Heat Wave Rant and Rave

Oh how I hate the heat.

In case you didn’t get that the first time, let me say it again. I HATE THE HEAT! Summer to me is nothing but 12 weeks of suffering under that sweltering son of a bitch otherwise known as humidity. Throw in a little noose tightening at the hands of the electric company and you have yourself an entire season of oppression.

Okay, maybe that comes off just a little too harsh. I can’t help it – boob sweat makes me cranky.

Whoa! Did I just say that? Apparently the heat has traveled from under my boobs straight to my head!

That’s right…there is an “under” to my boobs…I am guessing it is what they have been pointing at for the last 10 years.

Oh my gosh, how has this post gone so bad, so quickly?

Oh that’s right – it’s because of the heat. The hot, steamy, staggering, skin burning, hair frizzing, sweat soaking heat and his faithful freakin sidekick, humidity. Have I mentioned I hold them both in deep contempt?

I also hold them completely responsible for any damages caused when I ran that red light and took out two mailboxes in hot pursuit of an ice cream truck.

I’m sure you couldn’t guess this, but I much prefer the winter. It’s not that I enjoy sub zero temperatures or deep freezing wind chills, but at least when you get cold, you have ammunition. Another sweater, extra blankets, three layers of socks.  But in the summer, once you’ve hit naked, you’re out of options.

I should probably move to a cooler climate. But you know, with global warming and all, I guess the grass isn’t any frostier….

Perhaps I should go lie down and pray for an early Fall. There is no Groundhog for that now, is there?  My guess is that Phil’s contract with the town of Punxsutawney states that he doesn’t have to come out of his air conditioned hole. Alas, I’m left with nothing but a Sharpie to check off the calendar on the fridge.

While I’m there, I’m going to put my bra in the freezer.

The Trouble With Chocolate

If you’re on a diet, here’s a tip: Never buy a case of Hershey bars for a party that is a week away. This falls under the same category as never buy Halloween candy when it is on sale in September.

I’m not even what you would call a chocolate lover and those damn things are calling out to me. Thirty six candy bars is too many to have in the fridge, waiting to be wrapped and stuffed into favor bags. And since there are only twenty four favor bags to make, it seems only right to eat the ones that won’t be invited to attend the party.

Maybe I shouldn’t eat all twelve leftovers, but don’t you think it would be wise to sample at least one? You never know, we could have a bad batch. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of 24 tummy aches. It would actually be irresponsible of me to not sample them…don’t you think?

Yes, yes, I do believe it is my duty to try them — for the sake of the kids. And I think in the interest of establishing an accurate sampling, I will have to try more than one. After all, the one I try just may be the one and only good candy bar in a box of otherwise rotten chocolate. Could I really go on to assume the other 35 are just as good? I think not.

I think perhaps I need to select quite a few at random and test them over the next few days. I don’t think I need to taste as many as half, but I do need a good percentage, just to be sure. 1/4 might be enough, but I think I would still feel a tad unsettled. 1/3 feels like a good amount — the perfect amount to really feel certain that all the bars are indeed, edible.

Now let’s see…1/3 of 36 is…oh what do you know…12!

Most Likely to Grow up and Blog About 8th Grade Yearbook

I remember nearing the end of the eight grade school year, there was a lot of bustle and hype about the upcoming yearbook. There was even a yearbook committee. I so wanted to be on the committee, but the class nominated and voted on the students who would hold the honor of committing our senior year to paper. I wasn’t even in the running. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be named “most popular”.

The girl who sat in front of me was selected to be on the committee. For the purpose of this story, I’ll call her Patricia…because that was her name. I don’t remember which other students made the committee. But I have always remembered Patricia, and the reason being is this; when the yearbook came out and everyone’s fate was determined in ink beneath their photograph, Patricia’s read Most Fashionable.

“Huh?” was my initial reaction. And even now, decades later, it is still a head scratcher. You see, Patrica and I went to Catholic school, where everyone wore the same uniform, right down to the socks and shoes. How in the hell can one person be more fashionable than the rest when they are all dressed exactly the same? I’ll tell you how. She was on the committee and wanted to deem herself as such. And so she did.

I wonder whatever became of Patricia. Fashion model…designer…editor of Vogue? Because with that eighth grade credential (albeit self assigned), I’m sure she grew up to secure a grand career in the world of high end fashion.

Or maybe she is waitressing at Applebees and color coordinating her hair clip to her polo shirt. I Googled her and came up empty. Wherever she is, I am sure she is the most fashionable one in the room.

What does this all matter to me now, thirty years later? Not a hell of a lot, I suppose. It’s just that I find myself a lot of the time wondering if I take this pajama mommy thing too far. I mean, there are days I pick my kid up from school wearing something I wouldn’t have been caught outside in before becoming a mom. I guess my priorities have shifted.

Not that I have ever been fashionable. Far from it. I’ve always had my own style, without ever actually being in style. I guess the closest I’ve ever been to being fashionable was when I wore my eighth grade uniform. That was the last time I dressed the same as the rest of the kids were doing.

And in case you were wondering, I was voted Most Lively.

For more about my fashion woes, check out the latest humor column from Pajama Mommy, Fashion Weak.

Here comes Monday…

And so another long weekend draws to a close. And I am left wondering where the hell it went and even more importantly — who the hell made this mess in my house?

There’s the mountain of paperwork on my desk, waiting to be sorted, shredded, recycled or transformed into origami. Not that I know how to do origami. And I’m fairly certain that if learning how had been on my to-do list, this, too, would remain undone.

The only thing towering higher than the paperwork is the folded laundry. It sits on my bed, waiting to mock me when I am weary and have no place to rest my head.

The mood in our home has turned sour, as the air is thick with the pending doom of Monday morning. My husband has retreated to the home office, to drown his sorrows in a computer game. The four year old is sleeping, undoubtedly tired out by the foot stomping, crying tantrum accompanying her insistence that she is NOT GOING TO CAMP TOMORROW!

If only I could call my boss and tell him the same. I’m not coming to work because I don’t WAAANT TO! I don’t LIIIKE IT! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!

The only happy one around here  is the cat, who seems to recognize the packing of lunches and backpacks as the sign that tomorrow morning we will all depart and leave her in peace to roam around doing her secret cat stuff.

Yes, the weekend comes to an end with a heavy sigh. And since tomorrow is an early wake up, I suppose it is time I retreat to the bedroom and dismantle the freshly laundered monument to procrastination, slip into bed and drift off while visions of lottery winnings dance in my head.

Ummm…I Just Want to be Friends.

I’ve been in some awkward moments and heard some disconcerting things in my time, but none so much as hearing a declaration of love from MY BOSS!

I was at home, and had been for a week, due to my little girl being sick. We were nearing the end of a lengthy conversation about the happenings at the office, when his other line started to ring. He needed to rush off to answer it and said, “Okay, let me get that, love you,” and hung up the phone.

After the administering of some smelling salts, I realized it was only a result of his haste, he must be so used to abruptly hanging up on his new wife, he said it out of sheer habit. I honestly believe he has no idea he even said it.

Had he stayed on the phone a moment longer, perhaps I’d have come up with a worthy retort.

No thanks, I’m taken.

Can this be considered harassment?

How about a paid vacation?

I’d be honored to be your third wife.

The truth is, I’ve been working for him so long, it sometimes feels like we’re married. Though I doubt he asks his wife to get him a cup of coffee or run to the deli to fetch him a sandwich. And because his marriage is only a few weeks old, I’m sure his new wife looks forward to him walking through the door, whereas I’m standing on the don’t let it hit you in the ass side.

I’m not saying he is a bad person. I’m just saying he isn’t my type. At least not for what he pays me. Maybe for the right price….

No..no no… I’m just kidding. If I were to prostitute myself it would be the old fashioned way – on the street with no commitments.

Really…I’m not serious. I would never have sex for money. Besides, I’d go broke unless I charged by the pound.

But it would be nice to get a raise. You know, one based on genuine appreciation of a hard day’s work.

I’d take that over a declaration of love any day.