Am I Really Living Like a Gypsy? And Why Moving Blows.

Moving sucks. Period. Hence why I have not been able to write or post anything. I’ve been in the weeds man.

The amount of crazy and stress that accompanies moving your crap-ola from one location to the next is quite remarkable. I feel as though I’ve been working in an Armenian sweat shop while all of the trainers from the Biggest Loser yell at me. Also, I have a random amount of paper cuts all over my body.

If the world were to hand out trophies for most transitions in a short period of time, my family would clearly win the grand prize.

Let me lay it out for you: Within the last eight months, we moved from one state, to another; stayed with family and put our possessions in storage; then we took some of that crap out of storage and lived in a grody apartment so my daughter could finish school; then we packed up the grody apartment belongings and put them back into storage; then we moved in with my in-laws while our house is being gutted; the final phase will be when we move all of our stuff, and ourselves, into the shiny new house once it is completed. At this time I hope you will all come visit me at the Betty Ford clinic.

I think we are done.

My daughter asked me the other day, “Why are we moving again? When are we going to be done?” I informed her that people move frequently all the time. They are called the Circus or the Military. She reminded me that we are neither. Also, we do not own a tiger.

Touché.

As previously mentioned in an older post, I have moved my entire life (father’s job, my job, etc.). Therefore, I inherited a subsequent skill – the relocation process.

If you have moved, or are about to, this step by step guide may be of help:

1) The Yard Sale. One week prior to yard sale, you must run around the house collating things you no longer need, use, or care about. If you have children, this involves some ninja selling tactics. My daughter will all of a sudden develop a fondness for an item she has not played with or seen in years. It once happened with an old nose suction thing they give you when you leave the maternity ward at the hospital.

Day of Yard Sale – People show up at your house the day before (or three hours before go time) wanting to check out your wares ahead of the crowd. Then they ask to use your bathroom, want to know what’s inside your house, and to where you are moving. I always tell people we don’t have a bathroom and we are moving to Botswana to work on my knife sharpening skills. Yard sale people are funky and make me want to brush their knotted hair.

2) Giving away stuff. Whatever doesn’t sell must either go to consignment or be given away. I was so tired of lugging around dresses I didn’t wear anymore, I chucked them into one of those bins of, “Donate to help animals/whales/other children/addicts/nobody really but you won’t have to look at your crap anymore.”

3) Packing. There are so many ways this can go. One, you hire professionals to do it for you. This is expensive, but the least amount of headache. Two, you haphazardly pack up your stuff. If you are moving directly from one dwelling to the next, within the same city, then you can afford to put some crap in garbage bags when you run out of the boxes you ganked from behind CVS. Or three, you pack up your own stuff and put it in storage, or move it yourself. All of the above suck. There are no winners here.

4) You get there. Get ready, because even though you have arrived, you are not done yet. Break out the scissors because now you must unpack everything. Usually, this is accompanied by moments of clarity, (Oh look, we have three colanders, or, Why did I pack all of these burnt out candles?). Also, most of your old stuff does not work in your new location. Which leads to…

5) …Buying new crap! Even after all that selling and giving away, you will somehow end up with more stuff than before. But you will love it and wonder how you survived without it for so long.

Once all settled in, breathe a sigh of relief, give yourself a pat on the back, and crack open a beer. You made it! Enjoy your new space.

Then invite me over for dinner because I have no idea where I put all of our spatulas.

Am I Really Tearing Up Behind my Red, White, and Blue Snow Cone?

The Fourth of July is upon us, which means it will be a day of grilling out, drinking beer, and listening to that Katie Perry song over and over while we watch the sky explode with color.

The emotionality of the day never ceases to get to me.

Every year, all over the country, we honor our military and celebrate our freedom on the fourth. I lose it every time I see the older veterans who fought in WWII, or the likes, dressed in their uniforms waving to parade crowds. Some are able to walk the parade, while others are being pushed in wheelchairs.

As many of you know, I love old people. And since I grew up in a military family, a seeing a retired veteran is like a two-fer for me. I want to run up to older vets, thank them and hug them, and then buy them an apple turnover.

When I watch this older generation who fought for our country, it really brings home the point that we have always had to fight for our freedom. Realistically, we always will.

I poorly akin it to weight management – you have to always stay on top of things, and constantly work at it.

Bad example, I know, but you get the point.

Usually the fourth means wearing some form or red, white, and blue; paying the Boy Scouts to place flags all over your neighborhood; and singing Lee Greenwood’s, Proud to be an American in sync to the booming of fireworks. For me – this usually includes a mustard stain on my I Heart the USA t-shirt.

Even among the swatting of flies away from the potato salad, the gassing of your children with mosquito combating OFF, and watching the drunk guy in the carnival parking lot yell at his buddies, “You guys just don’t get what it’s like to be me;” it really is a special day for all Americans.

This Fourth of July, be thankful for the freedom to read tabloid magazines about Miley Cyrus’ twerking; to be able to (in most American cities) drink a soda the size of a mid-sized dog; and for the freedom of speech to post on Facebook, “Crumb cake – so yum!” And of course, the freedom to write silly blogs such as this one.

But most of all, be thankful for all the men and women who have gone before us, and those who continue to do so, to keep this crazy, loud-talking, soda-drinking, nation free.

So I’ll gladly stand up, next to you, and defend her still today. ‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land, God bless the USA!*

*Lyrics from Proud to be an American by Lee Greenwood

Am I Really Spending My Summer at Bushwood Country Club?

What is better than a beer, hot dog, and baby urine in the pool?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

This is how Summer 2013 is rolling out for my family.

We belong to a local pool. It is simply awesome. It is also very Caddyshack-esque, except none of the patrons are the snooty country club types. Instead, we are all the crazy caddy’s who act like we have never seen a body of water before.

You know the scene from the movie when all of the “help” descends upon the Bushwood Country Club pool? There is a lot of excited screaming, running, and inflatable devices.

It is like this every day at our pool. Only with a water slide and mixed drinks.

The pool has about forty-eight lifeguards, which means I don’t have to worry about watching my child. In fact I have not seen her in three days. Just kidding. Not really.

And yes, once a week, they need to evacuate the pool due to an “incident.”

We have yet to find a Baby Ruth in the pool.

Every time I walk through the iron gates with two inner tubes, my daughter’s swim fins, and a pool bag that will surely dislocated my shoulder one day due to the weight, the Get the hell out of my way because I am going to Cannonball into the pool feeling washes over me. It is nice to know that the simple things in life are still kicking like karate. If you dig a cement hole in the ground and fill it with water, you can entertain the masses.

And much like roller rinks, the pool atmosphere has not changed since we were kids. Other kids (and grownups too) still high-five you when you are going down the waterslide; the tweens still walk around and check each other out, then go eat their Cheetos on the grassy hill and talk about it; and you can still get an ice cream Drumstick. Aside from the frozen Jack and Coke machine, I might as well be back in the fourth grade.

If you don’t have your summer plan worked out, or if you are tired of sweating in your jean shorts, give me a buzz, you can be my guest at the pool.

Then put your name on the list, because it is a five year wait to become a member. Apparently everyone wants to be a kid again…with a Bud Light.

What the parents do at the pool.

Am I Really Throwing Up in my Mouth a Little Due to Random Baby Names?

You can run, but you can’t hide from this baby name!

I know I shouldn’t care, and in all reality, I don’t. But North West? When I heard this was the name Kim and Kanye chose for their offspring, I laughed so hard I snarfed my coffee. That poor, poor child; she is doomed to forever be confused with a direction on a Boy Scout’s compass. Also, she will never know the glory of wearing clothing without sequins. Good thing daddy Kanye wrote the song, “Stronger” because that baby is going to need strength after all the hazing she is going to get…for the rest of her life.

Look, I am all for creativity. In fact, many celebs and people in general get an ace in the hole when they think outside the box when naming their child (think Apple Martin and Kingston Rossdale). But come on, some people take it too far. Let’s just put in this way, if my last name was Sample, I would not name my child Stool. But I bet you someone has.

We don’t all have to be named Bob, or George Foreman, a little pizzazz in a name is great. However, I would caution a new parent to not only think not once, twice, or even three times before naming your precious angel. Think about how it’s going to look on a monogrammed Pottery Barn Kids backpack. Envision it on a report card, on a pre-school cubbie, or the back of a soccer jersey. Then move forward with confidence. It’ll make you re-think that crunk name, Thrifty Juice.

Plus, it will save your child a lifetime of explaining, “My name is weird because my mom is famous. She is the one who created a line of lip gloss for poodles.”

Am I Really Looking for a 24 Hour Dunkin Donuts in the Middle of this Ant Hill?

Country decor. Also hanging above my bed.

I enjoy being outdoors. I love the fresh air, the flowers, the sunshine, and of course, the ocean. I get a little nuts when I am inside for too long, or in front of a computer. The need to run outside and stick my bare feet in the grass becomes so overwhelming, I feel like a Jodie Foster in Nell.

But I am a city person, through and through.

The other weekend, my family and I had the ultimate pleasure of attending a friend’s birthday party out in the Texas countryside. It was fantastic. The food was great, the people and southern hospitality – even better. But to say the property was “out there” would be a massive understatement. It was dark – like The Shining dark.

There were some really cool things that happened way out in Timbuktu. We saw wild deer gather on our front porch, we caught up on some lazy Saturday afternoon hammock resting, and we drank a lot of spiked sweet tea. I mean A LOT.

But I did start to get a little bit bored…and freaked out.

I kept asking to go “into town,” which turned out to be an oxymoron since the town consisted of a school and a Starbuck’s in a trailer. My new friend Julie said that she had learned to really plan her family meals in advance because the grocery store was a good thirty minutes away. Yeah, like three years in advance. And that “let’s get away from it all for peace and quiet” everyone craves is for the birds. All I kept thinking is no one will hear my screams out here if sh*t goes down.

Just another Saturday in the country.

It was then that I realized every country song is right: there is not much to do on a hot day out in the middle of nowhere, except eat, drink, sleep, and shoot stuff.

Not just a ZZ Top song.

Our residence for the weekend was described as a scenic lodge on a lake. The lodge turned out to be an unfinished wood structure on a water moccasin embellished pond. Also, there was a boar’s head in my room. The only boar’s head I have ever been familiar with is the sandwich meat.

Deer are beautiful, however, deer ticks are not. I learned about new species of insects that inhabit the earth with us, only in the country. I also learned to stay away from them because they could kill you. That was a peaceful thought.

It was a great weekend, but by the end, I was itching to go home. I needed to see people all around me and stores within an arm’s reach. Relaxing is nice, but an Open Until 2 am Wendy’s is better.

So if you are feeling like you need a break, go ahead and find your reclusive solace for a few days.

Then haul ass out of there because if the bugs don’t get you, some crazy mountain man will.

Am I Really Learning to Not Give a Damn?

Much like strawberry blonde hair or a dimpled chin, some people are just born with it.

I’m talking self esteem here.

Maybe you are one of the lucky ones who came out of the womb with Supergirl confidence. I hope so. I had to earn mine through bad hair choices, missed opportunities, and crappy boyfriends. Many women and people in general have gone through this same passage. Sadly, many do not make it to the other side, forever bound to ab-rolling and chemical peels.

I think I am almost there.

It’s a foreign and relaxing feeling to feel comfortable in one’s own skin, still care about humanity, but not care what others say or think.

Here’s a re-cap of my journey:

Elementary Years: Very outgoing yet embarrassed to “show off.” Back then boisterousness was a sin. Right up there with stealing and looking a nun in the eye. Did I mention I attended Parochial school for twelve years?

Junior High: Awkwardness, braces, and negative breast size only added to the above. Even if I did have boobs and was super confident, it wouldn’t matter. All the nuns were running a DEFCON Level 3 operation because of everyone’s hormones.

High School: The motherload of insecurity. Think about it: waiting to get asked to Homecoming; waiting to get your license so your mom doesn’t have to drive you to Snuffer’s; waiting to be free from wearing plaid uniforms; and waiting to get out of Geometry so you can see that boy in the hallway… then dutifully ignore him and feign interest in the Don’t Do Drugs poster. I’m guessing this is what Purgatory feels like.

College: Ah yes – the bubble. No actual reality takes place during these four years. The confidence level is better here, but college is still a lot like High School. Just with more alcohol and better parties.

Twenties: First real job and being on my own – 1 Self-Esteem Point. Too many movies about some chick looking, looking, and looking some more for the Mr. Right; then becoming depressed because she only dated buffoons; only to feel good about herself when she found “the one.” – Minus 6 Self-Esteem Points. I remember thinking, “Is this how it’s supposed to go down? Man, I’m not even close.” Then I would pop in Caddyshack and feel much better. I fault the media and Sex in the City for this time period.

Thirties: Much better. All neurosis about myself were transferred to my child. Worries about my acne were replaced with worries about my daughter choking on a teething cookie.

Forties (forty): F*ck it. I’m tired and it is way too exhausting to worry about anything other than what I am going to make for dinner.

I’m pretty sure by the time I reach seventy I will be driving around town flipping people off just because I have lived that long. And let’s face it, angry old people are funny.

So it took some time to get here. While I do feel as though I act like an idiot most of the time, I really don’t dwell on it. I just shrug my shoulders and say “Oh well,” as I gracefully remove the food from between my teeth. I will probably never be queen secure, but I don’t trust the overly confident. They are hiding something.

I hope others don’t have to take such a long journey as I did, but there is a sense of accomplishment of having gone through the above milestones to finally feel good in my own skin and to not give a damn what others say.

Unless someone tells me I look fat in my skinny jeans, then I will key their car.

Am I Really This Excited About Sunburns and Mosquito Bites?

It’s already happening. All I want to do is sit around and well….sit. I want to drink a cold margarita on a hot day and get a tan. When three o’clock hits, I have to slap myself so I don’t ditch everything and go read a book on the couch. Or better yet, take a nap. And dear God, the new movie releases? Somebody hold me. They look so fantastic I might move into our local AMC Theater. That and they have a full bar.

Oh yeah, it’s summertime.

Doing nothing is not in my nature. The thought of sitting and relaxing seems like some type of CIA torture tactic. I have recently come off a number of months of non-stop movement. They have included three moves (one out of state), a few personal tragedies, re-entering the workforce, changing schools, taking a class, volunteering, and well, just living.

I am not sharing this so someone will send me a Cookie Bouquet for my efforts (but I do love a large cookie). Every one of us has a lot on our plates nowadays. I only mention the above near-coke induced type of stress to illustrate why my body is naturally craving a sit-on-the-front-porch-and-drink-sweet-tea-all-afternoon relaxation.

Most people feel some form of the summer lazies around this time of year. The weather is warm and the sun strong, naturally sapping our energy. Cookouts become abundant, aiding to the sitting and eating way of life. Longer daylight hours allow us to enjoy the outdoors and lounge around.

I say bring it on.

We spend so much of our lives running around. Sometimes I go so fast that a week goes by and I can’t even recall what happened. I want to put that crazy b*tch in a box and enjoy the season.

Since summer is naturally a sensory time, below are some of the things I look forward to experiencing. Good and bad:

Licking the melting Popsicle juice running down my arm.
Smelling like bug spray and citronella everywhere I go.
Hair always in ponytail formation, or frizz so intense resembling the “before” in a Garnier commercial.
At the beach – every PB&J sandwich and food item tasting like sand.
Burning my rear end when sitting down in my car.
Taking my burnt bum to the movies every week.
Sand everywhere. Even in my wallet come late October.
Running away from bees looking like a cartoon character.
Listening to my daughter complain about the heat. Then watching her walk achingly slow to the car while my flesh starts to spontaneously combust.
My feet sliding around in my flip flops due to overactive sweating.
Reading all the Facebook posts about how hot it is, accompanied by pictures of the dashboard temperature gauge.
Watching the fireflies and fireworks.
Screaming like all those no-name actors from Nightmare on Elm Street when I find a gecko in the house. Then trying to catch it. Then giving up. Then finding it in the washer (why do they go in there???).
COLD BEER.

So start your slow down now. Sit on your porch, grab a cold one, and just look at the happenings outside.

Then go spray yourself with OFF, Silkwood style, because the bugs are insane this year.

Am I Really Telling Batman to Take a Hike?

When I was a little girl, I used to pretend I had magic powers. I could make things disappear, or make water move. I used to run around the house in my Wonder Woman Underoos and bend precious “metals” with my bare hands.

I also used to ride around on my big wheel while wearing my mother’s lip gloss and pretend I was a Charlie’s Angel, but that’s a story for another time.

Now, a grown woman, I go to the movies, watch The Avengers and know that it is fun fiction. Superheroes do not walk the earth in capes while flying around in the dark. They cannot swoop in and blow out a raging fire with their magic breath, nor can they swing from building to building by a thread.

Heroes walk the earth with us and complain about gas prices too. They teach us our ABCs and shop for supplies at Target. Some are old, some are young, but they are all very human. They are our teachers, doctors, first responders, and next door neighbors. Recent tragedies have proven this very fact.

We have heard the stories of the teachers lying on top of their students to protect them during the two hundred mile per hour winds. We watched the interview of the young teacher in Newtown, Connecticut who hid with her students in the bathroom and kept telling them she loved them, because she wanted their last thought to be of love, not fear.

It is the knowledge of fear that is paralyzing. Thinking of how scared those children must have been, not fully understanding what was going on, I can’t even process. Could I be as brave as many of the teachers and random passerbyers who jumped to the aid our youth? I don’t know.

These courageous people did; without thought of their own safety or needs.

There is so much disaster, it is overwhelming. But it is comforting to know that heroes really do exist. That mankind (focus on the word kind) is not only alive, it is flourishing.

Especially if you are a helping someone out in your Spiderman Underoos.

** You can be a Hero too. Donate to one of the below organizations. They are gathering supplies for the most recent tragedy in Moore, Oklahoma, as well as preparing for the future:

American Red Cross

www.redcross.org

Phone: 1-800-RED CROSS (1-800-733-2767); for Spanish speakers, 1-800-257-7575; for TDD, 1-800-220-4095.

You can send a $10 donation to the Disaster Relief fund via text message, by texting the word REDCROSS to 90999. The donation will show up on your wireless bill.

OK Strong Disaster Relief Fund

Donations can be made online at UnitedWayOKC.org.

Phone: 1-405-236-8441.

Salvation Army

www.salvationarmyusa.org

Phone: 1-800-SAL-ARMY (1-800-725-2769).

You can donate $10 by texting the word STORM to 80888.

You can also send a check to: The Salvation Army, P.O. Box 12600, Oklahoma City, OK., 73157. Put “Oklahoma Tornado Relief” in the notes portion of the check.

Humane Society and Central Oklahoma Humane Society
www.humanesociety.org/

www.okhumane.org/

Phone: 1-405-607-8991

You can make donations online toward the “OK Humane Disaster Relief Fund.”

They are also in need to towels, paper towels, bleach, gloves and crates.

Save the Children

www.savethechildren.org

Phone: 1-800-728-3843

You can give a $10 donation by texting the word TWISTER to 20222.

Am I Really Clark Griswold in a Room Full of Gisele Bündchens?

I recently attended an outdoor concert. If was full of trendy twenty and thirty-somethings. They all actually sat and listened to the music. They nodded to the lyrics as if to say, “I hear you. I get that you are comparing your first kiss to Lybia.” They wore funky hats, no shoes, ate fruit, and all looked like they took yoga.

They were super hipster cool.

I am not in this demographic.

In fact, I am rather nerdy.

No, not the I can quote all the lines from the Hobbit movies type of nerdy. I’m just not cool.

I read books, yes. But I don’t look cool doing it at my local fair trade coffee shop. I am usually at home, in bed, with my glasses on (not the large dark-framed celebrity kind), wearing an over-sized t-shirt with a bleach stain on it.

All the cool people.

I too listen to music. Once again, I definitely do not look cool doing it. At concerts, my hair is usually sweat-plastered to my face from dancing around, and I am hoarse from screaming, not singing, the lyrics. Apparently I do not listen to hip music. Who the hell are these too-cool-for-school people and how did they get so funky fresh?

Of late, people have become ultra-hip. They recycle everything. They grow their own vegetables. They try to locally sustain their communities. They drink microbrews from other countries. They name their children Meadow Lark and Blue Rain, and their dogs George. And they do it all with righteous beards that say, “I’m not ZZ Top, nor am I Five O’Clock Shadow. I’m in between.”

Man, I wish I was with it. At that concert, I wanted to go up to the floppy-hatted yoga guy and say something like, “Whales man. What are we going to do about the sperm whales?”

Instead, all I kept thinking was, “Put your shoes back on Bob Marley! Do you know how dirty that asphalt is? You could cut your feet.”

Yes, it’s true. I am getting older. But I was not cool when I was in my twenties. While I followed some fashion trends of the time, my clothes were always a bit “off.” I had to use a belt for over-sized pants that I was too lazy to hem or take in, or duct tape the bottom of shoe I was not quite ready to throw away.

Today this would be called “re-purposing.” Back then it was called “I don’t have enough money to buy real clothes, so I am borrowing my dad’s pants.”

Okay, so maybe I am a little trendy when it comes to “going green.” I recycle and I try to get as many uses out of a zip-loc bag as possible.

But I will never grow a beard.

Am I Really Chomping on my Meatball Sub Like Shaquille O’Neal?

Looks like my dinner from last night.

Sometimes I forget I am two feet tall. I really don’t need that much food to keep this body going. I am active – yes. I exercise – yes again. But do I really need six tacos for lunch?

No.

Dare I say it? I get hungry and I like to see what culinary wonders I can enjoy.

Here’s the caveat: If a meal is skipped, hang onto your hats people, because it’s like the Detroit Red Wings have stepped into my stomach, viewed the buffet at Shoney’s and shouted, “Let’s do this.”

I would like to learn how to be a dainty eater.

Last week, my family when out to dinner to really great Mexican restaurant. As I inhaled some queso fundido, I noticed a well put-together woman at the table next to us. She must have been in her sixties, a sharp dresser, slender, and lovely nails. She sat relaxed in her chair and chatted with her family.

She did not eat the chips.

Who does not eat the chips?

In between gulps of gooey cheese, I noticed something else; the woman (let’s call her Kate) was looking at the bowl of tortilla chips as if it was Bradley Cooper with his shirt off. Her family was going to town on the bowl, but she just sat there, eyeballing that dish and slightly quivering.

Aha! She wanted those chips. Big time. Yet she would not eat them.

I was so fascinated by this display, or lack thereof. It was like watching the condors at the zoo. I wanted to chant, “Eat the chips! Eat the chips!” then take her out to Schlotzky’s for a Muffalatza.

Jeeez, she was at least sixty, live a little.

It was then that I realized I will never be Kate. I could never be the properly restrained eater. The person who ingests just enough to be satisfied. Oh sure, I go through phases when I don’t eat like a coyote with mange, but not often enough.

I get hungry damn it.

This affliction runs in the family. My mother has it, and she has bequeathed it to my sister and me. When my sister and I are hungry we could chew through concrete to get to the salad bar.

Our husbands have learned to compensate accordingly. My sweet brother in law will say things to my sister like, “Maybe you should have a snack.” Taking a more direct approach, my husband likes to throw a bologna sandwich at me until I am able to form complete sentences.

My sister and I call it hypoglycemia. Others call is the Run for your life, the beasts are famished!

My maternal grandmother has a hybrid of this type of gobbling. She is a lithe woman who eats slowly, yet with purpose. I have seen that lady put away an entire lobster, all its fixings without, then dessert so much as a gulp of air. We like to say creative things like, “Gee Grammie, I guess you weren’t hungry.” To which she just smiles and says, “Yes, it was very tasty.”

While Grammie can eat, she is also disciplined and will not snack between meals. She has this gig down.

I would like to send Kate to the engulfing school of Grammie.

Life is too short. There is a lot of delicious food out there. We should enjoy it without giving ourselves indigestion.

While I do intend on “taking it down a notch” in the eating like the hunchback of Notre Dame over my plate of ravioli, I still intend to enjoy my food with verve.

The next time you go out to dine, don’t be like Kate; be like Grammie. Take your time and enjoy it.

I am sure the buffet at Shoney’s would agree.