I Love the Smell of Democracy in the Morning

At long last, my What’s the Most Offensive Thing I Said In May? poll is closed.
Aaah, democracy.
15 people voted in this poll. To those of you who voted, may the Gods smile upon you for the rest of your years. You are an asset to this blog–nay, to this country–nay to the very world we live in. I salute you.
To those of you who did not vote (and you know who you are), you should be hanging your heads in shame. I’m very, very disappointed in you. Rest assured, you will NOT be receiving a muffin basket any time soon. Not from THIS blogger. No way, Jose.

Moving on…

I’m happy to announce that the most offensive thing I said in May was “Grade IV Rectal Tear.” Jesus, you guys. The anus is part of the human body, which is a wondrous, beautiful thing. What do you have against anuses (anusi?) Freud would have a field day with you guys. He’d probably tell you that you were all potty trained too young and therefore you associate your anus with being forced to grow up too fast. Then again, he’d probably tell you all that you have penis envy (yes, even the guys), because that was his schtick.

Come to think of it, Freud was one crazy mother fucker. And didn’t he have a cocaine problem too?
But I’ve digressed…

This vote was followed closely by “I’m A Dick Cheney Fan,” which means that my blog is followed by a bunch of bleeding-heart liberals. Good. Republicans are no friend of mine. But more importantly, it means that my blog is followed by humans. That’s even better. Anybody who says, “I’m a Dick Cheney fan” is obviously a secret agent for the aliens/lizards of the underworld who are planning a hostile take-over of the planet. They probably don’t blink either. If anybody says that to you, you must stab them in the heart with a #2 pencil; it’s the only way to kill them.

Two my readers took offense to the phrase “My Other Car Is A Moustache Ride.” Which means that you’re either lesbians or anti-sex, and either way, you’re just no fun at all. I mean, have you ever even tried a moustache ride? Beard ride? Any type of face ride at all?
I have two words for you: Good. Times.
Pull the stick out of your ass, and go get yo’self a man with a moustache, beard, or face. You probably won’t be disappointed.

[Sidenote: mom, if you’re reading this, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I swear]

Someone out there didn’t like it when I said, “Nothing Says ‘Vacation’ Like Cannibalism.” I can only assume that this person lost a loved one to a cannibal attack. Or possibly a zombie attack. Dude: that sucks. I can’t guarantee you that I’ll never eat the flesh of another human being, but I’ll try to minimize the cannibalism references from here on out. (But not the zombie references, because everybody knows that zombies rock)

Oh, crap, I just did it again. Sorry. I swear, that was the last time.

Dude, I swear, that totally just slipped out. Last time. Pinky swear.

Finally, one of you objected to my saying “The PRs Are Ruining This Country.” In all actuality, I never said this phrase. My grandmother did. Which means that this person is essentially talking smack about my grandmother. WTF?!? Do you have nothing better to do than to harass little old ladies? NOBODY talks smack about my grandmother (other than me, obviously)! I oughta kick your ass!!! You are hereby BANNED from my blog.
And let this be a lesson to you all…
If you want to make fun of my grandmother for seeing a dog shit on the top of a car, you’ll have to get through ME first.
And I know karate.

In summary, it would appear that my blog is followed by a bunch of anal-retentive, pro-abstinence, cannibal-fighting, left-wing lesbian humans who like making fun of old people.

Definitely my kinda crew…

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman's Social Calendar

There are not a lot of benefits to being married to an uneducated, unemployed, abusive man with a developing personality disorder. Trust me on this one. But one of the very few good things about being married to The Ex was a relatively empty social calendar.

You see, The Ex was so socially awkward that he had very few friends, save for a handful of guys he went to high-school with. Even his family had a hard time dealing with him (which should have been a warning). While this situation left me feeling pretty isolated, on the other hand, I had copious amounts of free time on the weekends, which I used to rest up and relax and do my best to try to forget that I was married to a guy with Chronic Asshole-itus.

Now that I’m dating a man with a significant number of family members, close friends, and acquaintances, it’s like the Party Bomb exploded all over my summer. Which sounds great in theory, until you realize you’re booked solid from now until 2015.

Okay, it’s not quite that bad, but the LAST two weekends were crazy and THIS weekend is shaping up to be even crazier, which is already giving me a headache and a bad case of Tourettes. And as the commitments keep piling on, it’s all I can do to resist throwing a temper tantrum of epic proportions (which is exactly what I did yesterday when I went to get dressed for a party and realized that a skirt I used to wear no longer fit over my “milk shake” [I don’t even know what that mean {I also don’t think I could possibly use any more parentheses/brackets}])

I’ve always been kind of an independent person. I have a few close friends, but I’ve never been the type to go out with a gaggle of women and do social-type things. I’ll take hiking with a buddy over partying en masse any day of the week. As such, I’ve come to fiercely protect my “me-time.” I may not be a high-maintenance gal in the traditional sense, but I’ve come to realize that I need a healthy dose of personal rest and relaxation to keep me emotionally stable. This past weekend’s tantrum was a small example of what can happen when I’m forced to shuffle from event to event without so much as a breather.

Between now and next Monday, I have Brian’s brother Scott and his girlfriend Katy staying over for 2 nights, dinner with Brian’s parents (to say goodbye to Scott and Katy), 2 nights of camping, A 1-year-old’s birthday party, and a second dinner with Brian’s parents (to celebrate his Aunt’s birthday).

And I wonder why my left eye is twitching...

For Brian’s sake, I’ll take a deep breath and try to remember that I should be grateful for having so many friends and loved ones. But seriously? If I try on one more skirt that doesn’t fit, I swear to god I’ll unleash a fury that has not yet been witnessed by man.

Brian: If you’re reading this? You’d better bring your riot gear home. You know...just in case.

On Michael Jackson, And Cake

The coffee euphoria has kicked in hard this morning, folks, so I’m gonna ride this gravy train as far as I can until I collapse into a puddle of uncaffeinated nothingness in approximately 45 minutes.

Unfortunately, I also don’t have a topic this morning, so you’re just going to have be flexible (yeah, that’s what your mom said last night).

First off, holy shit Michael Jackson is dead! Granted, being born in 1982, I kind of missed his heyday of epic music production. And granted, being raised in a household where classical music was the ONLY type of music played, I kind of didn’t even really know who the guy was until I was about 14. Sad to say, I can sing The Queen Of The Night Aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute (in German) with more confidence than I can belt out Thriller.

But…I was witness to many, many playing of ABC from The Jackson 5 while imbibing at Rutgers frat parties, and I saw those Korean inmates perform Thriller on YouTube, so suffice to say, I’ve had enough exposure to Michael’s music to recognize that his death is a great loss to the music industry (despite his personal record of inappropriate behavior with little boys, which is seriously fucked up)

So, RIP Michael Jackson. May your heaven be filled with life-sized statues of Peter Pan and merry-go-rounds and talking giraffes and all that other weird crap that floats your boat (but no minors – even in heaven, that shit is seriously frowned upon)

Moving on…

Can we take a second to talk about cake?

More specifically, how delicious it is?

When it comes to cake, and baked goods in general, I have no self control. The only way I’ve managed to keep from becoming whale-like in proportion is to not keep the stuff in the house, and exercise significantly more than I would like to.

I've been told before that I look like Martin Luther King Jr, but I just don't see the resemblance...

But at work, I’m completely defenseless. I’m bored, sluggish, and just looking for an excuse to get up from my desk.

Enter: cake.My coworkers like to bring in goodies. More often than not, some sort of baked, iced amazingness is sitting on the counter when I come in in the morning. The same counter that I have to pass by every time I need to go to the bathroom or talk to one of our Program Managers.

It’s a scrumptious recipe for disaster.

I swear to god, even if I WAS a cake, I’d still want to eat cake.

It's all fine and good while I'm a pre-pregnancy 27-year old with good genes, but this affinity can only end in a horrendous pair of thunder thighs and a matching ba-donk-a-donk.

If anybody knows a priest who exorcises cake demons, send him my way (lol, did I just say cake demons? That’s awesome)

And thank fucking god it’s Friday, right? I am WAY too fired up to be trapped in a cubicle (aka, the fuzzy, modular walls that depression built). BRING ON THE WEEKEND! I’ve got some big plans including catching up with an old friend, attending a food and wine festival (do you think there will be cake there?!?) at which my mom and her fiancé will meet Brian’s parents for the first time (Gah!), and a going away party for one of Brian’s close friends.

In other words, an ass-ton of plans. I’m not a big fan of weekend plans (the couch gets lonely when I'm not around), but whatevs. I have a cute green summer dress to wear, so it’s all good.

Happy Friday, Bitches!

Assorted Thanks, Tags, and Awards

By nature, I’m not a people-pleaser. That’s not to say that I’m some social pariah who slinks about the fringes of society, unable to communicate clearly or develop meaningful relationships, but when it comes to how other people view me, I have a healthy dose of “who the fuck cares.” I quickly learned that you absolutely cannot please everybody after a myriad of twisted pre-teen female friendships that were chock full of more drama than a “Gay Friends of the Arts” performance of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

[Sidenote: If you ever want to see the devil, look into the eyes of a 14-year-old girl who just pitted her friends against each other for her own personal amusement. It'll turn your pubes white]

But when it comes to my blog, I guess I’m a bit more sensitive. In the real world, I typically react to losing an acquaintance by saying “meh” and pantomiming the jerk off movement (Klassy). On my blog, losing a follower is met with an extensive eulogy and a painful progression through the 5 stages of grief (wherein I eat a tub full of cookie dough while sobbing hysterically, pulling out chunks of hair, and screaming STUPID! STUPID! into the mirror).

See the difference?

I don’t know why I’ve become so obsessed with my readers. When I started this blog, it was primarily used as a way to kill time during work and get the ole’ creative juices flowing (mmmm juices). But the minute that people started commenting on my posts, I became obsessed. I changed the background. I added a hit counter. I blogged to entertain, and watched my followers increase like a fat kid watches someone icing a cake.

Oh yes. There was drool.

Granted, I only have 21..wait...20...no wait...21 followers (thanks, Carrie, for joining the list just as I was about the kick the stool out from under my feet. You’re a real friend. I’ll send you a muffin basket). In the big oled blog-o-sphere, I’m a speck of dust.

But for those 21(+) of you who tune in to read and comment on my blog, there is nothing I wouldn’t do. NUH-THING

So I guess this blog is turning into a huge, ginormous THANK YOU to those of you who read my blog. For better or for worse, watching my hits counter go up seriously gets me all hot.

No kidding, I kind of want to do sexy times with my hits counter.

I’ll give you guys a moment to think about that.

(I’m guessing that about half of you just got turned on, and the other half of you just threw up)

...50% ain’t bad.

And on that note…
I’d like to officially thank Nelle from Lady Tells All for giving me my first-ever blog award:

(Nelle, you’ll be getting a muffin basket as well because I love you THIS……..MUCH)

So, the rules for this award are to tell your readers 10 things about you that are true, that they might not know. Then you have to tag 10 other bloggers to do the same .

Here goes:

1. When I was a kid, I was deathly afraid of clowns. They still make me nervous.
2. My front right tooth is a little discolored due to a biking accident/root canal when I was 10. I could have it fixed, but then I wouldn’t really be me, yanno?
3. I’ve always harbored this weird desire to be a stand-up comedian. I know I know – it would never work.
4. If I knew that I’d never have to work in a corporate environment again, I’d probably have a sleeve of tattoos. And dreads.
5. Music evokes very little emotion from me. I could kind of take it or leave it. I blame my father, who forced classical music on me from a very young age. These days, I usually prefer silence.
6. I’m ready to be a mom.
7. I might very well be the best white-girl dancer you’ve ever met. But I’m talking like NC-17 club/stripper dancing. Not wedding and bat-mitzvah dancing. Who can drop it like it’s hot? I can.
8. Someday, I’m going to climb a mountain.
9. I’m not that afraid to die (then again, ask me when you’re holding a gun to my head and I may feel differently)
10. I once went on a 3 day, 30 mile backpacking trek by myself. Probably not the safest thing I’ve ever done, but it helped to define who I am today.

And now I’m tagging:

The Daisy Chronicles
Dharma Drama
Pretty How Town
My Blog Doesn't Suck
50 kinds of awesome
Why? How? And Other Abstract Questions
Cooler Ranch Or Nacho Cheese?
PorkStar
My Masonic Apron
Thicker Than Water

ALSO (because this post hasn’t been nearly long enough), I got an awesome tag from PorkStar.

Pork: I’d tell you I’m sending you a muffin basket too, but you’d take it to a whole other level of indecency. Because that’s how your sick mind works. Which is why I love you.

And because Pork called me a “Hot chic,” on his blog he gets this complementary haiku:

PorkStar is the best
His blogs are hysterical
His penis is large

(well, that’s what he says, at any rate)

Moving on…

The rule of THIS tag is to open your pic folder and post the tenth pic. And here it is:

I actually had a few folders to pick from. The 10th pics in the other folders were boring, but this one was perfect.

It’s me, trying on Brian’s fire gear.
It’s ridiculous.
I love this pic.

On deck for this tag:

Brick City Love
White-Collar Redneck
Live It, Love It
Just Playing Pretend
Island Of Reality

Okay, now that I’ve written a novel, I’m going to call it a day. THANKS AGAIN for the tags and awards.

Your bloggy love has me feeling all warm and tingly. And it’s making my left arm hurt. And it’s making it kind of hard to breathe.

Somebody call 911.

A Eulogy

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of our friend and companion, Follower #21. It seems like it was just yesterday when Follower #21 was with us, sharing in our joys and commiserating in our sorrows. Follower #21 was the quiet type, not quick to leave a comment, but had a gentle way about him, lending support by following my blog in a wholly public fashion.

Follower #21 touched me deeply. On the day his little character appeared in my readers list, I proudly announced to my coworker that “more than 20 people are now following my blog.” It was in this way that Follower #21 held a special place in my heart. But now he is gone, and I have only 20 followers. They are wonderful, yes, but his presence is sorely missed.

It is difficult to say what happened to Follower #21. Perhaps he met with an unfortunate end at the hands of a great white shark while surfing off of the coast of Austraila, or picked up a deadly case of swine flu while shopping at flea-market in Texas, or followed through with murder suicide pact by fatally shooting his significant other before turning the gun on himself.

Or, one could propose that Follower #21 entered the witness protection program after agreeing to testify against an organized crime mobster. Perhaps Follower #21 was forced to cut ties with his friends and family to assume a new identity in a new city. It must have been difficult for Follower #21 to agree to abandon my blog, but at the risk of his own life, he must have had no choice but to bow out of my readers list.

Maybe Follower #21 has a personal vendetta against Google Blogger. Perhaps Follower #21 is boycotting the service, having removed his identity from the Google Blogger member list. Is it possible that Follower #21 is somewhere out there in the vast wilderness of internet, anonymously sharing in my daily adventures and perusing my social commentary? Are you out there, Follower #21?!?!? Send me a sign!

Surely, it cannot be that Follower #21 ceased reading my blog due to the nature of my posts. Were there one too many porn references or curse words? Should I have left the critically placed asterisks? Did I go to far when I made fun of the chronic complainer? Did I seem inhuman when I criticized my father? Is my daily content so boring and vapid as to drive my readers away?

Follower #21, I beseech you; did I not entertain you as I sought out to do?

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!?


But I guess we'll never know. Follower #21 left my life as silently as he entered it, and he took a little piece of my heart with him. Now, there is nothing left but an empty place where his character once stood.

Whatever your reason for leaving, be it death or Google feud or sheer boredom, you are missed, Follower #21.

More than you will ever know.

Generation HUH?

At the risk of sounding like my 4th grade history teacher,
“As the generation who is one day going to inherit the world, you’re going to have to do a lot better than this.”

I found a gem of a quiz on Facebook today.

Our friend, the chronic complainer, had taken the quiz and posted the results (I don’t know where she finds the time). According to the quiz, she was classified as “hot,” which immediately alerted me to the possibility that this is the worst quiz to exist on the face of the earth.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Here is the quiz, in all of its mentally handicapped glory:

ARE YOU HOT?

1. What do u like to do friday's night?
A. stay at home.relax.studdy for a test
B. Hang out with my friends, to the mall or movie.or do a party
C. like to go on msn and chat with my friends

2. what is your favorite pass time?
A. hang with my friends to the mall,or movie
B. hang with my friends
C. go to the library

3. whats your fav food?
A. hot dogs
B. fruits
C. pizza

4. do you have alote of friends?
A. 1-10
B. 1-40
C. 1-20

5. what sport do you like?
A. soccer
B. baseball
C. basketball

I think, my friends, that this quiz requires no further discussion other than, if this is an example of how today’s teenagers are critically thinking and writing, then I have no other choice than to blow my fucking brains out with a sawed-off shotgun.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Here is some additional discussion:

Since when does Friday have a night? Since when can you “do” a party? Does adding an extra “d” in “study” mean that you’re studying really hard? When you turn phrases into words (e.g., alot), does slapping an “e” on the end somehow validate it?

More importantly, since when do your favorite pastimes, sports, and foods impact your physical appearance?
If only I had known! If only I had had between 1 and 40 friends instead of between 1 and 20 friends, I could have been more physically attractive growing up. My entire adolescence was wasted being not hot because I like fruit instead of hot dogs. Oh, the humanity!

More and more often, I feel like I’m witnessing the chronic “dumbing down” of our society that inspired such hilarious and disturbingly accurate movies like Idiocracy.

The premise of this movie is that stupid people keep reproducing like rabbits while smart people have fewer children due to careful family planning. This goes on for years, and the average intelligence level continues to decline. Luke Wilson, an average guy who signs up for an army experiment, is frozen for 500 years and reemerges as the smartest person in the world.
I know - it’s kind of silly, but not out of the realm of possibility, right?

Here’s a compilation of some funny parts of the movie (Terry Crews, the black guy, is President Camancho, a wrestling celebrity. lol):



The result of systematic loss of intelligence is hysterical—until you see it happening before your very eyes. What hope for the future can we have if it’s going to be over-run by individuals like the genius who designed the above quiz? I hope and pray that this dimwit is the exception and not the rule, but from what I’ve seen of kids lately, I’m not feeling optimistic. I actually saw a kid try to eat his cellphone the other day when I was out on a jog.

I went home and cried for our species.
This is not a good sign, people. Not a good sign at all.

However, there is good news.
Our society may be deteriorating into a bunch of Forest Gumps, but I’m a hotty.

RESULT:
you are hot, alote of boys have a eye on you, you are sweet and you have alote of friends.u like to jam, and have partys

Wow.
I totally feel better now.

Happy Father's Day?

Yeah, I know I’m a day late, but I don’t generally blog on the weekends (unless drunken debauchery occurs with photographic evidence), so my Father’s day blog will be today.

That said….
How does one go about celebrating Father’s day when one’s father kind of…sucks?

Here’s the deal with my dad:
He and I never really got along. To me, he always seemed like a bull-shitter, a “drama queen” who spent the majority of his time complaining about his life to hide the fact that he really didn’t do all that much. It seemed to me that his false bravado and snobbish, better-than-thou attitude was masking some deeply-rooted insecurity. I saw right through it, and I think he knew that. As a result, we fought.
Constantly.

Surprise, surprise, 30 years into his marriage and 23 years into fatherhood, he decided that he was gay. His “coming out” totally validated my spidey-sense that something about him was definitely awry. It also initiated several years of total communication melt-down between him and me. He thought I stopped talking to him because he was gay, when in fact, I stopped talking to him simply because he was an asshole.

However, this silence gave him a platform for the “victim” role he then and still today loves to play. No matter that he lied to his wife for 30 years about his sexual orientation. No matter that he fathered two children while knowing that he was assuming a false identity. No matter that he met his new partner while still being married to my mother. No matter that he just up and left one day, robbing my mother of retirement security (among a vast number of other things), to start a new life.

No, according to him, I wasn’t speaking to him “because he was gay.”

Give me a break.

He and I have since started communicating again. 2 years after vowing to never speak to him again, I realized that he was not going to fight for a relationship with his youngest daughter. He was not going to show up at my doorstep and ask to be let back into my life. As far as I could tell, when he walked away from my mother, he walked away from all parts of that life, including his children. He did not miss me enough to try to make things right.

The truth definitely hurts sometimes.

In the end, after several years of deafening silence, I was the one who had to be the adult. I was the one who had to go to him, let bygones be bygones, and try to move forward with a relationship, albeit one that was entirely superficial. By all accounts, we have a pleasant-enough rapport. He asks me (a little) about my life, and is more than happy to go on at length about his own.

But this about as deep as my relationship with my father gets. We discuss our goings-on, and are left with an awkward silence. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t really care. He’s talking to me because I’m his daughter, and I’m talking to him because he’s my father. And to be honest, it takes a lot less energy to get along than it does to stay angry.

So, happy Father’s Day, dad.

I owe half of my DNA to you.

My childhood was happy enough, although it turns out that the whole thing was a sham to hide the fact that you weren’t strong enough to be yourself from the very start.

We had a few good times, but most of the time we fought.

I share a lot of your characteristics, which I strive every day to utilize in a positive, productive, straightforward manner.

And I am happy to report that despite sharing your DNA and a handful of your characteristics, despite finding out that my entire childhood was your personal experiment, despite learning that, if I walk away, you will let me go without a fight…

I’m okay.

So, thanks, dad, for leading by example.
You've shown me exactly how NOT to behave, and how NOT to treat others.
For this, at least, I'm grateful.

Multiple Reasons Why My Sister and I Shouldn't Drink Together: A Photographic Odyssy

There's a lot of reasons why my sister and I shouldn't drink together. The Rutgers University student body can attest to that.

And yet...
We do.

And you wanna know something? We bring the fucking party every. single. time. Even when we're just hanging out in the basement playing Boom Blox aka MY NEW LORD AND SAVIOR.

If there's a heaven, it probably looks like this:

Here we in the throes of Boom Blox ecstacy.

3 bottles of wine later, things started going downhill.

At about this time in the evening, Milo was considering making a run for it.

So of course, like the fucking geniuses that we are, we decided that the night should be topped off with a drunken canoe ride.

I'm not sure if operating a canoe while intoxicated is legal, but I do know that its a damn good time.

I don't even know what's going on here. Clearly, we are a bunch of sloppy bitches.

And what's a night of drunken canoeing without a few sea shanties? SUNG IN 2-PART HARMONY, SON! OH, SNAP!

Our brave captain was amused

So that was last night. It's now Saturday, we ain't go no jobs (well, not today, at least), and we ain't got shit to do.

Tonight should be interesting.

Bonus Thursday Post: Blog Shout-Out and Early Weekend Peace-Out

My Friends!

I would like to introduce you to a close, personal fellow blogger: Thicker than Water.

After faithfully reading many of my blogs and "fluffing" my self-esteem on a near-daily basis (I love a good porn reference), I can only repay her kindness by calling out her superior writing skills on my own humble forum.

Go pay her some love. You won't be sorry.

In other news, I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow because my sister will be in town, which inevitably leads to one result: us waking up with massive hangovers and an inability to recall the past night.

We're twice the fun (for half the price).

Therefore, this might be my last post of the week. If I should not appear tomorrow, fear not: My sister and I can most likely be found in the nearest karaoke bar slurring out lines of "Piano Man" and flashing bouncers to get into the VIP section.

'Cause that's how we roll.

Happy Weekend Everybody!!!!

Oh, wait, that's right. You still have another day to go, it being only Thursday and all.

Man...sucks to be you.

In Case You’re Wondering About the Tin-Foil Hat…

So, my boyfriend can read my mind.

You’d think that there’s no way that this could be a bad thing (read: bedroom shenanigans), but it can be, and I’ll tell you why:
I can’t keep a GD thing secret to save my life.

Not that I keep any secrets from him. He and I are on that comfortable level where nothing is hidden and everything is fair game. If he wants to know something, all he has to do is ask me and I’ll tell him, whether he really wants to know the answer or not (hey, don’t ask me why I was in the bathroom for so long unless you’re prepared to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth).

Which is why I should have kept my big fat mouth shut when bragging about his secret birthday plans. After he took me to the Ice Hotel for my birthday this past winter, I knew I had to bring in the big guns. Unfortunately, the big guns also needed to be relatively inexpensive (because we own two POS cars and a basement that is prone to flooding) and relatively close (because I have very few vacation days left). So, essentially I had to think up some fantastic adventure that could be played out in the tri-state area.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever been to the tri-state area, but let me tell you, adventures are hard to come by. Let’s just say that we are not known for our outdoor activities. Other areas of the country have zip-lining and caving and mountain climbing and all these exciting, innovative ways to spend your time. In New Jersey? Yeah, we’ve got the pine barrens and the Jersey Shore. The stinking, crowded, dirty shore. Granted, stepping on a hypodermic needle can lead to an adventure, but an adventure with the HIV isn’t quite what I was going for. New Jersey is, if nothing else, AIDS-tastic.

So I was racking my mind to come up with something great to do with little success, until a coworker came in on Monday and told us about a fantastic thing she had done over the weekend:

Hot Air Ballooning.

Bingo.

It was perfect. Relatively inexpensive, within an hour’s drive, and – best of all – completely out of left field. He’d never expect it!

I went home last night with a shit-eating grin on my face and announced to Brian that I had figured out what we were going to do for his birthday. Of course I wouldn’t tell him what it was, because he and I are notorious for keeping vacation and birthday plans hidden until the last possible second. Brian went so far as to start packing for me when he took me to Quebec, until I convinced him that he couldn’t possibly anticipate all of my clothing and hygiene needs (it takes a lot of work to get me this gorgeous), and therefore HAD to tell me where we were going so that I could pack appropriately.

So of course when I came home, I taunted him with this information. I dared him to guess, even told him that I would tell him flat out if he guessed correctly. This is how positive I was that he would never figure out my plans.

Of course, we all know where this is going.

(Birthday Surprise FAIL in 3…2…1…)

Wouldn’t you know it, the first f*cking thing out of his mouth is “Hot Air Balloon Ride.”

Son of a…

I was actually so shocked that he had guessed correctly that I was literally speechless. Being a writer, I have a word for everything, so when I’m left speechless, it’s no small deal. I was so surprised that I couldn’t even begin to act like he had guessed wrong, thereby keeping my surprise intact.

Nope, I just stood there with my mouth open like an idiot.

So if you’re wondering what the tin-foil hat is about, it’s there to prevent Brian from reading my brain waves. I’m all up for an open, honest relationship and everything, but reading my mind is going a bit too far.

Also, if any of you have ideas for his Birthday, bring ‘em on, because lord knows I’m back to the drawing board again.

Welcome to America, Please Leave Your Passion At The Door

This Iran shit is crazy.

I was listening to NPR on the way to work (because I find factual, unbiased media soothing in the morning), and they were continuing their coverage of the election aftermath in Iran.

For those of you who aren’t UTD on world politics, Iran held a recent presidential election where the current conservative president Ahmadinejad (pronounced ah-mah-DEEN-ah-jad, only the ah part is said like you’re hocking up a loogie) was challenged by the reformist party leader Mousavi (pronounced moo-SAH-vee by Americans and moo-sah-VEE by Iranians, who are obviously wrong because they don’t talk like us).

According to Iranian state news, Ahmadinejad won the vote 66% to 33%. However, Mousavi and his supporters believe that the election was rigged and that there are 14 million unaccounted votes. Since June 12, Mousavi supporters have been rallying and calling for a new election. They’ve been taking to the streets in the hundreds of thousands in protest of the alleged election manipulation. Most media sources say that the Conservative and Reformist parties alike are taken aback by this unexpected display of protest. Much blood has been shed in clashes between demonstrators and the authority, and Mousavi himself has retracted his call to protest in order to prevent further injury and death.

In other words, shit be goin’ down.
Like, LA-riots-of-1992 style. (otherwise known as the good ole’ days…)

After listening to reports and interviews of irate Iranians (say THAT three times fast), I am deeply impressed by the passion that these people have for their democratic system.

But at the same time, I am deeply saddened by our own country’s lack of fervor for the political events of the past decade. Where were we when Bush was accused of rigging the 2000 election? Why did we not take to the streets in protest of this alleged conspiracy to maintain a disastrous presidency for an additional 4 years? Where were the demonstrations and the petitions and the general sense of outrage that we should have felt as our democratic system failed in front of our very eyes?

WHERE WAS THE FUCKING REVOLUTION, MAN?!? I had my gun ready and everything...

It makes me sad to think that we as a nation have grown so complacent as to let accusations of such ghastly proportions go largely uninvestigated. I truly believe that our mass media made more of an effort to cover the switch from analogue TV to digital TV than it did to explore the possibility of a rigged presidential election. And there is something very wrong with that.

Let’s do the math:

IF loss of television privileges = nuclear Armageddon
AND rigged presidential election = furrowed eyebrows and a trip to the kitchen to get another pint of rocky road
THEN America = bunch of good-for-nothing, beer-guzzling, NASCAR-watching, reality TV-obsessing, obesity epidemic-starting A-holes.

(My Intro to Logic professor would be proud. And to think he gave me a D, that sonofabitch…)

The only thing that keeps me from calling it quits and moving to Canada is the fact that we voted for Obama, suggesting that enough people were mildly agitated by the Bush presidency to spend 10 minutes driving to their nearest voting booth.

Well, that…and the fact that Canada’s so cold I seriously considered throwing myself on an electric fence the last time I was up there.


In conclusion, I apologize for getting preachy on y’all for two days in a row. I promise that tomorrow, we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled nonsensical programming.

Whatever.

A Little Perspective, Please

Warning: rant ahead. It's a doozy, so you might want to get some coffee first.

I’d like to start this post off by saying that I know I complain a lot. I am well aware of the fact that I bitch and moan about a large variety of subjects including (but not limited to) my job, my weight, Milo The Destroyer Of Worlds, the weather, TV, stupid fucking NJ drivers, and people in general. I, like everybody else, encounter complaint-worthy people and situations on a daily basis, and if I couldn’t get it off my chest, you could be damn sure that eventually you’d find me on the top of a tower picking people off with a rifle.

But I also like to think that I don’t complain about the little things. Or at least, not that much. Sure, I’m irritated about my commute every single GD morning – but I really only complain about it when something particularly offensive occurs. Along those lines, I also try to be grateful for the things that I do have. I may complain about my job, but in most posts, I also try to throw in a sentence about how I would far worse off if I didn’t have the job.

That said, holy shit, if my one friend doesn’t stop complaining about stupid fucking bullshit I am seriously going to drive to her house and punch her in her whiny, self-absorbed pie-hole.

And by “friend,” what I really mean is “Facebook friend,” because if we were actually friends, I’d probably go all Silence Of The Lambs on her ass and keep her in a hole in my cellar. At least then she’d have something that was worth complaining about.

[friend’s name here] OMG im still in this hole and she keeps telling me to put lotion on!!!!!WTF!!!!!

[friend’s name here] UGGhhH im so tired of being down here it smells nasty and she wont give me anything to eat FML!!!1!!!

[friend’s name here] i got sprayed with the hose again man this suckz!!!!

Before I get too wrapped up in my fantasy, I’ll explain further.
Here’s her deal: She’s a stay-at-home mom. As in, she doesn’t have a job. Her children are also aged 10 and 17, so there’s not toddler-chasing action going on. Both kids are in school all day, and the one just got his driver’s license, so he can ferry himself around just fine. All in all, it seems like she has the perfect life: no job, no young kids to entertain, and a heck of a lot of free time on her hands.

So what does she do with her free time? She goes on Facebook for hours on end taking stupid quizzes and leaving multiple status updates.

Here is a selection of her most recent statuses (keep a bucket ready in case you feel the urge to vom):

I can't wait till school is over 4 more days!!!!!!!! Then the fun starts, the kids fighting!!!!

House work almost done, just downstairs now. I have done 4 loads of laundry all ready hanging outside. Just a little bit longer and I can relax, Yea right till its time to make diner.

Housework as usual, it never ends!!!!

Relaxing now thinking of taking a quick nap before [child’s name] gets home from school!!!

Is almost done this laundry, only wish the sun was out, then I wouldn't have to use the dryer!!!

Getting [child’s name] on the bus, then WAWA for a coffee, I need my coffee and then off to get my manicure!!! Then I guess back home for laundry day UGH!!

Does anybody else see why I want to kill this woman with a blunt object?

Somebody, please do us all a favor and explain to her that most people are unfortunate enough to have to get these chores done while working a 9-5 job.

Also, somebody please do us all a favor and explain to this woman that manicures pretty much fall under the category of “expensive pampering” and are therefore typically not the subject of complaint.

Somebody also needs to teach this woman the appropriate use of exclamation marks, which should saved to express high levels of emotion and typically don’t follow descriptions of laundry day.

Then, that same person who discussed the above points with her needs to get a blow-torch and put her out of her misery, because obviously her life is way too difficult to bear, and in all actuality, we’d probably be doing her a favor.

Bonus: We’d also be doing the rest of society a favor.

Based on her Facebook updates, the only things this woman has to worry about are manicures, laundry, sunning herself by the pool, and supervising her half-grown children. When all is said and done, she has a life that most of us would consider to be an extended vacation. So to complain about a lifestyle that most working adults would consider luxurious goes way beyond rude.
To me, it’s a slap in the face. And you’d have to be completely self-absorbed to not realize how offensive these types of posts might be to those of us who have to …oh, I dunno…WORK for a living.

It’s like having your friend win the lottery and then having to listen to them complain incessantly because he or she can’t figure out how to spend the money.

*this is the sound of me smacking that woman across the face. Suh-LAP

I have the same problem with my father. For those of you who don't know my family history, my parents divorced after almost 30 years of marriage because my dad decided that he was gay.

I know - you can't make this shit up.

He and I have been on tenuous ground since then, not because he's gay, but because he's a royal prick who thinks the sun shines out of his ass. Let's just say that Father Of The Year he ain't. Not by a long shot.

One of the things about him that irritates me the most is a compulsive self-centeredness that leaves him completely oblivious to the struggles of others. My dad retired at the age of 55 and has been supported by a fat pension (more than I make per month) ever since. He earned the pension so I have no problem with this, other than the fact that this man gets paid to sit on his ass, yet continues to act like he works harder than any of us.

He recently sent me an email going into great detail about the various concert performances he had going on this spring (he conducts choirs as a hobby, mind you). He finished his email with the sentence (and I quote)

"I'm heading to Rehobeth Beach for 3 days ... by myself to just rest and do nothing. I need some real down time to recover from the pressure of these last weeks."

***

I spent the rest of the afternoon suppressing my desire to call him up and call him out on his bullshit.

I will be the first to admit that my life is frigging peaches and cream compared to a lot of people out there. I have my health and a cushy job and no debt and a wonderful man who loves me. So if I can manage to keep things in perspective, than why can't other people? Look at it this way: no matter how hard you think you have things, it could always be worse. I know concerts and manicures seem like hell on earth, but honestly, at least you don't have earn a living. Like, at all.

/rant

Rockey Ain't Got NOTHIN' On Me

Oh snap, yall!
I’m the fucking granddaddy of awesomness, a hero amongst mortals. The very sight of me should bring tears to your eyes, and songs should be sung in my honor for all eternity.

For this weekend I fought bravely against demons and Lyme disease to run 6 punishing miles in the wilds of south jersey. Thirty-one thousand, six hundred and eighty feet of barren, tick-filled wasteland were covered in an astonishing 72 minutes. Three hundred and eighty thousand, one hundred and sixty inches of gritty, god-forsaken punishment were laid before me and ultimately conquered. The Pine Barrens bowed in the wake of my fury. I am victorious.

But seriously, guys, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am the grand-fucking-master champion of the world. Do you have any idea how long 6 miles is?!? DO YOU?!? Imagine running straight into woods for a little more than 30 minutes – about the length of a sitcom on TV. Then, imagine turning around and having to run back out. This is what I did on Sunday. In the PINELANDS, people. Ever hear of the Jesey Devil? Lymes disease? PINEYS?!?!? This is where they all live:

Dangerous, to say the least.

For those of you who don’t know, this is a big deal because I am not a natural runner. I blogged about it here. Running for me was then and pretty much still is like slow death by fire-ants during a Jessica Simpson vs. Ashlee Simpson sibling tour. *shudder. BUT…I’ve always wanted to be a runner. So I started running late last summer with the intention of maybe, possibly, perhaps running a marathon this year.

Okay, you can stop laughing.

Any time now.

No, it's okay, I'll wait

Needless to say, a marathon probably won’t happen this year, mostly because I couldn’t run over the winter (because treadmill running, I discovered, is the 8th level of hell), and therefore couldn’t train properly.

Because some pathetic individuals need a year to prepare.

Seriously, please stop laughing

But here we are today:

I just surpassed my personal record of 5 miles, set late last fall on a dark and stormy night (I was hardcore back then). And…I did it in a pretty respectable time. And AND…I haven’t been running regularly. My last run was a week ago, and it consisted of two miles in 20 minutes. Good, but not noteworthy in the least.

So this weekend’s accomplishment is all the more savory knowing that it was achieved WITHOUT training, per se. Which means that WITH training, I could perhaps double this mileage and then…and THEN…I might have a shot at a marathon.

Boo-yah.

But in the meantime, I’m sore as shit. I’m walking around the office looking like I have a pole up my ass, and my coworkers are probably getting the wrong impression about me and my weekend hobbies (I’ll let you use your imagination). Which means that tonight I’m going to have a hot date with Bengay and a heating pad, and there is nothing…NOTHING…sexier than smelling like an old person. All I need now is a snuggie and hair curlers and I could officially move in with my grandparents in LeisureTown (known as “God’s Waiting Room” to the local fire department).

So, Rocky? He ain't got NOTHIN' on this woman. Sure, he ran and punched and sweated his way to victory. But did he do while being covered in blood-sucking insects and being chased by a half-devil/half-man and a bunch of rednecks in wife-beaters?

I think not, my friends.

I think not.

No Rest for the Wicked

Warning: asterisks have been removed from profanities today. It's a fan-fucking-tastic voyage. You've been warned.

Today’s post is going to be even more incoherent than usual, because homegirl did NOT get the sleep she needed. Granted, she typically requires an ass-ton of sleep that is almost impossible to achieve, but nevertheless…sleep was lacking this week.

Which is probably why homegirl is referring to herself in the third person.

And which is probably why she chose the term “homegirl” to reference herself.

NOW DO YOU SEE WHY SLEEP IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME ?!?!?!

I pulled out the big guns today to combat my recent sleep deprivation.
No, not crack.
The OTHER big gun: Coffee.

Delicious, life-giving nectar of the gods was transported from home to work via not one but TWO thermoses this morning. And for a good 15 minutes, I was feeling on top of the world. I get this thing I like to call “coffee euphoria,” in which I drink a cup of coffee and about 20 minutes later I get all happy and content and smile a lot and make friends with the fake plant on my desk (his name is Travis). And the, 20 minutes after that, I’m back to my miserable self again. Is this a shared experience, or am I completely cracked out?

[Sidenote: What is my obsession with crack today?]

Unfortunately, we are now T minus 3 hours since I downed both thermoses in record time, so I’m no longer rolling on caffeine, and I’m instead the very image of sulky, sleep-deprived malcontent. I did, however get a laugh when I took this completely random facebook quiz to find out WHAT RIDICULOUSLY AWESEOME CREATURE ARE YOU?
Here are the results:

OH SHIT YOU'RE BRITNEY SPEARS!.

OH FUCK. OH FUCK. OH FUCK. YOU SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF ANY LIVING BEING; YOUR TERRIBLE VOICE STEALS THE INNOCENCE FROM THE YOUTH. YOU ARE MORE DEADLY THAN A FUCKING BOX OF NUCLEAR BOMBS ON TOP OF A PILE OF FUCKING NAILS, WITH A STACK OF DICKS. YOU'RE GOING TO BE HALF NAKED FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, CRUSHING THE DREAMS OF THE WORLD. FUCK. YOU EVEN SHOOT BABIES OUT LIKE A GOD DAMN M249 SAW. FUCK I'M OUTTA HERE!.

I kind of want to provide oral services to the person who created this quiz, if for nothing else other than the fact that it is one of the more bizarre things I’ve ever encountered in life. The person who made this quiz is a sick individual, and I totally, TOTALLY dig that. Also, bonus points for semi-correctly using a semi-colon. Punctuation turns me on.

Right about now, I’d love to have a terrible voice that steals the innocence from youth. I’d love to be more deadly than a fucking box of nuclear bombs on top of a pile of fucking nails, because man, it doesn’t get much more lethal than that. Where do I sign up?

And I know I should be in a better mood because it’s Friday dammit, and I should be inwardly celebrating my eminent release from the tyranny of Corporate America, but all I can think about is the fact that there’s a 6-pack of beer in at home in the fridge and I am 10 miles away from it in an office in Voorhees and there is something very, very wrong with this picture.

So until my beer and I are united, I will continue to lament my situation and pray to Allah that he will equip me with an innocence-stealing voice and a baby-shooting vadge so that I can effectively crush the dreams of the world.

Fuck.
Happy Friday.

Now With 40% Less Fright

Allright, pimps and hos, you have spoken and I have heard you:

56% of you think that my choice of blog heading picture was an act of brilliance, while 43% of you are whiny little pussies who probably sleep with the lights on.

I kid.

In all honesty, the picture even freaks me out a little bit. (but then again, I sleep with the lights on too).

But, since it was practically a tie, I was faced with a dilemma:
Do I change the picture or leave it? Do I settle for scaring nearly half of my readers (even more than I already do), or do I sacrifice my inherent genius for the masses?

I pondered.

And then it hit me:
Why not just make the current picture a little less frightening?

So there you go. As you can see, I put a bunny rabbit in it.

Because bunny rabbits are the least scary thing I could think of, unless you are a Monty Python fan, and then you realize that even rabbits are capable of despicable acts of violence.




So don’t even TRY to accuse me of not being nice to my readers, or I’ll be all “Oh no you DIH-ent” and refer you to this post.

Because I do it all for my fans.

Bonus Late Night Wednesday Post: Why The F*ck Am I Up?

So it's way past my bedtime on Wednesday night and I'm up. I blame the run I went on around 8:30 - messed me all up.

And then Brian...well...he sleeps with his eyes open. Sometmes.

I started really looking at him, snoozing away with his eyes half open, and I started laughing.

Nearly fell out of bed laughing so hard. It woke him up, but I couldn't explain it. I was laughing too hard.

Not sure why it's funny, but it is. Or, it was then, at least.

What does it all mean? I don't know, but 6:15 is gonna hurt, that's for sure.

In the meantime...I blog. Sorry for wasting your time.

Sweet dreams.

On Milo, And Regret

Milo the Destroyer of Worlds suckered me into leaving him out of his crate this morning. He was running laps like a GD maniac the whole time I was getting ready for work, and when I went to put him in his crate, he gave me this look like, “put me in that 2’ x 3’ cage one more time and so help me god, I’ll call the ASPCA on you.” And then he gave me the Bambi eyes:



Jesus Christ, how could you resist that?

So I swept through the house, picking up everything I though he would want to gnaw on/piss on/otherwise destroy. Unfortunately, I was unable to pick up the couch or any of the kitchen cabinets, but at least our shoes are safe.

I think.

The problem is, Milo is going through this phase where he thinks everything belongs to him. And unfortunately, he likes to chew on his belongings; Hey, you don't get the name Milo the Destroyer of Worlds for nothing. Last week, he destroyed 2 pairs of my shoes in a 24-hour period. I’ve been in mourning ever since. And this wood thing is ridiculous. He finds these chunks of wood lying around our fireplace, brings them on the couch, and proceeds to shred it to splinters. I know he eats some of it, because a lot of time his poop looks like mulch (yes, I look at his poop. It’s the easiest way to figure out how bad he’s been over the past 9 hours). But most of it gets left all over the couch for me to clean up. He's also taken a liking to the molding lately. And by liking, I mean that he scrapes his front teeth across it to remove the paint.

Ummm....WTF.

And when he's not chewing on wood or my Kenneth Cole Pumps, he's collecting things. Often times when he’s left alone or unattended, he runs around the house, gathering up anything he finds into a pile in the livingroom. Shoes, T-shirts, bras, unused tampons, plastic bags, DVDs…you name it, he’s relocated it. First it was cute. Then, it got a little weird, especially that time when he added not one but TWO of my brassieres to the pile. (He has a bra thing, and I’m not quite sure what that means). Now, it’s just really, really inconvenient.

And let’s not even discuss the battery scare we had this past weekend…

The last time I left him out for the entire span of a work-day, I came home to a pile that consisted of shredded paper that later turned out to be credit card bills, socks, his leash, two plastic bags, a roll of paper towels, a chew-toy, a pillow…and urine. I’m not sure if he peed on the pile, or if he piled the stuff on top of his pee, but either way, everything was soaked.

He is a bad, bad dog.

Of course, leaving him in his crate does not necessarily mean that everything is safe. Milo has figured out how to move the crate. I really don’t know how he does it, but I suspect it’s some sort of bouncing, scooting thing. The first time he did it, he had only moved a few inches—just close enough to pull a backpack strap in to the crate and gnaw it to bits. The next time he did it, he had moved across the kitchen. Shortly thereafter, I came home and found that I couldn’t open the front door. Milo had spun the crate around and backed it down the hallway until it was flat against the door. I swear, someday I’ll be driving home from work and see Milo, in his crate, hopping down route 70. Just you wait.

So yeah, he’s definitely a weird little dog, but part of me is just happy that he has so much personality. Adopting from a shelter is always a gamble, and even though he was just 4 months when we got him, a hard life can really suck the joy out of dogs.

Well, lucky for us, Milo is full of joy.

And urine.

And parts of my shoes.

And, after today, god knows what else.

I think I’m beginning to regret my decision….

When Stripping Goes Bad

Whoo, boy. This is embarassing.

Carmen Electra kicked my ass.

Well, Carmen Electra’s personal trainer kicked my ass.

Well, a DVD featuring Carmen Electra and Carmen Electra’s personal trainer kicked my ass.

It was all because I was about to work out in the basement with my Cardio Kickboxing DVD and Brian was all, “I think I have a Carmen Electra Strip Tease Workout DVD in the attic” and I was all, “Why in the hell do you have a strip tease workout DVD???” and he was all, "It was my Ex’s” and I was all, “I thought your Ex was an Ice Bitch. Why would she own a DVD like that?” and he was all, “That’s why it’s still in the original packaging.”

Is it wrong that I get a sick satisfaction from using stuff that used to belong to her?
It’s like, First I gotcho Man, and now I’m using your DVD, BEEYATCH

Not surprisingly, 4 out of 5 people surveyed think I should go back on Prozac.

Moving on…
He went up in the attic and I heard all this rummaging and thumping and suddenly this DVD falls from the hole in the ceiling like God was giving me a gift.

Except…this gift featured a torso and headshot of Carmen, photo-shopped to hell, standing amid a fluorescent rainbow filled with twinkling stars. As a result, her expression was one of someone who had taken a shit in their pants and was mildly upset about it, but not really, because their personal assistant would take care of the mess and wipe their ass for them. So they’re already over it and thinking about what they’re going to have for lunch.

See what I mean?

So, I take the DVD and go downstairs after threatening Brian with life and limb if he so much as thinks about going downstairs to watch me strip.

Because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I am a LADY, God-dammit.

After completing the 30-minute workout, I have three things to say about the aforementioned DVD.

1. Despite the fact that the DVD is called Fit to Strip, there was no stripping going on at any time during the workout. This is false advertising. At one point Brian came downstairs in direct defiance to my command because he had so-called laundry to do. Yeah, right buddy. I’m on to you. However, much to his chagrin, he was met only with a slightly sweaty woman doing crunches on her yoga mat. The disappointment was tangible. On both ends.

2. The workout itself was decent. Although I barely broke a sweat at the time, the next day, walking was mucho difficult. And I consider myself to be a reasonably fit person, so for me to work out for 30 minutes and be practically crying the next day…well…that’s something. However, I will give NONE of this credit to Carmen, because the DVD pretty much featured her personal trainer instructing us on what to do while she stood to his left, doing the exercises and complaining about how hard they were. I don’t even know why she bothered to show up for the taping.

3. If I ever, EVER, show up to work out in a pink velour sweat set sporting heavy make-up and pigtails, please kill me in the most violent way you can think of. Seriously. It's a proven fact that the older you are, the sluttier/trashier the pigtails are. Then again, what did I expect from a DVD sporting Carmen’s botoxed mug and (falsely) advertising about stripping? So in that sense, I guess the pigtails were appropriate, but if she was going for the slutty/trashy stripper look, she might as well have put on some booby tassels and stripper heels.

Then, at least I would have gotten a good chuckle watching her try to do lunges on 3 inches of lucite.

Bonus Monday "After Lunch" Post: There IS A God

I've been shopping around for a false idol for a while now. You know - something to worship and as my lord and savior. So far, nothing has really grabbed my attention.

Until lunchtime today.

Observe my new false idol, in all it's Santa Fe Style Glory:

Now Tastier? INDEED!

If anyone needs me, I'll be at the SmartOnes factory, sacrificing a goat.

(no, really, it's that good).

OMGWTFBBQ

Last night, I had a dream where the HR woman from work called me to say “we know you have a funeral to attend today, so we won’t expect to see you in the office.”

In the dream, I was about to state that they were misinformed and that nobody close to me had died, but quickly thought better of it and simply said, “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I was then suddenly filled with the elation that one feels when they have a sudden snow day or are otherwise unexpectedly excused from school/work/etc.

Then the alarm went off.
Son of a....

It was a horrible, HORRIBLE way to start a Monday, to be sure. But I will say that if someone in my family dies in the next week, I will officially declare myself as a Psychic Medium Extraordinaire and quit my day-job to host some hokey daytime TV show where I help people communicate with their dead loved ones.

OOH! OR…Better yet, I could take it the Jerry Springer route and help people ARGUE with their dead loved ones:

SHAQUAN: I want to tell my sister that I love her and I miss her…but he was my man first!
ME: Shaquan says that he don’t love you and she’s havin his baby.

*Shaquan throws a chair. Chaos ensues.

How awesome would that be? I’m officially copywriting that beeyatch.

And speaking of trash…Brian and I went down to Atlantic City this Saturday to do some shopping at the outlets and HOLY GOD were there some scary-looking folk walking around. There were obese people. There were ghetto-fabulous people. There were homeless people and crazy people and even one crossing guard who I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt was an alien. Now, why an alien would choose to come to Atlantic City and work as a crossing guard is beyond me, but there is no question that that man/woman/thing was not from this planet. I guess the economic recession has officially reached the outer recesses of our universe.

Thanks, Bush, you f*cking Texas ass-clown (Ya like that asterisk? That was for you, Mr. Apron. Now stop f*cking raining on my G*d-Damn parade).

But other than the freak show we were walking amongst, it was a nice day. A coworker met us for drinks in the afternoon and, honestly, is there anything more fun than daytime drinking?

Actually, the answer to that question is: Yes. The only thing more fun than daytime drinking is daytime drinking followed by daytime shopping. As a result, a green dress was purchased. I don’t remember what it looked like when I tried it on, but I do remember feeling fabulous, so it’s now in my closet. SWEET! And don’t hate on me for drinking and shopping – I’m sure I fit in nicely with the other women in the dressing rooms, three of which were having a loud conversation about someone’s Baby-Daddy who was sleeping with another member of their circle of friends.

I think.

It’s hard to be sure.

Unfortunately, Daytime Drinking and Daytime Shopping leads to the infamous Premature Hangover at 7:00 pm, so it was an early night for me. Sunday was, in a word, Awesome. Milo the Destructor let me sleep ‘till 8:00. The weather was gorgeous. Brian had a softball double-header and they won both games, which, I believe, is the first and second time they won this year. I also managed to make muffins without ruining them, which is about as likely as Brian’s softball team winning a game. And then there was the canoe ride, in which Milo the Destructor finally proved that he was worth rescuing from the shelter. Yeah, the odds were definitely in our favor yesterday.

And now it’s Monday and nobody in my family has died, so I’m stuck in this office writing Needs Assessments for acute coronary syndrome (or ACS, as we who are "in the know" refer to it as. And by in the know, what I actually mean is those of us who have no effing clue what they are doing but still somehow by the grace of God still have a job). Jesus, I’m so sick of acronyms. Everything in the medical world has an acronym. There are actually medical websites where you can type in an acronym to see what it really stands for. Most times, there are at LEAST 15 results. It’s so gay.

So here’s my acronym for the day:

OMGWTFBBQ.

It involves two exclamations, and a delicious way of preparing your food. It’s perfect.

Happy Monday, folks.

Bonus Sunday Night Post: The Bad Dog and the Sea

Milo the Destructor of Worlds has earned himself a new nickname: First Mate.

Our little man went on his first canoe ride tonight, and he handled it like a champ.

When Brian suggested we give it a try, I immediately envisioned a grappling match involving nails clawing into skin and limbs slipping through my grasp and, ultimately,a giant splash wherein Milo exits the canoe starboard and sinks like a rock. Milo, however, decided to be on his best behavior instead. I guess there's a first time for everything.

Observe:

Awww, here we are in the canoe together. Aren't we cute?
Like a f*cking Christmas card, over here.

This is honestly the first time I ever saw him sit so still for so long.

Again, sitting still. I swear, he was either hypnotized by the water, or having a petit mal seizure. Either way...awesome.

Too bad Jericho is a vagina and won't step foot on the dock if we even think about getting him in the canoe. I mean, I know we neutered him and all but seriously, that dog needs to grow a pair.

So this is pretty much what we have here at home:

What a team...

But....BUT ...at least one of them will get in the canoe now.

Small victories, people. Small victories.

Danger Is My Middle Name

Here’s why I’m an idiot:

Last winter I tried snowboarding for the first time. I was all about that shit - you can read about it here and here where I was all “snowboarding is the best thing in the world,” and “I am a snowboarding GOD” and then I actually pasted my head onto a picture of someone winning the X games for snowboarding, because I am nothing if not modest.

And then…I fell.
Hard.
Really hard.
Really, really hard.
Really really REALLY…okay you get the point.

I pretty much fell hard enough to give myself a distal radial fracture and wind up on the business end of a scalpel.
This was after the doctor walked into the exam room, threw my X-ray up on the screen and said, "Here is where the bone should be...and here is where yours is."

Nice.

One metal plate, seven screws, and a boatload of oxycontin later, I found myself laid up for 6 weeks while my wrist healed around my newly acquired hardware. Granted, it wasn’t all bad. Especially I discovered the magical land of short-term disability in which I was paid a handsome sum to sit around, watch TV, and have people wait on me hand and foot. Oh yes, sponge-baths were included. It was like a dream come true, except for the fact that I smelled because I couldn’t properly shower.

Or, at least, that was my excuse.

Anyway, after it happened, I kept hearing people say, “well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson and won’t try such a dangerous sport again.” And for a while, I really had learned my lesson. Hey, that break was CRAZY PAINFUL, and there were all these unanticipated consequences and repercussions, like my company scrambling to find a freelance writer, and Brian having to call out of work to stay home and take care of me. It’s not like when you’re 10 years old and breaking your wrist sucks only because you can’t go swimming; adult injuries are a more inconvenient.

That said, uhh…I’m ready to snowbard again?

Doesn’t Learn From Her Mistakes: Party of one

Sure it’s dangerous. But it’s fun. AND it’s a good work-out. AND it’s a great way to enjoy the outdoors in the winter time. So other than the remote chance that you could fall and injure yourself, I don’t really see a bad side. Plus, what are the chances of me seriously hurting myself two years in a row?

(Do me a solid and don’t answer that question)

This insistence of participating in dangerous pastimes seems to be a recurring theme in my life. I sustained numerous injuries from horseback riding while growing up, including a fractured ankle and a mangled face after a crazy horse clothes-lined me with a tree branch. And yet, I never learned from those mistakes either. As soon as I was better, I was right back in the saddle (I love when I can be figurative and literal at the same time).

Meanwhile, my parents were developing ulcers from constantly worrying about my safety. Aah, the joys of parenthood.

So this is me, in a nutshell. I get hurt and go right back out there as soon as I’m healed. I’m like some Pavlovian experiment gone horribly wrong.

Somewhere out there, a traumatic brain injury has my name written all over it. Luckily, the latest test results suggest that I’m boarderline retarded to begin with, so other than a decreased vocabulary and an excessive amount of drool, I don’t think anybody will notice a difference.

An Unsanitary Debate

Today's Confession:
I don’t always wash my hands after going to the bathroom

I’ll pause for a moment to allow the wave of horror to wash over you.
Ooh, feels kinda tingly...

There are a couple reasons for this:
1. I’m a lazy
2. No, seriously. I’m THAT LAZY
3. It hasn’t killed or otherwise negatively impacted me as of yet

Granted, I make an effort, especially when I feel that unnecessary contact has been made between my hands and something unpleasant, but it’s more often to appease modern-day etiquette than anything else (the aforementioned situation being an exception). I’d say that I wash about 10% of the time, rinse about 50% of the time, and mosey along the remaining 40% of the time.

I mean, I honestly have no idea how you people do it, but as a rule, I generally try not to go to the bathroom on my hands. I also try to generally avoid contact with said bodily waste by using toilet paper and resisting the urge to fling my feces at my coworkers. (Although we had a close call today - I won’t go in to details, but it involved the development of yet another standard operating procedure).

Here’s the thing. People have lived for thousands of years without those adorable pocket-sized bottles of Midnight Pomegranate Anti-bacterial Deep Cleansing Hand Gel from Bath and Body Works. Granted, their hands might have not smelled as Midnight Pomegranatey, but they survived, none the less. Hell, up until 1676, we didn’t even know that germs existed. Likewise, we as a species have spent century upon century handling animal excrement and raw meat and human sewage and all other sorts of nastiness. Did some people die? Absolutely. But obviously more people lived than died, otherwise we wouldn’t have this adorable little overpopulation crisis that we have today.



So, if the majority of people survived long enough to reproduce despite the Germ-Fest Extravaganza going on on their digits, then why, exactly, should I soap up every time I take a tinkle? It’s the question I ask myself every time I hit the Ladies’ Room, and I more often than not give a half-hearted rinse and go about my business. Sometimes I don’t even go as far as to rinse at all. As a result, nobody has died. Nobody has gotten sick. Nobody has noticed my lack of hygiene and hit fire alarm, causing my coworkers to race from the building as if we just had a HazMat spill.

We have a code fuchsia. I repeat, we have a code fuchsia. One of your coworkers has not washed her hands. Please move to the nearest exit in a calm and orderly fashion.

Likewise, I am hesitant to slather myself in antibacterial substances. To me, there is nothing more futile than trying to keep germs off of your hands. The minute you touch something, you’ll be covered in millions of those little suckers again. In case you haven’t heard, they’re everywhere. So unless you want to walk around like a zombie with your arms stretched out in front of you and your hands waving in the air, antibacterial gel isn’t really going to keep your hands germ-free. Not to mention the fact that antibiotic resistance is a raging epidemic in this country. Ever heard of MRSA? If not, you will soon, because at the rate that we’re using broad-spectrum antibiotics, most bacteria will have developed some sort of resistance in the near future, and we will be S.C.R.E.W.E.D.

And despite my unsanitary lifestyle, I’m as healthy as the next guy. Perhaps even a little more so. I successfully dodged one stomach bug and two respiratory ailments that were passed around the office this winter. My manager, who uses antibacterial gel at lest 4 times a day, got sick. Twice. This little fact proof enough for me that circumventing the soap dispenser when I leave the bathroom is not going to get me killed.

So go ahead and get grossed out if you want. Refuse to shake my hand or share my drink like I have the HIV or some shit.
That’s fine. I hate sharing my stuff anyway.
But I gotta tell you, the germs and me? We’re chillin’. We’re hanging out and drinking margaritas by the pool and everything is copasetic. I don’t attack them, and they don’t attack me. It’s all very zen.

Besides, germs are just another government conspiracy, right?

Just A Quickie (and lord knows we all love quickies...)

I received several comments stating that my new blog header picture is frightening.

I won't point out anyone in particular, but I will say that Carrie and Anya should probably wear diapers, because they must clearly piss their pants out of fear on a regular basis ;-)

(just kidding. Carrie and Anya are my only readers. I love them.)

That said...maybe it is a little scary. It's actually a picture Brian took of me when we stayed in the Ice Hotel. I associate it with being goofy and possibly drunk off of several shots of tequila drunk out of ice glasses. But...I supposed others might associate it with Edvard Munch's The Scream, which is decidedly less fun than drunken merriment.

The only natural solution to this dilemma is to vote on it. If only there were some mechanism on Blogger in which I could collect people's votes....

Oh wait...THERE IS!!!!

Please refer to the new poll on the right. Then, exercise your right to have an opinion by voting. Then, go buy me a present, because it's a rainy Thursday and I sure could use a pick-me-up.

That is all.

Wednesday Happenings

Hey there, chitlins!
Happy Wednesday! Two more days left, people...hang in there.


Got a couple of quick mentions today, so we’re going to do this bullet-style. Shut your face – you love it!

• First off, I have a guest blog over at Pretty How Town where I spill the guts on a pretty big secret. Intrigued? Go check it out. It’s worth your while.


• Second off, you might have noticed that I changed the look of the blog just a little bit. I found this button called “Add a Gadget” in the customization section of Blogger and Holy Shit I kind of went crazy a little. A poll? On my blog? Yes, please. And while I was doing that, I noticed that the general vibe of my blog was this whole innocent “getting-through-life” thing, which is great for some people, but seems out of place here considering the bizarre and downright offensive posts I tend to leave up. What it pretty much comes down to is that at one point, I think I intended for my readers to respect me. Yeah, I laughed a little just writing that. Hence the newer descriptors and pictures that I feel better capture what my blog is about. Whatever that might be. Your guess is as good as mine.


• And speaking of polls...I’m not sure if mine is actually working right. And it couldn’t POSSIBLY be because I signed out of my account and tried to vote several times anonymously to make it seem like people actually read my blog. No way. I’d never stoop to so low. So, go ahead and vote, and then let me know if it worked. Because I’m lonely. So, so lonely.


• Finally, I now have an email address for this blog: tapdancinginthedark@yahoo.com. I dunno...other people were doing it, so I though I’d do it too. Feel free to email me and tell me how much you love my blog and it’s like oxygen to you and you can’t go a day without it and you spend all weekend longing for the return of Monday so that you can once again be enthralled by my staggering intellect and dry wit. Or, feel free to email me and tell me that there’s something in my teeth. Just don’t hate-email me or so help me god I will hunt you down and kill your loved ones in front of you.

Thanks a bunch, guys! Toodles!