Can't. Stop. Laughing.

So periodically I check my blog to see if the three regular readers are posting any comments and found a real doozie of a comment to my most recent rant: Maniopausal.

I know, I know, posting about it and not deleting it (and publicly laughing about it on Facebook) is only perpetuating the filth, but SERIOUSLY.  I. WAS. DYYYYYYINNNNNNNNG with laughter when I read it.

So let's break it down, shall we?  The blog is called www.boycottamericanwomen.blogspot.com and it has some of the funniest shizzle posted by several completely desperate 40 year old virgin men.

The first paragraph almost made water come out of my nose:
I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don't know how to cook or clean, don't want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?

I'm reading between the lines here, but what I THINK he's trying to say is:
I am a teeny tiny (in every sense of the word) little worthless man who has never gotten laid, went on a date or had any woman ever speak to me except to say "would you like fries with your order" or "whole or skim milk in that latte sir?"  So, instead, I found a wife through this company: www.buythirdrdworldbrideswhoaresogladyouhaveindoorplumbingtheywillgiveyouablowjob.com.

Now, if I were an American man, currently married to an American woman I'd be pretty pissed.  "What intelligent man would want to get involved with American Women?" seems a little teensy bit over the top offensive and a horribly sweeping generalization.  I mean, that would mean that my husband, your husband, the neighbor's husband and all other husbands are stupid.  And I'm pretty sure my husband could kick this guys ass from here to Tuesday.  Hell, I could probably kick his ass.  And mop the floor with him in Jeopardy.  Well, at least my husband could.

The next part was also entertaining:

American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

So what he's saying here is his ex-girlfriend is a 20-something sorority bitch (as a former sorority girl I can totally say that and get away with it, K?) and she's super duper sorry for sleeping with his roommate and passing along that little STD.  Nothing a prescription won't fix.

I am super curious where he gets his statistics from, as follows:

Tens of millions of American men have had their lives completely destroyed by American women through the following crimes: (crimes, these are actual crimes, according to the law of dateless wonders like this)

1. False rape accusations (it has been proven that up to 80 percent of rape accusations are FALSE)
Really?!  In what court?  The court of your worthless opinion? He's the kind of guy who thinks just because he's married (still not sure how he could accomplish that task but humor me anyway) that he's entitled to sex whenever he wants.  He shops at Cavemen R Us, wooden clubs are on sale this week!

2. False domestic violence (DV) charges (same as above, and up to 40 percent of domestic violence victims are MALE, with their female partners INITIATING the violence)
Oh me oh my....so you're saying she DESERVED to get slapped around by you, you big waste of skin?  My bad.  MY. BAD.

3. False sexual harassment charges

Oh, now you're blaming your ass getting fired on us too?  Nah, that one is on YOU buddy....no showing your shrunken junk around the office....just sayin'.  And skipping out on sexual harassment training and then making those gross little innuendos is no excuse.

4. Financial destruction of men in divorce courts through alimony and support payments (women get up to 95 percent of their ex-husband's income and savings, as well as the house, car, etc)

REALLY?! OK, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't there a few states that are Community Property states?  I mean I could be wrong, but seems like this is just a tad bit inflated?  Maybe a little?

5. Emotional destruction of men by ex-wives who have stolen their children from them and forbidden the fathers from having custody or contact with their own children

Seems a little to close to home, perhaps I've underestimated his ability to pull ass.  Clearly he's fathered some offspring and is no longer able to see them, to which I would be inclined to argue is likely a VERY good thing.  Honest to Pete.

6. Divorced dads who commit suicide as a result

Couldn't find his profile info on the blog, but if I had I likely would have contact the local authorities.  Thinking that's a cry for help.  I see he started the blog in 2010, no doubt a recommendation from his therapist (that's how mine got started after all) shortly after his highly intelligent American wife got sick of his bullshit and kicked his deadbeat loser ass to the curb.  

I also love all these stats too:

A few more reasons to stay away from American women?
-25 percent of American women take psychiatric drugs for mental illnesses.  Because of men like you,  jerk off.
-25 percent of women under the age of 30 have at least one STD.  They aren't getting it from chicks you double standard little douche bag.
-85 percent of divorces in America are INITIATED by women, thus women are responsible for the vast majority of divorces.  Because they are married to worthless little freaks like you.
-70 percent of criminals in America were raised by single mothers, thus feminism is responsible for most crime in America.  OK, I'm not pulling a stat on this, but I'd be willing to be my new Garmin that most of these "single mothers raising criminals" is because some other asshole that got them pregnant ended up in prison, thus making them the "single mom".  Ahem.
-The majority of child molestation, child abuse, and child murder in America is done by WOMEN. OK I want to throw down here, where in the flagnart did this freak show get THIS statistic?  He's probably pissed because that one teacher in high school that he used to stalk tossed that restraining order on his loser ass. 

I know I shouldn't justify his existence with this blog post, but truly and honestly I was laughing.  LAUGHING.  I can totally see through his "logic" and statistics.  Both Maude and I can 100% guarantee you he's a worthless, dateless wonder with a blow up doll for companionship, who hopes, wishes, DREAMS of the day he can buy some bride from Russia to bend to his every whim and make him feel like the man he'll never, ever, ever be.

UPDATE TO BLOG:
My husband has read through the now deleted comments on this blog by the complete psychotic tool "John Rambo" from Australia and has come to the conclusion that he has in fact married to a man-hating whore.  His eyes have been opened, he sees the light!  He was shocked to find my post on Crimes Against Fathers and is currently searching for an Asian wife for himself and a new cat for me.  I'll miss him, he's such a great man, but alas, as an American Woman who is fat and lazy, what on earth did I expect?  Thank you www.boycottamericanwomen.blogspot.com  you have freed him at last.  Free.  At.  Last.

Maniopausal

Maniopausal, that's what I am, that nifty little combo between maniacal and menopausal.  My family is soooooooo lucky.

It's really almost funny, well, it IS funny (I have to admit).  Many of the symptoms are really not too bothersome, the only one I will complain about are the totally irrational thoughts.

Think of your VERY worst PMS, where you were slightly paranoid, very emotionally unpredictable and completely sleep-deprived.  Now, times that by TEN.  That's me these days.

And the guilt, oh the guilt over things that normally wouldn't bother me, but my mind flips through my memories like an old roll-a-dex and then pulls one out from the very bottom of the pile, and I feel bad all over again about something I can do absolutely nothing about.  Good times...

Best part, this usually happens middle-of-the-night waking up in a pile of sweat after a colossal hot flash.  So then I'm cold, guilt-ridden and unable to go back to sleep without the aid of narcotics.  Which I refuse REFUSE to take any longer.  Time to start drinking again I suspect.

And I desperately wish for the superhero ability to command hot flashes when I need them, like in the freezer section at Safeway, Fred Meyer or basically ANYWHERE in the Walmart Neighborhood Market (that place is a fricken ice box).

All in all though I feel pretty good, and even started making a list of things in my mind about why it is totally awesome that I don't have any remnants of a reproductive system left.  Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  No more shopping for feminine products.  At least until Kaylee needs them, and GOD WILLING I have at least 4 or 5 more years until then....  And I am sure, as it did the last five years, tampon technology will have reached new heights, ensuring an embarrassing 20 minutes in the lady goods aisle.

2.  No more uterus.  Nuff said.  That thing, aside from giving me two beautiful children, has caused me NOTHING but TROUBLE.

3.  The Cliff Notes version of menopause.  Unlike many of my friends, not only did I have a primer course for about 5 months on Tamoxifen, but now I get the speed round since it has been surgically induced.  Can you imagine years of hot flashes, mood swings, and other very unmentionable side affects?  Me either, and thanks to modern medicine I don't have to.

4.  I will never ever have had to plan my race calendar around my monthly "bill".  EVER.  Thanks to the IUD, the mastectomy and now this, no period will interfere with my athletic pursuits.  Nothing says fun like menstrual cramps for 2 hours during your sprint-tri, eh?

5.  No more monthly bloating and irrational behavior, followed by an unstoppable craving for salt & chocolate.  Done, check that box.  Granted the next few months will be a little on the rough side (I think my husband and kids are pricing apartments for me for a 6 month term) but we'll all get through it in one piece.  Except for some things that I might break in a fit of menopausal rage.  It could happen.

6.  A killer excuse for going ape shit on stupid people.  I can give dumb ass annoying people a complete verbal bitch slap and then say I'm sorry, I'm in early menopause.  Don't take it personally.  K?  And they'll be like "OMG her poor husband and children".  You thought Tami was tough, wait until you see what Maude can cook up.

7.  I can coach all my friends through menopause in 10-20 years.  I'll know what books to recommend, foods to eat, homeopathic remedies to try (gotta gut this out without hormones thank you HRBC) and apartments to rent. Nothing I love more in life than being helpful to others.

8.  Hubby time will no longer need to be planned around a 28 day cycle.  No more stocking up the week before 'cause I know what's coming.  Nope, it's on.  Anytime, anyplace.  Well, in six weeks, oh, and within reason.

9.  New underwear.  My Mother In Law suggested I buy all new stuff and then burn the old stuff.  I. LOVE. THE. IDEA.  Though there won't be any sort of public burning and neighbors and friends I promise not to do it in the fire pit where we toast marshmallows in the summer.  Cross my heart.

10.  All kinds of NEW and FUN material for my book (that is not yet written, concepted or titled) and this blog.

My poor children and husband.  They are simply the best.  I hope they can forgive me for all my hot flash, hormone withdrawal, crazy ass making no sense because she's maniopausal behavior.  I hope they know how much I love them, and that Maude will only be here with us for a short period of time.  We hope.  Pray for them, would you?

Bye Bye Barbie

Oh what an adventure I've had this week!  As a handful of you know I was scheduled for my second, and God willing, FINAL breast reconstruction surgery on Monday.  At the same time I opted to undergo a complete hysterectomy, removing my ovaries, tubes and uterus. 

Basically, in less than 6 months, everything that makes me a woman has been removed.  It's a very strange thought.  Having my girl parts removed means I go straight into the lightning round of menopause and I have already informed Mark that soon we might be shaving together in the morning.

Today is Thursday (I think, damn percocet) and I have a pretty good story to tell you about Monday. As with any surgery, no food or drink after a certain time of day, which for me this time was midnight. 

My procedures were scheduled to begin at 7:30am so my report time was 5:30am.  Not eating or drinking after midnight was going to be a snap, as there is nothing I want to do less than shove food in my face (unless absolutely necessary) at 5am.

We arrived at the hospital in time and got all checked in.  As some of you might remember, I have a bit of a nervous, ahem, pooper.  Before any race I tend to empty that baby out, in three trips or less to the nearest porta-shitter.

Monday, thankfully, there was a nice, clean, restroom within close proximity to the waiting room. By the time we got checked in and in the waiting room it was 6 am and time was wasting. I was a little worried about leaving in case the nurse came to get me while I was out.  In any case, I still defiled it three times before 6:30am.

I work fast.  I can be in and out of the restroom, hands washed and pants in place in under two minutes.  It's not like I take a newspaper in there with me and dilly dally.  I don't have that kind of time, nor did I on Monday.

Unfortunately, two of the three times I went to the bathroom, Murphy's Law (or whatever Law applies) meant that the nurse came looking for me, I wasn't there so they left and didn't return for another 5-10 minutes. 

It went a little bit like this:
ME:  "Mark! Oh my GOSH.  I think I have to poop.  Like right now!"
MARK:  "Then go." (oh it's just so simple isn't it?!)
ME:  "What if they come looking for me?"
MARK:  "I will tell them where you are." (makes perfect sense)
ME: "OK."

Three minutes later, I return, Mark says "They came while you were in the restroom, she said she would be right back."

I watched the clock.  LIKE A HAWK. Five minutes went by and I could feel another one crowning and didn't want to leave AGAIN and have the nurse show up AGAIN and leave AGAIN.  But I started to sweat, I thought it might just shoot out on its own, so repeat the conversation above, and again, she came looking for me and left again while I was, er, making my deposit.

Third time's the charm, as I wandered back they came & got me, mind you over 20 minutes had been ticked off the clock at this point, which meant that all the other pre-op stuff would be rushed.

As we get back to the area where you strip down to your birthday suit and they get you all geared up with an IV port the nurse walks me to the bathroom and says "I need you to empty your bladder."  Clearly no one had told her I'd been in there THREE TIMES ALREADY.  I just laughed at her and said there wasn't probably a drop left in there after the morning I had just had.

I was very conflicted all morning long, I was excited to get the hard plastic barbie tissue expanders out, but not at all excited about the hysterectomy, add to that a sprinkle of menopausal symptoms from the Tamoxifen and you get a really fun patient.  I went from cracking jokes to tears faster than Lindsey Lohan checks in and out of rehab.

It didn't help that it took the nurse and anesthesiologist three tries to get my IV in.  THREE TRIES.  I asked, after the second time they missed, if I could get that valium before the third try, but that isn't "hospital policy".  Plus, I needed to be coherent and standing for when my plastic surgeon arrived to draw all over my boobs.  I am glad that I wasn't swaying as he drew a line right down the middle of my chest with a purple felt tip marker.

The conversation with my plastic surgeon was the bright spot in my morning, discussing the shape and sizing of the implants he ordered and getting my thoughts on which I prefer.  Basically in a matter of months I went from Skipper to Barbie, and to be honest, I was not really comfortable with my big huge plastic boobs.  They just aren't me. 

Much to Mark's dismay, I chose the more natural looking version and I am really happy.  Skipper to Barbie to something in between.  I am FOREVER grateful to have pretty, symmetrical non-drooping boobs at the tender age of 40. 

And, as promised, every vote counted in the "What should I name my new boobs" poll and I'm pleased to announce the names of the twins: Bonnie & Clyde.  As my aunt says, "they'll always be on the run with me."

Next up in my pre-op timeline, the anesthesiologist lead came in to introduce himself and I swear to you he has the whitest freaking teeth I've ever seen.  Blue eyes, fit, (nice ass, I could see it even though he had on scrubs) totally adorable. 

After he left Mark said "What do you think of Dr. McDreamy?" and I totally busted up because that's what I was thinking.  I'm sure he is a real panty-dropper under normal circumstances, but I wasn't really in a place where I could even think about it much. 

I mean, I THOUGHT about it, a little bit.  Just a lil' bit.  But when you're getting ready to have your uterus removed it's hard to think of much else than that.

I quickly noted the whiteness of his teeth to Mark out of fear that I might make mention of it in a highly inappropriate way as they wheeled me into the surgical room, then giggled hysterically as I heard the nurse call him by name: Dr. McBride  McBride/McDreamy it was all too much!

I woke up in the recovery room, as expected, and was there for about an hour while they tried to make sure I was breathing well and not in much pain.   Up until Monday I was questioning my decision to do both procedures at the same time, and whether I needed to do the hysterectomy at all. 

The best news came to me while in recovery: my endometriosis surrounded my uterus and had it in a very weird place.  This explains a lot.  Which I won't go into....  No more Tamoxifen either, since those useless ovaries were yanked out too.  I've eliminated my risk of uterine and ovarian cancer and cleaned up the endometriosis that has given me trouble for well over 20 years.   

And while I am a bit sad about taking out those reproductive parts (even though I had no plans to use them further) I am glad that I made the right decision.  However, life is nothing else if not full of irony.  I'll give you two guesses where my hospital room was, and the first one doesn't count.

MATERNITY.  Yes, the maternity ward.  They put a 40 year old woman whose entire reproductive system had been removed on the maternity ward.  My dear, sweet, boob loving husband tried to request they move me before I got up there, but alas, his efforts were futile.

They put me in a section far away from any babies or mommas, and in a giant room that is larger than our bonus room here at home.  I kid you not.  It was bigger than most hotel rooms.  It LOOKED like a hotel, in fact that's what I said in my morphine haze as they wheeled me in.  Imagine, me saying every thought that comes into my brain.

I am eternally grateful to Legacy Good Samaritan for putting me in room 581, as I was surrounded by the best nursing staff on the planet.  No lies, kids.  They were simply amazing.  All of them had a sense of humor (highly important as I made all kinds of inappropriate jokes about everything and they laughed with me) and gave me the best care imaginable.  I almost didn't want to leave.  Almost.

I'm home now, recovering, trying really hard to curb that OCD human lurking inside me that wants to straighten out every room in the house.  I'm bored, I don't like TV, I fall asleep when I read and I struggle to find things to keep myself entertained. This is the hardest part for me: being down for the count.  If only I had Dr. McDreamy here to keep me company.....

I'm a survivor.  I survived childbirth, junior high, breast cancer and I'll survive this too.

Yesterday

Something happened to me yesterday, something I will never forget, because I truly felt God's presence in my life.  Yesterday started out as a day for me to get a lot of things done.  The kids had school, but I had a day off and I had many things planned to check off my list for the holidays.

Yesterday didn't start out to be a bad or good day in particular.  It was just a day.  First thing, I hit the gym to avoid the lecherous un-attractive (because if they are good looking it makes it ok, right?) older and very creepy men who would likely stare at me in the evening and I had a pretty good workout.  I zipped home and did some stuff for Cause + Event, wrapped holiday gifts for the kids and in general had a pretty ordinary day, yesterday.

I needed to accomplish a lot of "off site" stuff yesterday, including mailing some Cause + Event shirts out, a couple of holiday gifts, a Costco trip and a WinCo adventure.  Yesterday was just a typical day.  I did not even one time think about my impending surgery or the fact that I had cancer last summer.  No, yesterday was a day to just get things done and I was loving it.

After lunch I took off to check more things off my list.  While in Costco I didn't hear my phone ring, it must have been on silent or I hit that vortex where your phone has no reception.  When I got outside I realized there was a missed call and a voicemail.  I didn't recognize the number, so I listened to the message. 

Yesterday my oncologist's office called to let me know that my bone scan had been scheduled for Dec. 10.  There's nothing scary about the bone scan, it isn't because they are looking for cancer or anything like that.  It's routine, to set a baseline to evaluate my bone density going forward as I'll be thrown head first into a surgically induced menopause at the age of 40 on December 17th.

What upset me yesterday is that I had gone most of my day without thinking about cancer.  This friendly little phone call was another reminder, in a long line of exhausting reminders, that for the rest of my life I have to be looking over my shoulder.

As much as I pretend that I'm OK, I'm not OK.  Cancer (no matter how small or minor your experience is) signs you up for a lifetime of tests, poking, prodding and checking.  I never gave it much thought before, that I would only go to the doctor if I were sick or needed my annual lube, oil and filter.  I rarely, if ever, saw the inside of a waiting room, unless I was there with a sick child.

Now, and forever more, I'm subjected to regular tests, scans, questions and visits and it makes me angry.  I didn't sign up for this.  I didn't volunteer.  I don't want this.

So I was feeling really blue, really upset because I just got a cancer bitch-slap reminder in the middle of what was a very lovely and ordinary day yesterday.  I pulled into the WinCo parking lot and decided to park on the north side of the building. I don't know why, I've never parked there before.  I always park in about the same place, but for a reason I can only describe as divine intervention, I parked in that north parking lot yesterday.

I hopped out of my little white kia and opened the trunk for my reusable shopping bags (take that angry napkin waiter!) and a woman in a red BMW pulled up with her window rolled down.  "Excuse me" she said, and I walked over to her expecting to give her directions some place or answer a question of some kind and instead she handed me a newly purchased $20 gift card to WinCo and simply said "Merry Christmas." 

I was stunned, speechless and so thankful.  I am not sure what I said to her at the time, but she told me she had been driving around for five minutes just WAITING for someone to pull in and park in front of her.  That someone was me.

Yesterday at 2:30pm I felt the hand of God on my shoulder telling me that I'm going to be OK, and that there are many people who have many more struggles than I do.  Yesterday, I knew without a doubt that moment, that wonderful woman, was inserted into my life so that I could focus on something other than myself.

I took that $20 gift card and without giving it much thought, spent the next half an hour in the store GLEEFULLY picking out food for the food closet at my church.  Yesterday, I forgot all about my stupid cancer, bone scan and surgery, and focused on something much more important: someone in need.

Yesterday I cried, a lot, in the store as I shopped.  I couldn't believe that someone would give ME, randomly, a $20 gift card to spend.  I have to tell you, $20 doesn't get a lot of food.  I was completely humbled by the experience.  Even in a place like WinCo, $20 doesn't stretch too far.  I left the store feeling so blessed and so fortunate, and so not even thinking about cancer or the aftermath.

Yesterday was a wonderful day, and one that I will never, ever forget.

A Portlandia Moment

Just when we thought we caught a break from bussing the kids to various sporting activities, winter basketball strikes again!  Kaylee's third grade team had a "jambouree" this weekend over on the East Side and basically had back to back games until after lunch.

I'm thoroughly convinced that the ACTUAL definition of a "jambouree" is a day long sporting event where your youngest child is only willing to watch about 30 seconds of one game and spends the rest of the morning and early afternoon begging you, BEGGING you, to play on your iPhone.  Nothing says mom of the year like shoving an electronic in my kid's face to shut him the hell up.

Like moths to a flame, if any of the other younger sibs busts out an iPad, DS, or cell phone the kids all gather around and watch.  I don't know why it is a fun time for kids to watch other kids play games, but perhaps it's just that they are hypnotized by the pretty lights.  Who knows.

Because we were on the east side ALL morning, we didn't really get to do much but snack so by the time the games were done both children (and husband) were ravenously hungry and unwilling to wait to eat until we got home. 

Mark drove around while the kids fought, I ignored them and tried to find a place to eat.  We had heard of this great place on the east side (whose name I will not mention because I really do love this place and plan to go back, and I want to be sure they let me in the door!) and BOOM it popped up on the little mappy thing on Mark's phone so we pulled in.

Never having been there before we didn't see the other, more larger parking lot until later on.  There were two spaces left in the whole upper lot.  The largest and most SPACIOUS of spaces of course is reserved for that one in 100,000 cars in Portland that needs a charge in between uses.  And it was FRONT ROW baby.  Front row.  Not even people with a handicapped sticker get front row on the east side, unless they drive an electric car.

The other space left over was rather small.  As with all parking spaces in the greater Portland metro area they are designed for only a Smart Car to park there.  You know those little two-seat cars that are basically a golf cart with a delicious hard candy shell?  Yes, those cars.

I didn't feel TOO bad as we parked between a Toyota 4 door truck and a Yukon, and we were in my little white Kia, but all the same we couldn't even open our doors all the way, which made for a pretty funny visual watching our family try and get out of the car.

I think we had "suburban" family written all over us, and the lady that took us to our table put us, the family of four, right by the back door so that every time another group of diners came in we felt the arctic blast of the outdoors.  Mind you, the place was NOT that busy, it was well after the lunch rush.  It was while we were seated at that table that we realized there was another parking lot.  But really, people, if you drive anything larger than a Prius you're screwed for parking in this town no matter what.

We sat down, checked out the menu (OMG so many tasty options) and ordered drinks.  Both kids had been up late the night before, watching a movie with Mark and I and totally gorging on popcorn and then they got up ass crack early, so you can imagine how well things were going with them being tired and hungry and all.  That's ALWAYS a pleasure.

Our waiter brought us drinks and we settled in to wait for our food.  As always, about 30 seconds after our order was taken the kids started asking when our food would come out.  Everything in this place is locally grown, source, and organic so I told them they might be awhile as they were going to have to slaughter the cow and dig up the potatoes from the garden for their fries.  They were in no mood for sarcasm.

Knowing that this place is billed as a "sustainable" business it was a bit surprising that they offered paper napkins and plastic cups for the kids, but at the time I didn't really give it much thought.

As is nearly ALWAYS the case, one of my children spilled a drink.  Theirs of course came with a plastic cover on top and I ordered just water, so the drink that got tossed was Mark's sustainable root beer.

I'm sure I've mentioned that the little boy was a little on the worn out side, so as soon as the drink went flying he totally started crying and saying "I don't deserve to go tonight!"  (we had an invitation to a birthday party that evening) and just totally freaking out.

I did what any quick-thinking suburban mom would do, whose son was coming unhinged while the root beer seeped out over the floor in the path of wait staff delivering food to hungry patrons:  I grabbed a stack of paper napkins!  Truly, there was no one at the counter when I went to ask for a towel, I really really did plan to get a towel.

But in that moment of the entire restaurant of people watching this scene unfold, I figured time was a-wasting and I'd better get moving to clean it up and reassure my son of his worth as a human being.

I kid you not, the mess was almost completely cleaned up by the time our waiter came over with his little yellow towel, most of it had been mopped up by what he probably thinks is a big ass case of napkins (but probably was maybe a half a package).

He proceeded to repeat not once, not twice, not thrice, but FOUR TIMES:  "I've got this!  Stop wasting napkins.  You're wasting napkins.  Stop wasting napkins.  I've got this.  You are wasting napkins, stop!"  He probably dabbed up 1/8 of the mess, I was almost done for shit's sake.  And I'm a grown ass woman, I don't need people to REPEAT things four times for me, my kids yes, me no.  I heard him the first time!

I am sure he could feel every little tree branch around shudder with terror as we used a handful of paper napkins made of recycled fiber.  The dude clearly is NOT a parent, or he would totally get why a mom (or dad) would grab the first available item for mopping and get it done quickly before the kid completely fell apart out of guilt and embarassment.

Honestly, I felt like the whole damn restaurant was watching us, and judging us, with a tsk tsk and "can you BELIEVE that mom used paper napkins?" and  "Oh my GAWD what was she thinking?"  or "well, how many trees did SHE just kill?"

I think the most mortifying part of it was just the nonstop lecture from the waiter as if I am a total dumbass woman with no concept of conservation and sustainability.  If you and your happy little towel had been handy, jackass, I wouldn't have needed the napkins.  And if you don't want people to USE the napkins, don't put them out.  Just sayin'.

So Mark and I have completely written an episode of Portlandia based on this experience, and I'll post it once it has been completely rejected by Fred & Carrie (totally on a first name basis since they filmed in our 'hood last summer, not to same drop or anything).

And it is a doozie, I've got to tell you.  But I'll never publish the name of the restaurant because I want to go back and they might permanently ban me from going there!  Head on over to the east side, though, if you want to have a quintessential Portlandia experience.  They.  Are.  EVERYWHERE.

My Christmas Wish List

I don't think I'm asking for a lot this year, really I don't.  I want just a few of the finer things in life.  Here's my list, in no particular order:

1.  Toilets that clean themselves.  Daily.  You'd think that a busy family who is never home would not have horrifyingly smelly shitters, and you would be so very wrong.

2.  My children to have ONE WEEK where they a) behave well in school, b) turn in all their schoolwork ON TIME, and c) remember their f-ing homework needs to be turned in every. damn. day.  Just one week.  Just one.

3.  A little elf that can make my fake tree look real.  That would mean he would need to go over every branch of our excessively large 10 foot tree and "fluff" all the branches out.  I gave up after about and hour so our tree has that whole "Charlie Brown Christmas" vibe, but I turned it so the front at least looks presentable.

4.  Children that will say "yes mom" when asked to put their clean clothes away and actually PUT their clothes away, rather than saying yes but stashing them in all the nooks and crannies in their rooms so by Wednesday they can't find any of their uniform pants for school because they didn't put them WHERE THEY BELONG IN THE G-DAMN CLOSET.  On. A. Hanger.

5.  A little dish fairy that will magically move the clean dishes into the cupboard, and the dirty ones into the dishwasher so we don't end up piling dishes in the sink until we've used all the ones still in the dishwasher.  It's a vicious cycle folks.  Vicious.

6.  One Saturday morning, just one, where the kids aren't waking up at the ass crack of dawn.  One Saturday, where they actually sleep in until after 7, so we don't find them playing the computer, watching television or "making crafts" that usually results in about an hours worth of work to clean up scraps of paper and glitter glue from places you don't want to talk about.

7.  I would love my kids to stop bickering about nothing.  And everything.  And a lot of shit in between.  I feel like I have two little lawyers in my house, each one arguing their point, even though they don't even really have a good point to argue.  Oh, and I would love it if they didn't ALSO argue with me.

8.  I want my motivation to get up at 5am to go to the gym to return.  It's gone.  Gone like a freight train.  Gone like yesterday.  Gone.  So instead I'm stuck going in the evening and having creepy totally UN-HOT men watch me push the sled around the gym.  Shiver. 

9.  Holiday music like we used to hear when we were kids.  This new shit makes me crazy.  If you're going to sing an old hit, don't sing it like you're an up and coming R&B star and drag every note out by changing the music key five times and just being obnoxious.  YAY for you that you can sing, so just fucking sing, this ain't American Idol.

I think that's about it for the time being, I am sure there are other things I can think of, but these are simply top of mind at the moment.  What about ya'll?  What is on YOUR wish list?