My Father, The King of Overkill

I promised a story behind the name, and here it is:

My father is not one to take his responsibilities in life lightly. Everything he does, to him, is a BIG DEAL. This includes all tasks from his pastoral duties to cooking a family meal to household repairs. Consider:

• When cooking a meal for two or four, it is important to use the biggest pot possible, because why cook for one meal when you can cook for six, or even seven?
• When shopping for groceries, remember to pick up little yellow tubs of butter and bags of potatoes each shopping trip, for one never knows how much butter or potatoes one might need at any given moment.
• When patching nail holes in a wall because your wife has once again decided to redecorate, it is not only important to paint carefully over the patched holes, but hell, why not just redo the entire wall?
• When purchasing supplies for a home renovation project, buy widely from all product aisles, then lose the bags in your enormous, enormous tool room, then find them all one day and decide its not exactly the product you need, so go out again for a hammer, and come back with a tablesaw.
• When gathering necessities for your yearly deer hunting trip, remember to not only buy brand new, top-of-the-line silk long johns, but also hand warmers, feet warmers, special boots, gloves and some sort of sub-zero-grade overcoat that could make an Eskimo sweat.

Now, I love my father very much, but boy, does he like to just DO things, which is why he earned the nickname, “The King of Overkill.” We call him that when he serves up enough curry to feed a whole village in India, or when he decides that making venison jerky would be super fun and then proceeds to dry enough deer to fill an entire kitchen.

One instance, however, is more memorable than any other to me. I happened to be about seventeen, and had just started to experience the worst menstrual cramps of my life. Both parents had always taught their children to be extremely independent. If we needed or wanted something from the store that was not a basic food staple, we should get in the car, gather some cash, and go buy it. Well, this time, I needed period supplies, but was seriously, seriously sick enough that I just couldn’t go. My mom was busy doing who-knows-what, so she asked my dad if he would go, since he was already out the door to the store (to buy little yellow tubs of butter, no doubt).

He came back with—I am not joking—TWO industrial size boxes of panty-liners, enough pads for a year, and I think (?) three boxes of tampons. I believe he supposed that if he had to go and get this embarassing purchase once, he better never have to do it again. My mom and I were alternately amused and horrified at his purchase...what the eff??

The best part, though, was apparently when he finished checking out and had his bags and bags of cotton, string, adhesive and plastic, the bemused lady at the checkout waved and called out as he was leaving, “Have a nice month!” He told us this last fact sheepishly...but, of course, he never, ever had to go to the store for those items again. Perhaps he finds temporary embarrassment a good trade off for long-term humiliation.

Well, at least it's a good nickname...

Chore Buster!

Tired of nagging your boyfriend to pick up his underwear?  Tired of your girlfriend leaving her cosmetics all over the bathroom sink?  Tired of nagging or being nagged?  Save YOUR relationship today through the power of the internets! You need

Chore Buster!

Let the internets do your harassing for you!  It's fun and easy...and color coded! 

Bring a new dimension to your relationship, and see what FUN THINGS (bow-chicka-wow-wow) you can do instead of cajoling, nagging, whining or potentially maiming!

Okay, actually this thing is pretty cool.  Plus, it sends reminder e-mails so that you really don't have to do the whole, "Um, hon?  You know the catbox?  And how it smells like Satan's bowels?" thing.

Pregnancy is OK As Long as it Justifies Fatness

Google Chat with Lisa

Lisa:  I'm bored and tired today. Bah.

Also, I'm seriously, seriously fat.

me: haha...why do you say that?

Lisa: My boobs got bigger and I'm getting a gut and my butt is flabby and I'm like, maybe I'm totally

preggers! Because THAT WOULD EXPLAIN IT!

And not all the PIE I've been eating.

I had myself convinced I was pregnant all weekend.

me: Hahahahaha! That's awesome.

I went through that, too. Because, OBVIOUSLY, it's not that I don't work out and eat ice cream. TOTALLY

knocked up.

Lisa: Hahaha.

My boyfriend at first was all, "Awesome!! Your boobs ARE bigger!!!"

And I'm like, uhhhh, because of the BABY, duh.

And then I was finally like, fine, I'm not pregnant, just fat.

And he goes:

"Does that mean I can be excited about your bigger boobs now??"

me: Hahaha. Boys are dumb.

Mentally Handicapped Grocery Baggers are Hurtful: A Play in One Act

(The scene opens at a local Kroger, where the Heroine, slighty chubby but still wildly attractive, purchases some protein bars, soy nuts and a copy of Oxygen, which features an incredibly buff, scantily clad blonde woman on a cover that blazes "Lose Weight Fast With These Easy Exercises!".  The cashier, an Amiable African American Woman, chatters on about her husband and the weather while she scans the items.  The Mentally Handicapped Grocery Bagger grabs the magazine and holds it aloft.)

MHGB:  Hey!  Whoah!  Look at her!  (points to incredibly buff, scantily clad blonde woman)  Wow!  Nice!

Heroine:  Heh, heh.  (clears throat and looks away)  Heh.

AAAW:  And then I said to my husband...

MHGB:  Oh man!  All the ladies are buying these magazines these days.

AAAW:  (Paying no attention to her bagger, nor her customer)  ...I'm a good dancer, you know.

Heroine:  Heh, heh.  Um, yeah.

MHGB:  (getting louder) Yeah, they're all buying them, cuz of the holidays.  You know, Christmas dinner...

AAAW:  ...and it's so cold out!

MHGB:  New Years...

AAAW:  ...I just like to tease him.  Hahahaha!

MHGB:  Thanksgiving dinner...

Heroine:  (scrambling to hand over her card and leave) Uh-huh.  Right.  Heh....heh.

MHGB:  LOTS of dinners over the holidays.

AAAW:  You have a nice day, Honey.

MHGB: (holding bag unnecessarily high and leering?  No, smirking.) Yeah!  Have a nice day!

Heroine:  (muffled grumbling)  Thanks.

(The scene closes with the Heroine scurrying out of the store and craving pizza and cursing the fact that the Mentally Handicapped Grocery Bagger did not, for one minute, assume that maybe she was a bit less bulky underneath her puffy winter coat and MAYBE didn't NEED the magazine, but wanted to peruse it for, uh, tips.)

Damn holidays.

Friday Firsts: Becoming a Woman

Friday Firsts:  Becoming a Woman

Read about Jillian's "first" over at And Other Times!

Yeah, that's right, this post is going to be about menstruation.  Don't worry, it should be over in five to seven minutes.

We've already established that I was a late bloomer, although getting "it" (thank you, Judy Blume, for that little phrase) wasn't nearly as traumatic as buying my first bra.  That is not to say, however, that my week was not still fraught with embarrassment.

My sister was already away at college, and leave it to my mom to drive to visit my grandfather the very week I start.  As I mentioned before, my mom took a hands-off approach to my growth and development, so everything I'd learned about periods was from the popular girl at school (yes, the same one that knew my "stuffing o' the bra" secret).  That girl LOVED to milk every last drop of sympathy and bitchiness out of her "week", and constantly bugged me about getting it, and what it was going to feel like, and how I'd probably be horrid exactly like she was because it was going to be AWFUL.

So, I am home with just my dad and two brothers.  Of course.  Because this is how these things work.  I wake up in the middle of the night, and hello!  There it is.  I remember thinking, "huh" and THEN thinking, "crap".  I had absolutely NO supplies.  My mom had had a hysterectomy years before and my sister was living away at college, and I certainly wasn't going to tell my father, "The King of Overkill" (story to come later) that I needed them...so, I was stuck.

Instead, I scrounged around in drawers and closets until I finally found a lone pad hiding out in the corner of a drawer.  It seemed innocuous enough in its powder blue wrapper, but then, I opened it up and DEAR GOD, IT WAS THE SIZE OF A DOUBLE BED.  Why do they do this to us?  Are all feminine hygiene product manufacturers in league with the devil?  Why are they always in "FUN!" wrappers?  Who the eff CARES if an applicator is pink or blue or swirled or "pearled".  And what's with all the happy women in the commercials?  But I digress...

I finally got to school, and mostly felt fine, maybe just a little tired, and I gathered some change to use in the vending machine in the bathroom.  Popular Girl walked in and was all, "Oh my god!  Awesome!" and GAVE ME A HUG.  Like, "welcome to the club of womanhood."  I felt pretty lame, but at the same time oddly proud, until SHE STUCK PADS ON THE DOOR OF MY LOCKER. 

What is wrong with people???? 

My sister happened to drop by that evening, and was able to take me to the store to buy the necessities.  I figured things out on my own throughout the week, and by the weekend, felt like the worst was over.  Then, my mom came home.  I was still asleep when she came into the room and JUMPED on my bed and went, "AWWWW, my little girl's a WOMANNN!" I'm not sure if it was a side effect of menstruation that made me want to a) die and b) hit my own mother, but that was just the icing on the cake to a wonderful week.  Oh yes, my brothers laughed.  Suh-weet.

And now, I need some chocolate.

Look for the "King of Overkill" story this weekend! 

GLBT!

I'm starting a new segment called "Gotta Love/Buy Thursdays" or GLBT (what??  That means something else?? CRAZY).  It will feature products, clothing, ideas, etc. that you gotta love, plus the products that you gotta buy or, that Iactually bought/want to buy that are similar.  So, without further ado, the virgin voyage into GLBT!

Gotta Love:  This amazing pebble bathmat from CB2.

Gotta buy:  This awesome wood bathmat from Target:

Gotta love:  These super cool Pantone mugs from Design Warehouse: 

    

Gotta buy:  STARBUCKS.

Gotta love:  Whole curtains, and kittens.

Gotta buy:  Soft Paws.

**All of this week's "gotta buy" products were actually purchased by the author.

Us: the Musical!

Happy to see him...don't mind the starts of a double chin...I found this relationship survey over at Dooce, and decided since I talk about my man all the time, maybe you'd like to know a little about us. If that is not at all what you wanted, I'm very sorry, and will be sure to punch you right in the groin next time I see you.

What are your middle names?
Judith and Lee. Sometimes I call him "Jude" for fun. KIDDING.

How long have you been together?
Just over two years.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
About a day? Yes, we are a lucky couple that met right off of Herpesville MySpace. I had posted a list of "rules" for dudes who thought it might be appropriate to contact me (don't misspell "you're", don't send me a picture of your car, don't be a Republican, etc.), and he wrote me and purposely broke every single one, which was amazing. We met the next night at our local Gallery Hop, and hit it off. We've been together ever since.

Who asked whom out?
I think it was one of those pathetic, "What're you doing tonight? Oh, nothing? Weird...me, too..." exchanges. I'm not sure who initiated...it just worked out.

How old are each of you?
I'm older...thanks for rubbing it in.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
The Boy has never met my family (it's a long story), so we see his brother the most.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Probably my family. I told my parents almost two years ago that I was dating someone, and that it was serious between us. Not only did they not say "congratulations" or even ask his name, my dad said, instead, "Well, honey, decisions have consequences." There is a part of me that really wants J to know my family, and there's a part of me that doesn't, and there is part of our relationship that doesn't feel complete because that element is missing. Not to mention that I turn into a wreck every time I have to see them...so yeah. My family.

Did you go to the same school?
HA. No. He went to "real schools" that didn't list the words "Bible","Baptist", or "Christian" anywhere.

Are you from the same home town?
Yes, actually. We grew up on the same side of town, about ten minutes away from each other.

Who is smarter?
In a death match of "smarts" I think it'd be a draw, with his smarts wearing assless chaps, and mine sporting a picture of a rubber chicken.

Who is the most sensitive?
Am I on my period? Then probably me. Have I kicked him in the balls? Then probably him.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
I'd say it's a toss up between Chipotle (we're POOR, dammit) and this AMAZING little Asian fusion restaurant called Bistro 86.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Chipotle at Easton?? No! We actually traveled to a scary, rural Ohio town to pick up our kittens. I thought we were going to be kidnapped and sodomized in a corn field...scary.

Who has the craziest exes?
Without sharing any details, probably him, though I guess if we were going by the most serious ex, I win because I was married. He loves to point out, however, that I have a "five year return policy"...which he thinks is hilarious. So then I just cry and threaten to kill myself.

Who has the worst temper?
I would say that I do, only because he is one of the most patient people I know, and when he even slightly raises his voice, I know things are bad.

Who does the cooking?
The Asians at Bistro 86.

Who is the neat-freak?
We are both pretty messy...but I am a clean freak. I don't care if clothes are strewn everywhere, I just better be able to eat off of my toilet seat at any given moment. I scrub-down clean the house at least once a week, if not more.

Who is more stubborn?
Wow. Toss up. Is it the person who refuses to give in to my whining, or the person who refuses to admit that she has lost at drunk wrestling and wakes up sober in utter pain in the middle of the night...hmmm.

Who hogs the bed?
The effing fur kids.

Who wakes up earlier?
I do, but only by default. I currently have a job, he does not. Each morning for me is a roller coaster of financial panic and jealousy.

Where was your first date?
Gallery Hop and Surly Girl.

Who is more jealous?
He's super jealous of my hot, hot booty, just like everyone else.

How long did it take to get serious?
We are rarely serious. This is a dumb question.

Who eats more?
DEAR GOD, THE HUMAN TRASH COMPACTOR DOES. I have never seen anyone eat so much in my entire life. If he had the option to eat non-stop all day, he would. He has been known to eat two or more Chipotle burritos in one sitting, though had I been there to witness this atrocity, I would first vomit, then dump him.

Who does the laundry?
We usually each do our own, but lately he's been doing all of it since he is my maid.

Who's better with the computer?
He steals movies on the internets.

Who drives when you are together?
Depends whose car we are driving. He cannot drive my car, because he does not know how to drive a stick shift. Ha ha...GIRL.

Feel free to answer some or all of the same questions about your significant other in the comments, or leave a link to your website if you prefer answering there.

Name that Cow

I heart work IM:

Dude Next Door: http://www.cnn.com/2009/TECH/science/01/29/happy.cows.milk/index.html [article about cows giving more milk when they are named, loved and petted]

Me: Just in time for Valentine's Day!

DND: i'm gonna stop referring to my cow as "cow"...from now on, it's steve

Me: "Steve" gives you milk?

Me: Seriously?

DND: and more as "steve", than she ever did as "cow"

Me: So, what you're saying...like, if say, it weren't a cow, and it were a woman, that she'd be far more appreciative to be called a boy's name erroneously than to be called nothing at all?

DND: that I can't answer...but you could ask my last girlfriend, Albert

Me: That's not funny

DND: i know

Me: And you did not hear me laughing

DND: i know

DND: but i thought i did hear you crying...are you ok?

Me: That wasn't me.

The Un-Romantic Romantic

Happy Valentine's to you,

Happy Valentine's to you,

Happy Valentine's dear...

HRWAAAHGHKGHGHHGAAHGH!

Happy Valentine's to you.

That was the sound of me puking my guts out on Valentine's Day, which may give you a clue about how I feel about the holiday anyway.  Lemme tell you, wine and garlic hummus is not the best color combo ever in a white bathroom.  Just sayin'.

For reals, though, I get romantic about being un-romantic.  I love not loving Valentine's Day, anniversaries, "special moments".  There is something very freeing about having no expectations, and enjoying lovely days as they come.  Don't worry, I'm not one of those jaded girls who had one bad V-Day experience and now I hate it forever.  I am just not romantic.  Period.  And I'm okay with that.

 I am not lying when I say that I was the party that always forgot my own wedding anniversary.  There were times when I had to sit down and think HARD about which day I was married.  This perpetual memory flatulence did not bode well with my ex, who is a very thoughtful, mushy-gushy, romantic person.  He is the type that LOVES matching outfits, long power sessions of eye-gazing, and commemorating each little moment with pictures and chocolates and everything else.  There is nothing wrong with this kind of personality, but let's just say--like my wine and hummus--we did not mix well. 

I am really not trying to be funny, now, but here is what happens when you put two romantic polar opposites together: 

I left my ex ON HIS BIRTHDAY, and then handed him papers ON OUR ANNIVERSARY. 

Before you label me the most awful person you've ever read, in my defense, I did not know what the day was until after I had already taken action (which pretty much describes the tone of my entire life).  In fact, I had committed to being kind to my ex, no matter what.  I hated the idea that a person I had essentially spent the last six years of my life with would suddenly become someone I loathed.  Just because our marriage didn't work, it doesn't mean that we should suddenly be spiteful and mean. 

**As a side note, this was a much easier task for me, I suppose, since I was the initial "dumper".  Kindness can be easy when spurred on by the remorse that comes from hurting someone deeply.  On the other hand, I'm pretty sure he hated me for a long time.**

Anyway, my commitment to kindness obviously didn't include vindictive acts such as shitting all over someone's day by handing them divorce papers on an anniversary.  As previously mentioned, I am simply an idiot about important dates and romance.  Here's proof...I am now in a relationship where I think the following exchange is super cute:

ME:  So where's my P-O-N-Y? [I ask for a pony on an almost daily basis, in large part because I am brain damaged, but also because I want one]
The Boy: I ordered one for you online, off of eBay. It's coming in a box with ground shipping.

To me, that's a special moment.  But again, this is not an article about my overall intelligence...

Friday Firsts: First Bra (dear god, this is going to be painful)

Friday Firsts:  First Bra

Read about Jillian's "first" over at And Other Times

To say that I was a bit of a late bloomer is an understatement. In so many ways in my youth, I was behind...socially, emotionally and physically. So, naturally, when the topic of “first bra” comes up, I immediately squirm in embarrassment and humiliation. This first, as my dad would say, was one of those “character builders”.

I was thirteen—yes, thirteen—and still had no earthly need for any sort of support device or otherwise on my stick-like body. My mother, ever the practical woman, had already said to me when I asked for one, “Why? You don’t NEED one.” Well, yes, thank you, Mom, I realize this, but it’s getting uncomfortable in the locker room before gym class when I’m the only girl with a naked chest, whether it looks like a boy’s or not.

**Side note:  Do you all remember what a BIG DEAL getting boobs were in elementary and junior high school? And not just to the boys! Seriously, I remember one girl who was obsessed...couldn’t stop talking about how she couldn’t believe she didn’t have them yet, and then BOOM, like overnight had double D’s. Which didn’t help her obsession, because then she became obsessed with the rest of us getting them, with me being the tortoise in the estrogen race.**

Anyway, finally I convinced my mother that I needed to have SOMETHING that showed underneath my t-shirts that was not a tank top or bones. She took me to TJMaxx of all places, and set me to look through a huge, daunting rack of clearance brassieres...all of which, even visually, were gigantic. (Why she didn’t help me find a training bra in a normal store, I’ll never know.)

I finally found a triangle “old-lady-bra” than could be adjusted to fit around my boney rib cage and shoulders. My mom held it up to the light and said something about how, “that’ll work”. Fortunately, she didn’t ask me to try it on at the store, but did want to take a look at it when we got home to make sure it was ok. Even this contraption, which was literally two swatches of stretchy cloth and some elastic, hung baggily. I remember standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, my face crumpled in disappointment (did I think I’d magically grow breasts just because I now had a bra?) and my mom tilting her head and saying, “Oh, just stuff it.”

And that is when the real horror began...BECAUSE I DID. I stuffed my bra for probably a year after that, first starting with a few cotton balls, then moving to tissues, then trying some old shoulder pads that my sister had cut out of one of her shirts. All with totally ridiculous results, until the inevitable happened.

Gym class, that pubescent nightmare, was my undoing. I was pretty savvy about dressing and undressing so no one could see what was going on beneath my shirt, but that day, I was careless. The popular girl in our class saw everything...the stupid little bra with the stupid tissue peeking out of the edge, and now a stupid little girl gazing wide-eyed at her in terror. She literally gave a hand-over-the-mouth gasp and POINTED to my chest. I think that’s when I started to cry.

I ran out of the locker room, mortified, and spent the rest of the day in agony. Would she tell anyone else? What if she told the boys? To my surprise, she was actually quite gracious and approached me later in the day and apologized for her reaction, then promised me she wouldn’t tell anyone. And honestly, to her credit, I don’t think she did...which is quite possibly the only nice thing I have to say about her. WHORE. (Kidding...sort of.)

So there you go. That is the first time I have ever told that story in detail, fo’ realz. So that makes two firsts for this Friday. Yay for character building!