For The Love of Pete

I do not claim to be technologically inclined.

That was my disclaimer before posting the link to my newest blog post, which I actually have had saved as a draft since December 5th. Apparently if you save them as drafts and post them, they still post under the original date that you wrote them. What kind of sense does that make? Blogger, we need to chat. If you want to see my newest Boy Outreach Project please click on the little linky dink above.

Mr. J and I just returned from Charlotte last night where we surprised my little blister, Purple Clover, for her nursing school graduation. We are very proud of her and while I do love her, I'm starting to realize that I think I love her kids more. Let's just say that my niece, pictured above, is simply perfection and I wanted to shove my nephew in my purse on the way to the aiport. I bought my niece a princess make up set and some roller skates, which she referred to as her "skaters." As you can see she is the next Courtney Love/Roller Girl, however, she is much smarter than both incarnations of pop princess. After she becomes President, stops global warming and adopts all the kids Brangelina missed, she will lead the nation in a rock anthem and then skate to the local Harris Teeter for a Wonka Bar, which is apparently her own kind of high.

We're heading out again tomorrow morning to meet our nieces and nephews on Mr. J's side of the family in Arizona. Their father was just granted leave from Iraq and we're going to eat a lot of Christmas tamales, play Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit until the boys cry into the fingers and praise my brilliance. And lastly, we're going to count how many times a soldier on leave can drop the F Bomb in three days. The over/under is 100. Care to wager?

The aughts have been a blast at times, painful others, but most of all we learned, we loved and we lived.

I can only guess at what the 10's have in store for us.

Please have a safe, lovely and happy holiday, however you may celebrate.

Sedate This

Here I sit, staring across the kitchen table at every kind of Christmas present you can imagine. There are sweaters and purses, toys and unfortunately angled boxes that will frustrate me with their un-wrappability. I will have to come up with a plan, because alas, they all have to be wrapped tonight as we leave for vacation bright and early Thursday morning.

Out of the corner of my right eye I can see looming stacks of unfolded clothes on the island. Every single cabinet is open and Mr. J's shirts are draped over them. He is sensitive about his T-shirts. They can't go in the dryer, not even once. They may start to get too small and God forbid you can see his belt buckle if he stretches, arms over head. I have to make sure they're dry so he has clothes to wear on vacation.

The one I'm thinking about taking without him.

The mop is hanging by the laundry room door. I just put it there after I stepped in my dog's pee. He was confused by all of the open cabinet doors and had to mark them. Just in case the shirts thought they owned the house. They now know that Toby does.

Not me.

No, I'm simply a device of the evening. It has thrown me this way and that. I pray that Mr. J won't wake up again and demand fruit salad with the "green oranges" that took me an hour to make to his specifications. I could have bought red apples, but he yelled from the bedroom, "I don't like right bread apples." He meant bright red.

The nurse warned me this would happen. She said that he would be completely worthless this evening and hoped I didn't have plans as I would be nursing my motarded husband back to health. Funny thing is, I did.

Is he sick, you ask?

No, no he's not.

You see, he made an appointment at a sedation dentist to have his teeth cleaned and didn't provide me a list of expectations. I knew I had to drop him off at 10, but I only found that out yesterday. Yes, I knew I had to pick him up at 4. What I did not know was that between those hours he would be so far under that he won't be able to remember anything about today. He also can't stand up straight and it was the nurses concern about him wandering aimlessly in the neighborhood or falling on me that made me shake my head and mutter, Unbelievable.

I canceled my plans and let him lean on me as he climbed the stairs, which was completely against the nurses orders. She thought I could suffer a concussion if he fell on top of me, what with his size and all.

Let's just say the trip up a flight of stairs took ten minutes.

I am not concussed, but he may be tomorrow when I'm done with him.

I won't even tell you what he requested when I brought him his fruit salad. I could have been arrested if I'd agreed and anyone had witnessed said felony.

I just hope his freaking teeth look pretty.

I haven't seen them yet.

I can't get past the spit on his lips.

That Girl

I used to be fearless.

Well, maybe not completely fearless, but adventurous, reckless and somewhat impulsive. I've made many a mistake and have shook my head time after time to loosen the image of That Girl out of my memories. I don't like to dwell on things she did back then, before the me I know now came along.

I've gotten caught up in life; in the hum of the dishwasher, the way the dogs jump from my lap at night when Mr. J says, "It's time to go to bed." I worry a lot, I judge more than I should and I am so engrossed in being successful that sometimes my personal life falls to the wayside.

And then there was this weekend.

When Jess and Kyle suggested I follow them up to Brian Head for the weekend all of me said no. Mr. J was going on a ski trip with some college buddies and didn't I need to be responsible? What about the Christmas shopping, the wrapping, the groceries, the laundry? Mr. J forced my hand, "You need to go. Take the dogs, get away and get a massage at the lodge. You need it."

I did need it.

I found myself white-knuckling it up a mountain road in the BMW with the slippery tires at 2:30 in the morning. The same BMW that I teased Mr. J about just a short week ago. You know the one. It has rear wheel drive and slides and shimmies across the ice. I thought I was going to throw up as I inched up the deadly S-curve and shook my head. I called Mr. J when I arrived, "This has to be the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"I assure you it is not. Have fun. You got up there without dying. You'll be fine."

"What if a mountain man kills me?"

"Oh, Liiiiittle. I love you. Get a massage."

I did.

I slept until the afternoon, I walked the dogs through fresh powder, smiled up at stars and watched a Law and Order marathon until 4 a.m. I walked across the street to the lodge in a snow storm, splurged on a 90 minute massage and bundled up to brave the cold. It was getting dark and I wondered which car would slip on ice and kill me as I crossed the road. I thought of the likelihood that I would lose my footing, fall into the road and a snow mobile would drive over my face. I wondered how long it would take Mr. J to find out and would the snow preserve my body while I laid in a muddy pile? After I made it across the street with said face intact, I found myself wandering the aisles of Apple Annie's, the local store that is the size of my bedroom in Vegas. I smiled as I selected my dinner, dessert and bottle of wine for the evening and then stepped back into the snow to worry about the aforementioned mountain man. Maybe I could hit him with my frozen Michelina's lasagna, stunning him and giving me a few seconds to run. I would only hit him with my wine bottle if necessary.

Oddly, I made it to my condo. Alive. No mountain man in my way or on my tail.

I took the dogs on long walks. Well, during the day when it was safe. The only thing we came across was a deer rubbing it's antlers on a tree and a fourteen year old with hair hanging in his eyes. At night could have been another story, so I stayed close to the condo while I watched Toby and Ginger run around in the snow and stared up at the sky and the stars I don't get to see over the lights of Las Vegas.

I began to wonder when it was that I became a scaredy cat. Was it the Law and Order reruns, the CSI? Was it being married, being reliant on feeling safe around my husband? Had I become a big fat baby?

Yes, yes I have.

I decided to open the door to the balcony to feel the cold air.

At night.

Where a mountain man could see into my condo.

How dangerous.

Tonight when I drove home I put the cruise control on 85.

What a badass.

I even took the curves at 5 miles over the posted speed limit when winding through canyons.

I had plenty of time to think as I made the three hour trip back to Vegas, back to Mr. J. I realized that marriage had softened me. I've grown accustomed to sending Mr. J out with the dogs at night. I feel safe when he is home, when he drives, when he looks out for me. I've become a total girl. I've lost that independent streak, that impulsiveness that had caused me to max out credit cards in my twenties for a last minute excursion, the toughness that allowed me to meet blind dates at questionable locations.

And then my phone rang, "Liiiiittle, where are you?"

"I just got into Vegas. I'll be home in about fifteen minutes."

"I miss you."

"I miss you too."

I smiled as my Uggs felt heavier on the gas pedal. I couldn't wait to get back to my big, strong husband. It wasn't because I needed to hide behind him or because someone could car jack me on the way. I realized that there was something about being part of a couple that I would never trade in for my single days; those days of crying into a pillow and worrying about when some guy with soft lips and deceitful eyes would call again.

I am half of a whole and a part of something bigger than an independent streak. He is my partner and my best friend.

And I hate taking the dogs out at night anyways.

It's too damn cold.

Anger Hangover

I'm in a bit of a mood. So bad, in fact, that I don't even want to hang out with myself right now. I can't tell you why and you really don't want to know, so I have a bit of a conundrum.

I can't blog.

Anything I write will be infused with biting sarcasm and laced with my malcontent. Eventually, you will be able to see through my barbed words and figure out why I'm such a cranky pants. I will regret my words when I look back at them and so, because of this..

I'm going to take The High Road.

How smarmy, I know. Don't you just want to know why people were grabbing their children as I walked past them at the airport today, "Don't look directly at her, Sammy. Your eyes will fall out of your head."

So, as always, I'm going to share mindless drivel to keep from making any kind of profound and inappropriate statements.

Here we go, kids.

1. I am going to learn how to make a drink that requires candy canes. It will be alcoholic. The candy will be crushed and circling the rim, a cane propped inside and it will make my chest feel warm upon consumption. It will make me sing, "It's starting to look a lot like Christmas..." and I will giggle until I fall asleep.

2. I am going to the 6:30 p.m. Moksha yoga class where I will sweat and make eyes at the UFC guys in the front row. They won't really notice because I turn bright red in the heat and the show girl's large breasts will detract from my sparkling personality. It's ok. They don't know any better. Their ears look like cauliflower and their brains do too.

3. I fell asleep with my make up on last night, something I only do twice a year. I shall detox my skin with a scrub that Chong prescribed that literally makes my face feel bruised for three days after application. The upside? Someone always says, "Your skin is glowing!" I grit my teeth from the pain of smiling and all is right with the world. Vanity, you are my closest friend.

4. I want to swim in a vat of bread. Yes, I know this is impossible, but think of how good you'd smell afterwards.

5. Scratch all of this drivel. I want a nap. Maybe I'll sleep off my anger hangover and then hit the late yoga class.

Namaste, bitches.

Rules of Entanglement

Dear Boys,

I understand that you are a little hopeless and I would like to offer my assistance. I have observed your mating rituals and think it is time that you take a seat, grab a few post its and a magic marker. We have work to do.

First, never use, "Your tattoo is so much better than a tramp stamp," as an opener. Clubs are loud, sometimes words are mangled and even if it seemed like the most original and romantic compliment you could come up with, it doesn't work for you. Trying to salvage yourself by saying, "No, I mean, it's totally hard core. You must be a pretty tough chick," is as good as saying, "I'm an idiot and I need to go sit down and think about what I've done."

Time Out, boy. Time out.

Second, taking dollar bills out of your wallet and trying to tip the Go Go dancers makes you a D-Bag. Listen to the girl next to you screaming, "Don't do that! They will throw you out!" I know Vegas is glitzy and has lights and strippers and such, but the girls on the box make more money than you do. They are models and professional dancers. It is a little extra cash on the side and typically only a favor for the modeling agency because their agent was in a bind. They usually hate doing it and they also hate you.

Time Out, boy. Time out.

If you invite a group of women to your table and they tell you they are all married that would be warning number one. When they smile, thank you for the drink and say they have to run to the restroom that is warning number two. If you follow the group to the dance floor and then get angry when you get a quick stiff arm to your jiggly bits as you open your jacket and shimmy upon their rears that is an automatic...

Time out.

Go sit down before you chaff from all that grinding you've been doing. Think about what you've done and do not start to get so angry that spittle forms in the corners of your mouth.

And quickly, I must cover this one faux pas:

The last girl standing at your office holiday party is not looking for the last boy standing. Your neanderthal process of elimination, "Which one of you is with Mr. J? Ok, I'll take the other one," is a gross misuse of the English language, in that you spoke words and they were wasted. You should have just gotten in a cab, cried into your hands on the way home and then passed out on the stairs to the bachelor apartment that will never become anything more.

This goes hand in hand with something that should be scribbled on the post it in your wallet:

Drunk googly eyes are not sexy. We are not making a connection and I do not want you. Or your hairy man chest. Or the malcontent that drips from you.

While I'm at it, here are a few more:

Keep eye contact. Boys, please learn how to look in a girl's eyes and check her out peripherally. Wait until she looks away before you can make a quick, shy sweep. Don't leer or look as if you are about to snack on her flesh. You should practice what I like to call The Conscientious Ogle. It is the one where the girl smiles shyly in return if she does catch you. Don't pretend like you didn't do it. A shared smile will ease the tension and may even get you a few points. The sweep in which you look like a carnivore makes us think that something in your bedroom is probably crusty.

Learn how to engage a girl in conversation, motard. I give the guy that hit on me in the line to get into New Moon credit. He started with a innocuous question to disarm me, but then he did the carnivorous sweep and said, "You've got a nice shape." There is a lesson in this, namely - use discretion when hitting on girls in a line for a YA PG-13 movie. Besides, after seeing Jacob without his shirt on, which technically makes me a pedophile, I wouldn't want you even if I was single.

Two words - Man Scape.

One word - Chapstick.

Boys, I hope this has been helpful. As always, I want you to find love. I really do. I know you need to sow your wild oats, and as disgusting as that visual is for me, I appreciate the path you have to take. I hope you find a nice girl, but way before that happens you have to learn how to be a nice guy. Not like the nice guy that finishes last, but at least the guy that is nice enough that a girl will be willing to kiss you, hold your hand or even introduce you to her friends.

I wish you the best in your future mating endeavors.

Sincerely,

Little Ms. J

P.S. Drakkar Noir is passe, Curve is Junior High and if you put your hands on Axe Body Spray with a girl in mind I have nothing left to offer you.

Such A Pretty Boy

It was the day after Thanksgiving. Snow was falling, the smell of burning wood filtered from chimneys and fireplaces were surrounded by red-nosed children with cups of hot cocoa and marshmallows. Deer were coming down from the mountains to forage and icicles were forming on the roofs of the cabins littering the base.

Mr. J and I had our second Thanksgiving dinner at our friends Jessica and Kyle's condo, which is down the street from ours in our small Utah ski village. We laughed, we ate, I ducked when Jess showed me her new pocket pistol and began to gesture with it in her hand. After I'd almost been shot three times Kyle replaced the gun with her glass of wine, my shoulders eased away from my ears and I listened to my conservative friend tell me about her new NRA aspirations. We giggled an hour later when Kyle came back from walking the dogs and removed the pistol from his waistband while he shook the snow from his boots and took off his Elmer Fudd hat, "Mountain Lions. You can't be too careful."

"Right."

After a chocolate-flavored nightcap in a thick mug we ducked into the snow and I followed Mr. J to Jess and Kyle's driveway. I got into the car, made sure my seat belt was buckled tight and waited with an eery sense of expectation.

Twenty seconds later one side of our car was in a snow bank, the other side on four inches of ice and the wheels were spinning.

I smiled.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything. Shall I go get Jess and Kyle?"

"No, let me try to get it out first."

"Ok." My syllable came out in a sing-song melody and Mr. J shook his head, annoyed.

He pulled dead branches from naked trees and began to shove them under the tires. The car bucked against the ice. Towels were pulled from the trunk, used to clear snow and quickly discarded in a pile. An unwanted rug was dragged from the dumpster and I thought of Aladdin as I watched it fly from the back of the car and roughly twenty feet down the road.

"Man, I could have ridden that thing down to the stop sign. Can you do it again?"

Mr. J ignored me, "Can you walk back to the garage and see if there's a snow shovel lying around?"

I cupped my hand to my ear, "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of the spinning tires."

"Shut up."

I smiled, slid down the driveway, rummaged through the garage and then climbed the three flights to Jess and Kyle's condo. Kyle opened the door, "Uh oh. What did you forget?"

"A snow shovel."

He laughed, "We'll come help you."

They dressed quickly and I was thrilled to see that Jess left her pocket pistol in the condo. I didn't know how she'd find a way to incorporate her new gunslinging training, but somehow I pictured us crouched behind the dumpster glaring at a target. I also imagined that I would have to make sure that target wasn't on my person when Jess began gesturing wildly.

Mr. J looked a little embarrassed when we approached the car, tires still spinning.

"Wow, what a beautiful car."

I laughed.

Jess looked up and quickly offered, "Well, it certainly looks good while it... sits there. In the snow. I mean, if you're going to get a car stuck I guess it should be pleasant to look at while it... sits. In the snow." She smiled.

Mr. J shook his head at me with a silly grin on his handsome face, "Ms. J, what a stupid idea this was."

I smiled, "Yes, it was very dumb of me to trade in my 4WD SUV for a flashy BMW, wasn't it? What was I thinking, what with the vacation condo in the mountains, the ice storms, the dogs that come with us, the skis, the mountain bikes and a deadly S-curve before the village? What was I thinking?

"Alright, alright. Enough, already."

Just then Mr. J slid behind the car in his leather-bottomed elf shoes that were all the rage when he purchased them around the same time he bought his $200 jeans with embroidery on the pockets, "This is embarrassing."

"Because you're a girl? I even have rubber soles. Do you need me to push the car? I'd hate for you to fall or like... wrinkle something."

"Shut up."

Just then a neighbor in a large SUV with 4WD, I might add, pulled up, "You need some help? I have a tow rope and can pull you out."

We were elated. This man with the Sorrels and the ski bib would help get our shiny new car out of the snow. He could even rest in the back seat if he got tired. It was already prepped for him; covered in sheets to keep the plush leather from being spoiled from snow, dog hair and the edges of our skis.

He smiled and looked the car over, "Used to be we had metal bumpers and I'd just push you, but I don't think you want me pushing that car."

I giggled. Mr. J looked as if he could fold into his Zara sweater, which he purchased in Manhattan on an accidental shopping spree. Accidental in that it was supposed to be my shopping spree, although I spent more time sitting in chairs while he rubbed cashmere and wood blend sweaters between his fingers, "This is so soft." Jess nudged me and I whispered, "I am so happy this is happening. I told him it was a mistake to get rid of the 4WD."

Mr. J tucked his well-dressed tail between his legs, we made it home and the next day I watched him stare out the window of the ski lodge with Kyle at his side.

"What do you think? The snow is coming down pretty fast."

"You can try now, but if you hit a patch of ice you'll skid into a car. Maybe you should wait until the lifts close and you can be the last ones out of the parking lot."

"I think we should go now. I don't want it to get dark because the roads will be even more slick."

There was a long pause while the guys eyed the storm, the wall of white you couldn't even see through.

"I really thought you got the BMW SUV."

"Nope."

"Hmmm."

I laughed.

Jess leaned over, "You have to stop laughing at him."

"Why? He's a motard. Wait. Will you shoot me if I don't?"

She laughed, "It wasn't loaded."

"That's what they say before someone shoots their teeth out of their mouth."

"I took a safety class."

"Were you drinking a glass of wine at the same time you were rolling around on the floor, muzzling targets and using the word Glock?"

"Did I say Glock?"

"Like five times."

The boys walked up and we said our goodbyes. I wondered if Jess was packing heat under her ski jacket as I hugged her, "Let us know when you leave tomorrow. Maybe we should have you follow us down. Maybe I should ride with you. On second thought, maybe I should take my chances with a car crash as opposed to a gunshot wound."

Both Jess and Mr. J scowled at me, faces twisted up in mock smiles.

We made it down, Mr. J white knuckling it through the S-curve and the next twelve miles of country road.

Brake light shining the whole way.

"You're like a little old lady."

"Shut up."

I shut up.

But, I certainly didn't stop laughing.

All the way home.