Last week David and I left the kids with Grandma and escaped to Las Vegas for three days. We haven't been there since our honeymoon, except to the casino/shopping mall where planes occasionally land. ("It's a mall! It's a casino! Oh, it's actually an airport...")
When we checked into our hotel the woman at the front desk asked us if it was our honeymoon. Goodness, we giggled to ourselves. We've been married for 11 years. Do we look like honeymooners?
"Anniversary?" she guessed again.
"No," we said.
"What's the occasion, then?"
"To get away from the kids!" we said a little too loudly and in perfect unison.
Our goals for the trip were pretty much three-fold: 1) No puking (which you'd think wouldn't be hard, especially when you take into consideration our combined 65 years of total alcohol abstinence. But you know what happened the the last time we had a getaway). 2) Stay out late. 3) Sleep in.
We were successful at all three. We were also mostly successful at avoiding all the pictures of naked women scattered around the Strip. The only naked (well, half-naked) woman I really couldn't avoid was a forty-something spray tan addict whose obvious implants were perched so precariously in her shirt that it rendered her bra a mere balance beam. I would say worrying that her boobs were going to try for a five point dismount was the most disturbing experience of my life, but that distinction still belongs to the two minutes I spent watching "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo," after which I needed electroshock therapy to recover.
Of course, I will also need electroshock therapy to recover from seeing an elderly woman wandering through a casino in a skin-tight leather mini skirt and cleavage-baring top. My eyes!!
But, we managed to have fun in spite of the constant parade of fashion horrors. And besides, it made us appreciate anyone who left a few tidbits to the imagination. I almost stopped some random Muslim lady and said, "I LOVE your outfit!" but I didn't want her to think I was weird.
We went to a Cirque du Soleil performance (where David and I didn't send off enough "Don't involve us" vibes to prevent a clown from spending a few minutes balancing buckets of popcorn on David's head), attended a magic show (where we managed to slump down in our seats enough not to be called on), and were nearly thwarted in our attempt to view the dancing fountains at the Bellagio when police blocked off the access roads and pedestrian bridges to allow President Obama's motorcade to come through. The president may have thought he had legions of adoring fans. Actually, 75% of the people were just waiting to cross the street. The other 25% were hoping to see Angelina Jolie.
Overall it was a lovely trip. We laughed. We held hands over quiet dinners. We stayed in bed just because we could. And we ate way too many treats. On the way back to Grandma's, David tried to convince me to spring for one last chocolate-covered indulgence by saying, "It won't ruin our appetites if we s*** it." As my eyebrows shot up he exclaimed "SPLIT! I meant split! I was going to say share and then changed my mind to split!"
We laughed our heads off. And I can't really hold it against him. After all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?
Or at least on I-15.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Tales from the Diet
I've been on a diet for three weeks. It feels like three years. And it's making me a little cranky. Case in point: This morning I told Michael to quit being a jerk to his sister (he was pinching her for the hundredth time this week), to which he responded "Don't call me a jerk, Mom."
Did I say, "I'm sorry" or "You're right, that's not a nice word to use."? No, I actually replied, "Don't act like one." For reals.
Then I had to excuse myself to my room for acting five.
By the time the post-lunch letdown had reached its peak (it is just so sad to be allotted one egg and a single piece of toast for "lunch"), I couldn't take it anymore. I ate an Almond Snickers and I drank milk straight from the jug. The heavens opened, angels started singing, and my crankiness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.
Oops, no, that was Beauty and the Beast.
But seriously, I actually felt sort of human again. And not as bitter about the fact that David gets to eat 6,000 more calories a day than I do. (Stupid female DNA). Granted, tonight at 9:00 when I don't have any treat calories left I'm going to dissolve into a pile of sugarless self-loathing, but for now, man that candy bar was good.
And it almost made me stop caring that, in a fit of dieting delusion, I bought a dress at Costco yesterday thinking how good it would look when I manage to lose a few more pounds. The dress is now staring at me from atop my dresser and making snarky comments about my hips. To which I say, "Bite me."
Mmmm.... bite.
Is it time to eat yet?
Did I say, "I'm sorry" or "You're right, that's not a nice word to use."? No, I actually replied, "Don't act like one." For reals.
Then I had to excuse myself to my room for acting five.
By the time the post-lunch letdown had reached its peak (it is just so sad to be allotted one egg and a single piece of toast for "lunch"), I couldn't take it anymore. I ate an Almond Snickers and I drank milk straight from the jug. The heavens opened, angels started singing, and my crankiness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.
Oops, no, that was Beauty and the Beast.
But seriously, I actually felt sort of human again. And not as bitter about the fact that David gets to eat 6,000 more calories a day than I do. (Stupid female DNA). Granted, tonight at 9:00 when I don't have any treat calories left I'm going to dissolve into a pile of sugarless self-loathing, but for now, man that candy bar was good.
And it almost made me stop caring that, in a fit of dieting delusion, I bought a dress at Costco yesterday thinking how good it would look when I manage to lose a few more pounds. The dress is now staring at me from atop my dresser and making snarky comments about my hips. To which I say, "Bite me."
Mmmm.... bite.
Is it time to eat yet?
Monday, October 8, 2012
Swiffer's Ad Nauseum
Swiffer wants to know: "Is that a mirage, or a man doing housework?"
Saints be praised, it is a man doing housework! Who knew it was possible for a MAN to HELP around the house? Oh, where are my smelling salts??
Ugh.
If you know me, you know I hate men-bashing commercials. And men-bashing tv shows (which, unfortunately, is just about all of them). And that stupid Carrie Underwood song where she sings about vandalizing her boyfriend's car after he cheats on her. (Imagine a man singing a song about slashing the tires and bashing in the headlights on his cheating girlfriend's car. Yep, domestic violence gives you such warm fuzzies, doesn't it?) Not to mention companies that portray men as such brainless, helpless idiots that they would ingest dog treats when famished (Pepto Bismol, I'm talking to you).
I like Swiffer products, I really do. But I can't stand the implication that a man doing housework is such a rare event that it would be considered newsworthy. I realize my husband is a bit cleaner than the average Joe... All right, all right, I think he would follow the average Joe around with a bottle of Lysol (he actually says things on regular basis like, "The baseboards really need to be cleaned" -- which is good because it means he notices such things. It is also bad because it means he notices such things). But, there is not a single husband among the hundreds I've met who has not been willing to help with the upkeep of his own house. Not one. So why do we treat it like such an anomaly?
Even in the case of husbands who don't voluntarily leap to use the toilet brush on a regular basis, why can we not stretch our self-focused little minds to consider that going to work every day actually is helping around the house? (You know, by earning the money that keeps the lights on and food on the table?) Yes, I think we can all agree that men should roll up their sleeves and give their wives a hand at home. But their wives should ditch the petty score-keeping and appreciate the contributions their husbands are making to the home.
Couples who are true equals recognize that they are a team working toward the common goal of raising a family. Therefore, it doesn't matter who changes the most diapers or who does the most dishes any more than it matters who earns the most money or turns in the most quarterly reports. What matters is that both partners are willing to do what is necessary to take care of the family.
Sometimes that means dusting and sometimes it doesn't. But it always means treating your spouse with respect.
For the record, Swiffer, that's R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Let's stop and have some.
Saints be praised, it is a man doing housework! Who knew it was possible for a MAN to HELP around the house? Oh, where are my smelling salts??
Ugh.
If you know me, you know I hate men-bashing commercials. And men-bashing tv shows (which, unfortunately, is just about all of them). And that stupid Carrie Underwood song where she sings about vandalizing her boyfriend's car after he cheats on her. (Imagine a man singing a song about slashing the tires and bashing in the headlights on his cheating girlfriend's car. Yep, domestic violence gives you such warm fuzzies, doesn't it?) Not to mention companies that portray men as such brainless, helpless idiots that they would ingest dog treats when famished (Pepto Bismol, I'm talking to you).
I like Swiffer products, I really do. But I can't stand the implication that a man doing housework is such a rare event that it would be considered newsworthy. I realize my husband is a bit cleaner than the average Joe... All right, all right, I think he would follow the average Joe around with a bottle of Lysol (he actually says things on regular basis like, "The baseboards really need to be cleaned" -- which is good because it means he notices such things. It is also bad because it means he notices such things). But, there is not a single husband among the hundreds I've met who has not been willing to help with the upkeep of his own house. Not one. So why do we treat it like such an anomaly?
Even in the case of husbands who don't voluntarily leap to use the toilet brush on a regular basis, why can we not stretch our self-focused little minds to consider that going to work every day actually is helping around the house? (You know, by earning the money that keeps the lights on and food on the table?) Yes, I think we can all agree that men should roll up their sleeves and give their wives a hand at home. But their wives should ditch the petty score-keeping and appreciate the contributions their husbands are making to the home.
Couples who are true equals recognize that they are a team working toward the common goal of raising a family. Therefore, it doesn't matter who changes the most diapers or who does the most dishes any more than it matters who earns the most money or turns in the most quarterly reports. What matters is that both partners are willing to do what is necessary to take care of the family.
Sometimes that means dusting and sometimes it doesn't. But it always means treating your spouse with respect.
For the record, Swiffer, that's R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Let's stop and have some.
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