The Bean

I finally had some time to myself last night and spent a very good part of it cruising the Blogosphere, like I am often wont to do. (Yeah, that’s right, I said wont.  What’s your beef?)  And by the 17th blog post I read about how hard it is to pack for/make reservations for/get ready in general for the upcoming BlogHer Conference, which I’m not packing/making reservations/getting ready in general for because I’m not going, I had a little bit of an epiphany.

Now, I have a lot of favorite blogs that I check out on a regular basis… and many (although not all) of them would qualify as “Mommy Blogs” because, well I guess I AM one now. 

Even though I DESPISE that term “Mommy Blog” – it sounds so fucking condescending, like Oh, you’re a MOMMY.  And you BLOG.  Yeah, I bet that’s just FASCINATING to read, I’ll be sure to check it out (not).” 

But anyway, despite the name, since I entered into this Exotic Land of Electronic Words and Pictures a few months ago, I’ve come across some really great “Mommy Blogs” that I read on a regular basis.  Others aren’t so great but have one or two elements that captured my attention, so I go back every now and then to see what’s new.  Still others kind of suck, but I left a comment once and the blogger commented back, and now I feel obligated to keep returning – like going on a date that was really bad, but the guy was kind of nice, and now he’s just kind of pathetic, so you accept a second date, and then spend the rest of the week thinking Why did I do that and how can I get out of it? 

(Not that I’ve ever done that, I mean at least not in the last 17 years, but if I WAS single and DID date, I imagine that’s pretty much how it would go for me.  Assuming I was ever lucky enough even to be asked out by THAT guy, which I probably wouldn’t because I am SO not the social butterfly.)

(Oh, and if you’re reading this, and I’ve ever commented on your blog, and now you’re wondering if YOUR blog is the pathetic second-date guy, chances are it’s NOT you I’m talking about.  No, really.)

But I digress.

Just a few of my very favorite “Mommy Blogs” (seriously, we need to find a better name for these) include MommyPie, Absolutely Bananas, The McMommy Chronicles, Mommy Needs a Cocktail, Mommy’s Martini (lots of drunk mommies out there, I guess), Crash Test Mommy, The Benevolent Dictator (best name for a “Mommy Blog” EVER) and, of course, The Bloggess. 

Some of them are snarky, some are sweet, some have weekly “festivals” that, because I’m a good “Mommy Blogger,” I participate in when I can or when I care to.  I have aspired to be Just Like some of them, others aren’t really anything like me and I’ll never try to emulate, but I enjoy reading them anyway.  My favorites are always the ones that employ sarcasm at an alarming rate and say “fuck” a lot.

(Note:  These are not, by any means, the only blogs I read on a regular basis.  I have LOTS of other favorites, many of them written by the non-mommy variety.  But this post isn’t about them.  It’s about me these “Mommy Blogs” and what a jealous bitch I am how they’re all going to BlogHer and I’m not.)

There is very much a network of “Mommy Blogs” (really, couldn’t we call them “Personal Family Blogs,” or “Domestic Journal Blogs? ” No, those suck, too) — they all seem to know each other, or at least know OF each other, and they often refer back to each other in their posts.  Blogrolls (that little list of favorite links on the sidebar of a blog, for those of you, like me, with no clue) often look eerily similar, with the same Usual Suspects appearing over and over.  Most of them also keep in touch via Twitter, a social networking site that is notoriously unreliable and only allows you to type updates of maybe twenty words or less at a time (both a blessing and a curse). 

As I started really getting into this whole blogging thing, I found this network of “Mommy Blogs” (”Woman Blogs” maybe? No?  Fine, you try then, asshole, it’s not as easy as it looks) and decided immediately that I wanted IN.  These blogs were all so clever, so interesting, so entertaining, I should DEFINITELY be In the Club.  After all, I was all of those things too… these women would be CRAZY not to welcome me with wide, open arms!

So I started a blogroll of my own, and added most of them.  I check their blogrolls often, to see if The Bean has “made it,” and my feelings get hurt when it hasn’t.  I joined Twitter and (when it’s working) I put in my two cents here and there.  I send “tweets” to let the group know when I’ve published a new blog post, hoping my message will reach them at a weak moment and they’ll click in for lack of anything better to do.  I make comments on their blogs when I had something really snarky and bitchy to show how “cool” I am of value to say.  

I do all of this with the hope that one or two of them might find what I have to say interesting, might somehow find my latest post and like it, might add me to their blogroll or refer back to me in one of their posts, and maybe one day I could be one of the Usual Suspects, too.  Maybe one day someone will ask ME to go to BlogHer. Maybe one day I’LL be one of the cool kids.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s kind of hard work.  Definitely time-consuming.  And lately I’ve started to think that maybe I should just relax, stop worrying about what Mommy Pie thinks of me, or wondering whether The Bloggess has any idea who I am, or even trying to get their consort “Daddy Bloggers” like Black Hockey Jesus or Backpacking Dad to notice my “tweets” on Twitter.  (That’s what she said.)

It’s starting to feel a little bit like I’m back in high school.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some really nice comments and mesages from several of these “Mommy Bloggers” (I’ve got it — “VAGINA MONO-BLOGGERS”!!  Get it?  Like the Vagina Monologues, but better.  We have a winner!), including Mommy Pie herself and McMommy and Auds at Barking Mad and Crash Test Mommy.  The ones that I have interacted with have been Fucking Awesome in their own special ways, and I wouldn’t expect anything less, given what great writers/VAGINA MONO-BLOGGERS they are. 

But lately I find myself becoming a bit disenchanted with the whole VAGINA MONO-BLOGGING business. 

The BlogHer thing is what’s done me in.  I got into this whole blogging deal late in the game, I guess, and I didn’t even know this thing existed until the posts about how everyone was already going started.  I did look it up, and it looks very cool, and I would love to go to something like that and meet other VAGINA MONO-BLOGGERS and see how they do it.  Being new to the game, it would be great to see what works, what doesn’t, what’s fun, what sucks, what’s easy, what’s hard, etc. 

And seeing how I started this VAGINA MONO-BLOG for fun but quickly decided I wanted to use it, somehow, to springboard into a real writing career instead of the mind-numbing technical shit I write now, it would probably be beneficial to see how these very accomplished women use their blogs for professional gain, or if they do at all, or if it’s even possible.  Maybe I’m just spinning my wheels here.  (Which, even if I was, wouldn’t stop me from blogging because I like it and I like to think I’m pretty good at it and it beats going to the gym.)

But, alas, I am NOT going to BlogHer (yeah, I said alas - fuck you).  I wasn’t invited and even if I had been I couldn’t go, because I can’t afford a trip to San Francisco right now and I really doubt I could stand to leave my baby Bean for even one night, no matter how bad ass it would be to see the Fish Market and ride a cable car and drive across the Golden Gate and maybe catch a gay marriage ceremony or two. 

But they keep writing about it.  And writing about it.  And writing about it.  Which I guess makes sense, since it’s The Big Thing for them right now and after all, blogging is all about whatever Your Big Thing is at the moment.  And it’s only going to get worse as the conference gets closer, and as they all start panicking about what they’ll wear, how their hair looks, who they’ll meet and get shitfaced drunk socialize with.

I’m not going, and I won’t be missed.  And I’m not In the Club, either. 

Basically, I’m that kid in high school, the one that wants SOOO BAD to be in with the cheerleaders and the football players that I’d sell my soul and eat my boogers if it would get me a foot in the door (but eating my boogers would *probably* have the opposite effect). 

I’m the kid that sits at the table JUST to the left of the cool kids’ table in the cafeteria, eating my tray of mystery meat and tots (Napoleon, give me some of your tots) while I watch the cheerleaders flip their hair and the football players puff up their chests as they all eat sushi their maids packed for them and complain about the theme of the upcoming homecoming dance.  (I’ve also seen WAAYYYY too many John Hughes films.)

So what I’ve decided is this:  I don’t care about being In the Club anymore.  I’m not going to try anymore to be cool.  I’ll be happy being the dorky kid who uses words like wont and alas and who’s allergic to sushi and breaks out in a nervous sweat when someone I admire leaves a nice comment on my blog.  (Seriously, Laurie Kendrick - a nervous sweat.)  I’m going to continue writing posts that I like and I’m only going to publish the ones I’m really proud of, and I’m not going to worry about who’s reading them or if they like them.  I’m not going to focus on Blog Stats or traffic (okay, that part is a TOTAL lie) but instead I’ll focus on becoming the best writer I can be — and if it’s good enough, the VAGINA MONO-BLOGGERS will flock to ME instead of me trying so hard to be one of THEM.

I will continue to spend late nights reading these fantastic VAGINA MONO-BLOGGERS:  MommyPie, Absolutely Bananas, The McMommy Chronicles, Mommy Needs a Cocktail, Mommy’s Martini, Crash Test Mommy, The Benevolent Dictator (still gets the Best Name Award), Barking Mad, The Bloggess, Foolery, even Daddy Bloggers (PENIS BLOGGERS?) Black Hockey Jesus and Backpacking Dad.  Oh, and Alias Mother.  And That’s What She Blogged.  And Dreams, You Got It, Happy. And many, many more. 

I will continue to admire them all from afar and laugh out loud at their hilarious posts, and think to myself, Now why can’t I write like that? when I read something truly fantastic.  I will even continue to make comments when I think they will show what a hilarious, sarcastic bitch I am are funny and appropriate.

But I’m not aspiring to be anybody else anymore.  I’m just me, very happy with my modest little VAGINA MONO-BLOG, which is called The Bean because that’s my kid and he is Fucking Awesome.  I hope it will continue to get better as I read and learn and practice and observe more.  I hope it will find new readers and keep existing readers satisfied.  I won’t blow smoke up anyone’s ass here (I just LUUUUURV that saying) and I’ll never pretend to be something I’m not, no matter how much I might want to.

I hope you like it, but if you don’t, I can live with that, too.  Have fun at BlogHer.  I’ll be over here, with my boogers and my mystery meat.  And no sushi.

Over the last 14 months, we’ve taken hundreds of videos of the Bean (that’s not an exaggeration). He’s even got his own channel on Vimeo (best site EVER for posting family videos).

But this one might be my favorite. It’s not a milestone, or very long, or anything special, just a quick glance into the daily life of the Bean.

This is a typical “tantrum” — if you can call it that — lasting maybe 30 seconds total and then onto the next thing.

Do I have the Best Bean EVER, or what?

I recently published a post called I’m Trapped in the Hell Where Bad Fashions Go To Die.  (Have you read it?  If not, you should.  It’s Very Insightful.) 

My first version of this Brilliant Post included a photo of Melanie Griffith taken from the movie Working Girl, wearing a blazer with shoulder pads so large she looked like a linebacker for the Cincinatti Reds, or the Detroit Redwings, or the Boston Celtics, or something.  I included this photo as an example of one of the many fashion “don’ts” I see around my office on a regular basis.  I thought it was Terribly Clever.

Yesterday, my mother told me in no uncertain terms that she didn’t like my post.  It’s the first time she’s ever said that about my blog so I listened.  She felt that I’d been unfair in my criticism of certain fashions, and that I hadn’t taken into account “old people” like herself.  She was pretty sure she had worn some of those fashions to the office before, and now her own daughter was suggesting that she was a fashion “don’t.” 

She especially took issue with the photo of Melanie Griffith.  Apparently, while reading the post Mom saw the photo of “Melanie” (they are on a first-name basis, of course) and expected it to be an example of how good someone could look at the office.  But as she read on she realized that was not the case.  And she took it personally, on her BFF Melanie’s behalf. 

(She also didn’t like the powder blue jumper photo at the end of the Brilliant Post, but that one was non-negotiable.)

Not wanting to offend my mother (I mean, after all, with these numbers I can’t afford to lose even one reader), I replaced the photo last night.  I had a surprisingly hard time finding another photo of enormous 80s shoulder pads, but finally settled on this one of Linda Whats-Her-Name from Dynasty.  (Wasn’t she married to Yanni at some point?  And he beat her up or something, I think, which is really crazy that wimpy Yanni would or even could beat ANYONE up, especially someone who once held her own in a catfight with Joan Collins… But I digress.)

I figured Mom had probably never worn gold-lame shoulder pads, at least not to the office.

To clarify, I added this note:

NOTE: I had to change this from an earlier photo of Melanie Griffith because my mother complained.  She thought Melanie looked “nice” and should have been included in the fashion “do’s” list instead of fashion “don’ts.”  Nevermind that the photo was taken from the movie Working Girl, which was released in 1988, TWENTY YEARS AGO.) 

This morning, the following email exchange took place:

From: Mom
To: Me
Subject: Melanie
  

Melanie and I thank you.

 ——————–

From: Me
To: Mom
Subject: RE: Melanie
    
Only for you, Mother.  Only for you.

And the thick haze of censorship clouds the dark skies…

——————–

From: Mom
To: Me
Subject: RE:  Melanie
    
You are such a shit.

 ——————– 

My mom is fucking awesome.

I’m not afraid to admit it — I see a therapist.  Well, really he’s a counselor. Well, actually, a marriage counselor.  And okay, I don’t exactly “see” him — it’s more like every few years the Big Bean and I get to a point where either I’m going to kill him or he’s going to kill me and since we both love each other just a *little* bit more than we want to see each other dead, we call in a third party to help us with that. 

• Side note:  I’m not sure why I call it therapy except that it sounds way more COOL than marriage counseling.  Marriage counseling sounds like you’re headed for the Big D (Divorce, not Dallas) and I don’t really like the idea of that, and lots of people are in therapy on TV and in the movies, like Uma Thurman and Barbra Streisand and Tony Soprano (yes, I know he’s not a real person) and I want to be Just Like Them.

So anyway… we saw this guy, Dr. D, for a few sessions about seven or eight years ago.  We really liked him right off the bat because he said “shit” during our first appointment - at which point we both gasped and looked at each other like “He just said a bad word” and we just knew that this was a match.  

 Plus, he wasn’t cheesy (break out the hand puppets on us and we’re gonna eat you ALIVE) and he was pretty good at not letting one of us (okay, ME) railroad the conversation, which normally I wouldn’t like at all but even I have to admit that it’s probably good to let the Big Bean get a word in edgewise when we’re trying to Work On Our Relationship.  But only then.

Dr. D helped us back then and we moved on to bigger and better problems.  Which brings us to today.

Lately we’ve had trouble not murdering each other communicating and the subject has come up more than once that maybe it would be a good idea to get an outside opinion.  But mostly it’s just been used as an empty threat because it’s really an inconvenient endeavor, getting everyone’s schedules straight and everything, plus it’s fairly expensive and one of our problems is money so you do the math.

So basically we’ve just been killing time, arguing over the Big Bean’s schedule and his obsession with working out and my obsession with NOT working out and money and debt and Who Does the Most Around the House and sniping and nitpicking each other to death and threatening each other with therapy.  Yeah.  It’s been fun.

But then the other night, the Big Bean fell asleep on the couch and woke up around 1:30AM and came to bed but I was fast asleep, completely spread out, right in the middle, with our menagerie of animals surrounding me.  He stood there for a minute, not sure if he should wake me up to move or just go back to the couch.  At least, that’s his story. I’m not so sure.

Either way, I woke up to find the Big Bean standing over me in the dark with a pillow in his hand, and that’s when I knew I should probably make the appointment.

So I did, and we went this morning, and it felt good, like we were actually DOING something to try and fix these wanting to murder each other communication issues of ours instead of just marking time while things got worse.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re not actually headed for prison for murder the Big D – we’re both Lifers here.  But it sure is easy to let the little things build up and build up and build up until everything just explodes in this melee of ugliness and then things get said (or yelled) that shouldn’t and you can’t take that shit back, you know.  Not really.

And besides, I really do LUUUUURVVV the Big Bean (no matter how much smack I might talk about him) and I know he loves me and for the most part we’re happy and enjoy each other’s company and have fun and laugh together.  We have a long history of Happy, and now we’ve got this great Bean added into the mix which just makes it all the more Worth It.  A few counseling sessions every seven years or so seems like a small price to pay for that.

• Another side note:  I just went back and counted and there are 11 paragraphs before this one (although most of them are really just run-on sentences because that’s how I roll).  So a total of 12 paragraphs it has taken me to get to the point of the whole story.  I will be amazed if anyone has actually stayed with me this far.  Bless your heart if you have, you must be really bored or have your own set of issues.  I’ll get to the point now.\

To make a long story short (I crack myself up), while we were in our session I was going on (and on and on – have you noticed I tend to do that?) about how the Big Bean attacks instead of argues and how when he does that I am just overcome with the urge to run and hide because I don’t want to deal with it.  So I just SHUT DOWN and can’t speak or fight back because I’m so angry and upset I can’t even DEAL.

And Dr. D says, “I’m really surprised at that.  You don’t seem like the kind of person who would react that way.  Probably because you have so much chutzpah.”

I was completely derailed.  I never really came back again after that.  For the rest of the session, all I could think was He said I have chutzpah.  Even with the Big Bean sitting there next to me, telling another person how Irresponsible and Horrible I am (my interpretation), which normally would hold my COMPLETE attention, there was a running buzz in the back of my head – chutzpah chutzpah chutzpah – and I would tell myself to focus but I just kept thinking about that WORD.   

I’ve heard it a million times before but I really don’t know what it means… Isn’t it a Jewish term? Where do “Jewish terms” come from – the Torah? Or are they just Hebrew words in general and not religious at all?  How do you spell chutzpah? Doesn’t it mean balls?  Did Dr. D just say that I have balls? Is Dr. D Jewish? Why does anyone care if someone is Jewish or not?  Focus, bejewell, focus.

I barely made it through the rest of the hour.  Got out, headed straight for the office and my good friend Dictionary.com, or as I like to call him, Dick.    And according to old Dick, the definition of the word chutzpah is this:   

1.  unmitigated effrontery or impudence; gall

2.  audacity; nerve

Sounds like balls to me!  And it’s true, I DO have balls — ginormous, imposing, majestic, hard-as-nails balls, and I’m proud of them.  Of course, Dick makes it sound like a bad thing, but I know that my woman balls are a good thing, and I know that Dr. D knows that, too.  

Overall, I’m feeling pretty good about therapy.

Has anyone seen my keys?  They look like this:

(Yes, I understand the irony of the keychain, but that is not the Extremely Ironic Twist.  Read on for that little gem.)

I took the Bean shopping this afternoon and came home and at some point… they vanished.  I’ve searched under the couch and under the bed and in the bathroom and in the garage and under the kitchen sink, even though I haven’t been in the garage OR under the sink since I got home (at least not that I remember but let’s face it, at this point anything is possible).

Seriously, HAS ANYONE SEEN MY GODDAMNED KEYS? 

No, I didn’t have big plans for tonight to go anywhere… the Big Bean is working, so the plan is Sesame Street, dinner, bedtime for the Bean, blogging and bed.  But at some point I’m going to need those keys and I’m a worst-case scenario person so all I can think about is how the hell I’m going to get myself and the Bean to the hospital if somebody breaks a toe.  (Yes, I know that’s not the WORST-case scenario but I really can’t let my mind go anyplace further than that; I’m dealing with enough here, don’t you think?)

And don’t say “an ambulance” because I think of an ambulance as an absolute last resort and I’m sure they would frown upon my calling them for a broken toe just because I can’t find my goddamned keys.  Not to mention, I’m pretty sure my health insurance doesn’t cover dumbass-lost-her-keys-again ambulance fees. 

Oh God, now I’m feeling a lot like a rat trapped in a cage, or maybe more like someone who’s been found guilty of being a dumbass and is now in prison, if prison was a three-bedroom, two-bath with a baby in the next cell.

I’ve checked the Bean very closely because he loves my keys and likes to play with them so I often let him.  But he doesn’t have them and I’ve followed his little bean steps and haven’t found them and I’m pretty sure they’re too big for him to eat.  (Although that is something I’ve said before and been wrong about.)  That would be one hell of a diaper to change if he did, though.

And now, here is the Extremely Ironic Twist to this post:  

I took this picture earlier today because I was planning to write a post about all of the things that I lose the most and how frustrating it is and how much time I waste looking for things when I should know where they are because I just had the thing in my hand like two seconds ago but now it’s just GONE.  And also how I think the reason might be all the pot I smoked in my early twenties (seriously, it was a fucking LOT) and let that be a lesson to all you young people.  It was going to be a Very Inspiring and Educational Post.

But now I can’t Educate or Inspire anyone because I’m too busy looking for my goddamned keys.  And I’m trapped in the house with no way out except maybe a bicycle, which I can’t use because we don’t have a trailer for the Bean and it’s not like I can just leave him here to fend for himself while I head to the hills in a rampant fit of blazing claustrophobia. Not even if I take the baby monitor with me. 

And besides, I don’t ever want to ride a bike anywhere because I’m always very wobbly and totally aware of what an ass I look like and I just know that all of the people in the cars passing by are really laughing at me. (Which actually happened once, a group of teenagers in a convertible passed by me and I wobbled right into a fence and they all laughed as they drove away, hence my paranoia.  Fucking youths.)

And the worst part about THAT is, I used to ride a bike like a little speed demon — “Look Mom, no hands!” and the whole bit – but somewhere along the way it’s like I just FORGOT HOW TO RIDE A BIKE even though that’s the one thing people say you never forget.  It’s a bone of contention with the Big Bean because he’s a fancypants cyclist and he always wants me to go out on the bikes with him but I refuse because of the whole I Forgot How to Ride a Bike thing and he says “You never forget how to ride a bike” and I say “Well, I did” and then a whole argument discussion follows and by the time it’s over it’s too late to ride bikes and I get my way (but there’s always a price to pay for that).

Anyway, I still can’t find my keys.  You know how you lose something and you just KNOW it’s in the most obvious place in the house and you’ve probably looked right at it like 15 times but you just didn’t SEE it?  That’s how I’m feeling right now.

Has anyone seen my keys?

UPDATE:  Found them!!  Guess where they were and I’ll give you a prize.  I’ll post the answer this Saturday, to satisfy your rabid curiosity… try not to lose too much sleep over it…

THE ANSWER:

For those of you who are interested (and I know at least two or three of you are out there on pins and needles), here’s where I finally found my keys:

Ignition of the car.  Now why didn’t I think of that?  

Allison from That’s What She Blogged got it right.  Not only did she guess the answer (and gets a prize!  woo hoo!), she also gets a plug here for her excellent blog, which I visit often.  Congratulations, Allison — You win a small prize, my undying admiration and maybe a couple of my seven readers will head over your way.

For the record, it took about two hours of turning the house inside out before I found them.  We never did have to go to the hospital for anything, the little Bean and I are still intact (well, my sanity, maybe not so much).  But during that time I did NOT run screaming from the house in a fit of claustrophobic mania, so I’m chalking this one up in the positive column.

I’m so silly.

This afternoon I cleaned out my closet.  (It’s Real Life shamed me into it.)  I climbed up on a stool and got way up in the top shelf, pulled everything out to start over.

I’m a very-messy-closet-person.  I never put anything where I should, never hang stuff up properly, throw my shoes in when I think about it.  So I end up having to clean out my closet a lot.  Seems like I’ve done this whole do-over thing a million times. 

But this time I had a helper. 

It was pure joy.  Cleaning out my closet has never been so much fun. 

So here’s a little poem to lighten the mood:

Don’t kiss your honey

When your nose is runny

You may think it’s funny…

…but it’s snot.

Dear Young, Single, Clueless Girl,

I used to be you.

Early twenties, single, still partying on the weekends, just getting started on my professional life.  Working in an office with people who were more established, mostly older, with families.

And, just like you, I didn’t get it.

When my coworkers would come around with pictures or stories of their kids, I would roll my eyes and sigh loudly.  I was bored by their stupid stories about the funny thing Little Johnny said that day or how Little Suzie fell off of her bike just after the training wheels came off.

I barely glanced at the pictures they proudly displayed at their desks (cell phone cameras weren’t around yet, yes, I am OLD) and when they insisted that I look, I would make some snide comment like, “Yeah, it’s a baby, so what?” instead of gushing over how adorable their little munchkins were.

I thought I was terribly clever.  I knew they were all totally jealous of my youth and how cute and clever I was and how fun my single life was without kids holding me down.

I didn’t want kids and I didn’t care about anybody else’s.

I thought it was totally unfair that they got to use their kids as an excuse to call in sick to work.  I was bitter that I couldn’t use the same excuse.  I actually had to JUSTIFY my absences while coworker-parents got to stay home and watch TV just because Little Suzie had the sniffles.  It was all so unfair.

Young, Single, Clueless Girl, I know exactly how you feel because I felt that way, too.  And now I am going to tell you why you’re wrong, and kind of mean, and why the people you work with don’t like you and aren’t jealous of you but just think you’re an asshole.

I’m on the Other Side now and I wish someone had opened my eyes back when I was you and shown me what a total asshole I was.  I might have taken a different approach, tried to be more understanding or at least not have been so goddamned RUDE to the people I worked with.  I might have started to see things from the Other Side much sooner than I actually did, and now I might be able to look back at my early twenties without wanting to cringe.

This is your chance to see the Other Side.  Try to grasp it.  It’s important.

For starters — I know you don’t care about my kid.  I just told you, I used to be you.  I know you don’t care about his first steps or new tooth or the funny little noises he makes when he sleeps.  But I love that little booger so much and I’m so proud of him that I just can’t help telling stories to the nearest warm body.  When you roll your eyes at me it hurts my feelings, even though I used to be you, because it’s rude and insulting and that’s my KID you’re rolling your eyes about — and that just Ain’t Cool.

Also, when I show you a picture of my adorable son and you say, “Yeah, it’s a baby, so what?” I want to punch you in the face.  Even though I used to be you.  In fact, I kind of want to punch myself in the face for being so insensitive to my own coworkers 100 years ago.

You may not think he’s beautiful (although if you don’t you’re freakin’ BLIND) but the point is that I DO.  I think he’s beautiful and wonderful and I want to share that with you.  Embrace it.  Appreciate it.

Imagine that you’re an artist.  You take years to paint a particular picture of something that really matters to you, something you love.  Day and night you’ve worked on this; the final work is your masterpiece.  You bring it to the office and pass me in the hallway.  You can’t help but show it to me, even though we’re not close friends and you know I’m not an art lover, still expecting me to say something like “Wow!” or “You must have worked so hard on that!” or at least “Good job!”  But instead I roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, it’s a painting - so what?”

Well, this is MY masterpiece. 

Be grateful that I am sharing it with you.  Be kind and say what you think I want to hear, instead of what you think you want to say.

When my kid is sick and I have to stay home with him, I know you think I’m sitting at home watching TV and eating bon-bons while he sleeps and sniffles, and I worry about that.  I worry because I don’t want anyone to have that impression of me, even if it’s Young, Single, Clueless You.  I feel bad about not being at work, about other people having to pick up the slack in my absence.

On those days, I can promise you, I’m not at home eating bon-bons.  In fact, I have no idea what a bon-bon actually is.  Instead, I’m monitoring my son’s fever and worrying myself sick about what might be wrong with him.  I’m on the phone with the doctor, using a rectal thermometer (yes, I said rectal) and cleaning up puke. Instead of watching TV, I’m holding my baby as he cries and wiping his nose as it runs.  I would rather be ANYWHERE other than at home with my child sick, even at work with you.

And yet, even with the puke and the fever and the crying and the guilt and the lack of sleep and the worry, I am NOT jealous of you, Young, Single, Clueless Girl.  I feel sorry for you.

As fabulous as you think your life is, you don’t get to come home to a child who squeals with joy when he sees you.  You don’t get to feel his soft head on your shoulder when he rests it there in times of sleepiness.  You don’t get to splash with him in the bathtub, or bask in the glow of pride when he sips from a straw for the first time or tries to feed himself with a spoon.  You don’t get to feel the overwhelming sensation of pure love wash over you when you watch him climb his dad like a mountain.  You don’t get to be the one he looks for when he’s fallen down and needs comfort.

I feel sorry for you because you have years ahead of you before you will be over here on the Other Side (assuming you ever make it), and during that time you will learn hard lessons, make a fool of yourself in mixed company, be shit on professionally, and have your heart broken, probably more than once.

You will worry too much about what you look like and not enough about how you treat others.  You will burn bridges and lose friends and say stupid things when you’re drunk and feel guilty about it later.

If you’re lucky, you will come out of all of it a better person, taking something away from each stupid mistake and turning it into something positive for yourself.

If you’re lucky, you will find friends who forgive you for your transgressions, who will hold you together when you need them to and put you back together when you fall apart and justify your faults when you can’t and stand on your side when there is no one else.

If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone along the way to love and together you will make it work (which is NOT as easy as it sounds).

If you’re lucky, you will realize one day that having a child is a beautiful adventure and you won’t let the fear of it hold you back from the experience…

…or maybe you won’t.  I make no judgments either way.  Some people want kids, some don’t.  Maybe you will continue feeling the way you do and you will go on to live a happy, fulfilled life without a family.  Lots of people do.

Whatever you choose, whatever this crazy universe holds in store for you, I wish you the best.  I really do.  I hope you realize before it’s too late that what you do now will stay with you throughout your life, one way or another, and that showing kindness to others is something you will never regret.

I hope you make it over here to the Other Side with knowledge, strength, wisdom and love to show for your troubles.

But in the meantime, the next time you roll your eyes at me when I talk about my kid, I’m going to smack you in the face.

Sincerely,

Your Not-so-Young, Not-so-Single, Not-so-Clueless Coworker with the BEST BABY EVER

P.S.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So, Jessica over at blogspot’s Farm Fresh is holding this new blogfest called It’s Real Life.  It’s a glimpse into the daily life of a blogger extraordinaire.  The rules are, you take and post photos - SANS PREP - of the following items:

• Your Fridge
  A closet
  Kitchen sink
  Toilet
  Favorite shoes
  Favorite room in your house
  What your kids are doing right now
  Laundry
  Self portrait 

Here’s mine.  Some of it’s scary, some not so much. 

1.  Fridge

The outside is ever-changing but constants are the Bean’s baby announcement and letter-magnet-thingy, and my name plate from a former job (title:  “People Hater”).  Everything else kinds of rotates.

The inside is pretty typical, I guess.  Lots of takeout, Diet Coke, baby food jars, milk, condiments and the ever-present BEER.

2.  Closet

Yikes!  This is pretty bad.  But keep in mind, folks - I work full-time, have a one-year old, a husband who works about 60 hours a week and a hopeless blog addiction.  Closet time is limited.  Basically I throw on whatever I can find and NEVER hang anything up.

3.  Kitchen Sink

This is also pretty typical, right down to the cat.  (That’s Simon, by the way.  For more info on him see my About the Bean and Me page.)

4.  Toilet

Yikes again!  I had to get rid of the toilet seat cover because, well, it’s a long story but trust me, it’s better without.  I leave books in the bathroom because the toilet is right next to the tub and I like to read in the tub.  This is MY bathroom, Big Bean doesn’t use it unless he has to.  For that reason I don’t feel a lot of pressure to keep it neat or clean.  (I know you’re thinking to yourself, “No, Really? I never would have guessed!”) 

I’m especially proud of the pantyliner wrapper on the floor behind the toilet.  So classy.

5.  Laundry

Extremely unusual right now - ALL of the laundry is done!  Except for the linens on the beds and the clothes on our backs, nothing in this house needs to be cleaned at this particular moment.  Hooray!  But if there was laundry to be done, this is where I would do it.  The washer and dryer are in the garage, which is why the walls look so beat up.

(I don’t know why I felt the need to explain that, but I did.  I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now.)

6.  Favorite Shoes

The heels are mine.  They’re about 3 1/2 inches but totally comfortable, I think they’re Aerosoles and they can actually get me through an entire day at work without wanting to cry.  (Well, that’s not true exactly, I want to cry most days, it’s just the shoes that are the reason.) 

The Crocs belong to the Bean.  He wears them ALL the time and they go with just about everything.

7.  Favorite Room

My favorite room in the house is the living room.  We just painted it (again…  We paint a LOT) and I’m really liking the green until I get tired of it and decide to paint yet again.  The HD TV is awesome and the couch isn’t the most comfortable in the world but it fits so much better than our enormous last couch and it’s got a little tray that I thought was cheesy when we bought it but now I LOVE because it’s so handy.  Thank you, IKEA!

8. What your kids are doing right now

I started taking these pictures right after I put the Bean to bed.  I snuck into his room thinking I’d snap a picture of him sleeping, but this is what I got:

I left and came back a little while later, thinking surely he would asleep by now, but this is what I found:

(He did eventually fall asleep.  But it took a while.)

9.  Self Portrait

The lighting on this came out horribly wrong for some reason, but the more I look at it the more I like it.  Yes, I look old and a little haggard, but I love how mortified the Bean looks with his squished little face.  He’s so funny.

That’s my Day in the Life! 

For Scene I and the beginning of the story, click here.

Scene I:  The Big Bean’s Jeep, later in the evening.  The whole family on our way to pick up our takeout.  The Bean sits in his car seat, fussy.  I sit in the driver’s seat, reluctantly driving.  The Big Bean sits in the passenger seat, figeting nervously while he watches me drive. 

ME: Stop it.

BB: Stop what?

ME: Stop waiting for me to make a mistake.

BB: I’m really surprised that you think I would do that.  (This is a Very Common method of attack that the Big Bean uses on me frequently.  Whenever I do something he doesn’t like, he’s “surprised” that I would do such a thing.  When I haven’t dusted the bedroom:  “I’m just surprised that you don’t care about living in a filthy house.”  When I let the Bean climb on stuff:  “I’m just surprised that you aren’t more worried about the Bean’s safety.”  Shit like that.)

ME: Look, I already didn’t want to drive, especially your car.  I don’t need you watching over my shoulder like a hawk, waiting for me to make a mistake so you can pounce on me with your crazy hawk claws and tear me into little shreds.

BB:  I would never do that. (Again, lying.)

The drive continues.  I bite my tongue several times as other drivers do things around me that piss me off.  I refuse to say anything because he always complains that I’m an “Angry Driver.”  So we drive on in silence until we get to the restaurant to pick up takeout.  The Big Bean goes in while Little Bean and I wait in the car.  And wait.  And wait.  Finally he emerges, victorious with our prize of takeout in his hand.  He climbs back into the passenger seat and we’re off.

We drive for several minutes until a man in a crappy four-door sedan pulls into the lane in front of me, slowing down and thus, slowing me down.  I can’t help it.

ME: (talking to the driver in front of me) Oh, that was nice.  Thank you sir.  I really needed to slow way down and you made it happen.  Thank God.

BB:  Wow, you are really an Angry Driver.

ME: How so?  

BB:  You’re always so ANGRY at the other drivers.  You’ve been bitching at the other drivers for the last half hour.

ME:  WTF?  Are you serious?

BB:  I’m just saying, you’re really angry when you drive.

ME:  Okay.  That was NOT angry.  If you want to see angry, I will show you angry.  Which I think you really do want to to see or otherwise you would not be saying these ridiculous things to me now.  All I did was to point out that this fellow pulled in front of me for no reason and then slowed down.  I didn’t yell, I didn’t curse.  How is that angry?

BB:  You know what I mean.

ME: Okay, so secondly, I think I thought I heard you say that I had been bitching since we got in the car.  Is that true?  Did those words really come out of your mouth?

BB: Well… (backtracking)

ME:  (getting really worked up now)  Name ONE other thing I have said besides pointing out that guy.  Just one.  Please?  Just one.  That’s all I need.  I really want to know.  Because apparently I have been very angry this entire time but I didn’t even know it.  If you can name one thing, other than the snarky slow-down comment, I will seek psychiatric help.  I really will.  I’m not kidding.  Because I would have to have Multiple Personality Disorder or something if I’m going around saying things and acting angry but not remembering it or even being aware when I do it.  

I might have to go away for a while, honey.  I hope you are okay being a single dad for a few months or years while I get the help I obviously need. 

BB: (now understanding how stupid he was to have said that) Can we change the subject?

ME: No, I don’t think that would be wise.  I think we need to discuss this because if I am showing signs of some crazy angry mutiple personality, we need to make sure before I commit myself to the nearest mental health facility.

BB: Why do you always have to take things to the next level?  (Another Very Common method of attack.)

ME:  I don’t know, maybe because you are a Lying Liar with his Lying Pants on Fire?

BB: Fair enough.

The Bean:  (fussy) Waaaaah!

End Scene.

Scene III (oh yes, there IS one) to follow soon…

Scene:  Our house, earlier this evening.  Just home from work.  As usual, we have planned nothing for dinner and the inevitable question arises:  What will we have?  The King and Queen of Takeout break out the menu list, settle on a place, make an order.  Now someone has to go get it.  Who will it be?

ME:  I don’t wanna.

BB: Me neither.

ME: I think you should get it.  My car has no gas.

BB: Your car not having gas does not disqualify you from driving to get takeout.  You can drive my car, or stop and get gas on the way.

ME: I don’t want to do either of those things. You go.

BB: I will go, but under protest.  (Some of this is paraphrased.  Big Bean would probably never use the term “under protest.”  But this is my story and it’s how I remember it and if he doesn’t like it he can get his own blog, which he will never do so he should shut his yapper.) 

Why don’t you and the Bean go with me?

ME: (suspicious) Why do you want us to go?

BB:  Can’t I just want to spend time with my family?

ME: Ugh.

ME: (After thinking about it for a second and realizing that I need tampons)  Okay, we’ll all go.

BB:  (oblivious to the fact that I’m going to make him run in somewhere and get me tampons) Okay, great!  You drive!

ME:  I don’t wanna.

BB:  Look, if you’re going with me, you’re driving.  If I’m going alone, I’m driving.

ME: Well, obviously you’re driving if you’re going alone, unless there is a Magical Chauffeur in the driveway waiting to drive you in your crappy Jeep to pick up takeout, in which case I would think we could just send him on his own to pick it up instead of the whole family having to go.  Then we could stay home and enjoy our evening while someone else brings us food.  Unless your Magical Chauffeur wanted to be a real bitch about it and said something like, “You don’t pay me to run your errands, man,” in which case we could still all enjoy a leisurely evening but in the car while Magical Chauffeur drives and then one of us would have to run out to pick up the food but that would be easy and no time at all.  

You don’t actually have a Magical Chauffeur waiting, do you?

BB: Ummm, no.

ME:  Okay then.  I’m going but I don’t wanna drive.

BB: If you go, you drive.

ME: But whhyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?  I don’t wannnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaa.

BB: Why are you being such a baby?  Why won’t you just drive?

ME:  (offended by the “baby” remark)  Why won’t YOU just drive?  (proving that I am, in fact, Very Mature)

BB: I asked you first. (proving that he, too, is Very Mature)

ME: Because I don’t like driving your car, it’s old and different than mine and you always tell me I drive it wrong.

BB:  No I don’t.  (Knowing that this is a lie and that it will soon be proven incorrect.)

End Scene

Scene II to follow soon……….

This is Jason, the Big Bean.

Here are the Top 11 Reasons Why I Love Him. 
(I went to 11 because it’s one louder.)

11

He has the biggest smile and the longest eyelashes of anyone I have ever known. 
He passed both on to our son the Bean.

10

In the 17 years we’ve been together, I have never once had to mow the lawn. 
And I’ve only had to take the garbage out a handful of times.

9

He is, hands down, the absolute best player of “That’s what she said”
I have ever met. 

8

He is the only person in the entire world, and I do mean the ONLY person,
I’m comfortable farting in front of. 

7

He NEVER gets embarrassed.  Never.  Not about anything.  Ever.

6

If I’m backing the car out of the driveway, or pulling in, and he happens
to be outside in front of the house, I will honk my horn.  
First it scares the hell out of him, and then he gets really pissed.  
I find this hilarious. 
He always gets over it.

5

He would never admit it, but he’s an optimist. 
He’s had many jobs over the years (it’s the nature of the restaurant business), and he firmly believed that every one of them was going to be the Best. Job. Ever. 
He got super-excited about one job because he got a free t-shirt at the interview.   

4

He always addresses our waiter or waitress by name,
even though he’s never 100% sure he’s got the right name.

3

I got him addicted to The Bachelor. 
He tried to pretend to just be a casual watcher, but I asked him one night which Bachelorette he thought was going home and he knew which one it was, called her by name, and then explained to me that she would have to go because
“she didn’t open up enough.” 

2

He loves both of my parents like they were his own,
and would do anything either of them ever asked of him. 

1

His face lights up when he sees the Bean. 
He is the most wonderful father I could ever have imagined. 
He loves me and the Bean more than I ever could have hoped for. 
And he’s in it for the long haul.

—–

Happy Father’s Day, Big Bean!  I love you more than words can say! 

So, a few weeks ago I had this great idea to take the Bean to Sea World.  He’s been very into puppies and kitties lately, and I thought this was a good time to introduce him to the world of fish and sea mammals.  Shamu!  Who doesn’t love Shamu?

I suggested it to BFF and she, being as clueless as I am, agreed that it was a grrrrrrreat idea!  We made a plan to take our collective brood on the one weekend we could all get away.  She would drive her husband’s truck because it had more room to fit all of us. 

We left the menfolk at home.  I was so naïve I actually felt sorry for the Big Bean because he would miss out on Shamu and all of that Sea World fabulousness.

So when did we two Mom-slash-Geniuses plan this super-fabulous trip?  Why, Memorial Day weekend, of course!  When we could be sure that 500 would not only be the number of degrees it was outside, but also the number of people in line in front of us, and the average weight of the other people there (many in bikinis because of the adjacent water park – could it get any better?) and, of course, the price (in dollars) of a hot dog and soda. 

But that’s another post.  We never even made it to Sea World before the Incredibly Weird Thing happened.

BFF’s three-year-old daughter Princess G, currently potty training, felt the urgent urge of urgency somewhere between Austin and San Antonio.  So BFF pulled off of the highway onto a secluded (we thought) frontage road, just in front of a “Watch for Bikes” sign (you’ll understand the irony of that later), where Princess G did her beeswax into her portable potty. 

As Princess G dismounted from her throne in the back of the truck (yeah, we’re classy like that) a large group of bicyclists flew by.  Maybe twelve or so.  At Breakneck Speed. (I like saying “Breakneck Speed,” it sounds so dangerous and dramatic!)  I noted it was a good thing they hadn’t come along a minute or so sooner, or they would have gotten an eyeful of some family ‘gina.  BFF was not as amused as I was by that thought.

Princess G got back into her car seat and BFF stood at the door, buckling her in safely.  All of a sudden – BAM!!!

Out of nowhere, a stray bicyclist rammed into the open car door.  At Breakneck Speed.  He came within an inch or two of hitting BFF - if he’d just been a *little* to the right, we would have been at the hospital.

When I say out of nowhere, I mean Out. Of. Nowhere. It was like this guy had just dropped out of the sky- At Breakneck Speed.  An obscure Angel of Destruction sent by God to obliterate BFF’s husband’s truck’s back door. 

A few moments of silence while everyone absorbed what had just happened.  Then the Checking-to-See-if-Everyone’s-Okay routine.  Rogue Bicyclist explained that he was trying to catch up with the others and looking behind him at another car to make sure he wasn’t going to get hit.  He never even saw us there before he rammed into the door.   

After offering up this somewhat lame explanation, he moved to the back of the car, nursing his wounds and examining the extensive damage he had just done to his bike.

BFF had no idea what to do.  I mean, literally NO IDEA.  She got back in the driver’s seat and looked at me like I should somehow know.  “Don’t look at me,” I said.  “It’s not MY car.”  (I am a Very Good Friend.)

“Should we get his information?” BFF asked.  I didn’t know the answer to that question.  It’s not like you can really ask for license and registration, or his insurance card. 

The dude was on a BIKE, for Pete’s sake.  Bike shorts don’t really have pockets for insurance cards.  I did say, however, that we should probably offer him a ride somewhere. 

So BFF got out and awkwardly asked Rogue Bicyclist if he needed a ride.  He said he didn’t (although he really did - that bike was seriously jacked up.  BFF said okay, trying not to sound relieved but actually sounding really relieved, and shut the back door to leave.  Except the car door was bent.  Really bent.  It shut (sort of), but it now started to dawn on BFF that this damage would have to be repaired.  Which meant telling BFF’s husband what happened.  Which meant BFF’s husband getting angry and superior and whiny about His Stuff.  (Another post about Men and Their Stuff soon to follow.)

Regardless of this new realization, right now BFF just wanted to get the fuck out of Dodge, so she hopped into the driver’s seat and we sped away.  At Breakneck Speed. 

Rogue Bicyclist appeared smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as we drove on. Poor, poor Rogue Bicyclist, with his broken bike, no shoes except bicycle cleats, and all of his information – name, phone number, insurance carrier – on the side of the road with him, destined to remain a mystery to us forever.

Just as Rogue Bicyclist became tinier than a speck of dust in my sideview mirror, I started to laugh.  BFF started to laugh.  We laughed, and laughed hard. 

It was probably some combination of shock and awe and worry over what BFF’s husband would do and the fact that she could have been KILLED by the Angel of Truck Door Destruction.  But also, it was funny!  I mean, this was the most RANDOM thing I have ever experienced in my life.  What were the freaking chances?  That Princess G would need to go at THAT particular time. That we would pull over in THAT particular place. That Rogue Bicyclist would have fallen behind his pack at THAT point in their journey, looking behind him, instead of eyes front, at THAT particular moment. 

For whatever reason, the universe wanted this to happen.  It’s like those Dutch fishermen, out in the middle of the ocean, killed when a giant whale (Shamu!!) just happened to rise up out of the water, lifting their boat and tossing it downwards into the sea.  It was just their time to go. 

And on this day, on the way to Sea World, it was just BFF’s husband’s truck’s door’s time to go.

So we laughed. The kids thought we were nuts.  Tears streamed down our faces.  We laughed until we could laugh no more.  And then it was time for Sea World Fun.

Cut to the next day.  I text messaged (I’m so technologically advanced) BFF to see how BFF’s husband took the news.  Not well, it turns out.  He was angry.  Very angry.

Something happened to his Stuff.  And he was not there to witness it.  And BFF did not have the sense to get Rogue Bicyclist’s information.  (I have to admit, this is a bit ironic, since BFF is an insurance adjuster by trade.)

He yelled.  He cursed.  He made the rest of her weekend very unhappy.  She was upset because he was upset.  I was upset because she was upset.  Big Bean was upset because I was upset.  Everyone = upset.

Just before BFF’s husband started to come to his senses, realizing that it was not the end of the world, he said to her, “I bet you and your Very Good Friend thought this was all really funny, didn’t you?  You probably laughed all the way to Sea World.”

Deer in the headlights, BFF said, “Of course not!  There was nothing funny about this!  It was all very serious! What kind of example do you think I would set for the kids?”  Then she called me and swore me to secrecy.

Isn’t that funny? 

Time for another round of Stuff I Don’t Get.  (See previous installments My “I Don’t Get It” List  and More Stuff I Don’t Get.) 

See if you can explain any of these to me… consider it your daily challenge…

• Morning radio people
  
  Who are you and why does anything you say matter enough to be on the radio instead of actual music?  Why should the world care about what you did over the weekend, how your wife nags you, or what you thought of the new “Indiana Jones” movie?   
   
  It’s early.  I’m tired and I’ve got a long commute.  The last thing I want to do is spend it listening to you and your lame-ass friends trying superhard to be funny (and failing miserably). 
   
  You are the fingernails on the chalkboard of my life.
   
• How Bert has not killed Ernie yet on Sesame Street
   
  Bert is just a simple, quiet guy.  He’s neat.  He likes his privacy and spends his spare time with his pigeons or a good book.
   
  He’s also a puppet of great restraint.
   
  Ernie is the roommate from hell. He’s messy, obnoxious, spends much of his time in the bathtub doing God-knows-what, has an unhealthy relationship with his rubber duckie and constantly rouses Bert from a deep sleep to sing pointless songs about what great friends they are.  (Oh yeah, Ernie?  A REAL friend would let his buddy get some friggin’ sleep.)   Bert has even been forced to sleep in the kitchen on occasion.
   
  If I was Bert I would have straight-up murdered Ernie’s ass by now.
   
  All I can think is, Ernie must be a real tiger in the sack.  Because there is no doubt that these two are totally gay for each other.  What other reason could possibly explain why Bert’s put up with it for all of these years?  It can only be pure sexual chemistry keeping him there.  I’m surprised Pat Buchanan hasn’t shown up yet to picket their apartment.
   
  (I have a whole post on Sesame Street coming soon.  It’s fascinating to watch from a grown-up’s perspective.)
   
• The guy who just HAS to BACK into the parking space
   
  How many times have I been held hostage by this guy?
   
  It takes twice as long to park when you back into the space, I don’t care how good your hand-eye coordination is or how many times you’ve done it before.  And it’s almost always a guy in some big obnoxious truck, which takes even longer because of its sheer girth. 
   
  While I sit there, waiting for dumbass to get his tail end into the space and out of my way, I have plenty of time to wonder about this.  And I just don’t get it!
   
  How is pulling in backwards better?  Unless you’re loading something into a garage or something, what difference does it make if your car is facing the front or the back of a space?  Do these people really think they are saving time this way? I mean, sure, it’s easier to pull out of the space later, I guess, but in the end it can’t add up in your favor.
   
  Someday someone is going to HAVE to explain this to me.
   
• Pretend-Cowboys
   
  I live in Texas so I see a lot of these guys.  The guys who like to think of themselves as cowboys so much that they dress in cowboy costumes and expect people to take them seriously.  Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, ten-gallon hats, the works.
   
  Listen, fellas - there are no cowboys anymore, at least not very many.  And I can pretty much guarantee that you’re not one of the few who might be left. 
   
  What you’re wearing is not an outfit, it’s a Halloween costume.  You look ridiculous.  Grow up and get some real clothes.  (This means you, George W!)
   
• How I always manage to end up in the line behind the person with issues  
   
  Doesn’t matter where I am - grocery store, mall, gas station - I ALWAYS end up behind the person who wants to complain (manager to register one please), or has fifteen coupons (at least one of which isn’t valid - manager to aisle 3), or has a “faulty” credit card (translation: past one’s limit - manager to register 99), or has a return without tags (probably shoplifted - manager, and security, to aisle 72 please).
   
  If it’s not one of these, it’s a brand new cashier with no clue, or a register that breaks or runs out of paper just as I get to the front of the line.
   
  And still somehow I never manage to see it coming.  I’m completely unsuspecting until I’m five deep in line and it’s too late to back out.  On the few occasions when I have switched lines, it just turned out to be a bigger problem that took longer anyway.
   
  Is this a vast, worldwide conspiracy to irritate me?  Because if it is, it’s working.
   
• Christian Rock
   
  Need I say more?
   
• The “Bush-Cheney 2000″ or “Bush-Cheney 2004″ Bumper Sticker Guy
   
  News flash:  THEY WON.  They don’t need your sticker anymore.
   
  Oh, and by the way, that sticker basically announces to the world that you (yes, you) are partially responsible for the 8-year-long nightmare we’ve been living and the terrible mess we’re in now.  Nice job, dickweed.  At least have enough sense not to advertise it.
   
• The “Gore-Lieberman 2000″ or “Kerry-Edwards 2004″ Bumper Sticker Guy
   
  News flash:  THEY LOST.  It’s over.  Move on.
   
  I like to say “I told you so” as much as the next guy - but I do that by actually saying it.  Out loud.
   
• Speaking of bumper stickers…
   
  Is it just me or have we gone a little crazy with the bumper sticker thing? The number of cars covered with stickers to promote various causes seems to have increased ten-fold in the last few years.  ONE sticker on your car is enough to convince me that you’re a believer - whether it’s Jesus Saves or George W. or Save the Whales or the Dallas Cowboys.  Any more than one doesn’t earn you extra fan points - it just makes you look kinda stupid and maybe just a *little* obsessive.  Stalk much?
   
  The other day I was behind an old guy in a Cadillac and without ever meeting or talking to this man I knew what college he graduated from, what college his grandson went to, his religious affiliation, his political views, and the fact that he spent time in both the military and a rotary club.  I knew more about this guy than I know about some of my friends.
   
  (In the interest of disclosure, I should admit that I have a University of Texas alumni sticker on my car.  And I was really tempted the other day to add a bumper sticker when I saw one that read “I really like kids but I usually can’t eat a whole one.”)

Already working on installment #4… stay tuned…