'Hollywood', only with larger tits

Today is day three of our Tennessee mountain family vacation. We've settled into our cabin nicely, sprawling out and letting the lush mountainy goodness envelope us. Our suitcases have been unpacked and our belongings now lay scattered about. We have maps of trails, tourist brochures and a lifetime supply of bottled water. We are equipped with a pool table, satellite television, wireless Internet and a hot tub. You didn't think we came up here to actually enjoy nature did you?

We arrived Saturday morning, after driving throughout the night. We were horribly cranky and stiff-necked as we pulled into Dillsboro, N.C. In planning for this trip, my mother had stumbled across a website for the Great Smoky Mountain Railway.

"A train ride, why Brae LOOOOVES trains, what a great idea!"

and upon further examination....

"Thomas the Train? A ride with Thomas the Train?! Brae LOOOOOVES Thomas the Train, what a great idea!"

Brae, does not in fact, love Thomas the Train. In truth, he's never watched a single episode of Thomas the Train. He has a train set that was purchased for him two Christmas' ago, which he has breathed on maybe a total of five times since it was presented to him.

However, pulling into that cramped parking lot and trudging through the mud after riding in a car all night was ALL made worth it when I saw the look on his face. He was enthralled. It was an actual replica of Thomas the Train pulling the train cars. We spent an hour fighting the crowd of people who were canned inside the ONLY roofed building at this event and were soaked by the time we reached our seats. The ride was less than 20 minutes long.

Barely alive hours later, we reached our cabin in Wears Valley, TN. Exhausted and tempered, we had left any semblance of a smile strapped into the seat of Thomas the Train, now hours behind us. We poured into the cabin and subsequently melted onto any piece of available furniture.

The following day we went on a small hike in the Smoky Mountain National Park. We hiked up to Sylva Falls and I demonstrated to the throng of tourists my gracefulness by slipping on a wet boulder and taking my son and 19-year old brother down with me. For a second I thought I had broken Brae's arm. Then I remembered that we had shitty HMO insurance and how destructive hospital bills could be. And by the power of my positive thoughts, I healed Brae's arm.

Eat that, Aetna.

Today though, today was the absolute pinnacle of our trip thus far. We visited the capital of fried-green tomato - coverall wearing - Copenhagen spitting - sweet-tea chugging- bluegrass belting - all-around country......

DOLLYWOOD!

The employees at Dollywood are NOT actual humans. They are robots who all have ultra-sensitive 'nice' chips installed in them. NO ONE is actually this friendly. I could have cupped a fart in my hand, thrown it in their face right as they leaned in to take that first bite of their pipping hot Angus burger, and they all would have clapped for me and requested an encore. They were just THAT enthusiastic.

Also, you realize just how little of a Southern accent you have when thrown into a pit of true southerners and how terms such as "Howdy" and "Darlin" do exist outside of a pixar film.

The day was filled with fattening food, roller-coasters, water rides and all-around family amusement. It was quite an adventure and left us all near comatose on the ride home.

In fact, I'm exhausted now and I think we are going white water rafting tomorrow.

And I was brought here under the guise that this would be a vacation, Ha!

Smoky Mountain High

Watch out Tennessee, here we come.

Why the muppets should rule the world

Most of you that know Brae's father, know he's of a.....erm.....'simpler mind' (and I say that with love).

Which is why I shouldn't find it surprising that this video has now become one of Brae's favorite things to watch and WATCH and 'oh, hey- let's watch that again!' Because it is soooo funny, mama!

Well, I don't know about funny, but it does make me want to lace up my Cuban heels and jump head first into a vat of black beans and rice.

A lengthy dilemma

I'm just going to put this out there-

I HATE shorts.

I have been spending entirely too much time over these past couple of weeks commiserating over my hatred of shorts.
Usually in front of the dressing room mirror.
While screaming and stomping.

Now, I realize that some people have the option of NOT wearing shorts- and really, that's lovely. However, I am not privileged as such. They are a necessity during these hot and humid summer months and my body does not love me enough to endure a 90 degree afternoon without stroking out. I know myself better than that.

So I've been looking for shorts, shorts that are acceptable and early into my search I learned just how unpleasant this task would be:

***and this is where I will inevitably piss some people off. Because, being skinny- I am prepared for the rash of shit that will come flying my direction when I say something disparaging about my weight. I KNOW, I AM NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE A NEGATIVE COMMENT ABOUT HOW THIN I AM. I should just feel blessed about my size and any thought/comment/suggestion made to contradict this and I will be stricken down with an extra 30 lbs. I know this- But I'll say it anyway, because I walk that line.***

AND HERE IT IS: It's not easy to find shorts appropriate for an adult when you straddle the double and triple digits.

Here goes my shopping experience:

Children's section- Yes I can fit into these, its humiliating though and I choose not to. For very obvious reasons. Not including the rainbow colored selection offered- because that is awesome.

Juniors- Hello, less than an inch of fabric between my ass check and the world? Not to mention the risk of exposure on the north end, ya know?

Women's- Oh this is where I should be, yet I'm not. Want to know why? Because they are not fitting properly. Some are too large most are too long and a few I wouldn't let Granny walk out of the house in.

I've gone to four different malls in the past two weeks. I scoured racks and racks and rack and I've come to the conclusion that the only option available to me is Bermuda shorts. Because they fit (most of the time), they are long enough to cover my big ass and I can safely refrain from looking post-menopausal.

I know I'm being whiny- but you know, all damn day I listen to cry babies and have to feign interest and you read this by choice.

That was it.
Phew. That rant actually made me feel a bit better.
Back to my cheesecake.

I saw it too

Last weekend I threw my $7 into the $155.34 million dollar pot that was the opening weekend for Batman: The Dark Knight.

It was Sunday, Brae was visiting with his father for a birthday celebration with that side of the family and washing my car that hasn't been bathed in over 6 months was not looking very enticing. So I figured, why not. Right? May as well see what all the hype is about.

So, I mentioned my plans to my good friend Sarah who advised me that purchasing my tickets in advance would be the only way to guarantee a seat for me at the theatre. So I did just that- and silently mocked the idea that the movies would be busy at a Sunday matinee.

Guess what we found when we pulled in the parking lot of the theatre? Cars. Cars, everywhere. Cars BURSTING from the aisles with their passengers scuttling about like roaches to a cheesecake.

We were swept into the crowd and ushered into the theatre by the masses, where a man awaited to check our ticket and allow us entrance to the main event.

A ticket man at the door can only mean one thing, a dismal reality. This show is sold out and arriving the 'safe 30' before was clearly not early enough.

My mother, brother and I entered the room and stood dejectedly, looking upward at the theater's stadium seating that was now PACKED. The roaches, who had scuttled past us in the lobby, were now elbow deep in cartons of Jiffy Pop, cramming their gob with fistfuls of sticky treats.

The hunt for any open seating was ON. I began to move up the stairs, pulling my night vision goggles down over my eyes as I scoured the available seating. I locked in on a row second from top with prime seating. Pushed back into the shadows, these seats had remained untouched. I took the remaining steps two at a time as I brushed toddlers and elderly women out of the way. Those seats were mine for the taking and as I reached them, I let out a battle cry and beat at my chest.

Finally feeling secure, my family settled into our semen spattered seats (c'mon, these seats were in the shadows. You know the dirty truth...) and prepared for our cinematic experience.

Some Batman observations:

• Wow, were those previews awful for a reason? Did the producers feel like a good way to get the audience hyped for Batman was the twelthquel to 'The Mummy'?


• Christian Bale, while totally attractive outside of the Batman suit, becomes increasingly more annoying one inside the suit when his voice drops two octaves. Not sexy, scary nor intimidating. Batman sounds like a husky middle-schooler pretending he's the first of his friends to enter puberty.


• Heath Ledger- every bit amazing as the hype goes. His performance as The Joker was both hilarious and haunting. At the end of the movie I was a bit morose, knowing what had happened after the cameras were off.


• Maggie Gyllenhal- 'Sherry Baby' ruined you for me. I still think of you as a two-bit whore.

I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I did NOT think the movie was too long, nor did it drag for me. I would have not even been made aware of the length of the movie had I not been drinking a medium sized Mountain Dew throughout the film.

I think you should go see it. I think Heath should be nominated for his role and I think his family should have the honor of attending/accepting any award in his place.

I think I just wrote a whole post on Batman and now I need to fall subject to the merchandising.
Oh wait- already have:

Go shorty, it's your birthday.

This past Friday marked the 4th anniversary of the 25 worst/best hours of my life and to celebrate I threw an amazing party complete with magicians, ponies, showgirls, naked midgets, a Margarita fountain and a 6 foot ice-replica of the David.

Unfortunately, the showgirls were called back to Vegas and took the ponies with them. The magician's, upset with the girls sudden departure and the abundance of naked small people, decided that they too needed to leave. David dissolved in a half-hour and with nothing left to offset the absurdity of the pint-sized nudists, I had to request the last of the entertainment leave.

And all before the guest arrived. Damn.

Lucky, we still had the Margaritas!

I had planned for this day with as much gusto as a bride prepares for her pending nuptials, and as any parent can tell you, the days leading up to your child's birthday party can be every bit as frustrating as the moments leading up to the big 'I do.'

Where to have it? How to entertain? The guest list: all family? Some friends? WHO HAS KIDS TO INVITE? Do I have to invite his entire daycare class, or just the least bratty of the bunch? Can I keep people busy for at least two hours? He wants a party at the zoo. No, the Little Gym. Oh, maybe a pool party with naked little people. No, nix the little people. Bring on the ponies. DEAR GOD MAKE UP YOUR MIND! Invitations: make them? buy them? order them online? But, they cost a small fortune? No worries, you'll make it in on Scholarships, baby, there's no need to save. Food: Slave to the kitchen? Fast food junkie? Bathing suits: required? Presents to buy, goodie bags to make, KIDS, KIDS, KIDS!

.......all leading up to the main event, a birthday party not only enjoyed by all attendees but also relished by the only one that really counts: Your kid.

However, I am NOT one of those parents.

The type the take personal loans out for 'THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY' and have Swarovski crystals glued to the crown atop their precious Birthday Prince's head.

I spend what I consider a reasonable amount and snuff the $8 paper lanterns at IParty. Because lets get real, although I enjoy and look forward to this party: the planning, preparation and execution of my son's BIG DAY, I also reason that this kid would be content with a night spent with 4 candles stuffed into a Big Mac at Mickey D's and anything more than that is just going above and beyond.

So, the final plans were layed only a few weeks before the main event. A pool party (for a kid who still cannot swim) with pizza and snow cones. Hailed as: An afternoon to be enjoyed by all!

The morning of the party I was restless, months of preparation leading to this day had kept me busy and I could finally say I was done, it was 11:00 and guests should be arriving any minute!

11:00- Granny shows up!
11:05- No one
11:10- Another grandma shows up!
11:15- No one
11:20- STILL no one
11:25- OH SHIT
11:30- Woooooo-PANICMODE-Wooooooo
11:35- Finally those assholes start to arrive

The guests trickled in one by one and started shedding clothes along the way. The pool was freezing, as every good non-heated Floridan pool should be, yet as the sun bore down on the party, it became very welcoming indeed.

Pizza was delivered on time and delicious. The MONSTER truck cake was made to perfection, with even his name spelled correctly. People appeared to be having a good time and more importantly, the birthday boy was having a blast.

He received his bi-annual dose of toys, his birthday being the opposite side of the year from Christmas has been quite the treat (read: I never buy toys).

As the last person left the party, four hours from the time it began, and I slurped the remaining tequila off of the pool table, Brae declared it, 'THE BEST PARTY EVAH' and promptly retreated to the living room to demand the cardboard packaging be removed from all of his new toys.

And that bit of elated affirmation was all I needed, I had pulled off the BEST PARTY EVAH, midget-less and all.

I would even have a slew of pictures to prove my success if my computer wasn't being such a dick tonight and would allow me to upload them. Unfortunately, my PC suffers from PMS (PaininMyAss) and is refusing to let me do so.

I do however promise that as soon as it cycles through it's stubbornness I will be here ready to share with you the visual storyboard I just know you are dying for.

Retrospect

Tomorrow my son turns four and you know what that means for me,

It's proof that I can successfully incubate and rear a life without causing any discernible damage!

Dear Brae's future therapist,

I said, 'discernible damage'. Good intentions, eh?

Love,
A tired mom

Here, lets raise a toast to ME for making it through the last year of 'Toddlerworld' without any major setbacks and to my future as a mother of a PRESCHOOLER (holy shit).

Three was an amazing year.

Can't type, head spinning

I'm still alive, if just barely.

Work is hectic. Home is chaotic and in 2 days my son turns four.

Did you hear that? I said, MY SON, MY ONLY SON IS TURNING FOUR!

As soon as I am able to pry my jaw off of the floor I will return.

FOUR!

Intruder, Alert!

Ooooohkay, I see that NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON wanted to play my game below.

And I would probably worry that no one is reading this damn thing anymore if not for the thought that even if I knew I were the only one reading the sentences I type day after day, I would still write in here. Because I am just that bored self-amused.

Although, you may want to start paying attention, because these could very soon become my last words ever written.

I am suffering through an un-diagnosed medical malady. Self-prognosis: NO GOOD.

I don't know how it came to my attention, whether it was pointed out to me by someone with visual access to my thighs or if I were the first to spot the foreigner, but I was made aware of a unidentified object in my leg.

Small and black and slightly intrusive, it lays lodged in my upper leg, half-way between my knee and hip. It is, what appears to be, a small piece of graphite, perhaps? I can only assume what it may be because I have no recollection of having stuck anything in my leg and I'm a big pussy. You stick me with something, I'm going to remember it. Probably hate you for it if it were intentional.

So now I'm baffled. Am I blacking out in a sub-conscious drunken rage and stabbing myself with the classic #2? Perhaps I sleepwalk and during my mid-night gallivanting I spend time welding metal, a sliver of which had contact with my leg and remained stuck there? Is it a aggravated black head that has taken a solid form under my skin?

Whatever the case may be, the point is, after three weeks, it's still there.

I have tried meagerly to extract it, once. And it kinda hurt, so I stopped. Then I thought about trying again, but soon the rational part of my brain was overtaken by an army of pain receptors who pummeled rational until it lay beaten and broken at the bottom of my cerebral cortex. And that marked the end of my surgical attempts.

I should go see a doctor and figure out what the hell I have been hosting for the past few weeks. It would probably be the smart and rational thing to do, but see rational down there? He's waving to you with one limp hand pointed in the direction of my time card that details my PTO left. Guess what that balance is? Zero.

And guess who is going on vacation in two weeks and has already allocated those hours she previously requested for romping around the Tennessee mountains?

So for now, I guess it's best to just let sleeping dogs lie. Or mysterious black thingies lie. In my leg, unwelcome.

If, as a result of my negligence, something were to happen to me, I want you all to remember these last words.

You didn't answer my last post.
Whores.

Charland the Inappropriate

If 60% of my day is spent chasing my rolling head around my work office, then 120% of my day is spent avoiding the chase with other activities such as writing in this blog, and the ever more time consuming readership I have with my personal favorite blogs.

I read A LOT of blogs, an embarrassing amount, really. At any given time I am buried nose deep in at least three books and my Google reader unread list displays numbers close to the payout of the Florida Lottery.

The blogroll to your immediate right can you give you a tiny example of some of my favorite haunts, one of my favorites being the man of the hour- Dad Gone Mad

Not only is DGM a brilliant writer but also retains brilliant writer friends who have been guest blogging on his site for the past couple days while he is on hiatus.

Last night, while catching up on knocking some of those Google lottery numbers down from my reader, I came across one of his guest blogs that left me in stitches.

Rachel Shukert is the author of “Have You No Shame? And Other Regrettable Stories” and in her guest blog here, she details the formula for coming up with your Viking name.

According to Rachel;

"It’s simple: the first syllable of your favorite alcoholic beverage + the first syllable of your hometown, + the word “the” (in the Oscar T. Grouch sense), + your most deplorable character trait. "

For example, I would be a very intimidating

CHARLAND THE INAPPROPRIATE
or even
PILAND THE CONSTANT DEPENDENT

If I only I could determine the more threatening of the two....

Now- I command you ALL to share with me your viking names so that we may create an impenetrable group of warriors, or at the very least, a list to giggle at while slugging back the first syllable.

(I expect full participation from those of you I KNOW read this blog and are comment shy. Don't make me start singling you out by name- because with every call out, an embarrassing story about you will be revealed. Don't mess with Charland.)

Stripes!

At the moment you are sipping $8/ bottle Pinot Griggio from a Dixie cup, adorned with sparkling patriotic flair, lying beach side as the sky fills with smoke from the extensive fire work display only Disney could afford, you realize this.

This weekend will end.

And so it did.

I had a wonderful time and soaked up the fresh feeling of nothingness every morning I arose, albeit at 8 am because someone did not reset my sons biological alarm clock. We stayed in our trusted family camper for the weekend at Disney's Ft. Wilderness campground, a tired yet familiar family endeavor. We rented a golf cart and mowed down unsuspecting Yankee's and streaked through the park with the elation of irresponsibility as we unleashed our freedom cry. Stars and stripes were waved, drunk patrons slurred in rhythm to the 'Star Spangled Banner' and the 'ooh's' and 'ahh's' erupted from the chorus of firework gazers.

We did some shopping at Downtown Disney. Wall E purchases were made. Nemo purchases were made. The wind carried with it the faint sound of a cash registers till each time I opened my wallet to remove another bill destined for Disney's glory.

I bought lunch for my family at the Rainforest Cafe, an unprecedented event. I made them all drink water and stole dinosaur nuggets from my son's kiddie plate because I am FANCY. Did I mention my Dixie Cup?

We watched 'Cars' at night under the open sky with a bag of $15 popcorn. We sang 'Happy Birthday' to a bunch of liars, because you want to tell me that 30 children that were staying in the campground ALL had the same birthday? You can't fool me, you birthday cheats, God is watching you.

The trip was an overall success. Brae managed to only partially severe his thumb in the door to the camper and I was only pulled over in the golf cart once, for suspected underage driving. My sprite-like appearance can be somewhat deceptive, sure. The reason for which I assume I was flagged down by the security officer and asked my age. She didn't think I looked old enough to drive the golf cart.

Would you like to know the age requirements for the golf cart?

REQUIREMENTS FOR DISNEY GOLF CART DRIVERS: Possession of a valid drivers licence.

That's a 9 year difference. That's a whole lotta difference there.

Good thing her attention was diverted from the golf carts rear, that damn Yankee couldn't hold still.



You thought I was only kidding about the flair? We take pride in embarrassing those we love.

Break, please.

Finally I sit.

It was not long ago that I spent my work days careening about the Internets, exploring websites and forums and even adopted this blog to curb my work-induced boredom. I was ready for a change, I needed something to motivate me and I found it in an un-expected promotion.

The promotion was a welcome change and I embraced my new role expecting a significant work load increase. Apparently, I need to tweak my expectation levels for they are teetering dangerously close to un-realistic. I waaaaaaay underestimated the level of work I would have in my new position as well as the difficulty I would have adjusting to my new position as a manager.

I want to make you happy. I want to make her happy. I want to take you all home in my pocket and spoon you on my Ethan Allen chaise and yet I am finding that THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE. Because, you don't agree with her and she doesn't agree with you and neither person wants to really solve this problem when you have me to bitch to. So, thats what I have become. MIDDLE MAN EXTRAORDINAIRE!

I can listen you problems!
I can relay your concerns!
I can do NOTHING to help you because I suck at this I really care I have no experience!

Some consolation can be found in this muddled mess in that I am getting LOTS of exercise. I bee-bop around my office chasing down problems and swatting them down with an apathetic wave, I lug case files the size of my head home every night as well as this laptop which weighs as much as my toddler does constipated.

What I need is a break from this new title and it's weighted obligations.
In the form of a vacation.
Somewhere I wont have to worry about entertaining my son.
Perhaps a place where dreams come true?

I'll be back Monday, well rested and ready to embrace the work week ahead of me with a new outlook and perhaps even a pair of mouse ears.

HAPPY 4th OF JULY
try not to light your ass on fire.

...and if you do, please video tape it for my entertainment.

The only matter.

To watch you walk away with him is to sink my heart inside. Pulled through my toes and lay limp at the ground, I watch now empty and vulnerable. I want you to be with him, I want you to understand this. I know how much you need him, and I see the wake of hurt that was left in his retreat from us. I know that he is the only person who can release your pain. I know all of this and still I feel the plunge of despair when I see him approach you. For I cannot predict how fleeting this behavior may be. Good intentions and proper actions do not lay on the same plane, one matters not to you. I know this and perhaps this is why I held my breath at his request to see you.

You are happy. At first timid, much as I expected. It had been so long for you, six months to an adult is only half a year, yet placed on the timeline of a toddler seems much extended.
You shyly regard the man you once knew, as you shuffle your feet on a rocky path. You look to me for reassurance as you grip my hand tight with your tiny hand. You are nervous and I tell you, 'it's okay.'

For you, it may not be.

And yet, at once you are off. Light on your feet as you run to the playground, a familiar sight in this unsteady world, you scream with happiness and he follows. He follows you everywhere. With every turn you maneuver, he is there. For once, I am not. I sit, a patient observer. A tinge of jealousy washes over me before I beat it away. This is what you want and more importantly, it's what you need.

You address him with a title that has not been spoken in your presence for some time. To hear you say the word is challenging for me. It comes natural for you, yet still so foreign to my ears. Now, I watch as you laugh, as you run. He is chasing you, helping you reach and pushing your swing. He laughs at your silly games and breathlessly attempts to follow your rules. You are happy.

As the sun dips lower in sky I call out a warning, it is almost time to go. I hold my breath as I regard the two of you and wonder with what restraint I will be met when I call out to you once more.

Lost time is not recovered in a few hours. You knew this, as you gripped my hand once more at the end of your play date and determined you were ready to leave him again. There were no tears, no overwhelming emotions. You held you head high as he hugged you good bye and you told him to drive away. You made me stand and held my hand as he careered down a rocky path, growing smaller in the distance until once again he was gone. You declared to me then that we should go, standing around we were wasting time.

So we went and I gathered my emotions from the playground floor and watched as my little man so resolute in his actions climbed into our car determined. Time is a complicated thing, wasted not by us, but cherished in every embrace. So we went and you were happy.