CVS SOS

Like every Sunday, we went on our weekly grocery shopping trip today.  Late in our trip, Mark decided he was going to make bratwurst(s) (is this plural with an s?  Or is it like the deer/deers thing?)  Since I needed to restock my Advil Cold & Sinus supply (I believe this to be the best medicine there is), I told Mark that rather than buy 54 cans of junky beer, I was just going to run into CVS on our way home.  

I left my party (Mark and the kids) in the car so I could pop in and out of the store.  I briefly glanced at the shopping basket but decided I didn't need one since this was going to be a quick trip.  As I walked back to the refrigerated beverages, I saw that the beer options were 12 pack, 24 pack or individual "Tall Boys". I filled my arms with three Tall Boys, wishing I had that basket, but being too proud and stubborn to go back and get one.  Then I wandered through the aisles with my arms quickly freezing for ten minutes; I was getting more than one judgmental look, particularly from that lady in the baby aisle.

My medicine has to be purchased at the pharmacy counter so they can be sure I am not running a drug factory.  On my way there, I awkwardly grabbed a couple of other things and stood in line.  

The pharmacist looked expectantly at me as I unloaded my arms onto her small counter.  I sheepishly told her that I am aware that I look like the trashiest person she will see all day, but these beers are for cooking and the Vaseline is for my kids' chapped faces.  Yes, putting a pregnancy test on top of all of this hardly helped my case (don't panic, it's a quarterly spot check I do - and as always, it was negative).  She kept her professional composure, but I'm sure she was doubting my cooking story.  

I should have sent Mark in...  no one judges a man carrying beer and a pregnancy test.    

Barry Lovely

Good news, everybody.  Barry Manilow is coming to town soon.

Let me tell you about Barry and me.  We go way back.

(The following story may be a blog repeat, but I did a quick, lazy search; my CTRL+F function didn't find any mention of Manilow.)

When I was in sixth grade, my teacher came up with an assignment where we would all write individual letters to various celebrities and then wait to see who would get responses.  This seemed exciting enough.  We were to take the day to think about who we would write and then inform her of our selections the following day.  All night I racked my brain to come up with the perfect celebrity to make contact with, and dreamed of what kind of penpal relationship we would develop.  I thought about writing Whitney Houston to tell her I wore out her tape by playing it too many times while I did imaginary triple-toe-loops on my roller skates in the garage.  I imagined she would gladly send me a brand new one.  I also considered Debbie Gibson and the incomparable Bette Midler.  I figured the final choice would be a game-time decision.

The next day, the teacher went around the room asking who we selected.  My classmates were eagerly selecting their Jordan Knight's and Shannon Doherty's (even though she was/is nuts) when the turn came to me.  All eyes were turned in my direction.  I started to speak but suddenly found that I could not recall my stellar list.  I sat dumbly for a minute before I said the only name that bounced around the walls of my brain, "Barry Manilow".  Naturally my fellow sixth graders were silent (with awe?), until one of them asked who Mr. Manilow was.  My teacher had to explain that he was an aging singer who sang famously terrible songs and was not at all popular in the lives of grade school children.  

How did I come to think of Barry, you ask?  Well, my brother would frequently go through music stages where he would become obsessed with certain artists and play their tapes continuously.  There was Peter Cetera (remember him from Chicago and when he branched out on his own to sing that great song from Karate Kid?), Color Me Badd (my mom took this tape away after the song "I Want to Sex You Up" came on one too many times), and of course good ole Barry Manilow (we all knew the words to Copacabana at an early age).  So of course Barry Manilow's name assaulted me when none other could be found.  

After the proclamation was made, I was forced (by my own pride) to carry out the mission and write an admiring letter to Barry Manilow.  I'm sure it went something like this, "Dear Berry Manilow,  I am in 6th grade and I am writing this letter hoping to get free stuff.  I think your music is ok, kind of corny - but catchy nonetheless.  My brother really likes your music, I hope you send him something, too.  Thanks for your time and consideration.  Love, Lily."  This was written on personalized stationary with giant colored balloons all over it.  

Not long after, I received a letter back... not from Barry Manilow, but from someone nerdy enough to run his fan club.  I was officially enrolled.  I believe it was a lifetime membership because I think I got newsletters and updates on him well into my college years.  

I'm hoping Barry Manilow reads this post and feels awed by my devotion.  Mr. Manilow, when you are in town in April, would you like to come over for dinner?  I hope you are not allergic to cats.  Fat Linda will try to eat your food and Lorenzo will take bites of your hair, particularly if it is not real (which it looks like it may not be).  I also hope you like good food because we'll be having fish sticks and tator tots for dinner.  

I bet a giant Barry Manilow t-shirt would go well with my leggings... so send me one when you get a chance.

"Her name was Lily, she was a showgirl..."

Subtle Muddle

Sometimes I may not be the best at picking up subtle signals, like body language indicating a person doesn't want to talk to me anymore or like my husband having missed the last 4 minutes of our "conversation" because he's on the computer.  These things float right over my head as I live in self-important, ignorant bliss.

Then there are some not so subtle signals that are hard to miss... like the one my scale has been giving me lately.  Not really so much that the numbers are climbing (which they unfortunately are, no thanks to my Hostess abuse habit) but more that I have somehow found an enemy in this engineered piece of plastic.

I stepped on the scale at some point this week and felt the message was unsatisfactory.  I told this to the scale.  Then I got back on to see if it was willing to make an adjustment for me.  The same numbers appeared, followed immediately by a low battery message.  This made me happy because clearly this was why the numbers were inflated.  I lived in this happy bubble for a few days.

Then finally tonight I decided I should change the batteries and give the scale another chance at reflecting a positive message.  To encourage it, I sing, "Heal the woooorld, make it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race..."

Battery in.  Step on the scale.  No numbers flash.  I turn it over to be certain the battery was facing the right direction (I did pass the low-level intelligence test for today, but just barely).  I put it back on the floor and step on again.  Nothing.

Then I start to smell something funny, which is actually not out of the ordinary as I am standing in the bathroom.  But this is the smell of burning.  A little sniff research tells me that this odor is coming from my scale.  In fact, there is a little cloud of smoke coming up from under it.

Here is a picture of the discarded insult-thrower.  I figured if it caught the garbage can on fire, I could always just push it outside and warm my hands by it.

I think somehow my scale decided to self destruct rather than be in my employ.  Oddly enough, this is the not the first time this kind non-subtle message has been sent to me.  Once, I warned a hair dresser about my problematic hair and she scoffed at me.  I could tell she believed my hair was giving her a glove-slapping-your-face challenge.  She pulled out her blow dryer and round brush and went to work.  Not three minutes later, her blow dryer caught fire and smoked up the entire salon.  They had to open the doors so people didn't asphyxiate.

The burning scale is not doing much to help my week of indulgent, self-pity.

A few days into self-pity week, Eli stopped me at breakfast to tell me I was the #1 Greatest in our house.  I thought this was really nice.  I even smirked at Mark who was sitting nearby feeling overlooked.  I asked Eli who #2 was.  He said he was #2.  I felt the need to brag to Mark, "You hear that?  Mommy is the #1 greatest in the house!"  Eli's voice cut through, saying, "I didn't say greatest, I said greediest."  Uggh.  This changes things.  He reasoned that I was greedy because I always want to spend all our money on pantyhose (I bought my first pair of pantyhose in 15 years a few days ago.  They were $4.)

Woe is me.  Tomorrow, I better win the lottery, suddenly enjoy running long distances and have someone mistake me for Heidi Klum.

This blog isn't worth naming

Now that it is February, it is a good time to take down and store the remaining Christmas decorations that have stubbornly resisted storage all through January.

Tip:  it's important to properly store your items so you will have a joyful decorating experience next year.

Unless you like to "work harder and not smarter"(pardon the cliché)... or not work at all...

This giant light ball sat on the floor of the living room until tonight, when I took it downstairs and shoved it in a too-small box.

We have guests coming to our house tomorrow.  I can't have them thinking we're trashy...  (in this case, maybe I should avoid of my leggings/heels combo and Mark shouldn't wear his cheek-hugging jogging shorts, plus we have our his-and-hers matching mesh tank tops... apparently these things make people feel uncomfortable.)  Surprisingly, people rarely come to our house.  I'd include pictures but I don't want to be the cause of mass riots... again.