January Should Be Spelled Junkuary

Blogistically speaking, January and I don't get along.  I mean, here it is, the last few days of the month, and all I've managed to post was some art I did with Katie.  Which, you have to admit, while it was a totally rockin'ly awesome piece of artwork, it doesn't really make up for the lack of blog posting.  So, you may ask, what have I been doing? (Besides expanding my vocabulary with the words "blogistically" and "rockin'ly", obviously.)

Oooohhhh, all sorts of crazy!

Like, once this month, we all trooped down to Arizona to stare, slack jawed, at grapefruit GROWING RIGHT IN SOME ONE'S FRONT YARD!!!

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Um, you live in the Northwest, shouldn't you be staring slack jawed at something bigger, like the sun?"  And my answer is, theoretically... yes, but practically... no. Because as everyone knows, staring at the sun can make you sneeze, a lot.  Plus there's that whole blindness thing....

Then, there was this other time, when we came back from the place where magical grapefruit GROWS RIGHT IN SOME ONE'S FRONT YARD!!!

and it snowed.  A lot.  Like right away. With a layer of ice. Which trapped me in the house with two very small children and a dwindling supply of cream for my coffee.  Which made me wonder, "Is this how that whole business with the Donner Party started? Because I'm feeling really grouchy, and if I can't drink my normal huge amounts of coffee, I'm going to get even more grouchy and, thinking about it, you'd have to be really grouchy to resort to cannibalism. Strategically speaking, maybe the Donner's shouldn't have killed the cows first." Which, I know, is just stupid. Because obviously the cows would had gone dry months before they were even trapped in all that snow.  What's amazing is that every wagon train didn't resort to cannibalism. Then, eventually, Jon came home and he reminded me, once again, that "Cannibalism is never funny, Martha. At all." But, then I realized, this was coming from a man who doesn't appreciate a good butt joke*, so, why would I listen to him? Exactly.

Then there was this time where there was a huge amount of vomit, and unfortunately no gloriously magical sunshiney grapefruit that GROWS RIGHT IN SOME ONE'S FRONT YARD!!!

So, I'm skipping that week.

Which drops me here.  On the 27th.  With three four days left in this sad, sad, sad excuse of a blogging month.  And all I've contributed to the Internet this month is a few tweets about grilled cheese sandwiches, pumpkins and a knock knock joke that wasn't even mine. And too many incomplete sentences to go back and count. Because I'm lazy. But, really, it's not my fault.  I mean, how could it be when everyone is walking around calling the month Junkuary, right?

Right??

Ummmm.... 

Crap. 

Never mind.  I'll just see you all next month, in FUNRUARY! 

  

*To the buttcano! To the  buttcano!

I Don't Really Know What This Is

I don't mean to brag or anything, but it turns out I am one freakily awesome artist!



And, in case you can't read the banner the residents of Winkletown strung across Goldfish Creek Ave., it say's "Welcome To The Giant Apple Festival!"

Because, those are some seriously GIANT apples.

And, yes, Ms. Plyphal is practically bursting with pride.

Where I Ruin Christmas For EVERYONE!

I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already ruined Christmas for everyone.  Remember?  When you took a newly potty trained Ellie Christmas shopping at Target while she had diarrhea last week."  Noooo, I'm not talking about ruining the Holiday shopping mood of  each and every person in Target by racing through the store, cutting people off all while shouting things like: 'Mommy's getting you to the toilet as fast as she can so you can keep your pants dry! Hold it!' or 'We don't put tut-tut-tut in the shopping cart. NoooOOOooo! That's crazy talk! We put it in the toilet!', six times in an hour and a half. No, I'm talking about a more traditional ruining of Christmas.  One that only those you live with 24/7 can appreciate.....

You see, I have a gift.  Well, really, maybe it's more of a skill.....  Yeah! That's it!  A way cool awesome present identifying skill.  Growing up I would look at my presents under the Christmas tree, shake one a little, heft another, and BAM! I knew exactly what I was getting for Christmas-kickball, Malibu Barbie, a new pair of pants, whatever. It was awesome! Plus, it annoyed my sister, so- SCORE!

OK, look people.  I can hear your scoffing snorts from all the way over here. But it's true!  Even Jon believes in my santacular skills now. However, once, just like you, he used his olfactory nerves for more than smelling the annual Christmas grapefruit*....

(cue cool flashback music here-which sounds oddly like Wil Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It")

One year, before we were married, Jon found out about my amazingly astounding Christmas skill and tried to trick me.  I took one look at his large rectangular Christmas present, rotated it 180 degrees, looked him in the eyes and said, "It's books, a large jingle bell, a pair of socks aaannnddd (the package did another 180) three pens." Even with his jaw on  the floor (from gift identification envy, obviously) he continued to doubt. "What books?" he said. And with four little words, the man never doubted me again. "The Chronicles of Narnia."

So, here it is, Christmas Eve, the presents are wrapped, the children are tucked snugly in their beds, Jon is in the kitchen whipping cream for some secret pie eating, and I have exactly three minutes of unsupervised present snooping guessing skilling**. Awwwww Yeeeaaahhhh!

Present #1, from Ellie:

A picture frame. Possibly of a duck.  Because, even Ellie knows, ducks are cool.  Because they look just like penguins with floaty toys, obviously.

Present #2, from Katie:


A wooden bookmark and a marble. Or a weird juice squeezer/zester thing.

Present #3, from Jon:


Pish! As if a bow the size of a chihuahua could throw me off.  It's a ring that says POW! or a necklace with an elephant on it.

BAM! (I totally just did it again this year!)
Merry Christmas!***



*No, really!  It's totally a thing in Arizona.  Maybe.  Probably.  Or possibly just for my family....

**Can you believe I just made up this word? I know! It ROCKS!

***Disclaimer:  I reserve the right to be wrong. I also reserve the right to then deny it later, even if you pull up this lame blog post.  Because, as everyone knows, you can't believe everything you read on the internet.

More Awkward Conversations With Martha

Proof, once again, that I should only have conversations with other people inside my own head.

Conversation #1:

Yesterday, I braved the cold, the rain, the crowds, the aisles of meat based samples that is Costco in order to pick up our Christmas cards, and, of course had to have this conversation in the restroom:

Tall Lady: (watching me help Ellie wash her hands) She's cute! How old?

Me: (thinking, "that the Tall Lady looks vaguely familiar") She's eighteen months now.

Tall Lady: Awww... She's-

Me: (rudely interrupting, because I spend my days with very small children and that's how they roll) Hey! Olympic High, right? You drive that brown van. You bring your kids there on Mondays and Wednesdays for swim lessons at 6:15. A boy and a girl, right?

Tall Lady: Wooooowwww.... (glances nervously around the restroom) Um. You're, um, very (begins to edge toward the exit) wow, you're (gulp) good.... (chucks paper towel at the trash can, misses and flees as if her life depends on it.)

Conversation #2:

On Tuesday, I called and left this message at Rejuv Spa:

"Hi. Um, my name is Martha and, I'm really not sure if this was legitimate or not, but, um, my husband, his name is Jon, found an iPhone outside your business the other day, and he brought it in and it was some one's that was there. And, anyway, someone else told him that he could have a free massage, but he doesn't want it, in fact he'd rather have the iPhone, not that he wants the iPhone back, that'd be weird and probably illegal, um, anyway, soooo, he said I could have it, the free massage, not the iPhone, that's yours, or someone else's or something. Anyway, like I said before I don't even know if this is for real but if it is, you can call me back at 555-5555. If I just sound insane, and you know, that wasn't a real offer of a free massage, you can just, um, not call me back. Thanks!" (click)

UPDATE:

My massage is scheduled for Saturday. Because Rejuv is awesome. Or because business is really slow and they're bored and nothing perks up a slow weekend like giving that "weirdly awkward lady on the answering machine"* a free massage.

*Um, I don't actually know if this is my new nickname from the employees at Rejuv, but, let's face it, it totally could be!

Conversation #3:

I went to a Christmas brunch last weekend. There was Egg Thing. There was French Toast Thing. There was the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album playing in the background. There was coffee. A lot of coffee. And with all this you'd think it would have been more than enough to keep me busy for hours. Oh, nooooooo. And, unfortunately, I was fully aware that an hour long soliloquy with my coffee cup would have just looked weird so instead...

Me: Hi! My name is Martha. (sitting down at a table and sipping my coffee at the same time) Good coffee. And you are?

Stranger: Um, hi. I'm Thelma. (smiles nicely) Yeah it is.

Me: Oh! You're Marshall's wife! You guys just moved back from Illinois. You were there for, what, two years?

Thelma: Um, yeah. Something like that....

Me: (shoveling Egg Thing and French Toast Thing into my mouth at top speed because I just know one of my kids is going to demand my attention soon and, gosh darn it, I am hungry) So, did you guys move back to that cute little blue house with the hydrangea bushes that Marshall bought before you were married? Or are you somewhere else now?

Thelma: (nervously) Um...no...we're off of Mountain Crest now....

Me: (gulping coffee, shoveling food and whipping my head around like I'm watching a supersonic tennis match while searching for those Mommy attention seeking children of mine) Nice. (more coffee gulping) Hey.... (my brain finally starts catching up to my coffee consumption) You know I'm Jon's wife, right? He and Marshall used to work together. Because I just realized that I could have sounded like a total stalker just then, knowing where you've lived and when you'd moved and all that. Totally not a stalker here! (nervous giggle) That'd be weird. Jon, over there (points to Jon across the room) he's my husband. He knows Marshall. So, you know, that makes me not a freaky scary stalker....

Thelma: (nervous eye flicker)

Me: You know, I probably should have just stuck with talking with my coffee cup. I mean, that's what I normally do at these kind of part- Yeeeeaaaahhhh. Um. I think I'm just gonna stop talking now.

I Need A Hero

Do you remember when you were in junior high and you had all those Teen Bop magazine posters wallpapering your room? Maybe Kirk Cameron on the back of your door,

Debbie Gibson over your dresser,

Jason Priestly and Luke Perry taped to your closet door,

or New Kids on the Block over your bed?

Me neither.

Because, as you all know, my sister pulled an Extreme Make Over: Dorky Little Sister's Room Edition and plastered every cat poster know to mankind on my walls and accented with a bucket of Pepto-pink paint. Of course, before that, I was sleeping with The Declaration of Independence taped to my wall and a cow mobile over my bed, so she was probably totally justified. But I still say that my TURKEY! poster was the height of coolness!

Nay, the absolute height of AWESOMENESS! (For extra cool points say that last sentence in your best WWF Hulk Hogan vs. The Iron Sheik ring side commentator voice. Like I did.)

But, lately, I've been thinking, "Did I miss some important right of teenhood by drifting off to sleep each night with visions of cats cavorting through daisies in my head instead of pictures of currently culturally relevant celebraties?" So, I did what any normal person would do. I went in search of a hero.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already have a hero. You changed the lyrics to 'You are the Wind Beneath My Wings' and made up a weird interpretive dance for her, that you never recorded and therefore never posted on YouTube (and THANK YOU by the way). Where's the love??? She made your grass shorter for goodness sake!!!" You're right, she is totally my hero. But, it's winter, my grass isn't growing and I'm as fickle as a kitten running through the daisies on a spring morning.

You see, this November instead of participating in NANO-WAMO (or NaNoWriMo as some people call it, and by some, I mean everyone but me) and butchering even more obscure grammatical rules while slapping 1,666 words a day from my brain into a spiral notebook or spending all my free time cheering on beard growing men in the name of prostate cancer, I found her:

My hero.

Seriously. I <3 her so much I may print a gigantic poster of her face, tape it to my bathroom wall and post little love notes on her nose every time Ellie puts her pee-pee and tut-tut-tut in the toilet. Because, dude, NO MORE DIAPERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (You know what? That's sooo not enough exclamation points. I think I'll add some more, just for you Jamie Glowacki. Just for you.) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, people of the internet, you can keep your hoodie wearing Justin Beibers, your paper collating Wil Wheatons, I'm sticking with Jamie Glowacki and her "Oh Crap Potty Training" technique. Because she's awesome. And, because there ain't nothin' cuter than an Ellie butt goin' commando.

Someone Is The Bee's Knees And It Isn't Me

Did I ever tell you that Jon gave me Richard Simmons: "Sweatin' to the Oldies" for my birthday one year? I know what you're thinking, "No you did not! WHY HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING THIS FROM US!!!" Yeeeaaaahhhh.... and I was eight months pregnant at the time too.

Exactly.

Now, in his defense, he thought he was being funny. But what he failed to remember is that at eight months pregnant I found nothing funny.

Nothing.

In hind sight, I probably should have sat on his chest or something when I opened his present, considering it was the first time since high school that I outweighed him. You know, now that I think about it, I probably should have sat on his chest more in high school too, put my extra three pounds to good use. I would have been all, "Where's your well thought out logic now, Mr. Smarty Pants? Huh!?! Got any more of those fancy statistics to prove my take on the economic security of Belgium is skewed? Huh!?! Do ya!?! Yeah. (gratuitous flick to the ear) Didn't think so." Then again, he had sisters so they probably totally did that for me. Because when it comes to Belgium, we need to represent! (Mostly because they have good waffles. I think. I've never actually been to Belgium, but when I do, I'm totally ordering waffles like every day. Man.... I really hope their waffles live up to all this hype in my head.)

Scrumptolicious waffles aside, I'm not really going to be complaining about my husband in this post, I'm simply documenting a few... facts. However, to be fair, if you are one of those people who think he's "the bees knees"* then I have one word for you: quantum.

Dude! Can I clear a room or what!?!

Do you remember a few months ago, when Jon dragged me to Best Buy to look at new laptops, which forced me to find an awesome penguin video, download it onto every machine in the store, invent a penguin dance with Katie and Ellie, freak out pre-teen boys by seeing how many laptops fit in my diaper bag (3), and ask every employee inane questions like "Do fins come standard or will I have to pay extra to have them retro-fitted"? Those were the good times. Goooood times.

Because, dudes, Jon bought me a new laptop.

Apparently, the internet has these buttons you can push that say stupid things like "BUY NOW". Stupid buttons....

Now, if you're first question is something like, "Sweet! What kind of battery life does it have?" I have one word for you: quantum.

That's right! You heard me. Quuuaaantuuum. Just move yourself over to the corner and stand with all those buzzing knee people and discuss trochanters and coaxes or whatever. But not waffles. Waffles are mine. (insert deadly serious stare here)

I mean, sure, Jon had been throwing around words like "dieing", "on its last legs", "it's harder to recover information files from a dead computer than a working one" and other stuff. But he was talking about computers, people! Why in the world would I listen to that? (*cough*boring*cough*)

So, now I find myself typing away on some weirdly clean black keyboard, trying to figure out why this new computer is so gosh darn cool, because obviously it's not going to sell me itself by just listing out its geek statistics. Seriously, what the heck does "atom-based 12-incher with only 16 GB of onboard storage" mean anyway? And, if you know the answer to that: quantum. And just go stand over there. (waves vaguely at the huge rager going on in the corner)

Hmmmm.....

Maybe it's made me wittier!

.....

.....

.....

.....

.....

Apparently not.

Maybe it just plain make me smar-Oooooo! Look! Penguin videos!!!

I know! I bet the computer made me look prettier!

Or just point out what an ugly green sweater I'm wearing. Dude. That's harsh, new laptop. Real harsh.

Hmmmm......

You know what? I totally figured it out. My laptop is cool because it makes waffles. Tasty, melt in your mouth fluffy Belgium waffles. On Saturday morning. While I'm out for a run. And then it does the dishes.

Right, Jon?

Jon??

Hey! Helllloooo over there! Don't make me pull out that Richard Simmons DVD and send Katie over to ask you to dance with her! I'd join you all, but, apparently, I have a new computer to figure out.

*Give yourself 10 extra credit points if you've heard Jon use this entomologically confusing colloquialism in everyday conversation. And while you're at it, give yourself an additional 20 extra credit points if, like me, you just googled "Do bees have knees?" Woo hoo! Thirty points! (high five! Let's party dance! Hey! Why am I the only one dancing?)

FAQ: Frequently Asked Questions

I know you got 'em. So here's the answers:

Will you really send me a box of mac and cheese if I win one of your contests?

Yes.

What if I don't want you to? Will you still send it? Please don't.

OK, let me tell you a story. One day, many years ago, in a land with sunshine and a high influx of tourism, I worked at a historical society as a museum educator. (No. Seriously. This is a true story. And by true I mean in the sense that I worked for $7.50 an hour WITH a college degree. Because apparently I'm cheap like that.) My boss, who I will now randomly name Sue, and I were running an educational event where families could come and do some awesome history type activities as well as enter a raffle to win some very cool historical architectural themed things: blocks, books, etc. Sue decided that it would be best if she took the job of doing all the story times we had scheduled while I oversaw the arts and crafts area, the architectural blocks area, manned the information table and sold the raffle tickets. All day. A fair break up of the work? No, but I was having fun working with all the kids and talking up all the cool stuff we had up for the raffle so people would buy tickets to win things and the education department would raise some extra funds. (Maybe I'd get a raise!!! (Hahahahaha! Yeah. That didn't happen.)) Then, at the end of the day, just before we were to pull the winning tickets out of the basket, Sue comes over and whispers, "Let's take the book out of the raffle."

"What?" I thought. "You mean this book? The book I've been talking up all day. The book you've been reading at every story time? That book?"

Then Sue leans over my shoulder, snatches the book off the prize table, literally sticks it under her stupid looking blue plaid blazer, and whispers, "They'll never know." And then leaves me there to pull the raffle tickets. By myself.

In retrospect, she was probably just trying to get a good head start in her get-a-way, because she'd JUST COMMITTED A FELONY! Now, I don't know if the police ever showed up at her condo, bullhorns in hand, gas masks in place, battering ram at the ready, because we moved a year later and I now work for coffee and Twilight movie tickets (Man, I'm STILL cheap!), but she has to live with the fear of that happening every day of her life. So, dude, enjoy your mac and cheese because that level of stress would totally mess with my caffeine buzz.

Did you room with a drug dealer in college?

Yes.

Would you actually steal candy from Katie and Ellie to send to people on the internet?

You don't know me very well, do you? See, me and the Dental Association of America have a total symbiotic relationship thing going, a little like the carp and the hippo. In fact, I'm thinking of printing shirts up on Zazzle that say: Voldemort Ate Candy And His Nose Fell Off. It's catchy, hip and scary. Everything you could want in a reeeaaaalllly cool t-shirt.

But seriously, Ellie had more fun carrying and shaking that stripey box full of her Halloween candy all the way to the post office than she would have if I'd simply thrown 3/4 of her candy in the trash can, like the rest of the world does with their children's Halloween candy.

If I keep the candy, does that make me an accomplice?

In the words of The Kool-Aid Man, "Ooohhhhh yeeeeaaaahhhh!" From the first Whopper you popped in your mouth to the last stick of sour apple licorice. Unless you throw it away. Like Voldemort should have.

What do your kids shove under your couch?

How did they get all that junk under there!?!

I have no idea.

Seriously. No idea.

If someone uses the word "quantum" in a conversation, do I have to keep listening?

Oh, man.... I am soooooo sorry, because I come across this problem a LOT in my day to day life. In fact, I might even have once stumbled into a conversation about a Quantum Death Star in North Farthing that landed in the middle of elevensies because it needed a BSD license. Or I made that all up. Either way, the answer to your question is no. The word "quantum" was invented solely for the purpose of letting people know when it's OK to let your mind wander in a conversation, or, depending on the social situation, to simply wader off to another room. I totally recommend the wandering one, unless there is pie involved. Because obviously....PIE!!

Is escutcheon a swear word?

It has to be considering how many times Jon and I said it while replacing our kitchen faucet this weekend.

Any more questions for me? Leave them in the comments!