Did Someone Say... Poker?

Yesterday was the second annual Ride for the Future Poker Run. After some schedule changing and rearranging, DH and I were able to make the ride this year... and all I have to say is WOOHOO! What a ride!

Okay, I'll admit that the first word that came to mind was actually, "BRRRRrrrrr!" but that's not technically a word, is it? Regardless, it was cold enough during parts of the ride to make us wonder if we had lost our bananas for participating, but it was nothing three long-sleeved shirts and a leather jacket couldn't take the edge off of. Well, sorta. Barely. Okay, not really, but it was still a good time. And I'm sure DH will agree when and if the feeling ever returns from his frozen nether-regions, if you catch my drift.

I love poker runs because you know you are going to be surrounded by people who share at least one passion with you... riding motorcycles. Or is it wearing leather? Maybe both, but thats another blog post altogether, isn't it? Uhhhhh... never mind.

Aside from feeling like a sexy, leather-clad minx and having it be socially acceptable, the biggest upside of poker runs is knowing that all the while you are riding and having a good time, you are also helping to raise money for a good cause. Well, that and spending good quality time with DH, but that's just a bonus.

And let's not forget the great people you meet along the way, either. Take yesterday, for example: DH and I were done registering for the ride and were scoping out some seats for breakfast when we were invited to join a gentleman and his daughter at their table. Turns out it was going to be their first poker run and they were feeling a bit like outsiders looking in. They had a bunch of questions, and hot-diggity-dog, were we full of answers! Not really... but wouldn't that have been so cool? The reality is, yesterday was only our second poker run, but we had been lucky enough to be shown the ropes by some dear friends last year, so we paid the favor forward. And it was a great time getting to know our new friends throughout the day.

We also were lucky enough to win a few door prizes at the end of the ride meal, and actually came out ahead when all was said and done.

But, even if we hadn't won a thing... I still think we came out ahead.

A beautiful ride.

Time spent with each other.

And an excuse to wear leather... *wink*

Smooth Operator

By nature, I am accident prone. No matter what I'm doing, I can find a way to klutz it up. It's a gift, really.

I don't really remember being gifted in this manner until the fourth grade. That's when I somehow hit the jackpot and broke a toe while trying to do a cartwheel, and broke an arm while attempting to get onto a balance beam... all in one year. That takes talent, ladies and gentlemen.

After that it was rather common to hear the other kids say things like, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!" Ahhh... don't children just have a magical way with words?

While many of my other talents from childhood have left me... like the ability to do math without a calculator... the ability to make a complete dork of myself has not only lingered, it's nearing perfection. I am so used to hearing people say, "What did you do NOW?!" that it doesn't even phase me anymore.

And it's not like I am a daredevil. I don't do 'daredevil'. It's the really complicated things, like walking and breathing at the same time, that give me the most trouble. I can fall off my shoes if I'm not paying enough attention. Seriously. And I had a bruise in the exact shape of Australia on my leg last year to prove it.

So far this year I have slammed two different fingers into two different drawers on two separate occasions within the same week. Both at work. And both in front of customers. There is nothing like trying to bite back all those words they didn't teach you in Sunday school ifyouknowwhatImean while Joe Public stands there helplessly watching. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure good ol' Joe is trying their best not to point and laugh while I hop around and mutter under my breath... I mean that's darn good entertainment right there. Anyway, it could be worse... at least I am only losing one fingernail and not two. Right?

What prompted this post was two things:

First, I fell off a step stool earlier this week, and fell back against a counter top where I proceeded to bruise and scratch a nice long stripe on my back. Did I mention I was at work when I did it? Again? And in front of a customer? Again? I'm sure the whole 'trying not to cry' thing was super-professional. I could just about teach a class on it by now. Anyhoo, I posted a status on my Facebook wall about the fall, where it inspired a slew of friends and former coworkers to walk down memory lane...

• Remember when you put the drill bit through your foot? That was so funny!


• OMG! You used to fall down the stairs so much! Remember we were gonna wrap it in those fun-noodle thingies and make you a bubble wrap suit?! And make you wear a crash helmet??! HAHAHAhahaha!


• You stapled your thumb to your math test back in junior high! I totally remember that!


• Dude... you fell down the stairs that one time after taking diet pills. Didn't you really hurt yourself then? Okay, not so funny after all. (blogger's note: yeah, not so funny... turned out after about 10 years of intermittent pain I had actually fractured my back and went undiagnosed... oops...)


• Didn't you do something to your foot when I worked with you? (Uh, yeah... thought I just stubbed my toe on a suitcase, but actually broke a bone in my foot)

Ahhhh... it's nice to know I leave people with such warm memories of me! I sure can make a lasting impression, can't I.

And, the second thing I did to prompt this post: I burned myself last night taking a pan out of the oven. I was using a hot-pad, mind you... I just missed it with my thumb. Have no fear: I did not drop dinner. A girl has to have her priorities, you know.

Someday, When I Grow Up

I'd like to think that one day I will grow up and not let snarky comments ruin my day. Someday soon... like maybe tomorrow.

I always thought grown ups were... oh, I don't know... more grown up or something. I always thought that I would eventually reach some sort of milestone and a magical switch would be flipped, and then all my insecurities would vanish. If there is such a thing, I am still waiting.

The funny thing is, the only reason people can ruin my day is that I let them ruin my day. I'm quite sure the person who was snotty, snarky, and downright bitchy with me today didn't even think twice about the comment that was made... but here I am, five hours later mind you, still hurt and upset. What, I ask you, is wrong with this picture? I sure can be an oversensitive ninny, can't I. Drama. Drama. Drama.

Sometimes I have flashbacks to elementary school... when I would eat my lunch at a table all by myself in the lunchroom, or would go sit on the far side of the playground and watch the other kids while they played during recess. I was the short, chubby girl that didn't fit in no matter how hard I tried. Inexplicably, even after all these years, it's days like this that I still feel like that lonesome little odd-girl-out.

Whew! All this... this... this drama from one, off-handed, mean remark?

Yep. It's definitely time for a chocolate intervention.

Thanks for listening... err... reading.

What-apotamus?

Back when DH and I were first living together, he had a habit of saying I was 'beautimous'. If I recall correctly, that was something the cool boys said to their girls back in the 80's. Yeah, that's cool... in a dorkishly outdated kind of way. (Isn't it?)

I don't know. To me it sounded way too much like 'hippopotamus'... and for some strange reason that just doesn't seem like much of a compliment, ya know?

In the interest of always being open and honest about things, I had of course kept my dislike of that term bottled up inside. That is until it burst out in a waterfall of emotion and protest one night when I was feeling a bit on the hippy side of the scale. Nothing like freaking him out during what was supposed to be a tender moment, eh? Just call me the Queen of Tact and Timing.

After DH got a good laugh at me for thinking he was likening me to a hippopotamus (and then apologizing for laughing me, I might add) we somehow coined what was the beginning of a never-ending string of nicknames for me...

When I am upset, DH says I am an emotia-potamus.

When I am tired... a sleepy-potamus.

When I trip and fall (or do something else extraordinarily graceful), he oh-so-lovingly refers to me as a klutz-apotamus. How... quaint.

Then there is dork-apotamus, bratty-potamus, grouch-apotamus...

Well, you get the picture. He can pretty much whip out an 'apotamus' name for whatever the situation may be. It's an art, really. And, for some unexplainable (and probably really dorky reason), I get all giggly and happy when he calls me his 'wife-apotamus'.

I know. I need therapy.

Yours truly,
Blog-apotamus

A Different Kind of Easter Hunt

Have you ever heard of Tony Hawk? You know... the world renowned skateboarding guru extraordinaire? If not then maybe you should. Today he did something truly remarkable, and my family (along with 364,000 or so other people) 'watched' as he and a handful of helpers pulled off an entirely different type of Easter hunt. Tony shipped autographed Tony Hawk skateboard decks all over the country (and even several internationally) and had his own version of Santa's Little Helpers hide them. Then he manned his twitter page all day today giving hints as to where the decks could be found. All he asked in return was for people to post pictures when the boards were located.

And it was... awesome.

Just watching the 'hunt' unfold on twitter today put a big ol' smile on my family's faces... and we aren't even boarders or skaters or anything. It was just the excitement that radiated off the pictures of those that were lucky enough to find the golden eggs... err... decks. It was contagious. And the mother who snatched one up for her son who is serving in Afghanistan? She brought me to tears. Yes, it's true... I had an emotional moment.

I hope others were as touched today as my family was. For us, it made us wonder what we could do here in Small Town that would invoke the same kind of excitement and good-natured fun that Tony was able to create on a much bigger scale today.

And for that kind of inspiration, I'd like to tell him thank you. Who knows... maybe I just did.

Easter... Bunny?

DD got her Easter surprise a day early: a new hamster. And, to commemorate the occasion for which she got it, the hamster is named... Bunny.

Already, the cutsie-ness of the name has gotten some mileage. Like when DD called DH and thanked him for the present. Mind you, I hadn't quite mentioned to him what I had planned... guess that would have been advisable.

Anyhoo, the call went a little bit like this:

*ring ring*

DH: Hello?

DD: Thank you for my Bunny!

DH: Huh? Uh... okay?

DD: Haha! It's not a bunny... it's a hamster named Bunny!

DH: Ohhhhh. Um. Well. You're welcome?

[insert lots of giggling and smiles here]

She got quite a kick out of confusing the daylights out of DH. He came home right after that to see this 'Bunny' for himself.

What I did not anticipate, however, is how fun it was going to be watching our dogs watch the hamster. We put the cage right on the floor so they could see Bunny running around in her wheel and climbing around in the tubes of the cage. We are pretty sure our middle dog, Rosie, thinks the hamster is a squeaker toy that moves all on it's own. Hot-DIGGITY-dog!

I don't think the other Easter bunny is going to be able to top this 'Easter Bunny'...

Let's Go Hunting...

This is my big brother. It's the only year that we weren't standing side-by-side for our Easter picture. And it's kind of sad, really, because that's how we always were at that age... side-by-side. He was my partner in crime. The Mutt to my Jeff. The Lone Ranger to my Tonto. The Donnie to my Marie. Well... I'm sure you get my point.

He was my brother and also my best friend. I didn't know it back then, but he was born with a number of birth defects that made him a very sick little boy. He was in and out of the hospital a lot. Maybe that attributed to how close we were growing up, I don't know... but we really were two peas in a pod. (You just thought I was done with the euphemisms...!)

Now, I'm proud to report, he is a strappingly healthy 40-year old man with beautiful wife and a 21-year old son in college. Sadly, we don't get to share holidays together anymore due to silly things like geography, job responsibilities and schedules.

And so, we don't get to hunt Easter eggs together anymore either. But then again, that's probably a good thing for me, because he was always way better at it than I was anyway.

My Easter Flashback

Lately, I have been thinking about Easter when I was a kid.

My brother and I dyed Easter eggs, and our folks would hide them for us to find the next morning. Those suckers would be laying around the house for hours and hours. And then we'd find 'em. And eat them. Heck, mom used to send one in our lunch boxes when we were old enough to be in school, too. Refrigeration? We don't need no stinkin' refrigeration! And you know what? Not once did we get sick from those eggs.

This is me, circa 1973. Wasn't I adorable? And chubby? From the looks of me, I wasn't afraid to eat much of anything back then.

Fast forward to 2009. Now it's unheard of to hide the eggs you dye... well, unless you plan to just throw them away, and that's just crazy talk. I mean, what about all the deviled eggs they could make?! I don't even want to think about it!

Nowadays, kids still dye Easter eggs, but then they are safely placed back in the fridge, lest we all get food poisoning. Some marketing genius is a bazillionaire because now all of us parents buy plastic eggs. And then buy candy to fill them. And then we still fill an Easter basket with goodies, too.

But I still love Easter. And, thankfully, so does our DD. This week she informed us that she'll want us to hide eggs for her when she's twenty and home visiting from college over Easter break.

Sounds like a plan to me.

I'm A Loser...

Yes, it's true. I am a loser.

Now, before anyone starts lecturing me about saying self-depreciating things about myself, let me explain. For the last 9 weeks, I have been participating in Small Town's version of The Biggest Loser. Teams of 4 people competed against other teams to see who could lose the largest percentage of body fat. My team was called the B'Walkin' O'Mamas... could we have been any cutesier with our name? I think not. After all, we were looking for a little... change. (sorry... couldn't resist...)

Unlike the network TV version, there were no cameras following us around (thank heaven for that) and there were no trainers calling us wimps if we decided to just lounge around on our living room couches instead of working out (again, thank heavens). And, while the local newspaper published the team names and how they were collectively losing, no one knew who lost (or gained) as individuals. Amen.

Another refreshing difference is we didn't have to vote off other teams. What. A. Relief. I have to be honest, that is one part of the TV version I just don't like. I can't help it. I have struggled with my weight since the tender age of 6-weeks old. Seriously. My mom has often talked of how well I ate as a baby, and how the doctor put me on a diet at 6 weeks old. Six freakin' weeks old... and on a diet? How depressing is that? It's no wonder I think all the people on that show should just be allowed to stay and lose, and lose... and LOSE... without worrying about interpersonal politics, or clicks, or anything else besides getting healthy. In fact, I think it would be heartwarming if they could sit around a campfire and sing Kumbaya every night... minus the s'mores, of course. But that wouldn't make for Must See TV. Yet another reason I'm not a high-powered TV exec, right?

But I digress.

My own triumph during the last 9 weeks... 17 pounds lost. Okay, I'll admit it... it was 18 as of last week, but then there were these little white cupcakes, you see... and... and... well, I'm sure you can figure out the rest. *sigh*

I'm not complaining. Seventeen pounds is a huge achievement, especially in such a short amount of time. And, just because the last official weigh-in was today doesn't mean I'm done... I'm going to keep on going. One of my teammates is going to keep up the weight loss and exercise with me, too. Yay for us!

So, yeah... I'm a loser. And dadgum proud of it, too.

Amazon to the Rescue!

Maybe it's karma.

Maybe it's fate.

Or maybe Amazon has spies watching me. Uhhh... looking over my shoulder*... that's kind of a creepy thought, so let's hope that's not the case...

I just find it ironic that after all the back and forth these past 4 months between me and Kasbahouse, that all it took was Amazon to knock them up alongside the head. SMACK! BAM! Out of the blue today we are receiving a full refund for the broken pasta machine. AND they don't even want the darn thing back. Why they wouldn't do this back in January before Amazon had to kick their you-know-what for me, I don't know. But I sure am thankful they finally they did it now.

Amazon is a powerful, powerful being and must be revered. At least, that's what I tell myself when the credit card bill comes....

*wink*

Lucky, Lucky Woman...

I am a very lucky woman. I married a man who cooks. And when I say he cooks, I don't mean occasionally grilling a steak or microwaving some popcorn. I'm tellin' you, my man can C-O-O-K cook! He has specialities, like chocolate mousse pie and honey-oatmeal bread (which are both to die for, thankyouverymuch). And, more incredibly, he even has secret recipes. It's true. The meatballs and marinara he makes that are absolutely second to none? That's right... they are Top Secret.

And I'll admit it... I like to show him off. I tease other women, it's true. What can I say, I have a lot to show off about. Case and point: When DD participated in a fundraising bake sale last spring, DH whipped out a bunch of loaves of his honey-oatmeal bread. Can you believe that most people gave $20 a loaf for them? They not only gladly handed over the cash... they even asked if he'd make more. What a guy.

Last night our DD was involved in yet another community fundraiser, but this time they were cooking a pancake supper. Guess who stopped in and gave the girls Pancake Making 101? That's right... my hubby. What a man.

On his nights off, he cooks dinner. Everything from pork loins cooked all day in the smoker to basil pesto pasta to deer burgers. What's more is he enjoys cooking. He misses it when he's too busy to cook. What a stud.

But... best of all... when I or our DD have had a bad day... when we are feeling down, or blue, or depressed in the slightest... he sneaks in the kitchen and whips up a batch of cookies without being prompted. What a hero.

Yes... it's true. I am a very lucky, lucky woman.

Rock the Kasbah... But Stone the Kasbahouse

For Christmas last year I thought I'd surprise DH with a pasta maker. He's mentioned eleventy-seven times how he'd love to have one, and let's face it - giving him a pasta maker means him making pasta that I get to enjoy. HELLO brilliant idea!

Now, the difficult part was finding one. Keep in mind we live in the middle of nowhere. There are no specialty kitchen shops to go poking around in, no large department store that could possibly have one... nada. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Enter the internet.

Ahhhhh... I love the internet. I would wrap it in bacon and eat it if I could. I swear it. A day without the internet for me is... is... well, I don't want to even talk about such a tragedy. Anyhoo, me and my beloved internet did some searchin' and researchin' to find just the right pasta maker for DH. I probably knew every pro and con there was to know about pasta makers before I stumbled across a specialty shop on Amazon called Kasbahouse. They import all sorts of items directly from Italy. I had a light bulb moment: Heyyyy... don't they make pasta in Italy? Ding! Ding! I think we found our winner! After dancing around in my nightgown and throwing out my shoulder from patting myself on the back, I placed an order for an Imperial Pasta Maker. It just sounded so... so... imperial. I was impressed with myself. And, by gosh, I just knew DH was going to be impressed with me, too.

And you know what? I was right! DH was so excited he hardly waited before he started cranking out his very first batch of lingui-SNAP! What the....?! It. Broke.

*sobbing at the memory*

Now, I've never had a lick of trouble from anything I've ever bought off Amazon. Not even an iota. But I'd say this qualified as a doozy. After sobbing uncontrollably (who wouldn't after being denied pasta, folks) I contacted Kasbahouse.

*crickets chirping*

Either Kasbahouse didn't understand the vastness of our pasta-making tragedy, or they were inundated with hundreds (millions?!) of other customer concerns the same as ours. Turns out it was a little of both. When they finally got back to me, you won't believe the reason they gave me for the defective item. Are ya sittin' down? Because they blamed Italy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's Italy's fault there is a problem with my pasta machine.

Who knew? Who knew Italy was that vindictive. That they will stop at no costs to ruin any non-Italy-visitin' pasta dinner. What a bunch of...

Now waitaminute. *scrolling up* Yeah, that's what I thought. Those Kasbahouse people reeled me in with the "it's from Italy" sales line in the first place. And now they are using 'it's from Italy' as a scapegoat. I don't know about you, but they can't have it both ways. No way. Nuh-uh. Not in my book, folks.

Well, that was three months ago. Still no replacement pasta maker. When they said they'd send one, the time frame they gave was, "We aren't sure. You know it has to come from Italy, right?" (muttering) The sum-bastages. And, since I was gullible enough to give Kasbahouse the benefit of the doubt, there is no longer any recourse through Amazon. All because I was suckered in by one slick line: It's from Italy.

blogger's note: I want to clarify that I still love, love, love Amazon and they have in no way let me down... all my angst and hatred is directed at Kasbahouse. So if you are ever in the market for anything pasta-ish or Italian-esque, steer clear of purchasing from Kasbahouse. Like the title of my post today says: Rock the Kasbah... but stone the Kasbahouse.

It's All About Relating

I'm all about relating to people. It's a huge part of my job. HUGE. In fact, my job wouldn't exist without helping people, and to do that, I have to relate. I'm a relate-er-er, if you will (my own word... isn't it purrrdy?).

Considering no two people are exactly the same, isn't it obvious that one couldn't necessarily relate to everyone in the exact same way? Seems logical to me. So, I change things up depending on who I'm relating to. Some people like to be treated very efficiently with little to no unnecessary chit-chat. No problem, I can do that. Some people like to talk about their kids, grand kids, dogs, cats, motorcycles, the weather... whatever makes them tick. Gotcha... I'll do my best to bring it up and listen with rapt attention. And some people are just plain ornery and like to give me a hard time. And what I've learned is those people really, really like it best when I dish it right back to them with a smile on my face. Whatever trips their trigger is what I try to do... to relate to them as individuals.

Today I got in a bit of a pickle at work by relating to someone in what management deemed an 'unprofessional' manner. Oops. You see, it was someone I know pretty darn well, and he definitely falls into the 'ornery' category. Most definitely ornery. With a side of pain-in-the-you-know-what. In fact, I'm not sure we've ever had a conversation that didn't involve barbs going both directions. And we both love it. We just get each other. It's our thing. Know what I mean? Anyway, in the course of 'relating' to my customer-slash-friend this morning, one of the Uppity-Ups overheard me say "Damn it!" to him. What they didn't see was the grin on both of our faces or the twinkle in his eye when he knew he'd riled me up to that point. What can I say... it was just our thing in action. Unfortunately, Uppity-Up didn't see it that way.

Oh, well. So, I'll try to be a bit more professional for Uppity-Up from now on.

Professional, but in an ornery kind of way, that is...

*wink*

It Just Gets My Goat...!

Warning: This blogger is about to go on a bit of a rant... proceed at your own risk!

To put it mildly, it really gets my goat when parents forget to be parents and try to just be friends with their children. I am not talking about all-grown-up children, because in my mind being able to be friends with your parents once you reach adulthood is one of the greatest perks in life. That's something completely different than what I'm talking about.

It's ridiculous when a parent forgets they have a responsibility to raise a functioning member of society. When they believe it's okay to be their child's buddy all the time. Kids are kids, for crying out loud, not little adults in disguise. They need someone to teach them right from wrong. Someone to show them life has rules and consequences and that it's damn hard sometimes, but perseverance pays off in the end. Not everyone always makes the ball team, or gets a trophy when they lose.

That's life, honey, so you better get used to it.

This has been a bit of a hot topic around our household for the last few weeks. We have a family member who has allowed the line between parenting and friendship to blur (that is if it's ever really existed - which is another debate altogether) with her own child. They are now getting a taste of what Teenager-ville is going to be like when there hasn't been true parenting present for... well, for forever.

We had the privilege of hosting a visit to this teenager-quickly-filling-with-angst during spring break and saw a child craving attention. We believe it's not too late to get things back on track, but DH and I are afraid that won't happen unless the visit becomes permanent. And, trust me, we'll do it in a heartbeat if given the opportunity. But the gloves come off in our home. We don't pull too many punches and believe in parenting first and foremost.

Aren't we just so Ozzie and Harriet with a little bit of holier-than-thou sprinkled in for good measure...?

We aren't perfect by any means. Heck, just ask our own DD and she'll tell you! She'll probably even give you an itemized list of our faults if you want. Then again, so will we. We aren't perfect, and we teach our DD that no one is perfect, but it's okay to strive for perfection and that falling short is okay... as long as you try. In short, we parent her.

It's our job.

It's our responsibility.

And it's our honor to parent our DD.

We just wish everyone felt the same way about being a parent.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled reading...

Rabbit-Rabbit!

This is embarrassing to admit, but I have been saying 'rabbit-rabbit' as my first words every month since I was in the sixth grade. I hope my DH doesn't read this post and start wondering if he should just go ahead and have me committed now. You see, my math teacher back then was a very superstitious Greek woman who happened to mention one day that the first words you are supposed to utter before any others on the first day of every month are 'rabbit-rabbit'. Now, while I clearly remember these very important instructions... I have absolutely no memory as to why. What did she say would happen if I didn't? What? WHAT?! [insert industrious, super-thinking look here] Nope. No recollection whatsoever.

Considering that little tidbit of advice came to me nearly thirty years ago now, I am quite certain I've messed up and said something as useless as 'good morning' before remembering to say the magical, mystical... and, let's face it, nonsensical... words 'rabbit-rabbit' at some point during those years. And, as far as I can tell, I am still alive to talk about it. But I'm no needless risk taker, so...

RABBIT! RABBIT!

Ahhhhhhh... safe for another month!