All the Clever Things I Should Say to You Got Stuck Somewhere

And so I’m punishing you with this YES, WE’RE STILL IN THE PROCESS OF MOVING place holder. Go on, click this link, you masochists. You know you like it when I punish you.

Take me home……..no, really, take me home. Because I’m ready to be home. Pick a house, any house. Let’s just be done with it already! Actually, look at our new neighbor. No, it’s not a nuclear plant, it’s coal fired! Bonus! Let’s just hope that the coal ash pits are secure because guess who’s going to be living in the back yard of this beast?

Cough, cough.

Because I like you so much better when you’re naked, that’s why!

This Post Approved by Cow Number 22

Cow number 22 is wondering why I keep driving back and forth, back and forth…….

I am about to break the land speed record for most boring blog post ever. Don’t brace yourself. In fact, why don’t you do me a grand favor, get naked, slather yourself with some canola oil (it’s better for your heart), put on some loud music, open your window coverings (blinds, curtains, whatever) and prance around in a trance of utter bliss for about ten minutes. Then when you wish you had the moments you just spent reading this post back, you can at least thank me for making you (1) more soft and supple from all that oil; (2) burn some calories with the prancing; and (3) the talk of the neighborhood.

Okay – here’s the long and short of it. I still hope you’re not bracing yourself. And put down that oil. You’re going to slide off your chair if you’re not careful.

Pack, pack, pack. Move, move, move. Unpack, unpack, unpack.

It’s so exciting, I’m almost embarrassed to share it with you because I don’t want you to feel too badly about your own situation.

Here are the things we’ve discovered during this move:

(1) Four inside cats dispel a lot of hair (this part isn’t really a discovery) and when the main vacuum er kinda sorta gives up on her outlandish fantasy of domestic perfection (that happened right around the time Martha Stewart was sent to prison for insider trading – my domestic bubble burst like so many tiny real estate markets), lots of cat hair accumulates in hard to reach places. Ish, blech, retch. It’s enough to choke a bear. Seriously, we could make a new litter of full grown cats from the nasty cast-off fur.

(2) My plan to put away most knick-knacks was a good one from the “I’m over dusting” standpoint. Where I relented and knick-knacks remained range free, but undusted by those who claim to need them in their lives (read: The Spawn), the dust of ages made me sneeze and squeeze. Having to do the sneeze and squeeze makes me a tiny bit peevish.

(3) We have too much stuff. We’re Americans – I suppose that goes without saying. Clearing out the clutter feels so good. It’s hard to distinguish between what you want to keep because it has a purpose and what you want to keep for sentimental reasons. I’ve pitched things that made my heart wince a little, but I know a week from now I will NOT be wondering where that thingy is. I know this. Still, the wincing.

(4) We’re going to be those people who use their china everyday. Mind you, we don’t have everyday china and good china. We have china. It’s a bit dated – screaming the era that we got married, but it’s quite pretty, quite sturdy, a full set and what the hell good is it sitting in a box? We used to use it for every day. We’re going back to that.

Why keep it for special occasions. We’re going to let every day be a special occasion dammit, and if that plan doesn’t work, well, busting up our wedding china in a dramatic display of smashing dishes in a fit of pique or tossing them into the fireplace to celebrate something seems a lot more interesting than ripping a paper plate in half or crumpling a Styrofoam cup*.

Besides, all the casual stuff we have is chipped all to hell and I’m sick of nicking my fingers on the dings and chips.

So that’s it for now. The big stuff gets moved on Tuesday. We’ll have the t.v. and phone people coming out to do installs, as well. Fingers crossed that everything goes smoothly because, of course, we now have word that there are two REALLY IMPORTANT kid events on Tuesday evening that we must attend or be expelled from parenthood. You know I lie – we could never be so lucky as to be expelled from parenthood.

Oh – one more thing – The Actor can carry much heavier things at the age of thirteen than he could when we moved into this house in 2003 when he was seven. The end result is that he can help MathMan heft the really heavy stuff so that I don’t have to do the lift and squeeze in addition to the sneeze and squeeze.

And that, my friends, People of the Internets, is worth all the china from, well, China. Because ours certainly isn’t from anywhere that would regulate the amount of chemical byproducts and lead, you know. I mean – how do you think I got this way?

P.S. Go wash off that oil now before you get it on something.

* We limit our use of paper plates and Styrofoam for environmental reasons. I simply used the examples of paper and Styrofoam because it seemed funnier than saying chain-sawing melamine plates and melting plastic cups.

Obviously, My Body Is Craving Healthy Food

And I continue to deny it.

In other news……..

Oh, it might have been the rest, or it could have been the medicine, copious amounts of television did not hurt. But whatever it was, whatever it did, it worked. I am cured. Mostly (the phlegm still runs freely down my throat, Randal)

I am cured. Like a ham? Could be. I am well enough to be out of bed and doing some things. Not necessary things, mind you, but things.

Items still must be packed. And moved. And unpacked. I’m still not doing those things, but I’m doing – things.

For example, I ate cinnamon toast for breakfast. I put sugar in my tea. Had Oreos for brunch. I ate the last two scoops of Mayfield vanilla ice cream because if Garbo and The Actor both decided they wanted ice cream at the same time, there would have been a fight. I ate ice cream to quell an argument that hadn’t even started.

I’m on a health kick, can’t you tell?

I finally showered and that felt like a good thing. As did vacuuming the bedroom. It needed it. I needed to vacuum. There, I said it. Hi, my name is Lisa and I am addicted to vacuuming.

I looked out the window and I could see a cat leg stretched out over a cat body. The cat was having its own kind of shower. I, however, cannot lick my own ass. (My mother just shuddered and doesn’t know why.)

I started watching Mon Oncle d’Amerique and it made me crave pastry. The French language is dangerous to my weight loss plan. So is this health kick, apparently. Yes, I know – most people don’t use the term health kick when talking about things that are bad for their health.

My mother always said “Lisa, you aren’t other people.” That line came right before the “If your friends jump off a bridge….” question. And my mother regretted the question years later when she learned that I did, if fact, jump off a bridge because my friends were doing just that. Jumping off a bridge.

Except – full disclosure – I didn’t jump because I really wanted to. I got ready to jump, changed my mind, but couldn’t get back over the railing. There was only one way off the bridge. It was 33 feet down. In a sitting position. There’s nothing quite as bracing as a creek water douche/enema. I don’t care what anyone says.

I’m not saying it’s more painful than childbirth, but there is nothing like it either so let’s not quibble.

Today the sun is not shining and a thin veil of rain drizzles from the sky which is currently wearing its own veil of cotton batting clouds that have been stretched over a lamp. The sun is up there somewhere.

None of this will not stop me in my quest to accomplish Something.

I mean, when the ponytail holder got caught in my hair just now, I was quick and decisive. Thankfully, my aim with the scissors was good and I didn’t lose too much hair.

And when MathMan called and reminded me that he’s going out tonight, I was grateful for the reminder because I had forgotten our conversation from this morning. I bid him a good time with friends. He burped in my ear. There are special ways we show our love for each other. This is one of them.

I am cured like a ham. Or am I pickled?
Ham. That makes me hungry again. Except Garbo and her grabbing hands have probably been in the ham that sits waiting to be eaten in the refrigerator. I do not like to eat or drink after my children. I love them, but they are gross.

But I kiss the cats on the lips and they lick their own asses. Go figure. I’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Or I’m just gross. Yes – that’s it. I’m gross so I don’t share food or drink with my kids to protect them. The kids, not the cats whom I kiss on the lips.

Speaking of cats, I can hear a cat throwing up so I ask “What have you been eating?” As if I expect the cat to stop vomiting and answer me. I know they understand me. They simply choose to not answer.

Another cat has run to investigate the gagging and hoiking sounds. I’ve asked him to report back. It’s a waste of time, of course. He will choose not to answer me either.

Garbo once wrote a story called “The Cat’s Been Bad.” It could have applied to any of our cats, but she claimed it was fictional.

Now I’m watching Office Space because if I watch a Prairie Home Companion in Spanish, I’ll just end up craving Mexican food. That will not do because payday isn’t until Tuesday. Dammit. And the Mexican restaurant out here in the middle of nowhere appears to have closed.

No, I am not taking drugs at the moment. I don’t think. I’ve been hoarding my Phentermine since I won’t get to see my dealer until at least next Thursday. No wonder my ass has been dragging – lack of speed will do that to a person. The coming down is tough.

You see right through this, though, don’t you? It’s not about drugs or lack of drugs or illness or cats or burping in my ear. You recognize work avoidance when you see it. I see you now, pointing at those boxes waiting to be packed. I relent because I know you’re right.

It’s time to get moving……

P.S. I have made it as far as loading up my car. I need a break, of course. Perhaps I’ll eat some ham first.

Please Do Not Rattle My Signature Poise and Other Affronts to My Delusions

I really am trying to age gracefully. I’m coming to accept the fact that I have a daughter who is old enough to be graduating high school in May. I’ve let my natural gray grow in, changing the whole way I view myself. I was always a brunette or, sometimes, a sort of redhead. But this silver which some people think looks blond is a radical change for me.

Perhaps I’m not so much aging gracefully as I am trying not to fight the inevitable in a way that makes me feel ridiculous. I’ve not entirely forsaken dressing like a teenager meaning you’ll have to pry the hoodie from my cold dead body. But you won’t find me in butt floss and I only listen to hip hop when I relent and let the kids choose the radio station.

However, when I get an email that begins:

Dear Lisa H. Golden,

It’s been 20 years since you graduated from IU and it’s a great time to reconnect with your alma mater by joining your Indiana University Alumni Association.

I lose a bit of my signature poise. You can stop laughing now.

It’s rather like the proverbial dash of cold water to be reminded in an email that I’m TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!! Hells bells, shouting it in all caps isn’t enough to make me feel comfortable with the idea that I’m TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!!!!

In case you’re wondering, yes, I AM crying big, fat tears of realization. They’re plopping down on the laptop like big age splotches. Because you know that’s next, right? I’ll be sporting those liver spots, joining the Red Hat Society and planning a trip to Branson, Missouri, to see the Osmond Brothers and Barbara Mandrell and her sisters performing live on stage at 5:30 p.m. Their show will be sponsored by who else? Depends. (Note to MaryCatholic – please send Depends and Poise in discreet packaging. Thank you.)

Accepting the fact that I’m TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!!! is going to take some time. Oh, all along, I’ve looked in the mirror and noticed the changes, fussing about the wrinkles, the sun damage, wondering aloud how my mother’s hand got on the end of my arm, but when Indiana University sends me an email putting a number on the years stretching between then and now? I start to envision my personal decay speeding up like time lapse film…..

I’m not ready to be what? Middle aged? Seasoned? Mature?

Okay – stop right there. We all know that’s not going to happen. Me? Mature? I don’t have it in me.

If I.U. wants me to send in a little scratch to the alumni association, that’s fine. I will. But tell me I’d better do it because The Dancer will get more scholarship money to attend the alma mater of MathMan and me. Or tell me that if I don’t, little puppies will go unpetted. Or that without my twenty-five dollars, the Bluebird will close. Or tell me that if I neglect to pay up, I will find that my bras no longer fit, the toilet will overflow and that my favorite tweezers that I just found will get lost again. Anything. Anything!

But do not, I repeat, do NOT tell me how many years it’s been since I graduated college!

There are some illusions I’d like to maintain, if you don’t mind.

Beer in a plastic cup, anyone?

I Couldn’t Remember the Name of the Show with Winnie Cooper

So I called MathMan from my sick bed. He was at his desk in the other room. I called him on the phone.

And thankfully, he had the answer because it would have driven my crazy if I didn’t know, but I was too lazy and distracted to google it.

I don’t know, but I ended up watching VH1’s I Love the New Millennium. Because the history that just happened in 2005 has to be relived right now, that’s why.

The following conversations were prompted by having this program on…..

Garbo: I think there should be a television show called “I Love (Garbo’s real name).”
Me: No self esteem problems there.
MathMan: Are you kidding me? She’s all self-esteem. There’s nothing else there.
Garbo: What?!?!
MathMan: All that crying you were doing – you don’t care who sees you cry.
Garbo: You’re right. I don’t.

Me: I’m taking steroids.
The Actor: What? Why?
Me: I’m taking parenting steroids. That’s what makes me a great mom.
The Actor: That’s what makes you so good at sitting around in bed.
Me: It’s been nice knowing you. Enjoy the workhouse, yo.

Garbo: I want to be a vampire.
Me: Me, too.
Garbo: You can’t be a vampire. You’re a mom.
Me: That’s true – only kids are blood suckers.
Garbo: I think my fangs are growing in.

MathMan: Actor, please stop growling like that.
The Actor: How do you want me to growl?
MathMan: I don’t want you to growl? I want mom to growl.
Me: Rowrowrowrowrowrowr
The Actor: Gross, people. Just gross.

The Actor: Why wouldn’t dad buy me a hotdog?
Me: Because he bought you a hamburger.
The Actor: Yeah, but I wanted a Big Mac and a hot dog.
Me: Nope. You got McDonalds. That’s all.
The Actor (who can talk a blue streak): Actually I wanted a Big Mac and a cheeseburger with pickles. Then I saw a commercial for Taco Bell. But dad should have gotten me a hot dog, too……..now I have the eater’s remorse.
(This conversation was punctuated by lots of coughing. Nasty.)

And now we commence our time of silence.

Before I go – a favor, please. Click this link, scroll down and vote for Nora O’Sullivan. You know who Nora is? She’s Bubs daughter. If you don’t, my cold will get worse, I’ll cough up my other lung and it’s quite possible that Garbo might lose a tiny fraction of her self-esteem.

You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?

I Am the Invisible Woman

Dear People of the Internets,

Before I do a faceplant on the bed and start the nightly wrestling with MathMan for the covers (stop it, you filthy-minded boogers, we’re married, we don’t frolic anymore – sheesh), I just wanted to say a few things.

(1) Thank you. For everything. For the kind words, the compliments to the family, the laughs, the encouragement and support. You guys buoy me when I need it. And you give me that swift kick sometimes, too. Thank you. Really.

(2) I haven’t stopped reading you. I’ve been swamped at worked (you mean I don’t get paid to comment on blogs? what?) and with kid things and work and packing and moving and work and driving and lying in a fetal position in the back of the closet to hide from all the have to things that still manage to find me and drag me clawing and screaming from my safe haven back into reality.

(3) Following up on number 3, I’m sorry I haven’t commented like I normally do. My wit and energy got packed in some box and I can’t find it. Okay – I know, the wit? It fit in a tiny ring box, but it’s packed nevertheless.

(4) I’m easily distracted. And MathMan isn’t helping. I just whipped my bra off through my sleeve and threw it at MathMan because I’m feeling churlish, I guess. He is now sitting there with the damn thing on his head.

And it fits.

(5) Hell. Where was I? Rachel Maddow is distracting me now.

(6) Oh, yes, dammit I’m really sick, but I’m not. I mean I’m hacking and wheezing and things are leaking from my body and it’s most unpleasant. But like many moms, I’m not sick enough to take to my bed. Fever? Hacking cough? Leaking wee when I cough and sneeze, despite my best attempts to practice my kegels and squeeze really hard to the point where my legs are crossed and my eyes are shut? Please. That’s not sick. That’s inconvenient. Oh, look! I just coughed up a lung. That might make me a little late for work tomorrow, but if I move double time in the morning, I should still be able to make it….

Shut up. I’m liking the view from this cross.

Now I’m just getting abusive. Sorry.

(6) We’re making progress with our move. We’ve gotten several loads of boxes and things moved to the new place and we’ve even unpacked a few things. Oh, yes, the love tub decor is nearly complete.

Anyway, this is my long winded stab at telling you I’m sorry I’ve not been about saying hi and leaving comments and behaving inappropriately on your blogs. I’m stuck here acting the fool and being grouchy and snotty. Literally.

Thank you for visiting. Sooner or later I’ll be back out there and then you’ll be sorry. You can take that as a threat or a promise. It’s up to you.

Love,

Lisa

Blah,Blah, Blah Prom

See? I told you it would happen…..

So The Dancer’s senior prom was on Saturday and can I just tell you – proms are not what they used to be. Thankfully, the dresses that look as if they were stolen from the set of Gone with the Wind are no longer in vogue. That’s a good thing. The hair is smaller and the tuxedos are much more understated and attractive.

I’m also guessing that no one is dancing to Duran Duran’s Hungry Like a Wolf or waiting with bated breath for the final song Stairway to Heaven so that they could hold their date a little closer.

Ah – sweet memories. (Okay – I cop to it. We may have been looking forward to that long, slow dance for public close contact, but the real action was happening in the backs of Chevelles and pick up trucks and family station wagons parked down dark lanes by the river. That was our “after prom.”)

However, the professional hairstyles, full blown glamour, limousines, hand held bouquets, and on and on and on are rather over the top and fall into that category of things that serve mostly to part parents from their money and to create a false sense of entitlement to high style in our kids.

And yeah, we totally fall for it every time. Back in my day when we walked ten miles in the snow uphill, both ways, to school, our parents were happy to point out that we weren’t anything special. In fact, I remember being told that explicitly. “Hey, who do you think you are?” adults would ask if you got too full of yourself. As parents, we do quite the opposite. We’re all about the special. The self-esteem. The reward and praise. The kids in these photos probably have more trophies for simply joining a team that the collective of commenters here ever earned.

Wait – did I want The Dancer’s prom post to turn into a rant about the way we parent? Well, it was not my initial goal. But there it is. I’m glad she went. I’m happy that she is beautiful and bright and happy (well, actually, she’ll be much happier when this last year of the International Baccalaureate program is over). I’m glad she wore that dress for a second time after we spent more than I wished to spend for it when she was in her school’s Homecoming Court last autumn.

But, honestly, I hope the parenting pendulum swings back some. I mean, we don’t have to go back to a time when we used the word smart as a put-down (smart alec, smarty pants, oooooh look who’s so smart), but the setting of realistic expectations for what’s acceptable materialistically would be a good thing. I mean, the bar is set so high now for these kids who’ve received a trophy for everything, who’ve never lived in a world where the rich and famous weren’t celebrated, who have been raised in a rushed world full of opportunities for instant gratification and who have been promised that anyone can have the good life (read: palace, hot car, fabulous travel) as long as they could be approved for credit.

I’m generalizing, of course. Even our spoiled children have heard their share of “no” and “we can’t afford that” and “you don’t need it.” I guess I’m really speaking in the larger sense of parenting. You get a handful of affluent or affluent appearing parents together and you’ve got a recipe for overdoing it, going too far and pushing the limits of what our parents would have considered parental indulgence.

Speaking of the after prom (I did speak about it up there somewhere), the mom who very nicely offered to host the party called and chatted with me before hand. She told me what rules she’d put in place to keep the kids safe, etc. She’d put a lot of thought into and I appreciated that she was (a) willing to have a house full of teens and (b) attempting to have reasonable and clear rules so that her house wouldn’t be the scene of an all out orgy of sex, drugs and show tunes. (The majority of these kids are in the performing arts.)

The Dancer, a classic oldest child, mother hen sort, isn’t one I worry much about. I know some of you might think me naive, but, honestly, except for the politics and her gender – this kid is Alex P. Keaton. Driven, focused, ambitious. Ain’t nothing going to mess up her future, especially boys, drugs, or alcohol. If it weren’t for the large birthmark on her belly, I’d think they sent the wrong baby home with us when we left the hospital.

Before the prom, she and I were going over plans.

“So you’re all set ?” I asked offhandedly. Of course she was.

“Yep,” she answered distractedly. She was taking a brief break before heading to the studio and was checking her Facebook.

“Oh, So and So’s mom called about after prom. You know the rules, right?”

Heavy sigh. Why must she suffer the indignity of the question? “Yes, I know. So and So’s mom even sent home a form with the rules.”

“Okay. So……” I began, watching her face pinch together, a crease forming between her eyes. MathMan gets the same look when he thinks I’m about to belabor a point. Frankly, I don’t blame them for that pained look. I continued, “So…..I’ll clean the bong before you pack it. Have you thought about what to take for the people who huff instead of smoke? What about clean needles? And don’t forget the big jar of condoms. I understand someone else’s mom is supplying the lube…..”

The Dancer laughed. Then her face took on that pained, pinched look again. “Oh, please, please tell me you didn’t make that joke to So and So’s mom,” she said in a rush.

I shrugged. As if. “Of course not,” I laughed, shooting her a reassuring look. She smiled and seemed to relax.

I shook my head. “Nope, I just told her that your thirty year old boyfriend would be coming along and bringing his handgun collection with him…….”

Because digital pictures make it so easy to overshare, you can see the whole nauseating set of prom pix here.

He Is a Traveling Man

As the great migration from the current Golden Manor to the NEW AND IMPROVED Golden Manor over in Badgers Drift continues, I may find myself writing posts that consist of blah, blah, blah, packing; blah, blah, blah, moving; blah, blah, blah I have a cold and am sick of feasting on post nasal drip…….

But before we descend into the depths of me blogging about the contents of the boxes that I’ve packed in an utterly willy-nilly fashion (the way I’m packing things, you’d think we’re fleeing an advancing horde of hungry teens or something) – I want to tell you about Saturday evening.

MathMan, Garbo and I got to meet Traveling Man Rick who was visiting Atlanta this weekend. Oh my word, I was so excited to meet him and I was fretting that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off because The Dancer had prom, we’re packing to move, Garbo is difficult (I know, this is not news), The Actor had a birthday party to attend, blah, blah, blah busy.

But Rick – an amazingly warm, witty and wonderful guy – drove all the way up to our little slice of Georgia heaven (read: way outside of Atlanta) to meet us at the local Starbucks. We hung out and talked about all sorts of things and I marveled once again at how you really can feel like you know someone after reading their blog for a while.

Rick is fabulous on his blog. He’s even better in person.

Rick – thank you for coming so far out of your way to spend time with us. It was such a delightful time, the highlight of a busy weekend.

And when bloggers meet, there must be pix, right? So here we are….

Photo taken by Garbo.

Heard Around Golden Manor

The soon to be Former Golden Manor, that is….

Setting – MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops glowing on our faces.

Me: I was just looking at my Facebook friend list and assigning my friends to groups. I think I could actually have a list for people I’ve slept with dated.
MathMan: I think I could, too. I mean – I could have a list of my friends that you’ve slept with dated.

Help me, Rhonda. It’s true. There’s been some, um, overlap in our lives.

Setting – MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops on. I’m distracted, looking out the window next to the desk. I spy the outside cat Pyewacket. MathMan is staring at his laptop.
Background – There’s been some discussion with neighbors about leaving Pyewacket with them since he’s been cheating on all of us and pretending to belong to at least three different households. (As if a cat “belongs” to a household.)

Me (with a sigh): Should we just bring the little guy with us to new neighborhood and hope he adjusts?
MathMan: Yeah, I think we should bring The Actor.
Me: Honey, do we have the option to leave the children behind? Because if we do……
MathMan (cutting me off): I thought you meant should we take The Actor with us to the grocery store.

Dang it. He got my hopes up for a minute there.

I get the distinct impression that MathMan doesn’t really listen to me so much when I flap my jaws at him. Perhaps I’ll start communicating with him through a serious of burps, baseball signals and finger snaps.

When We Did It, We Called It The Lifestyle

A blogpal emailed me the application to appear on Wife Swap, along with this note:

I did something really silly, I applied for my family to participate on Wife Swap. My religious background was the hook for the show, so yours wouldn’t be the same. But, interesting families are what they’re looking for and yours is right up there.

They pay (dollar amount deleted) two weeks after the show airs and you get to travel first class somewhere around the country, while your family back home terrorizes some poor woman.

I included an application if you want to know what they want to know. They also do a background check to make sure you’re not a sociopath, or a convicted sex offender, as well as psychological screening. They want interesting, but not bat-shit crazy. It’s a Disney show after all.

So, think a bout it. In my case, an extra twenty grand could go really, really far.

First of all, the very idea cracked me up, as did Crevass’s cover note. I responded with a quick thank you and said that I’d think about it.

And I did think about it. Alot. I asked MathMan what he thought about it. Unfortunately, I picked the wrong time, when he was distracted. “Hey, honey, would you want to go on Wife Swap?” I asked out of the blue while we were puttering around in the kitchen.

He closed the cabinet he’d just finished emptying so we could pack up some things and muttered, “I thought you wanted to lose a few more pounds before we started doing that again.”

Have mercy.

I asked The Dancer. She simply rolled her eyes as if she’s heard one too many of these get rich quick schemes from me. What a tart. When pressed and convinced with the idea that the money earned from the show could be applied toward her tuition, she conceded. Some. “If they choose us, it better be after I’ve left for school.”

Noted.

Then I asked The Actor and Garbo their opinions. At first they were incredulous. Or maybe really groggy because I asked them as we drove to school. After I’d convinced them that I was really considering it, they started asking questions. Veteran viewers of the program, they had a pretty good idea of what the producers would be looking for.

“So if we’re going to be on it, we need to think of what an opposite family would do,” announced Garbo.

The Actor offered further clarification. “It’ really has to do a lot with how the mom in the family is so we have to think about what the other mom would be like.”

The two of them set about tossing out ideas.

“It could be a mom who never cusses and doesn’t allow any cussing.” Boring! was the verdict.
“It could be a fundamentalist Christian mom.” They’ve done that to death.
“A Republican?” “A health nut?” “A mom who hates music?”
“It could be a flat chested mom,” offered Garbo. Oh, nice. Very nice. And no.
“I know! It could be a mom who thinks computers and electronics are the tool of the devil and who doesn’t blog!”

They agreed that would be perfect. They could stand to learn something from a mom who answers questions with something besides “Google it” or “Well, if it isn’t in the Urban Dictionary, it can’t possible be true.”

Finally, I opened the application and read the questions. I kept thinking about what Crevass had said, “They also do a background check to make sure you’re not a sociopath, or a convicted sex offender, as well as psychological screening. They want interesting, but not bat-shit crazy.” Hmmmm.

Then I got to question that asked which adult in the family “wears the pants?” Yeesh. Now there’s an outdated euphemism. The twelve year old trapped inside me wanted to note that both MathMan and I wear pants. Sometimes. Except on those days when we go without. Oh and on the second Tuesday of the month, MathMan wears a kilt for giggles.

Sure, sure – I get it. Who’s in charge? Talk about a snag. I mean, I just asked MathMan who wears the pants in our family and you know what his answer was? You guessed it – “We both wear pants. The question is, who wears the frillier underwear?”

What a sexist thing to say. I took a running leap at him, attempting to deliver a death blow to his temple (I’ll show him frilly underwear!), but I missed and landed on my back flat on the floor, MathMan threw the chocolate pudding he was holding at me and then shouted something nasty in Hebrew. I must have blacked out at that point because when I came to, the county sheriff’s deputy was there taking statements from the neighbors. MathMan was sitting mute, covered in leaves and grass. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he wasn’t wearing his pants.

The deputy mentioned that the house appeared to be in quite the state of squalor (hey! we’re packing to move, dumbass!) and our neighbor from across the way shook his head sadly, “Weeelll, the’ve always been kind of loud, but they kept mostly to themselves,” he spoke softly to the deputy who was still surveying the living room with a look of shock on his face.

I looked down and realized that I was tied to a chair in the middle of the living room and a fire was blazing away in the fireplace behind me. I tried to twist around in my chair to see what was on the fire that was making that terrible smell.

“Excuse me,” I croaked to the deputy and Mr. Neighbor. “What’s burning?”

The deputy’s eyes flickered over me and then he exchanged a quick smile with our neighbor. I cleared my throat, getting anxious and impatient. Both men looked my way again and the deputy pulled a serious face.

“Well, ma’am, that’s a laptop in the fireplace,” he said. I could hear the hint of laughter in his voice.

Mr. Neighbor craned his neck and looked around me at the fireplace. I could feel the heat against my back and I was getting really uncomfortable. Why weren’t these yahoos untying me already? My head hurt. My back hurt.

Mr. Neighbor took in a sharp breath. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Ah think there are actually two laptop computers in that fireplace,” he choked out, bobbing his balding head up and down.

“What?” I shrieked, struggling to turn in the chair. Damn those ropes were tight! I started to go berserk, fighting against the restraints and wriggling about. MathMan turned his head and watched silently and expressionless as the chair and I toppled over. I lay on my back again, my feet, ankles bound together, in the air. It was then that I noticed that I wasn’t wearing any pants either.

I guess we’ll have to find another way to earn that (dollar amount deleted) because Disney will never call us now.