Super Bowl XYZ (Pick a Roman Numeral)

I am one of those strange people who, on Super Bowl Sunday, will ask, "Which teams are playing again?" I do not deny this. I am not ashamed of my ignorance of the game, nor do I apologize for the hypocrisy that still allows me to attend Super Bowl parties and partake of Super Bowl snacks. I attribute the fact that I still receive invitations to my sparkling party personality. Let me have my delusions.

My favorite part of Super Bowl is the commercials. I've already blogged about my love for cheesy infomercials, but I am no advertising snob. I enjoy the short commercials, too, especially when companies have spent thousands and millions of dollars to entertain me.

I don't think the commercial above came out during any Super Bowl Sundays, but a friend posted it on her Facebook profile and it's now permanently burned into my brain. Whenever I have a bad day, I am going to view it to cheer myself up, because it's just so dang weird. (Also, I can totally picture my daughter performing it during recess, but I digress.)

Hope you enjoy it!

Going to the Dogs

I am ready to either sell my preteen or ship him off to military school. My husband wanted kids so it's technically his fault. I wanted more dogs.

Just needed to get that off my chest. Feel free to commiserate or ignore.

There are no words that can adequately describe how I feel today. So I won't even try. It's been done (and way more eloquently) elsewhere, so what I will say is this: I feel hope. I haven't felt hope in many years. It's strange but nice.

One person alone can't make everything better. But when people have faith and hope, they can do amazing things together. Today I might even wave a flag and not feel insincere about it. For me, that's huge, and I bet I'm not alone.

Speaking of Lady-Bits...

The other night, I explained Brazilian waxing to a friend who had managed to reach womanhood AND have a child without ever hearing about it. The look of horror and repulsion on her face pretty much guaranteed that she will think twice about going out for drinks with us gals again.

While I was surprised at her innocence on this topic, I was also relieved to know that I am not the only one who cringes at the thought of having someone apply melted wax near your private parts and then ripping all the hairs out by the roots. Especially when you have to PAY them to do this.

Disclaimer: I have a high pain threshold. I am not a fan of The Bush. Also, I believe that every woman should do what she wants with her body, be it contraception, tattoos or having a total stranger rip out your pubic hairs en masse. Viva la difference, I say.

Now take that wax and get the hell away from me.

Eight Years Young!

My youngest, Miss Thang, turns 8 today.

It's a very strange feeling to be a parent and watch your children get older. It means that you're getting older yourself. It means that, one day, they will no longer need you. They will stretch their wings and go out into the world (as you taught them to do) and fall in love and get hurt and fall in love and hopefully start a family of their own and they will call you to complain about their own children misbehaving.

And I will offer supportive and sage advice to them while fighting to urge to laugh my ass off and shout, "Paybacks are a bitch!" Then I will pour myself a glass of wine, enjoy a chocolate that I can eat ALL BY MYSELF, and enjoy the solitude.

But until then, Happy Birthday, Mommy's little Sweet Pea.

Thank You for (Not) Sharing

It's a universal law, as dictated by moi: You cannot become a compassionate human being until you have peed in your pants at least once.

I myself peed in my pants several times in elementary school and, to my horror, there was one cute boy named "John" (real name!) who always reminded me about it. Then I moved to a different neighborhood and never saw him again. In college, I became friends with a girl who had the same last name as that boy. I didn't think anything of it until one day when she mentioned her brother "John."

Although it had been years since John and the peed-pants occurrences, a bolt of horror smacked me in the head and I observed her carefully to see whether SHE KNEW. Just in case John had compiled a dossier on me and my former lack of bladder control. It ended fine: Although it turned out that she really was his sister, she acted all normal and everything. I'm still convinced that SHE KNEW. But the girl was a discreet saint. Wherever she is now (for we didn't become lifelong friends or anything), I hope she's happy, healthy and enjoying her lottery winnings in a great town where they recycle.

Why do I share this? Because I'm a sharer. Sometimes too much. At a New Year's Eve party we were congratulating a guest on finishing her first marathon when I decided to share the story of a woman who had been running in the same marathon when her cell phone rang and she learned that her sister had just died. Halfway through the story, it occurred to me that perhaps this was not the best tale to be sharing at a festive occasion, but it was too late. I had already given out most of the specifics and several people were staring at me solemnly and muttering, "How sad!" I really should attend more parties.

Anyway, back to peeing in pants. I was reminded of this when I read this posting in one of my favorite blogs, Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper. In it, blog creator Crystal shares her adventures of passing out and peeing in her pants while donating blood. It's hilarious! Well, I think you had to be there. I highly suggest you give it a read but not while you're eating a salad. You'll see why. You're welcome.

Photo by Rena Marou for openphoto.net

More Coolness

Just a few days ago, another cool surprise package showed up at my door, this a time courtesy my awesome friend Izzy from Georgia. In it was a soft, cozy, wine-colored blanket to keep me warm.

Also to keep me warm was a copy of her own published novel, which I look forward to reading. Izzy's specialized genre is man-on-man erotica from ancient Japan. This will be a welcome change from the glut of chick-lit and funny parenting books everyone assumes (incorrectly) we moms like to read. If you want a link to her site, let me know and I'll send it to you.

Mahalo, Santa Izzy!

Merry New Year!

Whenever I hear "Happy New Year" I can't help but think of Eddie Murphy in the movie Trading Places when he is on a train, pretending to be a visiting African, and shouting "Merry New Year!"

I hope 2009 will be happy and healthy for you. As we continue into the 21st century, I'm still wondering what happened to those flying cars and robotic servants they promised us back in the day, but whatever.

Merry New Year!