Claire, the Amazing Tightrope Walker

Today I'm pondering the question how responsible are we for our significant others happiness? I'm not talking about taking out the garbage, I'm talking about the inner peace, Zen, I've arrived thing.

For some reason my happiness is directly connected to my career choices. And I've made a few really bad ones over the years, therefore I'm not feeling that inner peace man. And what brought this on is stupid. I made Bobby a deal. On this vacation, he'll pay for food and shelter and I'll pay for the bells and whistles. And it's driving me insane that I'd had a slow month so we're looking at rusted bells and mini-whistles.

The sad part is they didn't know I was planning to shower them with trips to amusement parks and water parks, And other stuff… like… I sorta cannot think of anything but trust me, it was a long list of over expensive crap I wanted to do with my boys, Damnit. The irony of my pain of not being able to do all the touristy things is Bobby hates everything I mentioned above. He's probably thanking the ebay gods I had a sucky month.

Maybe it's the beginning of my mid-life crisis. Maybe it's because I have three friends in the hospital. I'm not talking about a friend of a friend. I mean three people I have direct connections to. And life feels too short to pout over something I intellectually understand, I had no control over, I'm thinking I need a career over haul.

So that's it, as soon as we get back from vacation I'm joining the circus and becoming a tight rope walker. Dang, I feel better all ready. Yes, I'm still taking those little green Nyquil pills.

Ok, maybe not a tight rope walker but at least I'm opening myself up to other careers. There must be thousands of jobs for a smart-ass, cerebral palsy, blurred speech, bitch like me. And when I find it, I'll support my honey, send him back to school so he could become a history professor with those sexy elbow pads. And I'll be the responsible bread winner for once.

Bob, you're turning blue… Breathe baby breathe.

War of the Vivid Imagination

Can someone please email me the ending to War of the Worlds? I want a written guarantee to a happy ending before I shell out $40 for an evening out. $40? Yup. Between tickets, drinks, and popcorn there you go.

I hate to admit it but a few movies have scarred me for life. When I was ten, I was at a cousin's church. They showed a very graphic movie about the end of the world. Til this day I wake up checking to see if my head is still attached to my body.

What's worse is Bobby believes that the handicap get a "go directly to heaven, avoid rolling heads" free card. This just pisses me off because if this is true, I wasted my twenties being sweet and can't rebel again until I'm 46, the day after I send Nicholas off to Yale, I'm buying a hog. It's true I won't be able to drive it but at least I can sit on it.

The other movie that ruin me forever is Poltergeist. Bobby thinks I'm being nice and got cable just for him. Not true. With cable I lower the chances of running into an off-air channel and that hellish static noise. On rare occasions the cable goes off line and when I turn on the TV its of course extra loud with the static. I have to quickly turn it off, take a few deep breathes in preparation to battle the TV for control of the cable.

Rereading this, I'm amazed I get out of bed in the mornings. I have blocked out the movie that planted the seed in my brain that dolls were just frozen monsters waiting for a dark and stormy night to attack. Needless to say the whole early 80s cabbage patch craze was just hell on earth for me.

I was so thankful to have a son. A daughter would have been fine, but I worried about two things. One, doing her hair. And two, having all those dollies around. Although no one warned me about Nicholas' strange boy noises which Bobby seems to take great pride in.

Needless to say, I don't need another creepy movie to encourage my vivid and sick imagination. I assumed people will die in this thriller. That's ok. I would pout about it but I can even live with Tom Cruise dying as a mortar. But bottom line Dakota Fanning has to live and be well. And the world must be exterminated of the alien creatures. If the creatures needed humans for experiments, just take the men, leave the women and the shops on 5th avenue untouched and we'll call it even.

Oh heck, I think I will go see it. I'll just sit 2 rows and five seats over from Bobby. Or he'll try to breath down my neck during the creepy parts… and not in the good way either.

Pretty Green Capsules & other Mysteries

Pretty computer screen. That's the deepest thought I have had all day. Other then look mom, I can move my neck. Cool.

That's right folks, I'm drunk. Ok, I'm on Nyquil but to me it's the same thing. Talk about a cheap date, I can get a buzz just by glancing at a margarita. Saturday night I started coughing, by yesterday it had grown to a full blown head cold. Normally I'd just ignore the sick elephant in the room until I either get better or Bobby gets tired of sleeping with a hacking machine and shoves medicine down my throat. I need to get ready for the camping trip, I refuse to let this end like the neck trauma of 2005.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm exactly like my mommy. With any ache, we assume it's a cancerous tumor. Unlike my mom, I embrace suffering in silence, whereas mom shares her pain.

A few days… weeks… months… let's say a while back I got a pain in my neck. At first I thought I just slept on it wrong. Then I blamed too many hours typing on my computer. Then I blame the disappearing ozone. And finally with my brilliant non-medical background, I concluded it was a tumor…

"My neck hurts." I finally confessed, months after it started. Bobby offered to massage it. Ouch. Stop. You can't massage out a tumor, you sick freak. Ouch. He was really hurting me. Ouch. I thought man, when he stops I'm gonna wack him, and I'm going to aim really low.

"Stop." I finally screamed because it really did hurt. I drew my hand back ready to attack when I realize I was staring at him… with my neck turned. "Thanks," I mumbled. Walking away, I let my head freely bob for the first time in a long time. Who knew it was just a tight muscle.

I'm gonna nip my cold in the bud. By Saturday I should be ready for camping. But I really have to close now. It seems I took the wrong drugs. i just read the instructions, the pretty orange ones are for daytime, probably non drowsy. The pretty green ones are for night time. Well hell I didn't know. I thought the drugs manufactures were just extremely color conscious. And everyone knows I love green.

But I'm sure I can fight the drowsiness. Look, pretty blinking cursor. Oh hell, G'nite.
 

What goes up, May not come down

Nicholas is going to Science Camp this summer. This is why I'm not going on a wild weekend with my honey, but let's stay focused on the positives.

We have been so pleased with the program. Nicholas has really enjoyed it and I think it has been a brilliant solution to the summer time slump. Ok, he's learning and is not sitting on my head. Science Camp is four weeks, 9 to 4, a different topic each week including physics, rocketry, robotics, and pirate treasure. I am amazed the projects they build everyday. A few could be passed off as middle school creations, but than again I have a Bachelor of Arts… Bottom line, they build cool stuff man. Today starts the Pirates so I'm hoping all my questions will be answered when Nicholas gets home. Pirates seems like a strange leap from physics but we'll see. As long as he doesn't come home with an eye patch saying "ay mommy," it's all good.

I'm always looking for the next great family hobby. Anything that will keep Nicholas and Bobby away from the boob tube. No, I not referring to myself, I'm not shaped like a tube. We are working on a few but can't find one that we are equally passionate about.  Nicholas and I love bicycling. Bobby would rather have a stick up his rear, it's quicker and less peddling. The boys love swimming, me, not so much. We all love games, just not the same ones. Nicholas loves Operation. Now there's a fabulous one for an uncoordinated crip. Although I was thrilled to see the nose doesn't make that obnoxious buzzing sound anymore. It just vibrates. Bobby likes these 10 hours war boardgames, no comment required, refer to my chosen degree. I like uno. With anything more then seven cards I get confused.

Last week Nicholas came home with a beautiful model rocket. Of course Bobby turned into a ten-year-old and my boys immediately decide model rockets should be our new thing. Cool. Fine.

They were very cute. They spent an entire Saturday painting and cutting and… painting… built three rockets.  We all were abuzz on the way to our launching party. 20 minutes to set everything up. The first one was awesome, all five seconds of it, shot up, parachuted down. Second one shot up… and disappeared. Third one followed the second. My boys are high-fiving each other. And I'm still staring at the sky, waiting for my 15  bucks to return to me. They searched for 15 minutes as I'm still waiting for my lost money, I mean rockets.

I guess they are worse hobbies, believe me I've vetoed a bunch. The most fascinating was suggested by Nicholas, roller blading. Has he ever taken a look at his parents? Even from 100 yards away? So I'll support this rocket hobby, yet I can't help but make comparisons… 8 long hours of prep. 2 seconds of bliss, and an hour of clean up… Hmm

Forget Paris, I need a bookstore

At first glance, people probably pity me. After getting to know me they definitely pity Bobby, wondering if insanity was a side effect of my cerebral palsy or do I just come by it naturally. But when all is said and done I've had some awesome times with my dearest friends. I've snow skied, tried martial arts, traveled, went on a hot air balloon ride on my 25th birthday over Napa Valley. Which by the way is a thorn in Bobby's side because how is he going to ever beat that? Cool. Maybe he'll take it as a challenge. Naw, he'll except defeat and drown his sorrows in another episode of combat. Damnit…

It struck me as very odd that yesterday I caught myself doing a happy dance when my Nicholas' Godmommy suggested we go to a book store. My happy dance used to be reserved for trips and exciting weekends. We've eaten at the finest restaurant, she was proposed to in Paris. We are planning a fabulous girl's getaway. So the act of going to our favorite bookstore shouldn't be the highlight of my week, sadly, I'm squealing with glee just thinking about it.

We'll go Saturday. No I promised Nicholas it was his day. How about Sunday? She said no, must work in yard. Says the weeds were almost to her hips. I'm thinking, that's not so bad, she's a beautiful petite, it's only really bad when the weeds reach her neck. Yuck. When did we become responsible? Next weekend I'm outa here. She's gone the following one. Then starts the bridal shows season. As its sits we are going to the bookstore in early 2006.

That's right, I can't wait to go to the bookstore where we will gossip and forget about real life. That is, except for flipping through the wedding, relationships, career, and how-to books…

But at last I can dream a little dream of hanging out in my favorite bookstore with one of my favorite people. Do I dare include having a leisurely lunch at our Vietnamese restaurant in my crazy fantasy? Some say it's too much to ask but by damn I think I will.

Until then, we'll always have email Baby…

The Compulsive Camper

I have decided I'm banding myself from Walmart as I prepare for our first real family vacation. We are going camping for a week. It's going to be great. Friends are stopping by. My mom is even reserving a few days for tent space. With Nicholas' bike and some good fishing, a good time will be had by all.

I joke that I live in suburbia hell but truthfully we live in a nice house in a nice area. We have a lot of stuff. Yet I'm a wreck because I feel the need to fully furnish a 100 square feet pop up camper. Intellectually, I realize that if I have everything in my house that I need, I should be able to pack the same stuff.  But let's face it, packing sucks. Shopping is more fun. Today Bobby is thanking God I cannot drive other wise he might come home to 200 square feet of stuff. No technically it's not too much junk, haven't y'all ever heard of stacking?

Bobby is from the old camping school. All you need is a toothbrush and a can of beans. I'm literally taking a break from trying to unscrew the kitchen sink. It's stainless steel, wouldn't you feel silly if you were in the middle of the woods and you needed a stainless steal sink? It's all I'm saying.

I figure if Bobby doesn't kill me in the next week as we prepare for this grand adventure, we'll be good to go. As for my Walmart fetish, I decided to compromise. I'll let myself go crazy in a dollar store and see if that takes the edge off. If not, the dollar store is right next to Target and Academy Sporting Goods and…

The Accidental Tourists

I absolutely hate going downtown to the medical center. The traffic. The Construction. And even though my niece is a beautiful healthy teenager today, I can't help shiver from the haunting memories of her cancer. But when a friend asks you to go to see a mutual friend, you suck it up and go. I told myself to think of it as an adventure. Dullness is so underrated.

We get to the medical center and I laugh hysterically at our monorail system. It cost 50 billion dollars and goes 2.3 miles. Ok, I'm exaggerating a little but not a hell of a lot. Every time I pass it, I think I'll probably win the loto before I ever ride this.

We drive pass the hospital and its parking lot is full. I don't know what we were thinking but we decided to pick another parking lot, any one.  Somehow we ended up in China. Robyn's pushing me in my wheelchair. I'm carrying two vases. Roses up my nose and a leaking vase so I look like I just couldn't wait. She's laughing so hard that she doesn't remember to look for curb cuts.

Somehow we emerge from a side street a mile from the hospital. We decided to hop on the rail. Nicholas has been fascinated by trains so I always thought I'd take him for a ride, like next time we were at the zoo. As nice as it was, I didn't see planning a Saturday around this.

The ride changed our luck, or so it seemed. Found the hospital, found the friend, had a nice but short visit. That's what happens when you involuntarily tour the medical center, street by street. Still we were amused by our actions and after the visit were thrilled with ourselves when we found the correct parking lot. Hey small minds, grand accomplishments.

Robyn pays for the parking at one of those automatic tellers. Pushes me into the elevator, and then hops off for no apparent reason. A normal person would quickly press the open door button on the elevator and yell "What the hell are ya doing?"

I have cerebral palsy. Ignoring my friends, I think I have pretty normal thoughts and with a 5 to ten second lag, my body usually response to my commands. So I'm in the elevator praying that when my finger gets around to it, it will push the right button, not say like the alarm. It was definitely a toss up. Luckily the elevator was slow and it was before rush hour, or I may still be stuck alone on the 8th floor.

I find her, in silence she waves the receipt as if to say, see say thank you, without the receipt we couldn't get out of here.

"Shut up, just Shut up." She says five minutes later as I grinned trying not to laugh. Robyn's a martial arts instructor so I should have because she could kill me with two fingers. We didn't need the receipt, we needed the other thing the machine spit out. Another 10 minutes gone waiting for the parking attendant.

Other people might have deemed this trip as disastrous. We were thoroughly amused with our many minor calamities. And we accomplished our objective, visiting Master A. So all's well that ends well.

We do wish Master A a speedy recovery because quite frankly I'm scared to go downtown again.

I'll forgive you Tom

I have decided Bobby and I have been married too long. Last night I glanced over at his computer screen and two gigantic breasts were staring me in the face. Ten years ago I would have gone berserk. I was still pissed but not because of the boobs. I'm thinking, if he has the gulls to leave me watching TV by myself to go look at naked women, he should have at least left the remote. Geez, inconsiderate ass. I'm kidding, it was one of those joke porn sites, which he immediately pointed out the instant he felt my eyes on him. But he has to admit I've come along way baby.

That being said, I'm happy to announce Tom Cruise is back on my list. Ya know, the list. Those five people we would… let's say, have drinks with, and our partners could not hate us because we had a prenuptial agreement. To love, honor, and obey… and if Robin Williams invites me to dinner, I'll be home by 10.

I have to admit that Tom is the only "all American" face on my list. So my heart broke when he announced his feelings for Katie, over and over and over. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing sexier to me then a man madly in love with his woman. But even if he was jumping on Oprah's Couch screaming "Claire," I'd think I would have to pull a Cher in Moonstruck, slap him, saying "snap out of it." That was annoying, even for a romantic like me.

But my guy redeemed himself by his response to the punk reporter. Bottom line I think my Tom's just that nice, just that madly in love. How many of us would beat the hell out of the reporter who squirted us in the face with a unidentified liquid? I'd probably would have, most certainly if they squirted Nicholas.  He was calm, assertive, and in control.

So my world is happily back in order. Tom on my list. Bobby on my computer. And I hope the saying is true, there's nothing sexier than a man in love. If it is, I'm pretty damn lucky

Your walker is unforgetable...

Bobby always teases me because I am recognized everywhere, me and Paris Hilton. Usually I'm waved at by former high school mates. I don't have the heart to point out that when you live 4 miles from your old high school, you're bound to bump into one of the 700 seniors of your graduating class. It's not amazing, just unavoidable. Gee, he's supposed to be the intellectual one. I'm also still recognized at a few pubs around town… But we probably shouldn't look at that phenomenon too closely.

We all have little lies we tell ourselves. Occasionally when I'm pointed out, I tell myself they remember me because I was so brilliant or had an amazing wit. Or my favorite, usually only thought of after visiting the local pub, I am recognized just because I'm that hot. But let's face it 99 out of 100 people remember my cripness. I think out of all my accidental meetings through the years, only one counts. A few years back I was attending a sporting event and was yelled at by from across the gym. You know you’re screwed if someone from your past calls you by your full name, especially if it’s of the opposite sex. I quickly introduced my adoring husband.

This morning I stumbled onto an old friend/mentors blog. I was tickled pink so without thinking I immediately emailed him. He was a director of a camp I attended. Great Claire, you expect a poor guy to remember you from like 5,000 campers… Yup! I'm kidding. He also chaperoned my first skiing trip and visited a few times at the house so I'm not totally deranged. Just a tad...

So there you go, this will settle the argument, do folks really remember me? I figure if he doesn't respond in the next 43 minutes, he doesn't remember who the hell I am. I win. It also maybe that yes, indeed he does remember me, That's exactly why he's not responding… I swear I had nothing to do with your boxers up the flagpole. 

Love you, Mean... Whatever

I’m very depressed because my portable dvd player recently died. This means I cannot watch my Sex and the City season three on the way to Dallas. I absolutely love this show. The nudity. The sex chats. But mostly it reminds me that I should have dinner more often with my girlfriends.

I have decided that besides sleeping, which Bobby encourages because if I’m sleeping on the drive, I’m not nagging, I would try to solve this week’s top two things that bug me.

First, Why don’t male rockers age gracefully? I’ve been hooked on that show “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” Its on NBC, where one hit wonders compete. Goofy I know but it’s like a blast from your past. But here’s my question, why does it seem that the female performers has grown old gracefully. Sophie still looked hot singing “Damn I wish I was Your Lover.” Yet it seemed odd when a middle age Lover Boy belted out “Everybody’s Working For The Weekend”. Bobby was getting a little ticked as I screamed “just show me one hot middle aged rocker.” At the tv.

And secondly, the rumor is the hottest catch phrase in Key West is “love you, mean it.” Its trite, its puzzling, yet I find myself wanted to put it on everything I sign.

I’d love to stay and share more things that baffle me but I am off to spread sunshine to my family in Dallas. Ok, they put up with me because I deliver Prince Nicholas…

Have a good weekend. Do something wild because even my vicarious lives are in a slump. And remember, Love you, mean it…

I'll write and workout later...

Today was the day. I was going to search the net, find a fascinating article that would provoke deeps thoughts, but I’ve got nothing. Nada. Zip. Totally clueless. I considered toying with the idea of not writing anything today. Honestly who would know? My three wise-ass men. And you know who you are. Big freaking woop. I can take them… ok, maybe not but I got Nick, Diana, and my mother-in-law to protect me…

Then I thought it might be like skipping the gym. In early January we joined a gym. Believe it or not for two months Bobby and I lived at the gym. I guess this would be more amazing if you knew what I looked like. Just trust me. It was an amazing run for a self-proclaimed “middle-age fat guy” (he’s words, my description is “ancient cute guy”) and a crip.

Then April, early May I tried going to physical therapy. I wanted them to teach me to run. They wanted to teach me my name, how to fall and make sure I could wipe my own ass. “My name is Bitch. That’s capital B.i.t.c.h. I fall very well, that’s why I’m here. And the last time I noticed I wiped my own ass,” Needless to say I was asked to leave therapy… Again.

Of course I wanted to return to the gym right away. I know it’s the same thing as therapy but at least I feel in charge and let’s face it, the scenery is much nicer. But I decided I should take a week off to recover from my hellish experience. A week turned into two, the butt indentations on the sofa grew deeper… It just spiraled out of control from there.

So I decided I’d try to write a little every weekday, even if I had nothing to say. And it’s not because my beloved promised if I keep up my writing pace I’d get a big surprise. I’m not all about reward… just kinda.

You’d also be happy to know Bobby rented a crane this past weekend and pulled me off of the sofa. I went to the gym Tuesday. It’s felt so great I can’t wait to go back tonight. After we take Nicholas to the pool. And after we go shopping. And after we grab dinner. Tomorrow? We are leaving for the weekend. Like I said, can’t wait to go back to the gym next week…

P.s. On a personal note Bobby and I send all of our positive thoughts to Master Addison who I love and worship from afar, because I’m terrified of her. J

Nicholas, go blow your horn

Because of my cerebral palsy, I startle easy. To me, this is horrible. It’s the main reason why I don’t have a driver’s license, I morn this every day. However not everyone shares my depressing views. The members of the Crip club view my startle reactions as a sport.

The Crip Club is made up of seven, eight perverts who tease me. The newest member discovered I jump when I receive text messages on my phone so she sends messages just to make my cell ring. What can I say it’s a bizarre but loyal group, although I can’t remember the benefits of my membership anymore. The funny part is if you tease me without being a member, they will beat you.

I have really tried to hide my jumping from Nicholas. I knew he would be the worse. He absolutely loves teasing me. (This is NOT a challenge Bobby and Chris, just a disturbing fact.) This weekend Nicholas found an old bicycle horn. May I just say, when squeezed right, its startles the shit out of me. All day, honk, jump, curse, honk, jump, threaten, honk, jump, beaten boy. Yet he couldn’t stop.

He finally decided to take a break from torturing mom and went to ride his bike. Bobby gave me the disappointing stare as I took the damn horn. I didn’t care. Mocking a handicap is fine, but stealing a horn from a six-year-old brat is wrong? I think it’s time to take a step back and look at your morals mister.

I hid the horn and I was proud of myself. Nicholas would never find it in a zillion years. Here’s what I thought would happen. Either when he found out I hid it he would A) pitch an ugly, loud fit, therefore taking away the guilt I may have had. Or b) Look for it awhile, then become distracted by something else.

Nicholas looked absolutely heartbroken. Like I had just taken away his best friend, which if you’ve been reading my previous columns, I might have. I sighed loudly, guilt ridden that my boy looked so pitiful but the sound of that horn was still resonating in my head.

I needed to think fast. I had the perfect solution. I’ll give him a hint, however cryptic it may be. He would like the thrill of the hunt, slowly lose interest. “The horn is under water.” I announced.  Peace at last…

Here is where I get pissed off. I thought it was a brilliant hint. The hint was factual but come on, he’s six. He’s going to look in his kiddie pool, maybe in the bath tub… That’s where I would begin my search.

Bobby says my jaw dropped 2 stories and my face turned white. “Oh, mommy hid it under the sink. He finds the horn in less than a minute. Bobby’s laughing his ass off. I’m in shock. Very proud that Nicholas use deductive thinking but I really hate being defeated by a brat.

As I sit in my empty house, Nicholas at science camp, Bobby at work, it occurs to me Nicholas probably hid the horn under his bed and today is trash day. I can almost hear the horn’s dying blows as it’s being crushed by the compacter.

An hour later P.S. Bobby, sweetie… yeah, um, can you pick up a new horn on the way home…

Thoughts to Slumber on... Alone!

Unless you live under a rock you know that Michael Jackson was acquitted yesterday of all charges in connection with accusations that he molested a 13-year-old boy in 2003. I’m sure there are many boo’s, maybe a few cheers. But the bottom line is, in the eyes of the law he is innocent.

I can’t help but be disturbed by this. My husband always jokes that he’s glad we don’t have a daughter. I think its partly because he was once a teenage boy but also that society has publicized awful crimes against girls, shying away from the hideous crimes against boys. I truly believe that a girl is more likely to report a sexual crime to her parents far more then a boy. Whereas a son might be afraid his father might not believe him. Because society tells us things like that only happens to girls. And this terrifies me, because I have a boy, a pink color-hating, mommies have cooties boy.

All this has gotten me thinking, where do I stand on slumber parties. A few months ago Bobby and I had a late night out and Nicholas’ best friends’ mom invited him just to stay over, more out of consideration for us. It still bothers me that I said naw, we’ll just skip dessert after the movie and pick him up. Was I worried that a couple of six-year-olds were going to play doctor? No. but eight-year-olds might. So what’s the cut off?

The neighborhood was all a buzz this prom season because it seemed that all the “in” seniors were invited to a co-head slumber party, sponsored by I think like the quarter back’s parents or something. All I’m thinking is man, I wish we had that in high school. It’d sure saved us money on prom night hotel rooms. I can’t help but wondered if they had condoms for party favors. Sadly I’m dead serious. Think about it, if you’re hosting a slumber party for ten couples on “the most romantic night of their lives” wouldn’t you at least want to know they were being save? What? Hosting a co-ed slumber party is perfectly normal but supplying rubbers is just a little too embarrassing?

So Michael Jackson is innocent, that’s great. But I can’t let go of the fact that the bottom-line, there’s no denying it, he enjoys sharing a bed with boys. Even if he spray paints a line down the bed and never crosses it during the night, I would still find it inappropriate. As much as I hate it, kids will inevitably make choices, some good, some bad. But I think it’s my job as Nicholas’ mom to warn him in the future of the consequences of the average teenage temptations, and to protect him from things that are beyond the norm… for instance… Grown men fascinated with young boys.

I have candy, therefore I am

Many years ago a friend and I had an alcohol induced conversation about not existing. I don’t think it was anything like a suicide pack, just the left over thoughts from a two hours philosophy midterm, Does God Exist? I’m still leaning towards most likely although he certainly lacked in his divine inspiration on my exam.

Every now and then I toy with the thought. Wouldn’t it be strange if I just didn’t exist? No one would be sad because if no one knew me, no one would miss me. I think everyone feels this way sometimes. I am the self-proclaimed bad guy in my house, which is ridiculously ironic because I hate nagging. Clean up, hurry up, take baths, we have to go to the gym. And the worse is the foods. My mother-in-law told me she used to hide cookies in the dryer because if they were on the counter they would be gone in 8.9 seconds. What a strange woman, hiding cookies in the dryer… That was many years ago. Since then I’ve learned my mother-in-law is brilliant. I only wish I was. Do you realize how hard it is to wash melted Toll House Chocolate Chips Cookies from a white towel?

I hate being the bad guy and sometimes I wonder if my boys, my husband and my son, day dream about what if I worked in Alaska 11 months of the year. I’m certain they love me but even “hurry up and eat your salads so we can clean the house,” sounds disgusting as the words flow out of my mouth, in my mother’s voice.

I recently was reminded that mommies don’t always suck. Saturday afternoon the house was full of gaming friends. Nicholas was playing in the backyard and he got stung by a wasp. Bobby was first to his side and quickly doctored him. Being his first bad encounter with an insect we were relieved to see Nicholas had no allergies.

My son does not frighten easily. But he was still hysterical even after Bobby finished cleaning him up. I decided to put him in my lap and may I brag that within 5 minutes he was back outside. Yup. Damn I’m good.

What? True story. I have witnesses. They can testified, in between screams Nicholas And I whispered secrets, then he was fine… What were we whispering? Oh…

Because I’m not allowed to hide cookies in the dryer anymore I have a goodie drawer… and we were sitting by it as Nicholas had his meltdown.

“Give me 10 gummy life savors and I’ll stop crying.” He whispered, pretending to kiss me in between shrieks of terror.

“Five.” I mumbled as I kissed him. His cries grew louder. Everyone assumed he was having a flashback. “Oh come on, there’s barely a mark.” I groveled. He leaned against me, crying even louder in my ear. “Fine. Ten.” I sighed. He carefully dug in my drawer. From the way that we were seated, no one could see the drawer. All they saw was a mommy with a son on her lap, his hands reaching to the side.

Nicholas carefully put 10 in his hand. Taking an extra, he secretly shoved a red gummy life savor in my mouth. I think he pitied I gave in so easily. As a peace offering he gave me a big hug. Everyone ooo’d and aww’d how great I was, amazed that I had convinced him to go outside again. I didn’t have the heart to explain he was running to his fort to sort his loot…

For what ever reason Nicholas sat on my lap, for that moment, I’m certainly glad my goodie drawer and I existed.

Sorry Brad Pitt, i'm hanging with my honey

My girls and I tease and male bash our guys shamelessly in front of them because it’s fun. We would never admit it to them but behind their backs we pity them. However dingy they may be, we know we are ten times worse. At least I am.

A few weeks ago Bobby was invited to this thing. I’m calling it a thing to protect the innocent. I told Bobby I’d do a small thing but I’m uncomfortable doing a big thing. Of course when I said that the thing grew and as it grew I became more leery. Oh get your minds out of the gutter. It’s just a thing where you have to be half way understandable… Hello? Little miss freakish speech here…

“If you tell me to I’ll cancel it.” Bobby would say each night. My male readers are calling Bobby pussied whipped. However the girls know this is a trap. If I say yes, I’d be the wicked witch of the west for a month.

“Do whatever you want sweetheart.” I said. Girls what does that mean? Cancel the freaking thing and you shall be rewarded. Does he cancel? Of course not.

In the beginning of our marriage we were passionate fighters. The bastard left his sock on the floor, I’m leaving him. Between growing a little wiser, a little mellower, and just too damn busy, we don’t fight that much anymore. We snap and go on.

Occasionally I find myself blowing things out of proportion. Old habits die hard. Trying to be grown up I told Bobby you go to your thing and I’ll do a movie day. He’s not god. I don’t need to spend every second with him. Besides he’ll never do this, he’ll be miserable without me.

“That’s perfect.” Damnit bobby. Can’t he hear the voices in my head screaming at him, for they really do love him. “Danger Bobby James danger.” “You should take Theresa or Lindy with you.” He said. You big silly Prick. That was the wrong answer, beg me to go with you.

“I think Lindy has a wedding thing and Theresa has a Soo Bahk Do thing.” I said. I didn’t know this for sure. But I couldn’t invite them because if I did it would foil my plan. If I went out with my girls, I wouldn’t be miserable. It might even be a blast. If I was having fun, I could not teach Bobby a lesson. Although now I’ve confused myself so much, I forgotten how exactly this would punish Bobby… Hey two out of the five voices in my head say I make sense.

As lame as it sounds I still like hanging out with my honey. I know he loves me, but every now and then it would be nice to be reminded he likes me too. I screwed up. I should have asked him to cancel a week ago because I honestly feel uncomfortable at this thing and its not something he feels passionate about… I’m sure to his buddies faces he’ll whine how awful I am. Never admitting instead of doing this thing, he had a fabulous day in Kemah sailing with his lovely wife.

But this is a mute point now because its too late for Bobby to cancel. It’s really is, no traps. I’ve sloppily made my bed, I should just lie in it. I guess there are worse things then spending the evening with Brad Pitt. I made such a big deal about if he can have fun without me, I can have fun all by myself. I can’t change my mind now. Yup. I’ll go. All by myself. If I back out now I’d be one of those wives I hate, you know the kind, they can’t live without their dorky… funny… cute… cuddly… oh just shoot me.

Red Light Signal on Hilcroft

Did you hear what Russel Crow said on Letterman last night? Sounding very apologetic he explain he had to call his wife. At first I thought this was sweet After all, I have fantasies of Bobby beating up a bellhop just because he misses my voice. Isn’t that the act of true love? Then I thought about it, Crow went on to say it was his duty to call his wife every single night to tell her he was sober and alone, I’m guessing this is opposed to drunken and with someone? Now there’s a marriage.

This got me thinking. Bobby, from now on I need you to call me at 6:37 in the mornings so I’ll know you’re alone and weren’t seduced by the Hilcroft Hookers.

I offend myself by laughing but this is true! Not Bobby being tempted but yes Virginia, there are hookers hanging out at my husband’s work exit in the mornings. The truly scary part is for some bizarre reason I’m thoroughly fascinated by this. Is this really the root of Houston’s traffic problem. Should wives worry when husbands say “No thanks honey, I’ll pick up breakfast on the way to work.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow as I interrogated him. Not because I was checking his collar or any other body parts for lipstick, but because I seemed a bit too curious asking hundreds of questions. How many are there? Do a lot of cars pull over? Wonder what they’re getting? Do you know? Bobby screamed no and looked at me like I had finally gone mad. He wasn’t worried I was accusing him, just the opposite. Ya know after nine years of being unemployed… Just a passing thought, gee put the chastity belt away…

In my mind prostitutes are hot. Like the surreal experience in Amsterdam. Like everyone, I’ve seen films of hot babes in windows winking to possible johns, and even a few Jills. Yet nothing prepares you for the real thing. Being in Amsterdam, being 20 feet from sex windows… Very strange. Yes I was in Amsterdam. Does that shock you? I was once young, cool, and hip…

My friend would say yes, you were once young, cool, and hip… You just didn’t take those qualities on our trip to Europe… I figure in another 5 years, we’ll be able to laugh about it. I still get eye twitches when we pass a grey hound bus.

But anyways… This is the romantic “beautiful window very sensual” image I had when Bobby first told me about the new scenery on his daily drive to work. He seemed to be afraid to tell me these women of the mornings weren’t “all that.” “They’re sorta… ugly.” He admitted… I smiled, relieved. Now that I think about it, Bobby likes ugly… hmm…

Doesn’t it make you kinda wonder? Bobby says they are out there every morning so they must be “popular”. Prostitution is legal in several countries, I think even in Nevada, as Bobby must point out every time we are in Vegas.


About once a month the police chase away the Hilcroft Hookers and for about a week Bobby has no scenery to amuse himself on the drive to work. Poor guy. But like weeds, they return. Do I like prostitution. Not really. But it’s not one of my hot buttons. To each his own and I’m more worried about Bobby forgetting to buy milk on the way home then anything else.

It would seem to me that if prostitution was legalized, and ran like a business maybe it would put a dent in the aids epidemic. It would give the police more time to focus on missing children and unsolved murders. Let the Lorraine Bobbit’s of the world take care of wandering spouses.

-30-

Nevermind common sense, we have zero tolerance

A friend was telling me that her son almost missed his graduation ceremony because he was wearing shorts and tennis shoes. Luckily he found good ol dad and they made a clothes switch. Can you imagine how heartbreaking it could have been if they didn’t let him walk and his only crime was ugly shoes.

Recently a senor was denied becoming valedictorian because she missed too many days of school. It didn’t seem to matter that the reason that she was absent was she checked herself into an treatment center because she identified she had an eating disordered. Decided to treat it, all the while maintaining a perfect GPA. Now I’d consider that inspiring, worthy of a valedictorian. The principal was sympathetic but could not make a decision without meeting with the board. It was unfortunate that the board was not scheduled to meet til after graduation. Guess we wouldn’t want to be accused of making a decision.

It seems ever since the tragedy at Columbine and 9/11 the country is walking on eggshells. Since I work at home alone during the day I usually have the tv on, just for noise. There’s nothing worse then hearing that breaking news music. I remember when I associated that music as oh, it must be a talking head longing for some attention. Now my instinct is to make my boys come home because it might be something bad.

My husband and I are about as opposite on political as two people can get. He thinks he’s changing me but look making up was just more fun when we were younger, so I just bite my tongue. I used to ask him if my handicapped embarrassed him. He’d say no, but your political views do. Now I don’t care about either.

Its ok, I was embarrassed to tell my friends you are… shit I’m still embarrused, a member of the NRA. But Bobby is really cute and I guess we all have our faults. The only reason I’ve come to terms with this is because if the NRA had a poster child for gun safety. My honey’s face would be plastered on that poster.

When we had Nicholas, we made a deal. Either Nicholas would play with toy guns or he would be taught they were a tool and would respect them. Bobby has done a great job. Nicholas knows dad loves guns and if he’s ever curious, daddy will unlock them and show him.

We have never bought Nicholas a gun. Now water guns are a different story… Them are good things, especially super soakers…

Occasionally Nicholas will make a lego gun and if I see it, he says something silly like it’s the letter L. and I’m secretly amused as he runs to his room making his “L” go bang bang. He doesn’t do this very often so it’s really not an issue. I sometimes even think he does it to wind me up. Because he understands daddy loves guns and mommy truly believes if all the guns in the world disappeared tomorrow, the world would be a better place. But I’m also a realist. If the bad guys have guns, I’d rather my good guy have one too.
The other day we were driving and Nicholas asks me to look at him. You could tell he was proud of himself. “Look Mommy, I bit the chip and made a gun.” I tried to keep a straight face as I said, “Just eat your gun boy.”

But that got me thinking. Could this act of silliness get my son suspended? 10 years ago you’d think I was off my rocker but seriously think about it. Nicholas is at lunch with his buddies. Nicholas finds a chip gun. His buddy thinks it’s way cool, takes a carefully place bite out of a ruffle and there you go, a great chip shoot-out in the ol cafeteria. His school has a zero tolerance policy…

Is zero tolerance replacing common sense? Is this the ultimate form of passing on the buck? Could a chip be considered a weapon?

I’d like to tell y’all the answers but I have to go throw away all my chips. Hell, Nicholas isn’t coming home for hours, I’ll just eat them. Hmm… Wonder what shape I’ll bite them into…

try not to Hate thy neighbor

Let me first say that my column’s whole mission is to make you laugh. And if on accident I discourage one abled body princess from parking in the handicap section at the mall, I’m doing a good thing. And it’s ok if I poke fun at my friends because the next time we’re at dinner, they’ll find away to punish me. They won’t cut up my steak until I apologize or something horrible like that. So it’s all good.

I promised myself that if I wrote a column today it would be my view on some latest event, because there’s not usually drama on a Monday night in my house. Big drama last night…

This is a bit of a challenge because I’m trying to find the sacastic humor in this event without permanently burning bridges… But then again its hard to worry about burning bridges when it exploded.

People are odd. I’ve been very lucky because I’ve made instant friends who have been with me, most thirteen years or more. In fact it strange to think about but on a timeline, Bobby would be considered a newer relationship, coming in at only ten years. In the past 5 years, I’ve made three new friends, one just this year. I mean I made a handful of buddies who I adore, but I don’t use the word friend lightly. When I call you my friend it means I expect you to shoot spit wads at my funeral. And all my friends just had the same reply: “but Claire, Why wait?”

I suck at a lot of things. But I think I’m a good, loyal friend. And the two things I hope to leave Nicholas is the thirst to always learn and the importance of having a handful of friends who will always have your back. So imagine my horror when I got a phone call saying Nicholas’ best friend of 4 years would be unavailable to play anymore.

I would love to bitch about every detail of the call but I won’t. It was just odd and I was accused of being a burden. I’m a catholic and live with guilt on a daily basis. I’m so good I could probably think of a reason why global warming was my fault… and believe it!

I was up all night wondering what caused this unfortunate event. And I’m totally bewildered, a tad depressed, and just plain angry. Nothing unusual happened last night when they played together.

I’m sorta leaning towards believing the parent was having a bad day. Because by accident over the years I’ve gotten to know their older kids, I think I even love them as nieces. I refuse to say I love them as daughters because I’d feel 100 years old, but its true. And they tell me stuff. But I’m sure Nicholas will refer to me as the satan a few times before I croak. So I’ve taken there complaints with a grain of salt. Teen Drama stuff.

Even though I felt shell shocked, I sorta always expected it, just further in the future. As mad as I am, I refuse to bad mouth Nicholas’ best friend’s parent in front of Nicholas. And I’m about 85% sure this will blow over. But how can I ever let Nicholas play with them again without worrying is this the last time? Do I tell my adopted girls they can’t grab a coke? This is really tearing me up. For Nicholas’ sake, I’d even consider apologizing but I have no idea for what.

Aside from Nicholas being scarred for life can we get to the real problem. Because the world does, in fact, revolved around me. This whole freakish incident is gonna cost me a trip to toy-r-us and Chuck-e-cheese. Damnit.

Wildest dreams

On a recent drive to Galveston, Bobby and I discussed our wildest dreams. No, not those kinds… We stumbled onto this because I was telling him about Oprah and her wildest dreams bus. How people write her compelling letters and she shows up on the bus, waves a wand and poof, there’s your dream.

Bobby asked if Oprah showed up out of the blue, what would I asked for. I know I have a better chance of waking up cerebral palsy-less then seeing Oprah but it never hurts to dream.

Let’s see, I thought it might be cool if I had a total home make over. Oops, wrong show. Bobby was hoping I’d say to cruise around the world in a yacht. That ain’t going to happen. I’d start hyperventilating at the first thought of a storm. Have we not learned anything from Giligan’s Island. It was supposed to be a three hour tour… A three hour tour.

I toyed with the idea of taking all the members of the Crip Club and their significant others on the most fabulous vacation. I think aside from just asking the big O for a blank check, this would be my wildest dream. Hell, I might even take Bobby and Nicholas.

But reality got the better of me. That’s right, as I sit on my bench on my front porch waiting for Oprah’s bus to save me, I know exactly what I’d asked for. damn I hope these wood imprints on my butt aren’t permanent.

I’d ask for a job to write a column. I couldn’t tell from Bobby’s expression if he was surprised by my dream, if he was proud, disturbed, or disgusted. You could almost hear his thoughts, “Has 9 years of balancing pennies in Claire’s personal income bank account taught her nothing?”

That’s right, I’d ask for a writing gig. He asked if I thought I could write a monthly column? Sure. A weekly column? Yup. A daily column…. Freakin A… I fell into his trap.

He misunderstood me. I bragged that I had my game store so organized, it could run itself. He understood it that as now I’ll have more time I could write a daily column. Hypothetically I guess I could. But see, I have so much housework and cooking those nightly gourmet meals is very time consuming. Oh shit, lightening just struck my house.

How can I say this without the Crip Club members holding me to it. Ok, on the days when ebay is slow, when Nicholas isn’t driving me crazy, when I’m not mad at Bobby, when the movies on lifetime are reruns, and when I’m not taking any medicine for my allergies, I’ll probably try to write a column. If you think that’s bad, you should have heard the amendments to my wedding vowes.

That’s right people, Clarifiedchaos is now… a da… will be published more then once a year.

Wake up Boy, Mommy’s Scared!

I’m not claiming I have bad luck but the saying “shit happens” runs through my head on a daily basis.
Two months ago I decided enough was enough. I’m taking my boys camping. Let’s go Memorial Weekend. Friday through Monday. Rent a Pop-up trailer. It will be great.

Reality hit me Thursday night. I secretly Yahoo IM’d my college roommate in a panic. “When I reserved the camper it was 65 degrees, today I could fry an egg on my ass. They are going to whine and I’m going to end up killing them. I’m not even sure if I like them enough to spend four days in the woods with them.” And her words of wisdom were… “teeheehee, you said ass…”

Surprisingly and to my sheer delight, it was the most fabulous camping trip ever.

Ok, time out. I need to do a disclaimer. Fabulous camping trips do not replace the 2 trips to Colorado, 1 trip to Seattle, 1 cruise, 1 trip to New Orleans, nor the 2 weeks in Europe that I am owed. Sorry but I can see my husband doing the white men’s happy dance thinking if he plays his cards right he may never have to leave the state of Texas again… WRONG.

And now back to our story…

The days and evenings were perfect. And I don’t usually do perfect. We fished. We beached. We played games. Nicholas rode his bike. The day time weather was warm enough to keep drenching Nicholas with the water hose but the breeze kept off the sweat. I even wished we had a few more days out there. Don’t get me wrong, I look forwards to the weekends but there’s nothing more satisfying then my Monday 7 am sighs after Bobby leaves for work and Nicholas waves bye from the school bus. Peace at last.

Oh you nayers, some of you are saying stop blowing smoke up my ass and get to Claire’s Calamity. What? Can’t I tell a happy joyous story without any bitching involved. Your damn right, this column ain’t called clarified chaos for nothing. I did say the weather during the day was perfect and I stand by that. However the night time skies were a different story.

About two hours after we went to bed on the first night, it started lightly sprinkling. That was fine. Maybe even kinda romantic. But 20 minutes later when the strong rains followed with the close lightening, I was fit to be tied. On a scale from 1 to 10, I think the storm was a 6, but being in a flappy trailer pushed it to an 8. The bright lightening and loud thunder made me nervous, but it was ok. I had a plan.

Ever since Nicholas was 9 months old, he’d come a running when a single rain drop hit the roof. Surely any minute now he’d wake up, bob would turn on the lights. We’d share comfort food and ride out the storm.

My son never woke up. Two freaking hours in a horrible storm and Nicholas was dead to the world. Bobby drifted in and out of slumber, mostly out because with each lightening strike I poked him… “Remember,” I yelled each time over the loud thunder “Don’t worry about me in case of a tornado, save Nicholas.” I heard him mumble, “Keep poking me and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The last lightening bolt shown my watch to be about 3 am. Proud that I withered the storm, lonely had it may have been, I lied back down. I tried to cuddle with my honey, but by then, his body developed a reflex to jump away from me, fearing another morbid message accompanied the touch. Still I was pleased with myself. I rolled over, I closed one eye as the last raindrop hit the camper’s flaps, I then heard the words I no longer wanted to hear… “Mommy, I’m scared. It’s starting to rain. Can I sleep with you and daddy?” And for the first time ever, my husband begged “please!” immediately dropping him between us…

The fresh morning air seemed to have blown away any left over hostile feeling irrationally shared during the earlier storm. We were all in good spirits and enjoyed the gorgeous day.

They always say lightening never strike twice. The second night as we were battening down for night, the rain started again. Some say I’m too stubborn to learn from my mistakes. But I did. I poked Bobby once more, repeating my national weather advisory alert: S.O.B. save our boy. And let the rains lull me to sleep.

It was such a great weekend. I know I shouldn’t push my luck but I’ve always been a gambler… Three hundred bucks to reserve another camper in July down on red… Place your bets please…