Tapdancing in the Dark

Out With The Old, In With The New

2011-01-03T11:07:00.001-08:00

Let's face it.

This blog has gone from spectacularly awesome to Sucky McSucksAlot.

My lackluster posting has been a thorn in my side these past 12 months, and as we ring in the New Year, I think I'm finally ready to say goodbye to Tapdancing In The Dark.

But before I go, I want to say thank you to each and every one of you who stood by me, faithfully returning to read my posts, even when the suckage was off the charts. You guys were my interwebz famiily, and I'm grateful for each and every one of you.

Much love....much love.

Fortunately, we don't have to completely break ties.

Allow me to introduce my (zombie)ass-kicking new blog:

Something Zombie This Way Comes.

I feel a new blog objective will help me get back my "funny," and what better subject is there than zombies?

So find (and follow) me there if you so desire - it'll be nice to see a friendly face on the new blog.

I wish you ALL a happy New Year and the best that 2011 can offer.

XOXOXO
Lily

The Worst Recap Ever (or: WTF...Why Is It Almost Christmas?!?)

2010-12-13T07:09:00.000-08:00

Montreal was nice.
Cold enough to freeze my proverbial nuts off, but nice.

Mt. Tremblant was nice too, as long as I kept my ass at the BOTTOM of the mountain where it belonged.
The TOP of the mountain was an entirely different story
(Pizza....french fries....pizza....PIZZA! PIZZA!!! AAAHHHHH!....*thud*....repeat)

Needless to say that the "pizza/french fries" ski technique doesn't work on a mountain of considerable height covered in 6 inches of fresh powder.

But the OTHER "pizza/french fries" technique....yanno...the one where you eat your weight in assorted french delicacies...
That technique works FANTASTIC in Canada
(I'm bustin' out of my pants as we speak)

And this concludes the Worst Recap Ever.

Because when I LEFT for Canada it was December 4th and Christmas was weeks away. But now that I'm BACK from Canada it's December 13th and there's only one weekend left 'till Christmas and I am ALL KINDS OF CONFUSED about that.
And a little bit wild....I'm not gonna lie.
Holy fuck, I have a lot to do!

So if you're reading this and you USUALLY get a Christmas card from me?
Consider this my Christmas Greeting to you.
(Happy [insert winter holiday here]...cheer, warm wishes, plentiful booze, etc)

And if you're reading this and you USUALLY get a Christmas present from me?...
Don't be surprised if it's wrapped in newspaper and thrown in a ShopRite bag.

Because my ass is bruised, my pants don't fit, and I am OUT OF TIME, people!!

On Montreal, And Why You Shouldn't Rob Us (Unless You Need A Blender)

2010-11-30T09:34:00.001-08:00

Brian says I'm not supposed to talk about our trip to Montreal.

"People will know that we're not home," he says, "and they could come and steal our stuff."

Well, to anyone who would like to break into our house, I'd like to say first that the back door is usually unlocked so please try that entrance before you bust up our door frame. The second thing I'd like to say is please, help yourself to our circa 1994 tube TV and outdated PC and the blender that my grandmother gave me for a college graduation gift. Hell, the newest thing in our house is the refrigerator and if you break into our house prepared to lift that 700-pound monstrosity, then I'm gonna go ahead and say that you've earned the right to take it.

Not like his opinion counts anyway...
He got a SEVERE concussion last weekend and hasn't recovered yet, so I'm writing off anything he says as the ramblings of a crazy man.

Poor guy.
I joke, but the doctor says you're only allowed one of those hits in a lifetime, and he just used his up. Of course, when you're watching your spouse vomit profusely in the ER while being unable to keep his eyes open, it doesn't take a doctor to tell you that his brains are a little scrambled.

(That flag football...it's a dangerous, dangerous sport)

So now I'm heading up to Montreal with my in-laws and a husband whose brains are over-easy and a little under-done...
In December, which means it'll be ghastly cold and on top of that, Brian can't ski or drink.
Which begs the question, What ELSE is there to do in Montreal in December besides ski and drink???

If you're expecting me to answer that question....I cannot - although I suspect it involves a great deal of family bonding time (sanz booze)
*sigh

So yes, we're going to Montreal to NOT ski. OR drink.
Still interested in robbing our house?
I didn't think so
(your pity is palpable from here)

Work. Yay! and Booo!

2010-11-19T07:15:00.000-08:00

Just a short post to let you all know that I may be MIA for a while.

I landed a crap-ton of freelance work, which is totally awesome!
if you like working slave hours

I mean, it's Christmas, and I could really use the money.
Did I mention I'll probably be working on Christmas day?

Plus, I'm thrilled and flattered that several companies are now using me as one of their primary freelance writers
my rates are so cheap, I'm practically working for peanuts

Besides, boarding Mikey is getting very expensive
correction: I'm working for hay and poop-removal services

And the dogs eat a LOT of dog food
I'm officially a slave for my animals. There. Someone had to say it.

But it's okay...I love what I do
English was the only major in college that didn't require Calc 1

And my writing is helping to educate hundreds of physicians
so they can treat dangerous, life threatening cases of hospital-associated mud-butt

*sigh
Granted, December is not the best month to be loaded up with various monographs, slide sets, and needs assessments.
But that's the life of a freelancer. I get to roll out of bed and work in my jammies...
But sometimes I'm rolling out of bed and working in my jammies on a Saturday.
Or...yanno...Christmas.
YAY!

So if I don't manage to squeeze in a post between now and next Thursday

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I hope you all have a great time and manage to eat your weight in turkey.
But don't forget to wear your stretchy pants, people!
I cannot emphasize this enough.

STRETCHY PANTS!!!

Okay, it's back to work for me. I only have 12 more hours until bedtime and I have to pull some miracles out of my ass.

Eggs. Not The Kind You Scramble.

2010-11-12T04:12:00.001-08:00

I have bad eggs.

Not the kind you get in the store.
The kind your ovaries make (if you're a woman, that is. If you're a man and you're making bad eggs with your ovaries, I think you have bigger things to worry about than egg quality).

They don't tell you this shit BEFORE your IVF, mostly because A) the lab doesn't feel like giving a science lesson every time they call someone on the phone, and B) IVF usually works, so there'd be no point anyway.

However, for those with less-than-stellar quality embryos, it would kind of be nice to know this BEFORE we get our hopes up.

All I can say is thank sweet, candy-coated jesus for health insurance. Sure, the IFV failed due to poor egg quality, but imagine trying to wrap your head around a failed IVF cycle, bad eggs, AND a $30,000 hit to the bank account?

If there was EVER a time in your life when you'd want to punch babies, THAT WOULD BE IT, folks.

So my bad eggs put our chances for IVF success somewhere in the 25% to 35% range, instead of the 55% to 65% range we thought we were initially dealing with.

If I were an obese smoker, there would be an excellent chance that lifestyle changes could improve the quality of my embryos.
However, since I'm already relatively healthy, the doctor says there's not a heck of a lot I can do.

"Try accupuncture" he said, "There's no data that it helps, but it might make you feel better...feel like you're doing something to change your odds; maybe send some positive vibes out"

Christ.
When your doctor starts talking about accupuncture and happy thoughts, I think it's safe to say that he's out of ideas.

So 2011, it seems, will be The Year of the IVF Cycle.
Our insurance covers up to 4 attempts (allow me to thank sweet, candy-coated jesus once again for health insurance), and my doctor seems to think we might need to use all 4 of them if we want a chance at a bambino.

So in case you were wondering....THAT is how eggs can ruin your late twenties.

Salmonella ain't got NOTHIN' on that shit.

We're taking the rest of the year off. To heal and come back stronger, I guess, but also because the holidays are crazy and the thought of taking all those shots and pills while simultaneously trying to find the perfect gift for everyone kind of makes me want to shank someone.

So I guess this blog will be getting a "fertility break" as well, and I can hardly imagine how grateful you all will be for not having to read my "poor me, I'm infertile, booo hoooo" blogs every week.
(I'm well aware that there are children starving and people battling cancer out there, so my dramatic performances over infertility can't have been much appreciated).

In other words, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for hanging in there with me. Those three of you who are still reading my blog despite all the dismal posts totally kick ass and I'll be sending each of you a muffin basket.

mwah*

Life Moving Along And Such

2010-11-05T06:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to say that I'm not still hurting.
And I'm certainly far from being my old, funny self (Read: this post will NOT be interesting)

But I will say that despite my best efforts to hide under the covers, life is soldiering on. The human spirit is remarkably buoyant and besides...the house got really, REALLY dirty while I was depressed. Like, you wipe your shoes to LEAVE the house because the ground outside is cleaner than your foyer floor.

THAT kind of dirty.

Ick.

So here I am, relatively intact, with a cleaner floor and a brighter outlook.
The IVF didn't work.
So what.
Life has something else in store for me, and that's totally cool. (for now, until I get in one of my moods again)

What else is going on in the life of Lily?
Not...a heck of a lot.

Work is slow. It's great. And terrible. Kind of....grterrible. I have time to cook and clean and be all domestic. And ride my horse, which is totally kick-ass. But I also have copious amounts of time to think and/or sulk, which is not the best timing. And with Christmas coming up, plus a last-minute trip to Montreal scheduled for early December (I'll get to that in a minute), I sure could use a little more income, if yanno what I mean.

But such is the life of a freelance writer, no?

That trip to Montreal....
It's gonna be interesting.

You see, Brian's brother has a contract position in Afghanistan. He gets HUGE tax breaks, but he can only enter the country for a certain amount of days each year to GET those tax breaks. So he has a vacation coming up, and no more time left in the States. Hence, Brian, me, and my in-laws are driving up to Montreal to spend a week with him.

Yes.
You heard right.
A week vacay with my in-laws.

And don't get me wrong...my in-laws are lovely people. I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. I truly consider myself lucky to have such great people in my life.
But a week long trip with them is a first, and needless to say, I'm a little...overwhelmed...at the thought.

But that's ok.
At least I'm not pregnant, so I can drink and ski.
Or throw myself down the stairs.

Small blessings, people....small blessings.

So that's it.
It's November.
I'm not sure when THAT happened, but the calendar says so and the calendar don't lie.
Which is confusing, because according to the stores and ads, it's Christmas time.
But it's only November.
...I don't get it.

Regardless, the fire place is now in full use, and I can start to figure out which winter sport is guaranteed to put me in the hospital this year.

Ahhh, winter (smells like the ER).

I hope everybody enjoys their weekend.
When I was working, this would be the time when I'd be all, IT'S FRIDAY, MOTHERF*CKERS...but since I work from home now, it really doesn't matter. Hell, these days, I can barely keep track of what MONTH it is, let alone which day of the week.

Still...for those of you out there in the 9-5 grind, IT'S FRIDAY, MOTHERF*CKERS.
BOO-YAH!
Go home, have a drink, and get frisky with your loved one.

Lily out.

Justice (or lack thereof)

2010-11-02T05:27:00.001-07:00

The IVF didn't work.

I wasn't going to blog about it either way, but I don't know what else to do. My heart is breaking over and over again, and I'm hoping that writing might help ease the pain.
Nothing else seems to make it better...everything around me reminds me of how I am not now and will most likely never be a biological mother.

Where is the justice in life?
Where is all that Karma?
Where is God or Allah or Buddah?
Who, up there, is deciding that I'm not cut out for motherhood?

Who is labeling me as an infertile, despite the fact that I've spent my whole life eating right and exercising and taking care of myself, both physically and emotionally? Despite the fact that I struggled my way out of a horrible, abusive marriage and managed to rebuild my life from scratch? Despite the fact that all I'm trying to do is carve out a little niche of happiness with my soul mate and best friend?

Who up there is letting lousy people in lousy marriages reproduce like rabbits while Brian and I, two people full of love...who are trying to have a baby for all the right reasons...get negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test?

For the love of god, WHO IS RUNNING THE SHOW UP THERE?!? Because if there is anyone...anyone...out there who has EARNED their right to a family...it's Brian and me.

Fuck.
FUCK.

This blog used to be a happy place. Well, at least a sarcastic and funny place, if not a little disgruntled.
And I'm hoping that this blog will one day be a happy place again (hopefully with a little less disgruntlement and a little more genuine cheer).

But for now, this blog is about as empty and hopeless as my soul. I'm writing only for me ...to keep myself from going mad...to maybe pull myself away from the edge, if only just an inch or two. I'm using it as a crutch, to give me strength where there is none. To give me the peace that I have yet to find.

I've encountered a lot of obstacles in my life, but this one might be the biggest.
Please, God, or Allah, or Karma or whoever, help me to climb it.
Because I stumbled 4 days ago and I have yet to get up.

Purgatory

2010-10-27T15:24:00.001-07:00

Purgatory is waiting around for your pregnancy test, which is scheduled for the end of the week.

It's wandering aimlessly around the house, with no real work to speak of (both a blessing and a curse during this time), being limited physically and crippled emotionally. It's wondering how much you can take before you go mad. It's knowing that, either way, you'll never quite be the same again.

Purgatory is abstaining from almost everything you love, possibly for no reason whatsoever. It's decaf coffee and juice and walking (without the dogs) and watching other people ride your horse. It's preparing yourself for the worst while hoping for he best; running scenario after scenario through your head as you pace the halls like a caged tiger, dissatisfied and intensely aware of every ticking second.

Purgatory means you stop enjoying the things you used to love...well, the things you used to love that you are ALLOWED to do, according to the new rules set forth by your doctor. It's distraction, coupled with a bad taste in your mouth that leaves you dead in front of the television, wishing it was two days from now and evaluating your body for the slightest foreign twinge. A cramp here. Tenderness there. What if....what if...?

I won't be able to blog about the results of Fridays test. If it's good news (dear god, let it be good news), then you don't talk about it until you're past the first tenuous weeks. If its bad news...well...there are some feelings so visceral that even I won't be able to find the words to express them.

Please, let this week be over.
Please, let me take back my life, even if it's in bits and pieces when it's done.

This ghost of a person that I've become....let her find peace, no matter what the outcome.

Give me heaven or hell, ecstacy or sorrow.
Anything...anything...other than purgatory.

Doing the SHIT out of Halloween

2010-10-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

I'm in a weird mood today.

First, I was feeling all "hahah funny" and was going to post about my halloween scare-venture. Then, for no reason at all, I started (well, continued) thinking about this infertility crap and I got sad.

Then I had breakfast.

Then I considered making a fort out of the couch cushions.

Then I remembered that Milo ate the couch cushions, so I went back online and here we are.

In summary, I'm all silly-sad-angry
(but not hungry. Thank god for small blessings)

I guess I can still blame it on the hormones, although these days they're coming in pill form instead of shot form, which is super cool and has increased my hydration level by, like, 30%. Except for that one hormone that comes in....suppository...form, and we don't really talk about THAT hormone.

Or I could blame it on the stress of finding out if the IVF "took" this Friday, which, BTW, is guarenteed to be the LONGEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

Or I could just blame it on Milo, because honestly, what problems CAN'T be blamed on that asshole?

Regardless, I'm all wonked out and not good for much other than drinking decaf coffee (shank me) and rambling endlessly on this here blog.

The Halloween activity was decidedly NOT scary. The scariest thing about the whole night was being surrounded by awkward teenage girls in skinny jeans and Ugg boots, uncomfortably holding hands with gangly teenage boys desperately in need of haircuts.

For realz, you could not pay me enough to be a teenager again.

The rest of the attraction was a little hoaky and a LOT random (aliens carrying chainsaws?!? WHAT?!?!?), which was exacerbated when I got the giggles and couldn't stop laughing at the poor "actors" (and I use this term loosely) trying their best to jump out and frighten me.

I think I hurt their feelings.

But it's made me want to up the ante, and perhaps next year, you'll find me at the Bates Motel or some shit like that.
....maybe.

We also carved pumpkins.

And I don't want to brag, but it's entirely possible that I made the best jack-o-lantern ever carved...ever...in the history of jack-o-lanterns

I'm having that shit BRONZED, yo!

Halloween was also celebrated in the form of pumpkin chili and our annual reading of McSweeney's "It's Decorative Gourd Season, MotherFuckers"....and if you have not read this yet I STRONGLY ENCOURAGE YOU to click on the link, because this is the funniest shit EVER WRITTEN about fall.

I'm having the entire thing put onto a cross-stitch sampler for my mother this year, FOR REALZ.

So yeah, we're doing the SHIT out of Halloween this year, and I'm loving every minute of it.

That's all for now. I'm running low on decaf, and I've got another pumpkin with my name on it.
Happy fall, fuck-faces

(it's a McSweeney's reference. If you didn't get it, then you didn't click on the link, and we can probably most likely not be friends anymore. Please turn in your friendship bracelet and the other half of my heart necklace)

On Halloween, and Soiling Myself

2010-10-22T04:53:00.000-07:00

For the record, let it be said that I Luh-HUV Halloween.
Love the shit out of it.
I love the decorations and the scary movies on TV and the ridiculous costumes that we dress our children (or animals) in.
For realz, I'd do sexy times with Halloween and even let it take me shopping and kiss it on the mouth, which is totally against my rules, but that is how much I love Halloween, people.

However, even I have my limits.

For one thing, I really don't like dressing up.
I know - I'm a total buzz-kill.
Everything about my personality says that I should be the first one throwing on that sexy pirate wench/sexy witch/sexy nun costume and the last one taking it off (unless I drink too much beer, at which point I've been known to remove clothing prematurely).
But something about all this time and effort and money spent to look like something that you're clearly not ....I dunno....it just seems a little silly.
Because no matter how much I may look like that sexy pirate wench, we all know that I'm just a medical writer from NJ.
(not to mention the fact that if I WAS, in fact, a pirate wench, I'd probably choose a more servicable hem length...and not wear stilettos, what with all the rocking on the high seas...)
So what's the point?
However, I WILL say that I found a full-sized banana costume at Target the other day, and the amazing image in my head of me, waltzing around a party in as a banana, has kind of convinced me that for the right costume, maybe I'd change this position.
Maybe.

Another thing I don't do is the haunted corn maze/wagon ride/prison what-have-you.
Because that shit scares the baJESUS out of me.
Some horrible creature will jump out of the dark, and everyone screams and then kind of laughs and moves on....meanwhile, I'm in the fetal position on the ground, laying in my own feces and vomit, playing dead and hoping the monster won't actually kill me.
I don't know what it is about these attractions...
I can tell myself over and over again that it's not real and it's just for fun, but then I'm forced to walk down this dark hallway and I know for a fact that there are things down that hallway waiting to get me, and I have this moment, right before I pass out from fear, when I'm all, I paid good money for THIS?!?!?
And then I die.
I seriosly die, because I am so freakin' scared.

And don't even get me started on haunted mazes.
Because REAL mazes, in the daytime, terrify me, let alone when they're filled with human-eating zombies and whatnot.
I mean, what if I can't get out? What if I get lost in the maze and they never find me?
THIS is what goes through my head when I encounter a beautiful hedge maze in a garden in May.
Turn down the lights and add heart-attack-inducing characters?
No sir.
Not this sucker.
I'll sit on the bench outside the maze and hold everyone's purses and wait for them to come out....if they make it, that is.

So how, for the love of god, has my sister convinced me to go on a combination haunted hayride/haunted woods walk-through this weekend?
Well...I'm still not sure.

Maybe I want to face all my old enemies and see if I still soil myself at the first mummy
Maybe I want to prove that I'm older and wiser now and can recognize cheesy haunted theatrics when I see it.
Or maybe I'm just tired of holding everybody's purses.

I dunno.

But come Saturday, you'll find me on a haunted hayride to hell, either laughing at the cheesy haunted theatrics....or pooping my pants.
Just like always.

Fat Cat and Me

2010-10-15T05:35:00.000-07:00

Fat cat (FC): Lily
Me: What
FC: You're not going to believe this.
Me: Believe what? I'm working...leave me alone
FC: I'm serious. Come quick! It's wild!
Me: Jesus christ...fine. Just gimme a second...
FC: No, you have to come NOW! It might not be here in a second!!
Me: FINE, fine...I'm coming, okay? What's so damn important that I have to stop working...
*follows cat to the water bowel in the kitchen
FC: Check it out.
Me: Check WHAT out?
FC: *touches paw to water: THIS
Me: This what? What are we looking at? Is there a stink bug in there again?
FC: No...THIS
Me: What? Water?
FC: Yeah.....water.
Me: What about it?
FC: Dude....what do you mean? It's crazy. Look what happens when you touch it!
*touches paw to water again
Me: ...I'm speechless.
FC: ME TOO! Aren't you glad I brought you out here to see it?
Me: Dude. No. You're an idiot.
FC: What the hell are you talking about? This could be the next greatest discovery of our time!
Me: No, it's water. You do this EVERY DAY. You sit in front of it and put your paw in it and then lick your paw and look at it again as if it's some miracle. And then I have to explain to you that it's not a miracle...that it's just WATER...and then you go and lick your privates. Every. Goddamn. Day.
FC: ....Really?
Me:...really
FC:...So...you're saying...that I've seen this substance before...
Me: Yes. I'm saying that you're a moron.
FC:...but....
Me:...but nothing. It's water. it keeps us alive. It's there, in a bowel, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
FC:...Oh...but look how cool it is! I touch it...and then it's on my paw...
Me: *sigh
FC: And look! There's a cat in it! Did you know there's a cat in there?!?
Me: That's your REFLECTION, retard.
FC: My what?
Me: Your REFLEC...oh, nevermind. Yeah, there's a cat in there. His name is Larry.
FC: *looks in the bowel: HI LARRY
Me: God, you really ARE an idiot
FC: Sometimes there's a dog in there too - but only when Jericho comes around.
Me: I bet he's a big black dog.
FC: How did you know?!? Have you seen him too?!?
Me: Yeah. He's awesome. Can I go back to work now?
FC: Hmmmmm?? What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Go back to work. I'm going to hang out with Larry some more. Between you and me, he looks like he could use a friend.
Me: Okay, you do that. And Fat Cat?
FC: Yeah?
Me: Try not to fall in this time
FC: Yeah, yeah...

The Hormones Wish To Speak

2010-10-12T05:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't intend this blog to be all about my infertility.
I intended it to be about my LIFE.

But then again, my LIFE is all about infertility these days, so I guess it makes sense that I would devote a couple of posts to fertility treatment.

Welcome to my hell
(please leave your dignity at the door).

Of course, I need to state for the record that despite all my grumbling, I am 100% grateful that infertility is covered by my health insurance. Without it, we'd either be out a cool $25,000 (that does not exist), or be shopping for kids in Guatamala.
Which may still happen yet, depending on if this fancy schmancy $25,000 procedure actually...yanno...works.

Still, grateful isn't exactly what I'm feeling when I'm injecting 2 ccs of hormones into my body, several times a day...despite my best efforts.
And grateful isn't exactly what I'm feeling when I can barely stand upright because my ovaries are having a block party and bringing down the house.

The roof...the roof...the roof is on fire!!!

What I am feeling....is every emotion known to man. In about a 5 minute period, none the less.
I have recieved three heartwarming cards in the last 24 hours, and cried while reading every. single. one.
I had some negative faculty feedback about my work, only to feel overwhelmed, sad, angry, and nonchalant in the first two minutes of recieving this feedback.
I've gotten seriously mad at Brian for existing.
That's it.
Just continuing to breath oxygen and take up space.

And that, my friends, is when you know that you need to just chill the fuck out, have a cup of coffee and chocolate croissant, and talk about your feeling.

Which couldn't be more unlike me.

And then there is....the procedure.
I'll spare you the details, but it starts with "ultrasound needle" and ends with "vaginal wall"

And it's scheduled to happen this Thursday.

FML.

In other words, this hormonal pin-cushion of a woman is about to get very unpleasant things done to her, all for the sake of having a baby.

Shit. Is. Wild.

I have to go now.
I'm getting my ass handed to me with a project that was doomed from the start, making this week even more awesomer.
I mean, who doesn't like trying to handle boatloads of stress when they have enough FSH, HCG, and DO-RE-MI in their body to chemically castrate a bull elephant?!?

Wish me luck on Thursday.
And a prescription for good, strong pain medication.

Because I'm going to need a crap-ton of both.

Babies. Fuck.

2010-10-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Couple That I've Been Friends With Since Highschool.

Wow.
Congrats!
You're expecting!

I sure didn't see that one coming.
Of course, I should have seen it coming - after all, you're married, and babies are the next obvious step. But the hormones that I'm shooting into my body 3 times a day make it so that if I'm not prepared for this kind of news, its going to upset me.

Like, makes me want to slam my forehead into a cement wall repeatedly until I knock myself unconsious kind of upsets me.

Like, makes me want to drive my car into the nearest tree at 70mph kind of upsets me.

Like, makes me want to participate in self-mutilation because clearly I'm not a suitable wife - or woman, for that matter - and I might as well just rip out all of my girly parts for all the good their doing me kind of upsets me.

Please don't take it personally.

You both are wonderful people and we have a long, LONG history together. You, guy, you were both the officiant AND the caterer at my wedding, while you, girl, coordinated the procession and helped out in a million other ways. I love you both, and you will always hold a special place in my heart.

So please, don't be offended if I freeze like a deer in the headlights the next time we see each other. Please don't be alarmed when all I manage to get out is, "hey, congrats on the new..." before i burst into tears. And please, by all means, don't take it personally when I attempt to claw your eyes out with my bare hands because the injustice of this situation is just so painfully obvious.

I mean, hey, it's a wonderful thing, right?
You do the baby dance and presto...you've got yourselves a bun in the oven.

I bet you didn't have to make a million trips to the doctor's office.
I bet you didn't have to submit yourselves to multpile humiliating and sometimes extremely painful tests.
I bet you didn't have to pay hundreds of dollars in out-of-pocket expenses (although I'm aware that without insurance, we'd be spending tens of thousands of dollars, and I am eternally grateful for having such awesome insurance)
I bet you didn't have to take a class to learn how to stick needles into your body, and then proceed to jab yourself multiple times a day until your tummy and thighs are covered in bruises and the smell of alcohol makes you instantly cringe.
Hell, I bet you didn't even have to suffer through the various side effects of the hormones coming out of those needles (which, btw, include mood swings and flu-like symptoms. super fun stuff)

Nope, I bet you guys just split a bottle wine and had at it.

And now you get to sit back and watch this little miracle grow. You get to buy books and set up a nursery and look at clothes and pick out names, and smile that little secret smile at each other because you are creating a family at this very moment.

But please, if I may have just one request.
While you're shopping for strollers and picking out paint colors, please...please...please...don't forget - not even for one second - how lucky you are.
Please don't forget that it's not this easy for some people.
Please don't forget that some people are going through hell for a shot at what you created with such ease.
Please don't forget how things could have happened.

So again, congrats.
You are both sure to be wonderful parents.
But forgive me if I don't jump up and down with joy.
I've got miles to go before I'm done with this journey, and my legs are very, very tired.

Love and kisses,
Lily's hormones

A Close Goddamn Call

2010-10-05T05:04:00.000-07:00

My dilemma over what to do with this blog came to a head last night while my husband, my sister and I were playing Wineopoly and imbibing a shiraz or two (natch).

I expressed, more or less, that this blog isn't what it used to be. That I had read posts from a year ago and god DAMN were they funny. That I just wasn't the same person I was back then...that I had outlets now and a happy life and that just didn't make for funny posts...that I felt like every time I blogged I was disappointing my readers...etc, with much slurring.

And in response, my sister expressed, more or less, that I should always choose a happy life over an awesome blog, and that although I shouldn't stop blogging, maybe I should put this particular blog to rest....etc, and then she knocked over a wine glass

Then I pointed out, more or less, that when I lost all of my blog formatting, it felt kind of like a sign, and is it really the same blog anymore without all my stuff on it?...etc, while trying to feed Milo a playing piece because it was in the shape of a wedge of cheese

So she pointed out, more or less, that the universe is usually pretty good at handing out signs, and I should probably listen to it, but in the end, it doesn't really matter because this is just one of many lives we will have in our attempt to reach nirvana...etc, buddhism whatnot...blah blah blah...while almost falling out of her chair

In other words, I was ready to end this blog for realz last night.

But while typing this today, I've decided that I'm not ready to let go. Not yet, at least. Somewhere in me is that woman who could write some seriously funny shit. Somewhere in me is that bizarre, creative, wonky person who managed to get at least 87 people (give or take) to commit to follow her daily ramblings.

And while this person is seriously in hiding, I don't think she's gone yet.

So I'll keep this blog around for a little while longer, hoping she turns up now and again to make you snort coffee out your nose.

Because that's what she would want me to do.

A Brief Distraction

2010-09-23T08:58:00.001-07:00

Today was one of those days when you wake up at 6:00 am like, oh man, this is AWESOME...I'm going to get SO MUCH ACCOMPLISHED today

And then you shuffle over to your computer and start parusing facebook and craigslist because...yanno...it's early and you're not ready to work yet.

And then, 2 hours later, your realize that you need to take a break to get some breakfast and to teach a lesson. And after the lesson you take the long way home because you're tired from getting up so early, so you need some D&D crack-coffee

And then you get home and you drink your coffee and it makes you jumpy and unfocused, so you end up having an in-depth conversation with your dog instead of writing that Executive Summary you promised to your client two days ago.

And then you crash from the D&D crack-coffee and realize that you're too tired to do work because you got up so early, so you drag yourself out on to the deck and sit for half an hour staring at the water, trying to summon up the energy to do...anything.

And now it's 12:00 pm.

Work total for the day: 17 minutes

FAIL.

The moral of this post is that getting up at 6:00 am is never, under any circumstances, a good idea. What seems like a good idea at the time ends up being an excuse for surfing the web, drinking sugary, caffeinated beverages, and anthropomorphizing every little ear twitch your dog makes until you're convinced that he's convinced that socialism might be the answer to the country's economic crisis.

And we all know that that's just silly...

I'm baaaacccckkk

2010-09-21T05:33:00.000-07:00

Well that....was a bit longer than I intended.
Sad to say, this no blogging thing kind of suited me. I felt free. Like I was cutting class to go riding in a convertible with the top down and the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. For a while, I wasn't endlessly searching for material...cataloging every mildly amusing interaction for exploitation on my blog because once again I was out of real material. And I didn't use my blog as a way to avoid work. Well...not until today (Dear contractor: I'll finish it today. I promise)

So what happened, since the last time I blogged?
Not much, which is usually okay in my book. Lord knows I have the habits of an 80-year-old and don't like getting my routine all in a tizzy.

Work is going well. I haven't been forced to dance on a pole to pay the mortgage yet, so I consider that a win in my book.

Brian and I went backpacking and had some close encounters with black bear near our camp. Luckily, we were drunk (yes, we bring wine backpacking. doesn't everyone?), so my healthy fear of black bears was replaced with a "F*ck this guy. I want to go to sleep" kind of attitude. It worked. He moseyed along and I slept off the 1.5 litres of Cabernet Sauvignon in relative peace.

Milo ate more of the couch. I hate him.

The horse-thing is going well. Mikey is progressing with his training, although I'm learning that he's the klutziest horse to ever trip across this planet. I'm still teaching lessons. But after a long summer of beginners, I'm starting to hate the phrases keep your heels down and turn right...no, your OTHER right. These kids....oy...I think some of them are meant for group homes and jobs as greeters at Walmart.

I cut my hair. It's kind of what I do. One day I'm perusingn through a Victoria's Secret catalog and I'm all like, wow, I bet if I grow my hair out I'd look JUST LIKE these models. So I grow it out...except it looks more like a rat's nest than a seductively mussed coiff. And then I listen to Beyonce's All The Single Ladies and get all revved up on girl power, and I'm like screw men...I don't care if they prefer long hair. I want it off. So I cut it. [Repeat]

Did anybody notice it's fall now? That shit is awesome. But let's let McSweeney sum it up - he does a much better job than I could do anyway. CLICK THIS LINK for fall awesomeness (and a helluva lot of F-bombs)

It's nice to be back guys. Hope you all haven't forgotten me.

Don't Get Excited

2010-08-24T12:26:00.000-07:00

Don't get excited.
I'm not back.
Well, not officially.

I'm like the "Brett Favre" of blogging....I make an announcement that I'm taking a break, and then all of a sudden I'm *still* making passes for the Vikings.

Go Team

Today is one of those rough days that makes you want to just bury your head under a pile of pillows or in the nearest oven until it's "tomorrow" and you can finally stop stressing and actually ENJOY that cannoli you just ate instead of just stuffing it down your piehole as fast as you can to momentarily forget that you're losing your G-D mind.

It's like you have your rational side. And your rational side KNOWS that hope, in this situation, is silly. Your rational side knows that tomorrow will be a disappointment, and you might as well just get used to it now, because there's no reason to think otherwise.
You think your calm and cool.
You expect the worse.
You know what's coming.

And then it happens.
And your hopes are crushed and mangled to an unrecognizable pulp.
And you're all, WTF, because there wasn't supposed to BE hope. Your rational side took care of that, right? But that emotional side, that sneeky bastard, was hiding hope. You didn't know it was there until it was being repeatedly run over by a Mac truck.

Ouch.

So that's what I'm in for.
I'm on a "Search And Destroy" mission, looking for any signs of hope so I can bludgeon it to death before it can hurt me.
But it never works like that. Hope is elusive. Hope is persistent. And despite my best efforts, Hope is completely uncontrollable.

Tomorrow? Is going to suck.
That hope, wherever it's hidden, is going to be trampled.
Sometimes the anticipation is worse than the pain, like when the nurse is holding your arm and is about to put the needle in, and you're all NO NO NO NO NO, but then it's in and, well, that wasn't so bad, was it?
Today, I'm anticipating tomorrow's pain. I'm all, NO NO NO NO NO, but there's nothing I can do to stop it.

So I blog, maybe to ease the pain a bit.
Lord knows the cannoli didn't work.

A Brief Respite

2010-08-16T10:13:00.001-07:00

Okay.
So I write....and then I don't write.
For weeks, I don't write.
I lose a follower, and then another.
I feel bad about myself.
I eat gallons of ice cream and drag lipstick in large circles across my face while screaming "be pretty...be pretty!!!"

Okay...
That's an exaggeration.

But I DO feel bad. And I certainly didn't start bloging to make myself feel any worse than I already do.
(Anyone with a vagina knows that women are pretty good at making themselves feel like crap WITHOUT additional "blog guilt")

So I'm taking a break.
A simple-enough fix, I suppose.

I doubt it'll be a permanant break. More like a hiatus of sorts.
I'll refresh my writing.
I'll chant and meditate and wave smoking sticks of insense around the house until I feel ready to contribute quality posts to this blog again.
And in the meantime, you won't have to suffer the injustice of a crappy blog post (well, those of you who are left, that is).

I'll miss you all terribly.
I'll miss writing, those few times per month when I'm actually inclined to do so.

But I won't miss the guilt, and I wont' miss the lipstick (the ice cream, on the other hand, will be a source of grief for many nights to come)

Goodbye for now...

Shark Week

2010-08-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

Well.
Another year, another Shark Week has come and gone, taking a piece of my heart with it.
Truly a glorious time - I love me some shark-on-seal action.
Need I remind you about last year's love-fest with sharks?

However.

Is it just me, or are they showing pretty much the same thing year after year?
I came across this funny comic.
For those of you lazy bastards who can't be bothered to click the link, the author sums up the following Shark Week programs:

Ultimate Air Jaws: Sharks can jump out of the water. It's the same thing you've seen the past 8 years, only different angles
Into The Shark Bite: Sharks bite really effing hard. Don't get bitten
Shark Attack Survival Guide: If you don't have a shotgun, punch the shark in the nose. If you're not prepared to die, don't get in the ocean
Day Of The Shark 3: Every single day is Day of the Shark. This is about 6 dumbasses that sharks mistook for food
Shark Bite Beach: Really? Shark bite beach? Sharks only bite people because they bleed into teh ocean or try their best to look like seals
Shark Bites: Adventures in Shark Week: Famous guy swims with sharks. He makes jokes. Will only be funny if he is bitten.

Lolz.

Okay, okay, point taken.

Dear Shark Week Executives
Perhaps it's time to admit that your materials are going a bit stale. Might I propose that you change Shark Week to focus on another scary predator-type animal?
Like Bears.
Fact: Bears are one the largest land predators in North America. Like, really, REALLY big. And strong. Especially Polar Bears. That shit is scary. Get on it.
Fact: Grizzly bears will hunt you over hundreds of miles and eat your bleeding African American friend, and you'll only survive if Anthony Hopkins happens to be nearby. I saw "The Edge." That shit was crazy!
Fact: Stephen Colbert hates bears. Which means Republicans hate bears. Which means, by default, Democrats must love bears. Great way to increase your demographic!
Fact: I once saw a video clip of a "tame" grizzly bear maul a reporter. You should put that shit in there.

Obviously, it's time to retire Shark Week for another animal. If not bears, then lions maybe, or something equally toothy and claw-ey.

Or you could just rerun clips from Real Houswives of NY.
Nobody would be able to tell the difference.

Beer-Sponsored Literary Snobbery

2010-08-04T05:50:00.001-07:00

*disclaimer: the aforementioned "beer-sponsored" part of this post occurred last night, not while this post was being written, which is a good thing, because it's only 8:30 in the morning. However, it IS 5:00 somewhere. Keep that in mind.

You guys...
TODAY IS THE DAY that I write a funny...or at least worthwhile...blog post.
There has been a lot of crap posting going on here lately.
I do not approve.
However, since I've been the one writing these crap posts, there will be no disciplinary action just yet, unless you count me waking up at 6:00 this morning to see my two male dogs humping each other, in which case, it would appear that I deserved it.

What?

Whatever.

I started drinking last night, in honor of the awesome post I was sure to write today.
I was feeling all, yay, I'm funny and creative again. Let's unwind after dinner and have a lively discussion about interesting things. (which is code for drinking multiple beers and having a heated argument over the most respectible rap artist. Oooh, to be a fly on that wall). So we did argue about rap artists, as only two white middle-class individuals can. Then we moved on to literature.
And that's when I dropped the bomb (compliments of the third bottle of River Horse Brewer's Reserve).

Brian has this.....author. According to wikipedia, he's considered to be "an American adventure novelist" (and those of you who are literary-inclined can already see where I'm going with this). By all accounts he appears to be a very successful novelist, with 17 of his books being on the New York Times best-seller fiction list.
But the thing is....

It's crap.
Like, god-awful, cringe-while-reading-the-first-paragraph crap.
Really bad.
(And seriously, considering most adult readers think that Harry Potter is ground-breaking fiction, any book that hits the best-seller list can probably be read and fully comprehended by an 8th grader).
I tried reading it once, while Brian was out of the house. I read 3 pages of the book, gently put it down, and swore that I'd take my opinions of this author to the grave so as to not disturb the household.
But that stupid third River Horse Brewer's Reserve....apparently it didn't know when to keep it's mouth shut.

So the cat's out of the bag.
Brian is not heartbroken, but I think I've officially been labeled a literary snob, which is just as well, considering I have a B.A. in English. Hell, I'm just glad the degree is starting to pay off. I might have spent 4 years wasting money on classes that have little to no application to the real world, but at least I can recognize a phony writer a mile away.
At any rate, after much discussion, we've decided that Brian will continue to read his "author," and I will continue to smile falsely when he talks about him, if only for the sake of the dogs.

Oh well...I guess it could be worse.
He could be reading the Twilight trilogy
*GAG*

Nonesense

2010-08-03T06:15:00.000-07:00

I have no topic for this post.
I'm supposed to be writing about glioblastoma, because honestly, what could be more fun than talking about brain tumors?!?
But I'm not ready yet - the ole' noodle isn't working at full capacity...which is a symptom of brain glioblastoma and OMG MAYBE I HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR!
That's the problem with medical writing.
If you weren't a hypochondriac before, writing about diseases all day will certainly make you one. For instance, at one point, I was convinced that I had prostate cancer.
I rest my case.

In other news, I tried mountain biking the other day.
I also kicked ass at it like nobody who has ever mountain biked before.
Okay...that might be an exaggeration. But for my first time out, I was damn good.
When we were finished, after almost 4 hours on the trail, Brian confessed that he was shocked.
"I would have bet money," he said to me, "that you were going to fall or just get scared within the first 10 minutes and insist on turning around."
HAH.
Well....okay....the first few minutes were a little "poop-your-pants" scary. But then you realize that your bike is MADE for this shit, and as long as you don't lose control completely, chances are, you'll be okay.
So I kept riding, managed not to soil myself, and before you know it I was catching some air and generally having a good time, except for that one point where I may or may not have seen my ex whiz by in a group of 8 mountain biking dudes.
*shiver
I hope I was mistaken, because that would be no good, people. no good at all. However, when we were togethere, there weren't 8 people in the world who liked him (including his parents), let alone 8 guys who would have liked him enough to go mountain biking with him, so I have my doubts.
On the other hand, they're doing amazing things with antipsychotics these days, so maybe?
I dunno.
Bottom line is, if we get into a head-on crash on the trail, I'll just have him arrested for breaking the rules of my restraining order
:-)

So I've got a big week coming up.
Brian's brother comes back from Afghanistan for a 3-week visit on Thursday, and then Brian's birthday is on Friday. So there should be much celebrating and good times to be had. And I WISH I could tell you guys about the awesome-sauce present I got for Brian, but I can't risk him reading this blog before his birthday and ruining the surprise.
All I'm going to say is that there's a good chance I might win Wife Of The Year after this one.
Oh yeah...it's a doozie.
So I'll fill you peeps in on that little surprise after Friday.
Until then, I guess it's back to writing about brain tumors.

Modesty, And Cookie Cake

2010-07-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

So now every time I log on, I'm kind of all woah because my blog used to be brown-ish and pretty and now it's full of blue bubbles, and then the cat with the lime on it's head makes me laugh a little, but then I get sad because a cat with a lime on it's head will NEVER trump a poorly cut-out rabbit with its tongue sticking out.

In short, this new background and pic is kind of freaking me out.

But the good news is that I've decided to NOT hang my hat up, not only because at least 8 of you cared enough to ask me to stick around, but also because work has lightened up a bit and now I suddenly have time on my hands, and writing blogs is preferable to doing the laundry or cleaning the house, and it's a good distraction while I'm waiting for Brian to come home and entertain me.

I jumped 4 feet today. On a horse, I mean.
It was kind of awesome - I haven't done that shiz for a good 6 months, at least, and not consistently for about 10 years.
oh yeah, I still got it.
It was for an exhibition. The barn where I grew up and now keep Mikey at has summer camp, and the girls wanted to see me jump something high.
And for realz, I'm the most down-to-earth, friendly, non-competitive, modest rider that you will ever encounter in your life, people, but is it wrong for me to write on my semi-secret blog that it's way fun to be my trainer's prodigy and an overall barn superstar, and that watching 8 girls look up to me with awe and admiration (literally as well as figuratively, because I was still sitting on the horse) kind of feels like lounging in a super-plush terry robe - all warm and fuzzy and awersome?

Oh, it is?
well never mind then.

Regardless, it's nice to have an "I still got it" kind of day. It makes you feel young, for one thing, and also, I feel like I kind of earned that giant piece of cookie cake I ate for lunch.

Fin

...Because the updated Blogger templates destroyed my soul...

2010-07-27T05:32:00.000-07:00

Can we talk about how I went to post a blog a few days ago and my background had gotten all messed up?

Can we talk about how, when I went to fix it, I had to use this new-fangled Blogger template thingey?

Can we talk about how everything....EVERYTHING...then got screwed up and I ended up having to revert back to a basic blog template just to apply these new, SUCKY templates to my blog?

And finally, can we please talk about how my blog is essentially ruined and I lost everything, including my widgets, my pictures, my recommended blogs, and my hits counter.

In summary, the new Google Blogger can eat a big, fat dick.

I'm devistated. The blog that I lovingly maintained for almost 2 years is gone. Sure, the text is still there. But all those little things that made the blog mine have been taken away.

I'm wondering if it's a sign.
Because, let's be honest, I haven't been blogging lately.
My life is just too full of activity and too devoid of the pent-up rage that I need to write funny, creative posts.
And now my blog - well, everything that made the blog mine - has been replaced with a gay background and a picture of a cat with a lime on it's head.
And I'm not saying that a disgruntled cat wearing a fruit hat isn't funny....but is it me???
I suspect not.

So I have a hard decision to make.
Do I plunge forward with this fresh, new, horrible blog, or do I hang my hat up for a while?

Decisions...decisions...

Craziness

2010-07-08T06:54:00.000-07:00

Forward: Thanks to everyone for their support and encouragement in response to my last post. Shit sucked, I'm not gonna lie. But I'll go forward because what else can I do? In the meantime I'll just be glad that I can ride again. And drink beer. mmmmm. Beer.

So, it's been a week since I last posted.

Eeek.

I'm sorry.

Life has been totally, utterly, completely crazy lately.

We've had more animals in our house than the San Diego Zoo

We drove from NJ to South Carolina and back in 34 hours.

I sent a riding student to the ER in an ambulance.

I made pumpkin chili without any pumpkin last night.

WITHOUT PUMPKIN, people.

If it gets any crazier than that, I don't want to know about it.

So where do I start? I guess we'll do this in chronological order.

Over the past two weeks, we've had no less than seven animal in this house. No, you didn't read that wrong. SEVEN ANIMALS. That means the pet-to-human ratio was 7:1 during the day and 3.5:1 during the night.

It was ridic.

One night, we were eating dinner at the dining room table and something hit my foot, so I looked under the table.

Big. Mistake.

It was like that scene in Open Water, where everything looked calm above the surface, but beneath the surface there were like a million hungry sharks thrashing about.

This is what happens when you agree to watch your In-law's dog, your sister's cat, and your sister's ex-roommate's cat without looking at the calendar.
Whoops.
I'm happy to say that the In-law's annoying beagle (nicknamed "Bad-touch Bandit" for ...well...you don't really want to know) is now gone. But the cats are still here.
It's like living in an episode of National Geographic, except instead of hunting, all of the cats just sit around and whine for food.

Lovely

And then this past weekend, we had to drive down to South Carolina and back. Something to do with a nasty break-up and a certain brother-in-law whose stuff was still in "the ex's" townhouse just outside of Greenville. So we left Saturday morning and returned back to NJ on Sunday night. Thank GOD Brian and I get along so well, or those 22 hours in the truck would have sucked big time.
It didn't help that we got a late start on account of me sending one of my students for a lovely ambulance ride after she fell during her lesson Saturday morning. It looked like a normal, slide-off-the-horse type of fall. But she hit the ground and started screaming in that "Oh Snap I Just Broke My Pelvis" kind of way, and suddenly I found myself calling 911.
Turns out, she just bruised her butt. In fact, she was smiling and joking with us by the time the ambulance arrived, which allowed me some time to snap a few pictures:

But when it comes to back injuries - and potential lawsuits - I don't mess around, so off to the ER she went.
Do I feel guilty, as a trainer, for sending one of my students to the hospital? A little.
Do I feel guilty, as a trianer, for capuring the moment with awesome cell-phone photography? Not at all, folks. Not. At. All.
(Hey, someday, she'll cherish these memories).

So that was my week.

It was wild and hairy and full of unexpected trips to unexpected places.

I'm not complaining - I love a good switch-up in routine - but I'll be happy when things calm down and the most exciting part of my day is switching the laundry from the washer to the dryer.

Phew

Pressure Cooker

2010-07-01T05:13:00.000-07:00

My In-laws want grandchildren. They've made this perfectly clear through subtle little hints. Their plans to retire to Altoona, PA seem to have come to a screeching halt; they've suddenly subsided working on the house with intent to sell. They sit and wait, and watch to see if I'll choose a beer or a soda.

Brian's coworkers want him to have children. I'm not sure what the deal with that is, but they barrage him with questions every day. Maybe they want him to be as miserable as they are? Or maybe they just see him as a great potential father (much like we all do).

My coworkers, when I had them, started asking about children the minute I announced I was engaged, and continued to ask until the day I left. I think it's just "what you do" in an office environment. I don't blame them - the corporate 9-5 lifestyle is so prescribed, so predetermined, they practically flinch when you do something outside the norm, like stop eating meat, or wear black shoes with brown pants. Babies are the norm. When are you going to have one?

My mother wants a grandkid. She doesn't say a thing, other than to offer moral support as I go through this trial, but I know her heart, and it aches for the both of us. She just wants to retire and help raise the kid. Maybe putter around the yard a little. It would be lovely.

I had another negative pregnancy test yesterday. The labcoat....the elevator music...the extreme emotional turmoil...it was all for nothing. Conditions were about as optimal as they can get, and nothing happened. I'm at a loss. I want answers. I want to shake my doctor and tell him to figure out what's wrong with us and FIX IT ALREADY. But I can't, because I know he's doing his best, and sometimes our bodies just want to keep secrets.

Today is a hard day. I have to deal with the knowledge that a baby might not happen. I have to deal with the knowledge that I may never be a biological mother. That Brian and I may never be able to make something that is pure "us."

I know that it could be much worse - that people are dealing with much more terrible things than I.
But today?
I've lost hope.
And for me, that's about as bad as it gets.

Horse Sense

2010-06-28T06:26:00.001-07:00

So...I bought a horse last week.

Because what better way is there to plan for a potential pregnancy than to go out and purchase a horse...that needs significant training and 5+ days per week of serious riding?

Because what better way is there to manage the introdution of a significant truck payment to your monthly budget than to go out and purchase a horse...that needs daily food, monthly board, and a pretty new saddle (with matching bridle)?

Because what better way is there to plan for future expenses than to go out and purhase a horse...that will likely run up a $4,000 vet bill in the coming year after he sticks his head through the fence, gets stuck, freaks out, and causes great harm to his body attempting to free himself from this "horse-eating monster" that has him in a headlock?

So I agree - to the layman, it looks like this was a poorly thought-out choice.

But here's the thing: I DID think about this decision.

I thought about it A LOT.

I thought about it over days and nights for weeks. I thought about a potential pregnancy and the looming new truck payments and the remarkable ability that horses have to step on a rock and suddenly need thousands of dollars of vet treatments and chiropractic work. I thought about the money that we would spend on this animal...money that could be potentially saved...that would add up to tens of thousands of dollars over the next 10 to 15 years. I thought about the commitment that this horse would require; the potential that he could become unrideable but would continue to need 10 (or more) years of care.

I thought about all of these things until I was wringing my hands and furrowing my brow and sighing so much that Brian thought I was developing a sort of daytime sleep apnea.

In the end, it was that whole "you could be hit by a car tomorrow crossing the street" thing that got me.

Much like planning for a family, there will never, EVER be a perfect time to buy a horse. There will always be things that the money SHOULD be going to...always other ways that you SHOULD be spending your time.

But I've gone 28 long years WANTING a horse and not getting one. This is not a temporary hobby or a fleeting passion. This is me. This is what I do. This is what I love, and it's never going to change.

So I bought a horse.

I've already spent more money on him than I've spent on the truck.

I've already spent more time with him than I've spent working this past week.

And you know what?

I couldn't be happier.

Welcome to the family, Mikey!

Immaculate Conception

2010-06-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

You know you're having a weird day when you're sitting in a waiting room, reading Ok! magazine and waiting to be impregnated by somone...or something...other than your husband.

IUI stands for something rather technical that was pretty much developed for the purposes of barnyard animal reproduction.
Now, take that process, stick it in a doctor's office, add a white lab coat, some elevator music, one of those fun ob/gyn exam beds with the little foam-covered stirrups, and about $10,000 (more or less) in lab tests and copays, and you've got yourselves a baby-making party. Granted, your spouse isn't there, but guess what? You don't really need him for this part. His contribution to this little event took place approximately 60 minutes ago in a room down the hall. For now, you're just going to have to settle for an intimate momement between you, a catheter, and a very nice APN named Beth.

I don't like to talk much about my fertility woes. The whole process is highly embarassing and more than a little intrusive, both in the physical and emotional sense. But when you're spread-eagle in the stirrups and about to become (hopefully) impregnated while you chat with Beth about your weekend plans, sometimes....you just have to chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.

Life is a funny thing. One minute you can be trying to make a baby the old fashioned way, and the next minute you're asking your old college roommate, who happend to stop by for dinner, if she will give you a shot in the ass because you're husband doesn't like needles and the doctor says it's time to ovulate.
I didn't ask for fertility issues. I've always eaten right, exercised, taken care of myself, all in the hopes that my body will repay me for doing everything that it's supposed to do for the next 80-some-odd years. But sometimes your body doesn't cooperate, and you're forced to make a choice:
Do I walk away from this, or do I submit myself to some very uncomfortable and humiliating means to get to a much desired end?

Clearly, I chose the latter. As a result, I've been poked, prodded, medicated, and tested. I've had more people in my hoo-hah in the past six months than I have in all of my years combined.

But you have to laugh, because what else can you do? Life sometimes sucks, and suddenly everything you imagined is tossed out the window and you're faced with the harsh, fluorescent-lit fact that the romance of this very moment is going to have to be limited to the saxaphone rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings" playing on the sound system.

Some children are named after the places and situations in which they were concieved.
Maybe if we get I'll girl, I'll name her "Beth."
Hey, it'll raise a lot less eyebrows than "Exam Room 4," right?

Nobody Loves A Sad Clown

2010-06-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my blog isn't funny anymore.
And I think I need to start being okay with that.

I know...I used to be funny.
I have the POTENTIAL to be funny.
But like the artist whose best work comes just before he descends into madness, my best work came when I was one "team status update meeting" away from shanking the nearest coworker with a home-made shiv fashioned from a paperclip, a 3-ring binder, and 10 post-it notes.

So now my life is full of creative outlets (and devoid of vapid coworkers) and there's not a sense of humor to be found.
I have a flexbile schedule, but no funny.
I have daytime TV privelages, but no funny.
I have horseback riding and painting and gardening and laundry (what? Laundry can be stimulating!)...but no funny.

So I considered shutting down the blog.
Afterall, funny was my M.O., and I'm pretty sure the majority of you weren't hanging out solely for the benefit of my self-esteem (although that would be nice and if you were? THANK YOU [and stop stalking me]).

But the thing is...
I still have opnions.

And now that I don't have coworkers, I have nobody to share these opinions with, save for the dogs (who don't understand English) and the crappy drivers who get the FIST OF RAGE when they cut me off on the road.

And yanno what? There is nothing worse than being full of opinions and having no one to share them with.
(except, maybe, being married to someone who is full of opinions and has no one to share them with)

So the blog stays.
But where it used to be about 75% funny and 25% completely inappropriate, it will now likely be comprised of 80% opinions, 10% funny, and perhaps 5% ethnic jokes, just to keep things real.

For clarification, here is a pie-chart that I developed when I traveled back in time to 1994 and hijacked some mysterious software known as Microsoft Paint:

'sallright?
'sallright.

Pretty

2010-06-14T06:41:00.000-07:00

Just....
Amazing.

On Buddhism, Sponsored by Sauvignon Blanc

2010-06-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

You guys
Oh, you guys.

This monograph I've been writing....these 6,000-ish words that needed to be put on proverbial "paper" by Friday?

OWNED.

Last night?
I was frantic, when I had only written 1,500 words in 7 hours of time.
This morning?
I was frantic, knowing that I had about 4,500 words left to write between now and Friday 5:00 pm (EST).
This afternoon?
After writing 4,000 words (give or take) in a scorching 4.5 hours, I had a glass of sauvignon blanc with my sister.
And then another glass.
(and maybe another after that...I dunno...I lost count).

Dudes.

A more needed respite from the constant onslaught of work, I couldn't imagine.

What did we talk about, while my sister and I sipped hot chocolate and (another) glass of sauvignon blanc, respectively?
To be honest, I can't quite remember, but it mostly encompassed Buddhism, which is interesting when you're sober, but absolutely fascinating when you're drunk.

For example....
If I am a worm, than I'm not me.
Which seems obvious to me, but try telling that to a Buddhist.

Also, I like cake, which Buddhism tells me is not so good.

It's not that I have any problems with Buddhism. Lord knows that I agree with the philosophy (if not the religion) of Buddhism moreso than Christianity and Hinduism or any other organized religious-type product out there.

But me?
I'm just neurons and synapses. If you crack me on the head, there's a good chance I won't be "me" anymore.
So to think that the essence of "me" could be transposed into a worm or a tree or any other living thing?

Ridiculous.
...or so says the sauvignon blanc.

Nirvana, they say, is achieved through a lifetime of meditation and study.
I say, give me a glass of wine and a piece of cheesecake, and I'll show you what true happiness looks like.

I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

World Enough and (no) Time

2010-06-09T05:34:00.001-07:00

No.
No Tapdancing In The Dark for you.
Come back ONE YEAR.

Okay, maybe come back one week.

My life lately has been an endless cycle of get up, get dressed, sit down at the computer, go to bed, repeat.
The money? Is awesome (or will be, when my clients get around to paying me).
The sweat-shop work hours? Not so much.

Poor Milo...nobody plays with him anymore.
And Brian has had to pull twice his weight around the house, cleaning up after himself, me, and 4 very hairy animals who are prone to projectile vomit.
And now the cats don't like their new enclosed litter box, so they're peeing all over the towels I placed around it, which is really kind of defeating the purpose of having an enclosed litter box, isn't it?
So now my work-filled days are tinged with slight whiff of stale cat piss.

My life is magical.

Come back in a week. I SHOULD have some time to blog then.

...and maybe shower.

Trip Report: Slightly-Less-Ghetto Edition

2010-06-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

So it would appear that I've managed to crawl out from under my mountain of work (read: I've stopped caring) long enough to give you guys a proper - if not slightly abbreviated - trip report.

Our backpacking expedition to Shenandoah National Park went quite well despite the fact that we were touting my sister and our dog, both of which are novices and one of which may or may not be retarded - I'll leave it to you to decide

(Kidding, Em)

Granted, there were a few rough patches.

Before we left, I had to remove my sister's knitting needles and yarn from her backpacking, carefully explaining why knitting is not considered vital to outdoor survival and therefore should be left at home, all the while trying (and failing) to smother my laughter. It was at that point when I also was forced to replace the white, fluffy, "angora-like" hat that she intended to bring along with a proper wool hat.

Opera singers...

And then there was that time in the woods when nature called and I had to explain to her how, exactly, to poop in the woods in an "eco-friendly" manner. While she was not so much impressed with my directions, I was immensely impressed with the fact that she pulled it off.

And it also turns out that Milo, when exhausted and totally out of his element, gets a bit snippy with other people and dogs when they pass by our campsite. Unlike the above converation with Emily, my explanation to Milo that we don't "own" the campsite and therefore are not entitled to bark at and/or get snarly with passers by was less successfully received.

Milo was also unable to carry his backpack for the majority of the journey due to the straps rubbing his armpits. Which meant that we (read: Brian) had to carry the excess weight. I'll tell you...A more useless dog I have yet to meet than our little Milo, god love 'em.

And then we have Brian.
Brian, who managed to carry nearly 80 lbs of gear over 14 miles without missing a beat, yet nearly broke his toe transitioning a rubbermaid container from the truck to our hotel room. It was impressive. Poor dude could barely walk for the remainder of our trip. Thankfully the X-ray was negative for a fracture, but it's still swollen, so whatever he did to it, he did it HARD.

There was also a thunderstorm while we were on top of a mountain.
And a lot of ticks.
And these horribly stingy plants that leave 5-minute welts on your skin every time you brush up against them.

But all of these things were little compared to the great views and great times that were had on the trail, compliments of two (well...three) awesome hiking companions and several liters of boxed wine.

Yes, we bring boxed wine with us when we're backpacking.
I mean, we're not animals....

Trip Report: Ghetto Style

2010-06-02T07:22:00.000-07:00

Howdy y'all.

I came back from my trip to a mountain of freelance work that very well might be the death of me.
To find out how our opera-singing novice did in the backcountry of Shenandoah National Park, click here.
She'll tell you all about it.
And the part about her trying to bring her knitting along? Absolutely true.
(you can't make this stuff up, folks)

My recap will occur....eventually.
Until then, Stay Classy, San Diego

Vroom Vroom

2010-05-26T06:09:00.000-07:00

We bought the truck last night.
It's silver...but I'll try not to hold that against it.
After coming from a family that owned several red cars in succession, and then going on to buy a red car, and then watching one's mother and sister go on to buy more red cars, not red was really my only color requirement.

I've never bought a new car before. And I know that they lose their value the minute you drive them off the lot but seriously, how can you resist that smell?!? The "new car" smell is awesome - it's the smell of hopes and dreams and clean plastic - like a weather girl who's had one too many cheek implants.

If I ever get a brain tumor, I hope one of the symptoms is that I keep smelling "new car." (It's almost an even trade-off)

So the truck is beautiful and shiny and quiet and everything a new truck should be. We also negotiated free maintenance for two years, free tires for life, and an 8-year bumper-to-bumper warranty, which means that we'll pay the truck off long before we have to pay for any repairs.
All in all, we got a very good deal.

But you want to know what the best part of last night was? It wasn't when they handed us the new keys or when we finally drove the truck off the lot.
No.
It was when we turned in the titles to our POS, falling apart hunks-of-junk trade-ins.

You guys.
These cars.
Oh, these cars.
The work we've had done to these cars would have paid for our new truck, hands down. We've replaced radiators and axles and shocks and belts and computers and all kinds of doo-hickey mechanisms that make the cars run.
We've been stranded on the side of the road more frequently than I care to remember.
We've lost sleep and money and our sanity to these cars.

Yesterday, during the day, I found out my A/C didn't work.
Brian almost lost a wiper on the way to the dealership.

Clearly, it was time to say goodbye to these cars.

As we drove to the dealership, I wondered if, despite our long, stormy past, I'd feel a pang of remorse as I saw my car, the Red Rocket, being driven away.
Turns out the only pang of sorrow I felt was for the dealership, because now the Red Rocket was THEIR problem.
And Brian? Well, let's just say that his car was named after his ex-wife, "because," he explained, "it gives me so much shit."

Lol.

So Hasta la vista, cars.
You'll be missed
...like a hole in the head.

Sigourney Weaver, Adult Beverages, And A Prissy Horse Show

2010-05-25T05:47:00.001-07:00

My apologies for the long span between posts. I seem to be suffering from a serious case of writer's block.

There were a few times when I almost had something to blog about.

The other night I was three beers deep after a long day of horse show (I'll get to that in a minute), screaming at the television because Sigourney Weaver was going back for the whiny kid in Aliens (plural) and I was all, "What is WRONG witchu, girl?!? She ain't even yo' baby! Drop that shit like a bad habit and GET ON THE SHIP before that Alien eats yo' BRAINS!!!!"
... and for, like, a hot second, I had though of the most brillant thing to blog about.
But, as is often the case when I indulge in a few too many "adult beverages," I wasn't sure if the idea was that brilliant...
or I was that loaded.

C'est la vie

And yeah, then there was the aforementioned horse show. I usually go to these things because there are a million kiddies from our barn trying to show and if my friend, the owner and head instructor, were to attempt it on her own, she would most likely end up, at worst, killing a child (or parent) or at best, putting a kid in the wrong class (which she did anyway but it worked out fine in the end).
These shows are your typical hunter/pleasure/equitation classes. You go in there with your horse all clipped and shiny and clean and your boots all spit-polished and your blouse and hunt jacket all fresh from the drycleaners and try to look as good as you can.

Needless to say, this is NOT the type of showing that I used to do.

I used to ride Jumpers, which means that it doesn't matter how you look - all that matters is that you do your round of jumps clean (don't knock 'em down) and fast (you're racing the clock). In jumpers, you could do the round backwards and as long as you did it faster than anyone else, you win.

In short:
Hunters: Frou-frou nonesense where whoever has the most money usually wins
Jumpers: Real riding

Still not convinced? You know the stadium jumping portion of the olympics? That's jumpers. There are no hunt classes in the Olympics.
I rest my case :-)

But then my friend needed one of her horses - the horse that I've been training since the winter and hope to buy eventually - to go in the ring so she could see how he behaved before she put kids on him.

A lot of begging and one thrown-together hunt outfit later, yours truly was in the show ring prancing around in hunt seat and trying not to roll her eyes in front of the judges.

(And PS - the answer was not well-behaved at all. I've never seen that horse move so fast in my life. It was like riding a nuclear weapon that was locked on a target)

So I was going to blog about it, and then it honestly didnt seem like it was worth the effort, but in explaining why it wasn't worth the effort, I blogged about it.

Wait...what?!?
Now I've gone and confused myself.

In other news, Brian and I are going backpacking this weekend, and we're bringing my sister (ie, the opera singer) with us.
...And this is after I explained to her that you have to go poo in the woods.
Surprised that she's still game?
I certainly was.
We're also bringing Milo for the first time, namely because A) we're going a very short distance on account of the newbie backpacker, and B) The newbie backpacker is a third set of hands with which to strangle...I mean...hold Milo while we're out in the woods.

And if anybody else sees this trip gearing up for something you only see in the movies, that makes two of us.

A husband and wife
An opera singer
And a retarded dog
head out into the woods for the adventure of a lifetime.
They may not have the skills.
They may not have the know-how.
But what they lack in experience
They make up for....in poo.
This summer.
Backpacking hits a whole new octive.

So I'm sure I'll have some kind of hilarity to report on when we return. Make sure you tune in for THAT post - it's sure to be worth your while.

Woman, Running

2010-05-18T17:01:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, I started running.

Before that, I was not a runner. I was the antithesis of running. The Anti-Runner, if you will. In fact, I used to tell people that I only times I could be caught running is if I was being chased by a killer...or if there was an ice cream truck.

And then people would laugh, and I would just stare at them, and they'd kind of stop laughing and I'd keep staring, and they would cough and things would get generally uncomfortable, but hey, I really like ice cream, okay?

Well, since that fall of 2008 (documented here in this delightfully saucy blog post), I've made great strides with my running...and yes, pun absolutely intended. I haven't mentioned it much because this blog is generally intended to be funny (not that you'd know it if you read any of my recent posts), and running is decidedly *not* funny.
No.
There is nothing funny about gasping and hauling yourself down the sidewalk, cursing the gods and convincing yourself that people giving birth can't possibly been any more uncomfortable than you are at this moment in time.
No.
There is nothing funny about tasting the contents of your stomach as you round a corner and think to yourself, oh, well, I only have one more mile to go, as if a mile is a small and easy thing, because a mile is NOT a small and easy thing, and mmmmm, here comes that PB&J you had for lunch!
No, there is nothing funny about running.

And yet, I keep going.
This year, I ran 6 miles for the second time in my life, the first being only after a summer of pretty regular training and possibly an act of God (I'm not certain, I blacked out for the last two miles).
This year, I've also pushed my "regular" runs to the 3 to 4 mile range, compared to the 2-3 mile range I was doing last year.
And this year - well, tonight, to be exact - I beat my all-time 5k record by 4 minutes, running 3.2 miles in 28 minutes flat.

*cue Eye Of The Tiger, and commence musical montage of me running and sweating down various sidewalks and wooded trails*

For some people, this is no big deal. Some people would read this and kind of raise their eyebrows half in amusement and half and pity. Some people can run 5ks in their sleep, and I'm not saying that I hate those people, but if I ever meet one of them at a party, I immediately scan the room for items that I could use to make a shiv.

But Brian (a seasoned runner) has pointed out that when it comes to running, you can't compare yourself to others.
Well...unless you're acutally racing or something...but you know what I mean.
I can't compare my abilities to those people out there (god, I hate them so much). I can only compare what I did today with what I did yesterday and the day before that.

And if I do say so myself...I am clearly superior to who I was yesterday.
Sa-WEET.

So I guess I'll take this accomplishment as a sign that I'm kicking ass and taking names, if only because I can do today what I couldn't do yesterday. All I know is I'm running farther and faster than I ever have in my life. And I'll be damned if it doesn't feel good to do something better now than I ever have in my 28 years on this planet.

And my pants fitting better?
That's just a side effect of all this running.
An awesome, SPECTACULARLY AMAZING side effect.

On Growing Up, And Growing A Pair

2010-05-12T07:20:00.000-07:00

Brian and I almost bought a truck last night.

We were just looking, wanting to kick some tires after spending the better part of a year shopping and comparing online.
(and when I say "we," I mean "he," because lord knows I can barely tell a windshield from a tailgate).
We're getting a truck because apparently we're that couple....you know, that obnoxious couple who is (or at least wants to be) constantly dragging around kayaks and bikes and skis and camping equipment, and when you see them in the office elevator at the end of the day they've already changed into spandex and lycra and fingerless leather gloves to "squeeze in a few hours of basejumping" between work and dinner, and you kind of hate them because they obviously have too much time and energy on their hands, and why don't they just go home and watch American Idol like everybody else?!?!?!?

Yep.
That's us.

Add to that one impossible-to-shake horseback riding habit and a closet love for satellite radio and yeah, we're gonna need that extra long bed, 6500-lb payload, roof rack, and audio package, please.

(PS, I like green)

So we're in the dealership, and Brian's impressed with the V6 engine and gas mileage, and I'm trying not to squeal because when you shift into reverse, a little video screen pops up on the rear view mirror so you don't accidentally mow a child over coming out of your driveway (oooh, it's like MAGIC), and before you know it, we're haggling with "Frankie" over financing rates and trade-in values.

And here's the thing:
I have a vagina.

I bring this up because A) I know little to nothing about cars (and it shows, people. It shows BIG TIME), and B) I wear my emotions on my sleeve.

In other words, if car salesmen are sharks, then I'm that overweigh, near-sighted seal with a boarderline IQ and a missing flipper, if yanno what I mean.

Or at least, I thought I was.
I certainly was when buying my first car at age 22 (and PS, 2 radiators, an axel, and countless miscellaneous parts later I finally figured out why that man at the dealership wouldn't look me in the eyes).

But last night?
I totally grew a pair (and I don't mean ta-tas)

His sales schtick rolled of me like water off a duck's back.

MP3 hookup?
That's nice.
Tires for life?
Okay, how's the warranty?
Side airbags?
What about rollover?
Silver streak mica?
I was hoping for pyrite.

You get the drift.

Even the haggling went well.
When he came back with a price for our trade-ins, I looked at the price, looked at him, raised my eyebrows, and told him in no uncertain terms that our two cars, even at reduced trade-in value, were worth twice what he was offering.
(I even turned away from him like I was thinking of walking, just to make him squirm).

Ooh, it was fun.

And then he came back with some financing options. I had to interrupt him to point out that the APR rates weren't listed.
"Oh, they're back in my office."
I stared at him, frowing.
"They're not high"
I continued to stare.
"Should I go get them?"
aaah.....yeah.
Because what kind of idiot would agree to finance without finding out the APR?!?
Well...I guess I would have. 6 years ago.
But not today, buddy. Not today.

In the end, we didn't buy the truck. Their very best offer was still not quite worth jumping into a quick sale before thoroughly shopping around.

We smiled, shook their hands, thanked them for the hour and a half they had spent wheeling and dealing, and left without a hint of regret or guilt.

I guess for some people, this is a normal "car shopping" experience.
But for a woman who, 6 years ago, was swindeled into buying a lemon because she was too afraid to speak her mind and ask questions?
Last night was a pretty big deal.

So I guess, despite my best efforts, I may be growing up a little bit.
I may not be able to handle a horse quite as well as I used to, but at least I can finally handle a car salesman.

Now, all I need to do is "handle" one of those pretty trucks (green, please) and I'll be set.

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

2010-05-08T16:53:00.000-07:00

I was going to celebrate Mother's Day with a long post proclaiming all of the numerous reasons why my mom is too cool for school.

But sometimes being a good writer means knowing when a good picture will speak volumes louder than any words you might conjur up:

Happy Mother's Day, mom!

Keep on rockin'!!!

A Return to Optimism

2010-05-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

I wanted to thank everyone for their supportive comments to my last post. Talking about infertility is in no way an easy thing to do, but I'm finding more and more people who are having the same problems that Brian and I are having, and it does WONDERS to know that we're not alone.

Not that it gets us any closer to a bun in the oven, but hey, misery loves company, right?

I also wanted to point out that, while I am indeed fairly heartbroken that the road to pregnancy is looking less like route 66 and more like the NJ turnpike in rush hour, with landmines, the no-baby situation is a small cloud in the otherwise brilliant sky that is my life right now. I can honestly say that my life is good. Very good. My freelance writing has been wildly successful, I'm happily enmeshed once again in the world of horses, Brian is kicking ass and taking names in his job, and even Milo is starting to come around (knock on wood).

Keeping perspective is a difficult things for us humans to do. It always seems like, no matter how good things are, we always focus on the few things that are causing us to be dissatisfied. Even rich people, who shouldn't have a care in the world on account of the fact that they will never, ever have to worry about food, shelter, clothing, always seem to be unhappy. It's like our species is designed to manage a life that is equal parts good and bad, and when there's nothing to be upset about, we'll blow a hangnail out of proportion until it blots out half the sky.

Or something like that.

My point?
Is that despite the fact that we're having fertility issues, I can honestly say that my life is the best it's ever been.

...I just need to keep reminding myself of this when my little problems start blocking out the sun :-)

Sensitivity Training 101

2010-05-04T06:14:00.000-07:00

By nature, I'm not a secretive person.

My approach to most things in life is to get as much feedback as possible, whether it's from the grocery store check-out girl or the cop who just pulled me over.

"Oh man, officer, I totally didn't see that speed limit sign, but while you're here, I was wondering if you think I should have a doctor take a look at this rash..."

Brian, on the other hand, is Captain Secret.
It's not that he has nothing to hide - seriously, I've never met a man with a closet so devoid of skeletons - he just...doesn't offer up information easily.

This divergence in personality isn't usually a problem, because even when I DO tell everybody everything, there isn't really much to tell. Does that make any sense?

Of course, this blog has put the spotlight on our opposing preferances for revealing information. For example, when we first got engaged, Brian wasn't technically divorced from his first wife yet. So naturally he wanted things to be pretty hush hush until the paperwork went through, and seriously, have you ever been engaged and not really been able to tell anyone?!?!?

It is hard, my friends.

MUY, MUY DIFFICILE

So now I'm having a problem and I really, REALLY need to vent.
After all, isn't that what blogs were invented for?
Personally, I don't mind if everybody knows about this problem. But Brian? I'm not so sure. Of course, I could just ask him, but I know he'll tell me "you can blog about whatever you want" whether he actually feels that way or not, just because he doesnt want me to feel controlled, because he's that kind of guy.
(Love you, Babe)

So now, I'm running a mental list of everybody I know who reads this blog. Seriously, as I'm writing, I'm going through this list. Is there anybody - ANYBODY - on that list who I just couldn't let in on this problem?!?
Not really, mostly because A) it's only a big deal to me, and B) nobody really reads this blog anymore, save for a few fiercely loyal followers (Hi Guys!).

Whatever. I'm tired of second guessing myself.

We're having fertility issues.
(Oh, snap, she just DROPPED it like it was hot)

I'm not going to get into the details, because even I have some limits on what I'll put out over the interwebz.
But needless to say, it's been a long, humiliating, sometimes painful process and thus far?
No bambino.
14 months, and no bambino (but who's counting. Oh, you are? What's that you say? I've only been married for 6 months but we've been trying for 14 months? Well guess what... It's 2010, bitches. Get with the now)

Infertility is a terrible problem that nobody...NOBODY...ever thinks about until they're getting bitch-slapped by it like a redheaded stepchild.

And while there are SO MANY THINGS to be grateful for - like the marvels of modern science, and the fact that Brian and I have some kick ass medical insurance that covers the whole gamut of treatments - these things are doing little to soothe my aching heart when we hit YET ANOTHER SPEEDBUMP...like we did the other day.

I guess my point is this:
When you encounter a newly married couple, perhaps the first thing you should ask them is NOT when they're going to have a baby. It probably shouldn't be the second, third, or fourth thing that you ask them either.

So let's reinforce this with a little exercise.

WRONG:

"Oh hey there! You just got back from your honeymoon? Wow, congrats! When are you going to have a baby? You should have a baby right now. Why aren't you pregnant? Babies are great. Babies, babies babies. Have a baby."

RIGHT:

"Oh, hey there! You just got back from your honeymoon? Wow, congrats! It must be nice to be able to travel. I haven't left my neightborhood since I had my baby. I also gained 50 pounds and lost my will to live. Wow, you look great - so thin and rested. Your life must be awesome."

All joking aside, I guess I'm just trying to raise some awareness here.

And maybe stop the barrage of questions that can drive us "pregnancy-challenged" people to tears.

And maybe remind all of the "happy couples" who got pregnant instantly that it doesn't happen that way for everybody, so maybe chill the fuck out a little bit and stop talking nonstop about how having a child was the best thing to ever happen to you.

And maybe vent a little bit so I can go on with my day without that dark cloud over my head, because I'm getting all cold and pruny from the rain and I could REALLY use some sunshine right about now.

You know...metaphorically.

Pigs Are Flying, And Lily Is Quoting A Country Music Song

2010-04-25T12:09:00.001-07:00

I'm not saying that I'm old.

Definitely not.

But at 28, I WILL say that I am most certainly older than I used to be, and I think we can all agree that one's ten-year highschool reunion, once is upon them, brings with it a certain note of sobriety and the realization that no, those jeans that you've been saving since college are just not going to fit, honey, so let's just go ahead and donate them to goodwill before they go completely out of style, shall we?

In the words of Pepe Le Peu,

"Le sigh."

I fell off a horse the other day.

At first glance, this doesn't appear to be that alarming. Anybody who rides as often as I do is eventually going to fall. And CERTAINLY anyone who rides the crazy, fearful, "holy-shit-that-car-is-going-to-EAT-ME" kind of horses as often as I do is just asking to be dumped.

Its just that...I...don't fall.

It's kinda my schtick.

You see, it took me 4 years of weekly lessons to take my first dive - heroically - into a thicket of wisteria bushes after my out-of-control mount chose to take the road less traveled while out on a trail ride.

Oh, there were other falls.

Some were epic - like the time I got clothes-lined while out on a fox hunt with yet another out-of-control horse and they had to call an ambulance (Can you imagine that converastion?!? 911 dispatcher: where are you located?; Concerned fellow rider: Uhhh....the woods.)

Many were less dramatic - resulting in no more than a dirt smudge, a baffled horse, and a slightly bruised ego.

But regardless, I can say with all confidence that during my 21 years in the saddle, I have fallen significantly fewer times than my comrades, while riding significantly wilder horses. Because the people who don't fall?
They ride the crazies.

So yeah...I fell yesterday.

And here's the deal...I was riding a horse considered by all accounts to be very, very safe.
I've ridden him pretty regularly since December of '09. He's a fantastic horse - good natured, hard working, and again, I can't stress this enough, very, very safe.

So we went to take a jump, as we've done many times before.
But yesterday? He wasn't feeling it.

So he went left, and I kind of tipped forward because, okay, my heels weren't down but again, he's the SAFE, HARD-WORKING, HONEST horse that you don't really need to keep your heels down with because he ALWAYS takes the jump...

...except for yesterday.

So he goes left and I tip forward and...
Here's the weird part:

I could have stayed on.
I swear to god, I could have used all my strength to pull myself back in the saddle, swing that horse around, and make him jump that jump like it was going out of style.

But instead? I kind of looked at the ground - which was so close anyway on account of my head being down around his shoulder - and I just kind of ...went limp.

Went limp as in, I honestly couldn't be bothered to keep myself in the saddle.

This is the same girl who once, when she was riding and her horse slid and fell on its side, was STILL IN THE SADDLE when it struggled to its feet because she refused to fall off.

This is the same girl who took two final jumps of a jump course with her saddle SLIDING OFF THE SIDE OF THE HORSE because she refused to fall off (especially when she was wining the competition).

This girl...
THIS GIRL...
As of yesterday, chose to fall rather than break a sweat trying to stay in the saddle after her very, very safe horse skipped out to the left of a jump no taller than her knees.

Even the horse, after coming to a stop, turned around and looked at me like, "Really, Lily? REALLY?"

I think he was embarassed for me.

And that, my friends, is how I know that...while I'm not OLD...I am most CERTAINLY older than I used to be.

It's kind of like that Toby Keith song...
"I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was"

Except that doesn't really make sense.

But you know what he's trying to say:
Shit only gets suckier after you hit 22-ish.

Amen, Toby Keith, with your rugged goatee and appropriately battered cowboy hat...Amen.

Consequently, I wrenched my neck while falling.
But it didn't hurt at the time...or later that night...or the next morning.
No.
It hurt exactly 27 hours after the initial impact.

Again...Not old

....just....

Older.

Le sigh.

Chuck Norris, A Kangaroo, And A Jailhouse Romance

2010-04-21T05:28:00.001-07:00

You know how when you have no money in your bank account it's like pulling teeth to check it online? Because looking at it will only fill you with suicidal thoughts and stomach bile?

That's kind of how it's gotten with this blog. Because I used to write 5 days a week but now it's all "oh man, it's Tuesday again. That means a week has gone by and I haven't blogged. Better try to be creative."

So I take a deep breath and try to fill my head with creative thoughts, but instead I start thinking about the partially-filled easter basket sitting on my counter and I'm all, "hmmm I bet chocolate would help me blog." So I mosey on over and help myself to some sugary goodness, and by the time I've finished , I've completely forgotten what I was about to do because we all know I have extremely-early-onset Alzheimer's (or so says the half-eaten sandwich that I started eating two days ago and forgot to finish - no lie).

It's just that I'm working.

Alot.

And I guess I could work a little less and make time for blogging, but the truth of the matter is I LIKE MONEY.

Alot.

And it doesn't help that I have to hand over 1/3 of everything I make to Uncle Sam, which I think is pretty bogus because hey, I'm the one doing the work while he sits around with his feet up drinking Pina Coladas and "waging a war on terrorism" (which is actually a code for running over to the neighbor's house, ringing the door, punching them in the face, and stealing their kid's bike).

So he's all,

"Yo, man, hand over yo' cash"

And I'm all,

"Naaah, man, it's mine. Get your own"

And he's all,

"Gimme yo' cash or Imma put you in jail, beeyatch"

And I'm all,

"Damn, that's cold, man. That's cold."

And he's all,

"That's what yo' mom said last night"

And I'm all,

"That doesn't even make any sense....STUPID"

And then he takes my money and roundhouse kicks me in the neck just for fun.

It sucks.

But I'd rather hand over a third of my paycheck than get violated by "Big Agnes," so I guess in the end, everybody wins.

...Except for Big Agnes.

Because with this face?

I bet I'd make a pretty sweet jailhouse bitch.

Hoarding vs. Whoring: The Difference Is In The Details

2010-04-14T05:24:00.000-07:00

Jericho: Lily
Me: What is it?
Jericho: Can we talk?
Me: I'm kind of busy right now buddy. Can it wait?
Jericho: I really don't think it can.
Me: *sigh* Okay, what's the problem.
Jericho: I'm concerned.
Me: I can see that. What about, bud?
Jericho: I think you have a hoarding problem.
Me: Excuse me?!? Did you just call me a whore?!?
Jericho: No, not a WHORING problem....a HOARDING problem.
Me: Oh, okay, because I was gonna say.... Wait. What? Why in the world would you think that?
Jericho: Because the number of animals in this house continues to grow exponentially.
Me: Ummmm...no it doesn't. What are you talking about?
Jericho: Well, there was me and Skittles, and that was okay. But then you got Milo...
Me: Don't even go there Bud. Before we got Milo you barely moved. He's probably put two years on your life!
Jericho: Another two years with Milo? Bestill my heart...
Me: Knock it off.
Jericho: Okay whatever. And then that fat cat moved in...
Me: Tiger? We had to! Brian's ex-wife was going to have her put down!
Jericho: Do you know what she costs you in food ALONE?!?
Me: I know. But that's not a good enough reason to have her put to sleep. What if YOUR first owner had wanted to put you down rather than adopt you out?
Jericho: Impossible.
Me: No it's not. She could have and you'd be dead right now.
Jericho. She never would have. I controlled her thoughts with my superior brain power.
Me: You are so weird. You did not.
Jericho: I could be controlling your thoughts right now.
Me: But you're not. Because you can't control people's minds.
Jericho: I guess you'll never know...
Me: MOVING ON....
Jericho: Oh. Right. And now this little black cat is here and you know what? I think she's kind of a punk.
Me: Okay, one...she's not living here. We're just watching her for Aunt Emmy. and Two...she's not a punk. You hate everyone who doesn't want to just lie around on the couch all day.
Jericho: She thinks she owns the place
Me: I know, but she's just a kitten. Ignore her.
Jericho: It's a little hard when she's using you for a landing zone for her base-jumping expeditions.
Me: Well she's leaving Friday so just deal with it.
Jericho: You said she was leaving LAST week.
Me: I know, but Aunt Emmy had to leave again and it wasn't worth it to bring her back and forth and you know what? Stop complaining. You have food. You have a roof over your head. You're fine.
Jericho: That beagle isn't moving in, is he?
Me: Who. Bandit? No, we just watch him for your grandparents once in a while.
Jericho: He's weird.
Me: I know.
Jericho: Like, REALLY weird
Me: I know.
Jericho: Like, BAD TOUCH weird
Me: Okay, okay, I get it. He's weird. He's not over very often, so just relax, okay?
Jericho: And you're not planning on getting any other pets?
Me: Nope. Just one more puppy and we're good.
Jericho: WHAATTT?!?
Me: KIDDING. Kidding. No. No more pets.
Jericho: Good. I'm glad we had this talk.
Me: Can I go back to work now?
Jericho: Oh, by all means yes. If you need me, I'll be on the couch licking my privates.
Me: Great. Thanks.

Touching Base and FYI...I'm Not Dead. Yet.

2010-04-06T13:53:00.001-07:00

I'm going to borrow a phrase from my good friend E over at Flukes and Flames.

Stuff Going On (or SGO, for short)

Dudes, I have a massive case of SGO right now.
Which explains both the fact that I haven't posted much of late, as well as the fact that I still haven't come to terms that March is over and April is in full swing. As in, I can't really remember the past month because I've been running around like a chicken with it's head cut off.
Or...like a Milo on 10 lines of pure, uncut Columbian blow

Whichever image you prefer.

The freelance writing thing? Is going fantastically, frantically, horribly well. Maybe it's because I have a hard time saying "no" (TWSS), but the work is piling up BIG TIME. And no doubt - I'm thrilled with the extra income and the fact that we can go back to our lavish lifestyle of using shampoo instead of dish detergent and feeding the pets instead of making them hunt each other.

It's just that....well...I'm down to my last pair of "laundry day" underwear.
And I haven't seen the bottom of the sink since March.
And dammit - it's nice out and I WANNA GO OUTSIDEEEEEEE.

Needless to say, time management is kind of an artform at the moment.

And then there's the horse thing.
My good friend up and started a lesson barn approximately 5 miles from my house. And god help us all, she's asked me to be the other instructor.
And it's not that I'm not good with kids. Surprisingly, they love me. It's just that reining the potty mouth in has been a challenge unto itself, and on top of that:
WHAT, exactly, is my motivation to go home and sit in front of the computer all day when the sun is shining and I have a barn full of horses at my disposal?

If you're at a loss...that makes two of us, my friend.

So right now I'm sunburned and dirty and smelly and happy and REALLY behind with my freelance work.

In other good news...Brian is not going to lose his job.
In fact now, it seems, he might be up for a promotion.
Is anybody else confused by this drastic change in events?
But that's the (ahemcough Insert Township Name Here) Fire Department for you - never a dull moment.

PS - dear (ahemcough Insert Township Name Here) Fire Department:
Thanks for the heart attack. You owe me $80 for therapy copays. And a new pair of pants (shock does terrible things to my bowels).

So everybody is working and everybody is (relatively) happy.
But the SGO?
Still present and VERY MUCH accounted for.

I'll post again when I find a free minute. Until then, enjoy this blog of cute things falling asleep.

You're welcome.

A Eugoogoolie

2010-03-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here to mourn the loss of our good friend and faithful companion, Green Purse.

Green Purse was a purse of unlimited potential, yet surprisingly modest beginnings; she was picked up, brand new, silica gel packet still in place, at the local GoodWill store for the humble price of $5.99.

Green Purse had then, and still had until the day she passed away, an enormous capacity for stuff. All kinds of stuff. Yes, she carried all of the basic necessities - cell phone, wallet, keys etc. But beyond those bare basics, she was known to offer shelter to a wide range of tools and equipment. When somebody brought a sweatshirt and had no need for it, she took it in. When somebody was convinced that he or she could not get through the day without 2 or 3 bottles of water, she gracefully accepted her load. And who could forget that time when she sheltered the mystery knife? Oh, Green Purse, the surprises you had in store for us all.

Green Purse was well traveled. With her owner, she went on business trips that took her to exotic destinations such as St. Cloud, Minnesota and Jacksonville, Florida, always providing a snack or reading material during long waits at in the terminal. Passport safely enveloped, she had adventures and Canada and honeymooned and Bermuda. Wherever her owner found herself, Green Purse was always in tow, clutched safetly in the armpit of her mistress lest she be snagged or pickpocketed.

Green Purse saw it all. She saw her owner quit her job and get another job. She saw her owner married, separated, divorced, and married once again. She outlasted two generations of wallets, three cell phones, and countless tubes of lipgloss. She survived a run-in with the resident cat (although she wore several scratches bravely for nearly two years), and numerous close calls with the resident NoMiloBadDog.

It was only in the last several months that she began to show her age. Hairline cracks in her shoulder strap slowly turned into unsightly gouges, until she was deemed no longer fit for public display. But up until her last day, she did what any purse should do.

She held my crap 'till the end.

Oh, Green Purse.
The places you went.
The things you saw.
The lives you changed.

You will be forever in our hearts.

Imma Outlive ALL You Beeyatches

2010-03-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Water and I...we don't get along.

I hate hate HATE drinking water.

And I know a lot of people say that, but riddle me this Batman:

When was the last time you met a person who could drink 2 cups of coffee in the morning and NOTHING ELSE for the rest of the day?

Convinced that I'm an alien?

Yeah, that makes two of us.

I went to my doctor recently to get some bloodwork done. Some of my levels, like potassium and vitamin D and creatinine, were off.

But on the good news, I'm HIV- and Hepatits-negative, so there were no uncomfortable discussions when I got home.

Anyway, after some though, he cocked his head at me and asked, "Is there any chance you could have been dehydrated on the day they drew your blood?"

And I was all, story of my fucking life, doc.

Doctor: How much water do you drink on average?

Me: Not much at all.

Doctor: Like, how many 16 oz glasses per day

Me: None, ususally.

Doctor: None?

Me: None.

Doctor: Not even one glass?

Me: Not if I can help it.

Doctor: Other beverages? Tea? Juice?

Me: Coffee in the morning, but nothing else really.

Doctor: You know coffee is a diuretic, right?

Me: Yeah

Doctor: So you drink diuretic liquids in the morning and nothing else all day.

Me: Pretty much.

Doctor: How many times a day do you pee?

Me: I dunno. Maybe 2.

Doctor: Does that include nighttime?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: Ever get up in the middle of the night to pee?

Me: Sometimes when I drink too much.

Doctor: Well, alcoholic beverages are diuretics too.

Me: Yeah, I know.

I think they call this a stalemate.

Have you ever had anybody look at you like you're supposed to be dead but for some reason, you're not?

That was kind of the look he gave me. It was creepy.

So I took the opportunity to ask him the question that's been burning in my mind for years now:

If I were stuck in the desert with a bunch of other people, would I be the FIRST to die from dehydration...or the LAST?

As in, is my body so used to being dehydrated that I'd be making fucking sandcastles while my companions were dropping like flies?

Or am I so behind the 8-ball when it comes to being hydrated that I'd shrivel up like a raisin after 10 minutes?

The expert consensus? After careful consideration, my doctor guessed that I'd probably be the last to die.

"Heck," he said, "you might even set a new record."

YEESSSSSSS!

"Of course," he added, "that's not a good enough reason to drink as little as you do. Barring any trips to Africa, I'd recommend drinking more....A LOT more."

He's such a party pooper.

Spring Fling

2010-03-23T08:39:00.000-07:00

We could talk about my virtual abandonment of this blog...
...but let's not.

Instead, let's look at pretty "spring-has-sprung" pictures!
Yep.
Good plan.

*Not Pictured: poor droopy crocus that got pummeled in the rainstorm. Poor crocus :-(

Blog post coming tomorrow, I promise!!

Mystery Knife

2010-03-13T18:36:00.000-08:00

I almost left this blog a "Dear John" letter.
I really did.

My life has been crazy lately. Good crazy. AND bad crazy. Just...crazy. And I was seeing no end in sight - no time in the upcoming weeks where I would sit back and say, aah, I think I'll write a blog because I have nothing else to do with my time.

So I thought about writing a "goodbye for now" kind of post. You know...the kind where I say OMG thank you for all the wonderful times and then ask if I could interest you all in a long drive in the country, and let you guys out of the car and throw a ball so you're distracted and don't notice me getting back into the car and speeding off into the night.

And then I found a knife in my purse.

Which - admittedly - is odd.
I mean...I don't remember putting a knife in my purse. But then again, just because I didn't remember putting the smoke detector in the freezer last month doesn't mean it didn't happen.

So I was cleaning out my purse and I found the knife at the bottom, underneath layers of receipts and miscellaneous candy wrappers and okay, I might have Alzheimers.

No biggie. It happens.

But then, I went to put it away....
...and it didn't match the other knives in the block.

(The handle was thicker, heavier, and a different shade of black [TWSS])

But seriously...all joking aside... NOTHING escalates things from "quirky" to "ominous" faster than finding a knife in your purse that doesn't belong to you.

I can only assume that terrorists slipped it into my purse when I wasn't looking.
Or the government.
Or my husband, who is trying to frame me for the murder of his mistress.

Either way, I smell a Lifetime movie deal.

But the knife.
Yeah.
I still have no idea whose it is or why it was in my purse.

But on the good side, it reminded me why its a good thing to have a blog.
Because if for no other reason, it's a great way to create multiple witnesses when one finds a potential murder weapon in one's handbag.

(and yeah, I might have missed you guys. A little bit)

(Okay, a lottle bit)

MIA

2010-03-08T05:54:00.000-08:00

Sorry guys.

I know I've been MIA on this blog lately, but cut me a break, will ya?

I'm going bald, for chrissake.

Oh yeah, and my husband is about to get laid off on May 3 and I don't really have a job, per say, and OMG I'm about to have an aneurysm.

(No, that's not the mystery illness, but seriously - shit is getting very real around here).

In other words, it's hard to be funny when life is kicking you in the babymaker.

Hopefully things work out. In the meantime, I've been too worried about potentially losing the house to blog.

Is it any WONDER that I'm losing my hair?!?!

But now, you'll excuse me - I need to get back to that aneurysm.

Toodle-ooo!

A Klepto Among Us

2010-03-03T11:43:00.000-08:00

Kleptomania

Main Entry: klep·to·ma·nia
Pronunciation: \ˌklep-tə-ˈmā-nē-ə, -nyə\
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin
Date: 1830
1. a persistent neurotic impulse to steal especially without economic motive

2. an abnormal, persistent impulse or tendency to steal, not prompted by need

3. A senseless desire to collect one's owner's things on the couch for snuggle time and/or to destroy them

Okay, I might have made that last one up. But let's just move on to the evidence, shall we?

Fucking hell, Milo.
I came out into the living room the other day after taking a shower, and this is what I find. My dog, looking horribly guilty, amongst a pile of my belongings; namely, a boot, and a pair of my.....ahem....unmentionables, which are blacked out in the name of decorum.

Apparently even I have limits when it comes to discression. Who knew?!?

Not that I mind that he likes to gather my belongings in a pile. It's actually kind of cute (and flattering, if one can be flattered by an animal who is 100% dependent on them for food and shelter).

The problem is that Milo doesn't really see the difference between hanging out with my stuff because he loves me...and eating my stuff because he loves me.
Sunggling with my boot or ingesting my boot...it's all the same to him.

Which is why he's loved me enough to eat a countless number of my possessions, while leaving Brian's things relatively unscathed.

Brian says I should feel honored.

I say we need a new dog.
Preferrably one that isn't, by definition, a kleptomaniac.

I mean, talk about stealing without economic motive! Unless Milo is planning on selling my underthings on the internet, I'd say that his penchant for thievery is about as un-economically motivated as you can get.
For one thing, both the boot and the undergarment have been around the block a few times, if you know what I mean.
For another thing, until he grows opposable thumbs, he isn't getting very far with any of his conquests.
And finally, if he was planning on ingesting them...why bother? He has acces to a bowl of high-quality kibble at all times (mostly because I'm too lazy to institute twice-daily "feeding times")

What would Freud think of this animal?

Better yet, what would Dog Whisperer Cezar Milan think of this behavior?!?

If anybody has any suggestions for how to break a dog of his kleptomaniac habbits, I'm all ears. Until then, I think I'm going to need to invest in a safe.

Or a good shock collar.
kidding....

TITD Goes International, Beeyatch, And Buys A Boat

2010-03-01T05:50:00.000-08:00

Oh, man, I'm too cool for school.

I'm SO cool, that I have people from Greece following my blog.

Hello, Billo Greece, otherwise known as (new) reader #87.

(I say "new" reader #87, because I *had* a reader #87 at one point. And then he/she died. I'm assuming.)

This guy? Is Greek.
Like, so Greek, I can't even read his blog.
Or understand the OTHER site he recently joined.

Which makes it official. Tapdancing in the dark (or TITD, for those of you - myself included - who are too lazy to spit out 6 whole syllables) has gone international.

Awesome-sauce.

You guys, I'm totally psyched.
I'm ready to drink some Ouzo and break some plates and roast a fucking goat in the yard.

Which really isn't that different than any other day, but you know what I mean...

I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my new international blog celebrity status, and I'm torn between producing my own line of high-end vodka (It'll be called reTARD by Lily) or buying a yacht.

Although, after watching THIS video, it's pretty clear what my choice should be.

Oh yeah, Imma buy me a boat.

It's Not Pretty, But It's A Post.

2010-02-25T07:53:00.000-08:00

I've been seriously neglecting this blog lately.

First, it was all, "waaaaa I'm too busy to blog" and then it was all "waaaaaa I'm in too much of a funk to blog" and today it was about to be all "waaaaaaaa I have more important things to do than blog, like salt the walk and get quotes on how much it would cost to fill in the entire basement with cement"...

...but then I realized that, just like personal hygiene, if I don't MAKE the time to do it, things could go south real quick.

So I'm blogging, EVEN THOUGH my basement is filling with water from this most recent snowmelt + endless precipitation + angry, vengeful god combo.

I'm blogging EVEN THOUGH I had to run out in this mess first thing this morning to get 4 dozen red roses for a friend's wedding this Saturday.

I'm blogging EVEN THOUGH I have cramps that make me want to schedule a last-minute hysterectomy (ladies, you know what I'm talking about).

So there.

Except now that I've finished complaining about reasons why I SHOULDN'T be blogging ...I have nothing else to talk about.

Go figure.

I have cramps, the basement is flodded (yes. Again.), and I had to run errands this morning in this shit-for-weather we've been getting in Jersey lately.

My life is still up in the air, and my plan changes every day, which is super fun for Brian as he has to spend a good portion of every night explaining why I can't A) run away and join the circus, B) start a doggie daycare business in the backyard, or C) "just go barefoot and make babies for the rest of my life".

Not flexible enough...zoning issues...and apparently I'm meant for more important things than procreation alone, FYI.

My sister and I are still planning a trip, and while we've resigned ourselves to the fact that we probably don't have the time or resources to join an Ashram in India or hike and Annapurna Trail in Tibet, we're still determined to go on a soul-searching journey of the spirit.

Or to Disneyworld - We haven't really decided yet.

I finally - FINALLY - got more freelance work, some of which has the potential to be quite steady, so hooray for me and all that jazz, although this newest piece of information YET AGAIN changes what I may or may not be doing with my life.

And Milo still sucks, although my sister was managed to take this Ah-DORABLE picture of Jericho and Milo yesterday when they were post-run-on-the-beach exhausted.

...which almost makes up for the fact that Milo threw up on my sweatshirt this morning.

So that's my life in a nutshell right now.

Crappy weather.

Unending life uncertainty.

Cramps.

Flooded basement.

Cute-ish pets.

Potential new source of income.

Wish I had more exciting things to blog about....or maybe I don't, seeing as I've had just about as much as I can handle right now.

So if you could send some positive, "help me sort out my life" kind of vibes my way, that would be great.

Or better yet, do an Anti-Fucking-Rain Dance before the furniture in my basement floats away.

Yeah.

Do that instead.

My Dishwasher, My Friend

2010-02-20T13:04:00.001-08:00

When you don't have a job, you begin to become a bit of a recluse.

For example, I had no idea that Conan was no longer on television.
Or that Avatar could be seen in 2- OR 3D.
Or that the Olympics were going on. Like, right now.
(no, I'm not even kidding about that last one).

Lately, my life has revolved around my computer, my fireplace, my dogs, and various household chores. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, since it covers all my basic needs - income, companionship, warmth, and a sense of accomplishment (as much as clean folded laundry can be viewed as a life goal). Speaking as someone who generally loves her little cozy house in the woods and avoids crowds like the plague, quitting my job has definitely lent itself to a feeling of serenity and oneness with my environment.

That said, I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that I feel more comfortable hanging out with my dishwasher than I do with real live human beings.

I see this chick, sorting laundry and planning dinner and picking up after her husband and I'm all, is that me?!?!?
It's trippy.
And it reminds me that everytime I dare to think that I know who I am, I find a whole new dimension of myself that I didn't even know was there.

Like that time I killed that prostitute....
But I've already said too much.

So that stupid unending question - that "who am I and what should I be doing with my life" question - rears its ugly head again.

And I know I've been blogging about that question a lot lately but you'll forgive me for pointing out that it's really the only big thing going on in my life. So it's either THAT... or I blog about the fact that I made pecan-encrusted salmon for dinner last night. Which was delicious and nutritious but not exactly blog worthy. (Or WAS it? Message me if you want the recipe.)

(and you DO want the recipe)

Fact is, I have a hundred different options right now. I have a hundred different things I could be doing with my life - a hundred different doors that I could go through. They're all here, right in front of me. I just need to take that first step.

But man. That first step is a doozy. That first step entails deciding what makes me really, really happy. That first step entails finding a very integral part of myself that has thus far escaped every trap I've set for it.

I swear, at this point I would have better luck trying to find a ninja during a blackout than trying to find the part of myself that I need to go forward.

Figures.

SO.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.

A trip - a chakra-centering, soul-searching, me-finding, possibly massage-including trip is in order. I'm lucky to have a sponsor for this trip, a myseterious character known only as la madre, whose heart appears to be as big as her checkbook. I'm also lucky enough to have a sister who, wouldn't you know it, is having the same sort of life crisis as we speak.

And everybody knows that simultaneous mental breakdowns among siblings = awesome.

So a trip will be taken within the next month.
A trip that, hopefully, will help me find my purpose in life.
And if it happens to be eventful enough to inspire a novel that puts me on Opra's Book Club?

All the better.

Details will be forthcoming.
For now, I need to get back to my dishwasher.

It misses me.

You, Me, And A Cheesecake Makes Three

2010-02-16T07:02:00.001-08:00

So there's this cheesecake factory.

It's in a run-down part of NJ in an old, half-abandoned industrial park. To get there, you have to pass ditches filled with litter and grimy railroad tracks and that guy - you know who I'm talking about - that guy walking down the side of the road in a hoodie, with his hands jammed in the pockets of his baggy pants who is UNDOUBTEDLY up to no good, so you discreetly lock your car doors as you drive by but hey, these are the things we do for cheesecake, no?

Once you get to this factory, you have to find the dingy little store attached to it. It doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, I'm pretty sure they don't even have a sign up - but ohmygod you guys, the INSIDE of the store makes up for it's shabby exterior.

...because it's filled with cheesecakes.
SEVERELY DISCOUNTED cheesecakes on account of the fact that their delicious graham-cracker crusts crumbled or their moist, creamy centers cracked in the production process.

Defective cheesecake at rock-bottom prices?
Yes, please!

So my mom brought one over for Brian and I a few evenings ago, because there is no limit to her awesomeness. It's some sort of "turtle" thing with nuts and caramel and chocolate and pretty much everything that is good in life.

We finally broke into that bad boy last night after a harrowing round of frolf on the Wii (I am a notoriously poor loser, dating back to my early failures at Candyland, and Brian has quickly learned that consolation prizes are obligatory in this household).

And when I say it was good, what I mean is it was smack yo' momma good.

Brian (in post-cheesecake bliss): Oh man that was good
Me (slumped on the couch in a stupor): Oh my god, that was amazing
Brian: I need, like, a cigarette or something.
Me: A cigarette? I think I need a priest because there is no way that was not a sin
Brian: Honey, I hate to tell you, but I think I just had my first affair.
Me: It's not cheating if I participated. That was more like a threesome.
Brian: A cheesecake threesome. I like the sound of that.
Me: Same time tomorrow night?
Brian: Absolutely. I'll bring the forks.
Me: Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty.

So there you have it. Other women might worry about their husbands cheating on them with college co-eds.
I have to worry about my husband cheating on me with a turtle cheesecake.

It's a match made in heaven.

Warning: Sappy Content Ahead (Vom Buckets Highly Recommended)

2010-02-15T12:27:00.000-08:00

First, a few housekeeping notes:

I lost two readers this week. I'd love to say I don't care, but the fact is, I do. I do care that there is a strong possibility that two people were reading my blog this week and decided that whatever they THOUGHT I was? I wasn't.

However, I have also come to the terms that I'm not a clown. Nor am I a comedian or any other sort of professional entertainer. All I am is me, and if two people don't like it, I'm going to have to deal.

(or at least pretend that they both died horrible deaths and somebody kindly disabled their Blogger accounts.
Yeah.
That MUST be it).

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

Yesterday was Valentines Day.
Obviously.

Some people love it, some people hate it.
I'll admit that I've had a lot of different feelings about Valentine's Day, ranging from deep disappointment to self-empowerment to head-over-heels love.

When I was in grade school, Valentine's Day meant special treats, a gift from my parents, and cards in my "mailbox" (usually a decorated brown paper bag attached to my desk, filled with as many valentines as kids in the class because my teachers mercifully declared that if you want to give even ONE valentine, you had to give one to everyone. Even the guy in the back corner who picks his nose and eats it.)

In highschool, Valentine's Day morphed into a day of suffering and depression, wherein I looked at the cool kids - the ones with boyfriends and/or girlfriends - and cursed the gods that I was not so fortunate to participate in such a holiday. The one year when I had a boyfriend? He forgot - FORGOT - that we were supposed to go out to dinner (at Olive Garden, no less...THE place for highschool romance). I yelled, he begged, and in the end, I dumped his sorry ass and never looked back.

In college, Valentine's Day was just another excuse to party (as if we needed another excuse). When I met my first serious boyfriend, I finally, FINALLY got to do all the Valentine's Day things I had dreamed of. There were dinners eaten and cards exchanged and gifts purchased, and while the guy didn't end up being The One, he certainly had a knanck for making me feel special. And pretty. And drunk (he was 22 and I was 18 when we met and he exercised his newly obtained right to purchase alcohol quite freely).

And then there was The Ex.
Oh, that guy.
Valentine's Days with The Ex started so well...with presents and fancy dinners and the whole sha-bang.
But by the time we celebrated our last Valentine's Day together, he was spouting off about how the Corporations were trying to control us and make us buy things and feel things, and I was doing housework and silently plotting my escape.

Let it be said that spending Valentine's Day with a borderline paranoid-schizophrenic is a little less than magical.

But now....things are different.

This year, Valentine's Day meant so many things to me.
A chance to spend some time with the man I love most.
A chance to show that I listen - very carefully - when he casually mentions things he wants or needs.
A chance to look back at my life and realize that the other Valentine's Days can't hold a candle to the ones spent with him.

And most importantly, a chance to look forward and realize - with great joy - that every Valentine's Day from here on out will be spent with my best friend, my companion, and the love of my life.

Happy Valentine's Day, Brian!

This Post Was Designed Specifically To Make You Feel Better About Yourself By Comparison

2010-02-12T13:51:00.000-08:00

My friend Carrie from Brick City Love has made several appearances on this blog. Not only is she wicked creative, she pretty much single-handedly pulled off my wedding day, and looked FABULOUS doing it.

She also made TastyKake gift bags for everyone to take home with them, so is it any wonder that this girl is near and dear to my heart?

However, as close as we are, it's pretty clear that she and I march to the beats of two entirely separate drummers.

(FYI, Hers is kind of neat and well put-together, whereas mine is usually missing a shoe and tripping on acid)

Exhibit A.

The girl can organize a mean closet.

Granted, her "before" picture is pretty rough, but at the end of the day, what separates her and me is that she observed her unsightly closet and felt an unquenchable thirst to fix it.

I, on the other hand, have never been up at all hours of the night worrying about how organized, (or not) my closet is,

But to hit the point home, let's capture this juxtaposition with a little picture, shall we?

"What," you might be asking yourselves, once you get over the shock, horror, and awe of this picture, "is a sock bag?"

Well, I'll tell you.

The sock bag happens to be my piece de resistance of domestic laziness.

You see, the amount of laundry that Brian and I (but mostly Brian) produce negates any type of "Laundry Day" in our house.

In essence, laundry is run at a near continuous cycle, wherein one of us runs out of underpants and we stare each other down until one of us breaks and agrees to do a load of wash.

And so begins the 6-day triathalon that is our laundry.

(on the 7th day, we rest)

Of course, with laundry being washed nearly incessantly, once can imagine how difficult it would be to pair socks.

So?

They go in the bag.

Am I ashamed that I, a 28-year old wife and homeowner, resort to a sock bag for my foot covering needs?

Yes.

And no.

Yes, because I'm apparently failing my duties as homemaker, and no, because it's convenient as hell and let's face it, the back and white Bed Bath and Beyond bag goes perfectly with our bathroom decor.

I'm thinking of marketing this idea - developing a swank bag (sans BB&B logo, natch) and selling it for the low, low price of $19.95 (and if you call in the next 10 minutes, we'll throw in an additional bag for FREE! That's TWO bags for the price of ONE!)

And thusly, I will build my SockBag empire (copyright pending).

Anybody want in on this shit?

Lessons Learned During A Blizzard

2010-02-10T16:44:00.001-08:00

If you live in the Mid-Atlantic region, you might have noticed a little bit of snow outside your window today.

I certainly did.

Not that I'm complaining.
If it's going to be winter, Mother Nature might as well throw down and snow like a muh-fuckah instead of handing out that sleety crap that we usually get in NJ (complete with irate NJ drivers who igonore said sleety crap and drive 90 mph to get to work on time).

But on the downside, not only do NJ firefighters NOT get snowdays...they actually have to work overtime, which would explain why I haven't seen the hubs since 6:00 this morning and won't seem him until late tomorrow night.

Oh baby, it's cold outside.

Luckily, this pity party, like ANY good pity party, comes with a glass (or four) of merlot, and I am indeed in rare form tonight.

So let's commence with the bulleted lists, shall we?

Allow me to present to you, Lessons Learned During A Blizzard:

1. I don't care what kind of snowblower you have; I win.

It's true. Go ahead - tell me what kind of big mamba-jamba snowblower you have. Talk to me about your RPMs. Brag about your diesel engine. I will raise my eyebrows in feigned defeat, until I throw down the hand that always...ALWAYS...wins the pot:
We clear our driveway with a front-end loader.
Of course, I mean "we" in the Editorial sense, as it is actually my awesome neighbor who owns and operates the front-end loader. But still - I win. And that's all that counts.

2. Sometimes it pays to be a hominid.

When I let the dogs out this afternoon to do their business, Jericho (the good dog) gave me a look that could only be interpreted as, "are you seriously going to make me squat in this shit?"
And the answer was yes.
Yes, Jericho, you have to literally jam your asshole into the snow to go to the bathroom.
Because you are a dog.
And most of the time, being a dog rocks.
But not today.
Because today? You have to try to do your business in 3 feet of snow.
Godspeed, my friend. Godspeed.

3. Electricity is vital.

This one seems obvious. But being spared every regional black-out that has hit this area for the past two years, I'll admit I'm a bit cavalier with our electricity...
...until the power went bloop for half a second, and I suddenly realized that if the power goes out I would no longer be able to 1) watch TV 2) go online 3) do the laundry, or 4) flush the toilet. And then suddenly, I thought back to snickering at Jericho for having to poop in the snow and let me tell you...things got very real for a second or two.

4. I didn't get married to kill my own spiders

Brian kills the spiders in this house. End of story. So when one crawled across the kitchen floor (much to my cats' delight an my intense horror), needless to say...we had a problem. Oh sure; when I'm backpacking and sleeping in a tent and cooking my food over a portable stove, I can pretty much pull a daddy longlegs out of my pasta and keep on eating.
Because I'm in THEIR house, and I totally get that.
But in my house?
MY HOUSE?!?!
I will kill you.
Or...my husband will kill you....if he's home.
If I'm home? I'll scream like a girl and try to sic all 4 animals on you before giving up and squemishly stomping on you (with much squealing and general carrying on).
Hey, I don't make the rules here - I just follow 'em.

5. When left to my own devices, there's no telling what might happen.

Today, I did 4 loads of laundry.
I also painted half a painting - a thing which I haven't done since highschool.
And then I ate 2 packs of Tasty Kakes, cleaned the bedroom, shoveled the front walk, and baked cornbread while imbibing on the better half of a bottle of wine.
What I'm trying to say here is, there's no telling what I might do when left alone for 36+ hours. Tomorrow might be Yoga and reorganizing the kitchen.
Or it might be interpretive dance, snow-sculpture, and de-clogging the bathroom drains.
The fact of the matter is I have no idea why I do what I do; science has yet to come up with an explanation.

6. Just in case you were worried - never fear - Milo is still barking for no G-D reason.

No explanation required. He's still an asshole.

Is It Date Rape If You're Married?

2010-02-08T06:44:00.000-08:00

It's Memoir Monday over at Travis's place, and this picture pretty much sums up our lives right now:

Both in the metaphorical sense - as in, the cat represents the crushing weight of financial strain and life uncertainty, and the handsome, possibly-dead man represents our failing struggle to cope with such an oppressing burden.

And in the literal sense - as in, we don't really get out much.

And no, if anybody is wondering, I did not slip my husband a roofie, although that guy had enough Nyquil in him to take down a bull elephant and chances are, I could have probably had my way with him.

But who are we kidding?
You can't rape the willing.

Moving on....

I've been finding myself in a bit of a quandry lately.
As I've been sitting here, struggling to make ends meet while searching for freelance gigs and filling my spare time with various hobbies and housework, I can't help but think I'm squandering an enormous opportunity.

I mean, how many times have you ever said to yourself, "If it wasn't for my job I would..."

Me? I must have said it a million times. And that elipsis was followed by a million wonderful things, like moving to a foreign country or hiking the Appalachian Trail or opening a Cold Stone franchise and eating myself into a diabetic coma.
Whatever.
The point is, time after time, I felt that the only thing holding me back from accomplishing a truly great existance was my job.

And now that my job is no longer in the picture?
I seem to spend a lot of time folding boxer shorts and hanging out on Facebook. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing and lord knows I like handling my husband's underwear (really, Lily? You're REALLY going to write that on your blog?!?), but it's isn't exactly what I would call an epic existance.

And lately? I can't help feeling like I have the drive and motivation to do something truly great, and instead of wasting my time chasing gigs to do writing that I don't even really like that much, maybe I should take this golden opportunity and do something thats worth putting on a tombstone.

Of course, there are other significant hurdles. Like money, for one thing, and the fact that Brian and I practically have a meltdown if we don't get enough quality time with each other. And of course, there is the big question of WHAT WILL I DO?

I mean, I have some ideas, but most of them require either money or significant time away from my spouse.

But I can tell you this. Something - SOMETHING - is bubbling inside of me. And for once, it's not gas.

Whether I like it or not, I have been handed a great gift.

And now it seems like the only questions left is, what will I do with it?

Miracles: Aisle 5: Next To The Toilets. Get Some.

2010-02-04T18:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Lowes Home Improvement Store:

Wow.

I just....wow.

I mean, I knew you were a good store. I knew you had all of my home improvement needs covered from day one.

That time Brian and I refurbished the entire basement?
You had that shit locked down.

That time, soon after Brian and I refurbished the entire basement, when the entire basement flooded?

That massive sump pump was totally clutch.

The two floods that came AFTER that original flood?

You were on it like white on rice. (and your return policy is awesomely lax, if I do say so myself)

But this?

This goes way above and beyond your typical scope of home improvement conveniences:

I mean....
Seriously?

You can prevent SNOW NOW?!?!?

It's just that...Jesus Christ!

You might want to start advertising for this service a little bit, because I'm pretty sure that if everybody knew you had a center designed specifically to prevent snow?
Well.
Let's just say that certain stores - and not to name names, but they might rhyme with "Shmome Shdeepo" - might be out of business right about now.

Sincerely,

your newest disciple.

Potatoes. Again.

2010-02-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in every woman's life when she's half way through a bowl of potatoes - just potatoes - for lunch and she suddenly realizes that she either needs to get some damn money or commit to an ascetic lifestyle wherein she chooses to deprive herself of basic human needs.

Like PB&J.

And soap.

I mean, it's not like I'm so poor that I can't afford to eat.
It's more like I'm just poor enough where I can't afford to eat AND buy shampoo.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not hatin' or anything. I've been broke before. I've been college broke where you go to the grocery store and you're all, "I've got $40 in my wallet and need to buy a month's worth of food with enough left over to buy a dime bag."

But the thing is...in college? It was cool. Because everybody was broke, and a "night out" typically included a few hours of pregaming with boxed wine in your dorm before heading out to the local bars to flirt with guys so they would buy you drinks and possibly throw up on you.

But now, being closer to 30 than 20, having had at least one reasonably well-paying job and being well off enough at one point to afford weekend lift-tickets and occasional trips to Wegmans....well....boxed wine and vomit has lost some of it's magic.

Surprising, I know.

My friends? They pretty much still have money (except for a select few of you and HELLO, MY NAME IS LILY AND I'D LIKE TO BECOME THE NEWEST MEMBER OF YOUR CLUB). They're all makin' babies and buying flat-screen TVs and having dinner parties and pretty much doing things that responsible people my age like to do with their money.

And now...I'm finding myself on the the other side of the railroad tracks.
It's gritty over here.
And cold.
And it smells a little like pee.

But here I am, living my life, fighting for my paychecks, learning how to make do with less...and I'm realizing that in many ways? I have a lot more.

It's all about your priorities, yanno?

But the potatoes.

Oh, the potatoes.

My kingdom for an unlimited grocery budget.

So if anybody asks you what the price of freedom is?

I have a hint for you:

It's not death.

It's culinary variety.

Family Matters

2010-01-30T13:36:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-28T14:24:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-25T15:32:00.000-08:00

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'

2010-01-24T06:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-20T12:26:00.001-08:00

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!

2010-01-19T06:40:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T14:18:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-17T06:07:00.000-08:00

*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

2010-01-15T15:45:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T12:06:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-13T11:57:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-11T13:44:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T18:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-07T05:22:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-06T06:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-04T05:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-02T21:13:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

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...

Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned

2009-12-30T14:34:00.001-08:00

Okay...so I'm neglecting this blog.

This blog, which saw me through many, many difficult times at work; which stood by me while I suffered through endless days chained to a desk; which comforted me in my darkest hour.

Now, this blog sits, dusty and sad while I'm out there living my life.

Do I feel bad? Yes.
And no.

You see, I start thinking about this blog and the lack of attention I have been giving it as of late, and I start to feel guilty. Like, "old-school, Catholic guilt" kind of guilty. I start to wonder if I was wrong in believing that I lived and breathed to write. I start to fear that I'll never go back; that I'll never blog again or finish my novel (which has screeched to a halt at 11,000-ish words).

But then, I remember that it's the Holidays. That Brian has been here, spending some quality time with me. That I was forced to stare at a screen, day in and day out, for 5 plus years.
And then I'm all, "Yo, calm the fuck down." And I drink a glass of wine and admire the tree (which will not be taken down until after New Years day), and I allow myself to enjoy the time away from the computer.

Will I be back?
Most definitely.

When the Holidays are over and Brian is back at work, and my freelance projects are rolling in and I've settled into my post-corporate hell routine, I have no doubt that entertaining posts will come at fairly regular intervals.

And of course, if something funny happens...if Brian sets himself on fire or my pants fall down at the grocery store...have no fear that you, my readers, will be the first to hear of it.

But for now, I'm going to enjoy my time with my husband and the horses and my dogs and my family, and thank GOD that from here on out, sitting at a computer will happen not because I'm required to, but because I CHOOSE to.

Happy New Years, everybody.

If You Have An Actual Job, You Probably Don't Want To Read This

2009-12-28T07:38:00.000-08:00

Brian asked me to take care of his FarmVille today. It's not that I don't mind helping a brotha out, but his farm is, like, really really big and time consuming, and for the record, this is the third day in a row he's asked me to farm that sombitch.

All of this aside, what's really deterring me from volunteering my farming time and skills is the reason he's unable to farm his land.

Brian, it seems, has discovered a new computer game: Wine Tycoon. So essentially, Brian is unable to play his one computer game because he is too busy playing another computer game.

...you see my dilemma here.

So allow me to present to you,

Acceptable Reasons to Ask Your Spouse to Farm Your Farmville Crops:

- You are vacuuming out the water in the basement

- You are in a coma

- You are being mauled by a bear

- You are making and/or purchasing a cake (for me)

- You have been arrested

- You broke both your wrists in an unfortunate snowboarding accident

- You are too busy checking out my fine, fine ass

- You have actual, income-generating work to do

- You are on fire

- You are busy buying me a present

And while we're on the topic,

Unacceptable Reasons to Ask Your Spouse to Farm Your Farmville Crops:

- You are busy playing another computer game

- You are napping

- You are on the couch, and the laptop is waayyyyy over there

- See above

But on the bright side, THESE, now, are the types of problems I'm encountering. Not "I'm going to shank my coworkers," or "If I have to sit through one more of these awful meetings I'm going to throw myself out of this third-story window"....

Now, it's just all, "Baby, can you farm my crops?" and I'm all, "Do it yourself, bitch."

I may be broke, but at least I have finally prioritized my life.

:-)

On Sump Pumps And Infomercials

2009-12-27T08:53:00.000-08:00

Another short one today (TWSS).

We have to leave soon to head to my dad's out in PA, because apparently, this is the christmas that will never end.

Dude, I'm so festivitied out, it's not even funny.

Add to that the flooding. You see, I'm starting to learn that every time I say, "wow, this is the highest the water has ever been"....next time, it's higher.

So today, I will not be saying that this most recent flood was the highest it's even been (even though it most certainly is). I will only say that the basement is flooded despite a fully functioning sump pump (well, one of them, at least), and leave it at that.

Lesson learned.

Last night, Brian and I spent our time desperately trying to prevent our sump pump from frying out by running an industrial pump for 5 minute intervals every 20 minutes or so.

Good times, good times.

And while I'm super impressed that our ultra-expensive new sump pump with bells and whistles is still going strong despite running practically non-stop for the last 24 hours, I'm still kind of lamenting the fact that staying awake, in shifts, throughout the night was not enough to keep our basement floor from getting completely saturated.

And unfortunately, having taken the 2:00 to 5:00 am shift early this morning, I've also developed a compulsive need for the Slap Chop.

So there you have it. Lessons learned in the wake of a flood that was NOT the highest we've ever seen (see that? I just went all reverse-psychology on your ass). When it comes to sump pumps, you get what you pay for, and when you're up all night on support-pump duty, it's best to avoid infomercials.

Christmas Recap, And Another Pet. Or, A Thousand Reasons Why I Might Very Well Murder Someone (Or Thing) Today

2009-12-26T08:35:00.001-08:00

I know what you guys are thinking.
You're thinking, "Hey, now that Bluefish is gone, Lily could probably use another animal."

Well, surprise surprise, we now have another cat.

Luckily, this is only a temporary situation, but I'm going to give you a moment to imagine the chaos that 2 dogs and 3 cats can inflict, even if only temporarily, at Christmastime.

...

Breathtaking, isn't it?
In an apocolyptic kind of way?

You see, my sister came to visit a few days ago.

And she brought this cat, who belongs to her ex-roommate, who had nobody to watch it while she was with her family. So Emily brings this cat here because, hey, what's one more animal when you're already overrun with 'em?
So the cat is here. His name is Monty. He gets along with everybody. Including the tree. And the ornaments. And the muffins I baked for brunch yesterday. (he REALLY gets along well with the blueberry muffins, as I found out this morning).

But it was a small price to pay to spend some quality time with my sister.

Imagine, if you will, a woman who is like me, but more dramatic, and with a greater love for pastry.

That's Em.

She and I went into the city on Wednesday to criticize Cezanne and marvel at medieval weaponry at the Philadelphia Museum of Art (and note to self: I'm pretty sure the world does not want my sister to get her hands on a medieval battle axe). Thursday, she came with me to a particularly entertaining riding lesson in which I was just about launched head first into a wall when the horse I was riding decided to have a complete mental breakdown.

It was fun.
Moreso for her, than for me.

After that, we headed to my inlaws for dinner with aunts, uncles, cousins, and miscellaneous children.

And yesterday.
Oh...yesterday.
Yesterday, when our first Christmas had to be equally divided between about a million family members.
Yesterday, when I had to pull together a brunch for 10 people, which was then decreased to 8 people when my grandparents decided, 1 hour before go-time, that they didn't want to come over afterall.
"Why," you ask?
Why do they do anything?
Because they're old.
And that's pretty much the only excuse I can use with them.

So it was my mother and sister in the morning. And then we were joined by Brians' parents, aunt, and uncle for brunch. And then his parents, Brian and I drove to to PA to have dinner with his other aunt and uncle and cousins.

And then his parents came BACK to our house to do presents.

So the whole evening wrapped up at around 10:30 or so.
And I think we can all imagine how cranky I was by this point.

So today, there will be a whole lot of nothing going on in our household.
And it will be fabulous.

Except, of course, for the fact that we have 3 cats and 2 dogs that are all trying to simultaneously harass each other.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas.
I'm back, bitches.

You Were Taking Bets, Weren't You?

2009-12-23T06:20:00.000-08:00

Hey guys
No, I'm not dead. Nor have I abandoned the blog for good.
I promise.

It's just that, well, there's so much stuff to DO now that I'm not chained to a desk 24/7.
Houses to clean
Horses to ride
Family to visit with

All that good stuff.

So, let's just say that I'm taking a Christmas Vacation away from the blog. My first vacation, actually, since I started this thing in August of 2008 (no joke).

Except, my Christmas Vacation will not include Clark Grizwold, humping dogs or crazy relatives showing up in broken-down trailors.

(...okay, maybe some humping dogs).

I hope you all have a very Happy Holidays.
See you soon

A Viking Funeral For 2

2009-12-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

Me: Hey Bluefish, how ya feeling today?
BF: …..
Me: Bluefish? You okay?
Bf:….
Me: *tap tap
BF: ….

********
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Bluefish has officially gone to that big aquarium in the sky. I know that a lot of people though he died earlier this week when I posted my conversation with him (although, I don’t know how I’d have a conversation with a dead fish) (then again, I guess it’s pretty remarkable that I have conversations with fish, in general).

Poor Bluefish.

So of course, I had to contact his grandmother (via text) and break the news to her.

Me: RIP Bluefish
Mom: OMG! (how can you tell?)
Me: what do you mean how can I tell? He’s lying at the bottom of the tank and not moving when I tap on the tank.
Mom: So sad! Will you have a service?
Me: We’re thinking more like a Viking funeral
Mom: Oooh! So cool! Of course the fireman would think of that
Me: No, his barbarian wife thought of that
Mom: You 2 go so well together!

Awww, isn’t that cute?

And at this point, I'd like to recall another story that comes to mind. The year is 2004 and I am an intern in the office where my mother works. In that office, we all had these cool combination fishtank/plant arrangements on our desks, complete with our own individual beta fish. Of course, most of the fish died earlier that year, but mom's held out longer than the others.

Did I mention that she named him Ivan Analitch?
Think about it.

At any rate, eventually, he passed away. So of course, my mother sent around an email (it was a small office full of pretty cool people) saying that Ivan had passed away and we would be gathering around the pond out back to send him off at lunch.

Did I also mention that we had hired, like six new people THAT VERY DAY?

So of course the new people, thinking that Ivan is some sort of...well...person....are confused.

Eventually, one of them came up to my mother and wanted to know the address of the family so she could send a condolence card. My mother was like, "WHOSE family?" And the woman was like, "Ivan's. Who is he, by the way?"

Apparently, the new people had been talking and had decided that Ivan was the janitor or something, and that his last wish had been to be sunk in the corporate pond out back.

Of course we all had a good laugh over it, and to this day, every time I see a beta fish, I think of good old Ivan.

****

In other news, today is my last day at work. As of 12:30 this afternoon, I will be a free (read: unemployed) woman.

Holy crap!

So tonight, we will be saying goodbye to both Bluefish and “Corporate Lily” in the ways of our ancestors. Namely, drinking beer and setting things on fire before shoving them out to sea.

I think Ivan would be approve.

Happy Weekend, everybody!

Mystery Box

2009-12-17T10:49:00.000-08:00

No, not MY mystery box, you sick perves!
(and lets be honest, 4 years of college experimentation took ALL the mystery out of THAT box, if yanno what I'm sayin')*

*I don't know what I'm saying

Anygirlsgonewild, yesterday, a box arrived at our doorstep.
That, in itself, isn't unusual. After all, it IS Christmas-time.

What was unusual about this box, after I took it inside and attempted to determine whether it might be one of my christmas gifts by shaking it vigorously, was the address:

In case you're having a hard time reading it, it was addressed to
JERICHO OR THE [INSERT LAST NAME HERE for those of you who didn't already figure it out when I stupidly posted my wedding invitation on this blog a few months ago] NOT SKITTLES.

Needless to say, I was perplexed. A package that is addressed to either my dog or both me and my husband, but not my cat?

What?!?

So I opened it.

And this is what was inside:

And I was all, "Ooh, look, a bonsai tree!" And Brian was all, "No, stupid it's a grape vine."

And he was right! It WAS a grapevine.

...which makes sense, in that Jericho is a highly sophisticated man who appreciates a good Chianti now and again, and Skittles is a manic, homicidal cat who likes to eat anything of the plant variety, even while knowing full well that she will throw it up (on my shoes) later.

Knowing that Brian and I are experienced and budding wine connoisseurs, respectively, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend got us a grape vine from California.

...in other words, the coolest gift EVER.

Now, I just need a name for him.

Any sueggstions?

We've Got A Floater...

2009-12-16T11:19:00.000-08:00

Me: Hey, Bluefish, what’s crack-a-lak-in?
Bluefish (BF): Hey. *sigh
Me: What’s the matter, bro? You look depressed.
BF: I am
Me: What’s wrong?
BF: I can’t swim
Me:….
BF:…
Me: Dude.
BF: What?
Me: You’re a FISH…
BF: So?
Me: I’m pretty sure you know how to swim.
BF: Not anymore.
Me: You’re insane.
BF: I’m NOT! Look!
[Swims furiously to the bottom of the tank and then floats to the top like a buoy]
Me: OOOOh.
BF: See what I mean? I’ve forgotten how to swim.
Me: Hmmm, how do I put this? Do you want the good news or the bad news?
BF: What? Good news.
Me: You haven’t forgotten how to swim.
BF: Awesome. I'm so relieved. What’s the bad news?
Me: You have that floaty condition that fish sometimes get.
BF: That floaty condition?
Me: Yeah. All of a sudden, they just sort of…float. Like, every time they try to swim down, they float back to the surface. Just like you.
BF: Oh, so I haven’t forgotten how to swim?
Me: No. You just have the floaty condition.
BF: That’s great news!
Me:….
BF: What?
Me: Nothing.
BF: WHAT?!? Tell me.
Me: The floaty condition isn’t so great.
BF: Uh-oh. What do you mean?
Me: I mean….geeze…um…the last fish I had who got the floaty thing kind of….er…
BF: Don’t say it…
Me: …died
BF: AAAK!
Me: Dude, I’m SO SORRY, but I couldn’t not tell you.
BF: I’M GOING TO DIE?!?!?!?
Me: Well, maybe not…
BF: I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!
Me: Well, yeah, probably….
BF: HOLY SHIT I’m GONNA DIE!!!
Me: Jesus, calm down.
BF: I’M GOING TO DIE. DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!!!!
Me: Well, let’s be honest here – you’ve been on your way out for a long time now.
BF: THAT’S NOT TRUE!
Me: Uhhh…it is. I’ve been watching you sleep ON YOUR SIDE at the bottom of the tank for, like, 4 months now.
BF: So what?
Me: Well, it’s usually not a good sign.
BF: Jesus Christ, I’m going to die.
Me: Speaking of which, do you have a soul?
BF: A what?
Me: A…oh…nevermind.
BF:….
Me: Who wants dinner?!?

In Which It Ends With A Sexy Danceparty

2009-12-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

It’s a scatter-brained kind of day, so you’re going to get a scatter-brained kind of post. Don’t like it? Complaints can be emailed to Icouldn’tpossiblycareanyless@yourmom.com.

· Somewhere around the 867th time my new coworker asked me if I had lunch (you know who I’m talking about – the enthusiastic, freshly-minted PharmD with the IQ of a dill pickle), I decided to stop being nice to her. And I know that you guys must think that I’m some sort of monstrous human being, I’m actually pretty nice to people’s faces, so this is a lot harder for me than you’d think. However, I’m finding that, much like learning to play the didgeridoo, when it comes to being mean, practice makes perfect. And I, for one, am no quitter. So I keep a list of thinly veiled insults handy and practice making “incredulous snob eyes” in the mirror in the ladies’ room. I expect to be a full-on bitch by the end of the week. Wish me luck!

· It would appear that I have little-to-nothing to do here at work for the next four days. Expect multiple daily posts and, if you’re lucky, a vlog. Aah, who are we kidding? Technology and me go together like an Oklahoma fisherman and Twilight (oops, sorry Travis. Did I just blow up your Twilight spot? You can email a complaint to me at Icouldn’tpossiblycareanyless@yourmom.com). There will be no vlogging of any sort.
PSYCH!!!

· Do the kids still say “psych?” I dunno, I’m so out of touch. The other day, I was in the mall, and some teenager walked by with his hair all combed forward and to the side and eyeliner and skinny jeans and I was like, “Christ, kid, can you get that hair out of your face already?” And my friend was like, “I think they call that ‘emo.’” And I was all, “Why would they call it that? He doesn’t look anything LIKE an emu!” and she was all, “Not emu, EMO. Jesus, can you get your hearing checked all ready?” And I was like, “No, I’m pretty sure they call that the GAY.” And she was like, “Not these days.” And I was like, “I know. Everything is so PC anymore. Fine, HOMOSEXUAL, okay?” And she was like, “No, I mean, that style isn’t just for gay guys anymore.” And I was all, “You mean HOMOSEXUAL guys.” And she was like, “I hate you so much.”

· We have to go to Brian’s new boss’s swearing in ceremony tonight. Which means I get to see Brian in his “dressy” uniform (or whatever they call it, which I’m 99% sure doesn’t involve the word “dressy”). Needless to say, I’m a happy girl. Giggidy. I’ll try to get a pic, even if it means busting in on him in the mens’ room. Let it be said that I am dedicated to the cause.

· If I could stop trying to eat everything in sight, that would be great. Christmas cookies do not a healthy breakfast make. Diabetes just called to tell me that I’m easy. I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed.

· I just realized that I only have to wear business slacks for two more days (Not including today. And Friday not being counted, in that we are allowed to wear jeans). Holy Hand Grenade! That freaking rocks!
Sexy Danceparty.
My place.
Friday afternoon.
Be there. (No pants allowed).

Aaah, who doesn’t love a sexy danceparty? That’s it for now. Stay tuned for more ramblings….

Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink

2009-12-14T07:31:00.000-08:00

I think we all here at Tapdancing in the Dark know that while I am quick to criticize, I am also quick to eat some humble pie.

Or any type of pie, for that matter.

mmmmm. Pie.
I digress…

So despite my recent rantings and ravings about my overall job satisfaction (or lack thereof), I must admit that perhaps maybe I spoke a bit too soon...

I know.
You’re shocked.
I am too.

You see, this whole time I truly believed that the company had an overall disregard for its employees happiness (and access to healthcare) (and ability to retire). Of course, there were a number of examples to support this conclusion, which I will not get into here for the sake of my blood pressure, but needless to say, a mildly disgruntled employee I was.

But then I got this email from the HR Department, and I have to say, I've really put my foot in my mouth complaining about how callously we employees were being treated.

Take a look-see:

Hello everyone,
Over the weekend both of the water fountains were fixed. We have had several requests to look into why they were not working, and we responded. Enjoy the water! Evidently there are filters that need to be changed as they get clogged.
Thanks,
[HR]

Wow.
Humble pie, serving of one, please.

I mean, here I was, going on and on about how abused we employees were, and then the company goes and does something as groundbreaking and progressive as allowing us access to clean water.

FOR FREE, people!

I mean, it’s one thing to provide vending machines that supply bottled water for the first 15 days of the month (or until it runs out) at the low, low price of $1.25 per bottle. After all, we are all so generously paid, the concept of shelling out more than $35 a month is a small price to pay to stay hydrated with water that doesn’t taste like you’re sucking on a lead pipe.
(That’s what she said.)

And it’s another thing to provide us with no-cost water that is seasoned with a healthy helping of E. Coli, because what do you expect for free? Plus, everybody could use a little more excitement in their lives, and what’s more exciting than playing a game of Russian Roulette with your drinking water?

Well, maybe a monkey knife fight.
NOTHING is more exciting that a good monkey knife fight.

But providing us with water that is both safe AND free?
…I’m at a loss for words.

No.
Really.
WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE the feelings that are welling up in me at this moment…

And it only took several requests for them to look into this! Only, like, three people had to get seriously dehydrated before they took a look at the water fountain filters. How's THAT for a quick response?
I mean, you can’t really blame them; who could have possibly anticipated that filters in the water fountains would get clogged? Who has ever heard of a filter that needs to be replaced? They should seriously write to the filter manufacturer and get their money back. AND THEN contact the Better Business Bureau because this manufacturer is clearly out to swindle the public.

Regardless, it is THIS type of problem solving that makes me proud to be an employee at this company.

It almost makes me sad to think that I’m leaving in 5 days.

…ALMOST.

Today:

2009-12-11T07:54:00.000-08:00

Also...

I'm Not Above Eating a Coworker

2009-12-10T08:21:00.000-08:00

You know how a person, when stuck in a survival-type situation (like they get separated from their guide on an Amazonian hike or their plane crashes into the side of a mountain and they have to survive for a ridiculous amount of time by eating people and wearing seat covers), can be amazingly strong? Like, they just put their nose to the grindstone and keep going and it doesn’t really matter that a jaguar ate half of their leg, they’re just positive they’re going to get out of this, so they keep pressing forward until they reach civilization?

But then later, when they recall the tale, they get all weepy and can’t believe that they really survived? Like, all that repressed emotion that was useless and therefore suppressed during the emergency comes bubbling to the surface?

Well work, to me, has kind of gotten to this point, in that work was something to be survived, and now that the end is near, all of the emotions that would have compromised my ability to survive are now free to be expressed. Also, in that I would have no qualms eating a coworker if it came down to it.

But these emotions…they’re really out of control.

As in, if I pass you in the ladies’ room or get stuck with you in the elevator, there is a 4 out of 5 chance I’m either saying something derogatory to you or seeing you meet some horrible death that involves any combination of fire ants, helicopter blades, Medieval-times catapults, ninja throwing stars (obviously), or pianos hanging out of two-story windows.

In my head, of course, because can you seriously imagine how that would go down in real life?

Coworker: Good morning. Did you enjoy your day off?
Me: Not as much as I’m about to enjoy THIS, motha-fuckah.

And then I whip out the ninja stars and throw them octopus style, and they’re all Why? Why would you do this to me?, and I’m all THAT’S for forgetting to put the project ID number on the folder, ass-face. And by the way, that top makes you look fat.

And then I would walk out of the elevator and exit the building into a glorious sunset, never to return again.

But instead, I just say “yes, thanks.” And as soon as they turn their backs, I give them a dirty look, because the last time I threw my ninja stars, things ended badly for me, and I’m not going back, man.

And it doesn’t help that I get these RIDICULOUS emails from coworkers with way too much time on their hands, who mistakenly believe that I truly appreciated the ingenuity of their crocheted cornucopia last month (with individually crocheted pumpkins and eggplants 'n shit), when really, I was only saying I liked it to point out the fact that I really felt to the contrary, like when somebody gets an awful haircut, and when you see it, the first thing out of your mouth is “wow, I like your haircut,” when they actually look like a retarded poodle because really, what else are you going to say? The damage has already been done…

So I got this email today:

From: [stupid coworker]
Subject: You are invited to a private unveiling

Crocheted penguin and reindeer in my office.
Stop by any time :-)

Which means that – oh my god – I’ve been officially placed on the “People who think my crocheted shit is totally awesome” list.

And I SO want to take those little crocheted penguins and reindeers and shove them down her throat, but instead, I’ll have to go all the way down to the first floor and “ooh” and “aah” at them, because when you work in an office, this is what you do: You pretend that you have things in common with people who have absolutely nothing in common with you to the point that they are practically a different species in order to keep the peace.

And an unfortunate side effect of keeping the peace is not being able to roundhouse kick certain individuals in the face.

Which is why His Lordship Chuck Norris, a man, nay, a LEGEND who is celebrated for a number redeeming personality traits, is not known for keeping the peace.

Because in the real world, roundhouse kicks to the face are the answer to everything.

So this is essentially what has been going on in my head since my first internship at my first corporate job all those years ago. Except I didn’t really know I felt so strongly about it, save for the occasional bouts of corporate sabotage and daydreams of throttling a meeting planner or two.

Which just goes to show that the mind is an amazing thing.

But that whole “not above eating a coworker” thing?
Yeah, I knew that from day one.

Pass me the salt, bitches.

A Christmas MIRACLE

2009-12-09T08:04:00.001-08:00

Oh my god, you guys.

So I woke up today to a monsoon. No joke, a freaking monsoon, with the wind and the rain and the flooding and the dogs not so much wanting to go outside so that I had to literally poke milo outside with my umbrella.

It was one of those days where you want to call out sick and walk around in your bathrobe and imitate the scene from Risky Business where Tom Cruise slides across the floor, before he went all gay and crazy and got himself a beard out of that poor Dawsons Creek chick with the unfortunate wardrobe and engineered himself a baby named after a style of indian dress, and started believing that unhappiness is the result of alien ghosts inhabiting your body or whatever those Scientologist wackos believe.

And on a day like today, if you were to ask me, "Lily, what would make your day better?" I'd say well, it'd be great if it could stop raining so hard so I wouldn't have to worry about the sump pump failing and our basement flodding, and if I could somehow lose about 4 pounds so that these dress pants could apppear a little more "business casual" and a little less "office skank" (insomuch that I'm forced to wear them with a thong, which is a crime in itself), that would be stellar.

And then the Baby Jesus, in all His mercy, shone His face upon me. And the birds sang and a rainbow appeared, and what did I encounter, after a hellish commute that lasted more than an hour, other than the office parking lot, flooded with 4 feet of water, rendering entry impossible without the assistance of some sort of flotation device.

And I looked upon it.
And it was good.

So I said to myself, "Self, today is clearly your lucky day." And then Crystal and I went out for breakfast at Panera, because nothing says impromptu day off like a delicious pastry and hot coffee.

In other words, why am I sitting on a computer on my day off?

Peace out, yo.

A Big, Fat Nothing

2009-12-08T09:36:00.000-08:00

I’m not funny today.
I’m dealing with a retarded new coworker with a shiny, brand-new PharmD degree, not a single ounce of job training, real-world experience, or useful skills, and a total lack of the good sense god gave a doorknob.

(and trust me, if I wasn’t bustin’ out of this joint in 8 workdays and 2 workhours, I wouldn’t writing this, but guess what mother-effers? I AM. So you will TAKE this load of crap that I am giving you and YOU WILL LIKE IT)

/explosive, rage-filled rant.

So rather than fulfill my urge to give the finger to about 80% of the office and take a crap on at least 3 different cars in the parking lot, I was going to provide you with this funny email that was forwarded to me.

Trust me. It was hysterical.

But OF COURSE, it had to be in a PDF format, and for the love of Christ, I can't figure out how to transfer the PDF into something that will be accepted by google Blogger.

So would you believe I actually wrote the entire thing out on Microsoft Word?
Yep.
The whole thing.
Because THAT is how much I love you guys.

But of course, the single time I WANT MS Word to ask me if I want to "save the document" before X-ing out of it, the prompt is nowhere to be found.

So there goes about 35 minutes of my time, right out the window.

And now I've got an empty blog, a lack of inspiration, and a stupid coworker who for some reason keeps asking me if I've had lunch.
Like, every day, she walks back from wherever she's taken her lunchbreak, and the first thing out of her mouth is, "Have you eaten lunch?"

.....Why are you asking me this?
What are you, the lunch police?!?
Last time I checked, I'm a college-educated adult who is capable of deciding for herself whether or not she is going to eat lunch.

STOP TALKING TO ME.

So there you go.
I've managed to waste an entire blog talking about nothing except for the fact that I have nothing to talk about.

Sorry guys. I'm a big disapointment today.

And yes, just in case you were wondering, I've eaten lunch.

Shit is FESTIVE

2009-12-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

Brian and I went all, “Deck the Halls” this weekend, which typically consists of the following:

Taking Jericho (but not Milo, who shall henceforward be referred to as “Milo The Bedwetter” and no, I don’t really feel like talking about it) to go pick out a Christmas tree at probably the most expensive Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius. Unfortunately, it’s also the CLOSEST Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius, and with me, laziness usually wins out over cheap-skatedness (yes I make up my own words. I was going to say “inner Jew,” but I thought that would be offensive, so next time, try not to complain about the fact that I just used a nonsensical word, because it’s probably standing in place of a moderately offensive one. You’re welcome). And spending an hour picking out the nicest tree in the whole fucking place, only to realize that the tree has already been taken by another family (since when can you call dibs on trees? Next year, I’m claiming that bitch in OCTOBER), and the whole process starts over again. And then Jericho takes ANOTHER dump, because the last three dumps weren’t enough to clean him out, plus, the owner of the tree farm is right over there staring at us, so, awesome, and does anybody have a bag? Because you’d think that three plastic bags would cover you in the whole “cleaning up crap from a single dog,” department, but clearly we underestimated the tenacity of Jericho’s bowels.

Taking the tree home, dragging it into the house, and fiddling with it for half an hour while we try to get it absolutely straight in the stand, all the while screaming at the animals who are circling it like sharks and taking bets about who is going to knock it over first and yanking pine branches out of Milo’s locked jaws.

Watching Brian yell and curse while he meticulously places the 5,000 strands of lights that he deems necessary to give said tree the maximum amount of Christmas “cheer” (otherwise known as a $500 electricity bill and a “light pollution” fine from the township), typically with a beer in hand, and playing the “you missed a spot” game, which happens to be one of my most-favorite and Brian’s least-favorite games, at which point he gives me “the look” (like, if you point out ONE MORE AREA that needs extra lights, I’m going to pee in your shampoo bottle, hahahaha, I’m kidding, but seriously, shut your freaking pie-hole), at which point I mosey off to harvest my Farm-vizzle pumpkins because, after all, I know how to prioritize.

Going through our 18 boxes of hand-me-down Christmas decorations, with me desperately trying to throw out the ugly ones (from his side of the family, and the ones that his Ex had any sort of sentimental attachment to, natch), and him desperately trying to save them from the trash, because he’s a closet hoarder, and I’m not going to say that he likes ugly Christmas decorations, but let’s just say that one of the few benefits of being raised by a gay father is having extremely good taste when it comes to decorating, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do porcelain Santas with “fuzzy” beards, and Disney figurines? Are you freaking KIDDING ME?!?! Get that shit out of my house.

Cleaning up the puke from Milo ingesting and regurgitating 18 pounds of Christmas tree branches and needles, and then losing my mind after realizing that the single Christmas CD that we own has been playing on repeat for the past 6 hours and the songs are permanently burned into my brain.

Passing out, exhausted, with an appropriately festive house, a dog that has pine-needle gas, and a husband whose back will be now out of whack for the next two days thanks to all that time spent on the ground sawing and applying lights to a tree that is going to be thrown out in three weeks.

So yeah, that was our weekend.
It was magical, in a "National Lampoons" kinda way.

Up next? The Baking of the Christmas Cookie, which is guarenteed to be full of wonder and excitement...

...and generous use of our fire extinguisher.

Bonus Saturday Post: My Pets Have A Rough Life

2009-12-05T06:24:00.000-08:00

This morning, after waking up, stretching, going out to take a massive dump each, eating a leisurely breakfast, and taking turns humping each other, Jericho and Milo went to the dog park.

They tore ass around the park for a good 30 minutes (Milo knocked a person down and Jericho rolled in something), and then came home, spent, to rest in front of the fire.

Meanwhile, I caught the fat cat tending to her lady bits in the middle of the kitchen floor.

And I'm including this picture, taken after the wedding before we had moved the sectional back into the house, when Milo and Skittles had to *gasp* share the same piece of furniture.

These animals are clearly abused. Someone should take them away from me.

...Somebody?

....ANYBODY?!?

Farm-vizzle, Fo’ Shizzle (My Nizzle)

2009-12-04T10:51:00.000-08:00

So, I was harvesting my soybeans last night when I realized that the game was starting to take over my life, like when you first start drinking and you’re all “oh, just this once, because I’m bored out of my mind and CSI doesn’t start for another 40 minutes” and pretty soon you’re drinking regularly, like, almost every weekend, and even though you say you’re doing it “socially,” because everybody else is doing it, you really would do it whether other people were doing it or not. And then, before long, you’re rearranging your life around alcohol, making sure you’re free every night of the week so you can drink, and sneaking drinks in at work when they clearly have a No Alcohol policy, but, then again, they also have a Sexual Harassment policy and the guy who just felt you up in the elevator didn’t seem to get in trouble, so why would you?

Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

And it’s so freaking addictive! I only started because Brian started a farm on my facebook account so he could be “neighbors” with me (something about expanding his land, but he wasn’t talking about cake or being a ninja, so I wasn’t really paying attention). So he planted some strawberries or something, and then the next day, I found out that they had wilted.

And then I felt guilty.
Like, “what’d those poor strawberries ever do to you?”
And then I found out he had spent my hard-earned (and by “hard-earned,” I mean “given for doing nothing absolutely nothing”) Farmville money on them and I was all, “Oh HELLZ TO THE NO, you did not just waste $160 on wilted strawberries!” So I grabbed the mouse and kind of butt-scooted him off the chair and was all, Momma’s back, poor little dead strawberries, don’t you worry no mo’.

So I planted some more shit.
And changed the sex of my character for good measure.
And adopted a reindeer because, awww, it’s so CUTE.
And then it was harvest time.

Ca-CHING

Guys, I’m not going to lie.
I probably had the most successful crop in the history of Farmville.
Several thousand (yes, I said thousand, try not to pass out from your excitement, disbelief, and obvious jealousy) dollars later, I decided that I was way better at harvesting strawberries than writing.

So quit my job.

Okay, so that’s not entirely how it happened.
But I DID quit my job.
And I DO have more Farmville money than real money, so what does that say?

I’ll tell you what it says:

It says I’m a pro, baby.
(man, if I had a nickel for every time somebody called me a pro…)

And you guys – the animals LOVE YOU. Did you know that when you pet them, they bounce up and down and little hearts come floating out of them?
The last time I pet Milo, the only thing he emitted was flatulence that was so rank, the cats were climbing on top of one another trying to flee the room. I'm not even kidding. The little mean cat kind of rode the fat lazy cat out of the room like she was in the Kentucky Derby.

It was a sight to behold, Ill tell ya.

But regardless, I’m convinced that Farmville is the only reality that I want to be a part of.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be at my farm, harvesting my avocado tree, petting my reindeer, and resting under my tent.

Oh yeah...
I gotz me a pimp tent.

Try not to hate...

Old Country Buffet: Where Dreams Go to Die

2009-12-03T08:17:00.000-08:00

Holy crap, you guys, this shit is funny!
I was visiting my friend Jamie’s blog, and she produced this notable piece of algorithm excellence:

Click for enlargement (that’s what she said)

Where amI supposed to eat, according to this amazing choose-your-own-food-adventure icon?
Red Lobster.
Not sure if it’s entirely accurate (although no doubt, I will eat the SHIT out of a cheddar biscuit), but I found I was greatly limited by the fact that A) I don’t live near the “good” mall, and B) I’m not obese.

Bummer.

And then when I realized that there was a ninja question at the end, I automatically changed my destiny restaurant to Benihana.
Because everybody knows that ninjas can’t be contained by algorithms.
Too bad they didn’t ask that question up front, or I could have skipped all that extraneous bullshit about whether I’m high (I wish…) or can stand Guy Fieri (Who?...

…okay, now that I’ve googled him, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? What’s with the hair? His head looks like an albino porcupine that is having a serious static cling problem.
Guy Fieri? Try GAY Fieri! *rimshot*)

You might find it surprising that ninjas eat at Benihanas, because, duh, isn’t that kind of obvious? But that’s exactly what we WANT you to think, because ninja codes states that the best place to hide is exactly where people expect to find you.
Admit it…I just blew your mind.
Thus, we ninjas dine on reasonably priced hibatchi, safe in the knowledge that everybody thinks we’re hiding out at the Olive Garden.

And seriously, guys.
SHONEY’S?!?!?
Dude, my grandparents totally used to take me to that place back in the day when they would drive me and my sister down to Florida to visit our cousins. Man, I thought that place was da BOMB, mostly because my grandparents would let us eat all the donuts we could bring back in one trip to the buffet. Honestly, with all the sugar they used to let us eat, I’m a little surprised she and I don’t have type 2 diabetes, but hey…whatever. They’re the ones who had to put up with two over-stimulated children in the back seat of their car for 16-plus hours.

So there you have it:
A helpful, truly informative blog by yours truly.
Here’s hoping that today’s blog is better received than yesterday’s blog, and note to self: novel excerpts go over like a lead balloon.

No, seriously, guys, I don’t mind AT ALL that I only got 3 comments yesterday. Not ONE BIT. I certainly DIDN’T lose all confidence in my writing ability thanks to your less-than-stellar response, and IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM went home and cried into a tub of cookie dough.

Nope.
I’m cool.
Not feeling insecure AT ALL.

Too bad they don’t have a restaurant option for “are you a terrible writer?”

It’d probably lead me to Old Country Buffet, because everybody knows that Old Country Buffet is where dreams to go die.

Well, that, and old people...

I'm Lazy, So Here's A Novel Excerpt

2009-12-02T10:08:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’m tired today.
But in my defense, I rode a horse last night who was so freaking wild, “it was like riding,” as I said to Brian (who was enjoying the show from the sidelines) “a stick of dynamite that had just done a line of coke off a hooker’s ass.”

And you might think that’s a wild exaggeration (albeit a funny one), but have you ever tried to stop an 1,800-pound animal who is really in the mood to *not* stop?

Well, I’ll tell ya…
It’s hard.
Very hard.
So hard, in fact, that I’m still tired today.

So in lieu of an original blog post, I’m just gonna throw up another excerpt of my novel.*
It’s probably overkill to remind you guys of how delicate my ego is when it comes to this sort of thing, so let’s just leave it at
“be nice, or face the consequences.”
Deal?
Deal.

Allrighty, here we go…

Once they had moved in, she found that she was entirely in her element. Ensconced in silence, she padded about in a worn pair of scuffs, sippingg tea and gazing out of the windows, any one of which displaying a combination of tangled wood or open, untended field that flanked the rear of the house, starting at the base of the concrete steps that descended from the back door and expanding out to a neat wall of trees standing several hundred yards in the distance. A lopsided, weathered barn set squarely in the middle of this open expanse. A connect-the-dots pasture was outlined in rough, grey posts that had once stood vertically but were now succumbing to gravity and leaning at odd angles. Several of these posts were interconnected with wide, flat boards that had been half eaten away by time and the elements, but most stood displaced, like ancient stones positioned to help keep time; a bucolic Stonehenge smack in the center of New England.

She had been out to explore the barn on a few occasions. When they first bought the house, she was eager to determine whether the barn could be transformed into a sort of free-standing workshop; a place where she could write, uninterrupted, surrounded by the smell of seasoned wood and old straw. How romantic, she thought, to write a book in a barn. And she imagined the passage of time—pillows of snow and hot August sun—how they might be viewed from a barn-turned-studio; cozy in the winter and cool in the summer. But upon further inspection, the barn was clearly beyond hope of inhabitance. The wood that comprised the walls was half-rotten and marred by great chinks through which keyholes of landscape were visible. The floor was unfinished; earth that was tamped hard and dusty and tended to slope towards the south, separating from the far wall in a gap that was large enough to roll a baseball under. Although the poles that supported the roof seemed strong enough, gaps between the boards of the ceiling shot slivers of light in which particles of dust floated lazy and thick. A loft—for hay, seemingly—perched above the skeleton remains of several large animal stalls. A ceiling beam had collapsed onto this second story at some point, breaking through the slatted flooring to jam against the wall 5 feet above the ground. If at once there had been a ladder mounted to one of the crossbeams for access to this area, it was long gone. A pile of hay, baled at one time but long since freed of its twine, slumped into the walls in the far corner of the building. It smelled of mold, and she shuddered to think of the hundreds of rodents who had likely made their homes in this pile; a rat condominium, hiding hundreds of whiskers and claws and twitching, snake-like tales. Aside from the hay pile, the barn was largely empty. A pitchfork here, a rusted can there, were all that was left to indicate that the structure once held a purpose.

Sighing in disappointment, she had trudged back to the house. The barn was pretty from a distance, perhaps, but useless, none the less. Still, stepping onto the soft shag bathmat after a hot evening shower, she routinely dragged the palm of her hand across the fogged window glass to find the abandoned structure; a deeper shade of black against a midnight canvass. During the day, the barn stood docilely, supervising the tilting posts and crows who occasionally came to rest on them, cawing and hopping, unfolding and folding their wings in the cold morning sunlight. Over time, the structure took on the personality of an grandfatherly old man in her mind: gruff, perhaps, but always with a watchful eye and good intent. So she took to glancing at the barn whenever she happened to pass a window that faced the backyard. It was a companion, of sorts. A second construction that lent its company to the first. One house in the middle of the woods, after all, was a lonely thing. But a house and a barn? Coupled together, they could be no more lonely than a man and his wife.

TA-DAAAAA
Okay, that’s it for today. Imma get me some mo’ coffee now and start counting down the days ‘till I’m a free agent.
(15, but who’s keeping track?)
Woo-Hoo!

*Copyrighted, bizeatches, so back the hell off. Word.

The Mind-Body Disconnect, Now With Better Dialogue!

2009-12-01T07:31:00.000-08:00

Mind: Woah, that was some holiday, right? One for the record books...
Body: Shut up – I’m not talking to you.
Mind: What? What did I do?
Body: You know exactly what you did, and I hate to tell yah, but it was approximately 3,000 calories
Mind: Oh, you’re talking about dinner, right?
Body: What else would I be talking about? Why would you do that? What’s WRONG with you?
Mind: Hey, don’t blame me! They design an entire holiday around eating, and I’m not supposed to overindulge a little bit?
Body: I think “overindulge” is a gross understatement, don’t you?
Mind: Oh, it wasn’t that bad. Look on the bright side! I gave you fruits! And veggies!
Body: Hooray, I’ll be full of essential vitamins when I keel over from a heart attack!
Mind: Okay, okay, I get the point. Too much food. Got it. Next year, I’ll tone it down a bit.
Body: You said that last year.
Mind: But this time I promise. Hey, what was I supposed to do? The in-laws were coming. I had to put on a good show…
Body: That doesn’t mean you have to EAT the show…and while we’re at it, we need to talk about the alcohol.
Mind: What about it?
Body: Well, it was a bit much, wouldn’t you say?
Mind: Oh, I don’t think it was THAT bad. A few drinks maybe…
Body: A FEW drinks?!?
Mind: Okay, more than a few drinks. But it was Thanksgiving weekend…
Body: That’s no excuse. You know, Liver is never going to be the same. He’s having nightmares and flashbacks…
Mind: Oh gimme a break…
Body: We think he might have post-traumatic stress disorder…
Mind: It wasn’t THAT bad…
Body: He’s been barely able to function…
Mind: I’ll make it up to him.
Body: With Christmas around the corner? HAH! Don’t make me laugh.
Mind: I will, I swear.
Body: You know, the Kidneys aren’t in too good shape either, what with all that salt.
Mind: Jesus, let it go already.
Body: I’m just saying…there are consequences to these sorts of things.
Mind: Point taken. Next year, I’ll cut back on the eating and drinking. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go back to sleep…
Body: Oh no you don’t! We have to go to work.
Mind: Well you go on ahead and I’ll catch up. Say around 11:00 or so…
Body: Okay, but promise you’ll show up eventually? Last Tuesday you totally baled and I had to write half a newsletter without your help. It was pretty rough…I kept confusing “Pathology” with “Pathophysiology” and I might have gotten a dosing scheme wrong.
Mind: I’ll be there. Promise.
Body: Okay, see you at work
Mind: Yep. Just a few more hours…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Body: Idiot...

The Big Change (No, Not The One With The Hot-Flashes, The Other One)

2009-11-30T10:04:00.000-08:00

So, I had a funny post ready to go today.
And then…well…some stuff happened. Some information went around that I wasn’t quite ready to share with the world, but hey, isn’t life just one giant game of Telephone, anyway?

I’ll extrapolate on this in a minute, but first, allow me to refer to this post. It was a seemingly benign and short-lived inspiration. But it was a pivotal post for me, and it marks the day when I decided to take my life by the proverbial horns and try my damndest to make it a happier one.

So today, despite my intention to delay the sharing of certain knowledge with HR until Friday, it would appear that I officially put in my three weeks’ notice.

In other words, I quit this bitch.

HOLY HELL

That’s right folks.
I quit my job.

Because, let’s face it: I wasn’t cut out for the corporate world.
I wasn’t cut out to while away my hours in a cubicle, making small talk with people I hate and attending pointless meetings and trying to be all “Rah, Rah, Go Team” when on the inside, all I wanted to do was stab someone.

And the business-casual dress code?
Fuh-GETTA-bout-it.
This girl was never meant to prance around in a pair of slacks and smart, sensible loafers.
End of story.

So I’m quitting my job to go freelance and try to make some sort of life for myself wherein I can work from home, make my own hours, and spend more time living and less time staring at the clock, which I have been doing since about the moment I graduate from college.

Of course, as with any big life-changing decision, there is potential for failure of epic proportions. And I’m not going to lie, this possibility scares the ever-loving crap out of me. And to make matters worse, not only am I gambling with MY life; now that I’m married, I’m gambling with OUR lives.
Shit.
Somebody hand me a diaper, because I am about to seriously poop my pants.

But what’s that saying about how it’s better to try and fail than live with a bunch of regret? Or is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Or beer before liquor, never been sicker? Hang in there?

I dunno.
Something you read on those posters that show tranquil scenes of waterfalls or a kitten hanging to a branch, with words underneath that are supposed to make me want to go out and achieve shit.

All I know is that, as of December 18th, I’ll no longer be employed.
And this could be either the best or the worst decision of my life.

…well, except for that whole “first marriage” thing, but you know what I’m talking about…