I Wou'd Rather Be Dumped Than Fly on an Airplane (This one's a long one...)

It was 1992. I thought I was in love. I wasn’t. His name was Chad, he played football and he was spending the summer back home in Missouri. After a few months Chad thought I should fly out, spend some time with him and finally meet his family.

The following is the true account of the events that went down on my four-leg trip from hell to Missouri where I spent a week with someone who would eventually break up with me in a Taco Bell parking lot my Junior year in college.

First Leg: Salt Lake City, UT to Cedar City, UT
Air Time: 55 minutes
In Salt Lake City, I boarded a small plane that had the capacity to hold up to 30 passengers. When I landed in Cedar City, 55 minutes later, the plane picked up 2 people. This made for a grand total of 3 paid passengers on board the plane.

That’s right. For almost an hour, I was the only person on the plane besides the pilot, who sported denim shorts and a “Fear This” t-shirt and his two leathery companion women who claimed to be "the help". I believed they were truck-stop waitresses. As you can imagine, it was awesome.

The flight crew, or “threesome” spent the majority of the flight in the front of the plane cackling and carrying on. About 20 minutes in, Truck Stop Waitress 1 hollered back to me and informed me that there would be no beverage service and she would hook me up with a soda once we landed.

As the time went on, the “party plane” more rowdy. Around the 40-minute mark, I was almost positive I was the fourth-wheel in some sort of mile-high caligula.

Second Leg: Cedar City, UT to St. George, UT
Air Time: 10 minutes
A 10-minute flight. Truck Stop Waitress 1 forgot my soda. I’m pretty sure the turbulence we experienced on the flight had something to do with the pilot and Truck Stop Waitress 2 disappearing into the cockpit for the entire flight.

Third Leg: St. George, UT to Las Vegas, NV
Air Time: Felt like forever
Before the plane left St. George, me and the other two passengers were escorted off the plane and made to wait in an airport the size of a Chili’s Restaurant. We then switched planes, to a larger bird that held 75 people. When boarded the plane, I noticed a rather large, sweaty man sitting in my seat. I remembered seeing him in the Chili’s/Airport because he was the guy leaning against a wall, shouting, “Does anyone have any aspirin!” Also? He was violently emptying his lunch into a wastebasket.

As luck would have it, the new flight crew ushered me to the seat next to Sweaty Guy. After take-off, Sweaty introduced himself by pointing to my courtesy “barf bag” and grunting. I took this as the universal sign that he was about to blow chunks AGAIN and immediately thrust it at him.

That hour-long flight will probably go down as the most uncomfortable and nasty hour I’ve spent in the air. Let me break it down for you.

I spent the first ten minutes of the flight watching a grapefruit-sized stain grow on my linen pants. I tried so hard to believe the wetness was some bizarre airplane condensation, or prayed to God that I had started my period and through some unexplained medical marvel, it was appearing on the top of my thigh. But I knew better. It was arm sweat from sweaty. ON MY LEG.

I was seated in an aisle seat, thank heavens for small miracles, and every time the flight attendant passed me, she gave me gun fingers, winked and exclaimed, “Love that hair!” Pretty soon she recruited a second flight attendant and three passengers into taking turns touching my hair. One of them, a nice, but slightly crazy woman, ran her fingers through it like a comb for more than ten minutes. I would have demanded she stop, but she kept telling me I that looked exactly like her dead niece.

Now, for those of you that don’t already know this, I have curly hair. One of the fundamental rules of having a sound head of curls is DO NOT TOUCH the ringlets unless you absolutely have to because they will lose all structure and before you know it, you’ve got yourself a hair-tastrophy of Diana Ross proportions.

Normally, having a total stranger pet my hair and call me “Claire” (name of deceased niece) would be out of my realm of comfort. But faced with my other options, Sweaty Guy – still throwing up and moaning loudly, or Flight Attendant – standing in our row asking Sweaty Guy to keep it down because the pilot has become distracted by the noise...well, I’ll hang with crazy any day.

Fourth & Final Leg: Las Vegas, NV to Kansas City, MO
Air Time: At this point, who’s counting?
As I board, yet another plane, I can see by the looks on the flight crew’s faces that I am a sight. I’m covered in vomit splatter, my linen pants are soaked where Sweaty’s arm rested on my leg and one side of my hair is now entirely frizzed out like a prize poodle.

This leg of my trip was fairly uneventful unless you take into account that my luggage was shipped to Hawaii instead of Missouri, I DID, in fact, start my period during take-off and Chad, my boyfriend, forgot to pick me up at the airport. When my taxi arrived at his house, all he said to me was, “What happened to you?”

We broke up three weeks later. At Taco Bell.

Check out Jen over at Sprite's Keeper. She posted about her fear of flying today too!!

Tweens: A Study

First of all, I want to give a shout-out to everyone out there who sent positive words and voted for me over at Sego Lily Day Spa where they are searching for their official blogger. I was stunned and completely humbled at the outpouring of support from all of you! I tried to personally thank as many of you as I could, but for some reason, the spa’s site wouldn’t reveal all the posted comments. If I missed you, it is not by design, it’s because I was unable to see the complete comment archives on Sego Lily’s site. Thank you!!

Now, today I’m posting, albeit a little late, as part of the Beautiful Like Me series hosted at one of my favorite sites, The Life and Times of a Wicked Stepmom. The current topic up for debate is: What do today’s children and teens feel pressured to imitate? Why?

Now, if you want to read an honest, soulful search into this topic, be sure and visit Wicked Stepmom's post or the series co-developers, Shout! Daily (Hi, Tricia!) and Five Flower Mom. If you want to read a totally biased account of my observations of frenzied tweens at a Zac Efron movie premier two weeks ago, well then, you’ve come to the right place.

Appearance of a Tween Girl:
It’s a forgone conclusion that most tween girls pride themselves on their appearance. They are highly groomed and will go to extreme lengths to gain the approval of their peers through choice of hairstyle and/or clothing. However, it seems critical in tween girl culture that they appear uninterested, almost aloof in gaining said favor with their peers.

I know this to be true because I witnessed one tween girl (Girl 1) in the rest room wearing a Miley Cyrus “I Rock This Joint” tee parked in front of the mirror fussing with her hair -- putting it in a ponytail, taking it down and then back up in an even higher ponytail. Moments later, I found myself, once again, standing next to Girl 1 in the concession line. Her friend, Girl 2, who looked identical to Girl 1, same shirt, same hair, same leggings, commented on how awesome Girl 1’s hair looked in a ponytail to which Girl 1 replied, “Whatever, I just totally rolled out of bed with it this way.” Well played, Girl 1. Or well played, Girl 2. Actually, I wasn’t really sure because at this point Girl 3 joined the group and she looked just like the other two.

Social Habits of a Tween Girl:
As I hinted at earlier, it is no mistake that tween girls traveling together look exactly alike. It has been long believed that tweens’ similarities were the calculated result of clever marketing campaigns devised in concert by clothing labels, MTV and the Disney Corporation. However, recent studies have shown that tweens, both male and female, use these similarities as a defense mechanism to ward off well-meaning individuals over the age of 30 from approaching them in a public setting.

These groups of tweens, specifically tween girls, are commonly referred to as “clans”. They are easily identifiable by their highly groomed hair, low-waist jeans and their incessant chatter accompanied by flailing hand movements. (It is almost impossible for a tween girl to speak without using her hands or prefacing a sentence with, “Oh my gosh!”).

Come to think of it, it’s nearly impossible for me to communicate without doing those things too.

If you come upon a tween clan, it is best to step aside and let the group pass you. I noted at the movie theater, each clan has it’s own speed and whether it moved at a snails pace or tore through the theater halls faster than Tara Reid’s career, whatever you do, don’t get mixed up in this living breathing, heavily accessorized organism. Girls at this age are drawn to shiny objects and will be wearing loads of metal or bedazzled jewelry. It only takes one rookie move and next thing you know, you find yourself smack in the middle of a clan where getting an accidental shanking from a dangly earring is considered getting off easy.

I made the mistake of infiltrating a clan, splitting them right up the middle, as I lunged for the butter dispenser at the snack bar. No skinny 7th grader is going to keep me and the liquid butter apart. Can I get a witness? Long story short, the whole ordeal was so traumatic for me that all I remember is the horrified looks on those young girl’s faces, the shrieking (on my part) and the sudden urge to get myself to the nearest Hot Topic, stat.

Unless you are somehow related to a tween girl, it will only be on the rarest of occasions that you find yourself alone with a tween girl who has become separated from her clan. Don’t panic. A tween girl removed from other tweens is relatively harmless and should not be considered hostile. However, since tweens find comfort in numbers, should you approach her, do so with extreme caution. Without her clan, she will most likely be jumpy and easily startled. You’re more likely to elicit a response from her if you drop the following key phrases into your conversation:

“Isn’t Edward dreamy?”
“Are you on Facebook?”
“Do you want to go to the mall later?”

Warning: Only use these phrases if you are a female trying to start up a conversation with a tween GIRL. I cannot stress this enough, ANY OTHER COMBINATION, (i.e. adult male to tween boy, adult male to tween girl, adult female to tween boy) IS CREEPY AND SHOULD BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS.

Language of a Tween Girl:
Tween girl speak is a complex and can range from a series of high-pitched squeals to muffled whispers and giggles. Often times, tween girls prefer to talk at the exact same time to each other in a rapid-fire tempo. You may not understand what they’re talking about, but make no mistake, they do. If you listen closely, however, you can extract key words or phrases such as, “Nick Jonas” or “Zac Efron” or “weird lady with curly hair eavesdropping on us”.

If you’re lucky enough to have pulled out one or more of these words, what ever you do, DO NOT attempt to use these in a conversation with the tween. These tweens are professionals. They will only see you as an uncool adult, or again, “a weird lady with curly hair eavesdropping on us”. If you are over 30, you most likely won’t know how to use these terms correctly no matter how many episodes of iCarly you’ve watched. Trust me, one of two things will happen if you attempt to make verbal contact at tween-speak pace before you are ready; 1) You’ll use the term incorrectly, or 2 ) You will sprain your tongue. Either way, you will fail miserably in the tween girls’ eyes.

Not that I would know or anything. Pft.

Reasons Why I Can't Post This Week

Reason’s I’m not posting this week:

1. I have bronchitis.
2. I am busy investigating the authenticity of the whole Susan Boyle phenomenon.
3. I am shoe shopping. It does not require much lung capacity to click “add to shopping cart”.
4. I simply can’t put down “Wired for War: The Robotics Revolution and Conflict in the 21st Century”. (Honestly, awesome book.)
5. I’m busy debating whether Zac Efron needs a haircut.
6. I'll be convincing my husband Jeremy that while the jury is still out on Zac, you, my dear, DO need a haircut.
7. I’m investigating as to why attractive kayakers and horseback riders on the beach always wind up using Valtrex. (Seriously, have you seen those commercials?) Until then, I am not going near large bodies of water.
8. I’m finding something new to obsess about.
9. Reading way too much into a conversation with my boss.
10. I’ll be re-evaluating my summer wardrobe goals. Can you wear hot pants if you're over 35?
    

Please stop by next week when I throw up posts about my fear of flying, my view of what the young folks out there having racing through their minds and reasons why I want our copy repairman dead.

Why I Should Be Selected as Sego Lily Day Spa's Official Blogger

Date: Thursday, April 16, 2009
To: Sego Lily Spa Blogger Selection Committee
From: Jennifer Glass (a.k.a. Steenky Bee)
Re: Utah Search for Sego Lily Blogger!

Dear Selection Committee:

I look forward to a long and indulgent (from my end) relationship with you if selected as the official blogger for Sego Lily Day Spa. This contest could not be more in my wheelhouse if it tried. Actually, throw in a few bean burritos then it's totally everything I'm about.

I read through your rules and requirements and I comply with every one of them. Physically able to receive regular spa treatments? Check! No Injuries? Double check! No pregnancy? Triple check! I’ve cut my husband off for far longer periods of time than your contract stipulates so we’re good there.

Now, if you will, please allow me to share a brief list of my rules and requirements, because, honestly, should you select me, you need to know what you’re up against. (Please, oh, please, pick me!)

1. I am not a terrific listener. Don’t worry, it will totally look as though I am hanging on your every word, but inside my nappy-haired head I will be too busy perusing your new line of spring nail lacquers or wondering how spacious your spa’s rest room is. (Refer to rule #3 for explanation on that last one.)

2. I am a total gossip. Usually this is not a redeeming quality whatsoever, but in this case, I think my weakness may actually serve Sego Lily perfectly. Just think of all the word-of-mouth advertising you’ll garner out of my inability to keep my trap shut about the soothing Rocky Mountain Stone Massage I received at your facilities.

3. I don’t know how to exactly categorize this disclosure, so let’s just call it my Pretty Woman Syndrome. When I’m at a spa, including Sego Lily, I spend copious amounts of time in the rest room wearing my fluffy spa robe and complimentary slippers. I’m talking tons of time. And it’s not all wasted. Read on.

Typically, I divide my time in your rest room into thirds. The first portion, a good 5-7 minutes, is spent rifling through the lotions, potions and yes, even the communal spray deodorant that you leave on the counter for clients. The next 3-4 minutes I will lip sync 80s hits to my reflection in the mirror. It’s a show that few have seen, but many have overheard. Once I finish my “set” I’ll use the remainder of my time pirouetting around the rest room until I tire from dizziness or sheer boredom.

Sego Lily Day Spa, I cannot stress this enough, if your rest room does not have the square footage for me to karaoke 80s hits and twirl, this may be a deal breaker for both of us.

4. I am fashionably late for all occasions (read: I have two children under the age of four). The exceptions of my tardiness are; 1) spa treatments, 2) hair appointments and, of course, 3) church. In that exact order.

5. It should be raining men. Always. I’ll bet Sego Lily Day Spa has their share of visits from the fairer sex, but what about the men in our great state? Surely even the fellas need regular upkeep and pampering that only the Gentlemen’s Facial could offer? As part of my undying interest in singing your praises, you have my word that I will drag my husband, male friends and co-workers into Sego Lily for regular man-treatments. I also have no issue dragging random strangers (male or female) from the street in for a Sego Lily Soothing Soak Bath Ritual if it helps to increase your revenue. I trust under your contract, Sego Lily will supply legal counsel for me should one of these strangers become litigious.

6. It is far better to receive than give. This is perhaps the most important rule of all. It’s simple, straightforward and oh, so true. I’d much rather receive a Sego Lily Essential Pedicure than give one. No doubt.

In closing, thank you in advance for considering me, Steenky Bee, a girl who couldn’t need a massage more, as your prospective blogger. If selected, I offer my solemn promise to give you one hundred and ten percent, eighty percent of the time.

Best,
Jennifer Glass (Steenky Bee)

Fine Print:
Sego Lily Day Spa should expect prompt posts full of typos, incorrect grammar and twists of snarky satire (at my expense only). I would never bite the hand that feeds, or in this case, the hand that offers a relaxing Swedish Massage. Sentence fragments and run-on sentences should be expected as well as over use of (parenthesis) and “incorrect” usage of quotation marks. I reserve the right to shoot dirty looks at Sego Lily’s clients sitting next to me who feel it necessary to yammer away on their cell phones in the Meditation Room.

Friends of Steenky Bee, here's the comments section at Sego Lily's web site where you leave your love for me. Here's the link to Sego Lily's website for contest details. Thanks for all your support!

Please, Help A Sister Out!

Internet, please help me. I’ve not asked much of you in the past. There will those who say that I’ve asked for soap nuts, jars of pickles and a thumbs up statue, and those people would be correct. But you know what? None of those things have panned out for me so far so I’ve now cast them off as trivial and unimportant.

So internet, today I come to you and your readers and throw myself at your mercy to beg, pitifully, for one last thing. I want to snag a local gig as the official blogger for Sego Lily Day Spa, a fabulous local spa that I LOVE.

Tomorrow, Thursday, I’m posting my entry for the competition here on Steenky Bee. I would be forever in you’re your debt if tomorrow you would leave me lots of love notes here AND over at Sego Lily’s web site. (I'll put up the link.) I know it requires double clicking and actually visiting an extra site, but, trust me, it will definitely be worth it. For me.

Here’s the competition deets: The contest wraps up on April 25th. On that day the folks at Sego Lily review all the entries, take into account the comments and narrow the field down to the top five submissions. Those lucky five are treated to luxurious spa treatments and must blog about it. (I know! Right?) It sounds ridiculously tough, but I promise I'm not doing it for the fame or free full-body sugar rub. Well, maybe I'm doing it for the free sugar rub.

The top five bloggers are then judged once more and eventually a winner is crowned, but let's not worry about that just yet. My short-term goal is that full body sugar rub, remember?

Internet, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am about this possibility. I haven’t been this pumped about something since I discovered Cotton Candy flavored Pop Rocks on Monday. Seriously, I knocked a couple of rowdy middle school kids crowding the candy aisle at the convenience store to get the last of the packets. Don't worry, it was only a pack of Emo kids. I mean, what were they going to do to me? Track me down on their skateboards? I don't think so.

I hope (beg and plead) that I see you all back here tomorrow!

What Happens When You Meet Me

Before we left for our Moab trip last week, one of my favorite bloggers, Green Jello (GJ) at May You Lead An Interesting Life and a local gal to boot, emailed me to say that she would also be vacationing in Moab at the same time. Holla! We traded phone numbers, departure times and lodging information. If the sun, moon and Jeep Safari trails all aligned, GJ and I would surely meet face to face.

Thursday afternoon GJ texts me to let me know she’s only 30 minutes outside of town. Me? Why, I’m at a small dive arcade with two small children, the eldest of which screaming “Fiery Fist of Pain!” because he spies a run down roller coaster outside. Rather than expose GJ to that, I offer to meet her in a drug store parking lot because I’m classy like that.

GJ kindly insists to meet up at the arcade since her children might find it mildly entertaining. I warn her with buzz words like “lame” and “salmonella poisoning” but do not go so far as to mention the dead cockroach in the women’s bathroom or the “Play at your own risk! NO REFUNDS!” signs hanging about. I also decide against telling her about the hi-hop dance tutorial DVD that the teens tending the arcade are pretending not to watch every time I re-enter the lobby. That spectacle will be a nice little surprise for her.

I’ve always pictured what it would be like to meet my very first blogger face to face. I imagined that I would spend hours obsessing on what I should wear. I would apply extra shine elixir to my hair and maybe even splurge on a festive mani-pedi for the occasion. I would breeze through the doors at the Starbucks where we have arranged to meet and the whoosh of the double doors would create a small breeze that would blow my hair back dramatically. Of course the sun would graze my face in such a way so that my Bare Minerals foundation would do its job and make my skin appear flawless. All of this, of course, happening simultaneously as music from a cool new band that no one’s even heard of yet is piped through the speakers.

How. It. Really. Went. Down.

I’m in the women’s bathroom arcade, the one with a lock on the outside of the door, not the inside with my two children. I’m bent over desperately trying to pry my four-year old and 18-month old off the floor and shouting things like, “Don’t touch!” and “Mama’s gonna lose it!” because both children are trying to touch a dead cockroach that has gone belly up, literally. This is the fourth trip to bathroom because both kids were fixated on the dead insect. (I always thought cockroaches were indestructible.) I know people outside the bathroom can hear me because I can hear them “working” and practicing their righteous dance grooves.

I say “working” because all those damn kids did while we were there was stare at their iPod Touches, practice hip-hop moves and suggest that I drag myself, and my two kids to the McDonald’s next door to retrieve coins because the arcade, that houses machines that run on quarters, had only 75 cents in their till.

I kick open the bathroom door and my purple flip flop goes sailing into the air. There is no breeze, no sunlight, just the sound of my four-year old yelling “I DON’T WASH MY HANDS! EVAAAAH!” echoing throughout the arcade.

I see a semi-familiar face standing in front of me and I loudly squeal, “Green Jello!” and limp on my one flip flop to bear hug her in the hopes that my raised voice and intrusion of her personal space will distract her from noticing my nappy hair with unkempt roots and stained track pants. Again, classy.

I’ll never know if my distraction worked because within the first two minutes of meeting GJ, her delightful husband and awesomely adorable daughter, I made sure to point out the dead insect, my overgrown roots and my face sans Bare Minerals OR any trace of lip gloss. Gah!

I’m sure the rest of our meeting was just a slice of heaven for GJ. I mean who wouldn’t just love standing around and watching my children go up and down a playground slide, bang their fists on an aluminum door and shout, “Look what I can do!” as they begin kicking their feet on the same aluminum door.

Although our meeting was brief, I’m sure I’ve made a life-long friend in GJ. Of this I am confident, even given the fact that just a few hours later I barraged her with a string of text messages where I did all of the following:

• Accidentally called her an ass
• Invited her to “my place”
• Uninvited her to “my place” because that sounded sort of skeezy
• Re-invited her to my place solely for the purpose of showing her my freshly washed AND conditioned hair going so far as to hint at the possibility that she could smell my fresh hair if she were so inclined
• Bragged to her about my hair now being shiny and full of bounce
• Apologized for being braggy about my shiny, bouncy hair

Our two-hour texting frenzy ended when I asked GJ and her family to come over and watch 27 Dresses on HBO in the dark because my husband and children had fallen asleep and would kill me dead, or at the very least, harshly mock me if I woke them. Wisely, she responded to my request with “No habla.”

Ima Guest Postin'

Remember when I told you all that I'd be hangin' with Casey today? Well, I didn't mean it literally. I'm only guest posting at her place. She'd never agree to meeting me in person after all the dead rodents I've left on her driveway to replace the lawn statues I stole from her. Please pop over to Casey's as I post about the radio commercial that changed my life.

Also? Pop back over here tomorrow or Wednesday or sometime this week because I actually DID meet a blogging friend over the weekend. Let's just say, I didn't make a complete ass out of myself, I was only half-assed.

Another Also? Today I'm going to work on refraining from saying the phrase "pop over". I'm not sure where I picked that up. Sorry.

Hole N' The Rock

Today Jeremy and I are throwing all caution to the wind and our kids into the car and heading for a spur-of-the-moment road trip to the beautiful and almost always sunny Moab, Utah.

We’ll be here.


And here.


Jealous? You should be.

Oh, it won’t be all red rocks and hiking trails 24-7. There will be at least eight hours where one four-year old boy will be tortured by his baby sister as she sticks her size-four feet in his face, or when she accidentally grazes his leg with her arm, or the mother of all abuses, when she looks at him for longer than 2.5 seconds. How dare she?

But get those two children at a road-side McDonald’s with chicken mcnuggets in their bellies and within eyesight of a Play Place and that same boy must shout to everyone enjoying their Big Mac, or McRib (for a limited time only) that the little girl sitting next to him is his baby sister, Reesafee. And she’s NOT yours. (For some reason, Henry always feels the need to clarify to strangers that Reese is only his and not theirs.)

As an aside, we've been working with Henry lately to not talk to strangers, you know for safety sake. Somehow, he's added his own precautions on to that list that include: Not talking to strangers, zombies, ghosts, vampires and Josh. I have no idea who Josh is, but judging by the company he keeps, it is indeed wise to not talk to him.

So, peace out for the rest of the week. I won’t be here Monday either. I’ve finally been invited to hang with my idol and the coolest chick on the block. My hands are so sweaty just thinking about it.

I Spent Four Glorious Hours With The 80s

I intended my participation in Keely’s Random Tuesday Thoughts to be a little more random. I had a whole list worked up that included an argument as to why robots will kill us before zombies do, my feelings on Twilight and my growing hatred of Katy Perry. But Saturday something waaaaaay better came up.

What could be better than a post about killer robots and Katy Perry? Of course it would have to be a post about killer robots actually offing Katy Perry, so I guess my post would be the second best thing and it’s all about one-hit wonders from the 1980s.

Saturday night, Jeremy and I were sucked into four hours of non-productiveness after we accidentally stumbled across VH1’s countown of the Top 100 One-Hit Wonders of the 80s.
Say it with me, people. Awesome.

Normally, I would never condone such couch potato-like behavior, let alone have the time to spend an entire evening watching a network that only features “best ever” countdowns and reality-based programming that I’m pretty sure is set up for women who want jump start their adult film career. But I ask you, could you turn away from all that mess?

Yeah, neither could I.

I learned so much from watching VH1 this weekend. From “Tough Love” I picked up a few much needed love tips. From “For The Love of Ray-J” I discovered several things I never want to do with my life, including a photo shoot with fruit in a body-length leotard. I also reconnected with some much loved music of my youth including:

“Turning Japanese”, by The Vapors
“It Takes Two”, by Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock
“Come on Eileen”, by Dexy Midnight Runners
“Respect Yourself”, by Bruce Willis (yes, that Bruce Willis)

I must admit, my evening watching the countdown didn’t come entirely without controversy. When Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” showed up on the countdown at #21, Jeremy immediately declared bullsh*t because “That song is freakin’ awesome and everybody knows it!”.
In turn, I was quite upset to see that Styx made the list for “Too Much Time on My Hands”. What? They had several other hits including what FADKOG refers to as the mother of all driveway songs, “Mr. Roboto”. (For those of you that aren’t awesome or FADKOG or don’t know what a driveway song is, let me break it down for you. It’s when you’re pulling into the driveway and the song you’re jamming to has just too much awesome in it for you to turn the ignition off and get on with your life.)

It seems VH1 thought better of sticking Styx on the list because I went back to check the list today and Styx is nowhere on it anymore.

Other high points of the four hours of my life that I’ll never get back, and frankly I don’t care because IT WAS THAT GOOD include:

• Remember Thomas Dolby, the guy who gave us “Blinded by Science”? Turns out he invented the cell phone technology that makes it possible to download ring tones to cell phones. So, yeah, don’t feel too sorry for him. Every time you downloaded “Can’t Touch This” as your ring (don’t pretend you haven’t), the Blinded by Science dude made a cool buck off you.

• VH1 bills Divo as the band that rose to the top of “nerd rock” in the 1980s. with “Whip It”. WTF? There’s a genre known as nerd rock? Exactly who are in these bands and where do I sign up?

• Lastly, remember Men in Hats? “Safety Dance” anyone? More importantly, remember their trippy music video that featured midgets and renaissance wenches frolicking around in the English countryside? Now, I’m all for frolicking and I’m firmly in the pro-midget camp, but combine the two and you’ve got just plain oddness.

As an aside, you should know that when they revealed what the members of MIH are up to these days, they showed the lead singer, all 6’4” of him, residing in Canada, shaving his head and living his life as a stay at home dad. I immediately emailed SAHD Captain Dumbass to accuse him of being the former lead singer of MIH. He responded, in kind, and called me out as a giant dumbass since the front man for MIH apparently lives in Montreal, not Vancouver.

Still, I remain skeptical. The Captain’s email response was far too quick for him to have properly Googled the band. I stand by my first inclination that the Captain once mingled with midgets and women wearing corsets while lip-syncing about leaving his troubles behind. To him I say, dude, your troubles have just begun.

Time And Water Conservation Are Not On My Side

This marks the fourth day I've posted this week. What the hell is going on around here? I'll tell you what's going on. My kids haven't been fed or bathed in days. I haven't seen my husband since Wednesday. His closet is cleaned out, but I assume he's probably just on a camping trip or something. I don't know, I still need to check the note he affixed to our bedroom door with a steak knife. I ripped my eyes away from my laptop to glance at it briefly and noticed he wrote, "IT'S ME OR THE BLOG!" I'm so flattered he still reads me.

Today, I'm participating in the Spin Cycle hosted by The Divine Sprite’s Keeper, Jen Cohen. I must be completely honest with you all though, it's a recycled post. I posted this last fall when Jen wanted us to write about wishes. I think it would work for this week's topic about time just as well.

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I wish it didn’t take up so much of my time get ready in the morning. When I run time trials on my routine it comes to just shy of two hours. That is huge, people. No one should spend that much time getting ready unless they’re heading to prom or to their own wedding. Oh, if only my morning hassle ended with an updo and a flower corsage!

Believe me, I’ve tried to cut my morning routine down for as long as I can remember. I just can’t do it. If there was a twelve-steps group out there for people like me I would totally join. But only with the condition that I could just sort of roll out of bed and show up in sweat pants. If I have to shower and go through the whole rigmarole of getting ready, I may never make that meeting on time.

It’s not like when I finish this two hour routine I look stunning either. You’d think I’d be perfectly coiffed, pressed and ready to go. No, most of the time I just look like this.

And that’s on a good day. I joke with Jeremy that pretty doesn’t happen overnight. He usually adds that pretty can’t seem to happen in under an hour either.

I have a long-held, yet untested belief that the route of my problem lies in the shower. If I enter the shower at 6:00 am, the soonest I am leaving that place is 35 minutes or later. And that’s on a good day. If I have to shave or deep condition, then you can just forget about it.

I swear to you I am not a dawdler in the shower either. I’m moving and working the entire time. I’m washing, exfoliating, lathering, rinsing and repeating. I’m all focus, baby.

One time I asked Jeremy to give me a few pointers with my shower routine. That little adventure didn’t go so well. It ended with the two of us standing in a dry shower together with me fully clothed and Jeremy continually asking, “So when is the magic going to happen?“ What part of DRY RUN did he not understand? Needless to say, for about three minutes, there was a lot of awkward eye contact between the two of us.

Again, I ask you, is there a special class where I can enroll? I’d even be willing to take an internet course. I thought about Googling ‘faster showers for women’ but Jeremy strongly advised me against it. He said I would definitely not find what I was looking for. I’m just going to have to take him at his word.

A Guest Post That Mentions Me In A Leotard And The Osmonds

I'm off a guest postin' again this week. Twice in the same week? I wouldn't say I'm a guest post whore or anything. I like to thinkg of myself as a blogger that prefers to play the field a bit.

I'm guesting over at The Dayton Time whilst Pamela tends to her new little arrival, Elliott, who by the way, is one of the most precious little babies I've ever seen. For reals.

In full disclosure, I must confess that Pamela never asked me to guest post. No joke. I cornered her way back in the fall and just told her I would be guest posting for her when her wee-one arrived. You know why I did this? Because I love her, that's why. She is such a cool chick. She's always given me support, witty comments and her friendship. What she's never given me, however, are soap nuts, pickles or loaves of bread. (She knows what's up.)

Please visit me over at Pamela's if you're so inclined. Be sure to check out her husband too over here. He's all kinds of awesome. I'm hoping we're still friends after I expose his "game" in my guest post at The Dayton Time.