Eat the Green Jell-o

Real Life vs. Movies, Take 154

2012-01-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

I saw a preview for a scary movie (see also: movie that I will not watch, or that I will watch only under duress, i.e., under a blanket after consuming copious amounts of rum) and it involved a really scary old gothic Victorian house. As they always do.

It led me to think, why, in movies, do characters always react like this: "Why look, George! A very affordable gothic Victorian in the middle of nowhere! Such a reasonable price, and we'll have plenty of time to fix it up with our income from lucrative-yet-vague jobs!"

IN MOVIES:

In *real life* we'd all react like this: "Jesus Christ Helen, do you really think we could afford to fix that place up? At that price, it's probably full of rotting corpses in the basement and the walls will start bleeding the second you move in. Totally fucking haunted. I haven't seen any Jesuits for miles, so we'd be totally screwed. Let's get our asses to the car before we're swarmed by bees, Amityville style."

Real Life:

Just something to think about. When you're avoiding your basement because you made the mistake of watching one of these movies. You're welcome.

Comments, questions, not the basement!

Moonshine! Not Just for Prohibition Anymore, or, Just. Wow.

2012-01-03T11:49:00.001-08:00

Last night, facing a dearth of dvr'd Dr. Phil's, we were forced to actually LOOK for something on tv to watch. I know, I cried a little too.

We found something. Something that made me grab The Man's remote-hand (hand holding the remote, and not some sort of bionic hand, although honestly that would be pretty sweet. Especially if his bionic hand were equipped with a Death Ray. (His real hand is now equipped with a 9 millimeter. Just like Dr. Dre always told me about.) This ends our parenthetical discussion.)

What did I see? Men in denim overalls with no shirts on, firing what appeared to be automatic weapons at detached car hoods. The car hoods had yellow poorly painted targets on them.

CLEARLY I had to see what this was all about.

Guy 1: Yeah, if anyone comes around, they'll start ducking.
Guy 2. Yup.
Guy 1: I mean, if terr'rists come around, who'll do something?
Guy 2: ...
Guy 1: Me!

Then they commenced what looked like some joint smoking, and more gun firing. The Man confirmed that it was some sort of automatic thingy. Just what I want = armed and dangerous, yet very stoned, rednecks.

They went on to explain something about their still and their moonshine production. One guy got all Super Tracker and pointed out a shoe mark that may or may not have been from someone looking for their moonshine operation. It was in a creek though, which contained a lot of moisture, so how reliable could it be? I'll admit, tracking isn't in my skill set. I was stumped.

Here's something else confusing. Who the hell drinks moonshine, and why the hell is it illegal to make it? I'm very confused by this. Is it sort of like absinthe or something? Do people drink it and get all Van Gogh and lop off body parts? I mean, you can brew your own beer at home, and wine and stuff. I know moonshine is hard liquor and I know it's mentioned in an AC/DC song. That's about it.

Hey, if it's good enough for Brian Johnson, isn't it good enough for you? No?

Come to think of it, I bet that these guys are VERY familiar with that song. I can just tell.

I couldn't really follow the rest of the episode because I was really invested in going to sleep, but there was something about a police raid and then the Overalls Brothers lit the still. I think that the cops should have just asked the film crew where the still was - seems like it would be a real time saver, but what do I know about good solid investigation work?

I'm not sure we'll follow up with any other episodes, since Dr. Phil will be back on with his ethically questionable practices any day now, but let's recap what I learned:

* Moonshine is made from corn. I think.

* Our country is founded on moonshine. (I know! I didn't know that either!)

* The most dangerous part is when you light the still.

* Overalls-with-no-shirt don't protect you from mosquitoes in the Tennessee woods.

* There are people who own automatic weapons who shouldn't be allowed to own a slingshot.

* There is a high demand from moonshine.

* Moonshine is also called Mountain Dew. I imagine this could cause a conflict.

* If terr'rists invade Tennessee, watch out. Guys with auto weapons and overalls will take you down.

Since I've done you all such a solid, you won't have to actually watch the show. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to check if my iPod is alive after I got water on it. If it's not, that sound you hear is me raging at the sky.

*UPDATE: The main guy's name was, I shit you not, "Tickle." This made it ALL worth the price of admission, Friends. A grown man nicknamed (or possibly legally named) Tickle. I can't quite wrap my mind around it.

**UPDATE: This all took place in Virginia. Sorry, Tennessee for lumping you in with the 'shiners. Unless you like it, and then, you're welcome.

Comments, questions, do you drink white lightning?

It's That Time of Year!

2011-12-20T09:57:00.001-08:00

Happy Anxiety Days! Festive Cramps! Merry Debt!

Why not celebrate realistically?!

And Friends, this year I am celebrating as I DO. Currently it's by watching Nicki Minaj videos on YouTube and trying to figure out what. the. fuck. she. is. saying.

Seriously.

I LOVE me some Minaj-isty. I do. If I were a petite rapper with pink hair? I'd be Nicki. I just wish I could decode the rap parts of super bass. If two little British girls could do it? I'm sort of failing here.

SADNESS.

And the parts I can discern, I don't understand.

Who is the guy with the thing on his eye? The Monopoly Man? Mr. Peanut?

And why does Nicki want a coke dealer? I mean, I'm glad the guy flies first class. But is flying a METAPHOR?!
Nothing but questions here people.

I should be doing LOTS of things. I should be baking. (Unless people in this house value their expensive dental work.) I should be vacuuming. (ALWAYS.) I should be making lists. (They help me get stuff DONE.) Right now I am flagrantly ignoring my list.

I came upstairs to work on some paperwork-y things, realized I hadn't updated my blog in forever and a bleeding DAY and that I couldn't possibly work without musical accompaniment.

(I also just realized that I no longer can spell for SHIT. Double dose of SADNESS.)

Something else that I learned from Ms. Minaj? I should really replace my florescent black-light tube. How am I supposed to turn my basement into a personal home rave for The Man and me without black light?! Exactly.

I learned way back in 1996 that there isn't much that black light doesn't make better.

Pink Floyd? Better. (If possible.)
Rum? Better.
Your best friend's hilarious jokes? Better. (Because your teeth glow when you laugh.)
Your HIGHLY creative neon painting skills? Better.
Bleach stains on your whites? Better.

Life lessons, Friends, it's sort of what I do.

Also? And unrelated? I pretty much concur with every aspect of the party rock anthem.

Tight jeans, tattoo 'cause I'm rock n' roll = Yep.
Everyday I'm shufflin'= Yep.
Now stop, hatin' is bad = Always.

Plus I'd like to party rock. I'd pretty much rather party rock than finish laundry, that's fo' sho. I'd also rather party rock than fight crowds for last-minute Christmas gifts. UGH. Normally I love shopping (unless the kids are with me)(which is a form of torture), but not this time of year.

This entire post is just like the time that Spongebob had to write a report for Mrs. Puff but put it off and fed Gary and then dreamed his pineapple caught fire.

I'm mightily procrastinating here, and I have a doctor's appointment in an hour. My life is rich and full. Much fuller with a working black light.

True 'dat.

Happy party rocking! I'm out homes.

Comments, questions, what the hell is Nicki Minaj trying to say?!

Why The Man is Insane

2011-11-28T11:37:00.000-08:00

Every once in awhile, you have to challenge yourself. Set the bar high, aim for the stars, eye of the tiger - all that jazz. If you're me, that means going for Most Facebook Witty Status Updates in One Day or Longest Time Sitting in the Wingback of High Power.

If you're The Man, it means this:

Tough Mudder

(You're welcome, Tough Mudder. Feel free to send my t-shirt, bumper sticker and shot of Cabo directly to The Man.)

If you don't want to sit through the video of a bunch of lunatics running through fire, climbing up ropes and doing half-gainers off 20' platforms into frigid water, allow Your Favorite Writer to explain.

Basically it is thus: if you're tired of running "boring" marathons (as opposed to the super exciting ones I'm always doing. Read always as: never.) then THIS is the event for you!

10-12 miles of horrific obstacles designed by British special forces. Why British special forces? I don't know. I'll ask my own personal Brit, the next time he calls us from Saudi. I bet he would join The Man's team for this thing. They're both crazy.

Aaanyway.

There is barbed-wire, climb-y things, swim-y things, even electro-shock things because WHAT is an obstacle course designed by British special forces withOUT 10,000 volts?! Exactly.

Am I the only one hearing Bon Scott yelling "hiiiiigh VOLTage!"? Yes?

It is also the perfect thing for The Man. A sick individual.

His favorite part of the military was running obstacle courses for FUN. I read books on sunny lanais for fun. I dance to gay club music for fun. I do NOT get shocked by 10,000 volts for fun. Then again, a taser = great Christmas idea! But dear, it's for your TRAINING. Man up, and stop twitching.

I also think it's time that our snapping-turtle filled dubious-depth pond out back can now do something other than be ornamental. I told The Man he'll have to start his training soon. Why not swim the pond? I know, I'm practically a coach already. A coach for CRAZY town, that is.

But because I'm full of Awesome *and* Brilliance, I support him as I support all of his crazy endeavors. Yet another reason I deserve more tropical vacations and jewelry. Not or, AND.

I also thought about trying this thing. No, really! I did! Sure, what with my general level of fitness being....not really Jillian quality...and the ASSma (forget about my possible-fracture-foot and/or the random stress fractures in my legS and/or the as-yet unhealed calf pull), I'm sure it would be a quick trip to the ER and all. And yet...

I have an inner masochist, which sort of accounts for the above-mentioned injuries. The couch, ladies and gents, is EVER so much safer than trotting around the city with fragile bones-ies in finger-toe shoes. Why, the doctor at the Famous Athlete Sports Medical Place didn't even CARE that I'd been inspired by the book Born to Run! I still keep my Chia seeds in the fridge! They're a super food, Friends. (They apparently do nothing to prevent bone breakage. Damn their eyes.)

Basically, it all boils down to my...issues...with authority. I know, right?! The fastest way to ensure that I will WANT to do something is to tell me that I CAN'T do something. Like running. That doctor only irritated me when he said "there are lots of ways to get cardio without impact! Like swimming! Or biking!" Okayyyy. I hate biking (thanks to the miracle of childbirth, things like biking are NOT as comfortable as they used to be) and the only swimming option I have is my sludge-y winter-y pond out back. Um. No.

Dammit, I want to RUN like the Tarahumara! I do NOT want to peddle my sad recumbent bike to nowhere. Nor do I want to clomp around in my bedazzled broken-foot boot. Damn its eyes.

(For those riveted by my stupid damnable foot condition, I have a re-check tomorrow. Hurrah. Maybe they'll order an MRI - *that* is a fast way to meeting my deductible!)

Aaaanyway. So naturally The Man wants to do this insanely awful obstacle course of doom. That is how he rolls, ladies and gents. I call him Captain America for REASONS, people.

But *I* sort of want to do it. I want to prove that I am in good shape, and I can do anything I want to do, and I can finish a horrible muddy race too! (Even though we really have no evidence that that statement is true, and it pretty much involves everything that is my kryptonite: fire, pain, water, heights, dirty dirty mud and looking unkempt and/or desperately unhappy.) Should I add that it's held in March? In Indiana? And March in Indiana is still pretty much winter. March here usually involves a lot of angry windy sleety stuff that makes me all stabby.

Last night The Man was researching the most recent one of these events that they held here in November. He declared that ANYone could do it if they walked the whole thing and he wants to compete, not just do it while wandering around. Sigh. Yes, a 10 mile 20-obstacle course isn't hard ENOUGH because people aren't dying in the mud as you slog past them! Truly, The Man is crazy. Next thing I know, he'll be plotting a trip to Everest. I am NOT investing in those crazy cold-weather tents.

Newest Update: The Man talked to a friend of his who had already done this Torture Event and said it was really hard, but spoiled by idiots. Sort of like life, really. The Man has decided to reconsider. So have I. I think I'll just huff my way through a nice 5K once my Jillian Michaels broken foot heals. And my broken tibias. And my broken heart, once I have to run in non finger-toe shoes.

So there you have it. Ironman vs. Copperwoman. Or something.

Comments, questions, what impossible thing are YOU training for?

Searching for Answers and Getting....My Blog?

2011-11-22T06:30:00.000-08:00

Oh Readers, what would I do without you people finding my wee sad blog after searching things that make me....confused...? I wouldn't have *today's* blog material, THAT is for sure. This blog is for you, random strange term searchers! As our good friend Rhianna sings, "I'll drink to that."

List of Amazingly AWESOME Search Phrases that You Typed, That Led you HERE:

"Retarded scooter" - After I stopped laughing, I tried to figure out what you were actually searching for - a scooter for a disabled person (in which case you are probably NOT going to find it, given that no one really uses the word 'retarded' in that sense anymore. It's 2011 for God's sake. We have better terms!) OR were you looking for a scooter that was retarded itself? (Meaning a ridiculous scooter?) I hope you found whatever scooter you needed, Searching Reader. When you need a scooter, you need a frackin' scooter.

"Black drag queen" - I have no idea what I was talking about in any of my posts that would lead someone to land here after looking for a perfectly good black drag queen. How sad and disappointed you'd be to find Your Favorite Writer's blog, which is basically a neurotic uber-pale Goth-ish white girl blathering about nothing. I hope you found a FABULOUS black drag queen somewhere. With a feather boa and sequins EVERYwhere, in 4" heels. THAT is the sort of black drag queen *I* would want, were I in the market.

"Drinkable codeine" - Ah, now we're getting somewhere. I *KNOW* I mention codeine like I should be slingin' pills in a back alley somewhere. Mainly because it keeps me alive once a month when my uterus tries to destroy me. Or when my lungs try to kill me by inflaming and such. The irony of course being that I don't actually LIKE taking codeine - I get irate and/or sleepy and/or vacuum too much. I would happily never see codeine again, in any of its forms, but my body doesn't seem to like me very much - and insurance doesn't cover acupuncture. Although it might cover uterus removal. Hmmmm...

***But the winner for BEST wackadoodle Search Phrase goes tooooo.....***:

"HoverRound Spinner Rims" OH MY GOD. I can't believe the luck! Somewhere out there is another person who realized that a HoverRound Mobility Scooter is bad ass enough; but adding spinners would make that 'whip SO bitching that all the pimps would envy it! I'm a little concerned that my awesome Word Art mentions mobility scooters so often, but then again? They're pretty sick. Kudos to you, Searching Reader for being ahead of the curve. I hope you kick it HARD at the retirement home. Mine will have a custom paint job. Candy pink if you're curious. And yes, I will rep the dubs. Word.

So that's all for today, Diligent Searching and Otherwise Readers. Keep up the good work, I can't wait to see what else leads you down the internet rabbit hole to my Electronic Literary Gift to all Mankind! (Why no searches for my favorite bands? Get on it A7X and Disturbed fans! I can't represent the Bored Housewife Hard Rock contingent all by myself! Actually, I can. But still. Get to it!)

Comments, questions, what led YOU here?

The Scarlet Woman. (Not me.)

2011-11-21T10:38:00.000-08:00

The saga with the Library Fascists continues. I've avoided paying my millions of dollars in fines (that I got for being a good mother and getting 500 books for my kids to read - and not realizing I hadn't renewed in time) and I was thrilled to get a Nook for mah birthday. Unfortunately, my library won't even let me get an e-book if my riDONKulous fine isn't paid. SADNESS.

Thus I was reduced to boning up on my classical literature, because it's FREE. (Picture me saying that in a British accent for added flavor.)

I read 'The Scarlet Letter' - which a BILLION high school kids have read, but which Your Favorite Former English Major had somehow avoided. Along with the Shakespeare class - it was weird, it just somehow worked out that way. Unfortunately, I couldn't dodge math in the same way. BOO.

I learned an important lesson, Friends; while you can rely on popular culture for fun new catchphrases (and pressure to watch the 'Shore), you can't rely on popular culture for an accurate interpretation of classical literature. Weird.

I learned the same lesson after reading Uncle Tom's Cabin. Go ahead and read it, and if you don't come away thinking that being called an Uncle Tom should be a compliment, you haven't read it right. (Uncle Tom was a Christ figure. You don't insult someone by calling them Jesus, am I right?) (Seriously, this theory is henceforth copyrighted © will possibly end up as Your Favorite Writer's master's thesis.)

So.

I read A Scarlet Letter thinking that the story would be all about the fallen woman and society judging her...which it was...for about five seconds. The rest of the story was about the evils of revenge. Which? Revenge = one of the main traits of all things Sammo. Sorry, Mr. Hawthorne, in the event of betrayal, I employ the concept of the Drowning Pool song: Let the Bodies Hit the Floor. (Even though they were only talking about a mosh pit - I'm pretty much talking diabolical homicide. Or assault. Or whatever I could get away with using an alibi.)

Once again, classical literature 1, Sammo 0.

Then, luckily, my mom came through and I used her log-in to download some e-books. Suck on THAT, Library Fascists! I'm back to fun popular novels that teach me NOTHING. Just the way I like it.

Comments, questions, reading anything good?

Zombie PMS

2011-11-17T13:50:00.000-08:00

Our regularly schedule Brilliant Word Art is on hold today, mainly because I've come down with a scorching case of Zombie PMS, and the only thing on the menu is eating brains with a righteous fury.

The question isn't Why Have a List, the question is When Have I Not Loved a List? Answer = never.

Things Today Already Deserving Brain-Eating Vengeance:

1. The microscopic clingy (and I can only assume highly flammable) chunks of packing peanuts I had to vacuum off the playroom floor.

2. The Man not promptly returning my email and two subsequent phone calls. I know you're working, The Man, but take some time out of your busy SHED-YULE to respond to the obvious devolution of my sanity.

3. My netbook's possessed mouse arrow. There I was, trying to finish an email, when it began randomly opening things like my anti-virus window. Anti-virus is just like the transmission in the Crappy American SUV = it just has to work, I don't need details.

4. My gimpy foot. I am 100% sure that I do NOT have a dirty stress fracture. It's been almost 5 weeks in the ugly-but-bedazzled boot and I still have a painful lump. It's probably a gimpy foot tumor. I'd rather start wearing my cute mule boot-lets and give up on the fake-fracture-actual-tumor foot.

5. Laundry. Never, ever ending laundry. Is this what it's all come to? Laundry?

6. Bloating. I'm within 1 pound of my pre-both-baby weight (I KNOW!) and I'm pretty sure something like an evil gremlin is gestatin' in mah abdomen. Gross. And unattractive at the same time.

7. Having to cook dinner. Again. As I do. I have to do it now, in fact; yet do not despair Friends, the kitchen is where I keep the Bacardi Limon.

Update: Actual text I sent to The Man = "Fair warning: *wicked* PMS today. I suggest rubbing my back, noticing I look thin and ignoring the crazy. His response? "Ok." He is well conditioned Friends.

Comments, questions or any righteous causes that need smiting?

The Disease is the Cure

2011-11-15T03:42:00.000-08:00

Unlike Chris Cornell, I know that the disease is the cure! I've been avoiding writing for, holy crapballs, an entire MONTH (personal best!!!) because I was afraid I'd fall down some writing rabbit hole, where I end up chain smoking and writing for hours and talking to myself. Sort of like Steven King, but without the brilliance and success.

Then I realized I was doing myself a CRAZY HUGE disservice, as well as all you people from the Russian Federation who wander here after you searched "tranny hair." Do S'vedanya! The only other Russian phrase I know would probably get me knee-capped.

Sure, sometimes I get compulsive about writing. I also get compulsive about vacuuming, and you don't see me hanging up my Riccar. THE HORROR.

While I was away, I was busy doing things. Things I shall now list and then expound upon! Lucky, lucky people of the Russian Federation. Which sounds a lot like the planetary group on Star Trek.

The List of Things I Did While I was Away from my Blog:

1. Bought the last-post mentioned Ed Hardy boots. The Man said that they are ridiculous and "loud." So basically, it's like Ed Hardy knew me personally and made me some boots.

2. Went to a bitchin' Halloween party. We learned things, and by we, I mean The Man. Things like the fact that taller shot glasses indicate more booze. The Man was my designated, so he was FINE. Your Favorite Writer, who forgot to eat dinner, ended the evening trying to Riverdance in my neighbor's driveway. Kids, this is why adults shouldn't drink mixed drinks made by people who don't know that tall shot glasses are called 'doubles' for a REASON. I also heard the Hooty Owl of Doom and spent a few hours convinced he was hootin' for me. But we were a pretty sweet cop-costume couple. I see a future in law enforcement for The Man! And absolutely NO Riverdance future for me.

3. Celebrated another birthday. Woo! I turned 33, which makes me slightly sad since I'm permanently 17 in mah head. Alas, 17-year-old-Sammo did NOT hit the weight room, nor did she score a hella-sweet pair of Seven jeans on sale that look ROCKING since she lost weight in the weight room. 33 and kickin' it people. Kickin' it HARD. The Man also bought me jewelry. I've said it for years, if in doubt, buy me jewelry. He's smart, even if he was confused on shot glass measurements.

4. Celebrated a kid birthday. November is a busy month here, Readers. My birthday, Princess's birthday AND Casanova's birthday. Seriously. Two Scorpios (yowza!) and a mellow Sagittarius. Princess's came first, and after a minor meltdown during putt-putt, all was right with the world. Mainly because she hit the jackpot and won over 1,000 tickets from some spinner game machine. It was like Vegas for the under 10 set.

5. Signed Princess up for after-school Art Club. She loves doing anything artistic. When she sets the world on fire with her talent, I'll be happy to accept a house in repayment.

6. Declared war on the Fine Nazis at my public library. I was so excited because my mom got me an e-reader for my birthday! Whee! Free books! And then the library refused to let me download because I had fines. Sure, I could pay them. Then the fascists win! Should I be fined for NOT picking up a book, I ask you?! The book is already THERE. It's not like they have to do anything, other than stick it back on a shelf. Ohhhh, I could go on. Down with the fascists! Thanks to them, I've been boning up on my classic literature. It's free through my e-reader's site. I'm getting my Hawthorne on, which really, is fine since I like him quite a bit. Maybe I'll challenge myself with some depressing old Russian lit. Shout out to the Russian Federation!

7. Watched a lot of Dr. Phil. I'm not sure why, but The Man and I have developed a semi-concerning habit of watching dvr'd Dr. Phil when our tv shows are preempted by horrific things like the CMA awards. Can't they stay on CMT like they belong?! I'm not sure we're learning anything, other than Dr. Phil employs some questionable methods. Mental note: ask my counselor if he's using legit strategy.

8. Helped The Man get our lighting and blinds hung. By helped, I mean I danced around to music while sweeping the kitchen.

9. Bedazzled my walking boot. The doctor thinks I might have a stress fracture. I think he's wrong. I also think that my boot looks 500 times better with glittery diamond-esque rhinestones hot glue-gunned to it. Yes, I really really did that.

10. Partied like a rockstar with my ever-present best imaginary friend, Anxiety. Apparently, much like extra belly fat, anxiety can't be wished away. Unlike extra belly fat, you can't diet it away or work it out away either. It's really, REALLY annoying. I am working on it. Working on accepting it, and working on making it go back into its hole, even if it's only in my head. Head like a hole. AWESOME. I will get out my mental hot glue-gun and bedazzle that shit and make it SHINE like a disco ball. Or whatever my counselor tells me to do. Because she's better than Dr. Phil.

Well that about sums up our sad month apart, Russian Federation. I plan on writing sooner than a month from now, so go ahead and crack open that bottle of Stoli, Christmas just came early!

Comments, Questions, what have YOU been doing?

Backing Slowly Away from The Amazon

2011-10-13T07:13:00.000-07:00

I decided I had to post something on my blogful of Brilliant Word Art, mainly because I was almost ready to double-click my way to a sweet new pair of Ed Hardy boots. It could still happen.

Amazon is treacherous for the stay-at-home mom. I mean, we could drag our whining offspring out and about, while we try on boots in the teeny stupid angled mirrors at Payless, OR we could just hit Amazon while we drink low-acid coffee and sit with our bandaged foot up on a chair with an ill-fitting orthopedic post-surgical knee ice wrap on it. I know which one *I* pick.

STUPID Jillian Michaels dvd!

(The worst/best part? I've lost 4 EL-BEES since I started really modifying things and working out hard. So let's just put the brakes on THAT success! Dirty foot sprain!)

(The Man got all kerfuffled about my GP's shoe-advice and insisted I make an appointment with the Fancy Othro Docs' Practice here in town: the one also known as Fully Sponsored by the Sammo Family Medical Bills.)(In two weeks, I'll start this medical year's newest financial contribution. SIGHHHH.)

Aaaaanyway.

I already bought a $10 (shipping included in the total!) allergen-proofing mattress cover for Casanova today. Whee!

But *nothing* is more exciting than 50% knee-high Ed Hardy boots. Mmmmm. I'm still considering hitting the back button a few times here people.

And before you're all "well looky at YOU, suburban trend-follwer mom!" allowmetorebut.

I think it is completely BAD ASS that tattoo-designs are now mainstream fashion. Why? Because it pretty much validates my body-mod collegiate choices, for one. And two? Who doesn't enjoy seeing women with fake tans and uber-collagen/forms-of-internal-silicone (whose idea of a tattoo = a tiny ankle shamrock) walking around, liberally slathered in roaring tigers and lightning bolt skulls? Exactly. I LIVE for HIGHlarious irony.

Just as much as I live for wicked fake fur topped knee-high winter boots, Friends.

My birthday is coming soon, and while The Man is on Killer Jewelry Duty, *I* may be buying myself some BOOTS. (I can't buy myself a Kindle or a Nook e-reader because my mom had mentioned something about that AND I really want one so I can avoid my library. See also: state-licensed extortionists. I am pretty sure they have a Gotti in the back room.)

And the boots look big enough to accommodate my Ace bandage. Win!

**Update** I totally bought some Ed Hardy boots. Not the original pair I'd been eying, but a mid-calf pair with white faux fur and the bleeding 'love kills slowly' heart. Am I watching my mailbox like Spongebob did when he sent off for a free prize? Yes, yes I am. I'll post a pic when they arrive in all their glory.

Comments, questions, is Amazon your boyfriend?

Why the Couch is Safer

2011-10-11T09:38:00.000-07:00

After many discussions with one of my Biffs, I decided to spend seven whole dollars and buy the Jillian Michaels' (see also: my pretend biff) workout dvd, the 30 Day Shred.

The idea that my body could ever be described by anyone, even those under the influence of heavy hallucinogens as "shredded" is HIGHlarious. And yet.

I work out. I DO. I'm all "it's MY time, GRRR!" up in here. I have a wonderful weight room and I do a lot of really painful weight-lifting activities there, usually to the musical accompaniment of Avenged Sevenfold, and/or the Party Rock Anthem.

I've noticed recently though that my weekly "treats" were becoming weekly "regulars" and they were NOT helping me stay svelte and/or able to fight crime. I'm talking about my popcorn-daiquiri nights. That's right. I broke up (temporarily) with my Bacardi frozen mixer AND my light 80 proof rum. And mostly with the buttered popcorn goodness of Friday movie night.

I wanted to get REALLY healthy. Not organic-food-crazy-vegan healthy because that is WAY beyond my skill set (or interest) but normal-not-binge-snacking-5k-10-pound-weight-loss healthy.

I thought Jillian could help.

I just returned from the doctor.

I'm breaking up with Jillian too, for at least two weeks. Now, I'm not going to BLAME her, per se, for this injury, but you know what? Yeah. It's her fault. I was perfectly happy lifting weights. I had ZEROOOOO weight-related injuries. I did her damnable dvd for two days and now I'm all restriced and doctor-bossy'ed into wearing nothing but tightly-laced tennis shoes unless I'm asleep.

I hate tennis shoes. I LOVE shoes, most notably: sandals, high heels, boots, finger-toe shoes and/or anything beguilingly bedazzled. NOT tennis shoes. But I basically have to support my dirty angrily sprained tendons. The disgusting lump I felt was swelling as my tendons cried for mercy. Sweet.

I have to do NOTHING for two weeks. At least. If I ignore doctor-bossy (which I suspect he thought I might)(he was right)(ish) then the injury will nag and nag and never heal. AWESOME. Especially because it is throbbing right now in time to my hostilely beating heart. Last night, the mere weight of the bedding was enough to bother me. I'm sure it'll be FINE.

I am also sure I won't be shredded in 30 days.

Frankly, there is NO way to modify the 30 day shred, because it involves cardio like jumping jacks and jumping-imaginary-rope. Do you see a pattern? Jumping. Hmmmm. I'm sure that had NOTHING to do with my stupid tendons getting all bitchy.

This would never have happened if I'd stayed on the couch with my daiquiri. Now, I'll have to use the Bacardi frozen mixer can to ice myself.

The sadness, it overwhelms. If anyone needs your non-shredded Favorite Writer, I'll be wearing tennis shoes in the weight room.

Comments, questions, do YOU stay safe on the couch?

I May Never Eat Graham Crackers Again, or, Yay High School Biology!

2011-10-03T04:36:00.001-07:00

This weekend, I was minding my own business, finishing up Princess's bath, when Casanova came running up the stairs, clearly crying.

"Mommy! You should have not bought those graham crackers - they have MAG-A-NATS"

I'm sorry, they have WHAT?!

I went down to find The Man all in a tizzy, pointing at some crumbs and half a graham cracker. Some *MOVING* crumbs. And I'll add this again, HALF a graham cracker.

The mag-a-nats were Casanova's attempt at "maggots" - which the moving crumbs were not, but they were clearly larvae of SOME kind, which is gross beyond belief.

The grossest part? The Man only got involved in the boy-child's snack when Casanova reported "Daddy, my mouth is tickling."

OH. HELL. NO.

So, um, my kid ate some freak worms from some graham crackers.

Luckily, my brain referred back to my high-school biology class (or zoology)(or AP bio)(whatever) and I remembered that there are always a certain amount of gross bug stuff involved in food processing. I mean, it's FOOD. They can't eliminate every bug, or every bug egg. Otherwise, we'd be eating poison and that sure isn't good either, frankly.

I also remembered that humans can eat bugs and probably not need a rush trip to the ER, although that was honestly because I saw a few episodes of the not-so-sadly not-on-air-now show Fear Factor.

Upon further inspection, even the unopened packages had....hitchhikers. And to ensure you will *NEVER* want to eat graham crackers again? They were going into the holes of the graham crackers. EWWWW. Just. That's disgusting.

They don't even expire until next year, so THAT wasn't the issue either. The nice people at the graham cracker company are sending me coupons. For the record? All their contact people sounded way grossed out too.

You bet your sweet ass it's gross.

I'll stick with living on Crystal Light, 1/8th of a can of Coke Zero and/or highly-washed lettuce.

Comments, questions, how gnarly is THAT?!

This Post Brought to You by the Letter 'S'

2011-09-29T15:10:00.000-07:00

Because I'm a lucky luck girl, today began the first (or second) day of my first sinus kerfuffle of the season. I called my mom and she announced "I think your kids gave me this cold" to which I replied "Yes, yes they did - it's highly virulent." And it *IS* Friends; I tried avoiding the little plague-carriers but nothing I did, not even shrink-wrapping them (hey, I cut airholes!) was enough to stop the spread of the dread pox. Dude. That could be band-name material. Imagine:

Playing center stage with Magnanimous Bone....DREAD Pox! WOOOOO!

Clearly the cold meds aren't working. Or ARE they...? Yay Sudafed! Not *just* for making meth.

But what's really chapping the old patooter is the fact that I can't focus long enough to determine which Halloween costume I'm going to get. I KNOW.

It's the most wonderful tiiiiiime of the yearrrrrr....

My idea so far is that The Man and I go as cops. I already know he looks sweet in uniform (hello, we met on an Air Force weekend)(curse you, uniform!) and I just found out what type of cellulite-destroying-fake-tan hose the Hooters ladies buy, so it's really a win/win costume idea.

I keep getting distracted by life though, so I haven't convinced The Man of my awesome couples costume idea through my usual brilliant PowerPoint argument style.
I have several important questions: mini-dress or short-short style costume? Where can I get fake cop-like sunglasses? Will my hair look awesome under a cop-hat? Burning questions that the Sudafed can't answer.

Sudafed is most useful for doing laundry and/or steam-mopping. Are meth-heads' houses super clean? It's possible, but unlikely, I think.

Clearly, Sudafed is NOT useful for creating Brilliant Word Art.

So, while I go and pour some Oxyclean laundry booster in the washer, YOU have a great weekend and wish me luck in getting my costume together on time. As you know, Your Favorite Writer takes Halloween costumes VERY seriously.

Comments, questions, what's your costume this year?

Thanks to a Crappy Cascade Commercial

2011-09-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in a long time, and I've had some sort of bitch-ass Romulan cloaking device over my usual Shining Brilliance. Instead, I've nursed The Man through yet-another-surgical-endeavor, endured his You-Won't-Like-Me-When-I'm-Angry Codeine Moments and volunteered for Princess's Daisy Scout troop. I've done all this while quietly pining for a tropical vacation and wondering if anyone will spring for some Vibram finger-toe shoes if I promise to actually run a real 5K in real life.

I haven't written anything short of grocery and/or to-do lists.

What brought me back from beyond The Wall, you ask? (And if you're not immediately thinking the answer might be marching hammers, we can't be friends.) A douche-tastic commercial about dishwasher detergent.

I was skimming through The Internet, probably looking at discount duvet covers, when I heard some woman blathering about her blog. I briefly thought of my own neglected blog. Then she went on about how when she takes pictures of food for her blog, she doesn't want to see spots on the dishes. Huh? Oh. Yes. Cascade Magical Bitchin' Power Packs take care of that for her. She and her blog are safe from spots.

And I knew, friends, I knew I HAD to come back. Not just to save you all from inept sell-out bloggers who get way too excited about spot-free Fiesta ware, but because I really don't just do this for YOU. I do this for ME.

I do this because if I don't do this, the bastards win. What bastards? I don't even know, but I know that they win if my Brilliant Word Art is silenced. Even if I'm the one silencing MYSELF. It's very if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest, which is a koan, which is roughly the only thing I remember from the Zen section of Intro to Eastern Religions.

The sound of your slow clap is filling my heart with warmth and joie de vivre.

I may have nothing to write about, I may have nothing to say, I may take a long time just to SAY that nothing, but the act is the art friends. If that doesn't blow your mind, I don't know what will - other than an ounce or two of China White and some time on your hands. (Even there I'm only guessing but I'll check with some un-named sources and get back to you.)

There are many things that have happened since the last post and I don't know where to start. The Man had an actual injury and I was sort of right and sort of wrong and he needed surgery which I am starting to suspect he actually enjoys, judging by the sheer number of operations I cart him home from each year. He either has Munchausens or is a super-oldster before his time. Or he spent too much time falling off of things, running into things or being hit by things. Really any or all of those work.

The dog and the cat have reached a Cold War-like truce. The dog comes past the basement doorway and tries to sniff the cat and the cat unleashes his Claws of Mass Destruction while looking like a puffy armadillo thing and then they stare at each other, wondering who will blink first. It's usually the dog. She has the attention span of a two year old at Disney. Then the dog walks away slowly, so as not to appear bested by a cat who most closely resembles a tiger-striped basketball.

I discovered the discount home decor store of my dreams. It's huge and full of vases and statues and pillows and paintings and rugs and the light of JOY and GOODNESS. I'm almost glad it's 35 minutes away. My general dislike for driving that far with the kids is a nice preventive measure against me blowing most of The Man's paycheck on decorative sconces.

I turned sconce into a verb. I've told friends that I'm "sconcing" it up over here. You're welcome.

I also discovered the myriad fun things you can purchase at Sally's Beauty Supply. Like clip-in funky hair color streaks. I wear my thus named Awesome Red Hair whenever I feel like channeling my alter-ego, Trixie Stardust. The Man told me I'm not 15. I told him to suck it. My fake red hair streak rocks.

We watched Thor in 3d and it was pretty sweet. Minus having to watch poor Natalie Portman act, which always pains me, it was fun. I won't lie and say that I don't want a sweet ass hammer, because I totally do. I bet Thor's hammer would make it WAY easier to hang discount home decor items. Sidenote: no one here appreciated it when I pointed out the discrepancy with the hodge-podge of mythology trivia. I'm just saying, why is Thor's hammer covered in Celtic designs? Thor was Nordic. Anyone?

We had our first date night a few weeks ago, but unfortunately The Man was still on codeine and I almost had to drown him in the scenic canal next to the restaurant. Damn your eyes, codeine. I paid a sitter $8/hour for that.

The normally-kid-friendly radio station used the word 'bitch' today and I had Casanova chanting 'bitch' for about five solid minutes. Awesome. I'd rather take my chances with rock music, at least then I have time to invent alternate words. No honey, he's saying DITCH, like a drainage ditch!

Princess spent a whole weekend with Grandma. I had anticipated her freaking out when bedtime rolled around, and maybe having to make a midnight run to pick her up. What I did NOT anticipate was it going so WELL that there would be a problem. Turns out, she's cried every day since her return because she wants to live at Grandma's, and wants Grandma to be her mom, etc etc. Mom reminded me that it wouldn't be that much fun all the time, because she was MY mom and never played with me. Touche, mom, touche.

I'm sure there are more, given my absence, but I'm working hard to catch the kids current sinus typhoid, so I'm going to relax with a nice piece of cinnamon gum and a wingback. See y'all soon. I'll never let the bastards win!

Comments, questions, did you miss me? I know you did.

Well This Was Obvious

2011-09-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

I'd been debating what to write about, and given that I have three or four unfinished posts, nothing was really speaking to me. So I thought about it as I Mastered the Walk with our dorky new mastiff and it came to me.

Severed turkey feet! **

Of course. How could I be so blind?!

I'll warn you, the following post is gross and possibly offensive, much like my brilliant Word Art. Read on, if you dare.

A month or so ago, my neighbor called me and told me that someone had left cut- off turkey feet in someone's driveway at the front of our neighborhood. The turkey feet had also been covered in "satanic markings" - however one does that.

I had no idea how to respond to this conversation. Turkey feet just lying around someone's driveway? Turkey feet covered in satanic markings? That sounded like stupid teenage stuff. I mean, if stupid teenagers were dismembering poor turkeys for their feet. Stupid teenage stuff must have changed a lot since I was a stupid teenager. We did a lot of things, some of them involving Sharpie markers and fake tattoos, but none of them involved cutting off animal feet. We had standards.

By the time I took my evening walk with my dawg, the turkey feet were gone. The house belonged to an older couple who happened to be on vacation. How would you like that call while you were trying to enjoy a nice dinner on the lanai? "By the way Bob, we got your mail, oh and we threw the rotting severed turkey feet into the trash and called the cops. How's your ahi tuna?" Luckily, the couple's daughter lives in the neighborhood and walked down to pick them up and put them in the trash.

The mystery continued, as every few days, new turkey feet (complete with markings) would appear. I thought I saw some lying in the driveway as I drove by once, but managed to avoid a close-up...until one fateful morning walk.

There I was, minding my own business and thinking about where I could get some new glitter nail-polish (answer: Sally's Beauty Supply, where I ALSO found a home airbrush tan system.) when I realized my dog was trying to eat something. Oh hell no.

Oh yes.

Severed turkey feet! With markings! And...painted claws!

EW!

I draw the line at having my dog chew on severed animal feet, so I used my Pack Leader Energy (and the prong collar) and we stopped just short of reaching the offensive feet.

Seriously. Bloody hell.

Naturally, I was pretty discombobulated. A bit kerfuffled. It's not every day that my morning dog walk has me tripping over severed animal parts.

Someone had painted on them. Pentagrams, naturally. This is the part I'll skip over my PowerPoint presentation and direct you to read the first few chapters of The Davinci Code. He does a very competent job of explaining the actual meaning of the pentagram.

It's NOT satanic. It's NOT evil. It's just...well, read the book. I don't have TIME here, people.

But to the average bear, I'm sure that finding something with pentagram drawings would be disconcerting. I was more upset that they were severed animal body parts, and that the claws were painted.

Because I'm me, I wondered if the claw painting had been prior to the severing. I really REALLY hope that the severing was done after the poor turkey/s was/were already gone to the barnyard in da' sky.

And once again, WHO does that and where in the ever-loving hell do you FIND turkey feet? Where do you even find turkeys?!

The neighborhood abounded with theories. Some people thought that maybe the older couple had made enemies, or had some sort of bizarre behind-closed-doors practices. Well yes, most retirees think of canasta, afternoon mojitos and ritual sacrifice, am I right?

I belong to the contingent believing Stupid Teenagers to be the perpetrators. I also belong to my own contingent who took a lot of C Jus. classes and know that most satanic cults aren't, um, REAL. Again = stupid teenagers.

Since I pretty much invented goth (1996)(accidentally), I'm not really worried about pale kids, leather, piercings, tattoos, and/or the musical styling of Avenged Sevenfold. Usually I reserve my fear for rabid Justin Bieber fans, angry religious people, and/or tax time. Boys with eyeliner, not so much full of the scary for Your Favorite Writer.

The idea that Stupid Teenagers might be holding seances or playing with a Ouija board doesn't bother me. The idea that Stupid Teenagers are harassing innocent turkeys? And old people? THAT bothers me.

Since it would be weird and probably counterproductive for me to hang out at the old couple's house, hiding in the bushes on a Friday night, I'll probably just wait to see if they manage to catch the violators themselves. The only thing our local po-lice catch are speeders by the elementary school, so we'll have to wait and see if they are captured on candid camera. Smile! You and your turkey foot severing harassment are over!

I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, aren't you jealous YOUR neighborhood doesn't have this sort of thing going on? Yeah, I wouldn't be either.

**I would have taken pictures, but I didn't have my cellphone with me. Maybe next time.

Comments, questions, what sort of weirdness do you have in your 'hood?

I Vastly Underestimated My Bronchitis, or, Yay Codeine!

2011-08-30T07:18:00.001-07:00

Well, while I certainly had the very BEST of intentions, I've been too busy counting swirls in my ceiling and hearing weird whisper voices in my ear at night (thanks to the miracle of codeine cough syrup)(not to be confused with pancake syrup)(that would just be a bad-tasting nightmare) to actually recuperate and get back to mah precious Word Art.

Since I'm trying to Live in the Moment as well as Let Things Go, you're not going to get a whole lot of repressed Catholic guilt from me though, Friends. Fair warning.

Basically, Cholera Season came early here at Casa de Sammo, so I've been getting Casanova through yet another bout of pneumonia (seriously, WTF) and handling my own double-whammy of bronchitis with a dash of death-cramps. Basically that = round the clock codeine one way or the other.

Since I only enjoy PRETENDING to have a habit though, I've basically tried to get through as many days withOUT medicine as I can, which means I'm a bit, um, of a raving psycho bitch.

True story.

Apparently, because my life enjoys irony like writers enjoy drinking (I hear), the medicine meant to help me breathe actually makes me cough MORE. Really?! That sucks.

This all = jack shit you (or I) care about.

This is essentially a post to tell you why I didn't post. So I guess that Catholic guilt is there, and less repressed than I previously thought. I could genuflect if it would make you happy. I did that one day, surprised the hell out of myself. Perhaps literally.

It's hard to be full of creative joie de vivre when you're coughing like you might just have COPD. Although maybe then I could get a scooter.

More to come Friends, hopefully from a codeine-free week!

Comments, questions, how do you do?

Back From a Brief Sojourn to the Land of Despair

2011-08-25T13:59:00.001-07:00

And I bought you all these lovely sea-shell necklaces! Except they're ugly and made out of dried tears and woe. Woe is REALLY hard to work with too, so feel lucky.

If I had waited only four more short days, why it would have been a full MONTH without my shining brilliance. Or even my UN-shiny brilliance!

The sadness, it wounds us all.

As always though, mes amis, I'm back IN BLACK, so put your pill bottles back in the cabinet and save them for a time you'll REALLY need 'em. Like tax time. Or when you have to pay your mortgage. Whatever.

Basically, because we're REALLY health oriented here at Casa de Sammo and we eat our veggies and run in our finger-toe shoes and sip organic water distilled from glaciers, I've been dealing with The Sickness again.

Casanova has pneumonia (again)(I'm not kidding), Princess has had a lot more alopecia activity and Mommy has had....well, a slip off the sunny trail of happiness and into the Woods of Fear. Hey, midway through my life's journey and all that.

Oh, and my ASSma has gotten all rowdy to join in on the fun. The upside? Cherry Codeine Tussin. It works nicely, once I stop coughing long enough to fall asleep.
It doesn't exactly STOP the coughing, but let's stop picking nits shall we?

Perfect.

So that's the deal, in a nutshell. I'll leave off all the tears, wallowing, journal entries, fabulous therapy, exercise and/or issues I have with Cesar Milan.

Back to our regularly scheduled Word Art, my Friends!

Until tomorrow! And how I've missed it. Or missed MISSING it, as it were.

Comments, questions, stuck in the Woods of Fear or Pit of Hopelessness or any other metaphorical sad place?

Will the Real Sammo Please Stand Up?

2011-07-27T10:50:00.000-07:00

Ah friends, I was reminded (yet again) of an Eminem lyric (what, you go through your days withOUT being reminded of Eminem lyrics?) when The Man made some comment about my ::jazz hands:: amazing housewifely skills.

The lyric is thus: ..."there's no such thing/like a good-looking woman/that cooks and cleans."

Frankly, *that* lyric has always offended me (forget about the ones involving chain saws and/or the B word) - I am one of God's special creations AND I do cook AND clean.

Honestly, I do because I have to, and do neither terribly well.

I loathe cooking. I vaguely tolerate cleaning. I cook the same few dishes because A. I like them and B. they're easy to make and/or clean up. When The Man goes off on one of his Air Force trips, the kids and I eat macaroni and salad, respectively. I'd probably be about 10 lbs lighter if I didn't have to cook for anyone. You know, my mom lost weight AFTER we left the house. Hmmmm.

I'm a lot of things, but a domestic goddess? Not so much. Nor did I ever aspire to be! So The Man, and half the good state of Indiana, can say what he/they like about my issues with cooking or picking up the EVER LOVING washcloths in the bathroom and I'll be annoyed but not offended. Per se. (Because a day without 'per se' is a day without sunshine.)

On Oprah once, there was a lady whose house had gotten all out of control and was a dirty hot mess. A therapist told Oprah it was because this lady was actually a perfectionist - Oprah was aghast, it didn't make sense! Or did it... The woman would get all discombobulated if she put things in order and then someone messed them up, so she'd give up and do nothing.

My house isn't a dirty hot mess, but I *am* a perfectionist. Just ask The Man; when he comes home from one of his trips and the house is all shiny and new and lovely and he leaves a glass out, or his shoes in the hall, or his jacket on the back of the loveseat. Ask him what happens. It isn't pretty.

I'm really just protecting us all by NOT obsessing about the state of my house. MAGnanimous bone friends.

Although that doesn't stop me from coveting my biff's perfectly organized pantry. Although I'd just get distracted by the Diet Cream Soda and wander off to eat some triscuits.

I really thought I'd have people for this sort of thing. You know, so I could spend more time reading and/or vacuuming. Now vacuuming? THAT I can obsess about. No tumbleweed dog/cat hairballs in THIS house.

Even now as I type I'm thinking that the time has come to do my LEAST FAVORITE INDOOR CHORE EVER = cleaning the fridge. And only because I have a morbid fear of e. coli.

Wish me luck. Or that I discover some latent Betty Crocker gene.

Comments, questions, do you clean?

The Best Laid Plans and All That...

2011-07-25T05:19:00.000-07:00

Remember when we talked about how Mommy was getting a fan-say car with serious HP-izzle under the hood and all that? Hmmm? Well.

That was before Mommy requested an insurance quote. HOLY crapballz. We have super affordable special military insurance (hurrah!) and it was STILL a billion dollars a month. I have NO idea how all the 17 year old ~~douches~~ kids afford it - oh wait, the same way they afford the cars = rich parents.

So, unless any of *those* parents were wanting to adopt a lovely married couple and their silly expenditures, we had to look elsewhere for a car. In fact, even the V8 brand new Camero was cheaper in insurance; although then we'd have to carry around a tub of Crisco to get the kids' car seats into the back. (We totally test drove Bumblebee and made my son's entire YEAR. Although I'm pretty sure that he, much like his mother, was a wee disappointed that at no point did the car turn into an Autobot and say funny things with the radio.)

Saturday, we piled into the Crappy American SUV and drove all 'round our great city looking at cars, and stopping briefly to hit a Greek buffet. (Sounds odd but the gyros made my heart swell with joy.)(Reason 32 of Why I Make a Crappy Vegetarian = gyros.)(Number 432 of mispronunciations that make me crazy = gyros. Pretend the 'g' isn't even THERE friends, it's YEE-ros.)

We stopped at some little import dealer where I lovingly caressed a Dodge Viper. Only 10,000 miles, convertible and they were asking $43,000! I told The Man to write a check. Bargain! Alas, we had to move on.

We checked out Jeep (I vetoed it as ugly and cheap), Hyundai (the new ones actually look rather fancy) and then we hit the Chevy dealership, where we had scoped out the base model Camero (I wanted the batmobile) when we smelled something....not good. Oh, I see, it's antifreeze. Did I mention it was approximately 400 degrees outside? We popped the hood and our reservoir had blown its lid and the coolant was, um, literally BOILING.

Luckily, The Man had just done work (for his company) for the service department, so he knew who to call. Apparently, the service department guy *also* suspected that boiling antifreeze was a bad thing - so we gave him the keys. Lucky for us, the service guys couldn't check it out until Monday. We had no car. Awesome. We wandered around for a few minutes, while the kids entertained themselves in an area filled with toys and coloring books. THAT was a lifesaver, friends.

The Man went off as I was looking the other way, and found himself being introduced to a gigantic black Chevy Avalanche. I remained irate and/or despondent. The kids wanted to see the car Daddy was looking at, so we all trooped back outside ~~into the Sahara~~. We didn't have anything else to do, and no car to do it in, so we took it for a test drive.

Sure, it only gets about 3 miles per gallon and probably raises the average planet temperature by 2 degrees every time you start it, but it has a flip-down dvd player with wireless headsets! I can make the kids be quiet! JOY! It's big enough inside that the kids are far away from me = win. It was actually a really nice car.

I liked it. I was annoyed that I did, but I LIKED it.

And, if we took the bed covers off and put the seats down, it was like a pick up truck. OMG, it's a TRANSFORMER!

I'm honestly a TERRIBLE person to car shop with. I start liking a car and I'm all suuuuuure, we can buy it! BUY IT! The salesman really doesn't have to do anything at all. They should actually pay ME for doing their job, but since I'm just selling it to myself, it probably won't happen.

You can guess how this story ends, right?

Right.

We *totally* bought the gigantic black Transformer car/truck thing. Given that we always have the kids with us, and we inevitably end up wanting to haul a bunch of river rock around, it's really much more practical than the batmobile Camero.

And I don't have to carry any Crisco with me.

Comments, questions, how do you handle car dealers?

Ta Daaaaa! and Other Good News

2011-07-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Readers, FedEx got their shit together and delivered mah netbook to the post office, who then delivered it to me. I spent most of yesterday afternoon shouting "why are you offline?! You HAVE a signal!" and "Damn you Internet Explorer!!!" but after working for about 5 hours to uninstall their crappy anti-virus and to download Firefox and my favorite free anti-virus, I'm pretty much back in black.

And once I figured out how to widen my screen, so the font size wasn't .5, the migraine went away and I could read without putting on Mamaw bifocals. Win!

Sadly, the signal strength is weak from the High Wingback of Power, but I'm at the kitchen table with some low-acid coffee, so I'll take what I can get.

Oh, and I ordered a pretty bitchin' netbook skin from Hong Kong, so there's that.

The other big news at La Maison de Sammo is that we sold the Bitchy German Luxury Vehicle! SWEETNESS, am I right? No more trips up to the Overpriced Import Repair Shop because we're getting a mystery code about our emission sensors. THAT little issue cost a pretty penny = no college fund for the Children of the Corn. Sorry kids, we had to fix Daddy's German "driving experience."

I drive Princess to school in the Crappy American SUV, so we'll need another vehicle pretty soon. Always practical, I voted for this:

Why yes, Chiclets, that *IS* a Subaru Wrx Sti! Miss Turbo, if you're nasty. And before you start singing "low-ri-DER" to me, or calling me Vin Diesel, let me just add things like this:

All wheel drive. A fast car that you don't have to stick in the garage during dirty winter blizzards! WIN!
A back-seat for the kids that is bigger than the BGLC's.
Fun guages!
Did I mention turbo?
Three words: carbon. fiber. hood.

As you know, my over-abundance of testosterone makes a car like this a natural. Not to mention that I can then say things like "did you add the blow-off valve?" and/or "are the Brembo brakes stock?" FUN. I've also liked this particular fast-n-furious since Mommy was a we 17 year old sprite.

Since The Man sold my boyfriend, how else am I to appropriately enjoy speed? Exactly. And speed with AIRBAGS is a very responsible Mommy decision, no?

I'll let all y'all know how this car search turns out, but given that The Man will have to teach me to drive stick, um, I'll be a passenger for a bit.

Conversation:

Me: Dude, do you not *remember* me on a bike?!
Him: It's way easier in a car. I'll show you.
Me: I do NOT want to trash a clutch on our new car trying to learn.
Him Well we'll learn in the living room.
Me: Wha...? How will we do THAT?
Him:... I don't know, we'll get some pedals or something.

I can totally see me practicing shifting with books as pedals and a spatula as my stick shift. AWESOME. I'm sure this will go swimmingly.

Updates to follow! Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Comments, questions, what's your ideal ride?

Lost in the Written Word...

2011-07-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

I would have posted sooner, Diligent Readers, about all the things that cross my mind (glue-on French nails, proper long-island recipes and removing all tequila involvement, how Amazon is currently irritating me) but I've been engrossed in the book I waited several long years to read. Voici!

In my head I can hear my BFFIC saying how I'd only waited a few years while she'd waited close to a *DECADE*....well we all have our cross to bear, and yet I have still forgotten more than she has. Like what the hell major characters were doing and why things were going on and who did what or died or killed someone else. Sort of important, it turns out.

Be that as it may, the only thing stopping me from reading the entire book in one sitting is my pesky need for food and bathroom facilities, oh, and of course the children and THEIR pesky needs. Right now? Casanova is literally hanging from one arm of the office chair and swaying his head all dramatically as he cries about needing the computer.

Blame Amazon, boy child. BLAME THEM!

Were it not for Amazon and their lying "Deliver-by" dates, I'd be tappity-typing this from the High Wingback of Power and then tossing my fan-say new netbook to the floor (well perhaps not tossing, given the sad demise of my prior laptop) and finishing off my chapter in ADWD.

Alas, I'm upstairs in the Seventh Level of Dante's Inferno that is my boiling-hot computer nook, annoyed each time I check the tracking number. My package is in Indy, well hot DAMN, so am I! But it's not here and for some stupid reason, FedEx has to deliver it to the post office, who then delivers it to me. Um. Why can't FedEx deliver it to me?! WHAT. ever.

(Oh, and I just googled the seventh level of Dante's Inferno, and it houses the violent. PERFECT. It would have been more annoying if it were the slothful or the fraudulent. *THAT* would have been offensive.)

So I'm netbook-less and I'm sweaty and annoyed. But I have MY BOOK to keep me happy. In fact, I really can't spend much more time on here because I'm typing but I'm also thinking about my characters and what's going on and what I suspect is going on and it's really all I can do to make eye contact these days and pay attention to anyone for more than five minutes.

Stay tuned. I should finish my book soon. And you can keep busy by reading the entire series while you wait. Would a former English major ever steer you wrong?! Maybe about math, or properly figuring percentages, but we wouldn't MEAN to. Never about books, dear Readers. (Unless it were some rogue English major who slipped through the cracks and thought that the Twilight series should be permitted in our society, but we do our best with blue-book tests and unpleasant thesis papers to weed those out early on.)

Comments, questions, what's on your bookshelf?

Not a Member of PETA (anymore) but....

2011-07-14T05:22:00.000-07:00

After Saint Apollo went to the Great Beyond (God-rest-his-soul-amen), and when I'd finally stopped sniffling every single time I saw a giant tan dog of some sort, I thought about getting a new dog. To the utter shock and awe of all my friends - mainly because they'd heard me rant "I'll never have a dog again!" all Scarlett O'Hara God-as-mah-witness style, shaking my fist at the sky.

So naturally, when I began to lurk on Craigslist and the rescue sites, it was a bit....confusing.

But when the washer was going strong one day, and Casanova wandered into the laundry room only to come out and say "I thought Apollo was drinking his water!" I decided, THAT is it, we're getting a new Dog Friend.

And thanks to the magic of Craigslist (*jazz hands!*) we found Mia, the small, dainty girl mastiff. See? Adorbs. She has her rope "chewy" and is all "WHAT, a girl can't get any rawhide up in this beotch??"

She's been a good fit for our family, despite the utter lack of enjoyment by our Obese House Cat. Observe. Here you'll see him tucked inside the doorway to the basement, where he can make a quick get-a-way from the dog (who is determined that they will Play Together, which interests the cat not a'tall).

(I hope you'll ignore our *fantastically* gross baseboards - they were damaged during the Great Flooring Re-Do of 2011 and we haven't repainted yet. Painting = suckfest.)

I should also point out that although I've become all Calm-Assertive Dog Whisperer, I am still, at base, a licensed Cat Person. Even as I saw the picture of mah kitty cat, I'm all "OOOOOH, I want to pet your fat head!" Cats are awesome. Dogs are too codependent, yet occasionally fun to walk. Unless there's a bunny in someone's yard because then? I get a detached shoulder and am most certainly NOT calm, nor assertive. I'm all "NO! DOG! OW!" and that's not exactly Cesar Milan approved.

Aaaaanyway. I credit Craigslist for being full of total *Awesome* (except when it entices serial killers. Then, not so much) - and Mia's former People Pack were very nice, just allergic. They weren't happy to give her up, but the lady wasn't having luck with allergy shots. I had checked out rescue sites and shelters, but I felt it was pretty lucky to land on an ad with "Female English Mastiff, have to re-home due to allergies." I spent enough time on the 'net to know that mastiffs are rare, so I was happy to have it work out.

The downside is that I now have a compulsion to check Craigslist and I see all the sad, sad "re-homing" or "looking for my forever home" posts. (Along with an absolutely freakish amount of people who "re-home" tarantulas. Guess what, tarantulas HAVE homes. In the desert. In creepy spider holes. Pets are animals that for better or worse have become socialized and rely on people for their well-being and food, and give love and happiness in return. Spiders are hideous bugs that eat other hideous bugs and have the consciousness of a sack of flour. What does all that mean? = Not. a. pet. A creepy accessory to show your girlfriend. That's what. I've known plenty of cool people with spiders and/or snakes, but I still don't have to think the spider/snake in question is cool.)

What's the worst are the people who are listing their animal because "I just don't have time for him/her anymore" - if it's a cat, how much time, exactly do you think a cat requires? Seriously? A cat wants some nice wet food on a plate, preferably twice a day, some catnip every now and again, a litter box, a pleasant armchair and the occasional scratch under the chin. Now a dog, at least that makes a weeeee bit more sense, since they need more attention (being co-dependent and all) and go outside to pee. Given that you GOT a pet, at some point you had "time" for it, Busy Beaver. Now you're so busy and you just have to get rid of it. Really?! Are you the president? No? Oh I see, you just suck. The president has time to walk his dog. I think. Or he has people for that....but he doesn't list the dog on Craigslist. Then he'd have weirdos showing up at the White House and be all "Damn, I can't believe this idiot was a no-call/no-show." It would slow our entire country down.

How about this one: "moving and new place won't take animals" - well hate to tell you Cochese, but Mommy grew up in a college town and there were animal restrictions EVERYwhere you wanted to live. I paid *dearly* on the pet deposit for my fat black cat to live in my first apartment. Then I smuggled in my crotchety Siamese and my angry fluffy girl cat. When my lease was up, the two boy kitties stayed together and came with me to my mom's while I was in between apartments, and the angry fluffy girl cat went to my ex's mom's with him. (Where she may live to this day for all I know, angrily peeing on people's prized possessions.)(She got by on her adorable fluffiness and not her loving temperament.)

My point is that if you have a pet, you find a way to live somewhere with them. I get that there are circumstances, but too often people just don't want to deal with the responsibilities of having an animal after the novelty wears off. That's why the town I grew up in, said college town, has a ton of animals every spring - when the students leave for the summer and don't want the pets they got on a whim.

It's douchebaggery. Period.

I'm not a member of PETA (anymore)(I quit being vegetarian too - I really hate beans) but I love animals and they are so awesome when so many people suck so much. Just try to think a little before you put your best furry friend up on the internet or in a shelter. Oh and while I'm on the subject, spay and neuter your pets AND free Tibet. This concludes my personal opinion rant.

Comments, questions, who's your furry friend?

To All the Bikes I Loved Before...

2011-07-13T06:42:00.000-07:00

Well he's gone and done it, Vigilant Readers. The Man sold my boyfriend. Again. He does this about every other year. He gets a bike, sportbike, to be more specific. He rides it around, taunting me with his fluid shifting and popping wheelies (for the children) as he heads to work. Then, after approximately 2,450 incidents involving Douchey Car Drivers, he decides he really *doesn't* want to end up as footage for Driver's Ed "Blood on the Highway" Part XVI and sells it.

Rinse and repeat.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly all crying in my coffee in the Blazing Hot Steam-room/Computer Nook. Why? We made some money, always a WIN... and I know that much like Odysseus being lured onto the rocks, The Man will heed the siren song again. (See how much that liberal arts degree just keeps GIVING?!)

It all began (cue the violins) with a '98 Kawasaki Ninja ZX7, no, I mean, it LITERALLY all began with that bike. I, frankly, might never have agreed to meet The Man if my friend hadn't uttered those magical words "Oh, and he has a bike" - picture 23 year old Sammo acquiring a thoughtful look. When it became clear that she was talking about a sportbike, my visit up to Indy was pretty much assured. The rest, as they say, is history. At over 100 mph.

We've done bike shows, bike races, bike classes and bike repairs. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a (possibly) cooler version of me wrenching on her very own bike. (Because in that parallel universe, I actually learned how to move into first gear without stalling out.)

I've wrecked his bike (the very same Kawasaki) and then put it all back together again with the help of eBay. I've helped him change fairings, rear sets and gas tanks and handed him various types of Allen wrenches. I've packed him up for bike rides and done charity rides on the back. I've griped about the lack of grab-bars and how the cruiser ladies are FAR more comfortable on the back than I am. I've damn near set my leg on fire thanks to the exhaust/rear peg placement more times than I remember. And the only time I've jumped off the bike and acted like a COMPLETE PSYCHOPATH is when a car driver has tried to hit us or run us off the road on purpose.

I've waved in the passing sonic boom as we've had trucks, cars and various forms of Cameros try to race us at stop lights. Silly, silly drivers, it will never. ever. happen. I've also really become very PRO anti-texting laws - mainly because I see *exactly* how much most drivers are ignoring the road.

I've said the Lord's Prayer about a million times. And usually amended it with "please don't let this car cross into our lane Amen!"

There is pretty much nothing I don't love about bikes. I can tell you all about performance, engine size, oil changes (stick with synthetic) and which one I liked the best (the Kawasaki, although the Suzuki rates a close second).

I will miss it, no doubt. But frankly, it isn't like it used to be, when we could jump on and take off and be gone for an entire afternoon. We have to get a sitter and pay for the privilege of going down the road for 20 minutes. And, oh yeah, there IS that whole being afraid to die thing. It seems like every single time I'm on back, some driver out there does something so insanely stupid that I am convinced I could have died.

We know people who've gone down. The saying is "there are two types of rider, those who have gone down and those who are going down." It's just a matter of when and how hard. We've heard the horror stories of broken bones, concussions, road rash and death. Everyone has a "this buddy of mine" story. (None of us really finds the term "donorcycle" all that amusing, if you're wondering.)

And yet...

It is still, bar none, one of my favorite things in life. So even as I sell my gear (with plans to buy pink women's gear next time), I have my eye on future days on the road, future days at the track and future times of hitting the curves.

Goodbye, Honda, I hardly knew ya' - but hopefully hello to something else someday.

Comments, questions, what's your parallel self doing?

May/December....or something like that

2011-07-08T08:44:00.000-07:00

I have no idea why people call relationships that have one older person "May-December" relationships. I mean, I get the concept, (I'm adept at that sort of thing) *but* I think it's silly. And, since I'm sort of *IN* one, I totally think we need a new term or just no term a'tall.

The Man is a whopping 11 years older than I am. I know, right? He totally scored.

I don't think about it - he's The Man, and I'm me and together we try to keep the Children of the Corn from killing us and/or each other. The end.

Sometimes it crops up though, sneakily....like when he got his 25 year class reunion notice. Yup, it's coming up Friends. I think we might be going, even though The Man bounced around so much he attended about 4 different high schools and didn't even graduate from the one that invited him.

Apparently, in the Golden Days of Yester-Marriage, The Man and his ex had issues with each others' high school relationships - but given that they were both young and silly, (not to mention peers) it makes a lot more sense. I explained that I just find it all adorable. If I have to worry about cougars getting frisky, well, I should jog more. Plus? When he was busy listening to 80s love songs and going out on dates, Your Favorite Writer was rocking crayon mastery skills in first grade. Try *that* on for size!

I just love the entire reunion concept. I mean, we all go to see who got fat, who got divorced, who ended up rich or not, or a crackhead or in an institution. And then, when told of Jane Doe's new job as an escort, to add things like "..well, I always THOUGHT.." blah blah blah. We all have to pretend we're very happy and successful and wonderful and our children aren't really heathens and we don't really drive a Crappy American SUV or have a broken down Bitchy German Luxury Car and/or a curfew because our sitter has to get home before 2 am.

Let's be honest, THAT shit is what makes reunions worth it. That and the "remember when" conversations. It's much more fun when you have a Corona and a nice appetizer vs. a message on your Facebook wall.

My 15 year is coming up in another year or so, and as K.Jo (who promised to be my plus-plus 1) said "we have time to get it in gear!" because Your Favorite Writer has THINGS to accomplish before then. Like convincing The Man that the 'tox is a legit life expense. (What, you thought I meant getting my fictitious fiction-book published and going on Ellen?!)(It's alllll about the 'tox.)

So be me a younger wife (not trophy wife because he isn't rich and I'm not Megan Fox), the 25 year should still be fun. Although if I have to sit through too much of the 80s, I may just make a List of Demands before my reunion next year...

And it will make him suffering through the 90s music all the more fun. Age ain't nothing but a number. (And that sentence had wayyy too much of the double-negative action.)

Comments, questions, what's your age?

I am So Thrilled!

2011-07-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

Granted, Friends, I'm still trapped in the 'it's getting hot in HERRR' upstairs computer nook, but as I checked in with my stat counter today, I was THRILLED. Happy as a clam, although why anyone ever would associate a clam with happiness is beyond me. (Bottom feeding, creepy shellfish thing that looks like oozy snot.)(You're welcome.)

I was thrilled because, as usual, my stat counter and its magical wizardry showed me the searches that led some (possibly inebriated) souls to fall down the Internet Rabbit Hole and land in mah Jello land. Welcome, welcome crazy searchers! Here, you can do all the dirty body shots you like and hang out listening to some vintage Floyd. Or Lady Gaga. Whatever.

Here is but a brief sampler of AWESOME:

"the blame stage": I can only assume that this is a relationship search. Although I'm not Dr. Phil (who isn't a doctor either, frankly)(look it up) allow me to *assist*. The "blame stage" is pretty much what most fluffy, happy relationships devolve to at some point. This is when that person, who looked pretty amazing just a few short days/months/years ago, starts to suck and you have to make sure that THEY know that YOU know that THEY suck. Or did something suck-ish. Hence the blaming. I'm VERY good at not only the blaming, but the explanation of the deserving OF the blame. Seriously. I sort of got my degree in verbal smackdown, so if you're stuck, give a call.

"nervous breakdown dont rememember (sic)": First off, I'm *SO* glad that people suffering from either anxiety and/or amnesia can find my place of Brilliant Word Art. I don't know if they had an attack, or suspect they did, or don't remember what it is they're suspecting they did or didn't do because they can't remember. No matter what, it's an issue, am I right? I haven't had the BIG ONE yet, but it could happen any day now, and supposing I *do* go on some crazy emotional bender, I'd probably prefer to forget about it too. (Unless I end up in some institution all "WHYYY am I HERRRR" and then get all sad about mah meds and mah jello.)I'll go ahead and be all Magnanimous Bone and ignore the tragic misspellings. Anxiety can do wonky things with your keyboarding skillz.

"movie when a guy goes to rome to be an exorcist": Kind of a long search phrase, but finally my Weekend Movie Reviews are useful. Hurrah! And I hope they learned all about finding that ever important (say it with me kids) Jesuit for when you become all possessed by evil demonic forces. Jesuits! Hurrah!

"MAN WINDS OF CHANGE (MASTER) LTD": Okay, this one I suspect is some sort of art-house music that I'd never EVER listen to. It's just a guess. The *only* winds of change that I'm familiar with is that old school 80's Scorpions song, and their hella-sick video involving lots of swaying and candles. You remember, no? No. Oh well, this search landed some very, very confused person here. Here, you will NOT find art-house music. Or really any art other than Brilliant Word Art, which of course, is priceless. And never limited.

"zombie and robots": Well. Naturally. Anyone worrying about either of those two came to the right place. I'm totally freaked out by both, and spend WAY too much time plotting epic "just in case" scenarios. I hope I've given you some insight, whomever you are, worried zombie robot searcher.

And my favorite BY FAR:

"Buspirone and crystal meth": See, Buspirone is the fancy technical (whatever) term for my Semi-steady boyfriend, Buspar. It's what conscientious doctors give you for anxiety when they don't want to Come off the Goods. So basically, it works about as well as a handful of Skittles and some crossed fingers, but in theory, it's actually medication. As for the crystal meth, I'm betting that if you're combining the search terms, you *might* be causing your own issues. Crystal meth = not relaxed and I'm pretty sure you need more than Buspar (aka crossed fingers/Skittles) to come down off THAT particular cloud. (True story: I once knew a guy (friend of a friend) who had stayed up for three days on meth, and by the time we stopped by, he had built himself a friend out of vacuum cleaner attachments and a large three-wick candle. They were playing poker.) Might I recommend another search, Dear Reader? Rehab. With love. (Rehab has great food, therapy AND special alone time with all your innermost problems! WIN!)

That's all the wacky search antics I have time for, given the Casey Anthony trial verdict has fired up my latent criminal-justice-minor-degree-concentration skills and I'm all on fire with Facebook status updates. Is it too late to apply for the LSAT? No?

Comments, questions, keep the searches coming!

Maternity Chic Geek

2011-07-01T13:06:00.000-07:00

So kids these days, am I right? They think Katy Perry makes acceptable music, they don't know how to get a decent fake ID* and they embrace Faux Maternity Wear.

What is faux-maternity or "materNOTy", you ask? Allow me to show you:

See, it's all asymmetrical at the bottom, and scoop-necked at the top and it doesn't squinch in on your tiny little teenage belly, but ask anyone over 30 and we're all "soooo, what trimester are you?" because, um, it's BABY-belly clothing.

I got confused the last time I went shopping, and I was distracted by the cute yellow pattern and plunge neckline and sure 'nuff, soon as I got home and actually tried to WEAR the thing, I was all "WOW, haven't seen *this* look in awhiiiiile!" Then, I kept flashing myself to remind myself that my belly does NOT have anyone on board. I wondered if it were acceptable to flash strangers in a similar way, just to make sure no one ELSE thought I was pregg-ly.

Sure, I could have changed, but I'd already coordinated my jewelry - an arduous task - and it's Vicodin Friday so I can't stand anything touching my water-retaining midsection. Sadly, I was stuck with my yellow materNOTy wear. Maybe I could throw people off by wearing fitted shorter-shorts and heeled sandals! Yeah! As I caught sight of myself in the grocery window, all was lost - I was a very coordinated MOMMY wearing MOMMY BELLY clothing.

THE. HORROR.

Plus? When you're 17, most people will assume you're not knocked up, but when you're a graceful (and stunning) 32, dragging two fightin' Irish hoodlums around with you, it's hard to pass off your trendy top as NOT maternity, even if it's really not. The sadness, it overwhelms.

See, when *I* was 17, grunge was still king, Stone Temple Pilots still played on the regular pop channels and I cut a lot of my clothing in half to further display my awesome NOT-pregnant-ness. Kids these days and their covering up. What is the world coming to?

In the plus column, the vicodin may be kicking in, so hopefully I'll be able to uncurl from my desk chair, take the bullet out of my teeth and won't give a tinker's damn what my yellow materNOTy shirt looks like.

*(Hint: When I was young and sprightly, you just needed a willing friend and some of their mail to get a fake ID at the actual BMV. Then it was a REAL ID. Sure, it took some ballz, but you could do it. Nowadays, what with fancy digital picturing, try that and you'll probably be meeting Officer Not-so-Friendly. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Comments, questions, what do you think about faux maternity style?

Lost and Adrift....

2011-07-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

Oy vey Pumpkins, it's been quite a trying week. I am stuck upstairs in my computer nook, while the kids and dog are probably chewing holes in my drywall somewhere. All this could have been avoided if my laptop hadn't died.

Grief is a thing with *stages* people. I'm in the blame stage. There is a blame stage, right? Whatever.

I've gotten a lot done around the house because I can barely even get ON the computer anymore. I am not excited about this. I don't WANT to get more done around here. I'm pretty much ANTI-housework, really.

I tried to ask The Man if I should purchase a laptop from eBay, or try that Pawn Shop down off Scary Ghetto Lane, but he was all "we have a lot of financial issues right now" - which basically translates to "hell no, the Bitchy German Luxury Car is in the shop again, and you can't live on Facebook while the children chew drywall." Thanks a lot, The Man.

I think I still have a good shot though, ever since we started watching Hard Core Pawn, we've wanted to try out the Pawn Shop next to the alleged "high-end" strip club and the sketchy auto dealer. Hey, they *always* have good laptops on Hard Core Pawn! But I'm not going to Detroit to get one.

I've also hit some sort of internal writing wall. And I'm all "tear down the wall!" and "if you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding" about it, but I still don't have a lot of creative brilliance happening these days. Maybe it's the lack of sleep or the fact that I have to walk an exuberant puppy-dog twice a day. Damn you, Cesar Millan, and your lessons about the power of the pack migration!

(*I* am the cat whisperer. Cats know that I'm one of THEM, Team Cat, and they respect that and they're all "heyyyyy, scratch mah neck, yo" and that's FINE and we're friends and there are no pack migrations involved.)

I guess if ever I had to miss my laptop, a time when I'm not able to write isn't such a bad time. But dammit, how am I supposed to look for crystal chandeliers and/or kitchen islands on Craigslist?!

Exactly. This problem must be rectified before my Word Art skills return.

Stay tuned....

Comments, questions, what do you do when your electronic friends die?

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

2011-06-27T13:18:00.000-07:00

I intended to getting back to mah usual daily post full of awesome, but before that could happen Friends, *tragedy* struck.

I had just finished up looking at adorable Himalayan kitty friends on Craigslist (even though my Obese Housecat would totally stab me in my sleep so I couldn't actually adopt one of the furry suckers) when I went to put my laptop where I ALWAYS put my laptop = the decorative half-wall ledge between my kitchen table and my family room.

Instead of what normally happens, which is uh, NOTHING, my laptop leaped (that's my story) to its death on the cold, unfeeling wood laminate below. I wasn't worried until I tried to turn it back on. The screen is almost completely black. I have no mouse arrow. No. Mouse. Arrow.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

My hot-pink-covered-in-butterflies laptop is dead, Friends, God rest its soul. And now I'm hammering out this post on my dirty desktop, accompanied by Casanova singing one of his *many* original songs about Transformers. He only takes breaks when he wants to ask "Can I get on the computer NOW?!" even though it's only been about 3 minutes since I signed on.

SIGH.

And a new laptop search begins. I'm off to make dinner. Downstairs, in the laptop-free zone.

Double sigh. It's a case of the Mondays for SURE.

Comments, questions, wanna send me your sweet laptop?

This is the Post that (may) Ruin/s my Immortal Soul

2011-06-17T12:39:00.000-07:00

So this is the week that The Man teaches the Children of the Corn's VBS (vacation Bible school) class. I was all YAY!!! and walking around the house in my sport-bra singing Spongebob's "best day ever" all week - mainly because they ALL were GONE.

SWEEEEEEEET.

But then tonight, my Friday movie-popcorn-pina colada night of all things, I have to go and watch some sort of VBS activity. It's *not* that I don't like VBS week (I mentioned the Mommy-home-alone part right?) it's just that my kids have already actively refused to participate in the singing and dancing (whose kids ARE they?!) *during* the week so I really don't want to give up my movie-popcorn-pina colada night just to stare at my uncooperative children sitting a few pews up. Booooooring!

Last year, Princess learned a song about how Jesus is better than Barbie, and she vociferously disagreed and I had to Taze her. I couldn't have her embarrassing the family.

This year, both kids have gone, hence the dancing and singing that *I* have done in their absence (why yes, it WAS me pop-and-locking to Kesha that you saw!). Both of them, tragically, have decided that the singing and dancing of VBS week (which is pretty much all of it, except for the part where The Man eats copious amounts of ribs) is not their thang. So. I'm going to Mom Up, take them by their wee precious shoulders in the church lobby and say:

Listen, apples of my eye, Mommy is missing her SWEET blockbuster movie that debuted this week, PLUS my buttery popcorn AND my pina colada with extra rum, so you'd BETTER get up on that stage and perform choreographed moves about how much you love the Lord. Amen.

Then, once I'm done twitching from the lightning bolt, I'll go take my seat.

Seriously. No singing and dancing. Whose kids ARE they?! I blame The Man. He won't dance unless there is a LOT of tequila involved and I'm not supposed to give the kids any~~more~~.

You can't blame me. I passed on my Supremely Gifted Performer genes as best I could. Wish us all luck. And maybe I can slip my colada in a sippy cup or something.

*Update 1: There wasn't any stage dancing, because they're saving that for this Sunday. My kids are still loudly refusing to get on stage. Who ARE you little PEOPLE?! I see a stage and I immediately want to launch into a one-woman monologue show.

*Update 2: The audience had to do call/response type things. I'm not good at those. Mainly because I feel weird shouting things unless I'm at a Colts game.

*Update 3: Pretty sure the lady in front of my didn't have *coffee* in that Starbucks cup. She wore her sunglasses the entire time, and I'm now awkwardly aware of her underwear type (bikini) - because of her dancing and cotton dress. I almost told her that Broadripple is the OTHER way. We're in a CHURCH lady. Just sayin'.

*Update 4: Almost got into fisticuffs with a 10 year old who thought he was Eminem. Mommy had to tell Slim Shady to back that truck up, because no one messes with Princess when I'm around. Was uncomfortably aware I was in a church, but seriously, Jesus loves the little children and I'm pretty sure he doesn't love big boys picking on little girls. Amen.

Comments, questions, yes I know my immortal soul might be in danger.

The Pack Leading Evil Queen

2011-06-14T04:19:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty much sucking as World Reigning Favorite Writer, no? I haven't managed my usually compulsive post-once-a-day decree, mainly because I've been too busy reading Cesar Millan's books in hopes that my dog doesn't think I'm a total idiot and so I can stop drafting behind her on our daily walks. The only thing saving me from ending up in the middle of a bush (because of her interest in birds...although they scare her...) is the magic of the prong collar. Oh? And before you hordes of Peta members write to tell me how mean the prong collar is, I suggest *you* read some of Cesar Millan's books. It's a "tool" that I use until the dog respects my "energy." So. Yeah.

The problem with all this is that my energy is about as settled as a twitchy chihuahua who ate some coffee beans. I'm always plotting, thinking, planning and scheming my way through my days. This does NOT = calm energy. WEIRD.

And I'm theoretically *supposed* to be meditating for 30 mins every day, but I can barely remember to BREATHE for 30 minutes every day (thank God that is done by the central nervous system on autopilot, am I right?). Not to mention that it's REALLY hard to figure out how to sync my iPod meditation podcasts. If I don't have a helpful podcast voice reminding me to breathe and stop thinking about Cool Ranch Doritos, I can't meditate very well and/or I fall asleep. I have it on good authority than napping isn't the same thing as meditating, which sucks, because I pretty much OWN napping.

So let's review Your Favorite Writer's personality, shall we? 1. I love napping. 2. I hate getting damp and/or wet. 3. I don't like anyone bossing me around. 4. I'm not so good with dogs. What does this all equal?

THIS:

CLEARLY I'm a cat. Or a crazy cat lady, or both. Maybe.

Thusfar in my brilliant life, I trained animals (cats) like so:

Hey cat! Here's your litter box, and here's your food. I'm going to go and make a daiquiri, sorry for the blender noise!

Done and done, sir.

Now, I have to be all Buddha and focus on the still image in my mind of a single lotus flower (THAT anecdote is from freshman year, Intro to Eastern Religions) and the dog will sense my inner peace and tranquility and I'll command from a place of serenity and Be the Pack Leader with my authority and serenity.

Uh huh.

But since I'm a cat, I get all neurotic and don't know WHAT to do when she rips my arm off sniffing the street sign pole, or when she refuses to pee EXCEPT when she is on her tie-down, or when she thinks my Obese Housecat wants to play with her (he *emphatically* does NOT wish to play with her). And I'm pretty sure my Neurotic Energy is, um, not Pack Leader material.

I'm ahead of the whole Thinking Your Dog is a Person thing, because I'm WELL aware my dog isn't a person. IF my dog were a hair-covered person, she would KNOW that it is unacceptable to stab my foot with her nails, or eat Casanova's legos and she'd be ever so grateful that I feed her and she'd whip up dinner AND margaritas. So *obviously* she isn't a person. She's a hairy freeloader who scares the cat and ignores me because I'm a crappy pack leader.

But I'm reading the books, I'm READING.

And HE says that if I don't FEEL like the Pack Leader, I should visualize a leader and BECOME that leader. So basically not only am I trying to Master the Walk but I'm also method acting. AWESOME. One of Cesar's clients visualized herself as Cleopatra and that seemed to do the trick for her.

Who do *I* visualize, you ask? And no, it's NOT the lead singer of Metallica.

I imagine myself as Cersei Lannister. Which if you haven't read the series (which I did years ago) at least do yourself a solid and order the series from HBO, okay? Please? Aaanway, Cersei is a mostly evil plotting queen. Lovely to look at, deadly to oppose. GOT it.

Does it always work? No. That's when I prong her, make her sit and then we try again. And today, I must say, we had quite a nice walk. I was proud of myself. I yelled to my multi-dog owning neighbor "I'm mastering the walk! MASTERING!"

I'm also mastering the crazy.

Now, as soon as I figure out how to Master Dog/Cat Relations, I'll be ever so much happier. And still deadly to oppose.

Comments, questions, are YOU the Pack Leader?

Adventures in Camping, and/or, We Got a New Dog

2011-06-01T04:56:00.000-07:00

Oy vey, Dilligent Readers, it's been a minute, am I right? Yes. Yes, I am. But fear not, I have many exciting (or not) stories to share! Such as the fact that, for the first time in 7 years, I went *camping*. I know!

See, for YOU, camping might rank up there with a big fat yawn and a "so what" but for ME, camping is pretty much my personal equivalent of finishing the Tour de France or running a marathon, or pretty much anything else where you need a lot of endurance and a possible blood transfusion.

Blood doping aside, I obviously survived the weekend. But it was touch and go friends, touch and go.

First off, I was excited because I'd brought my big fat air mattress. Queen size. About 2 or 3 FEET off the ground. I inflated it with Ye Olde Battery-Powered Air Pump. After about 3 hours, I noticed that it was finally full. Yay! But wait, what was that ominous hissing sound?! Oh. A huge leak. AWESOME. So, I had to sleep my Princess-and-the-pea pampered ass on the cold, unforgiving terra firma. NOT good.

The kids slept nicely on their small air mattress. Being the good mother I am, I resisted the temptation to yank it from under their wee little slumbering bodies and haul my aching carcass onto the sweet, sweet air-filled comfort. They OWE me.

Then, the first night we were there, it was (typical Indiana weather) and a bizarre cool-down....which meant it was about 40 degrees that night. C O L D. Lucky for me though, The Man brought *choices* in sleeping bags. I chose the cold-weather bag. Let me clarify though: this wasn't just ANY cold-weather bag. This was a MILITARY issue "mummy bag." Like so:

This is such a serious bag that it has *instructions* on the inside. Like: "For EMERGENCY EXIT (all caps, naturally), grab edges of bag and pull to release zipper." Emergency exit? Oh yes, if you're caught sleeping by the enemy, or if you just get so hot you're melting. Either one, really. But a bag with emergency exits? That's a serious ass sleeping bag.

And because our military does NOT mess around, even in its sleeping bags, it was WARM, friends. Your Favorite Writer was nice and toasty, while next to me, ever gallant (heh) The Man shivered his handsome manly parts right off. That's what you GET for making me go camping, The Man. Make a note.

After I'd (finally) drifted into a troubled sleep (thanks to the lumpy evil ground) I was awakened by a noise. Noise-EZ. Plural. I immediately elbowed The Man. Velma-from-Scooby-Doo style, I couldn't see a bloody thing and my glasses were MIA.

"Oh wow! It's a ton of raccoons!" The Man exclaimed.

See, normally I'd be all "awwwww, I want to hug one!" you know, because they're cute with little adorable people-fingers. And yet, when I'm sleeping on the ground in a mummy sleeping bag, with a huge Bloods/Crips gang of the little suckers only a foot away from my head, they're not cute. Actually, they're probably rabid. I read a book about a person who was infected with rabies, and it basically made him turn into a crazy vampire. And then he died. Sure, it was fiction, but I'm pretty sure that it would happen that way. I can't take chances.

Also, raccoons think that root beer is the business, in case you weren't aware. I wasn't aware, until one of the little thugs found a can that the kids had helpfully left under the picnic table. Then, I had to listen to the rabid sucker drowning his sorrows in root beer. He liked it so much, he tried to eat the can. Then, he just took the can WITH him, probably to reverse engineer root beer back at the raccoon crib.

As they were leaving, they all kicked the aluminum camping trash can for good measure, since it was bungee corded shut. I'm pretty sure they were cursing in raccoon-language, but it basically just sounded like weird chirping noises, so I couldn't tell for sure.

Once we fell back asleep, we were all (children included) awakened a couple hours later by the sound of rain on the tent. The Man said we'd be fine unless it poured. It pretty much poured. Water came in, but unpredictably, so a good cold rain drop to the eye added suspense AND excitement at three in the AM. You know another thing I like about my house? A roof. Without holes that drip.

In the morning, we all enjoyed breakfast, which only took about 2 hours to make. You know, 1 hour and 50 minutes to light the awesome camping stove and then 5 minutes to cook the bacon. Bacon was a highlight. Bacon is usually a highlight.

We then spent the next 3 hours after breakfast trying to decide if we were going to risk the weather that day, because it totally looked like rain. I was very vocal about my dislike for rain. Think: cat stuck outside. That's my general disposition when I get rained upon.

Luckily, the area we were camping in happened to be on an active duty military base. Sweet. That basically means that serial killers are kept out - well, unless they have a military ID, but random roving serial killers are for sure not allowed. Also, there was an inground pool nearby, as well as lodging. I personally voted for lodging, but SOME people were all "that's not the point of camping" and I was all "I KNOW, that's MY point." Aaaanyway, in the lodging lobby we were able to find a tv with the weather channel (as well as the Spongebob channel) and a pot of sweet, sweet coffee. Win! I would have happily camped in the lobby, but The Man decided it didn't look like rain, and we should continue with our plans. I disagreed heartily, but decided to Martyr Up, and subject everyone to my hostile and frosty silence.

Then, we rented a pontoon boat, so I could command things about tacking the jib and yell "iceberg, right ahead" randomly. We were in the middle of the lake when Clark Griswold and I noticed that the motor wasn't sounding right. He gave it some gas and it would just sputter and hum and not really speed up. Luckily, it worked enough to move us.....just very...slowly. Luckily it worked at ALL because we'd left our cell phones back in the car. In the parking lot. (Although even if we had the phones, who would we call? And reception there was spotty at best.)

While on the lake, we did see two real live bald eagles. They were circling low to the water, and quite majestic. I also left my damnable camera in the car. Double win!

Finally, we putted slowly back to the dock, and told the 12 year old on duty about the motor. It didn't usually do that, according to the tween. I announced that I knew all about boats, including which side port is (hint: it's left, and they both have 4 letters. You're welcome.) and frankly, motors shouldn't do that. Okay, I really just jumped onto the dock and hid from the evil wasps that congregate there. But I do know about port.

We were in luck, readers, because the day started to heat up. We went swimming. This was the highlight (other than bacon) of my camping experience. Mainly because it wasn't anything like camping. It was like lounging, which I basically have a doctorate in. I sipped a Coke Zero and watched The Man show the kids basic swim techniques. In case you wondered, I don't swim much, either. I mean, I can, but my hair takes about 4 hours to dry and I don't like being chlorine-y. I'm very low maintenance, no?

That night, I was deliriously happy, pretty much because we got to leave in the morning. I fantasized about my bed, clean sheets, scrubbing the scent of Deep Woods Off right off my body forever. Ahhhh. Then I spent the hours left hiding from gnats (seriously, WTF. The gnats here are PSYCHOTIC. They flew into my eyes about a billion times. GROSS.) and waiting to go to bed.

The kids were so tired, they basically elected to go to bed early. Yes, yes you can. Then The Man and I sat 'round the glorious campfire and stared at each other for a few hours before we could go to bed. The awesome cold-rated mummy bag that had saved my life the first night was now about 500 degrees. Not awesome. So I thrashed around and tried to use it for comfortable padding, but it wasn't that padded, and not very comfortable. I woke up about 500 times, and then finally sat up, excited that I could see daylight. Yay! I didn't waste any time getting dressed and packing the Crappy American SUV.

I was sore, tired, sweaty, dirty, and covered with Off. HOTness personified in other words. But because I'm an *awesome* daughter (as well as human being) I stopped and saw both my parents. Then, after donuts and visiting, we headed for home.

But first? We had to stop to pick up our newly adopted dog. I know, I know. I'd told you all my Brilliant Plan. I changed said Plan for the sake of the CHILDREN. You can't really argue with that, frankly. I'd been ~~stalking~~ browsing through Craigslist a bit, and found a little girl English Mastiff who was being given up due to the owners' having severe dog allergies. (They kept their hypoallergenic poodle. Did you know poodles were hypoallergenic, just like good-quality earrings? Well now you do.) We met the family before we went camping and liked them and the dog and agreed to pick her up on the way back.

Here she is, Mia (previously named and we kept the name to minimize confusion) the Mastiff. Granted, she's small for a mastiff, but big for a dog. Ta da!

This was the picture that her former people had posted on Craigslist. You can't see how adorable her severe under-bite is, nor the fact that I painted her front toenails hot pink. I know, AWESOME.

My obese house cat is LESS than thrilled with the new addition to the fam. WAYYYY less than thrilled. There has been a lot of hissing, some angry clawing, and a bit of growling too, for good measure. The cat was willing to be brave and think about being in the same room with the dog, until the dog (still a puppy at 18 months) thought the cat was playing. There was some hopping, and cats don't really *like* dogs hopping around, so the cat is pretty much invisible unless he wants food. (Which really, isn't terribly out of the norm. My 4 year old affects him the same way.)

I'm ~~ignoring my flaming anxiety~~ hoping that they will work things out and be able to co-exist. Fingers crossed. Basically I'm giving everyone treats when they see each other so that they'll associate *awesome* delicious goodies with each other. The Internet said it would work. So did a very nice dog obedience lady I called. (And keep pestering.)

So there you have it. Your Favorite Writer is alive, mildly well, survived the horror that is camping, and has a new K-9 unit. Mazeltov!

Comments, questions, what's new in your part of the world?

Update on Jesuits, or, Weekend Movie Review

2011-05-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

Normally when I do a Weekend Movie Review, I'll tell you all about the movie and what I liked, etc etc. We'll see how far I get with the *actual* movie review, because I'm pretty sure most of this post will be dedicated to my current rather overwhelming fear of demonic possession.

Thanks a lot, The Man. (He picked the movie.)

We watched The Rite, which, if I hadn't been totally convinced that Anthony Hopkins was the scariest man EVER (well, except for my personal nightmare-on-legs Christopher Walken) this movie pretty much just made sure that if I ever saw Anthony Hopkins, the actor, in real life, I'd sprint as fast as my wee short legs could go in the opposite direction. I'd then bedazzle a sassy tank top with "I Saw Anthony Hopkins and Lived!" in purple rhinestones.

The movie plot is something like this: some actor I don't know, playing the role of sort-of-Father (but not really because he hasn't taken his vows) would rather be a priest than a mortician, his family business. He really just wants the degree that he can earn on scholarship. Oops, though, because the head priest guy is onto this tactic, so he decides the young faith-challenged guy should go to Rome and enroll in a class about exorcisms. For whatever reason, the head priest guy believes the young kid would make a great priest, and given the church mandate about qualifying exorcists (wait, you thought ANYone could do them?) off our hero goes to Rome.

While there, he meets Anthony Hopkins, who (um, der, NATURALLY) is a Jesuit. Anthony Hopkins is busy living in a cute little Rome-ish apartment that's frequently swarmed by cats. We learn that cats over-run Rome. (I'm totally moving to Rome. It's gorgeous AND it's a veritable cat sanctuary. And I love Italian food. I could keep going....)The young doubting semi-father guy then gets to help Anthony Hopkins with exorcisms.... Aaaaaand that, my friends, is where the movie gets its groove on. We have a "doubter" as he's called by, um, the devil, and then we have Anthony Hopkins shouting in Latin.

I'm not going to give you any more details, because I don't want to ruin anything. It's actually a pretty good movie, given that I usually end up hiding under my fluffy throw blanket during such movies.

Really, the only issues I have involve the actual premise. Like, after I watched the whole movie, the text tells me that this movie was inspired by true events. Wait....what? So naturally, I turned to my trusted friend, Google, of the Search Engine Tribe. According to Google, the doubting father was based on a real priest who practices somewhere in California. I read several interviews with him, and although he seemed to believe tarot cards, Wicca and (clearly) Ouiji boards led to the possibility of possession, he seemed fairly intact in his faculties beyond that.

*Looks like those years in college are going to haunt me AFTER all. Mayhaps literally. Just find me a Jesuit, is all I'm saying here people. I only Ouiji'd once, and given that it was my honestly-semi-psychic BFF, PROBABLY not the best idea.But seriously, you throw a rock, you hit a Wiccan down there.*

And beyond the whole true events thing, which frankly terrifies me enough that I started asking The Man where his grandmother's rosary was, is the whole doubting-father-*still*-doubting halfway through the movie thing.

I'm just saying, someone tells me they're possessed, then starts babbling to me in a foreign language, THEN starts telling me in English things only my DEAD RELATIVES could know, um, I'm not a doubter. I'm also on the first plane OUT of Anthony Hopkins picturesque villa-town. No matter how cute his cats are.

*That* was a realistic touch, I will say; once when things started getting all medieval possessed at the villa, the cats were the first to flee. TOTALLY realistic. Cats will love you, purr for you, sit with you, cuddle with you, but the first sign that your ass is getting possessed by ancient demons and well, you're on your own, sunshine. And that's why my obese house cat guards our freaky basement. He's like an early-basement-possession warning system who happens to like ham.

Since I've always wondered *why* the Jesuits are the special exorcist guys on deck, I looked that up too. Apparently, the Jesuits are just really super-educated. Most of them have advanced degrees, or pursue doctorates. AWESOME. I bet being fluent in Latin is one of the requirements. How else are you going to get the demons out? Exactly.

And now, since I'm totally prepared for every possible possession contingency, what with my cat watching the basement and having told everyone about finding me a Jesuit (not to mention The Man looking for his heirloom rosary) I'm off to NOT worry about possession. Until I can't sleep. Again.

*Update* Just because I forgot, and then luckily remembered: was a baby involved, you ask? Well, you'll just have to watch the movie and see. I'm just saying. NOT the BABY!

Comments, questions, do you know Latin?

Zombies or Robots, Either Way, I Plan Ahead...

2011-05-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

While waiting for my things-that-blow-up required movie last night (The Mechanic, for anyone curious)(lots of blood but little witty banter. I like banter.) I had to sit through a whole bunch of movie previews for things that are my official LEAST favorite type of movie. In no specific order: zombies, angry alien robots and possessed people/children.

I'm pretty sure if you've read my blog more than haphazardly (and what other way to do it!) you'll have noticed I have made total BFF with my anxiety. We're like THIS. Especially when I'm lying awake at 4 am because my obese house cat has decided it's *totally* breakfast and I've locked him in the basement because it's *totally* NOT - and my heart is hammering around for no real reason and I'm not even thinking about anything even remotely stressful except to wonder if the cat has water and what is that rule of 3 anyway? 3 minutes without air, 3 DAYS without water, okay yeah it's days - not hours, so the cat should be FINE even if his water supply is low in the basement right now....

Aaaaand that's why I didn't get back to sleep until almost 5. Yay!

So I try to avoid movies that provoke my anxiety. And movies about zombies, angry alien robots and/or anyone possessed tend to do that. Then I lie awake hearing noises from the basement (which I can't physically hear ANYway)(seriously, The Man could drop his bench bar on his chest and moan around for hours before I'd ever hear it.) and contemplating my Zombie/Robot/Possession Survival Plan.

It usually goes something like this: WalMart to stock up (on whatever)(food, contact solution because honestly, I'll have to make this pair LAST, yo), then the gun store because OBVIOUSLY, then head for the desolate meth-lab filled hollers down south. High ground, lower population, and meth-heads probably aren't organized enough to survive the first wave.

Then again, if it's possession, I'm all about getting a Jesuit up in here, STAT, so I totally wouldn't mess around with something stupid like getting my wiring checked, or trying to figure out if it's REALLY a vengeful spirit, or if the AC is on the fritz. Jesuit, Bible, restraints, Latin, the whole 9 yards.

Either way - I get all wrapped up in my Survival Plan and don't sleep and then I look LIKE a zombie, but without all the brain-gnawing urges. Sort of a win there, really.

And pretty much every movie lately involving possession has involved babies. Such to the point that my friend K. Jo and I will shout (at times randomly) Not the BABY! because threatening infants has suddenly become totally OKAY in movies. Not okay. I won't put up with dogs, especially cats, or even birds...and babies?! Can't we all just agree to leave BABIES alone?! Remember The Hills Have Eyes? I don't. I saw some scene with a creepy zombie thing and a baby in the room and I literally RAN to my bedroom, put on headphones and spent the next 2 hours on eBay, checking for a nice faux leather handbag.

See? Here's my t-shirt that I'll make if I ever make t-shirts:

If it had a back, it would say "Not the BASEMENT!" because basements are generally where bad shit goes down. And I have a basement. Granted it's not full of zombies or angry robot aliens OR anything possessed, and it's not even the house that WAS haunted because, hello, TOTALLY had one of those - but still, it's a basement. And thus not to be trusted. The obese house cat can warn me of any danger. As long as it's not 4 am. And since we're not as wealthy as that couple on Paranormal Activity, we can't just rig the whole house up with cameras - so trusting our very lives to the cat is really very magnanimous of us. You're HONORED, obese house cat.

I only wish he'd been around in our LAST house, which was actually haunted. We lived behind a cemetery. Remember that joke? Well at least the neighbors are quiet? Yeah well, they're NOT. They have relatives who get all sad and drunk and high and play loud music at 3 am and then you have to call the cops just so they don't put anyone ELSE in the cemetery with their driving and all. And that's just the living. The rest of the time it's the wandering dead spirits you have to deal with.

In our house, it was always a woman. It wasn't something we noticed all the time, or even thought about much. It was more like having Sassy's teenage radio randomly come on playing opera, when, um, clearly she'd left it on R&B. And it would come on at 2 am. Or we'd smell cigarette smoke, but nothing was there. Or you'd just hear a voice in a room when no one was in it. True story. I pinky promise. Apparently this even happened to my mom, when she was babysitting one night. She just NOW told me. Awesome. And my mom is about as grounded as you get without being uninteresting.

We had lights that came on with no one near them. And it wasn't just our house. It was our cul de sac. All our very normal and non-wackadoodle neighbors reported similar events. At home, I would just shout, all Sylvia Browne style, "go into the LIGHT! Get out of my KITCHEN!" I'm very helpful to the dearly departed.

But sitting in my non-haunted house, I am still totally freaked out by these things. I realize that the zombie/robot thing is sort of related since they all have that freaky slow-spastic-twitchy walk thing down. But I guess it would give me time to aim. Except some zombies are fast, and that sucks - especially if I haven't stocked up on my contact solution because I highly doubt I'll be an excellent shot in my glasses.

These are the things that keep me up people. You're welcome. Tonight's movie? The Rite. It involves possession. I didn't pick it. DAMN your eyes, The Man. Guess who's going to be checking the basement at 3 am! Not the BABY! Not the BASEMENT!

Comments, questions, what do you watch?

8 years and counting!

2011-05-18T06:34:00.000-07:00

I had a whole other post going on, but then I realized, hell, it's my anniversary - I should table that sucker and post about *this special day* instead. So, here you go!

Back in college (this is relevant, I swear.)(Sort of.) I sat through an entire lecture about sentiment vs. sentimentality, given by a highly impassioned professor. There is a difference, friends. Sentiment is well conveyed emotion that doesn't stray into the over-the-top Hallmark Greeting Card world of, you guessed it, sentimentality! Sentimentality is self-indulgent, typically cliche, and the total OPPOSITE of what any decent writer wants to accomplish.

(Side note: Hallmark now makes a "troubled relationship" line of cards. Sample: "Let's get back on track, I'm willing if you are. We both said things we didn't mean..." Oh, and they had apology cards in that line too. You're welcome.)

I will do my best not to stray into the "you're the light in my darkness" world of sentimentality, lest my old professor sense one his students committed that horror, and hunt me down... to make me work through my sentences with an angry red pen. Aghhhhhh! Not self-editing! Oh bane of my existence!

So today, The Man and I celebrate 8 years together. It's a long time, really, but not long enough that I can ask for my anniversary band. (Hint: I want it to match my set and include rubies.)(Why no, I'm *not* high maintenance, thanksforasking.)

8 years has included:

2 of my jobs
2 kids from birth on up
1 teenager morphing into an adult
4 cats (Bucky is frolicking in heaven with my dog)(or avoiding him)
1 dog (the recently departed Apollo) :(
4 of The Man's jobs
10 Air Force trips
1 awesome Disney World vacation
2 houses
500 home improvement projects
5 million arguments
725 times I've reminded him that "I'm the Verbal Assassin"
821 times he's reminded me that I can't do math very well
0 times I've beaten him at a real sport
2 times I've beaten him at Air Hockey (don't mess with me, I had a table growing up!)
1 time I got him to indoor rock climb with me, and climbed higher
55 times he's told me I wouldn't jump off the cliff HE jumped off in New Mexico
1 bike of his I wrecked
0 bikes I successfully rode in real life
1 class I passed where I technically learned to ride a bike
.000004 of patience he had for me helping him with the English part of an AF test
89 times I tried to explain passive voice and/or appropriate semi-colon usage
45 times he told me not to mess with coloring my hair
0 times I listened to him telling me not to mess with my hair color
12 hours we've spent total playing Assassin's Creed
890 times I've told him he's going the WRONG way while playing Assassin's Creed
200 times he's tried to help with laundry
200 times I've told him to either put it away TOO, or stop helping.
3 times we've been camping
0 times I've enjoyed camping
300 times he's tried to tell me I should enjoy camping
5 times he's fallen down our stairs
3 times I've fallen down our stairs
0 times *we*'ve slept in since the kids were born
1 million times he's slept in ...since I'm a morning person and all
2 million times he's told me that he's NOT a morning person. In case I forgot.
3 million times I've told him that I'm not a night person. I don't think after 6 pm.
30 times I've challenged him to spell things in an argument
25 times he's challenged me to do higher math
400 times I've asked for a new tattoo
399 times he's threatened to call my mom if I ask for a new tattoo
399 times I've laughed that he's calling my mom to tell on me
2 times I've offered to tattoo his initials. I can always cover it up.
2 times he's said, emphatically, NO.
2 times I've informed him he's not a romantic.
5 surgeries I've nursed him through.
5 times I've thought about 'adjusting' the doses.
5 times he's promised to NOT play dangerous sports anymore.
5 times he's lied about not playing dangerous sorts anymore.
2 surgeries planned for this year.
2 surgeries I'm planning to run away to Vegas during.
0 times we've been to Vegas.

I'd rather be in Vegas right now, but since my ASS-ma is acting up (it's the Curse of the Cold Damp May all over again!) I don't want to haul my nebulizer over state lines and have to sit around a cool hotel room huffing albuterol, while The Man plans his attack on the blackjack tables.

Better luck next year. As you know, year 10 is the Year of the Fancy Ring. (Take notes, The Man, take notes.)

So I think I've avoided sentimentality, yes? Yes. I've listed stuff that most married people can relate to, with of course our own personal twists thrown in. We're still here, we're still happy, we still spend time together, and we've both enjoyed the musical stylings of Disturbed together. That's love baby.

Comments, questions, when is your special day?

Why I am Never Going to the Dollar Store Again

2011-05-08T05:55:00.000-07:00

The other day, I headed to the Dollar Store, for mascara and *classy* glue-on nails, as I do. (Since I have a really short attention span ((billionaire trait!!)) I can just put them on to feel fancy, and rip them off when they make me type zermoau3459x/xmoaer because they're too long.)

I had just picked up my mascara and was weighing the pros and cons of pink french nails vs. natural french nails, when Princess announced "Mom, I have to PEE!" As if she had waited until the very last minute before her wee bladder would explode. Which she had.

I grabbed her hand and ranted about, I mean, talked calmly about how this happens ALL the time, and can we please pee *before* school pick up? When we don't have to wander all over a sketchy Dollar Store looking for the bathroom? I found a guy who looked like he might work there, but then decided no, go for the uniform. Well, the guy got mildly offended and was all "Ma'am I'm the store manager. What can I do for you?" And I'm all "put on a uniform so this situation isn't so confusing, or at least a name tag, sir" but I said "Um. Do you have a potty?" and nodded at my kiddo doing The Dance.

"Sure! It's right back in the back, to the right!" said Captain Helpful.

The kids and I wandered through the back stock-room area, finally spotting a door with a "rest room" sign taped in place. The door was locked. "It's full!" came the shout from within.

We waited. We waited some more. Princess hopped around, until I sat her down on a nearby metal chair. We waited. I read a hand-written note that said "Do your best under stress!" with a smiley face. Hmmmm. Dedicated to hard work, that's the Dollar Store way.

Finally, the door opened and a lady employee lumbered out. The kids scooted past her, and immediately began complaining and holding their noses. I'd expected this. What I didn't expect was my kids to begin screaming. Not "ha ha funny, it stinks in here" screams, but "Oh my God there are rabid flesh-eating zombie beavers in here" screams.

Princess ran past me at warp speed. I didn't even see her go by, just felt the disturbed air molecules. "I don't have to pee anymore! I don't have to PEEEEE!" she was shouting from somewhere in aisle 3.

Casanova, meanwhile, was just standing in place, crying and yelling incoherently.

Wha....????

The lady behind me was busy yelling, "Oh kids! It's okay, it isn't REAL!"

Seriously. WHAT?

I cautiously entered the restroom and saw what had terrified the children. Behind the cracked old toilet lay a fake severed leg and foot. Oh. Of course. Did I mention it was a fake-blood covered fake severed leg and foot? No?

"Here, hand it to me!" said the lady.

I picked it up. Casanova was busy hiding behind the door.

"Look! It isn't real!" she was saying to him.

I yelled for Princess to come back. "It's a Halloween toy!" I shouted!

"No! It's REAL! It's a BODY!" she yelled back.

Finally, I got the Mom Voice out. "Get in here! It's just fine. It's a decoration!"

You know, because EVERYone decorates with dismembered body parts.

Finally, the kids crept out and tentatively viewed the plastic leg and fake bloody foot.

I thanked the lady and crammed my kids in the bathroom. Princess made it to the toilet and we hurriedly washed our hands. "Let's GO." said the resident mom.

The lady saw us again while we waited in line. It was a long line. She apologized again. "We're fine," I said. Princess nodded with her face in my leg. Casanova was busy explaining to half the line about the dead body behind the toilet.

The Store Manager was manning the only register. "Did you find the restroom okay?" he asked. "Oh yes, no problem," said I.

"Well I heard what happened and I'm REALLY sorry," he said. Then he turned to Princess. "Did you see that thing by the toilet? It wasn't real. I'm sorry honey!"

I'm sure the rest of the store was as confused and disturbed as I was. As we walked out the door, Princess announced, "I was so scared Mom, I thought there was a whole DEAD BODY stuffed back there with just the leg sticking OUT!"

"No, honey, no one is stuffed in the potty at the Dollar Store."

It took about four hours for them to stop asking me why anyone would do that, and I couldn't get them to go upstairs or anywhere else really, without me, for the rest of the day. They were afraid that "that dead leg" would be there.

Seriously, I mean really, does this happen to anyone else? No.

And with that, it's Mother's Day, so happy day to me, I'm getting more coffee. If you're a mom, go hide in the closet with your bourbon (what have you) and if you're a dad, based on my empirical evidence, EVERY day is your day.

Comments, questions, found any body parts lately?

I am Tragically Un-hip

2011-05-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

I talked to T. Jo while I was driving Princess to school this morning. (Let's forget for now that I always *vowed* to NOT be one of the parents carting my offspring off in Crappy American SUV luxury. I'm a slave to a good education, though, and I can't argue with my Kindergarten kid reading at a 3rd grade level. She also does math harder than I can do, although really, that doesn't take much.)

Me: "So anyway, I was totally singing this Floyd song..."
Her: "Hang on! I have to harvest my raspberries!"
Me: "Wha....? Is that a secret code for something?!"
Her: "No, I'm playing a Smurf game and if I don't harvest them when it beeps, then they'll die."
Me: "Um."
Her: "Papa Smurf said I have to grow more."
Me: "You sound like you're high. Just stare at the floor until you stop seeing Papa Smurf. This hallucination will pass."
Her: "You'd love this game!"
Me: "Do you grow anything else?..."
Her: "Well, you can grow potatoes, but they take a day."
Me: "Dude. What if you are at work?"
Her: "Your phone beeps to tell you to harvest things."
Me: "What if you're in a meeting?!"
Her: "Then I say, hang on, I have to harvest my raspberries."
Me: "Of course. You still sound high."

I promised her that I'd blog about this today. I have fulfilled that promise, as you can see. I will tell you right now: I don't do Farmville, Cafe World, Smurf land (whatever it's called), etc. Last year, for about the whole summer, I was hooked on Bejeweled (aka Bedazzled) and that was bad enough. I tended to neglect the children and let them make their own margaritas while I lined up jewels and went for high score of the day. Competition was fierce! K. Jo would get a higher rank and then I'd have to spend five hours trying to be *her* score. I'm telling you, duct tape just can't hold a determined child long enough. Right??

I really don't have time to grow fake crops and worry if they're growing properly. I kill plants in REAL LIFE, thank you. All the time. Last year's vision of greenery on my deck? I'm staring at the corpse of a palm front RIGHT this minute. I haven't hauled it off to the trash, but I'm guessing it didn't do very well under 7 feet of ice this past winter.

The last thing I need is some angry fucking Smurf telling me to tend my potatoes. Or my raspberries. The only raspberries I consume, as you know, are real and in daiquiri form, smothered under a fluffy layer of whipped cream. Mmmmmm. Raspberries.

No Smurfs involved. And as for Cafe World or Cooking Time or whatever, I L O A T H E cooking in real life, so making imaginary pies is just about akin to Prison Game or Water Torture Time. Those aren't real games....as far as I know.

I know a lot of people who get all hot and bothered about games, but I just can't dedicate my *highly-valuable* time to them. I just finished the autobiography of Ozzy and I'm on hold for Steven Tyler's. Reading about rock star lives, now THAT is something worthy of my time. I will learn all about smuggling cocaine and the appropriate use of feathers in clothing. Brilliant! And no Smurfs are involved....I think...

Comments, questions, what's your game?

Why Craigslist Makes me Stab-ish

2011-05-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

Last week I listed something on Craigslist. I hate listing ANYthing on Craigslist. I used to be afraid of random serial killers....then I saw an entire Dateline dedicated to a Craigslist-ad-related mass homicide. So now, I'm sort of TERRIFIED of Craigslist.

It's not *just* the crazed psychotic murderers either, it's the idiots. For reference, I'm selling a jog stroller/bike trailer.

One person asked me to deliver. Um....no? It's a Craigslist ad, we're all here because it's cheap and you don't want to drive to Target and pay full price, am I right? Target won't deliver, why the eff do you think *I* will?!

Another person wanted to know how many kids it holds. Why? Are you thinking about transporting a passel of kids like some sort of bizarre parent-pulled rickshaw? Only with kids crammed to the brim? I doubt that the reinforced nylon will carry much of a load, but if you're some Sister-Wives family and you're looking for an alternative to the multi-minivans, well sir, be my guest.

A different email asked if it could disassemble easily, because he/she wanted to fold it up and put it away after usage. To this I reply, if it DID fold down easily, it wouldn't be hanging by a huge hook in my garage, with the wheel sticking out that occasionally I whack my head on. Oh, and since it took me approximately 29 hours and a glue gun to get that thing up and running, I wouldn't want to try to reinvent THAT particular wheel.

My *favorite* though, was that I ran a simultaneous ad on eBay. The stroller sold almost immediately. Hurrah, I thought! No more head-whacking, and it's money in mah pocket that I didn't have. Whee! I emailed the buyer. Oh wait, it was a local pick up only auction? How could that be?! In the text you say, why, right there with ITALICS and stars?! Well they were new to eBay. Yes, and clearly to reading. Because I'm a magnanimous and benevolent ruler, I did refund the money, but not EVERYONE on eBay is so nice.

Last night, after watching a *spectacularly* awful movie (Skyline - horrible, horrible, horrible. And why do aliens always look suspiciously like angry vaginas? Thesis: the patriarchy is attempting to subliminally reinforce fear of female sexual power. You're welcome.) I received a text page. At 11 pm. Was the stroller still available? Jesus, Craigslist stalker, you want to have some decorum?! We aren't DATING. Craigslisters shouldn't be blowing up your phone after 10 pm, am I right? It's a jog stroller/bike trailer - not a life saving defibrillator or something. (And if you're buying defibrillators off Craigslist, well, I'm not even sure what to say. Let's see if there's one for sale.... And? Here you go:

The HeartSine samaritan PAD Public Access Defibrillator (or Automatic External Defibrillator) is an easy-to-use medical device especially designed for public access use, to administer lifesaving treatment for Sudden Cardiac Arrest. No complex displays or controls. A flashing green STATUS light indicates system is operational. The HeartSine samaritan PAD prompts you visually and audibly with clear, calm instructions - starting with "Adult Patient" if equipped for adult Pad-Pak, and "Child Patient" if equipped with pediatric-pak. Other prompts instruct users throughout the rescue process, while reminding users to "call for medical assistance." The system then guides the user through pad application to shock delivery if required. Cash or PayPal with processing fee. Pick up by Noon on March 31st.

Oh Craigslist, you never let me down. Except when you do. Defibrillator, going for only $900 and it even has prompts, you see, like reminding you to call for medical back up. Well frankly, if I'm cracking out the defib to get you going again, I'm pretyyyyyy sure I'd also use ye olde cell phone to get some REAL experts on the scene.

$900 defib machine OR my $65 jog stroller/bike trailer. You pick. Just don't call me after 10 pm.

Comments, questions, do you Craigslist?

I Am Not Donna Reed

2011-04-26T06:02:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, Nick at Nite showed old Donna Reed episodes. In the early Casa de Sammo, it was either appropriate Nick shows or Educational Programming a la Nova. (Pretty sure I was the only kid explaining the big bang theory at the bus stop. Hopefully.)

I marveled at how Donna zipped around her immaculate house in her heels and pearls, joyously baking perfectly-formed pies and dazzling people with tortes. My mom said that her mother had worn pearls and heels too, back in the day. Of course, my grandparents also had a maid and spent a lot of time at Ye Olde Country Club, where my grandmother played bridge and drank wine. (Win!) (My mom was busy wearing flowing peasant shirts and riding protest buses down to Alabama with my dad.)

I learned later (and not just courtesy of the 'Stones) that the housewives o' the late 50's era were so peppy and loved tidying up and baking mostly because they were all dosed on prescribed uppers. And they were thin. Double Win! (According to my mom, her mother wasn't a speed freak, but a lot of other housewives were.)

I don't, er, clean so much. I'm waiting for my maid-country club membership-lunching phase to start. Hello? Anyone with me? I'll buy the pino grigioooooo....!

When I spent some time at K. Jo's house recently though, I got home and realized several things: the maid isn't going to start anytime soon (damn her eyes), K. Jo's house was quite spiffy, and something is funky in the pantry. I got to cleaning yesterday. I'm pretty proud of it.

I also found the blackened potato that was trying to plant roots in my laminate flooring. EW.

Today, my goal is to clean out the cabinets, so that when I open them looking for O'Charley's coupons, stuff doesn't fall down and spear me in the eye hole. Mental note: reduce number of scissors.

Maybe it'll go faster if I crack out mah pearls and fancy heels.... because I'm pretty sure the doctor won't go for my "it worked for Donna Reed" argument to get some legal speed.

Comments, questions, is your house fresh and tidy?

Tuesday's Gone with the Wind, or, Sassy Graduates

2011-04-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

After Monday bludgeoned me with gravity (how's THAT for imagery!)(and possibly improper usage of the word 'bludgeoned') I was prepared for my week to get better, or possibly worse. I'm a pragmatist people, and if I've learned ANYthing from my Recent Life Events, it's that just when you think things are going along swimmingly, you can *totally* get knocked on your ass and then kicked in the teeth, respectively.

Luckily, Tuesday decided that I'd had enough of that sort of shit. This Tuesday was going to be different. Special.

Remember how I told you that The Man was in the midst of a career change? Yes? Well he starts a new job this week. I'm very excited. I would bore you with the gory details of this particular Life Change, but basically you really *don't* know who reads your blog. True dat. While I don't mind sharing tons of personal details about my own inner child and what have you, I'm going to be politic here. Magnanimous bone, friends, hardcore.

I'll just say a few things about the recent Life Change. I'm a lot tougher than I thought. It was the hardest thing (minus Princess having colic and Casanova being hospitalized as a wee baby) that I've endured as a Grown Adult. I heartily believe in karma (call it whatever you want if 'karma' as a word is too Eastern philosophy for you) and saw irrefutable proof of it in action. I may forgive (operative word 'may) but I'll never forget.

*Insert music from The Godfather here*

Not only are the winds of change a blowin' at Casa de Sammo, what with The Man heading off in a happy new direction, but he's also getting to fly and see Sassy graduate from boot camp.

*Cue string solo*

I have no idea what sort of hellish torment they put you through at boot camp. First off, it's the Air Force, and *everyone* jokes about how much EASIER the Air Force is, as if it's Military Lite. Well lemmetellyousomething. Um, boot camp ANYwhere isn't exactly the Girl Scouts. Sassy crying on the phone during her occasional phone privilege as a drill instructor shouted "FIVE MINUTES!!!!" in the background didn't exactly sound like a tropical vacation. Gas chambers where you pull off your chem-warfare mask and cry and throw up in the midst of tear gas = NOT. FUN. Bivouac week in full armor, sleeping in tents, MREs and war games = NOT. EASY. Doing all that as a 20 year old girl? That, my friends, makes my grizzled leather heart beat with pride. That's MY kiddo. (Well, technically not MINE, but MINE all the same, bitches.)

I'm sad because I'm sitting in my dining room typing this, instead of watching her run with her squadron, or watching her take her dad around the base. HIS old base. My chest aches with the thought that I've never missed ANYthing that she's ever done or accomplished since she was 12. Financially and practically, we just couldn't swing four plane tickets, or finding enough grandparents to wrangle the Children of the Corn for four days.

The Man took his dress uniform, so I'm anxiously awaiting the pictures of the two of them together, Airman First Class and soon-to-be Master Sergeant. (He sews on his stripe this summer, for anyone riveted by such detail.)

I've already received a picture and since it's worth 1,000 words, or maybe just 100 words (if they're mine):

Airman First Class Sassy is the one pretty much center left and right in front of the camera.

And here she is again in her dress uniform, with The Man (who is doubtlessly squinting and sweating in the blistering Texas heat. Tomorrow is joint fancy uniform day:

I am proud. I am ecstatic. I am blessed. This is one of those times when all the things that went horrendously wrong don't even matter because they've rocketed to the dark side of the moon and been eclipsed by all the things that went miraculously right.

All the times I raged and cried and yelled and shook my fist impotently at the sky, certain that this girl I loved and had cared for would irrevocably screw up and Bad Things would befall her proved that she can do ANYthing. She can take the worst that people trained to dish out shit on a platter give her and not just survive, but use it to transform herself. She is a fighter, a survivor, a warrior, and soon, a nurse. This beautiful girl, this step-daughter.. but the step is just in name only.

I never wanted to replace her mother - she has a mother and that relationship is vital to anyone and everyone. I wanted to be who I am to her, a woman who loves her AND her dad, the mother to her crazy younger brother and sister - someone there for her. I may not always have accomplished all my ideals as a stepmom, I may not always have succeeded.

But she did. Despite the odds, the fear, the dubious choices. She's 20, 21 in another few weeks, training for her career and engaged to a guy who treats her like a princess.

Basic training is the beginning. Welcome to your future as a success, Airman First Class. I love you so much. I'm so, so proud.

The faith I had was shaken these last few months with everything going so hugely wrong. And I was wrong for having it shaken. It's worked out, it's all okay. It's all better than okay.

I am officially back in black.

Comments, questions, could you survive basic? (Answer: I couldn't!)

Monday Hurt Me

2011-04-19T04:21:00.000-07:00

Normally my Mondays make me happy, as only a day full of optimistic and unbridled potential can. Yesterday's Monday, on the other hand, hurt me - it hurt me BADLY, friends. It hurt me when I was *trying* to do a good deed, but apparently (as the saying goeth)(and what is UP with spell-check not recognizing some nice old-school wordage?) my good deed simply must be punished.

Normally, I consider myself about as coordinated as Bambi on ice, so this shouldn't come as a huge shock, but I'm pretty sure it was more of my bad karma working itself out, or just Monday trying to ruin my high opinion of it. Either one, or both, really.

I was sitting in the High Wingback of Power, talking to my BFFIC when I saw a little pug-ish-doggy run through my yard and into the cul-de-sac. Behind us is the pond and the woods, and I didn't recognize the dog, although he had a collar, so I went to go see if he had any tags. The main drag in our 'hood should just be called the drag strip because cars pretty much torque by like they're qualifying. I didn't want to see a squished pug-ish doggy!

As I walked into the foyer, friends, I slipped on the edge of a sheet I'd thrown down to go into the wash. The sheet was on our flat and super slick new laminate. I went. down. HARD. I rolled around the on the floor for a bit, assuring Casanova and my BFFIC that I was A-OK, when in fact I was pretty sure I'd basically blasted my own precious knee-cap into crunchy knee-pieces.

Never let it be said that Your Favorite Writer isn't a trooper, because I got up (slowly and in agony) and hobbled outside to catch the wee pug-like dog. I whistled and he came running. He was so happy to see a helpful human, that he simultaneously tried to lick me, and peed a bit. Did I mention I was barefoot?

Luckily, my neighbor came over and had walked this particular pug-like creature home before, and offered to take him home again. Since she had a leash readily available, and I was busy swelling, I took her up on it. Win!

Last night whilst The Man and I were busy watching our DVRd episode of Celebrity Apprentice (shhhhh, I'm learning! See also: billionaire!) I got up to grab some snackish foods and The Man saw me limping around the living room.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm walking.."
"Why are you walking like that?"
"Oh, remember I told you I fell today on my knee? It's getting stiff..."
"Did you wrap it?"
"No."
"Put any ice on it?"
"Um....no.."
"You should wrap it."
"Okay...."

And then we had to finish our episode so we could gleefully watch as Crazy Gary Busey was *finally* eliminated. Whew.

I wrapped my knee with athletic tape as if I were strapping part of my body back on and while it's feeling a bit better today, I'm waiting to see a rainbow of bruise colors form.

Damn you Monday, we've always been FRIENDS. Better luck next week, or I'm taking my Happy Day to Tuesday.

Comments, questions, been punished for any good deeds lately?

How to be a Billionaire!

2011-04-15T04:38:00.000-07:00

Really grabbed your attention, didn't I? Maybe you even google searched such a thing, thinking that *I*, your humble and lowly Favorite Writer might have the KEY to your own fortune.

I don't. (Unless it's to advise you to *not* listen to that pop song because it's nothing BUT annoying, and won't help you become a billionaire either.)

I do however, thanks to a man known as Mr. Donald Trump, know how to think like a billionaire. So, I'm pretty much writing my own checks here people. Since I'm not just Your Favorite Writer, but pretty much a Magnanimous Bone all my own, I'll *share* this with you. You won't even have to read the book I lazily leafed through the other day as I earned my first sunburn-of-the-season.

:: Billionaire Thinking ::

* Have a short attention span. Billionaires are SUPER productive and have a lot to do, so clearly you can't spend too much time on one thing. THIS is one that I already had a jump on, Mr. Trump.

* Hire a landscaper. If you don't like manual labor (and who does?!) and it's within reach (it's not) you should hire a landscaper to beautify the grounds around your house or properties. I planted a pear tree from WalMart, does that count?

* Hire an interior decorator. See above. Again, I own the Wingbacks of Power, so I'm pretty ahead of the curve I think.

* Get a Prenuptial Agreement. See, this is just common sense for your average billionaire. Hell, one of my bffs spends time at court like it's her hobby, and she isn't riding in a limo to the courthouse. Then again, I guess The Man and I are just going to have to throw down if this all heads south. No prenup here. I call dibs on the faux Grecian painting I picked up at Goodwill!

* Don't Use Too Much Technology. Mr. Trump tells us that emails are lame, and phone calls should be brief. I doubt anyone made their millions updating Facebook statuses, or playing Farmville. Well, unless you invented Facebook. I certainly didn't. I didn't even bother watching the movie about the guy who did invent Facebook. I'm pretty much coming out ahead on this avoiding too much technology thing. Win!

* Dress Like You Want to Live. I'm paraphrasing here, but basically, we're supposed to spend time getting all groomed up in the morning. I'm all for this. Then again, I'm the same woman who knew she'd entered the dark and twisted woods of Postpartum when I quit wearing makeup and beating my hair into submission. As a future billionaire, at least this one won't add anything EXTRA to my to-do list!

* Stick to Your Guns. If you KNOW you're right about something, presumably a million-dollar investment, ignore everyone you also know is WRONG. Oh, and follow your dreams too, unless your dreams are stupid and a waste of time. Either way, I'm good to go. I usually know everyone else is wrong and that my dreams are kick ass.

*Learn the Best. Don't assume you know the best wine, the best clothes, etc just by advertising. The best isn't always advertised. And if you think wine sucks, don't drink it just to be fancy! This advice really resonated since I'm pretty sure wine is Of The Devil. You'll find me with a jaunty daiquiri in hand, not giving a hot damn what anyone thinks. Because I'm right. See above.

And that's about all I've retained thus far, well, a whole bunch of blahblahblah about property development that pretty much reminded me of having to memorize rhyme schemes in college...and that I've clearly retained about as much as I enjoyed it.

But since I'm busy preparing to be a billionaire, well, I'm off to do things we future billionaires do. I have a short attention span. I need to get my jaunty daiquiri ready and plan a hostile takeover of The Man's couch space.

I'll see you on the Riviera!

Comments, questions, how did you make your first billion?

My Nervous Breakdown is Inevitable! And Totally NOT My Fault.

2011-04-11T12:55:00.000-07:00

Lately, something I only recently ~~admitted~~ accepted as "anxiety" (you may have heard of this, no?) has been slowly but surely taking over mah free time. Which, since I'm a glorious stay-at-home-mom, is pretty much a LOT of time. (By free, I basically mean I'm not getting PAID for it, not that I'm doing anything whimsical and/or awesome with said time. Like painting pony stained glass projects.)

I lie in bed each night, my eyelids *SNAPPING* open as if I'd just mainlined some quality crystal meth instead of spent the last few hours unwinding to the sounds of American Idol and/or the sweet, sweet taste of my Dole apple-crisp-in-a-cup. When I'm all "hey brain, I control YOU, homie, so STFU YO" it quiets down for about 2.3 nanoseconds and before I know it, I'm weighing the pros and cons of arson. Or purchasing vacuum cleaner bags online instead of in the store. Shipping vs. gas? It's a weighty debate. It takes forever to fall asleep when it used to be a superpower. I'm tired, a lot. Coffee isn't working and I can't afford cocaine (anymore) like the other stay-at-home-moms.

I have some meds for this situation, and because my doctor ~~won't come off the good shit~~ is responsible, it's something called "Buspar" which does fuck-all nothing for the gnawing weasel that is Anxiety in my head.

I looked it up today and saw two things that are, um, concerning.

Here's one:

Contraindication (fancy way of saying "don't try this at home"): "{Asthma, history of bronchiospasm or obstructive airways disease." Well, as you die-hards know, I certainly have ASSma. I'm sure it's NOTHING to worry about.

Now this one...

"Extreme levels of caffeine ingested while taking buspirone may result in extreme nervous breakdowns, followed by amnesia of the event." Wow. I'm actually sort of psyched about that one! Am I right? All I have to do is head off on that crime spree I've been planning and BAM! Airtight defense. It was the Diet Mt. Dew and the Buspar, officer, I don't remember a THING.

Then again, what constitutes an "extreme" nervous breakdown? I thought your garden variety breakdown is pretty....serious. Does an "extreme" breakdown involve becoming Charlie Sheen? Will I start calling myself a Warlock and launch a speaking tour? If I did, I clearly wouldn't remember it. I'm still angling for that nice month in rehab....

I should really go off and "journal" for awhile (ignoring the noun that somehow became a verb) because allegedly it will get my anxiety to take a breather for awhile.

Remember when I need an alibi, it wasn't *MY* fault.

Comments, questions, what is contraindicated in your life?

The Best is Yet to Come...

2011-04-08T16:06:00.000-07:00

I know that the best is yet to come because this post is probably the worst! Ergo....

Yeah, well, you get it, I know you do.

Basically I have some photos to edit before I can post what I really *wanted* to post. I'm upstairs and my camera is downstairs and last night my Steward's Folly of a television triggered a migraine (it's either that, the stress, or my penchant for aged cheese) and so I'm all migraine hungover today.

I'm rocking the PJs and it's only 7 pm. Of course, I've actually been wearing them since four.

I'm tired.

You'll be gifted with awesome Word Art on Monday, presuming I can get my camera, computer and brilliance in the same room together.

Comments, questions, what knocks you for a loop?

A Little Proud, and a Little Dismayed

2011-04-03T10:45:00.001-07:00

The other day, we were in the car and Princess asked me about that "American Idol judge" - you know, the one "on the Kids' Choice Awards?" Um. Randy Jackson?

"He's a singer!"

...

...

"Do you mean Steven Tyler???"

"YEAH! I like him. He's funny."

"Well. Yes. But he *also* is in a hugely famous band. Aerosmith?"

"Who?"

"AERO-SMITH. A band. Remember that song that I turn up when it comes on the radio? Sweet emotion? And then I sing it?"

"No. Maybe."

"Okay, well I'll point it out next time one of his songs is on."

Then we got to hear "Janie's Got a Gun" (see also: the video I just HAD to watch all the way through even though I *totally* knew the ending....and I was pretty sure, even as a wee lass, what was going on there. Thus? I supported Janie AND her gun.) on the way to church today (of course) so I said:

"THIS is Aerosmith. Steven Tyler."

"Oh! I like him."

Yes, yes we all do. And now I feel....old. I grew up (ahhhhh, cradle your violins loosely as you play) with MTV playing Aerosmith videos. I remember Steven Tyler doing back flips on stage. I also remember wondering, why cast your teenage daughter as a stripper in your video, but c'est la vie, right?

And here we are. Thank God he's still wearing random scarves and glitter because really, if he had switched to....whatever it is that TODAY'S alleged stars are wearing, I would totally have to break up with him.

So I'm very happy that Princess agrees that Janie's Got a Gun is as chock full of awesome as I know to be true, but I'm slightly sad that she only knows this due to Nickelodeon and Am Idol commercials. Sigh.

Someday, when she's old enough, I'll regale her with Mommy's Ye Olde Ticket Stub Collection (begun in 1995!) - or maybe I'll have actually finished Mommy's Ticket Stub Canvas of Artistic Glory (although really? Unlikely.).

Proud. Dismayed. There's always room for both. How about a back flip for old time's sake?

Comments, questions, what makes you proud?

Whatever You Want it To Be

2011-03-31T06:04:00.000-07:00

This post is sort of a "choose your own adventure" post, but without the predictable "You fell down a mineshaft. The end!" ending. Unless you *WANT* to fall down a mineshaft, in which case, I'll throw that one in for free. Basically, if you want happy, depressing, and/or random, they're ALL here for your enjoyment. As am I, Readers, as am I...

Part I: The Crappy

I learned yesterday that a dear friend of mine is seriously ill. Because not everyone wants to be on my blog (weird), I'm even going all gender-non-specific on a homie, so don't think I've suddenly forgotten subject-verb agreement because I'd rather stick a hot tack through my eyelid. (Subject-verb agreement is VERY important 'round here.)

Aaaaanyway, you know how you have that friend with whom you can just pick up wherever you left off and it's always fun (and funny) and you admire the hell out of them for about 200 different reasons? This is that friend. I know if anyone can deal with this situation and come out of it holding a trophy and standing on the dead body of illness, it's this person. And yet.

I'm still concerned and upset and really, really **JAZZ HANDS** PISSED OFF at the unfairness of this life. Sorry. I'm entitled to my feelings as you are yours. You get sad and cry in your beer. I'll get pissed off and throw things. Whatever gets you through the day.

I know this person will make it, and I know it'll be hard. For what it's worth, s/he has all the prayers that I can pray, all the candles I can light, all the Santeria bracelets I can wear (no, I don't actually practice Santeria, but I SWEAR Randy Jackson does), all the Nag Champa I can burn, all the meditation I can manage and all the shots of Bacardi I can do. That is to say, whatever I can do to make this trip a little easier or bitch-ass burden a little lighter, I will do. S/he has a friend in me, as I've always had in her/him.

The Funny (or just mildly stupid):

Needing a little bit of the lighter side, I talked to a different friend last night and for whatever reason, the topic of mobility scooters came up. (As it does.)

Me: I don't know, I'm thinking about getting a mobility scooter.
Her: You mean a Hover-round?
Me: HELL. YES. I want a Hover-round!
Her: ...
Me: I'm getting mine CHROMED.
Her: I want rims.
Me: I want spinner rims.
Her: As long as they're 24s.
Me: I'm getting DUBS, true 'dat.
Her: I'm rolling in that Hover-round.
Me: I want tassles on it too.
Her: Hell yeah.
Me: It has to be red.
Her: Definitely.
Me: Tell your The Man that you want a Hover-round.
Her: He'll think I'm retarded.
Me: He already does!
Her: That's true....

Sort of like this:

As you can see, I added spinners and some tassels. Clearly, my basket would be full of trashy fiction novels and a blender full of daiquiri. When you're old, you can carry your blender with you and no one comments. I'm pretty sure that's true. (When I worked in a Rest Home, I took a call one night from emergency dispatch because a resident had called 911. Why? Her dinner tray was late. You can do ANYthing when you're old and it's cool.)

The Random:

Last night, I enjoyed some of my (left over from) Weekend Daiquiri and watched Idol with The Man. The contestants did Elton John songs. I was overcome with the urge to sing along to Tiny Dancer (who isn't?) but The Man wasn't happy with my *brilliant* song styling. Sad face. Nor did he seem interested in me breaking off a little "MOHAIR suit you know I read it in a magaziiiiiine ohhhhhhh" but whatever. WHAT. ever. At least I didn't jump up and throw in my dance moves - although really, that might have turned my performance around.

While I'm not what most people would call a "good singer" - according to Rock Band, I can totally stay on that little glowing line thingy. Sometimes. I told The Man, not for the first time, that I'd rather hear Steven Tyler doing some vintage than ANY of the Idol kids. Seriously. Rock legend and I have to make do with his colorful commentary.

Last night, Steven warned my favoritist favorite that he should make sure he keeps his voice out of the high register for long periods or he'll end up "like me" - and The Man was all "did he mess up his voice" and I was all "go and listen to Dream On and then the later stuff. You tell me."

Then, because I'm all open like a BOOK yo, I revealed that I'd actually argued once that Dream On was sung by a different singer. Like Aerosmith had a singer BEFORE Steven Tyler. I know, the shame, it hurts my soul. I was young and silly and thought that Doritos could never hurt me. I've learned, Friends, I've learned. Doritos ARE dangerous, and Steven Tyler sang Dream On. And I've seen Aerosmith in concert (twice), so I think I've made it up to them.

The End:

Pick your own ending...

*You barely make it under the door, as it almost crushes you! Luckily, you've found the treasure room and you're tripping over diamonds and rubies and blenders full of Daily's Raspberry mix. The end.

*Oops! Trapdoor. You've fallen down the mineshaft and die. The end.

*You drink too much Bacardi and slip on a leggo and hit your head, only to wake up to your cat licking your face. He's hungry. Again. The end.

Comments, questions, do you sing along (badly) just to sing?

A Secret Love

2011-03-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

In case you missed my horribly depressing (yet ultimately brilliant) post last month, my Gigantic Dog passed away from doggy cancer (see also: bullshit of The Universe) and I'm now able to (sort of) talk about him without bursting into tears and shaking a fist at the sky.

This left our Obese House Cat as what he always thought he was: master of the house. He used to scuttle around, clinging to the wall in case our dog suddenly decided that cat was on the menu. Our dog was also awesome because he was raised around cats and thought that they were possibly just small and odd looking dogs he didn't care much about. Now though, our cat struts through the living room, making straight for anyone that he thinks might have food.

He's fat, our cat. Before you get all "oh that's soooo unhealthyyyyy" allow me to explain. When Princess was about four or so, I declared that she needed a cat. ALL LITTLE GIRLS NEED CATS. It's very important. So we headed off to Ye Olde Animal Shelter. The cat room was a small affair, since we were in a small town. In the center of the room there was a totally spherical tiger cat. The cat hopped up, rubbed against the cage, stuck his paw out to get our attention, and nearly fell off the tiny perch.

"OH! OH adorable-NESS! But it's a pregnant girl kitty...." I exclaimed.

"No, no he's a boy. He's just realllly chubby," replied the shelter worker.

His shelter name? Beach ball. You know, because he um, looks like a beach ball. ROUND, people, he's round.

Sure, we took a day or so to consider it, but I was determined we'd get Mr. Beach Ball. He had worked it, put on a show, and he WANTED us, dammit. I always go for personality in my felines and this guy had it. Plus? No tail. Fat and round with no tail. The cute factor was high.

I returned with the kids to adopt Beach Ball. He broke the cardboard carrier. We had to to trundle off to WalMart to get a plastic one. He barely fit. Homebound!

We discussed names, as the cat and Apollo got used to each other. Apollo sniffed and wandered off. The cat lived behind the washer for a week. Shrek? Maybe....Moose. Guess which one won!

Moose it was.

Moose also seemed to know that Princess *needed* him as much as he'd needed us to take him away from all that. Every night, he would slink up to her room, curl up on her bed and stay there all night. They're best friends. When Moose became gravely ill, there. was. no. choice. I didn't care if it cost a million dollars, Moose had to be okay! In fact, my mom has declared that Moose has to live forever. Luckily, the vet took care of him and he recovered. Unluckily, we lost Apollo a month later.

And Moose has come through again.

The Man, understandably, has been very hard hit by Apollo's loss. Because he is a man though, he doesn't (weird) want to talk about it. In fact, he ACTIVELY *doesn't* talk about it. I'll occasionally tear up or talk about how much I miss the damn dumb dog. He'll nod. That's about it.

Something has started to happen in the last few weeks though. I've caught The Man sneaking food to Moose. Scraps of bacon, or turkey, cheese or ham. I'll see Moose sneak off to the basement doorway with something in his mouth, The Man looking away as if he hadn't just tossed him a chuck of lunch meat.

Formerly, The Man would just call him "the cat." As in, "Princess wants The Cat in her room." Or, "Move Cat, I can't use the remote."

But now, I hear him saying things like "Moose likes turkey a lot!" or talking TO him, "Moose, you only come in here to get food!"

I've accused him of secretly liking Moose, which he, a life long Dog Person, will deny. Just as I denied Apollo, but always gave him my cut hot dog ends, or ice cubes that fell out of the fridge.

In the end, I loved that dog and I suspect that The Man loves Moose in his own way. And maybe, just having that chubby turkey-fan nearby will help him feel a little better about losing his best animal friend. I know it's helped me.

And I smile a little each time I see a tiny piece of bacon in Moose's food dish.

Who wouldn't be comforted by this:

Comments, questions, animal buddies?

Spam-alot, or, a Lot of Spam

2011-03-24T06:16:00.000-07:00

So, because my yahoo mail (see also: suckfest) allows a hella-ton of spam into my inbox (despite my clicking SPAM so much I've worn my spam-clicking finger down to a nubbin), I occasionally peruse said spam to see what idiots are trying to sell me.

Here are a few:

A Bachelor's Degree - I already have one. If you stalked me more, spammers, you might know that. Honestly? I don't really dig the one I *have* and that took a lot of work. Odds are good I won't put in time for another one. Granted, it looks fancy in the frame.

Nursing training - Um. Well. I basically can triage my offsprings' wounds pretty well. Given that The Man runs around and shouts and has an apoplectic fit when the kids get hurt, *someone* has to get on deck. The funny thing is that he's *TOTALLY* first-aid trained from the Air Force. When it's our kids though, I'm Nurse on Duty. But random strangers? Ughhhhhhhh. I don't do blood, bones, infections or virulent pathogens. And I've read some of Sassy's nursing books. NO. WAY. God love the good nurses out there, but Your Favorite Writer won't be one of them, spammers.

Eating Disorder - I'm not sure if they're selling me an eating disorder or the recovery program. It was just listed as "eating disorder." I don't have one, don't want one, nor do I need the recovery. Then again? I've always said rehab might make a nice vacation from my life... I'll consider it if you're footing the bill.

Diabetic Supplies - Well, you're about four years behind me there, spammers. I had the fun and exciting Gestational Diabetes with Casanova, which was a ROYAL BITCH. Pregnant and carb counting? SUCKFEST. Thankfully, I'm not poking my fingers full of holes anymore, so keep your supplies.

ADHD - Again, what are you selling?! I'd prefer not to get any MORE distracted than I already am.

Mobility Scooter - FINALLY! Now we're talking. True story: in college, I worked as a receptionist at a very swanky (no lie) retirement home. Every evening, I sorted and delivered mail to the residents who lived in the apartment section. Well, there were usually some scooters parked by the dining room and I thought often (read: daily) of snagging a scooter and zipping down to do the mail delivery. It was a long walk and who doesn't want to roll on one of the jazzy red ones?! EXACTLY. FYI: I'm tricking mine out with chrome.

Carpet Cleaning - I got a bunch of these in a row. If the spammers ARE stalking me, they'll know I actually DO need a good carpet cleaning. Note to self: Get rid of sheer curtains.

Hair Replacement - Not. bloody. likely. Unless they're scoping me out as a donor. Which? Flattering, but I'm only mid-back, so you'll need to wait a bit.

Mutual Funds - See also: liberal arts degree. This is foreign stuff here, spammers. Might I suggest you spam my Business Degree friends?

Shoemoney - That's totally how it's spelled too. Are you offering money FOR shoes? That might work for me, but only if you don't misspell it - because that looks totally non-legit right there.

Depression help - Thanks, but I already have a pretty sweet boyfriend named Wellbutrin. Sure, he cheats on me with some of mah friends, but I don't mind. He's so helpful, who could be mad at him for that!

Electrician school - Bwahahahahaaaa! You don't want me anywhere NEAR live electricity and/or wiring. Trust that.

Alcohol Rehab - See also: rehab if you're paying. I'm not an alcoholic, but again, the rehab part sounds nice. I *know* some alcoholics, so I could totally talk about it, if you're springing for it.

Black Singles Connect - Well clearly you're NOT stalking me, spammers. Or you'd realize that, yeah, I'm pretty damned white. Unless you're trying to connect singles *with* me, which, hi, I'm married. That applies to you too, spammer from Match.com!

Senior Care Options - I know that yes, I love scooters and yes, I heart loungewear, (so did Carmella Soprano!) but I'm not a senior YET, spammers.

Acne Solution - Sorry, I have my retin-yAy, so I'll pass.

Big and Beautiful Singles - Well I REALLY hope this isn't *about* me. I know I need to jog, but damn!

Finally....

Burial Insurance - I'm RIGHT HERE, spammers! I'm not dead at all. Nor do I really want to buy this for anyone else. The Man might *not* take it as a kindness...given that I ask waiters to add "just a dash" of arsenic to his orders. Regularly.

Time to clean out my spam box. Clearly.

Comments, questions, what's your spam?

Pass me that Retin-YAY!

2011-03-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me today, while I was outside in the EIGHTY DEGREE MARCH WEATHER (!!!)(bipolar state!) that I probably shouldn't be facing the sun.

Mainly because it says so on my cheerful tube of Retin-A.

Thanks to my (awwwwesome!) Best Insurance Company Ever, and my family's need for almost constant obscure doctor visits, we've met our yearly out-of-pocket maximum. And by March! What! (Picture that "what!" the way Randy Jackson says it on Idol.) Last year, it took us until August, and our insurance re-cycles in October. So = free medical joy until October! Way to go team!

I called up my family doctor (she of the refusing to liberally smother me in tranquilizers) and left a message, not sure at all if anyone would refill my ancient Tretinoin script. A.K.A. Retin-A, that champion of clear adult skin, bursting with newly produced collagen. They called it in, and my Best Insurance Ever filled it. WIN!

And, since people around here refuse to buy me The 'Tox for my impending wrinkles, I'm retin-A-ing it up. Mainly I'd decided something had to be done, since I was breaking out like a senior before prom. I'm 32 = unacceptable. Even more obnoxious (but yet still fulfilling my general overarching karma) was that I didn't HAVE bad skin as a teenager. I had nice, happy clear skin. Now though, now that I'm all grown up (allegedly) I have break outs. FAIL.

I blame the children. Or The Man. Or both. Yes, definitely both.

Thus = Retin-A. My wrinkle AND zit blasting boyfriend.

Of course, the catch is that your entire face has to slough off like some sort of pasty colored snake molting. There is *that* minor issue. And it itches and burns and chunks of your chin may or may not fall into your dinner plate. Oh, and you might break out WORSE around week seven or eight, but then OHDEARGOD don't STOP using it because it's IMPERATIVE that you continue the regimen! (Pretty much quoted from mah tube.)

Apparently it's *after* the molting and breaking out that your new, youthful face emerges. I'm very hopeful. I'm in the flaky and burning stage. I'm supposed to avoid the sun because it could burn me - as if it doesn't ALWAYS try to kill my pale Scottish be-freckled skin each spring and summer. Just MORE of the burning, I guess. So I should beware of catching on fire. Thanks Retin-A!

I told my BFFIC that I have to molt before I can have awesome skin and she claimed, "that's not an endorsement." WHATever.

I can't afford semi-annual injections of The 'Tox, and despite using my very best auto analogies with The Man, he doesn't seem motivated to set aside a 'tox fund.

"Would you stop washing and waxing the Bitchy German Luxury Car?!" I asked him. "It's all about UPKEEP vs. REPAIR."

And yet. No 'Tox for me.

Thusly, I'll be slathering on my Retin-YAY. I expect to be smoking hot *visually* after the flaking and burning is over, and not just hot from the pain and vicious sunburn.

Comments, questions, what are you doing to keep age at bay?

It's Been too Long, I'm Glad to be Back.....

2011-03-18T06:26:00.000-07:00

Duh, duh duh DUH, I'm Back in BLACK!

Okay, well if that wasn't in your head before, it is *NOW* homies. Although right now, Pandora is playing Pink Floyd's opus to obsessive women EVERYwhere, which is the gem "Talking" - which is in my head in virtually EVERY argument I have with The Man. "Why aren't you talking? What are you thinking?".... Clearly.

So I hope I didn't offend ~~all three of you~~ anyone with my anti Apocalypse Now! people rant. And yet, I managed to hear even MORE of it yesterday. Sigh. Note to self: learn block/delete on Facebook.

It's not that I'm all Pollyanna, but I'm what we call a Pragmatic Optimist. I'm realistic to a certain point, but I'm also pretty sure that most people DON'T want to kill me and/or turn me into an Evil Capitalist Zombie and that the world was here before me, and will be here after me and the only cause I get all "Ima cut you" about is Tibet. And even then? Well the the Buddhists would be all, please DON'T shank anyone, so I just rage against the injustice of it all, say namaste to my Buddha head in the formal living room (what, you don't have one?) and drink some low-acid coffee.

The funny part to me, is if you suggest someone all "Down with the Evil Empire!" actually try to CHANGE it, they're usually "oh you can't change ANYthing because THEY have a secret evil cabal and anything you do is pointless!" Well, um, am I the only one who then says.... then what the fuck you worrying for, yo? I mean, spreading "information" to the masses through barely read Facebook statuses, or griping to your bestie is GREAT and all, but um, if it's pointless, then maybe go and work on your spraytan or something. Read a good book. Write your manifesto. Whatever works for YOU, pumpkin.

Oops. I ranted again!

See? BACK IN BLACK.

And right now I'm really trying *not* to have a flashback due to Dark Side of the Moon. TRUE STORY: when I was in high school, it came time for the obligatory wisdom tooth removal. I went to a DENTIST and not an oral surgeon. Mistake one. They told me to bring some music and I'd be on nitrous. Ohhhhhkayyyy. I brought Dark Side, naturally. They started the nitrous. I felt just fine thankyouverymuch.

Then, the dentist proceeded to chisel my teeth out of my jaw with a jackhammer for the next several hours, while I drooled and winced and wondered what exactly HAD become of VERA?!

Friends, it was an event that = PTSD.

He managed to extract (read: rip out) only two teeth in the time he'd expected to do all four. I swelled (note: I'm a sweller in the event of injury) so much that I looked deformed, all from birth style. Not cool. My temple popped OUT.

So now when I hear ANYthing from Dark Side, I try to NOT remember having my sad wisdom teeth removed and the great amount of physical agony that followed. (I was bleeding and throwing up once the shots wore off = NO PAIN MEDS.)(I was lolling on my bathroom floor with my mom calling the dentist and my cat trying to comfort me as I moaned and drooled and flailed about.)

Geeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!

Okay. I feel better now. Pandora put on some Bob Marley. That was a close one!

Now that I've *totally* rocked your Friday with THAT little anecdote, let's move on.
I am very excited to report that I almost had the idea for a plot the other day! I know, it was pretty cool. Then I got distracted because *someone* had left a dirty peanut butter knife on my counter. WHAT! Uncool. Very very uncool. And peanut butter is aggressive! You can't get it off unless you use a flamethrower. My dishwasher (see also: LEMON) refuses to do anything but slosh the dirt around so it has NO effect on peanut butter.

This is my problem. I almost get a real PLOT and I end up throwing peanut butter knives around my kitchen.

But don't worry, I'm on it. I might write it down or brainstorm or something. Remember brainstorming in English class? When your teacher would draw a blobby cloud on the board and all the ~~idiots~~ kids would call out unrelated things and your teacher would pretend they were good ideas? No? Well I do. And it was lame. I don't brainstorm. I CREATE, bitches. I'm hardcore like that.

It's GAME ON up in here. Bring it. The literary magic will begin....after I call the dishwasher repairman. (again.)

Comments, questions, what do you have to say this Friday?

Happy St. Patrick's, or, I've Been Remiss

2011-03-17T07:20:00.001-07:00

Last night, I was busy stewing in a smorgasbord of my own irritation, and reading Good Housekeeping, which I'm certain you can picture me doing.

I'm irritated because of Ongoing Life Struggles, plus the fact that I feel like a damned chubby badger who's been hibernating with a crate of Girl Scout Cookies all winter, AND I don't feel overly motivated to Jillian-Michaels-LIFE-CHANGE it right now. Hmph. So there.

Naturally I ran across an article all about Making Happy Happen or some other trite shit. This of course, after I'd seen helpful hints about making my own umbrella stand. TRUE story.

The Happy Happy Shit article basically said that I should do things I know I need to do (exercise, avoid face-punching) every single day - and that way, I'll keep doing them. Well holy hell what nice advice, am I right? I realized sadly that I'd fallen off the "Ima post EVERRRRday" blog commitment! (Somewhere, there are two whole lurkers who are shaking their fists at the screen and saying "WE KNOW! Damn your eyes!")

Basically I've been in a 1. Life situation rut 2. Anxiety eating my brain rut and 3. Creative outlet rut. I haven't really thought of anything to write about or anything interesting enough. Basically my inner mind is a little like this:

whatarewegoingtodo
idontknowwhattodo
ishouldwritesomething
whatshouldiwrite
WHATAREWEGOINGTODOOOOO?!

That's a snake eating its tail right thar. That's what I've been doing since, ohhhh, February when Life Changes tried to kill Your Favorite Writer. I basically obsess about what's bothering me and then work myself into an anxiety-filled tizzy and collapse somewhere twitching until I have to cook dinner. No, not really, but sort of. And yes, yes, Your Favorite Writer is on the meds, as they say. They're working, so I'm functional but not overly HAPPY.

I'm learning, through friends who've gone before me, AND my therapist, that thinking you can think your way out of EVERY situation is a dirty dirty lie. It's the biggest dirty pirate of all, my friends.

See, you think about something and solve it by thinking: if I leave at this time, I'll arrive at this time and can give my kid his lunch AND make the 9 am meeting! Win!

You solved A Problem, and by THINKING! Your brain thinks that you can solve LOTS of problems this way, including things you just CAN'T solve by thinking. Or thinking a lot. Or obsessing about while people talk to you and you don't even hear them because you're SO BUSY THINKING and you don't actually solve diddlydo but make yourself mildly crazy in the meantime. And make people think you have hearing loss.

Not win.

I haven't thought of anything to write either because I've been so busy thinking myself in circles and my life has been sufficiently NOT interesting, so. No writing.

Today, heeding the advice of the Happy Happy Joy Joy article, I thought I'd write - even if it happened to be about writing and/or thinking.

Not to mention, I did YOGA today friends, and as we all know, yoga gives you superpowers. Plus? I got SOOOOOO tired of random people telling me about the end of the world. This happens to me more than you think. Do I look like someone who wants to see you carrying a placard around with "The end is nigh" printed on it and looking all homeless? No. I don't.

Regale me with The Sheen's newest bon mot. Bet me $20 that you can't shoot sushi out your nose. Challenge me to a yoga face off! Who can do a sun salute fastest!

But please, PLEASE don't tell me the latest thing you read on the internet that SURELY MEANS the Mayans were right.

The Black Plague decimated, um, MOST of a continent. People were pretty sure that God was smiting them RIGHTEOUSLY. The end was nigh!...

...Aaaaaand here we are, SIX HUNDRED years later going, oh, yeah, you have plague? A squirrel bite you say? Here are some pills for that. Have a nice day.

I'm not tooooo fucking worried. Why? Because WHY BOTHER. In the meantime, you know, before I'm radiated into a giant mutant pumpkin, or the Secret Government Agencies spy on me and secretly put poison in my 2 gallon of milk, or the world ends in a giant fireball of DOOOOM, I have bills and laundry and two small children who are all "WHERE IS THE SIDEWALK CHALK?!!"

Even if they're right, I don't think that running in the streets yelling about it is going to do much. I'm very Bob Marley about this situation.

Don't worry about a thing, every little thing, is going to be alright.

Or that Kansas song I heard on the radio today: all we are is dust in the wind.

Even if it's toxic nuclear wind.

It's St. Patrick's Day. Go have a beer (a green one hopefully) or do something fun. The Man is sporting his "Fight me - I'm Irish" which he will, and he is, respectively.

I'm writing. And I'll keep writing. Barring any unforeseen world-ending event. Then, you'll have to look for me with my placard, wandering the rubble. "Oops. My bad."

Comments, questions, please don't tell me the world is ending.

Sunday Night Special

2011-03-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

Must remember: Sudafed and/or rum affects my Facebook status updates. See also, the following status update for evidence:

Two things: would love to know what was up with the cop pursuit through mah 'hood and why Gary Busey is so crazy. Note: Hopefully unrelated.

Last night, I was sitting on the couch, happily engrossed in my daiquiri and Celebrity Apprentice (which we watch solely for the entertainment value provided by Gary Busey) when we heard sirens. I assumed they were coming from a nearby road beyond the woods. I assumed wrong, because when I looked out my window, I could see red and blue strobes flashing through the cul de sac beyond our pond.

The Man went out to our porch and said he saw them go past on the main entry road twice, and I saw them loop through the cul de sac again. Police pursuit! Being the enterprising monkey I am, I logged onto the site that lists police and EMT runs in our city. Nothing! WHAT?! Now how am I supposed to know what was going down!

Damn.

Then, like anyone else distracted by his or her internet connection, I got on Facebook and posted that gem. Unsurprisingly, no one has had any insight. I mean, I think I *do* know what's up with Gary Busey, and it's the HIGHLY technical term known as "burnout" or as some people here in Indiana might say "burnt" - which I object to, but only on grammatical terms.

So we finished watching Celebrity Apprentice, and while I didn't ever learn why the POlice were chasing someone through my 'hood, I did learn some things. Such as:

1. If I make a daiquiri with cheap rum, I end up feeling like I'm at a nail salon thanks to the odor of ethanol or petrol or whatever is in cheap rum. And it takes a LOT of whipped cream to overcome cheap rum. (Hard, but not impossible.)

2. Donald Trump's son looks like him, only shorter and more like an imp. As The Man noted, a very very rich imp. Duly noted.

3. Gary Busey takes his craft VERY SERIOUSLY. Even when he's only in a made-up character for a pizza selling challenge.

4. If I saw Gary Busey throwing pepperonis and telling me I'd be SAVED if I ate his pizza, I'd immediately take a Buspar and check myself into a stress clinic, assuming The Worst (my imminent psychotic break) was occurring.

5. It's probably NOT a good idea to go out to your porch/driveway to watch a police chase in action.

6. I had no idea HOW VISCERALLY I dislike Richard Hatch. And yet respect his argument style. Verbal Assassin!

7. Nikki Taylor, former supermodel, has a pretty wicked arm sleeve tat. Yowza.

8. Cheap rum daiquiri + dirty daylight savings time = headache.

9. I hate hate HATE daylight savings time. It's L A M E. I liked it much better when my state was all I'm not changing SHIT! But now we do. Thanks to our short and TOTALLY uncharismatic governor. PS. He wants to be president. Don't let him. He fucked up my morning schedule twice a year FOREVER.

What did YOU learn last night during tv time? Hopefully you didn't learn it while drinking bad rum. Be smarter than Your Favorite Writer, it isn't hard.

Comments, questions, what's your Sunday night routine?

The Battle Within

2011-03-10T06:00:00.001-08:00

Today, if you're a stay-at-home-mom or have ever been one (or a SAHM in internet parlance), this post might feel so familiar to you that it's like you're in my kitchen, swapping stories about cleaning puke out of your carpet with Resolve. Or not.

The battle within Your Favorite Writer is one thing, the battle withOUT is another. There have been lots of recent changes at Casa de Sammo this winter, and most of them have been unpleasant or difficult. Sassy is at boot camp and I worry and miss her daily. Our brilliant dog of the huge horse tribe is gallivanting about in doggy heaven (which, thanks to the book Dog Heaven my kids now believe comes back and roams all invisible style around our house. I'm not sure that he *doesn't* but whatever.). Now, The Man is changing careers. And if you didn't get it by now (plus with my ninja-like ability to sneak up on you at any time with a new blog post) I stay home with the two Children of the Corn. (Also? It's such an encompassing term. The original Children of the Corn were all evil, crazy parent killers, I live in a state renowned for corn - such that we even have ads for things saying that "there's MORE than corn in Indiana - AND I listen to the BAND Korn, on occasion, so really it has it all.)

I'd always planned for the kids to *both* be in Princess's Special Fancy School before I tromped back to work, all Mommy Warrior style. Princess goes to half-day Kindergarten too, which means I'm shuttling her back and forth with only 3 hours in between trips. Casanova has issues separating himself from us for even the hour (A WHOLE HOUR THE HORROR!) of Sunday school. You can see my issues, logistical and otherwise, right?

If not, I will elaborate. How could I take Princess to her school (in the middle of BFE) and then the boy child to HIS hypothetical someone-strange-who-might-be-a-kidnapper-scary-place which no doubt is miles away from her school AND then get mahself to a hypothetical job type place - all by the bright hour of 8 am? Oh, and the paying for it all, of course, which is not insubstantial. I'd be paying for before-and-after care, extended day kindergarten AND then wherever I've stuck Casanova. Sighhhhhhhhhh....

Currently, I'm all snake-eating-my-tail obsessing around here. I don't know HOW I'd do any of it, but I'm afraid I may have to figure that out. But I don't *know* if I'll have to do that. It's weird, but I still can't see the future, no matter HOW MANY Sylvia Brown books I trudge through.

The sad, sad truth is that no matter how brilliant AND fancy my English degree is (impromptu lecture on literary themes in British literature anyone? No?), I will not make even HALF of The Man's salary for a long and painful time.

I saw TWO (it's so exciting because normally there aren't ANY) jobs recently online that not only wanted but REQUIRED my degree. I KNOW. It's like a sign. Seriously, it could be a sign. Someone go grab Sylvia Brown and see what she thinks.

One of them is an editing job, which, YES I can edit. Bitches, believe I can make your papers BLEED angry, red ink as I pen circles of derision around your badly used colons and improper word choice. It's what I *can* do, but not necessarily what I *want* to do. I've done it, and done it well - but I'm a writer, not an editor. Most good writers can edit, especially if they spent enough time writing and fixing papers for demanding professors. I can do it, but I also don't want to end up pigeon-holing myself as an editor when that's not really my undying passion.

The other job? Something involving "intelligence" - as in secret criminal info. Why, yes I *DO* have a criminal justice minor, thankyouverymuch! It is totally something I'm interested in, and I'm pretty sure "boring" wouldn't be involved. Also, I'd get a clippy-badge, which is always a perk for me.

I just don't know that this is the right time, the right thing. Neither job is going to make tons of cash, and/or enable me to get that sunset orange Nissan 350 Z anytime soon. Worst case? I'd end up working to pay for child care. THAT is why I've always stayed home - because I *AM* child care.

Well, that and I worked at a state licensed daycare. A daycare people happily dropped their kids off at, thinking they'd be fiiiine. None of us were CPR certified until a year after I started working there. Three workers were fired for getting high on their lunch break. Oh and I personally saw the owner mark children as present (when they were absent) to receive payment from the state since they were welfare kids. The list is long my friends, and I was determined to keep my kids OUT of a daycare.

Yes, there are good ones, but I still think I'm better for my kids.

(I promise I'm returning my soapbox to its upright position. You're welcome.)

I just don't know. And that crystal ball I had in college was stolen (probably by my evil landlord who poisoned my pet rat - but that's a different story), so, here we are.

Any mom who's been home long enough knows exactly what I mean. You've made a choice, a sacrifice, and for all the days you're glad you did, there are days you're chiseling your name in the drywall like a prisoner in cell block A.

Then again, depending on how Fate shakes things down for us, the choice might be made for me. And that? Not how I like to roll. I'm a DECIDER, dammit.

My inner jury is still out...

Comments, questions, what's your big dilemma?

My Imaginary Life Coach

2011-03-07T17:36:00.000-08:00

Last night I was trying to figure out just *what* shade of red would really make my master bath SHINE (I mean, we'll already have the crystal chandelier, so that's a lot of shine right there) but I was totally (as usual) distracted. This time, I was distracted by Dr. Drew's special on Charlie Sheen.

I really (and I may have mentioned this) want to think that Dr. Drew is a douche. He's always on tv, telling me (in soothing tones) about drug addiction while helping porn stars at his rehab center.

But darn it, he just sounds so educated and sincere! WHAT doesn't Dr. Drew know?!

So of course he's going to pop up when I'm channel surfing and tell me all about Charlie Sheen.

I'd avoided blogging about Charlie Sheen, mainly because someone having a total psychotic break/downhill slide into a toxic puddle of cocaine in public is both disturbing AND depressing. Although I'll admit his "warlock" and "tiger blood" quotes are pretty hard to resist...

This isn't really about him though, it's about Dr. Drew in all his wisdom. I'm learning things here, Readers, learning about various psychiatric disorders that Dr. Drew speculates Charlie Sheen might have. I'm learning that Dr. Drew could probably convince ME that I have one of those disorders. Although I have less quotable bon mots for t-shirt sales...

He's just so persuasive! I think he should come and tell me how to sort out my Pesky Life Problems in his nice even, reasonable tone. Since Mr. Miyagi is a fictional character, Friends, the position of Basement Life Coach is still ohhhhhpeeeeen! (And my therapist has already declined. Weird.)

I bet Dr. Drew is a bitch in a marital argument, though. His wife could be all yelling and throwing shoes at his head and rabid with PMS, and he'd calmly say that he's going to practice "fair fighting" and then point out that she was being "irrational" - boy is THAT an argument red flag for Your Favorite Writer!

The real question, would he know what shade of red works in a master bath? I'm sure he would. (He probably does Feng Shui on the side.) Since we already know my power colors are red and brown, looks like we're good on that count.

Off to find a chandelier, and I'll be mentally filing the term "hypomania" for whenever it might come in handy.

Comments, questions, who is your imaginary life coach?

Monday, Bloody Monday

2011-03-07T11:47:00.000-08:00

Now normally I enjoy a Monday as it harbors potential for the week to start off smashingly but since *this* Monday I'm walking around listing to port thanks to the ENORMOUS amount of sinus pressure I'm carting in mah head, it's not quite the Monday of my dreams.

I did, at least, get a nice yummy yum salad with my Mom AND some girl scout cookies. So. I can't exactly get all diabolical and blame the ENTIRE day.

The kids have been coughing and hacking and snorking and sneezing enough to drive me to purchase stock in Kleenex AND refill my prescription for inhaled albuterol.

I hate illness.

I get all bummed and all Scarlett O'Hara and wring my hands and grab chunks of my garden and swear "NEVER again, as God as my witness" until my neighbors peek out their windows and I go inside to eat a thin mint.

And I'd gotten all AMBITIOUS on a homie too. I even wrote today's tasks on the dry erase board, which I then planned to cross off. Like "clean center island" - which really? Just laughable at this point. I'm staring at the center island. It has an overdue library book, an electric drill, a hat and some free towels The Man got in his recent ~~insanity~~ 10K, a coffee mug, some saline solution for mah contacts, the check book, a hammer, and several brochures about deck stain. Just thinking about it drains me.

"Upstairs vacuum" also made the list...but the problem with THAT little gem is that I have to clean both kids' rooms, plus mine AND the playroom before I can vacuum. If I don't remove all 789 things on the floor, it's pointless and I suck up about 45 tiny leggos which shoot all over like shrapnel. Not to mention that I should clearly have written "vacuum upstairs" so it made sense as an action instead of appearing as an adjective. Like "upstairs vacuum" is a vacuum I have living upstairs...which I don't. I'd like to, because then I wouldn't have to lug Riccar painfully up the 400 stairs each time I need to get pretzel crumblins off my carpet.

I see it says "sheets" too, which is probably the only thing I'll realistically finish, since I have a vacuum-obsessively-like issue with changing my sheets. "Take garbage out" has potential, because otherwise I certainly won't have room for this week's crap.

Too bad I didn't put "type brilliant word art for novel" because it'd be wayyyy more fun than "call urologist" - and I don't really LIKE those people, they aren't fun to call and certainly don't enjoy my witty banter. Urology admin = boring clerical zombies - if you were curious.

I'm rather disappointed since *normally* when I take mah Sudafed (the real behind-the-counter kind and EVERYthing) I get a lot more done. Today, I think that the sheer magnitude of the kids' typhoid has overwhelmed even the strongest of meth-components!

So, I'll sulk off to change my sheets so at least I can cross THAT off. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more productive, or maybe I'll just take MORE Sudafed. I hear it works wonders in large amounts....

Comments, questions, how's Monday looking for YOU?

Double Z to the OMG my PEEPS!

2011-03-04T12:34:00.000-08:00

In case my vaguely douchey/faux urban title didn't clue you in, I'm SUPER excited today. So excited, that I actually drank 1/4 of a half cup of Coke Zero because I forgot for two whole minutes that Coke Zero + my angry inflamed bladder = scorching abdominal pain.

And I got excited like only a true psycho-fan/rabid book reader/shut-in mom can. I'm so thrilled I'm hugging myself and yelling "squeeee!" like Patrick Star when he won a trophy for doing nothing longer than anyone else.

If you're not already asking why, (I understand because you probably got distracted by that Nutrigrain bar you've been eying since after lunch) and here's the answer anyway: my favorite book series has not ONLY a mini series coming out in April but the *long-awaited* (read as: crazy former hobbit lovers weeping into their pillows at delayed publishing dates) book of the series is really and truly being published this summer.

*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!*

Normally only a new Disturbed concert and my plans to score backstage passes and/or end up on the tour bus gives me that much excitement.

Basically, and I'm going to earn some wrath here from some vengeful firey hobbit fans, but this book series is the BEST book series in the entire history of book series.

My BFFIC told me about the books long ago on one forlorn winter afternoon. I wasn't sure because she's a hardcore genre-reader. She does fantasy and sci-fi like she gets paid. I like books that basically remind me of Jerry Bruckheimer films. See also: English degree. This = I paid my dues.

This series?

George R.R. Martin's "Song of Ice and Fire" is four books that just about turned me into someone who hid under the bed with a flashlight, a bottle of tepid Coke Zero and a nutty bar. THAT good. Books that make you lock the bathroom door and yell "I'm going POTTYYYYY!" so you can finish a chapter - that good.

HBO series good.

Literary prose Chuck Norris knee to the groin of fantasy good.

And the fifth book in the series comes out in July, which makes me want to prepare a bunker NOW kind of good.

I will bludgeon anyone who tries to interrupt my reading with the book (hardback of course), wipe their blood on my bedazzled shirt and continue...

(No...not the children. The children will be occupied with writing fan letters to the author. And to Disturbed. Asking for backstage passes.)

The date is real and my BFFIC and I are giddily talking pre-order on Amazon. I can't wait to hold it in my hands, clutch it to my chest and dance wildly around the living room in some sort of book-loving haze of joy. Then the reading, the reading of all the chapters!

What happened to Sansa?

Where is Tyrion?

What's up with the zombie? (I'm pretty sure she's a zombie.)

Sure I'll be expected to drive Princess to school, clean the house, make dinner and fulfill all my housewifely-esque duties. I'm really going to have to get with T.Jo on that clone project we were talking about. My clone can do all that jazz while I finish the book, THE BOOK!

And what if your clone annoyed you? Could you say, as T.Jo did, "Back in the plastic wrap, bitch!"?

If you killed your clone, is it murder or suicide?

These are burning questions, but since my clone is *actually* typing this, I'm already busy pre-ordering my book and gyrating with unbridled love for all things George RR Martin.

My clone thanks you for your readership. She has to get back in her plastic wrap now.

Comments, questions, what makes you thrilled?

The Man Does it Again

2011-03-02T06:36:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned The Man's outstanding cop-mojo. I'm not really sure how it happens, other than Superhero skills; that's the only rational explanation. Basically, The Man gets out of more tickets than anyone I've ever seen.

It's not like he gets stopped for speeding on a daily basis or something - but over the last eight years, he's been stopped enough for me to see his crazy cop mojo in action.

I'm a girl. I'm a fancy girl. I usually am all nice and smiley and I don't cry when they talk to me (okay, well that one time when I was 16) but I have STILL gotten a ticket. Why? Because I was stopped by the one cop in my hometown that I *didn't* go to high school with.

The Man though? It's nuts. They usually end up swapping war stories and high-fiving. I've seen it several times and it always amazes me. I'm all "YOU SUCK" because if I can't get out of tickets, well, NO ONE should. This is my logic.

But yesterday, well that was my FAVORITE cop mojo story yet.

The Bitchy German Luxury Car has been in the shop for over a week. The Man had been side-swiped on the highway a couple weeks prior; it bent the BGLC's front fender and scraped the wheel all up and made it ride funny. The other car looked worse. The other car was a Volvo. Suddenly I like the BGLC better.

Aaaanyway, so we'd been through that whole "oh your car should be ready" thing and then drove up to the Fancy City where of course the BGLC fix-it-shop is located, only to find that the BGLC was still being massaged with rare oil from freshly-squeezed puffer fish and wouldn't be ready until the next day. Maybe.

Enter: The Problem.

I have to pick up Princess at 11:45 in the Crappy American SUV. The Man had a very important appointment at 11:00. Whatever would we do?

The Fancy Import Fixer Shop said, no problem, they'd help out. They picked up The Man from our house and let him drive their Bizarre American Boxy Truck Thing to his appointment. Problem solved!

So The Man was zipping through yonder north Fancy City, land of the round-abouts and speed traps when he realized he'd zipped right past a cop car. Oops. The cop car pulled out behind him, then closed in....finally WOO WOO, lights on!

The Man was driving a car that wasn't his, with the registration in someone else's name (that he probably didn't even remember) and on his way to an appointment. The Man watched the cop approach from his car, the cop's hand hovering near his belt.

Then my husband rolled down the window, turned his head around and said, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

The cop replied, laughing, "What the hell are YOU doing here?!"

It was his buddy from the Air Force, roommate from their shared trip to South Korea, and now a cop up north. The last time The Man had seen him was last summer at our house warming party.

The Man explained about his appointment and how the BGLC was in the shop and he was driving a loaner. His cop buddy said that he'd been meaning to call us so we could all meet up with him and his wife and some friends to go out.

And that was that.

My favorite "hey I got pulled over today" story EVER.

He got no ticket, and I'll have to get a sitter and break out the bar jeans and eye glitter. Win/win! (And don't you say a THING about eye glitter. It isn't optional when I go out, it's mandatory.)

Comments, questions, what's your best getting out of a ticket story?

The Way it Should Be

2011-03-01T14:51:00.000-08:00

**I really believe that the writers for tween programming should be stuffed into a cargo ship and sent off to some country that annoys me. Like Finland...mainly because I don't know where it is. I think we can all agree this should be general policy. If you *don't* agree, I DARE you to watch an hour of ANY of the following: "Good Luck Charlie," "iCarly," "Victorious". Don't come crying to me when you've jabbed a remote battery into your ear so you wouldn't have to hear the crappy dialogue anymore.**

That was just an aside to what's really chapping my fanny on this fine and only-semi-frosty Tuesday. What really bothers me? Things that SHOULD be laws of the universe, yet aren't.

For instance. If you are trying to be a heavy, dark hardcore rock band? Lose the baseball cap. And the sunglasses.

I'm talking to YOU Avenged Sevenfold.

While I am completely on board with their use of pyro, as well as jumping around on amps, I think we can all agree that baseball caps should be left safely back in 1999 with Fred Durst. Not that there's anything wrong with a little "Break Stuff" because really? There ARE days when I feel like a freight train, first one to complain leaves with the blood stains.

DAMN RIGHT I'm a maniac...

But let's just add this to Sammo's Compendium of Rock Laws of the Universe. It reads thusly:

Black is great, especially when leather.
Use of flames, skulls, and/or being wheeled out in a straight jacket is not only acceptable, but encouraged.
Long hair, while traditional, is optional.
Sunglasses are okay ONLY if you're extra crispy from The Heroin and going acoustic.
If you look like a frat guy, Trent Reznor will show up at your house and teach you about his pretty hate machine.
And finally, if you have any questions, please refer to Metallica. If THEY think it's douchey, you probably aren't rock enough.

I know that I seem to fixate on this sort of thing, certainly a lot for a hausfrau, am I right? But honestly? I think the housewife rock contingent is TOTALLY under- appreciated. How else are we going to raise a generation of rock fans?! Someone has to combat Justin Bieber.

BEST RECENT ROCK ANECDOTE:

The Biebs apparently told Kid Rock that he'd purchased Kid's old tour bus. His response?

"I hope you had it sanitized, son."

That is how you do rock. Well played, Kid Rock.

Comments, questions, what do you vote for a Law of the Universe?

Plan A

2011-02-28T07:15:00.000-08:00

I'm Type A, so planning is pretty much coded somewhere deep within my double-helixes. Unfortunately, I'm not always so detailed, so my plans go something like this:

Plan!
Sell brilliant novel (I haven't written) to Agent (I don't know) and go on Ellen to promote it, while insisting she play Cee Lo's "F*ck You" so we can all karaoke and dance together!

You see the problem.

However. While still deeply in mourning for my Gigantic Beloved Canine (we get his ashes this week, sweet baby Jesus help me - there's something else to plan) I developed a plan to eventually have another dog we might love.

But not without totally fucking things up first.

Last week I saw a rescue French Mastiff (aka the Dogue de Bourdeaux) online. Turner and Hooch? Well this was the Hooch. His story was SO SAD and I thought, well, just maybe we could rescue him. Maybe this had aligned so we'd have a dog and not one that looked like Apollo.

The Man had told me for years about wanting a Dogue de Bordeax. I thought it might work. Long story short, the foster lady suggested a "sleep over" so we could try things out.

He was cute. He was mellow. He was not housebroken. He shat upon our carpet multiple times. He lifted his leg on the marble inlay and carpet by our fireplace and emptied his bladder. He ate Casanova's prized Handy Manny crane. He scattered recycle-ables all over the kitchen. Our darling Obese House Cat refused to come downstairs after being chased through the dining room several times. He hid in the laundry room because the kids were a bit too much for him.

We called the nice foster lady Sunday and declared the sleepover a bit of a failure. I made sure he wouldn't be given back to the shelter and she assured me that he'd find a good home. Back he went.

Trying to adopt a mere week after your best friend died? Good intentions = Epic Fail.

So. I came up with a new plan.

Months from now, when this February of Misery is officially cold and dead in our collective memories, when we can talk about our big loving dog without bursting into tears (that's pretty much, um, just me) then well....this is my plan.

Our dog had a birth certificate. I plan on finding the breeder (please, no lectures about rescues, I'll get to that in a sec) and getting a different colored English Mastiff - hopefully one that's related to Apollo. I might name him something from the Greek or Roman family, as tribute. Then, we'll train him to NOT eat our house, nor frighten our obese housecat with attempts to eat him. He won't be Apollo, but he'll be a good friend.

As an aside, I am 100% PRO-rescues, shelters, etc. My resume, you ask? Why certainly! I tallied it up, and while in college alone, with a little help from mah friendses, I rescued nine cats and two dogs. On one cat rescue alone, I lay in a freezing drainage ditch for over an hour until the terrified orange kitten agreed to come out and accept a ride to a nice warm house. I also collected over a thousand signatures on a petition to make animal cruelty a felony in our state. Me, why, I'm a friend to fuzzy people everywhere.

I'd never had a pure-bred dog. I met The Man, and Apollo was already HMFIC of the canine world. Breeding is a funny thing. I'd always thought it was dickish to have a purebred dog when there were so many facing the doggy gas chamber. *BUT*.

When you have a dog that is 200 pounds and could literally eat your face off, it sort of pays to know the temperament and history. And English Mastiffs are an ancient breed. They are called gentle giants for a reason.

After 11 years with one, I don't know that I'd want another breed. I know that the average English would rather bite himself than bite my kids. They're just such amazing dogs. I don't want to worry that somewhere in a large dog's DNA there's something coding for violence. I have too many stories of kids being bitten and hurt by dogs that were big and of different breeds.

Apollo put up with some SHIT, yo. He had his doggy junk pulled by inquisitive babies. He was jumped on, sat upon, thumped in the head with kid toys as both my kids turned into crazy roving toddlers. He was run into with walkers, then later, run into with ride-on toys. And finally, he was loved aggressively by Casanova; even as he lay dying of a cancer we knew nothing about, he endured it.

And I'm a bloody damned convert, despite my best intentions.

Someday, when we're ready, we'll get another mastiff; I don't want anything else.

And maybe, I'll detail some of my other plans in the meantime.

Comments, questions, what's your plan?

A Bad Country Song, or, I Miss You Apollo

2011-02-24T16:21:00.000-08:00

You know that old joke, the one where it says "what happens if you play a country song backward?" You get your wife back, your car back and your dog back?

I wish I could play back the last few weeks.

February is officially trying to kill me. Or my spirit. Either one really.

This month has been host to a series of bad, stressful events. My doctor seems to think that I'm okay. A biff told me "just get xanax off the street, like everyone else."

And just when I thought that I knew what true crap felt like, it, *of course* got worse.

My dog died.

I've complained about him, yelled at him, wished he would slink off to the other room just so I could VACUUM for the love of God, and turned him into a hyphenated "damn-dumb-dog" more times than I can remember. He woke me up by getting his butt stuck under my bed, having a dog dream, and shaking the bed like the devil in The Exorcist. He messed up my carpet, slobbered all over my throw blankets, and snuck up on the couch when we left to run errands.

He got into the trash, scared the cat, and dropped enough horse-sized poo in the yard to make walking in the grass a scary proposition. He had horrible gas, routinely got ear infections that stank and occasional cysts on his skin that would burst and make me throw up in my mouth. He would eat something he shouldn't have, and throw up hideous giraffe-sized vomit all over the place. He would tromp on my foot and impale me with a giant dog claw. He was always behind me, so I'd trip over him, and it didn't matter where I was - there he was.

He'd pick up green (or black really) walnuts in his mouth, and since his mouth was SO big, I wouldn't see them until he had spit it out on our carpet. He did it, really and truly, because I found it funny. For awhile, I called him "Pauly Walnuts" - from the Sopranos? Awesome.

He was a pain in the ass.

But I loved him. I loved that big, drooly, pain in the ass.

I loved that he would lean against me when I was sick, when no one else wanted to be near my ebola-covered carcass.

I loved that he would stick his huge head out the door, and I never had to buy a damned thing from a solicitor. (One time, a lady was so disconcerted, she literally ran backwards and hid behind our pillar on the front porch.)

Last Thursday, he started to act funny. He'd pace and stop and stand, and walk just to flop down and close his eyes. He wouldn't respond when I said his name. He finally lay down and closed his eyes and when I sat with him on the floor, I could see him trembling. I knew he was in pain. I assumed, even hoped, it was (another) arthritis flare up. I called the vet. The Man took him while I waited at home.

It wasn't the arthritis. It was a mass in his abdomen. It had shoved his organs up and he wasn't getting enough air. It was cancer. It took his loving, sweet heart and compressed it. The only answer was the hardest one.

And if you're not an animal lover, if you've never buried your best friend, the one who steals your food and pretends they didn't, or who pees on your floor and feels terrible about it, or who sits with you when you're crying over something, and just LOVES you, if you're not one of those people, well go somewhere else. Because that damn-dumb-dog was worth more than just about anything.

All my friends knew, knew better than I did, that no matter how vocally I bitched about the dog and how he needed to get out of the kitchen or whatever I said, that I'd be the one barely hanging on when something DID happen.

It finally *did* happen.

The Man was with him. He held him. He did the last thing that a person can do for an animal whom they've loved and who has loved them back, unconditionally. While I had gathered the kids and me around him before he left, petting him, telling him in whispers that we loved him, had always loved him and that he was a GOOD BOY, The Man did the hardest part. And it broke his heart.

Since Thursday, I've seen him a hundred times. I've walked through the dark in my bedroom, skirting the place he used to lie, out of habit. I've cut off the ends of hot dogs, with no one there waiting to eat them. I haven't vacuumed the floor because I can still see where his giant dog butt had flattened it. I haven't moved his big, hair-covered bed, or his half drunk water. I keep waiting to hear that awful clicking noise his nails made on our laminate flooring.

I made arrangements with the vet's office, although I'm not 100% sure the lady could understand me through my sobbing. He'll be coming back home in a little dog urn, because I couldn't stand the idea of him being anywhere else. I'll get a packet of flower seeds that I can plant. I will plant them. I will keep those flowers alive, although I typically kill anything green and growing. Those will be the flowers for the best damn-dumb-dog who ever lived.

I've always been a spiritual person. I believe strongly that there is more than just this life. I believe that animals are as spiritual as people, if not more so, because they're free from things like greed or revenge or hatred, and I know that those spirits go on. I know that he's out there, free from pain, spreading his love and joy and goodness in the universe.

And all dogs DO go to heaven.

I know that things here will get better. It's just as likely that blessings are around the corner as it is that pain is around the corner. I know that in the darkest moments, there is always light. I know we have to find that light and hold it close. I know that Apollo just made that light shine a little brighter.

But it's still hard. It's hard when my daughter, she of the Cat Lovers' Club, sobs at night, wishing he were here, wishing she could see him or hug him. My heart breaks all over again when my kids ask me "why?" Because I don't know. I don't know why we love and lose. I don't know why we have pain in the world, or suffering, or anything else. I'm no theologian. I just know that there WILL be love again.

And that our love for a big, smelly dog will never disappear. Love is always light. And he was mightily loved. My daughter asked that I write a prayer request at church last Sunday; asking prayers that our dog was with God now. Just yesterday, she received a hand-written card from our senior pastor, assuring her that God cares for all his creatures and that Apollo and the pastor's cat were both with God now. That card meant the world to her, and to me. One gesture does matter, for a dog who mattered.

Rest in peace, without pain, in a garden of dog heaven, chasing ducks and eating goose poo, running after your big, blue ball Apollo.

Comments, questions, visit MASTIFF RESCUE to help this wonderful breed. Or donate to your humane society today.

Quickly, A Post for You

2011-02-22T06:44:00.000-08:00

It sucks that I've pretty much fallen off my game and I'm doing about one post a week, but I have a nice long (probably depressing so be warned) post coming - I just have to find some pictures I want to post along with it.

Right now I'm procrastinating writing checks because much like my post-I-haven't-posted-yet, THAT is depressing. And for some reason, people frown on too much drinking at 9 something in the morning. Even when it's because you're paying bills.

So, I'm sober, out of coffee (the HORROR) and having to pay bills. See, your day is *already* far better than mine! Win for you!

Enjoy your Tuesday while I avoid rum and pay people who really shouldn't be hassling me anyway.

Comments, questions, how goes it?

Valentine's Day and Why Awesome Music is Dead

2011-02-14T06:09:00.000-08:00

Hurrah! It's a Two-Parter, so settle in and refill that grande mochachino, it's reading time my friends. Oh yeah, and I started this Monday, so, well, keep that in mind. End of prefacez.

Part I: The Obligatory Mention of Valentine's Day

I'd be singing some sort of love song (probably Three Days Grace, since I don't really listen to pop-y stuff) but my mouth is full of chocolates. Aren't the square ones legally supposed to ALWAYS be caramel-filled? Filling it with dark chocolate, while acceptable, still isn't caramel. Don't get me started on that weird pink goo though. THAT shit is gross.

So clearly The Man fulfilled his husbandly duties and got me some chocolate. He also wrote me a letter which was all "wish we could have gone out to dinner" and that's very The Man of him. Pretty much every card he gets me has a wish of something we should do, but can't. Which is HIGHlarious. Like the birthday card when he says "wish we could go to Vegas and I could buy you a 350Z" - that's how it usually goes. And honestly, I would love to do A. dinner B. Vegas (clearly) and C. my 350 Z. Someday, my friends, someday! The cards I write are usually much, um, longer. Shock!

The Children of the Corn also got valentine's stuff from us, as if they needed any more sugar in their diets. Thankfully, Casanova appears to have the hummingbird metabolism of my husband and Princess is too busy writing her dissertation on Junie B. Jones to worry about over-indulging in carbohydrates. They'd both live on fruit roll-ups (the horror! I've tried banning them.) Juicy Juice and Kix if they could. I'm pro Kix, so there's that.

See, this is what happens when you're all Married with Children. You throw candy at each other, shout "Happy Valentine's Day" as you're running out the door and meet up later for some shoddily prepared stir fry dinner. (It's not MY fault I hate cooking.)

For the rest of you who have time to put on Vicky's Secret underwear and dash off to some Italian place, enjoy it for the rest of us! And I hope that cheesecake goes right to your thighs. Ahem.

Part II: Why I Will Never Watch the Grammys Again and/or Why Music Died

Okay, we've reached the Sammo's Soapbox portion of today's blog. *And I apologize in advance for anyone I offend with my ranting and/or differing musical tastes!* (Even though I'm totally right.)(Because country sucks.)(But you probably think rock sucks.)(And you're wrong.)(But it's okay because we can all agree that Lady Gaga is the shit.)

Last night, since we didn't have anything good on DVR, The Man and I sat through (almost) the entire Grammys show. Now, since all you good readers, all four of you, know that I have a small shrine in my closet to the brilliance of Her Royalty of the Lady Gaga persuasion, it comes as no surprise that I was pleased as (spiked) punch to see her perform and win. And I also think her bizarre alien implants were hella more fun than that country chick's hideous Hefty bag dress.

Her new song is catchy, although I end up singing Madonna's "Express Yourself" half way through because in my brain it all mushes together. But Madonna didn't sing it after arriving in a giant extraterrestrial cocoon either.

Now. Here's my issue with the Grammys. It's an award for musicians, right? I mean, successful musicians who've sold lots of albums? Just so we're clear, I'm pretty sure that's what it is. And here is my problem. The music represented was as follows: 1. Crap that tweens and/or my 6-year old like. 2. Crap that people who wear large belt-buckles shaped like Texas like. 3. Crap that housewives are allegedly supposed to like. and of course, 4. Crap that teenage white kids who wear wife beaters and use urban slang like.

What *wasn't* featured? Crap that you can sing along with while face-punching someone who cut you off in traffic. Or imagining face-punching someone. Or, basically crap that *I* like. You know it bitches. ROCK.

And I am soooooo not talking about the "rock" that they tried to include in their *lame old ass* category. Oh, and I'm not talking about Tom Petty either, because I voted for him if ANYone had to win, because the evil announcers were saying horrible horrible things like "Pearl Jam" and then I couldn't hear because someone was screaming in agony and oh yeah it was me but then it was okay because Pearl Jam didn't win. I mean, we were mostly okay with "Jeremy" or even "Evenflow" although honestly all I could EVER think about was "don't they make baby products" and it was the 90s so what the hell did I care about songs about baby products? But honestly, I broke up with Eddy Vedder pretty much after that weird video with all the bloody kids and God help me but I have to suffer through "Can't Find a Better Man" at LEAST 700 times a week because my "rock" station is evil and refuses to accept that Shinedown has some sweet new singles.

But annnnyway. My main point is this: there are awards given for bands/artists that sell lots of albums. How many albums does Shinedown sell, or Disturbed, or Breaking Benjamin or, well, you get the idea. Remember those glory days when Metallica won some grammys? Me too. I mean, I think they won grammys. Maybe they were too badass and drunk and didn't want to accept them and sent some record exec to make speeches so they could binge on jack and coke on the tour bus. I really don't know. Either way, I'm FED UP with awesome rock being ignored so that I can listen to someone's sad ass singing being autotuned; fun at parties, makes you sound like a robot.

That's pretty much it. It's already Tuesday, I threw that damnable Girl with her bloody tattoo back at the library yesterday, and I'm knee deep in some killer Jeffery Deaver fiction. You know, fiction that actually makes you *want* to read it. I might give it a grammy.

Comments, questions, who would you give a grammy to?

The Post about Posting

2011-02-10T13:20:00.000-08:00

As you might have noticed from my last few posts, things here at Casa de Sammo aren't at their finest. I've been busy, and I haven't been writing. I'm usually, okay NEVER, at a loss for words. The few times in my life when I've been stunned into silence were A. Not good moments and B. So shocking that I nearly died from double shock overload. (You know, because I was already shocked and then shocked that I had nothing to say about it.)

But right now? I feel like there's a big block of wood where my head used to be. Alarmingly, I'm starting to *understand* Sylvia Plath's usage of the bell jar imagery. (Since it involved electro-shock therapy, um, that's notsogood.)

I am basically forcing myself to write. I'm pretty sure that the result won't be brilliant, but when a writer can't (or won't) write, well, it's not good for ANYone.
So you get what you get, and you don't throw a fit.

I've been so whackadoodle that I do stuff that I'd normally find HIGHlarious, like substitute the word "nap" for "laugh" (example: "She said I should call so-and-so for a good nap.") or giving my husband a full sippy cup. He looked understandably perplexed. Then we both just stood there, confused with me.

I've also disconnected from Facebook. I know, it's really dire for that to happen right? Well, basically, I decided (very rationally I think) that if I had to blunder through this time of tribulation reading status updates about someone's awesome spring break plans or their new car or how they took Puffy the Poodle to the groomer, well, I'd probably end up hunting them down and stabbing their laptop to death with a dull pencil. While I hummed a melody off-key (obviously) from Les Miserables. We don't need that.

I mean, it's sort of the PROBLEM with Facebook. How much *do* I care about that girl I knew in 3rd grade's opinion of the situation in the middle east? And I'm being generic. But the cause-y people are getting a little tiresome, am I right? You don't see me Facebooking tirelessly about the Tibetan oppression, now do you? And I LOVE me some Dalai Lama. Just saying. So. Yeah. I'm off Facebook for now.

I'd also love to say that I'm focusing on ME or my future or the children (of course the children!) but honestly, I'm basically trying to get through each day without committing a felony. I think that's really what life *is*. You don't really have to FEEL like the hero, you just have to SELL it like you are. You can totally have the rights to tattoo that if you want. But "verbal assassin" is trademarked, yo.

Anyway, there are fajitas that aren't going to wait around for my sister in law to fly out here and make them (she does it up), so looks like I'm on deck. And I'll be watching out for that bell jar...but...I'm writing.

Comments, questions, whatevah?

Update and her Tattoo

2011-02-08T09:43:00.000-08:00

Well, my personal siege hasn't stopped (like I hoped it would) but NOT writing hasn't really cured my life either. Sure, I've vacuumed ~~obsessively~~ and started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo...

And I have ONE *new* theory: people refuse to admit when Oprah has told them to read a boring as shit book. That would mean Oprah or the NY Times are dirty liars, and we can't have that sort of flux in the universe. True story: So far, this book identically mimics my college Moby Dick Experience. I had to read Moby Dick. Moby Dick is a book of 456 chapters about knot-tying, 1 chapter about a mutant named Queequeg (best part of the book) and something about an albino whale in chapter 298. I started rooting for the whale. EAT EVERYONE so I can finish this damnable BOOK! Aaaaand that's where I am with the girl and her aforementioned dragon tattoo. I'm hoping someone gets shanked, blown up, or possibly set afire to make this read a little more interesting. (Although my friend assured me there might be some gang rape, and I think even THAT will be made uninteresting. Not that I'm into gang assault. Just that the telling will be like if I wrote about going to the bank. THAT level of interest.)

True Story Part II: I was sitting at the doctor's office, as I do, and my doctor was all "OH, how do you like that book?" and I said "ehhhhh" and she said "Yeah, I tried four times to read it! My friend said it gets good after page 200, but that's too many pages." Yes. Yes it is.

Maybe the albino whale will make a cameo and eat the people in THIS book, and I can go read Uncle Tom's Cabin and write a paper about it - that's what I did when I gave up on Moby and his knot-tying last time around.

It's so DISAPPOINTING when you expect to like a book and 5,000 people on Facebook are all "ZOMG, I just read the BESTEST book in book history!" and then you get the book and you're all "wait, this sucks, I'm so conFUSED!" but you don't want to say anything because book-readers get all "I'm 'ona cutabitch" over their favorites, but you can't help but notice that absolutely NOTHING has happened in the first 100 pages and you know that clearly not all of us are Tom Wolfe or Dennis Lehane or John Connolly or George R.R. Martin (these are the authors *I* would cutabitch over) but seriously, I mean for the LOVE, could you at LEAST work on developing characters beyond their wearing a nose ring? THAT is not a character! THAT is a piercing. I'm just saying.

I had a tongue ring in 2001. That doesn't make me interesting. That doesn't mean you should be all "The Girl with the Misunderstood Ankle Tattoo" or something.

And there are more books in this series, but if I can't get past Queequeg and her nose ring this time around, I'll be going for the new Nelson Demille.

But at least I'm (sort of) back. Just not back in BLACK. Not yet, but we're getting there.

Comments, questions, do you like that damnable book?

My Hiatus

2011-02-04T04:17:00.001-08:00

If I were a fancy literature professor, who taught you alllll about the joys of confessional poetry (while you dithered around with apps in your iPhone), today is the lecture in which I'd tell you about my planned sabbatical.

Doesn't it sound like fun? I've always thought so. "I'm going on sabbatical!" and then I'd jet off to jolly old England and read some first edition Elizabethan work in a stuffy old library with my literati friends. Then, I'd retire to my hotel room after a smashing dinner of fish and chips (I'm not fancy in my fantasies and I LOVE fish and chips) and write some sort of dazzling paper for publication.

Alas, I'm a mere stay-at-home mom (who has been staying home a LOT what with the ice skating rink that was dropped on my entire home state this past week) and sabbatical isn't something that WE do.

So basically, I'm taking a minor break from my Brilliant Word Art. Rest assured that I'm here, doing okay and still ducking and swinging. I just don't know what sort of writing I can do at this point that isn't going to sound, um, crazy? So I'd rather not.

I'm dealing with some shit right now, homies. Some Real Life Shit. I don't like it much, for all the good that does. But it's time, as they say, to go to the mattresses. If you don't know what that phrase means; A. You REALLY need to go and read some Mario Puzo novels. and B. You're officially lame.

But that's what I'm doing. I'm going to the mattresses. When I come back, I'm sure I'll be stronger and even MORE awesome, even though it's hard to imagine how that could happen. Awesome is usually on tap here all day LONG.

So. Hang in there. Read some Mario Puzo for the LOVE, and check back regularly. I can't live long without writing. But I just don't want to write stuff that could later be considered evidence. Capice? I know you do.

Comments, questions, do you hiatus?

Blathering on About Nothing in Particular

2011-02-01T05:06:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck home today, which, don't get me wrong, I'm rather happy about. Mainly because I get extra coffee. Now that I cold brew my coffee, I can actually drink it again. This is so full of the YAY! that I can't even tell you. I get a little, oh, homicidal, it turns out, having to drink only water and/or milk.

(Apparently I just can't LIVE on caffeinated drinks. Pity.)

I'm stuck home because of what they are adorably calling "Stormaggedon" - see, isn't that cute? No. We already have a bunch of solid ice on everything stationary outside, and are expecting what they're (again adorably) calling "round 2" later today. More ice. Then snow. Then power-line snapping winds! And the weather people on tv are all pyschotically excited about it, because let's face it, unless there's a blizzard or tornado coming, we'd all really rather watch the Sports segment.

Everyone's basically been all "the storm's coming, hurry get thee to WalMart for bananas!" but because I planned ahead, I got myself to NOT WalMart and bought my own canned fruit and goods. Nothing is worse than finally emerging after a "storm event" with scurvy because you only stocked up on toilet paper and potatoes.

Then I *would* be a dirty pirate!

I'm also plotting my escape from this ridiculous state that finds such weather acceptable. My BFFIC claims I'd really like the weather there. I'd pretty much like anywhere that the sun is visible at this point. I can't just run off though because they'll probably close the roads unless you're an emergency vehicle. (That's why I'm planning to modify the dirty American SUV with a flashing light and Casanova makes *excellent* siren noises....)

But other than bracing myself for possible power outages and stocking up on emergency candles and firewood, I've also downloaded some meditation podcasts. I know! I usually fall asleep whenever I try to meditate on my own, that and/or get lost in my thoughts and end up reminding myself to call and complain about the Macy's crystal department.

True story: for Christmas, my grandpa send me a Waterford crystal bowl. Macy's screwed up and sent me a duplicate bowl. I am going to return the extra bowl to our local store. My grandpa, meanwhile, picked out some glasses he wanted to add to my set and had them mail it to me. I received a package from "Brain Firehammer" of the Macy's out in Virginia. I opened the box to find two glasses....in a four glass set. I'm also pretty sure that Brain Firehammer isn't a real person. I called the number on the return address label and finally got connected with customer service. The lady assured me a manager would call me back....so far? Nothing from Macy's OR their star performer, Mr. Brain Firehammer.

So.

Now I'm going to do guided meditation so I can follow directions and not end up having imaginary conversations with Mr. Firehammer. I'll still probably fall asleep. I have a cold. I fall asleep when I have colds. We'll all hope for the best.

Well, this laundry isn't going to do itself and the floor won't be steam-mop-able if we lose power (the humanity!) and I've been in my cocktail-adorned pajamas since 6:30 am so I'd really better get this party started. I'll let you know how Snowmaggedon goes.

Comments, questions, are you in a blizzard?

Older and Possibly Wiser

2011-01-27T10:14:00.001-08:00

The other day I was having a conversation with one of my million (okay, four) awesome BFFs that I frequently chat with, and we were talking about working out. And here's the thing:

I'm wiser now. Because I'm older. It's a trip.

When I was younger, I was totally fine with looking somehow emaciated yet curvy. What the hell is that, Rubenesque Emaciation? No, it's just a thin girl who still has hips. This was my goal. I didn't really have a weight PROBLEM, per se, but I didn't exactly have the college experience of my dreams either.

I had a long-term unhealthy relationship, and I had about two years of carrying too much on a small frame. Then, in a dressing room induced breakdown, I met Dr. Atkins.

I ate pretty much everything BUT the carbs I'd lived on. I ate a lot of salads, a lot of meat and indulged occasionally in pitcher long islands. I dropped, no lie, about 45 lbs in several months. No work outs required. I was happy! I could wear my favorite adorbs Express outfits again!

I never (except in pregnancy) got up to that weight again....BUT, I did discover, thin or 10 pounds heavier here or there, I was WOEFULLY out of shape. Weight training? What fresh hell was that? Cardio?! Now you're just talking crazy. Why can't we just go back to eating nothing but bacon?!

When I dropped my unhealthy relationship, I also went crazy organic vegetarian. Talk about opposites! I walked several miles every day and went to the gym three days a week. That was the beginning.

I'm not a rabid gym rat, *but* I work out pretty regularly. (It helps offset moments of Dorito-style weakness.) I didn't stick it out veg, but I'm not ruling out a comeback tour. The most important thing was my mindset change.

I've realized the shift in perspective. When I see a girl in a magazine with an upper arm the size of her forearm, I think.....whoa. That girl needs to eat. She's never touched a weight in her life. The women in magazines are there as window dressing to the clothing. Clothing has to hang and drape; boobs and butt get in the way of that. So, apparently, do biceps.

I'm not all "the gun show came to town" or anything, but I'll admit one fitness goal is to get Jillian biceps by summer. Jillian Michaels. Biggest Loser? Yeah, it could happen.

I don't admire thin for the sake of it; now I think, I wonder if she can hang? Are these women strong? I'm much more likely to admire someone like Jillian than some waif parading around in admittedly gorgeous shoes. You can wear Choos and work out. It's possible.

And men? Don't get me started. Same thing. I admire REAL strength. I see vanity muscle and think, what can he really DO with those? Can he do the human flagpole? (Look it up, it's wicked cool.) Is he competing in a marathon/triathalon/sports? Or is he just doing reps with no goals?

And the hardcore gym rat guys who use steroids? = F A I L.

Everything has a cost. What price do you want to pay for looking like you-won't-like- me-when I'm angry Hulk? How hot does "myocardial infarction" *REALLY* sound?

What I want and what I want to be? Someone who can do a preacher curl OR pick my kid up without pulling a hammy. Someone who can walk down the sidewalk in a big city because you parked your car too far away from your appointment and know that if the shit goes down you can outrun it or outfight it. Someone who values her body. Someone who doesn't just push the plate away, instead of stacking the plates ON.

It's been a long road. I haven't always been happy with the girl in the mirror. I still have a lot of fitness goals (Krav Maga anyone? It's Israeli streetfighting and seems INTENSELY Bad Ass) and those goals are always to challenge and to keep me working toward being as healthy as I can.

Life is hard. Life is harder if you're walking around with a leaky bladder and sciatica and dirty ASS-ma and feeling like you're 65 when you're 32. But to all that, I spit in its dirty eye and say: Welcome to the gun show.

Comments, questions, how are you getting your fitness on?

The Elephant in My Room

2011-01-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

I don't want to take up a ton of time with this, since I'm all V for Vendetta against the stupid situation, but it's on my mind the way that a heroin addict is a little preoccupied (presumably) when his/her stash runs out.

Remember when I told all y'all that I had a dirty dirty UTI and was peeing liquid fire? No? Well, I did. I'd link it but I'm too tired.

I'm too tired because I had to go cold turkey on my caffeine habit. No coffee. No tea. Did you read that? NO COFFEE AND NO TEA.

And I had to go cold turkey because tea, coffee and of course Coke Zero affect what I *actually* have. It's not a UTI, at all. It's something called Interstitial Cystitis, so basically whenever I say it, sound like I'm practicing for the spelling bee and/or lost my dentures.

Either way, it's something chronic and crappy and awful, and you basically guess what bothers YOUR particular case of IC (just add a 'P' and you have some clown rappers!) and then don't eat or drink it. If you *do* throw caution to the wind and chug that Coke Zero? Well then you'll be hugging a heating pad, peeing every five minutes and shaking your fist at the sky.

As the Chris Rock voice that lives in my head says, "well ain't that a bitch?" and the answer is yes, yes it is.

So if I'm angry or irritable or confused or MORE annoying than usual, that's why. As I explained to The Man today. He probably lumped it in with the cross of my PMS that he bears already.

But he did give me a Magnanimous Bone. And by the way, the Magnanimous Bone, aside from playing center stage at my imaginary rock show and being an imaginary rock band, is this: it's when you throw someone not just *A* bone, but a *MAGNANIMOUS* bone, out of the goodness of your own heart. Next time you really want to stab your sig other, but instead hand them control of the remote? You totally "MB'd" them. See? Tell your friends. (But don't steal it.)(Stealing causes epic karma blowback.)

Now, as everyone ~~women~~ knows, men don't always know the right thing to say when you're all "whatever will I do" and crying and stuff. Sometimes they'll tell you about their old dog, Mr. Whiskeykins (because their dad was a drunk) and how he was run over by their mail man and they never ran to get the mail again. And it has jack all to do with your crisis, but it's really all they could access in a short time, since fundamentally they're not programmed the same. At all.

I'd had a moment and cried and was all trying to take sharpened #2 pencils to my abdomen and The Man looked vaguely concerned (reflux?) and didn't say anything. I know he cares though, because he called the tanning salon and asked how much their Mystic (spray) Tans cost.

"Hey! They're only $20, but it's buy one, get one free! You could do THAT!"

...pause...

"Um. Okay? When would I do that?"

"Now! It's a good deal. We could do that today! It's the spray tan right?"

"Yeahhhhh....?"

"Well you could get one."

"Okayyyyy.....well I'd have to wear something scrubby and take my make up off, because it gets all over stuff.... And I've never done one..."

"Oh. Okay."

Now the whole point of this is to point out that The Man was throwing me a Magnanimous Bone. He knew I was in pain, mad about my coffee/tea/soda freeze and knew not what to say.

A woman would make Empathy Faces and tell you about how she once had a raging UTI and peed blood for a week and then google acid free drinks you could make.

A man?

A man thinks a nice Mystic Tan will perk you up.

Don't get me wrong. I love him for trying, for realizing I'm in a bad headspace and trying to do something for me. And I think that a Mystic Tan, along with the box of hair color (mwahahahaaaa!) I bought might be a nice mood changer.

And it beats the hell out of listening to the devil on my shoulder, telling me one caffeinated drink will be just fiiiiiine with us. Or worrying about my car's muffler or my other car's quarter panel. Or my cat's vet bill.

Why is it when an elephant gets in the room, it really trashes the place? But this is it, my life, elephant damage and all.

Comments, questions, what's your elephant?

The Internet Isn't Good for People With Short Attention...

2011-01-21T10:57:00.000-08:00

Oh! Sorry. I was distracted by eBay and their AWESOME selection of sunglasses. Why sunglasses, you ask? Well. I often sit on them. So. Wouldn't exactly make sense to buy a hot pair of D&Gs that will soon meet with the wrong side of my jeans. Instead I buy DG, which EVERYONE knows are a total pretender to D AND G, but whatever. They're also only 10 bucks. Win/win!

The only disappointment I had with this brilliant sunglasses plan was when I got one of the pairs that I SWEAR said it was bedazzled in rhinestones and instead they were just divots that were not rhinestones, you know, like in kids' jewelry. NOT THE SAME. I was crushed. Then I ate some cheetos.

But it's always when I'm trying to be all "I'm going to work on mah writings!" that I get distracted by Facebook and then a comment thread about Biggest Loser and I realize I've wasted all my precious work time and have to quit to do laundry or we'll all be wearing capris and wife beaters.

Good thing I didn't have The Internet when I was in college. Well, not at my first apartment. Then again, I didn't have basic cable either, so I only had four channels. One time the news was on, and they were all "do gays cause the apocalypse" and I'm all WTF yo, and I realize that dirty dirty Pat Robertson had hijacked my television and it wasn't a REAL news show, it was his fake news show. Mental note: CCN is NOT the same as CNN. Then I turned it off until Buffy came on. Buffy was pretty much the best thing about my 4 channels. The episode when Angel died to save the town? I still cry.

And I didn't really need The Internet to be all distractable....I played computer Mah Jong instead of typing my BRILLIANT college literary word art. It was even better if it was a non-English Major class because non-English professors were pretty impressed if you didn't start your paper off with "My thesis is..." so I was usually golden. REAL English-professors would, however, crucify you if you just stayed up playing Mah Jong, drinking Lipton lemon-flavored tea and coming up with your thesis during a Buffy marathon. I'm lucky I graduated. Mainly because I had to pass a math class.

Well that auction isn't going to win itself, so I'll see you on the other side of the weekend!

Comments, questions, what distracts YOU?

Less is More

2011-01-20T04:54:00.001-08:00

And if that's true, well then today is your lucky day! It snowed here, again, because apparently whatever sort of diabolical climate change I caused back in '87 with my Aquanet hairspray can basically means = a hella-ton of snow this winter. Snow sucks. I like it the first few times, and then I'm all, let's make like Buffet and head to somewhere hot!

I always tend to forget that thanks to my blessed genotype which specializes in mostly annoying chronic problems, I can't actually spend more than 3.8 minutes in the sun without needing a trauma unit and some skin grafts.

On a related sidenote: Had I been kickin' it old school style in Victorian England? I'd be totally hot. Fair skin meant you didn't have to work for a living and you were all upper-class. SWEET. Or, with my luck, I would have been born some tragic serf, and instead of tanning like the OTHER lower classes, I would just be the radish-looking freak show of the town. But, basically? If I'd been born before reliable c-sections I would have died anyway. Oh, unless Morgan Freeman from Robin Hood (the Kevin Costner one) was there, because he totally saved that lady with a c-section, yo.

But that's the gist of it. I'm pale, I'm cold, and I have to haul the kids off in the Crappy American SUV soon. Sure, it has 4-wheel drive. It also started making a new (and exciting!) noise this week, so basically when I hit the accelerator I sound like a semi-truck. AWESOME. Paint some flames on that bitch and call me Big Rig Mama.

Or not. Yeah, probably not. I *do* occasionally wear The Man's trucker hat because it's all righteous with a skull on it and stuff.

Either way, this weather = me not happy girl. :(

Comments, questions, what do you do when you're snowbound?

Weekend in Review

2011-01-18T04:46:00.000-08:00

Part I: Date Night

Well, since I know you've all been waiting with painful anticipation of the post reviewing Date Night, here it is! And really, your date night is probably better than ours. Oh and also? THIS is sort of why we don't leave the house much.

The sitter arrived, right on time. We didn't know exactly what the plan was, so we'd just sort of head downtown and either meet with The Man's Huge Bodybuilder Friend or our other friends from the (picture me throwin' up hands) West Side.

Because he loves me SOOOO much, The Man took me to a bar that makes the drinks that single-handedly almost ruined my junior year of college. Well, it was the drinks OR the fact that I CANNOT learn Middle English. You would think it might have something in common with OUR English language, and you'd be dead wrong sir. Anyway, it's a *fine* establishment that offers over 40 flavors of long island. Some include the infamous "Cherry Coke" or my personal favorite, the "Tie Dye" which involves all sorts of brilliant colored liquors swirling together in a pitcher of delicious glory.

So I ordered a cherry coke pitcher, because I was under the illusion that what I once did with the Home Girls on an average Saturday night was certainly possible now that I'm old and decrepit. Notsomuch. I had half the pitcher and was all tipsy and making new friends. Thanks to my Compassion Face, I learned that one lady was having her birthday, but her husband refused to drink with her and, I quote, "You know what? Fuck 'im! You drink that pitcher for ME!" Okay! Far be it from me to deny a new friend on her birthday.

When The Man and I finally elected to head over to tha' West Side, I was pretty righteously on the far side of not sober anymore. I don't drink, really, so to say I have a low tolerance is um, an understatement. We walked into the parking garage and I was all "woooooo! There's our CAR!" and The Man just sighed with the clear *enormity* of my retardation. Then I was babbling about something and he was trying to check for cars behind us and we hit a concrete post. BAM! Scrape! Ouch! ... Pause for dramatic reveal....: In our Crappy American SUV, you ask? Why no! In the Bitchy German Luxury Car! The BGLC homies! What fresh hell is this?!

So then we spent about 10 minutes arguing about how I thought HE thought it was my fault and he was all "I didn't SAY that....BUT if I hadn't moved spots...." and who had suggested the spot by the concrete post? ME. So yes. That was a fun discussion, hindered by the fact that I was easily distracted by my lip gloss and trying to rap along with Weezy. (This also happens when I'm totally sober.)

Luckily, seeing our friends was just the trick to perk us up after we caused untold billions worth of damage by a single scrape to the old BGLC. We met them at a bar on karaoke night, and after refusing kind suggestions to sing onstage, hung out until we had to make it back for our sitter's sitting curfew. Fun!

And by fun, I mean this: YES, I did get my first pitcher long island since college but NO, I don't like paying insurance deductibles thanks to parking accidents.

Part II: The Up-Too-Late Aftermath

Since apparently my children can sense any weakness, no matter how small, they got up at 6:30 the next day. Did you catch that?! Yes. THAT EARLY. I was still exhausted and smelling vaguely of the establishment that still thinks cigarette smoke is excellent air freshener. Why sure, let's head downstairs for breakfast!

We spent the entire day Sunday rolling around on the couch in work out clothing (because A. it's comfortable, B. it makes up 90% of The Man's non-work clothing and C. It's so cold on my main floor that the Under Armour shirt keeps me toasty) and watching my NEW. Favorite. Show. Ever.

And I'm sure that while YOU'VE already heard of it, watched it and/or decided it's passe, *I* had never seen this sparkling gem in reality tv's lackluster crown before.

Ready?

Bully Beatdown.

A link? Sure! I'm nothing if not accommodating! Just CLICK ME and be dazzled!

Essentially, a douche who thinks he can fight and is a bully in real life agrees to fight a professional MMA fighter who then proceeds to painfully instill life lessons on the douche's pasty douche body. Brilliant!

The Man had dvr'd it to see what it was, and I was all "what crap is that?" and then, after watching my first ever episode, I decided I was all IN LOVE with this show. I WISH I'd had the idea, frankly. Because then? I'd be sipping long island pitchers in Cabo and rocking a bedazzled 2 piece by the pool, yo.

But alas.

And although I'm pretty sure the show is intended for angst filled 15 year olds, um, I'm sort of a 15-17 dude in my head ANYway, minus digging the ring girls, so I'm totally ON BOARD.

Anyone who says they don't like seeing douches get punched in the face hole is A. a dirty, dirty liar or B. a facist or C. both. Because what is more American than face-punching a douche?! NOTHING.

And I know shit-all about MMA because I can't ever figure out what they're doing in the ring except looking vaguely homoerotic in their clingy shorts but then The Man tells me that they're totally beating the living hell out of each other but I still can't tell and Joe Rogan is yelling terms like "Arm bar, ARM BAR!" and "OOOOH! Rear NAKED CHOKE!" and I get distracted thinking that anything called a "rear-naked choke" is some sort of dirty S&M move and then I get MORE distracted thinking how Joe Rogan annoys me SO MUCH I'd like to see HIM in the cage and I go off to make myself some Chai tea. Much to my soul-sister-in-law's annoyance because she watches MMA like it's her JOB, AND *she* could announce better than Rogan ANY day. And she's hotter too. True story.

But this show is FABULOUS because the tools in question think that they can fight, but actually can't, and then they suck so badly that the pro fighter just wins and it's awesome because I can actually see what they're trying to do. Like a rear-naked choke is actually REALLY painful and not kinky at all.

And the host of the show is a pro fighter himself; and while apparently deeply disturbed on some primal level, (hey, Your Favorite Writer isn't casting stones, yo) is amusing AND entertaining. Win/win.

So yes. Aside from my 6 year old requesting that The Man put a red stripe in his hair like the host, and my 4 year old trying to kick box his father, it was a pretty cool Sunday.

And I spent most of the rest of the day thinking of people I'd like to nominate for the show. You know, to fight the MMA guys. Ahhhhhh, ideas. So many, many options.

Comments, questions, how was YOUR weekend?

The Dark Winter of my Soul

2011-01-14T06:43:00.000-08:00

As I trudge through yet another Russian Tundra winter here in the frosty midwest, I think, A. Why the HELL did anyone settle where it's so cold you DIE in the winter if you don't have heat B. What did people DO before heat/electricity OTHER than die and C. Can I wear a spaghetti strap shirt if I have ONE sleeve?

These are the things that vex me, Readers, among other things, of course. (Like why can't I tan, despite being brunette?)(And why does The Man look fresh as a daisy after a lifetime of tanning?!)(Because he's a dirty pirate, that's why.)

Basically, getting through January is a bloody HERCULEAN task for me, every single winter. It's the month that has 97 days. It's cold, it's dark, and the only thing on the other side? February. Yeah, that's fair.

And like a lot of my fellow mid-westerners (as evinced by the sheer magnitude of Cracker Barrels in existence) I have a tendency to want to hibernate every January. I want to curl up in my red sweatpants with a bowl of popcorn, a ponytail, a good book and see YOU homies in May. If I did that though, I'd emerge like a surly groundhog and be all "why don't mah pants fit?!" so that is not an option. My 45 degree basement weight room? Unpleasant yes, but still mandatory. Damn its eyes.

We also have a sitter. Did you read that slowly so you embraced every beautiful syllable? A S I T T E R. As in, someone who will sit here and make sure that the children are alive and well when we return. And no, it's not the hobo down off 38th and Post either. It's a girl who actually took a "safe sitter" class and is all shiny and 15 and still enthusiastic about life! Isn't that cute? I thought so too. So I'll gladly pay her.

I have no idea what we're doing. I'm hoping it involves me having a bubbly alcoholic drink that will inevitably set my bladder afire with anger. I'll accept seeing a movie. Or eating food. Or driving around listening to the new Eminem cd because I can't usually do such a thing! I'll take walking around the BP and drinking a slushie. Seriously. We're parents of small children. I don't care WHAT WE DO as long as there aren't children involved. Well, as long as MY children aren't involved.

And sure, I can't really break out the fun clothing thanks to our AWESOME blizzard-y snow-filled arctic winter; but I'm pretty sure that if I wear a coat and the one-sleeve shirt I'll be okay. That shirt has been waiting a long, long time to go somewhere.

Not the pediatrician's, the grocery, the car line OR the post office either. Watch out Winter, I'm feeling fancy.

Comments, questions, what do YOU do when it's all cold and stuff?

These Boots are Made for Walking Calling a Cab

2011-01-12T04:23:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me, knows that at least once a ~~day~~ week, I'm embroiled in a bitter Mexican Stand-Off with a junior verbal assassin of the Kindergarten variety. This past weekend we had just such a standoff.

It began when I told Princess to turn off the X-Box. She refused. Off it went. She threatened dire violence and I sent her to her room. She came out of the room. She went back into the room. She screamed, threw a shoe at the door, etc etc. I wondered idly how much rum was left in my pantry.

I went back to check on her and found her writing. Usually it's gems like "I hate mom!" or a picture of a smiling lady with an X through her head and the phrase "No Mom" across the top. She's all V for Vendetta against moms around here.

"What are you writing?" I asked.

"How do you spell 'taxi'?" She replied.

We spent a minute sounding it out. Then she informed me she was running away, and would need the taxi to drive her. She had a plan, it seemed. So she showed me her picture.

Mistakenly thinking that she was holding a bowling ball because we had plans for a friend's birthday bowling party the next day, I asked if that's what she had in her hand.

"NO! That's the thing people carry when they run away. It's on a stick!"

Oh. I see. She drew a hobo bag with the stick. You'll notice the polka-dots. She's very detail oriented.

You'll also notice our Gigantic Fat Cat is going with her, happily, it seems. I told her that our cat would not, in fact, like riding in a taxi. He likes to be where the food is. (If I had it to do over again, I'd TOTALLY name our cat Sam Kinison, in honor of the late comedian's routine about people living in a desert and needing to "GO WHERE THE FOOD IS! It's A DESERT! THERE'S NO FOOD THERE!")(My cat wants to be wherever food is. It's his M.O.)

And you'll also notice at the top she tried to sound out the word "funny" because I was muffling my laughter. I couldn't help it. The hobo-stick sent me over the edge.

She got all Joe Pesci on me.

"OH! You think it's FUNNY?! Is it FUNNY?!"

Although, instead of shooting me in the foot, thank God, she just aggressively wrote "Funne" at the top of her drawing. Perfect.

And in the end, she decided she'd really just rather stay in her room, and once she apologized, head downstairs to play leggos with her brother. They might not have leggos on the mean streets after all.

(But I still wouldn't put it past her to lead the Revolution.)

Comments, questions, get any nice art from YOUR kid lately?

This Week.....Ye Gods, This Week

2011-01-11T12:42:00.000-08:00

And it's only TUESDAY!

It's so hard to come up with Priceless Word Art when I'm busy mopping up bloody cat urine. And not bloody in the highly-endearing way I *normally* use it, but actual blood-in-the-pee urine. That's been today for you, if anyone is curious.

Our precious Obese Housecat was not doing well the other day. He was so unwell on Sunday night, that I prayed fervently that God would spare our precious friend because my daughter would likely suffer a pyschotic break if anything happened to him.

In fact, he'll pretty much have to be all Cat Immortal from now on. He really doesn't have a choice.

Then, because my mind was permanently scarred when the Sammy-Hagar-not-David-Lee-Van-Halen video for "Right Now" played on a pretty much continuous loop, I kept seeing that segment of the video that shows a dog and has text saying:

"Right now, God is killing dogs and moms....because he has to."

Um.

Well.

I informed my BFFIC of this and she wasn't aware. She checked it out on YouTube and was all "WTF?" and I said "See? Told you. Verbatim. Because it scarred me. FOR LIFE."

So I kept thinking about how it must apply to Obese Housecats too.

But luckily, just because God HAS to, doesn't mean he WANTS to, and our adorable tiger cat has lived to eat another bowl of dry food. Sure, now it's PRESCRIPTION dry food, but still.

And the problem was an ANGRY BLADDER. Welcome, Mr. Kitty, welcome to the club. Now YOU don't get Coke Zero either. And you might have to share your dry food.

I'll be mopping up pee if anyone needs me.

And weeping with joy for the recovery of our very best friend. Now my 6 year old will literally sleep well tonight.

Comments, questions, ??

Tick Tock....

2011-01-06T06:26:00.001-08:00

Our days here as jello eaters are numbered my friends, numbered I tell you! I'm so excited about the new layout. Despite a lot of attempts and re-dos, I think we're finally getting there.

Basically I'm going with a whole new theme. It should be very special when it all comes together. I don't want to ruin the surprise because my new layout will include all my reasoning and such. Whee! So add that to your List of Things to Look Forward To because sometimes, that list is all that gets me through the week.

This week? My list includes Finally Getting to Watch New TV Shows. Sure, it's sad, but it's *MY* list dammit. I cannot tell you how irate I've been at forcibly watching ESPN (and by "watch ESPN" I actually mean "sit on Amazon and lust after that Ed Hardy messenger bag")(until The Man said I could have gotten that bag for free with the perfume)(which I'm out of)(damn your eyes Ed Hardy!) instead of my Regularly Scheduled Television Programs.

Another thing on my list? Mailing off my bedazzled sparkly huge boyfriend watch. I miss my watch like the deserts miss the damnable rain, okay? I have no idea what time it is, ever. I have to find my cell phone and then I can't find it and then I see the clock on the microwave and then I forget my cell is lost and then I have to leave to pick up Princess and run around looking all over the house before realizing my phone is in my butt pocket, and then I'm LATE. All because my watch stopped running. It could just be the battery, but then again, I'm also missing one of my diamond-style gems on the bezel and THAT friends (despite having about 5,000 other ones) is NOT okay. So. I'm mailing it off to make it all happy and working and shiny again.

I'm also putting Get Obese Housecat Shaved on my list of Things to Look Forward to. I feel really bad because I've kept putting it off; mainly because wrestling an obese housecat into a slightly smaller cat carrier is NOT on my list. Also because I kept thinking (high-lariously I know) that I could possibly do it myself. I know. If you have a cat, you know that this is TOTALLY ridiculous. And yet. I keep telling myself that I watched the vet do it last year and really, all they did was hold him and buzz his fur. It didn't LOOK hard. And I've never had a cat clump like this! I've had long hair, short hair, skinny and obese, but I've never had a cat look like he's covered in dreads. Until now. Only he's not happy Rasta cat, so that sort of takes the fun out.

Overall, it should be a month of things to look forward to, given we've gotten Get All Sorts of Various Illnesses in a Month out of the way already. Yesterday the doctor's office tracked me down on my cell to tell me that, oops, the radiologist had called them and confirmed that Casanova DID in fact have pneumonia! Because really, what's a week around here without a serious lung condition?! So off to Ye Olde Pharmacy we went.

And really? Pharmacists rock. Pharmacy techs? Not so much. I asked the lady if he needed two doses that day and then one a day from then on. She responded that it looked like he'd need four meals today and then two meals after that. I can only assume that she was actually reading some pamphlet from her night job at Taco Bell. I didn't even bother questioning her. I just paid and read the bottle myself when I got home. (I'll go ahead and confirm that there was nothing about meals involved, let alone rationing my son to only two meals a day at some point.)

So no matter what, I'm looking forward to lots of stuff coming up, and my current cup of coffee in the microwave is just a small one of those things.

Comments, questions, what are you looking forward to?

I'll Tell You What's Stupid

2011-01-04T16:07:00.000-08:00

Today is stupid, that's what!

I was having a GREAT Tuesday, friends, great! I had found and listened to half of my (Pink Floyd) Pulse cd, and was really enjoying some "wish you were here" and "comfortably numb" and then I'd also scored some bonus "learning to fly" ON THE RADIO which never happens because they're too busy torturing me with Kesha and/or Pearl Jam.

I took the kids over to Sassy's sort-of-new-apartment and they had a dandy time trashing her lovely tri-level. Then after a great visit, we headed home.

Casanova had complained of a "hid-ick" aka headache earlier in the day and I'd given him some ibuprofin. No big deal. Then we went upstairs to take a nap. Sure, he was whiny. It was NAP TIME, so that made total sense. What didn't make sense is that he was the heat equivalent of a small boy-furnace. HOT HOT HOT. Yowza. So I took his temperature. 102.5 and that was WITH the ibuprofin that hadn't worn off yet. Ummmm. Yes. Well.

So I called my doc and RE-scheduled for today. You wanted to see him this week, well you're seeing him TODAY my friend. And that was when Your Favorite Writer's day took a stupid turn.

After a LOT of testing (that I will totally be billed for)(and cry about when it happens) we got the answer. The flu. As in the REAL DEAL HOLYFIELD flu. Flu A, if you're curious. Why heavens, it's the very strain that we were all joyously vaccinated against in November. NOVEMBER. Vaccinated.

WHAT THE EFF YO.

Which is what I asked my doctor, and several nurses. They were all "aw shucks, it sucks and that's what happens, here's an anti-viral so you don't all die!"

Let me be clear how much the visit sucked. We got a strep test. Negative. We got a chest x-ray. Possibly pneumonia but we won't know for sure until the radiologist confirms tomorrow. Ooh, the suspense! And then, for the Grand Finale? The flu test Nasal Swab! Or, what I like to call The Brain Scraping Pain Party! Seriously, I had that done in March and it cost me great restraint to NOT kick the nurse. It hurt. that. much.

And poor Casanova screamed so loudly I would bet cold cash that the waiting room lost at least ONE new patient. Or two. Depending.

But it's cool, in theory, because now we're all partying on Tamiflu. Which. According to the Dire Package WARNINGs, might react in a bad way with alcohol. SUCKFEST. I'd totally planned on having a left-over-from-new-year's daiquiri and hoping to kill some germs with rum.

And I'm bitterly (bitterly!) disappointed in our Great Vaccine FAIL of the New Year. I'm sorry. I'm asthmatic. The flu = possible hospitalization and/or death for us. Look it up. I NEED improved chances of dodging that bullet. I mean, in all fairness, a bloody freaking COLD kicked my ass last spring so badly that I was barely able to walk up the stairs without collapsing in a coughing fit and I had to use the nebulizer just to NOT DIE. Imagine the flu, which is, um, a bit more Chuck Norris of the virus world.

So to suffer the indignity and utter annoyance of taking the kids to get shots and then the failure?! I'm very sad inside. SAD. Because it's for my ASTHMATIC KID. Who might already have pneumonia. THAT is dirty, dirty pool, Flu Vaccine.

Do your job.

Because Tamiflu is busy cleaning up your mess. And once again, I'm buying Bomb Pops. (Is there anything they can't fix?)(Answer: NO.)

Comments, questions, how freaking STUPID is this situation?!

Happy New Year's Eve!

2010-12-31T12:27:00.000-08:00

And by happy, I basically mean I'm on my vicoprofin, so yeah. That pretty much says it all, right?

What better way to ring in the new year than by chilling on the couch in my red sweatpants and cursing at the sky? I know! And allegedly, you're not supposed to mix vicoprofin and alcohol, although frankly, I'm not sure that they mean it.

So on to something more exciting, like, say, the revamping of my blog, or Blog Re-Do of Aught 'eleventy-leven as I like to call it.

It's happening. Oh yes. It is.

My biff JM spent the other day doing all the layout and design work for the new blog, which is still the same fundamentally, because Your Favorite Writer is still at the helm. It should debut hopefully sooner rather than later, and as far as I'm concerned, and even though I'm biased because she was the one holding up my train while I puked during my wedding, it. is. AMAZING!

If you think it sucks, well, too bad for you.

I changed a lot of stuff, like pretty much the entire thing. Once the new blog is up and running, I'll do an entire post about the whats and the whys, but suffice it to say that it's all part of Sammo's Life Plan of Having Life Suck Less and staying true to my vision and all that jazz (complete with Jazz Hands!!! butofcourse.).

And now since it's New Year's Eve, I will tell you some of the things I liked best and least of the year we're saying sayonara to!

2010 Things Sam Liked Best:

* Disney Vacation - despite having my Period Baby during the trip, it was still one of the best trips of my life.

* Having The Man's bff The Brit come and stay with us. It was an experience that the kids (and The Brit) will never forget!

* Sticking with my workouts and seeing results for my trauma in the basement torture room.

* Choosing the best possible school for Princess and having her do so well there.

* Having a summer BBQ with so many of my good friends in one place at one time.

2010 Things Sam DISliked Most:

* The great ASS-ma flare up of April/May/June

* Learning what alopecia is and how it can devastate your child

* Yet another orthopedic surgery for The Man

(Do you sense a theme?)

* Car repairs. Enough said.

I'm sure there are more things I could think up for BOTH lists, but frankly, um, I'm distracted by the vicoprofin, my Period Baby (whom I'm naming Igor) AND Inside Edition. You know, the usual.

So I wish *ALL* you monkeys a very happy AND safe New Year and may 2011 be the year we all accomplish those resolutions!

Comments, questions, what did you like/dislike about 2010?

The Chronic

2010-12-29T12:58:00.001-08:00

No, not that chronic. Not Dr. Dre's chronic. Sorry if you're disappointed. Frankly, THAT chronic is far less....depressing? I guess? But, as they say at Casa de Sammo (and by they, I pretty much mean ME), you get what you get and you don't throw a fit.

So I'm tired of chronic things. Chronic problems that I can't fix, and some I can barely treat.

As many of you long ~~suffering~~ term readers know, I have asthma. I also now apparently have migraines. Oh, and a bladder that is "irritable" - just to throw negative adjectives around about an organ that I happily spent most of my life ignoring. You know, unless I'd had too much Coke Zero. (That I now drink only if I feel like peeing 765 times in a two-hour period, and moaning about my bladder.)(Carbonation, it seems, is NOT of the heavens, as I'd previously thought.) Oh and in case anyone was wondering, back in the sparkling shiny goodness of 1998 or so, I had my offensive (also irritable?) gallbladder removed so it would stop making stones and causing horrific blinding pain every so often. It worked, but left my stomach a hot mess, so basically any time I eat and/or experience stress, I have....um...issues.

I've dealt with ALL THIS SHIT.

And now, my kids have The Chronic. Again, NOT Dr. Dre's friend.

Princess has AA (alopecia areata), that damnable autoimmune condition. For anyone keeping tabs, despite our best efforts, it is not getting better. (And since I am my own best whipping post since 1983, I decided it's due to stress that I'm helping cause.)(I know it's not, but not really, so I blame myself uselessly anyway.)(I should mention this to my therapist. Make a note.)

And now, my dark suspicions have come to light, Casanova most likely has asthma too. I knew he would. I couldn't positive-think my way past the growing evidence. When he was only 7 weeks old, he was hospitalized for a severe case of RSV that led to breathing distress. They don't know which comes first, RSV leading to asthma or kids who are going to have asthma anyway getting RSV and secondary infections. Either way, I was curled up on a folding chair, nursing a baby who was in a hospital bed and receiving breathing treatments every three hours from a respiratory therapist. When we took him home, he was on so many medications, I literally had a chart. He had liquid antibiotics and steroids, and then even more inhaled medicines. I had to sit him in his bouncy seat every four hours and hold the mask against a nose that was too small to even fit in the little fishy-shaped mask.

I'm sure it was part of my post-partum that traumatized me.

I'm also sure it was the guilt, ye gods, the GUILT. My bad lungs passed on. Although it was nothing I had actual control over, I knew it was still my fault. Even if it was only my stupid GENETIC fault.

And today, after spending a night restlessly tossing, turning and assuming I'd have to throw on clothes and hit the ER at any possible moment, the pediatrician basically confirmed that yes, he probably has asthma too. Right now, he's too young for the (jazz hands!) pulmonary work up, so we're calling it something fancy like "Hyper-Reactive Respiratory Syndrome" or whatever. And he's on liquid Sam's Boyfriend (also known as Prednisone) so the inflammation calms down and he can literally breathe easier. We all will. Especially me. Because I know, how I KNOW that tight feeling that has made him pull his shirt and tell me "Mommy this shirt hurts my chest!" Only it isn't his shirt, of course, it's his little lungs that are, like mine, "over-reactive." (Dare I call them, like my bladder and stomach, irritable?!)

I know that feeling that air, precious air just isn't getting in. I know that feeling that if you cough ONE MORE TIME you're going to just lose it. And then you cough again anyway.

And I can't fix it. And we return next week to see if he needs some preventive meds for the next six months. You know, until he's old enough to be all Officially Asthmatic.

And I'm just bone ass WEARY of things that only get treatment and never get cured. I am. I really am. I'm tired of feeling like a hippopotamus hyperventilating whenever I do try to run or do cardio. Because my lungs are just not CAPABLE of breathing air the way yours do. And every cold has the potential to send me into a two-month spiral of steroid pills and nebulizers and codeine.

Just like my precious liquid gold (see also: Sprite Zero) has now become my apparent kryptonite (and here I thought that was Katy Perry songs) because my bladder fills with molten lava and then I shake my fist at the bathroom ceiling in confused ire.

And I'm tired of appointments with dermatologists who tell me that I have a healthy child and not to focus too much on it. Yes. I get it. She doesn't have cancer, thank God. Or lupus. Or rheumatoid arthritis. Or anthrax poisoning either. How many times do I tell her, it isn't ME who is scared and upset most days? This kid KNOWS what you're saying, lady, and the second we leave, she grills me about what it all means. Bottom line it for me, Mom, and don't pull any punches. That's what she's saying in her 6 year old barrage of questions.

And I can't tell either one of my kids, hey, it's all okay, this will all be over and you can forget it all some day. Because they can't. Princess may end up in a wig. Yes, there are worse things. But this isn't YOUR kid, or the neighbor's or the kid down the road in the big blue house, it's MINE and that is not what we'd call ALL GOOD around here.

If you're a girl, maybe you understand, then again, maybe you don't. If you don't, cast back to junior high and remember the one kid who got picked on and how you felt all awful but didn't know what to say. That might be my kid. Because her hair, simply, is falling out.

And my son will need doctor's notes and breathing treatments and understanding teachers. True story: junior high PE, our crazy wackadoodle teacher decided we were all going to run despite the unseasonably cold weather. I ended up down at the nurse's office, gasping for breath. No one knew I was having an asthma attack. My parents had always been told it was something else. I had no inhaler. I remember sucking in air and coughing until I gagged. No one knew it was something that could have killed me.

So part of dealing with The Chronic is just that. Dealing. Coping. Waking up and choosing to go through the day and ignore or accept as many "irritable" organs as you can. And for my kids it means showing them that although these conditions make their life different, and harder than other kids, everyone has something. Maybe you can't see it. Maybe it's high cholesterol. Maybe it's diabetes. Maybe it is something visible, like alopecia, or a birthmark or some sort of special needs. No one has perfect health, or will forever. We all have some sort of medical cross to bear, and it's up to us to bear it with grace. It's up to us to bear it well, even though it's heavy and a bitch to carry.

Even on days when we cry or long to set that burden down for awhile. And that's okay too. Because no one said you have to be happy about that burden. You just have to cope.

Comments, questions, what's your burden to bear?

Merry Christmas Indeed, or, Why I'm Highly Lame

2010-12-26T13:25:00.000-08:00

Christmas came and went friends, and although we're not *completely* healthy (see also: Princess developed pneumonia) we're at least stashing the bucket back under the counter. (Although the shiny green nebulizer is back in full-rotation.)(I've never been so excited to own a nebulizer as when I wanted to quell my child's emphesymatic hacking.)

And as for proof that I am COMPLETELY and officially lame, I offer this photo evidence.

For whatever reason, it is a very tiny picture, but I think you can certainly make out a ravishingly coiffed Favorite Writer wielding a steam mop! That's riiiiiight bitches, it's steam mop time up in here. No floor is safe from my sanitizing power! And honestly, after last week, we have some sanitizing to DO.

In terms of other gifts, The Man scored points for yummy perfume (Coco Chanel)(Pay me in sunglasses or other accessorizes as you see fit) and jewelry (bracelet). My dad proved, in case any of us doubted, that he's absolutely crazy. Crazy in a fun way, sure, but crazy.

This year, along with 500 thread-count sheets (woo! The softness!) he also lovingly wrapped rocks. Not diamonds. Rocks. Actual huge landscaping rocks. Two, to be specific. One, he thought, would look fantastic in our front flower bed. The other might, he suspected, work better on a hill.

This, from a man who once (told to me by my mother and later verified by dad) obtained and wrapped a manhole cover as a gift, shouldn't be overly surprising. Some years it's a box of Triscuits or soup, some years it's a sapphire tennis bracelet, and some years it's a double barrel shotgun. Who knows what's next? It's always an adventure.

I haven't take pictures of the rock yet. I'll wait until I find a home for it, other than under the Christmas tree.

The kids made out okay too; Grandma got Casanova a walkie-talkie set, which has prompted lots of noise and confusion and kids yelling "can you hear me, OVER?" But at this point, anything that induces them to get physically away from me AND each other is win/win.

And the closest thing I could find to a thoughtful gift for The Man ended up being that web cam/microphone. I had intended for him to use it to Skype his mom, who lives in England. He was pretty sure it was for me to start some career in internet porn. Well I guess now we both have options!

And since this has been the Christmas of the Great Typhoid Outbreak, leaving me to conjure up Oregon Trail memories ("Sam died of dysentery")("The Man has cholera"), we've racked up two separate doc visits since last Thursday and two out of the four of us are on the nebulizer every four hours! The virus that keeps on giving. Apparently.

So. I should get myself back to the basement gym, but my oxen drowned in fording the river....

Comments, questions, how was YOUR holiday?

Back from the Land of the Lost, or, Sleeping In the Potty

2010-12-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

It is with utter grace and humility that I wish all you monkeys out there a very merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, festive (???) Kwanzaa, etc because frankly, we are ALL lucky that I'm here today.

It began, as these things tend to, on a weekend. Princess woke up needing the ever-in-demand barf bucket, and I went about my business. Sure, this round took her down a little longer and a little harder than normal, but the next day she was ready to go and eating pop tarts like it's her job.

Then 3 pm rolled around. I assumed I was experiencing stomach karma for drinking a non-bladder-approved Coke Zero.

By 4 pm I'd called in reinforcements. I begged The Man to come home because I might be getting sick. By 4:15 I'd hustled my way through a shoddily constructed meatloaf, holding my breath so the mere smell of raw meat didn't push me over the edge. By 4:30 I was DEFINITELY getting sick.

And by the time The Man had rolled in (mercifully early for him) I was holed up in my bedroom with the bucket and whatever virulent tropical disease I'd contracted.

I'd like to tell you the next hours were a blur, but frankly, they're all too vivid. Mainly because for the first time in my entire life, I threw up for 24 straight hours. I wasn't just worried about dehydration, I was actively hoping for it. I'd pinch my skin just like Dr. Oz taught me, and wait to see if it stayed in place.

Pinch.
Oh. Damn.
Vomit Interlude...
Pinch.
Oh. Damn.
Vomit Interlude...

Mainly because if I were dehydrated, I'd go to a nice room at a hospital where they'd stick me full of IV fluids, I'd stop being so crossing-the-Sahara-thirsty and maybe they could dose me up with something so I'd stop throwing up things that should NEVER come back OUT of your body.

Alas, I ended up having to ride it out. And ride I did. I spent all of Monday night curled in the fetal position on the floor of our master bath. I used one hoodie as a pillow and the other as a blanket. At some point, I lurched to consciousness because someone, somewhere needed the bucket.

I told The Man that we had a white bucket in the laundry room, and apparently Casanova needed it. He brought back a Tupperware container. Whatever.

Then yesterday, I basically slept, threw up, cried for my mom and/or the children of St. Jude's (that ad, ohhh, that ad) and called The Man from upstairs to demand more Gatorade that I'd promptly throw up. The doctor's office was all "just keep drinking!" and I'm all "it's the RETENTION that's the issue here!" but they didn't think I was ready to hospitalize. So visions of IV fluids danced in my head.

Another fun note? I fixated on which mythical character couldn't drink water because every time he'd get close the water would dry up. I couldn't remember who it was. This seemed to be very important. I had a fever.

(Note: It's Tantalus. And, I'm willing to bet good money, the root of the word for tantalize.)

Aaaaanywhatdillydoo....

So I'm hanging in there, but barely. Apparently while I was recuperating, someone installed approximately 400 new stairs in my house. Standing is still dicey, so I'm taking it easy. And not for the first time do I wish the wingback had wheels...

The Man has handled most of the Christmas this year, which, despite some ~~control~~ issues on my part, is just fine. At least it's done. I don't *always* have to be the one to do it. I mean. I hear. In theory.

And hopefully by the time Christmas rolls around, we'll ALL be back on solid food. And as for me? I'm grateful for water, glorious water that I can finally drink. Normally I hate water, but oh, how I NEED it. I don't really think I needed an abject lesson in appreciating water, but whatever.

Wishing you all the best of whatever you're celebrating. And hopefully it's your health!

Comments, questions, anyone see the driver of that truck?

And I'm All Looking for Mah Do-Rag...

2010-12-15T07:18:00.000-08:00

Well I'm taking my self-imposed "distraction-free" break from Facebook this week; it basically allows me more time to sit in my wing-back and contemplate ~~world domination~~ what the eff I'm buying The Man (or anyone else) for Christmas.

It is nice though to give my brain a rest from thinking in terms of fun status updates. Seriously. I had no idea how much effort I put into status updates, or witty comments on others' updates, or picture comments, or responding to comments....

Currently my cyber-hero biff is working on my new layout, or will be once I send her my ninja picture. We've been exchanging emails with very specific logistical ninja information: "try to cover your lower face with something" "I can't find my do-rag!" "Try to focus on your eyes in the picture and I can edit it with my software" "Cool! I don't want to look all like I'm wearing some weird face burqua - make sure it looks NINJA!"

It's for the layout. It will all make sense once she unleashes her creative vengeance upon it.

Meanwhile, Your Favorite Writer is angstfully (<--that is totally a word, you spell-checking whore!) sitting in the Wing-Back of World Domination and fretfully (<---oh but fretfully counts?!) Amazon searching for Christmas gifts.

Isn't my Word Art enough of a gift...to the world? I know. I thought so too. But people like The Man aren't going to be all impressed when I'm "Ta da! Read my blog! It's a gift to YOU and the WORLD!" on Christmas morning. He may or may not be impressed with a thoughtful gift...if I can find one.

My best idea today? The theracane! It's basically a plastic knobby cane for people to rub their own backs! I could use it too, thus partially eliminating my whining for a back rub, so really = win/win.

And yet...

Well, I'd better get back to Amazon. These thoughtful gifts aren't going to buy themselves God knows. And I'm still looking for my do-rag.

Comments, questions, are you short of ideas this holiday?

Coming Soon to a Blog Near YOU!!!!

2010-12-12T10:22:00.000-08:00

Times, they are a changin' and all that... And, more importantly, my blog is changing.

I have my BFF from wayyyy back doing her mad computer skillz as we speak. Okay, maybe not RIGHT NOW - she might be eating a hot pocket for all we know, but soon. Coming SOON.

Expect some pretty exciting (at least for me) changes - which may or may not include new names, graphics and dare I say it, font color. I KNOW! It's thrilling.

I'll be posting as able, but for the rest of the time, content yourselves with this cool icon:

And if that's not cool enough for you, here is a drunken kitt-ay.

Enjoy Friends!

Comments, questions, do you want to get down with html?

Poking Prostates, or, Why I Am All Sad Kitty Today

2010-12-10T04:53:00.000-08:00

I sat in the doctor's office, blissfully free from my children. I was surrounded by weird slice-away images of male anatomy. Um. Gross? Oh, and if that weren't enough, I was stuck staring at a 3D diorama of prostate disease. I got bored, so I poked one. Turns out, the prostate is shaped like a nice landscaping river rock, but is rubbery like an eraser. Who knew?

Your urologist! That's who!

The nurse tech lady came in and took my blood pressure. She took my blood pressure with the cuff AND the stethoscope on top of my furry thick sweater. Immediately I felt in capable hands. NO, not really.

The doctor though, seemed pretty capable. Especially when he told me that that bladder is designed to "keep the bad shit where it needs to be."

Then, in the middle of our chuckle-fest, he told me that I should keep a bladder diary.

"Dear Bladder, today you were only a little douche-y. I drank water and hated you for it. But then I ate a cookie. Oh, and I didn't pee myself when I sneezed. Thanks for working, sort of. Love, Sam."

But no, I have to record what I eat and drink and see if it helps.

And that's not the worst part. Not the worst by FAR.

He said I have to stop drinking carbonated beverages.

Do you know what this fucking means, Friends? DO YOU????

No Coke Zero. No Sprite Zero. NO. COKE. ZERO.

THE EVER LOVING HORROR!!!!

All because my bladder is irritated. Well guess what! I'm fucking irritated. Like every single day! I'm irritated with my seat belt when it eats my hair. I'm irritated with my hair for being eaten by EVERYTHING - doors, sunroofs, coats, buttons. The list goes on! AND ON.

And you don't see me getting inflamed and causing spasms!

I can't even wrap my mind around this. Too bad I didn't take that job at the rehab place (true story) because then, at least, I could've worked the program to kick my habit.

Dirty, dirty bastards.

Comments, questions, have you ever had to give up something you LOVE?

Samibal the Cannibal

2010-12-09T11:28:00.000-08:00

Today's post should be SUPER appreciated, because unlike yesterday, I didn't blunder through Classic American Literature for you, but I *did* type this on my raw, bleeding nubbins of fingertips. Quite the picture, no? No.

Basically, I bite and/or chew my fingers. NOT my fingerNAILS (although I will if they get in the way) - I mean my ACTUAL fingers. Sometimes I realize it's because something is burning away on my mind. Other times, well, I missed Triscuit and cheese time by a good hour or so and I really just need a snack.

Either way, it's hard to feel full of the prett-ay when your fingers are oozing from a hundred tiny bite marks.

I've gone cold turkey. Grown my nails out. I've tried to be more *aware* of what I'm doing. (That would mean that I pay attention to something for more than a nanosecond before becoming distracted by the lyrics of a Shinedown song.)(So.)(Yeah.)

I read some crazy Freudian theory once about "oral fixations" - and why people smoke. I have NO IDEA if it's real. I certainly don't smoke, what with the ASS-ma and all it's a veritable party killer. I chew my fingers like I might solve a math equation in Beautiful Mind if I tried really hard.

Once, in a fit of 20-something glory, I pierced my tongue. So there was THAT for oral fixations. It was a really bad idea. (Are you happy NOW Dad?) I mean, aside from sticking it out at drivers who'd pissed me off, it was pretty useless. I did like accessorizing the balls on the barbell, but it wasn't a sufficient perk to justify driving a huge needle through the middle of my freaking tongue.

(Oh, and to the stoics who say "it didn't hurt" - I actually yelled a LOT with a needle skewering my tongue, AT the piercer to tell him JUST HOW I FELT about that sentiment.)(If cracking your shin on a coffee table hurts, well, impaling your tongue is medieval torture.)

Then, one night, I did God-knows-what sort of oral acrobatics in my sleep and woke up to a tongue-u-lar injury of the second degree. Out came the tongue ring. I keep it in a box to show my children someday.

This is what identity crises LOOK like children, gather 'round....

Either way, oral fixation or Freud's a Fraud, I can't stop eating my fingers. I'm a weird self-cannibal. NOT COOL.

But at least it's winter. I can keep the gloves on for awhile since we've entered Russian Tundra Weather. Maybe it'll keep me from needing a transfusion...

I'd write more, but turns out I need a band-aid.

Comments, questions, are you self-destructive?

On the Subject of Work

2010-12-08T06:40:00.000-08:00

*OH how you should appreciate my efforts today, Friends, because I just spent at least ten minutes skimming a Mark Twain novel to find the passage I was thinking of; I never found it, but I did remind myself just how brilliant Twain was as a writer. So there is that.*

I'm *totally paraphrasing here* (see above): In one of Twain's books (possibly ..Connecticut Yankee.., he talks about how people always consider mental work to be so difficult, but if you've ever actually been the one wielding a shovel for a day's work, you know the truth.

That passage (that I can't find) always stuck with me. *I* grandiosely once considered the mental work I did to be grueling and frustrating and taxing. Then I met my husband. At the time, he still worked in the field, doing complicated HVAC work for commercial job sites.

Day after day, he'd put on his tool belt (literally) and bundle up or dress down (depending on the season). He'd work on huge lifts, drawing out intricate blue prints, and YES, actually using mathematical formulas to determine air pressure and flow and other unpleasant things that had to be figured. (When he tells me about positive and negative pressure and zones and things I start to drool and/or get hives.)

He would come home exhausted, occasionally limping and often sore. He would spend hours moving duct work, banging pipe into place, and using tools that I couldn't lift with both hands.

He always said that he wouldn't care what office work he did, if only he didn't have to stand in an unfinished building in the cold December of an Indiana winter trying to wrestle freezing duct-work into place.

For the last five years, he's been in that office. He now bids the work, designs it at times, and runs the guys in the field doing the work. It's what makes him an excellent manager. Occasionally, he's had to go to bat for the guys because someone in the office has complained about them. His first question is, "have you ever been in the field? No? Then shut the hell up." (At times, he throws on jeans and heads to a job site to do it himself.)

If you haven't been out there, with fingerless gloves, swinging a hammer, you don't get to judge the guys who are.

It's mental. It's physical. And it's fucking WORK.

And when I see guys bundled up, driving a work truck, sipping their morning coffee, I always give a mental nod. I know how hard they have it, and how hard they work to keep it.

And I duck my elitist intellectual head a little, because really, I've never worked that hard. You don't write a thesis 20 feet up with a wind blowing you around, after all.

Mark Twain knew his shit. Both literary AND literal. And he knew what hard work was. A different Twain quote, "Don't think the world owes you anything. It was here first."

Questions, comments, what do you do for a paycheck?

New Post Later Taters

2010-12-07T13:23:00.001-08:00

I'd been working on a sweet post involving self-leveling floor muck (I know! EXCITING!) but then I got distracted by life and my upcoming appointment with a urologist who is NOT a woman (which means he's a man)(and I'm WAY anti-dude doctor)(especially if it involves lady things) and then I had to eat a lot of cookies because my mother made them and they taste like my childhood. Which is almond-flavored AND delicious.

Plus I also thought about revamping the site. Again. I know I did it last year and I hate sites that change all the time because if I like one thing (other than flavored rum) it's consistency. Your Favorite Writer abhors change. It makes me all anxiety-like in the brain.

But I've been kicking around ideas AGAIN and I really think I could add some flair. Or some t-shirts. A friend of mine who actually MAJORED in ART (true story) wants to do something with t-shirts and who am I to deny her my assistance?! Exactly.

And if I don't do that, my OTHER friend does web design, so I might be paging HER for her ideas...

I'm not talking total overhaul here.

Well maybe I am.

It's hard to say.

I'm distracted again by my octogenarian bladder. Seriously. Does my bladder know we're only 32? Because I'm pretty sure that I don't have a prostate but I have to pee ALL THE EVER LOVING TIME, and I am NOT taking that dirty medicine for those weird people made out of copper pipes.

I'm sure that made sense to at least one other person besides me.

So. Stay tuned for a FAR more cohesive post than this one. Especially if you like self-leveling floor compound. Who doesn't?

Comments, questions, what distracts you?

It's 3 am and I'm Not Dr. Phil

2010-12-03T04:42:00.000-08:00

*NOTE: If you are my actual neighbors who were involved in a Domestic Disturbance last night, I am TOTALLY being facetious and NOT REALLY talking about you. Because I'm fairly sure that you've all committed numerous felonies and I'd prefer *not* to be one of the reasons you finally go down on an assault beef. Remember, NOT you. Some other, loud, crazy neighbor, that may or may not have used the exact language you used. While you screamed in your driveway. But it's NOT REALLY YOU. Also, why would you be reading my blog?*

So last night, I was in the middle of a very detailed, cinematic quality dream. I should actually take a second to jot down the plot, because frankly, *that* dream had far more plot than I can come up with during my waking hours. There was something involving a grossly deformed crime figure who collected rare disfigured animals; but he was chasing a woman who knew his secrets to try and kill her! Sure, she looked a lot like Cheryl Crow, but she also killed her would-be murder with a sharpened hair pin! I drove the get away car, and drove it pretty well, I MIGHT ADD.

In the middle of all THAT jazz, I woke up. Which was okay, because the crime figure was getting close to finding where Cheryl Crow and I parked our stolen Cadillac (did I mention it was pearl white?) - see, we'd planned to park it in long term parking for a cruise ship line and then escape from the parking lot....

Aaaaanyway.

I woke up.

I thought it was because of my Ongoing Obnoxious Paging Dr. House Medical Mystery that makes me feel like I have to pee every hour on the hour, but no. It was some sort of loud action occurring outside mah bedroom window.

The Man was already up and at 'em and it was the sprightly hour of 3 or so am. FUN. Let me be clear when I say that the only thing waking me up at 3 am had BETTER be the Sweepstakes People who bring balloons and big fake checks with LOTS of zeros. But if they woke me up in my bedroom, or even outside my bedroom, they might get shot by a gun I named "Bertha" in my dream (but I would *never* name my REAL gun Bertha because it's just undignified somehow)(Now I'm distracted thinking of what I really might name my shotgun)(I'm at a total loss here).

I was totally confused, had to pee (or not), and could only hear the phrase "motherfucker" being yelled repeatedly, as in "You'd BETTER not leave, Motherfucker!" or "Motherfucker, don't leave!" and I'm thinking, usually when *I* try to convince The Man of something, it ALWAYS goes better if I'm not calling him Motherfucker when I do it.

But, Motherfucker apparently didn't leave and eventually after shouting a few more things at each other, my *chaaaarming* neighbors (read this as: NOT getting a last minute Christmas card THIS year) went back inside. And I lay awake. Because AWAKE is sooooo where I want to be at 3:45 in the morning.

Then the Children of the Corn came in at 5. A.M. And wanted breakfast.

Didn't happen.

Finally, I had to get up for the day at 6. I dragged my decrepit leaky bladder downstairs to make some coffee and get this Friday started.

And, because the Advil worked on my burgeoning headache AND I believe in karma, I didn't even honk my way out of the driveway to annoy Mr. and Mrs. Still Happily Married Motherfucker. But I may name my gun. Because really, why not.

Comments, questions, how did YOUR Friday start?

The Genesis of an Alter-Ego

2010-12-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

Maybe *you* have a nickname left over from when you were young and free and whimsical. Maybe friends used to call you T-bone or Skeeter, or Doob or Cochese. Whatever. I don't know. (Unless you were *already* my friend when we were young and free and whimsical, and then sir, I probably DO know.)

My name, somewhere around 1995 morphed from the totally acceptable Sam, to Sam-o, or Sammo, as I have continued to spell it. So friends would be all "Sammmmm-OHHHHH" and that was how it was. How it still is with certain people, and how I still am when I pull on my cape and go off to fight crime with verbal assassin powers.

Sam is for my friends and family, and for when The Man chooses a name instead of "babe." It also used to be a LOT of fun when people I had to talk to at work would get pronouns all messed up. "Is Sam there?" "This is she." "Oh! I mean, oh. I thought..." "Yep. I'm Sam!" Fun times, fun times.

Samantha, heaven forbid, is for when my parents feel the need to stir up ancient memories of me being sent to my room for some early tentative verbal assassinatin' and taking my precious books away as punishment. THE HORROR. It's also for doctor's offices and/or insurance forms. The end. It might (or might not) be how Oprah introduces me to her audience. (The jury is still out on my Oprah moment name.)

But Sammo? Sammo is my inner rock star. She's the one who fearlessly got her first tattoo at 18 and applied lipstick during the ordeal. She's the one who doesn't throw up at the merest whiff of tequila. She was who passed the motorcycle class and could shift into third gear without whimpering. She slapped a personalized license plate on her second Nissan and drag raced anyone at a stoplight. Even when it was hopelessly impossible to win. She is my parallel-universe alter-ego who does the things that average everyday Mom Sam doesn't have the time, inclination or let's face it, balls to do. Samantha does laundry, Sammo does body piercing. It's very simple, really.

So today, maybe you should break out YOUR old nickname and do some damage. The Man has old football and Air Force nicknames. (Blue and G.Q., respectively.) EVERYONE has at least one. Let your alter ego take over and see what happens. Maybe it will at least make your Facebook status update more interesting; because let's face it, if I have to read one more update about Christmas shopping or your intestinal virus (even though MY intestinal situations are THRILLING) I will probably buckshot-pellet my monitor to death.

Comments, questions, who is your alter ego?

So Random I Ran out of Witty Terms for Random

2010-11-30T06:22:00.000-08:00

I had started a post about the stuff that I was thankful for (my family, friends and Coke Zero) but you people already *KNOW* that. And I was bored with it. And even though Maya Angelou told me recently in my Good Housekeeping that gratitude lists saved her life (and she won a writing award AND was on Oprah!) it sort of bored me and depressed me that I ran out of ideas after "vacuuming" and "vicodin" - soooooo.....

On to more random stuff! WHEE!

Like laminate flooring. Seriously. That's what *WE* bought on black Friday. What, gifts for the kids? Isn't nice flooring a gift for US ALL?

And then we tried to install it. And not for the first time, Your Favorite Writer wished she were the sort of lady who could hire it done. And not just because The Man refused to work with his shirt off as I requested. (What good is it to marry someone that you find SUPER hot if they won't disrobe and act like a silly male model at your request?! I KNOW! I call bullshit on that.)(And I am so not complimenting him so he'll buy me dinner. Mainly because THAT tactic doesn't work. And because it's true. You married YOUR husband because he proposed in a hot air balloon. Swell. I married MINE because I'd like to stuff tens in his pants. That's just how I roll.)(If you're confused, refer to my Puerto Rico pictures. Seriously.)

You'd think that Flooring People would have mentioned making sure the floor was level. You'd also think that we might have remembered that there is a huge dip in the floor because the Green Counter and Carpet People didn't insist on that shit being FIXED when they built our house. But the Flooring People failed us, just as our memories did. And now my floor is half laid. And half not. And we have to tear most of it up to pour some sort of *MAAAAGICAL* goup on the floor that will make it all level and special so our laminate will lock without us cursing and stomping on it and threatening it with hammers.

SWEET.

And I also would advise you NOT to let Pandora play Metallica's "Fade to Black" when you're installing flooring because, really, you do NOT need a song about giving up on life when you're already primed to take a hammer to anything in your way.

On a different note, I thought (again) about how I need to start carrying a notebook around with me like a REAL writer (or James Hettfield)(if you don't know who he is, see also: above Metallica reference) does, but I've tried that before and then I forget what I'm reminding myself to write about and I end up with pages full of cryptic notes that confuse me. Things like "Tibetan sand painting" next to "stoplight sunset" - which could obviously refer to some sort of weird stream of consciousness poem, or me having hallucinated while on vicodin. Again.

And on YET another random note, my dirty dirty Ford Exploder (aka the Crappy American SUV) visited its home-away-from-home, the repair shop, again yesterday. Something that had caused it to go "CLUNK!!!" whenever I turned left was replaced at *great financial cost* causing me to have to do something I'd RATHER GET A DENTAL CLEANING than do. Our budget. Because really? I can't keep fixing the car that was the main reason for Ford overhauling its entire production line. I mean, I'm glad *MY* car could contribute, however annoyingly, to Ford's economic recovery and all, but I am tired of driving something that could possibly blow up and/or kill me at any time.

It all depends on what the numbers tell me. And the numbers will likely tell me I'd better hope Craigslist has a bargain on a 10 year old minivan. And not that Audi with the red leather that MOMMY wants.

But at least it'll beat laying floor. Maybe.

Comments, questions, what's new witchu?

Good Morning Sunshine!

2010-11-24T04:25:00.000-08:00

This morning, I was lolling around in bed, listening to my children flagrantly ignore the "no kids up before Mommmy's up" rule and then I heard a beep. A series of persistent beeps. I have kids with obnoxious toys, so clearly things beep around here often.

(True story: Once, we were awakened by a voice talking in a loud Hispanic accent.... At first we thought someone was all Breaking and Entering but no, it was Casanova's Handy Manny truck. "Let's fix the radiator!" "Hmmm, let's fix the engine!" Frankly, if anyone wants to come over and work on my car, that's cool, but not at 2 am.)

The beeping persisted. Then, the beeping quickened. Of course it took me that long to realize it was our security system. Shit. So without *any regard* for my own safety, I ran downstairs in my over-size t-shirt and glasses to confront whatever crazed roving serial killers had broken in. Actually, I just wanted to shut off my alarm before it tripped the entire system. I was, as they say, too late.

"BWAHHHHHH! BWAHHHHHH! BWAHHHHHH!"

I punched the code in and killed it - then realized hey, um, something actually must be open for it to go off. And then I was totally panicked. Seriously. I had no weapon except for my MIND (which is dubious at best) and couldn't remember which zone was which. Sigh.

But, like the total Sherlock Holmes I am, I glanced at the inner door to the garage. WHEW. It was cracked, but enough to trigger the sensor. This meant no home invading ax murderers. Totally dodged that bullet. Or ax. Or whatever.

The inner garage door doesn't seal quite perfectly, so with the weird crazy wind storms we've had, some sort of highly specific physics-related pressure change happens and the door pops. One might have seen this coming. Or not.

The Man had gotten himself all prettified and I was still shaking with adrenaline (for the serial killers) and told him that the alarm company would call soon. They did. Everyone was glad we hadn't been ax murdered and it was just a faulty door seal.

Then The Man looked at the door and started talking about shims and door jams and wood and I got that glazed look again like when he starts telling me about Math's Practical Applications in Life and nodded.

So. We have some door shimming to do.

But at least we know I will run INTO danger and not away from it. But next time, I'm going armed. (You can't be too careful.)

(I'll probably end up blowing Handy Manny away.)

Comments, questions, ever realize you're an idiot too late?

My Least Favorite Holiday, or, Why I'm in Charge of Salad

2010-11-23T04:27:00.000-08:00

I know most people get all super cranked about Thanksgiving; they're all "bring on the food!" and I get that, because I like food too! The thing about Thanksgiving that I don't like, is the traditional food. It's nothing personal. I'm only vaguely accepting of turkey and even that is tenuous at best. The odds I'd stick my delicate patrician hand in a gaping turkey hole to remove a bag of organs? Vegas wouldn't like those odds, that's all I'm saying.

So let's review the *Traditional Thanksgiving Menu:

Turkey: Meh, at best. Don't expect me to cut it or to even LOOK at it when it's raw

Stuffing: Double EW. The spice in it causes me to reflexively dry heave and if you actually put it INSIDE the bird? I'll be eating rolls and potatoes.

Cranberry Sauce: I only involve cranberries in my life if I'm peeing fire, and then I still gripe about the unfairness of it all. Cranberry is also acceptable if the words "vodka" and/or "martini" are involved.

Gravy: I have no inherent dislike of gravy, but I have Z E R O patience for slopping drippings around a pan and then patiently mixing in flour and talking to it or playing it Mozart or whatever you do to make gravy happy.

Potatoes: Yeah, okay, I'll eat those.

Rolls: As long as there's butter.

Relish dish: Let's be honest. This thing is the poor man's salad. A relish dish is basically some diced celery and some dirty black olives thrown together on a platter you hide in your china cabinet for the rest of the year. Why be stingy, make a SALAD!

Pumpkin Pie: Ew. I'm sorry, but I don't like pumpkin, let alone its trying to trick me by throwing in the PIE concept. Pie is for apples. Or blueberries. You know, FRUIT. You don't hear about a Zucchini pie do you? Nope. Because who wants a vegetable pie. Gross.

And see, that's my basic issue with Thanskgiving. The food! It'd be like (for people who are all excited about stuffing and relish dishes) if I said, hey, you get to eat a yearly meal of Liver, Anchovies and Brussel Sprouts! And you'd be all, wow, thanks, I'll just grab some take out.

So since WE are hosting Thanksgiving Dinner at Casa de Sammo this year, I have decreed that The Man will deep fry our turkey (since it cooks faster and we can shoot it up full of seasonings with a GIGANTIC turkey syringe)(weird but true) and that I'm on Salad Duty. If I can have a salad, all y'all can chow down on all the dirty dirty stuffing you want.

And I'll be socking away a secret cheesecake or something else totally dessert appropriate in the fridge - because pumpkins belong carved on my front porch for Halloween, not baked in mah oven.

AND, because we are chock full of November birthdays, Casanova turns four ON Thanksgiving, so at least I'll get to bake a cake. And have presents with our turkey. I guess that beats just having dinner!

Comments, questions, what are your holiday plans?