He Saw Me Naked and Told Me to Leave

I’m not one to complain, but… Wait a second! What was that look for? DO NOT look like that when I say I’m not one to complain. A little judge-y there, aren’t you? Like you NEVER complain?

Ahem.

What I was about to say, real nice-like, is that there was a spider in my shower this morning. A real, live, grizzly spider! In my shower. Where I was naked.

Now I’m not saying I would’ve been any more pleased to see him there if I had been clothed, but I don’t know what I would have been doing wearing clothes in my shower. And frankly, Mr. Blognut was in that shower right before me and I would just like to point out that there is NO WAY he didn’t see a 47ft. grizzly spider in that shower and he left it for me.

I believe this is grounds for divorce. Not that I want one, mind you, but I believe I would be given one that included the words MENTAL and CRUELTY and ABUSIVE HUSBAND if I asked for one because… hello, grizzly spider. I am telling you that thing was furrier than I am and that takes some doin’!

Also? I’m worried. That friggin’ thing was THIS big and he has to have been living in my house for months because it is winter and I’m pretty sure that grizzly spiders would be in hibernation this time of year. And? The only place that damn thing could have been hiding, ‘cause he’s at least 47ft. in diameter, not counting his legs, is my attic.

Did you hear me? MY ATTIC. LOCATED ABOVE MY BED. WHERE I SLEEP. WITH MY EYES CLOSED. I guess that’s the end of sleeping with my eyes closed. I will have to keep my googly eyes open because I will need to watch for cracks in the ceiling to form. You know he has relatives up there and they’re going to come looking for him sooner or later and they are most likely to come right through my bedroom ceiling, drop onto my head, and suffocate me dead.

Furthermore, I am putting you all on notice that I will no longer be taking showers because HELL NO I did not kill the spider. He is stuck in my shower forever, too big to get out and too big to wash down the drain. He told me he likes it there and he is staying. In fact, he pointed at me with one of his furry legs, looked me straight in the eye – me with my two eyes and him with his 713 eyes – and he told me to leave.

He did not have to ask twice.

They Really Should Have Known...

I went skiing with the blognutians and some of their friends last week. Keeping in mind that I hadn’t been skiing in more than twenty years, I’d say it went very well.

And now I am writing this whole informative post as a public service reminder, but it is most certainly NOT about lessons that were actually learned by ME while skiing because, as you know, Blognuts don’t learn lessons. Blognuts fall in the category called Those Who Can’t Be Taught.

No, this post is about the lessons learned by the blognutians; who, as it happens, really should have known better.

1. Blognutians should remind their mother of how to STOP on skis before she plows into them and topples them like dominoes.

2. Blognutians should not engage their mother in a game of follow-the-leader, and then lead her into the woods where she will run into them and topple them like dominoes.

3. Blognutians should not fall when getting off the ski lift, thereby causing their mother to fall on them and flatten them into grease spots.

4. Blognutians should not cut in front of speeding blognuts flying down the hill, or the blognut will fall on them and flatten them into grease spots.

5. Blognutians should not make fun of their mother when she face plants in the snow, because she will aim for them on the next run down the hill and flatten them into grease spots after toppling them like dominoes.

6. Blognutians should not do or say anything obnoxious when their mother is holding a ski pole. Ski poles have all sorts of weapon-like possibilities and blognuts are well-practiced in all ski pole combat maneuvers.

Well, there you have it. In case you ever want to go skiing with a blognut, you will know what you should and should not do in order to prevent being toppled like a domino or flattened into a grease spot. See how well I take care of you?

But really? You should know better.

Is This Your Virus?

Somebody left a cold over here and I’m just going to say this once: Get your ass back here and pick up your cold. It’s yours. I don’t want it. Take it with you.

Let me take a moment to explain to you how cranky blognuts get when they’re coughing, aching, sneezing, stuffy-headed, feverish, and can’t rest. ARE YOU LISTENING?

We get super crabby and we want to kick you. I know it’s uncalled for, but I’m just being honest here. Back away or you might get kicked in a painful place. Blognuts can not legally be held responsible for their actions when they do not feel well. Just sayin’.

And, whatever you do, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE US FEEL BETTER!

Your attempts at humor? Are not funny.

Your attempts to comfort us? Are irritating.

Checking on us to see if we’re alive? Only puts you in danger of death.

There’s nothing you can say, even less that you can do, and your best bet is just to leave us alone in our near-death state of being. We are not attention-seeking individuals by nature. Oh, no. We would prefer to be stuffed away in solitary confinement until such time as our eyes have stopped tearing and our nasal passages have opened up enough to allow for the free flow of oxygen.

Besides, having a stuffy red nose that runs all day long and crusts up our blue, fuzzy face is a really bad look for us. We’re not happy in this condition.

Although I will say that I did find one thing that made me feel mildly better for a minute or two, and that was watching the US Hockey Team beat Canada. Good one, eh? I almost forgot I was miserable for a minute there.

WTF Wednesday - The Help Desk

Every now and again, the hamsters fall of the wheel at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust and I am forced to seek the advice of people who work at a place called The Help Desk, located in a town 40 miles away.

Don't let the name fool you, this is as fine an example of a misnomer as I have ever seen. Judge for yourself:

Blognut: *dials Help Desk*

Help Desk: Hello. How may I help you?

Blognut: Our network connection dropped, is there a global issue or is this something affecting only my location?

Help Desk: Have you opened a ticket?

Blognut: Not yet. There’d be little point to my opening a ticket and forcing you to respond to it if you are already aware of an issue.

Help Geek: Open a ticket and someone will call you.

Blognut: But you’re talking to me now. Can you just tell me if you’re already aware of a problem?

Help Ass: I can’t really do anything for you until you open a ticket and create a record.

Blognut: But our network connection has dropped, so I can’t open a ticket.

Help Idiot: Then you can call us and we’ll open one for you.

Blognut: *tapping fingers on desk* *sigh*

Blognut: *still tapping* *contemplating whether or not to put on a helmet before banging head on desk*

Enlightened Help Dork: Oh. I can open that ticket for you.

Blognut: Why not save yourself the trouble and find out if there is already a record of the problem?

Help Twit: Oh yeah, there’s a problem with the phone company and it’s affecting the lines in our area, so a lot of the banks’ connections are bouncing up and down today.

Blognut: Any idea when it will be fixed?

Helpless: No, but we’re escalating the issue.

Blognut: Does escalating mean fixing?

Help Clown: I guess. It’s hard to say because we’re not really the ones having the problem.

Blognut: Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, I think maybe you’re just having a different one.

And then my head exploded.

Happy Birthday Brain-mate!

In lieu of my normal silliness over here, where I tell you about some ridiculous encounter I've had with someone, like the guy at Starbucks who never manages to present my beverage with the lid lined up evenly with the logo, ('cause you know I gotta stop and fix that shit when it's not lined up neatly), or I whine about some egregious sin committed against me, like when my idiot co-workers forget to do my work for me, I thought I would take a moment to wish a very Happy Birthday to that blogger who shares a brain with me.

See, I almost forgot it was her birthday because I was all busy-busy with Groundhog Day, Girl #2's birthday, untangling my fuzzy, blue hair, cutting my toenails, and all kinds of other stuff. On top of that, the weatherman screwed me out of the snow day that I was totally planning to use to catch up on all my important-y details like making a big red X on each day of my calendar that has already passed and playing around on Facebook. Fortunately for me, I happened to see a round, blue, googly-eyed piñata being strung up over on Diane's half of the brain and I was smart enough to stop what I was doing and pay attention. (By the way, should I be worried that Diane is about to beat the hell out of a piñata that looks like me? 'Cause it feels a little voodoo-y to me, but I'm trying not to worry about it.)

Anyway, after the initial shock from seeing a dummy of myself swinging in mid-air trying to avoid be bashed by Diane's Louisville Slugger, I realized she is much too old to hit me hard enough to be of any real concern.

AND THAT IS WHEN I REMEMBERED THAT SHE IS EVEN OLDER TODAY!

(Not that you're old, Diane. *fingers crossed* You're not. You can still bend over and touch your toes, and even though it is actually your boobies that touch your toes and not your fingertips, I think that totally still counts. Just be careful when you bend like that, 'k? You know that's a precarious position for you and I wouldn't want you to tip over 'cause I love you and all. That reminds me, too. We've got to get you one of those alarm thingees to wear around your neck so you can say, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" What? I AM ONLY LOOKING OUT FOR YOU!)

Kidding aside, if you don’t already know Diane, you should totally go HERE and meet her for yourself. Diane is one of the kindest, most sincere, inspiring, and loving people you’ll ever meet. And she’s got a damn fine blog, too. Seriously… she’s one of those people who will make your life a little richer and your heart a little warmer. While you’re over there, tell her Happy Birthday and ask her not to kill me. Maybe remind her that if my half of the brain dies, she’s a goner, too.

Oh, and make sure you shout when you tell her Happy Birthday, ‘cause she never remembers to turn up her damn Miracle Ear.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DIANE!!! XOXOXO I made you a cake! Isn't it pretty? It's all chocolatey goodness and frosting, and it's filled with your very favorite squirty cheese!

Not Counting the Weatherman, There's Not a Flake In Sight

Dear Weatherman,

We need to talk. We SO do. You promised me ten inches of snow. You warned me of high winds, ice, and enough bad weather to keep me home for at least one day.

We got nuthin’. We got a dusting of snow and some ass-biting cold weather, but not enough of anything to give me a well-deserved day off that I could spend holed up in Blognut Manor. You are mean AND wrong. Our relationship is shot now; the trust is gone.

Because of you, I have wine at home, I have baking supplies at home, and I am prepared to throw one of the blognutians into the fireplace if it means keeping a cozy, blazing fire alive. And yet? Nuthin’.

I? Am not at home. I? Am sitting at my desk having to be all pretend-y and work-y, an hour from home… an hour from chocolate chip cookies… and an hour from a cozy, blazing fire. How could you be so heartless?

Time is running out. Punxatawney Phil saw, or didn't see, his shadow just last week and we have only six, or six, weeks left to work in a day off. ARE YOU NOT FEELING THE PRESSURE?! I don't live in Chicago for nothing, Dude. Do your job!

We got nuthin'!

Well, not nuthin’. We got a damn earthquake instead. WTF. Can you not tell the difference between a snowflake and an earthquake? For future reference, one is pretty and peaceful, and the other is, well, NOT. Dumbass.

I’m appalled, really, that you get to be so ineffective at your job and still remain employed. One wonders, you know?

An earthquake. Really?

*shaking head*

Dumbass.

Sincerely,
blognut

I Woke Up OLD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must overcome!

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

Happy Birthday, Baby.

Love,
Mom

I Knew I Would Hate Myself in the Morning

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

BLOGNUTS ARE NOT MORNING PEOPLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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