Mystery Guest - Revealed

Hell Day - Guest Blogger #1 - Mo Stoneskin

Down in front, we have a guest today. I'll want best behavior from all of you. Give Mo (Mad Dog) Stoneskin the respect he deserves while he tells you a little story about his worst day from hell. Ahem... Mr. Stoneskin, you're on....

I'm woken at 5 in the morning by the cacophonous squawking of a thousand seagulls sitting on our roof. Why these vermin-of-the-air have chosen our roof is a mystery. Like council tax, it is probably some sort of random post(zip) code lottery. I'd rather have a gerbil scrape his little claws across my eardrum than listen to such a din.

Unable to sleep I head to the kitchen to grab a coffee, stepping in a pool of water on the kitchen floor. The dishwasher demon has been at it again. Not only has the dishwasher leaked but it has failed to clean anything. Few things rile me more. It has one job to do - clean the dishes - and it has failed in spectacular fashion. Unbelievably I'm out of coffee, even though I swear there was plenty left the day before. I expect that having completed her dirty work, the dishwasher demon relaxed with a double espresso.

In a killer sequence of death my right foot fraternises with an upturned plug and my left is stubbed against a table leg. "What the hell are you doing?" yells the missus as a I clatter about the living room, whining pitifully. Having made myself some fine, hunky, rough-cut farmhouse sandwiches packed with roast beef and horseradish I succeed in leaving them at home.

You know when you stumble on a slightly raised edge of a paving slab? On the walk to the station I manage to stumble on every single paving slab in a sinister walk of death. It is about as much fun as having your head shaved by a monkey using nothing but an electric toothbrush. A seagull craps on my head. I hear the dishwasher demon cackling in the distance.

The train of course breaks down, but on that one spot of the line where there is absolutely no mobile phone reception. This happened to me once and the train turned into a rampant circus, with furious London commuters scurrying about waving their phones in the air and offering ridiculous wads of cash to anyone who had reception and would let them borrow their phone.

On the way to work I treat myself to a Cadbury's Creme Egg, my comfort food of choice, and something I feel I well and truly deserve. Although it appears to be the finest specimen of confectionery imaginable, the fondant has leaked, meaning it takes me ten minutes to painstakingly peel off the wrapper.

When I get to work I'm met by a new HR policy of disallowing any consumption of coffee during working hours. I'm wearing summer (tan) trousers and splash back from a urinal does irreparable damage to my dignity, and of course I get stuck in a crowded broken-down lift, the nightmare situation that I have referred to in the past.

The lift is packed, the air-con is not working and I am sweating like a badger. To make things worse I am hit by a chronic bout of diarrhoea, probably caused by a tiny bit of Creme Egg wrapper wreaking havoc with my digestive organs. The bedlam is made worse by a pack of small yappy dogs and a toddler blowing a tin whistle.

Later in the day I stop at an ATM on my way to the post office. There is, of course, an ATM Protocol Violator in front of me, faffing, fumbling and farting. ATM protocol is simple. You insert your card, enter your pin, do a quick balance check if required, then select the appropriate cash amount. Then you're done, simple as that. It is unacceptable to take longer than 45 seconds.

This Protocol Violator appears to have their finances in such a state that they are checking the balance of every one of the trillion cards in their wallet. They clearly do not have any idea how much cash they want to withdraw and their ineptitude is compounded by entering the wrong pin numbers multiple times.

Eventually I get to the post office. I have always believed there is a conspiracy against me. If I so much as think about going to the post office the Thought Police step in and dispatch exactly 7 billion elderly folk to the post office. I know there is a conspiracy because there are not even 7 billion people in the world. I know there are exactly 7 billion in the post office because I have time to count them.

On the way home I spot a granny in a souped-up electric buggy hurtling towards me. I think I recognise her from the post office. The buggy is equipped with a ginormous spoiler and is blasting out Eminem obscenely loud. I dive out the way, escaping death by the skin of my teeth, and land in some dog muck. The sinister laugh of the dishwasher demon crackles over the airwaves.

****** (the end) ******

Now then, you're undoubtedly wondering where Blognut is posting today. I don't blame you. That Blognut gets around, doesn't she? Yeah, not really. No one ever let her come visiting before, but you'll find her over here at Cate's blog cluttering up the place. You'll note that Cate keeps a very clean house, so this visit will be very traumatic for her, no doubt. Go on... go see....

By the way, speaking of traumatic, how traumatic would it be for Blognut if she gets no comment love on her very first playdate? Yeah guys, let's don't let that happen.

PROMPTuesday #49 - What's In My Purse?

It's PROMPTuesday #49! Where does the time go? Here's what Deb came up with this week:

So, this week, let’s look in our purses and billfolds, poppets. Pull something out. Tell a story about that something. Where did it come from? Why do you carry it? What does it mean to you, if anything? (And just so you know, tampons (unsullied) totally count.)

I can assure you that I keep very little of interest in my purse. To tell you the truth, I don’t even like to carry a purse if I can avoid it. So, that being said, I will totally bastardize the intent of the prompt and tell you what’s in my purse, but we probably won’t find anything with deep meaning.

Let’s start with the purse itself. I hate it. It’s cute, don’t get me wrong, it’s a color-blocked Kate Spade knock-off from a neighbor’s purse party. The reason I hate the purse is because it has 4,000 little nooks and crannies, some with zippers, some with flaps, and I can never find a damn thing inside of it. It doesn’t matter if I know for a fact that I just put something in the purse ten seconds ago, I already can’t find it. So there’s that.

I have no car keys in my purse, because I know that I wouldn’t be able to find them, so they’re on my desk. My work keys are not in my purse, they live in my briefcase because that makes sense to me. I DO have lip gloss in there, because I have no lips and I need to do whatever I can to make it look like I do have lips. Such is my existence. I carry no other make-up in there. If it all washes off throughout the course of the day, so be it. That whole outward beauty thing is overrated anyway.

I have no driver’s license in my purse. I suspect it was in there once, but I can’t find it. I seriously haven’t seen it since sometime last summer. No worries though, I know my license number off by heart and have recited it to many police officers. They don’t even raise an eyebrow as long as I produce an insurance card… which is also not in my purse. It’s in my car… because… hello, I can’t find anything in my purse.

Hey, there’s a checkbook in here! There’s something important that has meaning… to someone… who likes to write checks… drawn on the full faith and good will of the US Banking System. Yeah, notice I didn’t say there was actually money in the account. Would I lie to you?

Oh, here! Now this is something cool! Probably my favorite thing in my purse, and I didn’t even know it was there today. It’s my mp3 player. Ha! Today’s playlists include my running track, which would shock the life out of you because I listen to club techno music to run. That’s the only time I listen to it and I NEED it in order to run. I also have a classic rock list on there with Bob Seger, Janis Joplin, Paper Lace (an all-time favorite, Billy, Don’t be a Hero, did they sing anything else?), and lots of other cool stuff. I have an 80’s hair band playlist, too. Stuff like Whitesnake, Poison, Def Leppard, Scorpions, a little Rush, etc. Those were the days, weren’t they?

Now, this will probably surprise you a little bit, but there is also a classical playlist on here. I may have confessed once to a history of playing the violin, and then I immediately forbid you to ever bring it up again, but here it’s coming up again, isn’t it? I played the violin for many, many years and I do have an appreciation for things like the Brandenburg Concerto, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Vivaldi, etc.

By the way, there is also a bunch of feminine hygiene products in there right now, too. Because, well, does anyone have any chocolate?

That’s about it, guys. The only other thing in my purse, that I can find, is a wad of receipts that will probably start a fire someday.

Sunday Un-Post

I'm not doing it today. I am not posting.

Although... one could argue that this is technically a post, I am saying right up front that it isn't a post. It's an Un-Post.

It's a dreary, gray, freezing cold day here in Blognutville, approximately 40 miles outside of Chicago. It's snowing. Yes, you heard me right, I said snow. Yes, it sucks. There's no doubt about it. The good thing is that it will change. Just last weekend I was basking in 70 degree temperatures and playing football outside with the kids. Unfortunately, about the only thing to do outside today is to build a snowman.

However, here inside of Blognut Manor, there is a lot going on, and none of it entertaining. Apparently Girl #2 gave The Boy a basketball hoop for the top of his bedroom door yesterday. While we might be thinking something like, "Hey, that's sweet of her to give him something other than a fat lip," the truth is that the basketball hoop was not Girl #2's to give; it belongs to Girl #1. Girl #1 discovered the treacherous act a few minutes ago and chaos ensued.

Huh? Did you follow the bouncing ball? No matter... suffice it to say that there is a heated discussion taking place upstairs right now and I'm hanging out down here waiting to see if they can work this out on their own. The Boy wants the basketball hoop; Girl #1 doesn't play with it, but doesn't want him to have it either; and Girl #2 is staying out of it entirely. Fortunately for her, neither of the other kids has figured out that she is actually the one that started this anarchy.

That's all right, I haven't forgotten who choreographed this evil little dance solely for her own entertainment. What goes around comes around, kiddo. I know where you live....

******************************

By the way, I was interviewed for the Motherscribe Interview Series, so if you're interested in finding out a little more about what's in my head, go check that out.

(I'll spare you the trouble if you're short on time, there's a sign in my head that says, "Space For Rent," and there are a number of voices knocking around in there, too. Oh, let's don't forget that I have only 1/2 a brain, and you'll probably find Diane in there as well. She's tinkering around in there all the time, I can't control her.)

Some People Just Need a Smack

I am not a violent person. I’m actually an anti-violent person. Unless, of course, someone desperately needs to be brought around to my point of view and reasoning isn’t working. Then I’ll crack ya’ one right upside the noggin. And there’s also an increased likelihood of physical violence if you wake me from a sound sleep. (Just warning you, make a noise from far away before approaching me or touching me in any way, or you are liable to give me a seizure, but you won’t see it because you’ll have two black eyes.) Oh wait, I'm rambling again.

All that being said, and now having you totally convinced that I would never, ever strike another person unless I needed to, I have to admit to a burning desire to smack a certain track coach. Seriously, I’m hanging my head in shame right now, but I want to hit her. Hard.

Yesterday the kids were off school for some crazy-assed, made up holiday 'teacher in-service’ or something like that. Guess what time Girl #1 had to be at school for track practice? Guess. All right, you give up? She had to be there at 8:30AM. Did I take the day off to spend time with my kids so I could get up and drive her to school at 8:30AM? I’m guessing you know the answer to that question is NO.

Today is Saturday.

Saturday – n. Sat-ur-day - Commonly known as a day off from school and/or work, known for its charm, and loved for its offering of a day to sleep until you wake up naturally, on your own, feeling well-rested.

Guess what time Girl #2 had to be at school today for track practice? Give up? 7:00AM. Did you hear me? 7:00AM.

Now I ask you, is that nice? Would it not be possible, since both Girl #1 and Girl #2 go to the same school and run for the same track team, that they could both have practice at the same time? Is that illogical or unreasonable? Just askin’. Apparently the coach never sleeps, and therefore no one else should sleep either.

The topper, and the real reason why I feel so much love and gratitude for the track coach who has been torturing me for years, is that spring break is coming up in just a couple of weeks. Our family has ALWAYS taken a vacation over spring break. Our family NEEDS a vacation at this time of year. Every one of us is ready to chew through the bars that contain us climbing the walls, and we’re not traveling this year.

Know why? Yes, you do, because you’re wise beyond your time. There are two track meets, important track meets, scheduled over spring break. STOP YOURSELF, YOU CONTROL FREAK, NAZI-LIKE TRACK COACH. You are controlling the universe. We can’t even get a long weekend in there because one meet is on Tuesday, and the other on Saturday, and there’s a track camp being held on the Wednesday and Thursday in between. WTF?

So, in an effort to control my urge to physically assault this woman, I am using my mental powers to send her an infernal itch in a place she cannot easily, or publicly, scratch.

The Summer of My Discontent

Many years ago, before I had kids of my own, I spent a summer babysitting a child who, in my humble opinion, was just gross. Not only was the child gross, the parents were also gross. However, they were willing to pay me and they didn’t seem to mind if I cleaned their child up when they weren’t looking, so I stuck with it for a season.

Gross Boy had the table manners of a monkey. I literally served this child his meals and then stepped out of the room while he ate them. I would go just far enough to keep him in sight in case he choked, but far enough not to have to experience his food with him. I vowed, then and there, that my children would never hold their utensils like a shovel, or make gross slurping noises. No child of mine would smash their food between their tongue and the roof of their mouth as an alternative to properly chewing each bite 12-14 times. Furthermore, my children would be served from a divided bowl where unrelated food items could be kept separate, as is the natural intention of the world, I think. Gross Boy stirred everything together as though it were meant to be served as some kind of stew.* This normally took place just before he pushed much of his lunch right up his nose and then inserted the rest into his ears.

*Note that I have a rare disorder that causes immediate gagging at the sight of unrelated foods touching each other on the plate. This gagging disorder has been known to lead to Technicolor barfing if the foods actually become stirred together like some sort of asinine goulash.

Gross Boy also had an overpowering urge to pick his nose… constantly. Even while sitting on the toilet. Guess what he did with the little mining treasures? Go ahead, guess. Yes, he ate them! Unless of course, he was close enough to me to actually hand me his nose nuggets. I learned never to reach out my hand when he said he had something for me. ‘Show me first,’ became my mantra. For the love of God! I would often find the little joy huddled in a corner with his finger up his nose all the way to the first knuckle. I swear the kid had elastic nostrils. Occasionally I would see the shadow of his finger behind his eyes. He would dig, I would retch. Everything was in perfect balance.

In addition to the aforementioned disgusting habits, Gross Boy had not learned to be kind to small animals. Go figure! In an effort to teach him to respect animals, his parents decided to get him a kitten. Have you ever actually tried to get an upset kitten out of a Pringle’s can? Let me just say that you’ll be lucky if you don’t need stitches when you’re finished. Didn’t the kitten realize that I was only trying to save him?

Gross Boy’s favorite game was ‘Hide the Kitty’ and he played it well. In spite of allergies that swell my eyeballs and threaten to close my throat, I tried to hold the kitten as much as possible to protect it from Gross Boy. If I set that kitten down for one minute, I would inevitably hear its pathetic mewls coming from a drawer, the toy box, the dishwasher, the dryer, and even the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. I had no choice but to spend the summer choking on allergy-induced snot, and unable to see around eyeballs swollen out of their sockets. Trust me, I was charming.

These memories return to haunt me this time each year when the phone starts ringing, and the emails from neighbors seeking babysitters for the summer start to flow into my inbox. I cannot, in good conscience, make my daughters take a summer job babysitting anyone else’s gross kid. Furthermore, they have their own gross brother to watch if they really do want to spend the summer babysitting.

Do The Words "Crab Ass" Mean Anything?

I’m looking back on one of those days where I can’t seem to latch onto a single redeeming quality about myself. What’s that all about? I’m usually SO COOL!

I’ve been hovering on the brink of blackness lately. No, I’m not turning black; I mean that metaphorically. My skin will likely remain fish-belly white with a smattering of freckles.

The day started with my complete and utter lack of interest when it came to getting out of bed. When I finally took a ginormous shoehorn and pried myself away from the mattress and into a vertical position, I had no interest in moving in any direction, especially a direction that would lead toward work.

I went through the motions of taking a shower, taming my mane, slapping on a little face paint, and wrangling myself into a banker costume. Then I was out the door and on my way. Only I still didn’t feel like it. I just didn’t.

Sure, there were high points in the day where I found myself laughing and having fun, particularly those moments spent emailing back and forth with one of my best bloggy buddies ever, but my overall mood was sour and it showed.

I received this today from a co-worker. I deserved it; I swear I really did deserve it. I even appreciated it a little bit because it helped me pull my head out of my backside and get on the right track.

I’m going to keep this around as a reminder to behave myself. I’m not alone in this world and my mood impacts other people. Even if those other people are being incredibly annoying, they deserve a moment of my time. I, Blognut, hereby vow to kick tomorrow’s ass, and leave my employees’ and coworkers’ asses intact. I must.

Failing that, I vow to kick my own ass.

PROMPTuesday #48 - How To Stay In Love

Deb snuck another PROMPTuesday in on Monday, but I was looking. I had my eye on the ball, and I was totally ready for it. It's PROMPTuesday #48, and I am the over-achiever of the universe, and am done on Monday. Ha!

What is PROMPTuesday, you ask. Go HERE and read up on it. I can't be expected to do all the work!

Here's the prompt:
Please write a post about love: When you knew you were in love. How you stay in love. What those about to get married should know about love. What qualities you hope to find in someone when you fall in love, and/or so on. You can even go the route of “Best love/marriage advice you ever got or gave.” Or perhaps you want to write about your wedding day or engagement. If you’re not married or in a relationship, how will you know when you’ve found “the one?”

All right then… we’ve covered this topic before, for PROMPTuesday #44 awhile back. Refer to it… I’ll wait.

Are you back? Now you know everything I know about how to tell when you’re in love and how to wake up one day and find yourself in a love you can’t live without. Get yourself a cold drink, and we’ll pick up where we left off the last time, shall we?

This is about how to stay in love… according to me… no expert… but lucky in love nevertheless.

The first few years of our marriage were a whirlwind. Our first child, Girl #1, was born just nine days after our first anniversary. Nine days. I still don’t know how that happened. (Yeah, I get the biology of it; I just don’t know how we found ourselves in that situation. Leave it alone, already.) Then, as if that weren’t enough, we found ourselves right back in that situation, and pregnant with Girl #2, just seven months later. One could say that we figured out what was causing the problem relatively quickly after that.

Even though those two girls of ours weren’t exactly planned, (or prevented, obviously), they were, and are, a blessing. I got to see, firsthand, just what kind of Daddy this man of mine was going to be. He fell head-over-heels in love with those girls the moment he laid eyes on them. I could see it in the way he held them, the way he looked at them, and the way he played with them as they grew. In turn, I fell even more head-over-heels in love with him. He was everything I wanted for those babies of mine, and there was no looking back.

We were busy, and we were broke. Brian was working every minute of overtime he could get, sometimes 7 days/week and 12 hours/day, but he still found time to be a husband and a father. I was up and coming in my career, too; that came with its own demands and we were both juggling life. We had a few really tough years there where it could have gone either way if we hadn’t learned very quickly not to take each other for granted, and to keep our priorities straight.

The weeks went by like days while we learned to act as a couple rather than as individuals. We learned to communicate and function as a team, and we learned to fight it out like two people in love when teamwork failed. Those early-marriage blow-outs were a sight to behold, and we had them twice a year like clock-work, complete with tears, laughter, and eventually the make-up. As we went on, those kinds of fights became less frequent, took less time, and caused less stress. Little by little, we managed to figure out where we needed our own way, and where we could give a little and find a compromise.

I think at the beginning of our marriage, there was no question that we loved each other. There was the thrill of something new, passion, and a connection I had never, ever felt before Brian. That’s a good start if you ask me, but it had to grow and change because as individuals, we grew and changed. The key to our staying in love was growing and changing together and that required a certain amount of hard work. But it’s good work if you can get it, because somewhere in there, we learned to love each other a whole lot better.

We’ve been married almost 18 years now, and we have another child, commonly known as The Boy around here, and we’ve found our groove. Not to be confused with a rut, a groove is a good thing. It’s knowing how to talk to each other, how to give each other space, how to appreciate each other, and how to keep a spark of passion burning underneath it all. To put it simply, it’s each of us taking responsibility for our happiness as a couple, and as a family.

When my own children find themselves in a serious relationship, this will be my advice to them (if they ask for it, and maybe even if they don’t ask for it): TALK to each other; make time for yourselves as a couple; don’t be afraid to disagree, just make sure you find a healthy way to do it; and, don’t start sentences with, “You always,” or “You never,” because those are fighting words, for sure. Also, when you’re looking for a fight, you may want to take a step back and ask yourself why, because you’re sure to find one when you’re looking and it’s likely that there is a better way to handle it; whatever it is.

Is it fool-proof? Nah, no way. Marriages end, and sometimes it's because one or both people turn into complete jackasses, and other times it's no one's fault. However, I think we can reduce the odds a little bit if both parties really want to do the works it takes to stay together.

To Target at Twilight

Help! My daughter is driving me insane. She wants the movie, Twilight. She wants it so badly that she can scarcely speak of anything else. Is this Twilight thing some kind of organized cult?

She got the 4-book box set for Christmas. As soon as she finished them, she went back to the first book and started again. I don’t get it. I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I read constantly. Sometimes 2 books at a time, even. (Well, not simultaneously. That would cause undue eye strain and confusion I'm not equipped to handle.) But this obsession with a teenager in love with a vampire, I cannot even begin to relate to it. And yet, here we are, day after day, week after week, speaking of someone named Bella as though we personally know her. I won’t be surprised if we save her a place at the supper table. Can’t the damn vampire just bite her already and we can all get on with it?

So, back to the overwhelming need to own this movie…. Girl #1 is sitting here in the study with me right now, whining incessantly, and saying, “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted!” Would that it was true, I would have a lot more money. If it’s the only thing she ever wanted, does that mean I can take back the cell phone, the iPod, a TV, a computer, the oodles of clothing from Hollister, the hamster, and several pairs of shoes? I’m just wonderin’. Also, does she know that she’s providing me with blog fodder right now?

Apparently I should stop what I’m doing right this very minute and run off to Target with Girl #1 because, according to her, I take The Boy to Target every time he wants something. Even if that something is a thing he doesn’t need. She NEEDS Twilight; she will die without it. Even Girl #2 is joining the cause, and I hardly think she cares about the movie. She’s just here to gang up on Mom because it’s what she does; looks for causes, and never passes up a reason to gang up on Mom.

Do I really drop everything and run to Target every time The Boy wants something? Do I really like him best? Will this child expire today if she doesn’t get the movie?

Burning questions if you ask me….




But, tell me, please, does either of these two appear, in any way, to be neglected, deprived, or slighted in some fashion? Do they appear to be living a life of plain, Amish existence? Or, are they just suffering from a perception of unfairness commonly found among 15 and 16 year old girls today? Be honest, their very lives depend upon it.

You and I know that if I do go to Target, I’m SO not getting out of there with nothing but a $20 movie, right? I will see other things. Other things will jump into my cart. I will suddenly find that I cannot live without some piece of happy crap that will fill some gap in my life that I didn’t even know existed.

Should I go? Absolutely. Suddenly I need to know what I’m missing in this life.

Spring Has Sprung

Dear Self,

What were you thinking today? You are 40...4...0...forty...thirty-nine plus one! That’s the same as 100 when it comes to playing football. Your back is not equipped for this sort of activity anymore. Accept that. Pre-plan your funeral. Sit your damn self down.

Love,
Vicodin-sucking, beer drinking, way too stupid to live this long,
Blognut

I got a taste of spring fever today because the weather was unseasonably warm in Chicago. I played football with the kids, otherwise known as animal ball around here…. That was AFTER I made them pick up butt-nuggets left by these two, of course.

Aren’t they cute? They were happy to play outside with the family today, too. Now they look like this.



To that I say, "Me, too!"

Which means that tonight, I will go here,



and do this.



Because tomorrow we have this,



and this.



Have a great Sunday!

Is That a Compliment?

I was over at Sherri's a few minutes ago to read a post I missed earlier today. I'm a little slow, what can I tell you? Anyway, I almost missed out on an absolutely hysterical post over there. In my own defense, I may have missed it because she posted twice within, like, 2 hours or something. (Yeah, I'm blaming her. What about it?)

If you're too lazy to go read it, it's about men and their inability to handle questions like, 'Do these pants make my butt look big?' Ladies, we cannot set them up like this unless it appeals to our own cruel streak. It's like putting peanut butter on the dog's nose. Sure, we get a kick out of it, but they don't know what to do. Our poor guys are not equipped for this discussion. They are not. Accept this and get yourself one of those 3-way mirrors so you can do your own butt-size inspection.

Anyway, moving on....

I received a twisted compliment this past weekend from none other than the man of this house. He is clever and knows enough to avoid any traps I set for him, but he does still set a few for himself. (And, if I can't be found tomorrow, please look for freshly dug dirt in my yard because he hates it when I post about him.)

Saturday night, I was getting ready for the big event we talked about, and Brian came wandering into the bathroom on me. I'm sorry for the mental image, but I was in a state of half-dress. I was standing there in black lacey boyshorts and thigh-high hose (I know, I'm sorry, look away), and I was pulling a sparkly dress over my head just as he entered the room.

His whole face lit up and he got an evil look in his eye, and then he said it. He actually said, 'You look like someone I just ordered off of Craig's list!'

I let him live.

And no, I am not for sale on Craig's list, and I am not available by the hour.

Is There a Program for This?

Dear Diet Pepsi,

Remember last summer when I kicked your can and put you out of my life for good? Do you? I do. It took me years before I finally had enough of you and realized I was better off without you in my life.

I ignored ‘them’ when they told me that you were full of aspartame. I ignored ‘them’ when they told me that aspartame turns to formaldehyde at 86 F. I ignored ‘them’ when they reminded me that my body temperature is 98.6 F. I even justified this with the argument that Diet Pepsi would make my organs last longer.

I ignored ‘them’ again when they told me that Diet Pepsi would give me poor memory and eat holes in my brain. I responded to this claim by stating that I would not pour the Diet Pepsi into my ears and therefore my brain would be fine.

The last straw, the thing that made me kick you out for good, was when ‘they’ told me that aspartame actually slows down my metabolism and prevents me from losing weight.

THAT.WAS.IT!

I don’t mind eternally preserved organs, poor memory, or holes in my brain, but I will be damned if I’m going to put up with a fat ass.

WHY ARE YOU BACK?

You have managed to sneak back into my life one measly, little can at a time until I am right back up there drinking 8-12 cans per day. You distracted me with your beautiful new can design in all its shiny glory and before I was even aware of it, I was dreaming of you again, day and night.

I can not exist without you. You can draw my blood, you can test what is left of my holey brain, and you can monitor my everlasting guts, because I am consuming enough of your product to be considered a lab rat. I want stock. I want compensation. I want to be on your Board of Directors. At the very least, could you give me the damn Diet Pepsi for free?

Thank you,
Blognut

PROMPTuesday #47 - Your Story, My Truth

You know this drill, right? If not, pop over to Deb's and read up on the rules.

Deb's prompt for the week:

Use in a story/poem: a skein of red yarn, a comb and a bottle of water.

I stand in my kitchen, drinking a bottle of water, and enjoying those last few peaceful moments of the day before heading up to bed. As I look around, I am picturing the three-ring circus of activity that was present only a few hours ago.

I can still see the homework that was being done in the center ring, and hear the wrestling event my son was watching in the small ring off to the left while tick-tocking a soccer ball back and forth between his feet. In the third ring, I can hear the clicking of the computer keys and see the look of despair in my daughter’s eyes as she furiously types citations for her research paper.

I love my circus, but I need this time at the end of the day, just before midnight when the house is quiet and the performers have all gone to sleep. I have conquered this day, and I am mentally preparing for tomorrow.

My life is a perfectly woven skein of yarn, vibrant in its red color, and waiting to be made into something beautiful. Maybe that work is already in progress? I think it is, although there are moments when I worry that the skein is coming unraveled and looks more like a tangled mess of yarn. I fear that the world does not have a comb big enough to get through the knots, but it does. In my heart, I know it does.

Fun With Spy Tools and Google Searches

One of the things I love about my secret spy tracking devices, besides the fact that I catch all of you lurkers, know who you are, and am planning to come to your houses in the dark of night and have a nice, long chat with you about tipping your waiters commenting on the blogs you read because it borders on rude when you come here almost everyday and never leave any love and because I love that you come here and I want you to keep doing it but it would be nice if you said hello once in awhile… um, where am I?… what was I saying?

Oh yeah, I was saying that I love my secret spy tracking devices because I get to see the insane google searches that drop the poor, unsuspecting public onto my blogshit blogsite.

Here are some of the things that those poor souls were looking for before google launched them off to the land of the rambling fool:

My SUV feels like I am going over a bump and my tires screech when I turn
Well, sure. But if you’re really looking for driving tips, let the record show that you are in the wrong place. You might want to let the google people know of their mistake.

How to spend a Saturday
I can make a suggestion on that if you’d like. It just so happens that I spent last Saturday in bed until 4pm and I barely dragged myself out of it in time to get dressed and go out for the evening. That may not appeal to the masses, but it is what I did.

How to find out if school is open tomorrow
You mean it might not be? Crap! The kids really have it tough, don’t they?

Mindless Rambling
Yep, you’ll find that here. Without a doubt. Google brought you right where you need to be this time.

How to use a Tomtom when rambling
Aces! I can help here! Wrench the Tomtom off the windshield using your right hand while rolling down your window with your left hand. (This is an opportunity to practice steering with your knee.) Now switch the Tomtom to your left hand and pitch it out the window into the path of an oncoming truck. (Watch carefully, you don’t want to scare the truck driver into hitting you. They aim to kill.) I recommend a low Frisbee-like flip of the wrist to make sure that the Tomtom goes directly under the truck tires so there’s nothing left of the Tomtom except a small grease spot.

Pitched in the trash
This is just unkind. Google is acting up again and I want something done about it. I admit that I don’t necessarily add value around here, but pitching in me in the trash is a bit harsh.

Anxiety Attacks law school
I’m not sure what to do with this one. I’ve not been to law school, but I would imagine that it would create a certain amount of anxiety. However, if you’re having anxiety attacks in law school, perhaps you might want to explore a different career path. I don’t think it’s going to get any better. I don’t recommend air traffic control either. Just a thought.

You want to go for a ride?
Well it just depends on who’s asking, doesn’t it? Creep.

Banker’s Hell
Yeah, call me on this one. I’ll tell you how to get here.

Homobile phone number of women friendship
Try Craig’s list.

Kick my can
What? Now we have people lining up to do it? For Pete’s sake!

I have to pee so bad
Hey! Don’t do that here! Keep your bladder control issues to yourself. That’s the last time I invite the likes of you over to my site.

After reading all of this, I am convinced that google really has no idea at all what to do with me. I’m going to call them and set them straight. While I try to welcome everyone, I’d really appreciate it if google would send the ho-seekers with bladder control issues to someone else’s site. And, I’m still kind of upset about that trash comment. That's just bad behavior, Google. Bad behavior!

It Was a Good Night

The Update… as promised:

A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that I had an event coming up that would stand me in front of 450 people, completely without words. At the time, I was a nervous wreck. That night has come and gone, and it went just fine.

I did not turn my ankle, I did not run my hose, and I did not split out the back seam of my dress leaving my cute, little arse exposed to 900 eyes. I did not get drunk, I did not fall down, and I did not forget what I was going to say. Also, I had a good hair night and I was hawt. All in all, the evening was a success and the Volunteer of the Year award is now behind me. Yea!

I was so worried that I would not have any words, and yet I found them. I said that I was grateful to be recognized in this way by an organization that is full of people who give so much. That is true, by the way. I also said the real reason why I volunteer there, working with victims of sexual assault and domestic violence, is because I get so much more than I actually give to them.

I get to work with a group of people who are probably the kindest and most dedicated people I’ve ever met. I get to see hope in the eyes of the clients that we serve when they come into the shelter at the very ends of their ropes, needing everything from food and a roof over their heads (and the heads of their children), and yet, they have not given up on life.

I get to see determination in the eyes of our clients when they realize, whether it’s their first time in our shelter or their tenth, that they have had enough and they will not go back. I get to work with their kids, and see a little bit of love and a whole lot of trust.

Most of all, I love it when I get to see their courage. When those clients finally take everything that they’ve gone through and use it as a catalyst for remaking their lives, I get to see the kind of bravery that I carry with me in my heart for a long time.

I only dream of being as brave as they are, and I do it because I learn something from them each time I go there.

Let's Talk Tom Tom for a Minute, Shall We?

I’m wondering how Tom Tom can provide directions to the darkest nooks and crannies in the universe, however inaccurate they may be, yet still miss the biggest clues to disaster along the way.

I went on a road trip this weekend with some girlfriends because one of them turned REALLY OLD and that’s how she wanted to celebrate cresting that big hill of life. Figuring that she now stands poised in that brief moment of suspended gravity, just about to start that hurdling plunge at break-neck speed down the backside of said hill, I wanted to be a good friend and I went on the trip. REALLY OLD should have been my first clue. I missed my first clue.

There were six of us on the trip and I was younger than four of them by more than a decade. MORE THAN A DECADE should have been my second clue. I missed my second clue.

The driver lives down the street from me and I love her to death. When she picked me up, we sat in my driveway for 5 minutes while she programmed our first stop (for breakfast) into her Tom Tom. The first stop was 7 miles down the road, due south, no turns, no twists, and no clever ploys to cause a driver WHO LIVES IN THIS TOWN to become discombobulated and subsequently lost. THE TOM TOM SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY THIRD CLUE. I missed my third clue.

I was not in charge of the driving for obvious reasons we shall not discuss in this post OR IN THE COMMENTS OF THIS POST, YOU PEOPLE. I was hostage in the back seat of one of the cars, and I was duct-taped to the console to prevent any mutinous acts against the driver going only 70 mph. SEVENTY MILES PER HOUR should have been my fourth clue. I did not miss my fourth clue. As is my custom, I began to shake and sweat because the driving was much too slow.

And so began our trip.

At first I found the Tom Tom charming. (Insert haughty British accent here.) ‘Go straight. Keep left. Turn right.’ This is helpful information if you’re map challenged or you can’t retain information such as, “Get on I55 and go straight until you get to St. Louis, then take 44 west to 165 and follow the signs to where Jesus lost his shoe.” That’s complicated stuff and three numbers can be hard to remember when you’re REALLY OLD.

I was patient with the Tom Tom bitch… all weekend… even when we had to turn her on just to go down the street to a restaurant we could SEE from our hotel. And then they let me drive home. Wahoo! We never saw 70 mph again unless it was in the driveway at the hotel. I was in charge!

Silly me. I was not in charge. Naturally my passenger played with the Tom Tom even though I said I did not need her help. In spite of the fact that I’ve driven this route before. Never mind that I am not directionally challenged in the least and merely had to “undo” the route we had taken to get there. People like their Tom Tom GPS, don’t they?

Mother of God.

That bitchy little wench bossed me around all the way home. It was all I could do to resist ripping her off of the windshield and hurling her down the highway.

I’d be driving along churning out important things like a national budget, or a grocery list, or the solution for world peace, and that British accent would suddenly scream at me loud enough to practically eject me from the vehicle. ‘Keep left in 500 feet.’ Well thanks for that, but can you tell me where the nearest hospital is, because I just had a coronary.

She broke into my mind again when I got to St. Louis and I almost jumped into the lap of my passenger. Can I add that the screaming harpy was also incorrect about the path through St. Louis? I know how to get through St. Louis and I don’t need a stinky bypass, especially when it’s under construction according to all of the big orange signs. I ignored the Tom Tom’s insistent nagging and stayed my course… correctly… and she cried the entire time. ‘Turn around at your earliest convenience. Go left, and then left again, do it faster now, keep going, and press menu the minute you disappear up your own backside.’ At least that’s what I think she said; I was busy driving and grinding my teeth down to the nub.

Things went smoothly after that, because I was back on I-55 and heading in a straight line for the next 9,999 miles. I needed no further instruction, although that didn’t really stop the screaming shrew from putting in her opinion right around Springfield, and again around Peoria. Where I really got into trouble was when I pulled off of I-55 to head for home. The Tom Tom was programmed to believe that I would be heading into Chicago to the home of one of the backseat hostages first, only I didn’t because I was going home and someone else was going to take her the rest of the way.

Little Miss Thing objected to my exit from her plan. She insisted that I get back on the highway. She drew angry, red arrows. She showed exploding cars on the Tom Tom video display. She raised her voice. She said, “Bloody hell, I’ve shit me knickers!” She said, “Turn Back! You stupid American’s think you know everything.” She reached out from the little black box and slapped me in the forehead. Still, I stayed the course. I could smell the home fires burning and I was on a mission. Just as I turned onto my street, she took control of the car and attempted to lay a u-turn four houses up the street. I was screaming and clawing at my locked window; I would not give up. I hit the gas and opened the sunroof. Tom Tom began to smoke and shake against the windshield. I unbuckled my seatbelt, stood up in my seat and managed to escape out the roof hatch just as that Tom Tom bitch began to accelerate right past my house. I didn’t even get my luggage, and I did not care.

I had won the battle, and I was finally home.

It's Good to be Home and I Can't Wait to Catch Up

Did someone actually say that absence makes the heart grow fonder? Who was this genius? I went away for the weekend and left my family at home to fend for themselves, but you know that already, right? I had a good time, but my heart was elsewhere. I LIKE my husband and kids; I LIKE having them around. Call me crazy, but I’d rather be with them than anywhere else. The good news is that my family seems to feel the same way so it’s all good. They took me back.

I had a fun weekend and lots of time to myself since I DO NOT SLEEP when I’m away from my own bed. (Really, it’s more like I don’t sleep when I’m away from the big, furry guy in my bed, not so much the bed itself.) I discovered that I still knew how to read books, and that I still could stir up a tornado in my mind that begs for pen, paper, or laptop computer. I needed to write, but I didn’t feel like writing on a napkin. Go figure… there’s stuff in my head that has to come out somewhere and I had no outlet for it. THAT will never happen again. I almost burst at the seams this weekend and there was no way I was going to attempt to write a word document on my phone even though my phone is capable of such madness. This would have been an exercise in opposable thumb coordination and patience and, frankly, I saw no point in subjecting myself to that kind of frustration.

The good news is that I did gather some interesting blog material this weekend and I will be forcing all of you to read it soon sharing some of those thoughts with you over the next several days or weeks.

First, because some of you commented or emailed me on the topic, I have to answer the burning question in your minds. YES, I really did get in ANOTHER car accident last Thursday. What is that now? 14 or 15? Who’s keeping track of this for me? I recently made a list, didn’t I? Wait here while I check…. Yeah, it’s 14. This one was NOT my fault. NOT. (Stop looking at me like that, it really wasn’t.) (I know I say that all the time, but it really wasn’t.) (Trust me, if it were really my fault, it would have been much worse because that’s my kind of luck.) Suffice it to say, I DIDN’T DO IT and your challenge is to accept that answer. Have a nice day.

By the way, you can begin now to look forward to a post on TomTom GPS and that haughty little wench with the British accent who flips out when you defy her directions because you already know the short-cut. You can also look forward to a post detailing in gory excess about the day I was dragged to the Precious Moments Chapel in Bumblefuck, Missouri. Oh, NO! I did NOT know that was going to be part of the trip but I’m a good sport on the outside. Talk soon!

And The Inmates Will Be Running the Asylum

I'm going out of town this weekend and leaving my husband and all 3 kids to their own devices. I know that my kids are in capable hands, but the control-freak in me says to worry a little anyway and to leave them a note.

Dear Family,

You've probably already forgotten this, but I'm leaving tomorrow morning for a weekend away with the girls. Remember?

The extra toilet paper is under the bathroom sink. I'm assuming you might not know this. Also, should you need to tap into a reserve supply of toilet paper, there's a little springy thing on the toilet paper holder that pops out readily and allows you to actually hang a new roll. Just sayin'.

Your socks are folded and in your respective drawers. I know this is a huge change because I normally leave them unpaired and in a basket. What can I say? I was nesting or something.

The dishwasher does open. There is no secret combination known only by me. You can open it to place dirty dishes inside of it; and you can open it to remove and put away clean dishes. I know what you're thinking, but I believe in you and you CAN do this.

Boy, GET OUT OF THE CUPBOARD. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO EAT CRAP FOR 72 HOURS. YOU ARE NOT. I WILL KNOW. BACK AWAY FROM THE CUPBOARD RIGHT THIS INSTANT.

Boy, your shoes are where you left them. So are your soccer shin guards, your cleats, your backpack, etc. See the pattern?

Girls, please do not kill your brother, he has value. Good luck at your track meet. Run like the wind, Bullseye! I love you guys.

Kids in General, please arrange to air yourself of any complaints you may have prior to my arriving back home after the weekend. I do not want to be greeted with a list of egregious acts committed against you by one of your siblings. Work that stuff out and do all of your fighting while I'm gone. DO NOT CALL me with any of that crap. Phone calls to me should be limited to conversations that start with, "Oh Mommy, we miss you so much and we scarcely know what to do when you are gone." If you can't say that with a straight face, don't call.

Honey, if you bring home work uniforms for washing this weekend, and you actually leave them on top of the dryer, that's where they'll still be come Monday morning. Contrary to popular belief, the laundry fairy does not come and wash those for you; I do it. I am not here. Therefore, prepare either to have foul balls or wash a load of clothes.

The kids cannot eat pizza and beer for dinner on Friday night. Get them Wendy's or something, 'cause I totally know you're having pizza and beer.

I will miss you, My Love. I will not sleep one wink without you there beside me, but I'm going anyway.

Fellow bloggers, I will be reading up on your blogs via my cell phone because I'm absolutely insane like that and I am addicted to reading most of the things you have to say. I may not comment because some of your blogs just don't let me do that from my phone, especially if you're a typepad blog, but I'm with you in spirit. I'll catch up when I get back. Oh, and by the way, I totally got in a car accident today. Dammit! I mean, Darnit! Crap! (Is that a swear?)

Random Observations from My Day

This morning I happened to be downstairs when Girl #1 and Girl #2 were getting ready to leave for school. I look over and find Girl #1 in a pair of slippers, and not just any pair of slippers, a pair of my slippers. We’ve talked about their tendencies toward theft before, right? In my head, I contemplated letting her run off to school in those slippers and then I added up the hours and hours of therapy that I would have to pay for if she ended up traumatized when she got to school and found she had forgotten her shoes. Don’t we have nightmares about things like this? Showing up to school naked, or in your pajamas? You all do, right? I'm not completely nuts, am I? So, I’m still really going after that mother of the year award for 2009 and I decided I’d better call her attention to the wardrobe issue only to learn that she was AWARE of the slippers and had purposely planned to wear them to school. What do I say to this? Nowhere in the parenting handbook does it cover this issue, so I do what any suburban mom would do, and I say, “Don’t you at least have a cuter pair?”

Speaking of suburban moms, lately I’ve been seeing a lot of cars, usually minivans or SUVs, with sticker people in the back window. You know? One sticker for each member of the family, including pets, like so:



And if that's not enough, you can get the stick figures customized to match your families' hobbies, as if that's not just a little too pathetic.


Before you know it, we'll have digital twitter displays on our back windows so you can inform everyone on the road where you're headed. "We're on our way to pick up Freddie from the principal's office because he set fire to his teacher." I'll bet you can get that on a sticker.

Sometimes the stickers even have the family members’ names on them. I just have one small question about this new suburban custom. Are you labeling your vehicle so I will know who you are when I rear-end you? Maybe then I can get out of my car and greet you by name. “Hello, Mike. I’m sorry I hit you this morning. I do hope that Millie, Ashley, Bud, Spot, and Fluffy were not injured.” WTF?

Or, how about the stickers that just show a pair of flip-flops for everyone in the family?



One question.... What if someone in the house loses a foot, do you just get one shoe on their sticker? Do the pet stickers have 4 shoes? Burning questions that must be answered if you ask me.

Since you’re wondering, here is the sticker I would choose:


Why skulls? Because if I'm going to have one of those insane stickers on my car, you're at least going to know that my family sticker could kick your family sticker's ass. That's why.

One last thing – I heard on the radio that there's a No Cussing Club and they are trying to have the first week of March designated as no cussing week. I think that’s a damn fine idea but I hope you’re planning to either sedate me or put a piece of farking duct tape over my mouth. Also, if we do this no swear words thing, can I still think ‘em?

Meetings for the Mindless

I have a plaque in my office that says, 'None of us is as dumb as all of us.' This can certainly be said of the meeting I attended today. Thirty-five people can not be held captive in a room and expected to produce results, or even necessarily to agree. There's another important takeaway from today's meeting that I'll share with you as well. 'If you don't want to get anything done, keep talking about it.'

Can I just say something here; because it makes me feel so much better once I just say it? Here we go… WHAT THE FUCK?!

Okay, moving on. The one thing that kept me awake for 6 hours today was watching the other people in attendance. I’m going to just tell you, straight up, I WAS THE ONLY SEMI-NORMAL PERSON THERE. Just sayin’.

Here’s the cast:

The Sponge – writes down every word that is said.
For what? Are you telling me you’re actually going to go back and read that?

The Questioner – asks and repeats the same questions over and over.
I almost removed a trouser sock and stuffed it down her gullet.

The Narcissist – thinks he’s the only person at the meeting.
Also bathes in cologne that smells suspiciously like gin and bug spray.

The Sleeper – keeps nodding off and even snores softly from time to time.
Several people starred in this role today.

The Nodder – One step up from the sleeper, this player keeps doing that head jerk thing.
Also thinks no one sees that slick move or notices the bit of drool running down his cheek.

The Interrupter – just starts talking whenever she has a new thought.
And, she could use a breath mint.

The Hiccup Girl – hiccups, giggles, and excuses herself every 21 seconds.
She’s pregnant, I’ll overlook it.

The Blogger – busily writing notes about the people in the room, not the subject matter.
Yeah, that was me.

The Arguer – convinced she knows more than anyone else in the room.
Her body can be found buried in the trees just beyond where she parked her car.

The Farter – self-explantory
I.swear.to.God I will never sit anywhere near this guy again. Wouldn’t you leave the room at some point and try to walk it off?

The Mole Guy – just like this:

Which left me doing things just like this:


So, other than some unproductive people watching, a nasty sandwich, 3 chips, and a mystery salad, I'd say this day was a bust.

Ass IN Seat Required

I had big plans for tomorrow. Actually, I had no plans for tomorrow; but that’s a big day for me. What I thought was going to be a 3-hour conference call is now a 6-hour Ass IN Seat required meeting. Oh freakin’ hell!

I was sitting in my office this afternoon minding my own business and in pops this little email copying God and everyone and stating how important it is for me to attend this meeting in person tomorrow because we are having an attorney speak to us about the employer implications of the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, better known as the Economic Stimulus Plan. Have you ever met an attorney who wasn’t long-winded? No! I didn’t think so. But just in case I was planning to come down with a case of contagious plague tonight, the email included a nice little photo of the US Capitol building. Let me tell you how that swelled my sense of civic pride and now I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world because my boss was copied on the email because I will want to make sure I’m doing my part.

What could be better, I say? Well sure, a poke in the eye with a sharp stick would be more fun, but this is important, right? I’m not bitter because I won’t be working from home tomorrow, or because I get to drive an extra 72 miles one-way to attend this meeting in person, or because this meeting threatens to fry my brain. No way! I am a big person and I will take this responsibility seriously as soon as I finish whining about it. Besides, I'll at least get lunch, right? They're always kind enough to keep you THERE in the meeting with no break whatsoever in exchange for a tiny little sandwich of shit lunchmeat, 3 chips, and a mystery salad that they bring in from the local deli. How could I even think to miss this meeting?

Why am I sharing this with all of you? Other than your distracting, stalker-like need to know what I’m doing at all times, I wanted you to understand that I will probably not be keeping up with my blog-reading tomorrow but I will try to catch up in the evening after I get home as long as I have not gone completely blind from my fried brain. I know you will miss me, but you know what ‘they’ say; absence makes the heart grow fonder. Besides, it’s just a few hours, right? Oh freakin’ hell!