I Fought the Laundry

***The following is intended to be used for humor purposes only.  Any attempt to perform the acts stated within this blog could result in the loss of a finger... Or worse, your children taking over your home.***

I have recently come to the conclusion that doing housework with a beer in your hand is really the only way to do it.

Oh, don't get all up in arms! I said a beer, not a bottle of gin. I promise I'm not chronicling the stages of alcoholism.

Anyway, I came by the beer organically. I made a marinade out of it for dinner and it only called for 1/2 cup of beer.  That left 3/4 of lonely Michelob Ultra in the bottle, sitting there looking sad on the counter. That is like, 88 cents down the drain, and nobody wants that. So after I got my chicken good and drunk, I snagged it on my way by and went to switch out the laundry. I took a little swig, sat it down on top of the washing machine, and happily started shuffling clothes from one dark metal cave to the other.

Wait!!! Um...  Happily?!? Only an insane person happily does laundry. An insane person, or maybe a person who is using the laundry room as a hide-out because her children won't stop asking for stuff every three seconds. 

In that small "happily" moment, a glorious truth was revealed to me.

A podcast in the ears (and if you're listening to a podcast, why not THE FIRNECAST? *shameful, shameful self promotion*) and a beer in the hand makes the dreaded "laundry day" seem like a mini-vacation.

Okay, it really doesn't.  But it sorta helps. It's like one of those relaxation techniques they teach you or something. Like a sort of 3-D visualization. 

Just looking at that cold beer sitting on top of the washing machine totally Calgon-ed me (kids, for those of you too young to have any idea what I'm talking about, that was a commercial we used to see back in the olden days in which a lady took a bath and declared "Calgon, take me away!" as she poured in her lovely Calgon bubble bath or whatever it was). It was heavenly. Much like the beer that helps you get through a dinner with your in-laws (I am of course speaking metaphorically, as my mother-in-law is nothing short of dazzling, seriously, you should be jealous). It's shiny brown glass winked at me saucily, saying, "This isn't work, this is party time, girl!!!" And then it did a z snap just for kicks.

Ya know what though? That shiny brown bottle had a point!  It's science. You are tricking your brain into thinking that housework isn't the most soul crushingly boring thing in the universe by packing around an adult beverage.

Sadly, I must attach a warning label to my so-called "glorious revelation." This way of life could easily become addictive.  It's one of those things you must relegate to the: "Ya know what? This is freaking amazing. But if I keep doing it, I'm never going to be able to stop. Pretty soon, every time I need to dig a nasty hairball out of the shower drain, I'll be reaching for a cold one and that just won't do.  I mean, there's a reason they don't let you drink on the job.  Plus, the kids could more easily outwit me, and I'm already outnumbered," side of life.  

But from this day forth, I will hold onto the memory of that glorious 3/4 of a beer moment in the history of my house-wifery as the day I beat drudgery.

It's constant presence has a way of constantly looming over me, saying, "Drudge, drudge, drudge. As soon as you think you're done, someone will make a mess and you will have to start all over again. Your house can never all be clean at the same and have the laundry caught up too. Druuuuuuuuudge!!!"

But not today, friends!!! Not today!!! I used my beer as a light sabre of justice, slicing through the gray clouds of tediousness and showing the rays of hope beyond, "This will be over soon. There is an end in sight."

Thank you, beer. Thank you for making this the least boring laundry day ever.

I hope you have a wonderful week, my friends!  And may the drudgeries of your life be crushed 'neath the mighty beer in your hand!  Or, if you aren't into that sort of thing, a nice cold glass of iced tea and a safe place to hide in your laundry room.

Nipple Talk

I've been thinking a lot about nipples.  Not only because I was feverishly repeating the "nipple chunk" (as I like to call it) in my standup set over and over trying to memorize it last week, but also because I have two attached to the front of me.  They are a fascinating subject to be sure.  Thus, the following is a compilation of all of my "nipple thoughts" for the week, as a sort of companion piece to the video of my standup I posted last week.  I do hope you enjoy, and maybe read it with your nipples, and hopefully the three of you can commiserate and get a good laugh.

When you get right down to it, nipples are basically the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae known as your boob.  When you're young, they're perfectly perched atop like a happy little decoration.  As you age, they sort of slide down the side like they've been left out in the sun.

Areolas are alive, ever-changing creatures.  As you grow in life, so do they.  Exponentially.  With each child you have, they will start claiming more territory on your overall boob.  You may start out with a 90/10 boob to nipple ration, but I promise that's not how you'll end up. You've been warned, young ladies. 
 
If my body were an army, my nipples would be the recon guys because they go in first during every mission.  Only problem is, they're terrible communicators. They have neither mouths nor hands, so even if they sense danger my body has to wait until the eyes reach the situation to find out about it.  By then it could be too late.  I'm thinking about trying to train them to communicate through a series of tingles.  That way, if the sh*t's going down, I can quickly back out of the room before I get into an awkward encounter.  Yes, my life is such that the only "sh*t" that goes down is an awkward encounter.

 At one time in my life, my nipples sat at the front of my body proudly, like the prow on a ship, pointing my way through life and letting me know when it was cold.  Now they're just sorta sad.  Like little arrows that can only point at my feet.

I've come to think of my areolas sort of like the rings inside a tree... Just as the rings of a tree store its entire history, so do my boob halos store mine. The older I get, the more of my rich history is played out in the seemingly never-ending expansion of my nipples.  Each year, I get to look in the mirror, and ask myself that age-old question, "What the hell??? Are they getting bigger???" and each year, the horrid, resounding answer is "Yes, yes they are."

Well, my wonderful friends/readers, that is all for this week.  And may the areolas of your life never be described as "pepperonis."

Open Mic, Open Heart

You know that whole dream bomb detonation I've been talking about for months and months...? Well, I totally blew that thing up!!!  I went and did my open mic night at Manny's in Billings!!!  I wish I could say I remember every detail, but honestly, it's kind of a blur.  The one thing I remember very clearly though?  The feel of that sweet, sweet microphone in my hand.  Ah, it was a.m.a.z.i.n.g.!!!

I was so nervous beforehand, it's the one time in my adult life that I could honestly see myself wetting my pants in fright.  My hands went numb and my arms were tingling, but I didn't drop the mic, so I'm pretty happy with that.  I'm posting the video below, and I hope you guys enjoy it.  Please keep in mind, this is the very first time I've ever done anything like this... So be gentle friends, be gentle.

My wonderful friend Gina came with me and video-d for me, and since she was watching, my head got cut off a time or two.  Which actually, I think is a good thing.  With this face, a little goes a long way.

At times you can barely hear me over the talking of the crowd... I went on 10th out of 18, so by the time I was up, I think everybody was sorta drunk and reeeeeal bored.  But actually, it went better than I ever could have hoped for.  People even laughed! I didn't trip or accidentally break wind so loudly the mic picked it up, which were my two greatest fears.

Whew, it's over, I did it, and I am so so happy!!! I reached out and grabbed my dream and damn near strangled it to death.

Anyway, here's the video.  I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!!!

Countdown to Standup, T-1

Panic.

Setting.

In.

Insides.

Mush.

HELP!!!

Martinis

Let's face it, I like drinking. Oh, don't get all uptight on me! I'm not some psycho, boozy, sad 50's housewife (I'm looking at you, Betty Draper). I just don't mind having a glass of wine with my ladies every now and then. And when I say every now and then, I mean it in a sad way. Like every six months.

Anyway, on those exceedingly rare occasions when I do get to indulge in a glass of wine, I'm secretly wishing it was something else... That's right, I am fantasizing about something else when I am snuggling with my lady love red wine...

What is it that could possibly tempt me away from the perfect plummy red beauty of a glass of Shiraz?

Why, a martini of course!

How cool is drinking a martini? The frosty glass, the olives... You just look cooler holding one. How impressed would you be if you were standing next to me at a bar and I said, "I'll have a vodka martini, dirty, three olives. Shaken, not stirred."? I'm guessing pretty impressed.


See??? Don't I look super cool holding this martini glass???

I feel like if I could conquer the martini my life would automatically expand. I would begin jetting off to Europe, calling people "dah-ling", and wearing red lipstick like some saucy vixen (even though I was genetically cursed with no lips to put it on, thanks Dad).

There is a cool factor to a martini that no other drink could ever possibly hope to capture. Is it because of James Bond? I doubt it. James Bond wishes he was as cool as a martini. Martinis made that man... Okay, I know he's a badass ladykiller spy too, but whatever! I'm making a point here.

What is it about the martini that has so captured my little imagination?

Perhaps it has something to do with the glass... It has the coolest shape... All, "Hey, I'm drinking out of an upside down triangle on a stick!" Okay, it didn't sound cool the way I put it, but you've seen one so you know what I'm talking about.

I find them so appealing, so alluring. My husband orders them and I gaze at him adoringly... I can't help myself, he's just so damn manly ordering that. He becomes a mysterious stranger for a moment (and as any of us old married ladies know, any kind of mystery at this point is a good thing).

Of course I always ask him for a sip. I then gasp, shudder, say, "ppppllllleeeecchhhhhht!!!!" and drink something else as fast as I can to wash away the horrible horrible taste.

Why martini??? Why??? Why can't you taste better so I can enjoy you like the super cool hep cat I know I am???

In my research for this blog (don't look so surprised, of course I do research for this masterpiece!!!) , I interviewed my baby brother about his love of the martini. Well, he's not really a baby, just so you know... I don't have a weird booze hound infant for a brother, he's an adult. I definitely do not condone alcoholic babies. They're usually mean drunks. Anyway, he said that a good martini is like drinking a cloud because it's all "cool and clean and wonderful tasting." Now that I'm thinking about it, the martinis I've tasted sort of did taste like clouds. Clouds of jet fuel. And burning taste buds. And disappointment.

I guess my tongue just isn't groovy enough to enjoy the flavor of a martini. I really shouldn't be surprised, this isn't the first time my tongue has betrayed me. I tried to say, "Sup?" on more than one occasion when that was a thing and I sounded like a buffoon. And I don't even want to get into the "You go, girl!" era. Let's just say no girls were going anywhere when I said it.

Should I give up on this quest to enjoy a martini? I clearly don't like them. But I can't, I just can't let go of the idea of myself with that upside down triangle in my hand. I feel like giving up on the martini is giving up on the part of myself that has the potential to be not a nerd. It's a very small part of me, but still, it's something!!!

So, who wants to make me a dirty martini??? I'll bring the olive juice!!!

The Carpet Lawn

The first signs of spring are starting to appear. The weather is getting warmer, that fresh smell of sunshine is beginning to touch the air, bugs are starting to appear in my shower and freak me out. All around my neighborhood flowers are getting ready to bloom and lawns are thinking about getting green (possibly... It's really hard to say what lawns are thinking, they're so enigmatic).

For some reason the spring thaw has me contemplating a favorite yet rather bizarre subject: The guy with a carpet for a lawn.

This contemplation may be a bit baffling to you. If it isn't, you're from Worland. For those of you not lucky enough to be from the Land of the Wor, I shall explain. There is a gentleman in our fair village that has made the decision to forgo grass for carpet. Yes, he really has. His lawn is a carpet. Or rather, a compilation of many carpets.



For those curious souls who want to see a carpet lawn for themselves, here it is! I seem to remember the carpet lawn of my childhood as being much more colorful, but perhaps I embellished it a bit with my kid brain.


How does this man mark spring and the summer to come? Does he step out of his front door, inhale the beginnings of the mildew as it's thawing, and think, "Oh yes! Spring is in the air!"? Does he turn to his best gal and say, "Almost time to take our shoes off and squish around in the carpet. There is nothing, NOTHING, like the feel of damp carpet between your toes on a lovely sunshine-y day, don't you agree?"? It just isn't summer until you see that first lady bug making its way across the Berber.

Is it obvious that I've spent some time thinking about the carpet lawn? Definitely not a lot, like, a totally normal amount of time. I for sure haven't driven by it every chance I get just to gaze in wonder. The point is, I have so many questions, so much I would love to say if I ever got the opportunity to speak with this self-made landscaper of carpet.

Here the short list of questions I would ask if ever given the opportunity to interview this intriguing character:

1. How did you arrive at the decision to put down carpet?
2. Why not rocks? Or even just dirt?
3. What was it about carpeting your front yard that first drew you to the idea?
4. What type of carpet is best suited to an outdoor space?
5. Does it need to be vacuumed? Or scotch guarded?
6. Did you have to put down those spikey rulers to make it stay or did it just lay there on its own?
7. Do you change the carpet when it gets worn out?
8. Did you have to pay for it, and if so, at what point does it become too expensive to continue carpeting?
8. Did you ever consider hardwood or laminate? They have some really nice linoleum now that looks like tile!

God, I'd love to crawl inside that man's brain, just for a minute. I'd probably crawl back out looking like I'd just seen the Ark of the Covenant, but it might be worth it just to know why. Why?!? I would no longer have a face, but I would know how was this idea was born. I would know what manner of dark-dwelling, unnatural bugs live under there and how one would fight them.

Yes, spring. Beautiful spring. Harbinger of toxic smells rising from a man's carpet lawn. It's the small things such as this that make us truly glad to be alive.

P.S. I hope you don't think I'm being mean in writing about this fascinating subject. I am writing from a place of sincere affection and interest in a man and subject not oft (if ever) considered (by anyone but me, that is). You just don't see that kind of stuff these days and it is to be treasured.

Blame it on Gramma.

When I was young, I dreamed about getting married. Dresses, knights in shining armor, poetry, the whole generic sappy thing. It was quite pathetic. I wish I could go back in time, slap myself, and say, "For God's sakes woman, dream about traveling the world, not snaring a man!!! What is wrong with you???" And then younger me would be like, "Hey, I could have done without the slap, that was really mean!" And I'd be like, "Yeah, sorry, just trying to add a little drama." Anyway, I digress...

The point is, I blame it on my Gramma.

"Well, that's a little weird," you might say. How is this crazy girl's romantic mental illness her poor old gray haired Gramma's fault? Well, I'll tell you why... That sweet old lady? She had a secret passion... A dark habit. Yes, dear old Gramma had a taste for the bosom heavers, the smut novels, a bit of the "dirty pages" if you will. And one day when I was at her house, all of 13 years old, I stumbled upon one and I was never the same.

That's right, Gramma got me started. I would sneak one of her little novels home under my shirt every time I went over there. Yes, it's true! I did it!!! I stole from my own Grandmother!!! Just to get a taste of that sweet, sweet romance. I was an addict and I didn't care how I got my fix.

The historical ones were how I preferred to get my kicks, but really... I would take anything I could get. For a 13 year old kid in a town with watchful librarians, sexy novels are hard to come by.

(This was my favorite one... I read it at least 5oo times.)

I would rush upstairs when I came home and hide them under my bed, then feverishly read them when I was supposed to be sleeping. Growing up as a pretty sheltered, innocent girl, reading those books was as naughty to me as smoking a cigarette... It was wrong, wrong, wrong, filling my head with that sleaze but I did it anyway. Gram would always tell people she skipped over the steamy parts, but I can tell you something... I didn't.

Had I only known the consequences.

Those damn novels warped my little brain. For years after that, my romance-novel saturated mind would swirl and spin in pink cotton candy visions of that perfect happily ever after scene as the story book closes at the end of a fairy tale.

A deadly combination of Gramma's novels and teenage hormones created a sort of love gas in my brain that clouded my judgement about boys for years to come... I envisioned a heart of chivalry and gold inside each dorky college boy that quite simply wasn't there... I obviously had a very active imagination. Going through my old photo albums is beyond cringe-worthy. If a heart of gold or any semblance of chivalry was in there, it was quite well hidden.

So the moral of the story is, friends, keep your daughters away from the romance novels. They were quite obviously written by 50 year old spinster virgins, but 13 year old ones can't tell the difference. Their little psyches will be warped well into their 20's by that stuff... And they will never again be able to think of a man's part as anything but "turgid manhood," even in anatomy class.

P.S. If you could all avoid telling my Gram that I blogged about her personal stash of "lady porn" I'd appreciate it.