…climbed up the water-spout (‘cept in this song it’s really the front of the toilet bowl).

(Oh!  And the spider was NOT itsy bitsy.  It was BIG.  And a disgusting muddy yellow color.)

(Also?  There’s a human in this version of the song.  Who had just pulled down her pants when she spotted said spider moving up the outside of the bowl.  Towards her.  And her bared assets.  So she had to blast outta there like that guy in the horror movie.  You know, the one who has his pants down around his ankles, doing something inappropriate, when the killer comes calling.  And he can’t get away fast enough because he’s stumbling over…uh…his own pants.  With all his most vulnerable bits out in the open.  Yeah.  That one.  ‘Cept instead of stumbling AWAY from the killer, the person in this story is galloping-in-a-hobbled-sort-of-way TOWARDS another bathroom to ‘take care of bidnid’.  And when those drawn to the original bathroom by all the screaming report that there’s no spider to be found, additional skippin’ and hoppin’ ensues due to the worry that somehow the spider is now trapped in the pants-down-around-the-knees.  Or worse yet, clinging to the bared assets!  GAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! )

Ok.  Enough backstory.  Here we go….

The BIG muddy yellow spider

Climbed up the toilet bowl

A woman spotted the spider

And she screamed bloody murder

Then out ran the woman, tripping over her own pants-down-around-her-knees

And the BIG, muddy yellow spider will never climb up the toilet bowl again.  (Because Sonny found it drowned in the bathtub later that night.  To which I say: Good – Die you gravy suckin’ pig!  DIE!!!)

Have I mentioned that I HATE spiders?  And they know it.  So they play this game of chicken with me every chance they get.  I bet ya they even crawl into my mouth when I’m sleeping.

GAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love me some middle lane.

Just wanted to overshare with you that this occurred to me on the way home from the airport after dropping my parents off this morning.  (Thanks for the great visit, Mom & Dad!)

By toodling down the middle lane, you don’t have to get involved in that whole Road Rage Crazy Town happenin’ off to your left.  And you can outsmart the Slow Poke Posse exiting or entering the ramps to your right.  Also?  You get to go a decent enough speed that you feel like you’re making progress.  Accomplishing something.  Not so fast that you’ll be the first one busted should the Fuzz show.  And not so slow that people are blasting past you with their fingers on high.

The old me?  The old me woulduv been the Queen o’ the Passing Lane.  A Fast Lane Freakshow if you know whadImean.  I couldn’t get where I was goin’ FAST enough.  There may have even been a time or two when I lifted my OWN finger as I blew past.  (MAY have been, Mom.  I said MAY have been.  I didn’t say FOR SURE.  Just MAY have been.  There’s a difference.)

The new me?  I love me some middle lane.  Life is SWEET in the middle lane.

But what if this insight is bigger than finally finding my comfort zone on the highway?  What if the HIGHWAY is really a metaphor for LIFE?!?

Life.  Is.  A.  Highway.  In which case…

Life is a highway
I want to ride it all night long
If you’re going my way
I want to drive it all night long

DOO DOO DO DEE DOO!

You KNEW it was comin’ right?  You KNEW I had to do it!  It’s been WAY too long since I trotted out that neat trick.  You may call it a scary glimpse into a disturbed mind-that-translates-everything-into-song-lyrics.  But I call it a neat trick.  And since this is MY blog, what I say goes.  So shut your pie-hole.

And yes.  Yes, technically Tom Cochrane DID release “Life is a Highway” in 1991 on his album Mad, Mad World.   But he most likely WROTE IT in 1989.  Which means I RULE!!!  I rule in the “80’s song for every moment in life” game we play.

I have always ruled.  And I continue to rule.

Ruling.  Ruling.  Still ruling.  Yep, still ruling…

And lest you think this was all a set-up: for the record, I DO actually love me some middle lane.

My mother just reminded me that November 9, 2013 was the TWENTY-FOURTH anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Whoa.  Wait up.  What?!?

The Berlin Wall fell TWENTY-FOUR years ago last week?!?  That’s totally impossible.  Because I was there when it fell, and I’m only twenty-four NOW.  [Ok, maybe not REALLY twenty-four, just MENTALLY twenty-four…but still.  I suppose that old adage about time flying blah, blah, blah is totally true.]

I still have all the pieces of the Wall I got when I was there.  [Well, besides the pieces I gave away as GIFTS!  I mean, come on!  How many times in your life do you get to give away pieces of some ratty-tatty wall as GIFTS?!?  Work it, Girlfriend!)  The pieces I have left are somewhere in the basement.  I’m sure they’re filled with asbestos and e.Coli, but perhaps if I go hunting for them, I’ll find my misplaced job there too?

I’ve always maintained that I didn’t LOSE my job; they TOOK it instead.  The word ‘lose’ connotes a misplacing of my job (perhaps accidentally?) with last year’s Christmas decorations.  Well, it’s almost time to take out the Christmas decorations again, and I’m pretty sure I won’t find my job there.  But maybe I WILL find my job with my pieces of the Berlin Wall??  Maybe??!

You say no?  Well screw you!  AND the horse you rode in on.  Don’t be sooooo negative!  I can’t stand your negative attitude.  Move along.

Move it.

Ok, if you’re not gonna move it, then I’ll tell you one other story about my Berlin Wall days.

My friends and I ‘borrowed’ butter knives from the youth hostel where we were staying – mistakenly thinking that we were going to USE them to CHIP OFF pieces of a CONCRETE asbestos, miner-lung-causing wall that had stood for DECADES.  Yep, with flimsy butter knives.

That didn’t work.  Surprise, surprise.

But you know what did?!  Chatting up the guys we met as we went through Checkpoint Charlie did the trick!  These kindaguys will almost always let you follow them – and at some point they’ll procure a hammer and pick which they will let you borrow.

Then, my friends, you can go to town on the Eastern Bloc!

This Fall-of-the-Berlin-Wall experience has developed into a lifelong philosophy of mine: Celebratory people with sledgehammers ALWAYS get more accomplished than people with borrowed butter knives.  Always.

With a philosophy like that, why WOULDN’T you want to hire me?!?  And if you can’t do that, then at least tell me where you put my job!

I made chicken breasts in a shallot cream sauce the other night for dinner.  Sissy helped me, so she was privy to all the ingredients.  [Hey!  It’s what we stay at homers do!  We make gourmet meals with our daughter-apprentice every night for our family.  Why?  What do YOU make?!?  Don’t roll your eyes at me, Peeps.  I’ll take you DOWN!]

When Sonny and Hubby came home from Sonny’s wrasslin’ practice, they tucked into the meal.  Sissy exclaimed that she had a secret about what was in the chicken, but I quickly hushed her up because Sonny was in 7^th Heaven over it and I didn’t want her to burst his bubble.

He’s nibbling on the prosciutto wrapped around the chicken (Yes.  Wrapped around the chicken.  Why?  What do YOU make for dinner??  Bring it!) and proclaiming this to be his SECOND favorite meal.  (His first favorite meal is bean-and-cheese-burritos.  I can go plebian if I have to.)

I mean this kid was going into raptures over this chicken mistakenly thinking it’s wrapped in bacon.  He loved it so much he requested it for his birthday meal in March!

Then he flips the chicken over and says, “Hey!  What’s this?”

Sissy replies, “That’s the secret I was telling you about.  Try it.”  So Sonny dips a tentative finger in the white ooze coming out of the chicken and says…

“Oh, no!  NO!  No, no, no, no.  Mom!  NO!” in the same horrified tone of voice that you might use if you found a bloody band-aide or severed head in your chicken.

Hey!  What can I say?  The recipe called for stuffing the chicken breasts with GOAT CHEESE before wrapping them in prosciutto and covering them in shallot cream sauce.  I thought it was good.  But then again, I like goat cheese.

Now just a word here on goat cheese: You hate it until you like it.  It’s unclear whether this love/hate thing has anything to do with age.   I mean, Sonny likes FETA for Heaven’s sake…and if there’s ONE cheese that tastes like throw up going DOWN?  It’s Feta.  So why wouldn’t he like goat cheese??  What’s important here is that he periodically tries it to see if he likes it.  Yet.  That switch can turn ‘on’ at any moment.

Right now?  We’re still in the ‘nope…nope…still no…Mom, NO!’ phase.  But one day we’ll get to the ‘Hey , this is GOOD!’  Phase.

It’s kinda like me with jobs.  I don’t want one.  Wait.  Let me check again.  Nope…nope…still no.  But once I GET one?   I’m sure it will be…GOOD!

Who needs a job?  I.  Am.  BUSY!  Here’s what I have going on (in no particular order):

• Teacher Appreciation Luncheon (I’m collecting the cash donations).
• School fundraiser is coming up next weekend and I’m doing Registration (and table seating, and making 350 registration packets, and handling all the last-minute loons.  And trust me.  There are mucho, mucho loons).
• Sissy’s confirmation is this Saturday with out-of-town guests coming in.  We’ll have about a dozen peeps at a party afterwards.  So there’s plenty of planning going on for that.  And you know what’s particularly fun here?  The basement bedroom flooded this week-end.  Which is where my folks were going to sleep.  The carpet is destroyed and the walls are saturated.  Think we can get this all back to normal by Wednesday when they fly in?  Sure gonna try!  And that right there is good times.
• I’m an unpaid housecleaner now, so I’m doing all the housecleaning in the house.  (Total drag, but that goes without saying.  At least I don’t have to clean the basement, right?  Well…today at least.)
• Grocery shopping, cooking, baking for family and aforementioned guests.
• Squozed in there are various meetings, sports practices, shopping trips, appointments etc. etc.
• Oh, and I was also trying to sew a slipcover for a chair.  But that became a total clusterbomb so I only got as far as a slipcover for the ottoman.  Stay tuned for Chair Slipcover Part II early next year.
• Hosting two tables for Advent by Candlelight.  It’s an evening where the school moms get together and “reflect” (code for drink wine) before the craziness of the Christmas Season.  I’m hosting TWO tables which entails decorating and providing food (and mucho, mucho wine) for upwards of 20 women.  That’s the Monday AFTER the school fundraiser.  ‘Reflect’ more, breathe less.
• Interviewing student ‘workers’ for various ‘jobs’ that they’ll hold in a pretend town in a few weeks.  This Ameritowne program is quite nifty and teaches the kids some real world skills (like…uh…interviewing.  Oh, and check-writing.  I learned how to write a check FROM MY COLLEGE ROOMMATE!).  Again, nifty program, but a boatload of work for the volunteer moms.

And then a mom emailed me last night wondering if I’d be collecting for the softball coach’s end-of-season gift in time for the end-of-season party this Friday.

Nein!!!

The fresh, lovely, NEW stay at home me did the money collecting and coach gift buying last year – in addition to bringing all of the toppings for the ice-cream party.  Beat-up, bedraggled, blogger me (that’s called ALLITERATION, Children) says NO WAY!

Why?  BECAUSE I’M BUSY!!!

P.S.  Yes, Unemployment Office, I continue to make my five requisite job contacts per week.  So let’s add that to the list, shall we?

That is the question.

And the answer?

Not to bee.  Especially if you ask the…bee.

Happy Halloween to all!

And to all a GOOD NIGHT!

Hey!  Speaking of fun facts, here’s a fun fact for ya: Hubby and I met TWENTY-FIVE years ago today at a Halloween party!  Fun, right?!

He was dressed as a guy wearing a sombrero, a mask and frayed yellow pants.  I was dressed as a sorority-girl-who-had-just-come-from-a-rush-function-looking-for-a-free-beer.  (Not much to either costume, I think we can all agree!)  A word to the wise here – if someone who has just rescued you from a spilled beer on your super cute 80’s sweater asks you up to their fraternity room to show you their Colorado driver’s license.  You should totally go.  It may be true love.

Thank you for 25 BOOOOtiful years together, Masked-Man!!! 

But speaking of Halloween…what’s everyone giving out this year??  I asked my kids the other day to weigh in on the decision, and my son declares that we’re gonna give out chips.  Because we always give out chips!

Uh, ok.  What alternate universe have I been living in where I remember what I was wearing 25 years ago, but I don’t remember what I’ve given out for Halloween for the last few years?!?

Even though methinks someone just has a hankerin’ for chips, I’m gonna go with it.  Chips it is.  And I don’t want to hear a single word about it.  Because if I do, you’ll get a spider ring and count yourself lucky to live another day.

And really, in the scheme of things, chips aren’t the WORST thing you’ve ever gotten in your Halloween bag, right?

One time a guy made me do a TRICK (who does THAT nowadays??  But I suppose it’s within the rules of the game since it is TRICK-or-treat after all.)  As my reward, I got raisins.  RAISINS!!!  In that little box with the happy lady on the front.  I hate raisins.  And that happy lady.

And you know what my mother used to give out?  Cans of soda.  And when those ran out, she would give out toothbrushes.  Or did she START with toothbrushes and then switch to sodas?  I can’t remember.  And no, she wasn’t a dentist.  Just a lady living at the end of a long stone driveway whose house was about two acres away from everyone else’s house.  To this day I remain surprised that no one ever plugged a Generic Shoprite Cola through our front window.

And to make Halloween even more fun, my mom would send us out trick-or-treating right after we got home from school.  Which pretty much guaranteed we were everyone’s first trick-or-treater of the day.  Which meant they were all ill-prepared to receive us (maybe THAT explains the box of raisins?!?).  And that’s only if they were even home.

In Mom’s defense, I will say that there were no sidewalks in the ‘hood, and we had to go over the river and through the woods to get any candy or spy Grandmother’s cap.  So it’s best to do all of that in the daylight, I suppose.

But it’s a heck of a lot of work.  For very minimal return.  So when all the trudging around with raisins in your candy sack was over, a soda was just the pick-me-up you needed.  Before you brushed your teeth and went to bed.

But chips would have been good too!

Did you hear about that university teaching assistant who meant to email her students the answer to a math problem?  Instead, she accidentally sent nude pictures of herself.

Heavens. To. Betsy!  How do you accidentally DO something like that?!?   Hey!  Teaching Assistant?  Note to self – don’t save the nudie pics under a similar file name as the math answers: MathAnswers102513 vs. MathAnswersandnudiepics102513.  What were you thinking?!?

Ugh.  But who hasn’t accidentally sent something cringe-worthy a time or two by email?!  (No, not nudie pics per se, I’m talking more along the lines of sending an email ranting about someone TO that very same someone.  Oopsie.)

But Nude Pics Gate reminds me of all of the fun I used to have at work.  Back when I had a job.  (No, I don’t have another one yet, but thanks for bringing it up stink eye stink eye.)

Wait…what?!?  Nude Pics Gate reminds me of work?  How so, exactly??

Don’t worry, don’t worry.  No nude pics were sent.  EVER.  But there was porn…on purpose.

At this point my mother is having an absolute apoplectic fit.  Can’t you just feel the waves of disapproval coming all the way from Virginia?!?   

Settle down, Sparky.  Read on.

Back when I had a job (again, no – not YET…STINK EYE, STINK EYE) I used to work with a bunch of software developers, computer geeks and computer-geeks-turned-software-salesmen.  These were the guys wearing Birkenstocks, gym shorts and ratty t-shirts to work, playing Golf Frisbee on the “quad” at lunch, throwing sharpened pencils into the ceiling tiles at midnight.  Periodically, their geeky hi-jinx infiltrated the entire office.  For example, one of them had a Nerf machine gun, and whenever they heard someone coming around the corner of their office, they would unload a round of Nerf suction cup pellets on their visitor.  Or one of them might get the brilliant idea to ‘penny’ co-workers into their office.  Hardy-har-har, right?

Well, it may or may not have been after the penny-ing.  And I may or may not have been one of the coworkers penny’d into her office, when I enlisted the help of tech support to send the penny-er an ‘innocuous’ email FROM tech support.

When the penny-er opened the email about important computer upgrades, there was a script that ran in the background which turned the computer volume all-the-way-up and a voice blasted out, “Hey Everyone!  I’m lookin’ at PORN over here!!!” followed by maniacal laughter.

Like meerkats, the other co-workers popped their heads up and poked their noses out of their office in the direction of the ‘porn watcher’ who appeared sheepishly from around the corner, laughing.  The tips of his sticky-out ears were very, very red.

After Red Ears made a general announcement of, “You got me!” directed to no one in particular, everyone disappeared back into their offices.  Then, from up and down the hallway you heard…Hey!…Hey Everyone!….Hey!…Hey!….I’m lookin’ at PORN over here!!!…Hey!…HA, HA, HA…

Of course, it wasn’t REALLY porn.  Just a loud voice SHOUTING about porn.  Yes, there’s a difference.   And I never DID get that email forwarded to me, but I never DID get penny-d into my office again.

Not that I HAVE an office anymore, but thanks for bringing it up.  Stink eye, stink eye.

You know what today is?  National Mammography Day!  Well, actually, nope.  That was LAST Friday.  (It’s always the 3^rd Friday in October, doncha know?)  Today was PERSONAL Mammography Day.  For me.

Why is it always sooooo hushed when you walk into the Mammography Center?  Is it because we all know what we’re there for?  Everything has already been said…so now, no one needs to say ANYTHING??

Not wanting to disturb the peace, I just sidle in and give the front desk my name, whereupon they hand me my paperwork.  Which I review, only to find they have me down for 23 live births.

Uhm…no thank you?

But since there’s no talking, I just cross it out and put the correct number down and find myself thinking that perhaps someone needs to tell the man-to-my-left-on-the-phone that there’s no talking.  The one man in the whole waiting room, God bless him, and even though he’s hiding his mouth behind his hand, we can still hear him.  Because…no one else is talking.  But him.  Talking.

And to my right?  They’re churning through the check-in process pretty quickly, with Chair # 2 gettin’ a good deal of biz.

Eventually they call my name.  Winner, winner, chicken dinner – Chair #2!    And I sit in my prison-visiting-hours-window and explain to the in-take counselor that “someone” spilled coffee on my mammography paperwork yesterday, but here it is anyway.  We have ourselves a chuckle about that AND the 23 kids.  (Nope.  Just 2.  But it DOES seems like 23 sometimes, heh-heh-heh.)

All is in order, and my in-take counselor invites me to go through “the double doors” at the end of the hall where all the magic happens.  (She says “double doors” like it’s a totally inappropriate euphemism for Double-D’s, but that might just be my interpretation.)  Shelly’s waiting for me on the other side and POPS OUT to ask if I’m wearing deodorant.  “Well, hello to you too, Shelly.  And No, no I don’t have deodorant on and I’m startin’ to skunk up the joint so let’s get this party started.”

‘Gettin the party started’ entails me going into a voting-booth-with-a-door to dress for success, after which I join the rest of my waiting room sisters to form a Star Trek commune-from-the-future whose directive is to re-populate the world wearing totally normal clothes from the waist-down and the neck up, bifurcated by a pink, waist-length hospital gown (open in the front, please!).

In this get-up, I don’t think anyone’s gonna take us up on our “planet is dying and we need to make a new race of people” offer because we all look like we’ve got Super Droopy Syndrome going on.  I’m one of those with a moderate-to-severe case o’ the droops, so I’m not commenting here – other than to say that having 23 kids takes its toll on your body!

And it’s soooo quiet in HERE too, as we all glide about performing our commune duties in total silence.  My duty is to make coffee for myself.  French Vanilla!  Num, num, num.  Maybe I’ll stay ALLLLL day and drink my way even as the water trickles endlessly somewhere and the fish swim round and round in the big tank.  The music is on so low that I can barely hear it.  Perhaps it’s just a memory of the music of Quincy Jones from before I joined the commune?  Love her, love her, love her, one hundred ways, yeah.  You better love her today.  Find one hundred ways…

Catherine finally comes for me and as I dutifully follow – wearing jeans tucked into jaunty two-tone riding boots, a pink shortie-kimono (size double-wide and extra-droopy, thankyouverymuch) topped off with a cute, chunky necklace (Hey! Hey! Eyes up here!!) – another memory of the music from my pre-commune days starts up…But for now, we’ll go on living separate lives!  (Phil?  Mr. Collins?  Is that you?!  Remember all the fun we had together?  When we were both young and…perky??  Those were good times, weren’t they?!)

Catherine and I chat for a bit and get the requisite 23-kids-joke out of the way.  By the time we get down to business, I haven’t quite finished my cup of coffee, and I find I’m vaguely disappointed about that.

You know what else I’m disappointed about?  That I didn’t take Hubby up on his offer this morning to give me a ‘pre-screening’ (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).  At least HIS hands were warm.  Catherine’s hands are FREEZING as she’s touching me all over the private bits I keep under my pink double-wide.  But all those years as a Poseable Barbie have paid off and I’m finally, FINALLY standing in just the right way, according to Catherine (no, no, feet FACING the machine, but head to the side).  I’m barely breathing and can only see what’s going on ‘down there’ out of the corner of my eye.  And what I CAN see?  Looks like a startlingly white puddle of spilled milk that’s spreading out further and further underneath the plexiglass the more Catherine turns her dial.  Good thing they give you that hand-grip-thingie on the side of the machine!  It must be the modern medical equivalent to biting on a bullet for the pain!!

I’m in the middle of wondering why someone with cold hands would wanna spend all day graphing mammos when Catherine asks if I’m going back to work after this.

Really?  Really?!?  Even HERE I’m not safe from that dreaded question??  “No.  I’m a stay at home mom.  Having 23 kids makes it hard to hold down a job.  Heh, heh, heh.  But thanks for bringing it up!” stink eye, stink eye

As I’m getting changed afterwards I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  It looks like I’ve been beaten about the neck and chest.  Which in a way, I have been.  Those red marks are from all that pinchin’, squishin’…Lovin’, touchin’, SQUEEZIN’ eachother…  Whaaaat?  Steve Perry and Journey??  You’re here TOO??!

Ok…True Confession Time.  Right here.  Right now.

[Note: if you currently think of me as a funny friend who has a few quirks which make me interesting – then rock on wit’ yer bad self.  If however, you feel I am completely off my rocker and have been for some time, then DO NOT read this blog.  Because it will just confirm for you that not only am I off my rocker, but that I’ve been off my rocker for so long it’s now broken and dusty and has been placed on the curb for trash pick-up.]

I walk the dog past an open field.  Which I’m worried may contain a dead body.  (Come ON!  I can’t be the only one who worries that at some point in their life they’ll accidentally see a dead body in an open field.  COME.  ON!!!)

I walk past this field so frequently, that I’ve developed a “what to do in case I see a dead body” protocol.  It goes like this:

• If the body is naked – or clearly dismembered – I will just stand on the sidewalk and call the police.  Ditto if the body is near prairie dogs or crows.
• However, if the body is fairly close to the road and dressed, I may go closer and call out.  For sure-sies I’m calling the cops on this one as well, but I say ‘may’ on the other stuff because I haven’t quite decided to do this or not since there might be snakes.  (Hey!  It’s an open field, remember?!)  I remain flexible here.
• Finally, if the body is very near the sidewalk I’ll assume (hope?) it’s more of twisted-ankle-sustained-while-walking-through-the-field situation and offer assistance/feel for a pulse.

I like to think of this all as ‘being prepared’.  If you like to think of the body-in-the-open-field fear as ‘being crazy’ (I’m talking to you here, off-her-broken-and-dusty rocker contingent), then I won’t even TELL YOU what I fear might be in all those black garbage bags on the side of the road.  Nope.  Not gonna do it.

To those who think of me as a funny-friend-with-a-few-quirks?  Call me.  We’ll talk.