More Mindless Rambling

What I Did on My Summer Vacation, Part Deux

2010-09-02T10:23:00.005-05:00

Besides that whole alien abduction thing that I was telling you about the other day, there were a couple of other “little incidents” I survived this summer. We have so much to talk about in the next few weeks, don’t we?

Let’s start with what will forever be referred to as The River Tubing Incident, where my fuzzy, blue body was thrashed madly against the rocks by rapidly moving river water that was as cold as the Jack Daniel's snowcone I was longing for that hot afternoon. I could probably have avoided the tubing incident if Mr. Blognut had been quiet and not distracted me while I carefully negotiated the jagged rocks and snake-y looking river creatures who looked as though they meant to eat me, so we’ll just make this all his fault, ‘k?

So there I was, on our third or fourth trip down the river, being the good wife that I am and listening intently to whatever it was Mr. Blognut was talking about, (What WAS he talking about?), when suddenly my tube went skidding up the side of a rock at least as big as the Rock of Gibraltor, and tumbled me out into the nipple-chilling river water that I had already decided was way too dirty for a blognut to actually swim in because, hello?, I could totally see bacteria floating in it with my naked googly eyes.

In my moment of sheer terror, (not from falling down the face of the Rock of Gibraltor and virtually shattering my left nipple in the icy, cold waters below, but from the knowledge that I was drowning in river bacteria that would probably give me Ebola IF I lived), I tried to remember what the Tennessee river tubing dude had said to me earlier in the day by way of his safety lecture.

Mayam, this here is a dangerous river and I ain’t gonna tell ya’ that people don’t sometimes git hurt toobin’, but ya’ can hep yerself greatly if yer remimber to relax, point yerself downstream, and keep yer nose ‘n toes out of the water.

What. The. Fuck?

Relax? Keep my nose and toes out of the water? Did he have any idea the amount of danger this would bring my round, blue behind? Because it would appear to be the only thing left in the water banging against the rocks at that point, except for my shattered left nipple which I could clearly see floating downstream some five feet ahead of me.

In my mind, I was screaming, Shut up River Dude! You relax! I’m going to thrash about helplessly and try to swim against the current and we’ll just see who knows what’s going on here! Besides, I have a nipple to catch!

Yeah, that might not have worked out that well.

I eventually did manage to relax, but only because I passed out from a combination of exhaustion, traumatic injury, and shock. River Dude turned out to be right though, because the moment I finally relaxed, I floated to the surface and lived to tell the tale.

I'm still waiting for Ebola to set in.

I am OUTRAGED!

2010-08-30T05:38:00.003-05:00

Well, I am. All I did was take a little blogging vacation for, like, a week ~~squared~~ and suddenly everyone in blogland decided to write blog posts behind my back. I thought we had a deal that when I take a break, EVERYONE ELSE, (yeah, I'm talking to you), was supposed to take a break, too. Is it too much to ask that when I return to the bloggy universe I don't have something like 3,938 posts to read if I want to know what happened in my absence?

And, if you must know, I had a perfectly good reason to be gone so long. I was, um... er... abducted by aliens. It's true, I tell you. They've always coveted my rich, blue fur and googly eyes. Everyone does. (Don't think I didn't see you looking at me.)

Also, I have to admit that I was truly touched by the ~~two~~ hundreds of bloggers who sent me emails or left me comments wondering if I was still alive. In addition to that, I even had an email from someone who said they were unfollowing me because my unexplained absence showed lack of commitment to blogging. Heh. Really? I understand and everything, but when did I ever say I was committed? And, surely, if I said that, I was talking about the kind of committed that involves paper slippers and a hug-yourself jacket. But, hey, I'm sorry if I let anyone down during my alien incarceration.

Anyway, I'm back now, safe and sound, and likely to blog some sort of ridiculousness from time to time, but I'm not committing or anything. I'm just saying it's likely.

By the way, I really did miss you, and I really did read some of your 3,938 posts while I was on the alien mothership. However, it would be very helpful to me if you, (yes, YOU), would just send me an email or leave me a comment with a brief summary of everything that's happened to you while I was away. I'll try not to let myself get sucked into space ever again if you'll promise to forgive me.

I Want My Cake and My Ice Cream Too

2010-06-15T11:13:00.002-05:00

Forgive me for the random bitching, but why should today be different from any other? Also? I promised to be either charming or quiet today in real life, so I have to use my blog as an outlet or I will very likely explode because blognuts are not meant to contain their complaints.

Grab a chair and hang onto your hooters! Complaints? I haz a big one.

I’ve been taking a lot of long walks because I’m doing the Susan G. Komen 3-Day event in August. Just for shits and giggles, I decided to hop onto the Weight Watcher’s website and see how many activity points I would get for these long walks if I were the point-counting sort of person… which I’m not… because DAMN, those things depress me.

Here I was thinking that I was working my fuzzy, blue behind off on these long walks only to find out that I burn off, like, nothing. You’d think that a six or eight-mile walk would at least earn you enough points to negate a nice piece of cake, wouldn’t you? Or a Pop-Tart? Or even a handful of Peanut Butter M&Ms?

You know what I get to eat after an eight-mile walk if I’m not already vomiting from dehydration? An apple. Who in the hell wants to eat an apple?

So… who do I see to get that whole points calculating thing tweaked a bit? ‘Cause if you ask me, we need to adjust the math so more people are encouraged to participate in all this healthy exercise crap with the promise of a reward worth having at the end of the day.

Why? Because I want a mint-chocolate chip hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top. (The cherry is just for pretty. I don’t eat those things because they taste like cough syrup.)

And if I can’t have my way, I have another plan. I am going to eat as much as I can humanly hold, gain 100 lbs, and then go have my stomach stapled or something.

Choices

2010-06-09T05:53:00.003-05:00

I found myself on a very long walk with The Boy last night. Trust me, it wasn’t so much the distance that made the walk very long, as it was only about a three-mile jaunt; it was The Boy and his incessant chatter about choices. Here is an excerpt from our conversation:

Mama, what if you had to choose between being dripped on by a hot glue gun, or running through 69 feet of fire?

The hot glue gun.

What if it was a whole bucket of hot glue?

Still choosing the hot glue.

What if you ran really fast and you weren’t wearing flammable pants?

Where can I get those pants?

What if you had to poop outside and you had to pick between wiping your butt with a fuzzy leaf that made you itch or a thorny leaf. What would you choose?

Am I out of toilet paper? Why am I making this choice?

You’re outside and you have to go right now.

I’d probably scoot along on the grass because I’m not using either of those leaves.

You have to choose one.

Am I still wearing those magic pants that are not flammable? ‘Cause if they’re like astronaut pants, this question might not matter.

You have to use a leaf.

I’ll just hold it until we get home.

You can’t - you have to choose.

What would you pick?

I would pick the thorny leaf because I really don’t like having an itchy butt.

And there we have it, son. No one does.

Where The Hell Am I?

2010-06-07T17:21:00.003-05:00

I recently found myself in a Facebook conversation about a place called Jertih, Terrennganu. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but I won’t bore you to death with the details ~~because I don’t remember any~~. Just suffice it to say that World Geography was never my best class.

Don’t get me wrong, blognuts are teachable beings, but we didn’t get geography. I think I missed that day in school. It was just one day, right? I didn’t even find out the earth is round until a few months ago when I finally learned I was being robbed of a day off from work for Columbus Day, (which I’m still outraged about), and I had to ask who he was and what I was supposed to do to honor his day, and someone explained the whole thing to me and I kinda remember something about him setting sail in 1492 with three boats that didn’t fall off the earth because it turned out to be round. Frankly, I still have my doubts about that whole round theory, but I’m choosing to believe it because it relieves me of having to worry about tripping off the edge of the planet and falling into outer space.

Outer space is kinda scary to me. Did we learn about that in science? I think I was sick that day too, but I did see something on TV with a fat guy that always wanted to be beamed by some unseen man named Scotty. I dunno. I think they were a couple.

Before you go getting all worried, just know that I can read and write and I’m pretty math-y, too. I’ve always been all about the numbers in a Rainman sort of way. I mean, I can’t count toothpicks flying through the air or keep track of cards in Vegas, but I can solve a math problem ~~eventually~~, and I may or may not memorize your social security number if you tell it to me. I don’t do that on purpose, it just happens to me. In fact, I wish it didn’t happen to me because I have to forget something important-y in order to make room for your social security number which I have no use for ~~unless some nefarious sort offers to buy it from me~~.

Anyway, I’ve rambled on so long that I no longer recall my point so I’ll just go now, but I won’t know where I’m going until I get there because… hello, that’s geography.

I Would Like a Tiny Kangaroo

2010-05-27T12:12:00.002-05:00

This is the conversation I had with The Boy very early this morning:

Mama, can we get a kangaroo?

Sure.

Wait! What? Did you say kangaroo? (Suddenly I wondered if this was something I could pick up at Petco, or if I’d have to call a breeder.)

Yes, a tiny kangaroo.

Do they come in tiny?

I had a dream about a tiny kangaroo. It lived in my room and ate celery.

(Damn the celery-eating tiny things. Note to self: Get celery.)

How tiny, Son? Did it live in the old hamster cage or roam freely about the room?

It stayed in my room and never went anywhere else. It didn’t even poop.

Well, I guess the tiny kangaroo has that going for him, then. What was his name?

I dunno.

How ‘bout Hank? That sounds like a tiny kangaroo’s name to me.

No it doesn’t. We’ll just call him tiny kangaroo.

After this whole conversation, I got to thinking that I’m glad The Boy has those kinds of dreams that leave him excited and hoping for a tiny kangaroo. I think it says something about the kind of childhood he’s living. So even if he is a little bit silly, I’m all good with that.

Plus, now I kinda want a tiny kangaroo.

And Boy is My Face Red

2010-05-24T21:17:00.004-05:00

Look... all I’m saying is I wore sun block yesterday. I wore an SPF 45, to be exact. And? I put it on twice, so that’s like SPF 90, right?

And today? I put it on, like, four times, so that’s like SPF whatever, right?

Be quiet. I am not in the mood to do the math.

I CAN do the math, I just don’t feel like it.

Oh, all right. SPF 180. Why do you always have to have your way?

So, anyway, I was saying I wore sun block. A lot of it. I suppose I should count my blessings that I’m not more burned than I am, if one were looking for blessings and all, but it’s hard to count yourself among the blessed when you have little blisters all over your skin and you look like a Ballpark Frank that has been left too long on the grill.

Here’s the thing - I was doing some planting in the yard yesterday, so I baked my furry blue body and singed off my fur in places. Then today, I was volunteering at The Boy’s school for their outdoor Track & Field Day events, where “volunteer” equals “guilted into showing up on the hottest damn day of the year.”

And now? I look like this...

...instead of this....
I find this troubling, don't you?

Furthermore, in a few days when I start molting and flaking and peeling and itching, I think it's safe to say there will be additional whining.

Wilbur, Is That You?

2010-05-19T22:13:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending a fraud conference with about 2,342 of my closest bank-y friends. At the conference we learned about how all you deadbeats are out there stealing identities to get money and such. (Not YOU deadbeats, the OTHER deadbeats.) (I would never say that about YOU.) (Unless you are stealing money right out from under my nose at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, leaving me to look like a dumbass.) (Then I TOTALLY mean you.)

So, anyway, I arrived to this particular session a few minutes late, because that’s what I do, and spotted a seat near the back next to my buddy J that looked like it had been saved just for me because it had, so I took it. I slid into my seat, wiggled around and got comfy, J to my left and a harmless looking stranger to my right, and got ready for my eye-opening tour of the crime world.

And then IT happened.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any courteous blognut would do, and stole a sideways glance at my neighbor to the right of me to see if she was serious. She looked on unperturbed, as if it wasn’t really her, but I knew. Oh, how I knew.

And then I decided it was a one-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any compassionate blognut would do, and turned my head toward my neighbor to the right, leaving my gaze to linger there, hoping to make eye-contact and offer her some sort of Kleenex and cough-drop combination. She looked on unperturbed, as if she was used to this sort of thing and didn’t even realize she was doing it.

And then I decided it was a two-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any impatient blognut would do, and whipped out my phone to text my friend J on my left and find out if she was hearing this shit. She was. She was totally hearing this shit, too. I decided to catch her in the act.

And then nothing.

And still nothing.

And then I decided it was a three-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any nauseated blognut would do, and I got up and left the room. When I came back, I took a seat on the other side of J and left her to be one closest to that horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, because that shit was making me sick.

If you’re lucky, my next blog post will be about a different woman who sat near J and me at lunch today, and was obviously absent the day Miss Manners taught not talking with your mouth full.

I'm Doing Lazy Better and You Can Too!

2010-05-16T22:15:00.003-05:00

I found a new favorite thing this weekend! Well, what I mean to say is the thing is not new, it’s just a new favorite thing for me. Know what it is?

MY COUCH!!!

I actually sat on it the other day, which rarely happens to me, and before I knew it, I found myself wanting to stretch out on it because it was ten kinds of comfy and it really seemed to like having me there as much as I liked being there. Now how ‘bout that? Who knew?

Also, I can see all of the comings and goings around here from the comfy couch and I don’t even have to strain myself with a dangerous turn of my head. What could be better? This whole thing plays right to my laziness, which, as luck would have it, I have recently vowed to do even better than I have all along. I’ve been lazy about being lazy, but NO MORE!!

My new plan is to just lie here on the couch and make everyone come to me. I will charge a small fee for my attention: five minutes of my time if you bring me one Diet Pepsi; ten minutes of my time if you bring chocolate; half an hour if I get a whole meal or you bring me a snack I can save for later, (and by half an hour, I mean 15 minutes because I don’t honestly have the energy to pay attention to anything for half an hour).

The only thing I haven’t quite worked out yet is whether or not I will get up to use the bathroom, or if I’ll just start peeing in a pickle jar.

I Need Your Mama - Tell Her to Bring Tums

2010-05-13T23:21:00.002-05:00

My tummy is all hurt-y and I want my mama. Well, actually, that is not true. I want someone else’s mama that would actually be nice to me and hold me, and maybe even pet my hair. Please send me one right now if you have one.

Who knew that trying to quit smoking would lead to more eating? And why didn’t anyone tell me I would be hungry all the time even though I didn’t quit all the way yet because that whole stressful work thing happens to me, like, every day, and makes me really need to have a cigarette at nighttime when no one is looking. (It doesn’t count, Judgey McJudgerson.) (Nothing counts if no one sees.) (Duh.)

And then some other stressful stuff that can only be cured with beef happened to me and, combined with my lower-nicotine-level-induced, hungry-all-the-time, need for extra food, I found myself eating multiple cheeseburgers over the last couple of days. And now? I’m being attacked by The Not-Even-Real-Beef Gods so my tummy is unhappy and evicting its contents with alarming and explosive frequency because blognuts can not handle this much grease even though it makes us really darn happy to try.

And oh my God!!! Do you think I have Ebola? Or Ecola? Or whatever it is they call it when beef makes your innards turn to juice and run for the nearest exit?

Can someone please research this illness for me and tell me if I’m going to die. And make sure you send me your mama if she is going to be useful to me in a mama sort of way, okay?

Even Anderson Cooper Comes With Red Flags

2010-05-10T11:36:00.003-05:00

So… I gots me this friend, we’ll call her Louise. Because she sounds like Susan Sarandon, so we’re going with that, that’s why, and what do you care what we call her anyhow? Geez.

No, you can’t call me Thelma. You already know who I am. You can just keep on calling me Blognut. (Although, now that I think about it, I do bear a striking resemblance to Geena Davis; only I'm not tall, and I'm round, and blue, and I have googly eyes. Other than that, we look just alike.)

Now where was I? Oh yeah, Louise. Well, Louise got herself a date with… well, with Anderson Cooper, only he’s not gay… and they had a great time. He was nice, thoughtful, funny, a good conversationalist, and very, very sexy. (Ok, yeah, that last word was mine, but that’s just how I see it because…hello, Anderson Cooper makes me weak.)

Louise really liked the guy and she didn't spot any of the usual red flags that reveal themselves when you meet someone like Anderson Cooper. So now I need your help, fellow readers, because I have charged myself with the task of coming up with a perfect little quiz carefully designed to reveal Anderson Cooper’s red flags – only I don’t have the first clue what questions to put on the quiz because I have been with Mr. Blognut since I was twenty and everything I once knew about dating, which was exactly nothing, is long gone. Also, because Mr. Blognut has no mysterious underpinnings at all, I am well familiar with every one of his red flags. Every.single.one.of.them.

Anyway, this is about Anderson Cooper, not about Mr. Blognut.

Here’s what I have so far:

How many pairs of shoes do you have? If you have more than four, please describe each pair and explain its purpose, because I need to know if you are really that vain, or you’re just active in several different sports. (Or, if you are a cross-dresser, you can stop here and go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Boxers or briefs? Why?

What do you wear to bed? A night shirt, pajamas, or just a smile? (And if the answer is night shirt, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Let’s say your dishwasher and your TV broke down at the same time and you could only afford to replace one of them right away. Which would you choose, and why?

Swim trunks or Speedo? (And if it’s Speedo, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Let's say you have a whole weekend to spend with Louise, do you take her to a wine tasting festival, or a tractor pull?

Do you have regular curtains or blinds on your windows, or a Conferate flag? (And if it's a Conferate flag, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Okay, that's all I have so far – now your job is to leave a question designed to reveal red flags and/or fatal flaws in my comments so we can protect Louise like a proper friend would do.

I Looked Everywhere, I Swear It

2010-05-03T16:06:00.003-05:00

Someone once told me that if you have a fat dog, you’re probably fat, too.

Frick.

I have two fat dogs.

So I took my fattest dog, Lewis, for a walk the other night and kicked both our double-fat asses for a few miles before returning home to watch him attempt to drown himself in a bowl of water. He seemed grateful for the walk and for the water, so I took him again last night. And even though my double-fat dog is kind of naughty sometimes, he tends to be a pretty good listener out in the park, so I let him off the leash to sniff around the pond and check out the scents. He likes to get a good snoot full of goose poop as often as he can, and although I do not understand this one bit, I no longer try to fight it.

There was one problem though; one teensy-weensy little problem that may land me in bad neighbor jail. My dog ran ahead of me about 30 feet and decided to build himself a little poo cabin five feet off the path. I marked this spot with my big, round, googly eyes, but when I got there with my little clean-up bag, I could not find the poop. I searched everywhere for the poop. It isn’t that I like collecting it or anything, it’s just that I know I have a responsibility to pick it up and I was perfectly willing to comply. But the poop? Was gone.

Secretly, I was elated. I mean, hadn’t I done my part by at least looking for the poop? It isn’t like I didn’t try to find it. I tried. So I looked around, all sneaky-like, to check for observers and finding a few, I made a big showing of unfurling the poopy collection bag from my pocket and scooping up… air.

What? I had to make it look good, I live here and I walk in that park nearly every day.

Well, okay, not every day, or I wouldn’t have two fat dogs and a double-fat ass, but that was not my point.

My point was that my dog has invisible ghost poop.

I Bet it Loses Something in the Translation

2010-04-25T19:35:00.006-05:00

Dear Commentor from last week,

I hope you won't mind my sharing this with the rest of my readers, but I couldn't resist because, honestly, this might be the nicest and most thoughtful thing anyone has ever said to me.

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Of course, it might also be the most shocking and despicable thing anyone has ever said to me, too. Without my Chinese to English dictionary, I'm really lost. Did you miss that part in my profile that said I am from Chicago and not Hong Kong? I once bought the Rosetta Stone Learn to Speak Chinese software, but my ADHD totally prevented me from opening the box for the longest time. Once I finally did open the box, I was distracted by all the crinkly cellophane-y wrapping stuff and the shiny CDs in there, so by the time I remembered what I was doing, I had changed my mind and decided to learn Swahili instead.

I'm sure you didn't realize that I would have absolutely no idea what it is you intended to say to me, but since I'm really working hard to assume positive intent behind every asshatted comment or post I read in my travels around the blogosphere, I'm going to assume you meant to say that you really like me and you think I'm pretty, and that you want to take me to see a show with you. And so to you, I say, "Why, thank you! How nice of you to think of me." Or, said another way, ":-)" and (((huge hugs))).

xo,
blognut

I'd Like a Muffin and a Tank of Gas With That

2010-04-19T09:52:00.005-05:00

Dear Starbucks,

I just wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know how much I appreciated the free coffee this morning. I know you felt it was something you had to do since you made me wait about five frickin’ hours for a large, black coffee. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. In your language, that would be a venti bold black, with room. I’ll try to be more respectful of your chosen language.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything, but next time you make me wait five frickin’ hours for a venti bold black, with room, could you maybe give me something else for free in addition to the $2.27 coffee? How 'bout a nice muffin with that? Or maybe you could save making me wait five frickin’ hours for the days that I order a $32 item, like a venti triple-shot, Mocha-Jamocha-Bananarama-Ding-Ding with whipped cream and a cinnamon sprinkle.

Thanks,
blognut

PS Maybe you could install a gas pump in your drive-thru, too? That would really save me the stress of watching my gas gauge drop to nothing while I wait five frickin’ hours for my coffee.

If You Don't Like What You See, Don't Look!

2010-04-15T10:29:00.004-05:00

I have another important life lesson for you, dear readers. It is one of those things that should be quite simple, and yet it is a lesson often overlooked.

See, the day started as it normally does with your round, blue friend struggling to get out of bed and then dragging herself to the shower with only one googly eye open. Once in the shower, she filled her one open googly eye with shampoo, nicked herself twice with the razor, stubbed her toe getting out of the shower, and wrapped herself in her warm, fuzzy, towelly-wrappy-thingy that is really just a bath sheet with Velcro at the top. A normal day in the making.

Then, having pried open that googly eye that wouldn’t open before, and closed the one that was still on fire from an unhealthy dose of shampoo, she made her way down the stairs, still wrapped in her towelly-wrappy-thingy and did what she always does - grabbed a cigarette and a Diet Pepsi and headed for the garage.

(Don’t judge. I don’t smoke that much and I don’t smoke in the house.)

(Okay.)

(I SAID OKAY!)

(I’LL QUIT TOMORROW... DAMMIT!)

So… out into the garage she goes, wearing only a towelly-wrappy-thingy, a cigarette, and a Diet Pepsi, bringing the two blognutian hound dogs with her.

WHO LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN?!!!

There was a landscaper’s truck parked right at the end of the driveway. There were three men RIGHT there.

The hounds? Called attention to us and ran to the three men. The hounds? Would not stop jumping on the three men and barking as though they aimed to make a lunch of them. The hounds? Had to be gathered by Blognut, still wearing only a towelly-wrappy-thingy, a cigarette, and a Diet Pepsi.

The lesson: While some might think the obvious lesson here is put some damn clothes on before you go outside, even if you think the garage door that should be closed is closed, ‘cause you have three kids and it could be open, that is not the case. No, the lesson is DON’T PARK YOUR DAMN TRUCK AT THE END OF MY DRIVEWAY AND THEN ACT LIKE A SCARED SCHOOLGIRL WHEN THE BLOGNUTIAN HOUND DOGS BARK AT YOU THEREBY FORCING BLOGNUT TO COME ALL THE WAY TO THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY TO POLICE UP THE HOUNDS WEARING ONLY A TOWELLY-WRAPPY-THINGY, A CIGARETTE, AND A DIET PEPSI.

That is all.

In Her Shoes

2010-04-12T09:57:00.005-05:00

If we as a society understand that 1/3 of us have been or will be sexually assaulted in our lifetime, and that, as uncomfortable as it may make us to talk about it, we really can’t avoid having these conversations any longer, we can work to bring about a change that protects our children. This is a problem that belongs to all of us.

Many of you have been hearing or reading about Chelsea King in the news lately. What happened to her is a tragic story about a teenage girl who was attacked and murdered while out jogging near her home in California. As it turns out, the man charged with the crime in this case is a convicted sex-offender named John Albert Gardner III, who was pled out on a lesser crime for molesting and beating a 13-year-old girl back in 2000. Gardner is also the suspect in the attack and murder of another little girl by the name of Amber Dubois.

Through the use of careless words and/or direct finger-pointing, some people in the media and a few in Blogland, have effectively blamed the 13-year-old, her parents, and the prosecutors for reportedly “sparing” the child the trauma of testifying at a criminal trial by allowing Gardner to enter into a plea agreement that included five years in prison and three more on parole. Some people make it sound like the victim’s role after-the-fact is simple: testify against the attacker and everything will be fine. Make the victims understand that they have a responsibility to testify, get their parents to make them, don’t let the prosecutors plead out the case. I wish it were that simple, but I know it is not.

On one particular blog, this conversation sparked a passionate debate about placing blame on victims and whether or not victims have a responsibility to testify. Above everything else, there was one line in one comment that stuck with me, “…we all have our opinions. Opinions are not facts.” In fairness to the commenter, I don’t know what she meant by that or what is her opinion, I just know that my thoughts on this are more than opinion; for me, they are absolute facts. Although my situation was different, I was just this girl’s age when it happened to me and I’m pretty familiar with what it’s like to walk in her shoes.

Let me help you to really see that 13-year-old girl. She’s just been violently attacked and had things happen to her that she has no way of understanding. There is fear now where there wasn’t before. She’s only thirteen. Her whole world has been turned upside-down, she’s humiliated, degraded, and feeling feelings she cannot even name. She’s been robbed of her right to explore her sexuality on her own terms at her own pace. School dances and first kisses? Not the same. She feels different now; like she’s being judged by everyone and they can all see right into her soul, so she builds a wall around it. Any shot she had at having a normal adolescence is out the window. And did I mention the fear? It’s worth mentioning again. She doesn’t feel safe anymore and it’ll be a long time before she gets that back, if ever.

Can you see her? Now put yourself in her place and imagine how this conversation would go if they actually told her the truth:

Honey, we want you to get up in front of a crowd of strangers, and the man who did this to you, and tell everyone exactly what happened. Will you do it?

I won’t know what to say. Do I have to tell everything?

Yes, everything. Just the way it happened.

They’ll think it’s all my fault. They’ll think I’m bad for skipping school and going over to his house. They’ll say I should have stopped him if I didn’t like it.

Some people might think that, but not everyone will. You still need to tell them what he did.

I don’t know if I can. Will he be able to see me?

Yes, he will be in the courtroom, but so will a lot of other people so he won’t be able to hurt you. (In some jurisdictions today the answer will be): You can testify in front of a video camera in another room. You won’t have to look at him, but he will be able to see you on a television screen, and so will all of the people who have to be in the courtroom, and later anyone else who is working on this case.

So he will know that I told what happened?

Yes.

What’s going to happen to him if I tell?

Not much. We’re going to put him in jail for a little while, but he’ll be out shortly after you graduate from high school.

He’ll be mad. What if he comes back? Will he be able to find me?

I can’t promise he won’t.

And if I don’t testify?

Well, he’ll be out around the time you graduate from high school.

Do you see the problem? It isn’t whether or not she goes through with the horror of testifying; it’s the fact that the outcome is nearly the same either way. Our laws do not offer us long-term protection or a sense of safety. This is what we must fix first.

Think about it. John Albert Gardner III was sentenced to five years in prison and three more years of parole. What do you think he’d have gotten if the 13-year-old child had testified at his criminal trial? I did a little research on this and found that, on average, the sentences range from seven to eleven years; that’s just a short time longer than Gardner served without her testimony at trial. It would be naïve to think an additional couple of years behind bars would have rehabilitated him. The recidivism rates for these crimes are staggering and the more violent the crime, the higher the number. It’s been reported that sexual offenders often have as many as 200 victims during their lifetime. They do not stop.

If a victim knows that testifying against her attacker will keep her safe from him for the rest of her life, she may still say no. She may be unable to re-live the nightmare that she has been through, and God help us if we judge her for that decision, for it is hers and only hers to make. However, if she is considering testifying, don’t you think she’d be more likely to go through with it if we have one-strike sentencing laws for violent sexual offenders and she knows she never has to see him again?

We need to make it count when a victim tells her story. If we do, there will be far fewer stories to tell.

Can I Still Be Bitchy Without Damaging the Universe?

2010-04-08T00:03:00.000-05:00

I know that I recently told all of you I was turning over a new leaf and taking a more positive outlook on things. I even said I was going to avoid throwing negativity out into the universe just in case that whole butterfly theory thing is true.

Also? I may have led you all to believe that I wasn’t going to rant anymore.

Heh.

Psych!

Honestly, I tried turning over a new leaf but I found a bug underneath it and, well, you know how I feel about those things. I dropped that leaf like a hot potato and fled the scene.

And the universe? Well, really, is it MY job to worry about a butterfly flapping its wings in Africa and causing an avalanche in Florida? Okay, maybe Florida is a bad example, but you know what I meant.

Anyhow, I have a story to tell you because it’s frustrating and just plain nuts.

No, it’s not about leaves. Geez! Get over the leaf thing and try to follow along, will ya’? (And you all say I have Attention Deficit Disorder?) (Ooh, shiney!)

I had someone I work with in the car with me yesterday when we passed a man holding up a sign that read, Homeless, will work for food! near a busy intersection.

This co-worker person? Said, “I wish those guys would just stay home instead of running around begging for food all the time.” Now I hate to be the pointer-outer of the bloody obvious, but I felt compelled to notify my heartless and apparently daft co-worker that homeless people may have a difficult time staying home, and that the majority of them probably wouldn’t be asking for help if they didn’t need it. I told her that she didn’t have to give them anything if she didn’t want to, but that they weren’t really bothering anyone by standing on that corner.

To this? She replied, “I have nothing against homeless people in general, they are fine in their place.”

After giving my head a severe beating on the steering wheel, I once again felt compelled to remind her that if they had a place they probably wouldn’t be homeless.

And then I rolled down my window and gave the guy a few bucks just to annoy her, and because it was the same few bucks I owed her for the coffee she had just bought for me.

When the guy took the money and thanked me, I pointed to my co-worker and said, “Don’t thank me, thank her. It’s her money.”

And then I chuckled for about half an hour.

Blognut, Blognut, Blognut, POOF!

2010-04-06T21:37:00.004-05:00

We are now entering spring sports hell here at Blognut Manor. This is the time of year when I wonder why the miracle makers of modern science haven’t yet figured out how I can split myself into multiple blognuts and be everywhere at one time.

And they call themselves scientists?

Frankly I don’t know how they can sleep at night? Is there no end to the failures we will put up with from this sorry lot?

We can put men on the moon but we can’t put them there at the same time we can put them at a blognutian's soccer or baseball game? Or at their other blognutian's track meet?

WTF, man? What have these scientists been doing? It’s not like they are that busy doing anything else, is it? I mean, they’re dorks, right? How much time does it take them to get up in the morning, put on their big giant glasses, forget to brush their hair, and report to the laboratory?

They don’t have social lives, they hire people to cut their lawns, and they do most of their shopping online at mismatched-argyle.com.

By my ciphering, they have at least 20 hours a day to spend finding solutions to my problems. How hard can this be?

I’m even willing to work with them. I will settle for not being in two places at once as long as they can teleport me from one obligatory event to another and back again as often as I need to go. What? I AM REASONABLE!

I have just one thing to say to these scientific smart heads: Willy Wonka figured it out, so why can’t you?

The Easter Bunny Hates Me

2010-04-04T19:08:00.003-05:00

I always thought the Easter Bunny was a little on the evil side.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m a little “out there” to be making such an accusatory statement about the Easter Bunny because, after all, he likes everybody. But he doesn’t like me and I think the sooner we all accept that, the better off we’ll be.

If you remember what happened to me last year, you’ll understand that Easter can get me a little stressed out because I tend to wait ‘til the last minute and then freak the hell out at the garbage that is left when I finally go out shopping. It wasn’t as bad this year because I shopped Thursday instead of Saturday, but it was close.

It started with me stressing out because Girl #1 wanted a new Twilight series movie in her Easter basket, something about a new moon and a bite in the neck, along with a whiny teenager who pines after her pasty-faced vampire of a boyfriend who should just hurry and up and bite her if you ask me. Now Girl #1 couldn’t text me the title of the movie she wanted so I’d have a record of it. Oh, no! That would be far too easy. Instead she told me when I was only half-listening and I heard something like, “Yadda, yadda, bite me, with previously deleted vampire scenes, blah, blah, three disc set, it has to come from Target, and if I don’t get it from the Easter Bunny, I will need to borrow $30 or I WILL DIE.”

Girl #2 wanted Harry Potter movies. Note the “s” in movies. She said something like, “I have movies 1, 4, and 6, so any or all of the rest will be fine.” Pffft. Who said anything about getting more than one?

And The Boy? Well, he wanted a pogo stick. Naturally. A pogo stick. YES, I’m quite serious! Where does one find a pogo stick, I ask? Does the Easter Bunny really have access to such things?

So my quest began. On Thursday. Just a few days before Easter and really the only day I had available to do any shopping at all. I went to Target and found out that Harry Potter movies are not actually numbered anywhere and you have to be familiar with the series in order to know which ones are 2, 3, and 5. There was a sea of Harry Potter movies, but I had no idea if they were the right ones or not, so I figured I’d come back to that challenge after I found the movie Girl #1 wanted.

They did NOT have a 3-disc set. Did NOT. They had a 1-disc set and they had a 2-disc set, but not the coveted, life-giving 3-disc set that simply had to be there or all teenage existence would come to a screeching halt, 3-disc set.

Christ on a pogo stick! (But not The Boy’s pogo stick, because Target didn’t have that either.)

So I went to another Target. Things were looking up at the other Target because they had the 3-disc Bite Me! Movie and they had a helpful boy at the camera counter who knew which Harry Potter movies to tell me to buy. They did not have a pogo stick. Not a single pogo stick.

I went to 2 toy stores, 3 sporting goods stores, and dared to cross the threshold at my local “other” store that may or may not be part of the evil empire of big box stores destroying America. No one had a pogo stick.

Apparently the Easter Bunny doesn’t have one either because one did not miraculously appear in The Boy’s Easter basket this morning. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m pretty sure there was bunny poop in my coffee this morning, I’d begin to wonder if the damn bunny was even real.

Sunshine, Flowers, and Puppies... Oh My!

2010-03-26T00:58:00.003-05:00

I think I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I’ve decided to try and be more mindful of the kind of energy I’m throwing out into the universe. You know, all positive thoughts and happy words from now on because I don't want to make people sad. However, I’m thinking of re-thinking that plan.

It isn’t that I can’t commit, because I totally CAN commit if you give me the right reason. No, this is really about the fact that I failed to prepare for my mission of mindfulness.

You see, the thing is, if I’m going to stop spewing sarcastic comments into the atmosphere, exhibit patience, and be the very model of positive thinking, I’m going to need to do quite a bit of prep-work and you are all going to need to help me with it, where “help me with it” may actually mean “do it for me.”

Here’s what I need:

I need for people to stop saying really dumb things. SERIOUSLY!! People have to stop saying things that don’t make logical sense. Do you know how many years it takes off of a blognut's life to have to restrain themselves from making scathing comments in response to ridiculous psychobabble. Oy. This has got to stop!

I need for people to get out of my way. Especially slow driving people who take on the role of self-appointed pace cars on the highway. Man, I can't handle that shit right there. Something has to be done about that if I am to succeed.

I need for people to adopt a work ethic that includes not only doing their own work, but maybe also doing a little bit of mine, too. You understand, right?

I need for people to dress appropriately. It isn't that I care what one wears so much as where they wear it. For example, when people come to work at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, they should not wear the same outfit they'd wear out clubbing on Friday night. Bank customers tend to be distrustful of bankers unless they look a bit uptight. Sorry. It's a fact.

I need for people to stop complaining. I can't be Miss Merry Sunshine Positive Pants if you all are getting to complain. It's really not fair. So stop it, 'k?

Oh, and one more thing, and of course this one is actually pretty snarky so I apologize in advance. If you don't know what toenail clippers are for, please do not wear sandals.

In exchange for your assistance, I will abandon all swear words and sarcasm in favor of pleasant exclamations like my post title up there. Next time I stub my toe or have to fix someone else's mistake, I will not say anything negative at all. I will say, "Oh Golly!," or, "Thank goodness I've been given an opportunity to brush up on my other-people's-work-doing skills!"

Now then, if you could all go out and round up the offenders in your area and make them aware of these few simple rules, I will start working on my new list of swear words that aren't swearish and unpleasant-like at all. Thanks!!

HAPPINESS IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

2010-03-17T22:24:00.005-05:00

I recently read an article on Shine! about the habits of happy people. What? I HAD to check and make sure I was happy because, dammitalltohell, if I’m not happy I want to know about it.

So anyway, they had a whole list of, like, 101 small pleasures people can enjoy everyday. Heh heh. I didn’t see THAT on the list, but we’ll assume that was item 102 and you should get your mind out of the gutter.

No worries, I am not about to make you a whole list of these ~~102~~ 101 things, mostly because I don’t know why they chose 101 and I am worried that they were trying to be like the dalmations. Personally, I would have gone ahead and added the 102nd item to the list just to make the total divisible by 3 because… I believe we’ve probably talked about my little OCD a time or two, never mind. Oh, and by the way, if you’re still doing the math: 102 / 3 = 34

Did you get that? Yes, I mean you. I know this is hard for you because you are not a math head, but I still love you and we’ll go over that whole number thing soon.

Now where were we? Oh yeah, I was talking about that list. I’m going to petition them to remove or clarify a few of the items because they can’t possibly make anyone happy “as is” and I think it’s important that we note it right here and now before we get misunderstood.

An exercise endorphin high. I dunno. They lost me at exercise.

Finding a couple forgotten dollars in your pocket? If I find dollars in my pockets, I've got on someone else's pants.

The way babies smell. I assume they mean The way CLEAN babies smell and they’re not including the contents of that nasty diaper back there.

Doing something nice for your neighbor. I am sure they meant to say Letting your neighbor do something nice for you. Otherwise, I don’t feel quite as happy and I’m sure the goal here is for me to be as happy as possible.

When someone falls asleep with their head on your shoulder. Um… no. I normally find myself quite UNhappy because of the whole drool thing, and because my whole arm goes to sleep and I end up clubbing myself half to death with my heavy, useless appendage.

The smell of gasoline. I do not endorse huffing. Also? The smell of gasoline only makes me happy if I am pouring it onto the right person, and then that strike of the match? Well, that just brings PURE GLEE to my googly eyes.

Other than that, I was able to agree with the rest of the recommendations, and am, therefore, a happy blognut. Now go forth and make sure I stay that way!

It's An Outrageous Conspiracy

2010-03-14T11:41:00.003-05:00

Do you think it’s possible to weasel my way out of complying with this whole daylight savings time thing? I mean, really, is this still even fashionable? This annual practice of robbing me of one hour’s sleep, which, as it seems, I will not be able to make up until they give it back to me in the fall, is really too much stress on a blognut. When I finally managed to unstick myself from my little blognut bunk this morning, I looked over at the clock and immediately began to mourn the hour they took from me.

Who is behind this ridiculous outrage? I once heard that this was all about the farmers needing to work in daylight. I don’t even know if that’s true and I have no intention of taking the time to research this because... hello, lazy, but if it is, I have an issue with these farmers. Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask a few farmers to get up an hour earlier? Why do we ALL have to be inconvenienced?

Maybe it’s the Republicans! I bet that’s it. They probably think if they leave us all wandering around stupid and tired, we won’t notice what they’re doing. I bet there’s a secret Republi-upper Pill they take so they don’t feel it, and the rest of us are left glassy-eyed and stupefied while they concoct their evil plots against us.

And then there’s that whole Indiana thing where there is an entire area that does not comply with daylight savings time. Why do they get away with refusing to comply? Is it because they stick together? Do we all just turn a blind eye to Indiana being Indiana again? And aren’t THEY the damn farmers that started this thing in the first place? What about Arizona? I heard they don't play the daylight savings game either. I’ll bet they’re Republicans. Pffft.

What if I refuse to change my clocks? Will the daylight savings time police show up to haul me away in cuffs? Will I need an attorney? Will there be harsh judgment? Will I be convicted by a jury of my peers?

Answers, people. I need answers and I need them quickly. If I’m going to act on this, I’m pretty sure I have to do it today.

Yet Another Reason Why Boys Are Gross

2010-03-09T21:07:00.008-06:00

In case you are starting to waffle on your previous Blognut-inspired opinion about boys being gross, I have yet another story to share with you.

The Boy and I were in the car on our second trip to the store to buy some kind of happy crap for a friggin' diorama that I was assigned to complete. Wait, I mean, HE was assigned to complete it. Not me. I'm just the parent here, so I get to do all the work ~~when he's not looking~~ so he can get an A on the project because what kind of parent would I be if I let him mess this up? and you know that teacher expects me to do this for him or she wouldn't have to assigned it to us him.

Anyway, that was SO not the point. But have you seen this child's art work?

So... we're in the car, The Boy and I, and I happen to look over and see that his knees are absolutely caked in mud. Caked. Like totally thick and dried on mud that might even be dog poop for all I know, but whatever it is it is certainly not going to get me that coveted Mother of the Year 2010 award. And The Boy? Was chipping the mud off of his knees and throwing the little mud flakes on the floor of the car.

But that isn't why he's gross. I mean, it is certainly a contributing factor and all, but it's not the story.

The story is that The Boy, while engaged in conversation with me about the mud flaking activity, and without even stopping his chatter to pause for a breath, leaned over and plucked an M&M off the the floor of the car and popped it right into his mouth!

I ~~screeched~~ queried, "WHAT in GOD'S name are you doing? Do you even know where that came from? No one has had M&Ms in this car for months and, for all you know, that just came off the bottom of your shoe!"

You know what he said? He said he did not care because it tasted good anyway.

And THAT is why Little Boys are Gross.

Bloggus Vomitous – The Latin Term for Food Poisoning

2010-03-07T13:06:00.002-06:00

My dear readers, you know all too well that I don’t ask for much. What? Yes, I wrote that with a straight face. STOP INTERRUPTING ME! Was that milk that just came out of your nose? Dude. That is gross.

Anyway, I don’t ask for much. However, when it comes to eating, I do ask for my food to stay where I put it and not make dramatic encore appearances. Is that too much to ask? Apparently the scallops I ate last night think it is.

Mr. Blognut and I went out for a nice dinner with his dad and brothers at a Japanese restaurant. Fortunately for me, it was not too far from home because someone tried to poison me half to death. Oh, I know what you are thinking, that this happens and no one did anything to be intentionally mean, but I don’t see it that way this morning. I see it as attempted murder and I intend to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law; as soon as I research the fullest extent of the law and figure out how much time that is going to require of me, and whether or not my attention can be held for that long.

The food tasted great… on the way down… but not nearly so great on the way back up again. Just sayin’. By the time dinner was over, I had this pounding headache accompanied by a feeling of pending doom in my round, blue tummy. On the way home in the blognutmobile, I had the fingers of death wrapped around my intestines and squeezing the very life out of me! I.ALMOST.DIED.

No, I’m not being dramatic, I’m tellin’ you I almost died.

I barely made it home before my dinner, as well as everything else I’ve eaten since, I don’t know, BIRTH, turned to liquid and ran for the nearest exit. Experiencing my dinner live and in Technicolor reverse is not the way I planned to finish my evening! Mr. Blognut and I had the entire house to ourselves after having farmed out the blognutians for the night. I expected an evening of fine romance, wine, and candlelight. Instead, I got an evening of horrors, small sips of soda, and bathroom light.

By the way, I should warn you that the cool bathroom tile has a very wake-y up-y effect on you when you are trying to sleep on it. Bring a blanket.

Anyway, I was saying… I don’t ask for much, but when I need a little sympathy, I expect to find it here in my own lair at Blognut Manor. You’d think these people would know when I need a little extra care and you’d think they’d be tripping over each other to see that I got it.

And yet? Here I am, completely out of Diet Pepsi and recovering from a near-death experience. I am too weak and dehydrated to go out and get my own Diet Pepsi, and there is no one here to do it for me. No one is home except for The Boy and his friend, who are totally taking advantage of me in my weakened state by eating peanut butter directly from the jar with a spoon while I sit here pretending not to notice, ‘cause if I get caught knowing they’re doing that I will have to drag myself out of this chair and give ‘em hell and I just don’t have the energy.

I'd Tell You But I Can't Talk About It

2010-03-04T16:07:00.002-06:00

I went to a meeting yesterday where a whole bunch of us were gathered to talk about the kinds of information we aren’t supposed to talk about, and how we protect that information from being talked about by people who aren’t supposed to talk about it.

We also talked about the ways we will train our new employees to not talk about the kinds of information we can’t talk about, and how we will make sure we have the required documentation to prove that we talked about not talking about the kinds of information we aren’t supposed to talk about, and the people with whom we aren’t supposed to talk about it.

We also talked about the auditors who will call our bank and try to get our employees to talk about the information they aren’t supposed to talk about by asking them questions I can’t talk about and pretending they are the kinds of people who are authorized to talk about it.

When we were done talking about all that, we talked about how we make sure that only those people who have been trained not to talk about it, whose files document that they know they aren’t supposed to talk about it, have access to the information we aren’t supposed to talk about because we store it in a double-secret, locked place that I’m not supposed to talk about because I signed something that says I can’t talk about it.

And now you understand why I can’t talk about it.

He Saw Me Naked and Told Me to Leave

2010-02-28T21:32:00.005-06:00

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...

2010-02-24T09:40:00.003-06:00

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?

2010-02-21T21:40:00.006-06:00

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

2010-02-17T00:03:00.000-06:00

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!

2010-02-15T01:13:00.001-06:00

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

2010-02-10T08:40:00.005-06:00

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

2010-02-08T10:14:00.004-06:00

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...

2010-02-04T09:23:00.006-06:00

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

2010-02-02T05:45:00.004-06:00

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

BLOGNUTS ARE NOT MORNING PEOPLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was That a Bad Word?

2010-01-31T05:43:00.005-06:00

An excerpt from an actual conversation here at Blognut Manor:

Mr. Blognut: Did you just say genitals?

Girl #2: YES!

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

I truly love Mr. Blognut!

Instruments of Torture?

2010-01-27T10:13:00.002-06:00

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

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

The Boy.

The Boy was practicing his recorder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Plan is NOT That Difficult

2010-01-25T06:53:00.000-06:00

Dear Bumblefuck Bank & Trust,

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

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

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

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

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

I AM JUST LOOKING OUT FOR THEM!

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

Sincerely,
blognut

This One IS Gonna Work!

2010-01-21T10:55:00.003-06:00

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

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

What?

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

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

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

THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT!

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

Pardon Me, I Think You Forgot Your Fox

2010-01-19T20:48:00.007-06:00

Umm... I wasn't going to bring this up, but DID SOMEBODY LOSE A FRIGGIN' FOX? 'Cause there's one wandering around in the yard here at Blognut Manor and I think this is NOT meant to be a domestic pet. In fact, I think this is meant to be a scary, outdoor, nature beast. I mean, I dunno, really, but I've never actually heard that foxes(?), ~~foxeses~~, ~~foxai~~, ~~feese~~, ahem, foxes make good pets.

But, I was curious, so I asked if he would wait while I ran to get my camera and he was kind enough to give me a wink and take a seat on the driveway until I returned.
And then I figured since he was being all cooperative-like, he might be a nice fox and I should rethink the whole, Do foxes make good pets? question. He seemed kinda huggable at that point, you know? I thought about letting my dogs out to interview him in hopes we'd all agree that Mr. Fox could move right in to Blognut Manor with us...

...but it was not to be. You know why? 'Cause the little demon dropped the cute 'n cuddly act and started looking at me like I was some sort of fuzzy, blue steak.

No, no, Mr. Fox, we mustn't eat blognuts. Blognuts are NOT fox chow.

I Belong To a Group... or Two... or Ten

2010-01-17T23:22:00.004-06:00

I’ll admit it; I’ve been spending too much time on Facebook and neglecting my blog. Although, in my own defense, I didn’t have much time for either this past week.

I’ve found that Facebook is like group therapy or something. There’s a support group for everything! How friggin’ cool is that?!

I joined a group where a bunch of people understand how much I hate it when one string of my hoodie becomes longer than the other. And imagine how much less alone in the world I felt when I found the group for people who understand that no matter how hot it is, I can’t sleep unless a little piece of blanket is on me? FINALLY!!! Someone gets me!

Of course I also joined a group called Bacon, and honestly, who wouldn’t love that group? Bacon is good and it goes with everything. I shouldn’t forget to tell you about the group I found for people like me who are ready to admit that when we were younger, we put our face next to the fan to hear our robot voice. Totally. I’m waiting for the adult support group on that, too, ‘cause I kinda still do that when no one is looking. What? It’s fun!

Of course I also joined Mom’s Who Drink and Swear, and Whatever I Did When I Was Drunk Didn’t Happen if I Can’t Remember It. Shut up! It’s only fair. I hate it when other people have to remind me of things and it shouldn’t count if I can’t remember it. It’s not like I was so drunk I wore crocs or anything. Oh, sorry. You might like those things, but in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that I am a card-carrying member of a group that doesn’t care how comfortable crocs are, because we think you look like a dumbass in ‘em anyway. I’m in another fashion-conscious group that stands firmly on the belief that leggings are not a substitute for pants. We are right about that, you know?

I also joined I Wait Until the Last Second to Pee. However, if I ever attend an in-person meeting for that group, I will make sure I don’t drink anything because we can’t all run for the bathroom at the last second, can we? There’s bound to be an issue with that.

And, because I’m a little like Marcia Brady when she first started high school and joined all those clubs, I joined Sarcasm Society, Stop Being an Ass Hat, OMG STFU Already, and Procrastinators Unite… Tomorrow.

Do you think I should join I Have a Group Joining Problem, too? Tell me honestly.

Positively Wednesday

2010-01-13T06:33:00.001-06:00

Instead of doing a Wednesday post where I complain about things and say “WTF!” a lot, I’m going to do something different. I’m going to stay positive and try to be nice. What? SHUT UP! I said I was going to be nice.

I’m going to tell you about things that make blognuts happy and you are going to like it whether you want to or not, because if you are rude to me when I’m being all nice-y and stuff, I will get mad and then I won’t be able to stay nice. Got it? No, that was not a run-on sentence. Why ya’ gotta be all judge-y and critical today?

Here we go, in no particular order:

- Diet Pepsi. You knew this already, but I like it. About twelve times a day. It’s worth mentioning again.

- I like seeing people stumble and then try to act like they did it on purpose. Right. Doesn’t everyone walk around “pretending” to almost fall?

- Walking around the mall pretending to almost fall. Wait! What?

- The looks on my dogs’ faces when I stare at them and then tip my head sideways like I’m contemplating them. This seems to blow their little canine minds.

- Overhearing my son pretending to audition for American Idol. Trust me, he only makes it to Hollywood in his mind, but it cracks me up anyway.

- Bank examiners. Oh wait! That’s not true. Unless they’re dead. Then I like them just fine.

- Speaking/Writing in fragments. Don’t know why. Just do.

- Being fuzzy and blue.

- Smoothies. I love them even though I never thought I’d like them. Just the sound of the blender and knowing they’re in there makes me happy.

- Mr. Blognut, the blognutians, and warm, fuzzy friends. But not in a blender or anything. Just next to me.

- Pay day. I love it real big.

- Finishing lists.

Okay, now I’ll go post this on the ‘fridge or somewhere obvious so I can view this inspirational list of happy things throughout the day and not get sucked into the drain of negativity.

Ode to Winter...

2010-01-10T21:26:00.006-06:00

I found this beautiful winter poem and thought it might be of some comfort to those of you enduring single-digit temperatures this week.

It's very well written and I hope that you enjoy it as much as I did.

" WINTER "

by Abigail Elizabeth McIntyre

Shit! It's Cold!

The End.

I'm a Fashion Trendsetter!

2010-01-09T10:19:00.004-06:00

Did I mention that I kinda hate to shop? Rare is the day that I wander off to the mall and try on “fun” outfits the way I used to, and I’m wondering if it’s because I’m just not “fun” anymore.

It’s gotten so bad that I actually run out on my lunch hour when I really need something, so that I can avoid the crowds and be “in and out” in no time. What am I? 100?

And like any good geriatric shopper worth her salt, I hardly even bother to try on my purchases. Know why? Because I am THAT boring. I know what size I wear and I generally know what styles will work for me. Likely as not, I’m simply replacing some important staple in my wardrobe of banker costumes, such as a white blouse. Be still, my fashion-drenched heart!

And so it is that when I am in need of something less work-y and more “fun,” I find myself dreading the whole shopping experience because I may have to break down and try on something before I can buy it.

No good can come of this! I will either find something I like and buy it in every imaginable color so that I can spend the rest of the season running around looking like a Gap commercial, or I will learn the hard way that NOTHING FUN FITS ME and wallow in round, blue-bodied depression the rest of the day.

But wait! There is hope! I have an idea and I think it’s something you all should seriously consider before you shoot it down, okay? This will work if we do it together, but if we have one dissenter, the plan is shot to hell.

We should break down the fashion circus and agree on a simple uniform of sorts. This way we'll all be "in" and we can take the stress and guesswork out of shopping while preserving our right to good comfortable clothing that doesn't hug curves we'd rather not mention. Not a burka, by any stretch, but a comfortable, cheerful hoodie sweatshirt. Here’s my suggestion:

What? It’s GENIUS and you know it!

If we're all wearing it, you never have to worry about showing up anywhere under-dressed again. And really? You have to admit there's something kinda familiar and cute about this shirt.

It's Never Going to Work Out

2010-01-04T20:42:00.002-06:00

So… this whole working out at the gym thing? Is for the birds.

I am a bundle of raw ouch.

See, I went back to the gym and I’ve been faithful for days. I tell you I am the very picture of dedication. (SHUT UP! I CAN TOTALLY HEAR YOU!) I’d started running again at home on the treadmill, but it isn’t the same as going to the gym and having to push yourself a little harder ‘cause people are looking, you know? Looking can be a good thing in small doses.

Only now I’m in trouble because I threatened to poke out somebody’s eyes for looking because she didn’t understand the whole “small doses” thing. I think people should adopt some sort of exercise etiquette and not be looking at me when I run and lift weights. That’s all I’m sayin’, but we’ll see what the membership review committee has to say about it.

Another problem? The whole ouchy thing. I may or may not have been reading a book written by that Evil-Ripped-Alien-She-Devil of a person who may or may not have been a part of that TV show where all us bulky people go on national TV and bare our souls as well as most of our bodies. You know who I mean? (Yes, Chris. I still have your book from, like, two years ago, and I have no idea what sort of cupcake-y looking food item is smeared on page 33, but I’ll try to get it off, ‘k?)

I am here to tell you that the Evil-Ripped-Alien-She-Devil is a sadistic bitch. First of all, she says in her book that ~~stealing~~ owning her book is not enough. She says you have to actually COMMIT to her exercise plan and do exactly what she has written. Hellooo! I do not even know what she is asking me to do, much less have the flexibility to bend my furry, blue body into those positions. And what the hell is a plank, anyway? You want me to balance on my what? Is that even possible?

Anyway, that Evil-Ripped-Alien-She-Devil is going to hurt you and smile while she is doing it. Do not ~~borrow her book from your friend and never give it back~~ buy her book unless you want to find yourself walking like a naughty cowboy and barely able to lift your arms up high enough to wash your hair.

That’s my advice. I am always looking out for you.

Some Things Will Never Change

2010-01-03T20:14:00.000-06:00

I think I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I don’t really do the resolution thing, although I do try to chart some sort of course and head in that general direction most of the time. (Where “most of the time” means when I think of it, or when I’m not ticked off about having to do it, or when I feel like it.)

Then I came across Lisa’s blog post about the things she has no intention of changing in 2010 and I thought to myself, “Self, (because that’s what I call myself), you can totally commit to NOT CHANGING!” Hell yes, I can! That Lisa is a friggin’ genius!

So here are some of the things I have no intention of working on or changing in 2010:

I will continue to be intolerant of people who are willfully stupid.

I will continue to freak out if I get a wrinkle in my sock and I will sit down wherever I happen to be to straighten it out right away. I will also continue to differentiate between the right sock and the left sock to reduce the occurrence of these annoying sock wrinkles.

I will continue to subconsciously count the number of times a person overuses words like like, whatever, and you know, when speaking to me.

I will continue to insist that the stereo volume in my car be set to some multiple of 3.

I will continue to wince in pain whenever I am forced to walk behind someone with visible panty lines. To that end, (heh, “end”), I will continue to prefer thongs on my furry, blue ass - as I truly believe this gets to the bottom of the problem. (Heh, “bottom”.)

I will continue to be immature and laugh at my own butt jokes.

I will continue to be distracted by shiny things... constantly.

I will continue to leave things until the last minute, operating under the delusion that I function better under that kind of pressure.

I will continue to forget to renew my license plate stickers until well past the due date so I can spend quality time with local law enforcement officers who have nothing better to do than pick on me when I was just minding my own business and driving safely along in an unhurried fashion in a car that was mostly compliant anyway. Bastards.

I will continue to ramble mindlessly, occasionally forgetting to arrive back at the original point I was trying to make.

Assuming I had a point in the first place.

Goodbye 2009 - Hello 2010

2009-12-31T19:40:00.004-06:00

All right - here's the toast. Is everyone ready? Diane? Stop chugging your champagne as fast as I can pour it, okay? Slow down and work with me, here.

And Otin? No one said you could drink double-fisted over there. I see ya', Dude. You're right next to Michel who is currently fighting over a beer bong with Mo. Shame on you two.

Ummm... Pastor Sharon, we're not going to play Twister right now. In fact, you're not allowed to play at all 'cause you'll pee on the mat. She? Cheri? Back away from the M&Ms for a minute, I'm trying to say something important. Dar? Help me keep the peace here, will ya'?

I was about to give a New Year's toast. God, you guys are a wild bunch.

Now then... ahem... raise your glass...

...

...

... do I hear crickets?...

...

Crap! I forgot what I was going to say.

Happy New Year, anyway!

"New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual." - Mark Twain

Santa's Gifts Tell Their Own Story

2009-12-27T22:55:00.005-06:00

Well… it happened. Santa actually listened to me! Well, kinda, anyway. I didn't get my winning lottery ticket, (obviously), but I did get all of Michel's Christmas presents!

A couple of weeks ago, I had the presence of mind to let Santa know that Michel had been rather complain-y and whiney all year and was maybe a little less deserving of her presents then, say, ME. I was just doing my civic duty or something, because you all know it’s kinda true and I have been extra good this whole year and was well-deserving of her presents in addition to my own.

So. I am quite certain that the suspense is killing you, but here is the list of items that Michel obviously asked Santa to bring, but I got ‘em. I think we can learn a lot about our friend from this little list:

Little Debbie Christmas Tree snack cakes (that are already all gone because, you know, they really are kinda tasty).

Talking Battleship. Seriously, Michel? Dork.

Rosary beads. Apparently Michel anticipated that she would celebrate the birth of Jesus with a beer pong game and get herself in the kind of trouble that she’d have to pray herself out of in a big way. Should I send them to her?

A megaphone. No shit. A megaphone. The people of Sudan thank Santa for not letting that fall into Michel’s hands. As if she needs some sort of sound amplifying device so there would never be any way to escape her whining.

Workout clothes. Michel? THERE ARE SOME THINGS SPANDEX SHOULD NOT BE ASKED TO DO. Just sayin’.

A pool boy. Honestly, Michel, Josh would not be happy about this. I’m willing to keep this to myself.

Karo syrup. The white kind. In a plastic bottle. Much like the workout clothes, I have no use for this item.

Last, but not least, well kinda least ‘cause it has no real value, is a note from Santa that states he is not a drug mule, nor is he licensed to dispense medicine, so he could not deliver Adderall or any of the other mood-enhancers that Michel requested.

Apparently she will be whiney again in 2010.

A Little Note to Myself

2009-12-19T11:16:00.003-06:00

Dear Blognut,

You are fast approaching the season when you are wont to look back over the past year and evaluate everything you’ve done or not done. You will be tempted to hold it all up to the light for closer inspection, wade through the details, and get all judge-y and harsh with yourself.

While you’re at it, you’ll see some things you did well, some things you didn’t do well, and some things that you are still hoping to finish. You’ll remove some of your old goals from the “To Do List” and you’ll add some new ones for the upcoming year even though you steadfastly deny ever stooping to make New Year’s Resolutions.

If I may be so bold, (and I may, since I’m having this conversation with myself and all), I’d like to suggest, dear Blognut, that you give yourself a little credit, recognize that you are a work in progress, and note that you will always be a work in progress. It is highly unlikely that you will ever arrive in a place called, “Done,” and yet there can be a certain peace found in this traveling. For example, remember the old days when the traveling felt more like you were bobbing around like a cork at sea? Sure, you still have those days, everyone does, but you know, for the most part, that you are where you belong and you are not at all lost. That is peace and progress.

Look around you, my fuzzy blue friend. There is Mr. Blognut right over there to your left, and there is a whole pile of noisy blognutians running about and acting all crazy and weird. They make you happy and whole. They are what matters most to you. And look at your friends! For you have some very, very good ones, you know? You have both the bloggy and non-bloggy kind who make you laugh ‘til you cry, or sometimes cry ‘til you laugh. Either way is fine – they are all wonderful people.

My point? You have what you need, Blognut. Focus less on the actual timelines, and more on the growing. Do that, and things will continue to fall into place. You had a good year and a lot to be thankful for; there is no reason to think that 2010 should be any different.

Happy travels!

Peace to you,
Blognut

This blognut is planning to take a few days off to enjoy the Christmas holidays. I wish you all the best kind of holiday season whether it is Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or Donut Day. Know that I will be around stalking your blogs from time to time and you are never safe from my watchful, googly eye. See you all in the New Year or maybe a little sooner!

Dear Santa... Can we talk?

2009-12-17T20:35:00.005-06:00

Dear Santa,

So as not to risk any misunderstanding or chance of disappointment again this year, I wanted to take a moment to drop you a letter. I know you get a lot of them this time of year, but if I could just have a little of your time, I'd really appreciate it.

Last year I specifically asked you for a winning lottery ticket and you failed me even though I double-secret promised you that I would share and I said pretty please with sugar on top, whipped cream, a cherry, and little ground-up sprinkles.

Dude. I do not take that shit lightly. Do you not understand the importance of this request? I plan to use the money to feed the poor ~~blognutians~~ and educate children all over ~~blognut manor~~ the world. I have a really big heart like that, Santa, and blognuts are really all about instant gratification.

Think how easy I am making this for you. I have not asked you for 20-30 items that you and your elves will spend weeks and months hammering together up there at The North Pole. Oh, no! I asked you for one tiny, little, not so terribly inconvenient for you request. That is all. ONE THING. ~~I can go out any buy my own 20-30 items that poor little third world children spent weeks and months hammering together without bothering you one bit.~~ ~~Think of the labor costs you are saving!~~

Also? I don't like to think of myself as a tattle-tale, but I think it's only right I should tell you that Michel has been naughty and very complain-y and whiney this year. You can bring me her presents in addition to my winning lottery ticket if you want to. She knows she was bad and she will understand that it has to be this way because I was full of extra goodness this year. Just sayin'. You know? In case your listmakers really didn't state that clearly. I know how hard it can be to find good, competent help these days, Santa. I totally sympathize with you on that.

Ok, thanks, Santa!

Love,
Extra-Good Blognut... who has done nothing at all bad this year ~~that anyone knows about~~ and should, therefore, be entitled to the one simple, little thing that she wanted for two years in a row. Two years, Santa! Two! One, TWO!!! I love you.

I'm Done, Dammit!

2009-12-15T21:26:00.003-06:00

I originally posted this two days before Christmas last year. I found myself sitting down to write a post tonight that was becoming eerily similar to this one, so I decided to save myself the trouble and just go with a re-run since I had only about six people read it in the first place. Also? Hello... I'm really lazy... and I'm tired... and Diane? This was the very first post of mine that you ever read. Happy Anniversary, Darlin'!

I made the mistake of stopping at Target today to pick up "one more thing." Uh, right. When have I ever gone there and come out with ONE thing? I swear I have been in that store at least 10 times in the past month and bought no Christmas gifts* because I couldn't find anything I wanted. *Note, I did not buy Christmas gifts on those trips, but nowhere does that imply that I didn't buy anything else.

So today I walk in there thinking I'm just going to grab up the item that I decided to settle on for my mom because a one-way ticket to somewhere far really wouldn't be a very nice gift. Suddenly it's as if Target has changed their entire inventory into perfect gifts for the kids and one of those items was mocking me at that very moment.

Ummm... I need no more gifts for these children and I tell myself so right away. Stop the madness, your kids are spoiled enough as it is, get OUT of this store. Look away! Run, don't walk. There's a Starbucks** up front, get yourself a triple Espresso Truffle and get your big, chocolate-lovin' butt back into your car. **Because it makes more sense to give your money to Starbucks for the good of your big, chocolate-lovin' butt than it does to buy more unnecessary crap for the kids.

Alas, no, it was not to be. I looked away once, twice, three times... and then I picked up the item that had caught my eye. The internal argument was lost, the economy lives another day. I not only bought the item that tormented me, I had to find two more gifts to keep everything even because, according to the spreadsheet***, I had already balanced the number of gifts and the amount spent per child within a reasonable tolerance level and I was throwing off the entire thing. ***Yes, if you must know, there is a spreadsheet complete with formulas. I am a banker, it's what I do, what do you want?

Tomorrow is another day, and I refuse to set one foot inside of any store. Not even Starbucks, because I will end up purchasing 3 coffee mugs and that's just nuts. I vow to leave all forms of payment behind, to go straight to work and straight home. I will not even stop for gas. God knows these kids don't need any gas cards, ice scrapers, or jugs of window cleaner and I know I can't be trusted to bypass any of these perfect little last minute gifts for the kids. The economy will have to learn to survive without my assistance.

Who Cares?

2009-12-13T18:00:00.010-06:00

I gotta ask a question. And if you just had that fleeting feeling of, “Oh, no! Here she goes again!” hit you upside your head, you are wise beyond limits, my dear readers.

Excuse me for a second while I go shower and put on some make-up, because if I’m going to jump up on my soapbox and draw attention to myself, I want every blue hair in place.

Be right back.

*jeopardy theme*

Okay, I'm back. Here’s the thing.

For the love of God and all that is holy, who in the hell cares how many women Tiger slept with outside of his marriage?

Why? There are so many important-y type things going on this world; like hunger, healthcare, education, and the economy, to name a few. Why are people hanging on every shred of news they can find about Tiger’s affairs? The only people who should be so absorbed in the details and in the depth of his obvious sickness, are his wife and family. What difference does it make to us whether or not she knew, should have known, or didn't know? He's a pig. She found out. The "when" of it, and the "why" of it don't change our daily lives one bit.

We build our sports figures and movie stars up to such high levels of greatness and we create in them a sense that they can do no wrong, (because we allow it and we choose to ignore it when they break laws and such), only to rejoice in their failings. WHAT is wrong with this world?

I’ll say this just once. He’s obviously got a problem; a huge problem. And, as I’ve been saying all along, I can’t back his wife for beating the hell out of him with a golf club, but I can’t exactly promise I wouldn’t do the same thing, either. Also? I’m all over her beating the hell out of his stuff and I’m pretty sure I would throw Mr. Blognut’s stuff out into the yard and set fire to it if he ever cheated.

With that said I think we should all move on and let this family work through their stuff in relative peace and quiet.

I also think that we should stop turning ordinary people who happen to excel at either sports or being beautiful, into superheroes who think their behavior has no boundaries. And we should stop soaking up every tabloid or internet website that details their bad behavior so that our various media outlets don’t get rich off of it and can go back to reporting shit that matters.

That is all.

F-F-F-F-F-F-REEEEEEZING IZ ME

2009-12-10T11:44:00.006-06:00

Blognuts should not be stored in temperatures lower than 65F.

Just this very morning, when I got into my car and started off on my icy journey to Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, my dashboard thermometer said 3F. Did you hear me? I said THREE.

I'll repeat it again for those of you in the back, blognuts should not be stored in temperatures lower than 65F.

Every single one of my blue hairs was tipped with frost. Also? I'm fairly certain that one of my googly eyes froze, chipped off, and then rolled under the seat of my car.

To avoid having this happen EVER again, and because I can't afford to freeze off my one remaining googly eye, I'm going to have to insist that some of you warmer climate dwelling bloggers invite me to visit for the winter.

To ease the burden, I think you should all work together to come up with a schedule so I don't ~~get stuck anywhere boring~~ wear out my welcome in any one place for too long.

Also? Since I'm really helpful like this, I will refer you to a previous post illustrating how very easy it will be for you to take care of me.

Now, where else are you going to get this kind of thoughtful, detailed instruction?

WTF Wednesday - Blognut is REALLY CRABBY

2009-12-09T10:39:00.003-06:00

I have absolutely no idea why this post showed up in everyone's reader today, but it's cracking me up. I have a WTF Wednesday post from December showing up on Tuesday, February 2nd. Seriously? I'm not the LEAST BIT crabby today, but I'm going to leave it here because it is a testament to WhatTheFuckery everywhere!

I’m due to post, but I’m feeling a little unpleasant today. Enter at your own risk.

I’ve decided that there is something wrong with the world. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but most of the world’s inhabitants are annoying to me today. Sure, there are those of you winking and nodding at your computer screen at this very moment and saying something deep and wise, like, “Well, Blognut. The whole rest of the world CAN’T be the problem and the common denominator is you.”

DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT COMMON DENOMINATORS!!! And SHUT UP. And WHAT.EVER!

Also? This may be a good time for me to mention that I’ve actually killed people for less than that. Calling me on my shit is something you can do another day, but I don’t recommend it today.

So. What I need from you is simple: 1) Pat me on my fuzzy, blue head; 2) Tell me you love me; And, 3) Sneak quietly away while you still have your hide.

I promise to be more civil tomorrow… or to at least be quiet.

Simple Rules So I Don't Have to Hit You

2009-12-07T19:50:00.006-06:00

Dear Chicagoland Drivers,

(Where "Chicagoland Drivers" equals "people other than Blognut," who, it just so happens, drives fine.)

Today was our first real snow on a commuting day and there are some things that I need to remind you about if there is any chance that we are going to get along amicably over the next several months. As such, I’ll need you to read and commit the following things to memory:

1. Two inches of snow is not a reason to drive five miles an hour. It’s like rain. Treat it like rain and move on with your drive.

2. The lines on the interstate are where they always were – even if you can’t see them – so you are expected to know where your lane is and stay in it.

3. The same is true of parking lots. A little snow is no excuse for pulling your car into a lot and stopping wherever you like. You need to park in proximity to other cars or you are a dirty rule-breaker.

4. Front-wheel drive cars can not do doughnuts in parking lots unless you drive in reverse circles. Do I have to tell you everything?

5. If I appear to be tailgating you on the highway, it’s because Mr. Blognut still hasn’t put any windshield wiper fluid in my van and I can’t see a thing. I’m hoping to get up close enough to you so that your tire crap splashes up onto my windshield and I can use it to clean off my window a bit.

6. Do not slam on your brakes when I am tailgating you for this, or any other reason. I have no qualms about hitting you. Not because I can’t drive, mind you, but because you annoy me.

7. Don’t annoy me. The body shop sends me Christmas cards. Don’t make me prove to you that they like me best.

They really do.

8. I am in a bigger hurry than you. It's a simple fact. Don't try to understand it, just move out of my way.

9. I mean it; MOVE.

10. Pay attention enough for both of us and we'll get along just fine.

Sincerely,
Blognut

You Think He's Not Telling Me Something?

2009-12-04T22:20:00.007-06:00

The Boy went to his first school dance tonight...

...this is the position he strikes while telling me about the girls he DID NOT actually dance with, but who "may have been next to him" during the songs.

Heh. :)

A Happy Healthier Blognut?

2009-12-02T17:08:00.007-06:00

I started taking a multi-vitamin today so I can be healthier or something. Blognuts don’t really like multi-vitamins; especially multi-vitamins the size of the Goodyear Blimp. I’m just sayin’ that I did it anyway… with coffee… like an idiot… but now I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all started because I went into GNC yesterday to buy something for The Boy for Christmas. (Heh, see that, GNC? I should totally get paid for this little commercial.) Anyway, while I was there, I got side-tracked and ended up looking at the multi-vitamins because they had this big sign that said blognuts my age should probably be taking some sort of something that would keep our bones from crumbling to dust and our blood from becoming iron-deficient and thereby useless. Honest - the sign said that.

So… I bought the multi-vitamin to prevent all sorts of serious ailments that would bring about my early demise. (You’d see the humor in that if you understood that I spent the better part of the day today begging people to shoot me, but that is a separate matter and therefore not relevant to this story.)

Anyway… my mind wandered for a second, but we can get back on track now. Incidentally, these mega-vitamins are supposed to help me focus, so you can see that is working really well.

Where were we?

Oh yeah, the vitamins. So… I left the vitamins in my car last night because I knew that I would remember to take one if they were sitting there on the seat in my car since I spend an inordinate amount of time in my car and that’s where I think of everything. And it worked. The vitamins greeted me with a big, sunny grin this morning and reminded me that I needed to start taking them. You know… so my bones don’t turn to dust and all.

But I had no water.

I had only coffee. HOT COFFEE. Coffee that was SO hot that I probably could have sued someone for about 83 million dollars if I spilled it in my crotch had it not been for the warning on the lid that said something brilliant like, “Caution: The beverage you are about to enjoy will actually scald the blue fur right off of you and take about 88 layers of skin along with it.”

I wonder what made them think I would enjoy a beverage that hot.

But there I was all excited about these new vitamins and I forgot about the hotness of the incredibly hot coffee I was about to really not enjoy at all because it was so hot, so I popped the vitamin into my mouth and took a big swill of the burn-y hot coffee.

YEE HAW!!! MOTHER OF GOD!!!

I burned off all but one of my taste buds and could most likely eat shit today and not know it or taste it as long as I kept it away from that one remaining taste bud. And did I mention the big-ness of the vitamin being all ginormous and huge like the Goodyear Blimp? ‘Cause it just sat there in my mouth, only the coffee had also burned off the protective layer of might-this-really-be-Teflon that prevents you from finding out that your vitamins taste like a bitter blend of battery acid and dandelions if you have at least one working taste bud. So I had to take yet another big swill of the burn-y hot coffee. As you might have guessed, this caused my tonsils to actually dissolve. So that’s a problem solved right there, isn’t it? ‘Cause blognuts don’t really need those, do they?

Anyway, you’ll be relieved to know that I got the vitamin to go down my throat on the third swallow, and it apparently went straight to my kidneys and turned my pee into a cosmic radioactive vibrant yellow that I have never before seen, but I kind of like, so I’ll keep taking them if only for the entertainment value of looking at that color and giggling about it whenever I pee.

Giggling about pee makes me happy.

Christmas is Coming and I'm Threatening to Bake

2009-11-29T20:55:00.003-06:00

The halls are decked here at Blognut Manor. The tree is up, the lights are lit, and the air is filled with the smell of… chili. You heard me. That’s the smell. And I daresay it smells better around here now than it probably will smell tomorrow. Welcome to Sunday night football in December.

I know what you were hoping. You wanted me to say that I’d been baking oddly shaped cookies with red and green frosting and all manner of sprinkly sparkles. I hear ya’. I’ll get to it in the next week or two. There will be cookies. There will be cranberry bread. There will be fudge. Why? Because that’s what we do. We bake that shit every year, but we never eat it all. Aside from The Boy, we blognuts aren’t big sweet eaters.

We save the prettiest cookies to put on trays when we go to parties, and I take the ugly ones to work. Those people don’t care if they eat ugly, so long as they eat. And let me tell you when The Boy gets to decorating cookies, he uses every single available color, sprinkle, sparkle, and candy on every cookie. We end up with sprinkly, sparkly dinosaur egg-colored cookies. Honest. The cookies he decorates come out taupe because all of the colors blend together, and then he sprinkles them half to death. So I’d just like to say that I’m grateful for my co-workers at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, because they eat all the ugly cookies.

Me? I eat the cookie dough.

No Good Can Come of a Bored Blognut

2009-11-22T19:13:00.007-06:00

You may have figured this out already for yourselves, but I’m here to tell you that blognuts are a dangerous thing when they are bored.

Blognuts start pondering questions too big for their heads. Deep questions like these:

Why isn’t the number eleven pronounced onety-one?

What do bald men put on their driver’s license where it asks hair color?

When something is messed up, we say it is out of whack. When someone is screwy, we say they are a whackjob. What the hell is a whack?

If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren’t people from Holland called Holes?

If Americans can spend 409 billion dollars/year on sports, 134 billion dollars/year on fast food, and 130 million dollars on movies in one weekend, why do we have so much trouble feeding our hungry, educating our young, and providing medical insurance for everyone?

Yeah, I know. That last question is just silly.

What Did Blognut Learn This Week?

2009-11-20T09:27:00.006-06:00

I have spent the week in hell. I have endured meetings to discuss budgets, conference calls to discuss budgets, board meetings, compliance presentations, and meetings to discuss improving customer service.

Not to state the obvious, but in my simple mind, it would seem we could actually solve all of the world's problems if we stopped having so many meetings and got to work. Oh well, that wasn't my point.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah! I wanted to tell you what I have learned this week. Not about budgets, compliance, or customer service, mind you; that would imply that I actually paid attention to the topics in the meetings I attended. We know better than that, don't we? Instead of absorbing the information, I occupied my attention-deficit disorder by critiquing the speakers. Heh. Why not?! And just to show you what a good friend I am, I have gathered up a few of my notes from the week to share with you because I am always looking out for you. I really should be your best friend.

Ten Simple Rules for Speaking In Meetings

1. If you don’t know the meaning of a word, don’t use it.

2. If you don’t know how to pronounce the word, don’t use it.

3. If you neither know how to pronounce it, nor know the meaning of it, don’t try to give examples to illustrate the meaning of the word. You will look like a fool.

4. Don’t use the word.

5. If someone jumps in to save your silly looking ass by asking a question using the word that you have repeatedly mispronounced, take the hint.

6. It is NEVER appropriate to end a sentence with the word “at” unless you’re giving an example of poor grammar.

Ie. Where do you live at?

Would it not be easier to simply say, “Where do you live?” Think of the time we’d all save!

7. If you’re given three minutes to speak at a board meeting, do not take fifteen. Your topic was not interesting in the first place, and covering it at all was merely a formality. Just take your three minutes and go away.

8. If the attendees in the meeting begin to cry and stampede for the door, you should stop talking and take your seat.

9. When prompted to wrap up your presentation, now ten minutes past its time limit, do not try to stick to your plan of reading power point slides to the group. Smile and WRAP IT UP.

10. Nice suit.

From BLOB to BARF

2009-11-17T22:43:00.003-06:00

Your favorite blognut went on what we shall henceforth call the Blognut Likes Obese Butts plan, or BLOB for short.

The BLOB plan was easy to follow. I’d spot food with my googly round eyes, and I’d stuff it into my cookie-hole. If it didn’t outrun me, it was fair game. If I felt bored, I’d eat. If I felt tired, I’d eat. If I was depressed, I’d eat more. The plan works best if one swings from salty cravings to sweet cravings like a mad pendulum, forcing one’s blood-sugar to bounce like a pogo stick.

And then I saw it. Success! The BLOB plan was working. I no longer had to turn my back to the mirror in order to see my butt. It was fully viewable from the front because it was beginning to seep around the sides of me! Well, hello there, Blognut Butt!

And then it hit me. This was not success. This was some sort of sick addiction and it had to end.

Enter the Blognut Ass Reduction Formula, or BARF for short. I am officially throwing the BLOB plan to the wind and adopting the BARF plan.

What do I eat now?

It’s simple! It’s genius, really. I should write a BARF book and make a BARF DVD for those who can’t read the BARF book, but still want to be rid of the BLOB ways.

If you see a food and it makes you want to BARF, you can eat it. If it only makes you want to BARF a little, you can only have a little. If it doesn’t make you want to BARF at all, you can’t have it.

Brussel sprouts? YES
French fries? NO (And I only just found this out, which makes me SO sad.)
Little Debbie? She’s a bitch now.
Okra? ALL YOU CAN EAT, BABY.
Lump-ass Cottage Cheese that feels like maggots in your mouth? Well, sure. Eat up.

You getting this?

I think skinny people are secretly very angry.

Really?

2009-11-16T09:57:00.004-06:00

I know I feel better now.

I'm going to go out on a limb and predict it isn't ending today either, but I could be wrong.

Happy Monday!

Mr. Telephone Man

2009-11-12T17:50:00.004-06:00

Dear IT/Telephone Guys at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust,

I am writing to request an upgrade to the company voice over IP phone system. By upgrade, I mean that I would like my phone to work. I would like it to NOT sound like I am underwater when I initiate a phone call. I would like for the hold music to sound catchy and snappy, and nothing at all like a funeral dirge or a Gregorian chant.

Also? You know those status notes that we place on our phones when we log in? The ones where we choose from things like: available, in a meeting, do not disturb, etc? Yeah, those. They're kinda like multiple-choice Facebook statuses for work. Can we add some choices? ‘Cause I’d really like to be able to notify people in advance of what they will be getting if they call me.

You see, I’ve been a bit cranky lately. I admit it, I’ve been cranky! See what a big person I can be going all out there and telling it like it is? And since I’m willing to do that, I’d like you to add some statuses to the phone system so no one will be able to say that they weren’t warned, and then there will be no reason for me to have to pretend to be all nice-like. I’m listing a few of my suggestions because I’m helpful like that.

The phone system will say Blognut is…

...On the brink
...Not interested in helping your lazy ass
...Going to drop you straight into voicemail if you call
...Thinking of the perfect spot to hide your body
...Reaching for a sharp object

Could you guys do a girl a favor and get this done today? It will save me a lot of time and effort, really. ‘Cause I’m tired of having to be nice to people, and I’m thinking if they can see the danger they’re in before they call me, then it will be all their fault if they call me anyway and I get sorta snippy with them. See! I'm a genius!!! ALL THEIR OWN FAULTS, AND TOTALLY NOT MINE!!! You want to applaud me right now for finally figuring this out, don't you?

Also? If you’d just do this one little thing for me, because I hardly ever ask you for anything, I will promise ~~with my fingers crossed~~ to stop asking you to change the hold music to “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” by Twisted Sister even though you have to admit it’s a good idea.

You guys rock,
blognut

WTF Wednesday - What's On TV?

2009-11-11T11:38:00.002-06:00

So… as I mentioned earlier this week, I’ve been stuck home during the day. Stuck home is okay with me, except I’m getting fat and I concocted some sort of flour and water paste in my mouth that was reminiscent of a dentist’s mold. Not good. It took me hours to open my mouth, but you’ll be glad to know that I persevered.

Let’s talk about daytime TV. You know I rarely watch TV at all, but I’ve had some extra time on my hands while lying on the couch with a sick little boy. I flipped through the channels and found nothing. Exactly nothing.

It’s not like there weren’t any programs listed in the guide, but other than college soccer, none of them appealed to me. Are there really people out there who go their whole day watching Judge shows? And is this shit for real? Judge Mathis, Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Alex, Judge Karen, and Judge Hatchett?

Am I the only one who wants to make sure that I never have to be tried before a judge named “Hatchett?”

No good can come of that. I’d rather take my chances with those knuckleheads on The View.

So I flipped to the movie channels and found out we don’t subscribe to any. WTF? We have Dish Network and no movie channels? I guess it doesn’t matter though, as it has taken me about two years to even notice that we don’t have them.

Scrolling on through the guide, my googly blue eyes about jumped out of my head when I came to the adult channels. Yeah, we don’t have those either, but I could sure read the titles! Now this is entertaining:

Chica Booty Banger

Black Butts Rising

Disobedient Nymphos

If You Like Me, You’ll Love My Mom
That made me throw up in my mouth a little.

You get the drift here, right? WTF? People watch this? No wonder I never turn on the TV! Apparently I don’t need to though, because with titles like this, the TV is probably already turned on enough without my help.

Blognuts Can Never Work From Home

2009-11-09T13:00:00.007-06:00

So… I am home all day today because The Boy? Well… he’s sick. How much do you want to know? Yeah, it's probably that.

And I am learning some things about why I cannot EVER be allowed to work from home on an ongoing basis. I have issues with self-discipline. Were it not for the fact that there is absolutely nothing in my kitchen pantry that appeals to me, I probably would’ve eaten myself into a food coma by 9AM. However, fortunately, the cupboard is bare here at Blognut Manor, but that has not stopped me from checking it every few minutes just to make sure that the grocery elves haven’t snuck in there all sneaky-like and stuffed it full of Little Debbie snacks.

Damn those elves! Why have they forsaken me? I think a trip to the grocery store is going to be necessary soon because people can’t just eat flour and saltine crackers and expect to live a long, healthy life.

Plus, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but if you eat flour and saltine crackers, you need to make sure you don’t inhale with all that powder in your mouth because you could choke to death on that shit and that’s going to be one hell of an embarrassing story for your funeral. Just sayin’ that you might want to give that some thought.

Oh, and have a drink handy, too, because OMG… DRY!

Who You Callin' Sugar Doll?

2009-11-08T20:57:00.003-06:00

McGillicutty, to whom I am eternally grateful for the happy-time linkage and the thoughtful bloggy award, tagged me the other day and is ~~making~~ ~~forcing~~ requesting that I tell you ten ~~flat-out lies~~ ~~complete fabrications~~ unknown things about me. You know, where ‘unknown’ equals ‘things you don’t already know’ ~~and you can’t really prove anyway~~.

WHAT? McGillicutty? I haven’t told you people enough already?

I’ve been blogging regularly for, like, a whole year almost, so I can’t think of any ~~interesting~~ tidbits I haven’t already ~~bored you to tears with~~ shared along the way.

I mean, I probably already told you about the time I got really drunk and… oh, wait! Never mind. I didn’t tell you that because HELL NO, I’m not going to tell you that!

And then there was the time that I… oh, shit! I can’t tell you about that because ~~you’d probably go dig up the body~~ I might have to kill you.

SEE how hard this is for me? Do you feel my pain? Okay. I’ll just tell you ten things I probably didn’t mention before, but maybe I did, and you’ll have to get over it.

Let’s see…
1. I ate a toaster strudel for breakfast today but I didn’t use the frosting packet because that makes it too sweet.
2. I have 32 children named George.
3. I am the very picture of organized and attentive when it comes to my job.
6. I am irritated by the numbers four and five.
8. And seven. Seven is over-used.
9. I’m concerned about my over-use of hyphens and the fact that Word doesn’t seem to care. Word will allow you to hyphenate any-thing without complaint.
10. I have the attention span of a flea and listing 10 things is far too big a commitment for me, so I might have cheated a bit.

Okay, then. As you can see, I’ve done my duty here and I’ve ~~told several lies~~ earned my reward.

I get to put this on my sidebar and ~~tag ten more people~~ invite whomever would like to carry on this riveting bit of self-disclosure on their own blog to participate.

No pressure here folks, I am the anti-rule follower. Or does that make me an un-follower? And there's that bloody hyphen problem again, too. Do I? Don't I? WTF?

Five Fourth-Grade Homework Lessons

2009-11-04T20:00:00.002-06:00

I realize that the title of this post is somewhat misleading. You were thinking, maybe, that we were going to talk about five things that a fourth-grader might study, right?

Wrong.

We have no actual idea what it is that a fourth-grader actually studies and/or what said fourth-grader is actually supposed to learn.

Oh, no, we do not know. We do, however, have a very deep and painful understanding of what it is we, the parents, actually learn during the fourth-grade homework process.

For example:

1. We have learned that a studying fourth-grader can actually fall right out of his chair. And bounce. Fourth-graders bounce.

2. We have evidence that fourth-graders are much more highly skilled arguers than they are mathematicians.

3. We have seen that all fourth-grade math, in order to be successfully completed, (where ‘successfully completed’ equals ‘filling in the blanks’ as opposed to being answered correctly), MUST be preceded by two hours and forty-five minutes of whining and arguing.

4. We have learned that free-reading time, to a fourth-grader, is measured on a different sort of clock; a clock where one minute of standard time equals ten minutes of fourth-grader reading time. And that said fourth-grader will lie like hell on his reading log, and then ask you to sign it.

5. We know that a fourth-grader, while reading an assigned article about Dr. Samuel Kountz, Jr., a pioneer in organ transplantation, will discover that he cannot actually lick his elbow, but that it is fun to try.

I wonder what fifth grade will teach me.

Real Friends Would Not Try to Make ME Work

2009-11-03T21:23:00.002-06:00

Dear Facebook Friends,

You all know I love you, right? I do. And I understand your need to spend oodles of hours on Facebook doing whatever it is you’re doing to avoid responsibility.

I totally get that. I do it, too.

However, I do not understand games like Farmville and Yoville. Please stop inviting me to join those places, or worse yet, to work for you on your farm or in your bakery.

HELLO! Which part of my coming home from my real-life job (that I am almost too lazy to do), only to have to go back out to pretend to work on your pretend farm or in your pretend bakery, did you think would appeal to me? You surely did not think I would pretend to be happy about that! Did you? Really? I didn’t think so.

The only way I’m going to join Farmville is if they add in the ability for me to send locusts to your farm or burn your crops.

The only way I’m going to work in your bakery in Yoville is if they give me the ability to poison your sticky buns.

I AM LAZY. It would be my goal to have you fire me from pretending to work in your pretend ‘villes.

Also? I realize the holidays are near and you’re going to be overcome with the urge to throw snowballs at me, or send me pretend Christmas trees and pretend stockings, and pretend presents. Throw snowballs if you must, but please realize that sending me pretend stockings and pretend presents is cruel. I want real presents and real stockings with real candy inside. Blognuts do not like to be teased.

Thank you for your cooperation.
Love,
blognut

Membership is a Privilege Which Must be Earned

2009-11-01T21:00:00.005-06:00

The Boy asked me for my credit card the other day. He wants to join an online game site for kids, called Club Penguin, and put the monthly subscription fee on my credit card. He has taken a vow to annoy the crap out of me until I let him.

He said all of his friends are members.
I said I am not responsible for all of his friends, I am responsible for him.

He said he would like to be responsible for himself, effective immediately.
I asked him if he had found a job yet, and/or a rich wife.

He said he does not have time for a job.
I said I knew this already. And since he can barely make time to do his homework, I don't see how an online game subscription will assist him with his time management issue.

He said he would do his homework every day without having to be reminded.
I laughed. He will SO not do his homework every day without having to be reminded. The child has to be reminded to pee.

He said he would pay me back.
How? I had to ask. Is this child planning to start pushing down old ladies and stealing their social security checks? Or turn to pick-pocketing and stealing tips off of restaurant tables?

He said he would do chores.
When? I asked. This child can’t even pick up his own laundry off the floor and has yet to ever perform any small task without threat of death and dismemberment. (Simmer down. Blognuts are not violent people.)

He said life is not fair.
He’s right, I agreed. Life is most certainly not fair.

He said it’s wrong for parents to deprive their children of the opportunity to play online video games with their friends.
This is a mistake that I can live with, although I admit it will be difficult for me.

He said I am the meanest mama in the whole world.
My work here is done.

Death by PowerPoint

2009-10-29T16:08:00.001-05:00

So… I had to go to a training meeting.

A six-hour meeting,
that tested the limits of my patience,
and took me beyond the outer perimeters of my sanity.

Where the speakers were clearly getting paid by the word,
and they read every word of their PowerPoint presentation to me
right off the screen that I could clearly see for myself,
on the wall right in front of me
or on the hand-out they provided to me.

And I, the round-headed blue Bloggus
could not find a strong cell signal in the entire godforsaken room.
My MotoQ was rendered impotent
and I was completely without entertainment
until I realized the gift I had been given.
The gift of time and weird people.

I was left with no choice
but to look around the room
and notice things I should never have seen.
Like the fact that the woman next to me hasn’t shaved her legs in a week,
and the man with the perfect hair,
if it’s 1970.

And when I ran out of people to silently make fun of
I turned to the voices in my head
because that’s always fun, too.
Don’t try to hear them,
they only speak to me.

The worst thing about the meeting?
They didn’t even have Diet Pepsi.
Effers.

WHO Made This Mess?

2009-10-27T21:42:00.001-05:00

This is my top desk drawer at work and I get mad every time I open it because I can never find a single thing. I have no idea why that is, but it IS.

And so I’ve been working on cleaning out this drawer.

It looks like an ‘I Spy’ puzzle, doesn’t it? And it is NOT getting any better because I NEED all of these things.

I need my smiley face bubble necklace, and the crayons, and the pliers. I can’t live without the easy button, the flash drives, or the princess pencil topper. I would die without the mascara, the colored post-its, and the glitter ball that lights up when you bounce it. I’d be forever covered in dog hair without the lint brush, I’d look like the undead without the mascara, and I’d smell like it without the toothbrush.

I JUST CAN’T DO THIS JOB WITHOUT MY TOYS!!!

Because Blognuts Do NOT Complain... Really

2009-10-25T14:10:00.005-05:00

Dear Hotel People,

Specifically, the hotel people where Mr. Blognut and I stayed this past weekend,

I am not one to complain. SHUT UP! I AM NOT! However, there are a couple of things, (maybe, like, four things), that I need to bring to your attention.

1) When your website asks if I want a room with a pool view, or a room with a wooded view, and I check wooded view, I do not mean that I want you to throw a stick or two on my patio. I was actually thinking I would look out and see trees, you know? And I wouldn’t even care except you asked me what I wanted, and I told you.

2) So, yeah, you can assume that my not-really-a-complaint #2 will be that I had to listen to all the screaming hooligans in the pool because I had a pool view room (with two sticks on the patio).

3) And let’s talk about that patio for a moment, shall we? You know, the one where I open my backdoor and have to turn sideways and suck in my gut in order to actually hang around out there? You should not call that a patio, you should refer to it as an outdoor closet. I’ve seen bigger port-a-potties.

4) The bugs. I like them better outside than inside, just for future reference. The ladybug infestation was one thing, but when those weird not-quite-flying, not-quite-leaping, cricket-y, water-buggy, satanic cootie-carriers started showing up, I was kinda grossed out ‘cause, you know, blognuts do not like bugs, and this was a little like the Amityville Horror, only not flies, you know? Next time, leave me a can of Raid, 'k? I will be sure to note that in my reservation if I ever come back.

So, like I said, not being one to complain and all, I’m not complaining. I’m just letting you know how it is so you can make a note of it. It was still worth it to get away without the blognutians, and to see Chris Daughtry in concert, because he is man-candy and I would totally like him whether he could sing or not, and we really did have a nice weekend. Although, now that I mention it, Mr. Blognut and I would manage to have a nice weekend without the kids even if we had to sleep in the car, (not that we don't like our kids, 'cause we do), so there's that. And now that I think about it, there are no bugs in my car. Huh... maybe next time.

Regards,
blognut

At Least He's Clear About What He Wants

2009-10-22T22:05:00.004-05:00

THIS is why you shouldn't leave the grocery list on the counter where The Boy can find it.

However, I would like to point out that that The Boy is clearly brilliant and also kinda frightening. He thinks that by adding healthy delicious snacks to the list, we won't notice that he has asked for Cheez-Its, Pop-tarts, and two boxes of hot fudge sundaes.

And if you're thinking that this kid is never going to win a spelling bee, I think you're probably right. He probably won't win any penmanship awards either. I can live with that. Because that apple? Didn't fall far from the tree.

WTF Wednesday – Is Nothing Sacred?

2009-10-21T00:27:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine mentioned to me this morning that she heard Cookie Monster is being replaced by Veggie Monster on Sesame Street. Naturally, I, the furry blue Blognut, went ballistic and got all “WTF?!” on her.

"Noooooooo!” I screamed. “Do not fuck with my Muppets! That shit is not funny!” It’s a good thing we were talking by phone, and that She lives in LA, ‘cause I might otherwise have accidentally killed her for being the bearer of bad news. No offense, She. I totally love you and all, but I take that kind of shit really badly, so you only want to be saying it while I’m wearing a straight-jacket, and you probably should make sure I’ve been up a few hours and had a couple gallons of coffee, too. And even then, you have to distract me with something shiny right away so I’ll forget I was feeling violent for a second there. Just sayin’, you know? It’s all good now. I was never mad at you, just those dumb muppet-fuckers who were trying to make Cookie Monster eat brussel sprouts.

The theory is that if Cookie Monster didn’t eat so many cookies, American children wouldn’t grow up with obesity issues. What kind of shit is this? They expect us to teach kids to exercise and eat right? This is America!

Are you friggin’ kidding me?!

Cookies have been raising American children for centuries. Who was there the first time you scraped your knee and needed a band-aid? Did your mama give you a stinkin’ zucchini, or did she give you a cookie? You’re damn right, she gave you a cookie, ‘cause your whiney ass would’ve started crying harder if she’d given you zuchini. You and that cookie forgot all about that bleed-y knee thing and went back outside to play, didn’t you? Oh yes you did! And a couple of days later, you picked the scab off your knee, made it bleed again, and scored yourself another cookie, didn't you?

And what about when you were a teenager and you got your first nasty pimple? Did your sister tell you to go out and run around the block, and then come back and eat some okra? No she did not! She told you to go pop the shit out of that goozer and come get a cookie. And you felt better, didn’t you?

How ‘bout when your first real boyfriend broke up with you? Did your best friend hand you a cucumber and tell you to get over it? Well, she might have, and that’s beside the point. But she didn’t say that until AFTER she gave you about twelve chocolate chip cookies, some fudge, and a bottle of vodka. And? YOU FELT BETTER!!!

Anyway, after my rant, I went and did some research on this whole thing and, according to Snopes, there is no evil plot to overthrow Cookie Monster and replace him with Veggie Monster. I feel so much better now. But let this be a warning to you, if any of you start plotting against him again, or any of his other Muppet friends, you are going to have to deal with Blognut. And that? Will not go well for you my friends.

How Do We Fix This?

2009-10-19T11:02:00.006-05:00

Sometimes the world we live in is so screwed up that I’m almost ashamed to say I’m a member here. And then I realize that if I think it’s screwed up, there are likely to be a few people who agree with me, and maybe if we work together, we can fix some of the problems.

And then my head explodes and bits of blue matter and fuzz spray all around the room.

What am I talking about, now? You’re wondering, aren’t you?

Yesterday afternoon I was checking on some sports scores on TV and I saw something that captured my attention, so I went to the internet to do further research.

You’re thinking, “Blognut, you don’t watch TV!” Mostly, you are correct. However, I do kind of pay attention to the football scores. I like a little football here and there, and I try to stay on top of it because Mr. Blognut has this whole pretend world of fantasy football thing going on throughout the entire season. If I want to be able to have any conversation with him at all from September to January, I need to be able to open it with some insane football fact in order to get his attention. Alas, perhaps this is a blog post in and off itself.

Anyway, I digress.

What I found out yesterday when I was checking scores, was that there was a player on one of the teams who was penalized for a late hit against a player on the other team. (Yes, it would be easier if I told you the names of the players, but I am loathe to have all those google hits land here today, so bear with me.)

So the team was given a penalty, the player was ejected from the game because it was a pretty nasty hit and it was after the other team signaled for a fair-catch. He’ll probably get a huge fine and maybe even be suspended for a few games. And judging from what I saw in the replay, he has it coming, but it’s all part of football. After all, it is football and not a tea party, so it’s reasonable for any player on the field to assume he will be hit on a given Sunday.

The bigger issue? One player was African-American, and the other was White. Humph. Imagine that. It didn’t occur to me that this should be an issue as there are players of multiple races on every NFL team, but there you have it. The sports blogs were alive with racist comments and all manner of stupidity around this game. I was there moments after the penalty occurred, and there were already 735 comments. The depth of hatred I saw was incredible. Why? Why does it have to be about race? Why can’t it be about a safety and a punt returner from two opposing teams? One of whom may or may not have missed the signal for a fair catch, and may or may not have hit the player from the opposing team anyway. Is it likely that the safety had time to think about the punt returner’s race? Did he pull up a chair on the 50-yard line and assume The Thinker’s pose, carefully weighing his options on the play and factoring in the question of race? Or, is it reasonable to think that he was caught up in the play and just did what football players do?

I can’t help but think that people who leap automatically to the issue of race have a hatred that has practically been bred into them. And then I wonder if we can’t all try to see around race and even commit to teaching our kids a little appreciation for diversity, rather than teaching them to fear it. Maybe, just maybe, if we work really hard on this together, we can make some changes.

There's Something I Have to Tell You

2009-10-15T14:49:00.001-05:00

I have a confession to make. Not one of those confessions where I tell you all about something horrible I did, and then I beg for your forgiveness. It’s something entirely different.

Clowns just scare me, man. They’re freakish and unnatural. Even the sad looking clowns creep me out a little bit and make me all, “WTF?! How can this clown be so sad, he’s a friggin’ clown. He must be lying. He’s trying to reel me in with his sad face and his painted on tears, but he’s really going to eat me.”

Do clowns eat blognuts?!

Crap! I never really considered this question, but I think we should talk about it now because I have a clown in my house.

He’s right the hell here, keeping an eye on things, living way up high in the corner of my kitchen. I think he hopes that I will forget he is there and then he will eat me.

See!

By the way, can I ask you a question about this particularly creepy beef-eating clown?

HOW CAN HE PROMOTE THE CONSUMPTION OF BEEF AND FRENCH FRIES?

Is it not true that some of his closest friends include Mayor McCheese and the Fry Guys?

Does this not prove to you that clowns are trying to reel you in so they can eat you?

When is the last time you saw the Fry Guys? And don’t be blaming the fat guy, ‘cause Grimace didn’t eat those fries! I’m tellin’ ya’ it was the friggin’ clown!

And what kind of clown lets a guy named Hamburglar run around stealing all his hamburger friends? I’ll tell you what kind of clown. The same kind of clown who would probably let a guy named Dogburglar walk his dog. Just sayin’.

What's next?

I think we have to protect our children from this sinister clown! And I? Might have to get this thing the hell out of my kitchen!

Dude, Do Your Own Job!

2009-10-13T14:52:00.006-05:00

Dear Lazy Ass,

I’ve been holding my tongue for a while now, (which is mildly unpleasant because I have a lot of hand lotion on today and it leaves an undesirable aftertaste), but it’s high time we had ourselves a little chat.

You are a customer-facing employee in this organization. Your job is to sell the customers on the idea that they can’t live without us, and to provide first-line support and service to them. Now this is just a little tip from me to you, but you might want to consider getting familiar with our services. Just sayin’, ‘cause it might make you a bit more successful in your efforts to gather commercial deposits. Not that your success is that important to me, but I do care when you leave a customer bobbing around like a cork at sea and that is the ONLY reason why I continue to rescue your incompetent ass.

Also? Since my job is not to do your job, but to do several of my own jobs, I would totally appreciate NOT having to do your job. ‘Cause I don’t like your job. Not that I always like mine either, but it’s mine and not yours. If I liked your job, I could get that job. Notice that I do not have your job and that is because, as I stated a moment ago, I do not like your job. I also do not like you. Sorry, I tried, but it was not meant to be.

And so, since we’ve got all of this out in the open now, you should be aware that the next time one of YOUR customers calls me directly on MY CELL PHONE, on MY DAY OFF, asking for help with something because you failed to explain it to them and then GAVE them my FRIGGIN’ number, you will have to remove my cell phone from your rectal orifice and then use it to call 911 to come and get you. I promise.

Have a nice day,
Blognut

WTF Wednesday - Some Advice

2009-10-07T11:09:00.008-05:00

Because I am this person drowning in work...

I've been having a hard time getting around to the blogs lately and I'm missing a lot of my bloggy buddies. To make it up to you, and to remind you that I truly do look out for you, I'm giving you a WTF Wednesday public service announcement. You know... some advice you can take and apply to your daily living.

NEVER ASSUME it's going to be a dry fart. Just hold it 'til you get home.

Effing Monday

2009-10-05T12:55:00.001-05:00

I couldn't decide whether to say MONDAY SUCKS, or MONDAY BLOWS.

Either is fine with me, but let's put it to a vote.

Is This Really Happening?

2009-10-01T22:21:00.002-05:00

Unless you’re living in a bubble these days, you’ve been hearing all kinds of stuff on TV, the radio, and around the ‘net about Roman Polanski. If you’ve done your homework, you know that he admitted to raping a 13-year-old girl; that he took a plea on a lesser charge; that he then fled the country the night before his sentencing hearing; and that he has gone on about his business for the last 32 years or so. He’s continued to live his life, make films, and win awards for his art.

But what about that girl he admits to having raped?

No matter; it was just a kid, someone else’s kid. And kids are resilient; they can get over anything. Forgive and forget, right?

Does that sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me? Forgive? I don’t know about that. Forget? ABSOLUTELY NOT. These things have a way of coming at us when we least expect it. It is NEVER gone.

Sure, his victim is 45 now, and she wants all of this media attention to go away. She wants the courts to let it go, too. How ‘bout we get out of her face for a minute? Let’s give her the privacy she deserves. Is it any wonder that she wants all of this to go away? Maybe she really has gotten past it, and maybe she really has forgiven him. For her sake, I hope that is true. But don’t think for a minute that she has forgotten, or that she doesn’t have days when her memories threaten to eat her alive.

But obviously, according to the actors who are embracing him, what happened to her is not such a big thing, and this guy, Roman, he’s had a really hard life, maybe even suffered enough already. Oh.

Ask Woody Allen, Peter Fonda, Whoopi Goldberg, Penelope Cruz, and scores of others who are signing petitions to free Roman Polanski. They’re outraged that he was arrested. They’re panicking at the very thought that one of their own might be held accountable for a crime. Really guys? Is it too much to ask that you live by the same rules as the rest of us?

And honestly, Roman, do you want Woody Allen to be the guy charging up the hill for you? I believe he married his step-daughter. He’s probably not the right guy to have on your team at the moment.

If you ask Otto Weisser, the fact that Roman is brilliant should outweigh the little mistake he made 32 years ago. Is it a little mistake because it wasn’t your daughter, Otto?

Ask Peter Fonda and you’ll hear that he believes authorities have bigger fish to fry than Roman Polanski. Maybe so, Peter, but they finally caught this one and they really shouldn’t throw him back. It sends the wrong message to rapists and their victims, doesn’t it?

And according to Whoopi, it wasn’t really a rape rape. I do wonder, Whoopi, what the hell does this mean?

"I know it wasn't rape-rape. It was something else but I don't believe it was rape-rape. He went to jail and and when they let him out he was like "You know what? This guy's going to give me a hundred years in jail. I'm not staying," so that's why he left.

Rape rape, Whoopi? As opposed to what? Do we do this in ½ steps now? We have not-really rape, sorta-kinda rape, rape, and rape rape? Which of these do you choose for yourself, Whoopi? Which of these aren’t a big deal, and hardly worth the bother of punishment?

Roman Polanski is not above punishment for his crimes just because he is famous. If anything, I think he should be held to an even higher standard. And running for 32 years didn’t make it go away or lessen the fact that he drugged, raped, and sodomized a 13-year-old. Time may heal the wounds of his victim, but it does not undo the horrible things he did to her. And let’s not forget that the man admitted it.

A Rant About Stuff

2009-09-28T20:28:00.003-05:00

I seriously planned to be in a good mood this week. I was gonna be all done being pissy about stuff, and I was gonna go around with a smile on my face if it killed me. (Which it totally might have, but I was willing to try it for the good of all mankind.)

But NO. It’s over. I’m not even going to pretend and I refuse to smile and be nice to people. I have a stuffy nose, a cough-y cough, achey ears, a headache and a hurt-y chest. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS WHEN I DO NOT FEEL WELL.

There. It’s out. It’s an ugly truth, but we’re all going to have to live with it.

And so, it only stands to reason that everyone else is stupid today.

And tomorrow.

I know they will be totally stupid again tomorrow, too. There’s no way around it.

All those people at work, and all those customers who should know better than to show up at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust when I don’t feel well, are UNREASONABLE with their needy little selves. RIDICULOUS.

I DON’T CARE if they don’t like service charges. Who the hell ever said banking was not-for-profit? We have plenty of free accounts and free services from which to choose, so if you don’t like service charges, may I suggest maintaining a POSITIVE balance in your account? ‘Cause really, an overdraft is just an unsecured line of credit without your bank’s permission. Guess what? Did you ever get a free loan? NO. NO YOU DID NOT.

Okay. I’m done. Sorry. I’ll try to be more reasonable next week. And yeah, I’ll totally reverse your overdraft charges.

Feel Those What-Do-You-Call-Its

2009-09-26T11:29:00.008-05:00

As you know, October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. (Should month be capitalized? I’ve seen this both ways.) (Heh. Month goes both ways.)

Ahem. Grow up. Where were we?

Oh yeah, I was saying, it’s almost Feel Your Boobies Month. (And if you don’t have any, then for God’s sake, feel someone else’s.) Cheri did a post yesterday and also followed up with an email reminding me to schedule my smash-o-gram, so I called right away and was able to get in there this morning due to a cancellation, and now it's done.

The tech that played peek-a-boobie with me made me laugh. Seriously, she was standing there with my boob in her hand, and she asked me if I had implants. Ahem. A little honesty here? They aren't that big, and they certainly don't give the impression that anyone has made a financial investment toward improving them. They just don't. So I lied. I said, "Yes. Yes I do have implants. I bought the really expensive and realistic ones that let your breasts roll into your armpits and/or drop to your knees the minute you whip the underwire off." I think I made her day.

And the rest of you? Can totally make my day by doing two things.

1. Pick up your phone and schedule yourself a good old-fashioned hooter honkin’ mammogram RIGHT NOW, and then keep the appointment. Also, if you're worried about the cost, there are probably a couple of free breast screening opportunities in your area in October since it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month and all. Make some phone calls, you hear me? It's important.

And, no, this is not the kind of free mammogram I'm talking about at all. In fact, I am pretty sure this is Otin. Don't fall for this. (Otin, don't trick the girls this year, okay love?)

2. Humor my inner child and leave me comments with some slang words for breasts, mammograms, and/or bras because that kind of stuff really amuses me. I’ll pick out the funniest ones and send the winner a duffel bag full of dog hair. (But you’ll totally have to send me your own duffel bag, which I will gladly fill FOR FREE with only the softest and highest-quality dog hair that money can buy.)

WHO WILL BE THE BIG WINNER?!!

I’ll start you off with a few words –

Yabbos
Boobage
Gedoinkers

I AM SOOOOO IMMATURE!!!

**Our friend Diane, the owner of the other half of my brain, is participating in the Breast Cancer Walk in Washington DC in just two short weeks. Are you ready, Diane? ‘Cause I heard it’s going to snow. Heh. If anyone wants to make a last minute donation toward Diane’s goal, click on the pink ribbon icon in my sidebar right over there <= and make her day.

Sanity has Abandoned Blognut

2009-09-25T00:43:00.000-05:00

I've had a rather tenuous grip on my sanity these last few days and it finally just up and left me. I am kinda needing to borrow someone else's for a day or two. You know, just until mine grows back or something.

I won't want to keep it forever. I'll return it, I promise. My fingers are only a little crossed right now, too, so you can tell I totally mean it.

I'm asking nicely. Anyone? Pretty please?

WTF Wednesday and Another Acronym that Applies

2009-09-23T05:43:00.003-05:00

I took a Facebook quiz called, "What's Your Mental Disorder?" the other day. It confirmed what I already knew, just in case you were doubting that I am a smart blognut.

I've always said I have self-diagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder, and now I have Facebook some-moron-wrote-a-diagnostic quiz-and-I-nailed-it ADD.

So it must be true.

Wait! What were we talking about?

Here's what they say about it on Facebook: Though you aren’t really crazy, you do have issues. You are impulsive, hyperactive, and not to mention easily distracted. You can’t sit still and you don’t exactly think before you act. You just need to learn how to chill and everything will be good.

Yep. That's me.

The Unwelcome Guest

2009-09-20T19:58:00.001-05:00

We had company this past weekend. The little bastard showed up, uninvited, unannounced, and unwelcome. I know what you're thinking. It wasn't my mother, but it was almost as bad. LOOK!

A friggin' scorpion, Africa-bug, satanic cult-leading, vengeance-seeking asshole of a spider.

Look at him! He knows I hate spiders! He's mocking me. Do you see it? He's all, "See me over here taking over your kitchen, Blognut?" And I'm all, "Do whatever you gotta do 'cause you don't scare me and I'm not getting down off this counter until your ass is cold in the ground," on the outside. On the inside, I was all "Mother of God, get that effing cockroach eating bastard of a mother-humping asshole Oh my God, do you think he's a scout? furry backed killer OUT of HERE!"

But I couldn't say all of that out loud because the blognutians were there. I mean RIGHT THERE. They were up on the counter, too. Blognutians do not fall far from the Blognut Tree. See? I have proof.

But before you start thinking I can get wise and try to blackmail them with pictures of them huddled on the counter in fear for their very lives, you should know that they are proud of their fear. They own it.

You should also know that the picture up there shows Girl #1's cell phone lying on the counter. So while I was busy documenting their fear, they were busy documenting mine.

That's me. Huddled on the kitchen desk fearing for my life. (Notice I saved my Diet Pepsi, too?) Those are my white knuckles. I might have been screaming. They might have been laughing. But one thing is certain, we were all keeping an eye on that spider until Mr. Blognut slayed the little bastard and saved the day.

And that is how I shall deal with all unwelcome guests from now on.

Hey! Don't Pull That!

2009-09-18T11:19:00.003-05:00

Remember how I mentioned a while back that I was getting old? And how I mentioned that I started growing a mustache to celebrate my getting-oldness? And how I threatened to start keeping tweezers in my car because, seriously, that’s like the onliest time that I can ever actually SEE the hairs growing on my upper lip? And how, even then, the only ones I can actually see are the hairs growing on the left side of my upper lip because the sunlight is hitting them directly?

Did I really tell you all of this, or did I maybe dream it? ‘Cause if I didn’t tell you, I’m sure I meant to.

So. Here’s me driving down the road this morning, having been told only moments before to stop texting, (because my friend She was totally looking out for me), when I turned my attention to the sunlight shining in on the left side of my upper lip. Yep. There it was again. A mustache. Or, half of one. I can’t really be certain.

Either way, full or half, I leaned in close to the mirror to inspect the problem, and reached for the tweezers which now have a permanent home in my console. (Because somehow, She, tweezing while driving is waaaay safer than texting, and I get too bored in the car to focus my attention on just one thing; like driving.) I went to work with a vengeance on that blonde shrub and that’s when I saw the horrifying black hair.

I assumed it wasn’t mine. It couldn’t be mine, could it? I mean, after all, up until now there has never been a black hair ~~of my own~~ on my entire body. (TMI?) And this one? Appeared to be growing out of my nose.

I figured I must have inhaled ~~someone~~ something hairy. What else could it be?

So I grabbed it with the tweezers and gave it a yank.

CHRIST on a POGO STICK! That effing hurt! It wasn’t actually growing out of my nose. No, it had to be growing out of my brain. Maybe I absorbed my black-haired twin in utero and the hair actually belongs to her. I do not know. All I knew was that hair was somehow connected to something and now it was on fire. And? I had tears streaming down my face from the searing pain of the experience.

Now that a few hours have passed, I’ve had time to accept a couple of things. First of all, I am not becoming an old woman, I am becoming an old man. Secondly, the greater purpose of my time on this earth is to serve as a warning to others. You’ll want to cut those hairs if you grow them, not pluck them. Just sayin’.

Carry on – my work here is done.

I'd Feel Better If You Knew

2009-09-16T22:31:00.004-05:00

I have a confession to make. You know how I broke up with Starbucks last week? And how I implied that I needed to learn to regulate my caffeine intake? And how I blamed Starbucks for trying to boost me up to a six shot habit?

Well…um…er…this is really hard to admit.

We’re still seeing each other.

I forgot that it was Pumpkin Spice Latte season, and that Peppermint Lattes are right around the corner, along with Gingersnap Lattes and Eggnog Lattes. As soon as I realized the gravity of my error, I was all WTF? and how do I fix this?

Breaking up is probably a bit harsh, don’t you think? I mean, after all, it’s not like Starbucks cheated on me or anything. I don’t have to make any rash decisions, do I?

Also? Michel totally went out of her way to convince Starbucks that I didn’t really break up, and I can’t have her efforts going to waste. What kind of friend would that make me?

So I decided that I would give Starbucks another chance, at least for the next several months until we get through the special seasonal beverages, and then I’ll figure out what this relationship means to me.

Meanwhile, I’m going to drown myself in Pumpkin Spice Lattes and pretend to be happy in this relationship. And? I won’t really be pretending. Pumpkin Spice Lattes make me very, very happy. They also give me an orange tongue and make me look like I’ve been licking an Oompa Loompa, but it turns out that's a good look for me.

Happy Friggin' Monday

2009-09-14T05:23:00.000-05:00

Blognut would like a day of rest today. Do you know what Blognut’s weekend looked like? Or why Blognut has stepped outside of her round blue head and started referring to herself in the third person?

I think it’s an illness.

An illness brought on by exhaustion and blognutian overload.

The Boy had three soccer games in three different towns this weekend, and The Girls had a cross-country meet in a place so far south of Blognut Manor that Blognut actually glimpsed a Confederate flag and a gun rack in the back of a pick-up truck.

In between all this running around to the four corners of the earth to dutifully cheer on the blognutians, Blognut tried to get some work done; tried is the operative word. For each time Blognut was able to focus her ADD-infested round blue head on a task, the back door to Blognut Manor would crash open to the sound of The Boy bellowing, “M-o-o-o-o-m!” almost as though he were being chased by an axe murderer or by someone carrying a huge platter of steamed brussel sprouts.

Although Blognut is well aware that there is no axe murderer or brussel sprout-carrying lunatic chasing her son, this wail from the back door is enough to send her over-caffeinated ass into a spin. It’s especially frustrating since Blognut is also well aware that The Boy is merely missing something of great importance, like a shoe or hockey stick, or that The Boy is simply hungry and would like her to set up the peanut butter and jelly buffet for him and six of his friends.

And so Blognut has arrived here on Monday morning without ever having sat down this weekend, and feeling as though there may not have been an actual weekend at all. Blognut has been robbed.

The Break-Up

2009-09-11T10:42:00.003-05:00

Dear Starbucks,

I should really thank you for opening that Starbucks right near Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, where I work, because, had it worked out between us, it would mean that I could actually arrive to the office with hot coffee. However, in spite of your best efforts to accommodate me, I am afraid that we have to break up.

Sure, we can still get together occasionally for buddy ~~sex~~ coffee when I really need it bad, but our regular gig is over. I’m sorry to tell you like this, but it has to be this way. Your new store is expensive-y and your employees are kinda scary.

Yesterday, when I pulled up to the squawk box and ordered my triple-shot venti skinny cinnamon dolce latte, they gave it to me on ice. Hello? Who would drink that shit on ice? I said latte not frappuccino. So I told them of their grievous error and they were really good about fixing me a new drink and they even let me keep the cold one.

And now? I found out who would drink that shit on ice. Me. I will totally drink that shit on ice.

And? It tastes like tar.

Also? I drank every last drop of it anyway.

Why? Hello? TRIPLE-SHOT!!! I need all the caffeine I can get because I? Do not sleep.

So today I gambled. I went back to that same Starbucks and ordered the same latte I asked for yesterday. MY DRINK. And? They did it again. I left with an iced tar beverage in addition to the coffee I actually asked for in the first place.

While I appreciate flying high on six shots of espresso for the 2nd day in a row, on top of the two cans of Diet Pepsi I had while getting ready for work this morning, I am beginning to question my own ability to self-regulate my caffeine intake. You see, I am totally drinking tar again today simply because I cannot stand to see three good shots of espresso go to waste.

It tastes like ass. I'm actually slugging it down in great big gulps and then shuddering from the awful taste of it. And yet? I'M DRINKING IT.

What if my body gets used to this? What if it starts to require this much espresso every morning? Do you see the danger this puts me in? Do you also see me racking up a tab equivalent to the national debt?

It has to end here and, believe me, it hurts me more than it hurts you.

So long,
blognut

A Peek into Blognut's Workplace

2009-09-10T03:52:00.013-05:00

If you’ve been around here much, you probably know that I work for a bank. It’s a relatively decent place to work and I have a nice comfy office with all the necessary toys of the trade; such as bubbles, bouncy balls, and crayons.

I get to work with some pretty interesting people, so I thought I’d take a minute to let you meet a few of them. You know, so you’ll feel more at home around here.

There’s FF himself, he’s the CEO and also my boss. He carries files around and disappears into the bathroom for hours at a time. NEVER let him hand you a file! Make sure your hands are always full, and just tell him to set the file on the corner of your desk. You’ll want to pick that baby up with rubber gloves on, and anti-bacterial gel at the ready. Just sayin’.

There’s Supply Nazi, who, among other things, is in charge of most of the ‘ordering and getting’ around the workplace. She does lots of other important-y things, too. It’s best if we just do whatever we have to in order to keep her happy because she understands that I need special things in order to function. We wouldn’t want her to stop ordering my pink or purple legal pads, would we? I can’t use yellow legal pads; that’s so run of the mill.

There’s the requisite moley lady. Every workplace seems to have one of these. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s got this scary mole thing going on and it plays right into my ADD. I really have no idea what we’ve ever talked about because all I can do is THINK ABOUT the MOLE. And? The HAIR. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

And we have this one teller that is almost 80 years old. She’s really crabby looking, but she’s got a heart of gold. I greet her everyday with a, “Good Morning, Beautiful!” and she just beams. She can’t hear for shit, so I have no idea if she knows what I’m saying to her, but it seems to make her happy anyway.

You’ll also want to know about our loan processor. You’ll never actually get to meet her because she only comes in for a brief landing on Thursdays, and that’s just to refuel her energy supply. She’s all jacked up on Mountain Dew and you can’t understand a word she says because she talks a mile a minute. If, on the off chance, she tries to talk to you, just tell her to send you an email because it’s the only hope you’ll have of actually finding out what she said to you.

Of course there are lots of other people around here, too. There’s Lazy-Ass Lender, Other Lazy-Ass Lender, Slacker-Jack Banker, Detail Devil, Compliance Cop, Princess Panic, Drama Dan, and a host of others. It’s a lot like our own nutty little community right there inside of Bumblefuck Bank & Trust.

And I? Run the asylum.

WTF Wednesday - Smart Kitty

2009-09-09T06:18:00.003-05:00

I didn't know cats could sit up.

A Glimpse into the Pre-School that is Blognut Manor

2009-09-03T21:33:00.003-05:00

I suppose, for various reasons, one could say that I have no patience at the moment. And I suppose that if one did say that, they'd probably want to do so from a distance.

So why is it that when I have no patience, my kids act like three cats in a sack. (Do not call PETA, I did not put my kids or anyone's cats into a sack.)

You would think that name-calling by a nine-year-old could be mostly ignored by his intellectually superior older sisters, even though they did totally deserve it because they were antagonizing The Boy with their evil mind games. But, NO! No way, baby! Instead of ignoring him, the two teenagers decided to lodge a formal complaint and seek justice against their attacker.

And since I'm a little crabby and I have no patience for this, I opted to tell all three of them ~~to pack their bags and move out~~ that they needed to work this one out on their own because I really don't think they would end up liking my form of justice.

Because? Frankly, in my humble opinion, fair punishment for calling two teenage girls, "Butthead Junior," is a popsicle and a trip to the movie store.

Also, if I were them, and my little brother would not stop calling me names, I'd pull his boxers into a wedgie that went right up over his head.

And? If I were him, and my two teenage sisters would not stop trying to blow up my inferior little boy mind, I would soak all of their bras and throw them in the freezer.

Case closed.

WTF Wednesday - The Dentist

2009-09-02T15:55:00.005-05:00

Dear Dr. Death,

We need to chat again. I love you, you know that. Where ‘love’ equals ‘I wish you had actually gone to, and then passed, dental school’ instead of actually just driving by it one sunny afternoon.

I know I whined a bit that one time when you did all those hurty things to my teeth and then sprayed ice water directly onto the nerves that lead to the swearing part of my brain, and I’ll admit that I whined some more about the whole invisible braces thing a couple of weeks ago, but today’s little episode was extra-special and I’d like to take a moment to bring it to your attention.

See, there’s a little-known fact about blognuts and I’m going to share it with you right now since we’re so close and all. We do not actually like it when you say you’re getting floss, then you return with a piece of steel screen and proceed to grind away spaces between our teeth without first offering either a numb-y medicine or four shots of vodka.

Also, when that steel dental floss slips and you cut through our gums all the way to our nasal passages, that kinda hurts a little bit and we are known to take flight around the room and say words like, “Fuckity, fuck, fuck!” right in a row like that. We do not mean to offend, but it is beyond our control. Try not to look so shocked when that happens and maybe avoid scheduling school children to be in the office at that time, ‘k?

And one other thing? Try to remember that you have stuffed all manner of gauze into my mouth, along with pointy objects, squirt-y things, and suck-y things. If my cell phone rings, do not hand me my phone! Whoever it is can call back when my mouth is no longer occupied by a sadistic nut trying to shave my teeth with a power-tool.

That is all, thank you.
Blognut

It Lives

2009-09-01T05:42:00.004-05:00

Hello, my bloggy buddies. Thanks for your emails wondering things like, "WTF?" and "Where are you?" and "Are you okay?" I know I disappeared on you for a few days, but I am alive and all is well. I am sorry to be unreliable. :)

Where have I been? Right here at Blognut Manor. I've missed reading your blogs and I'll make my way around to see you in the next day or two.

Can I ask you all a question? WHY can't you learn to take a few days off when I do? Seriously, it's only polite. I have, like, 9,672 blog posts in my reader and I am loathe to hit the "Mark all as read," button but I think I'm going to have to in order to preserve my sanity. What the hell went on with all of you this weekend that you had so much to say? Is this what happens when I'm not watching you?

Oh, wait a minute! I think I understand now. You were talking about me, weren't you? CRAP! Now I gotta read all this stuff to ease my paranoia?

Here's how you can make it up to me. Leave a brief summary of what I have missed in my comments today - don't tell any lies, either. And be sure to tattle on your fellow bloggers if there is something I should know.

Like, for example, tell me who Dar has been roasting. Did Diane really get drunk and unruly this past weekend? What has Michel been bitching about? Have I missed anything enlightening from Braja or Pastor Sharon? Is Vodka Mom drinking in front of the kindergarten class again?

The only blogger I know who wasn't out stirring up trouble this weekend is She, and I only know that 'cause she was right here at Blognut Manor where I could keep an eye on her. (And did I tell you that She is awesome and I love her? And you should totally get yourself one of these She's to keep around your house, too.)

All right now - enough said. Give me the gossip. Go ahead, you know what to do....

Sometimes I Like to be Annoying

2009-08-27T04:11:00.002-05:00

So… having brought up the 80’s yesterday, I learned that most of us are ~~old~~ big fans of the music from that era. I loved the 80’s music and am known to listen to it even today.

I lived for those big haired boys with tattoos and I am fairly certain that each and every one of those singers loved me best. Especially Jon Bon Jovi, ‘cause he still loves me today and you don’t even need to pretend that he isn’t singing directly to me when I go to his concerts. ~~Be quiet, Chris. He was totally looking right at me through the whole concert and you know it.~~

Anyhoo… what was I saying before I ~~started fantasizing~~ got distracted? Is it warm in here?

Even though I wasn’t a big fan of most of these, all this 80’s talk got me remembering the one hit wonders and I need to know if any of you are still waiting for Kajagoogoo to come out with another song. Are you? DO you remember singing TOO SHY? Oh, I think you do.

Here are some songs from the 1980’s Parade of Horribles:

99 LUFT BALLOONS - Brings back memories of an embarrassing pom dance.

TWO OF HEARTS – What ever happened to Stacey Q?

LET THE MUSIC PLAY – Only Shannon never really played music, did she?

BOOM BOOM BOOM, LET’S GO BACK TO MY ROOM – I think we just liked singing these words; it wasn’t music at all.

WE DON’T HAVE TO TAKE OUR CLOTHES OFF - Oh, but we did, didn’t we? Time and again.

DA BUTT – There was no excuse for this ridiculous song!

DER KOMMISSAR – WTF?

ANGEL EYES – Kill me now.

And let’s not forget that Eddie Murphy once tried to sing – PARTY ALL THE TIME!

All righty then, this should just about do it. You must know at least one or two of these songs. If I have managed to plant at least one of them in your head for the rest of the day, my work here is done! :)

WTF Wednesday - We Will Never Have Time Travel

2009-08-26T05:51:00.002-05:00

I was cleaning out a drawer in my kitchen tonight and I came across a picture of myself from the 80’s.

*shudder*

One thing was immediately obvious to me, and I thought I’d share it with you to see if you agree with this theory.

Old pictures completely prove that time traveling is not, nor will it ever be, possible.

Why, you ask?

Because if it ever really happened, there is no effing way that I wouldn’t have gone back to the 80's and told myself to get rid of that humongous feathered hairdo.

Oh, yeah! I totally would’ve mentioned the shoulder pads, too. WTF!

Ten Reasons Why I Can't Win the Contest

2009-08-25T03:41:00.002-05:00

Assuming that you are a living, breathing person, you are aware that Jane is having a 100th post celebration over at her blog and giving away really cool stuff. And if you know Jane at all, you know that she has some crazy ass work ethic that I have, like, totally never heard of and she had this notion to make us actually work for the giveaways. (No, I do not know what she was thinking either, I am just as confused as the rest of you.)

So instead of buckling down to the task, because, you know, homework really isn't my thing, I decided to ~~make excuses~~ list the reasons why I couldn't get this done.

1. Michel cheats and has some poor Sudanese embassy worker finding the answers in between carrying buckets of sand up to her rooftop so she can have a homemade beach.

2. Damn, this scavenger hunt is really hard and I'm not good at finding stuff.

3. I can’t find my own ass in the dark with either hand (but I’m not too particular about who else does...).

4. The dog ate my homework.

5. And my computer.

6. And the desk it was sitting on.

7. I’m blowing up inner-tubes for Michel since she can’t remember how to build an ark and I’m too lazy.

8. I’m working my way through a box of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.

9. And then I have to go brush my teeth.

10. I never win anyway.

Okay, I'm off to find some more answers and see if I can cheat off of Pastor Sharon's paper. You know she found some divine version of "Scavenger Hunting with God" book and got a head-start on the rest of us, don't you?

What's That In My Pocket?

2009-08-23T21:41:00.004-05:00

I was just sitting here catching up on the news around the world tonight and I read a story about the scandalous put pocketing going on in and around the London area.

I’m outraged! Once again I am in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that I have ever been to London, mind you, but I totally meant to go there. I would have gone there if I had known there was a chance that I would be ‘victimized’ by a sneaking scoundrel putting money INTO my pocket rather than picking money out of it.

Who objects to shit like that?

Big dummies, that’s who, and they are! Big dummies are complaining that they’ve been violated. Oh, please! Violate me! Where do I sign up?

Here’s what I recommend to all of you living and working in the London area, and you’ll have to admit that this is damn good advice if I do say so myself. If you don’t want to be victimized by having someone put money into your pocket, staple a sign like this one on your lower lip. Let me know how that works out for you, too.

(What? Don't look at me like that! If they're dumb enough to not want free money, they ought to be labeled so we can all steer clear of them.)

If you are given money that you do not want, please go ahead and forward that to me. I will be happy to take that off your hands and I promise to put it to a good cause.

There's Something In My Mouth

2009-08-22T09:32:00.003-05:00

WHAT THE HELL'S IN MY MOUTH?

I'm going to be whining for the next two years and that's all I have to say about it. I'm far too old to get braces of any sort, and frankly, I think some of you should have warned me about it before we got to this point. You all seem to have forgotten that the entire purpose of this blog is to provide me with needed guidance. Blognuts should not make decisions for themselves, and should be left lounging about eating grapes and drinking wine while the rest of the world takes care of all the hard stuff.

I mean, really, whose day was it to watch me?

My mouth is ten kinds of hurty and I am pretty sure that my teeth are swollen. Also? I'm starving to friggin' death. In a way, I suppose that is a good thing, but if this keeps up the whole time I have this torture device of Satan's own design stuck on my teeth, I will weigh 12 pounds.

So... here's how you can make it up to me. 'Cause, really, if I could get this, I would reconsider the incessant whining. I promise, 'k?

Can you hook me up?

Update: You know Jane is totally gonna let me win the contest now because she will feel sorry for me and my hurtiness. That lady has a heart of gold.

Style Points

2009-08-21T05:38:00.008-05:00

I'm always the first to admit that decorating isn't really my thing. I don't care about the "latest" in anything, I just want to be comfortable. Also? I'm mostly just lazy. Honestly, I'd probably care a whole lot more if funds were unlimited and someone with an eye for this sort of thing just came in did it all for me.

Just to give you a little taste of my "lack of taste," here are some style shots from Blognut Manor.

Here we have the latest in pointless toss pillows...

sculptures...

(If you're thinking that is a soccerball wearing one shoe and a weird hat, you're exactly right. It makes perfect sense to me.)

and, finally, wall art (or in this case, ceiling art for The Boy)...

Honestly, who wouldn't want to sleep in the shadow of someone named Undertaker?

There you have it. Can someone please call Oprah now and have her come and give Blognut Manor a makeover? I think I've made my case.

The Audacity of Certain People!

2009-08-20T06:01:00.003-05:00

You know how there's this one blogger who happens to be stuck in Sudan for, like, twenty-two years? And how that blogger has a blog where she says facts are strictly optional?

Well, I hate to break it to you, but she's been telling lies again.

She wrote a whole post yesterday trying to convince everyone that Jane at Gaston Studio has called off her contest next Monday. Seriously, are any of you going to believe someone who admits to omitting facts whenever it's convenient?

So you know what I did? I called Jane up on the phone immediately and she told me that ~~Michelle~~, ~~Michael~~, ~~Mitchell~~, ~~how the hell do you really say her name?~~, um...er...Michel was being all pouty and holding her breath, but that she did NOT say she was cancelling her contest or her 100th post.

Ahem. Michel? Is there something you want to say to the group? You know you will be smoted again if you keep up this senseless lying. Do you WANT more time on the floor with Toilet Brush and Rug? Because I spent some time with those two this week, too, and they told me that you weren't exactly friendly to them. Next time they're going to be very hard on you.

Besides, trying to call the rest of the class away from the contest would only hurt you because you know you were going to copy the answers off of someone else's paper, anyway. The contest questions are going to be waaaaaay hard for you and since when do you do your own work? You work for the government, for Pete's sake!

All right, I think I've made my point now and your own guilt will be enough punishment. However, I do want to point out that you are indeed a great friend to me in time of "falsely cancelled contest sorrow" and you granted me this awesome award. (See, you really are made of great stuff but you can't tell anyone I said so.)

Thanks, darlin'! I owe you one, but only if you can give up your evil ways and try to walk the straight and narrow for a little while. Okay?