Can't Wait for This Week!

Why? Because it's going to be AMAZING.  Here's what's going to happen:

• Through the power of positive thinking, I will lose 8 pounds this week while eating whatever I want, AND my hair is going to look great everyday.
• My backlog of work, which would probably congest the administrative facilities of a small island nation, will yield to the slightest of efforts, falling away like a prom dress at 1:00am,
• The mountain of laundry on my bedroom floor will somehow magically wash, fold, and iron itself,
• Lighting bolts of positivity and enthusiasm are going to shoot out of my ass with the force of an intercontinental ballistic missile,
• Hell, I might even grow a few inches!!

Honestly, I'm pretty sure this week is probably going to be another marathon, and I have got to get a handle on my to-do list, which at last glance was one and a half pages long.  Unfortunately, it's college ruled paper, mind you.

Seriously, though, I am trying to be positive about the days ahead.  I have no idea how it is that I'm always behind, except that I must get some kind of thrill out of biting off more than I can chew.  The idea that I'm addicted to the martyrdom of all-nighter and work-life imbalance is surely not palatable, making me sound...well, imbalanced. 

I need therapy, don't I?  I'm pretty sure they must have some mystical analytical tradition in India that would help me overcome it (if not, I know for a fact they at least have scotch!).  Geez, leave it to me to fabricate a mental disorder out of simple disorganization, and use that as an excuse to go drinking in India.  No matter how I think of it, all roads lead to India. 

Get Busy Living

No news isn't always good news, is it?  Permission to speak freely, respected blog-o-sphere.

2011 has completely, totally sucked, with notably few exceptions.  What's more, the promise of lingering suckage through at least the end of the 3rd quarter is providing a kind of suspenseful dread usually reserved for slasher movies. 

But you didn't really think I'd bore you with a litany of complaints, did you?  Come on, I know it's been too long, but I'm not that kind of gal, am I?  Because if I am, I guess I should resign myself to a hell populated with similarly annoying people who stage endless monologues about their irritable bowels, mother issues, and cellulite.  Say it isn't so!

No, if I'm going to bore ANYONE under ANY circumstances, my topic of choice will be my travels to India and the incredible people, sights, shopping and food there.  In fact, in the face of a 2011 that (like the famous Dyson vacuum) "never loses suction", all I can think of is how much I want to chuck it all, pack my bags, grab my dogs and move to India.  Forever.

Ladies and Gents, this is not an easy sell to a man who loves Dr. Pepper, peanut butter, and beef.  Some days, he seems totally into the idea; other days, he acts like I'm mentioning for the first time that I want to amputate my right arm and replace it with a prosthetic carved out of cucumber.  Of course we'd have to sell the house, sell the business, figure out endless logistics (you know, like a job in India for yours truly), and generally jump backwards through flaming hoops to make this happen.  As if that weren't enough, we'd also have to adjust to a totally new lifestyle, social standards, climate, food, and procedures for doing every single damn thing that anyone does in daily life.

You know what?  That sounds a hell of a lot like learning, growing, and flat-out living.  Remember Shawshank Redemption?  My favorite quote of all time comes from Red, Morgan Freeman's character, when he tells Andy, "Guess it comes down to a simple choice really.  Get busy living, or get busy dying.".

King for a Day?

Not me, silly! I know I've been away for a while, but I PROMISE I'm still a lady and therefore could never be King.

J, on the other hand, came home from school and announced that he's been nominated for Prom King. Not only that...he intends to actively campaign for the position. There's no "it's an honor just to be nominated" philosophy here; this kid is making the full-court-press to win his rightful place on the prom throne. So far the plan includes t-shirts with his picture on them, a guest appearance on the morning announcements, and any other means of ingratiating himself with the senior population.

Sure, it's cool in a way, but it's also weird. Let's step into the kooky space-time continuum bending machine for a moment, shall we?

(Cue the fantasy-sequence music...)

Stepping out of the machine, you find Mother and Son in an alternate reality in which they're both in high school at the same time, a la Back to the Future. In this case, the Mom is a pasty, bookish social retard hurrying off to Academic Decathlon practice, and the Son is the handsome, happy-go-lucky flop-as-a-scholar everyone loves. In other words, he's that kid who never would have known I was alive if we had gone to school together.

I'm not sure why I think that's so bizarre, and I don't think I'll ever completely understand it. In any case, I guess having a kid who's nominated for Prom King does score me some vicarious cool points on that big scoreboard in the sky.

Update Schupdate

Crazy couple of weeks it’s been, which is why it’s been dead on the blog. I know, I know…borrringgg!

So, I started going back to the office two weeks ago to start working in my new role for my employer. Apparently, after almost three years of working from my home office, my immune system approximates that of a newborn kitten, and I got dreadfully sick with a fever within 4 days. Fabulous!

In other work-related news, I was actually pretty lucky to have been selected to take a training class that is the industry standard for my profession, and I’ve been able to get THE certification that goes along with it, which is cool. No sooner than I completed this hurdle, I was offered a promotion, making the skills and certification pretty much inapplicable to the OTHER new role I start tomorrow. Hell, at least I don’t have to go shopping again, right?

Enough about work, if for no other reason than I’m boring myself to death. I know what you want is confessions, and I have one.

I’ve been doing some outside writing. Outside the blog, that is.

Now, before you feel betrayed, I’ve been doing this writing on my breaks at work, and I can’t use my company network to get on the blogs, so I guess if I weren’t doing this writing, I’d have to take up crack or something to occupy myself in my downtime. What I’m doing is compiling some of my favorite funny experiences and character sketches. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing this for, but it is an interesting exercise since I’m trying to distill the people and experiences into as few words as possible.

What else? Hmmm…well, Garrett and I actually have plans for Valentine’s Day, which may actually be a first. We normally don’t support what’s basically a greeting-card holiday, but it happens that we had a chance to go see the Dames Aflame show Showbiz What Sizzles this year. Like I always say, “Nothing says ‘I Love You’ like a burlesque revue.”. Ok, I never really say that, but I’m saying it now.

Speaking of Garrett, he’s still a superstar, and he’s really made tons of progress this weekend on the exterior front stairs. Yay!

On another note (and I almost forgot to add this), the weather has been FANTASTIC here, and I took advantage of the weather yesterday and took a little walk, during which my neighbor Mark informed me that yesterday was his 42nd birthday. His only disappointment, he said, was that he didn’t get his birthday spanking, whereupon he turned his little tush in my direction. So I did what anyone would have done; I spanked his booty right there on the sidewalk. I’m sure it wasn’t inappropriate because Mark likes boys. I know…I’m a good neighbor!

Anyway, that’s about it for now. I hope someone is still there to read this, and I’ll try to do better keeping this up in spite of my occupational incarceration.

Another First

Well, those of us with kids know how special some of those "firsts" can be. You know, the first word, the first step, or the first tooth. Then there are those firsts that aren't so celebrated, such as the first detention, first traffic violation, and of course, the first hickey.

Really, I'm not quite sure what says poor white trash like a big, purple, pulsating, thronging hickey right in plain view. Except perhaps having such a hickey while perched on the hood of a '82 Camaro, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon, sporting cut off jeans shorts, a wifebeater, and a mullet.

As the Mom of Hickey Guy, it's embarrassing for me, so I have no choice but to make it a little embarrassing for Hickey Guy and his girlfriend, hereafter to be known as Hickey Chicky. What the hell? I think I'll just sit them down for a nice little talk that'll start something like this:

"You know, guys, it's not that hard to make out without leaving any marks on each other. After all, Mr. H and I play some serious championship level tongue hockey and you don't see any boo-boos on me, do you?"

I'll improv the rest, but I can't promise it won't include a rendition of that old Toni Basil song Hey Mickey. Only in this case, of course, it would be Hey Hickey.

Obstetrical Revenge

The previous post and the comments that followed brought to mind my favorite obstetrical revenge story, and I just couldn't resist posting it. Now, you're in luck since I'm not posting a picture with this one. I know, I know...I'm a real model of restraint.

Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.

When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.

I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.

In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.

Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.

Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?

Bitchin' Mohawk Creator

Add to my considerable list of awesome parenting skills the amazing differentiator of “Bitchin’ Mohawk Creator”.

Behold the splendor of Tyler’s new ‘do, which was his request, by the way. I realize that as a parent it’s my job to say “No” to such requests, but it’s much more in my nature to participate in the foolishness.

In my defense, it’s not like he wanted to get a perm, and as you can see, I cut a pretty mean ‘hawk. It was pretty fun to do, and if he would have let me dye the center part blue or green, I'd have been in hog heaven. Of course that was not to be...you all know I'm banned from home dye jobs since my gothic Halloween dye-baucle.

Anyway, if you’re in the market for an edgy new look that doesn't involve color, let me know. It’ll be on the house.

Catch o' the Day!

Ladies & Gents, permit me to announce that Hoover is damn proud of himself today, with good reason. What hound worth his spots, stripes, or solid wouldn't walk a little prouder after nabbing a 15-20 pound opossum and shaking him silly?

So last night at a little after 10:00, I let the boys out for their last tinkle of the day, which is normally a quick process. This time, Hoover spied the hapless marsupial as soon as the door opened, and he flew past Bruno down the steps toward his new toy. He reached the tree where the poor fellow was perched, leapt up, grabbed him, and shook his new friend like shaking was going out of style.

Let's take a break from the action and peek into the window of my panic, shall we? Great!

My mind said, "Oh crap, is that a cat? What the hell is that? Where's Bruno? Damn! He is shaking the crap out of that cat...Sweet Mother of Pearl!"

My mouth said, "Hoover, no!...No!...NO!" Now back to the action...

By the time I reached the third "no", Hoover dropped the opossum, who was playing dead and probably not nearly as much fun as he had been initially. Hoover stood with the little furry guy at his feet, wagging his tail and smiling. He stared at me for a moment, and then flounced off to do his business. It was then we were able to see that it wasn't a cat, but the biggest, fattest opossum either G or I had ever seen. Incidentally, those hairless tails make me a little nauseous, but I won't bore you with the details on that right now.

Long story short, the opossum eventually wandered off in a bit of a daze, and Hoover, who didn't have a scratch on him, has been strutting around like a rock star today. As for me, in the future, I'll check the yard and make some noise before I let those dogs outside, and hopefully that will scare off any potential victims.

Green Vibrance

Since it's still New Year's resolution time, I thought you might all want to give one of my favorite products a whirl (except the Bosslady, that is. I'm sorry this made you gag; can you forgive me?)

For you non-gaggers out there, I'm talking about Green Vibrance Super Food, an emerald elixir I happen to love. I came across this stuff about a year ago when I was considering doing the Martha's Vineyard 30 Day Detox, and although I didn't follow through with that (big surprise!), I did find Green Vibrance to be great for a hangover. In fact, I confirmed several times (ok, dozens of times) that it's great for a hangover...reason enough to keep some around.

In any case, I'd been feeling a little rough around the edges after the holidays, and I was starting to look a little like Keith Richard stumbling off the tour bus at 2am in the wrong part of town. Not sexy...unless you're Keith Richard, maybe. Recalling that I still had some GV in the freezer, I started drinking it daily on New Year's Eve.

Fast forward to today: As I was putting away Christmas ornaments, listening to my iPod, singing and shaking my ass, I realized that I feel freaking awesome today. Seriously, totally, really good. It probably helps that I found one pair of my good jeans (yay!) and I'm wearing them, but I can only really attribute this to the Green Vibrance, which is full of tons of great stuff like wheatgrass, alfalfa, spirulina, barley, probiotics, and a host of other healthy-sounding ingredients.

Oh yeah, you should try this stuff. I'm just saying!

This message has not been solicited or approved by the makers of Green Vibrance. This message is not intended to diagnose or treat any disease. Consult your doctor before following the medical advice of a blogger who admittedly shakes her ass while putting away Christmas ornaments and loses her pants.

Posting Under the Influence

Right now, you may be asking yourself why Addie would want to post under the influence, and your consternation is understandable, so I’ll tell you why. Because I love you all like a fat kid loves cake, and you’re been good boys and girls all year long, and you deserve a treat.

Here are my rules of PUI:

• I get to say whatever I want about anything, which probably goes without saying since I usually do that anyway.
• Once this post is published, I will never, ever go back and edit it, no matter how much a typo or nonsensical phrase is bothering me. This one is a big deal, trust me.
• I get to use all the salty language I like, so if that sort of thing chaps your hide, you should probably go ahead and sneak on out of here.

Now that we've got that straight, I'm going to cover a few items in the order in which they occur to me. I realize that writing conventions dictate that I should tell you what I'm going to tell you, then tell you, and then tell you what I told you, but this isn't a five-paragraph essay, I didn't make an outline, and I don't think any of you are developmentally delayed in any way. This is totally extemporaneous, so work with me, will ya?

Let's start by talking about Christmas Newsletters. You know what I'm talking about, because when you get one, you ask God what you did wrong to deserve to find the literary equivalent of Taco Bell diarrhea in your mailbox. If you yourself distribute a Christmas newsletter, I'm going to ask you to please reconsider this blatant affront to your so-called loved ones. These letters suck, and they probably love you too much to tell you to your face.

I get one every year from my MIL (yes, she lives just across town, and yes, I'm aware of her every move much as NORAD is aware of the movement of every single aircraft traversing the airspace of the good ol' USA at any given moment). Here's the coverage we received this year:

Garrett and Adrienne still live in Atlanta, and Garrett's trophy shop is doing well. Jared graduates high school this year, and Tyler is two years behind him.

The rest of the letter goes something like this: I went to Michigan to see tulips, I went to a conference in New Orleans, I sprained my ankle, I pooped once and saw corn I didn't remember eating, etc. (Ok, ok, that last one wasn't really in the letter!)

Here's my idea for an entertaining (albeit not altogether true) Christmas newsletter:

Well, another year has gone by and I've still failed to achieve my full potential. I've been thinking that perhaps I have some sort of parasite that is preventing me from reaching my goal of world domination. My psychiatrist and I are seriously considering increasing the dosage on my medication (the anti-depressant, not the anti-anxiety), but the last time we did that my ass expanded to about twice it's normal size. The upside is that although I was fat, I wasn't too bummed out about it.

The kids are well and happy, although their academic achievement leads me to believe that neither of them will be setting the world ablaze with amazing scientific discoveries. As for the dogs, we've recently discovered that Bruno and Hoover love bleu cheese, imported beer, and licking each other's ding-dongs. We thought we were getting greyhounds, but I think we may have actually adopted Gay Hounds. In any case, they're just great, and I love the way they howl when I sing It's Raining Men.

See what I mean? Nobody is interested in this sort of stupid, boring minutia. I call to the stand Stephen of Plus Est En Vous, who has informed me via comment that my last post was so boring that he sustained a mild concussion upon being lulled to sleep and subsequently striking his head on his keyboard. I would launch into a grueling examination of the witness, but I have to agree with his contention. Nevermind, Stephen, you're dismissed on the grounds that I can't poke any holes in your premise.

On another note, I have to warn you all against following the procedure I described in the post entitled Dog Language Barrier. I just performed this act with Bruno, who responded this time by jumping on my back and humping me. Seriously. I removed myself from this menage a dog, and he approached me as I sat on the couch and grabbed my leg and proceeded to go to town, whereupon I called him a pervert and squirted him with water. The language barrier is hereby broken, and apparently rubbing your head on your dog's side means, "Go ahead and hump me, big boy!". Who knew?

Let's move on, shall we? I'd also like to talk about my favorite new store at Perimeter Mall, Martin & Osa. Lord, how I love this store! G and I are both totally smitten by this offshoot of American Eagle Outfitters, whose target demographic is grown ups with jobs. As Bob Barker & Drew Carey would say, The Price is Right and the clothes, as I would say, don't make me look like a garden variety idiot. If you have this store locally, please go spend some money so they don't go out of business.

Speaking of G, he and I are celebrating our 18th wedding anniversary on Monday, so I'll just take this moment to say that I love this guy more than cashmere, diamonds, and a perfectly cooked steak. Suffice it to say that without the rays of sunshine that literally shoot out of his ass, my life would be dreary indeed.

Two more items:

• I suspect that the employees at JoAnn fabrics are part of some undead army of terrible customer service zombies.
• In 2009, I intend to find out who keeps putting those community newspapers on my driveway, and I'm going to cuss them out.

Well, that's about it for now. If you made it all the way through this post, go ahead and award yourself 500 bonus points, and have a drink on me.

Dog Language Barrier

I don’t mean to brag, but let me tell you, I know how to drive dogs wild with insatiable canine affection. Before someone calls the Don’t Molest Your Hound League (aka the DoMoYoHo League), I just mean that the dogs really like this particular thing I do, which I’ll gladly describe so your hounds can also benefit from this technique:

• Get on all fours perpendicular to the hound, who has to be standing up for this to work.
• Approach the dog, and place the top of your head on the dog’s side so that your head is touching the hound’s ribs.
• Now push your head a bit against the dog until he starts leaning on you (you may want to wear one of those whiplash collars or other suitable medical brace if your dog is especially strong), then move your head in a random pattern all over the dog’s side.

Bruno, in particular, LOVES this procedure. He moans, bends into a semicircle, puts his forepaws on my back, his nose drips, he rubs his face on my neck, and generally makes every imaginable gesture of ecstacy. Eventually he just collapses onto the floor and will stare at me for upwards of an hour after we play this game. When I do this with Hoover, Bruno tries to get into the middle of it and will sometimes growl or pout because he’s not the one getting what he considers to be the hottest action in town.

Ok, hound people, I know you’re going to try it, and I hope your dogs like it as much as mine do. I'm also really enjoying picturing it in my mind, to tell the truth.

Here’s my disclaimer: It does occur to me that there may be some special meaning to this in “dog language”. Hopefully I’m not performing some gesture of submission that means, “Bruno, you are my King. Your every whim will be met cheerfully and on the timetable you specify. You’re welcome to sleep on my bed, eat my dinner, and wear my favorite party dress.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ONE MORE THING! - I have a terribly dirty-sounding name for this activity, and I'm offering 1000 bonus points to the first person who posts a comment with a correct guess of the naughty, naughty nomenclature!

Confessions of a Trophy Wife

Oh, that is a good title, isn't it? I fear the rest of the post will be less provocative, but please do forge ahead with the reading. After all, how boring could it possibly be?

DON'T ANSWER THAT!

Anyway, I'm not a trophy wife because I'm a six foot Brazilian bikini model; I'm a trophy wife because my husband operates the family business, which is a trophy store. I like being married, so my duties with the business are limited to the province of the facetiously entitled V.P. of HR. What this means is that I'm involved whenever there is an employee issue, or in the event of hiring or firing, and I attend the annual Holiday luncheon.

Now that you better understand my role, here are my confessions.

#1. I dread that holiday luncheon all year. Social skills are not a huge part of the trophy manufacture process, and this is always a two hour showcase of that very fact. Since we had the luncheon today, that's approximately 364 days I have to enjoy before the next one. Yay!

#2. Sorry job applicants...I laugh at your resumes. I have some special resume and cover letter tips that I'll share here.

• If you have a rose in the header AND footer of your resume, you'd better be applying for a job at a nail salon.
• If your cover letter bears the phrase, "I focus on customer delight", you need to know that it's not that kind of job. Look in the Yellow Pages under "Escort Services".
• If your introductory paragraph on either of these documents includes the phrase, "Strong attention to derail", please understand that using spell check doesn't catch every error, and it doesn't qualify as fastidiousness.

#3. The real shocker: I have fake trophies. I have two of them, to be exact, but I suppose I could have as many as I want. One of them is a beautiful acrylic emblazoned with the following:

Addie

State of Georgia

Mud Wrestling Champion

Undefeated 2001-2006

I used to have that one on my desk when I worked in the office, and people always thought it was true, and I'd explain that being shorter was a big advantage because of my low center of gravity, and I'd otherwise b.s. endlessly until I made myself laugh.

The most prestigious award I have was actually built by the boys for Mother's Day. It's a wooden three-post trophy with the figure of a lady holding a bouquet of roses atop a large, glistening cup ornament.

The inscription reads:

World's Best Mom

Ever

I love being a trophy wife.

Seeing Is Believing

Seriously?

Calling All Plumbers

Excuse me, do you know what a thermocoupler is? How about a gas control valve? Do you own a variety of wrenches, vice-grips, and maybe even a toolbelt? If you answered yes to these questions, can you come over to my house...right now?

As I mentioned in the earlier complain-a-thon that barely passed as a post, my water heater is busted, broken, and/or beat down in some way. G, in his admirable, self-sufficient way, has decided to attempt to fix it. All by himself. Earlier I thought I smelled gas; turns out it was just testosterone. No need to call the fire department after all (although I do love firemen!).

In the last three hours, he's removed the old thermocoupler, and installed a new one. Throughout the process, he instructed me as a surgeon to a scrub nurse in some old movie, "Flashlight! Q-tips! Mirror!" I was just waiting for him to ask for a 10 blade and forceps when he announced that the thermocoupler was not defective after all.

"It must be the damn gas control valve...damn! Lowe's closes in 30 minutes, you coming with me?". I didn't really want to go, but the question was rhetorical, so off we went.

Once we got to Lowe's, he walked at such a pace that I jogged behind him, and still spent the majority of the trip staring at his back and wondering how he could walk so fast. "It must be that eight inch difference in the old inseam", I thought, making myself giggle with unspoken dirty jokes related to measurements and inseams. Feel free to make up a few of your own before reading on...fun, isn't it?

Upon returning home, G walked through the door and said to Bruno, "Bruno, old buddy, I sure wish you could plumb." To which I quipped, "He sure wishes you could, too." It was not well received by the first audience, so I hope you'll all get more out of it than G did.

In any case, I'll summarize by saying that I've heard more explitives, seen more of G's crack, and fetched more odd household items in the last few hours than you could imagine. After all this, the gas control valve didn't work either, something about the thermal coupling switch, so I guess now we should call the manufacturer on Monday, explain the myriad ways in which we've voided the warranty, and hope they'll still help us.

Well, Viriginia, is there really a Santa Claus? I guess we'll find out Monday.

Vacation Update

We covered a lot of ground during my time off, and I think I can safely say that we did all we could in the short time we had available. I’ll try to summarize here, but I'll leave some of the juicy details for Mom's blog:

Monday: Mom arrived in the evening, and we took the train up to my house, and then hit the Vintage Pizzeria for calzones. After dinner we watched Dancing With the Stars, and went to bed. Overall, a quiet night by necessity. Mom had flown with Prince Valium and didn’t have much wind left in her sails, if you know what I mean.

Tuesday: Mom & I went to the DeKalb Farmer’s Market (the nice one!) to buy shrimp and sausage to create a low country boil for dinner, since Kevin was scheduled to arrive and had never had one. Kevin finally made it in after sitting on the tarmac for an eternity waiting for a gate into Hartsfield. Isn't traveling a blast? After dinner, we played Rock Band until we could take it no more.

Wednesday: We started our day at 11 in the morning at Wine Styles tasting wines for our Thanksgiving dinner, and settled on a couple of nice bottles. Then we headed over to Psycho Tat2 to get Mom's 70th birthday present, which was a dragonfly tattoo. There was a bit of a wait for the tat, so we swung by Mellow Mushroom for a BBQ chicken pizza, which was probably the best pizza I've ever had, and we dropped by the trophy shop before heading back for the tattoo appointment. Once Mom was inked like a rock star, we went to the Buford Highway Farmer's Market for some Korean dumplings for dinner. After dinner, Mom opened her birthday gifts and we played Texas Hold 'Em and drank Jack Daniels. It was a big day!

Thursday: We cooked, we ate, we played Mexican Train Dominoes.

Friday: G and the guys went and got our Christmas tree, which we then spent several hours erecting and decorating. I'm pretty sure we drank after that, but the details are fuzzy now.

Saturday: We hit the High Museum to see the terracotta soldiers of the Qin dynasty and the selected treasures of the Louvre, both of which were very cool exhibits. Once we were sufficiently cultured, we rolled over to The Vortex for ginormous hamburgers, and Mom flirted with our tall, dark and handsome waiter, showing off her tattoo and saying she just might want to take him home to Arkansas. It's amazing what a Corona Light can do!

Sunday: Kevin started our day off with a feast of homemade biscuits and gravy, home fries, and eggs. I'm pleased to say there's at least one cook in the family, and it was fabulous. After breakfast, Mom, Kevin, and I went up to Jeju, and I'll leave it to Mom to describe that on her blog, since I've pretty thoroughly covered the subject in previous posts. After Jeju, Kevin, G, and I hit the pool hall for some billiards, since Mom was too tired to go. During the billiard play, G took an embarrassing photo of me and accidentally texted it to my HR rep at work instead of the friend for whom it was actually intended. Nice work, G! Keep it up and maybe I can come work with you at the shop...wouldn't that be fun?

Monday: Mom was heading back to Hillbilly Heaven, so we packed her up and took her down to the airport. Later that night, we had dinner and martinis at One Midtown Kitchen. If you're local and love food, I highly recommend it.

Tuesday: Kevin's flight took off early in the afternoon, so we had breakfast, ran to the mall, and then I dropped him off at the train station to go to the airport. I went home and vegged out for the rest of the day, at least until Bruno started blowing oats in the living room. Yay!

Fit to Be Tried

Ladies, have your boobs started to take a roll? Do your previously-perky sweater puppets mock you by staring downward in a sullen gaze? If you answered “yes” to either of these questions, or you suspect your hooters resemble two tube socks tied together and flung around your neck with a couple of bucks worth of change in the toes, you probably need a bra fitting.

Here’s a shocking statistic for you: fully 85% of us gals are wearing the wrong sized bra. That’s a lot of sagging, bagging, and wagging, wouldn’t you say? Bearing this in mind, I had a bra fitting recently, which I’ll describe now without further ado.

Atlanta’s own Phipps Plaza is the home of Intimacy, a veritable wonderland of sensible foundation garments. In addition to a huge inventory, this place is staffed by loads of matronly ladies with bifocals, discerning eyes, and tape measures. As you enter, you may notice that there’s not a droop in sight as the customers leave the store, in stark contrast to their state as they enter the store. You sign in with a hostess, and she adds your name to the list. When your turn is up, one of the bespectacled matrons calls your name and takes you into one of several fitting rooms, which she enters with you.

My fit specialist, Donna, was the first to speak upon closing the curtain. “Let’s get that top off and see what we’re working with here.” I haven’t dated in a long time, but isn’t it customary to buy a gal dinner first? No matter; I do as I’m instructed, and a visual weighing and measuring process begins.

“What size bra are you wearing now?”, she asks briskly.

“36C”, I reply, judging from her face that this is the wrong answer.

“Um-hmmm. Wait here please.”, as if she needed to tell me to wait there, since my other choice was to streak out of the place topless.

Before I even had time to contemplate the idea, Donna was back with a very business-like nude brassiere. With one hand she unsnapped the bra I was wearing and somehow removed it from my person without time for an objection. Now brandishing the serious-looking nude bra, she swung it in front of me with the following instructions:

“Arms straight out” (whereupon Donna stuck my arms through the straps), “Now bend over like you’re touching your toes” (at which point she uh, arranged my goods into the garment), “Now stand back up straight” (and she fastened the hooks).

Bear in mind that the whole process took about 30 seconds, and I had every expectation that she couldn’t possibly have guessed the correct size without a tape measure. Donna, I’m sorry I ever doubted you, girl. Can you ever forgive me?

Upon standing up, I realized that it fit perfectly. I looked thinner. Taller. Just like those gals leaving the store. It was amazing.

“I’ll take it.”, I said, still shocked at how quickly it had all happened.

“I knew you would”, she said, clearly satisfied. “I’ll get you a few more to try and then we’ll check out. By the way, you’re a 32F.” F as in, I can't Freakin' believe what I'm hearing, or how Flipping Fantastic my Fun bags look!

Ladies, you’ve got to give this a try. The holidays are coming…have you thought about what you’ll give your boobies?

Marketing Genius

Winter does take its toll on our hands, doesn't it?

I was discussing this with my brother this week, and he suggested his favorite hand cream, the unfortunately-named Hand Relief.

Congratulations to the marketing department at Aveda for devising a product name that makes dry skin care sound dirty.

Bravo!

From the Top

Now that I'm working my way back into the swing of things after my visit with Mom & Kevin, it's time to start blogging about the experiences of the last nine days, and I'll start from the top...literally.

As you may know, I made the terribly ill-advised decision to "temporarily" dye my hair black to lend authenticity to my Halloween costume. After the gothic hue failed to wash out after the prescribed number of shampoos, it became clear that I'd have to either start listening to 9 Inch Nails (again) and shopping at Hot Topic, or I'd have to engage the help of professionals. I chose the latter, and rolled to the hairdresser last Monday morning.

After explaining my hair color indiscretion, I was informed that I had two choices: they could either bleach my entire head and then apply a corrective color (whereupon my hair might fall out), or they could try to apply some highlights (which would be unlikely to cause all-over baldness). After considering the excellent choices presented, I went with the highlights, which I've never had before, chiefly because I don't care for striped hair.

In any case, Sheila agreed that highlights were the way to go, and returned shortly bearing an ominously large bowl of a substance resembling the scouring powder slurry we used in the Army to clean grout. Although my head was swimming with fear and the smell of the Clorox paste, I noted that she also carried a box of foil strips and a brush suitable for basting a ham. After unpacking her implements and cheerfully warning me again that the highlighted strips might "fall out", she set to work applying the paste to tiny sections of hair and covering those sections with foil until I looked like the aforementioned ham.

Once my entire head was hammed out, I was left to sit. For almost an hour. As it turns out, this was ample time to notice that all the hairdressers in this salon were frosted and tipped to within an inch of their lives. It was also time enough to notice that this salon also lacked the requisite rocker-chick stylist, and was completely devoid of gay men. What kind of place was this? Was this even a real hair salon? These questions frightened me badly, but it was really too late to run screaming into the parking lot.

After 2 1/2 hours of foiling, defoiling, washing, re-coloring the bleached streaks, moussing, blowing dry and about half a can of hairspray, I emerged looking like a striped version of Marlo Thomas from That Girl, complete with a flip that swooped, defiant of gravity, from my head approximately six inches. Since my hair no longer looked like it had been styled with boot-black, and none of it had fallen out, I was thrilled, no matter how silly my new 'do.

Behold the power of lowered expectations!

The Tupperware Caper

I know I have an innocent face, but my MIL has apparently seen right through my otherwise-convincing facade, and has divined that I am a Tupperware-stealer. Even I didn't realize that this numbers amongst my other considerable flaws.

Allow me to direct your attention to the picture for a moment. What you see is apparently a very precious artifact suitable for display in the Smithsonian's Food Storage section. Perhaps you'll see it yourself in person some day. Note the rare Harvest Gold bowl topped with the Dusty Rose "burping" lid. Indeed, it is a remarkable specimen, and yes, I had it in my kitchen.

You're probably wondering how I came to obtain this amazing objet d'art, so I'll explain. On the Sunday following my FIL's big surprise party, we all rolled on down south of town to Maison d'Inlaws for a barbecue. So abundant were the side dishes that I was asked if I'd like to take some home for the kids to eat, and I was pleased to pack up some of the grub. I took some cole slaw in an old Cool Whip container, a cold spaghetti salad in an old sherbet tub, and some baked beans in the much-admired non-disposable Tupperware bowl.

Fast-forward to Thursday. G went to have lunch with his Mom and Grandma (who's visiting from Denver). During the lunch, he was admonished thusly by the MIL:

"Make sure Adrienne gives me my Tupperware back."

Take note, bloggers. I am not to be trusted with food-storage containers. I was so miffed when I heard this that if we hadn't been scheduled to spend Friday evening with Grandma (a perfect opportunity to return the heirloom), I would have FedExed it to her.

On Friday, what do you think was the 1st thing my MIL asked G?

"Did Adrienne bring my Tupperware back?" In case you're wondering, I was standing right there.

As butt-clenchingly irritating as the whole thing has been, at least it makes her Christmas present buying a cinch. You guessed it: Tupperware!

A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Radical

I’ll admit this up-front: I’m not really a little bit country, but I can't resist a moderately well-crafted Donnie & Marie reference. I am, however, a little bit radical, as I’ll explain in painful detail below. Quick, get the Motrin!

I thought up the idea for this post on Saturday as I was on my way to Whole Foods to buy my Tea Tree Oil and Cinnamon toothpaste, which is fluoride free…on purpose. I know several people who think I’m off my rocker for not wanting to max out on this chemical, which we’ve all been brought up to believe is so good for our teeth. Besides, the government is supposed to take care of us, right? Or is that right?

Since being diagnosed with Meniere’s Disease a few years back, I’ve started to really question what’s in my food and the products I use daily. The reason those things are connected is because managing this condition is easy, but it requires careful control of sodium. If you’re even a little alert, you can easily find millions of ways that seemingly normal foods are smacked full of the stuff. For example, chicken that is packaged with the encouraging fine-print “Enhanced With Broth!” is really chicken that someone has shot full of salt water to up the weight and thus, the price, and inadvertly, the sodium. Tricky, tricky!

As I’ve worked to manage this condition, I’ve also begun to question other “normal” “enhancements” that are made to the things we consume, and fluoride is one of those things. I won’t go into all the details here, but I do submit a few things for your consideration:

The studies linking fluoride consumption to dental health that are the basis for municipal water fluoridation were conducted in the 1940’s, and although longitudinal studies haven’t borne out the efficacy of this addition, fluoridation has persisted.

Why? It’s clear, if you ask me.

Fluoride is an industrial by-product. The companies that produce this by-product would have to dispose of it in compliance with EPA regulations if they were not able to sell it (yes, SELL it) to municipalities to dump into the water. Those companies have deep pockets, deep pockets lead to lobbyists, lobbyists lead to questionable policies that may or may not be good for you.

While these are valid arguments, what bothers me most is the brainwashing and compulsory nature of the whole thing. In essence, fluoridation is medication without consent. If I drink the same amount of water was G does, then the concentrations in my body will be higher than the concentration in his body by dint of size alone. What if I want to drink water that only has water in it?

There is no other situation I can think of, apart from the military, where Americans who are in complete possession of all their faculties can be made to take a medication or ingest a chemical. The fact that no one questions it is even scarier. It would be outrageous if the government decided that statin drugs are good for heart health, so our water supply will henceforth be loaded up with Lipitor, wouldn't it?

So now you know; I’m a little bit radical and have some kooky thoughts rolling around in my head. Besides, that Tea Tree Oil & Cinnamon toothpaste tastes amazing and has the consistency of tub caulk, which is surprisingly agreeable. Being radical doesn’t have to be unpleasant, after all.