that Los Angeles would have mountains. I’m not sure how I didn’t know that, but seeing the sun set over them in Santa Monica was among the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life. Throw in Pacific Park on the pier and you have a favorite vacation moment. Danny and I, despite our fear, got on the Ferris Wheel, mostly for the view. I know what you’re thinking (okay I don’t but just go with it.) The same Danny and Steph who willingly jumped out of an airplane and rode twelve terrifying rollercoasters in so many hours are scared of a…Ferris Wheel? Yes. Jumping out of a plane is not as scary as a roller coaster. A rollercoaster is not as scary as a Ferris Wheel. Discuss.

6. Soap Plant Wacko La Luz de Jesus
I could have spent all day and all my money in this place. Here are a few of the things I bought there: A cat butt magnet set, a Chicken Chucker that launches rubber chickens up to 15 feet, a “Lookin’ Good for Jesus” coin purse, and Liberace post cards.

7. The Hogwarts Express.
We got to take this on a green screen as part of our WB studio tour which in my opinion made the entire thing totally worth it. We also got to see tons of Harry Potter movie props. I practically drooled on the Marauder’s Map and nearly passed out by the Skiving Snackboxes. AND I got to put on the sorting hat (!!!) I was Slytherin. I know, I was disappointed. All my friends are in Gryffindor.

7. The Earthquake
We were in town just long enough to get rumbled around by faults deep in the earth. We were in the airport food court enjoying our California Pizza when it happened. It took us a second to even figure out what was going on. I thought the booth was being shaken and moved by the hyper kids on the other side and I was about to turn around in a huff when I realized it wasn’t just the bench shaking but the GROUND. I got the sensation of sliding a bit, like we were all on ice. And then it was done. I was surprised later when it was all over the news because it was such a small moment. Most people just looked around and said, “was that an earthquake?” and kept eating, including us.

Disasters natural and otherwise are par for the course on a Seguin-Gimenez vacation. Danny loses everything from cameras to cash, reads airline tickets wrong causing us to miss flights. (This time I got off easy, he only lost the credit card twice and left all his clean shirts at the Bellagio.) If Danny doesn't lose anything, it will rain the entire time and everything will be closed. But we like it that way, makes it more memorable.

So where to next???? Maybe a white water rafting adventure? Nah, too scary.

(view the complete photo slideshow here.)

Quick Vacation quiz....

2008-07-30T11:23:00.007-04:00

Which of the following activities fill Danny and Steph with a paralyzing fear?

A. Skydiving

B. Hang gliding

C. Rollercoasters

D. Earthquakes

E. The Santa Monica Pier Ferris Wheel

Look for the answer in this week's exciting vacation blog...

The Real Problem with the Health Care System

2008-07-18T14:01:00.005-04:00

I hate hospitals, seriously. And not just because they're cold, smell faintly of vomit and more often than not I'm there to do something decidedly un-fun (like get strapped to a board and shoved in a tunnel for an hour).

I hate them because they MAKE NO SENSE. I think the layout of hospitals are designed specifically to baffle and annoy those of us not wearing scrubs. This morning after my scan I still needed to get bloodwork done, and the woman at the lab informed me I needed to walk to Siberia to register (again) before doing so.

She did her best to give me directions. (Left, Right, Elevators, whatever). I don't blame her, it's not her fault she works in the bermuda fucking triangle. It's not her fault that all the hallways look the same and are filled with windowless doors and unhelpful little signs with unhelpful little arrows pointing me towards words that mean nothing to me.

Observation Unit --->

<---Endoscopy

Decontamination --->

<---Hall of Mirrors

Once I finally found the place I was looking for I regretted not dropping bread crumbs so I could find my way back. I sat in another waiting room for another 25 minutes and thought that by the time I got out of there it would be time to start all over again next year.

Luckily though, another stranger mispronounced my name, copied my insurance card and directed my sore ass to the next waiting room, which was, by some miracle, directly across the hall.

One Hell of an Ass

2008-07-14T16:29:00.004-04:00

This morning, as my doctor crouched behind me, jiggling my bare ass fat with his fingers, I was thinking about small talk--as in, I couldn't think of any.

It's time again for my yearly cancer scans which means a few days of injections, a dash of radioactivity and an hour of relaxing in a narrow tunnel whose top is inches from my face. Sounds fun right? Not as fun as trying to make conversation when there's a man behind you staring intently at your crack.

I mean, what do you say when a man is mere inches from your twin moons, concentrating intently on the syringe he's about to stick in it?

A wise person would say nothing and let him concentrate on the task at hand. Me on the other hand, hoping to direct the attention away from my butt cheeks, said, "So, seen any good movies lately?"

He didn't take the bait. I contmeplated whether or not to go on anyway, telling him about the movies I've seen lately, since those movies don't include a needle plunging into my ass. But, in a rare moment of discretion, I stopped myself.

The most recent movie I've seen is Hellboy. And when I think about commenting on it, the thing that comes immediately to mind is that I found the bad guy incredibly hot and for the entire movie was considering this: If the evil prince asked me to come down to his sewer lair and spend all of eternity with him, would I go? I'll have to think about it.

I did not think this was appropriate conversation to have with my doctor while he plunged potent chemicals into my glutes. But it's true, the bad guy in Hellboy was hot, in a pale, evil way.

He wasn't all bad really either. I felt he did TRY to convince the tree people to see things his way before killing them. And he had a good point about the giant plant that was destroying a cityblock, it was very beautiful and the last of it's kind. He wasn't totally unreasonable.

And even the super creepy Tooth Fairy critters he unleashed to eat a roomful of well-off New Yorkers, were cute in their own destructive way.

My reverie was broken by my doctor saying I could pull my pants back up and to remember which cheek we did so we can do the other side tomorrow.

I'm going to think of some really good small talk before then.

Any ideas, shoot em my way.

You had me at felt tip pen...

2008-07-08T22:02:00.005-04:00

What is it about buying office supplies and paper products that makes me weak in the knees? I'm giddy just thinking about peeling the cardboard backing off a shiny new set of pens, neatly stacking crisp thank you cards in a drawer, or fanning my fingers over pages and pages of paper filled only with the promise of what's to come.

The thing is though, the magic has a short shelf life. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot get excited about the office supplies I already have, even my good ones (like pink spiral shaped paperclips).

It's a problem. Yesterday, while making copies for work at Office Depot, I saw a display for new Sharpie pens. "Won't bleed through paper!" Good enough for me. The pens could have been twenty five dollars, it wouldn't have mattered, I would not have been able to leave the store without them.

I can't stop. I have more journals than I could fill in five lifetimes. I have enough thank you notes to send one to everyone who has ever blessed me after a sneeze or passed me the salt. Yet I still want more. More. More. MORE!

Today, while shopping with Alisa for wedding decorations, we found ourselves trapped inside Wal-Mart due to a monsoon style downpour. Of course, we soon found ourselves strolling the school supply aisle.

I controlled myself, I really really did. But there were a few must have items I could not be expected to pass up.

1. adorable neon mini post-its

2. mechanical pencils decorated with skulls.

3. comically colassal push pins

4. a sparkly red hologram folder

There's no end in sight really. I'd say I'll try to quit, but I know that won't happen. So I won't bother, I'll just put these things away next to their counterparts, multi-colored paperclips, unused mini index cards and gel pens that made my heart race mere days ago.

The Girl with the Amber Necklace

2008-07-01T15:09:00.003-04:00

So I’m driving around town with my boss on a Monday afternoon, looking for a place to buy gin, and contemplating the meaning of my existence on this planet.

We’d spent the afternoon in the nursing home where her friend, the great Marxist feminist writer Marlene Dixon, had just died. We collected her possessions into boxes and carried them through the rain to the car. En route to my boss’s house, where we’d sort through everything, she wanted to get some gin, and have a drink before we got started. I can’t say I blame her.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been pegged for the task of going through all the stuff someone leaves behind. When my grandfather died, I cleaned out his trailer with my grandmother. Piles of clothes and little trinkets that may or may not have held value to him, were now being tossed in a bag headed for the nearest thrift store. Every once in awhile, you come across something that reveals meaning about the person, like his bedside drawer, empty except for a picture of each of us grandkids and a prayer asking the lord to accept him into heaven when his time came.

My grandfather I felt some connection to, but Marlene I’d only met on my few recent visits to the nursing home to fill her bird feeder and bring her chocolate shakes. My boss and I sat under a carport sorting through boxes that represented everything Marlene possessed at the end of her life. Among the stack of family photo albums was a book of poems by high school kids.

“She probably has one published in there,” my boss said.

I searched for it. And found a poem about a piece of brocade that once belonged to a Chinese princess, and then to a French pompadour, and now to a young girl writing a poem who wonders, who will have it when I am gone?

And now I wonder about the myriad things lying around my own house. It occurred to me that at the end we’re all reduced to a big pile of stuff that someone has to go through and figure out to do with.

In my case, a person would have to sort through items such as: a pink wig, a Disney Princess collection CD, a plastic Jesus pencil topper, a mini newsletter about a feisty goat that I got in a carton of eggs once, ungodly amounts of wrapping paper and drawers full of bows and trimmings, silver elephant earrings my grandma bought me that I can’t get rid of or bring myself to wear for fear people will think I’m a republican, a Groucho Marx disguise kit, skull and cross bones band-aids and Antiques Roadshow: The Board Game.

Even the things that have real meaning to me, would they mean something to anyone else? The pearl flowers I wore in my hair to get married, that are carefully wrapped in plastic and in a box with the cards we received on our wedding. The black and white picture of my mom when she was in second grade or my grandparents on their wedding day. My kindergarten artwork and Care Bears carefully preserved by my grandmother. The tiny hospital bracelet I wore when I was born.

Eventually, whether it’s tomorrow, or 100 years from now, all of it will be thrown away. (Unless it’s in a museum somewhere because I accidentally made some great scientific discovery or made first contact with aliens.)

I’m sitting here typing wearing a big beautiful amber necklace that belonged to Marlene and thinking that the best we can hope for is that our family and friends keep some of the trinkets, either to remember us by, or because, like the amber necklace, they simply find them beautiful and so they will filter out into the world, bring happiness to others and add to someone else’s pile.

Mr. Slug

2008-06-25T10:34:00.006-04:00

So I'm sitting in the library wearing a pink wig and a hat from the 1920s. The thing is, wearing a ridiculous costume on an ordinary Wednesday is not the weirdest situation to find myself in in the last 24 hours.

Last week I read a newspaper article about Neil Hamburger coming to town. He is supposedly "America's Funnyman." So not knowing Mr. Hamburger's body of work, what he does or if he is even funny, I decided to check the show out last night.

The website said doors open at nine. And being the square that I am I imagined that meant the show would start shortly thereafter, 9:30 at the latest.

Danny and I showed up to an almost empty Common Grounds, grabbed a table towards the back and waited. When 9:45 rolled around I figured the show really started at 10 and that I was a huge dork. At 10:15 the place started filling up, people were rubbing elbows with us and using the ashtray stationed at the end of our table, but still no show.

At this point I was yawning and seriously contemplating leaving before the show even started. At 10:30, I tell Danny I am leaving. Let's give it 15 more minutes, he says. We dragged ourselves all the way out for this.

Fine. At 10:43, the show starts. The opening for Neil Hamburger is The Tom Miller Show. He's something of a local celebrity. A performance artist. He runs on stage in a yellow blazer and goes right into an acapella rap about blow jobs which is totally worth the wait if only to see a 40-something man in a cheesy blazer rap about blow jobs.

He reads a few poems (dicks, vaginas, more blow jobs)and sing a song whose chorus I can't get out of my head no matter how hard I try....666, the number of the beast, fuck me with a nun, fuck me with a priest (It's quite good really).

The best part of the show is a suspender clad drunk man who paces in front of the stage raising his arms in admiration for Tom Miller. Trying to encourage the audience to cheer by repeatedly lifting his extra tall can of Michelob Light.

Then, just as I am wondering how long this opening act is, Tom Miller introduces "Mr. Slug."

Mr. Slug is a large man wearing a mask, pink headdress and a white graduation gown. He speaks reverberated gibberish into the microphone before stripping to nothing but a cloth diaper and masturbating on stage.

Yeah. We ended up leaving after the opening act since it was already well past our bedtime and the main event hadn't even started. I'll just look Neil Hamburger up on you tube to see what I missed.

But as I sit here in the library sporting hair you'd only see on Halloween or in a strip club, I keep thinking about Mr. Slug. My friend Alisa, who I meet here once a week to write, had the idea to dress up, as an experiment really.

How would people react to a costume in a mundane setting on a not-so-special Wednesday? I've actually been surprised at the response I'm NOT getting. People go out of their way to act as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about the woman with pink hair and a green hat that just walked in or is sitting next to them at the stop light.

I can feel them all NOT looking.

Are we so inundated with Mr. Slugs that we don't even notice strange anymore? I guess in a town where a man can wear a diaper and stroke his pole on stage, my behavior is not as outlandish as I previously thought. I may not even be as lame as I thought.

The Kiddo Collection

2008-06-16T14:55:00.013-04:00

I think the dog may finally be starting to grow out of her puppyhood. At least the chewing portion of it. It has been at least 14 days since she has mangled something beyond recognition.

Once in awhile I’ll come home to see a lone flip flop has been dragged out to the middle of the floor, but is untouched. It’s as if she’s nostalgic for those shoe chewing days and just wanted to reminisce.

Surviving the destructive puppy phase led me to an idea. I am going to launch a line of clothing and furniture specifically for puppy owners. This new line will fashionably mimic items that have been “redesigned” by our canine companions. With my new collection, there will be no need to be embarrassed by the chewed up rug or the bite out of your favorite jacket. Any additions Fido makes will simply enhance the look. It’s brilliant (and frankly necessary).

I’ll call it the I-give-up-I’m-just-going-to-live-with-this-safety-pinned-couch-cushion Collection.

Here is a 2008 catalog preview.

Women’s Jeans:

Men’s Shoes :

Women’s Shoes:

Lingerie:

Furniture:

Home and bath (600 thread count sheets):

Watches:
Ultimately I would like to expand the collection and market to parents of young children. Spit-up splotched sweaters (available in spring pea green, summer squash yellow or mushroom soup). Sticky jam car seat. Crayon creation wall paper. The possibilities are endless.

I suppose another solution would be to just adopt animals/children when they are a bit older and no longer throw up on and mangle things. Although I guess with children that stage never really ends since I have a few fuzzy memories of my mom mopping up vodka infused puke well into my high school years. And also when I was sixteen I wrote "I love John Kruswicki" in blue ink all over my mattress which made it a hard sell ten years later at my parent’s garage sale…anyway, that could be another off-shoot collection called “We can’t have anything nice with you kids!”

Possible catalog cover: "Yes, I am heart breakingly cute....

...But I will fuck your shit up."

A Father's Day Gift

2008-06-10T16:44:00.004-04:00

Twenty Things I learned from my dad...

1. How to tell a story that makes people laugh.
2. How to drink a shot properly.
3. How to catch, throw and hit a softball.
4. How to play tennis.
5. That the world is bigger than Canton, OH.
6. Not to take everything so seriously.
7. How to cope with things without whining.
8. That you should think about what you love to do, and then find a way to get paid for it. (Barring anything illegal of course.)
9. Why one should not order veal. (Do you know what they do to those cows?)
10. That all your actions have consequences. For instance, if you and your pre-teen friends leave a huge mess in the Crete Do-Nut Shop, you are going to have to march in and apologize to the owner’s face.
11. An appreciation for old movies.
12. How the stock market works.
13. How to plant something and make it grow. (I got a D- in that but I’m still counting it).
14. That bratwurst is best cooked with beer.
15. An appreciation for the natural beauty of the world around us.
16. How to paint a room.
17. How to brush a cat.
18. How to doggie paddle so I won’t drown.
19. How to ride a bike.
20. And most importantly, that genes don’t make a parent, love does.

P.S. (I'm hoping my dad finds this picture amusing, because I do. It makes me think of a caricature-stlye stock photo of a man angry that his tee time got moved from 9:30 to 9:45...dad, I think you could have a future in stock photo modeling.)

A Guide to Hiring Women

2008-06-04T12:23:00.004-04:00

This 1943 Guide to Hiring Women was sent to me by my lovely sister-in-law Irene. She’s amazing. I honestly don’t know how she does it, great career, great kid, fabulous hair. I imagine the trick is to not require sleep (or have copious amounts of crack on hand at all times).

In this guide, the good ol’ boys at Western Properties (WP) have done us the service of listing out helpful tips on how to get more efficiency out of female workers.

I sat down for a little chat with WP to discuss some of their tips.

WP: Pick young married women. They have more sense of responsibility than their unmarried sisters yet still have the pep and interest to work hard.

SS: Let me tell you WP, they still have this "pep and interest" because their soul has not yet been eroded by years of marriage, toddlers, teenagers, pee stains on the carpet, and cliché arguments about why the toilet seat should be down.

WP: If you must pick older women, pick women who have worked outside the home at some point. Older women who have never contacted the public have a hard time adapting and tend to be cantankerous and fussy.

SS: Listen, these “older” women are probably cantankerous and fussy from years of raising your cantankerous and fussy children, and dealing with your cantankerous and fussy ass who pops in from a real estate job at the end of the day and expects a pot roast and martini waiting on the table. And by the way, you’re not fooling anybody, we know that “real estate” means driving around who knows where and eating at greasy diners with your greasy friends.

WP: General experience indicates that, “Husky” girls are more even tempered than their underweight sisters.

SS: So...you're saying the fat acts as some sort of anger filter or shock absorber? Speaking as a husky gal, I can throw a temper tantrum that ranks up there with the best of them (and I got some weight behind it brother…watch out, I will time clock your skinny ass.)

WP: Retain a physician to give each woman a special examination, one covering female conditions. This reveals whether the employee-to-be has any female weaknesses which would make her physically or mentally unfit for the job.

SS: Just say it man, you’re talking about my VAGINA. Just say that you want to make sure that my vagina won’t make me tumble from my desk in the middle of the day. Or that my vagina won’t drink all your fancy-ass gin. Or that my womanly chasm won’t open up and swallow the entire universe with you in it. Watch out behind you! It's a vagina! HA HA! It's cool WP I'm just playing with you.

WP: Give the female employee a definite day long schedule of duties so that they’ll keep busy without bothering the management for instructions every few minutes.

SS: I've got news for you WP, the men in your office are not asking you for instructions every few minutes because they are ALL playing World of Warcraft or drafting their picks for fantasy baseball.

WP: Give every girl an adequate number of rest periods during the day. You have to make some allowances for female psychology. A girl has more confidence and is more efficient if she can keep her hair tidied, apply fresh lipstick, and wash her hands several times a day.

SS: Oh, WP, you’re so cute. You think they're slipping off to the powder room to primp. Actually it’s because you keep hanging out at their desks all day with your stifling Aqua Velva and creepy grin. Those women slink off to the ladies room because they're tired of hearing how many times your fraternity won the rugby tournament in college and how many pounds you can bench press.

WP: Be reasonably considerate about using strong language around women. Even though a girl’s husband or father may swear vociferously, she’ll grow to dislike a place of business where she hears too much of this.

SS: Actually, I just used your ladies room. It is a regular bar brawl in there. I think I just got a tattoo of a train on my ass.

Beef Pornography or Undercover Vegetarians?

2008-05-30T14:13:00.002-04:00

I've gotten a lot of requests to see the pornographic beef ad mentioned in my last blog. So here it is. If I were a vegetarian, and I wanted to convince people how nasty meat is, I would go undercover at the Beef Marketing Council and come up with ads like this one.

Part two of the series might be...I don't know...flank steak that resembles dimply, stuck together thighs on a hot summer day at the beach....yum.

Seriously, in what universe does this make me want to have anything to do with beef? I can almost smell the overly steamed broccoli...

Danny Made My Fantasy Come True

2008-05-28T22:33:00.004-04:00

A couple months ago I divulged to my husband a secret desire. I told him about an urge I get (sometimes more than once a day). I revealed to him my frustration that I simply do not have all the tools I need to get the job done.

I told him my ultimate fantasy. It probably sounded a little crazy. Maybe even ego centric. A little nuts.

But nonetheless, being the team player that he is, Danny harnessed the power of the internet and made my fantasy a reality today.

He bought me a giant corkboard.

I can't remember when or why I got it in my head that I needed an oversized surface on which to stick things. I must admit that more than once a day I get the urge to affix something to cork via a small, sharp apparatus commonly known as a thumbtack.

I come across things in papers and magazines and I want to have them near me. I need them to be my muses.

Like my picture of Mucus Maximus, the Mucinex spokes-spore. Or the clipping about the two legged dog, Faith, that walks around inspiring hope and awe, or the jesussoonreturn.com ad laying out the eight compelling reasons why Christ is coming VERY soon (one of the reasons being the vast increase of travel and education. I guess when Jesus comes he's gonna need to get around and catch up on some stuff by way of community ed classes.)

I need my Official Barbie Fan Club membership card from when I was seven and the beef ad from People magazine that can only be described as pornographic.

I need these things. There are hundreds more. I need them all snugly stuck to cork in order to be at peace. And now that dream is a reality. I will build my empire of random nonsense, clipping by clipping.

So Danny, thanks dude.

Behold the glory of the giant corkboard.

Answer This Without Google

2008-05-21T22:23:00.004-04:00

Is Wilford Brimley still alive?

I seriously can't remember. I thought he wasn't, but then I saw him on a Liberty Medical commercial today for like diabetes supplies or something.

I suppose I could just Google it, but this is more fun...or morbid and wrong.

So, dead, alive or Disney Hall of Presidents automatron?....you make the call.

Ways Steph Makes an Ass Out of Herself #467

2008-05-17T17:19:00.001-04:00

While in the waiting room at the mechanic, I heard a very loud bzz bzz bzz somewhere very close to me. I thought it was a large beetle. My instinct was to scream and randomly beat at my hair and body until I realized....

wait for it....

it was my cellphone...on vibrate.

So I just answered it. The bzzz bzzz bzzz stopped immediately.