Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Old Old Old Lady

Know what is TOTALLY hot?  Runners.  Running girls, with sweaty ponytails, mismatched running clothes, a band of plastic strapped around their chest (that's for the heart rate monitor), a plastic watch (it's a Garmin, shut up.)

No, no, I am not going to pretend I am running again, but... I have run 1.69 miles each day for the last two days.  And that stupid watch thinks I ought to be hitting 9 minute miles (For.  Real.) so I've actually really been trying hard.  To hit 12 minute miles, which is much more my speed.  Literally.

And this is the antithesis to what I would prefer to be doing, which is either playing Wii Jeopardy (the only show I miss on tv.) or working on my puzzle.  Holy eff, I am 100 years old.

At any rate, so yeah, I've been running.  Ish.  I'd like to see what kind of distance I can get up to, but I'm still struggling with figuring out when to run.  I could run after work, but then the kids don't eat until seven.  Or, I could run after supper, but I'm so tirrrrrred.  Wah fucking wah, hunh?

So the watch was my Big Christmas Present, and it's pretty great.  I also got some books, some money, some gift cards.  Good stuff.  A donut maker, and that's sort of unexpected, but it's red, ergo, cute.

The Russian contingency is BACK and I'm super pysched, but I haven't seen them yet or snuggled my new nephew (who is, apparently, rather snuggly) so that sort of sucks, but I'm a few short days of getting that fixed.  Come on, Saturday!

And I have nothing else, which means, time for kittens!  WAIT NO - look, this is my favorite dog in the whole wide world (except my gay boyfriend's dog, Bradley, because he is family.):


Friday, December 23, 2011

Giver of Cheer. Receiver of Cheer, actually.

I have had a truly remarkable week.  After being propositioned by a (perhaps) Indian man on Monday, it has only gone uphill.

A boy told me that he thinks I'm pretty, which, you know?  Definitely a nice thing to hear.  Definitely the highlight of my week.

Other than all that, we had our choir Christmas party and we had band practice, and the artist formerly known as my husband and I are legally separated and that's GOOD BUT WEIRD TOO, and his mom has Doodlebug but she is bringing him to me today, so that's good, too.

It's just weird.

But anyway, today was Christmas-at-work day, and I got some nice, nice things:
1) A new rosary (nicer than the one I bought myself, and good nuns have multiples, so I'm in good shape.)
2) Two candles
3) An ornament
4) A big, fabulous LSU hoodie.  FREAKING LOVE IT.
5) A gift certificate to Applebees, about which I am a little meh, because, you know?  yuck.  Applebees.  But still, free meal.
6) A few other little things from my friends.

I have nice friends at work.  Makes me happy.

The good stuff starts tomorrow, and I'm excited.  Christmas is my favorite.  For real.

I'll fill you in later.

In the meantime, Happy Christmas Adam, Eve tomorrow, and glorious day on Saturday.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Receptionist, or... hooker, it would seem

I wear a lot of different hats at my place d'emploi.  I am the HR girl, the Finance girl, the shredder girl, the IT girl, you name it.  I also answer the phones.

Now, please note, we have a handful of full time staff, including several office people and then four guys that work out in the hall (it's a big place.)

We also hire part timers, usually to work nights and weekends, when we have events.  Because that's what we do at my work. 

So last summer, we hired this girl, I'll call her Brittany (because that is her name.)  Pretty much immediately after we hired her, she started getting called by what I can only guess is a bill collector that has been outsourced to a call center in the middle east somewhere.  I'm guessing India.

I took a message for Brittany once or twice, but then I told them that this was not a good number for her, she can't take calls here, etc.  Bastards were persistent, and they called back several more times, and I was emphatic that they May Not Call Here anymore.  And eventually, they stopped calling.

Note, Brittany does not work here any more.

Okay, so yesterday?  I answer the phone, and HEY LOOK BRITTANY IS BACK ON THEIR SHIT LIST.  So this happened:

"Hello, may I please speak to Britt-i-an-ee?"

"Let me speak to your boss."

"Why?"

!

"That's none of your business!"

There was a pause, and then,

"Hello, this is boss"

(hi, Peggy.)

"Listen.  I have told you that you cannot call here anymore, you cannot reach Brittany at this number.  She does not even work here any more."

"Look.  I am going to call you as much as I want to.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"I am going to CALL THE POLICE."

"Well, I want to fuck you."

!

"What?"

"Yeah, I want to fuck you.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"Don't ever call here again."

And I hung up the phone.

O.  M.  G.  WHAT is that???  WHO does that? 

Unfortunately, there is no caller ID for me to report to the po po, and I don't even know they name of the company, so no good is to come of this and I cannot really report this without any of that information, but...  I really, really hope they call back.

I also am kicking my own ass because I didn't respond with "Really?  Because I usually only like to fuck your holy precious cows."

Or at the very least, "Oh?  What are you wearing?  A sari?  Me TOO!"

God, I swear.

And yes, there is a teensy part of me that totally went, inside my head, "Mama's still got it going on."

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Elf

At work, we do this annual pToysforTotsp give-away (that's so I cannot be googled.  Such a smart girl, me.)

We have collected almost 3,000 toys, not joking.  It's great.  It's awesome.  I have drawn a line through the barcode of almost 3,000 toys.  : /

I'll love it, I always do, but the toy giveaway starts tomorrow at 4:00, and I'm scared.  I'm already tired.  I'll be at work probably until close to midnight, and though there will be food a'plenty, I usually go to bed by 8:30.  At the latest.

How'mIGonnaDoThis?

Pray for me.  It's worth it.  Kids get happy tomorrow.

I get happy too, but also tired.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Little bit of awesome.

Have I told you I am addicted to bingo?  I freaking am, and I'm disgusted by this trivial little fact, but it is what it is.

Also, have I told you that I started running again... sort of?

What I mean to say is, I ran a mile and a half, twice, this week.  Which is 3 miles more than last week (I am very good at math.)

In other news, my brother and his family are in Russia to get their second child.  Which is absolutely FANTASTIC.  But I'm ready for them to be home.

And the baby was home sick yesterday, and he announced that he is allergic to pickles (snicker) and babies.

"But I don't wike them," he said.  "Yes, but you are not allergic," I said.

And I read freaking Upton Sinclair's OIL! and didn't stop mid-way and declare that I hated it this time.

That's how awesome I am.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Doctor, surgeon, public service announcer.

Bitches, I don't want to hear any smack talk about not being active with the whole blog thing.

That being said, I don't have much to tell you about, anyway.  So I'm going to gross you out instead.

About six months ago, Beanie told me he thought he had a little shard of glass stuck in his foot, like a splinter, but he couldn't get it out.

"No worries," said I.  "Just leave it alone and it will work itself out."

Only, it didn't, so eventually, I heard enough of his bitching to offer to do some at-home surgery with a tweezer and a needle.

He agonized and let me dig for a while, but I didn't come up with anything.  And the foot, it looked rough, but I couldn't even find any infection (EWWWW) (PUS!) (HAHAHA words are gross), so I kind of gave up.  We put some neosporin on that bitch and a band-aid, and hoped for the best.

AND THEN, someone told me about drawing salve, which is something I had never heard of before, and you have to ask for it at the pharmacy at Walgreen's, but it is an over-the-counter medicine of some sort.

Looks like tar and stinks like balls, but hey.

So we smacked some of that on his foot, and I went ahead and did some surgery on one of my own toenails.  EWW.  (feet are gross.)

ANYWAY, so even that did not work, and we finally gave in and he went to the doctor.

Turns out, it was a plantar wart.  Ever seen one?  No?  Here you go:
That is not Beanie's foot, but that's pretty much EXACTLY what it looks like.

So the doctor burned it off or froze it off or whatever you say when you are talking about that dry ice freezation thingee they do, and it was better for a couple of days.  Unfortunately, and this is somewhat to be expected, it's not all better.  So Beanie is back at the doc's right this very moment, getting it re-burned/froze.

If this doesn't work, they have to cut it all out.  I am NOT KIDDING YOU.

Dude, don't google that.

I'll let you know.  In the meantime, my gift to you this holiday season is drawing salve.  Because, holy shit did that clear up my toenail problem in like fifteen minutes.  For real.

Not really, but definitely within two days.  And that bitch was hurting.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Girlfriend to John Cusack. As per usual.

Ran a race this weekend.  It was a 5K, and I felt NOT GOOD about it, but mostly I got really asthma-y and wheezy and stuff.  I finished, though, so who cares, really.  AND everybody else that I knew either did just a 1 mile, or else they just stood around looking smug in their track suits.

I am a badass.

In other news, I guess I can tell you all that things progress, or they don't, and the only thing is this.  Do NOT tell someone they are "strong."  That is just confusing.  Either people are fooled into thinking I'm rocking this whole new world, or else I am a weenie when I lose my shit and cry and stuff. 

Strong is not what I need to hear.

You know what does help?

"Fucking courageous as balls."

"A brave little shit."

So feel free to call me either of those things, because I do think that those things apply.

In other news, once upon a time, I used to refer to John Cusack as "my boyfriend, John Cusack," so much so that I once got Valentine's Day flowers delivered to my work, signed from, "your boyfriend, John Cusack."  (that was a pretty amazing day.)

I'm thinking of taking him back.  I'll always love Lloyd Dobbler, anyway.



So, yeah... life goes on...

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Ring girl

You are not going to believe this, but... I used to LOVE to watch boxing.  For real.  I think I still love the sport, although I don't know if it still comes on on Tuesday nigths on USA. 

Anyway, I loved the boxing.  I loved Oscar de la Hoya, and Evander Holyfield.  I loved, loved, loved boxing.  Boxing was amazing.  This was back in the day when Evander had his whole ear, I'm saying.

(and yes, this largely stemmed from a boyfriend I had who was into boxing.)

Anyway, said boy and I decided to do this massive road trip one summer, a trip to New York and back (to North Carolina), and we both saved up $1,000, so we had the means.  And I had wheels, so...  it was on.

Our trip first took us to Easton, New Jersey, to scope out Larry Holmes.


Larry Holmes' brother is a bad-ass, nice mother fucker.  Just saying.  And he has a gym, outside of which, I locked BOTH sets of keys in my car.  We never did catch up with Larry.

Next, we went on to Philadelphia.  We got off at whatever exit made us happy, gracing us with a scenic tour of Philly's Germantown which was rather run down, but I totally fucking LOVED it.  And then we saw this:

(it was not for sale at the time, to my knowledge.)

SWEET.  We did not get the chance to meet Joe, but it was awesome to be that close, really.  We proceeded to run up the stairs and hang out with Rocky's statue, and do the cheesy tourist thing, and then we proceeded on our way.

Bottom line is, I was this close to greatness, in a way I won't be again. 

Go rest high, Smokin' Joe.


Friday, November 4, 2011

JAAAAANETPALLLOOOOOOOOOZZZZAAAAAA

THAT IS ALL.  I'll be done for the weekend, now.  My girl is coming to town.  <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Infrequent Updater (My bad.)

So.  You know what you don't really do?

Blog about separating from your Husband.  You just don't. 

He lives somewhere else, now.  The boys and I still live at home, at our house, and it's nice.  It's safe, it's clean.  It feels... normal.  Like, different, but normal, and still okay.  Different okay.  He says he is making progress on what ails him.  I am too.  But that's different, too.  I didn't even know that anything ailed me before.

SO.

You know what you do instead?  You do this.

1) HOLY SHITBALLS LSU V. ALABAMA ON SATURDAY OH WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP THIS IS MY CHRISTMAS.



2)  JANETPALOOOZAAAAAAAAAAAA

Say whatever you want, this is way, way, way more meaningful to me than the game.  I have not seen Janie since, you know, TWO EASTERS AGO, so it's super awesome that she's coming, and coming she is.  She will be here on Saturday, and I cannot freaking WAIT!  BOOM.  I love me some Janie.

(In case you are new, and/or unaware, Janie is my hetero life partner, whom I met when I was 12, whom I love more than any other female on Earth - this is seriously true - and with whom I would live if she wasn't a much neater person who would eventually get tired of my sloppiness and make me move out, and probably be mad at me, and if there's one thing I can't take, it's Janie being mad at me, so I guess I will just stay in my own house.  All that being said, I never did tell her about my plans to move in with her.) (so don't you all run off and tell her.  Although I do have my own room at her house, anyway.)

So she's coming and we are going to drink drink drink, spend time together, drink, and have a ball.  Phew.  By the time she leaves, I plan to have drunk enough carbs to work myself through next week's 5K!

3) RUNNING

I'm joining a running club.  They said it's okay that I'm a slow fattie.  We'll see if they mean it.  It's trail runs, which I LOVE LOVE LOVE so maybe that will be fun.  It doesn't matter, at any rate.  The race locations are about a mile and a half from home, so I could run there, run the race, run back, and hit my 5 mile marker, which, you know, I am aiming for this weekend.  The races they sponsor are 2 miles, which is not going to get me where I need to be in terms of distance for THE LOUISIANA MARATHON (or half marathon), but it's something to kick-start my motivation...  I love running.  Running soothes my soul.  My shoes, my beautiful shoes... are worn out, which is my absolute, total delight. :)

4) MUSIC

Have I mentioned that I sing with a band?  I do.  A corny little ensemble of Sarah and four dudes, and sometimes a teenage girl or two.  Last weekend, we sang at the church's Trunk or Treat thingeemadiggy, and it was fun.  UNTIL, my brother showed up to drop off doodlebug and, in doing so, got to witness me rocking out on a cheesy electric piano to the worlds MOST CHEESE FILLED RENDITION OF GHOSTBUSTERS.  You want to know what's embarrassing?  Getting caught by one of your coolest people doing what is perhaps the least cool thing you have ever done.

Although my friend Melissa one time referred to her daughter's leotard, you know, for acrobatics class at gymnatics, to all the cool moms who have this lingo, and Mel, she said, "tard."  For real.  All the other moms call it a "leo." 

Moms can be SUCH bitches.  Including me, this story still makes me laugh.

Anyway, so that's what is new. Have a happy Wednesday, mom-bitches and anybody else.



Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Morose Sonofabitch

Thing is, I don't really always want to talk about it.

There's problems in them thar hills, and it sucks, and I'm sad, and I'm tired and I am angry and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Nobody really wants to hear about all that anyway, so here's the thing.  The thing is this.  This here.

It doesn't really matter, anyway.

The kids still eat.

I still go to work.

Homework is attended to.

Church activities are attended.

Laundry is washed.  Folded.  Put away.

Prayers are said.

Sleep is... eventually.

So, really?  Not all that much is different.  He sleeps in the living room.  I sleep in my bed.  We occasionally nod at each other in passing.  Perhaps say hello.

But you know what still makes me smile?  Kittens doing the patty cake.

Happy Day.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Mother Fucking Rock Star

Look, y'all, there's a lot of bad stuff happening at Sarah's House and it's bullshit and unpleasent and bad, but it's important that I tell y'all about something good, so here goes.

Remember when I told you about the bridge race?  The one that was cancelled because of the mercy of the Baby Jesus Tropical Storm Lee?

It got rescheduled. 

I had still, you know, paid for it and all, so... I kind of still needed to run it.

Over this bridge (just to remind you):
(I believe this is looking toward the West Bank)

Anyway, so the race was rescheduled to October 9.  Almost two weeks ago, already.

At the start line, I was really dismayed to see the turnout.  There were probably only about 250 or 300 racers.  I figure, the fewer the racers, the more likely I am to be last*.

Additionally, I was freaking terrified, like to the point where my hands were shaking.  I had peppered the girl behind me on the shuttle bus** on the way over to the starting point, asking her about the route, whether to be scared, etc, but it didn't do much to calm my nerves.  I'm so flipping afraid of heights.

The first mile was almost completely flat ground, just getting to the bridge.  Then you start up and on-ramp, with a long, long, long, long, long but slow ascent.  It felt good, running uphill.  As I rounded a curve, I started to joke around with the other runners, including a SLIDELL XCOUNTRY GIRL as I passed her.  KABOOM.

And so it kept going up.  And up.  And up.

I swear, by the time I was actually on the bridge, all I could think of was that soon it would stop being an uphill route.  The lane for the runners was way wide and comfortable, and as long as I stayed far from the edge, I was okay.  There were three of those metal grate-type thingees that I had to run over, underneath which was the Mississippi.  That part was ridiculous.  I tried to kind of hop over them.

Finally flattened out right before the end of mile three.  And here's the thing:  Mile four was almost completely downhill.

I've never run uphill before, but also... I have never run downhill and Oh.  Glorious.  God, is that ever fun.

I rocked that part, probably doing that last mile in 8 or 9 minutes.

Total time was 58:00 (even numbers are fun) which is far from outstanding, but I do not care.  58 minutes to run over a 300 foot high bridge, mostly uphill, and come out smiling.  It was amazing.

I called T-Rex, my former running buddy, who has abandoned me for Les Mills***, to tell her about the event.

"Hello?" she said.

"I'm a MOTHER FUCKING ROCK STAR!!!" I said.

She agreed.

*I was not last.  I beat like, several people.  Maybe 50 or more.  Not really sure, they do not seem to be concerned about posting times online (effers.)  I definitely did beat the girl from the local high school cross country team, who, incidentally, did not know Beanie despite him having been on varsity last year.

**The shuttle bus was a defunct school bus, and careening up the on-ramp, over the far-right-hand lane of the bridge, and down again, was by far the scariest part of the whole day.

***Les Mills' name is way too similar to Les Miles.  Also, I'm jealous of people who get to belong to a gym.


Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Other Kids with their Pumped Up Kicks

Lemme tell you something.

Kids.

If you are pissed off because your dad is a shitheel and you don't have the bad-ass shoes of the moment, don't be shooting.

(by the way, not that you care, but the version of "pumped up kicks" of my day were freaking KEDS.  not the coolest generation, us.)

Anyway.

This catchy-ass song makes you sing along because it's so groove, so much your jam, and then you suddenly realize that you are pretty much encouraging a school shooting.

Y'all.  No.



Just saying.


Damn, y'all kids be bugging.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Money-Spending Mama

I cut my hair.

I took some scissors to it, and cut away.  Took off about an inch and a half.  The reason is two-fold.  One, I stopped dying it about six months ago and it looks like hell, with this stripe across it, so I figured I could cut off some of the dyed part and get it closer to being all-one-color.  The other reason is, I'm sort of mad at my Husband, and this is a subtle way to let him know.

Aren't I a grown-up?

Ultimately, I did a pretty good job, actually.

-----
Last weekend, the local big-ass catholic school (and church) had it's annual "fall food and fun festival."  As it is in my neighborhood, it was hard for me to tell the five year old baby that it wasn't available to him, so I got suckered into taking him up there on Friday night.  Please note, this festival isn't the kind of thing with like, ring toss and "fishing" games, cake walks, and stuff like that.  This was a freaking carnival, midway, bands playing, etc.

At a church.  In my neighborhood.

The baby rode like ten rides that all consisted of some kind of vehicle/animal into which you climb, strap on a seatbelt, and then go in circles.  Sometimes you also go up and down about two feet.

He had a big time.

Mama had a beer.  God love this state, this Louisiana, this place where it is absolutely normal to sell beer at a school carnival.  It would be weirt if they did not, and oh, lordy, am I ever glad they do not wish to be weird.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  On the walk home from the festival, the baby said, "dose girls scweam weawy woud.  It sounds wike this:  aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

He's right.  They do.  It does.  I love it here.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Bobette the builder

I built a house yesterday.  No, no, of course I didn't, not really - not single-handedly - but I put hammer to nail and did some house-building.  See, there's proof!


Damn, I'm cute.

Anyway, ahem.  Officially, these were my responsibilities:  1) write down numbers.  2) smile.  3) sing with the radio.  4) pull three staple things out of wooden trim work (see picture) three times.  4) use a jigsaw (!!!) and cut out windowsills from something called "Window Stool."  5) pound with your fist on said window sills to make them fit in the windows.

That is all.

Unlike last year, when I was forced to stand knee-deep in swamp mud, shooing away giant tarantula-esque spiders (that really did happen) and let muddy, heavy, horrible floor braces drip goo in my hair.

Last year Big Sucked.

This year was In-CRED-ible and I SUPER HEART LOVED IT!

I am a great builder-girl.

Even my shoes stayed clean.  Big smiley face!




Only other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this.  Look.  If you happen to know someone who is Big Mr. Know-It-All, and they tell you something that you blatantly know is untrue, and then you get PROOF that they were wrong, you are still screwed.  Because then you tell them the TRUTH and expect them to be all, "oh hey, I was wrong, wow," and instead they just go "Cool!" and you are left feeling like a dope who bothered with a whole I-Told-You-So thing and it didn't go your way.

Oh law.

I'm married to someone who knows a lot.  I'm just saying.

But I love him, and he loves his builder-girl.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Juliette Gordon Low

Remember the other week (or so) when I said that me and my guys were going to go tent-camping for one night?

We did that.  It was AWESOME.  We loved it.

Well, I loved it.  My big kid loved it.  My husband liked it, and my baby hated it.  But, I loved it.  That's what matters.

My husband, who had been off that day, had been strongly encouraged by some smart, amazing girl to go early and set up our campsite.  You know, before dark.

Unfortunately, he did not follow that advice, so the first hour was spent in a somewhat frantic setting-up of tents and fire pits and picnic tables lather.

Once all that was complete, and we were able to turn our cars' headlights off, we settled into the enjoyment of nature.  nature.

We poked sticks through hot dogs and ate hot dogs, and then we poked those sticks through marshmallows and ate marshmallows, except the baby, who announced that he was going to eat chips, and then he ate chips.

We drank root beer and juice boxes.

And then, my Husband noticed a fatty arbunkle raccoon hanging around under our picnic table, you know, where our feet were.  tee hee.  How cute.

So later on, after the neighbor-campers freaked out because they thought there was a wild hog in the brush (true story) (also true, mating raccoons sound like wild hogs) (also true, it is impossible to tell if raccoons are mating or fighting), and my husband went over to their site to help them fix their tent* and to convince them they could sleep in that tent, in that it was very, very unlikely that the noises were wild hogs, we settled in for the night.

The kids and I went to "bed" in our tents, enjoying the generally crickety camping sounds, while my Husband wasted our fire wood.  (When I asked him why - WHY? - he burnt up all our firewood, he at first said to keep the raccoons at bay but finally admitted, he just likes fire.)

And then, hey, howdy, Mr. Raccoon returned, prompting me to sing every word of Rocky Raccoon.

And then we all finally went to seleep, my husband included, and then - and then - there was this big THUMP.

My husband had helped himself to another rootbeer, you know, from the cooler, and so perhaps had not shut said cooler tight, and hey, look!  Rocky helped himself to our hotdogs, the little (but oh so cute) bastard!

(note:  this is not a picture of my actual raccoon, because I did NOT get this close to the feral little bastard.)
So my husband reached out the tent flap, and securely shut the top of the cooler, and we went back to sleep.

THUMP.

Rocky and FIVE OF HIS BROTHERS/BEST FRIENDS/RACCOON SLUT FRIENDS were hanging, enjoying my grapes (PURPLE GRAPES!).

Little bastards.

We didn't get much sleep that night.

The next day was about a long run, a nature hike, time to play on the playgrounds, etc.  The only critters that day were a couple of very cute rat snakes.

Camping is amazing.  Raccoons are shifty little five-fingered bastards.

*My husband never was a boy scout, but oh glory, he should have been, in that he is the King of Being Helpful to People Who Have Broken Things.  He gave away some strings that go to our tent, in this process, which vexed me.  Just saying.  If you go camping - tent camping - you are responsible for your own gd tent and my husband should NOT jeopardize our waterproofiness so you can rest comfortably.  Dammit.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Melancholy Music Listener Today

Remember when, back in, like, 1992, the video for Jeremy came on the tv, and you stopped and watched it, completely fascinated, and then horrified and totally freaked out?  Remember?


You know how it was totally astonishing, totally shocking, and fixating, and scary?

(I was sort of like in-training to be a teacher right then, so... yeah.)

Did you know it was sort of a true story?  Based on a story that Vedder read in a paper about a boy who really was named Jeremy in Texas, who killed himself in front of his teacher and other students? 

Bull crap.

Anyway, so I'm just jamming to the radio lately, and I'm all, "All the other kids in their pumped up kicks... better run, better run, faster than my bullet."

WHAAAA?

Catchy tune. 

Damn, kids be bugging.

Don't shoot each other, kids.  I like you all way too much.  Don't shoot yourself either, okay?

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Potty-mouthed Buddy


Look.  I'm all about "togetherness" and being "nice" and other such nonsense.  Honest to God, I'm a really sweet person.

Aherm.

I mean to say, I try to do right most of the time.

But I am still awfully, awfully fond of the "eff" word.

Eff you, you effing eff is possibly my favorite thing to say, although for some reason, I'm actually having a tough time typing that out for real right now.

The eff word hurts NOBODY.  NOBODY.  NOBODY, I SAY.

Anyway, so I went on an outing with my coworker team yesterday, and it was fun, and it culminated in a whole bunch of people all lounging around on a boat.  Which is very, very booyah.

And so, so, so many cuss words were bandied about, and it was glorious.

GLORIOUS.

EFFING GLORIOUS.

Additionally, I got an email from my favorite recent-college-graduate (one of two, actually), that was post-scripted with "Sent from my iPad."

I responded with a message, blah blah blah, and then ended with this:

"I like 'sent from my iPad.'  It's like saying, 'BTW, I am the shit.' at the end of every email."

She liked that.  I like HER.  I am also very validated by the approval I am getting from this member of the Next Generation, a Generation that studied in Athens, GA, I mean, come ON.

I'm hipster-friendly.

EFFING hipster-friendly.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Hot Rod

Something is really, really wrong with me.

Yesterday, after church?  I was conflicted.  You see, there were two things I wanted to nap in front of watch on television:  Saints v. Bears, AND the Nascar Sprint cup race in Chicago.

Let me let that sink in for a minute.

WHO AM I???

Ahem.

Anyway, so I determined to flip back and forth, between channels 8 and 34 until I fell asleep or was sucked into one or the other.  I was already past the 1st quarter of the football game, and we appeared to have a solid hold on the Bears, so I was able to flip back to the race channel, wherein the race was under "rain delay."

Rain delay.  In football, there is No Such Thing.  Because football is a Real Sport. 

Ahem.

BUT THEN, the stupid speed or nascar channel or whatever ESPN 7 or whatall channel was on, it started to show clip shows from Nascar.

Now, as an aside, let me let you know how I feel about clip shows.

J'ADORE.

Pretty much start anything with "Top Five...." and I'm totally in.  "Top Five World's Dumbest Criminals?"  Mmm hmmm.  "Top Five Scariest Roller Coasters?" YOU BET.  "Top Five Cruise Ships?"  YES, PLEASE.  "Top Five Stinkiest Cheeses?"  In an M-F'ing heartbeat.

So when you put before me "Top Ten [could have been Twenty] Best Quotes in Nascar," I couldn't turn it. 

And you know what, It was AWESOME.

Lookie:

Oh My God "Carpet Eater" hahahahahaha.

I love Nascar.

Poison Ivy

Me and my guys are going to go camping tonight.  Just for one night.  We are tent-camping, the real deal, with tents.  And tents and stuff.

Tents.

We are camping in a campsite, the kind of place with bathroom facilities and showers (nah.) and stuff like that.  We will have electricity and water at our campsite.

Where we will be sleeping in tents.

Is it lame that I am planning to bring along my air matress which auto-inflates for in the grown-up tent?  I'm old.  My back.  You know.

I'm also planning to bring along my running shoes because, last time I went to this park it was for a race, and I saw a deer and it was AWESOME.

(aside:  last night while I was running, I either saw an armadillo or an opossum.  Or an obnoxious cat.  Tough to tell, I wasn't close to it.)

Anyway, so yeah... tent camping.  Me and three dudes, all of whom can just pee wherever.

Yay, tents!

Yay, camping!

Wish me luck...

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Bleeding Heart Liberal Hippy (as per usual)

Look, I'm not definitively either FOR or AGAINST the death penalty.  In fact, I have not yet made up my mind how I feel about it.

Except to say that, the fact is, there are NO do-overs, you know, if the party in question is dead.  And so, if he/she is found innocent, too late.  Too bad, so sad.  No do-overs.  DNA has exonerated 17 people so far, according to The Innocence Project.  I know, that's certainly NOT a staggering number, BUT... I bet to their moms, each one of those people is a staggering person.  Just saying.

This got under my skin.  More than reasonable doubt, is all.

But then, this on Facebook this morning:
GD, y'all, REALLY???

On what planet is it okay for us - you know, people - to celebrate another human being's death???

I do not care if it is Osama Bin Lauden or Hitler or whomever, they done some bad stuff, it's true.

So have I.  Not that bad, I think, but I don't know that God cares what level of bad.  It's all bad.

I don't have any right to throw that stone, thanks.

Ugh.

I hope the family of the slain police man gets peace.

I hope that the family of Troy Davis continues to believe his innocence.

I hope that Troy Davis is sitting in Heaven, just shaking his head because we-all are so dang stupid.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Space Oddity

SHUT UP.

This article - and many others - imply that there will be a hurtling crash of over 100 pieces of space debris hitting the Earth on September 24.

Which is three days from now.

You want to tell me why I'm only just hearing about this now?  As if I am worried about it, which I'm not.  Oddly, and inexplicably, I'm amused.

One source said that there was a 1/3100 (ish) chance of being hit by it. Those odds are not actually that bad. Probably similar to my chance of being in a car wreck on my way to work.

What the eff, y'all? How is this even possible?

Here's what the big mess looks like BEFORE it breaks into pieces on impact with the Earth's atmosphere:


Dude, I don't want to die from it but I SO BAD TOTALLY want a piece to fall in my back yard, so I can talk about it with my friends and be famous.  You know, for a minute.  I'm such a media whore.

Wouldn't it have been much cooler if this was Major Tom?

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Theoretical Teenage Prankster

In theory...

The first true-tell sign of fall happened last night.  Our trees blossomed in white.  Not our trees, actually, as we have no trees, and even our bushes did not bloom, but the trees all over our part of town.  (For the record, we got WW'd last year and it is definitely a mark of honor here, so that's nice for Beanie.)

Here's a quick picture I took on the way to work:


Isn't that nice?

This happens every fall where I live, on the Wednesday prior to Homecoming.  It's a tradition, one that the kids (and the grown-ups, actually) call "White Wednesday."  The baby does actually believe that the trees sprout toilet paper once a year.

So let me give you a theoretical situation.

Say that, theoretically, you were out for a quick run at 9:30 p.m. last night.  Say that you pass about a dozen or so White Wednesday revelers, mostly giggly, cheerleader-type teenage girls.  Say that you approach one group just getting started.

Say that, theoretically, you stop to admire their work in process, and then you just can't stand to be left out.  Say that you say, "hey, let me throw one."

Say that the kids give you a roll, and you hurl it up towards a tree limb, of which the paper falls short, embarrassingly.

Say that you mumble, "thank you, I suck," and continue to run.

Of course I am not saying any of these things happened, you know, because White Wednesdaying people is illegal.

But say that it did... theoretically...

Would this not make you the coolest 35 year old runner/mom/girl ever?

I think so.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Ex-terminator

Let's play pretend.

Pretend that you are sleeping in my bedroom, also that you are me.  Pretend you awake to hear like a rustling sound.  You open one eye, and you see your fat, cancerous, old cat, whom you love, scuffling around in a paper bag in which you have gathered some clothes for giving away.

So your first thought is, that damn cat is going to pee in those clothes.  So you fuss her.

The cat goes "brack!  Bicaback! pkkack!"  and continues to pat the bag.

A second later, she crouches down, shakes her ass, and then pounces an inch or so to the side of the bag.

Brack!  Pkkack!

She is clearly smiling.

You are still in your bed, now wondering what kind of critter she has found.

You can hear it walk across the bag now, crinkle, crinkle crinkle.

A mouse.  There is a mouse in your bedroom.  This is NOT THE TIME FOR PANIC OMG OMG OMG.

Bicaback!  Prrack!  Wacka-wacka!

And now, said rodent is walking across your floor, almost into the bathroom door.

Only - get this!  IT IS NOT A MOUSE.  

Walking across your room is the mother of all cockroaches, the biggest Wood Roach/Palmetto Bug/Outside Roach/Satan's Minion you have EVER SEEN, easily 3 inches across.

Eventually, your cat chases it up a wall in your bathroom, and you run out to fetch the can of Bengal Roach Spray from the other bathroom (if you don't own this, go buy it.  they didn't ask me to say that, I say that because that crap kills the big roaches.)  You spray the monster, it falls from the ceiling into your bathroom, and eventually dies.

1) You make sure that your cat gets extra lovin'.

2) You make your teenage son remove the carcass.

3) You never feel comfortable sleeping in your bedroom again.

Those things can fly, you know.

Happy pretending!

Friday, September 9, 2011

Singing September

I have mentioned before that I enjoy the singing.  Of me.  The singing of me.  I am a fabulous singer.  That's a big fat lie, I am an acceptable singer, better than several but not certainly worse than many.

All this is preamble to talk about a great big concert at which I am singing (in which?) on Sunday, a 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina Memorial.  Me, little Sarah-bean, getting all makey-uppy and standing in the smack-middle front of the stage (gulp) to sing like 20 songs in the company of some other Very Good musicians, and possibly somewhere between 100 and 500 community people hangin', waiting for cake-o'clock.

People will probably cry.

I will probably cry.

I miss what it felt like to not suffer from PTSD in early September.  Maybe this will help me get back to that safe feeling, the one that a hot bubble of panic robs me of each year. 

Alternatively, this might be the worst year of all.

At any rate, I will not have any voice left at the end of the night. 

I've been working hard.

I get to sing Peter Gabriel (I believe I mentioned that before.)

I sound good.

I'm nervous.

WHAT TO WEAR.

I wish you were going to be there.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Sister

My sister is on her way to visit.  So that's nice.  She's my little sister, and I wasn't born with her or anything, I married into her. 

I plan to keep her though.

My sister has golden red hair.  It's not straight-up red, it's like strawberry blonde, it's awesome.  I wish I had that hair.  I do not, though.

Her hair is sunshine colored. 

My hair is brown streaked with gray.  It's lovely.  It's not really lovely, but I don't care.

You know what my hair is, though?  Perfectly curly. 

Anyway, but my sister is coming and will be here today, and I am excited because I love her.  She's a good sister.

SO that's all.

And my hair IS pretty, you know.  I mean, don't get me wrong...

Friday, September 2, 2011

Rain Delay

It's raining.  Poor ol' Louisiana has gone so long since its last "real" storm that everybody is all a-buzz because, you know... it's raining.

Technically, there is a Tropical Storm hanging on top of us right now, and technically, it could develop into a Hurricane.  A little, teensy, tinsy baby hurricane.  But right now... it's raining.

All this being said, I was supposed to run a four mile race, largely over this bridge, on Sunday, and I was very relieved that they postponed the race:

Do you know me?  Do you know that I am effing PETRIFIED of bridges, that I don't know what in the Sam Hill I was thinking because I can barely drive over bridges, and so I was planning to run over one, because... why?

Because I am a dumbhead.

So instead, I'm going to watch movies and hang out with my babies, cook lots of food that makes my house smell yummy, and do laundry.  I suspect that I will NOT run at all.  Because, you know... it's a tropical storm.

On another note, Beanie got his learner's permit this week, and I've let him drive pretty much everywhere, but I am certainly not going to let him drive in a Tropical Storm.  So that's a completely other "win."  Tee hee.

Happy weekend, everybody.  Thanks, Tropical Storm/Rainstorm Lee!

Eventually, they will reschedule this race, but I'll (HAHAHA) cross that bridge when I come to it.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Nature Boy

When I was a very late teen and a very early twenty-ish aged girl, I lived in my parents' house, which was very, very close to Ric Flair's house.  Like, within a mile.

(the reason that Ric Flair is on my mind is because of this article.)

One time, I was on a plane, and it turned out that, according to the guy sitting next to me, the guy across the aisle from us was Ric Flair's son, and the guy next to me thought that the Ric-Flair's-Son guy had been accused of beating his wife or girlfriend or something.  None of which mattered until the little curtain ahead of us was pulled back to reveal that Ric Flair himself was sitting up in first class, while his poor shmuck of a kid was stuck back in regular seating with us.  tee hee.

But that's not my good Ric Flair story.

(also, let it be known that I've never been a huge wrestling fan, although I did watch it somewhat regularly for maybe a year or so, during that time when I lived with my parents, largely because of Some Boy that I was dating at the time who enjoyed the orchestration of wrestling.  We both knew it wasn't "real," but we enjoyed the sport/ballet aspect of it, and also the smack talk.)

One year, on Halloween, it was left to me to go to the local (very fancy pants) grocery store near my parents' house, to buy candy.  I took Beanie, who was, at the time, maybe 2 or 3 years old, and off we went, he dressed as, like, a pumpkin or a sweet little clown, or a teddy bear, or some such.

When we were at the checkout with five giant bags of fun-size snickers, this man was one line over, with shockingly white hair. 

giggle giggle...
"Excuse me, sir?  Your costume is FANTASTIC.  You look EXACTLY like Ric Flair."

(he kind of just stared at me, but how great would it have been if he had issued a trademark WHOOOO in response?  so let's pretend that's what happened...)
"WHOOOOOOOOO."

Too bad my parents moved away from that place.  That place was awesome.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

1990's Pop Icon

I have been iTunes starved for about three months, due to the demise of my laptop (thankfully, all my music is on an external hard drive, because my dad is awesome.)  Sooo, I've not had my glorious weekly dose of This American Life or the ability to run along with Stuff You Should Know (pausing to laugh.)  I very much love me some podcasts.

I finally gave up, and since I am The IT Expert at my work (stop laughing.), I decided to bring the good ol' hard drive up to the office and plug 'er up.  And download the 47 episodes of podcasts I've missed.  Oh, and let's go ahead and get an audio book, while we are at it, since I have three credits in Audible.  I know.  What a mess I am.

Anyway, so as a result of this, my entire iTunes library is now just a click or four on my worky computer, and, oh hey!  Some of my music is perhaps not so very much work appropriate.  The "Take Me Home, Country Roads," (the Olivia Newton John version) is fine, as is "Friday, I'm in Love," but there is a good dose of Master P on the ol' Tunitches, and perhaps that is not appropriate to be playing in the reception area of my place d'emploi.

Meep.  Who really cares?  It's quietly playing.

But so here's the thing.  The song "Settling," by Tara McLean was just playing, and I immediately did that time-warp-flashback-thing to when I first heard the song, and suddenly I'm sitting in my room at my apartment and DAWSON* AND JOEY JUST KISSED.

Oh, I hate myself a little right now.

A totally great song, though.  You should check it out.


*I sort of went to high school with Dawson, only we called him James Vandergeek and he played Lil' Abner at our community theater and I kind of had a little crush on him, but I don't like to talk about those days.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

super analytic - SQUIRREL

Oh, GOD, y'all, how I love sour candy. 

Also, my iTunes, out of commission since MAY is BACK IN THE GAME.  BOOM.

Also, I've decided my second favorite animal of ever is going to be the manatee (bengal tigers were, of course, a close third.)

Because, look:

That's just ridiculous right there.

Have you seen the auction shows?  Any of them?  How come I have never been to an auction?  Particularly one for a storage unit?

MANGO.

I gotta go.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

PTA Mom?

My baby is a Kindergartener.

I know.  I KNOW. I totally, 100% recognize that everyone else in the universe that has a child has either put said child into Kindergarten or will do so soon enough.  I am NOT SPECIAL.  I get that.  However...

He's just so little and sweet.

He is fine, he likes it, it's weird and different to him, but he is doing just fine.

I'm about to panic because today he has to get on the bus/van thingee to get him to afterschool.  AND EVEN IF HE DOES get on said van/bus thingee, WHO WILL GUARANTEE THAT THE BUS/VAN THINGEE WON'T WRECK?  HMMM???

See.

He didn't like being a car rider yesterday.  He wanted to ride the bus.  Note his pissed off wittle face:
He's very proud of himself.  Did his homework without any grief last night.  Seems to be behaving, in that he came home with a sticker (boom, yo.)  He's very pleased with his backpack:


Also, this is my last child.  My baby.  Forever my littlest one.  And this is the last time I will see this:

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Lloyd Dobler

I'm wearing a size 16 skirt, and it's not falling off my fat ass.

That hurts, even to just type it.

What's worse is, I'm in pretty much the best shape I've been in since I was about 22.

F M E.

Anyway...

So I sing with this band, from my church?  Originally it was me and five dudes but now it is me, four dudes and a girl who is like 13 and precious.  Awesome.  We are pulling together this "gig" for September 11, and they keep incorporating secular music that I pretty much Super Heart, but then they shuck it into some key that is impossible for me to harmonize with and I have been kind of sucking it up lately.  That part's not my favorite.

But you know what IS my favorite?

I get to sing Peter Gabriel:




Maybe I will either take off my shirt while I sing it, like Peter.

Or maybe, I will get some rangly teenager to hold up a GIGANTIC boom box and just stand there. 

Since this is happening at the church, it is sort of unlikely that either of these things will happen, but it's a nice thought.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Big Fish

I used to be a really good swimmer.

This weekend, we spent, like, five hours at a pool, my brother and his wife, their kid, my little kid.  It was so much fun, just sitting around and kind of cooling off and bs'ing.  I say kind of because the water was about 95 degrees and hardly refreshing.  More than once, we daydreamed about how nice it would be if they brought in a great big block of ice and threw it in there.  Why don't they do that, actually?  That would be the highlight of every neighborhood pool's summer.

Anyway, in the spirit of the neighborhood pool, my brother and I started goofing off with contests.  Which one of us can make a bigger splash?  (my brother.  I'm afraid to run before I jump off the diving board, and also, I don't know how to do a cannonball.)  Who is a better diver?  (me.  he looks like Rodney Dangerfield in Back to School.)  (that being said, I dive too shallowly, a result of an impact of my face and the bottom of a pool in 1987.  I'll show you the scar if you want.)

It was awesome and fun and childish, and I loved it.  And we did enough swimming that I actually felt it in my shoulders the next day. 

I also had a race on Saturday morning, but I was running and not walking on my hands, so I think the pool is definitely the culprit.  (I did not PR, but it was a good race and I was pleased with my 13 minute miles, what with the 118 degree "feels-like" temperatures and all.)

Anyway, all this is to say that I like to swim.

Also, I used to be awfully, awfully funny.

Also, the baby was evaluated for Kindergarten today, and I only got misty once, and he had fun.  The big one actually started school today.  SENIOR YEAR.

My life is about to be one big week of crying.  And crazy.

Want to go swimming?

Friday, August 5, 2011

Mary Tyler Moore (she cried a lot, too.)

It is entirely possible that, today, as I drove away from my baby boy's Kindergarten school, at which he is Now Fully Registered, and as I called my husband to alert him to the Full Registration, that I burst into big puppy tears of wet.

"He's so liiiiiiiiiiitttttttttle," I sobbed.

My husband, usually so pragmatic, "He IS so little."

"He can't even say his "L's" right," I wept.

"He can't.  It's awful.  I have to go."

So I called my Janie, who made me laugh and all that and also slid in there that she would let me babysit her kids except, you know, I live so far away.

which is to say, i'm totally psycho.  i know how she rolls.

Anyway, the baby is completely, 100% ready for the BIG K, even though I am not.  And it doesn't help that my only OTHER child will start his senior year of high school in like 48 hours or something.  Maybe a little longer than that but NOT MUCH.

This is a tough year for me.  I'm a sap.  I get it from my Aunt Sally, the one who will still cry (this minute, even) about a cat that died 40 years ago.  I understand that.  Cats are awesome. 

-----

Next.  It's effing absurdly hot, jungle hot, soupy air hot, and I've been trying to get my run on, but even I am not stupid enough to try to run when it is 96 degrees and the "feels like" is 118. 

118.

Just needed to re-say that, because, you know, I'm NOT EXAGGERATING THAT NUMBER AT ALL.

Anyway, so I can't run in that mess, so I've been working on identifying "cross training" fitness activities, and I've settled on Step Aerobics.

Back in the day, I was a kick-ass step aerobics person.  I could out step-aerobics everybody I knew.

Now I can't even make it through the GD "beginner" workout on the video.

WHAT IS THAT.

When did Step Aerobics get so freaking HARD?

All this being said, I have a race tomorrow! WORD.

-----
You know what we need around here?

More giraffes.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Yawny


I'm a yawn-y girl today.  I didn't get enough sleep.  I'm in a good mood, though. 

Also, owls are like kittens with feathers:

Me.  Owl.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Random Weirdo Posting Person (and Prompt Responder.)

In August, this lady posts prompts to get you to write for fifteen minutes at a time.  Sometimes, I play along.  When I do, I write my responses here.  Sometimes.  Not all the time.

Sometimes this freaks me out.

All the time, I think what I write is LAAAA-AAAMMMMEE (O).

Sometimes, I care about that.  Sometimes I don't.

Unrelated, if you let your little kid watch Beauty and the Beast for the first time ever, it's awesome fun to ask him who the good guys and bad guys are and to watch them worry about whether or not the Beast is going to get DEAD at the end:


Happy Monday, you belle-issima people!

Friday, July 29, 2011

FM Radio

Heyyyyyyy, y'all!

Guess who's feeling better??

Just in time for the weekend, I might add, with a little, snarky tee hee, the tee hee that means, ha ha ha, work, I saved my WELL for not-you!  tee hee.

Anyway, I know I'm a bit random today, but guess what.

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this radio station, to which you ought to listen while you are at work.  I am not joking.  I am pretty sure this channel only plays things from the second half of 1988 through, oh, say, maybe early 1998.  My high school and college time (shut up, yes, that is slightly more than the appropriate 8 years, but I have completed some of my Master's, thanks very much.).

DUDE.  Thas some good music time, y'all.

It's not a lot of grungy-Seattle music, although a bit which is fine, mostly Smashing Pumpkins. 

It's not a lot of peppy 80's bubble gum, although a bit of Debby Gibson never hurt anybody.

It's not a lot of big-hair Great White nonsense, although you and I both know that once you are bitten you are, indeed, twice shy, babe.

It IS a lot of Beastie Boys and then Prince and then MMMM BOP and then FUNKY COLD MEDINA and then LITTLE MISS CAN'T BE WRONG and then Snoop Dog and then Runaway Train and then old skool Beyonce and then that song Stay by that one chick and then something else that all makes you go OH YES, THIS.

Because, truly.  Oh, yes.  This.

These are the songs of when I was learning to be me, you know.  The soundtrack of what weed smells like and how I can't wear fitted shirts, even when I'm skinny.  The playlist of I love him and I'll knit him something and he will think I'm sweet (SWEET.  IMAGINE)  and then use me for a ride somewhere.  The backdrop of a movie scene of how to be friends with girls who have their own kitchens and how to cook ONE DAMN THING that doesn't start with "hamburger" or end with "helper."

When jeans didn't flare.  And then did.  And then didn't again.

When my sort of curly hair was fine even if I didn't brush it, and only had ONE GRAY STRAND EVER.

When nobody else wore make-up, either.

When, even though I really wanted Doc Martins I was wearing Keds.  Because, come on.  I lived in Charlotte for most of that time.

(Charlotte is a very keds and flower-bangs kind of place.)

This is my music, y'all.  I didn't necessarily know that when it was current, but that is kind of traditionally how I roll.  I've kind of always been about 20 years behind where I should be.  Just wait.  Next year I will TOTALLY fall in love with Beck.  He's been making eyes at me already.  I mean it.

I gotta go.  Because, you know...  Never Gonna Get it by En Vogue just kicked on.  And I mean, a girl's gotta do...

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Donut

While I do NOT like to hug, I do, however, like to be taken care of.  My husband is proving his worth by taking care of everyone/everything else at our house while I go to bed on Nyquil at 7:00 p.m.  Night after glorious, glorious night.

I'm still sick.

It's either pertussis or the black plague of death.

Honey badger don't care.

So in the bed, all Nyquilled up, I'm turning on the tee vee, which is already going to either be on History, Nat Geo, or Discovery.  Mama doesn't like the comedies.

Has anybody else noticed (besides Janie, my hetero-life partner) that Nat Geo is All Things Nazis, lately?  HOW AWESOME IS THIS?

Ich Bin Ein Berliner!

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Drama Baby's Mom

My baby is going to be a superstar one day.  I don't watch a lot of tee vee, and so I didn't even know that this was a pretty great impersonation of Jim Carey.  I'll put these videos side-by-side for your enjoyment.

Here's Doodlebug:

Here's Jim Carey (best comparison at about 2:20)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4wjerzA2X8&feature=player_detailpage

My kid is freaking awesome.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Disease Infested Cess Pool of Humanity

cough cough cough hack snort cough cough cough.

I spent two years being completely healthy, and now I'm in the midst of my third cold/flu/ear infection/black plague of death this year.  I'm over it.

This especially ticks me off because I quit smoking, after 20 years of delightfully poisoning myself, in March, and have never cheated, not even once.  It's been almost five months.

I'm coughing, and I hate it.

Also, I am surrounded by people who eat vitamins CONSTANTLY and never get sick, and I can just feel their judgement raining down on me. 

That being said, I served broccoli with dinner last night, and my husband announced that it was the first time he'd eaten a vegetable in a month.

(screw vegetables.  mama likes to eat her some bread.  and meat.  and bread.)

(screw vitamins, too, because the few times I have tried to take them, I puked them up.  so no thank you.)

(and screw the hippies that take vitamins, too, because I am a big believer in medicine but not so much in vitamins.  shut it, judgemental hippies.)

I'm glad I have this out of my system.  'scuse me while I go cough up a lung.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Early 90's Dance Punk Rocker Chick

So much the same:

Groove is in the heart reminds me completely of:


It is entirely possible that this explains the crush I have on DJ Lance Rock.  Because I love him, that's why.

And also I love DeeLite.  The same way.

BOOM.

I wouldn't dance for another.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Boss's Best Friend

I like my boss.  I do.  A lot.  I even kind of love her.

But she makes me crazy.

I think I am her best friend.  She cries to me.  Laughs to me.  Calls me at odd times.

She can't live without me.

I am supposed to be super indespensable to her, so I guess I am glad that she does these things, but it also make me a little crazy.

Or maybe I'm just in a bitchy mood.  Tough to say.

But right now, I gotta go - the boss is calling.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Scaredy cricket.

I'm not afraid of snakes, or spiders.  I'm not afraid of clowns.  I'm not IN LOVE with puppets, but I can deal with them.  I'm a little afraid of robotic toys, especially if they surprise me, but usually I can deal.  I am deathly afraid of driving over bridges, but I do it all the time. 

I am RIDICULOUSLY afraid of birds.  I admit it, that's a phobia, but it stems from the fact that in my old house, birds came inside all the dang time and they were way scary.  Way, way, way, way, way scary.  Scary scary.

(mostly because they were scared.)

But.  I am afraid of certain - not all - bugs.

Namely, the kinds that have hard crunchy shells that you can't really step on because, ohmygod gross.

Like crickets.

Where I work, there is kind of a cricket infestation going on.  They look like this (although I did not take this picture.):

ugh.  sick.

Today, a nice, well-put-together lady is here for a visit, and she was initially sitting near my desk, when I discovered one of these jerkfaces hopping all up under my desk.  Calmly-ish, I called one of the men that work here and said something like, "i need some help right now, thanks!"

He came and removed the offender.  Offender was made to be dead.

Awesome.

I noticed that, in this process, my ethernet cable had come loose.  So I reached down and plugged it back in.  When I came up A BUNCH OF BUG GUTS AND ONE LEG WERE STUCK TO MY HAND.  FOR REAL.

Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew.

This is not okay.

I'm ready for them to spray up some poison.  This is not okay. 

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Totally Bad-A Dancer

For the record, I can't dance.

No, not in a Phil Collins kind of way, FOR REAL.

In my secret heart, I totally CAN dance, I just need a tutor (ahem, Patrick Swayze, circa 1988) to teach me.

But really...

I tend to default to pointing fingers a la John Travolta, circa 1978.

Not the same.

That being said, I look like a dancer.  I mean, in the hair and all:



See?  Imagine if I sucked in my cheeks really hard, had a little plastic surgery, and was about 15 years older (haha, take THAT, Jennifer Grey.)

Totally the same.

Just keep me out of the corner.  Because, you know...

Friday, June 10, 2011

Spoiled Princess

Last night, my parents gave me a car.  Not this car, but one that looks a lot like it:

Actually, it was my mom who did that.

Not to be bested, my dad, who'd been in the wine, bought three tickets for this:


One for me, one for the Bean, one for him.  Dad's first Rush Concert.  The Bean's second (he was like 9 or 10 the first time... this is his first as an "adult.")  My FIFTH.  Because I am both hard-core and a dude who graduated high school in 1989.

Only I'm not really either of those things.

But whatever.

Because I AM a spoiled, spoiled little princess.  Whose parents love her.

Who gets to see Rush and gets a new car (note:  new to me.  not really new.) next week.

Yay, me!  WIN WIN WIN!

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Booger Redirector

On Sunday, I was sitting in the choir loft, same as usual.  I happened to catch a view - a good, clear visage - of the little acolyte boy, who was about nine or ten years old.  Cute kid.

Who apparently has a cold.

I watched him sniff a bunch, and attempt to wipe his nose with his hand.  And then scratch his nose.  And then pick it.  And then LICK HIS FINGERS.

And then the whole scene played out again.  And again.

My stomach was rolling, but it was communion, so I knew I was going to have to "eat" in front of people and deal somehow with my disgust. 

(as an aside, I had a bandaid on my thumb and only barely managed to not dip my bandaid in the communal chalice of "blood of Christ," only because this happened below the lip of the goblet or whatever you call it, I am pretty sure that the congregation thought I full-on submerged my nasty band aid into the grape juice.  how nasty is that??)

Anyway, so when it was time to go down for communion, I reached over and grabbed a few kleenex from a box in the choir loft.  The choir walked down to the front rail, and I watched the lady standing in front of me surreptitiously hand the acolyte boy a few tissues.  And then I started laughing, and did the same.  Only less surreptitiously, because, what the heck.  Kid, you are at least nine years old, you ought to know better.

My church was kind of gross this week.


According to this source, that kid wasn't the first to be caught green-fingered...

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Jeff Gordon Enthusiast

I turned on the tee vee after church on Sunday, mainly because I couldn't let the kid have a nap, because I had errands to run and there was nobody to watch him.  Blah blah blah.

Anyway, so I turned on the tee vee, and it just so happened that the channel was already on Fox, which just so happened to be showing a Nascar race.

(let it be noted that, although I lived a significant portion of my adult life in Charlotte, N.C., I do NOT particularly like Nascar.  At all.)

The baby, however (who, yes, is almost five.  Shut it.), was FIXATED ON THE TEE VEE.

"This is my show!"  He proclaimed.

Oh.

"THAT IS ME."  He announced, pointing at #22, Kurt Busch (I swear to God I didn't know who number 22 was before this experience.)

At the time, Kurt/Doodlebug was in fifth place.  Eventually, they took over the lead for about 75 laps.

Yes, you figured that right.  I am at the mercy of a small child and cannot even determine what show we will be watching.  I am, it seems, his bitch.

Kurt/Doodle didn't win, but they had a good race. 

"I didn't win,"  he said.

"You ran a good race, though," I said.

Oh God.  I encouraged him in this endeavor. 

You can take the kid out of the North Georgia redneck land, but, you can't take the redneck out of the kid.

Guess what we'll be watching on Sunday?

Monday, June 6, 2011

Podcast Listener

OMG I Internet Stalk Her Because She is CRAZY FUNNY

What I listen to when I'm running.  Usually.  He is way nicer than my other running coach, which is to say, me.  He doesn't call me fatty nearly as often.

Increases my dork/know-it-all/Cliff Claven factor.

Makes me feel all liberal arts major and with-it hipster.

Sometimes the 80's really were the best.

Is it dorky that I listen to podcasts as much or more than I watch tv?  I listen while I'm running, duh, but also while I do other stupid weirdo dorky things that I love like the knitting, or the cross-stitch, or the driving, or the walking-around.  Laundry.  Dishes (pfft.  as if I do dishes.)

I like podcasts.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

BFF E

(my friend the T-Belle says that.  The "e" stands for "EVER," but she means like "Best friends forEVER," not "Best Friends Forever EVER," even though that's ultimately what we end up with.)

I have fabulous friends.  I am for sure the mediocre/crazy one, but here's an example.

My friend Kirry and I totally just had a complete conversation on her Facebook page that ran from "thanks for calling me Bobby Jindal," to "Whitney Houston is crazy," to "Bobby Jindal's last good movie was Signs."

AWESOME.

I love my friends.