At first glance, I thought the guy looked weird. We were matched via one of the match.com automatic match generation dealios. After a couple of email notes back and forth and a conversation on the phone, he asked me if I wanted to meet. His name was gadget65 and, although I wanted to say no, I said yes.
Why did I want to say no? Because he sounded lazy on the phone. And I'm sorry people, but the voice matters! Please understand that I'm not super spunky myself, but I can muster energy and/or interest when it matters. And don't you agree that dating is a time where energy and/or interest matters? Speak to impress! Stand up, look in the mirror, smile while you're talking! Have you never heard of that?
I pretended it was a good idea and we agreed to meet in the breezeway at Champp's in Woodbury at 5:00. Who do you think arrived five minutes early? Uh that would be me. When I got there I checked the bar area for someone who looked like a 'gadget65' (God help me). It IS possible for people who are INTERESTED to show up someplace early. Well, he wasn't early and had I been smart, I would have left then and there. Expedition over. But instead, I reminded myself that I was early, after all, and took a seat in the breezeway.
From the moment I sat down I gawked at every single person who came up to or through the door. And for nearly every single male I saw, I prayed to God (I think out loud a couple times even) that it wouldn't be Inspector Gadget. God I promise to go to church on Sunday if you let that NOT be him. In fact, I'll go on Saturday too.
One time an odd-looking character parked a small pick-up at the curb and came inside. He had thin, stringy, grayish-blond hair that fell between his shoulders and his ears. He had a scruffy beard and icky eyes that he looked at me with. I was sure this was Inspector Gadget. Even though the photos I'd seen looked nothing like this guy, I managed to convince myself that it was him.
He ogled around and then grabbed a free community paper and walked out. Thank you God, I will for SURE see you this Sunday.
By this time it was 5:10 or so. And as far as I was concerned, 10 minutes was plenty long enough to wait. So I left. If he was going to be late, he should have called -- my CELL phone. I'd given him the number for crying out loud. Are there any astute (and if I HAVE to say it, single) men out there? I'm beginning to wonder.
As it turns out, he'd left a message on my home v-mail that his son was sick so he wasn't able to make it. I mean, kids DO get sick and we can't HELP it when our kids get sick, right? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and agreed to another meeting, but mostly because my friend urged me to (I'm beginning to wonder about the definition of friend too, btw). We agreed that he would call me on Sunday after he'd taken his son to a movie around 2:00 and then we'd meet around 3:00 or so. It sounded simple to me. Not too many instructions to follow all at once. Simple enough that even a man could do it.
Guess what? You're right, he didn't call. What a complete moron! Where do these people come from? Wherever it is, they need to go back.
I told this story to a Don Juan friend of mine and he said I should never give a guy a second chance.
Really?
I thought I was being kind, loving and understanding by giving the complete moron dufus the benefit of the doubt. And I'd want someone to do the same for me. (Did you hear that God? I live by the Golden Rule.) But this advice came pretty much straight from the horse's mouth. Men are a different species that do not deserve second chances.
Duly noted!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Happy Birthday
I can't believe you turn 21 today. Seems like only yesterday I was projectile vomiting all over the hospital bed just hours before you were born into this world.
I remember the day. June 7, 1992...
Although you were planned, you were also a bit of a surprise. It was a Sunday morning, two weeks before your due date, and my water broke unexpectedly while I was on the toilet. I went to Dad's side of the bed to wake him up. I simply said, "My water broke."
He was surprised as you can imagine, and he said to me, "Shu'dup."
But I didn’t shut up. This was the real deal. My water had broken two weeks early. So we called the doctor to see what we needed to do -- this was new to us. I ate something per the doctor’s instructions and laid back down on my side, but still didn't feel you moving. We worried a bit and called the doc again and then went to the hospital (frankly I don't remember which hospital, please forgive me.)
We were admitted to Whatever Hospital and I was dressed in a hospital gown and lying in bed. The nurse (or someone) handed me a pair of tiny mesh underwear. Dad held them up in the air and said (in prime Dad fashion), "Cut me some serious slack."
But I put them on. I guess mesh underwear must be easy to tear off in an emergency or something? No idea why they were mesh or why I was not allowed to simply wear NO undies. At that point, vanity wasn't really an issue. Wearing mesh undies and still not feeling you moving inside me, I was given some orange juice to stir things up in my belly. Someone also gave me some sort of shot (again the details escape me. I have no idea what kind of shot it was) and told us to go for a walk. Dad and I walked the hospital halls, as instructed.
Sure enough, after only a short walk, labor pains started. Suddenly I was uber tired and I just wanted to lie down. Truly I wished I could lie down and go to sleep and have someone wake me up when it was all over (kind of similar to how I felt last week when I was at the dentist). But that didn't happen. I was awake the whole damn time.
I don't remember a ton about the day. I do remember, however, being naked in the shower, sitting on a plastic bench with warm, relaxing water pouring down over me. At first it was calming. But the second time the nurses instructed me to get in the shower to sooth my labor pains, it was very UN-calming. I must have gotten dressed at that point and was put back into bed because (here's the vomit part) I sat up in the hospital bed and projectile vomited. Dad freaked, and later he described it to me as a scene straight out of the Exorcist. He went out of the room telling anyone who would listen, "She's throwing up!"
A nurse came in pronto to change the sheets -- she wanted to change the sheets with me still in the bed, which I thought was weird. I was thinking to myself, I can stand up, for goodness sakes. So I got out of the bed and she expertly put on the new sheets. They insisted that my throwing up had nothing to do with the shot they had given me. Right. It's not like I was pregnant AND had the flu.
Before I knew it, there were all sorts of hospital-type folks in the room looking at my hoo haa. My doctor wasn't there and I sincerely apologize Sweetheart, but I have no idea the name of the doctor who delivered you. As far as I'm concerned, it was me! Everyone and everything in the room was a complete blur and I didn't care who was staring at my crotch at that point. I do, however, distinctly remember a nurse standing next to me with a clip board and two pens taped together, one red and one blue. I assumed she was color-coding her notes. Color coding is always a good idea. But I prefer to use highlighter markers instead of pens to color-code my work. I also prefer to change sheets WITHOUT people in the bed.
One thing I remember is that one of the screams that came out of my mouth was terribly guttural (probably sounded like something "straight out of the Exorcist" again), and Dad tried to calm me by saying. "It's OK. I know how you feel."
Bless his dumb little heart. I said, "NO YOU DON'T."
I'm pretty sure that Dad didn't say much after that. And then, get this, the doctor had the audacity to say, "Baby's head is crowning. Do you want to feel it?"
"Feel it?" I thought. Give me one good reason why a person would think I can't feel "Baby's head crowning." I calmly said to her, "I. CAN. FEEL. IT."
Before I knew it though, you were born. And someone handed you to me. I loved you immediately, despite the pain and despite the nurses thrusting on my stomach to get the placenta out and despite all the complete idiots that were in the room with us! You were an easy delivery (as far as I'm concerned ANY delivery is not easy when you're pushing seven pounds of human being out of your crotch). But I would do it all over again if I could have another you. I am very, very lucky and very, very blessed!
Happy Birthday! Lucas, you are the brightest bulb on my Christmas tree. Shine on!
I love you!
Love,
Mom
I remember the day. June 7, 1992...
Although you were planned, you were also a bit of a surprise. It was a Sunday morning, two weeks before your due date, and my water broke unexpectedly while I was on the toilet. I went to Dad's side of the bed to wake him up. I simply said, "My water broke."
He was surprised as you can imagine, and he said to me, "Shu'dup."
But I didn’t shut up. This was the real deal. My water had broken two weeks early. So we called the doctor to see what we needed to do -- this was new to us. I ate something per the doctor’s instructions and laid back down on my side, but still didn't feel you moving. We worried a bit and called the doc again and then went to the hospital (frankly I don't remember which hospital, please forgive me.)
We were admitted to Whatever Hospital and I was dressed in a hospital gown and lying in bed. The nurse (or someone) handed me a pair of tiny mesh underwear. Dad held them up in the air and said (in prime Dad fashion), "Cut me some serious slack."
But I put them on. I guess mesh underwear must be easy to tear off in an emergency or something? No idea why they were mesh or why I was not allowed to simply wear NO undies. At that point, vanity wasn't really an issue. Wearing mesh undies and still not feeling you moving inside me, I was given some orange juice to stir things up in my belly. Someone also gave me some sort of shot (again the details escape me. I have no idea what kind of shot it was) and told us to go for a walk. Dad and I walked the hospital halls, as instructed.
Sure enough, after only a short walk, labor pains started. Suddenly I was uber tired and I just wanted to lie down. Truly I wished I could lie down and go to sleep and have someone wake me up when it was all over (kind of similar to how I felt last week when I was at the dentist). But that didn't happen. I was awake the whole damn time.
I don't remember a ton about the day. I do remember, however, being naked in the shower, sitting on a plastic bench with warm, relaxing water pouring down over me. At first it was calming. But the second time the nurses instructed me to get in the shower to sooth my labor pains, it was very UN-calming. I must have gotten dressed at that point and was put back into bed because (here's the vomit part) I sat up in the hospital bed and projectile vomited. Dad freaked, and later he described it to me as a scene straight out of the Exorcist. He went out of the room telling anyone who would listen, "She's throwing up!"
A nurse came in pronto to change the sheets -- she wanted to change the sheets with me still in the bed, which I thought was weird. I was thinking to myself, I can stand up, for goodness sakes. So I got out of the bed and she expertly put on the new sheets. They insisted that my throwing up had nothing to do with the shot they had given me. Right. It's not like I was pregnant AND had the flu.
Before I knew it, there were all sorts of hospital-type folks in the room looking at my hoo haa. My doctor wasn't there and I sincerely apologize Sweetheart, but I have no idea the name of the doctor who delivered you. As far as I'm concerned, it was me! Everyone and everything in the room was a complete blur and I didn't care who was staring at my crotch at that point. I do, however, distinctly remember a nurse standing next to me with a clip board and two pens taped together, one red and one blue. I assumed she was color-coding her notes. Color coding is always a good idea. But I prefer to use highlighter markers instead of pens to color-code my work. I also prefer to change sheets WITHOUT people in the bed.
One thing I remember is that one of the screams that came out of my mouth was terribly guttural (probably sounded like something "straight out of the Exorcist" again), and Dad tried to calm me by saying. "It's OK. I know how you feel."
Bless his dumb little heart. I said, "NO YOU DON'T."
I'm pretty sure that Dad didn't say much after that. And then, get this, the doctor had the audacity to say, "Baby's head is crowning. Do you want to feel it?"
"Feel it?" I thought. Give me one good reason why a person would think I can't feel "Baby's head crowning." I calmly said to her, "I. CAN. FEEL. IT."
Before I knew it though, you were born. And someone handed you to me. I loved you immediately, despite the pain and despite the nurses thrusting on my stomach to get the placenta out and despite all the complete idiots that were in the room with us! You were an easy delivery (as far as I'm concerned ANY delivery is not easy when you're pushing seven pounds of human being out of your crotch). But I would do it all over again if I could have another you. I am very, very lucky and very, very blessed!
Happy Birthday! Lucas, you are the brightest bulb on my Christmas tree. Shine on!
I love you!
Love,
Mom
The Dating Game
Contrary to popular belief, being single (read: divorced) at 44 isn't so bad. I love having my own time and doing my own thing. I wake up and go to bed whenever I want. I hardly spend any time at the grocery store because I can find a satisfying dinner when my refrigerator is practically empty. Cheese and crackers with a glass of wine makes a great dinner. Oh who am I kidding? Cheese and crackers with a bottle of wine makes a great dinner.
An unmade bed is acceptable and dusting the living room with a Kleenex is all right. No one complains about anything I do. But when you need someone to fix the broken microwave, hang a closet door, sweep the garage or take out the trash...or you know, to kill spiders and boxelder bugs, it would be nice to have a guy around to do it. And fine, I admit it sure would be nice to look at the evening sky with someone special or share wine together, or hold hands and feel tingly.
So, sap that I am, I joined match.com. For the first couple of weeks, I checked the pictures and profiles all the time, and I sent a few email notes to guys I thought might be nice to meet. But there never seemed to be a connection. One guy said he found it "sexy" when a woman makes the first move (which I had done). He thought I was appealing and attractive but he wasn't interested in me. Well, smoke another one, buddy. Who do you think YOU are? Prince Charming? I'm sexy, appealing and attractive but you're not interested? OK, I wish you luck in your search (that's the stock language on match.com).
Match.com offers automatically generated "top matches," "daily 5" and you can "wink" at other members to express your interest (instead of writing an email, but I prefer a man that can construct a complete sentence). After several winks from guys that were clearly not matches (I mean did they even read my profile at all?! I said I eat SALAD, not three cheeseburgers and a super size fry!), I'd had enough. It kills me when a match comes automatically with the automatically generated match information, "Like you, he's not a smoker," or "Both of you enjoy baseball."
It should say, "Like you and 40 million other people..."
Come ON! That's not a match. So I've given up. Now I use my match.com membership to make fun of people. Bad? I don't think so. Can you really blame me? (Correct answer: no.) I mean, when a guy picks a name like CecilDragon, SheGuns or ThisDogStillHunts for his username, what do you expect? He's asking for it. And you can count on me to dish it out. I'm not gonna sit home on a Friday night and pity myself for not having someone to hold hands with. I'll make fun of his ass all night.
SheGuns? What does that even mean? I was very clear in my profile that I'm interested in MEN, not burly women who look like Chyna! And for goodness sake, ThisDogStillHunts. Really? Not in these woods, buddy. Then you've got LeftWingLoon, LoudPipes, BigDaddySugar and MadeInJapan. I mean that is just too much information.
...and then there's Tedlicious...
I am SO done.
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Day at the Zoo
It's called the zoo for a reason.
The first thing I saw as Mac and I were parking the car in the Dolphin Lot at the Minnesota Zoo this morning was a woman wearing a short, see-through white skirt, pink thong underwear and brown, suede-ish, high-heeled boots. The good thing about this? I no longer feel like white trash. What EVER was I thinking wearing tennis shoes, jeans and a t-shirt?
There weren't many cars in the Dolphin Lot, but there were several school buses and hundreds, if not thousands, of school kids. I have a new found respect for elementary school teachers and parents who chaperon. I also have a new found respect for parents of 6-year-old boys who come ill-equipped with indoor voices.
Mac and I started our zoo visit outside looking at the monkeys. I think they were actually orangutans but any sort of monkey-looking animal was a monkey to us. Since Mac is only two, I figured there's no need to confuse him (and I didn't know the difference either). It was confusing enough for him when I said, "Let's wait our turn."
He loved the monkeys and even said, "Butt" when one climbed the tree near us. No confusion there.
Then we went inside the Tropical Trail, which must have needed to be a tropical temperature to keep the animals feeling like they were in their natural habitat. Holy hell, was it hot! And loud. But I seemed to be the only one sweating from every crevasse in my body. The heat (and noise) didn't bother the 6-year-old boy next to me at the lemur cage who kept screeching "LEMUR! LEMUR! LEMUR! LEMUR!"
Jeeze kid, I'm not deaf. Er...I wasn't three minutes ago. I might be now!
We also looked at the turtles, flamingos, fish and a couple other tropical animals before I could take the heat no longer and found our way out of Tropical Trail, seemingly against the natural traffic flow.
The breeze and temperature outside were perfect for a day at the zoo (if there is such a thing). We walked the path and saw ostrich, giraffes, wild boar, caribou, moose, horses, zebras, prairie dogs. Tons of animals that I'd never thought of seeing. It really was interesting. The wild boar smelled like shit. And I really was beginning to feel like we should head in the direction of the Dolphin Lot. After all we'd been there for almost two hours. That's quite a long time for a two-year-old and a sweating, hungry woman.
At our last stop along the path, we came upon a group of, I assume, first graders. I only assume this because we were looking at "BUFFALO! BUFFALO! BUFFALO! BUFFALO!"
Do all 6-year-olds shriek no matter what?
We continued to head toward the Dolphin Lot. I neglected to recognize on our way into the lot that there is sort of an upper and lower Dolphin Lot. I also forgot that there would be about SIX THOUSAND more cars in the Dolphin Lot than when we arrived (at the same time as white trash, pink thong mother and family).
We managed to find the car after meandering in both upper and lower lots. I got Mac strapped into his car seat, got the stroller folded down and put it in the back. I put the camera and diaper bag in the car and thought for just a second about taking a teeny weeny cat nap before the ride home. And at that very moment, I thanked God that I don't have any toddlers of my own, or any 6-year-old boys who are indoor-voice-challenged.
Honestly though, seeing Mac's big blue eyes close slowly on the ride home made the madness and profuse sweating all worth while. A sleeping baby is a precious baby -- until you need to wake him up for lunch.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Cruel World
I just looked in the mirror (no I'm not going anywhere, I just looked, OK?) and noticed my sort of less-than-gigantic earring was making my earlobe sag! What is UP with that!?!
Another joy of aging, no doubt.
I do feel it is necessary to point out that to date, I've been OK with the change in my eyesight, the need for cheater glasses (cuz let's face it ladies, some of those glasses are cuter than we are!), tweezing hairs from a mole or two and finding new age spots from time to time. I'm totally OK with wearing age-appropriate swimwear and foiling my hair to cover gray (I only have gray in a couple places, btw).
I've even gotten used to people thinking that I'm my ex-husband's wife's mother. I mean technically I could be. It's fine that people don't think I'm 38 anymore. I'm so OK with being my age that two weeks ago when someone said to me, "I assume you're over 40," I didn't snap back with, "and I assume you want a black eye."
Hot flashes? No problem. Excruciating pain in my shoulder? Ibuprofen is my friend! Weakening wrists? Love it! Aching hip? Bring it on baby!
But come on, as if it's not enough, for heaven's sake that I need to look in the mirror sideways to make sure my Full Coverage Body by Victoria is supporting properly before going out into public. Now you're also telling me being over 40 (44 but we don't need to get boring with all the gory details) means I can no longer wear cute earrings without first having to double check the sagability factor of my earlobes?
It truly is a cruel, cruel world.
Another joy of aging, no doubt.
I do feel it is necessary to point out that to date, I've been OK with the change in my eyesight, the need for cheater glasses (cuz let's face it ladies, some of those glasses are cuter than we are!), tweezing hairs from a mole or two and finding new age spots from time to time. I'm totally OK with wearing age-appropriate swimwear and foiling my hair to cover gray (I only have gray in a couple places, btw).
I've even gotten used to people thinking that I'm my ex-husband's wife's mother. I mean technically I could be. It's fine that people don't think I'm 38 anymore. I'm so OK with being my age that two weeks ago when someone said to me, "I assume you're over 40," I didn't snap back with, "and I assume you want a black eye."
Hot flashes? No problem. Excruciating pain in my shoulder? Ibuprofen is my friend! Weakening wrists? Love it! Aching hip? Bring it on baby!
But come on, as if it's not enough, for heaven's sake that I need to look in the mirror sideways to make sure my Full Coverage Body by Victoria is supporting properly before going out into public. Now you're also telling me being over 40 (44 but we don't need to get boring with all the gory details) means I can no longer wear cute earrings without first having to double check the sagability factor of my earlobes?
It truly is a cruel, cruel world.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Slice of Heaven
It was just a 9-hole par 3 course, but oh what a challenge it was. You'll need to know right away that I have never been much of a golfer (and that is the understatement of the century but let's just go with it for now). I had clubs, but I had no idea why. My husband (we're not married anymore, which had nothing to do with my lack of golf prowess) must have bought them for me with hopes of me gaining interest in the game (or whatever you call it -- sport? I hardly think so).
My idea of a "good round of golf" is driving along in a golf cart with the walkers (I mean golfers) with their clubs and a cooler of beer. And by the way, when I'm driving you'll need to grab the club you need now and the club you'll need for your next shot because if I find a good spot to soak up some rays, you won't see me for a while. I've been known to miss a hole or so. But whatever. Get OVER it already and just use your 1 wood all the time like I do. I've found that it provides the best odds of connecting with the ball.
So anyway, we were golfing on this par 3, right? I can't remember for sure which hole it was on, but I hit the ball (which is a big deal in and of itself) and it sliced to the right. Not just a little slice. It was a humongous slice into the opposite lane thingy (apparently the lanes are called fairways or whatever).
"FORE!" That's what you holler when you want to give all the walkers (I mean golfers) a heads up to watch out for flying balls (sounds like a fun game, right?) Since I was a new "golfer," my husband cut me a little slack and let me hit another ball. And rightly so. I mean what's a golf ball cost anyway? Fifty cents? (Might I remind you that we aren't married anymore?)
Using my 1 wood (can't understand why it's called a "wood" when it's made out of some sort of silver-looking material) I made contact (another big deal) and the ball went left (also known apparently as a hook. Whatever, it went left, OK) into the other fairway. My husband said we should pick up the balls and keep going. I looked at him as if he had a 3rd arm sprouting and said, "Pick them up? They're golf balls! What'd' they cost like fifty cents a piece?! I'm not gonna go pick them up. Just gimme another one."
Speaking of 3rd arms sprouting. He probably could have used a 3rd arm because he carried his bag and my bag, and picked up a few of the foul balls too. Although my bag couldn't have been very heavy -- it only had a few essential clubs (i.e., putter, 1 wood and 5 iron, which I don't consider essential at all!), I'm sure it can't be fun to walk around with two cumbersome bags strapped to your shoulders. But I wouldn't know about that.
And then there was this little pond.
Once when we were there I managed to hit my ball riiiiiiight over it on the first try, which caused issues ever after. I didn't want to hit around the obstacle. I wanted to hit my ball over the obstacle. I mean, isn't my enjoyment worth at least six or seven golf balls? Hand 'em over.
My poor husband (have I mentioned that we're not married anymore?). Sometimes I feel sorry for men. But I will say this; he said that being married to me was like being in heaven. Isn't that sweet? (I'm probably paraphrasing. He might have said something more like he needs to get a new pastor because being married to me isn't what he was told heaven would be like. I just can't remember for sure.)
Anyhew to finish the story. It was a par-3, so before you know it, we were done. But the last hole had a really gigantic tree at the end that managed to catch my ball right between its roots, thereby rendering it hit-less. What? A ball of mine rendered hit-less? So I went to pick it up (all fifty cents worth!) and move it just a little or toss it into the fairway perhaps or somehow get it to a hittable position. When I bent down to grab the stupid ball, a bird shit right on the back of my hand!
That's gotta be a metaphor for something.
My idea of a "good round of golf" is driving along in a golf cart with the walkers (I mean golfers) with their clubs and a cooler of beer. And by the way, when I'm driving you'll need to grab the club you need now and the club you'll need for your next shot because if I find a good spot to soak up some rays, you won't see me for a while. I've been known to miss a hole or so. But whatever. Get OVER it already and just use your 1 wood all the time like I do. I've found that it provides the best odds of connecting with the ball.
So anyway, we were golfing on this par 3, right? I can't remember for sure which hole it was on, but I hit the ball (which is a big deal in and of itself) and it sliced to the right. Not just a little slice. It was a humongous slice into the opposite lane thingy (apparently the lanes are called fairways or whatever).
"FORE!" That's what you holler when you want to give all the walkers (I mean golfers) a heads up to watch out for flying balls (sounds like a fun game, right?) Since I was a new "golfer," my husband cut me a little slack and let me hit another ball. And rightly so. I mean what's a golf ball cost anyway? Fifty cents? (Might I remind you that we aren't married anymore?)
Using my 1 wood (can't understand why it's called a "wood" when it's made out of some sort of silver-looking material) I made contact (another big deal) and the ball went left (also known apparently as a hook. Whatever, it went left, OK) into the other fairway. My husband said we should pick up the balls and keep going. I looked at him as if he had a 3rd arm sprouting and said, "Pick them up? They're golf balls! What'd' they cost like fifty cents a piece?! I'm not gonna go pick them up. Just gimme another one."
Speaking of 3rd arms sprouting. He probably could have used a 3rd arm because he carried his bag and my bag, and picked up a few of the foul balls too. Although my bag couldn't have been very heavy -- it only had a few essential clubs (i.e., putter, 1 wood and 5 iron, which I don't consider essential at all!), I'm sure it can't be fun to walk around with two cumbersome bags strapped to your shoulders. But I wouldn't know about that.
And then there was this little pond.
Once when we were there I managed to hit my ball riiiiiiight over it on the first try, which caused issues ever after. I didn't want to hit around the obstacle. I wanted to hit my ball over the obstacle. I mean, isn't my enjoyment worth at least six or seven golf balls? Hand 'em over.
My poor husband (have I mentioned that we're not married anymore?). Sometimes I feel sorry for men. But I will say this; he said that being married to me was like being in heaven. Isn't that sweet? (I'm probably paraphrasing. He might have said something more like he needs to get a new pastor because being married to me isn't what he was told heaven would be like. I just can't remember for sure.)
Anyhew to finish the story. It was a par-3, so before you know it, we were done. But the last hole had a really gigantic tree at the end that managed to catch my ball right between its roots, thereby rendering it hit-less. What? A ball of mine rendered hit-less? So I went to pick it up (all fifty cents worth!) and move it just a little or toss it into the fairway perhaps or somehow get it to a hittable position. When I bent down to grab the stupid ball, a bird shit right on the back of my hand!
That's gotta be a metaphor for something.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Happy Mothers' Day
I like the Arthur's Jewelers idea of Dad buying a strand of pearls for Mom and the child buying her a matching bracelet for a dollar!
But I wonder if I could modify the idea ever so slightly?
My suggestion for the happiest Mothers' Day in the history of mankind would be if I could, oh, let's just say pay my life insurance bill and my son could pay my credit card bill for a dollar. Or If I could pay my Excel bill (in its entirety, mind you) and my son could pay my car payment for a dollar.
Or best yet would be if I could pay my utility bill and my son could pay my monthly mortgage bill for a dollar (I mean really, do I have to pay this every month?).
Arthur's Jewelers, this would make me the happiest mom ever!
Signed,
An unemployed-in-debt-up-to-her-eyeballs-yet-still-Hopeful Mom
But I wonder if I could modify the idea ever so slightly?
My suggestion for the happiest Mothers' Day in the history of mankind would be if I could, oh, let's just say pay my life insurance bill and my son could pay my credit card bill for a dollar. Or If I could pay my Excel bill (in its entirety, mind you) and my son could pay my car payment for a dollar.
Or best yet would be if I could pay my utility bill and my son could pay my monthly mortgage bill for a dollar (I mean really, do I have to pay this every month?).
Arthur's Jewelers, this would make me the happiest mom ever!
Signed,
An unemployed-in-debt-up-to-her-eyeballs-yet-still-Hopeful Mom
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