Sniff Whine Sniff Grrr...

Warning - I've been grounded by a cold so I'm cranky and I'm about to take it out right here.

In my efforts to get over this bug, I've sat my butt down and am watching a baseball game. Dang, is it my imagination, or do the boys spend a ton of time at the plate adjusting their boys? With some of these guys we have time to cut to commercial. "This crotch break sponsored by Viagra." I bet waxing would help them out. Queer Eye for the Shortstop.

A player is wearing eye black that seems to be stickers. Is this neater than greasepaint? Have basball players, in addition to not knowing how to chew tobacco and bubble gum simultaneously, also lost the skill of applying greasepaint? These stickers have some sort of writing on them. Advertising, perhaps? If they showed this game in Hi-def I could tell you, but noooo. Maybe the stickers say, "Quit looking at my crotch."

Speaking of beef, usually the Jack-in-the-Box commercials are amusing, but this one with the "Where's the Angus part of the cow?" is bugging me. People - 'sirloin' is a type of cut of beef. 'Angus' is a breed of beef cattle. Jack is jacking you around. He don't know jack. Jerk.
Maybe I'm a bit extra peeved about this because I grew up near the best Angus Farm ever - Ankony. These people were serious about their bull. Not like Jack. He's a bull-fibber.

Great - we just lost, and a lousy called strike 3 no less. Phooey. I'm going outside to throw rocks at the squirrels. At least they'll take a swing.

Fast Food Double-take

The other night we stopped to eat at a fast food place, specifically a place that rhymes with "Wendy's," probably because it is "Wendy's." Aside from the employees, we were the only people there. A bit strange, I thought, since it was dinnertime. You'd think at least a couple of people would be there.

As we were enjoying our Frosty-induced brain-freezes, a Domino's delivery car pulled up. Ironic, I thought, that the Domino's guy eats here. Wrong. He wasn't eating - he was making a delivery. To the people who had just made our food. I peered down at what was left of my sad, pale french fries, wondering what bizarre culinary stories they might offer. I was suddenly happy that taters tell no tales. Sometimes it's just better off not knowing.

I like pizza as much as the next animal, but don't you think it's bad form to have a Domino's delivery walk in the front door of your restaurant? Wouldn't you at least hide your indiscretion a wee bit? Maybe eat pizza at home, go pick it up, have it delivered to the back door, anything but plop it right on the counter for all to see. I felt a tad betrayed. Defiled, almost. Ok, maybe not defiled. More like in a Woody Allen movie, where something's not quite right, and it may be funny, but you're aware of your own laughter, so you can't really laugh comfortably because you may be wrong about the supposed humor and then everyone will laugh at you.

Unfortunately the irony was sitting in my stomach right next to my food, and they were not getting along very well. Like sitting next to Woody Allen and he's constantly adjusting his glasses and shifting around and asking silly questions and you just want to pop him one. Well, sort of like that.

I sure wish I had a pizza.

Mother's Day Diva

In the grocery store yesterday, I was flagged down by a desperate man with a mixed bouquet. "Excuse me, do you know if this store has nice boxes of chocolate?" I directed him toward the gift area. "It's for my mother-in-law," he explained, as if I should direct him toward gift boxes of Ex-Lax.

"I'm so sorry," I replied, and I meant it. I was returning from a lovely party that featured the holy girly trinity of jewelry, friends and margaritas. I couldn't be farther from this guy's pain. No guilt on my part, though. I had earned the party, the day, the friends.

On the check-out line, there was a bit of confusion. The man ahead of me was just buying mushrooms, and the checkout lady thought they were with my purchases. "Those are mine," the guy grumped. "Although SHE should be buying them for me."

Whoa. I glimpsed at the people behind me on the line. They had noticed the guy's attitude, too. Maybe he had learned his flirting skills at an anger management class. He must have heard my eyes roll, because he continued.

"I raised three kids by myself. Somebody should buy ME something for Mothers' Day!" He groused as he grabbed his mushrooms. "And I'm the best cook around, too!" I suddenly realized there was a viable market for gift-wrapped chocolate Ex-Lax.

"Enjoy your mushrooms," I called after him as he left. "Alone!" I muttered to the people behind me. We giggled nervously.

I wondered about his kids. Were they cold, bland, raised in a cave, like his mushrooms? Was that considered successful? He was certainly cranky, but maybe he was happier being unhappy. I was going to ask him if he was also paid 35% less than the average dad, but he was gone already.

Happy Mother's Day to all, whether you're a mother, a mom, a mutha, or a mumdaddy. Find your space, make it yours, invite us over once in a while. It's all good, no?

Mother's Day Out

Just a quick whine before the main course. This will only take a minute, and believe me, it hurts you more than it hurts me.Trust me on this - I'm a mother.
We just finished celebrating Teacher Appreciation Week. Now here comes Mothers' Day. Teachers get a week, mothers get a day. What gives? They must have a better union. Maybe their lobbyists are better connected. Objection! To be a teacher, you have to be certified. But to be a mother, you have to be certifiable. And if you weren't certifiable before becoming a mother, you certainly are afterward. Here's proof-

Last night I went to a unique celebration. If you remember from my last post, I had been invited to a night celebrating single moms. One guy, a single guy, was sponsoring the event. Quite the guy, actually, and quite the night. We all sat around in big comfy white couches, sipping drinks and dipping strawberries in chocolate fondue. Our host had bought us roses, teddy bears, and chocolate. "How adorable," I murmured. "Where the hell is my drink?"

Did I mention there was a huge white bed next to the couches? Tee, hee, hee. Apparently the place was remodelling and the bed just happened to be there. Oopsie. "How silly!," I giggled as I set my purse taser to 'stun.'

We were also sitting right next to the bar stockroom. Every once in a while the bartender would swoop in, and we'd glimpse walls of Jack Daniels, Skye Vodka, and heavenly bottles of primo tequila. We teased the bartender about leaving his stash unlocked with dangerous minions lurking about. "Don't be silly," he said, "I trust you!"

I sensed we were being written off as harmless. Oopsie. We were too old, too 'motherly', too quaint to be dangerous? I sensed the rest of my group was feeling the same. (Except for the single guy who sponsored this shindig. By this time, he was cowering in the corner, rocking and babbling.)

Since we were all mothers, and all restless, we immediately recognized a young, cute man who needed to be taught a lesson. When his back was turned, my friend swiped the lock off the door. She went over to lecture him about leaving such a lovely collection of beverages unlocked. As she distracted him, I slipped into the storeroom and closed the door.

Soon I heard voices - the young bartender was approaching my storeroom (yes, mine!). He was casually scolding my friend for taking the lock. He slid the door open. I grabbed him about the neck and dragged him into the storeroom. He shrieked. Yes, shrieked. Visions of Mrs. Robinson danced in his head.

As for the nice guy who set up this whole evening, we were too much for him. Hopefully he'll be out of therapy in time to pay for next year's fete. Amazons? Yes. Amazing? That, too. Happy Mothers' Day.

Mothers' Date?

I just received the most interesting invitation. In honor of Mother's Day, a friend of mine is sponsoring an evening out for a group of us single moms. Refreshments at a reputable local nightspot are included. Isn't that just the sweetest thing to do? I immediately suspected ulterior motives.

Think about it, guys. Wanna meet women? Sponsor a night out. Do it under innocent pretenses. Just to throw us off your trail, invite some women you're not interested in. Schedule it at an innocent time, like right after work on a Friday. Saturdays are for dates and you're booked solid then, anyway, right?

Because of my innate journalistic curiosity, I cancelled my others plans (sorry, tv) and accepted the invitation. He then asked what my favorite type of candy is. By that time I had pinged a mutual friend - what's up with this guy? Why, why, why? "That's just the way he is," she shrugged. "He likes to make people happy." Oh, boy.

What if it is really just a nice evening out for moms? What if he's actually just being nice? For me, that would be totally unexplored territory. I would no sooner know what to do in that situation than if Paris Hilton moved in next door and opened a homeless shelter.

What if he's interested in someone else, and I'm just "Ugly Betty" wallpaper? I'll stand there, cocktail in my hand, glare in my eye, as he chats up some poufy frumpella. Not that I'm interested in him at all. However, he may consider me, like many men do, to be frankly, out of their league. That's understandable.

Why haven't any other guys thought of this? Because, most of the time, they are simply busy being guys. Research is what other guys do while most guys are drinking beer and scratching. But if this catches on, I'm afraid it could be bigger trend than the new iPod-equipped toilet.

Isn't this what "The Bachelor" is? That must be what he's doing. Concoct a theme, invite a few women, make sure no other males show up, ....oh, my. Intriguing at the very least in sheer bravado. We'll have to see what he's up to. Stay tuned.