It's a Jungle Out There

What is it about a sidewalk sale that turns otherwise decent, law-abiding women into hormonal wilderbeasts?

After spending all of Saturday afternoon diligently working on a freelance editing project at my local coffee shop, I decided to reward myself with a quick jaunt to the nearby Anthropologie clothing store.

A sidewalk sale was in progress, and womenfolk were circling the racks like tigers staking out their turf.

I approached an as yet unclaimed rack full of blouses and, as is customary among the genus thirtysomethingus suburbanus femalus, began combing through it starting at the far left end.

I was about halfway down the rack when a broad of the genus bad makeup, leathery skin, frickin' rude as-all get outus cut in front of me and began examining the garment directly to my right.

As in, the item I was about to inspect on the rack that I had staked out.

This was by no means a friendly, "I'm just going to shop here at an appropriate distance alongside of you" overture, but rather a balls-out violation of personal shopping space.

My fur began to bristle, and I may or may not have bared a solitary fang.

In a cheerful growl I said, "Oooooookaaaay, then. I guess I'll just switch places with you," and proceeded to swoop around to her right.

She released her talons and wasted no time in one-upping me with another cold-blooded queue jump, landing again directly to my right, where she began eyeing a little summer hoodie that was next in line for my nimble fingers to examine.

Friends, I had no intention of trying on a navy blue maternity type hoodie with oversized orange and yellow buttons, but I grabbed that garment off the rack faster than you could say, "b1tch."

I quickly eyeballed the label on my trophy, only to find that it was two sizes too big, but damned if I was going to put it back for my enemy to lay paws on.

There was only one more like it left on the rack (in what I suspected was the size I actually needed), and my arch nemesis snatched it up like a winning lottery ticket dancing on the wind.

We both stood there in the blazing afternoon sun, examining our loot, each of us knowing that we were holding a garment in the other's size, but neither one willing to make the concession to put it back on the rack.

What is a self-respecting shopper to do?

I walked around inside the store for a few minutes before hiding that hoodie on a full price rack, of course.

A few minutes later, I found the one in the size I needed discarded among a pile of jeans.

Next time, I think I'll just mark my territory with a circle of pee.

Hut for Sale; Desperate Hutwife Not Included

Oh right, my blog!

I've been bizzy.

Last weekend was a veritable Lithuaniapalooza. What that means is cultural festivities out the wazoo in commemoration of the motherland's 90th year of independence.

How is it possible that Lithuania could be celebrating ninety years of independence, you ask, when I just told you last week she only busted out from behind the Iron Curtain in 1991?

Lithuania has two independence days - February 16th is the first one, when we told the czar to bite us back in 1918, and March 11th, 1991 is when we shed the dread communist mantle once and for all.

The upside of being relentlessly bullied by evil empires is two separate excuses to party like it's 1999. But we like to place the emphasis on our first independence day because it sends a clear message that sez, "Suck it, commies! Let's pretend the last fifty or so years never happened."

So I spent most of the weekend rehearsing for and participating in the Lithuanianpalooza, where my extreme choir sang and even the little V-meister recited a poem and sang a song along with her little pre-school friends. The rest of the time during the program, she looked like this:



Next:

With the real estate market in our area totally tanking, the P-Dawg and I decided now would be the ideal time to put our hut up for sale, and so I spent most of Monday running around like a madwoman, shoving random clutter, clothing, toys, and the odd child under beds and into closets in preparation for our listing agent's visit.

So paranoid was I about the state of our lair, that I was practically tripping over myself to offer our agent my take on things that could be improved before we put the house on the market. Because, above all, I aim to please.

As we were doing our walk-thru, I would bound in front of the pack (the pack being the agent, the P-Dawg, the V-meister, and the J-Dog) to enter the room in question before anyone else did so that I could properly lament the sorry state of affairs and make totally unbidden and impossible promises like, "I was thinking we could just knock this wall out, you know, to make the room look bigger? And a new paint job, of course, and curtains, and why don't I just box up all the kids' toys and send them back to China right now!?"

I was pathetic. But the agent made only minor suggestions for bathroom and kitchen updates and, of course, advised us to get rid of all the junk I had thrown in the basement and shoved under beds and into closets in my foolhardy attempt to foil her.

Also of note:

The V-meister has yet another ear infection. We made the much dreaded trip to the pediatrician's office this morning. The V-meister quite enjoys the Ped's office, but it frankly makes me rather sick.

I like to go in armed with anti-bacterial wipes to disinfect any and all surfaces we may potentially come into contact with and also hover around the kids like a hummingbird on crack to ensure that nobody gets any ideas about licking the wall (J-dog!) or, you know, touching anything. By the time we get home, I'm totally wiped out, twitchy, and convinced that I picked up the flesh eating bacteria.

This ear infection, however, seems a lot less dastardly than the Great Ear Infection of 2007, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it stays that way.

And now I'm off to begin polishing the floors with my toothbrush.

The One Where I Make Like a Shepherd and Get the Flock Out

Have you ever been stone cold busted trying to sneak out of a social gathering?

It happened to me this very weekend at the annual choir Christmas party.

The P-dog and I had had enough of the festivities and were making a stealthy exit when I realized that I had left my purse down in the basement, where the party was still going strong.

(And by going strong, I mean that a group of tenors and sopranos were playing "Spin the Bottle" while the altos and basses stood around the bar singing the one about the horse.)

Just as I had grabbed my purse and was heading back up the stairs, our choir director pops out of nowhere and commands me not to leave just yet.

Me, (in my coat and mittens, hoisting purse over shoulder): "Oh, no, I'm not leaving, just, you know, Hey, look! A communist!!!"

No sooner was I back upstairs with one foot out the door than a veritable stampede of angry choristers came lurching up after me.

I made one last stab at pretending I was just going out to my car to retrieve something, but it was a no go.

The P-dog and I shamefacedly went back down, where it came to pass that everyone was waiting to present me with the prize for "Most Unique Communal Christmas Tree Ornament and Supporting Presentation."

(It was a pair of binoculars, in case you're interested. The ornament, I mean. The prize was a pillar candle with pedestal and decorative rocks.)

Talk about embarrassing.

It's not that I don't enjoy the annual choir Christmas party. I usually hem and haw for a good couple days before it takes place, but then end up swinging from the chandeliers yodeling having a good time after a tumbler of eggnog and maybe a shot or two of Lithuanian honey liqueur.

My big beef with the Christmas party and most choir-related social events comes down to the fact that my fellow choristers do not consider it a party unless organized activities abound, and sometimes I'm just not in the mood for Lithuanian charades, Lithuanian bingo, or Name That Lithuanian Folk Song.

At last year's party, I was pitted against two sopranos in a Play-Doh sculpting contest. The assignment was to sculpt a falcon in one minute or less (I'm not going to go into too much detail about the rules, because I'm assuming you all are familiar with the falcon sculpting game?).

The contestant whose creation most closely resembled an actual falcon was to be named victor. Now, I can usually sculpt a pretty mean falcon, but in all the excitement, I momentarily got my birds of prey mixed up and ended up with a rather sinister looking vulture instead of its much nobler cousin.


Vulture


Falcon

(Kind of like mistaking a turkey for the glorious bald eagle here stateside.)

I did not take home any door prizes that evening.

I wasn't expecting any accolades for the binoculars, either, but I'm guessing the judges were blown away by my accompanying PowerPoint presentation, complete with seizure-inducing special animation effects.

Ha! I didn't really do a PowerPoint, but I did just give myself an idea for next year.

Weekend Update

The choir concert went off with nary a hitch this weekend.

I say "nary" because at one point, I almost came to blows with the soprano to my left, who failed in her duty to lead the first row of singers into the circle formation in which we were to sing an a capella number around the periphery of the church.

I had to step in and save the day by leading our row out in the opposite direction. The entire encounter, during which I can be seen wildly gesticulating, then throwing my arms up in resignation before exiting stage right was recorded for posterity, and if I ever get a hold of the footage, I'll be sure to post it here.

I was also apprehended by the Fashion Police for wearing gold lame (la-may) and a polyester cape. (The photo above does not do this outfit justice.)

I must have skipped practice the day we voted on uniforms.

But I am happy to report that illness was successfully thwarted and I was able to sing with passion and gusto. After the show, several fans approached me not to complement my lark-like singing voice, but to mention how entertaining it was to watch me.

I took it as a complement.

In all seriousness, the concert was lovely. An extraordinary group of musicians accompanied us on strings for several pieces, including the Mozart Mass, and there were several phenomenal soloists from our own choir ranks, whose performances were all the more impressive because most of them are not professional singers.

We sang several pieces a capella (without accompaniment), one of which was a Gregorian Ave Maria chant and the other a haunting "Our Father" arrangement. Since we began as a church choir (we now also sing secular music by modern Lithuanian composers, as well as traditional folk pieces), this particular concert featured only religious music by mostly Lithuanian composers. Some pieces were sung in Latin, others in Lithuanian.

Unfortunately, none of the photos the P-dog took from the back of the darkened church came out. The group shot I'm posting here was taken a few weeks before the concert. I'm in the first row left, next to the choir director (looking not a day older than sixteen, I might add).

If I ever figure out how to post sound files, I'll post some of our recorded pieces.

There's No "I" in "Team"

I've mentioned here before that I sing in a non-professional choir.

Tomorrow is our big twenty-fifth anniversary concert extravaganza and, wouldn't you know it, the little germ squadron that has been plaguing the V-meister for the past three days is now attempting to penetrate (I said penetrate!) the fortress of my immune system.

I'm not actually sick yet, mind you, but I can feel it coming.

Which is why I've been chugging expired packets of Emergen-C all day long in an effort to stave off illness. Let's hope the homeopathic warrior antigens win out, because have I mentioned that the success of this entire performance is hinged on my participation? It takes a special kind of talent to lip sync those really high notes in such a way as to leave the audience none the wiser.

Lithuanian choir is an extreme hobby, my friends. You don't just sit it out if you're feeling a bit under the weather. You hook yourself up to some IV fluids, offer up a little prayer, and hope you don't fall off stage.

Why, I sang in our twentieth anniversary jubilee concert five years ago with only half a functioning larynx, thanks to a nasty case of laryngitis. I was unable to speak for the entire week after the show, but that's what you do when you're a church choir supah-stah.

Just last night during rehearsal, an elderly alto almost passed out during the Mozart Mass in D. We had her lie down on a pew for a few minutes while someone took her blood pressure and fed her some Werther's Originals, and she was back on her game in no time at all.

Anyway, in between Emergen-C cocktails, I took my mom up on her offer to babysit the kids for a few hours and had a blissfully solitary lunch at a local cafe.

I was going to be all high-tech and post from the coffee shop, but I experienced some connection issues. Unable to get online using the cafe's network, I went balls-out and hitched a ride on some random unsecured wireless network named "Killer" that popped up on my screen.

Then I started sweating bullets, because isn't that like the equivalent of hacking into the FBI mainframe?

The connection was dropped after about two minutes (they were on to me) and I wasted the remainder of my lunch spree debating whether I should go ahead and turn myself in to the police station around the corner.

OK, not really, because I also have outstanding parking tickets.

But I did feel a bit criminal.

The End.

(And I hope I don't get sick.)

J-Dog Manifesto

Yo, yo, yo!

J-Dog here.

I hijacked the short tempered mother figure's laptop while she was busy picking lint off the couch.

While I'm at the helm, I'm taking the opportunity to lay down some ground rules for the mutha.

Perchance all of y'all could pass these on to her for me?

********************************************************************

I, J-Dog Rama, speaking on behalf of toddlers the world over,
Address this Manifesto to all people of good will and short fuses, (but especially MamaRama),
Declare my unwavering commitment to uphold the tenets set forth in this document, and
Invite all the childrenz of the world to join me in my effort at achieving the goals outlined herein.

I hold the following principles to be essential, and maintain that I have the right:

• To feed mySELF. No need to be all up in mah' grill with yer dang spoon anymore, mama.
  
  
• To nod off in my car seat whenever the moment is right, afternoon naps be damned. Don't be trying to stop me with your incessant chatter, your yawn-inducing rounds of the Lithuanian National Anthem, and your perpetual rolling up and down of the car window, woman.
  
  
• To run screaming in the opposite direction at shoe and/or coat donning time, then drop to the floor squirming when you be comin' at me with that sleeve, yo.
  
  
• To take a dump the minute you zip up my snowsuit.
  
  
• To smear my foot in my poop filled diaper, then flip over on the changing table and perform a nose dive onto the floor.
  
  
• To sample the occasional mouthful of dirt from time to time.
  
  
• To turn the storybook page whenever I see fit, and not when the written word dictates.
  
  
• To stand up in the tub.
  
  
• To pee in the tub.
  
  
• To poop in the tub
  
  
• To lick the shopping cart handle to my heart's content and don't be crampin' my style with no pimped out cart cover, betch.
  
  
• To be told I'm loved every day and held whenever the need arises.
  
  
• To melt and break your heart a million times over and do it again.

Note to the Mutha: To remove the oven safety guard, keeping tab firmly pressed down with one hand, use the alternate hand to snap lid free (she has a hell of a time with this, people.)

That's it for today, my peeps. I'll try to post again soon if I can get online. If any of my fellow macro-cephalic folk would like to add items to this here manifesto, I would be happy to oblige.

Oh, and a special shout out goes to In the Thick of It, who was the inspiration for this post. I hear you have a cute and feisty sixteen-month old daughter. (Call me.)

Peace out, my friends.

It's Not Over 'Till the Fat Guy Wakes Up

Where do party animals such as the P-dog and myself go of a Saturday night?

Why, to the symphony, of course.

We saw a magnificent performance of Mahler's Second, The Resurrection, this past weekend.

I was especially riveted by the two sopranos who chimed in to accompany the orchestra at one point, though I must admit to seething a little in my plush concert hall chair, just thinking about how the fulfillment of my greatest wish would be nothing less than to stand up on that stage and belt out an aria or two myself.

Although convinced that I could have easily one-upped the mezzo who subscribed to the Miss Piggy school of operatic theatrics, I remained a model patron of the arts, sitting with head tilted and nylon-clad legs crossed, a thoughtful smile playing upon my lips as I immersed myself in the music.

Until my hyper-vigilant sense of hearing began to pick up the unmistakable, rhythmic, and utterly intolerable sound of snoring.

Dude behind me was out like a light.

As you might imagine, it took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to swivel around and fix the offender with my patented Stare of Damnation, but even I recognized the futility of this measure, considering the fact that he was asleep.

I briefly contemplated whipping out the Snickers bar the P-dog always makes sure I have stashed in my purse in case of a hunger induced freakout scenario and loudly crackling the wrapper directly in front of the snorer's face.

Oh, who am I kidding? I wanted to use that Snicker's bar as a projectile weapon.

But I decided against it, concluding that the action might only serve to draw more attention to me than to the crisis at hand.

There was a lady in the row in front of me who did turn completely around in her seat and scowled mightily at my neighbor for a very commendable minute or two. This was, of course, to no avail.

I gave her the look of solidarity that is recognizable to all PAPSSS (People Against Public Snoring, Snorting and Snuffling).

The snoring was nearly drowned out during the louder parts of the performance, but irritatingly consistent in rhythm and meter during the more subdued portions. And, of course, the occasional Holy frijoles, was I asleep? snort that would only briefly jolt my enemy from slumber practically sent me through the roof every single time it occurred.

I did manage to enjoy the concert when I wasn't busy counting to ten in my head, biting my tongue, and jamming the stiletto heel of my right shoe into the tender flesh of the top of my left foot, a measure I often take to prevent myself from speaking out of turn or generally going berserk.

As soon as the finale concluded, the audience rose in one great wave for a standing ovation.

Guess who was practically falling over with the zealousness of his applause? Repeatedly shouting BRAVO! until he turned blue in the face, and generally acting like the exact opposite of a person who just spent the last hour and a half drooling on his own collar?

Mr. Sleepypants himself.

Even the P-dog noted, "What is that guy so excited about? He was asleep for the whole damn show."

I gave him the Death Stare on my way out, but he was quite unaffected.

Cripes.

My Friend S Is Mad at You

I'm editing this to say it's just come to my attention that the link to the post that I'm responding to in this entry is no longer working. You need to read it to understand what I'm talking about, but until it's back up again (let's hope), the gist was that I kind of "sold out" by becoming a "mommyblogger".

I might try to copy it out of my feedreader and link to it from my own blog, but hopefully it will be back up again later in its original form!

************************************************************

You guys are in trouble with my hip, single, city-dwelling friend, S.

(Yeah, you!)

You can read about it in her post here, but I’m warning you, it ain’t pretty. (Although I did get a good chuckle out of the part where I’m the queen of the mommyblogging minions. Me, with my double negative Technorati rating! Pshaw! S, you have yet to meet the queens.)

I read the post several times. My reactions in the order they occurred:

1. Ouch! Have I been insulted?
2. Wah?
3. Uncomfortable squirming giving way to an all-out cringefestival.
4. Whatever happened to my drum set?
5. Oh, yeah, I did totally kick that I-talian dude’s ass!
   
   and finally,
   
   
6. Thanks, S, and you rock, but I very, very respectfully disagree.

In fact, my disagreement is so respectful, that it’s kind of shy about guest-starring in this post. I had to bribe it with a spa gift card and fruit basket.

So here I am with my respectful disagreement, bowing deeply while trying not to spill my peace tea, and having something to say . . .

“Mommyblogger” is a four letter word.

I don’t think most women bloggers with children who may or may not star in their blogs really think of themselves as such. We just happen to be some of the lucky few who can talk about our job (the mothering gig) in a personal blog without getting fired. If you could freely talk about all the crazy shit that goes down at XYZ corporation and get words of advice, sympathy, encouragement, or sometimes a plain old “Ohmahgah, I’m ROTFL” for writing about it, wouldn’t you?

As a “mommyblogger” (cringe, shudder, squirm), you can dish all you want about your job without the threat of a pink slip!

That’s all I’m doing. I have a new job, mommydom, and I write about it. If I had sent in my resume for this mothering gig, nobody would have even granted me an interview. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten the job.

Yet here I am.

It’s hard to have children without them leaving an indelible imprint on your corporal and ephemeral person, but it doesn’t change your essence. I may be waiting in the supermarket checkout line with a cartload of Hamburger Helper and reading The National Enquirer, but I’m still flipping off the biddy with the accordion file of coupons whose holding up mah damn queue.

I’m not in that imaginary band that never played a real gig anymore, but I’m still drumming in my head. Loudly! When we’re not jamming to our Lithuanian choir CD, the J-dog, V-meister and I rock out to Massive Attack. It’s all cool, as long as I turn down the volume for the occasional swear words, WHICH I TOTALLY DO.

Would I still kick that sorry dude’s 6’4 ass today? Probably not. I’m a little older. And wiser. The osteoporsosis is starting to take its toll.

It’s nice to be a part of a blogging community. In the short few months that I’ve been blogging, I’ve gotten a lot from the women whose blogs I read and who read mine. Some of them are mothers, some of them are not. Some of them blog a lot about their kids, some not as frequently. I’m glad we all have different types of blogs. It would be a boring internet, indeed, if everyone had my silly old self-deprecating brand of humor.

I’ve met people through this blog whom I never would have known otherwise, and my life is richer for it. (I love you guys!!!!! Group hug! Group hug!) And the best part? You don’t even have to be a mother to play along.

This business about selling out?

That’s a bunch of bullshit.

S, I want to introduce you to just a smattering of the kick-ass bloggers I read. Read this stuff first, then call them what you will . . .

Boobs, Injuries & Dr. Pepper

Get in the Car!

Queen of Shake-Shake

Laid Off Dad

Where's my Cape?

Motherhood Uncensored

Where Am I Going and Why Am I in this Handbasket?

Here In Idaho

Marmite Breath

Thailand Chani

Madness, Madness I Say!

Slouching Past 40

I left out about ten thousand. I'll link to you all next time, if I haven't in the past.

And "mommy"bloggers, meet my kick-ass MoFo, smart, funny and really very lovable friend, S. She’ll set you up with some top-of-the line stolen purses if you ask nice.

Peace.

My Singing Revolution

I like to think of myself as an adult.

And apart from the occasional candy corn binge session, an obsession with Facebook, and a reluctance to share the computer with my husband (No, I am not done blogging yet. Well, you can have it when you tear it from my cold dead hands! Then you’ll have a laptop, but NO WIFE! Har!), I act like one, too.

But the Little V-meister has a way of bringing out the three-year old in me. I found myself picking a fight with her on the way to playgroup this morning:

V-meister: Mama, “E” is for cookie.

Rimarama: Well, actually, it isn’t. “C” is for cookie.

V-meister: No, Mama! “E” is for cookie!

Rimarama: Trust me on this one, little V. It is not.

V-meister: (Straining in her car seat) “E”! Is for cookie.

Rimarama: No.

V-meister: Yes.

We could have gone on for hours.

I was getting ticked. I’m normally cool as a cucumber in these situations, but my blood was going from a low simmer to an outright boil.

Who’s the English major in this relationship? Who competed in the Annual Charlotte Observer Spelling Bee of 1986? Who has over eighteen years of schooling under her belt, and who started pre-school LAST WEEK? Who writes her own blog, and who writes her name backwards?

But, instead of withholding my collector’s edition Dora stickers and/or the pleasure of my company during recess, I took the high road. I gave the little V-meister the last word (letter?) on the subject.

Retribution was achieved on the ride back home.

We were listening to one of our favorite Lithuanian choral music CDs, the kids merrily bopping away in their car seats and me humming quietly under my breath. A song that I particularly like came on and, because I fancy myself a diva of sorts, I cranked up the volume and rocked it as much as a person can rock a pagan Lithuanian ballad. It may have been a tad shrill, but I totally nailed the high G at the top of the crescendo.

Nailed it and hung my boxing gloves on it, my friends.

You see, my singing of any tune the little V-meister considers proprietary galls her to no end. Although I am a half-decent soprano, the V-meister’s customary reaction to my singing is akin to what it would be were someone to drag claws across a chalkboard while forcing her to sit still and eat a plate of broccoli.

I sang my little heart out all the way back home.

Divarama, circa 1993