Family Matters

So, my mom just texted texted me with the following:

"I read ur blog about me, fucking hilarious. I also commented, yo."

Which fully proves that A) she is probably the most awesome mom a woman could have, and II) her best efforts at speaking gangsta' are usually thwarted by proper grammar.

For example:

In addition, I would like to drop it like it's hot

...you see my point.

I would also like to point out that her Blogger monniker is "YoMomma," which is both hysterical and accurate, so if anybody sees her commenting, it might be nice to give her a shout-out.
Or your digits.
Or Whatever.

In other news, I'm totally awesome at skiing. I only fell once yesterday. ONCE...during the ENTIRE DAY of skiing. And it was only because the slope was getting mad icy and despite my best efforts to plow, I couldn't slow down (that's what she said).

My sister only fell once too. Of course, whereas I fell for a legitimate reason, she fell about 20 feet from the ski lift. She says she fell because she was trying a fancy turn.
I say she fell because that "fancy turn" was in fact just "a turn." Emily's motto on the slopes is, "smoke 'em if you got 'em."

In other words, she puts her feet into the wedge position and cannonballs down the mountain. It was only later in the day when I suggested that she might try modifying her approach.

Her: Wow, you always seem so...I dunno...in control when you're going down the slopes. I mean, you don't go as fast or anything, but it's still impressive.
Me: That's because I turn.
Her: Turn?
Me: Yeah. Instead of shooting straight down and hoping you don't hit anything, try, like, turning a little bit.
Her: Oh....
Me: ...
Her: How do you turn?

Christ.
Who let that woman on the slopes?

This little tidbit is proof-positive that my sister and I are from the same family tree.

It's also proof-positive that someone in my family is inevitably going to kill someone - and if it's not me shanking some stranger in the face for texting while driving, it's going to be my sister taking out some poor skiier as she flies down the mountain at mach 8.

GERONIMO!!!!!!

Q&A With PMS

Wow, has it been a crazy couple of days! I've been movin' and shakin' and doing all sorts of things to try to pull my life back together.

Not like it had actually fallen apart, but on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is living in a carboard box with a stray possum and a meth addiction and 10 is June-fucking-Cleaver, I'd say I was about a solid 4.

So, to catch up with myself a little bit, I thought it'd be nice to do an interview with myself - just to touch base and see how I'm doing.

Me: So, you've been really busy lately. What's going on in your life that's making you severely neglect your husband and miscellaneous pets?

Well, as you might recall, I got a part time job at a veterinary clinic last week and it's been challenging, to say the least. I've been trying to figure out their computer system and how to deal with nasty customers, and although I haven't burned the place down yet, I definitely cheerfully asked a couple who came in what time their appointment was for, and they announced through tears that they were here to put down their dog. I felt bad and all, but it wasn't on the schedule like it's supposed to be! How could I know?!? But I paid for it in the end, because the dog was...leaking...the whole time they were in the waiting room and I had to clean it up after they left. So I guess we're even.

Me: Wait a minute - didn't you quit your full-time job to become a freelance writer? What happened with that?

Oh man, I'm definitely trying my best to start my own freelance company, but I hit a major roadblock early on, and I'm not going to name any names, but if you A) have a company policy and B) ignore that policy and agree to use someone on a pretty regular basis, then for the love of god, DON'T BACK DOWN when people get all pissed off because you broke the rules for one person and not another, or the person who quit their job to work with you might sorta kinda get screwed.
Just sayin'.
But seriously, things are looking good and I have a few prospects. But these types of things take a while to get off the ground. So in the meantime? I clean up animal pee in a veterinary clinic.

Me: So when you're not busy starting your freelance business or NOT burning down the veterinary clinic, what have you been doing?

Well, it takes considerable effort to start a business and not burn things down, so there's not a lot of time left over. But when I'm not working I've been riding some horses and pretty much trying to subdue the chaos that is my house right now.

Me: Speaking of chaos, I hear you have a pretty difficult dog named Milo. How's he doing lately?

Well, he hasn't eaten anything of any real value or peed on my bed lately, so I'd say we're doing better. However, he just discovered that barking is a GREAT way to pass the time, so he's been doing that a lot lately. For, like, no reason whatsoever. He just barks. So I still may end up killing him, but in the meantime, at least he's not likely to ruin my tempurpedic mattress which, by the way, I love A LOT MORE than I love him. You hear that Milo? I love my MATTRESS more than I love you're stinkin' ass!

Me: Wow, you seem pretty stressed.

You're damn right I am! We have no money, and I'm presently learning how to do a whole new job while trying to figure out A) if I can hack it as a freelance writer, and B) If I can, how the hell do I attract more clients. This shit is rough, man! I'm pretty sure I'm getting an aneurysm. Or an ulcer. Or maybe it's just gas, but at any rate, I'm uncomfortable.

Me: What does your husband have to say about all of this?

He's great. He's 100% behind me and supporting me all the way, which is fantastic, because I couldn't do this without his help. Oh...and his health insurance. DEFINITELY couldn't do this without his health insurance. Love you, babe!

Me: Any big plans coming up?

Well, we're going skiing tomorrow, if that's what you mean. We found a great online deal on lift tickets, and in our house, when you've run out of money and have no prospects lined up, the best thing to do is to go skiing. Of course, this is only the second time I've been skiing (I've been forbidden from snowboarding), so I'm still in the pizza and frenchfries stage, but whatever - it's still better than breaking my wrist.

But if you were referring to, like, LIFE plans? No. No plans. Turns out, plans usually require money, and since we have none....well....let's just say that we don't get out much.

Me: If you could meet any historical figure, who would it be?

WHAT?!? What the hell kind of question is that? This interview is OVER.

Somebody get me a drink!

You Say Potato, I Say You're Fucking Crazy

I'd like to dedicate this blog to my mom; the only 50*ahem cough* something year old woman I know who tries (and usually fails) to speak gangsta on a regular basis.

She, like all of the women in my family, is a bit of a handful.

Because that's how we ROLL, son!

Clearly, my mom and I are a lot alike. Granted, we have an uncanny similarity in appearance (and I would post a picture, but A. I want to respect her privacy, and 2. I don't want you guys hitting on her because homegirl is a total COUGAR)

[SIDENOTE: if you're new here, WELCOME to Tapdancing in the Dark: the only blog on the web where we essentially pimp our family members!!! Stay. Have a Latte. Breathe in the shame. mmmmm. smells like tacos.]

But beyond our penchant for preying on young men (I keed, I keed), our brains seem to be more alike than not alike. This usually works out in my favor, because I totally LOVE her, and not just because I'm required to by law (or nature, or the HIPPA act or something like that).

But there are things about her that I can't help but look at and say "this....THIS...is my future." And then I kind of sigh and shake my head, and then squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose as if the thought of me ageing to be exactly like her is giving me a brain tumor.

For example:

My mom was in a big fancy pants executive meeting the other day, and she was getting sleepy. Hey, we've all been there.

So there she is struggling to take notes as her eyes are closing of their own accord.
She's writing.
She's nodding off.
And suddenly, she snaps to attention, fully aware that she actually fell asleep for half a second.

And if this wasn't bad enough, she looks down at her paper and sees this:

Now, let me walk you through this.

She's writing about some sort of system that provides feedback on ordered drugs on the first three lines.

On the fourth line, she starts to drift off (as you can see by the progressively smaller handwriting). As far as we can tell, this line is comprised of the following words:

"Series of baseline...potato"

...

What?!?!?

If you're guessing at this point that she woke up to see that she had written the word "potato" in her sleep, then you, my friend, would be absolutely right.

Of course, when she saw (to her horror) that she had written the word "potato" while she was supposed to be taking notes, she quickly crossed out the line and went back to writing as if nothing had happened. But needless to say, we are both more than a bit alarmed and confused that her subconscious psyche felt the need to espress itself in the form of a root vegetable.

And, well, yeah, it's pretty fucking hilarious too.
I mean, what does it MEAN?!? What would Freud say? How do we move forward from this point?

So many questions, so few answers...

So apparently, THIS is what I have to look forward to as I get older.

Be concerned people.
Be very, VERY concerned.

Another Round of Guest Bloggin'

When my favorite redneck inbred fisherman blogger Travis from I Like To Fish said he would be a guest blogger on my blog, I responded with the following email:

Travis.
Have I told you lately that you're awesome? Because you are, and I don't care WHAT those other people have been saying about you.

So I guess just write up a guest blog and email it to me and I'll pimp you for all that you're worth (and you better be woth a LOT because I don't want to have to choke a bitch)

Am I kidding?
You don't want to have to find out.

DESPITE this email, he sent me his guest blog.

So let's hear it for Travis: any guy who can put up with my crap and still continue to converse with me is a national hero.
Or an idiot.
Or my husband.

And away we go...

**************************************

I always dreamed of the day I’d be on Lily’s…

…blog.

What did you think I was gonna say? Hell, her husband is a firefighter. Nuff said.

Anyfire, I have been thinking of something to post about, knowing that iffen it goes on Lily’s blog, it’s gotta be LEGIT, son.

At first, I was going to have my fish talk to her fish. But then, two of my fish, Irwin Linker and Doc, died.

It was sad times in the Sloat household, but mostly, it’s sad in the tank, because their corpses have been kind of floating there for a couple of days. I’m the world’s worst pet owner, despite what Lily says about herself. So my fish don’t want to do any talking, because, “Until you get these fuckin bodies outta here, we’re not doing SHIT.”

My fish have potty mouths.

Then I figured out that I could totally talk about stuff I CAN’T talk about on my blog, because everyone that reads mine doesn’t read hers, although they should, because she’s awesome.

Then I realized that after telling the entire internet that I have a small penis, there is very little that I WON’T bring up on my own blog. So that’s a bust.

I could repost, but according to Ed, that’s lazy and beneath any blogger ever.

The time between that last sentence and this one was about 36 hours.

Something has happened in that time, and as it turns out, the blog has been dropped in my lap.

You see, I’m a Duke Blue Devils fan.

I saw “The Shot” in 1992, and I’ve been a fan ever since.

I am a DIE HARD fan. I do not take shit talking lightly.

So when I get a text from my uncle yesterday that said, “Duke sux.” I pointed out in a language free way that they were ahead of UNC in the rankings.

Keeping it polite at first, right? I mean, no need to get rude. Yet.

Then I got this message back.

“Season rankings don’t matter, they’ll choke in the tourney.”

So I sent back,

“That’s better than what UNC will do, which is take it up the ass.”

What? Don’t judge me. I was classy the first time, and really, I shouldn’t have been.

Here’s what I didn’t realize.

You see, on the other end of that phone was NOT my forty some-odd year old uncle.

It was his 10-year-old son.

Yeah.

I just kind of explained the facts of life to my 10-year-old cousin.

I can just hear the conversation that took place after this message was read.

“Daddy, what does taking it up the ass mean? And why is UNC going to do it?”

To my surprise, I haven’t heard much back on this, and I imagine I won’t for a couple of days, because they’ll probably be spending that time trying to explain to their child what “taking it up the ass” means.

Is there a moral here?

Absolutely.

Don’t give your child a cell phone and tell them to talk shit about Duke to a Duke fan. Otherwise, your son will think anal sex is the way babies are made for the rest of his life.

Holy shit.

What if we could convince WOMEN of that?!

I’m onto something here, fellas. I’ll let you know what I find out.

Stay up, Lily’s homies.

Come see me sometime.

Unless, of course, you are a UNC fan.

In that case, why don’t you get a head start on the ass taking?

Well It Ain't Hookin' But It Pays The Rent

I had a "working interview" today with the veterinary clinic.
In the words of my good friend Nora, a "working interview" is code for, "As long as you don't burn the place down, you've pretty much got the job."

Well, I didn't burn the place down.
Nor do I think my references are going to say dastardly things about me (although betting on either is never a sure thing).

So I guess I would say that as long as my references check out, I have the job.
Which is great, because the office is sunny, the people are nice, and the time FLEW by while I was there.

Plus, I can finally start buying food again instead of waiting behind the Dunkin Donuts for them to throw out the day-old donuts.

"It's a bear claw! You have no idea how rare this is."

So life, it seems, is working itself out. I'm getting a few nibbles for my freelance career, I've found a small but stable source of income, and most importantly, I'm still free to sit at home all day long and listen to Milo do this:

Guest Blog !!1!

A few days ago, in my drunken rambling, I posed a Flava Flav challenge.

Today, my good friend Mr. Apron has met this challenge.

And what can I say about Mr. Apron?

He's Rude.

He's Crude.

He points out my misspellings regularly, and he might be one of the most interesting writers I know.

He also doesn't know that I remember probably the ONE AND ONLY TIME he's posted a picture of himself:

That's right, Apron. Like an elephant or Rainman, I never, ever forget.

He has also blogged for 300-something days in a row, so even if you're not a fan of his rank humor and love for all things Gilbert and Sullivan, you have to hand it to him - the guy is dedicated.

So read this post.

And then go visit him.

Becuase if this guy has blogged every day for like a year and still has time to guest-post on my little blog?...

...He's clearly in need of some friends.

(I kid. He rocks)

********************************************************

JUST PRETEND IT'S LOBSTER

Sometimes I think that nobody particularly misses my grandfather.

Truthfully, there wasn't much to miss. My sisters couldn't stand him, and I didn't know him well enough to develop a super-strong attachment. He and my father never got along, and when he wasn't marginalizing my mother, he was making halfhearted, emotionally bizarre, inept attempts at communicating with her.

As his wife lay wasting away from lymphoma, she and my mother would still occasionally have fights, as mothers and daughters do, even when the mothers are dying. My grandfather's attempt at consoling my mother was, "Don't worry-- she'll be dead soon."

When I was twelve years old, enjoying a warm August day at summer camp, (theatre camp, to be more precise) they called my name over the loudspeaker to have me report to the main building. I picked up the phone and it was my sister.

"Zayda died this morning."

"How's Mommy?" I remember asking, the camp nurse sitting in her chair beside me, her hand on my gangly right arm.

"I don't know. I guess she's pretty fucked up. She isn't talking to anyone," my sister reported.

"Oh. Okay," I said, and hung up the phone. The nurse looked at me, her eyes almost welling up. I guess she'd spoken to my sister before I got there, and steeled herself for some impromptu psychological counseling.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" she asked me.

"Well," I said, "at least he won't be pissing everyone off anymore."

That was the only thing my grandfather was ever really good at, that I know of. Well, that and golf, probably because it required very little in the way of communication, especially if you're playing by yourself. He played golf in 100 degree heat, and he played golf in thunderstorms. When he would go on vacations with my step-grandmother, they couldn't travel anywhere that wasn't ten minutes by Lincoln Continental away from a golf course. My grandfather tried, when I was six or seven or eight or nine or whatever, to get me jazzed up about golf-- which isn't easy to do to a kid, even when he likes theatre and classical music and cries easily and emulates news anchors and everybody is pretty sure he's gay. He took me to the local driving range, bought me a white leather glove and a titanium golf club and had me standing there, banging away at golf balls for hours while he gave me tips that I didn't listen to. All I wanted to do was wear the golf shoes that they sold in the shop, but he wouldn't buy them for me. They were so beautiful, white and red leather with pointy goddamn things sticking out of the bottoms. I guess it's good he never bought them for me. At that stage in my life I probably would have put them on late at night and walked all over my sister's face while she was sleeping.

The only reason I enjoyed going to the driving range with my grandfather is because he would take me and my sister out for lunch as part of the trip, and I loved to eat. I remember once he took us to a restaurant and he asked me what I wanted, and I told him. He ordered for us because he was old fashioned and thought we were too retarded to handle the task of verbally communicating with a waitress. My sister told him she wanted chicken fajitas. He wasn't a worldly man, my grandfather and, when the waitress came to him for our order, he blushingly announced that my sister would have the chicken "fateetos." She and I collapsed under the restaurant table in a hysterical heap, and that was the last time my grandfather took us out to lunch. Or anywhere.

There may have been one other thing that my grandfather was good at. Maybe. If you really use your imagination, I suppose it can be said that my grandfather was good at giving advice. When my eldest sister was little, she and my grandfather and my parents all lived in the same home together-- right after my grandmother died, in the mid-1970s. My mother frequently made chicken for dinner, which my sister hated. She would sit there, her stringy, blonde hair in her face with her arms crossed in front of her pigeon-chest declaring,

"I hate chicken!"

At this point, my grandfather would helpfully suggest, "Just pretend it's lobster."

He was also a big fan of, "Just pretend it's bananas."

Just pretend it's bananas, folks. All these years, I thought that this man had nothing of value to add to the conundrums and quandaries of people's lives, but, evidently, I was wrong. Tired of nailing your wife? Just pretend she's a tight, libidinous cheerleader. Tired of your job? Just pretend you're an astronaut. Tired of your dog? Pretend he's a zebra. Tired of your old fucking clothes? Pretend they're new! Tired of your zits? Pretend they're cherry Lifesavers. Tired of your car? Pretend it's a Maserati Quattroporte. Tired of your flabby belly? Pretend it's... um... someone else's.

See? The man was a goddamn genius.

Ever since the late 1950s, all he ever drove were Cadillacs. Nothing but Cadillacs, and black Cadillacs, at that. By the time I got to know him, he tooled around in a Lincoln Continental, black of course, but no Cadillac. And I wonder if, as he signed the papers at the Lincoln dealership, he whispered to himself as he splashed his signature across the dotted line,

"Harry: pretend it's a Cad."

A Birthday Shout Out for a Birthday Shout Out

I know a lot of you guys read my blog and think, "Man, who could possibly enjoy spending time with this waste of a human being?"

In fact, I think my mom left a comment along those lines last week.

But there are a few brave souls that put up with my relentless sarcasm and endless supply of poop jokes year after year.

Jamie from Island of Reality is one of them.

I love her and apparently, she loves me too.

Exhibit A.

So thank you, Jaimers, for that lovely birthday blog. Come March 27th (right?), I'll be sure to return the favor.

And possibly another smooch-a-reno ;-)

It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Gets A Chicken In The Face

*cough cough

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm a little hoarse today from all the screaming I did AT MEDIEVAL TIMES LAST NIGHT, BEEYATCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
You guys.

Despite having been to practically every state in this country, an ice hotel, the Amazon Rainforest, and a number of European countries, I can say with all confidence that Medieval Times is the coolest place you will ever go in your life ever. Ever. Eh-Verrrrrr.

Am I corny? Perhaps.
But I see nothing corny about watching knights fight to the death while eating half a chicken with your bare hands and drinking beer from giant mugs.
And I see nothing corny about being able to call the knights pussies and giving them the finger while doing so, because you're at Medieval Times, son, and that kind of shit was ALLOWED back in the day.

To be sure, it was a faux-stone-ensconced orgasm of all things medieval. There were swords (that could be purchased for the low, low price of $24.99). There were princess hats (that could be purchased for the low, low price of $19.99). There were dragons (of the stuffed animal variety, to be purchased for the low, low price of $29.99). There was alcohol (prices depending on whether you wanted MEAD or a strawberry daiquiri with a little umbrella in it).

And that was BEFORE you headed into the theatre.

And the show? Speck-fucking-tacular.
There are 6 knights who compete, and you're supposed to cheer for the knight assigned to your section.
We were in the yellow-and-red secion.
They gave us a free yellow-and-red crown when we entered.
Our knight was the yellow-and-red knight.

And I've said it before and I'll say it again, give me a free hat and point me in the direction of the team I'm supposed to be cheering for, and I will scream until my lungs give out.

It was kind of like the World Cup Semi-Finals we went to over the summer.
Did I follow soccer?
No.
But you can be sure that I practically got into fisticuffs with the nearby Panamanians because they were talking smack about Team USA.

Oh.
I cheered.
I screamed.
I gave the finger and at one point, I somehow managed to break a nail.
(and yes I was drunk, but not on alcohol. I was drunk on POWER. And chicken.)

And I may or may not have uttered the following phrases to the Green Knight, who was set up from the beginning (via darkened lighting, green smoke, and ominous music) to be my mortal enemy:

"I'm going to throw my CHICKEN in your FACE"
"I'm will find you in the parking lot and shove that sword straight up your ass"
"Your mother was a wench and your father liked to service goats"
"BLOOD. I want BLOOD!!"
...etc

(Man, I hate the Green Knight)

So I guess you could say that Medieval Times did not bring out my most redeeming qualities, but it was my BIRTHDAY goddammit, and if I can't demand somebody's head on a platter on my birthday, then when can I?

You see my point...

And oh my god, you guys.
The horses....
They had Andalusians performing airs above ground, and riders performing dressage movements that I could only dream of. The knights' horses (quarterhorses and arabians, from what it looked like) were highly trained, and the Master of Ceremonies rode a Fresian that was 100% drool-worthy.

So between the bloodsport and the horses, one can only imagine the frenzy that I worked myself into.

At some point I was so overstimulated, Brian had to practically sit on me to control me.

And THAT, my friends, is what a good birthday is all about:
Combining all the things I love under one roof, and then letting me eat with my hands.

To Brian, I want to give a huge THANK YOU for making this birthday one of the best I have ever had, despite our significantly limited budget.

It may not have been dogsledding, but I'll be damned if I didn't still manage to pee myself a little bit out of excitement.

Bonus Friday Post: More Durnken Rambling, And A Flava Flav Reference

Yeah, there's a typo in the title, but it's hilarious and it's staying.

...and yet, I was sure to google "Flava Flav" to make sure I spelled his name correctly.



It's all about priorities.



So, all indications of borderline alcoholism aside, I might be a little tipsy again. Tonight's poison? A locally aged Sangiovese that went perfectly with the eggplant, spinach, and tofu parmesan that I made as part of an intended romatic dinner...



...a dinner that Brian breezed in for, chowed down, and left again, all within the span of 30 minutes or so.



But it's not his fault.


Unfortunately, Brian had to work late again tonight. Something about fire alarms in a hotel not being wired into the mainframe or what have you. So he was in and out and that fancy dinner for two became fast food and here I am, stuck with this opened bottle of Sangiovese and a whole lotta time on my hands.



Because it's Friday, I ain't got no job, and I ain't got shit to do!



Oh, Chris Tucker...you are so, SO dead on.



I had a job interview today. Just some part-time hours working as a receptionist in a veterinary clinic.


And I know you all are thinking about how I'm pretty much employment "slumming," and "oh, god, did you know that woman used to be a professional writer once? Can you BELIEVE that she's working in a veterinary clinic now? How sad!"


But you know what? That kind of job has the potential to make me very, very happy.


..Plus, the bills that keep finding their way into my mailbox don't think I'm too educated to take this job....In fact, they're all in favor of me bringing home some Goddamn INCOME, naaaah' sayin?!?



So yeah, I really want the job. The hours are perfect, allowing me to keep the majority of my day free to pursue my freelance writing business, and the job entails all sorts of moving and animal handling and people interaction - which is exactly what I'm looking for. And no, I'm not going to threaten to slit any of the animals' throats.


That shit stays inside the family.



I have a "working interview" scheduled for this Wednesday, so I'm going to need you all to keep your fingers crossed for me.



Moving on, I may be a little "durnk," but I've decided that this here blog needs a shot of adrenaline. We definitely need to bring some Flava Flav up in this beeyatch.

Not "Flava Flav" the man (I mean, eew, LOOK at him for chrissake!).


"Flava Flav" the spice. The hotness. The queso caliente (those are the only two spanish words I know. Well that, and biblioteca, which I'm pretty sure I just spelled all kinds of wrong).


So, my dear readers, what does it all mean?


It means that I'm in need of a muh-fukin' GUEST POST, son!


Seriously.

This blog needs some 5-hour energy (No jitters! No crash!) in the form of some fresh talent.


Just think - my readers, all 73 of them - reading your awesome guest post and finding the link to your blog.
How cool would that be?
Imagine the possibilities!


So if you think you could be the person to kick this blog in the proverbial ass, by all means, send an email to tapdancinginthedark@yahoo.com.


Don't make me beg. It's not pretty, and things might get a little uncomfortable.


As for the rest of the night? Who knows!
Maybe I'll motivate myself to finish the laundry and clean the bathroom.

Or maybe I'll end up drinking this entire bottle and Brian will find me passed out at my desk in a pool of my own saliva.


Either way, I'm thinking it's gonna be a good night.

(Email me, bitches)

To Exhaust A Milo

I swear I could give a handy to the guy who invented dog parks.



What?
Too much?

Milo is sleeping on the couch right now.
ooh, it feels good just TYPING those words.
When we get up in the morning at around 7:00....okay, 7:30....okay, 8:00...okay 8:30 today, but in my defense I got very little sleep on account of Brian trying out for a gold metal in gymnastics in his sleep last night.
Anyhoodle, when we get up in the morning, Milo goes berzerk. That's the only way I can describe it. He does this little bark thing non-stop while spinning in circles and chasing the cats and dragging my socks and underwear around the house, and I'll tell you, it's all I can do to not send him on his way in a boxcar with little stick and a bindle attached to the end of it.



But then there's the dogpark.
And speaking as someone who has personally tried (and failed) to sedate their dog into a coma, there is nothing better at putting Milo to sleep than letting him run around the dog park.



Granted, where most dogs need about 20 minutes of nonstop running before they piddle out, Milo needs about 90 minutes.



And in truth, I have yet to see him piddle out at the dog park. Even when we're leaving, he's starting shit with the other dogs and doing his best to chew through Jericho's jugular.



And where all the other dogs are walking away all calm and tuckered out, Milo's all:



Hey wait where are we going? is that a bird? Jericho why aren't you biting back? let's play lets play lets plaaayyyyyy...oh you want to hump me? okay thats cool but only if I get to hump you back man I love being outside lets go back to the park hey is that another dog up ahead? Hellllooooo dog do you want to play? can I sniff your butt? oh man we should be running around right now let's go....oh wait, I'm still attached to the leash? that's a bummer but maybe I can break it if I throw myself on it really harrrdddddd...okay that didn't work hey where is that dog going? is he going to the dogpark? I want to go to the dogparrrrrkkkkkk...



..And so forth, until I yank his leash really hard and get my face all up in his face and use passive aggressive techniques to try to get him to calm the hell down, like, "oh, I'm sorry, did I not entertain you enough for one day? Oh that's right...you're a fucking dog..." and when all else fails, threaten to cut his throat and watch him bleed to death right then and there, because I haven't had my coffee yet.



What?
I wouldn't actually do it.
(although after catching him eating my expensive riding glove a few days ago, I'm suppressing the urge to collect my pound of flesh)



And when we get home, he's still a little hyper. He comes in all bouncy and excited and the cats run like the wind.
It's hysterical, and in the case of the fat cat, healthy too.



But then - BUT THEN - he starts to slow down. He drags my T-shirt out from the bedroom and sets himself up on the couch and I watch with glee as his eyes get sleepier and sleepier and before you know it?



Bingo.

WE HAVE A POOPED PUP

Yeah, that's right. Sleep, you little fucker.
Sleeeeeeepppppp.

To conclude, I'd like to point out that I've essentially quit my job to shuttle Milo to and from the dogpark.

But on the bright side, at least I've figured out my purpose in life...

Today's Post Is Sponsored By Bone Thugs 'N Harmony

I think Bone Thugs 'N Harmony best summed up my life with the lyrics,

Bone, bone, bone, bone, bone, bone, bone, bone, bone
Tell me what ya gonna do

Whoops...wrong part (or is it?).

Let's try this again:

See you at the crossroads

Aaah, that's better.

Except, in this sense, the crossroads that I'm encountering are more of the life decision variety than the soul crossing over into another metaphysical plane variety.

I can't help but think, as I sit here in all my unemployed glory, that perhaps I'm truly at a crossroads when it comes to what I'm going to do with my life. I quit my job intending to write on a freelance basis. While this might still pan out, my most immediate contact has 100% fallen through.
So now I'm thinking, "what ELSE could I do with my life?"
Is this latest snaffoo merely a bump in the road or is Karma (or God or Allah or Biggie G or whoever) smacking me on the back of the head and saying, "look overe HERE, stupid!"

Am I that dumbass who is looking the wrong way?

It's that whole closed door, open window metaphor.

God is who we praise even though the devils all up in my face...

And oh shit, son, the devis is indeed ALL UP in my bidness. He's waving billz in my grill and pointing out that I'm essentially leaching off of my kind, hardworking, health insurance-providing husband.

And I while I don't believe in God (and really, this fact cannot be stressed enough), am I not, in some way, throwing my future to the winds and letting the pieces land as they may? Am I not turning over the wheel to destiny and seeing where it takes me?

Now follow me roll stroll whether it's hell or it's heaven

I don't know what will come of this predicament. I might end up ahead of the game, or behind it. But I made my decisions, and there's no going back. And something tells me that no matter how the dice lands, no matter what punches I have to roll with, this whole journey will be good for me.

Damn man I miss my Uncle Charles yall

I do. He was a special guy.
Wait.
What?

Oh well
I guess using a Bone Thugs 'N Harmony song as a metaphor for your life can only get you so far.

Let's all bring it in for Wally
Eazy sees Uncle Charlie,
Little Boo, God's got him,
and I'm gonna miss everybody

That 7-Year-Old Had It Coming

So what does one do, on a cold Monday morning, when one is unemployed and financially unstable?

Well, if one happens to be as much of a rebel as I am, one might decide to drop everything and go skiing.

I mean, hell, I figure that if I'm totally going to end up destitute, fifty bucks ain't making or breaking NOTHIN', right?!?

Those of you long-time followers, you crazy bastards you, might remember when I broke my wrist snowboarding last February.

(Here I am post-ER visit, waiting to get hooked up with the good shit at CVS. Wasn't it sweet of Brian to capture this wonderful moment in time with a lovely photo?!? I'm kidding - I totally told him to take the photo. Why? Because that shit was BAD. ASS.)

Well, unfortunately, by the time my wrist healed, the snow was long gone from the pocono area. So I essentially missed out on that opportunity to "get back up on that horse"

And I dunno....maybe it was the inability to conquer my deamons or the hard wack on the ole' noggin or a husband who would prefer his wife more up and about and less broken and whiney for 8 some-odd weeks, but this year? We decided to give snowboarding a rest.

So today, properly equipped with a helmet and brand new gloves with built-in wrist supports and a doting husband who watched me like a hawk, I got back on that horse.

And by horse, I mean snow-covered mountain of death.

It was fun :-)

Skiing is, in so many ways, both easier and safer than snowboarding.

For example, at no point in time was I like, "holy god, I'm going to have to take this 7-year-old kid out if I want to have any chance of stopping before I hit that ski lift."

Which was nice, for a change.

Also, at no point in time did I break my wrist, so...bonus points right there.

And in the end, I decided that if I HAVE to plummet to sure death on the side of a mountain, I'd prefer to do it with my legs strapped into TWO thin boards of wood and fiberglass instead of one.

Go Team Ski.

So now I'm home, utterly sore and tired from my day on the mountain.

And sure, I still don't have a job. Sure, tomorrow I'm going to get up and cry into my Honey Bunches of Oats because I have no reliable source of income, and I pretty much failed at life and even the dogs don't seem to have any respect for me anymore, and then I'll play "Everybody Hurts Sometimes" by R.E.M. and sit in the dark and remember what it was like when I was a contributing member of society, and then maybe I'll do the dishes, because even losers like a clean kitchen once in a while.

But at the end of the day I'm STILL happier than when I was working a 9 to 5 job.

Not to mention the fact that I still have two intact wrists.

The Logic Was Flawed From The Start

So, maybe it's the wine talking...but I'm feeling a bit better.

Sure, I'm three-quarters into a bottle of Snoqualmie Reisling (which is not my first choice, but beggars can't be choosers), but I'll be damned if I'm not starting to feel a bit better about my predicament.

Did your comments help?
You're FUCKING RIGHT they did.

And they made me realize that no matter what happens, I'm a capable, relatively intelligent individual (you can stop snickering now) and there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to pull this off.

Sure, I don't have a job.
Sure, I don't have a reliable source of income or any prospects.
Sure I...uh...oh...erm...what was I saying? No job? No income?
Uhhhh....

Rrrriigghhtt.

Regardless.
This three-quarters of a bottle of Snoqualmie Reisling says that I should try to take a more optimistic attitude, so there you have it. The Reisling says to be positive, and so I must.

Thank you for all of your support. I know I've been leaning on you guys a bit heavily as of late, but let's chalk it up to a passing phase.

In the meantime, let's just hope that no potential employers or clients stumble upon this blog.

...and if you happen to be a potential employer or client, allow me to point out that if I can write this well now, then just imagine how well I can write when I'm sober.

(remind me to delete this blog in the morning)

...Like In The Back Of A Volkswagon

If you haven't ever seen Mallrats, then ignore the title of this post.

Suffice to say, it describes the act of having sexy times in a very uncomfortable place...

...which is exactly how I feel today.

Backdoor, no lube.

You guys, I got screwed.

My whole plan to quit my job and become a freelance writer was hinged upon a pretty big variable.
A variable that was thoroughly examined and believed to be free of any real risk.

In other words, the risk of this plan falling through was pretty much less than 1%.

And yet...
It fell through.

There was nothing I could do - it was completely out of my control.
So I found out last night that the variable, which was to constitute approximately 80% of my yearly income, was out of the picture.

Last night?
Was not a good night.

Hell, this morning wasn't such a good morning either.

This afternoon, I'm feeling a bit better.
I'm trying to be all bouncy and resiliant and NOT take out a hit on certain individuals.

But it's hard.
And scary.
And I'm kind of facing those deamons that nobody likes to face. You know...Guilt, Failure, Self-Loathing, Regret....all those hard-core bad-ass emotions that make you want to drink whiskey straigh-up until you're passed out in a puddle of vomit and tears.

Rest assured, there was no intake of alcohol last night. Tears, on the other hand, were plentiful.

So I guess instead of this whole transition being all "super-awesom move towards independence and a happier life," it's going to be a little more "something you survived and in the end will make you a stronger person but for now is making you all stressed and stabby."

But hey, it could always be worse, right?
RIGHT?!?

Poop.

Gratitude, And A Stripper

Can we just talk, for a second, about how awesome you guys are?

I mean seriously, on an awesome scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is "watching your basement flood" and 10 is "free, all-you-can-eat dessert buffet," you guys are, like, a 12.

Seriously.

I was having a major panic attack about the blog yesterday. What might have seemed like a whiny bitchfest in which I was fishing for complements was in all seriousness a true identity crisis where I questioned some pretty significant aspects about what I believed to be part of my personality.

I mean, if I'm not a writer, and not a funny person....who am I.

Who am I without my blog?

Who am I without my readers?

It was these sort of questions that I was grappling with yesterday when I realized that I ONCE AGAIN had zero inspiration and wondered if it would ever come back, or if I would be forced to walk away from this blog.

And thanks to you, my super-awesome readers, I'm feeling a lot more optimistic. Which is not exactly funny or inspired, but I'll take it.

So I would like to give you all an "air five," and invite you in for a group hug, because I am seriously feeling the love today.

Which just goes to show that without you guys? I'd be just that much more lost.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

And now I leave you with this cartoon, which is in no way relevant to the above discussion (which makes it that much more special, don't you think?)

Heck, I Wouldn't Follow Me Either

Oh, Follower #71...

...you're right. You're absolutely, unequivocally right.

I've let down my readers. Heck, I've let down myself.

My blogs, lately, are crap.

There's no other way to put it.

You see, for the first time since I left college, I'm 100% happy with how my days are being spent. And while this is incredibly fortunate for my overall well-being, as it turns out, Happy Lily is not a great blogger.

In fact, Happy Lily isn't a decent blogger either. She's not even a run-of-the-mill blogger.

She's shitty, uncreative, unentertaining blogger with a penchant for senseless rambling performed in her pajamas. And as Happy Lily is learning, an awesome Ghostbusters reference does not an excellent blog make.

Oh, Follower #71, you totally called it.

I'm not worth following, lately.

But what can I do?

When I was a frustrated caged animal, forced to stare at a screen for 8 hours straight, surrounded by characters that were so bizarre that they were worthy of their own television series, writing came easy. I was full of anger and sarcasm, "piss and vinegar" as my grandfather would have put it (not that he's dead, but he's almost 89, so he doesn't really say much anymore,plus at 89, you're pretty much dead anyway).

But now all happy and relaxed and, "wow, isn't life great? Let's grab a latte and catch up!" and my blog - my poor, poor, blog - is only a shadow of what it was in its glory days.

This is the best visual representation of what I have been doing lately to Tapdancing in the Dark, and I think you'll agree:

So my apologies for essentially shitting all over this blog. I'm not proud of it.

Will I regain my creativity?
Perhaps.
I'm hoping that once I find my new routine amongst the chaos of my current lifestyle, my ability to blog will return.
But who knows?

In the meantime, I don't blame any one of you for ceasing to follow this monstrosity of a blog.

I can only beg your pardon, and hope to god that someone pisses me off enough to spark a decent blog.

Any takers?

I'm Just A Gatekeeper Looking For Her Keymaster

So it's day 1 of my new life as a freelance writer.
Officially.
The other days don't count. It was the holidays and we had guests and Brian was home and there was MUCH eating and drinking, so let's just chalk those days up to a long vacation.

TODAY is the day where it all starts. Everybody is back to work, and I'm beginning to develop those new patterns and routines that will define my workday from henceforward. Which means that I will be juggling freelance writing, horseback riding, and maintaining order to this tornado of chaos and destructions that was formerly a household (or Brian will beat me.)

(haha, I'm kidding. I think we all know who wears the pants in this family.)

(We're all talking about Milo, right?)

I got up around 7:30, which I think is pretty good. Nevermind the fact that Brian and I both go to bed at the same early hour, namely so he can get up for work at 5:15.
Hey, I need my beauty rest - it's a lot harder looking this gorgeous than you might think.

(says the woman in the ratty bathrobe and Sigorney Waver "Ghostbusters" hair.* Seriously, I think I just saw Zool in the refrigerator)

So at 7:30 I got up, let the dogs out, made some coffee, started a fire, and here we are.
Yep.
Here we are.

I have to admit - I'm at a bit of a loss. Yes, I have a lot of hours at my disposal, and yes, I have a lot of things that need to be done. I'm just not sure where to start, yanno?
I'm scheduled to ride at 11:00, so I have roughly 3 hours to utilize this morning for other things.
Should I go to the grocery store?
Should I gather up the recyclables?
Should I take down the tree?
Should I take Milo for a run at the dog park? (at the risk of having him get *used* to a morning run, and then god help us all the day I can't get him to the park, because he will punish me)

After so many years of having my work priorities defined for me (and my house priorities squeezed into the cracks of my life in no particular order), I'm finding it difficult to set up a framework for my own life.

Not that I'm complaining.
For the love of god, do not think for a second that I'm complaining.
For sure, this is a marvelous problem to have...
...but a problem, nonetheless.

So I suppose I'll just sit here, drink another cup of coffee, and try to remember what it was like when I was my own boss.
I guess that would be college, although I suspect that 9:00 am martinis are out of the question.

...or are they?

*term first used by my now ex-roommate Crystal. She was fabulous. Not like she's dead or anything. Just dead to me.
I kid. Miss you, Crystal!

We're On A First-Name Basis

So it's 12:12 am, and I'm finally taking a break from my most recent addiction: Rollercoaster Tycoon.

Rollercoaster Tycoon (or RT, as I like to call him) and I have a fickle relationship. We run hot for a while. I play him nonstop, to the point where I stop performing crucial tasks like bathing and speaking in full sentences. But inevitably, the fire goes out, and RT sits on a shelf for months on end without so much as a second thought.

I guess we're rekindling our romance.
It's the only way I can explain that I'm awake at 12:12...well, 12:17 now...in the morning.

Brian doesn't seem to mind.
He's currently having an affair with Wii baseball. He and the Wii do their thing, and the computer and I do ours.

Hey, whatever works, right?

So tomorrow, I may be forced to do something drastic.
Like, put RT somewhere where he's difficult to access - like the attic - and hope that I can beat this addiction once and for all.

It's just that, well, the real world isn't as much FUN as life in RT.
Where are the Hyper Coasters?
Where are the Wild Wild West shows?
Where are the Lemonade Stands and Balloon Stalls?

As far as I can tell, the real world just has a heckuva lot of dirty dishes and a 6-foot pile of laundry.

So this is my most recent struggle. To live life, or play RT.

Hmmmm....

If anybody needs me, I'll be at the Wild Wild West show.

This Is The Dawning Of The Age Of Aquarius...Or Something Like That

2010, huh?

Well, its a nice even number, although for the life of me I can't figure out why we're not driving around in hover-cars yet.

It's the future, bitches. I was promised hover-cars. Get on that shit.

Another year has come and gone, and my oh my, what a year it was.
There was an Ice Hotel.
There was a broken wrist.
There was a divorce and a wedding and a new puppy and a job resignation.
In other words, 2009 was jam-packed with events, most of them falling into the awesome category, with the exception of my broken wrist.

(we're still not sure where the adoption of Milo falls on that scale)

What 2010 has in store for me is anybodys guess.
For sure, there will be some bumps in the road. After all, the sweet just ain't as sweet without the bitter, right?
And I'm okay with that.
Because everything that I am today is the result of past obstacles that were, in one way or another, overcome.
And just as reliably, there will be good times too.
Brian will see to that.
I will see to that.

So with this entry, I say goodbye to 2009.
Goodbye to the past, with its ups and downs; with its joys and sorrows; with its moments, both bitter and sweet.
Goodbye to the past, that unchangable thing that forever records our deeds, both admirable and admonishable, with endless precision.
Goodbye to the tears that I shed. Goodbye to the laughs that came deep from my belly. Goodbye to the moments, each and every one, that led me to where I am today.

Hello 2010.
I can't wait to get to know you...