The Ultrasound

Last week we went in for the standard 18-20 week anatomy scan of the baby. For weeks, the boy has stressed about his reaction if it wasn't a boy. I assured him that, if he were to swear out loud, it would be okay - he's surely not the first dad to be pissed off that they're having a girl instead of the coveted boy.

Instead, I was the one swearing. No, more like demanding that the ultrasound tech take it back. She lead me on, first of all. Which is entirely unfair to a hormonally imbalanced pregnant woman who has had just about enough of tween drama.

"See those three little dots right there?" she asked.

"Uh-huh....." I responded dreamily, my eyes quickly misting with tears at our good fortune to have a boy. 3 dots surely means two testicles and a little turtle, right?

"It's a girl!"

I nearly punched her in the face. A girl?!? What?!? How am I supposed to deal with that? How, when I am FORTY-TWO-years-old am I going to deal with a whining tween coming home from school, rolling her eyes and telling me how wrong I am about everything that comes out of my mouth.

At nearly FIFTY, how am I supposed to deal with horny boys and eating disorders? I am not prepared for such things.

In the elevator, the boy tried to console me, "maybe there's still time honey - maybe one will grow."

My reply? "Honey, if it's this small now, I don't want it to be a boy. No son of mine will bear that burden."

Of course, now the guilt is setting in. My rational side is telling me that I waited a long time for this baby. I should be thrilled, even if it is a girl. I should feel blessed and overjoyed that we will soon be parents for a second time.

Instead, I'm a neurotic mess (this seems to be a golden thread that runs throughout my life). So, welcome to the family Ella Alexandra. Your mom's a neurotic nut job, your dad has decided not to put you up for sale on eBay as was his original plan if you were a girl and your sister has already picked out your wardrobe for the next 5 years of your life. We love you, even if we are crazy as hell.

This Much I Know

Being pregnant is a lot like having constant PMS.

If you're a man, you only know that this means I'm being bitchy.

If you're a woman, you know that this means I'm tired, bitchy, feeling ginormous, having headaches, not sleeping well, have swelling feet and back pain.

So, here's the scoop. I'm totally not complaining - I'm only stating the absolute truth. My family is currently walking on eggshells, not sure if I'm going to be Happy Harriette or Psycho Sally at any given moment. But the other night tops all others to date.

Our neighbors are away doing who knows what and their just-barely-21-year-old children decided to throw a party the other night. Now, our bedroom window faces their house, so all of their wonderful yelling, bottle throwing and illegal firework playing assaulted us like Lionel Richie - all night long.

Just as I dozed off, I woke up to go to the bathroom (of course - what's a full night's sleep?) As I stumble downstairs, willing myself to not completely wake up thinking my chances of falling right back to sleep are greater if I can at least keep my eyes half closed, I go tinkle and flush. No sooner had I walked out of the bathroom and laid one foot on the hallway floor when I heard the tell-tale sign of a toilet that was not going to flush. No, it was definitely filling, quickly.

And before I could reach the plunger, it over-flowed.

Does life get any worse than being pregnant, half-asleep and plunging a toilet while cursing whoever took the offending shit that clogged it? It only gets worse when you realize that you still need to clean up the bathroom floor and you're now definitely fully awake.

Not surprisingly, no one in the house will admit to being the offending shitter and I've been Psycho Sally for two days.

The Dilemma

This morning when I got up and tinkled, I realized, too late, that we were out of toilet paper.

I looked in the bathroom cabinet. Nil.

I looked for a box of tissues. Nada.

Dammit. Now what? Ugh. Drip Dry.

So I come downstairs to look in what we lovingly refer to as "the bomb shelter." The big closet in the basement that stores the bottled water, the canned goods, the Coleman camping stove, and tons of candles. It is also where we usually store our year's supply of toilet paper and paper towels.

Do you think that I found any there? Hell no.

How does someone carry the last package of toilet paper upstairs and NOT mention that. Like, "hey, by the way, the next time you run to BJ's, can you pick up some TP? We're about to run out." This shit happens all the time in this house and it drives me nuts.

It's why I have a "running low list" on the fridge. As a big fat reminder that, when you notice we're almost out of butter or you drink the last of the milk, you write it on the list. Dog food, on the list. Cat litter, on the list. Toilet paper? NOT ON THE LIST!! The whole purpose of the list is so that, the next time someone goes to the store and says, "do we need anything while I'm out?" Someone else can read the list and say, "oh yeah, can you pick up butter, milk, and TOILET PAPER???"

What's worse is that the kid had a friend spend the night last night and so this morning, after my bathroom debacle, I was digging through every cabinet I could find to locate even just a few napkins that I could cut up into little squares of toilet paper. I hate to think what will happen when she goes home.

"Geez mom, Syd's family just has cut up napkins for toilet paper. It's so weird. Do you think they can't afford toilet paper?" Christ.

Anyway, moving on.....I also have a very special note to write here at the end of this blog. A note for someone that is currently overseas and who, although we're no longer friends, seems to read this blog regularly. Please stay safe.

Oh, and I also want you to know that, although I said that I would never talk to any of your friends again, that was before Facebook and some of your friends have "friended" me. I accepted that invitation - I hope that's alright. I wasn't really sure how to say no because I felt like it was pretty complicated. The only exception is Wendy - she hates me. Ok, that's it. I'll resume not speaking to you again.

How Facebook Is Ruining My Life

It's pretty simple. It's a total time-suck.

I spend so much time on Facebook that I rarely get anything accomplished anymore.

And if I'm not at my computer on FB, I'm using it from my CrackBerry.

Combine that with my Twitter addiction and it's over. Someone call the doctor because I need to be committed. Seriously.

But it's ruining my life for other reasons as well. For example, I'm catching up with old classmates, which isn't a terrible thing at all. But I look at some of them - particularly those still living in the town that I'm from - who are driving mini-vans and coaching soccer and attending church every Sunday.....and I can't help but wonder, is that what would have become of me had I stayed?

Then of course, my imagination runs wild with all the, "what if's."

I start panicking about our upcoming reunion. I'm almost afraid to go lest I make a total ass out of myself with my potty mouth and liberal opinions about gay marriage and having babies out of wedlock.......

See, it's started again. Now I've just wasted another 30 minutes. Dammit Facebook!

This Goes Out to All Those Hunting Widows......

Some of my friends are "hunting widows." And while their husbands are out hunting, they piss and moan about how they're home all by themselves.

WTF? Are you kidding me?

How long is hunting season? A month? Maybe 6 weeks?

Here's the deal. Embrace it. Sit your ass on the couch in your underwear and watch endless seasons of old 90's sitcoms like the original 90210 or TIVO soap operas and enjoy the drama. Give the kids a little Dramamine and pour yourself a glass of wine. For Christ's Sake, ENJOY IT!!

But please, stop bitching about it. And here's why.

Because I can't take it. See, I'm a "snow widow." My season lasts 6 months because I live in Maine. While your husband is out slaughtering food to throw on your table, mine is out plowing everyone else's driveway and hoping his clients will pay the invoices, while I snow blow ours. And let's not forget about the roof rake, shall we?

So please, please don't bitch about being a hunting widow. Of course, unless you're a vegetarian and having a dead animal hanging in your garage grosses you out. Then you're entitled.

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**

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

I've Been a Little Weepy Lately

Which is why I haven't written in a while.

Recently, I've found out that 5 - count 'em - FIVE people that are in my immediate circle of family and friends, are pregnant.  F.I.V.E.

Like, are they drinking special water or something?  And if so, I'm pretty sure it's the same damn water that's running through these faucets and I've got nothing in utero. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

Which makes me weepy. Which is why I haven't been writing.

And it's really such a bummer, because I got great news in the midst of it all - I got the gig with Upromise.com.  So, so excited.  But then I got the phone call that the 5th person was preggo, and my big fat happy balloon deflated pretty fucking quickly.  

Owell, there's always next month, right?

Proof That You Can Pick Your Friends But Not Your Neighbors

Did you know that we actually pay $3000 a year in property taxes so I can sit in my kitchen and watch Leaf Blower and No Neck sit shirtless in their driveway drinking lemonade and eating BBQ potato chips?

I didn’t realize that was why our taxes were so high either, until Sunday.  Apparently, when the assessor takes a look at your property, they eyeball the neighbors and say, “Yeah, let’s tack on another $500 for the loose dogs that run around the neighborhood, and that Mullet next door is worth at least a grand.”

If they can get their minivan up on cinder blocks and put a NASCAR flag out front before the next assessment, we might even get jacked up to $3500. Then I'd actually feel a little more at home; it would be like having my brother right next door! (Sorry Shawn, I couldn't resist.)

Had I known then what I know now, I’m not sure that I would have been so eager to purchase this very fine house. 

But, truthfully, I’ve never had much luck with neighbors – which makes me question whether I attract crazy people, or if I am just attracted to them.  Although, the alternative would have been to stay in the apartment building that is now a meth-lab with a landlord that was arrested for kidnapping a prostitute and then assaulting her boyfriend with a handgun;  true Story.

And if I remember right, there was also a restraining order taken out against him by a woman that he claimed was his fiancé who had been kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. I’m pretty sure that he broke in to her home also, so there may have been a charge of B&E on that police complaint, along with the stalking charge.

The neighbors before that were a drunk couple with a special needs child.  I remember the police coming on more than one occasion; the final time because the guy was running up and down the street, shirtless, waving a sword.  Where to you even get a sword?

At any rate, my neighbors have always been nut bags.; I <3>

 

I Take That Back

Just when I thought that my Friday was going to pass with only the mild annoyance that Leaf Blower could bring, I woke from an afternoon siesta to the sounds of a kickball bouncing off the hood of my car.

No Neck and his Thug friends must have had a 1/2 day of school.

Then Mullet Mom started screeching out the window for them to watch what they were doing.

And then No Neck says, "Guys, let's see if we can hit the neighbors house instead!" With that, the ball went sailing in the other direction and landed in a neighbors yard. Ugh. What is with those kids?

Now, just to make my week complete, Leaf Blower has gotten his midlife crisis car out of storage and he's sitting in the driveway, revving the engine.

Maine :: The Way Life Should Be

A funny thing happens here in the far corner of the Northeast.....when it hits 32.1 degrees, people go crazy! It's like, OMG, it's spring. Let's take out the tube tops and shorts! Snow plows be damned, it's like summa round hea!!!

Yesterday was one of those days.....rainy in the morning, but clearing nicely mid-afternoon. I think it actually hit 50.......so what did I witness? Let's see:

• a chubby man with back hair wearing a hand-made (you know, with the sleeves cut off, the sides ripped down and the neck taken out) tank top that said, "Who's Your Daddy?"
• an older gentleman wearing khaki shorts with white tube socks and black tennis shoes
• and my favorite peek of the day, a balding man with plummer's crack taking a snow plow off his baby blue passenger van

But we live in Maine.....it's the way life should be!