Storytime

All this urine talk has reminded me of another story.

The Story Of My Bad-Ass Friend

Folks, I want to tell you a story about my friend.

You see, a long time ago, my friend used to smoke certain green plants that had certain…enjoyable…side-effects. After all, my friend was in college, which is a natural time for experimentation, and having so few adult responsibilities, my friend perhaps partook in this activity a little too often.

Unfortunately, during her senior year, my friend was struck down with a terrible case of mono. As a result, the summer that my friend was supposed to graduate from college, she was forced to take a class that she had dropped due to her medical condition. During this summer, she also accepted an internship at a company that launched her career in to what it is today.

My friend turned out to be a good, honest, reliable worker. All that summer, she studied diligently while attending to her interning responsibilities with precision. At the end of that summer, when she received her degree, she was also offered a permanent position with the company.

Great success.

The day her title was transferred from Intern to Editorial Assistant was a happy one. She signed all the documents and was about to be on her way, when the HR woman stopped her at the door. It was at this point that the woman uttered the sentence that would send my friend into a panic of epic proportions:

“As part of company policy, we’re also going to need you to take a drug test.”

You see, my friend, while having limited her intake of the above green plant, had not stopped entirely. Having partook in this recreational activity over the past weekend, any drug test was sure to result in positive findings, at which point she would be immediately terminated.

Knowing she was required to report to the drug testing facility the next morning, my friend spent the rest of the day in agony, wracking her brain for a solution. At long last, she developed a plan. With one fated phone call, she took the reins of her destiny and set a course that, while daring, would result in an employer that was none-the-wiser to her recreational habits.

That night, her sister arrived at her apartment. They spent the evening assembling a container, hand-warming packets, and blue painter’s tape, and waited fitfully for the morning.

At first light, with an understanding not between siblings, my friend’s sister took the container and headed to the bathroom. Moments later she reappeared with a fresh sample of urine that was, above all, uncontaminated by drugs. After frantically assembling the container and hand-warming packets in a travel-safe container, my friend left for the drug testing facility.

It was a long drive. My friend, terrified of being caught, ran the scenario over and over in her head. Pale and shaking, she arrived at the facility. Noting the time and recognizing that she only had about 15 minutes before the sample in the container would cool to a suspicious temperature, she hurriedly attached the container and its contents to her inner-calf with the blue painter’s tape, and pulled her pants leg back down, hiding the evidence.

Then, taking a deep breath, she marched into the office.

In the waiting room, she signed in and was told to wait to be called. Trying to be cool, she opened a magazine and appeared to read, all the while watching the clock and wrestling with the icy fear that gripped her.

But luck was on her side.

Within 5 minutes, her name was called. Heart racing, she was lead to a large bathroom and instructed to place her purse in the lock box that was assembled next to the toilet. Trying to keep the nurse from noticing her quaking hands, she surrendered her purse and watched, on the edge of hysteria, as the nurse left the bathroom.

Her body surged with adrenaline. Immediately, she sprung into action. With the stealth of an international spy, she removed the container from her leg and swiftly poured the contents into the waiting sample cup. Hands trembling, she closed the lid to both containers and used an extra piece of tape, thoughtfully wound around the original container that morning, to re-secure it to her leg. Checking around her for signs of evidence, she gave the toilet a triumphant flush and emerged from the bathroom breathless. As she handed the cup and its contents, a balmy 98.6 degrees, to the waiting nurse, a wave of relief washed over her.

It was done.

A few days passed, with no word from the drug testing facility. Breathing a sigh of relief, my friend realized that she had gotten away with her plan, but she could have very well failed, and life could have lead her down a very different path. She was grateful for her luck, and vowed never to mess with the substance again.

Well, except for the occasional house party.

And on April 20th, natch.

The End

That was my friend’s most bas-ass moment to be sure. While she’s learned her lesson, she says that she’s actually grateful for the experience. She says that sometimes, life is all about taking risks...
As long as you have a sibling that is willing to donate their bodily fluids for you.

Have a great weekend, everybody!

Bonus Thursday Post: Urine, In a Cup, In a Box

And speaking of time on my hands....here's another post!

So, this 3-week stint in Antibiotic Hell has left me with a few...ahem...Lady Problems (guys, seriously, you might just want to skip down to the next paragraph). Without going into too much detail, let’s just say that normal microflora have been killed off, making room for other types of microflora to flourish. Like the Garden of Fucking Eden (gross). While this has been wholly irritating and rather inconveniencing for bedroom-type activities, as far as I can tell, it’s back under control, thanks to the grace of god, a back-ally exorcist, and two round of fluconazole.

And just where, you might ask, does one find a back-ally exorcist?
Only in New Jersey, my friends. Only in New Jersey.

(Keep skipping down, guys) And now, another super fun side effect of long-term antibiotic therapy has reared it’s ugly head: the infamous UTI.
Apparently, intensive antimicrobial treatment can actually increase your risk of a UTI, despite the fact that you’re taking the very agent typically prescribed to TREAT said condition.

Go figure

(Guy safe from here on out, I pinky swear)
So, I call my doctor this morning and explain my situation and pretty much demand a different antibiotic to treat this most recent medical malady. The thing about my doctor is, I go to him because he pretty much just gives me whatever I need. He is fully aware that I’m a bright, educated woman working in the fringes of the medical field, and normally trusts my judgment when it comes to diagnosing my own conditions (hence the Lyme test despite lack of definable symptoms).

I’m all, “Give me the drugs, bitch”
And he’s all, “Yes ma’am”
And I’m all, “Now go make me a sandwich”

This time?
No dice.

He says something about how I have a strain that is obviously already resistant to a broad-spectrum antibiotic, so he really needs to test it to see what’ll work against it...blah blah blah

And I’m all, “Not even a sandwich?”
And he’s all, “Don't make me have to smack a bitch”

In other words, he wants me to come in to the office. But I’m, like, negative PTO right now (especially after that Monday Migraine Madness), and can’t really just up and leave my job to pee in a cup for the guy.

The receptionist suggested that I come in early in the morning, but they don’t open until 8:30 and I have to be at work at 8:45, so that obviously won't work.

And then she says,
“Well, you could get a sample earlier and, like, leave it in a box outside the door.”

So, if you told me this morning that I would spend tomorrow morning leaving urine, in a cup, in a box, outside of my PCP’s office, I’d never believe you.

But that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly what I’ll be doing.

The Rat Race, Or Lack Thereof

Oh my god, somebody please put me out of my misery.

I try to not talk about my job on this blog, if for no other reason than I fear accidentally saying something that lands me in an office with my manager, the company owner, and the HR department. Because let’s face it, we all know that I lack both foresight and a mental filter to edit out my most horrendous inner thoughts, which is never a good combination when you’re talking about the institution that hands you a bi-monthly paycheck.

And yet, I’m about to talk about my job.
I must be either that stupid or that brave.

Or that frustrated.

Yeah, I’ll go with frustrated (that stupid is a given, anyway).

Things have been a little…slow…around the office.
And I don’t mean slow as in, my deadlines allow for plenty of time to create quality educational content

I mean slow as in, endless perusing of blogs and ICanHasCheezburger in a desperate attempt to fill the hours between 8:45 and 5:00.

(Aside: I may be starting to think in LOLspeak. And pray to Ceiling Cat).

Oh, sure, it was fun at first. The Internet was my oyster. I started updating regularly in Facebook and checking Craigslist for free stuff and doing all the other things I dreamed about doing online (with the exception of porn, sadly, but for obvious reasons).

But then it was July and I hadn’t had any projects to speak of for the better part of a month, and I was starting to wonder just where the heck is all the work, for cryin’ out loud?!?

We had a big layoff in March. We lost 15% of our workforce in one ugly afternoon while I was in my living room blissfully unaware playing Rollercoaster Tycoon while out on short-term disability. Of course, nobody bothered to tell me about it until I checked my work email 3 days later and found an ominous email from the owner of the company talking about “low morale” and “moving forward from here.” (thanks for keeping me in the loop, guys).

So while I was happy to be one of the ones who still had a job, it was definitely a warning sign. The first, of many to come, it seems.
In this week’s status meeting, a program manager mentioned that she had CDs that needed labeling and if anybody had free time, she wouldn’t mind the help.

Much to my chagrin, every single department volunteered.

So as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been imagining what other jobs I could potentially be a candidate for while wasting away the hours at work.

I’ve narrowed my fallback plan to either a stripper, or an assassin.

I think either one could work well with my complete lack of morals or values (although I’d need to get into better shape for either profession, I suspect).

And I know I shouldn’t be complaining about my job while other people would KILL to be employed right now, but seriously, how long can a person entertain oneself browsing You Tube and putting together grocery lists?

So every day I come to work I’m bored and anxious, pricing thongs, and wondering how much money somebody would have to pay me to take out a coworker. We’d better get some business and get it QUICK, or I might soon be in the market for some pasties and an AK-47.

Which sounds cool and all, but what would I tell my mother?

Healthy Lifestyle, My Ass

This morning, I packed cottage cheese for breakfast and a chicken-salad sandwich, sliced red pepper, and stick of low-fat, low-sodium cheese for lunch.

And then I stabbed the knife I was using directly into my temple, because I suddenly realized that life is just not worth living if the calories in my lunchbox are lower than my IQ.

(I can totally see that embroidered on a pillow)

When I was married to the Ex, I was an exercise freak. I spent 2 hours a night, 6 nights a week at the gym, because quite frankly doing 500 crunches was still less painful then trying to cohabitate with that D-bag.

As a result, I was left with a severe bout of depression and a 6-pack of abs.

So, yeah, I was sad. But I was ripped.

Now? I’m significantly happier…and significantly less ripped.

Can’t have your cake and eat it too, I guess.
Or…maybe that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to end up too large for the majority of my jeans?

When life gives you a second chance, frost that bitch up and eat it.
(I don’t even know what that means).

So, after hitting a low point this weekend when I ingested 3 donuts, 2 slices of Mack & Manco’s Pizza, and a block of fudge the size of my head (in a matter of 6 hours), I decided that it was time to get my life back on track.

I’ve traded wings and quesadillas for fruits and vegetables, and reset my alarm clock for that terrible, horrible hour of 6:00am wherein I drag my flubby ass to the gym to remind my muscles that they’re capable of more than just transporting me to the nearest Rita’s Water Ice stand.

For the record, I think my muscles have amnesia.

Last night, Brian commented on my recent eating and exercising habits (otherwise known as Operation Gulag Labor Camp ’09), saying how great it was that I was trying to live a healthier lifestyle.

And I was all, “Healthy What? I just want to look good naked.”

Because let’s be honest - isn’t that what we’re all really trying to accomplish here?

A Shore Thing

I must be getting soft in my old age.

I’ve long been known to voice my distain of the typical suburbanite lifestyle, with its plasma-screen TVs and mini-vans sporting DVD players and trips to the local fast-food vendor to ingest items full of grease and salt and other forms of sundry nastiness born from $1.00 “beef” patties.

I’ve also been quick to judge those whose annual vacation reliably consist of a rented beach condo at “NJ Beach X” wherein said vacationer spends a week drinking Miller Lite and nursing bad cases of sunburn and acid reflux contracted from overindulgence of every kind.

To put it in street terminology, I’m a Hater (say it loud, say it proud).

So yeah, I’m quick to voice (internally) a snarky comment like, “Geeze, you couldn’t think of something more original to do?” or “Wow, that predictable” when people discuss their latest adventures at the NJ shore. And come vacation time, you can usually find me retreating in the exact opposite direction to avoid the crowds and maintain my belief that The Path Less Traveled (complete with the uncertainty that accompanies unknown territory) will undoubtedly lead spiritual enrichment of a higher quality.

That said, I’m not above being tempted back to the shore on the promise of freshly made donuts and perhaps an amusement park ride.

Like a carrot dangling in front of a horse, I was lead to the car at the unthinkable hour of 7:00 am (on a Saturday, no less!) while visions of baked goods and thrill rides danced in my head.

And I must admit that despite the crowds and despite the commercialism and despite the overindulgence encouraged at every turn, I had a thoroughly enjoyable visit to the Jersey Shore on Saturday.

But don’t quote me on it.

Apparently, riding a bike on the boardwalk in the early morning can be utterly delightful when accompanied by cool ocean breezes and, as promised, half a dozen freshly made donuts that are crispy on the outside and smooshy on the inside and still hot from the fryer.

Apparently, lying on the sand with the warm sun on your skin is lovely, particularly after a refreshing dip in the ocean. Yes, there are people everywhere, but despite my preconceptions, not all of them are loud, rude and obnoxious. Many of them are sleeping.

Apparently, when taken in small doses, the board walk can be fun. Despite a relentless affront to one's sense of personal space, the festive atmosphere that often accompanies people on vacation is contagious. And a spinny, flippy, hurly amusement park rides are sometimes the best way to cap off an afternoon of fun in the sun.

And I really like fudge, so there’s that…

I returned from the shore at the end of the day, wind-blown, sun-burned, gritty, and slightly nauseous, with fudge in hand and a sleepy smile on my face. It seems that having a great day will produce the same dirty, exhausted result whether you're 7 or 27. Fun is timeless.

So I guess you could say that I kind of, sort of get the hype that surrounds the New Jersey coastline. That’s not to say that you won’t find me on the nearest mountain or in the recesses of some foriegn country come my next vacation, but for a little short-lived instant gratification, the shore just can’t be beat.

Hello, my name is Lily, and I don’t hate the beach.

A Service Announcement From Your Local Blogger

You've reached the blog-mail of Lily, world-renound author of Tapdancing In The Dark and lover of all things PB&J (except for that failed attempt by Tastykake, which was truly a monstrosity).

Lily has been struck down with a migraine of epic proportions. As far as she can tell, red-hot ice-picks are being inserted directly into her brain.

As a result, she will not be able to write a blog post today. Or do anything else worth mentioning.

Please stop by tomorrow for more regularly scheduled mayhem.
(unless there's no post tomorrow either, at which point you should assume she took her own life in a desperate attempt to end the pain).

Thanks,
Mgmt
Tapdancing In The Dark

Happiness, Dalai Lama-Style

Sitting at work, wondering (again) how I would fill my hours until the blessed start of the weekend, I began perusing the NY Times.

This is a habit I have only picked up recently, mostly because the stupid updated web filter here at work has decided that D-listed, a celebrity gossip site that is truly hysterical, is suddenly not work-appropriate (not that I’m one for celebrity gossip, but I’ll take the rantings of a foul-mouthed Hispanic gay man any day of the week).

I suppose I’m better off for it, more educated and up-to-date on the latest politics and current affairs and whatnot, but I can’t help but wonder what Michael K, author of D-listed, would have to say about Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson’s most recent fall-out.

Regardless…

I stumbled across this article today discussing the Dalai Lama’s pragmatic approach to happiness. I’ve always been interested in Buddhism (as a philosophy, not a religion), and have found that the principles of this philosophy/religion are often align with my personal beliefs on how life ought to be lived.

The Middle Path and all that jazz…(Erin, we need to talk girl)

The article was fascinating, but I found myself stuck on a particular paragraph outlining the differences between happiness and pleasure, unhappiness and suffering:

"Happiness is not pleasure, [Buddhists] know, and unhappiness, as the Buddhists say, is not the same as suffering. Suffering — in the sense of old age, sickness and death — is the law of life; unhappiness is just the position we choose — or can not choose — to bring to it."

I was really struck with the opposing definitions of these words. “Happy” and “sad” can define a mental state that is, according to the Dalai Lama, completely divergent from one’s physical state of “pleasure” and “suffering.” When you think about it – really think about it – what he’s saying is that your physical condition does not necessarily have to dictate your mental condition.

And that’s some pretty powerful stuff.

You see dirty, smelly chickens. I see dinner.

As someone who was once “depressed” (in so far as my therapist prescribed me little blue pills that were supposed to make me better), it’s almost inconceivable to think that people have control over their moods. I certainly didn’t choose to be depressed, but getting out of bed was a challenge, nonetheless. But to think that we can be happy - truly happy - despite what’s going on around us is a message that is both uplifting and empowering.

But (and there’s always a but)….it takes work.

As the author of the article says later on,

"…happiness is within the reach of almost anyone. We can work on it as we work on our backhands, our soufflés or our muscles in the gym."

I think the message is that you can’t just sit around and wait to magically feel happy again. You have to take action; choose to feel happy and do what it takes to make it happen. Maybe it’s all about appreciating what you DO have instead of focusing on what you DON’T have. Maybe it’s all about seeing your life from a new perspective. Is it a state-of-mind thing or a remove-yourself-from-a-bad-situation thing? I honestly don't have the answer – I’m pretty new at this stuff and am probably in no position to lend advice.

But the Dalai Lama’s message is that, at the end of the day, whether you have to move across the country or simply appreciate the way the light shines through the window in the morning, happiness is everywhere. It’s a renewable resource, and it’s accessible to every single person out there.

You just have to know where to look.



So I hope that everyone has a great weekend.

It's Friday, y'all - And if that isn't a happy thought, I don't know what is ;-)

You Had Me At Beer

Brian says he loved me from the moment he met me. I’m pretty sure he just says that to get in my pants, but it’s sweet, none the less.

Whether it’s true or not, I don’t really care (and lets be honest, it’s really not that hard to get in my pants in the first place). What I DO know is there was one moment, early in our relationship, where he looked at me with pure love in his eyes for the first time.

We had just made love in the surf, with the waves crashing around us and…

Okay, lol. Just kidding. You can get arrested for that kind of stuff, yanno.

We were actually in his garage. I don’t remember what we were out there for, exactly, but we were picking our way around the golf clubs and lacrosse sticks and tiki torches and mounds of cardboard intended for recycling. As I daintily stepped over some squashed cardboard containers, I pointed to a Troegs six-pack holder lying on the ground and said “Ooh, that’s a great beer.”

Well, I’ll tell ya, his head couldn’t have snapped up any faster if I had just said “oops, I just got my white T-shirt all wet and I’m not wearing any underwear.” He looked at me with an intensity I had never seen before and said in a dangerously controlled voice,

“Are you serious?”

Wondering if I had somehow offended him, I confirmed my previous statement.

And then, there it was.
BAM.

He was all dopey with love (I think I heard angles singing).

Brian says that finding a woman who likes backpacking and rock climbing and dogs and is reasonably attractive is hard to find, but finding a woman who likes backpacking and rock climbing and dogs and is reasonably attractive and likes beer is like finding a winning lottery ticket.

I swear, he’s always trying to get in my pants.

Truth is, I fully believe that a well-brewed beer can be as complex and 3-dimensional as a good wine. And lord knows I’ve had enough beer and wine to fully validate this theory.

In honor of the discovery of another truly spectacular beer last night, I though I’d present to you a few of my favorites. Now, as you read this list, keep in mind that A) I’m a fan of flavored beer, and B) I’m a girl, which means that any of these beers could potentially be viewed as “girly” beers (although I’ve had confirmation from various male counterparts that they are spectacular, regardless of your gender).

You’ve been warned (you sexist pig)

So here it is,
Lily’s Top Beer Picks of 2009

1. The Kaiser (Avery)
I met The Kaiser when Brian and I were hosting an Oktoberfest beer tasting of no less than 32 different beers. So for this beer to stand out among 31 other blind taste-tests really speaks to its character. It pours dark amber with a significant head (yeah, that’s what she said). It contains heavy notes of smoke, caramel and malt, and it’s sweet in a way that’s not overbearing. It’s definitely not for pounding. Drink it in a dark, dank tavern somewhere in Europe after your girlfriend left you for a Swedish exchange student named Sven and you just realized that your bike got stolen. And then have a few sips and realize that life is about the journey, and chalk it up to a good story. Then get yourself a good prostitute and a bag of hashish and sex/smoke your problems away. Just make sure you finished your beer first, because it’s really, really good.

2. Silk Lady (Dick’s) (Would you believe I couldn't find a picture of the label online? For shame!)
This is the only beer on my list that wasn’t purchased in the greater South Jersey area. I sampled this beer in Washington state in a hotel room at the base of Mount Rainier. This was, maybe, 3 or 4 years ago, and I only had two bottles. But I still remember how good it tasted. Granted, beer tastes better when you’ve just hiked an awesome trail on the Olympic peninsula and you’re about to hike an even better trail up to the Tahoma Glacier on Mount-freaking-Rainier, and wow, I can’t even believe that I’m here, but in the meantime you’ve had a lovely shower and are guaranteed a good night’s sleep in a real bed (with pillows and everything). So yeah, there might be some bias. But the beer is really quite lovely. Hazy and yellow, with lots of melon and citrus and coriander in a Belgian yeast base. De-LIGHTFUL. If you’re planning a trip to Washington State, let me know so we can coordinate some sort of purchase and retrieval deal, because alcohol shipping laws in the U.S. suck my balls.

3. Summer Solstice Cerveza Crema (Anderson Valley)
This beer is just flat out awesome. We own, literally, cases of the stuff. Every time we bring it to a party, someone inevitably grabs one, and then I watch them like a creep-o while they open it, take a sip, and immediately do this thing where they furrow their brows and stare at the label because it caught them completely off guard. It’s just…good. Sweet and spicy and malty and completely balanced. And we never get sick of it, which is really saying something. Of note, Anderson Valley also makes a Winter Solstice beer around that is equally tasty, so they’ve got you covered year ‘round. And we appreciate that.

Editors note: I looked this beer up and someone reviewed it and said they could taste, “Notes of creamed corn and roasted marshmallow.” Lol. Some people take beer tasting WAY too seriously!

4. Crème Brulee Imperial Milk Stout (Southern Tier)
This is my most recent discovery, which prompted me to write this blog. The label said it was “brewed with real vanilla beans” and I LOVES me some vanilla, so I picked it up. Wow. Vanilla indeed. The minute I opened it, I could smell the vanilla. It actually smelled so strong that it ruined Brian’s beer for him (“Mine just doesn’t smell as good as yours”). The taste was, in a word awesome, although it poured jet-black and has an intimidating structure to it. It’s definitely not a summer beer, and don’t plan on drinking more than a glass or two, because it sits in your stomach like a Stout-y rock and you could potentially vom, which would truly be a waste of this beer. Also, because of the strong flavor, I’m contemplating cooking with it. I’m brilliant.

5. Cherry Wheat (Sam Adams)
I had to put this one down because of all the beers I’ve tasted in the7 years since I’ve turned 21 (plus the 4-some-odd years before I turned 21), I keep coming back to this one. It’s like visiting an old friend who is guaranteed to be a good time, whether you’re sober or not. I can drink anywhere between 1 and 8 of these bad boys and enjoy every sip. Of course, after I’ve had a few, the subtle flavors of this beer are somewhat lost (kind of like my dignity), but either way, I’m having a good time. Also, it’s available in practically every liquor store in the state, so…bonus! When in doubt, grab a 6-pack of cherry wheat. It’ll never let you down, and it tastes as good coming up as it does going down. Trust me.

So there you have it. Five of my favorite beers, in no particular order.
Cheers!

Tapdancing In The Dark asks that you enjoy these beverages responsibly.

And by responsibly, we mean that you shouldn’t drive if you’ve had, like a bajillion of them, and you should always use a condom, because there are some SCARY STDs out there (we’ve heard. Not that we’ve ever had any)
Remember: No glove, no love.

Poop

The last 24 hours have been poop-tastic.

I am aware that adding “tastic” to the end of this word implies that I’m done being grumpy about the situation and have essentially moved on.

Rest assured, this is not the case.

A friend of mine spent the night on Monday night. Because we like to be somewhat gracious hosts, we did not make her sleep on the floor. Instead, we plopped a twin mattress in one of the two spare bedrooms that we have at our disposal, otherwise known as the junk room and the cats’ room. We put her in the junk room, because we assumed she didn’t want to sleep with her nose mere inches from a litter box.

Because we’re considerate like that.

But I forgot that Milo, in his weird and twisted logic, had long-ago decided that since going to the bathroom on the floor is wrong, then going to the bathroom on things that are on the floor is – somehow – less wrong (RIP Jericho’s dog bed and my slippers).

Essentially, Milo went out of his way to poop on this mattress. Luckily, my friend wasn’t in it at the time, but still…that’s entirely inappropriate.

That was last night.

This morning, after Brian had gone to work and Milo had been kicked out of the bedroom for doing his flip flop kick thing, I woke up to another pile of poop. At least this one was on the floor by the front door, but at 7:30 in the morning, that small blessing was somehow lost on me.

After screaming at Milo and threatening to sell him to the first tribe of gypsies that passes by (what, you don’t get gypsy tribes passing through?), the dogs that had decided to *not* shit on the floor had to go out. Yes, dogS. We’re watching Brian’s parent’s beagle while they’re up in Vermont for the week. Bandit-the-beagle is a pain in the ass for many, many reasons. One of those reasons is that he needs to be put on a leash when he’s outside. Brian swears he’s pretty good off of a leash, but I’m not trying to be put in that awkward situation where one is forced to explain to one’s future In-Laws how their beloved dog got pancaked on Route 70.

So out we go, Bandit towing me along while he sniffs out an appropriate place to take a dump.

Unbeknownst to me, Bandit tows me through a pile of dog doo.

I finally figured it out, but that was after I had come inside and tracked dog shit into practically every room in the house.

Realizing this shit-tastrophy, I took off my shoes only to see that the shit kind of squelched up the instep of one. My shoe, being made of some sort of suede/microfiber material, appears to be ruined.

I really, really loved those shoes.

So, my favorite pair of shoes are ruined and there’s dog poop everywhere and I was supposed to leave for work 5 minutes ago.

And then I can’t find the paper towels, because they were removed from their holder last night to clean up poop incident #1. For a moment I thought that we were actually out of paper towels, and I was this close to going on a murder-suicide spree that would include one dog of unknown breeding and yours truly.

[Note: at this point, I might actually be crying a little bit. Hormones are a wonderful thing]

Paper towels in hand, glancing frantically at the clock, I start cleaning the poop trail (which will henceforth be referred to as The Trail of Tears). In my haste to clean up the poop, it gets all over my hands and even under my nails.

I am not a person to be grossed out easily, but seriously? GROSS GROSS GROSS!!!

So that was my morning.
It’s a miracle I’m even at work, because I was considering spending the rest of the day in my underwear pounding bottles of cheap wine and watching the Lifetime Network.

But where Milo is, poop will follow, so I guess I’m glad I decided to come to work after all.

It may be a monotonous, depressing environment, but as far as I can tell, work is a DOG SHIT-FREE ZONE.

Now BULL SHIT...that's a whole different story.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease

...if by "squeaky" you mean "annoying as shit" and by "grease" you mean "free fucking food"

About a week ago, I was feeling a little cracked out. I don’t know if it was the Lyme disease coursing through my veins or some sort of dessert-associated euphoria, but I got all salty about my Tastykake of choice and felt the need to air my grievances to someone other than the cat (who is always too busy licking her lady bits to give two shits about my problems, which is why I’m a dog person).

You see, my Lyme diagnosis had me feeling pretty down, mostly because I was having a hard time standing upright. Brian, the loving boyfriend that he is, picked up two boxes of Tastykakes while at the store to put a smile on my face.

LOVE that man.

I don’t have a picture of it, but the Butterscotch Krimpet box had the Phillies logo plastered all over it. It was some sort of Pillies-themed, special-edition Butterscotch Krimpet hotness that initially had me wondering A) if the box was designed to commemorate the World Series, and B) what exactly the shelf-life of these bad boys are, because the Phillies won the world series, like, last October or some shit.

Assuming the Krimpets were packed with more preservatives than Cheese Wiz, I decided to stay the course. After all, these are Tastykakes we’re talking about here. So I opened the box and pulled out a package, and was surprised when it looked like this:



That is to say, normal. It looked like your average, every day Butterscotch Krimpet. I kind of looked back and forth between the fancy-schmancy box the the plain ole’ Krimpet a few times and decided that I was disappointed.

So disappointed, in fact, that I emailed the TastyKake headquarters (and really, are you that surprised?)

This is what I wrote:

Dear Tastykake
I want to start off by saying that I'm a huge fan. Seriously. I've actually told people that I will work for Tastykakes. THAT is how much of a fan I am of your products.
So when I saw your Phillies Butterscotch Krimpets, I was tickled because, hey, everybody loves variety. I was delighted with the package.
But when I opened the package, I saw that the butterscotch krimpets looked the same. Not that there's anything wrong with how they look, but when it says Phillies all over the box, you kind of expect for them to look a little different. I mean, would it kill you to put a red stripe on them or something? It can't possibly cost that much to add some food coloring to the icing. I dunno. It's just a little thing, but it would make a huge difference. From now on, might I suggest that when you advetise your products as some sort of "special edition" foodstuff, you actually change the appearance of the product somehow.
And while I have your attention, I might as well let you know that the PB&J tastykakes were god-awful. Seriously. I don't know who approved the sale of those monstrosities, but somebody needs to get fired for it. Exactly how many test-tasters were harmed in the making of those things? I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth for hours. HOURS. Just talking about it makes me dry heave a little.

Other than that, your products rock.
Keep on keepin' on.
Sincerely, A (rather opinionated) hardcore fan.

A few days ago, I had completely forgotten about the email (and my name, addresss, and whether or not I had remembered to wear pants to work), when I got a letter in the mail from Tastykake! I got all excited because I’m, like, 6 years old apparently.

This is what it said (my personal interpretations are in red)

Dear Lillian
Thank you for letting us know about your experience with our Tastykake products [Because you don’t just eat Tastykakes; you experience them]. We appreciate both the complimentary and critical comments from our consumers [we acknowledge that you just totally bitched us out but we have to be nice to you because the customer is always right]. Consumers like you help us to continue to work towards better products [we actually hate consumers like you]. Our goal is to deliver exceptional quality, everyday, in every Tastykake we make [if you knew what was in our Tastykakes, you would never eat one again]. We take this commitment very seriously [except for that time when the CEO’s brother-in-law, Ted, came up with the idea for PB&J Krimpets, for which we apologize profusely].

We do our utmost to bring a product to the consumer market that is pleasing to all [it’s all about the Benjamins]. We do understand that occasionally a product does not always satisfy [Nobody liked our PB&J Krimipets. Ted was fired]

Thank you for bringing this to our attention [Don’t ever write to us again]. Please use the enclosed coupon to replace you product with the Tastykake of your choice with our compliments [If you promise to never bother us again, we’ll give you a free Tastykake, fatty]. If you should have further questions or comments, please call our toll-free number 1-800-24-TASTY between the hour of 800 a.m. – 4:00 p.m [But don't actually call. We cannot emphasize this enough].

In summation, any company that supplies me with coupons for free shit is okay in my book. So Tastykake has retained a customer for life, and in return, I will continue to devour their product on a near-daily basis.

It’s a beautiful, beautiful relationship.

But seriously, don’t look at the ingredients.

Nonexistant Recap and Potential Kidnapping

From what I remember of the soccer game, it was a blast.

Saturday was a whirlwind of athletic activities combined with heavy imbibment of alcoholic beverages, which is just how I like my weekends, as long as I’m the one doing the imbibing and not the athleticizing (yeah, I just made that word up. But I’m a professional writer, so it’s all good).

Brian’s Never-Ending Softball League was FINALLY coming to a close in a frenzy of softball games that started at 10:30 am and didn’t quit ‘till 6:00 pm.

And that, my friends, is a lot of softball.

And I’m sad to say that the entire day was for naught, because they lost both the first and the third game, and apparently 1 out of 3 is not enough to get you into the final round. Despite my protest, there were no points awarded for having a cute butt, which is a shame, because Brian’s butt is exceedingly cute in those softball pants, and it would have undoubtedly carried them to victory, should those kinds of things count.

Which is probably why they don’t let women make the rules for these games.

So, while I enjoyed the view of Brian’s derriere from my seat in the stands, it was still a long, long day of watching middle-aged men sweating and gasping for breath and pulling muscles. I swear, BenGay could have been an official sponsor of this thing.

And, knowing that I was in for some beer-drinking crazyness at the soccer game, I watched most of it sober. It was only around 5:00 - half-way through the last game – that I realized any sort of soccer pre-gaming was going to have to occur AT this last game, because we were tight on time and even if we did make it to Lincoln Financial Field in time to see the soccer match start, we’d be too busy hustling our asses off to tailgate in any way, shape or form.

So I started on what later became Operation Can't-Feel-My-Face and I can honestly say that sometime between 5:00 and 6:00, watching softball became fun. Really fun. I was almost sad to see it end.
Almost.
But we were on to bigger and better things of the futbol variety.
We had already missed the 5:00 game between Canada and Honduras, but we arrived just in time to grab a few beers and find our seats. Of course, by the time we got to the stadium I was already 2 ½ sheets to the wind. Needless to say, 15 minutes into the match, I couldn’t have told you who was playing if my life depended on it. All I knew was that it was a beautiful night and the beer was flowing and the refs obviously had no idea what they were doing.
I cursed a lot.

I also think I did the wave.
And I’m pretty sure the US won.
All in all, it was an awesome night.

I found pictures on my camera in the morning. 90% of them were blurry beyond recognition (I believe artistic is the word I used Saturday night), but here are a few that came out.

And, of course, here's the obligatory turn the camera and take a shot of the happy couple picture, complete with one pair of very drunk eyes (hint: not Brian)

So that’s my nonexistent recap of the game. No Panamanians were befriended (to my knowledge), but I almost smuggled home a little Panamanian baby in my purse because it was that cute, and my uterus has been demanding that kind of thing lately. Undoubtedly kidnapping it would have made for an excellent story, but my dedication to this blog falls short of commiting crimes that can get me 5 to 10 years in state.

Because I am way to pretty for jail.

Bonus Saturday Post: Where the Wild Things Are

Brian and I were enjoying our coffee in the sunroom this morning when we had some visitors.

(sorry some of them are blurry; there's a smudge on the lens because apparently somebody is incapable of keeping her fingers off of it like the idiot that she is)

Aaaannnddd....some video (because we're nerds like that)

This is the second time I've seen them. 3 adults and about 12 babies.
I think I'm going to call them Jon and Kate and [Jon's Mistress's Name] + 12

And while we're on the topic, we also had an encounter with our resident beaver a few nights ago

Dude, living in the woods is the best!

Well, except for the bugs which are, quite frankly, horrendous.

Beating a Dead Horse

Yes, this is another post about Milo.



Not to beat a dead horse or anything, but I’ve really got to get this little dude under control.

This morning, Brian’s alarm went off at the crack of dawn like it always does (when he’s working, of course, which isn’t often. Firefighters have it made in the shade. Except, yanno, when there’s a fire).

I don’t really know what time it goes off, but it’s definitely before 6:00am, which in my mind classifies it as the middle of the night. So while I fully applaud his ability to get up in the middle of the night to go to work, I, the loving and supportive girlfriend that I am, usually flip over and go right back to sleep for another hour or two.

Milo, however, is a morning person (dog?). Once Brian’s alarm goes off, he’s all panting and bug-eyed and ready to run like a maniac for the next two hours. Some days he realizes that it’s just not going to happen. On those days, he makes his way over to Brian’s warm spot on the bed, tucks in, and saws some lumber with me.
I love those days.
But on other days, he’s just not having it. On those days, he flips and flops and stretches and kicks me in the back and the stomach and the face until I either A) chase him out of the room screaming and slam the door or B) ignore him until he realizes that he has to entertain himself because what am I a god-damn clown sent here for his personal amusement?!?

This morning was a Milo’s not having it kind of morning. At first, he psyched me out by tucking in next to me once Brian was up. But a few minutes later, he started wiggling. And then he was kicking me in the back.

*kick kick

“miloooo”

*kick kick

“miloooo stoooop”

*kick KICK

“Stop, Milo”

*KICK KICK

“aaarrggghh KNOCKITTHEFUCKOFF!!”

So I shove him down to the foot of the bed, point my finger at him for emphasis (which he tried to bite, and I was all “Oh I KNOW you didn’t just try to do that!!”), and lay back down.

Two minutes later…

*flip flop

“Milo Stop”

*flip flop squirm

“Milo, seriously, KNOCK IT OFF”

*flip flop squirm wiggle KICK

“MILOGOTOBEDORISWEARTOGOD…”

*BARK

“Excuse me, WHAT?!?! Did you just BARK AT ME?!? Oh, you’re gonna get it!!!!”

So I chase him out of the room and down the hallway and end up in the kitchen in my underwear, hair awry, nostrils flared, ready to commit puppicide.

Brian who iss already in the kitchen having some coffee, is greatly amused.

“Oh, you’re up,” he says cheerfully. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Have I mentioned that he’s a smart-ass?

So, I’m an hour less rested today, which is not making for a splendiferous morning. However, I did use that extra hour to go on a run (with Milo in tow, of course), which is probably just reinforcing his crack-head behavior, but at least maybe this way he’ll be 2% less rammy tonight, and beggars can’t be choosers. And in the meantime I can feel good about myself for getting back into shape after my most recent medical malady.

So. Lots of good things to look forward to this weekend, once I get through this agonizingly slow day here at work.
What is it about Fridays that make every second stretch into eternity?

I hope everyone has a great weekend, although I can pretty much guarentee that your weekend won't be as awesome as mine, what with the soccer game and all.
Nothing personal, of course, but you know how it is...
So make sure you sieze this weekend and throttle all the fun out of it because lets face it, you're not getting any younger and every weekend past is a weekend closer to your ultimate demise.

Happy Friday!

GOL! GOL! GOL!

My weekend plans just jumped from “decent” to “pretty fucking spectacular”

Who has tickets to the 2009 U.S. vs Panama CONCACAF gold cup quarter finals at Lincoln Financial Field this weekend?

THIS GIRL DOES!!!

I’ll be the first to admit – I like soccer and all, but I’m not an adamant soccer fan. However, I most definitely AM a fan of drunken frenzied soccer fans and perhaps a good old-fashioned soccer riot.

The only other pro soccer game I’ve ever attended was an Italy vs. Ecuador game at the Meadowlands when I was first married to the Ex. In fact, it’s one of the few good memories I have of the time period between saying “I do” and serving him with a restraining order.

And not to get off topic, I came across his profile on Facebook the other day and HOLYSHIT there is seriously something wrong with him.

Let’s review.

There’s me:

And there’s him:

Any wonder why the marriage didn’t work out?
Jesus Christ that guy would freak the shit out of Mike Meyers. He's like the fucking Lord of Darkness.

But clearly I’ve digressed…

So, back to the Meadowlands. The day is steaming hot and the Ex and I have just arrived with a couple we were friends with. We had parked and were enjoying some tailgating refreshments and soggy Wawa hoagies when this van pulls up next to us holding, literally, 12 Ecuadorians, including one VERY PREGNANT woman who was practically falling out of the rear window.

I’m not trying to support stereotypes or anything but it’s the God’s honest truth.

So they pull up next to us, pile out like clowns from a clown car, and have a grill up and going within 30 seconds. A few minutes later, the smell of delicious pork is wafting towards us, which was making our soggy hoagies look even more unappealing. Well, we must have been making “19th century street urchin” eyes at their spread, because out of the blue, this Ecuadorian walks over to me, slaps a giant plate of meat on my lap, and walks away without a word.

SWOON
I would have married that guy instantly had I not already been spoken for. He obviously knew the way to my heart.

So, using the universal language of meat we befriended the Ecuadorians. They gave us coronitas. We gave them gin (which they had never had before, and after one shot were clearly never going to have again. Oh, the faces!). So we drank and ate and drank and ate some more.

And that’s my last lucid memory of the soccer game.

I remember playing some futbol in the parking lot with the Ecuadorian wearing the straw cowboy hat.

I remember being in the stadium with the fans screaming so loud that I felt like I was in a gladiator arena.

I remember giving the Italian sign for “fuck you” to a group of Italian guys, which almost caused a fight.

I remember the sky opening up in the middle of the game and soaking us to the skin.

I slightly remember drinking more coronitas with them once we got back to the parking lot.

The next cohesive memory I have is waking up in the car after the Ex drove us home, wearing an Ecuadorian jersey that one of the guys gave to me before we parted ways, and having completely lost my voice.

In a word, epic.

And here’s the best part.
A few weeks later, I get this call from a number I didn't recognize. I pick up, and after a few minutes of confusion, I realize Holy Crap It’s the Equadorians!!!!!!!!

Apparently I had exchanged numbers with one of the guys and made him swear to me on his mother’s grave that he would call us the next time they were all going to a game.

Sad to say, we weren’t able to take him up on the invitation, and he never called again. To this day, I truly regret passing up on this serendipitous opportunity to become close friends with a random group of guys (and one pregnant lady) from Ecuador.

Also sad to say that my Ex commandeered the jersey and I haven’t seen it since I moved out of our apartment.

What a D-bag.

But at any rate, I’m sure that more ridiculous memories will be made this weekend. I’m determined to befriend at least one Panamanian (Panamaniac?) so I can convince them to give me their jersey.

And if they offer me meat?
Well....

Fetch

I’m in need of a funny fucking post.

Apparently my sense of humor is directly linked to my health-O-meter. Since my happy introduction to Lyme nearly 3 weeks ago, my posts have been L.A.M.E. and, friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. Thanks for staying the course (muffin baskets for everybody)!!!

But now it’s time to get back to business.

And what do I have in store for you sluts today?

…Jesus-fucking-Christ not a god-damn thing (except for a bunch of explicatives, which is really only an indication that I’m starting to feel like my old self again.)

You can put the defibrillator down, Lou. She just said “fuck.” Everything’s gonna be ohhhh-kayyyy

So I guess what I’m saying is that while I was recovering from my near-death encounter with a Ixodes scapularis (Google it, people), nothing of any interest happened. Well, except for a little destruction of things of enormous sentimental worth and one living room window valued at $morethanImakeinayear.00

But seriously, these past weeks have entailed me gracing a number of different beds, couches, chairs, and chaise lounges with the presence of my ever-growing ass. And now, almost three weeks later, I’ve finally got my “piss and vinegar” back (because it’s 1934), as well as about 5 lbs that I had been successfully removing from my hips/thighs/buttocks at an excruciatingly slow but nevertheless consistent pace, Pre-Borrelia burgdorferi infection (somebody, please get me away from Google).

Brian and I took Milo to the dog park last night because it was either that or watch him eat the couch/hump Jericho/chase his tail for the next 5 hours because he’s been smokin’ the puppy crack for the past week (which gives him the wood munchies, but let’s not go there again, shall we?). So we were walking around the spacious fields and woods that encompass the local dog park, and I was feeling great because A) I was walking – for pleasure – for the first time in two weeks, and B) Milo had found a friend who was intent on running him into the ground, and I knew that for once I was going to get some fucking peace and quiet in the house when we went home.

So Brian’s throwing a ball for Jericho and Milo is getting physically assaulted by a strange dog and everything is copasetic. At one point, Brian throws the ball and Jericho, being the genius that he is, kind of sort of heads in the exact opposite direction.

Proof-positive that even smart dogs can be really, REALLY stupid sometimes.

So I’m sent out in the general direction where the ball landed to retrieve it. At which point Brian makes some joke about me being a better fetch-partner than the dogs and I do the squinty-eye thing which is his signal to STFU, like, yesterday.

When I finally spot the ball, about 15 yards away, I jog over to it.

And then I, the woman who ran 6 god-damn miles a mere month ago, almost had a fucking heart attack right then and there.

I could literally hear my heart saying, “Why did you do that to me? WHY?!?!” and then my lungs were all, “I quit this bitch” and my eyesight started to peace the fuck out and a literally almost died from jogging 15 yards and bending over to pick up a saliva-coated squeezy-ball.

Once I regained my breath, eyesight, and reasonable heart-rate I told Brian that apparently I wasn’t in any shape to play fetch, or do anything else for that matter. Of course, he responded by saying “well you certainly seemed to be in good shape last night,” for which he was rewarded with yet anther stink eye and possibly a snarl because my cardiovascular health is no laughing matter.

(But I guess he does have a point…)

Regardless, I believe it is now officially time to get my ass back in shape. If not only for the bedroom antics, but also for the next time Brian wants to play fetch.

It’s good to have a purpose in life.

For Sale, By Owner

I know puppies are supposed to be challenging, but this is getting ridiculous.

I could deal with the fact that Milo learned how to counter-surf and effectively ate half a loaf of home-made bread.

I could deal with the fact that Milo destroyed my barely-worn pair of Guess brown dress sandals.

I could even deal with the fact that Milo peed in the same spot so many times that his urine ate through the clear coat and saturated the wood of the living room floor, causing it to rot.

But this time, he has gone too far.

Last night, Brian was going about some random business in the living room when I heard the ominous “Oh.”
Followed by the even more ominous “Uhhh, sweetheart? You’re not going to like this.”

At which point my blood pressure instantly shot skyward and my eyes darted to Milo, who was happily dissecting one of his many stuffed animals on the dining room floor.

“Oh god,” I said, “What did he destroy now?”
I immediately pictured my riding boots, which had been carelessly left out on the floor the other day, mangled beyond recognition and saturated with saliva and urine.
“He didn’t get my boots, did he?”
“No,”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“But you’d better come look at this.”

I walked into the living room, cringing, trying to anticipate whatever horror might await me.

At first, everything looked fine. I was momentarily relieved. And then Brian pointed to my grandmother’s chest, which had been placed in front of the picture-window next to the front door.

The arm-rest and several exposed corners had been eaten.
Shreaded.
Mutilated.

Long scars of splintery, unfinished wood against a background of dark finish.

MILO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“It gets worse,” he said, and pointed to the latticed window that spans the length of our living room.

Apparently Milo had climbed on top of the chest (once he had had his fill of vintage ‘60s pine), and proceeded to gnaw on one of the horizontal lattice pieces like one might gnaw on a cob of corn.

The same window that, should we need to replace it, will cost thousands upon thousands of dollars.

If you think that I was at a loss for words at this point, you’d be wrong. I had plenty of words. Lots and lots of words that are not allowed on daytime or primetime television. 4-letter words. The kinds that are typically shouted at the top of your lungs while chasing someone/thing around with a blunt object.

Which is exactly what I did.

Did I mention that Milo pees when he gets upset?

Oh, it was fun night, to be sure.

I don’t have pictures of the damage – I was too busy telling Milo that I was going to put him in the blender. But suffice to say, he is a bad, BAD dog.

So if anybody is looking for a 7-month-old puppy (breed unknown but possibly a goat/hyena/beaver mix) with a penchant for wood, shoot me an email. He comes with a leash, collar, food, and bones.

Oh.
And one (slightly damaged) vintage '60s wooden chest.

Status: Philanthropic (and uuggghh)

Let me tell you, Lyme is not all it’s cracked up to be (whatever that means).

The weekend was beautiful and breezy and everything that summer is supposed to be, and I was pretty much stuck in bed with my own personal case of “tick-death.”
I was miserable and icky and OMG SO FREAKING TIRED. Poor Brian was stuck taking care of me again, which means that he’s officially spent more time waiting on me hand and foot this year than probably sleeping and showering combined.

So he totally wins the “trooper of the year” award and a complimentary beej (as soon as I muster up the energy). A small consolation, I’m sure, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? It’s either that, or a “I Took Care Of Lily for Half A Year And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” T-shirt (written in puffy paint, of course. Remember puffy paint? Hell yeah, ya do!)

So I’m at work today and was anticipating having to leave early after being judo-kicked by my general malaise (are you tired of me using that phrase? Because I’m not). But things seem to be holding at “under the weather” and have not yet declined to “death warmed over,” so I might be able to put in a whole day.

Hooray (note the lack of enthusiasm)

But I wanted to take a minute to describe my latest philanthropic efforts that occurred at approximately 8:25 this morning when I decided to buck the system by getting my morning coffee at a privately-owned café instead of Wawa. For those of you who don’t know, I try my hardest to avoid large commercial conglomerates like the plague. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart, and I haven’t been to a McDonalds, Burger King, or Wendys since November of 2005. I mean, there’s not a lot that I do to combat the economic/environmental/political cluster-fuck that is America, but even I have my standards.

Stop looking so surprised.

So I walk in the café all, supporting small, independent business rocks, and came out of the café all since when does a 12 oz latte cost $3.00?!? Holy god, I know I did a good thing, but I can’t help feeling violated by paying twice as much for a latte that is half the size as the one I would get at my local convenience chain.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that philanthropy is for the rich, and since I am decidedly *not* rich, I should continue to purchase my 20oz caffeine fix for $1.43 at Wawa’s Coffee-Topia station and leave small business support to those who drive around in Beamers and Benzes (as opposed to a dented, tomato-red 2000 Subaru Impreza).

Oh yeah, I’m pimpin.

But even as I write this, I’m feeling a considerable downward shift in my overall sense of health and wellbeing. I believe I've slipped from "under the weather" to "uggghhh" (which is a step above "death warmed over," fyi).

DAMN YOU, LYME!

So I’m off to take a lunchtime siesta in my dented, tomato-red 2000 Subaru Impreza and hope that it’s enough to get me through the rest of the day.

Because lord knows I’d rather save my sick days for when I’m healthy.

When Life Gives You Lymes...

…Make limeade.
With a shot of booze….
And a healthy dose of antibiotics (I love mixing pills and alcohol)

Yes, friends, it’s confirmed. I’ve gotz me the Big "L".
Lyme Disease.

Is it sad to say that I’m just relieved that I have a diagnosis?

This morning, I was actually feeling better. I had some pep in my step and I was thinking that whatever virus I had, I had beat it like a red-headed stepchild (no offense to you gingers out there).

Then my Doctor calls to give me the news. And sure enough, about an hour later, I’m feeling like crap on a stick again.

Blah.
Double blah.

Thank god it’s Friday and I have a whole weekend of practically nothing planned. There’s a wine tasting that Brian will be going to tomorrow, but I was going to skip it anyway. And now with the 3 weeks of twice-daily antibiotics that I’ve been prescribed, I think I’ll definitely pass on the tasting, because if college has taught me nothing, it's that booze and doxycycline do not mix.
Nope.
It’s a guarenteed one-way ticket to pukesville for this gal.

Which is unfortunate, because I was supposed to go to a friend’s birthday party on Saturday night at a bowling alley. I can’t bowl because of my gimpy wrist, so the plan was to drink and watch other people bowl.

Now, I’ll just be…uh…watching other people bowl.
And maybe passing out because I feel like such complete crapola.

So we’ll see if my infectious disease ass makes it to the party. And then we’ve got softball on Sunday (I swear, he’s entered the never-ending softball league). Again, we’ll see if I’m up to the task of sitting in my camping chair and clapping/cheering when other people clap/cheer.

Wow, now I’m realizing that this kind of sucks.

But at least it was caught early.
Lyme can do KRAZY shit (yes, krazy with a K) to you when it goes unnoticed for a decade or more. I have a friend whose uncle had Lyme for years and nobody knew about it, and let’s just say that he’s not all there in the mental capacity. No offense meant – he’s an awesome guy (or..er..was, when I last saw him, which was probably about 18 years ago). It’s just sad to see how some tiny little virus can affect the rest of your life when it’s not treated properly.

Thank god for modern medicine and all that jazz…

So I’m all Lymey, but on the road to recovery, thanks to a dose of antibiotics big enough to wipe out the internal microflora of a bull elephant.

I hope everybody has a great weekend. The weather is supposed to be beautiful, so don't forget to get outside and enjoy it. Just look out for those ticks - those bitches apparently don't fuck around.

CHECK YOUR CREVASSAS, people! I cannot stress this enough.

And on that note, Happy Friday!

The Lamentable Death of Yours Truly

I’m telling you, dudes, I’m not long for this world.
I feel like a big bucket of miscellaneous crap. Wikipedia says I have “general malaise,” but I say I have the early stages of the bubonic plague. The problem is that my symptoms are so nonspecific that I sound downright crazy when I try to tell people how I feel.

Take the conversation I had with my doctor yesterday, for example:

Doc: So, the nurse says you’re not feeling good
Me: Yeah, I’m feeling pretty awful, actually
Doc: What are your symptoms, exactly?
Me: I dunno. I just don’t feel good.
Doc: Muscle aches?
Me: No
Doc: Headache?
Me: No
Doc: Nausea or vomiting?
Me: No
Doc: Sore throat?
Me: No
Doc: Fever?
Me: No
Doc: Cramping?
Me: No

At this point, he looks pretty darn exasperated.
“Fatigue?” He asks, eyes bulging, as if he will drive his ballpoint pencil through my skull if I say ‘No’ one more time.

Me: YES! Yes. I definitely have fatigue.
Doc: Okay, fatigue…and what else?
Me: I dunno. I just don’t feel good.
…
My Doctor is a saint.

So he gave me a physical exam and orders up a round of bloodwork. His best guess is Lymes Disease, considering that weird mark I had on my lower back about 3 months ago. But if the Lymes test is negative…then what?

As an adolescent, I puked every morning like clockwork. It was like having morning sickness for FIVE GODDAMN YEARS. As a result, the toilet and I developed a close, intimate relationship,and I was accused on several occasions of having bulemia.

As if I would EVER treat my food so callously. Please. Look who we're talking about here..

Problem was, they never figured out what was wrong. I had every test under the sun: I got poked and prodded and scoped and x-rayed. I was given acid reflux meds and barium work-ups and limited diets. It was ridiculous. And to this day, nobody has any idea what was wrong with me. I eventually just grew out of it.

So when it comes to medical tests, for me, the worst possible outcome is one where everything checks out okay.

As a result, I’m now staring at my phone, willing the doctor’s office to call and say “the test came back positive.” It’s truly a strange day when you’ve got your fingers crossed for a Lymes diagnosis.
But at least then they can prescribe me a healthy dose of antibiotics and I can get on with my life.

Until then, I have a wicked case of the “icks” that has me completely wiped out and slumped over and generally pretty pathetic looking.

So my apologies for this weeks’ posts – they are far from my best work – but at this rate it’s all I can do to get through the day without curling up under my desk and refusing to come out until my doctor comes up with a diagnosis…

Or until I keel over and bite the big one.

Which ever comes first.

Dinner is Served

You probably didn’t know this, but New Jersey is the Canada Goose Capital of the Universe.

No kidding.

We have about 3428934754039823462349240 geese per square mile, and they are reproducing at a disturbing rate.

Sure, it’s cute at first. Around April, the parking lots and medians are filled with families of little goslings, all fluffy and unbalanced, walking in neat single file lines across the road. And really, it IS amazing that an animal as stupid as a Canada goose can fully grasp the concept of roadways. Their brains may be the size of raisin, but they are aware enough to understand that roadways are cars only. They gather in a group, walk (albeit, slowly) across the street, and re-congregate on the other side. Unbelieveable. My dog on the other hand—you know, the one who has a 50-word vocabulary—thinks nothing of dashing haphazardly across the road in pursuit of a small furry animal. Or…pooping in a crosswalk as the light turns green (true story). It just goes to show you that overall intelligence is not so easily discerned.

But, by mid-June, this phenomenon is significantly less endearing. Sure, they may have a few tufts of baby down sticking out between their feathers, but overall, these goslings have turned into geese. Big, mean, brazen geese. They hiss when you walk by them. They poop in the parking lot. They take their sweet-ass time crossing the road, always when you’re running late for work. They’re everywhere, and just one look into their cold, dead eyes (like doll’s eyes, I tell you) has me convinced that they’re plotting a hostile takeover of the municipality.

I have a growing suspicion that a time is going to come when it’s either them or me.

But let it be said for the record, I’m not above eating a Canada goose. I think it’s high time that we introduce these flying vermin to some “natural predators.” And by “natural predators,” I mean myself, dressed in camouflage, hiding in the bushes outside of my office with blow-darts and a potato sack.

I’ll give you a minute to conjure up that image.

Oh yeah, Imma eat me one of those bitches.

I mean, why not? In these hard economic times, we have to be creative in our ways to make ends meet. I figure a large male Canada goose could feed me and Brian for a week, maybe more. And these things are so damn domesticated, I could probably walk right up to one and clock it in the head.

Just like that, dinner is served.

So if you’re hungry, come on over. Have a nice glass of Pino and enjoy the aromas wafting from the oven. Just don’t ask me what we’re eating or what I used that potato sack for.

Trust me, you don’t want to know.

A Come-Uppance

It’s hard to be funny today.
I know that the goal of this blog is to entertain you crazy muh-fukkas, but I also use this blog as a place to come and sort out my thoughts and emotions. It’s a great thing in that it’s cheaper than therapy and healthier than substance abuse, but it also opens the door to some very private thoughts and feelings. The strangers who read this blog? It doesn’t phase me one bit that they might know my political opinions and what kind of underwear I’m wearing. But my friends and family? Well, I guess that muddles the picture a little bit.

Last night I learned that my father discovered my blog. And sure enough, he came across my Father’s Day post (although I can’t help but think he was digging for it, as it was buried under a month’s worth of other posts). It doesn’t bother me that much that he now knows exactly what I think of him. As my sister pointed out, this information had to come out eventually. And if he’s honestly surprised that our relationship isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, then he’s even more self-absorbed than I originally thought.

I’m more bothered by the fact that he entered, without permission, into my carefully-guarded world of fun and goofyness and mayhem. In the real world, my dad doesn’t get to see this side of me. He doesn’t get to see my dry wit and crazy perspectives and bizarre ramblings because, frankly, I don’t feel he deserves to witness that side of me. He only gets the surface-level of me, and considering his past behavior, he should be damn-well grateful that he even gets that. But now he’s peeked under the curtain and I can’t help but feel enraged that he encroached on my privacy. He’ll probably read this post as well, and all future posts in addition.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
I’d like to think that maybe he’ll get the message and leave my world well-enough alone, but when it comes to him behaving like an adult, I never hold my breath (or I’d have run out of oxygen a long time ago).

And now we have a “dinner date” set for Friday. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about on the phone—after all, it’s much more dramatic that way, which is exactly how he likes it. But I called my sister and she quickly filled me in on the details. He wants to discuss my post. And what should I expect from him? A sudden change in heart? An awakening of the soul? An admittance of guilt? Well, I have several ideas of how I’d like this conversation to go, but life has taught me a few things about my father that, at age 60-something, are unlikely to change.

So I have a terribly uncomfortable dinner to anticipate for Friday night, which is a huge imposition on the teeny tiny amount of free time that I have to spare, and is leaving a rock in my stomach because I know exactly how things are going to go down. And at the same time, I’ve been drudging up all of these bad feelings and memories about my father that has me feeling uneasy and depressed. And in the meantime I’ve been feeling slightly ill since Thursday (in a very weird way that is difficult to describe) and have to go to the doctor’s tomorrow to get some blood drawn. So all in all I’m angsty and irritable and not a lot of fun to be around....

Which is making my blog not fun to be around, and for that, I apologize.

Sorry for the post. I know it wasn’t entertaining, but I needed get my thoughts in order. Thanks for bearing with me.

Stay tuned tomorrow for our regularly scheduled hilarity.

The Times, They Are A Changin'

Did someone tattoo a big ole’ “AVAILABLE” on my forehead or something?
(It seems like I’d remember something like that, but you never know).

I have been positively inundated with thinly veiled flirtations and offers of sexual indiscretions over the past week. If only I had gotten this much attention in highschool – I might have had an entirely different life including numerous backseat rendezvous and the inevitable teen pregnancy.

But alas, I was a nobody in highschool. A girl whose nose was a bit too big and whose hair never hung right. I had a bad sense of style and a preference for late-night street sign stealing with my best guy friends over manicures and spa days. I wasn’t exactly a tomboy, but I wasn’t exactly prom queen either. I was one of those unfortunate souls caught in the middle, noticed by few, remembered by even fewer.

Until this week, and then SHIZAM every guy I went to highschool with is becoming my Facebook friend and not-so-cleverly asking me what my dating status is and telling me that they always liked me in highschool.

Yeah, right. You’ve always liked me…for the past 30 seconds when you saw my facebook picture and noticed that I’m not a homely little fug-face like I used to be.

Not that I’m anything spectacular now, but I’m a hell of a lot better looking than I used to be. And compared to a lot of women my age – you know, the ones with the sloppy boobs and the vapid stares who had one too many SoCo & Limes and are starting to slur their words and talk really loudly about how hungry they are, and then they spill their drink on their friend and start laughing hysterically until they vomit on themselves? – well, compared to them, I’m a freaking prize and a half.

So despite the fact that my Facebook status is “in a relationship,” and despite the fact that my page is plastered with pics of Brian and me, and despite the fact that the VERY FIRST thing I say to them when they pop up on Facebook chat is that “me AND MY BOYFRIEND are doing great,” they still come back with the following comments:

Wow, you’ve really changed since highschool.
Didn’t we used to hang out? We should get together sometime.
What’s the story with you and your boyfriend?
It looks like you work out a lot.

Guys: let me give you a little advice. You might have been a stud in highschool, but in the real world, the ability to eat 15 lbs of potato salad in one sitting is not going to exactly win over the ladies.

So, boys of the class of 2000, if you’re looking for a V to put your P, you’ve come to the wrong place. I really don’t care that you remember me from highschool. I really don’t care that you’ve broken up with your girlfriend. And I absolutely without a doubt don’t care that you’re currently married to a woman who is treating you poorly (good lord, dude, you need some marriage counseling). Your relationship status is none of my concern.

Your pick up lines, however, are. Quite frankly, they're terrible.

Your mother would be ashamed.

Go getchoself a nice sloppy bar chick and have at it (she’ll probably eat those lines up, btw), and I will go home to my wonderful boyfriend who, if nothing else, has way better pick-up lines then you’ll ever come up with, involving fire hoses and references to me being hot.

Gotta love those firemen!

Bonus Sunday Post: Happy Campers

Well, another 4th of July has come and gone. BBQ was eaten, parades were viewed, and fireworks were launched with abandon. Or so I heard.

Brian and I spent last night recuperating from Milo's first camping trip, which meant that we parked ourselves on the tempurpedic and didn't move for the rest of the evening. Not that the trip was in any way un-fun, but when you shove two humans, a grochy lab/dalmation mix, and a manic puppy with ADHD into a 3-person tent, you're pretty much guarenteed to not get the greatest nights sleep.

In all actuality, the camping trip was a big success. Everybody (mostly) stayed in the campsite. Everybody (mostly) slept through the night. Nobody died, and nobody got returned to the animal shelter from whence they came (I think we all know who I'm talking about here).

A few random shots:






Milo was particularly ridiculous on this trip.


Here he is after burying a bone that we gave him. I thought dogs only did that in the movies, but our little street urchin was definitely saving that bitch for later.

He also found about 8 different ways to sit on the camping chairs

And dad's lap.
(Who brings wine on camping trips? We do.)



A few shots of our day hike and the Blue Rocks boulder field:


And on the second night, we were joined by my lovely friend Crystal.

...who is the only person I know who would bring a pashmina to a campsite. This woman is all class. I have no idea why she wastes her time with us.

So, that's about it. We're home and rested, and I'm pretty sure I can hear Milo chewing on the furniture in our sunroom as we speak, which is my cue to leave.

I hope everybody enjoyed their 4th of July (or Canada Day, which is myseriously close to the 4th of July, which to SOME people suggests that they copied off of us, but I'm not judging). Tomorrow I'm back to the grind, so I'm going to spend the rest of the day enjoying the weather and attending yet another social event.

Fan-freaking-tastic.