Blogger Idol – You Sucked Me In

The 52/52 Project creator, Sherry Stanfa-Stanley washing down a few bugs while living outside of her comfort zone.

I swore off blogger contests months ago.  The pinnacle of my shame was when I nominated myself for a Circle of Moms most humorous blogger award.  I could only muster up one shameless self-promotional Facebook status update begging my friends to vote me up the ladder to the status of top mommy jester.  Who the hell was I kidding?  Insert a bar from Carly Simon’s hit, “You’re So Vain.”

And then, it happened.  Blogger Idol.  Sponsored by Little Birdie Social Media, Blogger Idol is an online blogging contest based on the premise of the television show, “American Idol”, where blogging hacks like me compete against each other for prizes and stuff.  I follow last year’s winner Martini’s and Minivans on Facebook.  She would be the Carrie Underwood of Blogger Idol.  “Come on, it’s not too late.”  “I never thought I’d win.”  “Be in the Top 12.”  I was sucked in – again.

According to Sherry Stanfa-Stanley, it’s O.K. to do things out of your comfort zone.  She’s the brilliant mind behind the 52/52 Project.  Sherry is knocking off a list of 52 activities completely out of her comfort zone.  Stuff like getting caught up in a drug bust with the local SWAT team, taking voice lessons, trying out for the reality television show “Survivor”, going camping with the likes of Ted Bundy in the adjacent tent and eating chocolate-covered bugs!  So folks, I guess putting myself out there for a blogging contest isn’t all that bad.  Why not?

Quite frankly, I love to blog.  I haven’t been blogging much lately because I’ve been writing articles for my local newspaper.  I always thought the pinnacle of writing was getting a byline.  Lois Lane, Pulitzer-prize winning stuff.  However, a byline can’t replace the empowerment of blogging – the thrill of freestyle story telling and interacting with the world just by pressing the “Publish” button is just pure bliss.

So, go like Blogger Idol on Facebook and tell them you’d like to see The Laughing Mom make an ass out of herself – again.  It promises to be very entertaining.

Celebrating One Year Of Blogging

Great storytellers are hard to find. Taking the time to write words that simply make people smile is so underrated. We need more Funny Sister’s in the world.

funnysister

My blog and I are celebrating one year of Worpress-ed bliss. It is our “paper” anniversary, even though this has been a paperless  year for the two of us.

You might say our union was arranged… by a handful of people. A few friends encouraged me to get out there and…write. (Yah, right. No way.) 

My birthday sister and good friend Terri, over at The Laughing Mom had the perfect set-up for me. We’d double date and cruise the blogosphere together.

My Mother unknowingly did the final match-making. Last summer during a trip to my hometown, I enjoyed several visits with her. For the first time, I saw beauty amid the ugliness of her dementia.

It was the inspiration for Sweetie Pie, my first post, which wrote itself in my head. I hooked up with WordPress and hit the publish button.

Terri, The Laughing Mom, is a brilliant and funny writer with…

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Fifty, Fuzzy and Fabulous

“Really? I still feel 16.”

That’s what my brain said to my body the morning of my 50th birthday.

Most of the time, it’s hard to remember I’m half a century old.  It’s hell to have peach fuzz on my brain and above my upper lip.

Sure, a lot has changed over the years.

In 1963, a hamburger, fries and a coke from McDonald’s cost 45 cents.  A gallon of gas cost 26 cents and a pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes cost 20 cents.  Jan and Dean were at the top of the charts with a squeaky-clean beach hit, “Surf City USA.”

Now, fast food and cigarettes are on the death list, a full tank of gas costs a week’s pay in 1963 and Robin Thick is at the top of the Billboard chart with a catchy misogynistic tune that requires censoring.

My, how times have changed.

When the young neighbor stops and smiles as he picks up his Sunday morning paper it’s more of a “She reminds me of my Great Aunt Ruth” glance instead of a “Hey, it’s that hot MILF from up the street” sighting.

Still, something happened when that 50 switch turned on.  It’s like a big power-surge of all the knowledge I’ve gained from living 50 years on earth.  A Phoenix rising from the ashes…the sun peering out of a dense, gray fog…

That’s right, my boobs dropped and my brain grew!

Yes!  I’m finally smart enough to have a pair of readers in every room.

Who knew despite a memory that may be getting slightly more fuzzy, orthopedic sensible shoes are now flanking a powerhouse of confidence, keen insight and great wisdom.

I’ve endured vegetable Jello molds from the 60’s, itchy polyester from the 70’s, bad perms from the 80’s, scrunchies from the 90’s and digital over-drive from the 2000’s.

I miraculously dropped my last egg, gave birth and mastered menopause in the same decade.

I am woman, hear me roar – and sweat and cry and roar some more!

According to my tween daughter, I’m now resourceful.

“Hey mom, we need to use your old-lady AARP card at the arcade so we can get a discount and play more games.”

To celebrate the big day, my sisters and my mom treated me to a fancy lunch and a facial. Though I think the facial was a ruse to discreetly have the peach fuzz waxed over my lip.

My sister-in-law sent me a lovely fruit basket with the numbers 2 and 1 carved out in pineapple.

Yet when it comes right down to it, I’d rather be 50 than 21.  That is, I’d rather have my mind at 50 with my ass at 21.

Damn It Lillie and the Play Group Intervention

Christmas cookies baked with loving hands and paws.

We have a set of Irish Twins in our family.  Only, one has two legs and strawberry blonde hair and the other has strawberry blonde hair, four legs, a tail and is named Lillie.

“How come I only have a dog for a sister?” is the question asked on a regular basis by the two-legged child.

The two are nine-months apart in age.  Sure, we were living the American dream with a cute little golden retriever puppy and a baby on the way.  Only the cute little puppy ate her way through the house the way a gopher tunnels through a bountiful garden.

Despite the carnage, our four-legged child was a huge source of entertainment for the two-legged child.

“Let’s play eat the baby’s socks.”

“Now, let’s play take the baby’s shirt off while she giggles incessantly.”

“And, let’s play gnaw on a raw hide bone loudly every night in the nursery while we listen to mommy read, Guess How Much I Love You.”

Our two golden peas in a pod were the cat’s meow until the two-legged child squatted in the neighbor’s lawn during an evening stroll mirroring the four-legged child relieving herself as only canine’s do.

The two-legged child even learned how to table surf as she crawled onto the top of the counter to snatch a piece of pizza.

One of my biggest fears was that my toddler daughter would grow up thinking her name was “Damn it Lillie!”

In the best interest of socializing an only child and saving her from a life as Romulus and Remus, I succumbed to the play group for some two-legged child to two-legged child interaction.

It took me 35 years and hundreds of first and last dates to finally tie-the-knot, so the mere mention of the word, “date” sent shrills up my spine as I’m not exactly a social creature.

Play groups are an interesting phenomenon.

Long ago, in a land far away, when home-keeping ruled, children roamed the neighborhood in packs.  Dolls were played in the morning, lunch was in the backyard where the pack landed, bikes were ridden in the afternoon and kick-the-can or ghost in the graveyard was played until dark – or until mom and dad finished cocktail hour with the neighbors.

Times changed, women found a new independence in birth control pills, burned their bras and turned them in for brief cases and very tall corporate ladders.  The new, improved organized mother was born along with the play date.

Not unlike my many socially awkward “dates,”  it was like pulling teeth to get my two-legged child to interact with the other play group participants.

As she remained clamped to my leg, another bad habit gleaned from the four-legged child, I engaged in mompetion-type conversations  comparing walking, talking, toilet-training and toddler MENSA test scores as she observed how two-legged children behave.

A play date was considered a success if my two-legged child didn’t eat someone else’s socks, scoot her behind on the carpet or God forbid, bite someone.

Almost a decade later, the two are inseparable as ever.  The toddler has grown into a civilized tween who no longer table surfs and is responsible enough to walk, feed and nurture the four-legged child.

Damn it Lillie – you both grew up way too fast.

Fore The Love of Family

There is a new Superdad versus Supermom challenge in our house – teaching our tween daughter how to play golf.

Some may defer to the more experienced person with the most tournament tags and expensive fancy golf clubs – let’s call him dad.  While others may defer to the most patient person even though her time capsule-like golf bag, circa 1993 hasn’t seen the light of day since giving birth to a person of Earth  – we’ll call her mom.

Regardless, golf is a great sport that the entire family can participate in together regardless of age or athletic ability, which is a bonus when there is a 40-year age gap between participants.  It’s also a sport that can be played throughout a lifetime, unlike gymnastics and cheerleading.

The hardest part of playing golf is learning the course etiquette.  Quite frankly, it is very difficult to remember the correct traffic pattern for the cart, acceptable noise level, rules for playing through and even wardrobe restrictions, which thankfully are few on the small public course we play.

Despite all the fanfare and stuffiness, there’s nothing like being outside on a beautiful day and solving life’s problems during a round of golf with your buddies.

To me, it’s amazing that certain individuals have better manners on the golf course than at the dinner table – we’ll call them the family.

The usual act of throwing a crumpled napkin on a dinner plate while screaming, “I’m done” just as mom sits down to eat gives way to “no one leaves the green until we are all done.”

It’s an environment where it’s not just mom and dad calling the shots, but an opportunity for our daughter to offer her insight on form and ask questions like, “Why does daddy keep talking to himself after he hits the ball?”  Or, “mommy, you are hunched over like a sunflower – a sad, droopy sunflower.”

It’s also a learn as you go sport.  Who knew World War III would start when I accidentally hit my husband’s ball.  Titleist 3, 4, 5…does it really matter?

Road rage also gives way to kind gestures of letting faster players move ahead.  Flipping birds turn into gentle waves motioning players forward from a dad who is only too proud to boast about his young daughter hitting the green for the first time.

Only to have the dad hit a fantastic shot and absent-mindlessly scream, “Go you @#*$&,” and have to explain golf Tourette’s syndrome to his “sugar and spice and everything nice.”

Patience may have prevailed during this challenge, however, according to our daughter, her ruffled ankle socks brought all the luck to her game.

A Cougar with Benefits

It’s been haunting me for almost 365 days.

Everytime I look at a blank wall, I see a gigantic shadowy “5-0” staring back at me.

Really, what’s the big deal about turning 50?  Clifford the Big Red Dog, Amelia Bedelia and Denny’s are all blowing out 50 big ones this year.

I was just getting used to the idea, and then I got a piece of official mail from Washington, D.C. that read, “DO NOT Bend.”

Nothing says, “Happy Birthday Blue Hair, welcome to the club!” more effectively than receiving an official AARP membership card in the mail.

Holy sh*t.  Is it really possible to suddenly transition from Baby Center Updates to AARP Bulletin Updates in the same decade?  It’s very surreal.

According to the letter from the AARP Director of Membership, for only $16 a year, I get a plethora of benefits including lots of discounts, a fancy magazine about old famous farts as well as representation in Washington and all 50 states fighting for my new best interests – a.k.a. old guys in red, white and blue suspenders who buy congress people a discounted steak, baked potato and a couple of rounds of bourbon to keep social security and medicare afloat.

And the best part, my spouse gets a free membership to all the fun!

Which would be totally awesome if he were an elderly like myself only he’s a self-professed “young buck” in his forties.

So I broke the news to him.

Hey honey, guess what – you are now an honorary member of AARP, just like me!

I don’t want to be an AARP member.  Isn’t that kind of like saying, “Congratulations, you’re now King of the Dip Sh*ts.  No one wants to be King of the Dip Sh*ts.”

O.K., so he’s not that excited now, but come time for that 49% discount on popcorn and soda at the movies, he’ll be purring praises for his cougar with benefits.

It’s not all pills and prunes.  If I buy three concert tickets, I get the fourth free!

And no, Lawrence Welk is not coming to town.

My daughter thinks the card is a pass to go into a retirement home.

No honey, it means we get discounts – at places like Disneyland!

I didn’t tell her it’s more like discounts for mobility devices, cat food and orthopedic shoes.

And the best part, I get a free travel case just for joining.

Only the travel case isn’t even big enough to hold a Depends or my rather large supply of anti-wrinkle creams.

Clifford should be happy, there is a discount for dog bones.

And for me, “the power to make it better” is a free donut from Dunkin Donuts with the purchase of a large cup of coffee.

A perfect prelude for my AARP freebie – fast acting Level Life glucose gel.

Celebrating 14 Years of Marriage at the Ivory Tower

It’s only appropriate that the traditional wedding anniversary gift for 14 years of marriage is ivory.

For this year, we will be celebrating at the office together.

Refuge.  Respite.  Asylum.  Escape.  My workplace.

I love my job and I love being in the office.

It’s quiet, cozy, warmly lit with household table lamps and often the sound of classical music plays in the background.

No barking dog, no Disney Channel blaring and no one screaming, “feed me woman” every five minutes.

After several years spent as a stay-at-home mom, my part-time job is a wonderful retreat.

So what happens to that retreat when your real husband becomes your work spouse?

My husband and I are not employed by the same company, however, we are now sharing the same office space.

It’s kind of like our wedding reception when all our worlds collided – family, high school friends, college friends and now co-workers.

Prior to our first day in the office together, a few ground rules were set.  No bickering, no insults.  Only professionalism at it’s finest.

So our first encounter involved my husband arriving at my cubicle while I was completely bent over plugging in my computer.

What normally would have resulted in a playful faux cowboy complete with a white-man’s overbite and him waving  an invisible lasso, resulted in a look of missed opportunity with hands raised in the air.

The proverbial elephant in the room.

Sharing an office has been smooth sailing so far.

Yet, will our marriage meet an untimely demise like Sonny and Cher?

As long as I keep my navel covered, we’ll all be better off in the long run.

Will we laugh it off like Lucille Ball and Dezi Arnaz?  He still loved Lucy despite their divorce.

Will we make sweet music like The Captain and Tennille?

Or will our “Muskrat Love” cause us to drop off the charts?

Can we stand the test of time like Roy Rogers and Dale Evans?

I wonder if Roy ever got Dale in a faux cowboy in the studio.

Perhaps I’ll just continue to play the role of his dim-witted blonde wife like Gracie Allen did for George Burns.  It’s really not a stretch.

Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head survived the making of three Toy Story movies despite several jokes about junk in the trunk.

Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog stayed together throughout her rise to fame.

It ain’t easy be’in green with envy.

Paul McCartney put Linda in the band simply because he enjoyed her company.

Will we always really like each other that much?

Barbie and Ken stayed together throughout numerous career changes by Barbie from Astronaut to Zoo Keeper.

Is Ken that easy-going because he’s a mimbo?

History seems to be in our favor.

So does the fact that there is a long, long hallway between offices.

Behold The Superpower of the Father-Daughter Bond

After years of being the top nurturer, playmate, errand co-pilot and snuggler to our little person of Earth, Supermom has been overtaken.

The weapon is more powerful than kryptonite or a magic lasso.

Few would ever suspect that an unassuming dad who is regularly dressed in a business suit and loafers or a t-shirt and shorts, could be powerful enough to overcome the words, “I want mommy!”

Behold!

It’s the unbreakable superpower of the Father-Daughter bond possessed only by Superdad.

Even though Supermom has ruled on the planet “Cling-on” for years, Superdad would predict, “It’s only a matter of time until I’m the favorite.  There’s nothing more powerful than the Father-Daughter bond.”

That time has come.

I don’t know why I ever denied this superpower since I have the same bond with my own Superdad.

We enjoy one another’s company without bickering and offering unsolicited advice.

We actually LISTEN to each other.

I knew our daughter had been overtaken by the Father-Daughter bond after observing a change in her behavior.

She started watching the college women’s world series championship game over and over again, rooting for her father’s alma mater.

More time was spent in the Man Cave, not playing with her toys, but watching SportsCenter along with making demands like, “Hey mom, why don’t you dish us up a couple of bowls of ice cream and pour us a couple glasses of milk and bring it down.”

After witnessing that adoring grin on her face that stretches from ear to ear when she is holding her dad’s hand, I knew it was the end of an era.

The end of my rule on the planet “Cling-on.”

So with respect, I hand over my rule to Superdad on this Father’s Day weekend and accept my new role to our person of Earth.

At least Superdog still likes me best, which just may be the next Supermom vs. Superdad challenge in our house.

The Godfather Gardner

Deadly Nighshade

“Hey honey, let me show you how much I love you by placing this Deadly Nightshade behind your ear.”

That was the message when my better-half made a romantic gesture by putting what he thought was a lilac in my hair.  Only the lilac turned out to be a poisonous weed named Atropa Belladonna from the Greek derivative meaning, “to cut the thread of life.”

It wasn’t really his fault.

The weed, also known as “witches berry,” is intermingled with the lilac bushes in our front yard.

I’m certain he wasn’t trying to poison me – on purpose.

Maybe the motivator was that Halloween sign that hangs in the garage year-round that says, “The witch is in.”

For someone who prides them self on cutting and managing a beautiful meticulous lawn, he is somewhat lacking in knowledge about garden flowers.

Every year, my clematis are cut down just at the peak of Spring as their silky leaves are starting to bloom.

When I ask, “Don’t you know what a clematis is?”

I get the same joking response every time.

“I thought I got rid of that in college.”

However, this year, he went a bit too far by over-zealously trimming our lilac bushes just prior to their bloom, which means no perfectly pale purple flowers that smell like heaven.

So how do I solve this gardening dilemma?

There is no way in hell he will ever sign up for a master gardener class or watch past episodes of The Victory Garden on PBS.

The only hope is if the topic of gardening was woven into The Sopranos or The Godfather.

Clearly, it’s not just my man who watches mafia movies over and over again just for sh*ts and giggles.

When women want a pick-me-up, we turn to romantic comedies or musicals.

Not the male species.

Something needs to get whacked in order to get the old adrenaline going.

I’d prefer it not be my precious flowers.

Apparently, there was a character named Gardner Shaw who was the boyfriend and later husband of Francesca Corleone in Mario Puzo’s The Godfather II, directed by Francis Ford Coppola.  Of course, Gardner Shaw’s scene was deleted from the movie.

If only he’d been a professional gardener…maybe I’d have my lilacs today.

While The Sopranos did “manage” a lawn care company during one of their seasons, the episodes never mentioned one flower.

What a pity.

Surely David Chase, the brilliant creator of  The Sopranos is looking for a new project, as I read he was suffering from writer’s block.

Mr. Chase and Mr. Coppola, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse…

“The Godfather Gardener.”

Gardening is full of mafia symbolism.

What about those ant mafia’s that invade the garden?

There’s plenty of gang warfare with the aphids and their honeydew vs. the ants that eat the honeydew and bite the wings right off those poor little guys.

Sounds like a botanical Paulie Walnuts to me.

What better location for a sit down than the local gardening club meeting.

Need to collect a payment?  How about some freshly harvested fruits and veggies.

And those cute little garden fairies?   They would give new, respectful meaning to the term, Goomah.

What would a mafia movie be like without digging up some dirt?  There are plenty of shovels, spades and hoes in the field of gardening.

Whacking?  Can you say, “Weed Whacker?”

There’s even poison.  Unless you go organic and just use your bare hands.

I’d say the composition of the flower arrangements at all those funerals for “members of the family” are just as important as the big manila envelopes loaded with green bills that are stuffed in lapel pockets as a token of sympathy.

There may be hope yet.

The Godfather series director, Francis Ford Coppola has a Food and Wine gift basket offered on FTD – FLOWERS, Plants and Gifts.

And, David Chase does have a house in France.  Can you say, “Mobs of the Monet Garden?”

In the words of Clematis (Clemenza) to Rosebud (Rocco), “Leave the lilacs…take the cannoli.”

Flashing the Congregation with Some Hot Cross Buns

“Hey mom, is that your wedding dress?”

That’s the question I got this morning from my young daughter who has rarely seen me wear a dress.

Quite simply, because I don’t like to wear dresses.

Fifty years, a nine-month stint carrying a human being inside of me and several hundred varicose veins later, my pegs don’t exactly scream Betty Grable.

Hence, I mostly wear pants.  Unless of course, all my pants are buried in a pile of dirty clothes, like today.

So this morning I dusted off my only Spring-like linen, crisply pleated dress to wear for a special youth church choir performance in celebration of the Pentecost.

The children’s choir is actually one of my daughter’s favorite extracurricular activities.

I like it too because there aren’t too many activities that focus on kindness, being gentle and loving.

A sharp contrast to the youth soccer game this weekend when my daughter was slammed in the chest by a ball kicked by a 4th grade girl who was built like former football defensive tackle Rosie Grier.

A walking public service announcement against feeding your children meat and milk with added growth hormones.

I digress…

Wearing a dress is an art and an exercise in acting like a lady.

I even managed to avoid flashing the congregation while kneeling during communion and remembered to keep my legs crossed while sitting in the pews.

Really quite a challenge for a chronic pants wearer.

Any way, I was feeling pretty good about myself while drapped in my lovely linen dress.

I imagined myself sashaying and twirling down the halls singing, “Good morning, good morning” from Sing’in in the Rain.

And then the large iced coffee I consumed from Mickey D’s an hour earlier forced a pit stop to the Ladies Room.

As I re-entered the stream of church goers, more congregants than usual were smiling at me.

Was it my beautiful dress?

My elegant Ginger Rogers stride?

Suddenly, a man screamed, “Jesus Christ!”

Obviously, not an unusual sound given the setting, however, I’d heard this particular scream hundreds of times before.

It was my husband who must have been daydreaming during the “don’t say the Lord’s name in vain” part of the sermon.

As indiscreetly as possible, he yanked the back of my lovely pleated linen dress out of my girdle-like granny panties.

That’s right, I just flashed the congregation.

I decided just to explain my Pentecostal posterior by telling people I was playing Rahab, the town prostitute in the reenactment.

Let’s just say the Pentecost flag was not the only thing that was fiery red in the church, add my face red with embarrassment.

Not only have I flashed my jugs in church, now, I can add flashing some hot cross buns to the list.