As requested....

I should be ashamed of myself and, well, I am.

I cannot believe I did it. I can't. I'm just sitting here shaking my head at myself. What in the sam hill was I thinking?

What I'm about to divulge might change your opinion of me...it's starting to make me wonder about myself.

Ready? I can't believe I'm going to say this outloud. Here goes:

I joined Facebook.

::ducking::

I KNOW! I KNOW!

I have resisted for so long! Then I felt the sudden urge to stalk someone from high school... did a google search on the skank and looky there...she has a FaceBook page. What? I can't see without being a friend? What does that mean? If I sign up for Facebook, can I see her? Can I see how she's been divorced 9 times and recently got fired from her job as official toilet scrubber of Texas rest stops because she's a jerk?

How in this wide world is someone supposed to be a proper stalker if they cannot properly stalk? Sheesh, people. A little help here?

I thought about it. I have gotten many invitations to join what I previously referred to as "The Devil's Network". I'm a grown woman! I don't need that crap. Do I ? Nooo. Wait. Do I?

With baited breath, I clicked on the "JOIN NOW" button. I felt so dirty! I felt like I had just stuffed those five twinkies in my mouth in the back room at the Weight Watchers meeting and turned around to find the group leader getting a glass of water. (Incidentally, that never really happened. I would never attempt to put FIVE twinkies in my mouth at one time. That would just be silly. Everyone knows you can't taste more than four at at time).

I quickly filled out all the fields it said were required. Never have I typed so fast! It's like the 5 second rule... if it takes me less than a minute to fill everything out, it's certainly not important enough to matter, right? Right!

So there I was. I had a profile. I had uploaded my favorite eyeball. We're all set. Now what?

Well, on Facebook, even as a member, you cannot see most people's information without asking them to be their friend.

Oh, giant crapballs.

As most of you know, I'm not very good with people. In fact, I'm surprised I haven't been completely ostracized yet. I keep checking the mailbox for that letter.

Now I have to ask people to be my friends? I usually just wait for people I know to move away and then just tell everyone we were friends. It saves all parties involved a lot of needless heartache and restraining orders.

At least Facebook makes it easy. They will import all of your contacts from your email program and see if there are members with matching email addresses. Then you just send one mass email and hope against hope that they won't realize it's you that's asking. Or maybe that's just me. At any rate, in a few clicks of the keyboard, I had asked people to be my friends!

Oh, God...what have I done? I have singlehandedly opened myself up for more rejection than the senior Sadie Hawkins dance. What if they refuse? What if they laugh and then refuse? What if they forward a copy of my pathetic request to the aforementioned skank and they have a party celebrating my loserhood? Well...too late now.

::DING::

What? What was that? It appears I have an email...oh wow..it's from Facebook. Unsuspecting Friend has added you to his friend's list.

HOT DIGGITY!!! I have a friend! It's official! It says it in black and white. GreenEyedGirl has 1, count them, er, it...1 friend! Ha. Take that Toilet Scrubbing Skank! I stayed up as long as I dared waiting and watching for any other Unsuspecting Friends. Alas, it was late. I called it a night and went to bed.

Next morning, I was going through my ususal morning routine and checked my email. 9 emails from Facebook. WOAH!! 9 MORE FRIENDS!!! Ha! A grand total of 10 friends! And since that time, I've been lost. Obesessed, even. I hear that email ding and I could be in the middle of receiving the Nobel Peace Prize and I will drop the blasted thing to see if that's one more friend. Pathetic, I know.

The problem now is that I keep looking for people I can ask if they will be my friend. It's like a contest now. I found Skank's profile and while I can't see it, I can see how many friends she has. Until I have more friends than she has, I will message complete strangers and offer to PayPal them some cash if they accept me as their friend. It's no different from 8th grade year, really.

So if you're in the market for a little extra cash, feel free to look me up on Facebook. I promise not to stalk you anymore than usual.

Green Eyed Girl Glossary

From time to time, I use odd little words or phrases that, more often than not, I get inquiries about. While I have been accused of allegedly “making words up” ::insert industrial strength eye roll::, I assure you that even if I did, which I don’t, they officially exist as of now because I’m providing happy little definitions below. So, there.


Mo-mo [moh-moh]
-noun

An utterly idiotic person, usually male. Must be used with as much disdain and eye rolling as humanly possible, especially when referring to one’s Hubba Bubba

“Sometimes my Hubba Bubba is SUCH a Mo-Mo!”

Hubba Bubba [huhb-uh buhb-uh]
-noun

A woman’s husband that is either from the South or exhibits redneck behavior.

”I’d love to go to the mall, but first I’ll have to see if my Hubba Bubba is home from the strip club.”

Skinny Mini [skin-ee min-ee]
-noun

An OMG, self-obsessed, skinny woman often overheard uttering “Does this make me look fat?”, who is entirely oblivious about why anyone might not be as skinny as she is. Nemesis to Green Eyed Girl
See also “She-Devil”, “Narcissist”, “MoMo”, “Stupid jerk”

“Did you see how that Skinny Mini looked at me? I ought to go fart on her”



Noms [nohmz]
-noun

LOLspeak for “food”

-verb

LOLspeak for “eat”

“That Skinny Mini needs some noms. I’ll give you $20 if you’ve ever seen her nom on anything other than a celery stalk”


Grr [gurr]
-interjection

Sound uttered with disdain and frustration. Often heard from paternal figure but adapted recently by daughter.

“Did you see that call the referee made?? GRRR!”


SnootySnot [snoot –ee snoht]
-noun

A person, usually female, who judges individuals on their appearance, their income level or profession. Not to be confused with “Skinny Mini”, though are often the same. Another nemesis to Green Eyed Girl

“I’ll show that SnootySnot! I’ll park my trailer right in front of her condo. Grrr.”


Pokies [pohk-ees]
-noun

Another term for acupuncture.

“Okay, Hubba Bubba, I’ll see you after pokies.”



Coke [kohk]
-noun

A genericized trademark , often used in Texas. All-conclusive term for “soda pop”, regardless of brand.

“Hey, Hubba Bubba, want a Coke? What kind? Ok, I’ll get you a Dr. Pepper.”


Meh [meh]
-interjection

A statement expressing lack of interest.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, honey. I updated my blog!”
Hubba Bubba: “Meh.”


Guh [guh]
-interjection

A statement expressing dejection and frustration.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, honey. I updated my blog!”
Hubba Bubba: “Meh.”
Green Eyed Girl: “Guh.”


Diddybop [dih-dee-bohp]
-verb

To move one’s feet or body rhythmically to music.

“Hey, look at Hubba Bubba diddybopping to that New Kids On The Block video. Guh.”



Sniggle [snih-guhl]
-verb

To lie close in comfort. Similar to “snuggle”, only cuddlier.

“Aww, Hubba Bubba! Of course I’ll sniggle with you. As soon as you shave, take a shower and change your underpants.”


Do what? [doo hwuht]
-idiom

Interrogation used to question what was just said, usually heard in Texas. Can be used when one simply didn’t hear what was asked or in a sarcastic response.

Hubba Bubba “Honey, I’m going to the strip club”
Green Eyed Girl “Do what?”


Yankee [yang-kee]
-noun

A derogatory term used to describe someone born in the northern part of the United States.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, Daddy! I’m getting married!”
Daddy: “To who?”
Green Eyed Girl: “Well, he’s a Yankee.”
Daddy: “Do what?”
Green Eyed Girl: “He’s from Michigan.”
Daddy: “Grrr”

While this is not a comprehensive list, it’s a good start and answers a majority of the questions I’ve received. If, however, you read something I’ve written and ask yourself, “Do what?”, pop me an email. I’ll be more than happy to fill you in.

Tale of Idiocy Part II

A long, long, long, long, loooooooooong time ago in the magical city of Chicago, lived a chubby, newly engaged green-eyed Texas girl. Freshly betrothed to JerkFace, she had recently graduated with an MFA and was getting prepared for what could have been the most important interview of her short little life (In case you haven’t figured it out, the Chubster is me. I was trying to be clever and write in third person, but my clever has about run out, so I’m switching over to first person now. Or maybe I should try second person narrative? No, that would confuse both of us).

I had procured an interview at one of the more prestigious galleries in Chicago through much praying, a little schmoozing and just a tad of begging. My interview was at 10 AM on Tuesday morning. On Monday, I dropped JerkFace off at the airport for one of his incessant business trips and proceeded to go shopping for the perfect interview outfit. We’ve all had those days where you’re looking and looking and looking for a very important dress or whatever and cannot find anything. This was not one of those days. I walked into the boutique for the Pleasantly Plump and calling to me from the center display rack was the most perfect suit with matching shirt. But would it fit? Oh, it fit. Didn’t even need to be altered. Would they steam it for me? Gladly…while I waited. Perfection. This was going to be good.

Perfect outfit? Check.
Mapquest directions printed out? Check
Stalk the location the night before? Check
Set out pantyhose and shoes? Check
Go to bed at exactly the right time? Check
Set the alarm so I could get up three hours prior to the interview? Check
Excellent.

Tuesday morning
7:00 AM

The alarm goes off and I literally jump out of bed. No, seriously… I bounded from bed like my butt was on fire. I must have been excited because I’m not really a “bounding” kind of person, but nonetheless I did.

7:15 AM

Should probably eat a healthy breakfast. First, must look up definition of “healthy”. OH, yeah. Ok. I can do that. Fruit Loops have fruit in them, so I’m all set.

7:30 AM

I prepare to hop into the shower (yes, I hopped. I told you already that I was excited). I brush my teeth, I take my engagement ring off and put it in the soap dish so it doesn’t get all soap scummy and disrobe. I get in the shower and scrubbadub all the important bits. I lather up my hair, rinse, repeat. I condition previously mentioned hair and wait the recommended amount of time (something I never do). I rinse off and reach for my towel. There’s no towel. Uhhh… no robe, no towel, not even an extra washcloth. Ok. Ohhhhh, yes. I remember. JerkFace washed ALL the towels the night before he went out of town. No problem. I’ll just drip on down the hall and get my robe and a nicely fluffed towel.

7:50 AM

I grab my engagement ring, grasping it in my hand vs. putting it on so I don’t get goo on it when I put product in my hair. We had just moved into a beautifully renovated flat in a graystone near Wrigley Field. There were two flats per floor with the common wall being that connecting the bathrooms and laundry rooms. The flat had incredibly finished, original hardwood floors. I start the trek down hallway to the laundry room, dripping all the way and being careful not to slip. I open the door to the laundry room and smell a hint of bleach and fabric softener. This was going to be an amazing day. I brace my hand on the top of the dryer to open the somewhat finicky dryer door. As I finally wrestle the door open I hear the frightening tinkle of metal hitting concrete. I realize, a smidge too late, that I had dropped my engagement ring I had been clasping in my hot little hand. I could still hear it settling on the floor somewhere behind or under the dryer.

8:00 AM

No big deal. I’ll just pull the dryer out, get my ring and still have 30 minutes to do my hair, put on my makeup and get dressed. A little tight, but I can do it! I start to pull the dryer out and realize that it’s attached to the wall. I lean over the back of it best I can and confirm that yes, it is attached via the exhaust hose thingy. Perhaps I can scootch it over at an angle and get to the ring. I get the corner closest to the washing machine moved out about two feet from the wall, but it won’t budge after that. I muster all of my brilliance and decide that if I teeter on the edge of the washing machine, I can probably reach the ring. Am I a problem solver or what?

8:05 AM

As my short little chubby legs are, well, short and chubby, I get a chair to help facilitate my ascent onto the top of the washing machine. I finally manage to wiggle myself up with a new realization of how naked, damp flesh slides on metal. Pretty impressive. I slide over to the edge of the washing machine and start the quiet slide down the backside of the dryer. Hmm. It’s pretty tight back here. Let’s just get the ring and get on with it. Uh. I can’t really bend over. Uhhh. I’m kind of wedged back here. Hmm.

8:10 AM

Alright. Don’t panic. Just get back up on top of the washing machine and get the blasted ring later. It’s not like the cats are going to be able to get at it. Good plan. Uh. Hmm. I can’t get my leg high enough to give me leverage to pull myself up. Let’s see. I make a halfhearted attempt to pull myself up on top of the washing machine but only end up having massive flashbacks from elementary school when everyone was playing on the monkey bars except the smart, funny little fat chicklet. Let’s move on.

8:20 AM

This sucks.

8:30 AM

JerkFace gets back on….what? Friday?

8:45 AM

I’m probably going to miss my interview.

10:00 AM

I’m missing my interview

10:15 AM

Is that the phone ringing? Is that my answering machine picking up? Is that the gallery owner “just checking” on me? ::sigh::

11:30 AM

My cat waltzes into the laundry room to check on the status of my eyeballs. She drools on my head, smirks and runs off.

12:50 PM

I really need to pee.

1:15 PM

This sucks.

2:20 PM

::slam:: Wait. What was that? Was that my neighbor? The neighbor I begrudgingly gave a spare key to? Oh, God. Please let it be him! I start knocking on the wall behind me and yelling at the top of my lungs.

2:30 PM

My neighbor, Saber, knocks on the back door. I continue to scream. I hear the key in the lock and I hear the door creak open. “Green Eyed Girl??”

2:35 PM

Saber is standing in front of the dryer. He is laughing hysterically. I earnestly try to explain why this was not the best time for him to express his amusement. I start to cry. He laughs harder.

2:40 PM

Saber puts a towel on top of the dryer about three inches beyond my reach as he goes to root around for a wrench type of tool so I can loosen the vent hose and he can pull the dryer out a bit more. He’s still laughing hysterically.

2:45 PM

He turns around while I try to nakedly shimmy to the side so I can reach the dryer hose. I get the hose unhooked and Saber pulls the dryer out a bit more. He hands me a step stool, which gives me just enough height to gracefully ::cough cough:: climb on top of the washing machine, awkwardly covering myself the best I could with the towel.

2:50 PM

As Saber reconnects the dryer hose and pushes it back into place, I see my engagement ring glittering on the floor IN FRONT OF the dryer.

Tuesday, 13 years later, 10:45 PM

I can still hear Saber laughing.

Tale Of Idiocy Part I

I had originally posted this on my prior blog. After posting it and still to this day, I have been bombarded with requests for me to detail, yet again, what an idiot I am/was on the sad, sad day I trapped myself behind the dryer...while naked. Yes, it's true. Naked. I have decided to yield to the demand and illustrate what a true and total blockhead I am.

For posterity's sake, here is the original post that led to the aftermath I am about to post...

Tale Of Idiocy

If you know anything about me at all, I'm sure you read the title of this post and assumed it was about someone else. Some poor putz that had somehow come across the misfortune of displaying their stupidity in my general direction.

Unfortunately, you would be incorrect if you made this assumption. That's right. You read me correctly. I. Am. An. Idiot!

Let me count the ways...

Today I was helping to run the booth for my company at an industry expo. The theme was "CASINO", so my job was to build hype for our booth while people spun the wheel to win prizes. This went fine, though we were getting glares from our booth neighbors because we (okay, mostly me) were being so loud and wild that:
a) we were getting all the traffic
b)we were giving splitting headaches to the unlucky peeps parked next to us and
c)are you allowed to have that much fun at a company expo?

We had a line of people pretty much at all times waiting to come play in our booth. This says a lot because our prizes were pretty lame. Keychains, can cozies, travel mugs. I don't think I would stand in line for any of those things unless they were covered in chocolate or lined with money. But alas they were not and surprisingly, people were standing in line.

In the middle of the melee, I took a break to go to the Necessary. This expo was held at the Santa Clara Convention Center here in Silicon Valley. You can imagine how huge Silicon Valley's convention center would need to be, right? Huuu-uuuu-uuuuge. So by the time I found the bathrooms, I was so, er, ready, I was doing the thigh-tight shuffle into the stall. I knew at that moment that the stall was small, but I was so focused on trying not to pee in my pants and subsequently being the booth whose only draw would be "Guess That Smell", that I didn't pay attention to how I got in. This was my first mistake.

So I had checked my shoes for parasitic toilet paper and was ready to make my departure to the sinks and I...couldn't.... get... the...door...open. Ok, no reason to panic. I backed up and tried to straddle the toilet, but there wasn't room on either side for my legs. We are talking smaller than an airplane bathroom here. Alright. I have options. I can try to shimmy under the door (ew), but honestly, I don't think even Jupiter's gravity could help my tummy make that clearance. Hmm. I could try to climb over, but not only did that seem unlikely and unsafe, it also seemed way too Cirque du Soleil for me. Ummmmm. I could bust the door down? Not really a good look for a delicate flower like me. So I decided to just contort my fat around the door. That makes sense, right?

I managed to get a thigh out and while praying that nobody came in and made the supposition that I was a toilet burglar trying to sneak away from my crime, I contorted my tummy around the door. At one point I was a little stuck and finally just pulled the door as hard as I could, pulling the buttons on my blouse so that many of them came unbuttoned.

Unfortunately, because I am either the most unlucky sap on the planet or the Big Man upstairs was feeling frisky, someone came in to the bathroom right about then. Here I am, mildly sweaty and red-faced, with my shirt undone coming out of a stall. Riiiighhhht.

I smiled and buttoned my shirt and quickly washed my hands. As I was scurrying back to the booth, I noticed that there was a very large, full sized bathroom about thirty feet from my booth. Nice.

So all this just makes me fat, right? How does this make me an idiot, you ask?

I'll tell you how. I got home and was telling my darling husband about my horrible experience and as I was saying that I was stuck, he said, "So did you just stand on the toilet so you had clearance to open the door?"

Not only did this never occur to me, it took me a minute to even understand what he was saying! This, my friends, is what makes me an idiot!

This is also further evidence to the fact that men think differently than women. Jerks.

And sadly, while this makes me feel stupid, it does not make me feel nearly as stupid as the time I got caught naked behind my dryer and couldn't get out. But that's a tale of idiocy for another time.

I Think I'm Getting Dumber....

"Unpossible!" you say. No, no, it's true. Bear with my recap of the conversations that led me to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll agree. It started like this...

Conversation #1

Me: "Honey? Have you seen my glasses? I can't find my
glasses."

Mike: ::typing on his laptop and refusing to make eye
contact::
"No, I haven't. When did you last see them?"

Me: "You're such a wisenheimer. You know I can't see
without my glasses. You're just mean. You never
help me with anything."

Mike: ::still typing, shakes head::
"No, I was asking when the last time was that you
had them."

Me: "Oh. Um, last night?"

Mike: ::typing slower::
"Did you check the couch? Did you check the
nightstand? Did you check the bathroom?"

Me: "Well, no. I pretty much stood here and didn't see
them and I thought you might know where they
are."

Mike: ::putting down the laptop, still not making eye
contact, walks into the bedroom, retrieves glasses
from nightstand, walks back into the living room,
hands glasses to me, picks up laptop, continues
typing::

Me: "Thanks. I knew you knew where they were."

Conversation #2

Me: ::grumbly and starting to get indignant::
"HEY! Employee #1! Where's that thing I asked you to do?"

E#1: ::looking entirely and completely confused::
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Which thing would that be?"

Me: ::scoffing and getting more indignant::
"You know...the thing! The thing! I emailed you and left you a
voicemail! I'm pretty sure we talked about it in the staff
meeting, too."

E#1: "Hmm. Let me check. No voicemail. The only email I have from
you was the one where you were ranting about the fitness teacher
being a jerk because he disrespected you via email but then you
realized you misunderstood his email and were thinking
you probably shouldn't have sent him a reply email calling him
an 'asshat dillhole'. "

Me: "Are you sure? I'm pretty sure I emailed you, called you and
discussed it with you in a meeting."

E#1: "Are you sure it was me? Perhaps it was another employee?"

Me: "No, it was definitely you. Here...I'll show you the email I sent you."
::checking email::
"Ohhhh... I have an email here I sent to myself reminding me to
email you. Sorry"

E#1: ::rolling eyes, smiling smugly and mentally preparing his resume::

Conversation #3

Me: "Honey, I think I have amnesia."

Mike: ::typing on his laptop and refusing to make eye contact::
"You don't have amnesia."

Me: "I'm pretty sure I have some kind of selective amnesia. I'll check
WebMD."

Mike: ::stops typing and looks scared::
"No, please dear God, do not get on WebMD. There's no such thing
as 'selective amnesia'."

Me: ::sneering at his idiocy::
"Oh yeah? Since you have a medical degree from WHERE? If I recall
correctly, there is."

Mike: ::looking up to the heavens, praying for patience::
"WHY do you think you have amnesia?"

Me: "Well, I keep forgetting things and I'm too young to have dementia.
Wait, maybe I have dementia!"

Mike: ::resuming typing::
"You don't have dementia."

Me: "You don't know! If I don't have amnesia and I don't have dementia,
what are you saying? What? You think I'm getting dumber??"

Mike: ::typing::

Me: "Honey?"

Mike: ::typing::

Me: "HEY!"

Mike: ::typing::

So there you have it. I'm clearly getting dumber. The only saving grace is that I'll forget how dumb I am. Just give me a minute...

Me Mudder

For some strange reason, every time I think of Mother's Day, I think of the slightly off color poem, "Ode to Motherhood" (google it if you don't know to what I'm referring) and I walk around all week talking about "me mudder".  Though in all honesty, my mom has never been "mother" to me unless I was upset with her...you know, when kids got in trouble their middle names were invoked and in the same vein, when I was angry with my mom, I would call her "MOTHER" in the most disdainful and ugly tone I could muster.  No need to point it out; I know I was a mean little brat.  At any rate, to me, she's always been "Mom".  These days, however, she has morphed into "MopMop", as my nieces and nephews call her.  Even though I do not have children and the cats have not yet learned to speak the Queen's English, my husband and I still call her MopMop.  

With MopMop's day looming around the corner, I've started really thinking about my relationship with the poor woman that gave birth to me on her birthday 36 years ago.  Here are a few of my favorite things:

-Equality. I love, love, love my mom's M&M theory. I have adapted it as my own and try to adhere to it at all costs in work and life.  When my brothers and I were little and still believed in Santa, MopMop would stay up late into the night to fill our handmade stockings.  She would buy a one pound bag of M&Ms and divide it amongst the three of us.  But she wouldn't just eyeball it; she would sit at the table and count out the M&Ms to make sure we each had the exact same number of M&Ms.  While she maintains she did it so nobody squawked that "s/he has more than me!", I know the truth...she wanted to make sure that everyone got their fair and equal share.  So each busy Christmas Eve, after sending the grandmothers home, cleaning the kitchen,  shuffling the tired, optimistic and anxious kids to bed, making sure the cookies left out for Santa were properly nibbled on and crumbs placed accordingly and putting out the Santa gifts, she would sit at the kitchen table and painstakingly count out candy for us.  This is the M&M theory.  It's pretty simple and it makes sense...if one "kid" gets something, you have to make sure that all the other kids get the same thing or at least have the opportunity to get it. To this day, she sends me a check each month because she spends money on my brothers' kids and I don't have any.  I try to make sure I use the same principal.  Ask anyone who has ever worked for me and they'll tell you about the M&M theory.  If that's not paying it forward, I don't know what is.

-Fairness. Some of my favorite childhood memories are from the dates I used to have with my mom. If you have siblings or if you have more than one child, you know how hard it is for each kid to get special time with their mom.  MopMop had that all taken care of when we were kids.  Each Friday, the three of us would get to spend the night with my grandmother, Nanny Pete.  Each Saturday morning, MopMop would come and pick one of us up for a "date".  We'd get to go eat lunch at the restaurant of our choice and usually have a fun activity planned.  Sometimes, we'd just go home and watch TV together.  I used to look forward to every third Saturday like I had won some fantastic prize and actually, I guess I had.  Instead of keeping one day for herself, she made certain that each of us got to spend some quality time with her and her alone.  For a kid with two siblings, that's pretty special.  

-Laughter.  So much laughter.  MopMop is one of the funniest people I've ever known.  Anytime I was sad, I could always count on her to find the silver lining in the situation and then somehow get me to laugh about it.  Oh, and to make her laugh?  That is one of the best things EVER.  She has taught me that life is so much more special with a little laughter in it... and the more, the better.

-Love.  As I have previously mentioned, I was a brat. I used to poke her bruises. If I was grounded, I would annoy the sap out of her until she told me just to go outside.  I delighted in my younger brother's pranks on her.  No matter what, though, she always, always, always loved me-whether I deserved it or not.  I hear about some people whose mothers and fathers have disowned them for one reason or another. I know that no matter what I do, MopMop will always love me.  It's a pretty amazing feeling, really.  That knowledge has created a pretty interesting phenomena...instead of taking advantage of it, I always wanted to make her proud. As a result, I try to do the best I can in everything I do so she'll be happy with what I've done.  Oh, believe me, I've faltered.  I've done things that I just *knew* would make her change her mind.  But she never has.  

-Sharing.  It started with her birthday.  As I said, I was born on her birthday and for the past 36 years, it's been all about me.  She is the most unselfish person I've ever met.  Like the mother in Christmas Story, I don't think she ever had a single hot meal after getting married.  She makes certain that all of us have whatever we need.  She's shared her friendship, her creativity, her wit and charm and her incredibly sweet nature.  I know that I can talk about anything with her and more often than not, she's the first person I want to talk to about important things in my life.  She always has been, whether I told her so or not.  

So on this MopMop's day, I give this lame Ode to Me Mudder, such that it is.  MopMop, you've given to me so many things for which I will never be able to thank you.  While I've only listed a few of my favorites here, you are an amazing mother and even better, the perfect MopMop.  Thank you.  For everything.  :*