Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Happy Napper my ass!!

Let’s all enjoy another episode of “Draz should be Mother of the Year” – shall we?

Yes, let’s. “Twill be fun.
Okay so -  Banana is 6 – therefore she still believes HEAVILY in Santa. We’re doing the incessant questioning daily now. For example – I hear any of the following about 50 bazillion times a day.

Is tomorrow Cmas?
When is Santa coming?
Can we leave cookies out tonight?
Will you add more to my Cmas list?
Can we put up more lights?
When is Santa coming?
Is tomorrow Cmas?

It’s fun for about the first 2 hours only.

Anywhoozle, my Banana wants a Happy Napper. Thank you oh commercial makers. She wouldn’t even know what one is if you didn’t run your commercial 24/7 on every cartoon channel that exists.

She wants a unicorn Happy Napper.

Fine. Good.

Well actually NOT fine. The stores here carry every f*cking Happy Napper except a unicorn.

Jesus tits and Mary’s ass.

Sooo being the good mother I am – I order the unicorn Happy Napper online.

While waiting for it to arrive one day I ask Banana what she wants for Cmas again. She says a Happy Napper. Only THIS time she says she wants a KITTEN Happy Napper.

WHAT????

Me: I thought you wanted a unicorn.

B: I did – but not anymore.

Me: There is no such thing as a kitty Happy Napper.

B: Sure there is.

Me: Well what happens if you get a unicorn?

B: Oh I’ll keep it but I really want a kitty one.



Of course you do.

Cripes.

Days later the Happy Napper arrives to my office at work. I bring it home because Banana is not going to be in my car that day. I also get some groceries that day.

I get home. I decide to the play the “see how many bags I can carry before my arms and thumbs turn purple and fall off” game and end up carrying about 16 bags upstairs.

After I ice my back and take a Vicodin and stop hyperventilating (who needs a treadmill)…I take a nap. I clean. I do all sorts of things. I do everything but remember that there is a Happy Napper in my car. In the back seat. Next to Banana’s booster seat.

Until – the next night when we are all going somewhere. Rambo and I tell the girls to get in the car – we’ll be there in a minute.

We enter the garage minutes later to hear squealing and giggling.

What could possibly be so fun about getting in the car?

THE HAPPY NAPPER!

Watermelon is yelling, “Look what we found!” Banana is screaming, “It’s a Happy Napper!!!”

OPEN IT! OPEN IT! OPEN IT!!

Both Rambo and I yell, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Give me that box. It’s not yours. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to open boxes that clearly don’t have your name on them?

Ugh – well –so I immediately say, “Yes, Santa may have given me a present or two early to mark some things off his list. Now forget you ever saw it or I may have to give it to some other kid.”

I tell Rambo it’ll be fine. I’m convinced that this 6 year old of ours will forget the Happy Napper in about 5 minutes.

Days later and I now have proof that I am wrong.

Let me just tell you how the daily conversation has changed since the “accidental Happy Napper unveiling”.

Here’s what comes out of Banana’s mouth about every five minutes now:

Is tomorrow Cmas?
When is Santa coming?
When can I have that Happy Napper I found?
Can we leave cookies out tonight?
Will you add more to my Cmas list?
Can we put up more lights?
When can I have that Happy Napper I found?
When is Santa coming?
Is tomorrow Cmas?
When can I have that Happy Napper from the car?

Moral of the story: Six year olds never forget anything they find that is supposed to be from Santa.

So far Banana has told every person she knows – and some she doesn’t – about the Happy Napper sighting.

Yup – mother of the year – that’s me. Right here.

Don’t hate. It’s really hard to suck this much without even trying.

Friday, November 25, 2011

I'm not really supposed to be blogging.

My family and I are supposed to be sitting around a fire in matching sweaters.  Drinking hot cocoa.  Telling stories.  Laughing so hard our cheeks hurt.  Never wanting the night to end.  Maybe even watching an old black and white Christmas movie.  For sure putting up the tree and watching the lights dance across the ceiling.

And yet, I ask you this...

In whose f*cking house does this really happen?  Who is the asshole at Hallmark who put this vision in my head?  I want to kick him square in the nuts and scream, "LIAR LIAR - your balls should be set on fire."

Oh shit - I probably should have warned you that if you want some Thanksgiving love and cheer - you shouldn't read this.  My life does not belong on the Lifetime Channel.  I cannot wait for this holiday to be over.  I want to vomit just re-thinking about it - and I still have one left to go to.

I'd literally rather clean the toilet after Explosive Man has used it.  With my bare hands.  And no Mr. Bubbles to help me.

I'm not trying to be funny.  In fact, I'm forcing myself to pretend to be funny.

Because the fact that I hate this holiday and the one coming up - hurts my heart.  Badly. 

I feel like it's breaking in two.  To admit that I don't want to be near anyone other than Rambo and my two girls - feels terrible.  Selfish.  Mean.  Un-loving.  Bitter. 

Like I'm worse than Satan and the Grinch all in one.  I am Sataninch.

I wasn't always this way.  Nope - I was the girl who built up the holidays in my mind - knowing with everything in me they'd be perfect....just like the Hallmark cards.

And then they weren't.  And I'd tell myself not to expect too much next time. 

Now I don't expect anything.  Yet I still come away hurt. 

Walking away from the get togethers - trying not to run away so as not to appear rude - felt like a betrayal to a heart inside of me that I know isn't really cold and awful.

I can't be what everyone wants me to be.  I didn't marry the Prince of the Universe according to you.  I can't agree with everything you say and believe in.  I can't make you love me.  I can't be enough for you. 

I can't make you see that me not wanting to be with you - also kills me inside.

I don't want to be that person.  But the truth is the truth. 

I've never wished a holiday away before - until now.  I want it over. 

While that makes me shallow and cold and unfeeling - it also makes me a woman who for the first time in my life is saying what I need and truly feel when it comes to family get-togethers.

I don't have the energy to pretend we're the Bradys.

We never were.  We're never going to be.  I don't expect us to be.  It's unrealistic at best.

I never really wanted that anyway.  I just wanted "normal". 

I just wanted to be in a room with all of them - and not want to run away screaming.

That's all...and it was too much to ask apparently.

God help me but I can't wait to go back to work Monday.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Gift giver backer.

Soooo there's this lovely running joke between Rambo and I about how I return gifts he gets me.

I'd like to point out that sometimes Rambo kicks ass in giving gifts and other times - well - he envisions me differently than I really am.

Like the time he bought me lingerie that included a purple bra.  It wouldn't even cover one entire nipple.  Wanna know why?  It was size XS - as in extra small (or extra stupid).  Um - I had double E boobs at the time.  Extra small?  Really?

And then there's the BIGGIE.  The big gift this joke stems from.  My wedding ring.  We picked it out together - small but beautiful.  And then I waited until he proposed. 

We were in the mall shopping and I lovingly asked, "Sooo, when do I get my ring?"  Screw the romantic shit - I wanted the ring you know?  He said, "How can I put a ring on your finger when you already wear one on that finger?" 

I said, "No problem - here - take the ring I already have on.  Now there's nothing standing in your way."

We continued to shop and by the end of the day I remember saying, "Dude - I can't stand not having a ring on my ring finger.  Give me my ring back if we're not going to do this."  (Jesus, I was lovely, wasn't I?)

He did.  He slipped my ring back on my finger as I kept digging through clothes racks...telling him to hurry up without even looking at him.

20 minutes later I realized I was wearing my engagement ring - my diamond that he had been carrying in his pocket to propose that day - and I looked at him and he asked, "Will you marry me?"

I know, I know - it makes you almost verklempt, doesn't it?  Almost.

A month or so later - the main diamond was cloudy and had a flaw in it.  You bet your sweet asses I took it back and got one very similar.  But no matter the reason - I'll never live it down.

For about 5 years or so I haven't worn it.  When we were married 10 years, I got a bigger ring so I replaced it with that.  Plus my original ring had lost a tiny side diamond and the prongs needed to be fixed.  Just this week, I finally got it fixed.  I made Rambo pick it up and told him I wanted him to re-give it to me so I can now wear it as a pinky ring.

When I got home there were shitloads of roses all the way up the steps.  About 20 zillion candles lit.  Our wedding song playing in the background.  A Coach purse I've wanted forever and a glass of wine ready.  And Rambo on his knee - with my tiny wedding ring that we bought when I was 19 - asking me to marry him again.

Okay - I totally lied.  That's how it was supposed to be in my head.  In real life...I was in bed going to take a nap and Rambo came to tuck me in - and without a single word he took out my ring and smiled and I held out my pinky and he slipped it on and I smiled back.  Then he kissed me and left the room.  Neither of us said anything. 

Not at all how I envisioned it but somehow it was perfect. 

Sometimes you just don't need words.

And then the next day I returned the pink Harley ring he got me for my birthday.  Oopsie.  Dudes - I tried but it was just too big and kept spinning.  So we returned it and I got one that says I♥ and a Harley shield.  All crystals and the heart is pink and it goes sooo much better with my other jewelry.

Here is a pic (if you can call it that).  My camera sucks but you get the idea.

Oh and also - check out my latest nail do before I go!




So tell me - do you return gifts ever? 

Tootles Skittles!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

God help me but it’s that time of year again.

Wanting to kill anyone who claims to be my family time? Nope.

Turkey time? Nope.

Putting up the tree time? Nope.

Having a bowl of Xanax and milk for breakfast time? Nope.

It is not the TIME for any of those things just yet. They are coming – just not yet. I thought it was starting yesterday when my mother-in-law emailed me for the 4th time about the f*cking mashed potatoes.

I’m not kidding. If I ever get old enough or bored enough o email someone solely about mashed potatoes – just bury me. Please.

Okay, okay – soooo – it is that time of year again when I have to do something I hate doing. Like typing about it gives me hives in my ass crack. Like I’d rather email my mother-in-law back about the potatoes. Like I’d rather run my toes over with a lawnmower on purpose.

It’s a deep hate for this thing I think I have to do once every year. For the dumbest of reasons.

It is asking for a raise and it’s hard because I have to get the pink plaid balls of steel out of the closet and tell everyone how great I am even though saying it out loud makes me want to vomit.

I’m nothing if not thorough. I did my research. Looked over state wage surveys. Made spreadsheets with numbers and averages. Even got enough cahoneys to make an entire one page list of my accomplishments over the years.

And a week ago, I gave the info to the board members for my 2nd PT job. There was no turning back. I wanted a 10% raise for our manager and for me? I was asking for more than double my current wage (no idea the percentage - I just asked for over double the amount since I just make a monthly amount).  Yikes.  Overachieving at it's finest I guess.

I had the research and data to back up my request and still – I’d rather have had Thanksgiving dinner with Justin Bieber groupies than have to imagine what the board members thought of my request.

You see, when I took this job, the Board had to borrow money to pay our electricity bills at the plant. Today, 3 years later – our accounts have over $300k in them. I’ve done my work. I’ve paid my dues. I’m worth the salary I am requesting.

But there’s an asshole named Drazil who sits on my shoulder screaming, “You are a greedy witch and they are never going to pay you what you want because you don’t deserve it.”

I’m happy to report that last night I kicked him in his tiny, green lizard balls…HARD.

My plant manager walked out with a 10% raise. Unhead of in this economy, right?

And me? I more than doubled my current salary….apparently the board members didn’t even hesitate to vote YES.

I guess once a year I can do this. I can write down what I’m worth and what I do and how I do it. The goal in the future is to believe it the other 364 days of the year.

I’m not sure why it’s so hard to stand up and believe in yourself and plead others to believe it as well. I wish it wasn’t. And I’m going to work on that.

So tell me – how do you ask for raises? Or do you?

I know friends who refuse to even ask out of fear and because of that – they remain underpaid. I know places like where I work full time and in my 3rd PT job – raises are automatic annually and there is no asking involved. (LOVE that!)

How do you do it? Is it hard for you? Do you research or wing it? Do you dread doing it?  Love it?

Do tell....inquiring minds want to know!

I'm a bit obsessed...

...with boots.

Hey - don't hate.  It's better than say - an obsession with meth, right? 
Yes - that IS how I justify the obsession in my mind.

I have LOTS of boots.  Too many.  I feel the need to have one for every possible situation needed.  So when I say I have black boots - I really mean I have black boots that are flat, tall heel, short heel, wedge heel, slouched, tight, knee high, ankle high and calf high, furry, leather...and so on.

I thought my collection was complete UNTIL I saw this one color of boot I didn't have. 

Still to this day I don't know what color it is. 

The description says taupe but for me it's not gray and not brown.

 It's in between and I looked everywhere for it....and I finally found it!

Whaddya think?



Okay - and also - I had to get these. 
Mostly because I love Skechers but also because I only have this color in a wedge - and not a flat. 
Until now that is.

Do you love?



I finally found a pair of boots that I will NOT be buying.
Shocking I know - but I just don't think they belong in Podunk....or anywhere for that matter.

Well maybe on the "People of Walmart" site.



As much as I hate to admit it - the two below may very well be my next boots. 
I'm not normally a fur all over the boot kind of girl - but dayum - these are CUTE!



Tootles Skittles!!  Oh and happy boot shopping!

Monday, November 21, 2011

2:34am, toilet paper and public peeing.

Last night at 2:34am (I know - I checked the clock)...I should have been deep in some George Clooney sex dream. 

But I twas not.

I was peeing.

And then I was thinking about how not once in 10 years have I changed the toilet paper roll as I reached for some in my nearly comatose state of mind. 

Not one time.

I pretend I don't know how.  No idea why.

It's along the same lines of pretending I don't know how to put gas in my car.  I don't want to.  Simple as that.  And if I don't know how - um - then Rambo does it.

He always changes the toilet paper roll.  If he's not home and we run out - I get a new roll - and set it on the back of the toilet so when he gets home he can put it on the rolley thingy.  I'm just courteous like that.

And that got me to thinking - as I grabbed for said toilet paper at 2:34 am - about how the TP was getting VERY low and how last time it was that low and I actually ran out and Rambo had to come in WHILE I was peeing and fill it back up to avoid the "pee running down the leg tragedy" that we all hate.

And that got me to thinking about a blog post.  Yup - as I sat peeing - looking at toilet paper by the glow of a nightlight in the bathroom at 2:34am.

First of all - I want to know - who changes the TP roll in your house?  Is it a shared duty?  Or not?  Do you know how to change it and pretend like you don't - like me?  Or am I insane?

Second - as I thought about last time when Rambo stood next to me as I so prettily peed with my pants at my ankles patiently waiting as he filled up the TP roll - I got to thinking about a theory my very own conservative, VERY Catholic, very old school mother has about relationships - and how to tell if the love is indeed true.

It's about peeing - in front of your partner.

Let me be clear - this is ONLY about peeing.  We are not in any way shape or form talking about poo here.  Just #1.  Mmkkaayy?

Anyway - my mother has a theory.  She bases it on her sister's and co-worker's relationships.  You see, one of her sisters has been in her relationship for 20 years with a man and let's just say their relationship sucks.  It's more like a brother and sister relationship.  Which is EXACTLY why they do not pee in front of each other - even after 20 years.

My mother finds that appalling and says that since they cannot pee in front of each other - it is NOT real love.

She's serious.  I can't make this shit up.

Same thing with her other sister - though her relationship is decent - this other sister still cannot fathom peeing in front of her husband.  She visibly shivers in disgust if we discuss this topic. (Yes, we have discussions about this.  Have I mentioned I live in Podunk?)

Again - my mother says - "Well then - it's not love."

I suppose sometimes she is sort of kidding but she is also very serious.  As much as they can't even think about doing it - she cannot imagine not trusting or loving her husband enough to pee in front of him.

Can you believe I just wrote that last sentence?  To love someone enough to pee in front of them?  When did that become a measure of love? 

Holy grasshopper farts - this is insane.

Are you still with me?

My 2nd question therefore is - do you pee in front of your partner?  Have you always or did it come after years of being together?  Will you never?  Do you do it all the time without thinking?  Or do you shut and lock the door?  Give me deets people. (if you want)

Seriously - this is a fascinating subject if you ask me.  I will tell you that in high school I was once in the bathroom with my best friend doing our hair and her mother came in - pulled her pants down - sat her ass on the toilet and proceeded to POOP!  And talk to me the whole time like she wasn't shitting inches away from me!!!

I couldn't very well run and yell MY EYES MY EYES! but man did I want to.  See?  This is why I am scared of poop!  Who would do such a thing?  My friend didn't even blink an eye. 

The woman - who was of no blood relation to me - POOPED next to me.  If my mother had done such a thing I'd have gone to the courts and emancipated myself. 

Ugh - I haven't thought about that moment in a long time.  Thank God.

Anywhoozle, at my house I pee freely.  I don't think I always did this...it just "happened" as the years went by.  I don't even shut the door.  IF I shut the door - that's like saying, "Mommy is doing something fun and having a party because the door is shut so we must slam it open and yell "Mommy, what are you doing?""  It's a f*cking invitation so I don't do it.  I don't even bother.  I go in, I pee.  The end. 

I think it started probably because Rambo and I take baths almost nightly - and before you step in the bath - you pee or you risk peeing IN the bath.  So there we are - about to bathe - and we gots to pee.  So we do.

There are no boundaries if it's pee.  Rambo, because he's a guy, and our offspring are girls - always shuts the door.  BUT I always go in and talk to him or finish my makeup or hair or whatever.  Neither of us cares.

So see?  Total true love.

Cuz he sees me pee.  And I care not.  And vice versa.

What say you about the depth of your love and peeing in the open?

Do they correlate?

Am I more insane than you ever imagined?

Let's just not answer that, mmkkaayy?

Friday, November 18, 2011

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

It’s Friday and that means it’s time for another installment of BYOC! That’s Bring Your Own Crazy!! We answer 5 questions in an effort to get to know each other better and to give our blogging brains a break! Copy and paste to your own blog if you so desire – and ENJOY!


I’m going to do a Thanksgiving themed BYOC this week (it was Jenny’s idea)!

1. What is your FAVORITE part of Thanksgiving?

The turkey - hands down. I’d love to say family but that’s just not true. I’d rather be alone in a room with a turkey (a dead, cooked one to clarify) than have to attend some of the Thanksgivings I have to attend this year. If I sound cynical and bitter…um…it’s cuz I am.

2. How many Thanksgiving family events will you attend?

Three I believe. Two are Thanksgivings and one is an early Cmas. I’d rather skip every single one. Don’t sue me. Sue my social anxiety.

3. What’s your biggest Thanksgiving tradition?

Hmmm – I don’t think we have any other than the food. And the fact that every Thanksgiving is one of our Christmas parties. And it’s deerhunting season so tradition is that every man eats and then leaves to head back to the woods. LOL

I wish I could say a tradition is that the Cmas tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving but that’s not always true either.

Is eating so much that I want to throw up every year considered a tradition?

4. Do you Black Friday shop the day after Thanksgiving?

I never have. Not because I necessarily don’t want to but I’ve never needed a certain item that was on Black Friday sale. We only buy gifts for our two kids and not much else and they have been little enough so far that there’s no need to Black Friday shop (just toys basically). However – this year I’d love to get our girls a Wii (anyone have one they’d like to sell?) and I see Wally World has fancy blue ones on Black Friday sale for $99!

What do you think the chances of getting it online would be? Slim to nil I’m guessing.

5. Repeat question: Summarize your week in real life and in blog world.

Real life is good. Family politics shit is still driving me CRAZY so I wish the holiday was over already. Also, Rambo works the holiday and when he’s not working he’ll be deer hunting and that tends to make me crabby as hell because I’m selfish.

I’m happy I only work 2.5 days next week though.

Blog world is good too – um cuz I finally posted a BYOC!!!

Tootles Skittles!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Tell me it's easy and I'll say you're a liar.

I’m going to pull my large, cushion-y ass up onto a soapbox for a moment. I don’t do it often but today I just can’t stop being pissed about some things regarding weight loss versus health and how “easy or hard” it is.


I don’t care who you are or what you weigh or how you grew up or what tools you are using in your quest to get healthy.

It
Is
Hard

Every f*cking day it’s hard. True – some days are easier than others but it is NEVER easy. Even when you do Nutrisystem and the exact food you are supposed to eat is prepared and in front of you – it is NOT easy. Easier? Maybe – the physical choosing and cooking part. The mental part? Not so much.

Just because NS puts out a planned breakfast for me doesn’t mean that deep in my soul I don’t want to bury myself in a sea of Panera bread cinnamon bagels smothered in high calorie cream cheese. Naked.

When Jennifer Hudson says it’s “easy” because she has a team of counselors and she knows her points? She’s lying. Well I mean she does have counselors and she does know her points but late at night when she’s sad or missing someone or she’s had a terrible day I don’t believe for a second that any counselor on earth can make her stop wanting to marry some moose tracks ice cream.

She may indeed not eat any ice cream – but the want will always remain. And whether she eats it or not – both choices are hard to deal with in the end.


If you have a tool like a lap band or you have gastric bypass and you hear people talking about how they can eat anything they want as long as they work out because their tool or surgery allows that – well, then I ask you – is that why you got the tool? So you could eat ice cream for breakfast, Little Debbies for lunch and large pizzas for supper washed down with root beer?

Cuz, um I’m pretty sure you told everyone you knew you were getting it to be HEALTHY. Losing a shit ton of weight and eating like a junk food junkie is NOT healthy. It’s just dumb. You can weigh 100 lbs after using your tool and having lost lots of weight but if you continue to eat all that shit – your health is still going to be in jeapordy.

You can have high BP, high cholesterol and be at a higher risk for all kinds of things because of your insane non-nutritional choice of foods – REGARDLESS of how easily you lost weight and keep it off.

Food addictions are never easy. One in 100 may say the actual losing weight is easy and that working out is easy but they are the exception and not the rule and they shouldn’t stand on a pedestal and claim it’s a piece of cake.

Because it just ain’t. And if you say it is too many times – I stop believing you and I wonder what you are hiding. I wonder if you’re healthy now – why is the main staple in your diet ice cream and why does your weight only stay off if you work out 2 hours a day without missing?

Is that your idea of health?

For 99 out of 100 – it’s the hardest thing they’ll face every single day. Including me. And when someone around you preaches that it’s easy and even funny – while you sit unsuccessful and drowning in your own guilt about why you haven’t done what she did – you compare. And you get angry and you most of all you start telling yourself you’re a failure.

When
You’re
Not.

You’re human. And truthful. And you might fail in your choices from day to day but YOU are not a failure. And the person you are comparing yourself to – who says it’s easy to do and easy to maintain – is a liar and a fraud.

It is NEVER easy. With a tool or without a tool, with a surgery or without a surgery, using a diet program or not, using a trainer or not, exercising or not – we all know deep in our hearts that with or without these things – if we are to be truly healthy we have to eat nutrional food and work out moderately. You need to have a balanced life and fix your mental issues as well as your physical ones. You need to find inner peace and love yourself. The list goes on and on.

I swear if you conquer the scale using any number of methods and you proclaim it was easy and you continue to eat like you did before you lost weight – you’re setting yourself up for a disaster.

You haven’t conquered anything.

Least of all your health.

In fact, you may be worse off because now you’re just pretending to be okay when you’re really not. Before, at least you weren’t pretending. The whole world knew you were unhappy and unhealthy. Now they might think you are happy – but you sure aren’t any healthier mentally or physically.

How long can you keep up the fa├žade that “everything” has been easy? From losing weight to eating anything you want to working out non-stop to feeling good about yourself when the absolute only thing that has changed is the number on the scale?

It’s EASY for me to see you’re lying to yourself and everyone around you.

That’s the only thing about this that is EASY.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Malls are NUSSING but trouble.

The last time I was humiliated in a mall was when a little Asian lady screamed, YOU WEAR NUSSING?” And then her eyes silently said, “You slut-puppy!” as she proceeded to find creative ways to look at my pooty tang as she massaged me – while Jenny giggled – like every best friend would do.


Speaking of pooty tang….let me tell you this quick story before I enlighten you about my SECOND mall  event.

Rambo said something stupid and I retorted with, “Keep it up and you won’t be getting any pooty tang.”

Banana was about 5 feet away when I said it. She turns around and says, “Yah Dad, behave or you don’t get any pudding time.”

Pooty tang. Pudding time.

Totally the same. Totally what Banana “thinks” her ultra-classy mother said to her father.

Okay – on to the mall sitch.

Apparently I don’t go to malls where anyone is from Podunk and speaks regular American hick English. Nope – not me.

This time I’m pretty sure my girl was Russian, Roman or British or some damn thing. I don’t know. I suck at accents.

You see, I just wanted to buy some feathers. And in the middle of the mall in one of those little temporary carts – my mall girl was selling them. I stop and look and pick out two and I clearly say, “I don’t need you to put them in – I can do that myself.”

To which she says, “Okay. Ye know how. Dis good.”

I *think* I’m going to pay and move on. But just then mall lady says, “I show ye something. Sit here. Do ye straighten yer hair?” – as I sit and she is already combing my hair.

I’m thinking she misunderstood and is going to put my feathers in.

She says again, “Ye do yer hair? Ye put hairspray in? Ye straighten it?”

What? I’m so confused. What is happening?

She then says, “Let me show ye dis. Dis eez amazing.”

She proceeds to pull a straightener out of her ass (I had no idea she even had one there) and she straightens one side of my hair. She gives me a speal that she clearly has memorized and says it so fast my head is spinning.

At this point – Rambo is laughing. He knows I’m on my way to being suckered.

THIS is why she asked if I straightened my hair.

She moves to the other side of my head and puts two tight curls on that side.

Yup – pretty me. Sitting in the middle of the mall. One side of my hair is completely silky straight and the other side is curly wurly. Freaking great.

She turns to Rambo and says, “Ye like how she look? Pretty ya? Come feel it.”

He touches my hair. He can hardly stop laughing.

Now we get to price. The price speech. The whole “this normally sells for one million dollars but today it’s on sale for just ________” story.

So here we go. $250 retail.

Oh wait - did I mention that it is freaking pink zebra print? How the hell am I supposed to walk away from PINK ZEBRA PRINT?

She says she’ll give me a discount and sell it for $150. I say I’ll walk around the mall and come back and buy it.

She zaps me with an oldie but goodie and says, “Why not buy now then?”

CUZ Lady – I’m LYING – I’m not really going to come back you dimwit.

She says, “Wait. I give ye better deal. Let me check with me manager. I do this fer ye.”

I feel like I’m on a 3am infomercial. And then she comes back and sweetens the amazing deal.

“I give ye this straightener PLUS this shampoo. It is from Morocco. It is usually $50. AND the warranty which is usually $50. All for $125.95!”

Her eyes light up. She thinks she’s got a winner winner chicken dinner. And she’s thinking “this stupid lady thought she was only going to buy feathers.”

I say, “Nope. If it was all for $100, I’d take it.” And I start to get up.

“No. No. Wait. I check with manager. I be right back.”

“Oh ya – we do fer $100. We do just fer ye. Ye happy, ya?”

F*ck yah.

Rambo whispers, “Hey babe, there’s something on your forehead. I think the words SUCKER are written there. You just got taken by a mall lady with a cart.”

I say to the lady, “Before I pay…you’re gonna have to either curl all my hair or straighten it all because right now I look like an idiot.”

She fixes my hair, I pay and walk away. Two feathers, a lifetime warranty, an expensive bottle of “Moroccon” shampoo AND a straightener.

I calmly explain to Rambo that just a week or so prior to today I had researched straighteners. I watched YouTube videos on how you can curl your hair using them. And I researched which were the best and why. And prices too. And I decided I wanted one – but not for the price they were asking….so I let it go.

Until the little mall lady entered my life.

I just went from “total sucker” to “nussing but savvy”. I knew the brand and the price and exactly what I was buying.

YAY me.

And hell, this time I was even wearing underwear.

Monday, November 14, 2011

You're not gonna believe this........

Remember that one time – or maybe those 1000 times – when I overpacked? Like for a one day trip yours truly packed enough stuff to live on an island for 16 years? Or the time I went into convulsions because I was going on an overnight trip on our Harley and I could only pack a few things?


I’m sure by now – that besides the fact that I’m an over-packer – you’ve realized that I am a bit high maintenance. I’m sort of a nails, hair, clothes, bling freak. It can be a bit reedick at times.

I’ll wait a minute so you can get all the shocked gasps out of your system.

Okay – well – I’m all about growing and learning and accepting myself and all that good kharma bullshit sooo this weekend I put myself to the test.

Rambo and I went away for one night this weekend. Just the two of us – to finish all our Christmas shopping.

I’m going to list for you what I packed. This is no shit. I’m not kidding.

A pair of Nike swish pants.
A Harley Davidson sweatshirt.
My teddy bear Rambo gave me 20 years ago.
Deodorant.
Socks.

The end.

For realz. So other than those above things – I had the clothes on my back. I had worn jeans and a sweater and boots (and undies, bra and socks).

I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking to be honest. Well wait – I was thinking – we’d wake up – and get in the car and drive home. Not a single soul on this Earth would see me except Rambo.

Turns out we were hungry and wanted breakfast. That meant I had to go out in public.

Read the above list again. Do you see any mention of a comb, makeup, or a toothbrush?

How about underwear? Nope – didn’t pack any of those either. How about shoes?

Nope – I was going to have to wear Nike swish pants WITH pretty knee high brown boots.

If I was going to break every fashion rule in the book – I was going to do it good. I don’t do anything half ass. I want perfection just in case someone snaps a picture of me for their “white trash” website.

I can never ever again make fun of “the people of Walmart” pictures.

I am one of them.

Rambo threatened to walk 5 feet behind me and even sit in a different booth. He’s an ass like that. Like he’s any better in his camouflage sweatpants. Can we say HICK?

I told him he was lucky I had a bra on and that I had all my teeth.

Albeit non-brushed teeth…but dammit, they were all there.

So see? I am growing. I have a severe issue with people seeing me like this. Not so much because of my own feelings but because I was brought up in a family that lived their life on what other people thought or how you looked to others. As an adult, I know it doesn’t matter. But it’s hard to let go of something like that.

I remember being a young teen and waking up in my pajamas and planning to wear them all day since I wasn’t going anywhere and it was the weekend but I wasn’t allowed.

It wasn’t respectable. It reflected poorly on me. No one would want to talk to or look at me. That’s what I was told. I was taught really young that we are loved on appearance and physical attributes.  As a kid I took it to mean - if I wasn't pretty or dressed up - I wasn't loved or good enough.

There’s no need to feel sad about that. It taught me to be the exact opposite with my own kids – and even myself when I can be.

My kids stay in PJs all day if we’re hanging out on the weekends. I don’t wear makeup or do my hair or get dressed either….just to prove to them and to myself that people like Rambo will love us anyway.

This weekend I took it a step further and was literally and simply myself.

Turns out the waitresses at Denny’s don’t give a flying f*ck what you look like….as long as you pay.

Who knew?

That whole “what matters is on the inside” thing – might actually be true.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Top ten reasons that you may have taken blogging too far.

1. You check blogger constantly as in you create fake moments of “free time” so you can check blogs. For example, I went pee yesterday. When I didn’t have to. With my laptop. So I could check blogs. For those of you who read blogs while doing #2 – please refrain from telling me this.


2. You’ve just had the best sex of your life and in the romantic, glistening perspiration afterglow moment, he asks, “Mmmm, how was that for you?” You answer, “Amazing. I can’t wait to blog about it. Thanks for the material.” When he gasps in shock, you calmly reassure him and say, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to use your real name.”

3. When you refer to people in your real life conversations by their blog names. For example, “The Black Butterfly and Beer and Dogs are going out with the Something Something Fat Chick over at Fat In Suburbia’s house.”  People tend to look at you like you have two heads....and well....that's probably warranted if you're speaking "blog".

4. While daydreaming, you find yourself making up blog names for people in your real life. Like for example – Explosive Man. I imagine his blog would be called: Explosive Man Musings - Tales of how I make Draz sick every day!  And then I imagine him calling Jenny, my best friend the blog designer and saying, “Hey, what’s something creative we can do with turds?  Can we make the background color brown?"

Another guy I work with would have a blog called, “I wear too much cologne and everyone knows it but me.” My co-worker who I call Martha Stewart would have a blog entry titled, “How to make any camel toe look good using lace and buttons.”

5. You start calling people in your real life by the code names you call them in your blog. I - no lie -  totally do this. I call my husband Rambo and my kids Watermelon and Banana. The key is NOT to call my co-worker Explosive Man. That would be bad.

6. You carry a camera, notebook and pen with you wherever you go so you never miss a blog picture or material – so much so that people think you’re a freaking reporter.

7. You have more emails in your inbox from complete strangers and people you have never met with names you don’t know than from people you love and do know.

8. You go to a store with your only intention being to try on clothes and take pics in the dressing room for your blog – not to really buy anything. Then you get pissed when the lighting sucks and the background colors are all wrong in said dressing room and you throw a tantrum in the store.

9. You ask for money for your birthday and holidays and pick up a part time job solely to save money to be able to buy a professional new blog design layout because a simple header crafted with your own hands just doesn’t represent “the real you” anymore and because duh - “everyone is doing it.”.

10. When someone asks for a recent photo of you – you give them one….only it’s a “photo” of what you’d look like as a cartoon istock image. You even consider asking the Department of Transportation if they could use your cartoon image on your driver’s license because “it’s how you’d LIKE to look” – as a cartoon you know.

Tootles, Skittles!  Have a great, gumdrop farting kind of day!  See you for BYOC tomorrow!

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

I love root canals.

I'm not kidding. I mean that. I’m not being sarcastic in any way, shape or form.

Proof I’m crazy? I think not.

First let me tell you that my best friend Jenny is FAH-REAKING out over MY root canal.

Like really freaking out. Her and I have been so busy lately that we’ve gone DAYS without talking to each other (gasp) BUT we always email. Which I did. And I casually mentioned I was having a root canal and then I would be taking Watermelon to basketball practice.

I hit the *send* button and 5 seconds later my phone was ringing and it was Jenny.

Apparently my “I could kill a dinosaur with the sheer amount of stubbornness and strength in just my left toe” best friend is scared shitless of root canals. Let me also say she’s never had one. She’s just read about them on the internet.  God love her.

She was panicking and asking how I was going to work and how all the old sayings say that people would rather do ANYTHING than have a root canal.

I told her to calm down, that it’d be fine and that she was a complete wussy.

She had a hard time talking about it. Especially when I mentioned blood and gunk and lancing and such.

In fact – at that point she rudely interrupted me and yelled – “Lalala, I can’t hear you. Poop. Puke. Pee. Diarrhea running down your leg.”

I stopped. I got her point. As much as she can’t talk about or doesn’t want to hear about root canal crap – I do not want to hear about well – literal “crap”.

We both have insane fears. Sue us.

Anyway, I went for my root canal and I want to say that now more than I ever have been – I am Jenny’s twin.

You see, Jenny has a lap band. A little device in her stomach that helps her to eat less and in small portions so she can get to and maintain a healthy weight. This tool makes her take small bites. It requires her to c hew very well before swallowing. To not eat certain bad foods – like very dense, chewy bread…or she’ll be in pain. It makes her not hungry as often. Makes her only want to eat small portions. Etc. Etc.

You get my point.

In essence - my best friend eats like a bird. And I’ve always been jealous.

Cuz I eat like an elephant. And cuz when we go out to eat and I eat my order and all of hers that she doesn’t eat – I feel like an idiot. So I always say I want her lap band for my own.

AND NOW I HAVE ONE!

It’s my root canal.

Listen to this.

Since having my root canal done…after the numbness wore off which by the way went all the way up to my EYE!....this is the new me:

If I want to eat I have to take teeny bites because I can only chew with one side. I have to chew very well because I’m only using half my teeth so it takes longer. Taking longer to eat means I’m full faster. I cannot eat things like bread because it’s just too much to chew and get in and it’s not worth the effort. My normal staples of taffy and milk duds are a complete no no. I don’t even really want to eat cuz it’s just too much trouble. The sensitivity to cold prior to having it fixed even cut my intense need for Mountain Dew.

And when I’m ready to cry because I can’t properly chew Skittles because biting down hurts – then I remember the dentist gave me Tylenol with codeine and I forget my pain and who I am and where I live so everything is fine again.

Okay fine – it’s nothing like having a lap band. Cut me some slack. It’s a “glass half full” deal. It’s the best I can do with what I got.

And did I mention I got Tylenol with codeine? Cuz I do.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Cats and vaginas.

Yup. You read that title right.

And when your next thought is, “Why would cats and vaginas EVER be in the same story?”….well, rest assured I’m going to tell you. And it’s pretty embarrassing.

But since when did embarrassing ever stop me from telling you guys all about whatever it is?

*Sigh* Let’s just get this over with.

Banana – the now 6 year old has somehow learned the word vagina. I mean, yes, I’m sure she knew the word before or had heard it when I used it when being a politically correct mother BUT now?

She knows what a vagina IS.

And she’s throwing the word out willy nilly. Like it’s as normal as the word “the”.

For instance, last night our cat M was laying in Banana’s lap. He is a huge cat and is as big as her when he’s all cuddled out with her. Every five minutes she’d say, “Mom…look at M. Look how much he loves me. Isn’t he cute?”

Every
Five
Minutes

I swear.

Anywhoozle, M decided to get up. When he moves and you’re under him – you know it. He weighs nearly 20 pounds.

He got up and she looked at me and said, “Mom – M just stepped on my vagina!!!”, as she so tactfully grabs her crotch and grimaces like he punctured her lung or something.

I let it go. No sense in making a big deal of it. And she was right – he DID step on her vagina and every other body part she had on his way off the couch.  He can't help it - did I mention he's a 20 lb cat?

Then this morning came and the events unfolded like this…..

Banana: Mom, M is right by my backpack. I think he wants to go to school with me.

Me: Um, no. He is 20 lbs and won’t fit in that tiny backpack.

B: I’ll put him on a leash.

Me: Nope. Cats aren’t allowed at school.

*Now she goes down the steps towards the garage and car.

B: Mom – look! M is following me. I think he’s addicted to me!

Me: Yup – he reeealllly loves you. (in my head I’m thinking how does she know what addicted means?)

*As Banana continues down the steps behind Watermelon, she says this:

B: Yah, he does really love me. Remember last night when M was in my vagina!!

Me: What did you say???

B: You know – remember when M was in my vagina last night on the couch?

Me: Um…we can’t say that M was in your vagina honey.

B: Well, he was.

Me: No – he wasn’t. He happened to step on you. Please don’t repeat that to anyone. We can’t say vagina in public (MUCH LESS THAT CATS WERE IN IT!)

God help me!

You should have seen Watermelon’s face when she heard what Banana had just said.  Her eyes got huge and she was so confused she didn’t know what to do. Yell at her sister for saying vagina or laugh her ass off or pretend she heard nothing. She wanted to crawl out of her skin for fear of what would transpire next.

I looked at Watermelon with a pleading look like, “Oh God in Heaven – please don’t let her go to school and tell everyone that our cat was in her vagina!”

I could see it play out. The teacher calling me and saying, “I don’t know how to ask you this but do you have a cat and was he in anyone's vagina for some reason?”

Shitballs.

I thought of calling the teacher and warning her. But really – how does one start a conversation like that?

No, really Mrs. Teacher – we aren’t sadistic animal torturers…we just have a huge cat and a child who recently figured out that one of her body parts is called a vagina and and and he stepped on her and – oh hell forget it!

In about 30 seconds, we changed subjects completely. Banana informed me that my old ex-boyfriend’s son thinks she’s cute and wants her to be his girlfriend.

She told me she said, “No way. I’m only 6.”

I told you guys this would happen, didn’t I?

And she continued and says, “Tonight Mom, I need you to make me a sign that says *No Boys Allowed* for my room. Because boys are dumb. And they talk too fast.”

Sure. I’ll make you a sign. If I had my way though the sign would say:

*No Boys (or cats) allowed*

It’s just safer for everyone’s vagina that way, don’t you think?

Monday, November 7, 2011

P words plus bonus illustrations.

It's no secret that I have a severe allergic reaction to a lot of words that start with P.  The one that starts with P and ends with OOP is the one that causes nearly instant convulsions and sometimes foaming at the mouth.

I never used to have such issues.  When my kids were teeny tiny and pee, puke and poop were as normal as breathing - I never gagged.  I laughed in the face of poo.  I was a warrior of poop. 

No problems. 

Now?  Not so much.  I see, hear, or God forbid smell poop and I run.  Like I'm being chased by a tiger.

Sooo when I went to Chicago a fellow blogger got me a gift.  It's not funny.  Well, except that it is.

May I present to you a book that for the life of me - I cannot believe was written. 

Published. 

Illustrated.

And put on the market. 

It boggles my itsy bitsy mind.  I simply cannot deal.

The title?

"What's My Pee Telling Me?"....Overflowing with information about Pee, Poo, and Farts.

I'm not kidding people.  I mean really...would I make up something like that?  Could I? 

I think not. 

Let me show you some of the pictures - yes - I said pictures - in this book.  And the wordings.

Here we go.


Let's go to the inside!


Can you imagine when your manager calls you and says, "Hey....I've got a gig for you finally.  You've been asked to illustrate a shit book.  You've made it big.  You're gonna be famous.  Start drawing baby.  Oh and by the way...only use gray and black and white.  No color.  Poop books can't have color."



Oh, oh and let's not forget what was under "The Never-Ending Wipe Poo" title. 
It says (and I quote)....Synonyms:  stickum stool, double-sided deuce, tar turd, TP Thief.

Honest to God - in all of my life I have never and hope to never ever hear anyone talk to me about their
"tar turds".  I will vomit.  I'm not gonna lie.

Oh you want to know the synonyms for this?  Okay - here you go. 
They are:  stealth bomber, silent but violent, and elephant in the room.

Wow.  Just wow.  Right? 
This is exactly why I don't ever put flowers on the back of the toilet. 
Yes.  That's why.






I think not.
Movin' on.

This one was titled "The Explosion." 
Synonyms were: the bullhorn, air show, sonic boom, and rolling thunder.

I swear to God - with every flip of the page it just gets worse. 

Or better on the blogworthy scale I should say.

Thank you Miss Amey, Donut Butt -- for this book.

I can't tell you how many times both of my girls have picked up this book
and laughed hysterically at just the pictures. 

Precious I tell you. 

Precious.

Friday, November 4, 2011

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

Friday! Friday! Friday! Slap my ass and call me excited!! It’s been a long damn week, yes?


Let’s get to what we came here for! BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy. A couple questions we answer to get to know each other better and to give our blogging brains a break. Copy and paste to your own blog if you wish! Enjoy!

Let’s do another themed BYOC…..this one will be called “What’s In/On Your….?”

1. What’s on your desk between your monitor and keyboard? (if it’s a laptop – what’s on your desk in general)

Thank God I only have to name what’s in between my keyboard and monitor. If I had to list what was on my whole desk I’d be here all day.

Post it notes – used and not used. Eye drops. Stupid souvenirs from co-workers who went on trips. A bowl of change. Dust bunnies.

2. What’s on your mind right at this moment?


Getting to 11:30am as fast as I can so I can get to the weekend. How long it will take me to put away the 4 baskets of clothes I haven’t put away yet. How I can work things so I can get in a massive nap this afternoon.

3. What’s in or on your nightstand on your side of the bed?

Basket of relaxation CDs, kleenex, 4 bottles of water, 3 alarm clocks (don’t ask), magazines, books, pen, earrings, ear plugs.

4. What’s on YOUR Christmas wish list (let’s assume you’d get what was on it)?

More Shellac nail polishes (LOVE it – going on two weeks – not a single chip), a diamond replaced in my original wedding ring so I can wear it again, more Sephora lip gloss.

This Cmas is a special one. For the first time in 6 years, Rambo has Cmas off so we can really do the Cmas morning, Santa thing like real families do! I can’t wait!!

5. Repeat question: Summarize your week in real life and in blog land.

Real life has been up and down….in a good way. I finally had my eye surgery revision and it WORKED!! I’m not a one-eyed pirate anymore!

I had a tiny meltdown which you read about yesterday (by the way, Rambo came home just fine).

Banana was sick for a few days and missed school. I’ve spent the week working on our Cmas letter and my proposal to ask for a raise from my 2nd job.

I got back on the treadmill and have been eating great….down 3.5 for the week so far!

Blogland has been a little down….I’m reading a lot about people who let things go for a while and are ready to change that so the momentum is inspiring. I found a few new blogs to follow too and that’s always fun getting to know people!

Have a great weekend Skittles!

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Calling bullsh*t on myself.

No one is going to remember how much you weighed.


Rambo could care less how much I weigh.


These jeans still fit under the muffin top.


Life is about more than working out and counting calories.


I have a right to enjoy life – and the food that goes with it.


I’m too tired to care that much about my weight.


All of the above are true statements – yet today I’m calling “bullshit” on myself.

Enough is enough. Enough gluttony and not caring enough about myself to give a damn.

You see, I’ve kind of let everything go. And once I stop caring about my weight – I stop caring about a lot of things about me.

I don’t really care how my hair looks. I don’t give a crap about makeup. I dress in bigger, non-sexy clothes. I don’t want to go places even less than I normally do. I don’t shave my legs as often. I smile less. I don’t shop. I don’t want Rambo to see me naked as much. I flirt less. I wear less jewelry.

I go to pieces. I tell myself the only person who matters to me doesn’t care how I look. And he doesn’t.

But the morbid truth is that any one day – Rambo could be gone. The person that I say is the ONLY person who matters coud in fact not be around every day.  *Gulp* 

Then what? At that point – beyond being devastated, broken hearted and tragically hurt…I’d also have to deal with hating my weight and my body and how I look and feel on the outside.

And ALL of that would be a recipe for disaster. Why would I do that to myself? Why set myself up for failure?

Why not give myself a leg up on anything that may or may not happen? From losing my favorite pen to something more tragic like losing someone I love. Feeling better and looking better makes EVERYTHING better. For me. 

Life is hard enough.  Why not give myself as many steps in the right direction as possible so that if something not so great happens....I'm already on a healthy mental and physical path?

And the real truth is - Rambo isn’t the only one who matters.

I matter. While I hate that my weight directly affects how I feel about me….it just does. It’s a fact.

So now I’ve been there. Both places on the weight scale. I’ve been a skinny, healthy, obsessed gym rat with a tummy tuck to gained 20 lbs, stuff is starting to not fit, possibly effing up my tummy tuck if this continues to my blood pressure going back up.

Today I strive for balance. Actually I started yesterday. I *know* how to do this.

I finally want to again. For a while it just wasn’t something I could do. I literally didn’t have the will or want or stamina to even try. I just wanted to live and do and not think of the consequences and for once not give a damn and live in the revelry of knowing Rambo loved me anyway. That was enough – for a while.

It’s not anymore. I didn’t come this far to go back.

I’m not getting younger and health issues are imminent and looming if I don’t treat myself better.

I have the time – if I make it.

I have the ability – and I want back the pride that comes with knowing I’m taking care of myself.

So Monday I started eating better. I haven’t gone overboard. Haven’t cut anything out completely – just lessened my portions considerably. Stopped making Twix my breakfast.

I started working out. 35 minutes on the treadmill Monday and last night my fave show was on so I just walked while I watched it for 80 minutes.

Sweating felt good. More importantly – doing something for me – even though I made a million excuses not to – felt amazing.

I am worth health. I am worth the time. I am worth the sweat and the pride that follows.

Already I have spent more time caring about my hair, my outfit, my makeup and how I feel in two days then I have in weeks. I feel myself walking taller even though I probably haven’t lost a pound yet.

The fact is – mentally – I know I’m working on it. I’m trying. I’m caring. I’m doing the right things instead of not giving a damn.

And that’s enough to make me care again about how I present myself. I want to be that person again. I like who that person is. The person I am now isn’t the true me.

I’ve matured in this journey and I know that some days maybe only 20 minutes is all I will have to do the treadmill. Those days I’ll have to watch my diet more.

Some days maybe I can rock out 80 full minutes so I can still have a small treat after supper.

It’s not about perfection anymore….it’s about dedication.

I will balance this. I will do this.

Wrong or right – the fact remains that EVERYTHING in my life is easier, better, more clear and focused and pronounced if I know at my core that I’m actively taking care of my body and my health.

Sure, some of it is vanity and I wish it didn’t matter – but to pretend it doesn’t for me – is a lie.

I had my time off. It was freeing and I needed it for a while. And I knew it would end and I’d reach a point where I’d have to stop not caring.

That point is now. Well, actually it was Monday.

And honestly – I haven’t felt this good physically or mentally in a long time.

I refuse to gain more weight as the holidays approach. I need all the ammo I can get walking into all the social gatherings that the holidays entail and feeling good about my body and health go a long way into helping my anxieties in those situations.

I need this and I want this.

How about you? Anyone fallen off the wagon and want back on? Anyone else want to finish out the last two months of 2011 stronger than we started?

Join me. You won’t be sorry.

Are your mind and body screaming for this “intervention” of sorts?

Will you listen?

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Nipples. Candy. Black Friday. And even surgery with combs.

These are the thoughts going through my head on Tuesday, this first day of November.


Please remember….I never said they were good thoughts. Read at your own peril.

• I was speaking with a fellow runner at work – a man – a Manager in fact…and he is filling me on some marthon running tips just in case I turn more insane and decide to try one some day. He looks right at me without even smiling and says, “You know you have to wear vaseline or something on your nipples or they will bleed, right?”

Excuse me? Did you say nipples? Like to my face? Without laughing? Here? In my office?


Are we actually discussing perverted chub rub?


Marathon tip time is over. I shall read a book. Thank you very much. Move along now.

• Just so you all know – I ran last night. No one was even chasing me. I did it for the “health” of it so I can stop feeling like a turdfiddle. And so I can burn off all the Halloween candy I’ve been eating.


• Speaking of Halloween candy….get this. I was so pissed at the sight of it going into my mouth last night that I shoved it all in a bag and I brought it into work and set it on the counter. Donezo. No more in my house. Satan balls – it was just too much to look at and smell and eat. Yes, that’s right. I own a set of pink plaid balls of steel. You may borrow them if you’d like to rid yourself of your Halloween candy too.

• Did I ever tell you about the one time I went to a fancy dinner with friends and their friend’s parents and I sat down next to our older gentlemen friend and he says to me, “Hey, you got something on your pants.”

Slap my ass and call me stupid – I sure do.

It was the f*cking long sticker tag that had the SIZE of my jeans written on it about 16 times. How does one rip that off tactfully at supper in a restaurant?

No. We are not going to discuss the number on the tag. He was a man – he was too oblivious to know if it was good or bad anyway.

• Yesterday Banana had out one of her dolls and about 50 of my combs and she was playing with the doll’s stomach. I asked her what she was doing. She said, “I’m doing surgery. I’m going to get her pendix and politics out.”


Well damn. Why didn’t someone tell me that to get the politics out of someone you just have to dig it out of their stomach with a comb!?

• You know how I love to steal pens? Yesterday TWO – yes – not one but TWO – of my stolen pens quit working. Fluke or kharma? You decide.

• Someone yesterday told me that there were only 25 days until Black Friday or something like that and they were already gathering ads and making their shopping strategy.

I would just like to say that rather than Black Friday shop I’d like to have lunch with Casey Anthony followed by drinks with OJ Simpson. No way in hellz people. I’d also like to say – um wow – if you have that much time to be making Black Friday strategies already – I hate you.

I can't help it.  I just do..

• Someone on Facebook was going on and on about using Advocare to lose weight. For about 30 seconds I thought of buying some. Really? Will I ever learn?

• Lastly, have you guys ever heard that joke about Youtube, Twitter and Facebook joining together? They will be called……..

……wait for it

……………………wait……..

You twit face.

Funny, yes?

Well, there you go. Your whole life is better now because you read this post right?

You’re welcome. Glad I could help.

Wait until you see what’s up for tomorrow.

It starts with a P and ends with OOP….and I can’t believe I’m actually going to write it.

But I cannot resist.