Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Curses! Lost Again!!

It suddenly occurred to me this morning why I am and always will be an eternal Bingo LOSER.  I have  absolutely no concentration.  Try, if you can, to follow this thought process dear friends and blog readers.  It's a tricky maze of questionable short cuts and interconnections.  Strangely enough, I function quite well with it except - of course - in the unlikely event of linking five numbers with fluorescent dauber ink.

Wile E Coyote
When I struggle at something which so many others seem successful, I obsess over it.  It drives me to distraction.  I must understand why it is that I fail.  Once, after staring at a deck chair which my husband literally assembled "inside-out", he ascertained that the directions were wrong.  I calmly responded, "I find that unacceptable."  Much to his chagrin, we "re-assembled" it and determined that the directions were indeed correct.  It took us over five hours, nearly cost us a divorce, and sadder still - I imagined scenes of homicide so vile I'm convinced I could be Satan's spawn.  No, I am Wile E Coyote and damn that Road Runner anyway!

So why did I begin this odd post today?  As many of you know from past blogs, I used to - and this is key - used to attend Bingo games on Friday evenings with a dear friend.  After nearly two years of sitting on uncomfortable torn seats and staring at overly pierced, tattooed, or the geriatric infirmed, I decided that having won only $12.50 was not worth the agony.  I clearly was doing something wrong.  After all, my friend Cindy and other table compatriots were winning on a consistent basis.  It could no longer be blamed on Bingo Karma.  I needed to ascertain what the issue was before I invested another 50 cents on the game.

My plan was simple; practice on my cell phone.  No money need be invested.  Focus on the odds and probability.  This made total sense and yet every morning a Bingo win still evaded me.  AND, even more pathetic, my cell phone allows 3 bonus balls meaning I receive 3 additional chances to win.  Then IT happened.  My moment of clarity arrived.


Bri:  It's early morning.  The boys are asleep.  She's enjoying her blissful hour in bed, drinking her candy bar in a bowl (aka, coffee) and playing Bingo on her cell phone before the boys wake up.  Eric, her wonderful and endearing husband, is getting ready for work.  He distracts Bri with his goofy routine (eight spritz' of hairspray, carefully wiping his eyeglasses, etc.) and Bri finds herself giggling.  His procedure hasn't changed in eighteen years but it's still entertaining.

Eric:  "What are you laughing at?"

Bri:  "You, always."

Eric:  "Biaaatch!"

Bri:  "Thank you." 

She grins as he kisses her goodbye and reminds him to place Waldo in front of the door.  Waldo is an ugly green cement turtle that Bri bought years ago.  Its intent was to be a garden decoration but with everything else odd about Bri, she purchased it solely as a door stop because she thought it was quirky.  Also, nothing in the house goes without a name.  This ugly turtle was immediately christened, "Waldo".  The reasoning behind this was that Bri could consistently say, "Where's Waldo?"

As Eric walks out of the bedroom she considers how cute his ass looks in business pants.  Poof!  Gone is Eric's fannie from Breezy's thoughts and immediately her brain returns to the silly name, "Waldo" for her door stop; however, she muses - no sillier than the name "George" for a Greyhound.  Why do people give their pets people names?  She doesn't like that.  Too many people name their dogs, "Molly".  Her goddaughter's name is Molly and she takes offense that there are dogs in the world with her goddaughter's name.  Her son William named a mole on his leg, "Mole Rat" because it was big and had hair coming out of it.  This has nothing to do with a dog but this made her laugh.  She wondered if William missed "Mole Rat" because it was removed during precautionary outpatient surgery.  Bri considered her problems remembering names which is why she likes naming pets herself.  She hates it when children name cats something stupid like, "Fluffy" or dogs, "Spot".  She had to admit, Austynn did a good job naming their dogs...

Bri suddenly looked down at her Bingo game...lost again.  CURSES! 

~ CUT ~

My moment of clarity?  Attention Deficit Disorder.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

It's time to introduce you to Eric...

My wonderful husband
Oh my dearest husband, Eric.  If my bedside clock was ever set correctly, I could virtually document, by the minute, his morning ritual.

He and I are similar in many ways.  We share the same liberal politics, moral values, and bizarre sense of humor.  We've basically grown up together having known one another and been close friends since high school.  All of this helps when recognizing an approaching temper tantrum or look of disgust across a crowded room.  It's with this knowledge of endearment that I write today's blog.  I can't wait another moment of our 17 years of marriage to impart this amazing information with you, my dear friends and blog readers.  During the past three years you have become quite familiar with my quirks and oddities.  It's time to introduce you to a few of Eric's...

One of the ways he and I differ is that I'm a complete morning mess.  For instance, just today, my bedside area resembled a stage five tornado disaster.  Four pairs of shoes were scattered haphazardly so that I might trip and break my right ankle again (why I had four pairs of shoes next to my bed is quite a mystery as I didn't wear four pairs of shoes yesterday) and my laptop was directly below where I would step on it should a stage five tornado hit our quaint little home in the middle of the night.  My half filled coffee bowl, a half filled venti Starbucks mocha (with an extra shot of espresso), saline nasal spray, butterfly clips from my dog's ungroomed mane, a library book of which I've only managed to read two chapters in the last three months, and a candle sit on my bedside table.  Don't even ask what's in my nightstand drawer.

What's on Eric's side of the bed?  Nothing.  Exactly.  Nice and tidy.

After re-heating yesterday's coffee (gross), I've picked up my side of the bed; however, this is one of the major contrasts between our personalities, I'm Oscar Madison and he's Felix Ungar.  In other words, I'm the slob and he's the neat freak.  Some of our friends might argue that our house is always neat..sorry, it's just picked up - HUGE difference.  Don't ever look in the corners...just sayin'.

When I get ready to go anywhere, it's virtually a free for all.  If I remember to put on my deodorant, I'm a happy girl.  It just depends on what I see when I open the medicine cabinet.  Did I brush my teeth?  Hmm, it smells like really strong coffee.  I guess not.  To be honest, I'm quite lucky if I walk out of the house having even bathed. 

The Odd Couple
 Now Eric, he's interesting.  Once he's out of bed, the entertainment begins.  He starts the shower (because it takes a few moments for the hot water to heat up), sets out the necessary toiletries (always in the same spot); toothpaste, deodorant, brush, comb, blow dryer, hairspray, etc.  His routine is exactly the same every day.  It never varies.  Nothing is amiss.  There's a number of times he brushes his hair with the blow dryer followed by eight quick pumps of hair spray on the left and eight on the right after which he waves his hand in front of his face to avoid inhaling the toxic fumes.  Hell, who wouldn't with that much aerosol floating about in the atmosphere?

Then a major struggle begins and my hearts breaks a little more for him every day watching these episodes.  You see my dear friends, Eric is color blind.  All professional men know that their dress socks should match the color of their business slacks; however, before I entered Eric's work life he wore black socks and black shoes (gasp) with everything!  He was...shudder...an office geek.  Now he's on the right track but each morning he sits before his sock drawer struggling to find the right color to match his slacks.  I give him some time but after a few heart wrenching moments I find myself stepping in, "These match honey.  Those are brown, not green." 

God bless my dear one, my sweet color blind, quirky Felix Ungar.  My very own...Eric Potts. 

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Oh no, the eggs!

Procrastination is a terrible thing, laziness is awful, and forgetfulness is a horrible shame.  Sadly, I'm the owner of all three. 

For the first hour and a half this morning, I allowed myself the leisure of not dealing with the fact that I'm the mother of an autistic, argumentative fifteen year old.  After he whined, snorkeled, and coughed up something I chose not to look at (which he vehemently insisted that I should), he threw the F-bomb at me with such ugliness I decided to close my bedroom door and found solace in my candy bar in a bowl (aka my special coffee concoction).  Austynn is suffering from severe allergies, which as I know most caring mothers would, tenderly administer antihistamines and overlook his blatant choice of expressing himself.  After all, he's miserable, right?  Yes, and so what?  Miserable or not, I myself am not a morning person and refuse to be screamed at before my morning caffeine is pulsating properly throughout my system.  I am also not Donna Reed who made running a household look lovely and charming on the 1950's TV show with the same name; however, I am the Everyday Rambling Lunatic Housewife and when I turn around and tell my kid he's being a jackass, well dammit - I'm comfortable with that.

Having procrastinated with my iPod ear buds tightly inserted against the evil pimpled one in the hallway, I decided to face off - for better or worse - my adolescent demon.  His older brother was now pulled into the midst of the battle.  The lines were drawn.  Hacking, snorkeling, cussing younger brother against just barely taller (which was determined last night to older brother's angst) seventeen year old extremely violent, also autistic brother.

"STOP!"  I yelled over the screaming boys (like this ever works).

"WILLIAM IS AN ASSHOLE!"  I thought, yes, this is somewhat true.  Score one for Austynn.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT AUSTYNN'S PROBLEM IS BUT HE'S AN IDIOT!"  Hmm, also true.  Very sound argument.  Idiot is a little tough though.  Idiot Savant, perhaps?

"Austynn, you're going to be late for the bus.  Please leave NOW.  We'll talk about this later, okay?  William, stay in your room and DON'T say another word until he's gone, UNDERSTOOD?"


"NOT another WORD!  Bye Austy.  Feel better."  No response as the front door slammed behind him.  Well, at least he didn't drop the f-bomb again.  That's nice.

See what procrastination gives me?  Nothing but screaming and heartburn.  I should have looked at what the kid hawked up.  It would have been better than my indigestion.

Fortunately for me, I had an "out" afterwards.  An "out", by my definition, is a way to escape and leave the garbage behind.  I had a lovely, fat filled breakfast with one of my best friends.  Nothing like eggs, bacon, french toast, and more coffee to improve my mood.  God bless carbs!  I love food.  Diets?  To Hell with them.  My mood improved dramatically; however, afterwards I couldn't move.  This is where my laziness came into play.

It's been unusually warm for Denver this time of year.  The moment I rolled my fluffy belly into the car, the first yawn settled over me.  A few moments later, another one.  It takes all of five minutes to get home from this particular restaurant and I found myself holding my head up over the steering wheel.  My eyes were crossing.  I could barely manage to stay awake.  Now this is embarrassing but I will make an admission to you, my dear friends and blog readers.  I normally have very good control over my bodily functions but today, in my extreme grogginess, I did not make it home.  Just two blocks away and I suffered a horrific incident over a speed bump in my neighborhood.  Thank GOD for pantyliners.

Too many carbs and too much coffee I suppose along with a nervous tummy from my wicked teenagers.  I blame all of these on my severe laziness this afternoon.  I slept, and I slept, then I wallowed in self-pity with a computer Bingo game (which I still can't win by the way, I'll always be a Bingo loser) and then I slept some more until my small Shih Tzu licked the drool off my face.  Eventually I decided enough was enough.  I needed to move.  Stop the pity train, time to get off.

Boil eggs, start the dishwasher, wipe down the sinks, spray the bathroom (still stinky from my earlier assault), perhaps write this blog, make a few phone calls, etc. I'm known as the queen of multitasking YET in my need to accomplish everything at once, I tend to forget what those "everythings" happen to be.  I've lost sets of house keys more times than I care to admit.  I've walked into my bedroom only to replay my steps as to why I wandered into my sanctuary to begin with.  I find myself staring blankly into the pantry knowing there was a greater reasoning outside of tearing open a bag of cookies.  Today, after I made my second call and completed the fourth paragraph of this blog, it occurred to me that I left the eggs boiling on the stove for over forty minutes.  I do believe they're done now.


Friday, June 7, 2013

I'm not crazy. A lunatic, you betcha'.

Dedicated To: Katie Baroni Lassley

My blog title, "The Everyday Ramblings of a Lunatic Housewife" could not be a more accurate description of who and what I am. 

First of all, I'm quite capable of rambling on for what I'm sure seems like an eternity to some about an ingrown toenail or the amount of rust on my front door vent.  Why do I do this?  Perfect segue into the fact that I've been diagnosed as certifiable, or to place a gentler term on my condition, Bipolar.  I have also, for the sake of raising my two adopted, special needs boys, given up my place in the business world to stay at home and raise them.  Do I regret this final decision?  Honestly, some days I do.  Being alone with a crazy lady who laughs mercilessly as she vacuums up dust bunnies and answers her own questions can be disconcerting at times; however, I love to dance and there's no one to mock my lack of rhythm when I turn the music up.

Prior to and during the adoption process of our children, I was a Human Resource Supervisor at a large national health insurance company in California.  My work consisted mainly of maintaining Web content for the company's employee HR site and overseeing/implementing a new systems' process for resumes and new hire documentation.  It was exciting and interesting work and I loved what I did. 

When I was hired six years earlier, I was an entry level file clerk who didn't know how to turn on a computer.  I worked my way up and soaked up all the knowledge I could.  I did well and nothing was beneath me.  I took a lot of crap from many people but that's life, right?

As a health insurance company, it took great care and concern for its employees so therefore it had a special Employee Mental Health Helpline.  If employees were ever stressed, we were to call this number and directed to a behaviorist who would, under strictest confidence, help us through our issues or refer us to someone who could. 

No workplace is free of tension among co-workers.  As much as I'm a fantastically wonderful, creative, hard-working, and funny individual, there are always those spiteful bitches who are - and I somewhat understand this - extremely jealous of me.  Really, who wouldn't be?  (Sarcasm friends, sarcasm)  This company was no exception.  I had a couple of nasty witches who were always after me for something.

At this stage in my career, I was the supply clerk and front desk supervisor for the Life Insurance Company division.  I don't recall what it was on this particular day which set me off.  Perhaps my candy bar in a bowl (aka coffee) wasn't hot enough, or I had a ingrown toenail, or Hell - it could have been Eric's jaw popping too loudly at breakfast - who knows...but I was in a foul mood.  One of the diablas (Spanish:  for female devils) approached me with a standard complaint that she did not receive the correct black pens (Dear LORD!) and "why was it that I never got her order right?"

I imagine my face probably looked like a balloon too full of Helium before I hissed, "I don't know?  Why don't you order your own fucking pens you dumb bitch!"

And with that naughty sentence, I grabbed my purse and walked out the door for what I thought was the last time.  Within moments of this tirade, I was in my car screaming more obscenities, and dropping the f-bomb between every other four-letter word  I could conjure up.  With tears and snot dripping down my face, I answered my cell phone which rang almost immediately within stopping at the first turn signal, "Hello?"

"Bri?  Are you alright?" came the concerned voice of my office manager through the other end of the line.

Damn, news travels fast in that office.  Did I actually scream at Rhonda?  "No, I'm not.  I QUIT Melanie!  I can't stand that bitch another day.  I'm sorry, but it's either her or ME and I know you need her for billing.  I FUCKING HATE HER!!!"

"Now Bri, breathe.  You're not going anywhere.  I need you more than you know.  Take the afternoon off.  I want you to call the Employee Helpline and talk this through, okay?  Do you have the number?"

Pause.  Sob.  Sniffle.  "Yes."

"Promise me you'll call?"

Another long pause on my end, "Okay."

"Will you come back to work tomorrow or Wednesday if you can?"

"I'll try."

"I'll talk to Rhonda.  Just come back, I don't want to lose you.  Now call, okay?"

"Okay.  Thanks, Melanie."  I barely managed between hiccuped sobs.

Ten minutes later I found myself in the parking lot of the nearest state beach.  Still weeping, blowing my nose with a spare maxi pad I found in my purse, I called the Employee Helpline as promised.

"Employee Helpline, how can I help you?"

I explained what had just happened to the behaviorist on the phone.

"Bri, where are you right now?"

"I'm at the beach."

"Do you have any hollow pipes or tubing with you?"  Clearly confused I answered no.  "Any drugs of any kind?"  I told her I had some Midol for my menstrual cramps.  "How many?"  Why the Hell was she asking me this??? 


"Are you planning on going into the water?"


"Bri, what are you doing at this very moment?"

Still weeping uncontrollably I said truthfully, "I'm sitting in my car watching five surfers strip out of their wetsuits and into their street clothes."

There was an extremely long pause on the other end of the phone.  "What do you plan on doing next?"

"I'm going to finish watching these dudes, then call my husband and tell him I'm okay, then eventually go home and take a nap."  I could have sworn I heard a stifled giggle on the other end of the phone.

"Be careful driving home Bri.  Try to have a better day tomorrow."

"The Everyday Ramblings of a LUNATIC Housewife"?  You betcha.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Today's topic: Brunch. Or is it a Buffet? Or can I spell Smorgasbord?

This morning I'm going to blog about specific type of dining experience because well, I woke up with indigestion and so therefore determined that this was a clear indication from the great writing troll in the sky to make my opinions known.

I hate crowds.  This is not the only thing I hate and I apologize because "hate" is a very strong word but there's no other way around it.  "Dislike" doesn't do my feelings justice.  "Abhor" sounds like something a smoker coughs up after dinner.  No, no - "hate" is the appropriate word for me.  My intense emotion for being in crowds hasn't always been like this. Apparently it's worsened with age along with my other various quirks and oddities.  For instance, my germ phobia is now to the point whereas I won't touch a shopping cart unless I use the complimentary store disinfectant wipes beforehand.  Have you, my dear friends and blog readers, ever shopped in a neighborhood Walmart?  If so, then there's no question as to why I bristle at the thought of touching any surface area within these stores.

I also hate flying.  If I have a planned airplane trip, I start deep breathing exercises months in advance.  I also use a technique whereas I close my eyes as a passenger in a car and pretend that the bumps and dips are plane turbulence.  How very "zen" of me, right?  Wrong.  The moment the plane rattles and my coffee shakes in my complimentary non-biodegradable cup, I pop three Valium, and clutch the nearest stranger (medication increases my obnoxiousness rating by at least 40%).  My husband is convinced this fear is control based.  Okay fine.  I suppose falling out of a hurling piece of aluminum at 36,000 feet without a parachute may give me a "loss of control" - at least of my bladder anyway.  This is not the last thing I want to remember as I head off to discuss hanging participles with the great writing troll in the sky.

So crowds..?  Where does this "hate" for mobs of mankind interconnect with my intense dislikes and/or phobias for germs and lack control and how the heck is this related to my blog title?  Two words:  Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Brunches or Buffets or as my sweet husband calls them, Smorgasbords, are when ridiculous crowds of families surge into restaurants to treat their mothers, wives, and/or grandmothers to a meal which they - dear maternal, worked-to-death-women - do not have to prepare themselves.  The sentiment is lovely but for this mother of two adopted, autistic teenage sons I could not think of a more horrific way to spend my morning.

Buffets are okay, sometimes.  I say this very loosely.  However, they are never pleasant on Mother's Day because everyone in the world feels it necessary to celebrate the day in this fashion.  It's not unusual for families of 10, 15, or 20 people to gather for these momentous feasts.  First of all, who's watching the kids??  Here comes the germ factor.  There are so many people celebrating dear mamacita that no one is watching little Timmy sticking his sucked on, disgusting fingers in the whipped cream bowl.  Will someone please watch their CHILD!!

Secondly,  I'd love to eat everything offered.  It seems to me if someone is going to pay an exhorbanate amount of money for my meal, I should at least get their money's worth.  I make such an honourable attempt that I end up vomiting when I get home.  Not only is this a waste of money, but I'm also squandering my one day "off " a year huddled over a toilet bowl and I'm not even using a cleaning brush.

I guess it all comes down to control.  I don't have any.  I can't control the screaming children and their germy, unsupervised fingers in the food bowls.  I can't control the fact that I have no willpower and must find the means and hands to balance an omelet, Belgian waffle, pastries, sliced meat, potatoes, and desserts on two overly stuffed plates without looking like the total sloth that I am.  And finally, I have absolutely no control over what these damn things are called.  I wish someone would make a decision; is it a Brunch, Buffet, or God help us - a Smorgasbord?

Monday, June 3, 2013

A Mid-West Adventure

I was asked today to write a blog about my recent road trip across the great mid-west of the United States.  To be honest with you, my dear friends and blog readers, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind.  As many of you know, I've taken a very long sabbatical from my writing.  I can't explain exactly why.  Perhaps I'm disappointed with how things have turned out as of late.  I'm feeling like a stale, middle-aged house wife with a turkey gobble hanging from my neck and two teenagers who've become quite adept at eating, sleeping, and ignoring my requests to chew with their mouths closed. 

The only laughs I received during stand up comedy last summer was when I threatened to undress or complained that I was mistaken for the dowdy half of a lesbian couple.  As I started rethinking my direction on stage, life threw me a couple of curve balls in the form of an angry sixteen year old facing felony counts of menacing with an axe and later my falling down a staircase only to break three bones in my ankle.

So here I am again; attempting to find my path.  Six Degrees of Separation.  It's happening - I hope.  I've made a phone call and this phone call has hopefully led to a lunch meeting and this lunch meeting has hopefully led to a celebrity contact, sponsorship, or at least another important connection.  I'm focusing positive energy on what I can do and who I am.  But I digress, I've been asked to tell a story and a story teller I am.  I'll honor my friend's request; however, I'm warning you readers...I may have to water it down because I know I have some kiddos under the age of 21 who peruse my posts from time to time. 

And so I begin...

A couple of weeks ago I was asked to help a friend drive her daughter from here - Denver, Colorado - to Michigan Technical University.  This school is approximately 1200 miles away and near the Canadian border.  Needless to say, I was unprepared - but knowing my friend Cindy - she would attempt that drive back on her own. This scared the Hell out of me.  So I checked my schedule, worked it out with my husband, and hit the road with my chain smoking, say-it-like-it-is friend.

I had absolutely no expectations for this trip other than to escape my kids for a over a week and have a chance to see the mid-west.  Along the way I decided to move to Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Nebraska (and not necessarily in that order).  I've also determined that since Cindy called Cheese curds, "Cheese Turds", I decidedly did not want to try them.  Also, Beer Nuts do not taste like Beer.  Who knew?  Obviously I did not.

I'm extremely embarrassed to say dat I've developed a very funky accent, doncha know.  It's drivin' my husban loony as a jaybird an he says ifn' I don stop it, he's gunna whack me on da side o my ead but I'm thinkin' he's fullo it, silly filler!  Dose cows do look awful happy tho in Wisconsin! 

I can't be trusted to remember my purse no matter where I travel to.  Darnit all!

Two women travelin' alone can always be counted on by them there farmers to be lesbians.  Ah well, so Cindy and I made a fine, lovely couple doncha know.

Cindy shops more than I ever thought possible.  If we weren't shopping for junk food, fast food, diner food, well then dammit, she sure as Hell found found a fine pair of shoes!!

And finally, the watered down part of the story...our last evening..um well, okay.  I know that two Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey shots are all I should ever do along with a Vodka drink and that I'm a terribly naughty influence on my dear chain smoking, say-it-like-it-is, friend.  I think that's all I better say about that.