We Interrupt this Mini-Series to bring you a recent development.....

The husband came home from work the other night - blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  Every 2 seconds.  Blinking.  Blinking.  Blinking.  Y'all know I couldn't let this go on and because I'm such a loving, empathetic  bitch, I had to ask what was up with the incessant blinking:

Me:  Why the FUCK are you blinking so goddamn much? 

Him:  I have something in my eye.

Me:  Well get it out.  It's on my last fucking nerve.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  It's like being on an acid trip in a disco and you're making my vertigo act up, I may pass out.

Him:  I'll be fine. 

Me:  No.  You won't be fine.  You already drive like shit - you can't go around blind and driving  - you're not helping your cause much are you?

Him:  I had on my safety goggles so I don't know why I got something in my eye.

Me:  Because Larry fucking Wilson hates you and put it there.  Jesus.  Who the hell knows WHY it's in there - what the hell does sitting around trying to determine WHY seem  a logical solution to just fixing the fucking problem?  AND STOP FUCKING BLINKING - YOU'RE JUST TEARING THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR EYE AT THIS POINT.  Go to the doctor.

Him:  How much will that cost?

Me:  What the fuck do you care?  You don't pay for it and you don't even understand how the insurance works - just go to the damned doctor because your fucking blindness is going to be more expensive than getting this problem resolved.  I'm going to bed.  You've made me nauseous. 

So the next morning, he gets up and comes out to the garage where I was cheerfully drinking coffee and playing on my iPhone.  BLINKING. 

Me:  You'll need $25 and the insurance card.  Go to the fucking doctor and do NOT come back here until you have. 

So he finally went to the doctor and when he got back he told me he had a scratch on his eye.  That's it.  A scratch on his eye.  But, you see, I had an appointment with that same doctor later that day and that's when I got the REAL story. 

Evidently, he'd almost passed out in her office when she was messing with his eye and also has a terrible infection in his eye.  See.  I knew he was going to go blind with all that fucking blinking.  Thank GOD he has me. 

And while his eye appears to be on the mend, he's now injured his back and his sinuses are "out of control". 

I'm thinking of putting him in traction and having a large swedish woman flush his sinuses with a netti-pot every 1/2 hour.  Maybe THEN he'd quit with his incessant hypochondria and morning complaining about all his fucking ailments.  You're 42.  Not 82.  Try taking care of yourself for once and see if you don't feel better.  Until then - I don't want to hear it unless you need me to call an ambulance.  Or a hearse to just take you straight to the cemetary.

Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series. - Case Study #2

The School Carnival (or... Talking.  Just to hear the sound of your own voice)

Saturday night was the PTO fund raising carnival for the blonde's school.  That event is a blog entry in and of itself as it's quite the production and event and requires a shit ton of money from each family - but I'll try to stay focused on my case study here and not digress into the abyss of bullshit related to the illogical concept of the carnival itself. 

We arrived right as the carnival was getting ready to open because we were working the bounce house for the first hour.  Fortunately, there were not yet many people there, because I don't know the people and I'm pretty certain I don't like the people anyway.  We took our post by the bounce house - ready to do whatever it was we were supposed to do - mark off two punches on the cards, get their shoes off, get them in the bounce house, and time them for 5 minutes, get them out of the bounce house.  Repeat over and over until the end of our hour long gig.  Easy enough.  Got it.  All was going well, and then the people started to arrive, and that was when it started.  The talking.  Just to fucking hear himself talk I think. 

Him:  Hey, there's that one gal.

Me:    Who?

Him:  You know.  That gal, she reminds me of that one chick that played that one gal on that movie.

Me:    Yeh.  I have no idea.

Him:  Oh shoot - I wish I could remember her name. 
(oh - so do I  - believe me - because this conversation is fucking stupid and a waste of my time)

Him:    Hey!  We have that same camera!  Honey - look!  Isn't that the same camera as ours?

(I look at the camera - it's a Panasonic point and shoot jobbie - ours is a Nikon D80 - so they weren't even the same size.  Or shape.  Or style.  As a matter of fact - the ONLY thing they had in common was that they were both..... CAMERAS)

Me:  Not exactly.

Him:  Oh - I thought it was - is ours a Sony?

Me:  It's a Nikon.

Him:  Can you believe how tall Cameron has gotten?

Me:  I haven't seen Cameron, so I don't really know how tall he is.  I don't think I've seen him in like 4 years.

Him:  He's RIGHT THERE! 
(I again look in the general direction of his finger pointing into a sea of 50+ kids - all of whom have their back turned)

Me:  Huh.  I'm sorry - I guess I don't know which one he is. 

This shit went on for the entire hour we worked that bounce house.  I punched tickets, ensured shoes and necklaces were removed and safely placed on the side and out of the way, counted the kids, assembled them into groups by size so the little ones wouldn't get killed, herded them in and out of that fucking bounce house.  He was in charge of the timer.  But so busy gawking and chatting about all the people he THOUGHT he knew, that most times forgot and I was left begging him to check the time.  After the bounce house, we went in search of the blonde and ended up staying another hour (much to my dismay) - where he continued his "there's that one kid's parents" bullshit for the next hour. 

Him:  There's that one kids's parents.

Me:  Yep.

Him:  Why are you so snotty?

Me:  Because you don't have a fucking clue what anyone's name is so the whole night has been an irrelevant conversation that has left me confused and irritated. 

(about that time, some dude walks by, smiles real big and says to me, "HI!!  How are you?"  I responded with a cordial "fine thank you" and smiled back)

Husband:  Who was that?

Me:  I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.

Him:  Well, I don't recognize him.  How do you know him?

Me:  I don't.  I've never seen the fucker in my life.  He said hello.  So I said hello back.  I don't know him.  I don't know who he belongs to.  Chances are..

Him:  Hey!  There's that one neighbor around the corner - you know the one in the taupe house - oh what's their name......

If I EVER have to go to that school carnival again I'm going to take several Xanax.  And tape his fucking mouth shout.

Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series.

Y'all know I love the husband.  I really do.  I adore him.  But he drives me nuts with the fact that he just tries too fucking hard and that results in what appears to be a brain freeze on his part and then his lack of thinking ends up biting him in the ass because it gets on my ever lovin' last damned nerve. 

I'll recount a few case in points over the next few blogs:


Case 1:  Dinner.  An Enigma. (or... the night his head was stuck up his ass)

Him:  What do you want for dinner?

Me:  I don't know - my stomach is still not quite right - so I'm not sure it really matters since I don't know that I'll be able to eat it and survive anyway.

Him:  Do you want to go out to eat?

Me:  Considering I haven't kept a meal down in two days, not really.  I don't think that would be much fun.

Him:  Well, then what do you want?

Me:  I don't know - nothing sounds good.

Him:  You probably have malnutrition. 

Me:  I don't think so.  I think I have a bug of some sort.

Him:  So you're not going to eat anything?

Me:  I don't see that you brought me anything, so I guess not.

Him:  Fine.  Jesus Christ.  I'll go get you something.

a full hour passes and he arrives......

Him:  I hope McDonalds is okay.

Me:  Wow!  That was pretty creative on your part.

Him:  You need to eat - I think you're malnourished.

Me:  I'm not fucking malnourished - I have a bug - I'll be fine.  Why you thought McDonalds on a sick stomach would be a good idea, I'll never know.

Him:  Well, I suck at this dinner thing. 

Me:  Clearly. And now that I've eaten the food you brought me - I'll be in the bathroom.

Him:  Are you fucking kidding me?  If you ate more often, you wouldn't be malnourished and have this fucking problem.

Thank you Dr. Genius for that diagnosis.  I'll be in the bathroom the remainder of the night.  Mainly trying to avoid you. 

What did you DO to yourself?

I didn't DO anything fucker.  I'm sick. 

That's the conversation I had with the husband yesterday as I lay on the couch, near death, for some unknown and still mysterious reason. 

Him:  I just don't know what you did to yourself.

Me:  Why the fuck is this my fault?  Is it possible I just got into something that made me sick?

Him:  That doesn't make sense to me.

Me:  I've been a lot of places this week and around a shit ton of different people - chances are, I've gotten a bug from somewhere and could you please just also SHUT THE FUCK UP?

Brunette:  Maybe you should start exercising again?

Me:  That's probably an accurate statement -but right now I cannot seem to even hold my head up or sit upright - so I will consider that once I'm able to stand on my own again.

Husband:  You're probably dying of malnutrition.

Me:  Probably.  Because malnutrition comes on fast and hard like that - one minute you're standing and the next you're on the ground, unable to move.  I bet you're right - that's EXACTLY what's wrong with me.

Husband:  Do you want me to get you some food?

Me:  NO - My stomach is in knots - I cannot swallow - therefore I do NOT want to eat.

Him:  Well, I still don't understand what you've done to yourself.  But you're ridiculous when you're sick. 

Really?  REALLY?  I'm RIDICULOUS?  When I'm sick - I'm SICK.  I go to bed and stay there.  Unlike his dumbass who refuses to acknowledge sick and just continues to plod around pretending to NOT be sick and ultimately dragging the sick out for longer than need be. 

Fortunately, for the whole lot of them, I'm feeling better today and it appears I may live, afterall.  And just in case I'm dying of malnutrition, I'm force-feeding myself some oatmeal.  Later, I may even choke down some soup.  Because clearly, I've done this to myself. 

Ummmmm.............

What day is it?  I have lost track.  The week has been a whirlwind of endless tasks, projects, deadlines, crises, etc.  STOP.  JUST STOP.  I like my shit to run in order - not be reeling out of control.  And I like to be rested, but instead it's been a week of sleepless days and nights. 

Thinking about Happy and how she is always.... well, HAPPY.  How the hell does she do that?  I know she's tired.  I know she has stress.  I know she has grief.  But yet, every day she wakes up smiling and finding the good in the day.  Where the hell does she find the energy?  I have no clue.  Have I even smiled this week?  Yes.  I believe I did briefly yesterday, at a retirement reception.  But other than that - I can't even remember what I did, who I saw or where I went. 

Oh!  I KNOW!  I took the brunette dress shopping in Lawrence Tuesday after school.  It's Homecoming you know.  She has a date!  I don't like him - his sleeves on his sweatshirt were too short last time I saw them.  He's a king candidate for Homecoming - so there's the whole riff over a junior going with a senior and blah blah blah.  That high school shit wears me out. 
Anyway - we only went to TWO stores!!  And we landed the perfect dress at the second store and it was on sale for under $50!!!  Success!  Then she got herself some 4" heels, so she's been wearing them around the house - - practicing walking.  I hope she doesn't break her ankle.  That would surely suck. 

Still working on the blonde's birthday!  I say get her some pencils and a couple of PSP games and call it good.  The husband wants to get her a go-cart or something else big and fancy.  She'll be 9.  Let's not go crazy.  We'll see what we end up with when it's all said and done.  Thinking tomorrow we'll take her clothes shopping because she wants clothes but has the strangest fashion sense I've ever seen so I don't dare pick them out without her.  And then maybe to the Lego Exhibit before it leaves town on Sunday.  And maybe to my favorite restaurant for lunch!  Oh wait - I mean HER favorite restaurant.  Which will be the same as mine as soon as I tell her that's her favorite. 

Have a fun weekend!!!

I thought we already had this Discussion?

Remember last year, when I suggested to the blonde that I pick her friends?  Well, evidently she's got a learning disability because once again, she's not listening to me with regard to which one of her little imp friends can join in for her birthday fun.  Looking back to last year, I did allow her to invite this one little gal over.  The one I thought would be okay for an evening?  Well... I was wrong.  That child was a complete PITA.  Demanding to be paid attention to all night.  Insisting she hang in the garage with the adults and put on "shows" for us and all other kinds of childish shit we had no interest in.  And bored.  I don't think that girl has been back over since that night because she done wore my ass OUT.

When I asked the blonde this year if she might like to have a friend join in on her birthday fun - she had to think long and hard because evidently I've made no qualms about letting her know exactly how I feel about each of her friends. 

There are the Branch Davidians - negatory.
The little pain in the ass from last year.  NOT.
The little gal that doesn't eat a single fucking thing she is served - including ice cream.  Nope.
The unfortunate looking little child who cries a lot.  No thanks.
The little guy that has to wear a weighted vest to slow him down.  Uh uh.

FUCK.  Blonde.  You SUCK at picking friends.  How about that one little cat who came over two weeks ago.  The one who asked for NOTHING.  The one who ate the food I put in front of him - ALL OF IT.  The one who's dad's phone plays Steppenwolf while I'm connecting to my party?  What about him?  I like him.  I like his dad.  He smokes.  He drinks.  He listens to classic rock.  They seem like a good family - let's invite him.  NO - we are not friends anymore. 

WTF?  Not friends anymore?  How can this be?  Turns out, kids at school were teasing them about being girl friend and boy friend.  So now they are just not even friends.  Fucking third graders. Such a pain in my ass.  It's too late to plan any type of brief party where maybe I would only have to engage wtih these brats for a couple of hours.  So it would appear the blonde will be spending her birthday celebration with me, the husband and our friends.  YAY!  What 9 year old doesn't want to spend her day with a bunch of adults? 

Poor blonde.

Why oh WHY Must History Repeat Itself????

I've never been one to be "in" to exercise.  Physical activity isn't something I long for or make a priority in my life.  Sure, there have been times when I set my mind to being more physically fit  and like anything I set out to do - I do it to the extreme. 

Like the time back in the late 80's where I got all addicted to aerobics.  Maybe it was the cute attire, or the side pony tail, or maybe the leg warmers or the Richard Simmons reeboks.   Or maybe I just really found myself enjoying the way my body was taking shape.  But all I know is what started out as a twice a week stint, turned into a 6 day a week addiction.  I was such an addict that 15 minutes after having a gun held to my head during a bank robbery, I asked the KBI agent how long the inquiry was going to take because I really had an aerobics class to get to.  Got shit to do people - let's move this investigation along.  We're all alive - now let's get going!

Or the time in the late 90's when I joined a gym.  And went every single night and twice on Saturdays.  All so I could wear those pale yellow Rockies - I called them my butter jeans.  Because my ass looked yummy as butter in them.  I even won a best butt contest at the bar.  Of course, I may have been the only person there that night - but I don't really remember that part so we won't focus on that.  After the blonde was born, my ass looked like melted butter in them, so I gave them to Goodwill and determined NO ONE should EVER wear pale yellow, pocketless jeans. 

And then there was the time just about two years ago when I set out to exercise because I felt like shit.  My knees and hips hurt from sitting in a fucking chair 11 hours a day while working.  And it started small - with the Wii Fit.  And then expanded to the Wii Active.  And then I took my gig to the great outdoors and walked.  And walked.  And walked.  And then a pack of wild dogs (no shit) attacked a woman in the vicinity, so I stopped walking outside and got a treadmill.  And I walked on it.  Daily.  Every day pushing myself to go just a little further.  If you can do 20 minutes, you can do 30 minutes and if you haven't died at 30 minutes, you can go 45 and fuck it - just keep going girl - you walk on that treadmill ALL day!  You ROCK!! 

Sometime around Christmas last year, I stopped walking.  I'm trying to remember why, exactly.  I can never recall WHY I stop engaging in good habits.  So this time I'm giving it some good thought.  I recall my tennis shoes needed replaced. And the ones I had were so comfortable, but they stopped selling them - Under Armour Women's running shoes for people with high arches.  L.O.V.E.  Can no longer find them.  Of course.  Just like a favorite lipstick color or mascara - gone without notice.  So I bought a pair of those Reebok tone-ups or something like that.  And those little bastards hurt the balls of my feet so badly that I returned them within a week and bought a pair of Ecco tennis shoes.  Which ALSO hurt my feet.  So I think that was originally the first step toward the end of walking career.  Feet hurt.  Cannot walk. 

And then, as I recall, the Prodigal Son broke the treadmill.  He has a knack for breaking shit.  Always has.  That child could look at something that belongs to me from across the room and fuck it up completely.  Well, I pitched a big ass fit over this broken treadmill and demanded the husband get it fixed RIGHT THIS FUCKING INSTANT BECAUSE I'M USING IT.  And so he found someone to come fix it - RIGHT THAT INSTANT - and I've never been on it since.  I believe that was in early January 2011. 

My legs are feeling weak.  My back is hurting again.  My posture is looking sloppy.  And I have smoked so many fucking cigarettes in the last 3 months that I can't breathe.  So, I'm thinking it's time to start up that heinous habit of walking again but now I'm cussing myself because I know how damned hard the first few weeks are going to be.  Why the hell do I allow this to happen?  Over and over again. 

I've walked out to the end of my driveway a few times recently and gazed up the hill that looms ahead of me if I were to walk outside.  That hill is a bitch.  It kicked my ass when I was in good shape.  I'm not sure I could make it up it right at the moment without stopping for a smoke and a beer about 1/2 way.  But today I am determined.  I'm going to take my fat dog and put his ass on a leash and walk up that hill.  I may not make it up that hill.  And I may only make it as far as the top of the hill and no further.  But it has to be done.  And if I'm moving slow or stopping along the way, I'll just make it look like it's the dog slowing me down and not actually me needing a break. 

And also I'll cuss myself the entire way - this is what you get for indulging in bad habits in excess for so many months.  You like beer?  You like whiskey?  You like to smoke?  And sit on your ass and float in the pool?  Well, this is the payback you get for that you lazy ass, velveeta whore. 

Remembering....

There are some days in your life that you will never forget.  You won't forget where you were.  You won't forget how you felt......those days for me are...

When I got the news that Elvis died.
When President Reagan was shot.
The onset of the first Gulf War.
The outcome of the OJ Simpson trial.
The OK City bombing.
The WACO, TX fiasco.
The death of Princess Diana
The Columbine Shootings
9/11/01
When I got the news Michael Jackson was dead.

Those are the biggies for me.  Let's focus on the one in bold since it's the 10th anniversary of that tragic day.  I had to get up early that day and stop at a customer site  - - - I don't remember why or what they wanted, they've always been a complete PITA though so I'm sure it was to listen to more of their rambling, babbling bullshit.  I knew when I arrived there that the first plane had hit the first tower.  And it must have been a short site visit because by the time I got back into my car to head to the office, they were announcing that there was a 2nd plane that hit the other tower.  And I remember a rush of panic coming over me.  WTF was going on?  I had no clue, but it was frightening.  And I was alone. 

I raced to the office and immediately asked someone to run home and get a TV so we could watch the news unfold.  And we sat, that day, staring at that little tiny black and white TV with huge rabbit ears and aluminum foil hanging off of them to get a better signal.  Dumbstruck.  Completely and utterly dumbstruck. 

I didn't cry.  I didn't know what to feel.  I was numb.  And that night, the husband and I (we had JUST started dating) sat there in front of the TV and watched the coverage for hours - over and over and over - completely confused and speechless. 

It's odd.  I remember the OK City bombings left me sobbing at work.  Yearning to get home to my babies to hug them (well, actually I think I was pregnant with the brunette so I would have only had the Prodigal Son at the time).  Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.  Or the fact I was a young mother.  Something about that event touched me more deeply and personally.  Although I knew none of the victims.  It just "hit-home" a little more.  And yet with 9/11 I was just left C.O.N.F.U.S.E.D.  and now, forever afraid to fly.  I think I've only flown 3 times since that day.  And each time I was petrified.  And one time I was sent to the terrorist suspect line because my ID didn't match the name on my ticket exactly.  I think that was the last time I flew. 

It upsets me to watch the coverage from that day.  The fear.  The panic.  The desparation.  The people in the top floors, hanging out the windows - no chance in hell of surviving.  Their family members watching that coverage - wondering if that was their loved one they saw waving for help that would never arrive.  I watched a documentary last night and one mother said, "Every time I watch the clip of the 2nd plane hitting the 2nd tower, I am watching my son die."  She said it with dry eyes.  I don't know how she did it.  I never want to outlive my children.  But I always think in the back of my head that if by chance I do, that my children do not experience grave fear.  I loathe fear.  And yet I live in a constant state of it.  Maybe I carry all the fear for all of my children so they won't have to experience it?  I'll be afraid.  You go live life. 

I don't really ever talk to my kids about this day.  Maybe I should.  The blonde wasn't born yet.  And I guess a part of me doesn't want her to know because I'm afraid she will be afraid.  She'll know someday.  But for now, I relish her innocence and optimistism.  I don't want to taint that for her.  The older kids would remember that day.  But sadly, it's just another tragedy that occurred during their short life span.  They've grown up in a world where school shootings and violence are the norm.  The country is in a constant state of war.  And they think Tupac and Michael Jackson are still alive and in hiding.  These are their realities.  Such crazy assed shit happens all around them that to have a terrorist attack on our home land doesn't seem extraordinarily confusing to them like it did to me. 

And so I will go into this day....remembering and thanking those that continue to fight for our Freedom and happy to be an American.... and likely jumpy as hell.  And when I want to keep close tabs on all the kids today and know at all times where they are, lest there is cause for me to need to panic, I will be able to quickly locate them....they'll roll their eyes and tell me I'm paranoid.  And I'll happily take that title and carry the fear for them so they can enjoy their day. 

Soul Sisters

So you ever had one of those friends?  You know the ones, the minute you saw them you knew you had to have them in your life?  You took one look at the person and you're all, "OMFG!  DO YOU WANT TO BE BFFs?  CUZ I WILL D.I.E. IF I DO NOT HAVE YOU IN MY LIFE!!!!"

If you don't have one of these friends, I feel sorry for you and highly recommend you go get you one of these friends  - RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!  You will not regret it people.  Trust me! 

Anyways, I got me one of these friends.  Way back in... hell I don't even remember what year it was.  1997 maybe?  Maybe it was early '98.  Whatever.  It was a long fucking time ago and I L.O.V.E me this friend.  There I was all spiffy and professional in my banker uniform looking like I was 75 when I was 30, and this cuter than a button little blonde with red lips came in for an interview.  And then she opened her mouth to speak and WTF are you kidding me?  Jesus!  She has a southern accent?  MUST.BE.HER.FRIEND.  She didn't know a damned thing about banking, but she offered to vacuum the floors or sort my paper clips or whatever the hell she could possibly do because she was lonely and new in town.  That's nice.  And we parted company.  But an hour later, I could not stand the thought of going through life without her in it, so I called her ass back down there for a second interview and hired her on the spot. 

Then I took her with me to my next job.   I went to hell, she went with me to make sure no one kicked my ass or hurt my feelings.  Inseperable.  That's what we were.  Then one day, something happened.  I must have blocked it from my memory because I never can remember the exact cause, but we broke up.  And it was an ugly breakup and we didn't speak for YEARS.  And my heart ACHED for her.  ACHED.  I would cry and cry and cry to the husband and when he'd ask me what was wrong, I'd tell him how much I missed my soul sister and needed her in my life.  I had to have her or I would absolutely DIE.  I could NOT live without her another day of my life.  So... being the brave bitch that I am, I emailed her.  Just reached out to get a feel for how she would respond.  Hopeful I would get a response, but not really expecting to.  But then!!!  To my great surprise, she DID respond!!!!!  I skipped around the kitchen with joy!  Yippeee!!!!  My soul sister misses me too and loves me and she responded!  And after I got done celebrating and congratulating myself on my successful mission, I opened her email to read it.......

SERIOUSLY?  SERIOUSLY?  YOU HAVE A LOT OF FUCKING BALLS REACHING OUT TO ME AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO ME AND HOW YOU TREATED ME AND GO TO HELL BITCH.

Hmmm.  Not really the response I was hoping for.... but hey!  At least it was a response!!!  Score 1 for the home team here!  So I responded back, "Fair enough."   But she hadn't finished chewing my ass completely off so she retorted with some other shit ensuring I had absolutely not one iota of ass when she got done.  And I didn't.  But then she told me she was wearing the fuzzy slippers I gave her eleventy nine hundred years ago so I knew deep down she really did love me and wanted to make amends.  And over time - a very long and careful walk across the burning embers - we were able to come together again.  And the first time the husband saw the two of us together and watched us throughout the evening, he too cried tears of joy and said, "You were right.  You two belong together.  The wife knew it all along." 

And now I've hauled her ass back to work with me.  And she's a hard damned worker.  And smart.  But she doesn't give herself enough credit for the brains she has, so I get push her and help her stretch and grow so she can see in herself what I've ALWAYS seen in her!!  Yesterday, she started herself a blog - she's funny as all get out and makes me smile to hear her talk or read her stories!  I KNOW she will be a great blogger and you'll enjoy her as much as I do.  But SHE'S MINE.  SO DON'T GO STEALING ON MY SOUL SISSER. 

Blessed in every way!  That's what I am!

Benadryl Cures Brain Tumors

There I was, sitting in a ketchy little restaurant, listening to a friend chat, when all of a sudden, I turned my head toward a noise I heard and the next thing I know, my head is reeling, my stomach is churning and everything went blurry.  I quickly turned back to face my friend which was a huge mistake, because as I looked at her, she became very distorted and her words were slow and drawn out and I honestly cannot imagine the look I must have had on my face.  But not wanting to upset her or make an ass of myself, I casually leaned my head over and supported it coyly with one hand.  Little did she know, I was on the verge of passing out.  I had no idea why.  I had no clue why the room was spinning, or why I couldn't hear her or why I was going to pass out.  I just knew I was.  I didn't want to be rude and interrupt her, to forewarn her, yet I didn't want to surprise her with my collapse either.  Panic overwhelmed me and soon my heart was racing and I thought, "Jesus Christ.  I'm having a stroke.  Or a heart attack.  And this is NOT going to end well.  I'm going to be completely embarrassed here at this ketchy little restaurant.  This is EXACTLY why I don't leave the house.  You just never know when you might fucking pass out."  Somehow, through the Grace of God, I was able to pull my shit together and NOT pass out and I never mentioned it to her either.  I just kept praying that I could make it to my car without falling down in the parking lot.  And that I could make it home without passing out and killing myself and others in the process. 

With each turn and twist in the road, it would hit me again.  Dizzy.  Blurry.  Nausea.  GREAT.  I HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN TUMOR.  This is how it's going to end.  A stupid fucking brain tumor.  I always knew I'd have some fucked up ending to this story and this is the ultimate kick in the ass.  And it made me think of the movie Phenomenon.  Where John Travolta gets uber smart and figures out a bunch of shit and so I started thinking about what shit I would figure out with my brain tumor assistant.  And they play that super fun and happy music throughout.  I love that movie.  I think I even have the soundtrack.  And I'm always like, "Hey!!!  Let's watch Phenomenon!!!"  And the husband obliges and we sit down to watch it and I'm all smiling and laughing and HOLY FUCKING SHIT JESUS H. CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK?  HE FUCKING DIES?  OH.MY.GOD.  TURN IT OFF.  TURN IT OFF.  IT'S SO FUCKING SAD!  WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE DIES?  I HATE THIS FUCKING SAD MOVIE. 

I forget that part EVERY TIME I watch that movie.  I think the last time I watched it, I marked on the DVD box in black sharpie:  FYI DIPSHIT:  HE DIES IN THE END. 

So anyway, I managed to make it home without crashing, and participated in a conference call and even managed to operate my vehicle to and from the office later in the afternoon.  And when my husband got home and asked how my day was, I was all, "It fucking SUCKED."  And he's all, "So did mine!"  And I'm like, "Yeh?  Well I have a god damned brain tumor."  And he looked a little miffed that my day was worse than his because I think he thought he was going to get to do all the talking last night.  He was so fucking miffed as a matter of fact, that he didn't even ask HOW I got the brain tumor.  Ass.  He was just like, "Oh.  I need a beer." 

And I needed a beer too.  But the brain tumor doesn't like beer and it acted up and started revolting and making me act more crazy and dizzy and sending me reeling like I'd been on a tilt-a-whirl marathon.  And everytime I tried to focus on something, it would punch me behind the eyes so I couldn't see what I was looking at.  And when a colleague arrived at 4:30 for a scheduled meeting, he was all, "today isn't a very good day to meet because I'm in a shitty fucking mood."  And I'm like, "No shit.  I have a brain tumor."  And he's like, "WHAT?  When did you find that out, because you didn't seem like yourself earlier today and I wondered what was wrong" and unlike the husband, he seemed VERY concerned about me.  So I was like, "I diagnosed myself about 1:30 this afternoon." 

And he started busting a gut laughing.  WHAT.THE.FUCK?  Who laughs at someone with a brain tumor?  Stupid sonofabitch.  I guess he forgot he reports to me.  So I made a mental note to fire his ass at the first given opportunity.  Talk about poor judgment.  That right there was a career limiting move. 

The husband, being the medical genius that he is, says, "Maybe it's just your sinuses, why don't you just take some Benadryl and go to bed."  Seriously?  My sinuses?  It was clear he was still jealous that my day was worse than his and he wanted me to go to bed so he could tell the dog all about his shitty fucking day without me interrupting him.  But I took the Benadryl anyway, since the brain tumor hated him about as much as Aunt Flo does and I knew it would make me tired and plus it was like a great excuse to just go to bed and not have to a single chore all evening.  That was at 7:30 last night.  When I woke up 11 hours later, the brain tumor was gone!  No more vertigo!!  No more blurred vision!!  I'm CURED!!!  YAY!!!!   Praise Jesus!!! 

When the husband asked me how I felt this morning, I of course told the truth:  "I STILL FEEL LIKE SHIT AND STILL HAVE THIS BRAIN TUMOR"  ......  that should get me out of chores again today.  Plus, I don't like him thinking he's the brains of this operation over here.

HELP!!!!! I've been hijacked by Happy

So last time I checked in, Happy and our other sister were on their way over.  I'm never sure why the other sister isn't in any of the pictures - perhaps it's because she doesn't run around the garage and yard acting like a horse's ass like Happy and I tend to?  Anyway - the day started off something like this:

See, we were wearing shit kickers.  And showing off our matching purses.  The purse on her shoulder is the one she hijacked from me while I was peeing at the bar last time I saw her.  And the one I'm carrying is the new one she bought to replace it.  Only she didn't really replace it.  She just emptied out the contents of the stolen purse and then put her shit in the new purse.  That's how she rolls. 

The day progressed and one thing led to another and the next thing I know, I'm donning a helmet and she's carrying me around:

And that's kind of how the rest of the day and night went.  Me.  Wearing a helmet.  Her carrying me around.  Only she kept dropping me (which is why I wore the helmet to begin with) and the next day I woke up with a bruise the size of my head on my thigh, a bloody ankle and several bruised ribs.  I have no.fucking.clue why.  But I love her and my other sister and our friends that joined us for such a beautiful Sunday Funday!! 

And also, I think next time she comes over, I'll wear full body pads. 

I'm like Sybil

...BUT BETTER!

I have so many different profiles at the moment that it will likely take a miracle for them to keep me all straight.  I mean for me to keep them all straight.  There's the professional Facebook profile where I keep my witty shitty humor hidden and only say positive things, leadership advice and other benign shit that some people might find interesting. And then there's the personal Facebook profile where I spout off whatever random shit flows through my head and share stupid pictures of myself and my immature antics.  And now this morning, I created a Facebook profile for my husband.  But because he's innernets challenged, it's actually ME posing as him.  He's friends with my professional profile.  Because if he were to figure out the innernets by some fluke and was friends with the personal profile of myself, well then he'd see all the random shit I post about him and that might not be a good thing.  Although he does typically laugh at everything I say because I am in fact the funniest fucking person on earth.

Oh and also on Facebook, there is the work Fan Page that I am an administer on.  That's where I have to say things to try to get our customers to interact with us which is a little like trying to get a dog to balance hisself on a beach ball while navigating an obstacle course constructed of meaty bones. 

Then there is the work Tweeter account that I am an administrator on where we pluck our brains for interesting things to tweet to our followers there - 90% of which we have no clue who they are, but whatever.

And then there's the personal, nonamesmentioned Tweeter account where I say even more rankier shit than on the personal Facebook account.

And lastly, the ol' LinkedIn account - where I try to post inspiring shit focused around our company, my career and life.  It's the most boring piece of shit ever. 

I'm super wound up this morning - up at 4:30 a.m. - EXCITED!!! Happy and my other sister are coming to visit today and they're bringing two other friends and we're having SundayFunday and we're going to live tweet it - we are so fucking funny anyway - then you add beers and laughter to it - I'm CERTAIN the tweeter fest will go viral!!! 

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!  I may even create yet another personality before the end of the day!!!

Night Crawlers

What a night.  Seriously.  I went to bed with a Benadryl at 10 p.m.  Woke up to the husband yelling out some unidentifiable babble at 2 a.m.  WTF is he doing?  Fighting his demons?  Why can't he do that properly like I do?  Drown them with alcohol- THAT is proper demon fighting.  Not in the middle of the night when people are trying to sleep - that's just RUDE.  And so there I was, wide awake and 2 a.m.   Staring at the blackness that surrounded me.  And my neck started screaming at me and making me unable to return to sleep.  Ever since I took up looking at my iPhone 18 hours a day, my neck seems to be rebeling.  I'm not sure the two are actually connected, it could just be a strange coincidence?  And then my stomach started yelling out for food.  Seriously guys?  It's 2 a.m. - STFU and go back to sleep.  All y'all. 

And the more I tossed and turned, the more alert my brain became and it started thinking of all kinds of shit - about work mainly.  I think I finally got the whole lot of them to simmer down around 5 a.m. and just as I began to doze off, I felt a few light taps on my shoulder.  WTF is that?  And then it pulled my hair.  Seriously.  Now I'm scared and afraid to roll over to see the monster fucking with me at 5 a.m. - what if it's an intruder?  A ghost?  What if it's just my mind fucking with me.  Christ, will this long ass worthless night EVER end?  I could feel a presence in the room, so I went ahead and after taking a deep breath and considering all my options, rolled over to take a peek at what was tapping and pulling at me.  And I could see it - the shadow - the outline of........

THE BLONDE.  Seriously?  WHAT blonde?  WHAT?  She leaned over real close to me and whispered something unidentifiable in my ear.  Anything she whispers is unidentifiable because she's never mastered the art of whispering.  She moves her lips and lets a bit of air out, but absolutely NO SOUND.  I should likely teach her how to whisper since she's almost 9 and all because she doesn't get it.  So after a few failed attempts at getting her to repeat herself, she speaks in her normal voice and asks to get in bed with us.  And being the ever-concerned and loving parent that I am, I respond with, "Good GOD.  That's fine.  Get in the middle." 

And when she got in the middle, the husband rolled out the other side and I guess he was up for the day.  Grumpy.  Of course you're grumpy - you were in a fight with something all night.  And then my neck started yelling and screaming and Jesus H. Christ, fuck it.  I got up too.  So here we both are - in shitty ass moods all because of a shitty night's sleep.  And as I look at my agenda for the day, it looks perfectly miserable.  I think I'll skip washing my hair and wearing makeup today.  I think I'll just shower, throw on some shitty clothes and clean in between meetings so I can forget about this fucking pain in my neck.  Hopefully the husband will find a job to go to today so I don't have to deal with his grumpy ass all day.  And also I may take this god damned dog of mine to the pound.  He has been breathing heavy and licking himself for 12 days straight.  I think he has a deviated septum, no doubt aggravated by his self-induced fatness and also he's formed a habit of licking.  The non stop slurping sound of his licking hisself is going to drive me over the fucking edge.  Bye bye doggie.  It's been a real fucking treat cleaning up your 15 pounds of hair off my floors every day for 6 years.  Go lick yourself at someone else's house. 

.....and maybe I'll take a cat or two with him to the pound so he doesn't feel lonely when he gets there.  Like that one dipshit that thinks hunting moths is helpful.....