Thursday, November 30, 2006


Could it be possible that after all these years my childhood dream of being a Unicorn is coming true? I don’t feel particularly majestic or magical…but I am growing a horn. Right in the middle of my forehead. It’s impossible to miss, horn buds being HUGE and RED and rather painful.

I sense a lot of anticipation from those around me too. Everyone is looking at it, but no one has said anything. For fear of ruining the magic I’m sure.

I sure hope I become a Unicorn in time to summon some fairies and elves to clean my house for Christmas.

Neigh.
~Clover

I am amending this post to say that my mother, as a result of her cynicism about my impending metamorphosis into a unicorn AND her suggestion that I "go get a band aid to cover that thing up," will NOT be benefiting from my skills in magic. And that will suck for her, because knowing a unicorn would be SO cool.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

It is no big secret that the fastest way to get yourself killed is to suggest to a frustrated woman that the root cause of her pissyness is not, as she believes, a legitimate screw up on your part. But rather, a hormonal hallucination caused by a raging case of PMS.

Especially if you are a man. And extra specially if you are right.

The Golightly family is inordinately blessed in this regard. Because, despite the fact that M becomes mind-blowingly annoying, heartbreakingly insensitive, painfully slow, and somehow manages to expand his person to generally be In. My. Space. for a few days every month, he has never once suggested that I take a half a bottle of Midol and go chill the hell out.

Lucky for us both, no?

You have to feel a little sorry for the guy. I’m so all over the board with this stuff. And it didn’t appear until later in our marriage when we gleefully flushed my birth control pills in favor of starting a family. The first few months we were in baby bliss. Me, thinking about babies. Him, working on making one. So when the fog wore off, he was probably totally blindsided. And even now, three years later, it’s not every month that I turn into a psychopath. So basically, I’m like a one woman Spanish Inquisition. Even I don’t know when to expect it.

The nice thing is, even though M is NEVER allowed to suggest that I go check the calendar, I have started to pick up on the cues. Jeans too tight? Check. Think it might be a good idea to bake a box of brownies for breakfast? Check. Acting like Tonya Harding with a hangover? Check.

This last week seems like it was particularly bad. I haven’t even wanted to be in the same room with myself. Thursday night our fancy dinner and Christmas shopping didn’t go as planned. Dinner was great. The red wine exceptional. But about half way into our second bottle of Napa Valley happiness, M announced that he really had no desire to go look at sparkly things. The rational part of my person agreed. I was a little to tips anyway, and it would be fun to go downtown and hook up with some friends of ours who were out dancing. I stayed with that rational line of thinking for about an hour and a half. And then a switch flipped and I was pissed. In fact, I think I was pissed until yesterday. WTF? I’m pretty sure that I even used our own child against him on Friday just because I was still in my funk.

Not that my basic premise wasn’t legit. He does, sometimes, get so caught up in work that he refuses to do anything that could conceivably inconvenience anyone…except his daughter. And Friday’s near blow off of her school Thanksgiving Luncheon was an example of this. But, in fairness, he was in the midst of putting out a pretty major fire. And I can see how it would have been hard at that point to see any other options beyond sitting at his desk on the phone and giving himself an ulcer. So, perhaps my hissy fit and refusal to answer my cell phone were over the top. But then again, ok in the long run. I mean, he did show up and have lunch with Sweet Pea – who about came out of her skin with excitement when he showed up. And I did apologize. And I did go check the calendar. And we did have a nice weekend without incident. Well, major incident. I suppose he might not term the weekend, “nice.” Perhaps, not un-nice? I’d ask, but that would mean admitting to the PMS. And that, ladies, is where we need to preserve a little mystery.

Just put it in your blog where he can read all about it and know that you know when you’re being evil.

Tired and crampy
~Clover

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Hey! I passed 8th grade math!

Yehaw! That's quite the accomplishment seeing as to how I got a Communications degree so that I would never have to take a math class again. Wheeee!

could_you_pass_eighth_grade_math_quiz

*******

Here's a funny that was in the Letters to the Editor section of our local alternapaper:

Q. What is the difference between Bill Sali and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?

A. One is a short, bearded religious zealot who wants to take away women's rights. The other is the president of Iran.

********

So tonight M and I are going out to dinner and then to do some Christmas shopping. I'm not really sure why I have a bug up my butt to get going on Christmas shopping. Retail therapy maybe? Whatever the reason, I'm looking forward to getting a little red wine drunk and then looking at sparkly things. I'm also planning to eat something really chocolatey and gooey to kick off the holidays. And to solidify my new attitude of who-the-hell-cares-if-I-get-fat-this-Christmas. It's time to get pregnant again anyway.

Ho Ho Ho
~Clover

Monday, November 13, 2006

Maybe 32 is when adulthood hits you squarely between the eyes. You’d think that after 10 years in the workforce, 8 years of marriage, two homes and a child, I’d be pretty comfortable in my role as grown up. But not so much. Apparently.

Maybe uncomfortable isn’t the word. But it does surprise me on a fairly regular basis that I’m the mommy. Or the decision maker. Or, in the case of the line of thinking that spawned this post, the would-be philanthropist.

It’s not like we never give money. We bleed silver and gold, so it’s fun to get all drunk at the annual scholarship auction for our alma matter and drop some cash. Plus season tickets. Plus contributing to the National Student Advertising Competition team, plus whatever else it takes to get our names in the annual report. (Oh come ON…that’s why the millionaires do it too. I know this to be true, I worked in Alumni Relations for a long time.) So we are familiar with tax deductible relationships.

But I have to say that my jaw dropped, and dropped hard, recently when a family member made a request for financial help. You have to give her some credit though. She laid it all out there. She and her husband quit their jobs and moved to the country to change the pace of their stressful lives. She is working part time, her husband full time. They are both volunteering quite a bit to get a new church up and running. Between paid and volunteer efforts, they don’t want to work more than 40 hours a week. That defeats the purpose of trying to build a peaceful and calm life. And they would like to buy a house. So they are looking for 100 people to support them at $25.00 a month.

Perhaps we are jaded. Grinchy even. I’m SO not writing a check. No way. I know that this was presented to us in a sort of “help us build the church” missionary type plea. But I’m not totally buying it. And I don’t think that makes us heartless heathens. Over lunch M was worrying about this being the present day equivalent of the beggar at the door. The door we just slammed shut. And I had to tell him that I felt confident in saying that this was not Jesus asking us for some hospitality. I guess maybe I’m a heartless heathen.

Hey, can you fundraise for that? There are probably a lot of good Christians out there who would be willing to part with some green in an effort to save my soul from the eternal fires of damnation.

I am seriously surprised at what a hot button issue this is for me. For the last 5 years my husband has worked a minimum or 50 hours a week. Usually it’s closer to 65 or 70. For two years, TWO YEARS, he worked every weekend just to keep his business up and running. And I’ve worked 40 hours a week during this time too. And then come home to run a household that includes a small person and a totally neurotic dog. For the first couple years of “start up mode” we could barely afford to buy groceries, much less make lifestyle choices that took us out of the rat race.

We had a lot of people who were kind to us during those early days of M’s self employment. My mom bought me clothes. My in-laws filled our freezer with deer and elk meat. Our friends invited us to their houses instead of going out. One friend took us out to dinner twice a month for over a year. And they never expected us to reciprocate. On good days these wonderful people provided us with a break and a little treat. On bad days they loaned us money for a couple of weeks so we could pay our mortgage. We know we didn’t do it alone, and we’re grateful for that help.

So why does this feel different to me? Maybe because I think people were willing to help us out because they saw how willing we were to help ourselves. We did odd jobs for our family members like painting houses and yard work. We had yard sales and sold stuff on ebay. Got rid of the cable, cell phones, and long distance. We ate Bambi for cryin’ out loud. M worked and worked and worked and worked to start his business. And I worked and worked and worked to support us while he did it. We never, not for one second, expected anyone else to be financially responsible for our chosen path.

It’s paying off. We’re not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re more comfortable. Maybe that makes us seem rich to other people. I’m not apologetic about that. It’s our money. Not only did we earn it, we risked a lot to build a business. We still have a lot at stake.

I keep asking myself what conditions would have to be present for me to feel like writing a check to this person. And I keep landing right back where I started. If you make a choice to live a certain lifestyle, then you figure out how to support it. Which I guess is exactly what she’s doing. More power to her I guess. When all the neo-conservative right wingers get done licking their wounds (everywhere but here obviously) maybe they’ll need a new project. Hey…she should run for office.

Man I’m ranty today.
~Clover

Friday, November 10, 2006


Sweet Pea made a successful transition into a big girl bed this week. The last two nights she hasn’t even gotten up to look at books or play with her toys in the dark. (The first night we found her dragging all her belongings into our master bathroom – the only room upstairs with a light on.)

This is big time exciting at our house. New sheets, new pillows, new bedtime ritual. Brand new thing to be paranoid about.

I made it successfully to adulthood without ever happening upon my parents in any compromising situations. If youknowhatImean. That is, I’m certain, because my mother remains to this day a Virgin. That’s right, capital V. I know this to be fact, because A) she is my mother. And B) my brother and I are both adopted. The only way for a capital V Virgin to obtain children. Of course.

The problem is – and I’m going to let you in on a little secret here – I am NOT a virgin. Capital V or otherwise. Bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm. And my bedroom is just a few steps from Sweet Pea’s bedroom. When she was captive in her little crib, this was not a concern. But I’m guessing we’ve only got another couple of days before she figures out she doesn’t have to wait for me to come and get her out of bed before she can leave her room.

Plus, ever since the transition to the big girl bed, she has requested that we leave her door open. So we can’t even hear her coming.

Do I make her wear a bell? Making her sleep in a crib until college doesn’t seem like a good solution. None of those stupid books address the issue of helping mommy and daddy get their swerve on. And I can tell you right now that just the thought of Cindy Lou Who appearing bedside at an inappropriate moment is putting a major damper on my libido.

The kitty collar approach is sounding better and better by the minute.
~Clover

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Just in case anyone is wondering, I’m still totally bummed out about the elections.

In lieu of whining, I thought we’d play the “do over” game.

I had a dream last night that involved high school in some way. I can’t really remember the details of it. But when I woke up, I had high school on the brain. And then when I was dropping my daughter off at daycare, I saw another mom who looked kind of familiar, but nothing was clicking as to why. She smiled at me, but it seemed a little awkward. At first I thought that maybe she was doing the same, “how do I know you” thing. But then it dawned on me, that chick went to my high school and she was a bitch!

I mean, not like just, “I’m popular and you aren’t so neener neener.” I think she and her friend tried to beat me up in the bathroom once. If I recall, it was because my BFF and her BFF were warring over a boy. Or, rather, my BFF had been deflowered long ago by a boy who her BFF was snogging currently. And so, that made us enemies.

There’s a strange code of ethics in high school, you know? I remember being cornered in the bathroom by those two girls. And thinking that I was gonna get my ass kicked. And then spending most of the rest of the year not going to the bathroom alone.

Can you even imagine what would happen if Kim and Suzie from accounting stalked you and cornered you in the third floor bathroom of your office building? You’d probably go straight to HR with a harassment complaint, their jobs would likely be on the line, and if they DID lay a finger on you they’d be arrested for assault. But not in high school. In high school you do everything you can to make sure that no one – especially not a teacher - catches wind of the situation. And then if you’re me, you hide.

Not that I wasn’t brave. I was just smart. They weren’t particularly burly, but there were two of them. And just a few seconds of hair pulling and bitch-slapping is bound to end with a lot of embarrassment on the part of the slapee. People in high school don’t run to your rescue. They stand in a circle and chant “GIRL FIGHT!”

So, if I had this particular day in high school to do over, what would I do?

I think I would have launched into a John Hughes-esque soliloquy about not wasting their energy on a pointless brawl that would likely get them kicked out of school and banned from graduation, but still wouldn’t change the sexual history of her boyfriend. And then I would have told them to go ahead and hit me if they must, but that I wouldn’t hit back. At that point, either someone would start slow clapping, or she would have decked me. Hard. Either way, I figure I’d win. Slow clapping immortalizes you in teen history as a rebel who changed high school culture for good. And getting hit means I could have sued their rich daddies for a trust fund. Plus I bet they would have gotten kicked out of private school and I could have peed in peace for the rest of my senior year.

As it stands, the evil sidekick and I are probably going to be seeing each other every morning. So I’ll conjure up some amnesia as it relates to this incident. But I’m not setting up a playdate unless she apologizes.

~Clover

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

It’s a dark day in Idaho.

Dark.

We elected some real azzhats. (not all of them, but quite a few.) Including Butthead Bill. And the only Democrat I didn’t vote for – a 26 year old deadbeat dad who ousted a longtime legislator. She was a good moderate Republican, and one of the few women in the Statehouse. We lost a couple good moderates in fact. Which means the likelihood that they will vote for a moderate to be the Speaker of the House is nil. So, hello crazyville.

And, even more horrifying…the amendment stating the marriage is only to be between a man and a woman passed. It makes me ill.

LEGISLATED BIGOTRY.

Sigh.

Normally I’m a cheerleader for Idaho. But today I feel like moving somewhere else. I feel like I can’t trust the people in my community to be good and kind and intelligent.

Blah.
~Clover