Too Much of a Good Thing

So this weekend I was in Target. No real surprise there. And I happened to be frequenting the Target in North Chuck. This is close to my house ... and all Targets are the same anyway ... so I was okay with it.

The problem started when I walked through those glorious Target doors. I was immediately accosted by an employee in a red Target shirt, asking "Can I help you find something?" Seriously? This is Target, right? I mumbled, "No, I'm just looking" and ran away. Yeah, that sounded intelligent.

I hadn't gotten much further inside the door when yet another employee felt compelled to ask "Can I help you find something today?" I thought about saying "No, but try again tomorrow" but I didn't want to engage her in conversation. I happily replied "I know just what I'm looking for!" (lie) and ran away.

I rounded a corner and that same darned employee was standing there. She yelled "Can I help you find anything?" (although I'm pretty sure she was laughing by this point) and I said "Nope, got it!" and held up a box of Depends. I wasn't going to be stalked any further.

This got me to thinking. What's up with Target??? Do they not realize they are Target? I mean, when I go to a NICE store, like Carolina Girls, and I'm looking to buy a Vera Bradley purse, I expect them to ask if they can help me. We're talking bucks here. Not that I'm going to let them help me, but I expect them to ask. But not at Target. That's like Publix or Taco Bell asking if you're looking for something specific.... Obviously you are, or you wouldn't be there.

I applaud Target for trying to step it up in the customer service department. I just think they've gone overboard. Maybe just hand out gift cards at the front door. That, to me, says "We appreciate your business."

Forever Young

I am a child of the 80s. I love everything about the 80s. The clothes, the hair, the music, you name it. I'm not even embarrassed by it anymore...not since VH-1 decided to air 3, count 'em, 3 shows about this wonderful, marvelous decade.

So this weekend I was driving around with the boys in the car. It's an all 80s weekend on the radio. And suddenly I realized something very startling...when I'm listening to 80s music, I am transformed. I'm not driving the Suppository; I'm driving my fire-engine red 89 Sundance. I've got long, flowing, curly hair. Awesome hair. (Okay, nothing's changed there...it's still awesome). I'm belting out Air Supply and Night Ranger and anything cheesy or hair-bandy. Fabulous. I'm not wearing my frumpy old lady glasses, I've got on my cool snakeskin shades. And I'm skinny.

Say it with me: FANTASY.

I'm 35 now. I don't feel 35. I don't feel like I should have a 10-year old and a 7-year-old. How is that possible? I'm so young. And totally hot.

I was with my sis-in-law this weekend. We were driving with our 2 youngest in the car ... car seats, no less. And this Explorer with 2 VERY young (and cute!) guys pulls up alongside the van and drives next to us for FOREVER. Now, she has her own business, so her name and phone number are on the side of the van, so I'm sure that made them feel a little more confident. But we were thrilled! When they drove off, there was so much high-fiving in the van, we almost went off the road!!!

I'm pretty sure they were drunk. But let me tell you...it was a tremendous boost to my ego.

Trouble in the John

I really hate it when I'm in the bathroom and run into trouble. Not medication-requiring trouble, just inconvient trouble. Like when you finish your shower and drop your fresh, clean towel in the wet tub. When the people you live with feel compelled to flush or start a load of dishes while you're in the shower screaming "HOT! HOT! No, COLD! COLD!" and doing the SuperFreak Dance. When someone "accidentally" turns out the lights while you're showering. (Actually, we do that to Spanky, and it's quite enjoyable).

Some of my most recent situations...

• Sitting down at 3 a.m. and SUDDENLY remembering you live with 3 boys, one of whom has left the lid up, and you are now soaked up to your shoulders.
• Spraying your hairspray and thinking "Wow, that smells good," and not realizing until your neck is all sticky that you've confused the hairspray and the perfume....again.
• Shampooing your hair and - on the rinse cycle - realizing you've used Nair instead of Suave.
• Looking over and noticing there's no paper on the roll. And you're home alone. And the extra rolls are stored in the garage.
• Brushing your teeth and realizing - 3 seconds too late - that your toothbrush was already wet.

Makes the Ice Cubes of Happiness sound better all the time.

Fillin' the Tank

Pastor Greg really knocked it out of the park this weekend. The message was fantastic. Tremendous. Amazing. Man, I hope he reads this.

During the service, we had an incredibly uncomfortable moment...we were supposed to stand up and hug a complete stranger. Somehow this was supposed to make us feel good. I hugged SuperHubby and sat down very quickly. It wasn't bad.

This little display got me to thinking: I really don't hug people enough. Okay, I really don't hug people. But I started Saturday after church. And it wasn't too terrible.

The first person I saw was Doodles. That was easy. I could hug Doodles all day long. The HugFest continued for quite some time ... and I didn't die or barf or anything.

This was becoming a pretty cool "out of the box" experience. At dinner, I went outside the comfort zone and grabbed SuperHubby's hand. For no reason. And then he comes out with, "You know, that's my love language...physical touch." (Yeah, like I needed that update)

I've been thinking about the 5 love languages a lot this weekend. For those living under a rock, the 5 love languages are: Food, Jewelry, Football, Sex and The "Hey Baby" Principal (also known as "You're so sweet, I'm gettin' a toothache just lookin' at you!").

SuperHubby's LL is physical touch (sex). Mine are acts of service (food) and words of affirmation (Hey, Baby). And if you can't figure it out, the other 2 are gifts (jewelry) and quality time (football). Those don't factor high on my list.

So I've been thinking about how we stack up differently around our house. SuperHubby likes touch. I don't touch anyone or anything I don't have to. At least I didn't before Saturday. How is it that I've missed this important tidbit for 16 years? And the odd thing is...SuperHubby is the ONE person I love holding hands with, hugging, patting on the butt, high fiving, whatever.

What says love to me? Mowing the lawn. Doing the dishes. Cooking me dinner. Rubbing my back (sounds contradictory, but it's true). Telling me "Well done" or "Good job" or "You're the best assistant ever."

I've read the book a million times. I've practically got it memorized. But I wasn't following through. And not just with SuperHubby, but with my friends, too. Both of them. I tend to send cards to let them know I'm thinking of them, but is that speaking in their Love Langauge, or mine? Should I be doing things differently?

If you see a maniac running around hugging people, it might be me. It might not. I'm not going to hug people I don't like. That's just not honest. But I will make a conscious effort not to shudder with disgust each and every time someone wraps their arms around me.

The Week-est Link

Yesterday I had a terrible week. Indeed, after many, many tremendous Lori Weeks, Monday was a terrible, horrible, not-so-good day. Bummer.

My incredibly intelligent friend Doodles pointed out this morning that - as God told her at 4 a.m. - this was Satan pulling out the file of everything that had worked in the past on me and putting them all together - IN ONE DAY! What a butthead (Satan, not Doodles!).

I guess it actually started last week. I realized that out of 5 women in my office, 4 of them are blonde, beautiful and skinny. For the 3 people reading this who haven't met me, picture Roseanne...but only slightly nicer...but a lot less Yankee. Is there a reason I must be surrounded with ladies like this? I love them all, but honestly...my ego can't take this. I'm used to being the cutest one around (of course, that was when I was in insurance, and I worked with all guys, but I WAS the cutest).

Now last weekend SuperHubby killed his car. He revived it for a day, then it went kaput in our driveway. Not only does that mean sharing a car - which means he's driving the suppository, because I don't get to drive unless I'm taking him to the hospital - but on top of that, instead of pushing it to the front of the driveway, SH decided it would be a good idea to push it into the middle of the yard. We now have the most ghettolicious house on our street.

Lots of other junk has happened since then, but to make our home situation even worse, SuperHubby has now injured the suppository. It happened at school; he went over a speed bump going a little too fast (90) and bottomed out and now the muffler is making an odd sound. Idaho called and asked us to keep it down. So on top of the car in the yard, we have the suppository making a sound like a huge fart - which is NOT a good combination. And we live in North Chuck. Ghettolicious.

I'm hoping my week will get better. At least I know what's behind it now. And while I'm thankful my friend listened when God woke her up this morning, I can't help but thinking I could've gotten the same information if I had been paying attention when He woke ME up at 4:00. Praise God for good friends.

Meet the Parents

My parents are both having surgery in the next couple of weeks. They're high maintenance types. I'm trying to convince them to have their procedures at the same time.

My parents aren't exactly best friends. They have been divorced for 15 years. They haven't had a kind word for each other in 20. But they have 2 incredibly amazing children together (okay, one, but The Professor would get his feelings hurt if I didn't pretend he was wonderful, too).

My dad has to have all his teeth pulled. All his real teeth, that is. He already had half of them pulled last year. My mother has to have a pain management pump removed from her gut. Have I mentioned how FUN my family is?

Here's my thought: they're already both scheduled at the same hospital. If they go on the same day, they can ride together. Dad won't be able to talk, so he can't irritate Mom, and she's going to be given some lovely medicine which makes you forget everything (vodka, anyone?) so she won't remember being around him anyway. This could be the first time they were cordial to each other in over 20 years!

Dad could stay with my mother and her hubby at their condo (they have an extra room). This would make things a lot easier on me and my brother...only one place to visit the sickies. It's not like they haven't lived in the same house before, even after they were separated. (Yes, they are really THAT abnormal).

They could come out of the whole experience much more thankful for the state of SC and it's wonderful divorce provisions. Judges would be getting fruit baskets. It would be a beautiful thing.

Neither of them is inclined to help me out here. Apparently it's fine and dandy for them to make my life a living you-know-what with all their divorce nonsense, but let me ask one small favor, and I get zippo from them.

We're stopping by Olan Mills on the way home from the hospital. Webster's needs a new photo of my family to put next to the definition of "dysfunctional."

Tis the Season

I love this time of year. The holidays are right around the corner, the air is cool and crisp (somewhere) and I get to wear red and orange and brown. It's really superb.

This weekend I got started on my Christmas cards. Actually, that's not true. I started last weekend. Last weekend I made my list. This weekend I checked it twice. Seriously.

I have my cards ready to be addressed, I've got my final list, and I've decided the photo of Spanky and FrogBoy in front of the Statue of Liberty will be this year's insert. Life is good.

I absolutely love the holidays. I love Thanksgiving ... good food without the stress of presents and parties ... and I love Christmas ... because sometimes a little stress is good for the soul. I love the whole family thing. I love the weather and time off and holiday sales and no snow.

And the best part? Pumpkin Cheesecake. Oh. My. Goodness. If you haven't had pumpkin cheesecake, you haven't lived yet. Go to Barnes and Noble and get a slice or 6.

Pumpkin Cheesecake is like running barefoot through a meadow of daisies toward your beloved. It's like the 4th of July inside your mouth. It's like saying "I do." It's like finding a really great purse - on sale. You hear angels sing the Hallelujah Chorus when you have a bite of pumpkin cheesecake.

If someone were to choose you as their 40 Days of Community project, the best thing they could do would be to give you Pumpkin Cheesecake. Okay, that was shameless, but I don't care. This is The Stuff.

Try it. Get some to go, bring me a slice, and I'll share the joy with you. I'll sacrifice my non-existent diet just to get more people on the PC bandwagon. It's just that good.

Call Me Cranky

So this hasn't been exactly The Best Week Ever. The last couple of weeks have been great, and while I would like to report that I am still having quite the stellar hair day, the rest of life in the Fitgzerald household is pretty stinky.

FrogBoy has a rash. This wouldn't upset most kids, but it upsets FrogBoy. We think it's an allergic reaction to something, but it's driving him nuts. Which means he's telling us about his "rashes" every 5 minutes. That never gets old.

Spanky is just acting contrary, as my Grandmama would say. Don't know what's gotten into him lately, could be more of that puberty thing, but he needs to stop.

And then there's SuperHubby. SuperHubby has a headache and a stomachache. Okay, that sounds like I'm whining, but if you know me/us, then you know head and stomach usually equal MUSC. And that's not good.

SuperHubby has assured me that he doesn't THINK that's the problem. Maybe it's the new medicine he's on. Maybe it's a virus. Maybe it's because it's Thursday. I don't really care what it IS, I want to know what it isn't. And I want to know now.

So I've been stressing the last few days. I've also been running through the crisis checklist in my brain. I don't think I'm going to have to use it -- I believe that God has healed him of all that brain surgery nonsense -- but it's hard not to revert to my old ways and line things up "just in case." And, of course, that just causes the crabbiness to shine through.

To top it all off, I'm trying my best to catch a cold. I hate that. So I'm cranky (or crankier than usual, depending on how you look at it). If you say "Good morning!" and I bite your head off, I offer one tidbit of advice: DON'T hug me! Don't even act nice. Just move on, and you may escape with your limbs intact.

Body Art

Everyone has them. Battle scars. War wounds. Life's tattoos. Body art.

My father has one on his butt from where he sat on a lawnmower when he was a kid. My brother has one on his side where he had an uphappy meeting with a box cutter when he worked for a lumber company.

I have a lot of them. I think they make me unique - and a little interesting. They tell my life's story in a weird way. And I think they're all pretty cool...

• On top of my right foot, I have 3 small round scars. When I was a kid, I didn't know how to use the hand brakes on my new bike, so I used my foot. I wasn't wearing shoes. Not the sharpest crayon in the box.
• I have a tooth that is 75% fake and barely has a root. When we were young, my brother and I were trying to ride our bikes without using our hands. He veered off into me (I'd like to point out I remained straight all the way down). I got a fat lip, a busted tooth and a trip to the emergency dentist. He got serious restriction. (He also gets an assist for a broekn wrist of mine, but I don't have any scars from that, except the mental ones.)
• I have several hideous scars on my right hand. When I was 13, I tossed some hot grease in a frying pan - because I didn't want to set the table - and it splattered up on my hand. Got 2nd degree burns from that one, plus a trip to the hospital. The only thing worse than the burn was when the blisters ripped off while I was trying to water ski later that summer. Ouch.
• I have a BB in my butt. No kidding. I got shot the same summer as the hot grease incident. I would like to point out that my brother was nowhere near me when I was shot; he was at summer camp. I carry around the BB to this day; it was too close to my spine to be removed. More traumatic than having to explain to an entire household of my parents' friends - and all their SONS - that I was not "becoming a woman" was the lady in the ER saying, "Hey, where's the girl with the BB in her butt." That, and my dad still thinks it's funny to this day to announce to everyone that I'm toting lead.
• My left knee has a lovely scar I got from my wedding. Indeed. Small incident involving being chased by little people with rice. Busted my fanny good on that one; got the video to prove it.
• I've had 2 c-sections, so I have lovely railroad tracks on my lower abdomen. At least, that's what I'm told; I haven't seen that portion of my body since October 1997. Oddly enough, I know which scar belongs to which kid.
• Finally (let's hope), I have a fabulous little deal running the length of my right arm. I had a seizure...while holding Spanky...on my very first Mother's Day. My arm got caught under the bed and got messed up.

So while my body art isn't exactly pretty, it's like a roadmap of the big events in my life. They make me who I am...which I think is a little cool. How many other people do you know who have been shot? And the bullet's still in there. Bet you can't NOT think of it next time you see me!

Two Peas in a Pod

I've been realizing lately that a lot of my best friends are people I've met through work. These are people I wouldn't have necessarily chosen as friends had I not worked with them and been forced into situations of getting to know them; a lot of them are nothing like me and there's just no way we would've hooked up under normal circumstances. But I've been blessed with having them for friends.

Someone who means a lot to me is Doodles, a.k.a. The Princess of the Southern Kingdom. She and I are not at all alike. She's blond; I'm brunette. She's skinny; I'm brunette. She's very girlie; me - not so much. She's dainty and pretty and sweet; I'm just me.

Anyway, regardless of our differences, I count her as one of my best friends. We've been working in close proximity for a few years now ... and over the years we have grown closer, getting all up in each other's business.

I have a hard time telling people how much they mean to me, unless, of course, they move to Germany, in which case I can tell them a thousand different ways. I've been feeling like I should be more intentional in expressing my love and gratitude to my friends, and something happened last week that confirmed that thought. Doodles, I respect you, I love you and I thank God for you.

It's All About Me

So last week was Lori Week - a small group chose me as their project, apparently, and Operation Fitzgerald went into full swing. I highlighted the first half of the week in an earlier blog. Now here's the great thing...the end of the week was just as wonderful!

On Thursday, I got a very nice card with Moe's Money. Now Moe's is one of my absolute favorite places on earth. This is evidenced by the fact that they know me so well. Seriously. They shout out at me every time I walk in the door.

I love Moe's for many reasons. They have awesome food. They are super friendly. They have that great green salsa-y stuff. I can order my food buck naked. (Okay, that alone is enough for me, let's be honest.)

So I was floating pretty high on the Moe's Money. I got enough for many meals. If I take SuperHubby, it won't last as long, but since I don't eat in restaurants by myself, it looks like I'm sharing my good fortune.

Then, Friday, I got flowers. FLOWERS. I never get flowers. And these were absolutely beautiful. Some kind of lily, which I'm told I can plant in my yard, even if I kill it (which I will). And while I was thinking I was being stalked at the beginning of the week, by Friday, I was really digging the attention. I could get used to being pampered.

The card I got Friday could've carried me all week. It was awesome. And it would appear these people like me. Either that, or they're faking it really well. My brother, the Professor, says they chose me for their project because it's easy to be nice to nice people, but being nice to me is a real service project. Feel the love.

I got another card today. And Jessica told me I was still rocking the good hair day. And SuperHubby's car, which died over the weekend, was fixed by a friend of ours (who will remain nameless so others won't approach him when they have car issues!) and we were out only $25 for the towing bill because I was smart enough to put towing insurance on the car. Today has been a Lori Day. Fabulous.

In case anyone is interested, I am taking applications for the next group that would like to spoil me. I may just be a princess after all.