Tom Cruise and Tropic Thunder

Have you seen it yet?

I just watched it last night. I love Ben Stiller, find Jack Black to be hysterical, and have a mad crazy crush on Robert Downey Jr. so it was a natural pick for me. While I thought the movie started out a little slow and not so piss-your-pants-laughing funny, it quickly turned for the good.

So loudly was I laughing that the kid came downstairs and asked me to keep it down because I was embarrassing her in front of her friend.

It was that funny.

However, the highlight of the movie came during the closing credits. Tom Cruise plays Les Grossman, a sleazy producer, and is nearly unrecognizable in the part. Partially bald, lots of extra chest hair, and over-sized glasses truly transformed him into Hugh Hefner's fat younger brother. If you haven't seen the movie, you need to. But in the meantime, you can take a break and laugh your ass of watching this video. Happy Holidays from me to you.





Photo courtesy of britfilms.tv

My Whiney Ass Can't Stop Complaining.

I got this really hair-brained idea lately that I should start keeping a gratitude journal. Nothing fancy, just a few notes every morning about the things in my life that I'm grateful for. The purpose of the exercise was to try and pep me up. Make me a happy gal. Get me out of my funk.

Now, maybe I'm a little sick and twisted, but the shit I'm thankful for is really pretty lame. And when I'm writing down the teeny little stuff that I'm thankful for (that the boy shoveled the driveway before he left for work), I'm thinking about all the really big shit that I'm pissed about (that he waited until the last possible second to try to buy the shoes I asked him for as a Christmas gift and now he can't find them so I'll be the only person at home without anything to open). I realize in the grand scheme of things that this last sentence makes me a) incredibly shallow and b) sound really dumb for complaining about shoes when there's all sorts of people starving in the world.

But here's the deal. I'm not so much pissed about the fact that I won't have a gift under the tree to open, I'm more pissed about the fact that he waits until the last possible minute to do anything. Therefore, most of everything falls in my lap. I'm finding it difficult to turn that into something I'm grateful for in my little gratitude journal.

Other things I'm not grateful for :: all this effing snow, the fact that infertility testing involves the boy sperminating (Sarah's word) in a plastic cup which he's mad at me about, that tomorrow will probably be a snow day which means I'll spend the whole day explaining that "no I can't entertain you right now because I have work to do," to a child that just doesn't get that the world does not revolve around her 24/7. I'm not grateful that it's so effing cold, nor am I grateful for the fact that our firewood supplier screwed us out of 2 cords and $400; I hope he has a shitty holiday. Oh, and I'm also really not grateful that I totally lack willpower and I inhaled almost an entire 9x9 pan of brownies today - for breakfast.

So, what am I grateful for? I'm grateful for my job - I love the fact that I get paid to sit home and write every single day. I'm grateful that I had most of my holiday shopping done way ahead of time and that I have a snowblower and I'm not afraid to use it. I'm grateful that my daughter gave up her crusade to keep us from running the dishwasher because I couldn't take one more sinkful of dirty dishes. And mostly, I'm grateful for the fact that even though it's really effing cold out, it's pretty darn purty looking.

Ok, so I'm not a total grinch. And now I'm going to sign off, go put my feet up by the fire, knit some more, drink a big fat glass of Pinot, and finish watching The Wizard of Oz with the kid.

Happy Holidays!

Proof That Anyone Can Have an Online Business

So I was trolling the Internet yesterday trying to find some panda-related goods for the kid and came across this store. In it, they are selling the knitting pattern for this sweater, which I find disturbing for several reasons. Not only is it heinously ugly, it's advertised as a women's sweater.

Do you know any woman that would wear this? If you do, it's your duty to advise them that this is clearly unacceptable.

In other socially unacceptable-related news, I got up extra early this morning to spend a few minutes with the boy before he headed out the door and I was mindlessly flipping through channels when I came across the MTV television show, "Date My Mom."

What a fucking train wreck that show is. Have you seen it? If not, you can watch previous episodes online.

If you think your life is ef'd, you'll feel much better after watching this show, which has mom's dating a mid-twenties guy, trying to sell their daughters. Then, at the end of the show, the mom's line up and the guy tells them which daughter he wants to date. Most often, when he does NOT choose their daughter, mom has some beautiful thing to say like, "So and so, you such a f**king idiot. My daughter's too good for you."

Yes, I'm sure she is. Wait for it.......

Then the daughter comes out and has her say. This morning included a girl that actually bent over and farted in the guy's direction.

Now, that's quality TV.

Guitar Hero Corrupted Me

One thing I love most about the boy is his predictability in most situations. For example, you can count on the fact that if the cat is crying to get fed in the morning, he'll tell her to shut-up on his way to the coffee pot, instead of just feeding her.

Or, if he comes home from work and he's grouchy, you can make fun of him and he'll actually laugh at how stupid he's acting. You can always count on the fact that he will not take the initiative to plan a romantic weekend away, or even get his mom to babysit so we can go to a movie.

Now, he wasn't always this way. He used to be highly unpredictable, which drove me kind of crazy, and there were many arguments about his erratic moods, so in some respects I only have myself to blame for the way he is now; he has become predictable as a defense mechanism.

So imagine my surprise yesterday, when he called me at 11:30 to see if he could take me out to lunch.

Typically, this would thrill me. A mid-week, mid-day date. However, when he called, I was still in my pink polka-dot pajamas, UGGS, and winter hat that I had done car pool in 3 hours earlier. Why was I not showered or dressed?

Um, I was playing Guitar Hero.

Yes, it's true. When he called I was actually working, but for the 2 hours before that, I had been a bona fide rock star. Strumming the notes of Joan Jet, Blink 182, and No Doubt while the dogs howled and barked like a perfect audience.

So, did I fess up? Hell no. I had 20 minutes to get presentable. I absolutely ran through this house, shedding pajamas, kicking off UGGS, and throwing on the first clothes I could find that weren't wrinkled. Which were not necessarily the cutest clothes I own, but they were acceptable.

By the time he pulled in to the driveway, I was not showered, but dressed, with my teeth brushed and make-up on. He even commented on how cute I looked. And of course, I pecked him on the cheek and said, "why thanks honey, you're looking pretty dapper yourself."

He was none the wiser and I didn't have to admit that I had wasted my morning playing a video game. It was the perfect beginning to a perfectly unpredictable mid-day lunch date.

I Seem To Disappear A Lot Lately.

But I promise that I've had a majorly good excuse. Really.

First, I had to get ready for Thanksgiving with my grandparents - you know, the now 86-year-old grandmother who calls me a whore and questions how I raise my daughter every time she sees me? Oh yeah, that one. In anticipation, I decided to cook a little side-dish as sort of a, "look at me grammie, really, I'm a grown-up. I even cook." I made my friend Jessica's Spelt and Roasted Squash Salad, which was really effing yummy; you should totally try it.

Dinner at gram's ended up being quite pleasant - no name calling - and after 6 years, she's finally taken down the family portrait of my ex-husband, the kid, and I. Wow. Could we be moving on? That's all I want for Christmas......

After dinner, the kid decided to stay with my parents for the long weekend. As an added bonus, the boy was working 12 hour days. Are you adding this up? I ended up having so much alone time I wasn't sure what to do with myself. My intent was to work - which I did. Putting together holiday looks for baby boys, gift guides for baby boys and girls under $15 and $25 dollars, moderating forums, and pulling together gift guides for highly fashionable adults too. But all that only took me like, one day. I still had a lot of time to fill. So, what did I do?

• Trolled Facebook and surprisingly found my friend KLJ. Since her work email seems to hate me and I can't get messages about knitting to her that way, I'm hoping we can chat via Facebook now and set up dates that way. Hint, hint KLJ....log in to FB.
  
• I tracked down the man whom we purchased firewood from - who cheated us out of 1.5 cords, and asked when we would see the rest of our wood. He hung up on me so I called the police and was told I needed to sue him in Civil Court. Great.
• I played Guitar Hero - a lot.
• I ate 2 pints of Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked FroYo.
• I did NOT go shopping - except online.
• I watched a ton of television - HGTV, TLC, Lifetime......
• I knitted a new pair of fingerless gloves.
• I cleaned my house.

I was so productive I can barely stand it. And when the kid came home on Sunday afternoon, I felt so refreshed, it was like I was a new person. I'm not going to lie, I now understand how important it is to take a time-out and that will be my New Year's Resolution; taking time for me.

In other unrelated news, Prevention Magazine has asked me to participate in their Flat Belly Diet program for 32 days and blog about it for their online community. I think it's with like 49 other women. Do you think they're trying to tell me something??

Anyway, on to a diet, a lawsuit, and more gift guides.....I promise I won't disappear for another 2 weeks this time.....

Playing Russian Roulette with Auntie Flo

I've noticed that since I've declared that I don't care if we ever get pregnant, the boy has suddenly become incredibly invested in things.

It's sort of the same thing that happened when I was half-heartedly trying to plan a wedding and he kept putting things off; I finally came home and said, "I've decided I don't want to marry you. I've got the pretty ring, the house, the two dogs, the kid, and a decent tax bracket, why the hell do I need to be bound to you 'till death do us part?" Suddenly he was picking out colors and place settings.

This whole getting pregnant thing has almost become this 007-style mission for him. He maps ovulation cycles and when it's time, he becomes Barry White, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Of course, I can only laugh because he's about as far from Barry White (or romantic) as you could get.....but he tries.

Our months have become compartmentalized and we live on an ever moving roller coaster of emotions. Now, some of you have asked why we don't just adopt. And we've considered that. But when we look at the numbers, we ask ourselves, "should we really spend that much money to bring another child home when we could be investing it in the future of the perfectly perfect child we already have?" And our answer is always the same, "no."

So until we give up, or decide to throw college for the kid into the hands of fate, my months shape up like this:

Days 1-10 :: Waiting for Barry White to visit.

Days 10-15 :: Shagging shamlessly and reminiscing about what life was like when we were "just dating."

Days 15-27 :: Life is back to normal. But every now and again, I look out the front window and see Auntie Flo parked in her 1983 Lincoln Towncar. The window is cracked, and she looks comfortable out there, in her plush velour seats with her Virginia Slim dangling from her lips. She's staring at the house though, not a good sign.

Day 28 :: Even though I'm not counting days, I know when day 28 arrives. I'm not productive on these days because Auntie Flo is usually not late for the party, but sometimes she gets sidetracked at someone else's house. When she doesn't show up, I secretly smile and go back to praying.

Day 29 :: Sometimes, there's still no Auntie Flo. Maybe she got in a car wreck. Don't know, don't care. I shadow box in front of the calendar, taunting her. "Whatcha got, huh? You think you can take me? I don't think so!" I'm childish, I know. I repeat this exercise every day until I feel it's safe to open, "the cabinet."

Day T-0 :: On the rare months we get this far, this happens to be any day I feel confident. It could be Day 30, it could be Day 35. I open the cabinet and take out the sacred box. Carefully unwrapping that little package, like I'm Charlie and it's holding my Golden Ticket. I haven't seen Auntie Flo's Towncar out front lately, so I think it's safe.

But, of course, it never is. Before I can even get the packaging open, I hear the screeching of tires as she swings into the driveway. She doesn't even knock, she just bursts through the door, smoking her Virginia Slim, cackling like an old hen at a Friday night Bingo game, and waving a tiny little pistol.

"Sorry I'm late kid."

"Geez, you shouldn't have."

"Oh honey, you should know I'd never let you down." This bitch is sarcastic!

I smirk. "Listen, do what you need to, and get the hell out. Your ass is so not invited to Thanksgiving dinner."

**Auntie Flo's picture, courtesy of Daily Mail UK**

Deadbeat Blogger

Wow! Where the hell have I been? I honestly didn't realize that it's been almost two weeks since I posted anything here.

So, what have I been up to? Well, for one, I've got all sorts of friends having babies right now. So, I've been doing my best to generally avoid them and keep to myself. And yes, I'm still pining away for a baby. Ugh. Does this nonsense ever stop? Like, at some point can I just get over it?

The boy thinks the scenario will play out like this: the kid will be 18 and graduating from high school, toting her pink Samsonite luggage across the world. We'll have our shit packed and our tickets to Europe where we'll make a new life. And then, oops. We're cooking a kid.

At which point, I'll be pissed. I will be angry. Really, truly. Mad as hell.

And speaking of ungrateful mothers......I've recently managed to piss of my someday MIL as well. First, I told her that her son had voted Republican in the election. That almost gave her a heart-attack. Then, I told her that I could see the viewpoint of non-dog owners about dogs running off-leash on So. Portland beaches. For that, I got a tongue lashing. Finally, I told her that we couldn't come over for coffee Sunday morning because we had to rake leaves. She lost her shit on the boy for that one.

She must have really focused her universal energy on being angry at us, because this morning, our dogs got into the cat food and promptly went outside to take individual shits on every single pile of leaves that we've raked up, but not yet bagged.

That's what we get for putting moldy leaves over coffee with the boy's mom. The holiday's are going to be an effing blast this year.

Date Night

The boy and I ventured out on a date night this weekend - I know, amazing, isn't it? What was even more amazing was that, it was the first date night in a while where we didn't spend $150 between dinner and a babysitter because the kid had a sleepover party to go to. Yee Haw!!

So we went back to a local favorite of ours, The Frog and Turtle, so I could very unsexily gorge myself on poutine again. This time, I didn't even have the advantage of company to distract the boy, so he got to cringe every time I shoved a forkful in my mouth.

I jest, sort of. He wasn't cringing, but I'm sure watching me not so delicately scarf down gravy and cheese laden fries was definitely not sexy at all.

Anyway, our experience there this time was not quite what it was the others. The last time we were there, the restaurant was celebrating their 1 year anniversary - it seems they went hoity-toity the very next day.

When we arrived, we were asked if we had reservations. What?!? I don't think I've ever MADE reservations, anywhere. We were put in to a tiny little table for two that barely had enough room for our drinks, much less our dinner, our waiter looked like Werewolfe from X-Men, and he was so incredibly condescending that I wanted to slap him.

I ordered the Banana Squash soup (after he told me what a rare thing a banana squash is) along with a fruit and cheese plate. My cheese plate had 3 little pieces of cheese on it, really. All in total, their weight probably did not add up to 1 oz. And my fruit plate was actually a tiny little plate with "accouterments" on it.

After it was delivered, he stopped by to ask if anyone had even bothered to explain the cheese and accouterments to me. Really? Do you think I need someone to explain to me the history of this apple and raisin compote? Probably not.

By then, I was so annoyed that I started looking at everyone else in the place. And it was busy. The blond girl who was really quite cute, but who was so busy shoveling bread in her mouth that she couldn't talk to her date. And when she did, she'd shove the bread to one side so it looked like she had a face tumor or something. The other couple sitting next to them - at a table for six I might add, where the girl was very chic and the boy was wearing a baseball cap at the table. She spent their entire meal telling him which fork to use, how to sit, and when to eat - it was horrifying.

All in all, the date was good because we had a night out to ourselves. On the downside, I think that we're over the Frog and Turtle. Not because the food was bad, but because our waiter was way too obnoxious for me to ever want to return. Oh yeah, and he wore a pinkie ring, so I can throw in "bad taste" as well.

Family Living Class

I remember being in 4th or 5th grade the first time we had a class about our bodies changing. In fact, I remember it vividly, being ushered into the school gym, one of those big projector screens looming above us up front, and then the screens with black backgrounds and white lettering.

Amazing how that first sex-ed class scars you for life, isn't it?

Several weeks ago, the kid brought home a permission slip to participate in "Family Living" class. When I was in school, there was never a permission slip, you just went. Your parents could come if they wanted to, but really, what kid wants their parents sitting with them while your instructor talks about growing pubic hair? I mean, really.

The kid swore up and down that she was absolutely not going. She threatened all sorts of things if I made her go. Here in our house, we're pretty open about the facts of life, so really, if she didn't go, it wasn't a huge deal. Then her teacher informed her that, for students who were not going to Family Living class, there would be a 5 page essay assigned.

In her mind, that settled it; she was going.

The first few classes weren't bad. They talked about the basics of hygiene, how your body would start changing, that sort of stuff. And then class 4 happened. On the way home from school that day, the kids says, "I had Family Living today."

"Oh yeah? What'd you learn about today?"

We're the only two people in the car, but she glances over her shoulder to make sure that no one is listening in on our conversation. Her voice begins quietly and then picks up steam. "We talked about....VAGINAS! Can you believe that? We talked about VAGINAS in a whole class full of boys."

"Well, it's part of the class."

"Do you know how embarrassing that was? To hear about my VAGINA in front of the boys?"

"Well, I'm sure they were embarrassed too."

"Actually, they looked scared. But when we talked about penises, the girls were laughing."

And then the conversation was over. She was done with it. So what did she learn in Family Living? Apparently that shouting the word vagina is acceptable, and to laugh whenever the word penis is uttered. Hm, maybe she's going to be a future cast member of The Vagina Monologues.

A Mini Van Mom Shows Her Thong

And no, this isn't going to be all x-rated and stuff.

But here's the deal. Last night I spent my evening at the pool, which is the same as almost every other night of the week. But last night, one of the mom's, who is notoriously snobby, and who just happens to drive a mini-van, flashed her thong.

And guess what? It was holey.

Not holy as in religious. Holey as in, her cotton Vicki's Secret thong had holes in it.

Now why do you think that is? We've all been guilty of letting our underwear drawer slide once in a while. Maybe we just don't get around to cleaning it out often enough, or maybe it just creeps up on us and we're like, "Holy Shit! This is holey!" And then we throw it away in disgust.

But this was a holey thong that could not have been mistaken for an acceptable pair of panties. I wouldn't even have noticed except she was wearing ill-fitting jeans that gaped in the back and I had a clear view. And I probably should have told her, maybe not about the obvious holes, but about the fact that she was flashing the masses.

But I didn't. Instead, I sat right there, clucked my tongue and thought, "that's what you get for being such a bitch."

Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?

I Think I Give Up.

So, after the skunking last Sunday, things really only got worse.

Is that possible?

Indeed, it is.

Animal control informed us on Sunday that they would not come pick up the skunk. "We only deal with domesticated animals and we only work on Tuesday's and Wednesday's." Ok, great. So what if Kujo is prancing around my neighborhood on a Monday morning, then what? They informed us that we could either put the skunk out with our trash on Friday, or bring it downtown and put it in the police departments dumpster.

When they said "out with the trash Friday," I laughed. Right there on the phone. One of those deep, throaty, sinister laughs. The guy on the other end must have known what was coming because that was when he offered up the dumpster option. But thank God we own a truck, because I sure as shit wasn't putting that thing in the back of the VW.

After leaving the dogs outside for the entire night, in which they howled, whined, barked, and were general assholes, our neighbors were kindly waiting for us in the driveway with pitchforks and torches the next morning. One would think that they would understand, given the fact that we have never left our dogs outside overnight, but since they're not dog people, it was pretty much a lost cause. In the end, I baked some pumpkin chocolate chip bread and tried to make nice.

We finally found a vet to make a house call, since a) I was not putting the smelly heathen beasts in my car, and b)Dodger gets car sick anyway and the thought of cleaning out not only skunk smell but doggie barf too was not high on my priority list. Well, lucky us, Dodger was two months over-due on his rabies vaccination. Guess what? Animal control actually DOES work on Monday's, because they were at our house faster than you can say "shittle skittles."

"Well, since he's two month over-due, and the skunk could potentially be rabid, we are recommending, and asking, that you euthanize your dog."

I might have slapped him. I'm not sure. I am pretty sure that I blacked out for a second.

"Well, sir, while I respect your information, that's not going to happen, so why don't you tell me what the next option might be."

Needless to say, we've been quarantined. The skunk wasn't rabid because it's been living under our shed for months. It's walked by Dan in the driveway. It wasn't acting rabid when the dogs bit it. The fact of the matter was, the fat skunk was just too damn slow to get out of the dogs way.

So, how could we have possibly ended such a fantastic week? Oh, this is classic. My ex-husband came in to town to visit with the kid for two days. Arriving on Thursday night, late, he took a cab to his motel, but when Sunday arrived, he asked me for a ride to the airport, because he wanted to save himself the extra $17.

I'm pretty sure you know what my answer was.

And so the boy stepped up to the plate. He offerred to take the ex to the airport. He says it was in an effort to show the kid that her dad and her step-dad could get along, maybe ease some anxiety. I think it was more likely that he was trying to prove something. Either way, I'm pretty sure that it was probably one of the most uncomfortable moments he's ever had.

I felt so sorry for him that I actually gave him permission to smoke in the car on the way home.

Murphy's Law

"When you think things can't get any worse, you're probably dead wrong."

And so was the story of yesterday. After the dogs were both sprayed by the skunk, we thought the day could not get any worse. We used some pet-store remedy twice on them and left them outside to dry off.

The boy left to run errands and the kid and I started painting her room.

But then I heard Zoe barking.....a bark I had never heard before......in my gut, I knew something was wrong.

So I run downstairs, paint roller still in my hand and poke my head out the kitchen window. And there lay the skunk, half-dead, with the two dogs standing over it, wagging their tails, wanting to play.

Needless to say, things went downhill from there pretty quickly. The stench of being sprayed by a skunk, not once, but twice, plus shoving their faces in it after they ripped open its belly, is almost too much to bear. Our entire neighborhood smells like skunk, my office smells like skunk, our skin smells like skunk, and our dogs are living outside on the deck until I can figure out how in the hell to get the smell off of them.

Dodger got it so bad that his normally white paws are yellow. Yellow for Christsakes!!

And so today I will try Rachel's method with the peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap. However, I did read online that if you don't treat it within twelve hours, your kind of effed and that the smell, at that point, will stay with them for two years. Yikes. I'm hoping the first, second, third, and fourth treatment of the Skunk-Off counts for something.

And here I thought I would get some work done today.

And We Dance Again

Two weeks ago, I talked about our friendly skunk and his love of the boy's shoes.

Well, he's arrived again.  In fact, he's living under our shed.  Which in the grand scheme of things is a nuisance,  but as long as he doesn't spray anything, I really don't care.

Keywords, "as long as."

This morning, when the boy let the dogs out, they immediately bee-lined for the back of the yard; at first, he thought there was just a dog on the other side of the fence.  But then he saw Dodger shaking something in his mouth.

Dear Sweet Gentle Jesus; it was the skunk. 

And so now, we've got two dogs that smell like a skunk.  And they're not happy to just be sprayed and then sit at the back door, begging to be let in.  No, they're instead laying in front of the shed, with their noses as far as possible underneath it.  Like, "please, just come back out to play. Please? We were having such fun."

Are dogs are such idiots that they're not even phased by the fact that they've been sprayed.  While my friend Rachel had this happen not so long ago, her dog apparently was upset at being sprayed; ours not so much.

And here I thought it was going to be a quiet day of painting the kid's room.

 

The County Fair

So, we recently visited the county fair. As was the case last year, there were far too many women wearing mom jeans, and a lot of obnoxious teenagers hitting the hippie lettuce and acting like idiots. It was truly an experience.

This year, the kid brought a friend with her, which was great because it meant that the boy and I didn't have to ride on anything. This particular friend of hers is quite funny. When you first meet her, she's a little bit quiet and sort of shy. When she and the kid get together though, you couldn't ask for a more chatty-Cathy combo. I'm sure they boy was absolutely thrilled as we drove up to the fair.

"blah, blah, blah.....Oh My Gosh! Nick Jonas is SO Cute!!!! If I ever say him in person I'd be like 'aagghh! I love you Nick!!! aaaggghhh!' (and yes, they were actually screeching). Blah, blah, blah....I can't wait to eat fried dough.....I can't wait to have cotton candy.....I can't wait.....blah, blah, blah....." It was a non-stop stream of pre-tween chatter. To be honest, I'm not sure how their teacher handles them each day; I think I'd gouge my eyeballs out.

Speaking of which, I was pretty sure that by the end of our fair adventure, the boy was ready to take his own out. As the night wound down, the kid wanted to go on that pirate ship thing that runs like a giant pendulum. Her friend was so not okay with that, so Dan went in her place. As they were standing in line, there was a girl who was probably 13, with only one mission standing right behind them; to see if she could scream the loudest. It was similar to this.

Now imagine how happy he was to stand in line in front of her for 5 minutes.

As they approached the pirate ship, it looked like the boy and the kid would be the last two to squeeze on, escaping the girl.

Ha! Now imagine how happy he was to be sitting right across from her during the entire ride. I was certain that, by the end of it, he would reach across and punch her in the face - really. I know I would have.

By the end of the night, he was so completely spent, he didn't even speak. Or maybe he was just in a bad mood. I don't know. What I do know is this: he will probably never go to the fair again.

I Think I Smell a Skunk

For the last several days, I've been sitting in my office and smelling the very distinct stench of skunk. And I've pretty much lived with it because I figured that if there was a skunk spraying his stuff all over the yard, I was not wanting to get involved.

So today, the boy comes home and I mention it to him. Thinking maybe he knows something about the skunk, or maybe, perhaps, he should be aware of the skunk so that he doesn't let the dogs out at night to get sprayed.....

M: Hey honey, I think we've got a skunk hanging out in the yard. Do you smell that?
B: Smell what?
M: The skunk smell.
B: I don't smell anything.
M: Well, come in my office and sniff. It smells like skunk in here.

So, in he walks, and he takes a great, big, giant sniff.

B: Oh, that?
M: Um, yeah.
B: That's just my shoes. They're right over there (as he points in the general direction of the corner of MY office.)
M: Were they sprayed by a skunk?
B: Yeah, I think so. I put them in here to air out.

*****Silence......******

M: So let me get this straight. Your shoes were sprayed by a skunk, and you decided that it was a good idea to not only bring them in the house, but to leave them in my office, where I work every single day, so that I might enjoy the breathtaking scent of skunk?
B: Well, I didn't put that much thought in to it. I just brought them in so they didn't get sprayed again.
M: Why didn't you leave them downstairs in the "man cave?"
B: Well, I didn't want the room I hang out in to smell like skunk.

Really. What the eff is that about?

Allergic to 31

I realize that I've been an ass and have completely ignored and neglected this little blog as of late. But I have an excuse.

I turned 31.

And I seemingly had some adverse reaction to it which left me cranky and wanting to do nothing but mope around the house in sweatpants and wife beaters. It was pretty ugly.

Then this weekend, the boy and I had a date night with our friends who recently moved back to the area. It was nice. We headed to Frog and Turtle, where they were also celebrating a birthday. Apparently, all I really needed to get out of my funk was a glass of wine, two vodka tonics, an order of Poutine, and some roasted vegetable and goat cheese crepes. Awesome.

Now instead of trekking just 3.5 miles every morning, I've upped the ante to 5 because the fresh cheese curds from that Poutine seem to have made an immediate beeline for my ass.

But, it was damn good going down.

Taking a Vacation

Recently I was looking back through my work logs from the last 8 months.  I'm not sure what prompted it, but I guess maybe I needed to feel like I actually have gotten something accomplished over the course of this year.  What I felt when I was done though was sheer exhaustion.

I realized that, over these last 8 months, I have only had 32 days that I have not been working.  And none of them were in a row.  So, for my birthday, I'm giving myself a vacation.  No computer, no blog, no BlackBerry, on social networking - for 4 whole days. I know, I can hardly believe it myself.  

But, I'm shutting it all down, and just so I'm not tempted, I'm putting my SIM card in an old school cell we have kicking around, and locking the BlackBerry in the glove compartment of Dan's truck.  Just in case I have a moment of weakness.

Of course, to get prepared for a vacation, I must get ahead in work. And so, I've developed a plan to do just that.  If I've calculated correctly, I will be ready to take 4 days off in roughly 2 weeks. And then, the fun starts.  Here's what I have planned:

• Getting the car inspected.
• Painting the living room and bathroom.
• Possibly painting the upstairs and my office.
• Going through 2 years of Real Simple and Cooking Light to pull out what I want and recycle the rest.

Dan says this doesn't sound like much of a vacation to him, but this is all the crap I never get to do! I'm so excited, I can hardly stand it.  Alright, I must go work....I've got a vacation coming up!!

An Ego Boost For Sure

So earlier today I was over at Saving with Style to post about Clothes Off Our Back - an auction site where you can grab celebrity gear and know that you money is going to fight childhood hunger. Now, before you groan and click away.......Imagine my surprise when I saw this.


Crack me right the f*ck up. I'm thinking about blowing this up to poster size and hanging it in the house somewhere. Do you think I can just point to the sign every time the boy or the kid argues with me?

The Skeeziness of Bob's

Several month's ago, the kid took apart her bed, hauled it all to the curb, and declared that she didn't want it anymore. In fact, what she wanted was to have her bed on the floor - it was "cozier."

Well, the novelty of that horse and pony show has worn off, and she now wants a new bed.

We tried to talk her into taking our bed, so we could move up a size. After all, what kid doesn't want a full size bed? Apparently, ours.

"A full size bed isn't as versatile."
"What?!" Me, mildly annoyed because I really want a queen size bed
"I don't have as many options with a full size bed." Eye rolling and exasperation included.
"Sydnie. What in God's name are you talking about?!?"
"Um, in case you hadn't noticed, I like to rearrange my room. And with a full size bed, I can only put it in two places and I don't want that."
"So, you want to keep making your friends sleep on the floor when they spend the night?"
"That's their problem, not mine."

As she stands, shrugging her shoulders, I am completely annoyed that she (a) is clearly so not budging on this bed thing, and (b) that she isn't considering her friends.

So, off to bed shop we go. Actually, it was Dan and her that went first, because he thought I might need some quiet time to get work done. But it wasn't an hour later that they called and had to come home to get me. And all together, we made a trip to Bob's Discount Furniture.

Say what you want about Bob's, but I'll tell you this, the pit has deals you can't beat. Especially when you're trying to shop for a twin size bed on the cheap.

The first thing I notice when I enter the store is the dead goldfish floating in their little pond at the entrance. Nice. Real nice.

Then we get the salesman. Short in stature, he is of Hispanic decent and has one of those thin mustaches. Not like Juan Valdez in the coffee commercials, but instead one of those very thin, almost penciled in mustaches that makes him look greasy. Wearing a cheap suit, he's got a gold Folex and too many man-rings.

"You folks just looking around?"
"Yep."
"Can I help you find anything?"
"Nope."
"Well, if you need anything, I'll be within eye sight."
"Yep, we know, thanks."

And off we went - Dan in one direction, the kid and I in the other. And guess who that greasy bastard followed all over the store?

Dan. Guess he doesn't know who holds the purse strings. Needless to say, we came home empty handed.

Are You Ready for This? I'm Not.

So, it seems that over the course of the next two weeks, my smiling face will be delivered to 2 million inboxes around the country, courtesy of Upromise.com.

Dear Sweet Gentle Jesus.

Don't get me wrong, the Upromise site is great - in fact, if you have children and you're reading this, and you're NOT signed up for Upromise, you're ca.razy.  Free money for college....hello?!? Miss Sydi has been a member since birth and with any luck, I won't have to pay for textbooks, or maybe her student lunch card.  Anyway, it's totally worth it; especially if you're like me and do a lot of your shopping online.

But, back to the original intent of this post.  In the grand scheme of things, 2 million people is really just a drop in the bucket, but to me, it seems like a hella lot.  So, if you're already signed up over there, be prepared, I'm coming right into your home and you don't have a darn thing to say about it. 

Martha Effing Stewart

That's right b-yotch. I played Martha Stewart today. So at my house, what does that look like? A little something like this.

But instead of all sorts of boxes of Christmas goodies, today it was just lots of chocolate chip cookies and two loaves of homemade bread, courtesy of my step-mommas bread recipe. By the way, it's yummy. And if I get her permission, I might just put it up here.

Anywho, I do have a complaint about my chocolate chip cookies though. The recipe says that it will make 26 5-inch cookies, but somehow, I only make about 18 per batch. Which means that one of three things happened:

• I ate 8 cookies worth of raw cookie dough.
• Martha Stewart is a liar.
• I made 10-inch cookies.

I'm here to tell you that it was not option 2 or 3.

Hip Hop Grannies

I don't know how many of you have the luxury of sitting in your bathrobe, laptop on lap, watching the Today Show in the morning, but that pretty much sums up my life on most mornings. That's truly what I love about the freelance writer's life. Don't get me wrong, I work hard, but I also get some unadvertised perks.

Anyway, while watching the Today Show this morning, I caught this segment on Hip Hop Grannies in China. And of course, I had to share it with everyone else - just in case you actually had to go in to the office today.

No-Neck Mows the Lawn

So it's official; No-Neck has become a man.

Today was "learn to mow the lawn" day over at Leaf Blower and Mullet Mom's.  There's nothing better than looking out the window over a sandwich to see a sweaty and shirtless Leaf Blower teaching the kid how to mow the lawn.  And believe you me, it was a sight.

Because Leaf Blower is a communist when it comes to his lawn (um, and basically everything else), you might imagine that the lines must be perfectly straight.  So, as No-Neck finished each row and turned the mower around, fat, sweaty, SHIRTLESS (and hairy) Leaf Blower would rush over, bending sideways to see if the line was, indeed, straight.  He'd put his hand out, close one eye, and squint just to make sure.

Seriously.  Their kid is 10.  My someday spouse is 32 and he doesn't even mow the lawn in straight lines.  Christ.

Of course, in some small way, this is probably just punishment for their kid who was recently seen riding his bike through the neighborhood with his mother, screaming at her that she was stupid the entire time; like, really screaming.  So loudly, that my friend actually called me about it to tell me.  

I know, we're pathetic.

In other news, I've been a busy chicky, which is why I haven't been around the blogosphere lately. I had a quick turn copyedit assignment that I cranked out over the weekend, spending the one sunny day we've had in 2 months cooped up in my office.  Other than that, nothing all that exciting going on.  The last few weeks of the summer will be, hopefully, uneventful. 

Rain, Rain Go Away

Honest to Christ, it has been raining for an unGODly amount of time. Like, it's seriously redonkulous.

The school-shopping trip to the Big K turned out to be a total bust. It was raining that day too - actually, it was more like a deluge of water just streaming from the sky, leaving ginormous puddles in it's wake, but whatever. They had none of the clothes the kid wanted at Kmart, but we did get to stop at Steve and Barry's where I scored a few cute t-shirts from the Bitten line - which I love. And thanks to Corey, by the way, for pointing out that the store has declared bankruptcy. I'm happy to say that they may be staying in business though, according to the manager of the store whom I chatted up whilst shopping.

One thing I learned about the Bitten line though; it was created only for people that become invisible when they stand sideways. Any woman that has hips is not going to wear that clothing line - ever. Which was disappointing, because I have hips.

In other rambling-style news, we had a bat in the house the other night. Which pretty much made me shit myself. While I cowered on the couch, screaming my bloddy lungs out while the bat circled my head so closely that I could feel the wind beneath it's wings, the boy ran around the house with a brown shirt over his head like a cape, thinking he could chase it out.

Clearly, he's a total fucking moron.

I continued to scream while he wrapped me in a blanket and shoved me in my office with the door closed, and then opened all the doors in the house in hopes that it would fly out. It worked, but not before I was screaming at him too about the possibility that another bat would fly IN. Jesus, I'm surprised our stripper-man cops didn't show up to save the day.

When A Man is More Beautiful Than a Woman

Until yesterday, I've never really come across a man that I considered beautiful.

And that, my friends, was when I met one of our city's "finest,"........an employee of the police department. He was investigating a case of stolen property, to which I was a witness, but the entire time we were talking, all I could think about was how he looked far more like one of those strippers that shows up at a bachelorette party - which made it really hard to focus and be serious.

I was also thinking:
1) He looks like a dark-haired version of Johnny Bravo.
2) He must spend a fortune on hair product and tanning.

And then I couldn't stop giggling. I'm sure he found me to be wildly annoying, but when a cop shows up to take a statement, and you're waiting for him to rip off his velcro pants and start grinding a poll at any moment, it's kind of hard to keep a straight face.

Holding A Grudge

I'm pretty good at holding a grudge.  In fact, in some cases, I have a chip on my shoulder the size of the polar ice cap.....and I'm not melting nearly as quick.

But, over time, I tend to let these things go.  Especially when I either haven't seen the person in a long time, or, I was not directly involved in a situation and I've just been carrying one of those "friend-grudges."  You know, the kind you hold on to when a friend has been wronged and you're just doing your duty by being pissy at the person that screwed them over?

Come to think of it, there are only two people that I'm seriously grudging against right now. One is my ex-husband.  I'd name him, but that might be too obvious, so I'll just link to his MySpace page, and a really funny interview where he proclaims what a wonderful volunteer he is and how he cares so much about the community.  If you want to hold a "friend-grudge" for me, that would be cool.  Oh, what are we grudging about? Um, let's start with the $10K + that he owes me for child support.  

The second person is Leaf Blower, who finds it perfectly acceptable to mow the neighbor lady's lawn at 7:30 on a Thursday morning when it's summer vacation.  WTF?  Especially when he sat home the rest of the day, hanging out with No Neck and Tranny Nanny.

But, I just digressed on one of those grudge rants, so let me get back to my original story. The other day, my brother and his wife ran in to an old classmate of mine that happens to be friendly with my high-school boyfriend, who clearly hates me, as referenced here.  When my brother began talking to her, she began making a clear reference to a move to NY that he made + the fact that I was generally a total asshole for screwing him over.  

Wow.  The funny thing is, that was five years ago.  And, while I can certainly understand him holding a grudge, I can't understand her doing it because A) I haven't spoken to her since high school, and B) she was never even involved in the situation, and therefore does not know the intimate details.  But, whatev.  I mean, is it okay to hold a "friend-grudge" for 5 years?  Is that strange to anyone else but me??

My Kid Loves Kmart

A while ago, over at Saving with Style, I talked about how Kmart was decidedly, very uncool when I was a kid. Now, my own child, can't wait to go shopping there for school clothes. Here's a recent conversation that happened in the car between her and a friend.

Friend: I'm going back to school shopping with my aunt. She's really rich and I can buy anything I want.

Syd: Yeah, I'm going to a bunch of stores too. Oh my gosh! And guess what?!? I get to go to.....Kmart (with an audible sigh and a wistful look out the window).......

I don't even know how she discovered Kmart. Oh, wait, yes I do. On television. Their new advertising campaign is right up her alley. For me, the silver lining in this strangeness is that, we'll go to L/A (um, yeah, that's local lingo for Lewiston-Auburn....a place almost as cool as Sanford) and I'll hit up Steve and Barry's for a little sample of Bitten.

Now that, my friends, I can barely wait for.

More Things I Love About Summer in Maine

• Morbidly obese individuals who find it acceptable to wear teeny-weeny-polka-dot-bikinis.
• Tourists that drive the wrong way on one-way streets.
• People at the beach that find it acceptable to let their kids run around in soggy, shitty diapers.
• Places like Funtown. This is where all the morbidly obese people hang out, in their teeny-weeny-polka-dot-bikinis, letting their kids run around in soggy, shitty diapers.

Ah......summer in Maine.......

What I Love About Summer in Maine

While it would make sense for me to say something like, "the lobster," or "longer days," that's of course not what I'm going to say.  I love the tourists.  For a long time, I totally hated them. They do stupid things like walk out in front of your car or stop right in front of you on the sidewalk to proudly open their city map to figure out where the hell they're going.

But now, it has become a perverse form of entertainment for me.

I've noticed that they all think that, because LL Bean is nearby, we all love LL Bean, and want to dress in LL Bean every single day.  And they talk about it like, "Oh, you know, I like to dress comfortable like all you folks do, in that LL Bean stuff."  I don't even bother mentioning that it's only been a recent occurrence that LL Bean started carrying some cute stuff. And that is still primarily in the sensible shoe category.

I've enjoy that, since they think we all dress in flannel and khaki most days, they go out of their way to wear as much designer gear as they can.  They have no shame mixing designers, and they proudly don their D & G sunglasses and their Prada wedges with short-shorts; even if their varicose veins and cellulite are standing in clear view. They are overly tan and complain loudly about how hot it is, "I might just melt right here."  

The Maine sun must be much warmer than the tanning beds in their home states.

Finally, I love that they have no problem asking questions when they wander the Old Port.  "Do you know a good place to eat?  How's the seafood here?  How do the people that live on the islands get over here?"  

Like, do you not see the gazillion restaurants lining the streets?  Did you miss that the ocean is right there and there are lobster boats coming in? How do you think the seafood is?  I'd say it's fresh.  Those folks on the island? They don't come over here.  Why? Take a guess.

Conversations Overheard

Recently, my life has taken me all over the place it seems. In my recent travels, I have seen and heard things that I feel must be shared. Why? Because I have nothing better to do.

Seen:

• a very large man wearing a "brew crew" tshirt, taking a piss while smoking a cigarette next to a kerosene pump at the ghetto gas station.
• a naked man running through a hotel.
• two people having sex on the floor of the fitness center of the same hotel.

Overheard:

• "Can I sit with you? No. Why not? Because you're fucking homeless and you smell bad," at an Old Port Dunkin' Donuts.
• "It's an issue mom because he's the baby's father and he's going to get deported," over lunch at Gritty's.
• "Just don't change your routine; the only way marriage works is if you just keep doing what you've always done. Never ask him, and he'll never say no," bridesmaids giving advice to a future bride.

Lame, isn't it? I've been non-bloggy for a week, and this is all I've got. Oh, wait, I've also got the shameless plug for all the work I've been doing at About and Upromise......

I'll try to pull together a little funny for the coming week.....I promise.

Sanford Strikes Again

OK, the irony of this post will hopefully not be lost on anyone. In fact, I really don't need to say anything; just click here and read the story. If you want a better look, watch the video.

Oh, and a quick shout out to KLJ....email me chickie, or call me.....let's knit!! I think my emails are not making it to you.....

I'm Getting Sappy

For any of you that read this regularly, this is going to catch you by surprise. I'm going to get a little sappy here.

One of the things that I truly love about working from home is the ability to respond to noon-time phone calls that go a little something like this:

"Mom! Can you come to my show at noon?"
"It's noon right now."
"Well, it starts at 12:30."
"Ok, I'll be right there."
"Thanks mom, I love you!"

And then you get to go to camp, be dragged around while the kid tells all her friends that her mom was able to make it to the noon-time show, revel in the fact that all the kids say, "wow, that's your mom? She looks so young!" (Thank God for anti-aging products!) And then you get to watch the show.

And I love that when the performance is over, you have to breath deep because your heart is in your throat and the tears are just about to come; you realize that your child is really happy, really having fun, and growing up way too fast.

Then you slip on the face-blockers, climb in the station wagon, and go back to work again.

I'm Gonna Warn You Now.....

This post will be primarily nonsense. Not nonsense like bullshit, but nonsense like, not making any sense.

Some of you might wonder where I've been; other's of you are probably glad I haven't written. Either way, I've just been hella busy, so if you count on me to bring a little sunshine to your life, I apologize for my absence.

If you only read this blog because I'm like a train wreck and you just can't look away, I'll apologize for coming back.

So, what have I been up to? Well, I finally got my website up and running - thank God. I wrote a whole bunch of stuff for Upromise, including a post about affordable fashion at Kmart (yes, really), the line of clothing that mark. offers, and the decided addiction that women have when it comes to shoes.

I've also been over at About, pulling together some new content, and recognizing that I really need to spend about three days doing nothing but writing about baby clothes.

The Stacie-hater from Sanford posted a comment again, on my last post, and then an old high school classmate came to my defense; thanks for having my back Jami. Jami, like my friend Rachel, is truly far too nice, and clean-mouthed, to actually be friends with me; sometimes I think it might be a pity things with these Michigan girls....lol......I will say though, she had some things to say to that chick from Sanford.

Oh, and just so no one feels left out, here's proof that I make fun of everyone, including myself.

I've Pissed Someone Off Again - Imagine That

This is shaping up to be a fine week already.  Not only did I have the issue with the non-English speaking call center reps, I've managed to completely infuriate someone from Sanford of all places.

I didn't know they even had Internet access.

Anyway, I jest, sort of.  But check out the lovely comment that was left for me.  I draw attention to it for several reasons.

1.  The person who left it has no problem defending Sanford and touting its praises, but they had to leave their comment "anonymously."  If you really feel that strongly about a subject, at least have the balls to put your name out there.

2.  The person who left it has no problem eluding to the fact that they hate my picture, yet they leave their comment "anonymously."  If you want to throw stones at me my friend, have the balls to show your face.

3.  The person who left it has no problem making me out to be ignorant and uneducated about Maine humor and the regions that compromise this state.  They must not have taken the time to read further into my blog and notice that I also spend significant time making fun of Athens, where my parents live, Portland, where I live, and myself, my friends, and my family.   

4.  And finally, the anonymous individual who left such a pleasant comment refers to my "shallow analysis" of a store name, and that I think that the "dumb people of Sanford aren't intelligent enough to know how to spell."  Yet, in the final sentence, they inform me that they won't comment on my picture because "your not worth the breath."  Thank you, dear anonymous, pissed off, Sanford resident for making my point for me; in case you hadn't noticed, YOU'RE missing both an apostrophe and the letter 'e.'

Overall, I think the comment is a keeper, don't you?

Many of You Might Hate Me After This

I'm going to go out on a limb here, and say something I probably shouldn't.  And I'm only saying it because this has happened to me multiple times in the last two weeks, and it's really starting to piss me off.

Why the fuck can't anyone that works for a telephone company, credit card company or mortgage company call center speak English properly?  Seriously.

In the past two weeks, I have wasted countless hours - we're taking nearly double digits here - on the phone with different call centers, and it takes forever to resolve anything.  Like the double payment that Capital One took out of my account.  1 hour and 45 minutes to get them to understand that they double dipped me.  You know when I got someone that spoke English?  At 1 hour and 43 minutes when I was so livid and precariously close to slinging racial slurs through the phone line.

I'm not a hater, but for Christ's Sake, WTF?

Starting Summer Off With A Bang

Well, I just looked at the calendar and realized that it's the first day of summer today. And it's raining and 60 degrees here; huh.

On a happier note, I'm headed out for a girls' night, which likely spells not only trouble, but a great story tomorrow.

The last time I was out with this same group, we managed to get kicked out of a bar that I think probably never kicks anyone out. It was quite an accomplishment.

And the reason? Because my very verbal friend got in a sailor-swearing contest with a woman I believe to be the owner's wife. It's been nearly 3 years since I've tried to get back in there, so if we make a stop at ForePlay, it could get ugly.

That same night, I remember walking what seemed like 10 miles with my friend Sarah who was up from Kittery, just so we could get back to the West End and crash; mind you, the West End is about 10 blocks from the Old Port, but it seemed like a really long way considering my state of mind. And it wouldn't have been so bad, but I was wearing my lovely Gucci boots that look pretty from afar, but when they're on your foot, it's a total effing nightmare.

But we're starting the night at Norm's for dinner at 6:30, a very reasonable hour for old hags like myself. Although the girls' want to make a banger of a night out of it, we know how bad things can get when I put a few drinks in me. Not to mention the fact that 9 o'clock seems to be my bedtime lately.

So, I'll report in tomorrow with all the details. I'm *forgetting* my camera, so there is no actual evidence of anything that goes on......

Oh, and speaking of ridiculous shoes (here my ADD is clearly kicking in.......) check these out.

I Often Question Whether or Not I Should Take Myself Seriously

One of the things about my job is that I have to keep myself on a pretty tight schedule.  I mean, on my calendar, I have specific time slots alloted for specific clients.  

However, yesterday, I scored a majorly exciting gig; writing all of the catalog copy for Melie Bianco Bags for their new line.  So amazingly fab.  Can. Not. Even. Tell. You.

That said, the copy needed to be done almost as quickly as we signed the contract.  Which meant, my little schedule got thrown for a loop.

So it was just now that I sat down to do the work that I typically do at 5:30 in the morning.  One of the clients I write for on a daily basis has a lingerie blog.  Most of the time, I get to write about great new women's stuff, and when it's time to chat about men's skivvies, I spend a lot of time giggling......because I'm wildly immature.  But hey, if it pays the bills, what the hell, right?

So, because I have nothing more productive to say, and because I still have a lot of work to do yet tonite, I wanted to give you a few links that I found quite interesting this evening.

Kid Friendly Sex Shop Opens in New York

A Take on Angelina Jolie's Comment That She Feels Sexier While Preggo With Twins

I love getting paid to read the UK papers....seriously, it's such fun.

Oh, and while you're busy clicking all these other links, head over to the baby clothes site - alarming write up about the chemicals used to grow conventional cotton.

Flight Risk

This goddamn dog is going to be the death of me; honestly.  It's not bad enough that he can physically jump a 4 1/2' fence without any effort, it's that he continues to do it ALL. THE. EFFING. TIME.

And each time, one of us chases him all over the neighborhood, until he decides that he's so tired he just can't go on and he lays down, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.  But once he lays down, he won't get back up again.  Like, "Oh, but my 70-pound fat ass just ran all over the neighborhood and now I don't have enough energy to prance back to the house. I guess you'll just have to carry me."

And I want to scream, "Yeah, well my fat ass just ran all over the neighborhood too you stupid shit.  And I got in a fight with a short fat woman with a lab who swears you were trying to bite her damn dog, when in all actuality you were just trying to play.  Oh, and you see that black and white f*ck-face? That's the cops. The same cops that the fat lady with the lab called because you're running around the neighborhood, loose, acting like an asshole.  So, YES, you will get your fat ass up and you will WALK home Mister, RIGHT. NOW."

Of course, if I actually say that out loud, the random neighbor whose yard I'm standing in the middle of with a piece of cheese in one hand and a hot dog in the other will likely think that I'm far nuttier than I actually am.  But, the thought ran through my head.

Why, oh why, can't this dog stay in the yard?  I mean, it's not like we've got a postage stamp out here; it's a big effing yard. Ugh.

What You Want vs. What You Get

I've always been a big believer in "you get what you ask for."  Even before that damn movie "The Secret" was out, I knew inherently that, if you put out bad vibes, you'd get them back; if you put out happy ones, you'll get them.  It's called karma.

So, in general, I try to be pretty good-natured.  But, over the course of the last several days, I've been beaten down into submission from the karmic-Gods and I don't even know what I did to deserve it.  Here's how it's gone down in my little game of "What You Want vs. What You Get."

What I Want :: To make people laugh.

What I Get :: My brother calling my dad and tattling on me after I blogged about stuff I'd already said to him in person.

What I Want :: A nice little fence around the back yard so the dogs can frolic happily.

What I Get :: A nice 4 1/2 foot fence that took twelve hours to install, multiple trips to Home Depot, hundreds of dollars out of our checking account, and a dog that is apparently crossbred with Super Man because he can jump over it like it's nothing. 

What I Want :: One day to work completely uninterrupted.

What I Get :: 3 hours of chasing a loose dog around the neighborhood while he proudly carries a dead squirrel in his mouth.

What I Want :: To serve my time on jury duty in peace.

What I Get :: A seat next to chatty-cathy whose breath always smells like cat poop.

So what did I do to piss off the karma Gods anyway?  I can think of about 10 people that are going to email me right after they read this and list all the reasons I'm being justly punished.

E=MC Hungover

As I peeled my eyelids open at 6am and sat up, I was immediately reminded why I very rarely drink anymore. I'm pretty sure that it was because I didn't like the feeling of my brain trying to squeeze it's way out through my eardrums.

So, a half-hour later, I've had two cups of coffee, two Excedrin Migraines, and a bowl of Fiber One with Blueberries. Although, my lame attempts at eating healthy this morning are less about curing my hangover and more about making a sacrifice to the back fat Gods for all the french friends drench in Ranch dressing that I consumed while listening to my NASCAR loving brother talk about protein shakes.

I wonder if I should call him and ask if they cure a hangover.

How did I get in this condition, you might ask? The kid had a sleepover last night, which was supposed to be at our house. But first we needed to pick-up both the friend and her bags. When her mum asked if I wanted a glass of wine, I ponied my fat-ass up to the table and figured why not? It's not often I get social hour with adults anymore and the girls were keeping themselves entertained, so it seemed like a good idea.

Well, 3 glasses + a few splashes of wine later, and I think I managed to make quite an endearing impression; I'm sure that after last night, they'll likely never let their kid come over again. How bad could it be? Well......

• It's possible that I was mildly offensive (I know, completely shocking, right?) regarding both minivans and black leather couches; both of which they own.


• I divulged that one of my someday-sister-in-laws lives in a single-wide across from a state prison with her ex-convict husband and that together they run a concession stand at a rodeo.


• I spoke of my brother and his pimped out minivan with the NASCAR license plates.


• I spoke of my brother who named his kid after a WWF wrestler.


• We chatted about my mother, who has the drunk husband that passes out in the driveway and thinks he's fluent in Chinese.

It really makes you want to invite me over, right now, doesn't it?

Now, today, in my fragile condition, I get to go volunteer at the Spring Fair for the kids' elementary school. The bake table, the checkerboard game, and one other awesomely fun thing. Three whole hours of screaming children all vying for trinkety prizes. I can hardly wait.

Why do I do such a thing? Because I'm the PTO's bitch, that's why.

T.G.I.F.

I gotta say, there's nothing better than your brother with the pimped-out mini-van calling about protein drinks on a Friday night when you're drunk. The brother that loves NASCAR and has named his kid after a WWF wrestler has called to ask if protein drinks are what fills you up.

Clearly, he thinks I'm the pinnacle of healthy living.

He must not know that I'm currently eating seasoned french fries drenched in Ranch, and that I had gummy bears and a diet Pepsi for lunch.

Even funnier, he has no idea I'm three sheets to the wind and giving him advice.

But he's chatting (yes, we're on the phone right now) about my mother's fish tank, the dispute with her drunk husband over fish babies, and how hot it is in the factory he spends his days in. He reports there's a tornado watch in Michigan, the trees are blowing over, and his WWF namesake is really good at sliding in to the bases in t-ball.

So, if you're in Michigan, get your ass in the basement.

I Hate Stringy Bananas

I've been having some pretty piss-poor luck with food today.

First, I tried to beat the garbage guy today, but by the time I tossed all the spoiled food from the refrigerator into the trash and tied up the bag, he was just pulling off our street.  I contemplated throwing the bag in the car and chasing him, but decided against it because it was just too much effort before my second cup of coffee.  So now, I have a bag full of rotten food sitting in the trash can outside; who wants to lay money on a raccoon family moving in soon?

Then, I really wanted and egg and cheese sandwich from the Double D's, but remembered that we're trying to stick to this thing called a budget, and we're not allowed to use the debit card for things like that.  So I swore at myself because I didn't have any cash with me.  Then I swore again because the debit card thing was my stupid rule to begin with, so I can't even be the first one to break it.

I came home and made an egg and cheese sandwich here, but ended up with 1/2 the egg shell in my egg, but in a million little pieces.  So I, of course, swore some more.  I once dated a guy that could crack an egg with one hand AND keep all the shells out of it.  I probably should have asked him to teach me that at some point.  Needless to say, digging egg shells out of a slimy egg is really no fun, and it's a lot of work.  Had it not been the last egg in the house, I would have just thrown it away and started over.

And now, I've just had the pleasure of eating a little snack of precisely 28 almonds (yes,  counted them) and a banana.  But the banana was stringy.  I hate stringy bananas.  Just when you bite off a chunk, you have a big stringy thing hanging down your chin.  Or across your arm (not sure how that one got there).

If I didn't love food so much, I'd really contemplate giving it up.

Working from home vs. Working in an office

There are definite advantages to working from home, don't get me wrong.  But for every advantage, there is also a disadvantage.  So, for anyone considering a work-at-home career, take the following in to consideration.

1. You might have a neighbor that likes to drive past your house on his riding lawnmower, thus making clients on the other end of the phone say, "What's that noise?"  Trying to explain it becomes difficult when they are under the impression that you are actually working in an office.

2. You will have unlimited access to your cupboards and food, therefore, your risk of obesity is much higher because you can eat ice cream, cookies, and Butterfingers anytime you want.

3. If you choose to be the better person and not buy junk food, thus reducing your risk of becoming obese, your family will hate you, and the evening hours of your day will be miserable.

4. You will likely get distracted by things such as laundry, MySpace, YouTube, and Facebook.

5. It's easy to develop and online gambling habit.

6. You only get paid when your clients decide it's time to cut a check; you cannot storm in to their offices and demand payment if they do not live in the same town as you.

7. If they do live in the same town, and you do storm into their office, be prepared to be escorted out by security, never see the money the owe you, and never be able to work in the town you live in again.

8. Your significant other may develop the annoying habit of saying, "So, what are you doing tomorrow?"  If you state the obvious, "working just like you," s/he will roll their eyes and say, "No, really, what are you doing?"  This will cause tension in your household and you will have to fight the urge to screech, "do you think I just pluck paychecks off the money tree in the backyard asshole?"

9. You might decide to blog all day instead of actually working.

10. You run the risk of becoming socially inept because you spend your entire day with two dogs, a cat, and your computer.