This Is What Happens When I Socialize

Conversation with Mabel at a party:

Mabel: You should frost your hair.

Me: It's summer, it wouldn't stay frozen.

Mabel: (ignoring my witty joke) Nooooo.... we should give you highlights!!

Me: Why?

Mabel: It'll make you a faster triathlete!

Me: A faster swimmer?

Mabel: Suuuper fast!

Me: Faster than you?

Mabel: (rolls eyes) Don't be ridiculous.

Me: Faster on the bike?

Mabel: Like blue lightening!

Me: A faster runner?

Mabel: Nothing could make you a faster runner, Martha. You are the fastest runner IN THE WORLD!!

Me: (jumping up and high fiveing Mabel) I'll do it!

Lies and flattery. Apparently that 's all I need to hear in order to agree to turn me into this:

Yes. With teal eyebrows.

Hair-dying is a very weird process.

Maybe I should start at the beginning-back story by VH1 and all that.

I've never dyed my hair. Well, I once tried to dye a reeeaaallly small section purple with Kool-Aide in high school once, but it didn't work. Sure it smelled good, and it tasted like a grape popscicle, but I at the end I lacked the totally awesome section of purple hair that was going to transform me from Girl Scout cookie selling orchestra geek to cool grunge girl. And, you know what they say about failure... OK, I don't know what they say about failure, but I can confidently say it does not smell like teen spirit.*

Fast forward something like 15 years, and there I am standing in the cosmetics section of Target pretending to contemplate the hueical difference between "Biscotti" and "Caramel Cookie" but really just dreaming about eating a caramel biscotti and drinking coffee while I twirled aimlessly around. (Dude. I was wearing a skit. It's a girl thing.) Then I saw something exciting! Did you know (I'm saying this in my best conspiratorial voice, so you should totally listen closely) that they have samples in the aisles? Cosmetic samples! And that's why Mabel had to have this conversation with me:

Me: Samples!!

Mabel: Wha-

Me: (rifling through the eyebrow pencils) Chocolate brown... brown....brown/black...TEAL! Mabel! We should paint our eyebrows teal!

Mabel: Um. No.

Me: (recklessly scribbling above my eyes) Come on! It's free! FREE SAMPLES!!!!!!!

Mabel: Um. No.

(Another friend was shopping with us, I'll call her Belinda (mostly because I always wanted a friend named Belinda), but she took one look at the gleeful look on my face as I clutched the eyebrow pencil, giggled nervously and bolted for the deodorant aisle. If we had been in high school this would have totally been mysecond Nirvana reference!)

Then, because while Target gives out free samples of make-up they don't give out free samples of make-up remover, we left quickly with our box of un-edible "Biscotti" and soon I was sporting a wimple, or whatever the Amish call those hats they wear. Because hair dyeing is a weird process.

A Chinese Crested Dog cap, a wimple, three different hair products, and a hair straightener later and Mabel still couldn't beautify the dork out of me. Probably because I scribbled it across my forehead.

Note: My eyebrows really were teal, really, but they didn't show up well enough in the photo. Because, you know, if anyone wished I were lying about my eyebrows, it's Mabel and Belinda. All apologies, guys. (Dude! That's three!!!)

*Oh my goodness! I just made a Nirvana reference!! Oh man.... I feel so cool!!!**

** My brain is totally partying right now: "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it....Ice, ice baby...vanilla...." I'm doing the Roger Rabbit too.

BANANAS!!! Crud. I Just Totally Ruined The Punch Line For You All.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there?

Bananas.

Bananas who?

Bananas on a plate!

It's OK, I can wait for you to stop laughing uproariously.

Wait. Seriously? You're done already? Weird.... Because I recently found out on a road trip with Katie, there is nothing NOT funny about the word 'bananas'. So if you need more giggle time, I can totally upload some awesome elevator music to rock out to while I wait. No? Sure?

Oh thank goodness, people! Because I was thees close to having Micheal Bolton's "Said I Loved You... But I Lied" stuck in my head for the rest of the day.*

So, there I was with banana jokes cavorting around in my head, a giggling four year old in the back seat, 100 miles to go before we could sleep and a trigger thumb on my Twitter account, when this thought occurred to me, "If I twit that I'm off to the beach for a vacation the uber smart Buck-Roger-bots are going to know that I'm on vacation! They will know that I'm not at home! They'll be able to come into my house, install mind controlling devices in my microwave and bedside lamp, rearrange my underwear drawer and suck all the caffeine out of my coffee one bean at a time! Rude! Gross! And frankly, annoying, because I bet those brain implants give you tinnitus." So I did the only rational thing. I put my iPhone away. I played in the sand. I flew kites. I rode a bike. I went for glorious morning runs on the beach. I ate two Recess peanut butter cups and a cookie the size of my head. Obviously, I went vacation crazy, and it was awesome!

But I didn't want you all to feel left out, so I wrote down my tweets on a handy dandy (I make myself cringe with my slang sometimes too.) piece of paper. I'm sure it will be just like being there!

1. Stripey green maxi dress, purple shirt and pigtails. Nothing says, "I'm on vacation" like #DressingLikeAClown.

2. I don't think the McDonald's employees appreciated my homage as much as I did. #DressingLikeAClown

3. Um. Correction. Nothing says "I'm on vacation" like #DressingLikeAClown, but nothing smells like vacation like baby vomit all over the back seat.

4. This place has a 12 cup coffee maker and Jon is still in the shower. SCORE!

5. PB cookies the size of my head!!

6. Coffee tsunami! #LongBeachCoffeeRoasters

7. Vacation pics by four year olds can be kinda random.

8. Oh wait. Never mind. That was mine.

9. Apparently no matter how many times you say, "I have pita chips!" it doesn't turn them into real chips.

10. HARRY POTTER!! DH2!!

11. I can't tell if this BBC video is a documentary or a movie. #ArcadeAttack

12. This town really loves it's razor clams. I'm just trying to fit in.

13. I think this guy needs to use the bathroom. I know the feeling dude.

14. It was just a two shot latte! I swear!

15. Jon's got skillz. Madcat skillz.

16. I want to hug him and squeeze him and love him forever! #sandsculpturecompetition

17. ARG! Croc-O-Pirate! #JakeTheAlligatorMan

18. I do realize alligators and crocodiles are different, but Alli-O-Pirate sounded stupid.

19. I am an ostrich cowboy.

20. Don't you hate tweets that basically say, "You had to be there"? #annoying

21. Check out deadlines make me crazy! Load the car! Load the car!

*Crapazoidal.... Never mind. I've got Bolton on a continuous loop all up in my brain now.

Because My Sister Said I Was Weird

Things that happen when your sister flies six quadrabillion miles for a visit:

1. Your car is licked by buffalo. Repeatedly.

(Well, hello there! I'll take that slice of bread with a jumbo side of saliva.)

2. You get spit on by dinosaurs.

(This is my, "This dinosaur is going to spit on me too, isn't it?" face. I wore it a lot.)

3. You take pictures of dead geoducks.

(And apparently sing, "Dig a duck, dig a duck, dig a geoduck, dig a duck, dig a duck, dig a duck a day!" all by yourself. Because I like to embarrass myself like that.)

4. Ellie eats dirt, and rocks, and sand, and grass-but NOT DEAD GEODUCKS!

(Another picture of the half-eaten, decomposing, stinking of Clamato juice, dead geoduck, courtesy of everyone who refused to sing the geoduck song with me. Seriously. CLAMATO! That tall glass of tomato and clam juice doesn't look so appetizing now, does it?)

5. You find out you need to worry about elbow germs in public restrooms.

(Seriously. Do you know where YOUR elbow has been?)

6. Someone picks the Fremont Troll's nose.

(This is a troll. That is his nose. This is an anonymous type person picking the nose. These are my mad Inkscape skillz. Try not to be jealous. Of the skillz, not the troll booger. Obviously you can't help being jealous of that.)

7. You make a birthday cake out of Rice Krispie Treats and chocolate frosting.

(Which due to the minority of the household voting for the kale and tofu birthday cake*, we had to actually go to the store to buy ingredients for.)

8. Hilarious, yet inappropriate jokes about butts, poop and cannibalism are made at the dinner table each night. (I blame Ellie. Or Jon. But not for the same reason. Probably.)

(Death stare if you name my cannibal Edward. I'm looking at you Jon.)

9. You learn not to wear Ellie on your back while attempting to ride a merry-go-round.

(cough-baby go splat-cough.)

10. After everyone leaves, you and Katie agree that the week totally earned the highly coveted Fish Bump of approval.

(KAPOW, BABY!)

And, while my sister really did visit, I thought it would be more prudent to NOT post any pictures of her, because she's a spy. Or a teacher. Or a cupcake baker. Or the president of United States of America. Or I'm really embarrassing. Or I was too lazy to ask her. Or she's a cannibal. Probably the latter. Or the former? Crud. I always get those two mixed up....

Either way, you should totally come back soon! I'll keep a Fish Bump waiting for you!

*OK, I don't actually know if a kale and tofu birthday cake exists out there in the culinary type world, but I'm thinking with a little chocolate frosting, some sprinkles, might be kinda tasty. Or, I mean-Oooooo! YUCK! GROSS! WHO WOULD EAT THAT!?!

I Pity The Foo' Who Won't Twit With Me

How I know the computers are winning their bid for world domination:

Me: (standing groggily in the shower, which, truthfully, isn't much different than how I stand everywhere else)

My Brain: (in an unfamiliar, yet strangely compelling voice) Shave your eyebrows, you need.

Me: Oh,yeah. Knew I forgot something. (picking up my razor) Waaaiiit a minute....

And then I was forced to join Twitter.

Yes, I've called Twitter an insidious plot for world domination by super Buck Rogers computers (it is), but it was either that or lose an eyebrow people! And, I'm sorry, but I LIKE my eyebrows! Because, if I were eyebrowless I'd have to go around dressed like this:

All the time. Because, even with my limited fashion sense I know that a sweat headband would just look stupid by itself.

But now, instead of trashing my whole wardrobe and maxing out my credit cards on workout tights, leg warmers and awesome sweat bands, I'm busy trying to get Barack Obama to follow me on Twitter.

OK, fine. He wasn't my first choice. I actually wanted Jane Austen to follow me and so I followed her, but then she never tweeted at me and I felt all used and stuff. I mean, I've read all your books Jane! I recommended them to friends! The least you could do is twit at me or something! Is that so much to ask!?! Huh!! IS IT!?! But, noooOOOooo, apparently she's too busy being, I don't know, dead. And self-centered. (Yeah. You heard me Jane.)

So, there I was, depressedly wandering Twitter, drowning my sighs in yet another gulp of coffee, when I figured it out. You can't be a self-centered non-following twit if you've been made into a Chia Pet! Utterly impossible, right? Totally!

So, President Lincoln,

President Washington,

President Obama

and Mr. T,

will you twitterize with me?

Come on, guys! Sing with me! 1-2-3! Hit it Olivia!

"Let's get twittering, twittering,

I wanna tweet with you Chia heads

Let's get into tweeting talks

Let me hear your Twitter talk, your Twitter talk

Let me hear your Twitter talk!"

Um. Sorry. I'm not usually this uncool. (No one was talking to you, Jane!)

@MacCheeseAttack

This Is Where Being A Concerned Non-Self-Absorbed Spouse Will Get You*

So, the other night, there I was, tucked away in the furthest corner of the family room, hiding from my kids, and, well, Jon, because, if I don't hide, people, I'd actually have to help bathe, change, brush and read my children ready for bed and, anyway, I had way more interesting things to do. (Quit judging me.) What, you ask? Oh, tons of things. Very important things. Things like, trying to choose which picture to have printed on my personalized M&M'S**.

I could go with quirky and embarrassing:

Or, my candy could be an artistic triptych about that time I realized I needed a brain in my butt:

Or I could commendate that time I was a fashion trend setter:

Or I could go with just plain awesome!

Then, before I could really sit down and hash out a firm decision, Jon found me.

Jon: Um, Martha? I think I need to go to the ER.

Me: (flipping between pics on my computer) Ha. Ha. Funny. Funny. You threw out all my Lounge Lizard Esssspressssooo LooOOoove Gu weeks ago.

Jon: No. Really. I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something.

Me: (still flipping) It was probably the Sliders you had a work. I think the cows are implementing some sort of covert biological warfare tactics now.

Jon: (sighing) Fine. I'll drive myself.

Me: (finally turning around) Holy Bumpy Tomato! What did you eat?!?

And, six hours later, with Jon full of intravenous drugs, we're home. Something good did come of the night, however. I picked a photo for the M&M'S:

Printed on the red ones of course. Because grotesquely personalized M&M'S are for everyone. (Don't worry. You looked nothing like this, Jon. And, you can trust me on that, because, as you can see, I typed that with my concerned spouse facial expression intact.)

*It will also get an unconcerned self-absorbed spouse to the same place. But one of them comes with candy!

**For reals:

W-H-I-N-E-Y Doesn't Spell Whiny. Thank You Spell Check. That Could Have Been Embareaceing.

In case you missed my bicycle butt reference in the last post, this month is the beginning of another season of triathlon training. Now, not to be all whiny, but if there is one section of the triathlon I dislike the most, it would be the bike. There's just so much stuff you need: bike, helmet, um, water bottle holder thingy.... OkaaaAAAaaayyyyy, fiiiIIIiiinnne. (That was not whiny. Believe me. This is whiiiIIIiiinnnNNNyyyyy. Oh. Wait. My bad. That was totally whiny.) Anyway, you're right. It's my butt that dislikes the bike. Because, man, those seats are tiny! And hard! And I don't think those fashionable padded shorts help as much as they should. But don't get alarmed, I'm not going to be constantly talking about my butt this summer. Mostly because I can just hear you guys now, "Awwwwww.... reeeaaallly? Bob, Martha's still talking about her butt! Wanna watch that documentary on the National Debt again? At least that has Humphrey* Bogart in it." And, unless you're Jon, sitting through that movie once is plenty. Or, unless you're me, then, sitting through Jon explaining the movie once is enough.

And, in case you're not me, this was Jon's synopsis: "Yadda, yadda, yadda. National Debt is huge. 16 billion dollars. Yadda,yadda, yadda. Bush II made some really bad fiscal decisions. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Already balanced budget. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Unless we start saving money and socking it away in offshore accounts and buy our own private island, and name it Isle Esime, then we'll end up living in a place like District 12 and sending Katie to fight to the death just for a handful of quinoa and a cake of paraffin wax.**" My mind may have wandered during that last point, but, it was early and I don't see how can I be expected to pay attention before my morning coffee has hit my brain. Then again, I couldn't really hear him over all the smack talk my butt was throwing out.***

Oh, and by the way, sorry for all the 'butts' in this post, but last week Jon said that using the word 'butt' sounded crude and I told him I wasn't being crude, I was being edgy. And, as a woman who currently has 12 Sesame Street books memorized, I figured I needed to cultivate all the edginess I could find. Besides, if you think this is edgy, you should totally read my butt's blog.****

*Who names their kid Humphrey anyway?

**Note to self: Work on Katie's woodswomen skills and start teaching her hand to hand combat.

***Because, Dude, my butt is loud!

****Sorry to disappoint you but my butt doesn't have a blog. Waaaaiiiitttt! Maybe I mean yet. Hmmmm......

This Post Was Either Going To Be About Coffee Or Insults My Butt Yelled On Yesterday's Bike Ride. Believe Me, You All Got The Better End Of That Deal.

Thank you all for coming. It's been a sad and confusing week here in our little coffee powered household without our coffee pot. The coffee he brewed will be missed, as will the bitter dose of sanity he served up each and every morning. He was such a nice pot. Please join me in a moment of silence for the loss of my sanity this week (and probably everyone else's) which shattered upon the counter top along with our beloved coffee pot.

(Did your moment sound like The Hustle mashed up with the theme from Rocky too? No? Hmmmm.... Maybe it's time to change my Pandora station.)

The day started out so normal, you know? Coffee grounds steeping in my French press while I unloaded the dishwasher, Ellie noshing on Cheerios under the kitchen table, Katie making a stack of books as tall as her head in preparation for her morning toilet quiet time. Then BAM! my hand slipped, the glass coffee pot crashed onto the tile counter exploding glass, grounds and coffee everywhere! And because I'm a dork, and because I have an overwhelming need to be uselessly and cryptically descriptive of my caffeine loss, and because it was a freaky cloudless northwest morning, I have to tell you that it made my counter look almost exactly like Edward Cullen standing that sunny mountain meadow covered in coffee: sparkly and dangerous, but with a scent that was simply mouthwatering.

Now, a normal human would have gone straight out and bought another French press from Fred Meyer. I, however, do not live with normal people. Considerate people? Yes. People with the desire to never ever, not ever, go shopping? Yepitty. People with astoundingly fast Amazon ordering skills? Yeppidy doo da to the max! So, here I sit, waiting for my new rubber reinforced French press (for better bounceage) to show up on my doorstep, forced to sip coffee out of a cup smaller than the chicken from Katie and Ellie's Fischer Price farm because the only thing I have to brew it in is Jon's teeny tiny backpacking French press. (Which, let's face it, I really bought for me.)

I'm not kidding about that chicken either.

See, this is my normal morning coffee cup:

Isn't it pretty? (Note the chicken.)

And this is the mug I've been drinking out of for the past three days, and brewing a new pot between each cup:

(Note the chicken.)

What?!?

No.....

You people are crazy! That's totally the same chicken.

They have the same hair and everything.