Some people call me Maurice

OK, few of you probably are aware of my ex-rock slut tendencies. You probably think you can guess my musical tastes from the wussy, obscure titles I list every week to your right. "She's an indie rock girl or perhaps a folky-alternative-female-hippie-soloist fan."

Au contraire.

At the few times I get my choice on the car stereo, it's usually some crazy rock and roll with a little bit of hip hop thrown in just to keep my fingers on the pulse of scene.

What scene, I don't exactly know.

Because here I am, singing (badly) to Fergie's London Bridge, the nastiest most inane song ever written, and I actually think I'm hip for a split second. Until I realize that whilst singing (badly), I am driving not to some club to get my freak on, but to the country club to walk on the treadmill while I read one of those obscure titles to your right while Fox News plays on one of the ten television screens above my head.

So I am lucky to even have a pulse, and hereby denounce my knowledge of any other pulse that may or may not exist.

Fin.

Hi Honey, I'm home

Returning from bad weather and coney dogs to bad weather and an old dog.

We had a great trip--it's nice to reconnect with family even if it is a tiny one. I think my Gramp was most overwhelmed, so it made airport security (with baby bottles and a freaking cast!) all worth it.

But I'm not moving again until Thanksgiving.

Unless I have to evacuate, of course. Ernesto is supposed to hit well southeast of here at this point, but I've heard that before. When I go to the grocery store today for my normal staples, it will look like a war zone with every shelf cleared of water, bread and bananas.

I can hope for a hurricane day off school at least.

I'm away from my blog right now...

Hi, you've reached Tracey's blog. I'm not here right now, I am currently waiting in line at airport security with three kids and too much luggage. If you need to get a hold of me, well...too bad, because I couldn't find my cell phone even if I could hear it ring. Besides, some TSA security woman is frisking me because I took a rogue tube of lip gloss in my purse. Please leave me a message, and I'll return your comment just as soon as we return from the lovely Motor City unless that hurricane churning in the Caribbean makes it to the Gulf by Tuesday. Have a great weekend.

I'm looking forward to seeing some old friends and family--some of who I haven't seen since my Mom's funeral. I was pregnant with Matty at the time, and then we moved to Florida the next month, so most of my family haven't even met my two youngest yet. So, big doings in Detroit.

Now I must go and pack my earmuffs.

9...er, 8 planets in the solar system

If any planet deserves a demotion--it certainly isn't the one with the same name as a loveable cartoon dog.

It's the one that's such an asshole.

Weekend Report

Friday:

Did our cute little photo from the Threshers game make it into the paper, ladies? I didn't catch which "media" that photographer was from. Knowing us, it will probably be photoshopped on MySpace...But at least we got a free loaf of bread on the way out.

Saturday:

Painted and moved the boys rooms around. The entire house is in complete chaos--different from the usual chaos--as a result. But they are happy. Matty came home to see his new Phillies (I have no idea) and said, "I love you so much Mom." It was worth my aching shoulders rolling on layers of "Pawprint Blue" and $1800 for that.

Sunday:

Birthday party. Nuff said.

And then we ended the work-filled weekend with a $40 purchase of the WWE's SummerSlam 2006. There was one particularly graphic match complete with a barbed-wire bat used the Nature Boy Ric Flair. After which, Matty said, "I totally agree with you, Mom. That was too violent. I will never get that image out of my head."

Neither will I.

Then he dropped-kicked Stevie in his new signature move.

Give Generously to the Pine Nut Fund

Little Stevie Henry lives in debilitating affluence. He wears the same private school uniform every day. He eats the finest organic produce and most expensive cuts of meat. He is surrounded by hundreds of toys and all of the latest technology.

I think we can do better for little Stevie Henry. I think he and his classmates deserve air conditioning on their school bus when they go on elaborate field trips. I think they need mulch under their designer shoes on the playground. I think they have gone far too long without pine nuts on their salad bar!!

Stop these atrocities now, my friends. Please take a moment to give a humble donation to the pine nut fund by buying some measly wrapping paper so Stevie Henry can finally get iPods in the technology lab and win a "smencil" and a dress down day.

I think it is the least you can do for little Stevie Henry.


(And his brother Matty and their school code is 119147.)

Work out

Guess who is going to have rock-hard thighs in a matter of mere days?

That's right, ME!

What's this amazing new workout routine you ask?

It's the "Throw The A-Dog in the Gym Kennel" workout. It's revolutionary.

I've been avoiding the playroom for Amy care for a while because she didn't take too kindly to it the last time I tried. So gym time has been limited to when I have a babysitter or when Sean and I can child-swap at night and weekends.

But no more.

Amy loved it today. Which is amazing in itself, and I might even just sit in the car for an hour reading every day just for the sheer Because-I-Can factor.

I reserved our spot for tomorrow, my thighs are burning in anticipation of it.

Sign by the X, please

I know it's early, but that's life here now...

So, we are at the bank this morning for one of those pesky little financial housekeeping events in which you are required to sign your life away--not once--not twice--but 45 times in triplicate without any understanding of a single word. So after document #45 which was the "Disclosure that We just Screwed You Anally," she whips out one more item for signature: My book.

Ha! Smart woman bought it at the local B&N as a little title insurance I think.

The First Day

Because I voted for it, and because I'm sure it was first day bugs, I will NOT say that the the car line was quite a usterfuckclay.

However, that was the only glitch in an otherwise great first day. Here's a picture taken at the ass crack of dawn which is what time I've set my weekday alarm for now.



And here is a picture from our Disney weekend. Amy is sleeping through her $600 lunch.

School Eve

On this First Day of School Eve--I am chock full of all of my maternal resolutions for the upcoming year. For example, the kids will arise every morning to freshly squeezed orange juice that I picked from the tree out back when I was gathering up eggs from the stand before dawn for their breakfast. I will pack them edamame and green tea juice boxes as their snack, and something organic on whole wheat for lunch. They will come home and we will do their homework together with nary an argument nor complaint as we enrich our minds together in the midst of a sparkling clean house while something bakes lovingly in the oven. We will only watch PBS. We will go to bed at 8:30 after we've had a family liturgy.

I know, I'm high.

We'll be eating frozen dinners and sucking on pure sugar cane at midnight before Wednesday.

But a mother can dream, can't she?

Mental Note

Note to Self:

When Amy falls asleep at 7 pm, it is NOT for the night, merely a short nap so we can watch infomercials at 3 a.m.

Smackdown

I don't know how the WWF (or the 2006 equivalent) got resurrected in my living room, but apparently it has.

A stronghold of interest has gripped Stevie like Hulk Hogan on George the Animal Steel, and for the last few weeks he has relayed grudge matches to me in nauseating detail at every possible second.

I can feign interest in a lot of things, my friends, but professional wrestling ain't one of them.

But I've done my best. I even offered up the rather cool past life fact that I used to hawk cotton (that's trade for "vending souvenirs") at every Smackdown that rolled through Motown back in the day.

And through all of his Vince McMahon narratives, I haven't the heart to tell him it's fake. God, I feel like he just caught me slipping money under his pillow.

But perhaps I should have.

Because we were at the emergency room today with a sprained wrist resulting from "The Wrist Breaker," a little move he and his friend came up with.

A highly-effective and aptly-named move I might add.

The Unofficial Minutes

You may or may not know that part of my glamourous writing gig of life is covering certain monthly public meetings.

Often times, they are exciting, only in their ability to exite controversy and general assinine-ness. Some nights they are just plain boring.

Tonight was such a night.

It's not something I mind, mind you. I appreciate the work. That's my disclaimer.

Sometimes I pretend like I'm a real reporter and I am there solely to report the items that happen, and I don't have opinion one way or the other. Well, of course I have an opinion, I just don't get to voice it. I give them this blank face that refuses to register any emotion--I feel it's like my duty or something. I never say a single word, and do my job as the paid hack that I am. I write really boring things that doesn't make sense even to the two people that read it every month.

But if I could, I would love to report what actually occurs inside my head. And yes, I know I have the maturity level of a 6 year old.


I wonder how many sequins are on my sandals...

I'm pretending I'm writing something really important, but really it's my grocery list.

48. On each shoe.

Did I leave the curling iron on?

Oh if there is a God, He will strike lightning on the next person that makes a motion about a fucking flag pole.

37 minutes discussing a flag pole. I am going to gouge out my eyes with one.

If I slit my wrists, will my blood stain this Pergo floor?

I wonder if they would need a motion and a second to call 911. I hope my suicide would be added to the agenda and not just tabled for next month. Maybe they would have to take a vote first to see if help is warranted. That woman hates me, I bet it would fail to pass by even a small majority.

Maybe they think I work for the newspaper, and they think my name is Lois and they'll ask me out for coffee later and give me a "big scoop." Maybe they think I just have no life and am a local government committee groupie. Maybe they think I'm just a big loser.

Bingo.

It's a good thing they keep this room temperature at a pleasant 48 degrees. My corpse won't rot as quickly.

At what point did she think that blouse was a good idea?

Holy God, we are only on Old business...

And so it goes.

But the best part of the whole night occurred as the last gavel bang fell and the meeting was adjourned, I was out of there like Tori Spelling on a Lifetime movie audition, and the guy who held the door for me said, "If it weren't for those shoes, I'd have fallen asleep hours ago."

I love a man who appreciates footwear. I guess someone else was counting those sequins.

I think I'll wear those sandals with the sundress and conquer the world....

We all can't be good at everything

You guys are funny. You and your "beer punch." Such a sweet little moniker for beer, vodka and limeade together in the same glass. A nice accompaniment to the ribs and "corn slaw," even if we forgot the beans. We had a nice evening mourning the end of our summer together, and conversing about topics typical to beer punch drinking: Underdog and porn...

In parenting news, I know you are supposed to always bolster your child's self-esteem by defeating the self-defeating talk, but tonight when Matty declared, "I stink at sleeping," I couldn't disagree.

He really does stink at sleeping.

(And now, so do I.)

Le Weekend

99% of my blog audience will be here tomorrow, feasting on my soon-to-be-famous ribs that take me 4 days to make. No, I'm serious, it will be a most impressive banquet, I assure you--everything is being made by scratch and with love. I may even shove a garlic press into Matty's hand today so it is a complete family affair.

The remaining 1% will have to be satisfied with a Monday morning soliloquy on the joys of leftover cornbread for breakfast and perhaps a few photos if those in attendance will sign a release.

Happy Saturday, we're going to get cooking and take in a movie.

They like me...

I got an amazingly good review today on the book. Fabulous as a matter of fact.

It inspired me to write another page and half tonight.

All by my lonesome

Sean's away this week, and so I'm thinking of all the exciting things we'll do while he's gone. You know, take advantage of the free tv remote to watch sappy movies while I eat shrimp cocktail and talk on the phone.

So far, I've bought a new coffee maker and tomorrow I'm getting my haircut and going to the gym. If I get really crazy I might take a hot bath tonight and have a mud mask or something while wishing I could write something truly inspiring. Or even just legible.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll either fall alseep in my glasses reading with the lights on, or I'll have one of my insomniac episodes and be a complete bitch in the morning.

I'm so freaking boring.

Stuck

Ok, so I haven't kept up on my novel schedule these last few days because I'm having one of those What-the-hell-was-I-thinking-I'm-not-good-enough-to-write-a-fucking-grocery-list-let-alone-a-book moments that has lasted 36 years.