I’ll always remember 2008/2009 as the “maybe Dave’s getting laid off years.” When your household only has one income, the possibility of that income going poof can be quite unsettling. And it’s not like I’m kicking anything in to pay the bills. I have the coolest job in the world, as a stay at home mom, but unfortunately it’s not a very lucrative gig.

If I were able to find a job right now, I’d take it. I’m not super positive about being hired in this economy but I am thinking ahead about what I might do next fall when the offspring go back to school and the economy has (hopefully) rebounded.

Top 5 Careers and Training for Social Butterflies

I saw this headline on the MSN homepage Saturday morning and thought, “What a coincidence. I’m totally a social butterfly and I could really use a job. Perhaps I should see what this article is all about.”

Apparently, social butterflies can’t get through the morning without checking Facebook, MySpace, e-mail, and text messages (so obviously we have the attention span of a fruit fly). Personally, I also have to check for new posts on fifty-seven different blogs, see if Lostpedia has posted any new Lost theories, and confirm whether anyone at Classmates.com has signed my guest book. Sometimes I also go to TheHairStyler.com and put different hairdos on a picture I’ve uploaded of myself. (Maybe these sites are not so much for networking purposes but rather because I have a pretty wicked Internet addiction and too much free time).

The article listed the top five jobs for anyone who craves social interaction. The first career they recommend is Promotions.

To determine if I’m a good fit for a career in Promotions, I was to ask myself if I always seem to know where to find the best parties. Absolutely! They are all at my house. Then I was to ask myself if I’m always shopping for the latest trends before my paycheck can catch up with me. Yes! Wow, this is so accurate it’s freaky. And probably they mean Dave’s paycheck because technically I don’t receive one of my own (which is why I’m reading the article in the first place). However, for the last six months it’s only been pseudo shopping and not real shopping. I have online shopping carts filled with all kinds of crap but I never actually click the checkout button anymore. Progress, yes?

And guess what? For a managing position in Promotions, you need a bachelor’s degree in business administration AND I HAVE ONE OF THOSE!! And Advertising and Promotions managers earn annual salaries in the neighborhood of $91,100. This just keeps getting better and better. Dave would probably do cartwheels if I got me a Promotions job.

The next career recommended for a social butterfly is Culinary and Hospitality, which sounds a lot like cooking and cleaning to me. I do a lot of both (though maybe not quite as much cleaning as blogging these days). I actually thought of going into catering because I make the most awesome chicken enchiladas you’ve ever had but probably you can’t build a catering career from one recipe. And even though I love to entertain and will spend days planning menus I only like to do this if I’m also going to be eating, drinking, and getting tipsy with everyone. Working as a Catering Manager or Executive Chef means I’ll be making stuff for other people to eat and drink while I just watch so I’m going to have to pass on this career.

The third career recommendation is Fashion Design. This one in not going to work for me either. I love Carrie Bradshaw but if her wardrobe on Sex and The City is considered fashionable by designers then I’m not qualified. Please, did you see the butt ugly hat she was going to wear to marry Mr. Big? It had a big fucking bird on it! Blechh! Plus I think fashion designers might have to sew and I’ll have none of that.

The fourth career that might be a good fit for me is Nursing. Another big coincidence because when I was a freshman in college my major was pre-nursing. Then I hit a little snag called Chemistry. I have flunked chemistry once and dropped it twice. Three chemistry strikes and I had to change majors. I’m totally cool with science classes like biology and anatomy (except when I took anatomy at the University of Iowa and we had to go to anatomy lab with real dead people and it grossed me out so bad I refused to breathe through my nose or eat chicken for two weeks). Any science class that also requires math means I’m out. If your bus was determined only by math abilities, I’d have arrived at my elementary school on the short one. This is too bad because have you seen how much money nurses are making these days? They’re really in demand right now.

The last career to consider is Entrepreneurship. Ding, ding, ding!!!!! We have a winner folks! It says this career is for people who march to the beat of a different drum and for whom the traditional work week has never held much appeal. A bachelor’s degree in business administration (check!) can pave the way for me to own my own small business, franchise or entrepreneurial idea.

Now I just have to think of an idea.

Thinking.

Still thinking.

That big empty vacant space in my noggin doesn’t seem to be producing any viable ideas. This is harder than I thought. I’m sure a fabulous idea will come to me if I’m patient.

I could run some ads on my blog but I think I’d earn like seventeen cents a month so probably blogging isn’t going to pay the bills either. My W-2 for 2008 shows I grossed $18 for one hour of freelance work I picked up last February but if I can earn $36 blogging in 2009 then I will have doubled my income from last year so I won’t rule it out.

I’m sure I’ll find something. Dave’s been supporting everyone all by himself for a long time and I want to help him out. If companies would start doing more hiring and less firing that would have a positive impact on my job search.

I would actually love to find a Promotions-type job. I think I’d be pretty good at it. Until then, I’m a mommy-blogger-enchilada maker-wine drinker. The pay may not be very good but the job satisfaction is incredible.

I’m on Twitter.

I don’t know how it works.

Kind of like when I first joined Facebook and had no cool applications.

I’m stalking Ashton Kutcher @aplusk.

He’s an Iowa boy.

My tweets are boring.

Do I need to spend more time on the Internet than I already do?

Probably not.

If you are a Twitter expert, can you help me out?

If you’re on Twitter, leave your user name in the comments section and I’ll follow you.

If you can.

Comments aren’t posting well these days.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

I don’t know why.

Tweet.

Just kidding! Well, I’m still planning on wine but not that bottle and not out of that glass!

Here is your mission should you choose to accept it:

You have 24 hours to find a pair of size six snow boots for a nine and a half year old boy.

Good luck. You are going to need it.

Probably you should just blow off this mission and go to a bar. It’s impossible.

Had I known I would need to buy Matthew new boots I could have started looking for them months ago when they were still available. I didn’t discover the need for new boots until four days ago when I picked up a pair of wet socks by the front door.

“Matthew why are your socks all wet?” I asked.

“Because my boots have holes in the bottom.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“I don’t know.”

How odd because Matthew usually tells me every single thing that’s bothering him in regards to his personal comfort. Anything being wet usually sends him over the edge. He can’t stand tags of any kind and will complain if his clothes don’t feel right. Actually, he’ll start jumping around and screaming until I get the scissors and cut out the tag. Lauren doesn’t care if her underwear is on backward and could probably wear a shirt made entirely OUT of tags. She’s easygoing that way.

I know teenaged boys are not the most communicative specimens on the planet but Matthew is only nine and a half and I thought he’d be at least thirteen before we reached the communication breakdown years.

Since I love to shop, I thought replacing the boots would not be a problem. I’d simply go to Target and buy another pair. I’d probably get a huge discount on them and pay next to nothing. I’d buy them one size bigger and he could wear them again next winter.

I was clearly deluded and I have no grasp of how the retail inventory system works. Only Punxsutawney Phil and I are admitting its still winter. Target thinks its sandal and swimsuit season. Where does all the winter stuff go? Is there a giant secret winter warehouse somewhere that they store it in or does it all get shipped to Australia?

Next, I frantically searched the Internet and Land’s End is on my shit list. Their website is nothing but a big bait and switch. It appears that they have the boots but when I get ready to place them in my shopping cart, the only color they actually have is magenta and the only size available is four. Ditto LL Bean.com, zappos.com, and any other web site that claims to still have boots in stock.

I got out the phone book and started calling all the local shoe stores. The high school employees laughed at me.

I asked my neighbor Lisa for help. She didn’t know where I could get boots but she told me the next day at the bus stop that she’d had a dream that there were boys snow boots in Oelwein, IA.

Trish had a roommate in college named Janis whose boyfriend lived in Oelwein. Janis somehow convinced Trish and me to go home with her one weekend to stay at her much older, farmer boyfriend’s house for some sort of party.

I was so traumatized by the 48 hours I spent in Oelwein that I’m never going back, not even if the town’s welcome wagon lady hands me a cosmopolitan and a Dooney and Bourke handbag upon my arrival. Not even if every boys size six snow boot in the world is being stored there in a giant warehouse. Not even if you can grab as many pairs as you want. For free.

And if you’re reading this blog post and you live in Oelwein, I’m sorry (but get the fuck out right now before the pod people convince you to stay there for the rest of your life).

I couldn’t find boots anywhere. I admitted defeat and the thought of Matthew having to go to school with cardboard and duct tape holding his boots together was more than I could endure. I considered home schooling him for the next six weeks.

And then, I remembered something. I ran to the front closet and dug out my navy blue Sporto winter boots. They weren’t magenta. They were warm and the soles were perfectly intact. Matthew’s feet are only a little smaller than mine so they’d probably fit OK.

“Matthew, come here. Look what I found in the closet.”

He tried them on. “I don’t like them mom. I love them!”

“Do they fit?”

“Yeah!”

Matthew needed new boots and mama worked it out. Sure, I sent my son to school in his mother’s boots. Sure, some dick headed older kid could pull the old “your mama wears Sporto boots” and it would be true. And I have no idea the psychological damage I might have done by sending him to school in said boots. Someday Matthew might by lying on a shrink’s couch saying, “my mom made me wear her boots, man. She totally tricked me and I wore those boots for two years because I didn’t know it was weird.”



I don’t care. His socks are dry and his feet are warm and that’s all I care about.

Mission impossible, my ass.

I weighed in at Weight Watchers yesterday and was happy to find that even after exceeding my allotted points for the week, I still lost .8 pounds.

I didn’t think that was too bad considering I allowed myself to have dinner from Macaroni Grill on my birthday and I ate pasta and bread.

I actually wanted P.F. Chang’s for dinner but Matthew was so hopeful that I would choose Macaroni Grill, which is his favorite restaurant ever, that I didn’t want to disappoint him.

When I got to Weight Watchers there was a big line for both the scales and the bathroom. If the ladies there knew the laxative effect my Augmentin antibiotic was having on me they would be very jealous. I felt light as a feather.

When I was standing in line a woman in front of me started telling me how nervous she was about weighing in and how she was wearing shorts under her sweats so she could take them off and then she told me she really wanted to take off her bra too. When she finally got on the scale she was down to a t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet.

I noticed the woman before her stepped on the scale in bare feet too. And I thought to myself that if I’m still going to WW when sandal season gets here I’m bringing socks.

I shouldn’t be grossed out by this considering I am always dunking my feet in Top Nail’s polluted pedicure water but at least they pretend to clean out their foot baths between customers. There is no cleaning of the scale at WW.

After weigh in I went to get my hair done because Trish told me, in a brutally honest moment, that my hair was too dark and she didn’t like it one bit.

It didn’t occur to me until I was sitting in the chair at the salon with about 100 foils covering my head that I had taken hair color advice from my sister, who had talked dad into bringing home a box of Clairol Nice ‘n Easy from the grocery store when we were fifteen and has been bleached blonde ever since.

It took Joann almost three hours and no fewer than four different mixtures of hair dye (and something called toner) to undue what I had done with thirty minutes and a box of Garnier Nutrisse that I bought at Walgreen’s for $6.99. Now my hair is light brown with lots of highlights. I love my new hair color and will gladly sell my kidney on EBay to afford the maintenance.

Tonight is my psychic party. I’ll be posting pictures and blogging about it tomorrow. I’m not sure what question I’m asking Dixie tonight. Maybe I’ll find out who wins the Super Bowl a little early.

I went to the doctor yesterday. Since we also needed cocoa puffs and toilet paper I decided to play medical roulette by going to the urgent care clinic conveniently located inside my neighborhood grocery store.

I wasn’t really that sick. I’ve been working out and generally going about my business but the cold I got a couple weeks ago never really went away and I was pretty sure it had turned into a sinus infection.

At the grocery store doctor you don’t actually see an M.D., you see a nurse practitioner. I don’t care who it is as long as they cough up the antibiotics. Once I’ve decided to go to urgent care I’m not leaving without a prescription even if I have to invent extra symptoms and give an academy award winning performance to get it. I’m sure the antibiotic resistance I’m building will someday get me killed.

The nurse practitioner took my temperature and blood pressure. She was impressed with my blood pressure reading and told me how good it was. I swear I had to bite my lip to keep from telling her just how super healthy I usually am. I wanted to tell her all about my low cholesterol and triglyceride levels and how my life insurance company loves me so much it gave me the super preferred rating. I could feel it building, tourettes like, but I managed to gain control and keep my mouth shut because I knew there were probably other, sicker patients waiting and I needed to make sure I didn’t take more than my fair share of time with the not-quite-a-doctor.

We could have saved a lot of time if she’d treated my verbal diarrhea first and then diagnosed my sinus infection and sent me on my way. But she was afflicted too. I think it must get boring in the urgent care office back in the corner of the grocery store because she would not stop talking to me. We spent 10 minutes just talking about The Biggest Loser. I totally held my own in the conversation which is weird because I don’t even watch that show. We also covered wine, Weight Watchers, book clubs, and we swapped a couple recipes.

I must be a catalyst of sorts because I’m always having long conversations with women I just met. If you walked by us you’d think we went to college together or maybe our kids were in the same classroom in school.

I made a new friend at Nobbies Party Store on Monday when I stopped to buy supplies for my psychic party.

I walked in and before I could even grab a cart my new friend (who turned out to be the head of marketing) asked if she could help me find anything and I told her I was looking for stuff for my psychic party and we started talking and didn’t stop for 25 minutes. She made some suggestions and showed me where everything was so I didn’t have to find it by myself. It was like having a personal shopper. Her name is Kristen and I’m supposed to call her on Monday and let her know how the party went.

Back at urgent care, my new friend Liz wrote me a prescription for Augmentin after she checked me out and determined I actually did have a pretty bad sinus infection. I swallowed a pill as soon as I got home so I should be feeling fine for my psychic party on Saturday.

Liz warned me that the Augmentin might be hard on my stomach (I know she meant it might give me the non-verbal kind of diarrhea). I’m not worried. And next time I’m sick, I plan on stopping by for a chat with a friend.

She’s forty-one and her daddy still calls her “baby“,
All the folks ‘round Brownsville say she’s crazy,
‘Cause she walks downtown with her suitcase in her hand,
Lookin’ for a mysterious dark- haired

—Helen Reddy, Delta Dawn

As of today I’m no longer 41. And my dad calls me honey, not baby, and has for as long as I can remember ( I call him dad because I don’t live in the deep south and I think calling anyone daddy when you’re older than 11 is super creepy).

I’m not freaked out about being forty-two years old. I’m not worried about getting wrinkly (Botox), or flabby (tummy tuck), or saggy (boob job) because when the money tree I planted in the back yard starts sprouting fifty dollar bills, I’m giving Dr. 90210 a call.

I have no regrets so far and worrying about things I can’t change is a total waste of time. And since the DeLorean is in the shop, I can‘t find my flux capacitor, and Dave used all the plutonium I can’t go back to the future even if I wanted to. But if I could, there are a few things I might mention to my younger self:

1. Don’t let Trish get so smashed at your bachelorette party. Everything was fine until she fell down Angie’s stairs and broke her leg a week before the wedding (also warn Angie about tricky stairs).

2. Always wear sunscreen and don’t climb into a tanning bed ever again. The more sunscreen you use now, the fewer dollars Dave will have to spend on chemical peels and microdermabrasion (leaving more money in the kitty for better boobs).

3. Don’t waste so much time on the couch with Dave watching Real World/Road Rules marathons on MTV. Once the babies start coming you and Dave will feel like two ships that pass in the night so get off your ass and go see a movie or something.

I’m sure I could think of more but mama had a lot of wine last night and I don’t think the part of my brain that creates the content for funny in the ‘hood is firing on all cylinders today. I think I need to put myself down for a nap.

But first I need to search itunes for a song about a woman who’s 42.

My sister in law Stefanie sent me an e-mail the other day letting me know she left a comment on my blog. She mentioned she had never heard the adult diaper story and thought it was funny. She said she hoped Debby never got a hold of my blog because if she did, she’d need her own diaper because she’d probably crap.

My mom and dad got divorced when I was seven years old. Debby is my step – mom. She’s an important part of my life and she’s been with my dad since I was twelve. Even though Debby will never take the place of my mom, who died when I was 18, she comes pretty damn close.

Lots of people have asked me what I’d do if my dad and Debby found my blog. Damage control, probably. But I’m 41 years old and at some point we all have to come to the realization that we only really need to answer to ourselves (and maybe the police and God).

I have no such concerns about my mother in law reading my blog posts. Dave and his siblings spent a year of their childhood living in a Winnebago touring the west coast with their mom and her boyfriend (who went by the moniker Poet). I’m guessing she’d be A-OK with everything I’ve written.

Since I haven’t told my dad and Debby I’ve started a blog, they’d have to stumble across it on their own. That might not be so difficult since I used traceygarvisgraves.com for the domain name. If they Google me, they’ll see it. They’re getting pretty technically savvy at their house.

I’m not trying to hide anything. Some might wonder why I even care, at my age, if my dad and Debby read it. But I do care. I have a lot of respect for them and some of the things I blog about are things they might not necessarily be proud of.

I’ve posted about things I’ve done that are “technically” illegal. But much like the proverbial tree that falls in the forest when no one is around to hear it, I like to think my illegal shenanigans don’t count if certain people don’t know about them (plus the statute of limitations has long since run out on any of the crap I’ve pulled. I’m not entirely stupid).

I’ve always been the one no one has to worry about. I’ve only had one husband, both my kids are by the same father, and I don’t do anything freaky like practice witchcraft or swing with my neighbors. I try not to embarrass anyone with my blog posts but myself (and sometimes Trish).

I’ve never been arrested. The closest I’ve come to the clink was when the campus police pulled Noelle and me off the roof of Seashore Hall after we ate a big pile of ‘shrooms. The officer loaded us into his pseudo cop car and drove us back to the dorms. Even though we asked nicely, and thought it would be hysterical, he wouldn’t turn on his lights and sirens and run all the red lights. He deposited us back at our dorm and promised us the incident would appear in the Daily Iowan (we made sure he wrote down our first and last names). He must have been lying though because we never saw any mention of it in the paper.

I’d have to do a lot to surpass some of the stunts my siblings have pulled. God knows Trish has set the bar pretty high. But as I sit here polishing my sparkly good girl tiara, I realize my perch on the pedestal I’ve placed myself is growing more precarious by the day. The more people that read the blog, the better chance I have for someone to mention it to dad and Debby.

I should be more worried about a potential employer finding it. I’m guessing even if I’m hired by a company that doesn’t drug test, I might be asked to pee in a cup (I would like to think I’d pass but I might go to Jamaica again). I’d rather cover my naked body in honey and roll around in a pit of fire ants then put my neck in the noose of corporate America again but I may not have a choice. And blogging might make me less employable than I already am after a nine year hiatus from the work force. Let’s hope Human Resources has a sense of humor.

Sometimes I think about telling my dad I’m writing a blog. He knows I like to write and he’d be happy I was doing something I enjoy. But it would be kind of like telling him I’m earning some serious coin as a stripper. On one hand, yay for me for earning a nice living. On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t brag about me to his Friday morning breakfast group. I’m guessing telling all his friends I write a blog that highlights my love of wine and showcases my potty mouth wouldn’t be something he could get real excited about either.

My dad has always operated on a need to know basis. I once rolled in at 6:30 on a Sunday morning without a shirt on under my coat (I couldn’t find it in the dark. Could happen to anyone). He didn’t ask any questions, just offered me a cup of coffee. I was 21 at the time and home on break from college so he probably figured there wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. I love that about him. Debby is the one I’m worried about. She thinks Redbook magazine is kind of racy so if she reads the blog, the top of her head might blow off. She’s a bit more conservative than me.

When Matthew was a baby Dixie the psychic told me I would start writing again someday when the kids were out of the house. She said I would want something just for me. I never forgot what she said and I don’t know if the blog is just a self fulfilling prophecy or she really could see into the future.

For the first time in 9 years, my house is quiet during the day while the kids are in school. Blogging is something I tried and discovered I really liked. That fact that some people read it regularly blows my mind and I appreciate it. If you’re one of them, thank you.

Sooner or later I’ll tell dad and Debby about the blog. They’re welcome to read it at their own risk, of course. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve written but my dad would probably be a little surprised by my language and some of my behavior. His opinion will always mean something to me. And no matter how old I am, there will always be a part of me that is still daddy’s little girl.

Dear David,

There are only 6 shopping days left until I turn 42. Though you probably won’t go near a mall until the day before my birthday, I’ve compiled a list of things I would enjoy receiving from you (in case you want to start shopping early).

1. The Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather (not the patent leather one – patent is shiny. Just do what you usually do and tell the salesperson exactly what you need and then let them find it). I am going to ask for this handbag on every gift giving holiday from now until eternity (or I receive it, whichever comes first. To hell with my New Year’s resolution not to keep talking about it).

2. Black Uggs (the tall ones). I saw a 7 year old girl wearing them the other day and I almost snapped. The bastards at Younkers don’t sell them so you’ll have to go to Dillard’s (where the Dooney and Bourke handbags are also sold).

3. Nike Shox workout shoes. I need to replace my shoes if I’m going to continue going to Body Jam classes at the Y. My current shoes are getting worn out and if I trip and fall on my ass I won’t be able to wait on everyone hand and foot. Think of the shoes as a gift to the whole family.

4. Approximately 40 units of Botox. Stacy told me all about what Botox can do and I want to try it (no medi spas please. Dr. Feldman is the only one I trust to shoot poison into my forehead). While you’re at Dr. Feldman’s please grab a brochure for Restalyne (Stacy’s just recently filled my head with what this wonder drug can do).

5. Jo Malone Grapefruit Cologne. You can find this at Sephora at Jordan Creek Mall. You were so sweet to buy me Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle (that I asked you for) as one of my past birthday gifts but unfortunately it smells horrible on me. I do not smell like a mademoiselle, I smell like a 90 year old Madame when I wear it. I’ve done my research this time and the grapefruit scent is fabulous.

6. Please, no gifts from Dr. John’s lingerie boutique (and sex toy emporium). I’ve got enough of their inventory already. I know you like going there and they recently drew your name in the raffle but enough is enough (and the lingerie you “won” in the raffle wouldn’t fit an anorexic 9 year old so you’ll probably never see me wearing it).

Hopefully you’ll find this list helpful David. I want your shopping experience to be a pleasant one.

Love,

Tracey