My personality pretty much speaks for itself. I am an optimistic, motivated, overall, pretty darn happy person. Do I get down? For sure. Am I ever a biotch? Hell to the yeah. Do I become Mommy Dearest out in public more than I'd like to admit? You better believe it. I have blogged mostly about positivity thus far.
Now, I want to talk about the things that piss me off. So here goes:
1. Whiners, Complainers, and Excuse-Makers. GET OVER YOURSELF. You are suffocating the rest of us with your negativity. Stop your whinen' and complainen' because frankly, YOU ARE SO ANNOYING!
Example Numero Uno: the glorious sun is out and shining. You know what Wendy the Whiner says? "I can't beeeliiieeeve it's soooo hooooot. I don't even have air conditioning. I can barely mooooove. I'm not even sure how I'll make it out of this alive."
You wanna know what my solution is to a heat wave? Sunscreen, a pool party, and a keg of beer,baby.
On the flip side, when it starts to rain, Wendy whines, "It's soooo cooold and wet out there. I can't find my umbrella. Oh bother...I guess I will just sit in my house in the fetal position until this crazy storm lets up."
My solution to a rain storm is: a blazing fire, a great book, and a bottle of wine.
You know what whiners and complainers? THE REST OF US COULD CARE IF YOU LIVE OR DIE. I, for one, am damn tired of you people trying to put out my brightly shining flame!
2. "At-Home" Moms Who Have a Nanny. I guess I had the wrong job description when I signed up to RAISE my kids. Which in turn, also means, going out to a restaurant 2-3 times a YEAR, camping = vacation, and gladly accepting hand-me-downs. I guess my morals are fucked up. I have to stop myself from naming this person. But I find it comical when she acts "stressed out". What the hell do you have to worry about? You have someone ELSE wiping snotty noses, cleaning poopy diapers, and dishing out Spaghettios, while you're hanging at Santana Row. WTF? NEXT...
3. Closed Minded Folks of the Religious Sort. You guys know who I am referring to. These people come from all religions, but share one similar characteristic: the belief that we, heathens, will burn in the eternal pit fires of hell. Why? Because we don't believe just as they do. Shit, I don't even believe in hell...I wonder what happens to a person who is supposed to be fearful of going to a place that doesn't exist? Many of these religious psychos also believe that God only sent ONE prophet. Only ONE great prophet? I am so down with learning from all great prophets and ascended masters; men, women, hetero, bi, homo, Chinese, Latino, Jewish, Muslim, and Catholic. You name it, I'm open. But according to them, I'm going to hell. Oh well, I guess I'll see you all there.
4. Only a Pour During Wine-Tasting. I HATE this one. I know, I know. We shouldn't be getting loaded while we are simply "tasting" wine. But we have all had that moment while taking a sip, and suddenly, we're transported to another planet. It's then I want a GLASS OF THIS DELICIOUS STUFF. No can do...no buying a glass of wine in the tasting room. It's "against the law". We must buy an entire bottle, which I'm not against, by any means. But sometimes, just sometimes, I go to a happy place in "Michelle World" where I can buy a glass of wine. And drink it through a straw.
5. Parents Who Give Their Little Brats Whatever They Ask For. This is the parent who always seems totally overwhelmed by their child/ren. "Nellie is just sooo much work. She's just a busy body." NO...actually, Nellie is a pain in every one's ass because you NEVER TELL THAT CHILD NO. When Nellie doesn't get what she wants, she creates a scene, and wears you down, ALONG WITH THE REST OF US WHO HAVE TO ENDURE IT. So, hey Clueless, I have an idea: give your kid up for adoption, because you're hopeless.
Whew. Okay, I am done venting. I feel much better. Thank you for sitting on the couch with me for awhile. And please, feel free to share with the rest of us, what chaps YOUR hide!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
My Justice League of M.I.L.F.S.
These days, I'm not quite sure if I am a MILF or a GILF, considering my 23 year old stepdaughter is "with child" also. Strange isn't it? Like some Steve Martin movie we all watched back in the 90's called "Father of The Bride"...except it's no movie this time; it's my life, people. Welcome to the Discovery Channel: The Inside Life of the Procreating Walsh Family.
So again, I pose the question: am I a MILF or a GILF? Perhaps, I'm a Cougar, or maybe a Bobcat? But these standards are always changing, so maybe I'm a Puma?
Or do I fall into some obscure acronym category that has yet to be officially named? Like F.L.F.B.O.A.H.R.M.W.D.A.L.T.M.W.I.W.S.I.C.P., short for: "Fun Loving, Fertile, But Overwhelmed, At-Home Running Mom, Who Drinks A Little Too Much, Which is Why She Is Continually Pregnant".
But here's the truth Ruth: a girl's gotta have her girlfriends! When we tire of our monotonous lives that consist of raising children, buying random birthday gifts for some PUMP IT UP party on the weekend, volunteering at school, and "pleasing" our husbands (my specialty), we need a RELEASE!
And this is where girlfriends come in. Women get women. We can say a thousand words with a gesture. But there are also times we need to verbally vomit AND use gestures...WITHOUT ANYONE TRYING TO FIX IT. Husbands, you dig?
This calls for the Girl's Night Out. A time that we actually shower and apply make-up, drink excessive amounts of alcohol, and usually attempt to dance. In my own mind, I am Beyonce while I'm on the dance floor. Who are you?
As women, it is extremely important to play on each other's strengths. For example, when we hit a bar with a particularly long line, we send the HAWT friend to "talk" to the bouncer. (Tiffeny) If we want free drinks, we get the "fun loudmouth" to step up to the plate.(Ella) I've seen that girl get more free ROUNDS of drinks than anyone I know. If you want to get up onstage with Alan Jackson, make sure you have your FEARLESS friend, and I don't say that lightly. (Erin) If you need a shoulder to cry on, go to the caring ones of the group. (Nikki, Marylynn) If you want to stay out of jail, make sure your probation officer friend has your back. (Alyson) If you need to leap a building in a single bound, get ol' long legs to help you out. (I have no torso, but I do got myself some gams).
Like I was saying before, Girl's Night Out is a release. We remember who we were before we took on these huge responsibilities of "Family" and "Wife". We don't have to serve anyone goldfish, hand out sippy cups, or make anyone dinner. Instead, for a mere few hours, we feel carefree. Supported by our Justice League of MILFS.
It makes us feel ALIVE, even if we feel DEAD when little ones show up at the bedside the next morning with requests for breakfast. Only 25 more weeks til I can get my drink on.
So I got one question: who's planning the Girl's Night for October? Well, maybe November would be a bit more realistic...OR NOT.
So again, I pose the question: am I a MILF or a GILF? Perhaps, I'm a Cougar, or maybe a Bobcat? But these standards are always changing, so maybe I'm a Puma?
Or do I fall into some obscure acronym category that has yet to be officially named? Like F.L.F.B.O.A.H.R.M.W.D.A.L.T.M.W.I.W.S.I.C.P., short for: "Fun Loving, Fertile, But Overwhelmed, At-Home Running Mom, Who Drinks A Little Too Much, Which is Why She Is Continually Pregnant".
But here's the truth Ruth: a girl's gotta have her girlfriends! When we tire of our monotonous lives that consist of raising children, buying random birthday gifts for some PUMP IT UP party on the weekend, volunteering at school, and "pleasing" our husbands (my specialty), we need a RELEASE!
And this is where girlfriends come in. Women get women. We can say a thousand words with a gesture. But there are also times we need to verbally vomit AND use gestures...WITHOUT ANYONE TRYING TO FIX IT. Husbands, you dig?
This calls for the Girl's Night Out. A time that we actually shower and apply make-up, drink excessive amounts of alcohol, and usually attempt to dance. In my own mind, I am Beyonce while I'm on the dance floor. Who are you?
As women, it is extremely important to play on each other's strengths. For example, when we hit a bar with a particularly long line, we send the HAWT friend to "talk" to the bouncer. (Tiffeny) If we want free drinks, we get the "fun loudmouth" to step up to the plate.(Ella) I've seen that girl get more free ROUNDS of drinks than anyone I know. If you want to get up onstage with Alan Jackson, make sure you have your FEARLESS friend, and I don't say that lightly. (Erin) If you need a shoulder to cry on, go to the caring ones of the group. (Nikki, Marylynn) If you want to stay out of jail, make sure your probation officer friend has your back. (Alyson) If you need to leap a building in a single bound, get ol' long legs to help you out. (I have no torso, but I do got myself some gams).
Like I was saying before, Girl's Night Out is a release. We remember who we were before we took on these huge responsibilities of "Family" and "Wife". We don't have to serve anyone goldfish, hand out sippy cups, or make anyone dinner. Instead, for a mere few hours, we feel carefree. Supported by our Justice League of MILFS.
It makes us feel ALIVE, even if we feel DEAD when little ones show up at the bedside the next morning with requests for breakfast. Only 25 more weeks til I can get my drink on.
So I got one question: who's planning the Girl's Night for October? Well, maybe November would be a bit more realistic...OR NOT.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Aging is a Trip
"Mama, why is your face all wrinkled up like that?" asked my precious 7 year old one morning at the breakfast table, before I had even taken my first sip of coffee. I replied simply, "Because of you."
I didn't think anyone else had really noticed some of my undeniable symptoms of aging: sun damaged decolletage, fine lines decorating my face like tinsel dons a lit up Christmas tree, and well, the GRAVITY of lower hanging appendages. Aging hasn't been like the Big Bang Theory in my life or anything...BAM, YOU ARE NOW OLD! Mother Nature has been A BIT gentler than that. But not much.
Up until 30, I felt untouchable. Aging was only something that happened to other people...old people. Not moi. Well, I've been duped. Because 30 is actually the age I believe your body starts to show all the shit that you never did to take care of it in your teens and twenties.
For example: slathering on baby oil with iodine so I could achieve what every 17 year old coveted: a healthy looking tan. Fast forward 20 years, and I don't leave the house now without applying sunscreen. I love Neutrogena cool spray SPF 45. And due to my heritage, I still get a nice color. But I am learning that a lot of sun damage has already been done. I can now, only prevent further damage from happening.
I would like to ask Mother Nature one question though: what the hell is up with the things that are happening to me that I have absolutely NO control over? Like random little hairs appearing...wherever.
As I applied my make up in a hurried rush one morning, I noticed, a hair growing from the bottom of my chinny chin chin, approximately 3 inches long (slight exaggeration, but not much!) WTF? I promptly plucked that mother, like a gardener using a weed whacker. But it left me feeling old. I'm morphing into the school lunch lady, I thought, complete with random hairs growing out of her moles. As a kid, I just wanted to grab some tweezers and take care of that business for the lunch lady. Obviously, she just didn't care, or couldn't see the small blanket that was growing down her cheek. I give permission to any fool that wants to take some tweezers to my chinny chin chin.
Most of you know that I am an avid runner. Here is something that you may not know about me, and probably wish you never found out: I need to empty my bladder LITERALLY right before I start running, and promptly half-way through my run. Why? Because, quite plainly put, I pee myself. I'm not sure if this is aging, or the essence of birthing my kids through you know, "the parts". Whatever the cause, it bites big time! Do you have to think about putting on a diaper before sneezing? Laughing? Doing Tequila shots and then jumping on a trampoline? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Apparently, I am somewhat in denial of my bra size, as well. In my mind, I have and always will be a 36 C. It's a nice size, 36 C. I've grown attached to that size, 36 C. It's comforting to know: 36 C.
After my third daughter turned one, and the "Boobie Cafe" closed, I thought it would be a good idea to get re-measured at Victoria's Secret. I was not ready for the devastation that was about to be cast my way. One
of the busty, young associates, came at me with her measuring tape.
"Okay, we've got you at......(drum roll please)... 34 B," she replied, crushing me like an ant. "WHAT?! That must be wrong. I'm a 36 C. I have always been a 36 C, and I mean, you must have read that wrong." I slowly felt my world crumbling. "No sweetie, you are a 34 B. It's normal for size to change after having babies." Well, God Damnit, I thought to myself. It's not enough that we grow these people like parasites for TEN months, while nursing them for another TWELVE...my children have taken my boobies!
After getting over the initial shock of no longer being a 36 C, I sucked it up, and purchased a really cute padded push up bra. Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. It makes me look JUST like I have REAL breasts...consumerism, gotta love it.
Recently, a picture of Tom and I popped up on the screen saver that made me stop in my tracks. I was like, "DAMN, I look good in that picture. What's different about me?" I then noticed we were laying down, holding the camera above us. This angle took at least ten years off my face. I want to frame that picture. I think I will make it poster size. Maybe I'll turn it into wallpaper.
In my twenties, I washed my face and put on some lotion...if I remembered. Now it's like a Boot Camp...wash face: check! Spritz toner: check! Apply moisturizer WITH sunscreen: check! End with under eye cream: check! Soldier, you are now ready for battle. The battle of aging, that is. That's like 102 steps, but if it means I'll keep my face from aging any faster, I'll do it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up here. Rather, I'm just stating the obvious. I like to look at how my body is changing like different wars I have fought over the years. But I also want to prevent further battles from breaking out, you know what I'm sayin'? Thus, I am a GINORMOUS believer in taking care of myself: whether it be through exercise, taking a relaxing bath, or downing a bottle of wine, by myself, without sharing. Sometimes I even hide in the bathroom so no one can find me. I have also been known to lock my bedroom door when I blog. Some may call that parental negligence. I prefer to call it survival.
I didn't think anyone else had really noticed some of my undeniable symptoms of aging: sun damaged decolletage, fine lines decorating my face like tinsel dons a lit up Christmas tree, and well, the GRAVITY of lower hanging appendages. Aging hasn't been like the Big Bang Theory in my life or anything...BAM, YOU ARE NOW OLD! Mother Nature has been A BIT gentler than that. But not much.
Up until 30, I felt untouchable. Aging was only something that happened to other people...old people. Not moi. Well, I've been duped. Because 30 is actually the age I believe your body starts to show all the shit that you never did to take care of it in your teens and twenties.
For example: slathering on baby oil with iodine so I could achieve what every 17 year old coveted: a healthy looking tan. Fast forward 20 years, and I don't leave the house now without applying sunscreen. I love Neutrogena cool spray SPF 45. And due to my heritage, I still get a nice color. But I am learning that a lot of sun damage has already been done. I can now, only prevent further damage from happening.
I would like to ask Mother Nature one question though: what the hell is up with the things that are happening to me that I have absolutely NO control over? Like random little hairs appearing...wherever.
As I applied my make up in a hurried rush one morning, I noticed, a hair growing from the bottom of my chinny chin chin, approximately 3 inches long (slight exaggeration, but not much!) WTF? I promptly plucked that mother, like a gardener using a weed whacker. But it left me feeling old. I'm morphing into the school lunch lady, I thought, complete with random hairs growing out of her moles. As a kid, I just wanted to grab some tweezers and take care of that business for the lunch lady. Obviously, she just didn't care, or couldn't see the small blanket that was growing down her cheek. I give permission to any fool that wants to take some tweezers to my chinny chin chin.
Most of you know that I am an avid runner. Here is something that you may not know about me, and probably wish you never found out: I need to empty my bladder LITERALLY right before I start running, and promptly half-way through my run. Why? Because, quite plainly put, I pee myself. I'm not sure if this is aging, or the essence of birthing my kids through you know, "the parts". Whatever the cause, it bites big time! Do you have to think about putting on a diaper before sneezing? Laughing? Doing Tequila shots and then jumping on a trampoline? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Apparently, I am somewhat in denial of my bra size, as well. In my mind, I have and always will be a 36 C. It's a nice size, 36 C. I've grown attached to that size, 36 C. It's comforting to know: 36 C.
After my third daughter turned one, and the "Boobie Cafe" closed, I thought it would be a good idea to get re-measured at Victoria's Secret. I was not ready for the devastation that was about to be cast my way. One
of the busty, young associates, came at me with her measuring tape.
"Okay, we've got you at......(drum roll please)... 34 B," she replied, crushing me like an ant. "WHAT?! That must be wrong. I'm a 36 C. I have always been a 36 C, and I mean, you must have read that wrong." I slowly felt my world crumbling. "No sweetie, you are a 34 B. It's normal for size to change after having babies." Well, God Damnit, I thought to myself. It's not enough that we grow these people like parasites for TEN months, while nursing them for another TWELVE...my children have taken my boobies!
After getting over the initial shock of no longer being a 36 C, I sucked it up, and purchased a really cute padded push up bra. Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. It makes me look JUST like I have REAL breasts...consumerism, gotta love it.
Recently, a picture of Tom and I popped up on the screen saver that made me stop in my tracks. I was like, "DAMN, I look good in that picture. What's different about me?" I then noticed we were laying down, holding the camera above us. This angle took at least ten years off my face. I want to frame that picture. I think I will make it poster size. Maybe I'll turn it into wallpaper.
In my twenties, I washed my face and put on some lotion...if I remembered. Now it's like a Boot Camp...wash face: check! Spritz toner: check! Apply moisturizer WITH sunscreen: check! End with under eye cream: check! Soldier, you are now ready for battle. The battle of aging, that is. That's like 102 steps, but if it means I'll keep my face from aging any faster, I'll do it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up here. Rather, I'm just stating the obvious. I like to look at how my body is changing like different wars I have fought over the years. But I also want to prevent further battles from breaking out, you know what I'm sayin'? Thus, I am a GINORMOUS believer in taking care of myself: whether it be through exercise, taking a relaxing bath, or downing a bottle of wine, by myself, without sharing. Sometimes I even hide in the bathroom so no one can find me. I have also been known to lock my bedroom door when I blog. Some may call that parental negligence. I prefer to call it survival.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Best Halloween...EVER
Okay, so I know it's not exactly Fall time right now. In fact, we are not even close to dressing up or picking out costumes. But I feel the innate need to share my tale of a Halloween past, 2009. It will be marked forever in my memory as the best, and the most fun Halloween ever.
After much soul searching, my friend Alyson and I decided that our costumes needed to include one necessary accessory: alcohol. And so what better way to REPRESENT than with German beer maidens? I wanted to envelop Helga, become one with her short dress and beer stein, speak her native dialect, yaaaaah? So, while volunteering at school, I hounded one of my daughter's classmates who just happens to be...you guessed it...German! Cute as a second grader can be, I explained to Hugo that I was dressing up like his mom for Halloween...he just smiled with his adorable blue eyes, and his head cocked sideways. I hammered him for information on German phrases. How do I say please? Thank you? More beer?
My husband even donned Lederhosen to keep with our theme...that's a man who's truly in touch with his identity right there. A keeper, indeed.
If you recall, Halloween was on a Saturday this past year. Well, you know what that means...the party starts on Friday...and start it did.
Neglecting to eat dinner that night, we hit it really hard at The Boulevard Tavern where our friends played in a band. And finally staggered in around 2:30 in the morning. Yeah, I don't need to tell you how that ended.
Waking up in a foggy haze, head pounding, bile collecting in my throat, I realized I needed to buck up and focus so I could detox and cleanse my system for the upcoming day's events. It was now Halloween...THE day we had waited for. And we were all hungover. Oh, sweet irony.
After forcing my former bff, Alyson, to go on a hike, and carving half-ass pumpkins with the girls, we began to prep, to yet once again, get our groove on.
As Alyson morphed into "Gretchen" in the bathroom, much like Linda Carter turns into the icon Wonder Woman, I approached her with a bottle of wine. "No, I can't do that right now," she said. "Sorry, what did you say Chico State graduate?" I replied snarkily, already holding a wine goblet of my own. "Okay, but only an inch to start with."
Well, it didn't take more than 30 minutes for that inch to manifest into a tumbler of wine, and Helga and Gretchen were in da house.
Just around that time, a family from school, (which was not Hugo's) arrived at our house so that we could all enjoy the magic of trick or treating together.
Imagine the visual of Gopal, the Indian engineer, super smart, NASA dad, as I walked into the kitchen dressed as Helga, the beer-wench in my micro mini. His exact words were, "Oh wow..." spoken in his distinct accent. Rose-Marie, his engineer NASA wife, was very sweet, but certainly not dressed up. Now these parents had no problem drinking our wine, but I just don't think they were prepared when we took the kids out, and I would stumble up to many of my neighbors, stating, "My stein is empty!" like it was a federal offense. Fulfilling their neighborly duty, however, each would tap us off so we could continue our journey. All the while, Gopal and Rose-Marie stood in the background, not really sure what to do.
Around 9 o'clock we made it back to the house, and put the kiddos to bed. By this point, I'm sure Rose-Marie and Gopal were vowing they would not be having anymore "family time" with the Walsh's in the near future. We bid them adieu and prepared for Chapter 2: a party around the block, who's flier indicated "Competitive Wanted for Beer Pong". Those were the only words I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
Not wanting a repeat bile-vomit session like the night before, Alyson, my niece (who had just turned 21, and had no costume), and I all inhaled some leftovers from the fridge, and away we went. To the neighbors. Who I did not know. To play Beer Pong.
The first party goer I encountered was a rather tall man, standing robustly about 6'2 or so, dressed as the cutest Girl Scout you ever did see. He had a blond wig, with several badges that decorated the sash he wore across his chest. It was clear from the beginning that the Girl Scout took his character role playing seriously, as s/he made sure all the other party-goers knew and fully understood the Beer Pong/Flip Cup rules.
Before I could say, "My stein is empty," I was engaged in a relay style drinking game which involved slamming a beer and flipping a cup upright...only when that happened could my teammate then slam his beer and flip his cup...it's an art really. All the while, your team is racing the team across from you, screaming obscenities and yelling things like, "NOT SO HARD...GENTLY! YOU ARE THE FLIP CUP WHISPERER! YOU'RE TAKING FOREVER!"
Have you ever heard of an ice luge? Well neither had I, and I attended the very prestigious Chico State, for crying out loud. The Flip Cup losers had to line up at this giant block of ice with a path carved into the top of it, and take a shot. Not very HINI savvy, but the Girl Scout was pouring the alcohol, and rules must be enforced.
And so we did what all good, rule following party going folks would do: opened up wide and took a vodka shot that had been marinated in Skittles...yes, the candy. The Girl Scout kept going on and on about this special Skittles concoction like it was a rare, fine wine from the South of France. After my first sip, I was sold.
My niece couldn't seem to get enough of the candy flavored vodka. I tried, with all of my beer wench might, to pry her from the evilness of the luge, to no avail. I knew where this was going, and quick, but decided that as long as she could walk fairly well, it would end up being a "lesson learned" on her part. I kept tabs on her, as she would come and lean on me, while Gretchen and I talked with other partyers.
I appreciated how these other party goers took their persona's to heart as seriously as Gretchen and I had. We encountered Garth from Wayne's World, Brett Michaels (the dude looked EXACTLY like him), Max from Where the Wild Things Are, as well, as a real actual Wild Thing. At 2 am, when my niece could no longer really walk, Superman even walked us home.
When all was said and done, it took me about a week to recover from Halloween 2009. I felt glad and sad to see it finally come to an end. And all of this leaves me thinking one thing: What, oh what, will I dress up as this year?
After much soul searching, my friend Alyson and I decided that our costumes needed to include one necessary accessory: alcohol. And so what better way to REPRESENT than with German beer maidens? I wanted to envelop Helga, become one with her short dress and beer stein, speak her native dialect, yaaaaah? So, while volunteering at school, I hounded one of my daughter's classmates who just happens to be...you guessed it...German! Cute as a second grader can be, I explained to Hugo that I was dressing up like his mom for Halloween...he just smiled with his adorable blue eyes, and his head cocked sideways. I hammered him for information on German phrases. How do I say please? Thank you? More beer?
My husband even donned Lederhosen to keep with our theme...that's a man who's truly in touch with his identity right there. A keeper, indeed.
If you recall, Halloween was on a Saturday this past year. Well, you know what that means...the party starts on Friday...and start it did.
Neglecting to eat dinner that night, we hit it really hard at The Boulevard Tavern where our friends played in a band. And finally staggered in around 2:30 in the morning. Yeah, I don't need to tell you how that ended.
Waking up in a foggy haze, head pounding, bile collecting in my throat, I realized I needed to buck up and focus so I could detox and cleanse my system for the upcoming day's events. It was now Halloween...THE day we had waited for. And we were all hungover. Oh, sweet irony.
After forcing my former bff, Alyson, to go on a hike, and carving half-ass pumpkins with the girls, we began to prep, to yet once again, get our groove on.
As Alyson morphed into "Gretchen" in the bathroom, much like Linda Carter turns into the icon Wonder Woman, I approached her with a bottle of wine. "No, I can't do that right now," she said. "Sorry, what did you say Chico State graduate?" I replied snarkily, already holding a wine goblet of my own. "Okay, but only an inch to start with."
Well, it didn't take more than 30 minutes for that inch to manifest into a tumbler of wine, and Helga and Gretchen were in da house.
Just around that time, a family from school, (which was not Hugo's) arrived at our house so that we could all enjoy the magic of trick or treating together.
Imagine the visual of Gopal, the Indian engineer, super smart, NASA dad, as I walked into the kitchen dressed as Helga, the beer-wench in my micro mini. His exact words were, "Oh wow..." spoken in his distinct accent. Rose-Marie, his engineer NASA wife, was very sweet, but certainly not dressed up. Now these parents had no problem drinking our wine, but I just don't think they were prepared when we took the kids out, and I would stumble up to many of my neighbors, stating, "My stein is empty!" like it was a federal offense. Fulfilling their neighborly duty, however, each would tap us off so we could continue our journey. All the while, Gopal and Rose-Marie stood in the background, not really sure what to do.
Around 9 o'clock we made it back to the house, and put the kiddos to bed. By this point, I'm sure Rose-Marie and Gopal were vowing they would not be having anymore "family time" with the Walsh's in the near future. We bid them adieu and prepared for Chapter 2: a party around the block, who's flier indicated "Competitive Wanted for Beer Pong". Those were the only words I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
Not wanting a repeat bile-vomit session like the night before, Alyson, my niece (who had just turned 21, and had no costume), and I all inhaled some leftovers from the fridge, and away we went. To the neighbors. Who I did not know. To play Beer Pong.
The first party goer I encountered was a rather tall man, standing robustly about 6'2 or so, dressed as the cutest Girl Scout you ever did see. He had a blond wig, with several badges that decorated the sash he wore across his chest. It was clear from the beginning that the Girl Scout took his character role playing seriously, as s/he made sure all the other party-goers knew and fully understood the Beer Pong/Flip Cup rules.
Before I could say, "My stein is empty," I was engaged in a relay style drinking game which involved slamming a beer and flipping a cup upright...only when that happened could my teammate then slam his beer and flip his cup...it's an art really. All the while, your team is racing the team across from you, screaming obscenities and yelling things like, "NOT SO HARD...GENTLY! YOU ARE THE FLIP CUP WHISPERER! YOU'RE TAKING FOREVER!"
Have you ever heard of an ice luge? Well neither had I, and I attended the very prestigious Chico State, for crying out loud. The Flip Cup losers had to line up at this giant block of ice with a path carved into the top of it, and take a shot. Not very HINI savvy, but the Girl Scout was pouring the alcohol, and rules must be enforced.
And so we did what all good, rule following party going folks would do: opened up wide and took a vodka shot that had been marinated in Skittles...yes, the candy. The Girl Scout kept going on and on about this special Skittles concoction like it was a rare, fine wine from the South of France. After my first sip, I was sold.
My niece couldn't seem to get enough of the candy flavored vodka. I tried, with all of my beer wench might, to pry her from the evilness of the luge, to no avail. I knew where this was going, and quick, but decided that as long as she could walk fairly well, it would end up being a "lesson learned" on her part. I kept tabs on her, as she would come and lean on me, while Gretchen and I talked with other partyers.
I appreciated how these other party goers took their persona's to heart as seriously as Gretchen and I had. We encountered Garth from Wayne's World, Brett Michaels (the dude looked EXACTLY like him), Max from Where the Wild Things Are, as well, as a real actual Wild Thing. At 2 am, when my niece could no longer really walk, Superman even walked us home.
When all was said and done, it took me about a week to recover from Halloween 2009. I felt glad and sad to see it finally come to an end. And all of this leaves me thinking one thing: What, oh what, will I dress up as this year?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Burke Williams is My New Best Friend
No, seriously though, Burke is my new bff. Is Burke a male or female? Is Burke living or dead? Real or imaginary? It doesn't even matter, because I can honestly say, I can die happy now. For those of you that have NO idea what I am talking about, google Burke Williams Spa, and go there.now.right now. There are several locations to serve you.
My former best friend, Alyson, came down for a visit this past weekend. She has since been replaced by Burke Williams. At the last minute on Saturday, we booked massages, but the only availability was at 9 PM. Holy Shnikes, I thought to myself, I usually turn into a pumpkin by then. Especially after dancing my sober pregnant ass to Fergie until almost 11 the night before.
But after the nice person on the telephone told us we could have "access to the facilities" prior to our appointments, we were drawn to Burke Williams like moths to a flame...like peanut butter to jelly...like a college kid to a keg party...like a mom who really wanted to get the hell away from her kids, like pronto.
So away we went, not really knowing what to expect, but craving solitude all the same. When we arrived, we were greeted warmly, and our appointments confirmed.
Receptionist: So we have two relaxing massages at 9 pm?
Me: Actually, I'm pregnant, so I need a prego massage.
Receptionist: Ohhhhhh, well, let me offer you a bath in lieu of using the facilities.
Me (realizing she has to offer this due to liability for pregos using hot tubs and saunas) Ummm, no thank you, I can take a bath at home. This is baby number five. I will use my keen mommy senses and not overheat.
Receptionist: Okay, sure. It is just that some pregnant women want to be really cautious.
Me (pointing to my tummy): Yeah, well being careful isn't exactly my "A" game.
As we entered the women's area, serenity oozed out of the walls. After getting undressed, we slipped on Burke's robes and slippers. I stepped into a shower that was as big as the floor plan of the downstairs of my house. As the warm water cascaded down my back, I experimented with the knobs a bit. I could live in here, I thought to myself...with large liters full of yummy smelling body wash, shampoo and conditioner.
As I wrapped a towel around myself, I noticed some younger women walking around gingerly in bathing suits. I made a mental note to myself, thinking, it if I was still in my twenties, I would have probably packed a bathing suit too. But after delivering four babies vaginally, I just really don't care anymore. There is something freeing about getting old and saggy, you know? Embrace it women!
Aly and I ventured to the beautiful, elevated hot tub; which was really the size of a small swimming pool. There was only one other woman in the tub, totally relaxed, and content, who was not wearing a bathing suit. Before I go on, I would like to clarify that I am heterosexual. However, I do love and appreciate women's bodies...what they can do, how strong we are, and frankly, how lovely we are.
As this woman turned to talk to Alyson and I, I could not help but look at her fantastic breasts. I mean, they were PERFECT! Not plastic surgery perfect. I am talking like round, firm, medium sized cantaloupes, ripening in the sun, perfect. My first thought was, she has NOT nursed a baby. My second thought was, if I had breasts like that, I would give up wearing shirts. I had to actually work on making eye contact with her. But the cool thing was, I didn't feel self conscience of my pregnant torpedo boobies; I was just mentally appreciating hers, without appearing to be a stalker. The added bonus was that she was very sweet. When she left, both Aly and I agreed, those were the most beautiful breasts we had ever seen.
Next was the sauna, which had a menthol essence about it. I have a love/hate relationship with the sauna...it's really relaxing, right up til I feel like I am going to suffocate from the steam. It's that part of not being able to see my hand two inches from my face that sort of creeps me out.
And on it went like this for the two hours leading up to our massage. Cascading shower, glorious hot tub, menthol sauna...a little bit at a time, careful not to overheat. I must have used at least 5 towels and 3 washclothes in that time frame. It wasn't my damn laundry. It was Burke's laundry. There was even a quiet room; but anyone who knows me well, understands that Michelle in a quiet room is not exactly a ying and yang relationship.
When my massage therapist arrived, she gently placed her hand on my back, and led me to our room. The massage was just the cherry on top.
My former bff, Alyson, even paid for my massage! I mean, seriously, could the day GET any better? I would only change one thing: next time I go to Burke Williams, I will arrive when the doors open, and leave at closing time. I highly recommend this experience before you pass onto the afterlife. I'm not kidding.
My former best friend, Alyson, came down for a visit this past weekend. She has since been replaced by Burke Williams. At the last minute on Saturday, we booked massages, but the only availability was at 9 PM. Holy Shnikes, I thought to myself, I usually turn into a pumpkin by then. Especially after dancing my sober pregnant ass to Fergie until almost 11 the night before.
But after the nice person on the telephone told us we could have "access to the facilities" prior to our appointments, we were drawn to Burke Williams like moths to a flame...like peanut butter to jelly...like a college kid to a keg party...like a mom who really wanted to get the hell away from her kids, like pronto.
So away we went, not really knowing what to expect, but craving solitude all the same. When we arrived, we were greeted warmly, and our appointments confirmed.
Receptionist: So we have two relaxing massages at 9 pm?
Me: Actually, I'm pregnant, so I need a prego massage.
Receptionist: Ohhhhhh, well, let me offer you a bath in lieu of using the facilities.
Me (realizing she has to offer this due to liability for pregos using hot tubs and saunas) Ummm, no thank you, I can take a bath at home. This is baby number five. I will use my keen mommy senses and not overheat.
Receptionist: Okay, sure. It is just that some pregnant women want to be really cautious.
Me (pointing to my tummy): Yeah, well being careful isn't exactly my "A" game.
As we entered the women's area, serenity oozed out of the walls. After getting undressed, we slipped on Burke's robes and slippers. I stepped into a shower that was as big as the floor plan of the downstairs of my house. As the warm water cascaded down my back, I experimented with the knobs a bit. I could live in here, I thought to myself...with large liters full of yummy smelling body wash, shampoo and conditioner.
As I wrapped a towel around myself, I noticed some younger women walking around gingerly in bathing suits. I made a mental note to myself, thinking, it if I was still in my twenties, I would have probably packed a bathing suit too. But after delivering four babies vaginally, I just really don't care anymore. There is something freeing about getting old and saggy, you know? Embrace it women!
Aly and I ventured to the beautiful, elevated hot tub; which was really the size of a small swimming pool. There was only one other woman in the tub, totally relaxed, and content, who was not wearing a bathing suit. Before I go on, I would like to clarify that I am heterosexual. However, I do love and appreciate women's bodies...what they can do, how strong we are, and frankly, how lovely we are.
As this woman turned to talk to Alyson and I, I could not help but look at her fantastic breasts. I mean, they were PERFECT! Not plastic surgery perfect. I am talking like round, firm, medium sized cantaloupes, ripening in the sun, perfect. My first thought was, she has NOT nursed a baby. My second thought was, if I had breasts like that, I would give up wearing shirts. I had to actually work on making eye contact with her. But the cool thing was, I didn't feel self conscience of my pregnant torpedo boobies; I was just mentally appreciating hers, without appearing to be a stalker. The added bonus was that she was very sweet. When she left, both Aly and I agreed, those were the most beautiful breasts we had ever seen.
Next was the sauna, which had a menthol essence about it. I have a love/hate relationship with the sauna...it's really relaxing, right up til I feel like I am going to suffocate from the steam. It's that part of not being able to see my hand two inches from my face that sort of creeps me out.
And on it went like this for the two hours leading up to our massage. Cascading shower, glorious hot tub, menthol sauna...a little bit at a time, careful not to overheat. I must have used at least 5 towels and 3 washclothes in that time frame. It wasn't my damn laundry. It was Burke's laundry. There was even a quiet room; but anyone who knows me well, understands that Michelle in a quiet room is not exactly a ying and yang relationship.
When my massage therapist arrived, she gently placed her hand on my back, and led me to our room. The massage was just the cherry on top.
My former bff, Alyson, even paid for my massage! I mean, seriously, could the day GET any better? I would only change one thing: next time I go to Burke Williams, I will arrive when the doors open, and leave at closing time. I highly recommend this experience before you pass onto the afterlife. I'm not kidding.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)