Wanna Go For a Ride?

I swapped demands requests with Sherri earlier this week and I have been ordered asked nicely to discuss my 13 car accidents in exchange for her story about driving into an F4 tornado. Yeah, maybe that's a fair trade on a good day, but let's face it, Sherri didn't CAUSE the F4.

Please note, if you are an auto insurance agent, or you work for a company that foolishly provides me with coverage of any sort, you should read every word of this and commit it to memory do not have my permission to read another word. Get off my blog.

*stomping footsteps* *door slamming*

Are they gone?

Okay, I’ll tell you this quickly and quietly and then I have to kill you but you can’t tell anyone else.

The Honda Civic -
1985 – I was in a head-on collision at the age of 17. That wasn’t my fault; I was in my lane. It just so happens that the oncoming car was also in my lane. Oops!

The Pontiac Sunbird -
1986 – I rear-ended another car. I dropped a cigarette and bent over to get it, so this one was my fault. Another car appeared out of nowhere at the last minute and beat me to the stop sign, so they blamed it all on me.
1987 – I hit a concrete barrier going over a bridge. It was icy and the barrier was tired and suicidal from having to live out in the cold. It literally jumped out in front of me at the very last minute in an attempt to kill itself. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Chevy Cavalier –
1987 – I hit a parked car on purpose because I was crazy in a foul mood and I didn't like its owner.

The Red Camaro – (a/k/a my very first brand spanking new, off the showroom floor, car)
1988 – I was rear-ended at a stop light by a GEICO insurance man. Now that I think about it, GEICO probably owes me one. I better give that freakin' lizard a call.
1989 – A Jeep pulled out in front of me from the shoulder of the road and I couldn’t stop in time to avoid the accident because I was busily engaged in a game of cat and mouse with the car next to me foolishly thinking it could beat my shiny, red car and I labeled the side of that Jeep. I spun like a top into oncoming traffic and eventually settled in the ditch on the opposite side of the road. I was lucky to still be in the car because, naturally, I hate seat-belts and my car door popped open during all the senseless spinning around in circles.

The Plymouth Laser Turbo RS – (because I still hadn’t learned)
1990 – In a heroic attempt to avoid rear-ending a moron, I sideswiped a fool on the interstate because a car in the lane next to me hit an orange cone and threw it up onto my windshield and I just about shit my pants from the shock of it. Minimal damage to either car; all was well.

The Dodge Caravan – (OH MY GOD, A MINIVAN)
By this time, Girl #1 and Girl #2 had come along and the minivan seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m sorry. I didn’t like it either.
1996 – In yet another heroic attempt to avoid rear-ending a moron, I sideswiped said moron instead because she was crawling over some train tracks one tire at a time impersonating a speed bump . I saw no need for this, so I hit her.

The Explorer –
1999 – I rear-ended someone at a stop sign because I had this really intense itch on the bottom of my foot and I was rubbing it on the brake to try and get it under control. I didn’t realize that my car was moving until I had come into contact with the car in front of me the car in front of me backed into me.

The Toyota Camry -
2003 - I was minding my own business, stopped behind a car making a left-hand turn, and I heard this ear-splitting tire screech. I looked up just in time to meet the driver behind me when she entered my back seat. And I woke up to find myself planted in the back of the car that had been innocently waiting to make that left-hand turn.

The Nissan Quest #1 –
2003 - I was the unfortunately placed middle car in a three car collision. Lucky for me, the 3rd car got blamed for rear-ending me and pushing me into the car in front of me. I actually rear-ended the car in front of me first, causing the car behind me to hit me because it had nowhere else to go.
2004 - Yeah, it was only a couple months later, what's it to you? I was at a stop sign and the car in front of me pulled forward to make a left-hand turn. I gave the van just enough gas to pull up one car length, I.swear.to.God, and I smacked that dummy right in the ass. How was I to know she would change her mind about making the turn? And so what if she was one of my employees, I had insurance. Furthermore, what's up with Nissan making their front-ends out of crepe paper? There's no way my van should have crumpled like that! I didn't hit her that hard. My car looked like a paper lantern again and I got another new hood.

The Nissan Quest #2 -
2008 - Okay, you have me here. All of these other accidents are perfectly understandable and someone else's fault entirely because I can't be blamed for being easily distracted. This one was different; I might have been able to avoid this accident. My daughter woke me up at o'dark thirty to take her to track practice on a Saturday morning and I crawled my pajama-clad ass into the car because I'm mother of the freakin' year to take her to school. I hit the button to raise the garage door and then power-slammed the gas pedal. I didn't know my husband had parked right behind me in the driveway. Why would he set me up like that? I knocked his car 4 feet down the driveway and found out that Toyota makes a crepe paper front end for their cars too. And yes, I did hear the backup sensor beeping on my van, I just didn't know how to process that sound at that hour of the day. I blame the track coach for this one because I never said I was a morning person.

I have to point out one little thing here. At no time during all of this bumper car tomfoolery, was I speeding, text messaging, talking on the phone, eating fast food, or searching for a song on the CD player or radio. NO I WASN'T! Shush, I'll kill you.

But I'm getting better; I only SOMETIMES use my phone to play on the internet while driving and I only get 2 speeding tickets per year now and I try to remember to wear my seatbelt even though I absolutely hate feeling like I'm being restrained in any way, shape, or form. Plus, out of all of these accidents, only 10 of them were really my fault and that was no fair anyway because I'm sure that I can find a way to blame someone else I'm genetically prone to distraction.

The upside to all of this, and the part no one tells you about, is that paramedics are really HAWT and the inside of the ambulance is just as cool as you think it might be. Plus, the body shop that fixes up my cars for me always sends me such a nice Christmas card every year.

So, like I said, you wanna go for a ride?

Anxiety Attacks 'R Us

I need help! Well, you knew that already, but I need a different kind of help. No, not that kind, I get that already too. I need ‘talk-me-off-the-ledge’ kind of help.

Stop staring at me.

In two weeks, TWO – the despicable number right after ONE - I have to stand in front of 450 people and speak. About what? I DON’T KNOW. I mean, I know what they expect me to say, and I’ll say it, but then what? Then we’ll have this big, pregnant pause for, like, the next 5 hours, and I will die. DIE, I tell you!

So here’s what I have for a speech so far:

Thank you.

Yep, that’s all I got. Now what?

Here are the certainties for the evening:

I’ll have a bad hair day.
I’ll have a fat day.
My dress will tear.
My hose will run.
I will blush a crimson red color.
My face will melt right off.
I’ll have some strange booger hanging right in my nostril – the kind that goes in and out when I breathe. All of this will be picked up by the local cable station camera man approximately 4 feet in front of me.
I’ll be blinded by the light on that camera and tears will stream down my face.
I’ll develop some sort of bowel issue and have an explosive shit at the podium.
I will get a frog in my throat.
I’ll choke on my spit.
I’ll break a heel and have to walk like one leg is 4 inches shorter than the other.***
I’ll fall.

***I have really awesome black, patent-leather peek-a-boo toed shoes with 4 inch heels. I’m a little happy about those, they’re very cute. Why so high, you ask? Because I’m 5’2” and my husband is a little over 6’3”. In order to avoid looking like The Green Giant and Lil’ Sprout, I must wear Barbie shoes that cut off the blood supply to my toes and make them cry out in pain, so I at least try to get cute ones. Also, heels are very slimming and so, as you probably know, it’s really about my ass. But the shoes are CUTE and that is my downfall. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less what I wear.

What was my point before I was distracted by the shiny shoes? Oh yeah, I need help. Obviously. Anybody out there have a canned speech and some Xanax?

Happiness Probably Starts with 'F' Too

Here we are on WTF Wednesday and I’m thinking that this is probably the perfect time to celebrate the F in WTF. I try not to be a potty mouth on my blog, and I think I succeed for the most part, but it is Wednesday and I’m only half-way through the work week. If that doesn’t scream FUCK, I don’t know what does.

So, in celebration of the F word – let’s look at its many forms and uses:

It can be used as noun – ‘The little fucker won’t get out of my office.’ That describes most of the people in my office, other than me, of course. Although… I’m not very big. Oh Crap! I’m a little fucker.

An adjective – ‘I barked my shin on that fucking drawer again.’ I do this at least twice a day, more so on WTF Wednesday I think. I leave the file drawer of my desk open for easy access, forget it’s open, and walk right into it. You’d think I would learn but I will not. I will probably fall ass over tea kettle right through the wall someday soon.

Verb – We don’t really need an example here, do we Folks? If you do, email me separately and I’ll send you an age-appropriate book explaining all that.

Adverb – ‘I am fucking working here!’ Well, not really. Clearly.

Interjection – ‘Fuck!’ Generally best if said under your breath, but you do what need to do.

So you see, these parts of speech all work together to make this one effing fabulous word that can be used to express so much:

Greetings – How the fuck are you?

Instructions – Shut the fuck up!

Problems – I’m so fucked.

Incompetence – She’s chasing her fucking tail again.

Shock – Unfuckingbelievable!

Go home – Get the fuck outta’ here!

Invitation to a Party – Come join the fuckery.

Offering – How about a nice big cup of ‘Shut the Fuck up’?

Befuddlement – What The Fuck!

This should be enough to get you started on your own list of possible uses. Don’t forget the verb uses though; I only want you to be happy.

PROMPTuesday #44 - Who Do I Love?

The overachiever in Deb has her putting PROMPTuesday up on MEDIOCRE Monday. What is the world coming to? Nevermind, I can rise to a challenge and overachieve too. So here's what we're left with after all the mind-changing and crossing out over at her place today.

Write a character sketch of someone you love. Detail this person, let us see him or her through your description. Maybe you want to “show” your loved one through action and movement, or perhaps you are viewing him or her in repose. Either way, get down to brass tacks and give us the one you love through your writing.

I don't know about character sketching so much, but I can sure tell you about someone I love. See, there’s this guy that I talk about every once in awhile on my blog, but you barely know him. I’ve mentioned him a time or two, but I fluff right by him because he is a little bit on the shy side and I doubt very much that he will appreciate being the topic of a post. Except maybe this one will be okay because, after all, he might not mind you all knowing why I think he’s so great.

First, because it highlights his greatness, let me just say that I dated around a little bit before I met him. ‘Relationships’ were measured in days and weeks. I would meet someone and we would go out a time or two and then I’d spend the next few weeks feeling smothered and wanting to run away and hide from them. My friends saw it; they teased me mercilessly about being afraid to love without knowing how very true those words were. However, my first date with Brian was different and it came about in a very unusual way.

Brian’s best friend had met a girl who was new to the area and looking for a job. On hearing this, Brian suggested that the girl go to a certain bank in town and get a job there as a teller. (I did say that he’s a little shy, didn’t I?) The reason why he sent this girl to the bank to get a job was so that she could set him up for a date with the teller manager. (I’ve told you I’m in banking, right? Yeah, I used to manage a teller dept.) He even told her that he would buy her a Christmas present if she could pull it off before the holidays. It was October at the time.

Sure enough, right after I hired this woman, she started talking about this friend of her boyfriend who happened to have accounts at our bank. She set it up with Brian to come and meet me at the bank one Friday early in November. The first time I saw him, I was absolutely struck by how tall he is, and by these sparkling blue eyes with lashes out to here. He had this big grin on his face and he said, “So, what do you think?” Not exactly the slickest line I’ve ever heard, but I have no idea how I responded to it. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had actually said, “So, DO you think?” because I’m quite sure I looked like a slack-jawed yokel.

We had a great time together on our first date and we talked so much that I felt like I’d known him for years. There was an instant comfort in just being around him. When I went to work the next day, my girlfriends all gathered around for details and wanted to know if ‘this one’ would make it past the four-week mark. I said, and I meant it with my whole heart, “I am going be with him for a very long time. I’m going to marry this guy.” And, marry him I did.

Brian is a home body kind of guy and handy to have around the house. He’s a chef, a painter, a plumber, and an auto-mechanic. He’s a husband, a daddy, and a very best friend. He’s also intelligent, gentle, loving, and caring; a real family man. He makes me laugh, he challenges me, and he supports me. When I’m busy wondering if the whole rest of the world understands me at all, or if they’ll be there when I fail, I never have to wonder where he will be. I trust him with my whole heart and I know he doesn’t take that lightly.

He is, as some would say, correctively good for me. Having been with this man for 20 years, (exactly half of my life, so far), he is well-tuned to the things that matter to me. He knows those things that make me crazy and he stays away from them unless it’s for sport. (He does like a good time and is one of the few people who can put me in my place and make me laugh all at once.) Brian is the calm to my crazy, the steady to my sway, the nudge I need when I can’t seem to find the energy to move. He is the cure for whatever ails me. He knows what I’m going to say before I say it, and he looks at me with so much love in his eyes that I feel it all the way to my toes. (I’m told I look at him that way too; like there’s no one else in the room.) He is there with a warm hug, or a simple ‘I love you’ text right at the moment when I’m about to jump from the nearest window. How he knows just when I need that is beyond me, but he does. He just does. I guess that’s the most important thing of all. He gets me and he loves me. He’s also fuzzy and warm, and I fit perfectly in that snuggling place right alongside him where the rest of the world can’t get me and I know I am safe and loved.

I can’t tell if you’ll know him any better now, or if you’ll just think I gushed all over my blog today, but it is what it is. :-)

Google Knows All

Last week I read a post over at Diane’s place about typing your name and the word 'needs' into the Google search engine to find out what it thinks you need. I laughed so hard reading her list that I thought I’d better go find out what I needed according to the all-powerful Google. Then I forgot about it because it wasn’t that important and because I was never planning to blog it anyway… until I actually remembered to do it and found out that Google is like some eerie wizard looking right past my outer shell of brilliance and into my horny little mind that needs your support and prayers.

Anne needs to win sexiest veg!
Are you kidding me? Catch me at the right time and I’m up for just about anything, but I haven’t really considered vegetables up ‘til now.

Anne needs a spanking…
Honey, are you reading this? Be gentle… I’m not really into the pain thing.

Anne needs no man…
Apparently not if she has the right vegetable. Although, actually, Anne does need one man because he holds a little piece of her soul in his heart. Besides, given that Google found out I’m a horndog, a man certainly helps.

Anne needs to be where the action is…
Ummm… yeah. Apparently Anne is the action.

Anne needs your support…
Yeah, that’s way true.

Anne needs your prayers…
Oh yeah, that’s way true, too. Pray for me, I am a wayward soul and Google thinks I’m a nymphomaniac.

The Elephant Anne needs to retire…
Are you calling me an elephant? I know I could stand to lose a pound or two, but that’s just unkind… really. As far as retiring goes, that reveals another need: Anne needs to win a lot of money.

Anne needs a jobby job…
Anne has a jobby job. Anne wouldn’t mind a different jobby job in the right set of circumstances and for the right amount of money.

Anne needs Facebook…
Only if Facebook agrees to make changes based on my previous conversation with it; otherwise, Facebook and I are no longer a couple.

Anne needs no enhancement…
Well thanks, Google. Flattery will get you a trip to where the action is.

Pitch This Idea Right In the Trash

Deb’s got a new prompt idea. I’m too lazy to explain it, so you’ll have to go over there and read how it works. Here, I’ll even give you the link because I’m thoughtful like that.

Cheri has taken me to the outer perimeters of my sanity. Ok, she didn’t really take me there; I actually live there most of the time. Anyway, this prompt of hers – writing a pitch for a television show – what was she thinking? HELLO! You can’t possibly know this about me, but I do not watch TV… like, ever…. If it weren’t for sports, Obama, and an occasional interest in something bizarre, (like the Idol finale - NOT), I wouldn’t even care to own a TV. It’s okay though, I’m not mad, I’m a good sport. I asked my daughter what kind of TV program I should pitch and she looked at me like anyone would look at their mom… if said mom were sporting a cabbage for a head and a carrot for a nose. Yeah, I got nuthin’.

So I googled, I researched, and I strapped on my helmet and beat my head against the wall. (Hush, I did too do all that.) (Yeah, you’re right. No I didn’t.) I’m weak, it’s Friday, and this is the best I can do.

The show is called Chat Room – the main characters are 5 or 6 of the regular writers in the chat room and they are from all over the world. The show always begins with the characters conversing online and then breaks away to their individual stories. The characters are: a diva in her 20’s trying to model in Paris (the character we can dislike), a regular middle-class mom from anywhere in the US (the voice of reason); a professional (a judge or something) from New York; a gay guy from Italy (gay guys make the best friends so everyone will like this character); a middle-aged, divorced (HOT) ex-hockey player (Yeah, I just want something to look at if I’m going to have to start watching TV); a partying rock-star from the UK, this can be another hot guy to keep us entertained. They’re the best of friends online, but they tell each other only they want to share. We get to see all the drama in their lives when the stories break away from the computer.

Yeah, I know. It won’t get past the pilot, but it’s all you’re getting from me. That’s why I threw in the hot guys.

MomDot what?

MomDot is a mom blog listing site that is run by bloggers, Trisha, Alicia, and Bridgette.They run contests weekly, reviews on awesome (and not so awesome) products for family and kids, and talk about their lives. But more importantly, they feature bloggers and mom boutiques to give them an avenue to get their names out there, also assisting in google links! You can head out and list your blog for free and talk to them about doing an interview on you. Head on over and see what MomDot is about!

SO, these ladies drank the kool aid fell in love with my blog finally gave in to my pathetic pleas actually agreed to list me on their site, and there I am now... somewhere.

I'm Not Blogging Today

Ever have one of those days when you know right away what kind of day is in store for you before your feet ever hit the floor? I’m having one… now… somebody come hold me please.

It all started with the alarm clock. That Bastard! I swear to God the alarm clock is mocking me. It doesn’t even say, ‘Beep, beep, beep,’ anymore. It says, ‘Ha, ha! Get your fat ass out of bed!’ and then it starts laughing a maniacal cackle. Sometimes I’m prepared for the little bastard’s morning taunt and I slap the hell out of the snooze button and pick up an extra 9 minutes of sleep. Why 9? I have no idea, but it’s quite possibly the best 9 minutes of the day. Other days, like today, I weakly press the snooze button 3-5 times and give over to complete depression that I have to get out of bed at all. Hence, my earlier request, I need someone to come over here and hold me.

After I finally conquered the chore of getting upright and walking, I staggered into the bedpost and stubbed my toe. Mother of God! I think I broke something! This was immediately followed by impromptu morning exercise; me jumping up and down, swearing the paint off the walls, and slapping the top of my dresser until the waves of pain-induced nausea subsided to something a little more manageable and the tears stopped.

Continuing on with my morning, I finally made it to the shower where I cut myself shaving right on that little tendon thingy down by my ankle. You know the place? It’s that spot that I will keep cutting everyday now until it either heals or my entire foot falls off. WTF?

Then, having been rendered completely unable to face the day without sustenance, I stumble downstairs to get my first Diet Pepsi of the day. WHERE is the Diet Pepsi? I left it right here on this shelf last night, FOR ME. WHERE is it? Yeah, it’s not there. Did I drink it in my sleep? Holy Shit!

I’m crabby, tired, pissed, and I probably have a broken toe. So I’m not bloggin’ today unless I get a hug because I have nothing nice to say and I’m just not funny.

How Long is Long Enough?

I was officially in mourning for a few hours yesterday. My cell phone coughed and took its last breath shortly after I awoke, but I was there and it didn't have to die alone. As with anything else, you don’t always realize how dependant you are on something until it dies and this was no different. I’m accepting cash and Cingular Wireless gift cards in lieu of flowers and the services will be held tomorrow.

I knew it was sick, it had failing memory problems and a display that only worked with the proper amount of coaxing, but I was in denial. This little gadget friend of mind meant the world to me. It fit into the palm of my hand like it was made just for me. It easily slipped in and out of my jeans pocket and it rarely made calls of its own from my pocket or purse. It only really embarrassed me by making an unauthorized call to a friend one time during our 10 month relationship and that was only because I didn’t realize the phone was under my pillow. (Yes, that incident is still being brought up at parties.) Why, oh why, would it choose to leave me on Valentine’s Day? Such cruel fate. Such a short life. What a piece of crap!

Heading into my 7th hour of phone-free, quality time with my family yesterday, I was already beginning to shake and sweat. Friends were calling on the home phone, or emailing me, with their condolences and prayers. By the 9th hour, I was online interviewing replacements. By the 11th hour, I was at the store buying a new phone. It was either that, or check myself in to rehab. Although I was seriously in love with that old phone, I never said I wasn’t fickle. My heart was ready to move on….

So what did I get? I looked at the iPhone, but it wasn’t for me. I looked at several other PDA model phones, but I really need one that runs Microsoft Mobil so my choices were somewhat limited. I settled on the MotoQ something-or-other. It works great, but it’s huge, I need two hands to hold it to my ear. It’s a little like talking on a hockey puck, so it will take some getting used to. Life is hard. I know our relationship will never replace the one I lost, but with a little tender loving care from both of us, I think we can make a go of it. My heart and my mind are open and I’m as ready for this change as I will ever be.

FINALLY Friday

I don’t care if it is Friday the 13th, or if Camp Crystal Lake’s Jason is out there swinging a machete at me while I try to outrun him in a bikini top, Daisy Duke shorts, and 4 inch heels. I’m just glad it’s finally Friday. Nothing Jason has to offer me tonight could possibly be worse than the week I’ve had at work.

At one point this week, my Facebook status may have said that I was in the fetal position chewing on my own hair. Believe me that was not far from the truth. I was about to get out my helmet and start banging my head against the wall. (Hey! I wanted to show frustration, not hurt myself!)

On the upside, the worst of it is over. Those pesky bank examiners named Skippy and Muffy have moved on to play in someone else’s sandbox, and Sweater Guy will probably be freezing his ass off in someone else’s conference room next week having gotten so used to the tropical temperatures in my conference room. All is well; maybe being cold will give his argyle sweater some sense of purpose. Wait! I just thought of something. If that guy was able to wear those sweaters in my 82-degree conference room, what might he have worn if I had left the thermostat alone? Did I just miss my opportunity to see him come to work in a snowsuit with one of those big, furry, Russian hats that make you look like you’ve got a bear on your head? (That is too the proper name for those hats!) Dammit to hell! I would’ve enjoyed this!



There’s always next year.

Facebook, we have to talk....

Dear Facebook,

I know we have had an on-again, off-again relationship for quite some time now, but I feel as though there are some things that I need to bring to your attention if this relationship is to continue.

1. The glacial speed with which you update each page is mind-numbing. I actually made an entire weave-magic potholder while waiting for you to update my wall yesterday. WTF?

2. The whole “status” thing troubles me. It’s like twitter on crack. I don’t need to know every little thing, ya’ know? That’s WHY I don’t live with these people.

3. And yet, I find myself now updating my status from my phone with messages like, “I’m stuck at soccer practice and I have a bad case of bleacher-butt.” What was I thinking? Who should care about that?

4. My game is a problem. You have me addicted to “Pop Answers” and it is totally stressing me out. I’m on a timer here and I’m not such a quick thinker. I can’t be waiting for you during your ‘server errors’ that allow my timer to keep ticking away at me while I can’t type in my answers. Are YOU going to pay for blood pressure medication? I think not.

5. Flair. Flair is a narcotic. It should be labeled as such; there should be groups for this. You know what I’m talking about….

6. Certain family members have found me. One wouldn’t think this would be such a problem, only these certain family members seriously disturb me. If I remove them, Christmas will be ruined for years to come. If I keep them, my every waking moment will be ruined for years to come. What is your advice?

7. Tags. There should be rules. If I have already made a list of 25 random things, NO ONE should be allowed to tag me with this for at least 6 months. Seriously, no one is that interesting.

8. Requests. Oh.My.God. Enough already. I should be able to hit a button that says DELETE ALL. I cannot throw one more snowball, send one more snow globe, hang a stocking, open a virtual gift, or decorate a tree. Our relationship will be on hiatus during the entire next Christmas season unless you add DELETE ALL. That is a promise.

So okay, I think this should clear the air between us. If you can just address these minor concerns, and maybe speed things up a bit, I should be able to commit to a consistent relationship with you. Otherwise, I shall once again be forced to sign in only once or twice a week just to see how drunk I am and to update my status.

Your sometimes friend,
Blognut

PROMPTuesday #42 - Remember When?

It's PROMPTuesday #42 and I dutifully checked in with Deb to find out today's assignment. Here it is:

I want to know about your songs. What brings you back to a pivotal moment? Or an everyday moment you’ll remember forever? Tell me a drop of your life as crystallized by a Top 40 hit, a Broadway number, a dirge.

Rest assured, nothing I have written here will match the verbal music that Deb wrote in her post on this, so take a minute and go check it out. I'm serious, because all you're getting from me today is comparative drivel.

Much of my life has been defined by music with certain memories of people or places indelibly linked to specific songs or artists. For instance, my husband is a Rush fanatic. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, or where I am, if I hear any Rush song, I hear my husband’s voice singing it and I see him playing air guitar and looking kind of silly.

Classical music pieces take me back to my violin-playing days. (ARGH – YES, I did… I played it for a long, long time…. I started on a violin about the size of your laptop computer. Forget we talked about this.) Music from the 80’s transports me back to high school friends, parties, and pom dances. (Yes, I did that too... forget we talked about it.) It takes me back to a time where all I cared about was having fun for whatever amount of time I had; and I did. It’s hard to look back on those days and not remember the carefree looking girl who may have seemed so together on the outside, but had so very much wrong with her life. I was Pollyanna at school, and partied like a Rock-Star on the weekends because it’s what I needed to do to escape.

There are hard rock 80’s hair bands that take me on camping trips with friends, where I can feel the heat of the campfire and the breeze blowing through my heavily sprayed hair, and I can still smell the burning weed that I never inhaled. (Forget... aww shit, you know what to do!) There are even specific songs that call up The Girl I wrote about in last week’s prompt. (Yes, I put one over on you. That wasn’t creative writing so much as creative recall. I knew that girl very well.) I have songs from that time that send me reeling. Remember Gloria, by Laura Branigan? Or, just about any song by Genesis or Kansas? Any of that is enough to send me into a full-on freak when I first notice it.

And then we come to the whole country music genre. Now I’m never going to tell you that I hate country music because I listen to just about anything, but country music is usually not my first choice. However, the summer of ’92 when I was oh-so-very-hugely-miserably-can’t-wait-to-have-this-baby-even-if-you-pull-it-out-my-nose pregnant I started to fall a little bit in love with Garth Brooks. I don’t know how it happened, but it started with one song and became an infatuation that even my Rush-lovin’ husband got into; he might’ve had a little man-crush on Garth too. We were both smitten and Garth Brooks still takes me back to that summer when I had feet the size of Bozo's, and I was shaped like a Hippety-Hop. Then we gave up country music for a while and forgot about it until Rascal Flatts came out with Feels Like Today. We were hooked on a little bit of country again.

Now, any time I hear Rascal Flatts, I am teleported to Virginia Beach for the most fantastic weekend on the face of the earth. For our 15th anniversary, Fig planned a long weekend for us, booked the airfare and hotel, and bought the tickets to see Rascall Flatts. I can feel the warm sand of the beach and see the dolphins swimming by, and I can feel the rush in my chest as the navy jets (with fighter pilots in flight suits!) flew overhead. It was just the two of us (and the fighter pilots in flight suits), hanging out on the beach, relaxing with a book, and carrying on at Murphy’s, singing Irish folk songs into the wee hours of the morning. The concert was a bonus and that weekend was way too short, but I get to relive it by just popping in a Rascal Flatts CD and cranking up the volume. That's true with just about any CD I have, it takes me somewhere, even if it's only for a little while, and I think that's probably why we have it, don't you think?

How to Spend a Saturday

Yesterday was a strange day in these parts. It’s February in Chicago and normally we know to expect to freeze our faces off if we as much as look out the window. Not so here yesterday, it was almost 60 degrees. You’re thinking, ‘What a wonderful day to go out and take a walk, or toss a football around with the kids.’ Well, you’d think so, right?

NOPE. (Sorry, didn’t mean to shout that.) I spent a huge chunk of my day sitting at our local doc-in-the-box, with yet another sports injured child, this time Girl #2. (Ha, she will resent my use of the word child.) Not to worry, she’s fine, but it takes a long time for a doctor at Quick Care to tell you that. I am recommending they consider a name change to something more accurate. Grow Old in Our Waiting Room comes to mind. Or, Die Here While We Make Popcorn and Talk on the Phone.

Anyway, part of the injury assessment included a trip to x-ray. This resulted in my 15 year old being repeatedly questioned about whether there was any chance that she could be pregnant. WHAT? (Sorry, I’m shouting again.) The nurse said they have to ask that with any female over the age of 11! I know they have to ask that, I know it happens, but that is my BABY (sorry). It was one of those mother moments that made me flashback to mental images of Girl #2 in footie pajamas and pigtails playing dress up with my old purse. Don’t talk to me about this child possibly being pregnant.

Then, while waiting in the x-ray waiting room, (yes, there are several waiting rooms that we were able to enjoy during our visit), this conversation took place:

Me: You know the X-Ray Tech is going to ask you that question again, right?

Girl #2: Whatever.

Girl #1: What question?

Girl #2: They asked me if I could be pregnant.

Girl #1: (snickering)

The Boy: (throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation) What? They NEVER ask me that question!

We were almost ejected from the waiting room after that because my girls and I collapsed in a pile of laughter and The Boy figured out the error of his ways and did the same.

We were eventually released back out into the world to get on with the day, but I never did get to take that walk or toss around a football with the kids. Maybe today….

Not My Usual Kind of Post...

I’m not usually the kind of blogger who gives you a serious post. This isn’t to say that I don’t write serious stuff, I’m just not ever brave enough to share it with the entire internet. Please, just read it anyway. I promise not to make a habit of it.

The thing is, the other day, Diane gave me this award for “keeping it real” and I’m not sure I really do that.


I keep it amusing, or at least I try. I tell the truth, maybe leaning a little toward hyperbole. But real? To me that would mean that I really dig down. I may shovel a scoop here and there. But dig? Hell no! I have secrets I don’t even tell myself, but I do have a really “REAL” story to share with all of you now.

Last year, in the spring, our family lost an icon. We lost the person who kept us all in line, who had her finger on the ribbon that binds us together, who worried for us, about us, and with us whenever there was a sign of trouble, and who loved us all with everything that was in her. We found out early in March that my mother-in-law had breast cancer, but it was too late for her because it had already gone everywhere there was to go. Within a week of her diagnosis, it was clear that all we could do was love her, lend her our strength, and spend as much time as we could with her to try and absorb enough of her to last. We lost her just 2 months later.

Every morning when I come downstairs, I say, “good morning,” to her picture sitting right on the shelf in my kitchen and I feel a little tug at my heart for all that we lost. In that same moment, I also feel a little strengthened by all that we still have because of her. Even more, I wish there had been a cure in time to help her.

Today my aforementioned bloggy friend Diane put a really touching story on her site that you should absolutely go and read. Diane is going to be walking in the Breast Cancer 3-day Walk for The Cure in Washington DC this fall, and she needs sponsors. This is your cue to look to the left and click on the Walk for The Cure icon. It will take you to her donation site where you should put up a couple of bucks toward her $2300 goal if you can. It’s okay… do it now… I can wait.

(This is me humming the Jeopardy theme and tapping my toes while I wait for you to come back.)

I want to help Diane reach her goal, and then start over and reach it again, because this is a cause that has touched my life so deeply. It’s a good cause, and I’ll bet that almost everyone who reads this will know someone, or know of someone, who has battled breast cancer. Maybe they beat it, (I hope they did), or maybe they lost the fight. If you can, please think about supporting Diane as she prepares to make this 60-mile trek. You know she’ll be walking in the blazing hot sun, and in 3 feet of snow, barefooted, without sunscreen, uphill both ways, with a pack of dogs chasing her, so we should help her. Right? I wish I could threaten you with arm-twisting, and leg-breaking, and I reserve the right to do that later, but for now, I’m just going to hope you can help with a contribution, by sending her link out to your friends or posting it on your site, or just sending good thoughts her way.

Today's Update...

So… the creepy sweater-wearing examiner that I’ve been melting all week is finally just about ready to deliver his preliminary findings to me. I did not freeze him out of the room today. I decided to go with just a little more heat first because he wore a sweater… naturally.

I had a meeting with two other examiners today, we’ll call them Skippy and Muffy. Skippy is about 7 years old 22, and Muffy might be only 5 25. They’re very cute and they’re conducting an interrogation exam of our information security procedures at the bank. I’m sure you’ve heard all the hype about identity theft lately, and it’s a real hot-button for bank examiners to make sure that we take care of your personal information. That’s why they’ve assigned it to Skippy and Muffy, because, at their tender young ages, they’ve mastered the art of using Speak and Spell computers and they know all of the Jump Start K-3 games and puzzles computer breach risks associated with banking. Perfect for this task, right?

This afternoon, right after Skippy and Muffy woke from their naps returned from lunch, I gave them their juice and cookies a bundle of documents and we got right to work on the exam questions. They were diligent in their work for the first half-hour, then Muffy and I took a break to do finger painting get some coffee while Skippy scooted cars around on the floor prepared for round two of the interrogation interview. This seemed to clear everyone’s heads, and we were able to finish about an hour later. Those kids were so cute and I’m being unfair. I’m sure they’ve been out of college since at least December, and they did seem to know what they were doing. Plus, they were much nicer to work with than their older, creepier, sweater-wearing buddy.

Random Updates on a Mindless Day

We have a lot to discuss today –

I had another day from hell at work thanks to those examiners we talked about the other day. One of them does seem to believe that he is paid by the finding, so he keeps asking for more documentation waiting for me to slip up here. I patiently glare at him and tell him to go to hell gather the requested documents and poke his eyes out with a letter opener deliver them to his conference room where it is currently holding at around 82 degrees Fahrenheit. I warned you that I would keep raising the thermostat in that room if he didn’t learn to behave himself, and I have taken a lot of pleasure in actually doing it. I’m thinking that I might blast the air conditioner in the conference room tomorrow and bring the room down to about 40 degrees to see if I can make it rain. My thinking is that I’ve trained him over the last few days to dress a little lighter for the toasty work environment. Tomorrow he’ll probably be wearing Bermuda shorts and a pair of huaraches. That’ll be my cue to freeze his ass out of there. I’ll let you know if that works out.

Next topic of discussion – and this one is kind of important because my little girl is 15 today – Happy Birthday Girl #2. Note that the #2 is a function of her birth order, not of her place in my heart. I don’t want her to end up in therapy over this numbering thing; I’m sure I’ll screw up something else along the way that is more worth the time on the couch than this #2. By the way, reports cards just came out and #2 Girl of mine is currently tied for #1 in her class ranking. Yay! Girl #1 is currently ranked #17. Yay, again! Smart cookies! They both tell me not to get too used to this because The Boy will surely rank #400 out of 395. I think we’ll wait and see….

Next topic of discussion – The Boy had an important question for me this morning. While I was getting ready for work, he came into my bathroom to brush his teeth. I happened to look over and find him studying himself quite carefully in the mirror. Finally, he stepped back, not pleased with what he saw, and said this:

The Boy: Mama, I have a very important question to ask.

Me: What is it, Buster?

The Boy: Can I start shaving?

Me: (Looking properly shocked.) Ummm…. No, I think not. Why?

The Boy: I’m starting to see a little bit of mustache on my lip.

Me: Me too. When I break down and start shaving my lip, you can start shaving yours.

That settled it. Maybe my girls are right? Nah.

Another Fun Day in a Banker's Hell

I wasn’t going to post today, but my cup runneth over with aggravation. I feel a rant coming on… a huge, ugly tantrum bubbling from within the depths of my dark, little mind.

Remember that I have confessed once or twice to being a banker? Bankers have to endure examiners and they’re not like what you saw at the Bailey Building and Loan Association in Bedford Falls. They’re pitbulls and they come in all shapes and sizes. Examiners are government employees, so getting rid of one requires an Act of God. They take a Hitler-like joy in knowing that they have this job security, and with the current situation in banking, they feel more powerful than ever.

In case you've never seen one, examiners wear argyle sweater vests, hush puppy shoes, and ill-fitting sansabelt slacks. Also, they wear cologne that is only one step up from bug spray. (For the record, yes, I did lodge a formal complaint with the fashion police; citations will be issued tomorrow.) Examiners are required to graduate from the Sears School of Social Graces, so they're especially good at lurking outside of my office door. They stare at me while I’m on the phone. They hover, waiting to pounce, until I absolutely cannot keep whomever I’m speaking to on the phone one second longer. Then they maul me with their long, scary questions. To be sure, anything that they’ve asked me to provide on paper, they now want in digital format. And, if they initially requested a digital copy, they would now like that printed and hole-punched for them.

I actually caught myself when I was about to play a nauseating phone game today with a customer. Do you remember that hanging up thing you used to do when you were dating? “You hang up, no you hang up first, okay, we’ll do it together on the count of three.” That’s the one! I almost tried to play it with a customer in order to prolong our conversation and further avoid the examiner who was staring a blazing hole through the side of my head. Kill me now, please!

In honor of the argyle-vested, polyester-sporting, hush puppy-wearing, bug spray-encrusted examiners, I officially declared today, “Stupid Question Monday.” In order to make tomorrow a bit more pleasurable for myself, I will be visiting the mechanical room first thing in the morning and cranking up the heat in the conference room where they have made their camp. If they don’t learn to behave, it will get 5 degrees hotter in there on Wednesday. If I have to suffer through hell, then they have to suffer through hell too.

Taking Care of Business - Awards and Gratitude

We interrupt our irregularly scheduled weekend flu-bug entertainment to take care of a little business here on the blog. Someone hit the rewind button yesterday and I got to re-live every meal I've eaten for the last several days in technicolor reverse, but I'm feeling a bit more human this morning, so I thought I'd get this post done before I run out of energy and return to bed.

It’s high time I acknowledged some of the awards I’ve been getting lately. Really, I had no idea how many awards I had collected over the last several weeks until I opened that folder this morning. Here in my weakened state, I'm loving all of you right now.

First, many of you may not have realized that I was nominated for a SAG award recently. I think that’s a pretty big deal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the Screen Actor’s Guild awards, nope, not at all. I’m talking about the, “Welcome to your 40’s; none of your stuff is where it used to be!” SAG awards. I did not win this one, but the nomination was pretty meaningful anyway and I went out and bought some new underwire bras.

I’ve also been nominated for an Academy Award, not to be confused with the real deal. I will not be coming to California to hang out with the stars. The Academy who nominated me for an award is the Nuts and Whackjob Academy for Social Integration. Apparently, I passed and am now going to be free to wander in public. Use your own judgment here, you may want to call your kids into the house and lock your doors because I am now qualified to go around without supervision.

Bella, whose blog makes me laugh everyday, gave me the Premio Dardos award. I don't know what that means, but I'll be googling it in a minute to find out if it's a good thing. Thanks, Bella!


Dawn, over at Bee and Rose, and Eve at Tranquility and Turmoil, shared the love with me and gave me this:

Thanks, ladies. You made my day.

Tranquility and Turmoil also gave me this:

Even though another blogger had given me one of these before, I always appreciate a little more love. Who can have too much?

A few weeks ago, I won a special acknowledgment at my company’s holiday party, too. This was one of the double-edged sword awards. I won something, so there’s that. But, the other meaning behind the award was, “Shut the Hell Up! You’re driving us crazy with that shit.” The award was for my year-round holiday spirit as evidenced by me whistling Christmas Carols almost everyday. I haven’t stopped; probably won’t either.

By the way, I intentionally didn't name people to come along and pick up those blog awards. I read so many blogs each day, and they're all awesome in their own way and reflect a kaleidoscope of personalities. I thank all of you for that so if I have a blog bling award that you do not have, please take it as my gift to you and do with it what you will. I recommend you do it quickly though, because I may not be quite this lovey and pathetic when I start holding down food and am no longer weak with dehydration.