Sunday, October 31, 2010

Palm Springs Pride Parade – A Love Letter

What do I love about a party? Besides me in Party Garb?

Well, there’s the Balloons and the Bar (by Bar I’m referring, of course, to the Omelet Bar!)

There are the People I Love and the People Who Love Me. Then there’s the People Who Don’t Know They Love Me YET!

And a photographer – on my payroll! (Dude - I had better not see that double chin, or that double tummy.)

I get to have a Drag Queen. When is THAT ever a bad thing?

Our Party for the Palm Springs Pride Parade is the melding of my love for my over-the-top false eyelashes and Bloody Marys.

(Hey, if you are a Mimosa kinda of Girl . . . or Guy . . . or Guy-Dressed-As-A-Girl . . . or vice versa? Have at it. I like my morning cocktails SALTY!)

And Dear God: There is unlimited bacon.

And my children love the Budweiser Clydesdales and the Dykes on Bykes.

Of course this event is totally about getting clients, marketing our business and outreach.

But I get to wear false eyelashes. Over-the-top ones.

Yes, it’s all in a day’s work. #Accounting #PalmSpringsStyle

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Halloween. Wait. What?!?

Halloween – Wait, What???

Halloween checklist:

Order costumes.

Wait, don’t order costumes until I find a discount coupon.

Wait, Glowie has changed her mind 10 times. What flipping costume DO I order?
(For those of you who creatively make your own costumes at home? I honor you, and secretly resent you.)

Think about actually taking them to one of those Halloween stores.

Nah, look for the online coupon.

Order cupcakes for the Classroom party. (I order them from Albertsons. What? Some people actually BAKE the cupcakes?)

Wait, what about my costume? Nothing in the garage “old costume” bins fit anymore. (Thank you Menopause…your gifts just keep on coming.) Wait, I can still fit into the Mrs. Potts costume. Oh, wait, with the hot flashes THAT is not going to work.

Enter “Plus Size Costume” into my search engine.

Go to Costco and buy sunscreen. Cuz Halloween in Palm Springs is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. (By “never experienced” I do mean: Hot as Hell.)

While I’m there, get the Halloween candy. Try to get things I hate (sweet tarts) so I don’t inhale it all before the actual Trick or Treaters arrive at the door.

(Sorry Kids, Mommy is menopausal, too fat for her old costumes, too hot to wear Mrs. Potts and as it turns out? Very, very hungry.)

Now that I have kids at two different schools, how will I be in two places at once? Well, the older ones, they probably aren’t doing school parties.

Whatever costume I order, I have to be able to wear it with tennis shoes, cuz I always help with the Costume Parade.

Camera. Check.
Video Camera. Check.
Safety pins. Check.
Valium. Check.

Wait. WHAT???

HALLOWEEN IS ON A SUNDAY????????????????????????????

I think I hear angels singing . . .Thank you, Sweet Jesus. No school. No parade. No cupcakes. No uber-sweating.

Just trick or treating. AT NIGHT. (No sunscreen!!!)

Hello Mrs. Potts.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

You know you are old when . . .

So my husband and I were having a spa day. You know, a romantic, amazing day, where we say: we should do this more often.

You know what that looks like: We‘ve done this two or three times in the last 15 years.

But no matter.

Now, you know you are old when you are in the ladies’ facilities and it seems like a good idea, while there is no one there, to take a delicious steam.

So I go into the steam room. There’s a light switch but I decide not to turn it on. I’m going to luxuriate in the shadowy darkness and just let all the poisons (and fat – right?) melt out of my body.

I’m going to be a lean, mean, fighting machine after this. I lay down on the towel on the little bench, naked . . . sort of letting it all “hang out”. (Dear God – how literally accurate that term is for me now.)

As I’m laying there I think: What if I have a stroke or a heart attack? I’m all alone. The light is off. Even if someone poked their head in, it might look like I was “resting”.

I could be laying there with a high blood pressure induced aneurism and NO ONE WOULD KNOW!

So this is what it is like to be 50. (All right, fuck me, 51.)

I left the steam room. But it’s okay. We’ll be back. In about 5 years. Maybe in the interim I should interview for a “Steam Buddy”.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Those f-ing boys.

My 10 yo daughter, Blondie, is such a sweet kid. She was so shy when she was younger. Take that shyness and add to it she is the Big Sis of a little one who has had some serious health problems and she was a little slow to bloom.

(Not that her ship has sailed at age 10.)

But our little Blondie started to explode last year in 4th Grade. All of a sudden she is shouting out answers in class, bringing home extra science books to read (hey, let’s be clear, I still HATE Science Projects) and becoming some sort of an amazing Math Whiz.

So we are proud. And she works hard – this isn’t a freebie for her. Homework, discipline, really engaging teacher …

Then we go to Parent Teacher Conference (where mercifully, the chairs are normal sized) and find out, that though she is doing really well, the teacher feels she isn’t working up to her potential.

After a few hours at home, finally the crying comes. (And it comes so much more often now that she is 10 – I’m dying here.) Turns out the “popular” boys (I prefer to call them the “asshole” boys, but that’s just me) are degrading her and calling her show off.

If anyone tells on these boys, they call you a snitch. She is terrified of being labeled as such. My husband and I, not so much.

I wanted to drive my helicopter onto the school yard and cut off their heads. My husband, who is the calmer, wanted to have them kicked out of the school district and make sure they never get into an Ivy League School.

The 10 yo? She just dumbed herself down.

Calmer heads prevailed. At least the martinis helped.

There are always going to be some fucking boys telling my girl she is too smart. So Ya! One more thing to parent around. I’ll tell you how it goes. (Stay tuned, for the love of God.)

Sunday, October 3, 2010

I'm a Kayak girl. Well, not really. HELP!!!

My husband is my valet. My kayak valet

We had big dreams of buying a boat this year, those took a dive along with the value of our home and the ever escalating rate of our credit cards. (Damn you Citibank-but that’s a separate blog.)

But after bitterly watching others head out for evening cruises, music blaring, ice chests overflowing with beer, the kids prancing in delight, dogs taking the position in the bow (that is the front of the boat right?) like something out of Titanic . . . well, we couldn’t take it anymore.

So we started researching Kayaks. Cuz we were going to get on that flipping lake somehow, dammit.

After dealing with some really odd Craigslist people, many phone calls, more research, deals were negotiated.

(Hey, we negotiate deals for a business, but nothing got more of my attention than these Kayak buying plans. Did the price include paddles, how about throwing in the life jackets, is that dog of yours available?)

And then we had it. We brought home our first of two kayaks. Hearts hammering, palms sweaty, it was like falling in love all over again.

Until it was time to actually “get in”.

And btw, once you are in? The kayaking part? A lot of fucking work I tell you.

But back to the getting in.

So every time we go kayaking I require my manservant to help me. By “manservant” of course, I mean my husband.

Because there is the packing up: the vests, the paddles, the water bottles, the towels, the SEATS! (And I could write a whole separate blog about my new “kayaking” wardrobe, complete with crocs, which we refer to now as our “kayak” shoes.)

Then there is the several block haul to the lake.

And then the real fun begins. The dock is old and seriously splintery. (By seriously, I mean there is a visit to Urgent Care in your future. )

There is the squatting down and unlocking, then untethering the two kayaks. Then tethering back the one that isn’t going on this trip.

There is the putting in the seats.

I’m telling you, from the time I said: “Can you help me get the kayak in the water?” an hour has now passed.

Now there is the getting in part. I’m sure I’ve told you, but I have terrible joints. It’s sort of a congential gift from God – back surgeries, titanium spine, hip replacement, torn knee ligament . . . so the bending down and getting in? Ya, it’s like something out of Laurel and Hardy. Not that I’m old enough to know who they are. (Shit.)

So getting from the dock, down into the kayak seat in the water? It seems impossible.

So I turn around three times like a dog before she lies down.

I panic a little bit.

The whole while my ManServant is holding the kayak next to the dock, trying not to snap at me. (Cuz that could put his career as my ManServant in jeopardy, for God’s sake.)

Then I sit on the towel on the dock (with help – ground sitting is not really easy for me) and I try to slide (I believe “plop” is the better word) into the kayak.

But I’m a big girl and I go with FORCE. So my husband … uh, manservant is stretched out across the dock (no towel for him – he’s manly) trying to hold the kayak even so I don’t capsize before I have even begun.

As the kayak fills with water, covering my specially clad ass (I wear “swim shorts” from the Solar Protection Clothing Store), I grab the paddle he is handing me, and off I go.

My kayak valet, of course, sits on the dock until I return.

Cuz you don’t think I can get out of that thing by myself do you?

Thanks James. I mean “Honey”.