The Tooth Fairy Has Been Outed

Last night, all sneaky like, I went tip-toeing into The Boy's bedroom around 12:15am. I was so proud when I stepped on a wrestler guy, and I was able to keep my swear words mostly in my head. I wisely chose to use a shuffle technique after that, which worked really well until I got myself tangled in a video game cord, then stepped back hard onto some unidentified squishy thing and almost screamed because it felt like a dead platypus.

I recovered from my shock and gave myself a little pat on the back while cursing the boy's housekeeping skills and promising that I would ground him into plain, Amish existence if he didn't get this bedroom under control immediately.

Then, money in hand, I made my way over to the bed and found this note to the Tooth Fairy...


...that's when I burst out laughing and woke the sleeping boy.

Blogger Toys Tools

As many of you probably do, I pay a fair amount of attention to my Feedjit thingamabob and I obsess make a game of trying to identify my lurkers, even if it means following them from blog to blog, peeking at other blogger’s Feedjit thingamabobs, and chasing them down until they eventually leave a comment and identify themselves. I find it particularly annoying challenging when someone makes themselves invisible to my Feedjit. Don’t go running down the screen and doing that now, you’ll drive me bonkers and I’ll end up huddled in a corner humming nursery rhymes and lunching on my own hair just find you through one of my other spy tools. (And, I hear your thoughts loud and clear, and they’re unkind.) (You should be ashamed of yourself.)

One of the other blog toys tools I like to keep an eye on is my ad-sense feed. Mostly it’s a nonsense thing, and I’ve never made a single penny off of it because you lazy little buggars busy little bees never click on them. It’s all right though, I don’t need the money and my kids don’t need braces or college either. Besides one of those ads on my blog today was for this:

Make Money From Thin Air!
Discover 40+ ways to make
money on the Internet right now!

Well, hallelujah! (And how do you spell that?) I’m about to be rich, and not a moment too soon I might add. After all, it was just today when I was busy up my big, stupid ass like crazy at work, when I said that I didn’t think I could really continue to accept pay for the amount of bullshit fun my workplace provides me. I may have to start returning my paycheck and just doing all that ridiculous fun stuff for free. In fact, I may even have to start paying them for the privilege.

Now here’s my question. I am bound by the rules of nonsense ad-sense not to click on those ads, so I need someone to do it for me and tell me how to make money out of thin air. (Truth be told, I’m probably also bound by the rules to not mention the existence of the useless helpful ads at all; but we won’t go there.)

I need to know if I can legally make money from thin air. I need to know if thin air is the only required ingredient. I need to know if I’m required to be naked, or even partially unclothed, at any time during the process. I need to know if I’m going to be providing any services to strangers, whether via webcam, telephone, email, or text. Please check out the facts and let me know.

Go on, I’m waiting.

PS. I took one damn day off (I at least took 2 minutes to throw up a non-post) and I lost a follower. Real nice. Yeah, I pay attention to that, too and it hurts my feelings; both of ‘em.

By the way, I really am just kidding about clicking my ads. I don't click them either when I see other sites that use them. They fill your mail with spam and lead you to all manner of crap sites. They do provide me a certain amount of comic value though, and I like to screw with it because they're driven by certain words on your page.

Tied Up Tuesday

It's Tied Up Tuesday...



and I'm buried in work...



Back soon!

Caution: Do Not Use While Sleeping

Did you ever notice the warning label on your hair dryer? I don’t know what made me actually read that label, but it probably had something to do with the fact that my hair dryer is now making a funny noise (similar to the sound my van is making), and it smells like fire when I use it for too long. I guess I was looking for something on the warning label to say: Stop using immediately if flames shoot out and set your hair on fire.

Oddly, it didn’t say that at all. However, it DID say this:

Do NOT use while sleeping
Now what are the odds that I was actually going to do that while sleeping? I don’t know about you, but when I’m sleeping, I’m actually sleeping. Maybe they meant not to use the hair dryer while sleepwalking. In which case, isn’t the warning futile? I mean, if I’m sleepwalking, I’m probably not going to read the label and if I actually did, the voice of reason is probably still sleeping and will likely let me carry on with my silly plan to dry my already dry hair; unless of course I showered while I was sleeping, too. Then maybe the hair dryer warning makes sense. Does my shower have a similar warning?

This brings me to the next warning on the hair dryer label:

Do NOT use in the shower

Really? Wouldn’t it be a waste of time to begin drying my hair (or any other part of me) while still in the shower? Who ARE the people that need to be warned off of this sort of activity? I want to know because I want to live VERY FAR from them. Although, I guess it doesn’t matter, because they aren’t going to live very long, maybe I should just wait them out and they’ll go away on their own.

Anyway, in my quest to understand the necessity of these labels in our litigious society, I came across a few others worth sharing.

On The Boy’s shirt:
Warning: It is not safe to wear this shirt near open flames. Here I’m left to wonder if it’s safe for The Boy to play near fire if he removes the shirt.

On my deodorant:
For external use only. Well, okay. You can be sure that if you’re experiencing an internal odor problem, there’s a separate product for that. Your anti-perspirant/deodorant would likely burn like hell if you tried to substitute, but I’m betting you didn’t need to be told that.

On The Boy’s bike:
This product moves while in use. Kinda the whole point, isn’t it?

On my printer ink:
Do not eat. I was just about to sprinkle it on toast when I read that.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just my tendency to overthink things, or I’m just instinctively a smart and safe user of these products, but I didn’t really need to be warned about any of these things.

Although, in spite of all of those silly, meaningless warnings, I totally understand the need for the warning on my iron. It says:

Do not iron garments while wearing them. I rarely iron anything because I much prefer the just-woke-up look, but if I do feel the need to iron something, you can bet I've already put it on and I'm not taking it off. The burns do eventually heal.

Where Did My Weekend Go?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled weekend of rest, relaxation, and quality time with friends and family to bring you sports, sports, and more sports.



Believe me, holding someone's blocks while getting a great look right up their backsides, is a job only a sister would do for you. And, I totally wouldn't do it for either one of mine!

Getting covered in mud from head to toe is exactly the job that this guy likes.



... and I hereby retire from doing his laundry. Can I get a couple more days off to recover from the weekend?

The Spud is Sick

The sexy brown minivan, a/k/a The Spud, is sick. It’s making a noise, so having verified with The Tall Dude that it is indeed a sound he cannot fix, it only makes sense for me to call and tell someone at the dealership that my poor, little spud needs attention.

Why, oh why, can someone not make that call for me? I really view my role here as ‘driving,’ and any other issues with said vehicle are surely meant to be dealt with by someone else. Any volunteers?

Here is the conversation I had with the dealership when I called:

Me: (dialing phone)
Dealership Girl: Customer Service, how may I help you?
Me: Hello. My van is making a noise.
DG: Let me transfer you to service.
Me: Didn’t you just say you were service?
DG: Not that kind of service.
Me: Never mind. I don’t want to know.
(transfers call)
Service Guy: Hello, how can I help you?
Me: Do you provide service?
SG: Yes, that’s what I do.
Me: My van has a problem.
SG: What kind of problem?
Me: I’m sure I don’t know.
SG: Well, does it have gas?
Me: Yes, I’m sure it does. We have bread and milk.
SG: WHAT?
Me: I’m double-checking, but if we have bread and milk, the van has gas. (I double-check at this point.) Yes, it has gas.
SG: I will regret this, but what does bread and milk have to do with gas.
Me: When my gas light comes on, and the display says that I have only * miles to go until empty, I send my husband out for bread and milk and ask him to take my van. It always comes back with a full tank. It’s a miracle, really, but I choose not to question it.
SG: All right. Well, let’s move on. What is the van doing?
Me: Sitting in the driveway.
SG: What makes you think it has a problem?
Me: It is making a noise.
SG: It’s making a noise right now?
Me: No, it’s just sitting there right now.
SG: When does it make the noise?
Me: When I go.
SG: What kind of noise?
Me: Kind of a whump, whump, thump.
SG: Does it make the noise when you go over a bump?
Me: It makes the noise when I go.
SG: Go where?
Me: Is this necessary?
SG: I need to know where it makes the noise.
Me: It sounds like the front end of the car.
SG: When does it make the noise?
Me: Seems like it makes it anytime. In my driveway, on the road, when I go straight, or hit a toad.
SG: Ma’am… let’s just make you an appointment.
Me: Yes, an appointment would be good.
SG: Can you drop it off tomorrow?
Me: Sure.
SG: We can look at it Monday.
Me: Today is Thursday.
SG: Yes, it is.
Me: Why would I drop the car off on Friday so you can look at it Monday? Do I get a loaner?
SG: Do you have the extended warranty?
Me: Yes, so I get a loaner, right?
SG: You do, but we won’t pay for it unless we’re looking at the car.
Me: Technically not a loaner then, is it?
SG: Not until Monday.
Me: Niiice. I’ll drop the car off on Monday.
SG: I’ll have a master mechanic look at it then.
Me: A master mechanic sounds expensive. I’m sure this is an inexpensive problem.
SG: You have the extended warranty?
Me: We’ve had this discussion. Will it cover the problem?
SG: Extended warranties almost always cover a whump, whump, thump.
Me: Unless it’s an expensive whump, whump, thump. Then they never cover it.
SG: The master mechanic will let you know.
Me: How long will it take?
SG: I can’t say.
Me: Is it a secret?
SG: No, it’s a mystery.
Me: Never mind. I’ll see you Monday.

To Post or Not to Post

I have obligations to meet as it relates to awards I’ve received this week. I think it is National Give a Blogger a Button week, because I’ve been collecting them left and right and I’m bursting with gratitude.

So, post?

Of course, I’m also collapsing under the weight of the award-induced stress due to all of the rules and tagging that is supposed to follow. I’m not good with rules, so if there’s an award for that, I should for sure get that one because it probably won’t come with any rules, right? And then there’s all of that linky work that needs to be done with award acknowledgements and award giving. Ugh. I don’t have the energy for it today.

So, no post?

But then I look like an ungrateful schmuck and I’m truly not one of those things.

So, post?

But I’m tired, and this close to bursting into a world-class whine.

So, no post?

And then I feel guilty for putting you all through this and then not really saying anything at all. (Shush! I hear your sarcastic comments.)

So, post?

Okay. I’ll post, but I won’t like it. (And most likely, neither will you.)

*disclaimer - I didn't tag for some of these, if you want 'em take 'em. For the folks I did tag, do something with them or do nothing with them. Either way is fine. No post required, no special rules, no jumping through hoops or standing on heads required.



This one came from Darsden right before she accused me of being sneaky or something. Who me? Sneaky? Creepy maybe, but I'm way too noisy to be sneaky.

And this one...



... came from Sassy Britches. She said I'm beautiful, and lovely, and I rock the hell out of the blogosphere. Yeah, that's a lie. But I know she would've said that if we'd just given her a little more time for creativity. She was totally thinking it.

About a week ago, Fhina made a list of Bloggy sisters and I got to be one of those. No, I feel certain that she wasn't implying that I am a nun. She loves me and all that, but she knows I'm not a nun.



However, like any good sister would, she's letting me borrow these pants and I'm totally willing to do that as soon as I sneak back into her closet and put the rest of her stuff back where I found it. (Really, Fhi, Diane is the one who stole all that stuff, but I'm going to put it back because I'm nice like that.)

Then today, out of some sort of sick case of heat-stroke, Michel got all sweaty and melty and started passing out awards and stuff. She put up a blogger's buffet of awards and tagged me to choose one. Pfftt. She broke EVERY rule there is for distributing blogger awards, but I'm going to overlook it because I know she's hot. (I know this because she is constantly whining that she is hot.)



So, out of the kindness of my heart, and with no obligation to share this with ANYONE, this little misty fan thingy is for you, my sweaty friend. Next week I'm going to send you salt tablets and deoderant, because you can count on me to keep looking out for you.

As I mentioned last week, Diane gave me the Zombie Chicken Award, which I promptly forwarded along to She, and then I commenced a journey to all four corners of the world to find just the right gift for Diane in order to repay her kindness 'cause I totally love her. I found the perfect thing, too. I think...



... this is what you asked for in your Easter Basket, right? You may not be able to count on the damn bunny, but you can sure as hell count on me, girlfriend!

And I bought this...



... for Cheri and She because there are no other people in the world who spend more time with their cell phones than they do... except maybe me but this is not about me. It's not.

Last, but not least, there was a sale at Target on these...



and Cate, I know how attached you are to these things, so I got you one.

Oh, wait a second! Did I say last already? No way did I forget a gift for Fhina!



This, my dear wonderful lady, is love and light. It is for you, and only you, because anyone who reads your blog knows that you are one of a kind.

(Oh yeah, some of the links in this post don't go anywhere, but you should hover over them and bust out your secret decoder rings.)

I Wouldn't Even Bother

Because there are some days when it doesn't matter what you say, or how nicely you try to say it.

It's not going to go well for you.

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

And THIS is one of those days.

Can't You See I'm Working Here?

I’ve been stupid busy at work lately, and I have the attention span of a gnat, so stupid busy does not necessarily mean stupid productive. It just means stupid busy.

So today, our semi-hawt maintenance man happened to be walking by my office while I was on a conference call about… oh hell, it was so interesting that I don’t even know what it was about anymore. I think it was supposed to be about identifying fraud trends, but oooh, shiny, and I was on to another topic. I jammed a letter opener in my ear about two minutes into the call because I was already bored stiff. Then I found my bubbles in the drawer and blew a few of those, flipped back and forth between the presentation I was supposed to be watching and my email, bounced my stress ball off the wall a couple of times, and then got interrupted by the semi-hawt maintenance man.

He stopped by because he noticed my door was shut. (Shut so I wouldn’t be interrupted while blowing bubbles and bouncing my stress ball off the wall.) What was I saying? Oh yeah, he was afraid that the thingamabob on the top of my door was broken and wouldn’t prop open anymore, which it is. So I told him so, and showed him the little wedgy thing I usually stick under there to keep the door open when I want it open, which I didn’t because I was trying to pay attention to this presentation, which should have been obvious to him by the bubbles floating around the air, and the stress ball on my desk. Still, if he wasn’t sure, I did have a little post-it note I was using to write down my high scores, and that should have made it obvious that I was practicing for the office Olympics and that I shouldn’t be interrupted.

Then the semi-hawt maintenance man scolded me for using a door stop wedge under my door. Yes, that is what I said! I was as shocked as you are! Apparently I should have known that a door stop wedgy thing was not good for my door. Apparently door stop wedgy things are really meant to be used as paperweights. I will check into whether or not they can safely be used in that way and let you know, or maybe you can check into it and let me know, because hello… attention span of a gnat.

So I waited patiently, feigning deep interest in the conference call on how to commit spot fraud, while the semi-hawt maintenance man banged on my door with something that mostly looked like a shiny dog bone to me, but it captured my interest because he’s semi-hawt and he had a shiny tool. He did this for several minutes, and then discovered it was time for the union break, and he disappeared for a while. When he returned, he had an even bigger and shinier tool, and he conquered the thingamabob once and for all.

Tomorrow he’s coming back to work on the whatchamacallit over my window, because he spotted a problem up there while he was on the ladder adjusting the thingamabob. I told him that I was okay with the problem with my whatchamacallit because it’s 9 feet up in the air, and I’m way down here just south of 5’2” and unaffected by the problem up there, but he’s coming back anyway. I guess I’m not meant to get anything done tomorrow, either.

Damn, I'm a Good Neighbor

You’ve heard me mention my dogs a time or two, right? I have Spencer, a 7 year old Labrador, and Lewis, a shelter-rescue Labrador mixed with mind-numbing insanity, claustrophobia, and a propensity for eating drywall. I love my doggies, even the one with the mind-numbing insanity, claustrophobia, and propensity for eating drywall.

It is this love I have for my dogs which drives me to make stupid decisions, such as the one I’m living with right this moment. I’m watching my neighbor's two dogs this week while they're in Florida. I have four Labradors in my house. RIGHT NOW. That is roughly 400lbs of dog.

You can probably guess where they all want to sleep, too.

Do you know what they do when I come home? All four of them clamor to get to the door first and properly greet me, where ‘properly greeting’ means two laps around me, a leap up to lick me in the face, two more laps around me and a butt-sniffing for good measure. For sure I’m not complaining that they lick my face BEFORE the butt-sniffing thing, ‘cause if I have to put up with all of that, that’s the proper order for it in my opinion. But couldn’t they elect a representative to perform the greeting ritual on behalf of all of them, rather than subject me to all of this times four? Just sayin’. Maybe they could take turns or something.

Now imagine if you will what it’s like when I’m coming home with groceries and I have to come in and out of the house several times. Neither of these dogs is bright enough to realize that my multiple trips to the car should count as a single-entry because I’ve only been gone, like, 2 milliseconds. I do not require another full greeting complete with face-licking and butt-sniffing, but the dogs disagree. So as I fight to get through the door without being knocked on my ass by all these dogs, I’m calling on Moses to part the dog sea so I can get through, but the guy is not listening and he leaves me to do this weird goose-step to try and force back the pack of dogs so I can make it 10 feet to my kitchen counter and set down my bags.

By the time I’ve made five trips in and out and had to put up with this greeting each time, I’m getting a little annoyed and I yell at the dogs to get down. Do they get down? Well, what do you think? On their own, my two dogs listen pretty well, but faced with competition from the two extra dogs, listening is out the window when it comes to the greeting. They each seem to feel as though I’ve got one treat in my pocket and it’s going to the dog that licks my forehead first. It’s almost like a sick carnival game.

You know what I do to get back at them? I give them a little peanut butter, just a touch, right on the tips of their noses. Know why? ‘Cause it’s the funniest freakin’ thing I’ve ever seen, that’s why! DO try this at home! The dogs can smell the peanut butter, but it doesn’t come off easily, and they have to lick their noses about 200 times in order to get it all. They’re thrilled to get the peanut butter, and they’re grinning broadly the whole time they’re licking for it, but they also have that look in their eyes that says, “I know you just made me look like an ass again. Is this because of the butt-sniffing that I did earlier?”

Have We Really Been Married THIS LONG?

Remember last week when I told you about a text messaging conversation I had with my husband? And how I said one thing, and he heard another?

Apparently I was mistaken, and he is not ALWAYS running around with sex on his mind. (Having typed that, I'm sure some fool will google 'running around with sex' and land here.) Sometimes food can supercede sex... and that's just sad.

The other day, during one of our many text conversations, we had an epic failure to connect.


see more pwn and owned pictures


Him: U want to go on a date Sat?

Me: With you?

Him: Yes, cuz ur buying

Me: I absolutely want to go on a date with you on Saturday. Want to practice today?

Him: Eating?!!

F'ing hell!... only I didn't type that 'cause I was still trying, you know?

Instead, I typed: Sure.

Him: Good. I need an excuse not to go to poker at Sam's but now I'm excited.


Huh... I'm pretty sure that's not too flattering but I guess I'll take it.

By the way, we DID go out last night and I DID make him buy.

Zombie Chickens and Bloggy Buddies

Have you ever had one of those days when you couldn't quite form a sentence? When your train of thought lacked a caboose? And when two triple-shot espressos still could not blast the sleepy feeling from your body?

Yeah, me neither. I didn't have one of those days today at all. I didn't lay awake half the night either. I didn't try to count the number of times my ceiling fan goes around in one minute and give myself a headache because that would just be stupid. Did you know that if you blink really fast while watching your fan go 'round, you're better able to tell which way the blades are going?

But, hey! I'm here, I'm alive, and I'm raring to go so we won't worry about any of that.

You all blew me away with your comments to my last post. I don't know what I was expecting, and I surely wasn't expecting to hit 'publish post' when I started writing all of that. I had some things knocking around in my head, as things tend to do every now and again, and I was just trying to flesh out the meaning.

As a parent of two teenage daughters, I sometimes find myself thinking about how I behaved at their ages, and wondering if I really know what's going on with my kids. The good news is that I have really great girls who seem to have taken the best of both their dad and me and they're making a lot better choices than either one of us ever did. It was that tangled web of thoughts that started me down the path that led to my last post.

However, as I said, you guys really blew me away. Seriously, I had no idea that the friends I would make through blogging would turn out to be the coolest people in the world and I will be eternally grateful for having crossed paths with each of you.

Speaking of eternally grateful, I received something from Diane today that must be acknowledged because I try not to be rude, and because I simply adore her. (Thank you for the award and for everything else you are to me, my dear friend.)

THAT is The Zombie Chicken Award! What does it mean, you ask? Here's the deal: The blogger who receives The Zombie Chicken Award believes in the Tao of the Zombie Chicken... excellence, grace, and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least five other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by not choosing wisely or not choosing at all. (Yeah, I just totally pasted that straight from your site, Diane. Because... lazy... and tired... and copyright who?)

Like Diane, with whom I share a brain, I am a terrible rule-follower. Awful, really. Rules actually give me a rash in my nether-parts and none of you wants that for me, do you? So I won't try to give this to 5 people because I don't like to be all itchy in my nether-parts. However, there is one....

There is someone I know who doesn't have this award already, and who writes the kind of blog that reveals her journey for personal truth. SHE is the definition of excellence, grace, and persistence in all situations. If you like to read about gifted teachers inspiring students in LA, you should be reading her blog.

SHE, I'm passing this along to you, do with it what you will. I don't think you'll need to worry too much about the wrath of zombie chickens if you don't follow the rules, they'll be busy eating Diane and me for not following the rules first, and they'll be full before they get to you. There are only two of them, and I'm actually hoping they fill up on Diane and they don't get to me at all.

(Run, Diane! I don't really want you to be eaten either, but you DID break the rules first, ya' know? Rulez iz rulez!)

It Walks, It Talks, and is Distracted by All Things

We have this rotating Saturday schedule in hell at the bank where I work, and last Saturday was my turn to cover. It was also a day that Mr. Blognut had to work and Girls #1 and #2 had a 10-school track meet. Are you wondering where that left The Boy? I’ll tell you where it left The Boy, it left him going to work with me for a few hours.

I have mentioned this before, but I’ll remind you that my son never shuts up talks a lot. He even talks in his sleep. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice if no one is listening to him, he will still talk, and talk, and talk. Maddening? It'll drive you right out of your shittin' mind! Yeah, you bet!

I don’t know if you know this, but I like a little quiet when I’m working. I am the poster-child for Adults with Attention Deficit Disorder, and distractions? Well, they distract me.

Do you know what The Boy did when he came to work with me?

Hour 1 –

The Boy fiddled around with Magnetix… while talking to me. (Yes I am aware that there was a recall on those toys because kids were choking on the magnetic and probably also lead-coated balls. He’s nine and we’re finally beyond the point where he feels the need to insert his toys into open orifices on his body, so I don’t worry too much about that anymore.)

The Boy found my some crayons, so I printed off some pictures for him to color… while he talked to me.

The Boy wrapped himself in white tape from my adding machine roll and walked around like a drunken mummy… talking to people.

Hour 2 –

The Boy found my some bubbles in my desk drawer and filled my office with tiny bubbles… while talking to me.

The Boy found my someone's fart machine and my some Flarp in my desk drawer and proceeded to make wet farting noises from strategic locations that he scouted throughout the bank… then came back and told me about it.

The Boy found my an Easy Button in my desk drawer and began pushing it every 4 seconds so it could talk to me. “That was easy… that was easy… that was easy!” Just.like.that. It was NOT easy.

Hour 3 –

We took a deep breath break and walked over to the store to get something to drink. I chose a Diet Pepsi, he chose a Mountain Dew. Somehow I thought this day would get better if I let The Boy get all jacked up on Mountain Dew choose his own treat? Clearly I wasn’t thinking… probably because he was talking to me.

The Boy found a musical, light-up ball in my desk drawer lying around somewhere and bounced it off the back of my chair for 15 minutes… while talking to me.

The Boy found a talking Cartman doll on the shelf in my office somewhere and had a conversation with it for 10 minutes… while talking to me.

The Boy found my someone's Viking hat and wore it to conduct mock-interviews with other employees… so, yeah, he was still talking to people, but not to me and I was totally okay with that.

Hour 4 –

I gave up and we went home. Did I mention that I have a bit of a commute? Guess what The Boy did in the car? Yeah, you got it, he talked to me.

Oh, and if you’re wondering where all those toys came from, Hello? I did mention that I’m the poster child for Adults with Attention Deficit Disorder, didn’t I? Admittedly, this has never been formally diagnosed, but I did try to read an article about it one time but I just couldn’t get through it, I have no idea.

And another thing, if you were thinking that The Boy is just like me… you’d be exactly right dead wrong.

THE LOBSTER INCIDENT

You may remember back a couple of weeks ago when I did a three-way swap guest-post thing and Mo posted over here. Well this week you are in for another treat as the three-way swap swings back the other way and Cate is posting over here.

The three of us are taking this opportunity to tell you about THE LOBSTER INCIDENT as we remember it. You'll find my version, a/k/a The Truth, over at Mo's blog, and you'll find his version at Cate's.

Ladies and Gentlemen, here's Cate's story:

Today, round two of Blog Swap Extravaganza 2009: The Lobster Incident Edition. After trying out Mo’s blog last time, I’ve made my way over here to Blognut’s pad. It’s not bad over here though I’m more of a Coke Zero person.

This is my version of the story, as best as I can remember it. I’m sure the other two will spin it to pin the blame on me but at least my version will be on record.

It was a dark and stormy night. No, seriously, it was. I wouldn’t just say that if it weren’t true. Blognut suggested a trendy place over on the West side for dinner - it boasted “the most aquariums east of Denver” and promised “a dining experience you will never forget”.

The evening started innocently enough. Once seated, Mo ordered a bottle of wine and Blognut slipped a flask out of her purse to top off her Diet Pepsi. I raised an eyebrow but figured I’d just leave it alone. As long as she was discreet, I wasn’t going to judge her (out loud) for being a cheapskate with her booze. Despite what they may tell you, I only drank water that night because I’m responsible like that.

The waitress took our order – prime rib for me, roast duck for Mo, and lobster for Blognut who insisted the waitress just leave her an entire pitcher of Diet Pepsi so she could help herself.

Turns out Mo and Blognut aren’t nearly as scary in real life as they seem online, by the way. Mo wasn’t as tall as I expected and once we cajoled Blognut into putting her phone away, she was a lot of fun.

After talking for awhile, Blognut poured herself another Diet Pepsi and reached back into her purse for her flask. “Hey, it’s empty! This should’ve lasted me at least until our entrees arrived!”

A glance at my watch indicated we had placed our orders over an hour ago. Mo decided to take control of the situation and caught the manager’s attention. After politely explaining that we had been waiting for a very long time with nothing to eat, the manager promised to find out what was happening with our meals.

Unfortunately when he returned, it wasn’t good news.

“I’m afraid your waitress went on break and never came back. She also didn’t put in your ticket. If you can just tell me what you had ordered, I’ll make sure you’re served right away. And everything will be on the house.”

Once again, we put in our orders. Prime rib, roast duck, and lobster.

“I hate to tell you this, ma’am, but we are out of lobster for the evening.”

Blognut pointed out that they had NOT been out of lobster an hour ago when she originally ordered.

“I’m truly sorry but the situation is that we no longer have any lobster. What may I offer you instead?”

“Just bring me some damn duck.” As I tried to console Blognut, Mo excused himself from the table.

A few minutes later, we heard a commotion near the kitchen. There was Mo, waist deep in one of the aquariums, trying to catch a lobster with his bare hands.

“Sir, you need to come out of there right now!” a waiter demanded.

“You go get the manager! He lied to my friend and told her there was no lobster. Well, I see a lobster right there!” Mo continued splashing around while the waiter ran off to find someone in charge.

While I covered my face and tried to back away from the commotion, the manager arrived. Along with security. As they hauled Mo out of the lobster tank, he swatted the manager in the face with the lobster he had wrangled. I really did try my best to look uninvolved. I might’ve even succeeded except Blognut started applauding loudly and outed us both.

She never did get her lobster that night but we did convince the manager not to press charges against Mo as long as we promised never to come back. A dining experience you’ll never forget? More like one I’d pay to never remember.

Random Ramblings

The other day, The Boy was doing a little thinking about what it means to be a man and it resulted in this conversation:

Boy: Mama, I became a man today.

Me: WHAT???!!!

Boy: Yeah, I've noticed A LOT of hair on my legs and I fart all the time!

Me: Oh... well, I think one of your sisters is a man, too.

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

A text session and a real conversation with an actual man:

Texting -

Me: I'm SO thinking about you right now.

Him: In a nasty kind of way?

Me: Yes, sir. Absolutely.

Him: Awesome.

Later, in person -

Him: What made you think about blow jobs earlier today?

Me: Is THAT what I said???

Him: It's what I HEARD!

**I don't even want to know how that mind works.

TMI for the 100th Time!

Hold on tight all you lucky people! In celebration of my 100th post, you get to learn 100 things about me, or life, or whatever I feel like rambling about because, well… I’m not that interesting, but it's what we've got today.

Warning! There may be a quiz on this someday.

1. I’m not that interesting. (You knew that already.)
2. I have an awesome husband and 3 cute kids… REALLY cute kids.
3. I’m not proud of my kids at all.
4. Back away from your computer, the lightning always comes when I tell a lie.
5. Not that I’ve ever told one.
6. Back away again.
7. I’m 5’2” if I round up a bit.
8. I have reddish-blondish fuzzy hair.
9. And it requires at least 4 different products per day to tame it.
10. I have green eyes.
11. Hell and damnation, I have freckles.
12. Not age spots… freckles.
13. Freckles are not cute on grown-ups.
14. Triple-shot Venti Skinny Cinnamon Dolce... just remember it.
15. I prefer beer to wine.
16. Closet smoker. I know, I’ve tried, I'm still trying. Spare me the lecture.
17. I love Diet Pepsi.
18. Love it.
19. Almost unnaturally obsessed with it, really.
20. I’m bitchy sometimes.
21. Just because I’m bitchy sometimes does not mean you aren’t annoying sometimes.
22. Not you… someone else.
23. Unless you’re being annoying.
24. And then, I might tell you because I’m bitchy.
25. I only started blogging for real in December.
26. I’ve made some awesome friendships in that short time.
27. And I've connected with people that I can't imagine being without.
28. I’ve learned a lot about myself through blogging, too.
29. Like I share a brain with one of the best bloggers ever.
33. And I’m a stalker.
34. And I’m a freakin’ nut.
35. Or a blognut.
36. My real name is Anne.
37. Braja told me she likes Anne better than Blognut, but she also likes cows, so there’s that.
38. I’m not a cow.
39. I’ve done a few questionable things and a few things that were just plain poor judgment.
40. More than a few.
41. I didn’t inhale.
42. Back away again.
43. I am attached to my cell phone.
44. I use it like a laptop computer.
45. Even while driving.
46. I’m working on that.
47. Back away again.
48. I have 8,528 emails on my work laptop.
49. No, I’m not kidding.
50. I will not buy underwear unless I can find a matching bra.
51. And my underwear almost always matches my outfit, too.
52. Unless it’s laundry day.
53. Then I might not be wearing either one.
54. Look away!
55. I never wear granny panties.
56. Granny panties require two people to fold them.
57. I am funny about socks.
58. I know which is right or left.
59. And I wear them the same way each time.
60. I’m incredibly sarcastic.
61. You have to be quick-witted around me.
62. Or I might accidentally make you cry.
63. I’m absolutely fabulous at finding the good in other people.
64. But I am my own worst enemy.
65. I have a naughty streak in me.
66. And a dirty mind.
69. Hee Hee!
70. I am a child.
71. I am addicted to cheese sticks and peanut butter M&M’s.
72. But not together.
73. Because that would be gross.
75. I once wrapped a co-worker’s entire desk, computer, and office cube area in foil.
76. All of it, including the pens.
77. Even the chair.
78. It didn’t take that long.
79. Idle hands are the devil’s something or other…
80. I still have the foil.
81. It’s in the shape of a huge ball on the shelf in my office.
82. It has a face on it.
83. I named it Wilson.
84. Wilson smokes.
90. I rock out to 80's music in the car... often.
91. I have a fart machine in my desk drawer at work.
94. I’ve counted 100% accurately here today.
95. Back away again.
99. I’ve enjoyed this list-making task.
100. BACK AWAY AGAIN!

All right then, there you have it! I feel like I know you so much better now… or you know me… or something like that.

(Group Hug!!)

The Last Minute Bunny Poop

(Warning! At the time of this posting, I may have consumed alcohol in mass quantities. No worries though, I'm always a happy drunk.)

True to my normal plan, which is no plan at all, I waited until the last minute to go shopping for the Easter Baskets. (Should ‘baskets’ even be capitalized?)

So… on Saturday afternoon around 4pm, after I had worked all day because… well, sometimes my life just sucks, I realized that there was a certain expectation at my house that the Easter Bunny (should ‘bunny’ be capitalized?) show up with the goods.

I was physically and emotionally drained because… well, hello? review my last post, and I was in no mood to go out and buy a bunch of pastel-colored happy crap, but… well, you gotta do what'cha gotta do, right? The store was a mob scene and the other shoppers were completely manic in their quest for perfection, and you know how much I hate to shop so I just wanted out.of.there. Like, right now!

First, I needed eggs, you know? The kids want to color eggs so I can perfume my house with the smell of old farts and then throw the eggs out on Tuesday before we all end up with food poisoning. Wal-Mart was out of eggs, except for the organic ones that come in bundles of sixty. WTF?! How many effing Easter eggs can one effing bunny hide in one effing yard in suburban Bumblefuckville? Yeah, I bought ‘em. Sixty eggs. Do you need some?

So there I was at Wal-Mart, among all of the last-minute bunny benefactors, and there wasn’t much left for my little Blognutians. Nary a jellybean to be had and no 3 chocolate bunnies alike in the entire store and forget about bubbles and sidewalk chalk, too; not that this will upset the older two, but it may land the little guy in therapy someday.

So what’s in their baskets, you ask? Fish hooks, camouflage hunting vests, chewing tobacco, beef jerky, and one of those flamingo lawn ornaments.

What? It was fucking Wal-Mart, what did you think I was going to buy?

Because Some Days My Head Explodes

A little secret about the Blognut – she hates holidays. Sure, she loves the fun parts and makes a concerted effort to appreciate the deeper meaning, but she dreads forced time spent with her mother and has to fight that off with every fiber of her being in order to fake her way through the day and enjoy things like family meals, Easter Baskets, and giddy children.

Although I normally see her once every week or two, I suffer no illusion that my mom is coming to visit me. Under the guise of missing my children, she pops in for 15 minutes to complain about her life and to let me know if there’s anything she needs me to do. If my kids attempt to tell her anything about their lives, they're dismissed very quickly. These visits are not about them either.

I usually don’t talk about my mom on my blog because that’s a topic that runs deeper than a bottomless pit, if that’s possible. It makes me feel guilty because we aren’t close; and because I suspect my mom wants to be close, but only if that comes on her terms. I just can’t do her terms anymore.

The way it looks to me, those terms cost me too much and I’m not willing to pay it. I’ve changed and I can no longer sit here and let her rewrite the past into something that is more comfortable for her. I can’t listen to stories that are as fantastic as Alice in Wonderland, and I can’t pretend not to feel a pain that runs so deep sometimes that I can barely stand to look at her, much less laugh and pretend to enjoy her company. That, my friends, makes me feel so sad that I feel it all the way to the core of my being. I’m ashamed to even tell you that I feel that way, but I do.

And so today, I can no longer deny that there is a holiday looming in the very near future. I feel a heaviness that I can hardly stand because I will spend hours with someone who does not even like me unless I am doing something for her, and I’m keeping my mouth shut while I do it. I will have a raging headache and I will grit my teeth until my jaw aches, but I will get through another holiday. I’m getting better at this, I think.

Even as I write this, I’m not sure if it’ll ever see the light of day on my blog; or if it does, if I’ll be able to leave it there. I feel awful that I have a mom that I can’t bear to be around when there are others who have lost mothers who were very dear to them and would give anything to have them back. Somewhere underneath it all, I know that I love my mom or she wouldn’t still have the power to hurt me the way she does, it’s just too hard to dig for it right now.

Google is Being Misleading Again

Time for another look at the google searches that land on my blog. Some poor, unsuspecting souls went out to search for goodness and light, and a bunch of other really strange stuff, and found themselves directed right here to yours truly.

Goodness and Light
That's a head scratcher. I am not goodness and light, I do not dispense goodness and light, and I'm pretty sure that goodness and light don't even shine over here.

You can't run away from yourself
God, I know that's true. I can't seem to run away from you either. I've been trying to run away from myself for years, and I've only succeeded in disappearing up my own backside a time or two, but I've never gotten away.

Sexy Minivan
Yeah, I have myself one of those. Hot!

Accused of being a tool
Damn! Say that shit to my face, Google!

Rambling Son
Yup, I got me one of those. The kid makes my ears bleed.

Crab Ass
Ha! I freely admit that!

Words that don't mean anything
This just hurts my feelings again, Google. I thought we had made amends. I may only have a tenuous grip on the english language, but this inquiry came from Valdosta, GA. Are you kidding me? Isn't that the home of 'Yaunt to?' (Do you want to?) and 'Yoostacould' (I used to be able to do that)?

Skull Family
God! We aren't that freakin' scary!

Kitty in can
I didn't know there was a big market for a kitty in a can, but if there is, I'll try and get my piece of the profit. What! This is America!

Google really needs to tune up the search engine a bit, don't you think? I'm going to give them another call.

I'm Joining The Witness Protection Program

Dear Fellow Bloggers,

I love you, one and all, but I have to tell you that I’ve been playing with fire lately and one of our fellow bloggers may be planning to kill me… or seriously injure me… or lock me in a box without access to Starbucks or Diet Pepsi (or peanut-butter M&M’s and cheese sticks).

If I disappear, call the police and tell them to look for my fuzzy, blue body somewhere in the vicinity of Pennsylvania. How big can it be? (Pennsylvania, not my body!) Tell them to use those vodka-sniffing dogs to look for me.

That’s all I can say right now… but know that I’ve loved you and I’m going without fear. (Oh God, I’m scared!)

Oh, and if they ask for a description of my assailant, give them this:



Love,
Blognut

Another One of Those Days

A long drive, a boring meeting, and more frustrating people than the eye can count, have all joined forces and sucked the life right out of me.

My body is heavy, my eyes are burning, and my head is splitting.

If you need anything, I'll be here...



with this...



reading some sort of book that requires no thought.

Of course you know that my cell phone will be right next to me, (see the table by my chair?), so I'll be checking email and taking phone calls. 'Cause you know if you can't get in touch with me on my cell phone, I must be dead.

Some Things to Consider Before Getting a Blognut

I don’t know if you know much about Blognuts, but Blognuts do not like to get up in the morning. I would consider them nocturnal creatures as they really tend to prefer staying up late to getting up early. Their sleeping habits are such that they don’t go to bed until much later than your average nut. A couple of hours into the sleeping cycle, a Blognut wakes, right around 3am, to check out the world and spend valuable time contemplating the ceiling fan before falling back into a deep sleep some thirty minutes or so before the alarm goes off to begin the Blognut’s day. It should be noted, however, that the Blognut would prefer to stay in deep slumber until sometime around noon and frequently attempts to do that if there are no mischievous bite-sized Blognutians running about Blognut Manor.

Blognuts tend to be fun-loving creatures that play well with others, but when woken prematurely, a Blognut can be quite dangerous. This is to be avoided. I repeat, THIS IS TO BE AVOIDED. Many serious injuries have resulted to other creatures who have tried to sneak up on a sleeping Blognut or otherwise interrupt its natural sleeping pattern.

However, it has been shown through scientific study that Blognuts have one need that tends to be a bit stronger than the need for sleep. A sleeping Blognut can be woken by a specially designated sneaky creature with minimal risk, but only if said sneaky creature makes his moves with precision, taking care to wake the Blognut’s inner-horndog before waking the Blognut’s cranky disposition. This can be very dangerous and requires a hands-on certification course; do not attempt it otherwise. One wrong move by a hurried sneaky creature may result in the sneaky creature drawing back a bloody stump. However, the right technique has been known to hit the jackpot.

Once awake, a Blognut has to follow a strict nutrition plan consisting of Starbucks coffee, Diet Pepsi, peanut-butter M&M’s, and string cheese over the course of the day. The evening meal can be anything you care to feed the Blognut, just take care to remember that the Blognut will not feed itself. DO NOT DEVIATE from the feeding plan.

The Blognut’s habitat, typically referred to as Blognut Manor, must be kept clean and clutter-free. The Blognut’s definition of clean and clutter-free is a clear path from the door, to the computer, to the refrigerator, and finally, to the Blognut’s master suite. Any miscellaneous items left lying about Blognut Manor, including any human children left unattended, should be stuffed in a drawer or a closet.

The final consideration before purchasing a Blognut, is that Blognuts require a great deal of entertainment. Their attention span is short, they are easily distracted by shiny things, and they need a variety of activities scheduled at intervals throughout their day. Their care does require a lot of responsibility, but I guarantee you that you’ll never have more fun with any other pet.

The Mother/Daughter Thing

Girl #1,

I know this will come as a great shock to you, possibly even a shock that requires therapy or medical intervention of some other sort, but I was your age once. Many, many moons ago, I was sixteen. Can I just tell you that you are doing sixteen a whole lot better than I did?

No, you and I are not that similar in personality, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t get you. Oh Honey, I get you better than you’d like to admit.

I know that you get overwhelmed with teenager things and sometimes feel like your whole world is sliding sideways. Baby, it’s not. You ARE smart, you ARE beautiful, and, more importantly, you ARE a good person inside and out. Please remember that, and don’t wait for other people to determine your value for you.

You grew up so much faster than I would have liked, and you’re almost there, Kiddo. You’re almost there. But when I look at you, know that I’m still seeing that very first baby of mine. I’m remembering the first time I held you; the first time our eyes connected; and the first time I felt you grab a piece of my heart and make it yours. I’m remembering the promise I made to celebrate your victories with you, and feel joy when you feel joy. I’m remembering the promise I made to let go even when it hurts, and to trust that you have what it takes to make your own choices; and you do.

When you find yourself wondering if I heard what you mumbled as you walked away, please know that I did. I let it go. When you find yourself thinking that I have no idea what I’m talking about, please know that I do (sometimes). You’ll figure that out. When you find yourself thinking I’m hovering too closely, or asking too many questions, please know that it’s my job to mind your business. When you find yourself wondering why I won’t just tell you what to do, please know that I think it’s important for you to learn to make your own choices.

Will I make mistakes? You bet. I'm sure I've made many, and I'm sure I'm not done, but I want you to know that I'm doing my best. I'll always be doing my best for you.

And no matter what, please know that you can always climb up into my lap and tell me all about it. I don’t care how old you are, or that you are five inches taller than I am, the lap is always open, Kiddo. Always.

Love,
Mom

PS. Yeah, you still have to do chores unless you have plans to start paying for your own text messaging. Life doesn’t really get any easier in that regard.

It Was Already Dead When I Hit It

You know how you, and by ‘you’ I mean ‘me’, sometimes drive around while talking on a cell phone? And how, sometimes, and by ‘sometimes’ I mean ‘always’, find yourself a bit distracted? Yeah, that happened to me the other day.

I was driving along and gabbing about something, when I saw a pretty, red, argyle-like design on the pavement in front of me. Well, by the time I had a chance to say, “Ooh, pretty!” I had run over a dead thing.

GAH! Y-Y-Y-Y-UUUUUUUCKKKKK! WHAT WAS THAT? (That’s what I said, right into the phone, rendering the poor, unsuspecting friend deaf and teary-eyed for a full five minutes.)

I didn’t just hit it a little, either. I drove over it and felt it squishy-squish-thump-knock under my car. I swear it was already dead when I hit it, but that really didn’t make it any less gross for me. There were guts everywhere. Big guts, little guts, squooshy guts, and stringy guts and they were on me. Well, not me personally, but on my car. My poor car has been through so much, and now it has to endure guilt from the senseless murder of a dead thing.

“WHAT WAS IT?” my friend asked.

*whisper* I think it was a platypus.

Now I know that seems unlikely, given that platypuses, or would that be platypie? Either way, it’s pie now, isn’t it? Where was I? Oh, here I am. Platypuses don’t normally reside in these parts. But you should really direct your outrage toward the platypus-kidnapping thug that brought the darn thing here in the first place. What kind of person would do such a thing? Platypuses weren’t meant to live here in suburbia… with traffic… and me!

Poor thing probably ran out into traffic on purpose because it was lonely and out of its element. Last I checked, this town did not have a rising population of platypuses and I don’t know where one would go to socialize.

I know what you’re thinking. (Don’t be jealous, that’s just one of my little tricks.) You’re wondering how I know it’s a dead platypus when I’ve never actually seen a live platypus in person. Well I know it. The only other thing it could have been was an armadillo, and an armadillo would have just hunkered down in its little armadillo shell and survived the whole event. Smart, huh? (ME, not the armadillo. He wasn’t even there.)

Starbucks, We Need to Chat

Dear Starbucks,

I have been a faithful devotee for some time now. Many a morning has found me in your store asking for a Triple-shot Venti Skinny Cinnamon Dolce. Why, oh why, does it taste different lately? Have I done something to offend the hairy lad that takes my order in the morning? Is he stirring a bit of arsenic into my coffee?

Speaking of the hairy lad, where did you get him? I always thought that Captain Caveman was a fictional character, and yet, there he is taking my order in the morning. Did he come from Transylvania? Because he sounds like a vampire he when talks to me. Not just any vampire either, but an Italian vampire named Carlos.

‘Velcome to Stahbucks, vooold you liiike to try’ and then I have no idea what he says after that. None at all. But he’s very cheerful and I like him, so I always smile and nod. Wait! What? Maybe he’s asking me if I want a drop of arsenic in my coffee. I bet that’s it. Next time I’m gonna say no.

Anyway, Carlos the Hairy Italian Vampire Caveman is not the reason for my letter. Give him a raise though, ‘cause he totally needs to be able to afford a good body waxing. If you can’t get him a raise, maybe you could spring for a roll of duct tape and have somebody roll him in it and then rip it off. Be gentle though, he’s a nice vampire.

What was my purpose again? Oh, yeah. Now I remember. I have a little OCD… just a little one… and I need your help with it. As you know, presentation is everything and you’ve really been falling down on the job lately. When you guys put the lid on my cup, could you PLEASE, for the love of God, line up the opening in the lid with the logo on the cup. It’s really hard for me to do that while driving in the car, and it usually results in me getting coffee in my lap, but I can’t drink it until it’s all settled and properly aligned with the front of the lid facing the front of the cup.

And then there’s that sleeve thingy that you put on the cup. Once upon a time, that sleeve thingy actually matched the cup and complemented it nicely. Lately you’ve been putting some green and orange chai tea sleeve on my coffee cup. Do you understand how upsetting that is for me? Can we go back to the aesthetically pleasing sleeve, and could you maybe line it up with the logo on the front of the cup. I’ve noticed that your ads always show it this way, and that’s how I want mine… BEFORE you hand it to me.

So, if you can’t get this right, I’ll have to go back to my summer drink prematurely and that’s a problem, too. It’s not yet summer. I can’t go around drinking a banana-chocolate vivanno with an extra shot until at least Memorial Day. It isn’t proper.

Thanks,
Blognut

PS. Can you do away with that curb by the drive-thru? I swear to God I run over it at least twice a week and I’m always surprised when my car seems a little taller… then I realize I’ve done it again. The curb serves no purpose, let it go Man!

PPS. Stop offering to let me try the London Fog tea. Have you ever seen me order tea? No, you have not. If I were going to try it, I sure as heck wouldn’t want something that tastes like London Fog. And how do you make that anyway? Is that warmed up rainwater off of someone’s trench coat? Just wonderin’. Next thing you know, you’re going to offer me LA Smog tea. I won’t want that either.

Just Another Day

Hi, Honey! How was your day? Mine was okay right up until that last errand that I had to run.

I had to stop at the grocery store tonight. I hate the grocery store, but I was out of Diet Pepsi and, well, you know what happens to me....

So, I was strolling down the aisle when suddenly one of those plasma display, suck-you-in-with-blatant-lies-about-how-you-CAN-make-this-at-home, monitors shreiked at me. After I recovered from my seizure, the stick-figure screen person said, "You CAN eat as much as you want and still lose weight as long as you're only eating vegetables."

As I moved away from this distributor of obvious knowledge I was thinking to myself, "What kind of life is that?" Then my thoughts were interrupted by my 9-year-old son saying to me, "Hey Mama, did you hear that? You CAN be skinny if you eat vegetables."

And he CAN live to see 10 if he keeps that damn duct-tape over his mouth.

I Can't Get the Damn Song Out of My Head

The other day, I mentioned the song, Billy Don’t Be a Hero in a post. This short mention kicked off a series of events in which I proved myself to be every bit as obnoxious as you may have suspected.

I KNOW! You can’t believe it… neither can I! Okay, yes I can believe it.

After spending hours with Billy the Ear Worm mining his way into my brain, I switched gears and found a song to replace it. I went with Seasons In the Sun because, somehow, I just knew it would banish Billy.

It did. And then it rattled around in my head for several hours. I decided to try to give it away. I gave it to Diane. Well, that was silly. I think it took in her half of the brain, but I could still hear it in my half, too. Effing Hell!

So I tried to give it to someone with a different brain, a non-bloggy buddy who has a brain that I wouldn’t be able to hear at all. Epic Fail! This friend took the song and replaced it with Brand New Key. Yeah, you know the song.

I got a brand new pair of roller skates. You got a brand new key….
I think I’ll just blow her brains out and turn the gun on me….

What? Those aren’t the words?

In an effort to purge myself of this song because I only half-knew the words, I looked it up on You Tube. And then I saved the link so I could share it with my aforementioned bloggy-buddy, because I only want her to be as miserable happy as I am, right?

In my infinite wisdom, having decided that I had enough of that song, I pulled out the mp3 player and fired that bad boy up this morning. Rest assured, I've been called a number of things, but I have never been called a Mental Giant. Guess what I got?

Do you remember back in old L.A. (whoa-oh-oh)
When everybody drove a Chevrolet (whoa-oh-oh)
Whatever happened to the boy next door
The sun-tanned, crew-cut, All-American male?

You got it? Beach Baby has now taken up residence in my head despite repeated efforts to purge it. It’s there. It’ll be there from July to the end of September-er-er. Crap! There it is again.

As much as I would rather lick the stick that beat my brains in, I have no choice but to move onto something even more annoying… because it isn’t July and Beach Baby has to go.

And so, my dear friends and readers, I leave you with this…



Because I hate to suffer alone!