Good Job, Ned!

Ned got me the pajamas. Red plaid, to top it off. They rock. And yesterday he came home with the new Patricia Cornwell book. (Very possibly my favorite author. Yes, Dan the D-bag, my mind is stagnant.) He did a terrific job this Christmas. Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe Negative Ned is really Considerate Cal. Virtuous Victor. Warm-hearted Wes. I think in the weeks to come we'll see. In the words of one of my mom's friends "something big is right around the corner. I can feel it."

The girls' upgrade.

We got the girls a brand new (awesome) wooden kitchen made for 6-8 year olds. And Melissa and Doug (they really should pay me for advertising) wooden food. Melissa and Doug are geniuses. I called them 'Melissa and Douglas' on accident to Ned yesterday. I think they may be one of the first people I hold a tremendous amount of  respect for. Besides Ned/Cal/Victor/Wes.

Jackie has a habit of calmly stating astute facts. She stated (on Christmas Eve, as Ned was assembling the kitchen) that the girls were 'updating their kitchen like their parents." So true. Jackie, Jackie, Jackie. Wise as a sage yet slow as molasses.

Anyway, Christmas was nice. Quiet (as Ned kept saying in a semo-shocked tone) but nice. Busy, too. Which explains my serious gap between posts.

Kiwi Herman is sleeping over New Years Eve. I'll keep you posted. Maybe we will? Kiwi may have a pint and guest blog.

Barometer of Wealth

Today I struck upon a treasure that was both a blessing and a curse. I have a serious weakness for Yankee Candles, although I am well aware that they are completely unnecessary. Not to mention expensive as hell. Ned has a learned (manipulated?) fondness for Yankee Candle as well, and on a good day treats me to them.
Anyway, today I discovered a shelf FULL of Christmas and Autumn Yankee Candles at Marshall's. For $9.99. For the big ones.  I was suddenly IRATE.  At Yankee Candle for charging $29.99.  At myself for spending $29.99 (even the Buy-one-get-one coupons are no match for this). So mad, in fact, that I bought a variety of scents and sizes. I spent a guilt-free $90.00 on 11 Yankee Candles today.
All was well until I called Jackie. Maybe she was having a bad day? Maybe I was irritatingly superfluous? She described them as my personal "barometer of wealth" and said that "she don't see why I don't just buy Glade. They smell just the same, Jo."
The terrible thing is that I had no argument (news to me). Jackie knew how many hours her Glade candle burned, how good it smelled, and how much it cost. Come to think of it, it was odd how much Jackie endorsed her Glade candles. It almost made me want to buy Glade. punch her in the face.

Tell me you don't see the difference.

Dan the D-bag

On perpetual diets
With three pounds to lose.
But everyone knows that
her problem is ________.

Yes, this was a poem written about me. Can you fill in the blank? (Hint: say it out loud.)
It was written by Dan the D-bag. Dan the D-bag is long overdue for a post. He is (over)  INVOLVED in my life. He is my younger brother by three years, but suggests (from time to time) that I behave more like him. He is nervy as hell, as Jackie would say. Classic Dan? Breezing through my house, leaving his boat-sized shoes where I'll trip over them, grabbing a handful of cherries from my kitchen, and saying "Whelp, I'm gonna take a nap." Then he looks around, laughs, and says "Sucks you've got all these kids."  Yes, he seriously says that.
Just a bit of Dan here....he and Ned are involved in a sickening bromance. Last night I passed through my living room, only to see two dead sets of eyes staring at the T.V (not me. They rarely focus on me, jajaja!! Laugh and laugh and fall apart?) and Dan signaled to me for 2 more beers while never taking his eyes from the Tube. Ned's response at someone ordering around his beloved wife? A high-pitched giggle. (While never taking his eyes off the Tube.) These are basically my room mates. I'm raising three girls in a frat-house.

The mess Dan leaves in my house.

     Dan tends to lie on my couch for way too long. Not to mention that he is way too long. So no one else can sit. Dan could care less. This is him in a nutshell. Once he saw a home video of himself and said "Wow. I am arrogant!" Duh, Dan.
Don't get me wrong. Dan's funny as hell. He is the source of many of my friends woes. (Can I tag Kiwi Herman?) He often does the right thing. But he is the youngest of seven, so who can blame him for having a prince-complex?

rockin

Joy is Relative.  

Personalize the christmas season with Christmas photo cards.

View the entire collection of cards.

 

Christmas-1, Ned-0

Ned's obviously not going to get these for me, so you can.

I always know Christmas is around the corner when I innocently walk through my living room and feel 2 small brown eyes getting smaller as they watch me pass. Good will? Ned quite literally shrinks with ill will when it comes to buying me gifts. His problem? That I love to shop. Not only do I love to shop, but I'm good at it. Ned's conclusion? That I already know what he'll buy and that I could get a much better deal. So Ned spirals into a hopeless depression and buys me full price...gadgets. Or slippers. (Last year, he watched me coldly as I opened a pair of slippers I had admired while we were shopping, and said "You knew I went back, didn't you." Not a question. A statement.) I try and make the holidays easier on Ned, by telling him deals. Hello, dealnews.com. Here's us over lunch: "Hey, Ned, Victoria's Secret has free slippers with any pajama purchase. (I don't care what my mother thinks.) Victoriassecret.com. I think the plaid ones are so cute. Uhhhh item 260-142....." .... "Ned?" Ned's response? "Huh? Yeah, they're cute. Don't you have a lot of pajamas?" Oh, Ned. There is nothing wrong with cute new flannel pajamas from your loving husband. Size extra small. With a bottle of champagne. And some slippers. 

He does a good job with his surprises, though. Last year he got me a sweet espresso machine. I live on espresso. And Ned has a damn clean house because of it.  And one year he got me a car starter. And I was pregnant. I was irrationally insulted because I thought it meant he thought I was too fat to start my own car. Maybe that's why Ned and gifts result in despair.

I'm done Christmas shopping for Ned. He's so fun to shop for. Maybe I'll videotape his responses and post them to the blog. If Ned approves. Odds are slim to none.

Walking that Fine Line of Depression

I was at a party a week ago and a girl with wicked side swept bangs (think Vogue) mentioned that she only washes her hair every three days. A door of infinite possibilities opened. SWUNG open. Hit the wall behind it, it swung so fast. (Ned was probably standing there, knowing Ned.). Showers in the morning are a hurdle (and a half) to me. I can't leave the house without one (or mascara), but wet hair in the winter is sooo time consuming. I'm not even really a hair person, but Ned's very possible reaction to greasy bangs is enough to invest in curlers, round brushes and (now) baby powder. Use baby powder on dry hair.  Works like a charm.

Imagine Ned if I got baby powder
in the house. Hahaha just imagine.

The only problem is that I am constantly aware of the slippery slope that is DEPRESSION. My mom once told me one of her embeds-itself-as-fear-in-your-memory stories about when she was a young mother chatting happily on the phone with her BFF (think me and Kiwi Herman. Showers are a triumph to her. The parallels between her and my mom are nutty, as my mom would say.) My mom's friend mentioned her "daily shower", and a lightbulb went on in my mom's head. It was suddenly clear as day to her that since she didn't take a daily shower, she was depressed. (She's fine, now. Takes 4 a day.) It must have struck a weird chord with me, because since I was, like, 8, I've had to take a shower every day just to prove to myself that I wasn't slipping.
My whole life seems to consist of proving to myself that I'm not slipping. It ain't easy, the tightrope of mental illness. Especially when you've got Ned, looking at me from farther and farther away, his eyes getting meaner and meaner "You're crazy. I like you, but you're crazy."

Upon Reflection, I've Realized That I'm Mean

To Ned.  To Dan.  To my kids.  To Jackie.  To NikiD. To Mama.  FML.  Worst part is, I don't know how to be nice, so I've done a little googling:  http://www.wikihow.com/Be-Nice.

This is the new me.  She was the nicest person I could find on google.

Doesn't seem too hard, really.  Just smile, say "hola", ask how are things?, little bit of this, little bit of that, next thing you know you're Kenny F*ckin Rogers. Haha just kidding. See- was that mean?  I just gave one of the nicest people in the world an expletive as a middle name.
This "nice" thing is crazy- I like it, but it's crazy.  I have a bad feeling that being nice is going to cut out about seventy percent of my conversations, comments, even personality.

What to do? I'm in stage two of my identity crisis.

UPDATE 10:00 pm.: It's been 2 hours since my terrible realization, and I am in hell. I'm mean? There are bumper stickers about people like me! Mean People SUCK. I can't believe I suck. Nor can I believe I'm mean. Nor can I believe I'm supposed to strive for holiness. Today is a big day.

UPDATE 1:00 pm: I think I might have already known that I am mean. Hence, the name of my blog. LMAO.

UPDATE 3:15 pm: I don't care that I'm mean anymore. I'm gonna embrace the real me. This blog is serving a purpose.

Ned and George's Snow Day (& A Bit of Jackie)

We are snowed in like you wouldn't believe, and Ned is in high gear. (ie. There is a pot resting on our fireplace to put his wet gloves in in between shoveling gigs.) He is planning a "family" trip to the store. For beer. He asked me to stand in our (freezing) front hall, just to keep an eye on the kids that are playing in our yard. When Ned is in high gear, I am merely a pawn in his To-do game. Never mind that I am recovering from the flu. Or that I hate being cold. Ned actually looks slightly taken aback if I protest in the slightest to his big plans for today. Yesterday, when I was full-fledged-flu, he wanted me to run out to the store for new socks for his Christmas party. (His Christmas party is on Saturday.) This was after I had dragged myself to Target for HIM. All day, he had made it quite clear that he was not feeling overly empathetic to me. (He went clothes shopping with Dan the D-bag, leaving poor sick me with the kids.) When I finally snapped and reminded him for the umpteenth time that I am SICK, Ned looked at me somewhat askance and said "Well you don't look sick. And you're not acting sick." !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   ♥ 
But, Negative Ned sure is helping those neighbors out. George across the street has been trying for 3 1/2 hours to get his truck out. It's bordering on 'off' (as my Mom would say.) But Ned is shoveling right along with him. Dear Ned. And, dear George. Once George carried my dresser down three flights of stairs. Alone. All his tendons were popping out, and his back was arched like a question mark. Jackie was over at the time, and between Jackie's calm, nervous, slightly hysterical expression (Jackie is uncannily aware of possible catastrophe. She was weighing the possibilities of George's back breaking. Jackie does not tread through life lightly.) and George's perma-smile, it was a little too much. I told George I was laughing at Jackie, and Jackie I was laughing at George.
The snow is STILL coming down. Ned is still shoveling. Nikid is threatening to guest blog. I have to buy beer and dress socks. Dan the d-bag deserves a blog post of his own because he is being a total d-bag. Jackie's voice is high and thin because she has an art show tomorrow and she is getting slightly hysterical. Time to get on with my day.

Mama Sho' Do Know

I cleaned the crump out of my friend's house today. In the novel of my life? This friend is a (huge- not her, but the role she plays) African-American grandmother who fizzles out when asked to make a housekeeping decision,  yet who is spot on with subjects other than....spots. Laundry? Nope. Scrubbing? Nope. Chicken pox? Oh, hell. no. But ask her how to make a $4.00 Advent wreath, and she recites the list like no-one's business. An old mayonnaise jar? To practical, dare-I-say-boring me, this belongs in the recycle bin. (Recycling is a source of tension between me and 'Mama", BTW. Oh, and she calls herself Mama.).  But she revamps this into the most charming crayon jar.She has a remarkable way of turning her nose up at any toys under $200.00. She is LUXURIOUS. When gas was at it's highest, she would heedlessly take me for joy rides, becoming happily lost in the twists and turns of fall foliage. When I asked if her husband opposed (reminder- Ned is always on my mind) the "wasted" mileage and gas, she merrily replied "Oh, he took away all my credit cards a long time ago. If I have gas, I just use it." and put the pedal to the metal.  When her teenage son, sent to his room, referred to himself as a Rapunzel- who is shunned away from society- she looked guiltily at me for a quick second, before retorting "Well, let down your hair and maybe I'll make you dinner."  Just meetin' him where he's at. That's the way Mama rolls.

I forgot to mention she likes moose.

What Mama and I usually do together is clean. I love cleaning her house. Everything is quality. Wooden toys galore (I love wooden toys. Melissa and Doug own my heart.)  I've learned a lot about Mama by cleaning her house. "One man's junk is another man's treasure." A string on the floor?  Met by  a squeal, "Oh my gosh, I have been looking all over for that!"  A Melissa and Doug farm set? Met by an weary sigh "Just get rid of it."  Her son's 5th grade notebook? I practically begged her to throw it out. Not happening. Two perfectly good down blankets? (BTW, we live in Buffalo.)  Completely re-buy-able. Oh, the charm!  It never ends. Her hair is always perfect. Like, perfect. Annoyingly perfect. She has seasonal menus on the blackboard in her kitchen (pumpkin scones are just the beginning.) It doesn't matter whether or not she actually cooks them. It's nice for her husband to see the list. The effort alone warms the home. It's clear why he fell for her in the first place. Wouldn't you want promises of re-useable mayonnaise jars, pumpkin scones, and perfect hair?

Mentally Ill? Not to Big Gen.

It's bedtime. Bedtime here means fleece nightgowns and blueberry hair and angelic children warm under covers. Haahahahahahahahahaha. What I meant to say was, those $25.00 nightgowns? Barely covering my SEVEN year old who is sprawled on the floor kicking her legs in a less than adorable fashion. She could use a good dose of pride right about now. I'd give her some, but my back is to her because I'm trying to pretend that none of this is happening. I won't even say what the other kids are doing. To sum it up, they are being loud. Driving me to mental illness.

Speaking of mental illness, I had an old friend over today. He was diagnosed schizophrenic a while ago, but I knew him before all this, and personally never saw that part of him. I still don't. I think he's cool as hell.  Anyway, my sister had stopped by. My sister...for all it's worth, here goes: She has been described, quite accurately, as "the one you never forget, who always forgets you." She wears sunglasses at the Thanksgiving dinner table.  They implemented the "3 feet of personal space" at one of her rehabilitation centers. Because of her. She eats with her hands, yet addresses the fact that she eats with her hands. So it's fine. (?) She is determined to make you feel loved as hell and special as hell and beautiful as hell.  And  strong  as hell.(Her compliments tend to lose their oomph when you hear her saying it to the person next to you.) If you are with her for more than 20 minutes, she will make a trip to the store. And come back with a suspiciously clear Gatorade. Coping mechanism, my arse. This chick just likes to party. ( I think. Although she has been known to curl up in a fetal position in her closet for three days. As I write this, I am growing concerned.)

I'm pretty sure this is what Big Gen
thinks is going on when she
gives hugs. Everone's in their own
damn battle.

Anyway, my friend had disappeared for a while today. I walked on the porch and saw my sister leaned into him, talking in her famously soothing voice, bottle of Gatorade at her feet. Needless to say I turned silently around and went inside. I returned when I heard her dramatic weeping getting louder. "You're too f-ing precious for all this, sweetie!.... I have been to so many doctors, all they want is us sedated.... I can see in your eyes that you're not schizophrenic..." and so on. Quite awkward for me to walk into. Do I leave? Do I join the conversation? He turned around, saw me, and laughed a shaky laugh, to which my sister pulled him into a warm embrace.

I walked my friend home a while later. They had exchanged numbers. Everyone loves my sister. Seriously. She's not scared to touch a nerve with you. And she's there for the fall if the nerve's too much. (Sometimes she insists there's a nerve there even when there's not, but- small potatoes.) He laughingly described her as "a bit overflattering". How very astute. But she means it. To her, you really do have the "strength of a woman and the soul of a child". Even if everyone does, you do too. Isn't that what counts?

Oh, hello, Nikid. How Loyal You Are.

Someone asked the other day if it's just them, or if I'm getting followers like "whoa".  I guiltily affirmed her. Then my guilt got the best of me and I told her that it's only because I practically make people become my follower. I don't think I've ever felt so vulnerable in my life. Especially because since she pointed this out, I haven't gotten ONE single follower. (????????????????) Anyone feel me? (If you really understand, f-ing click follow! Just saying  begging.)

Is it a red flag to want this to be my blog-world identity?

My brother Dan suggested that maybe I don't treat my followers well enough. So I decided to give a very public (to 27 people. Shameful.) shoutout to Nikid. Maybe I didn't give Nikid enough credit in my previous post. She is the most loyal follower out there. She actually waits for the next post. She ALWAYS comments.  Maybe I portrayed her as a bit of a Nazi. (?) Maybe I just got carried away with being free as hell in Blog world. (Maybe that's why my followers trailed off. I mean dead ended. Yes, I am obsessed.) Let me right this wrong. Nikid and I were off to a bad start, but I suppose it was divine intervention that led us to weekly playdates and joint online shopping attempts. She even babysat my kids- last minute. (And I don't let ANYONE babysit my kids.) She cooks amazing meals and offers decorating advice. She doesn't laugh. Ever. (So funny.) Her best quality? Her husband's a bit of a Ned himself, but NikiD takes him as he is. And then some. (ie. She thinks it's funny that they have the same size feet, whereas I've lied about Ned's shoe size.) Anyway, in case I set the tone for Nikid, please, all twenty-f-ing-seven of you, recalculate my friend, and loyal follower, Nikid. And recommend my GD blog. I might pay you.

Mara and Sariah

Ned's family left today. They got here Monday, and were bizarrely productive. We quite literally have a new kitchen. An unexpected new kitchen. And a gloriously inexpensive new kitchen. Labor's overrated. Haha. Anyway, now I have a new dilemma. How to thank them. It'll come. (I think. I hope.)

Anyway, with the family gone, and 3 late nights getting the best of me, I was too tired to explain to my daughters and their BFF's (like, over all day, every day, and then some, BFF's) why they couldn't sleep over. They used to ask me every weekend until I told them that if they don't ask me anymore, they can plan a sleepover for every 4 day weekend. (This was most likely said when I was drinking fresh coffee. On their behalf, they are exceptionally cute girls, and exceptionally well-behaved. I am just exceptionally tired.) My impression was that 4 day weekends are relatively few and far between. I must have misremembered October. And November. Oh, and December. AND JANUARY. FML.

Minus the redhead, this is a pretty accurate picture
 of tonight.

So, here I am hosting a sleepover. Second one in a month. And there is an unnatural amount of open wine left over from last night. And it snowed for the first time today, which gives me the thumbs up for celebrating.  And it's already dinner time. And Mara and Sariah both look exhausted. Sariah has been asking to take a nap since, oh, around 1. Was it cruel to say no? I think not. (And no, those are not their real names. Blog-privacy.) 

More tomorrow. I'm out.

The Animals in Ned's House

When I die, and Ned is going through my belongings, I suspect that there will be nary a tear shed. Rather, I imagine Ned sitting on a chair, a garbage can between his knees, and him groaning, "What the h%$l is all this S*@t??" I realized this today while Ned was unloading our cabinets to have the insides painted. (!!!!!) Instead of gently removing our beautiful decor, and thinking appreciatively of all my feminine efforts made at making his home a home, Ned bellowed my name, and when I rushed in, asked me for a cardboard box to put all this 'crap' in. (He pulled out the C word. I started looking for my keys.)

This is what Ned expects when he opens a drawer in our house.
Swear to God.

The annoying thing is, I am far from a hoarder. Every week I bring a bag of stuff to church to donate. Not junk. Just stuff. I use the "use it today?" rule (if I wouldn't use it today, I'm probably not gonna. So I get rid of it.). Try telling Ned that I have a system. It's bordering on delusional, the way he scans my living room. The neat stack of blankets? To Ned, it's as ineffectual as a stack of pet beds for a pet we do not, nor will we ever have. The lined wicker basket full of baby toys? In Ned's eyes it's about as beneficial in our home as a basket of  pet toys. The wooden chest full of Ned's workout equipment, strategically placed to appear as a rustic piece straight out of Country Living? Not to Ned. This is as futile as a bunch of pet carriers would be in our household. My point with all the pet references? That Ned prefers blank canvases as rooms, with mantels holding only hockey pucks and the only storage needed is a fridge and a modest closet for his work clothes. I sometimes wonder if I should remind Ned that I am his wife, we live together, and we have 3 kids. And we're only human. He has very high standards. But then I think about him lowering them, and how depressing that would be.  It's a luxury of dear Ned's, and it's a part of dear Ned, to look at the rustic trunks and lined baskets and say, "What the He#& is all of this Crap?"

Tom & Jackie

My in-laws are here. And my kitchen is being torn apart. Which means my dining room has my kitchen in it, and my living room has my dining room in it, and so on. Aaaand Thanksgiving is in TWO days. Here. And I'm fine. Really. Ned and his sister's extraordinarily talented boyfriend are installing a hood in our kitchen. A pretty sick hood too, which is compelling me to paint. Did I mention that the boyfriend is extremely talented? In many different ways, including picking out paint colors. So we (verbally) picked out paint last night. Next step is telling Ned that I'm painting the kitchen. Maybe I'll lace his drink with Vitamin D first. Ned will do anything when he's on Vitamin D.
Anyway, back to the in-laws. Ned's family is pretty much the polar opposite of mine. For example, my mom once had a Toyota Camry. A nice Toyota Camry. Then the windshield wipers broke, and my mom foresaw of future of bank breaking auto repair. So she gave it to a family with 3 kids who paid $400 for a windshield wiper motor and to this day cruise by our house in it. Kudos to her though, right?

My mom's donation. Tom's defeat.
And Jackie's dream car. All in one family.

Ned's dad also has a Camry. Ned's dad is something of a financial guru. I'm pretty sure that if so much as a check engine light went on in his car, he would have next year's model. For free. That day. Seriously. He's getting quite the reputation for car deals. Almost too good. Jackie called the other day (a rare cell-phone call. Jackie keeps track, and I mean TRACK, of how many minutes she's used. Sometimes she answers the phone "Home phone." and hangs up, waiting for you to call her home phone. It's very disconcerting)  and asked if Ned thought his dad would tag along to a car dealer with her. Ned hung up, and shook his head. "Jackie wants my dad to buy her car with her. She wants a $7.00 a month payment?" Long story short, Jackie misunderstood a $7.00 a month discount to a $7.00 a month payment. That kind of sums up the difference between Ned's family and mine. Ned's family would know right off the bat that it's not possible to have a $7.00 a month payment. Nor would they think the solution to a broken windshield motor is to give away the car. But tomatoes-tomahtoes, right? Between Jackie and Ned's dad, the holidays are entirely blog worthy around here.

Is this an Identity Crisis?

Kiwi Herman is quitting drinking. Negative Ned started taking 2000mg of Vitamin D a day. He now sees the silver lining EVERYWHERE. Big Trish sees a slice of cheese as extra calories. And says no. Monie wears skinny jeans and knee boots. (Monie has been wearing Gap hoodies and bootcut jeans for EVER.) Jackie misses phone calls because of homework. I called my sister the other day and she was at the science museum. Randomly. What is happening?

Me amongst friends? And we ain't talkin' figures.

I'm pretty sure I'm at a crossroads. Now when I tell my mom what my friend (so what if they're 45? I'm only 28. Isn't that what matters?) screamed to a group of people across Elmwood, concern lines her face .Yes, she gets the humor. But she also gently tells me, in so many words, that my friend might be more than just funny. They might be an alcoholic. Oh sit.
Actually, I kind of think this whole crossroads is my mom's fault. (When in doubt, blame your mother!) For example, I really, really like Victoria's Secret clothes. Like, the normal ones. Pretty tunics. Button leggings. Grey knee boots. But every time I order something, I have a 10 million pound weight on my conscience. "Not schmart, Joey. You have three precious little girls. Have you seen their advertisements? If you don't tell them it's wrong, WHO WILL?"   Holy freakin' cow. Talk about responsibility. The worst part is she tries to keep it light by saying 'schmart' instead of smart, so I can't even retaliate. The most I can do is show her the serious knee showing in the Talbots ad.
Anyway, with all these people seemingly moving over and out (hello kiera, im johanna and I'm an alcoholic too. can you just wait like 2 more years?) and my mother's forbidding face in my mind, I am debating a lot of things. Why I can't just pray to the patron saints of vanity, addiction, and idolatry and wait for divine intervention?  And why doesn't anyone want to do this with me? I decided to turn to Ned to tell me if I've crossed that very, very fine line of fun and over the edge. (I think my whole life I will wonder if it's common knowledge that I am more than a little unhinged. It's a sick sick feeling when you realize you were the only one who thought last Thanksgiving was a PART-AY!) When I asked Ned his opinion on my crisis, he, with his new Vitamin D-induced clarity, said "You're fine, Jo. We all have work to do. I wouldn't worry about it." Gentle, yet firm. And didn't really answer the question. And...Ned thinks I have work to do? WTF? My crisis continues.

Hockey Widow

Ned and I are going to a Sabres game tonight. The Sabres are a hockey team. I think Ned might be surprised that I know that, considering his reason for trying every possible way to get me to say I don't want to go with him. The (main) reason? Because once, ONCE, when we went to one (of several games), I turned to Ned, during what was apparently an obvious commercial break, and asked why the players were just gliding around. Oh horrors! You would have thought I asked why the arena was so cold. Ned never forgot that night.
 Anyway, the night he got the tickets, we went out to a Beer Blast with his hockey team. Going to a Beer Blast with Ned when he has 2 fresh Sabres tickets burning a hole in his pocket was my first mistake. Ten minutes into it, he turned to me from a crowd of huge, obnoxious, beer guzzling hockey teammates, his smile fading the more I appeared in his field of vision, and said, "Maybe I should take Greg to the Sabres game." As in Greg, and not me, to the hockey game. I swear his pupils were reflecting a gazillion Bud Lights, and Greg yelling obscenities for 3 straight hours. I pale in comparison to Greg.  My second mistake was to be agreeable. This only made Ned feel terribly guilty. To the point where he practically shushed me every time I brought up Greg and the Sabres game, like it was my idea and not his, and a crazy one at that. Since then, he acts like it's my idea that I don't go. And planting seeds of doubt that I will enjoy them but frequently reminding me of that ONE Sabres game. Ned acts like he's driving me on a short bus there. When I tell him I actually like hockey, he looks at me for a second too long  and says "Good,  I want you to go." in a terribly resigned voice.
Ned is on his way home from work right now. To ease the pain of watching sports with me, I bought him some Lagunitas. What would have been more fun is to have Greg himself waiting in the fridge, jump out yelling obscenities, funnel a Lagunita with Ned and the 2 of them tear off down the highway. But, alas, I am only capable of so much. And I wouldn't want Ned to feel guilty.

Big Trish

Taboo, you say? Taboo she is.
     I visited my oldest friend today. Oldest as in we've been friends for 15 years, not as in she's old. (Although she has the lungs and emotional wounds of a 70 year old). She comes from a very white picket fence family; all blonde hair, blue eyes, college graduates. White picket fence with one hell of a snag. A very loveable snag, but a snag none the less. (As she put it, she's the only thing standing between her parents and Arizona. Arizona WAS their retirement plan. Until she refused to budge. Approaching 30 and simply "enjoying the luxuries. This place  is like a freakin spa, man!" ) She too has blonde hair and blue eyes, but her while her sisters' hair is calm and appropriate, hers is a fashion haven of highlights and stylish snarls.  Although unemployed, packages never cease arriving, and her credit cards are on her list of my rudely invasive conversation-starters. But that's just her on paper. The reasons she has wormed her way into my family as a surrogate sister are endless.

I know she's struggling when her hair looks like this.

Last winter, for example, we had a (young, good looking, professional, newly married) man over from another country.  Trish settled herself next to him at the dinner table, casting sidelong glances as she swirled her wine. At everything he said she would emit an enormous cackle (obviously sounding to her like a throaty trill) and repeat to the rest of the dinner table like she was with a deaf, dumb audience. (My poor mother. Sort of. My mother is oddly comfortable in these situations. Red flag comfortable.) By the end of the dinner, she was leaning towards him with both elbows on the table asking him questions she already knew the answer to and swaying towards the wall behind him. As he uneasily shied away from her, she focused her attentions on another male at the table, a family friend she has known for years who after a few glasses of wine was suddenly very attractive. She seemed to register his obvious discomfort for she soon excused herself for a "shmoke." When she returned, it was to a room full of friends- back to square one. All part of her charm.

And I know she's movin' on up when it looks like this.

     And charming she is. When she's not in a land of sadness and woe, she is the perfect companion. She speaks in a deep baritone with hard S's on command. Interior designer extraordinaire, she transforms bare walls to magnificent cranberry and chocolate brown hues, all in a minute's time. She buys new Uggs every winter. And gives me her old ones. She clomps up my stairs with a Starbucks for each of us. (Ned does not like clomping. Or deep baritones. Or Starbucks for that matter.) She treats me to sushi. I can tell her emotional status by her hair. And if she's lying by her mouth. (It won't close all the way when she's lying. Every time.) She smokes so much that sometimes when she sit back old smoke drifts out her nostrils. She is loyal to a fault. "Big Trish don't let go" she cried today, shaking her head at all the men who have wronged her, "Big Trish just can't let go." Men don't find Trish quite as....easygoing as I do. Or hysterical. But Trish is the diamond in the rough. And she loves diamonds. From men. As tough as they may be to wangle out, she has emerged the triumphant victor in a few of her many escapades.
She also taught me how to shop. (Another Ned no-no). And return. And return. And return. A few times, I was reeled into her wheeling and dealing. She would practically push me out of the car with an Old Navy bag of cigarette smelling clothes with no tags on them, and manipulate (I don't use that word lightly) me into exchanging them for store credit. The fact that her son was nearly impaled on a coat rack there was enough for her to suppress any natural guilt at ripping off Old Navy. And the fact that her store credit was often used for my own kids was enough to suppress my own natural guilt. So we returned to our heart's delight.
In fact, everything I do with her is to my heart's delight. She is glorious in every sense of the word. From her figure to her vocabulary, from her wardrobe to her hair, Big Trish is a character in the novel of my life that is no less than magnificent. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Dysfunctional Women of Grace

I don't like groups. I didn't know this about myself until a few months ago when my sister (not Jackie. This one's a bit more socially dependable) told me that someone asked if I was interested in joining a group, and she answered for me: "She doesn't like groups." I was a bit taken aback, as I had never so succinctly realized that I don't like groups. It had always been situational, the dislike for the group I was in. I think if I had known this before, my life would have been a bit easier... Let's rewind to the last group I was in...
My happily-wholesome-but-not-really-wholesome friend Kiwi was, to my cynical mind, desperate to prove her leadership skills. So she started a group called "Women of Grace."  And I joined, because I felt that if I didn't join WOG, I must really be headed in the wrong direction. We met once a week and read books that had a correlating workbook.  (Not my scene. At. All. I prefer People mags, with the correlating crossword puzzle.) Anyway, there were a few "locals" there. Seeing people I have kind of "known" all my life tends to turn my innocent glass of  wine into a bottomless bottle. Why is it so awkward?  I'm pretty sure everyone there was just as awkward. Except for NikiD. She seemed to thrive on this stuff. NikiD had one modest glass of wine per meeting, and shared her thoughts and feelings with the group. NikiD had every question answered in her workbook, and smirked

when she saw my own wine-stained blank one. She filled me with terror when she would turn from her perch at the head of the group and her all-seeing eyes would rest on me. I would smile casually, and remind myself that I don't OWE her answers. I don't actually OWE anyone anything. All these desperate reminders while smiling benignly at NikiD. Then I would rebelliously get up, offer the group refills, and head to the bathroom to reapply eyeliner and let a few minutes go by.  I don't think I was the only one who squirmed through meetings. Someone in the group described it as the "most dysfunctional women's group they had ever seen." This person was a leader of various groups, and very experienced. When she said this, my guilt at the my lack of participation in becoming a Women of Grace was let go. It wasn't my fault. It was the group's fault!
And it's not a personal flaw in me that doesn't like groups; it's an innate understanding of human nature, given to the select few, that causes me to behave so rude and irresponsibly. It's my spirit being repelled at the chaotic dysfunction that is a "group." There will always be NikiD's, who see the order and power behind group activities. And there will always be the Me's, to show NikiD the haves and have-nots necessary to a successful group.                                      

The Conners

A few years back, I called Ned "Dan". (Ned's real name is neither Ned nor Dan. Haha me!!) The first few times, he looked quizzically at me, shook his head, and laughed weakly. Finally he straight-out asked me why I started calling him Dan. I answered honestly. "Because you're Dan, I'm Roseanne, and M.C.'s Jackie." His response? "You've got to be kidding me." followed by one of his elongated exhales.

     No. No, I'm not. We truly are the Connors. Moreso then than now. At the time, I would often find myself in my kitchen innocently doing laundry (or something normal and domestic, unlike anything Jackie was capable of), with Ned dozing on the couch in the front of the house. The front door would slam and I'd hear M.C.'s soothing voice- "How's it going, big guy?" and the slap of skin on skin as she gave him a passing high five. In my mind's eye, knowing Ned as I do, I saw his phony smile and tired eyes. "She's back."  I would straighten, ready for her, and she would appear, alarmingly friendly with a maniacal glint in her eyes. "Hey Jo-Jo, how's it going hon?" By this time her back would be to me, sillhouetted by the fridge, as she grabbed a bite to eat (unoffered) and headed down the backstairs to see what was going on downstairs. All the while oblivious to the fact she had woken up Ned, taken my dinner, and walked through my dirt pile. That was Jackie.Which made Ned Dan  And so I was unwittingly cast in the role of... Roseanne.  I wish I could say I am the least appropriate for my role. A blue collar housewife with a boundary-less sister?  A bad habit of laughing when the sister offends her normal, middle class, faded Levis wearing husband? Mocking obvious discomfort as her husband struggles for control? Me? Maybe then. Not so much anymore. Marriage got the best of me. These days, Jackie has boundaries outlined for her. It's almost sad how she knocks on the door before entering. How she takes off her boots instead of traipsing snow through the house. How she, with quiet dignity, asks if she can bring a dish for the family dinner that night. How she throws her apple core in the garbage instead of laughing at Ned (Dan)'s obvious repulsion at it being on the kitchen table for 3 hours. In retrospect, it was fun being the Connors. Well, it was fun for Jackie and Roseanne. Not so much for Dan.

Martha Stewart vs. soap.com

Martha Stewart does not own a bathrobe. She believes in popping out of bed, making the bed, showering, dressing, and emerging from the bedroom the queen you know you are. I read this last night around 9:30 p.m..... 9:30 P.M. and lying in bed trying for the 8th time to get the baby to stay asleep. (So what if she's 15 months? At least I'm attached to her.) Ned was watching the football game, feet up (literally), beer in hand (he said "Who buys light beer?". Not "I love how you always have cold beer for me" . But it's okay. It's Ned.)
     Yesterday was a bit of a recovery. Again. The night after the Hermans, my dear (as my mom would say) friend Monie texted me to go out for a drink. Not even an option. But she came over. And brought another flippin' 12 pack. And I was in, hook, line, and sinker. And another late night prevailed.
     Which led to me reading about Martha Stewart in bed at 9:30. Listening to Ned in the living room. And getting severely depressed that I own, not to mention wear, a bathrobe. Suddenly my life was terribly objective. I clean my house, with my hair up, in a red L.L.Bean bathrobe every morning.  I sometimes clear Ned's plate before he's done. What I thought was fun money saving was suddenly bored and desperate. (Why bother? Honestly, who cares?) These are my tired thoughts. When my kids are crazy-tired, I try and remember that I STILL get crazy when I'm tired. But while they cry and scream, I think I see the truth of my life.
This morning is much better. I confidently put on my bathrobe and cleaned my house. In front of Ned. (He didn't notice.) Realizing we were low on dish soap, I made a mental note to check soap.com to avoid a trip to Target (avoiding Target saves millions. Literally. Target is a red and white polka dotted budgetless hole.) BTW- click the link on my sidebar and you'll get 20% off there.  And free shipping over $25. Just do it. Please. For my sake. So that the next time I find myself sleep-deprived and self-loathing, I can remember that you, Liz G., use soap.com too.

Kiwi Herman

This morning I woke up with bright red nails and an all-too-familiar headache. Ned and I went over to our friend's house last night. Ned's car is still there. Ned is not comfortable when his car is left overnight. I am a little too comfortable with it. A casual difference between me and Ned...Anyway, I'll call our friends the Hermans. Kiwi Herman is my BFF.  Kiwi Herman and babysitters do not go hand in hand, so Ned and I frequently find ourselves in her kitchen at 2 a.m., over plates of Kiwi-concoctions. (Last night it was a dazzling array of animal crackers, pretzels, B.J.'s cheese- she described as "remarkably smooth" with a longing sigh- goldfish, mustard, and hot sauce. All served on her ottoman. Sitting on extra tall bar stools. Ned loved it.) Then she pulled a half-full bottle of Cherry Coke down (from...'08?), grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, and held them up with her eyebrow arched in a question. Never mind the empty 12-pack. Or the fact that her mouth was full of cheddar goldfish, so she was suggesting this silently. Kiwi Herman does not reflect on these details. And that is why I love her.
What I don't love is that today was supposed to be productive. Ned is being irritatingly productive. He must not have the haze in his mind that I do, as he has completely unrealistic expectations of me. Unload the dishwasher? I was highly offended. Check out Sabres tickets online? Neeeeeddddd. You're killin' me. I just want to enter online sweepstakes and blog.
This loss of a day happens every time Ned and I go to the Hermans. But by losing a day, I gained bright red nails, 11,000 calories, and another night with Kiwi. Worth it? Can I get a hellz yea?

Negative Ned and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days

I like to clean. Well, organize. Actually, I just hate clutter. And I love bins. Once my mom told me that she hopes I never mistake her for a pile of clothes, or she'll find herself in the washer, or in a bin. (My mom also thinks of herself as a cheeseburger when she is in front of polar bears at the zoo; she's a whole different post.)
This morning, after my 2 older girls were off to school, and with 2 of the 3 beds made and 2 loads of laundry in, I joined my husband in the kitchen. I jokingly/passive aggressively call him Negative Ned; love him as I do, he tends to let out exhausted sighs at any cross in the road, and his shoulders drop to nearly 30 degrees when he is faced with a challenge.
 His challenge today was the 'crap' in the attic. He tossed scrambled eggs and cheese heavily down onto raisin bread, and told me that the electrician is coming next week and that the attic has crap in it. I calmly asked him to stop calling it 'crap' as it turns a normal conversation between Damon and Johanna to a stressful one between Negative Ned and Annoying Annette. My "everything's fine" complex took over me and I reassured him that all it is is the dollhouse set from the girls, maybe a few other things, and it will take maybe 20 minutes, tops. This seemed to satisfy him, as he left for work a few minutes later, lunch in hand, shoulders slightly higher and a veritable spring to his step. Oh, Damon, if you only knew what small things I do for you. I am now facing my own challenge of cleaning the attic (with wet hair) before the baby wakes up, all so your shoulders stay at that 90 degree angle I married them for.

On my way to being....Shredded

I am doing the 30 Day Shred. Let me preface this by saying that I have a 3 kids, I like food, and I love beer. (And wine. And, well, any drinks). So when my friend (with 7 kids, BTW, and a figure not unlike mine) said she was doing Jillian Michael's 30 day shred, it FINALLY struck a chord with me.  30 days. 27 minutes- including warm up and cool down. 3 levels, you increase at your own discretion. (Discretion was the key word, here). I can DO THIS. And I am.  I am on day 15, and in the words of Tony (from P90X, which I hated, and I blame for me not working out till good ol' understanding Jillian came into my life)-- "I hate it....but I love it." I love it because the end is in sight and I feel productive. I hate it because I hate working out, and I just want radical change, dang it. But any change is good, in this situation anyway, and there is definitely change. So, if you're wondering, I do recommend Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred.

On a side note---here is my daily dose of Life with Ned. While doing said work-out this morning, Ned sauntered in, and leaned against the wall, coolly observing me. (Background- Ned and I do not discuss working out. That is a rule. Ned thinks I am made of steel and will not accept less. So Ned and I do not discuss working out. It's just easier that way.) I could not have been in a more compromising, humiliating position. Generally, I wear semi-cute workout clothes, even though I'm in my living room. It's just better for the spirit. Today, since I am still not showered, I decided to work out in my pajamas before my shower. Albeit Victoria's Secret pajamas, to the naked eye they are baggy, faded black pajamas. And when Ned walked in I was in PLANK position, jumping my knees to my chest for 30 seconds, then doing high knees for 30 seconds, back to that dreaded plank, and then more high knees. The Positive Pig in me thought that perhaps Ned would be impressed with my scarlet face, labored breathing and ill-fitting pajamas. Not so. Positive Pig died a slow death when Ned casually said "The girls in the video aren't even sweating."  Jillian Michaels' cohorts killed by a overweight girl in a pig costume? Not entirely implausible.

NED

Ned has today off. I envisioned sipping pumpkin lattes, him reading excerpts from the paper while I bustle around our warm kitchen, occasionally sweeping the baby up for a kiss, the sunlight speckling our unmarred high-gloss floors, and Ned glancing up every few minutes, radiating appreciation at his adored wife.

Imagine my surprise when Ned sailed through, paused briefly in the doorway, barked "Gettin' the car undercoated today", grabbed his hat and headed out the door.
Funny thing is, I wouldn't have it any other way. I can still have high-gloss floors. I can sweep the baby up. I am having a pumpkin latte as we speak. If Ned ever gazed at me (or even looked at me, for God's sake) I would be highly uncomfortable. Like, cross-and-uncross-your-legs-and-loosen-your-scarf-uncomfortable. So, rather than tell Ned to slow down and enjoy life, my philosophy with Ned is to step up and enjoy Ned. So today, I am off to get a car undercoated, get an oil change, grab lunch, and most likely stop at Home Depot. I HATE Home Depot. I actually sit in the car when Ned brings me to Home Depot. I feel like I am in a tomb, a tomb holding lumber, lightbulbs, and suspiciously lacking employees. But- Ned needs stuff at Home Depot.Which means I need stuff at Home Depot. So here's to a day off with my beloved Ned.

Today is my first day of true Independence. I am number 6 in a family of 7. A  family of 7 that is alternately stifingly close (such as when I wanted to sell my kitchen table on Craigslist, and 2 of my sisters casually- and separately- asked me with gleaming eyes what I was planning to do with my table when I got my new one), and vulnerably close (today when I asked my YOUNGER brother if he wanted to co-author a blog with me and he laughed meanly and said "you mean you want me to write a blog for you? Why don't we title the 1st one "Declaration of Independence from Outside Sources?" ), and wonderfully close (do I really need to define this? If you have sisters you KNOW).  After the conversation with my brother, I headed to the computer, glass of wine in hand and promptly called my sister. "Look, I really need help starting a blog." As amiable and helpful (and distracted) as she was, I quickly realized I had called the wrong person. She was really, weirdly, encouraging me to write my first blog about a customer service rep at HSBC named Kevin Dorr. I asked her a few times if she was sure this was normal, and she just exhaled loudly, saying "Well, I sure as hell would think it was funny."  I grew more and more uncomfortable with the situation, and her voice was getting more and more drowned out by the TV, so I hung up with her and decided that maybe my brother was right. Maybe I do need Independence from Outside Sources. So F you, Pete. This is my damn blog.