The Hot Dog Incident or Why I Have the Best Mom in the World

“I have a great idea, Deidre! I'm going to make you hot dog's to bring to school for lunch!” My 6 year old brain could not wrap my head around the fantastical words that had just left my mother's mouth. “What do you mean? At school? FOR LUNCH??”, I couldn't accept it, it was too magical. “Will they be cold?”, I asked, trying to find the holes in the possibility, not wanting to get too excited. “No, I'm going to put them in a thermos with the hot water. I'll put the hot dog buns on the side and then you can put them together at lunch.” This was a first grade miracle. At that age, there was nothing I loved more than food (which makes it exactly the same as today) and hot dogs were one of my most coveted delicacies (which, again, makes it exactly the same as today). I've always had a discerning pallet. I sat at the tall seat of the kitchen, eating my soft-boiled egg and toast strips, and watched my mother prepare what was soon to be the greatest school lunch idea that had ever been birthed. It was painful getting through the first several classes to lunch. I could think of nothing else, no preoccupation with who I would sit next to. No concern that I had peed my pants during class several months ago. No worry about whether or not April or I would get to the swing-set early enough to save the other a swing. Not even a thought about the possibility that I might get assigned the role of “Gargamel” if we played Smurfs, which was just our 6 year old way of saying, “We've decided, for no reason at all, that you suck today.” And then, the bell rang (yes, I am from the days of yore when we actually had school bells. Unless they still have school bells, in which case, I'm still from the days of yore but the school bell thing has hung on. Way to go school bell, gotta be honest, I never thought you'd last. Kinda like Journey.) So we filed in line, I went to my classroom cubby, grabbed my lunch box, filed back in line and headed for the cafeteria. I was shaking with anticipation. I could only imagine the envy in my classmates faces as they beheld my hot dog lunch. It was everything I imagined, the hot dogs were still warm, the girls and boys around me were impressed, someone even offered me a strawberry shaped AND hamburger shaped eraser, just for a BITE of my hot dog. To which I answered decidedly, “No”. Very generous of me. I pulled out my little baggie of strawberry Quik that my mom sent with me which I added to my carton of milk. I felt joy like I had not felt in my short 6 years of life and I ate that lunch with the soundtrack of “The Sound of Music” or maybe to the soundtrack of “Mary Poppins” running through my head. Hey, I was 6, those were my only soundtracks. As I put my trash on my tray and started to pack my lunchbox with my thermos, I heard the voice of my first grade teacher, “Deidre. Is that thermos empty?” “No”, I responded, because it was still full of hot dog water, remnants from my mother's greatest creation yet. “You know the rules, you have to finish what's in your thermos so it doesn't leak all over your cubby and jacket.” “But, Mrs. Wills...”, I protested, even though I was somewhat of a garbage disposal, even I didn't want to drink warm hot dog water. “Deidre, I'm not going to say it again, finish it and stop holding everyone up.” So I did it. I drank that hot dog water. Totally worth it, by the way. I regret nothing!

When I got home my mother, excited to see how my lunch went, met me at the door and asked, “How was lunch?!” “It was so good! You were right, the hot dog's were still warm!” Which in my head was some sort of witchcraft. “Oh good! I'm so glad you liked it!” “Yeah, the only bad part was having to drink the hot dog water.” I replied and headed for the cupboard for some cereal. Yes, that's right people, I was famished. I hadn't eaten in at least 2 hours. My mother was perplexed, “Oh, honey, you didn't have to drink the hot dog water! Were you still hungry or something?” Reasonable hypothesis. “No. Mrs. Wills made me drink the hot dog water. It's a rule.” That's when it happened. Something switched. My mother went from Mrs. Brady to Sarah Connor in the Terminator in 0.5 seconds. She grabbed my hand and WALKED me back to the school. No joke. To this day, it's unclear what she did with my sister and brother. Did she leave them at home in a motherly rage? Did she send them next door to the Meymaris'? Did they walk with us? It's an enigma, if you will. But what is clear is that my mom stormed into that school and gave Mrs. Wills a what for. I knew in that moment, that nobody should ever cross me because my mother would take them the f' down.

Why am I writing about the hot dog incident as a tribute to my mother on mother's day one might ask? And the reason to me could not be more simple. Everything that I appreciate and love about my mother is exemplified in this situation. My mother is creative. In all the ways. Even in the way she thought up a lunch that would blow my little 6 year old mind. She is thoughtful, right down to the little baggy of strawberry Quik because she knew I didn't like regular milk. She let me be me, from letting me shave a patch of hair on the side of my head, to giving me a dirt bike with pegs for first communion instead of a 10 speed and for being the kid whose most exciting aspect of the day would be hot dogs for lunch. She is a force to be reckoned with. She was the strongest and scariest human to stand 5 foot 1 when you had crossed a loved one. From running up one side of Mrs. Wills and down the other, to flipping the bird at the man in the 16 wheeler who almost drove her off the road with a car full of my friends and screaming, “I have a car full of kids in here ass hole!” and to any person who has ever hurt me (justly or unjustly) throughout my life. Seriously, if you've ever upset me, my mother probably still knows your first and last names as well as your next of kin. You should be locking your doors at night lest you want a small, 70ish year old, Italian German woman breaking in and giving you a mouth full.

Thank you mom for the hot dogs. And all the other things. I like to think that I've internalized some of these qualities about my mother that I admire. If I can be half of the woman my mother has been in her life, I think I'm doing just fine. I love you, Mom!

An Ode To Pops On Father's Day

An Ode To Pops On Father's Day

My Dad is someone that people love to be around because he lets them be who they are. As I get older I become increasingly aware of how special a trait that is and how much it has influenced my life. I don't think it's possible to overstate the the impact of someone letting you be you. Of course who I am has changed, as it does for all of us, as I continue to develop and grow. But from the very beginning when I wanted to be a chicken, to becoming a strong willed «read: pain in the ass» teen who had a knack for finding and creating trouble, to changing into a young adult who often chose fun and adventure over responsibility and maturity to turning into the (somewhat) functioning adult I am today, my Dad has let me be me. I've never once felt judged by him or the absence of his support. Even in those very rare times that I've made bad decisions, (I use the word 'rare' loosely) my Dad still supported me. 

I have an image, from my high school years, of my Dad in the Holden house by the TV watching Rod Stewart's 'Forever Young' video. He was dancing his little jig when he turned to me and said, 'Hey, Dewey, have you heard this song? It's a good one.' At the time I think I rolled my eyes and said something about the lameness of Rod Stewart. My more sophisticated adolescent musical taste was heavily focused on the offerings of Digital Underground or Jane's Addiction. And there it went. The moment passed. The song ended and we went about our day. It wasn't until I was much older that the poignancy of that moment hit me. Of course, like so much of life, I wish I could have understood in the present why that song had spoken so much to my father. I wish my adolescent self had stopped and taken a moment to just be there with my Dad instead of worrying about whether my bangs would stay in a side feather or if my new sneakers were too white. But that's not how it works. I could be nothing but the adolescent I was. But if you're lucky, with time and life passing you can look back and relearn what mattered and what didn't. I'm thankful that my Dad is still around so I can let him know how often I reflect upon this particular song and that moment in the family room. Now, whenever I hear Forever Young on the radio, I turn it up, I think of my Dad dancing by the TV and I usually cry (Lies. I always cry.) Yes, I know that the song is not especially cool nor is it obscure nor does it seem musically complex. But that's why it's so fitting, because it doesn't have to be. It can be exactly what is. There is one sentence of the song in particular that continues to stand out to me, like a question mark hanging in the air:

"And when you finally fly away I'll hoping that I served you well. For all the wisdom of a lifetime, no-one can ever tell." 

Dad, I think Rod mostly got it right with this song, but in this one part, at least in how it applies to my life, he is wrong. Because when a thought of you enters my mind, as it does from time to time, and I think about your influence on me as a father, there is never a doubt of whether or not you served me well. I hope you have a great Father's Day and keep waiting for that Porsche.

Forever Young: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1T9apksOv6k

How I Lived in San Francisco on $18K A Year

I know broke. I know it well. I've never really been able to blame my being broke on anything in particular except for maybe my penchant for setting my “financially successful” bar pretty low. I had a friend say to me once that he was pissed that he was almost 40 and wasn't a multimillionaire close to retiring like he thought he would be. I myself always thought that by 40 I'd be one step away from being homeless with an alcohol problem and so I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself approximately 3 steps away from being homeless with an alcohol problem. I've always lived in relatively expensive cities, the most expensive being San Francisco. For the time that I lived out in San Francisco I made the least amount of money that I've made since graduating college. By the way, I'd like to thank past Deidre for choosing an English degree backed up with a practical Theater minor. Good looking out. So how did I make it in San Francisco (and by “make it” I mean “not die”) on $18K a year in 2002-4? I'll give you the top survival tips I used:

Start off with some savings.

And by savings I mean the Starbucks card loaded with $350 that was given to me by my boss as a Morgan Stanley parting gift. This came in handy because I used it like food stamps. If I were on food stamps I'd be so mad at me for writing that. Anyhow, when I first got there I bought my groceries from Starbucks. I ate a crap ton of reduced fat turkey bacon sandwiches. I would take the bacon out sometimes and save it for breakfast. A twofer! I drank 4 large coffee's a day. That's right, I just said "Large", I refuse to call them what they want me to call them. I know, it's good to see someone in this world still standing up for what really matters.

Shop at the dollar store...for groceries!

Go to the dollar store and purchase your groceries there. It is like a scratch ticket every time you go in, you never know what kind of jackpot you are in store for. This is the reason why on any given day you may have found the following food stuffs in my cupboard (Cupboard? That's totally not how I would have spelled that word if I invented it.): Mexican cereal (My favorite being Choco Krispis), bread sticks, a jar of pickled eggs, pasta that turned immediately into liquid within 0.2 seconds of boiling or if the sun hit it directly for over a ten minute period, lunch loaf (I have no idea what it was made of, all I know is it tasted of sweet sweet goodness), chicken flavored crackers and canned smoked oysters ← either together OR separate. Yes, I ate canned oysters.

If you have a douche bag (DB) for a roommate, steal his food!

Normally, I don't take people's things. If my family members are reading this they are doing a collective eye roll. Fine family, let me rephrase, I don't take people's things without asking (since I turned about 20-26 years old). But in this case, I was starving, and my roommate was a DB so I felt justified. Let me give you, my loyal readers who total 4 to 5 people (tops), a smattering of his douchebagery (DB-ery). Once, upon my return home from an evening out with friends, Mr. DB looked me up and down and said, with a crooked smile that made him look like he had had a stroke, “Well, someone was on the make tonight." Ummmm...“On the make?” Is that you Grandma? What does being on the make entail? Does that mean putting on your girdle, getting drunk off a couple of Sidecar's in the speakeasy and hanging out with other loose women? For that I'm going to be on the make for your sacred Olive Oil and put it on my pasta tomorrow for lunch when you leave the house. Side note: Charlie, he was more protective of his Olive Oil than you are. Also, am I supposed to be capitalizing "Olive Oil"? But I digress, not only am I going to use your Olive Oil tomorrow, I'm going to use a lot of it. Like $2.00 worth in one serving. And I'm going to have approximately 8.2 servings. I mean honestly, have you seen the actual size of a serving of pasta? In what world? DB-ery smattering number two (I know that is not the proper way to use the word “smattering” but I'm going to use it like that anyways because fuck you). My roommate's reply to my asking him what CD he was listening to, “Oh this? This is the White Stripes. I can't believe you've never heard of them. I thought you said once that you liked music.” Really? Well, I do like music. You want to know what else I like? The fact that I'm going to eat your last Hershey's Miniature Krackel in the freezer and then I'm going to look at you with the confused dog head tilt when you ask me if I ate it. Over the year that I lived with Mr. DB I plowed through several bottles of olive oil, countless numbers of Hershey's Miniatures (I even ate the Special Dark which I hate, just out of spite), all his milk substitute products (which to me are one step up from drinking cough syrup), pasta, red pepper flakes and a crapton of honey. That's how often he was a DB.

Buy a super cheap futon.

If you can find a cheap futon it really helps. Preferably from a store that is within walking distance so you can take 3 hours to carry it 6 blocks away and up your 3 flights of stairs you your apartment. Yes, my own futon came in approximately 1,879 un-assembled (should be a word) pieces that I attempted to put together for 8 hours straight and instead ended up drunk (how else can someone maintain that level of frustration for 8 hours straight) with a minor stress twitch in my eyelid and sleeping on the futon pad next to 1,877 un-assembled pieces. So I did what any reasonable person would do and the following day I called my closest friend Adam and invited him over. He sat on the couch in the living room and talked to me while I sat in my adjoining bedroom and fumbled with different pieces of my “bed”, banging them together over and over in front of me like toddlers do with blocks. Eventually his brain could not handle this large puzzle sitting in front of him without stepping in. So he did. And I talked his ear off incessantly while he wanted to stab me in the throat. He put my futon together. (Side Note: Adam, being in San Francisco wouldn't have been one of the best times of my life without your friendship. Awe, PUKE. Moving on.)


Find a Bar with a Good Happy Hour

My favorite cheap bar had their biggest booze discount on Wednesday's, they called it, "Broke Ass Wednesday's". I know, I too want to meet the creative team who came up with that little gold nugget of a name. Anyways, between a two hour period of time, it cost a quarter for a pint of PBR. You can go ahead and read that again, a quarter. As in 25 pennies. Or what you spend on a gumball machine. Which I still use all the time. It's hard though to find a good gumball these days. Usually I almost break a tooth or two because they are so old. But a quarter? For a pint? I mean, I imagine those are 1920's prices. Clearly, I have no idea what 1920's prices were. But in my head, people, that's what they paid for beer. My friends and I would go with a couple bucks and get drunk with some of the local homeless folks. They'd also play old school rap and thirty-something nerdy types would come out of the wood work to relive their break dancing days. Broke Ass Wednesday's, it was a thing. And it was awesome.

Have friend's that do cool free stuff and have extra equipment to share with you.

Go camping on Angel Island! I did this, and it was fun. Yes, it was in the pouring rain. We slept in a tent borrowed by my friend who insisted we take his because it was big enough to fit all of us and "Yes, it's waterproof”. He then seemed to look mystified when a mote started to form around the edge of the inside of the tent. Luckily we seemed to be on a small hill and so we found refuge by the four of us sleeping in the middle of the tent. 

Go mountain biking! When a close friend of mine from San Francisco asked if I had ever been mountain biking, I responded with a resounding yes. In my mind I was an avid mountain biker for the summer I lived on the cape when I was 17. I didn't have a car so I would ride my mountain bike to work, or to parties, or out on the wide, paved path to Coast Guard beach from our house. In short, I thought mountain biking was anything you do when riding your mountain bike. Of course, when I went mountain biking with my friends outside of San Francisco it looked more like almost dying for approximately 5 hours in the hills of CA on my buddies mountain bike, the whole time wondering if I was going to crap my pants after I propelled myself down a ravine to my death. 

Go to a corn maze during Halloween with friends. This doesn't involve equipment, it is just free (or minimal cost) and cool. Much better than the less than ideal corn maze experience I had once in MA when I was working for the Boy's and Girl's Club. I was responsible for getting 4-5 children safely through the maze which ended up taking: approximately 2.5 hours, a lot of pretending that things were under control while hives were breaking out all over my body, 2 severely sun burned children, an incident of panic induced hysteria which involved someone (me) accosting a corn maze employee and sharply whispering in his ear “Get us the FUCK OUT OF HERE!” and, finally, touching upon some deep place of shame at learning the last group that made it out before us had been waiting for approximately 1 hour and 45 minutes.

With all this money you saved you can then spend it efficiently on...

Paying to have your laundry washed and folded! Where they charge you exorbitant amounts of money because you are too lazy to do laundry. Also, yes, I let someone wash, dry and fold my undergarments. And no, I don't care. At all. Buy a $180 pair of boots that cost more than you spent on food for the past six months at the dollar store. Go to a restaurant one night that costs about half a month's rent for a nice dinner. And lastly, drink a crap ton of booze...at bars instead of at home....because it costs more!

So there you have it. I know exactly what you're thinking, I should be some sort of financial planner. That can be my backup if the therapy thing doesn't work. I'm sure you hadn't even finished reading this blog post before you had your bags packed for your upcoming move to one of the most expensive cities in the US now that you realize it's totally doable. Just remember all of the sound advice that I've imparted to you at zero cost. Maybe you could send me can of lunch loaf once you arrive. Happy cheap living.

Briefcase Girl

When I was living in Allston, MA there was a bagel and coffee shop called Bagel Rising that I would go to at least once a day because:

A)     It was one block away.
B)      They had delicious coffee.
C)      The owner was hot.
D)     Like really hot.

About six months after I moved close to Bagel Rising I landed a temp job at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter (it was so long ago that it was all of that wrapped in one company). I wanted to make a good impression in hopes to land a permanent position there. After a week of temping I decided to go shopping because all of my work clothes were not quite “business formal”.  To give you an idea of my attire status prior to this position, I was often under dressed for my job at the Boys and Girls club where my primary duties included playing dodge ball with the kids up in the field or throwing a connect four tournament. I was basically one step away from wearing pajamas to work (and yes, I'm totally going to buy pajama jeans and I almost shed tears of joy when I heard of their existence). So I went to Macy’s, bought three suits and upped the ante on how important people would think I was at Morgan Stanley. I mean, sure, all I did was make labels for file folders, pretend I understood the ins and outs of Microsoft Office and occasionally run across the street to Starbucks to fetch a coffee for someone with a real job; however, I figured there were enough employees that for all they knew I could be a new multimillion dollar recruit from Smith Barney (which no one in their right mind ever thought).

On the Monday after buying my new duds (do people still say that?), I suited up, put on some heels, did my hair (yes, I actually “do my hair” and it still looks the way it does so shut your mouth.) and put on some lipstick and lip liner (which I was oddly really into and which looked completely ridiculous on my otherwise non made up face. Also I have non existent lips so I would pretty much lip line my face where my lips should be and color inside the lines.).  But when I went to leave the apartment I realized that I had no purse…or pocketbook, or whatever it is you call an adult female bag these days. Not that I needed one, I had put a twenty dollar bill and my license in my pocket and was good to go, but I wasn't totally a professional without some sort of bag to carry all my would be professional stuff. All I had was a Jansport backpack…which I still have…and tried to use on a hike last year. Terrible idea...stop judging me. I was a bit frantic and started tearing my room apart in search of anything that could pass as a professional bag. I noticed something in the closet that appeared to be a rather thin, sleek briefcase that belonged to my boyfriend at the time. I asked him what the briefcase-esque item was, to which he replied “an architecture/art portfolio”. I had no idea what that was but asked if I could use it “to go with my outfit”. He obliged because he was a nice guy and because he was used to me doing things that made no sense. I emptied his briefcase of his architectural renderings, CAD stuffs, drawings, model-y type thingy-ma- jigs and I looked around for things to put in the briefcase. I decided upon the following items:

1) A pen.
2) My “wallet” that was small enough to fit my license only. (I didn’t have anything else anyways. I had no bank account at the time, I cashed all my paychecks at the bank it was drawn from, I stashed all my money in books and other secret hiding places in my apartment and I paid all my bills with money orders. Yes, I'm like an 80 year old man.)
3) A loose cigarette.
4) A tank top to slip into if I wanted to grab drinks after the job. The button down ‘business formal’ top I had under my suit coat was old, didn’t fit me anymore, and was so tight that the buttons were barely hanging on and you could see my stomach trying to bust on out. Fricken. Hot. T. T. I. E. I don’t know why I just typed it that way.

So now I was ready. I left the apartment, with my new suit on, my doll size button down dress shirt, my heels, my lipstick, my hairdo, and my adult briefcase/art portfolio thingy and I headed straight for the coffee shop before I got on the T. When I went in, I noticed the owner was there and one other employee who used to call me the latte queen because I purchased one to three lattes a day, yet I pretended it was because of my striking good looks and air of royalty. I ordered my latte and let them admire my new professional look (nobody was looking at me), paid with the cash that I had in my pocket, put some sugar in my latte and walked out. All without saying a word but smiling widely like a crazy person. I got on the T, walked from the Park Street stop to the High Street Tower where Morgan Stanley Dean Witter was located, went up the elevator, walked into my bosses office and as I went to grab a pen from my briefcase to write down notes on the tasks my boss wanted me to do that day (all two of them) I realized I didn't have my briefcase on me. I panicked. And not because I didn’t know where I had left it but because I knew exactly where I had left it. I left it at Bagel Rising. F. I couldn't leave it, cut my losses, get a new license and never get another delicious coffee from Mr. hot owner again either because the briefcase wasn’t mine. And yes, I would have actually left it there if the briefcase were mine. I’m that insecure. I felt the blood rush to my face while I imagined in horror Mr. hottie owner and Mr. nondescript employee dude who called me latte queen looking through my briefcase to find…dear god. What kind of a person carries an entire briefcase to hold four items, three of which I could have put in my pockets? And a tank top? A flippin tank top?

I took a deep breath, I summoned up my courage, I had this conversation:

Them: “Bagel Rising.”
Me: “Ah, yes, hi. Is this the Bagel Rising that sells coffee?” No Deidre, it’s not. It’s the “Bagel Rising” that sells office furniture. Please try and make this conversation as painful and awkward as possible.
Them: “Um. Yes. This is the Bagel Rising that sells coffee. We also sell bagels.”
Me: “Oh right, yes. Hi this is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre”. Yup I said it three times. “You know, Latte Queen.”
Them: “I’m sorry did you say queen?”
Me: “I’m Deidre Daly” Ah I see where I’m going with this, they probably don’t recognize my first name simply because I haven’t been following it up with my last name.
Them: Silence.
Did they hang up?
Me:  “I think I may have left something there.”
Them: “Oh. Ok. What did you leave?”
Me: “I think I left my briefcase.”
Them: “Could you describe the briefcase and what’s in it?”
Me: Bastards. “It’s um. A briefcase. And it has um…hmmm…well, I think I had a pen…a ah, a wallet. Annnnnd a cigarette and maybe a tank top? Yes. And a tank top.”
Them: “Yes Deidre. We have it here. Come by whenever to grab it.” Click.

And I took my new suited up ass, my heels, my hairdo, and my lipsticked and lined face where my lips should be back to Bagel Rising and picked up my briefcase. I didn't bother to check to see if anyone stole my valuables. I bought another coffee from them, left the coffee place, opened the briefcase, snagged the loose cigarette and smoked it as my soul cried a little.  

Top Five Bath Solutions

My sister and I used to take baths together when we were younger. Insert dirty "Sisters taking baths" joke here. No really do, I've never heard it before. Ever. Because it's so original and clever. Anyways, the bath is where my sister and I would take it upon ourselves to solve different issues that were plaguing our five and six year old minds. I thought I'd share some of our groundbreaking work with you. It may save your lives, the lives of others or feasibly the world. Here is what I deem my sister and I's TOP FIVE:

ISSUE ONE: World running out of water. This was a fact that one of us had heard either at school or on the news. The world was running out of water and we were all going to die.
SOLUTION: We couldn't quite wrap our brains around it at first. We just couldn't imagine a world without water. It was too big. It was too scary. For a long while we sat in silence. Nothing came to mind. We were both searching around the bathtub for inspiration. Anything that could help us solve such a crisis. Then it happened. I saw my sister slowly reach out for the plastic cup. She then dipped it in the water and sat it on the edge of the tub. Brilliant. A smile spread across my face. The world may run out of water, but not us. Nay. We have a cup of water, right here. On our bathtub. 

ISSUE TWO: How to keep our pajamas warm in the winter during bath time. To those of you who did not grow up somewhere where there was an actual winter *cough* Portland *cough*, this may seem a trivial matter. But let me assure you, existing through the New England winters and living on the "Snow Belt" (which is what locals like to call interstate 495 near Worcester, MA) is nothing to scoff at. What I'm saying is, shit's cold. And if your dad "gets a headache from heat" (read, gets a headache from heating bills) and if his only solution when you are cold at night is, "move closer to the wood stove" which was in the living room, downstairs, in the opposite corner of the house from your bedroom, getting out of the tub and putting on cold pajamas was more worrisome then than Facebook is now (look at me all bringing stuff back from old posts. KAPOW! Kapow? Yeah, I guess that's what I'm going to say there).
SOLUTION: Put our footsie PJ's on the small electric heater in the bathroom while we took a bath.

ISSUE THREE: How to extinguish the fire that putting our PJ's on the small electric heater caused while trying to heat them up during a bath (see ISSUE TWO).
SOLUTION: Run downstairs dripping wet and naked screaming "FIIIIIIIRRRRRRE!!!!" at the top of your lungs and follow your mom tearing up the stairs to find two little plastic blobs on the floor tiles that were once your PJ's. Watch mom unplug the heater. Genius. I remember in that moment pondering if all my pajamas were really just gigantic wearable Shrinky Dinks (worst name ever) in disguise.

ISSUE FOUR: How to deter robbers from stealing things in our house. I'm relatively certain that this was an issue I brought to the table. I was very concerned with people stealing things. And also concerned with people stealing me. Yes, I actually thought those two things happened together. Like someone would be stealing my mother's jewels and then think, "Hm, maybe I'll also snag her child while I'm here."Also, I'm not sure who I think my mother is, Queen of England? Someone is after her jewels? I don't know. Just keep reading.
SOLUTION: Pee in an empty shampoo bottle, cap it and set it aside on the tub (next to the life saving water cup). If someone were to break in we'd force the burglar to smell our pee. This would certainly insure that they not only wouldn't steal our stuff but they would also not steal me. 

ISSUE FIVE: How to explain to my mother, after she washed her hair with our urine, not only what our plan was, but also to help her see that it was foolproof and we were in essence saving the family.
SOLUTION: Don't pee in empty shampoo bottles.

That's all I've got for you. I hope you all learned something.

Facebook

Facebook, I hate you. You give me anxiety like I haven’t felt since the playground days of grade school. Yes I used to feel anxiety on the playground. “About what?” you ask. To name a few: Will someone save me a swing if they get to recess before me? What if we play Smurfs and everyone says I’m Gargamel? What if I make my friend April play jump rope with myself and Jill Whitecross and then turn into the devil and force April to wrap the jump rope around Jill until she can’t move and then get sent to the office? What if we all decide to bring our Cabbage Patch dolls in to school so we can play with them at recess and I bring my Koosa thinking it will be just as cool as a Cabbage Patch Kid and it isn’t, like, at all? Anyways, I do realize the irony of posting this blog post on Facebook while saying I hate Facebook. Is that actually irony? Or is irony like when I am told by a soothsayer that my child will die because of her lover so to keep her safe I lock her in a tower where she is fed by crows only to have her kill herself because she can’t be with her lover? Maybe that’s Greek Tragedy. Wait, I got it, irony is like what Alanis Morissette said about having a shit ton of spoons but needing a knife. Yes, that’s it. It’s all about silverware, people, silverware.

First off, since I’ve been on the Face I could be categorized by some as an “over” Facebooker. I over use, I over post, I over comment, I over stare at your pictures, I over friend. And then I over process questioning if I have over used, over commented, over stared (is that even English?) at your pictures, and over friended. I’ve had friends say, “I don’t want to post anything on so-and-so’s photo because I’m scared they may think I’m stalking them.” Comments such as these make me sweat. I comment on at least six photos a day. Once, a friend of mine who I met at school dared me to comment on every one of her photos. I did. All 380 of them. It took me 2 1/2 hours. You’re welcome. But I can typically self sooth (For you laymen out there ‘Self Sooth’ is a counseling word which means to sooth yourself. I know, I know. Tricky stuff. I had to go to school for two years to learn that). I feel better by reminding myself that stalking is when someone is sneaking into your life uninvited. An example of stalking is someone breaking into your home, standing over your bed, snapping Polaroid’s of you (No I have no idea why it’s a Polaroid camera. I don’t make the stalking rules, I just convey them) and then sending you the Polaroids in the mail with a letter that says, “You drool when you sleep” written in magazine cut out words. Whereas Facebook is more like you putting your bed outside on the sidewalk and someone staring at you. You can't blame the person staring at you. You can't dammit! Put your bed back inside if you are creeped out by me staring at you! 

Of course, because I over friend, I have had to deal with being defriended. My first experience with defriending was about two years ago. I was defriended by a girl who I went to high school with, she was a year older than me and I had exchanged, like, ten, maybe even twenty words with her in my lifetime. Which totally constitutes a Facebook friend request. I mean, she was practically in my top 100 people who were closest to me on the Face. She accepted my friendship request and I looked at her page to see how she sold herself. Solid pictures (although not many of them) she hadn’t changed much since 1992, she had a cute family and even a dog. Then, one day, I saw that she posted something on a mutual face friend page, I clicked her name to look at her page and we were no longer friends. Oh the humanity! I did a search for her name thinking maybe she was done with Facebook and that post was old. I wasn’t even sure that was possible but it was worth a shot. There she was. Facebook asked me if I would like to friend request her. (Dear Facebook, Should refriend requesting someone after they have defriended you really be an option? Dear Deidre, What kind of crazy distressed person is so desperate for others to validate them that they would convince themselves that they were defriended by mistake and that they should therefore refriend request someone? I don’t know Facebook! Maybe that crazy person’s name rhymes with Schmeidre Schally, maybe it doesn’t. I’m not a detective) I digress. Yes, I actually thought about about refriend requesting this person. And by thought about it I mean I refriend requested her. She must have silently ignored. I replayed the ten word (possibly twenty word) conversation we had over our life time in slow motion in my head to the song “The Way we Were”…which reminded me of movie theater popcorn and movies so I went to go see Iron Man because I want to have Robert Downey Jr.’s children. Question: Why is movie theater popcorn so much better than any other popcorn you get? I often wonder if you can go into the movie theater, buy popcorn and leave. It took me several weeks to get over my first experience of being defriended...and then silently ignoring. Now I’m a defriended pro.

So this leads me to defriending someone. Defriending someone makes me approximately two to three times more anxious than being defriended does. I never defriend someone because of them. I don’t stare at the persons Face page, shaking my fist in the air screaming, “Why are you my friend?! God, I hate you friend! I wish you were never born!” I usually defriend due to post traumatic stress disorder from over Face Friending. I will go through my friends now and then and think, “Dear god man, did I friend that person? Why did I do that? I don’t think we’ve had one exchange on here. They must think I’m the weirdest person ever for having friended them.” So I’ll eventually delete them. I typically ponder sending a message to them saying, “Hi, I’m Deidre Daly. As you can see by my page, I have a dog named Duke, a niece named Lily and I hate carrots so much that they make me angry. By our ‘mutual friends’, you may be able to tell that we are connected by my sister’s ex’s friend’s mom’s daughter. I friend requested you about a year ago and I now realize that makes me bat shit insane. Therefore; I’ve decided to defriend you. Not because I don’t care about you; although, we’re both aware of the fact that I don’t really know you at all. Rather, I defriended you because I care that much about what you think of me. And I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. Sincerely, Schmeidre Schmaly”.

The last thing, and relatively new to my Facebook anxiety is parents being on Facebook. And by parents I don’t mean my friends who are now parents (which is pretty much all of them), I mean the parents OF my friends. Initially, I get extremely excited every time I see a parent of my friend on Facebook. Then I friend request them. Then I forget about them. Then I post something like, “I want to tongue punch your mother in the fart box”** as my status and wake up at one in the morning a week later with the realization that a parent may have seen this post (assuming they haven’t already hidden me because they don’t care about my posts). However, I do realize the entertainment potential there is to staying on Facebook long enough that I can be that ‘parent’ to my friend's children. I can’t wait until they get old enough to be on Facebook and I can friend request them and chastise them for saying things which are ‘inappropriate’. Who am I kidding? They’ll probably defriend me before I can get to that point.

So this is the sad truth about my Facebook anxiety and why I hate Facebook. I am fully aware that most people don’t think about Facebook ever, never mind think about it neurotically to the point where they are losing sleep. Of course this doesn’t make me less neurotic; instead, it gives me something else to worry about. What kind of a 35 year old woman is that wrapped up in Facebook? Awesome. Facebook, I hate you.

*I credit my friend Ken’s buddy for this phrase. He said last Saturday at which point I threw up a little and then committed it to memory and have been waiting to use it ever since.

Guest Blogger...Sort of?

So, I follow some blogs here and there and I love the idea of guest bloggers. However, since I only write in my blog once every year or so (because my life is that lame), I was not sure how appealing it would be for someone to guest blog on here. The reason why I was thinking this in the first place was that I realized I have a lot of funny friends. I often find myself saying, "You should write a blog so I can be more entertained at work." Yes, you are all responsible for my work free time entertainment and I must say, you guys need to step up your game. I have resorted to reading US Magazine online. I've been reading it so much in fact that I know to check it at 8 AM when I get into work and that I should check it again at 3 PM because new stories have been posted. NEW STORIES! What is most peculiar about this is that Connor and I don't have TV so I have no idea who any of these people are. But I know a lot about their weight fluctuation, dating habits and how often they are wearing outfits that readers find down right hateful. Side note: I often do the "Who wore it best" quizzes where they pit two people wearing a similar style outfit together and you have to vote on who wore it best. After you choose, they show you what everyone else voted. What I find shocking is that 90% of the time I choose the landslide losers. I'm talking only a select 6% of US readers and I think a person rocked the crap out an outfit that 94% of people probably found more offensive than what is going down in Darfur. Ok Ok, sorry, now where was I. Right, funny friends and guest blogging. So what I decided to do was to compile some of my friends quotes and post them as an anonymous list. However, I didn't keep my family anonymous because I have the right to throw them under the bus at will. So you, Mr./Ms. reader, you may find a quote of yours in here. If you don't, well, it's not my fault you aren't funny. Hahahaha. HEY! Calm down. It's a joke.

Alright, well here it be. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did when I heard them:

East Coaster explaining sarcasm to a West Coaster:
Buddy, if nobody is making fun of you, nobody likes you.

On traveling out of the country:
I'm only going to go if I don't have to get immunizations... I'm not going anywhere that I can get a communicable disease...

On saying you're the number one Red Sox fan when you haven't seen a game at Fenway:
Saying you're “the number one fan” without having actually been to a game is like being the club water boy: You may consider yourself a part of the team, but everyone else just thinks you're semi-retarded.

On his wife being pregnant and not able to drink:
I was getting sick of drinking in the closet by myself in the dark. I kept spilling my drink on my shirt because I couldn't find my lips.

My sister in response to her husband asking her what her plans were for the day a month after giving birth:
I don't know maybe I'll just stay home and breastfeed today.

My brother on moving his graduation party a week after he actually graduated for me:
This is almost as bad as when I came home to Holden one weekend and you and your friend were sitting in the living room obviously hung over from a party you just threw at our parent's house. The place was a mess, and somehow you convinced me, your younger naive brother, who was still in Middle School, to clean the house for you. You said if I didn't somehow the parents would be upset at me. Of course I obliged. Stupid Jimmy Daly.

On waking up hung over:
I can't believe I'm an alcoholic. I had such high hopes for myself when I was younger.

On hating basketball:
When watching a basketball game I'm pretty sure TV networks are showing you people a static test screen and you're actually falling for it.

Friend's theory on how women break up with men:
Women break up with guys about 2-3 months before they actually break-up, but don't tell them. After deciding they start to slowly construct a case against them like little lawyers. They then lay in wait for the poor sucker to do something wrong. When they don't after a couple weeks and they get tired of waiting they explode at the next thing that comes close. I'm pretty sure my last girlfriend broke up with me before she even met me.

On her husband and father's day:
I think every day that he gets to go to work and not be home with the kids is Father's Day.

On eating Pho and the Vietnam war:
Pho, pronounced Fa, a Vietnamese delight, translates loosely in English to "We may not have won, but we sure as shit didn't lose that shit in the 60's so F off Saigon".

My Dad on doing errands after my mother had a hip replacement:
One of my high points of this week was when I got out to the Mall, (that's right Dee, me in a mall shopping) and purchased a high end stir fry pot. On sale at $34 down from $82. Now we’re talking good times.

On tending to the driveway:
I decided that I would blow the leaves off our driveway this weekend with our shop vac. However, it still didn't look "neat" enough, so I switched nozzles and basically vacuumed the driveway of all the leaves. Never mind the fact that I'm 7 months pregnant. I really hope the new neighbors didn't see me. They are going to be scared.

On getting off of Chat:
Ok. I have to go mow the lawn now. That is not code for anything either I am really going to do that.

On knowing that I was diagnosed with a learning disability and prank calling me at work:
"Good morning, this is Deidre."
"Have you seen my baseball?"
"Excuse me?"
"Franks and beans!”
“Ah, I think you may have the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry, wrong retard."

On loving being tagged on Facebook:
When I log onto my email and I have a message from Facebook saying I've been tagged in a picture I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. You know, one of the only reasons I take pictures of other people is because there is a higher chance that they will in turn take a picture of me. And then they'll tag that picture of me on Facebook.

On friends and germs:
I just went to a baby shower this weekend, and after standing in line and seeing 30 people use the same serving spoon to get the lasagna, I was trying to decide what to do about this germ-infested utensil until I saw a giant oven mitt in the middle of the table. I put it on when it was my turn so that I did not have to touch the serving spoon with my bare hand. Several people looked at me like I was nuts and my sister whispered "you are crazy". I yelled at her because I think she spit on my food.

My friend's reply to me saying I'd flip him the bird as we passed by each other in the air on different flights:
Flipping me the bird in an airplane. That's irony Dee. Or is it tragedy? No wait, it's alchemy. Alchemy.

On my boyfriend and I celebrating Thanksgiving in Maine:
Did you kill a wild turkey in your backyard? I can just see it now - you and Connor in loin clothes running in the Maine wilderness with spears - grunting and drooling over each other chasing a poor bird around the yard. Awesome image. Awesome.

My mother yelling out the window to a truck driver who cut her off when she was driving me and the rest of my 7 year old Blue Bird troop to an event in Worcester:
Son of a bitch (as she flips the truck driver the bird)! I have young kids in the car!

Thanks friends and family for being so funny. If any of you people want to take credit for your quote, I guess you can do so by commenting. Had to err on the side of caution. Not really, but I wanted to use the word 'err'.