Cold - I scoff in your general direction

I'm sick.  Seriously.  I have been running my mouth since the fall about everyone getting their Vitamin D3 groove on - preachin' to the universe about this - and I was diligent.  In my dosage - 2,000 IU daily.  Never missed a day.  Feel a little puny?  Take 4,000 IU.  And then....last week....I slipped.  I don't know why.  It was a bad week - as you recall, Aunt Flo made an unexpected visit and totally screwed up my life and in the midst of the chaos, I failed to take my daily dosage of germ-be-gone.  And now - A nose cold.  Not a head cold.  Not a chest cold.  Just a cold in my NOSE.  I'm so pissed.  This will NOT beat me.  I will double up on my D3, my Zinc, my C AND my Garlic.  Dammit immune system - kick in and QUICK - I have shit to do.  I just started my new exercise plan with my new Wii Active - I am BUSY and HAVE PLANS.  With my Wii Active.  Which is a perfect segue into the next subject matter - (damn I'm clever!)

Exercise.  So last night I used my Wii Active for the first time.  I ROCKED!  The trainer dude told me so!  I was going to pick the trainer lady, but I knew her voice would grate on my last raggedy-ass nerve, so I went with the dude.  I made it through the entire 22 minute work out without requiring CPR.  The helpful calorie burner thingie told me I had burned 82 calories!  So I ate a chocolate bar as a reward.  Okay - maybe it wasn't a chocolate bar - it was a bowl of chocolate cheerios - which-by-the-way are AWESOME!!!  BEST.INVENTION.EVER.  Then I went to bed.  Yes.  Immediately after I ate the cheerios.  WHAT?  I burned 82 calories - I was just replenishing my supply.  Get off my ass. 

Anyway - there I was - layin in bed - sleepin - all snoring and in a great sleep groove, when all of a sudden - DING!  The bell went off.  You know the one - the one in your head that goes off in the middle of the night for no fucking reason.  What?  Yes.  You do TOO have one - do NOT try to make me out to be the crazy one here - we all have them - the bells in our head.  Whatever.  Anyway- it went off - so I woke up and looked at the clock - 1:30 a.m.  What.The.Fuck.  And then the voices started in on me.  "Get up and EXERCISE."  At 1:30 a.m.?  "YES!"  Seriously?  Get up, right now and exercise?  I exercised a few hours ago, can't I sleep?  "NO" - so I obeyed the voices and got up.  But instead of going to exercise, I went to the bathroom, hoping they would tire and leave me alone.  The voices are not brilliant - and they confuse easily - they likely meant to tell me to get up and pee but the words came out wrong. 

When I returned to bed, the voices had quieted down some, but they were now chanting, "Can't WAIT to get up and exercise - exercise when you get up at 5:30!  Do the math sister, if you get up at 5:30, start the car and start exercising, you can still get to that cheer practice by 6 a.m. - DO IT!!"  So I tried the math - but I was too tired to solve the equation  - Shut.The.Fuck.Up voices.  I'm going to sleep. 

When the alarm went off at 5:20 a.m. and I started to roll out of bed, the voices told me to STAY in bed.  Jesus.  It's no wonder I'm forever walking around dazed and confused - the voices cannot make up their minds.  Maybe they're on opposing teams?  Anyway - fast forward through the remainder of the totally uneventful morning at work, and at noon - I raced home and used my Wii Active.  Yes.  I did.  It's a 30 day challenge - on the game - and that's like a double dog dare and I will NOT be beat by a damned animated game.  So I kicked its ass at noon.  Then, after sitting in a very long bored board meeting, I raced home, shoved kleenex up my nose and used my Wii Active AGAIN.  And I will do it again tomorrow - and the next day.  And listen up BACK FAT - you *will* be gone by summer. 

Oh and also, I need to go purchase a sports bra - I bruised the top of my foot yesterday running in place.

Monday Musings

I hate winter. I hate snow even more than I hate winter. I also hate Monday. I think I hate Monday more than anything in the world. It brings out the idiocy in everyone.

5:30 a.m. – alarm goes off for the first taxi run of the day – 6 a.m. cheer practice for Daughter #1. This is the last week, thank God, of this torturous hour for practice. The final performance is Friday night and I think all of us are looking forward to that with great anticipation. I pull into parking lot at 5:58 only to find it a sheet of ice. The morons didn’t plow it until late at night so it never melted off. Then the cheer coach didn’t show up to unlock the gym doors until 6:07. Never mind the 30 sets of parents that are just sitting there waiting for your arrival – show up whenever the fuck you’d like and is convenient to you. We don’t have anywhere else to be.

7:20 a.m. – leave house for drive into work. Roads are in pretty good condition and I’m pleasantly surprised. As I cross a fairly long bridge over a river, I do slow it down some as the roadway looks wet – or is it icy? I can’t tell so I take ‘er down to 60 mph. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw an androgyne barreling up my ass – driving half in the lane and half on the shoulder as if it thought it could overtake me on the right shoulder, right there on the bridge. What.the.fuck? Seriously? You are NOT hitched to my bumper getting a free ride – hell NO. So I took ‘er down to 45 mph just to really get ol’ Pat going. As we merged onto the next highway, I watched ol’ Pat, gettin’ a free ride off my draft – and then, the moment it had a chance, it raced up even closer to my bumper and jerked into the left lane to pass me right before nearly clipping my rear-end. It glared at me as it passed me, I glared back. And also, because I’m very classy, I flipped it off and yelled Fuck.You.Pat. I thought about following Pat on into its office to see what ever-so-important job it had that it had to cause it to ride my ass all the way to work, but decided I was already mad enough that there was no reason to give myself a stroke on Monday morning and that there was a good chance I would kick its ass when I saw it.

7:45 a.m. – pull into the parking lot of Company X. They’ve cleared the lot AND the entrance. I am, again, pleasantly surprised. But as I assess the lot for a space to park – I notice there is NO WAY for me to get out of the lot and onto the sidewalk without first stepping into a 3’ bank of snow as that’s how they’ve pushed the snow off the lot - onto the sidewalks. But wait – oh good! They did think ahead and they did clear a single shovel-wide path from the lot to the building and it DOES connect to the lot without having to get knee deep into it. So I get out of my car, donning my new ballet slipperish shoes – only to discover SOMEONE has parked their damned car in front of the ONLY path to the sidewalk. I walk around the back of the car, hoping I'd be able to access the path from that angle – nope. Not gonna happen. So alas, the only choice I had was to step into the depths of Antarctica to get to the walk. My new shoes were filled with snow and I stomped all the way into the building, plotting the blockers death, formulating my tellin-him-off speech all the way in. But because I do not like confrontation and because the blocker was the boss, and because I am very mature and professional, I just slammed my office door and sat with my shoes off in my wet stocking feet for the first 2 hours of the day – pouting. And loathing the day even more.

8:00 a.m. – Phone call from Prodigal Son. Not feeling all that good, downright shitty as a matter of fact, could I call him out for a few hours and also don’t forget to make that appointment to get him tested for ADD. Screw your suspected ADD. Yes, I'll call this morning.  Get your ass out of bed and quit living on a world built of fabrications and excuses AND THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M CALLING YOU OUT OF SCHOOL. I'm sorry you're feeling poorly.  I hung up the phone and he texted back with more excuses. I made a note to have his cell phone shut off.

Sometime between that time and noon, my husband came by with a shovel and cleared me a path to my car because HE is a REAL man and takes care of me. But after I returned back to Company X from lunch – some other dumb fuck had taken my spot AND completely blocked the path. Not to mention, the lack of available spots is always pretty slim pickins at this time of day due to the AA meeting that is held in our building over lunch hour. I love returning from lunch to see them all standing outside with their kegs o’ coffee, chain smoking. I thought they were supposed to be more clandestine than that?

The rest of the day went off without much drama, real or perceived and I was thankful it was the downhill slope of Monday.  And when I got home from work, I even used my new Wii Active!  Daughter #1 observed and Daughter #2 nagged coached and participated.  I didn't even fall off the Wii balance board!  So I'm looking forward to a lovely day tomorrow - complete with a bored board meeting.

Speechless

What the hell is this?

Top 10 News Articles of the Week

I hate the news. I think it's reported in a politically biased manner and twisted into whatever fucked up reality the authoring party lives in. But at the same time, I am intrigued by it. Because I know the article is going to be fucked up and one-sided, I typically just peruse the headlines and create my own article in my head to fill in the blanks. In case you haven't followed the news much this week, I'm here to help! Below are my top 10 news stories of the week, along with my editorial comments.

10. Virus carrying salmon will not sicken humans, FDA says. Seriously? You don't honestly still believe the FuckingDumbAsses do you? This is the same group of morons who continually recall pharmaceuticals they once approved due to fucked up side effects they missed in their lab rat testing process. I mean seriously? How the fuck do you miss the fact that the drug stops the heart from beating? Do not eat the salmon people - trust ME - it's NOT safe.

9. Conan O'Brien grows a beard. Who gives a shit? If it wasn't bad enough that this sophomoric dipshit threw a level 15 tantrum all across every media source there is over losing his job, now his facial hair is news?

8. Iowa teen has country's fastest thumbs. People. PEOPLE! PEOPLE! Wake.the.fuck.up. Why are we, as a nation, fostering this obsession with texting in our youth? This is OUR future. How the hell are these kids supposed to get jobs, move out and support us in our golden years if the only fucking skill they possess is texting? Is there a big job market for this? And how the hell will they change our Depends if their fucking thumbs are all deformed from arthritis caused by texting?

7. Dude flies plane into IRS building, friends didn't see it coming. REALLY? You mean he didn't fucking alert his friends to his rage and plan to fucking fly a plane into a government building? What.the.fuck. Weird shit. I would have thought he would have made his plot known to all.

6. America is no closer to knowing if Bin Laden is dead or alive. WHY? What the fuck are all those CIA agents doing all day? Why the hell is this shit so hard to figure out? We're spending how many millions of dollars a second to hunt this fucker down and kill him and it just now comes up that we don't even know if he's dead or alive? Pretty.fucking.important part of the plan dipshits.

5. Toyota. Look. I have one of these re-called cars. Just fucking get them fixed. Seriously. I'm sick and damned tired of other drivers on the road looking scared shitless everytime they see me approaching - not sure whether I'll be able to stop or not. Although I do get a thrill out of passing them on the highway with my hands in the air and having that scared out of my fucking mind look on my face. It's pretty funny to watch actually. But seriously - stop interrogating them and let them get focus on the problem at hand.

4. What's on athletes iPods? Why is this news? Did anyone really read this article? Because they thought they could also become an Olympian by listening to the same music? I don't see the relevance of any part of this article to any aspect of my life.

3. Tiger Woods breaks silence. So? I don't give a shit. I really don't. I don't care if he screwed every blonde in America. He is a GOLFER. Not a freakin' religious icon. Clinton didn't have sexual relations with what's her nuts and that got less media coverage than Tiger Woods banging a bunch of groupies. Clarence left a pubic hair on a soda can and I heard less about it. I'm over Tiger Woods and you should be too.

2. Obese woman gives birth in Romania. She weighed 528 pounds. Look people - I scanned through this article - first to see how much she weighed. Second to get a glimpse of her fat ass so I would be inclined to put down my own fork. And third so I could find out how the hell she got pregnant to begin with. THAT is the news people. THAT is the part EVERYONE wants to know. How in the hell did she end up pregnant? But alas, there was no mention of the root of this phenomenon in the article.

1. And my favorite of the week. Obama visits the Dalai Lama and pisses off the Chinese. What.the.fuck. Who gets pissed at a Dalai Lama? He's an old fart in a dress and flip flops. Seriously? Get the fuck over it. And also, because I am not afraid of Dalais or Lamas, I have my own to prove it:
Okay. So maybe the Chinese ARE on to something here - it is pretty fucking scary.

Shhhhh

If you're a man, or if you have no interest in reading about my fucked up menstrual cycle, I suggest you stop reading this post right now and move on to something more important and interesting in your life. I mean, who posts shit about their monthly visit from Aunt Flo anyway, right? I do. And you would too if you'd thought of it before me. I mean, if this biological wonder wasn't already insulting enough, turns out that when you hit somewhere in your 40's - the whole damned thing evolves into some fucked up mind game involving trickery and mystery.

I used to be able to clearly assess and recognize all the warning signs of her monthly visit. She'd send me little notes in advance, like hints along a great scavenger hunt - chocolate, large zit the size of Maine in middle of forehead, bitchy attitude - CHECK! I got them all! And sure enough - at the end of the scavenger hunt after successfully gathering all the items on her list, she would arrive just as planned. But not anymore. Now she's lost her fucking mind - senility has set in and she can't seem to get the shit in the right order or on the right days and I'm forever just wandering around aimlessly wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

Last time she visited, which was NOT a month ago - now she likes to just arrive whenever the fuck she feels like it - with no rhyme or reason between visits - the only warning sign she sent was sore, throbbing boobs. Nothing like sagging, tennis balls in tube socks boobs. Throbbing. Because evidently, I did want to spend three days being fully aware of their ever-dangling presence on my chest. And also, because she wasn't scheduled to visit, I was certain I was pregnant. So for three days, I plotted my husband's death. I would fucking kill him. Dead. If I was pregnant. I'm too damned old and too damned tired to raise another kid. I don't have it in me. The oldest has already sucked the life out of me and there's barely a shard left for the remaining two. There is no way in hell I could muster up an iota of energy to raise a fourth. I loathed him for those three days. When he spoke, I glared at him - wishing death upon him. I resented everything about him and everything he stood for. That selfish fuck. Then Aunt Flo showed up and saved his life. He's damned lucky this time, that's all I have to say.

I swear that was only two weeks ago. Monday I woke up paralyzed. I looked at both my work and home calendars. Full. And yet, I could not move. I could only lay in bed and be pissed. Pissed that I had so much shit to do. Was it all necessary? No. Most of it was total bullshit. The 5:45 a.m. cheer practice runs, the 3 hour meetings, the *bleh* chili feed - What.The.Fuck. Was everyone against me? Clearly they were. They - you know who THEY are - were out to get ME. And, THEY were all being VERY loud. I could hear them - screaming in my head. Nonstop with the excruciatingly painful screaming. I could hear the mice whispering in the garage. I could hear the kids eating marshmallows from two floors down. I could hear the neighbor drop a pin on her floor. I tried to watch TV, but alas, even on volume control 1, it was too damned loud. WHY.THE.FUCK is everyone SCREAMING AND BEING SO LOUD? I screamed at the husband, "Why the hell are you eating grape nuts for dinner? Are you some type of sadist? You KNOW my hearing is on overload for some fucked up reason." He said it was not grape nuts but instead macaroni and cheese. What-the-fuck-ever. I have no humanly possible explanation for why that macaroni and cheese was so fucking loud and crunchy but it was.

One by one, I started selectively opting out of the shit on my calendar. Chili Feed? HELL NO. I'd fucking kill one of those booster club parents if they so much as looked at me crosswise. I'd had enough of their shit and I was drawing the line with them this week. Staff meeting? Lasted 15 minutes instead of 2 hours. Good enough. We met. I had nothing to say. They had nothing to say. Perfect. Meeting adjourned. The week just moved on in a lurching manner. The maid didn't show up, the laundress didn't make an appearance and the cook didn't do her job either. So we lived on whatever the hell we could find - pre-prepared foods full of carbs and sugar and shit I can't pronounce. I was going to make dinner, but the thought of the mess almost sent me into a nervous breakdown. I was going to eat an orange, but the bag of chocolate chips sounded better. Hell, it was all I could do to call the pizza place and order up a large one of everything. AND QUIT YELLING - THERE'S NO NEED TO SCREAM AT ME WHEN TELLING ME MY SHIT WILL BE DELIVERED IN 30 MINUTES. Fuckers.

And then.... she arrived. Aunt Flo. AGAIN, for the second time in less than a month. And I was all, "Wow! This is new to me! It's like you've never been here before. Who knew?" Perhaps one day I will catch on. Also in the meantime, can everyone please just sit, in one place, and shut.the.fuck.up.

I'll get to it DAMMIT!

I had to have this. I DID! Because having it would change my life. IF I had it, I would instantly become re-energized to get off my chewed up bubble gum ass and exercise, which would inherently result in me not puking my intestines out of my mouth every time I pass by the mirror naked. It might also boost my confidence when wearing a swimming suit this summer.

See, every year I think it would be a GREAT idea to spend the cold winter months exercising, so at the first sign of spring I can safely wear short sleeves without someone mistaking my arms for a mis-shapen golf ball. But I rarely do it. Last year, I bought the Wii Fit after a long driving trip in which rigor mortis had set in. I used it daily. I did. The first time I used it, I was able to run in place for 3 minutes before collapsing. I zipped home daily at lunch and quickly changed into my newly purchased workout clothes (duh! I couldn't go around the empty house looking like a fashion disaster) and ran in place. Eventually, I was able to run for 30 minutes without stopping and I was running fast! I was good at it. I started threatening to run little marathons - you know - a 5K - "I can do that! Because I can run in place for 30 minutes!"

The non-believers pointed out that running in place, in the house, on the carpet, was NOT the same as running outside on natural terrain. Ta hell with all y'all! I can and I will do it. Then, it got hot. Too hot to run in the house over lunch and still get back to work looking and smelling presentable. I could have ran outside, but I was scared. What if there was a mugger? Or a coyote? A headless horseman? Vampire bats? I mean, these are REAL concerns. Then one day, as I was driving down the road, I saw a man running, he tripped, he fell on the gravel shoulder, he landed on his shoulder and fell into a ravine. WTF? Jesus. I hoped he was okay. I KNEW running outside was NOT SAFE. This is why I could not do it.

So therein ended my running career. The other day, I mentioned to the husband, well I didn't mention it - I texted him in a state of panic and emergency - "I need a treadmill - NOW! And if I had one RIGHT NOW, I would walk on it EVERY morning and EVERY night." He texted back, some nonsensical horse shit about how they cost a lot of money, and he'd have better luck finding a used one during garage sale season - which is NOT right now in our part of the country. I pleaded with him, "I won't want it then - I want it NOW DAMMIT - NOW!" He said he'd see what he could come up with. Then he asked me why, when he wanted a piece of exercise equipment, I told him it was a stupid waste of money, but when I want one, we have to have it NOW. I had to point out the obvious to him again - "The exercise equipment you want IS stupid, things I want are not."

Duh.

Well, a few weeks have passed and I still haven't seen that treadmill. But I did get a huge bruise on the back of my knee from my ass slapping on it was I walked through the buffet line the other day. And it finally occurred to me that my stomach looks like an elephant's ass - I hadn't been able to quite put my finger on what it reminded me of - but that's it. An elephant's ass. So I decided that I needed the Wii Active - you know - something NEW - something fresh. Something to get me going again. So, with a gift card the husband and I had received for Christmas, I bought it. He was with me at the time and gasped when the register displayed the total. "Never fear sweetie - I bought this with our gift card!" He was thrilled.

So, we got it home and the 7 year old tore it out of the box, and started to put it all in order so she could play it. I promptly went to my bed. She asked if I was going to play it with her - "Nope - it's naptime - see - 3:30 - naptime!" And off I went for naptime. Well, evidently, once she realized it was not just a game, but more of an exercise aide, she lost interest. So there it sits, strung out, unloved.

I was going to get up and use it this morning, but I couldn't. I had to drive Daughter #1 to school at 5:45 which requires I sit on my chewed up bubble gum ass, drink coffee and consider how shitty I feel for 15 minutes before I make the drive. I couldn't do it after I got home from driving her. I had to get ready for work. Then I had to retrieve her at 7:30 and then I had to drive to work. The people at the school had been late - 5 minutes on each end - I loathed them - had it not been for them - I could have used my Wii Active this morning.

I came home at lunch, but alas, I could not use the Wii Active. The daughters were home from school and watching something very important on MTV. And besides, after I ate that box of mac-n-cheese, I wasn't really feeling like doing a sit up anyway.

I couldn't use the Wii Active tonight - I was cold. It's too cold to exercise. Too cold to get off this couch, put down this laptop which is better than having a cat on your lap, too cold to do a damned thing but sit here and salivate over the thought of a chocolate cookie.

I'm going to use that thing though - I AM. AND it's going to change my life. It won't be tomorrow though - I have driving duty at 5:45 a.m., a work meeting over lunch, a dinner meeting in the evening and then it will be my bedtime. Likely not the next day either - I'll probably be tired and I think I'm busy that day. I'll do it Friday. I WILL - as soon as I figure out how to hold my whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other AND that stretchy thing that looks like laffy taffy all at the same time.

Lilacs in Bloom

I have a hankerin' for some fresh lilacs. I think it started up about the time that it would have been my Grandma's birthday a couple of weeks ago. See, she and my Grandpa had a row of lilac bushes a mile long and a mile high in their yard. There must have been 8 kajillion lilac blossoms every year. Most of them were purple, although I do remember a couple of white bushes mixed in here and there.

I loved to go there, to my Grandma's house, anyway. But when the lilacs were in bloom, it was extra special. The smell of them wafted through the spring air and made my nose tingle with delight. I was the baby of the family for a good long time. My cousins were older, and all lived within close proximity of each other and were all friends and pals. I was the little fart, who showed up periodically from out of town, awkwardly trying to fit into this group of older kids, but always feeling very much like the outcast for some reason. My Grandma had a soft spot for me and likely sensed I was feeling left out, so she would always let me take a pair of scissors out to the yard and cut as many lilacs as I wanted. I would cut them for hours - piling them up in the yard much like one might do when raking leaves in the fall. HUGE piles of lilacs. Then, I would scoop them up in my arms and walk, unable to see over my treasure, to the house. Grandma would always greet with me delight! Look at all the lilacs the bleach blonde got!!! I think my Grandpa would respond with a grunt from his chair. He wasn't nearly as smitten with me as she was. That's okay - we all have our "thing". Anyway - she would set out to grab ALL the vases in the house. She had quite a few actually.

By the front door were these two curio cabinet, shelvy thingies, that were filled with all kind of vases and funny little knick knacks. My Grandma called them "old crap" - I thought they were amazing and beautiful. I especially liked this one little planter that was a leprechaun shoe or something like that. I wonder where that went? Thinking it was old crap, she likely threw it away after my Grandpa died and she sold the house. She did that with a lot of stuff. Or maybe I had it and sold it on eBay (that's a different story that I'll get to eventually). Anyway, she would round up all the vases in the house (like I already said) and we would set out to put that gihugic heap of lilac cuttings into water. The entire house would be filled with lilacs. The dining room table, the family room - every horizontal surface filled with lilacs in vases. The entire house would smell of lilac. And, she lived in a HUGE house. It could hold dozens and dozens of people very comfortably. That's how I saw it when I was little.

Years after she moved out of that house, and had passed into her eternal life, I went back - to see the house - and I was baffled at its tininess. How in the hell did all of those lilacs ever fit into that house, let alone the people and the fried chicken and the gravy? It didn't seem possible to me. Surely the new owners must have torn down part of the house.

But as I stood there, in the drive, wondering why the house had shrunk over the years, and feeling very sad for the house that once warmed all of our hearts and souls, and wondering if I'd merely imagined the house to be larger, and friendlier, and more beautiful, I again smelled the lilacs in bloom and my heart sang with joy.

My yard has two lilac bushes. They are small. They are pathetic. And they often times never bloom due to a late freeze or something that stifles their immature beauty. But I watch them every year - with great anticipation that THIS will be the year they bloom - into magnificent mile-high super blossom producing bushes that will bring joy and happiness and elation to our family and home like the magic ones my Grandma had. And when they don't, I only feel sadness for a moment, because I am immediately returned to my memories, of my Grandmother I love so dearly and those magnificent lilacs in all of their glory and for those memories - I am forever blessed and fulfilled.

(Editor's Note- GLADE Lilac scented air freshener does NOT make a good substitute- I'm just lettin' you in on that little secret now before you waste your money)

Hair. An argument.

I have some weird OCD regarding hair. It's true. I do. I'm not afraid to admit it. It's unfortunate that I come from a long line of cavemen, because this strange aversion to hair coupled with my unnaturally hairy lineage results in quite a bit of time spent defuzzing.

There are a few must-have personal groomers that EVERYONE - man, woman and child - should have in their possession at all times. I'd like to discuss those and share with you their amazingness and importance - just in case you aren't already in the know.

First off - the MicroTouch Magic Pesonal Hair Trimmer. This is a necessity in every bathroom and yet small enough to keep in your purse, or your glove box. This little gem quickly and painlessly rids your face of unwanted hairs - like the unibrow that appears between caterpillar mowing appointments; unwieldy mustache hairs that seem to appear the morning after your 40th birthday. That feisty peach fuzz on your jawline that grows unseemingly longer with each passing year. Perhaps you've noticed you have porkchop sideburns made of fine, blonde hair - not a problem for MicroTouch! Got a few stray hairs on your big toe? Never fear! This baby takes them right off without threatening to amputate your toe in the process. Sitting in bed and notice the single random, 5" long hair on your foot? MicroTouch to the rescue. This sweet grooming tool will NEVER let you down. NOTE: It's important to keep good batteries in it at all times, because if the battery starts to run down, the actual shaving will be more along the lines of yanking of the hair - which is not so cool.

Second - you'll want a good nose/ear trimmer. Trust me on this one - it's NOT just for men. I know, we all have laughed at those funny old men with fur balls sticking out of their ears, or the ones that you can't tell if they've grown a mustache or if that's their nose hair coming out their nose and forming said mustache. It's funny, right? Sure - unless it's YOU. Seriously - ladies - you too - this is a MUST have. I love the sound it makes when I use it, too. Think: running a hire powered weed wacker and hitting a chain link fence. LOVE IT. Everytime I hear that noise, I think, "GOOD GOD - how many people SAW that hair before I took care of it?" ALWAYS use it before you go to your hair stylist or dentist. You don't want to be the client who becomes the butt of the jokes that day. "You should have seen the nose hairs on my 8:15 - OMG - I thought she had a ferret in her nose!" IF you are surrounded by people shorter than you quite a bit of time - you might also consider this great personal grooming tool. Little kids are NOT nice. They WILL laugh at you on the playground behind your back - trust me. I used to be a little kid, I know.

Nair. Don't leave home without it. Razors alone cannot rid you of all hair that needs to be rid. Some hair is just too fine for a razor to sever. In these cases - you could use the MicroTouch - OR you could just use some Nair. 10 minutes from start to finish and you're hair free in those tough to reach, tough to navigate over places. (think: KNEES) Warning - it smells like ASS. Just like burnt hair. Warn your housemates so they don't think something you ate for dinner is crawling back out to haunt them.

Tweezers. For the love of God ladies (AND MEN) - keep a pair on you at all times. It NEVER fails - NEVER - that goat hair that sporadically grows out of your chin - one day it's not there, the next day you don't see it - weeks go by - you don't see it, you don't feel it - and then - there you are - in your car, full sunlight shining in, and look in your car mirror and WHOA - HOLY SHIT - there it is - 9" long and dark black. You panic - how long has it been there? Why didn't I feel it? Why didn't I see it? Who saw it and thinks I'm a freak now? Then you scramble for tweezers and you have none. So you pull it - and it just curls up into this pubic hair on your chin. This is NOT a good look. I've been known to take a match to them and pray to God I didn't light myself on fire. So please, be safe. Carry tweezers with you. I mean, you never know when you'll be driving down the road, look over at your husband and notice he's got those damned Andy Rooney eyebrows - the ones you specifically told him a million times over to NEVER wear out of the house. But it's too late, you're already running behind, he's got a 12" eyebrow hair sticking straight out. If you don't have your tweezers, you have no choice but to go straight to the bar and ditch his ass when you get to your destination. That typically does not make for a happy evening.

My aunt has one of those 10x (or more) magnifying mirrors - I do not. I'm afraid of them. I think I look like an old hag when I see my reflection in them. But I'm thinking that it's really the only way to be 100% certain there are no random goat hairs on my face before I leave the house. I think I will put that on my Christmas list for next year. I bet I can make myself feel really insecure within a week of receiving one of those. But it's important enough to me - this hair thing - to risk it.

Regarding arm hair: For men - fine. For women - IF you can braid it, IF it is thicker than your husband's, or IF I can see it from across the room - get rid of it. It's gross, unnecessary and completely defeminizing. Shave it off, Nair it off, pluck it out - I don't give a shit what you do with it - just get rid of it. Here's another good test - IF your watch band tends to eat the hair on your arm and cause you pain - it's too much, okay? Just that simple. TOO MUCH. I think both of my grandmother's shaved their arms. I remember thinking that was weird. Not in a bizarre kind of way - but more in a curious way. Why on earth would you shave the hair off your arms? Well, one day I turned 30 and I understood. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't attractive. Not to mention my arms were so damned hot all the time from the 15 pounds of fur on them. Just trust me on this one ladies.

I had a boss once - every time I sat next to him I noticed he had an 8" hair growing straight out of the middle of his forehead. It was strange to me - that he never noticed it. Even more curious to me was the fact that his barber didn't take care of the matter. I mean, good barbers will clean men up and make sure they don't run around looking like their heads are overstuffed with hair to the point it's coming out all orifices. But not his. His barber would leave that one, lone, long hair - sticking straight out of his forehead. Over time, and getting to know him better and realizing what a kooky condescending ass he was, I decided that the barber left it there intentionally to make a mockery of the man. THAT made the random hair on his forehead acceptable to me because I was amused by it. Me and that barber - we shared a common thought, even though we'd never met. I liked that barber. He came to be one of my favorite people. I only wished I'd asked his name so I could call him and share some stories with him over a beer.

Anyway - THAT is another story for another time. The point here is this: PEOPLE!!! Seriously - I get that we MAY be descendants from cavemen or apes (I'm NOT saying that's the stance I take on the subject matter - so don't get all wound up) - we've evolved - as a human race - over time - into having a better grasp on what looks good and what looks bad - we're not forging across the country in covered wagons anymore, we're not living in stick houses. We're a civilized nation. GET OFF YOUR DAMNED CELL PHONES ON YOUR WAY TO WORK AND GET TO TRIMMING YOUR NOSE HAIRS INSTEAD!!!

Crazy Mothers

This thing, the over-zealous, one-upper attitude of parents starts at a VERY young age. And it's gotten worse over the years I've noticed.

If you're a follower, you've already heard the saga of the Snowball formal. Well, this competitive attitude is also running rampant amongst the parents of Daughter #2 - who is only 7. I don't understand it, and I'm starting to question why I entertain it.

Daughter #2 got an invitation to play on a basketball team. She was VERY excited, although she'd never played - but she knew what a basketball looks like and had a general idea of how to dribble it and understood that the ball goes through the hoop. How, she did not know - but she knew that was the ultimate goal. So me, naive as I am, signs her up for the team. As i read the information sheet, which included NOTHING about game days, times or practice commitment, I noticed the entry fee was $75. WTF? $75 for a 7 year old to play basketball? It seemed a little high to me, but I'm also the one cussing the price of groceries in my outloud voice as I meander the aisles and people look at me like I've flown the coop of the nuthouse. So I paid it. And Daughter #2 was delighted - FINALLY, after spending countless hours, days, weeks, months watching her older siblings play some type of sport, it was HER turn in the spotlight. She, was also naive (takes after me a lot) in thinking there was a snowball's chance in hell that her older siblings would actually attend her games to watch her. Like her, (again, two peas in a pod) she thinks it's rude they don't show up to cheer her on.

Anyway - turns out said team practices EVERY Sunday at 4:30 p.m. Ummm, is this not about Sunday dinner time? I mean, IF a family were to sit down together on a Sunday to enjoy a more elaborately prepared meal than other days of the week, wouldn't one have to be cooking said meal at about that time to avoid eating at midnight? Not to mention, Sunday is a day of rest and worship. It's NOT a day to have to run one more kid to one more perceivedtobenecessary function.

So, I boycotted the whole practice thing. Shit. They're 7, how much practice could they need? They go to the game, throw the ball around, shoot for the opposing team's hoop, you laugh, they cheer, it's a game - it's fun, right? Well let me tell you, that all changed after the FIRST game. As they took the court, it became quite obvious who's kid had NOT been to any practices. She blocked her own man, she stole the ball from her own man, she looked awkward and lost on the court. I was embarrassed. Not because she wasn't good, but because we had not been taking her to practice. I felt inferior - I knew the other parents were thinking, "SEE! You should bring her to practice - she sucks and she's bringing our team down." I heard them. I did.

I sat quietly during that game, afraid to cheer her on or call her name - someone might figure out WE are the guilty parents who don't have enough umph or give-a-shit to take our kid to practice. Somehow they all knew who we were though - "It's fine - she'll get it!" They encouraged us. How the hell did they know she belonged to us? Daughter #2, being 14 and smarter than us, suggested they figured us out because they'd never seen us at practice before either. DOH!!! They lost that first game. By A LOT. I think they might have stopped keeping score at one point, even.

We committed to take her to practice weekly from thence forward - for HER sake - so she wouldn't seem so awkward and unsure of herself on the court - you know - an esteem building exercise. Well, WE committed, but the husband does the taking to the practice - I'm at home cooking that Sunday dinner I mentioned earlier. The next game rolled around and we lost again. The next game rolled around and I sat in the front row - and something happened during that game. Something happened to ME. I became one of them. I think it was because I wasn't sitting directly behind someone so I felt safe to yell - I'm not sure though. But I yelled from my seat, "GET THAT BALL - YOU DON'T BACK DOWN WHEN THEY GRAB IT - YOU GO AFTER IT AND YOU FIGHT." Huh? Did I just tell my darling little angel to fight? You're damn straight I did. And she followed my orders. She got in there and she fought. Nevermind the fact that the team of 7 year olds were playing a team of 12 year olds and they didn't stand a chance in hell of winning - I mean how could they? The other girls' arms were placed on at about our girls heads. They didn't even have to TRY to intercept (is that what you call it in basketball) the passes - they could just stand there and the ball came to them. But I kept yelling and barking orders from the bench - GET IN THERE - IT'S ONLY GOING TO HURT FOR A MINUTE - GET THAT BALL. And she kept doing it. They lost that game 327 to 0, but I was proud - our girls, my girl had been scrappy and aggressive. All the things I am not.

I haven't sat in the front row since then. Namely because I do NOT want to be one of them. The parent that coaches from the bleachers. Like the one of the other mothers, that continually shouts her daughter's name followed by instruction. And everytime the mother shouts the little girl's name - the little girl stops, dead in her tracks, and looks to her mother and lo and behold, the ball gets stolen from her. The mother doesn't seem to notice the pattern here, but I have and I refuse to be like her. So I sit, safely behind another parent, where I would be too embarrassed or humiliated if I yelled in their ear the entire game. It's better for all of us that way.

Last night, the game for the 7 year old team was at 8:00 p.m. WTF? Who plans this shit? I mean, 8:00 is damned near bed-time at our house. Well it IS my bedtime. I had to take a nap after dinner to make sure I could stay awake to even go to the game. THIS, my friends, it over-zealous parenting. There is no good damned reason games for kids that age should be held that late at night. NONE.

I made a note to myself early on with this team - next year join Optimist ball - where it's recreational, practices are optional, games are at reasonable times on Saturday mornings and the players don't even know where the hoop is. That's more my speed.

#2 sign of over-parenting, one uppityness this week for Daughter #2's age: Valentine's Day party at school. The teacher sent a list of the students' names. I appreciated this. I don't know who they are, it's a new school and half of them have imaginary names that I've never heard of. So the list was helpful. On the list there was a note from the teacher: "We will be making Valentine sacks in class for the children to use for their Valentine exchange. " It's GENIUS!!! What a concept! Incorporating a school planned, sponsored activity into your lesson plans. It was a sign of true collaboration amongst the various teachers who handle the curriculum. The ART teacher was actually IN TUNE with the fact the CLASSROOM teacher needed Valentine sacks. I like this new school. They have their shit together, I thought.

As I read down through the note - I saw some small print at the very bottom. I dug out my bifocals and held the note at arm's length so I could make it out. Finally after much struggling, I got 'er read: "In the past, some parents have asked if their student may bring a decorated Valentine box from home. If that is your preference, then that is fine, but we will be making sacks in class."

WHAT THE HELL? What kind of parent (again - I attribute this shit to the mothers more than the fathers) - honestly WANTS to spend the time and money making a Valentine card box unnecessarily? Who the hell wants to vacuum up glitter and sequence for the next 6 months? Who wants to scrape glue off their table? It's just one more example of how some parents (mothers) cannot freakin' leave well enough alone. They don't need a damned fancy box that costs $25 to tote around $1.50 worth of Valentines that I'm going to throw in the trash as soon as they go to bed that night. It's not necessary. But by GOD if Sally brings in a box that's all pretty and shiny and sparkly, I can assure you Daughter #2 is going to feel inferior with her stupid handmade sack.

Daughter #2 did ask for a shoe box. I'm setting her straight at an early age though. I've learned my lesson the hard way with the others. I looked her square in the eye and replied, "I don't have a shoe box for you, you do not need a shoe box, you are making a SACK in school which is adequate for your Valentines. Furthermore, only people who feel insecure and ashamed of their overall being will have boxes and YOU are NOT that kind of girl. You are smart, you are kind and you are pretty - you do not need some superficial item like a sparkly box to prove your worth in this world."

She didn't know what all that meant, other than she wasn't getting a box and there would be no decorating or glitter for her.

She left for school this morning, carrying her Valentines in a plastic grocery bag. With a HUGE smile on her face, dressed like a cowgirl - because it was a special day and on special days you dress like a cowgirl. THAT is the way SHE rolls and THAT is the way I'm going to continue to encourage her in this journey called life.

AND - I don't have to vacuum glitter!

Winter Formal? Or Winter Bullshit?

As I mentioned previously, this has been a bad week and I almost had a stroke. For all I know, I did, actually. But I don't have time to mess with going to the hospital or the doctor, or even calling a ask-a-nurse. I'm busy. It's the week leading up to the most important event of Daughter #1's life: Her first high-school formal. No. It's not prom. She's too young to go to prom unless invited by an upper-classman. It's winter formal - Snowball - to be exact.

The preparations have caused me many hours of reflection. She's already attended two formals - in junior high - yes, formals. You know, complete with long formal dresses cut down to there and setting me back several hundred dollars. I don't recall having a long dress or even a formal until my junior year - prom. In my day, schools recognized the financial burden of holding such extravaganzas and limited them to once a year - for upper classmen only. Prom. The day you looked forward to your entire junior high/high school career. A special day. A day on which you dressed like a princess, in a dress your parents couldn't afford but sacrificed to buy you, rode in your parent's car and went out to eat at a fancy place that you otherwise would never go to. A day to pretend you were an adult.

But in today's society, the over-zealous parents rule, and they cannot wait for their daughter to arrive in her junior year so she can go to prom. Instead, these women (and I say that because I find it very hard to believe that ANY father or man is actually behind this new plot) start pushing formal dances in junior high. And not wanting to be the mother that tells her daughter no and scar her for life, I'm forced to go along with the bullshit - like a lost sheep following the herd.

So, back to the preparations for this dance. The FIRST formal of her high school career. (Which in my mind means there will be more and therefore, NOT a big deal, but I'm not 14 and as such, we do not see things in the same light). A new dress was in order. There is no way that either of the other two formals we own would suffice. Those were from junior high. And no, for the Love of God mother, we cannot just trade dresses around - everyone has already seen them. (I'm such a dipshit when I come up with those kinds of ideas). And no, a dress could not be purchased in our home-town - we had to make a special trip - an entire day's trip - to the "big" city to look for this dress. So I got myself mentally prepared for this outing - it would be fun! A day for just the two of us - me and my Daughter #1 - shopping - doing gal stuff - without the prodigal son, Daughter #2 or the husband. Just me and my beautiful daughter who is very quickly maturing into a lovely young woman right before my eyes at a pace that is so rapid, I cannot even calculate it. She asked to bring a friend. My heart sunk. And in all my 40 something, motherly mature way, I responded, "WHAT? What the hell am I supposed to do all day? Just walk behind the two of you looking like a loser while you two laugh and giggle and enjoy the day? I thought it would be just the two of us?"

See, that's how it's done. Make the middle child feel guilty - she doesn't already inherently carry a heavy load on her shoulders anyway. Make the child pity you and your pathetic life without girl friends and world without girl outings and shopping excursions. Let her know just how empty your life really is. Nevermind the fact that I don't live in a world filled with girl outings and shopping excursions because I don't like to do that kind of shit - that's irrelevant - make her feel guilty for her selfishness of wanting to bring a friend. It works. She apologized and replied, "Okay mommy."

So off we went - our big adventure to the "big" city. We put on our biggest sunglasses, hopped in the car and off we went. She listened to her iPod and texted her friends the entire 60 mile drive there. I listened to whatever I could find on the radio through the one remaining un-blown speaker in my new car (what happens when you let your 17 year old drive your car to the store). When we arrived at our destination, I asked her where she'd like to start - she didn't know. So we just started wondering around. I suggested Nordstroms. It's her first formal of her high school career - let's get the dress somewhere special, right? Well, they wanted $350+ for their dresses and frankly, the occasion really wasn't that special so I wasn't willing to meet their prices so we continued along our trek. She must have tried on 10 dresses or more at the first store. None of them were to her satisfaction. The lines to the dressing rooms were miles long - and it took a VERY long time. But the dresses were not "the one". So we moved forward, to the other stores - the SAME stores they have at our home-town mall. The same dresses in every store - or so it seemed to me. She claimed they were different - but they all looked the same to me.

We finally got to Dillards (which is where we entered the mall to begin with) and started trying on dresses. ALL of the dresses. EVERY single dress in the store. And because there were 50 other girls trying on dresses and because they were evidently all the same size, the selection kept changing every 10 minutes as the girls threw the dresses back out to their mothers and they were returned to the racks. Having no chairs for the patient mothers to sit in, I plopped down on the floor outside of her dressing room. It smelled like feet down there. Like a stinky old locker room. 10 dresses in, 10 dresses out. And off I'd go, to grab 10 more. I bet we went through more than 50 dresses. Maybe more.

One of the first dresses she tried was a short number. I thought it was too short and I really didn't think it was becoming on her. I liked the long dress - the navy one - with the amazingly chic cutaways at the back and sides. It looked amazing on her. But she really wanted a short dress - she didn't want to be "over" dressed. 3 hours and a million dresses later, she decided on the first one that I didn't really like. The exact one I specifically said was too short and unbecoming. Having completely lost my will to live at this point and wishing I'd let her bring that friend so the friend could be the one sitting there on the stinky-feet floor while I was off getting my neck rubbed or having makeup applied by one of those Mimi looking gals at the MAC counter, I succumbed. "Perfect! I love it! Let's pay for it and blow this Popsicle stand!"

As we drove to a local restaurant to indulge in some Pad Thai, I was informed that because the dress was ivory, she would need to fake bake, and because the dress was short, she would need to wear her hair down but wanted a braid for a headband and oh - don't forget - I need to get my eyebrows waxed. And oh - is it okay if everyone comes over after the dance? Trying to be one of "those" moms - you know - the cool mom - the one that treats her daughter like a princess, recognizes that these "things" are monumental and necessary when you are 14 - I agree to all.

We stopped at a book store on our way out of town - she wanted a book. And what kind of mother would I be if I did not foster her desire to READ (I so rarely see kids reading anymore that I'm thrilled when one of mine displays a love for a good book). We grabbed some coffee infused confections on our way out and headed home. The drive home was different than the drive there. She didn't listen to her iPod. She didn't text her friends. Instead, she turned off my radio in search of silence, opened her book and read. While I drove her home in complete silence, left with nothing but my thoughts. Thoughts about how I really wasn't one of "those" mothers. Thoughts of wondering - do "those" mothers even exist? Or are "they" just putting on a front to make me feel inferior?

That was two weeks ago. The dance is tomorrow night. And just about every night, either myself or my husband has transported her to and from the tanning salon - dropping her off to fake bake and increasing her risk to skin cancer - in 20 minute intervals. Dropping what we're doing when we get the text that she's done and getting dressed so we can return to the salon to retrieve her. It's driven a wedge between the husband and me. We're no longer irritated with her over the tanning - we're pissed at each other. Tuesday, she had a brow waxing appointment (this really is a necessity for her and I started her on this routine when she was far younger - it had to be done). My husband drove her to that brow waxing appointment, after he'd already taken her to the orthodontist, and right before they went to see "Dear John" together. My husband's a gem - and he seemed to enjoy his girl's day out with her more than I did when I took her shopping for that dress.

On task for today/tonight - cleaning the house, purchasing $300 worth of junk food and decorations - for the after-dance party being held at my house. I'm a glutton for punishment. I'm already irritated at the thought of 10 squealing girls, dressed in formals, returning to my house, plowing through my kitchen, one will get a stomach ache - I can guarantee it. One will cry. I can promise you that. And there will be boys - invited, welcome, or not. They'll show up. Through our back yard, where they will be greeted by my husband - reminding them that the proper way to see our daughter is via our FRONT door - NOT the back yard. The girls will stay up all night, eating and watching scary movies and squealing and my husband and I will not get a wink of sleep. And just as we do finally doze off, the little one will wake up and inform us that the trees are covered in TP and the cars have been wrapped in cellophane. And my husband will put on his clothes, trudge outside and bitch under his breath the entire time he cleans it up.

I will parlay the damage to the interior of my house. Start the clean up process and try to get on with my life while the 10 little angels sleep peacefully on the family room floor. My clanking of dishes and the sound of the vacuum will cause them to stir and sleepy eyed and hungover from fun, they will ask, "What's for breakfast?" And I will again start cussing "those" mothers - the ones who initiated this whole multiple formal dances throughout junior high and high school. The ones who just couldn't WAIT for the junior year to introduce this rite to their children. And knowing full well "those" mothers are at their houses making a 12 course breakfast to feed their sleepy brood - I will feel obligated to do the same.

Also, note to self: Get 2nd job, because you have 3 more years of this and 2 of those will include 2 formal dances - so that's like $8 million needed just for school dances. That doesn't even include Homecoming - which also requires a dress - more formal than an every day kind of dress, but not AS formal as Snowball and Prom is more formal than all of them. Seriously? In my day, only Royalty at these events wore super fancy clothing. (except Prom) - but because, as a society, we feel compelled to make all children feel like winners, and because we promote ineptness and encourage it with positive feedback (good job!!! Even though you stood there and got hit with the ball instead of putting your glove out to catch it and you're a complete dipshit- GOOD JOB!!! YOU ARE A WINNER!) - we've now carried this ridiculous attitude over to irrelevant shit like dances. I'm sure somewhere, sometime there was a mother, who having been scarred by not being Snowball Queen, decided that ALL the girls should LOOK like the queen and started this whole fiasco. I wasn't Snowball Queen or Homecoming Queen or any other kind of queen. I didn't have a desire to dress in fancy clothing and be a wanna be. I knew my place in the hierarchy of things back then and I was comfortable with it. I enjoyed it.

So THANK YOU!!! Thank you to you over-zealous, living your lives vicariously through your daughters, SOB mothers. Thank you - for finding a way for our teens to suck the last ounce of remaining life we had left right out of our souls. I really do hope you achieve that "special feeling" of royalty as you watch your young daughters prance around in dresses inappropriate for their age and that all your teen scars are healed from the experience. And as you sit and reminisce on the night before and how beautiful and mature your 14 year old looked the night before and wonderful it was that she, too, would be perceived as royalty - I'll be in bed sucking my thumb.

This was my billfold.

See - I struggle with certain things and always have. Things that are important - you know - like finding the PERFECT billfold. I don't like to spend money on billfolds (or purses) - so I really struggle to spend more than $30 on one. Maybe that's why I can never find the perfect one! By the looks of the above picture - I keep everything in it - it's almost as if I use it AS the purse itself. WTF are the keys doing IN my billfold? Well I'll tell you -

This billfold looked so perfect in the store. It was flat, and slim and had a clasp that looked certain to keep it closed with all the valuable contents locked in safety and not threatening to hop out and take a vacation in my purse. The reality is this: The damned thing wouldn't actually HOLD more than driver's license (necessity) and a few credit cards (more necessities). Not to mention my AAA (NOT AA - AAA) card, insurance card, fiftyumpteen gift cards (hey - people love me - they give me giftcards! - don't judge). AND it had no assigned seats for coins. In my anger and frustration with the worthless piece of crap, I started abusing it - you know - shoving everything I could find or get my hands on into it's little compartments.

Because it would never latch shut - it was always ajar in my purse, and as a result - full of whatever treasure I just launched in its direction and IMPOSSIBLE to retrieve from the depths of hell - so paying for things was becoming purt near a far fetched concept. It was time - I'd gotten in my last fight with that wretched billfold. And so, good bye my friend - you've done just a horrible job of serving me the last 4+ years. You've caused me more angst than I can ever explain in words. And here, after an hour of going through all the little treasures you've gobbled up and kept hidden from me, is the final result:

You will see at the bottom - the new servant I've put in your place. She's RED. Which means I'll be able to see her in my purse. She also has an expandle strap that holds 'er all in. There you are - above your replacement - lookin' all cute like you did the day in the store. But I'm on to you. The rest of the shit around you two is stuff that I don't need anymore - a few gift cards with no balances remaining, some tickets to something, a few bandaids, and what's that blue TICKET there? Likely a raffle ticket to something and VERY valuable.

I couldn't quite say goodbye - as usual - so the billfold and the raffle ticket went into a drawer for safekeeping. Maybe I'll need or want to use it again one day. And maybe that raffle ticket is a winner!

The Red Wine Saga - continued...

As you'll notice, there is about 1 cup of wine less in this picture than there was when I first posted about this nasty ass bottle of red wine that someone left at my house. I did not drink it. I DIDN'T. It tastes horrible and makes me want to heave every time I even smell it. I cooked with it. THAT is how a cup of it left the bottle.

I was perusing recipes on allrecipes.com and wanted to make something besides just sauteed chicken breasts with the typical seasonings and I noticed that this Chicken Marsala recipe had a ton of positive ratings - 5 star ratings to be exact. Like 89 million people had made it and given it a 5 star rating - it MUST be GOOD! I better make it. So I looked up Marsala, read enough to find out it was a red wine and decided I'd just use that shit over the dryer. I got busy dredging my chicken breasts and seasoning them and then I noticed the recipe also called for cooking sherry. Well, I'd already finished that off for breakfast earlier in the day, so I figured I'd just use ALL wine. Good enough.

Well, just for good measure, I texted my brother, who's pretty adept in the way of culinary art and asked him if he knew what a good substitute for Marsala might be. I figured if there's a substitute for buttermilk, there's certainly one for Marsala. He texted back and said, "Red Wine?" DUH! I knew that dumbass. I was getting bored with him at that point, so I just googled it myself. Then I texted back and said, "I'm using Pinot Noir with brandy - TAKE NOTES!" See, I'm older than him so that makes me quite a bit smarter, naturally. THEN, he texts back with some more dribble, something along the lines of if I'm making a dish, I should have the ingredient that is in the NAME of the dish. Then cites an example of mac -n- cheese with no cheese is really just mac. Jesus, he bores me with details - I told him just that, too.

Well, I cooked up my chicken breasts, I added my mushrooms - it smelled wonderful!! Then I added the wine/brandy concoction to the pan. The whole house reeked of rotten grapes and cough syrup. The stench was about more than I could stand. I figured it must taste better than it smelled though - so I took a bite. BLEGH - bitter. I added a palmful of refined sugar. Tasted again - BLEGH - still bitter. Hey! I know! Maple Syrup - that's what it needs!

Seriously? Maple syrup? How many of those whiskeys had I had already? It was only 6:00 - I couldn't have had more than 1, but maple syrup? When is the last time anyone added maple syrup to ANYTHING? But I opened my keg o' Mrs. Butterworth compliments of Sams Club, and gave the ol' gal a good squeeze over the pan and whisked it all around. And tasted it. OMG - this shit was going from bad to worse in no time at all. I better stop while I'm ahead. The recipe said to let it simmer for only 10 minutes - but it still reeked and tasted like that horrid red wine, so I let it go for 20 just for good measure.

I hesitantly dished it up for the girls - I didn't really want to listen to their whining about how awful it was while seated at the table, so I proclaimed it was a special night and they could eat in front of the TV and I would be serving them - they didn't even have to get up! Man were they excited! I didn't call the husband in from the garage either - instead, I plated some up for myself and sat at the table - alone. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Disgusted. And sick to my stomach. All of a sudden, I heard Daughter #1 yell, "MOM! This is REALLY good! Thank you!"

I think she must have been drunk.

Do NOT Put Me in that BOX

So, as I was driving back to the corporate headquarters of Company X after lunch today, I was once AGAIN faced with the problem that the lane which I use to merge off one highway and onto another quickly ENDS upon merge and the car in the much needed lane does NOT get the hell over. It irritates me. I drive this route daily and almost daily I am faced with this situation. So I'm watching my mirrors and have my blinker on and I'm waiting, and driving, and rapidly running out of road when finally I notice the pain in the ass car in my way has slowed down so I can merge over. THANK YOU! Well, I was thinking all kinds of hateful thoughts about this moronic other driver and screaming in my loudest out loud voice and ungraciously thanking him/her for letting me get over in that lane. "THANKS ASS! Appreciate you considering there are other people in the world besides you and letting me over! Much obliged!"

That's when I noticed in my rear view mirror that the pain in the ass was actually a hearse. Cripes. I hope it's not leading a procession or something formal and ritual and such and I've just disrespected the dead. I looked in my mirror again, no, I did not see any caravan or anything of the sorts, so I decided it must just be a lone hearse driving along the highway for whatever reason. Picking up a corpse? Ewww - yuck. I sure as hell would not want to drive one of those things around - no wonder s/he wouldn't let me over - it was making a B line - (is it a B line? or a Bee line? And what does it mean, anyway. I will make a note to google that in a bit) - to its destination. Wouldn't you?

Well that's when it hit me. Just like that! BOOM!!! By God, when I die I do not want to be hauled around in some box in the back of one of those hearse thingies. I want to be driven around in a limo - propped up through the sunroof with one hand extended like I'm Miss America waving in a parade. Now THAT would be FUN! Not to mention funny as hell! Can't y'all see me arriving at my funeral in a limo - sticking out the sun roof, waving? My hair would be all mussed up like I like it and I'd be having my final party. Then that's what got me thinking: Hell! I don't want to lay in that box during the funeral either. Instead, it would be better if I was propped up in a chair, with a smoke in one hand and a drink in the other - just kind of off to the side, but in the front, so I could watch everyone. Kind of like Weekend with Bernie or whatever it's called where they just prop that dead guy up at various parties all weekend and such - funny shit!

So there I'd be - sittin' at my funeral, pretending to smoke and drink - watching all of my mourners. Kind of like a Barbie Doll. Yes! That's it - like a Barbie Doll! Hopefully I'd be one of those expensive Barbie's whose knees bend with a little force, otherwise I'd just be sitting there with my legs extended and that would be rather awkward. I wondered if it would freak people out - seeing me sitting there. Would they be confused and think I was really alive? Then it occurred to me that I wouldn't be talking incessantly and interrupting the speaker so my deadness would be evident.

Anyway - about the time I got to really amusing myself with these thoughts, I was interrupted by my arrival at Company X and had to get back to work. My afternoon was busy so my mind never wandered back to my Barbie Doll funeral until my drive home tonight. I hopped in the car and as I neared that same spot on the road, my mind immediately went back to the bizarre thoughts I'd had at lunch. And just as my mind started down a path of thinking it's funny - the things my mind thinks of without any prodding and wondering if other people thought of funny random shit like I do, I heard a song playing softly in the back of my mind.... Prop me up beside the juke box when I die......

Dammit. I NEVER have a novel idea! NEVER!
So I dropped my thought about my funny funeral and started wondering, "What in the hell ever happened to Joe Diffie anyway? And is that who sang that song? I think he did, I'm not sure anymore. I think I've actually forgotten more than I ever knew......."

Yeh. I know.

So last night, hubby decides he'll read my blog. I provided him the link when I initiated this process so he could read it and confirm I wasn't spending all my time on the innernets having cyber-sex with some alien on the other end of the wire. Anyway, he reads it and after he's done he says, "I've already heard every single one of those stories, word for word."

Um. Okay. Uh, I go to work every day, then I come home. I am here with my family all night. On the weekends, we do things together. We don't have separate friends, we don't have separate social lives. Did you honest to God think this blog would have new and exciting stories you've never heard before? I said the blog was about my life - - you're in my life every day - where would I get a new story that I hadn't shared with you yet or that you didn't live right alongside me?

I'm torn. I'm not sure whether to stop speaking to him altogether - that way when he reads my blog the stories will be new for him. OR should I just move the blog to another location and not tell him? I mean, what if he starts commenting on here that something isn't 100% accurate on my story tellin'? That would be a bad thing. (It's accurate - don't you fret - I've told you everything so far just the way it is in MY mind.)

I guess I'll just leave it here and continue to tell the same ol' boring assed stories he's already heard. I'll likely have to throw in a new one every now and then, just to keep him comin' back for more. I mean, one day I might have something really important to tell him and I would hate for him to skip readin' the blog and never hear the exciting news!!

Hi honey!! I love you! Oh - and BTW (that means by the way, BTW) - I wrote the book on spelling and grammar, so yes, I'm aware of when I don't use it properly. The thing about a blog is that it's like an electronic journal - so it's not terribly polite to correct the author. I'm just sayin' is all.