Scary Playdate

OK don't start bitching about how when you were a kid there were no play dates, all the kids got together at the dirt lot and played ball in perfect harmony until the streetlights came on. You see, that just lets on to everyone that you're from Pangaea and were born in a mud hut sometime before the wheel was invented.

So for better or worse, we now have playdates. I have just dumped a kid from our preferred playdate list because the mother, Helga, the Russian Artist scares the piss out of me. She's a somewhat well known artist with her works on display at prestigious museums. Her haircut is geometric and her clothing is fabulous in a runway/weird/ugly kind of way. This was not a drop-off play date, it was an interrogation; the topic: the right school. This is an issue that starts making urban parents lose sleep sometime during the first trimester of pregnancy.

So Helga, who's daughter Nadia was H.'s classmate at the overpriced preschool, invited us over for two specific purposes: 1. to pump me for information regarding the quality of the public school to which I bravely sent H., and 2. for me to admire her confusing and somehow vulvar sculpture, as well as the many mostly nude portraits of herself. All this in her uber-hip architectural digest home. There is simply no other reason she'd want to associate with me.

Following 2 excruciating afternoons with scary Helga and her demon child Nadia, I know all about her childhood in Russia, her first marriage which produced an unfortunate son who is in his teens and is blamed for every ill suffered by any of the chosen ones in the family. She bitched relentlessly about her mother who appears to be her political prisoner and cooks, cleans and nannys. She blamed her recent miscarriage on the unfortunate son because he startled her by dropping and egg on the floor a week before the event. Some kind of voodoo maybe?

And what did she learn about me? Nothing. I only spoke in response to her prompts, because I was positive that if I spoke out of turn I'd likely be getting water boarded. She INSISTED that I have a cocktail with her, at noon, and since I'm basically a tea totaler (I don't object, I just don't hold my liquor very well) I was slurring and telling lies by 12:30.

SO under the influence I told her that most of the kids were black and from the projects, and that the soccer coach was being investigated for "inappropriate" behavior with the eighth grade girls. Additionally, I mentioned that the metal detector had been malfunctioning lately.
I also told her we were wait-listed by the school at which Nadia had been accepted and we were just DYING to get in (didn't actually apply).

Soon after, I was released to stumble back to my non-architectural digest home. I was sure we hadn't made the cut for a follow-up, but apparently Nadia likes H. and demanded another get together. Sheeeat. Museum date. Luncheon with cocktails. She tore the waiter a new asshole for not putting enough liquor in her drink, which might have been true, maybe he put it all in mine by accident, as I was feeling pretty shit faced.

Then she trashed the other moms from our pre-school. I guess I'll be part of that list now, but at least I've done my bit to safeguard our school from an unsavory element.

Nick Nicety #6: criminal record expunged.

The special corner

It's so exciting, I've learned to upload photos. This is Nick's corner of the bedroom, the same man who turned the color puce with rage when I failed to put a rubber band around the pencils in the kitchen drawer, lest they intermingle with the rubber bands which he assiduously collects from the mail and packs neatly into a ziplock bag.

I'm kind of jammed up because the ridiculous rule about saying something nice about him every post. Who's stupid idea was that anyway? Shit. Mine. Oh well if I'm making the rules here, I guess I can amend them as needed.

So anyway back to the pile. I don't think he even knows what's in there. I'm not allowed to touch it, which I suppose is a mixed blessing. If I could touch it, it would be with a match after a dousing with gasoline. It might cause some problems with the neighbors. If you look closely, you can see the fine hand knotted rug that shoes may never ever tread upon. I guess his strategy for safegaurding the pristine rug is hiding it under turd mountain.
It should be noted that this pile is a mere warm-up act for the garage.
N. climbs it like Sir Edmund Hillary scaling Everest.

In keeping with my own rule....
Nick nicety #5: No gold teeth.

Jelly Beans

Is it so bad to mislead my children? I gave over my body for 9 miserable months each. I was their food source; that is at least before I started feeding them out of those poisonous bottles. who knew?

On their behalf, my legs went from being rather nice to looking like they were created by Rand McNally. My six pack is now a 2 liter. I could ramble on as long as any mother-martyr.

So, do I have to share my damn jelly beans with the little darlings? No, No No. That is why when they said "are you eating candy mommy, can we have some?", I gave them both black ones and said yes, that is what they all taste like. So now I have the jelly beans ALL TO MYSELF. I haven't quite decided how to handle the whole Easter situation. Maybe we'll stick with peeps and Cadbury eggs this year.

Nick nicety #4: he's not suing me (he's suing everyone else in the world).

Sloppy Seconds

Once upon a time there was a somewhat attractive princess who married a handsome prince. They had two beautiful children.

Years passed, and they lost their thrones. The handsome prince got a beer belly and some hair growing out of his ears, and the attractive princess became cynical, kind of bitchy, and a bit haggard. The children remained beautiful. They did not move to the suburbs. The beautiful children ruined all the furniture because of their game that the floor is hot lava, meaning that their feet cannot touch the floor and they must jump from chair, to table, etc.

Obviously, we've been spending a little to much time with the brothers Grimm this week. There has been a temporary moratorium placed upon on Harry Potter, as the wands and broomsticks were too much alongside the hot lava.

I'm a bit late on my Valentine's recap because the little fucker chewed through my computer power cord. He was unharmed, but the $80.00 cord was shredded.

As stated in the previous post, I'm a little sour on Valentine's day. Nick, however, was determined to do his duty and get me roses. It's impossible to get roses on the day itself, because anyone who actually wants them orders them sometime prior to February 14th.

Nick, determined, and ever parsimonious, noted that a female colleague who had left town for the week had left her dozen red long stems on her desk. Do I need to finish this story?

When I got to my office I experienced some guilt when I spotted the vase. After further evaluation, the lack of a card, and the wide beautiful blooms (not buds), gave me slight pause.
Oh well...it is in keeping with my romantic sentiments. At least they weren't from a funeral parlor.

Nice thing about Nick #3: he's tall

Valentine's Day

Valentine's day is stupid.

It is however, serious business for 6 year old girls who insist upon wearing pink and red from hairband to cowboy boots. So H. looked cute after our exhaustive search to find pink underwear (clean pink underwear).

Everyone else looks stupid. N. refuses to be involved unless there is a food incentive; I guess he's being true to his gender, after all the grown-up male involvement is also incentive driven; at some point the prize changes from "cookie" to "nookie".

I'm sure I participated in a previous lifetime, but who can stand the commercial cheapening of true love? Please refer to "treatise on marriage" post while I get the vomit out of my hair.

Nick has not forgotten to recognize the day, he wished me a happy Valentine's day and told me we'd do something special soon (soon=never). This is quite alright by me, due to my above stated sentiments. I am well stocked on fine chocolate due to the kindness of less cranky patients, so I'm feeling pretty well set.

Nice thing about Nick #2: He takes out the trash (probably so he can monitor the contents, and make sure I'm not squandering plastic forks or ketchup packets, but still it saves me the trouble)

Quit yer bitchin

Why is it that the more we have the more we complain? I mean, really. I have everything. A warm house on a cold day, healthy kids, good friends, good education, asshole husband and shitting puppy. It would seem that I focus mostly on the last two of the list. I defiantly have to devote more time to trashing my friends; even things up, you know.

Who the hell gets a puppy in January?? I just took the little fucker out and there is just no way he's going to relieve himself out there, because surely he will get frostbite on his little winkie. So he pees the moment he gets it the door.

Wasn't I just gushing about how wonderful my life is and how warm my house is? well, it all smells like piss.

The root of all evil

Below is my work product for today. I won't win any awards, but then again I won't go on a shooting spree either.

Why is there a "fee negotiation" department when I have already bent over to agree to their shitty contract?

My official position statement for insurance carriers:


February 8, 2008

Multiplan’s fee Negotiation Department
Phone 866-568-2928
Fax: (888) 674-3691

To Whom It May Concern:

Thank you for your kind offer to pay me in a timely fashion if I agree to accept about half of what you owe me; however I would prefer to wait the extra 10 days and get paid the full amount.

I’m sure that because of this ridiculous expectation of mine (to get paid in full in a timely fashion for services provided) that my claim will now be denied for obscure reasons that could be discovered only if one of my hourly staff spends several hours on the phone. This will consist of being bounced around between automated menus to dipshits in Bangalore that couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a map. Meanwhile my new claims pile up and the phone rings unanswered because we’re on hold with you.

After many hours of frustration making my employee want to quit, (even though they will still be getting paid) I will probably have to send you clinical information to support my claim which will have to be sent at least 3 times before anyone will admit to having received it. Then someone who feels important because she’s a middle manager will return from her smoke break and say, ok, resubmit the claim.

Then you’ll deny the claim because it was not filed in a timely fashion.

So to avoid this entire exercise in futility, I’m signing this sheet and selling my soul. I’d just like to say fuck you. YOU are the Great Satan.


Thank you,

Hapless Provider

Happy

Well, it's not like I'm going to burst into song or start posting cupcake recipes, but  at least I'm not bitching. 

In order to prevent a relapse to my long lost friend, the Marlboro Man, I went out for a run today. It was not a long run or a fast run, but  a run nonetheless. It's probably premature to register for the marathon.  I am not in any  more or any less pain, and it has very clearly improved my disposition, as evidenced by an unusual lack of profanity. Possibly the people around me are suffering less. 

It was really more like a brisk walk, and not quite 4 miles,  but having the lakefront all to myself is a luxury that can be enjoyed only on a shitty snowing sleety day. No bikes, no bladers, no babies, no bimbos--well almost no bimbos. I'm still trying to tone the hair down, but it still screams TRAMP-O-LINA. If it stays this blonde, I will be required by social convention to get breast augmentation. Platinum blonde and flat-as-a prairie are incongruous. Easier to fix the hair.

N. maintains that he too wants to be a runner. He was easily the fastest 3 year old on the track over the summer,  knocking out laps not quite fast enough to push is father into an arrhythmia, but close.  Maybe next year. 

Saturdays

Immanuel Kant pretty much summed it up with "unsocial sociability"; regarding our fellows that we "cannot bear, but cannot bear to leave." I really don't think there has been a more true statement.

I suppose my world view and my take on human relations is somewhat tinged by being tethered by marriage to an asshole. Maybe a little shot of his magical cough syrup in my coffee would improve my mood. It's keeping him blessedly quiet.

A little maudlin for a Saturday morning you say? Maybe. I hate NPR on Saturday mornings; our ordinarily staid hosts "letting their hair down for a little levity." Listening to Carl Kasell push out laughs is reminiscent of watching a constipated dog straining to push out it's issue. Let's all just stick with what we know. That means lots of warts and fungus for me.

Nick is still sick, moaning and absolutely incensed that I'm not more sympathetic. Admittedly I have not been too helpful beyond getting his medicine, shoveling the snow and restraining my unkind comments about having to see his ass hanging out of his boxers. Please bear in mind, that despite being on the verge of death on his sick bed, he was able to muster enough energy to go to a dealership and purchase a new truck.

This fact was communicated to me when he called from Costco, in what seemed to be an unusually thoughtful gesture, to see if I needed anything. I said, "well yes, I need some frozen corn and some coffee filters." He said "OK frozen corn and coffee filters." I said "yes, make sure you get the cone filters, not the basket ones." He said "OK, oh, and I bought a new truck today." This is the cheapass who thinks I should go to the barrio to get a haircut because it is cheaper, and really REALLY yells when I opt otherwise. I am sure other couples have at least a perfunctory discussion prior to purchasing a vehicle. Asshole. And, of course he got the damn basket filters instead of the cones, while forgetting completely about the corn.