The Goddamned Dog and My Outdoor Shower

So we love our new dog. No really.

Well, some days we love her more than others.

I have written in the past about my obsession with bathing outdoors. It’s kind of a romantic, under the stars, “this is the life” kinda of thing. Well . . . that and some sort of claustrophobia in the house.

Actually our regular shower is lovely. Like something out a magazine. If you like slippery marble floors, I’ve got the Hot Ticket for you.

Every time I step into this large, glass encased shower, I’m pretty sure I’m slipping to some sort of head or joint injury. It’s a death trap I tell you.

But I digress with an analysis of my indoor bathing phobia.

So I make my kids shower outside a lot of the time (hey, it’s Palm Springs!).
Imagine the glory of a bathroom without wet floors, steamed up glass, wet toys dripping all over everything.
But my kids, who are NOT very tall, always manage to take the shower massager/shower head thingie down. They leave it laying on the ground. Cuz they leave everything they own on the ground. Why wouldn’t they leave my shower head there too?

But back to the dog. So she’s romping in the back yard. She’s like a gazelle let loose for the first time on the savannah. I’m mesmerized watching her. Until I realize she is running around with my shower head IN HER EFFING MOUTH.

I don’t know who to yell at first. The girls? For their carelessness? The dog? For feasting on one of my favorite objects in the world?
So after something like that, what do I need?
Hello! A nice, relaxing shower.
So I make my husband go outside with me, cuz that’s just the kinda of relationship we have.
The shower head is toast.
So he’s going old school. He’s got the hose and his thumb. He’s spraying me down like we used to water the lawn.
Of course, he thinks this is hilarious while I’m busy screaming: “Not my hair, you Moron!”
But I love my husband. And I love my dog. (And yes, even my children who can’t pick up a damned thing.)
And after I get the new shower head today, there may be another shower in my future today. Under the stars. Blissfully alone.

The Interview Where I Lost My Mind

We are looking for a CPA to work in our Accounting Firm. We have three offices now and a rapidly growing client base. My husband is just one guy, and God knows, I have needs.

We needed to find another Accountant.

So we cull through resumes. (Hello, is the “Cover Letter Thing” completely obsolete? Cuz I really long for you to tell me something about why you want to work for my company.)

One person in particular has a great skill set. And an MBA to boot. This makes our hearts race a little faster. (That and the stairs up to our office.)

And maybe his cover letter was a little odd and stiff, but hey, when you see the Hot Guy on Match.com, you don’t ask if he’s living with his mom. You just let crap like that slide. Cuz Baby, it’s all about the fantasy!

Sadly, because we are overworked and needy, we start fantasizing about him. No, not sexual fantasies. (There is no CPA hotter than my husband.)

But fantasies about how this Magical CPA guy is going to solve all of our needs: He’ll be in two places at the same time; he’ll charm the most difficult of clients; he’ll knock out tax returns faster than a speeding bullet; he’ll bring in so many new clients we won’t know what to do with all our money!

And all this, while championing our business and our values.

And then: The Interview.

I usually run a VERY tight interview ship.

But . . . for this fantasy CPA, I’m like the giggly school girl. I’m shuffling my papers and I think I see fairy dust twinkling from the pages.

I do my little song and dance at the beginning. You know, flip the hair, lick my lips, bat those Latisse lashes. I was working it. I asked my first question, waiting with baited, minty-fresh breath for his answer.

He opened his mouth, and answered. And answered. And answered. And Dear God, he answered some more.

Saying the man wouldn’t fucking shut up is an understatement.

He makes John Kerry look pithy.

I realize at some point during the answer to the first question-- the FIRST question, let’s be clear-- that I've left my body and am hovering in the corner of the ceiling thinking to myself: Help!!! Get me out of here!!! What the hell is happening???

This guy won’t shut the fuck up. So finally I wedge my way into his answer. And by “wedge,” I mean I just start to talk over him.

And I say, in the interest of time, maybe you could just jump to the bottom line, you know, in the interest of time. (Inside I’m still screaming – HELP ME.)

But as he is into his fourth minute of “cutting it short” I still can’t let go.

Cuz remember, this could be my Magical CPA! He still could be. I swear. Just wait. I know at any moment he’s going to bring this home.

It was like being held hostage in a basement on Criminal Minds. Except of course, I could get up and walk away. But then what about all my dreams and fantasies about my Magical CPA?

Then he proceeds to tell a story about a job he didn’t get, cuz they thought he wasn’t interested.

YES! I exclaim. I too thought that from your oddly perfunctory cover letter.

I’m waving the three sentence letter in the air, animated for the first time in an hour.

His response? “I pride myself on being short and direct in all my communications.”

WHAT??? (I’m still oddly waving the letter in the air.) You did NOT just say that???

All of a sudden my lovely crossed ankles, leaning forward posture, fake but hard worked-for look of interest in my eyes, is OVER. My legs fall apart, my mouth drops open, my head flops back in a seizure type movement.

Turns out my Magical CPA is still just a figment of my imagination. #Dammit.

My Daughter’s Night as a Cheerleader

My Daughter’s Night as a Cheerleader

My 7-year old wants everything Big Girls have. Even boobs. She is just that kinda kid. Heels, jewelry, lip gloss are all things she covets.
(Boobs, you may ask? Well, several times she has stuffed tissue into her ballet leotard and pranced in front of her mirror, checking out her “curves.” Try to understand this – she weighs 36 pounds, if we weigh her right after a big meal.)

Now my 11-year old just wants to be 11. She wants to play Lego, read books, climb trees, ride bikes and play with the dogs. And if she could do these things in grungy old clothes – so much the better. But I digress.

So Glowie gets a chance to go to a Cheerleading Camp with the high school girls. (If you could just tremble slightly when you read the words “High School Girls,” all the better.)

Then she got to Cheer at the High School Basketball Game during Half Time.
I was a wreck.

For one thing, I weep when a new jar of peanut butter is opened. My children are constantly bringing me tissue and saying: “Aw, Mama.”

So the weeping started before the pretty Senior came out and sang "The Star-Spangled Banner." What pipes that girl had. A little National Anthem, a little Pledge of Allegiance and I’m a blubbering wreck.

And just sitting in the stands looking down at Glowie vibrating on the bleacher, wedged between those beautiful big girls, I was a one woman snot-fest.

All I can think about is: if this is what she wants and loves, how do I help her build the skills to have a chance to do this in high school, which is only 7 years away.

So while the boys are playing basketball and while the cheerleaders are stomping and cheering; while my Glowie is lit up from inside; me? Well, I’m making a plan:

• Sign up for gymnastics lessons.
• Don’t quit Ballet.
• Find out at what age kids can wear contacts.
• Don’t delay calling the orthodontist. (Glowie’s mouth is going to be some kind of $10,000 mess, not including jaw surgery – egad!)
• Put some protein powder in her morning instant breakfast.
• Start investment fund for giant hair bows.
• Type up Plan of Action.

And suddenly the buzzer rings. It is not the buzzer on the floor of the gym. It is the buzzer in my mind that suggests I may want to move out of the way.

Cuz any minute my Helicopter Mom whirly-bird is going to land.

Wait-- I can feel the breeze. And I think I hear the gentle whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound of the blades.

Cuz God forbid, my daughter should just get to be a 2nd grade kid getting an exciting night with the Big Girls. Nah.

Bring it on General Petraeus! Any battle plan you’ve put into action won’t hold a candle to mine!

Gooooooooooooooo Glowie!!!

You Know You’ve Got It Good When . . .

You Know You’ve Got It Good When . . .

I’ve got it good.

I knew I was living the good life when I got a TV in my bathroom. To me, that is the mark that I’ve “made it.” It is also how I fit in so much TV watching into my very busy daily schedule. Now bathing is NOT so tedious any longer when I can do it with "The Real Housewives!"

Now, I’m not a “shower me in diamonds” kinda girl.

Well, there was my engagement ring. I did want a diamond for that. Actually, when my husband asked me: “If you ever get married again, what kind of diamond would you want?” I replied without missing a beat: “I want a diamond as big as my head.”

I was quite clear about this.

And boy, did he deliver! I have the mother of all diamonds (hey, I’m not talking the scorned-wife-of-Kobe –Bryant-big, and Liz Taylor isn’t actually crippled with envy).

It’s big to me and it makes me happy.

This year, after 15 years of good marriage (note that I don’t say “happy.” You don’t get “happy” for 15 flipping years. But you can have “good.” If you have a great therapist!) my husband bought me a diamond necklace.

Prior to this I never gave a shit. But I LOVE this necklace.

So I have a TV in my bathroom, a diamond necklace, a house (that the bank, ever so mercifully let’s us live in) and all the vodka money can buy.

I may have a titanium spine, a ceramic hip and a kid that will be riding in a car seat until she goes to college. I may have problems with ah, shall we call it, over-rigidity?

But in the Big Picture kinda way?

I love my husband, my kids are in a good place, it is the most beautiful time of the year in Palm Springs.

So what you may ask, what could I possibly want for my birthday? This girl that has it so good?

An iPad.

Cuz I always want something. #Dammit.