The Rachel Chronicles

Living History

2012-02-24T14:56:00.004-05:00

For those of you who may not know, February is Black History month here in the U.S.

When I was in eighth grade, my social studies teacher had the most incredible activities for Black History Month. She organized an Underground Railroad, and you had to make your way to free territory without getting caught, trying to read the signs that escaped slaves would have used to identify friends and foes or safe havens. Afterward, she would prepare lunch for us, with foods that slaves would have eaten.

I know some students just saw it as an excuse to get out of class and run wild around the school, but I will never forget hiding under the staircase as someone approached, listening to the thunder of my heartbeat and wondering if I would be caught and returned.

We'd talk about Martin Luther King, Jr. and Medgar Evers. Rosa Parks and the Freedom Riders. And I always hoped that had I lived in that era, I would have been brave enough to stand up for what was right.

Because it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside. We're all made the same. It's our actions and how we treat people that matters.

I would tell my mom about all these people we learned about, and all the amazing things they did, and how they stood up for other people's rights. My voice ringing with the zealous passion I always seem to exhibit when I rail against ignorance and intolerance.

And I wanted to know what it was like when my mom was growing up.

Because she was, like, super old and experienced school integration first hand.

I will always remember the story she told me, so I've asked her to share her experiences with you...

Until my fifth grade year, Pikeside Elementary School was an all white school. During that fateful year of 1961, we became "integrated." I do not remember a great deal about the things that led up to this momentous occasion, as I was ten at the time, and media coverage of events wasn't exactly comparable to today's. I do remember my father's intense dislike for George Wallace, a staunch segregationist, and his "followers."

We knew ahead of time that "the colored girl" was coming to Pikeside. The discussion at recess included remarks from many like, "My parents said I can't play with her," and "My parents said I am not supposed to sit next to her at lunch," and so on. Yes, the "N word" was used, not by me personally, but it was heard. My parents would have been very displeased to hear that word come out of my mouth, and I was sure if I said it, they would know.

I relayed all of this to my parents. I do not know what I expcted their reaction to be. After all, up until now, and may I say, for the remainder of my life with them, they were pretty conservative in their beliefs. So I was very surprised when they informed me what they expected my behavior to include.

I was told that I would be kind. I would sit with her at lunch if I was able to. I would invite her to play at recess. I would keep her company on the playground and introduce her to people (those same people whose parents had forbidden them to associate with her).

I tried to explain to my progressive (who knew?) parents that my friends' parents said... and that my friends were not allowed to....

But it fell on deaf ears. Well not exactly deaf, more like selective hearing ears, or maybe just don't care ears.

I was told, "I am not raising your friends. I am raising you, and you will do what is right. So get used to the idea."

I tried to reason with them. "But what if my friends won't play with me anymore???" Surely they didn't want their daughter to be friendless!

Their response? "Then they aren't worth having as friends anyway."

The day of Mary's arrival came. Knowing my parents knew everything (yes, I believed it at the time), I did as I was told. I invited her to play at recess. Boy, could she jump rope! The other students came to accept Mary without much fanfore, and I survived my parents' "unreasonable" expectations.

Okay. My unreasonable, progressive parents were right.

I received a "wake up" moment in the summer of 1968, when the MHS band took a trip to Texas.

One of the stops was in Mobile, Alabama, home state of George Wallace.

We were walking down a sidewalk on our way to somewhere. A black man was walking toward us on the same sidewalk. Although there was plenty of room on the sidewalk, the black gentleman stepped off the sidewalk into the street until the band members had all passed.

Someone explained to me later that in Mobile, that was the expected behavior of a "colored man" when he approached "white person" on the street.

I was stunned, especially since the band member to my immediate right was my dear friend Marvin. Marvin is black.

(E/N: As my mother has been correcting my grammar for almost 33 years, I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I've taken the liberty of correcting your use of passive voice, Peggy.)

(Another note: All of my grandparents have been gone for some time now. But some of my fondest memories of them are the stories they shared with me about what their lives were like when they were young. Talk to your grandparents and parents. Listen to their stories. Because those moments are precious.)

If a winged, diaper-wearing dwarf shoots an arrow at me, I'm pressing charges.

2012-02-14T11:36:00.000-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day, dear readers.

I've seen a few blogs posts in the last several days about Valentine's Day. Some of them about the commercialism of the holiday. Some reminding people that love comes in many forms- romantic love, love of friends, love of family.

Some people are just waiting for the discount candy tomorrow. Which, let's be honest here, IS something to get excited about.

Four years ago, about a week and a half before Valentine's Day, the Ex left. You'd think this would make a girl bitter about Valentine's Day, but I've never actually put much stock in it anyway.

I'm not exactly what you would call "the romantic type." I don't like the grand gestures guys make just because it's a holiday and they feel like they have to. I prefer simple little everyday things that show you really pay attention.

Regardless, it's been a while since I had someone to share any of these holidays with anyway. My brother gets frustrated with me. I've dated several very nice guys, and he thinks I don't give them a fair chance. That I'm expecting too much, or that I have some ideal that no man can live up to, so I need to "lower my standards."

But that's not true. I'm just not going to give up on what I want just so I can be in a relationship.

I have this thing. If, by the end of a date, I'm not imagining what it would be like to pin the guy to the wall and kiss the breath out of him, there's no second date. It's my chemistry test. For me, if there's chemistry, I'll know it right away. If not, I don't see him again.

Which means, while I've been on plenty of first dates, I've been on significantly fewer second dates in the last few years.

Which also means, I've spent the last several Valentine's Days as a single girl.

So this year, I've decided to write myself a love letter. And publish it on the internet. For everyone to read.

Because that's how I roll.

So without further adieu...

Dear Rachel,

Well, I can't say I'm shocked you're still single. I mean, you're all gangly arms and legs. Sometimes when I look at you, I think you look like a flamingo. All legs, with your arms flapping all over the place when you talk.

And that laugh. You're laugh is soooo loud. Sometimes obnoxiously so.

And you know that person who ends up talking really loudly when the room goes deathly silent? Why is that always you?

Speaking of inappropriate outbursts, what's with all the singing??? At home, or in the car, that's fine. Whatever. But the office? The gym? The grocery store???

I realize you often wish your life was a musical, but it's really not. FYI.

Which also means, you don't need to dance all the time.

And really, you shouldn't be dancing anyway, since you can barely walk without tripping over your own feet. That fall down the stairs this morning, when you wrenched your arm grabbing for the banister to save yourself???

EPIC.

And so classic you.

Just so you know, if that zombie apocalypse you're always talking about (NERD) actually happens, you're zombie bait. I mean, you can't even get down the stairs in your own house! How do you expect to escape a horde of the walking dead???

And if you don't stop eating all those baked goods, you're going to provide plenty of food for those zombies.

What's with all the baking anyway? Baking?? Knitting??? What are you? An 80 year old grandmother?

Which reminds me. Stop feeding people! You know if you feed them, they never go away!

Anyway. All that being said, you?

You are AMAZING.

Like seriously awesome.

And I love you.

Sincerely,

Your better half

(A/N: I have to give a shout out to my nephews, Mikey and Kyle, who always send me flowers on Valentine's Day. Although Mikey, I have to say, Kyle loves me more. He said so. Plus he has faith that I will kick your ass at Words with Friends.)

This & That

2012-02-07T11:21:00.002-05:00

So... this isn't a real post.

Sorry.

But every now and then, I come across something, and I think, OMG! This is the best thing EVER. I must tell everyone about it!

And, conveniently, I have a blog, where I can write about all the awesome things that you really need to check out...

According to me.

Yesterday, it was Louis vs. Rick.

It's a series of IM convos between Louis and Rick.

Louis is ... a cat. And Rick is the poor sap who taught his cat to type.

The guy who created this is a freaking genius. A hilarious freaking genius.

I spent my lunch reading all the episodes and was quite sad when it ended.

I need more Louis vs. Rick in my life.

First of all, I'm pretty sure this is what my life would be like if I hadn't taken away Winston's cell and laptop privileges.

Secondly, as I was regaling Jason with stories of Louis vs. Rick last night, he said "Huh, the cat sounds kind of like you."

EXACTLY.

"Threat" is such a dirty word...

2012-02-01T14:56:00.000-05:00

Last night, I quite happily settled into bed with my copy of Pride & Prejudice & Zombies (which if you haven't read it and you like Jane Austen and zombies, get it). Ready to unwind whilst enjoying the the developing relationship between Elizabeth Bennet, bloodthirsty zombie slayer, and FitzWilliam Darcy, renowned warrior in the war against Satan's army.

The couple that slays together stays together, folks.

Anyway, after teaching spinning for the last two nights, I was bone tired. So I read for a couple hours, but finally I made myself put the book down and settled into the space Winston alloted for me on the bed.

Which isn't much.

As soon as my head hit the pillow I was ready to go out like a light.

Then a bloodcurdling, nightmare inducing thought popped into my head.

Mothertrucker!!

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning!

And just like that, I was suddenly wide awake. Back in the day, this would not have caused me any alarm. But as you know, my experiences with the new ~~sadist~~ dentist, have been less than pleasant.

Yes, I'm very well aware I should find a new dentist, but I always tell myself I have plenty of time. I mean, hello!, six months to find a new dentist. It's not like I have to do it right away.

Procrastination at its finest.

Except suddenly it's six months later, and I don't have a new dentist, and I end up keeping the appointment with the man who pretty much tops my shit list.

Seriously, people. I don't actively dislike too many people. I can even force myself to be passably pleasant to people I dislike. But the emnity I bear this man prevents from doing any more than glaring daggers at him.

So this morning, I rolled out of bed. My pissy mood starting the moment I opened my eyes.

I got ready for work and headed off to the dentist's office with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to the gallows.

The overly perky dental hygeinist greeted me and took me back to clean my teeth. I tried not to take my bad mood out on her. I mean, she's never been anything but nice to me.

And then...

She started digging through my mouth like there was gold buried in them there hills.

What. The....

The first time she cut me, I jerked a little, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The second time, she cut me, I gave her the stink eye.

The third time she cut me, I stopped her and very calmly said, "That spot? That's a very sensitive spot. If you do that again, I feel things are going to end very badly for the both of us."

I'm a firm believer that threats are all the more effective when delivered in a calm, steady voice.

And don't you know, she was much gentler after that.

Which is good, because I'm pretty sure had she cut me again, I would've needed a transfusion.

By the time the dentist came in, I had lost any ability to pretend to be amiable. I responded to his greeting with a grunt and answered his questions with one word answers.

After he pronounced that I have very nice teeth, indeed (all the better to bite you with), I was released from my torture.

Rest assured, this time I WILL be finding a new dentist.

P.S. The other day, my friend Gina posted this on my Facebook page:

How cool would it be to be reading Pride & Prejudice & Zombies in bed with this as my comforter! My birthday is six months from tomorrow, people. Let's make this happen.

P.P.S. The other day, The Roving Retorter dropped me an email to introduce herself. She has the kind of dry wit that I so appreciate in others. So show her some blog love and check her out.

WTFriday

2012-01-27T14:38:00.001-05:00

You know how sometimes you see things that, no matter how hard you try, you just can't UNsee them???

I read an article yesterday that I simply cannot exorcise from my brain.

Seriously. I am this close to calling for a young priest and an old priest.

I have never watched any of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Atlanta, New York, Mumbai, Podunk ... whatever, so I'm not really familiar with the cast of characters.

However. Apparently one of the cast offs from RHONY has a salon in NYC. And this salon has added a new service for its clientele...

Do you want to shake things up down under? Add a little party to your pants??

Well now, ladies (and gentlemen), you can have your cash & prizes waxed and decorated with feathers or fox fur.

That's right boys and girls. Vajazzling is sooo last season.

These services, known as the bikini carnivale (feathers) and the foxy bikini (fur), involve waxing off your own natural fur and gluing the accoutrements of your choice to your lady bits.

Because that wouldn't be uncomfortable at all.

What I don't really get is why???

But you know what? It's not for me to judge. I have a very strict live and let live policy. I mean, lady parts aren't exactly pretty (that whole flower thing is propoganda), so if gluing on some bright pink feathers makes you feel better about yourself ... well, you go girl (or guy - this is an equal opportunity service).

I'm even going to help you out here. I don't know what this salon may charge for its services, but I'm guessing it's way overpriced.

So if you're thinking to yourself "Hey, I'd really like to tar & feather my snatch!" I suggest you head to Target. Buy yourself a bag of feathers & some eyelash glue. Voila. Your very own "carnivale bikini" for the bargain price of $3.

You're welcome.

I just don't understand why people hate Mondays

2012-01-23T13:32:00.000-05:00

I've written before about my battles with insomnia.

At least I think I have... pretty sure.

Anyway. My sleeping problems started my first year in law school. And as someone who had never before had problems sleeping, it was a struggle.

I'm anti- sleep meds, so I didn't want to take something to help me sleep. This did not, however, prevent me from downing a couple glasses of wine before bed, hoping that would help me drift off to sleep.

It didn't.

But at least I was in Atlanta. Where you can always find at least one channel showing Gone with the Wind every night. And with commercials, that's a full eight hours of entertainment.

You can learn a lot from Gone with the Wind. Like the value of procrastination (fiddle di di). And how you should be kissed often ... by someone who knows how.

But as God as my witness, I'll never watch that movie again.

Which was okay because if you got tired of Miz Scarlett, you could always find a good infomercial.

I still maintain that the mini-chopper was the best investment I've ever made.

In the last few months, I haven't really had to worry about how to entertain myself at night because I've actually been sleeping pretty well.

Which, strangely enough, is worse. Because now my body is used to getting sleep, so the nights when I can't sleep are horrible.

Last night was one of those nights.

Honestly, you'd think I'd sleep like the dead after a busy day of reading, watching Hallmark made for tv movies and eating chocolate chip cookies. But shockingly, that was not the case.

As 10 approached, I told myself to turn the tv off and read for a little while. Maybe that would make me drowsy.

No.

At midnight I finished that book and wasn't the least bit tired. I didn't want to start another book because then I'd never go to sleep, but I couldn't just lay there ... alone with my ... thoughts. That's like a nightmare waiting to happen.

So I committed the cardinal sin of insomniacs everywhere.

I turned the tv back on.

And OMG Center Stage is on tv!!!! So then, not only am I not tired, but now I'm wired because OMG it's Center Stage!

I'm the best gd dancer at the American Ballet Academy! Who the hell are you. Nobody.

And let us not forget Charlie. From Seattle. The dark hair. The striking blue eyes. *drool*

So yeah, sleep definitely wasn't happening after that. I mean, I couldn't miss the end where they show Jody dancing in pink toes shoes, then in the next frame she's wearing red toe shoes.

They're magic toe shoes.

But eventually I told myself I just needed to lay down and sleep would come.

That's a lie, btw.

But I did. I settled in. Fluffed up my pillow under my head. Piled up my blankets around me. Winston resituated himself.

And nothing.

I laid there for a while before I decided that maybe it would help if I rolled over onto my back. So I did. Winston resituated himself (this time giving me a really nasty look).

And nothing.

Maybe if I went to the bathroom again?

Nope. I climbed back in bed. All the while steadfastly refusing to look at the clock. I curled up on my side because that's how I always sleep. And really, what was I thinking with the back thing anyway? I'm a left side sleeper.

Winston sat up and just stared at me.

Me: It's not time to get up yet, lay back down and go to sleep.
Winston: I've been trying to sleep. But someone keeps waking me up!
Me: We're going to sleep.
Winston: You'd better not wake me up again...

So Winston went to sleep.

And snored. Not loudly. It was more like breathing. But when you can't sleep, you can hear everything.

In fact, I'm pretty sure, I could hear the guy on the other side of the development brushing his teeth.

I nudged Winston with my knee. Because that usually works.

But not this time.

So I nudged him again.

I was certain he was going to eat my face off, but after a few more nudges, he let out a supersized snore and then quieted down.

Around 6:30 I finally felt myself starting to drift off.

My alarm goes off at 7.

It was great.

You know what was even better? When I took Winston out for his morning walk and promptly busted my ass on the layer of ice covering my driveway.

In front of witnesses.

Mother. Trucker.

Is Intervention on TLC? Because I refuse to be on the same channel as Kate Gosselin

2012-01-17T14:42:00.000-05:00

Hello, Dear Readers. By now you might be tired of reading posts about my adventures with my new iPhone.

So ... if you are, stop reading now.

Anysirisstillabitch...

It may shock you to learn that when I decide to do something, I commit myself to it with a zeal that borders on rabid.

Some might even call it obsessive.

For example: recycling. It's not enough to me to recycle. Oh no. I want everyone around me to recycle, too. And if my winning smile and lecture about preserving the Earth for your children isn't enough to convince you, I will badger and bully you until you realize it's just so much easier to give in than attempt to stand under the heavy weight of my judgment.

It's this kind of commitment that leads me to pull plastic bottles out of the garbage at the gym and put them in the recycling bin. Or sneak your empty beer bottle into my purse to put in recycling because I know you're just going to throw it in the garbage.

I bring this kind of ... umm, dedication to many aspects of my life.

Which is why I try to use my powers only for good. And that includes limiting my vices.

Or at least limiting them to things that won't kill and/or bankrupt me.

Which brings me to my newest vice.

I've heard people talking about Words with Friends And considering my love of Scrabble, you'd think I'd jump right on that bandwagon.

But I was always one of those oh I don't use my phone to play games people.

Except for some reason, on Saturday, I decided to download the app and see what it was all about.

It took approximately 3.7 seconds for me to become irrevocably addicted.

I was up until 2 am Satuday night playing Words with Friends. Manically checking my phone to see who out of my 10 (yes, I have ten games going on right now) opponents had made their play, so it could be my turn.

Finally, my body just gave out. And then a bad dream woke me up at 6 am Sunday morning. I tried desperately to go back to sleep, but the dream was haunting me, and it just wasn't happening.

So what did I do?

I got up to walk Winston.

Which I did while playing Words with Friends.

I'm pretty sure Winston missed his calling as a seeing eye dog because I totally would have walked right into that car if he hadn't pulled me around it.

By noon, I was beat. My body was demanding more sleep. But a nap wasn't on the schedule because I was playing Words with Friends.

I have a game going on with my nephew. It's been his play for more than 24 hours, at this point. Yesterday afternoon, I saw him post on Facebook, and I was all kinds of "Wth you little punk!! You have time to post on Facebook, but you can't make your freaking play?!?!"

Last night, I didn't even bother to turn on the tv because I was too busy furiously studying my letters.

This morning before I got in the shower, I checked my games and made my plays.

When I got out of the shower? Checked my games, made my plays. Wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around my head.

Because heaven forbid I actually take the time to put on some clothes before I feed my habit.

On the way to work, I hit both red lights, which normally would have really pissed me off, but I took these opportunities to check my games.

In fact, I know right now a few of my opponents are reading this...

SO MAKE YOUR MOVE ALREADY!!!

P.S. If you're on WWF (as the cool kids call it), hit me up for a game - wordygirl8279

Resistance is Futile

2012-01-12T16:53:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite websites is Damn You, Autocorrect. It is freaking hilarious.

And I'm pretty sure one day - in the not too distant future - I'm going to be on it. Thus far, my autocorrect mistakes have not actually been all that funny. They just make me sound like a Neanderthal.

Sometimes I'm somewhat embarrassed by the mistakes and feel the need to correct them, even though I know the recipient knew exactly what I was trying to say.

Other times I just say f**k it. If you want to judge me because my iPhone knows better than I do what I want to say, go for it.

My brother is a Corrector. He dropped some stuff off at my house a couple of weeks ago and sent me a text to let me know where it was. He then sent me another text to correct the typo in the previous text.

Then he sent me another text, saying that obviously his first message was too long for Siri to accurately type out.

Now you all know about my ... differences with Siri. So this prompted me to question Rob...

Me: Have you had any problems with Siri understanding you?
Rob: No. Siri is awesome! What's your problem with Siri?
Me: I take it you haven't read my blog about her then.
Rob: No. And I won't if you say anything bad about her. I love Siri! She's awesome.

He then went on to outline how all the problems I've been having are my fault.

First of all, why are we talking about Siri like she's a real person? Secondly, does Christa know that you're in love with a detached female voiced robot???** Finally, hello!, I'm your sister! Shouldn't you be taking my side?!

But Rob was very adamant about his love for Siri.

Like a little too adamant. I've very rarely seen him get fired up about anything. And suddenly he's ready to take me out if I say anything bad about his beloved not real girlfriend.

So I'm pretty sure we're just going to have to agree to disagree about this.

Although I think she's starting to warm up to me a little bit.

The other day I asked her to call John at home, and she dialed him right up.

I'm not sure which was the stronger emotion. My excitement that it had worked or my pride that I had finally pronounced "home" in a manner acceptable to Siri.

Which is just wrong on so many levels.

After that I did some talk to texts, and only had to make one or two corrections each time.

I'm pretty sure this is how Anne Sullivan felt when Helen Keller finally started communicating with her.

That's not to say we haven't had a few bumps here and there. The other day I asked her to call someone and she just ignored me.

But we're making progress here, people!

**In point of fact, Christa does know about Rob's relationship with Siri. Last night she told me Rob asks Siri to marry him. I'm not sure what her response is. I just can't bring myself to ask my cell phone to marry me.

How do you even list "Cause of Death" on that one???

2012-01-04T13:00:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year Dear Readers. I hope you all had a wonderful, safe holiday. However you chose to spend it.

Personally, I celebrated early with Megan, Elizabeth and a few more of our friends.

I have to say the highlight of the evening for me was probably when my legs gave out, causing me to slide down Meg's cabinets and just sprawl across her kitchen floor.

Awesome.

Anyway. Earlier this morning, I read a post over on The Barefoot Foodie that reminded me of one of my law school classes.

My last semester in law school, I decided to take a ... well, let's call it what is was, shall we, it was a fluff class.

Criminal Justice & Film Colloquium.

Sounds fancy right? It was supposed to be a joint class between the law school and the film program, where we "studied" the depiction of the legal system in film

But in actuality, it was a class of 10 3rd year law students who were burnt out and just needed a pass.

Except for that weird kid who started with our class, but dropped out during first year because his roommates moved all his shit out one day while he was at class and changed the locks, then he came back the next year. I can't blame them, really. I only had one class with him, and he prefaced absolutely everything with, "Well, when my dad worked for John Deere...." I wanted to stab him with a pencil. Honestly! What does that have to do with anything???

But I digress.

So, this class entailed watching movies and sitting around and talking about them once a week.

Really.

I bet you're not very impressed with that law school education now, are you.

Some of the movies included To Kill a Mockingbird, Inherit the Wind, The Accused, Jagged Edge.

You get the drift.

Now, I like movies. And I like to share my opinions about movies. So you can imagine I was a pretty vocal participant in class.

And then came the week we were supposed to watch A Clockwork Orange.

I know people who are huge Stanley Kubrick fans. They've never met a Stanley Kubrick film they didn't like.

Then there's me. I've never met a Stanley Kubrick film I did like,

I watched it... but I wasn't happy about it.

And then came the day we were supposed to discuss it. Considering the class was only once a week, it was kind of unacceptable to just skip it. At least in my mind. So I went. But again, I wasn't happy about it.

And I made sure that everyone there knew I wasn't happy about it.

I sat at our little round table. Fuming. Arms crossed over my chest. Stubbornly mute. Mulish expression on my face.

I listened to my classmates discuss this ridiculous piece of shit movie, while glaring them into submission with my STFU eyes.

And then it happened. Ignoring my silent cues, the professor met my eyes across the table.

Prof: Rachel, we haven't heard from you today. You usually have a lot more to add to our discussions. What did you think of the film?
Me: I hated it.
Prof: Why did you hate it?
Me (taking a deep breath to fuel my diatribe): I don't know how I'm supposed to enjoy, or even find a redeeming quality, in a movie that's so overtly misogynistic! I mean, for the love, every single female character in the movie was reduced to tits & ass!!
(There was moment of silence as every other student in the class inhaled on a collective breath, shocked that I would say tits & ass to a professor of such a venerable institution ... but you know, it was true. I was undaunted though...)
Me: The ONE strong female character was bludgeoned to death with a giant, white marble penis! If that doesn't show his opinion about women, I don't know what does!

At that point, my friend Josaiah couldn't hold back his laughter anymore. He was trying to gasp out "giant, white penis" between his guffaws.

The professor was unfazed though. As I resumed my mulish expression he opened the floor back up for comments on what I had "added" to the conversation.

Thankfully, after that, we stuck with movies like A Cry in the Dark, from which I gleaned incredibly useful information like where Oz got the name for his band.

(A/N: Since we're talking movies here, it should be noted that my film professor's daughter was roommates with Kevin Bacon's favorite niece, so when the niece got married, my film professor was invited to the wedding, where he met Kevin Bacon. Beat that!)

The Holiday Wrap Up

2011-12-29T16:55:00.000-05:00

Hello, Dear Readers. I know I've been remiss in posting lately. But between the holidays and people calling with shit that has to be done by the end of the year, I just havent' had the time.

Speaking of, if you call me at the end of the year about something that has to be done by close of business December 30, don't get all pissy when I tell you no. Just so you know, I'm not obligated to help you. And you getting snippy with me doesn't help your case. Fyi.

Anyway. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday, whether it be Christmas, Channukah (which does so start with a "c" Robbie!), or the Winter Solstice.

I feel like I just haven't been as excited for Christmas the last couple of years. Although this year Dad did get me a propane heater.

I mean, really, who wouldn't be excited about that. Right?

I know this gift is a result of the freak blizzards we've been hit with the last couple of winters. During each one I end up having a conversation with my dad that goes something like this:

Dad: You need a propane fireplace.
Me: Where would I put the tank???
Dad: You just put the fireplace downstairs, and sit the tank by the side of the house and drill through the wall.
Me: Eww. I don't want an ugly propane tank sitting in my yard.
Dad: You can put something around it.
Me: ...
Dad: If the power goes out, you'll wish you had a propane fireplace.
Me: If the power goes out, Winston and I will come to your house.
Dad: Well, if there's 5 feet of snow on the ground, you can't get to our house.
Me: Well, if there's 5 feet of snow on the ground, I'll go to Becky's.
Dad: Well, if you don't have power, she won't have power.
Me: I'm sure they have an alternate heat source available. Plus, I've seen her pantry. She has enough canned goods to keep us fat and happy for a good, long while.

At that point, he usually gives up. Except now I have a propane heater.

Which I guess is good because Becky told me that they actually don't have an alternate heat source.

See this is what happens when you make assumptions about people. You end up freezing to death in a hypothetical freak blizzard.

The problem is that I'm not entirely sure how to use the propane heater without blowing myself up. And considering that in this hypothetical there's 5 feet of snow on the ground, Dad won't be out to do it for me.

Bummer. Looks like we're freezing to death anyway.

The real highlight of my Christmas, though, was seeing friends I don't get to see nearly enough.

But you know how it is with your real friends. You might not have seen them in three years, yet as soon as you're together, it's like you've never been apart, and suddenly you're sitting on the living room floor, eating leftovers, drinking wine and playing Scrabble.**

And yelling at each other because "juc" isn't even a freaking word, Suzanne! And OMG Megan, you can't just trade letters with her!!! WTF! You gave me shit for playing "taurus," but you're going to trade letters with Suzanne?!?! How is that right!

Then your alcoholic dog is licking up the wine you spilled during your tirade.

Or you're sitting in a booth at The Cug eating fried mozzarella and cheese bread and pizza and anything else with cheese on it, because everything is better with cheese, talking about the awesomeness of all things Harry Potter, and watching videos on how to make flaming butterbeers.

And suddenly, much too soon, the holiday is over and everyone returns to their respective states of residence.

But it's okay because you also have awesome friends who live minutes from you and have no means of escape from your craziness...

** In case you've forgotten, Scrabble is what we used to play before there was Words with Friends.

An Ode to Monday

2011-12-12T16:29:00.000-05:00

Monday, you suck.

It's not just that I woke up at 4:30 this morning. Which is bad enough.

And really considering that I have been awake since 4:30 this morning, I could have gotten out of bed and been productive, but that's a tricky situation.

You lay there thinking that maybe, just maybe, you'll fall back to sleep. But this is a vicious fallacy that will only lead to you getting up late and not having enough time to eat breakfast.

Which will just put you in an even worse mood because you had a late lunch/early dinner the night before, and OMG you're STARVING.

And really, you could stop and grab something on your way to work, but you're already late, and do you really want to be even later?

Except maybe if you had stopped to get breakfast, that guy wouldn't have almost hit you. Then given you a dirty look like it was in any way your fault. Because your car happened to be driving in your lane when he decided he wanted to pull out of a parking lot into said lane.

Asshole.

But you know who's not an asshole? The guy who pretended not to notice when you flashed him.

Because the buttons across your boobs popped open, and you didn't realize, so you just sat there across from him, talking and talking.

And when he left, then you realized your boobs were hanging out.

But hey, thanks to Victoria's Secret, you're rockin' some awesome cleavage. Right?

And at least he was a nice guy. Unlike the other eleventy billion people who've been demanding things from you all day long.

Like the guy who's been dragging his ass since April, but now it's suddenly imperative that we get this done OMG right now!!!

And I just disconnected my iPod without ejecting. This is ALL YOUR FAULT MONDAY.

P.S. I have to go to Redbox later ... we all know where this is going.

I'm like the anti-bachelorette

2011-12-07T17:02:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I went to see Breaking Dawn Part 1 with my friend D and her husband Clem.

Oh, don't look at me like that. This world is made up of three kinds of people. 1) Those people who embrace their love of tween movies and admit it openly without shame. 2) Those people who live their lives in the closet, going to see tween movies in secret, in the neighboring town, to decrease the probability that they'll run into anyone they know. 3) And those people who live in complete and total denial, mocking nos. 1 and 2, and feeling superior, yet miserable while they sit through some pretentious foreign, subtitled film.

AnyI'mnumber1, after the movie, D and I were texting back and forth with our reviews.

I will not post any such reviews for those of you who may not have made it to the theater yet.

However, then she hits me with a text about Clem asking her how it is I'm still single. Because I'm such a great catch.

I KNOW!!! Right?!?!? It's shocking!

I get this a lot though.

Apparently, only married men see my appeal.

After they're legally bound to someone else, they feel it's safe to look at the tall, gangly 32 year old woman with the obnoxiously loud laugh who writes Harry Potter fanfiction, plans for the zombie apocalypse, goes to see movies made for 11 year old fangirls, trips over her own feet, talks to strangers, and sings at inappropriate times and say, "Oh yeah, that one, she's a keeper!"

This doesn't bother me though.

But I'll tell you what does bother me.

One evening last week, I ran into a friend from high school at the gym. I asked about his wife, and he told me she was home with their daughter.

You know what happened next. Oh yes. You know.

"When are you going to start popping out some babies???"

Which just sounds so appealing doesn't it? Like my vagina is a big zit or something.

He then launches into this very effusive speech about how he always thought I'd be married and settled with a few kids by now.

Oh mother of God make it stop!!!

But I just smiled my baby shark smile and told him I hadn't met the right guy yet.

And because apparently the fact that I don't have a husband and children yet is a fate worse than death, he consoled me with the "Aw, you've still got plenty of time."

I then launched into a set of ab exercises that never fails to make every man in the gym feel inferior. Because I might not have kids, but that also means I can go to the gym every night.

So he can kiss my abs of steel.

It'll be just like that movie I, Robot

2011-12-05T11:44:00.001-05:00

I am not what you would call technologically savvy. I mean, I do okay. Obviously.

I can do the basics. Hello! I do work in an office.

And, of course, you know I'm all over social networking.

But that's about it. If I have a real problem (which happens often), I email one of my more technologically superior friends.

This extends to things like cell phones.

I got my first cell phone when I was in college. But I never used it. Because it was seriously freaking expensive to make calls from that thing. Plus, who the hell did I need to call that badly??? It was for emergencies only.

Then when I went to law school, that's when I jumped on the cell phone bandwagon.

You mean, I can call my family and never pay long distance??? Best invention ever!

Then texting started. Texting?! WTH is texting??? It's a phone. I'll just use it to call people, thanks all the same. Plus, this shit takes forever to text.

Except once I upgraded to a cell phone with a slide out keyboard and started texting, I was hooked. Seriously, why would I ever call anyone again??? It's not like I even enjoy talking to people on the phone.

Texting was the new best invention EVER!

Then came the advent of the smartphone. Honestly, people. Wth. Are we really so dependent on technology that we have to be able to access the internet from our cell phones???

So I steadfastly refused to upgrade.

Turns out my resolve didn't last too long.

OMG this thing is amazing! I can check the weather and movie times and anything else I want. And, holy shit, FACEBOOK.

Which is also when my Facebook addiction began, btw.

Now that I think about, that slide out keyboard was like a gateway drug. It's all been downhill since then.

And just a few short weeks ago, Sprint started carrying the iPhone. Now all my friends who know way more about this stuff than I do say that the iPhone is the best.

Not that I cared. I mean, hello!, I only used about 3.6% of what my Droid was capable of.

So it's not like I immediately felt the need to upgrade to an iPhone just because I could.

Except here's the thing. Droid phones? They kinda suck. Like, a lot. In the almost two years since I got my Droid, I've had 5 phones. Five! Because they have a tendency to short circuit or something, and before you know it, you're trying to text someone and it keeps pulling up your Facebook.

iPhone users don't have to put up with this shit...

So when my fifth not-so-trusty Droid started to shut itself off when I was in the middle of a call or close me out of Facebook when I was writing a post, I decided to bite the bullet and take the iPhone upgrade.

And I knew that they were backordered due to demand, so I figured I'd put in my order and in a few weeks I'd be emotionally prepared to switch to the iPhone.

Except it came in 2 days after I ordered it.

Well, alrighty then, I guess I'm emotionally prepared now.

So, this past Tuesday, I officially became an iPhone user.

And I have to tell you, I'm really quite taken with it. There's definitely a learning curve. But luckily, I have lots of Apple loving friends who are more than happy to share all the little things they've learned about their iPhones with me.

I also got the iPhone with Siri. When my cousin was telling me about the new iPhone she kept talking about how great Siri is, and how I can talk to my phone and it will do whatever I ask it to do.

Ummm, what???

Wth is this? I don't need to talk to my phone. It's a phone. I use it to talk to other people.

Except of course when I got back to the office, I couldn't leave the phone alone. And then my boss comes in and sees me messing with it.

Boss: Is that the new iPhone with Siri???
Me: Yes, but I don't know how to use it.

So he takes the phone and does something, then hands it back to me.

Boss: When it beeps, ask her what traffic is like on Interstate 81 in Martinsburg.
Me: What is traffic like on Interstate 81 in Martinsburg.
Siri: I'm sorry. I am unable to find any information for Interstate 81 in China.

Que???

Boss: Huh. It must still think it's in China where it was manufactured.

Thus began my love/hate relationship with Siri.

But I wasn't ready to count her out. I mean, she's really handy when you're driving. No scrolling through contacts or anything.

All I have to do is say, "Siri, call Mom,"

Siri: Calling Mom. Would you like to call Mom at home, work, or mobile?
Me: home
Siri: I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Would you like to call Mom at home, work, or mobile?
Me: Home!
Siri: I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Would you like to call Mom at home, work, or mobile?

Me: HOME!!!

It took me three tries to realize, I was pronouncing home differently from the way she was pronouncing home, so she was pretending she couldn't understand me.

Bitch, please. Like I need elocution lessons from an inanimate object. Who the hell do you think you are?? Henry Higgins?!

Then Saturday, Mom and I went shopping. After the first few stores, we were starving. I suggested Olive Garden. Except when we pulled up, the line for a table spilled out the door. We were too hungry to wait.

Me: Hey! We could go to TGIFridays! I wonder if they have a bacon cheeseburger.
Mom: I don't know.
Me: Oooooh, wait a minute! I'll find out. Prepare to be unimpressed. (pull out iPhone) Siri, find menu for TGIFridays.
Siri: I'm sorry. I was unable to find TGIFridays in China.

At that point, Mom started laughing to hard, she almost drove into a parked car.

But, as with any relationship, there has to be some give and take. So last night, I decided to try again. Becky was texting me while I was driving, so I was having Siri type my responses.

And we were getting along like gangbusters until I used to word "home" again.

So I tried pronouncing it like she does. Because apparently she IS Henry Higgins. But, alas, I am not as good a student as Eliza Doolittle, because Siri wasn't buying it.

Fine! FINE!! You win Siri. Are you happy???

I'm pretty sure she's going to try to take me out like that super computer in I, Robot because I can't be taught. Or like that computer in Eagle Eye. Except that movie sucked big hairy monkey butt.

Plus, if I have to be rescued by someone, I'd put my money on Will Smith over Shia LaBeouf any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

So seriously, if you don't hear from me, my bitchy, self-important iPhone is holding Winston and I hostage in the basement.

Send an SOS to Will Smith. But you'll have to use flares or smoke signals or something because I'm pretty sure Siri is monitoring all forms of electronic and telecommunications...

'Tis the Season

2011-12-01T16:52:00.001-05:00

Do you guys remember this time last year, when you completely restored my faith in humanity???

If you're new, or just have a really shitty memory, you can read about it here.

In the spirit of Christmas, and because I enjoyed last year so much, I am making this a tradition. My natural inclination is to do something for the same family... after hearing from my mom how excited they were over the gifts Santa brought, I'm kind of attached to them.

However, I know there are so many other children out there who have no gifts from Santa under their trees on Christmas morning. No trees either for that matter.

So I'll probably poll my teacher friends for a child who needs a happy Christmas. And get a gift card for last year's family.

And I know times are tough Dear Readers. But there are so many ways you can give of yourself that don't involve money.

If you can do it, go to the mall and pick a name off a tree to buy Christmas gifts for a child in need. If you can't afford to do that, maybe you have items you don't use anymore that you could donate. Trust me, a child who doesn't have a winter coat isn't going to turn up his nose at the coat your kid outgrew last year.

Go to a nursing home and sing Christmas carols. Or if the sound of your singing would just scare off every animal in a ten mile radius, just visit. Do you have any idea how many people in nursing homes have no family to visit them at the holidays???

Or of you're like me and you get all kinds of uncomfortable when you walk into a nursing home and you're greeted by a man wearing only one sock and a smile (don't laugh, you know it's true), maybe you just make cookies for the elderly woman down the street who doesn't have too many visitors.

Or you know what? Just smile at a stranger. Hold the door open for someone. Wish them a Merry Christmas.

Okay, that concludes today's sermon.

Moving on.

Because this is my blog, I can write whatever I want.

Which means I can shamelessly plug things I like. And I intend to do so whenever I come across something I think you might like to know about. For the record, any time I mention something on here, it's because I want to. No compensation involved.

(However, if anyone would like to throw me a freebie, I'm not gonna turn my back on you...)

Anyway.

Today, it's a CD.

I know many of you are parents to small children. And if you're anything like me, the sound of children's music makes you want to stab your own eardrums with a pencil. But of course, as soon as you get in the car, little Susie or Johnny wants to hear that song that makes you hyperventilate and start looking around for a trusty no. 2.

On the other hand, you want them to listen to music that will also teach them important lessons and reinforce positive values. So it's not like you can cue up your local rock station and rock out on your way to daycare.

I mean, yeah, it might be cute when your 4 year old starts singing about brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack, but I guarantee you, that's going to earn you some serious side eye from the other parents.

But I have the solution for you. Tony Martirano's debut album Hopes & Dreams.

Now you guys know, I don't even have kids. Yet, I have this album loaded on my iPod. And I listen to it.

Often.

The lyrics, while simple and catchy enough to entertain young children, are not so cutesy and trite that you want to plug your ears with your kids leftover chicken nuggets. And he combines them with a laidback groove and soulful sound that would make Jack Johnson stand up and give him mad props.

And each song contains an important lesson, such as maintaining a positive outlook, not letting other people get you down, being yourself, being a good friend, dreaming big, and going after those dreams.

My personal favorite track on the CD is I Love to Be Your Friend. Check it out. You can listen to his music at the link provided. You can also download the album from iTunes.

I promise you won't regret it. And if you're anything like me (scary thought), you'll immediately be hooked and start dancing and singing along.

And Hey! Stocking stuffer!!

If you do pick it up, let me know what you think.

I do not bring you tidings of comfort ... or joy

2011-11-28T12:55:00.000-05:00

Hello Dear Readers! I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday.

And for my international readers ... well, everyday is a day to give thanks. Is it not?

Okay, that last statement was way too philosophical for me. Plus, being that chirpy and upbeat makes me itchy.

I have an allergy to optimism.

Anyway. You know my holiday was all about the food.

And the shopping. But we'll talk about the food first.

Chris's mom made Thanksgiving dinner this year. So the food was A-MAZE-ING. And since I've been sick the last two years, resulting in me foregoing my usual holiday gluttony, I decided to go balls to the wall this year.

I piled my plate with enough food to feed a family of five, and then I sat down to methodically work my way through my trough.

About halfway through I realized the error of my ways. But I wasn't backing down. Oh no. I ate Every. Single. Bite.

And I followed it up with a big bowl of peanut butter brownie trifle.

Then I spent the rest of the afternoon vowing to never eat again.

For reals.

And that lasted until around 5, when I got home and started picking through leftovers while I tried to make room in the fridge for everything.

There was no rest for the weary this year though.

Oh no. This year, retailers decided to start Black Friday at midnight. And you know I never miss a Black Friday.

So instead of slipping into a tryptophan coma, I spent the evening scouring sale ads and planning out my course of action.

I knew this year would be different because of the earlier start.

But I didn't realize how different.

Guys ... it was horrible.

When we got to Kohl's around 5 minutes to midnight, there was a line of at least 400 people standing out front.

Are you freaking kidding me??? It's Kohl's! I understand the lines at places where they sell electronics or gaming systems. But Kohl's?

And after we were finished with our shopping, we waited in line over an hour and a half to checkout.

Now here's the thing. We don't go Black Friday shopping for the deals. Although I love a good deal. But no. Mom and I go because we have fun doing it. It's our thing that we do together.

This year, however, was not fun.

Not. Fun.

In fact, it was the exact opposite of fun.

You know, the type that puts me in my "back off bitch or I will effing cut you mood."

And trust me, I used that face a lot.

Shockingly, no one messed with me. Because seriously, I was not screwing around.

And can I just say, people, I know it's early. Or late. However you want to look at it. But honestly, bathe. There is absolutely NO excuse to go out in public smelling like that. None. Ever. But especially not when I'm going to be standing in line with you.

And to the woman who was wearing very short jean shorts with black pantyhose ... you know what, I don't even know where to begin with you.

It didn't help matters that I was sleep deprived. Except when I cut off shopping to head home to bed, turns out I couldn't sleep. I spent Friday putting up my Christmas decorations. And cleaning. And anything else I could think of that OMG absolutely had to be done.

Everytime I thought I was done, I found something else to do. I was in that zone where your brain is shouting "Hey, idiot! Take a freaking nap!!!", but your body is all zoom zoom ZOOMMMMM.

Needless to say I got a lot accomplished that day.

But because I got all that stuff done, I could spend the rest of the weekend eating leftovers, watching Christmas movies and reading The Hunger Games trilogy for the 89th time.

And it never gets old.

On a related note, I can now listen to my Christmas music openly and without shame.

Who says you can't go home again?

2011-11-21T11:30:00.001-05:00

Good morning Dear Readers. I know it's been forever since I posted. It's been hectic, but I'll get to that shortly.

For some happy news, Suzann and Tony flew in last weekend for a visit.

Even since the incident with the spider, she's been asking me if I'd found that spider yet.

I was actually incredibly touched by her sisterly concern for my well-being.

Except Friday, when we were having lunch, the truth came out. She and Tony were staying at my house Saturday night, so I could take them to the airport Sunday morning (and by morning, I mean the ass crack of dawn when all sensible people are sleeping). And she was afraid of being attacked in her sleep.

So ... all that time I spent being moved by her concern and she was really only concerned about herself.

That hurts my heart.

I had my revenge though. She was up all night worrying that the prehistoric mastadon spider was going to eat her face off.

*cue evil laughter*

Plus, Saturday morning, when I was cleaning, I killed a spider in the bathtub (Yes! I killed it all by myself!!!), but I didn't tell her about that. I knew if I did, she'd be terrified of showering.

And I'm not quite that cruel.

I ask you, who's the better sister???

And just to prove I'm the better sister, I dragged my ass out of bed before the sun came up Sunday morning, so I could drive them to the airport.

I just want you to know that when Winston heard Suzann moving around the house Sunday morning, instead of barking or growling or, you know, doing something guard dog-like, he cowered beside of me and shivered so hard he shook the entire bed.

I actually felt so bad for him that I let him ride to the airport with us.

The baggage handlers loved him ... of course, everyone loves him. He's a lovable kind of guy.

On the way home from the airport, I was making a mental list of all the things I was going to do since I was up early and would have so much time to get things done...

And then I took a nap on the couch.

And did nothing for the rest of the day.

But it was a good thing I had that restful Sunday because it's been anything but restful since then.

You are all familiar with my friend Kerri, who is as equally smartass-tastic as yours truly. (She might like to think she's even more smartass-tastic than I, but we all know that's not true Kerri!) But she keeps me sane around this place.

Well, Kerri scared the crap out of all of us last week when she had to have some very serious emergency surgery.

She came through it like a champ. Obviously. I mean, no one that stubborn is going to let a little emergency surgery get her down.

If you'd like to send her your well wishes, feel free to leave them in the comments. I'm sure she'll get around the reading them when she's feeling better.

But she has a long recovery ahead of her.

American Heroes

2011-11-11T08:57:00.001-05:00

Good morning Dear Readers. Happy Veterans Day. This is not a new post, but the post I wrote for Veterans Day last year.

I actually wasn't going to post today, but this morning on the news, I saw a story of a soldier returning from overseas. He surprised his little girl at her school pageant. Her pure joy at being reunited with her father reminded me of that day so many years ago when my dad came back from the Middle East.

Ergo, the re-post.

I also have a new post over on The Curvy Girl Guide. If you're looking for a great Thanksgiving dessert, check it out.

American Heroes

On a shelf in my living room, there's an old sepia photo of a handsome young man in uniform. His smile confident. His hat tipped cockily on his head. A look in his eye that says he's ready to conquer the world.

When I think of that young man, I see a different image in my head.

I see a man aged, but not old. Still confident, still strong. Now dressed in a comfortably worn plaid shirt and trousers, bolo tie secure around his neck. The garrison hat replaced with a commemorative Battle of the Bulge ball cap.

His gaze is no less steady, but is now the gaze of a man who has seen the world. Through a haze of dust and gunpowder and blood.

I grew up seeing his medals displayed proudly in a shadow box in his own living room - the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart. As a history nut, I studied war. I studied tactics. I studied the socio-economic effects of war. As a psychology major, I studied the psychological effects of war on not only soldiers, but also civilians.

Yet, no amount of reading or studying, or even watching war movies, prepared me for the scenes he described or the feelings evoked when I listened to my grandfather talk about his experiences in the war.

Of the overwhelming destruction that greeted them on the beaches of Normandy. The terror at what he must do. The underlying fear that he lived with everyday. Watching his friends fall. Wondering if he would be next.

I cried when he told me the story of how he earned that Purple Heart I had seen on his wall every day. During a march, they saw a plane going down in the field through which they were marching. As it soared overhead, they could see the black smoke billowing behind it. They watched it crash into the earth on the other side of the field.

Knowing the plane would soon explode, my grandfather and his friend raced toward the downed plane to try to save the pilot.

And they did. They pulled him from the wrecked carcass of the plane and raced away as quickly as they could. But not quickly enough. The force of the blast propelled them back across the field.

As my grandfather tells it, when he regained his wits, he was surrounded by men from his company, and though he knew the world should be filled with the sounds of war, his world was silent. Then he noticed the tickle of something trickling down his face, and he realized he was bleeding from his ears.

The blast had ruptured both his eardrums. But the pilot lived.

His voice echoed of the past when he described the rage and despair he felt when, on the ship home to the U.S., his commanding officer told him he was going to be shipped out to the Pacific. The choice words he had for his CO almost earned him a court marshal, but his CO understood. He said, "Let it go. Parkie's been through a lot."

I don't know why it took so long for him to tell me about his experiences during WWII. Maybe it was because he didn't want to remember. Maybe it was because he was trying to protect me from living the horror of war through his memories.

Or maybe it was because to me, he was just Grandpap. The man who always had a lap for me to sit on. The man who watched Matlock and Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune with me. The man who shared his popcorn with me. And he just wanted to be that man. Not a hero. But what I don't think he knew, what I don't think I ever told him, was that to me, he was a hero. Not because of anything he had ever done, but because of who he was.

In the next room, there are more pictures. These pictures show a young girl running into the open arms of a soldier dressed in desert combat gear. To her, even though he is stooped to catch her up in his arms, he is a giant of a man.

Always has been. Always will be.

I remember wearing that Operation Desert Storm t-shirt, the day we greeted his plane. The pain of the last year without him forgotten at that moment when he scooped me up.

And yet even now, it haunts me in the way of that hazy memory locked away in the back of your mind. Buried, but not quite gone.

The stress. The constant worry. The not knowing. The ever-present stomach ache. The static filled phone calls that were only long enough to say "hello." Watching while my mother struggled to raise three children on her own. Scared every second of every minute of every day that it might be permanent. Hearing news reports, but trying not to listen.

To this day, I have no idea what my father's experiences were truly like. We were given exotic gifts and told the funny stories. The safe stories. I think as far as he's concerned, it's over and he prefers not to think about it.

Maybe in the future, he'll tell the real story to his grandchild, like my grandfather told me. Or maybe not. Either way, he's my hero. Again not for anything he's done, but just for the person he is.

This is why they tell you not to touch anything at a crime scene

2011-11-07T16:20:00.000-05:00

The other night, I was on the phone with Christine, listening to her confess what a horrible person she is because she had to cut eight 11 year old girls from her basketball team, and they cried.

I confirmed that yes, making little girls cry does, in fact, make her a horrible person.

So please, keep that in mind next time you want me to make you feel better about your life choices. Okay?

Anyway, as I was walking into the bathroom to take out my contacts, I notice several small reddish stains on the carpet in the hallway.

What in the world?

Then I see Winston slink back the hallway into my bedroom.

Me (very concerned): Winston??? Are you okay, buddy?
Christine: What's wrong?
Me: I don't know. It looks like he cut himself or something, and he's bleeding.
Christine: Oh no! Well, I'll let you go, so you can take care of your baby.

I hang up the phone as I crouch down to see what I can see.

Because in all honesty, I was just as concerned about my cream carpet as I was about Winston's possible injury.

Yes. I know this makes me a way more horrible person than Christine.

But seriously, it was weird. When I'm home in the evenings, Winston is attached to me like velcro. Surely I would have noticed if he'd hurt himself. Right?

Yet there it is clear as day on my cream colored carpet.

I was like Dexter studying the blood spray pattern. Trying to ascertain clues that would explain its sudden appearance.

And then because apparently touching the bloodstain is going to shed some light on the situation (like I'm Cate Blanchett in The Gift or something), I reach out and brush my fingertips over the carpet.

And right through vomit.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I had just run my hand through dog puke.

Which looked like blood because I gave Winston the last few bites of the chili I had for dinner.

I wish I could say I was disgusted beyond belief at having dog puke on my hands, but the truth is, I'm immune to it at this point.

I will tell you though...

That is never coming out of my carpet,

Is this really the time???

2011-11-02T11:52:00.000-04:00

Good morning Dear Readers. I'll warn you up front, this post may be an overshare for some of you.

Yesterday, I had a doctors appointment.

I'm one of those people who worries about everyone else's health, but not my own. Unless I'm quite literally gushing blood, I'm just going to tough it out, thanks.

It's not that I have any kind of fear of doctors or anything. More like my German stoicism asserting itself.

And my inflated sense of invincibility.

Anyway. My doctor left the practice a few months ago, so yesterday, I actually saw a nurse practitioner. She covered the basics - temp, blood pressure, etc. She wanted to get bloodwork, but I nixed that one and explained about my needle phobia.

She wasn't happy about it ... but I would've been less happy if she'd had her way.

Finally, we worked our way around to the fun part.

And by fun part, I'm being totally sarcastic here.

The next part is probably WAY TMI, so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, or like, my dad, STOP reading now!!!

I'll preface by saying that I had some health problems a few years ago which made me completely immune to pelvic exams. Any woman who's had a baby will tell you labor and delivery effectively kills any self-consciousness you may feel about having so many people looking at your girly bits.

Cancer scares work the same way. For a year, I felt sure that there wasn't a medical professional in a 100 mile radius who hadn't seen my hooha.

So when the nurse practitioner hands me the paper towel, I shuck my clothes, carefully pull on my paper towel, so as to avoid paper cuts, and hop up on the table.

She was quick and no nonsense. Which I appreciate.

And while she was down there, she took a time out to compliment me on my pedicure.

Which is undoubtedly very cute, indeed. But I must admit, that's the first time anyone in that position has ever stopped to comment on my toes...

Eight legged freak

2011-10-25T16:31:00.002-04:00

Hello Dear Readers.

I know. You thought I'd fallen off the face of the Earth. But no. Still here. Just busy.

And filing away plenty of stories to write up for you when I have a minute to breathe.

For example. You all know about my arachnophobia. (if you're new & don't know about my arachnophobia, see here and here.)

Last week was not a good week for me. It was so bad, in fact, that I wasn't even looking forward to Friday, as I knew it would only offer me more of the same crap I'd dealt with all week.

But I told myself I was going to be positive. And what better way to start a day off right than with a delicious pastry from the bakery at Martins.

And while I was at it, I was going to get everyone in the office a delicious pastry from Martins because, trust me, we needed it.

But I also needed to get into the office early on Friday because I had a ton of work to do so I could enjoy my weekend.

So Friday morning, I got up bright and early, prepared to speed through my morning routine, hit Martins, and get to the office early.

And I was doing okay until I went to grab my shoes...

I was so happy with my cute, comfortable outfit on Friday. The only thing it needed was my zebra print Rocket Dog ballet flats to be perfect. So I throw open the closet door, reach in to grab them, and then see this...

WARNING: This picture is not for the feint of heart.

Holy Mother of GOD!!!

It's the freaking Goliath of spiders.

In my CLOSET!

And it was RIGHT BY MY HAND!

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I stood there frozen for who knows how long. It was a staring match with Aragog. Except he's, you know, a spider and has like eight million eyes, so there's no way I was winning that one.

Eventually, I realized that if that spider was going to be killed, I was going to have to be the one to do it. Except what to kill it with?

Yes. It was in my closet, and there were at least fifty pairs of shoes at hand that could be used to smash him.

But I didn't want spider guts on any shoes I like. So I had to dig around for a pair I don't really like. It was really only seconds, yet when I turned around, he was gone.

GONE.

He's like the effing Houdini of arachnids.

Jesus, Mary & Joseph! Now he's loose in my house! In my closet!

What if he crawls in one of my shoes?!?! What if he crawls in my clothes?!?!

OMG. I am not equipped to deal with this.

The worry that he would make himself at home in something I would eventually put on my body overrode my fear.

He couldn't have gone far right? I mean, it was just seconds. How the hell fast can he move???

I frantically dug all the shoes out of the bottom of the closet. Looked up the sides of the walls. Checked the baseboards.

No spider.

I am now beyond frantic, but I'm already running behind schedule, and quite frankly, I just couldn't spend any more time in there because OMG what if it like crawled on me?

So against my better judgment, I left, headed to Martins for pastries I no longer wanted, and finally to the office, where I shared the horror of my morning with my co-workers.

Who were less than helpful.

Even less helpful?

My Facebook friends.

Seriously. What is wrong with you people???

That picture garnered 55 comments. And only a very small percentage of them were helpful.

Most of them were along the lines of that spider waiting for me under the blankets on my bed or in my pillow case. Whether it was poisonous or laying eggs in my house.

At least my neighbor offered up her husband to kill it for me.

Which would have been helpful earlier. Did they not hear me screaming? I'm pretty sure the people in the next state heard me.

When I got home, I walked into the bedroom, determined to find him, flipped on the light ... and the bulb blew.

I nearly pissed my pants.

For reals. It wasn't pretty.

By bedtime, I had decided it was time to man up. So I lay in bed frozen. Trying to relax enough to fall asleep. Except there was no relaxing with images of that giant eight legged freak of nature slinking down from the ceiling to eat my face off.

I'd like to say it's gotten better. But the closet is still off limits to me, and I'm terrified of having my feet anywhere close to under the bed.

It might be easier if my friends would stop freaking talking about it.

Last night, I was on the phone with Suzanne, and I decided to I was going to brave the closet. I told her it was my first foray into the closet since the incident.

Suzanne: I saw that picture on Facebook. I'd move.
Me: Not really an option.
Suzanne: Seriously. You need to get someone in there to fumigate your house. It's in there laying eggs.
Me: OMG stop! You're not helping!!
Suzanne: But it's true. They lay their eggs this time of year! I wouldn't be able to stay there. How can you sleep in there??? I'd be afraid to close my eyes because it would like crawl on me or something.
Me: Stfu! Jesus! *pant, pant*

So. The closet is still off limits to me. Thankfully, you know how I am about putting away laundry, so I have plenty of options available to me without having to face the monster in the closet. And all my boots were in the closet in the spare bedroom (aka overflow).

Christa is going to come over and ~~help me~~ clean out my closet for me ... she's my hero.

But the traumatizing horror of that morning is going to haunt me ... probably until I move out of that house.

Or the spider eats my face off.

Around the Water Cooler- UPDATED

2011-10-12T10:50:00.016-04:00

I have a confession to make. Some of you are going to judge me for this, and it's okay. I can take it.

I have both Ke$ha and Katy Perry on my ipod.

And I listen to them.

Often.

At first I was all "Ke$ha? How do you even pronounce that? Really. Who the hell does she think she is? And what is with all that glitter??? Doesn't she know that shit gets everywhere?"

And with Katy Perry, all I could think was boobs.

Which is actually what I still think whenever I see a picture of her.

Except when their music came on the radio, I didn't change the station.

And then my head would start bobbing...

And before I knew it, I was singing about brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack.

Even though just the thought of such a thing makes me want to vomit. It's catchy though.

And then, I'm actually downloading the stuff onto my ipod...

I know what you think of me now.

But it gets worse. Oh yes. It does get worse.

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in my office, listening to my iTunes (which means everyone in my hallway was listening to my iTunes), when I hear The Bossman yell down the hall.

Bossman: F&^*ing Selena Gomez??? Are you kidding me? Really?!
Me (hanging head in shame): I know. I know. It's my shameful not-so-secret secret. But you knew it was Selena Gomez!
Bossman: Yes, but I also have four kids. I actually come to the office to escape that shit.

Point taken.

So there it is. I have The Bieb's girlfriend on my ipod.

And I like it.

I've also seen that Cinderalla movie she was in on ABC Family.

I understand if we can't be friends now...

Bossman's dad just came in to the office.

Me: Hey, Fred!
Fred: Hi Rachel. How are you doing?
Me: I'm good.
Fred: Good. I'm glad to hear that. I worry about you. I really do.
Me (puzzled): Why?
(Seriously, why do all these people worry about me ... I'm starting to get paranoid)
Fred: Well I'll tell you, I had a dream about you last night. You were working in a strip club. And I was like Rachel! What are you doing up there?! You wouldn't do anything like that would you?
Me: Ummm no.

(Probably not anyway ... never say never)

Kerri: If you did something like that, you'd have to get your boobs done.
Me (grabbing my admittedly not impressive cleavage): I know.
Kerri: ... and butt implants.
Me: Now I just feel inferior.
Ang: I bet the tips would be good.
Fred: Oh, she was making some really good tips.

I wonder if I was "dancing" to Ke$ha ... cause I could rock that.

I make this look good

2011-10-05T16:29:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, I desperately needed some pumpkin spice bagels. Thomas's makes them. If you've never had them, go, go now, to the grocery store and get yourself some. Because they are awesome.

Anyway. So the grocery store by my office didn't have them. Of course.

Yeah, I'm lookin' at you Food Lion! Stock my damn bagels!

So at lunch, I ran to the good grocery store (aka Martin's) on the other end of town.

I've been known to drive 90 minutes just to have dinner, so driving to the other end of town for bagels is nothing.

And while I was there, I ran into Megan and her husband Jody. Jody is one of my favorite sparring partners. Dude is full of caustic wit and quick with a comeback.

He wasted no time in launching his opening salvo:
J: Do real lawyers wear jeans?
Me: This one does.

For the record, they were trouser jeans, and I paired them with a really cute wool blazer and stilettos. So totally work appropriate.

I am absolutely positive, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Stacey and Clinton would have approved.

Plus, it can't always be inappropriately short skirts and dancing babies, people. Damn you for perpetuating that stereotype Ally McBeal!!

But this morning as I was standing in front of my closet, I decided to dress like a "real lawyer." Or as close as I get to such a thing.

Except after I dressed in those clothes, the thought of wearing them for the remainder of the day left me completely depressed. So I stripped and started over.

As a kind of homage to Indian Summer, I grabbed a cute sleeveless (and yes, short) zebra print dress and paired it with some strappy heels and clunky silver jewelry.

That is my "real lawyer" look. Which could probably also double for a "high class call girl" look.

And when you think about it, the two are strikingly similar. They both charge by the hour to screw people over for money.

But when I got to the office, Kerri asked me why I was dressed like a real lawyer today.

So I guess that means I hit more on the boring lawyer side of the scale than the call girl side. Thankfully.

Around the water cooler

2011-09-29T10:57:00.000-04:00

These are the kinds of conversations that occur in my office. These are all from yesterday.

Scene: Kirsten's office. Angie's there too.

Me: Do either of you have any deedbacks?
Ang: I have them in my office.
Kirs: I think I have a couple left. They're in the cupboard in the bathroom.
...
Me: What?
Ang: What?
Kirs: What? What did you ask for?
Me: Deedbacks!
Kirs: Ooooohhh. I thought you asked for tampons!
Me: Yes. I can see how you would misunderstand that.

Scene: My office. Kerri walks in to scout the snack cupboard.

Kerri: I want something, but I don't know what I want.
Me: You want a nutty bar?
Kerri: Nah. I'm burned out on the nutty bars.
Me: You want a brownie? I'm having a brownie. (Pulls out brownies).
Kerri: No. I don't want a brownie.
Me: Oh, that's good because looks like there's only one left, and I'm eating it.

Scene: Kerri's office. She's wearing a black chiffon blouse over a black tank top. The blouse is the kind that ties at the neck, except she's left the thing untied all damn day.

Me: You need to get rid of that shirt.
Kerri: You said that about this shirt the last time I wore it. Which was last summer. Because after what you said about it last time, I didn't want to wear it again!
Me: It's just not you. A) You're not a chiffon person. B) At least tie the damn thing. It's supposed to be tied! Except...
Kerri: But I'm not a bow person.
Me: EXACTLY! That was point B. You're not a bow person. And it's supposed to be tied into a bow. So get rid of it.

I love the people I work with.

Can anybody find me somebody to love?

2011-09-26T12:26:00.005-04:00

So ...

Last week I forgot to mention that I'd be attending the Brad Paisley concert on Saturday.

Shout out to my incredibly awesome friend Jason (who doesn't read my blog anyway) for inviting me. You rock so hard Metallica called and asked for lessons.

Although with that pic I posted on Facebook, I should say Gene Simmons called and asked for lessons.

<3 you ... please don't kill me for posting that.

But I knew this adventure would provide plenty of blogging material.

Especially because I didn't have to be the designated driver, and Jason was determined to see me drunk.

What is it with people wanting to see me drunk???

Okay, I actually know the answer to that, but I'm not telling.

Anyway...

Sunday morning, I took stock. My left knee was purple (I have NO idea how that happened, as I wasn't on my knees ... swear), I had a bruise on the outside of my left ring finger from base to tip, and I had chipped a tooth and bitten the inside of my cheek.

With the exception of the tooth, I don't know what happened.

I do know a couple drinks in, I was shaking my ass like one of Beyonce's backup dancers.

Actually, I think my ass shaking makes Bey look like an amateur...

But that's not the real story.

The real story is that I met my other half.

You know how you wait your entire life to meet that person who just completes you? (And yes, I said that with dramatic pauses, just like Tom Cruise)

Someone who laughs at the stupid shit I do and then does some equally stupid shit.

Someone who duets with me, regardless of where we may be, because life is always just a little bit better with music.

Someone who speaks in movie quotes.

Someone who is as clumsy and unathletic as I am.

Someone who is equally as smartassy as I am.

Someone who shrieks in the middle of a restaurant during a funny story.

Someone who makes a towel snake, names it Sylvester, then speaks to him in parseltongue.

See!!! OMFG we're freaking perfect for each other!

There's just one thing.

I always thought my other half would be a man. And Gina is decidedly, ummm, not a man.

Which isn't necessarily a deal killer. I mean I've lived without a man for a good long while, and it's definitely doable.

And I'm not into women, but we could just be like Thelma & Louise. Except way cooler, and you know, without that whole driving off a cliff thing.

Although I wouldn't put it outside the realm of possibility. Because quite frankly, I'm pretty sure with the two of us together, our odds of being struck by lightning go from 1 in 1.345 million to 1 in 5.

So, yeah, we'll just avoid cliffs.

I see a couple of problems here though. First of all, she has this gorgeous long hair, so between the two of us, the bathroom drain will always be clogged. Secondly, who will kill the spiders? And put away the sofa bed? Because apparently, we're both completely inept at that.

But these problems are not insurmountable. Right? There's still hope for us...

Every nightmare I've ever had rolled into one...

2011-09-21T16:05:00.001-04:00

You know those horror movies where a bunch of kids get lost in the backwoods and are hunted and butchered by cannabalistic rednecks who manage to skin and eat all but one lone heroine?

Those movies are always set in West Virginia. Which I've never really understood. Because hello! Those cannablistic rednecks live in Virginia.

I know this because I've been inside their house.

For reals.

You see, this past weekend, Christine and I scored tickets on the 50 yard line for the WVU v. MD game.

Four rows from the field, thank you very much.

But the deal was, we'd ride to the game with two of her friends and then take the metro to Falls Church, where another of her friends would pick us up and take us home.

This strategic planning was due to the fact that I knew traffic was going to be a mess in College Park, and I didn't want to drive in it.

Anyway, on the drive home from the metro station, I found myself in desperate need of a restroom.

Desperate.

Like omg, if you don't pull over I'm going to pee in your car desperate.

So Christine's friend immediately pulled into the parking lot of the "gas station" we were in the process of passing.

I use the term gas station loosely because it was a run down old house in the middle of nowhere with one gas pump that I'm pretty sure doesn't even work.

Even the dumbest scream queen would take one look at this place and run in the other direction.

But omg I had to go, and I know for a fact there's nothing else on that stretch for miles.

Plus, I'm pretty sure Christine's friend could kill a man with his pinkie, and I don't think he'd abandon me to a group of cannabalistic mountain people.

I've been wrong before though.

Regardless, I was going in there.

I tore out of the car and through the door of the dilapidated house that was like a cross between the house from Amityville Horror and the Bates Motel...

And I was greeted by a man who defined every hillbilly redneck stereotype known to man, a smaller person (I think it was a woman) who looked eerily similar to the man and was dressed for hunting, and an old woman with braided dyed black hair, leathery skin and no teeth.

I had walked into Deliverance.

I could practically hear the banjoes in the background, but the call of nature overruled my survival instincts.

When I asked for the bathroom, they were more than happy to point me in the right direction. To the back of the store, take the hallway on the left.

So I race to the back of the store, take the hallway on the left...

And then I turned right ... and then left again.

OMG I'm being herded into their basement torture chamber.

Every preview I've ever seen for the eight million Saw movies flashed through my head. I was like a cow in the slaughterhouse being urged through the chute to my doom.

Just as I decided that I'd rather live with the shame of pissing myself, I came to the surprisingly clean bathroom.

Although the entire 90 seconds I was in there, I was convinced someone was going to open a trapdoor in the floor and pull me in.

Surely Christine and her SpecOps friend would come looking for me right???

Obviously, I survived.

On my way back out, I politely thanked the scary people under the stairs.

And then I saw it. Right inside the door, they had a card table set up with different kinds of cured meats on it.

I don't even know what these things were supposed to be. Roadkill? Their prior victims who were dumb enough to stop and ask to use the bathroom??

Christine's friend was waiting right outside the door for me, and as I walked by him, he followed my gaze to the card table. As he hurried me to the car, he whispered "It's best not to question some things..."

To anyone who may still be trapped in the basement there, I'll send help. Promise.

And I thought I had a problem...

2011-09-14T14:51:00.000-04:00

Remember how I told you I have this problem where I start talking, and everything I'm thinking just comes pouring out of my mouth, no filter?

Well, last night, I met a girl who may very well have me beat ... or at least she gives me a run for my money.

We were in spin class, pedaling our asses off, when the instructor asks Mom a question about guidelines regarding books teachers are allowed to make available to children to read.

Apparently, her son had picked up a book on the reading shelf that taught him things about dog anatomy that she had prefered he not know, but that's a story for another time.

Anyway...

The girl on the bike behind Mom asks her if she's a teacher. So then they go through the whole where did you teach yadda yadda yadda.

Then the girl hits Mom with: "You were my teacher in 6th grade! You were soooo mean to me! All my other teachers like me because I was a good student, but not you."

Now I would just like to interject that my mom has her faults, but she was a phenomenal teacher ... not that I know from personal experience. Unlike some of her children *cough Robbie cough*, I was banned from her classroom.

I had to listen to all my friends talk about the experiments they were doing while I was memorizing the periodic table.

Which I suppose wasn't all bad, considering I kick ass at Jeopardy.

But back to the story.

So then she starts in on how she liked all of her 6th grade teachers, except for Mrs. W.

Apparently Mrs. W. was even meaner than Mom.

Personally, I'd say they're about on par, but that's just me.

So she's going on and on and on about how she didn't like Mrs. W. at all, and she even tried to switch to another class. And eventually, I felt the need to interject that Mom is actually very good friends with Mrs. W.

I think Mom was going to let it slide and not embarass the girl ... which just goes to show she's the better person.

The oh shit look on her face was priceless.

Then the girl starts backtracking and explaining that she didn't like Mrs. W. as a teacher, but as a person she was totally okay.

I guess she decided it was just safer to move on to another topic...

So she hits Mom with, "Wow! You were my sixth grade teacher, and now I'm married! And I have a baby!"

The OMG you're soooo old wasn't actually spoken aloud, but everyone in the room could hear it.

At that point, I just felt sorry for her. Obviously, she's not at all familiar with the phrase stop while you're ahead.

And you know what, now that I think about it, I always tell people if you can talk, you're not working hard enough. So maybe if she'd pedaled a little faster, she wouldn't have dug that hole quite so deep...

We don't have to drink funny kool aid or anything right?

2011-09-13T14:56:00.000-04:00

As you know, I've converted to a new religion...

I've become a WVU fan.

After my first WVU football experience, Christine decided I needed a do over. So this past weekend, we headed to Morgantown again, to watch the Mountaineers take on Norfolk State.

Things didn't exactly start off well ... to say the least.

For the first half, I listened to Christine mumble "I can't believe we're losing to Norfolk State" while she kind of rocked back & forth in a shock induced haze.

Even though it goes against my nature, I tried to stay positive and told her we still had the second half.

And I don't know what kind of ass chewing went on in that locker room at half time, but an ass chewing there certainly was. Because when they came back out, they were a completely different team.

A team that kicked Norfolk State's ass.

The Norfolk State fans (all 25 of them), who had been going nuts during the first half, left at the beginning of the fourth quarter.

It was pretty clear they weren't coming back from that kind of beating.

Now as fun as these last two weekends have been, I was looking forward to having this weekend at home (next game is an away game at University of Maryland - which ironically is closer to me than Morgantown). Spend some time with Winston. Clean. Catch up on yardwork.

Sleep in.

You know. The important things.

Then last night, Christine calls me. "You're not going to believe this. I know it's getting a little out of hand now, but C offered me two tickets to the game this weekend."

I told her I'd have to think about it. Because of the aforementioned reasons, I was leaning toward no. So after thinking about it for a couple hours, I texted her & told her I thought I was going to have to pass.

She agreed with me, citing the same reasons.

So there you have it. No game.

Decision made.

Right???

So why was I sitting there awash in indecision? Did I make the right choice? Would I regret not going? WTH was I thinking?

It was just like in Notting Hill when William's sitting in the restaurant surrounded by his friends, who are confirming that he did the right thing when he told Anna no.

I kept expecting Spike to come in and say "You daft prick."

I needed confirmation. So I texted my friend J and told him I turned down tickets to the game. I immediately got his response:

Wtf were you thinking

Shit!

I went to bed last night still pondering the Do I/ Don't I debate.

This morning, after I got out of the shower, I had a message from Christine ... these tickets are on the 50 yard line.

Oh, salted dog! I've made the wrong decision haven't I!

So then it was like a mad dash through London trying to reach the Savoy where Ms. Scott was holding a press conference.

Who will stay with Winston? Do we drive? Do we take the metro? Will we make it home in time for Christine to make the play she has tickets for that night?

James Bond never had to put up with this shit.

But finally I got everything worked out to my satisfaction. So...

Look for me on the 50 yard line on Saturday.

Let's go!

Let's go!!! ... Mountaineers!!!

2011-09-07T09:51:00.002-04:00

I know you all spent your long holiday weekend wondering if I managed to live through mine. So now you can stop worrying.

I'm alive.

I can hear your relieved "thank Gods" from here.

The weekend was a little different than what we had planned. Christine texted me at the beginning of last week and asked if we could leave for the game Sunday morning and go kayaking on Monday instead of Saturday.

Which would have been fine with me except it was all of 60 degrees on Monday and raining constantly. So we nixed the kayaking.

Instead we just planned to head to Morgantown for the game on Sunday. And then spend Monday relaxing and hanging out with friends.

So Sunday morning, I picked her up & we hit the road (30 minutes later than I had planned ... through no fault of my own).

For most people, the drive to Morgantown takes about 2 1/2 hours.

I am not most people.

Even with two pit stops, we made it to Morgantown in 2 hours. Although at one point about 20 miles outside of Morgantown, I saw flashing blue & red up ahead, so I slowed down. A state trooper had stopped to assist a truck pulled over along the side of the road.

I was all "Phew! Dodged that one!" Then I looked in my rearview mirror and spotted three, count 'em, three state troopers behind me.

O. M. G!! Mothertrucker!! I knew I was going down. I'd been speeding along, 85 in a 65, before I spotted the first state trooper, so I knew they had me.

But when I pulled over into the right lane, they just ... drove right past me.

What?!

Not that I wasn't pretty darn happy about it, but whoa. Then I realized they were probably all headed to the game.

Duh, Rachel.

When we finally got to Morgantown and made our way through the stadium traffic, I squeezed my car into a parking space that I knew I'd never get it out of, and we headed off for some tailgate hopping.

It is just amazing how you run into random people while you're wandering around. My 6th grade home ec teacher. My high school band teacher. My 6th grade science teacher. Friends from high school that I haven't even spoken to since high school. I even met a woman who's mother is a distant cousin of my father's.

Weird.

After much wandering and even more craziness, we finally found my friend Janna and her husband. They live in Morgantown, and seeing Janna probably counted for about 88.7% of my excitement. She works constantly, so we haven't seen each other since Christmas 2008.

But after we found their tailgate, that's when things got serious.

I never knew Janna was an enabler. But she is.

Big time.

Especially because she was on call that evening, so she couldn't drink. And I guess she thought I was duty bound to chug down her share???

Do you know what happens when you have 7 jello shots in a 5 minute period?

I spent the entire first quarter just waiting to regain feeling in my eyelids.

And the guy to the left of me found out that I'm really chatty when I've been drinking ... really chatty.

His wife explained that they were not season ticket holders. Their friend had given them the tickets. So then I told them they were lucky to be sharing the stands with us because we are awesome!

That's when they became really interested in the pre-game.

There was a moment when it could have gotten really ugly. The people in front of me (who just so happend to be Marshall fans) had stadium chairs, and every time I stood up, I banged my shins on that damn chair in front of me. The third time it happened, my leg started bleeding, and I was ready to rip up that damn chair and beat them with it.

But that probably would have gotten us thrown out of the game... maybe.

Did I mention that I prayed for good weather for the game? The forecast was not looking good. 40% chance of thunderstorms.

But it was a beautiful afternoon. Bright. Sunny. HOT. As evidenced by the fact that I had sweat running down the crack of my ... well you get it, and my shirt was glued to my body.

Every once in a while a breeze would blow through or the sun would pass behind a cloud, and it was like heaven.

And then, toward the end of the third quarter, they started making announcements about lightning strikes and suspending play, yadda yadda yadda.

Whatevs, people. It's beautiful out!

And then it wasn't.

You could see the black clouds gathering in the distance. And then they got closer ... and closer.

Until finally, the announcer says we all have to leave our seats and seek shelter in the concourse.

So, of course, we all huddled in the concourse directly under the stands, packed in like sardines.

But turns out the guys around us were real sweethearts, so it was actually kind of fun. In fact, when the skies finally burst open and rain came down in a torrential downpour, which was blown into the concourse by the gale force winds, my new best friends, Donnie and Scott tried to keep us dry by huddling around us.

It was a lovely gesture, but at that point, the rain seemed to be coming from every direction. When it finally calmed down a bit, Donnie gave me his poncho.

Seriously. He was standing there being pelted with rain, and he gave me his poncho.

*swoon*

After the rain had stopped, and we were waiting for them to resume the game, we did the whole question and answer thing that people do when they're trapped together.

And before you knew it, cell phones were coming out to show off pictures of dogs and kids. We played trivia on Christine's cell phone.

It was a party.

And then they evacuated the stadium. We were told to either return to our cars or head over to the indoor practice field. We chose the practice field.

With our new friends.

About two hours after they suspended play, we started talking about giving up the ghost and heading out. It didn't look like they were going to be able to finish the game anytime soon.

By 8, we headed off in our separate directions. Christine and I headed over to her friend's house, thinking if they resumed the game, we could at least watch the rest of it on TV. And they did eventually resume.

Which lasted a couple minutes into the fourth, when they suspended play again.

At which point, we decided to head home. I have the attention span of a 2 year old with ADD, so I was done for.

But we'll be back...

Surely there's some kind of anti-psychotic for this. Right?

2011-09-01T09:58:00.001-04:00

Heather pointed out to me that there seems to be a recurring theme in my posts lately. So I was going to write a nice non-death related post.

However...

Friday evening, I met Chris and the kids back at her parents' house for some quality pool time.

There was an incident with a very large spider that I'll tell you about later.

Anyway, on the drive home, I was almost to my house, when I glanced over and saw an old cooler sitting by the road.

Immediately, I was all OMG THERE'S A BABY IN THAT COOLER!!!

No, there was not, in fact, a baby in the cooler.

I'm just preprogrammed to think like that.

Let me tell you why.

In my last year of law school I interviewed with the Miami-Dade County Prosecutor's Office.

You may be surprised to learn this, but I don't interview well. I just open my mouth, and all this crap starts spewing out, and my mind is screaming shut up you idiot!, but I just keep talking.

I'm working on it.

Anyway, so there I am in a small room in the Career Services office at Emory, with two assistant prosecuting attorneys from Miami. We go through all the standard interview questions. Why do you want this job, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Then they start in with the hypotheticals:

In the last several weeks, picnic baskets have been found washed up on local beaches, and inside the baskets are babies. Someone is kidnapping infants, putting them in picnic baskets and dumping the baskets out at sea. You're on call, and you receive a call from a patrolman at 2 a.m. He's patrolling a local dock, and he sees a man walking toward a boat with a picnic basket in his hand. The patrolman wants to know if he has probable cause to stop the guy and search the basket. He needs an answer now.

First of all ... wtf kind of sick, twisted mind makes up a scenario like that?!?! For reals.

But I can't very well say that to them. I have to give them an actual answer. Except hell! You can't stop a guy because he's carrying a damn picnic basket!

Okay, Rachel. Think of something intelligent to say.

Me: Just ask him what he's doing on the dock at that time of night. (It's a reasonable question. Right?)
DA 1: He says he's just going fishing. He's getting closer to the boat. The patrolman needs an answer...
Me: Ask him if you can look inside the basket. (Again, reasonable.)
DA 1: He says no. He's getting on the boat. Does he look in the basket? Does he let him go?

I sit there for several moments in silence. Terrified of giving this cop the wrong answer and watching a murderer go free because the cop didn't have probable cause to search him (OMG Rachel it's a hypothetical for the love!)

DA 1: He needs an answer.

Stop pushing me!!!

Me (resigned): Search the basket.

More silent seconds tick by, where I agonize that I've made the wrong decision and now this murderer's going to walk off scot free.

DA 1 (smiling): Sometimes you have to make some really hard calls on this job, but when it comes down to it, you can't sacrifice your humanity. If it comes down to watching a murderer walk or saving a potential victim, you save the victim.

Okay, so I wouldn't sacrifice the baby. Yay me.

I immediately questioned my ability to handle that job given how I stressed I got over a hypothetical situation. So when they called and asked me to come to interview in Miami, I declined.

But now every time I pass a garbage bag, container, what not, on the side of the road, I automatically default to "OMG there's a body in there!"

I can't be the only one who thinks that...

Remember that time I booked you in a hotel where that guy was murdered?

2011-08-31T12:30:00.000-04:00

Have I ever mentioned that my friend, Suzanne, lives in L.A.?

Well she does, so now you can all go stalk her.

Anyway, she just moved into a new apartment. Moving is always stressful. Just when you get comfortable in one space, you have to leave the little nest you've made for yourself and make all your crap fit into a new space.

So this morning, Suze emails me to tell me she was awakened at 2a.m. by the sounds of fighting in the street outside her apartment building. She ran outside to see what was going on and was about to call the police, when she realized that they were filming a fight scene.

A very loud fight scene.

In front of her apartment building.

At TWO in the MORNING.

I guess these are the hazards of living in L.A.

But for some reason it reminded me of the time my parents came to Atlanta for my law school graduation.

All the years I lived in Atlanta, my parents came to visit me a grand total of three times. Moving me down there, moving me to a new apartment, and moving me back.

I'm pretty sure my mom would have loved to visit more and explore the city with me, but my dad despises cities.

DESPISES them.

Want to check out Centennial Park?

No.

Want to go to the World of Coke?

No.

Want to explore the Underground?

No.

I'm pretty sure he still has nightmares about the 85/75 merge.

And really 12 lanes of traffic is a bit much.

So, out of deference to my dad, when they came down for graduation, I made reservations for them at a hotel outside of the city limits.

The morning of graduation, I head over to their hotel to pick them up and drive them to campus.

While my dad's showering, my mom tells me that there was some big commotion in the parking lot the night before.

I'll never forget what she said to me:

I didn't get any sleep last night. It sounded like there was a gunshot, so I looked out the window to see what was going on. There were some people over by your daddy's car*, but I couldn't see what they were doing. Then I heard sirens, and there were police all over the place. They finally left early this morning. I tried to wake your daddy up, but he'd taken one of his sleeping pills, so he was dead to the world.

WTF!!! Seriously, Peggy. W.T.F!!!

When you hear something that sounds like a gunshot, ESPECIALLY IN ATLANTA, you don't go looking out the GD window!

You move AWAY from the windows! WTH is wrong with you?!

OMG!

Before I could either have a heart attack or smack my mother silly, I head outside to the area she indicated. And sure enough, right there in the parking space beside my dad's car, are traces of the telltale white outline and what I assume was a bloodstain.

So then I have to have the whole conversation with my mom about talking to the police, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But the morale of the story is if we ever go on vacation together, don't let me book the hotel.

*A/N: Yes. When my mom mentions my dad in conversation she calls him "your daddy." Southern thing? Just a my family thing? I have no idea. But it is the way it is.

If you don't hear from me I'm either torching a couch or at the bottom of Cheat Lake

2011-08-26T16:08:00.000-04:00

You know how on tours, musicians like to play practical jokes on one another to break up the monotony of life on the road?

Well, Brad Paisley is known as one of the best (if not The Best) practical jokers in the industry. Right now he's on tour with an up & coming group, Eden's Edge.

The two girls and a guy who are Eden's Edge are from Arkansas.

Brad Paisley is from West by God Virginia.

Like me.

And we (and by "we" I mean everyone BUT me) take our college football seriously around here. People in The WV bleed blue and gold.

Except of course for me. Because quite frankly, I couldn't care less. I mean, I didn't even go to WVU, so I don't really see the point in (over)zealously supporting the athletics program of a school I have no ties to simply because it happens to be in the same state.

But apparently I'm the only one who understands this reasoning. Because I'm one of maybe a dozen people in the state who will openly announce my refusal to jump on this bandwagon.

Which pretty much makes me a pariah.

And WVU fans are RABID. Like "foam at the mouth defend their team to the death" rabid.

Anyway, being from WV, Brad Paisley had a WVU doormat outside the door to his RV, and the lovely ladies from Eden's Edge decided to steal it and replace it with a Razorbacks doormat.

WVU fans have this thing they do. They burn couches.

Is this only a WV thing? Anyone??

So in retaliation for the theft of his WVU mat, Brad torched the Razorbacks mat. And then the video hit youtube. And then there was this great big brouhaha about Brad Paisley dissing the Razorbacks, so then he had to apologize to all the AR fans.

Anyway right now you're wondering WTF is your point Rachel?!?!?!

Well in a few weeks, I will be attending my first ever WVU football game.

And I'm pretty damn excited about it.

I bought a WVU t-shirt...

And blue & gold nail polish. I know! I already sense the need for an intervention.

As you may recall I have a tendency to become ... involved in sporting events. I just get wrapped up in all the excitement.

Last night, when I told my mom I was going to a WVU game, she said "Don't get arrested."

Where's the faith??? And the funny thing is she doesn't even know all the really bad things I did when I was young and stupid that could have actually gotten me arrested.

Because I'm way better at hiding these things than my siblings.

Then I told her we're going kayaking the day before the game, and she asked me if I have good medical insurance...

It's almost scary how well she knows me.

In fact, they're probably calling Rob right now to up my life insurance.

And she's actually the third person to doubt my ability to go kayaking without either maiming and/or killing myself.

I should probably be offended, but I just walked into a wall, so I kind of have to concede their point on this one...

I wonder what Freud would say about this?

2011-08-22T12:39:00.001-04:00

Do you remember your dreams?

I can remember my dreams for a couple hours after waking up, but then they fade away. Except for a few snippits here & there.

Like I was making out with Ryan Reynolds. Stuff like that.

And then there are the dreams that are so incredibly vivid that you CAN'T forget them.

You know, the ones that haunt you in startling clarity for the rest of your natural life...

Thankfully, these dreams are few and far between for me. In fact, (other than my recurring nightmares about spiders or finding out I didn't actually graduate from law school) I've only had one dream that was so ... real that I will forever remember every moment of it.

In my dream, I was driving from my town to a neighboring town. A drive I've made thousands of times. It's an absolutely beautiful drive. Quiet. Towering trees on either side of the road. Sunlight filtering through the leaves.

As I turn through a bend in the road, I see a group of kids on the side of the road up ahead. They're on bikes. As I get closer, I see three of the boys pushing and shoving a nerdy little boy. So being me, I stop to help out the little guy and give those bullies a piece of my mind.

I pull up beside them, roll down my window and start giving them hell. While I'm tearing into them, one of the boys rounds the hood of my car, walks up to my window, pulls a gun and shoots me in the throat.

Then he smiled and laughed. And it was pure evil.

Clutching my throat with one hand, I haul ass to the hospital that was thankfully only another couple of miles down the road.

I can still feel the blow seeping through my fingers. Just as I pulled into the hosiptal, I woke up.

As soon as I woke up, I swore that I would never again eat donuts right before I went to bed.

I had this dream about eight years ago. And to this day, every time I drive that road, I shudder when I drive past the spot where that kid shot me in my dream.

Seriously. Most. Traumatic. Dream. EVER.

Until last night.

Last night I had the most absolutely horrifying dream.

Even recalling it now, in the bright light of day, freaks me the eff out.

I was kidnapped by human traffickers.

Which honestly, wouldn't have freaked me out as much. But see, they also dognapped Winston.

One of my worst fears is that Winston will be stolen by some boil on the butt of society and used for dogfighting. Because he just looks so intimidating.

I've actually had gangbangers with tears tattooed on their faces pull up beside of me while I'm walking Winston to get a closer look at him.

And just the thought of Winston in pain or afraid sends me into a full blown anxiety attack.

I mean, you've read about his trips to the vet.

So anyway, without going into detail, this dream was beyond gritty and disturbing.

There are times when my imagination is not my friend. And this was one of them.

Unsurprisingly, I got sick from the conditions we were forced to live in, and in order to protect their investment, the traffickers hauled me out of our squalid little room to pump me full of antibiotics and crap.

You can imagine how crazy Winston went when they took me away. And in order to subdue him (and teach me a lesson) they did horrible things to him ... omg... *pant pant*.

I'll spare you.

Thankfully, I woke up and assured myself Winston was fine. So at 4 o'clock this morning, I was wrapped around my dog, petting him and telling myself it was just a dream.

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I was thinking about that other dream and wondering what I could blame this one on, considering I haven't had a donut in a few days.

And then it hit me. Last night before I fell asleep a friend was texting me about the extra donuts he had that were calling his name.

So apparently, not only am I banned from eating donuts before bed, but I can't even talk about them!

But you know what? If it means ridding my dreams of people trying to kill me and my dog, I'll give up donuts altogether.

And in the meantime, it might also help if I stop watching Taken...

Is the end near??? Did I miss the memo?

2011-08-10T11:20:00.002-04:00

So this past weekend, I watched this tweeny bopper movie on ABC Family about this bitchy girl who bites it at prom & is sent back as a ghost to learn the error of her ways, blah, blah, blah.

Yes. I watched an ABC Family made for tv movie starring one of the Tisdale girls (I don't know which one).

Twice.

Don't freaking judge me!

Anyway, Tim Gunn was Bitchy Girl's moralistic guardian angel type person, and at first I was all "Oh, Tim Gunn, noooooo. You are amazing. You are fabulous. You are Tim Gunn! WTH are you doing in this movie!"

Then I started thinking how awesome would it be to have Tim Gunn as your guardian angel.

Remember when he had that show that tried to be What Not to Wear, but just fell flat?

Totally not your fault Tim. I place all the blame on that woman whose name I don't even remember because she had zero personality.

But I would have killed to be on that show and have Tim Gunn dress me.

I can hear him now when he sees my closet: "This worries me..."

But I'm really getting off track here.

So this morning, a friend from college, R, whom I love and adore, but rarely get to see anymore because he just had to move to another state, called me out of the blue.

Me: Hey! How are you doing?!
R: Well, not so good.
Me (less excited now): What's going on?
R: I'm not going to go into specifics, but I had this dream last night. And I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm somewhat superstitious. So, I just wanted to call and make sure you're okay.
Me: ... maybe you should tell me what this dream was about.
R: No, I'm not going to tell you. But you're good? Everything's okay?
Me: As far as I know...?

So then we chatted for a little while, as I tried to shake off the sense of impending doom now hanging over my head.

After getting off the phone with R, I walked over to Kerri's office to deliver a package I signed for.

Kerri: You look like a treehugger today. But with better accessories.
Me: So I'm like a non-hippie treehugger.
Kerri: Yeah. Hey, I like those shoes. I want those when you die.

Would you people please stop trying to kill me!!!!!

I'm thinking I need to call Rob and up my insurance.

And if I have anything you'd like, you better call dibs now.

Paging Farmer Ted...

2011-08-02T15:24:00.002-04:00

I know you've all been patiently awaiting the second installment of that now long ago weekend.

Or not.

But guess what?

You're not going to get it.

I've moved on.

And even if you're disappointed that you don't get to hear about the sumo baby who broke my back, you should just humor me here because today's my birthday.

Yep.

Cue music:

So this past Saturday, I wanted to go to Cheesecake Factory. Saturday was National Cheesecake Day, and Cheesecake Factory was having half price cheesecake.

Plus it was Harry Potter's birthday. Which had to be celebrated.

Anyway, we headed to Tysons for lunch and some shopping.

We being me, my mom, my sister-in-law (who henceforth shall be known as Christa or Chris**), her mom and Baby Girl.

If you live in the NoVA area, you've probably heard the story on the news about The Butt Slasher. For any of you who are not familiar, there's a man who has been trolling the Northern VA area malls, slicing the butts of innocent passersby with what is assumed to be a boxcutter.

No. I am not shitting you.

His MO is to create some kind of disturbance and then strike out when people turn their backs.

Of course, I immediately declare that should we encounter any such disturbance, I will start kicking anyone close to me and ask questions later.

Christa's mom suggests we make a pact to watch each other's butts. Literally.

And with that the deal is made. We shall protect each other's butts.

Arriving at our destination, we file out of the car. I start across the parking lot, carrying Baby Girl when a man pulls to a stop in front of me to ask if I know where Maggiano's is.

Being the helpful sort, I smile and point at the sign directly in front of us, which spells out Maggiano's in 10 foot high letters.

And then Christa reminds me that he could have been a distraction, and I could have just gotten my butt slashed.

DAMN!!!

My first test and I failed! WTF!

After lunch (which included a piece of Adam's Peanut Butter Cup Fudge Ripple cheesecake ... with extra hot fudge thank you very much), we headed out for shopping.

At some point, we all got separated by circumstance, and I wandered down to the other end of the mall to hit up a few stores, including Laila Rowe, so I could use the gift card my friend have me for my birthday about three years ago...

Anyway, I happened by this couple trying to get their kid out of a stroller. Which resulted in them knocking the stroller over, just as I walked by.

And of course, I bent over to pick it up.

Mothertrucker!!! I've failed again!

I suck at this!

Obviously, if there's a butt slasher on the loose, I am NOT the person you want watching your back.

So, steeped in my failure, I headed down to Urban Outfitters to look for a dress to buy myself for my birthday.

Because that's how I roll.

As I walk into Urban Outfitters, I immediately see a dress that looks kind of like what I'm looking for (in retrospect not at all what I was looking for). When I walk over for a closer inspection, the sales girl who was putting dresses back on the rack sees me reaching for the dress.

Sales Girl: That's a great dress. But do you know what would look amazing on you?
Me: What's that?
Sales Girl: This.
Me: Seriously???
Sales Girl: Seriously. This would look amazing on you. I've been wanting to buy it, but I don't have the body for it. You should try it on. I would love to see this on you.
(I wondered briefly if she was hitting on me)
Me: Funny because I could actually go my entire life without ever seeing that on me.

Brace youselves Dear Readers. This is the this she pulled off the rack:

OMG the horror!!!

The cutouts. The weird heiroglyphic designs. The (I hesitate to call it) fabric it was made out of. It was a trifecta of 1980's flashback hideousness. I wondered briefly if this was like Hot Tub Time Machine, and John Cusack would be walking in the store at any moment.

Because I would totally put on that dress for John Cusack.

I really couldn't figure out if this girl was hitting in me, screwing with me or (worst of all) serious about liking this dress. But if it would make her happy, I'd try on the damn dress.

Except when we walked back to the dressing room, there was a line 10 people deep.

So I waited until her back was turned, and I surrepitously put that massive fail of a dress back on the rack and escaped out the front of store.

I ended up with no dress on Saturday.

But I did get this:

**Chris finally found my blog, and gave me quite the talking to for referring to her as SIL ... I told you she's intimidating.

It's like a rummage sale ... with food

2011-07-25T17:02:00.001-04:00

Happy Monday Dear Readers.

Yeah, I know. I'd like to kick Monday in the bean bags, too. But unfortunately, Mondays are a fact of life.

It was a busy weekend for me.

Of course you know how I like my weekends. Lazy.

So really if I have to get up off my couch, that's a busy weekend for me.

But this was actually a busy weekend by "normal people" standards.

Here was the plan:
Friday: cleaning
Saturday: pool (bright & early), family reunion (early afternoon), fundraiser (late afternoon), recovery & read book for book club (evening)
Sunday: cut down dead bushes in yard while Dad supervises to ensure I don't cut off a limb (as in one attached to my body) (bright & early), book club meeting (early afternoon), jewelry party (late afternoon), recovery & grieving for loss of lazy weekend (evening).

Here's how it actually went down:
Friday: cleaning (check!); made chocolate meringue pie for family reunion (double check!)

Saturday:
Well, I got the "up bright & early" part, but Becky was feeling a bit peaked, so we skipped the pool. Instead I borrowed her powerwasher in order to move the cleaning party outside...

And I have a confession to make ... I am in love with an inanimate object.

That powerwasher is freaking awesome! OMG I lurvs it.

Once I got it started and figured out how to, you know, make it powerwash, I freaking went to town! I powerashed the retaining wall. I powerwashed the front porch. Then I moved the party around back, where I powerwashed the siding, the patio, the deck, the french doors.

The french doors are where I ran into a small problem. You see, Winston was standing on the other side of those doors, and he went absolutely ballistic at the sound of the water hitting the door.

As in he shredded the sheers with his doggie toenails. But I'm considering that a lesson learned.

By the time I was finished powerwashing, I looked like I had been rolling around in a pig pen, so I headed in for my second shower of the day.

Then it was time to head off to the family reunion.

I don't know what your family reunions are like, but our family reunion is serious business. Our family historian (no, I'm not shitting you, we actually have a family historian) has traced our family tree back to 1790.

Uh huh. Top that.

We used to have a normal family reunion with a potluck in my grandma's back yard. Which I was pretty happy about because hello! good cooks in my family. Then somehow it became this huge deal including all of my great-great grandfather's descendants.

That's a lot of people.

Then they organized. For reals. There's a Board of Directors and an annual newsletter and everything.

It's intense. Now when you go to the family reunion, you're bullied to sign in and wear a name tag.

I refuse to wear a name tag on principle. Because this is a family reunion. If they don't know who I am maybe they shouldn't be there.

Just a suggestion.

But every year, there are more and more people I don't know. This year, I'd say I only knew 5% of the people there.

How is that even possible???

I'll tell you how. They advertised the family reunion in the newspaper. Sweet Jesus people! Haven't you ever seen Wedding Crashers??? You may as well stand outside the Rescue Mission and yell free food!

And in order to finance this shindig, they solicit donations and have a silent auction every year. And every year, my mom donates something really great to auction off.

One year, she made a quilt. And I desperately wanted that quilt. So my cousin and I got into a bidding war over it.

I won.

Of course.

And then my mom yelled at me for buying the damn thing, when she would have made me one for free.

This year? She made this totally awesome purse.

Vera Bradley ain't got nothin' on my momma.

The other offerings in this silent auction? A cheap plastic picnic set someone obviously dug out of their attic for the ocassion. An Etienne Aigner purse circa 1995. One of those ribbon wrapped decorative brooms like the one my grandma used to have.

In fact, I think it may have been my grandma's.

You get the drift.

And Mom's purse got exactly 2 bids...

The winning bid was hers. The first bid was $5, and she just couldn't bear to see it go for $5.

So she bought the purse she made. I'm working on setting up an etsy account for her.

I'll keep you updated.

I know you're wondering how I could possibly tear myself away from all that family bonding with people I don't know, but sadly, I was forced to eat and run in order to make my other commitment.

My buddy Jay asked me to perform with him at a charity event. Jessica Rocks is an organization that raises money to assist families with children who are battling cancer.

Jessica's mom started it after Jessica's battle with cancer. I'm happy to say that Jessica is now a happy, healthy kid. As evidenced by her whining "Mo-om" every time her mom called her over to introduce her to a new arrival.

Seeing Jessica and all the people who had come out to support their cause was good for my heart. I was so incredibly happy that I had been invited to participate in the event.

I've been proudly sporting my Jessica Rocks t-shirt since Saturday afternoon.

I washed it.

Swear.

The black thunderclouds threatened to rain on our parade that afternoon, but thankfully, they held off long enough for the balloon release (the balloons are biodegradable fyi). Watching hundreds of balloons float off into the wild blue/black yonder is an awe-inspiring sight. Each balloon was purchased with a $5 donation. And that money goes to help families in need.

I took off after the balloon release. And none too soon, as it started raining cats & dogs not 5 minutes after I got into my car.

Yet, I somehow decided that since I was already soaked with sweat, I may as well stop at Redbox to find a movie to watch.

In the 2 minutes it took me to get my movie, I went from sweat-soaked to dripping, sodden mess.

Which lead to my third shower of the day when I got home.

Shortly thereafter, Rob texted me. They're at the beach right now, and they forgot to arrange coverage for their shift in the nursery at church on Sunday, so could I cover for them?

There go my plans to cut down the dead bushes.

I petulantly pointed out that whenever I cover the nursery I end up having to change all the diapers.

But he assures me that they've only gotten 2-3 kids each week for the last month.

That's what he said last time ... and then I ended up watching 8 babies.

And to add insult to injury, he sent me a picture of this obscenely decadent dessert he was scarfing down in what was no doubt a very nice restaurant.

While I was eating a country ham sandwich I had smuggled out of the family reunion.

Uncalled for.

Then I watched the Redbox movie I had almost drowned for. Red Riding Hood.

Just don't. Even for me, that was a bad pick.

Afterward, I retired for the evening since I had to get up early to work the nursery. Except the people in the house behind me were having a party.

With really loud music.

And it wasn't even good loud music.

I tried to ignore it. I told myself I'd give them until 10:30. Then 11. Because surely they wouldn't be rude enough to blare music for their outdoor party after 11. Right?

Wrong.

At 11pm, I was standing out on the deck in my pajamas, yelling at them to please turn their music down. Because my mom raised me to be polite when bitching out my neighbors.

Except apparently, they couldn't hear me over the music. So I had to go back inside and put real clothes over my pjs, so I could take the fight to their door.

I was out for blood. Isn't it bad enough that their damn dog wakes me up at 3am because they make her sleep outside every night???

Turns out I didn't even get a chance to rain fury down upon them because they saw me coming and turned the music off.

That's right! And you better keep it off!!!

Finally, I was free to slip into my Benadryl induced fog and rest up to do battle with other people's children the next morning...

This is becoming the post that time forgot, so I'm making it a two-parter.

Tune in next time...

The Junk Drawer

2011-07-20T13:20:00.001-04:00

You know that drawer in your kitchen? The one with the batteries, zip ties, a piece to some small appliance, keys of unknown origin and an electric bill from last year?

This post is kind of like that.

Because it's only purpose right now is to hold all the random thoughts going on in my head. Writing a real post, you know, one with a point, isn't working for me right now, but I felt like I should write something.

It feels like it's been forever since I posted ... in fact, it may have actually been forever.

I've been hit with so many other social networking invites lately that I just can't keep up anymore.

I was doing okay with Facebook and Twitter. I even have a Ravelry account (not that I maintain it). Facebook and me? We're BFFs. Those of you who are friends with me on Facebook probably wish I'd stop freaking posting all the damn time.

Then there was Google+. Really Google? I feel like I'm super early to the party, and we're all just sitting around waiting for something fun to happen.

One of my whole 11 Google+ friends swears up and down that Google+ is The Next Big Thing.

That's great. Really. And while we're waiting for it to happen, I'll be over at Facebook's house. Just message me when the party starts.

(If you want a Google+ invite, email me.)

As for Twitter, I haven't tweeted in only God knows how long.

And now there's Pinterest. Now there's something I can get behind. I'm a Pinterest-holic. Probably because we're a bunch of like-minded people on there. So basically, we all post about food and smart ass commentary.

It's awesome.

(Again, if you want an invite, email me.)

So all of this social networking is seriously cutting into my blogging time.

Plus the majority of my time now is spent drooling over pictures of desserts on Pinterest, so it's not like I'm out experiencing the world and finding great stories to blog about.

I have, however, managed to make it out to see Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Part II twice. Once on Friday and again on Sunday.

If you haven't seen it yet, skip this part of the post.

Did I love it? Yes. Yes, I did. Was it everything I had hoped it would be and more? No. No, it wasn't.

If you have not read the books, it's a great movie. Having read DH more than 20 times, I pretty much know that thing word for word, so I'll never be completely satisfied with an adaptation.

They changed a few things. They left a few things out. For the most part, I can live with it, but there were definitely things in the book that I feel should have been in the movie. Or should have been left alone.

But my real problem was with the little nuances. Maggie Smith and Alan Rickman deserve Oscar nominations.

Seriously. I'm looking at you members of the Academy.

They conveyed more emotion in a few seconds of silence that the rest of the cast did in 2 hours. As moving and enthralling and dark and gripping and earthshattering as the final book is, the actors failed to bring this to life for me.

I start crying as soon as I crack the cover of the book, so I should have been sobbing during the movie.

But I wasn't. And it's because the performances just didn't evoke that response in me.

I know many of you are going to disagree with me on that one. And that's fine. You know we'll be discussing this more in depth when we get together for our Nerd Herd meeting, so we can hash it out then.

And also, I think the movie was slightly confusing for people who have not read the books. Do you have any idea how many emails, texts, phone calls I've gotten about whether Snape is Harry's father???

WTF people!!! No! Snape is not Harry's father! Where is this coming from? I don't get it. When I watched it the second time, I was keeping an eye out for anything that would lead someone to believe that Snape is Harry's dad, and I still don't get it.

So if someone can explain to me what in the movie leads people to believe that, I'd appreciate it.

In the meantime, today is my fabulous friend Jenn's birthday, and our amazingly talented friend LyAnne sent her a pic for her birthday that I must share with you. Even though it's not my pic. Just because it's so AWESOME!

OMG!!! I know!!

(A/N: That's Jenn to the Dark Lord's right)

Dear Karma, we're square. Capisce?

2011-07-12T13:07:00.000-04:00

Friday afternoon, I was ~~wasting time until I could get the hell out of the office~~, working diligently in my office. When I heard the front door open, I knew there was no one in the lobby, so being my helpful self, I walked up to greet the new arrival.

While I was speaking with the very nice gentleman, another man came in. A much older man. A much older man who was staring at me like he was trying to burn holes through me with his laser eyes. And he kind of looked like a leprechaun.

You know, like the mean one from the movies.

Not the Lucky Charms one.

We'll call him Fred.

I seated the first gentleman in a room with the promise to return momentarily.

What happened next is even traumatic in the retelling.

(A/N: Fred's from Brooklyn, so insert proper accent)

Me (smiling pleasantly): Can I help you?
Fred (beyond beligerent): Whatta you got us driving around looking for some place that don't exist for? We're looking for 103!

Me (still smiling pleasantly): This is suite 103.
Fred: But this says we're supposed to be at 55! (gesturing wildly at the folder in his hand)
Me (smile somewhat dimmed): This building is 55. We're suite 103. In this building.
Fred: Well you should have a sign or something! We're drivin around lookin all over.
Me (no longer smiling): There's a very large sign right above the door (while I point at the door because I'm super helpful like that).
Fred: Well there were accidents all over the place. Four accidents! One with a car turned over. My wife's in the car. She hurt her leg.
(I'm not entirely sure how this is related to the conversation so far, but apparently ALL of these things are somehow my fault)
Me: Sir, is there something I can help you with???

I finally managed to show Fred and his wife to a room. Grateful he would be someone else's problem.

And then yesterday, as I was returning to the office after letting Winston out for the afternoon, I climb out of my car and start back into the office, only to recognize the person walking ahead of my.

In a moment of blind panic and self-preservation, I considered getting back into my car and waiting there until he left. But then I told myself that I'm an adult, and I needed to act like one.

More fool I.

So I enter the building right behind him.

Me: Can I help you?
Fred: I don't know. I don't know where I'm supposed to be. I come in here, and there's no sign or nothin.
(OMG not again!)
Me: What do you need?
Fred: I don't know. I come in and there are all these doors, and I don't know which one I'm supposed to go into, and there's no one out here to ask.
(WTH? I'm standing right here you rabid little leprechaun!)
Me: Well why are you here?
Fred: Someone needs a copy of my driver's license or something.
Me: I can do that for you.
(Anything to get you out of here)
Fred: You need to have some kinda two way transmitter our here or something so people can see someone as soon as they walk in.
Me (smiling pleasantly): Mmmmhmmm. That would be a good idea.
(WTH does that even mean?? Plus, I've been here both times you've walking into the lobby! It's not like you've had to wait!)

But I was the bigger person. I just smiled and nodded non-commitally.

I just can't imagine what I could have possibly done two deserve him not once, but twice!

But I do know that whatever it was, we're even steven now. In fact, I think I've built up some karma credit, so please excuse me while I go knock over a convenience store or something.

I really do need to start watching Doctor Who so I can understand these things

2011-07-07T11:27:00.000-04:00

Hello Dear Readers.

I feel like it's been forever since I wrote a blog post. Yet I have no idea what I've been doing since I wrote my last blog post. And how long has it been since I last posted?

Okay, wait, I just checked. Last post was after the whole tire catastrophe. Alright, so what have I been doing since then??

Anyone? Anyone??

Bueller? Bueller??

Right now, the furthest back I can recall is Tuesday evening. When I ran into my friend C at the gym and our ab workout devolved from her and I doing throwdowns with each other to her and I doing throwdowns with two of her students, so there I am standing over a 16 year old kid while he grips my ankles and looks up my shorts.

No, I don't know how this happened either.

The whole adolescent boy looking up my shorts thing, that is. Because I thought that stage was over after third grade.

This just reinforces my opinion that wearing shorts to the gym is wrong. Except that means I need to do laundry...

Anyway

I do however have a theory about the whole loss of time thing.

It goes something like this. My life lately has been so traumatic that I somehow time traveled from last week to Tuesday evening. Hence, my recent memories begin Tuesday evening. Because the person typing this is Past Me. Not Present Me.

Or maybe I'm Future Me?

Wait, now I'm confusing myself.

Okay, yes, Past Me time jumped into my future, which is now the present.

Like The Time Traveler's Wife. Except I'm Eric Bana's character. Which really doesn't work for me because I lust after Eric Bana, so that just somehow feels wrong.

I've lost myself again. When I was in college I studied astrophysics for a whole two weeks, and the professor talked about time travel and how it's theoretically possible and then all this other stuff that just kind of sounded like blah blah blah.

But now I'm thinking I should have paid better attention.

A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Saga Continues

2011-06-28T11:26:00.000-04:00

Hello Dear Readers. This may very well be my last post to you.

Because I'm pretty sure at the rate bad shit is befalling me, I'm going to be eaten by a shark or have a house dropped on my soon.

No, I'm not being melodramatic.

Okay, I am being melodramatic, but you have to admit, I do melodramatic pretty well, and we should all do what we're good at. Right?

Anyway, it all started this past Wednesday. I was in a a mood. An "OMG this house is a mess we gotta get it cleaned up" mood.

And by "we" I mean me. Obviously. Winston was no help. He just laid on the couch, looking at me like "I don't know why you want to clean when you could be throwing my ball for me."

One of the big things I wanted to do was sort the recycling because it was full and the counter was filling up with overflow. I do not like clutter on my counter.

So while I watched So You Think You Can Dance, I sorted recycling. I was almost finished when I reached down to grab some dog food can lids...

Motherf****r!!! OMG! OMG!!

I was trying to grab several lids at a time and well ... that didn't work out real well for me. I was pretty sure from the copious amounts of blood that I was losing that I'd severed my finger.

I rushed to the bathroom, in search of peroxide and butterfly clips. In retrospect, wrapping my finger in a paper towel before running down the carpeted hallway would have been a better idea.

Live and learn.

I couldn't get the bleeding to stop, so I just wrapped it up because I was going to finish sorting that damn recycling.

See this is what happens when you try to do something good for Mother Nature. Her bitch of a cousin Karma bites you in the ass ... or the finger, as it were.

Thirty minutes later I was still bleeding, so I did what I do in those situations.

I called Mom. She told me to hold my hand up. Been there, done that, not working.

Then she suggested I put an ice pack on it.

Don't ever do that. Holy Mother of God that hurt!

However, turns out if you put the ice pack on your wrist it will actually slow the bleeding.

After I got the bleeding stopped, I bandaged it up, loaded up on drugs because my hand was throbbing and went to bed.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. I had just spent Friday evening with my new niece and my nephew. And I was spending Saturday morning with them, too!

We were spending the day at my sister in law's mother's house, which is only about 15 minutes from my house. I packed up my bag with my bikini and my sunscreen and headed out the door.

Although things weren't looking to great weatherwise. The forecast called for sunny skies, but it was very dark and overcast. But it was still early. Maybe it would blow over.

It didn't.

Anyway, after breakfast my SIL's mom went outside and noticed that my lights were on. She turned them off for me.

I bet you can guess what's coming.

That's right. When I got in the car to go home, it just coughed sluggishly then gave up.

Well, this should be fun. It was just me, my SIL, her mom, a 3 year old and a newborn. And did I mention my SIL's parents live in BFE.

You know how I feel about jumper cables. In my mind, the risk of electrocution far outweighs the benefit. But there was no hope for it. If I was getting home, I had to take matters into my own hands.

And hope I didn't electrocute myself.

Obviously, I didn't. Although there were some sparks.

Turns out you need to be really careful not to let the red and black bang together. Like REALLY careful.

But the car was running, and I made it home without further incident. And just to show the car how much I appreciated all its hard work, I cleaned the interior.

So last night, when my dad came over to get my car, it was clean.

You see, yesterday was just a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But when I got to the gym, I felt much better.

Because exercise releases endorphins, and endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't kill their husbands.**

On my way home from the gym, I had to stop at the grocery store to get a few things to make Kerri coconut cream pie for her birthday today.

I was determined to maintain my good mood. So when I got to the register and saw the sullen cashier, I summoned my perkiest voice and asked her how she was doing.

Me: Hi! How are you this evening?
Cashier: Okay ... so far.
Me: (laughing a little) Did you just say okay so far?
Cashier: Yep. Still a while to go. Could all go downhill.
Me: Alright then. Have a nice evening.

Then I headed home, making plans to walk Winston, get something to eat because I was starving, make pies...

BANG BANG, clunk clunk clunk BANG!

WTF was that?!?!

OMG. My heart was in my throat, but everything seemed to be fine. Right?

Systems check: Me - heartbeat erratic but still going strong. Car- running, no longer making strange noises.

Okay, okay. We're good.

Until I pulled into my neighborhood and felt the thump thump thump that can only mean one thing.

As I slowly rolled into my driveway, I pulled out my cell phone.

Mom: No, I'm not going to cycling tonight, hehehe.

(The joke was she had foot srugery yesterday morning)

Me: Hardy har. I need to talk to Dad.
Mom: What happened.
Me: I was coming home and my tire blew out.
Mom: Hold on.
Dad: Hello?
Me: My tire blew out on the way home.
Dad: Sigh What did you hit?
Me: It wasn't me! I didn't do anything! I was just driving down the road and there was this really loud bang, but I didn't see anything in the road, and everything seemed fine. Then I pulled into the development, and I knew my tire was flat.
Dad: Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes.
Me: I have to walk Winston, so we should get back around the time you get here.

And sure enough, Dad pulled in as we were walking back down the street.

And Becky and her husband were walking from the other direction.

Becky: What did you do?
Me: I don't think I like your implication.

Then my neighbors rode up on their bikes with their twin boys.

There was a block party in my driveway. People poked fun at me while Dad put on the spare tire. (That's right. I don't know how to change a tire)

Dad insinuated that it might be nice if I went to live in South Dakota so I could be Suzann & Tony's problem.

It was a really long evening.

And I still had to pies to make for Kerri's birthday.

FYI you shouldn't bake while angry. You do things like burn the coconut and grab hot pans with your bare hands.

I figure tomorrow, I'm going to be abducted by aliens or something.

**If you don't know where this quote is from, I'm disappointed in you.

But I really wasn't hungry anymore, so at least I didn't have to worry about dinner.

It's just like that show A Baby Story ... except not gross

2011-06-24T15:31:00.000-04:00

So as you all know, my niece was born Monday.

My sister in law was pregnant for what felt like years. Poor girl. Her due date was June 13, but I predicted she'd deliver by the end of May.

Man, I really screwed her on that one. I should have known better. Whenever I make a prediction, the exact opposite happens.

Hopefully, she'll be able to forgive me at some point in the not too distant future.

Anyadorablebaby, she was scheduled to be induced on Tuesday, but as I was going out of town Monday to spend the day with my friends, Meg and LyAnne, I kind of figured Baby Girl would be coming Monday.

Because that's how my luck works.

And wouldn't you know, I had no sooner gotten home Monday evening, than my brother sends me a text at 6:30: Just broke her water.

Turns out the hospital had a full schedule for Tuesday, and there would be no room at the inn for SIL and Baby Girl.

The text updates continued for the next couple of hours, until at 10:09 I get the news that Baby Girl made her way into the world, weighing in at 8lbs. 2oz.

That's right. My SIL delivered her baby after only 3 1/2 hours of labor.

She is a super ninja mama who looks labor & delivery in the face and laughs!

Literally. She was laughing when she delivered Baby Girl.

And at 7:30 the next morning, she was up and in the shower. By the time Mom and I got there, her hair and makeup were perfect, and the nurse was already working up her discharge papers.

It's okay to feel intimidated. She intimidates me all the time.

When we got there, the nurse was running some tests on Baby Girl. I was practically bouncing out of my skin by the time we were allowed in the room.

I had no sooner gotten my hands on that baby, than SIL's parents came in with my 3 year old nephew. I quickly passed Baby Girl over to my SIL, so she could make some very important introductions.

After being introduced, my nephew pronounced her "very pretty."

Then SIL said, "Guess what?"
Nephew: What??
SIL: We get to go home!
Nephew: We get to go home?? As a family?

Have you ever in your entire life heard anything so sweet! OMG!

My SIL made her way over to the couch with her children, so my nephew could hold his new sister. My nephew again pronounced her "Beautiful. Beautiful like Daddy."

And she is beautiful with her little old lady hands and her big feet (just like her Aunt Rachel!).

But Baby Girl was again whisked away for more tests. My brother and SIL started packing up to leave. While we waited, my nephew curled up on the couch with me to look at all the pictures I'd taken that morning.

When Baby Girl was wheeled back in in her bassinet, my brother leaned over to smile at her.

And it was a moment. You know. One of those moments that you remember for your entire life.

Sitting there with my nephew huddled under my arm, seeing my little brother smiling down at his newborn baby girl ... it was beautiful.

And then the nurse came in with the final discharge orders. Several more items were thrown into bags, and at 11:30, 13 hours after giving birth, my SIL was being wheeled down the hospital corridor, with my nephew trailing behind, pulling a suitcase that weighed three times what he does because no, no I can do it!

When my brother pulled up to the hospital entrance, I tried to herd my nephew into his car seat, but he climbed over to the other side of the van, insisting that he had to strap Baby Girl into her seat!

No. No! I gotta do it!

He is going to be a super awesome big brother.

Finally everything and everyone was safely secured in the van. And as we followed them home from the hospital, this song came on the radio:

And as my man Darius sang about those bittersweet milestones that mark your child's life, I pictured my brother dropping his baby girl off for her first day of school. And walking her down the aisle on her wedding day.

And I might've maybe cried. Just a little bit.

Mark Zuckerberg, I love you

2011-06-23T11:46:00.003-04:00

And not just because you're a multi-gazillionaire, and I'd like to marry you and pay off my law school loans.

No, I love you because you gave use Facebook.

And yesterday was the kind of day for which Facebook was created.

It started off like any other day. Me in a bad mood. Tired and dragging ass around the office.

I needed to escape. So I called Mom and invited her to lunch.

My trip back to the office is where things started to get really interesting. There I was, minding my own business. Wondering what hell awaited me at the office. When the car merging into my lane ahead of me hit something.

Suddenly, there were little pieces of stuff flying up in the air like confetti. More cars caught the pieces and sent more flying.

What. The. F....

And then one of the pieces hit my windshield.

Is that ...? OMG, it is! Condoms. Someone lost an entire box of condoms.

As I struggled to control my screams of laughter, I reached for my phone. I had to share this with the internet.

Or at least my 200 Facebook friends.

I mean, it's not everyday it rains condoms.

Status: Someone just lost an entire box of condoms on Rt 9. There was condom confetti flying everywhere. It was really quite festive.

Variety pack?

Colored or plain jane?

I had barely recovered from Hurricane Trojan, when Suzanne calls me and tells me she's been invited to play dodgeball that evening.

OMG! Scenes from Dodgeball flash through my mind. In slow motion, I see Ben Stiller taking aim at Suzanne, the ball flies through the air. I hear her "NOOOOO!!!" in that weird slow motion voice.

It's not pretty.

And then it goes from bad to worse.

Suzanne: What do you even wear to play dodgeball?
Me: Umm the clothes you would wear to workout?
Suzanne: But I do yoga.
Me: Shorts. A t-shirt. sneakers. You're going to be running around and jumping and stuff.
Suzanne: So what? You like run at the ball right?

OMG! OMG!!

Me: No! You don't run at the ball! It's called dodgeball, Suzanne. DODGE BALL. Jesus. I'm afraid for you.
Suzanne: OMG. I'm kind of scared now.
Me: I'm now reliving traumatic childhood memories. I think I may have nightmares tonight.
Suzanne: So you run away from the ball?

So then I spent several minutes explaining the rules of dodgeball.

Me: What the hell did they teach you at that Catholic school anyway?!
Suzanne: I don't know! We would just stand up against the brick wall and someone would throw a ball at you.

Wow. And I thought public school gym class was bad.

After telling her to hide in the back and act as girly as possible so the guys would take pity on her and not try to nail her with a ball. We ended our call, so she could find appropriate dodgeball wear and I could eat dinner.

But our conversation didn't stop there.

We just changed venues to Facebook. So everyone could share in the dodgeball fun.

My status: Suzanne just told me she's playing dodgeball tonight. I then explained to her how to play dodgeball. Dodge. Ball. I'm scared for her.

Suzanne's status: so. i don't know what one is supposed to wear to go play dodgeball. but after speaking with Rachel, it would seem that i need something along the lines of..say, a football uniform. now i'm scared.

Obligatory Dodgeball quotes were exchanged. The comments kept me laughing well into the night.

See, this is why Suzanne and I are such a great pair. That afternoon I have condoms flying at my face. That evening, she has balls flying at hers.

Awesome!

This is why Facebook was invented.

This is me ... phoning it in

2011-06-21T15:03:00.000-04:00

Hello Dear Readers. It's been a busy 24 hours. Lots going on. Spent yesterday with my fabulous friends, only to come home and find out my sister in law was in labor. Which wasn't a huge shock, but was still a little unexpected because she was supposed to be induced today.

Everyone is happy and healthy.

So lots to blog about. But not right now. Right now I'm worn out and playing catch up.

However, Sarcasm in Action has featured me in her now (in)famous Blogger Face Off, which you can read here.

I'm a versatile blogger!

2011-06-14T13:27:00.000-04:00

Sarcasm in Action over at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind has bestowed this upon me:

I'm a versatile blogger! Which I think is a really nice way of saying "Do you have multiple personalities?"

And the answer is yes, by the way.

Anyway, she actually gave me this a while ago, and I'm just now getting around to posting about it because ... well, you've seen how often I've been posting lately.

So, with great power comes great responsibility. Which means there are rules.

First rule: Thank the person who bestowed this awesome award upon you, and link back to his/her blog.

Thanks SIA!! You've made the very short list of people I'd share my dessert with. (You can find the link to her blog at the beginning on this post)

Second rule: List seven things about yourself.

1. I don't eat green or yellow gummis. And my gummi bears are eaten three at a time- one red, one orange and one white (that way it's like fruit salad). I'll bring in containers full of green and yellow gummi bears and leave them on Angie's desk.

2. I do not hate or actively dislike people. I either like you, or you don't even register on my radar. You may think this sounds very evolved, but it's really just because it takes a lot of energy to hate someone, and I'm lazy.

(As with any rule, there are a few exceptions to this one. I'll tell you about one of them in a future post.)

3. I am addicted to reality TV shows on TLC. At first, I was diametrically opposed to viewing any station that made Kate Gosselin a household name. But then one night, it's late, and you're channel surfing, and all of a sudden, you're watching a 12 year old gypsy bride, in a gown that would make Scarlett O'Hara jealous, being married off in a ceremony, the cost of which must rival the national debt, so she can move into her own travel trailer and start popping out babies.

Before you know it, you're watching Sister Wives (*hangs head in shame*) and NY Ink (my God those men are drama queens!). And when Sunday morning rolls around, you're sitting on your couch having ice cream for breakfast and watching women throw down $25,000 for a dress at some posh bridal gown boutique in New York.

4. You know when you go out to dinner with your friends and someone says "Let's each order a different dessert and we can share them!"? I'm not that person. I do not share my dessert. Once it's mine, it stays mine. Unless I don't like it. Then you're welcome to it.

I once stabbed The Ex in the hand with a fork for trying to take a bite of my dessert.

So when I say I'd share my dessert with you, that is momentous.

5. When I was in law school, I after- partied with the band Bowling for Soup at the trashiest strip club in Atlanta. I sang karaoke while a woman wearing only a flashing clit piercing danced on the bar. The lead singer, Jaret, tried to convince me to drop out of law school and move to Nashville ... I laughed at him.

Oh, hindsight ...

6. In addition to my lovely little blog, I also write Harry Potter fanfiction. You can find me over at fanfiction.net writing under the penname nevillesgirlfriend. I think I just sealed my status as "Nerd for Life."

As if it were ever in doubt.

7. (This one is especially for SIA) When I was in 8th grade, I won the school spelling bee and went on to compete in the county spelling bee. When there were only about 12 kids left, it happened. They hit me with "prowess." A word that I had misspelled during one of my practice sessions, so I knew exactly how to spell it, but I totally choked and got myself eliminated.

In case you're wondering it is not spelled P-R-O-W-I-C-E.

Third rule: Pass this one to five other bloggers.

Here's where I start to break the rules. The purpose of these awards is to introduce you (our readers) to new bloggers. The problem is, like my circle of friends, I like to keep my circle of blogs fairly small.

Consequently, I always end up passing awards along to the same bloggers, over and over again.

Not that they aren't deserving of them. Because they totally are. Obviously.

But this time, I'm going to do things a little differently. Every once in a while, I discover a blog that I really love, and I'll stash it away in my blogger reading list.

So, in the future, when I wander upon a great new blog, I'll let you know, and I'll also slap a Versatile Blogger award on them.

But not slap literally because that would be battery.

I recently added Marianna Annadanna over at Snappy Surprise to my list. So go check her out. And don't forget to hit her up on Sundays, so you can try your hand at Shitionary Sundays.

One for the record books.

2011-06-09T11:16:00.000-04:00

I had decided to spare you this story Dear Readers, but I find I must share it.

It's kind of gross ...

So as you know, over Memorial Day weekend, I got the mother of all sunburns. What I don't think I told you was that in my history of sunburns, this one probably ranked up there at about the second worst sunburn I've ever had.

The top spot is held by that time I burned so badly that the skin on my shoulder bubled up like pizza dough in an oven.

That was fun.

Anyway, so this one was really bad. Blood red from neck to toes. Mom was throwing around words like sun poison, which made me super paranoid. But I believed in my Noxzema. This remedy has served me well in the last few years, taking out the sting and keeping me from peeling.

So I applied my Noxzema religiously. My skin still felt pretty dry, but I just applied more Noxzema. Four days post-sunburn, I had a few small peeling patches (about the size of a quarter) on my arms and shins, but all things considered, I thought I got off pretty easy.

I hate peeling. When I was a kid, it was all kinds of fun to see how big a piece of skin I could peel off after a sunburn.

Turns out peeling skin, like most things, isn't so much fun as an adult. In fact, I find it just gross and unattractive.

By Thursday, five days post-sunburn, I was feeling pretty good. Good enough in fact to take cycling at the gym. It was a great class. I sweat my ass off.

Literally.

I left the gym high on adrenaline. I went home and harnassed Winston for his walk. We made the rounds.

And on the way home, I happened to glance over at my shoulder for some reason. I can't remember if I felt a bug on my arm or what.

Because when I looked at my should and saw the little bumps all over my skin, every thought in my head just evaporated.

OMG I had sun poison!! NOOOOOOO!!!

Before I hit full panic mode, I decided to investigate further. The bumps didn't itch. And when I scratched them with my nail, they burst.

Not little bumps. More like little pustules (later when I described them to Mom, she called them blisters, which is a much more accurate term).

At that point, I was pretty sure it wasn't sun poison, so I let out the breath I'd been holding, and we finished our walk.

When I got home, I shucked my clothes to wash off the sweat.

OMG!!! I was COVERED in blisters from neck to toes.

Sweet merciful heavens. When I was sweating my ass off in cycling class, that sweat collected under the burned layer of skin and formed these little blisters.

So I did what anyone would do in that situation. I jumped in the shower, grabbed the pumice stone I use on my feet and scraped open all those blisters.

As you can imagine, this casued massive peeling.

Massive peeling.

Everywhere.

I've never actually seen a leper before, but I'm pretty sure I looked like a leper.

I've tried everything to get rid of the flaky, peeling skin. Loofah, salt scrub, the pumice stone again.

I thought I was making progress, but then I went to cycling on Monday, and it happened all over again.

Last night? Same story. Except this time, only my shins blistered.

Apparently they got the brunt of the sun and have taken the longest time to heal.

I hit them with the pumice stone again this morning. And I'm happy to say that I now look like less a leper and more just like that scaly crocodile they use on the Lubriderm commercials.

And I've learned my lesson. SPF 50 from here on out.

I'm gonna need an old priest & a young priest

2011-06-01T14:03:00.001-04:00

I'm pretty sure my house is haunted.

As in poltergeisty, built on an ancient Native American burial ground haunted.

Either that, or I have a very considerate squatter.

You see, in case you missed it, I'm anal. Which means I know where everything in my house is. It might not be where it belongs, but I know where to find it.

But every once in a while, I'll find something out of place. Or not where I left it.

For example, once I cleaned the bathroom and left the sponge setting on the edge of the tub to dry. When I went back to grab the sponge and clean one of the other bathrooms, it wasn't where I left it.

I thought I was losing my mind.

(No comments from the peanut gallery.)

I looked in the tub, I looked on the bathroom counter. I looked in the tub again. Finally, I looked in the cupboard under the sink (which is where it belongs, but not where I left it), and there it was.

Stuff like this happens all the time.

Last night, I went downstairs to grab something from my car, and the door to the basement was closed.

I didn't close it. That door is always left open.

Always.

In fact, I don't really close any doors in my house. I live alone. What's the point.

So obviously, my house is haunted. And since I had the house built and know that no one has died there, it has to be the burial ground thing.

Or there's someone living in my attic who comes down when I'm at work or when I'm sleeping and cleans up after me.

You're rolling your eyes right now, but about a year ago, I saw a story on the news about a woman who discovered a man had been living in her attic for months, and she knew nothing about it. The only thing she noticed was that food was disappearing from the refrigerator, and she couldn't remember eating it.

So see!! I'm not crazy!

But my squatter is way better than hers. He doesn't eat my food, and he cleans up after me. Which is the least he can do, considering he's living in my attic and not even paying rent.

Strangely, I'm not at all bothered by these weird occurences. Mostly because I'm pretty convinced I have a squatter and not a poltergiest.

If it was a poltergiest, I'd be scared shitless.

Good day Sunshine

2011-05-31T11:47:00.000-04:00

Good morning, Dear Readers. I hope you all had a wonderful long weekend.

As you know, my Memorial Day weekend started out with a cookout and some pool time fun.

Except I made a slight error in judgment.

You know in the movie Summer Rental when John Candy falls asleep in the sun, and he wakes up looking like a boiled lobster??

Yeah. It was like that.

Except worse.

So I spent the rest of my weekend in the house. Wearing loose clothing and smelling like menthol from the noxzema I applied religiously.

Oh, and eating. Eating like there was no tomorrow. Which is okay. Holidays don't count.

I also spent a lot of time on Facebook. Because if you're stuck inside on a beautiful summer weekend, you certainly want to read all about your friend's mini-vacay to the beach.

You know who you are.
Yesterday, I finally put on real clothes and ventured outside the house to run some errands with Mom.

For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to go shopping on Memorial Day.

In hindsight, I'm not exactly sure why I thought this was a good idea.

The lines were crazy, which I have no patience for. And the people were even crazier (I'm looking at you little old Asian lady who tried to cut me when I approached the bathing suits on the clearance rack).

You should have seen the Gap.

Holy mother of God.

People were trying on clothes right next to the displays.

No. I'm not kidding.

I decided there wasn't a deal on the planet that would make me brave that crowd. It seems I'm losing my killer instinct as I get older.

I ended up coming home with dog food and a new kiddie pool for Winston.

The latter of which made the entire trip worthwhile. Winston does so love pooltime.

The neighbors enjoy it, too. There's nothing quite like watching Winston in a pool...

It's kind of like a Great White on speed.

So there's my weekend in a nutshell.

What about you? Did you incinerate several layers of skin? Eat the entire contents of your kitchen? Live vicariously through others on Facebook?

P.S. I get it Heather. From this point forward, I don't step foot outside my house wearing less than SPF 30.

Have you ever seen the movie Idiocracy?

2011-05-26T10:28:00.000-04:00

Last night when I was getting ready for bed, I noticed I had missed a call from my mom. Even though it was after 9, and hence after her bedtime, I called her back to see if it was something important.

Like my sister in law was in labor.

She wasn't.

Anyway, she starts telling me this story about how on her way home from school she stopped to get a diet coke...

I have to admit, my mind kind of fuzzed out at this point. Really? A story about getting a coke? You called me to tell me this??

Well the drive thru at Chik-Fil-A was 10 deep, so she stopped at McDonald's instead because there were only three people in line.

And she waited over 10 minutes to get her diet coke. She wanted to just leave, but was already in the concrete shute from which there can be no escape.

(A/N: Damn you fast food restaurants for trapping us in this way!)

When she finally gets up to the window, she hands the kid $2 to pay for her $1.86 diet coke. But there was something wrong with the register in the drive thru, so it wasn't calculating change.

The kid handed her her diet coke, took her $2 and walked away. She wasn't concerned about her 14 cents and was getting ready to drive off, but then she heard him ask someone else how much change to give her.

Yes. This boy was unable to calculate the difference between $1.86 and $2.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the future.

I'm scared. Someone hold me.

You know you're old when the pool isn't fun anymore

2011-05-25T16:24:00.001-04:00

Memorial Day weekend is closing in.

Which means I have to be in a bathing suit in three days.

I don't know about you, but I am not prepared for this. Physically or emotionally.

Especially with certain bad elements here in the office suggesting Long John Silvers for lunch (I can't stand against that kind of peer pressure!).

In order to combat the plaque I could feel building in my arteries, I followed it up with an apple. Did you know you burn more calories digesting an apple than the apple itself contains?

Yep.

Except this backfired. Because apparently, my body is working so hard to digest this darn apple that I'm hungry again.

And there are brownies in the office.

I know because I made them.

And they are delicious.

But as I stood there contemplating the brownies, one of the good guys appeared and offered me steamed edamame instead.

It's no brownie, but I really didn't want the brownie anyway.

Really. I didn't.

This probably comes as a surprise to most of you, as my love of food is no secret. A friend posted on my facebook page the other day : "You post about food ... A LOT."

Ummm, that's because I like food ... A LOT.

I just need to love it not so much for the next few days.

And to add insult to injury, I'm going to be innundated with delicious picnic offerings immediately prior to the time when I just know I'm going to have to wear the bathing suit.

You see, it's going to go something like this:

We're all gathered at my in-laws (they're not really my in-laws because, well, I don't have in-laws. They're my brother's in-laws, but they were nice enough to adopt me, so now they're my in-laws, too), and the kids immediately start in with the pool.

Kids: Nanny! Nanny!!! Can we get in the pool??
Nanny: We have to eat lunch first. Eat your lunch, and then you can get in the pool.

Plates are filled. Food is nibbled and pushed around plates for a few minutes to make it look like it's actually been eaten.

Kids: Nanny, we're done. Can we get in the pool now??
Nanny: Only if someone will go out there and watch you.

Which wouldn't really be a problem. I often sit on the patio and watch them, prepared to jump in fully clothed in the event my lifeguarding duties are required.

But then there's my nephew. At 3 years old, someone actually needs to be in the pool with him. So this is how I see that one going:

Nephew: Mom, can I get in the pool?
SIL: Buddy, someone has to get in the pool with you, and mommy can't.

She's 9 months pregnant.

SIL: I know. (looks slyly my way) Why don't you ask Aunt Rachel to get into the pool with you!

And of course I will. Because Aunt Rachel doesn't say no.

So wish me luck . And enduring willpower.

(A/N: In related news, the folks over at The Curvy Girl Guide have been posting lately about this very thing. As in swimsuits. Not picnics. You should go over and check it out.)

If you don't hear from me soon, look for me in an abandoned mine shaft

2011-05-23T14:12:00.000-04:00

People are out to get me. For reals.

This is not a persecution complex or my imagination. I have proof.

It all started when I decided to put on my big girl panties and be a responsible homeowner on Saturday (which was actually a carryover from Friday night because I was too lazy to do any of the things on my list).

Anyway. Saturday morning, I got up early, walked Winston (it was already hot out which didn't bode well for my plans for the day), went to the gym (where, I'll be honest, I didn't really put forth much effort), went to Walmart (where I couldn't find half the things I wanted ... you suck Walmart) and finally returned home to power through my to do list.

Which included a lot of yard work. Like A LOT of yard work.

And having lived in this fair skin for a long time, before heading outside, I sprayed myself down with some SPF 30.

I then spent hours outside doing battle with the demon weedwhacker (I'm not really sure who won, I mean, I got it started and it worked the whole time and my borders are free of grass, however, I was the one bleeding at the end of it, so...), mowing the lawn (which I swear gets bigger every time the mower comes out) and planted the flowers that have been sitting in my driveway waiting to be planted for ... about three weeks.

I was sure when I was finished I would feel a great sense of accomplishment.

However, when I was finished I was too tired to feel anything except the desperate need to shower.

Having no plans to do anything else for the day, I put on one of my raggedy "sundresses" and collapsed on the couch.

One small problem. With each passing minute, I became more and more uncomfortable. My back was tight and scratchy and the straps on my sundress were irritating my skin.

Uh oh.

But I put on sunscreen! What's the deal!

Turns out I missed a spot.

Two big spots in fact.

Pretty much both my shoulder blades. I have a very nice outline from my yoga top on my back. Outside that outline is a splotchy expanse of lobster red skin.

The sundress had to go. I opted instead for a nice, soft t-shirt.

And I posted about the perils of spray on sunscreen on Facebook. I also posted about my wardrobe issues.

Somehow this innocuous post devolved into two of my friends planning my death.

Seriously.

I skip out on Facebook for a while, and when I get back on BAM "you're post has 43 new comments."

Excuse me?????

Must be a typo. What in the hell could I possibly say that would have been deserving of that many comments?? Is everyone bored?

So I pull up the post.

The comments start out innocently enough. Heather and Brad commiserating over what a lost cause I am, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Brad talking about how he has to self-medicate with liquor and illicit drugs in order to deal with me. Heather agreeing, yadda, yadda, yadda.

How they're going to hire a male prostitute for me ... good thing Heather knows my type.

And then suddenly, things turn dark and scary. For me anyway.

It's all fun and games until your friends start planning your murder on Facebook.

There's talk of tossing my corpse in a trunk and driving me to an abandoned mine shaft. Heather mentions something about a friend in construction in case they need to toss my body in someone's freshly poured foundation instead (if that happens I'm seriously going all Poltergeist on your asses).

There I was. Huddled in my bed. Jumping at every creak. Knowing they were coming for me. Afraid to close my eyes.

Until my benadryl kicked in. Then I slept like a baby.

But I'm still not sure I'm safe. So if you don't hear from me for a while, start searching abandoned mine shafts.

And find someone realy pretty to play me in the made for TV movie. Okay?

It's the end of an era

2011-05-20T11:23:00.000-04:00

Yesterday evening, I decided it was time to take another picture of the birds.

They no longer looked like cute baby birds. Instead they looked like real birds.

Real birds are not cute.

Anyway, I grabbed my phone and headed out to the corner of the yard. And Winston insisted on coming with me.

Now, I know what you're thinking, but those birds have been in our yard for weeks now, and he's never bothered them. And he's had ample opportunity.

Plus, he's accompanied me on these photo ops before, and again, he's never bothered them.

Well ... things change.

I didn't take into consideration that the birds were no longer cute little baby birds, ignorant of predators. Oh no. Apparently with their big birds feathers, they also developed a big dose of fear or large, slobbery beasts.

When I leaned in to take my picture, Winston decided he, too, would take a gander and see what the fuss was all about.

And the birds did not appreciate his attention. Oh no, sir, they did not.

Two of them flew the coop. Or the nest, as it were.

Well, one of them flew. The other just kind of fell out.

Winston was in serious trouble.

And I started to worry.

After I ushered Winston into the house with a firm talking to, I headed out to the garage to grab my gardening gloves, thinking I could pick them up and put them back in the nest.

I first came upon the flyer. When I tried to get close to him, he flew away from me. Considering he was flying, I figured he could take care of himself.

However, I was very concerned about the little bird who flew out of the nest. I found him in the grass, and scooped him up with no problems.

Except then he got scared and started chirpping. Mama Bird came swooping down like an avenging angel. I was so startled that baby bird jumped from my hands.

Now I have never been afraid of birds. In fact, I've never understood the fear of birds.

But let me tell you, I understand it now.

OMG!! And it wasn't just Mama Bird. Her fellow feathered friends were taking up the cause, dive bombing me.

Holy shit! That was some scary stuff. But I was still very concerned for baby bird. It was obvious he couldn't fly yet. He needed to be in the nest.

So I hitched up my big girl panties, telling myself that surely the birds would not attack me. Right?

Except the more I tried to recapture baby bird, the more frantic his little chirps became. And the more frantic the swarm became.

Finally, I snuck up behind him and gently, but firmly scooped him up.

Annnnnddd when I went to put him back in the nest, the other two flew away in fear, and baby bird jumped right back out.

But this time, he was kind enough to land right at my feet, so I just scooped him up and put him back in. He sat there for a minute, then jumped back out.

By that point, it was like a bad scene from The Birds, and I just couldn't take it any more. If baby bird didn't want to be in the nest, I couldn't make him stay in the nest.

And really I had just made the situation worse.

Plus, I realized my neighbor was watching me chase this bird around while employing evasive maneuvers to avoid the rabid robins.

So there it is. I've probably killed the babies birds I was so excited about.

Yay me.

This post is for the birds

2011-05-17T13:01:00.000-04:00

You know how I'm always going on my Facebook rants about the crap people post on there?

Well, I regret to inform you that I have become one of Those People.

Yes. It has happened. I've become that annoying Facebook person.

You see, this has been my Facebook feed lately:

Some damn bird built a nest on top of the fence post! Right by the gate! That's all I need is some bird dive bombing us everytime we try to leave the yard.

Damn birds!

Awwwwwwwww! Eggs! They're so pretty. And so blue. Oooh, I can't wait until they hatch!

Wait a minute. Great. This is just great. I can see Winston with baby birds in the corner of the yard now. Some mama bird is going to peck his eyes out when he gets to close to her babies. Fan-freaking-tastic.

BABIES!!!! Wow, they're ugly.

(Later that night): I'm worried about my baby birds. It's cold out, and they don't have any feathers. But they're birds right? They need to get used to the elements. Right??

(I seriously agonized over this one until two of my FB friends suggested I put dryer lint in the nest.)

Squeee!!! The last egg is hatching! Another baby!

Look! They're getting so big! They look like real birds now instead of worms!

(Later that night): Uh oh. This is the first time it's rained since my baby birds were born. I hope their mama doesn't abandon them to see out shelter.

(Mom suggested I rig an umbrella to the fence. Hello, Mom! I may be a crazy bird lady, but I'm not that crazy!)

Look. The one in the middle is giving me the stink eye.

Feed me, Seymour. Feed me!

So there it is. Some crazy bird lady has taken over my Facebook.

Isn't it leaves of 3 let it be or something like that?

2011-05-16T11:28:00.000-04:00

This weekend is a blur of food, movies, more food ... more food.

And then some more food.

Seriously. There was a lot of eating.

And as if I don't have enough guilt over what I crammed down my piehole, I also have Winston's clogged arteries on my conscience.

But really all dogs should have waffles and pizza at least once. Right?

I'm choosing not to think about the turkey skin I fed him last night.

That was totally an aberration.

Plus, Dad played ball with him until he dropped. Winston. Not my dad.

Although Dad probably would have liked to drop after all the yardwork he did over the weekend.

You see, Saturday evening, while I was in a theater shoving overly salted butter popcorn into my gaping maw and washing it down with pepsi and a candy bar, watching the hilarity that is Bridesmaids, my dad was at my house trimming tree branches along the back fence row, so I wouldn't get whacked in the head or have to worry about ticks jumping into my eyelashes while mowing the backyard.

Apparently, ticks actually live in grasses not on tree branches, but they could STILL be there people! Waiting to jump onto my eyelashes!

Anybloodsuckingfiends, when I got home, I immediately noticed the newly sheared trees as I pulled into the driveway, and realized that I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on.

And as soon as I did, I saw the two missed calls from my dad.

I called him back to tell him how awesome he is, and he gave me a whole bunch of instructions about things around my house.

I don't really remember what they were.

After I got off the phone with him, my mom called me.

I don't really remember the why on that one either.

But she did tell me my dad was in the shower. Ostensibly scrubbing with bleach.

Turns out there's poison oak growing rampant along my back fence row. Dad hadn't felt the need to mention that to me.

I've never learned to identify poison because I'm not allergic to it (...but I am allergic to grass - go figure).

And Dad didn't realize until after he'd cut down the tree limbs and grabbed them to toss them behind the fence that the poison had grown up the trees and down the limbs.

So that's how I thank my dad for being so awesome.

Because nothing says I love you like presciption steroids.

(FYI - as of yesterday, Dad had not developed a rash. Just in case you were worrying ... like I was.)

I need one of those warning signs: CAUTION Stay back 50 feet!

2011-05-13T14:34:00.001-04:00

Hello. My name is Rachel, and it's been 16 days since my last blog post.

I just thought I'd introduce myself ,as it's been so long since I posted, and you may have forgotten about me.

I know. I've been a bad, bad blogger. So bad in fact that Blogger ate the post I started yesterday, and then wouldn't give me access to my own blog earlier, so I could post it.

Something about technical difficulties, but we all know that's passive aggressive bullsh*t Blogger! You're punishing me for staying away so long.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the world is out to get me today. Right now you may be thinking: Great. Here she goes with the persecution complex. But it's REAL people. This is not in my head.

Usually I love Friday 13th.

Because I'm twisted like that.

But today, I woke up hungover from the valerian root I took so I could sleep last night (which tastes like ass and ergo makes your breath smell like ass - fyi), and it was rainy and dank.

I shouldn't complain. We've had a pretty good run of nice weather here, and it least it's warm and rainy and dank instead of cold and rainy and dank.

So I sucked it up and decided I would stop by Dunkin Donuts for a chocolate chip muffin and orange juice.

Because that would make it all better (provided they didn't give me a two day old muffin. Yeah, I'm lookin at you DD. Don't act like it's never happened).

I daydreamed about that muffin and oj for the whole three minutes it took me to get to DD from my house.

Except when I pulled into DD, the line in the drive thru was 7 deep and not moving. As in I sat there for over five minutes and it didn't move. AT. ALL.

WTH, people! It's 9 o'clock! Shouldn't you be at work and not sitting in the Dunkin Donuts drive thru?

Sitting there was making my mood worse, so I proceeded to the office without my muffin and oj. :(

When I got to the office I felt the need to complain about my lack of morning sustenance, so I went to Kerri's office.

Except there was some sort of miscalculation on my part and I walked into the filing cabinet.

Hard.

The very large filing cabinet. That's been sitting in the exact same place for years. Years.

Yet, I body checked that thing like I was blocking for Peyton Manning while he prepared to throw the Super Bowl winning touchdown.

And thus began my day of walking into anything and everything. It's like there's been some kind of disconnect between my brain and my body.

As evidenced by the fact that I keep backspacing while I type this because ti lossk somethign liek tihs.

Or maybe that's because I shut my hand in the baby gate when I went home to let Winston out and it's still throbbing.

Winston's having himself a nice little lazy, rainy day, by the way. His sleepy puppy face went a long way toward improving my mood.

Except I wish I could have had my own little lazy, rainy day on the couch. Knitting. Or reading.

Or watching Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Because even though I managed to snag a copy from Redbox last weekend, it froze during the previews, and it's one of those stupid DVDs that the production company has rigged so you can't skip the previews, which means I couldn't even get to the menu to start the damn movie ...

Does that piss off anyone else? I mean, really, I just want to watch the damn movie! I don't need your stinking previews!

But I've gotten off point.

What was my point??

Did I even have a point?

Oh yeah. So if you see me on the road, stay far, far away. It's just one of those days.

UPDATE: When I tried to publish this post to twitter, I was denied. Twitter is currently having technical difficulties. I told you so...

How am I supposed to know these things??

2011-04-27T15:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday evening, I decided I was going to pretend to be a responsible homeowner.

Which means I decided to mow the grass before it grew to knee level.

Now less than a week ago, I paid one of the girls across the street to mow my yard. Personally, I find it appalling that it needs mowed again so soon.

I'm looking at you Mother Nature.

I hear everyone talking about how all this rain is good for the plants and blah, blah, blah. But we all know that while right now I'm growing webbed feet and mold, come July, it's going to be bone dry and I'm going to have to water my hanging baskets five times a day just to keep them alive.

All I'm asking for is a little balance here.

Anyway. I was determined. Even though I hate mowing the grass, I was going to just do it. Get it out of the way. Check it off my list.

No one ever warns you about these things when you buy a home. It's all excitement and picking out paint colors. No one ever says "Don't do it! That house is built into a damn hill! You'll have to mow a damn hill!"

I get home, change into my grass cuttin' clothes, walk Winston, then head down to the garage to gas up the lawnmower.

It didn't start up as easily as it should have considering L just used it last week to mow the yard.

But I walked away for a few minutes, came back, tried again, and it fired right up. Sort of.

As I mowed around the flower bed I made a mental note to call Dad about coming over to do battle with the demon weedwhacker. The grass around the flower bed actually is knee hight. It looks like a hedge row.

But the weedwhacker and I ... we have a love/hate relationship. I love it when it works, but it hates me with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

I just don't understand it.

Well, it may have been that time it wouldn't start, and I ended up calling Dad to yell about what a piece of shit the weedwhacker is. Among other things.

After I finished that side of the yard, I cut off the lawnmower and climbed the hedge row in order to pull some weeds out of the flower bed. Then I pushed the mower over to the other side of the yard, yanked on the cord ...

And not a damn thing happened. Not even a sputter. I yank a few more times. Still nothing.

I walk away again, come back to try again and still nothing. All the while, my neighbors are sitting out on the porch enjoying the show.

Knowing my limitations, I went to ask J for help.

He asked me if it had gas. Duh, J. I'm not an idiot!

Okay, have you put oil in it recently.

Well ... no. Not since last summer.

So he unscrews the cap and pulls out the dipstick.

That thing was so empty you could hear an echo.

Then he asks me if I have oil.

Do I strike you as the kind of person who has oil just lying around??

You would think after five years of cleaning up after me, he'd know these things by now.

After conceding defeat, I put away the lawnmower and called Dad, explaining that I needed some routine maintenance. I also made the mistake of telling him about the oil.

Unlike J, Dad has no problem pointing out that I have the common sense God gave a rock.

Which may in fact be true, but should you ever need someone to quote Harry Potter chapter and verse, I'm your girl.

That's what friends are for

2011-04-26T12:14:00.000-04:00

You know those beautiful spring days when you fling open the windows and relish that wonderful cool breeze? You can roll down your car windows and sing at the top of your lungs and hang out on the deck in the evenings reading a book.

Well, we apparently don't have those days anymore.

No lovely spring breezes. No warm days and cool nights. Oh, no.

Lately it's been either 40 degrees or 90 degrees. No in between. No opening the windows.

One day you're bundled up in a sweater, wrapped in a blanket with the heat set on 76 just so you can try to get warm. The next you're wearing gym shorts and a yoga top with the AC set on 73 just so you can breathe in the sweltering heat.

Which means it's time to get out the summer clothes.

And that kind of scares me. I haven't been what you would call ... dedicated to my gym attendance lately.

In fact, I haven't gone at all in the last couple months.

And you can tell.

Big time.

Plus, I've been guzzling soda the way a camel guzzles water after a month long trip through the desert.

It ain't pretty folks.

So I've decided I'm going to be healthier. I'm going to eat better. I'm going to go the gym regularly. I'm going to stop drinking soda.

You may recall what went down the last time I tried to kick my soda addiction in the bean bags. I'm pretty sure my head spun around a few times before it was all said and done.

But I did it. And I can do it again.

As part of my living healthier plan, last night, after leaving the gym, I stopped at the grocery store to buy actual food (as opposed to the snacks I scrounge together and call a meal) and some of those little Crystal Light packets that would be so much better than soda (or so I told myself).

This morning I got up early enough to take Winston on a real walk instead of the half-assed morning walk he usually gets. I had a bowl of raisin bran and half a glass of oj.

And when I got into work, I filled up my canteen and dropped in some blueberry pomegranate drink mix.

I must say it was pretty darn good. In under an hour I had already finished off 20oz of water. I was peppy. I was being nice to people. I even volunteered to meet with the client who comes into our office without a shirt.

(A/N: Men, that is not okay.)

Of course, after drinking so much water in such a short amount of time, I had to pee. When I walked into the bathroom, I immediately noticed the purple stain on the tip of my nose.

Which no one had bothered to point out to me earlier.

Thanks guys. Thanks a lot.

And hey, you know how kids use Kool-aid to dye their hair (what was that just when I was in school)? Same concept with skin.

That shit stains.

I looked like I was morphing into Barney.

Violet! You're turning violet, Violet!

So now my nose is pink. Because I had to practically sandblast it to get the purple stain off.

It was like Mardi Gras. Except I didn't get any beads.

2011-04-25T13:00:00.001-04:00

Hello, Dear Readers. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday weekend. And for those of you who don't celebrate Easter, I hope you had a wonderful weekend weekend.

The muse really isn't with me today. Could be that I'm just lethargic from all the food I consumed yesterday.

It was a very busy weekend for me. The choir performed in the passion play at church on Friday and Satuday nights.

There were over 1,000 people in attendance on Friday. 700 on Saturday.

What did I learn from this? I'm really bad at estimating. When my choir buddy leaned over and asked me how many people I thought were there, I replied "at least a few hundred,"

Yeah. At least. I'm no "new math" genius, but I'd guess that a thousand is slightly more than a few hundred.

I asked my choir buddy what he thought my odds were of finding my friends in the crowd. He answered that he wouldn't have thought the odds were very high that I'd have friends.

SNAP!!

And that's why I like him.

The highlight of the evening for me was definitely when the sweater wrap I had masterfully arranged across the rather daring decollotage of my dress fell open.

The best part? I didn't realize it. There I was standing in front of 1,000+ people with my boobs hanging out.

Hello Ladies!

You may wonder why I would choose to wear that dress. Well, at that point, I was running out of black clothes to wear.

Anyboobflashing, once I noticed it, I tried to quickly, but inconspicuously, rearrange my wrap so as not to draw any more attention to the matter.

The next night, lather, rinse, repeat. Except without the flashing.

Yesterday, we congregated at my SIL's parents' house. My contribution to Easter dinner was a rather spectacular carrot cake.

Or at least it would have been spectacular had it not been a million degrees out. As it was, the icing melted and the top layer kept trying to make a break for it.

After eating way too much food, we prepared for the Easter egg hunt. My SIL's dad (who was wearing a hat with rabbit ears and whiskers) asked me to sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Why?

I have no idea. But they treat me like a daughter, so if he wants to hear the Star Spangled Banner, I'm going to sing the Star Spangled Banner.

You know what's funny though? Singing in front of 1,000+ people doesn't bother me. Singing in front of a handful of kids and even fewer adults?

My hands were shaking.

Riddle me that Batman.

After the egg hunt, I made my excuses and went home to walk Winston and collapse on my couch.

And paint my toenails Easter egg purple.

So what about you Dear Readers. What were the highlights of your weekend?

It's more than just biting heads off bunnies

2011-04-22T10:49:00.000-04:00

My grandmother was a chocolatier. She made unbelievable candies. Including a giant chocolate bunny for Easter.

That thing had to be at least three feet tall.

He was reserved for someone who wanted to fork over the cash for that much chocolate though.

But she'd also make all manner of Easter treats. Chocolate bunny pops. White chocolate bunnies with little pink ears. Baskets filled with Easter eggs. Easter chickens.

What? You've never heard of an Easter chicken?

Just all kinds of stuff.

For us (us being her kids and grandkids), she made these chocolate eggs filled with peanut butter. Or coconut for the few people who are into that kind of thing. Blech.

I'm trying very hard to describe these eggs. They were pretty much works of art. And bigger than a softball.

So, you know, a lot of chocolate and peanut butter.

Now I like peanut butter as much as the next girl, and I looked forward to getting my egg every year. But for me candy is about caramel.

She made these chocolate covered caramels ... well, I'm a caramel connessieur and hers were the best I've ever tasted. Hands down.

I lived for those caramels. I would also beg her every year to make my egg with caramel in it. But she'd say it was too difficult to mold that much caramel into the right shape.

So every year I got a peanut butter egg.

And then one year when I was in high school, I got my Easter egg. I set it to the side to be devoured in a feeding frenzy at a later date. A few days later I decided to hack a piece off.

And instead of peanut butter, my egg was filled with caramel! CARAMEL!

All that delicious caramel for me!

It was the best Easter egg EVER. Made even better by the fact that she had taken the time to mold all that caramel for me.

Not long after that, Grandma had a stroke. She never regained full use of her right side. Which made it really difficult to practice her craft.

My senior year in college, I knew I would be moving away for law school, so I was making an effort to spend more time with my grandparents before I moved. I walked up to Grandma's house one day, and she was sitting at the table, making her Easter candy.

With her limited mobility, she was having some trouble spinning the chocolate around in the mold, so I offered to help.

I'd never made candy with her before.

Turns out there was a reason for that.

I'm not very good at spinning chocolate either. Or anything else related to candy making for that matter.

But she certainly enjoyed laughing at my attempts.

And that is the way I'll always remember her. Cheeks flushed from the heat in the kitchen. Trying to help me, but laughing too hard.

After Grandma died, my aunt took over the egg industry. And don't you know, a few years ago, I got myself a caramel filled Easter egg again!

(A/N: The title doesn't refer to real bunnies. I'd never bite the head off a real bunny. Much too messy. For some reason, I find it very cathartic to bite the heads off of peeps and chocolate bunnies. Try it. It's fun.)

It's like if Miss Piggy and Ferdinand the Bull got together and had a baby

2011-04-19T14:42:00.000-04:00

So, I'm posting two days in a row. That caps it. The world is definitely going to end.

The joke's on you though because I don't really have anything particularly interesting to post about. Although last night I did eat my first ever bacon cheeseburger.

I know, right? How have I lived my entire life without this?

Yesterday I was *ahem* keeping up to date on current events (aka trolling the internet), when I came across a list of places offering deals and freebies for tax day.

Free food!! You know that got my attention.

Well, among the list was Chili's. They were giving away a free appetizer or a free dessert.

Come to mama.

I immediately called Mom to tell her about my find and we made plans to meet at Chili's for dinner.

I haven't eaten at Chili's very often. It just never really appealed to me.

Until now.

When I got there I perused the menu and immediately zeroed in on the skillet queso. Which was beyond delicious.

And then I ordered the cheeseburger sliders for my dinner. Except they came with onions and ranch dressing and bacon. I didn't want to be that super picky girl, so I just asked them to leave off the onions and ranch. I figured I could pick off the bacon myself.

But when my dinner came out, I decided to try it with the bacon. What could it hurt?

OMG. OMG!

The clouds parted. Angels wept. I'm pretty sure there were even cherubs in the background serenading me while I ate this amazing creation of gustatory delight.

When the waiter came to check on us, he asked how everything was. I told him it was the best burger I'd ever had.

I'm pretty sure he thought I was nuts.

So then I explained that it was the first time I'd ever eaten a bacon cheeseburger.

Then I knew he thought I was nuts.

It was a revelation.

You know what else came as a revelation?

People with acid reflux really shouldn't eat hamburger and bacon and cheese all together.

It was totally worth it though.

It's the end of the world as we know it

2011-04-18T16:39:00.001-04:00

Hello Dear Readers. I hope you all had a good weekend.

I thought I was going to have a good weekend. Busy (i.e. I would have to leave my couch for more than a short bathroom break), but I was looking forward to sleeping in at least.

And Friday evening, it looked like things were lining up pretty well for a good weekend. I finished up with a work nightmare that has been plaguing me for quite a while. I celebrated by taking myself to Wal-Mart (the 3rd circle of hell Wal-Mart, not the 9th circle of hell Wal-Mart) to pick up a few essentials and a new book for me.

Yes, celebration for me is a new book.

Anyway. While I was there, I hit up Redbox, and they actually had the movie I wanted to see.

Good. Right?

I got home. Winston and I took a nice walk. I settled down on the couch to watch my movie.

And then for some reason, I just decided to check and make sure the documents I faxed before I left the office went through.

Except they didn't.

I won't bore you with details, but suffice it to say, it was a very time sensitive matter and this was enough to send me into "Danger Will Robinson" mode.

There wasn't much I could do at that point, but my sister in law's baby shower was the next day, so I thought I would just head in early and run to the office beforehand.

So the next morning, there was no sleeping in for me. No, sir. I was up bright and early. Except if wasn't bright.

And I should have recognized the cold, dreary weather as a harbinger of doom and gloom.

I headed into the office, to discover my work nightmare was not over. The apocalypse was nigh. And to make matters worse, I had to go to my SIL's baby shower where people were going to be happy, happy, joy, joy, while I'm walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit.

Needless to say, I was not the life of the party.

Then after that, I had to head to church for choir practice.

The weather was remaining loyal, keeping up a steady rain, while throwing in a thunderstorm every so often.

My choir buddy was a bright ray of sunshine in a dark and dismal day though.

There's something you should know about me. I'm kind of a smartass.

I know! You're shocked.

But it turns out my choir buddy is too. It just took him a while to open up and show his true colors. His witty one-liners even made me crack a smile.

Alas, eventually, I had to wade home (seriously, by that point animals were lining up two by two). Where I read my book and tried to pretend the world wasn't going to end on Monday.

Sunday morning the sun was out, but I was in no better mood. The choir was supposed to dress in black for the Palm Sunday service.

Very appropriate.

My choir buddy was in rare form. He volunteered me to wave around a palm frond.

Me? I'm not exactly the palm frond waving type.

Just in case you missed that about me.

When we took the stage for the second service he was like, "Hey. I just want you to know. That BO? It's not me." He then went on to complain about how he really can't stand BO and seriously someone needs a bath. And I was all "I know!"

It's every week. I'm pretty sure I know who it is, but how do you tell someone he smells???

Then after we sing the first song he tells me he's been paid back tenfold for the whole palm frond thing.

"Ha! I told you I'd hit you in the face with it."

"No. It's not that. Every time people raise their arms, I get hit in the face with BO!"

So then I'm losing it on stage, trying to laugh silently. I'm pretty sure it looked like I was trying not to be sick or something.

But all too soon it was over, and I headed home to wallow.

Except then I get a drunk dial from my friends Jay and Not So Silent Bob (yes, I'm totally outing you).

I'm often a drunk dial recipient for Not So Silent Bob. Never a dull minute.

And fyi, Jay, no one would be sexy dressed as Professor Dumbledore. I mean come on. The man's 110 years old!

Okay, so he did have the most powerful wand in the world. But the wand is only as good as the wizard weilding it, and the guy was getting up there in years.

Moving right along. I marked time through the rest of the weekend, bracing myself for The End of the World.

I even missed out on seeing the next to last episode of the last season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer this morning so I could come in early.

Needless to say, the world did not end today.

But there's always tomorrow.

The war rages on

2011-04-12T11:45:00.000-04:00

Hello Dear Readers. Have you missed me?

Yeah, I wouldn't miss me either.

I feel bad about my lack of posting. But I've had a lot going on with work, etc., lately. In fact, as I write this, I feel guilty because I know I should be working.

But I know you're just dying to know about my latest battle with Redbox. So...

Last Friday (being last Friday, not this past Friday - there's a difference), I jumped on redbox.com to see if there were any good movies out I could watch that evening.

Did you know Redbox redesigned their website? Yeah. So now it's harder to use.

Thanks for that Redbox.

Anyway, you cannot begin to imagine my overwhleming joy when I see that Redbox now has Defiance! OMF Liev Schreiber speaking Russian!!! Mmmmmm.

I know right now some of you are saying Liev Schreiber???? Really?!

Yes. Really. *fans self before spontaneously combusting*

Oh, and Tangled came out that week, too.

And, the Redbox right down the street has copies of both! Woot woot!!

So when I ran home to let Winston out, I stopped by Redbox to grab my night's entertainment. As I wasn't sure which machine was "machine A" and which machine was "machine B," I checked both of them.

Wouldn't you know it, there were no copies of either Definace or Tangled to be found in either machine.

Redbox lied to me.

You're shocked. I know.

So when I got back to the office, I checked online again. Still showing copes of Defiance and Tangled in the Redbox down the street, but I know this is not so.

Fool me once Redbox...

But. The ghetto 7-11 has copies of both, so I can swing by there on my way home.

Which I did.

And I was not pleased to discover that ghetto 7-11 didn't have the movies either.

I briefly considered kicking the machine, but I settled for a cherry coke instead.

As I was on my way home, resigned to spend my night movie-less, my mom called and invited me to dinner at this restaurant not far from my parents' house.

I see this as a win/win. I get a free meal, plus I can swing by Martins, where there are TWO machines. This time I was playing it smart though. I pulled up my Redbox app (yes, there's a Redbox app) and checked out the situation.

Neither machine at Martins had the movies I wanted.

However, the machine at the ghetto Wal-mart had a copy of Tangled. Now I had a decision to make. Was watching Tangled that evening really worth stopping at the ghetto Wal-mart?? I mean, the Wal-mart by my house isn't that bad. It's maybe the 3rd level of Hell. But I'd rather roll naked through broken glass than go to the other Wal-mart. 9th circle all the way on that one.

Yet...

I was driving right by there ... and really it wouldn't take that long to just run in and grab it ... and it's not like I'd actually be in the store ... right?

So I hauled ass to Wal-mart, willing my copy of Tangled to still be there. I had to navigate the sea of cars, looking for a parking space. Finding a space in that lot is hazardous to your health. Those people are serious about their parking. They jump on a spot like a polar bear on a wounded baby seal.

I finally managed to snag a spot and walked in a hurried manner (aka trying to run without looking like I'm running) to the entrance. As I get there, I see a woman leaving with a DVD in her hand.

And I know that's my copy of Tangled. I know it!

I briefly entertained the thought of tackling her and wresting the DVD from her hands. But there was a hot turkey sandwich with my name on it, and I wasn't willing to be arrested for assault for a copy of Tangled.

I refused to give up hope though. I continued into Wal-mart. Where there was a mother and daughter headed to Redbox.

Curses! If that other woman didn't have my copy of Tangled, surely this kid would take it. She looked like the princess type.

And then they started looking at the display beside Redbox that shows recent releases and stuff. So I did what any sane, rational adult would do.

While they were looking, I butted in front of the 4 year old girl who just wanted to find a princess movie.

I'd like to say I hit a new low with that one, but it wouldn't be true.

Didn't matter anyway because someone else had already snagged my copy of Tangled.

I left the 9th circle of Hell broken and dejected. Four Redboxes. Four crushing defeats. There were no copies of Tangled or Defiance to be had.

The next morning, I checked all the surrounding Redboxes again. Is no good.

You win this round Redbox.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. I had to run to CVS to get my prescription, so I figured I'd check the Walgreen Redboxes (right across the street).

Just in cases.

And there they were. Tangled AND Defiance.

Just waiting for me. I was euphoric. I quickly selected my movies, paid and headed home.

As soon as I got home, in went Defiance. Hello, Liev.

And then at the 34 minute mark, it froze.

Yes. It froze.

WHY?!?!?!?!?!

So I started over and skipped to the next scene.

And then at the 45 minute mark it froze again.

Why do you hate me Redbox?

I started over and skipped that scene, again, and thankfully, I finished the movie with no further incident.

I saved Tangled for the next day. It was really cute. I love that Pascal.

I want a Pascal.

The King's Speech comes out next week. That gives me some time to prepare for our next battle.

Until then, Redbox...

And thus began my life of crime...

2011-03-29T15:13:00.000-04:00

Before I begin my real post, I just need to get something off my chest.

I walk Winston every morning. At the same time. Every morning.

The same route. Every morning.

There's a woman two blocks down who lets her dogs (black lab mixes) out in the front yard off leash. Every morning.

At the same time. Every morning.

And every morning, she has to lunge after the dogs when they see Winston and come charging. Every morning.

Is anyone else scratching their head here??? Get a clue lady! Put your dogs on a damn leash!

There is nothing that pisses me off more than an unleashed dog (that's a bold faced lie, there's lot of stuff that does, but right this moment there's nothing that pisses me off more).

And some of you may be saying walk Winston at a different time, or take a different route. But I've got my Irish up over this one, and I'm convinced that I am in the right, and she is in the wrong!

My dog is leashed, per county ordinance and our subdivision covenants. Hers are not. My dog is well-behaved and under my control. Hers are not.

Plus, we've been walking that route long before they ever moved in there. So the we were there first argument applies.

But because I'm the bigger person, this morning I got up a few minutes earlier to try to beat her to the punch. It worked. My goal for tomorrow is to get up another few minutes earlier. Eventually, I'm hoping to start getting up early enough to actually have breakfast in the morning and get to work on time.

A girl can dream.

And now that I've gotten that out of my system...

Saturday morning, Becky, Winston and I were enjoying our extra long weekend morning walk when we spied a triple XL size dog in the yard on the next block.

Knowing all the dogs in our neighborhood, I knew that the people in that house do not have a dog. So he was either a very new addition, just visiting, or a stray. Winston did not care about Mystery Dog's status. He just saw a new friend.

I saw this:

I will eat you and pick my teeth with your bones!

In all fairness, I should admit that I was wearing neither my glasses nor my contacts. So it was a very vague, blurry image of the above.

I apologized to Winston and tried to get him to him to beat feet back in the other direction, but he stood firm, stump wagging.

And then it happened. Mystery Dog lifted his head and captured us in his sights. He lumbered through the yard, getting closer and closer.

And as he got closer, I realized that it wasn't Mystery Dog at all, but Winston's friend Bear, who's actually more like this:

Aren't I sweet.

And Bear is a sweetheart.

He also makes Winston look like a teacup bulldog.

But now I was concerned. What was Bear doing out? And so far from his home!

He made his way over, and he and Winston did their customary butt sniffing and lunging back and forth.

I would just like to point out: having 250 combined lbs of dog playing in the street while one of them is leashed? Not fun.

I explained to Bear that we were taking him home. And being the well-behaved dog he is, he was more than happy to follow along beside Winston.

Until the delivery people diverted his attention, and he got curious. And followed behind them into the garage. Where they finally caught sight of him and came running back out.

Seriously. The looks on their faces were priceless.

After assuring them that he was harmless, I handed Winston off to Becky and grabbed hold of Bear to get him back on track.

He was convinced that there was something in that delivery truck for him, but thankfully he is very obedient so after a little tugging, he agreed to abandon the truck.

We made our way to Bear's house, and much to my dismay (although not surprise), no one was home. The door from the garage to the fenced yard had been left open, so it was pretty obvious Bear's people had intended to be gone for a while and left the door open so he could chill in the garage or wander into the yard.

Problem? Obviously Bear was bored and decided wandering the neighborhood would be more fun. And the gate to the fence is padlocked, so I can't open it.

So while I was standing there contemplating how to get Bear back to my house on the opposite end of the neighborhood, Becky suggests I hop the fence, put up the garage door, and put him back in that way.

After only a few seconds of imagining how I would explain to police why I was hopping someone's fence and letting myself into their house, I went for it.

I also took a moment to imagine having to explain to the ER doctor how I split my face open hopping a fence so I could break and enter. Or just enter since the door was already open.

Bear seemed quite amused at my clumsy efforts to scale the fence. I'm pretty sure he was grinning.

Thankfully, I made it over the fence without incident. I put the garage door up, Bear wandered in, I put the garage door down and hopped back over the fence. Where I almost took out the shrubs.

Then Becky and I got the neighbors out of bed to see if they had a cell number for Bear's people. No luck. But it turns out Bear escapes on a daily basis. He usually doesn't wander though.

I thought he was jumping the fence, but it turns out he goes under it because the bottom of the fence isn't secured to the ground.

You'd think they'd fix that.

After some lip biting, we left Bear under the supervision of the neighbor and headed home.

Although I worried all day long. I made a few trips over there to make sure Bear was where he belonged. I even considered jumping the fence again and taking him back to the house to stay with us.

Because once you take the first step toward a life of crime, it's all downhill from there...

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming...

2011-03-23T15:51:00.001-04:00

I know you're all anxiously awaiting the next installment of Winston's saga, but quite frankly, I need a break from it (and if I do, I know you do).

Plus I have other fish to fry today.

So let's just say, I spent several days cleaning up vomit (side effect of the pain meds). Not sleeping because I was cleaning up vomit every hour. Wearing the same clothes because it seemed pointless to put on clean clothes just to get more vomit on them. And not eating because hello! vomit.

I have a whole new appreciation for mothers. For reals.

But suffice it to say, Winston is back to fighting form. Now we're just putting in our time until the sutures are removed. And while I mourn the loss of his dipstick, he couldn't care less.

So there you go.

Which brings me to the real heart of today's post: Facebook.

As you know, I'm always good for a Facebook rant. This one is probably going to piss some of you off, but I think I can probably live with that.

For a while now, I've seen people posting things like "banana" and "avacado" and "rutabaga" and other random fruits and vegatables as their Facebook status.

As I do with most things on Facebook, I paid no attention.

Then this morning, I found out what it was all about.

I got a message from a friend about using Facebook to promote breast cancer awareness for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In order to do, women were supposed to post as their Facebook status the word that corresponded with their relationship status.

I'm sorry. What??

First of all. October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It's March. Not that I'm against promoting breast cancer awareness year round, but let's get our facts right.

Second. How is posting some random word that no one understands the meaning of as my Facebook status promoting breast cancer awareness? I've been seeing this shit for months, and I didn't see it and think "Oh, banana! I need to go get a mammogram!"

No. Instead I though "Banana? What the hell does that mean?? You need some potassium?"

And also, what does my relationship status have to do with breast cancer awareness? Riddle me that, Batman.

At least that silly bra color thing people did last year related to boobs.

I mean if I want to promote breast cancer awareness on my Facebook page, I post a link to the Susan G. Komen Foundation or to a fundraising site or some article that actually gives people information about breast cancer.

It's a novel idea, I know.

Am I alone here?

Don't get me wrong, I love Facebook.

In fact, one might say I spend a little too much time on Facebook.

And I'm sure that I bother you with some of my status updates. Because really, not all of you care that "OMG they're showing the Glee wedding ep again! I love the Glee wedding!"

So my apologies to you if I post something on Facebook that makes you think "Honestly, why is she posting that on Facebook!". But rest assured, you will not see "asparagus" or "rhubarb" as my status anytime soon.

Tales of the Tail: Part 3

2011-03-22T10:44:00.000-04:00

AKA the part involving all the vomit...

Saturday- Sunday

It had been a rough night, but I felt like Winston was on his way back to his pre-surgery self.

Minus the tail, of course.

I had some work I needed to do, so Mom came over to stay with Winston for a couple of hours. I headed off to do my thing, musing about what a beautiful day it was.

On my way home, I was even planning to take Winston to the canal for a walk. I figured he'd earned it.

And then when I was five minutes from home, FIVE MINUTES, my mom calls and tells me that Winston has torn his stitches out.

What??? WHAT?!?!?!

MOTHERFREAKINEFFER!!

So I, of course, went into Full Panic Mode. As in, head spinning around, hyperventilating OMG, OMG, OMG.

Are you sure??

Ummm, yeah, she was pretty sure.

Thankfully, I knew the vet's office was open until 4pm and it was only noon. I called them up, explained who I was and why I was calling and that I was bringing Winston up immediately.

She put me on hold.

Yes. She put me on hold.

I whipped into my development so fast, I'm pretty sure I was two-wheeling it. (Btw, I was in my mom's car & my dad was behind me. I'm pretty sure words were spoken about that after the fact.)

I rushed into the house, tossed my phone to my mom, grabbed my dog, yelled at my mom that she was coming with me and jumped into my own car.

And guess what? I was still on hold. Or more accurately, my mom was on hold as she had possession of the phone at that point.

Finally someone came on the line and spoke to Mom. They'd see us when we got there, but they may have to refer us to the emergency clinic twenty minutes away.

I found this ridiculous on many levels.

First of all, as I was breaking land speed records on my way to the animal hospital (seriously, I think I missed my calling as a racecar driver), of course you're going to see us when we get there. I have singlehandedly put those vet's kids through college! I wanted to pull a "do you know who I am??"

Secondly, you seriously had me on hold for over five minutes to tell me that? Really??

By the time we got to the animal hospital, Winston had bled through the bandage Mom had put on his tail. And he was super excited. Wouldn't just stand still. So basically, it looked like someone had butchered a pig in the lobby.

Fab.

Unlike the previous day, the place was completely empty except for us and a few employees. Including Cathy. My favorite receptionist.

She loves Winston. And I love anyone who loves Winston.

However, even though we were the only people there, we still stood there and waited for forever.

And the longer we waited, the more strung out I became.

Every muscle fiber in my body was tight with tension. One wrong move, and I was going to snap.

Why is no one seeing us?? OMG my dog's going to bleed to death!

As my dog stands there grinning at me, wagging his bloody, pulpy stump...

Finally, a vet tech came out ushered us into a room. As she reached the the blood soaked bandage, I knew I would lose what little sanity remained if I saw the damage he'd done to himself.

My mom pushed me out of the room. So there I stood, whitefaced, in the lobby, still hoping that maybe it wasn't that bad.

Until I heard the vet tech say, "Yep, he tore his stitches out alright," through the door that hadn't completely closed behind me. Then there was talk of sedation and forms and stuff.

Cathy was very sympathetic, but it was obvious I had reached my limit and was basically non-communicative, so she gave up trying to talk to me.

A few minutes later, the vet tech came out and explained that they were going to give Winston a sedative and stitch his tail back up. As it wasn't actually surgery, they wouldn't have to put him under anesthesia, just make him sleep.

I signed more forms, and she led me back into the exam room, where Winston waited with his newly bandaged stump.

And then I really got started. How long will this take? Are you going to do it right away? Will he be in a kennel long? He doesn't like to be in the kennel? Will you call me as soon as he starts to wake up? If he wakes up in a kennel he's going to go nuts. Dr. S had a really hard time with him yesterday when he woke up in a kennel...

She interrupted me and exited the room. She came back in a minute later and said they were going to put him under right now, stitch him up and then I could take him home as soon as he woke up. I could wait out front, and he wouldn't have to spend any time in a kennel.

Great!

She took him in the back to administer the sedative, and Mom and I headed out to the lobby to wait.

I no sooner sat down than I heard this horribly pathetic wailing from the back. Before my thought process even fully formed, I was off that bench and headed back there. I cast Cathy a crakced out, frantic look as I hit the receptionist's desk. "Cathy, was that my dog!!"

No. It wasn't Winston. And I knew that. Regardless of what they do to Winston, I never hear anything but praise for what a good patient he is (with the exception of his behavior in the crate the day before), but I was a woman on the edge.

Cathy came around the desk to give me a hug and explain that they had a poodle come in that morning. She had been attacked by a German Shepard and it was pretty bad. Then she disappeared in the back.

Minutes later, I can hear the telltale scrabbling of dog nails on tile, and this time I know it's my dog. I hurry toward the exam room from which the sound was emanating. And there's Cathy, struggling to keep Winston from bolting into the lobby.

"They just gave him the sedative," she said. "Should take about 15 minutes to kick in. I thought everyone would feel better if you sat in here with him until it kicks in."

And that ladies and gentlemen is why I continue to drive to that animal hospital even though there are several closer to my house. In that moment, I loved that woman immensely.

I joined him on the floor, hoping to get him calmed down so the sedative could kick in. After about 10 minutes, he finally started to calm down. But still wouldn't give in to the sedative.

Every time he laid down, he'd hear a noise and pop back up. The vet tech came in and turned off the lights.

Still no.

I even laid down on the floor with him. No dice.

After 20 minutes, the tech came in and gave him another dose. She explained that they had given him a low dose to see if that would do it.

I could have told them a low dose in a 100lb American Bulldog wouldn't do jack.

Second time was the charm though.

I went back to my seat on the the floor. Winston lumbered over and stepped across my outstretched legs.

And then he just dropped.

Have you ever had 100 lbs of dog collapse on your legs? No? Lucky you.

The real kicker was that I'd positioned myself in the middle of the room. Where I couldn't reach either door. I tried calling for help, but I didn't want to take the chance of waking Winston, so it wasn't very loud. And I lack the upper body strength to move 100 lbs of deadweight by myself.

Thankfully, I had my cell phone in my pocket, so I called my mom and had her send in reinforcements. Two vet techs came in and each grabbed an end to heft him off me.

As it would be about 20 minutes to stitch his tail back up and wake him up, I decided to run down to the Rite Aid on the corner to see if they had toilet paper on sale.

Because you can always use toilet paper.

No good sales on toilet paper, but they did have Easter candy on sale.

So I bought three bags and started self-medicating with jelly beans and bunny gummies.

Then we went to DQ to get cherry cokes. Except on the way there, we saw a dog running free around the carwash. Did I mention this is a really busy road? And only yards from the interstate?? Needless to say, I was concerned and/or pissed and ready to tear the irresponsible pet owner a new one.

So after we got our cokes, I pulled into the carwash to check on the dog. Someone else had also stopped and was already on the phone, calling the numbers on the tag.

No answer.

And neither of us knew the area well enough to find the address on the tag. And my GPS on my phone wouldn't work.

Thanks a lot Sprint Navigation.

There was nothing left to do but put the dog in my car and take him to the vet's office with me. Maybe someone there would know where we could find his home.

As we pulled into the parking lot, Cathy called to tell me Winston was ready to go home, and I told her we had just pulled in and I had a surprise for her.

Heeheehee.

And then a thought ocurred to me. Hey, Mom, I bet if he lives around here, he probably goes to the vet here. They'll know his people.

My theory gained credence when the dog refused to get out of the car. He knew exactly where he was. But once we did get him out of the car, he walked in that office like he owned the place.

And the other receptionist immediately recognized him. She took custody of the runaway dog, and I left her with instructions to give his people a strong talking to.

Winston was ecstatic to see me and was ready to beat feet out of there.

And then Dr. S came out. At the time I thought she just happened to stop in the office while Winston was there, but now I realize they must have called her, and she came in to restitch his tail. She gave me The Look.

With a look of total innocence, I pointed at Mom.

Then we both got to listen to the lecture about not turning our backs on Winston for a single second. And I agreed that if I so much as walked out of a room, Winston would be wearing his ecollar.

Although when we got home, that wasn't an issue. Because Winston climbed up on the couch and went to sleep. And stayed that way for several hours.

When he woke up, I took him out for a walk. We made it 5 feet down the road when he puked in the middle of the road.

And thus began his three straight days of puking and my three straight days of cleaning it up...

Tales of the Tail: Part 2

2011-03-17T15:45:00.001-04:00

Friday

So Friday morning, I allowed myself a little sleep- in, as we didn't have to be a the vet until 10. I got up, got myself ready for work, re-wrapped Winston's tail. Again.

I realize as we were going to the vet, I could have left it unwrapped, but I wanted to at least give the impression that I was following their instructions.

I loaded Winston up into the car and headed to the vet a few minutes behind schedule. I worried the whole drive there that I would be late. We pulled into the parking lot at 10, so I was pretty pleased.

And as we stood waiting and waiting and waiting in the lobby, I wondered why I ever worry about getting there on time.

It was pandemonium. Little dogs, medium dogs, big dogs. Cats. Winston made friends with an Italian Mastiff who was even less excited to be there than Winston. She kept trying to pull her owner out the door.

I feel you on that one buddy.

And then a guy came in with a hawk that he'd watched someone hit with their car, so he stopped to pick it up.

Yeah. A hawk.

The receptionist told him they couldn't take it. Then she called a vet tech to find out where he could take it. The tech disappeared and reappeared a short time later with the hawk. In a blanket. Walking right in front of us. With a bird of prey. I later learned that the hawk was released to a wildlife santuary in a neighboring town.

Finally, after 45 minutes of waiting, we were shown to an exam room, where the vet tech told us, in a very disheartening tone, that she'd get the vet in to see us as soon as possible. So I prepared to wait some more.

Shortly thereafter, Dr. R. came in. There are several vets at our animal hospital. And it seems there's always someone new. Like Pocket Vet from Tuesday. That was the first time we'd ever seen him.

Dr. M is our favorite, but sadly she left the practice to have a family.

Selfish if you ask me.

Anyway, I like Dr. R. We've seen him before, and he always takes time to sit down and really talk to me about what's going on instead of just throwing drugs at us and pushing us out the door.

And Friday was no exception.

I chased Winston round and round while trying to unwrap the bandage I had fashioned, explaining what had happened. Even though it was in the chart. Because, you know, I like to be thorough.

As soon as he saw Winston's tail, he got this look on his face that I absolutely did not like. And he made a noise. Like a "hmmm."

Then he wiggled the tip of Winston's tail around a little bit and stood back up.

"O-kaaay," he said in his accented English, "the tail eez broken. I can see from here eez broken." Then he went on to explain that the reason Winston wouldn't stop biting at it was because it had to be extremely painful.

He thought the tip of the tail had completely seperated from the rest and explained that over the next few days it would become necrotic.

Winston has what he called "happy tail." "Eeet go back and forth, back and forth, whap whap whap. All dee time."

Which is incredibly accurate.

The problem is with big, powerful dogs with happy tail, they whap, whap, whap their tails into things with so much force, they can break them.

Dr. R was concerned about the broken part of the tail rotting. He also explained that with happy tail dogs, they just keep re-breaking their tails, so in circumstances like this, the only real, lasting solution is to dock the tail.

Throughout all of this, I could feel myself slipping into panic mode. When he ended his spiel with the part about docking, I know my horror was showing on my face. He immediately launched into an explanation of how simple a procedure it is, blah blah, blah.

But the damage was done. I soldiered through though. Asked him when he suggested we do this thing.

Immediately.

Okay, okay. Deep breaths. You can do this.

But I just waited 45 minutes to see you. This place is a zoo today. Literally. How exactly do you intend to do this surgery today??

Turns out, they had 4 vets working, but they were assigned to different duties around the clinic. He was doing office visits. There was another vet doing surgeries.

Okay, I want to meet that vet. No offense, but I like to know the person who will have my baby's life in his or her hands.

So he disappeared and returned a few minutes later with Dr. S.

I like Dr. S. A lot. She is my kind of person. She immediately saw my distress (hard to miss) and also figured out pretty quickly that I'm OCD and need a lot of facts. She spent about half an hour going over everything with me.

Repeating over and over again that she wanted me to be comfortable with it.

I appreciate the sentiment, but not going to happen.

Embarassed by my histrionics, I explained that this would be Winston's fifth surgery, and I always get a little panicky when he has to go under anesthesia.

She promised to treat him like her own and call me as soon as the surgery was finished.

And so I left my dog. Again.

I went to work and tried to concentrate on things I needed to get done so when Dr. S called, I could go get Winston and spend the rest of the day with him.

Except I couldn't concentrate. And I waited forever for her to call me.

Finally she called and told me that he was out of surgery and I could come pick him up at 4:30.

At 4:30, I was waiting in the lobby. Ready to take my baby home. Dr. S came out to talk to me. Explained how well the surgery went and how I shouldn't have any problems.

This just proves she doesn't know me.

She had to give Winston a sedative when he woke up from the anasthesia because he didn't appreciate being in an ecollar or a crate, and he kept banging his tail against he bars. Oh, and she found evidence of an older break in his tail.

She also said she applied a fentanyl patch to help control his pain. She then went to great trouble explaining that these patches are Class II narcotics and their use is very controlled. I was not to touch the patch. Ever. When the patch needed to be removed, I had to bring him back to the hospital so they could remove it and dispose of it.

By the time she was through, I felt like a recovering addict being lectured by the director at my halfway house.

And I've never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen.

Finally, finally, a vet tech brought Winston out. He was weaving like a drunken Irishman on St. Patrick's Day. And she had a towel slung around his hips to support his back legs.

What the hell?!

The sedative hit him hard. Like really hard.

Seriously, his back legs would just collapse under him without support. I was terrified that he was going to hurt himself.

I struggled to get him into the car.

I struggled to get him out of the car.

I struggled to get him into the house.

I struggled to get him to lay down.

He was incredibly restless.

And he had to pee. Badly.

Problem? He couldn't support his back legs and refused to pee. So instead he just leaked pee all over me, all over the car, all over the furniture.

I tried taking him out several times. Which was a real challenge given the steps. But he just wouldn't pee.

I tried to get him to lay down, but all he wanted to do was pace and try to jump up on the couch. Both of which were hazardous given his lack of muscle control.

I finally put the dining room chairs on the living furniture so he couldn't jump up.

But he still wouldn't lay down.

At the end of my rope, I called my mom. Not that she could do anything about Winston. But maybe she could keep me sane.

Possibly.

She came armed with cherry cokes from Dairy Queen.

\And she got Winston to lay down.

At 8, he got up and started back to the bedroom. Okay. If he wants to go to bed, we'll go to bed. Maybe that will keep him still.

As there was no way he was getting up on the bed, I set up his crate, which he was more than happy to settle into.

But then I had to put the cone of shame on, so he wouldn't bother his sutures.

That went over real well.

Finally, around 11:30 the sedative wore off, and he was ready to go pee.

He was also ready to go pee at 1:30.

And 2:30.

And 3:30.

And 5:30.

At 7:30 Saturday morning we were up for the day. We went for a full walk. He was his chipper self.

Things were looking up ...

Tales of the Tail: Part 1

2011-03-15T14:26:00.001-04:00

I was going to write all of this out in a big long post just to get it out of my system, like some kind of cartharsis. But then I realized that wasn't fair to you. Becuase trust me, if I told this entire story in one stretch it would be the freaking Illiad of blog posts, and we all remember what that was like.

Instead, I decided to break it down for you. You can thank me later.

Tuesday - Thursday

So as you all know, I took Winston to the vet last Tuesday because his tail was all kinds of swollen and painful and bleeding, and I thought it might be broken. But the little pocket vet said it was just infected, so he wrapped Winston's tail in the super bandage and prescribed over $100 worth of antibiotics.

Yeah.

And as you also know, I posted pictures of Winston and his ridiculously bandaged tail for your viewing pleasure.

Well, in retaliation for said humiliation, when I got home from work on Wednesday, Winston had pulled off the bandage.

He greeted me at the door. Tail wagging. Blood spattering everywhere. The sweeping arcs of his tail creating a masterpiece Jackson Pollock would have admired.

And I didn't have anything to rebandage his tail.

But I rallied, called the neighbor who brought over emergency provisions in the form of gauze and tape. Then I called mom who stopped by the pharmacy on her way to choir practice that evening. She delivered enough supplies to bandage an entire colony of lepers.

The plethora of first aid supplies was funny at the time.

And then as I started to go through them like tissues, it wasn't so funny.

You see, it was like the great disappearing bandage. At first I was constantly yelling at Winston for pulling the bandage off. Then I realized that all he had to do was wag his tail and the thing just flew off.

So then I felt bad for yelling at him, and I revised my bandaging methods. But then he did start pulling it off.

Thursday morning I put him in his crate with his e-collar on, thinking that between the e-collar and the limited mobility of the crate, the bandage would be safe.

Silly Rabbit.

My dog is like Gumby. We're talking freaky Cirque du Soleil flexible here, people.

I knew it was going to require some serious ingenuity to keep him away from that tail. I went into MacGuyver mode.

Necessity is the mother of invention and all that.

So I dug a DiGiorno pizza box out of the recycling and used duct tape to tape it around the outside of the e-collar. Adding another 6 inches to the thing.

Take that Winston!

And it worked! Too bad I hadn't thought of it sooner.

I realized the pizza box was probably going to be shredded by the time I got home. What I needed was another e-collar so I could hook them together.

Thursday night, I drove to PetSmart. Except they didn't have the e-collars for giant dogs.

So then I drove to the PetCo in the next town over.

In a monsoon.

Seriously. Forget the cats and dogs. It was raining elephants and rhinocerases (rhinoceri??). But I just turned up my Glee soundtrack extra loud. It was all kinds of a good time up in my car.

I bought the extra e-collar, ran home and harnassed Winston up for his walk. I also tied a plastic bag around his tail, so his bandage wouldn't get wet.

It's what all the fashionable dogs are wearing.

That's right, I walked my dog in a hurricane. Except he has more sense than me, so by the time we got the neighbors driveway, he took matters into his own hands and headed home.

After we dried off, we kicked back and relaxed for the rest of the evening. Watched Vampire Diaries (even though it was a rerun) and Grey's (also a rerun).

And then I decided that because Winston's recheck appointment at the vet was at 10, I would just sleep in the next morning and go into work after his appointment.

Little did I know that that was the last night I would sleep for a while ...

It was nice knowing all of you...

2011-03-09T15:48:00.000-05:00

You know how they sometimes have those random stories on the news about how some cat lady died in her home, and no one realized it until weeks later when the neighbors couldn't stand the smell anymore, so they call the police, who go in and find only the cat lady's carcass because the cat's have eaten her?

That's going to be me. I'm pretty sure of it.

You see, last week, Winston started with the whole tail biting thing again. So I did the whole clean it and put some neosporin on it thing.

But the problem is Winston's tail is constantly in motion. You say "Winston"? The tail wags. "No!" The tail wags. "What the hell are you doing?" The tail wags. Shift to find a more comfortable position on the couch? The tail wags.

Even when he's sleeping the tail wags.

And usually when he wags his tail, he's whapping things with it. Me. A door. A wall. Anything and everything.

So over the weekend, it started looking really bad. And he wouldn't stop licking it.

Licking, licking, licking...

I threatened to pull his tongue out more than once.

And then I felt bad. Because it was really swollen and red and puffy, and I could tell it was really bothering him.

As impervious as he is to pain, if it's bothering him, it's pretty bad. I thought maybe he'd broken it.

So yesterday, we went to the vet. Where none of our usual people were working. This made me very unhappy, but it turned out okay.

The vet (who I'm pretty sure weighed less than Winston) thinks it's just infected, so he cleaned it, wrapped it and gave us antibiotics (which you'll be shocked to know Winston hates taking).

I warned them ahead of time that they just needed to give me a list of what I would need to rebandage it because there was no way in hell Winston would leave their bandage alone for the next three days. So when we left, Winston looked like this:

They took a syringe case and put it over his tail, so he wouldn't further damage his tail when he whacks things with it.

Winston is less than pleased...

It's only a matter of time before he kills me in my sleep and eats my face for revenge.

Dammit Jim! I'm a Lawyer Not a Computer Tech!

2011-03-08T16:40:00.000-05:00

I don't think I've ever mentioned it on here, but I am not a computer savvy person. Yes, I can do the basics. What I need to do to function in this live by techonology era.

To be honest, it's a miracle that I even managed to create my own blog.

A few weeks ago, I submitted a guest post to The Curvy Girl Guide. Last week Brittany emailed me and asked me to submit it in html format.

Say huh??

After spending a day feeling stupid because I had no idea how to do what she was asking, I finally called in reinforcements. I put out an all call to my super techie friends.

Once she grasped the depth of my technological ignorance, Jenn was kind enough to just do it for me. She also explained that I could use it as a template next time I needed to convert something to html, showing me how to put in italics and headers, etc.

I didn't have the heart to tell her she may as well be speaking Greek.

It really is like another language.

Then yesterday, I came into work, and my computer was off. Which was odd, but I just figured the power had gone out.

I turned it on, waited while everything loaded, blah, blah, blah. I checked my office email, then tried to get online to check my other various and sundry emails (and check Facebook because my day doesn't start until I know what everyone else is doing).

Except I couldn't get online.

So I restarted my computer (everyone knows when all else fails, turn it off and turn it back on). This time after rebooting, a window pops up from my little anti-virus icon in the toolbar: Your anti-virus program is turned off. Click here to turn it back on.

So I did.

Those of you who know things about computers are now calling me ten kinds of a fool, but I thought my anti-virus program had expired or something.

Which is why I then called our IT guy, J. I explained about the message and how I clicked on it ...

"Oh, man. Wow. Jeez. Okay, do you remember what site you were on? Man. This is bad." (All muttered in the tone of a man who was just told his execution by guillotine had been set for high noon.)

"I wasn't on any site. I had just restarted my computer. It popped up from my toolbar."

"But what site were you on? That's not your anti-virus. It's malware. You must have downloaded something and let it in."

By now, my shoulders were sagging, my chin on my chest. "I was not on any site! I didn't download anything," I defended pitiably.

I hadn't felt so chastised since first grade when my grandma gave me a Pound Puppy watch for Christmas, and I was flipping the puppy open and closed, open and closed, open and closed, during story time.

Mrs. Pignonelli (yes, imagine trying to pronounce that at 6), finally stopped reading long enough to tell me that if I didn't stop playing with it, she was going to take it.

Having never gotten in trouble in school before, I was duly horrified at being that kid.

Anypoundpuppy, J's muttering became more and more dire, as he explained he would be here within an hour to try to fix it. Try being the operative word.

Wtf have I done! Now, I'm the one who's all kinds of anxious. Visions of crashing our server and fingerpointing at me.

Then he tells me to just turn my computer off because I'm not going to be able to do any work on it. I'm just going to get a million pop ups every few seconds.

"I can't work on my computer for the next hour??"

"Well, you can try, but I doubt you'll be able to get anything done."

"But if I don't turn it off, can it get any worse?"

"It can't get much worse."

Holy mother of God, could you be any more freaking ominous.

So convinced I was going to be bound and whipped for raining fire and brimstone down on our server, I started my computer again and focused on getting some work done.

I waited for the pop ups I had been warned would plague me.

And waited ...

And waited.

By the time J showed up an hour and 15 minutes later, no pop ups.

I readily ceded my desk to him. Eager for him to make it all better.

I came back a few minutes later. "How's it looking?"

"Suprisingly, not too bad. I'm going to run this scan, and it'll pick up any infected files. It should take about fifteen minutes. You can work while it's running, but it might be a little slow."

Warily, I reclaimed my desk. J stopped in after about ten minutes. "Still running?"

Yep, still running.

Shortly thereafter, it pinged. The scan was finished and hadn't found any infected files.

I ran to get J because I wanted him to see the evidence that I had not picked up some nasty computer STD.

Seriosuly, guys, I felt like a computer slut.

So let this be a warning to you - Always use protection!

Don't look at me like that. He asked for it!

2011-03-04T10:53:00.003-05:00

I was reading over on Musings of a Sarcastic Mind about seemingly nice neighbors who pretend like they're returning your newspaper when they're totally casing the joint. And all I could think was OMG! She and I are obviously twins!

You see, I have ... well let's call it a very active imagination. Remember this?

Well, a few years ago, I came home from the gym, walked Winston, then decided to spend a few minutes weeding the flower bed and giving my flowers a much needed drink.

My neighbor, J, was talking to someone on his porch, and being neighborly, I cast a wave at him.

Then I see him gesture at me.

And I realize the person on his porch is some kind of sales person, in his bright blue shirt and khakis with his clipboard.

Oh, J, no you didn't!

But he did. He threw me to the wolves.

I quickly take evasive action, turning my back on the couple across the street, viciously tearing out weeds, flowers, anything that gets in my way. So there I am in my sports bra and shorts, bent over, ass in the air, when I hear his approach.

I turn to him with my thanks, but no thanks look firmly in place. This look has cowed better men.

Except Chad, as he introduced himself, was blind to my non-verbal cues to get off my lawn.

"Hi! I'm Chad!" (I'm pretty sure being that perky should be a crime) "I work for X Security, and we're looking for some homes in your neighborhood to take advantage of our exciting offer! Your neighbor told me you're the president of the HOA!" (oh, he did, did he...) "Wow! That's exciting!" (no, not really) "Well, we're looking for a few homes to install our security systems in, and you're eligible to receive a free system and free installation!"

"That's really nice Chad, but I have to start dinner. If you'd like to leave your information, I can take a look at it and call you ..."

"Oh, well we only have two free systems left! I'd really like you to have one of them! I can come in and talk to you while you make dinner!"

Dude! Didn't you mom ever tell you it's rude to invite yourself to other people's houses??

Fine. The time for subtlety was over. So I instituted the plan that has proven 99% effective at getting rid of unwanted guests.

I released the hound.

And true to form, Winston went right for the crotch.

Yet, even after being nailed in the balls by a 100lb. bulldog, Chad kept his smile and continued to wax poetic about the wonders of this alarm system.

While I vowed retribution against my neighbor.

In moments, Chad had cased the place, noting all points of entry. He sat down at the dining room table (sure, make yourself at home) to work up an estimate.

Even though I continued to vehemently state that I would not be signing up for his services that evening.

"Oh, but, you really should have this system! And it's free!"

Nothing is free Chad. "What's the monitoring fee?"

"$50 a month, but that includes..."

But no, now it's my turn to interrupt him. "And how long is the contract term?"

"Well, as I said, the system is free and the monitoring fee is only $50..."

Only $50 a month, whatever, kid. "But What. Is. The. Term?"

"Two years..."

"Two years?? No. No thanks."

"But..."

"No. No buts, Chad. I'm not signing up for anything that has a two year term. What happens if I have to cancel, huh? What's the cancellation fee?"

This was a trrick question, as I already knew the consequences of canceling early. I just wanted to hear him say it.

Which he wouldn't do.

He just continued to laud the merits of this wondrous security system.

And then he pulled out his phone to call his home office and get me approved for this security system.

Up until this moment, I was slightly exasperated, but also mildly amused.

And then he asked for my social security number.

That's it, Chad. The gloves are coming off. I may have been willing to humor you for a little while, but now you're getting on my nerves. And no one beats me in a street brawl.

"Hang up that phone right now."

"But I just want to make sure your credit..." and then he saw my face. My I Am Serious, Do Not Effing Mess With Me Face. "Umm, thanks Amy. I'll call you back."

"Chad, it is time for you to leave. If you would like to leave your information, I will look it over and call you if I'm interested, but you are leaving. Now."

And he did. With nary a sales pitch.

Finally.

But then I started pondering the entire exchange. Chad was more than a little zealous in his advocacy of this alarm system.

Exactly how far would he go to convince someone she needed this system?? And he knows all the ways to break into my house!

OMG!

So then I call my mom and relay the story to her. Her response?

"How much do you want to bet he tries to break into your house tonight just to convince you you need his alarm system??"

OMG! See! I totally inherited my overactive imagination from her!

So that night, I huddled in bed with my trusty maglite (which is the super heavy kind that doubles as a club) and my cell phone at the ready. Prepared to call my gun owning neighbor at the least provocation.

You may be surprised to learn that Chad did not try to break into my house that night. Or any of the nights thereafter for that matter.

However, a few weeks later, I was driving through a not so nice part of town when I spot a bright flash of blue. I look to my left and ...

Hello Chad.

At that moment, I was stopped by a red light. Our last encounter played through my mind while I debated whether or not to warn my nemesis of his ultimate demise if he persisted in knocking on doors in this area.

You see, they don't really need alarm systems around there because no one's stupid enough to break in. Do I warn him that unannounced visitors are very likely to be greeted with a gun in their faces??

Do I, don't I, do I, don't I?? Really, they wouldn't hurt him. Maybe just scare him a little. And I really think Chad needs to learn a little caution.

Right??

And then my light turned green, and I left Chad to learn one of life's great lessons: You don't knock on the door of a crack house and try to sell them an alarm system...

Bittersweet Memories

2011-03-02T12:23:00.000-05:00

My dreams are interrupted by the shrill ringing of the alarm. I rouse myself enough to slap at the offensive source of the sound, only to realize that it is not in fact the alarm that has pulled me from my lovely dreams, but the ringing of the phone.

Through the hazy sleep still clouding my vision, I realize that it is not the deep black of night, but the dark gray of early pre-dawn morning. Who would call so early?? Surely it must be one of Mom's teacher friends because no one else would call at such an unGodly hour. And secure in the knowledge that Mom will answer, I roll back over and drift away again.

Only seconds later, I am again awakened. This time by the bright flash of artificial light that cuts through the dark room, casting its harsh glare across my eyes.

I am less than pleased to once again have my sleep disturbed.

My mother stands in the open doorway, sihlouetted by the yellow glow, phone in hand. "Your grandfather is on his way to the hospital. They think he had a stroke."

And just that one word has the power to do what the ringing phone and bright lights have failed to do. I am instantly awake.

After explaining that she's going to finish getting dressed and call in for a substitute before heading to the hospital, she closes the door. Once again casting the room into darkness.

I roll out of bed, shower and throw on clothes in less than 5 minutes. I am waiting in the kitchen when Mom appears, prepared to leave.

In silence, we pile into the car. I've yet to consider the seriousness of the situation. I'm going to the hospital because it's what we do. We gather in times of emergency. But people have strokes. They recover. Maybe they have some motor or speech impairments, but they recover.

He'll be fine.

In the early morning hours, it takes less than ten minutes to get to the hospital only a few miles away. We're directed to ICU.

And it's there we learn that there will be no recovery. He will not regain consciousness.

As we try to accept what the doctors are telling us, more family members trickle in, and the information must be repeated over and over again.

Vegetative state

Won't wake up

My grandmother sits in the ICU waiting room, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, while her husband lays in a hospital bed down the hall. Doctors press her for decisions. If his heart stops, do they rescucitate? Do they put him on a ventilator?

The questions. They come and come and come.

My grandmother seems to lose more of herself everytime they ask. Small and confused, like a frightened child.

Leave her alone!! Can't you see she can't make that decision right now?! I want to leap to her defense and shield her from all of this.

But they need to be made. His heart could stop at any moment. But saying no, letting him go evidences a level of acceptance no one has yet reached.

Finally, Grandma decides that she wants to give my cousins the chance to get in to see him before he goes. She tells the doctor to rescucitate him if his heart stops. I can tell the doctor isn't pleased with this decision. I know she understands the situation better than anyone, but I know how important my grandfather is to all of us, and I understand that Grandma wants to give everyone the chance to say goodbye.

The day progresses in this strange timeless manner. In a windowless waiting room, even with the ticking clock, it's hard to guage the passing of time.

I go home and get my books, ever the responsible student. Suzann suggests picking up sandwiches for everyone, so we do. And we try to convince Grandma to eat.

We're allowed to visit Grandpap in pairs. Or three at most. Time is marked by trips down the hallway to sit with him for minutes at a time.

Sometimes I wander back on my own.

I sing Amazing Grace. His favorite hymn.

I try to reconcile the small, frail man in the hospital bed with my larger than life grandfather with his gruff voice and strong hands that could either smack your butt when you were bad or hold you close while you sat on his lap.

While I hold his hand, I watch the blips across the monitor. They seem to be slowing down. I go into the hall and ask the nurse what's going on. She looks at his vitals and suggests that I may want to go out and send my grandmother back.

No. I don't want to.

But of course, I do.

Defeated, she walks back the hall with her children. A short time later, they return without her and gather their own children to them. Explaining that it's time.

The limited visitor rule is lifted, while his children and grandchildren file into his room, where Grandma sits holding his hand.

We stand around his bad, surrounding him with love, watching the spikes on the monitor mark his heartbeats, Which come slower and slower.

Until eventually they stop.

It's quiet. So quiet.

And then the silence is broken.

"I didn't just lose my husband ... I lost my best friend of fifty-five years."

It was the most poignant and beautiful moment of my life. It was hard to accept that my grandfather was gone, but at the same time, I felt so lucky that I got to witness that kind of love.

How often do you get to experience that?

That phone call came ten years ago today. And still sometimes I find myself wishing I could stop by my grandparents' house to see him or call and hear his voice. I can close my eyes and see him sitting in his lazy boy or block out the world and hear the joy in his voice when he greets me.

But above all else, I remember the love.

In loving memory of Clifford Guy Parkinson.

Get in my belly!!

2011-02-24T13:08:00.000-05:00

You know that episode of CSI where the guy makes the rounds of the all you can eat buffets and eats so much his stomach explodes, and he dies?

Sometimes I feel like that.

You see I have two settings when it comes to food: "Nothing for me thank you" and "OMG feed me Seymour, feed me!"

It's very cyclical.

The Great Cupcake Revisitation of 2011 started off a long period of sickness and stress-induced fasting. My daily intake for about three weeks consisted of 2-3 spoonfuls of soup and a couple of crackers.

One day I did have a smoothie. Another day I had a glass of cherry 7Up and some cheez-its.

You get the picture.

As you can imagine, these times of non-existent appetite, are also marked by dramatic weight loss. This time around it was 7 lbs.

Now you're all like "Bitch, what is your problem?! You lost 7 lbs!"

But no my friends. Remember I said it's cyclical.

Which means, I am now eating EVERYTHING IN SIGHT.

Seriously.

Have you so soon forgotten the grilled cheese stuffed with mozzarella sticks and pancake puppy sundae? I think Heather was even a little afraid of me that day.

To be fair, I was eyeing the remains of her dessert the way a hungry cheetah eyes a lame baby gazelle.

The other day, I had a peanut butter sandwich and cheez-its for lunch. I should have known that wasn't going to cut the mustard. I followed it up with a bag of Munchies, fruit by the foot, two fruit roll ups and half a bag of peanut butter m&ms (you know, the one pound bag).

After eating every edible thing I could find in my office, I started daydreaming about the dinner I was making for myself and Becky. I was salivating at the thought of spicy mustard marinade. By the time I got home, I was so hungry I started eating the three month old gummi sharks I found in the cupboard.

After dinner, I made myself wait until Glee came on before I tore into the chocolate pie Becky brought for dessert. When she offered me hers, I cast all pride to the wind and accepted without protest.

It's always like this. Like I'm a bottomless pit. I feel like my body's shouting "Hey! We have lost calories to make up for here! We need more marshmallow!"

Yesterday, after polishing off my Chik-Fil-A, I decided I needed dessert and ran over to Arbys to get some chocolate chip cookies. The kid at the window and I had an entire non-verbal conversation using only facial expressions.

His look said: I can't believe you just came through the drive thru to order cookies. You're such a loser lady.

Mine said: Give me my cookies, kid, before you lose an arm!

When I left work yesterday, I decided I needed to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Except once I was there, I decided I needed a few more things. And oh, you know what sounds really good?? A breakfast sandwich! Let's get stuff to make a breakfast sandwich.

So I did.

And then I decided waffles sounded equally as good. So I got some of those too.

But then I had a quandary. Do I have a breakfast sandwich or waffles for dinner??

I fixed my breakfast sandwich. It was delish.

But not satisfying.

So then I had some waffles.

And for the first time in days I felt full.

Finally!!

Maybe now I can work on digesting the food baby I've been carrying around for days from my non-stop eating!

Except I'm still going over to Arbys later to get some chocolate chip cookies. Those things are freaking awesome.

Evil Thy Name is Redbox

2011-02-23T14:17:00.000-05:00

Angie just sent me an email from Redbox. If I "Like" Redbox on Facebook, I can get a code for a free rental.

Which has to be used by tomorrow.

Except as you know, I don't really think I can say I "like" Redbox (and if you don't know, see here, here and here).

Unfortunately I was afflicted with plague and unable to chronicle my last go 'round with Redbox.

A few weeks ago, I was meeting my parents for dinner. I had to return Red (which is really funny btw, if you haven't seen it, do), and I thought I'd pick up something to watch that night.

Since it's not like I have a life which involves plans on a Friday night.

AND I had codes for two free rentals because I got a bad copy of The A-Team, which I wouldn't have watched anyway. Turns out the 14 minutes I saw before the DVD froze was enough to convince me I didn't need to see anymore.

You know I do so love getting one over on Redbox.

Plus they still owe me for that whole The Expendables debacle.

So after work, I ran down the street to Walgreens to return Red and see what Redbox had to offer. And it turns out, Redbox had nothing to offer me because it was out of order.

Okay.

So I drove a little farther to the ghetto 7-11. Where, as it turns out, the Redbox was in good working order, so I could return my movie. However, it had nothing to offer me in return for my viewing pleasure.

Okay.

There's a Martin's not far from where I was meeting Mom and Dad for dinner, and they have two Redboxes, so no big deal. Surely, I can find something to watch in one of them.

Surely not.

Plus the man in front of me trying to return his movie was doing it wrong. I should have known then. Instead, I quite politely took the movie from him, flipped it over and inserted it into the machine.

Oh, he didn't know that you had to put it in a certain way. Yeah, that whole "barcode must face this direction" printed in big bold letters on the DVD case can be kind of confusing.

After striking out at FOUR Redboxes, I schlepped home, my heart heavy in the face of defeat, where I watched re-runs of The Vampire Diaries on the CW.

So it wasn't a total loss. Ian Somerhalder is hot.

The next day though, I was forced to renew my search, as Meg was supposed to come over that night to watch Winter's Bone (for which Jennifer Lawrence is nominated for an Oscar - hence the must see).

This time I was going to play it smart though. I got online to search for a copy of Winter's Bone. And it turns out there were several in the Redboxes near me (which is odd because I had been to FOUR the night before and hadn't found a single copy).

There was even a copy at the ghetto 7-11 down the street! AND they also had copies of The Other Guys and Secretariat. Score!!!

I hurriedly bundled Winston into the car and took off to 7-11, lest someone get there before me and rent my movies. (If you're wondering why I didn't reserve them online, you can't use codes online and I was going to get my free damn rentals!)

When I pulled in, there were two sheriff's deputies in the parking lot, so I was fairly certain no one had rented any of my movies in the 7 minute interval since I had checked online.

I hurried up to the Redbox, selected my movies and entered my codes.

Except then I see this: "This is not a valid code."

WTF Redbox?!?! You're sending me invalid codes now? I really thought this was a gentlemen's war, but now you've taken it to whole new level. The gloves are coming off.

I was ticked, but sanity prevailed, so I did manage not to vandalize the Redbox in front of the deputies. I paid for my movies, got back in the car and consoled myself with a steak and cheese sub and cheese fries for lunch, while I watched The Other Guys. Which was really funny.

And Secretariat was the best movie I've seen in a long time.

And later that night Meg came over, and we watched Winter's Bone while eating giant chocolate cupcakes. While neither of us would say Winter's Bone was entertaining, it was... interesting, and Jennifer Lawrence's Oscar nod is very well-deserved.

In fact, I think she should win, but we all know Natalie Portman has that one in the bag.

Right before Meg left, I started feeling not so great. I chalked it up to acid refulx and resigned myself to another night of sleeping sitting up.

However, an hour later I realized it was not acid reflux, and while I did spend the night sitting up, I was leaning against the bathroom wall in between bouts of violent heaving.

I may never eat cake again.

It's a travesty.

I'm blaming it on Redbox. Because obviously Redbox is the root of all evil.

Happy Birthday Winston!!!

2011-02-22T10:29:00.001-05:00

(A/N: As you know, Winston was rescued from the mean streets of AL. At that time, the vet estimated his age, and when I adopted him, I designated his birthday accordingly.)

Today is Winston's birthday!!! He's five years old. Which is a lot in dog years. Especially big size dogs.

It kind of makes me sad that my little boy is growing up.

Right now there's probably a party going on at my house. There's probably a cat hanging from the ceiling fan (in a totally non-homicidal way) and knowing what a lush Winston is he'll be hung over before we even get around to having cake tonight.

I can only hope my neighbors are keeping an eye on things. If I get any phone calls about crazy party animals, I am not going to be happy.

So today in honor of the Super Duper, we have another Winston pictorial.

Winston, this is your life:

Happy President's Day

2011-02-21T14:56:00.000-05:00

Happy holiday that only federal and bank employees get off day.

I could have used a day off today, as I barely slept last night. My own fault. On Sundays, Chiller TV runs Buffy marathons. Yesterday was Season 2. Which has one of the best season finales in Buffy history.

That's the season where Buffy and Angel do the nasty and he loses his soul, terrorizes Sunnydale, tries to open a portal to hell, battles Buffy, loses, and gets his soul back right before Buffy runs him through with a sword to close the portal to hell.

It's all very moving.

I did have to take a break from Buffy in order to watch A Single Man on Showtime. Hello naked Colin Firth! (Love you, Colin! Call me.) But couldn't miss the Buffy season finale.

The Buffy/Angel sword fight is epic.

Thankfully, it wasn't on until very late at night. Which meant I missed my falling asleep window.

But if anyone's interested, today on Chiller they're having a Fear Factor marathon.

A show I never watched when it was on prime time. Lo those many years ago when it was the cutting edge of reality tv, my friend D and I were discussing what a ridiculous show it was and how the stunts weren't scary. Just gross.

She said one of her male friends had told her that real fear was walking a tightrope, naked, with just your balls in a harness.

We were having dinner when she said that, and I shot spaghetti out of my nose.

That hurts by the way.

Speaking of food, yesterday I had the most unbelievable sandwich for lunch. Imagine if you will a grilled cheese sandwich, stuffed with fried mozzarella sticks, with marinara dipping sauce. And let us not forget the french fries.

And the pancake puppy sundae I had for dessert. I know you're wondering what that is. Deep fried pancake batter rolled in cinnamon and sugar, served with ice cream and hot fudge.

And after I'd eaten my own, I finished off Heather's.

Because friends don't let friends waste dessert.

Did I later regret my excess? Well, regret is such a harsh word. But I will say I could feel my blood pumping much more slowly through my arteries.

Which is why I was exercising vicariously through Buffy.

Because my body is a temple.

By the way. Winston's birthday is tomorrow. Please plan accordingly. He's registered at PetSmart, PetCo and Amazon.