I’m totally out of fashion, and if it means I have to dye myself orange, I’ll stay that way.

I’ve noticed in my recent travels around the country up-and-down the DirecTV guide and to Target, women (and boys) are now dying themselves orange.

I just. Don’t. Get it.

Not one stinkin bit.

Really? You wanna take your healthy skin - black, white, pale, olive, etc - and turn it orange. By FRYING it?

Even if it’s tan-in-a-can, it looks weird.

The first person I recall noticing having dayglo orange skin was Charlize Theron at the Oscars in’04. She was actually shiny. Pssst… I don’t think they dayglo orange greased up look is healthy. If my skin were orange and as shiny as a greased up Butterball, I’d be be rushed to my gynecologist dermatologist.

Not only is this odd practice stupid, but potentially dangerous. Hell, not potentially - it is dangerous. There are tanning salons popping up  in every shopping center around Pleasantville urging the tweens to get their tan on. In the next 20-30 years, I can envision Dermatologist’s offices replacing the tanning salons.

I feel like I’m sitting up on my high horse with my clear pale skin, but seeing this trend of orange day-glo shiny skin is so out of my element, I need some guidance.

Saying, “Good morning, Sunshines!” is how I like to start every morning rising at 5am excited to head on out for my morning jog.

Aaaahhhhhh….. There’s nothing like fresh morning air flowing through my hair and breezing over my glistening taut skin as I jog through the tree-lined streets in my neighborhood.

Coming home an hour and a half later, I find a pot of chamomile tea waiting my arrival along with a bowl of steel-cut Irish oatmeal and fresh fruit prepared by my adoring husband.

Enjoying my rain shower in the early morning with a full stomach and twitching muscles of a just-run 10k is my idea of perfection.

Well, it would be if any of that ever came true.

True Life:

Dragged out of bed at 8:30am to my 4yo asking, “Mama! When are you gonna GET UP?”

Make Microwave pancakes for the spawn.

Drive chillins to their school in my PJs.

Drink my 1/2 coffee, 1/2 half & half at 9:30am.

Awake at 11am finally.

Good fucking morning.

Excuse me, sir, but when you cut in front of me to open the door to sneak your nasty ass inside of the bookstore, while I have two young girls, then DON’T EVEN FACKING BOTHER TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN, you are an ass.

This may not seem like a big thing, the whole holding-the-door-open-for-the-lady-and-her-children. But it is.

I’m a Feminist. Not the bra-burning, death to Whitey, cut-off-your-nuts Feminist. I’m even a member of NOW or I was until I forgot to pay for my dues for this year.

But, I do want to be considered an equal when being considered for a job or picked for the team. But at the same time, I want to be able to cry to get out of a speeding ticket, I want the seat you’re sitting in if there are none left, and I want you to HOLD THE DURN DOOR OPEN FOR ME AND MY GIRLS.

So, Mr. Oblivious, can you please take your kicks off of Sir Chivalry’s balls, and hold the door open for me?

Love & kisses,

Me

I was asked to put up a list o’ crap I like for a blog swap I’m doing, but even if you’re not in the swap, I encourage you to send me something anyway.

• Chocolate (cliche, I know) - milk chocolate, brownies, cookies, baked goods in general
• TV, but I don’t know how you give TV, so we move on
• Daisies - not country daisies and not really retro daisies, but natural and fun daisies
• Puppy Dogs
• Blue - my fave color
• Photographs - taking them, looking at them, wishing I was better at taking them
• Chic lit, but I never get around to reading it (see: I love TV)
• Shoes - sandals, flip flops, Crocs (*gasp*), but in my old age and because I broke my foot last year, I have to have an arch. GAH.
• The scent of food (vanilla, cake, pies, etc.), but too much ‘fake’ scent gives me a headache.
• A lake house
• Water - my dream is to live on a lake, or eventually the ocean
• I DO NOT like scary movies. DONOTLIKE.
• Soda, but NEVER diet. I wish I did.
• I like new shirts. I’m a size XL or 14/16 at the fat girl stores.
• I like silly t-shirts like this one I own.
• Bags, purses, etc. I wanna be a really cool girl and have odd & quirky purses, but I never actually buy them.
• I think I could use a little bag for anything.
• Pink grapefruit lotions, but a MILD smelling lotion
• Herlarious note pads with dirty words. Tee Hee!

OK, I suck nutty balls. I can’t think of anything else.

Call me selfless.

Or boring.

I vaguely remember playing dolls as a kid, but I know I did. I remember a whole lot of my sister telling me what to have my dolls say, do, and where to move, so I blame her for my limited imagination skills.

Having two little girls, I knew someday I’d have to start playing dollies with them, and today was the first day. At 4, Anna is just now getting into play acting with toys and dolls, and at 2 1/2, Claire is in LOVE with dolls. She’s a mini-mom - sometimes better than I am. Anna is not a girlie girl and doesn’t have an attachment to any one doll, but Claire has a collection of naked (it’s how she rolls) babies in every room.

I was cleaning out their playroom of some furniture today, and found a house playmat. Oh, bejeebus. What the hell did I discover?

It is now a requirement for everyone in the house to play dollies on the playmat. Even Daddy.

I took a shift, so Daddy was up. Granted, he grew up a boy (shocker), so his version of playing dolls is GI Joe and Transformers. Same but different. Dollies don’t typically blow eachother up and launch grenades at one another.

Patrick’s first few minutes of dollies was a whole lot of Anna saying, “Dada! Pepe needs to SAY something!” “Dada! You need to SING with Pepe!”

After glances over my shoulder at him to add to the dolly conversation and to interact, the boy in him came out.

“thhhhhshhhhthinoitnttttt….”

“thhhhshshhthhshhshhthttt…”

It seems Pepe has a health issue. That, or he’s preparing for tomorrow’s colonoscopy.

More, “tthhhhsnsnsalnsanssnsnsnsnnnnsssssthttttthhthhhhhhhhhhh….”

I never knew three dolls (counting stuffed animals as dolls) could fart and shit their way around the house and it could be counted as conversation.

THAT’S how Daddy plays dolls.

Wherever I go, no matter the place, preparation, or length of visit, I always forget something. Sometimes my phone, sometimes my camera, many times my hairdryer on vacations, putting on deodorant (I have back up in my car b/c I forget so often), rarely my kids, but always something.

This morning I decided to go wait for an hour or so for a new iPhone. Yeah, I know - dork. But it’s Sunday - GOD’S day - so I figured the lines would move hastely like the Bible says we should work, and I got there at 9:45am. Doors opened at 10, and I was about 50 people back. I’m figuring I’d be out of there by 12 - NO problem.

But this, my peeps, is not the focus of my story.

Standing in line at the start of my 2nd hour of official nerdness, I started running through my morning.

• Awoken by Anna at 7:30 - “I want food” “I wanna watch Moose & Zee” “Sit with me” “I wanna paint my pig” “blah blah blah”
• Coffee at 8
• Shower at 8:15
• Claire up at 8:30 -  “I want food” “I wanna watch Moose & Zee” “Sit with me” “I want my paci” “blah blah blah”
• Check email 8:45
• Get dressed in my finest un-nerdwear 9:15
• Drive to fancy-ass mall and arrive at 9:45

Hmmm… I feel like I forgot something.

• Purse (check)
• Phone (check)
• Wallet (check)
• Clothes (check)
• Shoes match (check)
• Deodorant (che…. maybe not)

DAMN - I forgot my deodorant - AGAIN. No problem though, I have some in my car….. DAMN! I brought Patrick’s car! (Side note: he wins Husband of the Month.) I’m stuck for the next umpteen hours standing in line wondering if I stank.

But do I smell?

I spend the next - no joke - 3 hours checking to see if I stank. Oh, you know you’ve done it.

The sly scratch over your shoulder and *sniff* or the rub your cheek on your shoulder and *sniff*.

But as it turns out, I don’t stank. At least I didn’t smell myself. I am surrounded by a gaggle of geeks, and you know they all smell like the inside of a computer tower and their mom’s basement.

Maybe I’m like Matthew McConaughy and don’t need deodorant. I’ll just go around town with my own signature musk.

On the other hand, I’ll just get myself a few extra sticks to put in every car and every purse for backup.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I was inspired by my hooker, Mama Wise, for this forgetful post.  Lord knows I don’t want to be accused of stealing.

Way back when I first started blogging in 2007, I posted about Patrick’s adventures in sleeping. I’ve edited a bit here and there to funny-up myself.

For all of my new Plurky friends and new bloggy friends and for everyone who forgot the hilarity, read below:

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Every night as my head hits the pillow, I wonder what sounds I might fear hear, laugh at, or be frightened by. No, not in my dreams. By my husband.

HockeyMan takes Ambien each night out of necessity so he says. He’s always been a sleep-talker, but because of the Ambien, his talking is amplified 10x.

His mom’s favorite sleep-talking phrase is one where she asked him what time he had to be up. His answer: “A half passed destiny.” Right. I’ll get you up then.

Because I so enjoy a list, I’ll give you a run-down of some of the things I have experienced in the late-night hours of sleeping next to HockeyMan.

• Uproarious wake-the-house-up laughing. It lasts for 5 seconds, and then silence. I’ve tried asking him what was so funny, but I get no response.

• Jibber-jabber. This is the most commonly heard sleep-talking. I’ve tried so hard to determine what he’s actually saying, even asking him what he’s saying, but to no avail.

• Groping. I know this doesn’t fall in line with sleep-talking, but it’s a side-effect of the Ambien so he says. He will roll over and aggressively grope me. Now, you think that would be nice under normal circumstances. But when he’s DEAD asleep and has no idea what he’s doing, it’s kind of creepy. Back off sleepy man.

• Tickling. Again, doesn’t fall in with sleep-talking, but he’s DEAD asleep. I’ve been awoken by HockeyMan ATTACKING me and tickling me all-the-while laughing very creepily. It was very frightening, but then again, really funny. Then it stops in about 5 seconds, and he’s back to dreamyland.

• Kick save. HockeyMan is plays hockey (duh), and he’s the goalie on his team. In that dreamyland state just before full sleepage, he’s made a few kick saves and glove saves. Those are kinda scary.

• Questions. This one needs some set-up. I had been out with my girlfriends (this happens about once a year unfortunately), and my drunky friends decided it would be funny to stop by my house to say hi to HockeyMan. It was still a bit early, so he was still up and awake. I have a crazy friend - you know, the one who will do ANYTHING. She and HockeyMan are close (no funny ideas) and kid each other all the time. So when I came to bed that night/morning, I cuddled up to HockeyMan.

That’s when he asked, “Which one are you?” Ummmm… Exsqueeze me? Which one am I?

Apparently, when he was falling asleep, he thought that if it had been just 30 min later when all us girls showed up, that my crazy friend would have gone in and jumped up and down on our bed, or even cuddled up to him, to wake him up. Very valid. So, he was thinking that we had come back and someone, not me, had crawled into bed with him.

Yeah… it was me. Sorry for your luck, HockeyMan. Now go grope yourself.

This is a 2-parter this week.

I just couldn’t pass up the chance to put up pics my man’s butt. My Harem on Plurk wants to see, so here you go.

You’re welcome.

Anna: What are we doin tomorrow Mama?

Patrick: fartThhshhthhshhshststttttfart

Anna: What?

I guess reading Walter the Farting Dog over and over is helping her comprehension and hearing.

Living my life on the interwebs has taught me new things about living in Canada. I don’t currently live in Canada, but if McCain wins in November, we’re packing up and moving. I promise(ish).

note: please don’t judge me on my lack of Canadian knowledge prior to living on the web. i’ve lived in florida my whole life. all we know about canada is that it’s our 51st state and it’s covered in snow 11 months out of the year. and hockey rules. and all Canadian men have mullets.

•Canada has free healthcare. I learned that a few years ago, but what I originally learned was incorrect. What I learned years ago was it may be free, but unless your eyeball has fallen out of its socket, you’re gonna wait 18 months to see a doc.  I recently learned that is not entirely true. You’re only gonna wait 4 months. Which, if you compare that to the waiting time I experience at my kids’ pediatrician’s office, it’s about equal.

•Canada does not have Target. ERM - exsqueeze me? NO TARGET? For serious, this was almost a deal breaker. I may have to compromise by living near the border and drive over to visit my dear store.

•Canada has places where it doesn’t snow. Seeing as I’ve lived in Florida my entire life, I’ve never experienced living in, or being in, snow. I know I’m missing out on sledding, ice skating, snow angels, and white Christmases, but I’m NOT missing out on slipping on ice, snow drifts, frostbitten nipples, and (so-I’ve-heard) warming my car up for 20 min before getting in. I’m actually kind of afraid of snow because it’s so foreign to me. But then I discovered VANCOUVER. Oh, Vancouver. Only 5 (maybe 20) days of snow a year and actual SUMMERS? I may have found my new home.

•Canada has kickass bloggers. Huckdoll, Mr. Lady, and ZoeyJane are a very few, but some of the very best. Bonus - they’re in the Vancouver area, so we have built-in friends when we move!

•Canada has decriminalized prostitution. Thanks to Mr. Lady for passing along this nugget of infomation. Mama will have a job when we move.

If you can pass along any more nuggets of Canadian information my way on living in Canada, please let me know. I’m hoping/praying/wishinguponastar that Obama wins, but if McCan wins, we’re moving.

I’m going to learn the Canadian fight song. “O Canada! Our home and native land!…”