I Woke Up OLD

I’m beginning to think that blognuts age overnight. I went to bed last night feeling perfectly youthful, where “youthful” means some number in the early forties, but relatively healthy for that number. And that number is a matter of perspective, right? I mean, I know when I was, say, ten, forty sounded like something just shy of Alaskan cruises and shuffleboard. But now? It doesn’t sound so bad at all. Forties are the new thirties, right?

I said, “Right?” Clearly that is your cue to say something supportive, like, “Oh, Blognut, you’re not old. Why, you’ve never looked younger!”

Thank you, this will help you to stay on my good side; and you know how cranky we become as we age, so my good side is where you’ll want to be.

And even though I want to hear all of that, I still know you are lying. ‘Cause that aging overnight thing? It’s starting to happen to me.

I woke up really old today. Seriously. I was puffy under my googly eyes, my cheery, blue color was off, and my whole body felt like I’d been pulled through a knothole. Raise your hand if you know that feeling. But, yeah, raise it nice and slow-like, ‘cause I don’t want you pulling a muscle or tearing your rotator cuff with all that physical activity.

After slowly dragging my tired, old ass out of my Craftmatic adjustable bed, (no, not really), and easing my creaking joints (yes, really) into a pair of running shoes, I set off for the gym.

I was pitiful. I ran in slow-motion, lifted weights no heavier than a soup can, and generally felt as though every part of me was singing oh, ee, oh, ee-oh-ah in unison. I have to do better than that! I must beat aging! I am not ready for early-bird dinner specials and day trips on the bingo bus. I don’t like the look of Dr. Scholl’s sensible shoes and velour pantsuits. I am especially not interested in wearing goofy red and purple hats everywhere I go.

I must overcome!

So tomorrow, this blognut does solemnly swear to return to the gym with renewed vigor and determination, and kick her own ass.

And if I fail? I will sign up for water swimnastics and register for my AARP card.

This Is Just the First Part of Your Story...

February 4, 1994. I woke early after a long, restless night of looking at the clock every thirty minutes. I was too excited to sleep well and too afraid not to try. I knew it would be the last full night of sleep available to me for some time to come.

I’d spent the last several months getting to know your every move. I knew when you slept, I knew when you exercised, and I knew when you had a nasty case of the hiccups. A few weeks before your due date, you stopped moving around so much and I would sit for what seemed like hours with both hands pressed to my stomach waiting to feel you move; for the reassurance that you were in there and you were okay. I will never forget the day that I asked you out loud if you were awake, and, as if in answer, I received a tiny little outline of your foot pressing through my stomach. I knew then, without a doubt, that you were fine and that you’d just outgrown your space.

As I lay waiting to be taken to surgery that morning, Daddy and I held hands and wondered together if you would be a girl or a boy. Somehow we knew, though; had known for some time that you would be another perfect little girl and we couldn’t wait to introduce you to the sister that would become your very best friend.

…

When I saw your face for the first time, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. You were absolutely breathtaking. You were awake and looking at me with the most beautiful blue eyes, and yet you were indignant and shouting about having been ripped from your warm, comfortable place. You had spunk! You were standing up for your rights and you were only about four minutes old. You’ve never stopped that, you know? You’ve never stopped shouting for what you believe in, and that is part of what makes you so special.

From that day forward, I have watched you grow and change into the most amazing young lady. From your first words, to your first steps, to your first time behind the wheel of a car, I have been proud of you. Your humor, your beauty, your intelligence, and your sense of what is right and fair are things to be reckoned with in this world. You truly are a firecracker, Girl #2. You are exactly perfect for yourself.

…

Today you are sixteen; no longer a child and not quite an adult. The future will bring you joy, success, love, and, yes, heartbreak, too. But I have no doubt that you will thrive just as you have all along. The rest of the story will be yours to write someday, in your voice, by your hand, and I know you will tell it just right.

Happy Birthday, Baby.

Love,
Mom

I Knew I Would Hate Myself in the Morning

If you’ve been hanging ‘round these parts for any length of time, you know that blognuts don’t like mornings… early mornings in particular. If you’re new here, grab a damn pen and write this down:

BLOGNUTS ARE NOT MORNING PEOPLE.

And so it goes that when a blognut agrees to allow Bumblefuck Bank & Trust to be used as a polling place, said blognut must arrive to work by 5am. Now, I know math isn’t your strongest subject, but let’s back out the commuting time and the amount of time it takes for a blognut to get her hair to stop doing this…

… and we have blognut getting up at 3:15. As it so happens, all this really means is that she gets out of bed at a time when she is normally awake anyhow. However, she is deprived of her highly cherished right to go back to sleep 15 minutes before the alarm normally mocks her, and she resents it.

And Starbucks is NOT open at 4am. Just so you know… in case you need a cup of coffee when you have to be at work at stupid o’clock, you will not be getting one.

Also? A blognut without coffee, who got up and out into the world far too early for her delicate nature, and probably didn’t even have time to take her morning constitutional, is in no mood for voters of Bumblefuckville to show up all cheery-like to place their very important votes.

Did I mention that Bumblefuckians tend to vote republican? Yeah, they do. I’ll be pushing a fair amount of them down the stairs to prevent that from happening. What?

One last thing. Happy Friggin’ Groundhog Day! Damn it.

Was That a Bad Word?

An excerpt from an actual conversation here at Blognut Manor:


Mr. Blognut: Did you just say genitals?

Girl #2: YES!

Mr. Blognut: Don't use that foul language! Just say BALLS.


I truly love Mr. Blognut!

Instruments of Torture?

This morning I was upstairs in my bathroom getting ready for work when I heard both of my dogs start barking and running back and forth. Normally this behavior is reserved for important things like doorbells, or TV shows with doorbell sounds, or anything else in the world that makes a sound even remotely similar to that of a doorbell.

Since it was about 7am, I muttered something like WTF under my breath, and then went into the hallway to yell at my dogs. But I didn’t yell at them. Once I understood the situation, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I very well understand their reaction to the goings on at Blognut Manor this morning.

The Boy.

The Boy was practicing his recorder.

Now I demand to know: WHAT is the educational requirement being fulfilled by teaching my 4th grader to play the recorder? How will this help him later in life?

Are there teachers hanging out in the lounge at school laughing at the tortured parents? I can hear it now. “Did you see that crazy-eyed parent with both hands over her ears, Bill?” “Yeah, yeah, that was a good one. Whatd’ya say we give ‘em one more week of Hot Cross Buns? I think we can break ‘em all down.”

I have just one comment for them: WHAT ABOUT THE DOGS? DID YOU EVEN THINK OF THE DOGS? It’s inhumane. They’re afraid. They’re begging me to let them out and never let them back in. They’re even quivering in their unrestful sleep.

But I must admit that I have to admire The Boy’s dedication to mastering Hot Cross Buns, which, as I recall, has about 17 notes in it. Because if that child makes a mistake on note number 16, it’s back to the beginning with it; no one can move until he has played it straight through, error-free. At last count, that takes only 26 attempts, so we’re getting there. Right? This is progress? Purple Jumping Jesus! Please tell me this will be over soon.

The only reason I haven’t snapped that friggin’ recorder in two is because, once you have listened to all 26 verses of Hot Cross Buns, and you tell The Boy that he did a great job and he’s really got something going on there, you get this beaming grin of pride that seems to shock your body and stop the flow of blood pouring from your ears. This IS good, right?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need to go find those aspirin.

The Plan is NOT That Difficult

Dear Bumblefuck Bank & Trust,

WTF, man?! You’ve been expecting too much lately and I don’t think you understand one of the key personality traits of blognuts. Dude, we are lazy. Well, we at least try to be, anyway. I don’t know how you’ve missed that over the years, but it’s high time you got this straight.

My plan is simple. Try to follow along: I come to work. I turn on my office stereo. I get some coffee (where ‘get some coffee’ means I wait for someone else to make it, and then I pour myself a cup). I make a list of things to trick someone into doing for me. I pull some files out of a drawer and set them on my desk. I open one to something that looks complicated and important-y. I juggle my bouncy balls. I play with my bubbles. I get more coffee. I move some of my files from one side of my desk to the other so it looks like I’m making progress. I read some blogs. I eat lunch. I make some photocopies of nothing so it looks like I accomplished something; sometimes I even use colored paper so it looks pretty and even more important-y. I drink Diet Pepsi. I surf the web. I pack up my files and put them back in the drawer. I go home.

Sounds pretty simple, right? That is because it IS simple if you stick to the plan. Stick to the plan!!!

All this bullshit about regulators coming in two weeks, and the piles of work that need to be done to prepare for them, and finalizing the budget, and laying out project plans, and setting up new products on the system do NOT fit into my plan. You are ruining my dream job and this will not do!

All that crap you try to feed me about taking pride in my work, and having a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day? I totally understand! It’s just that I am a really nice person who puts the needs of others before herself. Why would I want to rob my fellow bankers of the opportunity to take pride in my work and feel a sense of accomplishment for doing my work for me? That would be selfish.

I AM JUST LOOKING OUT FOR THEM!

So here’s the deal. It's Monday and I’m giving you the opportunity to right your wrongs. This is our chance at a fresh start. Don’t ask me what I’m doing in my office, and don’t be trying to give me any work. Do we understand each other?

Sincerely,
blognut

This One IS Gonna Work!

I’m trying yet another new-fangled diet scheme, but I think this one might work. Finally. This one might actually work.

Now before you go getting all judge-y, I want you to keep an open mind and hear me out.

What?

Don’t bring up the time I bought those ridiculous patches that stuck on my skin like a band-aid with superglue. Come on! We all got a good laugh when I yanked the patch off and removed 14 layers of my skin along with it. Besides, my fuzzy, blue fur has almost grown back to the point where you can hardly tell it happened.

Or that time when I bought those diet pills on the internet and turned into an over-emotional, hyperactive, angry two-year-old on crack.

Or those diet cereal bars that filled my guts full of rocket fuel while simultaneously plugging up my pooper. THAT was really uncomfortable and I totally learned my lesson.

THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT!



How long do you think I have keep him in my fridge?