Before I get into my post, I need to make a true confession, Internet.
One of the resolutions I left off of this here list, was my vow to eat better breakfasts. Usually I skip the most important meal of the day, which is not good on so many levels.
I've been true to my resolution, eating my Irish oatmeals and real granola that tastes like horse feed and adding an orange or tangerine since our lovely Florida fruits are in season right now.
And then this morning, I came home from my morning school route to this, sitting on my counter:
See, my oldest dung beetle is still home from college and she has not yet learned the fine art of picking up after herself. And since she keeps the hours of a vampire, I find her snacks greeting me in the morning.
I popped a few crunchy chips in my mouth and decided they were just missing a little something and so I combined them with this:
The combination of salty and sweet, it is my Nirvana.
Next thing I knew, I was cramming my mouth full of tostitos and chocolate almonds and all bets and resolutions were off. But, the chocolate WAS dark and the chips WERE whole grain, so that counts for something...right?
And as I was crunching down, I thought, "Well, at least, I got something accomplished this morning. Only 6 days in and now I won't have to worry anymore about breaking my resolution!"
So, there's that. Now, on to the holiday.
We had a lovely Christmas. The girls were all glammed up good with their girly-girl accoutrements.
And I'm really not going to disclose what I got my Hubby. I'll just tell you it's a big addition to his Rambo collection.
I was gifted with a Pilates reformer which resembles a medieval torture contraption...actually, it might as well be classified in the same category. And I don't mind a little rack torture, as long as it gives me a body like Gwyneth Paltrow.
The Hubby also bought me some sunglasses....the expensive kind.
This is going to bring major stress into my life. I can feel it, every time I glance at those shades.
The fanciest sunglasses I wear are Target designer, the $14.99 ones. And even then, I balk at the price. I'm not sure if I'm up to the responsibility of owning a pair of swaggy shades. It's kind of like fancy pens. I'd definitely lose a fancy pen, most likely on the first day in. So, just so you know, don't anyone every buy me a fancy pen. I'm not a fancy pen kind of girl. It's just too stressful... keeping track of pens and sunglasses.
I also got some pretty clothes and accessories and I thought it was just a swell Christmas. I couldn't ask for anything more, until I opened a box and found this inside....
That's right. A Bono purse. Try not to be too jeaaaalouss.
My sisters knew as soon as they saw it in a little Chicago boutique, that this could quite possibly be the best gift of all time. It even has pictures of him plastered all over the inside of the purse, so now I can gaze at him while I'm rooting around for my hand sanitizer or a pen, but not a fancy one, or my swaggy sunglasses that I've promised my hubby I'd keep in their microfiber little satchel. Errr... at least I'll try.
My girls say they're not going to be seen about town with me and my Bono purse. And I say to them, well get used to being motherless and without the benefit of my credit cards, because I'm taking this bad boy with me EVERYWHERE.
In fact, right after Christmas we went and saw my sister's celebrity boyfriend's new movie. For those of you not in the know, that would be George Clooney's, "Up In The Air."
I'm sad I didn't think of a George Clooney purse for her.
Now I have to say, initially, along with the bazillion other people who thought it would be nifty to see that show the-day-after-Christmas-at-my-hometown-theater-for-the-7:20-showing, I didn't love it too much.
But, then the film scholar, Odawg, lectured her father and I about how America loves their cliched endings and we had to get beyond being all happily ever after and really feel the movie.
And I think I'm feeling it...I guess...Well, maybe a little.
The critics loved it. But, then again, the critics loved that movie where Hilary Swank is a boxer and she's punched her way up to champion, but then she gets hit from behind with a dirty punch and becomes paralyzed. And her white-trash family hates her and only wants to use her for her money. And when she realizes she's alone in the world with just Clint Eastwood, her trainer, as her only friend, she does what anyone would do. Duh. She asks Clint Eastwood to kill her. And when he refuses, she tries to bite her tongue off so that she'll bleed to death. And when that doesn't work, Clint Eastwood decides to be a good friend, I guess, and he kills her. End of story.
I'm thinking I don't mind cliches.
Of course, I proudly dangled my Bono purse from my wrist during my venture out. That purse was the best part of the movie escapade. That and the popcorn mixed with Raisinets and if you haven't had that combo, I must suggest it. I will humbly tell you that every person I've turned onto this salty/sweet combo only does the movies now with my mixture.
While in the lobby of the movie theater, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and there stood a guy I've known since I was about 9. This guy and I went to school together. He played softball every year on my brothers' team. My dad was his father's campaign manager when his dad ran for political office. So, we know things about each other.
For instance, he knows I successfully stuffed a whole pack of red hots into my mouth at once and kept them there for like a minute. (A dare from my sister while whiling away our time at the ball park.)
And I know that he was pretty good at surf-riding on the roof of one of our friend's Firebirds in the Pizza Inn Parking Lot after the high school football games and a few beers.
You know, intimate things.
Aways back, the most bizarre thing happened. My Firebird-surfing buddy ran for a certain political office, a very powerful political office and won. And then, a few years after that, he got an even more powerful position in the halls of the government. He was a Super-Duper Big Cheese in the land of politics.
The first few years after he became a Big Cheese, he was still the same guy I've known all my life whenever I ran into him. But then, somewhere along the way, he started using this politician voice, (the all generic, "I'm pretending to be deeply interested in what you're saying, but I'm really thinking about how much I like pistachios" voice) and being all super-polite to me and I just wanted to punch him in the gut, you know, just to get a reaction and say, "Dude, quit with the Eddie Haskell routine. I'm the red-hot- stuffing-her-face girl. You're the Firebird Surfer. So. Stop. It. Now."
I saw him a few weeks before Christmas and he gave me that voice and he was so kindly polite. I will admit, it kinda bugged me. But since I have a very busy and important life myself, cleaning up puppy poo and whatnot, I forgot about it.
When I turned around at the movie, he immediately started in with his affable, "How are you?"
So kindly polite, when I knew he was saying inside his head, "I need to get in that concession stand line before it gets any longer, so I can nab me one of those gourmet pretzels with the dunking cheese."
We engaged in polite, earnest, "I'm pretending to care but I'm thinking about Little Debbie Ho-Ho's" small talk... that is, until I saw it. I watched his gaze settle onto my Bono purse and for an instant, there was this flash of alarm, of eyebrows raised, of certain, "Red Hot Girl has lost her shit" before he regained his political, polite composure.
A little rewind for a moment here: My high school class is really great about having reunions every five years. A few years back, we had a terrific one at a posh golf and tennis resort. One night, after more than a few cocktails, my hubby decided to carjack borrow a golf cart for the night--easier to traipse our way through the resort to all the various room parties without spilling our cocktails. As a gang of us climbed aboard, my Super Big Cheese Buddy decided to relive a few high school memories.
Back to the present: As soon as my Big Cheese Buddy regained control, his kind smile back in place after he spotted my Bono purse, I wanted to hiss, "SAY IT!! Come on!! Taunt me! You know you want to!"
But, mostly I wanted to declare, "Yes! That's right! It's a Bono Purse. And if we're judging, let me just state for the record, that I know who I am. I am a Bono-accessorising, red-hot-stuffing, cheap-pen-carrying, stressed out sunglass wearer! And I am proud, proud, I say! Might want to think about that, Mr. surfing the roof of the stolen golf cart with cocktail in hand and you know you're dying to bust a gut and wrench my purse away from me and say, 'What the f*#@k is this?' Do you know who YOU are? Mr. Now Polite As Eddie Freakin' Haskell Politician."
That's what I wanted to say.
Instead, I gave him one final hug and said, "Have a Happy New Year."
Maybe at the next reunion, I'll hit him upside the head with my Bono purse and force the real words out of him, "Girl, you're a freakin-ass freakazoid!"
Popeye said it best, "I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam."
As we walked away my Tori whispered, "Mom, he was so staring at your Bono purse. You are super embarrassing."
I smiled as I said, "I do try. So, thank you for that."
Today's Definite Download: The magnificent ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down." Man, weren't they something?
I was shocked a few years back when someone informed me that it was NOT, "Don't bring me down, Brrruuuccce." But, "Don't bring me down, grrrosss."
I was like, seriously?
I've been singing Bruce with the trill in my r, for all these years. I had no idea who Bruce was, but it seems to make as much sense as gross? Who is gross? Or is it the bringing down part that's gross? Or are they talking the gross amount of something?
I think I liked it better when it was Bruce.
"What happened to the girl I used to known. You let your mind out somewhere down the road."
That's right. And I am proud of THAT. Have you seen my Bono purse?